#that moment when you realize the older generation was right

[purplepixel]

You've been so quiet the past few days... everything okay?

<3

Fear not my quietness stems from me finally recovering from travelling and getting lots of work done!

And I've been trying out this new productivity trick by NOT being on my phone first thing in the morning and instead going right into drawing after I eat breakfast.

So unfortunately, that means I only open Tumblr about twice a day now and it's after I finish my tasks for the day. It's... surprisingly effective for my focus

But I have only four data points so, to be continued

[joelslastofus]

[SUMMARY: You are forced to marry General Marcus Acacius to save your brother.]

Forced marriage, smut

(I know nothing about his character in this movie so bear with me, this is probably all inaccurate but I hope you enjoy it!)

“You will make a beautiful wife” he whispered before he abruptly put his arm around your waist and pulled you against him. You gasped as your body roughly slammed into his unexpectedly.

“You look at me when I speak to you” he demanded. You looked up at him noticing his eyes soften when he realized the fear in yours.

Henry and you were not close siblings, the hate you had for your older brother was an understatement. A gladiator who was wanted dead by many…you didn’t blame them. You never understood how he could become a gladiator after your father was murdered by one. You despised those deadly fights. You heard the rumors about your brother and things he had done which is why you chose to stay away from him….that was until he came to find you.

Being dragged into a carriage you were forcibly taken somewhere by your brother and two other men. Struggling to break free from his hold you screamed in frustration as he pulled you out of the carriage and dragged you into a place you had never been.

“What are you doing?!” You screamed attempting to pull your wrist away as he continued to pull you along.

“This is where you will stay now” he explained.

“What?” You asked in confusion before he turned to you.

“They want me dead. You’re the only thing that can save me from it. You’ll submit yourself as a wife-“

“No! No! Henry please” you screamed realizing what he was doing, realizing what his plan was.

“You will submit yourself to General Marcus Acacius. It has to be done” you stood in shock at the mention of his name.

“You are absolutely insane-“

“Shut up” he snapped.

“You know who this man is! You know what he’s responsible for!” You screamed as your brother simply ignored you.

“Henry please, whatever it is we can work something out-“

“The deal is done!” He yelled loudly just as the door opened. Quickly he stood straight and forced you to turn as you held in your tears.

General Marcus Acacius had arrived.

The man who was responsible for your father’s death.

Wearing a red and gold like cape you could feel the intimidation from his presence just as he laid eyes on you for the first time. Quickly looking away from him he made his way to your brother. He stood before Henry and with the corner of your eye you could see him look at you.

“So this is whom you’ve bought for me”

“Yes General, she is my younger sister. She now belongs to you” your heart dropping at your brother’s words.

“Very well. You may go” Henry turned to you once more before leaving the room, leaving you alone with Marcus.

Nervously you swallowed as he slowly walked towards you. You couldn’t look at him, you refused to. Standing right before you, his eyes analyzed every part of you when he noticed a single tear rolling down your cheek. Just as he lifted his hand close to your face you flinched, he didn’t move for a moment before gently brushing away your tear with his thumb. General Marcus had no idea what pain he had caused you, he did not know how you felt about him.

“My future wife” he spoke low watching as your chest rose and fell with each breath you took. He took another step closer towering over you as you almost stumbled back.

“You will make a beautiful wife” he whispered before he abruptly put his arm around your waist and pulled you against him. You gasped as your body roughly slammed into his unexpectedly.

“You look at me when I speak to you” he demanded. You looked up at him noticing his eyes soften when he realized the fear in yours.

“I’m..sorry General” for the first time he heard your voice. He didn’t let you go, his hold on you still firm before he slowly raised his hand and gently caressed your face.

“You will be taken care of. Protected by all means.”

“Yes, General” you responded obediently.

“Marcus” he corrected you before releasing you and taking a step back.

“I will have your room prepped. We are to be married before the day ends tomorrow-“

“Tomorrow?” you whispered slightly shocked.

“If you need anything please do not be afraid to ring for my servants. They are now yours as they are mine. You will be taken to your room shortly.” And with that Marcus left the room leaving you confused.

Married tomorrow? This couldn’t be happening…not like this.

After being escorted to your room and being sure you were left alone you began to pace back and forth thinking of a plan. Panic rising through you at the thought of marrying the man responsible for your pain. You had to find a way out of this even if it cost your brother his life. He didn’t deserve to live, he wasn’t a good man. Being a wife to General Marcus Acacius? Absolutely not. How dare he forcibly submit you to him…how dare he…

Looking out your window you spotted several guards monitoring the premises in the front. There had to be a way out in the back and you had to find it fast.

Silently leaving your room you looked in every direction making sure Marcus or any of the servants wouldn’t appear. Hell you had no idea your way around this damn place but you were determined to figure it out. Hearing a voice not too far you quickly froze against the wall until you heard their footsteps walk in the opposite direction. Running down the dark hallway you finally came across a large door, you were sure it led to the outside. Risking it all you quietly pulled it open to see Marcus himself in a dark room turning to you with a glass in hand.

“What do we have here?” He placed his glass down as your lips parted taking a step back.

“I um-I was just-“ you couldn’t find the words as he walked towards you, his arm reaching behind you to close the door. The flicker of the candle hanging off the wall reflecting off his eyes as he leaned closer.

“You were what?”

“I um…I was-“ your heart racing as you struggled to make up an excuse but what good was it in doing so.

“I…I can’t marry you” you blurt out as he furrowed his brows.

“Excuse me?” He took another step forward as you anxiously stepped back against the door.

“I can’t I-“

“You were trying to leave” he spoke low with a tone of realization before he turned away from you.

“I’m sorry Marcus, it’s just-“

“Do you have any idea the possible dangers you could’ve come across walking out of here on your own?!” He unexpectedly yelled loudly as he turned back to you. His response confusing you at the fact that he even seemed concerned. Yet as concerned as he may have seemed the anger was clear.

“Do you?” His jaw clenched as he looked down at you waiting for a response.

“No” you whispered.

“My future wife is to not walk freely outside the premises after the sun sets. Is that understood?”

“But-“

“Is it?” He hissed.

“I…I don’t think you heard me…-“ you spoke hesitantly shocking yourself that you even said anything at all.

“I..I can’t do this. I won’t be your future wife-“ before you could even finish your sentence he grabbed your arm pulling you to him.

“I’m afraid you don’t get to make that decision”

“It’s not fair” you whispered.

“Would you rather me leave you without protection, as I know your brother did not offer you such-“

“The only protection I need is from what’s in here” you responded in fear yet you spoke your truth. He looked at you rather puzzled yet didn’t move away.

“I beg your pardon, my dear”

“You’re a murderer” you whispered as tears began to flow.

“You think I would hurt my wife, the woman who will bear my children” he whispered in disbelief as bis nostrils flared.

“Let go of me” you attempted to pull away but his grasp tightened.

“I will not have your children!” You screamed.

“You’re a murderer! It was your fault! It was all your fault-“

“What was my fault?!” He yelled in frustration.

“Your invasion! It..it led to my father being killed, my brother leaving me…I had no one else..no one. You took them away” you cried as his eyes changed. You cried knowing whatever may have happened wasn’t going to change a thing. Marcus stood silent as he slowly released your arm, guilt in his eyes as he remembered what was done.

“I’m sorry for what you lost but I refuse to leave you without protection. I will see you in the morning, I trust you know your way back to your room” Marcus left you alone in tears as you slid down to the floor in disbelief. You couldn’t believe this is what your life had become.

Marcus angrily paced to his master room, slamming the door shut. Angry at himself with regret for all he had done, angry at himself for decisions he was not proud of and could never take back.

The next day Marcus stood beside you dressed in white and gold. A golden crown placed around his head as one was placed on yours after saying your “I dos”. You hadn’t looked at him once, you kept a straight face in front of a crowd of people you had never seen. Marcus reached his arm out to you as you silently took hold of it walking beside him. With a smile he greeted and thanked everyone hiding his true troubled feelings. You dreaded thinking of what was to come that night knowing you would have to be intimate with Marcus. Feeling defeated you showed no emotion, simply staying beside him as strangers congratulated you.

That night you were escorted to his master room where you found yourself alone. Observing the detail in the room you slowly walked closer to the king size bed with satin covers just as you heard the door open.

Marcus stood by the door closing it behind him as he watched you anxiously await him.

You looked like a goddess standing before him,

he couldn’t help but admire your beauty as much as you may have hated him. Slowly he moved closer to you as you took a deep breath simply wanting to get this over with. Unexpectedly you began undressing yourself letting your dress fall to the ground revealing your bare naked body to him. His eyes instantly falling to your breasts down to your womanhood, he pressed his lips together as if he was trying to compose himself. He knew you had never been touched by another. He was hard and eager to feel you, his fingers gently brushing up your waist as he took in the sight before him.

“You are my wife” he whispered before looking up at you.

“But I refuse to have you this way” his words shocked you.

“But…we’re supposed to…” you whispered.

“Not when my wife holds such hatred for me” he stepped a foot closer.

“In your eyes I am not a good man but I would never force my wife into bed.” he turned away leaving you shocked and confused as you quickly grabbed a robe that lay on a chair beside you.

“Marcus wait!” You rushed after him.

“Where are you going?”

“I have arranged to stay in the guest room-“

“People will know” you responded worriedly.

“It’s just for a few days. I know this all happened rather quickly, I just wanted to give you some time. I never meant to hurt you or your family. It was out of my control….I hope one day you can forgive me.” And with that Marcus left the room.

That night you found yourself with conflicting feelings, conflicting thoughts. General Marcus Acacius was not acting like the man you expected him to be, he was not acting like the man you had hated all along.

In the morning you were greeted by him having breakfast with bowls of fruit placed before him.

“Please” he pointed at the chair across from him.

“Join me” he watched as you sat down while looking at all the fresh fruit available.

“Which one is your favorite?” He asked making you look up.

“Um…strawberries” you responded softly. He delicately slid the bowl to you making you smile, something he realized he had never seen.

“Marcus” you whispered.

“Thank you…for last night.” Just as he was to respond one of the servants came in letting him know a man he had been waiting for arrived. Marcus stood up but before leaving your sight he leaned in towards you across the table with sincere eyes.

“There is nothing for you to thank me for.”

Days went by as you adjusted to your new life, your new routine along with your new confused feelings and thoughts.

You found yourself unexpectedly nervous with Marcus going to the arena. Never had you witnessed a fight with your own eyes but you always heard how brutal they could be. Of course being his wife you had a front row seat to witness it all and you didn’t know how you felt about it.

Sitting in a chair beside a few others you watched as Marcus showed himself to the crowd whom cheered loudly. You could feel your heart beating hard in your chest as his challenger came out. Marcus pulled out his sword, turned in your direction and looked you in your eyes before he began to fight. It felt as if you were holding your breath as the crowd roared with excitement. You couldn’t stand watching but you also couldn’t take your eyes away. The swords clashing together loudly until the man slid his sword against your husband’s arm. Blood instantly dripping to the ground as you stood up and gasped. The fight only getting bloodier as you continued to watch wishing it would end until Marcus suddenly drove his sword into the man’s throat. Covering your lips in shock you watched as the man fell to the ground as everyone cheered.

Just like that, your husband remained victorious.

Running downstairs to meet him inside you noticed just how bloodier he was as he got closer.

“Oh my God..” you whispered practically running to him.

“Are you alright?” You asked as you frantically looked at his arms searching for wounds until you found a large one along his arm.

“Yes, I’m-“

“Oh” you gasped looking at the wound as he watched you curiously not having expected you to be at his aid. Not expecting you to be filled with concern.

“It’s only a scratch” he assured you.

“A scratch?! You’re bleeding!” You looked up at him noticing the amused look in his eyes.

“What?” You took a step back composing yourself.

“You were afraid”

You stood silent for a moment realizing just how concerned you were from the moment the fight began. Your feelings were conflicted, why did you find yourself caring about a man you once hated?

“I’m not, I’m just-“

“You most certainly were” a grin appearing on his lips as he stepped forward.

“I’m not. We should get you cleaned up” you awkwardly reached for the towel and bowl of warm water that was left for him as he began to remove his armor. Silently he sat before you as you took the damp cloth and delicately began to clean off the blood on his arms.

“We should have that wrapped up” you spoke as you observed the wound not noticing the way he had been looking at you.

“Mhm” he agreed without taking his eyes off you. Taking it upon yourself you took some bandage and wrapped up his arm that best you could. Cleaning off the bloody cloth in the bowl you looked up and began to gently wipe his face. Your heart skipping a beat as his dark eyes distracted you. Slowly passing the cloth over his overhead feeling his curls brush against your skin you suddenly felt his hands grab your waist.

“Marcus..” you whispered knowing you would give in. He quickly stood up and pulled you in and before you knew it, his lips were locked with yours. Dropping the cloth on the floor behind him you wrapped your arms around him as he kissed you passionately. Moaning into his lips he carried you onto a table placing himself between your legs. You didn’t stop him as he caressed your face looking down at you. He knew you wanted him as much as he had been wanting you.

“What if someone comes in here?” You whispered as he leaned his forehead on yours.

“No one will” he assured you.

“Besides…you are my wife, I will have you wherever I please” he panted as he removed any clothing in his way and pushed your dress above your knees.

“But Marcus-“ you suddenly cried out as he pushed himself inside you. Grabbing onto him you panted as he held himself still. Looking into your eyes he watched as yours widened filled with shock and innocence.

“I’m sorry” he whispered roughly.

It hurt, of course it did. You had never even touched yourself to now have a man of his size break into you…yet you didn’t want him to stop. Pulling himself out he thrust his hips once again making you whimper.

“Do you want me to stop?” He whispered. You quickly shook your head pulling him closer.

“No, no, don’t. Please don’t” you practically begged brushing your lips against his as you spoke. He kissed you as he continued to move, his tongue swirling with yours as he felt your arousal with each stroke. You moaned as the pain slowly disappeared and was replaced with pleasure, he could feel it. A feeling you had never felt before, it was hard to contain yourself.

“Oh Marcus…” he kissed your neck as you rolled your eyes back. Just when you thought it couldn’t get any better, the pleasure built up in a way you didn’t expect.

“Marcus-“ you gasped.

“Mhm” he knew you were about to cum, he could feel it.

“Wait I-“

“No no, don’t fight it” he whispered. Something intense was happening and you didn’t think you could handle it.

“But it’s-“ you practically cried unable to speak.

“I know baby I’m right here,” he moved his hips faster feeling you tighten around him.

“I’m right here” he panted caressing your face, his thumb brushing across your lips as you squeezed your eyes shut.

“Let it go” he demanded when you moaned loudly as your body shook uncontrollably. He watched mesmerized as an orgasm took over you, your eyes in a trance. Feeling you cum all over his cock he could no longer compose himself. Just as your body relaxed he pushed in deeply releasing his warmth in you, a deep groan against your ear you felt his body collapse against you. Once he slid out you looked down and noticed blood on your dress.

“I’m bleeding” you looked up at him confused.

“It’s ok, it was your first time” he responded out of breath thinking of how he first entered you.

“I should’ve been more careful, I apologize”

“Don’t” you whispered as you slowly covered yourself. Marcus dressed himself and slowly helped you off the table.

“Will it always feel like this?” You asked looking up at him.

“No, I will be more careful next time you have my word-“

“No I meant…the way it felt after. Will it always feel that…good?”

He smirked looking down at you.

“What?” You raised a brow.

“I will make sure my wife always feels that way whenever I have her” he caressed your cheek with his thumb when you noticed his wound was bleeding again through the bandage.

“Marcus” you whispered brushing your fingers over his arm.

“Just a scratch. Come, help me patch it up in my room” he reached his hand out to you with a smile, you knew very well would continue in his room and with a smile you took his hand and walked along with him.

[delulujuls]

tinder buddies | ln4

hi! i have no idea how to comment on that. i've got inspiration from the rumors that are now going on twitter and tiktok about lando and his activity in sm and i thought man, i need to write something in this narrative because sexting with him??? scuse me??? but of course all of this is fiction and and i dont have any statement on the rumors about lan, mostly because all of these are rumors and not facts. anyway, pls leave his poor papaya ass alone and enjoy this instead!

summary: when you met your tinder buddy irl and realize how indeed world is small

warnings: masturbation on cam (both male and female), bit of swearing, in general alott of sexual tention

pairing: fem!journalist!reader x lando norris

Y/N thought that she was good at what she was doing. She thought that despite her young age she fit in the world of motorsport really well. Sometimes it even crossed her mind that she was no different from her older colleagues, what's more, sometimes she even thought that she was better than them. However, she admitted this only to herself with complete modesty and behind tightly closed doors.

Apart from the fact that Y/N was a really good journalist whose career was growing at a surprising pace, at the end of the day she was just a twenty-two-year-old girl who, like many other twenty-two-year-old girls in the world, had her smaller and bigger sins.

Y/N breathed heavily as she entered her hotel room. She set her suitcase and bag aside, taking off her shoes and plopping down on the bed. It was well after midnight, her flight was delayed by several hours and she was simply exhausted by the passing day. Even though she was excited about the events that awaited her in a few hours, right now she was just tired. However, she knew perfectly well what would help her relax before going to sleep. Not so much what, but who.

The girl unlocked her phone and easily found the Instagram icon, clicking on it and going straight to the messages. She entered the first conversation and was about to write some prosaic message, but she didn't have time to type out half of the sentence when a new message appeared in the chat.

"u up?"

Y/N smiled to herself. It looked like she could count on a pleasant end to the day.

"I was just about to ask you the same thing"

The reply message appeared a moment later.

"i was waiting for you to be available. i thought the evening would be wasted"

"And yet you see, surprise"

The person on the other end smiled and untied the drawstring on his sweatpants. He quickly wrote his answer with one hand.

"wanna call?"

"I think you know the answer"

She smiled and reached for the switch and turned off the light, pressing the camera icon with her other hand.

Y/N and the boy she had been messaging with for a little over a month knew next to nothing about each other. She had a private account and a few photos, he had a black icon and an empty profile. He only knew her name, she only the first letter of his. They met on Tinder, their profiles there looked quite similar. She has a few photos, more of the body than the face, he has the same, mostly in black and white. They had never seen each other's faces, but they knew each other's bodies inside and out.

Y/N placed her phone on the table and leaned it against the lamp, which she turned on a moment later. The light from it was dim, but it illuminated her body enough. The angle her phone was at only showed her from the neck down. She was perfect at maintaining her privacy.

"New background?"

He asked, seeing that the surroundings behind her were different from those he had seen before. She pulled her sweatshirt over her head, leaving her in only a bra and a thin t-shirt.

"I'm away from home"

"Work?"

"Too many questions"

There was quiet laughter on the other side. He liked her temperament. He liked her curves even more and the sounds she made when, at his command, she pushed her fingers inside her and brought herself to orgasm. Yes, he liked that too.

"Yeah, you're right. Strip."

Y/N pulled the t-shirt over her head and her interlocutor saw a red, lace bra that he never seen on her before. He smiled and ran his hand over his crotch. He felt a chill run through him.

"You look good, baby. Red suits you"

She laughed and pushed her hair behind her shoulders.

"Is this the first time you gonna tell me to keep my bra on?"

"For now, yes. I'd love to look at it for a while" he squeezed his cock and began to lightly massage it through the fabric. "You know what to do, dont'cha?"

Y/N bit her lip and lifted her hands, placing them gently on her shoulders. She slowly moved them down her body and when she found her breasts, she slowly started massaging them in circular motions. She closed her eyes and tilted her head slightly, hearing the sigh that came from her phone. He watched her carefully, following her every move.

"Take it off," he said after a while, "It's pretty, but I think I prefer you without it."

She quickly took off her bra and threw it aside. He smiled at the sight of her breasts. Y/N returned to them, continuing their massage. As she lightly pinched her nipples, she moaned softly. His cock vibrated at the sound that came from his headphones. He smiled.

"Does it feel good, baby?"

"Mhm, yeah" she answered, looking again at her phone "But you're playing unfair again. I have to see you too."

He chuckled and shook his head.

"You don't let me enjoy you"

He replied and put down the phone, quickly pulling his shirt over his head. He fell back on the pillows and turned on the light on his phone. Y/N smiled at the sight of the familiar, slightly tanned and toned torso. Her interlocutor didn't see it, but she smiled even more when he tightened his hand on his cock, which was now clearly visible on the gray material of his trousers.

"Take off the rest of your clothes and lie down"

He ordered. Y/N obediently lay down, taking off her pants and underwear. When the rustle of fabric could be heard on the other side, he easily freed himself from his pants and tight, slightly damp boxers. He spat on his hand and spread the saliva over his cock, feeling it tighten under his touch. Fuck, what he would give if instead of his hand it was this tiny hand that disappeared between the pair of thighs he saw on the screen of his phone.

The girl complied with his command and he saw her middle finger slowly sinking inside her, only to come out after a while covered with her juices.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, "You're so wet, baby."

“I wish you were here and licked me clean.”

Y/N said, rubbing her clit. She felt that she wouldn't need much to reach orgasm.

Her interlocutor smiled under his breath, but she wasn't able to see it.

"I'm afraid that i would make you even more wet."

"Someone has quite an ego here"

"I know my capabilities, baby."

She snorted under her breath and made herself more comfortable, inserting her finger into herself again. First one, quite slowly, and soon she added another one. A long moan filled the hotel room as she began to move them, imagining that it was not her but him who was fucking her. And not with his fingers, but with his wet, hard cock.

"Yeah, just like that, baby. Keep going."

His eyes carefully followed the screen and the activities taking place on it. His hand moved smoothly over his cock, his lips were slightly opened. As he was stroking himself, the glass of his watch on his wrist reflected the light from the phone. He wore it every time they cam together. Y/N didn't know anything about watches, so she didn't know what brand it was or whether it was expensive. They never talked about it, honestly, they basically never had a normal chat. However, he once asked her about the tattoo on her forearm, just below the inner bend of her elbow. He noticed it after the first time they met on camera. When it was all over and they were about to hang up and return to their real lives, he asked about it.

"What does 33 mean?"

He asked when the girl started getting dressed.

"What?"

"Tattoo on your arm"

The girl looked at her forearm and only then did she understand what he was asking about.

"I can't tell you because you'll make fun of me"

Hearing this, he smiled. Not because there was probably some stupid story behind it, but because the girl was concerned about not looking bad in front of him. Even though they absolutely didn't know each other.

"I barely know your name, I don't know why I would make fun of you."

Y/N was silent for a moment, glancing at her tattoo and lightly stroking it with her thumb.

"Do you know Formula 1?"

He smiled and nodded. His reaction, however, was beyond her reach.

"I know a thing or two"

"My favorite driver drives with this number. Well, actually he did, now his number is 1. But for me it will still be associated with 33"

The girl explained. She felt a bit embarrassed to expose herself to him, especially with something like this. However, he did not laugh at her or comment on her confession in any negative way.

"I have a friend who is also involved in motorsport and has the same number. Actually, not anymore, because he also had to change it. But for me it will also be associated only with 33"

Y/N smiled at his words. Sometimes she wondered if they could become friends and get to know each other a little better. But then she decided to come down to earth and remind herself that she had no time for relationships or friendships. Now the most important thing for her is work and career, everything else can wait. After all, no one will satisfy her as much as herself. Right?

"Fuck, I could fill you so good, baby," he moaned, gasping for breath. He felt that he was only seconds away from orgasm "You have no idea how much pleasure I would give you."

The girl's lips were opened, her eyelids were shut tightly. She massaged her clit with her left hand and moved the fingers of her right hand inside her in quick, uneven movements.

"I'm about to- I…oh my god-"

“Yes, baby, thats it" he gasped, speeding up "Cum for me.”

She felt a wave of pleasure wash over her. The moment her back arched, she heard a long "fuck" coming from her phone. He came shortly after her, staining his toned abs with his sperm. He squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head back, trying to calm his breathing. There was silence on both sides for a moment, neither of them moving an inch.

After some time, Y/N sat on the bed and reached for a tissue, wiping her hands on it.

"I have to go now. I have a lot of work waiting for me tomorrow."

"Me too. I wanted to let you know that we may not be able to have a call tomorrow."

He answered, also wiping himself.

“It's okay, no big deal,” Y/N replied and took one last look at the muscled, tanned torso visible on her phone screen, “Good night. And good luck with your chores tomorrow.”

“Good night, baby. You too.”

She smiled and reached for her phone, ending the call. Exhausted from the previous day and the evening cam session, she just buried herself in the blanket and shortly after fell asleep. The next day, when her alarm went off, she was full of energy despite several hours of sleep. She couldn't wait for saturday's qualifying and all she was thinking about as she was getting ready was whether she would be able to get good material.

As she put on her red bra, she smiled involuntarily as she remembered last night. She wondered if he had already gotten lost in the whirlwind of his today's duties. Y/N quickly got dressed, gathered her things and, putting her pass around her neck, left the hotel. When she got to the track and was in the paddock, she couldn't think about anything else. Her only thoughts revolved around what was going to happen on the track in a few dozen minutes. However, for a split second she wondered what her tinder buddy actually knew about Formula 1. Maybe they could have something to talk about? Maybe she could even take him to some grand prix?

Her thoughts disappeared when she noticed Lando Norris hanging around the McLaren garage. The girl asked the cameraman to prepare the equipment and she would ask the Brit if he would be willing to have a short conversation. She squeezed the microphone in her hand and without thinking, she approached him, introducing herself and asking if it was possible to record a short conversation.

Hearing her name, his heart did a flip. He knew that name very well.

"Sure, no problem"

He replied with a smile, obviously not revealing himself, and ran his hand through his hair. The glass of the watch strapped to his wrist gleamed in the sunlight. Y/N had seen this watch before. Many times.

The girl smiled back and, hearing his agreement, gave a thumbs up to the cameraman. When she raised her hand, the sleeve of her shirt rolled up, and Lando's eyes involuntarily caught the tattoo on her forearm. A slight 33, just below the bend in the elbow.

He felt a sudden wave of heat wash over him. It's a coincidence, right? It must be.

"How's your mood before qualifying?"

Y/N asked, putting the microphone down and straightening her shirt. As she was arranging her collar, Lando's eyes caught a glimpse of her red bra strap. He smiled to himself and looked down. He wondered how many accidents and coincidences had come together in the universe and resulted in this situation.

"What? Something wrong?"

The girl asked, not knowing what made him react like that.

He shook his head and after a moment looked up again. He looked at the girl carefully. However, she was completely lost and looked at him questioningly.

"Sorry, as you can probably see, my mood is great. I'm positive about today's qualifying."

Y/N tentatively gripped her microphone. When the cameraman approached them, they started recording the footage and she had no time to analyze Lando's strange behavior. In fact, it was possible that this was their first and last conversation ever, so why should she care about it. When they managed to record a short material, Y/N thanked him and wished him successful qualifications. After that everyone went their separate ways.

Immediately after entering the garage, Lando found his phone buried in a pile of his things. He quickly entered his latest conversation on Instagram and, without thinking, decided to send the girl a message. Worst case scenario, he'll just make a fool of himself, which isn't a big deal since they don't know each other at all. At best, he would spend tonight as he had long dreamed of.

"ure even prettier than i thought, baby."

Y/N felt a vibration in her pants pocket and without thinking, she unlocked her phone. She was surprised to see a notification coming from Instagram, and she was even more surprised when she noticed who sent her the message. After reading it, she felt a cold sweat break out on her. However, she decided to think and act soberly.

"How do you know what I look like?"

"turn around"

Lando replied quickly and leaned against the threshold of his garage. The girl clutched her phone in her hands and obeyed his command with her heart beating wildly. Lando smiled at her, holding his still unlocked phone. Y/N felt a lack of saliva in her mouth. It's impossible, it's not really happening.

"Are you sure we're looking at the same person?"

She replied, having difficulty pressing the appropriate keys with her fingers. He was amused by her reaction. This whole situation didn't make sense to him. It was crazy.

"im looking at a pretty neat journalist with a mad bunda who has a tattoo with my friend's racing number. and u?"

Y/N blushed. Fuck. It's him.

"I see that your jumpsuit is a little tight in some places."

Lando snorted under his breath. The girl wasn't lying. The whole situation made quite an impression on him.

Y/N bit her lip and looked up. She'd be lying if she said it wasn't arousing.

"u know exactly why its tight"

"I guess I have to find out in real life. The camera likes to lie."

When she sent the message, she looked up again and their eyes locked. The Brit winked at her and quickly replied, turning on his heel and disappearing into the depths of the garage.

"my driver's room in five minutes. ill be happy to dispel your doubts"

[prismatoxic]

you know... this is framed as such a silly moment that i didn't really consider it before but...

...laios was the only one who respected chilchuck in this scene.

and of course we know why senshi and marcille didn't. senshi still thinks that's child age, as dwarves' age of maturity is 40, a good 20 years older than chilchuck is. and senshi doesn't have the kind of worldly socialization marcille does that lets her understand in any way that chilchuck is an adult (and even then, she sees him as more of a child than she should, because elven age of maturity is 80 and, well. her relationship with time and aging is weird, let's put it that way). she treats him more like a grown man than senshi does, but it's not saying much. (this isn't a diss against either of them, their backstories more than explain why they're like this, and chilchuck doesn't seem to generally hold it against them except when senshi very openly treats him like a kid.)

laios, though. laios is a tall-man. his age of maturity (16) is only 2 years higher than a half-foot's (14). when chilchuck said "this year i turn 29," laios realized chilchuck was his senior and tried to adapt to treating him that way. (in the context of this series being written by a japanese person, this concept holds a lot of extra weight.)

of course, that wasn't actually what chilchuck wanted, and laios resumed treating chilchuck like a peer instead. (remember, chilchuck clearly defines his boundaries, and laios will happily abide by a clearly drawn boundary. a distressed and angry "quit" is taken 100% at face value.) and what's notable about that is that "laios treating chilchuck like a peer" was already valuing him as an adult. even if he didn't know the exact number, laios knew chilchuck was at least around his own age.

i imagine traveling with dandan helped him understand half-foots enough that his blunders when he and chilchuck started working together weren't generally disrespectful in nature. laios would have been able to wrap his mind around "half-foots aren't kids unless they actually say they are" because laios likes clearly defined rules. chilchuck is an adult? okay, he gets treated like one.

and i think it's just as much them both being short-lived races; if he can wrap his head around "height ≠ age" then he also understands whatever age chilchuck is has to be roughly comparable to his own.

and i just think that's neat! i think it's cool how much laios respects chilchuck and there's a sort of irony to the fact that moments like this are, in chilchuck's eyes, more of a nuisance than a sign of respect. but i mean... laios already treats him right. he doesn't need to do anything different.

[sistertotheknowitall]

Don't Take Snacks From Some Guy

Masterpost

Duke knew better than to take food from strangers. Still it was nice of the other man to offer so he kept taking them.

----

Duke watched the kid type away at his laptop. He said kid but the guy was probably a few years older the him. Still, he wasn't supposed to be on the roof of a bank, Gotham National Bank to be specific. He didn't seem to be up to anything nefarious (Duke didn't think you needed to be on the bank to hack it) but he was still on the roof a bank. A closed bank at sunrise on a Sunday.

How did he even get up there? Duke doubted that he took the stairs. Unless he worked for the bank but that didn't answer why he was on the roof.

Making a decision, Duke disappeared and made his way over. He was quiet and cautious as he went to look over the other teens shoulder. He was writing …a paper? From what Duke could read it was a research paper (‘in accordance to what the Daily Planet has stated about the city’s hero’ -).

“Could you not breathe in my ear?” 

Duke flinched back and thankfully didn't make a sound. He was pretty sure he still invisible but tired eyes were staring at him - well, in his general direction. (Just to be sure Duke checked, and, yeah, still not visible.) For a moment they just sat still as Duke contemplated revealing himself. (The other could be bluffing but was it really bluffing if he was right?) The guy had known Duke was there and seemed able to at least sense his general position. He seemed annoyed but not violent. It was also clear that he definitely was not committing cyber crime unless the paper was code. (Could it be code?)

Continuing with caution Duke made himself visible and shifted awkwardly, “um, hi, I’m Signal -”

The other boy had turned back to his computer, appearing to read over what he had written. “You were almost pressed against me, dude.” 

Duke blushed, a little embarrassed, “right, sorry, I was just trying to see what you were doing.”

“I'm Danny and I was not hacking the bank, I promise.”

“Okay?” 

Duke continued to watch Danny as he finished reading and closed the laptop. Standing Danny stretched and started putting the computer away. Duke had winced at the popping of his spine. “So what are you doing up here?”

Shouldering his bag Danny told him, “writing about the sociological impact of superheroes vs vigilantes, or do you not know how to read?” 

Duke contemplated still arresting the man. He could still get him for loitering or trespassing or something. “No, I got that - “

“Did you?”

Ignoring the snippy remark Duke continued and asked “why are you writing on top of the bank? How did you even get up here?”

“The public library’s wifi is awful and this bank has a public password.” 

Duke blinked, “you're up here at sunrise for the wifi?”

“Yeah.”

"…….."

“So… think you could help me get down?”

----

Once back on solid ground Danny had held out a chocolate bar. Duke stared in confusion before realizing it was an offering, “oh thanks, but -” Danny sighed, grabbed Duke's wrist and forced the candy into his hand. Letting go, Danny had patted the vigilante on the shoulder, muttered his thanks and walked off.

Duke watched him go around the corner before considering the chocolate. While the guy hadn't been anything other than a little snarky and rude, Duke wasn't going to eat something a stranger gave him. Even if you didn't grow up in Gotham, accepting food from strangers was not wise. Duke knew this. 

So he had taken the candy bar back to the cave for analysis. 

Upon their seconf meeting nearly a week later Danny had been a lot more cheerful and had apologized to Duke for being grumpy. He then handed him a banana and left. Duke continued to run into Danny on roof tops, fire escapes, and once outside the entrance to a cemetery and while he wasn’t always in a talkative mood when they met (sometimes he would just walk by Duke, shoving food into his hands as he passed) he was always sure to give him something. Duke didn't know what to make of this but he was understandably careful. The banana had been tested like the chocolate, so had the fruit snacks, the granola bar, and the apple. All came back clean.

 It was a few days after the apple was cleared that the bats had come to the conclusion that Danny was not a threat. So when Duke was handed a donut on a stressful Tuesday, he ate it gratefully. Danny had seemed pleased that Duke continued to take the treats and Steph was always happy to eat what Duke didn’t.

Post 5

[ak-vintage]

Work of Art

Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Prompt: Marcus Acacius & Nose

Summary: Your pregnancy brings out a vulnerability in Marcus you never would have expected. When he reluctantly shares his insecurities with you, you are more than happy to reaffirm your affection for each and every part of him.  

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Second-person POV, no use of Y/N, established relationship, arranged marriage, POSSIBLE DUBCON (sex in an arranged marriage with a patriarchal power structure), hefty age gap, pregnant reader, inexperienced reader, insecurity, body worship, nose worship, face-sitting, oral (f! receiving), discovering that you’re in love with your spouse, SO MUCH FLUFF, high likelihood of historical inaccuracy (aiming for vibes, not perfection)

Written for @joelmillerisapunk PPCU Body Worship Writing Challenge

Dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

Read on AO3

It is barely sunrise when the messenger arrives at your door.

Coated in a layer of dust from the road, mounted on the back of a well-lathered horse, and bearing the colors of the empire, the young man demands your staff wake you to receive him – that he is under orders to accept no intermediary, that his message is intended for the lady of the house and no one else. The news of his arrival sends ice into your veins the moment you open your eyes; even as the wife of a general, you do not often receive messages from the front lines, and you could not resist fearing the worst. Curls loose and mussed with sleep, tunica tied almost haphazardly in your haste, you rush to the atrium as quickly as propriety will allow and take the messenger’s sealed scroll with trembling hands.

My dearest wife, it reads. The skirmish on the southern border has been quelled for the time being. In recognition of our efforts, and out of respect for our recent union, I have been granted leave to return to Rome for a period of respite. If the sea is calm and the road is easy, you can look to the horizon for my return in one month’s time. Prepare the household for my arrival. Faithfully yours, Marcus Acacius

The relief you feel at those words is so powerful that you sink into the nearest chair, weak-kneed. Thankfully, your staff are more than competent enough to manage offering food, a bath, and a fresh horse to the harried messenger without your guidance, for you have not the capacity to play hostess. It had been your greatest fear, you realize as you sit there reading and re-reading the general’s letter until your eyes begin to burn with fatigue. You had had such little time as husband and wife before Marcus had been shipped out to the border, and you dread nothing more than the prospect of joining the ranks of the widows of Rome before you even have the opportunity to fully know the man you had married. It would have been such a waste, you think, like a flower cut from the vine when it was barely a bud, cursed never to bloom for the rest of time.

The truth is that although yours had been an arranged marriage, one of convenience, you feel (perhaps naively) that it held great promise. The general had never married, choosing to prioritize his military ambitions over his personal life. However, now that he was getting older, he had determined that it would be wise to seek a wife who might give him an heir to the prestigious station he had earned for himself over the years. Your father, a wealthy, prominent senator, had brokered the match, and a mere fortnight after you had been introduced for the first time, you had been wed.

Marcus had proven to be a gentle husband, a great contrast to what you had believed based on the tales of his ferocity in battle. He had spoken kindly to you and listened patiently, giving weight to your words, treating you like a partner right from the start. He had given you free reign over the household and encouraged you to mold his domus and his staff to suit your tastes. You had had very little time in each other’s presence, but he nevertheless struck you as a man of honor, a man of principle. As a woman in your position, there was little else you could ask for in a match, and the thought had comforted you as you stood side-by-side with this near-stranger and signed your marriage contract.

On your wedding night, he had been as tender with you as he could. You had been able to tell that he was holding himself back, restraining himself from taking you as savagely as he might have wished, but for that, you thought him compassionate. Of course, there had been some pain to start; this you had anticipated. However, toward the end of your coupling, as the general had begun to growl muffled curses into the soft skin of your neck and thrust himself so deeply inside you, you swore you could feel his manhood in your belly, you thought perhaps that it might have begun to feel…good?

He had spilled his seed within you shortly thereafter, bringing your union to a sudden and dramatic end and leaving your tentative, blooming pleasure to fizzle and die in your veins.

You glance down at the swell of your belly at the recollection, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. The fruits of your union that night – and the nights that followed for the brief month he had been permitted to remain by your side – had made themselves apparent shortly after his departure. That had been five months ago now, and it had been an incredible relief to know that you had managed to fulfill your duty to the general so quickly. You had fully expected to give birth on your own, to share the joyous news with him via special messenger like so many other soldier’s wives. Now, to know that he is set to return so soon, that relief is compounded. Barring any emergencies on the front, he likely would be home long enough to be present for the birth.

Birthing was a woman’s business, of course. You knew there was little Marcus could truly do to aid you in your labors. But a part of you, perhaps a very foolish, girlish part of you, could not help but feel safer when he was near. You would sleep better at night knowing he was once again within the walls of your domus.

Easing yourself back onto your feet, you get the attention of the nearest member of your staff.

“Once our guest has been seen to, gather the others in the courtyard,” you command. “We have much to prepare. The general is coming home.”

General Marcus Acacius rides into Rome on a sunny afternoon astride a handsome black stallion. Escorted only by a small retinue of guards and vassals, he travels light, with the economy and efficiency of a man who has spent the majority of his adult life in an army camp. The servant boy you have stationed at the city walls every day for the last week eagerly tells you that he looks well, that he has been asked to report first to the emperors’ palace but that he expects to be home by nightfall.

The news of your husband’s imminent arrival has a riot of butterflies rising in your chest, and you feel the child you carry respond almost instantly, fluttering and twitching against the walls of your womb at your excitement. A smile pulls at your lips, and you smooth your palms over the rounded surface of your belly as if to say, “I understand. I feel it, too.”

You send a message to the kitchen staff with orders to ensure that the general’s favorite meal is prepared for this evening, as well as for his preferred wine to be brought up from the cellar. Perhaps it is a bit silly – this is his home even moreso than it is yours – but you have an odd desire to make him feel welcomed. You want him to know that you have given thought to his needs and his preferences, that you have managed and looked after his home with proficiency in his absence, that you have anticipated his return.

You want to make the general happy, you realize with a flush.  Not only for him to be happy, but you wish to be the cause of that happiness. Does that make you proud, you wonder? Or selfish? Perhaps. All you know for certain is that in the brief time spent by his side, all those months ago, you had begun to associate Marcus Acacius with feelings of comfort, of safety, of acceptance. Even perhaps…affection. You like him. Was it so wrong to wish for him to like you, too?

You are in the ostium waiting for him when the general arrives. The sun sets behind him as he approaches on horseback, still in full armor from his travels, and your first thought is that he is even larger than you remember. Blotting out the golden light with the incredible breadth of his shoulders, you think he looks almost otherworldly, like some mythical hero of old returned from a harrowing quest. You can feel your heart speed up behind your ribs, galloping like the hooves of his horse on the cobblestones, and you are thankful no one can hear it but you. You are a woman grown, wedded and bedded and carrying a child, the head of your own household, the wife of a prominent, respected officer of the grand army of Rome. The idea that you should become so flighty, so unmoored at the sight of your own husband is absurd.

When his gaze falls on you, your trembling hands find your stomach, a gesture that has become more and more instinctual as the bump has become more and more visible, and before he can even greet you, his eyes drop to where they rest.

Marcus pulls his horse up short, the soft expression in his dark irises sharpening, intensifying. You watch as his prominent brow draws up, something between shock and awe and hope washing over his face, and then he is swinging his leg up and over his mount, dropping to the ground, closing the distance between you in a handful of long, powerful strides. His eyes do not leave your stomach until he is a mere handful of inches from your body, and you catch sight of his broad, thick-fingered hands clenching at his sides as though resisting the urge to reach out and touch you.

“Dearest wife,” he rasps, his throat dry as he finally, finally flicks his eyes back up to meet yours. “Have you something to tell me?”

You swallow thickly, suddenly overcome with the intensity, the intimacy of his attention. “Welcome home…husband.” Your voice sounds tremulous to your own ears, but you do not allow yourself to dwell on it. Instead, you wrap both of your hands around one of his and bring his dry, scarred knuckles to your lips. Dropping a kiss onto the center ridge, you add, “It is a blessing from the gods to see you well after so many months apart.”

Your name is a sigh on his lips. “It is a blessing to be permitted to return home after so short a time,” he counters. “Now, if my eyes deceive me, I will beg your forgiveness and claim fatigue from the long journey as my excuse. But are you…”

He trails off, as though hesitant to speak the words aloud, and you could swear that someone had reached into your chest and taken hold of your heart for how tight it squeezes at the thread of hope woven into his words. Unable to bear it anymore, you finish his incomplete thought on your own.

“Yes…General Acacius – ”

“Marcus,” he interjects immediately, and you feel yourself flush at the familiarity.

“Marcus,” you echo. “I-I am with child. You are to be a father.”

The breath he releases is long and slow, his dark eyes shining in the setting sun, and if you did not know better, you might think that your revelation had rendered him speechless. However, it takes him only a moment to collect himself, and then he is reaching for your belly with both hands, palms outstretched almost pleadingly. “May I – ?”

You nod readily, feeling a grin split your face, and then his hands are on you, cupping your swelling bump with his sword-calloused touch. His skin catches on the fine material of your tunica, but you are unbothered. He is warm and vital against you, his touch more than welcome after so many months on your own, and as though the precious thing had been waiting for their cue, the child in your womb kicks against their father’s hands.

The general’s brows shoot up at that, his forehead crinkling beneath his dark, gray-streaked curls, and he lets out a rough, strained laugh. “By the gods. It’s true.” Keeping one hand on your bump, he brings the other to the side of your face, wrapping his fingers around the back of your neck, stroking your jaw with his thumb. It’s the most tender, intimate gesture he has ever shown you, and the heat of his palm has your knees weakening beneath you.

“You honor me, amica. Thank you,” he says, husky voice thick with emotion. He presses a brief, dry kiss to your forehead, and you cannot help but wish it had been to your lips instead.

Dinner passes in a blur of sumptuous foods and peppered questions, both from you about his time at the border and from him about how you are settling into your new home, your new role. This is one thing about your relationship that has been easy from the moment you met – it is clear to you that Marcus cares deeply about your perspective on the world. He never rushes you, never cuts in when you are speaking, never attempts to correct you in some demonstration of superiority. It’s a unique experience for you coming from a man, particularly one of his age and rank, and it makes you feel cherished in a way you never would have expected in a marriage like yours. You are under no illusions that yours was a love match, after all, but something about the intent way that Marcus holds your gaze, the way he nods along as you speak, the way he asks such thoughtful questions – it has you all but convinced that he cares for you as you are coming to care for him.

The two of you linger over dinner long past nightfall, but eventually, he stands from his chair at the head of the table, offers his hand to you, and leads you to the privacy of your shared chambers. He beds you that night, as you had expected he would after so long without the touch of a woman, and you go to him willingly. His touch burns with barely-restrained fervor, the expression on his handsome face twisted almost as if in pain, and just as you had on that first night, you feel something building within you as he takes you.

You have no name for it, and yet it feels altering in its magnitude. You feel like lightning, like lava, like some elemental thing ablaze with fire and light, and just when you are certain that the feeling is about to consume you, just as you know in your bones that you cannot take any more or you will surely die –

Marcus spills himself inside you, withdraws, and collapses onto the bed next to you.

The feeling recedes. You catch your breath. Your husband plants a kiss on your hairline, and under his lips, he finds the sweat of your exertion, of your truncated pleasure. He whispers “good night, amica” against your curls, and then he rolls away.

Moments later, soft snores fill the room. The general is fast asleep, but you…

You are going mad.

It is many days later before this madness finally comes to a head.

Every night since his return, Marcus has sought his pleasure in your body. He never forces himself upon you or hurts you in any way; he asks before touching you, always. But as you approach a full week of night after night of thwarted pleasure, you cannot help but begin to find ways to…delay the inevitable question. You have taken to engaging him in conversation as you lay in bed, asking him about the many visitors he has received over the last several days, or about his journey home from the border, or about his favorite horse, Tempestas. He takes this in stride, seemingly happy to indulge you, and the two of you spend long minutes talking softly by candlelight, warm and close under soft, shared sheets.

This night, you decide to ask him about the baby and how he feels knowing that you carry his heir, that his legacy is secured.

You anticipate the smile he gives you, the fond look in his eyes as he reaches out to feel the curve of your belly, as he has done now hundreds of times over the last week. What you do not expect is the earnestness of his words as he tells you, “I have never been a father before. At my age, I did not expect that I would ever have the privilege. Now that you have made it possible, I find that I care much less for legacy or inheritance than I do for…safety. Stability. Peace.”

You soften at that, and on instinct, your hand goes to his hair, brushing his graying curls back from his forehead with gentle, soothing strokes. You have found that this is something he likes, and he leans into your touch like a barn cat in a sunbeam. He seems pensive, and you allow the silence between you to linger while he gathers his thoughts.

“I mourn that this child should have a general for a father,” he admits after a moment. “I will be absent for much of his life. I will disappear for stretches of time that could number in years, and when I return, I will be like a stranger to him. Were it in my control, I would be more present. I wish to know my child. And for him to know me.”

“Him?” you echo, a bit impishly, and Marcus smirks.

“Or her, of course. I cannot claim to know whom you carry in your womb. I shall leave that mystery for the gods.”

You grin back him, enjoying the good humor sparkling in his dark eyes. “I am sure that however much time you are permitted to spend with our child – be it months or weeks or days – it will be enough.”

Lifting himself up on one elbow, the general fixes you with a skeptical frown. “How can you be so certain?” he asks.

“Because it does not take long to see who you are, Marcus,” you reply earnestly. “To see your nobility, your strength, your power. Your kindness. These are all things I learned about you in the mere fortnight before we were wed. Your child shall know these things about you, as well.”  

Tucking your hands beneath your cheek, you stare up at him from your pillow. The warmth of the candlelight casts shadows across his golden skin, highlighting the soft crinkles around his eyes, the bridge of his nose, the plush fullness of his lower lip. “Besides, even when you are away, I shall be around to teach them,” you add with a shrug.

“Amica…” He seems a bit overcome at your sincerity, and his low voice rasps like a sword on a whetstone in the darkness. “You are very generous.”

That riot of butterflies returns to your belly as the intimacy of the moment stretches on. Gods, but he is so beautiful like this. No one has ever looked at you the way he does – not with base lust for your body, not with envy for your wealth, not with dismissal for your sex. Marcus looks at you like something precious, like something to be valued. That look makes you foolish, makes your cheeks hot and your tongue loose.

When you speak again, it is without thought.

“When I think about our child…I hope that they look like you, so that even when we are apart, I might have some comfort in seeing your face every day.”

At that, the general lets out a full-bodied laugh and rolls his eyes. Flipping over onto his back, he shakes his head fondly at you like one might a mischievous child. “Now I know for certain that you are flattering me, wife.”

Your brows nearly reach your hairline as a flush of embarrassment races up the back of your neck, darkening your cheeks in an instant. “Wh – No, sir, I would never!” you insist. “I am being entirely earnest.”

“My face? My face upon an innocent babe?” He says this with a scoffing laugh, sounding amused, but when you catch sight of the tightness in his jaw, the wrinkle between his brows, you think that there might be something…authentic beneath his jesting words. “No, my dear wife. It would be far better if the child were to share your visage. Then they might truly be comely to look upon.”

Is it possible…have you stumbled upon a true insecurity, you wonder? It seems unlikely. This is General Marcus Acacius, commander of the emperors’ armies, a man two decades your senior who fought wars on behalf of Rome before you could even walk on two feet. He exudes power and strength and intelligence, and he carries himself with the kind of confidence and self-assurance that comes along with experience. He is a skilled strategist, an indomitable warrior.

Does he truly not see…

Scooting closer to him on the bed, you allow yourself to cup his bearded jaw, to turn his face toward yours. “There would be no greater gift than a child with your eyes, Marcus,” you say softly. “Or perhaps your smile.”

“But not this nose, surely,” he replies, tapping the end of his prominent, hooked nose with one calloused finger. He shakes his head with a wry smile, as though the idea is too preposterous to consider. “I would not willingly inflict such an eyesore upon a child.”

By the gods. He means it, you realize. He has truly surprised you. To your knowledge, the general is not a vain or self-conscious man. You have never known him to care overmuch about how he looks; it was quite a contrast to the pampered upper-class boys you grew up alongside, something you had found refreshing when you had first met. Had you misunderstood? Misinterpreted his lack of self-regard as a lack of care?

You decide it does not matter. All you know for certain is that your husband appears to be under the impression that his appearance leaves something to be desired, and as his wife, you feel it is your duty to demonstrate to him just how wrong he is.

The thought has your heartrate picking up again.

“Do you know…what I thought,” you begin haltingly, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, “the first day I met you, at my father’s villa?”

His dark brows knit together in a small frown, as though your words have surprised him. “Tell me.”

Swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat, you confess, “I thought you the most striking man I had ever seen.”

“You flatter me, dear heart.” His words are soft, as is his answering smile, but you can hear the platitude in his voice. He does not believe you.

“No, no, it is not flattery.” With some effort, you push yourself up off of the bed, too emphatic to remain lying down for this discussion. You haul your pregnant body up to kneel at his side, tucking your knees into the warmth of his thick waist, and your long hair dangles over his broad chest as you look into his eyes. “I know that…the circumstances of our union were not exactly romantic, and I know that we do not yet know each other well, but I hope you will heed my words when I tell you that…I count myself extremely fortunate to have been married to so handsome a man.” Glancing down at your hands, you fiddle with one of the many thin, gold rings on your fingers in self-consciousness. “My father could have selected anyone he liked. The fact that it is you who shares my bed, you whose child I carry… It is a blessing.”

It is silent between you for a time, your words hanging in the air like a declaration, but then Marcus’s body shifts against you. Curling up to sit at your side, one of his thick, broad hands comes into your line of vision and wraps itself around both of yours, stilling your fidgeting.

You risk a look up, meeting his gaze through the length of your lashes, and you feel your breath leave your body as you take in the softest, warmest, most tender expression you have ever seen on his handsome face.

“It pleases me to hear that you are happy,” he murmurs, running one of his thumbs along the back of your hand. “And that your affection for my look is genuine. It would not do for you to say such things in an attempt to…endear yourself to me. There is no need. I am already quite fond of you.”

You are quick to shake your head. “Not at all! If I have ever given you such an impression, you have my deepest apologies.”

Now that your true feelings for your husband have been revealed, you feel as though you can no longer contain them. Under the affectionate weight of his dark eyes, more comes spilling forth, unbidden. “The truth is that even in the short time that we have known one another, I have spent many hours at my easel attempting to recall your likeness in detail so that I might recreate it. Your nose in particular, I find to be most…attractive.”

Your hand moves of its own accord then, slipping from his grip to float across the narrow space between you as though possessed by some covetous spirit. The very tip of your middle finger lands in the space between his eyebrows, and although you make no conscious decision to do so, you trace down the steep curve of the bridge of his nose with a touch so delicate it might as well have been a breeze.

Your own voice sounds breathless and far away to your ears as you whisper, “You look like a sculpture, Marcus. Like the great marble warriors along the garden path. It makes you look stately and…masculine and…commanding.” Between your thighs, you feel your most intimate muscles clench. You have grown swollen and sensitive there, a feeling you have become increasingly familiar with since your husband’s return home. It’s sweet and delicious and utterly torturous, making you want to squirm in your seat, but you resist.

At least…until Marcus traps your hand in his and brings your wandering fingers to his mouth.

Your eyes snap to his, and you watch as he presses slow, lingering kisses across each of your fingertips. The sensation of his hot, moist breath on your sensitive skin has you trembling, and gods, but his lips are so soft. Turning your palm up to the heavens, the general places a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the tender center of your palm, and you feel yourself swaying toward him as though under a spell.

The plush of his lips dances gently across the thin skin of the inside of your wrist, and your pulse thrums beneath his touch as he growls, “There is perhaps…one advantage of such a face.”

“Tell me.” Your echo of his earlier words comes out like a whine, like you are pleading with him, though what you are pleading for, you cannot say.

Marcus appears to consider your request for a moment, his eyes going sharp and calculating, and then he says, “Perhaps it might be better if I showed you. Do you trust me, dear heart?”

You are quick to nod. “Yes. I trust you.”

Inclining his head at you in acknowledgment, he releases his grip on your hand and pulls away entirely. He lays back on the bed then, scooting down so that his head is flat on the padded surface rather than on his pillow. He adjusts himself a bit, shifting back and forth, but once he is comfortable, he looks back at you and pats his chest with both hands. The sound is muffled by his soft linen sleep tunic but nonetheless audible in the silence of your bedchamber.

“Mount me,” he says without preamble, and you swear you can hear the whirring gears in your brain grind to a halt.

“W-What?”

“I want you to sit astride my face, as you would a horse.” No matter how intensely your face burns at the wicked suggestion, you cannot seem to look away. His deep brown eyes are bottomless in the dark, the depths of them reflecting the candlelight like water at the bottom of a well. You can feel yourself falling into them, can feel something at the very core of you tugging toward him, answering his call. If you were to glance down at the rest of his body, you would see the evidence of the general’s own arousal tenting his tunic, but your gaze is trapped, held fast by the magnetism of him.

“Come, amica,” he says after a moment of your silent, scandalized staring. “You may rest your ass upon my chest, but I would have that sweet cunt on my mouth.”

You swallow audibly, still making no move to obey. Wetness begins to pool between your thighs, slicking your skin and staining the fabric of your sleep clothes, and you lose the battle against your urge to squirm. Your thighs clench together, and you shift upon your calves in search of friction, but you find none. You need his touch…but what he is suggesting is –

“M-Marcus, I couldn’t possibly – I shall smother you, how will you – ”

He cuts off your protests with a growl of your name, and in that moment, you see not your noble husband staring up at you. Instead, you see the Roman General Acacius – sharp jaw clenched, nostrils flared, dark eyes blazing.

“I shall not ask again, wife. No harm will come to you or to me. Now do as you’re told and sit on my face.”

You hesitate for another beat, then two, and then you shuffle forward on wobbly knees to obey. Your husband’s eyes burn a path across your body as you approach him, tracing from your parted, panting lips, to your heaving breasts, to your swollen, pregnant belly. You feel the look like a physical touch, and the sensation has your skin flushing, has sweat breaking out at the small of your back and the nape of your neck. With shaking, uncertain hands, you reach out and brace your palms against the gold-filigreed headboard for stability.

“That’s it, nearly there now,” Marcus sighs as you clumsily, awkwardly swing one of your legs over his body. Your knee lands on the other side of his shoulder, and you feel the heat of his touch on your naked thighs almost immediately. With slow, deliberate motions, he pushes the hem of your sleep tunic up to your hips, revealing your bare ass and cunt to the cool air of the bedroom.

You draw your lower lip between your teeth to stifle a whine, and gooseflesh breaks out across your skin. You’ve started to shake, though whether in fear or arousal, you couldn’t say. Gods, you’re so exposed now. The wetness between your thighs is fully on display, mere inches from your husband’s face. It’s mortifying; if you could melt into the bed and disappear forever, you know you would.

Marcus, however, clearly has no such compunctions. His thick fingers knead the soft, lush flesh of your hips and thighs, using his grip to draw your forward, to draw you down. The groan that oozes from his lips into the hot slip of atmosphere between you sounds exactly like the one he makes when he first slides inside you, and you feel yourself clench involuntarily at the tremor of it now sounding between your legs. He must catch sight of this, your body’s own betrayal happening right under that stately nose that started this whole ordeal, for one moment he appears to be watching you settle in with rapt attention, and the next, he is releasing a dark, sinister chuckle and yanking you closer.

You give a thought for resistance then, consider pulling yourself from his hold, but –

Oh, you can feel his breath on your cunt, can feel your dripping curls shift beneath the current of air as he laughs.  

You shift a bit on your knees, settling so that your weight rests just above each of his shoulders with his hands gripping your hips from behind you. The lower curve of your ass brushes the fine fabric of his tunic, and you are certain that if you could see his face, you would find his chin mere inches from the part of you that pulses and throbs for his attention. As it is, the roundness of your bump nearly eclipses his head, leaving only wisps of the thick, graying curls on the top of his head to peak out around the edges.

“Marcus?” Your voice trembles with nerves around his name, and beneath you, he sighs.

“Well done, amica, you are right where I want you,” he assures you with a groan. You feel the well-trimmed stubble of his silvered beard brush your lower lips; the feeling startles a gasp out of you, and on instinct, one of your hands flies from the headboard to the top of his head. “Mmm, yes, that’s it – sink your fingers into my hair. Hold yourself steady on me.”

You hardly recognize the sound of your own voice as you whimper, “Marcus – Marcus, please.”

“I know what you need.” His touch on your hips is warm, gentle, soothing. “Don’t be afraid. Now rest your weight on me and let me taste you.”

The joints in your limbs feel like water at the general’s words, at the hot wash of his breath across your swollen center. The embarrassment at your precarious position above his face still fizzes in your veins, making you lightheaded, but molten desire has begun to drown it out. Your mind doesn’t fully understand what is about to happen or what he is asking of you, but it seems that on some level, your body does, because it is absolutely thrumming for it.

There is nothing for it anymore. You cannot refuse him. You do not want to refuse him. Whatever he is about to do to you, your body needs it, craves it in the same way it does air or water or food. When you sink your cunt down onto your husband’s waiting mouth, it feels both like a surrender and like a victory.

“Oh – gods, Marcus – ”

Marcus groans deep in his chest the moment you touch his tongue, and then he is bracketing his arms around your thighs and forcibly seating you even more firmly against him. Dragging the slick, pink muscle of his tongue through your folds in one long, languorous stroke, it doesn’t take long before your thighs begin to tremble around his ears. He is focused, meticulous, thorough in his exploration of your most intimate flesh – sucking delicately at your lips, dipping the gentle tip of his tongue into your soft, quivering hole, using the flat of it to dance around that swollen nub at your apex that pulses with the thunderous beat of your heart. The thick arms locked around your thighs angle you this way and that, and through the sound of your own gasps and whines, you can hear the way your wetness drips at his touch.

Every lick, every suck, every swirl of his tongue serves to drive you higher, and you find yourself mindlessly running your hands over your body to ground yourself – stroking your belly, gripping your hips, cupping your breasts. The latter has you accidentally brushing your hardened nipples with your thumbs, and even muted as it is through your tunic, the sensation has you crying out into the dark room.

And that tongue never stops. Marcus is relentless – inexorable and yet unhurried. You can feel all of the tension in your hips and thighs melting away under the heat of his touch, and yet deep within you, something has begun to twist, to pulse, to squeeze. It feels like it does when Marcus beds you – pleasure stirring, burning, building within you as he grows more and more intent, more and more hungry, oh, gods…

It is miraculous. It is unbearable. It is tantamount to torture.

“Marcus,” you gasp helplessly, your fingers knotting in his hair, gripping the headboard. “I – I need – ”

The general pulls away from your cunt with a growl like an animal, and the sound rumbles through your body as he rasps, “That’s it, beautiful girl. Ride my face. Grind those hips into me and ride my face.”

You understand each of his words individually, but they do not coalesce in your mind. How does one “ride” a face? For a moment, you feel self-consciousness and shame begin to creep in at the edges of your thoughts. There are others who would understand the general’s instructions, surely. Others who would know what he wanted and would do it for him in an instant. For the first time, you allow yourself to consider the women that follow the army camps, the women whose services you were certain your husband had partaken of throughout his extensive career. They would know, certainly. Was there truly anything you could offer him that they could not?

Just as you begin to lose that delicious curl of pleasure in your core, as the fog of desire begins to clear from your brain, Marcus flexes those thick, strong arms around your legs and encourages your hips to thrust, dragging your tender flesh across the stubble of his beard, the plush of his lips, the slick of his tongue. That tongue, suddenly firm and pointed, thrusts into your sex, lapping at your wetness, filling the place that clenches for his cock. With the hitch of your hips, that swollen bundle of nerves just at the top glances across the bridge of your husband’s nose.

“Ah! Marcus!”

Beneath your cunt on his face, beneath your hand in his hair, you feel him nod emphatically, and understanding crashes over you like a wave. “Riding” his face. “Mounting” him, like a horse. This is what he wants. He wants you to thrust your hips against his face, as if in the saddle of a warhorse. To rub yourself against his nose and his tongue.

He wants you to find your pleasure with his body.

As though all your joints and muscles had been waiting on this realization, your hips begin to move of their own accord almost immediately, thrusting against that relentless, ever-present tongue, driving it deeper into the hot clutch of your cunt, and fuck…that nose, that big, strong, curved, perfect nose, glancing off of that most sensitive spot with every thrust. Head thrown back, hands on your breasts, fingers twisting and pulling your tender nipples through your tunic, you experiment with different speeds, different pressures, different depths, but if you are honest with yourself, you are so far gone that it has all begun to feel equally intense, equally delicious.

And so you move with abandon – leaning heavily on the headboard for balance, gripping his hair, you grind your swollen, dripping cunt across your husband’s handsome face, fucking his tongue deep into your body, riding the hard curve of his perfect Roman nose. You feel yourself pulse and twitch and tremble with every thrust, feel him lap and slurp and suck at you with new fervor, feel his thick fingers dig into your hips so deeply you know you will bear his bruises in the morning. You had not known pleasure like this existed, had not known it was possible for you to achieve it. You feel drunk with it, the way it seeps into your veins like one too many glasses of wine, and Marcus drinks you down like the finest vintage.

Your clitoris drags across his nose once again, and you cannot smother your moan at the feeling. “Gods, Marcus, your nose – ”

Against your wetness, the general’s face vibrates with something like a chuckle. “I know, dear heart, I know – I told you, this face has one advantage.”

You shake your head fervently, feeling your long curls brush your back as you grind. “It’s perfect. Perfect, Marcus, I – oh, gods, I feel – ”

Another animalistic growl ripples through your husband’s chest, and you feel him nod beneath you. “Jus’ let it happen, amica. Take your pleasure,” he slurs, mouth full of you.

And you do. You take and take and take, clit grinding, hips thrusting, thighs shaking, lungs gasping, and with every pass, that bright, hot, vicious spiral in your abdomen winds tighter, tighter, tighter. Gods, it feels as though it is going to consume you – to swallow you whole and drag you under, to drown you in your own dripping sweetness, your own savage pleasure.

And then it plateaus, the sensations holding, holding, staying at precisely the same level, dangling you over the edge, and in a far away voice, you hear yourself whimper, “Marcus, please!”

Releasing his grip on one of your hips, the man beneath you lands a single, sharp smack to the meat of your ass, and over the edge you fall.

It’s everything you thought it could be – lightning in your veins, lava in your lungs, something primal and elemental and raw that rips through your body like a tidal wave that leaves you hiccuping whines and shaking like a leaf atop the general’s face. You spill your pleasure down his chin, into his mouth, along his jaw. It slips down his neck and dampens the embroidered collar of his tunic, and the way he groans into your twitching cunt, you would think that it had caused him pain. But no – he feels your ecstasy as though it is his own. You have left your body to soar among the clouds, and he joins you, overcome with the particular joy of being responsible for making his wife – the mother of his child – reach such heights.

When you come back to yourself, you are utterly spent – limp and boneless and sweating as though you had just run at top speed from here to the city gates. You start to collapse, and Marcus’s strong hands are there to catch you, to slide you down from his face to his lap. Gathering you into his arms, he brings you back down onto the mattress and tucks you into his side. His broad shoulder cushions your flushed cheek, and his fingers brush your disheveled hair back from your face as you catch your breath. Through bleary eyes, you catch the way his face shines in the candlelight. He’s covered in your slick.

For a few moments, you simply gaze at each other as the silence stretches between you. It is only punctuated by the sound of your labored breaths as each of you settle, but somehow it isn’t awkward, and you find yourself smiling in spite of yourself. He’s so perfect like this, your Marcus. Hair mussed, face pink, everything from his chin to his nose glowing with your pleasure.

There’s a softness around his eyes you’ve never seen before, an earnest warmth that burrows its way into your chest and makes a nest there dangerously close to your heart. It’s an emotion you have a name for, if you are brave enough to say it, and the thought has you gripping tight to his tunic.

You are in awe of him.

You…you love him.

“And what is your verdict, my wife?” he asks after a beat. His voice is a low rumble that travels through his chest and into your body, warming you inside. “Does this Roman nose still please you?”

A tired grin tugs at the corners of your lips, pulling you out of the seriousness of your thoughts, and you nod as enthusiastically as you can manage. “Indeed, I am not certain I have ever been quite so…pleased before, husband.”

“Hmm. Good.” Marcus tucks the arm around your body into your waist, pulling you even deeper into his embrace. “Then perhaps the thing may serve a purpose after all.”

You reach up and cup his cheek in your palm, feeling the stickiness of your spend in his beard on your skin. “The purpose it serves is that it is my husband’s nose, and as such, is a part of the dearest face in the world to me.” His dark eyes soften at that, and he turns to place a warm kiss on the heel of your hand.

“Though…should you find yourself forgetting,” you add with an impish grin, “I would not object to a…repeat demonstration of its value. If it would be of any help to you, of course.”

This startles a laugh from his chest, his dark eyes crinkling with mirth, and you cannot help but join in. Gods, he is gorgeous, you think to yourself as you chuckle together in the dark. Both in his soul and in his body, your husband is gorgeous.

A hand drops to the place where your child rests, safe and protected inside your womb, and you feel a little flutter against your palm.

You decide then that you care not whether your child bears your face or Marcus’s. Either way, they will be beautiful, for how could they not be, when they have come from this?

Latin Translation:

amica - darling, sweetheart

[ellastone-olsen]

Fucked my way up to the top - Wanda Maximoff

DO NOT COPY ANY OF MY WORKS. MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY

Summary: You just got your first job in your life and suspiciously quickly became an assistant to the director of the company. Where's the catch?

Pairing: ceo!Wanda Maximoff × f!reader

Warnings: NSFW, dom!Wanda, sub!reader, age gap (W34 R21), mommy kink, strap on usage (W), blow job (R), pet names

DISCLAIMER: ENGLISH ISN'T MY FIRST LANGUAGE SORRY FOR GRAMMAR OR SPELLING MISTAKES

Word count: 1.2k

AN: inspired by lana del rey i really love that song

You just graduated from a college you didn't even want to go to. Wrong college, wrong specialty, but as a result, very much the right job. After one day you began to believe in fate and that this entire chain of events in your life was a blessing from above. After all if it weren’t for the strong nature of your parents who sent you to study, you would never have met Wanda.

At some point, you thought that you would never find a job in your specialty until you saw the ideal vacancy: the salary, the location of the office, the schedule, the educational requirements, everything suited you. There definitely had to be a catch somewhere. And it definitely was.

“No, put it in its place, I don’t need these papers and coffee right now. I have a meeting Y/N, why answer me i need coffee? Just think for once with your pretty little head.” That catch was your boss, Wanda Maximoff. That's what you thought at first.

You trotted behind her on the way to the conference room; in general, the very fact that the director of the company took you on as her personal assistant was already a great success. Some worked in one place for years and remained as an office clerk. And then Wanda Maximoff took you to bring her coffee, not the hardest job, especially for the money that you were paid.

When you entered the room, the hall was empty. One characteristic feature of your boss was excessive punctuality, you realized this in your first week of work. You took your place at the head of the table next to her when you felt manicured hands rest on your shoulders, stroking them. That was the second thing about Wanda Maximoff, she loved to touch you, a lot. Sometimes she would tuck a stray strand behind your ear, sometimes she would stroke your thigh; in general, such touches from her were nothing new. If you said you didn't enjoy it, you'd be lying. Wet dreams with her began to visit you in the third week of work.

And now, from her touch, you could feel your core throbbing. To your great regret, at that moment the conference room began to fill with people. As important and powerful as Wanda. To be honest, you didn’t understand that such a small employee like you was even doing here.

The meeting lasted about an hour and during this time you could feel with your whole being how tense your boss was. Everything was definitely not going the way she wanted; one of the men opposite was already starting to scream, unable to prove that he was right. The deal was on the verge of failure. “Okay gentlemen, I think that’s enough for today. We’ll continue tomorrow.” Wanda could not stand it and marked the end of this meeting.

When the hall was empty, the woman sat down in a chair with her legs spread, a sigh escaped her lips and one hand again lay on your thigh, squeezing it. "Fucking bastards." She muttered and your gaze caught the older woman's pants. She wore an expensive formal suit with a bulge imprinted on the trousers. Your eyes widened, your breath caught in your throat as you wondered what her purpose was..."See something you like?" You jumped at the question, scared that you had been caught. One of Wanda's hands strokes your thigh, moving up closer to your already dripping pussy while the other massages her fake cock through the fabric of her pants. You look at her expressionless face and nod in response to the question.

"On your knees". The chair moves back with a creak, giving you space. You stand in front of her to look into her eyes, darkened with lust, for a second and fall to your knees. Hands immediately reach for her trousers, sorting out the belt and pulling them off along with her underwear. A red strap jumps out in front of your face and you start to get nervous about the size. “I don’t think it will fit..”. You are interrupted by a grip in your hair. "Don't worry baby girl I'll make it fit now suck my cock."

She guides your head towards her length and you curl your tongue around the tip as if she can feel it. You raise your eyes and look at her, and then shut your mouth on her dick, feeling tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. Her palm cups your cheek and her thumb wipes away drops of moisture, “Oh my sweet girl wants to please her mommy so bad.” She helps you by guiding your head up and down her length, your panties are hopelessly ruined and you squirm, looking for some kind of relief. Wanda lifts her hips so that your nose touches her stomach and holds you like that for a few seconds. When your boss lets you go, your makeup is hopelessly ruined and you gasp for air.

"Such a good sweet girl. Do you want mommy to put her dick inside you? Do you want me to stretch you out and fuck you until you forget your name?" You are still kneeling in front of her and a pathetic whine comes out of your mouth, “Please mommy I really need you to fuck me.” Wanda likes your answer and growls, she pulls you to your feet and then bends you over the large office desk. Your cheek is pressed against the cold surface, the older woman has already hiked up your skirt to your waist and is stroking your throbbing pussy through the fabric of your cotton panties.“My, my, you’re already absolutely wet and I haven’t touched you yet. Do you like sucking mommy’s cock so much? Maybe next time should I fuck this beautiful, capable mouth mmm?" A sharp slap on your ass makes you gasp. "Yes yes please I will like it so much.”

Your underwear falls to your ankles and the tip of her cock teases your throbbing clit and then runs through the folds, collecting your arousal. Without warning, she fills you to the edge and started to pound at a slower pace than you would like. You gasp from the stretch "Mommy it's too big. Feel so full." Her pace increases, her hand finds your swollen clit and rubs it making you cry. "That's my good girl. Taking me so well. Come on baby mommy needs to de-stress after these bastards." Wanda leans over you and bites your neck as she continues to pound into you at a faster pace, your velvet walls starting to clench around her length. "Oh fuck Ms. Maximoff I'm close I gonna cum." Wanda’s cock hits that nice spot inside you so deliciously, pushing you inexorably to the edge. "Come on baby, cum for me. Show mommy how good she fucks you." Her fingers rub your sensitive bud faster and you see stars cumming all over her cock, crying out inaudible curses into the silence of the office. She continues to move, prolonging your orgasm until your breathing evens out.

She pulls out her faux cock and then a pair of strong arms turns you around so you're face to face so she can press her lips to yours in a leisurely kiss. Wanda walks back to sit back in her chair, holding you by the waist, pulling you behind her so that you sit on her lap. “I was not mistaken in choosing you as my assistant.”

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

Protector

Requested by @captaincvans

Dean Winchester x little sister!reader, a little bit of Sam Winchester x little sister!reader

Synopsis: your big brother Dean has always been your protector

It started when you were four years old. Dean answered one of John’s phones, and was shocked to hear your tiny voice on the other end.

“Who is this? How did you get this number?”

“My mommy,” you were sobbing into the phone, and Dean’s heartbeat picked up. Had someone hurt the little girl on the other end? “My mommy said to call if-if bad things happened. She said it was my daddy’s number.”

To say Dean was shocked would be the understatement of the century, but he forced himself to remain calm, if only for the little girl who clearly needed help. John had gone out on a job, and Sam had walked to a nearby store to grab some supplies.

“Ok, well where’s your mommy?”

“The monster…he-he…” you broke down into sobs, and Dean didn’t need to hear anything else.

Dean was usually used to waiting for John’s orders before doing just about anything, but somehow now he knew just what to do. Every instinct inside him screamed to help you from the moment he heard your voice.

He didn’t know then, but that instinct would follow him for the rest of his life.

…

Dean’s relationship with you was different than his with Sam. Dean had practically raised Sam, but he literally raised you. The older the boys got, the more John left them for hunts. And there was the age difference; he was only four years older than Sam, but Dean had already grown up and started hunting by the time you came into his life. And after John died, the two of you became closer than ever, and he took on his role as caretaker even more seriously.

So, needless to say, hunting wasn’t in the cards for you. Of course Dean taught you how to defend yourself, but he knew that once you started hunting, you’d be stuck in that life forever, and that wasn’t a choice he was going to let you make as a teenager.

A part of you always wanted to fight him on it, not because you thought you’d love hunting, but because your big brothers risked their lives on an almost-daily basis, and you wanted to be there to help them. However, it didn’t take long for you to realize that being on a hunt would just put them in more danger; Dean would be so worried about you that he wouldn’t keep his head on straight. You weren’t going to be the reason he got distracted and killed on a hunt.

So you stayed behind.

But that didn’t mean that you were always safe.

…

“Crowley I swear, if you touch one hair on her head-“

“Let me guess, they’ll never find the body?”

“Oh no, they will,” Dean’s fists were clenched so hard, his palms were going numb. “They’ll find it, and they’ll keep finding it. Little bits, everywhere, maybe I’ll even drop you in a couple of different states. I’ll cut you up nice and slow, it’ll take weeks before you’re dead, and that’s if I’m feeling generous enough to let you die at all.”

“My my my, someone is very protective about his little pet. However, your mummy should’ve taught you some manners, because you see…” Dean flinched when he heard your screams over the phone. “I don’t like to be threatened, squirrel.”

“Ok, ok!” Dean relented. Your screams stopped.

“Good. Now, here’s my ultimatum,” Crowley’s voice rose in anger, “If you ever want to see this little runt again, the first thing you’re gonna do, is drop the attitude, and show some respect!” Crowley cleared his throat, and returned to his easygoing, neutral tone. “After all, I am the king of hell. And then, after that, you’re going to stop meddling in my affairs. That’s not so bad, is it?”

Dean was about to throw out a snarky response when your voice broke in.

“Don’t listen to him, Dean. He’s just a liar, he’ll betray y-“ your desperate, frightened voice cut off with a high-pitched scream, and Dean could swear he heard Crowley laughing.

“Now now, darling, that’s not very nice. Name-calling is for children. Oh that’s right,” Crowley’s laughter started up again. “You are a child.”

“Stop it!” Not seeing what was going on was driving Dean insane. He could only imagine what Crowley was doing to you. “Alright, Crowley, you get what you want. Just let her go!”

The screaming stopped again.

“Now, that’s sweet, Dean. But I’m afraid I don’t exactly trust your word. So, I’m going have to keep your little rugrat here for a little longer, just to make sure you make good on your promise. Deal?”

“No no no, Crowley you can’t just-“

“I think we’re done here.”

The click that followed might as well have been an atomic bomb.

…

“We got a location.”

Dean had never jumped up that fast in his entire life.

“Finally, let’s go.”

“Dean, hold on,” Sam placed his hand out, stopping Dean in his tracks. “We don’t know how many demons are guarding it.”

“You know what, Sam? I don’t really care. There could be a thousand demons in there for all I care. She’s in there, so I’m going.” Dean brushed past Sam, who reluctantly followed him into the Impala.

“I’m just saying, it would be nice to have a plan.”

“I have a plan.” Dean peeled out of the driveway and sped along the road.

“The plan is get her back.”

…

You heard them before you saw them. It would be impossible not to; the screaming of demons and the thud as bodies hit the floor wasn’t exactly quiet.

However, when the door burst open, it wasn’t your brothers who came in.

Crowley rushed toward you, his hand outstretched to grab you and teleport you with him. A split second before his hand reached your shoulder, the demon blade whizzed past his ear and struck his arm, throwing him off balance and onto the floor. Before he could get back up, Dean was on him, not even bothering with the knife as he pounded on Crowley’s face. Sam rushed in after him, grabbing Dean by the shoulder and pulling him off.

“That’s enough, Dean! Just use the kni-“

Before either brother could move towards the demon blade, Crowley had disappeared.

“No!” Dean slammed his fist against the wall, and was about to do it again when he heard it.

“Dean?”

Never, not even when you were little, had Dean ever heard you sound so small; so fragile. He turned, his gaze instantly softening, his fists relaxing as he rushed to your side. He quickly untied the ropes holding you to a metal chair, and as soon as you were free you collapsed into his waiting arms.

“You’re ok,” Dean’s eyes stung as he gripped you tightly to him. “You’re safe now, I’m here.”

“Is she ok?” Sam stepped up behind Dean, and Dean reluctantly pulled away to check you for injuries.

There was a gash along your cheek, and he saw several cuts on your arms and legs, but what really worried him was the blood covering the front of your shirt.

“Baby, can you…” Dean touched the pool of blood dripping down your stomach. You lifted your shirt a few inches, and he saw a deep cut running along your ribs. Blood was still gushing freely from the cut, and Dean quickly removed his top layer of flannel, pressing it against the wound.

Sam flinched when you cried out, and Dean winced.

“I know, I know it hurts honey. I need you to hold it there, though.” You took the shirt from him and he nodded, “Yeah, good, press it tight.” He glanced around one more time to be sure no demons were coming, before he scooped you into his arms. You cried out again when he jostled you, and he tried to ignore you as he turned to Sam.

“You gotta watch my back, I’ve got her, but I don’t know if there are any more demons still here.”

Sam nodded, taking the demon blade.

“Alright, I’ll drive.”

…

“Do we need to take her to a hospital?” Sam glanced to the back of the Impala, where your head was resting in Dean’s lap as he held his shirt against your cut.

“I’m ok,” your voice was quiet, almost sleepy.

“We should take her in,” Dean insisted.

“It doesn’t look like she’s lost that much blood,” Sam hesitantly argued.

“Dean, I’m ok,” you turned your gaze from your injury to your big brother. “Really, just stitch me up. I’ll be fine.”

Dean relented hesitantly, mostly because he didn’t put it past Crowley to try to alert local authorities to all the bodies he’d left in his wake saving you. The last thing you needed was to be stuck in a hospital while Sam and Dean got arrested.

“Alright, ok. But you gotta stay awake, understand?”

You were silent for a few seconds, and when your voice lifted he could hear the tears you were trying to hold back.

“He wouldn’t let me sleep.”

Dean felt the white-hot anger rising in him, but he forced it down.

“You…but you were gone for three days.”

“I know. But ev-every time I tried to sleep…” you picked at one of the cuts, and Dean got the picture. He glanced up to see Sam gripping the steering wheel with all his might, his knuckles turning snow-white.

“I’m sorry,” Dean’s soft voice was only beat by the softness in his eyes as he looked down at you. “I’m so sorry. But you gotta stay awake just a little bit longer, I’m sorry.”

You knew he wasn’t just apologizing for that.

“Dean, it’s not your fault.”

He turned to look out the window, and you knew he didn’t believe you.

“Dean,” you tried to raise your voice, but it just sent you into a fit of coughing. His head whipped back to look at you, and he squeezed his hand under your head, lifting you up a little so you could breathe.

“Honey, don’t talk, don’t talk. You’re ok, just breathe.”

“Dean,” you took a deep breath, “Dean it’s not. It’s not your fault-“

“Shh, shh,” he insisted, eyes flitting nervously over your face. “Kiddo please, don’t talk.”

“Then say it.”

Dean sighed, and you knew he wouldn’t mean it, but you wanted him to say it anyway.

“It wasn’t my fault.”

…

“I’m sorry,” Dean winced when you sucked in a breath, trying desperately to stay still as he sewed you up.

“I’m ok,” you insisted.

“Ok, I’m done,” Dean tied off the last stitch, and you hesitantly stood and headed to your bathroom to shower off the blood that was all but covering you.

Dean sat on your bed while you were gone, staring down at the blood on his hands, disgusted but somehow unable to get up to wash it off.

He stayed there until you returned, a clean shirt and your pajama pants on. You stepped up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He glanced up, opening his mouth to speak before closing it again. You tugged on his arm without speaking, and he followed you mechanically as you pulled him into your bathroom.

You turned on the sink water and guided his hands under the flow, rubbing his hands until they were clean and your blood was running down the drain. You handed him a soft towel, and he slowly dried his hands.

The two of you stood there in silence, unsure of whether to move or not. Then suddenly, the two of you moved in sync. He opened his arms just as you moved towards him, and he wrapped you into his arms. One of his hands cradled the back of your head, while the other rested on the small of your back. You felt his chin rest on the top of your head, his arms tightening around you.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked.

You wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but you knew that you could scream it til doomsday and Dean still wouldn’t believe it. So instead you said what he needed to hear.

“I’m ok.”

…

You weren’t the only one who hadn’t been able to sleep during your captivity, and you knew it. Dean looked horrible, his eyes dark and his hair greasy and sticking out in strange angles. You didn’t think you could convince him to eat or shower, not yet at least. He hadn’t left your side in the hour since you got back, and you figured he would want to watch over you while you slept.

So, if you couldn’t make him eat, you figured you at least knew a way to make him sleep.

You let him tuck you into your bed before grabbing onto his arm as he turned to go.

“Stay with me,” you insisted. He nodded and reached to grab a chair.

“No, with me,” you lifted a corner of the blanket. Dean didn’t speak, he just climbed in next to you and let you lean against his arm.

After a few minutes, Dean’s breathing evened out and you smiled.

He was your protector, always.

But maybe there was some ways that you could save him, too.

[jiminrings]

fail-safe

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: growing up, your brother's best friend always berated you for not having a passion in life outside of loving him from afar. when yoongi leaves everything he's ever known for everything he's ever wanted, trying to move on from him becomes your biggest aspiration.

alternatively, yoongi left when you needed him the most, and comes back home at a time when you love him the least.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale ]

[ a Lot of angst, eventual fluff, brother's best friend AND single dad au, So Much Yearning, unrequited love (initial), jealousy, self-deprecation, a lot of talk abt passion in an empty n hurtful way that most impassioned youngest children feel (it's a specific feeling idk!!!), eventual redemption in the next parts ]

notes: finally got to writing a new series!!! i'm beyond excited for this + this whole new concept and flow i haven't touched on before <3 i hope u love fail-safe as much as i do :-)

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! | series masterlist

Yoongi buys atleast one scratch ticket a week.

The accessibility of buying one is top-notch considering that all he has to do is cross the street, shoot one look to the cashier, and he can either already go hunch in the corner of the road or in the comfort of his room. The moment his coin takes its first dig and he realizes that he’s won yet again, he’s satisfied enough not to buy another ticket.

He doesn’t want to risk losing the win he’s just gained, the odds of him throwing out money besting his chances in adding to his earnings. He thinks everyone’s a little greedy one way or another, but it’s the righteous part of him that thinks he’s different.

You do think that he is for all the right reasons, your vision only tunneling for him alone. He’s this fixed older figure in your life and you can’t figure out how to shrug him off — he’s this generous leech that sucks all of the rationality from your mind but returns it to you twofold, whether in the form of him saying something unintentionally endearing that it makes your chest hurt, or through him having to lightly smack the back of your head.

Yoongi’s your older brother’s best friend and there’s a novelty tag that comes with him, one that can’t be topped by any material possession to your name. He’s there for you, not in the exact way you want him to be, but nonetheless there. He’s special and unattainable at the same time, the finiteness of his love barely extending to you.

He’s there when you want him to burn the latest songs onto a CD you’ve spent all your allowance in, and he’s there when you get annoyed that he sneaked some of his own recommendations in there. You’re there when you later admit that his suggestions aren’t half-bad, and you also happen to be there when he grins at the praise.

He’s there when Namjoon won’t cough up the last slice of his cutlet, not because he’ll actually give you his, but because he’ll help your brother guard his plate. You’d only have to mope for a solid of three seconds before the two of them give up both of their last slices, and you’re there when Yoongi insists for you to try the sauce in the spirit of going out of your routine.

You don’t need Yoongi every single time but in the event that you do, he hangs back. He contemplates and hesitates and doesn’t give in to every single whim that you have, but he’ll be there. He lingers like the last holiday ornament you don’t want to remove until it’s February, his presence being oddly similar to your favorite festivities.

Yoongi’s the equivalent of a holiday you look forward to with each passing month and day; he comes around to and for you in instances, but never even in your most sincere wishes.

“I buy one scratch ticket a week — three if I’m really feeling lucky. When my palms itch, that’s when I know that I really need to buy them.”

He’s calm and collected even when you’re scrunching your nose up at him in combined worry and disbelief, humming mindlessly as you collect your thoughts. He randomly told you about his lottery routine and you’re still trying to wrap your head around how he blows his money off just easily. Yoongi has the mind to put scrap cardboard under you because sitting on the hot concrete with your uniform on can’t possible be a good idea, but you try to play off your fluster into stubbornness.

He’s just playing with his two ever-present coins (lucky charms as he calls them)— one that’s shiny and minted in the present year, the other being the oldest coin he’s ever had that happens to be older than he is — while you mutter about.

“I don’t know, Yoongs. That might be a gambling problem,” you squint, your side comment being heard clearly as day. “Might be the symptoms for hand, foot, and mouth disease too.”

“What— I do not have a gambling problem! My skin’s perfectly fine too, thanks,” he defends, the light shove he gives you doing nothing to tone down your teasing.

“That’s what people with gambling problems say.”

“Give me that-…” he mutters, trying to wrestle you for the sundae he bought you using the money he won from his scratch ticket just awhile ago. You don’t give in easily, even if your laughs that come straight from your chest suggest otherwise. “You don’t get it. It’s just this nice, fun little thing I can look forward to every week. I always buy the cheapest version anyway so when I lose, it’s not a big deal.”

You relent (like you always do when it comes to Yoongi) in understanding, waving him off after regaining your breath. “Nah. I get it. We all have to do things so we wouldn’t lose our shit,” you trail, racking your head to find the right words.“Yours is buying scratch tickets, and mine is-…”

“Yours is what?” Yoongi raises an eyebrow, lips quirked in eagerness to know where you’re going with this. He can’t pinpoint a single thing he can attach to you and neither can you, your actual interests merely reflecting those of the people whom you love.

You love cross-stitching because your mom loves doing it, the tolerance you have for accidentally being pricked by the needle growing over time.

You enjoy playing badminton because Namjoon’s obsessed with the sport, no matter how ratty your rackets and shuttlecocks have become, and no matter how much he pushes you to ring the doorbell to your neighbor’s when he’s sent it flying to their backyard.

You’re probably an imposter yet you don’t feel like it. You don’t feel bad that your life most probably and will only revolve around your mom and Namjoon (maybe even Yoongi); you don’t feel dissatisfied that your life’s mundane. 

You go where your love goes.

“Mine is watching you buy scratch tickets,” you shrug easily as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, making him laugh heartily. You’ve probably done something right because he hauls you up to your feet immediately.

“Get up. I’m buying you your first ticket,” he nudges you, grabbing you by the arm in excitement.

“But I’m not even legal!” you half-heartedly argue, internally excited that you’re finally getting to try your hand at the lottery because you’ve spent a few hundred minutes of your life tuned to the channel to pass the time, awaiting the results for something you haven’t even betted for.

“Right. Like I haven’t seen you trying to squeeze out a drop of beer from our empty cans whenever Namjoon and I drink.”

“Rude,” you roll your eyes playfully, gathering your things from the ground.

“It’s okay. I’ll give you your first sip of beer too if you want,” Yoongi offers sincerely; easily as if you’ve just asked him about the weather.

He’s here to buy you your first scratch ticket, and he’s still here to offer giving you your first sip of liquor in the future.

Your family friend for a cashier vehemently ignores the fact that you’re still underage to participate in the lottery, and instead only chuckles to herself in amusement. She’s an aunt that knows when to step in and not to, and she knows you won’t be harmed by a mere bet. In fact, she knows you won’t be harmed by anything with Yoongi in tow.

“I already used up all my change,” your frown in realization, holding the ticket in your hands in despair despite having scoured your wallet repeatedly.

“Rub it against the pavement. That’s what I do,” Yoongi lies fluidly, a scoff being caught in his throat when you actually attempt to do it.  “I was only kidding, Y/N. Jeez,” he groans, pulling out his wallet. “Ugh. Here. You can have one of my lucky coins.”

It’s the old one, tarnished beyond relief that you can barely recognize what it’s actual value is supposed to be.

“Ew. I’m giving it back. It looks prehistoric,” you narrow your eyes, knowing that you don’t even have to put your fingers nears your nose to know that it’s already left a faint stench on them.

Yoongi rolls his eyes, a habit he can’t tell he’s formed himself or got from you. “If you use your brain for one second, you’d realize that it’s actually worth more because it’s older. Collectors would go crazy for that in the future.”

“That sounds like a hoarding problem.”

He’s just had about enough of your whining so he attempts to trade in the old coin for his lucky new one, but you stop him at the last minute with a meek smile.

“Kidding. Thank you. I’ll keep it safe, Yoongi. I promise,” you rush out before he changes his mind, scratching your ticket in silence.

He waits for you because you’re scratching so politely and neatly, a stark opposite to his experienced skill of scratching the paint off in ten strokes or less.

Your face is too close to the ticket that Yoongi can’t tell what’s happening, making him part your hair like a curtain to peek.

“Did you win?”

“Nope.”

“Let me throw that out for you.”

“No!” you squeak, keeping the ticket close to your chest. It’s a bummer that your first time is a loss, but it didn’t mean that you wanted to forget the sentiment behind it. “I-I mean no, I’ll keep it. It’s memorable now that I think about it.”

“Alright,” he shrugs carelessly, a smile breaking out in retaliation. “Hoarder.”

“Gambler,” you spit, tucking the ticket into your pencil case. “Next week again?”

Yoongi agrees, wrapping his head around the fact that he doesn’t have to be alone in his little routine every Friday.

“Sure.”

( ♡ )

You don’t mind getting hand-me-downs.

As a matter of fact, you love receiving them. The wear and tear of the things that came before you is only proof that it’s been loved enough to be passed on to you.

You adore your mother’s dainty vintage watch that she wore throughout college, the hardware and sentiment behind it being pretty enough that you don’t mind constantly getting the battery replaced. You like Namjoon’s shirts that he’s outgrown, even through the numerous phases he’s had wherein only denim and tie-dye filled his closet.

You don’t mind the history behind the numerous things you have in your home, unbothered that you’re probably the only house in the block with the oldest possible rice cooker. The chips in the staircase aren’t covered up with marker ink and neither are the loose stitches in the couch quilt snipped off. It’s home to your mother and Namjoon — if it’s good enough for them, then it’s already the best for you.

Even on top of everything, you don’t mind your family almost always getting you shirts and shoes that have an allowance in them. Your mom would go to Seoul and pick out the exact pair of sneakers you wanted that are atleast three sizes bigger than your actual feet, and you’d barely bat an eye. 

You don’t mind the coziness of things that are brought to you, because even if they weren’t offered, you’d seek them yourself. 

So when Yoongi mentioned that he’s decluttering his room and needed someone (read: you) to vacuum it up for him, you jump at the chance. You take a grocery bag with you, wear the nearest pair of slippers within your vicinity, and book it to his house as soon as he finished talking.

“Go crazy, kid. Almost everything in that pile is garbage so you can take anything.”

“I feel like I should be more offended than how I feel right now,” you hum, furrowing your eyebrows at the pile in front of you. It’s a mound of Yoongi, or atleast everything he’s ever wanted up until he decided to do a general cleaning of his bedroom.

Yoongi chuckles, going through his pile of clean laundry for him to fold on the side while you scavenge for his things. “It’s either I have you take them or I get ripped off at the thrift store, then I see somebody’s uncle wearing my shirt as an added insult.”

You huff, rummaging through his heap of belongings while conveniently trying to ignore that you may look like somebody’s uncle the moment you wear his clothes. Everything is him; every distressed cap, every unfinished embroidered shirt, and every item of old significance with his initials branded on it.

The thick gray hoodie you’ve been eyeing (along with its owner) for the better part of the last few years surfaces into your field of vision, your gasp audible enough to make him jolt because he thought you’d gotten hurt.

“No way, this too? But this is your favorite,” you half-complain and half-rejoice, turning the hoodie inside-out eagerly in the fear that there’s a catch to it belonging in the pile.

“Eh. I know it looked good on me but I don’t think it’s my favorite. Besides, I’ve bulked up! Wanna feel?” Yoongi grins, his segue eerily similar to your brother’s at every given chance. A neighbor from down the block recently opened a small-time gym, and the both of them have not been able to shut their mouths about it since. From their gossiping alone, Yoongi and Namjoon have generated enough advertising already.

“You and Namjoon really have to stop asking random people to feel your biceps.”

There’s random knick-knacks throughout the clump in the middle of his bed, some being too good and actually useful that you snag them. Yoongi lets you do what you want anyways (most of the time), not having to turn his head to berate you on what you’re only allowed to grab from his stuff.

You’re not greedy — you already have his hoodie and that should be enough on its own. But there’s that handkerchief with his initials embroidered on it, then that Rubik’s cube he swore his relative got for him from New York, and even the little butterfly knife he got from a souvenir shop when his family when to the beach.

There were those and there is this, looking up at you in all of its glory.

“Yoongi.” 

“What now?” he sighs at your dramatic gasp, looking up from his folded laundry to see what you were going on about. It takes a second for him to fully realize why exactly were you so pumped.

“Are you serious? Your helmet?” you squeal, already hugging the shiny red mass close to you. “Does this mean you’re passing your motorcycle to me?!”

“Are you crazy? Fuck no,” Yoongi rolls his eyes, snatching his helmet back from you. He doesn’t miss the bratty frown that fills up your entire face; he’s not exactly the biggest fan whenever you were upset or angry; maybe even both. “Obviously I forgot I even put my helmet there when I made that pile.”

You whine, stomping your feet in exasperation. You would dramatically plop down on his bed if only it wasn’t full of his shit. “Come on! You told me you were teaching me as soon as you finish teaching Joon.”

“Teaching you how to ride my scooter is not the same as giving you it. Why would I just hand you what I bought with my hard-earned money?” Yoongi scrunches his nose, tone sharper than what he intended.

“But you still haven’t taught me,” you murmur to placate yourself and dissuade yourself from the delusion that Yoongi would even exert such an effort for you because of course — why would he do that for you?

You have an inkling that you’re being irrational for all the wrong reasons, perhaps even projecting your need to be looked after… by him.

Yoongi notices your mood that turned sour quickly, the silence between you becoming loaded. He didn’t mean to be that blunt. “I don’t think you’re even old enough to have your driving permit,” he adds in consolation, voice considerably softer.

You snicker lowly, still looking at your feet with your arms crossed. “But I’m old enough to backpack whenever you need me to carry shit that can’t fit in your carrier.”

He immediately groans at your comeback, his furrowed eyebrows mirroring yours. “You’re so stubborn.”

“You’re a hypocrite,” you retort, knowing for a fact he’s known how to drive even before he was eligible for permits and licenses and whatnot. 

Yoongi takes one, two seconds to himself to regain his composure, clearing his head in the process. You’re still not looking at him and you’re pouting and you don’t even notice the latter, making him crack a small smile.

“I will teach you next week.”

“Oh my-…”

He cuts you off, raising his hand in emphasis. “Provided that you listen to everything I say and wear full gear at all times. You clearly don’t have a job yet-…”

“Ouch.”

“And I don’t have the extra money to buy full gear for myself, so what you’ll do is bundle up with your padded coat and the thickest jeans you have,” Yoongi enunciates every word, eyes keenly on you. They’re too wide and alert, you actually feel like listening to him.

“You go on rides wearing your pajamas.”

“Just say ‘thank you, Yoongi’.” 

“You haven’t done anything yet,” you trail off, head tilting in confusion. 

You’ve had a million conversations like this with Yoongi before but of different fonts; worn, familiar, and warm.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” he mouths, nodding at you to do the same. He won’t stop until you utter them back to him, and you know you won’t go home either without giving him your gratitude as you always do.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” you relent, the grin that breaks through your lips being infectious enough that he laughs lowly to himself.

He exhales all the worries he has and could possibly ever have seeing you ride the motorcycle (or for you yearning to do everything that he does), grasping at whatever sanity he has left from looking after you.

“You can have the helmet.”

( ♡ )

Yoongi knows the ins and outs of your home.

He’s been at your house too much to the point that your mom already gave him a spare key and nobody batted an eye about it. He has his own designated slippers at the entryway too, something you would only use in a hurry if you needed to sign off on a package.

Yoongi, for some reason unfathomable (not really; you can tell exactly why because your mom is an extremely warm and inviting person), also has the power of dibs on the food in your fridge. He’d put strips of masking tape with his name on food that’s neither brought in nor made for him in the first place. 

It should be off-putting — the way that for too many yet too little reason, Yoongi has become a prominent figure in your life even if you didn’t ask him to. You should be peeved that you have to set up four plates more often that you set up only three; you should be annoyed at some point that when you wake up at random times through the night, you’re not totally alone to begin with.

You shouldbe angry at Yoongi to a degree because he’s in your life and you don’t get to have a say on how he stays in it. The only problem is that you’re not, and probably never will.

“Can’t sleep?” you mutter as you look up from your strikingly clear paper, seeing Yoongi strut across the floor with a casualness that only real occupants of the house should supposedly possess. He has his brows furrowed at you as if he didn’t expect to see you in your living room, scratching his head in wonder.

“Why are you up?”

“Stressed,” you sigh, giving up altogether in attempting to make yourself look busy. Yoongi drives by your fridge to get himself a can of beer, finally seating himself beside you on the floor. 

“Stressed about what? I’m sure it’s not about studying,” he snorts, unsurprised at your paper and the clear lack of motivation behind it. You only roll your eyes at him and he has half a mind to not remind you to not do it so much, the frown in your face reminding him that you really were frustrated.

It is you to throw the occasional tantrum, but he remembers that it was only when you were young; when Namjoon would whisper gibberish to his ear and purposely not whisper to yours just so he could tease you, or when nobody would believe that you taught yourself how to ride a bike with no training wheels. You didn’t know how to do the latter at all, but what had made you throw a tantrum was that nobody believed you.

You notice Yoongi’s digs, of course. You notice each one of his more than unsubtle nods to your intelligence and whatnot, the shots at your intellect not flying over your head like he expected them to.  You admit that you’ve never been that scholastic; you weren’t born a genius and you don’t try exactly hard either.

Yoongi’s only joking but you can’t help but to think that he’s pertaining to something deeper, his constant digs at your lack of a passion making you sluggish.

“We have to write this essay,” you answer simply, your tone straightforward and unwilling for banter but Yoongi bites anyway.

“But essays are the easiest,” he trails, looking at you the whole time as he takes a sip of his beer.

You exhale heavily because no matter what, he just can’t seem to get it. Yoongi knows where you’re coming from but he doesn’t know where you’re headed. As a matter of fact, you don’t know where you’re headed either. “We have to write an essay about where we see ourselves ten years from now.”

“But that’s still easy.”

“If it’s so easy, then go write it for me,” you snicker, leaning back with a huff. He constantly undermines you and although you own up to your striking mundaneness from time to time, it didn’t mean that you liked being looked down on. Yoongi’s too used to you being yourself, he gets taken aback when you grow sick of your own.

He gathers all his willpower, far from being sleepy unlike you who would’ve been lulled to sleep if only you weren’t dead-set on arguing with him. “You know what? I actually will,” he claps, handing you his beer. “Go hold this for me.”

Yoongi grips your pen for dear life like you hold his beer, his hand warm as he works from sheer determination alone (he’s not competing with anyone except for whatever expectation you have for him and your paper), while yours was cold just holding his drink.

You’ve been so quiet that he actually gets curious, turning his head to check to see if you’ve dozed off when actually, it’s just you eyeing the can.

“No one’s watching,” Yoongi breaks you out of your thoughts, carelessly shrugging. He cares and he’s far too concerned for you, but he figures that nothing would hurt you so long as he can grasp you. “It’s okay. You can have your first sip.”

You blink owlishly at him and when he jokes about taking it back, you take your first swig of beer in a panic. Yoongi only shakes his head in amusement, pausing his writing just to see the look on your face.

“One more?” he asks right after he sees you wince, the unbearable sweetness yet bitter, stinging aftertaste of the beer making you shudder. 

You have the urge to wash off the taste with ice cold water (you’ll even drink from the tap because you’re so desperate), but you resist it just so you wouldn’t look like a weakling in front of him. You wave him off with a bitterness, upset that beer doesn’t taste like what you’ve always imagined it to be. “Just write my essay for me,” you mull over the taste in your tongue, in deep thought while you stare at Yoongi’s back ahead of you. “Do all beers taste that way?”

“Eh. Most of them do. You develop a taste for it later on,” he answers, taking the can back from you before drinking it himself. He looks too dedicated in writing your essay, only goading the curiosity in you to peek over his shoulder.

He knows you, both in heart and memory, because he shields your own paper from you when he sees your shadow hovering above him.

“Yoongi?”

“Hm.”

“I told you why I’m up. Why are you up?”

He’s silent entirely, the only indication that he heard your question being his hand pausing abruptly. Yoongi doesn’t answer, and you don’t ask again. “Don’t worry about it.”

You take his answer to heart, dozing off on the couch before you know it. You don’t remember a blanket being placed on you, nor can you remember preparing your backpack for school the next day.

Your paper’s neatly tucked into your portfolio bearing handwriting that’s clearly not yours, but with a sentiment that’s similar nonetheless. You read through everything quickly before even stepping towards your teacher, the tips of your fingers just as cold as Yoongi’s beer last night.

You’ve committed the paper into your memory, even until the last part with an excerpt you can’t forget despite having passed the paper already. You don’t know what to feel because it’s Yoongi who’s speaking for you, detailing that ten years from now, you will still be your mother’s daughter and your brother’s sister.

He wrote your essay either for you or in behalf of you, and you can’t tell which one is better.

Yoongi, who knows the ins and outs of your home and the peaks and troughs of your heart, writes in clear handwriting — Ten years from now, I will still be Yoongi’s rock.

( ♡ )

Surprisingly, Yoongi hasn’t been around that much lately.

Even Namjoon (who you consider as his Siamese twin) is clueless to why his friend hasn’t been hanging out with him lately to do either everything or nothing, confused because they’re enrolled to the same classes all the way to the same part-time jobs, yet Yoongi’s been mostly unavailable.

When Yoongi is, however, he doesn’t speak at all about his previous absences. He comes as if he’s never disappeared a few times before that, his evasion to talk about his presence being apparent even if you’ve asked him directly.

You’re getting used to his new routine of hanging out with you only when the both of you are free, no longer moving mountains for both of your schedules to line up. He’s more present this month than he was at the last, the criteria for it being how many times you bump into him in your own home.

Despite all odds and evens though, Yoongi can’t get used to your silence. He knows you hold grudges longer than your brother, and the last time that he checked, he knows you’ve already let go of your annoyance for him suddenly being unavailable without any explanation. 

It’s late, only the two of you are awake in the living room, there’s ten scratch tickets on the table for you to share, and he’s even gotten you your own glass to which he’ll put a controlled amount (a grand total of two long sips) of his own beer in. You’re not stressing about an essay this time, but the unconscious pout on your face is still the same.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

The frown on your face only goes deeper at being found out, the scratch of your lucky coin being the only clear thing that Yoongi hears. 

“My best friends want to have this slumber party,” you sigh, more upset about what you’ve just uttered than you are happy about the cash prize you’ve just won.

Yoongi takes what you say at face-value, groaning at his third straight loss for the night. “That’s great. Wear cute pajamas, snap a couple of polaroids, don’t be the first to fall asleep and last to wake up, and just keep a pocket knife with you when you’re going out by yourself.” 

The awe (and slight concern) over what he said should roll in any time now.

You should be comforted at Yoongi’s words because they’re supposed to ease the swirl of your stomach, even if what he just said is a repackaged version of what your family said before. You should let go of your worries because Yoongi, of all people, says that it’s supposed to be great.

Instead, you feel neither of what you think Yoongi wants you to.

“Was it something I said?” he mumbles after some time, turning his nose up at you as he tries to retrace his words. “I have an extra pocket knife you can borrow if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“We’re gonna be talking about boys, Yoongi,” you screw your eyes shut, sighing into the palms of your hands with a heaviness. “We’re gonna talk about crushes and experiences and all that.”

He shudders at that, his reaction mirroring Namjoon’s when you tried opening up to him. You get your brother’s reaction to a degree, of course, because you feel as if you’d be disgusted too if the roles were reversed. You want to talk about it with your mom too, but at the end of the day, she’s your parent and you just can’t talk about anything and everything with her. 

Yoongi’s your next plausible option.

“Do you want some ice cream right now? You know what, I’ll buy you-…” Yoongi tries to evade the topic altogether, his attempt of escaping feeble as you drag him down by his hoodie.

“I haven’t had my first kiss yet.”

“Heh.”

Yoongi shrugs at that, regaining his words when you deadpan at him. “So? What about it?”

You starfish on the floor at that out of frustration, the whine you’ve been bottling up coming out in the open because as usual, Yoongi doesn’t get it. “I-I’m probably the only one in my grade who hasn’t kissed someone yet! I can’t just lie carelessly because obviously, they’ll ask around.”

“So?” Yoongi chuckles, his breeze towards your state shocking you. “What’s it to them if you haven’t had your first kiss?”

“You don’t get it,” you grit through your teeth, crossing your arms so hard that it feels hard to inhale.

“I’m pretty sure I do,” he sing-songs, drinking the last of his beer. When you’re not looking though, he plans to either drink or chuck the remainder of your share because he doesn’t want you to develop a taste for it.

The anger you have for Yoongi bubbles up once again, the itch in your throat unbearable. You’re presented with the age gap between you once more, along with the raging emptiness in you that Yoongi’s reached so far and you’ve reached so little.

“You don’t get it because you’ve had all of these experiences when you were younger than my age right now,” you snap, although you don’t look at him when you do. If you do look at him though, you’ll only be reminded of how a face like his could have everything in this world — even a first kiss you’ve never had.

“Yeah, and so?” he knits his brows, growing defensive. You weren’t lying at all, but he still feels a little offended at the dig. He’s not not proud of it, but with the way you say it, it’s like you want him to burn in shame,

“Stop saying so,” you angrily mumble in frustration, a little breathless because you still don’t ease up on crossing your arms.

Yoongi straightens his posture, staring you down with his jaw set. He’s stern as he is, nostrils flaring in irritation. “No, Y/N. I’m genuinely asking — so what? What’s it to you if I had my first kiss at a younger age? What about it if everyone else in your grade has kissed someone and you haven’t? It’s not the end of the world.”

“I-I don’t know! It’s just unfair!” you let up, yielding to both the facts that Yoongi’s right with it not being the end of the world, and that you’re still entitled to feeling upset.

“Instead of spending time obsessing over your first kiss, maybe I don’t know,  try being productive? You’re heading to college soon and you haven’t even thought of a career,” Yoongi goes off on you, making you roll your eyes automatically. There he goes again with the great big push of trying to push you into your supposed passions in life. “Someone else’s luck doesn’t mean it’s already your misfortune.”

“But it is.”

You say it so definitively, you almost convince him. You have your principles and so does Yoongi, but not everyone else. You have your principles yet you don’t have the luck. You’re not getting anywhere in life just like Yoongi or anyone else who was remotely born into wealth, no matter how quiet or obvious.

You can’t pursue something that interests you in the slightest without thinking what would come out of it. You can’t think of a degree and a course you’ll stick with, enough to do for the rest of your life because the only other option is to fail completely if you don’t. You have no plan and no passion and you don’t know if you’ll ever amount to anything to anyone at all.

By all means, you don’t agree with Yoongi this time. Someone else’s luck is your misfortune, in the same way that his first kiss doesn’t mean that it’s yours.

The sidetrack to your argument is a closed case already, judging by your downcast gaze. “I just have to put myself out there, that’s all. My first kiss doesn’t even have to mean anything. I just want to have it,” you admit, shoulders relaxing.

“Don’t,” Yoongi groans, the opposite of you as his whole body tenses.

He thinks that you don’t get him at all.

“What do you meandon’t?”

Your argument’s long-over (atleast you thought it was) but Yoongi’s getting more agitated by the minute, the disbelief on his face throwing you off. “Don’t do things just because you feel like you have to! Are you even hearing yourself right now?”

“I don’t want to be left behind, Yoongi! That’s all I’m trying to get at,” you raise your hands in surrender, shrugging thoughtlessly — it makes him want yell into a paper bag in exasperation. “I don’t want to be picked last. I don’t want to not be wanted.”

Yoongi exhales, screwing his eyes shut. It stays silent like that for a little while; him calming himself down, and you scratching your tickets. The calm doesn’t stay for long because you open your mouth carelessly, again.

“Can you be my first kiss?”

“Are you insane?”

“Ugh.”

You go back to your fourth scratch ticket, pouting in disappointment. You’re unfazed about the win that’s probably the largest sum you’ve had ever since you started doing the lottery.

You’re upset and you’re sick in the stomach but you stay silent like you never asked Yoongi to be your first kiss; it’s like you haven’t indirectly admitted to him that you love him enough, more than so, to want him to be your first.

You’re about to scratch the final ticket when Yoongi juts his hand out, fingers barely brushing yours to stop you.

“On second thought, don’t scratch that. Just keep it.”

“Because you want to turn me into a hoarder too?” you snicker, heeding his suggestion regardless.

“Because I’m not going to be right about everything,” Yoongi mumbles, looking at you with a solemnness you can’t decipher.

You try until the solemnness turns into pity.

“Still don’t want to be my first kiss?”

Yoongi softly laughs to your face, smiling as he lets you down — whether easily or harshly, you can’t tell.

“You already know what I’m going to say.”

( ♡ )

You’d like to think that you’re not kept in the dark about most things.

You already know that although your mom hasn’t had any relationships since your dad left, she still has plenty of suitors. Some of them are the reason why you have random food deliveries in the middle of the dinner that she’s already cooked, some have sucked up to her by getting you and Namjoon gifts. 

You know about Namjoon’s growing love for football, even with the lessons he takes in secret because he didn’t want to trouble your mom for the money. It’s why he does his part-time job and why you’re looking for one anyways. You don’t want nor need much, so you almost always give him the remainder of your allowance by the end of each week.

Yoongi, on the other hand, you don’t know much about. You know that he’s an only child with a doting mom who works overseas and a rich but emotionally unavailable dad at home, and that’s about it. His home life is synonymous with yours, considering that your four walls have become an extension of his.

Maybe you’ve become too lenient on him — either that, or he’s become too disrespectful. It’s at times like these where your house is not his home, sickeningly so that you don’t want it to be yours either.

Yoongi is a sight to behold as he makes out with a half-naked girl on your bed, in your room. Your room has never been the neatest but with everything going on, it feels that it’s become the dirtiest that it’s ever been. Your house slippers are on the floor even if you always leave them by the entryway, and your sheets are a mess despite being one of the only things you try to keep folded in the room.

You’re angry, too much to the point that the words get caught in your throat. They catch onto bile and venom and everything at once, the strain in your voice heard when you yell.

“What the fuck?!”

Yoongi and the girl, whom you figure out to be Hyewon that he’s shared his first kiss with, jolt in unison. Hyewon’s scared shitless while Yoongi’s annoyed to death, the grunt he lets out pricking your ears further. “Sorry, sorry. She’s my best friend’s sister. She’s so annoying,” he drags you out of your room before he even gives you the entitlement to storm out of there in a fit of rage, seeing red the longer that he seems upset at you.

“What the fuck was that, Yoongi?” you grit through your teeth, the moment of you seeing red turn into white because you’re so frustrated that you could actually cry. Your chest’s heavy, not only out of rage, but out of everything that’s built up in the course of years.

“Can you keep it down?” Yoongi seethes, pursing his lips. “What, would you rather see us do it in the living room?”

“In the — what? Who do you think you are? This isn’t even your house, why are you bringing these girls here?” you point an accusing finger at him yet he doesn’t back away, his annoyance for you only growing tenfold.

He’s in the wrong no matter which way you look at it yet he doesn’t realize it, the epiphany that Yoongi genuinely thinks he’s in the right for doing this to you making your skin burn in fire.

“This is literally the first time I’ve ever done this! I can’t bring her back to my place, my dad has guests over!”

“So your smartest idea is to fuck someone in my bed?”

“Oh, you’re welcome. It’s the most action your four walls have ever seen,” he spits sarcastically, eyes narrowing at you. It takes little effort for him to dig up what you came to him for in worry and it terrifies you. The facet of Yoongi who had sternly told you that it was okay to be left behind if it means getting what you deserve, resembling nothing like him at the moment.

“I can’t believe you!” you whisper as you tremble, the tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. “I told you that in confidence.”

“In confidence? It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you’re not exactly a catch, Y/N.”

You clench your jaw so hard that it hurts, you ball your fists so tightly that it stings.

You leave your home without saying another word.

.

.

.

Namjoon’s panicked.

He came home a little later than usual because he had maximized the life out of his soccer lessons, only getting the signal to leave when the lights were turned off. He was only slightly worried at the first place because he was supposed to cook dinner for the both of you, but he placated himself by realizing that you’re not the baby that he still thinks you are — you could cook dinner for yourself if you were hungry already.

He thinks nothing of it. In fact, he just makes a quick stop at the convenience store so the both of you could indulge in a liter of ice cream without your mom urging to leave some for another night. You could think of a recipe from scratch (and it almost always works out at the end), so Namjoon walked in fully thinking he’ll get to sniff whatever concoction you have.

Except, he walks into a completely dark house, and that’s when he panics.

He can’t find your slippers by the entryway and you’re not in your room either. You’re not at the other convenience store hunched over taking your chances on scratch tickets, and you’re not out on the street either going people-watching.

The panic rises in him the more that Namjoon grasps this is the first time that this has ever happened and he doesn’t know why. He’s always made an effort to be absorbed into both your personal and academic affairs, and as far as he knows, you’re neither in a sleepover nor on a field trip somewhere.

Namjoon thinks it’s his fault someway somehow, and the guilt can’t fully dissipate from him until he sees you.

“Hey, Yoongi,” he breathlessly gasps the moment his friend answers, the latter being surprised because he thought it was you who was calling him after what happened awhile ago.

It’s his fault and he’s realized that hours too late, and the selfish part of him thinks that it’s you calling at ten in the evening begging for forgiveness.

“What’s up, man? It’s late,” he wonders out loud, thinking for a second if they were too much of the Siamese twins that you tease them to be because he can’t think of a rational reason why Namjoon would call him at this time of night.

Namjoon raggedly exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’m just wondering if you’ve seen Y/N by any chance?”

Yoongi’s heart drops so loudly that Namjoon thought for second that his friend had hung up on him, his urgency being shared the moment that he asked.

“What? Y/N isn’t home?” Yoongi asks in disbelief, immediately being filled with anxiety and disbelief. Just awhile ago, the two of you were arguing outside of your room. He did hear you leave, but he had fully expected for you to be back hours ago. He’s wracked with guilt all over, the drop in his chest amplified by the pit in his stomach.

“She’s not. Practice ran late and I-I know she’s responsible so I didn’t hurry home,” Namjoon recalls, being more and more frazzled by the second. “She left her phone here, and mom isn’t here either because she’s visiting my grandparents, a-and I don’t want to call her because I know she’ll be worried, a-and-…”

Yoongi interrupts him, the tremble in his fingers only enabling him to dig his nails into his palm deeper. “I’m coming over. Let’s look for her together.”

It barely takes a minute for the both of them to come together, not even exchanging any pleasantries with each other before Yoongi steps on the gas. 

Namjoon’s filled with guilt, the type that only a sibling could carry as a burden. He thinks he was too selfish — too accustomed to pulling your own weight that it must have given you the impression that you had no other choice but to. Whatever it was that made you leave out of the blue, Namjoon thinks he could’ve done more. He should’ve came home and made you dinner as promised, for starters. He’s guilty over the fact that he’s the only close familial male figure in your life and he let this happen, as he makes Yoongi put his headlights on high-beam, scanning for anyone that looks remotely like you.

Yoongi, on the other hand, is filled with a guilt he can’t even begin to explain. It corrodes him from the inside-out in realization that he’s to blame for your sudden disappearance, the fact that Namjoon comes to him first to help find you not helping at all. If only your brother knew what he had done to you, he’s positive that he’ll be on the receiving end of a punch — what gets him more is that Yoongi wouldn’t blame him at all.

They see you in the bus stop two cities away, dressed in the same clothes you ran out with. 

Namjoon’s relieved beyond compare while Yoongi’s fuming, his hands tucked inside his jacket to prevent himself from squeezing you into an embrace; neither of you deserve it. 

There’s an underlying anger within Namjoon, one that lies behind the back of his throat as he checks you over for any injuries. The two of you walk ahead to Yoongi’s car while he himself trails behind, his heart significantly calmer than it was the past hour, yet nowhere near normal.

“Wanna tell me what you did?” your brother hums, trying to exhale the worry that’s embedded into him with each squeeze he gives around your shoulders.

“Went to the convenience store, bumped into my friends, then we took this impromptu roadtrip to go to the night market, then we all had our first actual shot of liquor and not just beer, my friend who owns the car turned out to be a lightweight, and now everyone just has to commute home,” you narrate in recollection, squeezing Namjoon back to try and ground him.

“Okay,” he answers simply, nodding. “Wanna tell me what happened before you did all those things?”

The breathless chuckle that leaves you is empty, void of any amusement at all. You smile nonetheless, unable to placate both yourself and Namjoon. “Nope.”

You arrive in silence to Yoongi’s car, the words unsaid between the three of you generating more tension than your brief disappearance itself.

Yoongi opens the front door for you, but you settle for sitting in the backseat.

[myouicieloz]

Love me back

Yoo Jimin x university student!reader

Synopsis: she wants to let go. you need her to let go. none of you can.

Warnings: nsfw. smut. biting. angsty I guess.

Word count: 2.5k

Notes: my darlings <3

Karina didn’t turn to look when you sat beside her in the park. She knew who it was. She called you herself, not many minutes ago.

Hey

Ik we’re fighting, but could you come, please?

An address. Another message, too, after a few minutes. Almost as if she were wary of sending it.

It’s cold.

You stared at your phone as the bubble kept going on and off in your conversation, until it stopped. Finally, she’d decided. About that, at least.

And I miss you

Needless to say, you went to meet her. You’d never deny her anything, no matter how much you wanted to. No matter how much she deserved so.

You found her sitting on a wooden bench, staring at the lake with a red nose and cold hands. You could tell she was freezing, even with the thick jacket she wore, yet you didn’t move to take yours off and offer it to her. No, you two were long past this.

“I’ve had a stressful week.” She sighed, hiding her face in her hands. Like the usual, she didn’t directly acknowledge you, and you knew why. You’ve been doing this long enough to know that this was all you meant to her: an escape.

A distraction, if you were lucky enough.

“You always do.” Your words were as apathetic as your face, serious as you shove your hands into your pockets, trying to suppress a shiver yourself. It was freezing cold indeed, so whatever it was that had Karina pissed must’ve been something serious, to have her out of the dorms so late at night.

You were curious, although not curious enough to give in just yet. After moments of waiting for her to say something, anything, you rolled your eyes, sitting beside her on the wooden bench. She closed hers, depriving herself of the grand view of the river, and rested her head on the crook of your neck. You allowed her to do so, naturally.

There’s very little you’d not let her do to you.

“Aren’t you tired of this?”

“No.” Her answer is immediate, steam coming from the heavy breath she’d let out. “I could never get tired of you.”

Perhaps she was truthful in her words. You loved her, and you knew she loved you too, in her own way. It would never work out: with her being an idol, famous and successful, and you being just a university student. You were aware of that, and it was the reason you promised yourself to not answer her calls, whenever she reached out for you; you’d only get hurt, in the end — the right thing to do would be to end it, to protect yourself and your feelings.

However, as much as she did mean the empty promises she gave you, Karina knew just what to say to lure you in. Not just your body, the idol knew your soul too well. Her words were, most of the time, carefully calculated to break out your boundaries and get you to do whatever it was that she wanted you to. Even though you knew her tricks, you couldn’t help but to fall into her web every time.

She sighed, shrinking as she hummed against your neck, sniffing your perfume. Still the one she’d given you on your birthday, she was pleased to note. “Can I go to your house?”

Her voice was just as small and quiet as she made herself be, hugging her knees under the moonlight. Even in all her confidence, she was still a bit wary; afraid this would be the day you finally realized she was too damaging to you. She’s deeply afraid you’d leave her. She loves you — it’s complicated, but oh, how she does. She can’t fathom losing you.

“Not to talk, I assume.” Your tone, usually playful, was still serious. Karina moved her head from you, urging to be able to look in your face. Your beautiful face, kind and sweet and made to love her, staring at her with a blank expression — much different from the look of love you had before.

But that was ages ago, when you were both naive and pure, not at all ruined by the idol world. After all, generally, love is not enough.

The older girl shook her head, carefully observing your actions. “No, not to talk.”

You sighed. Unfortunately, you couldn’t help it: Karina was a siren, the holy sounds of her moans luring you in until you found yourself so deep in the water there was no other option but to drown.

You were, indeed, so exhausted of this cycle. One of her calling you solemnly when she wanted to rant or fuck until she was spaced out enough to forget her problems away for a few hours. She didn’t show any interest in your likings, your hobbies, or your friends. It was crystal clear that you were nothing but a stress relief to her.

Still, you were weak. Unfortunately, you loved Karina wholeheartedly, and you were eager to get whatever she wanted to give to you, no matter how much your logic was against it. How could you not? The sex was too good.

Aware of that, you got up, still refusing to display any emotions once you started walking, knowing she’d follow.

-

There is no warmth in your kiss. You bumped into the sofa, hurrying to the bedroom without separating your mouth from Karina’s. Her clothes were nearly ripped off her body, her sharp fingers doing the same with yours. It’s been too long since you had touched her pale, soft skin — you feel such lust for her in your heart, you nearly suffocate. Your desire for her body —for the little she gives you, it all drives you insane. It isn’t healthy, being on her will 24/7 and bending to all her wishes, but again, you can’t help it. She’s lured you in.

You positioned yourself between her legs, moving her long, raven hair from her face so you’d be able to stare at her properly. She looked flawless, impeccable, and waiting for you to take whatever you wanted to. It was just how she was: you could take and take, yet she’d never give you what you truly wanted.

Pretty girl with a pretty mind and a rotten soul, every sacred inch of her curves sculptured to leave you damned. To hurt you.

You sighed, biting her lips, then her skin. You loved to see your artwork on her— almost like a small victory. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to hurt.” She breathed deeply, hot moans coming from her mouth as you placed slow, wet kisses on her neck. “I deserve it.”

Kissing the space between her chest, you, murmur. “I’ve dreamed about being able to do so many times. Unfortunately, I can’t. I fucking can’t.”

She ignored your words, pulling you in for another messy kiss.

Karina always promised herself she’d stop reaching out to you. She knew you’d always give her attention, and part of her truly wished she could stop hurting you. She had never intended to. But she was also weak, and she needed you too much. How could she let go of you, when you were the only person who knew the real her? You’re the keeper of her dreams, her insecurities, her deep, darkest fears.

“You should.” Her voice had no trace of humor, as she traced her sharp nails through your jaw, forcing your mouth open. You knew her well enough to recognize the silent mocking, silently glad for your lack of self-respect.

For the sake of peace, you chose to ignore her words. Getting up, you delighted yourself with the way her eyes ravished your body, not at all in a rush while you got the strap she’s used to. She gulped, her mouth watering at the sight presented to her: how beautiful you were, all hers. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t true: you’d always go back to her, in the late hours of the night. She’d just have to call, and you’d drop everything and go.

As it should be.

Back in bed, you spat, spreading your saliva over the plastic toy. Karina had already knelt, salivating in front of you. Your hands grabbed a hold of her hair, shoving her face onto it rather harshly. “Take it.”

And oh, she did. Karina was eager, sucking and mixing your saliva with hers as she took it all in, the silicone gagging her throat and your grip not getting any weaker, forcing her to allow her mouth be fucked even when she started to get dizzy, dark dots appearing in her vision due to the lack of breathing. Only then, you let her go, watching her recompose herself.

“Very good. How much do you want it?” You teased, tone still serious, groping her thin waist until your fingerprints could be seen, reddening her impeccable porcelain skin. Her pretty ass was begging to be bruised, slapped all over, so you did as such.

Karina’s response came from her body, before she could even forge the words to answer you. Her back arched, and lewd, loud moans immediately left her mouth.

“Too m-much.” She gasped, whining once the strap met her entrance, not entering her properly. “Y/n… give me it all, p-please.” Karina pushed her hips back, trying to get you to be quicker.

Ever so impatient, as always. Never in the mood to play your games; they were of no interest to her.

Still, you did not give in, brushing her wet cunt as you pleased, giving her just the tip before pulling it out once again. You felt how hot and desperate she was, which made you hum in pleasure, too. At least she was suffering, in a way.

“Please, my Y/n. I’ll do everything, I promise.” She begged, little tears prickling from her eyes. “Everything you want, I swear. I’ll give you anything. A new laptop, jewels, a car, just say it but please, p-please…” Her pleads got even louder, self-control wearing thin.

It hurt— no, it maddened you to know she thought she could buy you with superficial things. You’ve never asked for any of those, not even when you were (unofficially) together. You’ve never wanted anything but her love. She’d never understand that.

It made you crazy, upset and so damn pissed off that she couldn’t see so.

Huffing, you pushed her down on the bed, entering her whole with your cock’s full length without giving her any time to adjust. It was rough, without a care— just how Karina liked the most.

Your roommates were away for the weekend, thankfully. Karina has always been a vocal mess, specially in bed, but it was obvious her current routine was taking a toll on her; her moans were sinful, the incoherent mumbles she let out making them close to screams, and she was so responsive. Her entire body twitched whenever you’d place your mouth on her skin.

Sucking her lips, then her neck, and oh, she nearly came in the spot when you started biting. Bruising her arms, her abdomen, her waist— your favorite place to mark her. She’d wear your hickeys proudly, smiling and mumbling about how clumsy she had been during rehearsals whenever somebody asked her about it, brushing off their concern.

It was all too much: your bite marks, mouth so hot on top of her, making sure no place was left unattended, paired with your thrusts, hard and fast, her grasps being how much she could breathe in between. Filling her up, adoring her so much.

She loved this.

“Y-you’re the best, my Y/n.” She let out, her body bumping against the mattress. Being loved by you was her favorite thing, she recalled. How could she have ever forgotten about it?

You bit your lip to keep yourself from saying something you’d regret.

“I hate you, for being so pretty.” You told Karina, pinching and twisting her nipples as you thrusted into her, hard and fast. She rolled her eyes, clearly too lost in her pleasure to give your thoughts any attention. You turned her around, eager to be presented with her pretty ass, wiggling with the thrusting motions. You gave it a single slap, a loud whine being followed from the older girl. “I hate you for not loving me back.” You held her by the hips, angling higher so you could reach her g-spot. “And I hate myself for loving you so much.”

Your words, even though they didn’t make much sense in Karina’s current fucked out mind, along with your movements and stimulations, were more than enough to have her reach her high. Letting out a high-pitched cry, Karina came, holding your arms tightly in attempts to not fall apart. You let her do so, assuring she went back to her senses before you could let your body fall beside her, the strap that hung on your hips latched on the ground.

“Will you ever give me anything more than that? More than hiding and being nothing more than a late night fuck?” You asked, straight to the point.

A year ago, you wouldn’t have had the guts to ask such a question. You lacked confidence, and you feared she’d disappear if you such as mentioned whatever it was that you two had.

Not anymore, though. Even more than insecure, you were tired; you couldn’t endure your situation anymore. A few days before her call, you’d made peace with the thought of not having her to yourself anymore. It would be harsh, but it was the best for you. You deserved better.

Even if you would never love anyone more than you loved her.

Karina stayed silent, looking down onto the covers. It’s enough answer for you. Sighing, you got up, handing her clothes and gesturing to the door.

“Then go elsewhere to get whatever you want, next time. Let me be free, Karina, please.” You hated yourself for sounding so miserable, the crack in your tone serving as clear evidence of how hurt you were. You loved her so much, but you couldn’t do this any longer. You needed more.

And Karina, even with all the confidence, money, and influence she had, could never give you such a thing.

She took the cue, doing as told. Her eyes— her big, dark, sad eyes stared at you quietly, and she opened her mouth to say something. After minutes of waiting, though, she doesn’t. Still silent, Karina left, launching you a last sad, pitiful look.

She was a mess; a beautiful, doomed angel, trapped in an industry that saw her as nothing less than a product, made to make money out of, until she was worn out. She struggled, naturally. It was a cruel place, one where people cared very little about her well-being and her actually feelings.

However, Karina was not yours to worry about anymore. Never was, for a fact.

[stevie-petey]

episode five: dig dug

“You like Y/N?” Dustin asks at the same time as you ask, “You like me?” Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, barely. She’s on thin ice. But you, little Henderson? You just stole the flowers meant for my girlfriend, so backseat you go.” “Yes!” You cheer, pumping your fist in the air as you flash Steve a smile. “Thanks, Harrington.” He rounds the front of his car and opens the driver's side door. “Yeah, don’t get used to it. Like I said, you’re still on thin ice.”

Summary: you and dustin bury a body and con your mother into fleeing town, great sibling bonding time ! you play hockey with a monster, dustin gets ghosted by his friends, and now it's your turn to kidnap steve (technically dustin does, but you don't stop him) who later gives you some terrifying realizations.

Rating: general, swearing and slight violence

Warnings: blood, use of y/n, fem!reader, animal cruelty technically, weapons, cursing

Words: 7.5k

Before you swing in: hello ! late chapter update, but here ya go lovelies !! lots has happened recently, i got a sick ass job and im super excited and :))) so updates will definitely slow down again some more, but i promise i will update whenever possible. for now, please enjoy !

–

“Remember how angry I was at you about hiding El from me last year?”

“Yeah?”

“Visualize the anger, multiply it by ten, and then take three steps back from me.”

Dustin trips over his feet to scramble away from you.

You’re currently in your own room, the door locked, with Dustin standing several feet away now as he heeds your warning. Never in your life have you felt such rage before, such blinding fury, and you thought you knew what anger was when your dad left.

But this? This is a new type of anger, one you know that only the older sister to Dustin Henderson could ever feel.

As soon as Dart had lifted its head up at you and screeched, you’d immediately snatched your brother’s hand into yours and ran out the door, door slamming behind you. Now, you’re hiding out in your room with no fucking clue what to do.

“You killed our cat.”

“Technically Dart did.” You glare at Dustin. You had actually liked Mews, she was the sweetest cat in the world and a gift for your fifth birthday. Your brother, sensing he’s only digging a deeper hole for himself, coughs. “I mean… Yeah. I killed our cat.”

Stepping back, you find your desk chair against your legs and fall into the seat. Exhaustion sweeps over you. There’s no time to grieve the loss of your cat. Not when there’s a baby demogorgon in Dustin’s room eating said cat’s corpse still. “What do we even do in this situation?”

“Not tell mom?” Again, you glare at Dustin and he squeaks in fear. “Well I mean, that’s all I can think of right now!”

A headache forms. “I should’ve gone with Jonathan and Nancy.”

Dustin thinks for a moment. “Where did they go, anyways?”

“No. You don’t get to ask any questions right now.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You sigh, a vague idea forming in your mind. “Okay, first we need get Mews out of the room. She was mom’s favorite child, we can’t just leave her in there to be diminished to bones.”

Dustin nods. “Obviously. We can do that… right?”

“We have to. Once she’s out of there, we just… leave Dart in there. At least for now. It’s already late in the afternoon and we need so much help from the party.”

“We can’t tell the party–”

“You’re right. We can’t,” Dustin sighs with relief, but you give him an evil smile. “But you can tell the party. You’ll radio everyone tomorrow, clean the house, and make a plan from there.”

Dustin tries to argue, but you hold a hand up. “You brought a baby demogorgon into our house. You lost every arguing privilege there is to lose.”

He groans, knowing you’re right. Next time, he’ll be better at hiding things from you because you’re a total buzzkill whenever you inevitably find out.

Together, the two of you hatch a plan. You’ll walk into Dustin’s room first, knives out and ready just in case, and Dustin will follow once the coast is clear. Then, he’ll lure Dart away from Mews’ body with chocolate (you don’t want to ask why), and once he’s gone you’ll snatch your cat’s body and flee the room immediately afterwards.

It’s a good plan.

That is, if it works.

“Ready?” You’re standing in front of Dustin’s door, your knives flicked open in your hand, ready for possible war with a foot long little demon.

Your brother pats your shoulder. “Don’t die, sis.”

“I’m holding knives as we speak. Touch me again and die.”

“I hope Dart eats your face.”

You smile. “There’s my brother. Okay, as soon as I’m inside the room, close the door. Then, when I knock three times, open it again and enter.”

“Wait for two knocks–”

“Three.”

“Three knocks. Right.”

You steady your breathing. Around the corner, you can hear your mom humming to herself as she makes dinner. She has no clue what’s going on, and you envy her for it. Your hand on Dustin’s door knob twists slowly, then, before you can psych yourself out, you turn the knob and throw yourself inside.

Quickly the door slams behind you, so at least Dustin did something right.

Your eyes, which had previously been squeezed shut, open slowly. When you don’t see any sign of Dart, you exhale. So far, so good. You walk towards the couch and find the creature still eating away at your dead cat, which you gag at.

Poor Mews.

You rap your knuckles against the door three times, alerting Dustin to come inside.

He opens the door and walks in, his hands fisted against his face as if that would do anything to keep him safe. You roll your eyes and flick his head, which he whines at. “Grab the chocolate and distract Dart, please.”

Dustin runs over to his desk and grabs a Musketeers bar. When you see the candy’s name, you want to slam your head against the wall. You know exactly why the monster’s name is Dart.

“Let me guess,” you say, your tone mocking. “D’Artagnan?”

“Don’t you have a corpse to collect?”

You scoff at him but step aside so that he can dangle the chocolate in Dart’s face. You watch, alert for any signs of danger in case you need to step in, but the monster seems to be pretty friendly with Dustin. You guess they really did create a bond.

Once Dart is far enough away from Mews, you run over and snatch up her body. You try not to think about the possible cat guts now all over your sweater. That will be a later issue. Like a lot of things in your life recently.

“Go, go, go!” You push Dustin towards the door.

He doesn’t need to be told twice, throwing the last piece of the candy bar at Dart’s face and running out the door right behind you. Once you’re both out the room with the door closed, you both lean against the wall and exhale deeply.

“Good job. Now onto phase two.”

Dustin makes a face. “Why do I have to distract mom?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you hold up Mews’ bloody body. “Do you want to be the one to hold our dead cat?”

“Good point, I’ll go distract mom.” Dustin leaves, rounding the corner to go hopefully distract your poor mother in a sane way. With your luck, Dustin will spew some weird bullshit that will only make her more worried than she already is.

Right on cue, you hear Dustin say from the kitchen. “Mom, I think I broke my arm.”

The scream of fear your mom lets out would’ve been comedic had you not been holding her beloved dead cat.

Your mother runs around the kitchen, fretting over your brother, and the second she isn’t looking, you slip out the front door and quickly throw Mews’ body into your bush. You feel a bit bad about that, but there’s nowhere else to hide her body in broad daylight.

When you walk back inside, Dustin is being swaddled by your mother. “What did I miss?”

“Oh, Y/N!” Your mom sighs. “Dusty said he thought he broke his arm, but the silly boy seems to be okay.”

Dustin pats her back. “Ha, right. Silly me!”

Your mom looks up and then squints a bit, eying your sweater. You look down and your heart drops. It’s covered in Mews’ blood.

Fuck.

“Y/N, what’s that all over your sweater?”

“Paint!” You say while Dustin sputters, “Ketchup!”

“We… Were painting with ketchup.” You lie, sending a quick glare your brother’s way. Out of everything red, why ketchup?

“Oh, alright.” Your mom looks uncertain, but doesn’t say anything else about it. “Well, dinner is almost ready. Why don’t you go wash up, honey?”

The second you’re dismissed, you run into your room and yank the sweater off. You’ll burn it tomorrow. First chance you get.

A few seconds later, there’s a knock on your door before Dustin’s head pokes inside. “Dinner’s done.”

“Great. Holding your dead cat definitely works up an appetite.”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” Dustin tries to play it off, but you see the genuine upset in his eyes. He hadn’t meant to hurt anyone, and you know he loved Mews too.

You sigh and walk over to him and kiss his curls. “It’s okay. Next time, let’s not hide a monster from the Upside Down, yeah?”

“Deal.”

–

Dustin spends the night in your room, which you explain to your mom as needing some “serious bonding time”. She tears up at this, unaware of the fact that you’ll be making your brother sleep on the floor as punishment.

The next morning you and Dustin hatch yet another plan: get mom out of the house. Before you two can do anything else, you both agree that your mom cannot be anywhere near Dart. Plus, she’s already noticed Mews’ absence, so it’s only a matter of time before she finds the body in the bush.

“Alright, you’ll fake the phone call while I start gathering the supplies.” You tell Dustin while your mom calls for Mews outside. She’s at the bottom of the driveway, Mews’ favorite toy in her hand, shaking it around, unaware that the cat’s dead body is in the bush next to her.

“Got it. You remember where my old hockey suit is?” You nod at Dustin’s question, and he’s about to say something else before he sees your mom start walking back towards the house. “Shit! Game time, go!”

Dustin fumbles for the phone and you run to the living room closet. Just as you’ve entered your positions, your mom walks through the front door.

“Mewsy! Dusty, Y/N, sweethearts, you’re sure she’s not in your rooms?”

“No, mom.” You shake your head at her.

Holding up a finger, Dustin presses the phone to his ear and motions for the woman to remain quiet. “Uh-huh. Thank you so much, Mr. McCorkle. Thank you so much, you are a true lifesaver.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. He’s laying it on pretty thick.

“Alright, this was great. Thank you, have a good one. Bye-bye now, all right. You too.” Dustin pretends to hang up the phone and smiles at your mom. “Alright, great news!”

“They found her?” Tears of joy lace your mother’s voice. You have to turn away, you know she’d notice the discomfort on your face. It feels horrible to be lying to your mother like this.

Dustin seems to be thinking the same thing, because he lowers his voice and gently approaches her. “No, but they saw her wandering around Loch Nora.”

More tears flow down your mom’s face. “How did the poor baby get all the way over there?”

“I don’t know, lost I guess. But they’re gonna look for her, and–and Y/N and I will stay here, just in case they call again. Right, Y/N?”

“Right!” You call from the closet, now quickly grabbing everything you can think of. Would a hammer be necessary?

“And you’re gonna go help look. Yeah?” Dustin’s only response is a relieved hug from your crying mother. “Yeah, give me a hug. Go get her!”

Your mom quickly composes herself and grabs her glasses. She presses a kiss to your forehead and seems to be in better spirits. “We’ll find her!”

“Mews will be home soon, mom!” You cheer, and your mom blows you another kiss.

“I love you,” Dustin sends her a thumbs up.

“I love you, kids.” And with that, your mom clutches her purse to her chest and sends one final kiss your way before shutting the door behind her.

As soon as the door shuts, you and Dustin scramble. Dustin heads to the backyard to open your cellar doors and you grab the remaining hockey gear from the closet. While you drag the uniform out to the living room, your brother begins to look through the fridge for any possible bait.

“Think Dart would like bologna?” Dustin calls over his shoulder as he digs around.

You groan, dropping the heavy goalie pads. “Last I checked, he wasn’t my secret Upside Down pet.”

“Touche.”

Dustin grabs the bologna and starts making a trail from his room towards the front door. While he does that, you start sorting through your own pile of gear, soccer to be specific. Dustin liked hockey, you preferred warmer sports. As you’ve finished lacing up your cleats and shin pads, Dustin returns.

“Okay, the bait is all set up. Got my hockey stick?”

You hand him what he needs. “Here, and your helmet is on the couch.”

Dustin gets ready and you retrieve some oven mitts from the kitchen. When you hand them to the boy, he looks at you like you’re insane. “What? Extra protection. Can’t hurt.”

He sighs and swipes them from your hand, putting them on. Once he’s ready, you help him stand up. He looks ridiculous in his old hockey gear, but you suppose you don’t look any better with your shin pads and Dustin’s spare shoulder pads.

“Alright. We all set?”

Dustin pats his helmet. “Ready.”

You walk towards his room, and once you’re there, Dustin pushes past you and bends down a bit so he can speak through his keyhole. “Alright, Dart. Breakfast time.”

“Do we have to mention breakfast right before we set him free?" You mumble, but your brother ignores you.

Slowly, he reaches towards the door handle and then flings it open. As soon as the door has been moved, Dustin practically knocks you to the ground in his haste to escape. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!”

His mantra reminds you of Steve’s from last year at Jonathan’s. Seems like the two boys have something in common: they’re idiots.

You follow quickly behind Dustin, terrified but at least trying to hide it, while your brother just repeats “oh my god”, and “shit” over and over again as he stumbles over the bait and out towards the front door.

If the situation wasn’t so grave, you’d be giggling at how dumb Dustin looks waddling over bologna on the floor. However, Dart could very well be right behind you, so you run after the kid equally as terrified.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit–”

By this point, you’re nearing the tool shed outside.

“I will push you down these stairs Dustin Henderson.”

Dustin shuts up and, as soon as you’re inside the shed as well, locks it behind him. Once he’s sure you’re all cleared, he lets out a breath of relief. “Okay, now we wait.”

You walk towards the wood panels, squinting as you peek through a gap to see outside. “I don’t see anything.”

Dustin does the same. “Come on, I know you’re hungry…”

Everything remains still outside, and you’re starting to worry that maybe Dart doesn’t like bologna after all, until you see his scaly body walk out the door. He gobbles down the bologna pieces one by one, which you cringe at.

“Yeah. He likes bologna, alright.”

Dustin silently cheers. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes!”

Dart makes his way down the trail, eating every piece he finds, and soon he scampers down the steps and hovers over the cellar doors. In an odd way, the little guy is kinda cute if you forget about the fact that he killed your cat.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Dustin continues to chant as you watch Dart. The creature just has one more piece of bologna left, he just needs to take a few more steps inside before you can slam the doors shut.

But, because nothing can ever be easy for you, Dart suddenly turns and looks straight at you and Dustin. “Shit!”

You flinch back, knocking into a bucket of nails that spill everywhere. “Shit again!”

Dustin tries to shush you but you grab him by his shoulders and force him behind you. Your knives are out, their blades gleaming in the sunlight that creeps through the wood panels. You peek through them to find Dart slowly approaching the shed, his mouth almost watering.

“Well, this isn’t good.” You take a breath to lessen your fear. “Stay here, I’ll try to distract him–”

“AHHH!” Dustin shoves you against the opposite wall, your body flinging back with a harsh crash, and breaks through the shed’s door. With one solid wack from his hockey stick, he flings Dart into the cellar.

“What the–Dustin!” By the time you make it out the shed, your brother has flung himself on top of the cellar doors, panting.

“Got him,” he informs you, as if it isn’t obvious enough. Dart begins to screech with anger, and Dustin sighs. “I’m sorry, you ate my cat.”

“You’re an idiot, Dustin.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just give me five seconds to catch my breath, please.”

–

With Dart safely locked away, you and Dustin are able to finally bury your cat.

It doesn’t take long, but the early November heat is just warm enough to make you annoyed as you dig through the soil in your backyard. Dustin has his walkie with him, trying to find the right frequency so he can call the party and inform them of what’s going on.

“Guys, this is Dustin again. Does anyone copy?” You stab at the ground with your shovel and your brother groans when he gets no response. “This is a code red. I repeat, a code red!”

Sweat trickles down your brow and honestly it should be Dustin burying the cat, but you’ve never learned how to radio the party so you just sigh and throw more dirt upon your dead cat. Dustin tries a few more times to contact the party, but no one responds.

“Damn it!” He shouts, frustrated.

“Language,” you huff out, more sweat forming.

It goes on like this for a while, Dustin trying and failing to reach anyone, as you two begin to clean the house of any blood and Mews guts. He tries again while you guys grab the cleaning supplies, then again while you’re on your hands and knees scrubbing his carpet in his room.

“Alright, it’s Dustin again. Seriously, I have a code red.”

“Maybe they don’t know what code red means?” You offer, your nose scrunched up due to the bleach fumes.

Dustin scoffs, “sure, and they also don’t know who Luke Skywalker’s father is–”

Suddenly Erica’s voice comes through the walkie. “Can you please shut up?”

“Erica?” Dustin stops scrubbing and straightens up. “Erica, is Lucas there? Where is he?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” Erica has always been such a lovely girl.

“Is he with Mike?”

“Like I said, I don’t know and I don’t care.”

You and Dustin share a look. It worries you that Mike hasn’t been responding all day. From what you’ve heard and seen, he’s spent every day this year camped out in his fort in the basement trying to contact El with the radio frequencies.

It’s not like to Mike to just disappear.

“Listen, Erica.” You speak up, trying to sweet talk to the girl. You’ve babysat her a few times and you’ve even managed to convince her you’re kinda cool, so maybe she’ll respond better to you. “Did Lucas mention anything else? Maybe… Maybe like a girl he went to see?”

Dustin frowns. “A girl? What–” You shush him and wait for a response.

Erica snorts. “A girl? Please, as if. He’s been gone all day. That’s all I can tell you.”

Your brother closes his eyes and sighs. “Please tell him it’s super important. Please tell him that I have a code–”

“Code red?” Erica interrupts.

“Yep, code red. Exactly.” Dustin smiles, then covers his mike to whisper to you, “seems like she likes me more than you–”

“I got a code for you instead. It’s called code shut-your-mouth.” Then, Erica switches off the walkie.

Dustin stares at nothing, dumbfounded. You go back to scrubbing the carpet, a pleased smile on your face. “So, you were saying?”

He’s quiet for a few seconds, processing the fact that clearly no one in the party will answer, before letting out an obnoxious groan. “Damn it!”

“Are you gonna help me clean, or–?”

“Can’t you just call Jonathan?” Dustin asks, grasping at straws. “Maybe he can be useful for once and help.”

You shake your head. “No, he’s out of town right now with Nancy.”

“And you’re okay with this because…?”

“Because,” you roll your eyes, “they’re on a secret mission to take down Hawkin’s Lab. They’re at some detective’s house right now, so I have zero way of contacting them.”

Dustin rubs at his eyes tiredly. “How did we get stuck with a cat eating baby demogorgon while Jonathan and Nancy get cool spy work?”

You pinch his leg, causing him to wince and move away from you. “Because you purposefully hid the baby demogorgon. Any other stupid questions?”

“Sure,” Dustin throws his hands up in defeat, obviously joking when he asks, “got any other friend we could call for help?”

A sarcastic laugh escapes your lips and you’re about to tell him that he has more friends than you’ve ever had, but then a thought occurs to you.

Steve.

Technically speaking, you’re friends. Well, sort of. Sure, he had wanted space yesterday in the lunchroom, and yeah he’s still mad at you and things are awkward at best between the two of you, but still…

He’d been at Jonathan’s house last year, he had fought by your side and saved your life and even bought you a vending machine full of snacks. If anyone else could understand the situation you’re in right now, it’s Steve.

You hesitate though. He still seemed really hurt at lunch, but you also saw the way he lingered even after dismissing himself. He doesn’t hate you, at least not really, and without Jonathan or Nancy to call, he’s the only person you have left right now.

It can’t hurt to try, at least.

“Actually, yeah.” You respond after a minute or so. “Be right back.”

Dustin asks questions as you head towards the living room, but you don’t respond. If Steve doesn’t answer, then you can make up some lie about the phone being broken or something to save yourself the embarrassment.

Your fingers press Steve’s long remembered number. He had given it to you his first week of visiting you at Bookstrordinary, assuring you that you could call him whenever. After a while, you took his word on it and started calling the boy every time you were bored and alone at work.

The line rings for a few seconds, and you bite your lip in anticipation.

This is a horrible idea, and yet your heart flutters when Steve answers with a groggy, “hello?”

“Hey, Steve.”

“Y/N?” He sounds surprised.

You can’t blame him, he did quite literally yesterday tell you he’s still upset with you and that he needs space. And yet here you are: calling him early on a Saturday afternoon. “Yeah, it’s me. Listen, I really need your help–”

A sigh. “Normally I’d love to, but I’m kinda in the middle of getting ready to go to Nancy’s.”

“Nancy’s? Steve, she’s not even home–”

“Can we talk later? I… I’d really like to talk, if that’s alright with you.”

This throws you, and for a second you forget about the reason you called. “Of course we can talk, Steve.”

“Great,” you can hear a smile in his voice, which warms you. “I’ll see you later, then.”

Then you remember Dart and the blood on Dustin’s carpet and you frantically try to stop Steve from hanging up. “Wait, no! Steve, Nancy isn’t home and I really need you to–”

The line goes dead, and you slam the phone down. “Damn it!”

Dustin, hearing the commotion, wanders into the kitchen. “Take it the call didn’t go well?”

“No, it did.” Sure, Steve didn’t necessarily offer his help, but he did tell you where he’s going to be in about twenty minutes. You’ll ambush him there and demand he listen to you and help. As a bonding exercise, of course. “We’re going to the Wheeler’s.”

“Why?”

“Steve’s heading there.”

Dustin trips over his shoelaces. “Steve Harrington?”

“Long story,” you sigh, dreading that you’ll have to explain all of this eventually. “C’mon, let's get our bikes.”

–

You and Dustin get to the Wheeler’s before Steve does, which makes no sense to you but whatever. He’ll be here soon enough and you’ll ambush him with all your charm and maybe a bit of groveling. You’re not beneath it, if you’re being honest.

Dustin goes up to the front door while you stay behind, keeping an eye out for Steve. Ted opens the front door and while you can’t hear what he says to Dustin, you know he’s unamused by his presence. The father has never been your favorite parent within the group, honestly.

You watch as they exchange a few more words before you see Dustin sigh and angrily march back towards you. Then, right as he’s grabbed his bike, a familiar red BMW pulls up. Just seeing his car makes your heart skip a beat.

The car parks and a frazzled Steve steps out, carrying flowers and mumbling to himself. You aren’t able to hear everything he’s saying, but you can hear the words “what the hell am I sorry for?” and your stomach twists.

So clearly he’s not in a good mood. Still.

The flowers, which you now can see are roses, hang by Steve’s side as he fixes his hair. He hasn’t noticed you yet, and it takes everything within you to pull your eyes away. He looks good today, too good.

There’s a monster currently locked in your cellar.

“Steve!” You rush over to his side.

He does a double take when he sees you. “Y/N? What are you doing here?”

“Well–”

“Are those for Mr. or Mrs. Wheeler?” Dustin now joins you two, pointing at the roses in the boy’s hand.

Steve looks between the two of you. “No…? You’re Dustin, right? Y/N’s brother?”

Dustin snatches the roses out of his hand. “Good, and yeah, I am.”

“Hey, what the hell?” Steve looks at you for help, but you know there’s no use trying to reason with your brother. He’s in a mood, similar to Steve, and you just sigh and follow Dustin. “Hey!”

“Nancy isn’t home.” Your brother informs Steve.

“Where is she?” Steve asks, and you hit his shoulder.

“I tried telling you over the phone!”

Dustin claps his hands at you to get your guys’ attention again. “It doesn’t matter where she is or if you tried to warn him, Y/N. We have bigger problems than your love lives.”

He’s at Steve’s car now and opens the passenger side door. “Do you still have that bat?”

Steve whips his head towards you. “Bat? What the hell is he talking about? Y/N, what are you guys doing here–”

“The one with the nails!” Dustin interrupts, exasperated.

Again Steve looks at you. “Why?”

“You’re not gonna like it,” you confess, and this only makes Steve feel worse.

“We’ll explain it on the way.” Dustin goes to sit in the passenger seat but he’s quickly stopped when you grab his hood and yank him out.

“No, absolutely not. I deserve the passenger seat, not you.”

Dustin slaps you away. “I got here first.”

“I was born first–”

“But I was literally about to sit down–”

“Hey!” Steve shouts, effectively shutting you and Dustin up. “It’s my car, and right now I currently only like Y/N, so she gets the passenger seat.”

“You like Y/N?” Dustin asks at the same time as you ask, “You like me?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, barely. She’s on thin ice. But you, little Henderson? You just stole the flowers meant for my girlfriend, so backseat you go.”

“Yes!” You cheer, pumping your fist in the air as you flash Steve a smile. “Thanks, Harrington.”

He rounds the front of his car and opens the driver's side door. “Yeah, don’t get used to it. Like I said, you’re still on thin ice.”

He says it with annoyance in his voice, but you can see the smile he’s trying hard not to let slip, and you feel giddy. Steve obviously can’t be too mad at you if he wanted to talk later and is willingly letting himself be kidnapped by your brother.

Dustin, on the other hand, can’t believe any of this is happening. As soon as you’re all in the car he asks, “Since when did you two become friends?”

“I have a life outside of you and the boys, you know,” you tell him, but you avoid Steve’s gaze. It’s not like you intentionally hid this aspect of your life from Dustin, but… It also never came up, either.

“Sure ya do, but… Wait,” Dustin remembers something. “Oh my god, you have Steve Harrington’s number memorized?”

Your face heats up and Steve hides a smirk, but you see it anyway. You ignore his smugness and respond to your brother. “Like I said, I have a life outside of you.”

Dustin gapes at you. “I have so many questions–”

“I have an even better one: where am I taking you guys?” Steve asks, and suddenly you remember everything at stake.

“My house,” you tell him as you buckle up. He nods, although with some confusion, and then starts the engine. “You know how I called you earlier?”

“Yeah…?”

“Dustin, why don’t you tell Steve here what you found.”

Your brother sighs from the backseat. “A few days ago I found this… lizard of sorts.”

“A lizard.” Steve says, unimpressed.

“Oh, just wait,” you quip.

Dustin turns his head to glare at you and you give him a thumbs up. He scoffs at you before carrying on, “Yes, a lizard. I named him Dart and he was super cool, okay? I thought I had discovered a new species and that I would be super famous and better than everyone else.”

Steve glances at you next to him, raising his eyebrows and whistling low. “Wow, does humbleness run in your family, Y/N?”

“I’d say so, yeah.”

“Anyways,” Dustin interrupts, ignoring Steve’s laugh at your response. “Turns out, Dart is from the Upside Down.”

“The Upside Down?” Steve asks, extremely confused. He looks at you again in the mirror and it hits you that no one explained to him the events from last year. You assumed that Nancy would’ve, seeing as how they’ve been together for a while now and Steve had been with you guys at the hospital the night you brought Will back.

However, from his disbelief and confusion it’s clear that she hasn’t. If you had to guess, Steve probably went home that night and blocked out everything that had gone down with no questions asked.

You respect his repressing skills, honestly.

Dustin groans, beginning to grow impatient with Steve. “Yes, the Upside Down. If you have the bat still, how could you not know–”

“Do you remember that… thing we killed at Jonathan’s last year?” You cut your brother off before he can get too mean. You love the kid, you do, but he isn’t the kindest person when others aren't understanding him.

A dark look passes over Steve’s face and his fingers tighten around the steering wheel. It’s night now, and the atmosphere in the car becomes tense. “I remember.”

You clear your throat, “Well, this creature–”

“Demodog.” Dustin corrects from the backseat.

“Demodog?” You turn in your seat to face him. “That’s what we’re calling it now? Seriously?”

He shrugs. “It’s a baby demogorgon, it looks like a dog, so… Demodog.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Alright. Okay. Whatever, this demodog is from the Upside Down. It’s this parallel universe, basically. Creepy shit happens there, and last year a monster–”

“The Demogorgon.” Dustin once more interrupts.

“Dustin, if you want to catch Steve up then for the love of god, please shut up.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, embarrassed.

A smile tugs at Steve’s lips and you take a deep breath to calm yourself before continuing. “Look, I don’t know how much Nancy told you about that night at Jonathan’s, but all that you need to know is that the Demogorgon took Will last year and we had to fight it in order to save him.”

Steve nods slightly as he follows along, “Nancy mentioned something about a monster at the hospital… she told me it’s what killed Barb, but never told me it had a name.”

Another silence falls between you guys in the car. The mention of Barb brings back bad memories for you both. You had liked Barb, she had always been nice to you, you guess. Hawkins is a small town. Everyone knows everyone, and in the end the smallness of the town is what makes the Upside Down so hard. You lose people close to you, one way or another.

And as for Steve… The roses he bought for Nancy lay wilted in his backseat.

Dustin shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and your heart pangs in understanding. He misses El, and you do too. The closer it gets to the anniversary of her disappearance, the more you miss the sweet and caring girl; but you know that the boys, Mike especially, haven’t given up hope for her.

“So…” Steve motions for you guys to continue explaining, and Dustin sits up in his seat to begin again.

“So flash forward to now: I didn’t realize Dart was a demodog until he grew like three damn sizes bigger than when I found him. Y/N and I almost died trying to lock him in our cellar.”

“Wait, you guys have a cellar?”

Dustin rubs his face, “That’s what you focus on, Steve?”

“It’s a valid question–”

“Guys!” You lurch yourself forward and wave your hands around wildly to break up their bickering. “We really don’t have time for this. Can we please just focus on the task at hand? Dart has probably grown even more during the course of this stupid conversation.”

Your brother’s hand pushes your shoulder back so that you’re now once again sitting, and you swat him away with annoyance. “Y/N, I’m trying! Blame Steve, he’s the one asking stupid questions–”

Steve speaks up, “What the hell? They aren’t stupid questions–”

“Well…”

Steve shoots you an offended look, “Y/N, I thought you were on my side.”

Dustin scoffs, hurt. “She’s my sister, you idiot!”

“Again, we seriously don’t have time for this because, once more: Dart is getting really big.” Your voice is louder this time, and thankfully it shuts everyone up. Then, just because you can, you add, “and I’m on Steve’s side right now. He’s the one with the car, plus… Well, I owe him.”

Steve fist pumps the air. “Suck it, little Henderson.”

“Do not call me that,” Dustin threatens him, then turns his attention to you. “First Jonathan, now Steve? Can’t you befriend anyone I like?”

The mention of Jonathan gets Steve attention. “Wait a sec, where is the guy? You never actually told me where he and Nancy went, Y/N.”

You sigh, knowing there’s no use keeping anything else from him. He’s already driving you and Dustin home to help with Dart, and you did promise to tell him where they were later, but life seemingly got in the way. “They’re playing detective right now.”

“Detective?”

“Yeah, the guy Barb’s parents hired… They’re currently at his place, exposing Hawkin’s Lab.”

A tense silence follows. Steve stares straight ahead, eyes on the road, as his expressions morph from hurt, to reluctance, to eventual acceptance. “Nance didn’t think to ask me to join?”

His voice wavers, just a bit, but you hear it. Knowing that Dustin is watching from the back, you decide to forget any possible boundaries for once and grab Steve’s hand. He’s hurting. The car smells of roses and there’s no girl to give them to. “She tried, Steve.”

He swallows. There’s hurt in his eyes and you want to reach out and stroke his cheek and tell him that it isn’t his fault. “I know…”

“Ahem,” Dustin coughs, clearly uncomfortable with whatever is going on. “So… Back to Dart.”

You clear your own throat, but your hand remains wrapped around Steve’s, who nods. “Wait a sec, how big are we talking?”

Without meaning to, you close your eyes and brace for Dustin’s witty remarks, but he surprises you by answering with a demonstration and zero mockery. “First it was like that,” he opens his fingers a few inches before using both hands to show about a foot in length. “Now he’s like this.”

Steve still looks doubtful. “And you’re sure it isn’t some weird lizard?”

A headache begins to form and you pinch the bridge of your nose again. “It’s not a lizard, Steve.”

“Well how do you know?”

“Because his face opened up and he ate our cat.” Dustin says bluntly.

This seems to shut Steve up and he nods his head in defeat. It’s silent in the car for the remainder of the drive, and just before Steve parks in your driveway, he looks over at you and sees your eyes closed in pain, and before he knows it he squeezes your hand and says, “sorry about your cat, by the way.”

Despite the pounding in your head and your utter exhaustion, his words make you laugh. “Just park, Steve.”

He smiles, feeling proud for getting you to laugh, and does as he’s told. Before you know it you’re standing at his trunk, staring at the baseball bat that saved your life last year. Dustin has already gone over to the cellar, waiting for you and Steve to follow.

The bat stares back at you, and you shiver as the memories come back. Though you had tried your best to forget that night, that entire week, honestly, it’s been useless. The nightmares still haunt you. You obsessively research trauma in children now to compensate for your own guilt from last year.

“Why’d you keep the bat?” You ask as Steve grabs it, giving it a practice swing. Your own blades are out again and he eyes their gleam.

“It’s kinda sick, don’t ya think?” He swings it again. “I look badass with it.”

He’s dodging, but you sense that he kept the bat for the same reason as why you kept the switchblade. You’ve been waiting in fear for something else to happen. “You don’t look too bad with it.”

Steve blushes a bit, which your stomach flutters seeing. “I, uh… Guess we can’t have that talk tonight?”

“No, not unless we somehow manage to deal with Dart in a timely manner. However, if I recall, nothing ever goes our way.”

“Nope!” He closes the trunk and tosses you a flashlight. Then, he sticks his hand out for you to shake. “But for now… Truce?”

You giggle. “Truce.”

His hand is warm, and even though you had just been holding it in the car moments earlier, his touch still fills you with a gooey warmth that you’ve come to associate with him. As soon as you and him are alone, away from Dustin’s nosy ears, you’ll really apologize to Steve. He may be being nice to you now, but he’s still guarding himself from you.

You hate it. You miss how open he used to be with you.

“Ready to go re-live my nightmares?” Steve asks.

You give him a thumbs up as you start heading towards Dustin. “Always, let’s go.”

“Took you guys long enough.” Your brother mutters when you and Steve arrive at the cellar, weapons in hand. You flash him an apologetic smile while Steve simply ignores him.

Steve approaches the door and listens for a second, “I don’t hear shit.”

You frown and listen as well. He’s right, it’s eerily silent. You shoot Dustin a questioning look and he shrugs as well, “He’s in there.”

“Duh, I know that much, You almost knocked me out when you shoved past me to get Dart in there.” you remark, before softly adding “he’s gotta be in there.”

Your words don’t reassure Steve, who begins to use the tip of his bat to bang against the locked doors. When nothing happens, he bangs harder against them before sighing in annoyance.

“All right, listen kid.” Steve begins, and you start to rub small circles into your scalp in a vain attempt to lessen your headache, because you already know that the next words out of his mouth will start yet another fight. “I swear, if this is some sort of Halloween prank, you’re dead.”

“Steve…” He ignores you and stares down your brother, shining the flashlight directly at his face in what you assume is meant to be a threatening manner.

“It's not a prank,” Dustin tiredly replies, squinting his eyes against the light. “Get it out of my face.”

Steve complies, still hesitant about the situation at hand, and turns to face you. “You got a key to this thing?”

You nod and fish the keys from out of your pocket and unlock the cellar doors. Steve bends down to investigate, and without him having to ask, you hand him the flashlight and step forward so that you’re next to him.

He flashes the light down the stairs and all that the three of you can see is darkness. An uneasy feeling creeps over you. Something isn’t right, but you really hope that you’re wrong.

“He has to be further down,” you say, more so to reassure yourself than the others.

Dustin shuffles his feet next to you and says, with an extremely unconvincingly “brave” voice, “I’ll stay up here in case he tries to… escape.”

Both you and Steve look at him in disbelief. Dustin stands his ground, however, and looks at the two of you expectantly. Steve shakes his head while you sigh in defeat. Your brother is such a pain sometimes.

“You do realize that if Dart eats me, you’ll have to deal with mom all by yourself, right?” You ask him.

The boy shrugs at you. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take, Y/N.”

“Yeah, love you too.” You mumble, before you begin to follow Steve down the steps.

“I’ll be thinking of you!” Dustin calls out, his voice echoing against the cellar walls.

You trail behind Steve, and the flashlight he brought does nothing to illuminate the dark area, so it’s a relief when he reaches above his head to turn the light on. As your eyes adjust to the light change, you scan the room to find the missing demodog. However, all your eyes land on is a long, thin sheet of film on the ground that you can only assume is molted skin.

“Oh, shit…” you breathe out. “This isn’t good.”

Steve picks the skin up with the tip of his bat and examines it and shakes his head. “Please tell me this isn’t Dart.”

“Actually, it’d be easier if it was him.”

Steve doesn’t laugh at your joke; he continues to look around the room before his eyes widen. You turn your head to see what’s caught his attention, and when you spot the problem, your knees weaken.

There’s a giant, Dart-sized hole in your cellar wall.

“Steve? Y/N? What’s going on down there?” Dustin’s voice carries down to you guys, and you and Steve share a nervous glance.

“Dustin…” You call up to him, your voice weaker than you’d prefer. You wish you could be braver for him at the moment, but right now it takes everything within you not to crawl into bed and shut the world out. Why did it always have to be giant monsters?

While you’re reeling, Steve walks over to the bottom of the steps and flashes his light at Dustin, instructing him to come down. Once the boy has joined you guys, Steve guides the light to his bat so that Dustin can see the skin.

“Oh, shit.”

“Funnily enough, that’s what your sister said, too.”

Then Steve shines the light to where the hole in the wall is, and you watch Dustin’s face go from concerned to horrified. “Oh, shit!”

The three of you crouch closer to the hole, and when Steve shines the flashlight through it, your heart stops and you gasp, “It’s a tunnel.”

“No way…” Dustin says in awe.

It’s hard to see exactly how deep the tunnel goes, but something tells you that there’s more to it than meets the eye. This wouldn’t be some simple fix like you had desperately hoped it would be.

Now you really, really wish Jonathan were here. And Nancy. Definitely Nancy.

But they aren’t. This time, you’re on your own with only Steve and Dustin by your side. No one else in the party is available, you don’t even know where they are or if they’re even safe, but right now that doesn’t matter.

What matters is that Dart has escaped.

And it’s happening again.

Everything you’ve tried so hard for the last year to ignore, to move on and pretend never happened to you, has come crashing back into your life.

Steve, seeing your apprehension, grabs your hand and pulls you in close. “Hey, we’ll figure it out. I’ll be here, okay?”

Even though you don’t deserve his kindness, his sincerity, you believe him.

-

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[evolnoomym]

I’ll Make You Love Me💋

Bfd!Joel Miller x f!reader

Main Masterlist | Joel Miller Masterlist

Summary: In Joel’s eyes you are an unpleasant person. Yet he has to pretend as if he would not want to get rid of you for Sarah’s sake, she loves you so much you are her best friend. Well Joel also feels terrible for the rather unethical thoughts he has of you.

Rating: 18+ mature content mdni !!!!!

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings: no y/n, introducing “Lucky”, female oc character, Sarah is 18, Lucky is 21, Joel’s age is not mentioned but he’s at least double Lucky’s age, degradation, humiliation, Dark, Joel is mean, he calls you Bitch/Slut/Junkie, spanking, dub-con, Daddy Kink, Manspreading hehe 😉, pervy!Joel, tears, Joel enjoys her tears, manhandling, hair pulling, weed consumption, alcohol consumption, a tiny fluffy moment, alludes to BJ, Joel can also be nice,

If I missed anything please let me know 🙏🏻

Authors note: this is for @toxicanonymity ‘s manspreading olympics. ❤️‍🔥

Shoutout to @cafekitsune and @saradika-graphics for the dividers ❤️

Big thank you to @jennaispunk and @joelmillerisapunk for beta reading ❤️‍🔥🌙

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so if you come across mistakes it might be due to that. I’m totally here for constructive criticism or feedback on how to improve. In general I appreciate comments, likes and reblogs greatly 💋

Songs I listened to while writing:

What You Do by James Gillespie

Bad Girls by M.I.A

Maneater by Nelly Furtado

Salvatore by Lana Del Rey

Sad Girl by Lana Del Rey

Waiting Game by BANKS

Into It by Chase Atlantic

You should feel bad for thinking of him in such a peculiar way. You should be ashamed for even considering him an option. He is totally off limits considering he’s much older, a busy mature man and most importantly Sarah’s Dad. Sarah the sweet girl that has been your Bestfriend for over 2 years.

It excited you in the beginning how much Joel hated your presence in his daughter’s life. He didn’t approve of this friendship ever since Sarah at 16 years old first brought you, her 19 year old friend, over for the first time.

In front of Sarah he tried his hardest to appear polite but you could see right through his facade from the beginning. And one evening when Sarah was already fast asleep you gave Joel a piece of your mind in the kitchen.

“Mister Miller let’s stop these silly games we both know what’s going on…you don’t like me and I couldn’t fucking care less.” You scoff and get off the counter, slowly drawing closer to Joel “You hate me so much but Sarah loves me soooooo much and imagine how upset she’d be to know that her Daddy doesn’t want her to be happy. Wouldn’t that be a shame,huh?” You question with an enticing head tilt.

Now you’re right in front of him, toe to toe with big bad imposing Joel Miller. You can feel the pulling in your lower belly from being so close and most importantly smelling his manly musky scent. You remind yourself that you gotta stay focused if you want to win this game.

You get even closer until your able to place your hands on his warm broad chest sliding them slightly upwards his shoulders. “What the hell r ya doin?” Joel hisses.

You lean up to whisper in his ear “Nothing, just letting you know that I eat guys like you for breakfast, I chew you up and spit you out. You’re not a threat to me, old man.” You pull back and give him a sinister sickly smile.

The wickedness in your tone causes goosebumps to prickle on his flesh.

You feed off of seeing him scared. You enjoy knowing what kinda effect you have on this usually so collected man.

“Goodnight Mister Miller, better start sleeping with one eye open from now on.” You giggle while skipping up the stairs.

That was the start of it all.

Now 2 years later with Sarah just having turned 18, Joel realizes that you two are gonna keep him on his toes even more than already.

The 18th birthday celebration was already a disaster, what Joel assumed would be a relaxed family gathering turned into you crashing the party and taking Sarah out, of course Sarah was excited so how could Joel say no.

Well when you two didn’t return at 12 pm like promised he admittedly got worried, but he wanted to trust Sarah so he tried to stay calm.

At 3 am he hears the screeching tires from some show off guys car and loud drunkish giggling. The princesses have officially arrived back home from their trip, almost 4 hours too late.

When Joel opens the front door he sees you and Sarah practically half draped over your shoulder stubbling up the starirs in sloppy drunk steps. You two are giggling and mumbling at each other in a language Joel does not understand, it certainly can’t be English.

You immediately glock his disgruntled face, the alcohol cursing through your system emboldens you so you haphazardly shove him out of the way. You sigh loudly and obviously annoyed at his antics all while herding Sarah up the stairs.

Joel cannot believe that after dragging Sarah off, taking her to god knows where, letting her drink and god forbid smoke… you still have the audacity to behave so entitled.

You put Sarah in danger and don’t feel an ounce of remorse. Joel hates your guts, in his eyes you are an entitled little brat that desperately needs to be put in her place.

Even though Joel hates you, he at the same time cannot keep his head clear of dirty images of your young and tight body. He thinks about the pool day where you showed up in the tiniest bikini he could think of.

Prancing around all while he had to resist the urge to just tear it off. You knew he was looking and he knew that you enjoyed his eyes flitting all over your enticing figure.

The both of you were tethering on a dangerous line, that could cause big trouble. How would Sarah feel knowing this is happening behind her back.

You constantly antagonize him like that wearing short skirts and tight shirts with no bra because apparently it’s too warm for that. Running into him, pressing your perky tits against his bicep in passing, coincidentally bending over in front of him. Joel was quickly approaching a breaking point, his resolve crumbling more and more with each time that he had to tug at his throbbing length all while thinking about you.

Joel clearly underestimated how much you’d play him and how much better at it you are. At this rate you’ll win this game. He however has a plan, that might even after everything still save him the success.

Joel only has to wait for the right time to attack, catch you off guard and use that to his advantage.

He gets pulled from his thoughts when he hears something that confuses him, you are singing and it sounds beautiful.

Joel creeps up the stairs as quietly as possible to not alert either of you.

The closer he gets to Sarah's door the clearer it becomes. Joel pushes the bedroom door open by only a few inches to get a look at the situation and it makes his heart roar. You sit on the side of the bed we’re Sarah is nicely tucked in, your body facing Joel but your eyes locked on Sarah’s face. Softly singing a lullaby in a language foreign to him while gently stroking over her cheeks, smoothing the hair out of her face, almost like a mother would with her baby. Something Sarah never got to experience in childhood since her mother left so early on.

Joel realizes that despite the rough exterior you put up there’s more to you than just a cold hearted homewrecker, you care for Sarah, you take care of her and watch over her wherever you two run off to. Joel feels gratitude for someone he admittedly doesn’t know a whole lot about.

Joel has seen enough and retreats back downstairs.

When you stumble into the living room to bid your goodbyes Joel looks like he’s deep in thoughts.

So you announce “Sarah is sleeping, make sure she drinks lotssssssss of water when she wakes up and takes more aspirin if needed. I’m out.”

You turn to walk off when Joel gets up “Hey ya sure bout walkin home now? I can drive ya.” He offers but you decline “Nah it’s alright Mr. Miller I can protect myself, I’ve always done it. Besides, why do you suddenly care,huh?“ you sarcastically laugh while slipping out of the house.

When you’ve turned away from him the snarky smile falls right off your face.

Joel actually felt somewhat sorry that night for the way he treated you all those times before.

That lasted until you decided to smoke weed with Sarah in his lil work shed that was situated in the back of his garden.

Joel would’ve realized either way if not by the smells wafting up his nostrils the moment he entered the shed later in the evening, then surely by Sarah’s unstoppable giggling, her slow mumbled speech or by the food flash she got.

When the two of you begged him to let you sleep over he eagerly agreed. Chalk it up to the weed that numbs your brain that this quick reaction didn’t seem suspicious.

Joel knows you will find him, you’ll see the open back door and walk right into his trap. You never sleep the night through when you spend it over at the Millers, he can hear you getting up and wandering around the house. Sarah on the other hand has got to be blessed with an extremely deep sleep.

The thought of overpowering you makes him smile giddily into the darkness of the shed.

As usual you wake up in the middle of the night, ever since being a little child the sleeping became a struggle and nothing works except tiring yourself out.

You get up out of Sarah’s huge plush bed, slip out into the hallway and down the stairs. There you immediately catch the wide open back door leading to the garden. Odd, Mister Miller would never in a million years leave that open.

You walk up to the sliding doors and when you stand in the threshold staring into the dark backyard you see that the shed is left open too.

Out of stupid curiosity you decide to investigate, not the smartest to perhaps walk right into a burglar who has a weapon but you don’t really care.

So you pat the way across the cold grass, it tickles the sole of your bare feet and the fresh midnight breeze actually feels awfully pleasant on your heated skin. Halfway you stop and glance upward at the beautiful full moon shining down on you.

After taking a deep breath you continue onward towards the shed.

When you reach the opening of the shed there’s really nothing you can see or hear. So you step further into it, carefully putting one foot in front of the other.

You feel like someone is watching you but you are unable to pinpoint where it’s coming from. It’s unsettling so you do something considerably stupid “Hello, hello is there anyone? Mister Miller are you in here?” You call out with a shaking voice.

No response.

A light flickering in the center of the room catches you off guard and now you can see him, the one that watched you.

Mr.Miller is sitting on a bar chair behind him is his working table, he leans his back against the edge of the table.

Your eyes immediately go to his slightly sweaty face -the Texas heat is unrelenting even in the middle of the night- he looks gorgeous illuminated by the tiny lamp glowing behind his shoulder on the cupboard. He’s smirking sinisterly at you.

You let your eyes wander over his broad shoulders that are clad in a green flannel. Inevitably your eyes slip down to his wide spread jeans covered thighs, they look so big and muscular.

He catches your staring and drops a hand on his thigh that slowly starts stroking up and down. Making you gulp audibly.

“M..M-..Mister M..Miller what are you doing here?” You stammer out.

“I was waitin for ya to come find me.” He huffs gruffly.

He continues “Close the door behind ya Lucky.”

You feel somewhat hypnotized by his slow calculated words as you, out of pure reflex, reach for the handle behind you.

As you shut the door, effectively trapping yourself with him he murmurs “That’s a good girl. Ya do know how to listen Lucky Girl.”

Hearing Joel call you a good girl in his signature dark molasses like voice had you squeezing your thighs together.

“Hmm ya like that baby, huh?” He inquires

“N..no, that would be fuckin weird.” You try sounding sincere but to no avail Joel has seen through you a long time ago.

“Lucky you are liar, a slut, a junkie..-“

You hiss “What did you just say?” While stepping closer to where he sits.

“Ya heard me right Lucky, you are a fuckin junkie, smoking weed in my shed with Sarah. Are ya outta your mind?” He throws back

“You gotta be kidding me, right? Big Bad Mr Miller is shitting his pants cuz of a bit of weed.” You wheeze.

“That’s enough.” He decides, getting up in one swift imposing movement. Suddenly he’s the one towering over you and he looks pissed.

He’s on you in the blink of an eye threading his hand through your hair grabbing a decent amount by which he pulls you with him.

“Ouch…ouch what the fuck let me go.” You huff while trying to get his hands out of your hair. But he doesn’t appreciate the disobedience and starts pulling even harder, which brings you to tears from the pain.

“Ohhh poor baby Lucky, look at those tears, ya not havin’ fun huh? That’s too bad darlin’ but I don’t care.”

He sits back down on the chair and in one swift motion pulls you over his thighs. Your belly rests on his crotch and your whole world is turned upside down.

“Clearly no one has ever taught ya a lesson, that’s why ya always behave like a bratty bitch.”

His free hand flits to your sleeping shorts and practically tears them off of you. At the ripping sound you yelp.

“Hmm look at that plump ass and those sweet lacy panties…ya always wear this slutty underwear when ya have a sleepover?” All while he’s groping you.

“What the hell are you doing Joel?”

“Aw is it not Mr.Miller anymore? Have we lost our manners lil girl? Or is there a better name for me, hmm?” He inquires.

For some reason you know exactly what he wants to hear but you're not inclined to give in. Yet.

“It’s fine baby ya don’t need to say it now, I’ll make you scream that goddamn name you fucking slut.” He pulls on your hair “Ya hear me bitch.?”

All you manage is a meak nod before he lets go off your face.

You can feel his warm and calloused hand on your cheek squeezing, stroking and poking. Then his hand is gone but not for long. You can’t even react. He's that fast in delivering the first smack to your behind.

“Ya gonna take what i give ya and behave cuz you wanna be a good girl, right? Ya wanna be my good girl,hmm?”

“Y..y-yes I do Mr.Miller.” You say defeated.

“Atta Girl. I think 10 should do it, for now, until ya feel like acting up again..”

He is unrelenting when it comes to punishing you, each time the impact is harder and more unexpected than the previous. You have to bite your lip in order to suppress a moan, even though it hurts it’s incredible. You can feel yourself becoming wet, with each time that his hand collides with your behind more slick gushes out of your pussy. At this point there must be a wet patch visible.

His bulge pressing against your stomach tells you how much this is affecting him too.

“Lucky I know ya try to hide it but I can smell how she’s leaking and if I check I’m sure I’ll find that cunt all sloppy for me, right?”

“Y..y-yes.”

“That’s what i thought.” And with that he continues the assault on your cheeks.

And it may be only ten but he makes them count, the blows are measured and hard. You guess your cheeks must be glowing at this point.

When he finally reaches 10 it feels like hours have passed since you decided to go wander around. He’s massaging your bruised ass. You finally feel like you’re getting a moment of peace but that couldn’t be further from the truth, because Joel threads his hand back into your hair and yanks you to face him.

He’s just staring at you, accessing you and then he kisses you.

It’s rough, teeth clashing, tongues swirling around, his hands urgently grabbing your face, your fingers tangled in his graying curls.

Though the kissing is over before it can escalate too far, Joel is once again pulling you by your hair, this time he’s more gentle, he pulls you off of his knees and pushes you down on them in the space between his spread thighs. You’re at eye level with his crotch now that looks painfully hard.

As you peek up at him through your lashes you muse “Looks like you got a problem, a big problem…Daddy. You want me to help you?” All while innocently tilting your head at him.

He grabs your face roughly “Shut up Lucky and put ya smart mouth to better use.”

“Don’t underestimate me Daddy. I’ll make you love me.” You say while giving him a cheeky wink.

Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI, thank you 🙏🏻

Npt: @toxicanonymity @aurorawritestoescape @milla-frenchy @joelmillerisapunk @joelslegalwhre @joelsdagger @tonysopranosrobe @luxurychristmaspudding @mountainsandmayhem @moonlitbirdie @joelalorian @sawymredfox @thundermartini @ace-turned-confused @almostfoxglove @pedropeach @joelsgreys @joelstummy @ovaryacted @iamasaddie @wintrwinchestr @littlemisspascal

[mikrokcsmos]

Marriage Material

synopsis; in which you witness firsthand exactly how much your boyfriend loves you (and distrusts all men).

pairing; boyfriend!jungkook x girlfriend!reader ft. taehyung

genre; minor angst, mainly fluff, humor, established relationship, bts run au

rating; PG-13

warnings; none just a jealous koo <3

w/c; 985

a/n; this debate was too cute. and this idea is even cuter. but jungkook be the cutest.

In his defense, you knew he was a very jealous person.

In your defense, it was his brother.

Jungkook does his best to catch your eye, but you’re too busy, to invested, in helping his older brother out with a perilla leaf.

Once it’s separated, you ask his brother if he’ll need help with more. You may be oblivious to your boyfriend’s agitation, but his brother isn’t.

Jeon Jung Hyun just chuckles nervously, grunting quietly to himself as Jungkook kicks his shin underneath the table again, before telling you no.

“It’s okay, y/n. My brother’s a grown man.”

He chides in from his seat across from you.

“Love, I do the same thing for you all the time and you are a grown man. Sometimes, people need help.”

As you say this, your focus is on perfecting your own perilla leaf, which ironically, you start to have trouble with. Your tongue sticks out in concentration, only for you to puff out your cheeks in minor frustration.

Seeing you having trouble, makes Jungkook’s eyes soften, and he lets out a quiet sigh in resignation. Later — he would explain in great detail exactly how he feels on the matter, but right now you needed him.

Wiping off his chopsticks with a napkin, he stretches out his arm, chopsticks aimed in determination to resolve your problem. When he sees your eyes light up from his help, he wants to puff out his chest the same way a superhero does, cause that’s how he feels whenever he helps you.

Whether it be reaching something up high for you, pulling out your chair and tucking it in, wiping specks of food off your face, giving you the last slice of pizza or bite of food in general (which is how you really know he’s in love with you), or separating a perilla leaf—

His eyes squint involuntarily as he thinks of that last one, but what he doesn’t realize is he’s still staring at you as he does it. You pause your chewing, brows raising in confusion at the look he’s giving you. You swallow.

“Why are you looking at me as if you’re about to murder me?”

“What?”

He snaps out of it instantly, sheepish smile on display at getting caught in his own head. His eyes flicker to his brother’s momentarily, and it has Jung Hyun stuffing his face with another perilla leaf you helped him with earlier in order to avoid his brother’s wrath. It only fuels his jealousy.

Following his line of sight, you find him glaring at his brother and frown.

“What’s with the gloomy face, y/n?”

Taehyung asks in question, sitting back down next to Jungkook, now back from his trip to the bathroom. Jungkook’s head swivels to yours.

“Did I do something wrong, love?”

You try to think back to moment’s later, head replaying the past in flashes until you sit up straight, eyes widening in epiphany.

“This has to do with that perilla leaf debate, doesn’t it?”

Jungkook tries his best to look everywhere but at you, and Taehyung stares between you both in amusement, chuckling.

“I missed something, didn’t I?” He lightly elbows Jungkook, who leans away from him, choosing to stay silent, but you know better now.

His hand fidgets with the straw in his cup as he nervously pokes his tongue out to play with his lip ring. That’s all you need to see, though, your hand coming to lay on his.

“Jungkook, love, look at me.”

He does. For only a minute. Eyes now focusing on Taehyung who leans into Jungkook to prod further.

“Y/N, did you help his brother with a perilla leaf, per chance?”

You purse your lips, as does Jungkook.

“I did.”

“Ah.” He nods, then leans back against the booth with his arms crossed. He nudges Jungkook with his shoulder.

“Are they gonna fall in love now, and get married?” Taehyung jestures, chuckling lightly, trying to ease the tension he’s slowly beginning to feel. Jungkook’s brother stays silent, fully aware it’s best not to add to the growing tension he didn’t mean to cause.

You give Taehyung a hard stare. He backs off, hands up in defense.

“Hey Tae, let’s go pay for the meal, yeah?” Jung Hyun offers suddenly, and Taehyung gives him a grateful smile.

“Yep! See you both…in a minute.”

Just like that, they walk away.

Taking the opportunity, you slide out of your seat and take Taehyung’s, now side by side with Jungkook. Again, you attempt to gain his attention by taking his hand in yours. This time, it works.

“You know I love you, right?” You start, tone soft.

“Of course.” He angles his body to face yours better, and now that he no longer has the napkin to play with, he defaults to playing with your fingers instead.

“You know I would never leave you—,” you wiggle your fingers in his grip for emphasis with your next words. “—especially when the whole reason we’re having dinner in this nice restaurant is to celebrate our engagement.”

He rubs the back of his neck, tilting it back to look at the elegant light fixture above the table for a split second, before fixing his gaze back on yours.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let it get to me as much as it did.” You caress his hand with the back of your thumb, eyes full of nothing but understanding.

No judgement.

“It’s just, how did I get so lucky that you chose me of all people to spend the rest of your life with?”

“I’ve been asking myself that since you put this ring on my finger, love.” You smile warmly at him, and his whole body fills with content. When you kiss, it makes every worry of his slip away, and all he can think about is how he can’t wait to marry you.

[verysium]

PLEASE DO BLUE LOCK ICKS IM BEGGING🙏😭🌹

😏 coming right up anon. gonna channel my inner critic and not hold back on any of these.

RIN

brother complex. not much else to say except that he needs to get a life. not everything is about metaphorically crushing your older brother's dreams and brooding in the dark hate of retribution.

competitive but only because he is a desperate whore for external validation. ignores everyone but craves the attention of a sole person named sae itoshi. was defeated by isagi once and has never let go of it since. has a one-track mind that is impossible to derail. stubborn when he wants to be.

probably a virgin and will continue to be one until his late 30s.

has not known a single day of peace ever since sae ditched him for the popular girlies. as a result, he has developed a very concerning case of social awkwardness. his idea of a conversation involves a brick wall and thirty minutes of you staring at his resting bitch face. constantly looks like that one grumpy cat meme. judges you for your poor decisions but then gets aggressively defensive when you point out his own mistakes.

reeks of so much teen angst that even metallica can't save him. the problem is that he has nothing to back up his emo persona. his insults lack creativity and, unfortunately for him, phrases like "lukewarm" and "half-baked" and "hell" do not make his words carry more weight. uses the f-word but in the most embarrassing context that it makes you facepalm and internally cringe.

SAE

zero social awareness. this boy's head is empty. the lights are not on up there. there are no picture frames or furniture. the curtains are drawn, and there is not a sliver of clouds or sunshine. cannot read body language and does not know what a filter is.

the source of all of rin's stress. he is the original trauma projector, creator of generational cycles. not even subtle about it. "turns out i was wrong. i thought japan was incapable of ever giving birth to decent forwards." sir....with the way you worded that, you knew exactly what you were doing when you gave rin false hope.

swears but it's even worse than his brother. literally called his elders a "fatso and bob cut duo" and "insect turd." i mean....there is a line between what is considered a legitimate burn and what is a first grader making up insults in his coloring book.

has a horrible haircut and no fashion taste. i already talked about this previously, but it was so bad it deserved a second mention.

a freak but tries to justify it rationally. like what do you mean you can tell a person's athletic ability from their buttock size? just admit you have a kinky fetish already.

somewhat of a coward but i'm gonna give him some leniency due to his tragic child genius backstory. tbh he's just an eighteen-year-old boy who needs a goddamn break.

KAISER

alexa please play clown music. this man sets himself for failure and then wallows in self-pity when he actually fails. like what did you expect? you knew what was going to happen the moment you challenged isagi like that. it was most definitely your fault you got violently humbled.

has a borderline god complex (currently calls himself an emperor but has not evolved into a deity yet.) unfortunately, he does not stand on business. cue the dramatic meltdowns when he realizes there is an actual gap between his ability and his reputation. if you're going to lie, at least make it believable.

insecure and mentally unstable. he probably cuts and re-dyes his hair every single time shit happens. no wonder his locks get shorter every time.

lazy when it comes to anything that is not football and expects others to do it for him. demands princess treatment wherever he goes. unfortunately, not all of us have servants with no self-respect like ness.

"it is not enough that i should succeed, others should fail" type of person.

does not wear shoes and even if he does, it's sandals. put them grippers away.

NAGI

a literal sloth who has so much potential but uses none of it. has no intrinsic motivation of his own, so if he's going to do anything, it has to be you behind the wheel, making sure he gets put to work.

does not have a close relationship with his parents, and so he has no sense of community, holidays, or traditions. no fun at all if you want him to do things like christmas shopping or birthday celebrations.

rots in bed all day and then has to nerve to ask you to carry him around. your back better be strong because his 190 cm body is not going to be light.

not loyal (need i say more.)

REO

second male lead syndrome. also known as that one popular guy who's always picked last.

acts like a victim but then when you realistically tell him to how to change his situation he refuses to do so. you cannot ask for advice and then take none of it to heart. no wonder you're still not over your ex.

"i can fix him" mentality. no, you can't. you are a seventeen-year-old child, not a licensed therapist and nagi isn't even all that.

NESS

touch-starved to the point he will stay in a toxic and abusive relationship in order to gain some scrap of affection. just because you were the black sheep of your family does not mean you can lose all sense of personal dignity.

probably stalks all the people he hates. has a burn book like regina george from mean girls. cuts out and glues little pictures of kaiser all over his bedroom. doodles hearts all over it with glittery gel pen. isagi's face and name are scratched out of every team photo.

delusional and prone to mood swings. medicated but at this point, he is beyond saving.

ISAGI

a home wrecker. has ruined more relationships than he can count on ten fingers yet still manages to smile like he's some angelic saint.

solves jigsaw puzzles for a living (not very cool if you ask me.)

has some unresolved anger management issues. probably repressed all his negative feelings when he was younger, so it all comes out when he's on the field. unfortunately, his twilight-sparkle-friendship-is-magic agenda is not going to work if he keeps cussing out his teammates like that. but then again, he is the main character, so i guess his plot armor makes up for his pitfalls.

says that he's a good guy but then holds personal vendettas against rivals he doesn't like. boy was so ready to throw hands when #kaisagi was trending on the internet. but when you actually think about, he's similar to kaiser in more ways than he'd like to admit.

BAROU

has the worst case of high and mighty "holier-than-thou" attitude. isagi put his ego in check, but it still peeks out from time to time.

he was the ugliest baby when he was born. i am not going to hold back on the child barou slander because it is true. no, he was not a cute and lovable bundle of joy. he looked like a demonic gremlin.

he needs to take more risks in life and try cross-dressing. simply imagining him in a maid uniform will not suffice. it needs to be made into a reality.

with how nit-picky he is, i doubt people can realistically stay within a 1-meter radius around him. unless you are a clean freak yourself, his constant complaints will start to get annoying after a time. even if he does have good intentions, he needs to let people have a little breathing room sometimes. a messy room is not going to kill you.

BACHIRA

this boy's brain is smooth. no folds. no gray matter. no intelligence either. his pencil and eraser have been left untouched since day one. if he wasn't crazily good at football, he would be unemployed and homeless in the future. not even a mcdonald's wants him.

one of those people who will do the literal opposite of whatever you say. you want him to stop talking? well, now he's never going to shut up. you tell him not to step on a pile of dog shit? well, now he's going to walk right into it. you want him to quit running around and act normal? well, now it's his life's mission to make you as annoyed as possible. please pray for your hair follicles because at the end of the day, you're not going to have many left with how much he makes you want to tear your hair out.

has the cerebral capacity of a toddler. if he thinks monsters are real, he's going to think anything is real. super gullible when it comes to any form of scam, ploy, or trickery. the only way he would not be fooled is if he's also played the same prank before.

SHIDOU

a brazen pervert. says the most out-of-pocket things and refuses to apologize for them. sometimes it comes out a little too sleazy for your liking.

"to me a goal is fertilization! a shot is the seed and the goal is the egg!! and the birth of that joy i call an explosion!! my genes are gonna knock you up!" let us give ourselves a moment of silence to digest this quote. only shidou ryusei would come up with a sperm and egg metaphor to describe football. (i guess protection means nothing to him.)

has no empathy. if you dislike him or cannot keep up with him, you're a literal nobody in his books. no sportsmanship. no compassion. no self-awareness.

you cannot say "balls" to him in a serious tone without him misinterpreting it as something dirty. that alone should tell you enough. stay the hell away from him.

where do men get the audacity? right here. from this little bastard. he invented the term "shameless slut." boy was getting off during the u-20 arc and on live TV too. no wonder sae said he was disgusting.

and finally, he comes from a long line of cockroaches. he's even got the antennae to prove it.

i think this might have been a little excessive, but i have no regrets about it. you're welcome anon ♡

[asliceofzosan]

sanji has always known he loved zoro.

subconsciously.

it's hidden in the steps he takes to maneuver around the sleeping marimo on the deck. it's written in the recipes he creates to account for the amount of nutrients he needs for his frankly ridiculous workout routine. it's embedded so deeply in the way he fights, back to back, one leg swinging in perfect synergy with zoro's blade. how he stands on his blind side more often on the field. but stands on his good side when they have a conversation.

so the words "i love you" come naturally to him. it's like he was always meant to say it to zoro. his presence was an appetizer. his words, the entreé. his actions, a delectable dessert that even his sweets-hating boyfriend craves for after a long day.

but sanji has never heard those three little words from zoro. not even once.

and sure, it's not like he goes around saying i love you to every beautiful lady he meets. he knows the gravity of such words. he knows how someone saying it can affect you in ways that can barely be comprehended by the human mind. it stirs something within ourselves that awakens the age old yearning to be cherished. to be held.

to be worth something to someone.

sanji can remember the rare times someone said i love you to him. once held in his mother's arms in a tender embrace that weakens with each passing second, it was whispered against his temple, frail fingers combing through his hair, and he cries without knowing that it would be the last time he hears those words for a very long time. once shaking in zeff's arms as the nightmares roar louder in his head than the storm that rattled the windows of the newly opened baratie, the older man choosing to be gentle with the child he willingly gave everything to in order to survive.

he's never heard it from someone who loved him like a partner. loved him like an equal. loved him in ways lovers are supposed to love each other.

maybe it's because he never had one of those until zoro. for the longest time, he survived on fairy tales and myths and legends. oral tradition passed down through generations of every family he encounters on their adventures out at sea. and though his life as a prince was nothing like the pictures painted in children's books, he always longed for a princess of his own. someone he could save from the proverbial tower guarded by a fearsome dragon.

he wanted someone to love him like a hero. their hero. someone who admires him for all the things he desperately projects for others to see him as worth keeping around.

zoro isn't a princess by any means. he's honestly so much more like the dragon. but also not. fearsome as he is fearful. immensely strong as he is soft hearted. a steady pillar as he is the first to crumble at sanji's touch.

and zoro never admired him like a hero. never cared about the best foot forward sanji took care to show others. in fact, he saw right through him from the very moment they met. it irritated sanji to no end how someone like that stupid marimo could read him like an open book. he took care to make sure the pages of his story that he deems undesirable were sealed away under lock and key. no one needed to know the plot points that brought him where he is. he needs to be the hero. he needs to be seen as the hero in his story.

but who exactly was he trying to save?

what kind of hero has no one to save?

it took several years for him to realize that the person he needed to save was himself. and zoro knew that.

of course he fucking did.

he never mollycoddled him. never softened the blow. always blunt and direct with him. it drove sanji up the wall once with how little tact he had. eventually, he actually started to appreciate how zoro never once sugarcoated anything with him. if he was upset, he'd show it. if he was happy, it would shine in his gaze clear as day.

and if he was in love?

well.

sanji can admit it took him much longer to realize that the love he felt for zoro was not only reciprocated but was so much deeper than what three little words could possibly convey.

there's a permanent space for zoro next to sanji, right in front of the sink, when dinner is over and the soapy water goes up to his elbows. the windows are always open in the crow's nest when sanji's watch comes right after zoro's, just enough for the smoke to escape but the smell to linger. the wordless nod zoro gives him when sanji is combing through marketplaces and dragged him along to be his pack mule. the strategically placed shoulder for him to jump off of when sanji needs to launch himself at an oncoming enemy.

the 2am fights that devolve into holding each other and apologizing without saying any words at all.

the way zoro carries him back to his bunk when he's fallen asleep in the galley writing recipes down. the kiss to his forehead. the hand that runs through his hair.

and here sanji thought his actions were the sweet dessert. for in the dead of night, when no one is watching, zoro's devotion is blinding. zoro's love shines like a beacon in a dark, stormy night.

the dragon perched on the roof of the tower, breathing fire for the lost prince to find his way home.

so sanji lets zoro comb through the pages of his story that he doesn't tell anyone else. he lets zoro guide his hand to flip to the blank pages, allows him to convince him that the parts of his story that mattered are the ones written by his own hand. and if the pages are soon filled with endless adventures of the prince and his swordsman, no one else will really understand it.

no one except zoro.

so yes. sanji always knew he loved zoro and that zoro loved him back just as fiercely or maybe even more.

even if he never heard those three little words.

what sanji doesn't know, is that when zoro is sure he is fast asleep, zoro whispers those words against sanji's ear. like a revenant prayer to a god. zoro doesn't believe in god.

but he believes in sanji. he always did.

[carlsangel]

his guardian angel (g.i.t.w, ch 6)

carl grimes x fem!reader

warning: breaking bones, blood all that jazz

masterlist here!

other chapters here! (plus a map to alexandria to make it make sense is here!)

Seeing Carl get shot was something you expected back when you first met him. Granted, back then you were making assumptions to tell yourself not to get attached. You didn’t expect him to get shot, but you told yourself he could. Seeing it was different than imagining it. He’s told you everything about himself. Maybe it was a bit fast for only knowing him a week, but you were the only person who would understand.

He told you about Lori. Every detail about her. The fact that her bathroom had a very distinct smell that came from a wallflower she used the same scent in all the time. He talked about the memories he had of walking in when he was little and she’d be putting her hair up in a clip or putting on deodorant. He mentioned her terrible pancakes she made on Sundays as well. He was grateful for his dog.

He talked about his dog that he had before the turn as well. He didn’t only feed Lori’s terrible pancakes to him but he also spent a lot of time with him. Sometimes if he fell while playing outside and scraped his skin, his dog would lick his face to make him laugh. It was a precious dog, from what he remembers.

His memories with Shane, well those were so sweet. He remembers his first day of school one year, he was sort of nervous. He wasn’t sure why, he was really little but he remembers Shane trying to make him feel better. It mostly worked, he went to school and had an amazing day. When his dad and Shane got home, they celebrated with pizza. He also talked to you about how he didn’t want those memories to be tainted by the fact that he watched him die so young. He realized that his dad had a reason to kill him as he got older, and he felt bad for resenting Rick like he did.

Thinking about everything he told you, right in that moment when he was shot, hurt like hell. It terrified you, almost like it was all for nothing. He didn’t deserve it. He shouldn’t have been there, in that spot in that moment. His life flashed before your eyes.

But that couldn’t stop you from doing what you came for,

You focus back on Carl and watch as his dad picks him up. You wanted to ensure he’d get somewhere safe. You wanted to help him. If you couldn’t be on the floor with him, you could serve as his guardian angel.

He has people protecting him in every which way, his dad runs through the walkers with him in his arms, in front of him is the woman who you know to be Michonne. She’s slicing through them like they were nothing, meanwhile you begin to shoot. Any walker that approaches Rick at his sides, you kill. You find out the general direction they are running to, so you clear the entrance for them. Meanwhile you can hear walkers pooling at the bottom of the house you were on top of. It didn’t occur to you that there may be people inside.

So you panic. You clear a couple more walkers through the path and they get him inside. If you drop from the roof of the front of house, the building they ran into is straight ahead. He’s safe now, you can go to him. So you do. You safely maneuver yourself to the front of the roof to find there’s a somewhat of a clear path. It was now or never. You slide down the roof and hit the floor quite hard; a sharp pain overtaking any other feeling in your body. Your feet tingle and you feel like you can’t walk but you have to. You have to run.

There were walkers left and right, you used the back of your rifle to push them away. You can’t help but think that this run feels like forever, especially with your backpack and rifle dragging you down. Not to mention the excruciating pain in your ankle. You run onto the porch and slam into the door, you scramble to get the door open but instead, someone opens it and pulls you inside. With pulling you inside, they also pull you to the floor. You hit the floor hard, your backpack and the belongings inside jabbing into your back and you wince. Above you was Rick, an axe in his hand which he held to you.

“Who are you?” His voice is grim and gruff. You didn’t realize it but your hands were raised as if you were in a stick up. Michonne rushes over and pulls him off you. The others in the room are shocked to see you, especially Aaron. He’d look for you constantly before Carl, he’s the one who supplied you with a lot without even interacting. “She’s just a kid.” He shouts. “The Ghost in the Woods. She’s just a kid.” Aaron says in astonishment. You sit up, letting your backpack and rifle slide off your shoulder and you press your hand against your back to alleviate the pain. “Holy shit.” You croak, Aaron moves to help you. He gets you standing and while he does that, you can’t help but notice Rick storm out of the building, which you soon learn is the infirmary.

Upon standing up you see Carl and the wound in his eye. You pull from Aaron to look at him, then the woman working on him. “He’s alive?” You question in pure disbelief. How did he manage to live? “Yes, for now, but I need space to work on him. Sit down and I’ll check on you after.” She orders, focusing on the sutures in his eye. You nod and let Aaron help you. Soon everyone’s rushed out of the infirmary. You sit there in silence, listening to the sound of people grunting and shouting as they fight the dead. It’s just you, the doctor, and Carl.

You’re somewhere you never thought you’d be in a million years.

─── ⋆⋅ ꒰ა 𐚁 ໒꒱ ⋅⋆ ───

A couple hours later, after finding out you’d broken your ankle after hopping off roofs a bunch, you were told you’d be stuck in the infirmary. All the walkers were killed, you were told about some fire in the large pond Alexandria had and you were sad to miss it. People came in and out, getting checked up while you rested. While sleeping, you couldn’t help but recognize a familiar voice. Your eyes flicker open and you look to the people in the room.

You’re so delirious, that when you wake up to be met with the sight of your sister, you think you are dead. Or dreaming. It’s a cruel ass dream if it is. But, you know you aren’t because your head is pounding and the pain in your ankle is throbbing. She barely walks in the door and sees you. She calls out to you so you sit yourself up and rub your eyes, but she’s already tackling you in a hug. That’s when you knew it was all real. You can smell and feel her hair, plus the soft jolts that come from her body as she sobs into your shoulder.

She looks so different. She’s drenched in blood. Her face is more mature and her hair is longer. She looks incredibly tired. But she’s absolutely ecstatic. “I’ve been looking for you.” She tells you, pulling away from your shoulder to admire you. Granted you’re covered in walker insides and you smell like shit, but she still admires you. “You have?” You mutter. She nods and smiles brightly. “I just arrived here with a group. The…leader his name is Rick. How did you get here?” She looks concerned as she gently holds the back of your head, taking in your presence.

“It’s a long story.”

She sits in bed with you and you share your stories. Apparently she found the group after the prison fell and had been with them since. Carl never really mentioned her, you didn’t notice her when she arrived at the gate either, mainly because you were too focused on Carl. She also looks nothing like she did when you’d last seen her. When she arrived her hair was a massive mess that didn’t give you a chance to look at her face. All the other times you could’ve observed her you spent with Carl. She felt bad when she found out how you’d been living. Being the Ghost in the Woods and all.

A bit later, maybe a day and a half went by and you hadn’t seen Carl. Now, you were clean and patched up. You left him alone for a while, just because he was upset about losing his eye. It freaked him out and he needed time to process. Although, he was relieved to hear that you were there. But, soon enough, your sister took you into his room to see him. He was awake and sat up in bed. He was happy to see you. You trudge in, your arm on your sister’s shoulder and shes holding on you tightly around the waist. She sits you down at the edge of his bed and you look at him for a moment and just smile. He looks between you and your sister. It takes him a moment and he squints his eye.

“That’s…” He croaks out. He soon realizes how similar you two look and he puts the pieces together. “Your sister.” He smiles softly, quite shocked but still calm and quiet. “Why didn’t you tell me?” You question jokingly. Your sister giggles at his astonishment and leaves the room. “I’m glad you two found each other. You deserve it.” He tells you. You smile brightly at him. “I’m glad you’re alive. You had me worried you know?” Your words are nervous, yet almost giddy. “You were worried?” He teases. “I thought you said no attachments.”

You roll your eyes.

“Yeah whatever.” You scoot over and lay your back against him and he wraps his arm around you, leaning his head against yours.

He was content. He was happy. But so were you. You didn’t have to isolate yourself anymore. Maybe you lost your dad, but that’s just apart of life. You got your sister back.

Maybe attachment isn’t the worst thing in the world.

a/n: i hope u guys enjoyed the series i love it to DEATH!!!! if you want to request more fics or drabbles and stuff pertaining to this series i will for sure write it bc im so sad its over but YEAH!!! ermmm…that’s all i have to say :)) thank u for readingggg OKAY I LOVE YOU BYE!!!!

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