+ Preference for Tommy Merlyn, Dinah Lance, Oliver Queen
⭐ Batfam
⭐ Hellblazer/Constantine
⭐ Peacemaker
⭐ Team Fortress 2
⭐ X-Men
⭐ Markiplier + Jacksepticeye Egos
⭐ Project Hail Mary
⭐ Iron Lung
🛑Limit🛑
🚨 Scat
🚨 x reader (I just don't enjoy it tbh)
- I'm very open, willing and WILL write pretty messed up stuff, so don't be embarrassed to ask, and don't be surprised when I publish it. If it's too far, I'll say so -
loveeee characters who think they're likable but not lovable. characters who know they have surface-level admirable or alluring traits and so make sure to highlight those traits so that nobody looks closer to see what's underneath. characters who know they're hot or clever or cool and use that as a suit of armor so that no one ever gets close to them, because when they strip bare and show their vulnerability they're not any of those things, which means they have nothing left to make up for who they inherently are
Simon's a little pent up, so he decides to do something about it.
Hundreds of feet below the surface.
He knows this isn't the place. Of course it isn't the place.
But does that really matter? They can't see him. They can't possibly do anything worse than this if they did find out. He deserves a few minutes to himself.
Simon releases the throttle, easing the sub into a standstill.
"What's going on?" She's annoyed, that much is obvious.
"There's something blocking me."
The quiet allows Simon to hear the creaking of the sub—all the tightly screwed bolts hastily welded together groaning under the pressure of an insurmountable amount of blood.
"How?"
It's not really a question, but she expects an answer regardless. It's frustrating, having someone in charge of his fucking life hiding important information from him while expecting transparency in return.
"I don't know," He snaps. He tries to hide it, fighting to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "The sub won't move."
"Back it up, then." Oh, she's pissed now. He can't find it in himself to care.
"It won't go back. You think I haven't already tried that?"
He doesn't receive an answer, and after a minute, he knows he won't get one. He releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding, the chair creaking under his weight once he leans back.
A glance at the oxygen level tells him he's safe for now, but he'd rather get this done before they catch on or he wimps out; before the voice in the back of his head begins to remind him how sinful he is for even thinking about it, already whispering in the back of his mind, probing at a part of himself he'd rather keep buried.
So, Simon doesn't think about it. He doesn't think about it as his hand travels down. Doesn't think about it when he slips his hand past his waistband. Doesn't think about it as he allows his legs to relax, giving him plenty of room for what he's about to do.
He lets out another gentle breath as he takes hold of his dick, his fist loose as he gives a tentative stroke.
In Eden, privacy was very hard to come by. In prison, it didn't exist: every inmate was packaged in cells like sardines, always watched by the careful eye of a guard. After a lifetime of exposure in isolation, he was more than ready to get off this fucking hunk of metal and shed himself of being another convict.
He tightens his grip, allowing his hand to move with more confidence. What is there to think about? A lifetime in a cult, then another behind bars, didn't really give him much to work with.
Instead of imagining, Simon focuses on the sensation. The uncomfortable feeling of skin rubbing on skin that he finds relatively pleasurable. The way it's as if all his nerves rush south in tandem with blood, hardening and getting more sensitive by the minute.
The itch gets worse the longer he goes on; the need increases until it's almost all he can think about. He bites his lip, fearful that his haggard breathing is loud enough for them to hear.
He strokes faster, his legs trembling with each movement. His hips jerk up into his fist now, just as eager to finish this as him. Over and over, each brush and tug bringing him closer and closer until—
With a shuddering breath he finally falls over the edge. All the rage and annoyance is forgotten and replaced with a gentle calmness he hasn't felt in years. He didn't know something like this could feel good after everything he'd learned in Eden. Simon wonders what it'd be like with another person.
"There's nothing on our end. Have you figured it out?"
The voice startles him; it nearly sends him toppling out of the chair. It's the man this time, but he asks with the same impatience as the woman before.
Simon has to take a minute to catch his breath, lest they figure out why he's wasted their time. If they don't know already, he thinks.
"Yeah, yeah I think I've got it," he mutters, wiping his spend off against the side of the control box.
He waits for them to say something else, staring up at that rusted speaker waiting for the pin to drop. Once again he gets nothing, and he lets out a sigh of relief. He tears his gaze away, back to the never-ending red in front of him. With a subtle shift of weight, he pushes the throttle forward to the next location.
You’ve written a lot about Connor Rhodes’ kinks, any thoughts on what Tommy Merlyn may or may not enjoy in the bedroom?
Good question, because I don't have a particularly good answer lol.
I think, like Connor, Tommy is down for pretty much anything. However, I also believe that Tommy is a thrill seeker to a pretty dangerous degree. So, a little list:
Bondage: Tommy absolutely finds a good thrill in being helpless. The thrill of being unable to move is super appealing to him
Exhibitionism: I think Tommy just likes being seen; the thrill here is that there's a high chance people will recognize him. I think his desire to be watched stems from how little his father was there for him, and how starved of attention he is. Malcolm left, and in a way, he never came back.
Knife Play: Tommy enjoys a little pain. After all the drugs, partying, and sex, he needs a little push for things to stay entertaining
Manhandling: When Tommy bottoms, he loves being thrown around and moved. He doesn't have to think about anything, and he likes it that way.
🚨TW for past SA🚨
Consensual Noncon: In my personal canon for Tommy, he's been deep in the party scene since before he made it to high school. He's dealt with his fair share of nonconsensual interactions, and even though he's refused to acknowledge them, he is very much affected by it. By indulging in this kink rarely (because how often is he going to find someone he trusts enough?), he gets some power back. He controls how this goes, when before, he was utterly powerless.
Thanks for the ask! Sorry it got a little dark at the end.
Will was well aware of people's vision whitening out during a particularly good orgasm. Despite this, he'd never experienced it himself, and now that he's in his thirties, he doubted that he ever would.
Then he met Connor. The rich boy—the hospital's golden egg. When Will met him, Connor was just an asshole who happened to have a knack for surgery. Then Connor became the manageable coworker he didn't dread seeing like before. Then, a sort of friend. Then, something more. Will found out quickly that Connor's talent did not stem from luck, but a skill carefully crafted and honed from experience.
And boy, did Connor have experience.
It took him almost a minute to come back to himself, breath heavy and thighs still trembling.
He had to put effort into opening his eyes through the haze of aftershock, but he knew the view was worth it: Connor, on his knees, absolutely ruined for him.
His lips were swollen, covered in spit and cum, Connor's head heavy on his thigh. Dilated eyes, so dark there was barely any blue left, staring right at him. Hair disheveled from when he pulled on it, falling in a beautiful mess over a sweaty forehead. Chest heaving from a lack of oxygen. Shoulders strained and pulled back towards where his wrists were currently bound in a pair of steel handcuffs.
God, he was pretty.
"You good, Con?"
Connor doesn't answer. Instead, he stares up, eyes darting across Will's face as if he's deciding something. Before Will can ask, there's a wet tongue on his thigh. He jolts, oversensitive and too spent to go for round two this soon, but instead of returning to his dick, Connor traces the seam of Will's leg to his hip, leaving open-mouthed kisses as he goes.
With mild wonder, Will watches as Connor begins to lick up his come, starting from the small specs on his stomach. Each one is met with a light flick of the tongue, delicate and intentional.
Connor looks up again, and Will can tell it's to gauge how he feels about it. How could he say no to eyes like that?
"Go ahead, Con, keep going."
Will barely catches Connor's little smirk before he returns to his task with vigor, moving up Will's chest with the efficiency Will expects from a surgeon. Each wet dollop is sucked up like candy, each met with more enthusiasm. At a particularly large drip, Connor makes sure to look Will in the eye, tongue rising slowly to gather as much of the salty fluid as he could before making a show of swallowing.
All the while, Will keeps catching glimpses of metal glittering in the light. Every time Connor ducked down, his wrists would be in full view. Two red, twin rings of irritation under the unyielding metal, acting as evidence of Connor's impatience and dissatisfaction at being unable to touch Will properly. He'd watch as Connor's triceps strained, still yanking on as if this time would make the cuffs unlock.
If he were still in his twenties, Will is sure he'd be twitching with interest. Even now, he feels that telltale flicker of excitement deep in his stomach.
Eventually, Connor gets to the last of it, cheekily flicking Will's nipples when he gets close enough. He'd never say anything, but he'd play innocent whenever Will gave a warning look.
He watches as Connor leans back, pondering over his handiwork. Connor shifts, attempting to relieve the ache in his knees from being on the hard floor too long. It reminds Will that Connor is barely younger than him, barely behind on experiencing the same aches and pains and bone-deep tiredness that comes with age. Will would like to be there for it. Every second.
There isn't any warning when Connor dives straight for his dick, too fast for Will to grab Connor's hair and pull back. He flinches back with a startled "Wait, wait, Con—oh fucking shit!" as Connor takes Will into his mouth, down to the hilt, before sucking all the way back up.
His legs close in on Connor's head, body flinching at the overwhelming sensation until Connor pulls away. He leans back on the balls of his feet, a proud, fucked-out grin splitting his face. Will glares down at it, the spark from before painfully reawakened.
"You're a little shit, do you know that, you fucking asshole?"
Even as he says it, he knows Connor will take it as a compliment.
"I've been told. Several times. By you, actually."
Any other time, Will would have gotten up and spanked Connor where he knelt for being that smug, but Connor deserves a little break for enlightening Will to a newfound love for blowjobs.
Oh, absolutely, no question. The show implies he's freaky in the bedroom, so even canonically I think he'd do it. No spoilers, but I may be writing something to do with pegging 🫣
He needs to break something. He vibrates with it—the need to annihilate and hurt until everything is as damaged as he is. He wants to punch Oliver's glove box until the skin of his fist tears; to hit and hear that beautifully dull thud until his flesh shreds and his bone splinters, and the leather is torn and dripping with blood. He wouldn't stop until his fingers broke—keep going until his wrist snaps in two.
The air was just shy of getting too hot, but the setting sun and gentle breeze kept it from being unpleasant. In this little part of the world, the sun was at that perfect angle to lay down a golden tint over the grass.
One more.
Tommy didn't notice the cheering—he never did. It always faded into a gentle droning. Nothing could touch him on the field.
He stared down the batter. Spit out one of a mouthful of sunflower seeds. Glanced at his catcher. Just under his glove: pointer finger, tilted just toward the batter.
Fastball inside.
A grin split his face, ball rolling in his palm. An exaggerated nod. Cocky. Tommy's fastball was one of the most feared pitches in the league this season.
He sends a quick glance towards the crowd as he plants his foot on the mound, glove up to his chest. It's absolutely packed, so many bodies bunched together like wriggling, angry sardines. He sees Mr. Queen first. Tall, imposing, but too charming to feel intimidating. His hand rests on Thea's shoulder to keep her from running off, which has become an unfortunate habit of hers. Speedy, Oliver started calling her. Moira is to his left, smiling, too, cheering as much as she'd allow herself. And then there's Oliver, probably cheering the loudest and still drowned out by everyone else.
But they're not who he's looking for. No, it's the empty space next to Robert. Frantic, Tommy scans the entrance, the food stand. His smile drops, just a hair, as the familiar stab of disappointment lodges itself in his throat. It's been festering for years, pushed down and drowned until he could ignore it, knowing that doing so was rotting him from the inside out. He can tell tonight is when he'll finally waste away into the horrific, ugly pile of decay he knows he is.
Tommy turns back to the batter without a second glance. He takes a deep breath, winds up.
He throws.
The congratulations and celebrations and interviews and pictures take almost an hour and a half to finish, and by then Tommy feels about ready to throw up. There's a tightness in his throat that's getting harder to ignore, a wall that he must force words through to sound pleasant enough that no one will notice the way his body droops, or the way he can no longer hide his wariness.
Gravel crunches under Tommy's cleats as he walks through the parking lot. The sound is roaring with how many feet disrupt the rocks. It's no longer quiet; it's too loud here.
"That was a fantastic game, Tommy, really. I don't think there's been an immaculate inning all season in the major leagues." Robert's hand is a heavy weight on Tommy's shoulder. Crushing, even. He doesn't shrug it off.
"Robert, don't suffocate him," Moira chides, but she's smiling up at her husband. They must be having a good week. "But yes, that was a fantastic game. I'm sure you'll have scouts lining up to have you pitch for them."
"A bright future yet," Robert agrees.
Their conversation continues, but Tommy finds it difficult to pay attention. Oliver is next to him, arm brushing his. The hand's weight is still on his shoulder, and it's becoming a chore to keep himself from tensing under it.
He can feel it spreading, so slow in its effort to infect. It would be easier if it were like wildfire, leaving no question as to just how much damage will come. Always, something will burn to ash. With storms, it's always a question. What will get water damage? What trees will lose their branches? How many people will suffer because they didn't see it coming?
Tommy snaps back to attention at the sound of his name, desperate that he hasn't missed something important.
"—mind letting us take you out to dinner?"
"Please, Tommy! Please?" Thea bounces towards him, but her hold on Moira's hand is firm enough to constrict her like a leash. She grins up at him.
He hopes his face doesn't give away how lost he is in the conversation. The eye contact is forced, the quiet, irrational plea that they'll take back the invitation. "I… Yeah, I'd like that. Thank you, Mr. Queen."
Oliver clasps him on the back, pulling Tommy's smaller body closer to his and away from Robert.
"You, my friend, will get the privilege of being the first passenger of my new Porsche."
Any other time, that name would have brightened up Tommy's week. Oliver had been talking about it for almost a month, because he knew Tommy had been dying to try it out. He was more of a car enthusiast than Oliver ever was.
"The Carrera GT?" he manages.
Oliver grins. "That's the one."
"For the love of God, please don't crash on the way to the restaurant!"
Olives led the way with careless "OK!" over his shoulder. The talking and the crunching grow quieter the further they go, well past where most of the cars are parked. At least Oliver seems to be trying to be careful with this one.
It's uncomfortable in the car. Sitting in the sun for so long has left the air stuffy and the leather seats burning. Oliver says as much when he sits down, bare legs burning in their shorts.
"Dude, that was one of your best games, seriously," he says as the door slams. So much enthusiasm, and so much honesty in how he says it. "A home run and a fucking immaculate inning in the bottom of seven? You're a fucking machine, man!"
Tommy can't bear to look at him. He focuses on the glove box, trying everything he can to ignore the building shame and disgust building in his stomach. It's trying to force its way out of the tender muscle, pushing, pushing, until—
Breathe in, then out. Again. Again. Again.
He needs to break something. He vibrates with it—the need to annihilate and hurt until everything is as damaged as he is. He wants to punch Oliver's glove box until the skin of his fist tears; to hit and hear that beautifully dull thud until his flesh shreds and his bone splinters, and the leather is torn and dripping with blood. He wouldn't stop until his fingers broke—keep going until his wrist snaps in two.
Again. Again. Again.
"Your parents are doing good," he mumbles.
Oliver scoffs, brows furrowed at the sudden change. "Yeah, one good week after a hundred bad. He cheats, she screams, they fuck, make up."
The seat creaks as Oliver leans back, leather shifting under his weight with an agonized sigh.
Finally, it's quiet, and all the fight and bubbling anger settle down to a simmer, leaving Tommy empty and sore. They sit in silence, neither able to meet each other's eyes. Robert is an amazing father—certainly not perfect, but what other role model did Tommy have? He envied the effort Robert put into being there for Oliver and Thea, envied that he loved them unconditionally. Sometimes, late at night when he can't sleep, that envy ebbs into hate, a disgusting film covering his heart like rotting meat left in the sun. Sometimes, he despises Oliver for having the one thing he can never have, and then hate turns into the shame that clings until the cycle repeats all over again.
He feels the shame now, and all at once he knows that the storm has flooded him too full; the dam he's carefully built since his mother died is cracking under the force, pushing against his skin, ready to break and let loose a torrent of water that won't stop until there's nothing left. It burns behind his eyes, burns to try and hold it back.
"Tommy? Dude, are you—"
A strangled noise, not quite a sob, not quite a gasp, burst from his mouth before he could stop it. He drops his head into his hand like concrete, hand clamping over his mouth as if he can stop anything. His fingers tangle in his sweaty hair, pulling, punishing for allowing it to happen.
The most disgusting part of himself is pushing against his skin, bursting out of his mouth, and he's powerless to stop it. He can't bear to look at Oliver when it does. When he finally realizes Tommy isn't what he thought he was.
That thought—losing Oliver because of his shortcomings—is the final drop that sends everything crashing. He breaks into sobs, his dam of dirty water and jagged branches rupturing irreparably.
He can feel the weight of the absences of his life, the holes in his heart, push down on him, forcing the guttural wail from his lips. He bawls into his hand, body twisted away from Oliver. Tears are pulled from his eyes, torn away from him with such violence that it sends him reeling. Ugly sobs, ugly keens come and don't stop.
People are supposed to lose track of time when mourning something. At least, that's what he was told when his mother died. Take your time; soon you won't even realize you've gotten better; your father will be back before you know it—you won't even notice he's gone. It's never applied to him. No, Tommy knows exactly how long it was. Is. Two minutes, three, five. They have somewhere to be, people waiting for them. But no matter how much he tries, he can't stop.
Pauses only start when Tommy's body can't keep up with his crying. His lungs ache with it, unable to get enough oxygen to placate the burning in his chest. It sends him sputtering, gasping desperately between sobs. He doesn't even realize Oliver is talking to him until he chokes, chest heaving but refusing to take in air.
"—Jesus Christ, Tommy—breathe, man, please!"
There's a moment where Tommy can't tell what emotion is bleeding through his words, because not once in their decade-long friendship had he ever heard fear come from Oliver. He's scared. Tommy did that to him. He did this.
Out of the corner of his eye, hands hover hesitantly. He hopes Oliver chooses not to touch him, lest he be tainted by all that's wrong with Tommy.
"T—"
"He doesn't love me, does he?"
It's the first time he's ever verbalized it. He'd always kept it locked away, just like his envy, because if it ever left his lips, it wouldn't be just a thought. It'd be real.
Oliver doesn't seem to understand—not between Tommy's blubbering and gasping. He tries again, but he's cut off by another sob, and then another, until the words come in broken stutters instead.
"He was supposed to be here! He—he was supposed to be here! He promised!" He's screaming, but he can barely hear himself over the rumbling of his heart, as insistent to keep beating as his insides are to carry all the worst parts of himself within their cells, ingrained so deep they'll never leave. "I don't even like baseball, but I kept my grades good so I could play so then he'd have something to be proud of, but he's not even here!"
There's a barely perceptible pain in his scalp, but there's no point in checking. There's no point in any of it, is there?
"I'm…" Tommy hiccups, barely able to force the words out. After everything—trying to keep it all in, and now he can't even get it out on his own accord. "I'm not worth anything to him. I think the only way he'll love me is if I'm dead."
He wonders sometimes if Malcolm wishes he were. That it had been him instead of his mother.
Finally, all the ugliest parts of him are splayed out for Oliver to see. It's the first time in years he's felt truly empty. There's nothing left holding him together besides torn seams left wet and stained from his torrential downpour. He doesn't have anything else to give.
His scalp burns, and only then does he realize he'd been pulling hard enough to yank strands out of his head. Gently, he lets go, allowing his hand to drop. He stares at the hairs resting around his fingers as tears fall into his palm. He's still crying, but it's nothing more than meager whimpers.
Oliver doesn't speak. Tommy doesn't, either.
Maybe he should have insisted on driving himself home. Maybe he should have been stronger, so then he'd still get to keep Oliver in his life. Maybe if he'd been a better son, his dad wouldn't hate him so much. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe doesn't take this back.
"Tommy."
The mere thought of looking at Oliver makes Tommy nauseous. It's starting to hit him now that he's ruined absolutely everything. Oliver knows that Tommy's fucked in the head, that there's something wrong with him, and now he's going to leave just like his dad left when mom died and then he'll be alone and how can he survive being alone after so long—
"Come on, buddy, please just look at me!"
He doesn't know why he listens, but he does. He comes back to himself, practically panting, once again unable to get enough air to support the things going on inside him.
Oliver looks…afraid. Tommy's never seen an Oliver Queen that wasn't self-assured. He's tense, too, but it's hard to tell if it's because Oliver is trying to keep himself in the car, or if he's ready to make sure Tommy stays.
"Just…" Oliver swallows, glances away before his gaze darts back. "Just stay with me, ok? I don't— I don't know what to do, but don't fucking do what you're doing, man." The pit in Tommy's stomach grows wider, so wide that it's going to swallow him whole; Oliver's lip trembles, and tears are building up in his eyes.
"I didn't… I didn't mean to do that." It comes out as a whimper, meek and so fucking weak. Malcolm would be so disappointed in him. "I'm sorry."
They both go quiet, unsure of what to do. It's silent, besides Tommy's sniffling and huffing, fighting to regain the oxygen he wasted.
It's a long time before Oliver speaks, unsure and timid.
"Are you ok now?"
He takes a minute to think about it. Ok? What does that even mean anymore? He hadn't been ok since his father woke him up the morning after his mother had died. It was such a nice day—especially for Star City's Fall—and for some reason, Malcolm was crying. He looked so pulled thin, so tired. He'd never seen his father like that before, and hasn't since.
"I guess so."
"No, you don't get to say that. Yes or no, Tommy!"
Tommy flinches back at the tone. He watches his hands shake, shrinks as much as he can.
"I don't know—"
"Yes, you do! Come on, did you not see what you just did? Don't lie to me!"
"Jesus Christ! No, I'm not, Oliver, fuck!"
He can't stay here. He needs to leave, right now. He can't face this, or he'll just break down all over again.
There's a pause before Tommy turns, scrambling desperately for the door handle. He yanks, once, twice, in rapid succession. Again, again, again.
"Unlock the door."
"No!" Oliver sounds perplexed, but Tommy is still focused on the door. He goes for the lock, but over and over, the lock keeps clicking back into place. "You think I'm going to let you leave like this? How are you getting home? Huh? You can't drive like this! What the fuck are you going to do, Tommy?"
"Unlock the fucking door!"
The need to get away is all-encompassing, filling the hole his crying had left behind. It's such a profound fear that even if he ran, he'd never escape it. His whole body shivers with it, so horribly recognizable. Feeling so small and helpless, aware of the danger standing right in front of him. How paralyzed he was, standing in front of it but unable to move, lest he anger it into doing what it had done so many times before. Wondering what he could do to make it stop. What he could do to make it stay.
"Please, Ollie, just unlock it! Please!" His voice breaks, like he's going to break, as if his body forgot that there's nothing left to give.
The second he feels a set of hands grab at him, Tommy flinches back against the door. "C'mon, T, stop! Stop it, it's ok!" Oliver is undeterred, despite how hard he fights back. It's less fighting and more flailing: flapping hands make poor contact with Oliver's chest; Oliver goes to wrap an arm around his middle, but misses and jabs at Tommy's ribs instead. He twists and turns, pulls back, but in the end, Oliver always gets what he wants. Tommy gives up, and he's let go.
"Your dad loves you, Tommy, I know he does. How could you say that stuff?" Tommy can't meet his eye. No, won't. He won't. Oliver doesn't know anything. In the end, how could he? His whole life, Oliver Queen has been showered in affection, love, and devotion from every person he's ever come across. He is gravity, pulling everyone towards him and keeping them there even when they hate him. While Tommy's insides have worn down to a rotten shell, Oliver has blossomed into something beautiful and so, so blind.
Growing up, Tommy knew that he was the lesser between them. Oliver was more attractive, more athletic, more charismatic. Oliver flunked out of school, not because he was dumb, but because he was too lazy to care. Tommy could never keep up. Malcolm knew it, too. Tommy wasn't very smart, but he's not blind like Oliver. It was always obvious how much Malcolm wished that Oliver had been his son—that Tommy was a disappointment and wouldn't be anything else.
But what if Oliver is right? Is this really how things are supposed to be? Inherently, he is the lesser half, and therefore, less deserving? Regardless, Tommy knows it is what he deserves. All these things he's done have solidified it.
He flinches at the soft skin that hits his neck, warm and sure with a solid grip that encompasses from his hairline to the top of his jersey.
"C'mon, man, stop fucking disappearing on me." The words are too wet to be coming out of Oliver's mouth. They're too full of the weight of something, but Tommy doesn't understand what. He can't, because Oliver is choking on his words. Another first: Tommy sees Oliver cry.
"Please don't think that. Don't ever think that." His grip tightens, pulling Tommy towards him. "We love you so much. T, for fuck's sake, don't say shit like that again!" As if to emphasize it, he jostles Tommy, looking him dead in the eye. "Do you hear me?"
Suddenly, he's all too aware of everything around him. The fingers on the nape of his neck, ticking slightly overgrown hair, connected to a body stronger than his. He knows he's looking at Ollie, but baby blue is like cobalt staring down at him, disappointment radiating off in angry waves. This time, he knows what they want.
Shakily, he nods. His body is limp under that stifling grip, waiting to see if it will tighten or shift or shove.
The grip loosens instead, and Oliver looks content with his answer. His eyes bounce as he stares at Tommy, watching as if it's the last time he'll ever get the chance. Is it the last time? The last time Oliver will ever see him as his best friend? The last time Oliver sees him as an equal?
He can picture Oliver's face twisting into something ugly now that he's calmed down. How disgusted he'd be, and how right he'd be to feel that way. Tommy's ass would be in the dirt seconds after that, and he'd be on the gravel watching through the dust as Oliver drove away.
Tommy grunts when Oliver yanks him forward, crashing their chests together and wrapping his arms tight around Tommy's middle. It's unexpected enough to take his breath away, a meek huff as his body is squeezed. His body struggles to catch up and understand why he's still in the car, arms suspended and awkward.
"I fucking love you, man. Malcolm's a dick, ok? He's a dick, and he loves you, too, you selfish prick."
He can push him away. He should. Get out of the car himself and end what's been a long time coming. He should be the bigger person for once in his fucking life and spare Oliver the pain and suffering that will continue to ruin absolutely everything he touches.
But Oliver really is the only constant in his life. Oliver, the one between them who has a real chance at being better than his family and doing something worthwhile. He should save Oliver from the complete wreck that is Tommy Merlyn—protect him from the poison that's dictated his life. But if Tommy is nothing else, Oliver is right. He is a selfish prick.
He hugs Oliver back.
The glass is cool against his forehead, soothing the heat behind the red of his skin. He's worn. His body aches from the game—especially his arm—and his eyes and scalp still burn from his outburst. The weight he'd vomited out is gone, yet it has already been replaced. A balloon, overfilled and emptied and overfilled again. You can't see the little imperfections and damage when it's full.
Oliver seems to at least understand this. He holds tight, grasping Tommy's hand so he doesn't float away. In another lifetime, he'd have joked about how girly or gay it was, but he doesn't think it would bode very well. He doesn't want to risk Oliver pulling away.
He stares out the window, watching trees and houses and highway fly past, covered in dark shadow now that the sun has set. It's comforting in a way, added to the vibrating sway of the car, because it reminds him that even if he's a fuck up, there are things he can't tarnish. They'll be beautiful and continue to be beautiful once he's gone.
It doesn't distract him from Oliver's watchful eye. Every so often, he feels Oliver glance his way. He's trying to be slick about it—makes it look like he's checking for cars through the window, or like he's stretching his neck. Oliver's never been good at subtlety.
Knowing that Oliver is concerned makes him feel better, as narcissistic as it is. The overwhelming relief that their friendship wasn't ending sent him crying again, this time into Oliver's shoulder. Gently, he was pushed back, Oliver explaining that they were 20 minutes late and it was time to meet his parents at the restaurant.
When they do get there, Tommy will continue as he always has. He knows Oliver will never talk about this again. Once they walk through the door to that restaurant, to the table, to where Oliver's family patiently waits—where Moira will get up with a worried crease in her brow, asking where on earth have you been, Oliver? Where Robert will look with love and concern of his own, where Thea will sit and beam up at the older brother she admires to a fault—it will be like none of it ever happened.
Tommy will sit with Oliver, go along with whatever excuse he can conjure up, and they'll share a conspiratorial grin, like there's something funny that only they could possibly understand. And Tommy will be a stranger in their imperfectly perfect world, intruding on something sacred.
The rot will come back because it will never be gone. It's a part of him, and always will be. But he can imagine that he isn't a stranger, invited to this table for a reason outside of pity. Robert doesn't take him to football games because Oliver wants his friend to tag along. He'll want Tommy there. He won't see Moira stare at him with disgust when she thinks he isn't looking; Thea won't be annoyed that her brother is off gallivanting with someone else.
He'll imagine it as the storm takes hold again, filling up the hole he's left with more ugly, decayed fragments of anger, self-hatred, loneliness. The weight of two empty seats.
They'll love him. This all-encompassing part of himself won't exist for Oliver to see. He'll be everything they want. Everything his dad wants.
Blood play, blindfolds, cutting, pain, minor dom/sub
It starts slow.
A little touch, ghosting his ribs before it disappears. The soft press of lips against his, and maybe his stomach if he's lucky. A firm grip on his thighs, pulling them apart and moving him around like putty. Will had a way of doing that to him: making him comfortable enough that he's able to just let go so someone else can take the reins for a little while.
"You ready?"
Such a gentle whisper that he nearly misses it, spoken into his ear close enough to feel the heat behind the words. Connor doesn't bother speaking—a nod is enough for Will to understand.
A burning, sudden and painful, in a perfect line on his right thigh. His muscles tense at the feeling, but he only lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His blood pools in the wound where his skin is pulled open, letting oxygen into each layer of torn skin until its warmth overflows and begins to drip.
The touch is more unexpected; the pad of a finger pushes the cut, and the burn settles in that one spot so intensely that Connor can't hold in his gasp. His dick twitches at the feeling, arousal burning as much as his leg.
"You're alright, Con," Will murmurs. "You're doing great."
It sounds like he's smiling, but Connor can't see it. Normally, he'd try to sneak a look by shifting his blindfold, but Will's learned his tricks. The soft silk, cool against his eyes, hides his Sunshine, but he feels the warmth emanate anyways.
Finally, the pressure on his thigh eases and the blood that trickles down is caught with a quick swipe, smearing against his skin. It dries quickly, sticky and uncomfortable but perfect nonetheless.
Will doesn't do anything at first—he leaves Connor waiting, like he always does. Building the anticipation, he says, is what really makes a scene, and Connor can't help but agree. Being blinded, he doesn't have a single idea of how long he has to be good; he's alone with the quiet breathing of the space, the subtle movements he can feel but can't quite hear.
He feels it shift now, as Will leans over to tilt his chin up. Connor lets him, easing into the motion as if it were second nature. Rough, calloused skin caresses his bottom lip. It's wet, and warm, and Connor can't hold in his quiet moan.
Will's breathing gets oh so subtly heavier at the sound, but Connor knows he can do better.
Slowly, he pushes his tongue past his lips. The taste of iron is strong, and covers the salty taste of skin. There's more on Will's finger than he thought, because it's coated in blood. It trickles past his lips, sticking and ramifying on his chin.
He takes the digit into his mouth, sucking gently to get as much of the fluid as possible; his tongue pulses with each suck, fondling Will's finger until it's clean.
The quiet puffs of breath get louder as Will shifts Connor's face. He takes the weight of Connor's head, holding his cheek in an open palm. He can feel Will watching him, every move of his mouth, the way he squirms to relieve some pressure off his cock, every desperate shift to be closer.
Then the finger is gone, replaced with Will's soft lips, his own tongue sliding in to wrap around Connor's. The taste of blood hasn't left—its accumulated on his lips, which Will doesn't hesitate to lick off.
Connor breathes it in, feels how Will settles on top of him, careful not to crush or stifle. He grips onto Will's sides, hands moving desperately despite the persistent pain in his leg.
Even with the pain, still radiating and burning to the bone, flowing freely onto the sheets and staining his skin, he isn't bothered. Nor is he bothered by being left in the dark, that he can't anticipate what Will is doing, because it's Will.
He knows he's safe here, in Will's arms, no matter what.
Praise Kink, biting, bottom Connor Rhodes, top Will Halstead, power trip
Ever since Connor rolled into the ER, barking orders as if he'd already carved a place for himself in Med—since he first got under Will's skin by being an absolute prick—Will has had an obsession with his chest.
It didn't matter how much Will hated him. It didn't matter that he was too confident, too privileged, too everything. Because, like everything else, Connor was also too beautiful.
Some days, Will would catch himself staring, wondering what exactly was hidden beneath the collar of that maroon scrub top. A glance from the corner of his eye in the halls. Out in the open during lunch, eating peacefully without a clue of what dirty thoughts ran through Will's mind.
Now that he has Connor in his home, in his bed, he gets to see exactly what he's been missing.
Will lets his hands wander over skin softer, somehow paler than his own. He can feel muscles move under calloused fingers, each twitch filling him with a little thrill. Every time he hits a particularly sensitive spot, it evokes a quiet gasp from the man below him. It urges him to go over the spot again, until Connor is squirming under him desperately.
It was nothing short of exhilarating, having the golden boy of the hospital under his thumb like this. Being able to see Connor as anything less than the perfectly competent doctor he tries to exude is a privilege and advantage he's unwilling to lose.
His hands continue, and his head drops to start peppering kisses against the soft hair blanketing Connor's stomach, up to the chest he's been dreaming about. He cups one pec gently, thumb brushing over the nipple as he take the other into his mouth. Connor whimpers as he arches into the feeling, squirming all the while. Will feels nimble fingers tangle in his hair, pulling hard enough to burn.
Will sucks until he's sure the spot will be a deep purple by morning, so Connor remembers who's about to rearrange his guts. The idea of the mark being hidden under Connor's scrubs tomorrow—that Connor will have that reminder for weeks—goes straight to his dick. So, he does it again, and again, until Connor's chest is littered with inflamed kisses, all hidden beneath dark hair.
The hushed whimpers coming from above his head grow more desperate, but not once does Connor object to how long things are taking. In the back of Will's mind, he's surprised by it. Someone like Connor would makes demands, take and take and take because he's always had the means to get what he wants. But not here. Not with Will.
"You're being such a good boy for me," Will murmurs, hands squeezing soft hips hard enough to hurt.
He expects a snarky comeback, or a scoff. The Connor he knows wouldn't let Will get away with anything that sounds like praise, especially since it's often followed by personal insults. The Connor he doesn't know moans at the words, yanking his hair harder.
"You like that?" Will whispers against his skin, fighting back an eye roll. Of course Rhodes likes getting praised.
A little nod, almost embarrassed, is his answer. Connor's eyes are closed, grip slackened, like he expects Will to keep going; he's expecting Will to bow down and do what he wants, as if he were in charge. Perhaps he doesn't expect to be showered in praise, but it's a near thing. He may not make demands, but he's so arrogant that he expects to get everything without it.
Instead, Will bites down, hard. The soft flesh yields like dough before the muscle tenses and Connor flinches back with a startled yelp. Connor's eyes shoot open, staring down in shock, and a little hurt that he quickly assumes is from the pulsing from the bite. Will grins back up, releasing the skin so it can bounce back into place.
"Come on, baby. Don't you want to keep being good for me?" he coos, pressing a soothing kiss to the same spot.
Getting to know Connor these past months has given Will the chance to learn all his little tells—the way Connor chews a pen when he's focused, the way he starts fidgeting when he's frustrated or angry, the way he maintains a rigid routine despite the unpredictability of the ED. What Will rarely gets to see is the conflict of a decision. Connor breaks eye-contact, albeit briefly, and it fills him with pride. An upper hand. A way to knock Connor down a peg.
To give some incentive,Will tugged at the surgeon's flushed member, then again until Connor writhed. A quiet "fuck" was torn from his lips, and only then did Will realize how quiet Connor had been, and how much he didn't like that.
"That's it, baby boy, keep singing for me."
Will drags his lips along a stubble-clad jaw, easing his way down with a trail of kisses. He nips as a warning, then bites down on Connor's shoulder.
Connor doesn't scream this time, but he's unable to stifle his pained hiss. He pulls Will closer instead of pushing him away, arching into the pain as though he can't get enough of it. Will can't get enough of it either.
The way muscle and skin yields under his teeth is even more of a power trip than simply having Connor here, because Connor is allowing him to do it. He's allowing Will to leave his skin indented with ragged marks, red and puffy with irritation. He practically begs for it with each moan, with every involuntary movement of his hips. Connor is completely under his control.
What do you think about the HC that Connor's into cars? Especially when he's returned to Chicago.
Like on par with Severide's nice car obsession.
I'm gonna be so honest, I don't think he gives a shit about cars lmao.
The only time we see him interested in a car is when he's going through his midlife crisis after Robin leaves him. From what I could interpret from that scene and his subsequent promiscuity, it was wildly out of character for him. In my opinion, it's because he genuinely believed Robin was the one (I think Colin also interpreted his character this way based on his departure from med and his performance with Mekia in season 4), and losing her sent him spiraling.
With that said, I just don't see it personally. Plus, I don't think anyone is beating out Severide's obsession. That man is dedicated to his cars like he's dedicated to his job.
What kind of relationship headcanons do you have for Casey/Connor/Severide?
OOOOHHH Good Question.
Well, Sevasey gets together first. And maybe it starts off as a bit of a joke or maybe Connor is ... questioning and he asks how they knew and Severide says "Well, i thought rating men's asses was totally a normal straight thing to do until Shay laughed at me when I first mentioned it" and Casey says, "It wasn't about the equipment for me, it was just the person - i fell for Sev because he was my best friend."
And so they offer to be a little bit of an experiment and goes from there.
Severide loves seeing his men in his sweatshirt, so whether it's Casey or Connor, he doesn't care, he just finds it hot and gets very put-out when they *aren't* wearing his sweatshirts.
Casey loves initiating affection like hugs or kisses, but Severide's the one that absolutely insists on holding hands. and pouts if he doesn't get to. Connor's happy for anything, but he loves running his hands through their hair.
Severide loves to drive but learns quickly on road trips that Casey and Connor will sit in the back and tease each other with various affections, which makes things very *hard* for Severide to focus on the road.
They all love running, but Connor always ends up winning every race that they do.
When Connor asks Severide for advice on weight lifting, Casey spends the afternoon watching them and fanning himself.
They take turns sleeping in the middle, but it's usually Connor since he's the newest member and they want him to feel included.
Connor's not sure, at first, if he should use their nicknames for each other, and it takes a while before they all decide that it's *okay* that Connor uses their first names, while they use the shorter version of their last names. (They attempt to find a way to shorten rhodes but find it's impossible and decide on Con, instead).
I like to think Casey cooks, but not necessary because he likes it, so he really enjoys letting Connor do the cooking. Severide is grateful that no matter what his men are feeding him (and he pretends to suck at cooking so he doesn't have to do it - even though he doesn't).
Connor's first order of business as their doctor boyfriend is knock them out of the habit of "no ... i'm fine... i don't need the hospital". He gets mad anytime he hears his boyfriends trying to neglect going to the hospital (which puts him at odds with Casey who avoids going to the hospital for injuries like the plague).
Any time one of them is sick, they tease about "playing doctor" or how they are so lucky to have a doctor boyfriend.
Casey hates going to networking events so he does his best to convince them to go without him, often feigning ill, which doesn't work when he has two caring boyfriends.
Severide begs for a dog. He says with the three of them it should be fine, but it still takes *months* for Casey and Connor to concede.
I probably have others, but this is .... more than I thought.
