#He also doesn’t know what the *wires* are on him for

[fairyhaos]

◈ love of my life // yoon jeonghan

jeonghan x gn!reader, 2k+ words

tags: technically requested by lots of people bc everyone wants jeonghan fluff, childhood friends to lovers, fluff, crack, mutual pining, almost-confessions

warnings: light swearing

summary: in which your relationship with jeonghan isn't exactly platonic and isn't exactly romantic... but rather, it's a secret third thing.

It has to be at least two in the morning when Jeonghan's ringtone blares throughout his bedroom, and he rolls over with a groan, grappling blindly at his nightstand before finding his phone and pressing it against his cheek. 

“Who is this and what do you want?”

“Jeonghan, let's go on a date.”

He recognises your voice in an instant, even in his half-asleep state, and he huffs a laugh, flopping back against the pillows and rubbing his eyes. 

“Gee, at least ask me when it's not ass o'clock in the morning, won't you?”

“No, no, this only works if you get up right now,” you say. “Come on, Jeonghan, just go on a date with me. Right at this very moment.”

Jeonghan rubs his eyes, before taking his phone away from his cheek and peering at the screen so he can read the time. “See, you’re not presenting a very good argument,” he says, once he’s put the phone against his ear again. It’s almost three in the morning. What are you thinking? “I don’t wanna date you that much.”

You make a sad sound on the other end of the phone. “What will it take to get you out of the house?”

“Wire me an obscene amount of money right now and I’ll think about it.”

There’s a pause.

“No. Best I can offer is a pretty please.”

Jeonghan can’t help smiling at your dry tone, and he rubs his eyes once again with a yawn. “Fine. I guess I can’t expect anything better from you, anyway.” He can almost see you biting your lip in annoyance, wanting to quip something witty back at him but also wanting to keep quiet so he’ll actually come. 

“You know me so well.”

“Yes I do,” Jeonghan teases, and groggily hauls himself out of bed. “I’ll be ready in ten. Where do you want me to go?”

“Don’t worry, princess, I’ll pick you up,” you say, suddenly sounding excited. “Just wait for me and I’ll come over to take you out.”

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “Is that a threat?”

You laugh, bright and happy, like it’s not four in the morning and you’ve asked your best friend to go on a date with you. Jeonghan can’t help but smile again, even as he grapples blindly through his dark room to find some clothes.

“Don’t worry. It’s a promise.”

───────────── 🌘

Jeonghan is, admittedly, more than a little confused when you just take him to the nearest playground.

Sure, maybe this entire thing is weird—you calling him up during ridiculous hours of the morning to “go on a date” is definitely not something you’ve done before—but that’s just the kind of friendship he and you have. 

It’s like how, last year, he spent an entire month calling you increasingly ridiculous pet names, ranging from “beloved” to “honey butter snuggles bunny bear”, and purposefully took you out to public cafes and restaurants to test them out for everyone to see and hear, preventing you from punching him as hard as he probably deserved. 

So this is, like, nothing new. Just a funny and silly thing the two of you do, because you've known each other for the whole of your lives, and when it comes to the way your relationship works, the lines separating “platonic” and “romantic” have always been curiously nonexistent. 

It doesn’t mean anything. It’s never meant to mean anything.

But sometimes, sometimes, it feels like it should.

“I think I’m going to end up alone forever,” you say abruptly, and Jeonghan looks over at you in surprise. You’re sitting on the swings next to him, dragging yourself back and forth as you look up at the sky. There’s nothing to see up there, with the clouds obscuring any moonlight, so it's obvious that you're just looking away so he can't see your face. 

It's so quiet; Jeonghan didn't realise that the world could be this quiet at 2 in the morning, and it makes your words echo extra loud into the abyss, before they're swallowed by the darkness. 

Jeonghan shrugs. “Maybe you will.”

Instantly, you're leaning over to swat him on the arm, and he laughs. 

“Asshole,” you say, but there's no venom in your voice, even as you level him with a glare. “You're really no help. I'm trying to unload all my deepest fears for you, here, practically begging you to reassure me, and yet all you can do is be mean.”

“You said one thing,” Jeonghan points out. “I don't think that counts as unloading all your deepest fears.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it's my only deepest fear.”

“Why are you unloading your deepest fear on me?” Jeonghan asks, kicking his legs out in front of him. “We're on a date. Our first date, mind you, so this hardly seems appropriate.”

“Asshole,” you say again, but like before, the word has no bite. You glance over at him, before realising that he's looking at you, and then quickly raise your gaze to the sky. “I'm being serious about this, you know.”

Jeonghan says nothing for a long moment. Watches the way the pale light from a nearby lamppost gives you an unearthly, almost otherworldly glow. 

“I'm being serious too,” he decides to say, looking up at the cloudy sky with you. “You shouldn't be saying that stuff on a first date. Kinda makes it sound like you don't think things will work out between us, you know?”

You huff a confused laugh, looking over at him again. “Jeonghan, wha—?”

“And maybe you will end up alone,” he carries on, thoughtfully, as if he's talking to himself, forgetting that you're sitting there too. “But maybe you won't. I think you probably won't. And even if you do, it's fine, because I'll still be with you.”

It's a painfully vulnerable thing to say, made doubly so by the quietness of the night. Like a love confession, almost. Except it's not, because he's not in love with you. 

He isn't. 

“That's really sweet,” you say, almost begrudgingly, as if it pains you to admit that Jeonghan actually said something nice, and he laughs. “Though wrong. If you’re with me, then I'm not alone, am I?”

“Oh, I see. When you said alone, you meant in general. I thought you meant, like, romantically.”

“Well, maybe. But maybe I also meant overall,” you shrug. “I didn't think you'd want to spend the rest of your life with me.”

Jeonghan swallows, tilts back on the swings, head still raised to look at the sky. “I want to spend every life with you.”

You look away from the sky at his words, turning to face him in surprise. The echoes of what he’d just said were already fading away, muffled and pressed into the velvet dark of the night, but the surprisingly soft air that followed in its wake still remained.

 Now, he's the one avoiding your gaze, keeping his eyes firmly locked on the shapeless, misty blur of clouds above him so he doesn’t have to look at you. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you tilt your head, and smile. 

“Oh, look at you, you sap,” you say, bright and teasing. “Face it, you like being with me. Oh! I bet you're in love with me, seeing as how you agreed to date me and everything! Isn't that right, Jeonghan? You love me.”

Jeonghan pulls a face, and you burst into laughter, so ridiculously loud and happy even though it's two in the morning and the whole playground is silent, the sound of your happiness ringing against the cool air of the night. He can't help but look at you then, exasperated and fond, shaking his head as you grip the swing chains and sway back and forth, still giggling to yourself. 

He sniffs, feigning annoyance as he leans to the side, making a dramatic show of pulling his swing away from you. 

“This isn't a real date. I could never date you.” He scrunches his face in faux disgust for good measure, and you laugh again, rolling your eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. And yet you still came out when I called, didn't you?” you tease, smiling widely, and Jeonghan has to admit that you're right. He's here because you asked him to be here. He’s here for you.

Hm. This was getting weirdly soul-baringly truthful for what he’d thought would be a silly little hangout in the middle of the night.

“Next time you call me at 2am, I’m blocking you forever,” he says dryly, giving you an exaggerated look of disdain just so he can revel in the laugh that it pulls out of you.

“No you won’t,” you say cheerily. “Because you looove me.”

“Um, lies.”

“No lies. You literally love me so much.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do. You do, you do, you do, you’re actually genuinely in love with me and there’s nothing you can do to deny it, because it’s so obvious that I’m literally the love of your l—”

Jeonghan makes a clicking sound with his tongue and leans over to shove your arm, causing you to swing to the side as you cackle with delight at his reaction. He glares at you, again, sighing with exasperation as you continue to laugh.

“Yes, yes, I love you, just as much as you love me. Now if we’re not actually doing anything of importance, then can I go home?”

“What?” you say indignantly. “Of course not! If I can’t sleep, then that means you’re not allowed to sleep either.”

“I knew it. You called me out here because you couldn’t fall asleep.”

“Duh. Now come and push my swing, will you?”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes and stands up from his swing, groaning and holding his knees like he’s some kind of grumpy grandpa. You laugh, mocking him for his bad joints as he walks around to stand behind you, and he snarks back something ridiculously funny and rippling with light, twisting through the cool air.

And then his hand presses against the small of your back, soft and yet sure, and suddenly all you can focus on is that gentle, feathery point of contact that connects you to him.

Your laughter subsides as he begins to gently push your swing, and you move up, and down, and up, and down, the fleeting warmth of his hand an intermittent pressure against your back. He doesn’t say a word. Everything is quiet, in your head. Like his touch alone could silence any worries that still floated around in your brain.

It’s one of the things you adore most about Jeonghan. He makes you feel safe.

“For the record, by the way,” you say, voice quiet, “I really do love you.”

There’s no noise but the metallic creak of the swing, sounding weirdly small in the yawning abyss of the dark. Jeonghan’s hand is still steady as he pushes you, again and again.

“As a friend?” he asks, eventually.

You can’t see him, and maybe that’s for the best. His voice is tinged with a colour, an emotion, that you can’t quite name, warm and cool and fleeting and present all at once.

Yet more silence greets his words. You continue swinging, and he continues helping.

It’s hard to know what he means by that. As a friend, in a hopeful way? As a friend, in a meaningful way? Or as a friend, in a way that could maybe, maybe, signal that he thinks, or wishes, that you mean... something else.

More.

These things are difficult to tell, when it comes to Jeonghan. Who wears his heart on his sleeve and yet also hides it away where no one can see.

“Yeah,” you say, after it has been far too long since he’d asked, but it’s clear that you were both waiting for your answer anyway. The word leaves you as a sigh, threadbare and thin. “As a friend.”

Jeonghan huffs a soft laugh. Maybe because he believes you, or maybe because he doesn’t. You’re not too sure.

“Okay,” he murmurs, pale as moonlight. “In which case, I love you too.”

fics tags: @jeonginssa @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @zozojella @kawennote09 @a-wandering-stay @abibliolife @doublasting @wonranghaeee @icyminghao @sweet-like-caramel @your-yxnnie @odxrilove @kyeomyun @crackedpumpkin @jeonride @kellesvt @eightlightstar @onlyyjeonghan @aaniag @starshuas @raevyng @isabellah29 @hrts4hanniehae @mcu-incorrect @dokyeomkyeom @suraandsugar @haodore @tulsa24 @melodicrabbit

[1moreff-creator]

Select Two, Choose One: How will the Culprit get Found?

Since the latest DRDT chapter seems to have narrowed down the suspect list to just two people, many have speculated on how exactly the cast is going to pin down the correct suspect, and whether or not the audience has the tools to do so. I thought I’d throw my hat in the ring too! And while I’m still really 50/50 split, there is one piece of evidence that could change the murder method… in a way that points us to the culprit. Very inconclusive evidence, but it’s there. Let’s get into it.

Spoilers up to CH2 EP14. CW: Hanging, murder, blood, Eden and Ace!Culprit discussion

As a starting point, I’ll assume that the deduction that the culprit must be one of Eden or Ace is accurate, to simplify things if nothing else.

I will start with what I’ll call “meta only” arguments. In other words, things that characters can’t reliably use to narrow down the suspect, but that we the audience can take into consideration for theory-crafting.

-Mindset post-Nico murder attempt: Immediately after Nico runs out of the gym, the killer needs to be in the correct mindset to grab the tape, and they also need to be able to more or less figure out what Nico did to replicate it with Arei. Although, importantly, the killer doesn’t need to come up with the full plan on the spot, and they don’t need to fully understand what Nico was doing. At the end of the day, the only real similarities are the general idea of a pulley and a hanging.

Here’s more or less the train of thought Eden might have had if she’s the killer.

Eden: Hmm… The fan is broken and there was wire on it, Ace’s neck looks cut… Maybe Nico used some kind of pulley to hang him and it broke? Maybe I could do that… This tape looks useful for that.

Meanwhile, since Ace woke up in the middle of the murder attempt, he has to do a little less deducing.

Ace: Did I just get knocked- HOLY SHIT NICO IS HANGING ME WITH SOME SORT OF FUCKING SPINNING DEVICE AAAA-! Ooh, tape! :D

The actual planning of a murder would come later in the morning for Ace, once he sits down and has A Thought about it. Grabbing the tape in that context seems insane, but there may be precedent for Ace being prone to stealing the weirdest shit (we’ll get to it), so…

I think both of these are plausible. I wouldn’t say either can be disqualified like this, so we keep looking.

-Ripping/reconstructing the note: The note to Arei was ripped up and thrown into the trash, then Eden, Rose and Whit put it together.

Ace has no real reason to destroy the note, he could have just left it as it was. Maybe throw it in the trash since “it’s what Eden would have done”, but destroying it runs the risk of people not being able to put it together to point at Eden/Arturo. Although, you could argue Ace was trying to frame Nico specifically, so the note wasn’t useful and he threw it away because it made sense in his mind.

Here’s where we get introduced to a pretty big problem of having Ace as a suspect; that thing Teruko said, that sometimes assuming people will always act logically is a bad idea. Ace is the prime example; a lot of shit in this case makes a lot more sense if you assume Ace did it because he’s not smart enough to notice the problems with it. Such as using the method to frame Nico when only a few people in the class know what the method is; he maybe wouldn’t have noticed that that could point towards him as well. Ace is erratic, it’s very difficult to pin down why he does half the shit he does.

Eden, at least, makes sense. By destroying the note, then rebuilding it herself, she throws off suspicion with the exact argument she used in the trial; if she’s the killer, why do that? Just leaving the note as it is runs the risk of someone finding it and presenting it, which removes that argument, meaning tearing it is imperative.

And she would want the class to find it, not just because it makes her look more innocent if she talks about a building friendship with Arei, but because the note is where we get the “7:30” time, which combined with the fish making people think the murder was at nighttime, appears to give Eden an alibi.

In conclusion, the note being ripped makes more sense with Eden as the culprit… but it doesn’t disqualify Ace because he’s an idiot. And speaking of that…

-Fish Paradox: As outlined in my Ep13 murder theory revision, the problem with the fish is that everyone who benefits from the fish being at the crime scene only benefits if they have an alibi for nighttime, but that coincides with the time the fish disappeared, as Nico fed them and counted all of them after having dinner, so they couldn’t have taken it. Meanwhile, people like Ace who could have taken the fish, wouldn’t have a reason to as they don’t benefit from the nighttime alibi.

Except, it’s fucking Ace. It’s genuinely possible he thought people would see fish and instantly jump on Nico for some reason. See the problems that arise when you can no longer assume the killer is acting rationally?

Anyways, inconclusive (we’ll talk Eden later).

-No blood on tape: This heavily depends on exactly how Ace could grabbed the tape. His hands sorta get covered in blood instantly, so it’s hard to imagine he’d be able to do that without staining the entire roll of tape with blood. He couldn’t have easily washed it, either, since he passes out shortly after, and the blood would have likely dried by the time he woke up. This is definitely a point towards Eden, but can the cast use this? I don’t think so, because it relies on what we saw during the episode, which is not easy to prove in a trial setting.

-Dialogue and trial behavior: This one’s difficult, and as you might expect, inconclusive.

I would argue Eden has a higher amount of outright suspicious lines (“Teruko, wait—“ haunts me), but she also has a higher amount of seemingly anti-suspicious lines that make her look very innocent (see: the entire speech at the end of Ep 14).

She also has a moment where she steers the trial in the right direction by denying that Arei could have committed assisted suicide, but it’s worth remembering that if the class thinks that’s what happened and they learn of Eden’s relationship with her, they might assume Arei and Eden worked together to get Eden out. In other words, by denying the notion of assisted suicide, Eden!Culprit avoids the class reaching the right conclusion through the wrong method. Of course, if she’s innocent, it’s just genuine.

Comparatively, Ace operates at a much more stable level of suspiciousness I can only call “Ace level.” He’s constantly throwing suspicion on Nico, who the killer seemingly tried to frame with the method; he kept David and Arei’s conversation hidden; and was one of the first to jump on the “David’s the culprit” bandwagon. In a vacuum, this is super suspicious; hell, Levi was the fandom’s prime suspect for less.

But… it’s Ace. His behavior isn’t too different from the first trial. So while it’s possible he’s doing all this because he’s the culprit, it’s also possible he’s just being Ace.

Impossible to tell, I fear.

-Eden’s Night 2 paranoia: You might recall Eden being very worried someone was following her in night 2, which could suggest she was doing something suspicious (eg setting up the ball of clothes, more on this later) and was scared she’d get found out.

The problem is that there’s a perfectly fine explanation for Spotless!Eden. This is the night after her confrontation with Arturo, and Teruko did enter the same room as her; she could have just been paranoid because of the former, and felt someone was following her because of the latter. Moot point.

(I don’t think anyone else was following Eden because Teruko would have presumably seen them. Then again, I have overestimated our protag’s perceptiveness in the past)

-Eden’s strength: Eden is the weakest of the cast, so it’s very possible that half the Arei murder method is just impossible for her. But… we can’t know for absolutely sure what “weakest of the cast” means, and it’s not evidence that can be used in a trial. Ignorable.

-Motive, character writing and themes: I’m lumping these in together because I’ll give the same answer to all of them: the dev can just add an explanation in the inevitable post-trial trauma dump. We don’t know absolutely everything there is to know about these characters, or the way the narrative is going, so it’s impossible to confidently argue based on this. Physical evidence will always take precedence over these things in my books.

And that kinda settles it for that. There’s minor arguments like “Eden won’t die before we explore the Fork CG” (well, Xander did, so) or “if the Scrum Debate is Ace vs Eden then Ace is probably safe” (we don’t know what the Scrum Debate will be), but I’ll skip them to get to the more pressing matters.

That being trial-worthy evidence. What can the most dysfunctional cast of any fangan ever (/affectionate) use to fully commit to a culprit?

-Fish Alibi: If Ace has the problem of “no reason to bring fish,” Eden has the problem that her alibi literally starts directly after dinner. If Nico ate dinner with her and Hu, she couldn’t have taken the fish.

Except, of course, Nico could have had dinner earlier, and this point is completely moot. We can’t know yet.

-BDA: This is very obviously not what the cast will use to come to the conclusion given the discussions we’ve had, but I’ll bring it up anyways. This was explained in the episode though, so…

-Playground floor: sorastar6’s idea; since the floor of the playground is made of the same stuff as the relax room, it’d become sticky after getting wet from the water in the jugs, and thus, the culprit could have some stuck to their shoe. Unfortunately for some of you, we can’t easily look at the cast’s feet all the time, so this would only work for the characters, not us. However, Hu does mention heels as an example of something that can scuff the floor, and Ace wears heels, so small point to him.

-Missing glove: I still have no idea where this thing went. My only guess would be that the killer removed it to more easily put tape on Arei’s wrists, but by the time they’d strung her up, they decided putting the glove back on would take too much time (? I have no concept of how hard it’s be to properly put a glove on a dead person’s hand), and they wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. If true, that would mean they still have the glove on them, as it wasn’t in the trash. Again, if I’m right about this, the cast can use this, we can’t.

-Random garbage:

Something here. Rose would remember everything about it, so it’s usable. Maybe Ace’s gloves were damaged and he had to use the needle and thread to fix them? Maybe one of those napkins is the cloth with turpentine Nico used and only Ace would have identified and used it (assuming it wouldn’t have dried and MonoTV wouldn’t have thrown it out for some reason)? What even is that pink paper thing? Who knows.

-Ball of clothes: Held together by something Teruko identified as starch, there’s been around three hundred theories involving this thing. The only one that’s actually incriminating (for the two possibilities being discussed) is thebadjoe’s idea of the starch being from the enriched formula of the relax room, which could implicate Eden as she was acting suspiciously around the dress-up room on night 2.

I’ve seen it argued that the clothes would be dirty in that case, but that can be solved with an extra layer of clothes under the clothes that actually get starched up, which would later be either discarded, washed, or simply put inside the ball itself.

(This might be the last murder diagram I make for this case. Holy shit I can’t believe that)

Which is all well and good, but this is still ultimately assuming both that the cast has some way of making sure Ace couldn’t have done this, which I’m not sure exists, and that the starch comes from the relax room in the first place.

Because something I learnt, like, last week, is that people put starch on clothes. Like that’s a thing they do. So it’s entirely possible there’s starch for clothes in the dress-up room and anyone could have done this. If that’s the case, this cannot be used to argue at all. I don’t love the idea, since we don’t know if there really is starch there or not, but it’s there.

-Grammar: The letter to Arei pretty famously misspells “responsibel” (responsible), has horrible punctuation, etc. It’s possible someone in the trial will realize, ask Ace and Eden to spell the word, and whoever gets it right is cleared. We can’t know, but it’s a possibility. This also has the benefit of being obscenely funny.

-Custom weapon: If the killer used their custom weapon, it may point to them as guilty, as only they have access to it. However, I fail to see how a riding crop (Ace) or a wrench (Eden) would help in the slightest.

There is, however, one more item that only one of these characters has access to. And while I am very unsure of this assumption, if you ask me right now what is the decisive piece of evidence that will close the case once and for all, I will tell you:

-The shoulder band thingy:

Ace: Too fucking bad. Mine now. I’m keeping it.

Yep. This one.

For starters, remember that thing I said about the tape? That Ace has precedent of stealing completely random shit for no reason, and so it’s plausible he grabbed the tape just because? This is the precedent.

More importantly though, it’s something only Ace has access to, so if it can be determined it was used in the crime scene, it’s curtains.

And there is actually one place I could see it being used. Followers of my method theories know that, through the fire and the flames, there’s been one deduction that’s remain constant: the rope was tied to the ball of clothes, which was thrown over the railings to get the rope as high as needed. The ball also hit the lights, displacing the bulb and causing it to flicker.

(He he I snuck the image into a fourth post >:D)

I’ve always sorta assumed DRDT takes place in a physics exercise where air drag is ignored, but it’s true that this might be harder than I’ve been presenting it as.

So, we get the use for the shoulder band; a slingshot. I’m unsure on how it would be constructed (swingset maybe? seesaw?), but the idea is that. Create a slingshot, throw the clothes, badabim badabum, Ace is the culprit.

I’m not the only one to think of this btw. Reddit user (yes we’re cross-platforming for this) Makatrull seems to have arrived at the same conclusion. Great minds think alike ig.

Of course, this comes with its own issues. Mainly, how do you connect the shoulder band to the crime scene? The only way I see that happening is if the cast determines this is literally the only way the lights get broken, which… yeah, I’m gonna have to let them do the math on that one.

It’s impossible to judge without existing in the DRDT world. Is the ceiling higher than I’d previously assumed? Then it’s possible to come to this conclusion. Is it lower, and possible that even Eden would have managed to just throw the ball over the railing? Certainly. So, for now, inconclusive. When I say it’s the most likely to be the decisive evidence, I mean by like, 0.1%, I really have no clue.

———

There’s probably more, but that’s all I can think of for now.

Seeing as we’re reaching the end, I’m gonna say that regardless of the outcome, this might be one of my favorite trials in all of both canon and fan-made Danganronpa. So much shit happened. I’ll save my full thoughts for a more dedicated post, but goddamn, I can’t wait to see the conclusion!

Hope you enjoyed! If you made it this far, you deserve a shoulder band thing. Do with it as you please. See you!

[writingoddess1125]

Deadpool Headcanon

Dad!Deadpool and GN Reader

Fluffy Weirdness

Kinda just came to me so enjoy? 🤷🏼

Masterlist <<

Kofi <<

• Deadpool, finds out that he has a teenage kid, (Y/N) by total accident.

• A relative of a old fling of his telling him they had his kid before disappearing themselves.

• His reaction is a delightful mix of shock, denial, and inappropriate jokes.

"Wait, I'm someone's dad? Damn- They must be fucked up!"

• But underneath all the sarcasm and one-liners, the idea begins to settle into his brain.

• A tinge of fear eats at his brain and itches under his skin..

• When Wade first digs into (Y/N)’s background—using his "very legal" skills—it’s mostly to make sure they’re not a mini supervillain in training.

• But what he finds instead knocks the wind out of him: (Y/N) has been in and out of the foster system for years.

• That hits him harder than he'd like to admit- making him pace a bit back and forth in thought.

• At first, he doesn’t know how to handle it.

• His own past was screwed up, but seeing his kid going through the same kind of instability?

• It messes with him. Wade cracks a joke to numb the ache.

“Of course, my kid’s in the system… couldn’t have inherited my charm or good looks, huh?”

• Deadpool starts paying more attention, following (Y/N) closely.

• He watches them move from one foster home to another, each one more temporary than the last.

• Sometimes (Y/N) would get picked up by a social worker right after school, with nothing more than a worn-out backpack slung over their shoulder.

• Wade stays out of sight, gripping his weapons tighter than he should, resisting the urge to intervene... for now.

• Seeing (Y/N) trying to stay strong, dealing with bullies, shifting from home to home, makes something snap inside Wade.

• He realizes he’s angry, really angry. No kid, especially not ***his kid*** , should have to feel so lost and abandoned.

• He remembers what it was like to feel that way, and no amount of sex, drugs, or killing can take the edge off that pain.

• Wade starts leaving more than just quirky gifts. In (Y/N)’s locker, there’s a new hoodie with a note, “To make you feel less invisible. You’re worth more than these idiots know. ~ D.”

• Another time, a stuffed unicorn with a note, "Even the toughest need a cuddle buddy." One day, Wade overhears (Y/N) talking to a friend about how they’ll probably get moved again soon

"Yeah, these fosters are.. assholes to put it mildly" (Y/N) jest to one of the few friends they have. Not knowing the hoodie that had mysteriously appeared had a wire hidden in it.

• That night, a hefty envelope shows up in their locker, stuffed with cash and a note that says, “You ever need a place to crash? You’ve got options. Let me know when you’re ready. P.S. This is totally not a bribe. ~D”

"I'm probably gonna get moved again-"

• Deadpool even starts anonymously dropping hints to social workers that (Y/N) should stay in one stable placement, using his "subtle" methods to make sure they’re treated better. He also might’ve scared a foster parent or two into straightening up.

• It doesn't take long for (Y/N) to get to notice all the changes- The social workers treating them better, and now getting to stay with an actually nice family.

• He watches (Y/N) cope with it all, still from a distance hkwever, but now more protective than ever. He knows he can’t change the past, but he can sure as hell make sure (Y/N) doesn’t feel abandoned anymore.

Mini Shot

(Y/N) sat on the roof of the foster home, the cool breeze brushing against their face as they stared out into the dimly lit neighborhood wrapping their read hoodie tighter around themselves. As they sat something caught their eye—a shadowy figure across the way from them perfectly out of view, watching them from a distance. Their heart skipped a beat at first in fear, However after a moment a wash of a unknown familiarity seemed to hit.

Before they could stop themselves, (Y/N) called out softly, "Thank you."

The figure stepped into the light just enough for (Y/N) to catch a glimpse of their hand as they gave them a casual thumbs up.

Without a word, he turned and walked away, vanishing into the night as (Y/N) watched. A sense of pride in Wade's step as he headed off. He'd done it—he'd helped his kid in some way.

And that was enough..

For now

[avonne-writes]

Happy birthday! I just wanted to tell you that you're the best fan fiction writer I've come across in 20+ years ♥️

Can I ask for the [coffee] prompt? Gale manages to get hold of some coffee beans in the stalag and makes a cup of real coffee for John. Even better if he has to hide it from all the other inmates ☺️

My dear, this has been in my inbox for months, waiting for me to finally get to it! I'm sorry that it took me this long, especially because this was an original prompt. Thank you so much for your sweet message, I appreciate it so much! 🩷❤️ The drabble I'm posting below is part of a longer fic which will be posted on AO3 when it’s finished. It’s set in my a/b/o au (core idea here, drabble here).

The last fading rays of summer warmth are pushed away by the deepening chill of the night when the sun sets. It’s only September, but the walls of their prison seem to grow colder with each night, and the barbed wire fence looks taller every miserable morning. How long can a bird stay alive with its wings clipped, locked inside a cage that only lets it see the light, never feel it? And is it life at all?

It's been almost a year, and there's no end in sight. Only the mindless, final darkness, the one that beckons Bucky persistently every time the pains of his body and soul grow too heavy to bear without howling. If he and Gale hadn't bonded before their capture, he would've given in to that call already.

But they had, so here Bucky is. Still hungry, still cold, curled up in his bunk because Gale fussed the whole night and pushed him away every time Bucky touched him. Not even his own mate wants Bucky anymore.

“John.” He hears Gale's voice, quiet and warm, close to his ear as Gale leans over him. A hand shakes Bucky's shoulder, then slides down to his elbow in a caress. “The weather is so nice outside.”

“So what?” Bucky grunts, fed up with the morning sunshine that streams in through the flimsy curtains. How dare it tempt him with joy when he can’t even take a breath deep enough to remember freedom.

Gale shakes him again. His scent is so sweet that if Bucky closes his eyes, he can imagine that this is just another morning at Thorpe, and his mate is in a good mood. “Come, walk with me.”

Illusion shattered, Bucky shrugs Gale's grip off. “I'm not your dog.”

There's a pause, then a sigh. Gale squeezes Bucky's arm, then Bucky hears the thud of his boots as he walks away. The door opens and closes with a click.

“You should get it together, man. You're still mates, are you not?” Jefferson's voice rings from behind him, and it pisses Bucky off. What fucking business of his is it if he and Gale are still mates or not? He shouldn't say shit about things he doesn’t understand.

His irritation is enough fire to make Bucky turn around and rise from the bed, but Jefferson is already halfway out the door, scoffing at him, and Bucky isn’t quite angry enough to chase after him. He growls and drops into a chair at their small table, dealing a pack of cards to play imaginary poker against himself. From the corner of his eye, he notices the stares Crank and DeMarco shoot him, but they also go out after a few minutes, leaving him blessedly alone in silence.

For a while, it feels good. Time is beyond his perception, has been for who knows how long now. It's just one of those things that doesn’t seem to matter anymore. He plays and loses against himself, always loses, then just drops the cards and stares at the strip of light crawling across the wooden floorboards. Guilt starts to tickle at the corners of his eyes and throbs at his temples like a headache. He didn’t mean to be so rude to Gale, but last night left him in a mood even worse than usual. He should probably find the strength to go out, join the others and apologize to him. Touch the mark on Gale’s neck if he's still willing to let him. 

Bucky's just about to push himself to his feet when the door swings open and Gale comes back inside. He looks frazzled and pale as a sheet, although it's hard to tell if that's the general effect of the stalag or something new. He puts his hands on his hips and paces around a bit, shooting Bucky quick glances as if gearing himself up to speak.

“What happened?” Bucky asks, frowning.

“Nothing.” Gale licks his lips, then stills for a moment before he walks over to the table with confident steps, all of that sudden unsettled energy swallowed up by his self-control. Maybe, he’s nervous that Bucky will gnash his teeth at him like a feral animal again. When he sits down and meets Bucky's eyes, Bucky sighs.

“Look.” Bucky starts, leaning forward and holding his hand out. He leaves it there even though Gale doesn’t take it. “I'm sorry for this morning. Didn’t mean to lash out like that.”

Gale considers him for a beat of silence, then nods, somber. “Apology accepted.”

He glances down at his lap, then pulls something out of the pocket of his trousers. When he looks at Bucky again, his eyes are soft and loving like they used to be before they learned how fragile the good things in life are. “Do you know what day it is?”

Bucky puffs his cheeks out, his eyebrows quirking up in a way that clearly amuses Gale. “Haven't a clue, doll. I'm wearing my Sunday best though, just in case.”

Gale huffs, shaking his head with a fond twist to his mouth. Something about the movement makes him wince, but he composes himself quickly. “It’s the 8th, John.”

Oh.

A dull pain starts in Bucky's chest and radiates out into the rest of his body. He can’t believe he forgot. He can’t believe that this moment came. The first time he spends 8 September as a prisoner of war, instead of laughing and celebrating with the love of his life.

Gale puts the small package he pulled out of pocket on the table between them. “I couldn’t get you any whiskey.” He says with wry humor that pulls a joyless smile out of Bucky. “But I got you this.”

When Bucky opens the package, the scent of ground coffee hits him like the sweet promise of heaven. It’s the real stuff, he can tell instantly, not the sand and ash concoction they mix up for them on most days. If they brew this, one sip of it will give Bucky enough life for a week. Oh, just the mere thought of its taste, the faint memories still not overwritten by the bland, permeating monotone of the stalag… 

The grin pulling at Bucky’s lips isn’t tainted by manic delusions for once. It’s purely happy, devoid of the shadows that have been haunting Bucky's mind lately, and it seems to make Gale flush in an echo of joy. This small bag of coffee must have cost Gale a lot of rations, but it’s such a perfect gift that Bucky doesn’t have the heart to ruin it by asking to know its price. 

"Happy birthday." Gale says with a small smile, but when Bucky reaches for his hand, he flinches.

It's a telltale reaction that they both know well. Bucky pauses, breathes in deep, takes stock of Gale's wide pupils and the clamminess of his fingers when he touches them. There’s sweat gathering at Gale’s hairline and his cheeks look blotchy. Bucky sees him pulling his other hand back into the sleeve of his fraying sweater, one of the few comforts he has in this wretched place. The gesture makes Bucky's chest go tight.

"Are you in heat?”

The muscles around Gale's jaw clench. He doesn’t need to say a word. The look in his eyes tells Bucky everything.

“Shit.” Bucky says, his voice like a ghost’s. Departing his body as dread creeps down his throat, cold and slimy fear around his heart. His brain, the last to admit defeat, still tries to deny it. It's impossible. God can’t curse them with this now. Their fate can’t be this cruel. “But you haven't had one in a year.”

“I know.” Gale's nostrils flare.

“But -”

“You know I've run out of the goddamn pills.” He snaps, harsh and aggressive in a way he wouldn’t be in his right mind.

There's no denying it any longer. It can't be just a cold or the bitterness of captivity. They have to face this here, now, and somehow make it through.

Bucky lowers his voice placatingly. “I know, Buck, I know.” He squeezes Gale's hand. It’s a relief when Gale squeezes back. “But that was six months ago.”

Tucked inside his sleeve, Gale’s fingers clench around the fabric. His eyes stare at his boots, and he looks so frail and small that Bucky has to look away to compose himself. They're both at the end of their ropes.

“Better weather, more food…” Gale mutters, pulling his shoulders up in a helpless gesture. “I guess my body figured it was enough.”

Bucky strokes the back of Gale's hand with his thumb, feels Gale’s racing pulse at his wrist. “We're gonna get through this.”

Gale nods, but he stares at the far wall. After a moment, Bucky realizes that he’s holding his breath, as if to keep himself forcefully calm and grounded. 

“Promise me -” He starts quietly. “- that if the guards find out, you won’t get yourself killed.”

Bucky's chest tightens. He hears the fear Gale is stomping down on with all his iron willpower. “I can’t.”

Bucky’s hand is yanked forward so suddenly and with such force that Bucky hisses. Gale fists his other hand in Bucky's shirt and snarls at him from an inch away. “Promise.”

The nasty, instinctual part of Bucky aches to fight, to force Gale to back down using his alpha nature to his advantage. But, even with all the things chipping at his sanity, Bucky doesn’t want to do that to him. It wouldn’t work anyway. Not with Gale, especially not when he's in heat.

“They won't find out.” He tells Gale, cupping his scarred cheek and giving him a firm look. “I promise I'll keep you safe.”

The scent in the air turns cloyingly sweet as gratitude washes over Gale, but then he shudders, and the sweetness turns into sour fear. Gale lets go of Bucky's shirt and stands up, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles turn white. When he speaks, the calm tone of his voice is frightening. 

“Don’t worry about me, John. Whatever happens, I can take it.”

[whereismyhat5678]

I don’t remember.

I don’t know what exactly happened.

I heard loud noises I think.

I don’t know what they were but they hurt my ears.

But then I heard a voice. I liked it. It was calmer. My ears felt like they were ringing, and he softened them for me. I don’t remember his face though…. But I think I remember what he said?….

Tw: There is no blood but I want to put it here anyways if anyone doesn’t like to see characters with a shit ton of bandages. (Just to be safe 🩶)

My body hurts…

[akkivee]

the abject horror on kuukou’s face when he realises this had gone too far and he nearly drove someone to basically killing themselves killed someone is the exact reason he was so adamant about taking the fall for everything in the ren chapter btw

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹。take my time (i’ll spend it all on you) | gojo satoru

wc: 1.6k

summary: gojo sees you in lingerie for the first time. 

contains: f!reader, suggestive almost nsfw (they make out… maybe a bit steamy), 18+ just in case, reader is in lingerie, shy feelings!! gojo down bad!!

a/n: i hc that the first time gojo sees you in lingerie, it’s like seeing you walk down the aisle—he’s a bit sappy like that! i also think that he’d love seeing his lover in pink! idk! it’s just the vibes! (col reader would look cute in pink too i think hehe complements the personality!); takes place later on, around col #4 (wip)

collection masterlist: conversations on love 3.5b. —will i ever bring you peace? <- you are here -> +04b (extra). if you're ready (let me) + 04. these traces of love, they outline you

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

There are few things in life that have earned Gojo’s double take: 

A sign for a newly-opened gelato shop with ‘exclusive flavors for the first 30 customers!’ written in fine print; Megumi, back in middle school, being confessed to with a sweetly handcrafted box of chocolates for Valentine’s Day; a small cut, right at the tip of his nose from that time you sparred with him and he let you get too close (or so he says). 

And now you. 

In something pink—

—that if he backtracks just a bit, steps one foot behind the other to glance again at the space left open by the bedroom door, and squints—

He’s certain, 200% sure. 

It’s lingerie. 

He blinks once, twice, rubs at his eyes even as his mind attempts to catch up to whatever it is–you–he just saw. This must be what wires feel when they short circuit. 

You know he’s home, right? You have to, you just told him to rinse the dishes after snacking.

And he was in the middle of doing that—walking across your apartment from couch to kitchen, stopping only to do a double take at the sight of pink in his periphery, at you, once he looked again, clearly. 

Or were you doing this on purpose? Did you want him to see you? 

He gulps, warmth spreading from the tips of his ears down to his neck, lingering. 

There’s only one way to find out, really. 

He walks down the hallway leading to the bedroom, keeping his footsteps light so as to not startle you.

If he’s being honest right now, his mind is full to the point of feeling empty—too many thoughts swirling around the fact that behind this very door, he’s about to find you in pink lingerie. 

And when he takes a deep breath, fingertips pushing on wood very slightly as he calls out, “Bab—“

“S’toru!” you squeal from the other side, panicked as you instantly push it back closed.

So you didn’t do it on purpose. 

“Sorry, give me a minute!” you call out, and he can hear your footsteps from the other side, frantically walking around for what he can assume is you looking for something to cover yourself with. 

But he doesn’t want that. 

Not when he already has the visual of you, pretty in what he suspects is pink lace.

Not when the way you said ‘S’toru’ sounded so much like ‘‘Toru’, your ‘‘Toru’, the way you usually say it pressed against bed sheets, under him, expression blissed out from—

Do you have any idea what that does to him? 

“Are you wearing lingerie?” 

You freeze. Gojo can tell from the other side of the door, and you think, damn it, because he isn’t supposed to know you bought a set, much less see you in it. Not yet. 

You could try to lie, but Gojo always sees through you, through every change in inflection, the way your eyebrow twitches before speaking. 

“Can I come in?” he asks softly, almost hesitantly. 

How can you possibly resist him when he speaks to you like this? Asking permission as if this space you live in isn’t as much his?

You sigh, flustered at being caught this way, “Can you close your eyes first?” 

He follows, laying one hand over his eyes for good measure before knocking on the door. You open it slowly, wood creaking as he steps inside. 

You feel a little naked right now despite how he isn’t even looking your way, opting to face the side opposite from where you’re standing. It’s on purpose, you know, he can tell where you are—Six Eyes and all. 

There’s a smile that he’s hiding, biting his lower lip to stop it from showing. His toes are wiggling from the excitement coursing through him.

You know Gojo will like you in anything; in fact, he’s made it very clear that he prefers you in nothing—but still. Your stomach feels queasy and you can’t get rid of how nervous you’re feeling. 

And you guess, it’s really just because this was meant to be a surprise for him—the design you’ve chosen, how it looks on your body, how it looks to him, especially. You’d ordered the lingerie set months in advance to leave a lot of time for returns, whether it turned out ill-fitting or just unflattering.

You didn’t expect him to catch a glimpse of it now, months before his birthday, before you were even ready. 

“I’m waiting…” he teases, voice sing-song in that way he usually does to annoy you. It always makes you smile though, and it’s an odd form of comforting with how it dulls your jitters right now, just a little bit.

“Okay, you can look.” 

As soon as he turns, you squeeze your eyes shut, hands on your sides as you fiddle with your fingernails. Seeing, knowing his reaction in real time is still nervewracking, regardless of every reassurance you tell yourself—because, what if this is the off-chance that you’re wrong, and he doesn’t like it? 

Or worse: what if he has to pretend he likes it?

You frown a bit—it doesn’t help at all that Gojo isn’t saying anything.

But—

How can he, when there are no words, no adjectives, no possible descriptions to articulate what he’s seeing—what he’s feeling?

If he didn’t die then, in every instance he’s brushed with death: by Toji’s hands, locked up inside that box, in that final moment with Sukuna, nearly halved—

He thinks he might have just died right now. 

Because this? You? In lingerie as pink as all he’s feeling—his cheeks, his nose, flushing down his neck, maybe even his chest if it were exposed. 

It’s heaven. 

You’re a sight. 

While Gojo has certainly seen you in much less, and done with you things much more than just stand with you like this, he’s never seen you in lingerie.

And you’re so pretty. Sexy. All his, he can’t believe it.   

He’s noticing all the little details on it–on you–its shade, almost salmon with a bit of baby pink; its material: sheer net as the base for everything—it’s practically see-through save for the delicate floral lace running across the bra cups and panty front.

The set itself is nice, sure, but he knows he only likes it this much because it’s on you. And he knows he’ll always like anything on you. 

The heat in his stomach is building, spreading, to the single part of him that—

“Is it that bad?” you scrunch your nose, eyes still closed. He looks at you confused, before he realizes: he hasn’t said anything.

He chuckles and you open your eyes, pouting. 

And God, he wishes you didn’t do that. That look on your face—what it does to him.

“I ordered it in advance for your birthday,” you start, pout deepening as you ramble on, “it was supposed to be a surprise, but if you don’t like it, I can still–” 

That’s enough. 

He can’t believe that you actually think he doesn’t like it. 

Gojo steps into your space, close enough to grab you by the waist as his other hand reaches up to slot itself in the area between your ear and your jawline, tilting your head up slightly as he leans in to kiss you. 

It’s rushed at first, almost desperate—hungry, the way he releases his breath only to take you in; your lips, soft in the way he knows them to be, his hand on your waist squeezing. Your fingertips trail to his cheek, almost cupping as his kisses turn deeper, more languid, lips moving against yours slowly, savoring. 

Gojo is a fast learner, and he shows it best in the way he kisses you, as if he’s memorized every way to build that familiar heat within you. You lay your other hand against his chest, gripping at the fabric of his t-shirt as he pulls you closer. 

You bite his lip and suck, just a little bit, the way he likes it, and he moans, lowly, vibrations rippling through your mouth as he holds you steady. He’s hard already; you can feel it pressing against your lower belly. 

And you realize, as a small laugh tears itself away from you, how ridiculous it was for you to even worry. 

You break the kiss, leaning your forehead against his as you keep your noses touching. It’s impossible to tell how Gojo looks, but you have a hunch with how he’s breathing so heavily; the skies in his eyes must be darker, almost gray, turned on by desire—the same one settling deep in your stomach, aching, needy. 

“It’s perfect,” he whispers, lips grazing yours. He traces hearts by your shoulder, something born out of the many times you’ve lain in bed together, playing with the strap of your bra before pulling, a short snap! as he lets go. 

“You like it?” you whisper back, a lilt in your tone, teasing. Your fingers come up to trace his lips and he holds them in place, nipping. 

“Mhm,” he grins, smoothing his hand over the lace details on your bra, his thumb rubbing, “so pretty.” 

He leans in again, a small peck, before asking, “Does this mean I can get my gift now?” 

You laugh, hitting his chest, “It’s not your birthday yet!” 

“Yeah, but what is time anyway?” 

And you know, with the way he’s trailing kisses down your neck, licking and sucking—you’re going to have to find another thing to surprise him with on his birthday. 

.

Later that evening, with your head lying right on his chest, you remember. 

“Oh yeah, the set also came with one of those belt things. Garter, I think? But I wasn’t sure if you’d be into–” 

You’ve never seen Gojo get up from bed faster.

thank you notes: for that anon that asked about whether col reader wears lingerie! + @stellamancer @soumies @crysugu for validating me that pink is in fact col reader's colour ᰔ i also just luv u guys 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[miss-oranje-disco-dancer]

the handyman

pairing: neighbor! joel miller x f! reader

cws/tags: pure smut, DADDY KINK, oral m & f receiving, p in v (unprotected), an abundance of pet names, reader is under 21 but over 18 (for the plot), reader is kinda stupid, big dick joel, not beta read

summary: pwp honestly. basically a porn plot? idk joel comes over to reader's grandma's house to fix the smoke detector (which she broke) and he teaches her how to be a good girl.

a/n: don't ask why reader lives with her grandma, originally this was going to be longer and it was going to be more relevant

join my taglist!

wc: 2k

You open the front door to and see an unfamiliar man standing at your doorstep – 40 something, jeans and a t-shirt, progressively more handsome the longer you look at him. You size him up, trying to decide what his intentions are.

“Whatever it is you’re selling – I don’t wanna buy it," you say.

He opens his mouth, but you continue before he can say anything. “I don’t even live here anyway, and before you ask she’s not home, so you can’t talk to her.”

“I ain’t here to sell you shit.”

“Well, I don’t wanna sign anything either.”

“Good. ‘Cause I don’t want you to.”

“Then why are you here? I don’t have a lot of time before One Tree Hill comes back on, so make it quick.”

“I’m Joel. I live down the street. I’m here to fix your smoke detector.”

“Oh, in that case, come on in,” you say, changing your demeanor entirely as you realize that you really need to get in this man’s good graces.

“So, you’re ‘handyman’ grandma’s been talking about?” you ask, as you lead him to the kitchen.

“She’s been talking about me?”

“Yeah. She talks about you like you’re her boyfriend.”

“Oh yeah? What’d she say?”

“I dunno. I wasn’t really listening. I thought it might just be some dementia-induced delusion.”

“Well, she’s told me quite a bit about you.”

“Good things?”

“Better than the things she says about all of your other family members.”

“You know what they say, ‘if you don’t want people to talk badly about you, then you shouldn’t ruin Christmas.’”

“Uh-huh,” he says, only half-listening as he approaches the scene of the crime - a broken smoke detector, now just wires and plastic, lays on the kitchen counter. He studies it for a minute, furrowing his brows. “Jesus Christ. What happened?”

“It just fell off the wall.” You shrug, acting nonchalant and hoping he doesn't notice your shifty eyes from across the kitchen.

“No way,” he says – not with curious incredulity, but knowing disapproval.

He turns to you and crosses his arms over his chest, and engages you in a short staring contest.

“What?” you ask, feigning innocence.

Joel swipes the dish rag from the countertop and reveals the evidence you’d hidden under it like he's performing a magic trick.

He holds up the hammer, displaying it to you. He looks mostly disappointed in you - in an oddly paternal way, but also slightly amused, likely by how poorly you’d conducted this whole covert operation of yours. “Why’d you break it?”

“I didn’t break it.”

“Kid, I’m not an idiot. Just fess up, so we can fix it and move on.”

“Are you gonna tell on me?”

“You afraid of your meemaw’s wrath?” he teases.

“I don’t want her to be disappointed in me.”

“Should she be?”

“I didn’t mean to break it. I just wanted it to stop beeping.”

“It’s supposed to beep.”

You give him a pathetic pout that you hope works. It doesn’t. It only makes his gaze harden.

“I’m sorry. It was just one cigarette, and I really, really didn’t want to get in trouble… so when it went off, I panicked and hit it with the hammer.”

He shakes his head and sighs. “You’re a piece of work, kid. Making me come out here on my lunch break-”

“-I’m sorry," you interrupt, "I won’t do it again, so just please, please don’t tell on me.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“I could offer you something… something to show my infinite remorse for my actions and my infinite gratitude to you for fixing the mess I made.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Okay. What’s your offer?”

His smirk makes you think you’re on the same page so you get down on your knees in front of him, but when you look up into his eyes, what stares back at you is complete bewilderment.

“Get up,” he says, offering you his hand.

“I thought…”

“I don’t think you were thinking,” he says condescendingly.

“You’ve gotta learn to listen to the thoughts up here,” he says, tapping you on your temple. “Not the ones down here.” His finger brushes against your clit.

The way he speaks to you only makes it worse, the throbbing, aching feeling between your legs. You can’t find a single thing to say that isn’t ‘please’ followed by some utterly depraved suggestion.

Joel turns back to his work, somehow unfazed by the interaction.

“Normally, I’d think this sounds a bit too chauvinistic to ask, but since you owe me, can you get me a beer from the garage?”

Oh fuck. Three strikes, you’re out.

“We don’t have any beer.”

“You sure about that? I just put a six pack in there last week.”

“Maybe my grandma drank them already…”

“Your grandmother said that Budweiser tastes like cat piss.”

“It does.”

“Yeah? And how would you know that? I thought you weren’t 21 yet. Who’s buying you alcohol?”

“I didn’t know they were yours.”

“Uh-huh, but I bet your grandma would’ve told you they were if you’d asked her. But she doesn’t know about your ‘habits’, does she?”

“No,” you admit weakly.

“Come here.”

You step towards him, and wait for him to give you an earful or to threaten to reveal your secrets.

“I’m reconsidering your little offer.”

Your face lights up at the opportunity to make things right, to expunge this from your record.

“So if I did that, we’d be cool, right?”

“Depends on how good you are, darlin’.”

For a second time that afternoon, you sink to your knees, but this time, Joel gives you the go-ahead. You try to balance the coyness you’ve seen women in the movies demonstrate with the eagerness you feel inside as you undo his belt.

With his jeans halfway down his legs, you place your palm over the bulge in his boxers and feel him twitch at your touch. When his cock is finally released from its confines, you try not to be too intimidated. Your confidence is falling but your arousal only rises.

You begin by wrapping your hand around him and stroking his length, setting a steady pace. Then, you tease the tip with kitten licks and hear his breath hitch when you flick your tongue across his slit.

There’s no way you can take him all the way down your throat – you’d probably bruise your esophagus. Still, you try, sputtering and letting saliva drip down your chin. You can’t help but feel a bit proud of yourself when he has to put his hand on the counter to steady himself.

“Hold on, sweetheart,” he says through heavy breaths.

You pull away, upset at what you perceive to be a failure. “You didn’t cum…”

“I almost did, baby girl, but I don’t want to yet.”

You feel a bit pathetic imagining how you must look from his perspective, with your teary eyes, begging him to let you go on.

“You wanna give me a good apology, right?” He nods slowly, looking into your eyes, prompting you to do the same.

“Then, I want you to come sit on the couch with me.”

He takes your hand and walks you to the living room, patronizing since the two rooms are connected. When Joel sits down on the couch, he pulls you into his lap.

“I was thinkin’ about what I said before – how you’re not using your head. You could be such a smart girl – a good girl - if only you could think with your brain. You just need a little bit of help.”

You can feel his hard cock poking through his boxers and rubbing against your pussy. It’s hard to resist the urge to roll your hips, just to get a bit of friction, a bit of relief.

His hand finds its way between your legs and he asks, “What’s gonna happen if I put my hand in your panties right now, baby? Are you gonna be wet?”

While you try to form a response that doesn’t make you sound too desperate, his fingers toy with your waistband. “Remember, baby, good girls are honest,” he whispers into the shell of your ear.

“Yeah, I am… wet.”

“For me?” His hand meets your bare skin and finds that you are, indeed, dripping wet. “Did I do this to you?”

“Uh-huh.” You arch into his touch, shamelessly using his fingers for your own pleasure.

“If you want more, you have to be a good girl.”

With the promise of a reward, you follow his implied instructions and still your hips.

“I’ll be good. I promise.”

He takes your word for it and begins rubbing circles on your clit. You could cum from that alone but he slips a finger inside you, curling it upward to meet that special spot.

Joel expects a response from you, but not the one he gets.

A single word: “Daddy…”

“Oh, baby. I get it now. Been needin’ daddy to take care of you.”

He’s right. You do need this. He can take care of you, you can be good for him. When he fucks you with his fingers, you swear you could fall in love with him.

But when he takes them away, you cry.

“Shh… It’s okay,” he says, wiping the tears from your cheeks. “I wanna do something else. It’s gonna make you feel even better.”

Before you have a chance to think, your panties are on the floor and his head is between your thighs. You can feel his breath on your clit when he speaks. “I want you to be a good girl and cum on my face – can you do that?”

“Yes, daddy.” The word leaves your mouth more naturally than it probably should, it's almost instinctual.

Joel wastes no more time talking, knowing his tongue can convey much more when it runs along your folds, and his lips can elicit a better response when they suck lightly on your clit.

The only thing you have for him is moans accompanied by breathless chanting of “daddy, daddy, daddy.”

He hums into your core, an affirmative, a reminder that you are a good girl. You can do this.

You can cum for him. You will cum for him – there is nothing that can stop the euphoria that rushes through you. It’s the kind that makes your legs shake and your eyes roll back into your head.

Joel was right – the orgasm clears your mind. But the realization that the situation you’ve ended up in – naked on your grandmother’s couch with her middle-aged neighbor who is supposed to be fixing your mistake, not helping you make another - is a precarious one. Being a smart girl seems to be a double edged sword.

Euphemistically, speaking.

In truth, it’s Joel’s cock that’s fully-sheathed inside you. Pain and pleasure mix as he thrusts in and out of you. You swear he might split you open, but even if he quite literally tore you to pieces, you'd die happily.

“You’re takin’ it so well,” he tells you, “knew you’d be a good girl.”

And maybe it’s the praise, or maybe it’s his thumb on your clit, but you’re rapidly approaching a second orgasm. All you can do is hold onto Joel, dragging your nails down his back. He bites your neck in response, and hopefully he doesn’t intend for it be a deterrent, because it only serves to heighten your pleasure.

He slows his pace, but his hips slam into yours harder, filling the air with the sound of skin slapping against skin in a steady rhythm.

“Whose pussy is this?”

You can’t breathe when the weight of his cock knocks the wind out of you, so he stops, allowing you to answer.

“Yours, daddy!”

His lips on yours are your cue to cum – or so you hope because it happens regardless of your will.

He has the sense to pull out and let his release spill onto your stomach.

You sigh, relaxing into the couch. “I need a cigarette,” you say.

“Did you not learn anything from today?”

“Mm-mm,” you say grinning dumbly.

Caught up in a daze – absolutely enraptured by his need to have you – he made the mistake of fucking you stupid.

[draconic-desire]

💥 Take My Whiskey Neat 💥

Yandere Boothill x Reader

Again and again, you find a way to escape, and every time ends with you peering down the barrel of a gun.

Warnings: Yandere behaviors, forced relationship and captivity, implied kidnapping, some suggestive content but mostly sfw. Mild spoilers for his background story; I want to write him both as a super attentive and protective guy but also crazy for you???

You’ve become all too familiar with the sensation of a gun being pointed to your forehead.

“Aw, darlin’, why the long face? Took me two whole days to find ya this round! You should be proud’a yerself. I dare say our time together has taught you well,” he concludes with a wink.

Somehow, his praise feels more like a taunt.

That’s because it is. Obviously you never had a chance at escaping from him, a Galaxy Ranger with a bounty on his head worth more than your life a hundred times over. He was born and raised to hunt, to track, to kill. You’re just the unlucky target.

He leans the gun ever so slightly closer to you, mere inches before it can graze your skin, and waits for your response. Although you know he won’t pull the trigger, the sight of the 9 millimeter colt aimed directly between your eyes still sends goose flesh skittering down your arms.

You grit your teeth and pin him with a withering glare. The last thing you’ll relinquish is your pride—you’re not intimidated by him, and it is impressive that you evaded him for so long, relatively speaking. Your other escape attempts lasted mere hours.

Unfortunately, the fact that the Ranger has always traveled alone doesn’t help your chances—especially when lately, his only occupation has been you.

“What, no clap back today? No, ‘fudge you, ya son of a nice lady’ or ‘fork you, shirtbaggin’ bootlicker’? I’ve gotten so used to yer colorful language that I’m almost disappointed!” Boothill tilts the gun and juts his hips, his bullseye gaze locked on your own.

Ignoring the subtle look of longing, of hurt, within their depths is getting harder and harder. He’s superb at hiding it behind jokes and attempted curses, but you know that look. He’s clinging to you after all that’s been taken from him, seeking love after it was destroyed in flames. If only he still held onto his human emotions and didn’t rely on that neuro chip of his; then he’d know that what he’s showing you isn’t love, but obsession.

You wish you had never extended your kindness to him that fateful day, when he’d burst into your home, sparks flying and wires exposed. One of his arms was barely attached, completely torn through with bullet holes. A shootout, he’d said, and he’d caught wind of a handy ‘machine doctor’—a mechanic, you’d corrected him—in town who could fix him right up.

It had taken a full two weeks for you to get him back up and running functionally. Two weeks of evading IPC grunts knocking on your door in search of him, two weeks of tolerating (and fine, maybe even enjoying) his crude jokes, and two weeks of stories over a glass of whiskey, about your hope to one day travel among the stars and his of finding a companion to do so with.

That’s when he’d seemed the most human. Voice tinged with sorrow, yes, but lips curved into a morose smile, eyes looking up at the stars. Reminiscing about when he was still fully human, nothing but a cowboy on a seemingly insignificant planet, surrounded by his adopted parents and siblings, and even that little girl whom he never got to see grow up.

After he’d shared his story, you’d felt the sudden urge to be close to him. Without thinking, you’d brought your hand up to his cheek, wiping an invisible tear despite the fact that he lost his tear ducts long ago.

He’d sucked in a breath and gone deadly still; thinking you misjudged the situation and overstepped a boundary, you’d quickly started to jerk your hand back, only for him to lock it firmly against his face with his metal palm.

His voice, normally loud and clear through the synthesized distortion, had been quiet, low, wavering. “I—please, don’t stop. That feels…nice.”

You were sad to see him go after those two weeks. You honestly expected to never see him again—he was a Galaxy Ranger, after all, the definition of a lone wolf—but to your surprise, his visits didn’t end there. He kept returning again and again, and not just for repairs. Sometimes he’d bring you gifts or tell you stories of his hunt, and you’d cherish those moments when the galaxy felt just a bit less lonely with him.

Then the visits started to increase in their frequency—and intensity. He’d show up while you were working with a client and brazenly threaten them to leave so he could occupy your time instead, or he’d appear on your doorstep in the middle of the night with your favorite bottle of liquor, winking at the sight of your embarrassed form, still in your nightclothes. Your world suddenly seemed to revolve around the gunslinging cyborg.

You’d had to put your foot down—as much as you did enjoy his company, you wouldn’t allow him to interfere with your career. You’d worked hard to gain your skills, and even though you were barely scraping by and living in a tiny, modest home by yourself, you were still proud of what you’d achieved on your own.

His initial reaction was an uncharacteristic and frightening bout of silence, his pupils blown wide, locked onto yours. Just as quickly, his typical smirk returned as he laughed it off. “Just watch out, lil cutie, ‘cause I know you’ll be missin’ me soon.”

Apparently, soon was imminent, immediate. You were pouring yourself a drink after a long week of work when he finally kicked down your door and announced you’d be coming with him.

“I’ve been waiting a long while now to claim you, darlin’.”

“And if I refuse?”

That was the first time you witnessed his gun trained on you.

Now, Boothill drags you along everywhere, hopping from one planet or system to the next, living together as nomads. What you believed to be a serendipitous friendship, he thought was the start of your romance and life together.

It would be thrilling in any other circumstance, treading the path of The Hunt, evading the law, tracking down the IPC members who destroyed his family…except the cyborg transferred that need to protect, to save someone, onto you. You have no choice but to be his now, and he’ll be damned if he ever lets you go.

“You just want to hear me curse because you can’t,” you growl. What a stupid argument to be having with a pistol to your head. Yet you can’t help but siphon all of your anger into this dumb little game of cat and mouse, of shark and minnow, of hunter and bird.

He forgets you’re not the only one armed.

You flash him the most vulgar gesture you can make. “Go fuck yourself, Boothill.”

The cowboy throws his head back in a laugh. “Haha! There she is. Wild as a newborn colt.” He grins, flashing those shark teeth you’d groan to loathe. You’ve lost count of the number of puncture marks and scars they’ve littered across your flesh.

That’s something he can’t seem to get enough of—the feel of your warm, organic, human skin against his cold, steel shell.

“Lan shoot me with an arrow, do you ever shut the fuck up?” you grumble, looking up as if the Aeon will give you an answer.

“Think ya already know the answer to that,” he replies, lowering his weapon to sling his opposite arm around your shoulders. The gun hangs languidly from his other hand, as if he’s not the deadliest shot in the galaxy.

His breath brushes your neck as he leans in and nips at your ear. “Now, how ‘bout we take this back home, eh cutie? Two days without you has got me pretty…” His voice drops an octave. “…pent up, if ya know what I mean.”

The tooth marks along your skin flare. Oh, you know all too well.

~*~

Trying to find the solution to your imprisonment at the bottom of a bottle seems like a really clever idea, at least until the room starts spinning.

The empty glass cracks against the wooden table again as brown liquor burns down your throat. What did he call it? Rocket fuel? Damn right, and you’d lost count of the number of shots you’d taken.

Boothill’s normal smirk is contorted into a small frown. “Darlin’, I know it’s been a long couple’a days away for you, but I think we should retire the whiskey for the time being—”

“Shyut up!” you slur, jabbing a finger at the Ranger, your neck still throbbing from all the love bites and hickeys he’d given you. “Thiz is your fault.”

He reaches for the bottle, but you snatch it away and instead start to take pulls directly from it. A deep sigh reverberates behind you as you stand and begin to spin around, hands extended. “Aren’t we celebrating you catching me again? You got what you wanted, you…you mudder…fuuuu…” You sway and just barely catch yourself before you tumble—wait, no, that’s him steadying your shoulders.

“(Y/n).” You blink out of your haze momentarily; only on rare occasions does he use your name and not things like darling or cutie. His face is controlled, mouth tilted downward. “Put the bottle down. I know the feelin’ of wanting to drown in liquor, but it ain’t right.”

“I’m only like this because you took me from my life!”

He bares his teeth, and you know you hit a nerve. “That little shack you called a home? Was that really livin’? All those nights we talked, you said how you wanted grand adventure and risk! To travel and see the stars! To be with me!”

“I didn’t ask for you to put me in a moving cage,” you spit back, trying to shake out of his iron-clad grip. “But you never asked what I wanted, did you?”

“Why’s this all so hard for you to accept?” One hand moves to grab your chin, tilting your face towards his tall form. “It could be just us, ridin’ through the galaxy for all time.” His lips brush lightly against your own, and you feel a tinge of warmth run down your spine. “Just be mine.”

In your drunken stupor, your anger morphs into something else, something more carnal. He wants to be the predator? Well, even the hunted fight back sometimes.

The bottle drops from your hand, shattering against the floor, as you hook an arm around his neck and kiss him fervently, your tongue running along the edges of his pointed canines.

Before he can kiss you back, you pull away, wiping the back of your mouth with your forearm. “That’s what could have been if you hadn’t kidnapped me. If you’d asked me first.” Skipping over the remnants of the whiskey bottle, you flip him the finger over your shoulder as you walk away. “Too bad that’s all you’ll get. Fork you, Boothill.”

As soon as you leave the room, Boothill raises a metal digit to his lips, savoring the sensation of your warm mouth against his. So that’s what your willing kiss feels like. The true passion he knows is hidden deep in your soul, buried beneath the dirt like an unmarked grave. He releases a breathy laugh.

Well fork him sideways, but he wants more.

Taking his hat off, he sets it on the table and moves to pour himself a glass of sherry. He’s nearly positive he’ll find you passed out in bed if he goes to you now, and knows he shouldn’t, can’t be in the same room with you when his self control is so near to breaking. Better to let you sleep it off and tease you about the kiss in the morning.

Boothill kicks his feet up and takes a long sip. So, it turns out your drunken self may actually be harboring some attraction for him. Yeah, he can use that.

“I’ll have you someday,” he whispers, a promise to both you and himself. “Whiskey ain’t the only thing that’ll be on your lips, darlin’.”

[hintsofhoney]

Mine

Paring(s): Alpha!Dean Winchester x F!Omega!Reader

Summary: When Dean is forced to mark Y/N in order to not blow their cover on a case, it leads him to reveal a secret that he's been keeping since they met.

Square(s) Filled: biting for @anyfandomkinkbingo

Tags: 18+, true mates, smut, p in v, marking, a/b/o if that wasn't already obvious lmao, knotting

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: Helloooo, it's been a minute. If I'm being honest, I have about 10-15 finished works just sitting in my "ready to post" folder, but posting is always such an ordeal, so they just stay there until I feel like dealing with Tumblr. But, this one I did write over the last two days after I finished reading Bride by Ali Hazelwood, which I loved so much that it made me want to dip my toes into the Omegaverse! That being said, I don't know how much in here is actually in line with A/B/O "rules", but I know I needed to twist some things to fit the story (e.g. in this specific A/B/O fic/universe, claiming marks will fade if they're not true mates). Huge thank you to my A/B/O girlies, @makeadealwithdean and @emoryhemsworth, for reading it over, I love you both to the moon and back! I hope you all enjoy!

You can also read me on Ao3!

DEAN WINCHESTER MASTERLIST |  SUPERNATURAL MASTERLIST |  MAIN MASTERLIST

“We get in, find the knife, get out, got it?” Dean asks, looking between Sam in the front seat and Y/N in the back, making sure everyone is on the same page. They both nod once in understanding, before the three of them make their way out of the car, their doors slamming shut simultaneously. 

Y/N stares up at the mansion before them, the music loud, the party raging. It’s some charity event thrown by the wealthiest Alpha in the state, and he just happens to have the weapon they need to finish out this hunt. Y/N stumbles a bit, tripping over the cobblestone driveway in her heels, and she catches the sleeve of Dean’s suit to steady herself. He shoots her a glare that tells her to pull it together. They need to blend in.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

“Here,” Dean replies, grabbing her wrist and pulling it through the crook formed by his bent elbow, forcing them to walk arm-in-arm.

“I don’t need –”

“You are an Omega, Y/N. And there are upwards of a hundred Alphas here who can all smell it. So what you need to do is start acting like one. Just because I’m not some asshole Alpha who demands your respect doesn’t mean they aren’t, and we can’t risk drawing attention to ourselves.”

Y/N takes a deep breath and plasters on a fake smile as they move slowly up the driveway. “Anyone who demands my respect just because of some bullshit biological hierarchy doesn’t deserve it,” she grits out.

Dean stops, turning to face her, one of his hands on either side of her biceps. “Do you want to be on this case or not?” 

His voice is lower than usual, demanding and gruff. A voice he only uses when he wants to remind her that he is an Alpha, and bullshit biological hierarchy aside, her body is wired to listen to him. 

She gulps, and he tries not to focus on the bob in her throat, the pulse in her neck near her gland, the scent of her. The moment he met her he knew who she was, what they were. Are. He’s been taking scent blockers since before he met her, finding it far easier to interact with other Alphas when investigating cases if they couldn’t scent him out, but the moment he met her, he knew he had to start taking rut blockers too. Though, it feels like the longer he’s around her, the more immune he becomes to the pills. Like she’s going to send him into a rut any fucking second, and she has no idea. He’s thought about telling her so many times, but mates come with strings. Strings that aren’t conducive to the life of a hunter.

“Yes,” she answers his question meekly, almost submissively, and he nods to cover the hormones he forces himself to swallow down. Rejecting your biology is not easy, no matter how many pills you take.

“Then I’m going to need you to take my arm, put on a smile, and act like being an Omega is the greatest joy of your life. That means –”

“I know how to be a good little Omega, Dean,” she interrupts, dragging the words ‘good little Omega’ through a sarcastic tone.

He tenses slightly at her words, sarcastic or not. Good little Omega.

“I’m only bad for you,” she continues with a cheeky wink, and fuck, he might explode. Hell, he might take her into the bushes right now and mark her, claim her, before parading her around in front of this entire fucking party with his teeth marks on her neck. He’s rigid, trying to keep himself under control, and she gives him a playful pat on his shoulder. “Lighten up, Alpha,” she teases. “I’ll be a good girl.”

Jesus fucking Christ. He gives her biceps a squeeze that he hopes comes off as reassuring as he’s trying to make it seem, before linking his arm with hers once more and catching up to Sam at the front of the driveway.

The trio is greeted by the owner of the mansion himself, one Jim Myers, who welcomes them in with a smile on his face and a cigar in his hand. 

“How Gatsby-esque,” Y/N mutters under her breath, watching as Myers shakes Sam’s hand.

Dean nods in agreement. “You definitely wore the right outfit.”

Y/N blushes as she looks down at her dress; a black, semi body-hugging cocktail dress bedazzled with gold sequins in some sort of art deco pattern. All she’s missing is a cigarette holder and a feather in her hair. 

“Only because I read the invitation. Unlike some of us,” she mumbles in reply.

“Watch it, Omega,” Dean grits out, plastering on a smile as soon as Myers comes over to greet him.

“Jim Myers, pleasure,” he says, shaking Dean’s hand.

“Dean. And this is Y/N.”

She keeps the cordial smile on her face as Jim takes her hand and brings it to his lips, kissing it gently before inhaling her scent. 

“Pleasure, Miss Y/N,” he says with a feral grin, his eyes darkening with unmistakable lust as he lets her hand fall back to her side. 

Dean takes a step forward, unable to stop himself. “Mine,” he practically growls, and Jim takes a step back, throwing his hands up in surrender. 

“My apologies. I didn’t see a mark, so I just assumed.”

Dean falters, clearing his throat, suddenly reminded of the reason they’re all here in the first place. “No, that’s alright. It’s my fault for not putting it in a visible place.” His eyes dart over to Y/N’s. “I think I’m gonna fix that.”

She ducks her head but can’t hide the red flush that creeps up into her cheeks, reminding herself that it’s just her biology, and that this is all for show anyway. They’re here to do a job, and sometimes those jobs involve… well, whatever the hell just happened. And clearly, Dean is a better actor than she gives him credit for.

Jim chuckles, clasping his hands together. “Well, you three have fun, the drinks are free, the food is good, and if you,” he points at Sam, “good sir, are in search of an Omega, there are plenty to choose from.”

Sam blushes. “Right.” He nods. “Thanks.”

And with that, Jim disappears into the crowd.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Sam says. “You two go. Upstairs, down the hall, third door on the right. If I got the right blueprints.”

“If you got the right blueprints?” Dean asks.

“Just go.” He taps his ear to indicate that he’ll drop in on Dean’s earpiece if anything goes wrong. 

Dean sighs, taking Y/N by the hand and leading her up the stairs. He weaves in and out of the crowd, the scents of everyone mixing together, making it impossible to decipher who is what. Y/N’s never been more glad to be on heat suppressors; knowing full well the scents of this many Alphas invading her nostrils would send her body into a major one.

Dean quickly finds the door, and they slip into the room unnoticed, closing the barrier and switching on the light. It’s a bedroom — the master, from the looks of it — and the knife is right in front of them in the middle of the room, across from the foot of the bed. It’s in a glass case, on display, and likely armed with a million alarms, but right in front of them nonetheless. 

“Son of a bitch,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair as he thinks about what the next move should be.

“We could find something that weighs the same? Lift the glass and replace it super fast?” Y/N offers.

“Unfortunately, I think it’s the glass that’s probably set to trip an alarm. But the fact that you’re applying Indiana Jones to real life scenarios is making me want to —” 

He stops himself, realizing what he was about to say. He needs to get himself under control but Y/N in that dress with her smart fucking mouth, with other Alphas eyeing her, he really shouldn’t be here, with her, alone, and —

“Making you want to what?” she asks.

Shit. “Making me want to… make you watch more of them,” he replies, opting to circle the display case, searching it for a way in to distract himself from her. 

“Oh, goody. Can’t wait.” She’s as monotone and sarcastic as ever, and every time something smart comes out of her mouth he has to resist the urge to bend her over and fuck her right then.

“Get out of there now,” Sam’s voice comes in on Dean’s earpiece. “Lost track of him for a few seconds, just found him again. He’s making his way upstairs.”

“Shit,” Dean says. “Shit, shit, shit.” He looks around the room frantically. If they go out the door, Myers will without a doubt see them leaving his room. “Myers is coming,” he explains to a confused-looking Y/N.

“Fucking — God dammit.” She looks around too, for a hiding spot, for a weapon, and then she spots herself in the mirror hanging on the wall and an idea comes to her. “Mark me,” she orders.

“What?” Dean snaps, his attention fully on her.

“Get over here and mark me. You told him you were going to make it visible.” She continues before Dean can protest. “Who knows if it’ll even stay, it’s not like we’re mates, right? And if it does, I don’t mind being bound to you for the rest of ever. It’s not like I’m having much luck in the relationship department anyway. But we need that knife, and we’re not going to get it if we don’t –”

“Fuck,” he says under his breath with a quick shake of his head, before he strides across the room and pushes her up against the wall just in time to hear the door click. He inhales her scent, his mouth trailing from the base of her jaw all the way down to her mating gland where it hovers as the door opens all the way. Then he bites down.

Y/N throws her head back, her fingers digging into Dean’s shoulders as his teeth sink into her, and none of it is for show. The pain is euphoric, and her senses heighten, and she suddenly wishes she hadn’t been so stringent on taking her fucking pills, because whatever this feeling is, coursing through her veins, settling in her core, she needs to feel it more. She can’t stand how dulled it is, how it just stays there, simmering underneath the surface. She wants to erupt. 

“Mm, fuck, Alpha!” she cries out, no trace of sarcasm in her voice, and Dean’s hands grip her hips tight enough to bruise them. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Jim exclaims. “Got an alert that someone was in here, there’s some very valuable things in here, you see, and I just wanted to make sure —”

Dean pulls away from her neck long enough to shoot him a glare that translates to “get out or I’m going to kill you”, and Jim gets the message, backing out the door and shutting it behind him. 

“Fuck,” Dean breathes, letting his forehead fall to Y/N’s shoulder. He shouldn’t be so close to her. He should back away, give himself some space to breathe. But her scent keeps him rooted in place. It’s her usual scent; something like freshly baked sugar cookies and vanilla, sweet and enticing, but there’s something else, something —

“Are you guys okay?” Sam’s voice in his damn ear again.

Dean lifts his head and presses the button on his earpiece to reply. “Fine, Sam. Give us a second.” Then he takes the earpiece out and tosses it over his shoulder, more agitated than he should be at his brother just trying to check in.

“Dean,” she breathes, and she sounds absolutely wrecked. She brings her hands to his cheeks, forcing him to look at her. “Are you okay?” 

He nods. Her touch is like fire on his skin. He needs her. 

Y/N squeezes her thighs together. She’s never been able to scent Dean before, but he’s never been this close for this long. He’s never marked her, either. Right now his scent is breaking through the suppressants, little by little. It’s bits of cedar and leather and whiskey, and she’s never smelt anything like it, yet it is so familiar somehow. It invades her senses, and if this is what he smells like with suppressants, she’s terrified of what would happen without them.

“Dean… your scent.” She closes her eyes and inhales deeply.

“Fuck, my pills must’ve worn off, I —”

She shakes her head. “It’s dulled but… but it’s there.” Her thighs clench together again, and she needs him back on her skin. “It’s there and it’s so fucking good.”

Dean’s eyes fall to the gland on her neck, and the severity of what he’s done comes crashing into him like a wrecking ball. It’s enough to force him to take a step away from her, panic rising in his chest. “I – fuck. I marked you. I fucking marked you.”

Y/N’s fingers come up to graze the indent on her neck, and she shudders at the touch. “I told you to.”

“No, you don’t understand, Y/N –”

“I know what happens when mates get marked, Dean,” she interrupts matter-of-factly. “I’m sure this’ll fade.”

“It won’t. I – I shouldn’t have done that. Fuck. Fuck!” He turns to the wall next to him, hitting it with the side of his closed fist. 

“Dean.” Her touch on his arm is gentle and comforting, but he doesn’t turn to face her. “You need to calm down. It’s really not a big deal, I –”

Dean takes a deep breath, both hands on the wall now as he collects himself. He can’t even bring himself to look at her when he says, “You’re my mate, Y/N.”

She takes a step back, and her fading scent is what makes him finally face her. She’s halfway across the room by the time he does. 

“W-what do you mean?”

“You’re my mate, Y/N,” he repeats.

She shakes her head, her hand coming to her neck again, the teeth marks seared into her skin. “N-no. H-how? When? How – how long have you known?”

Dean takes another long, deep breath. He could lose her tonight. She could run and never come back and he wouldn’t blame her. “Since we met.”

“THREE YEARS!?” she roars. “YOU’VE KNOWN FOR THREE FUCKING YEARS!?”

“Y/N, I –”

She stalks toward him, one finger outstretched, one fist clenched by her side. She points at him as she backs him into a wall, and he’s incredibly turned on and incredibly scared at the same time. 

“You’ve known that we’re fucking mates for three years, and you didn’t feel as though that was pertinent fucking information to tell me!?”

Dean swallows. “I – it’s – there are… strings with mates. You know that. I didn’t want to ball and chain you. I didn’t want to keep you anywhere you didn’t want to be. And if – fuck – we’re hunters, Y/N. If something had happened to me, and you knew… I didn’t want you to have to live with that. With the pain that comes with losing a true mate.”

Y/N stops half a foot away and drops her accusatory finger. “What did you say?” she whispers.

“True… mates,” Dean breathes.

“We’re…? But… We never – I don’t –”

“With me on my pills, and you on your pills, I think it was enough to… so we just never…”

“But you knew,” she says, closing the gap between them, her hand coming up to caress his cheek. “You knew for so long and you watched me go on dates, had to listen about the… things I did with other Alphas… if I had mated with one of them, you –”

“You deserved to have a choice. Regardless of what I wanted, you deserved to have a choice.” 

“My choice could’ve left you depressed and alone and celibate forever, you fucking dumbass.” 

He shrugs, and her hand falls to rest over his heart. She stares at it as she continues.

“When you… marked me… I felt… I don’t know what I felt. Nothing’s ever been so intense.”

She looks up at him through her eyelashes, and he smiles softly.

“That’s the bond,” he explains, his large palm coming to rest over the hand on his chest. 

“And if we weren’t on… our blockers?”

“If we weren’t on our blockers, there’s no fucking telling how many pups we’d have running around by now.”

Y/N shivers as the thought of being bred settles in her core, and for once she’s not cursing her biology. Dean chuckles faintly at her reaction, dropping his forehead to hers. 

“We can practice in the meantime. Until you decide you want off of them.”

She inhales deeply, taking in as much of his scent as she can. “Oh, I –” another deep breath, “I’m getting off of them for sure.”

Dean lets out a borderline animalistic growl, thinking about how many times he’ll get to fuck her through that first heat. “I’m gonna stop taking my pills, too,” he says breathily.

“Yeah?”

“I had to get on rut blockers when you moved into the Bunker because I knew I wouldn’t be able to control myself. But now,” he says, spinning them both around and pinning Y/N against the wall, “now I don’t fuckin’ have to.”

“Dean,” she half gasps, half moans. He kisses the mark on her neck before licking all the way up to her jaw line and pulling back. 

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy, Omega.”

She meets his feral gaze with one of her own, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Prove it.” 

And it might be an incredibly stupid thing to say to a horny Alpha, but it’s also Dean. And he’d never hurt her.

“Mm, fuck.” His voice is raspy and wrecked and they haven’t even done anything yet. Before Y/N can process what’s happening, he’s picking her up and throwing her onto the bed. He climbs over her, hovering for a moment, taking in her flushed cheeks, the warmth radiating off of her, her scent. “You’re beautiful,” he states plainly, like it’s the one fact in the world that he knows without a doubt to be true. 

Y/N blushes. “Thank you, Alpha.” She says it because she knows what it does to him. 

“You’re beautiful, and I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you.” 

A gasp leaves her lips as he pushes her dress up her hips and moves down her body to the foot of the mattress, his fingertips dancing along the hem of her panties before his eyes meet with hers. She gives him a nod, and it’s all the confirmation he needs before pulling them down her legs and tossing them aside. 

He watches hungrily as she spreads her thighs, her core damn near dripping with her wetness, and if this is what it’s like when she’s on heat blockers, he can’t even begin to imagine what it’ll look like covered in her slick. His cock grows hard in his slacks at the thought, and he has to step off the bed to take off his pants and boxers before the containment grows painful. He shrugs off his suit jacket and white dress shirt too, and when he’s standing in front of the bed, fully naked, Y/N is propping herself up on her elbows to take him in.

“Holy – fuck,” is all she can get out. 

Dean chuckles deeply, one knee coming up onto the mattress as he fists his cock. “Fuck, sweetheart.” He looks her over again, pussy glistening, nipples peaked through her dress. “Fuck, I want you to – would you present for me?”

A smirk spreads across her lips, but she doesn’t say anything before flipping over and assuming the position. Ass up, legs shoulder width apart, chest resting on the mattress. 

Dean lets out a low and guttural, “Fuuuuck,” and it’s enough to make her pussy clench around nothing. She feels the mattress dip behind her, and when his cock starts to move through her folds, she almost cums right then and there. 

“I know you you wish you weren’t an Omega,” he starts, “but you’re a fuckin’ perfect one, baby.” 

She shakes her head, soft whimpers escaping her as he continues to tease her with his dick. “I’m glad I’m an Omega, because I’m yours.” 

With that, Dean loses what little self control he has left. He lines himself up with her entrance and sinks into her heat, and she feels so fucking perfect, the way she molds around his cock. The noises leaving her throat spur him on as he thrusts into her, setting a bruising pace. He wraps his hand around her shoulder for leverage, his other gripping her ass.

“Oh my fuck!” she practically screams, and he can feel how close she is, can smell it. 

“You’re gonna be a good little Omega and cum for me, aren’t you baby?” he pants, and he couldn’t be thrusting deeper if he tried.

She nods frantically. “Yesyesyes, please, Alpha, I wanna to cum. I wanna — mm, fuck — on your —”

She’s too fucked out to even finish her sentence, and Dean can feel himself about to fall over the edge. “What’s that, sweetheart? Speak up.”

“I wanna cum — oh, God! — on your knot. Fucking fill me up, Dean, please.”

He barely manages another thrust before he buries himself to the hilt, the base of his cock swelling inside her as he pumps her full of his seed.

The feeling of him filling her sends her over the edge, her pussy clenching around his cock, his knot, and she feels so full and fucked and sated.

“Oh my fucking fuuuuck,” he groans, feeling her pulse around him. “Fuck, everyone and this fuckin’ party is gonna be able to smell me inside of you.”

She moans at his words.

“Gonna have me dripping down your thighs ‘til we get back home.” His hand squeezes the globe of her ass before he leans over, getting as close to her ear as he can. “And then I’m gonna fuck you again. And again. And again. Because we got three years to make up for.” He nips at her ear playfully. “And now you’re finally mine.”

[pathologicalreid]

Can I please request protective Spencer x BAU!Reader who get "lightly" hurt or put in danger bc SWAT or local police made a mistake, and Spencer goes OFF on them. Hotch or Rossi have to calm him down because no one but the BAU knows theyre dating. I'd love to see protective Spencer if possible :)

no sign of danger | S.R.

when SWAT makes a mistake that puts you in danger, your boyfriend is... displeased

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: flangst content warnings: bloody nose, concussion, split lip, blood, mild violence. spencer reid says the f word. word count: 1.58k a/n: anon, not to be dramatic but something about writing this changed my brain chemistry. thank you for requesting!!! i hope you like it!

The time between arriving at a scene and when SWAT cleared the building was almost always intolerable. There were too many variables at play. It made you uneasy.

So, you waited, leaning on the side of an SUV with your Kevlar already strapped on, you turned to look at Hotch, “We’ve got an audience.”

Breadcrumbs that Garcia had picked up led the team to a house in a small town in Arizona. Unfortunately, the FBI garnered a lot of attention, and neighbors were starting to gather around the house. Hotch nodded, “Reid, JJ, work with the locals on crowd control, and make sure no one is recording. The last thing we need is for the news crews to show up.”

You offered Spencer a small smile as he turned to follow the blond to the barrier. He waved behind his back as he walked away.

Chuckling from right next to you got your attention, just to see Morgan shaking his head, “You two have it so bad.”

“I like to think we have it good, actually,” you said, flushing slightly. The teasing came with the territory, dating within the BAU meant never knowing a moment of peace – especially with Derek Morgan around.

There wasn’t an opportunity for him to respond, because as soon as he opened his mouth, your radio buzzed to life in your ear, “Building is clear. No sign of danger.” At the sound of the SWAT commander’s voice, you and Morgan surged forward to enter the building, Emily and Hotch following close behind.

Behind you, Hotch cleared his throat, “Morgan, Y/L/N, take the two rooms in the back, we’ll take the front.”

Nodding at your orders, you and Morgan walked past the staircase and to the opposite end of the house, where the kitchen and the den were. “This place looks like it’s been abandoned,” you thought aloud, dragging your index finger along the kitchen counter, and cringing when it came back covered in dust.

As you wiped your hand on your jeans, you looked up to see Morgan sorting through a vinyl record collection. “You’re right. It doesn’t look like anyone’s even entered this house in years.”

You hummed, opening the first cabinet you saw, wrinkling your nose at the discovery that the house also smelled like it had been abandoned. As you went to close the cabinet, the one below you swung open, the force of the doors almost knocking you to the ground.

Stumbling back, you saw a flash of hands before you were slammed into the refrigerator behind you. Immediately, you dropped to the floor, watching as Morgan tackled the guy and shouted for Hotch and Prentiss.

“We need an ambulance, Y/N’s down,” Emily spoke urgently into her radio while Morgan cuffed your attacker.

You winced at the way the radio buzzed in your ear; the way Emily’s voice echoed combined with the throbbing pain in your head made you nauseous. “What do you mean ‘Y/N’s down’?” Spencer’s voice rang through the radios, prompting you to haphazardly yank the coiled wire from your ear.

Everything sounded like you were underwater, Emily and Hotch asked you questions as the fog cleared from your head, “You’re bleeding,” Emily said, there was a worried look in her eyes.

Hesitantly, you pulled your hand from your face, just to see it covered in blood. You weren’t even sure how long you had been holding your hand to your face. “Can you stand?” Hotch asked you, his tone was concerned, but there was something else buried within it.

Nodding slowly, both of them helped you stand. Emily hooked an arm through yours when you stumbled slightly, she led you out of the house and to the ambulance. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Morgan place his hand atop your attacker’s head, protecting it from the top of the police cruiser.

As soon as you sat down on the back of the ambulance, an EMT handed you a towel to hold to your nose. Your eyes flittered up to see Spencer approaching the ambulance, but to your surprise, he turned at the last moment and faced down the SWAT commander. “What happened in there?” He asked, his tone wholly accusatory.

“It looks like the person of interest was hiding in the kitchen when your team entered,” Commander Polk answered, obviously thinking Spencer was just asking for a sort of status report.

Spencer shook his head, “We’re hunting for a serial killer, and you had the audacity to miss the presence of an entire person?” He asked incredulously, “Did you even clear the kitchen?” He pointed in the direction of the house, where Rossi and JJ were now entering to look around more.

The SWAT commander faltered for a moment, “Someone did, but it wasn’t me personally.”

You winced as the EMT prodded at your face, surmising that your nose wasn’t broken, just bleeding badly as a result of the blunt force of the refrigerator. She pulled your hand from your face so she could inspect for any further damage. You opened your mouth to talk, but the EMT was quick to stop you, “You shouldn’t talk, not until we can look at the cut on your lip.”

While the EMTs got more supplies out, Emily helped you take off your Kevlar vest, undoing the Velcro for you and gently tugging it off. The entire front of it was covered in blood, you winced at the sight of the now-red letters.

“You need to figure out whoever checked the kitchen and make sure they know what they’re doing,” Spencer said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Commander Polk’s demeanor instantly changed, “I assure you, agent, we take training our team very seriously. This was just a mistake.”

Even from this distance, you saw Spencer roll his eyes. “First of all, it’s doctor,” he corrected – at which you rolled your eyes. “Second of all, of course, you take training seriously, it’s mandated by the federal government. This was a mistake, a mistake that ended in the injury of a federal agent,” you looked from Hotch to Spencer, hoping your unit chief would do something before Spencer got punched by the SWAT commander. “SWAT making mistakes gets other law enforcement officers killed,” he continued.

“What’s your point, doctor?” The commander asked.

Spencer cleared his throat, “I’m saying you’re fucking lucky she didn’t get killed, or else-“

“Reid!” Hotch called, stalking over to where your boyfriend was nearly getting into a fistfight with SWAT. He muttered something unintelligible to Polk before dragging Spencer away by the elbow, “What was that?”

Your boyfriend threw his hands up in the air, “He needed to be made aware of their mistake.”

Sternly, your unit chief shook his head, “They are aware, Reid, and I assure you I’m not going to drop it and there will be an internal investigation into what went wrong.” He raised his eyebrows, “That being said, it’s not your job to take care of mistakes made by other people.”

“No,” Spencer agreed, “but it is my job to take care of her,” he said, gesturing over to where you were sitting in the back of the ambulance.

Hotch pointed around to the locals and other SWAT members, “They don’t know that, Reid.” He whispered, keeping his voice down so he didn’t expose your relationship to everyone in the Arizona town. “Let me take care of it,” was his final statement before he walked back to Commander Polk.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Spencer spun around and finally walked over to you. Emily nodded at you before stepping away, “Are you alright?” He asked.

You flashed him a thumbs up, gesturing toward the EMT, who answered for you, “We just glued the gash on her lip, so she can’t really talk right now. She’ll be fine though, maybe a small scar, if anything.”

“Good,” Spencer said, ambling over and taking a seat next to you. “I was so worried about you,” he murmured, and you watched as he restrained himself from touching you.

Humming, you leaned into him for just a moment. Your movement was intentional, but it was quick enough that any passersby would assume you were just unsteady.

The EMTs left once the glue on your lip dried, directing you to ice it periodically to help with swelling and handing you care instructions.

You were left with a mild concussion, a split lip, and ruined clothes. All things considered, you felt like you were pretty lucky. The rest of the team piled into the SUVs, you and Spencer sitting in the back of one with Hotch at the helm and Emily in the passenger seat. “Who knew Reid had it in him?” Emily wondered aloud, eliciting a small laugh from you.

“I can’t believe you almost got into a physical fight with SWAT over a split lip and concussion,” you said, smiling slightly, but stopping as you felt the glue on your lip tugging.

Spencer rolled his eyes, “It wasn’t over the split lip and concussion, it was over the abhorrent display of-“

“Reid,” Hotch said in his no-nonsense tone.

Your boyfriend slouched back in his seat, “So, maybe it was over the split lip and concussion.”

Closing your eyes, you reached over the middle seat and took his hand in yours, “Thanks, Spence.” You whispered so that only he could hear, leaning over the gap between you and setting your head on his shoulder.

please remember to like, reblog, and/or comment if you enjoyed!

[lunarfleur]

how aboutttt something with katsuki and him doing acts of service as his love language ?

Acts Of Service Bf Katsuki

Warnings: Mention of mental health! Not proofread!

A/N: Katsuki Bakugo they could never make me hate you

GN reader

Bro is NOT going to be lovey dovey and call you teddy bear.

And you’re most likely in the hero course because I can’t see him with someone who’s not.

Katsuki is emotionally constipated, so affection is rare

Most people don’t realize you guys are dating, actually

You just have to learn to read between the lines!

More than most things, he cares about his diet.

He skips out on “sometimes foods”, as he calls them, and prefers foods that are high in protein

He’s typically the one who makes your guys’ food and always makes things that are good for you

He doesn’t necessarily control what you eat, but a lot of his food is added into your diet so!

He’ll make you tea over coffee, and is always reminding you to drink water!

But aside from food, he normally does things that just makes your life more comfortable.

He’ll tidy up your shelves or fold laundry you haven’t gotten to (he’ll scold you for letting your room get messy because he’s a bit of a neat freak)

He’ll change your sheets or refill your water bottle

He irons your school uniform for you!!

And also just the tiniest things like untangling your headphone wires (if your have them) or charging your phone when it gets low

If you tease him about it, he’ll just tell you he’s doing you a favor (because he is)

Which is also why he’s good at dealing with bad mental health

He knows. Better than anyone.

So he never lets it get bad

When times are hardest for you, he goes out of his way a little more.

He’ll clean up the big messes he normally lets you take care of in order to prevent a depression room (he knows it can be overwhelming)

He’ll create a copy of the notes from your classes for you in case you didn’t feel like it

And even though he knows you might hate it, he always has you up at a decent time

On school days, it’s so you have enough time to get ready and eat (looking good can help you feel good)

On weekends it’s to go on runs and/or train

And if you complain?

“I’m doing you a favor.”

He really is.

[bindeds]

𐔌  ✦₊  PRINCESS TREATMENT  𝜗𝜚 . WRIOTHESLEY  𑁤

⭑ — the duke shows you unending generosity when you visit your inmate father often and long past visiting hours due to your long shifts at work. Your father blows up at you again and wriothesley is more worried than he should be. As he walks you back to the surface, you find out why. 

wc. 8.5k cw.   nsfw 18+ , fem reader ,  hints of reader having a toxic family , reader’s father doesn’t trust wrio , reader probably has daddy issues , pent up wrio , soft wrio , fwb , wrio being courteous as hell , nicknames used: good girl, princess

៳ note.   I haven’t played genshin in years so I’m probably going to get something wrong despite my research (wasn’t sure if transport in fontaine was 24/7 and if submarines/boats are used often or easily accessible), apologies in advance. And also, I think this is a very specific flavor of wrio I have barely seen others write so I hope you enjoy anyhow. I actually have more headcanons abt this fic so if you want a part 2 lmk! :D oh shit I’ve been working on this for a week straight too and I didn’t proofread it so AGH sorry for many mistakes! (p.s. I take requests too!) here’s the ao3 link if you prefer to read on there <3

“Agh, forget it. You know what? Since you’re always coming back here, you ought to know one thing; that duke? He’s bad news.” 

You pressed your lips into a thin line. Your grip on the phone against your ear tightened.

You frowned at your father from across the clear plastic between you both, refusing to look at him properly as you lowered your head. 

You sighed, shutting your eyes for a moment. “What’s wrong with the duke?”

“He’s corrupt, I’m telling you. He favors some prisoners over others. Everyone will tell you he’s just but he’s not!” Your father hissed, the microphone dulling the low noises he made. 

“Dad. Why are we even—” you sighed again, this time pressing your fingers on your temples, and part of you thinks maybe this was your subconscious shielding you from him since you refused to leave yourself. “First of all, I am always here way past visiting hours. Who do you think allows that?”

Your father grumbled something under his breath, probably a curse—but it was hard for you to care.

“Second of all, we’re always dodging the topic. Why don’t you ever want to talk about our fam—”

“I’ve told you a million times!”

You flinched away from the metal desk, your father practically baring his teeth at you with wild eyes that seemed to set his complexion on fire.

“Alright, that’s enough,” a guard from behind him chimed in, clutching your father firmly by the elbows and upper arms. He scowled at you before turning back to where the guard was leading him.

When your name was called you nearly jumped out of your seat, both your hands clutching the thick-wired telephone to your chest.

“Hey, you okay?” 

The Duke gave you a once over and returned to your eyes. His brows furrowed, and for a moment, looking into his eyes felt too revealing.

“Yeah, sorry,” you replied as you returned the phone to its hook and curtly stood up. 

“Don’t apologize.”

You gave him a puzzled look, but he wasn’t looking as he escorted you down the halls and towards the lifts. “No, I insist. I keep staying past the visiting hours despite knowing them well—”

“Yes, and, you work for over twelve hours nearly everyday. I don’t think I want you getting up at four in the morning just to be able to visit either.”

The duke clenched his jaw just then. Your hands grew clammy. Other than his legs, he barely moved at all. His muscles were ice and his veins were held in place with coats of steel. 

You remembered you had told him the reason for your late night visits early on, but his response stunned you to the point of being unable to get your thoughts right. He had thought about your situation much more than you thought he would. Though, come to think of it, the visits after you told him this, he’s always by the entrance of the visiting room just to give you a small nod of permittance. A nod you came to appreciate, and eventually miss when he stopped coming by. 

“Why did you stop by today?”

He looked at you this time, silent for a moment. The lift doors dinged open, and he gestured for you to enter before him. 

“Your father has been … irritable these past few days—”

“Oh, shit I am so sorry for him—”

“Hey, don’t apologize for your old man’s behavior. You’re the last person who should be apologizing.”

There it is again. That … look he has on you. The gaze he put on you weighed heavier than you could carry. Though, you couldn’t understand what about it made your knees melt. You nodded slowly. When you swallowed, your heartbeat reverberated in your ears. 

Even if he was tense, your demeanor would make things worse. You knew you were making a bigger deal out of this than you should have been; you hadn’t entirely dodged the topic of the duke of Meropide purely for family’s sake. The duke … was difficult. Though, not that he was causing you any sort of trouble. Evidently, it was quite the opposite.

“Anyway, I have my men observe him closely whenever you visit. Got the memo that he was already starting to blow a fuse a few minutes before he yelled at you.”

The lift arrived at the entrance floor and you exited rigidly, your mind unable to juggle basic motor control and the bewilderment of the situation.

He continued to walk you through to the exit of the fortress.

“Thank you, Your Grace. But I hate to have troubled you.”

“I’m the one who should be worried about troubling you,” he corrected. “Your father doesn’t come close to the worst convicts here. And yet, he’s one of the most difficult to manage. Prisoners who have committed the most heinous crimes are more amiable with me than your father has been, and he’s been here longer than some of said prisoners. Now, you visit him twice or even thrice a week, I don’t want him to cause trouble for you too. Especially with how often you visit? He should be—”

He clenched his jaw again, much more conscientiously this time, turning away for a second. 

“ … What?” You walked slightly in front of him as you tried to catch his expression. 

“No, that was … way out of line.”

You placed a hand on his shoulder—though, with how careful you were, it was really just your fingertips.

“Please, I want to hear it,” you said, almost in a mutter. “I know my dad is an asshole.”

The duke gave you a soft smile that seemed to muddle the edges of his pond blue irises. This was a gaze you were unfamiliar with, across all the kinds he’s given you, you knew, just from the shift in the air alone—this was somehow different.

“He’s lucky to have a daughter who visits him despite … well,” the duke chuffed ruefully. “Himself.”

You parted your lips to say something.

“But besides that—I got word he was talking about me again, and he gets worked up whenever I’m brought up so I rushed over. In any case, it’s late. Later than usual; I’m trying to see if I can get you home safe.”

With all the things he’d just said swimming in your mind, it was hard to think about rest or even getting home. It was a long travel, and having someone else worry—the Duke of Meropide, no less—was unbecoming.

He clenched his jaw again and for some reason, you hooked onto that to start. 

You held him back by the arm, stopping in the middle of a room. “Your Grace … listen, I just—I see that you’re tense and it’s embarrassing that I’ve made you worry about me to this degree. I can handle the commute home. Again, I’m sorry to be such a bother for the fortress and—”

“Please, you’re not … you’re not a bother.”

“Then … what am I?” 

“ … I’m sorry?”

“You had your guards update you on what goes on with my father when I visit. You’re always giving me extra time and now you’re helping me with transport. I mean, you even …”

He cocked a brow. Wriothesley’s shoe clicked loudly against the floor as he took a step closer.

“Go on.” He tilted his head ever so slightly, his hair falling over his face at an angle that seemed to accentuate his jaw. 

Shit.

This was all a mistake. Surely. 

But for some reason, mustering the words to apologize tied knots in your stomach.

“Maybe you were just being nice,” you murmured. He was so close now, and you had to crane your neck just to look at him, which didn’t last long at all. “I’m sorry Your Grace, I didn’t mean to—”

“No no, no need for that now,” he interjected in a tranquil tone. “I want to know what you mean.”

Your heart could crack your ribs open for how hard it shook against its bars. 

The Duke was difficult, absolutely—but not in the way he treated you. 

He was difficult because he seemed to display a certain kind of softness unexercised with anyone else. 

Something you now realized you clung onto for ammunition to your wild desires.

“No, I’m afraid I am the one who’s out of line this time, Your Grace. I was going to imply something completely absurd.”

“Are you put off by it?” 

You shook your head, almost like a knee jerk reaction.

“Definitely not. You’ve been nothing but kind towards me,” you insisted without hesitance.

“Okay. Then what’s on your mind?”

The silence of the fortress laid heavy on the floor, quickly rising up to your chest. The dust whispered of the gaps between your unspoken words. Both of you might have known just what hung in the air between you but without your explicit validation, external factors could easily be to blame for tension that spanned two or more months. You both were busy, working adults. And you both were mature, of course. Tension is and can realistically be caused by work stress. However …

With the way he had never once broken eye contact with you, always hanging by the cusp of your response, your approval … it gets to your skin.

“I could be imagining things …”

“You’re not,” Wriothesley chimed in. “I want to hear it.”

Your name left his lips like a breath of cold air in winter. Sentence after sentence, word after word—it was all but one start after the other. You tried to recall the last time he said your name, but you came up with one moment only; the day you first visited the fortress of Meropide.

“I can’t help but think you’ve taken a liking to me,” you confessed quickly. “Which, of course I am more than thankful for.”

“‘Taken a liking’ … that’s one way to phrase it,” the duke scratched the side of his neck with the opposite hand, angling his jaw away for better access. A small grin rose to his lips. “I would like to think I’d use more … direct vocabulary but I understand this is a delicate situation.”

You clutched onto the sides of your pants, wiping the sweat off your palms.

He noticed, however, his eyes following the movement of your hands then giving you a discerning look. 

His adam’s apple bobbed slowly before he spoke up. 

“If things were simple, I would have you tell me yourself what exactly it is that you want. But sadly, they’re not, and that’s mostly to do with me so I apologize,” Wriothesley began rigidly. “You were right about me being tense. But it’s not about … you.”

Silence drifted at the tail of his sentence as you waited for him to say more.

“Okay …”

“Well, actually … it is, but it’s not because of anything bad you’ve done. It’s …” 

When he struggled to choke up the words, he cleared his throat and tried again. 

“Can I be frank with you?” He asked with a lowered head. “The truth is rather indecent, but you deserve it regardless. Nothing has to change between us, you have my word.”

You nodded eagerly.

“Good.

 “You’ve been visiting very often within the last few months and every time I come down to see you I … don’t know how exactly to put this. I see moments when you’re trying to reason with your father who’s just—excuse my impertinence—beyond talking to, and the patience you have, the ability to be gentle in moments where he threatens you, to still care for him like that, it’s … it’s … too much for me. The reason I allowed you to stay here so late was because you’re the only outsider who came here and didn’t act like they owned the place. Besides the fact that you already know I allow you past visiting hours, this was another reason I stopped coming down to supervise. It was bad for me to think about you like that. I rarely come up to the surface as is, and even when I do, it’s usually still for matters regarding work. I know I don’t have any time for any relationships beyond friends and, well, I haven’t had much time to … let off steam either.”

Your heart was just about ready to splatter itself all over the walls of Meropide at this moment, rattling violently in your chest you could barely hold yourself up, even if you were only standing.

This was a fever dream, surely. 

You parted your lips again but he stopped you before you could speak.

“Please, I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t want to involve someone I barely know with my petty inconveniences. And I don’t mean to imply that I only ever think of you crudely, I just—”

“Stop. Don’t say anything else.”

“No I must insist—”

You caught his lips chastely, tiptoeing as you pulled him in by his tie. 

His hands wrapped around your waist almost as quickly as you had taken him, slightly pushing against you to roughen the kiss.

You nearly chased his lips when he pulled away eventually. His eyes were lost in the haze of what had just happened but he blinked a few times and refocused himself on you.

“Are you sure about this?” He asked, and the words left him lazily like they were dangling off of your kiss.

“Yes. I’m fucking tired—of life, of my dad, my family, my job, and I have thought about you a lot more than I’d like to admit. And I know we barely know each other, but fuck you’ve been so so fucking nice an-and you’re so fucking hot with your handcuffs, your tie, your vest, your everything. Oh, archons and the fucking—worrying about my commute home was my last straw. I can barely breathe around you. Please,” you confessed listlessly, your head spinning as you held him tighter. This caused him to tighten his grip around you, too.

Wriothesley grinned. “While I enjoy it, you don’t have to beg. Not for this.”

He drew the smallest circles on the small of your back, and there was something else he wanted to say. But judging from his averted gaze, it wasn’t easy. Though, to be fair—none of what was just exchanged was easy either. Your heartbeat still reverberated throughout your whole body, still wavering at the fact that you had literally just initiated a kiss with the Duke of Meropide.

“I need to warn you, I mean all of what I said. I can’t give you the relationship you deserve—any guy would be lucky to have you, but that comes with the responsibility of treating you right, and I can’t give you all of my undivided attention for where I am in life right now. But what I can do my best on is, well …” he cocked his head to the side. 

“Giving you the best fucking night of your life.”

That was all you needed to hear. 

“Where’s your office?”

“My office? Don’t you want to head home to …?”

“I need you so bad, Your Grace. I don’t know if I can wait until we get to my place.” You clung onto him like a lifeline, it was almost embarrassing—except, for every muscle flexed to have him closer, he reeled you in even more. 

Wriothesley huffed, giving you a small smile and that stupid gaze you couldn’t help but see every time you blink or close your eyes.

“You don’t know what you do to me when you say that.”

. . .

It took distraction, much distraction on the smallest of sounds, the faintest of smells just to keep your hands off of the duke as you both were back in the elevator, side by side. You would have laughed at the larger physical distance between you if you had seen this from third person, but the lift was charged with a silence that both of you felt was impenetrable and the sweat from your palms was being washed away by a cold breeze. 

It almost suffocated you to have waited this long—even if it had only been a minute or two. And you had already taken off your shoes by the time you arrived at the top of the stairs to his office. You thought you would tackle him then and there, but alas, the urge to be the civilized being you were taught to be reined just one point higher than your urge to take him all at once. After all, wouldn’t it be that much more enticing to see how exactly he wants to have you?

He caught you almost immediately by the lips, just as you had previously with him, this time his large hands almost cradling the back of your head as your hair fell between the gaps of his fingers. 

His other hand was busy taking your hips flush against his, and holy shit, there was a bulge larger than you anticipated pressing against you. You lost yourself in the warmth his kiss brought you anyway, fingertips feeling the smooth texture of his vest and the cold metal of his chain.

A tight grip on your waist caused you to yelp and suddenly, Wriothesley carried you by the ass and placed you down on the edge of his desk. His arms cornered you around him, and you continued to kiss him again—though this time, he lightly nipped at your bottom lip for permission which you gladly granted. 

Your arms floated then landed like petals on a pond upon his shoulders, hands like paper around his neck.

Much like him, his tongue was eager; while his hands crept up your shoulder blades only to begin its slow trek down, his tongue touched every surface you allowed in your mouth, brushing your tongue against his. 

Fuck, at this angle your legs were wide open and wrapped loosely around him while his tent pressed intimately against you. 

You hummed, trying to suppress the soft noise that burned from the depths of your lungs, fueled by months of illicit fantasies that dripped into your disposition towards him—and finally, it seems, his dam broke with the help of your nudging. 

It began to pulsate against him, but you didn’t think he could tell from how he seemed to need you tangled in his arms this instant, how each inhale he took was only luring him deeper into the promise he had made to you for tonight.

You angled your jaw away when he bit your neck and sucked and kissed the pillowy ache away. You whined as he had done so, lightly kicking the back of his leg with your heel.

“Oh, come now princess. Don’t tell me you’re impatient now when you’ve waited months for this,” he rasped against your neck, his hot breath sending chills down your arms. 

“I told you I need you. I need you so fucking bad, Your Grace.”

Wriothesley held you tightly in his arms as he grinded in one, slow stroke against the gap between your legs which made him groan, and you held back your own noise.

“Don’t tempt me, please don’t tempt me. I wanna treat you well, take you softly—but you’re making it impossible not to fuck you right now without restraint whatsoever,” he hissed between kisses down your jaw. 

“But …” you whimpered. You couldn’t muster the strength to finish your sentence as you had already melted in his firm arms long ago.

He’s right; he was undeniably pent up, hands arm chest and arms shaking and twitching every now and then with what seemed to be the urge to just have you as he mentioned. But even after all his kindness, all his patience—he still had more to give, unwilling to crumple you for his pleasure. 

“But?” 

He fiddled with the button of your pants with one hand, and just like that it was undone. 

The zipping sound cut through your thoughts and the breeze blew past your exposed skin. 

His eyes, heavy and brimming with intent concealed from you, locked with your own as he lowered himself painstakingly before you. His fingers barely brushed your skin when he peeled your clothes off your legs, sinking lower and lower. His actions hypnotized you on him, on the lines of his clothes, his curves—the way he looked up at you as the dim light of his office glistened by the edges of his shadows. 

All this time spent having to look up at him had caused this moment to flutter within both your lungs and mind. The many looks he’d given you, one after the other, each of different unnamable qualities that always left you unable to think of the decent thing to say. But this? 

He looked at you not only as if you were something to be worshiped; he gazed upon you as if he’d known you all his life, and now has rediscovered you, getting the opportunity to refine his memory of how the light traversed your features as he bathed in the grace of your eyes.

“You’re even more enchanting from down here.”

His wide-eyed stare seemed to have caught the tip of this tongue as he cleared his throat.

“You can call me Wriothesley,” he concluded with a rough exhale and a nod. “If you’d like.”

He sustained his gaze on you, waiting for a response. 

“Yes, I would like that very much,” you said. “Amongst calling you other things, too.”

“Yeah?” He smiled, and it was the kind of smile you could hear in someone’s tone; when they speak, you don’t have to look to know they have a smile that completes their tender expression. 

“Mhmm.”

“Like what?” He had you boxed in with his ropy arms rooted on either side of you. He blocked out the light from your view, bronze shadows rose like thin sheets on both of you. 

“Please me and maybe you’ll find out,” you chuckled and played with his tie between your fingers. 

He let out a weakened huff as he lowered his head. He looked up at you at that angle then shook his head. 

“To think I have learned of proper self restraint,” Wriothesley muttered. “This is self restraint. You test me in ways that have me failing before I even get to touch you.”

He pressed his middle finger between your clothed folds before you could quip back, causing you to gasp and cling onto him for support. He brought himself closer to you and snickered wryly. 

“Cute. Impressive, even. Now, what if I …”

His hand slipped into your underwear and his finger rubbed more intimately against your slit. It was almost completely submerged between your folds. 

You let out a hint of a moan, and with him hunched over you as you hugged him, you were right by his ear. Your mouth hung open but you still had control over the sounds rising in your throat, and you would let none of them pass over your tongue.

With his entire finger between your folds, his shoulder moved with each swipe that only grew vigorous by the second. 

“C’mon …” he said in a low voice. “You gotta give me something, princess. Now I know you like what I’m doing. You’re shaking so much I’m scared you’ll break.”

Something you haven’t even noticed—but it made you bunch his clothing in your fist. 

This time, he rubbed circles into that nub, his other fingers resting over your folds but pressing anxiously every now and then. You bit your lip, even squeaking once or twice at how he sparked your nerves alive between your legs.  

“No dice?” He asked again. He exhaled audibly through his nose. “Alright.”

He draped his arm around to the opposite shoulder, laying your back delicately on his desk. With your hair splayed out, a halo formed with the ring of light waxed around your head. 

His middle finger slipped into your cunt and you whimpered as a crease formed in your brow and you tightened around him—both your entrance and your arms.

“That’s it, atta girl,” he praised too sweetly for a rust-wrought voice. “Mm, you’re spilling for me. Why, I’m honored.”

“Sh-shut up,” you gritted out of embarrassment.

He littered kisses along your neck, deciding that lying like this with you was more warm than any stance with better access, because he kept his arm around you even when you assumed it to be cumbersome. 

“Do you really want me to?”

He curled his finger into that sopping, textured wall that made you cry out.

You shook your head.

“Use your words, princess.”

“Fuck—why-ngh!—why do you c-call me that?” You barely managed the sentence out.

“Let’s see,” he grunted, beginning to pump his finger in and out of you, the cold silver of his glove hitting you in time with the noises you made. “Staying far past Meropide’s visiting hours, monitoring your fathers’ behavior days before, during and after your visits which means all the time just to make sure he at least treats you with the bare minimum of respect any decent human being deserves, escorting you to and from the entrance every time you visit and supervising the visiting room but really only having my eyes on you—of course, I say this all to express my pleasure to serve you. Be reminded of just how gorgeous you are every time you walk down these halls.”

“Your Grace!” You squealed, feeling something coil in your stomach. 

He must’ve felt you squeeze around his finger because he chuckled.

“‘More’, you say? Gladly.”

His ring finger plunged into you, and it gave so easily with how much you gushed from your entrance. Your cry climbed higher in pitch as he curled both his fingers repeatedly, watching you squirm and squeeze beneath him. 

“You okay?” He asked, and he had asked the same way—if not a little breathier—than he had when he saw you in the visiting room that night. 

“Yes,” you exhaled. His face was only an inch or two away from yours. 

“Tell me if it hurts or if you want to stop, yeah?” 

You nodded.

“I’m just trying to warm you up to it. Believe me, I’d put it in right now if I knew it wouldn’t hurt you.”

You reached up to cup his cheeks. They’re softer than you imagined they’d ever be for the Duke of a renowned prison who barely goes outside.

“What are you … are you saying th—”

“Don’t worry about that now. I’ll take care of you.”

His pumping resumed in and out of you, his strokes spanning longer this time with his fingers almost completely exiting you this time around. You threw your head back, unable to bear looking him directly in the eye with how you were already being driven off a wet cliff to incoherence, and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

With how much he seeked a full view of your complexion without directly asking, there was no way he didn’t know he was rubbing against that spongey wall with every languid yet firm stroke into you. 

“Oh, we can’t forget this, can we?”

He pressed his thumb on your clit, keeping a steady pace that matched the fingers thrusting in and out of you. 

Your legs jolted in a shock of a new layer of pleasure, both your cunt and nub retracting to the stimulation his fingers treated you to.

Your muscles staggered, a growing ache making them give out and drop dead.

With his fingers still stretching you out overtime, he lifted your leg by the back of your knee.

Feeling him do that, his clothes running past your chilled skin, his grip a silent plea to have you wrapped around him accompanied by a softer kiss by your ear—your stomach coiled and flexed without much control and your cunt throbbed.

“Rest your legs on my back for me,” he grunted, his fingers stretching the boundaries of your walls faster as that silver hitting your entrance would start to bruise. You did as you were told, crying out all the same and in messy succession. He kissed your temple. “Good girl.”

His fingers juddered in and out of you making you shake to its command.

“Y-Your Grace—gonna—please—”

“Sh, sh sh—you’ve been so good for me. You deserve this and so much more,” Wriothesley praised airily. “Come on. Let go.”

He had nearly rearranged your insides from his fingers alone, and upon his command, you came all over him, pouring and pouring—even as he was slowing down, you kept coming.

He kissed you again without warning, this time his tongue making sloppy brushes against your own. He tilted his head to have more of you, your arms weak yet slithering around his shoulders.

His fingers left you, and even then it seemed your cunt was still trying to push your juices out. 

When he pulled away, he licked up what was left of you on his fingers and wiped away the access that stained his gloves.

“Shit, I’m sorry about your gloves.”

He peeled the tip of the black dressing wrapped around his wrist area. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I’ll just clean them when—”

“Don’t take them off.”

You placed a hand over your mouth the instant those words left you, eyes widened and breath hitched. Even he had snapped in your direction.

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

He cocked a brow at you as he reworked the dressing on his gloves. 

“As you wish, princess.”

Fucking hell, you think you just came again just from the petname alone.

As he had just begun to walk around to the other side of his desk, you sat up swiftly with pain writhing all over—mainly on your stomach and thighs. 

“Are you sore?” He reeled back towards you.

“A little. Not like I wasn’t going to be,” you jested. The duke snickered with you. 

“Naturally,” he smiled, and again you could hear it as he exhaled sharply. Smiles like that were always the ones that thrum against the strings in your chest. 

“Okay, so … how do you want to do this?” 

“Hm?”

Wriothesley strolled around to his chair and sat. 

“You could sit on my lap, but I’m not sure how comfortable you’d be,” he suggested. “Or you could sit there too, but that can’t be comfortable either.”

You got off from his desk and walked around it to join him. You turned around so that your back faced him and you sat snugly.

“Your lap is plenty comfortable,” you concluded with your hands on your knees and your thighs pressed together.

Wriothesley chuckled lowly, and your breath hitched when his hands slithered to your waist and kept sliding steadily.

“I’m glad to hear it.” 

By this time, he had pulled you closer, thick forearms wrapped around your torso as your boobs sat on top. He had buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathy kisses left in a meticulous trail.

The longer this whole thing went on, this little … agreement between you and wriothesley—the less this seemed to be letting off steam and a little more of making up for years of disregarded passion. 

But you were far from complaining. In fact if you could have it your way … oh, you’d send the duke running out the door.

“I want you,” he murmured into your skin as if you could hear through it. “I want to see your face when you sit on it.”

Speak of the devil. 

“Oh?” You muttered. Your fingers fell between the gaps of his own, and his knuckles poked your palms. “You want to see me come undone on your cock, hm?”

“Yes, yes absolutely,” he breathed heavily against you and your shoulders tensed at the chills crossing your spine. “I want—no, need to ease you into it.”

“I’m a big girl, I can handle myself.”

“Uh huh. I’ve never doubted that,” he replied instantly. “But you’re not the only one.”

You grinded against him just as he said that, your ass pressing into his bulge and his lower stomach as he hunched over and groaned.

He bit into your shoulder then, and you moaned again before chuckling.

“Stand up,” he commanded for what you recalled to be the first time that night, and after all his service, who were you to deny him?

His belt had come undone and his fingers worked the zippers of his pants. You moved them away to handle it yourself. 

You teased him, though, the zipping sound buzzing through the air as you took your time over each metal tooth in the zipper. He didn’t say a word of it, even if he gripped the armrests so hard you could hear the friction. When his zipper was all the way down he shifted so you could peel his underwear back. 

Oh, fuck.

You couldn’t even estimate the length because you hadn’t quite processed the girth.

You immediately rose to your feet at the sight.

He looked up at you expectantly. Goddamn, his eyes were crystals in this light. Indecisive ones that didn’t know what to think, yet held hope, adoration and possibly something more in the large pool of light it nurses.

“Your Grace, it’s …”

He reached out for you again, and for a second there was absolutely no way the hands that fell on your waist were the very same ones that have spilled the blood of others. Not when he held you like his touch would scorch you.

“You can take it. I’ll help you.” 

He held the hem of your shirt but your hand grappled his wrist. 

“Can I … leave it on?” You asked gingerly. “I’ll remove my bra. You can touch them underneath. I just …”

“Of course.”

He let go of your shirt. You both gave each other looks you couldn’t recognize before you reached behind tk unclasp your bra.

“May I?” He spoke up after a few seconds of you fumbling with it.

You froze. 

You could just be seeing things that weren’t there, but in this moment, his gaze was … wistful, yet sanguine. A white glow poured into his irises that surely wasn’t from his office’s bad lighting.

You gave him a warm smile and lowered your head. “Sure.”

You turned around, and he prompted you to sit on his knee as his fingertip climbed your back and your bra fell to the floor within the next three seconds.

When you stood up again, his fingers brushed your inner thigh and lingered as if he wanted to draw something there, stirring up chills on your leg before two of his fingers disappeared into you again. 

You cried out as your hands clutched the edges of his chair for support. His other hand squeezed firm on your hip. 

He thrusted a few times before going, “tell me if this hurts.”

And he slipped a third finger into you. 

“Your Grace!” You cried. “Fuck.”

“Does it hurt? Should I pull out?”

“No, no.” You shook your head. “Please.”

“Please what?”

If you went on any longer like this, your legs would give out and drool would cover your chin.

“I want you.”

“You have me.” His grip squeezed tighter on your hip as his eyes narrowed on you.

“No, you.”

He caught how your eyes shifted to his erection. 

He looked back at you and nodded. When he pulled his fingers out, you would have fallen on your knees had his hands not been there to support you.

You quickly cross one leg to his other side and luckily, his chair was spacious enough for your calves to rest on either side of his thighs. You on him with his erection on your stomach. 

Seeing its length against your body …

Both of you stared at it for a second, measurements filling your heads as your thoughts ran free about how exactly this was going to go. How noisy you’d be. How noisy he’d be. 

His silken tip was a pulsing red, blending into his pale skin color as a few veins branched up from the base

“You’re … fuck …” you whispered. 

“Is everything alright?” He asked as if you both weren’t looking at the same thing between you two.

“Yeah. It’s just—intimidating, is all.” Your playful tone fell flat with the heated air you both exhaled moments ago. “But fuck, I’ll never forgive myself if you don’t make a fucking mess of me.”

“Good, because I really don’t know how much more I can take,” he added fervently. His hands wandered over your hips and dipped into your waist, careful not to squeeze in any capacity. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

That was all the encouragement you needed as you shifted closer on your knees. He held you tightly on the hips which each move you made, one hand moving to align him to your entrance. 

“Don’t rush, okay? I’ll do my best not to move until you tell me to.”

You grinned. “Stop being so nice. It just makes me wanna swallow you whole.”

You lowered yourself on him and both of you moaned out, his sounding almost like a growl. The pain clawed at the walls as you were being pried in two.

“Fuck,” he cursed sharply. If he had longer nails, they would have maimed you by now. 

And that was just the tip.

“Think you can swallow me whole still?” He quipped with his hands still holding your hips up. 

“I’m tougher than you think,” you couldn’t help but remark as you sank deeper in—his entire body steeled and another strained groan escaped him. 

The pain took its place in the backseat in this moment, his delectable reactions causing the butterflies in your stomach to jolt awake. That was something you hadn’t felt in a while; it would steer you to a higher state of mind you couldn’t recall ever being in.

It only took a few more minutes before you had indeed swallowed him whole, his tip pressing against your cervix as you shifted to get comfortable.

His hands slithered around your waist once more only to tighten against him, your torso flush against his as his eyes wandered you. Even if you still had top on, it seemed as though he was getting lost in the folds of the fabric, frequently coming back to the swell of your breasts.

“Hey.” You placed a hand on one of his bulky arms tightly slung around you.

“Hm?”

“Are you okay?” You tilted your head. 

There was something in the way he was holding you, a warmth that rose like steam that caressed your skin—but you weren’t sure this was that kind of scene. You wanted to say it felt out of place but somehow you only felt yourself dripping wetter at the thought of it. 

He swallowed. “Yeah. I’m more than okay, I mean—fuck just—can’t believe my dick is in you right now. You feel so good. This feels good. I can’t even begin to explain how many times this very scene has played in my head in the most inconvenient times.”

He laughed softly, and you laughed with him. 

“How many times I dreamed of fucking you like this. Having you all to myself. Thinking I’d make sure I am the best you’ll ever have.”

He pressed his nose into your clothes as it reached your sternum, his face sitting comfortably between your breasts.

“You smell like … black tea.” His comment was muffled as his eyes were closed.

“Well yeah, that’s because you always give me some when the visiting rooms get busy or if it’s raining outside,” you replied with a lighter chuckle, running your fingers through his hair. How can something be so rough and soft at the same time?

What, exactly, you were referring to when that thought flitted right by you—you didn’t care to reaccess. 

“Wriothesley?”

“Hm?”

“Please fuck me,” you said, lace and pink bow ties intertwined in your words.

“You’re ready?”

“Mhmm.”

His arms unraveled from you, and it seemed like his grip had worked knots on its own; ages passed before his hands rejoined either side of your waist. He was reluctant to part from you, even in the slightest degree as he was no longer pressed into you. 

“Be good for me, yeah?”

And with that, he lifted you up and down on him with ease. He started out at a reasonable pace, though it was one faster than you expected. Your moans spun the room once more, each at their highest when his tip hits your cervix. Pain slipped out and away with each sodden thrust in you.

One hand covered your mouth and the other rested on his shoulder—and even as he rubbed hot, liquid pleasure into you, you caught the precise moment he realized what you’d done.

“Agh—please princess. Haven’t I earned this? What else will it take for me to hear your precious voice, hm?” He hummed, pleasured groans weaving through his strained words. 

“That—mm fuck!—damned nickname again,” you cursed under your breath, causing the duke to smile. 

He slowed his pace to a near stop. “What can I say?” 

Then he pounded so hard into you, the wet slap along with your scream echoing in the safe confines office.

“You make me want to pamper you.”

He clenched his jaw as he continued to fuck you at the same pace, though this time each thrust left a sting on your ass. 

You felt as though your nerves swam and writhed in each layer of flesh beneath your skin, pleasure following the way sound follows shortly after light. The butterflies panicked in your stomach, almost tickling you with the shrouded embarrassment of the duke of Meropide seeing you this way—how you could barely keep your lips together as your jaw lost its zeal a long time ago.

“Mmm c’mon,” he encouraged as your name left his lips again as an exhalation of sampled affection. “If I don’t get to hear you, I’m going to do something I’m not sure you’ll like.”

His thrusts picked up its pace slightly, as if to try and get the noises bubbling in throat to spill. You stayed resilient, however, even shaking your head as you offered a choked whimper instead.

“Alright then.”

His grip on your hand was gentle as he moved it to his shoulder, his fingers brushing your arm as he stopped moving altogether.

You whined irritably, and of course the duke laughed it off with that low and sadly attractive voice of his. Your gut dropped at the very sound of it.

“I told you I’d do something you wouldn’t like,” he reminded, and he sounded perfectly fine, as if he didn’t have his cock buried deep in you and twitching from the lack of friction. His hand was warm and soothing over your own, the other sliding up your waist. 

“Ride me.”

“What?”

“Please, ride me,” he repeated. 

You didn’t follow his request immediately as you knew what it would entail; your entire face, fucked out and reacting to every thrust you made down on him. You couldn’t muster a reply so instead you buried your face in his neck, pressing shallow kisses on his scars.

He laughed again. “Come now, princess. I asked nicely, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t the first time,” you pouted without meaning to.

It was almost like a knee-jerk reaction when his fingers ran through your hair, kissing your head as he cooed. It felt as though his fingers left a trail of butterflies where it combed, and the nectar of his kiss seeped straight to your mind. 

“I’m sorry. I know I didn’t. But I needed to see your face,” he said. His fingers still laid in the strands of your hair. “How shall I make up for it?”

“Beg.”

And so he nodded. 

“Please,” he stressed, your name placed on the throne of his saccharine plea. “Please, ride me. I need you so, so bad—I promise I won’t be mean again. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

You heard him loud and clear the first time, but part of you needed to hear him say it again. A confirmation of what it would mean if he asked this of you—what exactly it is he wanted.

And so you lifted your hips off him slowly, and even in that little bit of movement pleasure ran down his every inch where your cunt hugged. He made soft noises, ones you would keep like small souvenirs in a jar as he shut his eyes for a moment.

Then you dropped down on him, moans shared between the both of you as yours reigned louder.

"I love hearing you moan, fuck," he cursed.

You repeated what you'd done, this time getting faster as the feeling of him filling you grew as addicting as it was pleasurable. Seeing him restrain his sounds and bite his lip was more than a reward for doing as he asked. You wanted him all the way in, even if it bruised your cervix—and his chivalry had only impassioned the carnal thoughts spinning in your mind, chained to the wall as you couldn't have done anything about it without seeming downright sick. 

That is, until now.

Oh, to think he'd been pent up before this, and now you're the only one who can bring him brain-hazing pleasure in this moment. Your fingers clawed at his clothes, legs cramping but the hot pleasure burned brighter in you than anything else. 

"I want to fuck you," he moaned. "I want to see you, hear you, make you feel good—please let me fuck you over the table—ngh—please.”

"How bad?" You panted as you refused to stop.

"What?" He perked up.

"How bad do you want me?"

He wasted no time in wrapping himself around you again, sweat on sweat as he laid you back on his desk, careful not to let your head fall. 

"I hope this answers your question," he whispered in your ear before he backed away to gaze at you again. He had naturally pulled out a little from the movement, but he didn't mind—he wrapped your lips in a heated kiss once more, his tongue a little more gentle this time as he pushes in and you gasped in his mouth. 

More wet slaps ensued as his thrusts grew needy. He drew out slowly only to jerk back in and nearly choke your body in bursts of pleasure, your nerves tingling again as those coils reformed in your gut. They were going to give out. It was approaching sloppily and even your mouth went limp when you tried to pull away. 

You tapped his jaw, and he pulled away instead, with the fog in his half-lidded eyes you could hardly say it was any easier for him than it was for you.

"I'm c-close.”

"Me too," he panted as he straightened his back, hands finding purchase back on your waist. “You’re so pretty like this.” 

Your tailbone had already begun to ache, remnants of your body ache plaguing the rest of you.

His finger wounded up back beneath your folds, and dancing with your clit as you screamed again. Shit, it was approaching before you could catch up to it. Your hands flew to his wrist out of instinct and your knuckles turned white in an instant, but your grip was wind to him.

Your eyes squeezed shut and you erupted, quickly falling off that cliff as you clenched around him and caused him to moan. 

“Fuck! I’m coming!”

He pounded quicker into you, your waist bruised in his grip as your ass stinged a bright red—he pulled out just in time for his cum to spill on the desk and floors. 

Your body went limp. Your clit still pulsed, and both you and the duke panted for a few moments. 

It took a while before the daze of the orgasm cleared, and some of your thoughts had come back coherent to you again.

The first one that took you by the throat was that you had just had sex with the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide, the warden of a highly-regarded prison, a man known to be intimidating and a force you should never cross. 

“Hey, hey hey—you okay?” 

Wriothesley rushed to your side when you sat up and winced. His hold on your arm would have hurt if it wasn’t out of concern and the failed attempt to support you on time.

“Yeah, just cramping. I’ll be fine.” You dropped onto the floor, whipping around to find your pants. He didn’t let go of your forearm nor let his eyes leave your face—you didn’t fight it.

“I was thinking of offering to let you rest, but I realize you start work early tomorrow,” he said as he cleaned himself off, then fixed the belt and fasteners on his pants. “I’ll send you home.”

You turned back to him. “What?”

“I’ll see if I can get us private transport so it’s quicker.”

Your other hand fell over his arm. “I don’t want to trouble you.”

“I was the one who brought you back here, so I’ll get you back safely.”

“And if I invited you over?” You raised a brow at him.

He paused for a few seconds as shock reached his gaze. His eyes examined each of your own as if to wonder just how serious you were. 

“I’d go back to the Fortress on my own.” Wriothesley cleared his throat when he handed you your pants. 

“That’s hardly fair,” you scoffed as you rested your sore ass against his desk to put on your clothes. 

“I have never said this about ‘fair’ before, but I think I’m okay with that,” he grinned. You frowned.

“Wriothesley.”

He said your name back to you in a laugh.

“You don’t have to do … all this for me. You’re a very busy man.”

“Indeed, so I’d better hurry and make sure you get home safe and quick.” He tucked some of your hair behind your ear, and for a moment his eyes seemed to draw your features, the way light met your eyes or how your lips crumpled in a certain way when you were in thought or observing something intently.

Just like you had been now, with him. 

You gave up at his persistence, simply shaking your head and then gathering your things before leaving his office with him. 

The fact of the matter is that despite the coils that had broken loose in your gut just a while ago, your pores rippled with goosebumps at the brush of his fingertips down your shoulder when he followed so close behind you. He closed the door behind him and his touch had fled just as soon as it had arrived. 

“Did you mean what you said?” He started, “when you said you’d … invite me over.”

“Mmm, why do you ask?” You teased.

“Because if your word is true we’d stop when the Fortress of Meropide meets the surface.”

note. don’t ask me why I have a backstory for reader and more ideas for this fic oml. Idk why I am rotting sm over this. Tysm for reading!

taglist: @mun-in-rain @neverlandlostchild @mmmairon

[mrderondncefloor]

“anything? that right?”

old!logan howlett x f!reader

summary: you end up in logan’s shop with an oil leak and can’t afford to pay him

wc: 2.3k (i’m in hell the brain rot is BAAAAD)

authors note: plot is very cliche like ik eat me. while writing this i took a break and got an edit of logan to tulsa jesus freak. yes i’ve lost my sanity. also i don’t know shit about shit with cars so yea

warnings/tags: MDNI. dubcon. unspecified age gap. logan is a little mean?? reader has no description besides hair long enough for logan to grab, wearing short skirt. logan grabs readers face. hair pulling. big dick logan (canon). pussy pronouns. spanking. throat fucking. degrading. tears. dirty talk. pet names. daddy kink. fingering. aggressive sex. unprotected sex (wrap it up). cream pie. orgasm denial.

your type doesn’t frequent this place, the auto shop on the edge of a town that’s seen better days. most of logan’s customers he’s had for years, he’d grown used to the faces that come through the shop, greeting people on a first name basis at this point in his career. like hell did he ever expect you. you, who stood behind him when he’s hunched down, working beneath the hood of a truck. he didn’t hear you coming, the radio on his workbench drowning out the sound of your footsteps. “shit,” he hissed, peeling back from the piece of shit he’d spent his afternoon working away at, white beater stained with oil and god knows what else. he paused abruptly when he finally noticed you, drawing in a slow breath. if he didn’t have enough on his plate, here you are. a pretty, young thing. in the thick of the summer you’re hardly dressed in much at all, a little top and a short skirt. “ain’t hear you come in,” the clear of his throat echoes off the walls as he walked towards his bench, wiping his hands with a greased up towel. “can i do for you?” his teeth clamp down on the toothpick stuck out his mouth, an oral fixation to try and keep his mind off smoking while on the job. it hardly worked for shit, nicotine always in the back of his mind. the radio gradually softens, pair of glasses pulled onto the bridge of his nose. “think i have an oil leak?” you sound unsure of it, logan nods, scribbling it down onto a forum he kept for his records. “bring ‘er in. take a look,” his boots thud quietly across the floor, walking past you to pull open the garage door. the wiring had gone out a couple months ago and he’s yet to get around to fixing it, muscles straining as he pulled the door up an over his head. he watched you pull your car in, sighing as you stepped back out. “well.. ain’t even have to look. engine sounds like shit, definitely a leak. i’ll pop underneath anyway, see f’somethin’s loose or if it’s a crack.” he nodded, wheeling his creeper out from beneath the bench with his foot. he tries not to groan as he sunk to the floor, his body too old for this shit. he pushes himself up underneath the car, brow knit in a tight furrow as he took a look around to access the problem. “oil pan has a crack, s’pretty fuckin’ bad. i can change it out for you, take me an hour.. hour an a half at most.” he nods, sat upright, an elbow propped against his bent knee. your expression flashes with annoyance and he thought to himself that you looked like a fucking brat, but god damn did you wear it so well. he fights back with the corner of his lips that threatens to tug up.

logan gathered up what he needed, not paying you any mind as you’re left with not much other choice but to sit and wait for him to finish on your car. dressed like this he figured you had better places to be, but he didn’t give a fuck. you came to him, and the way he saw it was your choices were limited to accepting the help and learning some patience or ruining your car. he’s good at the work he does, it’s why he has so many loyal customers, why he’s been in business so long. he could’ve given you some grief for the look you gave him when he told you about the wait- and he still might. “she’s good as new.” he nodded, sliding out from beneath the car with your cracked oil pan. his chest is slick with sweat, glistening under the dull lighting. he brushed his dirty hands against the thighs of his jeans as he stood, tossing your old cracked pan into the trash as he approached his work bench again, quickly jotting down the work that he’d done. “s’goin’ to be.. nine hundred fifty three. s’for the replacement, fresh oil and that god damn look you gave me earlier.” he nods, dropping the clipboard onto the desk. “take cash or card.” his arms cross over his broad torso, forehead creasing as his brow sunk in. “this is a joke, right?” you ask, scoffing out a laugh as you look up at him though his expression doesn’t let up, unamused. “do i look like m’makin’ a fuckin’ joke, sweetheart?” his jaw is clamped tight, his tone flat, serious. “you can’t charge me for a look?” “i can charge you whatever the hell i feel like. i had other shit goin’ on.. could’ve made you wait a hell of a lot longer.” you scoff out in disbelief at him, shaking your head. “i don’t have nine hundred dollars.” you finally admit and logan’s head dropped forward, a low chuckle coming from his lips. when you didn’t pull out a card he knew this shit was going happen. he saw right through you. “alright so.. let me get this straight, sweetheart. you came here for me to look at your car knowin’ you didn’t have the god damn money to pay for it? is that right?” he lacks sympathy for you, pretty as you were you had another thing coming if you thought you were going to pull a fast one on him. “i might be old, girl, but i ain’t no fuckin’ fool. i tell you what.. no money, no fuckin’ keys.” his voice is low, your keys dangled around his finger and he shoves them down into his pocket. he walks away from you, too god damn angry to be stood in front of you, having wasted enough time on you already. “please, you don’t understand.. i need my car. i can pay you what i have right now and bring you the rest next week, please.” you beg, coming up behind him where he’s hunched over again beneath the hood of someone else’s vehicle, the same one he’d been working on when you arrived. “ain’t my god damn problem.” he muttered, biceps flexing beneath his tanned skin as he tightened a bolt in place. “i’ll do anything.” you plea again and logan slowly stops what he’s doing, looking down at the truck battery he was working at. he sighed loudly, recomposing himself as he peeled back from the truck, walking towards the garage door. he reached up, muscles flexing across his back as he pulled the door shut, closing off the inside of his shop from the street view.

“anything? that right?” he’s standing before you now, looking down at your shorter frame. “anything.”* you repeat in a whisper. he drew in a slow, deep breath as your palm slid over the front of his dirty jeans, stepping closer into you until you’re tucked between him and the truck. he groans when your squeeze your palm around him through the denim, your lips curling up to a sinisterly sweet smile when you tug at his belt. he grabs your face hard, lips puffed out slightly when he pulled you in for a kiss. it’s sloppy, his tongue lapping across your lips before dipping into your mouth, an anger filled hunger. he’s pissed off, but you’re pretty enough that he’d be willing to accept your throat as some sort of payment. he looks down at you as you pull back from his kiss, sinking to your knees. he appreciates that you had no issue getting to the point. “i reckon you must’ve been thinkin’ about this the entire time, sweetheart.” logan mused as you grabbed his cock out from inside his jeans, moaning at the sight of him. “bet you ain’t ever seen a cock that big huh, girl?” the palm of his hand pets against the back of your head as you stroke him slowly, his shaft filling out your small palm. “hands behind your back.” he nods slowly, gathering your hair into his fist, holding the back of your head with a tight grasp. he taps the weight of his cock against your tongue before he lays his base flat against you, slowly pulling his hips back as your warm tongue licked over the veins that protrude from tightened foreskin. “nice an wide.” he mutters, feeding the head of his cock into your mouth, a grunt parting his lips when he brushed the back of your throat. god damn. “you’re goin’ to sit here and take it like a champ. reckon you ought’a think about havin’ my god damn money next time. stupid girl.” he warned you before his hips draw back and roll forward, pushing the length of his cock down the curve of your throat. it’s lewd, the repeated squelch of your throat as he pushes himself inside again and again. “should’a known you’d be this big of a slut when i saw you. cute little fuckin’ outfit, barely wearin’ anythin’ at all. just knew how to get an old man goin’.” he grunts, unbothered by the tears that have begun to roll over your cheeks. he’s selfish, using your throat to his advantage, balls slapping the underside of your chin. the cute outfit you’d turned up in ruined by your own slop of saliva as it dribbled out the corners of your mouth. “good fuckin’ girl. payin’ off every fuckin’ dollar.” his skin is slick with sweat, head lulling back against his shoulders, blinded by the dull white light above him. your throat is exactly what he needed at the end of a shitty week, and he had no shame in taking out his stress on you, sure you wouldn’t be forgetting him anytime soon.

when he finally lets up you choke out a cough, spit strung between his soaked cock and your mouth, breathing hard as you look up at him with watery eyes. still, you come chasing for more, hands sat on his denim clad thighs as you licked your tongue along his cock, gasping in a breath of air before you took him back into your throat, craving the feeling once more. “fuck’n hell.. look at you. must really need that god damn car, huh?” his fingers move into your hair again, yanking your mouth back off his cock so he could pull you up from the floor. “ain’t that right, princess? you’d do anythin’ for those keys back, huh?” “yes, daddy.” you choke out and what patience logan had left snaps, swiftly turning you around by the hold he has on your hair. he lifts the skirt up over the swell of your ass, palm of his hand roughly swatting against. you. once, twice, three times. your cheeks are stained red as your legs tremble, impatiently waiting for him to give you more. “let me see ‘er.” logan nods, bent over you and he pulled your panties to the side, spreading your cheeks so he had a perfect view of both holes, your pussy slick with your own arousal.

“you like gettin’ treated like a slut.” he acknowledged, spitting against his fingers before he brings them to your pussy, fingertips swirling your clit before he pressed two long fingers into your core, free hand wrapped around your throat. he stroked his fingers slowly at first but gained speed as your arousal coated him, making it easier for him to plunge his fingers into your tight hole, biceps flexing with each stroke of his fingers, feeling out the warmth of your walls, infatuated with the way your pussy sucks his fingers back in. he grins at the gasp you take in when he replaces his fingers with the head of his cock, pushing yourself up straighter as he sunk himself deep into your pussy. “daddy,” you softly grab at the hand he has around the middle of your throat, moaning as his chest presses up against your back. “you ever been stretched out this good before?” he asks beside your ear, breathing out a quiet laugh when you shake your head no. he grabs your face again, pulling your lips back to his when he fucks into you, hard strokes that press your hips against the grill of the truck, sure to leave you with bruises in days following. he swallows the moans you cry out, roughly driving his hips into yours. he’s unrelenting, giving himself to you hard the way you deserve it, the way you so evidently love it. it’s been a long god damn time since he had pussy this good, and fuck was he obsessed with yours, cursing himself for fixing the troubles your car had given you instead of giving you the run around to keep you coming back for more. hell, with the way you’re fucking yourself back onto his cock you just might anyway. “you’re going to make me cum, daddy,” you choke out, and he grabs at your hips, pulling him deeper into your sopping cunt. “that right? this ain’t even about you, princess. this was for me, remember? who says you’re allowed to cum?” he is brow furrows, getting a rise out of the way you while beneath him, small hands grabbing at the truck. “please, i know it’s not about me but please let me cum, daddy.” you whine, legs trembling beneath you, threatening to cave under your weight. he doesn’t respond, just fucking into your stretched core while you beg him to cum again and again. he ignored you until he spilled first, filling you with thick ropes of his cum, hips flush against yours so you take every drop deep inside. “you want to cum now, sweetheart?” he asked and you nod, rocking your hips back against him as your chase your own high.

needless to say, logan was more than willing to return your keys. and you.. well you might purposefully pop a tire soon.

[irndad]

She favorites recipes on Instagram. 

It’s a little embarrassing how Carmen knows- that when she’s at his place watching him sketch dishes she can’t taste, he’s also paying attention to what’s on her phone. And it’s usually kistchy things- dresses and outfits with legwarmers, pop-culture breakdowns he doesn’t have time to understand, and yes, occassionally, recipes. 

Carmen adores her company. It’s a private truth, one that they boht know and yet he can’t admit under her gaze. She’s a friend of Richie’s which is endlessly fucking confusing. Both because of how incredible she is, and because it is truly insane to imagine Richie with friends. 

Carmen supposes they’re friends too, now. It doesn’t feel quite right, the way she scribbles notes for him in the mornings and has slept over quite often. She’s busy, has her own life and her own career and he’s lucky for the time he spends with her. He doesn’t really have time to date her the way he’d like to, with dinner dates and late night drives down Lake Shore, watching the sunrise over the lake on mornings where time feels like no object. 

He’s clearly given this some thought. 

Anyhow, it doesn’t matter now. Now, she’s slept over. He’s got a full-size, which felt like a good enough excuse to share the bed, even though every time they do he still ends wrapped around her like a vice, like roots of a tree, raveled in a way that seems inpenetrable. 

She’s sipping on an energy drink- he’s offered her the coffee that he’s imported, and prepared with care, but she’d obviously thought it was too bitter. And now he keeps energy drinks in the house when she stays over. She’s popped in one of her wired earbuds, and the light washes over her like a halo. She’s got a bonafide glow while she sits on his counter, scrolling through recipes. 

“That looks good,” he hears himself say, a little outside of himself, as she stops scrolling. It’s a pasta dish, and she’s favorited it. It looks more complex than it is, really, but he’s not sure he’s a good source.

“Hmm? Oh yeah, I had it once when I was in Paris. It was fucking insane, Carmen, it’s so good. I’m always looking for a place to get it. I don’t really think there’s a place in Chicago where you can get it, actually.”

“It was seasonal actually,” he says back, her eyes fixed to his now, “Ever used to make it every fall. Easier to source the pine nuts.”

She looks so, so fond of him that Carmen could entertain the idea of leaning over the counter and kissing her. It’s incredibly tempting, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, endeared by his knowledge. He feels guilty, how he plays with the pencil, knowing she’s stared appreciatively at his hands. He enjoys being pretty to her, leaning into the fantasy that he could be more than her weird fuck-up friend of a friend that’s too chicken-shit to ask her out. How odd is it, that he knows what it’s like to wake up to the smell of her shampoo, but has no idea how she likes to be kissed?

He’s so bad at this he’s failed before he’s even started. 

He can cook, though. 

Cooking is methodical, and so he does it. it’s an easy love language, for him. he dices the parsely and the other fresh herbs, sautes them wirh precision, uses some of the nice butter from work- it’s a marvel, at the end of it, fragrant and warm, waiting for her arrival. 

When she does make her arrival, just on time for him, he plates the dish before she comes in. 

“Oooh,” she preens, raking her eyes up and down him. He feels perciebed, but in a way that he’d like to be. Look at me, he thinks. What a pleasure to be seen by her. “Is this all for me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he stammers out, “Thought I’d thank you for all your help. Late nights you’ve been staying up with me, talking through the menu and all- thought I could make you something.”

When she tastes it, it’s careful and adoring, and he’s good at this. 

“Yes chef,” she says teasingly, “Oh my god, Carmen, this is so sweet. You didn’t have to do that. I like being here.”

He wants to kiss her again, doesn’t know why he’s not letting himself. She meets him halfway, though, kissing the corner of his mouth that only a fool would imply has plausible platonic deniability.  

“Thanks, Carm.”

“Anytime.”

He’ll kiss her properly next time.

[savanir]

DP x DC prompt [13]

Impulse is a little back in time, simply to retrieve a thing from the most haunted city in america.

the instructions were clear, in. grab thing. out. no funny business, no anything else.

why the fuck did it had to be impulse then?! that’s never gonna- ah, whatever…

So Bart does not just do only that. He remembers to keep moving fast so he’s not seen, but well, he spotted these two white suited goofballs who looked upset with their little box contraption and somehow were missing the little unplugged wire and Bart figured, what could the harm be?

so he might have plugged the little wire in while he was there, sue him, the guys looked surprised but pleased that their little thingy was suddenly working. good job Impulse right?

he didn’t forget about it but he might have shoved it in the back trunk of his head while he went on to do his actual job which is essentially forgetting for a guy with eidetic memory.

So yeah, imagine his surprise when he gets back to where he came from and finds himself on a doomed, desolate earth with green skies and nothing but scorched rock and ruins for miles.

What he’s seeing is an earth in the aftermath of a war against the infinite realms.

So now he has to go back to the past and fix his reckless mistake. Would it be wise to maybe see if he can find a single living soul with some info on what happened to make this ordeal a little easier? maybe, but that might involve him having to explain himself which will most likely be followed by a subsequent well deserved lecture and Bart is hoping to fix this without all that because he clearly fucked up. like, it’s very obvious. and he’s feeling very bad about it, honest.

back in the past again though, he nearly collapses, he’s seriously overdoing it at this point, afterall he was supposed to be able to recuperate once he got back. 

But he has to push through, he can’t slow down, he has to find those two guys and nab their little machine that’s apparently a doomsday device or something, he doesn’t know when they will use it, or where, so slowing down now is absolutely out of the question.

“woah hey there man, are you alright?”

he’s startled into complete stillness, and then he’s just thinking about how this guy looks like a fusion between Robin and Superboy, he can picture it perfectly in his head, fully animated dragon ball fusion style.

it’s SuperRobin, real name Ton, or maybe Kim.

getting distracted, he was asked a question, better answer.

“yeahI’mfine” he wheezes, very believable stuff.

“no you’re not, do you need a hand? sick Impulse cosplay by the way”

So, yeah, Danny pesters Bart into at least eating and drinking something, he says that if the two guys, who are now identified to Bart as the guys in white also known as the GIW or the Ghost Investigation Ward… and Bart going “oh I know a ghost! she’s really great” and Danny being pleasantly surprised.

but anyway if those guys do anything he will know, cause apparently they are very loud and quite destructive. and that’s honestly no comfort to Bart cause he knows what the future is gonna look like, but also he’s about to pass out and that would be super uncool and also make him totally useless anyway so… eating and drinking first it is.

Danny is a local, which is useful cause Bart only knew the route he needed to take for his previous mission and not really anything else regarding this place. And he tells Bart that he’s screwed with the GIW before so he knows how they operate. it fucking sucks that Bart accidentally aided apparent government bad guys… the others can never find out…

Overall, working with Danny is pretty great. For a civilian the guy is very resourceful. he’s witty, smart, funny, a lot stronger than he looks, honestly maybe the SuperRobin fusion thing he thought about before has some merit… are there any hidden clone labs around? billionaires with zero morals? yes? no? maybe?

Bart simply told Danny that he needs the machine from the white suit guys for future superhero reasons. and he’s fully intending on just handing it over to Robin, hopefully while not having to explain why he has it in the first place, and see if he can figure out how it’s gonna cause the world to end so they can make sure that can never happen.

Danny says that the machine is probably just an anti ghost weapon of some kind. Bart is skeptical, because first of all, why would anyone need anti ghost weapons when magic is already a thing and works on them just fine. Like all the superhero exorcists that Bart knows use some form of magic, well he guess anti ghost weapons would be useful for the bats, but that begs the question why is the government going around trying to shoot ghosts? and why hasn’t Bart heard of this before, cause this sounds like something Robin would enjoy telling him about.

But Bart, with significant help from Danny, manages to… confiscate (steal) the machine from the white suits.

he promises Danny he’ll visit, cause they are friends now, it’s official. And he would love to introduce him to the others as well.

Once back Bart still gets lectured of course, and Tim does reveal that yeah, the box really is just some sort of ghost trapping device, and he’s keeping it.

Bart doesn’t really care, the only thing he cares about is that everything is back to normal and he even got a new friend out of the whole ordeal.

It's then that Robin brings up a new member for Young Justice who will soon be joining them, and Bart is completely confused.

Everyone else is confused at Bart’s confusion, this was already known a week ago? and Bart figures that something did change somewhere somehow anyway, that’s fine.

Kon reminds Bart of the new guy’s callsign, apparently it’s Phantom.

Bart tries to imagine what they would look like, but at the moment he can only picture Danny in a SuperRobin outfit.oh well, hopefully this just means that Bart manages to get two friends out of this whole mess.