#but i’ve barely got a few thousand words down :(((

[cheonstapes]

miguel o’hara stars in… ‘SUGAR BABY CHRONICLES’ ヽ(´o｀；

･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡. miguel o’hara x fem!reader .｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･

SMUT

REQUEST from my lovely @miguelzslvtz; So I was thinking of an older!Sugar daddy Miguel x reader. The reader is working at small country club and Miguel noticed her. She’s serving him drinks, and taking care of him. He tells her she’s too good to be working there and introduced the idea of being her sugar daddy (basically some arm candy). He invites her over to his mansion for a party and she’s dressed up for him🫶🏻 all night she’s being looked at by other men and woman, he’s being very protective of her. He loves on her all night and makes sure she’s taken care of💗💗spoiled✨

cw; older!miguel, slight age gap (reader is in early 20s, miguel is in early 30s), cumming inside, slight breeding(not really, i just have a problem), sugardaddy!miguel, readers a little bit of a tsundere kinda, miguel’s really in love, cunnilings, shower sex, hair pulling, NAWT PROOFREAD!!

4k+ words (longest fic omg!!)

@cheonstapes; hi again…🤗 these hiatuses are killing me. i’ve been absolutely swamped and i lost so much motivation to write but im glad to say i think i’ve found my footing. i found myself again and i’ll work on balancing everything from now on! i apologise for the mammoth amount of time it took me to do this (this is what i get for working chronologically) and i have not forgotten about your requests if you sent one! pyramids and project ex will still be coming but i want to make sure requests are out of the way as they’ve been there for months and it’s not fair for the lovely people who’ve waited so long. thanks again! i love you all🩷

you loved your job, you really did.

not many people can say that genuinely, but when you’re getting the tips you’re getting, seeing the men you’re seeing, you definitely don’t wanna leave anytime soon. working at such an elite club meant you were among the rich of the rich — the big shots of the city that wouldn’t be caught anywhere else.

at the very least, the uniform was modest enough — obviously though, there would always be a few buttons left undone on your shirt, your skirt pulled up just that little bit higher. that window of flesh, no matter how small, was a guaranteed extra thousand in your pocket by the end of the night — and that wasn’t even counting him.

mr. o’hara. that’s all you knew him by. the man was overtly secretive, often arriving alone or occasionally with a very small group of associates. he was by far your biggest tipper. at times, you wondered if he owned the club due to the pure influence he has on your boss — somehow, much to your excitement, convincing him to bump your pay-check up by a lofty sum. the amount of money you make could send you into an early retirement, but of course you wouldn’t do that. it meant you wouldn’t get to learn more about him, and you needed to learn more about him.

summer was always the busiest, the great weather meaning there was more members than usual coming out to play. although, running around and serving for 9 hours a day was extremely tiring — gruelling even. there was sweat dripping down your face, your black dress feeling like a leather coat with the way it clung to you like second skin.

one last drink. you had one last drink to serve and then you could go on your break. double checking the table number, your eyes widened slightly as you saw him. mr. o’hara was not a small man by any means — the bulging muscles tucked away under his tight dress shirt, shoulders almost akin in length with the table. to put it simply, he was the epitome of sexy. you were barely at his table and you could smell him already, the masculine musk of his oud creating a musky, rose scented bubble that ensnared all your senses.

“‘s that for me, sweetheart?”

yes, yes it was. but he really wanted to hear you say it. your voice was such a sweet caress to his ear — he could guarantee an angel got its wings every time you spoke. miguel usually prides himself on being in control of his emotions, his body — but having a pretty, little thing like you just within his grasp was the ultimate challenge of restraint.

the man felt absolutely helpless, his heart pounding in his chest like a hormonal teenage boy when you placed the drink in front of him. “you know it, mr. o’hara — you order the same thing everyday.” fuck. the sip he was having was definitely becoming more than a sip the longer he held the cup to his mouth — chub twitching against the fabric of his slacks.

you were just the sweetest little thing — much more enthusiastic than the other girls that worked there. he might be just imagining it too, but he can feel deep in his heart that you dress up just for him. miguel knows you want him, and he’s more than happy to give himself to you.

“you know me better than i know myself, dulzura. almost like you’re keeping tabs on me, hm?”

“i mean, yeah, i kinda am. it’s my job, mr. o’hara. you’re one of our most frequent regulars, it’d be crazy if i couldn’t tell you your order ‘fore you give it to me.”

oh…yeah.

in miguel’s defence, it’s been a while….a long while since he last flirted — and having an 8-year-old daughter who’s judging your every move means there’s not a lot of time to work on your game. but he’d be damned if he lost an angel like you, he will be yours. plus, gabi does need a woman like you in her life too.

“do you enjoy it, though? your job, I mean — not keeping tabs on me.”

“you probably won’t believe this, but i actually do. the pay’s good, at least, and i can afford to pay my bills, uni, and still have fun. i’m kinda lucky, i guess.”

“you wouldn’t have to worry about that with me, nena.”

miguel knew he was probably breaking some sorta rule, flirting with staff or whatever — but god you were worth it. if being able to take you home meant that he would never set foot in the club again, then so be it.

“sorry, what was that, sir?”

“…quit your job — not in a ‘you’re bad at your job way’ — i’ll take care of you. i can give you everything, anything you want.”

you couldn’t say you were surprised, especially with the nature of your job — old men say stuff like this to you all the time. but, miguel wasn’t any old man. as much as you loved your job, had a stable income and good connections — the thought of quitting and running away with a man like him? fuck, it was so tempting.

“alright then. i hope you live up to those words, mr. o’hara.”

———————————————————————————

mr o’hara (sugardaddy?)

i’m throwing an event at work tonight, i want you to be there.

sent 16:42

(y.n)

hi, mr o’hara. i’d love to but i finish work at 7,i don’t know if i’ll be able to make it. and i don’t really have anything to wear :(

sent 16:50

mr. o’hara (sugardaddy?)

don’t worry about it, gorgeous. i’ve already got you off work for the rest of the week, and i’ve got you something nice to wear.

sent 16:50

(y.n)

oh, really? well, i guess i’ll see you there then! ;)

sent 16:56

mr. sugardaddy

mmhm, i can’t wait to see you, babe. and call me miguel.

sent 16:56

———————————————————————————

miguel had promptly sent his driver to pick you up in a sleek black sports car, much to the dismay of your co-workers. a beautifully wrapped box was placed on the seat beside you, a bouquet of orchids and a small note that read ‘for you, las flores más bonitas para la chica más guapa - m’

it was hard to not feel a tinge if heat was rising in your face, for someone whom you’re only just getting to know to be so utterly romantic — it was a new experience! relationships had never been something you were particularly interested in, but there was no denying the allure that someone like miguel held and only time could tell how it would all play out.

arriving at his mansion, which was nothing short of jaw dropping — the halls were mostly desolate aside from the quite bustle of the staff that were preparing for tonight’s ball. an elderly woman escorts you upstairs to the master bedroom, your eyes roaming the area as you take in the grandeur of the building — aged walls paired with a modern nueva york touch.

“where’s mr. o— miguel?” the woman turns to you, an indecipherable smile on her lips.

“mr. o’hara is just getting prepared for the ball. don’t fret over him, he’ll join you shortly.” well, it was a bit rude to invite someone over and not be there to greet them but ok! “ah, i forgot to mention,” she opens the door, stepping aside to let you in. “i left you a little something on the dresser. i believe you both’ll be needing it.” the woman winks, silently closing the door behind her — leaving you alone in the large room.

god, even the room smelt like him. a musky wood and cinnamon smell, with the faintest hint of vanilla from the candle burning by the window sill. it wasn’t everyday you were in the presence of such luxury, especially old money luxury. your eyes flitted over to the dresser the woman was referring to, that sneaky grandma.

a box of xl condoms, birth control, towels, all wrapped in a cute gift basket. “seriously? who does she think i am? i’m not fucking on the first date.” wait— was this a date? it definitely felt like one, but it was hard to be 100% sure. this was too much to deal with now, all that was left to worry about was the ball and getting ready.

on the bed behind you lay a beautifully wrapped box, with a red ribbon to top it off. it fell gracefully onto the bedsheets as you unwrapped it, lifting the lid to reveal the shimmering red dress underneath. a sleeveless satin dress, fabric lined with the finest crystals, a slit raising mid thigh, lined a sheer lace. it was the definition of classy, with a hint of seduction.

putting it on felt like a crime, something so beautifully should be preserved and put into a museum. it took all of your willpower to not tuck the dress away somewhere safe and just go and get one of your own — but alas, it was a gift, the least you could do is wear it. the craziest part was how perfect it fit. practically a glove, clinging onto every curve and crevice of your body — extenuating places you never even noticed before.

smoothing out the wrinkles, making sure it was as perfect as possible — fuck, you looked hot. the colour complimented your skin exquisitely, adding a soft glow to your complexion. in the time it took you to get ready, it seemed like the party was already amping up. you could see the surge of people from the window, flashing lights and an abundance of cars being handed to the concierges. you still had yet to see miguel and what better time to look for him than now?

there was a pair of red heels that matched the dress to a T, slipping them on and bouncing down the steps. the butterflies fluttered wildly in your tummy the nearer you got to the party, joining the line of people being checked in by security. though, from the corner of your eye, you catch sight of him. standing there in all his 6’ glory, curls lightly slicked back, wearing a tight button up shirt and those sexy slacks.

something about seeing miguel like this, so carefree and relaxed, set something off inside of you. even though you were supposed to be his guest, you did everything in your power to avoid his gaze — purely cause you don’t think you’d be able to maintain eye contact him for longer than a few minutes without jumping his bones. but of course, fate was destiny’s whore, and soon enough you were being escorted straight into the ballroom.

“were you avoiding me, cielo?”

a hand splayed across your waist, leading you deeper inside the hall as he whispered in your ear. it was obviously due to the fact that you probably couldn’t hear him all too well because to the loud music, but the way his hands caressed your sides, his lips brushing against the lobe of your ear — it felt all too intentional.

“no…i just didn’t want to cut in line. i figured i’d see you when i see you.”

“is that so?” he slid a champagne flute in your hands, grabbing one of his own as he tilted his head at you — a stray curl unfurling down his forehead. “you’re like an open book, cariño. you think i don’t know what’s going on in that pretty little head by now?”

“so you’ve been studying me, hm?” now it was your turn to raise a brow, tilting your head back as you took a long sip of your champagne. it wouldn’t be a huge surprise if he had been, it was kinda obvious from all the stares he’d give you and when he’d ‘enquire’ about you from your colleagues.

“mmm, studying’s a strong word. i was simply…observing you. can’t blame me for wanting to know someone as enchanting as you better.”

he had quite the mouth on him, didn’t he? you couldn’t stop the small smile that graces your lips, shaking your head in disbelief.

“you’re so stupid, miguel.”

“if falling for you is stupid, then i’m the dumbest of them all.”

it was so bad, so bad that it was actually good. and that comment shaped the rest of your night together. considering your new arrangement, he took the liberty of introducing you to his circle of friends and their wives — conveniently leaving out that he was your new sugar daddy, but that was a story for another day. miguel revelled in the looks they all gave you, seemingly forgetting they themselves had a date nestled on their arms. he really couldn’t have picked a better dress, but damn if it wasn’t killing him.

you really didn’t know how beautiful you were, and he so badly wanted to show you. the dim lighting was a blessing for the tent in his slacks, giving him a flimsy disguise for the arousal he felt at that moment. after more than a few drinks too, wandering hands and lingering words, it was becoming unbearable. however, scaring you off wasn’t on his bucket list tonight. he didn’t take this long fighting for your attention to loose you on the first date. he vowed to do everything at your pace, leaving it up to you to make the first move.

as the party wrapped up, and miguel said his goodbyes — you stood at the door, shivering from the cold air as it nipped against your bare arms. the fun you had was incomparable to any party you’ve ever been to, but you thought you may have overstayed your welcome. shakily tapping on your phone with freezing fingers, ordering an uber to pick you up —

“leaving already?”

“yeah, i had a lot of fun tonight, though.” it was a genuine smile, one that spoke a million words. “thanks for inviting me, miguel.”

for a man so big he sure did move so silently. he stood behind you, gently grasping your hand in his as she looked down on you. “when i invited you, i didn’t invite you as a mere guest — you’re more than welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”

it didn’t even sound like he was simply offering, miguel was begging. you could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice — urging you to stay the night, stay with him.

“miguel, are you sure? i don’t even have anything to change—“

“i’ve already organised sleepwear for you, but you could wear something of mine if you’d like?”

that sly smirk slid its way onto his face once again, rolling your eyes as you walked past him — pulling out your phone to cancel the uber. “fine, i’ll stay. i might take you up on that offer too.”

lo and behold, an array of skincare and pyjamas were set out on his bed as you entered the master bedroom once again — and to top it off, gift bags filled with designer items that you’d never thought you’d ever own. “miguel…is this all for me?”

“unless i have another sugar baby, who else would it be for? ‘course it’s for you, darling — consider it a…’welcome’ gift.”

“more like my entire tuition fee, hell. you didn’t have to spend all this money on me, y’know?”

“cariño,” you could see miguel walking up to him from the mirror in front, his arm slipping round your waist to pull you into his back. “i spend my money how i want, and i want to spend it on you. so i don’t want to hear no more complaining from you, understand.” the small nod you gave earned a small grin from him, a hand smoothing up the curve of your back until it reached the shimmering zipper under your neck.

“you look like a goddess tonight, baby. so fucking beautiful…” his words were whispered softly into your neck, gentle breaths caressing your skin. as he spoke, the zipper slid lower and lower — until your dress was held together by the tips of his fingers. the cold metal of his rings brushed against your bare skin, the tips of his fingers dancing on the curve of your waist as he lets the fabric pool at your feet.

“m-miguel, i’m sweaty from all the dancing! at least let me wash up first, or something.” if you weren’t sweating much then, you were definitely sweating buckets now. the heat radiating from you mixed with the heat simmering between the two of you made for a heady cocktail of unspoken desire — and you silently cursing yourself for almost breaking the number one rule: ‘don’t fuck on the first date.’

“we can use my shower then, it’s large enough for the both of us.” we? oh, you’re definitely breaking that rule now. “i didn’t say this was gonna be a joint effort, did i? i can wash myself, miguel.” you weren’t even convincing yourself with the breathy way you spoke, the way he was caressing you, the pure adoration in his voice was something you haven’t felt before. plus, this is the guy who’s willingly paying you to simply be around him — it’s a win-win situation.

“i know you can, baby —“ letting out a deep chuckle, miguel intertwined your hands and lead you towards the bathroom — “but it’s more fun with two, no?” the gentle pitter-patter of the waterfall shower reverberated through the silence of the room, the sound of fabric rustling followed shortly after. glancing down at your feet, miguel’s clothing was promptly discarded — your widened eyes trailing up his hefty frame.

“fucking christ…”

the man in front of you was nothing short of absolutely beautiful. despite spending everyday surrounded by older men, you never found yourself truly attracted to them until now — or maybe it was simply just miguel himself. “i thought you wanted to take a shower, muñeca?” oh, yeah, the shower. before you could even finish your thought, miguel was already occupying half of the space in there, leaving a small pocket for you to slide into.

the expeditious beating of your heart was muffled by the steady stream of water, but it was more than clear to miguel what you were feeling in that moment. the moment was strangely intimate, and dare i say innocent, for the predicament you found yourself in. his hands gently roamed your skin, barely making contact with any sensitive areas aside from fleeting brushes. he made a point to use his hands instead of a rag, claiming he could ‘clean you better than a flimsy cloth’.

it was truly getting unbearable, utterly frustrating. your subconscious and ovaries were in an intense battle of wits, when a third party made itself known in the worst way possible. you really had forgotten that miguel was as naked as you were until you felt the base of his cock slide between your ass cheeks, chest flush against his back. the slightest hitch of your already shaky breath earned another rich laugh from within him, thick fingers playing with the skin of your tummy.

“you feeling cleaner or what? i’m more than happy to keep going if you are, baby.”

of course you wanted him to keep going! you were already as wet as is, in every way possible. “i..i think you might’ve missed a spot.” the hand on your tummy paused, his breath hitting your ear as he bent down slightly. “i did? i like to consider myself very thorough, cariño — enlighten me.” you did your best to turn with the small space you had, looking up at him with a more confident expression than the one you wore previously.

“here.”

now it was miguel’s turn to be surprised, the tip of his finger brushing against your swollen clit before tapping against your slit. it had been so long since you had a real good fuck, and right now you were genuinely about to give this man some babies if he kept on smiling like that. “mm, looks like i did. forgive me for being so careless. i’ll make sure she gets extra attention.” his words trailed off as he sunk to his knees, the gentle spray of water splattering against his face.

he tapped your ass, lifting you up with one hand as he pressed you against the cool glass, legs resting on his shoulders. his pretty lashes were dusted with droplets of water as he gazed at you from between your thighs, nipping and sucking on the sensitive skin as he kneaded your skin gently. his thick tongue was enough to completely spread you open, eagerly collecting your creamy essence.

miguel was moaning like a pure slut, you would think he got more pleasure in eating you out than you did. his eyes were rolled back, hips absentmindedly bucking to the rhythm of the shower as he sucked on your clit. the position was not uncomfortable by any means, but the unadulterated pleasure you were feeling made it hard to stay upright — nails raking down the expensive marble tiles as you practically grasped for straws.

“grab my hair, darling. i don’t want you to fall.”

whilst his words were slightly muffled, the undeniable concern in his voice had you moaning embarrassingly loud. miguel was clearly strong enough to hold you up all alone, so you surrendered the grip you had on the wall to rake your trembling fingers through his hair — tugging on the curly strands.

“nngh..fuck..”

he fucking whimpered. miguel o’hara, the richest and most powerful man in this city, was shamelessly whimpering between your thighs. that was certainly the biggest ego boost ever, the fact that it’s your pussy that has this huge man so drunk. pushing out your hips, you practically smothered his face — riding him mid-air as you felt the delicious sensations bubbling up inside of your stomach. breathless chants of his name left your lips, panting softly as your head fell back against the panels.

“c-cumming! ugh— fuck, miguel!

the jerks of your body made miguel grip your ass tightly, licking his lips of your release as he shuffled upwards, grinning down at your disheveled form. “you’re breathtaking when you cum for me, beautiful. can’t believe you’re all mine.” he whispered against your lips, forehead to forehead as he kissed you for the first time. it felt like a million tiny fireworks going off inside of you, the previous tension in your body instantly melting away as you leaned into his touch — tongue’s pressing against each other as drooled slipped down your necks.

he kept his mouth latched onto yours as he gripped his leaking cock, dipping the pearly tip inside of your sensitive hole. his movements were unhurried, sloppily kissing you as he dipped in-and-out, in-and-out. it was a steady pace that you soon found yourself liking more than usual, a stark contrast to the inexperienced fucking’s you were getting before. “inside, please…i wanna feel you, all of you.”

you were too dangerous for this old man’s heart. having a pretty little thing like you beg for him to fuck you like you deserved, to mold that sweet cunt into the shape of his cock — it was all too tempting. he was more than willing to do anything his sweet baby asked him to, and he wasted no time in giving in to you. “shit, cielo, no one’s ever fucked you right, huh? she’s gripping onto me like a vice.”

he was right, in every sense of the word. you didn’t know how many partners he had before you, and really didn’t want to find out — but one thing was for sure, miguel knew exactly how to please you. your head fell against his chest, his hand lifting it up by your chin as he pumped into you. “tell me, dulzura, i’m the only one that’s made you feel like this? only man to fuck this perfect pussy right?”

he took the tiny nods and breathy whimpers as a yes, grinning like a madman as he revealed in the satisfaction of ruining you for anyone else — not like he was gonna let you go in the first place. his pace picked up vigorously, finding the perfect balance between pounding into your sore cunt and softly rutting against your ass. the skin where you both combined was tinged red, the on-going waterfall above unable to fully wash away the evidence of your cream on his pelvis.

“only you, miguel — no one…no one’s better than you. i’m yours, daddy.”

those words, hushed and warm, pushed his already inflated ego to the edge. his hips bucked widly, prodding at the spongy spot inside of you as she pressed his lips against yours once more. all sounds were trapped between your connected lips, muffling the choked squeal that left your lips and the guttural groan that left his as he came deep inside you. he did promise to clean you extra throughly, and what better way to do that than flushing out your canal with his cum!

he lazily rolled his hips against yours, ignoring the sticky liquid bubbling on the side of his spent cock. “did so well for me, my beautiful princess. i’m so proud of you.” the fluttering of your heart made you instinctively turn away, cheeks flaring with heat as you pouted — you really can’t believe you fucked on the first bloody date. your little tough act didn’t fool miguel, in fact it fuelled him even more. he continued to praise your very essence, worshiping the ground you walk on despite your protests — smiling softly as he sees your fierce resolve weaken. “there she is, you ready to let me love on you now?”

“yeah, yeah. but first, we need an actual shower. no fucking this time.”

“no promises.”

this was the last place you saw yourself in life, but maybe being in miguel’s arms were where you were supposed to be.

- thank you for waiting and make sure to watch ateez at coachella!!!!!

[justmystyles]

The Morning After

read my other work here!

pairing: Harry Styles x plus size reader

*i say it's a plus size reader, but it is not something that i focus on explicitly in my fics, because your size should not define you. it will only come up if it comes into the story organically.*

word count: 2,583

trigger warning: vomiting

summary: the morning after Harry's 30th birthday, you're hungover and Harry reminds you of your drunken actions from the night before, leading to a conversation you never expected.

a/n: i missed Harry's birthday, but I got this idea for a morning after fic, so here we are. i've been writing a few things behind the scenes, and I know i've said a few times that I was going to try to come back, but this time i mean it. i'm working on a couple of one shots, and a new series that i'm very excited about, so hopefully you'll hear more from me soon!

tags: @abby8694 @allthelovehes @ameerakane20 @ash-craze @bethanysnow @blue-ballad @blueraspberryreader @brightlightsinlife @creativelyeva @cute-as-ducks420 @deannaard @fanficismydrug @gem1712 @golden-hoax @gothmingguk @groovychaosavenue @hillzrry @iceebabies @indierockgirrl @jerseygirlinca @jng4kook @jooniesbabie @kaverichauhan @laurxn-robinson @lexiecamposv @likeapplejuicenpeach @lilfreakjez @mrs-anna-styles211994 @n0vaj3an @potterheadandsherlocked @rach2699 @ravenclawdirectioner @stylesfeverr @superchrystaldrug @tenaciousperfectionunknown @tiaamberxx @thechaoticjoy @theekyliepage @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @youknowwhaaat

You open your eyes and immediately groan in pain as they meet the sunlight shining into your bedroom. You quickly shut them and pull your pillow over your face. You had promised yourself you wouldn’t go too hard last night, but Harry kept wanting to do shots, and who were you to deny the birthday boy? 

It was your best friend, Harry’s 30th birthday party, and he spared no expense. The room was packed with his closest family and friends, including a long list of famous faces. There was loud music, dancing, tons of food, and of course, alcohol. As with most parties, Harry barely let you out of his sight, and any time a tray of shots went past him he’d grab one for each of you. You lost count after a while, and truthfully, you aren’t really sure how you ended up at home and in your bed. You assumed Harry had something to do with it. You rarely got drunk, but when you did Harry was always very protective and caring, even if he was two sheets to the wind himself. 

The ringing of your doorbell, followed by the incessant knocking at your door feel like a thousand nails being hammered into your head. You groan, but know it isn’t going to stop until you answer the door. You throw your legs over the side of your bed and sit still for a moment, working up the energy to stand and walk to the front door. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a full glass of water and a couple of aspirin, sitting on top of the note: 

For the lightweight in my life. 

xH

A small smile plays on your lips at the note, combined with the thoughtfulness of your best friend. You take the pills and drink the entire glass of water before standing and making your way to the front door. You are immediately met with Harry’s infuriatingly handsome face, a wide grin plastered across it as if last night never happened. 

“Took you long enough.” He says in a bright, teasing tone. You immediately bring your hand to your forehead, the voice that usually causes butterflies in your stomach piercing right through your brain. “Rough night?” He asks knowingly. 

You flip him off before stepping aside to let him in. “How can you possibly be this okay right now?” You ask in disbelief as you shuffle to the couch, collapsing onto your back and resting your arm across your eyes. “I’m not just okay, I’m great!” He lifts your feet up and sits on the couch, placing your legs down in his lap. “I’ve been up for hours, went on a nice run, got some shopping done. It’s been quite a productive day.” 

You pull the pillow out from under your head and throw it at him. He catches it with ease and chuckles at your meek sign of aggression. 

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a few moments before you finally speak up. “I’m not going to be a fun hang today, just so you know.”

Harry chuckles and shakes his head. “You never are, why would today be any different?” He jokes. You move your arm away from your eyes and look up at him, narrowing your gaze. 

He lets out a loud laugh and holds his hands up defensively. “Just kidding! You know you’re my favorite.” He leans over and boops your nose. A sign of affection the two of you often share. 

You smirk and shake your head as it falls back on the couch. “Did you have fun last night?” 

“So much fun, the party was amazing!” Harry beams. “I got to see so many people that I hadn’t seen in a while. But you know what my favorite part was?” 

You groan in reply, signaling for him to continue, your eyes closed to block the sunlight. 

He turns to look at your face, his expression and tone softening. “At the end of the night, when we were saying goodbye to everyone and you kissed me…”

It feels as though time stands still. The nausea and pain from the hangover immediately replaced by panic and shock. You sit up straight and look at him with a furrowed brow. “Kissed… like kissed kissed?” 

He grins and nods. “A proper kiss, tongue and everything.” 

Your face immediately turns a bright shade of crimson and your eyes go wide. You’d had more than friendly feelings for Harry for a while, but you were certain those feelings would never be returned. He always introduced you to his superstar, super skinny girlfriends, so you always felt your thick thighs and big stomach were far from his type. You’d much rather spend your life hiding your feelings and having him in your life as a friend than to tell him how you feel and end up losing him because those feelings weren’t returned. 

“Harry, I am so sorry… I was drunk… I don’t even remember it happening… I…” You panic and begin to ramble out an apology. 

“Hey hey hey,” he interrupts you, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “You have nothing to apologize for. I was glad that you kissed me. It was nice, I felt… wanted.”

You scoff slightly. “You’re one of the most wanted men in the world, you don’t need a sloppy drunk kiss for that.”

“But I liked feeling wanted by you. You didn’t want Harry Styles, famous pop star. You wanted me, just regular Harry.” 

“Just regular Harry is my favorite person.” You say in a soft, caring tone. 

“I know he is, that’s why I enjoyed that kiss so much. And it got me wondering…” He trails off, thinking of the best way to bring up what he wants to say. “They often say people are their most honest selves when they’re drunk, so I was wondering if that kiss meant anything to you? Like if maybe you were thinking of me as more than just a friend…” 

Your hangover mixed with the anxiety of being called out for your secret feelings causes your nausea to return. You immediately start stuttering. “What? I… you’re my best friend! We aren’t… I don’t…”

Harry reaches out, gently cupping your cheeks in his hands. “Shhh, it’s okay. We’re always going to be best friends, I promise.” He assures you, his eyes staring deep into yours. “Do you want to know what I wished for last night when I blew out my candles?” 

You shake your head slowly, your mind racing and your stomach churning too much to actually be able to form words. 

“The same thing I’ve wished for every birthday since you came into my life. For you to see me as more than your best friend, for you to want me even half as much as I want you.” 

Your breath hitches at his words, you study his expression and see love, adoration, vulnerability in his eyes. Before you can respond, you feel the nausea taking over. You push out of Harry’s arms and run to the bathroom, You drop to your knees just in time to empty the contents of your stomach into the toilet. 

Harry is right behind you, kneeling down next to you, pulling your hair back with one hand, and rubbing your back in soothing circles with the other. “Shh, you’re okay Y/N, just let it out. You’ll feel so much better when it’s over.” 

When you’re finally finished throwing up you shift so that you;re sitting on the floor, your back resting against the wall. Harry grabs a washcloth and runs it under the water before bringing it to you and dabbing it on your forehead. “You know, you could have just said no. It doesn’t do great things for one’s self esteem to have a girl vomit the moment you declare your love for her.” He says with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. 

You let out a small, weak chuckle. “Harry, I…” You whisper. 

“It’s just a joke, love. Let’s not talk about it right now, let me just take care of you, yeah?” He says kindly, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear as you nod in reply. “Good girl, now what do you need?” 

“Toothbrush…” 

He nods, and places a kiss on your forehead before standing up and getting your toothbrush, he puts a bead of toothpaste on it and kneels back down handing it to you. “Go easy, you don’t want to start anything back up.”

You look at him gratefully as you begin brushing your teeth. He watches on, as he strokes your hair to comfort you. 

“Is it weird that I think you look cute when you’re sick?” He asks, looking at you fondly. 

You let out a soft chuckle and shake your head as you continue to brush your teeth. 

His smile grows at the sound of your laugh. “I love that laugh, I’m glad I was able to get it out of you even when you’re feeling like this.” He’s silent for a moment before speaking up again. “I hate that you don’t feel good, but I love being able to take care of you. Especially when you’re so vulnerable like this, it shows how much you trust me, and that means everything to me.”

You look up at him as you brush your teeth, hoping your expression conveys all of the love and gratitude in your heart at that moment. You slowly stand up and make your way to the sink, where you spit and rinse. 

Harry is quick to get up and stand beside you, he takes in your blotchy complexion and messy hair, and it’s clear that you’ve still got a long way to go before you’re back to normal. “Still not feeling so great?”

You shake your head. “I told you I wasn’t going to be a good hang…”

Harry chuckles. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m having a blast! C’mon, let’s get you back to bed.” He moves to put his arms around you as if he’s going to try to lift you.

“Harry, what are you doing?” You step back from his arms. 

“I’m carrying you to bed.” He says, confused. He thought it was pretty clear what he was doing. 

“I can walk, it’s fine. Nobody wins if you try to carry me.”

He furrows his brow and tilts his head. “What do you mean, nobody wins?”

You sigh, hating that you have to spell it out for him. “You’re not going to be able to lift me. You’re going to feel bad because you were wrong, and I won’t even be able to gloat about being right because I’ll feel bad about being fat.” 

“Hey,” Harry says sternly. “I told you never to say that about yourself.” You had always been self-deprecating, and Harry hated it. He wished you could see yourself the way he did, because he saw you as absolutely perfect and beautiful. 

You look down, embarrassed about the slip of the tongue. You had stopped saying it in front of Harry, but you hadn’t stopped believing it, so in your weakened state, you had let it slip my mistake. 

Harry slides a finger under your chin and lifts your gaze. “How about this? Let me try, if I can’t carry you to bed, I’ll clean up your whole apartment while you sleep. If I can, you have to cuddle in bed with me all day. Deal?” 

You roll your eyes and sigh, knowing he’s not going to let this go. “Fine.” 

Harry grins triumphantly and scoops you up with ease, carrying you bridal style down the hall and to your room, where he places you gently on the bed. He tucks you in before moving to the other side and slipping in next to you. “Told you so.” He says smugly. 

“Nobody’s ever been able to do that before.” You say in awe. 

He smiles and pulls you into him, laying your head on his chest. “I bet I can name three more things nobody else can do for you…” He kisses the top of your head. 

“Try me,” you mumble as you snuggle closer to him. 

“I can make you laugh when you’re at your worst, I can calm you down when you’re spiraling, and I can make you turn that adorable shade of red when I get flirty with you.” He chuckles. 

You sigh and nod your head against his chest, agreeing to all three statements. 

He squeezes you a little tighter, one hand coming up to stroke your hair. “And you do all those things for me. That’s why I think we’d be so amazing together. We bring out the best in each other, and provide comfort and support at our worst. I can’t think of anything more important in a relationship.” 

I hum thoughtfully, tears welling in my eyes at his words. He’s right, of course you’ve seen it all along, but the fact that he sees it too is overwhelming. I tilt my head and lock eyes with him. 

When he sees your watery eyes, his expression drops. “Oh, Y/N I’m sorry if I said too much. Nothing has to change if you don’t want it to, I promise. Just don’t cry, okay?” He reaches down to cup your cheek, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb. 

You shake your head rapidly. “No no no, I just… I never thought I’d hear you say this kind of stuff to me. I agree with you completely.”

Harry’s breath hitches at your words, a wide grin spreads across his face. “Yeah?” You grin back and nod your head. “So you’d be willing to give us a shot… as more than friends?” 

“Definitely.” You say without hesitation. 

He smiles softly and strokes your cheek with his thumb. “I really want to kiss you, but I’m afraid you’ll throw up again, and my ego can’t take it.” He says lightheartedly. 

You giggle softly. “I get it. It’s okay, I feel too gross to kiss anyone right now anyway.” 

“What can I do for you right now?” 

“Um… I actually think I want to take a shower, but I can do that on my own.” 

Harry arches a brow and smirks slyly at you. “You sure I can’t help you?” 

You chuckle and slap his chest playfully. “Positive, you perv.”

“Fine, fine… how about this? While you shower, I’ll make you some breakfast, to help your tummy.” He runs his fingers through your hair, wanting nothing more than to take care of you. 

You smile and blush. “You don’t have to do that…”

“You’re my girl,” he pauses, letting the gravity of his words sink in, you both smile dreamily at each other. “It’s my job to take care of you.” 

“Your girl…” You sigh. 

He smiles as he stares down at your dreamy expression. “You alright?” 

“Yeah… actually, I’m suddenly feeling much better.” 

Harry chuckles, kissing you on the forehead. “Good, well you go shower and I’ll make you a nice breakfast, we’ll get you back to normal in no time.

You roll out of bed and make your way to the door. You throw one more glance over your shoulder, smiling softly at Harry. When your eyes meet, he blows you a kiss. In that moment, he can’t help but think that thirty could be his best year yet. 

[luvrodite]

JASON X F!READER [14.8K]

synopsis. the room, at a glance, looks like it would belong to a beloved child. you smile at the massive bookcase that spans nearly an entire wall, the toys neatly arranged in their chest. a pair of matching hand prints are stamped into the white trim of the windowsill, matching the paint of the wall, one much smaller than the other. the only problem, you realise when bruce crosses the room, is that the room is devoid of an inhabitant. 

content warning. fem!reader, inspired by The Boy (2016), dark content, horror, extreme dubcon, non consensual voyeurism, violence, death, blood, masturbation, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie please let me know if you feel i've missed any tags

additional note. idk i’m trying my hand at something new but also this isn’t for everyone and that is OK! please don’t read if you’re not interested in the above tags and remember that you curate your own internet experience. peace and love.

minors and blank blogs do not interact, you will be blocked. please have your age in your profile

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You see the notice when you need it the most. Seeking Household Manager/Nanny for Child, written in small bold letters on the corner of your friend’s open newspaper. You’re glad then, for their insistence on subscribing to the papers of surrounding cities, the Gotham Gazette something akin to a beacon of hope when you nearly topple over yourself to reach for the issue and scan the ad. When they’ve saved the glass of wine you nearly knocked over, their eyebrows furrow into a disdainful frown. 

“You’re not seriously considering that.”

You look up from the black and white print, breathless. Immediate start. 9 to 6 weekdays. Boarding and meals provided.  “It isn’t like I’ve got that many other options.”

They grimace, leaning over to skim the print. “It’s in Gotham. You’re just asking to get robbed, at the very least. Have you ever even looked after a kid?”

The double digits in your bank account weigh on you, the suitcases that have been pushed into their storage closet. The couch that’s served as a bed for the past month has begun to mold itself to the shape of your body – and isn’t that a humiliating thought, for how much had been spent on it, it deserves more than for its primary purpose to be housing a poor girl. Your friend sits beside you, clad in thousands of dollars worth of clothing and sneers at what’s beginning to look like the only option you have.

You push down the urge to bite back, eyeing them pointedly instead. “I can’t afford to be picky. Besides, I’ve babysat my cousins before. It’ll be fine.”

.

.

.

The semester is well underway when you get the email, midterms that you haven’t so much as glanced at closely approaching and about a dozen other things to do that threaten to break you into hives when you linger on it for too long. A Mr Bruce Wayne confirms that you’re fit for the job, and he looks forward to meeting you. You stare at the cracked screen of your phone until the letters begin to blur into one another, feeling the rising lump in your throat. A dinner party goes on around you, all friends of friends who you’ve never exchanged more than a few words with. They don’t miss you when you slink away to the bathroom to cry, relief pulling the stopper of your emotions free.

Not wasting any time, the car comes for you early in the next morning and your friend sees you off, massively hungover and raising a hand as you pile the meagre collection of your belongings into the trunk. You are grateful to be rid of the townhouse, and in truth you think they are glad to be rid of you – a month and then some of their poor, Poor, border taking up space on their couch. It’s an unkind thought, fueled by the bitter humiliation of your failure – they’d not complained once, unthinkingly, unhesitatingly opening their door to you when the job you’d been relying on to (barely) make ends meet had let you go and your roommate had quit on you not a week later. 

The stress of it all lulls you into sleep as the car pulls away from the city, cement grey turning to green and rolling farmland. You’re too drowsy to appreciate any of it, and you’re out before you even leave the state. 

You wake from your dreamless sleep, startling at the sound of screeching metal. A wrought iron gate pulls open slowly, disused hinges whining loudly. It feels as though an eternity passes before the car is able to pass through, and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end when you cross the threshold, eyes drinking in the secluded land around you. Gravel crunches under the tires as you drive down a private road, lined on both sides by looming oak trees. Through the gaps, you catch a glimpse of the wide stretch of land that makes up the Wayne estate.

The chill of the morning has travelled with you, it seems. A thin cloak of mist hangs in the air, painting all it touches in wide strokes of silvery grey. Through bleary eyes, you take it all in. The car turns a corner and you duck your head to peer through the windshield, a large manse coming into view suddenly, only growing bigger the closer you get. 

It looms over you when you come to a stop, blotting out the already pale autumn sunlight. Here, everything is tinged in a light blue film, forever suspended in twilight despite the early afternoon hour – the sun isn’t due to set for another few hours but you half expect the moon to be hanging in the sky when you step out of the car.

Sleep softened and weary from the journey, you stretch your limbs, trying to regain some of the feeling after sitting for so long. Your legs feel static-y and you’re conscious as the front door opens and the face of your employer comes into view, of the wrinkles in your clothing. Discreetly, you smooth a hand over the hem of your shirt, but it only folds back after your palm passes over it.

“Mr Wayne,” you greet when the man comes to a stop in front of you. 

It’s difficult to mask your surprise. For all that you’d spent the better part of the last few weeks emailing him, you hadn’t expected someone so...old. He looks a great deal older than a man nearing his fifties, raven hair streaked with thick locks of silver and exhaustion lining an aged face. You feel a pang of sympathy.

“Hello. I hope the journey up wasn’t too bad?” He turns his attention to the driver, who has begun to lift your things out of the car, eyes creasing kindly at the corners and an awkward smile lifting his mouth. “You can just take those on inside, thank you.”

“I can’t complain,” you tell him easily. I wasn’t awake enough to. “You’ve got a beautiful home.”

“Ah, thank you,” he mutters, glancing back over his shoulder at the house. Upstairs, a window is open, and the curtain flutters through, white fabric rippling in the air. “Come on inside, we’ve got a lot to get through before I have to leave.”

You pause at the doorway. “You’re leaving tonight?”

He hums. “Unavoidable, I’m afraid. You’ll have to forgive me.” He offers no further explanation and you’re too tired to press.

He runs you through the basics – emergency contacts, the local police department’s number – as he takes you through a number of rooms on the lower floor. In the living room, as he’s telling you about the fair distance to the town, your attention snags on the portrait hanging over the mantle.

It’s a large thing, set in a gilded frame with a small plaque below it. It dates to a little over a decade ago, and you look up to the subjects of the painting. Of the two faces, you recognise only one and it takes a few seconds to register. Bruce, much, much younger, stands for the portrait with an easy smile curving his mouth. The only wrinkles to be found are those that frame his eyes. He’s handsome, you think, stunned, with an old movie-star kind of charm, blue-black hair and pearly grin. It’s a stark difference from the man that stands next to you now, lacking all the heaviness that clouds over him now.

There’s a little boy in the painting, too. You draw closer, curious. Bright blue eyes, almost blazing, stare back at you, a soft, sweet face that offers a toothy smile.

You’re ushered into the next room before you can get a closer look, but the date lingers with you. What could have happened in such a short amount of time, you think, to cause such a change? Ten years had passed, yes, but the age in your employer’s face spoke of a greater, age old haunting.

You are finally led, after a labyrinthine tour through the manor and its various rooms, to the bedroom of your charge. 

Something, you aren’t quite sure what, tips you off before you even open the door. It might be the sudden tense set to Bruce’s shoulders, hiking up nearly imperceptibly as he reaches for the doorknob, or the tremble in his voice he disguises with a cough. 

“Jason,” he murmurs, “is eager to meet you.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting him, too,” you say slowly, and he steps through the threshold.

The room, at a glance, looks like it would belong to a beloved child. You smile at the massive bookcase that spans nearly an entire wall, the toys neatly arranged in their chest. A pair of matching hand prints are stamped into the white trim of the windowsill, matching the paint of the wall, one much smaller than the other.

The only problem, you realise when Bruce crosses the room, is that the room is devoid of an inhabitant. 

He turns and you freeze when you take in the mass in his arms.

“Jaylad, come say hello.”

Pale, porcelain and unmoving, a doll stares back at you from its perch in your employer’s arms. Its likeness is a mimicry of the boy in the painting, a manufactured blush painting its cheeks in soft rose, dull blue eyes lacking the vibrancy of the portrait. It unnerves you, staring at it, and you look back and forth between Bruce and the thing but the former remains steady, expectant.

You raise a trembling hand, fingers clasping one small hand in greeting – it’s barely bigger than a pre-schooler, and even smaller in your arms when he deposits in your arms. 

(It takes every ounce of your strength not to flinch at the press of cool ceramic against your skin.)

Whether this is a sick joke or some awful scheme, your situation takes time to reveal itself. Bruce addresses the thing as though it were flesh and blood and you follow, uncertain and stilted. Rising unease makes it difficult to look at the thing properly, and you trail after Bruce back downstairs cradling it stiffly. 

It begins to piece itself together easily enough when on your way out of Jason’s bedroom, you catch sight of various photographs littering the surface of the walls and end tables, Bruce and a very real boy with bright blue eyes. It’s easy then, to understand what has happened, and what is being asked of you. Your discomfort softens, if only slightly, making way for sympathy. 

You know loss. Death is no stranger to you. The grief of losing a child – it feels cruel to fault your employer for how he’d chosen to cope. Soft-hearted, your chest aches when you catch the lingering of his gaze on the photographs as you pass them in the hall. So dearly loved, it’s no wonder the death of his son had driven him to...this. 

Still, you wonder whether this is right, to take money from him like this. It feels as though you’ve taken advantage of this man, accepting to live in his house and eat his food in return for services that wouldn’t come to be.

But the emptiness of your wallet stings like a phantom lash, the desperation of your situation weighs on you and you close your mouth. 

Bruce takes your leave almost immediately after your tour concludes. You stand on the front steps with the doll in your arms, a puppet held like a toddler on your hip, and watch him pile into a sleek black car.

“If you need anything,” he says, “they’ll take care of you in town.”

Something in your consciousness snags on the tightness in his voice, something that’s just out of reach, a note you can’t quite make out. His eyes flicker down to the mass in your arms and you follow his gaze. There is nothing you find, the black of the doll’s sweater unruffled, the manufactured flush of his rosy cheeks still cool to the touch – still porcelain. It has not suddenly gained the weight and warmth of a real child.

“Jason’s a good boy. He won’t give you too much trouble,” Bruce murmurs. 

When you look up, you catch the comet tail of a funny look, winking out of existence before you can see it properly. It triggers a crawling sensation on the back of your neck that you try to tamp down. Grief is all it is. You chalk it up to grief.

He takes your leave, then, piling into his car with a brief goodbye to the doll. A cloud of dust kicks up behind him and by the time it settles, the car has vanished.

The doll remains tucked in its bed in the hours that follows your employer’s departure, and once or twice you’ll peer into the room, tugged by an invisible string towards the empty bedroom to make sure you haven’t dreamt it all. But every time you open the door, there it lies, porcelain and so very still. 

You take the rest of the evening to explore the house – properly this time, lingering in the various rooms of this huge home. Part of you wonders how you’ll manage to keep the place tidy. You’re no neat freak, but it seems a herculean task for one person to manage the entire household. Dust amasses easily, and you eye the high ceilings of each floor critically – how on earth are you meant to get up there?

You file it away as a worry for later, drifting in and out of rooms. An office, untouched, down the hall from your room with a sturdy, mahogany desk and large window which offers you a view of the estate. Guest rooms on guest rooms, white tarp covered furniture and slightly stale air. You find the library after a few turns, drawing closer to a table stacked with books. 

They’re well loved, each with a child’s scrawling handwriting in the front cover. Property of Jason Peter Todd. 

It sends a pang through you and you pick up the books, flipping through them absentmindedly. It’s fairly advanced for a younger child, you think. One of them piques your interest and when you leave the room a little while later, it’s with the hardcover in your hands.

Your first night in the manse is restless. The house is old. Every so often, the bones of the place snap and crack, shuddering under a great weight. You curl further into the heavy blankets of your bed, willing your burning eyes to close but the nap on the way up has left you unable to sleep. You let out a frustrated sigh, a hand smacking against the sheets before you push yourself up to sit against the headboard and switch on the bedside lamp. From where you sit, the mirror in the corner of the room shines your reflection back at you, a soft orange diffusing through the room. 

Down the hall, another snap of the foundations. You shiver, and reach for the book, opening the cover to the name scribbled inside. The clock on your phone reads a bright 2:43 and you flip the page.

To Mrs. Saville, England. St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17—. You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking...

Dawn comes in slow breaths, the world swallowed in a cool, blue mist as the sky begins to lighten. You have long since succumbed to your fatigue, the pages of your borrowed book splayed open against your sheets and eyes closed to the world. The shadows lengthen on the floor, the house echoes, groans, and sunlight slips in through the gaps in your curtains. 

Still, you sleep.

.

.

.

The schedule that Bruce leaves you with is left on the table in Jason’s room, a sheaf of papers detailing his day at length – when he is to take his breakfast, lunch and dinner, when you are to sit down with him for his lessons. 

There are more pressing things that hold your attention – namely, the matter of your coursework. 

When you wake the following day, it is a little after noon and you curse when you realise you’ve slept half the day away. The list of things to do hasn’t grown any shorter in your search for a job. In fact, when you sit down at the desk in the office with your laptop and connect to the internet – poor, laggy – it only seems to have grown exponentially. 

You spend most of the day holed up there, staring at the screen of your laptop as you try to catch up, typing out notes upon notes until your eyes burn and the emptiness of your stomach is too hard to ignore. In the kitchen, you assemble a plate of what you can find. Cold cuts of meat, cheese in the fridge that seems edible, bread slathered in butter, a few slices of fruit.

It isn’t a proper meal, but it tides you over until dinner, when you wander out of the study to root through the butler’s pantry and put together a simple bowl of pasta. 

You eat alone in the kitchen, sitting at the island and staring at the grooves in the counter-top. The silence presses in on all sides of you and not even scrolling through social media, of which a limited number of posts actually deign to load, distracts you from the stillness of it all. For some reason the tinny sound of your music, filtering through your wired headphones, isn’t enough either. 

Dinner is a short affair, before you return to your work. 

It’s a gradual thing, the building anxiety in your gut. The loneliness and late hour are no friends of yours and the tottering pile of coursework threatens to topple over, crushing you beneath a mountain of assigned readings and lectures. The world had not waited for you to get your shit together, and midterms had crept up on you before you could blink.

It isn’t the time for panic. You stave it off when the anxiety simmering in your cells threatens to boil over, willing your tears away. The third cup of coffee at your desk side has grown cold, and the espresso tastes bitter when you bring the mug to your mouth, clinging to your tongue like film. 

You get back to bed well into the evening, too exhausted to shower the day off. It’s all you can do to let out a few bitter tears before unconsciousness claims you, a distant throbbing in your head that you ignore in favour of sleep.

how is it out there? haven’t heard from you since you left, just checking in you get there okay? let me know

The texts on your phone are responded to in a perfunctory manner – yes, everything’s fine. talk 2 u soon. very busy !! – before you shove it into a drawer and return to your work.

You think the isolation must be getting to you when things begin to go missing.

It’s easy to grow lonely out here, you realise on the third day when you pick up your phone to message a friend and the connection is so bad your texts barely go through. A rare break from your work, you curl up in the window seat of your bedroom and thumb through the photos on your camera roll. Faces you haven’t seen, fond memories of nights out and shared experiences – your old life seems farther away from you than ever, and part of you is a little bitter that it’s only the case for you. 

out for G’s bday!!! we miss u text u when im home?

Accompanying those texts are photos – they take an age to load, of course, but when they finally do, your eyes burn with jealousy at the wide, drunken grins, carefree and happy. 

It seems especially cruel to you that fate would deal you such a poor hand in comparison to those around you. The girls you love – whose circle you’d once been part of, young, privileged enough to be reckless – get to reel through their lives without a care. Here you were, miles away from anyone else, a grand total of fifty dollars to your name and with only a fucking doll for company. 

Envious, self loathing and miserable, you don’t reply to the messages.

You try to reason that you’ll get to it later, that you have work to do, that the house only seems to grow wider and lonelier around you. 

Work. 

You fling your phone to the side, pressing your hands to your face and letting out a heavy breath. It clatters against the floor with a dull thud and you can already imagine the newest addition to your screen’s collection of hairline fractures. 

You file it away – just another thing you don’t have time for.

Back in the study, you sit down at the desk, only to stop short. Where your pen and notebook had been, outlining your midterm paper, the ballpoint is nowhere to be seen. You peer over the edge of the desk, ducking your head underneath, but there’s no sight of it. You’re certain you’d left it just there, atop the paper. 

It’s innocuous enough that you forget about it, coming up with a replacement when you rifle through the drawer of the desk. The thought leaves your mind when you return to your work, new, blue ink crossing out black to scribble notes in the margins. It’s not a loss you mourn – or notice – much. 

Your bracelet, however, preceded by the vanishing of your clothes, is. 

A pair of jeans, your underwear and a shirt had been folded on the counter only twenty minutes ago when you’d entered the bathroom to take a shower. Now, clad in only your towel, you stare at an empty spot and feel something like fear prickle over your skin. 

Blood rushes in your ears the longer you remain in place – for what, you have no idea. Perhaps willing your things to return in between blinks, assure you that it had only been a trick of the light, or that the caffeine and stress had gotten to you.

No such luck. Your belongings do not reappear and the longer you remain in the bathroom, the more you feel like a sitting duck, like soft-bellied prey waiting to be caught. 

You venture out of the bathroom timidly, clutching the front of your towel. The floor is cold under your bare feet and you suck in a breath, trying to remain quiet. The house is quieter than usual, it feels like, when you peer carefully out into the hall. There is no sign of any disturbance, no sound from the lower levels or any of the surrounding rooms. 

The closed door of your bedroom is much more ominous than it ought to be. You stare at it for a long time, heart in your throat, before you reach for the doorknob with shaky hands.

A soft, scared noise leaves your throat before you can reel it in. Your room has been nothing short of ransacked, clothes and other belongings strewn about your bed and the floor. There isn’t an inch of it that hasn’t been left unturned, drawers pulled out, trunk at the foot of your bed sprung open, the fucking covers pulled back. You step further into the room, horror only growing as you spin slowly, taking it in. 

Somewhere down the hall, something clatters and your blood turns to ice in your veins. You whirl back to the open door and lunge forward to slam it shut, breath rattling in your chest as you fumble with the locks on it, palms sweaty and fingers trembling so badly you fear it’ll sweep open on you before you can latch it. Water drips into the carpet at your feet when you finally lock the door and back away, trembling lips pulling downwards. 

Fear blurs your vision in saltwater, slipping down your cheeks when the sound of laughter filters through the walls, a soft, child-like, playful sound that only drives you further backwards, a scream spilling from your lips when you bump into the post of your bed, the wood pressing against your back unexpectedly and startling you. 

“Please...” You don’t know what you’re pleading for, or who to. Tears stream down your damp face, and your breath hitches, stuttering over a sob when the shadows in the hall shift, the gap underneath the door showing movement right outside your door. 

And then – so sweetly, so softly you wonder if you’ve heard it wrong – your name.

You begin to cry in earnest then, taking in big, shuddering breaths that wrack through your body. Crouching, you press your hands to your face, sobbing louder when the voice continues – 

“Please come out, I promise I’ll be good.”

Your scream catches in your throat, turning into a spluttering cough when the door knob rattles slightly before stilling. You watch through teary eyes, snivelling, as the shadows move once more and then, as if it had never happened, the house falls into silence once more.

It takes a while for you to move from your spot on the floor, to relax your frozen muscles and pull yourself up, clinging to the banister of your bed to steady yourself. Snot and salt smeared across your face, you keep your eyes on the thin gap beneath the door, the small, solid mass in the centre of it.

You must be going crazy. The isolation must be getting to you. It’s the only reasonable explanation you can procure when you open the door and find your clothes in a clumsily folded pile, the metal of your bracelet glinting amongst the folds of fabric. Holding a hand to your head, you slump against the door frame, feeling the energy leave your body. 

“Fuck.”

It takes you a long time to clean up your room, pulling on your clothes with an eye kept on the door and returning your things to their places. Nothing is broken, but you don’t know whether you should be thankful for it. The house continues to breathe as it had before, the structure settling back into place after letting whatever had been outside your door loose. You don’t leave your room for the rest of the night.

Daylight returns some of your courage to you. You venture outside, clutching the end of a pair of scissors as a safeguard. You don’t know how much damage they’re actually capable of, meant for cutting through first aid dressings and fabric, the blade barely an inch long – but it feels comforting that you aren’t empty handed.

In his bedroom, where you had last left the Doll, you do not find it. Even the sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains isn’t enough to fully shield you from your unease. You look all over the room, pushing aside the curtains, peering under the bed, but it isn’t there. 

The afternoon you had planned to spend studying is wasted away on a hunt for the thing. You check each of the surrounding rooms, first, before moving to the upper floors. In each, all that greets you is a thick layer of dust, white tarp and the smell of long undisturbed air. It grips you, the intense need to locate the doll. You cannot place anything beyond this feeling, only that you must find it.

In a downstairs office – what you assume serves as Mr Wayne’s study – you find, curiously, a few papers scattered over the edge of his desk. At first you are too preoccupied to pay it any mind, instinctively crouching to pick them up and arrange it. Your mind remains fixated on the task at hand. 

Chance, or perhaps the machinations of fate, pulls your sight to the bright, bold print on the paper in your hand and you process the text belatedly, stilling on the floor.

GOTHAM GAZETTE Wayne Heir Found: Body Recovered From Tragic Blast  Alexander Knox The body of Jason Todd, aged 10, was discovered yesterday after a blast in central Gotham that killed at least 200. The Gotham City Police Department is currently reporting this as a “tragic accident.”  Jason Todd is survived by his father, Bruce Wayne, who currently holds the position of CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and older brother Richard Grayson. He is remembered by his classmates and teachers as a “bright soul, with boundless potential, who was taken too soon.” The GCPD are working together with the Gotham City Fire Department in responding to this incident. As of this morning, Rescue and Recovery teams have made progress through 75% of the fallout zone and are continuing to do so.  Civilians are reminded to keep clear of the area until recovery efforts have been finalised. In remembrance of Jason’s life, the family asks that any charitable donations be made to the Catherine Todd Recovery Centre.

The photos of the fallout that accompany the article make your throat tighten, staring at the grey of a destroyed city block, smoking rubble and dark stains seeping from beneath cracked cement. The faded edges of the paper, the deep creases where it had been folded and unfolded – your heart twists painfully in your chest at the thought that Bruce had kept this reminder in here, all these years. 

It lingers with you long after you exit the room, searching for the doll with a slightly muddled mind. You’d known, of course, that his son had died – but you think of the violence of it all, how abruptly he’d been ripped from him. It settles in your chest uncomfortably, making a home for itself in the space beneath your sternum and pressing down on your oesophagus as you move through the house.

When you finally chance upon the doll – sat upright in plain sight in the downstairs sitting room – you pause a few feet away. The fear of last night’s incident clings to you, but with that is something else, the makings of a theory you haven’t quite gotten to, another, foreign feeling that outweighs your fear, tempers it into something malleable. You scrutinise the porcelain face, drawing closer slowly until you come to a stop in front of the armchair you’d been lounging in only yesterday.

Crouching, you stare into dull glass eyes. They remain lifeless, forever affixed on nothingness, unmoving. You pass a hand over it.

“Was it..” you hesitate, feeling acutely aware that you’re talking to an inanimate object, and half expecting an answer. You whisper, “Was it you, last night?”

There is no answer. Of course there isn’t. Still, you stare a moment longer, before your gaze slides over to the leaf of paper that’s tucked beneath it’s leg – the schedule of rules you’re meant to abide by in Bruce’s absence.

You look back up to the doll. 

.

.

.

You’ve bowed to the pressure of your isolation and gone mad, you think absently as you sink a knife into the flesh of an apple. Clumsily cut, you arrange the slices onto a plate in the kitchen and slide it onto the small table where you’ve sat the doll. You lean forward until you’re level with it, and narrow your eyes.

“Is it you?” you ask again. Silence hangs in the air of the kitchen and you begin to feel a little hopeless, clinging to this half-formed idea. 

You stand and turn, taking a few steps forward into the butler’s pantry but the sound of footsteps makes you whirl around, heart in your throat. The doll remains in place, but – the plate is empty. You draw in a shaky breath, moving closer. 

“What the fuck. What the fuck.” Your hands tremble as you peer around the kitchen, eyeing the closed door. It’s implausible that anyone might have moved in such a short space of time without your noticing – you’re the only one in the room. 

You try once more, this time without turning around, keeping your gaze fixed on the doll as you slide a plate of toast in front of him. It’s covered in a thin smear of hazelnut spread, the chocolate melting over the warm bread.

The doll does not move. 

Your brows draw together, confused. A few beats. The toast is cooling, and a silly, superficial part of you worries that it won’t taste any good if this goes on any longer.

“Are you shy...?” you wonder out loud. The doll does not answer you but you turn away slowly anyway, fixing your eyes on the back door.

A second passes, and then another. You wait. 

You feel it then, a few moments later, rather than hear it. It’s difficult to place, the manner in which the very atmosphere in the kitchen shifts, to let you know you are no longer the only one in here. There is the rustle of something moving, the bread, you think, and then it recedes entirely without a sound. 

You wait a few beats before you turn, and your breath punches out of you in a rush when you note the once again empty plate. Disbelieving, you laugh.

“Holy shit.” Rounding the table, you pick up the doll, handling its weight much more carefully as you hold it out in front of you. “It was you, then, last night. You know, if you wanted my attention, you’ve got a funny way of showing it, kid. I think I lost ten years of my life with that little stunt.”

The threat seems to abate, after that, when you consider it. The spirit of a lonely child tugs at your poor heartstrings, and when you open your bedroom door after your evening shower to find a clumsily arranged sandwich, it only softens you further. You go to check on the doll – on Jason – and find him sat in bed, his schedule next to him once again. 

“So this is what you want, hm?” you mutter under your breath, scanning the paper. Your lips tug downwards into a pout, and you reach out to fix his hair. “Poor thing. You must be bored out here, with no one else to play with.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you find you already know the answer.

Rules 1. No Guests 2. Never Leave Jason Alone 3. Save Meals in Freezer 4. Never Cover Jason’s Face 5. Read a Bedtime Story 6. Play Music Loud 7. Clean the Traps 8. Jason is Never to Leave 9. Kiss Goodnight

You bring him almost everywhere with you after that. 

There’s a shift in your mind after your discovery, a distinction that shifts the doll into Jason. You’re able to rest a little easier now, knowing what had been behind the disturbances, and that it wasn’t something you had to fear. He sits comfortably in a chair next to you in the study, keeping you company as you return to your studies, worries that you’d been dealing with something more nefarious comfortably assuaged. 

You learn to communicate with him, in your own shared way. The music you play as you study is no longer isolated to your headphones, but filters through the speakers of your laptop as you work. When you begin making your own offhand remarks to him, you don’t know, but as the hours pass it feels less like you’re unaccompanied and more like you’re studying with a friend. Every so often, there is a sign – a tap, or the roll of something on the floor outside the study – that signals you to take a break, pushing away from the desk to take a turn about the room with Jason in your arms. 

Once, during a longer break, you bring him along on a walk outside. He doesn’t seem to like it very much – hiding your notebook until you figure it out. And you suppose spirits don’t require much exercise, so you let it be, content to take quick trips to the kitchen for snacks. You keep it for after the day is over, right before the sun sets, stretching your legs as you walk around the gardens before dinner.

Before you’ve realised, you’ve built a camaraderie with Jason. It’s easy for you to confide in him, slumping back in your desk chair with your hands pressed to your face. Tonight, the amount of coursework seems, not for the first time, never-ending. Tears streak through your fingers as you quietly sob.

“I’m so tired,” you cry, and a little hiccup stutters out of you. “It’s so...it’s just unfair. None of this would’ve happened if I’d – if I wasn’t so busy trying to look for a place.”

You work yourself up, tears smearing against the deep hollows beneath your eyes – despite how comfortable your bed is, lately you’ve still been working late into the night, long after you put Jason to sleep with a kiss to his brow. Though the night is young enough that you won’t have to tuck Jason in for a while, it still presses on you. There is too much to do, and not nearly enough time. 

“It’s not fair,” you mumble again, weakly. You slide a look over to Jason through swollen eyes, pressing your cheek against your knees. “Everyone else gets to – they get to not care about money and they get to enjoy their lives. It’s just...not fair.”

You close your eyes, hiding your face in the fabric of your leggings. Your head feels congested, after crying so much, heavy, and stuffed with wool. A few minutes later, as you’re working up the will to return to your work, you hear a thud. 

When you look up you find an apple on the corner of the desk, bright red and freshly washed, if the few drops of water that cling to it are anything to go by. The sight makes you burst into fresh tears again, a kindness that feels too tender for your poor, bruised heart. You reach for the fruit, feeling the juice run down your wrist when you sink your teeth into its flesh. Mumbling a thank you, you feel, for the first time since your arrival, your hopelessness begins to flicker out.

.

.

.

A crash wakes you in the middle of the night, startling you from your sleep with a jolt. At first, you think it might be Jason. You groan quietly, rolling over into the pillow with a grumble of his name before you sit up and shove the covers off. It’s particularly freezing tonight and you reach for a robe as you shuffle over to your bedroom door only to stop short when, through the walls, floating up from the lower floors, you hear voices.

Your blood turns to ice in your veins and you register the shattering of something downstairs. In the moments that follow, you barely think, flying down the hall to where Jason’s bedroom is and clutching him close to your chest. All the while, the racket downstairs grows louder, raucous bickering and jeering laughter nipping at your heels as you push into a spare room and slip into the depths of a wardrobe. 

You kick yourself when you realise you haven’t brought your phone, the landline in Jason’s room being too far out of reach now to dial the local police. You can only press yourself further into the wardrobe, cradling Jason with a hand on the back of his head like you might your own child – like he shouldn’t have to bear witness to the violence enacted on his home. Tears – how many have you spent since your arrival, it must be enough to fill an ocean – slip onto your collar and you hide in a case that smells of mothballs, the fur of old coats brushing against your arms and face. 

“It’s going to be okay,” you whisper, feeling half crazed as you comfort Jason. “We’re going to be okay.”

It’s the longest night of your life, waiting for them to leave. Even without you leaving a crack in the wardrobe door, the noise from downstairs would have reached you. It’s jumbled in your fear-addled mind, but you hear the shatter of glass and yelling – they break out into arguments amongst themselves. You can’t make out the words, but it carries the threat of further violence – the kind that goes beyond stolen valuables and broken glassware. 

And then, abruptly, you think you hear a whisper of something, before it all falls still.

The darkness in the wardrobe is stifling but you remain there, clutching Jason with your head bowed until you hear a shout announcing the presence of the police. 

It’s only when the Commissioner announces himself, climbing to the second floor of the manor and stepping into the room, that you crawl out from the wardrobe. You’re shaking when he steps forward to meet you, arms coming around you to help you stand.

You’re coaxed into a blanket and ushered into a chair as they question you – the tiles of the kitchen floor are freezing under your bare feet and you wince when you catch the looks his deputies share amongst themselves. You must look like a mess, tear tracks drying on your face and cradling a doll in your arms. 

There’s a look in the Commissioner’s eyes, as he questions you, that makes the hair on the back of your neck raise – you forget about it quickly enough when he presses further, but later you’ll recall it. There’s a lack of surprise in his gaze, as though he hadn’t expected any less. You figure he’s hardened by his profession. Still, it lingers in the recesses of your mind.

They clean it up quick enough, and they leave right as the sun begins to creep over the horizon. You see them off, standing on the front steps with a shock blanket wrapped around your shoulders and Jason in your arms. When the last of the car headlights fade out of sight, you turn back inside.

You venture into the living room, staring at where the sunlight catches on a stray shard of glass, scuffs on the floor where heavy boots had tracked mud in on the hardwood. The lingering smell of peroxide – all that it suggests had happened here – makes you let out a shaky breath, clutching Jason closer.

You know it then, what – who had kept you safe. And if there were any lingering doubts about him, they dissolve under your tongue. The solid weight of the mass in your arms is an anchor, grounding you, reminding you. Safe. You’re unharmed, you’re okay. The intrusion is gone, it’s just the both of you now. You turn your head, pressing your mouth to his hairline. It’s cold beneath your lips as you whisper, a tear carving a path down your cheek. 

“Thank you, Jason.” 

.

.

.

After the intrusion things, mercifully, begin to settle. You’re glad for it, sure you’ve fulfilled your share of excitement for the next decade. You return to your and Jason’s routine, rebuilding your shattered safe space with every album you introduce him to and each portion of coursework you complete. Brick by brick, you patch the rift. 

The evening you finally feel as though you’ve begun to make headway, you turn to him, overjoyed, patting his hand excitedly.

“I think we deserve a bit of celebration, don’t we, Jason?”

You make dinner for the both of you, a simple but favourite pasta dish of yours that you’re grateful to have made extra of when Jason clears his plate in the time it takes you to carry your own plate into the dining room where you’d set him down. You pout at him sympathetically, running a hand over his head.

“If you’re still hungry,” you murmur, taking a seat and spearing a pasta shell on your fork, “there’s more in the pan, sweetheart.”

In the next room, a clatter almost immediately and it draws a smile on your face. You treat yourself to a glass of something sweet, giggling when the bubbles flit up your nose and pop. The taste lingers on your tongue when, after dinner, you scoop him up into your arms and travel into the living room. A record is placed onto the old gramophone and you spin on your feet, socked feet sinking into the plush carpet as you dance around the room. You spin, and spin, and spin until you land on the couch, laughing breathlessly. On the couch, Jason watches until you pick him up once more and dance with him in your arms. You’re careful with him, conscious of tripping in your state and dropping him. You think he might enjoy it, when you hear the whisper of laughter alongside your own.

When you tuck him into bed that night, it’s with a giddy smile as you kiss his forehead. You go to bed feeling floaty, lighter than you’ve felt in an age. There’s a buzz in your veins that isn’t entirely the drink. You’re happy. It isn’t the same as the life you’d wanted back so fervently, but you’re hopeful. It feels, for the first time, like things might work out. You cling to this victory with a vice grip, unwilling to be parted from it.

Your head hits the pillow and you sleep easily, but wake in the middle of the night, slipping out of hazy dreams into consciousness like slipping upstream. You’re distinctly aware of the wetness pooling between your legs, and the lingering warmth of the drinks.

It’s been a long time. The stress of everything – moving, money, adjusting to the manor – has left you unable to focus on anything else. Tonight, though, a reprieve from it all, a break in the clouds offers you a spike in your energy, a longing that heats the blood in your veins and makes your stomach twist. For the first time in a long time, you indulge, fingers creeping beneath the waistband of your pants.

.

.

.

He watches you touch yourself, the night spent tending to what is a seemingly insatiable appetite. Hardening in his trousers, he stands behind the panelling and a large hand curls into a fist by his side, nails digging into the meat of his palm so hard he draws blood. You work yourself up, differently from the way you had when he’d revealed himself. It’s gentler, fingers skimming over your skin beneath the fabric of your shirt. In the dark his gaze sharpens on the soft plane of your stomach, your body shifting under every touch, pliant and responsive. 

You come, and it isn’t enough. He tastes copper, sees stars when you kick the covers off and his keen eyes make out the folds of your cunt, sodden and wanting. Your body is covered in a sheen of sweat when you finally, finally, drift off to sleep. Hungry little thing, his girl. You’ll want for nothing, he thinks, remembering the debauched way you’d put your fingers to your mouth. He recalls the slick sounds, the little whines, drawn out and practically demanding he come forth to please you. With no one around for miles to hear you, unknowingly, you feed him with your gasps. 

He longs for it, imagines putting his mouth to you. How you’d keen, how you’d thrash under his hold like you had tonight, legs kicking out under the full force of your pleasure. But he’d hold you down, he thinks, breathing hard, draw even more wretched sounds from that mouth – pretty, soft mouth that always curled around his name so sweetly – than the ones you’d spilled out tonight. Prettier, than the sobs of the last few weeks, that’d had him gritting his teeth. He likes you drunk and dizzy on pleasure like this, likes the breathless, open mouthed smile that pushes the apples of your cheeks upwards. This, he thinks, is all you should know, tears born of desire. Not jittery hands, or envy.

Frail, pretty thing. You need to be taken care of. You wouldn’t know worry ever again, he would take care of you, would take care of everything. You’ll want for nothing.

His chest heaves at the thought, muscles tensing as if readying to crash through the wood at a moment’s notice. 

No, he thinks, taking a shuddering breath. He can almost taste you from here but – not yet. 

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.

.

You wake up sticky, despite the chill in the air. Late autumn carries with it hints of the oncoming winter – you think it’s going to be a bad one, if your fingertips are numb already. It takes a bit of maneuvering to untangle yourself from the web of sheets and when you finally stand, there’s a distant ache in your head, a dryness in your throat that makes you grimace. 

You drag yourself into the shower, scrubbing off the filth of last night’s activities and letting the warm water run over your muscles. The steam fills the air of the bathroom, thick enough to trap the warmth when you step out and reach for your towel. 

It confuses you, though, once you’ve dried off and moisturised, that when you turn to reach for your clothes, they aren’t there. A sense of déjà vu settles over you. Significantly more awake, you wrap the towel around you once more and make the trek back to your room, a little peeved.

“Jason,” you call out as you pad down the hall, trying to keep the bite in your tone from being too harsh. “This isn’t funny, it’s cold. I’m not very impressed right now.”

Not even a laugh, but you’re too huffy to notice, picking up your clothes from where he’d relocated them to the top of your dresser and shutting your door firmly. 

When you go to pick him up before breakfast – closer to lunch, now, really – you frown at him. 

“Not cool, kid,” you tell him. “What if I got sick? Who’d make you lunch, then, hm? You can’t survive on peanut butter sandwiches alone.”

It feels a little as though you’ve regressed over the next week. More and more things go missing, only to turn up in the oddest places. You think he might be a little more playful, finally comfortable around you, but it’s hard to find gratification in that when your underwear joins the catalogue of missing things, turning up when you take your laundry out to hang even though you know you hadn’t put them in the washing. So maybe there’s a bit of wilful ignorance there. You don’t know how to address this, the pressing feeling of eyes on you at every moment now, an obvious presence that lingers around you more insistently, it feels, than before.

And you can’t place what’s brought this on, don’t know what’s to blame for this turn in his mood, toeing the line of malevolent, no longer innocently playful but shifting into something more intent, dull blue eyes seeming darker these days, more watchful. 

“What’s going on, huh?” you ask, when you put him to bed, brushing a hand over his hair. “How come you don’t wanna be good anymore? Is something up? I don’t know, kid, I’m not a mind reader.”

You let out a breath, shaking your head. Leaning forward, you brush your lips against his forehead. “Let’s have a better day tomorrow, okay? Goodnight, Jason.”

Midnight comes to you in slow winks that night, the pages of Jason’s book marked with a ribbon and placed carefully to the side with the half-formed, tired thought that you would talk to him about it tomorrow. Perhaps it would soften whatever had him agitated as of late. The lamp switches off, and you breathe out into the darkness, one last sigh before sleep claims you. 

You wake up to a pressing blackness. Not even the moonlight breaks through the clouds to offer you reprieve tonight, the very air sucked out of the room. Groggy, sleep still clinging to you like silken threads of a spider’s web around your eyes, you blink rapidly. The darkness settles around you and your vision adjusts.

The first thing you notice is the hulking silhouette at the foot of your bed and you freeze under the covers, breath punching out of your chest. 

Your first thought is to scream. Before your lips can even part, a rough palm is pressing over your mouth and tears prick your eyes. 

(What’s the point? Who is there to hear you scream so far out here?)

In the dim, your tearful eyes adjust further and your heart seizes in your chest when you make out the glint of white – a porcelain mask, a face that’s been your only companion these last few weeks. The cupid’s bow, rosy cheeks greyed in the dark. Down to the very last detail, it’s him.

The cause of all the haunting, the thief of your belongings, sentry of this manor. Not a spirit, but real, solid flesh and blood. He looms over you. There’s a solid weight that settles into the cradle of your hips, arms that cage you in, the smell of sawdust and something. Unbidden, your mind tugs back to you the missing lace, satin stolen by unseen hands – the very hands that press on your mouth and side, now, calloused, roughened. 

The whisper of your name hangs in the air between you, your resounding whimper muffled.

It’s faster than it ought to be, your compliance, going limp in his hold and ceasing your thrashing. You stare tearfully, heart in your throat, up at him. He lingers like this a moment longer before withdrawing, seemingly satisfied you won’t bolt. Slowly, you push up onto your elbows. The movement brings your face closer to his, and it takes every ounce of your willpower not to flinch at the proximity. He seems pleased enough, however, head tilting, rather like a cat, tracking your movements carefully. 

It isn’t as though you’re going anywhere, his weight yet to lift from your legs. You reach out to the side, a shaking hand scrabbling for the flip of a switch. The sudden flood of orange light into the room, soft though it is, makes you flinch.

It’s the eyes that you’re drawn to first. Through the holes of the mask, you meet ultramarine eyes, leagues beyond that of the painting downstairs, which couldn’t hold a candle to the vibrant irises that stare back at you now. Your breath catches when he leans in a hair’s breadth closer and he pauses. 

Your voice fails you, when you part your lips to speak, frightened tears wetting your face. You clear your throat, and try once more.

“Jason?”

Dark lashes flutter, something pleased passing through his gaze, something like an unspoken affirmation. It floors you, the blood rushing from your head and leaving you dizzy all of a sudden. He swallows your field of vision, so impossibly big, broad and nothing about him carrying any of the delicateness your doll had. Dark curls fall over the edges of the mask, dark hair peeking beneath it, trailing down the sides of his jaw. 

You reach out, carefully, and he lets you press a hand to his chest – clad in a thin, dirtied henley. He gives under the slightest pressure, drawing back until he’s sitting on his haunches, your legs free. You let go, pushing yourself further up against the headboard of the bed and bringing your knees to your chest. He watches, silent, unmoving except for the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. Real, solid, flesh and blood.

“You’ve been alive this whole time?” The dust clings to your sticky cheeks and you swipe at them again. Your breaths are shaky as you come down from your fright. He nods, and you wince, the porcelain mask shining as it reflects the light of your lamp.

“Can you – will you take that off? Please?” He stills and you, foolish, softened by fear or trust, scoot forward a little, legs folding under you. Now it’s his turn to widen the distance between you. You let out a soft warble, lips trembling. “It’s scaring me.”

“...Scary?” His voice is hoarse from disuse, and your eyes drop to his sides, watching his fingers curl into fists. “Under...you won’t like it..”

Your breath catches on a sob and you shake your head. You’re still shaking, still scared. He draws a little closer, hands raising as if to reach for you, and you flinch. “Please, Jason.”

Time stretches so long you fear you’ll remain here forever, trembling, suffocating, before big hands reach up to his face. He’s shaking, too, you notice absently. His head bows when the mask is discarded to the side, lying atop your sheets face down. The shadows obscure him slightly, cloaking his face from you, only the dark thatches of hair that cover his jaw visible to you. 

You whisper his name.

His eyes flash when he lifts his head, blue flickering into a green glow so suddenly it feels like a trick of the light – gone in an instant. Scarred flesh, waxy, pink patches of skin and pale, jagged remnants of lacerations; he bares himself to you and your breath catches in your throat. 

There are remnants of a classical beauty in his face, beneath the scarring. It’s the kind that would’ve made you stop short on the street, that would’ve brought warmth to your face if you’d met his eyes across a subway car during rush hour. The violence wrought renders him no less handsome but lends a brutality to him, the oppressive aura that cloaks him impossible to ignore, laid bare across his face. Still, there’s a vulnerability in his eyes that your attention snags on, a child-like wariness that reminds you of the headline you’d found in Bruce’s office that day.

Silly, soft-hearted girl. It makes your heart ache, and once the tears start, they refuse to stop. Your hand draws closer to cradle his face, hovering a hair’s breadth from his cheek before he makes the leap for you, leaning against your touch. His own comes up, fingers pressing beneath your eye.

“Crying..”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, sniffling, wiping your nose on your sleeve. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Crying for me?” His voice sounds odd, a tone you can’t quite read through your tears. You try to look away but he refuses to let you, clumsy fingers swiping beneath your eyes.

“You didn’t deserve that. That must’ve been so scary,” you sniffle, and look up at him. “Why were you...why’d you hide? Did – did your father know?” 

His eyes flash at the mention of Bruce, and you still at the anger that lines his face. 

“Bastard,” he mutters, a decade’s worth of pain packed into one word. It hints to a history you aren’t privy to, raw, jagged wounds still bleeding from an age old hurt. He stiffens and you slide your hand to his shoulder.

“Okay, don’t – we don’t have to talk about him,” you defer hastily, wary of the way his muscles ripple, the thrum of lightning barely contained beneath his skin. It reminds you of something else. “Was...It was you...that night, when they -”

Your breath stutters on the memory of the invasion, and his eyes darken. He crowds into your space more, ducking his head to meet your eyes. More green than blue now, he wills you to understand the severity of his promise.

“Keep you safe,” he says, and you barely notice the hand that curls possessively around your hip, your heart thrumming anxiously in its cavity at the threat of violence his words carry. And yet, you can’t deny it to yourself that it quiets a part of you, too, stills a restlessness that had lingered in your skin after that night. 

You don’t consider that night, why he had chosen to reveal himself to you – properly, in all his glory, stripped of parlour tricks and the facade – you’re too relieved that he doesn’t intend to hurt you to linger on it. He lets you guide him back to his room and draw the covers over him, the mask carefully carried in your hands and placed on the bedside table. He catches your hand when you go to leave and for a moment you fear he’ll demand something of you, blue eyes flashing cat’s eye green for the briefest of moments. He lets you go after a moment’s scrutiny, and you eke out a timid goodnight, returning to your bedroom in a daze. 

Perhaps you ought to have, though. Perhaps it might have suited you better to linger on the why, to consider what this meant, that there was something in motion, had been since your arrival. Exhaustion renders you pliant, however, and you slip into dreamless sleep the moment your head hits the pillow, the lingering smell of sawdust beneath your nose.

.

.

.

Jason makes it easy on you. It’s a little eerie in a way, re-learning him and yet finding all the hints of your spirit companion in him. He doesn’t stray far from you, content to continue to sit at your side when you sit down for your classes. In the morning, when you go to check on him, he is already awake, and you usher him into the bathroom, unsure at all whether you even should follow the schedule but moving mechanically if only for something to do, to avoid floundering. He waits by the door as you brush your teeth, eyes fixed on you. 

You find yourself returning the stare, brows furrowing as you take in every inch of him. Dust and dirt clings to his skin. You wonder when the last time he’d bathed was. You tell him as much, receiving only a blank stare. Uncommunicative, even now. 

“You should take a bath,” you murmur, worrying the skin of your lip with your teeth. “I don’t want you to get sick, or something.”

He’s compliant enough, letting you steer him into the bathroom and turning the knobs of the tub. Water comes spraying out, and you startle a little when the pipes whine, but ultimately settle. Dipping a hand in, you test the temperature before looking over your shoulder. He stands by your side, and you tilt your head to the water.

“Will you check if this is okay?” He obeys, dropping his chin in a short nod after brushing his fingers in. You offer him a short smile, and move to stand.

“I’ll try to find some clothes, this is...” you hesitate, looking at the hem of his shirt. “You can’t wear this.”

But his arm blocks your path when you go to step around him, curling around your midsection to keep you in place. You look up, startled. You try to move but he doesn’t budge, looking down at you intently. 

“You’ll stay.” It isn’t a request, nor a command, but he delivers it firmly, a matter of fact statement – that you will remain here, with him. You balk, blood rushing to your face.

“I can’t!” you protest, stepping back if only to escape the barricade of his arm, your hands coming up to rest on your hips. “That’s not – Jason, it’s not-”

“You’ll stay,” he repeats, simply, rock-salt voice echoing slightly in the bathroom. Water drips into the steaming bath, and you’re at an impasse, abject indignation warming your veins.

In the end, you give in. You think there was no possible outcome where you did not acquiesce to his whims – you recall the destruction he’d wreaked on his father’s office the night you had foregone a kiss goodnight, frightening you back into his room to press your lips to his temple. You sit by the side of the tub, handing him a cloth and keeping your eyes trained firmly ahead of you as he scrubs himself down. Somehow, you end up washing his hair for him, soapy water providing a suitable enough cover that you breathe a sigh of relief. It’s the gentlest you’ve ever seen him, pleased and bath soft, skin flushed and curls wet against his forehead as you pour water over his crown. 

He only lets you go once the water begins to grow cool and you insist on finding clean clothes for him. It’s easier than you think, rifling through the drawers in the master bedroom and finding a pair of soft trousers and t-shirt that you figure will fit him. You keep your back turned when he emerges from the bath, waiting until he’s dressed to face him with warmth in your cheeks. The glimpse you’d caught as he’d risen from the water had made you squeak, hard lines and dark hair, wet skin glistening – all Man, real, breathing, human man. It’s a jarring contrast from the sexless porcelain of his counterpart. Your heart skips a beat at the sight of his broad chest and you promptly whirl around, guilt swarming in your stomach at your momentary lapse in senses.

(In his mind he thinks, don’t you know you’re all his, as he is yours? There is no inch of him that isn’t for your eyes.)

When you sit down for your classes later, you’re more conscious of his presence than ever, a warm arm diffusing soft heat at your elbow. He only shakes his head when you ask if he would rather do something else and you get the feeling later, when you take a bathroom break, that he would follow after you, had you not closed it between you. 

He sits close when you have lunch, knee knocking into yours beneath the table in the kitchen. You watch him eat, ravenous, and your wariness melts a little at the familiarity. This, you knew. This, you could handle. When he finishes his plate you push your own towards him in lieu of pointing to the pan but he surprises you – shaking his head and watching you carefully until he’s satisfied you’re fed. 

It’s sort of like losing a friend to gain a guard dog. He lingers by your side, catalogues your every movement and bosses you around where he sees fit. You don’t know how to feel about it, and don’t witness the full extent of it until, midway through your lunch, there’s a knock at the back door.

Reactive, he’s a wraith at your back, chair clattering and pressing you away. No guests. You recall the first rule in his schedule as you wrangle him, a hand tight on his chest to set him at ease. You figure it’s fear, in his own, muddled way. There had been a break in, after all, he wouldn’t take kindly to anyone else on the property – you were the only one meant to be here.

“It’s only the groceries,” you whisper, fingers circling around his wrist and pressing down against his pulse to draw his attention. Green eyes strike you down, near unseeing in his wrath and you startle. The seconds pass and you figure the longer this goes unhandled, the likelier Jason is to react for the worse. You take a deep breath, wrangling your own unease to step in front of him, blocking off his path to the door and squeezing his wrist once more.

“I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay,” you murmur, stroking the back of his hand comfortingly. “Just wait here for me, okay? It’s okay.”

He lingers in the room, though it seems only you’re aware of it as the delivery boy brings the bags in. You’re thankful he doesn’t loiter, unwilling to test Jason’s thin patience. The very shadows in the room seem to stretch the longer it takes and by the time the final bag is carried in and the receipt is left on the counter, you fear the kitchen floor will start to crack beneath your feet.

He’s on you the moment the door shuts, wrapping himself around you to run big hands over your sides, assessing you like he hadn’t kept you in his line of sight the entire exchange. You sigh, letting him tilt your chin, inspecting your face. The green in his eyes has completely swallowed the shades of blue, pupils dilated as he closes in on you.

“I’m fine,” you assure. He seems ill-convinced, but finally lets go. “Come on. You’re probably still hungry. Maybe that’s why you’re acting like this.”

He lets out a puff of breath in response and you let out a small laugh. 

You make the mistake that night, when you see him off to bed, of unthinkingly voicing out loud as you look around the room,

“Isn’t it -” you hesitate, feeling your words catch on something. You ought to listen to it, but he tilts his head inquisitively, and it coaxes it out of you. “Doesn’t it feel weird sleeping in here? It’s a kid’s room. I don’t think you even fit in that bed.”

His eyes gleam, and you don’t understand what for until he pushes up from the covers and stands. Your brows draw together, confused, but you have no time to question it, weight on your shoulders pushing you forward until you’re steered down the hall to – 

Your room.

You stare, wide eyed, as he pushes you; he’s clumsy, but gentle, fingers coaxing you under your covers before rounding the bed to slip under them on your other side. Your heart catches in your throat, alarmed.

“Jason – no, this isn’t what I meant, you-” He turns on his side and you fall silent. 

“Kiss goodnight,” he murmurs, a hand reaching out beneath the soft weight of your covers to tug you closer, warmth searing through your pants where it rests on your hip. You resist, pressing against his chest to create a modicum of distance between you, but it’s impossible against his strength. Again, your mind supplies you unhelpfully with attention to the heat that rolls off him, the proximity or lack thereof between you. 

“Are you – did the delivery upset you? Is this why-” You’re grasping for straws, searching for something to cling to, a reason that softens the weight of his gaze and all that lies behind it. You blind yourself to it, convince yourself the flash of his eyes is affirmation, let yourself believe it, breathing out a shaky, “Okay.”

“Kiss.” He repeats the word, and your chest presses against his. He’s a furnace, warmth trapped beneath the covers threatening to burn you alive. Your mouth is dry as you lean up, smoothing a hand against his curls to flatten them backwards, bare his temple to you. 

“Goodnight,” you whisper, into his hairline, lips brushing against the raised outline of a pale scar. 

Slowly, the sands in your hourglass begin to trickle to an end.

.

.

.

The kisses brush closer and closer these days. No longer do your lips meet the spot at his hairline, or his temple. The first time Jason brings a hand to your cheek and guides you lower, you’re too surprised to do anything, kissing the higher point of his cheekbone and pulling away hastily, face warm. It feels so incredibly inappropriate, letting him continue to blur the boundaries between you. He makes a noise of discontent the next night, when you return to his forehead, only settling back into your sheets when your mouth finds his cheek. The hand on the back of your neck is heavy, fingers brushing against the small hairs in feather light touches and sending shocks of something down your spine. 

He sleeps on his side, always, facing you. You can feel his eyes on your back as you feign sleep. Is it unwise, to turn your back to him, you wonder. The idea of sleeping on your other side makes your stomach curdle, his breath fanning over your cheek, nose brushing against yours – much too close, too intimate for the way he’s been acting lately. You fear if you give him an inch you’ll never come back from it.

(Silly little thing. You were his the moment you stepped over the threshold.)

Tonight, Jason is heavier handed with you than usual. Something simmers in your gut as he presses on the back of your neck, green eyes near luminescent under the swathes of soft orange light from your lamp. You waver, but it’s all you can do to give in, your arms threatening to buckle under you if you don’t follow. Hovering over his side, you bend your head.

Lower still, Jason pulls you to him – you only barely manage to avoid meeting his lips with your own, skating the corner of his mouth and planting a clumsy peck there. When you chance a look up at him, he’s already watching you, a crease where his eyebrows meet.

“Kiss goodnight,” he says, expectantly, voice rough with an undercurrent of something eerily like want. It makes your breath hitch.

“I...I did,” you stammer, one last attempt at resistance. He doesn’t buy it, blinking slowly at you. 

“Kiss.”

Saliva pools in your mouth the longer he stares at you, time stretching between you as he waits and when you swallow, his gaze flicks down to track the movement of your throat, pupils dilating. Now, only a thin ring of green surrounds the vastness of black, observing your every action. 

Finally, seemingly sick of your inaction, Jason shifts upwards on the bed and you squeak in surprise, reeling backwards only to meet the solid wall of his hand. Your heart races in your chest, sounds spilling out of your mouth that are muffled when he closes the distance and slants his lips against yours.

It’s a wet, messy thing, clumsy and hungry. Jason’s tongue slides against your bottom lip hungrily and you, foolishly, part your lips to protest. He only uses it to push further, tongue tracing the contours of your mouth, a deep groan wracking through him, a deep-seated tremor that you think he must have been holding back for a long time. His hand fists the material of your pants, the other bearing down on your neck as if to press you even closer. Your own are helpless against his chest, unbalanced and tottering forward onto his lap, trying to push away –

“Mmh, no, J-” you’re cut off, unable to get out a single word. “’S wrong.”

He ignores you, swallowing the pitiful whimper you let out to lick into your mouth. You’re dizzy, head spinning from the lack of air, mouth swollen and spit slicked. Against his chest, your fists push weakly, your strength pale in comparison to his. Absently, a part of you wonders if that’s really the reason you aren’t trying harder – a distinct pressure growing between your legs that you try to tamp down. 

Your spine arches ever so slightly under his fingers, legs bracketing his hips to accommodate his size. The throb you feel between your legs is not only his.

But it’s wrong. You can’t.

Uncaring of your internal conflict, the world around you tips in a matter of seconds and you blink up at Jason, vision swimming as he comes into sight. Your positions are now reversed, with him hovering over your body, pressed flat against the wrinkled sheets. Your clothing is rumpled, top riding up the expanse of your stomach and baring your flesh to hungry eyes.

He remains between your legs, an arm descending beside you to hold himself up as he closes in. You shake your head, twisting to avoid the wet press of his mouth against yours again, your hand coming to press against his shoulder.

“No– ‘s wrong,” you murmur, desperately, trying to push him away. Undeterred, his mouth trails over the line of your jaw and you stumble over a gasp when his teeth graze over your skin, taking it between his lips and nipping, tongue flicking out almost immediately after to soothe the sting, something like a keen in his throat when you squirm beneath him. You draw blood trying to stifle the sound you nearly make as a result of it, legs going to press together but only tightening around his waist.

“Not,” he pants, hand on your leg squeezing, trailing higher until it skims the space above your waistband, fingers ghosting over your bare belly. His touch leaves a trail of wildfire behind it, burning licks over your skin that make you gasp. “Not wrong.”

You whimper, a haze of desire settling like a cloud cover over your guilt when he flattens his hand over your stomach and presses down, eyes flashing possessively as he delivers his next blow. “Not wrong,” he repeats in a reverent whisper, leaning down until you’re nose to nose. The smell of cedarwood fills your nose, a history he’s unable to scrub no matter how much of your soap he uses, the milk and honey scented liquid bubbling over his skin. You hold your breath, eyes widening, the flex of his bicep in your periphery as he supports his weight with one arm. “You’re mine.”

The tears leak out of your eyes, and you shake your head. “I’m – not.”

Nose caressing yours – “You are,” he confirms steadily, voice low. 

You understand then, the curtains pulling back to reveal the future that has been hanging in the wings this whole time for you, the fate you’d sealed for yourself. The long absence of his father, the shiftiness in Bruce’s demeanour when you’d met him and the eagerness in which he took his leave. Your very purpose, here – all of it, every strand, threaded, curling around you. 

It all leads to Jason.

He swallows your sob with an open mouthed kiss, then, and the sands of time run out.

It’s horrifying, the gentleness he treats you with, divesting you of your clothing like you might wilt under his fingers if he isn’t careful, delicate flower that he thinks you to be. There’s adoration in every touch, worship in his eyes. Layer by layer, they come off until you’re bare beneath him, swathes of orange light swimming over your belly and lighting a fire in his eyes. They’re green again, now, near neon in hue, teeming with barely restrained hunger. His fingers shake, hovering over your sides, pressing you down when you try to raise your arms. One broad hand swallows your wrists, held against the soft flesh of your stomach as the other begins to tug his shirt off. 

Your breath catches in your throat, whimpered pleas clogging your airway when his fingers drift to the waistband of his pants. Scars, so many scars line the expanse of his torso. His body is a map of puckered lines and flat, pale marks, a lifetime of brutality carved into his skin. Dark whorls of hair dust his chest and stomach, a pattern that continues lower as he tugs his trousers off, muscles flexing as he twists. In another lifetime, under an entirely different set of circumstances, you might’ve salivated at the sight of a man like this, might’ve reached out to splay a hand against his barrel chest, reveled in how miniscule you were in comparison. In another lifetime, there wouldn’t be that ever pressing guilt, that shame that colours your vision and tightens around your neck – you might’ve admitted to wanting it.

In another lifetime, you might’ve even begged for it.

Your mind eddies at the sight of him, blood rushing so startlingly through your veins you have to slump back into the sheets, dizzy and daunted. You’re stunned into silence, throat too dry to string together any sounds beyond a strangled whimper.

He’s thick, head an angry, dark colour that you can’t make out in the low light, weeping. As if caught in a dream, you watch a bead of pre-cum slip down his length, the light gleaming over the trail it leaves on his skin. When you raise your eyes, fearful, he’s already watching you, eyes sharp.

The bright green of his irises shocks you back into your body, and you begin to shake your head anew, struggling to push yourself away, back hitting the headboard. 

“No, Jason, no.” You begin to weep, hands coming to pound weakly at his chest when he hovers over you once more and he dips his head, nosing along your cheek. Your tears do little to stop him. If anything, it only spurs him on, pupils dilated at the sight of you like this and breathing growing ragged. A rough hand skims along your ankle and pulls, until you’re flat on your back beneath him. “It’s wrong.”

“Don’t cry,” he rumbles, plaintive, lips brushing against yours clumsily, an attempt at comfort. He settles between your legs, one slung over his hip and you mewl when he tilts forward, the weight of his length sliding against your traitorously wet folds. You draw blood trying to stifle a whimper when his head nudges against your clit, a dizzying spiral of unwanted pleasure curling down your spine. His lips curve into a pout against yours, a hair’s breadth between them as he presses his forehead to yours.

“I’ll be good,” he promises quietly, voice pitching into a plea as he ruts against you. You squeeze your eyes tightly, trying to turn your head but a hand comes up to cup your jaw, keeping you face to face with him. “I’ll be good. I’ll–‘ll take care of you. Make you feel good.”

Clumsy, painful, intrusive. You’re wet, but it’s not enough – Jason breaches your entrance and your gasp teeters on a scream, fingernails digging into the meat of his forearm as you struggle to accommodate for his size, not nearly prepared enough for the stretch. His voice joins yours, a different kind of pain in his groans as he pushes slowly in. You curse him, drawing blood where your nails sink into his skin and gasping for breath. 

It’s sweltering in the room, despite the chill of winter, Jason’s body a canopy over yours. Every inch of him that presses against you is searing, burning to the touch and threatening to flay you alive. You sob when he finally bottoms out, his teeth gritted and forehead scrunched, the last strands of his control steadily fraying. 

Big fingers swipe at your under eyes, smearing your tears instead of wiping them, and then he begins to move. The first thrust winds you, pushing all the air out of your lungs and eliciting a choked sound out of your throat, one he echoes, dropping his head into the hollow of your neck and thrusting again. 

Shame and guilt war within you, fear pebbling your skin as his hips cant forwards, setting a sloppy pace meant only to seek a quick release. Every second that ticks past, he draws closer and closer to the edge and shamefully – so do you. There’s a burning in your gut, the sound of your wetness loud in the room over his desperate groans, your cunt squeezing around his thick length. It’s a horrifying truth, one you don’t want to accept – it feels good. The drag of his cock against you, the slippery movements of his fingers, the overwhelming weight of his body against yours. It lights every nerve in your body alight, repulsion and longing amassing as one, a torturous cover that threads through your veins against your will.

Your sobs subside as it comes to you, pleasure pooling slowly in your gut like a leaky faucet, a puddle growing until your cries turn into whimpers, gasped breaths when he manages to find that one spot that empties your head of all thought. 

No, no, no turns into muffled whines, your tears carving their own scarred paths down your face. Each thrust, every slide of his length and whisper of his fingers carves a bit of your resistance away, until all that’s left between your desire and his is the ruins of your sensibilities. The last of your defences gone, your nerves feel like spun sugar, dizzying, electrifying – wanting, needing more. 

He’s highly attuned to your reactions, and you watch through blurry eyes as his gleam when he makes this realisation, thrusting forward unforgivably and pulling more screams from you. Your head tips back into the pillow, ultraviolet green burned into the back of your eyelids. 

“Be good for – for you,” he gasps out, a low whine building in his throat and you weep, arms reaching up to wind around his shoulders. It’s a twisted thing, that the one inflicting this on you should bring you comfort, but you cling to him still. He tucks himself closer to you, eager to provide this cover, allowing you to hide your face in his neck – hide from yourself, as he fucks you. His hands wander, brushing, coaxing, petting your body. No longer are you the caretaker, but now the doll, almost. A pretty thing for him to cradle, to have, to do with as he pleases. And he does, driving into you hungrily, as though he’s been starved of it, unable to hold himself back any longer. He sates his appetite on you tonight, teeth, tongue, cock. All of you, his for the taking. Under his hand you are taken apart and remade, molded by rough hands and lovingly pieced together until you’re born anew, settling into your role like drifting into dreams.

Your orgasm washes over you, abrupt and unrelenting, so far gone a scream tears from your throat to bleed into his, your teeth sinking into the junction of his neck and shoulder as your leg kicks out and you fall apart on his length. Sloppy thrusts pick up the pace and he presses you further down into the sheets, grasp on your hips and waist bruising. It’s animal, the way he bucks into you, mouth open in a snarl to bare sharp canines, tongue laving against your pulse. 

Too much – it’s too much. You’re still riding out the high of your orgasm, but he continues to fuck into you, head bumping against one particular spot that has your toes curling painfully, body twisting in his grasp and trying to pull away. A vain effort. Even your squealed protests fall on deaf ears, dizzying pleasure bubbling up once more in your gut, overwhelming and feverish.

Your eyes squeeze shut tight as you come again, colour exploding in your vision in vivid hues of red and orange, mouth dropping open to swallow lungfuls of air. Jason, in your ear, lets out a guttural moan that lances straight through his chest to spear yours. Warmth trickles down your body, spend and slick smeared where the two of you are connected. 

You swim in and out of focus, eyelids heavy and attention spotty. Like an old radio, or as if underwater, his voice breaches your consciousness in snippets. Soft cooing and fingers stroking along your spine, you’re vaguely aware of being shifted, hefted onto a warm chest as easily as lifting a feather. Downy hairs tickle your cheek, the smell of musk and cedarwood burning beneath your nose.

Mine...so good...take care of...

There’s an ache between your hips, a fullness that has yet to retract – but when you blink drowsily up at your captor, you begin to realise in the last dregs of your consciousness: in this, and all that follows after, he has no intention of parting from you.

Cobalt blue now, half lidded eyes regard you with reverence, kiss bitten lips cooing unintelligibly, praises you barely register. Jason cranes his head to press his mouth against your temple – a mockery of your rituals to you, perhaps an homage, in his twisted mind. 

.

.

.

The mark on his neck smarts, the beast in his chest purring in satisfaction. He looks down at you, the drying tears on your face, lashes fluttering in your sleep. He strokes a finger over the crease between your brows, dragging down to where your lips part ever so slightly. He barely manages to hold back a satisfied rumble when, at the touch of his finger, you accept him in. Precious, sweet girl. Even in sleep, you know him. He shifts on his back, careful not to jostle you too much, and once more the bite stings. In the morning, you’ll insist on tending to it, he knows. Your eyes will pool, diamantine, lips trembling tearfully at the wound you’ve left on him. You’ve claimed him as he would you, in time, but he knows it’ll take a little longer for you to see it as he does, that in the morning you’ll begin to piece back the ruins of your defences and he’ll have to work again to keep them down. 

That’s okay. He’s got all the time in the world. You’ll see, soon. Out here, with only each other for company, you’ll quickly learn. He’ll take care of you.

You’ll want for nothing.

fin.

um. there's a lot i wanted to include in this fic, mostly that there's something off about jason's death and his being alive - i didn't really get to explore that beyond the eyes so if you caught that i hope u know i meant for it to convey that he's a Freak.

Brahms in The Boy is entirely human but i think there's an air of supernaturalism to jason in this (and even arguably in the original source material) with how such a large man manages to move through the walls quietly and quickly, he feels a bit wraith like to me. also again with the eyes - there's something wrong with him but there's literally like 294728 other things to worry about that you don't notice until it's staring at you in the face and by then it's too late.

anyway this came to me during finals and it was driving me SO damn insane during finals, i think i've been working on this for about a month? i'm not sure - the writing program i've been using lately doesn't have a date of creation so i don't really know but finals were in early june so maybe just shy of two months? i would say a month and a half.

this is the first time i've properly dipped my toe into content of a darker nature like this and i hope i did it justice! idk i wanted to try my hand at something new, i think there's a lot that's interesting about the psychological aspect of fics like this, like the buildup and feelings leading up to and during the climax. anyway this was a bit of an experiment and i hope you enjoyed it.

[despacito-uwu16]

Instant Regret- Tadashi Hamada x Reader

“But I miss you, I’m sorry” - Gracie Abrams

⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺

You would think that no matter how big or small the arguments would get, that you would always find a way back to each other. But it really wasn’t the case for the two of you. 

You’ve gotten a job opportunity at the company of your dreams. However, their office is ten thousand miles away from home. At first, you weren’t sure what to do. You built your life around getting into the company of your dreams, however you never prepared yourself for the day that you have to leave San Fransokyo. Not only that, you would be leaving Tadashi behind. But after a few days of hesitation, you decided to take the risk and go for it. 

You and Tadashi were in your apartment watching your favorite TV show while eating Chinese take out. You couldn’t concentrate on the current episode of That 70’s Show because you didn’t know how to tell Tadashi about the job. If you tell him about it, he would for sure be supportive of it. Right? It’s not like he would just tell you to turn it down…

“Something wrong Y/N”? He snaps you out of your daze. 

“No! Nothing’s wrong”. You quickly said. 

“You sure? You barely touched your eggplant and tofu”. He pointed at your food with his chopsticks. 

You look down at the take out box. It was barely half empty. 

“I’m just not hungry”. You said, playing with your food. 

“Y/N, if something’s bothering you, you can always talk to me”. Said Tadashi. 

You look down at the food. “I guess it’s time”. You thought. 

You put your food down and turned off the TV. You turned to him and gently held his hands. 

“There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you”. You confessed. 

“Okay”. He turns to you. “You got my full attention”.

“Well, remember I told you about that job interview for that company I always wanted to work at”? You started. 

He thought for a bit before replying. “The one with the virtual reality and AI research?”

You nodded.

“Well…” you sighed.

“I got the job”. You looked up at him giving him a small smile.

His eyes lit up and he started smiling ear to ear. “Y/N that’s amazing! See! I knew they would like you”! He hugged you tightly.

“Yeah. However, they want me to work at their London office”. You added. 

Tadashi’s face fell as he let go of you. “Oh, I see”.

“I know, I promised I would stay, but I didn’t think they would relocate me. But hey, we’ve been through this before. Who said we couldn’t do it again ”. You said

“Yeah, yeah totally”. Tadashi looked at the ground.

You noticed his facial expression. It was a mix of sadness and disappointment. You knew that he wouldn’t approve of this.

“Did I say something wrong”? You ask.

“It’s nothing like that, it’s just”… he trailed off

“It’s just what”? You pressed on.

He let out a sigh before continuing “I had a plan for us to move in together after college. For us to start our life together”. 

“I know this is a huge shift from what we’ve planned Tadashi. But this is my dream, you know I couldn’t just let this slip by”. You said in attempts to justify your reasons .

“What about us and everything we built”? He said, emphasizing on “us”.

“Well what about me? You knew how important this job and this company is to me”! You exclaimed

“Am I not important to you”? He asks

“You are, that’s not what I meant. I just thought you would be more supportive of me”. 

“I was so supportive Y/N! I supported you when you went abroad for a semester, I supported when you had that 8 week internship over the summer! I was there for you through thick and thin, and now you’re leaving again”? He raise his voice.

You tried to calm the situation down, “Tadashi please I”- 

“You never think about the consequences of your decisions and how it affects others. YOU ARE SO INCREDIBLY SELFISH”. He yelled, his words piercing into your ego.

You were both sitting on opposites sides of your black leather couch. The room fell silent. The only thing you both could hear was the clock ticking away and you attempting to muffle your sniffles. But before long, you hear Tadashi letting out a sigh, breaking the short term silence. between the two of you.

“I don’t know if I can wait for you this time Y/N”. Tadashi looks at you. 

“No. Please stay. I want you to stay”. Your mind screamed.

“Then leave”. 

You felt the couch cushions rise as Tadashi got up. He grabbed his hat from the hooks along with his keys. 

Before he closed the apartment door, he looked at you hoping you would say something to make him stay. But you just sat there and stared at the blank TV.

“Goodbye Y/N”. He shuts the door.

And that was the last time you ever saw him. 

The next thing you know, you got a call from Aunt Cass. She slowly broke the news about Tadashi’s passing. At first you thought Tadashi was doing this in retaliation for what happened a few weeks ago. But after the news broke out about the fire that killed Tadashi and Professor Callahan, the sad reality settles in. Tadashi is gone.

The funeral was short and simple. You stood in silence, hovering over your late boyfriend’s tomb stone while everyone around you cried. You didn’t think this was going to happen. It wasn’t supposed to happen. 

You weren’t planning on sticking around during the reception. But before you could leave, Aunt Cass stopped you.

“Tadashi wrote something for you”. She hands you a white envelope. 

You thanked her and began to make your way to the door. But as you were about to leave, you made eye contact with Hiro. You were about to say something, but he disappeared into his room. 

You came back to your semi empty apartment physically and emotionally drained. All of your furniture has been shipped to your new apartment in london, and the only thing left is a small white mattress and a few cardboard boxes stacked into a pyramid. You took a bottle of wine from one of the moving boxes and drank out of it. You sat on the floor, letting your head fall back against the wall. Looking down at the envelope, you carefully opened it. You took out the paper and unfolded it.

Dear Y/N,

I wanted to call or text you, but I don’t think you would respond. I’ll be sending this to you after the SFIT showcase. You know that I’m never good with words or with writing down my feelings, so bear with me. 

I want to start off by saying, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for calling you selfish. You were so excited about your dream job, and I ruined our night. You were never selfish to begin with, I was. The truth is, I got scared. I know we’ve done long distance in the past, but the thought of us eventually drifting apart scared me. I should’ve been more vulnerable when it came down with these things, but I didn’t know how to bring it up. 

I never want to loose you. I couldn’t imagine my life without you. Remember during our date at the butterfly gardens, we were all alone in the auditorium and I randomly blurted out “I want us to last forever”. Well, when I said forever, I meant it. I want us to last for a lifetime.

If anything, I want you to take that job. You’ve worked so hard for it and I bet you would make a great employee at the London office. understand that I cause you some pain, and I don’t expect you to forgive me now. But when you’re ready, I’ll be here, waiting for you. 

I love you so much Y/N.

Sincerely,

Tadashi 

You buried your head in your arms as you let out loud sobs. You cries drowned out the sounds of the thunder and rain outside. 

You couldn’t help but wonder what life would be like if you never took that job offer. What would happen if you apologized to him. Telling him how much you loved him, telling him to stay. The amount of instant regret fills up your heart, and there was no way of getting rid of the grief that came with it. 

“I miss you, I’m sorry”. 

⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚⁺‧͙⁺

A/N: I love me some angst hehe srry readers :)

Likes, Comments, and Reblogs are always appreciated!

Inbox is open for requests so request away!!

[fanaticsnail]

The Spear and the Sword

Masterlist Here.

Word Count: 3,807

This is the final fic for the year, a wonderful prompt given by an anon months ago. Thank you to @since-im-already-here for beta reading and correcting grammar. If there's any issue, know my sister is to blame, folks.

@gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @sordidmusings @feral-artistry @vespidphoenix happy new year!

Warning: blood, gore, flirtatious dialogue, mutual pining, playfulness in battle, enemies to lovers, warlord reader, fluff, Mihawk x female!reader.

I said I'd get it done before the new year. Happy New Years Eve to my fellow Aussies!

This was too much. This was far too much. This was far too much for lord Dracule Mihawk to fend off alone. His great sword Yoru was spattered with the blood of several foes, each impact meeting his blade creating more lethargy in the broody sword master of the seas. His title of “worlds greatest” was hanging in the balance as more enemies approached him with more fervour than ever before.

“Garp,” Mihawk growled into his den-den-mushi earpiece, “you said there would be a few hundred. This is in the upwards of a couple thousand. What is going on back there?” Static and groans of battle were met within the earpiece in return, huffs of gruff breath and thumps of fists coinciding within the ferocious melody.

“It was all I was aware of, Mihawk,” Garp growled once the battle was silenced in the background of the call, “my marines are barely holding up on this end. The other warlords are occupied, I’ve got none to spare you.” Mihawk almost met with a single shot from a bullet, weaving away with a dance-like twirl to dodge the metallic, circular object. He swiped his lengthy blade within the air and kicked back the individual who shot at him, his torso falling to impale themselves against a fence post as a result of the blow.

The town he was tasked to protect, a marine base home to several prominent family members within the world government; alongside the sick, weak, young, and elderly, were currently engaged in a war-like battle with pillagers and pirates from the four corners of the north, east, south and west blues. This army was accumulated under a foreign flag, their jolly roger unfamiliar to both marines and warlords alike. Mihawk had been fighting at the front line alone, his ship destroyed under the destruction of war: his traveling vintages of fine wines claimed by the seas.

As another made his approach, Mihawk huffed out an exhausted and frustrated breath while continuing to swipe to relinquish the foes and meet them with the sharpened edge of his blade.

“Mihawk,” Garp interrupted his flow of battle with his voice cutting through the air within his snail earpiece, “we might have someone available. You’ve worked with her before, a warlord like you. She’s on her way.”

“Boa?” Mihawk asked while placing his fingertip to the shell of the earpiece, “I thought you said she’s on the other side of the north blue right now.” Garp growled at one of his underlings, directing them in some nonsensical way that Mihawk couldn’t quite register.

“No, not Boa,” Garp replied, panting into the earpiece with exhaustion overcoming himself. More clangs, clashes and thumps were heard within the earpiece, Mihawk turning to continue forcing the pillagers back to the shore of the beach.

“No,” Mihawk uttered firmly into the earpiece, “anyone but her. Give me cadets, give me your least valuable soldiers, give me prisoners. Literally anyone else-.”

“I don’t have anyone else!” Garp roared into the earpiece, prompting Mihawk to flinch away from it while furrowing his brows in anger. Both men managed to calm themselves down, Mihawk taking a moment to silence his rage by taking a few deep breaths.

“Put your former grievances and your ego aside, warlord,” Garp ordered within the earpiece, “she’s what we have, and she’s perfect. World’s greatest weapons-master, in fact.”

“I’m aware of that,” Mihawk murmured through his clenched teeth, his teeth grinding as he bit back his lackluster words, “she’s violent, impulsive, ferocious, messy. She’s feral and she’s the bane of my existence.”

“Have you even spoken to her?” Garp questioned, a small humorless laugh falling through his widened grimace, “she’s exactly what we need, Mihawk. You do this, and I’ll let you off the tether to tend your farms, sharpen your sword – or even sheathe it for an entire year.” Mihawk narrowed his eyes, huffing out a frustrated breath and brandishing his sword out to the side in preparation for another recuperated attack from the approaching armada.

“How soon will she be here?” Mihawk asked, his beard protruding while snarling with his upper lip drawing back.

“She’s already on the other side of the war line,” Garp confirmed with him, a final slam of iron-barred doors echoing within the background of the ship, “I’ll patch her through now.”

-

You tilted your head down, looking up at the coastline full of ships approaching the marine-base through your lengthy eyelashes. You drew back your playful smirk, allowing the elevation of your heartbeat to begin to work itself to frenzy within your ribcage. You were known far and wide for your battle-ready ferocity; allowing your rage to take over your emotions within the thralls of battle to relinquish many a foe.

Combat mastery began at a young age; bare knuckle boxing in gladiator cage-matches being one of the first types of combat you overtook the championship of in your youth. After boxing and grappling, you moved on to wielding large hammers and battle axes, enjoying the weight within your fists as you crushed skulls and decapitated limbs. After heftier weapons, you opted to train under the mentorship of a superior fighter. They taught you to throw the spear and reclaim it swiftly, giving you pointers to always meet your target with the piercing tip of the bladed end.

You were nothing, coming from nothing. No family to speak of, you traveled the continents, claiming title after title of world's greatest weapon-master with ease. The only one you were yet to best was the current reigning lord of Kuraigana, his title of World’s Greatest Swordsman continuing to badge itself against his bare chest with pride. Arrogant prick was the first thought that sprung to mind regarding the nature of his aura. You had seen posters, articles and even catalogs regarding his training history and weapons mastery.

As your status was elevated to warlord, the world government approached you for protection against several foes and to take on contracts they would rather not involve themselves with, you accepted under two conditions: they allow you to handle matters in your own way, being the first. Your own way, being: “I will get this done, regardless of the mess, and you will clean it up after I’m done with it.”

The other condition is you were to be given absolutely all the information available to you regarding the contracts: no children, no women: no innocents. Those were your rules. You didn’t care how feral the children were, nor how arrogant and uptight the women were. If they were innocent, you refused to do harm to them, or unleash your wrath onto the world government themselves. There were absolutely no qualms to your requests, printed in bold atop your profile.  

Vice-Admiral Garp had no quarry with your methods, usually placing a den-den-mushi somewhere about within the battlefield to watch your barbaric tirades on the field in awe at your ferocity. 

That was how Mihawk knew of your battle prowess, your pictures almost always covered in some form of dirt, mud and blood within the heat of battle. He absolutely despised mess, but was always held captive to your almost beckoning and sultry gaze as you removed your spearhead from another foe. And you knew him in a similar likeness, his images always clean-cut with not a splash of battle worn on him. Given the call you just received from Garp, you were quivering in anticipation to remedy such a plight from him.

“I’m going to patch you through now, Weaponsmaster,” Garp’s lilted brogue uttered into the den-den-mushi within your ear. His voice almost was quivering itself in anticipation of witnessing the carnage you were about to unleash against the armada as far as the naked eye could see.

“Thank you, Vice-Admiral,” you sang in an almost sultry tone within the earpiece, “I know you’ll be watching closely.”

“Aye, I will be lass,” Garp’s voice laughed into the earpiece. You were very well aware of how fond the older gentleman was of watching you work, not minding in the slightest at the attention and preference you got from him.

“Mihawk, you there?” Garp’s voice echoed within the earpiece, prompting you to wince away from his growl slightly.

“I am, Vice-Admiral.” A moment of pause occurred before Mihawk spoke again, “Weapons-master.”

“Sword-master,” you smirked, your voice almost purring at him, “a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

“That I’m sure of,” Mihawk replied in a bored tone. You were slightly taken aback by his standoffish mannerism, your brows furrowing low. He absolutely knew who you were, holding a title as warlord and world’s greatest weapons-master. You rotated your shoulders and clicked your neck to rid yourself of annoyance and prepare yourself for battle.

“Conceited Cunt,” you spat, unaware that the contact was still drawn between the three of you – only becoming aware once Mihawk’s voice relayed back to you, “Feral Filiform.”

“Easy now,” Garp’s voice called over the linked den-den-mushi, “Complete this feat first, then get to your flirting.”

“If you think that’s what flirting looks like,” Mihawk winced into the shell, touching his index finger to the outer shell of the den-den-mushi, “I pity your wife.” You chuckled at his crude comment, almost tangibly feeling the rage pouring off Garp in waves through the den-den-mushi attached to your inner ear.

“Save your insults for the enemy, pirate,” Garp spat into the earpiece. You heard Mihawk hum, prompting you to roll your eyes at the interaction. The ships over the shore began to fall closer to your small vessel - the rise of the tide ushering you into the new thralls of battle. You noticed there were a few hundred ships, all carrying an amassment of crew of various sizes. You once again rolled your shoulders back and pursed your lips. 

Placing your fingertip to secure the shell deeper within your ear, you smirked out a final taunt to the warlord.

“This is what was bothering you? Couldn't you handle the troop all by yourself, swordsman?” You cooed into the voice responder. Silence and static was met within the drum of your ear, a stifled growl also accompanying it. You decided to get in a final jab to taunt him, “I could dispatch the armada by myself. Why don’t you take a break, old man? Sit your pretty little ass down on the beach and sit back to watch the show.”

“I’d like to see you try, barbarian,” Mihawk growled in return. Your ship brushed against the hull of the first ship to the rear of the fleet; your presence immediately making itself known as you housed yourself effortlessly over the railing. You laughed into the earpiece, feeling the rapidity of your heartbeat rising in elevation to frenzy yourself before first contact is made with your many foes.

Your spear was flung through your hands to indent itself against the top mast at the middle of the vessel, skewering several members of the mighty crew onto its pole as meat would dangle from a kebab. You grappled, kicked, flung yourself at the crew; using your hands and their own weapons against them to relinquish them from their life. Once they all fell victim to your battle mastery, you again reached your hand up to the shell-responder.

“I bet my left breastplate I will get to the middle before you, Swordsman,” you taunted him, your legs carrying themselves with haste towards the railing of the ship. You jumped high, the air lifting you and drawing your body down against the next vessel. 

“I bet my waist-belt you absolutely won’t, Wild-Woman,” the swordsman snarled into the earpiece, Yoru circling around and pushing the troops back with one fell swipe. Mihawk’s teeth drew themselves back, enraged at his taunt being met with a small melodic giggle. 

“Oh, this is how we’re playing, is it?” You whispered breathily into the earpiece, your spear clutched within the fist of your dominant hand as you stabbed at the next approaching foe. You giggled again, feeling at home on the battlefield. The life drained from the eyes of the enemy under the tip of your spear; another shipful of foes falling on their knees at your expert ministrations.

“Fine,” you smiled into the earpiece, singsong and humor dripping from your tongue, “I’ll see your belt and raise you my entire breastplate.” Mihawk growled in response. You held your ground, immediately flinging yourself at the next ship. 

Rather than to take on several members of this crew, you shrugged your shoulders and thrust your spear downwards - sinking the vessel below your feet. You sprinted against the ship’s deck as it began to be claimed by the sea water below, ushering you on to the next ship. You threw your spear to the next vessel, embedding the tip into a lit cannon and witnessed the beautiful implosion it made; launching the spear back into your awaiting palm as you jumped onto the next one. The blast sunk the ship it was fired from, the cannonball flinging itself to sink the one laying perpendicular to the vessel. 

Mihawk was not paying attention to your battle mastery, assuming you were still undertaking the first vessel you had docked your ship against and fighting like some untrained and feral marine. He snickered at the thought, himself already aboard his second vessel after pushing back the troop from their approach of the shore. 

“I’m looking forward to claiming your breastplate,” Mihawk’s voice audibly smirked into the earpiece, “to add to the winning pool, I’ll claim that spear too.” A shiver of anticipation shuddered against his spine at the audible growl he managed to pull from your parted lips. Holding your spear more firmly within your hand, you growled back at him. 

“There are several things I doubt you’d be able to do correctly, swordsman. Wielding my spear is the first that springs to mind,” you smirked, watching the bubbling of water rise as another ship sank against your skill, “pleasing a woman is the other.”

In order to remain silent while listening to your quips back and forward to each other, Vice-Admiral Garp clapped his wide palm over his lips to stifle an outrageous and unbridled laugh rising in his chest. Bogard smirked, hearing the commotion from the speaker molded into the desktop den-den-mushi, placing his hat over his eyes to hide his joy. 

“I’ll gladly show you I can on both counts, woman.”

“You can certainly try, warlord”

“I will absolutely succeed, fellow warlord.”

 Garp and Bogard were held on the edge of their seats, watching through binoculars the battle mastery balanced between you both while your quippy dialogue read as commentary to your mighty feats. 

“Fine,” you again smirked into your earpiece, clothes and armor littered with the spilt blood of your enemies while your hair stuck to your face under the salty sea-spray, “If I am to give up my weapon to the cause, I will have something of equal value offered in return.”

“Yoru is not something I would ever part with for something as childish as a-,” Mihawk began, his words halting as you offered your trade.

“-If I win this little coo, you pretentious prick, your pride is coming with me,” you called into the shell attached to your ear. Feeling all the pent up rage and frustration of the respect of your skill not being met in return for your affection, you offered the best solution you could find. 

“If I get to these exact coordinates, all foes falling before me,” you relayed the coordinates, Garp, Bogard and Mihawk hanging on your every utterance, “you will report back to Vice-Admiral Garp donning nothing but your stupid cross-blade, your stupid Yoru and your feathered hat.” The battle paused, the enemies halting their approach with their brows furrowing in almost disgust and awe. You held up a halting hand at them, awaiting a vocal response from Mihawk to your taunt. 

Mihawk’s brows themselves were lowered, his eyes narrowed as he sought you out in the field. He couldn’t find you, couldn’t see a trail of destruction in your wake. He continued to search for you within the crowd, but was still unable. 

“In that complete and utter unlikelihood,” Mihawk began, still craning his neck to seek out your form, “I accept the terms. Prepare to have your spear, your breastplate and my own satisfaction in claiming some semblance of femininity from you while I wield your body effortlessly.”

“And you prepare yourself to be absolutely humbled in response, your pride and ego removed because-,” you smirked, your eyes finally meeting with the yellow hue of the feathered warlord only a few hundred feet away from you, “-I’m nearly there.”

Mihawk’s eyes widened as he witnessed you jump to the next vessel, twirling within the air to throw a small axe into the base of the ship and sinking it by placing a wide hole within its bow. You were, indeed, very close to the coordinates. His widened gaze looked harder, noticing the absence of over half of the wide armada sinking to the bottom of the sea. How had he not noticed it before? Why, in all his stupidity, would he ever agree to this without looking properly first? Clearly, he had underestimated you. Or overestimated his ability to easily outmatch you. 

The elements had changed along with the tide. Your battle-ready ferocity was overcast by an aura of calm playfulness; you giggling into the earpiece as you continued falling foe after foe beneath your spear, fist and axes. In turn, Mihawk was the one to begin to shower himself desperately in the blood of his enemies; curling up his lip at the mess alongside his stupidity at undertaking such a bet. 

“C’mon Hawk, keep up. You’re nearly there. Flap your wings harder,” you’d giggle into the earpiece, uncaring whether blood, sinew or bone showered your body in the baptism of battle. 

“Stop your stupid teeth from gnashing, Hyena. Your taunts mean very little to me,” Mihawk panted, his feet carrying him with more haste as he continued to unblinkingly search for you. 

You giggled again in response, your feet almost carrying themselves closer to the finish line. Your enemies within the armada were fleeing from the utter horror you created, your wolfy grin and playful eyes not matching the energy of the gore befalling your form. Many simply dove overboard, ran to the next ship away from you in their cowardly retreat - only to be met with another approaching warlord with his mighty sword clutched in his dominant hand. 

As Mihawk panted for breath, his adrenaline propelling him to the finish line leaving a trail of destruction in his wake; his steps quivered in his tracks as his gaze met with yours.

You were sitting on a barrel, twirling the twine around your spearhead nonchalantly with a litter of bodies laying at your feet. Your left brow was arched upwards, the knowing smirk plastered against your plush lips as you hummed a tune of victory through your nose. 

“Looks like I’ll get to see what your other sword looks like,” you cooed in a melodic tune, not meeting his gaze and remaining aloof, “you can leave your boots at my feet. I think I might wear your coat home with me, Swordsman.”

“You are disgusting,” Mihawk spat at you, his breath finally catching up with him. He was now left breathless at witnessing your ferocity, the wild shape of your battle-worn eyes holding him hostage with tense emotion. 

“You agreed to the terms, Mihawk. Now it’s time to pay up-,” you uttered darkly, snapping your head over to his form with your eyes narrowed at him.

“-I meant your appearance. So wild, so feral, so-,” his next words caught in his throat as you drew yourself down from your sat position atop the barrel, “-unladylike.” You scoffed at him, rolling your eyes in your approach. Wiping your forehead with the back of your arm, you rid your face of the bone, blood and sinew blocking your view of him. He was a very pretty man, the most beautiful you had seen in a long time. Although slightly taken aback by his clean and uptight appearance, you stood your ground. 

“What would you have me wear then? Silks and satins while I dance amongst the chaos? I think not, lord Dracule Mihawk,” you spat at him, laughing dryly at your own comment. Mihawk sucked in a small breath through his nostrils, wincing at your comment with his lips curled into a snarl. You overemphasized a sigh, placing your spear against your back and stretched your arms to cool down your body. 

“I’ll make you another deal then, Mihawk,” you smirked again up at his towering form, “I’ll go and get cleaned up and don some pretty little dress for you,” you prodded his bare chest with your index finger and traced a pattern against his pectorals, “and you can go and relay the play by play to Vice-Admiral Garp completely starkers, okay?” 

Mihawk growled, eyes looking to your tender touch against his chest and almost again finding himself falling to his knees under your radiant ferocity. He rolled his neck, arched his soldiers back and leaned into your touch. 

“Fine,” he spat in response, gripping your bloodied wrist beneath his palm and curled fingertips, “but it better be something tight and preferably black.” You giggled at his comment, raising your other hand up to his cheek and patting it affectionately with a small utterance. 

“What a good boy you are,” you praised him with another cooing taunt, scrunching up your nose and smiling with your feral eyes, “now take off your boots, coat and pants and run along now. I’ll be all dolled up for you and ready for you at the waterfront tavern. I might even see that your clothes are cleaned, pressed and waiting once you arrive.”

Your comment finally broke him, a warm laugh cracking through his tough exterior and rumbling within his chest to pour from his mustached lips. 

“It’s a shame I lost,” he leant his cheek into your touch, prompting you to furrow your brows in curiosity. He stooped his form lower to you, tickling your face with his playful and breathy whisper, “I would’ve liked to have shown you how well I can please a woman.”

BONUS

Eyes were either focussed exclusively on the ceiling or marines would simply turn around as the darkened and well seasoned lord of Kuraigana entered the military office building. Holding true to his word, and the promise of good company after his humiliation, he sauntered confidently into Vice-Admiral Garp’s office donning nothing but Yoru strapped to his back, his cross-blade hanging loosely from his neck, and his feathered hat atop his sea-sprayed, curled, dark locks.

[guiltyasdave]

takes one to know one

another extra from the dress series universe, but can be read as a stand-alone!

pairing: Dave York x f!reader

word count: ~3.3k

summary: “Not a sound,” a deep voice snarls into your ear. A familiar voice. You turn your head ever so slightly to make out his face over your shoulder, your wide gaze meeting his, the brown eyes that you know so well almost black as he drinks you in. You whimper against his palm and he smirks.

warnings/tags: explicit smut (18+ only!), consensual non-consent (it’s not explicitly mentioned but they have a safeword), Dave breaks into reader’s place and chases her, dom/sub dynamics, dom!Dave, sub!reader, degradation kink, knife play, oral sex (m receiving), unprotected p in v (reader is on birth control), rough sex, slapping, spitting, choking, established relationship, hints of fluff because i can’t help myself, able-bodied reader, Dave pulls her hair, as always: let me know if i missed anything please <3

i want to make it very clear that cnc has been discussed between the both of them before and that reader is consenting throughout the entire scene that i’ve written here. still, check the tags and if this kind of content upsets you, please don’t read it 🤍

a/n: I’m still struggling with the plot for the main series, but I was horny aaaaand that’s really all I can say for myself. Because I know of several people who have written or want to write about some variation of the ✨knife riding✨, let’s not open up some kind of plagiarism discourse about this, please <3 I got my inspiration from this post and I know others have too, and honestly, I’d read a thousand fics about that shit because it’s fucking hot, so to anyone who wants to write it: PLEASE DO IT

dividers by @/saradika-graphics <3

find my full masterlist here!

You’re sat on your couch, headphones over your ears, typing away on your laptop when a large hand wraps over your mouth, trapping the surprised scream that’s fighting its way up your throat. The headphones are roughly pulled away as you’re frozen in shock, your heart hammering in your chest.

“Not a sound,” a deep voice snarls into your ear. A familiar voice. You turn your head ever so slightly to make out his face over your shoulder, your wide gaze meeting his, the brown eyes that you know so well almost black as he drinks you in. You whimper against his palm and he smirks.

You hadn’t expected him for another few days and you sure as hell hadn’t expected this, but a twisted sensation of anxious excitement is thrumming through your veins.

Your eyes flit over his figure, taking in his dark clothes, more casual than you’re used to and a black cap that you’ve never seen on him before that accentuates his hard jawline and his dark eyes. A buzzing desire shoots through you before you can stop it. He quirks an eyebrow, seemingly amused by the reactions replaying on your face.

You take another breath, your brain running a mile a minute, clocking his hold on you that’s strong but not as strong as it could be and the door in your back that leads out of your apartment. Before you can overthink it, you twist out of his grasp, driving your elbow into his side sharply. His surprised and slightly pained intake of breath barely registers with you as you bolt for the door, your bare feet hitting your hardwood floor. You throw the door open and fly down the stairs as quick as your feet carry you, adrenaline pumping through your veins.

You’ve never played the scenario like this before, but the thought of him chasing after you, his dark figure hunting you down, and the things that he might do to you once he’s caught you, have you breathless with excitement.

You step out onto your street, which is thankfully almost empty in the early evening hours, and take off to one side without thinking. You don’t dare to turn around to check if you’re being followed before you dart into a small alley between two townhouses and press yourself against the wall, praying that he didn’t see and will pass you without noticing.

Your breath is coming in short pants and your gaze is glued to the street while you’re staying hidden in the shadows, determined not to miss him when he -hopefully- passes your hiding spot.

It feels like several minutes tick by, and while you can’t really be sure in your current nervous state, you start feeling anxious. You begin to creep towards the opening between the houses when a hand covers your face for the second time this night, the other hand wrapping around your wrist in an iron grip.

“Boo,” Dave whispers into your ear from behind you, making you jump, his body crowding you in as he spins you around to face him.

“Thought you could run away from me?” he smirks, his hand moving away from your mouth to possessively wrap around your neck. “Let’s get you back home, doll.”

He keeps a tight hold on your slightly trembling body, much tighter than before, and the adrenaline is slowly being replaced by more nervous excitement as he leads you back to your place, up the stairs until you’re standing in front of the door. He pulls the keys out and opens up, shoving you inside before he slams the door shut behind the both of you.

He holds your weary gaze while he locks the door, then he’s on you, pushing you against the wall, his hands clawing at your body, sliding under your shirt and tearing at the waistband of your leggings.

“P-please,” you whimper, pushing weakly at his hands.

“No,” he growls, capturing both of your wrists and holding them above your head while he glares down at you.

“You thought that was funny, huh?” He motions with his head towards the door, his voice an angry snarl. “Thought you were smart, that you could trick me?”

“N-no, please, I-” You shake your head, your voice thick with tears that are brimming in your eyes. He gathers both of your wrists in one hand, the other hand roughly slapping your cheek and causing your head to fly to the side.

“Shut up,” he spits, “I don’t want to hear another word from you, is that clear?”

Traces of real fear are coursing through your veins, but this is exactly how you wanted it to be, exactly how you had asked to be treated. Despite the fear, you feel wetness gathering between your thighs, and desire blooming in your whole body.

“Please,” you try again, not sure what you’re even begging for, just playing into the feeling of being completely at his mercy that you enjoy so much.

His hand hits your cheek again, twice in quick succession this time, and a whimpering moan escapes your mouth. “Not another word,” Dave repeats, his cold eyes boring into yours. He reaches for his belt and raises his hand a moment later, holding a knife that looks concerningly big, especially with how close it is to your face. He presses the blade against your throat and you freeze, your heartbeat loud in your ears and your eyes wide, your entire focus on him.

“Not another word, or you’ll regret it. Is that clear?” he asks again, his voice low and drenched in coldness. You manage the tiniest nod, scared to move against the blade that you can still feel on the delicate skin beneath your jaw.

“Good,” he grins, slotting his knee between your thighs and it takes everything in you not to grind down onto him. He removes the knife from your throat and presses his mouth onto your skin instead, his hands sliding under your shirt and groping at your tits while he sucks and bites on your neck with a roughness that is surely going to leave your skin sore for days. He kneads your breasts and pinches your nipples, sending jolts of equally pain and pleasure through your body. Your head is leaning back against the wall, your eyes pinched shut and high pitched whimpers falling from your lips.

He stops abruptly and gathers your face in his hand, squeezing your cheeks between his thumb and his fingers. “Stop complaining,” he snarls, “you think I can’t feel the way you’re soaking my pants right here?” His other hand cups your mound over your leggings, fingers digging into the drenched fabric and you can’t stop your moan, nor the way your hips buck to chase his touch when he pulls it away again.

“Desperate little slut, so fucking easy, just waiting around for someone to come and fuck you, weren’t you?” You try shaking your head and he tightens his hold on your face. “Don’t lie, sweetheart,” he says, his voice a cold whisper, “you love being treated like this. Love being put in your place. I think you should thank me.”

You give another small shake of your head and he lets go of your face to wrap his hand around your throat instead. His hold there tightens slowly and your eyes grow wider as he arches an eyebrow at you. You start feeling dizzy and your hand flies to his wrist, tugging desperately, but he just chuckles, squeezing your throat tighter. Desire burns between your legs as you’re gasping for breath, finally giving up on the defiance, like you both knew you would.

“Thank you,” you force out, almost choking on the words, and Dave grins triumphantly, loosening his grip on your throat.

“See,” he coos, leaning closer until you can feel his breath on your face, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He grabs your neck again and maneuvers you into your bedroom, where he orders you to strip, to show me what I came here for, doll, while he leans against your doorframe, watching your trembling form with a smirk in his face. You do as he says, pulling your shirt over your head and your leggings down your legs until you’re standing in front of him in nothing but your panties.

His eyes flit over your body, lingering on your breasts with an expression of hunger on his face, until they stop at your underwear. “Those too. Unless you’d rather have me cut them off?” The knife is back in his hand and he’s twirling it mindlessly. Your gaze follows the motion for a second, mesmerized by the casual ease with which he’s handling the weapon, until you remember his threat and hastily strip out of the panties, leaving yourself completely bare while he’s still fully dressed.

He stalks towards you, crowding you in and his fingers wander between your legs, swirling through the wetness at your entrance and making you gasp when he flicks your clit. “I knew it,” he grins smugly, “you’re so fucking wet for me. Like it or not, sweetheart, you love being treated like this. Best to just accept it.” He leans in to bite at your neck again, still playing with your clit while his other hand splays over your ass, causing you to flinch when the knife’s blade makes contact with your skin there. You’re helplessly turned on, so many sensations all over your body that you can barely process and you wrap your arms around his neck without thinking about it, just wanting him to give you more, to make you feel good the way you know he can.

“Good girl, there she is,” he whispers into your ear. Then he pulls back, stepping around you and throwing your naked body down onto the bed, looming over you, the knife still clutched in his hand. He straddles your thighs, smirks at you and pecks your lips, then he pulls back and drives the knife into the mattress beside you in one fluid motion, tearing through the material until only the handle is visible, sticking out of your bed.

A small scream had escaped your throat at the sudden motion and another slap lands on your face. “There,” he grins, the amusement clear on his face. “You so desperately want to have your cunt filled - use this.” Your stare flickers between him and the knife a couple of times, understanding slowly growing inside your mind.

“Y-you want me to ride? …T-this?”

Dave pets your cheek almost affectionately, then nods towards the handle. “Exactly. And you better get on with it, you don’t want to test my patience, do you?” You gulp and shake your head, wearily eyeing the intimidatingly large piece of black material that’s sticking out of your mattress. Dave clicks his tongue impatiently and you scramble to your knees, positioning yourself until you’re hovering over the knife.

Your insides are burning with the humiliation that he’s putting you through, but there’s also a twisted sense of excitement bubbling inside of you, knowing that no one but him would push you like this, which is why no one like him makes you feel like this. Your slick is dripping down your legs and you know that he can see it, with the way he’s watching you closely as you’re still hovering, anxiously biting your lip.

You look up at his face and despite the cold and cruel mask that he’s been wearing all evening, you can still see the fire in his eyes, making you feel warm, telling you that ultimately, despite everything, you’re safe with him and he wants you to enjoy yourself, will push you to enjoy yourself if necessary. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t take you out of the scene, but his voice is still clear in your head, speaking words that you’ve heard a hundred times. For me, sweetheart. I know you can.

You take a deep breath, your brows furrowing in concentration, and start sinking down. It’s an awkward angle at first and you need to adjust your position, but then the knife’s handle is pressing against your entrance. You gaze up at Dave again, whose eyes are trained on your pussy, watching eagerly as you sink down further. It feels strange, not unlike a toy, you think, but the shape isn’t exactly right and with a toy you wouldn’t be worried about cutting yourself with a wrong move. Your walls stretch around the foreign item and you gasp at the sensation, the feeling of finally being filled up giving you the sweet pleasure that you had been craving.

You begin moving your hips over the handle without further instruction from Dave, sliding up and down in careful motions, still aware of the sharp blade that’s currently buried in your bed, but sparks of pleasure are traveling up your spine nonetheless.

Dave reaches out to tweak your nipples again and you arch your back towards his touch, causing him to laugh. “That’s right, slut, fuck yourself on my knife. You’d do anything as long as that greedy pussy gets filled up, wouldn’t you?” You nod mindlessly, chasing your pleasure, the whole situation sending your arousal into overdrive.

Standing beside you, Dave finally pulls his dark sweater over his head, then opens his belt buckle. You eagerly drink in the sight of him, his broad chest and shoulders, his strong arms and his softer stomach, the smatter of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband.

“Please,” you whisper, once again not certain what you’re even asking for, but you want more, more of him.

“Open your mouth,” Dave demands, leaning down to your level when you obey eagerly. He spits into your mouth, his saliva pooling on your tongue, the degrading but weirdly intimate motion making you moan desperately. “Keep it open,” he mutters as he pushes down his pants and underwear in one motion, your eyes flying to his cock before you can help yourself. He glides his hand along his length slowly, watching you while you’re still riding his knife, your combined saliva pooling in your open mouth and the desperate longing clear on your face.

He steps closer and taps the head of his cock on your tongue, eliciting another moan from you when you feel the familiar weight. “Yeah, need all your holes stuffed, one just isn’t enough, huh?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and thrusts into your mouth, holding your head steady as he presses his cock into your mouth until he’s nudging at your throat. You try your hardest not to gag and shudder in his grasp, tears spilling from your eyes and mixing with the spit that’s drooling out of your mouth.

He pulls back a little, letting you suck on him instead while you try to keep up your rhythm on the knife’s handle. “So good,” he groans, his hand curled in your hair, “taking me so fucking good.” He starts fucking your mouth again in quick thrusts and tweaks your nipples until you moan around him, the vibration causing his grip in your hair to tighten. “Think you can come like this?” he pants, “does riding my fucking knife while I’m fucking your throat turn you on that much?”

You nod as best as you can, pleadingly looking up at him. “Dirty fucking slut,” he snarls, landing another slap on your cheek that has you clenching almost painfully around the knife. “Go on then, touch yourself.” Your hand flies to your clit at his words, rubbing at the tight bundle of nerves and shuddering at the pleasure that’s thrumming through your veins. You come almost embarrassingly quick, the different forms of stimulation flooding your senses until you’re writhing on your knees, moaning around the cock in your throat as waves of pleasure roll through your body.

You faintly register Dave getting on the bed behind you and his hands on your shoulders. He pulls you off of the handle roughly and you fall back against his chest, still on your knees, barely keeping yourself upright. “Good fucking girl,” he coos into your ear as he pulls you into his body, his large hands pressing into your flesh. “You’re a quick learner. No need to get hurt when you’re obedient like this, see?” Then he pushes your head back down until you’re at eye level with the handle, still drenched in the wetness that your pussy has left behind. “Open up,” his cold voice demands from above you, underlining the order with a sharp slap to your ass when you don’t react quick enough. “Clean up your mess, make it all nice and shiny while I fuck this dirty little cunt.”

You feel a new wave of wetness between your legs at his words and obediently close your lips around the tip of the handle, moaning at the taste of yourself. “Just like that,” you hear Dave from behind you before his hand is in your hair again, pushing you down further. His other hand’s fingers are digging into your hip as he’s lining himself up and thrusting into you in one rough motion. Your scream at the sudden stretch gets muffled in your mouth and you hear his faint chuckle before he starts moving, setting a brutal pace right from the beginning that has you writhing, your hips stuttering with the force of his thrusts.

“That’s it, good girl, take it just like that,” Dave pants, his voice wrecked, “good fucking girl.” Getting praised while being in this degrading situation has your head spinning. You hear the wet squelch every time his cock presses inside of you, the smack of his flesh against his, the touch of his hands feeling so rough but so right on your body.

Dave is groaning behind you, sliding into you in hard thrusts that make your eyes roll back into your head and moving against your g-spot again and again. You feel yourself tightening up around him, more wetness seeping out of you until you can’t take it anymore. You tip over the edge, your whole body tensing up, shudders running through you as stars explode across your vision and your pussy clenches around his cock rhythmically.

You hear him swear behind you, his hips stilling and his hands pulling your body back against his chest, his cock pulsing deep inside of you and painting your walls with his release.

“So fucking good,” he murmurs and presses a gentle kiss against the soft skin under your ear. You nod, your mind still dazed but a tired smile growing on your face.

He gently pulls out of you and moves your body up the bed until your head is resting on the pillows. He cleans you up, peppering your entire face with kisses, muttering praises against your skin, replacing his demanding hands with soft, featherlight touches.

You watch with wide eyes as he carefully pulls the knife back out of your now ruined mattress and puts it down on your nightstand. The handle is still glistening with the remnants of your spit. Dave catches your eye and grins in that cocky way of his that almost makes you want him between your legs again immediately.

“Don’t worry. I’ll buy you a new one.” You smirk and stretch your arms out towards him, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him down into a kiss, his lips softly moving against yours, the dominating persona all but blown away.

“You better,” you murmur against his mouth and his responding chuckle makes you smile.

if you liked this fic, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment, you’d really make me suuuuper happy! 🤍

[glassica]

The Man of Your Dreams

Notes: M!yan spirit x F!reader, paranormal, reincarnation, implication of death & murder, supernatural, lucid dream, possession, sexual acts, implication of masturbation

Some nights, when you still lying awake alone on mattress, you could’ve heard the sound of banging on door and knob turning over incessantly. “It’s just the wind,” your roommate shrugged. Make sense, but you couldn’t brush off the feeling that someone is trying to enter the room.

Then some times later those eerie sounds stopped and finally you could put aside that unexplained fear for good. This was also around the time you started dreaming about a strange man. Not so model-handsome, but certainly charming and approachable. Right at first meeting you knew he was the perfect kind of lover you wished for. Even as dreams, the exchanges were more dynamic and effortless than with any dates you went to in real life. He was attentive to your thoughts, always recalled what brings you joys or sorrows, even the hidden secrets you had yet open up. It was safe to conclude he know more about you than yourself.

Dreams of him. Once every few months. Then fortnight. Then weekly. And now was every nights. You had discarded the real world. No longer looked forward to the first light of new day, your true life began when moon hung amidst sparkling stars and the mind drifted away into the dreamland, into his warm presence. So what if he was just an illusion, a likely product of subconsciousness? When he wrapped you tightly against chest, adorning on your neck thousands of butterfly kisses before taking off the fabrics witheld the treasure he’d craved to taste it whole. When he bit and sucked senselessly your nipple while pinching the other til both were pinky, harderned and wet in saliva. When his shaft hurriedly drilled in and out yours from the back while hands busy squeezing pair of dough so reddened from someone’s loving slaps. By the time waking up, panties embarrassingly sloppy and the tip of fingers solidated from you-know-what. Your roommates teased, what kind of wild thoughts you’d been entertaining lately?

But soon the teasing turned to clear concern. Forget close circles, everyone you met outside could sense the lifelessness of your manners. They started noticing the fatigue evident on those eye bags, the back hunched over and footsteps dragging wearily on floor. It was difficult to put in words, but it seemed as if the soul of yours was draining day by day, metaphorically and literally. You skipped classes, declined hangouts, even stopped visiting home on weekends just to get more sleeps. To get more time with him. 

So the roommates sat you down. They were glad your all-nighters had ended, nevertheless everything too much wasn’t good. Did you suffered from any illnesses or troubles, and if you needed to see doctors. In response you just waved hand with disinterest. Why should they care? It wasn’t that serious!

“You know love, my friends and family are so annoying. They keep nagging me that I sleep too much, when just some times ago it was also them telling me to stop competing with owls!”

You rolled over, nuzzling your face in his chest. It was after another steamy round, the two laid there cuddling, letting yourselves soaked in each other’s gentle warmth. Like always, you began telling him about things happened in real world, though you barely remember what your days were like anymore.

“In other words they want you to spend less time on your lover,” he chuckled, rubbing his hand on your back, “I told you so. They are a jealous, petty bunch. Not worth anything.”

“Um, that’s kinda harsh. I’m bothered by their scolding but that doesn’t mean I don’t get them. It’s true that I’ve been neglecting myself in reality a lot now.”

“...”

You got that chills running down the shivers again. Yes you were well aware how this man reacted to you defending your close people in real life, but wasn’t it time for him to start warming up on them?

…Nevermind, you should said something to distract him instantly. It was pure wish-fulfillment to hope he could be civil about your friends and family, please give up.

“A- Anyways, I’ve thought about this for long. Isn’t it tragic that we can’t see each other outside of dreams?”

“Indeed. If I could, I would’ve met and snatched you from these pests earlier,” he pulled your chin up, forcing your mouth opened for a wet kiss, “but God wasn’t fair. I wasn’t allowed to reincarnated on human’s realm again. That’s why I could only pine after you mindlessly as a lost spirit.”

“You don’t remember, but we were a couple in our previous lives. On your deathbed, I had sworn to find and keep you tight if we were to reborn in this world. You may look different from your past life, but I recognized your soul immediately. I’m such a wonderful partner, no?! I’m hurt that you went on dates with those worthless stupid guys when you had an amazing husband right there!” 

His words were sweet like honey, but the tone suggested otherwise. You thought you’d seen the worst of his madness, but that staled in comparison to the storm reflecting on his pupils. Towering on your body and both arms putting down beside your head resembling a cage, for the first time ever did you ever had an accurate visualization of how facing a devil feels like. 

“Well but you already know, I didn’t, or more like, couldn’t reborn. My soul is forced to wander on living realm for who knows how long. In the mean time, you will move on, you will marry some idiot, have kids, pass away for a second time in front of my own eyes, and I still not get out of this limbo!” - he growled angrily, thumbs caressing your neck, “So maybe, maybe if we can’t reunite in this life, you could join me instead. It’s okay. As long as we are together. As long as you stay by my side. As long as you’re forever mine.”

He tightened his grip on your neck.

Next morning, your family opened the phones to see hundreds of missed calls and texts from the roommates. Everyone woke up, except you.

[chlmtsdoll]

my suggestion could be i dont know if you seen this show called the l word before but there is a character named dana fairbanks and she RADIATES tashi duncan energy. so if you could maybe make a dana fairbanks inspired tashi duncan x reader or if you haven’t seen it i was thinking former model reader x tashi is a good one too 🤍

I’ve literally always wanted to watch the L word and I’m gonna have to start it soon bc I GET what you mean omg !!! And former model reader x Tashi hits my niche on the NOSE. This took me forever to publish bc I just had so many ideas I wanted to go with 😭 so I hope this is good !!! 🤍

IS IT A CRIME TO WANNA SHINE ?

✩ Pairing: Tashi Duncan x reader

✩ Word count: 3k

✩ Summary: your a wild and free it-girl, adjacent to a life going on to be an inspiring top model when you suddenly meet Tashi, you then start to crave even more

✩ Warnings: eventual smut !, gxg, age gap (reader early 20's) Tashi mid to late 30’s, failed!marriage Tashi, fingering, slight angst, spanking, cursing, degrading, pet names, needy reader, brief mentions of substances, Tashi went blonde after her divorce (blonde hair Z during the Challengers press tour)

Your life was casting calls, early (or late night) rehearsals & fittings, caffeine runs, flights back and forth around the country, and fashion show after fashion show, after party after after party..

You loved the career you were lucky enough to pursue, you had all the beauty, ideal body, and money. You’d been on top of the world but you were also twenty two and nearing burnout.

Your love life was non existent unless it was last minute hook ups, and you’d go home to a cold bed. Empty hearted and longing for someone to make it all change.

And it did change rather quickly when you met her.

“Um- excuse me, can I get by ?” You covered your eyes as lights and flashes blinded you. Trying your best to maneuver by meddling paparazzi, and your few body guards were barely any help. You were rising to the top but still hadn’t always been able to get the best protection which was essential for a young girl like you — even though to the outsiders it had seemed your life was so glamorous and beyond, even a dazzling starlet like you had struggles. It wasn’t always pretty.

You had finally been able to scurry to your limo and you were taken off fast to your next destination, an after party hidden for only the most relevant socialites and models in the industry. You’d known a few athletes and actors would have been there too since the club was well known yet anyone hardly got an invite.

Even you were declared lucky enough to be attending as you were still merely just an it-girl trying to find her place on the scale. When security tried to stop and ask you for verification because you looked far underaged, you rolled your eyes and dug through your thousand dollar Versace bag you did not pay for, to pull out your id.

Just a walk around, say hi to a couple known faces, and go home. We have an early rehearsal tomorrow.

You had a drill. The dozens of times you’d gone to these parties, you learned it was all a tactic,. simply being just work and networking for you — you were on a schedule. As much of a sex symbol your agents tried to present you as, deep down you’d still been this shy and reserved girl from your home tow, only difference is you just knew you had bigger places to be.

Lights low and music blaring throughout the place filled with bodies and people way too into their own self obsession to notice you after a while, all you wanted to do was have a smoke, maybe a drink. You’d known as big as the space was there had to be somewhere you could get away.

You headed upstairs to another area that was a bar as well, but much more relaxed. No club lights flashing and heels clashing against the marble floors by influencers hanging off their nearing the grave “boyfriends”.

But there had been one person sitting at the bar, and there had definitely been some interesting heels.

You’d seen the back of her excellent lean body. Almost in a way that was unreal. Legs had been slender and long, you had to double check if you’d been hallucinating at the sight of her.

She’d been wearing a full sparkling silver dress that had a pleated skirt with a few navy blue stripes lining it. It was preppy but in a glamorous and classy way.

Her skin tan and soft short blonde curls sat on her shoulders, it gave you a Marylin Monroe feel. And her heels — you’d never seen anything like them. They were Louboutins with tennis balls on the six inch heel ?

You took a breath as you examined her figure, stepping in the quieter room, you’d gone straight to the bartender as they asked your drink preference.

“Um, a gin and tonic please ?” you thanked the bartender before turning to peer at the woman a few feet from you, her hair draped over most of her face and all you could really see was her perfectly sculpted nose.

“Are those… tennis balls on your heels ?” You questioned softly, and the blonde had looked up at you, striking brown eyes searched your face under her lashes coated beautifully with mascara.

You had swallowed over a new lump in your throat at her gorgeous features. Never had you seen a woman so beautiful.

She’d look so familiar as well, you couldn’t tell if it was nolstagia, but you could of sworn you had posters of her on your walls when you were young- oh my god.

It’s Tashi Duncan.

The blonde highlights had thrown you a curb since you always remembered her with brown hair, but you remembered she had been much older since the days when she was every tennis girls idol in your eleventh year. Plus, you’d heard she’d gotten a divorce with her star tennis player husband, Art Donaldson.

Either way, fuck had the blonde complimented her eloquently. You’d been completely mesmerized by the way it framed her face.

“Oh these ? Yeah, they’re Loewe.” Her tone smooth as she looked down at the silky white shoes with a striking heel, neon green from the balls just tying it all together.

“I-I love them,” later you’d scorn yourself for stuttering like some starstruck fan. “Are you debuting in fashion week this year ? Not to be a bother but, you’re such a huge inspiration for women like me..you’re amazing.”

You shut your eyes quickly. You sounded way too juvenile. But Tashi had showcased a small flattered smile as she examined you face. You expected her to be unbothered and just walk away, after all you were merely just a dumb little model girl, frolicking around New York on a trust fund to her. She was a powerful and sophisticated woman who worked hard for everything she has. With all her shit together and much more life experience than you.

“No, I um.. I’m here for the fashion, but what to add to my company’s new roll out. I’m looking for models to campaign for me as well, but no luck so far. A lot of these girls all the same, and the designers they walk for pussy.” she spoke over her glass of vodka and your eyes glossed over with an immediate burn of yearning taking over your body.

You had forgotten that after Tashi stopped playing tennis from her infamous injury, but she hadn’t stopped there. She became one of the biggest business women in the industry, with her name tied to multiple brands. She was richer than your worth to be standing next her right now — but you were a strong believer in destiny. And being told she was looking for models to run for her brand,

She might as well say she’d been looking for you.

“Oh, that’s.. awesome. I’m walking in Milan for Vera Wang in a fortnight. But yeah, they make this all seem so serious but a lot of it is bullshit.” You thought if you threw in some pretty words she’d take you seriously. Coming from being in this industry since you were sixteen years old, you knew your way around selling yourself quick and sharply. In desperate hope she’d maybe let it run through her own to let you model for such a woman like herself. That you weren’t just one of those model girls.

“Lovely.” Tashi’s eyes graced over your tall slender body, you’d been so happy you went with a shorter Chanel dress and not the leather Prada pants you we’re pondering on. “You play tennis ? I know a lot of younger models love to think they’re all tennis players these days.”

You couldn’t help but let out a tiny laugh at her joke, but it had been true, you nodded over your glass of gin.

“Yeah, I play a little here and there with friends. But nothing like your upbringing, my god, I could never.”

“Don’t underestimate yourself.” Her eyes had narrowed but still sparked all the way, and she’d glanced at the way you licked your lips shorty. Your face heating up at the way her finger ran around the rim of her glass.

You couldn’t help but think about them sinking into your mouth.

Tashi took a breath to lean back against her chair, then she had leaned up to asked the bartender for a pen and napkin. When he brought it back to her, she had started scribbling on the paper, her slender fingers manicured with a nude color.

“If you ever want to model for me.” She handed you the napkin with her number and you’d feel like you had to stop breathing for a moment. Not even most high class brand deals had ever gotten you all flustered like this, but when it came to hot older women, you’d been like putty. You couldn’t deny it.

“Oh my god.. okay, okay I’d love to. I’ll contact you.” You had given her a girlish smile which you rarely ever did, it was all about resting bitch face, and to Tashi’s defense she had quite liked the lightness too you. The hope I’m your eyes that far too many girls your age had given up on already. She knew you had a spark.

In that moment, you had been already getting prepared for the dreams you’d have that night about being Tashi’s favorite and best model. When you said you wanted to be on top, you meant here.

And that was three years ago.

And not only had you become her best model, top seller in everything you wore, shown off on your angelic like body, making all your friends from your intern Jobs at Vogue envious with hate — that you’d eventually bump up even higher to becoming her girlfriend, but then that extended when you became the Tashi Duncan’s ex supermodel wife.

Now at the ripe age of twenty four, you’d no longer needed to run around to casting calls and auditions, nor even model unless either you desired too or you’d been offered to walk in fashion week.

You’d been promised a life of luxury. With Tashi by your side, letting you be her pride and joy that took her even farther to the next level. Your days had consisted of being a stay at home wife, going on yachts, accompanying her to photoshoots and work dinners, and you would even play tennis often in your free time with you and Tashi’s shared wealthy friends.

You had the life you’d always wanted in the palm of your hand, never did you honestly have to lift a finger. And definitely no thinking on your feet or wondering when the next spontaneous adventure would be really.

And as enticing as it all was, it could at times get a little mundane even for you.

“Make sure she arrives to her lessons on the dot. And I don’t want tv time running to late when practice is over.” you over heard Tashi on the phone with her mom whom was watching over her daughter Lily while the two of you took a quick work trip (flying to Europe.)

You’d been on Tashi’s private jet just about to take off in due time, and you watched as your wife sipped on a cup of Matcha by one of the window seats. Her light colored locks pulled up into a French roll, and some of her bangs hung over her lashes.

She wore a suit dress, white with fabric silky of the softest kind. The way she wore the blazer had her glowing tan skin on display. A true sight for sore eyes.

She was beautiful in every way, and not even your own overachiever mindset could still grasps the fact that she had been your wife overall.

“Okay. Love you too, bye.” Tashi hung up the phone and dropped it onto the table in front of her in a unbothered manner as she went right back to her laptop to check emails.

You, observant and always in witness of the life you two had altered together, watched her. Pondering by the cafe station that was stocked with dozens of different flavors from teas to lattes and all kinds of milks and creamers to choose from.

You’d always gone with almond.

“We have to stop in Florence. There’s a dress fitting you have to attend with Ralph Lauren for this seasons collab.” Tashi spoke to you in orderly to you as she hadn’t even looked up from her laptop screen to meet your eyes. She took a sip from her cup and went right back to typing, you had scoffed and shook your head a bit as you pushed away the container of sugar in your hands,

Leaning against the counter, you remembered when you’d been in your honeymoon phase with the woman you loved most. Happily traveling across the country with her full attention on you. You missed that rush.

You missed her.

“Oh..” you trailed on, voice reluctant as you looked down at your cup, dark black tea. You didn’t even need to look because now you’d known Tashi’s eyes had found your figure from just a few Louis Vuitton sit cases away.

“Yeah ? What’s up ?” Her voice was light although you knew she had picked up on your distance. Now giving you full attention of whatever you had been disproving of from just the sound of your voice.

Her eyes narrowed for a moment at your puzzled expression, finger tips hover the rim of her mug.

“I just thought we’d get Dior this season.” Is all you said. Standing up straighter and looking at the woman who nodded.

“Well, they haven’t decided on if we can or can’t do a campaign this year, it’s been a couple of years we’ve been trying. You know that.” Tashi answered as she let her mug down and you’d known the slight annoyance in her voice all too well. You bit your lip a little in thought.

“I just thought this would be the year. I want Dior, I want to work with them this season.”

Tashi looked at you with a blank expression, trying not to play this game she’d known you’d been treading on for a while now, and you tried not to break a grin at her switch in demeanor to your obvious attempt to make her get unpleasant with you.

“Are you being ungrateful ?”

“No.”

“You’re acting like it.”

“I want a say in what I wear, who I walk for.” You had addressed her more sternly and it was a small moment that had passed before Tashi got up from where she was sitting, to trot over to you calmly.

But that wasn’t so when her hand came up to you sharp, bringing slight pain when she grabbed your chin in her grasp so you could look her eye to eye.

“You don’t wanna do it. Don’t do it. But you can leave.”

Your eyes went to her unsympathetic expression quick, and you tried not to whine at her hold on you.

“You can always leave because I don’t think it runs through that pretty little head of yours that I didn’t get divorced and remarried just to repeat the same shit I did with him. You think this is some fucking charity ?”

You fell back on forming a response when the glint in Tashis eyes as she narrowed at you had, scared you much more than you intended — yet at the same time you couldn’t look away as she got in your face.

“I give you everything. Life, a career, a voice. Let you choose your own hours and let you become of whatever you want while you whine and complain in jewelry that cost more than most people’s rent. And you want what ?” Tashi furrowed her eyebrow as she had grow repugnant of you, which you couldn’t help but love.

“Don’t forget I was your boss first. And I always will be.” Her tone has gone darker as she peers at you, your eyes wide with craving and you’d be lying if you said your core hadn’t become soaking wet when her sent of oak and raspberries was almost suffocating you now.

You’d shown her a soft grin on your lips, signaling you couldn’t have wanted her more right then, she wet her lips intermittently. Tashi turned you around with force and pushed your lower back onto the counter that was embarking you,

“Is this what you want ?” The woman croaked hungrily over your ear as she pushed on your slender body to bend over for her,

“Yes,” you let out a breathe of satisfaction finally.

panting softly as her hands explored your shape and your eyebrows knitted in exhausting bliss when her palm had came down hard on your now exposed ass.

Tashi kissed the space between your neck and shoulders briefly as she whispered,

“You’ve always been an attention whore.”

You couldn’t help but smile as she pulled on your hair to lean up and her fingers graced your heat, wet and pulsing for her. Tashi had hesitated before dipping them into you and you let out a pleading moan, face against the cold marble counter top.

You clawed at something to grab at as her digits pumped you slow than gradually faster, other hand grasping at your waist to seize you because she knew you’d come quick.

And you did with half a cry and half whimper.

You only had a second to catch your breath before Tashi pulled you up straight. She had gently placed your skirt back over your thighs, fixing your presence back to how she found you. Your wife then hovered over your lips,

“Behave.” Was the last thing she said to you without even an apologetic kiss before walking back to her lap top like nothing. You had gone back to your tea and with a pleased simper on your lips indeed.

You were a wild card that would do whatever to be under Tashi’s control, have her notice, and with that she’d known that you’d now be her perfect little model the moment you two would land this evening.

[tikosblogg]

Good to be home.

Summary: Noah has been away on tour, and you miss him like crazy. So you’re more than happy to come home to his beautiful face.

A/n: pretty short. Porn with barely any plot. this is an old imagine from my old Wattpad account. It was about someone else, but I changed the character, and revamped it a little. Hope you enjoy!

Warning: smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, spit kink?, oral (f receiving) let me know if I missed anything.

Finally arriving home, from a long ass day at work I was ready to crawl into my bed and call it day. Days like these are when I miss Noah the most. They’re finishing up the rest of their tour, set to be home in a couple of days. 6 months…that’s how long we’ve been a part from each other. We’ve been together for two years now, this is the first, and longest time we have been without each other. I kicked my shoes off in huff, throwing my purse onto the kitchen counter, making my way to mine and Noah’s room. I stopped dead in my tracks at the sight in front of me…please tell me I’m not hallucinating. “Noah?” I was in complete disbelief. My voice just above a whisper.

He wasn’t supposed to home until next weekend. He never failed to take my breath away with his beauty. He was perched against the head board of the bed, clad in only his sweatpants. His hair was a tousled mess, like he had been wallowing around on it all day..still looking perfect as ever nonetheless. My eyes raked over his tattooed body like I’ve done a thousand times before, but never got tired of seeing. “Hi baby.” His soft deep voice, broke my trance. My eyes shooting to his face wearing the biggest brightest smile. “How- I thought- you?” I couldn’t form a single coherent sentence to save my life.

He laughed that beautiful laugh of his. Tears welling up in my eyes, I finally moved toward him, jumping onto the bed. Straddling his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck, I shoved my face into it sniffling. He wrapped his arms around tightly. I couldn’t help the emotions coming out of me. I missed him so much. “We finished early…I got the first flight back.” I finally pulled back, pulling him into a heated kiss. “I missed you so fucking much Noah.” He pull me back to him, instantly deepening the kiss. “I missed you too angel.” He shoved his face into my neck, biting and sucking, leaving marks all down it.

Both hands groped my ass, grinding his already stiffening dick against my core. “Fuck Noah please…I need you.” I whined. He pushed down onto my back between his legs, before crawling on top of me. “I’ve got you baby.” He gave me one last kiss, before yanking my shirt and bra off attacking both of my nipples. “Oohhh fuck” I groaned, running my fingers through his hair gently tugging at the strands. “You’re so sensitive baby.” I whined nodding in agreement.

It’s been so fucking long, I’ve been dying to feel him again. He kissed his way down my stomach, to the top of my jeans before removing them as well. “You’re so fucking beautiful angel, I missed this fucking pussy.” I gasped as he roughly pulled my thighs apart, diving right in. As soon as his lips wrapped around my swollen clit, I was in shambles. “Oh fuck Noah..yes yes yes..” he flicked his tongue over it a few more times before shoving his tongue into my dripping hole, groaning at the taste of me.

He licked back up sucking my clit into his mouth, then pressing two long fingers into my throbbing pussy, making cry out again. “I missed the way taste..” after a few more licks from his tongue, and a few more pumps of his fingers, I was finishing quick. “Noahhh” he pulled away, grabbing my jaw. Without a second thought I stuck my tongue out, as he spit my release onto it. “You taste so fucking sweet don’t you baby?” He rasped, against my lips.

All I could do was whine, and nod in agreement. To lost in pleaser to form any words. He kicked off his sweats, positioning himself between my legs right up against my dripping entrance. He slowly pushed all the way in, making us both gasp and groan. “I missed the way this pretty pussy squeezes me. You feel so fucking good baby.” He took no time pounding into me. He ran his hand up between my tits, and around the front of my throat. His eyes were wild, and full of lust. “Tell me whose pussy this is.” He demanded, his thrusts quickening.

“Fuck Noah..yours! It’s yours!.” I cried, feeling my orgasm coming for the second time. “That’s right baby..mine. All fucking mine.” He grunted against my ear, never missing a beat. I could feel twitch getting closer to his release. “Noah…fuck..cum inside me please.” He groaned, snaking his hand between us rubbing at my already sensitive clit. I was seeing stars, my orgasm finally tipping over the edge.

“FUCK” I yelled, clamping down on his dick covering him in my release. “Fuck y/n good fucking girl…” after a few more thrusts, he finished releasing every drop inside of me. He collapsed on top of me, kissing my lips slowly and rolling over beside me…”it’s good to be home.” I giggled, as he wrapped his arms around me pulling me into his chest. It is good to be home…

[onlyjaeyun]

i’ve been following ur writing for some time now and i do have to agree with that anon who said you did CH dirty. you are a very talented writer so it’s just hard to watch.

you started off CH so strong with the lore and little chapters here and there but as it progressed you kind of just got lazy and it shows. when important events happened in the story, they weren’t conveyed through writing but through the texts (ie the riki and yn fight, that was definitely worth a written chapter) and it was honestly disappointing.

the ending isn’t much to say about either. yn and hoon barely go through development after the letter incident and all of a sudden they’re dating and married with a kid like two chapters later?

idk, if it was a mental health issue then i get that but even then you should’ve just gave it a break and thought everything out more. you could do so much better.

thank you for the feedback!

i wanna put you through the progess of a piece of writing from the POV of a writer okay? now keep in mind: i work two jobs, am a fulltime uni student and the daughter of an immigrant household with two parents who still work most of the day just so you know what else i have to deal with, besides my mental health okay?

now, i started off CH strong right? yes. i uploaded on the daily, fine i chose that. a chapter usually takes me around one hour if i actually sit down and focus on nothing but the chapter itself, which includes IG stories, editing, formatting etc. alright

on top of the daily chapters, i constantly replied to 40+ asks a day, a blessing in disguise because no matter how much i enjoy talking to you guys, the pressure does get worse the bigger that number of my inbox becomes, i hope this makes sense

now, i started CH back in october, right when my semester started, thats why i started off strong but as time went on, my assignments and private life got too busy and i guess i felt entitled enough as a writer to skip a few certain chaps and make life a little easier for me by making them regular chapters instead of written ones.

and this is gonna be my main point: i'm not a machine. i wrote a minimum of 5 THOUSAND words per written chapter, MINIMUM. we're talking about a 5-9 THOUSANDED worded chapter EACH WEEK. which usually took me about 6-7 hours, even allnighters.

yes, i chose to do that and maybe my time management wasn't the best but i had to create a compromise where i wouldnt have let you guys wait for over two months which would have resulted in me losing my motivation completely, and yet still focusing on EXAMS. because you know, i'm a fulltime uni student with TWO jobs 😮‍💨

if YOU think i did CH dirty go write an alternative ending yourself but it should be a minimum of 15 chapters including 5 written ones, with at LEAST 9k words each yeah? i wanna see you manage it all, pls prove me wrong snd show me you're better than me i'm genuinely begging bc it might inspire me to do "better" next time.

as a writer/artist/creator, and i can tell you probably arent one yourself or havent been one for long, the longer smth takes to come to an end the worse the pressure becomes which results in a blockage i dont wish upon my worst enemy i'm being deadass. i dealt with some of the worst writer's block ive had since i started writing literally 12 years ago and you're telling me i should have just "taken a break" and do "better"

i never, ever expected anything from anyone but some of you are so entitled to a writer's time and skill it's giving me a headache. maybe you didn't like the timing and writing of the last few chapters of CH and i guess that's unfortunate but this was so unnecessary because you completely dismissed everything else that could have been going on in my life and even belittled my mental health issues like im some fucking AI writing machine

do better, be nicer, write it yourself if you don't like it i'm so fucking over this

if i had gotten out of my own comfort and wellbeing and have actually written another set of written chapters i would have burned myself completely out. ive been in this fandom for not even a year and have already finished FOUR smaus with 50 chapters each, you do NOT get to tell me what i should or could have done better because you dont even give a fuck about me as a person this is just about receiving what YOU think YOURE entitled to but this is MY art and I will do what I see fit even if it's not what was expected of it because i'm a fucking human being with a life before i'm a writer on tumblr

oh, also: i do this for free ㅤ:) just a reminder :) this is my HOBBY :)

and don't you EVER call me lazy again when it comes to writing because i'm not gonna pour my heart and soul into a fic just for you to call me lazy when i literally wrote 50 THOUSAND words for this fucking fic just for the written chapters

goodbye

[callsign-phoenix]

I wrote this for @footprintsinthesxnd I hope you like it!

It is a Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresinx wife!reader imagine.

Thank you @footprintsinthesxnd for proofreading!

Warnings: pregnancy, the tiniest bit of nervousness, Hangster bromance

“There’s two lines, there’s two lines, I’m telling you!” You exclaimed rather frantically as you stood next to your husband in the en-suite bathroom of your bedroom.

Jake had been pacing back and forth for minutes while you had stood still and waited, in pure anticipation and nervousness.

You had tried for a few months to get pregnant and until now it hadn’t happened, this time you were pretty certain of it though.

“I’m gonna be a dad?” Jake’s voice was barely audible with both fear and breathlessness at the delicate and all encompassing feeling of love he felt.

You were stood facing each other with both of you holding the test between you and staring at it far longer than necessary.

“I’m gonna be a dad!” He repeated loudly, and you watched him jump up and down once before he moved down to pull you into a bone crushing hug.

You let out a giggle as you wrapped your arms around Jake’s waist, and felt him press what felt like a thousand kisses to your temple and forehead.

“We’re going to be parents!” He repeated on and on, and Jake’s happiness only emphasized your own.

“I’m going to have a baby with my wife I love more than life itself,” he whispered, pressing his lips to yours.

“I’m going to have a baby,” Jake said, panicked, as he sat in a bar with his friends and coworkers gathered around him.

He had left you to tell his friends about your pregnancy, and he had started to get nervous immediately after leaving your presence.

When he reached the Hard Deck he was a nervous wreck, and Bradley had to buy him a beer before he even managed to get out a word.

“I’m going to have a baby with the woman I love,” he whispered and Bradley chuckled, seeing how happy but incredibly nervous Jake was.

He had never been like this at work, which was weird, given that work to them was a life threatening occurrence.

In comparison to that having a baby wasn’t that scary, but it was the baby’s life on the line, not his own.

“You know, the baby and her will be fine,” Bradley said as he slid Jake’s beer closer to him on the table, turning a little in his seat on the bench they were sharing.

“You’ll be a great dad,” he added.

“I don’t know the first thing about being a dad,” Jake whispered, his eyes finding Bradley’s and trying desperately to find comfort in them.

“I don’t know what to do if it’s a girl or a boy, I’m not a girl dad?”

“You’re not a boy dad either yet,” Bradley chuckled and shook his head.

“You’ll do great, Hangman, there’s no reason to worry,” he added, but Jake only glanced at him worriedly.

“I don’t know if I’m going to be a good dad,” he replied, and Bradley took a second to think.

“Do you want to be a dad?” He asked, and Jake nodded immediately.

“Then you’ll be a good one,” he added with a grin, and it seemed like the message got through to his friend.

Nevertheless a hint of reluctance was still present on his face.

“Listen here, Seresin, you’re an amazing husband,” he started, ignoring the fact that they had never really talked so honestly about such an emotional topic.

“You care for your wife and you provide for her, you’ll do so for your child as well. You love her and you’ll definitely love your kid, so I’m certain that you’ll be a great dad. Not that you need to hear that with the ego you have,” Bradley joked, and Jake only rolled his eyes in response.

After a few beers both of them were visibly relaxed, while they joked around without a care in the world.

“I’ve never seen anyone this scared in my life, soon to be dad,” Bradley laughed, which only resulted in another rolling of eyes from Jake.

“Fuck off, soon to be uncle,” he retorted, which had Bradley’s eyes widen in shocked surprise.

It was Jake’s turn to laugh as he watched his friend realize what he had meant.

“I’ve never seen anyone this surprised in my life,” he continued, reaching over to clap Bradley on the back.

“You didn’t think I’d do this alone, did you? If I’m going down I’ll take my wingman and best man with me,” he grinned.

tagging: @wildbornsiren @mayhem24-7forever @green-socks @rhettabbotts @letsfvckingdance @shadeds-library @a-reader-and-a-writer @yespolkadotkitty @whateverbagman @neptunes-curse @sweetheartlizzie07 @top-gun-rooster @iloveprettyboysblog @ateliefloresdaprimavera @imjess-themess @littlebadariell @angstyjellybean @marchingicenotes7 @midget713 @supernaturaldawning @gspenc @adorephina @gigisimsonmars @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @bespinnn @softromantist @malindacath @oliviah-25 @kwanimations @18crazybutcutealsopsycho @marvelandotherfandomimagines @natasharomanoffisbaebby @luckyladycreator2 @blue-aconite @tipsykeen @airedale17 @iangiemae @dempy @princessofglitterland @teti-menchon0604 @butaneandthebeast @katesmadness @call-sign-hurricane @kajjaka @kkrenae @mavericksicybabe @kendra-rose @desert-fern

(please tell me if you want to be added to the taglist, or use this link)

[riversandwinds]

kiss it better?

a/n: hi hi hi! this is my very first fic, I’ve never written anything before so we’ll see how this goes. please be nice, tell me if you hate it xx ! also I got fed up with autocorrect changing y/n to yen so I just gave her a name 😭

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

summary: Being an art student, Amara’s life gets so stressful around finals week. When everything starts to go downhill, Chris is there to fight with her, and maybe even kiss it better afterwards.

warnings: swearing, angst (happy ending), kissing, not really anything else except for female rage lmfao, no use of y/n

word count: 1.7k-ish

Not proofread 🤓

lots of love ~ Rivvie

What better way to start your day off than with a whole lot of chaos. Amara was jolted awake by the alarm clock’s incessant beeping slicing through her and Chris’s quiet room. Sitting up, her face paled as she saw the time, seeing that she slept through her morning lecture. Panic surged through her, immediately throwing the covers off and shooting up out of bed (much to Chris’s very audible disappointment). She grabbed random pieces of her closet off the floor in a frantic rush, barely managing to get out the door fully clothed with a “Byeloveyousomuchpleasecleanthehouse!”. (She forgot her glasses, then her phone, then her bag, making her run back to their room 3 more times.)

Shouting her final goodbye to Chris, she could feel her phone all but explode in her pocket. She was too disoriented to focus on the messages, so she ignored it, figuring it was just a random group chat. She sprinted through the commons, finally checking her phone after deciding she didn’t care enough to make it to the lecture hall.

lindsey manager (🫥)

sarah no-showed. need you to fill in today asap.

???

amara hello

Of-fucking-course, Amara thought to herself. With a huff, she turned on her heel, making her way to the campus coffee shop. I don’t even have my work clothes, God hates me.

At work, the hours dragged by as she endured her manager’s endless complaints. “You’re late, Amara, hurry up.”, “Where the hell is your uniform?”, “No, you’re not doing it right-“

The poor girl was on edge, to say the least. Her late start didn’t help, either, as she didn’t have any time to grab food from their dorm. She was barely able to handle her hunger as she worked through her shift, her empty stomach cramping by the time her shift was done. She clocked out, silently cursing Lindsey, the shop, and every customer who walked in during her shift.

As exhausted as she was, she called her professor as she was walking out, booking the ceramics room for a few hours. Finals were quickly approaching, and her clay tea set was only partially finished. She headed to the studio, hoping to make at least a little progress on her project and make up for lost time.

Her day only continued to spiral. She’d been in the studio for all but 20 minutes before she wanted to destroy the Earth entirely. As she was leaving the kiln room, tray full of breakables in hand, the door next to her flung open, slamming into her. Not only did it: A) Slam her glasses into the bridge if her nose, cutting her face, but it B) sent her entire tea set to the ground, shattering into thousands of tiny clay shards. Amara’s world collapsed in that moment. Tears streamed down her face as she stared at the wreckage, unable to muster the strength to pick up the fragments. With a choked sob, she grabbed her bag and fled the studio, feeling the weight of her disastrous day press down on her.

Stumbling into her apartment, she hoped for just a semblance of order. But the sight of the messy living room—pizza boxes, crumpled papers, clothes everywhere—made her heart sink even lower. She dropped her bag and collapsed to her knees, her body shaking with a mix of exhaustion and frustration.

“A-are you kidding me?” Amara’s voice cracked as she shouted, her frustration pouring out uncontrollably. “I’ve had the worst day- oh god… I missed my lecture, got screamed at at work, my project is destroyed, and now this mess? I can’t do this-”

Chris, complete with an Xbox controller and a headset, emerged from their room with wide eyes. He froze, his mouth slightly open in surprise as he took in his girlfriend’s state. “Baby, woah, what’s going on?” He set the controller aside and stood next to Amara, honestly a little confused. “Why the meltdown?”

Wrong choice of words, clearly, as her red, tear-filled eyes snapped to his, going wide.

“Why the meltdown?” Amara exploded, her voice rising in volume as she began to frantically clean up the mess. “Because today has been a fucking wreck! I asked you to pick up a little, just a little, Chris! A-and you couldn’t even manage that! I come home to- to this after the worst day of my life, and you’re just sitting here playing games!”

Chris blinked, taken aback by her outburst. “Mar, calm down. It’s not that big of a deal. I was going to clean up, but I got sidetracked. It’s not like—” he bends down to pull Amara off the floor, but retracts when she spits out her response.

“It’s not like what?” she snapped, angry tears streaming down her face. “It’s not like it matters to you? You think I can just handle everything on my own while you sit at home and do nothing? I’m at my breaking point, and all I wanted was the trash off the floor!”

Chris’s eyes widened, his initial nonchalance giving way to frustration. “Hey, I didn’t make your day go bad. I get that you’re upset, but yelling at me isn’t going to fix anything. I’m just trying to understand here!”

Amara’s anger reached its peak. She stood up, maniacally grabbing all of the dirty cups and pieces of trash, stomping to the kitchen to deal with it. “You think I’m yelling just for fun? You have no idea what my day was like! I’ve been on the edge all day, and instead of coming home to something decent, our house is a disaster and you don’t even seem to care!” Throwing her now empty hands up, she lets out a choked cry, pushing past Chris to enter their bedroom.

After seeing Amara sobbing and slamming the door to their room, Chris’s demeanor shifted dramatically. He stood in the living room, the weight of her words sinking in. With a deep sigh, he started cleaning up the mess with a quiet guilt, his movements deliberate and focused. He managed to tidy up the living room, stopping to order Amara’s favorite takeout. He grabbed the blankets from the closet, setting up the couch and scrolling Amazon Prime for a movie to rent. (He eventually settled on Barbie Princess Charm School, figuring it would appease Amara.)

Around 30 minutes later, when Amara emerged from the room, she was met with a surprisingly clean space and the comforting aroma of her favorite food. Chris looked up from arranging the food on the coffee table, his face softening as he saw her. “Look, sweetheart, I’m really sorry. I didn’t realize the house was this bad,” he said, his tone earnest. “I thought I could fix it.”

Amara’s anger dissipated as she took in the scene. “Chris, I—” she started, her voice wobbling with her bottom lip. “I didn’t mean to lash out like that. I was just... overwhelmed.”

Chris walked over and pulled her into his chest, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “I get it now. I’m sorry you had such an awful day, Ma.” She shrugged, pressing a kiss to his chest.

Spontaneously-DoorDashed desert arrived around ten minutes later, to which Amara all but inhaled while she focused on the movie in front of her. After almost dosing off for the third time, Chris paused the movie, brushing hair out of Amara’s exhausted face.

“Time for bed, baby. Let’s get you cleaned up, huh?” Chris said, pulling a whiny Amara up from the couch, leading her to their room.

He first took care of the little cut on her nose, placing a small kiss over it when he was done. After she was undressed and her hair was brushed, he helped her into the shower, his touch gentle as he guided her through the calming process. While she was in the shower, Chris busied himself tidying up the rest of the apartment, clearing up their dinner and putting up the clean dishes in the kitchen.

When Amara emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, refreshed and feeling a bit more centered, she found Chris remaking their bed, having switched out their sheets for clean ones. The room was now a haven of comfort, with soft lighting and the faint sound of the unpaused Barbie movie playing in the background. The big lights were off, the room illuminated by the soft string lights on the wall.

“God, Chris,” Amara said, her voice filled with appreciation. “This looks amazing. Thank you for cleaning, baby. I’m sorry I yelled at you over it���” she pouted slightly.

Chris smiled softly. “I know I messed up, and I’m sorry for being kinda useless. I figured this might help some more.”

He reached out and grabbed her in a bear hug, resting his chin on her head. “It’s okay, sweetheart. We all have rough days, and I should have been more understanding. I’m just glad we can talk things out and make them better.” He pulled back to kiss between her eyebrows, the tip of her nose, and a soft peck on her lips, smoothing her hair down with his hands.

He helped her get dressed, slipping a sleep shirt over her head and sliding her underwear and shorts up her legs, kissing her knee with a grin. Amara appreciated his efforts, feeling the weight of her stress lift with each passing moment.

After a few minutes, and a few yawns from both parties, Chris turned off the string lights and the tv, declaring it was bedtime. They climbed into their newly-made bed, snuggling up under the comforter. Chris wrapped his arms around Amara, pulling her close as she rested her head on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his embrace and the comfort of being understood.

“I really do love you, you know,” Amara said softly, her sincere voice filling the dark room. “Thank you for kissing it better, Chris.”

Chris kissed her forehead gently. “Always, and I love you too, pretty girl. I’ll do better next time, pinky promise.”

As the sleepy mumbling played on, they remained in each other’s arms, the earlier turmoil of the day replaced by a sense of peace and safety.

Finally settling into a comfortable silence, Amara felt her eyelids get heavy. She yawned, pressing into Chris who kissed her forehead with a hum. She relaxed into Chris’s embrace, feeling like a precious stone in the hands of a jeweler. They drifted off, Chris’s immediate snoring lulling Amara to sleep with a lovesick grin on her lips.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

tags: @her-favorite (u the only one bb 🌝)

[secretwhumplair]

Solstice, p.2

1,351 words | No Warrior (sequel to Solstice, p.1)

Content | Mention of past noncon, aftermath of trauma

Notes | Runar and Yves have a talk.

Not sure whether this isn't moving a liiittle too quick but I leave it for now.

Taglist | @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @castielamigos-whump-side-blog​​ @whump-me-all-night-long​​​​ @whumpadump1939​​ @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight

@whumpzone​​ @angel-stars @kixngiggles​ @whumpsy-daisies​​ @briars7

@yet-another-heathen​​ @rosesareviolentlyread @cupcakes-and-pain @hollowtreesinhollowwoods​​​​ @much-ado-about-whumping

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Yves didn’t bother lighting a fire when he arrived at the healer’s hut. He crawled into bed to curl up and try to calm his racing thoughts.

When he heard steps outside, he briefly remembered why he had been worried about staying here alone during the festival, but he was too upset to even be frightened. Let Brandr come if that’s what he wanted. Turned out he was right to be jealous.

But the man who quietly opened the door and asked, »Yves?« into the dark was Runar. Of course.

Yves didn’t reply.

»Yves, sweetheart, will you talk to me?« Yves heard him crouch down at the hearth, and moments later, firelight flooded through the cabin.

He sat up. Yes, he wanted to talk. He wanted answers. »Why do you call me that?«

»What? Sweetheart?« Runar got up, turned around and smiled at him, smiled at him. But when he saw Yves’ face, the smile dropped. »I can stop if it makes you uncomfortable.«

»I didn’t know what it meant.« The words bubbled from his lips, carried up from the seething fury. He couldn’t stop himself. »Do you want me?«

Runar’s face went through several shades of concern. He opened his mouth once, then closed it again, before he choked out, »I-«

»Is that. Is that what you saved me for?« Tears pushed at Yves’ eyes, and he didn’t manage to swallow them down.

»It’s not—no, Yves, it’s not like that. It’s never been like that.« Runar moved to sit beside him, leaving a careful space between them. »I called you sweetheart because you’re dear to me, that’s all.« He didn’t look at Yves, and Yves knew there was a lie somewhere.

»It was,« Runar finally continued, quieter. »It wasn’t—I didn’t save you for—for some kind of selfish purpose. But…«

But. There it was. The whole truth.

Runar still didn’t look at him. »It changed.« He took a deep breath. »I’ve fallen in love with you.«

»… what?«

»I’ve fallen in love with you.« Runar’s face looked so gentle when he finally looked down on him.

Yet Yves only felt a storm inside him. In love. This was just like You’ve got the heart for being a warrior all over again—except worse.

»Don’t mock me!«

He didn’t know what to do. He rolled over, curling in on himself tightly like he hadn’t in weeks and weeks.

* Runar barely slept.

He couldn’t stop himself from staring at Yves’ little, curled-up form on the other side of the bed as the fire burned down and darkness engulfed them. Tonight should have been a celebration, a new beginning—how did it go this wrong?

Why did Yves have to be like this about a normal fucking endearment?

And why didn’t he, Runar, lie and say there was nothing else, even now? It was crystal clear Yves wasn’t ready.

He wasn’t sure which between the two of them he was more upset with.

When a few hours had passed with nothing more than a few uneasy naps, he got back up, restoked the fireplace, and went to prepare breakfast. It must be close to their usual time. He had expected to stay up longer, to celebrate and be merry until late into the night, and sleep in today.

But it wasn’t to be.

When he started working in the kitchen, Yves appeared by his side; apparently he hadn’t been sleeping either. They avoided each other’s eyes as they prepared the meal, like they had done a thousand times.

It hadn’t been so tense and quiet in weeks. Probably months.

Runar felt an urge to apologize. But what for? He had had no way of knowing using such a sweet little word made Yves uncomfortable, and he had already offered to stop the moment he learned about it. And Yves—he didn’t want to call it an overreaction, not when Yves was struggling with the aftermath of everything he had been through… but yet, apologizing didn’t seem so simple.

Yves surprised him by breaking the silence first.

»I’m sorry I’ve been so harsh, earlier.« He still didn’t look at Runar; but Runar felt a pinch of relief that Yves agreed he had been, somewhat, in the wrong. He had been patient with Yves’ outbursts, of course he had been, but he had no interest in becoming his punching bag.

Maybe he should have been a little more concerned about whether it came from fear or some other twisted feeling, or from genuine remorse, but Yves had been doing well.

But then, more quietly, Yves added, »You can have me. If you want.«

»What?« Runar actually recoiled. »No, it’s—not like that. I don’t want—I’ll never want it like this, do you understand?« Yves’ words from the night before struck him again. Don’t mock me. Not for a moment had he even entertained the notion Runar’s love might be genuine. He thought this was about sex, and though it angered Runar, he had to face the fact that it must frighten Yves much more.

He looked Yves firmly in the eye. He already had told the truth when he should have lied, the least he could do was make himself clear. »I would lie if I said I do not want you, but you feeling comfortable and safe is a thousand times more important. I would never want you to—to just lie down and, and take it. I know you can…« His mind went back to the way Yves had looked at him the night he ran away, when he had been vulnerable and bare and it became more obvious than ever his captors’ cruelty had known no bounds. He cleared his throat. »But you don’t ever have to. I wouldn’t want you to, ever.«

Yves watched him impassively as he gave his little speech, then he turned away without speaking, leaning on the table and looking down on his hands. Runar couldn’t even read his face. It wasn’t the naked fear he had seen there so often; Yves was grappling with something, and Runar could only wait for the result.

Finally, he said, »Why did you say that, then? I know you’re not in love with me.«

»How do you figure that?!« Runar’s anger was overridden by an ache he couldn’t quite pinpoint. For the man before him, yes, who simply could not believe himself to be the object of such affection. But also for himself, more than a little.

Yves was still looking down, his voice filled with the bitterness that had become such a constant companion. »I’m just a tiny, weak, worthless stranger.«

»Yves, no.« The ache in Runar’s chest was enough to make his heart bleed. Was that really how Yves saw himself? How he thought Runar saw him? After all this time? »You’re not a stranger anymore, you have become one of us, because you chose so. And you’re not weak—you’re one of the strongest people I know, how could you have survived everything you have if you weren’t? I saw you pull yourself through, over and over. It’s not fair you had to be so strong, but you are. And Yves, they lied to you.«

Yves hadn’t moved from the spot, but his body was turning towards him. Tears had begun to fall, again. Runar resisted the urge to pull him into his arms, not now, but he couldn’t seem to help drifting closer.

»You’re not worthless. You’re incredibly precious.«

Finally, Yves wrapped his arms around him, and Runar returned the hug with a rush of physical relief as if he’d been holding his breath. Yves trembled, just a little.

»You are tiny,« Runar conceded, quietly, and his heart leapt when the words drew a wet chuckle from the man in his arms, still tinged with bitterness, but perhaps more out of habit than anything.

He hadn’t allowed himself to dream, and he didn’t now. But maybe they could find some sort of comfort in one another. He swallowed down tears of his own, and held Yves for as long as he would allow him.

[tojifile]

Dazai Osamu: The Protector

Pt. 3 “Did you miss me, mistress?”

Genre: Romance & fluff // PM!Dazai x f!reader

⚠️: SEVERE adolescence romance

A/N: SOMEONE MENTIONED ME AS ONE OF THEIR FAV FANFIC WRITERS AND I NEED TO KNOW WHO IT WAS // Sorry for being super inactive. I’ve been trying to write so many stories (they’re all in my drafts and they’re all about Dazai). I wanted to write something about Dazai’s death but I also wanted to continue “The Protector” AKA my favorite series ever. I daydream about the plot everyday (like a normal person). To get to the point, I will be extremely inactive and will only be posting “The Protector” and maybe do a few requests. This has been sitting in my drafts for days and this is your typical teenage romance. For comparison, I started this around August 11, and others that I started July 💀💀 (Lastly, don’t mind me using ADA!Dazai for the pictures, he’s just so cute and I totally didn’t run out of PM!Dazai icons), This is now September me !! DAZAI IS ALIVE WOOOO

Inspo: Dangerously Yours The Highwayman & lines from Masquerade

Links: Masterlist … will be making a new masterlist

“Oh mistress.. you’re burning up..” Dazai spoke in a soft voice as he touched your forehead gently with the back of his palm. His touch was gentle and calculated, as was his voice.

It had been a day since you’ve been rained on and now you were sick. Thankfully, Dazai is well, he didn’t seem to be ill at all. Your father was worried about you but due to some flight restrictions he couldn’t come home as early as he wanted to. As it turned out there was a typhoon and your father couldn’t leave at all.

In the few days you’ve known Dazai he was always kind to you. The aura he gave off left you infatuated. Maybe it was because you’ve been sheltered, maybe because he was young and so were you, or maybe because you’ve seen him in a thousand plays, read him in as many books. When you heard the most beautiful piece of music you thought he’d like that. Once, you saw a beautiful couple strolling and knew that’s how you’d be with him.

Your mind was full of him and you couldn’t understand why. “Mistress..” his voice snapped you out of your thoughts as he whispered gently. You looked at him with a gentle gaze to signal that you were listening, “I’d have to leave you for a few hours today, for an important meeting. A doctor and two men from the mafia, directly under Hirotsu-san will take care of you while I’m gone.”

Dazai spoke in a soft and caring voice. He wanted to make sure that you would be okay. His words made you frown slightly which made him smile. To him, you looked adorable. He chuckled quietly then added, “It’ll only be for a few hours mistress, you’ll barely notice that I’m gone.” You didn’t want to hear it, you were being petty and childish yet he didn’t mind.

“Mistress, please speak to me..” he pleaded in a soft voice as he got closer to you. Your heard was turned away from him, you were acting in a paltry manner, “Please mistress, I have to be at that meeting, I wouldn’t want to go without speaking to you..” he quietly added as you continued to ignore him. He lifted your hand gently and kissed the back of your palm with his rough lips.

He frowned when you only responded with a nod. It seemed like he hadn’t gotten the reaction that he wanted. Dazai then gently placed your hand back to your side and looked at you, as if pondering something intricate. In actuality he was just thinking of you. He only thought of how gently you laid and how soft you looked with your head slightly sinking onto the pillow.

As the doctor and bodyguards arrived and went up to your room Dazai checked the time on the beautifully decorated wall clock on top of the door frame—too bad that the clock showed that it was time for him to leave. Dazai left with a frown, deep down he found your antics amusing but a part of him yearned for your attention and reassurance. Now that he left you were stuck with a room full of people you didn’t know.

His meeting went on for hours. You didn’t know how long you could stay under the careful supervision of these three unfamiliar faces. The doctor checked up on your symptoms and progress while the bodyguards stood silently next to your bed. You missed Dazai.

“Did you miss me mistress?” His words woke you up from the trance you were in, due to your various thoughts of when he’ll be back, finally—he came.

Dazai was holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers wjth a wide smile on his usually, cold face, “I saw you looking at them through the window of the flower shop when we were in town for your birthday, mistress.” He spoke fondly as if he thought of you and your happiness dearly.

The doctor and the bodyguards were then dismissed by Dazai. He carefully put the flowers into a vase and poured just the right amount of water in, making sure they’ll be preserved and beautiful even if they would wilt in a few days. His actions made the butterflies in your stomach rampage. “Thank- Thank you, Dazai-kun,” you spoke softly as you looked over at the flowers, sitting peacefully in the vase.

“You’re welcome mistress,” he replied, “Well then, shouldn’t you answer my question, mistress? Did you miss me?” He repeated. You looked away and nodded gently in response to his question. He made you feel safe and frightened all at the same time. A huge wave of emotions drowned you every time he was near, you didn’t know if you were on top of the world or 6ft under.

He smiled softly at your answer. You’ve only known each other for four days yet it felt like four decades. Maybe it was the fact that you were shut off from the outside world for most of your life. It could also be the fact that you haven’t received such affection from a man.

But it also could be the way he looks at you. The way he listens to you intently. How he always keeps you safe even more so than your past bodyguards did. Although, it could just be the fact that he’s from the mafia. That he just wanted to keep his job. Your heart shattered as you thought deeply about every interaction and how superficial it was.

Dazai soon began to notice that you were deep in thought. He decided to stay by your bedside as he looked at you fondly. As if you were a rare sight, one that could only be seen once in a lifetime. His attraction to you was more than superficial. It could’ve also been the fact that he had never received such innocent affection from his peers nor those in authority.

Being by your side helped him escape the cruel world he truly lived in. Is this what falling in love feels like? Maybe near enough. He kept telling himself to snap out of it, “An executive of the Port Mafia? In love with the daughter of a wealthy and powerful ally? Pathetic.” He told himself. Dazai’s true purpose held him back.

Scheduled post: 09/30/23 18:00PM GMT+8 Philippine Standard Time

[redrose10]

I’m going to be working on chapter 3 of Cold Brewed Love. I was really sick last week and then my toddler got really sick and we’ve just been a mess. But hopefully that should be out sometime soon.

…Last night I had a horrible panic attack. It came out of nowhere and was one of the worst ones I’ve had in a long time. I thought I was getting passed this but I guess not. So to get my mind off of it I wrote this. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while, but just never wrote out. It’s just fluffy and funny and cute. I hope everyone likes it and maybe it’ll help someone else feel better.

I don’t have a title so if anyone has any good ideas let me know!!

*******************************************************

Yoongi x Female Reader

Warnings: Swearing, kind of suggestive, anxiety, depression, jealous Yoongi, little angst, maybe bad judgements against foreigners but not in a hateful way (when writing this I did it from the view of an American who speaks English because that’s me so I apologize to others who read that may not fit that role), also fluffy dorky Yoongi

Word count: 3,702

(I included one of my all time favorite Yoongi photos because why not)

When Yoongi first got his military assignment he was less than thrilled about it to say the least. How do you go from writing hit songs while traveling the world performing for thousands of people and collecting records and awards like no one else to sitting behind a desk entering numbers into a computer for eight hours a day? But he understands the why behind the reasons he has to do this, along with knowing that it is his duty so he is committed to completing his service to the best of his ability. He gets up early in the morning pouring himself a cup of coffee before he puts on his uniform and makes the short drive to the office location.

Whether it was pure luck or a carefully calculated choice by someone in charge he was thankful to be working in a quiet building just outside of Seoul. His department was on the top floor. His desk in a back corner, by himself, somewhat hidden away from view. He could show up, do his job, and leave like nothing happened. He was content with keeping to himself, minding his own business, and not going out of his way to make friends. Of course he was polite and friendly if approached, but he was never the approacher.

And then he met you…

When his senior manager told him that he would be getting a desk partner he nodded and politely accepted the change but internally he was irritated. That irritation only grew when he found out that his new partner was a foreigner who barely spoke Korean. His mind immediately conjured up this idea that you were probably some kpop obsessed fan who moved here on a whim. The only saving grace he thought would be that due to the lack of mutual language you both would probably not be speaking much.

He got to work a few minutes earlier than usual on the day you were arriving to work with him. For some reason he wanted to beat you there feeling like he had to lay claim to his portion of the rather large desk. Your computer was already set up next to him. He sighed as he unpacked his bag and began logging in for the day.

Then you arrived. Your work uniform similar to his. You smiled and introduced yourself and then sat down and got right to work. You didn’t freak out and tell him how big of a fan you were. You didn’t even make small talk. You put in your ear buds and turned on some music and got right to work. You brought in a heavenly smell with you of vanilla and sugar. He’s sure it would be called something like Fluffy Cloud Sweet Sugar Oasis and Grandma’s Cookies or something like that if they sold it at Bath & Body works. And he was ready to buy every bottle.

When work was over for the day you told him to have a good night and packed your stuff and left. Yoongi realized this new seating arrangement wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

The days went by much similar to that first day. You introduced him to your best friend Joon-Sung who worked in a different department on the second floor. The first time he met him Yoongi felt what he told himself was just some indigestion from his lunch because there was no way he was jealous of the handsome man that you so freely talked to and joked with until he heard you mention something about Joon-Sung and his new boyfriend and the indigestion somehow magically went away.

Then Yoongi noticed that he found himself feeling a little more excited each day for you to walk through that door. He also started changing his routine bit by bit. He styled his hair a little more, at least the little bit of hair that was slowly growing back after having to get it shaved. He started wearing cologne again, even buying the one he heard you mention you liked after someone walked by wearing it. His nights were spent brushing up on his English so he could better converse with you and in the mornings he started bringing you cups of hot chocolate or herbal tea after he heard you tell Joon-Sung that you were trying to lower your caffeine intake because your anxiety was getting worse.

Then his world came spiraling out of control at the realization that he might like you…like a lot. The last thing he needs right now is any kind of relationship especially with a foreigner. Like sure you were really pretty and very nice and you both communicated well even with the language barrier and you were taking Korean lessons so you were getting better. You had acclimated to living in Korea just fine. Joon-Sung often joked that you acted more Korean than most Koreans and that you were a Korean Ajumma in a young woman’s body.

Your best friend other than Joon-Sung was your 80 year old neighbor Mr.Park and his cat Mittens which lead Yoongi into remembering a story about how you and Mr. Park spent all day hand making cat toys to take to the animal shelter which made Yoongi’s heart swell with affection before he quickly shook that feeling away.

The more he thought about it the more Yoongi realized how much of your life he had grown to know and how much he looked forward to seeing you and talking to you.

And how much he talked about you outside of work.

“I don’t know man, sounds like you like her.”, Hoseok said while having a couple drinks at Yoongi’s on his day off from the military.

“I do not. She’s just nice. We have to work together. That’s all.”

“Mmmhmm sure, that’s why you haven’t stopped talking about her all night. Jimin mentioned that you even told him about her over the phone. And your ears are doing that thing.”

“What thing?,” Yoongi questioned already knowing the answer.

“You know…that thing where you ears get all red when you’re lying or embarrassed. And by how red they are I’m thinking it’s a little of both.”, Hoseok chuckled before taking a sip of beer.

Yoongi couldn’t like you. He’s only known you for a few months. He doesn’t fall that easily for anyone. He knew his last partner for three years before asking them out. He hasn’t even hung out with you outside of work yet. He had your number, but that was because you asked him for it to send over a work file you were going to complete at home. He’s never texted you outside of a thanks once he’s received it. Sure he’s opened up a blank message and attempted to text you something almost every night. That’s normal though. Right? He’s just awkward and you’re just a friend.

Then he saw you walk in for the day. You were carrying two bags of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies. One bag had Joon-Sungs name on it and the other had Yoongi’s. You made him cookies. He thought his heart was going to explode.

When Joon-Sung walked in to collect his package from you he started complaining about how he was going on a date with some guy who loved basketball so now he was trying to cram full of info to try and impress him. He showed you his phone,

“Who is this?”

“That’s Lebron James.”

“Is he any good?”

“Well he’s the highest scoring player in NBA history, he’s top 10 in steals and assists, and has four championships so yeah you could say he’s pretty good.”

“Okay and what team does he play for?”

You sighed, “He was drafted by the Cleveland Cavaliers in 2003 then he went to the Miami Heat for a while and then back to Cleveland and now he’s with the Lakers.”

Yoongi listened as you rattled off basketball facts like nothing with his eyes wide.

Fuck I think I love her, he thought to himself.

Yoongi tried his best to push any thoughts he was having about you far out of his mind. But you were all he thought about. How good you smelled next to him. How sweet your voice sounded saying his name. How you would feel underneath him with his body pressed against yours…

Realizing he was about to really embarrass himself at work he quickly started thinking about that time he accidentally saw his mom in her underwear instead hoping to change the direction of his thoughts but because his brain seemed to hate him his thoughts wandered back to what you would look like in this black lace number he saw was being released by some high end lingerie brand. Maybe he could buy it for you as a gift. Or would that be weird? Quickly he excused himself needing to get up and get a distraction.

When he returned to his desk Joon-Sung was gone and you were typing away at your computer.

“Hey can I ask you a question?”, you said, “I hope I’m not going to make things weird between us.”

Yoongi froze. Did you notice? Could you read minds? Oh my God Yoongi that’s so stupid, people can’t read minds. He was so in his thoughts he forgot that you had asked him a question until he saw you staring back at him.

“Of course, go ahead.”, he managed to squeak out.

“So Joon—Sung is having a party this weekend. He wanted me to ask you to come. It’s nothing big. He does them every few weeks. He’s just social like that.”

Yoongi’s not sure if he’s relieved that you’re not some mind reader or if he’s hurt that you’re only asking him to come because someone else told you to and not that you actually want him there.

But he agrees to go regardless because he wants to spend time with you.

Yoongi doesn’t like to judge people but he’s a little shocked to find out that Joon-Sung lives in one of the fanciest most elite apartment complexes in Seoul. Something about having family money so he works mostly to give himself something to do. Yoongi admits he’s a little impressed and also a little jealous.

He came prepared with topics to talk about. He researched the bands he always sees you listening to even though most really weren’t his style. He looked into your home city so he could ask you questions. And if all else fails he can rely on basketball as a speaking point. He can’t remember the last time he put this much effort into getting to know someone.

He takes off his shoes and walks into the main living area and immediately starts scanning the room for you. He spots you right away.

He takes a moment to look you over. The dress you’re wearing is much shorter and tighter than your normal work outfit. It accentuates every one of your curves perfectly. He sees what he thinks is a thigh tattoo poking out the bottom. He wants to see more of it. You look so good and he can feel his temperature rising. Fuck Yoongi get it together. You’ve been acting like some deprived horny teenager he thinks while making a mental note to call his doctor. Maybe his hormones are out of whack or something. This isn’t normal for him to feel like this around someone.

He watches as you’re happily talking to some guy. Some guy who’s like ten feet tall and made of pure muscle and looks like he was ripped out of beauty magazine. Maybe that is your type. Maybe he should introduce you to Jungkook. At least then he’d still get to see you after his service is up because you’d clearly not be interested in someone like him.

You’re laughing at something the guy said while placing your hand on his bicep.

Well this is something Yoongi never thought about. He was so consumed in his feelings for you that he never stopped to think about whether or not you liked him too or if you were even available. What if you’re already seeing someone? What if you’re happily married with two kids? He never asked you about your relationships since it felt too personal at the time. He feels like the room is spinning as he is trying to find another route when he hears you calling his name.

You walk over and wrap your arms around him in a hug, “I’m so glad you decided to come.”

He smiles feeling some relief as you lead him to the kitchen to get a drink and something to eat.

You’re both eating a piece of pizza when you ask him a question.

“This is random but do you have a nickname? I mean besides Suga or Agust D of course.”

He shakes his head.

“You look like a Yoongles. Has anyone ever called you that?”

“A few fans have online but that’s it.”, he chuckles.

“Well I think it suits you. Or maybe Yoongily Boongily Bear.”

“Okay” he snorts trying to fake indifference but in that moment he realized that he’d let you call him Captain Dumbass if you wanted to just so he could see your smile and hear your giggle again.

Yoongi had gone to talk to one of your other co workers for a while to give you a break from him since you’d been attached at the hip. He was coming back from the bathroom when he noticed you were nowhere to be found.

Did you leave already? And without even saying goodbye. That hurt a little more than he wanted it to. He didn’t get the chance to ask you about your hometown. Now he’s stuck with all these useless facts about some city he’s never even been to.

Just as he was about to give up and head home someone moved the large curtain hanging against the window and he recognized your figure leaning against the balcony outside. Slowly he made his way there.

“I thought you left.”, he said when you turned to look at him after hearing the door open.

“No it was just getting to people-ish in there, I needed a break.”

Yoongi felt bad for intruding on your space.

“Oh I’m sorry. I’ll go back inside.”

He felt electricity shoot through his body after you grabbed his hand and pulled him over to the railing, “No stay. I like spending time with you.”

He felt his heart skip.

The two of you stood in silence for a few moments while staring down at the vast city below.

“I like to look out at the city when I’m overwhelmed or when my anxiety gets too much.”, you suddenly spoke, “I like watching the lights, seeing all the people move around. Some going to work, some coming home. Couples going on dates. Some people are down there having the best day of their life while others are having the worst. It’s comforting in a weird way.”, you chuckled, “To know you’re not alone out here in the world.”

Yoongi looked you over quietly. He didn’t know you struggled so much with anxiety and feelings like that. He knew you had anxiety which is why he never got you anything with a lot of caffeine, but he thought it would just make your heart race or something. He didn’t know you suffered so harshly from it. You always seemed to calm and put together. He felt a strong urge to just wrap you in a big fluffy blanket and give you a kitten to hold as he cuddled you close while telling you it’ll all be okay.

“It’s funny actually. I never really listened to your music before I met you.”

Yoongi gasped dramatically acting extremely hurt.

You giggled, “I know. I mean I knew of you guys and such but it wasn’t really my thing. But when I found out I was going to be working with you I wanted to know about your music and having something to talk about with you. Honestly I went into it not having high expectations.”

Now Yoongi was genuinely a little hurt but he knew everyone was entitled to their own opinions and feelings and that’s why music was so great.

You continued, “I was taken back by how real your music was. How full of emotion and the raw feelings you conveyed. Your song The Last, man I cried after hearing that. To see someone struggle as much as you did with mental health issues and still come out on top even though you had to fight for it. It gave me hope. Maybe one day I’ll be okay too.”

Yoongi thought about every funny scenario he could. That time Jin shoved an entire donut in his mouth and then accidentally coughed it all over Namjoon’s face or that time his brother slipped on some ice and conveniently landed right in a giant puddle of dirty water like he was in a cartoon. Anything to stop himself from crying in front of you.

“Then I listened to Snooze. And that song has become like my anthem. Any time I feel the walls closing in on me or I think I can’t do it any more I play that one and I can feel the gray clouds being pulled away and the sun shining down.”, you chuckled, “You have got to introduce me to WooSung by the way.”

Yoongi laughed with you but deep down he knew he was NEVER introducing you to WooSung unless it was at your wedding after you’d already exchanged vows and kissed and you were officially Mrs. Min Yoongi. Then MAYBE he might let you meet him…from across the room…over video chat.

“I’m glad my music could help you so much. Any time I hear something like that it gives me the motivation to keep going too.”, he said not really sure how to comfort you in that moment.

“How did you do it?”

He look at you confused.

“How did you heal yourself?”

Yoongi found himself chuckling. Not because he thought it was a funny question or anything but he never thought he’d be answering questions like that.

“I mean I don’t know if I’ll every be fully healed. At first I used alcohol. I’d drink until I wasn’t coherent enough to feel. Then I switched to working myself until I was so exhausted I didn’t have the energy to worry. But now I go to therapy and take medicine when it gets really bad. I use music as an escape without overworking myself. I also surround myself with people who I know are good for me. I think that’s really important.”

You nodded in understanding.

“Thank you Yoongi. For helping not only myself but also yourself and the millions of fans around the world.”

Fuck he wanted to kiss you so bad and and hold you and make sure you never felt another ounce of sadness ever again.

This conversation kind of killed the mood admittedly though. You just opened up to him about something that must’ve been difficult and he can’t just be like oh hey by the way I want to date you and hopefully do unspeakable things to you one day so do you want to go out with me? That would be really insensitive.

Instead he was going to simply invite you to hang out as friends, offer to be your support and see where it goes from there.

“Hey Y/N…”

Just then the door swung open and a very drunk Joon-Sung came stumbling out.

“There you are. I looked everywhere for you guys. I figured you were blowing him in the bathroom already.”

Yoongi choked on his spit and felt his entire body heat up at that statement.

“Did you tell him how you love him and you think he has the prettiest eyes and the nicest smile and the cutest little butt?”

“Go.to.bed.Joon-Sung.”, you hissed.

“Alright alright, but if you two are gonna fuck use the spare bedroom. I paid too much for my couch for there to be naked ass cheeks on it.”, he slurred before stumbling back inside.

You turned back around and continued to stare out at the city below. Yoongi thought you were handling this well. If it was him he would’ve already jumped over the railing from embarrassment.

“I’m sorry.”, you whispered when he came up next to you, “I didn’t want you to find out like that. It’s gonna be weird between us now. Monday morning I’ll ask for them to reassign me to a new department.”

“Y/N”

“Hell I’ll even move out of the city.”

“Y/N”

“I’ve heard Busan is nice.”

“Y/N”

“Just please don’t write a song about me. I don’t think I can recover knowing my most embarrassing moment is being retold on stage as seven guys do some extreme choreography while wearing coordinating outfits.”

Y/N!”

Finally he got your attention. He couldn’t help but smile at how flushed you were.

“Can I kiss you?”

“What?”

He used the new boost in confidence from knowing that you liked him too to take a step closer to you. So close he could feel the warmth of his breath bouncing back off of your skin.

“Y/N…Can…I…Kiss…You?”

You didn’t say anything but nodded which was all he needed to lean in placing his lips on yours. It’s cheesy but he felt like fireworks were going off. His senses were overloaded with you. That familiar sweet vanilla perfume you always wear. The softness of your lips. The taste of the pizza and hard cider you had earlier. It made him feel like he could fly.

“So you think I have a cute butt huh?”, he smirked against your lips.

“Seriously? That’s what you’re going to remember?”

He stepped back putting his hands up in defense, “Hey listen, you don’t even want to know the things I’ve thought about your butt over the last couple months.”

“Yeah well maybe you can show me instead then huh.”, you smiled pulling him in for another kiss.

“I would be happy to”

[sunlightmurdock]

Blow by Blow | 0.9 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

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synopsis: Bradley’s washed up before his career has even really begun. He doesn’t want to fill his father’s shoes and he doesn’t want someone else to either. Stuck in limbo, living the same way he always has, the opportunity to step up wanders through the door of his gym in a mini dress and heels that are a size too big. Boxing au.

warnings: unspecified age gap, violence, probs boxing inaccuracies somewhere along the line, blood and injuries throughout the fic but will be specified in the warnings of the chapter. Smut and other 18+ content, minors dni. Alcohol, sexual content whilst somewhat intoxicated (not drunk but worth mentioning). Fingering, oral (f receiving). Pls pee after sexual activity, this is just fiction, like 5.4k words omg

…

“You have to come out, we’re celebrating!” Jake decides, trademark grin toying on his lips as you duck under his arms and step outside. The evening chill brushes your biceps and instinctively makes you cross your arms over your chest.

“Mm, I can’t,” You answer back, turning to face him and starting to walk backwards to keep up with your friends whilst keeping your eyes on Jake. He lets the door swings shut behind him and carries himself forwards after you. His busted up cheek doesn’t look like much cause for celebration, but the ten thousand dollars that tonight raised for charity certainly is. “I need to go and feed Tank.”

“I can let him out and feed him. Have to drop some papers off at the gym anyway, wouldn’t be a big deal.” Shrugging his jacket closer to his body, Maverick offers from just a few steps behind you. Jake quirks an eyebrow.

“Really, Mav?” Spinning back around so that you’re facing the right way, Bradley glances back and watches the brightness in the way you’re smiling at his uncle. “You would?”

“Of course! — It’s the least I could do for my favourite employee, right?” Maverick grins at you. You throw your head back and laugh at the various gasps and vocal complaints that come from Maverick’s other employees that surround you.

“Bro, why are you saying ‘hey’, you don’t even work with us.” Mickey points out, frowning slightly as he lifts his chin to look up at Rueben. Digging his hands deep into his pockets so that he can flex his aching fists without drawing attention to himself, Rueben shrugs his shoulders.

“I dunno, that was cold, Mav.” Rueben points out playfully.

“She’s the only one who does what I pay her to do, so she’s my favourite. Anyway, I’ve got a dog to go feed. You kids have fun.” Maverick waves them off as he nears the parking lot. Jake catches your shoulders and bumps into your back, squeezing your bare shoulders playfully.

“So you’re in, right, kid?” He checks, leaning over your shoulder to check your face. Protected from the cold finally, you don’t even realize that you’re leaning into his touch until he’s letting go. Something in Rooster’s shoulders tighten, the kind of tension he usually gets seconds before he steps into the ring.

Replacing Jake’s warm hands with your own, you brush your palms up and down your biceps, craning your neck to watch Maverick reach his car safely. Rooster’s bronco is parked right next to it. You shoot a quick look towards him and find him already looking at you, waiting for your answer.

“Okay.” You nod softly, eyes unwavering from the taller man up ahead of you. He looks away first, frowning slightly as Phoenix smacks him for not listening to what she’s saying. “Where are we going?”

A club not far from the downtown strip. Phoenix calls it walking distance but she hikes for fun, and you’re wearing heels that weren’t meant for the San Diego streets. Looping your arm through Mickey’s, you end up walking a little slower than the rest of the group. Rooster periodically checks back. You look happy enough.

He’s sure that it’s not going to be your scene and that you’re going to want to leave fairly quickly. But then, you’re under purple neon lights and being talked into celebratory shots with the winners. Jake and Phoenix can pound tequila like it’s water. They make it a competition every time. You’re no match for either of them.

Jake’s a winner this evening and Phoenix remains undefeated in her weight class; Payback’s only ever lost once. There’s a lot to celebrate and it’s your first time playing this game. Rooster watches you like a ball on a roulette wheel, slamming back whatever liquid Jake hands you. He knows that there are two ways for this to end.

Still, four shots in and a vodka lemonade in your hand, you’re still laughing your head off as you make your way through the bodies to the dance floor. He loses you in the mass of dancing people for a moment. When he sets his sights on you again, you’re laughing so hard that you’re clutching your stomach as Mickey and Bob weave around each other.

The music’s loud enough that he can’t really hear himself think, but he swears he can hear your infectious laugh over it.

“It’s alright that she’s not into you, you know.” It’s a packed nightclub on a weekend and yet, Bradley still flinches when Phoenix appears at his side. He rolls his eyes as she rests her hand on his shoulder and nudges a shot glass filled with clear liquid across the bar to him.

“How would you know that she’s not into me? — You didn’t ask her.”

“Roo, she has barely looked at you all night,” Phoenix points out as she runs her fingers through her hair, scalp still sore from the tight bun that she always has Javy scrape it back into. “The bartender, though, she is into you.”

Bradley takes the shot and knocks it back, dismayed to find that it’s vodka. It makes him shiver, shaking his head as he turns his back on the glass. “Think I’m gonna take my chances with your BFF.”

“Is that… jealousy I hear?” Phoenix taunts, leaning into him so that he’ll be able to hear her over the music.

“We’ve barely hung out since you brought her around — you know that you haven’t been to my place in over a month?” Rooster replies. Phoenix points to the shot glass and holds up two fingers. The gym’s closed tomorrow and she is planning on making the most of her time off.

Leaning her head against his thick shoulder, she smiles softly. She has known Bradley since he was thirteen, and the two of them have been on a course of fucked up adventures together ever since. He gets her, she gets him. Instant best friends.

She has seen the worst of him frequently, and the best of him fleetingly. Adoration is a strong word for a man that she considers assaulting multiple times a week, but Bradley really is the brother that she always wanted. Which is why she is so blunt with him, he can take it, and sometimes it’s the only way to get information through that thick skull of his.

Pounding music and sweaty bodies filling the room, Rooster almost feels alone with Natasha at the bar. Just the two of them and their conversation.

“I’m sorry, I’ll make time,” Phoenix promises, squeezing his shoulder. She grins as two more shots are placed in front of her. “Now stop being so moody and get drunk with me.”

Phoenix is a difficult type of drunk, because there is absolutely nothing ‘gradual’ about the way alcohol hits her. She’s fine, and then she’s not. Years of knowing her and Bradley still sometimes misses her tell.

She’s fine when his attention falters. His gaze finding you in the crowd. Bathed in a neon glow, your grin stretched wide as you dance with your friends. Swaying your hips, trailing your hands up along your body and over your head, eyes closed. Jake catches your waist and spins you to face him.

The rational part of Bradley’s brain reminds him that this is just what Jake does. Even Phoenix dances with him, he’s just that kind of guy. But his arms draped around your waist and that slinky black dress has the larger majority of Bradley’s brain plotting otherwise.

Then, Phoenix stumbles and spills forwards, arms flying out for leverage. Rooster steps forwards and catches her, lifting her off of the ground and setting her back on her feet.

“You alright?” He asks.

“I’m — yeah — completely.” She slurs back as she resigns into his arms, letting her head lull back and her eyes blink heavily. Rooster sighs softly, giving her a small shake before she turns into completely dead weight in his arms.

“Don’t you dare fall asleep right now.” Bradley warns her. He lifts his head and looks towards his friends, trying to make eye contact with any of them. Already looking in that direction, you notice him balancing Phoenix in his arms first. Your friends are quick to corral.

Huddling outside, Bradley has Phoenix tucked in against his chest with Bob’s coat draped around her, rubbing his hand up and down her back. Waiting for five different Ubers to turn up, chilled to the bone and suddenly sobered by the way Bradley isn’t looking at you.

Not in a malicious way. Just like there’s nothing on his mind than keeping Phoenix awake and warm until her car is here. She keeps his head on straight, he keeps her out of danger. It’s not always an equal alliance, but it’s one that’s cherished nonetheless.

You’re considering the platonic nature of their relationship, inspecting the way her arms are wrapped around his waist, holding herself close. You brush your hands up and down along your biceps.

“Hey, kid, I forgot to tell you,” Jake rounds on you, talking so quickly that your intoxicated brain struggles to keep up. You blink a few times and he switches from soft fuzz to defined lines and thick muscles. “I found you a fight. I can manage you, if you’re interested.”

Ears perking up at the conversation, Rooster doesn’t turn his head, but he glances across at the way your face lights up.

“Car’s here. Wake up, Nix.” Mickey nudges Natasha with his elbow as he steps to the edge of the curve to signal the driver. Phoenix groans defeatedly against Bradley’s chest. Something about her little competition with Jake not being over.

“Alright, watch her head.” Bradley passes her off into the capable hands of Bob and Mickey, knowing that they’re content enough to crash at her place because of how close it is to the beach. He swings the car door shut and tugs a hand through his stubborn curls.

The option is there to just call himself a car and go back to his place, but it’s a wordless agreement that he’s coming back with you. Safety and all that. The proximity of his apartment to yours. Whatever. Your car is next, slipping wordlessly into the backseat with Rooster sliding in next to you.

You hate when people stare at you for too long. It makes you squirm and shift under their gaze. And yet, you just can’t help doing it to Bradley. Studying him silently for the drive, thinking of what you just saw, of what you heard earlier.

It’s too complex for your tequila fuelled brain at this moment, to understand how the same man who broke through someone’s eye socket and almost blinded them, could stand on a curb with his best friend being so gentle and tender. How does someone go from one to the other.

You never understood that with Jett. With him, the lines were quick to blur and it was easy to lose sight of where the violence ended and the affection began. With Bradley, it’s like those are two different people, much less two different sides of him.

“Give me the keys, Bambi. I don’t have all night.” Rooster insists, walking around the back of the car as you swing the door on your side shut and stumble towards the door.

“Why? — Got somewhere to be?” You tease playfully, your strides long and confident as you head for the stairs. He’s hot on your tail.

“Well, yeah, I’d kind of like to go to bed at some point tonight.” He replies, keeping up with the quick work you make of the stairs.

“I’m literally not even drunk.” You tell him with a small frown. He watches the three times that you try to slot your key into the lock and miss before he decides to intervene. Pressing his chest into your back, he takes your hand and guides it forwards, fitting the key into the lock and twisting.

It complies instantly and you stumble forwards as it opens. Rooster catches your hips and follows after you, steadying you with his weight and swinging the door shut.

Tank barks and leaps up, pressing his paws into your middle, tail wagging excitedly. You drop to your knees and begin greeting him. Rooster stands in your entryway, listening to the excited baby talk from you and happy whines from Tank.

“Rooster, say hi.” You catch hold of his jeans and tug softly. Your chin turns towards him and he’s floored by the way you look smiling up at him like this. You tug again, “Come on, say hi.”

He sighs softly and kneels to the ground. He smooths his fingers over Tank’s fur, both of them seemingly uninterested in each other and each looking at you instead. You kiss the top of Tank’s head and pull back laughing as he tries to lick your face.

Then, you turn, pushing yourself up onto your knees and kissing Rooster’s cheek. Pressing closer to him, you kiss the corner of his mouth. He almost lets you kiss his lips, then leans back. “Bambi, c’mon. Not tonight.”

“Why not tonight?”

Every other night, he’s more than happy to come in and try to get in your pants. You remain on your knees as he pushes himself to his feet. Tank presses into your side, reminding you to pet him more.

“I should get going, now that you’re home, and stuff.”

“Don’t have to.” You reply quietly, looking up at his through your lashes. You press a gentle kiss to Tank’s ear, smiling softly as he leans into your touch.

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not!” You insist. Truthfully, the car ride looking at his pretty face and his shoulders straining against that shirt, and his thighs in those jeans — and knowing what’s in his pants. It was all pretty sobering.

“I’m not going to argue with you, baby. Get some sleep.” Rooster leans down and kisses the top of your head. You catch hold of his wrist and tug yourself to your feet.

“Come on, what do you want me to do? — Say my alphabet backwards? - Walk in a straight line?”

“Actually, I would like to see you try to walk in a straight line right now, yeah.” He rests his hands against the kitchen countertop and calls your bluff. It’s refreshing for him to be in this room when it isn’t spinning. Looking around at the framed pictures, the hanging lights and the cute throw pillows, he likes the way you decorated this place. He likes that it’s not just gathering dust now.

Squinting at him defiantly, you stick your arms out at your sides and turn away from him.

“Don’t try to fool me, kid. I want to see a solid six paces, at least.”

Six paces it is. You count the soft taps of your heels crossing the hardwood floor, arms stretched out at your sides. Rather impressively, you make it to the door and spin on your heel to face him.

Extending one leg forwards, the journey back towards him has a rockier start as you miss the pointed heel and wobble, almost twisting your ankle.

“Alright,” Rooster chuckles as he starts towards you, shaking his head. His hands are on you immediately, holding you in place. “Bedtime, Bambi.”

“I haven’t taken my makeup off yet.” You frown at him, catching hold of his broad shoulders to steady yourself as he crouches in front of you. You look down and watch, eyes widening as he lifts your foot and turns his attention to the strap around your ankle.

Large fingers and a teeny-tiny little buckle. Ridiculous manufacturing. Cute, delicate heels — he likes them, but there’s a split second where he really considers just breaking it. You wouldn’t like that. Phoenix’s voice rings in his head reminding him to be respectful of other people’s belongings. He rolls his eyes and squints.

It only works if he moves tentatively slowly, brows knitted together in concentration as he threads the strap out of the loop and free from the buckle. He frees you from the shoes and straightens up, holding onto your waist as you step down from them.

“That was sweet of you,” You comment, now having to tilt your chin slightly to look up at him. “I’m gonna wash my face and brush my teeth.”

“Alright. I’ll leave once you’re in bed.” Rooster decides as you walk by him. He drops down onto your couch and rubs tiredly at his eyes. The rhythmic thrumming of that bass track in the club still pulses in his ears. He’s getting too old for this shit.

Even with that, you make sure that he hears your sound of discontentment from the bathroom. Taking his hand away from the bridge of his nose and resting it against his denim clad thigh, Rooster sighs, “What? You need me to do something else?”

Tank has stolen his spot on the couch already, so that’s not an option. Tank adores fleecy blankets and you just so happened to leave one out earlier. He’s already on his back with his paws stretched out above him, tangled in lilac and white fleece.

“No.” Rooster’s brows knit together once again at your answer. Well, it isn’t the answer that’s the issue. Your tone is. It’s a grumpy little statement, almost like you’re sulking. Pushing himself up from the couch, he walks over the bathroom door and stares at you.

“So why can’t I go?”

“Mm,” Swaying slightly, on the right side of buzzed as you swipe the cotton round over your cheeks, you look up at him dwarfing the bathroom door frame. “You could stay over.”

The micellar water cools the heat from your cheeks, cold porcelain under your other palm. Rooster watches you silently, waiting for further information. He’s not going to say no to another night on your couch, but he’s got a feeling that’s not where you’re going with this. Rather hedonistically, he wants to hear you say it.

“We could cuddle.” You look back up at him with those big doe eyes, bracing yourself against the powder blue sink. His lips quirk softly.

He stretches his arms over his head and rests his hands on the top of the doorframe, his shirt raising up slightly to reveal the sandy hair on his abdomen. “Is that what you want? — You want me to stay?”

Smiling softly at the thought that just popped into your head, Bradley watches as you giggle to yourself and pick up another bottle of something. Squeezing the pipette, leaving two equal drops on each of your cheeks, you smooth the serum into your skin without looking at him. “Like we’re having a sleepover.”

He doesn’t need more information than that. He lets you get ready for bed while he makes sure Tank pees before locking the place up for the night. Then, he takes his clothes off. Laying on your side, facing the closet, your back is to him on purpose.

The metal bed frame creaks slightly, the mattress dipping the tiniest bit as he slips into bed. It’s soft, and your sheets make a real difference. Every time he has slept in this bed before has been a mess of old springs and that uncomfy headboard. He’s glad that you switched out the mattress.

Your leg brushes up against his first. The bottom of your foot presses into his shin as you pull the covers up to your face. “How do you like to cuddle?”

“Just c’mere.” It’s an invitation, but there’s really no need to respond. He’s already looping his arms around your midsection before you’ve even registered the word. He pulls you back against him, your bodies meeting in the middle of the bed. He’s surprised by how warm you are already.

His body heat is still a welcome addition.

“Is this good?” His open palm rests against your stomach, tucked halfway under your t-shirt, his thumb smoothing over the spot just below your bellybutton. His lips press gently your neck.

“Could you, like… squeeze me a little tighter?”

Rooster tightens his hold on you, pushing his leg forwards and slotting it between your thighs. Wrapped in his thick arms, his face tucked into the curve of your neck, you should be feeling lighter already, settling off into unconsciousness. There’s just too much happening for that.

His heart beating steadily against your back, his thumb tucked into your shirt just the tiniest bit, stroking at your stomach, and his meaty thigh slotted between your legs. His lips are pressed right up against the skin of your neck, not doing anything, just resting there.

Rooster feels you shift a little and gives you the room to find the comfort that you need. Then, he feels your hand searching for his through the darkness. Finding the hand that’s on your stomach, your fingers curl between his.

Taking his hand, you slide it upwards, venturing further under the fabric of your oversized sleep shirt. Rooster peeks one eye open as you guide his palm up and over your breast. Catching the hint, Rooster squeezes his palm softly over the supple skin. Brushing the pad of his thumb over your soft nipple, pinching it between his thumb and index, your thighs squeeze together around his.

He closes his eyes once more, settling down like he’s going to sleep, still gently caressing your breast under his warm hand. It’s nice, feeling him touch you, feeling his weight pressing into your back and into the mattress. It’s just not enough.

His thumb swipes over your nipple again, feeling it harden against his digit this time. He traces the pebbled texture of the sensitive skin without opening his eyes. Figuring that it’ll probably be bothering you too much for you to sleep, he settles for just holding your breast in his hand as he tries to direct himself towards unconsciousness. There’s not a chance.

He’s just going to have to wait for you to fall asleep so that he can turn his mind to something other than how bad he wants you.

Swallowing softly, your fingers curl between his once again. Rooster lets you guide his hand away, thinking that he must have been bothering you, quickly realizing that that was not the case.

He slips his hand out of your hold and grabs your hip, tugging you onto your back swiftly. Your breath catches in your throat at how close he is, leaning over you, eyes searching over your face.

“I feel like I never know what’s going through your head.” He admits gently, the swell of his warm palm resting on your stomach, having brushed your sleep shirt up slightly.

Glancing down, you smooth your fingers over the top of his hand, examining the difference in size between the two of you. Rooster swears he almost feels the breath get knocked out of him when you finally look at him again.

“You want to know?” Your voice is so quiet that he wouldn’t be able to hear you if there was any other sound in the apartment right now. He nods back at you, curling his fingers around your waist. You lift your head just a little, your lips are soft and taste of peppermint when you kiss him.

Turning so that he can cover your body with his, Bradley presses his weight into you. His heavy palm cups your jaw as he takes control of the kiss. The way your mouth moves, the pace, he’s keeping it all in check.

“Are you wet right now?” Bradley murmurs against your lips, thumb stroking over the bone at the curve of your jaw. Your skin flushes as he pulls back and waits for his answer. Jett never asked this. Luke Hodge from second period English lit had never asked this.

“Mhm.”

Bradley’s lips quirk upwards. It’s torn between him smirking at you and a real smile. The languid amusement coats his features, but there’s something in those deep brown eyes that tells you he’s happy with your shy, little response.

“Mhm? — That’s all I get?” Rooster’s palm smooths over your stomach and curls around your hip, squeezing the joint softly in his calloused hand. More warmth. Your gaze flitters up and you consider cracking the window behind your bed.

Swallowing softly, it’s unintentional but you’re giving him that deer in headlights look again. Rooster closes the gap between the two of you and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. When he pulls back, a soft chuckle slips his lips and he rests his forehead against your shoulder.

Immediate recoil. He feels you tense up under him. The embarrassment floods you like a chill and you move to pull back.

“Baby, baby, no,” Wrapping both of his thick arms around your waist and pulling you into him, you couldn’t leave if you tried. Rooster kisses the corner of your mouth softly. “I’m not laughing at you.”

He slots his thigh between yours and guides you onto your back with little resistance, leaning over you. “I just… Don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?” You ask quietly.

“You suck dick like it’s your day job and then, when it’s your turn, you turn into a little church mouse. — What’s with that?” His hand wanders as he speaks, fingers splayed so that he can touch as much of you at once. Trailing your abdomen, your waist, grazing over the soft tissue at the side of your breast without daring to touch is as boldly as you had allowed him to earlier.

It’s never really been your turn. There’s no out loud exchange, but the look on your face tells Bradley what he needs to know. He feels your hips shift, your core grazing his thigh softly as you squirm under his gaze.

“You want me to get you off?” His grip tightens on your hip and he rocks his hips forwards just slightly. Just to let you feel exactly how hard he is at the thought. Glancing down between your body and his, your decision is made whilst the rational side of your brain is still pleading its case.

“Mhm.”

Bradley smirks amusedly. He kisses you softly, hand trailing under your shirt to knead over your breast. Pushing the fabric of your loose fitted t-shirt up and out of his way, his lips attach to your skin. Languid kisses, open-mouthed and tender as his strong palms brace at your hips, keeping you in place for him. His mouth works along your abdomen, nipping softly at the underside of your breath and feeling you careen into him.

“Sit up.” You obey him blindly, sitting up long enough for him to quickly discard your too-big, faded shirt and leave you in a much more vulnerable state. “God, Bambi.”

His hands roam your torso like he can’t possibly touch enough of you at once, walking the line of having a firm touch and a gentle hand. Letting you know his strength and reminding you that you’re at the mercy of it, all while dusting a featherlight touch over the most sensitive parts of your upper body.

As with his hands, his mouth needs to be everywhere at once and it half feels like he has mastered the ability to make that possible. Eyes screwed closed, you deny yourself the sight of him, knowing that it’ll just make your nerves surge, and there’s no way you want to let yourself ruin this.

Four senses remaining. Your hands smooth over the flexing muscles in his shoulders as his tongue trails a circle around your nipple before he commits to taking it into his mouth. Warm, so warm, a flush of adrenaline running through him. The feeling of that under your fingertips.

The peppermint on your tongue, reminding you that you should just be platonically sleeping beside him right now. Your bedtime ritual pales in comparison to this.

The soft groan he makes as his hand paws at your other breast, reverberating in your ears and carrying shockwaves along your synapses. Excitement pooling between your legs at how deep and gravelly he sounds when he moans.

The cologne from before the bar. Inhaling it in the car as you traced the veins on his arm. Intoxicated by it when you had settled between his thighs the other day.

You lift your hips from the mattress and push them down against his thigh. His muscled appendage provides little relief, but you’re still chasing what it gives you. Your underwear presses into your core with each rock, soaked and catching on your excitement.

“All I got was an ‘mhm’,” Bradley muses softly, trailing his nose along the middle of your torso, pressing his lips softly to your navel. His hand slips between your legs without warning and cups your over your underwear. “This fucking soaked, and all I got was a little ‘mhm’.”

Nudging your underwear swiftly to the side, he dips his middle and index finger between your folds and gathers your excitement on the digits. Another deep groan as he looks down at the coating on his fingers.

He palms a hand over the tent in his boxers, kissing your hip bruisingly. “You’re gonna let me taste you, right, baby?”

“Okay.” You breathe out, needing your vision back. Heart pounding as you stare at the ceiling.

“Okay? — Is that all I get?”

“Please.” You whimper softly. Anything to settle the throbbing between your legs, anything to make you feel less restless. Bradley hooks your thigh over his shoulder and presses his mouth hungrily to your thigh. You careen into his kiss as it bruises the sensitive skin, pressing the heel of your foot into his shoulder for leverage.

Grabbing your hips, Bradley manhandles you into place, pressing you into the mattress and keeping you there. He grabs your underwear and tugs it down your legs, pulling back just to get it off your ankles and then settling back into back.

At first, he’s not where you need him at all. Tongue teasing between your folds, pressing tender chaste kisses to your pelvic bone. Ignoring the dripping mess between your legs until he’s satisfied with how your hips buck in desperation for him.

He lifts his gaze, brown eyes on you as he delves his tongue into your soaking core. His fingers press tighter into your hips, keeping you down on the mattress as he licks a stripe from your entrance to your clit, gathering your juices on his tongue. He spreads it upwards and lubricates your clit with a mixture of his spit and your own juices.

“O-Oh, fuck.”

Before this second in time, you were so sure that Jett had made you cum. Orgasms with other people just weren’t as intense because there were so many other things happening. Bradley’s tongue could be tracing some foreign alphabet on the most sensitive part of your body for all you know. All that you do know for certain, is that you can’t let him stop.

Luckily, he has no intention of that. He’s been thinking about this since the day you gave him head and then denied his reciprocation.

Sucking, licking, alternating between pressure and gentle flicks of his tongue, he has your back arching away from the pretty flowers on your sheets. Your fingers slide into his hair without thought, tangling into his curls, keeping his head exactly where you need it the most.

Rooster sinks his middle finger into you first, groaning as he rocks his hips into the mattress in search of relief. Your walls squeeze his finger as he curls it into that spongy part that has you yelping in surprise.

Worked up enough that you can take his index finger with little resistance, Rooster’s brain damn near short circuits at how well you hug the digits. Even with the diminished capacity, his mission never once falters. His deep groans send shocks through your core and each curl his fingers has you rocking your hips against his tongue for more.

“Fuck, stop - Rooster — stop,” You pant out, voice strained, clawing at the sheets for purchase as your other hand tugs at his hair. “Feels… weird.”

“Just cum, it’s alright,” He mouths desperately along your thighs, stopping when you ask him to but not really wanting to pause long enough for your high to ebb away. “Trust me. Just let it happen, relax.”

You try to exhale slowly and do what he says, but then his mouth is on you again and you squeak at the feeling. You tug harshly at his roots and feel him moan, the vibrations and the tickle of his dampened moustache on your clit and his fingers fucking into you, it’s all too much.

The tightness in your stomach winds until it feels like a rubber band about to snap. And then, it does snap. You jolt against him, lips parted, brows furrowed, the sound caught in your throat. His mouth slows, but remains on the same pattern, sending aftershocks through your already trembling system.

“Fuck,” That image is never going to leave his head. He pulls his fingers from you and kisses tenderly across your hip. “How was that?”

Searching for words, any kind of intelligent conversation that you might be able to string together, it’s a lost cause. Panting, a soft sound of whimpered contentment slips your lips. “Mhm.”

He wipes his mouth and lays down against the pillows. “Gonna cuddle you how I like it normally. Alright?”

“Oh - b-but, wait.” You realise, hand trying to find which way is sound in your hazy mind, stumbling across the waistband of his boxers just by chance.

Rooster grabs your hand and pulls you closer, he manhandles you across the mattress so that you’re laying half on his chest. “This is so comfy.”

You hum in agreement, his arms tucked around your naked form, your cheek smushed up against his thick pectoral muscle.

“Should let me do that more often.” He muses quietly. You nod against his chest.

…