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[miyadollie]

R/CRUSHES : HOW DO I TALK TO MY OFFICE CRUSH ? sillyguy0813 says : dude just borrow a stapler

★ STARRING office worker lee jeno x fem reader ( ft. best friend jaemin ) ★ WORD COUNT 2.6k + 3OO bonus ★ CONTAINS co-workers to dating, fluff !! lee jeno being a cutie, jaemin is a menace to society, workplace romance, ★ MIYA SAYS 💗 this is my first time TRYING to write a long fic :3 pls give me any constructive criticism and feedback thank uu 🧘🏼‍♀️ . update : wow i absolutely dislike my writing here but its been rotting in drafts too long and i gave up on fixing this TT

it starts with a stapler.

one you’re not even sure belongs to you. maybe you bought it once during a sale, or someone left it at your desk during a particularly chaotic week, and it stayed. quietly claimed as yours.

the moment wasn't love at first sight, no grand declaration of love with bouquets or fireworks. just a quiet tuesday morning, your inbox overflowing, the boss increasing your headache by preponing your deadlines, the coffee machine on its last breath and the fluorescent lights above flickering slightly like they, too, were tired of this job. and then there’s him.

lee jeno. clean-cut. soft-spoken. the kind of guy who always says “excuse me” when passing behind you, even when there’s plenty of space. always dressed a little too well for your casual office. not flashy—never that—but tidy, crisp. thoughtful. one cubicle down, diagonal from yours. he’s been here a while. a familiar face in the sea of semi-familiar ones. you’ve never really talked but only ever exchanged the kind of polite nods reserved for coworkers who share nothing but recycled air and a breakroom.

until today. “could you pass the stapler?” you look up, startled slightly by the voice.

he’s leaning just slightly over the low partition separating your desks, eyes trained on the corner of your workspace where your lonely black stapler sits. he gives you a smile. not flashy. not flirtatious. just—nice. warm. gentle. you blink once. then reach for it. “thanks,” he says. you nod. he returns to his screen. that’s it. except… it isn’t. because the next day, he borrows a pen. the day after that, post-its. then tape. then scissors. always returning everything. always smiling. always saying thank you like he means it. and now you’re wondering. is this flirting? some kind of extremely office-safe, hr-friendly version of it? or are you just painfully, embarrassingly overthinking it? or maybe did you have an unspoken crush on him? not that you can be blamed. - lee jeno is attractive. undeniably so. you’ve seen him once—just once—rolling up the sleeves of his white button-down in the middle of summer, and you swear you forgot how to form a coherent sentence for ten straight minutes. defined forearms. slim but strong hands. that razor-sharp jawline, often tilted thoughtfully while reading something on his screen. dark lashes. deep voice. a gym guy, apparently—you overheard it once when he mentioned it to jaemin (you weren’t eavesdropping, you just… have really good ears). you haven’t initiated anything. neither has he. but those tiny moments? the ones that make your heart skip? they’re adding up

────

FRIDAY | 4:30 PM

“soo… still down to try that new restaurant?” jaemin asks one afternoon, casually leaning on your desk during lunch with a fresh iced americano in hand—probably his fifth for the day. “obviously,” you reply, eyes lighting up. “people have been absolutely glazing it online. thanks for getting us a table!” he grins. “see you at 9 then.” just as he turns, he spins back around like a cartoon character. “oh, also—jeno’s coming. hope that’s cool?” you freeze. your face says i’m fine, but your body language screams mayday. “y-yeah. sure. totally chill,” you manage. “coolcoolcoolcool,” you say, immediately turning your head towards your computer, and then you see your reflection on the blank empty screen. you were blushing. hard. jaemin smirks knowingly as he walks off. of course he knows. he always knows. after all, he’s the mastermind who told jeno to borrow your stapler in the first place. ────

8:55 PM

the restaurant is low-lit and warm, the kind of place where the wood-paneled walls muffle outside noise, and everything feels just a little more intimate than it should. you arrive five minutes early. out of habit, mostly. or nerves. you’re not sure which. jaemin’s already there, somehow sipping an iced americano even here, scrolling through his phone while pretending not to notice your presence with a dramatic sigh. “i told you 9:00,” he says, without looking up. “it’s 8:55.” “still early.” he glances at you now, then raises an eyebrow. “cute top.” you ignore his antics, he’s just trying to get a reaction out of you. typical jaemin. your heart is already thudding too loudly, because jeno walks in right after. black shirt, sleeves rolled up. clean slacks. a bit of cologne, subtle but warm. his hair’s tousled slightly, and his eyes light up just a little when they land on you. “hey,” he says, with that soft smile. you don’t trust yourself to speak, so you just smile back, scooting over so he can sit across from you. the conversation is light, easy. mostly thanks to jaemin, who fills every awkward silence with a joke, a story, an embarrassing anecdote about your office. jaemin and jeno were friends in school, you get to know that night, they were benchmates. jaemin always chose jeno as his partner for every game, every lab, and jeno just liked his company, so he stood with him always. jaemin talks about you to jeno too—how you both were first day interns and hit it off over a conversation about which seventeen album is truly the best. but every now and then, you catch jeno looking at you. not staring. not even for long. just—looking. like he’s seeing something he's trying very hard not to see too obviously. “so,” jaemin says mid-way through dessert, smirking at you over his spoon, “funny how you two never end up talking at work.” you nearly choke. jeno shifts in his seat. “like, what’s with all the stapler borrowing, huh? no small talk?” you glare at him. he grins. “i’m just saying. feels like there’s some unspoken office tension.” jeno lets out a quiet laugh. and then, after a beat—he looks at you. “i guess i just… wanted a reason to talk,” he says, voice soft. and your breath catches. your heart is thudding again. you manage a smile, small and shy. trying not to mess up words or blabber out something nonsensical. “i noticed,” you reply. the space between you feels full, suddenly. full of every little interaction. every thank-you. every passing smile. jaemin stretches obnoxiously. “well, look at the time! i’ve got a meeting with my bed in ten.” you roll your eyes. “you’re so obvious.” he shrugs. “you’re welcome.” and just like that, he’s gone with the wind. leaving you and jeno, two half-finished desserts, and a quiet restaurant glowing gold in the late-night hush. “i can walk you home,” he says, gently. not pushing. just offering. and something in you says yes. to the walk. to this night. to the maybe that’s been building between you both. ────

10:45 PM

the night is cool, with a breeze just strong enough to lift the corners of your coat and make you tuck your hands into your sleeves. the restaurant’s warm glow fades behind you, replaced by the hush of quiet streets and dimly lit sidewalks. jeno walks beside you, hands in his pockets, his steps matching yours. neither of you says anything at first. the silence isn’t awkward. it’s... full. full of unspoken things. of nerves and glances and the way your arms brush every few seconds and both of you pretend not to notice. “jaemin talks too much,” jeno says eventually, voice low. you laugh softly. “it’s his specialty.” he hums in agreement, then adds, “he wasn’t wrong, though.” you glance at him, catching the way his eyes flicker to yours and then away again, like he’s testing the water, like he’s afraid of saying too much too fast. “i... didn’t really need the stapler that day.” your breath catches. “oh,” you manage, and you’re smiling now. you can’t help it. “i just... i guess i liked the idea of you looking at me. talking to me.” he pauses. “even if it was just a stapler.” you stop walking, just for a moment. jeno turns, realizing you’re no longer beside him. there’s a streetlight above him, casting shadows across his face and soft highlights in his hair. “you could’ve just said hi,” you whisper. he steps closer. barely. but enough to make the air between you buzz. “i know,” he murmurs. “i wanted to. every day. but you always looked so focused. and i didn’t want to ruin that.” your heart is a mess of drumbeats and warmth. “you wouldn’t have.” silence again. then he says, barely audible, “could i maybe get your number... just for office related stuff, of course.” you nod, because your voice has already betrayed you too many times tonight. a soft smile tugs at his lips. the quiet kind. the kind you know he saves for only a few people. he walks you all the way to your apartment. and when he says goodbye, it’s not a hug. not a kiss. just a quiet “goodnight” and a look that lingers longer than it should. but your heart knows. it knows everything. ���───

SATURDAY | 9:00 AM

the next day, the office is just waking up. it always feels colder in the morning—half because of the ac blasting too early, half because everyone’s too busy chasing caffeine to talk. desks are still half-empty. monitors glow. the printer sputters. someone sneezes. a mug clinks. you step in, trying to hide the stupid smile that’s been stuck to your face since last night. your coat is too warm for indoors but your hands are cold, so you hold your coffee tighter. and then you see it. your desk. something’s different. sitting neatly on top of your keyboard is a brand-new stapler. blue, shiny, absolutely unnecessary. you freeze. right beside it, a yellow post-it. his handwriting. neat. almost too neat. “thought you could use one that wasn’t cursed.     —jeno :)” you almost laugh. it’s such a him thing to do—dry humor disguised as helpfulness. but your heart? it’s fluttering like it’s stuck in a romcom scene, an angelic choir singing along in tandem. you reach out and pick up the stapler.you didn’t even need one nor were you going to use one. but you want to keep this one forever. cherish it. maybe even pass it on as an heirloom.

just then, you hear someone clear their throat. “new office romance i should know about?” you don’t even need to turn around. jaemin. of course. loud, nosy, iced-americano jaemin. “shut up,” you say instantly, trying to sound bored. your cheeks are already heating up. but he walks past you, grinning like the devil, a bounce in his step like he’s in on the joke you’re still figuring out. and then—your gaze drifts. to the cubicle across. there he is. jeno. typing. or pretending to. his posture is the same—back straight, eyes on the screen—but his fingers are still on the home row keys, just gliding about. and when he feels your eyes, he glances up. It's brief, barely a second. but he smiles. like last night wasn’t just dinner. like it meant something.

a few hours later, a message pops up.

jeno lee “did the new one pass inspection?”

you “it’s still under review by the council. but i think they approve ;)”

jeno lee “let me know if it jams. i’ll personally fix it.”

you smile. a full smile this time. the kind that makes you reach for your coffee, lean back in your chair, and breathe in like something in your world has shifted.

jeno 💗 “what’s your go-to coffee order?”

you “anything except that poison jaemin drinks every day. ‘i like my coffee as dark as my soul’ ahh guy.”

jeno 💗 “haha.” “noted.”

the next morning there’s a cup of coffee on your desk, with yet another post-it note. “it’s the new specialty at a cafe near my place. i thought you’d like it :)”

that was truly the best coffee you had ever tasted. and maybe he started getting it for you every day. ────

WEDNESDAY | 9:00 PM

it's another day at the office. rain taps gently on the windows, a soft drumbeat to the silence of overworked employees and abandoned coffee mugs. you’re still at your desk & so is he. the fluorescent lights overhead are dimmer than usual, humming low like they’re tired too. you stretch your back, glancing at the clock. 9:04 pm. “still here?” comes his voice. you look up to see jeno leaning on the edge of his cubicle wall, sleeves rolled up, tie a little loosened. “so are you,” you shoot back. he smiles. “want company for the walk back?” you nod before your brain catches up.

the streetlights blur against the wet pavement, reflecting like oil paint smudged across the road. jeno’s shoulder brushes yours every few seconds—neither of you move away. he talks about the weird way jaemin eats ramen. you laugh. you tell him about your favorite childhood cartoon. he says he watched it too, and suddenly it’s three blocks later and you’re still talking. at a red light, you both stop. he glances down at you. you glance up. it’s a pause so charged you swear the rain quiets. “...you looked really pretty today,” he says suddenly. his voice isn’t confident or smooth—he says it like a secret. you don’t respond right away. just tuck your hair behind your ear, your face heating. he notices. the light turns green and you simply walk on. on reaching your apartment building you stop at the steps. he’s still holding the umbrella. you don’t say anything. he doesn’t either. there’s that moment again—that pause like the world might tilt if either of you moves. “i’m really glad you came to dinner that night,” he finally says, voice quieter than before. “been wanting to talk to you properly for months.” you blink. “...really?” jeno chuckles. “you had the office’s only decent stapler. of course i had to make a move.” you laugh—nervous and shy and full of everything you’ve been holding back. he takes a step closer. just one. not too much. “but also,” he adds, and this time his voice is a little more sure, “i like you. not just the lunch break, passing-notes kind. the kind where i want to sit and mindlessly watch silly romcoms with you, the kind where i want to walk you home every day and make sure you had dinner. the kind where - " he goes on. but words fall on deaf ears. you feel your heart clench, sweet and sharp. you’re about to respond when— “...so, if you’re okay with it,” he continues, scratching the back of his neck, “can i officially take you out sometime? like, not just coffee machine and post-it flirting. a real date.” you blink. once. twice. your face is warm. your chest feels like it’s glowing. “...yes.” you don’t even hesitate. his smile is soft. wide. genuine. and when he hands you the umbrella and waves goodnight, walking back with his hands in his pockets and a quiet bounce in his step. you think, maybe this started with a stapler. but it’s gonna end with something a lot more permanent. ──── BONUS : FEW WEEKS LATER | 2:00 PM

you, jeno, and jaemin were perched on the edge of the rooftop, paper lunchboxes balanced on your laps, chinese takeout - courtesy of jeno. the breeze is nice, the sky a little overcast, and jaemin's halfway through an enthusiastic rant about the company’s new vending machine layout.

“and like .. why did they move the green tea to the bottom row? what kind of criminal.. oh, thanks man.” he says as jeno hands him a napkin mid-rant, like muscle memory.

you say while giggling, “you guys are like an old married couple.”

jeno chokes on his rice. you pat his back helpfullly , still giggling.

jaemin just shrugs. “what can i say? i raised him well.”

jeno glares at him. mouthing ' stop. talking.' he knew jaemin could slip up any moment. for he always did.

jaemin does not stop talking.

“i mean, not to brag, but if it weren’t for me, he’d still be hovering awkwardly near your desk pretending he needed your stapler.”

you blink. “wait. what?”

jeno drops his chopsticks.

jaemin freezes. realizes.

“oh..." he mutters.

your jaw drops. “waitwaitwait. you told him to borrow my stapler?”

“in my defense,” jaemin says, holding up both hands, “i was just trying to save him from dying of heart failure every time you walked past. it was either that or fake a paper jam crisis.”

jeno is silent. fully hiding behind his lunchbox now.

you slowly turn to him. “is this true?”

“…maybe,” he mumbles.

you snort, trying to hold in your laughter. “oh my god. so all this time..”

“don’t act like it wasn’t genius!” jaemin interrupts. “you’re welcome, by the way. this whole slow-burn coffee shop romcom office love story? all me.”

jeno groans. “can i push him off the roof.”

you lean into jeno’s shoulder, grinning. “you should’ve just said hi.”

he sighs. “i wanted to. but every time i tried, you were always typing so fast. and glaring at your screen like it personally insulted your ancestors.”

you snort. “fair.”

jaemin raises his water bottle. “to true love, born from borrowing office supplies.”

jeno snatches it from him and takes a sip without asking. you think that’s revenge enough. read more ❤︎ please like, reblog and let me know your reviews (๑>◡<๑) this work is a piece of fiction and is not intended to reflect the real personalities, actions, or beliefs of the individuals portrayed. the idols mentioned are used purely as fictional characters for storytelling purposes. no harm, disrespect, or objectification is intended. everything written here is entirely imaginative and not based on real-life events or relationships.

[riecoeur]

love.

pairing — athlete!lee chanyoung x fem!reader warnings — aged up, lowercase, just fluff and cute lee chanyoung part of — my gold metal husband .

📌 any feedback are appreciated, i’d love to know what you think of my first mini-series, send ask → 💌🦕🩵 !

🏷️ taglist

ever since your pottery shop opened, you’ve been so busy you can barely catch your breath, let alone eat properly. your little shop’s tucked away in a quiet alley, meant as a cozy spot for people to try their hand at crafting pottery, but you never expected it to draw such a crowd.

groups of young friends, couples, even older aunties and uncles they all show up to mess around with clay, glazes, and the wheel.

you’re thrilled. but also, completely wiped out.

it’s not like you’re neglecting yourself on purpose, it’s just that you genuinely don’t have time to think about it. from morning till night, you’re caught up with customers, clay, and half-finished cups and bowls. some days, your stomach growls so loud you can hear it, but you just brush it off, thinking you’ll eat once you’re done. except “later” often stretches into late at night.

chanyoung, of course, isn’t about to let that slide.

that day, you’re in the middle of showing a group how to shape clay into mugs when the shop’s bell jingles. you glance up on reflex and spot a familiar figure at the door.

lee chanyoung. your husband.

and apparently, not a stranger to the younger crowd either, with that cool-guy charm, killer physique, and height to match.

proof? the second he steps in, the younger customers start whispering. some widen their eyes, others nudge their friends, and one even lets out a tiny squeal.

“oh my god, is that lee chanyoung?!”

“he’s even hotter in person than in pictures!”

“his wife’s this shop owner, right? ugh, this couple’s too cute!”

you bite back a laugh, worried they might swarm him for photos any second. pretending not to hear, you clap your hands to reel everyone back in.

“alright, everyone, let’s keep shaping! the tricky part’s coming up!”

the group blinks a few times, then reluctantly turns back to their wheels, unwilling to abandon their projects. chanyoung catches it, smirks faintly, and walks over, setting a bag of food on the table before quietly pulling up a chair in the corner. his eyes stay glued on you, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll actually eat.

you sigh, turning to the customers.

“keep going, guys, i’ll be right back.”

then you drag chanyoung into the break room, well, “room” is generous; it’s just a tiny space sectioned off by a glass partition.

“what are you doing here?”

chanyoung crosses his arms, giving you that displeased look.

“eat.”

you blink. “huh?”

he points at the food bag on the table.

“i got you food. eat it.”

you laugh. “i’ll eat later.”

chanyoung frowns, voice turning stern.

“how many times have you said that already?”

you know you can’t argue, so you obediently open the bag. inside, there’s a warm bento box and a cup of your favorite juice. you glance at chanyoung, and his expression softens a bit.

“when’d you get this?”

“on my way here,” he says, voice quieter now.

“mom called me yesterday. said you’ve been so busy you’re not eating right and you’ve gotten thinner. i was worried.”

guilt creeps in. your mother-in-law must’ve noticed you slimming down and tipped him off.

you pick up the chopsticks, but before you can take a bite, chanyoung grabs a spoon, scoops up some rice, and holds it to your mouth.

“open up.”

you laugh but comply. the moment the food hits your tongue, your stomach rumbles hard. maybe you’ve been starving yourself longer than you realized.

chanyoung patiently feeds you, grumbling every now and then, “if my wife gets any skinnier, i’m gonna be pissed for real” or “if you don’t take care of yourself, i’ll skip practice and camp out here until you eat properly.”

you just smile, gazing at the man in front of you, feeling your heart swell with warmth.

what you don’t know is that, not far off, a few of the customers from earlier are secretly filming.

the next day, photos and videos of chanyoung feeding you spread like wildfire online. the captions are all over the place, but the standout ones?

“top swimmer on the blue lanes, but at home, he’s just want his wife to eat a proper meal!”

or, even funnier,

“national swimmer, defending the country on the race track, defending his wife at every meal. now that’s a national treasure.”

when chanyoung sees them, he just scratches his head, chuckling awkwardly.

“all i did was feed my wife, and now it’s a whole social media thing.”

you laugh, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“you’re even more famous now, huh, my husband?”

he grins, wrapping an arm around you, voice soft and gentle.

“fine by me, as long as you eats properly.”

[paramorerocker18]

An Ace from Beyond the Grave

Dove had become a vigilante by force, using stealth and cunning to try and help those in the worst area of Gotham.

When the Red Hood takes control of the territory the rot that runs through these cursed streets spills over. The vigilante and crime lord have a past that threatens to drown them both.

Or Reader doesn't know that Jason is the Red Hood. Red Hood doesn't realise that Reader is his first love from before his death. Jason doesn't know the extent of damage that his death caused.

CW: swearing, implied threat of SA, violence, trafficking ring, guns

A/N I know there is already a DC character with the name dove but its story relevant later so we are just ignoring that okay

Chapter 1

It was a simple recon mission, get in and get out. A small stealth mission, she would get in find the information she needed to help bring down the trafficking ring and then get out unnoticed.

An easy task.

Oracle had scouted out the warehouse well, she easily identified the best way to breach the building was via the unsecured sky light. After scaling the side of the warehouse with the help of her grappling hook she dropped herself onto the metal structure beams of the warehouse.

The warehouse was partitioned into two, down below were two hench men presumably on guarding the other room.

She flipped the infrared sensors in her mask on. The next room showed 6 heat signatures.

There was not supposed to be seven heat signatures.

She cursed under her breath and navigated along the beams to cross the dividing wall that luckily did not reach the roof of the warehouse.

Looking down, her stomach felt like it had fallen to the floor.

She wasn't expecting to find was the operation warehouse being used an active base to smuggle children. There was supposed to be a few guards, an easy one and done just a small foot note of the patrol and pass the information to Oracle.

Instead here she was crouched on the cold metal support beams, looking down at the far too small bound bodies of four children and two guards.

Quickly clambering along the steel frame to the adjacent room containing the two hench men as quietly as possible. She steeled herself and paused weighing up her options.

Flicking infrared off and upping the assisted listening device Dove could hear the guards below.

They were sat across from each other on fold out chairs playing some card game.

'This gig has got to be the worst one yet, why the fuck has the boss got four of us guarding the brats, what a fucking waste,' the larger man grumbled. Throwing down a card with more force than necessary.

'Quit your bitching, this is a sweet job and anyway the cargo gets shipped out in a few hours we just gotta sit here and get paid,' the leaner man with the crooked nose snapped back.

The man using the word cargo to refer to the stolen children filled Dove with revulsion, the taste of bile biting at the back of her throat.

Her options were looking much more slim than before.

There was no chance of calling in Oracle to ask for back up, not with the signal jammers she had set up to stop the hench man from calling for reinforcements before breaking in.

Idiot now your truly on your own! Her minds voice snarled.

If she left there was chance that by the time she had secured backup the traffickers could have already moved the children to the next location.

She had no choice she had to act. Taking a deep breath in to regulate her fried nervous system; she dropped down.

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

Jason crawled through the small sky light opening.

After beating the intel out of one of the many low lives that tainted this wretched city, he had finally found the warehouse. They were using it to smuggle the crime alley children to the highest bidders.

His alley, his jurisdiction and these animals thought they could steal his children. Pure venom was raging in Jason's veins. Making matters worse was they had taken Melanie.

Early into Jason's tenure of the Red Hood becoming the protector of crime alley, he had found Andi and Melanie, two street kids who's life story was not dissimilar to the others drowning in the cesspit of Gotham. Not too dissimilar to the life that he Jason had lived before.

Andi and Melanie were sisters, stuck in an abusive home where their mother spent the little money they had on drugs. Andi had been working the streets since she was 17 as well as two jobs in the day.

It had been the coldest natural (not caused by Mr Freeze natural) winter that had hit Gotham in years. The subzero temperatures had even frozen crime, the rogue gallery had gone quiet and even the petty criminals had stayed inside.

Jason was perched on a roof top surveying the still night when he heard a voice by the buildings fire escape.

"I know it's cold Melie, I'm sorry. Here wrap this around you," Jason peered down to see two girls, the eldest shrugging off her jacket and wrapping it around the younger girl.

"Andi, I want to go home please. I want to go home," the youngest girl pleaded, the shivering and tearful sound of her voice piercing the still night.

"I know duckie, we will soon. Mummy's just not very well at the moment. We will go back when she falls asleep." The elder girls voice shook with the lie as she pulled the tiny silhouette of the child into her and started stroking her hair.

Jason let out a hard breath. He was suddenly transported to being 12 years old thrown out by Willis because they were too high to deal with their own child. How many times had he told himself the same lie that his mum was just sick not too high out of her mind seeing things that weren't there to care for him.

The Red Hood would be damned to allow another child to be chewed up and spat back out by their parents neglect the way he had. In that moment he made a decision, Jason came down the fire escape and called out in the least intimidating voice he could muster.

"Hey, it's far too cold for you two in these temperatures, what are you doing out here," Jason cringed at the modulator in his helmet carrying out his voice, his attempt to sound friendly was a poor one.

The elder girl whipped around to the sound of his voice shoving the younger behind her body like a hunted animal protecting her young. The elder sister's arms were bare, she was lean and dark haired with dark brown distrusting eyes glaring at Jason.

Jason put his hands up in a surrender position as he stepped slowly towards the pair. "I am not here to hurt you, I swear."

The younger girl peeked around her sister and Jason caught site of her small rounded face, her nose red with the cold and two light brown plaits framing her face. Her sister was a darker complexion with her hair in a protective style he vaguely recognised as twists.

"Andi, that's the Red Hood he protects people I've seen him on the news," the younger girl exclaimed her wide brown eyes staring at him in amazement.

Having looked at the pair longer now, he could tell they were related but probably only half sisters. They both had the same heart shaped face and nose.

"Oh I know who he is," Andi said with distrust still evident in her voice. "The other girls say you help them, make sure to stop any men getting too rough with them. That true?" The Gotham accent rang out clear as day.

"I do what I can, anyone who breaks the rules, they deal with me," she is a working girl Jason thought, which explains why she didn't immediately book it at the sight of the helmet. Jason had made it very clear that in his territory anyone who messed with the sex workers will be dealt with. Brutally.

"Tiff said you helped her with Carson and he hasn't been seen since."

"If I did then I am sure Carson learnt his lesson," Jason didn't know who Carson was but he had hospitalised those who didn't heed his warnings or worse. "Listen," Jason scratched the back of his neck with anxiety, "I heard your Mum is sick, you really shouldn't be out in this cold. I know somewhere you can stay for a while... until she gets better."

After their first meeting, Jason had lead them to a nearby apartment he had rented as a safe house nearby. Andi had put Melanie to bed and had told him about their mums drug habit and her tendency to forget who her daughters were and freak out at them whilst high. Andi was working 2 jobs and working the streets at night to keep them afloat. Jason transferred the apartment over to Andi the next morning and had set up the payments to the landlord directly from him each month.

So when Andi came to Red Hood six months later in hysterics that Melanie had been taken whilst her girlfriend Lucy had been beaten half to death by a trafficking ring. Jason knew he had to find her.

As Jason positioned himself on the metal structure of support beams what he wasn't expecting was to see a dark figure clad in a black vigilante costume in one hand holding a rag to the mouth of a struggling man with the other arm wrapped around his neck in a headlock.

He watched as the man went unconscious and the vigilante dropped their hold on the guard, who very unceremoniously slumped to the ground.

The other guard flew upwards from his chair and shouted something, presumably for the guards next door.

The guard clearly breaking through the shocked stupor of what had just happened raised his hands in a fighting stance, but his reactions were too slow the masked figure had already launched towards him and expertly used their weight to tackle him to the ground. They tussled back and forth until the masked vigilante grabbed something and dug it into his neck. The man managed to throw the vigilante off and staggered to his feet.

The guard reached up to his neck and removed whatever had been stabbed into his neck and tossed it aside. Jason's eyes followed to where it fell and saw the needle tipped syringe with the plunger fully pushed down.

"You fucking bitch," the nearly 6 foot man spat at the vigilante, "I will make you pay for that you stupid"

The beginning of whatever explicit that he was going to hurl out was cut short by a swift punch to the face.

Jason couldn't help but be impressed as the guard staggered backward, the drugs he had been injected with clearly having taken effect.

The vigilante pivoted away quick on their feet, almost gracefully towards the door as Jason followed along the steel beams.

"It's the Dove," he heard one of the men call as she broke through the door. The Dove, great another bird for the bats Jason thought bitterly.

The three men had their weapons drawn pointing at who Jason presumed was the Dove. He hadn't noticed that she had also entered the room armed with a gun in hand. The thought struck him that she had a gun, Jason didn't know all the vigilantes that protected Gotham but she couldn't be a Bat if she used guns. Get a grip Hood, what did that matter right now he thought.

Jason saw looked down past the standoff and saw the children who were bound and gagged, he could hear the small sobbing muffled by the rags stuffed in their mouths. He saw Melanie in her signature plaits with a purple welt on her tear stained face gazing at the intruder.

Anger filled Jason at the site of the bruising to her face and the rage that the Lazuraus Pit had imbued within him rolled through his body in hot waves. It took everything in him not to jump down then and start unloading bullets into the pathetic filth that had stolen vulnerable children.

He pulled his gun from his right holster and began tying a rope to the cross section of the beam he was on as the voices of the vigilante apparently named Dove and the guards carried up to him.

"Drop your weapons and leave the kids and you get to live," Dove barked at them.

The tall greasy guard let out a mirthless laugh, "I don't think so birdie, it's three to one. It's nice of you to drop by, we aren't allowed to touch the merchandise," his predatory eyes flicking to the children, "but now you are here we can show them what they have to look forward to once they are bought. It will be a teaching moment" The henchmen all twitter with excitement at the leaders threats as Dove grips the barrel of her weapon harder.

That was all Jason needed to hear and he swung off the beam down the rope.

Part 2

♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♠︎♤♤♠︎♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♤♠︎♠︎

Let me know what you think, it's my first fic go easy on me

[betterinvienna]

but even though you're killing me | childe x gen!reader

chapter 3: himself

prev / masterlist / next

synopsis: Ajax is most attracted to the things that hurt him: combat, heartbreak, and you. Inspired by Chainsaw Man’s Angel, reader possesses deadly, unwanted power; to touch reader’s skin is to shorten your lifespan by an unspecified, varying amount. For this reason, reader resides in a secluded spot of Dragonspine and wears heavy, impenetrable clothing—well, up until reader’s life is impeded by a moment of weakness. Luckily for the lovestruck redhead, he’s here for a good time—not a long time.

[ 903 words — fluff, slow burn & angst — warnings: n/a ]

ac: rainsword01 on twt

taglist: @usagiarchive, @kaerotica

author's note:

extremely short because i've once again gotten busy lol. i'm going to try to upload more frequently as i haven't lost interest in this series and would really like for it to play out. i now also have converted to the side of properly using em dashes and i can appreciate their natural beauty—happy valentine's day, i love you

The dull hum of the carriage and the occasional thump, accredited to possibly a rock or two, repel a restful sleep. Evidently feeling much less conversational than the preceding journey, Childe wordlessly guides the steeds back to the scratchy-quilt cabin. You supposed there wasn’t an argument surrounding the topic. Nonetheless, you sternly disputed being under someone else’s care for so long. The quarrel was momentary as the two of you came to a consensus—Childe is entirely too busy with his job, whatever he works as, keeping him out of your hair, and the cabin is your home for your provisional time of rest. The latter portion is something you steadfastly consented to, knowing the tangent option—your home—is considerably less conditioned and substanced. 

You acted alone—clearly—but who passes up free warmth and food, undisturbed by the outside world? To put it flatly, denying the bid would be nonsensical.

In your time of silence and isolation—which was all of the time, at least the first choice—you’re left to think. Truly, you pity the pauper. Today’s subject of annihilation is Childe. You try not to dissect him in such an impatient fashion, but he stands as the only interesting person you have come across in about a decade. The other person… ah, you’d rather not speak about it. 

Childe is, as you had crudely expressed to him, unnatural. His welcoming personality is so obviously a facade—yes, this was not anything new, yours is too—but something different was off. You didn’t want to admit it, but there was a solid chance Childe may get you. May understand you. What life experience dulls the human light, stirring a literal characteristical difference? You didn’t want to prod. It’s none of your business, just as your matters are none of his. But when you reach the cabin, you just can’t help yourself, or your insatiable curiosity.

After the ride, standing just before the kitchen-to-living-room partition, you wait until Childe himself is out of earshot, his heavy boots trudging the snow back to the carriage, and you begin to quiz his coworker. Indeed, you weren’t about to approach Childe and put him under extreme scrutiny after that idiotic, blubbering stunt you pulled at Albedo’s; therefore, you settled for the second best.

“I don’t want to speak to you.” Scaramouche doesn’t turn his head, but in stocking the fridge, slim preparations to accommodate you—not voluntary work, Childe’s orders—he quickly turns you down, before you even get a chance.

“I understand,” you lie. If you understood, you wouldn’t be pressing further. “I’d just like to ask one question.” You ponder whether or not you should add the subject of the question. If he knew it was about Childe, would he immediately clam up, or would he throw you a bone? You decide to try your hand. “I just wanted to ask you about Childe.”

Scaramouche halts his movements for a split second—a hitch in his flow, barely noticeable—and gives you a bored, “I don’t know any more about him than you do.”

Your dishonesty could be excused because, well, you’re you. Scaramouche’s lack of integrity annoys you slightly. “Has he lost someone—something?” It was a wild guess. I mean, come on. No light in his eyes? Not a single glimmer? You scrolled through the list of possibilities. Anything cruel, anything extreme… it was all up for debate.

This time, in an unusually lucky manner, you hit the jackpot. Scaramouche closes the fridge, finally revealing his face without the obstruction and illumination of a fridge door, and you stand still, waiting for an answer.

“Someone, I guess.” Scaramouche stares into your eyes, unflinching. “Probably him, if I’m being honest.”

Him? Like, he lost himself? Now, you felt as though you were crossing into private property, one that was owned by an irritable hillbilly with three loaded shotguns. When has that ever stopped anyone, right? “What happened?” You push, and Scaramouche seems to roll his eyes all around the room as if the answer would pop up in a bubble before him. 

He opens his mouth, and just as he does, the rickety door creaks open. Unfortunately, and unconveniently, it’s Childe. “Stocking the fridge takes an hour?” He jokes, poking at the bubble of tension in the air. “We have to go,” Childe looks to Scaramouche, “we have a meeting with the other harbingers.” The words “meeting” and “harbingers” are emphasized to underline the importance of their attendance. It’s painfully clear Scaramouche doesn’t actually care about that aspect, but he seems newly unwilling to voice what he had begun to.

Scaramouche nods his head and doesn’t give any farewell to you. Not a gesture, a glance, or a nod. He simply leaves. Childe lingers behind for a split second, glancing at you, once, twice, and then, warmly smiling, shuts the door.

You fall limp, defeated, on the lint-filled green couch. If he had waited a minute longer…

You figured that you’d just personally ask Childe about it later. Did he lose himself? That was the only way Scaramouche could have meant it, right? Again, you return to a subject you mulled over before. Only now, you could add to your query. What experience evokes a loss of light? And how does one lose their person? You had been in a box, kicked to the side, isolated, and unusually punished, but you were still you. How was he not him?

Oh, right. Also, what’s a harbinger?

[n1nchawrites]

Shells

The room is sparse. Sergeant Ryland prefers it this way, for too much clutter can break his concentration during his meditations or brief periods of rest. The only ornamentation to be found sits on the utilitarian slab of a workbench that lies adjacent to his cot. In the low candlelight of his quarters, six pips of brass shine beautifully. They stand evenly partitioned, proud and stout as veterans in parade formation. Each one is etched with fine engravings inlaid with pure silver, depicting Chapter heroes and the Emperor in various engagements against the foes of mankind.

A servitor clicks and hisses as it lumbers towards the table, placing a seventh, freshly polished round on the table, careful to not plant it at an incorrect distance from any other shell; this bolt has just been reloaded, carefully sealed and refurbished by the machine-slave over a period of several hours. The servitor had once been a master artificer, slaving over weapons and tools of war for every day of his life before being condemned to his fate as a thrall. It shows its talents, however, in the deft skill and speed at which it can repair such a fine and unique shell, and Ryland values its presence - it was committed to him some time ago by the Techmarine of his company as a dedicated means of repairing the rounds; they took up too much valuable time for the Chapter artificers to recycle, especially if they were to be kept in perfect condition, and thus a compromise had been met.

Five of the twelve original shells have been lost. The first shell had rolled into a pit of magma during a conflict who's climax was fought in a volcano, Ryland petitioned to have the Chapter recover it, yet the hope for its survival was slim, and the resources spent to recover it simply were not worth the effort, especially for somebody as low-ranking as a Sergeant. The second had been jetted into space during an incursion as they coasted the Immaterium, their Gellar Fields failing and exposing them to the horrors of the Warp - similarly, the third had fallen into the gaping maw of a Daemon during his defence of the vessel, returning to the Warp with the beast as they entered realspace once more. The fourth was lost during a boarding action, during which they had overloaded the enemy ship's reactors and Ryland did not have the time to return to the core of the frigate before it went critical and erupted in a cascading array of plasma bursts, triggering the Warp core to create a massive vortex and devour whatever was left entirely. The final shell was lost in the last engagement, stolen by a damned Grot as it infiltrated enemy ranks, only to be obliterated by one of the heavy weapon specialists whilst it made its escape to tell the Orks more about the Astartes emplacements.

The value of these shells to Ryland cannot be understated. To him, they are not mere rounds, but relics, and a capsule in which his proudest memory is stored. They were a gift from the Chapter-Master himself.

Ryland remembers that day fondly, a crystal clear sequence of events in his mind. It was his first engagement - already a defining moment in an Astarte's legacy - and he was fighting in the same platoon as the Chapter-Master. They were pinned by the enemy, and Ryland had drained his magazine entirely, leaving him dry and without any back-ups, for the spare two were used up on the initial advance. Wordlessly, the Chapter-Master extended an ornate bolter magazine to him; lead-coloured inlaid with gold. He took it in awe, hammering it into his weapon and fighting with a zeal the likes of which even he did not believe was possible to possess. From that day forth, he made it a principle to collect the spent shells and only use the magazine as a last resort, should the very worst come to pass.

Ryland sometimes wonders if the Chapter-Master ever notices he kept the magazine, if he is as proud as Ryland to have access to such beautiful resources and dispense such swift death with them. He wonders if the shells could speak, what stories they could tell; would they speak of great foes vanquished with their blistering diamond tips and explosive cores, of the honour to have been in service for such a long span of time, of the sweeping fields of battle and tight voidship corridors they had sped down and across, or something else entirely?

Ryland feels himself smile. He picks up one of the rounds, looking at his reflection in it - his features become warped and exaggerated, and cracked as the etchings on the brass cylinder carve and arc their way across his visage. He smiles wider, it is as if the rounds are joking with him; they are, after all, his closest and only assets, and as strange as it is to assign personality traits to something inanimate, he cannot help but do so with these treasures.

He sets the shell back in its place and steps away, a smirk still playing on his face as he takes the gilded magazine from his ammunition pouch on his leather belt and feeds them in, loading them in the exact sequence he had done countless times before, and holstering the crescent-shaped magazine back where it belongs. He is to go to war soon, and he would not be caught dead without his relic. Without his shells.

[psiroller]

you're gonna hate me soon ch. 2 preview. because i like you a lot

When the party reconvened the following Monday, it was like nothing had ever happened. It wasn’t the first time that someone in the group had drunk a little too much or too fast and said something they shouldn’t have—that person was usually Laios—but it hadn’t gone as far as a fistfight in recent memory. Still, when Laios and Falin arrived at their usual spot at the tavern, his teammates greeted him like any other day. Chilchuck raised a stein of something Laios hoped wasn’t alcoholic to hail him, but there was an ever-so-slight upturn to his normal morning grimace, so maybe it was. Laios felt his pulse quicken and focused on his breathing, but it just made him look even more flustered. He cleared his throat in address.

“Alright, everyone, it’s slim pickings on the available jobs this week,” Laios announced. “There weren’t many listings on the boards, and most of them sounded sketchy. Another ‘package delivery’ to one of the unregulated taverns on the second floor, another ‘contraband seizure’ on the lower levels with no seal of authenticity, tons of requests for those kinds of walking mushrooms, a couple of ‘succubus hunts’ looking for entry-level adventurers…”

Chilchuck rolled his eyes and clucked his tongue. “People are still posting those? I can’t imagine there’s a wide pool of scabs left to take them.”

“There’s a sucker born every minute,” Namari shrugged, gnawing on a strip of bacon burnt into a stick of charcoal, just the way she liked it. “Half-minute, for you guys.”

Chilchuck swatted Namari in the shoulder, a backhanded crack of his knuckles that felt like a bug bite to her. She laughed it off, giving him a gentle sock in the arm that made him wince.

“The postings have been generally dubious lately, haven’t they?” Shuro asked. Laios nodded to him, defeated.

“There’s a lot of bureaucratic red tape involved in making sure the job postings are legitimate,” Marcille said, twining a ribbon through her rope braid. Falin went to hold one of the partitioned locks of hair for her as she struggled with an awkward angle. “But I’ve heard that the correspondence offices are swamped with all the new people coming to the island lately. Maybe things are starting to slip through the cracks?”

“Nothing’s stopping anybody from just walking up to the public postings and sticking up a piece of official-looking parchment, either,” said Laios. “Generally, there are officers on patrol to monitor what goes up, but they go out in shifts. If they’re spread too thin, they check less, forget more often, and a newbie takes a crappy monster bait job.”

“And probably dies,” Chilchuck chimed in.

“Thank you, Chilchuck.”

“So, is there anything worth doing this week?” Namari crossed her arms. “Or could I have slept in today?”

“There is one…” Laios said, trying to contain his excitement. “There’s a hydra on the fourth floor.”

Namari grinned and leaned in, elbows on the table. “Now we’re talking.”

Shuro nodded seriously, indicating he was already planning his approach. Marcille blanched at the concept; she hadn’t been to the fourth floor yet in her adventuring career. Falin had assisted in the job hunt and was aware of the plan, but she still grinned toothily at the thought of seeing one.

“You sure we can handle a hydra?” Chilchuck asked. “Two manticores were tough enough. These things have a dozen heads, don’t they? It’s like fighting a whole group of monsters at once.”

“Oh?” Laios grinned. “Are you planning on participating in the hunt this time?”

Chilchuck spat his orange juice (?) back into the cup. “Hell no!”

“That’s a shame,” Laios pouted. “At any rate, I was hoping to borrow those manticore quills you picked up. Did you happen to sell those off?”

Chilchuck had to think about it, scratching his sideburns. Laios had seen him hungover before, but he was in a better mood than usual for such a state, if a bit slow. “I think I got a few still lying around.” He’d been planning to try to find a way to fletch them without spilling the venom everywhere, having found no success. The tips were sharply pointed and might serve well as a pick if carved down, but they were quite valuable in their raw form. Like many things he had trouble deciding on, they’d been stuffed under his desk and left alone.

Laios beamed at him. “Awesome. That’ll be really helpful.” Chilchuck averted his eyes and got his orange juice (?) back down on the second shot.

“Don’t mention it.”

“According to the posting, this hydra is still a juvenile.” Laios continued. “It should be much easier to take down than a full-grown adult, but there’s something to consider: this listing is almost a month old by now. The hydra shouldn’t have grown too much from that sighting, but we all know the thing about hydras, right?”

Everyone around the table nodded; Namari made a what-do-you-think sort of gesture.

“I need all of you to verbally confirm it for me, okay? Just to be sure.”

A collective groan arose.

“Cut off all the heads at once, or two more grow in its place,” the party intoned, with the slow and deliberate cadence of grammar schoolers.

“Very good, everyone. Thank you. I know that sounds insulting, but if you have experience in this kind of work, you know why I’m checking.”

“Common rookie mistake.” Namari sipped her coffee.

“That’s right. And if there’s an influx of rookies coming in, desperate for work…”

“Then the hydra might have gotten a few heads trimmed already.” Shuro folded his arms into his sleeves. “That could be a problem.”

“But it also means that there’s more we can loot from it,” Laios smiled. He pumped his fist a little, unable to control his excitement. “We’ve got some good experience under our belts now, and I’ve done a lot of research on hydras. I think we’re ready to take one on now. They’re fascinating monsters, members of the dragon family! They’ve got an extremely interesting skeletal adaptation that—”

“Sounds good to me.” Namari rose from the bench and stretched, pulling her arm over her shoulder. “I need a really thin taper on the blade for hydras, right?”

“Y-yeah, the hide’s thin for a dragon but the muscle is tough. We need to make sure we get a clean, complete slice when we do get the chance to take a swing. When hydras are young, their heads get severed easily. It sounds like it’s counterintuitive, but—”

“I get it. I’ve fought them before. Just tell me when to slice ‘em and I’ll slice ‘em.”

“See, that’s the problem. We don’t know exactly how many heads this thing has. How do we ensure that we cut them all off at once?” Namari grimaced and sat down, settling in for another lecture. “So that’s why I asked you to meet me here! I have an attack strategy I like to call ‘the kebab method’.”

Namari stood back up. “Nah, that’s cool, see you—”

Chilchuck put a hand on her arm. “Let him talk, Namari.”

Namari stared incredulously down at Chilchuck, then grimaced when she put the pieces together. She clucked her tongue and flopped into her seat for good. She elbowed Chilchuck in the ribs and muttered something in a language Laios didn’t recognize. Chilchuck drummed his fingertips on his arm and ignored it.

Laios smiled down at Chilchuck, and the sour look on his face softened. He twirled his wrist, motioning for Laios to continue. “Continue. I don’t have all day, pal.”

Laios chuckled, blushing a bit. “Right, sorry! So, the manticore quills are great for this, but I’ve also picked up some long-range spears—well, I guess they’re more like polearms?” Falin shot Marcille a horrified glance. The hydra was the furthest thing from their minds. Namari opened her mouth to correct him on his weapons terminology but jolted a little, having gotten kicked in the ankle. “Each head of the hydra has its own spinal cord, much like ours, that runs down down the center and to the back of the hydra’s throat.  So if you stab around the spine between the ribs that protect the hydra’s esophagus, everything stays intact. Severing the spinal cord is what triggers the new heads to grow in, provided that at least one head is left intact when the reflex kicks in.”

“So we could use those polearms to hold it in place? I don’t think my upper arm strength can pull that off,” Marcille protested.

“We could push the spears into the walls and floor to ground them,” Shuro offered. Laios snapped his fingers.

“Yes! That’s a great idea. But I could only afford so many spears, and Chilchuck only has so many quills long enough to pull this off. So it’s important that we’re careful about how many we use. Considering how thin the hydra’s necks are, I thought we could try to skewer multiple heads on the same spear.”

A silence fell on the party, and perhaps the next table over, upon hearing this flawless plan.

“Hence, the kebab method,” Marcille clarified, her tone flat. Chilchuck shrank into his chair when he felt Namari looking over at him. Laios nodded.

“I think it could work,” Shuro said. Laios lit up at the validation. “There’s some merit to restricting the hydra’s movements. Not all of us can restrain the beast on our own, but if securely speared through, we could use the hydra’s muscle strength against itself. Stabbing through the esophagus would also prevent the hydra from swallowing any of us outright, if it has grown large enough to do so.”

“Exactly! Thank you, Shuro.” Shuro seemed a little exhausted by his energy, but Falin gave him a hearty pat on the shoulder that he’d be thinking about for the rest of his life. “And we don’t have to get a perfect hit with every spear. I got as many as I could afford, so if the hydra rips the spear out of your hands or it’s too dangerous to keep going, we can fall back, grab another spear, and try again.”

“So we’re trying to reduce the amount of variables in fighting the hydra?” Marcille asked, more convinced this time.

“The less we have to worry about the hydra writhing around, the easier it’ll be to synchronize the finishing blow.” Laios grinned at Namari. “And that’s when we finally slice ‘em. Everyone clear?”

Namari grinned back. Shuro bowed his head in understanding. Marcille still had her reservations, but Falin was pumping her up. Chilchuck sat back in his seat with his arms crossed, abstaining from any conversation about combat, but when Laios caught his eye, the corner of his mouth curved up in a smirk that Laios couldn’t decipher.

“That’s—that’s all!” Laios croaked. “We’ll all meet at the dungeon tomorrow, as usual. Take whatever preparations you need. Pack heavily, it’s a long trip.”

The party dispersed. Falin and Marcille lingered at their end of the table as Namari hustled to leave, lost in consideration of what weapon she’d be taking down with her. Shuro hung around for a while, trying to find an inroad to talk to Falin, but Marcille was well-equipped to play defense and came prepared with updated Daltian Clan relationship charts. The long-haired swordsman was stuck talking to Laios for an excruciating moment before he politely excused himself.

“Hey,” Chilchuck said, raising a hand. Laios turned from watching Shuro leave, ears perked.

“You have a question, Chilchuck?”

“You mind going over that thing you said about their skeleton? Sounded like it might have been important. You said severing the spinal cord is what activates the head… growing… thing?”

Laios’ eyes glittered. “Oh, uh, yeah! It’s like how some lizards can drop and regrow their tails, just done way faster. Most lizards don’t regrow brains in their missing limbs, either, so maybe it’s not the best analogy…”

“How come it dies if all the heads come off? Can’t it just regrow them anyway?”

“That’s a great question, and one still up for debate! The leading theory is that the heads grown by the hydra are clones based on one of the intact heads. They have the same scale patterns and eye colors as the one closest to it on the array, and…”

Falin had tuned out of Marcille’s rant and had tuned into Laios’, instead. She watched as Chilchuck leaned onto his elbow and listened, looking bored. Laios continued undaunted. Marcille’s slight hand came to rest on Falin’s shoulder, and she gave a reassuring squeeze.

“You don’t have to protect him from everything, you know,” Marcille whispered. Falin bonked their foreheads together and sighed.

“I just can’t watch him get hurt,” Falin said. “Never could.”

Marcille coaxed Falin out of her seat to go get breakfast with her, leaving Chilchuck and Laios shoulder-to-elbow on the bench.

“So it’s kind of like how a flower can grow back if you prune it right,” Chilchuck said, nudging his plate over to Laios, tossing him an unused fork and knife swaddled in a napkin. There was an uneaten, soggy waffle on it, but Laios wasn’t picky. He bit into his takeout budget to get their hunting supplies.

“Yeah, that works! If you cut too much off the whole thing wilts. Most flowers aren’t trying to wrestle you into pruning them, though, so you have to…”

[vmsplusblog]

[vmsplus]

[slamminslamminmcgill]

Perrito Chapter 2: Protection - Lalo Salamanca/FTM Reader (NSFW!)

prequel to the events of chapter 1. you and lalo meet in the prison showers and strike a deal. rather than face the mercy of the other inmates, you agree to surrender yourself completely to him. tags/warnings: public humiliation/degradation, homophobic/transphobic slurs, shower sex, public sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, pet play, rimming, oral sex, face-slapping, face-spitting, squirting, spanking, hair-pulling, implied/referenced rape (nothing actually happens), BDSM, possessive behavior anatomical terms: cunt/pussy/hole/g-spot, (t-)dick words: 6,693 ao3 link author's notes: i am so unfathomably normal about lalo salamanca /lie como siempre no soy un hablante nativo pero estoy aprendiendo. entonces por favor corríjame si se encuentra algo de errores :3

Whoever said space was the final frontier must have never had to shower in prison.

As if being locked up with hundreds of dangerous, violent men nearly double your size wasn’t bad enough, you were now expected to get naked in front of witnesses. Your size, age, body type, and criminal charges were already working against you. They painted a picture of a weak young man, a little boy, really, who’s no stranger to whoring himself out. Your fellow inmates seemed to heckle you wherever you went, eager to stake their claim in you. It hadn’t even been a day, and yet you were already one of the hottest commodities in here. That alone was scary, but coupled with the fact that you were trans, it was downright horrifying. You thought you’d be lucky to last 4 seconds naked in the shower before someone grabbed you. If people knew you had a pussy, everyone around you would be clamoring to tear it up.

You’d almost resigned yourself to it. It was going to happen. You were going to walk into the shower dirty, and somehow leave even dirtier, if you left at all, that is. You figured if you wanted a slim chance of maintaining your dignity, you should go when the least amount of people were there. Hopefully, less people in the room meant less eyes on you. 

Carrying a plastic bag filled with prison-issue shower necessities, you managed to sneak away from the cafeteria at lunch time and head for the showers. Before you went inside, you decided to peek in and check for other inmates. You couldn’t see anyone, but you heard one lone shower running. That’s it. No voices, no footsteps, nothing but that one lone stream. You sighed, partly in relief, partly in disappointment. One other person was probably the most privacy you were going to get. You prayed that they wouldn’t pay attention to you. You took a deep breath, scrounged up all the strength and confidence you could find, and barged in. 

Men’s bathroom etiquette was something you’d picked up after transition. Obviously, you had no experience with prison bathrooms, but you assumed the code of conduct was the same. Look down at the floor or straight ahead. Do not speak. Do not make eye contact. Do your business quickly and then leave. Lingering for longer than necessary would signal that you were open for business, which you most certainly were not. You stood up straight with your brow furrowed, probably looking more like a disgruntled bunny rabbit than a prisoner not to be fucked with, and speedwalked to an available shower. There were partitions dividing them, but no door or curtain for privacy. Honestly, that was still better than you were expecting; you only had one vulnerable side instead of three. You picked a stall and tossed your bag in without carefully checking your surroundings, which ended up being the wrong move. 

A voice that was entirely too close to you called out, “Well, hey there, little guy! What’s your name?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin. You’d been hoping to get through your shower in relative solitude, but you didn’t even have to strip to be harassed by someone. Still, it was the first time anyone here spoke to you like a person rather than a set of at least two holes on legs. You cautiously turned over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of your neighbor. 

He didn’t look like whatever menacing figure you had in mind. He was bigger and buffer than you, sure, but he seemed like a nice guy. Well, nice by prison standards. Actually, he was kinda hot, and he had a friendly smile on his face as he washed his salt-and-pepper hair. “Yeah, you, kid! What’s your name?”

You told him that and not much else.

He kept talking to fill in the silence. “Hm. Cute! It suits you. My name is Eduardo. Eduardo Salamanca, but you can call me Lalo. How’d a pretty little thing like you end up in here? What’d you do?”

Oh boy, here we go. You thought. You’d heard not to lie about your charges; it made you seem untrustworthy. Though with your circumstances, it might have just been easier to tape a giant “FUCK ME” sign to your back. Nevertheless, you confessed. “Drug possession and… prostitution.” You mumbled the last word, hoping he’d mishear it for ‘arson’ or something less conspicuous.

But he didn’t. “Really? Wow…” You could tell he was eyefucking you a little bit, but thankfully you still had your clothes on. Almost everything was left to his imagination. “Jeez, you poor kid. I bet you were busy on the streets. Well, at least you can get a little break from that. How long you in for?”

“6 months.” You answered. Of course, that was the best case scenario. If you left any earlier, it would probably be in a body bag.

Apparently, Lalo could read your mind. “6 months? Gonna be honest here. A little guy like you would be lucky to last 6 weeks.”

You don’t know the half of it, buddy, your inner monologue replied. What you said to him was something different, though. “Yeah, uh… I kinda got that vibe already. Honestly, you’re the first person to like… actually talk to me. I’ve been getting catcalled everywhere I go.” Catcalled being the nice way to put it. Threatened was probably more accurate.

Lalo sighed. “Yeah, unfortunately that’s par for the course for small guys here. Unless they get protection.”

“Protection?” You asked, probably already knowing the answer. “What do you mean?”

“Hm… Let me think of a nice way to say this…” Lalo pondered, and came up with, “I guess I don’t have to tell you that guys like you get passed around, right?”

“No, you do not.” You replied with a sarcastic smile. Laughing about your misfortune made it feel like it was survivable. If you didn’t take it seriously and decided to ‘yes and’ your inevitable trauma, you could move past it. The show must go on, even if the show is an improv night in Hell. 

Lalo snickered. “Right, yeah. So, it’s not exactly protection, more like a protector. Basically, you get someone to claim you as theirs. That way, you’re private property instead of public property. You get me?”

That was about what you expected. “Ah, yeah. That makes sense.” It wasn’t an ideal situation by any means, but better one than everyone. “How, uh… How would I go about finding someone for that?” 

“Well, for starters, you should get in the shower. No one’s gonna want you if you’re stinky.” Lalo pointed to your shower faucet, and tilted his head back to rinse the shampoo out of his hair.

You glanced up at the shower head. The way it hung from the ceiling so ominously, waiting to be the executor of your fate, it might as well have been a noose. Was this what it was like to die? Taking your last bow in front of the audience as you kicked over the chair? “Right…” You cleared your throat and turned fully around, making sure your back was to Lalo. Maybe if you kept your back to him, he wouldn’t notice. Hell, maybe he wasn’t even looking. Just don’t turn around. Don’t face forward. You took a deep breath and pulled your orange shirt off over your head, though you couldn’t figure out where to put it.

Evidently, Lalo saw your confusion. “You can put your clothes in your bag. Tie it up, though, otherwise they’ll get wet.”

Your heart sank. He was watching you. Intently. You dared not turn around to verify. “Thanks…” You mumbled as you stuffed your shirt in the bag. Figuring it wasn’t going to get any easier the longer you waited, you pulled your pants and underwear down and put them away as well. Naked but for the prophylactic flip-flops required in any public shower, you grabbed the bar of soap and bottle of shampoo from the bag, tied it up, and dropped it on the floor, all without turning around. 

Okay. You can do this. The hard part’s over. Just don’t turn around. Don’t face forward. Don’t turn around. Don’t face forward, you thought. It turned out that wasn’t the hard part, though, because whoever designed the shower controls must have been a goddamn NASA engineer. You couldn’t figure it out for the life of you.

Again, Lalo saw you struggling. “Yeah, it’s pretty tricky to get the hang of. Want some help?”

“N-No, thanks. I think I got it...” You lied. But how hard could it be? Just turn this dial here, right? No, wait. Maybe it’s this one? There we go! You were christened in your success with a stream of cold water.

Freezing cold water.

You cringed the second it hit your skin. “Shit!” You shouted and instinctively backed against the corner, narrowly escaping Snow Miser’s rain of terror. Shivering and dripping wet, you tried to reach for the controls, only to realize how badly you just fucked up.

You had turned around.

And you were facing forward.

Not only that, but you were facing Lalo.

And Lalo was looking exactly where you hoped he wouldn’t be. 

His mouth agape, he squinted to get a better look at your peculiar body. “No mames… (No fucking way…)” He muttered. 

You didn’t know what that meant, but it didn’t sound good. You quickly turned back around, pressing your face into the corner. It was pointless. He already saw everything, but maybe you just did that to hide the tears that were sure to come. You wrapped your arms over your chest and hugged yourself for the tiniest bit of comfort and warmth. Your voice cracked as you said to him, “Please… Please don’t…”, not entirely sure what you were asking him not to do.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, little man. I’m not gonna hurt you.” Lalo assured you, cooing to you like you were a cat stuck in a tree. You half-expected him to start going pspspspsps to get you out of the corner. The distinctive sound of flip-flops on wet tile told you that he was walking over to you. You were left petrified and shivering as the cold water dripped down your exposed body. Eventually, the flip-flops stopped flopping. You heard a splash of water, the metal squeaking of the shower controls, and another splash. “Ah, mucho mejor… (Ah, much better…)” Lalo patted you on the shoulder, sharing some of his body heat to melt your cold demeanor. “See? I warmed it up for you, mijo. Now, can you turn around for me?”

You shimmied your stiff body around to face Lalo, who wasted no time eyeing you up and down. You could actually see his eyes flicker back and forth between your face, chest, and crotch in a perfect rhythm. One two three, four five six. Face chest crotch, crotch chest face.

“Wow…” Lalo sighed and rested both his hands on your shoulders as he continued to scan your body. He was trying to photograph every curve, every inch of you, as if he was afraid he’d never see you again.  “You… My god, you’re gorgeous… You probably made bank on the streets, huh? Body like that, I’d sell it too. Maybe even buy myself a nice place in Cancún with all the money I get for it.” 

You snorted with laughter. His sickly-sweet talk had you forgetting all about the sheer terror you were feeling just moments ago. He was an expert at talking you down, and you tried to find the best words to give him in return. “I… I wish man! You make it sound nice!”

“Well, a pretty boy like you deserves nice things. You deserve to be treated nice.” Lalo chuckled as he dragged his hands down, across the scars on your chest and over the curves of your hips. He bit his lip and looked back up at your face, “If you were mine? Psh, I’d treat you so nice. I’d give you everything you’ve ever wanted, querido, I promise. Would you like that?”

Hell, you’d like anything if it came out of that voice, a rich baritone with a sultry accent, warming you up like a crackling fireplace on a winter’s night. “Y-Yeah…” you hummed, hoping that your legs wouldn’t liquify in front of him. “So, uh… when you say, like… being yours, uh… does that mean you’ll-?”

Lalo answered your question before you finished asking it, “I’ll protect you, sweetheart. You won’t have to worry about anyone else.” He pulled you in for a hug and under the shower stream, which was now as warm and comforting as he was. He smooched your forehead before patting your shoulders and locking eyes with you. “So? You in?”

You were in. In over your head, but in nonetheless. “Yeah… Yeah, I’m in.”

“Good! I’m glad to have you.” Lalo kissed your forehead again. “But, I don’t just protect anyone, y’know. You gotta earn your keep, understand? You gotta prove to me that you’re worth protecting.”

At this point, you were used to bartering with your body. You’d spent plenty an evening face down, ass up, in some cheap motel room, scrolling through Twitter and fake moaning while you waited for whichever loser was behind you to cum inside the condom he’d bitched about wearing. But this, but Lalo, Lalo was more than just a client. He felt like much more. 

And when you looked down, you noticed that he was packing much more than your usual clientele. 

Like he had done to you, your gaze flickered back and forth from his crotch to his face. One, two, one, two. Face, cock, face, cooock. You couldn’t help yourself. Even at half-mast, you could tell he was big. Thick, uncut, trimmed hair, fat juicy balls, and fresh from the shower. It was gorgeous, and you had quite the portfolio for comparison. You’d said the same lies to every client that whipped it out: “Oh, wooow, it’s so biiiiig. I don’t know if I can take it all.” Lies, acting, stage presence, whatever you want to call it, but with Lalo, it was the truth. You unconsciously licked your lips.

Lalo was amused, but growing impatient. “You gonna do something or just stare at it all day?”

You snapped out of your cock-blinded haze and scoffed. “In a second, man! I’m just…” You dropped to your knees, gliding your hands down his back until they rested on his ass. “Just admiring what I have to work with.” You closed your eyes and maneuvered your mouth onto his beautiful cock, slurping and sucking to get it fully erect, which you did in record time.  

Lalo exhaled and ran his fingers through your wet hair, scratching your scalp as you worked. “Oh, there we go. That’s a good boy… You got good technique, huh? Get a lot of practice?”

“Mhm…” You answered with a mouthful of dick, lips buzzing around his head. For some reason, the way he said good boy went straight to your head (and your junk). You weren’t sure why, but you felt an overwhelming, soul-crushing desire to please him. Protecting yourself was definitely part of it, but self-preservation alone wouldn’t have you so enthusiastic. You’d give him whatever he wanted, anything he could ever ask for, just to hear him praise you again. You relaxed your throat as best you could, and pushed his butt towards you to get his cock all the way down. 

“Ooh, you naughty little thing, you like that?” Lalo growled, tightening his grip on your hair and jerking his hips into your face. “You like getting your throat fucked?” 

He kept you down for longer than you would have done yourself. Your throat convulsed and you spat up, coating him in drool. He yanked you off and let you gasp for air. You took a couple quick breaths, not wanting to be away from that cock for too long, and latched your spit-covered lips onto his balls. You licked, slurped, sucked, and slobbered on them while you stroked his shaft. 

Lalo threw his head back and moaned. “Oh, fuck, yeah, that’s it. Just like that. Good boy.”

There it was again, your call to action, your sleeper agent trigger phrase. You ripped your lips off his balls and took him back into your mouth, jacking him off with your throat. You got him all the way in again, your nose nuzzling into his pubic hair while your tongue lapped at his balls. You struggled to breathe through your nose, but you didn’t care. Cock was more important than oxygen. 

Lalo laughed over your choking, not maliciously, but in pure glee at the sight before him. “Oh my god, look at you! You’re adorable!” He pulled you off before you could asphyxiate yourself, and crouched down to cup your face in his hands. He kissed your forehead and ruffled your hair, shaking some water out of it. “Heh, I’m real lucky, aren’t I? I got the best little cocksucker in this damn place, all to myself. Such a good boy.”

There it was again. He had to know what he was doing. Like Pavlov and his dog, he was conditioning you, training you to be his dog, and it was working. You were on your knees, panting with your tongue hanging out, covered in drool, being rewarded with headpats and kisses from your master. You were so happy, so proud to be doing a good job. You let your eyes close and your head lull, giggling and basking in his affection. 

Lalo took note of the effect he had on you. “You really like it when I call you that, yeah? And when I pet you? Dios mío, you're like a little puppy. So cute, so happy, so obedient… I bet if I told you to bark, you’d actually do it, wouldn’t you?”

You froze, taking a moment to assess your situation and how far you’d sunk. You weren’t actually considering this, were you? Then again, Lalo was the only one standing between you and every other violent criminal in here. His wish would have to be your command. But then again, would that be so bad? You liked what he had for you so far. “Do… Do you want me to?”

Lalo blinked a few times, like he wasn’t expecting you to be up for it. “Y’know what?” He stood up and stretched his arms over his head, letting the water cascade down his body and sighing as he let his tension go. “Yeah, I do. I do want you to bark for me.” He grabbed your hair and tilted your head back so you could look him in the eye. “Go on. Bark for me, boy.”

Before you bit the bullet, you thanked your lucky stars that no one else had walked into the showers to hear you debase yourself like this. “Woof! Woof!”

Lalo cackled, letting go of your hair to steady himself on the wall as he doubled over from laughter. When he was able to breathe, he answered you mockingly, clearly enjoying the role he’d put you in. “Woof, woof!” He took a moment to collect himself and wipe some tears from his eyes before he spoke to you again. “Oh, you’re precious, you know that?” His fingers raked through your hair, smoothing it out under the shower stream and scratching behind your ears as he purred to you in his native tongue. “Oh, mi chico bueno… Tan lindo… Tan lindo y solo mío… (Oh, my good boy… So cute… So cute and all mine…)” 

You weren’t listening intently, instead mainly just enjoying how sexy his voice sounded in Spanish. Though when you did hear English again, it was a question that, along with another sharp pull on your hair, shocked you out of your stupor. 

“Hey, you ever eat ass before?”

You stared up at him and shook your head. No client had ever asked, thank god, and none of your previous partners had either. You’d been on the receiving end a few times, and you’d liked it well enough. The thought of being the giver had never crossed your mind, until now. 

“Well, you’re about to. Don’t worry, it’s fun! Shower’s the best place to try it. You’ll like it, I’m sure.” He held onto your hair like a briefcase and spun his body around, letting go of you when his voluptuous ass was in your face. “Whenever you’re ready, mijo.”

You brought your hands up to his big butt and gave it a squeeze, like you were pinching it to see if it was real. Having confirmed its existence in this physical realm, you spread his cheeks apart with your thumbs. You took a deep breath to settle your nerves, and then dove in. You lapped at his hole, slicking it up with a little bit of spit. Not nearly enough, though, so you pulled back and spat directly on it for good measure. That allowed you to slide your tongue right in. 

“Ooh, yeah, that’s it…” Lalo groaned, “Knew you’d be good at this. You’re a natural!” He reached behind you to push your face in deeper. 

You got the hint and started to tonguefuck his asshole, thrusting in and out as deep as you could go. Surprisingly, you found yourself really enjoying it. Your shameless moans reverberated between his cheeks and vibrated his sensitive rim. You braced your hands on his hips and flicked your tongue up and down, side to side, in and out, anywhere you could get it. Lalo was right, you were a natural. 

But he still felt like you needed some assistance. Lalo grabbed one of your wrists and brought your hand up front, your fingertips blindly grazing his length. “Hey. Stroke my dick while you do that. C’mon.” He demanded, and you obliged, pumping his cock as you dug your tongue deep into his ass. You knew you had it right when he said, “Oh, there you go! Can’t forget that, right?”

You definitely could not. You were drunk off his cock and addicted to his ass. Everything about him was intoxicating. You stuck your tongue out and swiped it down over his rim and to his balls, sucking on one, then the other. When you got your fill of that, you spat on his hole again and went back to tonguefucking him. 

You must have been doing a good job, because Lalo couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “Ay, te chico sucio, lámelo. Lame me pinche culo, puto. Usa ese pinche boca sucia. ¿Te gusta, verdad? ¿Te gusta lamiendo mi ano? Claro que te gusta, maricón. (Ay, you dirty boy, lick it. Lick my fucking ass, whore. Use that dirty fucking mouth. You like that, right? You like licking my asshole? Of course you like it, faggot.)” He hissed in pleasure and kept talking, “Carajo, te sientes tan bueno. (Fuck, you feel so good.)”  

You couldn’t tell exactly what he was saying, but he said it with a lot of conviction and passion. Your tongue must have grazed his prostate, because when it did, he cried out salaciously and leaked precum all over your fingers. “¡Ay, Dios mío! (Ah, oh my God!)” 

You were ready to hit that spot over and over, but Lalo was quicker than you were, and pulled your face out by your hair. “Alright! That’s enough of that!” He laughed as he turned to you and petted your hair again. “A few seconds longer and I would’ve been done for! Told you you’d be good at it! Good boy! Such a good boy!”

You whined like the pathetic little dog you were, and took his praise to heart. “Thank you, Lalo…”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. Now, come here.” He crouched down to pick you up off the floor and stand you upright. Once he had you on your own two feet, he backed you up against the wall. Lalo’s lips interlocked with yours faster than you could process it. His hand moved with the same urgency, rushing to slip between your legs. Predictably, your dick was rock hard and your cunt was soaking wet. Lalo chuckled as he rocked his fingers against you. “Awww, look who’s excited! You want me that bad?”

You started to grind your hips into his hand while he sucked and bit your neck. “Yeah… Yeah, fuck… Y-Yeah…”

Lalo ripped his lips off you with enough intensity that was sure to bruise. “Tell me what you want.”

Because it could never be that easy, right? You’d always have to put yourself down before getting what you want. Though this time, you were feeling playful. You stuttered out a snarky response. “Isn’t- ah… Isn’t it kinda obvious?”

Lalo seemed to like your snark, supplementing it with some of his own. “Oh, it’s very obvious.” He grabbed you by your hips and lifted you off the floor, lining your hole up with his cock. You squirmed, trying to fineagle it in yourself, but he kept you still. “But I want to hear you say it first. Tell me, what do you want me to do with you?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “F-Fuck me… Fuck me right now, please… Please…”

Rather than quench your thirst, Lalo fanned the flames. “Right now? You want it right here? Anyone could walk in and see us, y’know.”

That was true, though his tone implied that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Quite honestly, he made it sound kind of alluring. You pushed it out of your mind, consenting to anything that’d get his cock inside you faster. 

You shook your head. “That’s… gah, that’s fine, I don’t care… I don’t care, please, just… Just fuck me, already…”

Lalo laughed, “Alright, alright, I will! So needy!” and brushed some wet hair out of your face. “Such a needy little puppy...”

Before you could even think of reacting, he slammed your hips down and filled you to the brim. The stretch was intense, enough for you to let out an involuntary cry of, “Oh, fuck!”

…

Having realized how great the acoustics were in the prison showers, you slapped your hand over your mouth and shut your eyes, not wanting to test your vocal performance capabilities any longer. 

Lalo took your wrists one at a time and put your hands on his shoulders, “No, no. Look at me. Don’t be shy…” He took hold of your hips again and squeezed hard enough for you to pop your eyelids open. After making sure you two were eye to eye, he thrust himself up into you. You moaned reflexively, like he’d just hit the squeaker on a chew toy. A dog’s chew toy. “Let them hear you, doggy.”

That was easy enough, because Lalo had you practically howling as he fucked you up against the shower wall. Within a matter of seconds, other prisoners came in to investigate, and you had amassed an audience.

“Yooo, check out what Salamanca’s got.”

“Holy shit!”

You yelped and snapped your neck to the side, where you saw two of your fellow inmates, two burly dudes fully clothed in prison orange, ogling your naked body. You repeatedly tapped Lalo’s chest to get him to stop. 

But he didn’t. He couldn’t give less of a fuck that they were there, let alone that they were talking about you. They were beneath him. Literally. Little did you know, you’d gotten lucky. The one guy you stumbled upon in the shower, the sweet, sexy, salt-and-pepper Lalo Salamanca, who had promised to keep you safe, just so happened to be top dog among everyone locked up in MDC Albuquerque. Hell, even the guards kissed his ass everywhere he went, though with not as much tongue as you did. He barked an order at you, like you were but one of the many people who did what he said. “Don’t look at them, look at me.”

You pouted and whined as Lalo fucked you into submission, rolling your head back to face him at his command. Still, even though you were a whiny, weak, submissive, slutty little bitch, you had the nerve to question him. “Nghhhh, but they’re staring at me…”

“So?” Lalo’s tone let you know how stupid that was, “I’m not gonna stop,” but he was quick to sweet talk you into it. That sneaky, sexy, Salamanca. “Everyone’s gotta find out you’re owned, somehow. Might as well have a little fun with it, yeah? And besides,” He gave you an especially hard thrust. “I think you like getting watched.”

You did. You really, truly did. As more and more prisoners packed into the tight corridor of the shower, you heard more and more voices join the ensemble. At one point, Lalo had pulled you in for a kiss, and when it was over, you were stuck staring at the spectators. You weren’t sure exactly how many of your peers were out there, definitely more than you could count on your hands, but they were all talking about you. 

“Look at that!”

“Who’s this little faggot?”

“Dunno. Never seen him before.”

“I hear he’s a whore. Just arrived today. Got half a year for prostitution.”

“No way! You think Salamanca was the one pimping him out?”

“Probably was. He’s lettin’ the kid have it.”

“You like what they’re saying about you? That you’re my whore? Heh. You wish you were good enough to be my whore. You’re barely good enough to be my dog. You wanna show them how much of a dog you really are?”. Lalo slapped you across the face like the bitch you were. “Bark for them, doggy. C’mon. Be a good boy and let everyone hear you bark.”

You had no thought in your head, no possible reason to do otherwise, because you couldn’t reason. Animals aren’t capable of reason. As the two of you fucked like rabbits, you clung to him like a koala, and barked like a dog. “R-Ruff, ruff! Ruff!”

The concert hall of the showers echoed with a standing ovation. The onlookers hurled cheers at Lalo, and cheers, leers, and jeers at you. 

“Hahaha! He’s fuckin’ pathetic!”

“Oh my god, he actually did it!”

“Dude, he has to. Salamanca tells you to bark, you fuckin’ bark. I don’t wanna be the guy to tell him no.”

“Yeahhh, get it!”

“¡Tómalo, puto! (Take it, bitch!)”

“Bark some more for us, doggy!”

“He’s a dog, alright. He’s a bitch in heat.”

“Yeah, yeah, YEAH! Take it! You take it, bitch! That’s how we fucking DO! You tell my cousin ‘thank you’, BITCH!”

“¿Qué? ¿Tuco?” Now Lalo was the one checking out the crowd. You guessed from context clues that ‘Tuco’ was his cousin that just told you to say thank you, and Lalo must have been looking for him. He scanned the mosh pit of inmates watching the show, and upon realizing that it’d take too long to find ‘Tuco’ in the sea of semi-clothed, muscular men, gave up. “Ah, no importa. (Ah, doesn’t matter.)” He shrugged and turned his attention back to you. “He’s right, though.” He slapped your other cheek, grabbed you by the jaw, and spat in your face. “Say thank you.”

On top of the other animals he’d reduced you to, you could now add parrot to the list. “Ah, thank you! Thank you, La-lo! Fuck! Thank you!”

“Aw, you’re welcome, nene.” Lalo said as he brushed his spit off your face, the evidence of your degradation disappearing down the drain. He planted a tender kiss on your O-shaped lips. “Now, I want you to stroke your dick for me. You’re gonna make yourself cum in front of all these nice men, and you’re gonna keep telling me thank you like the good boy you are. Can you do that for me, puppy?”

Of course you could. You brought one of your hands off his shoulders and pinched your t-dick. You frantically jerked it, not even caring about anyone seeing your body anymore. Thankfully, they all saw you from the side. No one had caught on yet. Over your desperate cries of “Thank you! Thank you, Lalo! Thank you!” you could just barely hear the encouragement and epithets from the audience.

“Yeah, cum for us, queer!”

“We wanna see you cum!”

“Heh. Little faggot’s dick is so tiny, his whole hand covers it.”

“Look at his face. He’s even panting like a dog. I give him 30 seconds, tops.”

30 seconds was, of course, a gross overestimation. It was probably closer to 3 before you cried out “Tha-ank! You! La-lo! F-Fuck! Fuck!!!” and came, spurts of fluid gushing out with his every thrust. Everyone had screamed for you when your orgasm started, but by the time it faded away, they’d been reduced to quiet, confused murmuring. They were perplexed by the excess liquid now dripping onto the floor underneath you. You couldn’t hear a single word clearly. Your heart stopped. The shadow of dread loomed over your head once more. 

But where you saw danger, Lalo saw opportunity. Keeping you impaled on his cock, he kissed and caressed your cheek, speaking with his gentle, generous tone. “Shh, it’s okay. Look at me.” Calloused fingertips poked your jaw in his direction. When you saw his face, he gave you a great big smile, and kissed your nose. “I’m gonna show them, okay?”

Again, his ability to talk you down was uncanny. Or, maybe you were just a dumb, silly little puppy that’d go along with whatever its master said. You giggled, still riding the high from your orgasm, and nodded. 

Lalo kissed your neck, whispered to you, “Good boy. You feel so good,” and set you down on the floor. He clapped his hands on your shoulders, and engaged the crowd. “You guys wanna see the best thing about him?” 

And before a single cheer, clap, or whistle could be sounded, Lalo spun you around, and bared your front to the audience. 

If you thought the prisoners had gone crazy before, they would’ve needed lobotomies after seeing you in full. The collective screeching in the room sounded unhuman. Some couldn’t believe their very eyes, and were left questioning reality. 

“Oh my god!”

“Ayo, what the FUCK?!”

“No shot, dude! There’s no way!”

“That’s not real! You’re fucking with me! That can’t be real!”

“Lucky bastard!”

“Is that a pussy?! Fuuuck, it’s been so long…”

Some knew that what they were seeing was real, but struggled to make sense of it. 

“Wait, wait, wait, so then did he just fucking squirt?!”

“Is that a chick? How she get in the men’s block?”

“That don’t look like a chick, though, man. How’d this dude get a pussy?”

“Shi-i-it, can I get one too?”

“Yeah. I’ll carve you one.”

“I think he’s a tranny, right? Or is that just when chicks have dicks? Didn’t know they could go the other way.”

“Is that why he just got here today? Salamanca wanted some pussy, so he just had one of his whores get caught and sent to him?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. He could do it.”

“Yeah, he’s a gorgeous little puppy, isn’t he?” Lalo laughed and shook you gently, as if to emphasize your already eye-catching presence. He snaked one of his hands down to your crotch and spread your pussy lips open, showing off your cute little dick and your drenched hole. You squealed with embarrassment and closed your eyes, not wanting to see the hundreds of prisoners salivating over you. “Think he tastes as good as he looks?” 

Wait, what?

Whatever he just said, it drove the peanut gallery wild. Your ears started to ring from all the shouting.

“Well, let’s find out!” Lalo took his hand off your front and slapped you on the behind. “Put your hands on the wall and bend over.”

“Ah! Okay! Ok-kay…” You shuffled back over to the side, faced the wall, and braced yourself with palms splayed on wet tile. Then, you bent over, sticking your ass out with your legs far apart. “Like… Like this?”

“Perfect!” Lalo spanked you again. “Stay just like that.” He groped your ass and knelt down behind you. Having been in his position not too long ago, you could guess what was coming, though you still groaned when he dragged his tongue up your slit. 

“Ohhh, f-fuck, thank you, Lalooo~…”

Lalo said “you’re welcome” by slurping up as much of your essence as he could. He swallowed a mouthful and then winked at the crowd. “Tastes pretty damn good.” He pursed his lips around your dick and sucked, making your knees buckle and your hands slide down the wall.

A few seconds of that had you begging for mercy. You knew if he kept it up, you’d inevitably collapse onto the grimy shower floor. “F-Fuck! Fuck, Lalo! Lalo! Oh, god, I can’t take it! P-Please!"

Lalo popped your dick out of his mouth, and spat your words back at you. “You can’t take it?” He got up off his knees and forced two of his fingers into your sopping wet hole. Then, he rammed them into your g-spot over and over, as fast as he possibly could. When you started wailing, he grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked your head back so he could growl in your ear. “Well, you’re gonna take it. You’re gonna take what I fucking give you, whore. You’re my bitch. And I get to do whatever I want with you. Do you understand that?”

“Y-Yes! Yes, yes, ah, fuck, yes! Yes, Lalo!”

“Say thank you.”

“Nghhh, thank you, Lalooo…”

“Aww, good boy! You’re such a good boy! Who’s my stupid little slut? You are! Yes you are! You’re my stupid little slut! And you’re not gonna cum until I say you can, right?”

You balled your hands into fists and dug them into the wall, sobbing from the intense pressure building inside you. You knew you were going to break, but you agreed to his terms nonetheless. “Mhm! Ah! Uh huh! I… w-won’t… c-cum… I wo-oh fu-u-uck, I can’t! H-Hold it! Please!”

Lalo sighed, and decided to take the slightest bit of pity on you. “Oh, alright. But you gotta bark first. C’mon, doggy. Bark if you wanna cum.”

You took no time to process the depravity of his request. You just followed the command instinctively, like the well-trained puppy you were. “R-Ruff! Ruff, ruff! Woof! Woof!”

Lalo chuckled, satisfied with what he’d made of you. “Good boy. Now, you can cum.”

And with his permission, you squirted all over his fingers as he jackhammered them into you. Your throat was sore from moaning so much, and you imagined the audience must have felt the same from cheering. It was understandable, though; it’d probably been years since any of them had seen a pussy in person, let alone one that belonged to a cute boy and could gush like a firehose. 

Lalo slid his fingers out of your hole, sucked them clean, and quickly replaced them with his cock. You let out a garbled moan as he bottomed out again, yet he spoke to the inmates with perfect poise and posture.

“So!” He pulled you up by your hair and turned your face to the masses. “This kid here? ¿Este chico? He’s mine, got that? Mío. You fuck with him, you fuck with me, and you fuck with my entire family. Si se chingue con él, se chingue conmigo, y se chingue con todo el cartel. ¿Comprende?”

Astonishingly, hundreds of prisoners from all walks of life, all types of crimes, many of which were truly horrendous and unspeakable, answered to Lalo Salamanca. Thanks to him, you had gone from one of the most vulnerable people here, to one of the safest. You were untouchable.  His peers in name alone, his subjects in practice, all chanted in unison. “Yes, sir!” 

“Good! Now, all of you get out of here so I can finish up with him.”

[modernpartition]

Space-Saving Modern Partition Solutions for Small Apartments

Living in a compact space doesn’t mean sacrificing function or style. With the right modern partition solutions, you can transform your small apartment into a smart, organized, and stylish haven. Whether you're looking to separate your bedroom from your living area or create a cozy workspace, these ideas offer practical and aesthetic value.

A small apartment space divider can do wonders for multifunctional rooms. Think of stylish folding screens, slim bookshelves, or glass panels that define space without closing it off. These modern partition solutions help maintain the openness while creating distinct zones.

A compact room separator like a sliding door or hanging curtain is ideal for studio layouts. It’s not just about separation—it’s about embracing smart interior design that reflects your lifestyle and maximizes space.

If you’re into sleek looks, consider a minimalist partition idea that blends with your décor. Open shelving with clean lines or frosted glass panels offer a sophisticated yet subtle barrier between zones. These modern partition solutions are perfect for renters too—they’re flexible, non-permanent, and space-efficient.

Pairing smart interior design with modern partition solutions means achieving both function and elegance. Whether it’s a small apartment space divider for privacy or a compact room separator for style, there’s a solution for every space.

Need help with a modern partition that fits your space? Reach out for expert assistance and find the perfect fit for your small apartment.

[angelasscribbles]

The Dark Kingdom Chapter 3: Reprieve

Series: The Dark Kingdom

Fandom: The Royal Romance

Pairings: Liam x Riley (so far)

Word Count: 1,324

Rating: MA

Warnings for this chapter: none

Translations:

Stăpâni = master

Mareșal = marshal/ general (leader of military)

Soldat= soldier

Soldati= soldiers

My other stuff: Master List.

Liam Rys, the vampire king, known both inside and outside of the Dark Kingdom as the Dark Lord stood in his sanctum considering his options.

He needed to understand why she was here, and he needed to know if the humans knew where she had gone. She said they didn’t, but he needed verification of that.  

Liam lifted his eyes to his Mareșal, “You’re sure none of them followed her across the partition?”

“No, Stăpâni, she’s the only one that set off the alarms.”

Her head snapped up, “Alarms?” Panic swept through her at the thought of the King’s Guard knowing where she had gone, “I didn’t know that crossing the perimeter set off alarms! I didn’t hear anything!”

“Not those kinds of alarms sweetheart,” Drake scoffed.

“Nevertheless, we need to shore up our defenses just in case,” Liam started giving orders, “Have the packs double their patrols of the border. Send the dragons to scout from the sky. Tell Leo to take a few of the soldati and sneak over the perimeter to spy on the humans, and see what they can learn.”

“And the girl?”

“I need to understand why she’s here before I pass judgment on her transgression. Go. Deliver the orders then return.”

Drake inclined his head slightly in deference then was gone so quickly Riley didn’t see him move. One moment he was there then he just….wasn’t.

Her attention was drawn back to the Dark Lord as he spoke, “I apologize for my associate’s behavior. Drake made a blood oath to me centuries ago. He’s my protector and closest companion. He takes the job very seriously.”

“Oh,” shock ran through her at the conciliatory tone in his voice. Hope that there was some slim chance she was going to survive this encounter threaded its way through her, “You don’t have to apologize, I’m the one that broke the rules and crossed the partition.”

“Indeed…” he gestured toward the settee, “Where are my manners? Please, sit, you’ve been through an ordeal tonight it would seem.”

She was again pleasantly surprised by the tone of his voice. The more he spoke to her, the more human and less frightening he seemed. “Thank you.”

He sat down next to her, “Why would you risk certain death by coming here? What did your family do to you? Did someone…hurt you?”

She turned her head away from her as her face flamed red, “I…don’t want to talk about that.”

“I don’t understand you….most people would be on their knees begging for their life. I’m giving you the opportunity to plead your case and you don’t want to talk about it?”

She drew in a deep breath and lifted her head with that defiant tilt of her chin again as she told him, “I knew what I was risking by coming here. I’d rather face death than stay where I was!”

The Dark Lord of the Black Spire mountains was struck speechless for the first time in centuries. When he finally regained his voice, he asked, “You would rather face death than tell me why you fled from your home?”

“I….” her expression changed from defiant to shattered so quickly that he felt like a knife was twisting in his own heart.

He suddenly found himself less concerned with treaties and trespasses and more concerned with what had happened to her. The more they spoke, the more he was certain she wasn’t fleeing any wrongdoing on her part, but some wrongdoing that had been inflicted upon her.

Of course, she didn’t want to tell him anything. Someone had hurt her and since arriving in his kingdom, her safety and her very life had been threatened at every turn by everyone, including him.

It had been centuries since he had cared to earn anyone’s trust but he found himself wanting hers. “What’s your name?”

“Riley.”

“Riley,” he nodded, “That’s very pretty. You can call me Liam.”

“Really?” She stifled what she was terrified was a very inappropriate giggle.

He raised an eyebrow, “That’s amusing?”

“No! I mean sort of…. Liam just seems like such a nice, normal name not….” She glanced away, worried about offending him or saying the wrong thing and getting herself killed.

“Not the name of a dark lord that everyone is terrified of?”

Her eyes flicked back to his face with a half-smile, “Yeah.”

“Yes, well, it’s just the modern version of my original name.”

He smiled at her, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. Which was ridiculous, right? She was basically his prisoner and he had literally said he was going to pass judgment on her.

He scooted closer to her and gestured to her hands again, “May I?”

Once again, she extended them to him, unable to repress the tremor that spiraled through her body at his touch.

He gave her a reassuring smile, “Don’t be afraid. I’m going to bite myself and use the blood to heal you. You don’t have to look. You can close your eyes if you wish.”

“I’m not afraid,” her eyes locked on his, refusing to turn away.

She watched with fascination as his incisors elongated into fangs. He brought his wrist to his mouth and used them to slice into his own flesh. When the blood was dripping freely from the wound, he lifted his wrist to her mouth, “Drink.”

Her eyes locked on his as she leaned forward and tentatively licked a thin trickle of blood. She was startled by the taste. It wasn’t coppery, it was salty and sweet with a hint of bourbon lacing it.

“Drink,” He pushed his arm closer to her.

She sealed her lips over the gash and sucked greedily as the flavor exploded across her taste buds; rich and thick and delicious.

Liam sucked in a hiss and his pupils dilated as pleasure rushed through his veins with each suck and audible swallow.

When she pulled away, she licked her lips and then drew a hand shakily across her mouth to wipe any lingering blood from her face. 

When she withdrew her hand, her perfectly unblemished skin caught her eye, and she brought the other one up to inspect as well.

All the cuts, scrapes, and abrasions were gone. Her skin was whole and healthy.

Her head snapped downward as she pulled the hem of her dress up. Lifting one leg then the other she inspected them. They were healed as well. Nothing hurt anymore.

Not physically anyway.

Her eyes were full of gratitude and wonder as they lifted to meet his again, “Thank you.”

For the second time that night, unexpected emotions spilled through the dark lord. Things he hadn’t felt in millennia pushed their way through the thick layers of his heart, leaving him confounded and slightly bemused.

He stood abruptly and stalked away from her. Feeling anything at all for this woman was a mistake.

“Liam?”

He was saved from answering her questions as Drake returned, “All of your orders have been delivered. The patrols have already set out for the borderlands.”

“Excellent! Show the girl to one of our best guest rooms, ensure she has hot water for a bath, have the kitchen send up something for her to eat, and find her some clean clothing.”

“Oh!” Riley felt several emotions slide through her. Relief that she was going to survive this night at least, curiosity about what was going to happen, and disappointment that she was leaving Liam’s presence.

Drake’s eyes tracked from Liam to Riley then back again, “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sure,” Liam answered before turning to Riley and offering her his hand. He pulled her off the settee then leaned down and kissed the back of her hand, “Perhaps tomorrow after a good night’s rest and some food, we can talk again?”

Riley blushed as she dipped her head, “I think I would like that.”

He squeezed then dropped her hand, “Until tomorrow then.”

[reassambled-dragoon]

16: Third-rate

   Star frowned as she closed the door and surveyed her new, tiny flat. It was dirty, the single window dingy, the tiny table, single chair, and empty bedframe all splintery and worn. There was no hearth, not even a way to heat a kettle for tea. While the flat was not in the Brume, it was third-rate at best, and for a fleeting moment, Star regretted not accepting a room at the Fortemps manor.

   Childish regret passed, and adult resolution set in as the machinist’s agile mind went to work, already seeing Possibility where, at present, there was Sad Neglect. It wasn’t the landlady’s fault that the previous tenant had been unwilling or unable to keep the place clean. Hells, at least the window, while so grimy barely any light could come in, was still intact. Glass wasn’t cheap.

   “Right. First order of business: Buy a broom, a mop, a bucket of rags, and a bucket for dust and one for water,” Star said aloud, clapping their hands together briskly. “Second: Gather sandpaper, wood oil, and wood polish. Third, gather a rug, a pair of curtains, a feather bed, and a good duvet. Worst case, I’ll sleep on my bedroll after I get the floor scrubbed.”

   The slim Roegadyn nodded, allowing themself a moment to see what could be. The wooden floor, clean and gleaming softly, with a colorful rag rug or two. The window, squeaky clean, with good heavy curtains to keep drafts out. The table, sanded and smoothed, with one of Star’s miniature replicas in lieu of a flower vase, and its chair now nice and sturdy, the wobbly leg fixed. In the corner, the bed was as good as new, a featherbed covered with several good, thick, warm, colorful blankets over a mound of pillows.

   “...hm. Just in case, I think I’ll want a partition to hide the bed,” Star mused. “And a heating array, of course. And a hot plate, so I can make some damn tea.”

   But first, they needed to clean. With one last clap of her hands, Star trooped back outside and down the rickety staircase, noting which steps needed to be fixed. Oh, yes. Miss Jeannine couldn’t possibly say no to Star’s planned improvements, not when they would ultimately benefit everyone in this set of flats. 

   …okay, perhaps not Star’s collection of miniatures, but sharing resources that sold nice-quality necessities to the lower classes at affordable prices? Oh, definitely. And Star knew exactly where to start looking, too.

   On one hand, damn Ilberd and his bullshit keeping Star and Storm from going home. On the other…

   Restoring and setting up a new place was a challenge, and Bhaldstyr didn’t just thrive on challenge, she relished it.

[davycoquette]

Did I hit you with this already? If I have I'm coming back around <3

🧨 A scene involving destruction.

Round two! 😈

!!!TRIGGER WARNINGS!!! on this one for violence and homophobic language.

Modern era Ruck, and the reason he went to prison:

Nicely lost his KNIPEX pliers, and handed Ruck a slim stack of cash to pick up a new pair on his way home from work. They were sitting in the passenger’s seat when he drove past Black’s and glimpsed one of the two students Bri had named walking from his car toward the building to get out of the light rain.

It was only a glimpse; then rain coated the windshield again, and the wipers slung the water aside and he could see the other one.

They were with a small group, and Ruck assigned a verdict to every young man in it.

And he forgot about his siblings, and his parents, and AJ, and let the short future he had planned out fall apart in a twist of the steering wheel.

The Firebird jumped up on the curb and lunged across the parking lot. They all heard it, and all but one cleared out of the way in time. Ruck slammed his foot on the brake and the hood of the car shoveled up a single high-schooler. Momentum carried him to the windshield, and adrenaline let him scramble down and haul ass.

Ruck shifted the car into park and unfastened off his seatbelt while the remaining three crowded the driver’s side door. It swung open and a hand closed around his left arm to drag him out — but he came out with the heavy pliers gripped in his right hand and cracked the forged steel head against his would-be assailant’s skull.

Later, in the courtroom, an x-ray would be projected onto a canvas on the wall. Nathan Wood, traumatic brain injury. Broken jaw. Currently suffering from concentration difficulties and vertigo. Ruck would look at the monochrome depiction of the skull and the awkward set of the chin, and he would wonder how much longer it would be before the court took a break and he could smoke a cigarette.

Nathan hit the asphalt and Ruck blinked hard to clear the rain from his eyes. The song playing on the Firebird’s stereo was fading behind a swell of static in his senses, which took over just as someone complained that he was a chickenshit cocksucker — which seemed like a pleasing assonance to him, and he would remember it.

He swung again, half-blind, and heard the dull sound of steel striking skin and bone.

Nicholas Clay, sternal fracture resulting in pulmonary contusion.

“He’s lucky to be alive,” Nick’s mother would say in every conversation for the next year. It would also come up several times that the injury brought his career in baseball to a swift, untimely end, but he would learn at university that he was not quite sports-career material, and he would be selling insurance by the time Ruck’s sentence ended.

The remaining young man clocked Ruck in the temple with his fist and grabbed the head of the pliers while he was still staggering. He recovered, however, and there was a struggle for the weapon in the slippery rain. They fell and the boy’s elbow snapped under their weight, and Ruck beat the head of the pliers down on him while he was still howling out in pain.

But there were police looking for a red Firebird after Bri’s call. One at Nicely’s, one at the trailer park, one at the brownstone townhomes knocking politely at the doors, and one driving by Black’s.

The siren’s wail was lost in the drone in his head, but Ruck saw the blue lights against the dark wet pavement and shining off the pliers.

Andrew Poole, broken arm, broken collarbone, currently suffering from chronic panic attacks. Ruck would yawn during the slides of his x-rays.

He dropped the pliers when he was pulled off Andrew.

He was cuffed and set in the lonesome calm of the police car. It set in there that his siblings were left alone and he threw an incomprehensible fit about it, which culminated into the officer pulling over to stop him from throwing his shoulder into the metal partition, and, finally, tasing him.

[arehera]

The Partition Principle and The Work

"It is not on you to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it." - Rabbi Tarfon, Pirkei Avot 2:16

If you've taken some beginner set theory it's easy enough to show that the existence of an injective function f from A to B implies the existence of a surjective function g from B to A. Go on, try it!

Are you back? Hi! Maybe you got it, maybe you didn't. (If you didn't, look at what the inverse of f on its image is. There's just a bit more you need to do.) But a neat little exercise.

What about the other way? Does a surjection f from A to B imply the existence of an injection g from B to A? Again, you can give it a shot, but it'll probably be a bit harder.

Back again? You had to use the full Axiom of Choice, yeah? (If you didn't, we should tell a set theorist!) This theorem, that the existence of a surjection implies the existence of an injection, is called the Partition Principle. Now for the hardest part.

Does the Partition Principle imply the Axiom of Choice? That is, are the two logically equivalent? We know that it implies some weaker forms of Choice, but whether it implies the whole thing is a 100 year old open question. (As far as I understand, and according to Asaf Karagila, whose summary I'm working from.)

So the chances I could make a contribution here are slim, right? I mean, if the foremost set theorists of the last century couldn't crack it, I probably won't.

But I don't need to complete the work. I don't need to solve it. Even if I don't make any progress here the learning is a benefit in itself. The background, the foundations, committing myself as a person and perhaps contributing something for the next person to work with, those are all goals unto themselves. The purpose of working on an unsolved problem doesn't have to be to solve it.

And neither am I free to desist from it. So this year I'm going to be working on the Partition Principle, and if I don't produce anything, so be it.