#it doesn’t mean I want him dead in the dirt.

[takkton]

YOUTUBE IT AINT THAT SERIOUS I JUST DIDNT PARTICULARLY WANNA WATCH A SIX MINUTE COMP RN??

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru

TW: implied noncon, desperate starved reader, God!Gojo

gn reader

based on this by @hawnks

He's worshipped, but worship alone doesn’t make those who pray by his shrine his belongings.

Even pets run away when they don't like the food.

He could take lives, which suppose some of his fellow gods might view as ownership, but right when he ran out of places to wash the blood off his hands, he’d sooner found it to be an empty pastime bearing no merit.

After all, taking lives doesn't mean they belong to you—it just means they’re dead. 

He'd come to realize that the power to take is a far cry from the prospect of actually owning something—something he can truly call his. He could level a forest and everything in it, crush mountains to deserts, drink the entire ocean dry—but it wouldn’t make any of it his.

It leaves him feeling stingy when yet another measly human comes before him—on your knees with your forehead bowed in the dirt, skinny hands shaking while laid flat out before you, cracked lips crying his name.

With his chin propped in his palm, he yawns while listening to you, and with jaded eyes, he nearly dismisses you altogether. But there’d been a question he’d been mulling over lately—one that had found its way to the tip of his tongue.

“What do I get in return?”

You’re only asking for very little—one of the humbler humans who still bother praying to him. You might see it as greedy of him to ask you for something in return—a poor soul with nothing but your sorry name. But what you don’t understand is that you and he are the exact same.

Dirt poor.

In many ways, he has it a lot worse. You could die. He could not. Infinity would pan on forever and drag him with it as if with a ball and chain—and he’d remain destitute and alone for the entirety of it all.

Which is why…

“You can have me, I guess…”

It sounded so sweet—like a vow.

You say it with such defeat, as though you’ve already accepted his rejection—as though you’re about to offer yourself to the forest next—as though you're worth nothing more than returning to soil again. 

You don’t notice the new light in his eyes that threatens to swallow you whole, nor do you hear the growl in his gut like a beast awoken from a deep slumber—starved to death if he only could. His tongue swells with sweetness, it nearly runs over and spills down his chin.

Your offer hangs still in the air, poised and waiting for him to grab it, brighter than a star. It nearly frightens him—how much he wants it—how desperately he yearns for it. His fingertips buzz with thrill as he reaches out. He’s never held something like it before—soft and warm and flickering with something fleeting and precious. It almost feels wrong for him to hold it in his blood-soaked hands. Eyes all but blacked out as he looks down at it.

“Mine, you say?” 

You feel it, too, but it’s not close to the same sense of elevation—how he reaches into your chest and scribbles his name on your soul. Each letter is heavier than the last and leaves you curling in on yourself in agony, screaming before you fall silent.

Panting once you look up, you clutch your chest, only to see his sneer gone, replaced by something worse—something haunting.

The regret is palpable. You pick yourself up and take to running away—but by then, it’s too late. You don’t make it more than two steps before something has you tugged right back—this time into his embrace.

“I accept your generous sacrifice, little human.”

His words weigh awfully heavy while you shudder in his lap. His skin is like marble—shimmery and cold as his hands wrap around you, holding you tightly as he puts his lips to your neck.

"I'll take precious care of you..."

You feared he’d bite, but the kisses that commence feel no less like a collar being fastened snug around your throat. As well as his promise—like being sentenced to spend eternity right there, hand-fed under that awful smile on his face.

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC prompt ~Dead on main~Someone is walking over my grave

Jason sits on his tombstone and thinks about..something.

He lazily washes off the dirt that has been stuck on his army boots after the rain. It covers the year of his death perfectly. Grinning, he puts out a cigarette by using the mentioned stone. The cigarette butt throws between ugly funeral wreaths.

Danny: Hey, asshole, stop it!

Jason turns around. A very angry twink is rushing at him. The notorious crime lord does not have time to react when a fist hits him. Red Hood falls into a puddle. Shit! His favorite leather jacket!

Jason: What the hell are you doing?

Danny: No. What the hell are you doing?! Just because a man is dead doesn’t mean you must not respect him. You’re in a cemetery. Behave yourself, shithead. Or I’ll teach you manners.

Jason: You’re not from around here. Right?

Danny: So what? I doubt it’s normal to wipe your feet using a tombstone. Even in Gotham.

A malicious gremlin folds his arms on a chest.

Jason sits in a puddle more comfortably and pulls another cigarette out of his pocket. Damn, it’s wet.

Jason: If you were gothamite, I wouldn’t have to explain. It’s my grave, idiot. I do what I want with it.

Jason throws useless source of nicotine at his photo with black ribbon. The person who convicted him takes a couple of seconds to compare the vandal to the buried one.

Danny: Aw, shit, man. My bad, I didn’t mean to interrupt your break.

Jason’s eyebrow rises in surprise. From the outsider he expected more screaming and running. Not…apologies.

Jason: Yeah? Tell that to my favorite leather jacket. Now you can bury it next to me.

Bad Jason, bad. That’s not how normal people talk.

Danny: I’ll make amends. Tomorrow, okay? It’s my first working day. I’ve decided not to take my wallet. Need to find a safe route.

Jason: First day?

Danny: Yes, new cemetery guard here in the flesh. But I have not had time to meet all of inhabitants. Mistook you for a bad boy in a story. Well, it is your fault too! I understand you’re upset about death or maybe about the color of wreaths but please just put all the shit in the trash. I’m Danny, by the way.

Jason: Ha, I was wondering why there was no regular dude at work. Probably my neighbors drove him to a breakdown. He was an asshole, so no regrets.

Danny: Do you think so? Mrs Dent didn’t seem restless to me, she was quite nice.

The guy didn’t seem to catch the joke. Or was crazy. Why are all the hot people in Gotham are? Doesn’t matter. Why not try, right?

Jason: Don’t worry about the money. You can repay me with something else.

Danny: So you regenerates the suit? Cool. What do you want?

Jason: Um, I don’t get it, but… as compensation, I’m wanna have your number and one date.

Danny: Sure, why not.

Danny looks at the headstone.

Danny:Can you go outside the cemetery...Jason? The place is romantic, I agree, but where I grew up, it’s not customary to bring a mate at the place of rest until you meet parents.

Jason: Seriously? Cheesy horror movies didn’t teach you not to mess with zombies?

Danny: Well, I’ve never had a partner who was attracted to my brilliant brain. It must be pretty nice. And I don’t mind a couple of love bites, zombie boy.

Danny’s playfully batting his eyelashes. Jason can’t help laughing.

Danny: The less fair opinion among my friends is that I’m just brain-dead idiot. But I think they just don’t understand the benefits of adrenaline addiction, miserable humans. *pretends to wipe off a tear*

Jason *pretends to sniff*: Aw, hell, you really are a brainless doll, aren’t you?

Danny: Even so, it just means I’m perfectly safe.

Jason: Don’t think so. I want a piece of you.

Danny: Then don’t be afraid that the feeling is mutual. My teeth are also quite sharp. And when I’m haunting, it’s not easy to get rid of me.

The cheeky smile has given way to a serious look.

Danny: If we don’t get along, tell me right away, I’m not good at reading other people’s emotions.

~~~~~

Red Hood may be the son of the greatest detective but blinded by love Jason realizes that his boyfriend is quite dead only after a couple of months. He used to think Danny was a little…weird. Well, who in Gotham isn’t? It wasn't a problem. But during a funny fight about ignoring Danny in favor of a conversation with Tim , Fenton goes through him to grab his phone and then shouts that 'ghosting him is racist'.

Jason was delighted that he was able to hide his surprise. His boyfriend was too sweet, but sometimes insecure. Jay didn’t want Danny to start being cautious. Evidently, Honey thought from the first day that Jason knows. Let him keep it that way. Nothing has changed.

But now Danny’s promises to haunt Joker for the rest of his life if Jason wants it stopped being just super-hot flirt. So Jason need to make sure he doesn’t sic his darling poltergeist or whoever Danny is on someone. Even if it sounds good.

~~~~~Family dinner~~~~~

Dick: How did you two meet?

Jason: That’s a great story. My brave man beat the vandal who was messing with my grave.

Bruce: What? Who dared?

Danny: Jason, stop. It’s embarrassing.

Jason: No~ My family needs to know that chivalry is dead. My hero. Jason can’t resist a kiss on the cheek.

Danny: Taking this opportunity, I want to thank you all. It means a lot that you accepted Jason even not fully alive.

Alfred: Nonsense. Of course we..He’s family, no matter what.

Danny: Until the death separates us. Even at a wedding, love is promised only for a while. In parenthood, they do not take any oath about it. You’d be surprised how little past relationships can mean to people and how easy it is to hate what we are.

Danny: Damn, I ruined the mood, didn’t I? Sorry.

~~~~~

Jason: B, with all due respect, back off. You should ask Constantine how to help Danny if his family becomes a problem. Don’t mark my babe as a problem.

Bruce: I asked. And he laughed at me and said that you are the one who need protection. not him. Your Fenton is dangerous. Ghosts of such power only emerge in cataclysms after a large burst of energy or reach this level after centuries of battles or cannibalism and battles.

Jason: Seriously, old man? My boyfriend’s not gonna eat me. I’m not Red riding hood and he’s clearly not pretending to be my grandmother.

~~~~~~

Danny: Hi, honey. what’s new?

Jason noted with satisfaction that Danny had eaten all the supplies he had prepared for him.

Jason: Nothing, but now I have an idea for great Halloween costumes for us. They are gonna drive the old man crazy.

Danny: Did you fight again? What is it this time?

Jason: Guess what, now B’s worried you want to bite off my dick or something.

Danny: First, eew, disgusting. Don’t talk about our intimate life with fucking Batman. Why would he think that? I like you whole.

Jason: Whore?

Danny: Idiot.They don’t even sound alike.

Jason: Just admit that I am an eye candy and kiss me already. I need a break from the madness of my family.

~~~~~

Later Danny blackmails Constantine for information about the interrogation from Batman.

Then he sends a short message to the group chat : Tell the future father-in-law that while Jason can cook, he is safe from me.

The chat explodes from questions of Batclan to Bruce. Jay has great brothers and sisters. Danny knew their chaotic energy could be relied upon.

~~~~~

In the morning Jason yells at Tim. Why the hell did Replacement put "Friends For Dinner" from The Land Before Time as his alarm melody?

~~~~~

Bruce *is suspicious of the ghosts at the wedding*.

GhostWriter: Do not think that we like it. The boy is involved in his own version of Twilight. Oh Ancients, I hope the Ancients don't know about it.

Clockwork aka one of Ancients: Come on, that’s sweet. And story will have a happy ending. I guarantee.

~~~~~

Jason's in a date simulator with no chance of losing when everyone thinks he’s in a horror game. Is Danny dangerous? Yeah. Did he hunt when they first met? Who knows. The main thing in the middle of the conversation Danny realised he found a creature with a similar sense of humor. So that made Jason 10 out of 10 aka soulmate and he would kill for him.

[s-4pphics]

A/N: me vs writing what i’m supposed to aka moth aka vampire possession aka anyway here’s post santa barbara angst don’t ask questions im not really sure LOL

“You’re back.” 

Determined hands freeze in the dirt, the freshly watered daisies glistening under the beaming sun rays. Your soiled fingers halt all movement at the soft acknowledgment from behind. A sigh leaves your lips. 

“… I am.” 

An exhausted one, and it’s not from your strenuous labor in the garden. Your body refuses to turn, but holes burn in your spine, leaving behind lasered streaks of green. 

“Can you look at me?” Ellie pleads gently. The softest you’ve heard her be in months. 

What she doesn’t know is that you’ve been back. For a week actually, hiding out in other people’s homes throughout Jackson, assisting in places where Ellie’s least likely to go. The garden in particular; Pollen makes her sneeze. 

Time is vital and interesting; Dina left her and Ellie’s farmhouse with her son when you fled Jackson. She sought you out, but you weren’t there. You spent most of your time alone, walking, running, killing what you had to. Searched for peace, internal and external. The sight of the waterfall was worth the months-long trip. Your home is different now. Eerily quiet. The kids you helped teached to read don't play outside or laugh as often anymore. You hardly see Tommy or Maria around. Jesse is dead. Joel is dead. Dina isolates with JJ. Hugs him like she’ll die if she lets go. 

Ellie’s forever changed. The town’s forever changed, and you’ve finally accepted that it’s for the worse. 

“Is listening not enough?” 

Cordiality is beyond you. Spite is evident. Even the flowers can feel it. 

You tried to be patient, to coddle, to mourn and aid and tend. Sacrifice your own wellbeing for the sake of hers. You tried, Dina tried, Tommy didn’t but he did at the same time. Oddly, destructively, but in his own way. You blame him and don’t. Hate him and don’t. He’s violently and permanently scorned, but so are you. So is Ellie. She says nothing from behind you. You rise with a pop in your knees and an upturned lip. 

When you face Ellie, your knees wobble. Scarred: emotionally, physically, mentally. Permanently. Her eyes are more breakable than glass, the shattered hand that displays defeat hid shamefully behind her back. But her cheeks are fuller, no longer the hollow vacancies they were before she left. Maria was always on her back about finishing her meals. 

Grief is complicated. Hurt. Anger. The flowers wilt. Listening isn’t enough, and neither is sacrifice.

Ellie’s nose always twitches when she thinks. Your heart gives a sporadic pulse, but not enough to revive the shell you're trapped in. 

“I don’t want an apology from you.” 

She shakes her head, “I know.” 

“Then why are we talking?” 

Another twitch of her nose. She searches for something. “I—“

But then she flinches away from you, a bent arm coming up to cover her nose and mouth when she sneezes. A painful jerk thrums through your chest, but still not enough. 

“Bless you.” 

One more sneeze, but softer. A bit squeaky. Remnant of when you first met her at 13 and she followed you out to the greenhouse to watch you water the orange trees. 

“Thanks.” 

You nod stiffly. When she doesn’t say anything, you move to leave. Your work is done and she knows you’re back; There’s no point in being alone with her. 

Ellie doesn’t follow, but she does speak. 

“I’m trying.” 

You pause, one foot in front of the other. A doe learning how to walk for the first time. 

“I’m trying to be normal. I’m trying to be okay but it’s not working.” Her voice trembles.

You weren’t expecting a confession. Normal. An interesting use of the word. No one feels that anymore. 

“It probably won’t for a long time.” You state, just as quietly as she, “But if you stop trying, you’ll rot from the inside. If that’s what you want, then fine. But if not… That's all you can do now.” 

“Will we ever be okay?” 

‘We’ means many. ‘We’ means two. Your back’s to Ellie, but you can see her. Unmoving, but frantic. Her mind cranks at a million miles a minute. You feel her eyes on you. Too familiar. 

You’re not sure how to answer, so you don’t. You take one last look at her before you walk away. 

Flowers never look the same the next day. 

[hqbaby]

eighteen — just wanted you know to know

mess it up — gojo x reader & sukuna x reader

⁀➴ when i told you i’m fine, you were lied to. when the love of your life falls for someone else, you decide to move on—by pretending to date your best friend, the campus fuckboy.

previous — masterlist — next

word count. 2.4k content. profanity, everyone’s bad with feelings

Satoru was having a lovely day. Although “lovely” would be a relative term considering the fact that finals season has descended upon the general student population and he is one of its many victims. Still, he woke up on the right side of the bed, he managed to find some clean clothes, and the barista at the coffee shop down the road wasn’t as mean to him as he usually is.

Overall, his day had gone fairly well. As he walked over to the library, he didn’t dread finishing the mountain of papers he had to write or the problem sets he had to review. He even texted Suguru to come join him in his study session so that they could compare notes—something he usually steers clear from because the man always distracts him.

Overall, Satoru was having a lovely day.

Until that asshole showed up.

There he goes, with his usual lazy smirk, walking over to a table with his friend. They’re chatting—about something shitty, Satoru suspects—and laying their books out on the surface, pulling laptops and notes out of their bags. Satoru wonders what would happen if he just walked over, grabbed the guy and—

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Satoru looks down at his hand where a pencil has already snapped in half. You should really just get a mechanical one, your voice echoes in the back of his mind, the hint of a laugh bubbling beneath your words.

“Satoru.”

He looks up.

Shoko.

“Hey,” he says, flashing her that grin of his. As if he wasn’t just trying to stare your boyfriend to death. “What’s up? Wanna join me?”

The girl rolls her eyes, obviously seeing through his nonsense. “Why are you looking at that guy?” she asks, glancing over at the table where Sukuna is gesturing frantically as he explains something to Choso. “You into him or something?”

Satoru scowls. “That guy is dirt,” he says. “Worse than dirt actually. He’s the scourge of the earth.”

Shoko watches him with an amused look as he directs his attention at Sukuna, sending daggers at the guy that he obviously can’t feel at all. She’s known Satoru for a while, since they were freshmen. He’s usually the kind of guy who tries to be nice to everyone. He calls it being a nice person. She calls it being a people-pleaser.

She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him look at anyone the way he looks at Sukuna. He usually hides his disdain until the other person is out of his general vicinity. So this, him looking at the poor guy like he wants his whole family dead, is both ridiculous and completely strange.

“What did he do?” she asks, sitting down at the table. She takes a sip of her coffee as Satoru wills himself to rip his gaze away from Sukuna. When she realizes it might take a while, she busies herself by digging through her bag to grab the things she needs to study. “Did he steal your girlfriend or something?”

The silence that her question meets leaves Shoko curious, glancing up at Satoru as he turns away looking a little defeated.

“Oh shit,” she says. “Really? That’s why you broke up?”

“No,” Satoru tells her. He groans, slumping onto the table. “I don’t know, okay? All I know is that one moment she’s breaking up with me, the next she’s with that guy.”

Shoko looks back at Sukuna, waiting until she finally recognizes the man. Her eyes widen. She didn’t know who he was before, but now she definitely does.

“That’s the best friend!” she whispers to Satoru like it’s some big secret. “He’s the one you told us about!”

Satoru sticks his tongue out. “Yeah. Duh.”

She swats his shoulder. “Don’t be a fucking brat,” she says. “I can’t believe she jumped ship like that. What a bitch.”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Well, I’m a bitch, so I know when someone else is being a bitch.”

“Shoko.”

She raises her hands in apology. “Fine, fine. Sorry,” she says. She takes one more look at Sukuna then sighs. “You know, at least you’re free of all that now. You and Kimi seem great.”

That seems to cheer him up.

“We do, don’t we?” he says, beaming. “She’s just the best, you know. Lights up every room she walks into.”

Shoko curses herself as Satoru launches into a whole spiel about how great and wonderful Kimi is. She knows that she brought this on, she knows that the best way to distract her friend from his melancholy thoughts of you is to get him to talk about his new girlfriend, but fuck does it make him annoying.

“She does this little thing when we kiss, where she takes her hand and she—”

“Holy shit, please stop!” Shoko says. “I don’t wanna know about that!”

Satoru smirks. He knows just how much this annoys Shoko. It’s half the fun.

“She grabs my butt.”

He gets a well-earned smack on the arm.

“Hey, why are you starting the violence without me?” Suguru slides into the chair beside Satoru, beaming at Shoko as she glares at him. “What did he do?”

“He was being annoying,” she tells him, slouching in her seat. “I brought up his girlfriend once and off he goes on a whole tangent. ‘Oh, Shoko, you should see her eyes! You should smell her hair!’”

Satoru shrugs. “Not my fault you’re painfully single.”

“I’m pre-med, I don’t have the time,” she says like she always does. “I’d also like to point out that you fall in love way too easily. It’s gross.”

“I do not!” he gasps. “I’m very careful with my heart, you know.”

“Nah, I have to agree with Shoko on this,” Suguru chimes in, oh-so-helpfully

“You have to agree? You don’t have to do anything!”

He pats Satoru on the back. “Why don’t we just study like you said we would?” he says. “Take your mind off your fickle heart.”

“I’m gonna throw you into a dumpster,” Satoru says, glaring.

“After my finals, buddy. After my finals.”

It takes a while, but they do manage to get Satoru back on track and start working on his papers.

At a table a few feet away from them, Sukuna is trying to focus too. And failing miserably of course.

“Shut up,” Choso says without even looking up from his laptop.

“I haven’t even said anything.”

“But you were going to.”

Choso sighs. “Dude, I swear I’m gonna leave if you don’t let me focus.”

Sukuna pouts, trying his best to put on the best whole “woe is me” performance of his life. “But I have something really important to ask.”

“I have something really important to study for.”

 “You don’t want me to fail, do you?” Sukuna asks. “If I don’t get this off my chest, I may just flunk out of here.”

“Okay,” Choso nods. He waves at Sukuna. “Bye, dude. It was nice having you here.”

“Choso!”

“Seriously, man! We can talk all you want after we die from our exams, okay?”

“Fine,” Sukuna says, clearly not fine at all. He gets up and grabs his belt bag. “I’m gonna go take a smoke.”

Choso raises his brow. “I thought you quit.”

“Yeah, well, I’m stressed,” is all Sukuna says before he marches out of the library, completely unaware of the fact that he’s just walked past your ex-boyfriend who has not only noticed him but decided—against his friend’s wishes—to follow him outside.

Technically, no one is allowed to smoke around these parts of campus. But technicalities haven’t seemed to stop the group of distressed students camped out behind the library, heads in their hands as they all ignore each other and take their misery out on the ozone layer.

Sukuna leans against the brick wall, fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his bag. He’s just about to light it when someone scoffs at him. Now what piece of shit would do that?

“She hates those, you know.”

Oh, that piece of shit. Of course.

“What do you want?” Sukuna says, his voice as cold as steel as he meets Satoru’s eye. He lets the cigarette dangle from his fingers. Yeah, you wouldn’t like this at all. “Come to beat me up? Your little girlfriend not around to stop you?”

Satoru doesn’t budge, just continues to stare him down. “Have you told her?”

“Told her what?” your boyfriend spits. “That you’re a creep who can’t seem to get out of his ex’s life?”

“If you don’t, I will,” Satoru tells him. He runs a hand through his hair and crosses his arms over his chest. What is he doing? He knows that Sukuna’s right. That he should just let you live your life. Make the mistakes you want to make. It’s not like you didn’t cause them.

But he can’t do that. He could never do that to you.

“Listen, I don’t know why she chose you,” he says, the venom dripping from his tongue. “But the least you can do is not treat her like shit.”

Sukuna rolls his eyes. He lets the cigarette drop to the ground. “How do you know how I treat her?” he asks. “This is getting pathetic, man. You have a girlfriend, don’t you? Why don’t you just move on like any other sane person would.”

“You fucking ass—”

“She doesn’t want you,” Sukuna whispers. His voice is low and threatening. Any other man would be scared shitless.

But not Satoru.

His lips curl into a smirk. All smug and cold and heartless. “She misses me, you know?”

Sukuna sneers. “Oh, yeah? Who told you that? Your fucking delusion brain?”

“No. She did,” Satoru says simply. “I ran into her a few weeks back and she told me.”

“Oh, please.” Sukuna tries to maintain the stoic facade he’s put up, but that bugs him. Did you really tell him that? Why? “You’re insane.”

He pushes past your ex and heads back into the library.

When he plops back into his chair, Choso shoots him a confused look, but he just ignores it, turning back to his notes. He tries his best to read through his scribbles about something, but he can’t help his mind from drifting to you.

He knows he should tell you about the party. It’s not like the two of you were actually together yet, and you did tell him you didn’t mind if he kept fucking seeing other girls. You’re not vindictive. You’d be just fine with it—all he has to do is tell you.

He reaches for his phone and stops short of calling you.

You wouldn’t care. You would be fine. The two of you would be fine.

But would you? Things between you are so new. So fragile. You’ve barely just crossed the line between friends and an actual proper adult relationship. Everything is still hanging in the balance. Sukuna knows that one wrong move could wreck it all. He just doesn’t know what that move is.

And then there’s Satoru.

“She misses me, you know?”

What would possess that man to say something like that, Sukuna will never know. Maybe he’s just jealous. Maybe he’s just trying to get in Sukuna’s head. Maybe he just wants to mess with your relationship so that you come running back to him.

But maybe he’s right.

You wake to the feeling of your phone buzzing somewhere on the floor of your living room. It’s the middle of the day, but you, Maki, and Nobara have managed to pass out in the middle of your studying. Figures. If you had the choice between sleep and school, you definitely know what the three of you would pick.

You lift your head and pat the space around you until it finds your phone. Your eyebrows furrow when you see the contact name on the screen. You answer.

“‘Kuna?” you say, voice a little hoarse from sleep. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah!” he answers immediately. “I just wanted—were you sleeping?”

You chuckle, placing a hand on your forehead as you rest your head back on the floor. “Yeah, we needed a break,” you tell him. “Why are you calling?”

The other line is silent for a moment. You can already picture the way he looks right now, rubbing his thumb over his lower lip as he considers his words carefully.

“Sukuna, what is it?”

You hear him exhale. “Nothing,” he tells you. “I just wanted to let you know that I miss you.”

“We saw each other yesterday,” you say teasingly. You wish you could leave the conversation there, but you know there must be some other reason why he’s decided to call you out of nowhere. You know Sukuna. You know that there’s something going on. “What did you really call me about though?”

“Nothing,” he says again. You can tell that he knows he’s not convincing you. “I just thought… you remember when we snuck into that reservoir?”

You groan at the memory. The two of you were stupid back then, trying to escape the realities that you lived in. But you have to admit it was fun.

“Of course I do,” you tell him. “You called me just to remind me of that?”

He laughs, the memory apparently just as fun for him as it was for you. “That was when I knew.”

“Knew what?”

“You’re really gonna make me say it?”

You frown. “Sukuna, what are you talking about?”

You hear him sigh. Hear him ruffle something. Probably his hair. “That’s when I knew that I loved you,” he tells you softly.

You nearly drop the phone. “Oh.”

“You don’t have to say it,” he says. “I just thought you should know.”

Now, it’s your turn to be all jumpy. This is just like Sukuna to drop something on you like that. To drop the fact that he loves you, just like that. The fact that he’s apparently loved you for a while now.

“I love you too.”

The words hang in the air for a while. You’ve told him you loved him before, but that was always different. Always spoken beneath the cover of your friendship. Never something that meant anything important.

But is it really different this time?

You try to keep the thought out of your mind.

“‘Kuna? You there?”

“I’m here.”

You clear your throat. “Is that really why you called?”

“Yeah…” he says. “I just—yeah. I just wanted you to know that I love you.”

notes. me while writing this: *just sweats profusely*

[ghoststyles]

Casanova

HIIIII 🤍 Here is a little piece I've been working on for a while! This is inspired by the song Casanova by Rayland Baxter. Harry is a manipulative little twat in this, so bare with me 🤍

7.5K words;

TW: SLIGHT mommy kink. He doesn't call her mommy but he calls her mama and Miss/Missy. P in V sex, oral sex, phone sex. FACETIME SEX <3 Slight mentions of suicide. EXTREME drug and alcohol abuse. Arrests, jail. the works.

ENJOY AND GIVE ME A BOOP IF YOU LIKE IT :D

______________________________________________________________

Money, all I ever want is money But I never wanna work for the money So I borrow the money from a woman

Harry Styles knew who he was from a young age. A charmer. A flirt. He uses his wits and his good looks to manipulate the people around him until they have no choice but to give in, conning them and infiltrating their lives for his own gain.

His days are simple; He sleeps until 11, combs his hair into a perfect swirl of chocolate curls, brushes his perfectly white and straight teeth, spritzes his neck with his ridiculously priced Tom Ford cologne, climbs into his Porsche Cayenne to hit the gym, and grab an $18 smoothie for the ride home. From there, he lets the day unfold how it pleases, until it’s time to go to the club with his friends. Here and there, he’ll meet up with his dealer and his bookie to spice it up. 

Rinse. Reuse. Repeat. 

As a child, Harry was dirt poor. He’d never let anyone know that, however. His perfectly curated image blossomed the minute he got to college, leaving any ounce of mediocrity behind. His friends were none the wiser, assuming Harry was there blowing his trust fund like the rest of them, when really, he was a charity case.

Every day, he’d walk to the corner store for cigarettes for his dad and cans of tuna fish, stealing a small item to try and feel something. The owner, Mr. Abbott, knew Harry stole from him, but never said a word. He’d return to their one bedroom apartment, flicking the light on, only to find the electric bill hadn’t been paid. 

His parents are not addicts or criminals, by any means. If they were, he’d at least have a touching back story. Neither of them have the drive or the desire to succeed like he does. They lived their simple lives, worked paycheck to paycheck to support him and his siblings and never worked for more. 

On the day he left for college, he vowed to himself to never let anyone see him as the poor, pathetic boy he was. He’ll put his own silver spoon in his mouth, if he must. 

So, as he sits high and mighty on his throne after doing a few lines off a pretty girl’s tits in the VIP section of his favorite club, The Viper, surrounded by his fellow socialite friends, he thinks of one person.

You.

Harry isn’t unemployed, per se, but, he doesn’t exactly have a job, either. Two years ago, at the ripe age of 21, he graduated magna cum laude from university, with top marks in all of his classes. But, he knew he didn’t want to work a traditional job. He wanted to travel, he wanted to live lavishly, and he wanted to party.

That’s where you come in. The gorgeous, alluring and kind-hearted woman that feeds the beast that is his lifestyle. He wouldn’t change it for the fucking world.

Swiping aimlessly one day on the dating apps, he stopped his scroll abruptly to study your profile. You’re perfectly curated - the collection of photos reflecting your outgoing personality and beauty. 

38. Looking for some fun. Dog mom. CEO. Let me spoil you <3

Seeking a male ages 21-28.

His eyebrow quirks. A sugar mommy? Is that a thing?

He swipes right, hoping deep down you match. This could be it. This could be his way in. The funds from his financial aid are quickly dwindling, and he’d be sooner caught dead than with a part-time job. 

He dawdles around his apartment for a few hours, pacing the room to see if you matched with him. The possibility of this arrangement is scratching an itch he’s been desperate to quell. 

He readies himself to meet his friends at the club, placing cologne on his neck and wrists. For good measure, he adjusts himself in his trousers to get a little blood flowing down there. 

As he plucks his keys from the door, he hears the familiar ping from the dating site ring out from his laptop. Stopping in his tracks, he pivots to stand at his desk. He swallows thickly before entering his passcode.

Congratulations, Casanova94, you matched with BabyHoneyxo

A dazed smile makes its way to his lips, his dimple popping significantly. This is going to be good.

Can you believe I never met her? Can you believe she never met me, too? But she calls me everyday, telling me to behave And no I never listened

Now, almost two years later, you and Harry have still never met in person. But, that’s by your request. You want a companion. A call boy. Someone who will always answer the phone when you need it. And ever since you inherited your family’s wealth and company, you want someone to spoil.

It started off slow; texts asking about one another’s day, learning about hobbies and interests. Then, the wire deposits came in. Harry wasn’t sure if he had hearts in his eyes or dollar signs. You don’t tell him how to spend the money, but you definitely drop hints.

“Get yourself a new outfit, baby. Then send me a picture,” you smiled lazily on FaceTime one night. “Maybe you can find something to match the Porsche.”

Harry chuckles boyishly, “You’re too good to me. I just went shopping last week!” 

He has you eating out of the palm of his hand. 

“I know, I know. I just want my baby boy to be happy. Can you pull yourself out for me, baby? Wanna see you,” you purr, making yourself comfortable on your king sized bed in your quiet penthouse. You’re winding down for bed, even though your lover is just getting ready for the night. 

“Mhm,” Harry responds, voice an octave higher and desperate sounding. He slides himself out, letting his cock harden slowly in his hands. “My friends will be here soon, Missy.”

“That’s okay, bubba. We’ll be quick. Mmm, look how big and gorgeous you are,” your sultry tone sends shivers up his spine. He adjusts the camera so you’re looking at his abdomen from below his thick cock. 

“My perfect boy,” you moan out as you touch your clit for the first time this evening. “Always so good for me.”

“Yes, Missy. Wanna be good for you. Can I touch myself harder now?”

“Yeah, baby, go ahead. Squeeze that big cock. Tell me when you’re close.”

At this point, you’re furiously rubbing your clit, and gently teasing a finger inside. His breaths are becoming more labored as he pumps his cock at a faster pace. You pause just before your climax, sending your heart rate to a thunderous pace you can hear the ringing in your ears. 

You look over at your phone propped up next to you to find your little love sweating and fisting himself hurriedly. The whimpers coming from the other end make the hairs on your arms stand up. After a beat, you continue the assault on your clit, starting off slow in order to reach that peak again. 

“I-I’m close, Missy. Please let me cum. I f-feel so good,” at the tail end of his begging, he moans deeply. 

“Uh-uh. Who always cums first, baby?”

“You, Mama. You cum first,” he pants, his eyes making panicked contact with yours. 

“That’s right. Good boy. I’m so close baby,” you squeak out as you stick two fingers in your cunt. You cry out, at your release, gently tweaking your nipple with your other hand.

Harry isn’t far behind, taking one last swipe over his tip, using his other hand to cup his balls. He cums all over his fist, small specks of white littering his belly. He whimpers again, barely able to open his eyes. 

“Let me see, baby,” you whisper, waiting for him to show you his load. He pans the camera silently, the haze already leaving his head. But he’d never tell you that. 

“Thank you, Missy. I feel so good.”

“Mmm, bet you do, baby. Now go clean up and have fun with your friends. I’ll talk you tomorrow. Behave!”

“Okay, I will. Goodnight.”

The minute Harry presses ‘end’, an ounce of remorse bubbles in his chest. Just an ounce. He rises from his bed to jump in the shower, ridding him of his guilt and shame. 

Sure, you’re gorgeous, and nice. But you’re not what’s getting him off. Or so he likes to tell himself. Throughout your sessions on FaceTime, Harry’s mind wanders to the girls he’s hooked up with the weekend before, and the countless drugs he’ll consume on a night out. That’s what gets his rocks off. 

You’re the means to his ends. The gateway to his wildest dreams. He’s going to hold onto you for as long as he can, even if he has to get off over the phone a few nights, or pretend to care about the philanthropy you’re supporting that week. 

Harry should be your only philanthropy, he thinks to himself. This is the easiest job he’s ever done. And it only makes it better that he can do whatever he wants, with no consequences.

As he gets out of the shower, his prick still swinging in the air, he picks up his phone to see a Venmo payment from you.

Y/N L/N paid Harry Styles - $2,000.00 - 😘

Without even hesitating, Harry, heart rate rising a bit, opens up a text field  - to his club promoter. He ignores the dozens of texts from family members over the last few weeks. He’ll make his yearly obligation call to his mother at some point.

Hey, Mike! Can we upgrade to V.I.P tonight? I can put $2K down now.

He’ll thank you later. Tonight, he’s the hero of his friend group. A slight nervousness prickles on his neck. Harry isn’t naive - he knows he should be smarter with his money - your money. But you haven’t given him any reason to believe the well will run dry any time soon. 

So far, despite your generosity, Harry still lives paycheck to paycheck. He blows his money on extravagant trips, nights out at the club, and plenty of booze and coke. It’s times he hopes to look back on one day and smile. He swears to you he’s saving the money and working towards investing and buying a house. 

Scout’s honor. 

I got a real bad feeling, I'ma let her down Got a hole in my pocket and I'm running around Spending all of her money on drugs and things To keep my mind from runnin' Back to the hole that I came from

Every night that he steps out of his apartment, he shakes the nagging feeling in his gut, the embodiment of the life he left behind. He calls his Uber Black to take him to the Viper, his little white baggy in the breast pocket of his Burberry overcoat. 

He nods to the driver when he opens his door and proceeds to pour a small line of the substance onto the screen of his phone, but not without seeing another text from you.

Mrs. Robinson 🤍: Enjoy the night, sweet boy! Be safe xo

Harry smiles to himself at your contact in his phone. You all but had a fit when you found out he’d never seen The Graduate. Once he saw it, his world changed.

Swiping away your message, he plugs up his nostril, inhaling sharply as he moves his face over the surface of the screen. He grunts lightly, throwing his head back and shaking it out. That should hold him over until they’re in their secluded area of the club. 

The car pulls up to the club around 11:45, the house music already bumping. The line looks brutal. He scans it to see if he spots any 10s waiting that can keep him company later. Miles, Marquise and Jade are already inside at their table.

The bouncers greet Harry, bumping his fist and patting him on the back. He can feel the eyes of the nobodies in line glaring at him enviously. When you spend the average person’s salary in one night at the club, you eagerly reap the benefits. 

As he’s escorted through the crowd by the five-foot-nothing hostess, his senses are on high alert. He can hear his heart beating over the music and can feel the bass shaking the floors. He smiles tightly at the girl as she leads him to his table and scurries back into the crowd. 

Marquise and Miles, his best friends from undergrad stand to greet him, as Jade greets him from the lap of her catch of the day, a burly, bearded dude already glowing from sweat and the 8-ball they’re about to dig into. 

Taking his first swig of the Don Julio his regular bottle service girl, Tasia, pours into his mouth, he cracks a wicked smile, convincing himself there’s no where else he’d rather be.

Back to the hole that I came from Back to the hole that I came from Back to the hole that I came from And I don't ever want to go back

~

“So,” you start quietly on your daily FaceTime coffee date. You’re perched in your home library’s windowsill. “I was thinking of flying you in for my 40th. It’s going to be pretty chill. I’ll probably hire a chef and have a dinner at my place. Maybe 15-20 people.”

Harry is cocooned in a blanket on his bed, his iced coffee you had DoorDashed to his apartment slowly melting on his bedside table. His eyes had slowly drifted shut as he listened to you talk about everything and nothing. That’s how these things went — you talk and he listens. You’re after his companionship, after all.

At your words, his eyes shoot open, causing him to try and sit up gently so he can hear you better, not believing what you’re saying. Inhaling, he hesitates before he starts to reply. 

“Uh, um,” he bites his lip and looks at himself in the corner of the screen, trying to gauge if he looks as shocked as he sounds. “W-when are you thinking? I have a couple trips coming up and plans with my friends.”

He decides to play it cool. You have to know this is a huge development in this arrangement, right?

“Well, my birthday is the 27th, obviously.”

He scoffs, “I knew that part, Miss. When is the party?”

“Watch the ‘tude, baby. I was hoping for that Saturday, maybe. But I’d be willing to work around what you have coming up.”

He’s lying through his teeth. He doesn’t have major travel plans until the summer, when his friend group will jet off to Greece. He’s been saving up your pennies to charter a private plane.

“Don’t agree to it now, but please think about it. I love spending time with you and I’d love to finally meet you. We can tell my family that you’re part of one of my philanthropy groups. I’m your largest donor, after all,” you stick your tongue out at him.

“Okay, let me get myself together for the day, and I can see what’s going on,” Harry grits out, trying not to let you down. 

“Okay, baby. Have a good day. Let me know if you get up to anything fun,” you say with a mild hurt in your tone. The least he can do is make an effort to finally meet you.

“Will do. Bye, Miss,” He says quietly, swiftly hanging up the call and chucking the phone towards his pillows. 

“Fuck!” 

Hm, Casanova You know that I'm a casanova Throw my pennies in the well Waking up in jail 'Cause I never paid attention Do you remember all the good times? Do you remember all the bad times too? She reminds me everyday, telling me to behave And no I never listened

~

You didn’t let him off the hook that easily. Every day that passes as your birthday party looms, you mention flights, or activities you can do once he arrives. Harry laughs them off, distracting you by touching himself or telling a story from his gatherings with friends. 

It’s not until you’re barking orders at him over the phone, 1 week before your party, denying his orgasm that he finally relents. 

“Miss, please, I-I need to cum,” he whimpers as he has a ghostly touch over his angry, red cock. “P-please, I’ll do anything.”

“Anything, hm? I want my pretty baby at my birthday party. Wanna show you off and whisper filthy things in your ear and feel that pretty cock under the table. Agree to fly out to me and I’ll let you cum, baby.”

“Miss,” he croaks out, his stomach in shambles trying to stop himself from coming for the third time. “Okay, okay, Mama, I’ll go. I-I’ll come for your birthday! Please let me cum.”

You all but squeal in delight, instructing him to finally let go. Talking him through it, he keens from your praises for following the rules. A nervous heat travels up his neck, realizing what he agreed to in his post-nut clarity. 

“Good boy. Take a picture before you clean up, okay? I’ll talk to you in the morning and I’ll have my assistant send over your travel information.”

He nods, unable to make eye contact. You’re oblivious and overjoyed, thinking he’s just too fucked out to look at you. 

“G’night, Missy,” he chokes out. 

“Goodnight, sweet boy,” you hum before hanging up.

Harry snaps a photo of his messy left fist and cum-covered stomach before cleaning himself up and returning to bed. He eagerly picks up his phone to check his dating apps for his matches. He’d been talking to a new girl, Madelyn, for the past week, so excitement bubbles in his stomach. 

She’s meeting him and his regular group at the Viper tonight, so he’s excited to show off to her. Maybe she’ll even be down for a romp in the back seat of his Porsche.

His phone pings, signaling another deposit from you.

Y/N L/N paid Harry Styles - $5,000 - Can’t wait to see you 😘

He smiles, his right thumb picking at the skin of his ring finger. The guilt he feels from abusing your kindness starts to eat at him. But he didn’t get this far by being nice to people. You can’t possibly have feelings for him, right? You haven’t even met, for god’s sake. He shivers, shaking the feeling so he can focus on the night ahead. 

Pushing you far, far in the back of his mind. 

~

It’s now the night before your 40th birthday party, and you’re buzzing with excitement. Your penthouse is decorated in pink and floral frill - almost like your Great Aunt Gertrude exploded - but it’s chic and will be a hit amongst your New York City socialite friends. Your party planner floats around the room, puttering with the florals, candles and gem stones scattered around. 

You anxiously check the time, counting down the hours until Harry boards his flight from LA. He’s jumping on a red eye, so you’ll greet him with coffee and donuts when he lands. A pang of nervousness hits you as you remember how distant he was this week, saying he was busy with friends or doing god knows what an unemployed 23 year old does in Los Angeles.

Monday, 3:31 PM

Mr. Gladstone 🤍: Sorry, missy. I’ve been at Miles’ art showing all day.

Wednesday, 11:27 AM

Mr. Gladstone 🤍: Sorry! At the gym with Do Not Disturb on. Hey, can you send me some cash? Last min car maintenance 😢

Friday, 5:58 PM

Mr. Gladstone 🤍: Hi missy. My friends want to go to the opening of the new Carbone out here. Think your friends can get us a table? It’ll be 9 of us. 

Hope your dad’s chemo appointment went okay.

You can’t be mad at the little monster you’ve let him become. You are always an after thought as his only priority is making sure the cash cow is alive and well. He extends effort just enough to make the butterflies in your stomach reappear when he does give you the attention you crave. 

Inhaling deeply, you ascend up the grand staircase in your Upper East Side brownstone and begin your pampering routine, sending photos to Harry of the hydrating eye patches on and curlers in your hair, blowing kisses and sticking out your tongue. 

Typically, Harry answers relatively quickly to your silly messages, but, tonight, he’s gone radio silent. Maybe he’s trying to conserve his phone battery for the flight? 

You open your medicine cabinet to examine your fast-acting anti-anxiety pills, hoping you can will away this uneasy feeling. Padding over to your bed, you pop your pills before tucking into your silk sheets. Before putting your phone on the charger, you send Harry one last message.

Mrs. Robinson 🤍: Safe flight, baby ♥️ I’ll be tracking you, but tell me which terminal when you land. Can’t wait to see you 😚

Flicking out the light, you close your eyes with the hopes of finally meeting your lover in just twelve hours.

~

I got a real bad feeling I'ma lose my cool Everywhere that I go, everything that I do Stop me using the money on drugs and things To keep my mind from runnin'

Back to the hole that I came from Back to the hole that I came from Back to the hole that I came from Back to the hole that I came from And I don't ever want to go back

Ping!

Harry, Delta airlines can’t wait to welcome you aboard Flight 0723 to JFK, departing 18:35

Ping!

You may now board Flight 0723 to JFK, departing 18:35. Welcome aboard, Harry.

Harry’s leg is bouncing uncontrollably as he watches the busy bodies move around him. Despite his social butterfly nature, his social anxiety rears its ugly head every once in a while. Or, it could be tonight’s concoction of pills.

He places his phone on Do Not Disturb, just as he gets a text from you. Closing his eyes in defeat, he comes face to face with the awful, shameful and downright despicable choice he’s made.

He’s not going to New York.

Instead, he’s standing booth side at a club next to John Summit, his favorite DJ, as he passes around a bottle of 1942. The pills he’s on are plastering a wide smile on his face as the throng of bodies around him jump around, despite the absolute panic and guilt he feels in his veins. 

He’s wondering when you’ll realize he’s not coming. The lack of texts? The empty escalator to the pick-up area well after the flight has landed? He can picture your cherub cheeks reddening with embarrassment, fighting back hot tears.

To distract himself, he leans down to capture the blonde girl to his left in a kiss, despite not even making eye contact with her prior. When she peers up at him, her pupils are just as dilated as his as they sway back and forth.

He kisses her once more, just as Marquise offers him another baggie.

~

The panic sets in about 30 minutes after his flight landed. Surely that’s enough time to grab his bag and meet you here, right?

Your eyes urgently scan over every person that walks by probably sending them into fight or flight as a deranged woman looks them over in search for her boy. 

You look down at your phone, the background a photo of your dog, completely clear of any notifications. With vigor, you throw out the box of donuts and his iced black Americano. Swallowing your pride, you skulk back to the parking lot to cry in the safety of your car. 

You feel like a loser. A pathetic middle-aged woman who got fooled by a man half her age. The mental gymnastics that takes place as you drive home with white knuckles on the steering wheel should have you committed. 

Your dating life wasn’t easy. It started in high school, where you were invisible to the boys, always deemed not good enough to date. Extending through college, you were still nearly invisible, working over time to find just one guy to have any interest in you and take your virginity. Just to get it over with. 

As the dating scene expanded in your 20s, you still struck out with men your age. It wasn’t until your late 30s when your hopes and dreams of a family came crashing down on you that you’d made that godforsaken dating profile. 

You still remember how your heart skipped a beat when you saw Harry’s photo for the first time. His boyish charm was palpable, followed by his incredibly witty prompt answers. He was your solution. If you couldn’t earn someone’s love, you could at least buy it. 

The lump in your throat is preventing you from calling him and leaving the fiery voicemail you so want to do. You assume he’ll ignore any calls from you anyway.

Pulling into your private garage, you let out your frustrations by wailing and smacking the steering wheel of your Bentley. To prying eyes, the cops should be called. You allow yourself to flip for 5 minutes before putting on a brave face and going inside to begin getting ready for your birthday party, ringing in another year of heartbreak and disappointment. 

~

3 glasses of a 1982 Cabernet Sauvignon. That’s how much alcohol it took to have you crying in front of your friends and family. 

You couldn’t tell them what was really wrong, of course. They have no idea about your and Harry’s arrangement. They’d call you an idiot if they knew how much money you’ve sent him.

Everyone is shooting you sympathetic looks as you cry on your best friend’s shoulder. For all they know, you’re stressed with work and your dad’s cancer diagnosis. It’s a lot of pressure on a single woman. 

Rubbing your back, Candice whispers all the affirmations she’s been telling you since college. It’s incredibly annoying to get advice from someone whose life is perfect. 

You quietly thank her, clearing your throat of the lump that’s formed. Looking around the room, you make a break for it, grabbing your phone as you lock yourself in the guest bathroom.

Tears blurring your vision, you dial his number for the first time all day. It rings and rings, finally sending you to voicemail, as you’d suspected.

You’re silent for a beat after the beep. 

“I-I don’t even have words for how I’m feeling right now. I was so fucking excited to see you…feel you….kiss you. And instead I’m locked in a bathroom at my own birthday party, calling you like a fucking loser,” you start, snot threatening to drip down your face. 

“I give, and I give and I give, and yet you still let me look like a fucking idiot in front of my friends and family. You couldn’t do one fucking thing for me? You…You didn’t even have to put any effort. I paid for a car service, paid for a first-class seat, bought you a wardrobe…”

“I just hope whatever the fuck you’re doing right now is worth it. I don’t ask questions about what you do with my money, since I’m the one who started this. B-but I thought you were a decent person. I feel so fucking stupid right now,” you are talking to yourself at this point. You shakily inhale and stare at the ceiling. 

“We’re done. I’m done with your bullshit. I’m not gonna let some ungrateful brat take advantage of me anymore. Have a nice life, Harry. Hope you have to move back to bumblefuck and lose all the friends you’ve been lying to this whole time,” you end off the message with pure venom leaking through your words.

You press end, feeling slightly better that you’d used his deepest darkest secret as ammunition. The mirror in front of you shows a shocking picture; running mascara, watery, red eyes, and disheveled hair.

Patting some toilet paper under your eyes, you clean up the best you can before returning back to the party. If you were strong, you’d block his number. But you can’t help but wonder what his response could be.

~

He deserves it. It’s 4:40 AM and he just mustered the courage to listen to your message. His under eyes feel heavy as he listens to your words, hitting him where it hurts. His hands are shaking as he lowers the phone to his lap, drowning out the sound of your sad, heartbreaking voice. 

5 years ago, he was a decent person. Now, he looks in the mirror and sees his slightly gaunt face and tired eyes staring back at him. He even notices a few gray hairs every once in a while. 

His lifestyle takes a toll on him — He’s well aware of that. But for now, he has no reason to stop. Harry lightly smacks his head back on the seat of the Uber back to his apartment. Cracking the window, he lets the sounds of the early morning deter him from vomiting.

The car arrives at his apartment — a guest house in Hidden Hills, the only place he can afford with the zip code he desires so badly. He never brings anyone to his place, too paranoid of his secrets getting out. Vision doubling, he struggles to stick his key in the lock. He knees the door has he twists the knob, sending him tumbling flat on his face. 

Smacking his head on the tile floor, he recoils, lifting his hand to feel droplets of blood on his nose and bottom lip. The metallic taste is leaking into his mouth, sending him into a spiral. His front door is still wide open, allowing him to see the sun peaking over the hills in the distance. 

He crawls over to the threshold, slamming the door shut with his foot. He lays back down on the cool floor, exhausted from his efforts. His breathing evened out, lulling him into a comatose state before succumbing to the darkness.

But before he passes out, all he can picture is your gorgeous, disappointed face.

I'm back in the hole I got nowhere to go La la la la, la, la Spinning around In the cold dark hole deep down in the ground Back to the hole that I came from Back to the hole that I came from

The thing about rock bottom is that you don’t realize you’ve hit it until you’re clawing your way back to the top.

In the days following your fallout, Harry’s experienced enough misfortunes to last a lifetime. It started off with his credit card declining on a $6 breakfast sandwich, only to come back hungry and sad to his car being repossessed in front of all the Hidden Hills housewives out and about. 

The panic rises in his chest, and it’s taking everything in him not to call you and beg for forgiveness. He’s come to realize how fucked up his actions towards you became. He misses the butterflies and longing he felt when you first started your arrangement. 

He stomps back inside, miserable and feeling like a loser. If it wasn’t for Marquise’s birthday party later, he’d be sure to go dive in the ocean in hopes of never resurfacing. 

His closet is taunting him — full of the clothes you’ve bought him. He can remember every single piece he tried on for you, and the praise you were so quick to give him. He never reciprocated when you’d show him new pieces and showing off your incredible body. But, you hadn’t called him out on it, so he continued on. 

The all black outfit he chose reflects his mental state. Filled with dread and remorse, he pulls out his kitchen drawer to peruse the substances he has left. His stash is dwindling as fast as his bank account, so he has to be strategic until he figures out his next move. 

Grabbing the baggies, he situates them in the breast pocket of his jacket to conceal everything. They’re going to a new club tonight, so there’s no being saved by the bouncers if shit goes south. 

The party goes off without a hitch. Bottles pouring, dancers hanging from the ceiling, and an influx of out of town girls willing to do anyone and anything. Harry has nearly pushed you completely out of his mind, but he does something completely out of character.

~

Mr. Gladstone 🤍: I’m sorry.

You’re at a wine bar with your girlfriends in the Village, and the message you receive shakes you to your core. You haven’t heard from him in days. Not even after you repossessed the car and canceled his credit card tied to your account. You thought for sure that would smoke him out of his foxhole. But, he’s Harry. He’s selfish and too full of pride to ever come forward and apologize.

Your friends notice the faltered look on your face, but opt to ignore it as they bitch about their husbands and kids. Despite your fleeting dreams of having a family, most of the time you’re thankful you can’t relate to them. 

Turning off your phone, you throw it in your new Kelly bag — a little treat to get over the heartbreak — and return to the conversation.

~

He doesn’t even remember how it went down. 

The last clear memory he has is being escorted out of the club to go back to Marquise’s. The combination of coke and alcohol, plus this week’s tumultuous events had him on edge, so when the unfamiliar bouncer at this mediocre club grabbed him wrong, it sent Harry into a frenzy. 

To match his bloody nose and busted lip, his knuckles are now decorated with crusty amber smatterings of blood — his own, and the bouncer’s. His jaw and wrist were aching, still mouthing off like a rabid animal as the cop read him his Miranda rights. 

So now, he sits in a cold cell in the county jail awaiting his arraignment — a seemingly straight forward assault and battery charge, now amplified by the 40 grams of cocaine and Adderall in his coat pocket. The bastard cop smiled to himself when he patted him down. Harry will give him this one, the rinkydink small town cop who is used to giving out traffic violations. 

Tired, in dire need to piss, and on the verge of a mental breakdown, Harry’s head snaps up when the officer notifies him of his bail — a measly $75,000 — and lets him know he has one phone call. Balling his fists, he looks up at the ceiling.

“Fuck!”

The cop assists him in standing up. His wrists are chained together behind his back, after all. Releasing him from the confines, Harry rubs his wrists where the cheap metal chafed him.

“You have 5 minutes to make a call. Do you know the phone number or do you need me to access your cell phone?”

Harry scoffs. Who the fuck still memorizes phone numbers?

“Phone,” he replies, a clear edge in his voice. 

“Whose contact am I looking for? Mom, Dad?”

“Fuck’s sake. No, I need the number of,” Harry pauses suddenly as he remembers your name in his phone. 

“Mrs. Robinson,” he finishes quietly.

The cop raises his eyebrows, but says nothing, and reads the number aloud to him. It rings, and rings, diminishing any hope that you’ll answer. It’s in this moment Harry is at his rockbottom.

“Hello?”

~

“This is a collect call from the Department of Corrections for the City of Los Angeles. An individual is trying to contact you. Do you wish to answer?”

You gasp as the automated voice informs you of your worst nightmare.

“Hello?” you say quietly. It’s 8:15 AM, and you’re at the cafe on the corner for a latte and reading, trying not to disturb those around you. 

“M-missy?” His voice sounds broken. It sends a stabbing pain straight through your chest. 

“Harry, what happened? What did you do?”

“I-I fucked up. I fucked up so bad. N-not just with you. I know I fucked everything u-up,” he’s starting to sob, unable to catch his breath between words.

“B-but I got into a pretty bad fight last night, and I had some,” Harry pauses to look over his shoulder to make sure the officer isn’t listening. He wipes the tears in his eyes with his thumb. “I had some stuff on me, so now I’m in a lot more trouble. A-and I know I fucked everything up and I don’t deserve anything from you, but I don’t have enough money for bail.”

You sigh, not really even sure where to begin. Tears are threatening to spill over as you hear his clearly broken sobs. 

“How much do you need?”

At this point, Harry hung his head at your silence. He snaps his head back up when you agree to help him.

“It’s $75,000.”

“Jesus, Harry, what the fuck did you do?”

“I don’t even know, I barely have any memory of—”

“Five minutes, inmate!” the officer interrupts him.

Harry rolls his eyes and continues. 

“I’m not sure what happens next. B-but thank you, Y/N. I know I don’t deserve this in the slightest.”

You shiver at his use of your first name. Closing your eyes, “I know you don’t. Just tell me who I need to call.”

~

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you mutter as you hear your incessant doorbell ring. It’s 6 in the morning, just a few days after you paid Harry’s bail. You’ve been laying low, unsure if you’ll even hear from him again. 

Your doorman, Paul, informs you of a visitor. A visitor? At this time? Unable to even comprehend what’s going on, you press the button to confirm opening the door, and wait. 

Your bunny slippered feet tap your coffee table anxiously. Is it your mom? Here to inform you of someone’s death? Or is it your best friend from college who couldn’t come to your party? Or is it —

You’re broken from your racing thoughts as a timid knock on the door echoes through the house. You shuffle hesitantly over to the door, unable to even bring yourself to look through the peephole. 

Closing your eyes while pulling open the door, the absolute wind is knocked out of you as you eye up your waiting guest. 

He’s tall, tanned and gorgeous as his photos. It’s unfair to look like this after stepping off what she assumes was a red eye flight. He looks exhausted. His lip and nose are busted, and he has a yellowing bruise on his left eye.

“W-what?” you flounder in disbelief.

His hands fold together at your reaction, unsure if he should hug you or keep a respectable distance. He opens his mouth to say something, but stops himself. He’ll play by your rules.

“What the fuck is going on?” 

You look adorable. The sleep barely wiped from your eyes. Slight bed head and disheveled silk pajamas. Harry is in disbelief that this is the woman he’s come to realize his feelings for.

“I know this is so fucked up,” he trails off. “Coming here. I don’t deserve even a minute of your time, but I needed to come here and tell you how fucking sorry I am. How deep into the superficial bullshit I got. I took advantage of you and your kindness and I lost myself in the process.”

You must look flabbergasted, because he inches closer, placing his hands gently on your arms. His touch is searing, but the first reminder that he’s actually standing in front of you and not an extremely lifelike apparition. 

“I-I,” you stumble.

“We don’t even have to talk right now. You can send me away, if you need. But I’m here, I’m here in New York and I want to change. I want to be better for you. These last few days— when I had absolutely nothing — made me realize something.”

His eyes are now earnest and starting to tear up. Your reflection is so clear in his tide pool green irises. 

“I had nothing, and it made me realizing you’re my everything.”

His profession had you clutching your metaphorical pearls. Your heart is racing, sending your central nervous system into a tizzy. You know he’s not lying, because he’s looking dead in your eyes waiting for your reply.

“H-Harry, I don’t even know what to say,” you stall. Your body knows what it wants to say.

“I know and like I said, if you need time, I underst—”

“If you’re here and you’re not bullshitting me; you really want to change. Then, you’ll fuck me like it.”

If Harry’s jaw could drop to the basement, it would. Instead of word vomiting, he lunges forward, guiding both of your bodies back to the hallway and placing a panty-dropping kiss on your lips. He doesn’t even have time to admire your beautiful home.

You break the kiss, grabbing his wrist to lead him to your room. The sheets are mussed, your clothes are all over, but you can’t even begin to fucking care. You all but dive back onto your bed, pulling your nightgown up to reveal your bare, perfect pussy. 

Harry drops to his knees, wrapping his hands around your thighs. The photos and the FaceTimes don’t do any justice to the sight in front of him. You’re complete and utter perfection. 

He waits for your approval before leaning forward to lick from back to front. Your back arches slightly, throwing your ankles over his shoulder. His fingertips dig into your skin deliciously, so you grab onto your blankets for dear life. 

“Give it to me, Missy. I’ve been waiting two years for this perfect cunt. What the fuck was I waiting for?”

You laugh, not expecting his sense of humor at this moment. For the last few months, it’s been like talking to a robot. It was an exchange of goods and services. But here, in front of you, is a man. A man who’s willing to change his ways for you. The man you’ve waited all your life for. 

“Always here for you. It’s yours,” you purr, placing your hands on top of his. 

He growls, vigorously licking into you. He removes his right hand to insert his two middle fingers into your center. This has you howling, unable to even remember the last time a man did this for you. 

“Baby, baby. I’m gonna cum. Gonna cum for you, finally,” you whine, focusing on the immeasurable pleasure stemming from your legs. 

“Mhm, I can feel you, Mama. Let go for me,” he begs, making direct eye contact with you. 

It’s the moment you lock eyes that you’re letting go. All the stars are aligning and symphonies are playing in your head.

“Ah, ah! There, Harry!”

Harry keens at hearing his name roll off your tongue. He slides up your body to kiss you, allowing you to taste yourself. You grab at his under shirt, insinuating that you want it off.

He peels it off and cheekily pulls your tit out of your nightie. He winks before connecting his lips to your nipple, rolling his tongue around the bud and sucking gently. 

“Please, want you inside me. Gimme my big cock, baby.” 

“It’s yours, Mama. All of me.”

Harry slides his briefs down his legs, revealing the main event. His dick swings slightly before hitting him in the stomach. You moan, unable to wait even another minute for him.

“Please,” you cry out, scratching down his chest. 

He lines himself up, moaning in ecstasy as he pushes in. Your mouth falls open, a silent whine escaping. 

“So big, baby. I should’ve flown out to you the minute you sent me a dick pic. Like a fucking middle schooler.”

Now Harry is laughing. He’s in disbelief that he would ever treat you the way he did. The clarity from the last few days is damning.

His pumps are getting faster and longer, bottoming out every other thrust. He looks down to where you’re connected, your pussy lips wrapped around him deliciously, a slight white substance leaking out of you. He leans down to kiss you, wanting this connection he’s subconsciously wanted since he met you. 

“Want you to cum with me, Missy. Cum with me. Want to show you I mean it. I mean everything I said.”

You gently put your hand on his cheek, to which he immediately nuzzles in at the touch. 

“I know you mean it, baby. It’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out.”

He nods, leaning down to kiss you again, his thrusts slowing but still ramming you to the hilt.

“You close?”

“Yes, baby boy. Cum with me, I’m cumming now.”

Harry’s cock twitches as he bumps your walls before releasing long and deep into you. You push your noses together, lips ghosting over one another’s. 

Harry is finally home. 

“You’re gonna fucking pay for this, little brat.”

He flashes a shit eating grin, kissing you again.

“I expect nothing less.”

And I don't ever Back to the hole that I came from Back to the hole that I came from And I don't ever want to go back

[k4vehrtz]

NYMPHOLOGY. satoru gojo / sub! m. reader

synopsis. satoru will miss ‘that person’ forever.

word count. 1k . ✦ . warnings. prince! gojo / nymph! reader / discussions of grief / unprotected sex as a means of trade sort of

notes. inspired by that one artwork “he ate my heart” — sorry for starving you guys :(

SUGURU WOULD’VE BEEN the first to admit that they were lost. at least, that’s what satoru thinks, anyway. it’s been four years — his memories of what he now considered a lighter time in his life felt more distant than anything else.

his companion was, beyond a reasonable doubt, ‘gone’. this was the reality of his circumstances. a reality he couldn’t bring himself to accept; a reality where half of his heart had become another name on the list of people who’d disappeared without a trace.

“why have you come here?”

he’d wondered the same thing — what did he intend to achieve by doing this?

“…for answers?” it’s the most obvious response but he doesn’t care. he’s gradually become this; found himself caring less and less. ‘there’s not much left to lose when you’ve already lost it all,’ he thinks.

and you’re no stranger to this plague of human emotion. it came to be a familiar display after ‘that place’ resumed activity.

“that…” you pause, pressing your lips together, “i acknowledge your status as the heir to the human throne but my answer remains the same — i don’t know,” before crossing your hands in front of your chest.

he’d expected this much; you’re not exactly known for being lenient. but it was worth a shot.

“that person,” satoru couldn’t bring himself to say his name, “studied your kind in his free time,” especially not within this context.

it’s not necessarily a surprise to you either. of course, you’re not acquainted with ‘that person’ but human beings are inherently curious. curious about ‘that place’ and the ‘people’ that live there.

“your point being?” you counter, nose crinkling.

satoru swallows thickly. ‘be careful,’ suguru had warned as their knees knocked together, child–like fingers curling in the dirt, ‘nymphs are alluring but they’re dangerous’. and for a moment, he’d wished he had listened.

there’s no turning back now though. you’re standing in front of him, the sun’s rays reflecting on your skin and the wind carrying the scent of flowers as you await an answer.

“i want to be surrounded by what he enjoyed most — ‘this place’ was his all–consuming love.”

the colour drains from your face in an instant. you don’t know whether you should laugh or cry. ‘this place’ and ‘all–consuming love’ used in the same sentence is…well, it shouldn’t be paired.

“you got lost on purpose?” it’s more of a statement than a question but satoru responds anyway: “i want to be ‘consumed’ too.”

‘this place’ had ‘consumed’ his companion four years ago. and maybe, if that person could see him now, he’d be disappointed. but he wouldn’t have been surprised. this was the type of person satoru was, is, and will continue to be.

a man with half a heart because he’d given the other half to suguru. and for a moment, he’d wished he hadn’t. yet another thing he’d found himself doing more and more — wishing.

“you’re…not like the others,” you murmur and he smiles knowingly.

THE POMEGRANATE was a sacred symbol of life itself.

“there are other —” he moves his thumb over your lower lip, as tears blur your vision “— ways.”

or, rather, the ‘sequence’ of life. one’s fertility and the pause in fertility; one’s mortality, and inevitably the fruit of the dead.

“you’re right,” he agrees easily and you let out a breathy laugh, “but this is the most enjoyable, is it not?”

you don’t deny it, and a corner of his mouth lifts.

and his lips are warm against yours. it’s strange at first, the residual warmth it leaves in your body in its wake. a warmth that promotes blood flow in the direction of your cock. you’re hard, pre–cum leaking from the slit atop your pulsating cockhead.

satoru continues to kiss you though. he sinks his teeth into the fat of your lower lip, prompting them to part, an open–mouthed whimper bouncing off the inner walls of your cheeks instantaneously. and your brows ratchet up, a crease forming between them, as you lower your gaze to satoru whose tongue slithers into your mouth.

‘you taste like pomegranate,’ he thinks to himself as he pokes at your tear–stained cheek, ‘definitely pomegranate’.

when he breaks the kiss, you’re breathless, your chest rising and falling in sync with your shoulders. but he wastes not a moment — understanding better than anyone else the unpredictability of the flow of time.

his hands pressed into your sides, holding you in place, and only letting go momentarily to free his cock from its constraints. he’s hard too, you notice, standing at full mast and curving inwards slightly.

“please,” your voice is no more than a quiet plea that a gentle breeze carries to satoru’s ear, your spine stiff and muscles tense, “be gentle.”

and his gaze softens at that, bringing a hand up to your face to caress your cheek like it’s a promise. it’s not his intention to hurt you.

but it does hurt to some degree after he aligns his cock with your entrance, pushing past that tight ring of muscle. the only difference is that he’s comforting you through the process. alternating between his forehead pressed against yours and locking his lips with yours.

key word there being ‘process’.

“i’m sorry.”

his voice mirrors your quietness, eliciting the rise of goosebumps on your skin even as you writhe beneath him whilst he bucks his hips into you. you’re not sure who the apology is directed to but you choose not to linger on it anyway.

there’s no going back now — ‘this place’ won’t allow it.

“b...by doing this — ” your voice raises in pitch, your gasps audible, “you’ve sealed your faith princeling.” and satoru hums as his movements become somewhat erratic. “you’re only,” his hips stutter mid–sentence, “doing what i asked of you,” and he lowers his lips to your ear, “you’ll both forgive me,” before his cock spurts ropes of cum into you in sync with your orgasm.

[apricityxoxo]

Help and Care

✧.* Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem! Reader

✧.* wc 5,786 (teheeheee)

✧.* summary: he definitely didn't need help, he doesn't need someone to care for him. no one has ever helped him before, and no one ever cared so why would they start now. he doesn't care, he definitely doesn't need help. so why does he keep ending up in the infirmary with the beautiful nurse? and why does he keep coming back to you?

✧.* contents: fluff, a bit of angst, and a sprinkle of suggestive dialogue

here's the whole story! it took me a while but I hope you all enjoy it, sorry I'm a perfectionist. I had a lot of fun writing this but let me know what you all think. i might write a pt 2 to this idk. Also pls excuse the medical and military inaccuracies

enjoy

Help. He hates help. He can’t stand it. When others look at him, when he looks at himself, he doesn’t see himself as someone dependent on others. Why else would he enlist, he didn’t need help, he learned that the hard way. No one ever helped him and he adjusted, so why would he need help now? People are dependent on him; they rely on him. When someone is injured, scared, or dead it’s up to him to fix the situation, to solve the problems of others, to carry the fallen.

When Price told him to go to the nurse he was upset, actually, he was pissed. He was not a child who scraped his knee playing football at school. He was a soldier; he was more than a mere man. He knew how to endure, he knew how to carry his weight, and he knew that he didn’t need to see the nurse. He knew what was wrong with him, he just bruised his ribs. He didn’t need some old woman with a bad attitude to tell him what he already knew.

He endured and he resisted the pain for exactly two weeks, but the pain was only getting worse. He was confused and didn’t know what to do, he hoped that no one had noticed and he didn’t want people to start. He didn’t want questions or concerns, he wanted relief and nothing more.

He thought no one would notice and he was so wrong.

Training.

Simon hated training the new recruits, they were cocky and they didn’t know their place. They thought after joining and passing the initial physical exams, they were done.

They were most definitely not done. They needed to adjust, physically and mentally, to fit in. Many people think the initial physical and mental exams are where new recruits break, no they break here, during training…with him. He hated it but knew why Price asked him to do it.

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Price usually did rounds during training, he watched the recruits and the techniques of the other task forces. The smell of sweat, dirt, and blood filled his system and that smell drew his attention to Ghost. Today he felt the need to check on Ghost and see how he was doing. Ghost was a good teacher even though he didn’t realize this, Price did though.

Ghost was mean, harsh, and disciplined, and the people he taught tended not to last long, however, the ones who did turn out to be great because the one thing that Ghost teaches best is endurance.

When Price was watching him train, he started to get upset and confused. This was most definitely different from the big and bad Ghost he was used to. He thought at first that "maybe Ghost was pulling his punches?" When he paired Ghost up to train some of the rookies, he thought maybe Simon was finally going soft.

Usually after training, the rookies would be sore, and in pain, sometimes they might even need to be excused to nurse. However, these past few weeks the rookies have been surprisingly...fine. Maybe even better than fine and it's been making them cocky, it's boosted some of their egos.

It would probably boost his ego too, Price chuckled. If he were to beat the big, brutal, scary Ghost while still a rookie. However, they are starting to get obnoxious because they are taunting and boasting, which is certainly something that Price could not have. It was starting to piss him off. Price was going to tell Ghost that if he didn’t put these pricks in line, there were going to be consequences.

That was the plan, but then he took a closer look and that’s when he saw it.

He saw the way that Ghost taking more hits than normal, he was slow to react and he was even slower to respond. His stance was off as well, usually his form made him feel like a giant among men but now he looked like he was shrinking himself, like it was his first day of training. Ghost wasn’t pulling his punches, he wasn't holding back, he was weak.

Now he was pissed.

Price knew.

Price knew exactly why Ghost wasn’t as strong as he usually is, why his punches aren’t as powerful as they normally are. Ghost was a disobedient bastard and Price was pissed.

“STOP! That’s enough training for today, soldiers.”

“Ghost, come now!”

“Yes, Captain” Ghost replied in his thick Manchester accent.

“The hell is wrong with you Lieutenant!”

“Nothin' Capt’n, I'm just-”

“You’re just hurt, did you go to the nurse?” Price knew the answer.

“I didn’t feel the need to go to the medical facility Capt’n”

“You didn’t feel the need to go?” Price asked Simon and looked at him like he was crazy. Since when did his soldiers feel the need for an opinion?

“If you don’t get your ass to the medical facility right now, you’re going to be training these pricks for three months straight. You understand?”

“Yessir!”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚⋆❀⋆˚୨୧⋆｡ ˚⋆

Unbelievable!

He doesn’t need to be here. As he walks to the nurse’s offices, he feels everyone's eyes on him. He’s rarely ever here and because of that it draws the eye, lots of them. He thanked his balaclava every day because without it, based on the face he was making, some might think he was actually nervous.

He doesn’t want some old hag telling him what to do and degrading him for not coming sooner. Some old nurse or doctor telling him everything he already knows just to insult him and show off their vast vocabulary just to try and make him feel small. that’s what they all do, that’s what his father did.

He approaches the front desk and the older woman tells him to go to office number 222. He makes his way over, navigating the hallways,  and he finds the office. The sign is decorated with small pink flowers and a white cat with a red bow. He resists the urge to roll his eyes.

Before he goes and knocks on the door, he dries his palms on his pants, desperately hoping to get over this.

Knock-knock.

Some time passed but then he heard a soft voice say…

“Come on in”

He opened the door and he was surprised that the soft voice matched a beautifully soft face. A face with beautifully unique features that worked together in harmony to make the beautiful woman that sat before him.

God damn.

Those were the only words on his mind.

It wasn’t an old woman who looked like she had a chip on her shoulder and carried a deep grudge, nor someone who looked like they were going to insult him… no. definitely not.

It was a young woman.

A beautiful young woman.

A beautiful young woman with the most inviting features. Absolutely gorgeous, he’s never seen a woman this beautiful ever on this base. He feels like she doesn’t belong here, her face is an exact contrast to the environment he surrounds himself every day. He has a million questions he wants to ask her, and he feels the strong urge to get closer to her. He’s such a creep. He doesn’t even know her name.

He feels his mouth goes dry and his hands sweat. Gross. He hasn’t felt this way since Secondary School, he feels like a dork and he doesn’t know what is wrong with him.

“Good afternoon, how can I help you!” Her voice was cheery and if he was a little bit more nervous, he wouldn’t notice the shock on her face and the tremble in her voice. He was used to that reaction; it was probably due to his appearance. her voice matched her face and he felt his heart beat faster, he finally was going to die.

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He was just staring at you, he was just looking. You’ve heard rumors of him, of his personality. The big bad Ghost, the professional killer who lacks mercy for anyone. He was just staring at you and it was freaking you out. What’s wrong with him, why is he here in the nurse's office? Did he hurt someone? Or worse…

He’s still staring.

“… excuse me, is everything alright?”

“Erm…yeah, sorry” he responded and if your mind weren’t running a mile a minute you would have heard the way he sounded nervous.

He clears his throat and then replies “Captain Price has recommended I take a visit down here.” God his voice was so deep. He was so smooth, he had a thick accent that wasn’t like any of the others you heard on base. His voice was not at all soft but the way he spoke made something bubble inside you. 

Wait. ‘take a visit down here’

Oh. He needed help. 

“Oh… okay sir, what seems to be the problem?” You try your best to put on your customer service voice and hide the fact that you're wondering what this man might need help with. 

“Erm… last deployment I bruised my ribs real bad, don't know how…”

You try to listen, you have to pretend to do so. You're writing as he describes his symptoms. He has stomach pain, difficulty breathing, tenderness in his abdomen, and bruising. He describes his symptoms and you feel so bad for him and at the same time, you feel disgusted in yourself. 

Disgusted because instead of being focused on how he describes his pain, you focused on his attractive ass voice. You can't help it, you're just a girl. 

No, You need to remain a professional.

“Okay Lieutenant Riley, if it's all right with you, I’d like to examine your abdomen.”

“Yeah… that's fine” he sounds hesitant you feel bad… you feel like you need to reassure him.

“Don't worry lieutenant, I'm sure everything is going to be just fine.” you try to reassure him and when you do, you unconsciously give him a soft smile.

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Well, you have to ask him to take off his shirt. That was something that didn't occur to you. He doesn't have to comply, you could do the whole checkup with his shirt on. You hope he doesn't so you save yourself from embarrassment. 

“Sir, if you do not mind, may I ask you to remove your um… t-shirt?” you ask, trying your hardest to remain professional. It's completely reasonable for a medical professional to ask a patient to remove their shirt when they had an abdomen injury.

“You don't necessarily have to I'm sure I can find a way to…”

“I don't mind” Lieutenant Riley cuts you off as he agrees.

He sits on the examination table and removes his shirt.

You think you just died. You are short of breath and you think you died because there's an angel right in front of you. If you were anywhere else you would admire his powerfully built body, but you were more concerned with the bruising on his stomach.

You feel and you touch his body, extremely concerned about his well-being. His stomach was black and blue, his stomach was sore, and he could barely bend over. 

You were worried but also shocked because this man worked and trained in such a condition for about a week. You knew of Simon Riley and you knew of his reputation and this just supported the fact that he's an absolute abled-bodied unit… it was almost scary.

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“I believe you have a few broken ribs…sir.” You say almost scared of his reaction. He needed x-rays, actually he needed time off. 

“I'll recommend you an off-base X-ray Tech to take pictures of your abdomen, I also recommended to your captain that you take time off to heal. After we get your x-rays, I recommend you visit me every two weeks so we can look over your progress ” You tell him, distracted as you look over all your notes.

“Oh ok, every two weeks, and how long will it take to heal…” Luitenent Riley asked, he sounded nervous and you started to feel bad for talking to him so nonchalantly about his condition.

“Um should take about two months to heal. Ribs tend to heal rather quickly, however, since they weren't treated earlier it might take a while longer. Don't worry I’m sure you'll feel better rather quickly.” You try to give him a little bit of comfort. You give Luitenent Riley instructions, stating how to take care of himself and treat his injuries. 

He collects his stuff and is getting ready to leave before he turns around looks you up and meets your eye. 

“Thank you so much luv, ‘preciate it.” He tells you, in a soft accented voice.

“It's not a problem Luitenent.” You tell him and you feel your heart pick up its pace.

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Week 2 

He was supposed to visit today, you were expecting him today. You had all of his notes laid out and you were just waiting. 

Waiting.

Waiting. 

Other patients came and went but you were still looking forward to one specific client. The first time he visited you had no time to admire his large and confident stance when he walked into the room. He walked into the room with utter confidence as if he knew it would have an effect on you.

AND GAHHH LEEE

When he removed his shirt, you don't know how you controlled yourself. You knew he was a big man with a hefty build but you were not expecting what you saw. Your eyes were blessed with a solid, broad-shouldered, athletic man.

The literal definition of manly, if he wasn't in the military you were sure he would be off somewhere chopping wood or something. If you weren't at work you're sure you would be lying in bed kicking your feet.

When he spoke to you he had such a deep and low baritone voice that was heavily accented. You never had a thing for accents but he was something else completely. Low and intimidating, his language was professional but you could tell that he was trying not to curse and use slang. It's embarrassing to think about the things you'd do to hear him, swear or even say your name. In your head you know you’d sound like a rabid dog if he’d said it in that attractive ass voice-

Then you hear your name and think you might die. Actually, it was your last name and your medical title. But still—

It’s him.

He’s here. 

Remain professional! you scream and shout at yourself.

You greet him and try to make small talk, asking him how he’s doing, how he’s feeling, and what he’s been doing with his time off. It's hard, he's such a beefy and attractive man. You can't even see his face but based on just the way he walks, you know he's fine. 

Admittedly, working on this base that’s far away from your home made you forget how to act around an attractive man…

“Been reading too, I'm trying to distract myself. If ya have any recommendations just let me know.” he interrupts your thoughts and you relate to him. It gets boring between deployment he tells.

“What do you usually do between deployments?” you ask, sincerely.

“Train, train myself then train with others.” He replies.

You don’t ask anything else, you know that he must miss training every day. The way he says it makes you feel bad. You know many of the soldiers find solitude when they work on themselves and train. It calms them and helps them recover, it's almost a form of therapy. Simon can't do that, not with his injury. You feel a pang in your chest. 

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You go over his notes and x-rays. You give him a checkup and note that he’s healing rather quickly, based on the other scars you know that this isn’t his worst injury. 

You catch his eyes when you are going over everything with him and explaining your notes to him. He’s looking at you with his golden green eyes, staring you up and down. You feel sort of embarrassed because you don't feel cute at this moment. You didn’t put makeup on in the morning, just gloss on your plumped lip and curled your eyelashes. Your wash day is coming up too so you wrapped your hair in a colorful scar today.

The way he looked at you was the way men would look when you would walk into a club. When you had a full face and your hair was freshly done. When you had a tight and short dress that would accentuate your beautiful curves. When you knew that you looked stunning that's the way he was looking at you, right now.

His visit was finished and you put the date for the next visit in your calendar. Before he leaves he thanks you.

“I don't like doctors but I appreciate all you've done for me, miss.”

“Thank you Luitenenent, if you ever need a book recommendation you can always come see me.”

“Thank you.” He tells you and even though you can't see his face, you feel a smile radiate off him.

You feel like he’s such a kind man.

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Week 4

Today, on his next visit, he’s not as kind.

You know why. You can tell that he's antsy, that he wants to get back to work. He’s rushing the process and wants to do everything you told him not to do. He wants to disregard all the instructions you gave him. You’re used to that, soldiers want to get back to their daily routine and they’re itching to do something strenuous during the healing process.

You would be fine with that if it were not for his shortness with you. He was annoyed and that was completely acceptable but there was no need to be curt and downright rude to you.

His answers were short. After each question, while trying to make small talk he replied with a ‘Mmhmm’. He didn't make eye contact with you and when you would suggest activities for him to try and distract him, he would roll his eyes and brush it off. 

He didn't want to chat and you feel like this is not the same man, who came to visit last time.

Today’s visit was short, there was clearly no need for small talk on his end and no time for the flirting you wanted to do. 

You did yourself up today too and now that you think back at it, it feels like a waste of time. You enjoyed the visit you had with him last time you were looking forward to today's visit. However, that feeling quickly dissipated, when Luitenenent Riley came in with a bad attitude and short tone. You had no time for this today, you think you even returned that same energy. So the visit was short and he left with a slammed door following behind him.

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Lunchtime came around and you were most definitely looking forward to it. After a long day, that wasn't even over, all you wanted to do was eat. You grab your book and sit in your designated corner to eat in the loud cafeteria.

You feel relaxed when you start eating and open up your book. The loud cafeteria with the chatter of men and women surrounds you. It's kind of calming when you think about it. The laughs, small talk, and clattering cutlery fade in the background around you. This is just what you need after such a long and tiresome day. 

You try to focus on your book but then you are interrupted by someone clearing their throat.

“Is this seat taken?” You glance up from your book, you find him standing there, his presence commanding attention even in the busy room. Lieutenant Riley is looking down at you with a food tray in his hands. He refers to the seat across from you and you shake your head no. You try to avoid eye contact when he sits down, still feeling annoyed from earlier. 

He lifts his balaclava over his mouth and you both eat in silence. There’s a growing tension around you both. 

You eat your food and busy yourself with your book, however you can feel him looking at you. He ate in silence, his eyes occasionally meeting yours before darting away.

It was irritating.

Earlier he was being rude and barely talking to you and now he was acting timid, the audacity. You started to pick up the pace and eat your lunch faster.

Then he interrupted his silence with his deep sultry voice.

“I wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier. I was disrespectful to you when you were only trying to help. I'm sorry. I've honestly been sick and tired of sitting around and doing nothing that I took out my anger on you and for that, I apologize.” It sounded like he practiced this. It makes you smile thinking about the Ghost practicing an apology in the mirror. You can just imagine him practicing and it warms your heart that he put this much energy into an apology.

“Thank you for your apology.” You reply in a soft voice.

There was silence for a while but it was interrupted by your voice.

“Um…I know it's hard, not being able to do the things you used to be able to do. I'm sure soon you will be able to get back to your routine and do everything that you want to do… and more. If You need to talk to someone, you can always come and see me. ” You tell him, a bit timidly. All you want to bring comfort to him and reassure him.

“Thank you,” he replies.

“No problem Luitenent” you respond.

“Call me, Simon.”

That was the end of the conversation. There was a soft smile on your face, and you both sat in a comfortable silence, taking quick glances at each other.

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Week 6

This next visit was much more casual than the previous two. Throughout the whole week before this upcoming visit, he’s been stopping by your office. 

In the beginning, he would just stop and say hello and indulge you with some small talk. Nothing more than checking in on you and asking how your day was. However lately, he’s been getting comfortable here. He’s claimed the large decorative leather chair in the corner of your office, closest to your desk. 

He would just sit there and talk to you about anything and everything. Conversations went from favorite foods to his most recent reads to how long you’ve been an RN. 

The other nurses in the building have gotten used to his presence in your office. When they come to visit or drop something off, his presence doesn’t throw them off anymore.  They’re used to the large man sitting comfortably in your office. 

Today was no different, he stopped by in the morning and you both got to chatting. An hour went by when it felt like mere minutes. Time flew by so fast that you almost forgot about his checkup.

“Oh!” You exclaim. “I'm such an idiot, I almost forgot why you were here Simon.” you shoot up from your desk and walk over to the examination table, slapping it twice with a big grin on your face

“Alright Simon, let’s get this over with!” You sell him with a large smile on your face. 

Simon slaps his knees and pushes himself off of the deep and comfortable chair. He makes his way across your office looking at all of the flowers around your office and the Sanrio Characters you have scattered around. 

When he gets to the examination table, just as you're about to move out of the way, he grabs your waist and moves you to the side. He lets his hands linger and he makes eye contact with you as he sits on the chair. 

You're certain he’s smiling under that stupid balaclava.

Cocky bastard. 

You clear your throat and attempt to focus on your work. The checkup only lasts a few minutes, he’s getting so much better. You would be so excited to tell him that he can start getting back to his normal routine, but you're distracted.

Distracted because he’s so touchy. First, he touches your waist, he must know that it has some sort of effect on you because then he touches your clothes. 

During the checkup when you need to do something basic and mindless, he grabs the corner of your coat and rubs yours between his fingers. When you speak to him he’s doing the same with your black scrubs.

“You can start getting back to your regular routine, like training and stuff. Don’t rush it or anything, just …baby steps'' you say, you move yourself to stand in between his legs.

“That right?” He asks but he’s not focused on what you say. He’s focused on your plump lips and you think it’s turning you on. His eyes slowly make their way back to your eyes. 

“Mmmhhh! But nothing too rough.” You reply looking back at him. You feel his hands make their way up your waist. 

“Not even a little rough?” He asks. You both start to lean closer and he takes one hand off of your waist and takes it toward his mask. 

Oh god! What is he doing? Is he going to show his face? Kiss you! Or maybe—

Knock Knock

The loud knock draws your attention away from Simon and you pull yourself away from between his legs.

You clear your throat and attempt to fix yourself even though you two have done nothing. 

“Come in!” You shout, voice cracking a bit. 

One of the more intimidating on-field military nurses enters your office. Unlike you, this nurse is trained for the field and it shows. She is tall with broad muscular shoulders, and she confidently walks into the room with a skeptical look on her face. 

She takes a look at both you and Simon before addressing you. Telling you that your presence is wanted somewhere else. 

“Oh okay… I’ll be there in five ma’am.” You reply and she makes her way out of your office with a raised eyebrow at Simon. 

“Okay, Simon! your next check is in two weeks and that’s your last one, congratulations.” You address Simon trying to make it seem like you don’t remember the moment you two had before you were interrupted. Simon stands and makes his way over to you, stops right in front of you, and towers over you. If he was anyone else you’d give them hell for popping your personal space bubble.

“Alright…Can I see you tomorrow?” he asks, looking down at you. 

“Are you injured?” You ask sarcastically. 

“Got a paper cut. That’s what I get for reading” He shows you his thumb and starts to chuckle. You laugh right along with him. You look up at him and nod, you smile while biting your lip. 

“See you tomorrow Si”

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Week 8

Two months.

He’s known you for two months and he still doesn’t know how to act around you. This past month he’s seen you almost every day constantly visiting you. He feels like every day he’s getting to know you better and better. You’re a genius, graduating high school and college early which explains why you're so young. You love this little Japanese cat thing that’s called Hello Kitty. Your favorite flowers are tulips, and that’s something that stuck out to him. 

Tulips stuck out so much that he used his last day of time off to go out off base and buy you some. Today is his last official visit with you but he most definitely doesn’t want to make it his last time seeing you. He wants to see you more, a lot more. He wants to see you outside of work, he wants to see you outside your work clothes. He wants to see you in jeans, a dress, in his bed—

He shakes his head, trying to stop himself from thinking like that. It’s disrespectful to you, he hasn’t known you for longer than a couple of months, and he can’t think about you that way. 

It’s hard not thinking like that. He thinks about his third visit with you, when you both were rudely interrupted. He thinks about what your waist feels like, what your face looks like. He thinks about it often, especially at night–

He cringes at himself, he feels like a teenage boy who’s never touched a woman. 

He tries to distract himself by looking at the tulips he bought for you. They’re closed and pink with long green stems. They’re beautiful just like you. He doesn’t understand, how someone can be so effortlessly beautiful. 

When you wear makeup or no makeup: beautiful. When you have your hair down and natural, sleek and bone straight, or up in braids, buns, or a scarf: beautiful. He can’t begin to comprehend it. 

Not only are you beautiful on the outside you have the personality of a goddess. You’re kind and compassionate but not afraid to snap back when someone gets out of line. That’s what makes him nervous, the doubts start flooding his mind. 

He’s still staring at the tulips when Soap enters his room. Unannounced. 

Soap comes into his quarters and scatters around the room. He looks in draws and under furniture, he's scattering stuff around as if he lives here. He is tossing his stuff around and looking in places he shouldn't be. Ghost hasn't even looked up, hasn't even acknowledged his presence. Ghost rolls his eyes so far back into his head when he hears Johnny whining to himself. 

“What’re ya lookin’ for Johnny?” He inquires in an irritated tone. 

“Lookin’ for my char–” He cuts himself off as finally looks up at Simon. He sees Simon slouched over his bed looking at the pot with pretty pink tulips and a wide, knowing, mischievous grin appears on his face. He looks like the Cheshire cat.

“Look at you Simon, those for that bird you've become so fond of…”

“Watch it Johnny” Ghost finally looks up, he's not pleased. Johnny continues like a mindless, careless, idiot.

“I've heard the rumors, some field nurse says she saw you two in her office…alone. Good on you Riley. Yer getting old now, ya deserve something like that. Herd shes a beauty too. ” He laughs obnoxiously at his own jokes. He slaps Ghost on the hard on his back and continues searching around his room

Ghost sits in silence for a while, thinking about Johnny’s words, he knows that he is joking, he’s not serious.

‘“Whatdya mean by I deserve something like that?” He finally inquires, the question was practically running around his mind. Johnny continued searching around the room as he answered his question.

“Well you know, ya have had a hard life. Yer always helping people, always trying to be the best, and ya never really had that soft life. I know ya don't think it but yer a good man and you deserve a good woman. We don't live forever so think ya should take the risk and do what you have to do… Are you sure you don't have my charger? He asked after giving some of the most meaningful advice that he'd ever heard.

“Get out,” he replied annoyed by his short attention span.

“Maybe Gaz has it,” he says and leaves the room as if nothing happened.

Those words resonate with Simon and he thinks about them for a long time. The time of the appointment was getting closer and closer. He couldn't stop thinking about it, about what he was going to say to you. He wanted to make it meaningful, he wanted to ask you out on a date. 

He wanted your friendship to continue and he wanted your relationship to grow and become more and more personal. He hasn't done this in a long time and he wanted it to mean something. 

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15 minutes.

He had 15 minutes to figure out what the hell he was going to do.

As he made his way down the familiar hallway toward your office, every step seemed to quicken the pace of his heartbeat. The clock was counting down, each second would go by, getting closer to the moment. In his hands, he held a bouquet of vibrant tulips. He knows that he is catching the eyes of the people around him but each person he passed seemed to fade into the background.

It felt like when he visited you the first time, his hands were sweating and he was nervous. He says ‘hello’ to the woman at the front desk. Even though her attitude has always been rude and uptight however he thanks her every day for sending him to office number 222. The number that completely changed his life.

Now, standing just a few steps away from your door, his mind blanked, and his carefully rehearsed words were completely forgotten. Doubt starting to flood his veins. His hands are sweating again, and his heart is beating a mile a minute. He doesn't know if he can do this, he feels like it is a mistake but his feet won't stop. 

They won't stop because even though his brain is telling him to stop, his heart won't let him.

It's been years since he's ever felt this nervous, he felt like he was going to have a heart attack. He finally arrives in front of your door and holds the flowers behind his back. He gets ready to knock and says a silent prayer to whoever or whatever higher being is listening.  

He knocks.

He waits a beat and then he hears your beautiful voice say “Come on in.”

Right as you say that without thinking Simon impulsively rips off his balaclava off his face and opens the door. He watches as you slowly look up and he swears he sees a natural glow around you. 

“Hi, how can I help you?”

He doesn't respond, instead, he slowly brings the tulips to his front and presents them to you with a soft smile. You look at the man and he watches as you raise an eyebrow, it's like he can see the clogs turning in your head. Then he sees the pieces being put together in your head and your face lights up.

“Simon?” You ask with a gorgeous smile.

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giggling and kicking my feet

[corazondebeskar-reads]

the art of breaking (dark!joel miller x f!reader; dead dove do not eat)

the art of breaking part one | part two

very dark!Joel Miller x f!reader

Word Count: 10k

Summary: Your meeting is happenstance, but everything that follows? Well, that’s all Joel. He just knows you’re going to be his perfect little toy. He just has to show you how.

written for the #deaddovedecember2023 event hosted by @romana-after-dark | also on ao3 | dedicating this to @kewwrites, who is a master and icon of unsettling-but-still-romantic dark fic & whose incredible vibes made me feel brave enough to write this. love you ty 🖤

dividers by @saradika-graphics

NOTE: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

Seriously, I am saying this as clearly as I can: read the warnings carefully. If anything listed is something you don’t want to read, don’t. The working title for this was “the darkest joel” for a reason (and I actually tamed it down/cut out some of the intense scenes). It’s modern-day/no outbreak, but Joel still lost Sarah and went off the deep end. He was probably a good dom at some point, but now he’s just fucked up.

If you're worried it'll be too dark, it probably will be.

Warnings under the cut:

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, non-con, dub-con, very dark!Joel, BAD bdsm etiquette, not SSC/RACK compliant, sadist!Joel x masochist!reader, coercion, corruption, manipulation, isolation, gaslighting, captivity, sadism, masochism, pain play, extreme punishment, semi-permanent damage (a bone is broken, I’m not fucking around), whipping, spanking, face slapping, tit slapping, impact play in general, mentions of vomit (no description), oral, anal, vaginal, degradation, humiliation, overstimulation, edging, denial, dacryphilia, bastinado (mentioned), restraints, very brief knifeplay, tiny drop of blood play, Joel sees reader as property, inadequate aftercare 

Again, I cannot say this enough. This is a dark fantasy and should not be taken as representative of a good d/s relationship—it’s abuse masquerading. Just because I wrote it doesn’t mean I’m condoning it. 

Please read responsibly. 

I. in media res

     -the fracture

There’s one comfort Joel almost never denies you.

Well, never denies himself.

Unless you’ve been real bad, you always take your place in bed with him at the end of the day. You think it’s so he has easy access to you if he wakes up horny, but honestly, that happens a lot less than expected. He works hard all day; he needs his sleep.

No, he likes the comfort of your warm body next to his. The way you curl up and press kisses to him, no matter how bad he hurt you during the day. His sweet little pet, desperate for every bit of his affection you can earn. He’s always gentle with you here.

It’s part of what makes The Pit so effective.

It fucks with your brain on so many levels, exposes you to so many fears, and then you have to reconcile that you were bad enough for Joel to deny himself the comfort of you in his arms at night. That you’re so undeserving of his love.

Of all of the ways he punishes you, this will be the worst. You can take the humiliation, the pain—not easily, but you can, and there’s usually immediate care after.

But a night in The Pit will tear you down completely.

You hadn’t known what to expect when he said you’d have to spend the night alone, but it wasn’t this.

“No, please,” you scream, stumbling to keep up as Joel pulls you by your hair.

“Shut up,” he snarls.

The soil is loose, clinging to your sweat as you try to right yourself. It’s a futile effort. When you reach The Pit, he holds you down with his boot on your chest while he unlocks and opens the bars.

“Get in,” he says.

You’re sobbing and shaking, skin already gone cold. Somehow, you manage to obey.

The Pit is exactly what it sounds like. It has an open wooden frame with mesh on the side walls to keep the dirt in place. The bottom is bare soil. Mounted to the top of the beams is a grate of bars that sit flush with the ground.

It’s big enough for you to curl up at the bottom—which is what you do now.

“I’m sorry,” you cry.

He shuts and locks the gate.

II. from the start

     -intact

It was kismet, really, that he was there that night. He didn’t usually go out for drinks with the guys, not wanting to be the boss who was always cramping their style. But Tommy had dragged him out tonight, and so he was witness (with the rest of the pub) to your relationship falling apart.

And okay, maybe he went outside for a smoke after you moved the fight to the alley so he could eavesdrop. But it wasn’t his fault. How could he not?

You had said, “Maybe you’re just not man enough for me,” to the brawny but pathetic prick across from you in the booth. “Wanting you to be rough doesn’t make me a freak.”

“That’s not rough; that’s fuckin’ abuse. You’re sick,” your boyfriend had practically shouted.

The discussion evolved into a screaming match in the alley, where Joel had been pleased to be right. It was about more than just a little rough sex or spanking.

At the end of it, your boyfriend stormed off, and you went back in the pub. Joel found you at the bar, throwing back another shot and wiping your tears away.

“You did good back there,” he says.

You startle and look at the stranger. The very handsome stranger. Rugged, with a salt and pepper beard and a scar across his nose.

“What do you mean?”

“Standin’ up for yourself. Not a lot of people woulda been confident enough. ‘Specially not a girl lookin’ for that.”

You glare at the bar counter. “M’not a weirdo.”

“Nah, you’re not. Shit like that is perfectly normal. He’s just pathetic.”

You look back up at him, and he sticks one hand in his pocket, trying to adjust himself discreetly. The tear streaks on your cheeks are getting to him.

“I don’t know. He’s probably right. It’s not your garden variety shit,” you say. The tequila and his gentle eyes have loosened your tongue.

“I doubt that. Try me,” he says.

“What?”

“Try me. Tell me what he freaked out over, and I’ll tell ya if it’s weird. Trust me, I’ve seen it all.”

You hesitate, but he looks genuine and kind. “I asked him to hit me. Like, in the face. And to, y’know, pin me down and—” you trail off.

“And make ya take it?” he guesses.

You nod. “He thought I like, I dunno, actually wanted to be raped,” you whisper the last word, eyes darting to the people around you.

Joel laughs. “Honey, that’s so normal, you wouldn’t believe. I’ve helped ladies out with that little roleplay more times than I can count. If that’s your deepest, darkest fantasy, and he couldn’t take it, then you’re better off without him.”

“It’s not,” you mumble.

“Speak up, honey.”

“It’s not my deepest, darkest fantasy. It’s probably one of the least of them.”

He grins. “Then you’re definitely better off. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with likin’ things on the darker side, sweetheart.”

You’re feeling hot all over and are about to ask him more when your phone rings. It’s your idiot boyfriend, who’s realized you have the car keys.

“I better go. Thank you,” you say, standing and offering him your hand.

He gives it a firm shake, tipping his head. “I’m Joel. And if you’re ever so inclined, I’d like to take you out sometime.”

You laugh. “Let me break up with my boyfriend first, Joel.” But you dig a pen out of your purse and write your number on one of the tiny bar napkins.

Your first date was so normal. You’re not sure what you expected. To jump right to hardcore sex?

But no, he turns up at your door in a neatly pressed green button-up, black slacks, and an ostentatious belt buckle. He greets you with a kiss on the cheek and a bouquet of wildflowers, lavender stalks nestled between pink honeysuckle and red salvia. Not a traditional arrangement, but it reminds you of a summer sunset.

“From my garden,” he says a little sheepishly, but you like them a lot better than some generic store display. You tell him as much and his cheeks flush a little.

You return the kiss and pop the flowers in a vase of water before he sweeps you off in his pickup. You aren’t surprised, really, but it’s more charming than some of the other men and their gaudy trucks.

Joel’s is older but well-kept, with minimal rusting around the wheel wells. The bed is open, and you can see streaks of grease and paint spills. A silver tool chest is mounted against the back of the cab. Everything inside and out has a light coating of sawdust.

He isn’t some insecure man with a truck big enough to make up for what isn’t in his britches, that’s for certain. You’d hazard a guess that the corded muscle of his forearms and the breadth of his shoulders are well-earned.

He holds the door open for you, which you tease him for as you slide onto the truck’s bench seat.

“Ain’t doin’ it ‘cause you’re incapable,” he drawls. “Or because you’re a lady,” he adds when he sees the glint in your eye.

“Oh yeah, cowboy?”

His grin is lopsided, a little dark. “Nah. I just think you deserve to be taken care of, s’all.”

You flush, the back of your neck burning, but you don’t fight the smile that threatens to break out. “Thank you, Joel.”

He shakes his head. He’s pretty sure, now, that if he plays his cards right, he’s found somethin’ special.

He waits three whole dates to take you to bed, and even then, it doesn’t start dirty.

“Let me get to know your body first, baby,” he urges when you ask him to fuck you rough. Instead, he takes you apart piece by piece. First with his tongue, and then his fingers. He brings you to the edge over and over, but never lets you fall.

After a while, you’re a broken record, pleas and sobs spilling from you.

“That’s music to my ears, darlin’,” he says, pulling his fingers out abruptly to see how your cunt throbs for him. He spits on your clit and watches it drip down to join the mess between your thighs.

“Please, please, Joel,” you beg.

“Please who now?”

“Please, sir,” you try, and are rewarded with his sharp grin. But not with an orgasm.

He slaps your cunt. “That’s more like it, baby. You remember who you’re talkin’ to, alright?”

You nod. “Yes, sir; thank you, sir.”

He shakes his head, sucking on your clit for a moment before pulling back to get a good look at you. “You do like a little pain, huh?”

“Would like more,” you say.

“Oh yeah? What would you let me do to you?”

“Anything, please, sir.”

He clicks his tongue at you. “Don’t go sayin’ that to someone you barely know. It’s okay to mean it when you trust somebody, but you’re gonna end up in more trouble than you bargain for if you pass that out like candy.”

“I do mean it.”

“Yeah? You’ll let me do this?” His open palm smacks across your face, leaving a sting tingling on your cheek and a lightness to your brain.

Tears spring to your eyes, but you nod frantically.

“What about this?” he grabs a nipple in his calloused fingers and yanks, twisting.

You yelp, but it trails off to a moan, and you nod.

“Goddamn, baby. S’good. But what about this?” He flicks open the switchblade he keeps in his pocket.

You jerk and whine, eyes wide and wet as he brings it to your breast. Your breathing falls shallow as you try to hold still, the point scraping the delicate skin as he circles it. But the look you’re giving him almost has him cumming in his pants like he were twenty years younger.

“Fuck, you weren’t kidding. I mean, you’ve gotta have limits; everyone does. But you just want me to hurt you, huh?” He digs the tip of the blade in a little on the side of your breast, cock throbbing as you gasp, and you both watch a tiny drop of blood bead and trickle down the blade.

He puts it away. “No,” he says when you whimper. “Not today. I ain’t prepared for all that.”

Joel doesn’t like to break his toys. Not permanently. Just enough that he can put them back together how he likes and then do it all over again.

“Don’t need to be prepared; just do it,” you whine.

He slaps you again and wrenches your head up with a hand in your hair. “First of all, I fuckin’ told you no. Second, I know you want to be a stupid little cunt for me, but I’m not about to cut you open without any goddamn first aid shit.”

He leans back and smacks the breast he had cut. He hits you over and over, alternating sides, until your chest burns, and you’re sobbing.

He looks you over briefly and then shoves his hand between your thighs. “You’re wetter than a slip ‘n slide, baby.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, and wipes the tears from your cheek with his thumb. He feels your cunt twitch when he brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks it clean.

It’s the last straw for him. He’s not opened you enough, but he has a feeling you’ll like it better this way anyway.

You cry out, back arching when he shoves into you. He meant to go slow, he really did, if only to drag out the anticipation. But you’re so warm. So wet. So he just stuffs himself inside.

It’s not that he doesn’t believe you love the pain; it’s just that he can’t resist feeling the evidence for himself. He slaps you across the face while you’re still processing his cock, and the resulting clench and jerk of your body drag a moan from him.

He holds back, regulates his urge to pull each whimper and scream from you, but it’s still so fucking good. It’s been a long time since he’s doled out real cruelty to a slut like you who loves to suffer.

When he finally lets you cum, it’s when he’s about to. He pulls out and spanks your cunt, granting his permission. As your pussy flutters desperately around nothing, he cums on it, watching the way it gets prettier as he paints it.

You black out for a minute. When you come to, he’s wiping you down gently with a warm washcloth, wicking the sweat off your face and chest before cleaning his cum from your curls. You whimper, and he grins, leaning over to steal a kiss.

Even after that first night, he goes slow. He can’t scare ya, not while you still have someplace to run. Plus, it’s so much easier if he starts planting the seeds for your training now.

He knows you’ll beg for it, anyway. He’s been getting the nastiest text messages from you. Part of it is the dopamine; he’s not stupid. But part of you really wants this shit. And the rest? Well. You’ll get there.

It’s the little things. He orders you a black decaf at the drive-thru when you ask for a latte. You start to correct him, like you think he’s made a mistake, but he gives you a look, and you shut your mouth immediately.

When he pulls away from the speaker, you look over at him again. “Sorry,” you mumble.

“Sorry…?”

You squirm a little, heart pounding, unsure if he’s really doing this at the Dunkin’ Donuts. “Sorry, sir.”

He smiles and rubs his hand on your thigh where it peeks out from your skirt. “Thanks, baby.”

And that’s all it takes. You take the cup when he hands it to you and you’re quick to say, “Thank you, sir,” even though the kid at the window is still passing things through to Joel and can clearly hear you.

     -fissured

It goes on like that for a couple of months, but it doesn’t all go so smoothly. One night, he picks you up from work and takes you to a restaurant, saying he wants to treat you. Halfway through the meal, he asks for your panties.

“What?” you say, shocked at his vulgar language in the dining room.

“Take ‘em off and hand ‘em to me.”

You go to stand, probably thinking you can go to the bathroom to obey.

He shakes his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Right here, right now, baby.”

“Joel,” you hiss, sitting back down, “I can’t do that.”

He fixes you with a calm smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, raising one finger in the air. “I’ll give ya three choices. The first one, the one I’m going to advise you pick, is that you do it right now, and I’ll only punish ya for talkin’ back.”

“The second one,” he holds up another finger for emphasis, “is you can go to the bathroom to take ‘em off, but you’re gonna pay for it when we get home. The third one is where you don’t listen, we leave right now, and you learn to fuckin’ regret it.”

Your breathing is shallow, and your pretty eyes are shining. If he wasn’t fully hard before, he is now.

“I-I can’t,” you whimper. “Please, sir.”

“You got about thirty seconds to make up your mind.” The softness is gone—from his voice, from his face, from the set of his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you whisper, and you stand up. You’re only in the bathroom for a minute, and when you sit back down, you try to hand them to him under the table.

“Nah, that was only a choice if you were good,” he says, smirking and laying his expectant hand on the white linens.

Mortified, you ball them up tight in your fist and press them into his hand. He slides them into his pants pocket.

He doesn’t say anything else about it for the rest of dinner, asking instead about your projects at work and your visit with your parents over the holidays. You feel sick, barely eating a thing, and biting your lip to stave off the tears.

As soon as you’re in the truck, you start to cry. “I’m sorry, I was just scared and—”

“Shut up. You made your choice. You’re not sorry. You’re just afraid of the consequences.”

“N-no, I am sorry, I mean it.”

“You’re gonna have to prove it.” He doesn’t look at you on the drive home, doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t even turn the radio on; just listens to you sniffle.

When he parks, he sets his hand on your thigh. “Don’t worry, baby. I know you can be my good girl. All you gotta do is take your punishment and learn from it, okay?”

You sniffle again and nod, blinking through tear-laden lashes at him.

“So pretty when you cry for me,” he murmurs. He gets out and comes around to open your door, offering a hand to help you step down from the tall truck. You take it, and he holds on, leading you inside his house.

He sits sprawled on the couch, thighs parted wide to make room and waits until you’re comfortably kneeling between his legs. You’re sat in silence, head bowed, arms folded behind your back.

“Tell me what you did wrong today.”

This is a first, but not a last. Even on days when nothing egregious has happened, you will follow this ritual. He’ll ask for your sins, and you’ll confess. There will always be something you’ll owe him for.

“I argued when you gave me orders. I was disobedient.”

“Anything else I need to know about, baby?”

“No, sir.”

“Why’d you argue?”

“I was afraid. I’m sorry.”

“Save your grovelin’ for after, baby. Why were you afraid?”

“I didn’t want people to see. I didn’t want to get kicked out or arrested.”

“You think I’d let anything happen to you? You think I would have given you an order that put either of us at any kinda risk?”

Your face burns. “I—”

“I thought you trusted me.” He sounds hurt, and you’re a little nauseous when you look up to see his eyes wide and sad, lips turned into a wounded scowl.

Your shoulders slump. “I didn’t think. I panicked.”

“Hmm. Okay, I can work with that.”

You look up at him, brow scrunched and lips pouting as you try to parse his words.

He smiles. It’s cold, and his eyes are steel.

You swallow hard, and his grin widens, quirking into a smirk.

“Alright, baby. I got just the thing.”

He leads you into the ensuite. You kneel on the little rug by the tub while he fills it. You’re too afraid to ask what’s happening, so you just sit quietly. He leaves the room and doesn’t come back until the tub is nearly full, and you’re starting to worry that you were supposed to be monitoring it.

He comes back in, and once it’s nearing the lip of the tub, he turns off the faucet. He has you kneel on the top of the three steps leading up to the edge. It’s the most luxurious thing in this house, and you suspect he installed it custom so he could soak his aching muscles.

He bends you over the edge so you’re leaning close to the water and crouches down behind you. It’s a pleasant surprise when he spreads you wide and licks from your clit to your asshole.

He stays there for a few minutes, indulging in your wet cunt and the cries it draws from your lips. After he’s had his fill, he stands up and lubes up his cock before pushing his way into your ass. He’s generous with the lube but rarely preps you, since you both like it better when it hurts.

You’re writhing a little beneath him, wriggling your hips to try to ease the passage. Once he’s fully seated inside you, he grabs the back of your head and shoves it under the water before fucking hard into you.

You thrash, displacing water from the tub, until he yanks you back up.

You gasp for air and scrabble to get a grip on the wet tile, but he pushes you back down and groans at how tight you get while you’re struggling.

He pulls you roughly back up. “Gonna keep going until you stop makin’ a fuss.”

You go to protest, to panic, and he pushes you back down.

The next time he pulls you out, he spanks you until your skin is burning. “Fuckin’ trust me. You think I’m gonna let you drown?”

“No, sir,” you cry, but it’s garbled as he pushes you back down. You’re still fighting him each time.

He pulls you back out and repeats the beating. “Relax, or we’re gonna be here all night.”

He continues the process a few more times and then gives you a reprieve, letting go of your hair so you can rest your cheek against the cold edge of the tub while he pounds into you. He reaches and rubs featherlight circles around your clit until you’re softly moaning.

“You gonna trust me?”

“I’m trying, my body panics,” you pant.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to ya. You hear me? You know you’re panicking, so focus on me instead.”

“Yes, sir.”

It shouldn’t make sense, but you think he’s long warped your brain anyway. The next time he pushes you underwater, you clench your fists tight and focus on what oxygen you do have, even if he knocks a little out with each thrust.

His hand in your hair is your anchor and buoy. You tense when you feel your body start to jerk, trying so hard to control it.

He pulls you up. “Just like that, baby. Again.”

It gets just a little easier each time. He leaves you under longer, until your lungs are burning, and you’re on the edge of gasping in water, but he pulls you out in time.

“Fuck, you’re doing so well.” He’s a little fascinated. He hadn’t really been sure it could be done or if your survival instincts would go into a frenzy. But here you are, letting him almost fucking drown you.

Not that he would.

Despite being balls deep in your tight little asshole, he isn’t trying to reach his orgasm. Not yet, staving off his pleasure so he can keep a clear head.

He keeps it up just a little longer. You’re getting tired and tolerating less and less time underwater. The last time he pulls you up, he pinches your clit and tells you to cum while he fills you.

He dunks you again while you cum, and you clamp down on him tighter than you have before, convulsing on his cock. When he pulls you back up, you’re gasping and sobbing. He pulls out and wraps you in a towel, easing you to the wet floor while he cleans up.

When he comes back to you, he helps you stand and dry off, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“So?”

Your brow furrows. It’s not what he usually asks after a punishment, but you think you know what he means. “I’m sorry. I trust you, I promise.”

“I know. M’so proud of you for taking that. You’re turning out so nicely, sweet thing.”

In the morning, you’re almost late to work after sucking him off when you should have been getting dressed. He’s about to walk out the door to head to the site when he hears your frustrated voice from the bedroom.

“Joel, where are my underwear? I need to fuckin’ leave.”

“I told you, baby. There was a price to pay when you picked the bathroom. Y’ain’t wearing ‘em anymore.”

“What?”

He doesn’t need to see you to smirk at the shocked expression he knows is on your face. “We’ll talk about it more tonight; I gotta run.”

     -avulsed

“Y’know, baby,” Joel says, leaning forward to rub your shoulder. “They just don’t fuckin’ appreciate you.”

You’re bent over, elbows on your knees, crying with your face buried in your hands. You sit up and sniffle, wiping the tears. “It’s fine; it’s not like I need to be coddled at work.”

All the stress of the PR world is getting to you, and you hate it, you fucking hate it, but you dropped 50k on a degree, so now you’re stuck.

“But they make you work all this overtime, cut your team in half, and then berate you when you can’t meet the client’s deadline? You do not deserve that, baby.”

You let him coax you into his lap, facing him so you can bury your face in his soft, worn tee. He rubs your back and holds your head to his chest.

“You’re too good to me,” you mumble.

“Nah, darlin’, I’ve told ya a thousand times. You deserve to be taken care of.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I, well. I was thinkin’...”

You wait, but when he doesn’t pick back up, you sit up and look at him.

“I dunno. It’s nothin’,” he says.

“Please tell me?”

“Alright, fine. Now, I don’t want ya to feel any pressure. It’s just a thought. But maybe you should just quit and stay with me a while, ‘till you can find something better?”

You can’t tell if he’s joking. He must see something on your face, because he tips your chin up so you’re looking into his eyes.

“I know it’s sudden, but I mean it. Let me take care of ya while you figure shit out. We don’t gotta treat it like living together if y’ain’t ready. But I’d be open to that conversation, too.”

It doesn’t take much more than that. The first couple weeks, he lets you give it a try—searching for new degree programs, applying for jobs you know you’re overqualified for just to try something different.

After nothing pans out, he suggests you both take a week off. Him from work and you from the burden of trying to escape unemployment. Just relax, like a little staycation.

It’s bliss. You go on dates, eat pizza and marathon the “Jurassic Park” movies, and fuck like crazy.

On the third night, he sits you down. On his cock, of course. While you’re bouncing and brainless, he cups your cheek. “Baby, you’ve been too damn stressed still. What if we… well, what if we tried out a day or two like we’ve been talking about?”

Sometimes, you whisper to him in the darkness, usually while he’s balls deep, how you wish you could be his all the time. His good girl. His pet. And he whispers back, lures you right in with promises of taking care of everything, of you not having a worry or care in the world. Just him.

Now, he fondles your tits while he murmurs to you. “We can just wake up together, and I can take care of ya. Everything you need, baby. All you’d have to do is be good for me, yeah?”

You moan and grind down harder on his cock. “Please, sir. I want it more than anything. Just to be yours.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

Joel had no patience for brats, so he usually broke his toys in sooner into the training process. He liked ‘em nice and obedient—scared, if that’s what it took, but devoted. But you had been from the start—you wanted to be good in all the ways you could never seem to be to other people. Your family, your job, the world seemed to just demand more and more.

Joel was the first person to make you feel like you had actually, really, truly pleased him. There wasn’t a higher mark you should have made. There wasn’t any expectation for you to give more and more.

His orders were complete, always. You learned that very quickly. Attempts to go above and beyond were rebuked.

“If I wanted that, I woulda said so,” he told you. And like everything else, you committed his words to memory.

It helped that he gave praise freely. You didn’t have to wonder if he was satisfied, if you should have licked him differently, if you should have made prettier faces while you came. He reassured you until you believed him, and then kept going anyway.

It made it easier for him to slowly peel you away from the ungrateful world.

“You don’t have to take that,” he’d say after watching your face fall further and further while on the phone with your mom. “Family ain’t supposed to make you feel like shit.”

They made it too easy, really, and your relationship with them would have likely just fizzled out. But in the end, he had to step in and snap it off.

You asked him to come with you to dinner at their house. He was hesitant. He wasn’t really the boyfriend type. He wasn’t really even your boyfriend. That was too weird a word for either of you, not when he owned you.

But he knows you didn’t want to go alone, and he has a feeling he’ll be cleaning up the mess anyway.

You want to give them a chance. Things have been so tense, and they said they missed you. But they didn’t even make it through the entrée without ridiculing you.

When your father asks how work is going, you quietly confess to quitting, hastily reassuring them that you are looking for a new position. Though, and you keep this part to yourself, you maybe haven’t been trying that hard.

“What do you mean you quit? How are you paying your bills? You better not have come here to ask for money,” your father says, setting down his fork to glare at you.

“Well, I’ve been living with Joel,” you mumble to the tablecloth.

“I didn’t raise you to be a gold digger,” your mother chides.

Joel tries to bite his tongue and let them dig their own graves. But your father calls you a “fucking whore,” and he can’t stand it. Can’t stand the way you’re cowering in your chair, fighting back tears.

“You watch your mouth,” Joel snaps at your father.

You look up, mouth agape, eyes darting from Joel to your parents.

“Mind your business,” your dad tells him.

Joel stands up and throws his napkin on the table. “She is my fuckin’ business. I wouldn’t stand by and let anyone talk to her like that. You’re not an exception just because you managed to get it up long enough to cum in your wife.”

“Joel,” you whisper, tugging at his sleeve. You’re burning, melting on the spot, from the vulgar way he’s talking to them. For him, someone who’s always strict about manners and proper hospitality, to talk back like this? God, you think, he must really love you.

He puts a hand on the back of your neck and holds firmly as you lean into it. He rounds back on your parents. “You treat her like fuckin’ dirt beneath your feet, and I’m tired of it. You don’t deserve the fuckin’ dirt beneath her feet.”

He shoves his chair back and grabs your hand. “C’mon, baby; we’re leaving.”

You take it and stand up, letting him pull you along. Your father follows you into the foyer, and you try not to look at him while you shove your shoes on.

Joel holds your coat out while you slip into it, and you tune out whatever your dad is yelling now. You don’t want to hear it; you know it’s nasty, and your whole world has narrowed to Joel anyway.

He holds out the key. “Go wait in the truck, baby.”

And you do.

He comes out about five minutes later, red-faced and huffing with fury. He doesn’t say a word when he gets in; just throws the truck into reverse and pulls away. You both ignore the blood on his knuckles.

Once you’re on the road, he looks over at you and sighs. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

You unbuckle and slide over to the middle seat, tucking your hand between his warm body to curl around his arm. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Whaddya sorry for? None of that was your fault.” He kisses the top of your head and cups your cheek at the stoplight. “It was gonna happen eventually, anyway.”

“Thank you.”

The rest of the ride home is silent while you breathe in his comforting musk and try to relax. But the tension is unrelenting, the horrible rotting feeling eating away at your spine.

He knows. Knows what you need, knows what he can do to seal this moment forever. He waits until he’s unzipping the pretty little cocktail dress you’d stressed over.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, breaking away from where he was sucking his claim down your neck to swap out your delicate necklace with his collar.

He unhooks the bra and kisses the marks he left behind with the cane, your penance for being allowed to wear it. It leaves you bare to him, and his hands turn greedy. He presses biting kisses against your lips while digging fingers into your bruises, swallowing your whimpers.

He grabs you by the neck and squeezes the sides of your throat, holding you to him while your vision blurs. When he lets go, you stumble, but his arm around your back holds you upright. He slaps your face with quick, sharp blows in rapid succession to keep you unsteady.

“Knees, hands behind your head,” he says, and lets go.

You fall but are quick to right yourself and take the position. He wastes no time, giving you another harsh smack before grabbing your hair and shoving his cock into your throat.

You choke and gag but keep your hands in place even as your head spins. You feel limp and grateful that he doesn’t seem to require any effort from you as he uses you without mercy.

“Look at you. You’ve got my whole cock down your throat. You’re so fuckin’ good for me.”

Your eyes are already glazed over, and you moan your appreciation around him.

He pulls out and hauls you to your feet. “I know what you need, sweetheart. Get your ass downstairs.”

He fucks you, beats you, uses you wherever he wants. But the basement is where he keeps the heavy equipment and where you know you’re about to have your mind and body pushed to the absolute limit.

You’re ready, he thinks, when he gets down and finds you waiting perfectly in place for him, eyes wide like he’s descended from on high. He jerks a thumb to the wooden post, and you meet him there.

“Forget about what they want you to be,” he murmurs as he closes the steel cuffs around your ankles. “You know what you want, baby. Right?”

“Mhm,” you nod, already slipping away into that safe place only Joel can get you to.

“What do you want to be?” he asks, binding your arms up over your head to the eye bolt at the top of the post.

“Yours.” It’s half-whisper, half-whine.

“Yeah? You just wanna be mine? You don’t want to get a new job?”

“No,” you finally confess. “But—”

“But what, baby? If you say somethin’ about money or bills, I’m gonna be mighty unhappy.”

You bite your lip. “I’m scared one day, you’ll wake up and not want me anymore.”

“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said, sweetheart. You think I put all this work into helpin’ you, into teaching you how to be mine, just to toss ya out? You’re hurtin’ my feelings.”

“I’m sorry,” you say automatically.

He slides a silicone cock into the bracket lined right up with your mouth. It’s a fairly standard size, since he knows you’re going to thrash around and doesn’t want you gagging too much and throwing up.

Your torso gets tied to the post by your tits, the wood nestled between them and rope woven around. Securing you there forces your head onto the toy, but he doesn’t make you take it all the way. You keep your mouth open and don’t move closer or further, waiting for his command.

“Suck on it whenever you’d like. You’re going to need it.”

Your eyes roll back a little at his promise. If he thinks you’re going to need something in your mouth to self-soothe, you’re in for an absolutely amazing time.

“Focus on me. That’s all you’ll need to do from now on, baby. No more worries in that pretty little head, okay?”

The first strike is a warm-up. When you feel the lash of his favorite whip lick your ass, you moan. It’s a moderately short signal whip that he wields like a fucking pro. His warmups are quick but thorough, and you’re squirming when he moves on to your thighs and shoulders.

“Already?” he says, laughing when you whine around the silicone cock.

You’re absentmindedly sucking on it when he starts a harsher assault. A particularly sharp strike stings at the valley where your ass meets your thighs, and you yelp, jerking a little and gagging yourself on the dildo.

His smirk burns into your back as the cry melts into a moan, and you writhe a little, trying to get friction where you need it most. What you get, though, is the tip of the whip against your cunt.

By the time he moves around to your tits, they’re covered in spit, heaving with the effort of holding back your orgasm. He comes up to you first, and pinches at your nipples.

“Aw, does my dumb little cunt want to cum?” He croons, tugging and twisting until you moan. He laughs when all you can get out is a muffled “mhm.”

“Tell ya what. You can cum all you want while I hurt you tonight, okay?”

He punctuates it with a particularly cruel pinch, and that, combined with his permission, is all you need to let the pleasure shudder through you.

“Yeah? You gonna get off to being my little toy? Gonna let me do whatever I want?”

You moan around the fake cock, easing it further into your throat.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He doesn’t give a warm-up on your tits, figuring you’re already so far gone it doesn’t fuckin’ matter.

He’s right. The first lash is harsh, a welt blooming across the top of your breast in its wake, but you groan, trying to press your cunt up against the post for any relief.

You don’t need it, though. He brings you to your peak again with the skilled flick of his wrist, landing blows across the fat of your breasts. He waits until you’re mid-orgasm to bring the whip hard across your nipples.

The resulting wail almost makes him cum in his pants. He does it only twice more, relishing in your agony, but restraining himself from just letting loose. Not with the whip, as much as he’d like to. Maybe later with a flogger.

Once he’s taken it as far as he’s willing to risk, he moves back around to give the rest of you the same treatment. The hardest hits push you over the edge, and by the time his arm is getting tired, you’re sobbing and writhing in your restraints, overstimulated in every way.

He unlatches your ankles first, helping you find steady footing before untying your wrists and torso. You drop to your knees and open your mouth, throat aching for his cock after the tease of the toy.

He doesn’t have the willpower to torment you by denying it tonight. Instead, he nearly pops the button off his jeans in his urgency to pull his cock out and shove it as far down your throat as he can.

Your arms find their place behind your back, and you just take it. He fucks into you without restraint. It’s filthy, from the mess you’re making to the wet choking sounds he pushes out of you with each thrust.

You’re shaking, and he pulls out abruptly.

“I said while I’m hurting you. You don’t get to just cum from getting facefucked.”

“Then hurt me, please,” you sob. It’s right there; you’re so close.

He slaps you across the face and laughs as you cum, shoving back into your throat while you’re still riding out the aftershocks.

He pulls back out, and you whine until he yanks you up by the bicep and pushes you over to the padded bench, bending you over it and shoving into your sopping cunt.

“Still disappointed?” he teases.

“N-no,” you pant. “Please hurt me.”

“Beg me properly, greedy little cunt.”

You clench around him just at the words, but obey. “Please, sir, please hurt me so I can cum. Please.”

“I’ve been hurtin’ you all night, baby,” he says, voice thick with false pity. “Don’t you want me to be gentle with you now?” He can feel how hard you’re trying not to cum as he mocks you.

“No,” you sob. “No, love me, hurt me, please.”

It’s got an edge of desperation and heartbreak to it that he just loves.

He smacks your already bruising ass until you sob harder, shaking uncontrollably as you cum. He wraps his hands around your throat and fucks you through it until he cums, hips stuttering, and filling your cunt with his spend.

He lets himself collapse a little on top of you, pinning you with his weight against the bench with his softening cock still buried in you. “Feel loved now?”

You’re still crying, and when he folds his arms around your chest, elbows resting on the table, you cling to him. “Love you,” you murmur over and over, pressing kisses up and down his forearms.

He nuzzles his face into your neck, kissing and sucking at you. “I know, baby. You know I love ya.” He’s half-hard—not something that happens a lot anymore at his age, so he’s not gonna waste it. He pulls out just to manhandle you up onto the bench on your back, climbing up between your legs and shoving back in.

It’s a little sloppy until he’s fully hard again; your combined cream making things a little too slippery. Once he’s erect, though, he sets a punishing pace, folding you in half with your legs up by your ears. He works your clit with his hand, relishing in the way you’re fucking exhausted and overstimulated, but your poor clit’s been neglected. It means he can twist and pull on it, tugging until you give him more and more, until you’re sobbing for mercy that you know you’ll never get.

He doesn’t ease up until he pulls out to cum over your tits and face.

“Mine,” he snarls, shoving his fingers into your swollen cunt and feeding you what’s left of his first orgasm and your… well, he’s not really sure how many. A fuckin’ lot. “You’re all mine. Little fuckin’ toy to do whatever I want, right?”

You’re still gasping for breath, having been half-suffocated in that position, but when you look at him, it’s like he’s a fucking god. “Yes, sir.”

     -broken

The day had started out fine.

He’d laid out a dress for you to wear. Sometimes, he made you go around bare for a while, just to fuck with your head a little, but he prefers to unwrap you like a present.

Plus, the sight of you crawling around in nothing but a slutty, barely-there dress is picture-fuckin’-perfect. He’d know; he’s got a bunch of ‘em on his phone.

And crawl, you do. You haven’t been allowed to walk further than a couple of feet in a long time. There’s penance to be paid if you can’t avoid it.

Joel collects your penance whenever possible, gathering what’s owed for your sins and dealing out forgiveness when it's settled. It’s how he shows his love.

And he does love you. How could he not? Such a perfect little toy. He’s spent so much time training you right to be his prized possession.

He knew it’d happen eventually, so when you commit one of the worst offenses, he has to make it count. You were testing your limits, of course; he had expected it. He had expected it months ago. It was worse now, after you’d been so good and earned so much trust. But now that you’d been nothing but his for two months, you had finally fucked up.

Your punishments were never painful. Okay, they weren’t pain-focused. Sometimes, he had to put you over his knee to let his frustration out before he could give you a proper punishment. But the pain wasn’t the point—you both liked it too damn much. No matter how much farther he took it than a regular session, and no matter how sick you were with guilt, you were always a soaking wet mess after a beating.

This time would have to be different, though.

It was time to finally break you.

He knew as soon as he got home. Not the particulars, but that you’d made a huge mistake.

On the surface, nothing was amiss. You were knelt by the door in your pretty little dress, a short number in navy blue. You had your head down and arms folded behind your back in perfect posture.

But something was off. It didn’t feel like you were happy he was home. And he was pretty sure there would only be one reason for that.

He hung up his keys but didn’t bother to take off his shoes, coming to stand in front of you. “What’d you do?”

You flinch and have to re-tense to hold the position as a sob escapes you. Your hands are balled into fists to fight the urge to cover your face. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were sorry. I asked what you did.”

If it were still the early days, when this shit usually happened, he might have been just a little softer. At least until he coaxed the confession from you, anyway. But you were in too deep, now, too entangled in this life that he had little patience for your reticence.

“I—”

“I recommend you spit it out. You’ll tell me in the end, anyway.”

You start to cry. “I can’t say it.”

“You better figure it out pretty fuckin’ fast, little girl.”

“I had an orgasm,” you blurt, whimpers escalating to sobs.

He pauses. It’s worse than he thought. The rush of disappointment and anger sends his heart racing, and his fingers flex in longing for a cane.

“Did you enjoy it?” he says.

It catches you off guard. “No, I promise.”

“That’s too bad, ‘cause it’s the last one you’re gonna have for a while.”

You aren’t surprised; you’re actually relieved. Of course, of course he’ll fix you.

He finally takes his shoes off and sets his phone on the counter, beckoning you to follow him to the living room. Taking his seat on the couch, he waits until you’re settled at his feet.

“Why’d you do that, baby?”

“I-I didn’t mean to. I was edging for the last time today, and I don’t know what happened. It was just there, and I knew it, I knew it was coming, and I—” You choke on the guilt, the grief.

“You what?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t convince myself to stop. I kept thinking ‘no, you stupid cunt,’ but I couldn’t pull my hand away.”

He regards you for a moment. He’s burning inside, but trying to calculate the most effective approach.

“Thank you for telling me right away,” he says, but even though he means it, the words are cold and clipped. “Which hand?”

You look at him, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “What?”

“Which hand did you use? Give it to me.”

You lift up your right hand, and he cradles it in his.

“Listen close.” He waits until he’s sure you’re focused on him, on his words.

This is where things have fallen apart in the past. No amount of training and manipulation can get someone across this hurdle; they have to mean it. The last thing he wants is someone running to the police because they don’t fucking understand how serious he is.

“This is going to be your last chance to back out. I will stop right now and let you pack your shit and leave. But if you stay, you’re agreeing to anything I do to you past this point.”

You bite your lip, stomach churning. “You’re scaring me,” you whisper.

“Good. You should be scared. What you’ve done is one of the worst things you could have. That’s got some serious consequences, baby.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“I gotta hurt you. Bad. Y’ain’t going to like this; I can promise you that. I can’t punish your cunt because you’re such a stupid pain slut; anything short of permanent damage is gonna make you wet. And I’m not lookin’ to do permanent damage.”

Your lip trembles, heart pounding. You’ve never been so afraid, but you’re also enthralled. Lured in by the timbre of his voice and the salvation it’s promising.

He squeezes your hand where he’s still holding onto you. “I’m going to break one of your fingers.”

Your heart falters, blood rushing. “Oh god,” you whisper, shaking your head. Instinctively, you tug back on your hand, but he grasps it tight, tight enough that you feel the bones grind under his large fingers.

“It’s up to you. That’s half the price for forgiveness. The rest is gonna be spending the night alone.”

Somehow, that sounds worse. You can’t breathe.

“Gotta choose, baby. You wanna go? I’ll pay for a cab. You can walk away, but you can’t ever come back.”

You think you might be drowning. Leave? How could you leave? There’s no debate in your head; you have nothing without Joel. Nowhere to go, no one to turn to. And the idea of losing him feels catastrophic.

You’re crying again, and you’re vaguely aware of his soothing voice trying to coach you through breathing. When you focus on him, just like he’s taught you, you start to calm down.

It’s Joel, you think. He’ll take care of you. And he said he didn’t want permanent damage. You just have to suffer for your betrayal and he’ll forgive you.

“I think I might throw up,” you warn him.

He sighs, the fear of losing you flooding away, taking some of his anger with it. “We’ll do it in the bathroom.”

He stands up, and you follow, albeit slowly, as the wave of nausea rises. You do throw up as soon as you get in the bathroom, thankfully making it to the toilet. He holds your hair and rubs his hand across your shoulder blades.

“It’s okay, baby, get it out of your system. You’re being so brave for me,” he croons. He helps you up to sit on the edge of the tub and gets you a little cup of mouthwash.

“I’ll help you brush your teeth after,” he promises. “I’d do it now, but, well. You’re probably going to puke again.”

When you’re done swishing the mouthwash, when it’s all turned to foam and you’ve spit it back in the cup, he swaps you for water. You rinse and spit that, too.

He’s laid a few things out on the counter. You feel dizzy all over again. Something tells you the comfort you feel is wrong, but he’s prepared an ice pack and medical tape, and has four little ibuprofen out next to another cup of water.

The other, louder part of you is whispering, see? He’ll take care of you. The act of wondering what’s wrong with you feels like a farce. You’re thinking it because you think you should, just going through the motions.

He takes off his belt and brings it to your mouth. You clench it between your teeth, letting a shaky breath through. His hand cups your cheek, and you lean into the warmth.

“I knew you were somethin’ special,” he whispers. You’re not sure he meant to.

Your whole body is shaking uncontrollably. He watches you for a moment, worried you’re going to faint, and then sits on the floor with his back against the tub, pulling you into his lap. He lays you back against his chest, caging you in with his arms and thighs. The ice pack sits to his right, already popped and frozen. Waiting.

Gently, he lifts your hand and brings it in front of your chest, taking it in his left. It’s a macabre mockery, the way he cradles it in his palm, fingers wrapped around the sides. In his right hand, he notches his thumb on the knuckle of your middle finger, bringing the other fingers in below it.

He doesn’t drag it out, doesn’t take pleasure in your terror. When he moves, it’s faster than a gunshot. Your scream is raw, breaking free from the spaces between your teeth and the belt. The taste of leather will remind you of this moment for the rest of your life.

He has the ice pack on it before you mentally register that it’s over. You’re sobbing. Horribly, he’s right, and you are sick again. He holds your hair in one fist, holding the ice pack to your mangled hand in the other.

When you’re done, he pulls you back against him, wrapping his limbs around you in a perverse embrace as you shake harder. With his free hand, he brings a damp, cool cloth to your face, cleaning you of the viscera of your sickness.

He’s shushing you, head bent close to your ear. “It’s alright, baby, it’s over. You did so good. I’m so proud. I love you so much.”

It’s good that he doesn’t expect an answer because he doesn’t get one. You’re too lost in the pain and shock.

When it’s time to take a break from the ice, he grabs the medical tape and wraps it around your index and middle fingers. You cry out again as he jostles the break. Once he’s splinted it, he lowers your hand gently to your lap so he can grab the medicine.

“I can’t; I’ll throw up again,” you say, voice cracking.

“Don’t have a choice, baby. Gotta keep the swelling down.”

He feeds you each pill, one by one, chasing them with sips of water.

You look so sad and precious that he almost feels bad. Unfortunately, he’s also rock fucking hard, so he shifts you a little to pull his dick out.

You don’t say anything when he lifts you to lower you on it. He’s careful, trying not to shake you around too much. He was right; you didn’t enjoy this pain. You’ve never been this dry for him before, and you whimper pathetically at the pinch and sting of his girth.

You may be worn out and in agony, but your cunt doesn’t get the message. He grins when he feels you getting wet and clenching around him. He doesn’t push it though, doesn’t torment you, just fucks up into you gently until he fills you.

You’re limp against him now, and he presses a kiss into your hair. “You may have to walk for a bit,” he muses. “But I’ll cap your penance at ten.”

You wince. Ten strokes with the cane on the soles of your feet every day until your finger heals? You usually only owe enough for two or three. It is a mercy, though, so you nod and thank him.

Joel can hardly contain the way his chest is flooding with warmth. You’re so close; he can feel it. So close to being completely his to put together just the way he likes.

He can’t wait to take you to The Pit.

     -kintsugi

You’re cold. So cold. You’re curled in on yourself, tucked into a corner in the hopes that you’d be able to keep warmer. Your whole right hand throbs.

Moonlight only cuts across the corner, but it’s a comfort still. The soil is loose and you keep shuddering, feeling the tickle of a dozen phantom insects.

Worst of all, your chest aches, like he may as well have hewn you open. Dry sobs work their way free every now and then, leaving your mouth tacky and your throat full of cotton.

The only rest you get is when you blessedly pass out. Every time you close your eyes voluntarily, you see the heartbroken look on his face when you begged him not to leave you there.

“I wish I didn’t have to. I wish you hadn’t broken my trust and I could keep you close, baby. But you’re never going to learn how to be good if I don’t show ya.”

Bad, I’m bad, he doesn’t want me anymore, you think to no end.

When the sun starts to rise, you’re limp, still in your corner. You barely turn your head when a shadow falls over The Pit, but your heart starts to pound when the lock clicks, and Joel raises the gate.

“Oh, baby,” he says, soft and sorrowful. “C’mere.” He reaches out a hand, and you scramble to him, letting him take your left arm in his grasp and pull you out. You move immediately to your knees, body bent forward as your knotted muscles protest. He scoots his boot out of the danger zone near your broken finger.

You keep whispering, a broken record of “Sorry, please, I’m so sorry.”

He picks you up and holds you to his chest, shushing until you fall quiet. It doesn’t take longer than a few seconds as your brain desperately clings to any scrap, any way you can be good for him.

He brushes the loose dirt from you before going inside and upstairs to the ensuite. He sets you on the little rug next to the full garden tub, and he tests the water with his fingers before peeling his clothes off.

You flex your left hand, balling it in and out of a fist. You’ve never been particularly ambidextrous and wonder how you’re going to wash him without falling in or hurting your hand.

Before he gets in, he feeds you four more little red pills. Once he’s settled, he reaches out and guides you carefully by the waist, pulling you into his lap in the warm water.

That’s all it takes for you to start crying again. He doesn’t try to quiet you; just holds you there against his chest and lets you sob.

By the time you’ve calmed, the water has cooled, but instead of getting out, he just drains a little and runs more hot water.

Joel tips your chin up gently with the knuckle of his index finger. “You ready to be my good girl again?”

You nod, lip trembling.

Joel does nothing you hadn’t asked for. The trouble for you was that you asked for too much. Gave him too much. And it was far too late to get any of it back.

He gave what he could, though. Couldn’t replace what he’d taken, so he pours himself in the cracks, puts you back together with a firm hand and loving care. Sure, his love doesn’t look like what you’re used to, but he knows you see it for what it is.

“I know, baby. You took that all so well. Don’t worry,” he pauses to kiss you, “I forgive you. My perfect little toy.”

pls be nice, I'm so nervous about this.

[ellethespaceunicorn]

You're Mine

Title: You’re Mine

Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: Dark!Daddy!Geralt x Female!Reader

Word Count: 1.8K

Prompts: Geralt of Rivia + Female Reader + Daddy Kink + “Can you feel how much I want you?” + Darkfic, requested by @chibijusstuff

Summary: After coming back from a hunt, you find out that Geralt isn’t himself.

Warnings: Daddy Kink, pet names for Reader (little one, my sweet), Darkfic, dark!Geralt, drugged!Geralt, choking, biting, scratching, manipulation, Geralt rips Readers underwear off, non-con, unprotected p-in-v sex, creampie, mention of bodily fluids, memory lapse, bathtime as aftercare, cuddling, possessiveness, dead dove: do not eat

A/N: Unbeta'd, because I was impatient about posting this. All mistakes are mine.

Dividers by me

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me

Sweet Treats Event 2024 Masterlist

My Masterlist

You’ve been watching him for hours from your spot in a nearby chair as he kneels in front of the fire. The silver wolf's face on his medallion shines brightly from the flickering embers, suspended from his chest. The remnants of the potion in his system show themselves in deep, black cracking lines on his ashen skin that radiate from his closed eyes. He has never taken this long to shake off the effects of any of the mixtures he carries in his pack, and your concern is beginning to grow.

He barely acknowledged you when he came home in the early morning hours. He placed his swords in their spot by the door, shed his armor, and took his place in front of the fire to warm himself and meditate. The longer he remains in that spot, the more you wring your hands with concern.

You were but a commoner; you hadn’t much knowledge of the Witcher lifestyle before meeting Geralt in that tavern. And even now, Geralt wasn’t the most forthcoming with things he deemed ‘unnecessary for you to concern yourself with’, as he put it. You hadn’t the faintest idea of what was in his potions, let alone how to make them.

You only knew that he was usually back to himself by now.

Another thing you noticed was that his scent had changed. He tended to keep the smell of whatever beast or monster he had slain. But all you could smell were flowers, and more specifically, the aroma of tuberose.

Heady and exotic, the scent of tuberose is one you are accustomed to. Your mother would use tuberose oil as a perfume, saying it would lure in men with its sweet honey and warm spice combination. Your poor father had died years prior, and your mother barely waited for the dirt in his grave to settle before she was out with other men. But that’s a story for a different day.

Even though the oil performed just as she promised, you couldn't quite grasp why she never revealed the source of that unique blend to you. Of course, you called it magic, but she would always shake her head and say there was no way it was magical. She claimed it was a gift from an elderly beggar woman to whom she had once given a handful of orens. You knew well enough not to push any further, but that doesn’t mean you forgot that story.

Or that smell.

You were so in your thoughts that you almost missed Geralt’s grumbling. Your eyes returned to his face, and this time, his eyes looked at you. Gone was the golden yellow iris you had come to love, only to be replaced with full, black eyes. Black, like you never saw black. Nothingness.

Rising from the floor, he bares his teeth and growls lowly. You stand up from your chair and raise your hands in front of you.

“Geralt?” You attempt, moving backward when he takes a step forward. “Daddy...” you trail off as he smiles at you, a devilish grin showing his sharp canines.

“My sweet little one. Don’t you look delectable?” Geralt coos, crowding into your space as you are backed into the wall behind you.

His hands rest on either side of your head on the wall while he noses at your neck, no doubt smelling the fear-induced arousal that is shooting through your entire body.

“Daddy? Why don’t we take it slow? You’re not yourself yet-”

His hand flies to your throat, tightening at the sides. “You wish to refuse me that which is rightfully mine?”

“Geralt, I-”

“Ah, ah. Try again, little one,” he cautions, his grip on your neck ever sure.

“Daddy, I’m scared,” you breathe, tears falling from your eyes.

“I know. I can smell it on you,” he confesses, leaning back in to sniff under your jawline. He stoops to pick you up and brings you to the bed, lying his body on top of yours. He doesn’t waste time in rucking your dress up and pressing his clothed sex against your own. “Can you feel how much I want you?”

His voice, so delicate as he speaks to you, sounds like your Geralt. But those eyes, the way he takes without asking, and his smell only serve to repel you. It feels like your partner has been swapped out for a harsher, more unkind version of who he used to be.

His hand reaches between the two of you and rips away your undergarments before unbuttoning his pants so his thick and ready length can fall free. As soon as his shaft is uninhibited from its confines, he is pushing and prodding at your entrance.

Without preparation or care, he enters you swiftly. You aren’t given a second to adjust to his girth before he withdraws his cock and forces himself back inside you. By the third thrust, you are crying and begging him to stop. Your hands are balled into fists as you pound on his chest, his shoulders, anywhere you can land a blow.

He only laughs at your feeble attempts to thwart his actions. He also teases you when your body eventually betrays you.

“Look at you, being torn apart from the inside out, and your sloppy little cunt can’t get enough of it. Always so soft and warm for me. Stop fighting and take it, little one,” he soothes. His warm, rich voice invades your ears, and you cease efforts to push him away from you.

Once he has you malleable and compliant, he focuses on chasing his release. Unconcerned with your pleasure, he fists one hand in the sheets of your bed while the other tangles in your hair to expose your neck. Biting and sucking at your skin until blood is brought to the surface, he takes pride in marking you.

Soon, your neck and chest are littered with bite marks and bruises. You can feel every welt as he takes his time poking them as he drives into you over and over. His first orgasm is so intense that he lets out a feral growl, slowing down for a bit before it’s evident that he isn’t done in the slightest.

Realizing your fate, you begin to hyperventilate. Your chest is heaving as you inhale and exhale shallowly; you feel as though your heart could beat out of your chest. But only momentarily as Geralt leans down to speak into your ear.

“You’ve never looked lovelier than you do tonight. I can smell your fear; I can taste your panic. Just have to hold out a little longer for me, my sweet,” he sighs, nosing at your neck.

By now, you can feel nothing but pain from the bites, the scratches, and his relentless pounding into your battered and bruised heat. The stuttering of his hips is a gift, alerting you to his impending climax. You’d already given up on experiencing your peak.

“So close. I can feel it coming, little one,” he whispers, his voice strained and gruff as he forces his eyes shut. He thrusts into you one last time, his hips flush with yours as his cock paints your insides. Once he stops spasming, he lets out a heavy breath and opens his eyes.

You watch as he comes back to himself, the black veins disappearing from his face and his eyes returning to their golden hue. Frozen where you are, you observe the realization on Geralt’s face as he looks down at your marred skin and wet eyes.

As he relaxes just enough to pull away from your body, he quickly adjusts himself back into his pants and settles down onto his knees. He’s unsure of what to say; what can he say that would make this situation any easier? His eyes are drawn to where his semen drips from you.

“Daddy? Are you back?” you ask, your hands pushing your dress down over yourself as you sit up.

The sound of your tiny voice washes over him like a cold shower. He finally looks back at you, and a single tear falls from his left eye. As if a switch were flipped, Geralt appears smaller than before. He shrinks into himself, hunching his shoulders.

“I did this to you?” he guesses, nodding to the angry marks on your skin.

“Geralt, I think you were poisoned. What’s the last thing you remember?” you question, raising your hands to show him you mean no harm.

“The wyvern nest. There were druids; they surrounded me. I felt pain in my neck and then smelled flowers before everything went black. Next thing I know, I’m in bed with you,” he replies.

“You weren’t yourself, Geralt. This wasn’t you,” you insist, feeling the urge to comfort him.

“Poisoned or possessed, I am the reason you’re hurt right now. I could have killed you if I hadn’t come back to myself,” he frets, holding up a hand when you try to move closer to him.

“I’ve already forgiven you, if only you would forgive yourself,” you plead, trying to hide your distress.

“You should have a bath. Let me draw it for you,” he suggests, leaving you on the bed before you can say anything in response.

After he fills the wooden bath with enough water, he uses Igni to warm the water to your liking. He helps you into the water, washing your body and hair when you ask him to stay with you. When you are done, he helps dry your skin. You don’t exchange many words, and neither of you knows how to start a conversation.

After you are dressed in a nightgown, you climb into bed and pull Geralt in behind you. He reluctantly lays next to you, afraid that he will hurt you again somehow. Turning onto your side, you face away from him. You sniff, holding back tears and the lump in your throat.

Before you could clear your throat, Geralt was pulling you into his chest. His strong arms wrap around you, and he inhales your scent. While he can still smell the faint echo of fear on you, the most prevalent fragrance is overwhelming love.

You were pushing down your fear with all your might and thinking only of good moments of Geralt. Images of a smile pulling at his lips, your hands in his, and a stolen kiss cloud your vision.

You snuggle into his embrace, his body heat keeping you warm. He peppers kisses over your hickeys on your neck, lulling you to sleep. But just before you can give in to the draw of slumber, you hear his voice in your ear.

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable,” he whispers, laughing lowly. “You’re mine, little one. And I won’t let you escape.” His hand goes to your mouth, and you know your night is far from over.

A/N: I really enjoyed writing this story. It took so long to write, but I am happy with what I have created here. Also, I feel like there are very few dark!Geralt or Daddy!Geralt stories out there. Is it because we don’t like these or it’s just too taboo? Let me know, cuz I could write more dark versions of this man.

[getmeoutofhell]

Clowns in the Slasher House

warnings: clowns, body parts & cussing!

a/n: i’ve been wanting to do this so i hope you enjoy this! leave comments and request.

they all have their own separate rooms and floor in house.

you guessed it, they live in the basement. the basement has to be cleaned every damn friday, because if not, it’s gonna smell like ass and dodo.

now, let’s talk about who’s in the slasher house that’s a clown:

art the clown

penny

pennywise

the little girl

art & the little girl are the messiest out of all of them, and i stand by that. i mean, penny is very, very questionable, but art is more questionable.

sometimes they all play hide and seek, and invite you the play as well. penny is the best at it, since he can literally disappear if he so chooses to. but you had to tell him not to because that’s cheating.

pennywise is usually gone so he doesn’t join often with you guys. but when he does, he’s not the best at the game, but definitely not the worst.

art sometimes uses his hands to cover his face, pretending that he’s hiding. you think it’s funny and adorable, and you sometimes play along with it, pretending you can’t see him.

“oh dangit, i have no idea where art could be. i guess i’ll go look upstairs.” you see him giggle like a school girl before going up stairs.

the little girl likes you, and she’s more comfortable around you & art than anyone else in the house. she likes to tug on your pants leg if she wants something. you still haven’t thought of a name for her yet, but you’re working on it.

another thing about art is that you have to remind him to take his dirty ass clown shoes off when he enters the house. they’re covered with mud and other shit (literally) so it’s a constant thing you have to do to protect the rugs and carpet in the house.

you don’t have to worry about the other adult clowns and their shoes because they can make the dirt disappear in a blink of an eye.

art & the little girl make a lot of weird gifts and passes them to everyone. sometimes it’s a dead persons liver, sometimes it’s someone’s big toe that art collected. you’ll never know what you may get with him.

weekly showers. i don’t care how much art fusses his stanky ass is getting in that damn shower. every time you make art get in the shower, the other clowns laugh at him. arts reaction is to just flip them off, so that’s entertaining to watch.

penny likes to scare the others all the time. you can never get used to it because it’s always something different with him all the time. pennywise sometimes joins in on pennys little pranks but often penny does it to pennywise.

water gun fights!! especially since it’s hot out, it’s the perfect time to have some fun outside in the sun. just don’t forget the sun screen. i don’t know if the clowns would wear swim trunks but maybe you can convince them.

how can i forget the board game nights!! well art…he doesn’t like the board games much. but when he does play, he cheats. well, try’s to at least.

let’s say you’re playing uno and you’re sitting by art. you see out the corner of your eye art peek over next to you at your cards. “art don’t you dare.” he smiles before looking away.

the little girl is smarter than most people realize. she knows a lot, and does a lot. she knows when you’re depressed and sometimes will sit next to you as a type of comfort.

they like to play tag and run around the house every damn where and tear up shit.

*glass shatters* “oh my god what broke now?” you say annoyed.

should i do a part 2?

[nerdofthecentrey]

For Them | Cha Hyun-Su x Human Reader

Genre: Fluffy, Angsty

Summary: You do what you can to protect others and get hurt in the process.

Warnings: Blood, Getting hurt, monster descriptions, normal Sweet home stuff

Unedited

____________________________

It had been 16 days since this all started, It was terrifying but you wouldn’t lose hope. You wanted to stay alive not necessarily for yourself but to be with Hyun-Su. And for Kim Su-Yeoung and Kim Yeoung-Su the little kids both you’d both saved. You were determined for them to live, even in this cruel world they still deserved a chance.

You stood next to the stairs that lead into the rest of the apartment building. Your boyfriend stood across from you with that faraway look in his eyes.

“ I hate that you have to do this.” You sighed, glancing at the beaten door.

“Don’t.”

You looked back at him and he had this dead serious look in his eyes. You understood this was for the best but you still hate the way they treat him. You wish he wouldn’t take shit from everyone.

“ Gosh, Hyun-Su..I can’t keep letting them treat you like a caged animal. I’m gonna talk to Eun-Hyeok.-“

“ Y/N, Please.” Hyun-Su rested his hand on your shoulder bring you back.

“ I’m sorry, It’s just your doing so much for everyone here…. It’s like they don’t even care. I hate that.” You pause for sec thinking before you continue with, “ It’s okay if your hurt by this Hyun-Su. Your aloud to be upset-“

“ I have to go.” He cut you off in a quiet tone ready to retreat. You snatch his face back before he can go placing your lips on his gently. Warmth fills you and you savor the feeling. You never know when it may be the last time.

You headed into the daycare center not expecting to see Eun-Hyeok. It looked like he had just gotten finished talking because everyone was dead silent. He walked straight pass you out the door you followed. But before you could even say anything he spoke.

“ The answer is no.”

You suck your teeth, “ You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

He turned.

“ I’m guessing it’s about Hyun-Su. My answer is no.” with that he walked away. You let out sharp sigh. You‘ll get him eventually just not now.

“ Y/N..?” A small voice spoke in almost a whisper. It was Yeong-Su. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed and his sister stood close behind him.

“ What’s up?” I asked a little worried.

“ Umm…” The little boy started his sister finished.

“ He wants you to come with us to get his toy. He lost it when we first got here. It’s on this floor. We just don’t want to get lost.”

Your heart warmed a little at the fact they were asking you and not someone else.

“ Of course, Shall we?” You held out your hand to the boy he toke it with a grin.

You all walked through the halls of the first floor. It’s only now you really understand how much a maze this building is. It makes your stomach turn a little at how many people actually lived here. Meaning how many lost their lives and how many turned. You guys had been walking for a little while before you could resist asking the boy.

“ Are we headed the right way?” He noded slowly showing you clear as day he was unsure.

“ Do you remember exactly where you lost it?”

“ No..” It sounded like he was gonna cry.

“ Yeong-Su!” His sister shouted forcefully pushing his hand out of his. “ You said you knew!”

“ I did know! … I thought I did.” He shouted back.

“ Hey.” You said sharply catching both of their attention. “ It doesn’t matter. We’re gonna find the toy either way. Let’s think of it like a mission okay?”

“ People who are working together shouldn’t argue and pointlessly yell at each-other. Deep breath.” You you inhale as did they. You exhale as did they. “ Now, Yeong-Su. Do you remember the area of where you left your toy?”

“ Yes, there was dirt it was in the hallway near the graves. It rolled into a room.”

“ That’s Good! I’m sure we’ll find it no time!” Before you can continue something goes off in your body. The atmosphere sudden tilting.

A bucket loudly crashed from the hall in front of you.

You push the kids behind you, cursing at yourself for not bringing a weapon. How are you constantly telling other to be prepared for anything and you aren’t even prepared. You look around for anything to use and find a short pole.

Just then you could see the shadow of a monster creeping up the hall. It’s tall and lengthy. You push the kids back the opposite way of the hall. Pushing them to run.

You knew it probably wasn’t the best idea to make loud noises but you weren’t far from everyone else. You wanted them to be safe as soon as possible being in the hallway was too vulnerable.

Just then the monster let out a loud screeching noises. You turn back just in time to see it round the corner, headed straight at you.

“ Run!” You shout. The kids pick up the pase sobs coming Yeong-Su and Su-Yeong pulling her brother along with all her might.

You grab a random cabinet pulling it down pushing multiple things in the way. It seems to slow the monster long enough for you to make back to the main area near the elevator.

Thud!

Yeong-Su fell to the floor. You quickly swept him up as fast as you.

A whimper come from Su-Yeong. Your head whipped around to see the monster creeping slowly into the room. Your heart was already pounding in your ears, your bones started to fell stif.

“ Go.” You tell them.

“But-“

“ Get the others.”

Su- Yeong didn’t wait she grabbed her brothers arm pulling him along.

You felt your body relax a little when you heard their foots steps getting quieter only for the monster to come bones cracking and stretching out with thin skin covering it. It was sickening to look at. You held up your pole knowing these we’re probably your last moments. But you were okay with that. As long as the others live.

Suddenly one of the arms came flying at you, you swung it away like baseball. Of course it only flew back but so far.

You ran closer to the main entrance leading it father into the hall.

“ Let’s go!” You yelled.

The monster seemed to let out some words you couldn’t understand. Only the word,

“ Family. ” “ I’ll do it for my family.”

The monster croaked sending his arm like tentacle thing towards you. You dodge to your left the tentacle missing you. But the sharp edge of a cabinet not.

You inhale sharply, but you can’t feel anything, not yet at least. Your whole body just feels warm and ready to move. You push yourself up from your spot grabbing onto the wall. You place your hand on your stomach to stop it from bleeding so much you fell the thick liquid coating your hand.

“ My family…my family…” The monster kept saying to itself eyes twitching. Sounding like it was trying to think or remember.

You leaned up against the pole watching the monster,

“ Hey!” A voice shouted a glass bottle was chucked at the monster it screeched in pain as it burst to flames. You jolt back from the heat your body hitting the wall feeling weak as ever. Ji-su rushing to you.

“ Oh my god, that’s a lot of blood.” She states.

“ Thanks a couldn’t tell.” You groan. Just then a loud buzzing sound rang from the door. You knew it was Hyun-Su it kept ringing violently. Till Sang-Wook opened it, you heard your boyfriend rushing down the stairs. Everyone watching the creature burn. His eyes fell on you.

“ Y/N!” He ran to you.

“ Hey.” You croaked.

He stared at you with a lost look on his face Ji-Su held you up. He had his lips parted as if he wanted to speak but he didn’t know what to say.

“ Maybe you should help!” Ji-Su shouted at him.

“ Right.” Hyun-Su said. “ I’m gonna lift you. It’s easier okay.”

He carried you to the room where Yu-ri works in. She patched you up carefully, Meanwhile you tried hard not to curse. While Hyun-Su stared with his lost eyes.

Once Yu-ri left you spoke.

“ Don’t keep looking like that.” You tell him.

“ What?”

You pause for second your heartbreaks a little, “ You look so lost. Why don’t you just share what your thinking?” Hyun-Su looks taken back but you go on.“ Hyun-Su, I won’t judge you for how you feel. I want you to tell me not keep it bottled up inside. Out of all the people still left in this word I won’t be the one to judge you.”

You watch a tear slowly falls down his face, you reach up brushing it away softly. He grabs your hand pushing your palm against his face. It’s like he said it all in that moment. More of his tears fall for the first time it’s like a wall had fallen down slowly. You watch him breakdown right in front of you. It hurt you to see. You pull his head down to rest between your neck and shoulders. Massaging his head gently.

“ I’m here, Hyun-Su.”

——————————————————————

A/N: Okay this is my first time writing anything that has so many parts to contribute in and my first Kdrama. Hopefully this is good. I might end up switching or adding more the ending. Let me know if you have any tips and/or misspellings.

[e-m-ma-lmfao]

Ruin My Reputation

pairing : cooper howard (the ghoul) x (fem) reader

summary : he’s soft for you

warnings : blood, drug use kinda, talk of shooting

a/n : just something short and sweet so the fallout brainrot subsides.

“You know damn well I hate when you show up like this.” You let your medical supplies clatter onto the table where the ghoul sits, waiting like a hurt dog. Eyes awfully resemblant of the animal.

It’s likely that the only reason he’s here, looking this run down, is cause he’s got no vials left. If you knew better, you’d hide yours. Or better yet, get rid of them all together.

“Now c’mon darlin’,” he pauses to sputter out a cough and take a deep breath, “I thought you loved seeing me.” Shakily, he grabs his hat off his head and places it on the table.

“I love you a whole lot more when I don’t have to worry about you showing up at my doorstep on the brink of death you old..” Your words trail off and whatever insult you were ready to throw at him is taken away by the stream of air you let slip past your lips.

“I told you to quit your worryin’, I ain’t gonna die on ‘ya.”

“Oh yeah? And what do you suppose it is you’re doing right now?”

“Well if you’d quit your yappin’ and get to fixin’ I’d be doing a whole lot better, wouldn’t I?” He offers an unwelcome smile, which disappears when he winces in his pain. You hand him a vial of his favorite yellow liquid before you get to unbuttoning his shirt. After downing the vial he opens his mouth again but you're quick to cast your eyes his way.

“Looks like I didn’t need your medical attention after all, huh? ‘S a damn shame.”

“Mhm, waste of my time. Well then, I’ll cut right to it, thought I told ‘ya not to come around anymore after the last time.” Your voice trails off as you disappear to the back room to grab him a shirt that isn’t littered with holes and dirt and a shit ton of blood. Most of which probably isn't even his. And he follows behind, limping, like he’s in a trance and can’t help himself.

You hear a grunt from the other room as you rummage through a small storage box of his discarded things. Anything he left over the months he had been making himself a frequent quest in your home was in this box. You wanted to burn it. All of it. Use those little bottles of yellow liquid as a fire starter and make him watch while you did it. But anytime you tried, you couldn’t actually bring yourself to part with the tiny symbols of his presence.

“We both know you didn’t mean that,” he appears in the doorway behind you, blocking your exit, “besides I always come to my girl for help when things get rough. She's got all the good chems.”

You throw the shirt into his arms, a bit harder than intended, but he catches it with the reflexes of a man who kills for a living. Because, well, he does. You’re not sure why but every comment is making you angrier about him being there. A chem stash, huh? That’s all he thought of you?

“I wish you wouldn’t. I ain’t got time to sit around and tend to you, wait for you to get all better and leave again.”

The shirt now hangs on his body loosely, buttons open, “Now what’s got you so sour tonight. Usually you're a lot kinder to little ol’ me.” He leans against the doorframe

“Maybe the fact that I’ve got a half dead cowboy making himself comfy in my home every two weeks doesn’t sit well with me. You ever think about that before you kick your dirty boots off on my carpet?” You pause to stare at him with a raised eyebrow, “Oh, which reminds me, you owe me a new carpet.”

“What’re you talking about, woman?”

“You got blood on my carpet.”

“It was already covered in blood and dirt anyway!”

“Well, you got more on it. I liked how it was. So now you owe me a new one.”

“Are you hearing yourself? Where would you like me to go for said carpet? Anything I find you is gonna look exactly the same as the one already sitting on your goddamn floor!” He moves in slowly, cautiously like he’s practiced the art a million times. “Now I know you’re not worried about that piece of fabric out there. What is the problem?”

He swoops in close, close enough to wrap his arms around your waist with his hands clasped together at the dip in your back. You don’t push him away, though you want to. Although, all you think about is how your gun is sitting merely 5 inches away on the end table beside you. You could shoot him, if you wanted. But you probably won't.

Cooper’s eyes find your avoidant ones, the rough pads of his fingers grabbing at your chin to make you look at him. He’d never raise his full hand to you, smart man. God knows you’d think he was moving in to slap you, and his hand would be gone before he could yell ‘yeehaw’.

“You know damn well that I worry about you Coop.” Your arm finds his forearm, tugging his hand away from your face, “I just want you to stay for once, so I won't have to worry about you dying in the middle of the wasteland somewhere.” His hands find the dip in your back again, running along your skin until they rest on your hips.

“Hey now, you know I can’t stay, I got business to take care of out there.”

“Yeah, it’s always business. Always. Well you know what, so do I. So go on and get ‘fore I shoot yer sorry ass.” You step away from him, pushing him out of your way but his hands are quick to find your hips again and pull you back to him. Works like magnets.

“Now you're just being dramatic.. Alright alright, if you ask me nicely I’ll stay for a little longer than usual.”

You stare at him, eyebrows flexed in annoyance but the rest of your face has seemingly cooled down. You don’t need to say anything, he’s already agreed. He looks down at you with a soft smirk, thumbs rubbing into your hip bones.

“You are the easiest woman to please in the whole wasteland.” You feel your eyebrows relax as one of his hands reaches up to cup your cheek in his rough palm. His lips part, gazing at you with deep adoration.

“Think you’re making me go soft darlin’, gonna ruin my damn reputation.”

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-down AU Part 20

Part 1 Part 19

Steve’s shirt is wet where Eddie’s face is pushed into it, and Will’s hand is clutching his arm tight enough to hurt. Steve wants to sink into it. But the door's still open, and Wayne’s shotgun is lost in the woods somewhere. He hopes the man won't be too mad.

"Okay, okay," Steve says, taking two shuffling steps forward. "Let go of me."

The arms encircling his waist drop him instantly. His own weight settles back into his heels at the same instant the vertigo hits. A small hand clutches his elbow, keeping him upright with a grunt of strain.

"Shit, Harrington, sorry," Eddie says, voice warbling. "What do you need? What do I do?"

"Just–" he closes his eyes, listing sideways. He's so tired. "The door, Eddie."

The door closes with a quiet creak, lock sliding home with a metallic snick!

It's a tissue paper door, Steve knows it's a tissue paper door, but his legs go out anyway, finally safe enough to drop. Eddie catches him, hands clutching hips as he practically drags him to the couch.

"You're okay," Eddie says. "You're okay, right?"

Steve nods. His forehead lances with pain every time he grimaces, and his cheek throbs. The wound on his shoulder has definitely reopened, and something unpleasant had happened to his ribs when he'd fallen in the woods. But he’s fine.

Will interrupts the conversation by dumping the remains of the Munson's medicine cabinet on the coffee table.

"You're bleeding," he says.

"Shit, right," Eddie replies, rifling through the contents. It's slim pickings, but Eddie plucks up a few bandages and gets to work.

His mouth is a moue of concentration as he combs Steve's hair off his forehead and puts bandages across the entirety of the laceration before blessedly leaving it alone once he reaches the hairline.

Eddie's prodding the bruise on Steve's cheek hard enough to feel the bone, when Will asks, "My Mom?"

"She's fine, Byers." He tries to smile, but loses the will halfway through, closing his eyes.

Will bursts into tears. "Thank you," he says.

Steve flops his hand forward. Will takes it. Steve doesn’t realize how cold his fingers are until Will’s warmth starts leeching into him.

"Your Mom's a badass, baby Byers," Eddie says. "She was always going to be fine."

Steve hums his agreement, too tired to vocalize. There, sitting up on Eddie's ratty couch, covered in dirt and blood, Steve falls asleep with Eddie's palm cupping his cheek and Will’s hand in his.

He's not sure how long he sleeps, but when he awakens, Eddie's sitting with his back to the couch. His hair's plastered to his head with grease and grime, and he's starting to smell a little. Steve wants to cry at the sight of him.

"Eddie?" he asks.

Eddie turns to him, a finger to his lips as he gestures his head toward where Will's sleeping in the recliner across the room.

"Back with me, big boy?" Eddie whispers.

Steve nods. "Did you guys make it out okay?"

Eddie scoffs. "We were fine, man." His eyes well, a few tears running down his cheeks. He swipes them away impatiently. "We thought you were dead."

Steve feels small, his voice comes out even smaller. "I'm sorry."

Eddie turns back around, back pressing into the couch, eyes trained on the door. Steve reaches his fingers out, rubbing back and forth slowly, consolingly. "Thanks for coming back."

Steve's breath hitches. It wasn't a sure thing. The line between Steve coming back and Eddie finding Steve's body decomposing in the Byers' driveway was razor thin. He should know - it's painted along his forehead in claw marks, painted in the way his vision is still a little red with the blood that had dripped into his eyes.

"Anytime," Steve says. Does it count as a lie when he really wants to mean it?

"Good, because we're like, out of water, dude," Eddie laughs. "The kid's the only one smart enough not to forget his backpack.”

"Fuck!" Steve says, a little too loudly. Will stirs, then settles. "Not the quarry again."

Eddie laughs, but not like he thinks it’s funny. “Yeah, man. I’m with ya, but there’s the kid to think about now.”

They both look over at Will. His face is smushed into the back of the chair, knees curled up to his chest beneath the blanket Eddie must’ve given him, like even in sleep, he’s doing everything he can to make himself a smaller target. Something unfamiliar in Steve’s gut wrenches.

He doesn’t want to go back there, maybe ever, but especially not right now. Right now, the thought of crossing the threshold out into the wider world makes ants crawl under his skin.

The Demogorgon’s claws are still parting his skin like butter every time he moves wrong. They’d moved through him as easily as Steve’s Father’s knife had while he’d skinned the deer, Steve standing beside him as he tries his best not to cry.

Steve doesn’t want to be the deer. But the shotgun is gone, and so the hunter must become the hunted.

“I lost the gun,” Steve says.

Eddie’s shoulder slump, Steve’s hand falls, settling in the crack between the couch and the middle of his back, stuck there when Eddie leans back into it. “I figured,” he sighs, sounding disappointed, like maybe there’d still been a glimmer of hope that Steve had just snuffed out.

Silence descends. It feels like the force of gravity kicked up a notch, the way the quiet fogs over him and pushes him down down down. The silence drowns, let’s the Demogorgon prowl through his mind. Eddie Munson throws him a brick disguised as a life preserver.

“I saw your shoulder,” he says, barely audible.

“Oh.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Eddie asks, turning around completely, back to the door. His eyes are wide. Steve can’t read his face at all.

“What’s there to do?”

Eddie sighs. “Nothing, maybe,” he says, spinning his rings on his fingers nervously. “I cleaned it up as best I could, but that’s bad, man. We’ve gotta get you out of here.”

Steve’s eyes flit over to where Will’s still sleeping, but Eddie’s eyes stay planted firmly on his face. He doesn’t answer, what’s there to say? There’s no way out of here.

“Let’s just get water so we can stay alive, just a little bit longer,” Eddie says when it becomes clear that Steve has nothing left to say.

Steve nods, asking, “should we bring the kid?”

Eddie opens his mouth to respond, but Will beats him to it. “I’m not a kid,” he says, clearly still half a sleep with the way his words are slurring together. “I’m coming.”

“He’s right,” Eddie says. “I mean, not about the kid thing, he’s definitely an infant, but we can’t leave him unprotected.”

“Hey,” Will mumbles, burrowing into the chair further and falling back asleep, clearly reassured that he won’t be left behind.

“We can’t keep him safe,” Steve whispers.

Eddie reaches out, pats his knee. Steve misses the warmth when he pulls it back.

“We’ll do what we can.”

Steve doesn’t want to go back out there. They’re safe in here, hidden away. But he will. Because Eddie asked, and Will needs him. That’s more than he’s had in a while.

He hopes it’s enough.

Part 21

[zedif-y]

Joel wakes up screaming.

His first thought, honestly, isn’t very coherent. A mishmash of need more time and a throat-tearing scream escaping him as he opens his eyes to–

His scream dies down. Joel looks around– at least, he thinks he’s looking around. Hard to tell when it’s all pitch black and he can’t see a thing, is he sure his eyes are working–?

Joel brings a hand to his face, “Did I go blind– What the heck!”

His voice comes out shrill, a hair away from a shriek (because no, it wasn’t a shriek, it was all manly and stuff, thank you.) as his hand kind of– it kinda–

He knows where his head is. Obviously. Be a bit weird if he didn’t. He knows where his head is, and he knows where his hand is. Both are important. So when he reached towards his head, right, gotta see if there’s a cloth over his eyes, or if he’s gone blind or whatever stupid thing must’ve happened to him after… After he…

His thoughts go fuzzy for a second, like that feeling you get when you think you’ve forgotten something but can’t remember what. Like knowing the shape of something you’ve lost, its absence so pressing that it chokes you like sand, clogging your lungs with each second it's gone but what the heck is it–?!

Where was he, again?

Oh. Right. He was freaking out.

The point is– because there was a point, right before things got all weird there– his hand went through his head.

It… He doesn’t even know how to explain it. It felt like… Not much, really. Didn’t feel like anything. But that’s the issue with it, the issue of something should be there, like skin and muscle and bone and perhaps even a brain. But instead, Joel put his hand where his face should be and he felt nothing, no matter how hard he tried, how far he reached and pushed and–

Joel wants to scream. Or laugh. Or cry. Either of the three, though preferably not that last one.

It’s so weird. He just wants…

There it is again. That feeling. The clawing, desperate something in his chest that twists and writhes–

“Hey, Joel.”

Joel screams. (First option, then.)

Jimmy just stares at him, unimpressed. His sunglasses are blocking his eyes.

For some reason, it makes Joel want to cry.

Jimmy sighs, “Are you done?” Joel gapes at him.

Are you serious, “Am I d– What the heck, Jimmy?” He snaps, “Don’t sneak up on me like that, I’m not bloody Grian–”

Since when did Jimmy get so quiet, anyway?

“Of course you’re not Grian,” Jimmy says, his voice all weird. Off. “It’d be easier if you were. He’s already moved on.”

Joel’s hackles rise, “What d’you mean it’d be easier?” He snarls, like snapping teeth. “And he hasn’t moved on, he’s just–”

“Looking for new friends?” Jimmy deadpans. Joel’s jaw clicks shut. “ ‘s what I thought.”

Oh, Joel wants to punch him in the–

Wait a second.

It comes back to him then, slamming into him like a wave. The bubbling, helpless laughter in his chest as he leaps and runs across a flimsy dirt bridge. The way he knows he’s fallen before, fallen a million different times and came out both dead and alive but he doesn’t care.

("–you can't keep doing this–")

He doesn’t (didn’t) care, because why should he, he’s got– he’s got water. He’s got water, like everyone else on this blumin’ server, he’ll live, surely, so there’s no need to be scared.

("–got to let go, eventually, right–?")

No need to worry, even as yellow feathers plummet and disappear from view and lightning strikes where Jimmy’s voice cut off–

“Joel!” Jimmy shouts, practically right in his face. “Joel, are you even listening–?”

This, Joel decides, is not Jimmy.

It's got the shape of Jimmy, sure. Right hair and face and everything. Right voice, right bloody curve of his eyebrows, which makes Joel laugh, because it isn't him.

It can't be. It can't be, because Jimmy's dead. Jimmy's gone, he ran out of time because he fell like an idiot so no, this can't be him, there's no way.

On all levels except physical, Joel can't seem to breathe.

There's no way this is Jimmy, he thinks, just the right amount of hysterical. It's just not possible.

Because if this is him, (and that's a big, gigantic if) then that means– That means wherever he went, Joel followed. Joel followed, and now they're in the Void, or Limbo, or whatever the heck it's called, and that means that Joel–

Joel failed Grian, too.

"You're not Jimmy," He says at last, with his not-there tongue and not-there face. His voice sounds distant. "He'd be like, crying. Screamin' about dying first again, going oh my gosh!" Joel tells Not-Jimmy, pitching his voice up and then laughs, laughs, and laughs.

Until he can't breathe. Until it hurts to.

Until it's not much of a laugh at all.

Light shines on Not-Jimmy's sunglasses. He's still the only thing Joel can see.

Joel reaches out, pretending to see two, shaking hands grab Jimmy by the shoulders. He pretends, thinks about it hard enough that he almost feels the texture of Jimmy's denim under his palms. He thinks, imagines, pretends, whatever, that the fabric crinkles under his touch, that the sob that makes his way past his lips is a laugh as he says, "I'm sorry."

Something wet trickles down his not-there face.

" 'm sorry, Jim," Joel rasps out, and it hurts. "You weren't supposed to– I had a surprise for you, you know?"

Jimmy's voice is quiet, "What kind of surprise?" He asks, and Joel…

Joel thinks he might be falling apart.

(Or maybe, his mind supplies, he shattered a long while ago. Like glass hitting the floor.)

He grins, or at least, he tries to. "I was gonna break your curse," He confesses, with his terrible, trembling mouth. "I was gonna sacrifice myself for you, be all heroic and everything."

Jimmy says nothing. Joel still can't see his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

He's getting tired of pretending.

"Will you come with me now?" Jimmy– Not-Jimmy says, his voice ringing like the toll of a bell. "You've said your piece, not many are afforded that luxury."

Joel blinks. Death stands before him, no sunglasses to cover empty sockets.

For a moment, Joel considers fighting. Again, and again, and again.

But he is so, very tired.

He sighs.

I don't feel very lucky, Joel wants to say. And you still aren't Jimmy. 

"Whatever," He says instead. He feels his entire being slip away like sand, like time held tightly between two fists. "Take me away, or whatever it is you do."

Joel closes his eyes, "I'll tell him when I see him."

[siopaofrog]

When There Was You (pt. 1) || Astarion x Fem!Tav

Those were the days, my friend We thought they'd never end We'd sing and dance forever and a day We'd live the life we choose We'd fight and never lose For we were young and sure to have our way… – Those Were the Days, Mary Hopkin

A gravestone is a curious thing.

You could engrave a name, a number — pinch an entire person, a lifetime — into a single slab of stone.

You could carve into it with a dagger, rewrite history, alter its meaning — just as Astarion Ancunín had done many, many moons ago.

You could, he thought. But none of it could spin a tale he told himself into truth. None of it could change fate, or death, or whatever the gods had planned for you.

None of it could bring you back.

The pale elf knew this, even as he knelt by this curious headstone, this thing that was supposed to be you. He knew this, and he hated it.

“Hello again, darling,” he whispered, and placed a single flower on the grass, just as you had done all those moons ago.

It was a glorious time, it was. Adventure. Antics. Heartache and admission. Lust and love. Real love. And warmth. Warmth, too.

He found himself smiling softly.

But more than anything — there was you.

Astarion had finally conquered his master, Cazador. He had finally, truly, found freedom — the freedom to do whatever he wanted, and to love whomever he wanted.

He had sliced his dagger into the crazed vampire lord, a dozen thrusts that ended with a final, soul-searing scream that sent you to his side at once. There you cradled him, he a blood soaked mess, spitting, sobbing into your neck. You held him like that for a long, long while. Hushing him gently, kissing his forehead, caressing his silver curls.

That night in Baldur’s Gate, he knew a display of his gravestone and the dark story that came with it would be morbid or trite to someone else — but you understood. Astarion finally allowed himself to want you, to love you, and you accepted him wholly for it. In fact, to his delight, you wanted him, too.

Five decades later, and here you were. Sitting in your own grave. But you did not crawl out, emerging from death caked in dirt and grime, as he once did.

It was cruel, he thought. Cruel that he was dead and yet not — undead, immortal, of a heart that did not beat. Yet yours did not beat either. Yet, you were the one buried beneath a mound of dirt.

“Your heart quickened just now,” you had whispered one night, as you rested your head upon his bare chest.

“Did it?” he mumbled, half asleep.

You hummed with your eyes closed. Your hand sweeping across his skin, up his collar. You felt the two little scars on his neck, brushing a thumb over them thoughtfully.

“You have a wild heart. Emotional, easy to read,” you said. “It is almost in tune with my own.”

He chuckled lowly, softly. “My darling, did Halsin set you up to this? This sounds like something he would…” Then, upon feeling your hand on his neck, your body atop his, and the seriousness of your words, he swallowed. “Tav.”

You pulled your hand away and perched yourself up, forearms resting on top of him. “Yes, love.”

His dark eyes watched yours for a time. “My body is cold and dead. I pretend to breathe so I may pass as an elf. I wear perfume to smell alive. Gods.”

“And what of it?” you said, unfazed. “That doesn’t mean you aren’t living.”

You sat up in the grass and took his hand, placing it on your chest. You placed your own on his.

“You don’t feel that? Those vibrations in your chest, our chests, in unison,” you said. “Soft… throbbing. Pulsing. A wave of it just rippled under your skin.”

“That might not be my chest, darling,” he said, and you hit him lightly for the jest.

“I just want you to know you aren’t simply undead, Astarion. You are very much living, thriving. You are not… a monster.”

The vampire spawn blinked at you then. Enamored. Bewitched, really. Even as his lust for blood (yours, particularly) swelled in recent times, he might agree for a moment that he was in fact not a monster. He didn’t want to believe it, anyway. Not anymore.

It’s cruel, he now spat in his head, staring down at your tombstone with a bitterness that clung to his clenched hands and gritted teeth.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” a high, pinched voice echoed behind him.

“My gods,” said Astarion, glancing over his shoulder, “you are an old man and you still sound as smarmy as ever.”

“You wound me, old friend.” Gale ambled towards the pale elf, a good-natured smile on his lips. “I’ve never been smarmy to you. Not ever.”

The elf stood up and the two hugged, a lifetime of battles and camaraderie etched in their brows as they parted and looked at one another. The wizard now had silver hair neatly slicked back, a long wiry beard, and a staff he used more like a cane.

“My, you did get old,” Astarion said with a smirk.

“Ha! And you haven’t changed a bit.”

The elf placed a hand on his chin, nodding. “I see you finally decided to try silver on your head. Rather dashing, dare I say.”

Gale laughed, but he was staring at your grave now, the sparkle in his eyes suddenly subsiding. He was old, to be sure, but he was still sharp and clear-minded. He saw the loss in the elf’s eyes. He has known his own loss, too. You were not his lover, but his adoration and admiration for you knew no bounds.

“Ah… What a warrior she was.”

“Yes. And so much more.”

“You’ll never get over her, will you?” Gale asked, and he meant it in kindness.

“Well. Evidently not,” Astarion said lightheartedly.

Many of their companions had either fled to make a new living, or died in battle, or were simply never to be seen again. For all of their jests, all the boring wizardry and debates and banter — Astarion appreciated Gale. He would never tell the man that, of course, but he was sure Gale could see it nonetheless.

The elf was teary-eyed, for gods sake.

“I never did ask… How did you and Tav meet?”

Astarion grinned. “Once upon a time, in a little tavern, of all places. She tried to kill me upon our meeting, actually.”

“Fascinating. I didn’t take you for a vampire pining for the one in a drunken haze.”

“I didn’t. We were sober. Too sober for that crowd, I might add. And she was…” He didn’t realize it. He had far too many things to say about you, far too many compliments, fondness and feelings straight from romantic literature.

“Unlike anything you’ve seen before.”

“Yes,” the elf said, settling for that. He pressed his lips together, licked his teeth in thought. He felt the wizard’s eye on him.

“Well now I must know, Astarion.” Gale knelt by the grave, placed a hand on it. Ran his fingers across the cool stone.

The elf raised a brow.

“How would you like to see her again?”