#even if she doesn't remember why half of the time

[heyftinally]

Y'all are going to like this one.

SWIFTIES DON'T TOUCH THIS POST WITH A TEN FOOT POLE, I SWEAR TO FUCKING HELL-

So my friend sent me this article, and I'm going to tell you why I think it's complete bullshit.

1) wishing us a happy Pride month is the BARE MINIMUM. As someone with her presence in the media and social influence, she could - and should - be doing SO much more than just wishing us a happy pride four days in.

2) "the singer has been an advocate for the LGBTQ+ community" not a good one. She seems to only remember us when it's convenient or benefits her in some way. Case in point:

2018 - "When it comes to feelings and when it comes to love and searching for someone to spend your whole life with. It's all just really really delicate. You know?" Taylor then performed her song "Delicate."

2023 - It’s painful for everyone, every ally, every loved one, every person in these communities.

In the first example, the intentional song reference comes off as extremely tacky. This is people's LIVES you're talking about. People are MURDERED for who they are and who they love (or don't love). This isn't an appropriate time to pull out the "oh-so-quirky" act and be cutesy.

In the second, the fact that she can't even center queer people in their own experience is so, SO telling. I promise, however painful it is for allies, it's 1000x worse for us to LIVE it. Allies don't have to wonder "am I going to get hate crimed wearing this?" before they leave the house - we frequently do. To not acknowledge that shows me that everything she says is performative at best.

3) I wouldn't call what she does "advocacy". She mentions us every now and then when it's convenient for her, profits off of us when we fit her marketing plan, and I've yet to find where she actually apologized for the homophobia in the original version of Picture to Burn. Also, she's real good friends with Travis Kelce's dad, who is a raging transphobe (and I bet his kids are, too). You don't get to call yourself an ally if you willingly allow the people around you to be violent bigots.

4) "always" is a strong word for someone who seems to show her support situationally at best. The full quote was "The way for that to happen is for us to continue to keep pushing governments to put protections in place for members of the LGBTQ community. And I promise to always advocate for that." Yet she doesn't do that.

5) what she speaks out, I've noticed that it's nearly always in the states that primarily agree with her. We don't see a whole lot of her "inspiring ally" speeches in places like Texas or Florida. But I've seen plenty of them come out of already notoriously queer-friendly places. If you aren't willing to face the heat of the difficult places along with the comfort of the easy ones, you don't get to call yourself an ally. Allyship is not easy. Anyone remember when Lady Gaga advocated for us in Russia, under threat of arrest, and her response was "arrest me, Russia! I don't give a fuck!"? Yeah, I've never seen even half that level of true commitment from Taylor.

6) STOP. MAKING. STRAIGHT GIRL SONGS. "GAY ANTHEMS"!!!! FFS it's such a slap in the fucking face of REAL, ACTUALLY QUEER ARTISTS that y'all keep calling these piss pathetic straight girl over produced crap songs "anthems". Fucking stop it. If they aren't queer, they don't qualify to be a queer anthem or icon. Start supporting ACTUAL queer artists with ⅛ this energy, for the love of FUCK. This bullshit pisses me off. Do you need a list of queer artists? I'll make you one by hand if you promise to stop trying to label Raylor Swift's straight girl shit songs as "gay anthems".

7) rainbows and gender subversion are not exclusively nor inherently queer. If that's our bar for "gay anthems", the bar is so low Lucifer himself needs a damn Webb Telescope to just barely see it from hell.

#anti taylor swift #taylor swift critical #anti swifties #swifties dni #SWIFTIES I SWEAR DO NOT TOUCH MY DAMN POST

[shautiecultist]

Promise

lottie matthews x reader sumary: you and lottie fight but you also made a promise to never go to bed angry

It was a long and silent car ride home after an equally silent date. As soon as you got home from your date, you could tell Lottie was mad with you. The car ride was filled with silence, and by the time the two of you got home, Lottie barely acknowledges your presence. The worst part is that you don't know what you did that could possibly piss her off like this but you were determined to find out.

You take a deep breath and approach Lottie. She was in the kitchen slamming drawers as if she were looking for something but didn't know what.

“Are you finally going to tell me what’s bothering you?”, you say carefully, not wanting to piss Lottie off even more or say the wrong thing.

Lottie turns around and for the first time since you two got home, she ackowledges you. As soon as you see her face, you can see all the emotions coming off of her.

"What's bothering me? You seriously don't know?", Lottie says turning around, finally facing you. You shake your head. "Our date was at 8pm, not 8:30. You left me standing there all alone for half an hour. And don't think I don't know you were taking work phone calls anytime you went to the bathroom. You're not that slick, you know"

The realization of what you had done hits you like a truck. The thought of losing her terrified you. "Lottie I genuinely thought our date was 8:30, I'm sorry. And about the phone calls, work has been a mess. We have a big project coming up, you know that", you say feeling like guilty for not giving your girlfriend the attention she needs and deserves.

"Oh so me and our relationship are not important enough that you can turn off your phone for a few hours? Got it." And with that, Lottie storms off to your shared bedroom, slamming the door. The thought of losing her terrified you but you knew she needed a little time and space, so you decide to stay in the living room for a little while longer, hoping your girlfriend would cool off.

…

After what feels like an eternity of sitting alone in the darkness of your living room, you come to the conclusion that you should probably sleep in the guest room, assuming Lottie doesn't even want to look at you tonight. When you open the door of your bedroom, you see Lottie laying down reading a book. Her eyes don't even lift up from the book, which means she’s back to ignoring you.

As you grab your pajamas and walk towards the door, Lottie finally acknowledges you. “Where are you going?”, her eyes leaving the book and making eye contact with yours.

“Guest room.” You say as you leave, not wanting to prolong the fight even more.

After almost an hour of laying completely still in the guest bedroom bed, you finally realize why you can’t seem to fall asleep: the promise you and Lottie made when you first started dating - never let your last words to each other be laced with anger just in case something bad happens in the middle of the night.

And just like that, you stand up and make your way back to your bedroom.

“I thought you were sleeping in the other room”, Lottie says, her tone now much more relaxed than she was before.

You don’t say anything. Instead, you make a beeline to her side of the bed and bend down to kiss her twice. “I love you”, you say as you stand up to leave the bedroom once again.

“I love you”, Lottie says smiling slightly at the gesture, also remembering the promise.

Needless to say, not even 5 minutes later, Lottie was also on the guest bedroom bed cuddling with you, holding your hand close to her chest.

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #lottie matthews #lottie matthews x reader #my posts

[adkawariatka]

Part 4 friendship expert

If you would ask Danny he didn't plan for any company. Damian just appeard and stayed glued to him. He knows that he should push him away but he can't bring himself to do that, being alone for a year makes that to someone mental health. Jazz would say that is a coping mehanism Danny just might agree. it helped so much. After that awfull outcome in amity... Having someone around makes him feel alive again, not like a shell of a boy he one was, hiliarious if you ask Danny. He tries so damn hard to not think about that. About that nightmare of a "final" there. Tries not to remember screams and helplesness, forget the stench of blood and chemicals.... they are gone. Everyone that ever gave a damn about him died proteting him. Some protective spirit he is. Now he runs, and runs and he will run forever. That is his future. If he is being honest he would gladly folow his loved ones. there is nothing in this relam holding him here only mere plea of his sister to live... when she burned in their home-lab with Sam and Tucker after goverment agents and his own parents trapped them there and tried to kill him. Danny doesn't know if Maddie and Jack Fenton survived and has no intention of checking, seeing their disgust on their faces was enought first time. Truth is he is a coward and failure. As a protective spirit his core being evolves around keeping those important to him safe and he can't even do that. Everyone he cares about dies sooner or later. That's why he should cut his ties with Damian... but... its so much better right now. he has no idea how he survived alone for that long. Its as if he is able to finaly breath freerly after almost drowning. Danny can see when Damian realises that he feels better when he is around. For a 10 year old he is pretty quick learner, and damn good observant. And he tries so hard for Danny bringing him food and books. Danny just might feel half alive again. He justyfies staying around for Damian because he needs him. That's why he helps Damian as much as he can. He offers his friedship aganist better judgement because he needs that, because he needs someone to explain to him basic social contexts just like Clockwork did for him not so long ago. He kind of is judgemental towards Damian's family. If someone can explain to him how a grown ass adult takes heavly traumatised child and.... procedes to dump it into society expecting prefectyly civilised behaviour, he would be thankfull. That is beyond him.... but maybe he shouldn't be too hard on that considering his own parents were shooting at him on daily basis. So he listens when Damian talks about his family, their reactions to his behaviours. From what he can grasp he won't be needed soon. Tim soounds like excelent replacement. Soon His one and only excuse for stayng close to Damian will evaporate. Danny tells himself that then he will leave. ------

#dc x dp #dp x dc crossover #danny phantom #danny fenton #bruce wayne #dick grayson #dc x dp crossover #damian wayne #tim drake #feelings #homeless #robin

[spop-romanticizes-abuse]

you know, i like hordak as a character. he's interesting, he's likeable, he's a good example of an abuse victim who isn't overly infantilized and coddled by the narrative. his relationship with entrapta was cute, his relationship with horde prime was tragic and i like that he at least gets a proper confrontation with his abuser, where he is able to declare his own independence and get some closure from his trauma.

however, there are two main problems i have with his character (some of which i've already talked about but i want to go into more detail):

1. hordak was not an effective villain. heck, he was barely a villain at all.

you cannot tell me that hordak was the main villain of the first four seasons when the majority of his screentime was spent with him either lurking in his sanctum or canoodling with entrapta.. in his sanctum.

at first i thought that hordak was going to be this looming presence that had control over everything and puppeted everyone's every move, and was this evil masterpiece who orchestrated everything behind the scenes but.. nah. turns out he's just an incompetent manchild who needs a literal teenager with no battle experience to plan everything out for him. how did he conquer half of etheria before that? who knows? not important.

hordak also has no meaningful relationship with adora, the hero. there were actually a lot of parallels that could be drawn from hordak and adora both being raised by abusers who valued perfection over everything else. granted, in that aspect, hordak is more like catra but there isn't even that many parallels with him and catra. there are, in fact, more parallels with catra and shadow weaver or catra and horde prime.

and okay, not every hero and villain needs a deep intertwined relationship or complex narrative parallels. but at least give us something? a proper interaction?? the show even acknowledges the fact that hordak and adora have absolutely no connection with each other, when adora asks him why he kidnapped her and he basically replies with "lol who are you again". and then he just randomly remembers her at the end of the finale and it’s supposed to be this touching, emotional scene except you feel nothing because these characters literally never interacted, what are we looking at?

adora is supposed to be fighting the horde, but it seemed like she was just fighting catra most of the time. as the hero who opposes etheria's oppressors, shouldn't adora mainly be targeting hordak, the person who started it all? and shouldn't hordak, as the leader of the horde, be more concerned about the rebellion having an actual god on their side? i guess it doesn't really matter if said god can be easily defeated by a inexperienced catgirl

it just feels like hordak didn't have to be a villain at all. we only know he does horrifying things, because the narrative says that he does. oh, and he tortures catra once and sends her to crimson waste, so i guess that qualifies as being a villain.

the point of a villain is to drive the central conflict of the story. to oppose the hero and to pose an actual threat to the status quo. any character who doesn't do this is merely an antagonist. in hordak's case, i don't even know if he counts as an antagonist. he's like that one edgy antihero with a dark past where he murdered countless people but it doesn't really matter in present time. it’s just there to add flavor and to enhance his tragic past, because war is obviously a fictional fantasy trope and totally not something that has happened in real life. /s

2. like many other characters in this show, hordak's character almost completely revolves around his love interest.

yes, entrapta taking care of hordak and boosting his self-esteem is endearing. yes, hordak breaking his defenses and being vulnerable around entrapta is very sweet. but apart from entrapta, the only characters who have any kind of effect on hordak is horde prime and catra. and.. i guess, imp? but again, imp is mostly just a stand-in for the cute animal sidekick.

i know that hordak was supposed to be a recluse but it's impossible to believe that this kind of person was able to start an army and feed them with false propaganda. again, if you read my post about cults and their methods of indoctrination, you would know that cult leaders are often very charismatic and friendly people. and i know the horde isn't exactly a cult but we are supposed to believe that at least some of the cadets raised there genuinely believed that they were on the side of good, when their leader was a mysterious shut-in who basically didn't do anything substantial and their mentor/superior officer was just actively radiating Evil Vibes™.

i just wish they did more with hordak’s character and actually made him interact with some of the other characters. he doesn’t even interact with shadow weaver that much, and she was his second-in-command. even if it’s not direct interactions, it would have been interesting to see the characters mention hordak more, especially the ex-horde soldiers. apart from the general “oh no he’s evil and wants to kill everyone”, that is.

like we see people talking about shadow weaver. we see adora open up about her relationship with shadow weaver and ponder about whether there’s some good left in the woman who raised her. we see glimmer talking about how powerful shadow weaver is and how she could help the rebellion. we see catra complaining about how shadow weaver treated her in comparison to adora. we see angella talk about how shadow weaver shouldn’t be trusted.

when you think about it, shadow weaver was much more of a looming menacing presence in spop, despite not even being a villain, let alone the main villain.

even when she was on the good side and helping the princesses, there was always a ceaseless feeling of unease and fear, because we’ve seen what she’s capable of. we weren’t just told that “shadow weaver is sooo abusive, she’s bad!” we see how she treats adora and catra, we see how she manipulates situations and people for her own benefit, we see how she slowly starts to get into glimmer’s head. the show actually does a good job with shadow weaver, and i have to give credit where credit is due. shadow weaver was genuinely a well-written character.

hordak is just.. there, most of the time. he acts evil enough to be considered as one of the villains but he’s not actually a villain if you consider it for more than five seconds. he doesn’t really do anything for the bulk of the narrative, he has one kinda cool scene where he stands up to his abuser and then he just peaces out with entrapta.

i don’t really understand the point of taking a main villain of the show and turning him into this. sure, the OG hordak was more of a comedic villain and wasn’t super complex, but from what i know, he still played an important role in a narrative and his humorous moments made up for the lack of a tragic backstory.

#also i'm feeling better now thankfully it only lasted two days #spop critical #spop salt #spop #spop discourse #spop criticism #she ra #anti spop #bad writing #writing errors

[juriyuna]

I wonder if part of the reason why Yuu gets so hurt when people say she looks like a monster in her magical girl form is because her mouth is actually cut like that, so it feels like they're being rude about her scars?

The slashed mouth seems to be a permanent thing, going by her transformation video, which could make "you look like a monster" feel kinda personal since it's not like her face goes back to "normal" when she's untransformed.

(of course, she's also completely oblivious to the notion that a sharp-horned, willowy humanoid figure shambling around in the dark on four long legs would be alarming to see, but what can you do)

#magia record #yumeno yuusa #she usually wears a mask which i assume is to cover up her scars #she's probably not that self-conscious about it normally (she can't worry for more than a few moments at a time; she forgets too fast) #but maybe she got enough comments or weird looks that she just got into the habit of wearing a mask anyway #even if she doesn't remember why half of the time #though it could be for privacy reasons as well since her ''job'' is kinda. illegal.

[catboy-jupiter]

just saw jaiden's video on having adhd/audhd and uhhhh. i rlly should seek to get diagnosed huh. meds sound like they could rlly help me.....

#i remember one time while i was visiting my friend #we were having a sleepover & were talking and suddenly my mind just. went silent. #i remember telling her 'my mind just suddenly stopped this is so weird whats going on' #and she asked me what i meant & i told her abt how i like #constantly have at least 3 stream of thoughts going on at once that i'm half-listening to #and there's a main one i'm focusing on but my attention is always like on 70% on it #so i can very easily get carried onto my “sub-thoughts”'s streams #and she wondered if i was just so used to my anxiety (my only diagnosis so far that i had even back then) #that when i suddenly experienced being without it for a short while i found it strange #and i was like “maybe... makes sense” but i wasnt too convinced idk why #then years later i found out more in-depth abt adhd & the “inattentive type” it began to make sense #but its still kinda scary to think i may have it #and kinda scary to think i may not have it #jaiden articulated it well #that feeling that you'll be told “no you're normal just lazy so get your act together” #but also if you actually get a diagnosis it may change a lot of things #esp for us that arent self-employed or unable to pursue self-employment full-time bc its unprofitable rn #and we have no fallback that doesn't rely on other ppl's continued generosity #and to this day i wonder what caused my mind to “fall silent” that day btw #my memory sucks so i cant remember if this was like #the first day i drank alcohol #or the first day i tried an energy drink #or if i didnt actually try neither of those that day & smth else impacted it #my bet is on alcohol bc that day i got tipsy & got rlly sleepy & i remember feeling very sleepy when i had that talk #but also idk if that would even actually a consistent effect bc i dont actually dig alcohol that much so i dont seek it out LOL #only take sips from others' drinks when offered & thats not enough to get me tipsy #also if it was it kicked in pretty late & only for a short while bc i remember a few minutes later going “ok my minds normal now whew” #before we even actually went to sleep #so idk lol

[skrunksthatwunk]

playing dmc1 with my earbuds in (but on low volume bc they're being weird) while my roommate and her shitty bf argue. i feel like i'm recreating the very specific experience of some child of divorce out there

#how do i tell her she needs to break up with him immediately. posthaste.fuck it funny post over rant incoming tw emotional abuse i think #nyarla dni #(<- roomie and nyarla have met and i don't wanna air roomie's drama to ppl who know her w/o her consent. anon internet ppl only) #listen i'm normally for gentle advising and that's probably what i'll do since i don't want to stress her out but oh my fucking god what is #his problem. he's constantly putting her in these weird no-win situations where the only right answer is to never be upset or disagree or b #wrong on accident or be misunderstood by him and to tell him everything she's feeling so she's not 'playing mind games' but if she says wha #she's feeling he'll interrogate her and badger her with the same questions over and over again insisting she's unreasonable until she gives #in and says she's sorry with an attitude he likes. i fucking don't like him. and a lot of this is observations from today. the day after sh #GOT INTO A CAR ACCIDENT AND BROKE HER NECK. WHAT THE FUCK. #it's like he expects to be treated like a king on one of the worst days of her life and when she's upset he's like OH. OH I GET IT. #and lectures her on having attitude and taking things out on others when she's literally not even doing that. not to an extent that matters #anyway. like. there's more productive ways of dealing with that. where you don't treat them like a bad kid for getting overwhelmed #he has made her cry multiple times today. i have been around multiple arguments and fights and he's just genuinely. awful i hate him #hell the first argument i overheard *i* was in tears by the end (luckily they left soon after bc i had to run to the basement laundry #dungeon to bawl my eyes out because 1. i can't handle confrontation 2. i've never seen roomie cry and 3. she just seemed so hurt and tired) #anyway he just left again after a fight because. god this is so dumb. she told him to move while they were sleeping in the same twin bed #(remember she's in a neck brace) and he fucking. left the room for an HOUR bc he thought the only thing that could POSSIBLY mean (as he #insisted) was for him to get out of here and then when she was like oh hey i'm sorry i didn't mean it like that he decided to spend the nex #half hour of his short time on this earth chewing her out for not giving him a lengthy explanation while half-asleep as to like. why he #needed to move (she wanted to grab smth) and apparently he sat in the chair by her bed for like 10 mins before leaving so he probably saw #her fall back asleep. and then he got pissy when after he left she didn't pick up her phone when he was calling her? even though he knew sh #was asleep?? she didn't even know he was gone. fucking. i need to get him away from my roomie YESTERDAY #look. miscommunication happens. i'm not saying he's an asshole for wanting things said clearly. i am pro-saying what you mean. #but if every time your gf tells you what she means you make it into a 30 minute lecture (no matter how small the slight and w/o examining i #you're actually right or not) she's not gonna wanna fucking tell you if she doesn't think it's worth the argument. especially if you never #let her rest until she concedes. apology isn't enough. clarification isn't enough. she has to say how wrong she was and beg and GOD. UGHHH #and he's always on about how she hurts his feelings. a gust of wind could hurt his feelings. he's constantly berating her manipulating her #and then he's like >:( see that hurt my feelings you can't hurt ppl's feelings. you're disrespectful. HE"S THE WORST I FUCKING HATE HIM #look sometimes adversity reveals the truth of a person and this just amplified his shittiness so much. mr OH i slept in a HOSPITAL and it #was so bad... you can't be in a bad mood bc i've been doing the bare minimum and you need to prioritize MY feelings rn. also i won't leave

[inkskinned]

it's just that there's a few more steps you have to take that other people don't have to take, but they don't see the steps, so they think you should be able to hop from moment to moment, a chickadee.

it isn't getting out of bed. it is the weight, the hook in your chest, the anchor. you have to move the anchor first. you have to silence your alarm, but your phone is in your hand, which means now you have to put the phone down, which is too-hard. you get stuck in there for a while, the white screen, mindlessly scrolling. you don't even like this activity, have tried a few other options but - here you are, and time is passing.

you've googled iron deficiency causes depression and if i drink enough water does it help with mental illness and anxiety but no caffiene within the last two weeks, like how you googled am i gay quiz at 17.

it isn't just calling the doctor back, it's the anxiety, it's these little moths in your lung cavities, furious and fluttering. you need to figure out how to capture your fingers from between their nervous bodies. you are an adult, you can say the words yes hi, i'm calling because i need - but you need to practice first. maybe write it down because what if you misspeak, wouldn't that be embarrassing. write it down, but you need to find a pen first. well, actually, your desk is kind of messy. you should get a new pen. you should get a new organizational system. you should try journaling.

your grades in school were always strange. the way teachers would say things like it feels like you're not trying. you could touch stars in the stuff you cared about. well, sometimes. god be willing. homework average zero. oops! your english teacher's wrinkled brow: i know you know this stuff. what the fuck are you doing?

it isn't the showering, it's the mirror before the shower and the soft horrible pull of your naked physique. you have to avoid eye contact completely or else it'll be 93 minutes later and you'll have picked at your skin until every little pore is bleeding. you have to stand up but standing is tiring and also you should have remembered to buy more soap but you never remember anything. maybe get out of the shower and while it's still running and you're still dripping wet, use your phone to take a note. make a note to get your groceries. let the shower run while you stand half-in half-out and get lost in your phone for a moment. come back out when the water runs cold and now you have to sprint to get ready.

your grandmother's frown. you're just being lazy. protestant work ethics in a house that isn't even protestant. she says she just learned different but she means learned better, doesn't she.

it's not that you can't send the email, it's that your hands have been hurting lately and the desk really is messy and also why the fuck would you even care about this thing? doesn't everyone else feel like they're drowning? hi brendon thanks so much for sending! will review and get back to you shortly. but now you're on the internet, close the tab with tumblr on it. go on, close it. feel the little soft vapor of boredom come up and over your eyeteeth and make everything overwhelming and itchy.

literally all you have to do is put on shoes to go outside. you're literally already dressed, that's the hard part of this whole thing. literally just put the shoes on. just... do it! do it! this shit is easy!

it's literally that easy. just stop taking all those stupid invisible steps. stop following your strange made-up rules. times like this, even you're positive you're faking. you just don't want to bother with the cleaning and the cooking and the being-an-adult.

but then - shouldn't you be able to put these stupid shoes on? nobody's even looking. go on kid. life is out there! just take the leap!

get moving.

#spilled ink #writeblr #warm up

[incorrectbatfam]

Which of the batkids have been in a child safety tether (as in, you are safe from the child) and why?

[at the amusement park]

Bruce: Now have fun, but remember that safety comes first. If I catch you doing anything unsafe, you're gonna have to wear this backpack with a rope so I can keep an eye on you. Understood?

8-year-old Dick: Yes sir!

Dick: *immediately starts climbing the Ferris wheel*

Bruce: Ten seconds, that's a new record.

———————

[before a gala]

12-year-old Jason: I'm not a pet. You can't put me on a leash.

Bruce: Like I said, it's only if you misbehave. All you have to do is smile for the cameras. If you feel uncomfortable, just tell me and we can go early.

Jason: Ugh, fine.

[later]

Alfred: Master Bruce, I saw Master Jason outside removing the hubcaps from a very expensive limo.

———————

14-year-old Tim: According to my research, you've used a child leash to keep Robin in line, and I just want you to know that you've got nothing to worry about when it comes to me.

[3 years later]

Bruce: Why are you covered in blood?

17-year-old Tim: I got a new spleen.

Bruce: Where exactly did you get it?

Tim: That's private medical information.

———————

Bruce: *talking to Commissioner Gordon*

16-year-old Steph: *tries to sneak to the ice cream truck*

Bruce: Nice try, young lady.

Bruce: *clips the leash on*

———————

Cass: *on the leash*

Barbara: What'd she do?

Bruce: She had coffee. This is a precaution.

———————

Damian, on the leash: This is humiliating!

Bruce: It's what happens when you try to sneak batarangs into a birthday party.

Damian: Can you at least loosen it? It is chafing.

Bruce: Sure.

Bruce: *loosens it*

Damian: *grabs a cake knife, cuts the cord, and sprints away*

———————

Tim: Duke's lucky he doesn't have to deal with the child leash.

Duke: Child leash? Like the thing they use on preschoolers?

Damian: Mhm. Father would put us on it when we misbehaved.

Jason: You cut it in half the first time. You barely even had it on.

Duke: Is it that green one on the Batcave floor?

Steph: Green? The one I had was purple.

Dick: No it's not, it's blue.

Jason: Nope, pretty sure it was red.

Tim: Mine was a shade of orange.

Cass: Pink. Didn't have black.

Dick: Wait, guys, are you thinking what I'm thinking?

[later]

Bruce, on a long rainbow leash: I should've seen this coming.

#bruce wayne #batman #dick grayson #nightwing #jason todd #red hood #damian wayne #robin #duke thomas #signal #stephanie brown #spoiler #cassandra cain #orphan #batfamily #batfam #batboys #batbros #batgirls #batkids #batsiblings #batman family #incorrect batfamily quotes #incorrect quotes #incorrect dc quotes #dc comics #headcanon #long post #tw bad parenting #don't try this at home

[flowrmoth]

...and then what happened? pt. 2

Synopsis: ellie helps you get ready for another date, but you unexpectedly come back to her apartment a bit earlier than planned...

AN: i have no words for this, just enjoy. i got a little too carried away. hope i did it justice. (i don't know how to write smut all that well lol), also can we agree that ellie definitely whines and whimpers in bed? thanks

WC: 6.6k (jesus)

Warnings: mdni!!! smut!!!, pining, kissing, oral (r!receiving), masturbation, finger sucking, lowk loser!ellie who still gets bitches even if she doesn't do anything, lowk perv!ellie, fem!reader, ellie being sooo desperate for u she cant help herself, seriously the girl is pathetic, no use of Y/N or readers appearance

Part 1: HERE

DAILY CLICK FOR PALESTINE

WHY YOU SHOULDN'T BUY TLOU2

READ THIS

Faded red and purple.

Those are the colors Ellie is looking at currently while examining her neck in the mirror. She's looking at the hickey closely, touching and feeling it with her fingers, the colors of it not as vibrant as they were that Saturday night.

The night that Ellie remembers, oh so well. The night that has been on replay in her mind for the past week and a half, haunting her every second of the day. It plays like a movie, over and over, until she runs out of new details to remark. She flips the images of you like a book, mesmerized by the way your body felt on hers. She remembers your skin like she remembers a painting, so soft, so warm, so inviting.

She wishes for nothing more than to touch you like that again, but she can't.

Because you're going on another date tonight.

Ellie drops her hand from her neck and shuts her eyes, head dropping low. She looks at her hands, gripping the white marble of her bathroom sink until her own knuckles turned the same color.

Why can't she get over it, like she does with other girls? Why does it have to be so hard with you?

She knew she was fucked from the moment her eyes landed on you a year and some months ago, while attending Dinas party. The way you strutted in, all smiles and pearly whites, extending your pretty hand to greet hers. Dina had warned Ellie not to mess with you, for Ellie had 'ruined' a handful of friendships between Dina and her friends who couldn't help but fall for the brunette girl, even if it wasn't her intention.

Ellie at the time, scoffed at this, treating it like a joke, but she soon saw how unbelievably difficult it was to not look at you that way.

She swears that she tried so hard not to hang around you, avoiding you like the plague. Every time Dina or Jesse would invite her to come out she would make up some type of excuse that would rid her of her friends.

"Ellieee, pleaseee! We haven't seen you in so long! Don't be a party pooper or I'll come there and take your stash and smoke it all." Dina pleaded with a whiny voice on the phone for the 10th what time.

"Oh my god, okay, who's coming?" Ellie rolled her eyes at this, anticipating Dina's answer.

"Yes, Jesus, finally you're getting your ass out of that bed! Uh, it's gonna be me, Jesse, Tyler..." she continued on until Ellie heard your name fall from Dinas lips. Her breath hitched in her throat as her heart danced in her chest.

"D, wait! I'm sorry! I just remembered, I have a physics assignment for tomorrow. I... I swear I'll make it up to you! Also, I do other shit than lay in b-" Ellie had to think quick and uni assignments always worked for these type of situations.

"I can't believe you. You owe me big time, Williams! I better have three blunts rolled by tomorrow! Be ready, bitch." and with that Dina hung up the call while Ellie sighed out a shaky breath of relief.

That's how it always went back then, they would call and Ellie would say no, she can't, she's busy.

But she couldn't keep at it for too long, you were becoming incredibly close with Dina and Jesse and Ellie knew she had to face you eventually. So, she started going out, and every time, her heart would flutter when she saw you. Her excuses were long gone and gradually, she tried to make time to see you as much as possible. You were, of course, just as eager to see her, finding her incredibly cool and funny, not to mention good looking.

Pretty soon you were inseparable, and nowadays Ellie finds herself waiting for your texts about your weekly sleepovers or a game of pool at your local bar.

Ellie steps away from her sink, wiping her hands on her grey sweatpants. Her gaze once again falls on her puzzled expression. She tries not to think about your date tonight, but so far she's been failing miserably.

Fuck my life, she thinks.

She gets out of the bathroom and heads towards her couch, wanting nothing more than to put on a dinosaur movie and smoke away her feelings. She plops down on the cushions and searches for the missing TV remote. Out of the corner of her eye, Ellie sees her phone on the coffee table light up and your name and picture flash on the cracked screen. She nervously reaches over and clears her throat before answering the call.

"Uhm, yeah? What's up?" Ellie cringes at the sound of her raspy voice, these being the first words she had spoken today.

"Ellie! Where are you? I've called you, like, 5 times already. Are you home? I need help getting ready and my roommate brought her boyfriend over and, ugh, I just can't deal with that. Can I come over?" you ramble, obviously in a rush since it was already 5 PM and your date started at 8.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm home. Come over!" Ellie said rather enthusiastically, much to her dismay. She shuts her eyes in embarrassment.

"Great! You're a life saver, love you! Be there in 15." you say happily and end the call.

Love you!

The words you uttered so nonchalantly hung in the air while Ellie tried not to take them to heart. She puts the phone back on the table and looks around.

Fuck, she had to clean up the place at least.

Ellie frantically got up and started moving things around, putting them back in their designated places. Food delivery bags, sweets and cigarette butts were all over the place. When she was satisfied, she figured she should change into something... better smelling than she had on currently. Ellie hadn't left the house in, at least, 2 days, not having the energy to interact with people. She spent them catching up on homework and watching movies. She tried to tell herself that it wasn't because of your newfound crush, but that meant she would be lying to herself.

Ellie threw the shirt she had on into the hamper and put on a fresh band T. She changed her sweats into a pair of grey shorts and put on some citrusy deodorant, maybe even spraying some into the living room to freshen it up. She quickly brushed her teeth and messed with her hair.

By the time she was done, you were already knocking on her door. Ellie looked at herself in the mirror one last time before deciding that she looked decent enough and opening the door for you to come in.

As always, you give her a big, warm smile and throw your hands around her neck, giving her a hug. It took Ellie a second to respond but she returns your hug with a light squeeze.

"Hey, you." she rasped into your hair, inhaling your coconut shampoo.

"Hey, Els! Hope you don't mind me being here. You know how Alex gets when her boyfriend comes around, I just can't." you say while rolling your eyes. You kick off your shoes and scan the room, heading towards Ellies couch and putting down your big bag.

"Yeah, I get it. Like when Dina and Jesse can't keep their hands off each other. Yuck." Ellie laughs, moving to sit down next to you.

"Exactly!" you start shuffling through your blue duffle, pulling out some clothes and a big, glittery makeup bag. "Is it okay if I use your bathroom? I need to do my makeup perfectly and the lighting is so good there." you ask Ellie with pleading eyes and a smirk, which she simply couldn't say no to.

"Of course, you don't even have to ask." Ellie throws you a lazy smile.

"Thank you!" you tell her excitedly, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. You get up with all of your stuff and stride towards the bathroom.

Ellie feels her cheeks getting warmer and redder. She gets up and follows you, "So, uh, are you excited to see, uh... her?" she utters with a nervous laugh, already forgetting your dates name even if you reminded her a million times. She leans on the doorframe of the bathroom and crosses her muscly arms.

"Yeah, I am excited to see 'her'." you look at Ellie through the mirror and put up quotations marks, like you're mocking her obvious bad memory with names. She rolls her eyes. "Sorry I forgot her name, jeez."

I don't care what her name is, she wants to say.

"It's Sophia, for the 100th time. We're going out to this sushi place, I heard its really good! I also heard that its really fancy, so I really have to up my game." you laugh, putting your hair up and examining your face.

Ellies face contorts at this and she can't help but let out a scoff, "I thought you hated sushi? Fish in general? What the hell are you gonna eat?" she asks you with furrowed brows.

"I mean, yeah, its not my favorite but I can try it. Maybe this time it'll be good!" you try to sound enthousiastic, but Ellie was right, you've always hated fish and everyone knew that.

"Why is she taking you there if you can't eat anything on the menu? Did she even ask you what you like? Remember when we went to Jesses place and you tried that fried fish he cooked and threw up?" Ellie starts questioning you, her tone dripping with jealousy. She looks at your face in the mirror and manages to catch your worried eyes, just for a flash.

"Ellie, its fine. She insisted we go there, so I didn't complain. I'll try some and if I don't like it, I'll just get a drink. That's all. Now, let me do my makeup in peace, dummy!" you usher her out, getting slightly annoyed because she was right, but you still wanted to make it work with this girl so you didn't say anything when she suggested you go to this restaurant.

Ellie simply can't believe you're going out with someone who doesn't even know you that well. You're pretty vocal about your likes and dislikes, so either this Sophia isn't listening to you or she doesn't care.

The fuck does she have that I don't? I would treat you better.

With an annoyance in her step Ellie, once again, lays down on her coffee colored sofa and opens up TikTok, mindlessly scrolling while waiting for you to finish getting ready. After a while of watching dog videos and replying to Joel's unreadable texts and his wrong use emojis, Ellie decides that rolling a blunt for when you leave is a great idea. She definitely need to get her mind off of things.

After what seemed like an hour, you come out of the bathroom. Your hips sway as the black bodycon dress you picked hugs you in all the right places, your hair frames your face like its a masterpiece and the makeup you did enhances your features perfectly. Your hands are behind your back as you make your way to the living room.

"Els, need your help with something." you say shyly, while turning your rear side to the girl.

She looks up from the table and her eyes land on your bare back. Your black, lacy bra sticking out from underneath the dress. Her gaze widens and her breath stops for a second. She wonders if you have matching panties on.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Can't reach the zipper. Will you zip me up?" you giggle while trying to zip up the dress, but fail miserably instead.

Ellie swallows the lump that formed in her throat and gets up from the couch. "Y-yeah, of course." She says in a hushed voice.

You relax your shoulders as her own tense up. Her long fingers move towards the zipper that sits on the small of your back. One of her hands finds its way to the black zipper, while the other rests on your upper arm. Carefully, she picks up the small bead and starts moving it up you back.

You feel Ellies breath fan against you, her body heat radiating off of her. She's so close that she could see every damn freckle and baby hair on your neck, and that's precisely where she would plant a kiss right now if she could. The dip of your shoulders and collarbones were driving her crazy. She tried to drag the drop as slow as she could, just so she could stare at your curves longer.

One of the straps of your dress slip down, and Ellie picks it up and places it back. Her fingers graze your trap and it feels like fire. She sneakily caresses the spot before returning to her task.

"There, all, uh, all done." Ellie smooths down the dress slowly, picking off any lint that stuck to the soft fabric. She rests her hands on your hips, just for a second. Just to see what it feels like. You turn around with a smile and thank her. Ellie lets go of you and scratches her ear while her eyes linger on your body.

Don't be a creep, Ellie. Don't look at her chest. Don't.

You put your stuff back into the bag your brought over and take out the black open-toed heels you bought last week. Sitting down on Ellies sofa, you strap them on and get up to see how they feel. Ellies eyes never leave you.

"So, what do ya think? I look okay?" you question Ellie, swaying over to the body length mirror that hangs in the hallway. You do a turn and send Ellie a killer smile, like you're posing for a photo. Ellie thinks she's gonna explode.

"You look fucking- great, fuck. Of course you look good." Ellie shakes her head as if you asked her the most ridiculous question to exist. She leans back on the couch and observes you as you examine your face.

She imagines that you're getting ready for a date with her. Imagines giving you a kiss on the neck and planting her hands around your waist while you giggle at her and snap a photo of you two in the mirror.

"Okay, and what do you think 'bout this perfume?" now you were getting nervous, the time to leave for the date coming closer. You march over to her, heels clicking on the wooden floor. You lean down, pushing your neck into Ellies face so she could sniff you better.

You catch Ellie by surprise as she steadies herself. Her nose and lips nervously brush over your neck, just behind your ear. She takes a long inhale and closes her eyes, you signature scent filing up her senses. Your hair tickles her face.

"Smells good. As always." Ellie states quietly, not moving from the warmth of your neck. She wishes she could stay there.

"Thanks, Williams. I have to go, I'm gonna be late. So, uh, I'll let you know how the date went! You have my location if anything happens, yeah? Lock the door behind me." you put on your coat and bag and strut to the door.

"Wait, she's not picking you up?" Ellie hurriedly follows behind you. The fuck?

"Uh, no. Something's up with her car or... I don't know. I'm just gonna walk!" you say, not looking forward to the death of your feet.

"Jesus," she mutters "do you want me to drive you? It's cool." Ellies already picking up her car keys but you stop her.

You put your hand on her bicep, giving her a reassuring squeeze "Ellie, it's fine. I don't mind walking! I love walking, in fact! Don't stay up late, okay? Bye, Els!" you retort, you don't want to be a bother. Besides, walking is healthy. At least you'll get your steps in and the restaurant is 15 minutes away.

Ellie rolls her eyes, but she can't even say a comeback since you're already clacking away. She almost forgets to lock the door.

She drags her feet back to where she was sitting and finishes rolling her joint, the TV in the background playing a random movie. Ellie lights up the spliff and leans back, putting her feet up on the living room table. Finally she can relax and turn her mind off.

The clock showed 12 AM and Ellie was fast asleep right where she sat. The spliff she smoked turned into ash and the movie she was watching ended a long time ago. The sound of her phone ringing jolted her awake, the ring tone she put specifically for you blaring loudly.

She quickly picks up the phone "Hey? Is everything okay?" Ellie muttered, still half asleep with closed lids.

"Hey, um, Ellie? Can I come over?" you slur your words slightly. Are you drunk? You sounded rushed and winded.

"Of course, angel, where are you? Should I pick you up? Are you okay?" Ellie asks in a panic, now wide awake. She didn't even notice the way her nickname for you slipped out.

"Yeah, everything's fine, just need to, uh, see you." you sniffle "I'm gonna be up in a sec." you tell her and hang up the call.

Ellie rushes to the door to unlock it and sees your fallen face. She stands to the side and lets you in as you take off your heels and fall face first into the cream cushions.

"What happened?" Ellie asks as she sits down next to you, placing a careful hand on your back.

"Nothing, I just... It was so weird. Everything was okay at first, we were drinking and laughing, and then we went back to her place and she was acting strange and kinda like an asshole, so I left. The sushi was shit, by the way." you chuckle, wiping the one tear that slipped from your eye.

Ellie had a concerned look on her face as she opened up her arms, inviting you for a hug. "Come here." You place your head on her warm chest and close your eyes, humming contently. "I didn't know where to go and you were so close, so yeah. Sorry if I woke you up, though." you whisper into her.

"It's okay, just glad that you're okay. Wanna take a shower? You can sleep here if you want." Ellie smiles at you while wiping smudged mascara from your cheek. Your painted lips tug into a smile and Ellie wonders how that shade of pink would look on her.

"Yes, please." you mutter softly and let go of her body.

Ellie gets up and swiftly makes her way to her bedroom. She rummages through her messy closet until she finds a pair of grey boxers, some socks, a t-shirt and a towel. Jesus Christ, I need to clean more often.

"Here you go." she hands you the clean clothes.

"Thanks, Els. I don't know what I would do without you." you smile at her hazily, your eyes having this sort of gloss over them, like the one Ellie saw that night. You make your way to the bathroom and close the door. She hears the water turn on and the sound of the shower curtains rustling.

Don't imagine her naked, you idiot.

Ellie lets out a sigh she didn't know she was holding as she settles into the daybed comfortably.

You finish your shower and plop down next to Ellie. The smell of her pine-like shampoo fills her nose. The thought of you showering with her stuff and using her towel and sleeping in her clothes makes her head dizzy with the sheer domesticity she so badly yearns for.

Ellies sprawled out in a laying position, one hand under her head while the other plays around with the TV remote. You wrap your arms around Ellies tattooed one, leaning your head on her shoulder. One of your legs rests on top of hers, hiking up your her boxers in the process.

Fuck.

Ellie can't help but gaze down at your body, the way her bottoms hug your thighs and how her shirt looks so fucking good on you. To say that you look hot would be an understatement. She knew she looked stiff as fuck but she didn't dare move a muscle. Ellie feared that even a slight movement would cause you to detach from her, so she stayed still.

"You okay, El?" you ask as you notice the change in her demeaner, shifting your stare to the side of her face. Even though the only light was coming from the TV, you could still se the slight nervousness that was present on the girls face.

Ellie snaps her head towards you and clears her throat "What? Yeah, angel. I'm fine, sorry. Just watching the show." she sends a smile your way as her eyes focus on the TV, your own burning a hole in the side of Ellies neck.

She puts a daring tattooed hand atop your thigh in a reassuring matter. You hum against her and turn your attention back to the documentary that was playing.

Ellies feels her heart palpate and she wonders how far the nearest hospital is from her apartment.

You lay like that for a while, comfort and warmth surrounding your tangled bodies. You didn't move and Ellie took that as a sign that her clammy hand on your thigh didn't present itself as a problem.

Ellie thought she was dreaming.

Out of nowhere you let out a chuckle, obviously remembering something funny. "What is it?" Ellie asks you.

"Nothing I just- nothing, doesn't matter." a giggle escapes your lips as you nuzzle closer to Ellies body.

"Weirdo." Ellie jokes with a squeeze to your leg.

After a 2 minute silence, you whisper something that sends Ellie into orbit "I didn't even come..."

What the fuck?

Did she heart that right?

Ellies body hardens as she questions. "Come- come where?" the embarrassing ask leaves her mouth before she can even think about what you meant. You laugh at her confused tone.

"No, Els, I mean, like, I didn't even come when I was with her." you hide your face in your palm and whisper the 'come' part, suddenly feeling embarrassed that you even admitted something like this to your friend. Ellie understands.

Oh my god.

The brunette thinks she might just die right here. You almost never talk about sex. I mean, here and there of course, but never intimately like this. You both knew more about Dinas and Jesses sex like than yours, everything you found out against your will. Ellie didn't even know if she wanted to hear about your love endeavours, she didn't know if she could handle the sheer thought of someone else's naming dripping from your lips in that way.

But this, this intrigued her as she continued to ask.

"What do you mean?" Ellie tries not to prod to much, still acting dumb.

"I mean, we were going at it but after she was done, that was it. She left me high and dry. She didn't even give me aftercare, she just went on her phone." you laugh feeling more comfortable to tell the story "That's why I left. I felt embarrassed."

This fucking bitch. she thinks about the girl. She couldn't comprehend what you were telling her. Someone was having sex with you? And you didn't finish? That wasn't their priority?

Ellie can't help but let out a scoff as her mouth hangs open with disbelief.

I would never fucking do that.

"Do what?" you question her, giving her a puzzled look.

Shit, did she say that out loud?

"I- I mean, I would never just leave a girl hanging like that. Making a girl finish is sometimes better than sex itself, shit." Ellie lets out a mocking laugh, the weed that still buzzed in her giving her confidence. This made your stomach swirl in a way that was all to familiar, the thought of Ellie in compromising positions.

"Don't feel embarrassed, she's a fucking idiot. Doesn't deserve you." her grip on your thigh hardens and you would be lying if you said that it didn't have any effect on you. Ellie wasn't the only one still drunk on substances, the alcohol you had earlier still present in your body.

"Yeah, you're right." you mutter out, hiking your leg upwards, your knee nearing Ellies crotch. This doesn't go unnoticed by the brunette.

"Of course I fucking am." she says like its fact, her eyes darting between your knee and the TV.

The comforting silence returns and soon enough Ellie puts on a TV show you both love, but you couldn't focus on anything but her body underneath yours. Its not like you didn't think about Ellie. Of course you did. Every fucking gay girl with eyes saw how attractive Ellie was. Her eyes, her crooked smile and that fucking tattoo that adorned her forearm were enough to make a girls knees weak. Dina had subtly mentioned how Ellie was a bit of a player, so you didn't wanna indulge in her games. As you grew closer to her, you saw how sweet she actually was. Yeah, she could be an ass sometimes, but that was just Ellie. You saw right through her hard exterior and discovered her nerdy and warm side. Still, you didn't want to compromise your friendship with her or Dina, so you just moved on.

You move your head to rest in the crook of Ellies neck, feeling her pulse quicken at the action. Racy thoughts were swirling in your head and your tongue was faster than your tipsy brain.

"Now I'm all pent up." the whisper came out so hushed that even Ellie barely heard it.

The air shifts and Ellie nearly looses her mind. You could cut the tension with a knife. What the fuck were you doing? Surely this isn't something innocent. Suddenly she could feel every inch of your body on hers, a cold sweat running down her insides.

What the fuck does she do now?

Shit.

"Y-yeah?" she whispers even quieter then you, testing the waters. Fuck it, she thought. She could feel the warmth of your centre radiating on her thigh and that was enough for her. With her gaze still on the screen, Ellie moves her hand up your thigh slowly, landing near the bottom of your cotton boxers. She takes the hem between her fingers and plays with it. Maybe this seemed like a bold move, but her insides were doing fucking backflips. She patiently waited for your next move.

"Yeah, got all worked up..." you rasp out, craning your neck to the side and lightly brushing your lips on the red mark you left some days ago. You unhook your leg from Ellies waist and turn to lay on your back, still clinging to her right arm. Ellies hand slips from your ass and lands on the inner part of your leg. Nobody speaks a word.

Ellie thinks she might pass out.

Her fingers draw deliberate circles on your skin, still unsure of her movements. Slowly but surely, they dance up your leg and land again on the hem of your shorts. Ellies eyes are wide with blown out pupils, her breaths come out ragged and short. She can't keep her eyes off of you. Her digits linger for a moment or two, before her pinky grazes your sweet spot. The thing she yearns for. You let out a quick sigh of relief as you both come to an understanding of what's about to happen, but neither of you verbally confirm it. No words need to be said.

Your grip on her arm tightens, silently signaling for her to continue what she was doing. She moves her pinky up and down and if she moved just an inch, she would be right where you needed her.

Ellie decides that she would be taking her sweet ass time. She'd been waiting too long for this to be over in a matter of minutes. She finally feels like she's in control. Her bangs stick to her forehead, her brows are furrowed and they way she's biting her lip will definitely leave a mark. She couldn't see your face, but she imagines its mimicking hers.

You buck your hips up, just a tad, just to let her know its safe to go further. Ellie moves your leg with hers slowly as she opens up your thighs. She so badly wishes to see the view below, so sure that the cotton boxers were a darker shade of grey in the middle. Her throat is dry at the mere thought of your slick.

Ellie moves her hand to cup your cunt, the pads of her digits pressing against your hole lightly. She was right, you were wet.

You were wet for her.

The words keep repeating in her mind.

It takes everything in her not to flip you around and fill you up with her strap, but she can't. Not yet. Not now. Another time if her stars are lucky.

You let out a low moan that you were holding on to while digging your nails into Ellies bicep. Ellies tattooed hand moves up, her fingers tracing your bud with a light pressure, enough to elicit another groan out of you. Ellie groans quietly just at the sight of her hand on your pussy. Her pressure on your clit hardens and she moves her fingers faster. You instinctively open your legs more, giving her better access to play with you.

She halts her movements and you almost whine at the loss of her touch. She slowly lifts up the band of your boxers and slips her hand in. She doesn't know why but she's surprised at the loss of your panties underneath the shorts. Ellie remembers seeing the lace adorning your back just a couple of hours ago and wondering what you were wearing down below. Its a good surprise nonetheless.

You arch your back at the sudden contact of Ellies cold digits on your puffy clit. She circles it again before moving down to gather your slick on her fingers, returning them to your bud.

"E-Ellie..." her name falling from your lips in the most beautiful way Ellie has ever heard and she thinks she could come just from that. Your bury your face in her neck and she feels your every breath.

"Yeah, baby?" she rasps out, continuing to roll your clit around in hard but slow movements. You kiss her neck a bit harder this time, leaving wet trails all the way up to her jaw. Her smell is intoxicating to you. You need more.

"Need more, El." you mutter out shyly. It was embarrassing how quickly you soaked your panties for her. You didn't know that Ellies were even worse than yours.

She dips her head down and catches your lips with hers in a slow kiss. Ellie thinks she's on top of the world.

The touch was electric and Ellie felt as if you were the missing piece to her puzzle. You let go of her arms as you straddle her waist, tangling your hands behind her neck and in her hair. Ellie lets out a groan at the tug of her locks as her hands come up to rest on your ass. She kisses you with so much want and so much need, she doesn't even stop for a quick breath. You both slow down as her hand once again finds your wet centre and you can't help but let out a moan into Ellies mouth. She rubs you through your boxers, teasing you again.

"El, please..." you plead with her, you can't take it anymore. Your head falls into the crook of her neck as you leave another hickey next to the old one.

Ellie feels like a god when she hears her name fall from your mouth, so sickly sweet, so desperate, just for her.

"What do you want, baby? Hm? Tell me." she's not even that much of a dirty talker, but she needs to hear you say it. Needs to hear you say how badly you want her. The craving for you growing stronger.

"Anything. Do whatever you want." the words you say come out in a moan as you grind down on her rough palm.

In a swift motion she flips you over to lay on your back. Your legs wrap around her waist as she pulls up your chin for a deep kiss. Both of you are a moaning mess at this point. The pillows on her couch were thrown somewhere on the floor, the TV long forgotten. Ellie pulls her shirt above her head and you almost salivate at the sight of her abs, her Calvin Kleins peeking out from her shorts. Her messy auburn hair and bitten lips leave you wanting more. You pull her in by her sports bra to continue the kiss. Her fingers toy with the bottom of your shirt as she lifts it up above your tits, the cold air nipping at your exposed skin.

She kisses down your body, starting from your neck down to your clavicle. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to do this." Ellies words sound breathless as she kneads your tits in her hands, running her fingers over your hardened nipples. She kisses them slowly, making sure to leave a few of her marks.

Ellie can't wait any longer, the need to taste you overcomes her completely.

She gets on her knees in front of the couch and settles between your soft thighs, kissing and biting them delicately. Her long digits drag over your tits all the way to your knees. "Can I taste you? Please?" and Ellie didn't even have to ask by the looks of you.

Ellie wishes she could take a picture right now. Your cute face is all blushy, bitten lips waiting for a moan to slip out. Your hair spills around you like you're a work of art. God, don't even get her started on how your perfect body looks under hers.

And who are you to deny her? Her whiny tone and big eyes are enough to send you over the edge.

"Yes, Ellie. Hurry up. Please." you sound just as pathetic as her.

Ellie eyes your heat, pressing a teasing finger right on your wet clit. She bunches up the boxers and slips her hand underneath, touching you with her cold knuckles and dragging them down your slit slowly. The reaction that this elicits from you makes her roll her eyes to the back of her head. She carefully but quickly takes off the cotton material and throws it behind her.

"Jesus, you're so fucking wet." and it feels so pathetic, how wet you got just from a few touches. You don't even wanna know how fast you'll come if she keeps this up.

Ellie finally bows her head down and licks a long stripe from your hole to your clit, making you buck your hips to her mouth from the action. She shuts her eyes and groans from your taste. Tastes so fucking sweet. She thinks she could live off of you alone. She continues gathering your slick on her tongue as she circles your clit, pulling you closer by your thighs. Her moans mix with your own and you don't think you could hold on any longer.

"E-Els, oh my god. Keep, fuck, keep going!" you croak out while arching your back, pushing into Ellies tongue.

"Hold on, baby. Don't come yet. Just a little longer. Shit, you taste so fucking good." Ellie grumbles between your folds, nose bumping into your bud as she nuzzles deeper. Her chin is covered in your wetness, dripping down the couch.

Her right hand unwraps from your thigh and reaches down into her own shorts. Ellie can't help it, her own slick pooling in her underwear. The thought of her face in your cunt making her go crazy. She speeds up her tongue while she simultaneously rubs her own clit. She doesn't even bother to take off her boxers.

"Tell me when you're close, angel. Okay?" the sound of her voice sending vibrations to your body. You nod frantically, too pent up to even use your words. All you can focus on is her heaven-sent tongue that's working on you.

However, you do notice her sneaky hand in her boxers, and the sight alone makes the tight coil in your stomach snap. Ellie's lapping at you like you're her last meal in the world while her wrist is working on her own clit. The sight is pitiful one, how she's about to come just from eating a girl out. Not just any girl. Her girl.

"Ellie, I'm close, fuck, 'm gonna- gonna come!" you whine with your hands tightly tangled in Ellie's hair. "Yeah, fu- you gonna come for m-me?" and as she utters those words and as her pace is just right, both of you finish at the same time, hot flashes running through your bodies. Ellie's hand and mouth are still not letting up as she works trough your orgasms.

She slows down and takes her hand out of her shorts and lazily wraps it around your thigh. "El- stop, stop, stop, can't take, fuck- can't take anymore." you hum out, your hand wiping the beads of sweat from your forehead. Ellie groans in reply, so pussy drunk on your taste that she just can't bring herself to let up. "Ellie! Please..." you push her head away, feeling overstimulated.

"Okay okay, sorry angel." her mouth detaches from your bud with a pop and she continues placing small licks on your hole, cleaning you up. She finishes with a few kisses placed on your clit and inner thighs.

Ellie quickly gets up with wobbly legs and goes to the bathroom to get a fresh towel to clean up the scene that just unfolded. As she looks at herself in the mirror, she sees your shinny slick dripping down her chin and she can't help but smirk at the sight.

She makes her way towards you and now she really wishes she had a fucking camera somewhere here, because even the greatest renaissance painters couldn't have painted a better portrait. You turn your head to look at Ellie with you shirt sitting under your chin, your bottom half completely naked and as the cherry on top, your perfect smile and hazy eyes looking right at her.

She blushes as she sits down next you, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Hey, brought you a clean rag." she says, suddenly feeling very shy under your piercing gaze. "Thanks, babe." you tell her before pulling her down by her bra for a sweet kiss. Ellie immediately melts into you as you taste yourself on her lips. Her heart flutters at the word babe.

"Was, uh, was that good?" her pleading eyes look into your own as she questions you quietly. "Ellie, you're joking, right?" you giggle as you run your fingers through her auburn locks. She turns away from your gaze while a deep blush creeps onto her cheeks.

"Hey," you turn her head towards yours "I don't think I ever came that fast in my life." your blown out pupils meet her own and Ellie's stomach dances at your words.

You pick up her right hand, still looking deep into her eyes. A playful and dangerous look enhancing your stare. You bring up her fingers to your lips, parting them just enough for her digits to slip in, licking them clean from the girls come. Ellie sees white for a second. She pushes them in deeper, and now she can't help but imagine some other things she would do to you.

"Round 2?"

#OKAY ITS FINALLY DONE #i dont even know what to say i feel dirty from writing this lmaoo #in a good way #mine #fics! #ellie williams #ellie williams smut #ellie tlou #ellie x reader #ellie williams x reader #ellie x fem reader #ellie williams imagine #ellie williams blurb #tlou2 #the last of us #tlou #the last of us 2 #lesbian #smut #lgbt #sapphic

[appocalipse]

that guy ⊹ steve harrington

summary: After he's been to yet another failed date with yet another random pretty girl, Steve Harrington, your best friend, stops by at the diner your family owns for a late-night chat, same as he'd done a thousand times before. Steve is totally unaware of how much he's hurting you with his endless parade of dates, because after all — the two of you are only friends and nothing more, right? It's not like you have any secret feelings for him… | 2.6k words

── ࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ──

The moment Steve steps through the glass doors of the diner, you wonder, for about the millionth time that month alone, what is it that you've done so wrong to deserve this kind of punishment.

It's Friday night, and on Friday nights, Steve Harrington goes on dates. It's just like clockwork, really: he meets a pretty girl, thinks she's the one, takes her out on a date, realizes quickly enough that she isn't quite what he was looking for, then comes here after having dropped her back home to sulk with you, in the diner that your family runs, still clad in the outfit he'd chosen especially for his failed date.

To be honest, he never looks sad, per se — more like disappointed. Frustrated, maybe.

You watch as he weaves around tables occupied by laughing friends, past booths filled with couples sharing desserts, then slides into a seat in front of you at the bar. Steve sits down with an exhausted sigh, ruffling up his hair before shooting you a tired smile.

"Hi."

You don't look up from where you're polishing the counter. "Bad date again?"

"Not even close. She talked about horses non-stop."

A quiet laugh slips past your lips despite yourself, and finally, you tear your gaze off the dark wooden surface of the counter to look up at him; he's got this pleased little smile on his face, the corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly in the way they always do whenever he succeeds at making you laugh, even if just a little.

How are you supposed to keep acting like nothing's wrong when he looks at you like that?

You clear your throat awkwardly and make yourself busy stacking clean glasses next to the coffee machine.

"So...not the one, I take it?"

Steve leans forward against the counter and props his head up with his hand, sighing deeply.

"I'm starting to think she won't ever show up," he says quietly, running his other hand through his hair. You chance another glance at him and note how genuinely worried he looks. It breaks your heart almost as much as it annoys you. "What is it that's wrong with me, huh? I just don't get it."

"Nothing is wrong with you."

"You don't need to be nice to me. We've been friends since forever, remember?"

The word 'friends' makes you wince a little bit inside, but you hide the reaction behind a neutral frown. "Do you think there's something wrong with me? Because I haven't found the one yet either, you know."

Steve's expression softens as he looks at you, and once again you feel that horrible twinge in your stomach that you wish would just stop already.

"It's different. I mean—you're not actively trying to find someone." He reaches out to pull one of the half-melted mints out from the glass bowl on the counter and pops it into his mouth with a shrug. "I go out looking for her and she just doesn't come. If she even exists, that is."

"She does."

"Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, but I wouldn't hold my breath. God, why am I such an idiot, y'know?" Steve slumps over the counter with a groan, burying his face into his crossed arms. "My love life is a trainwreck."

"At least you have one."

He glances up at you curiously and lifts an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing. Forget it. Do you want some pie?"

You're not about to tell him what you've only admitted to yourself mere months ago — that you're actually hopelessly, madly, stupidly in love with him, and that you have been ever since the two of you were just dumb kids racing around your parents' diner.

What makes it even worse is that you had no idea your feelings went that deep until Steve started going on these dates of his again. Before then, everything was normal — you met up every weekend and binged on candy, watched bad movies on your couch, drove around town together blasting The Clash on his BMW's speakers...it was good.

Until it wasn't.

"Wait, c'mon, you can't just leave me hanging like that," Steve presses. He shifts a little on his stool to better face you, then gestures at you with his hands. "You've clearly got something you wanna say, so, like—hit me. Lay it on me."

"Nothing. I'm just saying...at least you're trying, you know," you say carefully, measuring each word before speaking them. "And at least you're the one doing the rejecting. Could be worse."

Steve's eyebrows rise high up on his forehead and he looks at you incredulously. "Whoa, wait—are you trying to tell me you've been rejected?"

You busy yourself by filling two tall glasses with soda, then slide one to his side of the counter and keep the other for yourself. "Uh...kind of, yeah. But it's fine."

"But who the hell would even do that?" he blurts out. There's anger in his voice all of a sudden, a defensive fire in his eyes that makes you feel as if someone has punched you in the gut. "To you? You're like, the nicest person on the planet, and super pretty to boot. That's just—that's crazy!"

Your heart gives a violent little jump in your chest. He thinks you're pretty. Steve Harrington thinks you're pretty.

Pretty as a friend, you correct yourself immediately, and sigh as you sip your drink. Of course, it's nothing more than that — just meaningless words spoken in a moment of unthinking kindness.

"Seriously, who?" he presses on. "Give me a name. I'll fight him."

"You mean like you fought Jonathan Byers?" you smile behind your glass, looking at him from over its rim.

Steve looks embarrassed at the memory and drops his gaze for a second or two before meeting your eyes again with a playful little smile of his own. "Different situation, okay, but that's not the point. So? Who's the guy?"

"You...don't know him," you hedge.

"It's Hawkins. I know the stray cats here by name."

"Fine, well, even if you did know him, it doesn't matter. He didn't reject me, exactly...not really."

Steve frowns a little. "Okay, you're gonna have to start making sense now. This is hurting my head."

The funny thing is, he actually looks confused, as if he can't possibly fathom the idea of someone rejecting you. It's sweet, really — way too sweet for your liking, especially when you know fully well he doesn't see you in the way you'd want him to.

You lower your gaze to avoid his and instead focus on drawing random shapes on the counter with your index finger, where tiny droplets of condensation from your glass have pooled up on the dark wood. "I mean, I never really told him how I felt. Not directly. It just…never happened."

"Oh. Well, then how do you even know if he feels the same way?" he asks you, looking rather doubtful.

You steal another glance at him and almost regret it instantly. His eyes are trained on your face, patient and attentive like you're the only thing worth watching in the world. It makes you feel horribly small and selfish and guilty, because after all, what right do you have to want him when he so clearly wants someone else?

You feel like you could cry. You might, if you don't distract yourself with something fast enough.

"I just know. Do you want some pie? I'll go get you some pie."

Without waiting for a response, you rush off to the kitchen even though there's plenty of pies sitting on the display counter at the bar, and you make a beeline straight for the back exit.

The alley behind the diner is blissfully empty as usual, just a lonely dumpster and a handful of sad-looking shrubs and weeds peeking out from under the concrete.

No, you aren't going to cry.

This is stupid.

You press your back against the rough brick wall of the diner and breathe in deep the warm night air, then exhale slowly as you count to ten in your head.

When the door opens behind you and the diner's familiar chatter and clatter of cutlery spill into the alley, you wince, mentally cursing yourself for being so goddamn weak. You should have known better.

You don't have to look up to know that it's him.

"Are you hiding from me?" Steve's voice comes, quiet and curious and maybe just a little bit hurt, even.

"I got...suddenly nauseous," you explain weakly, still refusing to look up and meet his eyes.

There's a long stretch of silence, and you feel Steve move closer to you until he's leaning against the wall by your side. You finally look up and find him smiling, this gentle, amused little thing that makes your traitorous heart skip a beat.

"You look just fine to me."

You stare up at the sky, head against the wall. "I thought I was gonna throw up."

He's still watching you, you can tell; you're keenly aware of his eyes on you, so much so that your skin prickles at the attention. "No, you didn't."

"No, I didn't," you admit with a sigh, and turn your head to finally look at him. He's got this little half-smile on his lips, the very same one you fell for years ago, and you curse yourself silently for never learning how to let him go. Really let him go.

"Hey. Listen. You don't have to tell me, okay?" Steve says gently, pushing himself off the wall to step closer to you. He brings his hand up to your face and tucks a loose lock of hair behind your ear, letting his fingertips linger on the edge of your jaw for the briefest of moments, just long enough for you to wonder whether he knows what he's doing to you.

You don't dare to move. You're afraid of breaking whatever spell has seemingly come over him.

"I should've never asked. That was selfish."

"Forget it," you say.

He's standing close now, close enough that you have to tilt your chin up to be able to look up at him properly. There's a strange kind of tension in his eyes, something dark and unsure and tentative, and his gaze darts down to your lips just the slightest bit.

You're fairly sure you're just seeing what you want to see, your foolish heart playing tricks on you. But you panic nonetheless, feeling a sudden, irrational fear that if he moves any closer, he'll realize the truth — that you're a liar and a coward, that you've been harboring these feelings of yours for him for years.

"I should—I should go. Back inside," you mutter, pointing vaguely at the door with your thumb. "In there."

"Sure, yeah. Okay. In there," he echoes, not making a single move to leave. "Not out here."

"Yup. Exactly. In there."

"So you said."

"Yep."

The wall of the diner is digging into your spine uncomfortably, and your mouth is dry, and your knees feel weak, and your stomach is doing somersaults, and the longer he stares at you with those eyes of his the more you feel like you're burning from the inside out and—

He's not moving. All he does is look at you, really look at you, as if it's the first time he's really looked, as if he's seeing something that wasn't there before.

"Okay, so—"

You try to push past him towards the door, but Steve grabs your arm, making you stop dead in your tracks. He lets go as soon as you look up at him, lifting his hand in front of him in an apologetic gesture.

"Sorry. I'm sorry," he says. He swallows hard and rubs his palm on the front of his jeans, a nervous little habit you think he's always had. He runs his hand through his hair, mussing up the carefully gelled strands, and it's probably the first time you've ever seen him look so flustered.

He laughs nervously and gestures at the ground with his hands as he speaks. "Look, this is just—this is just crazy, okay, but I think I, uh, maybe sort of realized something."

You blink at him, not quite certain you're hearing him correctly.

"Realized what?" you ask, the words barely more than a whisper.

Steve clears his throat and nods at you, seemingly pleased that you've finally spoken. "Yeah, well, this is stupid, but you know how you're always telling me to listen to my gut?"

"You're not making a whole lot of sense right now, Steve."

"Just bear with me for a sec, okay? This is like, totally new to me." He holds his palms up, and you notice his hands are shaking a little. "I just need a minute, alright?"

He breathes in deep and exhales slowly, then shoots you an apologetic look.

"Sorry, this is just...really weird," he confesses. "Weirdly real."

"You're freaking me out," you tell him, but Steve only smiles at you.

"Maybe I should just show you. Because, I mean, what if I'm wrong? That'd be terrible, obviously."

"Steve."

"Yeah, I know, but hear me out, okay?" he says quickly, and takes another step closer. You stand your ground this time, if only because you don't trust yourself to actually move without your legs giving out. "So, look. Here's the thing. You're, like—you're one of the most important people in my life. You've been there for me when nobody else was, and I...you mean a lot to me."

"Steve—"

"Shut up, you're ruining the moment."

He takes another step forward until he's crowding you against the wall, hand coming to rest next to your head on the brick. He's close, so close that you can smell the scent of his cologne and shampoo and laundry detergent, and if you were to lean in even the slightest bit, your faces would bump.

Steve is a little out of breath, his lips parted ever so slightly. And he's still looking at you with that strange, searching expression of his.

"Is this okay?" he whispers.

"I don't—what?"

Your voice catches in your throat. There's no room for doubt in his eyes now, not even the tiniest, slightest sliver of uncertainty left.

"This," Steve murmurs.

He tilts his head to the side a little and leans in until you're sure your noses are touching, and you feel your eyes slip closed in anticipation.

"Is this okay?" he repeats in a whisper. "Please tell me I'm not crazy."

"I think I am."

His lips brush yours. It feels like an accident, doesn't last long enough to be anything but a dream. You can still taste the faint, sweet trace of sugar and mint on your tongue when he pulls away, though.

"Just to be clear," Steve whispers, his fingers brushing lightly over the skin of your neck, tracing invisible lines that make you shiver, "am I the guy from earlier? The one you like?"

You don't have it in you to deny it anymore.

"Yes. It's you."

A wide grin breaks out across his face, and suddenly he's everywhere; he cups your face in his hands, pressing eager, fervent kisses along the line of your jaw, trailing hot and open-mouthed down the side of your neck.

You giggle helplessly, grabbing Steve by his collar to pull him away from you and up to your eye level. He's breathing just as heavily as you are, his hair messy and his eyes bright.

"How do you do this to me, huh?" he pants, kissing your forehead, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. "You just—you just completely knock me out."

A pleasant little thrill rushes up your spine at that.

"Oh yeah?"

"Completely."

You kiss him this time.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve x you #steve x reader #stranger things fanfic #stranger things imagine #steve harrington scenario #steve harrington oneshot #steve harrington one-shot #steve harrington one shot #steve harrington headcanon #steve harrington headcanons #steve harrington hcs #steve harrington hc #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fic #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington drabble #steve harrington dialogue #steve harrington fluff

[homunculus-argument]

My usual problem of "and then some other shit happens" is that they keep piling up on top of each other. This morning, I was just about to start work when

mail comes in. I've received a letter from the tax office.

I open the letter and get a Fuck No Way That's Right kinda bill.

time to hit up my accountant and ask what the fuck do I do now

realise that I haven't delivered my accounting stuff for like four months either, gotta apologise to her about that too

e-mail doesn't go through, double-check the address, re-type my whole apology and explanation again

four consecutive e-mails do not go through

fuck I gotta call them, where's my phone

just as I was about to make a phone call, I receive a phone call

forgot I had a phone appointment with my doctor, turns out I do not have a natural physical resistance to poison damage, and my medication resistance is something else.

confident in my ability to execute two unrelated tasks at once, I take a sip of my tea while on the phone. Naturally I fuck it up and pour the lukewarm tea on my lap instead.

figuring that since I'm unhurt and only poured enough to soak my clothes, not my chair, I'll just sit with the wet tea on my lap until the phonecall is over, and hang them to dry on the balcony later.

phonecall done, I remove my clothes and go hang them up to dry.

spot my little ficus tree cutting on the balcony, decide to water it since it's so hot and I don't want the thing to die.

coming back inside after leaving my clothes on the balcony, my boyfriend sees me undressed and wants affection.

he also wants to show me a video that he came upon.

make myself more tea

coming back to my computer, remember the phonecall I was supposed to make.

call the accounting people and tell them I can't e-mail the person I worked with, and get informed that the person I had been working with quit unexpectedly, and the one currently running the whole business on her own will look into my shit once she's personally out of the hospital. She meant to call me earlier about What The Fuck I'm Doing but unfortunately hospital.

promise her to deliver my accounting things today since it's the least I can do to not make her day any worse than it already is.

save through my paypal activities, log onto my online bank, check my account and do some math to confirm that I should more or less be alright until my next payday. Move some more money to my bank card account for groceries, and log out.

remember that the reason why I logged into my bank in the first place was the accounting, and log back in to get that data.

send my records to my new current accountant with apologies for not doing that for four months despite of being supposed to do it monthly.

finally done with that, satisfied of actually Getting Things Done, I suddenly realise I've spent the past three hours on random sidequests, haven't even touched whatever it was that I was planning to do today, and top of that I've completely forgotten what it was that I meant to do.

waste another half an hour writing a meticulous account of how I spent my morning doing everything else than what I meant to.

[moonsaver]

You were his sister's enemy.

Well, he rather assumes it.

Robin defends you whenever he scorns at you, and simply mentions you as someone who just has trouble communicating. Sunday, on the other hand, does not take to your mannerisms politely. Although distance and discord within branches of The Family have long shifted his attention from his sister and their once joint dream, it doesn't mean his protectiveness of it has vanished.

Your singing was nowhere near as perfect as his sister's, he believes. Robin defends you, saying you're great in your own way, and both of you have different styles of singing. He comments on your more mature look with disdain, thinly admonishing it as vulgar, while Robin tries to convince him you just work under a sultry concept. Everything you did, it was never as good as Robin's, and whenever even a single track of yours threatened Robin's on the chart, Sunday would be displeased. According to him, you were competing for fame with Robin, and even the audacity of you to go such lengths was disdainful.

Robin, however, has been trying to convince Sunday to be on better terms with her lover.

He isn't exactly unnoticing of Robin's new lipstick that's in a different shade than what she'd normally wear. A new perfume that's oddly charming, but expensive, not exactly what he sees her picking out. Hair accessories that he's never seen in her drawers, nail polish he's never seen her wear before, a new fresh change to her voice that's making it livelier as of late, which is suspicious, considering all of this takes place simultaneously after she leaves your room.

It's not long until Sunday manages to get a quiet moment with you. Confrontation isn't foreign to him, and neither are implied, cordial threats that are already schemed within the front of his mind as he gently turns the handle to your door.

You greet him politely, as expected, and both of you get talking. He gauges you out, asking you specific and roundabout questions, eyes scrutinizing the familiar color of nail polish on your fingers that were once on Robin's, the half-used bottle of perfume thats slightly peeking out of the poorly hidden drawer which he's sure is something Robin would pick, the glossy, sticky tissue which he assumes you used to wipe off some sheer gloss, which you obviously don't wear.

He's hostile, and he doesn't quite hide it. Warning, teetering on edge, observing and calculating his next question and your responses with every second. But alas, he finally leaves you alone, and silently takes his leave.

-

Sunday hates you. And that is a hill he will surely die on.

Or rather.. what else would you call this ugly, seething feeling inside his chest?

Seeing your eyes soften, your smile quirk up on your usually stoic face, your lazy, languid hands finding their usually hiding spot, tucked onto Robin's waist.

It makes him seethe seeing you do those things with his sister.

Or really, anything you do.

The laugh you share with an overly friendly employee, the side glance, silent communication with some of your audio-managing team, the playful pinching of your cheeks by another singer that's far too comfortable with you.

Your actions are.. despicable. Sure they are. And he starts questioning just why. He deludes himself with any reason that is clearly beyond rationale, and barely constrains a scoff when you try and ask him about his dampened mood.

Of course, he should find them despicable when they're done to him, too. But he doesn't.

And it's even more infuriating. He smiles softly and laughs at some of your words, playfully bumps you from time to time, and chuckles when you return the favor. He feels special when you make certain eye gestures, remember a few inside jokes, and wink at him to keep them a secret. And once he returns to his solitary confinement, it dawns on him, and he should be grinding his teeth to dust from the absolute fury you supposedly induce in him.

But he doesn't.

He's only left with a light feeling in his heart, which slightly, mournfully dampens when he sees you do the same with Robin.

They've shared a dream once. Surely, they can share a love, too?

#moonink #hsr #honkai star rail #hsr x y/n #hsr x you #hsr x reader #hsr sunday x you #hsr sunday x reader #hsr sunday x y/n #hsr robin #yandere hsr sunday #yandere hsr x you #yandere hsr x reader #yandere hsr #yandere honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #yandere honkai star rail #honkai star rail sunday #hsr sunday #sunday hsr #sunday x reader #yandere sunday x you #yandere sunday x reader #yandere sunday #honkai star rail robin

[elaci]

You need a subject for a photography submission, 'the face of sport'. Art offers one up- him. He doesn't know, however, the long-lasting effects one photo can have.

cw; consensual voyeurism, piv sex, f-receiving oral, masturbation, tennis...

Art Donaldson x fem!reader | The Rule of Thirds masterlist | talk to me!

An old tennis racket, two trophies, a signed ball, three pairs of worn shoes he couldn't bear to part with. Art Donaldson sifts through piles of memories with a smile on his face. Tashi would call it junk and insist Art gave up on what he does not use anymore if she knew it was here, hidden in boxes labelled ‘LINEN’ in the basement where the dust collects dust.

His old pair of lucky socks, an empty bottle of sunscreen, a drive-in ticket to Fast and The Furious, another old tennis racket, his last ever report card from school. Art has to take a moment to stretch his back out, being hunched over a box of old things doesn't work for long periods of time when your posture is everything. He isn't so sure what he's looking for under the dim light of a bulb that needs to be changed: a piece of himself, if he were ever that pensive.

A box of condoms with only one left inside, a toy race car he found on the side of the road after losing a match, three different lighters. The blond has a match the next day and a sore shoulder to boot- with a grimace, he pushes his hair out of his eyes. The basement feels cold and stale and Art doesn't quite know why he prefers being down here than lounging in the wide expanse of his multi-million dollar home. Tashi will be back soon and aching to go and train— maybe it's just a moment alone that Art is after.

Art throws an old neck pillow on the ground beside him and coughs at the dust it kicks up. He knows he should go back upstairs and forget about a life gone by, but when Art peers into what he thinks is a now-empty box, his eyes widen. A camera bag sits abandoned at the bottom of the box, a ribbon that was once tied around the handle lays discarded next to the bag, frayed at the edges.

Art Donaldson feels like an infidel, an apostate, as he reaches in and picks up the bag. It's smooth against his fingertips, the zip cold from its neglect, though the bag is in good condition in spite of a half decade's worth of dust and the constant use of it beforehand. It smells like something old and sweet, and Art feels perverted for even remembering a time of such struggle when his life now is so easy. The feeling makes his breath catch, and he holds the bag to his chest like it'll give him strength- the idolater that he is.

He's seen many cameras in his life, but the one inside is what he remembers most fondly, it's an old Canon with a scratched lens. Though Art is no religious man, this is an occasion that warrants a little extra faith and he thanks whoever listened for blessing his hands with the volition to dig into his past. Also in the bag is a set of printed polaroids held together with a worn elastic hair tie, though Art discards them for the moment in fear of recalling too much.

He takes the camera in both hands and turns it on, half expecting a dead battery symbol to greet his piqued attention, but instead, the screen lights up and he's looking at his spacious basement through a camera that's seen more than it should. He aims the camera into the box mislabelled 'LINEN' and snaps a photo of the white ribbon lying at the bottom. He smiles, presses a button on the camera, and waits as it loads the picture onto the display.

"Not too shabby," he hums to himself, though falls silent again when his finger hovers over the PREVIOUS button, and Art Donaldson falls victim to the sin of nostalgia.

He presses the button and is immediately assaulted with a flash into the past that burns a hole right through his stomach. There he stands, spry and grinning like an idiot with a lollipop stick between his teeth, his arms draped around Patrick Zweig, who is sticking up bunny ears on top of his head. They look happier than ever, bound by a friendship they had thought to be unbreakable. Art can't bear the sight, he presses the button again and feels nauseous.

It's the same scene, the same lollipop stick between his teeth, the same eye-slanting grin across his face. But rather than Patrick Zweig by his side, someone else hangs off his arm...

The door upstairs slams- Tashi's home. The basement ceiling shakes with the rattle of the door, and Art jumps when his wife, his wife, calls into the house for him.

"Art?"

He drops the camera, and the damned thing breaks as it hits the concrete flooring. His heart pounds in his chest as he scrambles for the shattered pieces, eyes glued on the now-dull display screen.

"Art, come on." Tashi's voice is loud enough for Art to catch as she walks through their first floor. "I want to get an hour in before we leave."

Art looks from the camera to the stairs, and then to the set of polaroids he had left unlooked at. And like a dog biting his own tail despite the pain of his own teeth, Art shoves the polaroids into his back pocket and straightens up.

“Coming, babe!”

SIX YEARS EARLIER

“If you hit my camera with that ball, I’ll never forgive you.”

Art grins, “What, you don’t trust my aim?”

You stand to the side of the court, eyes squinted in opposition to the sun as you watch Art Donaldson take a tennis racket from his bag and stretch out his shoulders. You don’t know him, not really, but you’ll vouch on any given day that the man has nice hands. 

You manage yourself as he pulls a tennis ball from his pocket and hits it against the floor a few times before catching it and looking up at you, hands on hips.

“So, I just hit the ball a few times?”

You nod, “and look good doing it.”

Art snorts out a peal of sweet laughter that has you grinning in response, though when you take your camera from its bag, you’re struck with an issue.

“Hey, can I put my camera bag with your things? I really don’t want to lose it.”

Art looks from you to the bag you hold, a black camera bag with a white ribbon tied dutifully around the handle, he nods and gestures over to his belongings that sit to the side of the court, but can't help his curiosity. "What's the ribbon for?"

"So I know it's mine, everyone in my photography class opted for the same bag," you shrug. "Plus, it's pretty."

Art lets out a hearty laugh and readies himself with a few more stretches as you situation yourself, checking settings and exposure and the such. He doesn't want to distract you, but the silence between you is heavy and awkward. He wishes desperately to fill it, but words of much grandiosity fail to find their way out of his mouth.

"So, you like photography?"

You giggle at his attempt and squint up at him. "You could say that. It's a bit of an entry-level requirement for being a photographer, you know... liking it."

He laughs again, leaning back on his heels to admire the care you take with the camera, fiddling with the settings. He doesn't know you, not really, but he'll vouch on any given day that you have nice hands.

Art's tennis coach is in the midst of a hot work-fling with a professor who happens to head the photography club. She had a student lost on a subject for the 'faces of sport' submission, and Art's coach put his name forward. And here you are, now one of many who have watched him through a camera lens. He had seen you around campus on occasion, taken note of you talking to a friend of a friend- he'd have introduced himself if Patrick wasn't always dragging him away for a drink or four.

Now though, sober and grounded in his element: the court, Art can't help but let his eyes train on you a moment too long. He wonders what you see through the camera lens- a tennis player or a peer?

"Ready?" You're looking up at him with an encouraging smile and he feels his cheeks burn under your gaze as you snap a picture of him as he stands unassumingly.

"I did not say I was ready," Art points an accusing finger at you, but replaces his butthurt tone with a smile and readies himself to hit a few balls. "But I am. Now, at least."

You laugh, and Art finds himself wanting to hear it every day for the rest of his natural life. He smiles at the sound, a toothy grin he'd usually only flash when drunk or ecstatic.

You take another picture, and one more when he frowns at your antics. "You said you were ready," you shrug.

Art serves a few times, getting into his element as you photograph him. The click of your camera becomes background noise as Art works with his mind's eye and body's memory, making precise adjustments and hitting perfectly every single time. He gets into a sweet rhythm, serve after serve as he hits the balls to an empty other half of the court. You watch his form through the camera, taking each shot as they present themselves to you. All he does is play tennis, yet you find yourself eyeing something breathtaking. He's beautiful, like a piece of art with skill unmatched, but it's not his form that piques your interest: it's the look in his eyes. Focused, intent— in love. He adores what he does, the narcotic feeling it gives him, and you find you adore watching it flood his system.

Though your perfect shot, your submission picture, comes as an idea. 

"Okay," your voice breaks Art's reverie, and he stops mid-serve to look at you. "I have what I need."

Art's brows furrow, "that's all?"

His arms fall to his sides, tennis ball dropping by his feet as his racket hangs loosely from his grip. He's sweaty, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. Though he hasn't done much, you blame the sun and thank it in the same regard: he looks good.

"Just one more thing," you hum, raising your camera one last time. "Smile like you did before."

"What?"

"Just do it, Art."

He likes the sound of his name on your lips and obliges without further question. There he stands like a boy on his first day of school, arms by his side, racket hanging from his grip, sweaty and squinting under the bleating sun with a wide grin plastered on his face. 

And you take the photo, him to the left of the shot as an empty court fills the rest of the frame. Remnants of that elated look still shine in his eyes, you've caught the afterglow. 

"That's the one," you practically jump up and down at the picture staring back at you on the display.

Art makes a face. "What? I wasn't even playing."

You have to look from camera-Art to real-life-Art to catch his frown. You smile in response and walk pointedly over to the blond so you can practically shove your camera in his face.

"Look," you offer, feeling the extra heat of his body against you when he looks over your shoulder to gaze at the camera screen. You click through photos of him playing, all basic pictures he's seen a hundred times with a hundred different players. "That's the game, hitting a ball with a racket. You look good, you're focused, in touch with yourself, that's great. But this..." you click forward until you find your latest image, the one of him smiling, "...this is the afterglow, the dopamine rush, the actual game, the face of sport."

Art is quiet. He stares at himself, his own smile. A moment passes, and then another, and you're beginning to think he doesn't see the vision when he finally breaks the silence.

"Have you ever played tennis?" His voice is barely there, loud enough for you to hear as he leans down a little, right next to your ear. 

You shake your head, you know he can see it, his breath is hot on your neck. 

Art stands upright. "You should let me teach you. It's a good skill to have."

You turn and look up at him, "anyone can hit a ball with a racket."

He's quick to frown, a dramatic faux hurt etched across his face, "anyone can press a button on a camera."

You're about to defend your sport, ramble about the editing process and exposure settings and moving subjects and the rule of thirds when Art's sour expression loses to his breaking grin, and you catch the hypocrisy as it's about to drip from your tongue. 

Before you can reply, however, he cuts you off. "I'll let you use that photo of me... if you let me teach you the basics."

The basics aren’t so basic when you spend most of your time photographing the ball, not trying to hit it. Art is patient, laughing ceremoniously whenever you flinch at the ball as it comes towards you, clapping when you do hit, and offering you pointers when you don’t. Half of the guys at Stanford for sports would have left fifteen minutes ago when you called tennis ‘a game straight from Satan's hole’. Art just laughed.

You wonder if you weren’t in need of a subject for your submission, whether you and Art would have ever crossed paths naturally. You wonder who his friends are, what he does when he’s not playing tennis, if he has other hopes and dreams.

“Your grip is wrong,” Art calls from the other side of the net. “You can hurt your wrist like that.”

You look down at your grip on Art’s racket and sigh—there’s a proper way of doing everything in tennis, you presume. You’re about to try and correct it yourself when Art quite literally jumps over the net to your side, he’s right in front of you in only a second. 

“Hi,” he huffs.

“Hi.”

Art gestures something with his hands that you don’t quite get, then takes another step closer to you before freezing. “Oh, can I touch you? To fix your stance, I mean.”

“I thought it was my grip that was wrong.”

“That too.”

You have to laugh at your fuck-ups if you want to avoid looking like an egg. You nod to Art, who moves behind you and gently places his hands on your hips. He guides your body, slender fingers splayed over your waist, into a position that feels unnatural yet somewhat powerful. With a gentle nudge of his foot between your legs, he parts them and pushes one slightly forward.

“That’s good,” his voice hits your ears in waves, and you feel the tingle of goosebumps creep up along your arm. “Now your grip."

Art Donaldson slides his hands down your arms, taking each of your wrists in each of his hands and readjusts your grip on the handle of the racket, one hand above the other.

You stare at the ground, and he clears his throat quietly. “Like this.”

He brings both of his hands down to cup around yours and pulls your arms up as he swings your arms back and forth, the movement fluid. in demonstration of the godforsaken 'proper technique'. Your back is pressed right against his front, his chest flush against your back and the ridges of his stomach brushing against the line of your spine. Your heart races, and though you're sure he hears it, it's drowned out by the pounding of blood throughout your head as you focus on each movement of his hands, on his words, and on his voice.

"There we go," he nods, his mess of blond hair brushing against your neck as he dips his head down, presumably to check your footing. Your body shudders as he whispers, "Good job," and his mouth tickles the shell of your ear before he releases you. The world seems to tilt, no longer relying on Art for balance. You're surprised the racket doesn't fall from your grasp when he steps back, though with the loss of contact, your knees feel weak enough to collapse. As it stands, though, you're still standing, and Art is beaming down at you like he's just taught a puppy a new trick.

"So, what'd you think?" he asks.

You tilt your head in question.

Art smiles wider, "is it easier than pressing a button on a camera?"

"Oh, so you're an asshole," a bemused smile crawls across your lips.

He snorts, "Maybe."

Your laughter dies away as a strange sort of melancholy seeps in. You're suddenly aware of how far apart you two are, the space between your bodies, the lack of physical contact. Art notices, and gives a soft laugh of his own, a lighthearted chuckle that breaks the eerie need to replace the warmth of the sun with the warmth of each other. 

"So," Art crosses his arms. "Now you just have to learn how to hit the ball."

"Ha ha ha," you verbalise, straight-lipped and eyebrows furrowed. "Maybe next time, hot shot."

"Next time?" Art's reply is quick. "So you'll let me keep teaching you?"

You smile at him, "No, I was lying to be polite."

It's Art's turn to act unimpressed, but you see him bite back a grin. He lets out a stressed-short laugh that turns into a huff at the end. "You're so funny."

"I know."

"Will you show me the photo once it's printed?"

It takes you a moment to realise he's being serious.

"Huh?" you ask, looking up.

Art's eyes are wide, and he raises an eyebrow. "Can I have your phone number?" he clarifies.

You open your mouth to object, to tell him no- you don't give your number to random boys you've just met, but instead, the corners of your mouth twitch upward and you're suddenly typing your number into Art's phone and saving your name with a smiley face next to it. Art smiles at the gesture and pockets his phone. There's a moment of silence shared between you, an unassuming silence that's more comfortable than it is awkward, but a silence nonetheless.

A silence broken by the loud echoing voice of another boy calling out from the far side of the courts- a brunette with curls that are more defined than Arts, that's the most you can make of him as he calls to the blond by your side, waving his arms above his head and then gesturing to his wrist like he's tapping a watch.

"Oh, shit," Art pulls his phone back out to check the time. "Fuck, sorry, I have to go."

You shrug, smiling. "It's fine, thanks for giving up some of your time."

Art smiles back, thanking you in turn for putting up with his tennis brain, then hurries to grab his things and race away in the direction of his friend. For a few seconds, all you can do is stand there dumbly watching his retreating form until he reaches his friend, who nudges Art and looks over his shoulder at you before the pair of them disappear around the corner leading back towards campus.

It's not until they're out of eyeshot that you turn to grab your camera bag, just to be greeted by an empty space where you had left it. Your heart drops for a moment, the thought of losing your camera a soul-crushing one. You remember, though, tucking it away with Art's stuff for safekeeping. He must have grabbed it in his rush to leave.

You exhale, running a hand over your forehead. Well fuck.

Art Donaldsons dorm room number plays on a loop in your head that night. He had texted you as promised, with a simple ‘I HAVE YOUR CAMERA!’ along with an easy ‘COME TO MY DORM I HAVE BEER’

It had taken him another ten minutes to realise you’d have no clue where his dorm was, and send through his dorm number. You had debated sending him a text back, telling him to meet you tomorrow on campus to hand over the camera, but your submission deadline is the next night and you need time to edit, decide you hate your prospective career as a photographer, and then fall in love with the process all over again.

You roam the halls of the boys' dorms for a few minutes, eyeing door numbers until you find his. Some doors are left ajar, some wide open and sporting odours so bad you curse God for giving you a sense of smell. You finally find Art’s door, and double check the number twice before knocking, despite a tennis ball sticker just above the door handle. 

There's a little rustling inside when you knock, but his voice calls out clearly. "Come in!"

When you open the door, you're greeted not by Art Donaldson, but by the blinding flash of your own camera. You blink away the stun to find Art grinning at the display, admiring his handiwork as an amateur photographer. He turns your camera in his hands to show you to yourself, startled and wide-eyed in a half-blurred photo: Art's finger covers a corner of the frame too, it must have been over the lens.

"I think I'm a natural," he bites his tongue cheekily as he hands you your camera back. You check it over, out of habit more than mistrust of Art, and he pushes his door wide open to reveal the dorm room in all its college-student glory. It's not large by any means, but it has everything you could ever possibly want and then some, plus an impressive collection of sports memorabilia from past years and awards displayed in frames on the walls. Your camera bag is sitting on his bed, and Art gestures you towards it with a smile.

"Sorry," he spins around and opens a little cooler sitting on his floor, pulling out two beer cans from inside and offering you one. "I didn't realise I had picked it up. Were you okay without it?"

You take the beer with a 'thanks' and pat the small shoulder bag you wear. You lift the flap open to reveal a little Polaroid camera, an old one you barely use anymore. "Had to pull this off the shelf," you say.  "But yeah, it should be good now."

"That's good," Art nods as you pop the top of your beer.

You sit on the edge of his bed while he takes a sip of his beer, staring at you. You notice a slight flush to his cheeks and wonder if he's a few drinks ahead of you. You can't help but laugh, leaning forward as you rest your elbows on your thighs. "Why am I here, Art?"

He frowns, looking down at you from where he stands, leaning against his countertop. "To pick up your camera?"

"You could have met me with it tomorrow. It's..." you glance at the alarm clock beside his bed, "nearly midnight."

He blinks and laughs sheepishly at you, scratching behind his neck. "Yeah, about that... I guess I just wanted to see you again?"

"Oh," you lean back and purse your lips in surprise, glancing from Art and the beautiful nervous look on his face to the beer he holds in a tight grip.

Art laughs softly, "Are you freaked out?"

"No," you shake your head quickly, "I'm not freaked out, Art."

Art chuckles lightly at that, his smile widening as his blush deepens. "Okay," he breathes out before he takes another sip of his beer and moves to sit beside you on the bed. It dips under his weight, almost pulling you closer into him, though he leaves enough space to remain respectable. His eyes seem darker now, more focused, even though his expression remains soft and pleasant. His gaze lingers on your face for a while before he opens his mouth to speak. "You said earlier, on the court, that the photo you took was the real face of sport. You're good, huh?"

"I'd like to think so," you smile fondly, gaze flitting from his lips to his eyes.

"Are you in love with it?"

You hum, "with photography?"

Art's eyes flick up to your eyes. His gaze is intense, not in a scary way, but something more playful and inviting. He nods.

"I love it, sure," you nod, situating yourself to sit more comfortably on Art’s bed. "Are you in love with tennis?"

Art nods, taking a longer drink from his beer. "Yes."

Your brow furrows and you raise an eyebrow. "I didn't know. You seemed pretty nonchalant about the whole 'look at me, I'm a tennis player' thing, actually."

His face splits in a toothy grin. "I'm humble."

You giggle quietly at that, and stare at him for a couple of seconds, studying his face, taking in every little detail. His hair, his eyes, the faintest hint of stubble on his jawline and chin, his smile, and the dimples on each cheek that said smile brings out. There are traces of dark circles underneath his eyes, you realise, and they're highlighted when his pupils expand slightly at your laughter. 

You feel warm, and not from the alcohol that sits inside your stomach. The both of you place down your beers, and Art Donaldson, who may well have a girlfriend and dirtied intentions, takes in a deep breath before asking you lowly, "Can I kiss you?"

The word 'please' escapes your lips before you can stop it and the red tint in Art's ears deepens. You bite the insides of your cheeks nervously, waiting for Art to speak again, but he doesn't, and suddenly his hand is at the nape of your neck, tugging you forwards and pressing his lips to yours in a hungry, desperate manner.

As he starts moving slowly, his tongue darts out and traces the curve of your bottom lip as he pulls you further into him, the taste of his beer lingering on his lips making the gesture feel all the more enticing. A hand cups your jaw, slender fingers trailing down your neck in sensual exploration of your exposed body before his other hand rests on the small of your back and he draws you even closer until the heat radiating off himself feels almost unbearable on your skin.

There's no hesitation, no awkward pauses, or second-guessing, you find yourself melting against his body instinctively. A narcotic, he is, the way he smells and tastes and sounds and touches, and there's only so much you can handle before it overwhelms your senses completely. The kiss itself isn't that hot, it's chaste and messy and your teeth click against his in the desperation of it all, but it fills you with something unfamiliar, makes you feel lightheaded and dizzy and yearning wholeheartedly for more. You don't care how little you know him, you don't mind the lack of foreplay; you just feel overwhelmed and need more, you need more than just his lips on yours.

He practically whimpers when you pull back, his hands sliding down to hold onto your hips possessively. Sad eyes meet yours at the loss of your taste, but you brush off his worry easily, running your thumb across his cheekbone as he leans into your touch, breathing in and out heavily through his nose as if you are his only source of breath, and the sight causes a knot to form in your stomach.

"You are single, right?" your kiss-swollen lips whisper against his and you feel him exhale.

"Yes," he speaks against your mouth, a husky sound that makes your heart ache.

"Good."

You kiss him again, more fervently, letting your tongue tangle with his as his arm wraps around you tightly. Before you know it, Art has your back against his mattress and is hovering over you, hands gliding swiftly under your shirt. You aid him in getting it over your head and watch as he follows suit, pulling off his own shirt and tossing it to the floor in dismissal. He slides down his shorts and leaves himself in a pair of blue boxers that you already notice are tenting.

You take a moment, you have to, to appreciate the sculpt of Art’s body—the muscled planes of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders. His face is flushed, hair mussed and unkempt, lips swollen and kissed pink. You want to commit every last inch of this man to memory, keep him locked in the back of your mind in fear of never experiencing this again. 

Is this a one-time thing? You lift your hips as Art pulls down your shorts and panties in one go, and you can't help but wonder if this is the first and only time you'll feel his fingertips against the skin of your thighs. When morning comes, and your lust is expelled and tired, will Art turn his shoulder from you? Is this something? Hell, you don't know the guy, not really.

But he presses a gentle kiss to your lower abdomen and you feel safe and comfortable; your heart rate slows as the tension eases and your body sinks further into the mattress, letting Art's hand slip between your legs to part them. "Art…"

A low moan passes your lips as he brushes his fingertips over your clit, they're still cold from holding his beer, and the stark contrast in temperature is enough to make you gasp. Art slides his thumb over the sensitive nub and you arch your back in response. Your hands come to grasp at the sheet beneath you, knuckles whitening from the amount of pressure you're exerting on them. You want more, but you realise quickly that Art is a man for taking his time. Slow, languid circles over your clit, not daring to even push a finger inside of you just yet. You whine and buck your hips against his hand, needing his touch to be deeper.

He presses a kiss to your chest, and then trails his mouth down your stomach, pausing briefly to look up at you before he dips to place a kiss directly to your pulsing clit.

You freeze, and a wave of insecurity washes over you. "You don't have to..."

"I'm dying here," Art's eyes meet yours: he looks starved. "Please let me."

All you can do is nod your head and close your eyes as he delves between your thighs for a taste of your lust. His free hand digs into the flesh of your thigh, grip tight as if he’s dead set on leaving his mark, staking his claim. He’s showering in the way you writhe, his tongue rolling over your clit as he slips two fingers inside of you. He’s high off your taste alone, latching his lips around your clit in an assault fueled by insatiable need.

You can feel him shuffle a little, moving his free hand from your thigh to reach under his own waistband and stroke himself in tandem with the thrust of his fingers inside of you. His pace quickens, though he still manages to savour your pleasure. Your hand snakes down to thread your fingers through his mess of blond hair, pushing your hips up in an attempt for more.

As Art pumps his cock with his hand, he groans against your heated flesh, sending vibrations from your sex to your spine: you arch your back in pleasure, the tightness of an impending orgasm beginning to roll over you. You try to vocalise it, tell Art you’re close, but you’re already a mess of incoherent moans and pleads for more— but he doesn’t need words to know, not when he can feel you clenching around his fingers, your every muscle tensing. His scalp must burn from the stress of your pulling, but he doesn’t seem to mind so much, smiling against your pussy as he finger-fucks you to climax.

With a sharp inhale and a choked sob of a moan from your throat, you come undone under Art’s ministrations, your vision blurred and stomach in knots of ecstasy. It's only once your breath finds you again that Art pulls his fingers out of you and climbs over you once more to press a messy kiss to your lips, he shares with you a taste of yourself, lips glistening with your release. He grins into the kiss, as pussydrunk as can be, and moves to press a sloppy mixture of kisses and bites to your exposed neck.

"You taste so good," he speaks against your skin, nipping at your pulse. 

"I want more of you," you exhale, dizzy with lust.

Your legs tighten around his back as he meets your eyes once again, a sultry smile creeping across his face. You snake a hand down to the waistband of his boxers, noting the thin layer of sweat that already glosses Art's torso, and dip a finger under the elastic. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah, please," he murmurs, ducking down to press another kiss to your shoulder. You tuck your hand into his boxers, feeling past his trimmed-short hair and wrapping your fingers around his cock, rock hard and pulsing in your hand. He groans and presses himself further into your hand, his teeth dragging along the expanse of your shoulder as you pump his shaft. His hips rise of their own accord as you bring your hand higher, rubbing along his length until you have him completely desperate for the now-familiar warmth of your pussy.

"I need to be inside of you," he lays his intentions out, head tilting up to watch you for a sign of protest.

You nod, eager and willing to accommodate him, and release his cock, raising yourself onto your elbows to get a better look at the beautiful mess of a man moving to stand. He (ungracefully) reaches over to grab a condom from his bedside drawer and sheds his boxers. Inhaling slowly through his nose, he takes his time as he slides the condom onto his dick, stroking his cock gently once it's on. He watches you closely, a fond look on his face as he rubs the head of his cock up and down your pussy a few times, collecting the remnants of your lust and his spit before he enters you. It's slow, and careful, and deliberate, and your body trembles in anticipation, eyes flickering closed when he finally gives into your silent plea. The shared gasp between you is uniform, a symphony of pleasure and endurance. Him, overwhelmed by just how tight you are. You, overwhelmed by the stretch of just how big he is.

Art bottoms out in one movement, to get the harshest part out of the way for you; you hiss at the searing heat of the stretch, but calm as Art stills inside of you. You both take a moment, a shared breath, to appreciate being one, and the pleasure that comes with such entwining.

Once you’re ready, you squeeze his bicep, giving him the green-light to move. And he does, painstakingly slow, he pulls out of you, just to snap his hips forward to plunge himself back inside. The hand that isn't holding him up is pressed down on your stomach, feeling himself through you as he pushes in deep, then withdraws.  Each thrust of his cock brings forth a loud gasp from your lips, which only serves to guide him further into a state of mindless bliss. He keeps himself in check as best he can, though his breathing has quickened considerably as he continues to fuck you. You feel like you're going to lose your mind, unable to breathe or speak or think straight as you're pulled closer and closer to your end. Though as you've learnt, Art Donaldson is a man to take his time, and he switches from the fast snapping thrusts to a slow roll of his hips once he feels he's a little too close to the edge.

You notice, too: you see the tension building in his muscles, how he pants and groans with each movement he makes. He stares at you adoringly, heavy lids weighing his sights down to your chest, your arched torso, your sweet design. He leans down to press another kiss to you, lips parting so he can slide his tongue into your mouth as his rhythm quickens even more. The kiss feels more intimate than even the act of his cock splitting you open, it's a sweet one, a honeymoon-style kiss where after his forehead meets yours and his eyes bore into your eyes in a mixture of something hazy.

You notice the glossy look in his eyes immediately, it's the same one you had seen on the tennis court earlier. The awestruck, total blissful look in his eyes that had spurred your inspiration. The face of sport. Even through your fucked-dumb haze of lust and a hedonistic desire to finish like this, with Art on top of you, the opportunist in yourself can't help but move. You place a firm hand on Art's shoulder, and his thrusts roll to a stop.

"You okay?" he pants, a sudden worry in his eyes, he looks you over for any signs of discomfort.

"Fine," you shake your head, trying to clear it, blinking away the foggy sensation clouding your mind. "Just, uh... do you trust me?"

Art's eyebrows shoot up, taken aback by the question: "Why?"

Your voice is barely there, a heat spreading across your face as you ask; "will you let me on top?"

Art chuckles low and deep, eyes never breaking contact with yours. A gentle touch to the curve of your ass cheek tells you that he'll miss the view, but he nods nonetheless, and you smile in turn. You expect Art to pull out and lay back on the bed, but instead, he wraps one arm under your back and pushes up with his other, flipping the both of you in one fluid motion. As soon as he's flipped over you straddle his waist, resting your hands on his chest for support, and laugh at the sheer adrenaline rush of it all.

This new position, with you sitting on Art's cock, makes you feel twice as full. You can tell that neither of your orgasms are far off, and you take the opportunity to test the waters. You roll your hips, grinding down on Art's cock, enjoying the way his eyes flutter shut. When he lets out a low noise of approval that sends shivers down your spine, you lower your body closer, pressing a wet kiss to Art's jaw as he grips your waist with a strength you don't doubt will bruise come morning.

His hips raise underneath you, fucking up into you as you continue your ministrations. The sound of skin hitting skin fills the air, and you'd close your eyes in ecstasy if you weren't so hypnotised by the sheen in Art's eyes. With each thrust Art manages to drive into you, you find your nails biting into the skin of his chest. He gets louder, groans and whines that you'd play on repeat if you could,, he's close, and he says as such.

"Let me take a picture," you say before you can stop yourself; his jaw slacks open at your words, staring up at you with incredulity written across his face. You defend your proposal- "With the Polaroid. I'll let you keep it, no copies."

A bad idea, probably, what with his face being one he hopes to see plastered across buildings one day. He doesn't know why he nods, why he smiles when you reach across the bed for your Polaroid. Maybe it's the mindless state of lust he's in, maybe it's the danger, or maybe he'll find the photo in ten years' time and remember this night with a smile or a frown depending on the grand outcome.

You ready the camera, roll your hips against his a few more times, and look down at pretty Art Donaldson. 

"You're fucking gorgeous," you let slip, praise falling from your lips straight to his reddened ears. You feel him twitch inside of you, you squeeze around him in coaxing. "Look at you."

He fucks up into you with a pace unrelenting. Your second orgasm of the night is only seconds away, and you cope through the haze of pleasure and lust to focus on Art's face, memorising every detail of that look in his eyes as he starts to falter.

"Fuck," you groan, pressing down onto him to a new depth. He's tense for a moment, a sweet moment of shared rapture as you both fall over the edge of your climaxes. 

"Shit, shit," his sounds mirror yours, veins pulsing in his neck as he cums. One hand digs into your hips, the other grips the sheets. 

His eyes meet yours, and you see it. The look, the face of pleasure, of need, of sin. 

You take the shot.

SIX YEARS LATER

The night is quiet, save for the sound of rustling trees outside and the occasional passing car. Art Donaldson has to bite his tongue to stop himself from making a noise.

He stands in the shower, water falling over his back, though cleanliness is an afterthought despite being sweat-ridden after hours of training with Tashi.

With one hand, Art pumps his cock in vigorous strokes, leaning against the cold tile wall as he jerks himself off. His eyes are locked onto what he holds in his other hand- the photo you took all those years ago. He's careful not to get it wet, but it's hard to focus on the state of it when his pooling orgasm nearly blinds him. 

His eyes burn into the image, a display of himself at his most vulnerable. You had taken it looking down at him as your orgasms synced, and now he looks down at the same sight you had seen at your peak. He cums ropes onto the shower floor, biting so hard on his tongue to stifle his moans that he's surprised he can't taste blood in his mouth. 

He’s left breathless, eyes still locked on the polaroid he had found in the basement earlier in the day. There's a handful more of them, but Art had no time to go through them, not after pulling this one out first and being hit with a wave of memories he’s not sure he should have.

He has to satiate his guilt by telling himself it’s not wrong to jerk off, especially not when it’s only a photo of himself… or, that could make it worse. Art exhales deeply, emptying his lungs so he can take a breath of new air.

Art steps backward into the fall of water, letting it run down his face in a rejuvenating cleanse of his sins and unholy ways of thinking. He sighs, wonders what level of hell he’s going to, and then flips the polaroid around.

Written in your handwriting on the strip of white down the bottom in permanent marker, 

THE ART OF MAKING LOVE.

series taglist: @lotties-ashwagandha @daughterhouse @kiiwizz @doll-0f-flesh @jackierose902109 @lonnie2390147 @hedonisticwomen @ysuftmikey @viena-vie @whitewashedghanianlol @kolsmikaelson @nikirikii @dumbass-sappho-stan @seriousaliysa @majathepapaya @lovezclub @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson smut #challengers smut #challengers 2024 #art donaldson #art x reader #art smut #art donaldson x you #art donaldson imagine

[osaemu]

GOJO SATORU: ❛❛ ONE MORE CHANCE? (IT WON'T BE THE LAST) ❜❜

.ೃ࿐ you hate your ex, but nobody else can fuck you half as well — so maybe you'll give him one more chance.

contents: fem!reader. implied unprotected sex, dirty talk (?), lil' bit of praise, lil' bit of degradation, oral (fem. receiving), couch sex, gojo covers your mouth at one point, cursing, lil' bit of teasing/mocking (?). sorta toxic but whatevs we love a toxic king! 2000+ words.

author's note: got lazy in the middle of writing this loll

"he's just so fucking annoying," you groan, swirling the drink in your hand. the ice clinks against the side of the glass as you lift the cup to your lips, sipping the whiskey and wincing at the way it burns the back of your throat. you lean back in the plush couch in your friend's living room and sigh. "i don't know why i ever dated him."

your friend nods in agreement, eyes fixed on her phone for another second before she turns it towards you. "look what he posted on his instagram."

on your friend's screen is an instagram story, and the tag shows that it's from your ex-boyfriend — satoru gojo. tired of his insensitivity and annoying nature, you had dumped him two weeks ago, and god, you'd never had such a petty ex in your life.

after you broke up with him, he blocked you from all his socials and got all his friends to do the same. so, since he practically knew everyone, you lost a hundred followers.

and apparently, he's out fucking some other girl right now.

the story on your friend's phone is a picture of a smirking satoru with his arm wrapped around some girl with a red plastic cup in her hand. they're bathed in overhead red lights, and you can barely make out a familiar dark-haired boy in the back — another one of satoru's fuckboy friends.

"he's such a manwhore," your friend says with an eyeroll. "d'you want to stay the night?"

you shake your head, setting down the now-empty glass on a coaster. "it's alright, i wouldn't want to intrude," you say with a rueful smile.

your friend eyes you suspiciously for another second before leaning back in her own seat and closing her eyes. "stay safe, it's pretty late."

you nod and toss your things into your bag before stepping out the door, closing it gently behind you. as you get in your car and drive back to your house, thoughts of satoru fill your head. 

you don't recognize the girl under satoru's arm, but she's pretty — too pretty for him. sure, satoru was conventionally attractive, with his ocean-blue eyes and flawless physique, but still. 

satoru was a shitty boyfriend, and now he's an even shittier ex. when you two dated, his spoiled brattiness and constant sorry, i forgot's drove you insane. he couldn't even remember your birthday. it was a miracle that you tolerated him for that long — until your one-year anniversary, which obviously slipped his mind.

"you're so insensitive," you groan, dragging a hand down your face. satoru suppresses a sigh, blue eyes looking everywhere but at you. "and— satoru, are you even listening to me?"

you're quiet for three seconds before he responds, and naturally, it was with a "huh? yeah, what is it?"

every time. every single time.

"it's over," you mutter, shaking your head frustratedly. "we're over, satoru."

"fine," he responds after a moment. "i never really liked you anyways."

"fuck you."

if you didn't give a fuck about that white-haired bastard anymore, why did the memory of your breakup still sting?

you try to tell yourself that it doesn't matter. maybe it was for the best — he was out with some pretty girl, so why couldn't you go out and sleep with some hot guy? 

you make up your mind right as you step into your house, and thirty minutes later, you're in a tight dress and four-inch heels. and it's almost funny how easy it is to doll up when you don't have a horny boyfriend trying to fuck you every two seconds.

right before you step out the door, you eye yourself in the mirror and can't help but admire the way your dress hugs your waist, accentuating your curves. that smug manwhore didn't know what he was missing out on — so why not show him?

you pull out your phone and take a picture of yourself, snapping a couple before deciding on one and posting it on your story. you knew he'd see it — you intentionally let his burner stay unblocked, and coincidentally, he didn't block you either. 

just as you push open your door, you realize that your phone's on death's door — just over five percent remaining. so you plug it into your charger, kicking your feet impatiently as you wait for it to charge to a reasonable amount.

some part of you wants to chicken out, to stay home and spend the night watching a classic romcom. but the other part of you, the part that can't ignore the fact that you haven't had sex in two weeks, urges you to go out and get laid.

so twenty minutes later, when your phone finally hits forty percent, you practically throw open the door and rush out and find yourself face-to-face with the guy who's somewhere between belly conklin and andy bernard on your most-disliked list. satoru gojo.

"what the fuck are you doing here?" you snap, wrapping your arms around yourself as the cold night air touches your bare skin. satoru eyes you up and down, and suddenly, you're very aware of just how exposed you are. "satoru, answer the damn question."

"where are you going?" he asks, eyes narrowing when they settle on your dress's deep neckline. 

"none of your business," you reply shortly, biting the inside of your cheek. unfortunately, satoru looks good. just like in his instagram story, he has one button undone in his collar, and his hair is rumpled and perfect all at the same time. "answer the fuckin' question."

"saw your story," satoru replies, slipping his hands into his pocket. "you going out on a date or something?"

the question catches you off guard, and your irritated expression drops for a moment. strangely enough, satoru doesn't have his usual smug expression on his face — he looks conflicted. he never looks conflicted.

"doesn't matter," you respond, walking around him and relishing the way your heels clack on the concrete ground. without turning around, you ask, "so, what about my story made you come over?"

you're not sure why you're baiting him. maybe it's the slight chance that he would beg to get you back, maybe it's the tightness in your chest and pussy, or maybe you just want the satisfaction of seeing satoru squirm.

whatever it is, it lets satoru take you by the wrist and drag you back inside. you suppose that if you can get dick at home, then there's no point in going all the way to the club. and it's not like you're gonna get back together over one night — this would be purely physical. he wanted you, and you wouldn't mind him.

"fuck, right there, sweetheart," satoru groans, pushing your legs impossibly farther apart as his tongue laps at your pussy. the two of you barely made it to the couch in your living room before satoru pushed you down, a mischievous smile on his lips. one thing turned to another, and soon enough he was on his knees in front of you and eatung you out like a starving man.

"you're such a loser," you mutter, threading your fingers through his hair as his tongue makes you see stars. he really was — who shows up to their ex's place after getting dumped? a laugh bubbles out of satoru's lips while his mouth is still on your pussy and it makes you shiver. satoru looks up at you, an amused gleam in his eyes.

"s' that so?" satoru mumbles, pressing his lips to your inner thigh with a smirk. "then why'd you let me in, huh?"

"why would i go out when i can just get fucked at home?" you say dryly, a smile growing on your lips. "since you made the effort of coming all the way here."

"my pleasure," satoru scoffs sarcastically, getting up and joining you on the couch as he tugs you into his lap. "so i'm the pathetic loser here, yeah?"

you nod, letting satoru unzip the back of your dress with one hand. he laughs and shakes his head. "you're the one who let me in, baby."

"yeah, well, you showed up."

"you coulda slammed the door in my face."

"maybe i should've," you mutter, not liking the way he's grinning at you. "you gonna fuck me or what?"

"aw, you're desperate. how cute," he replies without missing a beat. it's been a while since you got to banter with satoru like this, and some part of you misses it. sure, he's disgustingly cocky, but at least he has the dick to back it up. and it's fun, too — you like the chase, and clearly, he does too.

"not really," you say with a shrug. that's a lie — the only reason you let him in was to get fucked, and contrary to the excuses falling from your mouth, you were getting impatient. not that he needed to know that.

"fine. have it your way, brat." satoru smiles cheekily and bounces his leg up and down, making you grit your teeth as you struggle to focus.

you make a face at satoru, crossing your arms. "what are you—"

"waiting."

"for what?"

"for you to beg."

your mouth falls open, and you glare at satoru, hating the way he's smugly grinning at you. this isn't the first time he's asked you to beg for him to fuck you — back when the two of you were dating, he had no problem edging you the whole night and practically making you cry for him.

"not this again," you groan, letting out a drawn-out sigh. "just fuck me already, satoru. or i'll go get someone else to."

satoru clicks his tongue, smiling lazily. "we both know you won't do that."

again, he's right, and god, you hate him for it. "just shut up and fuck me."

"alright, since you asked so nicely," satoru drawls, running his tongue over his teeth. he studies you intently, white hair falling into his eyes. before you can ask what he's looking at, he has you pinned against the couch cushions, face down and ass up. 

"good girl, stayin' nice and quiet for me," satoru groans, hand clasped over your mouth as he pounds into you from behind. "you always talked too much. never knew when to shut that damn mouth."

you moan against his hand, unable to think about anything else but satoru and his dick. that's the only reason the two of you stayed together for as long as you did — because the sex was irreplaceable. and after two weeks without getting fucked, you seriously consider throwing all pride out the window and begging for him back.

"shit, you're so fuckin' tight," satoru says with a rough laugh. "have you really not fucked with anyone else since you dumped me?" 

you shake your head, eyes pressed shut as satoru continues sloppily thrusting into you. there's a coil in your chest that's threatening to burst, and the whines slipping out of your lips increase in both pitch and volume.

at this point, you can hardly remember why you broke up with satoru — or maybe, he's just not giving you a chance to remember. his pace is relentless and mind-numbing, and shit, maybe it's for the best.

when he finally lets you cum, it's the best feeling you've had in what feels like forever. the edges of your vision go white, and satoru removes his hand from your mouth, letting out the lewd, muffled sounds that you've been suppressing all this time. not long after, satoru cums too, and it's sloppy, messy, and all over you. 

satoru collapses on top of your back, hot breaths slipping out of his mouth and brushing against your cheek. "took me so good, baby," he groans, pressing his lips to your neck and laughing breathily. "we should do this again sometime."

you shouldn't like this. you should be shoving him out your door, but his mischievous smile is irresistible. and even though you know this time probably won't end any different than the rest, you decide to give satoru one more chance.

"yeah, same time tomorrow?"

"anythin' for you."

#osaemu #gojo smut #jjk smut #satoru gojo smut #gojo satoru smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x you #jjk x you #satoru gojo x you #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #gojo x y/n #jjk x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x y/n #satoru gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo drabbles #jjk drabbles

[thevoidstaredback]

Okay, so, crisis averted. Both of them, really. Red Robin had not asked or attempted to get any more of Danny's drink and the World Ending Crisis was less World Ending and more World Threatening. Either way, no one is hyped up in lethal amounts of caffeine and the world is in no more pieces than it had been before.

That brings attention to a new problem, though. It's uniquely Danny's problem and Constantine and Zatanna and Deadman won't stop laughing at him. He's also pretty sure that Raven is laughing at him in the privacy of her mind, so that's making him feel worse.

The problem is that every single hero that had been at the meeting a week ago that was not a part of the JLD has been overly concerned about him.

So what if he half died when he was fourteen and therefore will never look over either fourteen or eighteen? So what if he consumes enough caffeine to kill an elephant within a few minutes? What is he gonna do, die? That's not a real threat as long as he only fights as Phantom.

Ignoring the fact that he can, in fact, get hurt to the point of near death as Phantom. It's not like anyone knows that, though! Besides, ghosts run on god rules. They can't die, only fade when forgotten. People aren't likely to forget about most ghosts, though, even if they can't remember their names.

He's not gonna share that, though. Let Batman keep his contingency that won't work because the only contingency that will work for Phantom is the one he made himself. Tried and tested! He's marked it off of his Bingo Card.

Anyway. Heros and their kids/proteges have been trying to track him down for the entire week. He can't risk even leaving the House of Mysteries because the Supers are all probably listening out for him and they can't hear him through magic. It sucks. He just wants to go get a cup of coffee as Danny. The second he leaves, though, the Supers will be on him like bloodhounds. He'd leave as Danny, but the rest of the JLD don't know what he looks like as Danny and he'd like to keep it that way, thank you very much. Being stuck as Phantom was going to start causing issues to his human half if he doesn't get to leave soon.

Should he risk it? Is coffee that won't kill him really worth risking the Supers finding out his civilian identity? Sure, they wouldn't tell anyone, but he didn't like the idea of someone being able to pick him out of a crowd when all he wanted to do was blend in. It's why he avoided Gotham and Bludhaven, actually, but that's both self explanatory and another story for another time.

"You're still here?" Zatanna sat on the couch beside him. "You're normally gone by now. You can't not be tired of us yet."

He sighed and sunk down into the couch slightly. "Believe me, I'm tired of being stuck here, but I can't leave. I can't leave as a human because you guys don't know what I look like and, no offense, but I'd like to keep it that way. I can't leave as I am now because Superman will be on my ass quicker than I can blink!" He whined this time, "I just want a cup of coffee."

"What about your special brew?" Raven asked, coming into the room.

"I want to drink coffee as a human. That stuff will kill me if I drink it as a human."

"At least you know your limits."

"That sounded like a dig at someone, Z."

"It was."

"Why don't you just go out under a protection spell?" Raven offered, "We could cast one over you and you could leave. Superman can't hear through magic, so he won't be able to tell. Neither will Superboy."

Danny thought for a second. "You're a genius, Raven! Has anyone ever told you that?"

"A few times," she blushed.

"Well, it needs to be said more!"

Zatanna laughed. "Alright, kid, let's get you outside before you drive yourself crazy."

Practically vibrating in place, Danny waited for the protection spell to settle over him. The second it did, he was out the door and wandering the streets of whatever city the House of Mysteries decided to drop him as Danny instead of Phantom.

"Who are you," was not the question or voice he wanted to hear the second he stepped into the open as himself.

"Danny," he squeaked out through his absolute panic. He didn't dare turn around.

The sound of fabric moving minutely clues him in to the second person behind him. What the hell were these two doing out? It's the middle of the day and there's no attacks going on anywhere in Gotham!

"Where did you come from?" Robin asked.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! This was really bad! Why did the House drop him *here* of all places? Does it *want* him to die again? It was very painful the first time, thank you very much! "Illinois?"

"Was that a question or an answer?" Why is Red Robin here now?!

"An-an answer?"

"Ah, you guys are scaring the little guy!" That was Nightwing. They're surrounding him! Why is Nightwing here? This is Gotham, not Bludhaven. "Give him some room to breathe."

They did not, in fact, give him room to breathe. Maybe coming outside was a bad idea. If he gets out of this no more dead than he already was, he was going to move to the middle of nowhere and become a hermit. Smallville is a town in the middle of nowhere, right? He'll retire as Phantom and move to Smallville until the people get suspicious and burn him as a witch-!

Maybe moving to a big city would be a better idea. Or locking himself in the basement of the House of Mysteries. Yeah, yeah that's a good idea.

"-even listening?"

Oh shit. They were still talking to him! Now is not the time to panic! "Gottagobye!" And then he was running.

Good job not panicking, Danny.

Part 1 Part 3

#dc x dp #justice league #justice league dark #danny phantom #zatanna #raven #john constantine #no ships #writing #brain child #I wrote this instead of working on any of my current wips #justice league meeting #dc x dp crossover #dcxdp #dcxdpdabbles #fanfic #fandom #phandom #danny is having a crisis #no more caffeine yet #batfam #the batfam do not know how to approach someone normally #especially when they're in costume #the house of mystery #the house of mysteries is a little shit #the supers can't hear through magic because they're weak to magic #secret identity #secret identities #Enough Caffeine to Kill an Elephant