#so the character was raised a boy but (their words) 'has a woman's body'

[baronessvonglitter]

Halftime Show

Joel Miller, Javier Pena, Dave York, Frankie Morales, Marcus Moreno x f!sexworker!reader (lucky girl)

Word count: 2,779

Summary: you're an escort hired for a private Super Bowl party hosted by a mysterious client and his four friends

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature and Explicit, reader's work name is "Angel", reader is a sex worker, mildly dubious consent (though she does state that the men can do as they want, it's her first experience in sex work), rough sex (but no violence done to reader), group sex, threesome to sixsome, oral sex (f & m receiving), unprotected p in v sex, double p in v, anal sex & fingering, multiple penetration, hand jobs, face fucking, facial, verbal abuse/humiliation, squirting, swallowing, creampie, spitroasting, reader gets slapped w/a dick for a bit, porn without plot, you know.. all the sweet stuff.

Author's Note: another cross-post from AO3 but honestly, football is barely mentioned so if you want you can ignore the whole Super Bowl aspect. Y'all might know by now I love a little romance in my smut but this particular fic has zero romance. Reader is there to do a job and leaves having done it very well. Also.. I'm considering creating a part 2 featuring more Pedro Boys, so any input on that is welcome!

It's your first day as an escort and you're a little nervous. Okay, a lot nervous. You never know what you're going to expect from clients, but these guys you're about to meet have been pre-screened and even had to turn in blood tests just to be considered as clients. The escort service you work for is very prestigious. You're even driven to the location by a security detail who is tasked to wait outside for you. This makes you feel a little better.

You take a quick look at your outfit before you leave the car. The rule is you show up in character and leave in character. No real names, no background stories, just a persona and an exchange of goods. Simple as that. Should be easy enough.

Taking a deep breath, you exit the car and go up to the front door.

* * *

The doorbell rings, and Dave York springs from the sofa, a little smirk on his lips. "Guys, I think she's here," he announces, and the rest of the group look up from the Super Bowl game, groaning when Dave mutes the sound even though it's just gone to commercial.

"Who?" Frankie Morales asks, swigging a beer.

"The halftime entertainment," Dave answers mysteriously.

Marcus Moreno and Joel Miller trade inquisitive glances. Javier Peña raises his brow. He knows what Dave means.

Dave brings you into the living room and you take a quick survey of your surroundings: the home is nicer than most, two stories, decorated tastefully but with an obvious woman's touch. You give him a once-over. He's forty-ish, handsome, clean-shaven.

"The wife got the house in the divorce," Dave tells you, as if reading your mind. "This is my last weekend here, so let's make it count!" He raises his glass of whiskey to the guys, most of whom also salute with their drinks. They are all eyeing you like a pack of dogs that haven't eaten in days.

Marcus, a kind-looking man with dark eyeglasses who gives you Clark Kent vibes, smiles awkwardly at you, blushing. "Aren't you going to introduce us?" he asks Dave politely.

"Angel," you give your working name, smiling at each of the men. They're all cute: some scruffy, some dapper.

Dave smirks. "I'm Dave, and these are my buddies Marcus, Frankie, Joel, and Javier." Each of the guys smiles or nods at you as they're introduced.

"I heard you guys are looking to get wild," you say, opening your winter coat to reveal your see-through lingerie. Joel, Javier, and Dave whoop in excitement. Marcus and Frankie are more reticent but can't take their eyes off you. "What do you plan on doing with little ol' me?" you ask innocently, kneeling on the cushioned ottoman in the middle of the living room. You glide your hands over your body and smile as the men shift in their seats, watching you, getting hard already at the idea of you offering yourself.

Dave is the first to put his hands on you, first on your hips then grabbing your ass. Joel, an older man with graying hair and green flannel shirt, interrupts him, rising from his seat. "Now, who told you you get to go first?" he asks in a deep voiced Texan accent.

"First? We're running a train on this girl?" Javier asks from his seat, a cigarette burning between his lips. He's dressed like someone from the 1970s but his clothes fit him well, accentuating a lean physique.

"You can do whatever you want with me," you tell them with confidence. "But of course, no hitting, no biting, no leaving marks." You are resolute on this, as is your employer.

"Hell, darlin', we're not monsters," Joel says, his eyes full of concern for you. The others chime in that they aren't into really rough stuff. Only Dave looks a little disappointed by your rule.

"I'd expect you to be more methodical about this," Javier tells Dave, rising from his seat and casting an amused glance at his friend. He eyes you up and down then reaches into your bra to cup your breast while his other hand dives between your thighs. "Christ, she's already wet. And so fucking tight. You haven't been doing this kind of work long, have you, baby?"

"You all are my first clients," you admit, your breath hitching as his thick fingers tease you.

Javier manages a small smile then looks over at the group. "You haven't thought about these guys," he tells Dave, and nods at Frankie and Marcus. "They're completely baffled by this."

"We're not, I know exactly what's going on," insists Frankie, an adorable middle-aged guy wearing a t-shirt, cargo pants and baseball cap. His innocence is palpable and quite touching.

Dave and Javier's hands are still on you, grabbing and groping. It's a good start. "I'm paying for her. I should get to go first," Dave complains.

A few of the guys (well, okay, Javier and Dave) start to bicker about it, fueled by testosterone and alcohol. Joel strides up to you, effectively taking you away from Dave and Javier. "It's kind of a shame that no one's puttin' her feelings into consideration. She's gonna be providin' a huge service for us. Least we can do is give her a little pleasure beforehand." With that, he takes you and places you on the ottoman, kneeling between your open thighs. He rips open the crotch of your lingerie and dives in, sucking on your pussy. Your initial shock gives way to thrill as you register the warm, wet stiffness of his tongue rasping your folds, your clit, not taking his time about it. Your fingers curl into his hair as you lift your thighs back. You're still on the clock, still giving a show, even if this part is currently for your benefit. With Joel's aid you manage to take the now-ruined lingerie off and are naked but for your knee-high stockings.

"Way to get the party started," Javier says approvingly. "I'm not about to waste any time." He goes to you and sits you up. You take a moment to admire the bulge in those tight trousers before he pulls them down enough to take out his thick shaft. You obediently open your mouth to accept it and he slowly moves into your throat, allowing you to get used to him. Saliva pools in your mouth as you start to moan around his dick, still exhilarated by Joel's ravishing you with his tongue. You feel a hand massaging your breast and look over to see Frankie, his puppy dog eyes wide with wonder, as if he can't believe you're real.

"That feels so good," you tell him, sensing he likes praise. He lights up, encouraged by you, and continues to pinch and pull at your nipple before sucking on it, extracting a pleasured moan from your lips before you go back to sucking off Javier.

Marcus and Dave stand back. Marcus looks flustered and Dave has his hands on his hips, making a face. He's figuring out where to squeeze in but at the same time doesn't want to share.

Meanwhile you're keeping busy with Javier's cock in your mouth, Frankie's mouth on your breast, and Joel still lapping at you between your thighs. The most exquisite feelings comes over you and your scream is muffled as you come so hard, your body spasming while surrounded by these men. It's the most sensually charged moment of your entire life.

Joel lifts himself up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "She's wetter'n a cucumber in a convent," he chuckles, standing and trying to get the feeling back in his knees. Frankie then moves down to finger you just as Javier is on the verge of coming. Just as he gives a strangled growl, spilling his cum into your willing throat, you feel one of Frankie's fingers in your ass. You gasp and clench around him as Dave takes Javier's place. Your body is buzzing with energy, with lust.

"You're gonna earn every penny," Dave growls, thrusting into your mouth as if he hates you. You don't have a gag reflex but you pretend to choke on him, bringing tears to your eyes.

Frankie starts to undo his pants then quickly steps away. "I'm, uh, not ready yet."

"Let her take care of it," Javier says, lighting up another cigarette.

"No smoking in here," Dave warns, his eyes still on the mascara running down your face.

"Fuck you."

You start stroking Frankie, smiling at the plumpness of his cock, uncut. He's gazing down at you with tenderness in his eyes.

"Marcus, you joinin' us?" Joel asks, getting ready to pull down his jeans.

Marcus watches from the adjoining kitchen, his beer growing warm in his hand. "Maybe.. in a bit." He smiles nervously.

Joel shrugs and unzips himself, releasing his thick, veiny cock. It's all you can do not to stare at it in wonder.

"Hey, I was gonna go first," Dave says aggressively.

"You snooze you lose. Aren't we all gonna get a turn?" Joel smirks before aligning himself to your opening. "Such a tiny, perfect little pussy.. you're gonna be completely wrecked when we're done with you, babygirl..."

Your eyes widen when he begins to slide into you, but you're already slick enough to take him. You remove Dave from your mouth so you can watch Joel's cock disappear inch by inch into your cunt.

"Don't forget about me," Dave warns you, tapping his dick against the side of your face. You compliantly return to sucking him off and he grunts contentedly in response. At the same time Joel pushes in to the hilt. "Hell she's taking every inch of me," he groans. "What a good little slut she is.."

"Well shit, don't stretch her out before the rest of us," Dave complains.

"That's not a particular worry of mine," Javier smirks, getting himself ready again as he goes to your free hand, opposite Frankie, who is already hard and ready. Joel is building up a nice tempo, sliding deep inside your pussy, Dave thrusts avidly into your mouth, Frankie and Joel are watching you as you zealously prime them for whatever they want to do next.

"Oh my god!" Frankie's eyes go wide and without warning he comes on your stomach and you make a sound of surprise when you feel the warm stickiness of him on your skin. "I'm sorry," he mumbles.

"Don't be," you tell him with a smile. "Think you've got another one in you?" you wink and scoop his cum into your mouth as Frankie watches in wonder.

Dave seems upset that you keep removing him from your mouth to talk to Frankie, but Frankie looks so happy that you're not grossed out or upset. Dave grabs hold of the back of your head and rams himself in your throat. "Less talking, bitch," he growls.

You would give him a death glare but then you feel Joel speeding up, his thrusts strong, the loud slapping of your flesh fills the air. Before you know it you're throbbing around him, milking him as you feel him finish inside you. He doesn't stay long, and soon Javier takes his place. "Flip over, cariño," he says, moving you on all fours. Dave takes over from the front, Frankie strokes himself while fondling your tit. Javier grabs your ass and slides in, letting you feel every inch of him as you moan around Dave's cock. He cums soon, spraying the back of your throat with his thick white cum.

"Get in there, Frankie!" Javier encourages, pumping away none too gently as he watches your ass ripple with each thrust. "Marcus get over here and do something or you'll miss out!"

Marcus seems frozen to his spot but Frankie follows orders and you open wide to receive him. He looks down at you like you're some kind of miracle, and you make sure to look at him the same way, charmed by his good nature.

Javier leans close to you. "I'm gonna put it in your ass, cariño."

"Do whatever you want," you purr.

He pulls out of you and you feel a warm glob of saliva at your rear entrance. Javier smears it around your puckered hole and eases himself in. You gasp, fists clenching the edge of the ottoman. "Fill all her holes, boys," Dave says, watching from the side. "That's what she's here for."

Frankie pulls away from your mouth. "Let me get under you." he says, and Javier pulls out enough for you two to get positioned. Frankie aligns himself at your entrance and sinks in easily. "Jesus, you feel so good, Angel.." He thrusts up into you as Javier continues to fuck your ass. The three of you are a fusion of lust and frenzy. Joel watches, running his tongue over his lips, still tasting your sweet essence. Dave tells everyone he's next to claim your ass. Marcus has since inched closer, undeciding yet if he's going to join, or how. He's obviously hard, his eyes dark with craving.

"Marcus," you mumble as he approaches your side. "Fuck my mouth," you beg.

He suppresses a gasp but he unbuckles his belt. "I haven't.. in a while.."

"That's okay.." you smile at him, helping him pull down his pants and briefs, running your nails over his solid girth, and he immediately rises to the occasion. "You were shy before, but not now," you notice, and give his cock a couple of gentle tugs before taking him into your waiting mouth, just the tip, and letting him go in as deep as he wants.

Javier speeds up, fingers digging into your hips as all your cries fill the room. He comes, filling your ass as he grunts savagely, causing you in turn to come, clenching around Frankie who buries himself deep inside as he lets go. Once Javier pulls away Dave takes over, gripping your hips and moving you against him.

You finger your lonely pussy, unable to make yourself feel as good as any of these men have. “Oh god, I want all of you at once.. please!” You beg.

Marcus approaches you and lays beneath you as Dave moves away, scoots up so he’s practically standing over you. Joel claims your mouth and Javier lets you pump him with your fist. Frankie approaches from behind and at the same time Marcus enters you from beneath. Two men fuck your cunt, stretching you, ruining you, and all you can do is give them what they want and then ask for more.. one man in your mouth, in your hand, in your ass.. you are working for every penny just as Dave said.

You're practically dazed by the countless feelings of pleasure coming from every man inside you, the way they move, the way they taste, how their hands grope your ass or your breasts, your hips.. you're just a receptacle for them, a plaything. This allows your brain to soak everything in without having to think. Just feeling. None of them really care about your pleasure, not at this point. You're just a means to an end, and you like it. You've never felt more alive.

"God!" you gasp as you feel yet another wave of absolute euphoria threaten to take you under. You don't even bother to hold back. As soon as you come you feel them all come with you, like tiny explosions set off in a chain. You gulp down Joel's spunk as Dave spills himself inside your ass, and Marcus and Frankie throb then release, one only seconds after the other. Javier takes control of himself from you and spurts his cum onto your face. For the first time ever in your life, you squirt, gasping at the relief and suddenness of it. The six of you try hard to catch your breath, all of you taking in the moments of this night.

"I don't think I'll be able to cum for weeks," Joel says, chuckling as he pulls up his pants.

* * *

Showered and dressed, you leave in a skimpy outfit that covers more than the lingerie did, as Dave uses the escort agency's app to send you a very generous tip from himself and the rest of the guys. The guys, cleaned up and all in relaxed moods, watch the game, not even upset that they missed most of the second half. You take your money and leave, blowing a kiss to the guys.

"God damn, you hired a good one," Javier mutters to Dave.

"Let's make this an annual thing," Dave smirks. "Next one's on you, Peña."

[tyrannuspitch]

i'm reading this historical novel with a third gender character and like. i don't know how to feel about it. because obviously gender is personal and contextual and they will be operating within their own society's rules. but i feel like the author is keeping things so just-within-the-rules that it almost becomes like... a weird reluctance to engage with actual queerness? only with alternative norms? almost like. inventing new ways to be cis and then doing cisnormativity with them lmao

[netherfeildren]

FABLE OF THE DOG : 1. The Two Headed Calf

Series Masterlist;

Pairing: Joel Miller x FMC

Summary: Welcome home and buck up, cowgirl.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Cowboy/Heiress AU; Slowburn(ish); Original Characters; Alcohol & Drug Use; Discussions of Grief; Daddy Issues; Graphic Descriptions of Vomiting; Description of a Dead Body; Death of a Parent; Parental Neglect; Older Man/Younger Woman; Jealousy; Past Teenage Crush; Unrequited Pinning; Yearning and Longing Galore; Boss’s Daughter; Complicated Family Relationships; A Home is a Place but ALSO a Person!; Found Family

A/N: Disclaimer, I know nothing about Wyoming and it’s geography, ranching, or being a cowboy and just made all this up. Any and all misrepresentations are fallacy of my laziness.

The FMC tag was decided because she has a last name. It was just too difficult for me to speak in depth about her father without giving him a name, and thus her one too. After that decision was made, she kind of went away from me and devolved into her own person who I have come to be quite obsessed with. It’s still written in ‘you’ format, anyhow.

I’ve been having a whole lot of fun with this, I hope you do too.

Word Count: 10K

Read on AO3

1: The Two Headed Calf

“She’s been shut up in that house goin’ on three days now, Joel,” Tommy says as the two brothers make their way across the lawn. 

The ride had been long and hard, and Joel is tired—he levels a dark look at him. “Just sayin’. Nothin’ you find in there’s gonna be pretty to look at.” He raises his hands in surrender at the brooding glare, that non-confrontational shrug that’s set Joel on edge since they were boys. 

“One of you’s should’a gone in there. Made sure she’s okay.”

“The housekeepers’ve been keepin’ an eye. And Frank tried to go in there and check on her himself, but she’s angry as a barn cat. Hissin’ ‘nd yowlin’, and just bein’ downright scary as hell, to be honest. You should be prepared is all I’m tryin’ to say.”

“Her father just died, Tommy. I’m not expectin’ pretty sights right now,” Joel gruffs, trying to swallow the panic that flutters in his throat as they crest the final hill up to the big house. 

The beautiful stone, oak, glass monstrosity that’s stood as monument to this place, this home that is not truly his, for over a decade now. The Kelly Ranch. The sky above is still a sultry, yawning blue, deep and tired, basking in the throes of dawn as the sun just now makes its way over the crest of the Tetons in the distance so that the house sits for just a moment longer in its pool of shadowed blues. 

Joel pauses on the border of that somber darkness, afraid suddenly of what awaits him inside; boots glued to the ground with the gum of cowardice. He doesn’t want to see her broken. He doesn’t want to see her hurting. But there’s no other recourse, he knows this. The death of the estranged father she’d fought with all her life, the inheritance of this world that seems suddenly too big for just one orphaned girl, all alone now. 

He’s afraid that he’ll walk into that house he’s always seen as other and home all wrapped into one—that Olympus that was so far removed and out of reach even when he walked through it’s halls to the man who’d given him sanctuary and salvation, to the man he knew mistreated her sometimes, didn’t love her enough—and not have the capacity to recognize her, this girl who’d always been familiar and stranger all in one also. 

Joel Miller suddenly feels afraid of the memory she exists as in his mind, in the face of the woman he knows she is now. 

When he lets himself in the back kitchen door, it’s still nighttime within. The cool dryness of the AC cranked up to inhuman temperatures makes him shiver once while sprouting a damp sweat along his nape. He should’ve showered before coming, should’ve washed the ride and the days of camp off his skin before walking into her presence, but all he’d managed were his hands and face. There’d been panic to make sure she was well, if not then alive, at least. But he should be more presentable for her. 

Hell, he should’ve been here for her when she came home for the first time in two years to the house where her father had died. He should’ve been here when the man died. 

But the herd had needed moving. He hadn’t thought it’d all happen so quickly, thought he had more time, that they all had more time. He’d hoped she wouldn’t return at all, if he was being honest. There was nothing here for her. Nothing except memories of a gilded and loveless, already motherless childhood. The reality of all she was set to inherit. The truth of an aloneness Joel didn’t know if she was prepared for. 

He moves through the house slowly, afraid to disturb the ghosts and the silence. The interior, immaculate and beautiful and solemn. Something out of a movie picture or the gloss of a magazine. Something covered not in dust but in sadness. The stairs are silent as his spinning mind makes up for the creak, the boots she’d sent him on his last birthday hit the richly piled rug at the top, and the hallway to the bedrooms yawns long and frightening in front of him. Two grand a pop, the boots—Lucchese, he’d looked them up on the iPhone she’d sent him the year before. A gift giver, generous to a fault, kind to a detriment. She sent something to all the ranch hands that’d worked for her father since she was a girl. Something for the entire ranch at Christmas. And all he managed each time was a perfunctory thank you card, like he did every year because he remembered, years ago, in her little voice, polite people send thank you notes, Joel, my grandmother told me so. Last year he’d written that they were too much, that she shouldn’t have, that he was grateful. There wasn’t much else to say. 

That was the extent of their communication, familiar and stranger in one, the far removed golden child of the Kelly. They’d all called him that, the Kelly, for as long as he’d known the man. As if he was some Scottish laird of old, ruling over his clan and half the world. Egotistical, was what it really was. He’d thought himself a god among men, in the face of his only child. Ridiculous was what Joel saw it all for, a put on play, a farce.

And wonder of wonders, she was entirely unlike him because of course she would be. Of course a man ruled by nothing more than ego and narcissism had been sent his polar opposite in the form of his only child. Kind hearted, was what she was—sending him a birthday gift every year. Remembering them all here always no matter how far she’d gone. He sent her a thank you note for each benevolence in return, a word of respectful gratitude for the fact that a person like her could ever remember a dog like him. 

Sometimes, Joel had wanted to go to him, the old man, Oswald Kelly, and ask him where his daughter was, why he wasn’t looking for her, keeping her closer, caring for her. He wasn’t the sort of man that could’ve ever understood such callous behavior towards one’s child.

The last time she’d been here, over two years ago: less than forty eight hours that had ended in screaming so terrible they’d all heard it down from the barn, sitting in uncomfortable, swollen silence, the spinning of tires ringing as she yelled at her father that he was never going to see her again, the man’s echoing laugh as she’d fled him. 

Joel hadn’t seen her on that visit, it’d been so quick and angry. Flying down on the jet from New Haven for her father’s seventieth birthday and not even making it long enough for the festivities. This was what her life was, as he’d observed it from a distance for all these years, the singular daughter of this great house, coming to her father, attempting joy and finding nothing but disappointment at the end of him. 

She’d been right, a knowing streak running through her. Kelly had never seen her again, and Joel didn’t know if the old man had regretted it or not, the anger and the estrangement and the lack of love. But the last time he’d spoken to him, hours before setting off on their move, the herd always came before everything else, the ranch was all that mattered is what the man had always said, with death scratching at the window, his frail and withered body licked down to almost nothing from the austere and imposing figure Joel had always known him as, he’d asked for her. His only child. Do you think she’ll come, Joel? The dying man had asked him. My daughter, do you think she’ll come see me? Joel had lied a lie he hadn’t known was one, said she would, that he’d call her as soon as he was back. 

In the end, he hadn’t even afforded her that decency, a personal call.

He comes to her open bedroom door now, pitch dark as grief within, and the stench of sorrow and liquor seeping from the living grave. He looks down the long and empty hall for a brief second, wishing it didn’t have to be him, that again, he didn't have to see her any way other than okay. And he realizes that there’s something about her, as she will exist now, that makes him cowardly. Something about this house without the man who’d granted him the absolution of a hiding place all those years ago, who’d understood and sheltered Joel in the midst of his own past grief, that makes him cowardly. The house feels wrong without Kelly within it, wrong with only her as its holder now. 

Joel steps into her dark, and it’s a battleground—

—You are silent and motionless in the blue room. 

Nothing of the gleaming splendor that dresses the rest of the home sleeps in here. There are clothes everywhere, an exploded suitcase lies open and massacred in the middle of the plush white rug, a turned over bottle of red wine bleeding into your clothes. Shredded pages with scratched on writing slashed across them, the dusted white mounds of crushed pills, as if you’d smashed each one individually beneath the thumb of your grief. The sight makes him more afraid, the scent of weed and cigarettes heavy in the air, as he takes the final step towards the wrecked bed, and a single small foot hangs limply from the edge.

He stares at it long and hard for a second, afraid, afraid again, still, of what he’ll find. He says your name once, short and gruff like a dog’s bark. It’s what he feels like. Animal, bestial, lacking any sort of cognizance amidst this minefield. His heart beats against his spine, and he thinks he should do something else, shake you, check for a pulse, his bones throb inside his skin. He needs to fucking move, but the smell of smoke is so cloying he’s choking on his own tongue. 

Your ankle twitches.

And Joel sucks in a sigh of relieved air without panic, saying your name again. His voice is level now, maybe gentle, no more barking dog. His eyes move up the length of one pretty leg, and then quickly, he averts his gaze when he gets high up enough he’s met with soft-creased asscheek covered in silk. Swallowing his tongue, his eyes roll in their sockets, looking for anything else to look at besides the sight of panty clad ass. He steps closer again, gripping the edge of the sheet to pull it over your scantily clad body, eyes flitting to the silver spun clock on the nightstand, the warm glow of the hall light shows that they have two hours to get you sober and presentable before the funeral. 

Joel should have been here. He does not feel that he is even here now. And the guilt eats at him like acid. The fear too. 

“Darlin’, you’ve gotta get up now,” he says softly, taking hold of your shoulder, scalded by the feel of fragile skin, realizing with the suddenness of a gunshot that you’ll be the Kelly now. He gives you a gentle shake, “We’ve gotta get you ready,” and his heart pumps blood like a machine. The sight of the dry liquor bottle toppled on the nightstand, the shattered glass glittering the floor in crystal, the empty pill bottles, it all taunts him. His guilt is a cacophony in his mind. He knows he’s going to have to stick his fingers down your throat, make you spit it all up, that you’ll hate him for all of this afterwards, but when his gaze meets streaked rust, dark and shocking against the white sheets, he’s kicked into terrified action. 

He turns you over, your head lolling sickeningly in unconscious stupor, hair a tangled mess strewn about your face so that he has to dig for your eyes, parting the curtains of your fringe to uncover you. He focuses on your closed eyes, the too long lashes clumped together, lips cracked and parched. 

He should’ve fucking been here. 

Smoothing his fingers along the lengths of your arms, he keeps his eyes on your face and averted from all the skin that keeps peeking out below, searching the divots and slopes of your arms for hurts. When he gets to your right hand, battleground of a long ago broken hurt, he finds the drying crust of blood, the ragged split in the soft, small palm, thankfully shallow.

 His eyes smart, looking down at the broken glass, feeling the tear in you. 

Gripping you gently below the elbows he pulls you into his arms, cradled like a child, light as loss. Your head lolls again, neck crooked at an unnatural angle as he carries you into the restroom, careful of your head, knocking the lights on and putting you down in front of the toilet bowl. He pulls your camisole to rights, making sure everything is covered, and gathers your mess of hair as carefully as he can, trying his best to not snag the fragile strands in his too rough hands, but gripping you firmly in position. And ignoring the sound of your awakening cry, he sticks two fingers into your slack jawed mouth and down your throat until he feels the hot rush of vomit. 

Crouching behind you, his thighs bracket you, keeping your form from slumping over as you empty the poison from your belly, flushing the alcohol soaked bile as you struggle. He wipes his messy hand on the leg of his jeans and rubs soothing circles on your back, his fingers woven through the soft silk of your hair to keep your head in place and your face clear. His heart thumps in rhythm with your heaves, your too quick, panicked breathing. There seems to be not enough oxygen for the two of you and your grief in the too small room of the commode, and Joel gasps like a dying fish, trying to swallow calm breaths. 

When you finally stop your heaving, you rest your arms at the edge of the gleaming porcelain, head hung low, defeated, wracked with shivers or silent sobs, he isn’t sure, a strange and horrible keening noise, so small he barely catches it, held in your throat. There’s the finest down of peach fuzz that covers the tender slope of your vulnerable nape, and it makes Joel feel suddenly, just as vulnerable, just as unprotected. At a complete loss for how to help you. 

“Finally decided to show your face,” you croak, voice ragged with your sick. 

His fingers tighten once around your shoulder, a panicked tick of reminder that he’s here now, that he’s him. “I was moving the herd. It had to be done. Your father, he—” he stutters, trying explain, tripping over his own guilt ridden words. “I didn’t think it’d happen now, so fast, that you’d get here so soon. I thought we had more time.” 

We. 

Your skin seems to cool by the second beneath his fingertips, and then you’re shrugging his touch away, huddling closer to the porcelain bowl, further away from him. 

“Get out.”

“Let me explain. I—” And he’s begging now. He can hear the note of it in his voice. Begging for forgiveness. For a chance. 

“I don’t want to see you.” You don’t say his name. “Get out.” It feels worse than anything. 

“I’m here now. I didn’t know— I didn’t think.” He reaches to grab for you again, but you turn to face him suddenly. Wiping the back of your hand against your mouth, pushing your heels at his shins to kick him away. Your eyes are red rimmed, the hollows beneath bruised with lack of sleep. But fire spits from the deep color, all anger and hurt. 

“Go deal with your fucking ranch,” you fling the words at him. “It’s all you care about anyways.” And they weren’t shivers, he sees now, they’re tears tracked as proof of all his guilt, all his lacking, along the slopes of your fine grained cheeks. 

Your, you say. As if this place and anything in it has ever been his. He’s never wanted any of it like that, only ever seen a thing that needed taking care of, and him, with the ability to care for it. 

“I needed you,” you whisper as if the thought comes along on a second wind of anger, a realization that sends your voice breaking, hitching, your chest caving in on itself as the tears come faster and faster now. “He’s dead, and I needed you.”

“I’m sorry,” he begs. “I’m so sorry.” His voice breaks now too. He thinks he’ll cry now too, for the man who he also lost, who despite it all meant something to him, as well. For you, who’s lost even more. For Joel’s own guilt. 

But he doesn’t think you see any of that, not his apology, not his regret, not his own grief. You turn away from him again, laying your temple down again on your forearm. “Get out. I’ll be ready soon.”

And so he goes.

-

Your father is made small and withered in death. 

One of the wealthiest men in the entire world. A stranger, a titan, a nightmare of a man. 

It wasn’t something you’d ever considered, that a human body could look so colorless and frigid and not alive. Like a shock or a ringing bell, it’s a realization that you’re an orphan now. That you’re all alone. 

You feel something like a memory of regret. Or something that’s like the idea that you should feel regret, that you should feel guilt for how it was between the two of you. But all that is overshadowed by the reality of what you weren’t. All you feel even more, or in actual reality, is the old loss of what you’d never been to each other. That, you realize, is the seed of your grief. That long ago wound, that child’s understanding that he wasn’t like all the other fathers, that he’d never care for you the way other children were cared for. 

Looking down at the frozen face that looks nothing like the one he’d worn the last time you’d seen him, the wispy thatch of hair that hadn’t been so jarringly white before sickness had ravaged his body, you realize that this is no new loss, it is only a continuation, a reopening of a very old one. 

The cavernous cathedral at your back is silent, vacated by the sea of people that had congregated here earlier. And with sickening curiosity, you uncoil an arm from where you’ve got it wrapped around yourself, reaching out to press a finger against the ice cold back of his hand. Shockingly not alive; he feels made of rubber. 

Everyone that’d been here to bid farewell to this behemoth turned slip of a man, to catch a glimpse of you, packed like teeth into Jackson’s grandest cathedral; business men and heads of state from around the world, the oldest family names in the country, figures of the highest echelons of wealth and society, vipers circling the barrel—half the world here to see this person who was supposed to have been your father but was really only a stranger. 

You take your hand back, and you don’t say goodbye as you turn away from his body. There’s no farewell to really tell. 

And at the back of the church, hiding in a bright ream of sunlight, Joel stands propped against the face of a saint. Dark and silent and maybe even more far removed than your dead dad. Watching sentinel. Oswald Kelly’s hovering man—come to watch over him one last time. 

The silk of your stockings slide against each other at the junction of your thighs, the hiss of your skirt around your calves as your reed thin heels click against the stone, and you pull your armor as tightly around yourself as you can. There’s a hollow echo inside of everywhere and everything, your mind like a gong, reverberating, and his gaze is so steady, hazel bright, deeply shaded by the lip of his dark hat, beckoning you towards him from beneath the brim. 

Large and strong and steadfast, your heart gives a painful, longing thump—stupid, writhing thing—and you can only bear to look him in the eye for a second, and if you were to really think about saying goodbye to that father that never really was, lying behind you, slipping further and further away, you’d say it to the man that always stood as his shadow before the world, before you ever said it to the man himself. 

-

The drive back home is cast in frigid silence and made all the more uncomfortable because you can practically hear Joel’s brain clicking and ticking away with worry. 

He’d sent your car and driver away with a harsh word while you collected your final goodbyes and words of respect from the last smattering of people congregated and waiting for the newly birthed heir to one of the greatest fortunes in the world. 

Hovering over your shoulder, he’d kept anyone from stepping too close or getting too friendly, so close you could feel the heat of his chest through the silk of your blouse, and then going suddenly full on aggressive when a reporter from the New York Times had approached, fishing for a quote on the future of the Kelly empire. Ushering you away with a hovering hand at the small of your back before the man could get half a question out, he’s opening the truck’s door for you as a haze descends over your eyes, the distant shutter and flash of cameras bursting in your peripherals, a latent hangover and sleep deprivation and not enough to eat in the last forty eight hours causing you to sag in his hold. Then it’s only his big fist wrapping around the span of your wrist as he lifts you into the truck, your eyes downcast and unable to take in sight or sound, vision all a blur. You murmur a barely there thank you with his hand fitting at the dip of your waist, big body blocking yours entirely from prying eyes trying to catch a glimpse or a stumble, and for a single second, your entire weight is suspended in his hold, allowing you to bypass the struggle of balancing your high heel on the step up, and then you’re sliding onto the leather of the seat, the whisper of your cashmere and silk rustling around you as he handles you like a child being spirited away from the scene of a crime. 

The door shuts gently behind you, face turned away from the flashing lights, the watchful eyes of the whole world, and worst of all, the assessment of his concerned gaze. All you’re afforded are thirty seconds of privacy to let out a single gasping sob. 

And now, an hour and a half of silent purgatory. 

You slip your heels off, flexing your smarting toes against the damp of your stockings and tuck your folded legs beneath you on the seat. Paying the frantic energy of his anxiety and lodged words no mind, you consider instead: your new reality. The burden of it all means very little to you now. The last of your worries is being readied for entombing as the two of you speed down the eighty nine, zinging past the bright Wyoming green. The thrum of his truck drowns out your thoughts, brand new, probably over a hundred grand, only the best for your father’s right hand man, and the Kelly Ranch insignia emblazoned proudly on the sides. A brand for the whole world to see just who exactly is being whisked away to her old home turned brand spanking new grave. 

You might be feeling a little bit dramatic. But then again— you’d just put your last remaining parent in an actual grave, surely that provides you some allowances. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his big paw gripping the leathered steering wheel in a death clutch, knuckles white with his frustration at the dilemma you pose, his own discomfort. You’re sure if he thought you wouldn’t catch him, he’d be squirming in his seat. 

You do something to him sometimes, you know this. Not in any way you’d like, not in any interesting way, that of a woman affecting a man, but something respectfully harrowing. Maybe something a little bit like fear. 

There has existed between the two of you, always, that strange intimacy of two people who’ve known each other for a very long time, and yet, have always remained at a far removed, arms length distance from one another. 

A professional intimacy of sorts. Your father’s foreman, shadow, fixer. The man who guarded that treasure trove you’d inherit one day, today; the thing your father loved most in the world. Two people who’ve known each other a long time, and yet, don’t really know each other at all. 

There has always been, however, the fact of the birthday. 

The birthday. Your birthday.

The way you’d latched onto that small, immense, detail when you’d first discovered it at fourteen, when he’d newly arrived at the ranch and the true weight of your first real crush had really hit you, it was probably not entirely healthy. But you’d thought yourself in love with your father’s man, the first figure of the male species who’d ever drawn your attention in such a way. 

He’d never paid you any mind; you were the boss's daughter, a figurehead or a responsibility, maybe a nuisance, although he’d never ever treated you as one. But the day someone had let slip it was his birthday, on the same day as yours, your teenage heart had swelled with the naive hope of fate. It was meant to be, the two of you were connected, so on and so forth, swallowed by girlish innocence and made buoyant by fantasy. 

But you’d had something to share with someone, which was what really mattered. Something tangible, even if only in your inexperienced little mind, something to wield as comfort so that the first time your father had forgotten your special day, fifteen, and what a tender age it had been, you’d had something to cling to. That's when your gifts to him had started. It was your way of making sure there was at least one person in the whole world who’d remember that was your day too. That you were alive, that you mattered. A reminder of yourself. And as the years and birthdays passed, sometimes, when he sent those coldly gracious notes of his, you’d wished you could’ve written back with honesty. Said something like, I’m so lonely, wish you were here, wherever it was in the world you’d found yourself at the time. 

And of course, he was gorgeous and older, strong and patient and capable, entirely unattainable. Impossible to forget. You’d gone so far, traveled wide, gotten yourself an overpriced education that would probably serve you for nothing, had lovers and parties and splendor, and always, you remembered your gifts for him, you remembered him. It was the single most important detail of your birthday every year. 

The leather creaks beneath his fist again, chapped knuckles set to burst before he flexes his fingers out, long and straight. Thickly built hands, strong, made for working or hurting, on a man who you’ve never seen be anything but stoically patient. 

He was strange in that way, neither wholly impulsive nor precisely intentional in his mannerisms. More so, it was that there was something extremely neutral about him, a middle buoyancy of personality. Strict with the cowboys, exacting, wielding his title as ranch foreman with an iron fist and your father’s blessing, and yet still, quiet, serious, with that patient gentleness about him. You’d seen it in the way he’d handled Ellie when she’d first come to the ranch, young and skinny with that hollow look of trauma kids who’d seen things they shouldn’t have shamed adults with. She’d been a little older than you, and with an air you’d not understood, a sort of lived past you’d been naive to the existence of, frightened when confronted by it, and yet inevitably, the two of you’d become fast friends eventually.

You’d even experienced it yourself, on two treasured occasions, that gentleness that you’d held onto for years. Nurturing the memory of him in your mind like a delusional bloom. 

He stretches his hand again, wheel caught between his thumb and forefinger, cinching it there, back and forth. His nails are meticulously clean, cut to the quick, and you imagine he must spend a great deal of time cleaning himself up when he works so hard at getting himself so dirty most days. 

You can see him sneaking glances at you, and he coughs once, a clearing of his nervous throat. Averting your gaze, you turn your face away so that you’ll be able to watch him through the reflection in the window. He monopolizes the space in the cabin of the truck, broad shoulders and hulking form, all the fine leather smell washed away in the scent of him. That bay rum aftershave he’s always worn, the one with the distinctive notes of bay leaf, cloves and citrus. An old fashioned scent, masculine and crisp. 

You’d snuck into the bunk once with Ellie, before he’d moved into the foreman’s cabin, before Switzerland, when the two of you were still girls running rampant and free through the ranch, clutching desperately at the last vestiges of any sort of happy childhood you could scrounge up for one another. You’d peeked in his things, found a whole world of Joel shaped curiosities. The glass etched bottle of aftershave, a hole spotted t-shirt with a burnt orange longhorn across the front, Flannery O’Connor’s The Complete Stories—something you found comforting, knowing he could read about the small, the freakish, real life; thinking that perhaps he was homesick for the comfort of the South, hungering for a taste of the life he’d had then, through books. And then, in a spine cracked copy of Suttree, the pages almost falling apart beneath your fingertips, dog eared and well loved, her picture tucked between the pages.

It had been the first time you’d done something you knew you shouldn’t have and actually regretted it, looking down at that green eyed photograph. 

You’d run back to your room after that, ashamed and something a little bit like jealous, desperate to know who she was, desperate for someone to keep a picture of you like that—as if they loved you. And years later, you’d found the scent for yourself. The little molasses glass bottle you still have and pull out on occasion, when you’re feeling extra bad, extra lonesome, extra far away from the whole world, just for a reminding of home. 

Beside you, he sighs again, coughs again, brings you back to himself and the present. Just spit it out already, you think exasperatedly, say something, anything else besides how sorry you are. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he starts, and you roll your eyes, scoffing quietly. 

“You already said that.” Sullen. Mullish. You wish you were a child who could still throw a tantrum and get away with it. Letting your eyes go unfocused from his reflection in the window, you brood at the sight of everything that’s yours now as he turns off the highway, passing below the iron eave of the Kelly Ranch entrance. Eight hundred thousand acres of pristine Wyoming land nestled into the deep valley surrounded by the Grand Tetons mountain range. 

“Well, I’m sayin’ it again.” He’s driving too fast, and you refuse to turn and look at his face. Your heart beats blood in your ears, and you screw your eyes shut to the dizzying blur of green legacy, not wanting to see any of it—him. 

Your belly swoops, going slightly nauseous and gurgling. 

“I didn’t think you’d get here so quick.” He swallows, “Hell, I didn’t think it’d all happen so damn fast.”

“I was already in New York,” you tell him, voice clipped with breathlessness. “I left Paris last week.”

“What? I didn’t know— I—”

“Why would you?”

“I would’ve called you. I would’ve gotten you out here quicker.”

“Ellie called. It’s better like this, Joel.” Finally letting yourself say his name out loud, it feels wrong and molten on your tongue, a heaviness being spit up from the depths of your stomach. “We don’t have to pretend anymore. He’s dead now.”

“There’s no pretending. He wanted to see you—”

“Please, stop.”

But he urges on unheeded: “He told me so before I left. Told me—”

“Stop,” you snap. Finally turning to look at him and hating him for it. For how gorgeous he is, for all the things he’s always made you feel for as long as you can remember what it was to feel something for a man, for all he did or did not have with your father when you had none of it or so much of an entirely different thing. “Stop. I don’t want to hear any of it. It doesn't matter anymore, Joel.”

“But you should know. You deserve to know that—”

“What?” Because that one hurts. “I deserve to know what?” That he actually had loved you but had just never been able to show it? That now it was too late? That the only person the great Oswald Kelly had ever been able to speak to of the supposed care he had for his only daughter was the hired help? You’d read once that one should never let their parents anywhere near their real humiliations. You’d tried your damndest to follow that as soon as you’d grown up. “It’s not your place,” you seethe with teeth bared, an animal shoved into a corner and made to fight for its life, deciding you won’t ever let Joel near them either.  

He spits a cursing, growled sound of frustration, but doesn’t continue. The two of you find yourselves at an impasse, and you turn back to your windowed mirror of him, eyes pinching hot, filling with tears. One of the things your father disliked most about you, your easy tears, and a single salt marred inadequacy tracks down the slope of your cheek, dripping off the edge of your jaw into the bandaged cup of your palm, and you breathe slow and measured through your open mouth, watching the fog cloud grow and shrink against the glass obscuring your vision of him. 

-

The last time you’d missed your mother, the one you’d never known, in any sort of real and true way, you’d been eighteen. Returning to an empty house after celebrating your high school graduation in a far off school, alone. 

In the midst of your sophomore year, you’d been sent away to a Swiss boarding school. It had been something worse than devastating, losing your life in Wyoming, the only home you’d ever know, Ellie, the other people on the ranch… But it was far removed enough that you couldn’t bother, where you couldn’t ask for things like attention or consideration. The education had been excellent, the upbringing desperately lonely ending on a whimpering sigh despite your many accomplishments. You’d wanted her very badly then indeed, your mother. To have been there, to have helped you pick your dress, kissed your cheek after watching you walk across the stage. To have wiped your tears when she told you that your father wasn’t there because he was busy managing the whole world, but that he was proud of you, that he’d have been there if he could. You’d wished she could’ve been there to lie to you so that you wouldn’t have needed to lie to yourself. 

Peering down from your balanced perch atop the deck’s bannister, you survey the deep bed of Lily of the Valley, destroyed beneath the vindictive soles of your bare feet. He’d planted them for her all around the house after she’d died, her favorite flower. 

You’d always hated them. 

And that was the thing of it all, which you’d learned when you grew old enough to recognize such things like disdain. He couldn't stand you because you reminded him of her. Clichéd and old and tired. An excuse for being a neglectful father. The daughter who was too much like her dead mother, and thus did not deserve to be loved. 

You tip your head back, nursing at the lip of fine aged Macallan, and the sky is a glass mirror of blackened silver streaks. You’re almost positive that all the stars in the Milky Way are visible from right here at this very spot in the heart of Wyoming. The sight makes your broken heart feel full and falsely mended. 

You’re certain you’re painting a pretty picture right now: tipsy on a bottle of your dead dad’s sacredly hoarded whiskey that probably cost as much as someone’s house, staring up at the stars in your newly inherited home with a whole unappreciated life full of possibilities ahead of you. Basking in the title of your newly minted— orphan-hood? Orphan-ness? A peer of the orphans. 

You snort softly, sucking on the bottle again, letting the heat of it settle in your belly, smolder in your heart. Your head feels full of bubbles and sugar and sad. 

There’s a part of you that feels a little ridiculous, despite the circumstances. You’re good at compartmentalizing, good at being objective of your realities. Obviously: sad because your father is now dead, and it’d been nine months and eleven days since you’d last spoken to him. Sad because he’d never given a shit about you. Sad because you’re alone, dumped by the stupid French jockey boyfriend who you’d not even liked very much, just a few days before this whole pathetic ordeal of acquiring your orphan-hood, yeah, that’s what you’re sticking with, had occurred. Not to mention the army of looming lawyers and financial advisors and various heads of business vying for your attention, waiting for the what next?

And Joel.

A one man army of looming Joel. 

So you’re feeling morose, blue, maybe a little spoiled, but brought low and cut short. Depressed and unsatisfied with your life thus far. 

Poor little rich girl. Poor little orphan. Poor little me.

What you want? 

Someone to care. 

Someone to love you. 

Hard to come by. Impossible to buy. 

The stars gleam purple silver, winking at you. The bracketing black so dark it swallows the eye. Another taste of the nutty bouquet of smoked apple oranges, and soon you’ll be tipsy enough you won’t be able to balance your butt on the bannister’s ledge anymore. Maybe you’ll go humpty dumpty over the edge and crack your skull against your mother’s valley of destroyed Lily’s. 

You laugh again with sound now, not crazy, only an orphan, ha, but you think that it’s only that it feels shockingly as if you’ve fallen through the surface of your life. As if you are still falling with nothing and no one to grab on to, to help stabilize you. A really terrible, shit-out-of-luck feeling. 

Your eyes continue their infernal leaking, and you blow your nose loudly on the inside of your sweater. You’ve given yourself three days to do whatever the hell you want, be as disgusting as you may. When the three days are up you’ll plan to get your act together, take responsibility and hold of your life and become the woman you should be. 

Who that is? Still being decided. 

You think that maybe you’ll buy another jet before that time’s up. Or an island. Something ridiculous. Maybe you’ll sell the goddamn ranch. 

You eye the dark rolling hills of the valley with seething suspicion. Let’s see what Joel says about that. You, marching up to the highway entrance and spearing a For Sale sign in the dirt of the largest privately owned cattle ranch in the continental United States. Way more than that God forsaken surly frown is what you’d get. 

So long, Joel, it’s been swell. I’m done with this place. It’s time to pack it up and find some new hunk of land to care about more than you care about me or anything else. 

Maybe you’ll be real funny and put up a Craigslist ad. 

And it isn’t that you don’t love this place, the only home you’ve ever known. You do. In a way that is passionate and consuming and irreconcilable. Everything about it, the serenity, the guarding mountains and the deep woods, the home you’d been born in, that both your parents had died in. You do love it in your way. 

It’s only that every man you’ve ever loved—loved—had always cared more about the place than he’d ever cared about you. 

For the longest time, most of your youth until you’d decided that you officially felt an adult, you’d thought you’d hated your father. There was just so much anger and resentment and the resound of his ever furious words and insults and endless disappointment. The echo of no mother ringing so loudly in your ears that the confounding feelings had all been mistaken for hatred. But with age and distance and life, you’d realized you didn't hate him. You never had. You thought, actually, and this was a very good and mature thought of yours, that you were the only person in the whole world that had ever seen him as only a man and not a god. 

He was only a man, full of greed and grief and missing the mother of the child he’d probably never wanted. Nothing more or less. 

Maybe it was that you felt sorry for him. Not in the way of pity, but in the way of one person feeling empathy for another in a clinical and helpless sort of manner. And a numb, detached sort of sadness. A longing for something that you’d never had and had always wanted but eventually learned to live without. 

Ultimately, his disappointment had turned on him, and now it was all you felt you had for him at the end of it all. 

But, for some reason, and an annoying one at that, you do think that, if you try very, very hard, you could bring yourself to hate Joel Miller. There’s satisfaction in that possibility, vindication—resentment that even now, as practically strangers, you know he’d be able to pull that sort of feeling out of you which could result in hatred. Something strong and overwhelming and not easily escaped. 

Your stomach rumbles, and you smile blithely at all your inherited legacy, filling the hollow with more drink. Three days to behave very badly, as badly as you can. The whiskey is so good, and swishing it around in your mouth, you tip your head back further, gurgling it loudly at the back of your throat. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

You jerk, scrambling to keep your balance, choking a little on smokey apples and your own spit. A trickle of the golden amber liquor drips out of the corner of your mouth as you find him hiding in the dark across the deck. Accustomed to drooling over him, you wipe it away with the back of your hand. 

“Having a party. Would you like to join?”

“Are you drunk again?”

Tough crowd. Ugh.  “Never mind. You’re not invited. Go away.”

“You need to go inside and go to bed.”

You tip your chin at him, putting on doe eyes. “Alright. And are you going to be my new daddy also?” You say in a baby voice.

Fucking Christ, you hear him whisper under his breath, turning away to run an exasperated palm over his mouth. Frustration seethes off of him like sulfur. He’s tired. Of you maybe. Of the whole circus this place has become in the past few days—and rightfully so. 

“What do you want? I’m extremely busy, if you can’t tell.”

“Just thought I’d check on ya.” Courteous, always the gentleman, bullshit. You roll your eyes at him. 

“I don’t need you to check on me.” And you, ever the child. One day you swear you’ll grow up. 

But it can’t be said that you’re entirely selfish either. You have considered the fact of Joel’s own grief at the loss of your father. After all, they’d been much closer than you’d ever been to him for many years. And maybe, in his own cold and removed and superior way, your father had seen this man who you’ve thought yourself in love with since you were a teenager, as something like a son. 

Probably, that’s just your own wishful thinking: that Oswald Kelly had ever been capable of such tender feelings.

Maybe the fact of Joel’s own grief is the thorn beneath your nail bed that’s making you so angry with him, so needing of his attention. Maybe it’s that he’d failed to fulfill your silly and girlish fantasy that upon receiving the news of your only remaining parents death, he’d have been here waiting for you, at this home he’d guarded for you for so long, ready to take you into his arms and console and care for you. 

When instead, he’d been off doing what he’d always done for as long as you’d known him. Protecting your father’s interests, his legacy. 

“Is this how it’s going to be?”

“How?”

“You, being difficult.” Driving me fuckin’ crazy— he adds again under his breath. 

“I’m an orphan now, Joel.” You’re becoming quickly addicted to the word. “I think I should be afforded a tiny bit of leeway to drive people fuckin’ crazy,” you mock his Southern drawl. Enough of your time had been spent in Europe over the past two years, kissing Europeans, that you’d sloughed off the last of your American twang; something of a vaguely European lilt peppering your words every now and then that Ellie likes to tease you for whenever the two of you speak on occasion. 

A muscle under his left eye twitches at the jab, and you take another deep swig of the bottle, provoking him with your gaze. Wishing you had whatever it is a woman needs to entice this man. Like the fucking vet. Fucking world renowned, brilliant, highly coveted, beautiful veterinarian. You know about her. You’re sure he thinks he’s been discreet over the years with their whatever they’ve had, Tess, but you know. 

Maybe you’ll be insane and irrational and possessive, taking advantage of your three crazy days, and fire her with your new found power. See what he has to say about that. Ha.

Ha. Ha. Ha. 

Obviously not. 

Despite your current hysteria, your goal is not to send the ranch head over heels into a tailspin.

But the imagining is soothing. 

“Want some?” You hold the heavy crystal out towards him in a peace offering, held precariously between two sweaty knuckles. “It’s probably worth as much as your truck. Would be a waste for me to finish on my own.” You eye what’s left of it, about half, and give him a sheepish grin. It really is very good. 

He looks at you for one long, solemn moment, always so silent and pensive, this strange enigma of a man. You get to watch in real time as he loses whatever fight it is he’s trying to fight against you, victorious when he shrugs and comes over slowly, resting his butt against the bannister—a carefully respectful distance away from you. 

When he takes the bottle from your swinging clutch, gripped from the base, careful not to touch you in any way, you see the real sad in his eyes. The dim lights bleeding out through the big windows of the family room without a family shine on his face in strips and bursts. A shadow here, golden warmth there. He’s got more lines around his eyes than you remember from the last time you’d been this close to him. Smile lines made bright white in the center and gold burnished at the edges from too much sun. There’s little bursts of silver threaded at his temples now too, a gleam here and there in his dark beard. Forty four years old, he’d turned on your last birthday. 

You dig your nails into the soft meat of your palms, and your belly smolders as he brings the bottle to his lips, tasting the exact place your own mouth had just been moments ago. You press your knees together as hard as you can, head a little woozy with the color of his eyes; the most gorgeous green, caramel hazel. 

You’d graduated two years ago with a degree in art history and had done absolutely nothing with it since. It was just that everything appeared boring and pointless and shallow. Your whole life had one day suddenly seemed just a little silly. Useless, overpriced degree, nothing to be done with extensive knowledge in color theory when your world is expecting such different things from you now. 

But you sure as hell can appreciate the color of his eyes in extensive and meticulous detail. There is that. 

Watching the slow slide of the amber liquor down the bottle-neck, the long pull of his lush mouth, the ripple of his strong throat, and the way his eyes go a little wider, shocked at how good it is. You laugh soft: “I know, right.”

He takes another pull, another swallow. That’s what you want to be—swallowed just like that. “Damn, that’s good.” His mouth is a little wet, bottom lip shiny with thousands of dollars worth of your father’s favorite whiskey, and his eyes are sad. 

You’d said you were going to be bad, but you don’t want to be bad to him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He swallows again, tipping his head towards you, trying to catch your too soft words—he’s got a bad ear, you know why—and turns to peer at you from beneath his low pulled brow, the tip of his tongue peeking out to swipe at the drop of liquor you wish you could suck off his tongue. 

“You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

The first time he’d shown you that gentleness of his: You’d fallen from your horse at school in your junior year. Something had frightened the beast, and she’d bucked you, sent you flying ten feet in the air, ragdoll-like, before you’d landed badly on your right arm, a comminuted fracture in your radius that you’d needed surgery to fix. At your insistence, and with only a few weeks left to spare, you’d been sent home for the remainder of the semester. Your father had been incensed but eventually allowed it. He’d been away from the ranch on business, after all, at no risk of being truly disturbed by you. But when you’d been readying to return to Switzerland at the end of the summer, arm healed, courage not, you’d not been able to get back on a horse no matter what you tried. Joel had helped you, before they’d shipped you off again. Trotted the corral with you for hours and hours before you’d finally been able to relax and sit on your own without tears and vertigo. No questions or admonishments, nothing but the quiet burr of his deep voice, guiding you and the mare along. 

It had been a kindness unlike any you’d experienced in maybe your whole life. 

“I’ve been bad.”

“Nah. You couldn’t ever be.”

The second time: “Did today make you think of Sarah?” Years after you’d found that green eyed photograph, he’d shared her with you. 

His gaze turns suddenly sharp, but you’re not worried you’ve stepped in unbreachable territory. “Yeah.” The echo of her name rings around the two of you. 

“In a bad way or a good way?” He takes another long swig, a low whistle through his teeth and a shake of his head before he’s handing the bottle back to you—again, carefully. 

“Both.”

You take your own swallow, slicking your tongue all around where his just was, and you’re drunk for real now. Drunk on a man. 

“Do you ever regret telling me about her?”

“Nah.” He tips his head back, looking up at the thick beams of the deck’s awning. He’s got the longest lashes you’ve ever seen on a man, thick and curling. The deepest voice you’ve ever heard too, sultry, a bedroom voice. A voice for fucking. Your belly swirls and dips, and you want so much you’re dizzy with it. 

Heart beating like it’s about to burst, out of breath on the verge of hyperventilating, you can taste his mouth in your mouth, the imagination flavor of it. This is what it must feel like to die. This is what your father must have felt like three days ago, this agony. 

His Adam’s apple bobs, and it’s so pronounced, the skin of his throat sun pebbled. There isn’t an inch of him that isn’t all rough-hewn man. “You needed to hear about her then, I s’pose.” 

Yes. “You told me when I needed you to.” After that lonely graduation, the last time you’d missed her really very badly, longed for a mother. Alone, alone, alone little girl. 

“You were missin’ your momma somethin’ fierce. Needed to know you weren’t the only one that felt like that sometimes.”

You laugh a not-laugh, butt scraping against the railing, slipping off your perch, socked-feet thudding beside his gifted boots. The pleasure you feel whenever you see him use one of the things you’ve given him is indescribable. 

“Silly,” you say with barely any sound, his bad ear reaches for your voice again. “At the time it felt like I was the only person in the whole world that had ever felt like that.”

“We all feel like that at one point or another, I reckon.”

“Will you miss him a lot?” You ask looking up at him, the beautiful profile, the strong jaw. You’ve always wondered how he sees you. If he’s ever thought you were beautiful. Other men do, it’s a common thing, a nothing sort of thing. There are always men, there will always be men. But this singular man—this one is not like the rest. 

“Maybe. Can’t tell yet, don’t think. But it felt wrong earlier, walking through his house without him in it.” His house, not yours. 

“Do you wish he’d been your father?” And he turns to look down at you at that, gaze snapping, and you can tell you’ve shocked him with the question. But you’d always wondered. 

“No. Never,” he says with such assuredness, an uncompromising shake of his head. 

And the answer doesn't necessarily shock you in turn. You don't think anyone could have ever wanted a father like that. But it also doesn't help you understand what it was that lived between them either. 

He sighs, perhaps reading the confusion in your gaze. “He helped me at a time when I needed it real bad. Gave me a place and a purpose and a thing to do and take care of. You get me? It was gratitude—maybe. He saved me in a way, after Sarah. Nothing more.” He thinks for a moment, and then, “Perhaps it was that we understood each other about certain things.”

You gaze across the sprawl of dark land as far as the eye reaches, that point of no return where the earth shoots up into the sky, purple blue behemoths in the shape of mountains. 

From this spot, rooted to the deck of your family home, it seems like the whole world is yours to keep. Also, like you’ll never be able to touch any of it with fingers or taste or meaning. 

Your love for this place is complicated—tied up in the people, the memories, the could’ves and should’ves, the whole dreamscape idea of the monument of childhood and all it’d really never been. The time away had felt eternal, like you’d never really been here to begin with, like the young girl who’d grown up on this land had never really existed. But you’d not forgotten them, this, despite your distance. Your home, the father that wouldn’t want you, Wyoming and all its splendor, the people you’d left behind, Joel and Ellie and shared birthdays that meant a secret world to you. Morsels of small happinesses interloped amidst a largely lonely and sad childhood. That’s what it was at its core. 

“Would you be angry with me if I gave it all away?”

He thinks for a moment, maybe you’re making him sadder, but then finally says with a swallow, “No. It’s yours to do with as you please.”

You eye the quarter of whiskey left, but your belly isn’t hungry for its warmth anymore. You want something heavier now. 

“Could you even do that—legally—sell it or somethin’?”

“Probably not. He probably tied it to my fucking life. Sell and die.” You mime your name in an imitation of your fathers deep voice, frowning at yourself the way he’d always frowned when he looked at you, but it pulls a laugh from him, and the painful memory is worth it. “But I have a billion dollars to spend now. More?” You tap your chin—you want to make him laugh again. “Gotta think of something interesting to do with it all.”

His mouth slides into an easy half grin. Like the moon—that beautiful. And he turns to face you fully. “You’re gonna be just fine. You know that, right?”

You turn to face him too, gripping the bannister for dear life. “What? Will you make sure of it?”

“That’s my plan.”

“How’re you gonna do that, d’you reckon?” The American twang bleeds back into your voice, and you’re all swollen lush on the inside, heart a beating fist in your chest. 

“Haven’t gotten that far, if I’m bein’ honest with you.” God. His eyes, the strong bridge of his nose, his mouth. He’s so tall your head has to crook back to look up at him. “I’ll figure something out.” And after another pensive second, and still with that soft, sloped eye smile, he asks, and nicely, “Will you stop drinking now—for me?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” you say with the same sort of smile in return. 

And then suddenly, like vomit again but maybe more humiliating this time: “Did you respect him?” Because you don’t know all the things about him that there are to know, but you do know that Joel Miller’s respect is a thing hard earned. 

He clicks his tongue, and you hear the pop of his jaw as he shifts it like he’s chewing on an honesty. His eyes, his eyes, they’re serious, mercurial, warm and deep also. You worry he won’t answer, that he wouldn’t want to disappoint you or something, but then: “No,” said real simple like.

“Why not?”

And the way he looks down at you, you know already, and it makes that falling through the surface of your own life feeling rise up inside you again, makes your ears pop with embarrassment. Ah. “He never did a very good job of hiding the way he treated you, sweetheart. I couldn’t ever respect a man like that.” 

This is reality right here, this is you falling through your life, this is the realization that it wasn’t only you imposing yourself, your existence, on someone with gifts they didn’t want or ask for. Joel had seen. Joel had understood. 

Someone else had noticed that you exist, and it had been him. 

What else had you ever wanted?

And in the blink of a desperate, yearning eye, drunk on a man still, you’re throwing yourself at him, pressing your mouth hot and heavy to his, kissing him full on the way you’d dreamt of since you knew to dream of such things.

Chapter 2; Sugar, Not so Sweet

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His Kiss, The Riot

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x female!reader

Summary: When you and your secret lover make plain to Feyd-Rautha your wishes for a life together, despite the proposed arranged marriage, he surprisingly acquiesces. But he can't let you go so easily, can he? Loosely based on the song from Hadestown.

Word Count: 1.6k

TW: manipulation, Dark!Feyd-Rautha, arranged marriage, NONCON elements, gore, violence, she/her pronouns, female!reader, tragedy, star-crossed lovers, songfic, not quite a happy ending (oops), dark dark dark interpretations of Hadestown and the story of Orpheus and Eurydice.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who read If It's True and liked, reblogged, or commented. I appreciate every single one of you. As always, I would love some feedback, likes, comments, and reblogs if you can :)

This is Part Two to my Feydestown trilogy (I'm so sorry for the pun). You can read Part One here.

AO3

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Dune properties, characters, or storylines-- nor do I own anything related to Hadestown. The images used in this are not my own, and any similarities to stories or events other than what are directly referenced are strictly coincidence.

The devil takes this Orpheus

And his belladonna kiss

“So you wanna get married? Take away the woman I just offered my hand to, to whom I all but have legal claim?”

Your beloved’s replied words of affirmation to his words hold the slightest tremor, but like a dog to fresh meat, Feyd-Rautha sniffs this out immediately. Another smile graces his face. Feyd speaks to the crowd now, “Yes, I was promised the Lady’s hand in marriage. But! I am a benevolent figure, so I guess I’ll let the lovebirds go.”

The crowd starts to give polite applause, while your knees grow weak at the news. You can go? Has love really prevailed on this day?

“However,” and with that, your heart drops “I have some conditions for these… nuptials.”

You could sense the air growing thick with tension as the reality of the na-Baron’s ruling twists out of your favor.

“Conditions?” You whispered.

“Of course, my darling! I can’t make this too easy on you, now can I?” Feyd paces back and forth on the steps from which he speaks, making your eyes dart back and forth with each step he takes. Vigilance overtakes your body in case of any rash decisions.

“You two can leave the city, but it won’t be hand in hand. This pair will have to walk in single file, with the boy in the front and my darling Lady at least thirty paces behind. No ships, no speeders, no running. Walking.”

The energy of the room starts to grow more electric as the points of this term seem to set in.

“The Lady cannot speak out or make any indication of her following behind. You’ll be faced forward the whole journey. Once you reach the edge of the city and passed the threshold, you can be together for eternity.”

Your breath hitched. Seems easy enough, right?

“But, if the boy so much as turns his head to check and see if the Lady is following, the deal is off. She’ll return to me, and we will be married.”

Nothing makes a man so bold

As a woman’s smile and a hand to hold

“Is this a trick?” Your beloved asks plainly.

Feyd tilts his head, pacing down the steps to ground level. “Now, what makes you say that? I’m being generous. I’ve set my terms.” He is now nose-to-nose with the man attached to you. 

“Now meet them or face the consequences.”

The hand holding yours is now pooled with sweat. You quickly and subtly jerk the arm of your beloved when he starts to protest, not recognizing a gift when he sees one. You bow, the picture of poise and grace that you were raised to be. There is still time to leave with all of your limbs intact, you could not afford to slip up now.

“We offer our most sincere gratitude, my Lord na-Baron. Thank you for this most auspicious opportunity. We will not squander it.” 

Your beloved gives a clumsy bow to match yours. Feyd’s manic smile grows as he clasps his hands together. The sound echoes through the hall.

“So it shall begin!” 

But all alone his blood runs thin

And doubt—doubt comes in

The pair of you hold hands, side-by-side, at the entrance of the palace gates. A crowd has followed you to the edge, with onlookers from the outside spectating the unexpected appearance of a noble. Occurrences like this did not happen often, if ever.

“You heard the terms. The Lady must walk thirty steps behind. She must not speak to you.” Your hands reluctantly separate, following the orders you were given. You can feel your heart pounding with each step that you take away from each other.

“Some of my guard will accompany you, to ensure that you comply to the letter.” Four Harkonnen warriors step forward and encase you in a square formation, leaving the love of your life alone and vulnerable. He looks back towards you, fear and doubt creeping into his eyes. You nodded at him, believing that you could succeed in your task. That you would prevail.

“You may begin.” Feyd voices, and with that—you start your journey. Step by step, you walk further through the foliage that immediately surrounds the castle gates and into the city square.

Once you and your beloved reach the horizon, Feyd turns to walk past the crowd and back into the corridor.

Your father, the Duke, bows quickly and offers his gratitude, but is ignored as the younger Harkonnen goes to gather his blade and shield. With a yell, he summons his guards to formation. As Feyd checks the integrity of his weapon, one of the Baron’s advisors tentatively steps towards him.

“My Lord, perhaps you should consider letting them go—” In the blink of an eye, the man is silenced with a swift slash to the throat. Blood spills through the advisor’s hands as he struggles to put pressure on the opening. His body flops to the floor and Feyd carelessly steps over the writhing body to march forward.

“Let’s go fetch my bride.”

Dangerous this jack of hearts

It had been almost an hour of walking by this point. There had been almost a dozen times where you wanted to give any audible indication to your lover that you were here. A whisper, a whistle, a stomp of your foot. Anything. But now you could see the edge of the city, you could almost taste it. 

A life with your love was within reach. 

The guards accompanying you shifted inward, almost boxing you in. You were hopeful, but nerves were creeping in.

This was going well. Too well.

The grand arch signifying the edge of the city was above your lover now. The field that you used to meet at in secret lay just beyond it. You’re almost there. Just twenty more steps and you could be together, forever. 

He steps over the threshold, you see his shoulders lift and fall in an exhale. Then, the man you had fallen in love with— who you wholly believe in— slowly turns his head to lock eyes with you. A pale figure steps out from behind a pillar accompanying the arch.

The growing smile on your face immediately falls. You call out his name.

Oh no. 

The na-Baron tsked and shook his head, as if scolding a child. Harkonnen troops flanked the area, giving Feyd-Rautha enough berth to have his fun. The three of you were surrounded, but only one really had the advantage.

“You were so close!”

Your beloved held out a hand, “Wait, wait! I made it over!” He started to back away in fear, unarmed and exhausted from the long walk. Colorful, ripe foliage brushed his legs as he back into your field.

“Ah, but she didn’t. So, face the consequences.”

Then his blade pierced the man you love. 

Your ears started to ring, throat working itself raw as you wailed. Tears blurred your vision, you could hear the gurgles of the blood leaving your fiancé’s mouth and the slosh of his newly disemboweled entrails hitting the lush field before you.

With his kiss, the riot starts

His body made a sick thud on the floor, and your body jumped along with it. 

You ran towards your dead lover, cradling his face and sobbing for the soul that was just ripped away from you. He didn’t deserve such a violent end. His only crime was loving you and being loved in return.

A chuckle sounded from above you, and you turned your tear-stained face to the brutal Harkonnen. He was covered in the blood of your lover, his spoils of war staining his pale skin. Black teeth on full display, his shoulders gave a slight shake as he expressed his humor. His laughter sparked a rage in you like you’d never seen before. It didn’t matter what bonds you may or may not have formed over the conversations you had the last week. He’s a monster. He needs to pay for what he’s done. 

Red flooded your vision.

With a roar, you lunged for the man. His laugh grew more manic as you smacked, punched, kicked, and hit every visible part of him that you could identify. In your grief, every ounce of training that you received flew out the window. He took every blow with a smile, as if he enjoyed the punishment you were attempting to bestow on him.

“There we go, my darling. Show me your pain. Your rage!”

Your mind started to clear with the more hits you landed. With a quick swipe, you had the weapon that killed your beloved against the naBaron’s neck. The Harkonnen soldiers immediately stepped forward, but Feyd stopped them with a wave of his arm.

“Ah ah ah! Leave her be.” His grin almost split his face in half, specks of dried blood making a painting of his face. 

“Do it. Go ahead, come on.”

He pressed his neck forward, purposefully putting pressure on his own blade. Fresh blood started to trickle down his neck, adding to the gallons already spread all over his uniform. 

The shock of his willingness to put his life on the line made you hesitate, which made him cackle in your face. Your anger made you draw the blade back and slice it across his chest. A groan left Feyd’s mouth, 

“Good girl.”

An unexpected thunk to the head made your vision start to spin. Feyd’s arms braced around you, slowly lowering you to your knees and down to a lying position. He cradled your head as if you were a precious commodity, when he leaned forward and captured your limp lips with his. 

As black started swallowing your vision, you heard him say,

“Don’t worry, my darling bride. It’ll all be alright. You won’t feel a thing.”

[lady-ashfade]

Yan!Mother!Alicent targaryen x Crybaby!Fem!Reader. Vs other Yandere house of the dragon characters.

Just a small idea for the AI picture, it gave me a few ideas and might write more.

Warnings: Yandere content, bullying to get attention, reader being a massive cry baby

The sound of bare feet echo through the halls and many people gasp as a child runs passed them. The young princess covered in mud and her dress ripped, her eyes rolling with tears as she sobs. Her body hit a few on the way but kept running up the stairs to find her mother or anyone she can. The boys had pushed her in the mud when she asked to play, they had never been so cruel to her before. Her sweet nephews were always so kind and let her do what she wanted, but Aegon had always made fun and poked at her. The young girl made her way to the floor, she didn’t care about the meeting and all she wanted was her mother.

Pushing open the door she ran into the room and stoped to look around for her mother. The table turned quickly and their eyes widen in shock and confusion. “My dear girl,” Alicent stood up immediately and pushed her chair to the side and rushed over to her crying daughter, “What’s has happened.” The mother bend down and rubbed the mud off her face. The girl just continues to sob and wail. Viserys stood up at the table, Rhaenrya feeling sick and waiting for her moment to comfort the sweet girl. “It- It was Jace, Luke and Aegon.” She stuttered with her small voice.

“They pushed me into the mud, and I ripped my dress falling all on it.”

Rhaenrya placed a hand on her belly at the image of her boy’s hurting you. She raised them well and they wouldn’t do that, at least on their own since they loved you so much. Alicent pulled her closer and kissed her forhead even if it was still dirty. “We are to have a meeting later about what happened after she is cleaned and calm.” The queen stood up and looked at her husband and then glared at rhaenrya. “Your boys will be there.” All Viserys could do was sigh and rub his face. He dismissed the council, rhaenrya looked at her father but he shrugged and agreed with Alicent.

The princess was bathed fully and placed in her favorite dress, her mother getting her all her favorite food and treats. Aemond found out and hugged his sister while she continued to cry about how she didn’t know what she did. Aemond was furious how they picked on his perfect sister. As they awaited for rhaenrya and her children the princess hugged her mother tight and refused to let go. Alicent was ready to behead them all or exile them since they dare hurt her child. Then Aegon…who had puffed red cheeks from a slap he earned from his mother, and getting screamed at by his father too. He stayed quiet and looked down.

As soon as Rhaenrya entered with her sons the room shifted into a deep tension between everyone. You still stood by your mother and cling to her dress, too upset to look at your nephews eyes. Aemond walked closer and beside you, placing a hand on your head as you sniffled. Alicent looked at the young boys and then to their mother with a suspicious glare on what she would do. “Tell me boys, why have would you do such a thing.” The queen asked them. Their eyes shifted from the queens to her eldest son who refused to look up feeling their presence.

“The boys have said that it was a way they could earn her affection. I believe the words spoken to them were “Treat a woman rough and like a toy and they’ll be forever grateful.” along those lines. And I do believe your son, Aegon told them so.” Alicent looked over at Aegon. She had just got done dealing with him and now this? “It was just a bit of teasing, we did not think she’d actually fall and get hurt.” Alicent fumed and the mouth and tried to control herself again. Jace and Luke looked at the princess head and tried not to cry. Luke started to tear up at the memory of her crying and screaming, Jace couldn’t believe he was mean to her. Even if it was to get her affection.

“You’ll all apologize to her, now! Do you understand me? I shall speak to the king for a harder punishment for this acted but for now you can no longer see her.” Rhaenrya gasped and looked at the sweet princess she loved. When if Alicent was her mother she still had no right. The boys pouted. “My queen, please rethink-” Alicent stopped her by lifting you up and turned your face around to reveal the smallest cut on your chin that was once covered by mud. “She is injured. There are bruises already showing up and the maesters tell me she could have broken a arm! So no, I do not think I will reconsider.” Luke was the first toe break.

“We are truly sorry, Y/n. It was never intended for you to get hurt we promise.” He cried as his brother agreed beside him. You look at the boys crying and apologizing for your forgetfulness that it makes you forgive them a bit. “I- I forgive you.” You mumble so soft before turning away and back into your mother’s embrace while still being mad at them. Thought you didn’t fully forgive them it was a start and you expected their apology. They could make it up to you soon if they can see you again. Aemond looked at the crying boys and smirks a bit while reaching for his sister to pull her into his arms. The princess expected his gesture and wrapped her arms around him for comfort.

Rhaenrya looked at Alicent who stared back at her. The boys all looked at each other with glares over the princess. Aegon who hated that he would hurt his precious sister who was the only one nice to him.

[another-random-paradise]

Can I rq for hc about twst.. Where the fem!reader(gn!reader if like) has an abusive father and caused her a truma? And the boys ( the first years + lilia & leona & azul & trein) are shocked when they find out?

Something about angst/comfort with some fluff .... I hope you're comfortable writing that.

A new start

thank you for the request. I'll be honest, i was debating wether to write this or not, as abuse is a complex subject, and i was worried about misunderstanding or accidentally offending those who have gone/are going through this. But remembered that, I too, turned to fanfics for comfort during some of my worst days, and if i can be, or at least create, that comfort for someone else, then I'm satisfied with what I've achieved in live. But I do have a 4 character limit that i have to enforce for the sake of my own mental health, so i didn't do the first years, I'm very sorry.

---------------------------------------------------------

Reader opens up to them about their abusive father

Characters: Lillia, Leona, Azul, Proffessor Trein

Format: Headcanons

Warnings: Talk of past abuse

written platonically, but Leona and Azul can be read romatically

!Please note that this is not meant to glorify or romanticize abuse, but meant as a form of comfort for those that need it!

Lillia

-Lillia has always been one to sneak up on and scare people, he just found their reactions so funny!

-But he can easily tell that you react a lot more intensely than others. He eventually stops sneaking up on you, because your reactions aren't fun, they just seem.. sad to him.

-Instead of surprise, you feel fear, and he doesn't like it. He can tell, just from that, that something is wrong, and while he wants to know what, he won't pressure you. As a father, he learned quickly that, that only leads to dishonesty

-As the two of you become closer, you start to be more comfortable and open with him

-And during a particularly calm conversation, a rather rare thing with someone like Lillia, you finally open up to him

-You two are sitting on a bench near his dorm, with no one around, when your conversation suddenly shifts to the past.

-As you tell him what your father did, Lillia feels anger, no, rage.

-But not at you, never at you. No, he is enraged that your father could treat his own child like that. He raised his enemy's son, after a war that lastet years, the child of the same man that killed the woman he loved, and still managed to be the best father he could be. And that trash bag of a person- if you could even call him that - couldn't even take care of his own?! 

-When you see the look in his eyes, you almost get scared, but something just tells you, that anger isn't directed at you. And before you can question him, he pulls you into a hug. You would dare to call it the most gentle hug you have ever experienced.

-"You are safe now. You always will be for as long as I'll live."  His words are as genuine as can be, as his grip tightens ever so slightly. But it doesn't feel like a cage, more like a weighted blanket engulfing your body, the weight slowly lulling you to sleep.

-If you weren't crying before, chances are you are now. And he lets you, comfortingly rubbing your back your back as you sob into his shoulder, finally letting it all out.

-The days after that, you notice that Lillias attitude towards you has changed over so slightly, he is acting a lot more caringly, he is acting.. almost fatherly. And you don't even realize that, that is his goal.

-He makes sure you always eat enough, and will cook your lunch and dinner himself if he has to, and that alone is motivation enough to eat properly, checks up on you, helps you with homework and similar, and always lends you a shoulder to cry on.

-Lillia has already made up his mind. He raised a human and a fae prince, what harm could taking in one more human do?

-You may have not have had a proper father up until now, but rather late than never, no?

Leona

-He noticed how skittish you seemed to be when you first met. The fear in your eyes obvious, no matter whether you try to hide it or not, as he snapped at you for stepping on his tail. It was the main reason he let you of so easily.

-He saw it again during his overblot, right before he transformed, as well as shortly after his recovery, when he approached you to sort things out. He expected fear, an overblot is nothing short of scary after all, but something about your fear just seemed different to him, but he decided not to bother you about it.

-Eventually you two get closer, he considers you one of his closest friends ...which isn't that great of an achievement since he doesn't have that many- but at least actually becoming one of his friends at all can be counted as one!

-One day, while simply hanging out, he decides to bring it up. He says it casually enough that you know you don't have to answer, without him having to outright say it. 

-You decide you trust him enough and tell him about your father and what he did

-He's shocked. He doesn't know what exactly he expected, but it, for some reason, it wasn't this. He thought maybe bully's, a bad ex, or something like that... but your own father? He didn't know he could hate someone so much without ever meeting them

-He's now wide awake, but stays quiet. He has never been good with words, let alone comforting someone, so he just lends you an open ear. 

-The quietness might put you off at first, but his tail subconsciously wraps around your arm, as he processes it, I'm afraid this is as much proper comfort you'll get, but if you decide to hug or cuddle him, he'll let you

-While he may not be the best with words, he does know how to take action while still being lazy.

-He practically has his own fan club at his beck and call, also known as the savanaclaw dorm, and he puts them to use.

-He tells them to make sure no one gives you trouble, and that you remain harm free, or else they'll have trouble with him. And it works! Suddenly all your bullies leave you alone!.. you don't even realize the amount of savanaclaw members staring the bully down.

-It's Leona's way of comforting and taking care of you, because if your father won't, then he damn sure will.

Azul

-Azul can be very observant when he wants to be, so it wasn't hard to tell, that the fear you felt when the twins got violent in front of you.. your fear was different, than that of the usual person

-He has to be honest, when he first saw it, he thought maybe he could utilize it to make you sign a contract.. but after his overblot his entire perspective seemed to change, you just seemed to understand his childhood trauma a little to well, how the constant abuse could hurt and even change oneself

-He'd be lying if he said that, that wasn't part of the reason you two got as close as you did, you two just seemed to understand to understand each other on a deeper level

-One day, while simply sitting in the VIP lounge while he worked, you two once again ended up talking about the past, and this time, you decided to be the one to open up to him about your childhood

-Azul stops in his tracks as you do, horrified at the thought of that happening  happening to you. He was just quiet for a moment, and unlike usual, this wasn't a comfortable silence

-"Well.. you're here now, he won't reach you here. I'll make sure of this, I'll make a contract to prove it." His voice was quiet, as he was debating what to do, he wanted to properly comfort you, but he didn't know how. He was still very young when his mom got divorced and, well, the twins never exactly needed comforting. So instead, he does what he does best, write a contract.

-For once, it's a contract that benefits you more that him. It mentions that you'll get protection from bully's and your father, should he somehow end up in twisted wonderland, and that Mostro lounge can be like a save haven that you can go to even after it's closing times. In return, he asks that you come to him should anything happen to you, from your father actually finding you, to simply getting triggert by something that reminds you of the past, whatever that may be.

-He just hopes that, even though he isn't the best when it comes to comfort, he can be the save haven for you that your dad failed to be.

Professor Trein

-Trein likes you for the simple reason that you're one of the very rare students that doesn't either cause trouble or fall asleep in his class

-During the topic of ancestry and how it affected history, ever so often the topic would change to the students family's, some students interested in yours, since your from another world. He couldn't help but notice how you never brought up your father.

-Eventually Trein became your favourite teacher! Sure, his lectures can be boring, but history is one of the few subjects you can participate in, and as long as you behave, he's actually pretty nice!

-Trein, already a father of multiple daughters, couldn't help but feel fatherly towards you, he made sure you knew you could confide in him

-One day, the lesson is about the past of some important historical figure, as things happened to be, this historical figure was abused too. Trein almost immediately noticed how quiet you got, and how hesitant you were to do the assignments. So, Trein asked you to stay after class

-He told you he noticed the change, and you decide to entrust him your story

-Trein, as a father himself, is horrified. How could anyone do that to their own flesh and blood? He lets you speak, nodding occasionally to let you know he's listening.

-"I am so sorry that happened to you. you deserve better". If you need or want it, he'll hug you and let you sob into his shoulder

-Trein, similarly to Lillia, will start to act more fatherly after that. He won't be less strict with you exam wise, but if he feels a subject could be triggering to you, he'll let you know before class, so that you can mentally prepare yourself, or miss class with his permission if needed.

-Since you aren't from twisted wonderland, you don't have a legal guardian here, do you? How do you feel about adoption? He's already raised multiple daughters, he's sure he can do it again. That way you also have somewhere to go during holidays! 

-He can't change what has already happened, but he'll make sure your last few teenage years are spent happily in a proper home

Abuse is a sensitive subject, and while i tried my best to be as respectful as possible, I know it is very possible for me to have done something wrong. So, if anything here is disrespectful, triggering, or just generally insensitive, I beg you to tell me, so that i can fix it as fast as possible.

I admit to not being the most educated on this subject, but if you are still in this situation or believe someone else is, I believe there are different hot lines for different country's that can tell you what you can do to get help. If you can, find a public computer or use a friends phone to find and call said hotline.

I truly hope that your okay anon and anyone else that is reading this, and that this fic could bring you some comfort.

[arachine]

૮(ˊ ᵔ ˋ)ა ... i'd follow you anywhere .ᐟ

ᥫ᭡ pairing :: neteyam sully x avatar! reader

ᥫ᭡ genre :: mature

ᥫ᭡ synopsis :: in which reader uses her new avatar body to finally show neteyam just how much she loves him… + based off of this thirst!

ᥫ᭡ general tags :: 18+ (explicit sexual content, explicit language), minimal angst (?), lots of fluff and banter lol

ᥫ᭡ content warnings :: characters aged up to 20, oral (m receiving), cum swallowing, dacryphilia (v tame), corruption

ᥫ᭡ word count :: 2.5k

ᥫ᭡ note :: guys this is what happens when i ask for thirsts!!! i get carried away and never know when to stop ;(( anyway, here, have this while i work on my annual dick analysis for jake & quaritch.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Shh, you’ll see, kitty boy,” you giggled, tightening your grip on his wrist.

Neteyam shakes his head, tongue in cheek. He could never say no to you—not that he wanted to…he always wanted to play with you. He’d follow you into the depths of hell, or whatever the na’vi equivalent of hell was. Yeah, he’d follow you there, he thinks—definitely.  

The boy relinquishes all of his motor skills to you, allowing you to drag his body further into the forest. He mirrors all of your agile movements, jumping when you jump, running when you run—and then you come to a halt, turning around quickly to face him. You’re so close—too close, the sudden proximity disrupting his equilibrium.

“Don’t go falling for me now,” you grab his forearm before he can fall, pulling him back up with a wink. He scoffs at this, mumbling something sly under his breath. You were always so quick-witted, with quick reflexes to match, too. To anyone else, this would be annoying, but to him, they were your most admirable traits. It’s what made him fall for you.

“Ha, ha, can you tell me what we are doing all the way out here now?” he raises his hands, gesturing to the clearing that you were now standing in. You smile wildly, pursing your lips together in avoidance. The boy reaches behind you to pull your tail, tickling your sides until you surrender.

“Okay, okay, just s-stop it already,” you belt out, “I wanna show you somethin’…gotta be nice to get it, though.” He retracts his hands, letting them fall slowly to his sides. Just what were you planning?

Grabbing his hand this time, you usher him to follow you with a tilt of your head. You lead him to a tree surrounded by shrubbery, a spot that, up until now, only you were privy to its whereabouts. The perfect place for privacy.

Letting go of his hand, you push him down to sit on the forest floor, with his back resting against the bark of the tree and you nestled between his legs. His pulse quickens. What was so important that you needed to drag him so deep into the forest? In such a secluded place, nonetheless. 

“I’ve been wanting to try this with you for a while,” you start, voice so low, just barely above a whisper. His eyes squint in confusion, but he remains silent—listening, as to not scare you from continuing. 

“You know, growing up in a shack with grown men…you hear a lot of things,” a silence, “things only men talk about.” Your eyes flitter to his, unmoving. 

“like, the things they missed doing on Earth, the girls they miss fucking—and what they’d do to have a woman’s lips wrapped their cocks…” The last bit comes out more hushed, gently kissing the shell of his ears. His tail reacts to you before he can, swishing in jagged movements, exposing his excitement. 

“Has anyone ever kissed you down there?” your eyes flit to his groin. 

He shakes his head eagerly, “No, I have n-never heard of this…nobody has ever…”

“Can I?” you tilt your head, flashing him your best doe-eyes. It was fun teasing him, a feeling that you’d never grow tired of. From first glance, to first introduction, you’d been bound at the hip since you could talk. Everything he did, you did, and vice versa. If you were feeling sick one day and couldn’t play, then shit, he was too. If you wanted to jump off a cliff one day, he’s jumping with you!

His loyalty to you was unyielding, grounding. And as the years passed, and the two of you transitioned from bright-eyed little kids to gangly, awkward teens on the cusp of adulthood, you started to realize something. That you wanted to be all of his firsts. 

Determinedly, you set out to do just that. On his thirteenth birthday, you kissed his cheek. A scintilla of your love, stained onto the expanse of his face that served as a mental reminder that this boy was yours—promised to you, and only you. 

Then, three more years passed. The boy with the rounded cheeks and toothy smile, had begun to change. It started out slow, though, then the differences became more gradual. 

The first to change was his face. What was once round and doughy, had now become slim and sharp. And then it was his physique. No longer was he the awkward child with gangly limbs, and a head too big for his body (as you liked to put it). No, he was much more…different. And each and every one of these changes, a testament to his inevitable journey into adulthood. 

On his sixteenth birthday, you kissed him. Once. But in that one kiss, you poured every ounce of love that you’d collected over the years. Every thought, every wish, every yearn, went right into that kiss—another piece of your heart that you carved just for him.  For him to have and hold, to keep safe. 

And when it was over, you pulled away with a smile, and a dagger of a tongue dipped in poison, ready to deliver heartbreak. 

You’re a man now, you uttered. I wanted to give my best friend his first kiss. And that was it, that was all it was ever going to be—because you were human, then. Still a weak, measly, little human who spent all her time living in a false reality, chasing something (someone) that could never really truly be promised to you. Not until you made the change.  

So, you waited. And…waited, and waited, and waited until one day you could meet his eye without having to look up, or for him to drop down. You waited until the day when you’d be recognized as his equal. 

Today was that day, on his twentieth birthday. And so you ask again. 

“Can I kiss you down here?” 

He nods. Once, twice, then stutters out an eager yes. Gently you smooth your palm up and over his knee, the skin of his thighs, and then stop beneath the fabric of his loin cloth. Your fingers trace the area teasingly, and you giggle when his hip juts up from the sensation. So sensitive. 

Slowly, you remove the cloth from his body, and take him into your hand. He’s semi-hard and leaking pre—and warm. So, so warm. You bring it up to your cheek, rubbing it against the area before turning your head to leave a zephyr-light kiss on his shaft. You kiss it once, then twice, then kiss it again for every year you spent not kissing him. 

“What are you doing?” he laughs, “Come on, it tick—hahhh.” A whine vacates from his throat upon you licking a long stripe from the base of his shaft, to the tip of his head. Naturally, his hands find solace atop of your head. 

“So dramatic, I didn’t even do anything yet.” This time, you take him into your mouth, forcing him to watch you as more and more of his length disappears into the cavern of your mouth. 

Technically, you’d never done this before (save for the few times you practiced on fruit) so it was your first time, just as much as it was his. But he didn’t have to know that. You wanted to appear like you knew what you were doing, or at the very least, like you’d done this before. You try to remember all the things you’ve heard over the years.

1) Girls who used teeth were bad, but girls who flattened their tongues and relaxed their throats were good. 

2) Girls who didn’t use spit sucked, but girls who got really messy were good fucks. 

3) Girls who didn’t play with balls were lazy, but girls who did knew how to have fun.

So, you use an amalgamation of all of the tips that you garnered. You flatten your tongue, ease your throat so that you can take him farther, until the head of his cock hits your uvula. 

“Shhit, mmf,” he breathes, attempting to stifle a moan by digging a hand into the forest soil. Immediately, you grab his hand and place it back onto your head, pulling off of him with a wet pop.

“Keep ‘em here,” your hand fists his length, “want you to use me. Wanna make you feel good, ‘kay?” His dick twitches in your hold, because fuck, the sight before him is almost too much for him to handle. 

You, before him on your knees, with your dainty hand wrapped around him, and your face wet with drool. And you want him to what? Use you? To make him feel…good? God, if he didn’t know any better, he’d think this was Eywa playing tricks on his mind. Giving him a taste of euphoria before yanking him back to reality. 

He has half a mind to pinch himself, and half mind to poke you, because there’s just no way this is real. Bullshit. But then you’re sinking back down onto him, and swirling your tongue around his head, and using your hands to massage his balls, and—

“Fuck,” his hands reflexively push you down onto his length. His body shivers when the tip of your nose makes contact with his pelvis. You’re so warm, and wet, so inviting, he can’t seem to let go. He keeps you there until you physically can’t fathom it, and pull off of him in search of air. 

“That felt…nice,” he says bashfully, “can you do that again?” You nod eagerly, accumulating a generous amount of spit in your mouth to use as a salve, lathering it up and down the length of him before he guides you back to his awaiting cock. 

He watches intently as your lips stretch to accommodate him again. Now his hands, which are tangled in your tresses, are moving more confidently. They push and pull you, maneuvering your head gently and at a steady pace, then gradually, they increase their speed. 

Neteyam does this a few times and then allows you to take the reins. When you’re ready, you take a deep inhale through your nose, and push yourself down until you feel the weight of him hit the back of your throat. The first time was a bit easier, mostly because your jaw wasn’t as fatigued as it was now, but you persevere anyway. 

Inhale, exhale. A mantra that you have to repeat to yourself to distract you from the urge to gag. You try your best to keep your jaw relaxed and your throat open by digging your nails into the fat of his thighs. 

When you look up at him, there’s an elated expression molded onto his face. His head is thrown back against the tree, hair strewn about with tendrils sticking to his forehead, and his eyes are shut closed. 

He looks…so beautiful. That’s when you feel a tear ribbon down your face and onto his thigh. You’re unsure if it’s because of the air steadily leaving your brain, or if it’s because of how pretty he looks right now—all sweaty, slick with your drool.

You settle on the former. It had to be the air. Eventually, your lungs give out and you have to take a breather. The sudden loss of warmth forces his eyes open, and then they fall on your face. Your eyes. Doe-eyed and clouded. Cheeks stained with tears. 

“Pretty.” Is all he says, bringing up a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You work him the rest of the way with the iota of energy you have left, concentrating on the head of his cock while your hand fists him to climax. 

His abs begin to tremble and flex when you switch between hollowing your cheeks and massaging his balls. A visual indication that he was close to coming. 

“Waitwaitwait, it feels like,” he’s panicked, trying to push you away. You dodge his attempts to remove you and continue your assault, only this time, you gently apply pressure to his perineum. Unceremoniously, he pushes your head down to the hilt and you moan around him from the force. 

The vibrations from your throat makes his head feel all fuzzy. He’s so close, on the precipice of euphoria. And your hands—that are still situated on his thighs—rub the expanse of them reassuringly, coaxing him to finish right on your tongue. 

With a final lazy piston, he comes into your mouth, and the warm, salty seed that you’d been anticipating leaks down the column on your throat. Moans tumble from his lips, along with hushed expletives, and he’s shaking. The cords of muscle beneath your palm tense and flex before regressing to their natural, relaxed state. 

You remove your mouth promptly and rise to your haunches, making sure that his eyes are locked onto yours as you stick out your tongue to show him his seed. 

“No, do not swallow that, I didn’t mea—“ Disobeying his wishes, you do it anyway. Swallowing it all all down and making it a point that you did so by sticking your tongue out again. His tail flicks in response, eyes wide in disbelief. 

“Why did you do that? It’s dirty,” he caresses your cheek, wiping away the leftover spent from your mouth. 

“‘Cause I wanted to…” You counter. “And it’s not dirty, you tasted good.” 

Neteyam rolls his eyes at this, like him tasting good is too hard for him to believe. 

“Don’t believe me? Here, try it.” And then you give him the gift that you had gifted to him all those years ago. A kiss. It’s equal parts sweet and needy, different from the first time it happened, but that’s because it was supposed to be. You wanted him to know exactly what you meant. No more waiting. No more pining. 

When you draw back, breathless and dizzy, he’s still stuck in a stupor. Lips jutted out and waiting for you to kiss him again. Again, again, again. He opens his eyes, and sees you staring back at him. 

“See, I told yo—“ He takes a fist full of your hair and connects his lips to yours. This is him returning the gift. Letting you know that he got the message, loud and clear, and that it was reciprocated. Every ounce of love that flows through his heart is poured into your own; he hopes you can feel it. 

“I told you not to fall for me,” you whisper, looking up at him with an avian flutter of your lashes. Neteyam’s hands find solace on the sides of your cheeks, and then he speaks.

“I think I fell for you a long time ago.” Warmth washes over you, his sweet words and strong hands overriding all of your cognitive functions. Specifically, the one in charge of keeping you calm and collected. 

“Good, ‘cause I think you’re gonna fall for me a lot harder when you see what I have planned for you later.”

“What’s later?”

“Shh, what fun would it be if I told the birthday boy the surprise?” You grin cheekily, unaware of the way your tail swishes from side to side as you say it. Neteyam knows you’re up to no good, but he doesn’t care. He’d follow you anywhere, after all. 

© arachine 2023

[suashii]

— 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝓊𝓈𝑒 ౨ৎ

okkotsu yuta x f!reader. 2.2k wc. ﾉ smut ﾉ nsfw (mdni) ﾉ characters aged 21+ ﾉ unprotected sex ﾉ tit + nipple play ﾉ a hint of dacryphilia ﾉ brief handjob ﾉ mentions of cheating (neither yuta nor reader) ﾉ yuta is a little obsessive

note: eeee it's yuta's birthday ! ! i wrote this fairly quickly to post in time so pls forgive any mistakes :3 enjoy + wish the pretty boy a happy bday ‪‪❤︎‬

yuta has imagined your first time at his place on more occasions than he can recall and none of them could have prepared him for the reality of your first visit—sitting on his couch with your knees hugged to your chest, quiet sniffles filling the air as warm tears stream down your cheeks. it’s a bit awkward, partly because of your crying but mostly because yuta doesn’t mind it. he’s sure that a majority of men wouldn’t see this as attractive or opportunistic but, as he pulls a tissue from the box to offer you, yuta can’t help but think that this moment is perfect.

“i can’t believe he’d cheat on me.” you accept the tissue from yuta, dabbing the corners of your watery eyes. you crumple the kleenex in your hand but the action seems a bit premature as a new set of tears glaze over your eyes. a couple of them spill past your lashes when you turn to face yuta. he swallows the lump in his throat that comes with being the subject of your tearful gaze. it must be wrong to find you so pretty when you’re clearly upset. “do you think it was me? could i have done something to push him away?”

yuta’s head is shaking in denial as soon as the question falls from your lips. he can’t believe that you’d ever think that. what could you have possibly done to push him into another woman’s arms? if you were to ask him, he’d tell you that your ex was the dumbest man on planet earth for leaving you—and for someone else, at that. though, he’d also have to thank your idiotic ex for letting you go. he never deserved you to begin with and his absence was the opening that yuta often found himself praying for.

“you didn’t do anything wrong,” yuta tries to reassure you with a soft smile. he wills his hand to stop shaking as it comes up to wipe your tears away. the palm of his hand is warm against your face, the pad of his thumb rough but comforting as it brushes your cheek. the contact makes your eyes widen and lips part—you’ve been friends with yuta for a while now but he’s never touched you like this. it’s tender and you like it. to your dismay, he only lets his fingers linger a second longer before bashfully pulling away, choosing to clumsily scratch at his neck instead.

“i’m sure that you were a perfect girlfriend,” yuta tells you, and then he thinks better of his words. “not that him cheating on you would have been excusable if you weren’t!” he raises his hands and waves them in dismissal. if yuta were lucky enough to call himself your boyfriend, no number of little mistakes or miscommunications would run him away. he’d be by your side for the long haul. he’d never want to let you go.

“i just mean…” he looks up to the ceiling as he gathers the hectic thoughts bouncing around in his head into a coherent sentence. “nothing you did drove him to that.”

with a sigh, yuta closes his eyes and shakes his head subtly. his nerves are starting to get to him and he doesn’t want some stupid jitters to be what ruins this chance for him. you’re finally within his reach, just an arm’s length away, his for the taking.

he’s gotta pull himself together.

when the man tilts his head down and opens his eyes, he’s met with the sight of you. it shouldn’t make him jump, but your body is turned to face him and you’re closer than you had been before. he can feel his heart thump against his chest at the proximity but he supposes it’s a good sign. his words didn’t rub you the wrong way like he thought they might have—he’s still got a chance.

your knees are tucked beneath you now, hands resting on your thighs. your fingers nervously tap at your leg as you hold yuta’s gaze. you couldn’t be exactly sure why yuta was the first one you called upon finding out that your relationship had all but crumbled. maybe it had to do with the fact that he always seemed to want to help or maybe it was simply the fact that he was always around. regardless of the reasoning, the overwhelming sadness you had felt when you arrived is beginning to dissipate, replaced by new feelings that you’re sure you shouldn’t be acting on. 

but that fleeting thought doesn’t stop you from asking, “you really think so?”

he nods, never taking his eyes off yours. “i do—”

his words jumble as you lean forward to press your lips against his. you can feel him gasp a bit but he doesn’t pull away. his lips are warm and softer than you thought they’d be. it’s a sloppy kiss, uncoordinated and messy with spit, though, that fact doesn’t stop either of you from deepening it—from chasing more.

your leg swings over his thighs so that you’re straddling him, hands coming up to cup his jaw as you run your tongue along his lower lip. your chest and yuta’s rise and fall with heavy breaths between the two of you. the air surrounding you is thick and charged and you want nothing more than to feed off of it. “is this okay?” 

“yeah, but…” he doesn’t want to come off as too eager, although, he’s sure you’re having no trouble telling with the way you’re grinding on the growing tent in his jeans. he hopes he doesn’t regret asking, “are you sure?”

“i just—i need to get my mind off of him. i need a distraction,” you tell yuta, rolling your hips against his. your hands drop from his face in favor of making their way to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark, inky strands as you stare into the depths of his widened eyes. “can you be that for me?”

a strangled moan—one that yuta desperately tries, and fails, to hold back—sounds in the quiet air of his living room. nothing would make him happier than to be yours to use. the hands that had once been stiffly resting at his sides come up to make a home on your waist. “god, yes, i can.”

his confirmation is all you need to dip your head down and capture his lips in yet another kiss. yuta doesn’t attempt to swallow down his moans and you don’t either—not that it would be possible upon feeling his bulge rhythmically nudge your panty-clad clit. the contact makes your skin prickle with goosebumps and contributes to the growing wetness between your legs.

impatience overcomes you as your mind races with thoughts of what yuta feels like without all the fabric barriers. you reach down between your bodies to fumble with the buckle of his belt, lips still occupied with his. with your attention divided, it takes you a couple of botched attempts before you’re finally able to loosen his belt, undo his button, and pull down his zipper. 

the sequence of actions reveals his black underwear and brings you one step closer to seeing him in his entirety. yuta’s breath hitches in his throat as you palm his cock and you take that as an opportunity to break away from the kiss, turning your full focus to the member between his legs. 

your fingers slip under the waistband of his boxer briefs and pull the cotton down, releasing his erection. it slaps against his t-shirt and the cool air must bite against his head because you can hear him hiss at the new position.

your hand hesitantly hovers, eyes locking onto his in a silent plea for permission to touch him. he catches on quickly, hurriedly nodding. he’s imagined this countless times, too—how your fingers would feel wrapped around his cock. and yuta thinks he’s been patient enough until now. 

when you finally take him in your hand, he’s warm and heavy in your grasp. the precum beading at his slit is plentiful. you let your thumb run over the opening, spreading the pre over his head and down his shaft, slowly stroking his length. he’s painfully hard, so much so that yuta tosses his head back to rest on the couch cushion.

he fidgets with the hem of your shirt that hugs your midsection in an effort to keep himself grounded. at this rate, he’s going to come all over your hand. he needs something to busy his mind with to keep that much from happening. “can i—” he swallows thickly before tipping his chin down to look you in the eye, “can i take off your shirt?”

you hum, raising your arms over your head so that he can pull your tee off. your absence between his legs doesn’t go unnoticed as he tugs the shirt off your torso. the fabric falls from the light grip of his fingers when he realizes that you aren’t wearing a bra. his cheeks grow impossibly warmer upon being met with the sight of your bare chest, though, instead of giving in to embarrassment, yuta’s hands come up to massage your tits.

as good as it feels to have his hands all over you, you’re aching for something more. so, while you have no intention of stopping him, you reach under your skirt to pull your panties to the side. both sets of your eyes are glued to the space between you, the space that lessens with each inch you take as you slowly sink down onto his cock. the stretch makes your lips part and your head loll as you adjust to his size. 

“shit,” yuta swears under his breath, his thumbs sweeping over your hardened nipples. he can’t believe he’s buried in you, being swallowed by your warmth. he didn’t know it was possible to feel this way—like he’s walking on clouds. his next words come out quiet and breathy, so low that you can barely hear them. “you feel so good.”

a small smile pulls at the corners of your lips at his whispered statement. you’d tell him the same if you weren’t more concerned with chasing your high. as your hands come to rest on his shoulders, you lift yourself up and down, setting a relaxed rhythm that’s just enough to attain the pleasure you’re after.

it’s mesmerizing, yuta thinks, the way your breasts bounce as you ride him. he licks his lips hungrily before latching onto one of your nipples. his tongue swirls against the peak while lithe fingers pinch at and roll the other between his rough pads. the moans that push past his lips and vibrate against your skin as he sucks at your tits fuel the fire of arousal in your abdomen. 

you dig your nails into his shoulders, the fabric of his shirt bunching together in your grasp with your tightened grip. between his touch, his mouth, and the way his cock head keeps bumping your g-spot, you’re not sure that you want to—or can—draw this out for any longer.

your pace quickens as your climax approaches and the rhythm you took care setting earlier has all but disappeared as your hips knock into yuta’s. your hastened tempo makes his cock twitch. that feeling of tightness in his muscles returns, the one that warns him of his impending orgasm. while he wouldn’t be ashamed to come before you, he thinks it would be more romantic if you do it together.

with his lip pulled between his teeth, yuta’s hand sneaks down to rub your clit. the unexpected touch makes you gasp in surprise. his fingers must be magic or the closest thing to it because a few simple circles are all it takes to snap the tension that had been building up in your tummy.

yuta’s name is sweet on your lips as you cry out for him. your walls spasm around his cock as your orgasm washes over you, nails biting into his shoulder blades in an attempt to ground yourself. 

yuta is sure that his desire to come inside of you is unmatched, though, he isn’t sure now is an appropriate time to do so. so, he ignores the devilish thoughts begging him—urging him—to paint your insides white. he pulls out and lets his cum spurt on his sweaty shirt with a shaky groan.

beyond your shared heavy breaths, yuta’s apartment is silent. it gives you both a moment to think about what just happened, but the thoughts on your minds starkly contrast.

you’re starting to feel the weight of your actions and you’re almost positive that the regret will be in full effect once you’ve slept on it for a night. it’s not typical of you to take on rebounds and certainly not ones that run in your everyday circle. you’ll be lucky if yuta is willing to forget that any of this happened.

unlike you, yuta feels absolutely and positively weightless. you’ve successfully put every fantasy he could dream up with you to shame. if it was this good the first time, he can’t wait to see what it’ll be like when he actually gets to fuck you—when he’s able to call you his.

thanks for giving this a read! if you enjoyed, pls consider reblogging or commenting :3

[aajjks]

Mommy Issues (III)

synopsis. They wanted you, they needed you.

pairing. yandere!single dad!jungkook x fem!reader.

warnings. yandere behaviour, extremely delusional behaviour, obsessive behaviour, Jungkook simp 101, dark themes.

note. hello y’all. 😳 umm it’s surely been a while… but here’s another update, enjoy! and please share your feedback and thoughts! also send in asks for mi characters as well.

series masterlist.

taglist: @mageprincess7 @bids97 @saltandsugaa @minshookie29 @oppa-agust-d @sugarvenomlit @jinat8mydumplings82 @bloombaekhyun @peach-olic @multifandombishthatlovekth @vcutvante @minshookie29 @douknowbts @xjiminsthighsx @knjkitten @bruisedscrewedandtattooed @koocreampie @kooksmataec @monijeon @swaneffects @dragons-flare @dragonjimin @illnevertrustmyselfagain @itsjust2am @vicki1031 @burnahtsw @fjssk @jamacaicanxbarbie [will tag more people later!]

“Hello son.”

Even hearing his voice made Jungkook want to throw up.

He gripped the phone in his hand tightly, his body tensed hearing his fathers voice into the speakers, tired eyes wandered around to see if anyone had heard him.

He sighed deeply as he saw his coworkers busy at their desks.

“Why did you call me?” Jungkook’s tone had now changed, he whispered. his nerves vanishing as his anger took over, the man bit the inside of his cheeks, venom dripped from his voice.

“I can call you whenever I wish to, son.” The older man was just as stubborn as Jungkook, it irked him so much that how calm the older man was. “Ha, of course.” Jungkook replied sarcastically.

His father had no right to sound so entitled, especially not after he had kicked Jungkook out five years ago.

“How’s your son?”

“Why do you care?!” He barked, his voice raising, “fucking hypocrite?! How can you even bring yourself to ask about my son?! The son that you wanted me to abandon, leave him to die?” It was hard for Jungkook to contain his voice from getting louder but he was trying his best.

And his father sensed that.

“Calm down, Jungkook.” The said man wanted to laugh at his “dad” for advising him to calm down, Jungkook’s dad really was the most hypocritical asshole he’d ever seen.

“Why’d you call me, dad?!” Jungkook emphasized on the last word, chewing on his bottom lip as he grabbed his car keys, the phone still pressed tightly into his ear.

“I want to have dinner with you.” Jungkook scoffed, clearing his desk out, “you cannot be serious.” Jungkook grabbed his coat and left the building, too engaged in his conversation with the man he hated the most.

“Tell me, is this about nara?” Jungkook knew his father very well, he was never a man who cared about his family.

“Dinner at the plaza, son. Saturday evening. We’ll continue our conversation there. Goodbye.” The line disconnected before jungkook could argue, his jaw was left agape as he sat in his car, his phone now in his hands as he stared at the screen,

His mind completely blanked. He was not going to be a pawn in his dad’s game this time. Jungkook would rather die than fulfill his fathers demand.

“Fucking damn it!” He started the car, his mind was going crazy the more he thought about his monstrous father.

He banged his hand on the steering wheel out of frustration, his mood was ruined, his excitement was gone.

He was looking forward to seeing you.

He couldn’t afford to have his mood ruined. Right now? He needed to focus on the PTM.

He needed to focus on you.

You’ve been here for the last two hours.

“Mrs Choi, haru is a very good boy, he’s very into arts and is always very eager to participate in such activities.” You smile at the young woman, praising her son who smiles in return at you.

Seeing the little guy’s smile makes your heart very warm. “But.” You clear your throat. “He can be quite naughty especially with his friends.” You watch as Mira, the boys mother throws him a stern look.

The boy just pouts in return, his green eyes shining with mischief.

“Thank you for letting me know, Ms Yn… I’m guessing the friends are Jeon Seol, Min byung-ho and Lee-Jin?” The mother passes a look of disappointment to her son. You smile lightly at the sight.

“He’s a very good boy, very athletic too.” You begin praising your student, “and his friends are very good boys too, although Haru seems to be a little attached towards Jeon Seol.”

The mother turns her head to look at you once again, “yes I’m aware, they’re very close friends since their childhood together actually. My husband is a friend of Seol’s Dad.” You raise your eyebrows at that.

You were not aware of that, Mr Jeon was such a friendly man? He was even friends with your best friend and her husband too.

Small world.

“And yes, his English and both Korean are very good, especially for a little guy his age.” You nod at the young mother who ruffles her sons hair.

“Say thank you, haru.” She was such a sweet woman, barely any older than you, and you were almost done with the meeting.

“That’s all, mrs Choi.” You stand up and you watch the foreign woman take her sons hand and she bows her head to you, you repeat the gesture.

“See you soon.” You wave the duo bye and sit down at your chair again, you are pretty sure your ass aches but.

a few more parents were yet to meet with you.

It was going to be a long long day.

You sighed.

“SORRY I WAS LATE BUT IM HERE!”

Jungkook’s eyes searched for you, his loud voice had grabbed attention of people in the classroom as he walked through the students and their parents.

“DADDY!” Jungkook felt a pair of small arms wrap around his legs, stopping him in his tracks when his eyes found you.

You were looking so beautiful.

“H-Hey champ!” Jungkook replied to his 5 year old son as he picked him up, “Why’re you late?!” His son grabbed his face and turned it towards him, Jungkook teared his eyes from you, focusing on his son instead.

Seol pouted at his distracted dad, “ms Y/N is waiting for you!”

Jungkook smiled at that as he kissed his son on the cheeks, “really? I’m sorry for making her and you wait, my love.” He giggled with his son.

“Come.” Jungkook had his son in his arms as he sat down in front of you. Seol was sitting in his lap comfortably but Jungkook was looking at you.

“Oh Mr. Jeon you’re here!” You exclaim, focusing your attention on him, giving him the most ethereal smile ever.

His heart fluttered.

“H-Hi… I’m sorry I-I was late.” Jungkook stuttered like a little boy in front of you, “it’s alright. Let’s begin shall we?”

Jungkook could listen to you forever.

He was having the time of his life, watching you, listening to your voice, he was feeling so lucky, it felt like to him it was just you, his son and you in the large room.

It was partially true, because the room was now almost empty.

He was actually glad that he was late.

“Ummm, are you there, Mr Jeon?” He watched your eyebrows twitch and you looked at him with confusion, your features looking even more beautiful.

“Daddy?”

He felt Seol pinch his skin and he broke his trance of thoughts, you watch him with concern and he also felt his child’s eyes on him.

“Yes-Yes I’m listening, ms yn… you continue, please.”

He was sounding like the most dumbest lovesick fool ever, but he didn’t mind sounding so stupid, you made him act so weird that it was impossible for him to be normal around you.

“And please please call me Jungkook, like I asked you to last night.”

He knows he probably shouldn’t have said that out loud, but oh well.

He had.

[julesthequirky]

The Choice: Chapter Two

All my work is purely aimed at those 18+ so minors kindly, DNI.

Summary: You find three of your favourite characters in your home. It shouldn’t be possible, but there they are. In the flesh. How the hell did they get there? And surely there’s a way to get them back? But as you get close to each one, the thought of sending them back proves difficult to comprehend.

Characters: Fem!Reader, Dean, Beau, Soldier Boy/Ben.

Warnings: Language.

W/C:1,579

Dean Winchester. In your kitchen. Looking equally baffled and confused just as you did. He placed the container down on your kitchen counter. A selection of pie slices sat on paper plates inside a tray box. Your stomach dropped. The pie fest.

“Thought you were the cat.”

You grimaced, instantly regretting your words. Idiot. Your hands tightened on the broom, and you felt your cheeks and neck heat up from your dumb words.

His brow raised, and he stepped closer. His mouth opened, but before he could say anything, another crash came from upstairs, and a loud curse emitted.

You spun around to see your black cat sprinting down the stairs and into the living room. Another crash, another gruff curse. From behind, Dean moved forward, taking out his gun and stepping towards the stairs.

From upstairs, you heard, “What the fuck!”. Something about it sounded so familiar. You’re not sure why, but you rushed ahead of Dean, hand reaching for the bannister.

“No! Wait!” Dean called out as you swung your body around to rush up the stairs. You took three steps up, gasping when a figure stood at the top. The shield glinted, and the bulb above his head created a halo effect, shining down on his head.

Soldier Boy.

What the Hell was happening?!

A hand gripped your shoulder, and you jumped out of your freaking skin.

“I said wait—what in the Freaky Friday…”

Soldier Boy stepped down each step, head cocking, curiosity in his eyes.

Pressure built in your chest. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on edge as these two characters met for the first time. You could feel the heat from Dean behind you. He shifted to step beside you. Soldier Boy peered down at Dean with his signature look of disgust. A constant stank up his nose.

Your heart thudded in your chest as the two stared at each other.

Then his icy stare turned to you. Your brain scrambled to find something to say. Your breath caught in your throat.

Those darkened green eyes glared at you, hair flopping over his forehead. Up close, you could see the dusting of freckles on the bridge of his nose and under his eyes, you could feel the warmth in his breath and hear the raw grunt in his throat. He always seemed perpetually pissed.

“The fuck is this? I’m heading to Vought Tower one moment, and the next, I’m here. You got some ‘splainin’ to do, woman.”

Your stomach quivered as unease settled. His intense stare made you feel like you were about to be reamed out by the school teacher. He wanted an answer. Right now. But you had no explanation for this. Whatever the Hell this was.

“Hey, kitty.”

Your head snapped in the direction of the living room. No way. And you were running down and skidding into the living room to find Beau Arlen crouching, fingers in your cat’s fur. You could hear the purrs as he rubbed up against Beau’s leg. For as long as you’ve known him, your cat has never liked any man in your space.

“Eric!!”

The feline ignored your voice and flopped on the ground, showing Beau his belly. Beau looked up at you.

“Sorry, darlin’, he just slinked up to me.”

Never in your life had someone addressed you as darlin’ so casually. Warmth flooded your system, and you fought back a smile.

Beau stood up to his full height and surveyed his surroundings—your living room.

“Not entirely sure how I got here. One moment, I was in my office; the next, here I am. Where am I?”

“Harmony, Vermont.”

Beau’s brow furrows, and he tenses, hand reaching to the back of his pants. Upon his reaction, you turned to see Dean and Soldier Boy entering your living space.

To find Dean and Soldier Boy inspecting each other was weird enough, but for them to discover another ‘doppelganger’ and observe each other was just surreal. You watched as they all pulled their guns on each other, reminding you of that Spiderman meme. All their movements, their micro-expressions, were so indicative of Jensen. They were all so different yet so similar.

“Why the fuck do we all look so alike?”

“Am I in bizarro world again?”

They all turned to you, and three tall men staring intensely was more than enough to make you crap your pants. You glanced off to one side, hands fiddling with the zipper of your warm sweater. Up. Down. Your stomach fluttered, and your mouth went dry. What the Hell were you supposed to say? That somehow they were, what?…summoned? No, that wasn’t quite right. They weren’t summoned. You had no damn intention of them turning up. It was supposed to be just for your admiration. Something pretty to look at.

You glanced at them again, and Dean raised an eyebrow, waiting. His attention turned to the frame on your sideboard. He looked at you before moving to check out the frame.

“Where’d you get that?”

You were distracted by Soldier Boy—Ben. He was looking down at his feet, lip curling. Eric was at it again, slinking around legs. Fuck. You would have to have a stern conversation with him about that. What the Hell happened to the cat who would raise his hackles and hiss at any man who would come within your vicinity? He wasn’t exactly protecting you right now. Bad guard cat.

Ben shifted his foot, pushing the cat away from him. But, it was like he was magnetised because Eric wouldn’t leave Ben alone.

“Your pussy likes me.”

Ben smirked and plonked his shield down against your couch. He tucked away his gun and knelt down.

Fingers tugged at your sleeve, and you turned your attention to Dean and Beau. Beau had the frame in his hands, turning it around.

“Where’d you get this?” Dean inquired again.

You looked at the hunter, and butterflies fluttered in your stomach. Shit. You last experienced those when you first saw your husband – now ex. It was stupid, school girly feelings. Feelings you could happily ignore. Until they got in the way.

Your eyes turned to the frame. Beau was unlocking the back of the frame. You reached out to stop him, but Dean grabbed your arm, intent on letting Beau do his job.

“At an antiques store.”

“Anything unusual about this antique store?”

You shook your head. “No. It did come with a box, though.”

Dean scrubbed his hand down his face.

“What’s this box look like? Any intricate markings? Foreign text?”

You glanced away again, hesitating. Your palms were getting clammy. You scratched the back of your neck, glancing back at them.

“Darlin’, you ain’t in any trouble. We just need to gather some information.”

Damn, there’s that warming sensation again. That Texas accent definitely did things to you.

“Lemme see this box.” Dean’s voice held an authoritative tone. He was all business. Hunting mode.

Nodding, you excused yourself and took one more look at Ben playing with Eric. Eric turned his cute little head to you. He purred loudly, not looking one bit sorry at all. In fact, the little bugger closed his eyes. You shook your head, walking off.

The box was in your room, stuffed right at the back of your closet. It was a real pain in the ass to get it up there too. You trudged up the stairs and headed to your room.

Your ex had wanted to sell the house, as he was sure you would both get a fifty-fifty divide from the sale. Still, you made a case to your lawyer, stating that it was an inheritance from your father. Your ex was out ruled on the house, but everything else was split. This house meant everything. This house held so many memories. Good and some bad. Your mother had been pissed during the reading of the will. Finding out she wasn’t getting the house cemented that tumultuous relationship.

Your bedroom was how it was left this morning. You didn’t have the energy to check the other rooms and hoped the damage wasn’t extensive,

You opened the closet door and then dragged the armchair from the corner. Behind you, a floorboard creaked. You whipped your head around. Ben stood. For someone heavy-footed, you sure didn’t hear him as he came up the stairs.

“Your cat sure is friendly.”

Okay. He was making conversation. You smiled faintly.

“Actually, he usually hates men. Typically, he’ll hiss at them. It’s weird he’s so…docile around you and the other two.” You said as you stepped up on the chair, turning your back to him.

Why, oh, why did you have to put it up this high? Out of sight. Out of mind had been the thought. Well, right now, it was backfiring.

“Fuck you lookin’ for?”

“A box.”

Ben snorted. “I only came up to tell you I’m heading back to New York.”

You almost fell off the damn chair, your fingers had the box in their grasp, but his words had you rushing down, almost crashing down, actually.

“You can’t!”

His pissed expression was back.

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because Vought doesn’t exist! You, you shouldn’t exist. Fuck, you’re a character on a TV show.”

You fumbled through, flustered, trying to find the right words. Words that would sink in his head and make him understand.

“Fuck you, I’m real. And I’m going to New York.”

Tags: @deans-spinster-witch

[lilacstarx]

⋆·˚ ༘ * ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ!

~Requested

~Characters: Isagi Yoichi, Barou Shoei, and Nagi Seishiro

~Genre: Fluff

~TW: Pro players/aged up

↦ Isagi Yoichi

When your fiance returned from practice, you were watching your favorite movie with your favorite actor in the cast while seated on the couch of your shared apartment. Normally, when you heard the door click, you would go to Yoichi.

Today was stressful for Yoichi. He got cramps during practice and was forced to sit down, but don't worry—he still wants lots of kisses from you when you ask about his day. But he felt a little heartbreak as he opened the door and there were no signs of you.

When he immediately noticed your shoes, he knew you were at home since your coat was hanging on the coat rack. He felt relieved and chose to speak, saying, "Honey, I'm home."

He approached the living room and spotted you lying on the couch with a snack at your side and a thin blanket covering your body. He kissed the top of your cheekbone and murmured, "Hey baby, I miss you so much." You didn't even kiss him or say anything; all you did was hum. Has he committed a sin? He then followed your eye vision and looked at the show playing on the television.

You were watching a movie with your favorite actor as a cast member; no wonder you have those hearty eyes. You grinned as your favorite scene in the movie was about to play next to the show, then paused, which caused you a frown, and looked at Yoichi. "Hey, why did you do that?" "You said you were trying to reach the remote on his hand."

"Why them? Is your soon-to-be husband not enough? I also want attention too," he said, pouting and laying the remote down on the couch. "Oh, come here yo baby, m'sorry," you said, standing up and hugging Yoichi and pecking his lips. "How about you tell me about your day, baby, hm? ''

⭒Barou Shoei

Your husband was always a tough cookie to break, but he willingly lets all that ego down when he's with you. Of course, right now you have your priorities.

You're reading another book from the same series that Shoei bought you. It's quiet at your shared home; the last time you checked, your husband watched a football game. Right now, there's not a single sound echoing in the living room. You assumed he was taking a nap.

a few days ago shoei insisted on spoiling you once again you happily agreed because in your defense when a man insists on spoiling you never turn it down

he asked where would you want to go next after your lunch date ''Oh! shoei can we go to the bookstore next?''

a few days later passed

He might regret buying you more books because right now you've been stuck reading for days. Hell, you've been lacking sleep too, which made him concerned and put an end to this.

He needs you, but he won't admit it yet.

What even got you interested in a nonexistent person in the first place? It was just words on paper. When he's the king and can give you anything, this nonsense has to stop before he loses his remaining patience with you. "Woman, it's been days. Are you not going to spend time with your actual husband?'' he said with a hint of sarcasm while leaning at the door frame with a raised brow.

You fixed your attention on him, your book still remaining in your hand. You tilted your head and locked your eyes with him. Oh boy, he looked amazing, his biceps showing off like that as he leaned. You bit your lips and looked at him, love-struck like a teenage girl with a silly crush.

You placed your book down on the coffee table and stood up, eyeing your husband up and down. You proceeded to get close to him. "Now that you complained, I do think I need to spend some time with my husband," you whispered, eyes locking on him, your hands caressing his biceps as you tiptoed kissing him.

"I can treat you better, woman," Barou said, placing his hands on your waist and lifting you up before going to your shared bedroom.

ੈ✩ Nagi Seishiro

Your boyfriend Seishiro was always spoiled with your love and affection. He likes simple touches that make him want more of you, but of course, every time you two went out, he made sure to pay for your endless appreciation by buying you stuffed animals that you like.

In the first few months into the relationship you told Seishiro you like collecting stuffed animals whether it's small or in a keychain like how he told you he has a 'pet cactus' name Choki so every time he away with you

He made sure to buy you a stuffed animal as a souvenir for you. Besides, it's never a hassle if he has to do things for you or with you.

He never thought he would be annoyed by them. Why do you even bring them around the house, even if you're doing small tasks, like when the two of you are watching a movie and the stuffed panda he got from you at the arcade is always by your side?

It bothers him. Why can't you hug him like you hug the stuffed panda?

"Do you really have to bring that to our bed? It's a bother," he said, pouting while turning away. "Hey, it's not a bother; you're the one who got this for me, and it's cute."

"I know, but it's been two days since I've been home, and all I see is that panda everywhere; it's not even warm. I'm warm. Why can't you hug me like that thing?" your pouty boyfriend said while pointing at the panda.

"Oh, come here, don't feel neglected by this panda; besides, it reminds me of you," you say as you put the panda away so you can properly give the love that your silly boyfriend has been wanting since he got home.

You lay down on the bed while putting the duvet on the two of you getting ready for the afternoon nap as you cuddled your boyfriend. "Is that better? You asked, and you only got a low hum in response.

©taylorswiftbutsimp

[thechaoticdruid]

[The Spawn Vs The Ascendant] (2)

Astarion(s) x Tav

Plot: Tav has been kidnapped by The Vampire Ascendant. The Spawn rushes back to regroup with the rest of their band of weirdos in order to plan a rescue!

Content Warning: 18+, Ascended Astarion, sexual content, toxic relationships, violence, blood, physical abuse, death, AA is a bit of a yandere, but I mean you probably already knew that, characters may be ooc, grammar/spelling mistakes are possible, threats of harm, 2 Tavs, Male and female.

Part 1: Right here

Part 2: We're here

Part 3: This waaay!

[Savegame 2: About a month after the defeat of the Elderbrain.]

Tav walked into the brothel, hugging himself with his arms as his ruby colored eyes flicked back and forth around the room nervously. The robe he wore while indeed quite useful revealed far too much of his thighs for the young man’s liking. 

“Something troubling you, little love?” His partner smiled, looping his arm around the shorter male’s waist.  

“I’m fine…I just….feel a bit exposed…” Tav shivered a bit. Though it was his own idea to put on this accursed robe to delight his partner for their night out he was now realizing he maybe had been in over his head. 

“Don’t you worry, my treasure. If anyone lays a hand on you without my permission I'll rip out their throat.” Astarion tugged the spawn against his form before planting a slightly aggressive kiss upon Tav’s cheek. Tav gave a small smile and leaned into Astarion's embrace before the two of them headed upstairs. 

“Well aren't you a beautiful little lady.~” A tall and  slightly drunk sounding half-orc stumbled across the room as he looked Tav over with a lustful gaze.

“LADY!?” All of Tav's bashfulness faded away as his expression turned to anger. His fangs were bared and his fists were clenched.  “I'm a boy- er..man! I'm a man!” Tav huffed out with a wolf-like growl.

The half-orc blinked a bit, looking Tav over. Tav's androgynous looking appearance was confusing the brothel goer.  His soft facial features and long eyelashes did make him look rather feminine. That along with his short stature and current attire definitely did not help.  

“But you're so pretty," the half-orc said, his words slurring as he took a step closer towards the short vampire spawn. "You look like a woman to me.”

Astarion watched as his little spawn shook with rage. 

“Oh dear.” He sighed, looking down at his nails for a moment as his pet proceeded to stomp towards the much larger male. Astarion's little love did have quite the vicious temper at times. 

 He raised one clawed finger after another counting.

One. Two. Three. 

The sound of a scuffle could be heard, followed by crashing and wolf growls all the while the vampire lord started looking over his nails. A slightly off key hum leaving his lips as a few screams from the half-orc were heard. 

After a few moments there was a thudd before Tav walked back over towards his lover. 

“Sorry, I may have got a little distracted.” Tav rubbed the back of his head. An unconscious and severely bruised body laid behind him. 

“I'm a little disappointed you left him alive, but I am eager to get on with tonight's main event so let's not waste anymore time.” Astarion held out his hand allowing his lover to take it before the two of them continued up another set of stairs. Tav's little scene had caused a few heads to turn though no one dared to get involved.  

They entered a dark room on the top floor. The sweet scent of lavender hit Tav's senses as he and Astarion entered the room.

“Back again already?” A seductive voice rang out. 

A female drow stepped out and wrapped her arms around Tav just as a second male drow moved in and did the same to Astarion. “Did you miss us that badly?” The male purred. Tav's shivered a bit before he looked down at his feet. 

“How could we not? The service last time was….mouthwatering.~” Astarion turned to face the drow behind him, “wasn't it my treasure?” 

“Ah….y-yes….it was really nice..” Tav stuttered, if he could still blush his face would be on fire right now. He bit his lip, his left fang drawing blood.

“Perhaps we should continue on from last time then?” The female drow said, lips dangerously close to Tav's ear. 

~~~

Nearly thirty minutes had passed. Lustful cries and groans echoed throughout the room. Once everyone was spent, Tav found himself snuggled up in his master's lap, his head pressed against his chest as he listened to Astarion's heartbeat. 

It was strange to think that not too long ago these roles had been reversed. The sound was comforting even if the person it came from became less and less so these days. 

“Pet.” Astarion spoke quietly as he noticed the two courtesans had drifted off into a slumber. 

“Yes?” Tav glanced upwards.  

“You haven't fed in three days.” 

“I'm not hungry…” Tav lied, he could feel the gaping maw deep inside him crying out as they spoke, but he did his damndest to ignore it. He'd only ever really allowed himself to feed from Astarion since his turning, which did not happen often. ‘Too much may drive you mad.’ 

His master would say. Perhaps that was possible, but he knew it was more likely that Astarion didn't want to risk giving him his freedom back.  

“What have I said about lying to me?” Astarion gripped his spawn’s face, pinching Tav's cheeks between two fingers and making him return his gaze.

“I'm sorry.” Tav replied.

Astarion thought for a moment before glancing over at the sleeping bodies besides. Tav's eyes widened in surprise. “No, Astarion, please don't make me-” 

“Feed,” was all his master said, glowing red eyes bore into his soul before his body began to react on its own. He moved over to the male drow slowly, his teeth grit together and deep inside feelings of utter disgust and pure delight waged war against one another.  Shakily Tav placed a clawed hand over the male and turned him so that his neck was exposed.  His eyes grew wide at the sight of the grey skinned male’s jugular, his tongue instinctively flicked over his fangs. 

Finally he bit down, sinking his fangs into the mortal’s flesh. Warm blood dripped onto his tongue, sending a feeling of euphoria coursing through his body.  Tav moaned barely even noticing his master petting his head before Astarion sank his own fangs into the female drow, not wasting a second to begin feasting upon her life force.  It only took a few moments before both courtesans were sucked dry. Tav breathed out heavily, blood dripped down his chin, his hands shook as he looked down at the lifeless body in front of him. They didn't need to die. They had never done anything wrong to him. This was sickening.

“That's a good boy.” Astarion's voice rang out, breaking Tav from his trance. “Now come here.~”

The Vampire Lord pulled his spawn back into his lap, possessively draping his arms around him before locking their lips. Tav hesitantly returns the kiss allowing his master's tongue inside to claim and dominate his mouth. “Mmm…” Tav moaned, feeling Astarion pull him flush against his bare body, leaving no space between them as blood and saliva mixed. The spawn wrapped his arms around his master's neck feeling Astarion's nails dig into his back slightly. The vampire lord pulled back a bit, taking in a breath of air before forcing his tongue back into Tav's mouth, his hands gripping his ass as he began to grind against him.

Feelings of guilt and shame were forgotten for now as Tav allowed himself to become lost in his master. 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~

[Savegame 1: Act 3, lower city.]

The silver haired vampire spawn jerked out of the way as his companion’s undead counterpart lunged at him quickly with her spear.  Halsin dropped to all fours, quickly wild-shaping into a bear with glowing red eyes. 

“Shit.” The high elf cursed. His arm was still bleeding badly so using his bow likely wouldn't do him any favors. He needed to get away and find his companions.  Quickly he reached into his pack and tossed out a vial of acid onto the ground in front of the spawn versions of his friends before he turned and made a dash for it. 

He needed to get back to the others, have Shadowheart heal his arm and then force Gale to come up with a plan on how to rescue Tav.  Astarion didn't want to think about what his counterpart might do to her. It still made him sick thinking about what that other version of himself had become. Treating Tav like she was just some object he could take!  And what had happened to the others. Turning them into tools to be used it all hit far too close to home for him.  It reminded him too much of Cazador…

Astarion wasn't really sure when he stepped through the Elfsong’s doors, or if he had been able to successfully shake off the other spawn.

Everything had just kind of faded away for a while, leaving only his fears of what could possibly happen to Tav. He knew she was strong, but this was different. She'd be up against a foe with the power of seven thousand souls, all on her own.  

“Astarion? Hells, what happened to you!?” Wyll’s voice brought him back to reality as he stumbled into the room where the others had been. Most of them were relaxing or fast asleep.

 The blood from his wound dripped down onto the floor, building into a small puddle at his feet.

“Tav's gone!” Was all he needed to say to get everyone’s attention. Shadowheart swiftly healed his wound as Astarion began to catch everyone up on the current situation. He attempted to explain what had transpired to the best of his abilities, making sure not to leave out any important details.

“So you're saying Tav has been kidnapped by an another version of yourself from an alternate reality, who apparently went through the rite of profane ascension. Fascinating, but if what you say is true he must have immeasurable power. The ability to traverse time and space itself is no small feat.” Gale exclaimed, his face full of intrigue. “This is truly astonishing.”

Astarion glared at him slightly, a little annoyed the wizard seemed more concerned with how his counterpart got here than the fact that he fucking kidnapped Tav!

“Need I remind you that our leader has been taken!?” The vampire growled. 

“How am I not surprised there's an evil version of you who turned us all into slaves.” Shadowheart sighed and crossed her arms. 

“I think you mean eviler version.” Gale added.

“Arghh! Why are we sitting around talking!? We need to get out of here and go save Tav, damnit!!” Karlach shouted. 

“Patience Karlach. We need to think of a plan first.” Wyll stepped in as he noticed the Tiefling was starting to heat up, steam coming off her body.

“If I remember my studies, true vampires can become alarmingly possessive of their paramours. He’ll likely be prepared to slaughter us all in order to keep Tav. That being said, it's also very likely he won't harm her.” Gale said, glancing over at Astarion who bore a very grim expression.

“You don't know that.” The silver haired elf replied with a fearful look in his eyes. An intense worry was practically eating him alive from the inside. It's like fear was gnawing and tearing at his innards.

“We will get her back, Astarion. I promise you.” Karlach said in an attempt to comfort him.

“Worry not my fanged friend. If we're lucky Tav will likely have rescued herself by the time we find her. She's very resourceful.” Wyll said, placing his hand on the elf's shoulder.

“Yes, our Tav does have a way of giving arrogant foes a run for their money. Still it would be best that we're there to back her up and to do that we need to find her.” Gale thought for a moment before looking back at the vampire spawn.

“Astarion, it's your counterpart we'll be looking for. Think carefully, where would you have taken Tav?”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

[Savegame 1: Act 3, Crimson Palace]

The Vampire Ascendant looked down at the human female as she twiddled her finger and stared at her hands. He was looking at her with what she could assume was admiration? Lust? Hunger? Hard to tell honestly. This ‘living vampire’ somehow seemed even less alive than her undead partner. 

“So uh…. What the hells is up with the collar? This some kind of kink?” Tav asked, tugging on the neck piece around her throat.

“How naughty,” Astarion chuckled. “No, my dear, this is simply a precaution. To keep you from hurting yourself.” A far too perfect smile spread across the Ascendant's face as he reached out to caress Tav's cheek with a clawed finger. She shivered though she wasn't sure if it was in disgust or not. 

“More like keep me from hurting you…” Tav growled under her breath. 

“Careful love,” Astarion gripped her chin and made her look up at him,”while I may adore you, I certainly have no qualms with punishing my precious pet.” Tav opened her mouth for a moment before soon closing it. He had this look in his eyes that frightened her. With this damn silencing collar she had barely any way of defending herself. So for now she had to be careful.

Satisfied with her submission the vampire lord placed a rough kiss on her forehead. 

“Good girl.You'll come to love your place at my side in time, I'm sure.” Astarion ruffled her hair, petting her head as if she were a dog. 

“Are you going to make me a spawn then?” Tav asked, glaring up at his hand as she contemplated biting off his fingers.

“In time…We are going to do things a little differently than before. For now I still have a few obstacles to handle. Disposing of any rivals and taking care of that pesky brain.” Astarion said, continuing to pet her head.  

“Wait a minute. You're not going to take me back to your own timeline?” Tav asked in confusion. Astarion’s hand retreated from her hair, his face hardened a bit.

“There's nothing else left for us there now. Trust me.” He turned away before suddenly looking up and noticing a figure walk inside. Tav’s eyes quickly scanned the person recognizing them as her wizard companion Gale, but like Lae'zel his eyes were a bright glowing red. 

Gods. Has he turned all of them?

Tav thought to herself, clenching her fists. It was hard to believe in another time, another life he'd done this. Enslaving the very people who helped him achieve his freedom. She wondered exactly what happened to her own counterpart. From how Astarion spoke about him it was quite clear to her that he was no longer alive.  Possibly killed judging from how the vampire lord had mentioned that he was taken from him.

“My lord, Halsin and Shadowheart have returned. The sunrise drove them back to the palace.” Gale announced, quickly walking over and kneeling before the Ascendant.

“And what about my spawn self?” 

“He escaped.” As Gale said that, a heavy weight left Tav’s chest. Her lover was alive at least. He'd likely have gone back to the others to plan a rescue. Hopefully they'd be able to find her location.

“Send them in here.” Astarion said coldly.

The room went silent as the wizard walked out. Tav glancing back and forth, her mind telling to run, sprint out of here and grab anything she could use as a weapon, but she knew either Astarion or Lae'zel would corner her in an instant and without her magic, without her blades, without her beastly form she was no match for them. She was helpless and absolutely despised it. Falling into the role of a captured damsel in distress made her blood boil.  

The large doors to the ballroom swung open, Halsin and Shadowheart slowly walked, looking a little singed from the morning sun. 

“Why the hells did you let him escape!?” 

Both of them knelt down before him.

 “Forgive us. We underestimated him, master.” Shadowheart said. 

“You were supposed to finish him off then and there! Now he's likely to bring the others with him.” 

“Let us wait it out until sunset. If you send the four of us next time we can dispatch all of them.”

“They could very well be here before then, you idiot!” Astarion took hold of Shadowheart’s throat, lifting his spawn off the ground and tightening his hand around her neck. Tav's face went pale, a look of utter shock and horror was in her eyes. The fact that this wasn't the same Shadowheart she'd been traveling with didn't even register. All she knew at this moment was that her friend was being choked to death. 

“Shadowheart!”She shouted.

“Master please!” Halsin begged. 

“Honestly I should just throw you both back outside to burn in the sun, but perhaps spending a few weeks impaled may be better motivation not to fail me next time.” Astarion spoke through gritted teeth, his claws now digging into the half-elf’s flesh, drawing blood.

“Astarion stop!” Tav suddenly ran over and grabbed his arm. The vampire lord almost immediately snapped his head around to look at her, brows furrowed and fangs bared. He looked absolutely feral, like he was ready to bite her head off. Literally. But before he had the chance to snarl out a response Tav dropped to her knees, clutching his shirt as she began to beg.

“Please. Don't hurt them. Please! I'll….I'll do whatever you want….” Tears slowly formed in the corners of her eyes as she stared up at him. 

Slowly his eyes softened as he looked back at her. He released the cleric, dropping her to the ground. Shadowheart fell to her knees, hands immediately moving up to sooth her bruised and bleeding throat as she began coughing up a little blood.

Astarion sighed, “looks like I'll have to call some wolves to make up for your failure. In the meantime… Gale! Make sure all the entrances are magically barred. I don't want anyone interrupting me and my pet! We have some catching up to do.” Tav then felt herself be pulled up off the ground, immediately being wrapped up in the Ascendant's embrace.  

~~~

He was rather unpredictable, this Vampire Ascendant. Tav felt as if she was walking on eggshells while she was within his presence.

However on the brightside he seemed carelessly arrogant. He'd summoned some wolves to patrol and guard his palace instead of simply going after the threat himself. Maybe deep down he didn't think he'd be able to defeat them alone? Or maybe he saw them as not worth his time? He’d most likely claim the job was beneath him anyway. Regardless, Tav's escape was still a priority.  She needed to find some way to get this collar or arm herself with a weapon. 

Tav sat beside him on a fine silk sofa. The study was warmed cozily by the flames of a fireplace. There were no windows, but plenty of candles were set to keep the room illuminated. Astarion’s arm was draped around her as his eyes trailed over her face. She couldn't help but squirm and recoil from his touch. This was not her lover, no matter how much he looked, sounded or even behaved like him at times.

“You don't need to be afraid of me, my treasure. I only want to keep you safe.” His tone was soft, gentle even, but Tav knew better. Most of what left his mouth had to be complete and utter horseshit! 

Oh so that's why you kidnapped me, threatened me, and left me completely powerless? Yes! That makes soooo much sense! 

Abigail walked into the room, carrying a large tray in her arms. She set it down on a table in front of them before slowly stepping away and exiting. 

“Here, I made sure to get your favorite.” Astarion ran a hand over her shoulder affectionately as Tav looked over noticing a large bottle of port and and plate of fine cheeses. 

Damnit. He knows my weakness.

Tav stared down at the tray, biting down on her lip as her mouth watered a bit.  Tav grabbed hold of a piece of cheese and slowly nibbled away on it before downing it with some of the port.

Her eyes were still shooting daggers at the vampire. She then sighed before calming down a little.

“What do you plan on doing with me after all this is over, my lord?” She said, taking another swing of port. 

“Hmm…While I do think that you would make a beautiful little spawn I intend to savor this…Warm body for a while yet.” He purred, running a hand over her thigh. Tav shivered, then something caught her eye. On an end table beside the sofa laid a peculiar looking comb. It appeared to be wooden with a rather sharp pointy end.  An idea began to form in her mind, but she needed to be careful and wait for the right moment.

“Why wait on turning me? You have me right here…Right where you want me after all.” Tav took another drink. Perhaps if he were to believe she were a bit more careless due to drink this could work.  

“Lets just say I have my reasons and leave it at that dear.” He said before taking the bottle from her hand and drinking some himself. Tav swung a leg over his lap, trying to appear a bit more relaxed. “You're still going to become my consort however, once we destroy the brain everything will be as it was. We'll be together for good this time. Forever.” Astarion smiled softly before placing a hand on Tav's cheek staring into her eyes longingly.

Star…..Please forgive me….

  Tav leaned in slowly, placing her hands on his chest before closing the gap between him, planting a sweet kiss on his lips. His arms almost immediately wrapped around her caressing her form as his tongue snuck it's way into her mouth.

Tav fell back against the couch, allowing him to pin her down. His knee parted her legs as he slowly began to grind himself into her. 

Tav pulled back a bit for air, immediately seeing the dazed look in his eyes. 

“It's been far too long since I've tasted you.” He panted, a lustful grin on his face. Tav tilted her head baring her neck before him. Astarion didn't even hesitate before biting down into it.

“A-Ah….” Tav gasped, fingers clawing at his clothes as she felt the pain of his bite. She waited till he began to suckle on her neck, allowing him to be intoxicated by her blood before she made her move. Her hand quickly reached out for the wooden comb....

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~~•~•~

Note from ChaoticDruid:  PART TWO LETS GO!!!

Because part one did so well I decided to continue it. As of right now I can only see this going to maybe five parts max.  Also sorry for the cliff hanger but I thought it would be a good spot to end on. I'm totally surprised some of y'all were actually feeling bad for AA last chapter, but I guess somehow I made him actually sympathetic. 

I plan to dive more into AA and M!Tav’s past in the next chapter and also give a little insight to my original character Abigail. 

Oh and in case anyone was wondering Savegame 2 Wyll and Karlach are not Vampire Spawns. They left to go to Hells and avoided it all together. Karlach canonly cannot be turned into a vampire so yeah….

[toji-bunny-girl]

ANON asked: Can you do Yandere JJK boys (your choice) with a reader that gets jealous and starts clinging to them? Sorta set before the reader realizes that the boys are yanderes.

CHARACTERS: Gojo Satoru, Toji Fushiguro, Getou Suguru, Itadori Yuuji, Megumi Fushiguro

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔—

He’s so mean about it, teasing you after seeing your face all pouty and jealous until you’re regretting ever showing your jealousy out to him. He might seem fine and all, laughing and pointing at your reddened face but he swear he’s going to die by how hard his heart is thumping against his ribcage so much so that it hurts.

“Who is that woman?” he blinked, staring at you with his lips parted in a silent shock as your face flushed in embarrassment. His lips are quick to curve into a grin, and you could already imagine his eyes turning into crescents behind his blindfold before he let out a chuckle.

“Why is it that you wanna know?”

“I’m just curious.”

There’s a slight raise of his eyebrow as he only continued to stare at you. “Are you perhaps…” he bent his upper body down to your height, that shit–eating grin still on his face as he paused, “jealous?”

“N–No, I’m not!” you turned your eyes away, head following to the side as your face only continued to burn harder. What does he do, Gojo thought. You’re way too cute like this, pulling his heart in all messy directions until the only thing he can hear is his own heartbeats.

He’s only falling harder and harder for you at this point, heart leaping at your everything and anything until he doesn’t think he can handle it anymore—he doesn’t think you understand how much he loves you–how much he’s obsessed with you. But it doesn’t matter anyway, he’s going to make you understand that you’re his sooner or later no matter what.

𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎—

It’s adorable, he thinks. You’re perfect enough as you are but with you acting jealous and grabbing his hand made his heart tug even more. It’s like seeing a little pup begging for some attention and Toji thinks it’s fucking adorable.

A smirk appeared on his lips the moment your eyes met his as you pulled his arm closer to your chest possessively. Toji could already smell your jealousy in the air, deep in his nose with the way you acted—so needy for both his affection and attention.

He’s not stupid of course, you’re only being like this because he was catching up with an old friend…he would used to sleep with. Of course he noticed the way you were glaring at the ground while they were both busy chatting away; he may or may not have leaned a little too close into his old friend just to get a reaction out of you. And sure enough, he’s not disappointed with how you’re reacting to it.

If only he could eat you up, chomp down on your cheeks while you’re pouty like that, crease between your brows with your body practically stuck next to him like glue. But he could only improvise, bite down on the flesh of your lip with his fingers stoking your pussy walls in his car.

𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔—

The first thing he’ll think about is how he can use your jealousy against you the next time he wants your attention; it’s a mistake for you to be acting like this because now he knows your weakness and he’s not going to hold himself back from using it against you.

There’s a sort of triumphalism in his chest when the dots in his head come together. Like how you’re sitting yourself so close next to him when there’s plenty of space for your own self on the couch or how you’d be extra affectionate to him in front of Shoko.

It must have been because you heard him jokingly flirt around with Shoko, thinking he might actually have an interest in her when it’s only reserved for you. Even though Getou has it all figured out, he doesn’t say a word about it and only continue to let you be all possessive over him; he likes the attention he’s getting from you after all.

You might find out about the misunderstanding sooner and later though, so he’s sure to make use of your jealousy next time when he feels like he’s in need of your affection.

𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐈 𝐘𝐔𝐔𝐉𝐈—

He’s beaming inside and out, eyes lighting up so brightly and you’re only feeding to his delusions, making him think that if you’re jealous over him, you must be in love with him. And if you’re as in love with him as he’s to you, that immediately means he’s your boyfriend!

You? Jealous? Over him?

Itadori couldn’t quite believe his ears yet when both Nobara and Megumi told him about how obvious it was from the way you behave around his other female friend who had a crush on him.

Sure, you did try to pull him away from the girl and squeeze in to the space between the both of you. But now that they’ve said it, it’s like they’ve unintentionally opened Pandora’s Box. Now he’s proclaiming himself as your boyfriend, because since you’re jealous over him you must be in love with him—and because the both of you are in love with each other; it’s only naturally to be dating, right?

It didn’t really matter to Itadori anymore, whatever his mind had set on, it is what it is and it would take long time to convince him otherwise. And before you even knew it, he’s already got a copy of your house keys because that’s what boyfriends usually have, right?

𝐌𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎—

He’s trying his best to bite back a genuine smile, but with his ears already heated up, he can only hope that you don’t notice the red of his skin before assuring you there’s no need to be jealous (since you’re his one and only)

“I’ll stop talking to her if y-you want,” he pushed his lips out as he spoke, looking at the floor as you blushed, heart fluttering at what he said he would do for you (unaware that he’s very much willing to do much more)

Megumi’s happy, no–ecstatic from your simple jealousy. His heart was thumping, sweat sticky on his palm and he feels dizzy, all because of you. The hold you have over him is insane and he swore to god he’s turning crazy for you.

In that moment, he felt as if there’s a glint of chance of you liking him, perhaps you may be in love with him too; but he stopped himself from overthinking then, he didn’t want to get his hopes up after all. But fuck was he happy with you being possessive over him and he thinks he’s going to get addicted with how you’re acting if you don’t stop.

[quimichi]

TW: obsessive behavior, talk about self harm, death, gore, blood, corpses, choking, talk about you being dead, bleeding, bro there's so much - MDNI

SUMMARY: A twisted boy with a twisted mind and a twisted love just for you ♡

CHARACTERS: Yandere x F!Reader

WORD COUNT: 841

𓉸ྀི  Never EVER was Blake expecting to fall in love. At first sight too. He saw you and was instantly captured. My condolences, because with him in your life...it'll be turned upside down

𓉸ྀི You're his newest, recent hyperfixation, or better, obsession. Recent? Well, since he ever saw and read this short story in the internet, about death, killing, blood and guts, he was forever obsessed with it. Especially the graphic pictures that we're added for the "realism'. You see, one click on a link and a wrong turn can lead you down a dark alley filled with the darkest mysteries hold by internet. Hidden from those who would never dare step that far into an alley like this. Bit inviting and interesting to those curious enough to take a look...and forever be captivated.

𓉸ྀི with 12 year's old, exactly that happened. This weird 'dare' and a link went around school and of course 12 year olds are gonna jump on it like hungry wolves. His friend send him the link, he was dared to open it and take a look, but was to scared. So he send Blake the link also, so they can both take a look. Shared fear is only half the fear, right?

𓉸ྀི While his friend was throwinh up beside his bed, he kept scrolling. And scrolling...and scrolling. Weird...this doesn't affect him, at least not like his friend. Or how he thought it would. Everyone kept saying its gross, creepy and...twisted. Its odd that he, likes it.

𓉸ྀི His friend claimed he suddenly felt sick, so his mother picked him up. None of them wanted to raise suspicion of course...But the whole night long, Blake kept looking at the pictures over and over again, he read the story multiple times. He probably still knows it all word for word till this day. But what really captured his interest was that woman, how she looked in her own blood bath. Her guts hanging out, everywhere but inside her. Is this real? No it can't be right? No one would ever...

𓉸ྀི when he saw you, he saw that woman. You both look so similar. Maybe the eye color is a bit off, yours are a tiny bit darker but thats ok, you look just like her! Damn, even the hair!...he can't help but wonder if you would...no that's an unhealthy thought

𓉸ྀི he's 18 now, and for 5 years he was in the dark web looking for stories, pictures and videos like this to feed his constant hunger and need for more blood and gore. But he still knows, murder is wrong. But knowing is something else than doing. They both can go hand in hand, the only thing that's holding them both away from each other is the wall called self control.

𓉸ྀི He does have this wall, it just has multiple holes in it. Blake was no stranger to act on his impulsive thoughts. He cuts his arms sometimes when he wants to feel the pain or see the blood. He even tried the 'save way of cutting your wrist', the thrill of almost dying did send him over the edge....The research did help of course. He even tried choking himself, but that does not really do much for him unfortunately, there's nothing hot to it besides the bruises he left on his neck.

𓉸ྀི But right now the wall he trained to stand against the army of his running thoughts is about to crumble by just looking at you. You'd look so great in red, a deep dark red surrounding you...oozing out of y-no-! This is wrong-! He knows you're so so much more than a body, than a corpse. You have personality...damn you really look like you have a great personality.

𓉸ྀི...w-wait-you looked his way-! WHY ARE YOU SMILING AT HIM-! Was he looking at you this entire time?? Ugh, hes such a creep-! Yes, he knows he's one but he doesn't have to act like one to make it obvious- He's so weird, he doesn't deserve you, he would NEVER deserve you. The only thing that deserves him would be the maggots and the mould, eating his decomposed cadaver.

𓉸ྀི If it's not him, than it's definitely your smile that killed him right there and now, on spot. He's disgusting why are you looking like him. Why do you show interest. Why is he smiling back. And why does he really feel the need to hold you in his arms, and kiss you. A kiss that would probably be the beginning of cannibalism. Drag his mouth and theeth across your chest to taste your beating heart...if he thinks like this then living can be beautiful, and so are living things. I mean...you are most definitely beautiful. And you're alive.

𓉸ྀི But you'd be just as pretty dead, rotting and overcome with mould, having flys around you while your body drys out and sinks....but yeah you're maybe even a tiny bit more beautiful alive. (Much more but he can't say it just yet)

TAGLIST: @lucienbarkbark @hehothrowawayfae

[fishing-lesbian-catgirl]

kinda fucked up for you to see a gender non conforming woman (samsus) and automatically make them trans. you get what i mean about how thats just reinforcing gender stereotypes (that cis women are feminine and would never commit genocide even a little while transwomen would do masculine evil things like shoot gun (because they’ve kept their man vibes) or whatever

yeah

I can’t tell if this is like a shitpost or a really poorly worded commentary because I have no idea who you are. Frankly I would normally assume the worst block you, buuuuut since I like talking about it I’d love to explain why Samus Aran is extremely transgender.

Tbh I am still tempted to block you but the terrible grammar, spelling error, and nonsensical nature of the ask almost make it seem like a shitpost

First of all Samus being trans-coded was very core to her character from the very beginning. Regardless of the reasons they did it, the original Metroid was intentionally made and marketed to have people assume she was a man. This isn’t even just because people would see a person in a power suit and assume they were a man, the games manual explicitly refers to Samus with he/him pronouns. The immediate assumption that she’s a man because she’s tall, broad shouldered, badass, and wears a power suit that obscures her feminine features until the big reveal is inherently a trans theme. Taking that away makes her a less compelling character. It’s also continued in that Metroid media has continually joked that a lot of the Galaxy assumes that Samus Aran, the greatest bounty hunter in the Galaxy, is a man.

Secondly there was that one Metroid dev who said in an interview that Samus was transgender. The terminology used was outdated and it was explicitly a transphobic joke, but it’s too late she’s ours now.

Thirdly she is (was) built like one of us. That is, prior to the later zero suit designs trying way too hard to be sexy. Like seriously when I first found this image a few years ago I was the same height and weight as her. I miss the big buff broad shouldered Samus design so much and her later redesigns are honestly kinda pathetic by comparison

Fourth, Samus was raised by the Chozo and trained to become a powerful warrior. Part of what they did to make her strong was body modification via Chozo DNA splicing to make her stronger and more agile than a normal human. This is a sci-fi setting where she was raised by an extremely advanced alien race who could change her very DNA, acting like she couldn’t look like she does and be a trans woman is simply not even an argument.

Now, of course, you could refute all this by saying “but Cordelia, we know what Samus looked like as a kid from Metroid Zero Mission and the manga and she was clearly a little girl not a boy.” Now even without addressing the fact that it’s very possible for people to realize they are transgender as children and that children don’t even really have secondary sex characteristics to make it easy to tell what their gender is, this what Samus actually looked as a child:

The combination of all of this gives us trans women a lot of good reasons to believe she is transgender. But also, literally none of this is necessary for me to headcanon a character as trans. Trans women come in all shapes and sizes with all different stories and not a single thing in Metroid canon even remotely suggests that Samus Aran has to be cisgender. And if you try to say “but Samus has no bulge in canonical zero suit Samus depictions!” you’d have to be intentionally dense. Samus Aran is a chimera with a cocktail of human, Chozo, and Metroid DNA and, again, was raised by a race of super advanced aliens. Not only could they have easily given her bottom surgery, but they could’ve even changed her fucking sex chromosomes if she wanted them to. There is literally nothing in Metroid canon that even remotely gives me a reason not to insist that she’s transgender. To be honest, there is more evidence for her being trans than against.

To anyway anyone who actually read this far, I hope you understand the truth. Nintendo’s redesigns are too afraid to show us, but you and I both know that her cock is huge

[bee-the-loser]

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₊ ⊹☼ Pairing: The8/Xu Minghao x reader ₊ ⊹☼ Synopsis: Multiple chance encounters across lives, with a soul somehow fated to yours throughout ₊ ⊹☼ Genre: Reincarnation au, slight fantasy/historic au ₊ ⊹☼ Word count: 1.67k ₊ ⊹☼ Warnings: Mentions of death, loss and grief. Minor character death mentions ₊ ⊹☼ A/N: This has been sitting in my drafts for a while as I didn't feel that the story was done yet. However, it's at a good point right now to post. Maybe I'll return to add to it further at one point though.

──────────────────── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───────────────────

Loss is an emptiness that eats away at the soul, a metaphorical knife carving it’s design on the surface but leaving behind wounds deep enough to bleed. And the strange thing about loss is you let it. In a sense it’s a sickly beautiful thing to experience as the blood pours out staining over the pure memories and taints them to be forever red. A crimson red that’s the same as the heart that somehow still beats inside your chest, because while it feels like everything should be still, time moves on. Time still encourages hearts to beat and wounds to bleed.

And bleed they do…

Your first loss shouldn’t be considered that actually. There are so many factors that completely contradict it as “the first loss you experienced”. For a start, you had lost people before. A woman who never had the chance to be a mother, your mother, passing away before she got even a second with her child. A young boy, who once you considered a brother, starved under the night sky with his eyes locked onto the moon. After all, Grief was no stranger to your soul. He visited often and settled in your bones like a heavy sick reminder of life.

No, none of these was your first loss. A kind of deep grief, yes, but they felt inevitable somehow.

Your first loss came in a form you never expected. A loss of opportunity and the questions of what could have been. Leaving the first scar of many dotted over your skin.

You didn’t know his name the first time, you barely got to know him at all actually. It was a fleeting moment that stopped the world if just for a second. Even if it was just for you.

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The makeshift grave you created when Chan died was positioned out in a forest glade on the edge of town, giving him the privacy and peace he deserved. An ideal place for him to continue watching the night sky like he did when he was tangible, and now as a star, a place for him to look down on from above. It seems childish now thinking that was how the world worked, that he would stick around for you.

You know better now.

You had been spending the afternoon visiting him, after collecting flowers for your little stall, coming to rest up in the willow tree sheltering the glade from the outside view. The branches allowing you a raised position to look down below, which is how you spotted him initially. This dark haired beauty dressed in clothes that didn’t seem typical for that of normal adventurers. You assumed that’s what he must be, no one else tends to come out that far. Somehow, he had stumbled onto Chan’s clearing though, only the fates may know how, and came to a pause in front of the poorly carved headstone you placed on the first death anniversary. It didn’t matter that there was no body to bury, his memory would live on.

Something about that resonated in this figure’s mind. It wasn’t obvious at first but moments later when you got the first glimpse at his soul-bearing eyes and the way they scanned the words told you all you needed. He was memorising the words, breathing out his very essence into the world and immortalising this time. The phrase you had heard many times before bringing tears to your eyes as it was spoken out loud after a year again.

“The moon sure is lonely tonight”. He was just reading out loud that time, but maybe that’s why it left such an impact. There were no deeper connotations or commitments that suffocated the moment. It was raw and real.

If given the chance of every lifetime, you would chose to return to this moment eternally.

He left not long after that with a new print on his soul in the name of Lee Chan and the fleeting thoughts of a phrase once whispered. It wasn’t until afterwards that you saw the carefully placed bundle of forget-me-nots. Flowers that symbolise memorises and the concept of thinking of loved one ones while one is away. You don’t remember ever have crying as hard as you did that night as you allowed yourself to break down after having repressed everything for a long time. The hope that someone else would continue to think of the young boy and maybe one day return providing a sort of comfort you never realised you needed.

You continued with your routines and visits but never once saw the stranger again. Your first loss came unexpectedly and you couldn’t help but think of what could have happened if things were different. Had Chan been alive to greet him? Had you spoken out to him? Had you got to know him? But you didn’t and so the opportunity passed by and life continued until death came to claim you too.

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What you didn’t expect was the life that came after and the memories that flickered back to you slowly. You could remember it all clearly at first but the more time progressed and lives were lived, the hazier things became. So you wrote to remember. Diary entries inked across pages depicting and detailing each moment and connection you continued to share.

It took you a total of three lives to realise you and your stranger were somehow connected. You seemed destined to spot him under the moonlight over and over again, each time bringing something new for you to note.

However, it was your fourth life that something truly changed, with an opportunity for the two of you to introduce yourselves. A night-time balcony overlooking the palace gardens providing a shared relief from the noise of the party inside. You had yet to see your stranger that lifetime and you certainly weren’t expecting to find him approaching you from behind on his own escape from the ballroom.

Your eyes had found comfort in the solitude of the starlit sky, with a faint recollection of a young voice discussing constellations in great enthusiasm. Your body curled up onto the stone edge with the coldness contrasting to the heat radiating from the party inside. There had been no mention of the balcony being off limits but it seemed abandoned in that moment similar to how you felt. Maybe that is why when you heard the small thuds of footsteps approaching you assumed it was a guard coming to bring you inside. However, as you turned around to face them, your breath stalled inside your throat.

There he was…

Face to face, the moments that followed allowed you both to subtly scan each other’s figures, sharing a second of joint solitude. His clothes reflecting his obviously high social status, yet you naturally found yourself focusing on his deep, knowledgeable eyes. The ones that both equally haunted and comforted your thoughts. Then he spoke and his light voice rung out in a whisper like he was afraid to break the silence.

“I’m sorry for interrupting you, but I needed some time away from the chaos and couldn’t help but notice you out here alone with only the moon for company. You both seemed rather lonely tonight. Would you mind me joining you?”

The paraphrasing of the familiar line rang in your ears as you couldn’t help but tear up and turn back to the full moon in an attempt for comfort.

“Not at all, feel free to join us.”

His figure stepping closer as he approached the balcony edge himself and admired the view before the two of you. It was a comfortable silence that followed, neither of you feeling the need to fill it with meaningless chatter at first. However, as you turned to gain another glance at him, wanting to capture every detail for your writing later on, your gaze fell onto the baby blue flowers that lay in his pocket.

“Forget-me-nots?”

As he turned to meet your eyes, he saw the way they lingered onto his flowers and then noticed the similar ones decorated into your own outfit.

“Hmm, there is something special about the resilience of these little blossoms which bloom in clusters throughout marshy harsh terrain. In a sense I admire the way they manage to preserve and grow with those tough conditions. It’s something I often see reflected in humanity, although, unlike the flowers, not often do people manage to make it full bloom I find.”

The philosophical answer was not one you had expected from him, but certainly wasn’t unwelcome. You had your own greater meanings to the flowers that you shared back with careful consideration, still unsure of if your stranger retained his memories like you. It was something you noted in a previous life where you tried to speak to a different Chan and was left alone once more, that not everyone had the privilege, or was it a curse, to remember like you do.

“For me, they symbolise remembering those who once were but no longer are. A promise to keep the memories of them alive for as long as you live. The stories you experienced and the thoughts you shared allowing a part of them to stay.”

Silence settled back down between the two of you, which is why you could hear the song that started to play out by the band. A slow dance of sorts. In some twist of destiny, he reached his hand out and asked for your hand before the two of you spent time twirling across the balcony. This moment shared only by you two and the sky.

As you came to a close and the clocks chimed to signal an hour passing, with you settled in your stranger’s arms, two names were breathed out into the universe before you parted ways and he disappeared back into the ball.

“Xu Minghao.”

A name meaning brightness and vastness, one that seemed to fit the person you came to spend time with perfectly.

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