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jiminrings · 2 months

Text

four seven eight, phase 3 (3)

pairing: jungkook x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: jungkook wants to fight with, for, and beside you.

alternatively, nothing will ever be the same again, and you and jungkook couldn’t be any happier.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale — complete series masterlist, from phase 1 to 3 ]

[ fluff, angst, the moral dilemma of keeping someone (read: yoongi) who was almost ur first, last, and everything in ur life despite having another person (read: jungkook) to be exactly that, yearning, full circle moments, The Vagueness n different kind of angst now that 478's a family n not jus a couple anymore, redemption :) ]

notes: thank you for locking in!!!! the og 478 fic aka phase 1 was released two years ago n now we're here can u believe . hee-hee thank u for all the love you've given and continue to have for them!! TRUSTTT that this won't be the last you'll see of them :-)

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!!

In a nightmare that Jungkook’s experiencing in real time, Hwayoung mistakes Yoongi as her dad.

Jungkook knows fully that there’s a knee-jerk reaction available for practically everything. He knows it well, because the impulse that occupies him kicks in during the most important events of his life.

Your husband’s impulse, which he often confuses for instinct, is too driven to the point that even for the briefest second, all that Jungkook could feel is himself.

He tasted blood in the roof of his mouth when you left him the first time all those years ago. He had clenched his fists so hard, he almost drew blood over the realization that you had given up on him, even if it was for the time-being.

He felt his heartbeat in his eardrums when Hwayoung’s cries first pierced into the world (and straight to his ears), all to the point that the people surrounding you thought that he suddenly fell ill.

Jungkook could and should be able to feel himself right now; right now when his only child glazes past him and calls Yoongi as her dad, and right now when he hears his name called out for someone it doesn’t and should never belong to — except Jungkook can’t even feel his fingers.

He can’t taste blood in the roof of his mouth and he can’t feel his heartbeat in his eardrums. Jungkook can’t even claw himself out of a nightmare that’s built around him yet staged by his karma alone.

“That’s not appa, Hwayoung,” you cut into the thick air, your lips set in a straight line as it takes everything in you not to scoop up Jungkook into your arms because he looks like he’s about to collapse in shock. “Yoongi’s not your dad.”

Hwayoung understands, of course. She understands it like how she always does whenever her little mistakes get rectified. The concentrated pout on her face tells you that she’s listening, hearing you loud and clear as you reiterate a fact that she seems to have forgotten.

Jungkook genuinely tweaks within his own hold, the knot in his throat unbearable as he can’t even figure out how he’s standing beside you on his own to feet. He stands beside his wife and he stands before his daughter, yet he doesn’t even know if the weight he holds in between is enough for him to stay rooted.

Jungkook is as still as a rock while he watches you correct Hwayoung on the spot. He’s immoveable as he sees his daughter’s eyes flit to him in curiosity before finally coming to realization. He’s frozen, not by his own choosing, but because neither of his impulses nor instincts kick in.

Hwayoung nods easily, and Jungkook thinks that he’s about to lose his mind if it hadn’t already been muddled three seconds prior.

In a dream Jungkook doesn’t tell anyone, he’s not as easily interchangeable with Yoongi in the same way that Hwayoung thinks apples are pears sometimes, and that blue is somehow violet.

The mornings without Hwayoung have been too long for Jungkook.

They’ve been too long since her impromptu vacation from the both of you started, dragging out endlessly to the point that he had to ask you to hold his phone so he could withhold himself from hovering above Hwayoung by asking Yoongi for updates by the minute. Mornings were too bright; too normal to be spent by you and him without a playful toddler who tries to slip her finger in whenever someone yawns.

Jungkook’s missed his mornings with Hwayoung in between the two of you.

He missed the mornings where it’s still dark out and he’s been asleep enough for long that he could make out Hwayoung twitching in the dark as she searches for a cold pillow, before later ending up next to your stomach or next to his head.

He longed (read: still longs perpetually) for the mornings wherein he gets to sleep in and it’s you and Hwayoung who wake him up from dreams he’s always willing to part with, because he knows that he has something infinitely better to wake up to.

“Hiii, appa,” Hwayoung drawls out, hugging his leg as Jungkook automatically pats her head with a gentle hand, the smile on his face more or less forced as he chokes out a greeting. He gets snapped out of his trance immediately, even if he isn’t sure that the sight he woke up to this morning is even worth living alongside with.

“Hi, Young-ie,” he whispers, his eyes strikingly neutral even when Hwayoung grabs his hand and swings it around lightly.

Jungkook make the mistake of looking up and he doesn’t know which is worse; your husband, for once, can’t definitively tell if you looking at him empathically should placate him or unsettle him deep into his core.

What Jungkook can tell however, is that seeing Yoongi’s sly gaze on him with the ghost of a smirk on his lips plays into the rage that he can barely hold onto, if not for the little hand that’s already silently apologized to him.

Hwayoung may not know any better at the moment, but she knows well not to ask questions when Jungkook suddenly stands up out of nowhere when he’s just agreed to play on the floor with her two seconds ago, and she knows better not to stare when you immediately agree and not interrogate him at all.

“I’m gonna step out. Need to blow off steam because otherwise, I’ll take it out on him,” Jungkook whispers to your ear, hands grimly shoved into his pockets. “I know we both saw him do the same thing, Y/N,” he laughs humorlessly, clenching his jaw tightly before he leans down to speak again, enough for Yoongi to both see and hear just how angry he is. “Go put your friend on a leash.”

Yoongi likes to think that it’s spite that keeps him running.

The notion of doing things out of spite is not new at all to him; as a matter of fact, he actually thinks he’s the foundation of it.

Yoongi can’t keep track of the many times that it was spite that put food on the table and pushed him to his limits to arrive at the state that he’s in now. Yoongi yearns unlike no other to the point that it ails him because longing, without any bitterness in it at all, feels pointless.

Longing with only the ambition to surrender in the end is pointless; it doesn’t push Yoongi at all to be the best in anything. It doesn’t make him feel any better because without the regret in his stomach and the resentment in his chest, he wouldn’t be reminded of his dream.

In a dream Yoongi wants to tell everyone, he doesn’t fall short to Jungkook.

It’s a ridiculous gag dream that feels like a poorly-made skit to him. Yoongi, with all his spite, can’t believe that he only comes second to the likes of Jungkook, who hadn’t worked as hard as he did nor attempted to fight tooth and nail to be even recognized (even under your light) in the first place.

In a well-rehearsed yet trite skit that appears in Yoongi’s mind whenever he goes to sleep after drinking a little too much or waking up with the sheets a little colder than usual, he doesn’t acknowledge Jungkook to be in the same orbit as him; in his dream that’s equivalent to Jungkook’s nightmare, you and Hwayoung are within arm’s reach.

It had been spite that made Yoongi smirk at Jungkook, right after the latter’s whole worldview shattered in front of him when Hwayoung mistook him for a stranger.

It’s everything but spite that makes Yoongi keep his head up high at you, refusing to bow even just a little out of shame. You’ve dragged him to the nearest empty room and while he would’ve teased you about it for any other context, he can’t seem to do it now when you look at him in disgust, even before he gets to open his mouth.

“What was that, Yoongi?!” you fume, standing by the door as you keep your voice hushed.

It’s almost poetic for Yoongi to see because even when you’re bound to curse him out, even when the both of you are at a turning point (or whatever is left of it to change before it perishes completely), you still put Hwayoung first above all else.

“What was what?” he smiles cheekily, even if it’s apparent that it’s just for show because if anything, it’s Yoongi who knows the most about his own fallacy.

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“I was playing around?” he offers weakly, shrugging his shoulders to make it seem that he doesn’t care at all about the anger you’ve reserved specifically for him; as if he’s not trying to buy time to prolong what could be the last time he’ll ever see you outside of work.

“That was nothing, Yoongi. What Hwayoung said meant nothing,” you grit, your fists balled to your sides as you try not to let your mind drift to the fact that you had confronted Yoongi first before comforting your own husband. “She’s a kid and she just got confused.”

There’s only silence between the two of you, and Yoongi wants to stay in it.

Yoongi wants to consume the dead air if it means that he won’t be backed into a corner and forced to take all the hits that Jungkook’s reality – which are his dreams— could throw to his face.

“You don’t have to tell me what I already know,” he murmurs lowly yet for some odd reason, Yoongi still refuses to bend his head.

The thing is, Yoongi doesn’t feel regret at all. Out of all the times he could ever feel it, he doesn’t feel it now, even when the supposed love of his life wants to banish him out forever.

“Then why do you look happy about it?” you seethe. “Why the hell did you look happy when Hwayoung called you her dad?”

“Because I was,” Yoongi smiles so tightly, his skin buckles under the pressure — come to think of it, his eyes almost feel like they’re stinging. “Do you want me to lie?”

“It would be better if you do,” you retort without even thinking, the tremble of your bottom lip only goading Yoongi further.

Yoongi stands before you, proud yet unwilling, as he serves as the largest and longest milestone of how far you’ve come in your career with his unrequited love for you as the barometer.

“Oh,” he reacts, his face falling before his throat tightens impossibly. Yoongi keeps nodding his head madly, the pricking of tears in his eyes making him frustrated even more. “Okay. Sure. Y-you know what, let me just lie andsay that I don’t constantly think about how it could’ve been me, o-or how I don’t usually hope that Jungkook completely fucks it up because I could show you that I’ll never do you wrong in the first place!”

“Friends don’t fucking do that, Yoongi!” you clench your teeth, the devastation on your face apparent yet never equivalent to that of Yoongi who’s already nearing his limit.

“I don’t want to be just your friend!” he whispers at you, because while he thinks about Hwayoung in the living room who’s just a few steps away, he also thinks of how scared he is to admit the fact to your face no matter how high he holds his head.

“I don’t think we can’t be friends either,” you sigh breathlessly, the finality to your tone making Yoongi freeze.

Finally, he lowers his head.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.”

In an overdone skit that plays in Yoongi’s head, somebody pulls out a slate and yells for the scene to be over, because not only did the whole thing play out in just his head, it was also just a silly dream that a married man with a kid could only have.

In a well-rehearsed, trite, and critically acclaimed skit that Yoongi writes himself but could never act in, you never have to be put in a position wherein you have to put a pause to your friendship with Yoongi.

The dependency and entanglement the both of you have with each other, no matter in what degree, only proves to be a double-edged sword that hurts you more than it could ever hurt him, and Yoongi knows he can’t ever live with that.

There needs to be distance between you and Yoongi, and he’s never hated that fact more than now, no matter how much he knows it’s needed.

Yoongi knows he’s an intruder.

He’s an intruder who frequently gets to see you at work, he’s an intruder who always gets to loathe Jungkook no matter from what angle, and he’s an intruder who occasionally gets to hold Hwayoung who isn’t his.

( ♡ )

The truth is, Jungkook didn’t even really think of having kids until you came along. It had been a long withstanding truth in himself, even with Sora before you, that the thought of having someone of his own flesh and blood was too heavy for him — too much.

Jungkook didn’t entertain the thought of having children until you came into his life and he had decided then and there that there’d never be too much of you for him.

You weren’t too much for Jungkook when you were still a new couple and had asked him if he’d be open to marrying you one day, even if you were barely a year into your relationship (and your first one at that) that he was yet to have a full grasp of.

You weren’t too much for him when you had talked his ear off when you were still a rookie, promising him sincerely that you’ll make it big and that soon enough, the both of you would live a comfortable life — provided that you were still in each other’s by that time.

You weren’t too much for the Jungkook of then, your wide-eyed boyfriend who’s a man of few words, and you’re not too much for the Jungkook of now, your husband who feels like he has far too many feelings.

The truth is, Jungkook didn’t even really think that his heart could exist outside of his chest until Hwayoung came along.

There’s this dull, agonizing pain that always squeezes on Jungkook’s chest like clockwork whenever he feels he’s letting his daughter down. There’s bitterness in failure and there’s failure, even when Hwayoung’s tiny hands don’t seek his when they’re walking side by side, or when she’s not as enthusiastic about her meals like how he had been when preparing them–

Or even when Hwayoung mistakes Yoongi for her dad.

“This shirt?” Hwayoung asks, interrupting his inner turmoil as she points to a shirt of his from high school. She has a whole drawer filled with yours and Jungkook’s old clothes for sleep shirts, the giddy smile on her face as she awaits for approval making Jungkook almost forget everything. (Read: almost)

“You can choose any shirt you want, Young-ie,” he answers, his eyes only half-lidded and just a whisper close to stinging with tears. The exhaustion in his voice is practically inseparable from the gutting feeling of his full-time work as a dad for a little more than two years, being mistaken for Yoongi’s part-time favor as a godfather for barely two weeks and then some.

Jungkook’s hands immediately twitch at his sides when Hwayoung walks towards him and stumbles for the slightest second, the brief hiccup on his heart reminding him that he’ll be attuned to her no matter what — even if his daughter mistakes him for a stranger.

He knows the shit that the elders say about letting children fall. He has the script memorized by now and he knows the annoyance that blooms in him routinely when he gets unsolicited advice.

Jungkook knows it all, and he knows that eventually, Hwayoung would get hurt and he won’t be able to do anything about it. Just like how she can hurt him, someway and somehow along the line (maybe she’ll call Yoongi appa again), and how he won’t know what to do with himself should that time come.

Tonight isn’t the time.

“Help, appa.”

“Okay,” he obliges. “I’m here,” Jungkook utters, ironically refusing to call himself the title that he wants Hwayoung to keep only for him; not for Yoongi, not for your manager, and not for the men that constantly pine after you even when they know fully that Jungkook’s in the picture.

Your husband knows greed and he hates it, because it had been in the form of Yoongi briefly smirking when Hwayoung called him appa that time.

Jungkook knows greed and is well-acquainted, because his fist is scuffed and Yoongi’s number is blocked.

He knows greed and whatever indomitable power that puts a brake to his rage right when it’s about to pour over, because he had punched the brick wall in the patio instead of Yoongi to blow off steam, and because he has the mind to not taunt Yoongi with a complete family picture right after you distanced yourself away from him.

“I’m sorry, Young-ie. Mama and I are sorry to put you through that, okay?” he murmurs to her ear like it’s only their little secret for them to hear, the unbridled wonder that lingers in his daughter’s eyes enough to placate him that everything’s okay between them tonight.

( ♡ )

To wake up in the same bed as Jungkook and Hwayoung after so long makes your heart swell.

Your heart swells, not just with pride, but with a feeling you can’t ever put a name to. You’re more than content enough to see Hwayoung cuddled up to Jungkook and the mess of their hair tangled in between, but even more, you’re filled with a strange yearning that you don’t want them to stay that way.

You want more of them in a way that you’re overwhelmed, just by thinking that they’re the closest you could ever have to feeling immortal in this life. Not everything is completely back into place like they once were, but oddly enough, neither you and Jungkook are actively trying to replicate the old times.

“You sure you’ll do the groceries alone this time?” you ask Jungkook for the third time, also receiving his third consecutive playful eye roll as he packs Hwayoung’s bag for you.

“Yes, ma’am. Just go with the princess and look at playschools,” he hums, ruffling your daughter’s hair that you spent a good ten minutes on. “If I come with, I fear I’ll already cry just by thinking Young-ie’s growing up.”

“She is growing-…”

“Can’t hear you!” he hollers as he backs out from the driveway, the smile on his face incomparable because he woke up with the thought that you did.

Jungkook wants more of you and Hwayoung, not because he just wants to return your unspoken sentiment, but because he figures that no amount of time or space will ever be enough if it’s the both of you that hold it.

It’s nice to be back to a somewhat normal routine. With your work finished (and all that is left is for the publicity to ramp up) after having spent so much time on it, you immediately resign yourself to the fixed routine you’ve been dying to get back on.

You’ve almost forgotten just how chaotic a supposedly mundane breakfast could be for a family of three, seeing to it that Jungkook’s packed lunches had grown on you to the point that even having your own plate on the dining table felt weird.

You’ve almost forgotten just how liberating it felt to walk outside with Hwayoung (despite having to put on masks and caps on for animosity) without having to worry how much time you have left before shooting starts again, considering that your daughter doesn’t even regard you for the actress that you are.

Hwayoung pulls your hand and walks ahead of you, and you let her. She’s small and unyielding, even if she pulls you with the equivalent of a mini Jungkook’s strength.

Your daughter walks ahead of you and you don’t mind because you rarely ever get to see her in the sunlight wearing the dresses that Jungkook buys even if there aren’t any sales going on (you’re trying to get him to curb his shopping addiction), as opposed to her being bundled up in pajamas, sitting on your lap in your trailer under studio lights.

Hwayoung has the strength that only a child of yours and Jungkook’s could ever possess, because while you freeze in your tracks upon seeing a familiar face as soon as you open the glass doors to the playschool you were about to scope out, Hwayoung only looks at you and the woman in front with a smile.

“Y/N, is that you?”

“Sora,” you exhale, the surprise probably evident on your face because it takes a solid second for you to register her presence. “Hi.”

Sora’s even prettier in person (not that she was ever ugly in the first place) than the beauty she was on the picture you’ve seen of her and Jungkook, her genuine smile unmistakeable because she looks like light itself.

You get why Jungkook had fallen for her, and while there’s nothing about now to blame him for, you can’t understand either why Sora’s absolutely ecstatic to see her ex-boyfriend’s wife.

“She’s my daughter,” you belatedly add after finally moving on from being starstruck, putting a reassuring hand on Hwayoung’s back (who doesn’t need it anyway because she’s more at ease right now than you are) as you smile. “Say hi, baby.”

Sora gasps in awe, and while you appreciate her politeness in not assuming anything about Hwayoung before you introduced her yourself, the curious, baser part of you wonders if she thinks about you and what she could’ve been–

If Sora thinks about you as much as you do with her whenever she fights with her partner, or if she ever thinks about the lingering insecurity that comes with being a lover in general.

“She’s an absolute sweetheart! She looks so much like you.”

“She does?” you beam, completely surprised at her words. You’re already surprised about Sora in general along with her unexpected enthusiasm, but you’re even more shocked at her sincere interest. “A lot of family and friends say that she looks like Jungkook more.”

“I mean they do say that soulmates will look alike at one point,” she shrugs playfully, head tilting as she waves to Hwayoung while you digest her words.

You didn’t think Jungkook’s past would be this kind no matter how much it had hurt you before.

You feel guilty for having expected a confrontation of some sort, the slight paranoia that had creeped on you before completely dissipating the longer that you look at Sora. She looks at ease and it’s contagious, the soft smile on her face extending up to her eyes when she sees your gaze lingering at the hand on her belly.

“Oh, yeah. I’m expecting,” she announces excitedly, cheerfully, as if you’re childhood friends and go to brunch every Sunday — as if you’re close enough for her to spread her joy with.

“Congrats, Sora,” you grin, extending your hand to gently hold her arm in celebration.

You had insisted again and again to yourself that Sora’s no one to you; that she’s a blip in Jungkook’s radar that lasted for years and came before you. You had let the idea of her consume you fully to the point that her kindness takes you aback.

You can’t blame Sora, and she can’t blame you either. Somewhere along Jungkook’s mosaic he’s made for himself, she lingers in there as a stray piece that fits no matter the pattern. It’s irrevocable and only natural for your husband to be an accumulation of everything and everyone he’s ever loved, and while you know that you and your daughter occupy most of it, you can’t ever erase Sora from existence.

You want to ask who’s the dad with the most inconspicuous tone you could ever possess.

You want to ask her how she’s been and how things went with her partner during the last time that she and Jungkook had celebrated their anniversary as exes.

You want to ask Sora about her cousin and maybe even joke about how chaos must probably run in her bloodline.

You want to ask Sora about hundreds of things and hold her accountable for the sleepless nights she’s costed you and your family, but you hold yourself back — not only because it’s the right thing to do, but because everything had already worked out in the end. Sora’s already in the past and you want her to stay there, even if you have the opportunity to get the answers you’ve only used to pray for.

“For what it’s worth, Y/N, I’m sorry. I know it’s a little too late to say it, but I really am,” she murmurs after some time of only you and her silently watching Hwayoung talk to another kid, the sincerity in her eyes evident even if she holds her head low before you.

The closure you could only ever ask for whenever your heart hurt the most, comes to you when you feel that you’re at your lightest.

( ♡ )

True to your word, you don’t let Jungkook attend your press conference.

There’s no point in denying that you do need Jungkook here with you, but there’s no denying either that needing him and wanting him to be here are two different things.

You’re oddly reminiscent of the time that you had been in this position, and even if the memory’s bittersweet, the rational and realistic part of your brain could only think that it’s reasonable to miss Jungkook despite barring him from here. This is your highest peak after all, and it’s only normal for you to be nervous.

It’s normal for you to be nervous despite telling the staff that you’re going to keep the wedding ring on your finger throughout the entire thing. It’s entirely reasonable for you to be jittery at the possibility of being asked about your family, no matter how far-fetched the queries could be from the actual movie at hand.

It’s only okay for you to feel that trepidation in your stomach even if everything in your life, at the moment, is at your favor.

The room’s quiet with only you and Jimin in it, and without the buffer of Hwayoung that laughs through everything that he says, the one-on-one that you have with your manager reminds you of the talk you had to have when the rumors about you and Yoongi broke out.

Jimin has more years and experiences under his belt now, but with the way he talks to you, it feels as if it’s neither of you are experienced; that the both of you are complete beginners who’d like to think that the only way to go is up, and that a tiny irregularity could instantly make everything you’ve built to collapse.

The talk about Eunsu has been a long time coming, and Jimin wants to let you know now when there’s nobody else — when you’re reminded that you have everything to both gain and lose.

“I’ve managed to put a lid on it for the meantime,” he clears his throat, looking at your reflection in the mirror as he puts on your microphone delicately. “I don’t know for how long though.”

Your gaze looks blank, almost unreadable to the untrained eye, yet Jimin knows that there’s a weight to it. Unlike all the brush-ins you’ve ever had with issues before, this is the first time that it had ever hit home and everything that ever mattered to you.

He could only imagine the weight of what it must feel like to be you; of how heavy it must be to be the one to take everything in stride.

“It’s okay, Jimin. Thank you,” you murmur, looking down on your lap as you try to fight the frown that comes with the realization that you’ve been used to having Hwayoung on it.

“Y/N,” he tuts, his tone stern yet familiar.

“Hmm?” you ask while you’re in a daze, letting yourself stare at a spot on the wall that could only hold your attention for so long. You can’t erase it as much as you can’t avoid this conversation with Jimin, and even more, you can’t avoid the eventual turbulence you’ll be subjecting your family to once everything goes public.

There’s an innate guilt that comes with being a wife and a mother, you figure. It’s your first time being both and with it comes the sense of doom; it’s not the morbid type of ruination, but rather, it’s the anxiousness that comes with knowing you don’t only have yourself to look after.

“What Eunsu did to Jungkook— to your family, even-…”

“I know,” you interrupt, nodding fervently to cut the conversation short, except Jimin doesn’t fold.

“I know you’re protecting them. I know you’re thinking about Hwayoung the most,” Jimin sighs. “But you wanting to protect them also means that you’re protecting Eunsu even if it isn’t your intention,” he murmurs, squeezing your shoulder gently. “The news coming out about her won’t be the worst thing in the world.”

The same two people that you’re protecting, one of them more innocent and clueless than the other yet just as loving, give you complacency amidst your unease.

( ♡ )

You always insisted on having a big bed.

Jungkook remembers your insistence on having a big bed when the two of you moved in together and slowly started furnishing your home before your wedding. Your preferences didn’t exactly clash his because while you mostly took care of the budget and he took care of the aesthetics, there would almost always be common ground. Almost.

Additionally, you also remember Jungkook’s gratefulness for your stubbornness towards having a big bed because realistically, he can’t ever picture himself lying down on a deluxe standard bed with a toddler between the two of you.

The maintenance for the third-biggest variation of a king-sized bed that you had pleaded him for (and even made a whole presentation about defending your case) with Hwayoung in the picture now is even more troublesome. The quest for bedsheets that are hypoallergenic, extremely soft and comfortable, have a neutral, classic, yet easily-maintainable design, and toddler-proof simultaneously seems to be never-ending.

Jungkook can’t sleep at all sometimes. Even when the airconditioning in the room is at a perfect temperature, his comforter is on his person and not on the other side of the bed by your doing, his daughter’s hair isn’t in his mouth, and his cat’s humongous built isn’t blocking his passage of air, there’s days wherein Jungkook can’t put himself to sleep.

In one way or another, it’s always the ache and worry that manifests in his chest for the next day. He keeps wondering about tomorrow’s meals and the probability of Hwayoung throwing a tantrum. He keeps wondering if there’s going to be a wild curveball that somebody will throw at you tomorrow, and how fast he can get to you should that happen.

Jungkook’s no stranger to sleepless nights. He’s used to analyzing one unfavorable context after another to scare himself into being awake so he can’t get nightmares when he eventually goes to sleep.

To wake your husband up just because you couldn’t sleep yourself is a menial task that you finally talk yourself into doing, the little shake that you give Jungkook on his shoulders enough to make him jolt awake.

“Kook, wake up.”

“What, what-…? What is it?” he darts up groggily, eyes barely adjusted to the dim light you’ve set the room to. Jungkook’s lost to why you even woke him up when Hwayoung’s out like a log, but he doesn’t question you on it — instead, he gently carries his daughter to occupy his warm spot on the bed, just so he could crawl his way to the middle to listen to you.

“Jungkook.”

“Hmm,” he hums again, sleepily propping himself up with a pillow as he tries to blink the sleep away from his eyes. Jungkook doesn’t even dare to take a peek at the alarm clock because all he knows is that you’re awake and you also want him to be, so he doesn’t complain.

Four seconds. Breathe in through your nose.

Seven seconds. Hold it.

Eight seconds. Exhale through your mouth.

“Let’s fight,” you whisper, leaning your head on Jungkook’s shoulder.

Your husband could only rub his eyes tiredly, the yawn that escapes him making his entire body shake. “Huh? Right now?” he clarifies, the sleepy pout on his lips only highlighting how wide and docile his eyes are for you at the moment.

“Come on. Let’s fight,” you half-heartedly offer, bumping your head to his.

Your husband only stays silent, putting a hand up to your forehead to check for a fever.

Jungkook only yawns once again, his sluggishness being infectious to the point that you suppress your own by burying your face to his neck.

“Can we like, fight in the morning or something?” he tries to compromise, fully serious about a half-baked joke you woke him up for.

Jungkook’s come a long way. He’s no longer your husband who didn’t want to fight you on things for the sake of self-preservation. He’s no longer the one who avoided confrontation in fear of setting you apart from him. He’s this now, so willing to go with your every whim that if you want to have a fight with him at two in the morning, he’ll rub the sleep out of his eyes and let you rest on his shoulder if ever you were being serious.

You kiss your husband on the lips, the love-drunk smile that he gives you afterward making you snort.

Your king-sized bed is a mess. Somewhere by the end of your foot, there’s Hwayoung’s pink crayon that she insists on holding to sleep. Somewhere by the tips of Jungkook’s hair, there’s Miso’s fur kept together with his daughter’s hair clip because she didn’t want to go to sleep without putting it on him.

Jungkook, your husband who’s clad in a shirt of yours with too many holes on it because of his daughter’s safety scissors and his cat’s claws, hugs you to his chest in silence.

You think about how you can’t tell when the news about Eunsu is going to release, while Jungkook sneakily tries to uncover your sock-covered foot with his own because he lost one of his socks while sleeping and wanted to be even.

You think about how the Academy nominees are going to be revealed in a week, while your husband says out loud his grocery list for the week while randomly staring off into space every ten seconds.

You think about Hwayoung attending playschool in a matter of months, while your husband internally plays rock, paper, scissors with himself as he waits for you to gather your thoughts.

You think about you and Jungkook and whatever comes with, for, and between you while he hugs you under the dim lights.

Four seconds. Breathe in through your nose.

Seven seconds. Hold it.

Eight seconds. Exhale through your mouth.

“What if it only gets brutal from here on out, Jungkook? What do I do?” you murmur, looking up at him.

“Who says it has to be brutal?” Jungkook laughs, his voice bouncing out into the space as if you’re in a newly-built house with barely any furniture.

Jungkook’s laughter is still joyous and loud, because even if Jungkook’s heart is a newly-built house, his happiness still reverberates the more it settles into the ground and comes closer to its roots; closer to you.

“We’ll keep up.”

#DUNNNNN :O n to get ahead of questions.. yes there WILLLL be a phase 4!!!#jungkook imagine #jungkook oneshot #jungkook oneshots #jungkook series #jungkook angst #jungkook angst imagine #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader #jungkook x y/n #jungkook au #jungkook scenario #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x you #bts jungkook imagine #jungkook scenarios #jeon jungkook x reader

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sooniebby · 11 months

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𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫

𝗪𝗲𝗲𝗸 𝟯: 𝘃𝗮𝗺𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗲/𝗲𝗱𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗴/𝗯𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗮𝗴𝗲

Bottom trans male reader. Reader’s lower part is called interchangeable: cunt, pussy, clit, folds, heat, hole. No mention of anything feminine. Reader has had top surgery.

“Is… the rope necessary?”

You were dressed in your Halloween costume, a very simple makeshift murder victim. A tired white shirt with fake blood splattered all over it. Jeans that you purposely tore and also splashed some blood on it.

The real “kill wound” in your costume was a fake slit throat that you had. It was starting to feel itchy on your neck after being at this party for over two hours now. The blood on your face had uncomfortably dried up a bit that you just wanted to wash it off.

The guy you were with, inside some random room. You didn’t really know who owned the house. You were just here for free drinks and candy.

He was dressed pretty bland compared to you.

Just a nice dress shirt and dress pants. You wondered why he’d wear something so nice to a college party like this.

His white shirt was unbuttoned now, letting you see his chest a bit better. Which was nice as you were currently being tied up. He wrapped the rope around your chest and shoulders, leaning it down to circle around your hands.

He was slow and methodical, making sure it was tight but not too tight. You were a bit too drunk to complain about him taking too long. Hey, if he needed bondage to get off, so be it!

“W..what are you anyway? Such a boring costume..”

He glanced up at you and smirked. You saw the faintest sight of fangs. Ah, vampire.

Eh, he could’ve done better.

You yawned, getting comfortable on the bed. Wow, this bed was so soft. All that alcohol was making you a bit sleepy. And this bed wasn’t helping you.

With a jolt, you glanced down at the man as you felt himself slap your thigh. He didn’t say anything, just finishing his touches on your bondage. You could still move your legs and if you tried hard enough—you could slip your hands free though it would hurt your wrists to do so.

“Are… you going to speak?” You whisper, watching him move down to your jeans. He glanced up at you and with a smile, turns his attention back to your pants.

You spread your legs open to give him space as he.. quite literally tears your jeans apart?!

You cry out in shock, sobering up a bit at the sound of tearing jeans.

“D..dude?! What the fuck..?”

He paid you no mind as he reached your boxers and also teared that open. Fuck, he was going to ruin your clothes to bits at this point. You squirmed a bit, wondering just what the fuck you were going to do after this with no pants or boxers.

You watched as he leaned close to your legs and began to kiss it. His kisses were wet as he trailed down to your wet heat that was beginning to ache to be kissed itself.

His fangs.. which.. felt real in a way, teased your skin. You grunted, wishing you could just reach down and tangle your hands in his curls but your hands were tied.

“Jeez… those fangs of yours feel.. real, man.”

He stopped for a moment and glanced up. His eyes just staring at you before looking down as he pressed a soft kiss on your inner thigh. You couldn’t help but giggle a bit at the softness.

Why weren’t most one night stands this nice?

You gasp as you felt his kisses on your pussy this time. He was soft—just pressing kisses on your folds while one of his hands teased your clit.

“E…mhm.. ever eat… cat before?” You drunkly joke.

He looked up at you unimpressed. You pout. Hmph, this guy just didn’t know what a good joke was.

His breath was really the only sound you ever heard from him. But you wanted him to talk. So badly but you didn’t know how to get him. You had come up to this room with him because of his teasing on your waist and you thought he’d start flirting with you.

But no, just started binding you.

“Name..?” You muttered, thinking maybe he’d be nice enough to tell you.

But he didn’t. He leaned in and began to lick your pussy, slow and methodically once more. You flinch, your legs accidentally closing on his head. He grunted in discomfort and moved his hands to grab your legs and force them apart.

You couldn’t help but feel a bit happy.

You got him to grunt!

That’s something..

He was sucking and licking your heat with a sense of ownership—eyes staring straight at you as he watched you try to move your hands against the bondage. Your lips were parting constantly as moans left your throat, filling the room.

You couldn’t really help yourself that you began to try and ride his face. He didn’t seem to mind as he allowed you to do so. You whimper and whine, his nose was a bit good to ride on.

Huh, maybe you should stick to sleeping with man with long noses.

The drunk thought leaves your mind when he pulls away. You whine and pout at him, wondering why he’d pull away. His lower face and nose was wet from your slick but he didn’t seem to care at the moment.

He reached down and pulled open his pants, his cock slipping out. You blinked in shock. Holy fuck, that cock was huge.

Maybe.. eight inches?! Jesus, what type of man needs eight inches???

You glance down and watch as he grips his cock and rests it against your cunt. He gently rubbed his cock between your folds, earning a sharp gasp from you.

You were biting your lip in excitement—even if the thought of such a large cock was scary.

But he didn’t slip inside of you.

His cock began to rub against your pussy, getting between your slick folds. He reached down with his free hand and placed it on your hips, gripping it tightly as a way to keep you still.

“W…c’mon… inside~” you whined.

He continued his thrusting against your folds, his cock constantly rubbing against your clit. His grunts began to fill the room, overpowering your moaning.

You felt as if you were being used.. but honestly it made you excited.

You just wished he said something to you.

Praise. Degradation. Something!

Much to your shock, his cock began to cum. He moved his cock between your folds and cummed right near your hole—teasing you with the thought of him pushing his cock inside and just filling you with cum.

He pulled away after a second and reached down, scooping up the cum that was dripping from your pussy and fingering it inside. You began to squirm and twitch, hips thrusting upwards as you cried out.

Finally… something inside!

But then he pulled away.. again!

“F…fuck you! I wanna cum, man!” You grunted, wishing you could just reach down and make yourself cum.

He simply smirked and patted your stomach before pulling away. You watched in shock as he buttoned up his shirt and pants and… left.

He fucking left.

You panicked a bit, wondering what the hell were you supposed to do now?! As you shuffled around the bed, trying to force your hand out of the bondage, the door opened again.

He was back.. with water and a bowl of grapes.

He sits down on the bed and makes you sit up but makes no effort to untie you. You part your lips and gladly accept the water, humming at the cool drink blessing your dried throat.

Huh, you didn’t notice that.

His lips pulled into a smile as you saw you begin to feel comfortable once more. Once the water was finished, he grabbed the bowl of grapes and began to feed them to you.

He was.. taking care of you? Oh, this was nice.

You hummed in delight, starting to feel sleepy again after being mildly taken care of.

“You.. do this with everyone you fuck?”

He didn’t answer. Stupid man. He placed the empty bowl on the night stand and made you lay back down again. Getting between your legs, he pulled down his cock.

You didn’t know if eating and then fucking so quick was smart but eh, you were still a bit too drunk to truly care about that.

He leaned over you, staring over you as a smirk pulled on his lips. Staring at his teeth you began to notice his fangs were a bit too real. It looked as if they came straight from his gums.

“You.. must’ve put most of your money into the fangs, huh?”

He raised an eyebrow, as if in a way telling you that you’re wrong. You gasped at the feeling of his cock pushing inside of your tight heat. His cock was stretching you but you couldn’t help but sigh in relief—happy to fully be fucked.

His thrusts were different from his other one. No longer slow and methodical. He was like a beast, his hips slamming into you as you squirmed and cried. Your cunt tightened around his cock with each thrust.

“S…so good! Fuck.”

You cummed in no time, arching your back as you screamed out. But he didn’t stop, his thrusts were even faster now—forcing you to squirm as your body was being forced to cum again so quickly.

You could’ve sworn you were squirting at this point.

But he hasn’t cummed.

And he wouldn’t cum for a few minutes as your body got tired from the constant and back to back squirting. Your body was limp by now, your pussy lightly clenching at this point. The only sound leaving you was soft little whimpers.

You couldn’t even speak properly now.

He leaned down, pressing kisses on your throat. You hoped he was close soon, your body couldn’t handle another orgasm. His teeth grazed your throat as he moved down right where your shoulder and neck connected.

And he bit.

You screamed out, spasming against his body that held you down to the bed. This wasn’t just a simple bite, his teeth—no fangs, pierced your skin.

“W…h…!”

Any sort of pain you felt was soon pleasurable. You began to softly moan, trying to move your hand but still not able to. He continued to drink.. just like a vampire before pulling away after a few seconds.

His lips were stained with your blood, turning them red in color. A few drops slipped down his chin and his eyes were blood red. He reached down and gently rubbed the spot his bit, giving a bit of comfort for it.

You felt something warm inside of you now… oh, he came. His cock slipped out of you as white cum slowly dripped out of your aching hole. Your breathing was light and soft…

You somehow felt content.

He grinned down at you. His black curly hair was no longer neatly laid like before. You tried to truly look at him now but all you could do was whine about the ropes still bonding you.

He pulled the bondage off and began to rub your wrists, pressing a kiss on the mark it left on your skin. His eyes trailed your body. The only thing you had left was your shirt.

“You…you’re….?”

He smirked.

“B…wh..?”

He hummed and walked over to the closet in the room. He pulled out a long coat from it and wrapped it around your body. Much to your surprise, he picked you up easily.

You whimper but glance up at him, wondering what he was thinking.

“Y…you..? Wh.. a… college..?”

He looked at you thoughtfully as if he was actually thinking why he, a vampire, came to a college Halloween party. But he simply shrugged. He looked close to your age, but perhaps now getting a better look, three to four years older.

Physically at least.. who knew how old he was mentally.

“Wh…ere..?” You mutter, starting to feel so tired. But you weren’t sure why.

“Home.”

Your eyes open in shock as you stared up at him. His voice was nice and velvet. So smooth and deep. You wanted him to keep talking. Please, keep talking.

“Sleep. You were good… so I decided…”

He leaned down a bit to your ears, gently nipping it as you hummed, snuggling a bit in his arms.

“To keep you forever.”

Realistically, that was such a fucking scary thing to say. An immortal being taking you forever.

But.. you were drunk and happily satisfied by sex you knew no one else could possibly give you.

How long was forever anyway…?

Eh, you only meet a sexy vampire once.

You get it? He edged you with his cock and his voice… a true edger… does that make sense? Lol, anyway, hope this was sexy enough cuz he doesn’t talk basically at all! Why he doesn’t talk..? Don’t ask, I just thought it’d be sexy

Tag list: @the-ultimate-librarian @nakedtoasterr @smellwell @tehyunnie @ofclyde @chill-guy-but-cooler @iwishtobeacrow @remdayz @mello-life69 @kiiyoooo @kaedezu @tomoeroi

#bottom male reader #x male reader #oc x reader #original character #mlm ns/fw #smut drabble #kinktober 2023 #kinktober #ftm ns/fw

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ikarakie · 2 years

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steve's favourite thing to do is interchange the names in songs with people's he knows. usually just as a bit of fun, like singing "gimme, gimme, gimme ro-bin after midnight!" to make her laugh in the car when she's had a bad morning. or, "i wish that i was dustin's girl!" in a horrific impression of suzie that makes the kid body slam him in retaliation.

so one day, when him and eddie are hanging out in his kitchen, amicably flitting around each other as they make food, he can't help himself. the drums start up from the radio in the corner and a smile spreads across his face, because he thought of this one weeks ago and has been dying to use it.

he whirls around and points at eddie, who's looked up at the sudden movement, with the business end of a wooden spoon. "oh, eddie you're so fine! you're so fine, you blow my mind! hey, eddie!" he takes a step forward, relishing in how munson's jaw drops to the floor. "hey, eddie!"

he does a sort of half shuffle, half dance around to eddie's other side, where he continues, jumping up and down and shaking his head back and forth with the beat, "oh, eddie you're so fine, you're so fine, you blow my mind!" he gets up in eddie's space, to where they're practically nose to nose, "hey eddie!"

"oh my god, what is happening?" eddie asks, trying his hardest to suppress a grin. steve continues to dance and sing like an idiot, abandoning the spoon on the counter to grab both eddie's hands and pull his arms back and forth in an attempt to get him dancing too.

by the start of the first verse eddie is half-heartedly bouncing along, watching steve with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. he thinks he's fucking beautiful like this- big blinding smile, full of energy- and takes a second to ponder the turns his life has taken to bring him here, in this moment. where steve harrington is singing a cheesy, upbeat love song at him, having replaced the name in it for his.

steve cups eddie's hands together and uses them as a makeshift microphone, belting out the lyrics to the chorus as eddie giggles along in the background. "-oh, eddie! what a pity, you don't understand," puts his best pouty face and places eddie's hand on his chest, over his heart. eddie's eyes widen. "you take me by the heart when you take me by the hand! oh, eddie, you're so pretty," really fucking emphasises the word pretty. because, damn. "why can't you understand? it's guys like you, eddie!" grabs him by the shoulders and rocks them both back and forth with each word. eddie's hand drops from his chest to circle around his waist, seemingly out of instinct, and fuck, he liked that.

eddie was staring at him now, sparkly eyed and hopeful. steve clasped his hands together at the base of eddie's neck, as he sung, a little less overzealous now, "oh, what you do, eddie, do eddie," as the gap between them got less and less. steve had to work to bite down the grin on his face.

"don't break my heart, eddie." he said, barely loud enough for them to hear over the music. eddie grinned, pressing their lips together as the chorus ended.

it was objectively bad, with the way they both smiled and giggled through the whole fucking thing, but god, who cares. to them, in that exact moment, it was the best damn kiss either of them had ever had.

until, that is, when eddie pulls back (very fucking regretfully) and realises something.

"we did not just have our first kiss to 'hey, mickey!' by toni basil." he whispers, in genuine horror. steve throws his head back with such bright laughter, still pressed against him, that it almost makes it worth it.

keyword almost, because then the menace leans back in, all coy, and replies, "i'm never, ever letting you forget it."

#steve plays the song at their wedding AND sings the eddie rendition into his ear #eddie cries like a baby #stranger things #prompt #steve harrington #imagine #steddie #stranger things prompt #eddie munson #steddie prompt #steve and eddie #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #steve x eddie #steddie headcanon #steddie hc #steddie fluff

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cripplecharacters · 1 year

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Media Representation and Writing Characters with Facial Differences

[Large Text: Media Representation and Writing Characters with Facial Differences]

A writing (?) guide (?) consisting of an explanation of what facial differences are, some basics about the community of people with facial differences, a terminology guide that is extremely subjective, a very long explanation of the real-life effects of misrepresentation of facial differences, a subjective guide on why most tropes surrounding facial differences are awful and unoriginal, and the part that people actually want to see (I hope at least) AKA "types of characters I do actually want to see". As always, this post is meant for people who have no experience with the subject, and not in any way an attempt to tell writers with facial differences on what to do in their own writing.

What Does "Facial Difference" Mean?

[Large Text: What Does "Facial Difference" Mean?]

"Facial Difference" (FD for short) is an umbrella term for any kind of scar, mark, or condition that makes your face visibly different. This encompasses anything from not having parts of the face or having less of them (e.g. anophthalmia, anotia, hemifacial microsomia), having "more" to the face (e.g. tumors, neurofibromatosis), conditions affecting how the face moves (e.g. facial paralysis, ptosis, cranial nerve diseases), ocular differences (e.g. hypertelorism, nystagmus, strabismus), conditions affecting the colors of the face (e.g. rosacea, vitiligo, pigmentation conditions in general), a "look" that signals a specific disability (e.g. Down Syndrome) and approximately a million more things - scars, burn marks, craniofacial conditions, ichthyosis, cancers, and a lot more.

Despite popular opinion (popular ignorance would be more accurate because no one knows about it in the first place but opinion sounds better-) people with Facial Differences have both a movement (Face Equality) and a specific word for the oppression we experience (Disfiguremisia). There is even the Face Equality Week that happens every year in May! This is a real thing that has been happening, and we are generally going unnoticed, even in the "representation matters" circles, the body positivity movement, disability spaces, and so on. There is an alliance of organizations dedicated to this called Face Equality International, who can help you learn about the real-world community and movement! They even have sections specifically about media representation, which is foreshadowing for how important this topic is to the community and for how long the "explaining the issues of representation" part of this post is.

And of course, if you have a facial difference/disfigurement, you can do whatever the hell you want when writing! Call your characters how you call yourself, subvert the tropes you want. I don't want to preach to people who already know all of this firsthand. This post is meant to explain some things to people who don't have experience with having FD.

Terminology

[Large Text: Terminology]

There is a lot of words to describe people with FD. Some of them are alright, most of them are awful.

Please keep in mind that all of these terms (maybe except for the... last one...) are used by real life people. This isn't me saying "you can't say that about yourself" (more power to you!) but rather to educate able-bodied people that some words they refer to use with aren't as neutral as they think (at least not to everyone).

"[person] with a facial difference" - generally the most polite and widely accepted way to refer to us. That's what is generally used in the Face Equality movement, sometimes alongside the next term which is...

"[person] who has a disfigurement" - an alright term that is sometimes used interchangeably with the one above. However, most things that involves the term "disfigurement" to me sound kinda medicalized and/or like lawyer speech. It's not offensive, but just generally used in more official ways etc. Has the potential to make you sound like a medical report or a legislature sometimes. lol.

"A disfigured [person]" - starting to steer into the "uhh" territory. Describing a whole person as disfigured is, to me, just plain weird. I get that some communities push for the identity first language, but this just isn't it most of the time. Could be way worse, could be slightly better.

"[person] who has a deformity" - "deformity" is such a negatively charged word that I don't understand how people (without FD) still use it thinking it's neutral. This sounds awkwardly medicalized in a "case study from the 80s" way which is definitely not a good thing.

"A deformed [person]" - pretty much the jackpot of bad terminology, the term deformed, the calling of an entire person by it, it has everything I hate about writers describing people like me. The only one that I think is even more awful is...

"Horribly/gnarly/nasty/monstrous deformity/scar/[name of the specific condition]" - again, I'm impressed by what some people think is neutral wording. If you're searching a thesaurus for synonyms of "scary" to describe your character, I think it's time to just stop writing them. This is about using ableist terminology, sure, but I just can't imagine that someone calling their character that actually will represent FD well. It shows the negative bias and attitude of the writer.

However, there is also one pretty awesome and simple way to describe them!

Say what they have specifically. Really. Assuming you know what condition your character has (which... you should) it should be very easy. "She has Treacher-Collins Syndrome." "Xyr forehead has a port wine stain on it." "They can't fully open one of their eyes." It's clear and lets your readers know what you mean. You don't always have to throw around euphemisms to describe someone not having a nose.

Tropes and Current State of Representation

[Large Text: Tropes and Current State of Representation]

If you have read basically any of my previous posts about FD then you probably know what I'm about to say in this section. Still worth a read though? I hope. Warning that this is long, but you probably expected that already.

One thing I will note at the start is that I'm aware that a lot of writers were already turned off from this post just because of the terminology section. I know that artists love describing people like me as ugly deformed monsters! It's literally a tale as old as antiquity, and that's how overdone and stale it is. Visibly disabled = ugly. I get it, I heard it a thousand times before, I hear it majority of the time someone is excited to tell me about how horrible and gross their OC's scar is. But now some guy (me) from that group is telling you to like, maybe stop calling your disgustingly deformed character that!

I want to make it very clear that FD representation in media is not treated like a real thing that's worth anyone's time, even by the most "representation is so important!" writers. I guess it's too inconvenient to unpack the amount of baggage and uncomfortable implications this would cause. It's too good of a device in writing; everyone knows that if a guy with a scar shows up that it means he's evil, the easiest way to make a villain visually interesting is to make them a burn survivor, and if you need a tragic backstory for a serial killer just give them a congenital disability that caused literally everyone in the world to treat them horribly, so of course they started killing people. It's such a good moral signifier that literally every book and tale has done - pretty is good, ugly is bad. Dichotomy is so helpful. What is less helpful in the real world is that what is considered "ugly" is generally very tightly bound to what visibly disabled people look like. Ugly Laws weren't just like, coincidentally including disabled people and disability activists aren't still forced to speak out against being put in those "Ugliest People" lists by accident. This is all to say that facial differences are considered to be "ugly" completely uncontested, and you probably have this bias too, as the vast majority of people do. The whole "the character is ugly, then they become evil, if they're evil, they become ugly"... you need to be conscious to not do that. Don't make them evil if they're visibly disabled because it will always end up being the same old trope, no matter how many weird excuses and in-universe explanations you give. I want to put it in people's heads that you are writing about a community of people who are technically visible in real life, but have no large voices that the general public would listen to when it comes to how we are seen. The general public relies on media to tell them that.

Putting people with FD in your books or your art seems to suddenly be intimidating for a lot of artists when they realize that not only is facial difference a real thing, but people who have it can see what you write or draw (and your other readers will take some things out of what you write, subconsciously). When an author is faced with the fact that maybe they are doing harm with their writing, they either: suddenly don't want to do that anymore at all, or say: "I don't care! I'm going to be very innovative and make my very evil OC be deformed!" which is kinda funny to me that people actually seem to think it's edgy and cool to repeat the most tired Hollywood tropes but that's the best we can get I guess lol...

The attitudes that people have around the topic of facial difference and the whole "media impacts reality" are very interesting to me in general. On one hand, when I tell someone that I was bullied or ostracized because of my disabilities, no one is ever surprised. On the other hand, everyone is for some reason uncomfortable when I say that this doesn't just... appear out of thin air. People are taught from childhood that facial differences and the people who have them are scary, untrustworthy, or literal monsters. Media is a major factor in that. Like, looking back at it, it makes sense that my parents told me not to stare at other kids because they would get scared. After all, I looked like a kindergarten version of the bad guy from some kid's book. Other kids were able-bodied and looked like the good guy, I was visibly disabled and looked like the bad guy. That's the lesson kids get from media on how people with visible disabilities are: evil, scary, not to be interacted with. So they avoided me because of that while I had adults telling me to not even look in their direction. Dichotomy is so helpful, right?

And this doesn't magically stop at children. When I post a self-portrait or a selfie, I usually deal with multiple grown people comparing me to sometimes an animal, usually a specific character from a movie, sometimes even making my face into a meme right away. But if people don't generally see people with facial differences on the daily, then how are there so many specific reactions and so many similar problems that we go through? If it's so rare, then how are people so quick to tell me the character I remind them the most of- Yeah, media. It's always media. It's almost funny how everything circles back to one thing.

I want you, the author, to understand the impact of misrepresentation of facial difference. If you feel uncomfortable because you have done these tropes before, good! That's a sign of growth. If you want to help instead of harm, you need to get over your (subconscious) biases for a minute and think about how a person with the same condition as your character would feel like reading about them. Maybe you are even currently realizing that that one OC with scars is just five harmful tropes glued together. Maybe you are going to reblog this and tell me in the tags that somehow your character decided to be like that, as if they have free will instead of being written by a biased human being. Or, as I said earlier, a lot of people will be annoyed by this post and keep doing their thing. Which is like... whatever, I guess ?? There are a dozen huge movies and TV shows every year that do this. It's so basic and normalized that whatever reach this post will have will change very little. I have been signaled "we don't care what you think about how we portray people like you" my entire life, I'm frankly more surprised when people do actually claim to care. You can, practically speaking, do whatever because the FD community is fully ignored by uh, everyone, and even if I'm disappointed or annoyed I'm just one man and I know (from experience) that most people won't have my back on this topic. It's too ingrained in our culture at this point to challenge it, I suppose. I mean, there have been multiple media campaigns telling writers to treat us as people, and they had practically zero impact on the writing community. But even with my absurdly pessimistic view on this subject, I still decided to write all this. Sure, there are no signs of the industry changing and the writing community doesn't seem to care much, but I still naively hope that maybe the right person will read this and at some point in the future I will be watching or reading about a character that looks like me and actually have a good time, and even more naively that maybe people will gain some amount of awareness of the damage that has been and still is happening to people with FD through media, so that the next time they see that the villain has facial scars for no reason they will think "damn, this sucks" the same way I do. And very, very naively, I hope that people who read this will start seeing us as people. Not villains, not plot devices, not monsters.

Sad part over(?), now the fun(?) part. AKA the tropes! Yay.

"Dramatic Reveal of The Deformity".

Use of the word "deformity" very much on purpose here. This is arguably the most common trope when it comes to FD, and it's always awful. At the very best it links FD with trauma and talks in a Very Sad Voice about how having a FD is the worst thing imaginable, I guess (think a "X did this to me... now I'm Deformed For Life..." type of scene) and at worst it does the classic revealing that the main villain actually was a burn survivor under his mask, because of course he was. In media, people with FD are evil. If they're not, then it's because someone very evil did it to them (the most evil thing of all - causing someone to have a facial difference. the horror!). It can't be a thing unrelated to someone's morality, there's gotta be evil somewhere around it. There is literally nothing good about this trope. Showing FD as something to hide? Check. Dramatizing FD? Check. Placing the way someone's face looks as the worst thing possible? Check. General treating FD as some kind of circus attraction to stare at with your mouth open? Check!

"Wearing a Mask*."

I made a whole post about this one actually, that's how much it annoys me. Putting your character with FD in a mask is so overdone, lazy, and boring I'm not even offended as much as I thought I would. It's like... really? Again? For the millionth time, the character with FD is forced to hide their disability? Is the author scared..? What is the point of giving your character a visible difference if all you're doing is hiding it? And yes, I know that your character chose to do that for reasons that you as a writer somehow can't control. It's always so strange how it's the character that's in control and the writer is in the passenger seat when it comes to annoying tropes.

Found yourself already waist-deep into this trope? Take a look at this post I made.

*"mask" here refers to anything that covers the character's facial difference (e.g. eye covering, surgical mask, whatever. It's about hiding it and not a technical definition of "what is a mask").

"Good Guy has the Tiniest Scar You Can Imagine, but Don't Worry! The Villain is Deformed As Hell."

A genre on its own. In the rare instance that a positive character has a facial difference, they have a curiously limited choice - you can have:

the thinnest, definitely-very-realistic straight line going through the eye (the eye is always either perfectly okay or milky for reasons the author couldn't tell you),

the same exact line but going horizontally across the nose,

and if you're feeling spicy you can put it around the mouth,

regardless of location, just make sure it doesn't look like an actual scar (certainly not a keloid or hypertrophic one) and is instead a straight line done with a red or white crayon. Interestingly, villains have unlocked more options which stem from scars, craniofacial conditions, burn marks, cleft lips, ptosis, colobomas, anisocoria, tumors, facial paralysis, to pretty much everything that's not infantilized, like Down Syndrome. These are always either realistic or extremely bloody. I sound like a broken record by now, but no, your morality has nothing to do with your physical appearance and being evil doesn't make a visible disability get more visible. Shocker. And don't get me started on...

"The Villain turned Evil Because They Have Scars."

Ah, how nice. Disabled people are evil because they're disabled, truly a timeless classic for able-bodied writers whose worst fear in life is being disabled. In case that needs to be said, having a facial difference doesn't turn you evil, doesn't make you become a serial killer, doesn't make you violent, doesn't turn you into an assassin with a tragic backstory seeking revenge for ruining their life. If anything, having a FD makes it more likely for other people to be violent towards you. Speaking from experience.

"The Villain Just Has Scars."

An impressive attempt at cutting out the middleman of "clumsily and definitely not ableist-icly explaining why getting a scar made them evil" and not even bothering with a tragic backstory or anything. They are evil, so of course they have a facial difference. What were you thinking?

"Facial Difference is a Plot Point."

As anyone who's read like A Book will tell you, the only way to get a facial difference is to be in a very dramatic fight or an extremely tragic accident who will become a plot point and thus the facial difference is now Heavily Emotionally Charged and a symbol of The Event/The Tragedy. If you look at media, congenital FD isn't a thing, illness-related FD doesn't exist and boring domestic accident or a fall causing FD has never been seen. It has to be dramatic and tragic or else there's no point in them having it. A true "why are they [minority]" moment, if you will.

"Character gets a FD but then Gets Magically Cured Because They're Good."

Truly one of the tropes that make me want to rip my hair out. Curing your character with FD sucks just as much as curing a disabled or neurodivergent character. Who is this even for? That's not how real life works. This is some actual Bible shit, that's how old this trope is. The only thing you're doing here is making people think that those who do have FD just aren't "good enough". Every time I see it, I wonder what the author would think of the congenital disorder I have. According to this kind of in-universe rules, was I born evil and just never got good? or ??

"Character with FD has Self-Esteem Issues and Hates Their Face."

I admittedly mocked all the previous tropes because they're absurd, ridiculous, offensive, boring, all of the above, and have zero basis in reality. This one however... ouch, right in my own tragic backstory. This is unfortunately a very real experience that a lot of people with FD go through. I even have a hunch there wouldn't be as many if the general public didn't think of us as monsters, but I digress. Yes, a lot of us have or had self-esteem problems, and a lot of us wished that we wouldn't have to go through all the BS we were put through because of it. Thankfully for you, you don't have to write about it! Seriously. You don't need to. As one million people have said before me, "maybe don't write about things you haven't experienced" and I agree here. I have yet to see an able-bodied author get anything about this right. Instead of the deeply personal, complex experience that involves both you, everything around you and the very perception of what others think of you that this is, somehow writers keep giving the tired "character crying and sobbing because they're "ugly" now", because the author thinks we're ugly. Or maybe they're sad because all the other characters with facial differences are evil, and they didn't have the time to prepare their evil monologue for when they inevitably become evil in the sequel? Who knows.

"The Author Doesn't Know."

I'm not sure if a trope can be the lack of something like this, but the author not knowing what their character actually has going on medically is common to a ridiculous extent - this applies to all kinds of disabled characters as well. You don't need to name-drop the Latin term for whatever your character has, but you need know what it is behind the scenes. You need to know the symptoms. You need to know the onset and the treatment or lack of it. Please do your medical research.

Things I Want to See More of in Characters with Facial Differences

[Large Text: Things I Want to See More of in Characters with Facial Differences]

The thing you might have noticed is that I want Facial Differences and People with Facial Differences to be presented as normal. Not killers, not SCP anomaly whatever, not monsters. I'm aware that the term is tired, but I absolutely want Facial Differences normalized as much as possible.

I want to see more characters with facial differences...

who have friends that don't bully or make fun of them because of their appearance.

who have support from their family.

who know other people with facial differences - even if they're just background characters, or mentioned in passing. Marginalized people tend to gravitate towards each other, people with FD aren't an exception to this.

who are queer.

who aren't only skinny white cis dudes in general.

who are disabled in other ways! A lot of us are Blind, Deaf, both, unable to speak, intellectually disabled, having issues with mobility, and a million other comorbidities.

who are fantastical in some way - preferably not the "secretly a monster" way. But a mermaid with CdLS or an elf with neurofibromatosis? That's cool as hell.

who are allowed to be cute or fashionable.

who have jobs that aren't "stereotypical bad evil guy jobs". Give me a retail worker with a cleft lip or a chef with Down Syndrome!

who are reoccurring characters that just happen to have a FD.

who are those stock/generic characters that aren't typically associated with FD. Hero's mom has septicemia scars? Cool! The popular cheerleader at school has alopecia? Awesome! The bartender of the place the heroes secretly meet up at has Möbius Syndrome? Goes hard! The kid that the MC used to hang out with before they moved somewhere else has Crouzon Syndrome? Great!

who have their FD be visible.

who aren't ashamed of their FD.

who are feeling very neutral about their face.

who are proud of how they look.

who got their FD in a very boring way or were just born with it (and maybe make up very silly, obviously not real ways of how it happened when annoying people ask them. Think "oh, I was fighting a shark").

who have facial differences other than small scars.

who's angst is fully unrelated to their FD. I love me an angsty teen character! Even more if they are angsty about their crush, or basically anything that's not their disability.

who have a significant other who doesn't do the whole "I love you despite your looks" thing. It just kinda sucks. Sorry. I would hate if someone said this to me.

who are children and aren't implied to be "cursed" or "demonic".

in genres that aren't just horror or thriller. RomCom or slice of life, anyone?

who aren't evil.

I want to see stories with multiple characters with facial differences. I have nerve damage and facial asymmetry, and I am friends or mutuals with people with Williams Syndrome, Bell's palsy, Down Syndrome, neurofibromatosis, facial atrophy, ptosis... and a lot of other things. Your character would have (or, would probably want) some connection to their community. We aren't rare!

And, I want stories with the whole spectrum of facial differences shown. Of course you can't represent the whole spectrum, but you can still aim for at least a few. Don't give every single character with FD the same scar-through-eye + eyepatch combo. It's not unrealistic to have a range in your writing. Here is a list of facial differences you might want to check out for inspiration. Don't be scared to give them something rare - no matter how uncommon, people still have it. My specific condition is allegedly extremely rare - I still want representation!

Closing Remarks

[Large Text: Closing Remarks]

Facial difference and the media is a topic that plagued me for the past almost two decades and won't stop ever, I think. It's a very unique relationship of a group of people who just aren't allowed to get into the industry and an industry that clearly hates them, loves to use their image, and defines how people see them all at once. There's this almost overrepresentation that is consistently awful and damaging to an absurd degree. Most people know more villains with FD than actual people. Certainly doesn't feel great to be one of the aforementioned actual peoples. But I hope that this will change - the negative portrayals that are plaguing the FD community will slowly fade out and a newer wave of portrayals will come in, hopefully this time realizing that we are real people and care about us a bit more.

The thing with facial difference is that it's pretty much impossible to make a specific guide of what it's like and what to do in context of writing because it's an incredible vast category that includes conditions that are very different from each other. That's why this post was more focused on "why you should care in the first place" (sorry for the clickbait) rather than being a straightforward guide that would still be very lacking even if 20 different people were collaborating on it. I really, really encourage everyone who got through this rather long post to do their research on what they plan to write about, be conscious of their own biases, don't pull inspiration from movies because they're all hellholes full of tropes and just sit down for a minute, think of the real-world people with facial differences, and read what we have to say. I know that drawing a guy with a line across his eye is more fun than realizing you're low-key scared of or uncomfortable around the real-world equivalent, but sometimes you have to get over yourself and try to be a better person. Caring about the people you write about is, dare I say, essential. That will certainly make your writing of us better :-) (smiley face with a nose)

If you have any specific questions, feel free to send an ask

Mod Sasza

#mod sasza #face difference #writing advice #writing ref #writeblr #writing disabled characters #long post #writing reference #writing resources #writing guide #writing resource #writing tips #writing help #burn survivor representation

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dalishious · 3 months

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All About The Antivan Crows

(NOTE: This piece is a revised, 2nd edition of an old one, updated with information that has since been added to the lore. I will be deleting the outdated post to avoid confusion!)

The Antivan Crows, also known as the House of Crows, is a league of assassins from the northeast nation of, as their name suggests, Antiva. While their notoriety is especially high in their home country, the Crows are well-known across Thedas as brutally efficient killers. The bulk of their work is in Antiva, but they accept contracts all over the continent. Because of their reputation for adhering to agreements—something that should one fail to do makes one’s life forfeit as far as the Crows are concerned—they are an expensive but valuable investment.

To find the Crows anywhere from Ferelden to Seheron is not an unlikely sight. Nations at war send them to cut down leaders on opposing sides. Noble houses with grudges against each other send them to cut down family trees. And of course, politicians vying for power send them to cut down their competition. Whatever the reason, the Crows are never short on contracts. They are even willing to intervene in Circle politics.

While assassinations are the most common contract, and what the Crows are most known for, they’re also no strangers to thievery and spying. In Antiva City rests a giant, well-protected archive, housing of all their collected blackmail secrets, records of past contracts, recipes for their own special poisons, and other such valuables. The secrets in this archive are what keeps the Crows ruling Antiva from the shadows by controlling the nobility and merchant princes. That is, those that aren’t among their ranks.

At the very top of the power ladder is a council of Guildmasters made up of the eight most wealthy and powerful Crow Houses. The role of Guildmaster is most typically inherited down through a family, after successfully proving their skill by single-handedly killing a target with nothing but a ceremonial dagger. The Houses that are part of this council are known as Talons, ranked from one to eight, one being the most powerful. Talon has also been used interchangeably with Guildmaster when referring to the leader of one of these eight Houses.

Below the Talons are the lesser Houses, known as the Cuchillos. The Cuchillo leaders not Guildmasters but simply Masters, entitled as Lords, until their House may gain the rank of Talon. The ranks of these different houses can change with circumstance, gaining or losing power. House heads are also capable of taking over different houses by eliminating others, should they dare to be so ambitious. As such, despite being part of a larger organization, the Antivan Crows are always in competition with each other, and are not unknown to assassinate within their own ranks to get what they want.

The current Eight Talons are as followed:

Dellamorte

Balazar

Valisti

Kortez

De Riva

Nero

Cantori

Arainai

Other known Houses are:

Ferragani

D’Evaliste

Di Bastion

Members of the Antivan royal family and merchant prince dynasties routinely join the high-ranks of the Crows, either as a way to boost their social standing, or because they were forced into it. Assassinations are seen as part of everyday politics in Antiva, and how positions of power often change hands. Having strong ties with the Crows brings a noble family both leverage and security. They also have an arrangement referred to as The Azul Contract, in which bastard royal children are given a choice of either exile or joining the Crows – such as the case was with Viago de Riva. In return, the Antivan Crows all but run the nation. Even kings have come directly from the Crows.

While the Crows are mostly led by nobility, the bulk of their organization is made up of their recruits, though the word recruit makes it sound like there was a choice involved. The vast majority of recruits, referred to as compradi, are children between the ages of five and ten, bought as slaves or found on the streets alone. For example, Zevran Arainai was seven years old when he was bought by the Crows. Compradi are usually gathered in scores at a time, though only a few survive to become full-fledged assassins. The Crows keep the children in poor, cramped quarters, and raise them in emotionally detached and torturous conditions, teaching them to know nothing else but murder, as Zevran puts it. They are allowed no personal items, and are encouraged not to make friends. Along with general training and education in Crow ciphers and Crow history, training of recruits includes pitting them against each other, tests of pain resistance and gauntlets, and challenges like locking them in an oubliette for weeks. All this leads most Antivan Crows immune to morality as much as they are to interrogation. It also breeds loyalty to the only life recruits know. Indeed, many Crows would sooner kill themselves than betray the guild.

It is very rare for a recruit to rise all the way to the top of the organization’s tiered leadership, but not unheard of. For example, Teia Cantori, climbed her way to the head of her house – but despite this, she is still regarded as an “overreaching street rat” by her noble peers.

The Crows favour recruiting elves, as they are widely regarded as beautiful and unthreatening; both advantageous impressions for an assassin. However, they take recruits from all races. Assassins are most typically rogues, but the Crows also train warriors and even mages, providing protection for their apostate assassins from the Chantry.

An experienced Assassin may gain the title of Master Assassin with time, putting them just below the leader of their House in terms of rank. Masters are capable of deciding their own contracts, and command groups of Assassins below them. Guildmasters decide which Master Assassins get which contracts based on the amount of the contract’s offer they bid to give to the guild, and their chances of success. Regularly, Assassins are not allowed to bid on contracts, and are instead assigned contracts or roles in larger ones by the Master Assassins that command them. The exception to this is when an Assassin is attempting to gain the rank of Master.

Save for rare exceptions of escape, Crows are Crows for life. The only way to leave them is to make them think you are dead, or find someone willing to protect you from them. Otherwise they will hunt you down and kill you for betraying the guild, and that is the better alternative: Anyone who angers the Crows and lives risks ending up in their own personal prison, the Velabanchel, to spend the rest of their days locked up and tortured.

Antivan Crows are often easily identifiable by those who recognize their unique tattoos – a tradition taken from the Rivaini. Some of these designs are sacred to the Crows, marking them as which house they belong to, while others are purely decorative. While some Crows display their tattoos with pride and intimidation, others prefer to keep them hidden.

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SOURCES

Dragon Age: Origins

Dragon Age II

Dragon Age: Inquisition

Codex Entry: Zevran Arainai (Dragon Age II)

Codex entry: Blackfeather Boots (Dragon Age II)

Codex entry: Finesse (Dragon Age II)

Codex Entry: The Crows and Queen Madrigal (Dragon Age: Inquisition)

Item Description: Gift of the Talons (Dragon Age: Inquisition)

Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

Dragon Age: Last Flight

Dragon Age: The Silent Grove

Dragon Age: Deception

Dragon Age: The World of Thedas vol. 1

Dragon Age: The World of Thedas vol. 2

Dragon Age Promotional Wiki: Assassin

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#dragon age #antivan crows #antiva #da lore #meta

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grlpartdoll · 20 days

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Thinking about y2k fast and furious version of Ghost.

A street racer who's got very little to lose, who grew up in parts of town that destroyed his family whole.

It's only him and his little sister now, and Soap, and Price, and Gaz.

Soap is his best friend since birth, the man who grew up living beside him in the same shithole apartment. He would steal and sometimes he would bring back enough food for Simon and his sister to eat for the first time in days.

And Price, his mentor. He owns about every garage and autoparts dealerships in their town. When Ghost stole one of his cars and he found it wholly destroyed in Simon and Johny's little makeshift garage in the abandoned lot just east of town, the parts undone and laying about, he decided that he could use curious people on his team. People who wanted to know more about cars and were actually ready to get their hands dirty for it.

Recruiting them was a whole other thing, though. They were evasive, disappearing everytime Price went out of his way to find them. He eventually caught them both at the local pub, the two too distracted or too drunk to even noticed Price had made it inside.

Now that's history. Ghost and Soap have made their way into the street racing world and have made it to the top without playing dirty even so much as once. Gaz was already at the top when they began, and he was the only one who, granted a bit hesitantly, let them into the tight circle of winners.

In comes in you. The little wide-eyed doe lost in the midst of their world. Or so Ghost thinks.

He sees you in the crowd one night and it's over for him — can't focus on anything else but finding you again when you get swept up by the crowd and disappear from his sight.

He knows he won't be able to ride properly if he doesn't find you. He's obsessive and has grown into someone who cannot live without getting what he wants.

so he lets Soap take the wheel this time, and the money that goes with the winning spot. He knows Gaz and Soap will probably come head to head and split the money anyway. More for them if they split it two ways.

Either way, he eventually finds you in one of the opened garages on the street they've blocked for the event, gazing into a pink car's popped hood. Your fingers are grazing the parts and edges of it, your face flushed with midnight humidity.

He watches you for a long time, and eventually finds something to say.

"Y'like it?"

"Fudge cake!" You curse— or try, grumbling at the masked man. He has his trusty balaclava on, and it only serves to make your heart race faster than it should

"Fudge cake?" He replies, cocking a brow underneath his mask. You can't see it, but you can hear it in his voice.

"You scared me." You scold the giant in the doorway, his two hands holding onto the upper frame.

"You're off the tracks, little mouse."

"I just got... Curious." You mumbled, soft and quiet. Despite his initial perspective on you, you actually do seem to fit in here. Even though you're not wearing ten pounds of makeup like most of the girls here, you have gone through the effort to apply some mascara and lip gloss and something else Ghost can't name for shit. Something makes your face glossy and warm, but he's ready to bet it isn't makeup.

You're wearing a tiny turquoise and pink skirt with modern detailing, with a shirt that rises well above the decent mark where tummy and breast interchanges. Stockings and legwarmers and leather gloves complete the look. Your hair's up into two pigtails.

He's suddenly self conscious about his treadbear jeans, wife beater and leather jacket. He's all stained with car oil and something else he can't identify from the garage.

"This yours?" You ask suddenly, and he's all quiet for a moment, confusion on his face.

"No," he finally makes, leaning closer to look at you better, clearer. You notice scars and still healing wounds on his face where the balaclava allows. Still, that doesn't scare you, for some reason. If anything, you just curiously cock your head to the side, and smile a bit wider. "No. Wanna see mine?"

"Uh, yeah." You reply, perking up a little. An innocent gesture, but so unlike anyone else he's ever had the pleasure of meeting in his parts of the city. You move like a little doe, all bouncy and flailing like you're too excited for your own body to handle it. "I do."

He nods his head as a sign to get out, and you do, following him as he brings you two back to the crowd, where he's parked. He doesn't miss the fact that you don't ask questions and simply follow, blindly trusting him to get you to the right place.

When you two get to his car, you're in the thick of the crowd, so he has to keep you close, walking with his hand holding the back of your neck. He even has to lean down to your level so you can hear him over the arguing, the music and the people making animated bets on the winners. And if his lips trail a tiny path up your earlobe, you don't seem to notice, only get a little shy, your shoulders shimmying for a single moment before you're giggling awkwardly at whatever he's saying.

It's so unlike the practiced charisma of the girls around him usually, so different from the stuff he has been used to, that it only deepens his obsession with you.

Thankfully for him, the big fuss is centered around Johny and Gaz and another rider he doesn't know personally, though, so he's got you all to himself for the moment as he shows off his baby.

He even lets you sit in the front and lets you get a feel for the leather seats, asking off-handedly how you felt about being a passenger princess for the rest of your life. You laugh, and don't reply, taking it as a joke. He wasn't joking. But that's okay. He laughs too, deep and hoarse and unpredictably rough.

Later, when the night has settled and the winner has been announced and you've cheered and whooped at your heart's content for Gaz and Soap (Ghost told you to cheer for them, so you did..), Simon even lets you have a ride around in his special, (very illegally modified) car !!!

He takes you to his favorite spot, a rundown drive-in movie theater that no longer works, and the both of you speak until the sun rises at the horizon. You fall asleep eventually, and Simon just watches as you slumber, amazed that he's caught himself such a pretty little thing.

That's all I have tbh I just think it could make a Very interesting plot.

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x afab!reader #streetracer!ghost #racer!ghost #streetracer!au

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hannahbarberra162 · 2 months

Text

Sir Crocodile and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

18+ MDNI

As picked by readers! Ace nonnies, I see you. I'll write the childhood friend reader x Ace story too.

On Ao3

One shot, Reader x Sir Crocodile, fluffy

Word count: ~6k

Synopsis: Crocodile dreads the one day a year you take off of work, your birthday. As his incredible personal assistant, he depends on you for almost everything. Like every year, a day without you is a complete disaster. But maybe there is something he can salvage from the wreckage. Something - or someone - he's wanted for a very long time.

Sir Crocodile tapped the flat of his hook against the date circled on his desk calendar. Tomorrow was his absolute least favorite day of the entire year. You took off only one day annually, your birthday. Sure, you nominally had weekends off as well. But something always came up and you spent at least half a day dealing with his business or personal matters every weekend.

He didn’t begrudge you having your birthday to yourself - you were incredibly diligent and deserved it. But without you around, everything seemed to fall to shambles within minutes. You were by far the best personal assistant he’d ever had. Maybe even the best employee he’d ever had, even among his cohort of Devil Fruit powered henchmen who killed for him indiscriminately. Of course, he knew that if he called you on your baby den den mushi, you’d answer and do whatever he needed. But he would feel guilty for disturbing you . And guilt was an emotion Crocodile had only felt once and never wanted to again. No, he’d make due without you tomorrow and let you enjoy your day off.

Though he was not kind to - or even close to - his Baroque Works crew, Crocodile was considered a top tier employer in Rainbase Lake. Once he found someone who was good at their profession, he tried his best to keep them in his employ. He treated his personal staff with respect, paid very well, and had set guidelines for employees to follow. Henchmen could be replaced, bloodthirsty pirates were a dime a dozen. Reliable and high quality housekeepers, chefs, and assistants? Priceless.

And you were the most reliable, most organized, most level headed, most meticulous, and most industrious employee he’d ever had. At first, he suspected you of being a devil fruit user. That would explain how you managed to get everything done correctly, on time, and make it seem easy. However, he quickly realized that you were just that good . But you weren’t single mindedly following his orders all the time, like some of his stooges. You didn’t wait for him to tell you things he needed or tasks he wanted done, you thought for yourself and anticipated his needs. You weren’t a yes man, you would voice your opinion if he asked for it. He valued your insight and operations driven mind. In fact, during the years you’d been working for Crocodile, you’d only ever argued once. And it wasn’t even an argument, really. Crocodile had started growing a mustache, he thought it added some regality to his face. You hated it and told him that it didn’t suit his features. You were right, of course. He’d allowed you to shave it off yourself, much to your delight.

Even without it being your day off, Crocodile always remembered your birthday. Yours was the only one, besides his own, that he had ever bothered to recall. He had many lovers who assumed the thoughtful and romantic gifts they received on their birthdays, anniversaries, and “just because” came from him. But the truth was that all his lovers were in a relationship with you. You remembered all the small details and arranged everything to his lover’s tastes. Crocodile didn’t even try to remember their names, calling them all “Doll” to save himself the hassle. He even thought of them that way - interchangeable, easily replaced, silly but ultimately worthless playthings. But you could tell him their favorite flowers, preferred gemstones, clothing style, shoe size, and any other tidbit of information he’d ever want. You had sent hundreds of gifts on his behalf and had never gotten anything wrong. As a result, Crocodile had a reputation for being a true romantic, someone who listened when his paramours told him personal details. He couldn’t care less.

He stopped over at your desk as you finished out your day, bringing a small gift bag with him hanging off his hook.

“Happy birthday,” he said in his low tone, handing you the present.

“What a pleasant surprise, Sir,” you said, removing it and opening it immediately. It was a potted white rhino agave succulent that he had bought without your assistance. It was expensive and rare, but you were worth every penny he ever spent on you.

“Oh, how thoughtful! Thank you so much, Sir!” You beamed at him. To some, it would have looked like a poor gift, but Crocodile knew you well. You didn’t care for cut flowers or most trinkets. You were passionate about cacti and succulents, spending some of your time away from him caring for the plants. You had an impressive collection, one that Crocodile added to as the occasion arose. You got up from behind your desk, walked around to him, and stood on your tiptoes. Crocodile brought himself down to your height and you kissed his cheek in gratitude.

“What a wonderful send off, Sir. I will see you the day after tomorrow. Please, if there is an emergency, do not hesitate to call.” Crocodile smiled at you and leaned against your desk. Crocodile knew you meant nothing untoward by the kiss, it was platonic affection. But he enjoyed the feeling nonetheless. He looked forward to it annually.

“Enjoy your day off.” He wouldn’t, but he wasn’t going to tell you that.

“Thank you, Sir.” With that, you carefully carried your plant and left the office. Crocodile watched you leave then scowled once you’d left. It would be a long 24 hours without you.

~~~

The next morning began poorly right from the start. Crocodile awoke late, his alarm clock hadn’t gone off. He blasted it with sand, destroying it completely. He was annoyed already. Normally you woke him gently before his alarm clock did, but you weren’t here today. He found waking to your soft voice and calm face a soothing way to start his day. Crocodile rose from his bed and went to his clothes valet, only to find it empty. He wanted to destroy that as well, but he decided he shouldn’t demolish everything that irritated him today. He’d have nothing left and besides, it would be more work for you to replace everything. You usually hung his clothes for him after pressing them yourself, and he rarely saw the need to adjust your choices. You knew what he liked and how he liked to present himself down to the cufflinks on his shirt sleeves. Crocodile stalked to his large walk in closet and looked through the well organized racks of clothing. It had been one year since he’d had to do this himself and he hadn’t missed the chore.

He selected an outfit and looked at himself in the mirror. The outfit lacked a certain elegance that you were able to assemble effortlessly. He adjusted his hook - it looked dull. You always polished it for him until it gleamed. It would have to do, he was already late for a meeting he had called. He left his bedroom for the dining room, looking for his cafe corto. There was a carafe of drip coffee waiting on the table, but no espresso. There was also an impressive tray of sweet pastries. You knew Crocodile wanted a cafe corto first, then drip coffee, cigar, no food. Was it so hard to replicate everything you did for just one day? Could no amount of staff compete with one small woman? Crocodile rang for a servant and asked for the espresso. He was brought an Americano. He sighed and rubbed his temples with his hand.

The day went downhill from there. You had prepared for your absence during the day, leaving notes and organizing what you could anticipate. Crocodile had another staff member on the den den, fielding calls you’d normally take. But even with your absent help, it was a complete disaster. Crocodile was used to you taking notes for him during meetings, he had forgotten to bring a pen and paper to the board room. By the end of the meeting, he’d forgotten half of the numbers from the quarterly presentation. Everything seemed to need your touch, your help, your forethought to run smoothly.

Things went from bad to worse. Meetings went off topic, reports had incorrect data, enemies were left untortured, and he’d forgotten to feed the bananawanis on time. Word spread quickly that Crocodile was in a bad mood. Everyone knew the reason why, but no one dared to breathe a word about it. Despite his earlier wishful thinking, the boardroom table now had several hook sized holes in it and his office was covered in sand. He leaned back in his chair and took a deep pull on his cigar. You would have already had everything arranged to soothe his anger.

It wasn’t even all the small matters during the business day that you arranged. You were adept at anticipating his needs before he even realized he wanted something, and arranging his life to one befitting someone of his station. You understood him better than perhaps anyone else. Yes, Miss All Sunday managed Rain Dinners, but you managed Crocodile.

He sat and recalled one of the times when he’d called you in the middle of the night. He did try not to disturb your rest, but sometimes it needed to be done. One such occasion was when he’d invited Dracule Mihawk to his residence. They had been talking - and drinking - late into the night. In the early hours of the morning he rang you to ask for some food to accompany their wine.

“Hello Sir, how may I assist you?” your voice had been sleepy, he saw his snail answering bleary eyed but still with a smile.

“I apologize for the late night call. I’d like some refreshments.”

“Of course sir,” the snail looked over at something. “It is now 2:50 AM. I had your favored refreshments scheduled to be delivered at 3:00 AM. Would you prefer to wait ten minutes or would you rather I bring you something immediately?” You weren’t being facetious, Crocodile knew if he asked, you’d have food for him by 2:59 come hell or highwater.

“3:00 is fine, thank you.”

“I hope you can forgive my impertinence, Sir - I also included some refreshments that may be more to your guest’s liking.” Mihawk raised a single eyebrow.

“Very thoughtful. Good night.”

“Good night, Sir.”

And sure enough, at 3:00 AM on the dot, a tray of Crocodile’s favorite foods to pair with heavy drinking were delivered by a tired looking waiter. Crocodile served himself some fresh dumplings and offered the tray to Mihawk. Mihawk declined, as he was sampling the gambas al ajillo and jamon.

“Quite the assistant you have,” Mihawk said, a glimmer of intrigue ghosting over his face. “The dishes are excellent, send her my thanks.” Mihawk inclined his head to Crocodile. Crocodile smirked, you had made him proud.

Breaking his walk down memory lane, he heard the den den mushi ring for what felt like the millionth time that day. Miss Merry Christmas picked up the receiver. He could hear half of the conversation.

“Hello? No, she’s not in today, it’s her birthday. I don’t think you’ll want to - are you sure - let me see,” Miss Merry Christmas looked at Crocodile in his office and yelled through the open door “it’s Doflamingo, do you want to take it?”

Crocodile wanted to kill her on the spot. His sand was already swirling behind him. She had told Doflamingo of all people that it was your birthday. After Crocodile had started taking you to Warlord meetings, the flashy fool had been trying to get you to move to Dressrosa and work for him. Crocodile wasn’t worried about you leaving him for another employer. The thought just sat heavily in his mind and caused him immense anger when he imagined you spending time with Doflamingo. But that wasn’t the same as jealousy. Crocodile would never be jealous over an employee. Even one as smart and lucious as yourself.

Furthermore, Miss About To Be Impaled had asked if he wanted to take the call. Now Doffy knew he was there and had to take the call or else risk a tantrum from the spoiled King. He stalked over to the snail, who was looking quite smug.

“What.”

“So it’s her birthday today, mmh? I’ll have to send something nice, maybe some lingerie…would you like some as well? Fufufufufufufu.” Crocodile hoped Vegapunk would soon invent a way to kill someone through a den den mushi. He’d deal with Doflamingo later, he was in no mood for the Dressrosa King’s idiotic love quests. He hung up softly, gently patting the snail on the back with his flesh hand. The snail survived because he’d killed one once in anger after such a call and it had upset you. Crocodile didn’t like when you were upset. You’d even cried over the snail and Crocodile had felt guilty. He had liked that even less.

He needed a drink.

~~~

Crocodile left his office for the restaurant portion of Rain Dinners. He had a splitting headache and nearly called out your name to ask for your assistance. Every year your birthday made him realize how heavily he depended on you, so every year he increased your salary the following day. He made a mental note to do the same again tomorrow.

Crocodile sat in his favorite booth, smoked his cigar, and drank his whiskey neat. The bartenders here were competent and didn’t need to be told what he wanted to drink. He was thinking over some of the reports brought to him by his minions when he spotted you, alone, drinking a glass of wine at the bar. Crocodile was surprised - drinking alone, on your big day? Crocodile knew you had a romantic relationship that predated your employment to him. Crocodile had never liked your partner, but you seemed happy enough. He didn’t understand why someone of your caliber, of your intelligence and beauty was with such a loser, but for your sake he hadn’t killed him.

Crocodile gathered himself and headed straight to you at the bar. The crowd parted for him easily, with many trying to capture his attention. Some of his Dolls tried to touch his arm or talk to him but he didn’t even spare them a glance. Coming up to your side, you looked up at him and smiled weakly.

“Good evening, Sir.” You looked absolutely ravishing, just as gorgeous as the day he met you. Normally you wore simple but well tailored clothing to work. It hadn’t stopped his imagination from running wild when you wore your pencil skirts or your slightly lower cut tops. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d wanted to free your hair from its style and run his fingers through it. Or the times he’d wanted to rip through your skirt and pound into you when you leaned over his desk. He’d entertained the thought of seducing you many times, but ultimately he respected you too much to do so. He didn’t want to interfere if you were already in a relationship, as pathetic as your choice was. Besides, he didn’t know what he would do without you if his interest was unreciprocated and you left. He didn’t even want to think about the possibility.

Today you were more dressed up fancier than usual, your striking figure in an elegant black dress that bared your back provocatively. He stifled his impulse to run his hook down your spine to see if it made you shiver. Pulling his thoughts back to you, he noticed your eyes were slightly red and puffy. He put his large hand on your shoulder.

“What happened to that… person …you usually spend time with?” He couldn’t call that boy a man, let alone a boyfriend. He was lucky Crocodile remembered his existence. And continued to allow it.

“We aren’t together anymore, Sir.” Your eyes watered. Crocodile sat in the seat next to yours.

“Did you break up tonight?” Crocodile spoke softly, not wanting to embarrass you or upset you further.

“Yes, Sir.” You looked down at your glass of wine, swirling the drink gently.

“Would you like him killed?” Crocodile could have sworn his hook was twitching. He could think of no better ending to the evening. Maybe that would save this terrible day.

“No thank you, Sir.” You didn’t have the same penchant for violence and bloodlust that he did. Crocodile didn’t mind. He didn’t care for succulents all that much. You could have different hobbies and still work well with one another. “You don’t have to waste your time consoling me, Sir. I would like you to enjoy your evening. A few of your lovers are here, if you’d like me to remind you of their names.”

Crocodile scoffed. “As you know, I am always doing what I want to be doing.” You nodded. As if he would forgo time with you for some nameless woman.

“Where did he work again?” Crocodile was going to have him tracked down, just for….fun.

“He’s the general manager of ‘Fantasia,” you replied, your mouth dipping into a frown. It was a rival casino, though not even in the top three in Rainbase Lake. “He said I am too involved with my career, that I didn’t spend enough time away from work. That my life revolves around yours.” You looked up, repentant already. “I apologize, Sir. You didn’t ask for details.” Crocodile waved your concerns away. He enjoyed it when you shared your feelings and opinions. Crocodile took the flat of his hook and put it under your chin, raising your face to look at his own. A tear tracked down your face.

“Some people do not understand dedication. Loyalty. Duty. Passion.”

“Passion, Sir?” Your face slightly flushed from the wine - or perhaps the intimate contact. Crocodile belatedly realized his misstep. He hadn’t meant to reveal his desire, especially when you were already upset. He reluctantly removed his hook from beneath your pretty face.

“Would you like me to escort you home?” Crocodile changed the conversation in case you’d been uncomfortable.

“Yes, thank you Sir” you looked surprised at his offer and that you yourself had taken him up on it. Naturally he wanted to ensure his favorite employee was home safely. He had never done this for anyone else but that didn’t mean anything. It certainly had nothing to do with your sadness and vulnerability. He offered you his hand and you gingerly stepped down from your bar stool. Crocodile guided you to the door with his hook on your bare back. He looked closely and found himself right, you had gotten goosebumps.

The two of you walked through the darkened town in silence, enjoying the pleasant weather. That was something else Crocodile appreciated about you - you didn’t feel the need to fill a stillness with meaningless chatter. The longer the walk took, the less pleased Crocodile became. He paid you very well, why weren’t you living in the luxurious part of the town? You turned street corners until you ended at a shabby looking apartment building and stood in the doorway. Crocodile would rather have burned it to the ground before he set foot in it.

“This is where I live Sir, thank you for accompanying me.” Crocodile looked at the crumbling brick building once again.

“Why?” Crocodile bit out. He had nearly chomped his cigar in half.

“I beg your pardon, Sir?” you looked confused at his question.

“Why do you live here? I pay you well, I know you can afford better living conditions.” Your face flushed.

“You need not concern yourself, Sir. The situation has resolved itself.” Crocodile narrowed his eyes. So it was related to the boy. Had you been paying off some of his gambling debt? He had that look about him. Crocodile knew it well, he owned a casino and had seen that type of fool thousands of times. That wouldn’t do and neither would your current living situation.

“Indeed. You’ll be moving into my mansion.” Crocodile was pleased with this outcome. He hadn’t liked you living so far from him. He always had a security detail following you when you weren’t with him, but it never felt like enough. With the level of intimate knowledge you had about Crocodile and his businesses, he was always concerned that you’d be kidnapped or tortured. Truthfully, if he admitted it to himself, he worried. Another feeling he didn’t like. No, this would work out perfectly. He wouldn’t have to be distracted by thoughts of your well being and you’d be closer to him at all times.

“Sir, that is…not appropriate,” you demurred. He hadn’t thought of the implication of moving you in, but in this case he wasn’t thinking with his lower head.

“Nonsense. You’ll have the entire East Wing to yourself. Decorate it as you see fit, I’ll provide you a housing stipend. I will wait here for five minutes. Gather what you will need for the night. Daz will collect the rest of your belongings tomorrow.”

“Sir, is this really -” you had crossed your arms across your lovely chest.

“The countdown has begun.” His will was set in stone, not even your annoyance could sway him. You sighed, rolled your eyes, and walked into the building briskly. Perhaps one good thing had come from this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

~~~

Crocodile was immensely happy with the outcome of his decision. He felt at rest knowing he could protect you and keep you safe from those who would seek to gain power over him. Or worse yet, other magnates trying to scout your services for their own. He’d caught Mihawk speaking to you quietly after the last Warlord meeting, and you laughed at something he’d said. He wouldn’t stop you from having conversation with the Swordsman, but he didn’t like it. He knew even Sengoku had tried his hand at recruiting you for the Marines. You turned down every offer and stayed with Crocodile. He wasn’t worried about your loyalty, but Crocodile didn’t like the attention you received from others. You were his personal assistant and Crocodile had never shared well.

He did try to give you your space and allow you your own personal life within the mansion. He didn’t want to control you, he knew you were your own woman. But since you now shared the same (gigantic) mansion, he did occasionally see you outside of your working hours. He saw you strolling in the gardens, tending to your plants, watching the stars from the balcony. When you weren’t working, you dressed more casually, allowing Crocodile to see more of your body. It did not help that you only referred to him as “Sir,” even outside of work. He had long fantasized about your sultry voice saying “yes, sir” and “no, sir,” in a more intimate setting. He’d tried it with many of his Dolls, but none of them could get it right. Only your “yes, sir,” got his blood pumping.

~~~

The longer you lived in his mansion, the more suspicious Crocodile became of the nature of your feelings towards him. Crocodile wasn’t one to directly ask, but you seemed to have some feelings that crept out every now and again. Once, he’d asked you to help a Doll leave the morning after a stay in his bedroom and you outright refused. It was the first time that you’d ever refused a task he’d asked of you. And you hadn’t backed down. You said it was outside the scope of your duties, but that you’d send a housekeeper. If Crocodile had to put an emotion to your tone, it would have been jealousy. Other times, he had caught you staring at him, and blushing and averting your gaze when caught. You’d worked together for years, but with the closer proximity and your newly single status, perhaps your feelings were changing. Crocodile wanted to test his theory. One day, when your pencil skirt was particularly tight, he called you into his home office. He was leaning back in his chair, smoking a cigar as usual, papers on his desk.

“Yes, sir?” you stood at the entrance to the office.

“Come in, I don’t bite.” You immediately moved closer to his desk, slight confusion on your face. Normally he tried to speak to you as professionally as possible, and you immediately noted the change in his language. “Take a look at the latest figures from Rain Dinners. I know the calculations are correct, but something is missing.” You came over to his side of the desk and bent over to read, like you’d done so many times before. But this time, he rested his hand on the small of your back. You didn’t say anything, but he heard you suck in a breath. Interesting. You spent a moment flipping back and forth between the pages.

“I see the issue, Sir,” you said, still bent over. Crocodile stood up and bent over next to you, caging you in with one arm. “I apologize. You are missing a page of the report,” you were blushing furiously but continued “I will g-get you a better copy.” You were flustered.

“Thank you, that’s all,” Crocodile breathed into the shell of your ear. You shuddered from the close contact. Crocodile sat back in his chair, releasing you. You practically ran from the room, face as red as if you’d spent it in the Alabastan desert. Very interesting.

~~~

Crocodile wanted to set clear boundaries and to have affirmative consent from you before he did anything. He respected you as a person and if you were to turn him down, he would still want to keep you as an employee. He called for you one late evening. You arrived promptly, though in more casual clothing since it was outside of your business hours. You were wearing a mid length sundress with a blue flower pattern. It accentuated everything Crocodile liked about your figure. Perfection.

“How may I help you, Sir?” Polite as always.

“Come here,” Crocodile beckoned you with one extended finger. You stood in front of him expectantly. He carefully wound his hook around your waist and pulled you closer, directly in front of his seated form. “Better.” He removed his hook.

“Do you enjoy working for me?” Your eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Of course, Sir. This is the best job I’ve ever had.”

“Do you remember the day that I hired you?” Crocodile was dragging on his cigar, allowing the smoke to billow out of his mouth. Simultaneously, he was polishing his hook with a cloth. He knew he struck an imposing figure.

“Yes, Sir.” You were transfixed by the sight of the golden hook, gleaming in the dimming light.

“Do you remember our conversation about the bananawanis?” You tore your eyes away from his hook.

“Yes, Sir. One of the conditions of employment was being comfortable with bananawanis. You asked if I had any concerns in caring for them.” You were getting nervous, unsure of what the purpose of the conversation was.

“Do you remember what you told me?” Crocodile grinned his unnerving smile.

“Yes, Sir. That they are apex predators, they need to be treated with care and respect. If you accept your place beneath them, they can be affectionate and sweet. And that,” you looked him in the eyes, “I doubted they were the most dangerous creatures on the premises.”

“Do you still believe that to be true?” Crocodile rose to his full height, towering over you. You looked up at him. You looked on edge but not scared.

“Yes, Sir.”

“And what might you say about a more dangerous creature?” He spoke low, looking down at your reddening face. He wound his hook slowly around the back of your neck, giving you time to move away. You didn’t move except to shiver.

“Ah, likely the same Sir. That if I were to accept my position as subservient, I think most strong, ahm, creatures would be receptive.” Crocodile pulled on his hook gently, baring your neck to him. He bent down to your height, ghosting his lips on the exposed column of your neck.

“Speak now with your objections.” He was being truthful, any hesitation on your part and he would stop immediately. He was interested in willing submission, nothing else.

“Sir, I…admit I am so inclined but I worry about mixing business and passion .” Crocodile grinned at your statement, echoing his words from your birthday. So you’d been affected as well.

“If anything unpleasant happens between us, now or after, I assure you we will go back to our previous arrangement. You will not be fired nor face retribution. Do you find that acceptable?” He would rather lose his other hand than you. You nodded.

“Yes, Sir.” You were looking at him with stars in your eyes.

“If I do something and you wish to end the experience, say ‘no.’ If you say ‘stop,’ I won’t. If you say ‘please,’ it will not move me, nor will any tears. If you say ‘no,’ I will immediately cease my actions. Do you understand?” You gulped.

“Yes, Sir.”

“What word will end anything that you do not wish to happen?”

“If I say ‘no’ to you, Sir.”

“Very good. Take off your dress.” You looked nervous but your lips quirked up at the corners with his slight praise. He knew that you did your best when given approval. He sat back down in his chair and admired your elegance. You slowly brought down the straps to your dress, then removed your arms from within them. You weren’t wearing a bra, you’d deemed the dress sufficient. He had seen many strip teases from his Dolls, all perfectly crafted and practiced to make a man inflamed with want. Yours had no artifice, no guile, nothing calculated. And yet he found your performance much more sensual and alluring. He felt his cock stiffening more with each passing second. When your arms were free, you let your dress pool at your feet and stepped out of it. You stood still, awaiting his judgment.

“Absolutely stunning.” He stood up again, circling you slowly, letting the metal of his hook glide across your bared skin. He trailed it over your back, across the backs of your arms, across your collar bones as he went around you. Anywhere he dragged it raised goosebumps on your flesh. “You look even better than I have ever imagined.” You preened at his words. He continued to tease you with his hook. “Does it make you nervous when I stare at your beauty?”

“No, Sir.”

He finished drinking you in and sat down once again, only to spread his legs. “Come sit,” he said, voice smooth as silk. You unhesitatingly went over to him, breasts bouncing gently as you walked. You perched yourself sideways gracefully on his powerful thigh, waiting for his next command. You always did so well following his orders, after all. He put down his cigar and put it on your side, bringing you closer to him.

“Exquisite beyond compare.” Bringing his face down to yours, he twined his hand into the hair at the back of your head. He pulled, slanting your face upwards. You were panting softly. He searched your face for any hint of lingering doubt, but he only saw raw desire. He brought his lips to yours ever so slowly, creeping inch by inch, not yet kissing but oh so close. You tried to reach up for him with your mouth but his hand kept you from doing so. “No need to rush, I’m not going anywhere,” he said and bit the lobe of your ear gently. Crocodile didn’t have it in him to wait any longer to kiss you. He brought his lips to yours, opening his mouth. You gave him entry as his tongue explored your own. He kissed you at his leisurely pace, showing you who was in control. He was demanding and dominating and you were loving every moment.

“Tell me, if I felt between your legs right now, would you be wet for me?” he asked as he kissed down your jaw. You flushed crimson but his hand in your hair prevented you from avoiding his gaze.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Show me.”

“Yes, Sir.” You spread your shaking thighs for him, revealing your soaked panties. He untangled his hand from your hair and walked a finger down your arm, down your stomach, down to your thighs. He reached around you and shredded the sides, destroying them and revealing your gleaming pussy. You gasped but didn’t move. He trailed a finger down your slit, not parting your lower lips but fingers still coming back glistening.

“Does it feel good when I touch you like this?”

“Y-yes, Sir,” you said, biting back a moan.

“Would you like more?”

“Yes, Sir. Please.” Oh, you’d never added that little plea before. Crocodile felt himself getting even harder than he was before. Maybe one day he’d make you beg. But not today.

“Ride my thigh, that’s how you’re getting off tonight.” He wanted to watch your face and enjoy the mess you made on his slacks. There’d be plenty of time for other fun. He shifted you so you were straddling his thigh.

“Yes, Sir,” he was pleased that you didn’t hesitate, that you were as interested in following as he was in ordering. You started gyrating on his huge thigh, making small whimpers, your hands on his shoulder for stability. He took the opportunity to cup your breast, kneading the mound between his fingers. Occasionally, he missed having two hands. This was one of those times, he wished he could feel both of your breasts at the same time. Instead, he raised his thigh so you were closer to him and dipped his head to lick and tease at your nipples. Your whimpers only increased. He kissed you all over your chest and neck, making sure to leave a few marks. Your head was thrown back, your eyes glazed as you sought your pleasure. Your whines were increasing in tempo and pitch, you were close.

“Ask me for permission to come,” Crocodile drawled.

“Please, Sir, may I come?” you answered quickly, not stopping your movements. He wanted to reward you tonight.

“Yes, you may.” You keened and bucked faster against his thigh, rocking your hips in small circles. He could tell the moment you came undone, he could feel your pussy spasm through his pants. He watched you ride out the high, face contorted in pleasure. He was close himself, but tonight was not for him. After finishing you needed a moment’s rest. You leaned your forehead against his chest, breathing heavily. A moment later, he picked you up and situated you on his other thigh.

“Good girl, how well you’ve done. Look at the mess you’ve made on me,” he said, motioning to the wet spot on his slacks. You reddened but still smiled at him as he enveloped you in his arms. He wrapped you in a nearby blanket off his couch, allowing you to collapse against his broad chest. He relit his cigar and sat peacefully smoking. His rock hard cock would wait for later.

“Thank you, Sir. May I ask you one question?”

“Of course.”

“Can we…do this again sometime?” You seemed unsure of yourself, but Crocodile smiled kindly at you.

“My dear, clear your schedule for the night. And the next. And for the foreseeable future. After all, I am nothing if not an affectionate and sweet creature.”

#op crocodile #crocodile x reader #crocodile x you #reader insert #op x y/n #sir crocodile #crocodile one piece #protective crocodile #soft crocodile #that hook though #bananawani

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