#tw roughhousing

[tryan-a-bex]

Fathers and Sons

This is for Ouiche. Read it on ao3. Why is Destruction called Joe?

Hob stretched his arms in the beautiful early spring sunshine. Dream’s brother Joe and sister Del were visiting, with Del’s dog Barnabas. They’d agreed together to visit the nearby dog park, ostensibly so Barnabas could run a bit, but actually to get Del away from the New Inn’s patrons. She tended to augment the effects of alcohol unexpectedly, with sometimes undesirable results especially if Joe was also present (Hob had seen enough bar fights, and it was too early in the day to deal with that). No, he’d much rather be here, sitting on the bench between Joe and Dream, while Dream desultorily scattered the bird seed Hob had persuaded him to purchase instead of bread for the crows and pigeons, and occasional seagull, chipmunk or squirrel. 

“Hob! Dream!” An excited squeal drew his attention as a rambunctious five year old with pink ponytails charged toward them, followed closely by a big white dog and less closely by a tall slim white man with tidy blond hair.

“Anya! Bond! Loid!” Hob greeted them with a smile, as Dream held back his grumble about the birds scattering.

“Borf!” Bond greeted him back, as Hob scratched his head.

“Anya came to play in the dog park! Look, Bond! There’s Del and Barnabas!” Anya and Bond took off again for Del, as Loid drew up to the group and nodded his greeting. 

“Joe, this is our friend, Loid Forger,” Hob introduced. “Loid, this is Dream’s brother, Joe.” Loid and Joe nodded and smiled, handshakes and air kisses having mostly disappeared after Covid. 

“Actually, if you don’t mind,” Loid said, glancing at Joe and then looking at Dream, “I have a question for you.” Joe and Dream both nodded permission, Hob’s eyebrows rising in curiosity.

“It’s been very different around our home since we learned Anya’s secret. How did you get her to tell us?”

“Ah, yes,” Dream began. “She was writing about the visit to the aquarium, and she revealed to me how much danger she was in because she tried to help you with your work, and how Yor saved her. I merely told her of a time I was in danger, and how, if I had not been keeping so many secrets from Hob, he would have been able to help me.” He paused to gaze adoringly at Hob for a moment, then turned to Loid again. “She’s very bright and saw the point immediately. Truly, your work and Yor’s in gaining her trust had done most of the work already. Apparently, she had not had any trustworthy adults in her life before you.”

Loid sighed. “Yes, it’s true. The orphanage where I found her was very grey and dim, and I can only hope she doesn’t have many memories from the time before that.  We are so happy we can give her a chance at a real childhood, one where she is taken care of rather than having to take care of herself and everyone else too.”

Joe turned to look at Anya and Del, and laughed at the sight of them gamboling in the sunshine with their dogs. “She looks happy and carefree today!” he observed. 

Loid smiled in quiet pride. Hob wondered if he’d admitted to himself yet how besotted he was with his family.

“Well,” he confessed, “today she is helping me with my work again! We are meeting her classmate here to play, and his father is someone I’ve been looking forward to talking to for quite some time!”

Just then, Hob was distracted by two sleek, dark cars pulling up at the entrance to the park. From the first, a tall, severe man emerged, followed by a young boy and an older one holding a dog in his arms. The older boy put the dog down and released his leash as two security persons exited the second car. 

“Damian!” Anya yelled, running for the group with Del in tow. Hob noticed with amusement how the older boy’s interest was piqued by Del. He was just the age to notice someone her apparent age.

“Over here!” Loid waved to the newcomers with a friendly smile. The man watched his sons greet Anya and Del for a moment, then turned toward Loid as his security found unobtrusive stations from which to observe the park.

“Loid Forger,” he nodded on reaching them. 

“Mr. Desmond,” Loid nodded back. “These are my friends, Hob and Dream, and their brother Joe.” 

“Please, call me Donovan,” he requested, and Hob watched Loid carefully not let his jaw drop. 

“Of course, Donovan,” Loid responded smoothly. “Thank you for bringing Damian to play with Anya.”

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you.” If Loid wasn’t a spy, Hob thought, he would have staggered at that. As it was, it was only Hob’s hundreds of years’ experience reading body language that let him see the well controlled reaction.

“We should let you sit!” Hob exclaimed, dragging Dream up with him. Loid and Donovan took the free spaces on the bench, but Donovan looked up and said, “Please stay. Perhaps you can help with my quandary also.” Hob nodded curiously, wondering why Dream, rather than wanting to leave shyly, seemed so invested in this conversation with a total stranger.

“You see,” Donovan began, “all my life I’ve thought that I could keep my family safe by winning the war. But this week, I’ve had some very vivid dreams.” Hob suddenly realized why Dream was so focused. “I’ve dreamt that I was playing with my sons, hugging them and laughing. I’ve never done this, and my father didn’t either so I don’t know where it is coming from. I was taught to keep my emotions inside, and I’ve raised my boys the same way. In these dreams, we are so happy.” He pauses to glower. “Then the war comes, and everything is destroyed.” Hob sees the pain of his past wartime experiences eating him from the inside. “As always, I do everything I can, but nothing is enough to save my family. Then the dream takes an even worse twist. I suddenly discover that it is not the enemy but my own nation which has destroyed my life!” 

“Yes,” Joe interrupted. “That’s always the way of it with war. People make the enemy inhuman so they can justify killing them. In the end, everyone dies just the same. The only way to end war is to realize that we are all human; everyone has a friend, a brother, a mother, who will hurt when they die. Wars are not started by violence but by power, greed and delusion. They are not ended by violence but by looking honestly at the cost and finding another way.”

“So, how do I keep my family safe?” Donovan pleaded desperately.

“You work for peace,” Loid suggested.

“You love them every day you have them, in the way they can receive it best,” added Hob.

“You dream bigger, more complicated dreams than winning the war,” Dream declared.

“You work for change that grows slowly rather than laying waste to all before it,” Joe pronounced.

A loud shout of laughter interrupted them, and they turned to see Del, the children, and the dogs   heading in their direction. As they all tumbled to a stop by the bench, gasping for breath, Damian and Demetrius both started arguing, competing for their father’s attention. Donovan sternly held up his hand, and the boys came to an abrupt halt, standing straight and looking at their feet.

“What is all this?” he questioned, with a clear attempt to soften his harsh tone.

“Well it’s my fault,” Delirium twirled between him and the boys, “well, not really my fault. But I started it. Or Anya started it. Anyway it was about the butterflies. Well not really the butterflies, the butterflies are fine. It’s just that Anya wanted butterflies.”

“And I want some too!” Damian shouted.

“Butterflies are for sissies!” Balling his fists, Demetrius rounded on his brother. 

“Ah, I see the problem here.” Hob stepped calmly between the two boys, putting his hands gently on their shoulders. He saw Donovan taking mental notes and hoped he noticed the calm tone as well as the grounding physical touch.

“Donovan, I’d like you to meet my sister, Del. Del, this is Donovan, the boys’ father.” Del turned her head almost upside down and squinted at Donovan.

“He needs a butterfly too!” she declared.

“Della, that’s a beautiful name,” he mused. Was that the hint of a gentle smile, Hob wondered, shooting Dream one of those spousal telepathy glances that said, Let him have his little delusion, he doesn’t need the weight of Delirium’s full name today. Dream subsided, as he always did when Hob was right.

“Anya wants butterflies in her hair!” proclaimed Anya. “Hob had butterflies in his hair!”

“That’s right!” Hob regarded the touch starved young adolescent under his hand and wondered if a bit of rough housing would do him good. With an internal shrug, he took Demetrius’ feet out from under him and gently pinned him to the ground. “And I am a sissy” he glanced fondly at Dream, “but not that kind of sissy.” Demetrius’ jaw dropped in awe and Hob figured he was ready for a bit more of a lesson. “I don’t want you using that word as an insult again, okay, young man?”

“Okay!” Demetrius nodded eagerly. Hob let him up and brushed a piece of grass off his shoulder. 

“Good man. Now, who wants butterflies?”

Del brought her hands together and when she separated them a cloud of colourful butterflies rose into the air. She plucked them out of the air one by one and placed several on Anya’s head. Anya twisted and turned to try to see them and laughed with glee.

“Me! Me! I want a blue one! And a green one!” Damian danced in delight as Del placed them on his head.

“Pink for Hobsie again!” Del giggled as she placed a couple in Hob’s hair. 

“Oh, no,” Dream groaned, as she plucked a black one and headed for him. Glancing at Hob, then Demetrius, he bowed his head and accepted it gravely.

With a kiss on Joe’s forehead, she bestowed orange, yellow and red butterflies on his red hair and full beard. He beamed at her in open affection, then returned to doggy scritches.

Del tiptoed precariously around the water bowl Loid had filled for Bond, Barnabas and Damian’s dog, Max, and placed blue and yellow butterflies in his hair to match his socks.

“So many butterflies to pick and choose from, so many brothers and sons and fathers!” she prattled as she twirled back to Demetrius. “What colour for you? Salmon or coral or puce or teal?”

“What kind of colours are those?! Red! I just want red!” he decided hastily. Placing a red butterfly in his hair, she turned toward Donovan. Hob watched the emotions flicker over his face. Taken aback, first, at the thought of decorations in his hair, but then considering as he gazed at his two already adorned sons. A glimmer of affection, and then determination. 

“Red,” he announced, looking at Demetrius, his Firstborn Son who he’d been so terribly hard on; and then, turning to the son he hardly knew but who he suddenly saw was desperately seeking his attention, his Second Son, Damian, he declared, “and blue!” As Del crowned him with fluttering butterflies, he put a hand on each of his sons’ shoulders, just as Hob had done.

Previous: Come sit on my lap

First: Space Buns

[velolceraptor]

And some doodles that I like making

(also tw for blood on the third and fourth pictures)

[shadowxamyweek]

Shadow, how many times have you felt the wrath of Amy’s hammer in combat? Is it as painful as it looks?

Shadow: There have been several times when our... goals... or modus operandi... were not the same. Such occurrences are far and few between now, thankfully.

If I am to go against her hammer now, it is usually in practice. She has this opinion that her previous sparing partner, Knuckles, was being gentle with her. Because of this, she asked to train with me.

Maybe that is why she entered the first practice session so angry. She has since apologized several times, with several baked goods, for dislocating both my shoulders, but what is important is that I have also been reminded of an excellent lesson:

Do not fight an angry Amy Rose.

[heiressofdoodles]

Finally I found a way to get around my perfectionism when it comes to sketch dumps. Anyways, have these two dumbasses. I will provide context... eventually. Not today, but maybe one day.

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - non/con, manipulation, mentions of breeding, and unbalanced power dynamics.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who's ecstatic the day his owner, Suguru, brings you home. He's the pinnacle of a spoiled pet, constantly showered in toys and treats and affection, but his owner's a busy man, and he tends to sulk when left home alone. He's had other companions before, another leopard hybrid who nearly killed him before being released back into the wild and a black panther who somehow proved to be a worse influence on Satoru than Satoru was on her, but you're supposed to be more permanent solution, another hosuepet to keep him company when Suguru can't. You're a sweet little housecat, all wide-eyes and raised ears, but still, Suguru wouldn't be surprised if you're begging to go back to the shelter less than an hour after meeting your new roommate.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who falls in love with you immediately. Suguru practically has to keep him in a chokehold while you explore your new home, eventually curling up on your new bed. Satoru's on top of you as soon as he gets loose, purring obnoxiously while he runs his bristled tongue over your cheek. Suguru's half-convinced that your first day's going to end with bloody claws and bandages, but you only nuzzle into his chest and knead at the blankets underneath you. Satoru's a difficult cat to put up with, and Suguru's relieved that you, at least, find him tolerable.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who's absolutely massive compared to you. The tips of your pointed ears barely reach his collarbones, and your wrist is only as thick as his fluffy tail. His favorite hobby quickly becomes carrying you from room to room despite your softly mewled protests, and he's not happy unless he's pressed against you as closely as possible. He used to force himself into Suguru's lap whenever possible, but now, he's unbearable unless you're sitting pretty in his. He doesn't even complain when you lose your temper and dig your little fangs (barely half the size of his - a poor imitation of a real predator's) into his arm, just grinning as he tugs at your ears and pinches your cheeks. He's not exactly a wild animal, but he's still at the top of his food chain. You're not quite a mouse, but you might as well be, compared to him.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who's calling you his mate after less than a full month. You don't know what it means, often parroting it back as more of a question than a term of endearment, and Suguru just brushes it off as Satoru being deliberately irritating. He keeps it up, though. even after you start refusing to respond to it.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who starts introducing you to new "games". You know you don't stand a chance against him, but somehow, he always manages to goad you into roughhousing, into squirming as he pins you under his full weight. He likes to dangle things above your head, to see how long it takes your instincts to get the best of you before your chest is pressed against his and you're pouting so adorably as you jump and bat at his hand. Sometimes, when you fall asleep mid-grooming session, he'll let his mouth wander lower than it should, and you'll wake up to his tongue lapping over your chest, his face buried between your thighs in a way that leaves you teary-eyed and warm. You've tried to tell Suguru, but you always get embarrassed and end up mumbling something as vague as 'Satoru's being mean to me, again.' In the end, Satoru only ever gets a slap on the wrist and a new reason to tease you, next time Suguru turns his back.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who fucks you whenever Suguru isn't home. He planned on waiting for your first heat (delayed by your shelter suppressants and the stress of a new home), and he knows he's not supposed to, but he just can't get enough of having your smaller body curled up underneath his, your tail thrashing from side to side as he lazily rolls his hips against yours. You tend to whine, at first, to go on and on about how weird it feels and how much it hurts, but as soon he gets his cock inside of you, all those complaints tend to go away. It's almost funny, how easily your stupid little kitty mind gets all hazy and cockdrunk. He always loves you, but he loves you most when you're drooling and purring for his cum, begging him to breed you properly between hitched moans.

Snow Leopard!Satoru, who's not even mad when Suguru catches him bouncing your half-conscious, fucked-out body on his cock. He wants to be the best possible mate for you, and he couldn't do that if he wasn't willing to show you off <3

[obscure-imagines]

what you really want - Mihawk

👹 staring. Dracule Mihawk x afab!Reader

⚔️ preview. Some days you wish he’d settle down, wish he’d just choose an island and stay with you forever, but you know his first love will always be the sea. He’s a pirate, through and through, and you suppose you can’t blame him for that.

tw/cw. unprotected sex, quickie, multiple reader orgasms, big dick Mihawk, begging, dirty talk, breeding kink, fullness kink, slight cum kink, choking, manhandling, roughhousing, using a table hanging from the ceiling as a sex swing, instructed masturbation?, deep penetration, overstimulation crying, hair pulling, etc… I pet names: (hers) darling, good girl. (his) Captain.

🔞 rating. 18+ explicit I SMUT I wc. 3.2k

⚔️ aus. One Piece Live Action, established relationship, pwp, etc…

🎈 mlist + an. It's the way I haven't been active on this blog in 3 years and then this stupid pirate show comes out and now I'm sinning again- I honestly couldn't help myself with this one

You’re in the kitchen rolling out dough when you feel a body press against your back. There’s only one person with the balls to touch you like this. As a girlfriend to one of the seven warlords of the sea, and the greatest swordsman in the entire world, everyone knows your body is off-limits to anyone but Mihawk.

“When did you get in?” you ask, pressing your ass back against him, enjoying the feeling of his breath on your throat.

“Just now.” His hands trace the curves of your hips, and you have to fight the groan that threatens to slip out of your mouth at his touch.

“Did anyone see you?” It’s definitely interesting being a member of the Strawhats while being involved with Mihawk. He’ll show up out of the blue, completely unannounced, and it’s clear to everyone what he’s here for.

You often feel very sinful any time he leaves, when you exit your cabin or the bathroom or wherever he just fucked your brains out, only to find the crew watching you with unreadable expressions.

“Your cook-”

“Sanji,” you interject, doing your best to teach Mihawk the names of your friends in the hopes that he’ll be more sociable with them.

“Sanji,” your boyfriend repeats with a sigh. “I bumped into him on the deck, he said the kitchen is all ours.”

“This should be fun.” You grin, releasing the dough and wiping your flour covered hands on your apron. “I’m guessing you didn’t show up to talk.”

“Definitely not.”

“So the question is…” you grind your ass back against him, “is that a sword in your pants, or are you just happy to see me, Captain?” 

He lets out a small laugh, digging his fingers into your hips to pull you flush to his chest. Mihawk is always amused when you refer to him as Captain. It’s always in a sexual capacity, and even though he’s a crewless pirate, the title feels fitting. On top of everything else, the ‘sword in your pants line’ is somewhat comical, as his sword, Yoru, is absolutely unmistakable when pressed against your body. 

“I guess I’m just happy to see you,” Mihawk sighs. He’s not the best with praise or dirty talk, preferring a more silent approach, but it’s always rewarding to work admissions of interest out of him. 

“So why are we still talking?” you ask.

It’s as easy as anything for him to turn you in his embrace, one hand reaching up to pinch your chin as he presses his lips to yours. Your arms wrap around the back of his neck, and you press your chests together, enjoying the feeling of your breasts against his muscles. 

The kiss is almost gentle at first, but it quickly becomes heated, with his tongue dipping into your mouth. You sigh at the feeling. You’ve missed Mihawk. Some days you wish he’d settle down, wish he’d just choose an island and stay with you forever, but you know his first love will always be the sea. He’s a pirate, through and through, and you suppose you can’t blame him for that.

His hands slip down your body, squeezing your breasts, toying with your nipples through the thin fabric of your shirt. He pulls away from your mouth, staring down at you with Hawk eyes full of lust. “Turn around, and bend over the table, darling.”

You swallow thickly at the command, grabbing his jaw and pressing one final kiss to his lips before following through. The solid cooking table has more than enough space for you to flatten your chest against it without having to worry about messing up the dough or getting flour on your shirt. In fact, it’s probably one of the sturdiest locations for Mihawk to fuck you from behind. 

A soft sigh escapes you as his hand trails down your body, then he’s roughly gripping your trousers, tearing them down until they pool at your feet. He’s discarded your panties as well, and your skin tingles at the cool air that brushes over your hot, exposed core.

You hear Mihawk dealing with his own pants, and you wiggle your ass as an invitation, impatience getting the best of you. It’s been over a week since you’ve seen your boyfriend, over a week since anyone has touched you, or kissed you, or filled you up to the brim until you were crying-

“I missed you,” you tell him, relaxing your cheek against the wood of the table as he rubs his cock through your pussy lips, coating himself in the wetness already beginning to drip out of you.

Mihawk doesn’t return your sentiment, he only lets out a small grunt, grabbing your hip roughly as he begins to push into your core.

There’d been hardly any foreplay, so the stretch of his thick cock against your inner walls has you crying out and grabbing the edge of the table. You kind of like the pain though- being with a warlord of the sea is just like that sometimes. It’s quickies, and roughhousing, gasping into each others mouths and stripping naked the moment you get each other alone.

Your boyfriend can be kind though. He doesn’t push all the way into you, doesnt sink balls deep- he thrusts shallowly, and you can feel his gaze fixed on your tight pussy as you swallow more of him up, inch by inch-

“Fuck,” you groan, clawing at the wood. 

“Good, darling?”

“So good,” you whimper, feeling your toes curl when he’s finally pushed all the way inside of you, the tip of his cock just kissing your cervix. “Oh my god, you better fuck me stupid-”

“I intend to,” he promises, grabbing your waist with both hands to keep you presses to the table. His first thrust is rough, making you cry out and wiggle in his grasp. Your hips are pushed uncomfortably against the edge of the table, and as Mihawk finds a fast pace, each rut of his hips sends you forward.

It’s not very painful, although, you might bruise tomorrow. Part of you almost wishes you do. You love reminders of him, marks that make you think of him balls deep in your aching core-

“Captain-” you whimper, panting against the wooden surface of the table as he fucks you harder and harder, making you almost dizzy. 

“Let me hear you,” he instructs.

His hand finds the back of your neck only for his fingers to slip around the front of your throat and pull- he makes you arch your back, body contorted for him. The sensation makes you gasp, deep groans escaping you. Each smack of his hips against your ass has whimpers leaving your lips. Your eyes are closed, mind entirely focused on the feeling of his perfect cock filling you up and destroying you for any other man.

“Mi-Mihawk,” you stutter, lower lip warbling with effort, your body nearly overwhelmed already.

“Touch yourself. I want you to cum.”

You swallow thickly while he pulls you up from the table, tightening his grip on your throat and  giving you the space to slip your hand down to your pussy while he fucks you in a half standing position. You can feel his breath against the nape of your neck, can hear him panting-

Even small sounds are such a turn on for you. You can’t see his face right now, but it’s sexy to know that he might be as effected as you are by all of this. 

Your fingers brush by your clit and you cry out at the sensation, clenching your eyes shut while your pussy throbs around his cock. “Oh my god-”

“That’s it, darling. You’re close.”

You can only nod, applying more pressure to the sensitive bud while he continues fucking you stupid. His grip on your throat doesn’t help the situation- it makes you lightheaded in the best possible way, your stomach muscles tensing as your orgasm builds in the pit of your stomach.

“I’d like to hear you beg for this first one.”

You moan loudly, the throbbing intensifying between your legs. “Please, Captain, please-”

“You can do better than that,” he scoffs, lips finding the side of your throat before his teeth bite at your shoulder.

“I’m so close, please make me cum- only you can make me cum this way, oh my god, your cock- it’s so deep- it’s so good-” 

You feel a tear slip down your cheek, and your core clenches unbelievably tight around him- you’re on the edge, but you can’t cum without permission. Mihawk has trained you well, and by the satisfied sound he lets out, you think he knows it.

“Good girl,” he praises, and it goes straight to your pussy, making your legs quake with effort- “Cum.”

It’s the one word you need to fall over the edge, and as your pussy practically explodes with pleasure, you find yourself being pushed down to the table again. Mihawk’s hand leaves your throat, fingers digging into your hips as he fucks you through your orgasm. 

You can feel your juices dripping our around his cock, making a mess of your thighs- all you can do is claw at the wooden surface and take what he gives you, cries of ecstasy leaving you uncensored. 

He fucks you until you’re shaking, fucks you until your core stops throbbing around his thick length, then he pushes into you completely, holding you flush to his front. “Take a breather, darling,” Mihawk tells you, “I’m sure your Captain wouldn’t be pleased if I leave you completely broken.”

You can’t believe he’s bringing up  Luffy at a time like this- can’t believe he sounds so nonchalant, as if your pussy didn’t just try to milk him for everything he’s worth. Mihawk is just like this, you suppose. He’s always controlled, and it’s one of the sexiest things about him.

“You’re my Captain,” you whisper, heart still thundering in your rib cage. “You can leave me however you want.”

His hand caresses your ass, squeezing the flesh and making you twitch around him. 

“Turn around, I want to see your face.” He pulls out of your pussy and you moan at the loss. Your legs are shaky, you can hardly stand as you move to face him, leaning back against the table. 

Mihawk is too handsome for his own good. His facial hair is immaculate, and his eyes are bewitching. 

He cups your cheek and you lean against his hand, enjoying the soft moment of reprieve before the next round that you know is coming. 

“Beautiful,” he tells you, leaning in to kiss you gently. 

You reach for his hat, taking it off his head to place on yours, and it makes his lips stop. He pulls away and looks down at you darkly. You can only grin up at him. “Am I still beautiful?” you prompt.

“Always,” Mihawk responds easily, reaching own to cup your ass and lift you off the ground, prompting you to wrap your legs around his strong hips, trousers now discarded on the ground.

Your lips find each other, and you kiss him deeply while he carries you through the kitchen. When you’re set down, you find yourself on top of a wooden table platform hanging from the ceiling on four chains- you’ve never realized before that this is practically a sex swing.

This wooden platform that Zoro laid on while recovering from wounds your boyfriend gave him, is now going to be the very tool used to fuck you absolutely stupid. You’ll never be able to look at it the same way again, and you don’t want to. 

Mihawk pulls away from your lips, and you watch him take off his jacket. He places the duster and his beloved sword on the cooking table just behind you, taking the hat off your head to discard it with the rest of his clothes. You take the opportunity to remove your shirt, leaving you completely bare for your boyfriend, whose gaze takes in every inch of your body now that you’re exposed.

“I missed you too,” he says softly, reaching up a hand to grab at your breast, teasing your nipple between two fingers. 

You arch your back, legs quivering around his hips from the stimulus as well as his words. “Then fuck me,” you tell him. “Fuck me full of your cum until I’m dripping. Fuck me so deep that I’ll have a part of you with me even after you leave- I want to feel you inside for a week.”

Mihawk gives you baby fever like no other man you’ve ever met, and staring at him now- knowing he’ll leave you soon after this, it makes you even more desparate. You love him more than you’ll ever be able to say- but maybe if you gave him a baby, you’d be able to show him that he’s the only man that will ever have your heart. 

You watch his adam’s apple bob with effort, his hands slipping down to your thighs. He massages your skin, pulling you forward, his aching cock teasing between your pussy lips-

“You’ve always had such a dirty mouth, darling,” he tuts.

“You love it,” you insist, leaning back down against the wooden platform. “You love how dirty you make me. Love it when I’m begging for you.”

The tip of his cock pushes into your core and you both let out sounds of pleasure. You’re so wet, it’s the easiest thing for him to sink into you, and the swinging platform allows him to pull you close, only to push you away a little, using the hanging table to his advantage. 

With one hand, he can control the table, and with the other, his thumb can find your clit. 

Your legs shake around his hips, the sensitive bud is still trying to recover from your first orgasm, and the stimulation isn’t helping. 

“Mihawk,” you moan, already feeling desperate again. 

“You’re pretty like this, darling,” he tells you. “If you start to beg, I might just give you what you want.”

He’s not applying enough pressure to your clit to make you cum and you both know it. He’s just teasing you, gently rocking you onto his cock while your toes curl and your body nearly shakes. He’s such a fuck, but you love him so much.

“Please, you know what I want,” you whimper. “It’s the same thing I always want.”

“Go on.”

“I want you to fuck me rough. Want you to feel good. Want you to cum deep inside.”

“There’s more too it though. Don’t deny it, darling. I know what you want. What you really want.”

You blink at him in confusion, and he begins to rock into you harder, faster. His thumb applies more pressure to your clit, working it in tight circles that have your pussy clenching tightly around his cock.

“You want me to fuck a baby into you, don’t you?” he asks, although, the question definitely feels rhetorical. “You want me to give you the one thing I’ve never given anyone. You want me to make you mine, completely. To do the one thing that would show everyone who you really belong to.” 

“Mihawk-” you whimper, body tingling with overwhelm from his words alone.

“This is why you’re always begging for my cum like a whore in heat, why you always want me to cum inside since the first time we fucked.” Mihawk lets out a small chuckle, grinning. “Bet you thought I had no idea, but trust me darling, I know your games.”

“They’re not games,” you try to insist, but your words are broken and whimpered as he fucks you more intensely, the wooden platform swinging almost aggressively now with each rough thrusts. 

“Tell me what you really want.”

You gasp as he pinches your clit between two fingers, your body contorting against the tabletop. Your eyes clench shut and you feel your skin heating with your impending orgasms. “I want you to give me babies!” you admit, feeling a wave of relief to finally say what’s been on your mind for months. “I want to swell with your cum and have your children- I want to be with you forever-” 

Mihawk lets out a sound that’s nearly animalistic, and then he’s hauling you off your back, leaning over your body and forcing his lips against yours while your hands grab at his shoulders. 

It’s the most intense kiss you’ve ever shared with him, all tongues and growls- 

Your pussy throbs around him, and you eat up his sounds, trailing your fingers through his beautiful dark hair and pulling gently-

Mihawk lets out another groan, fingers unrelenting on your clit. 

“Please cum for me,” you mumble desperately, the cord in the pit of your stomach pulled achingly tight. “Please, Mihawk, I need it- I’m so close-”

He pulls his lips away from yours, your foreheads touching while he stares deep into your soul. You can feel tears of pleasure already building against your lashline, and the way he’s panting has your stomach twisting into even tighter knots-

Then he’s smashing his lips against yours again, fingers digging into your hip as he pulls you flush to his front, cock burried as deep as it can possibly go inside of you. 

You can feel him cumming, and it triggers your own orgasm, which jitters through you like electric ecstasy, making your hair stand on end and your skin tingle. You’re gasping against his lips, enjoying his moans and returning them with sounds of your own.

Your arms are wrapped tightly around him while your pussy milks him for all he’s worth, your tits pressed against his strong chest. His hand moves from between your bodies to flatten against the small of your back, embracing you tightly.

You’ve never felt closer to him in your entire life.

There’s never been a moment like this one. 

You can taste the love he has for you on his tongue as it invades your mouth, tracing your lips and teeth-

Even though he’s still inside of you, hips flush to your own, it’s one of the longest orgasms you’ve ever had. There’s nothing like this type of closeness, nothing like being stretched to nearly your breaking point while he fills you completely with his cum, cock so deep you can feel him painting your cervix. 

It feels almost like a promise. As if he’s as dedicated to knocking you up as you are. He’s not said it explicitly, but you get the sense that he wouldn’t mind starting a family with you. In fact, he might even enjoy it.

You can imagine him teaching your child to use a sword, can imagine a three year old running around with the tiny little dagger Mihawk wears around his neck-

“I love you,” you whisper, tightening your grip on the warlord.

He lets out a groan. “I love you too.”

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! I'm honestly considering doing more One Piece stuff on this blog, but I guess we'll see. My main account right now is kpop blog, which you can find here or @smileysuh

🍭 support me by. sending a tip here or here

© obscure-imagines — all rights reserved. reposting/modifying of any fic, reaction, or piece of original writing posted on this blog is not allowed. Translations not allowed.

[luvtak]

baby i'm yours, lee felix

✧ pairing lee felix x gn!reader

✧ genre/tw fluffy fluff! kinda hurt/comfort, reader has a migraine and felix is a little lovebug as always, too many petnames, kissing and sleepy cuddles

✧ w/c 1000

✧ a/n something small inspired by my own migraines, i hope anyone who relates starts to feel better and feels comforted by the sweetest boy <3 title is after this song it reminds me of him 💗

The house is filled with sound, circling around the space with laughter and music and video game noise. Lively melodies of boyishness, teasing and yelling; roughhousing so loud you’re sure the neighbors can hear.

The house is filled with sound, all except for your place in Felix’s room. Behind the door it’s silent, no sound but your gentle breath hitting his skin. He’s always so warm, a space heater personified, heating you everywhere his star-studded skin touches. You can feel his smile moving across your neck, placing soft little kisses on his path from your clavicle to your throat, all the way up to the side of your mouth.

“Feeling better?” he asks, his voice is gruff from lack of use and his eyes are light when they meet yours. His question seems more like a wish than an inquiry, he always worries when you get these headaches. Pain throbbing underneath your eyes and inside your temples, sometimes you feel so sick, nausea begins to accompany the migraine, and the only thing your boyfriend can do is wrap you up in his arms and his blankets and hope for the best.

You both know it’s easier to cure these moments away from the boy’s dorm. The cozy quiet of your apartment is much better suited to comfort the constant pounding, but there’s something magic to the noise. A curious familiarity surrounds the home, in some ways it reminds you of being a little kid and going to bed to the sounds of your parents still awake. A memory from an easier life, a moment trapped in time, but relived in these hurtful days inside this room.

“Just a little, I’m sorry I’m not very fun right now.” Your voice is a whisper, and your eyes are still squinted shut, but you hope your words are enough to convince him to stop worrying.

“Don’t be sorry, my love, I’m having a blast laying here with you.” Felix’s grin is sunlight, as bright and pretty as the rest of him, and you think it doesn’t matter if he’s lying—your head is already starting to ease just from the sight of your starshine boy smiling down at you.

His hands are in your hair and his smile is on your forehead, and you think you’ll be better in a few minutes. When you came over you had plans to watch movies and play Mario Kart with the rest of the boys, and maybe in just a few more minutes you can. You can almost envision it, opening up your eyes to a clear head and telling Felix that you feel so much better, joining the rest of the dorm in their night of laughter instead of this sickly quiet you currently inhabit.

You can tell your boyfriend doesn’t mind, he’s always happy to take care of you, but you’re sorry that another fun night has become the opposite.

“Really, Lixie, Go have fun with the boys… I can do all this by myself.” You don’t want him to go, but you need him not to feel trapped. Popping one eye open, you can tell what he thinks about that offer—if the slight squint of his eyes having anything to do with his emotions, he must think you’re crazy for even posing it as an option.

“And what? Sit in the living room with people I see every day instead of lying here with you? Are you insane?” He’s laughing as he says it, and his arms escape from your hair to gently play with your fingers. “You must be, my crazy little love… where does it hurt?”

His touch is light as a feather, pulling at your hands and rubbing up and down your arms. The skin to skin contact makes you shiver, even after all this time all it takes is a few gentle touches to start up the butterflies in your belly. You tell him about the pain under your eyes, huffing and whining when his body moves too much atop yours, but you stop as soon as his lips land softly on your eyelid; pressing down gentle and tender where the pain started.

“A kiss to make it feel better, okay baby?” Even through the pain his voice (so deep and quiet in the dark room) makes you smile. So typical of him, to be as sweet and sugary as the treats he cooks up. A boy who grew up on kiss cures and tickle fights, what a blessing to have him lay with you in the dark.

You’ve been smitten with him from the first time he shot his shiny smile at you, in love with each picture perfect piece of him. With hands grasping out to hold his, you kiss wherever you can reach: his shoulder first than the divot of his adams apple, all the way up to his uplifting lips.

“I love you, sweet boy… thank you for being with me.” You can’t tell if you mean here in the moment, or just in general, but either way it’s true. You’ll never stop being grateful for his place in your life, a light in the darkness and a heart to hold you when you don’t feel good.

He kisses you again instead of a response, slow and closed mouthed—desperately trying to express his feelings in all the ways he knows how.

“I love you too, you know I do.” He rolls off you, tucking you just underneath his chin; keeping you as close as possible. Legs on legs and hands clasped together, you can’t seem to find where you begin and he finishes—you’re as close as you could be with your warm pajamas on.

Everything is burning up, his skin and your love for him. So, cozy you can’t help but feel your eyes flutter close again. This close you can hear all his sounds, his heartbeat and his breath, and his sweet voice like a lullaby lulling you to sleep.

© luvtak

[lovebugism]

would it be okay to ask punchy x steve babysitting the kids for an afternoon? love the trope so much!

ty for requesting anon :D i love writing for punchy and steve sm!! — steve struggles to manage a date with you while babysitting, but you take it all in stride (established relationship, fluff!, tw for mentions of minor injuries, 2.1k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

You’re a messy eater just like Eddie’s a messy eater.

You get crumbs everywhere and smear everything all over your chin. You never notice that sauce is dripping out of the backs of your burgers until mustard plops into your lap, leaving a faint yellow stain on your black ripped jeans that you’ll never quite get out. 

You’re a tornado in the kitchen, a hurricane in restaurants — leaving messes you’ll inevitably clean up before you go because you refuse to be a burden with your chaos.

But your messiness is much more poetic than Eddie’s messiness. You’re wild and ravenous, gentle and violent. You’re a purple thunderstorm made of flesh. Everything you do feels magical.

It’s why Steve doesn’t care when you get bread crumbs all over his flannel that you stole. It’s why he smiles when you get peanut butter on your chin from a too big bite of the PB&J he made you (he cut off the crust and everything).

With your cheeks puffed like a chipmunk’s, Steve reaches across the quilt you sit on and swipes the cream from your chin. He licks it off the pad of his thumb a second later.

“Ew,” you giggle as you chew through the mouthful.

Steve smiles at the heavenly sound. It almost distracts him from the racket of the bustling park and the roughhousing teenagers behind him. Almost.

“You’re so pretty,” he observes quietly with a lopsidedly fond smile on his rosy mouth. No one should be looked at so softly, especially not when they look as messy as you do now.

“You’re disgusting,” you retort, muffled through the food in your mouth until you swallow it down.

Steve’s grin widens. “I know.”

He leans in again, this time to kiss you.

His deep cologne and floral hairspray pervade the grey autumn around you. His lips are pink and softly parted, pretty enough to melt in. 

It defies every human instinct to pull away from him.

“Kids are watching, Stevie,” you remind in a gentle murmur. 

Your eyes flit past him to Max, Lucas, and Dustin. They stand together on the concrete, watching the redheaded girl flip on her skateboard. She does a cool trick — a kick and a twist that looks too easy when she does it — and they applaud her with all their obnoxious boyishness. She pretends to be annoyed, but you can tell from here that she’s blushing.

Steve loses all his softness with a deep, annoyed huff. 

He gets so lost in you that he keeps forgetting they’re even there at all — totally ruining the picnic date he’d planned for you weeks ago.

A laugh tumbles from your mouth at your grumpy boy and his subtle pout. “You invited them, you know?”

“Not by choice,” he grouses, annoyed and unkissed.

He can say that all he wants, but it was sort of by choice. He didn’t have to answer when Dustin called him right before he left to pick you up. He didn’t have to say yes when the boy begged to be picked up with the rest of his friends — ‘cause his dad was back in town and Billy was being particularly dickish to the Mayfield-Sinclair duo.

But he did. Because he can’t ever say no to them. 

It’s in his blood to defend them now. Like he’s always been destined to protect a bunch of fourteen-year-old nerds. 

Steve glances over his shoulder with an attentive squint in his honey eyes. His heart drops when he sees Dustin shakingly balancing on Max’s skateboard. 

Lucas holds his arm to keep the curly-haired boy from toppling over. The redhead stands off the side with her arms crossed, visibly unamused but not intervening either way.

“Okay, if you idiots are gonna skateboard, can you at least put on knee pads or something?” he calls to the three of them. The boys, mostly.

Lucas scoffs out a laugh. “You think we’re just walking around carrying kneepads, Steve?”

The brunette rolls his eyes with a sigh only an annoyed older sibling could muster. The disgruntled scrunch on his face ebbs when he turns to you — the cure to all his problems.

“Just ignore them,” he assures with a tightlipped smile. “Pretend they aren’t here.”

You nod, lifting your hand to push a couple of rouge strands over his forehead. The cinnamon tresses feel like silk between your fingers. You smile when the tendrils flop back into place the second your hand is gone.

“Okay,” you tell him, knowing he’ll have a much harder time ignoring them than you will.

—————

Steve’s flannel is thick and warm, smelling of deep musk and the jelly you accidentally dripped on the collar. 

You got all flustered about it — promised him you’ll handwash it later while rubbing at the stain with a napkin, spreading it and making the whole thing worse. 

You do that a lot. You should probably be used to it now.

Steve kisses you anyway. He presses a big, smacking kiss to your rambling lips — uncaring of the teenagers standing some feet away who are bound to make fun of him for being so sweet on you. He doesn’t really care. He gets made fun of anyway, and he’s far too proud to love you.

A crooked smile tugs slow at his lips when he pulls away. Something warm and light swirls in his chest at the shocked, doe-eyed look on your face.

“God, I love you,” he mutters with a soft shake of his head, like his own adoration for you is profound to him.

You didn’t think you could be loved for your chaos. Not until now, anyway.

He cradles you against his chest with his arms around your front, pressing you and all your entropy to his heart. Sat between his legs and the cool autumn air, you curl into him like a cat — wrapping your hands around the wrists he clasps in front of you.

His exhale is warm against your shoulder when he presses his lips over the flannel in a lingering kiss. 

Your face scrunches as you shrug. Not because you didn’t like it, but because the feeling made your skin feel all sparkly, and you didn’t know how else to react.

Steve knows this. He pulls away and smiles at your profile. “Is this as weird as you thought it would be?”

Being openly affectionate in front of all the kids, he doesn’t say. Being Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington’s girlfriend in front of the rest of the world.

You decided to tell his friends that you were dating at summer’s end after several months of agonizing about the whole thing. Well, the friends who didn’t know anyway, ‘cause neither of you can get anything past Eddie and Robin.

Max — whom you felt the strange need to impress most for some reason — responded with a simple and mumbled “Cool.” Steve had been the most concerned about telling Dustin, though; said the boy never does well with not being told things.

The curly-haired boy’s reply was a terribly deadpanned, “How the hell did you manage to pull that off?” at Steve.

No one particularly cared. No one treated you any different, though they made fun of Steve a whole lot more than they used to. 

“It is weird!” he’d told you that summer night after you snuck away for a smoke break. “That’s what makes it so cool!” He was right. About all of it.

You shake your head as an answer to his question. “No. Not really. They’re all super nice.”

“Yeah,” Steve scoffs. “To you.”

You smile as you turn your head, tilting your chin to look up at his stubbly profile. “Well, you’re like their older brother. They annoy you because they love you.”

“No, they annoy me ‘cause they’re annoying,” the boy grouses, then cuts himself off to shout at the kids some feet away. Lucas is gliding on Max’s skateboard now, with all the finesse of a baby deer just learning to walk. The sight irks his babysitting senses. “Hey! Be careful on that thing! You guys literally have no clue what you’re doing!”

“Speak for yourself!” Lucas shouts back, then almost loses his balance. 

Dustin laughs in response, loud and high-pitched.

Steve turns to you with a tightlipped expression and wide eyes, motioning to the kids with his palm. “See? See what I mean?”

“They love you,” you answer fondly.

“Also, I’m not their brother, alright? I’m the babysitter. That’s totally different.”

You perk up at that. 

He never liked admitting to being an unofficial babysitter. 

You don’t think he ever has before now. 

“Well, babysitters get paid,” you remind him with a scrunched nose and glittering gaze. “And you’re just watching them ‘cause you love them, so…”

Steve’s face goes flat as he thinks on your words. 

You’re right. Because you’re always right. 

The realization makes him sigh.

A gasp sounds from the distance, floating on the wind. A gutwrenching clattering noise follows quickly after — chipped wood on hard pavement. A low groan of pain comes seconds later.

You and Steve look to the side quick enough to get whiplash. Max and Dustin stand on either side of Lucas, who’s now sitting on the sidewalk and clutching his knee with his face screwed with agony. 

The brunette boy reacts immediately. “Fuck. I knew it,” he mumbles, urging you to sit up with a gentle palm to your shoulder so he can stand. He abandons the picnic he set up and rushes to the ailing boy’s side. You follow quickly behind him.

“Are you okay? Did you break anything?” Steve blurts in one breath with his hands on his hips. His eyes are wide as they dart over Lucas’ form, looking for any other injuries besides the one he cups with his hand.

“No,” the boy answers with gritted teeth. “Just fucked up my knee…”

“Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Lucas forgets his pain for a moment, just to give Steve a dumbfounded stare. “What? No. It’s just a scrape, dude.”

Steve nods, pleased and smirking, as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Good. ‘Cause know I get to say I told you so.”

All three kids roll their eyes at that, accompanied by a chorus of groans.

You dig into the bag hanging on your shoulder, fingers ciphering blindly through miscellaneous junk for the mini first aid kit you always keep inside. You’re the clumsiest person you’ve ever met. It’s sorta compulsory at this point.

You pull out a bandaid and crouch at Lucas’s side, dropping your purse to the pavement. “Can I see?” you ask him.

Silently, he pulls his hand away. The scrape on his knee is gnarly looking — pink and bright red — but it’s just barely bleeding. He hisses through his teeth when you spread the bandage across it, using the gentlest touch you didn’t think you could muster.

“Clean it out when you get home, ‘kay? So it won’t get infected or whatever,” you tell him as you dab at the pale-colored plaster with your fingertips. “Then put another bandage on, and you’ll be good as new.”

Lucas shoots you a small smile, shy and grateful. “Thanks, Punchy,” he mumbles as Dustin and Max help him stand again.

“No worries—”

“And everyone stay off the skateboard, alright?” Steve commands from behind you when you rise to full height again. “Don’t make Punchy clean up any more scrapes. She doesn’t even like you guys that much.”

“That’s not true,” you retort with a snorted laugh.

There’s a silence and a bright blue glare from the redhead beside Lucas.

Steve caves with a sigh. “Everyone stay off the skateboard except the girl who actually knows what she’s doing.”

Max smiles in a Max sort of way. The expression barely hints at her lips. It mostly resides in her sparkling ocean eyes.

The three of them saunter off again, totally unfazed, with the sort of resilience you only have when you’re a teenager.

“Little shits,” Steve mumbles, shaking his head.

You nudge him with your shoulder, still smiling. “Be nice.”

He tries to keep his grumpy disposition when he looks down at you. He quickly finds that it’s virtually impossible. He looks at you and he’s smiling before he even realizes it.

“You’re really good with them, you know?” he observes, fond and honeyed again.

“Well, that’s ‘cause you’re so good with them,” you retort with another nudge to his shoulder, utterly unable to take any compliment ever given to you. “I learned all my babysitting techniques from Indiana’s best, Stevie.”

“Well, I’m flattered,” he grins and leans down to kiss you.

You try to kiss him back. It’s hard when you’re smiling so wide.

[sunrise-imagines]

would you consider writing an evil marceline/reader hcs/small story? ^^

YES YES YES ABSOLUTELY. FINALLY I GET TO WRITE ABOUT HER. MY QUEEN. MY GOTH LOLITA GF. PLEASE STEP ON ME MU GOD-

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

TW: Toxic traits exhibited by Marcy, general mean girl vibes, teeny tiny nsfw reference (like it’s really only one line). This turned out way more toxic than I intended so sorry abt that

Vampireworld/The Star!Marceline the Vampire Queen x Reader Relationship Headcanons

• Meeeeaaan. Like teasing and bullying you is second nature to her, she’s such a spoiled brat. Will (very begrudgingly) stop if it really hurts you though.

• Wants your eyes on her and her only. She’s very possessive of you and gets jealous easily. If she sees anyone even looking at you funny, they’re getting their soul sucked immediately.

• Matching outfits? Matching outfits. If you don’t like her aesthetic, too bad. You’re wearing what she tells you to and that’s final.

• Constantly asking when can she finally turn you into a vampire, why would you want to stay human when you can join her and be together forever? (Plus getting to bite your neck and suck your blood would be totally hot)

• Loves to roughhouse, she’s really strong and if you can manage to best her she’ll be really impressed (she’d never admit it though, just scoff and say “You got lucky that time.”)

• Will take any chance she can to taste your blood, anytime you get a cut or scratch she is on you like a bee to honey, licking up whatever tiny drops she can. (If you are a person with a uterus, I don’t even have to explain what I’m thinking, y’all can guess 👀)

• Total princess, hates doing anything like chores, cooking or cleaning. That’s what minions are for, duh!

• Loves to make people uncomfortable with overt and over-the-top PDA, especially her Dad. She will full on make out with you in front of him just to spite him, she’s that petty.

• She’s so smooth it’s infuriating. All she has to do is whisper some sweet words in your ear and you become completely flustered, to her great amusement.

• Let her bite you pleeeaaase, she promises she won’t actually puncture the skin or turn you, even though she get dangerously close to your jugular and her fangs are digging in so hard they almost break the skin, but she never goes all the way (not yet at least).

• What she says is law, and there is no ands, ifs or buts about it. She says she doesn’t want you to hang out with that person? You don’t hang out with them anymore. She says she wants you to address her as “My Queen”? That’s how you address her from now on.

• You know she’s toxic, but she’s just too irresistible to say no to. She genuinely believes she knows what’s best for you, and as long as you obey her every command, she will always give you everything you could ever want. After all, what more could you want than her love?

[misdeliria]

GREEK TRAGEDY; SATORU GOJO tw: alcoholism & depression ->SEE YOU AGAIN (pt1)

It's been two days since Satoru left Yuji at your apartment—two long, excruciating days with a teenager invading your space.

With nothing on your agenda, you stayed home and drank, much to Yuji's dismay.

"Isn't there anything else we can do?" He asked, bored after another rerun rolled its credits.

"Feel free to take a walk," you answer, rising to your feet to grab yourself another drink.

"Sensei Gojo told me about you. You went to Jujutsu Tech, too?"

"It's interview hour now?" You cleared an entire shelf and the left cubby to make room for Yuji's food and drinks—everything else was dedicated to your stash of beer. "Do you want something to drink?"

"You mean the juice boxes you got me?" Yuji pouts, and you catch his side-eye.

Rolling your eyes, you release a tired sigh. "Satoru used to like these juice boxes. You're so much like him; I assumed you would, too."

"You think I'm like Sensei Gojo?" Yuji's eyes gleam as you mention his mentor. "What was he like when you went to school?"

You bark a laugh, taking a swig from your fresh bottle. "Arrogant. Satoru was an arrogant little- thing."

"He was as strong back then as he is now?" Yuji's eyes practically glowed.

Eyeing the kid's wide-eyed expression, you bite your tongue before you can bash his teacher.

You take another sip and tell him, "He wasn't as strong back then. Didn't even have his infinity yet, but he could really land a hit."

"What's an infinity?"

"It's one of his main techniques nowadays," you say waving your hand. "He makes a barrier over his body; makes it impossible to touch him. You could wrap your hand around his wrist, and he'd still slip right through your fingers."

"How does his technique work?"

"I don't know," you huff, falling onto the couch again as the next rerun starts. You chug a quarter of your drink to wash away the growing irritation. "You'll have to ask him yourself."

Yuji, cross-legged on the rug, looks up at you expectantly.

"Well, what's your technique?"

Your brow twitches and you grip the arm the couch.

"I don't use it anymore. I quit Jujutsu."

"I'd still like to know," Yuji presses sweetly. "Sensei Gojo says that yo-"

"Hey, kid," you cut him off firmly, sending him a dark look from your elevated seat. "Don't push it."

Thankfully, Yuji isn't disheartened, but he pouts petulantly—and it's almost a mirror image of your former blue-eyed classmate.

A few minutes roll by without conversation, with the noise from the tv filling the silence. And then, a knock at the door.

Perfect timing, you roll your eyes. "It's open!"

"No, it's not," Satoru's amused chirp echoes from the foyer.

"Thanks for knocking," you grumble, sinking into your seat as you clutch your drinker tighter.

Yuji was on his feet the moment Satoru stepped into the room, but you couldn't be bothered, trying to focus on your show. The Gojo sorcerer wisely prepared with his sunglasses and dressed in his casual clothes.

"I come bearing gifts." Satoru cheers with Yuji as the kid jumps on him, reaching for one of the few bags hanging from Satoru's limbs.

As they roughhouse in your living space, you suppress the urge to blast the tv speakers to drown them out. You're not drunk enough for this.

After a certain point of being ignored, Satoru approaches you. He crouches low on the floor, within your line of sight to the tv without directly blocked the screen.

Tilting his head to the side like a dog, he smiles softly—sincerely.

Pointedly avoiding him, you decide then to turn the tv up louder.

Calling your name over the noise, Satoru's expression turns serious. A staring contest takes place for roughly a minute before you break.

"I'm only pausing because I need another drink, damn it."

Satoru follows you into the kitchen and all around your apartment, wherever you turn to avoid him. Yuji watches, entertained from his new front seat on the couch.

"Did you just swing by to get on my nerves? Your student is waiting for you," you remind him, drastically losing patience.

"I wanted to talk to you about that. I've gotta take Yuji out. Let him get some training in."

"Do whatever you want," you tell him over your shoulder, refusing to look at him when he's dressed so casually—so familiar. "You're paying for it all, I'm just living here."

"Why don't you step out and join us?"

"I don't want to," I sigh, spinning on my heel and returning to the couch, dropping into the cushion beside Yuji. "I've got my drink. I've got my show. I'll be good until you wanna drop the kid back off."

"Well, I grabbed some snacks from that store you used to like, so," Satoru trails off as he struggles to find words. "Yuji, let's get some practice in."

Yuji jumps to his feet with excitement. Satoru wraps an arm over the kid's shoulder and looks at you one last time.

"We won't be back too late," he assures you, but you unpause your show and take a heavy pull from your drink.

The next moment, they're gone, and your show turns into white noise. The bright blue paper bag Satoru left on your counter taunts you with the memories tied to it.

—

"So, what's wrong with her?" Yuji asks softly later in the night. He thinks of how Satoru's expression tightens whenever he's around you or the octave of his voice changes to something heavyhearted.

"She's just tired," Satoru answers, adjusting his blindfold. He'll have to switch it out when he returns Yuji to you. "She's lost a lot because of curses. It's why we need to work hard to eliminate them."

"Is that why she doesn't fight curses anymore?" Yuji understands this topic is sensitive after treading carefully around you for the past few days and sensing the tender manner in which Satoru treats you. "Who did she lose?"

Satoru keeps quiet, schooling his face to keep his answers to himself.

"She was strong when we were in school. Not as strong as me, but she could hold her own," he reminisces fondly, quirking the corners of his lips. "In this world, death is an old friend. You get too comfortable with it and lose yourself a little more every time. It was better that she left before it was too late."

"Is that what it's like for you?" Yuji looked up at his teacher. "Is that why she's mad at you? Because you stayed?"

Satoru roughly ruffled Yuji's hair to silence him. "What's with the first degree?" He laughs playfully. "I hope you're not bothering her so much with questions like these."

"She doesn't get as upset when you're not there," Yuji tells him with downcasted eyes. "She's like a ghost. I think she forgets I'm there sometimes."

"She's drinking the whole time?"

Yuji shrugs, looking away ashamed. "Yeah, but it's not like she's trying to ignore me. It looks like she's miles away in her head."

Satoru sighs through his nose. "Either way, she shouldn't drink so much while watching you."

"Don't be upset with her," Yuji quietly requests. "She didn't ask for me to be there."

When the two boys return to your abode, the TV is off, and you're seated at the cheap dining table. Satoru's blue bag sits untouched in front of you. It's silent and still and suffocating.

"Yuji, take the room tonight," you say with your back facing them. "Go. Now."

Yuji looks at Satoru first, and when his teacher encourages him with a nod, the pink-haired boy reluctantly retreats.

Around him, Satoru can see through your cursed energy. It envelopes the room like a domain, creating a convincing illusion for Yuji but not for his Six Eyes.

The living space appears clean and well-kept, but you've torn up the kitchen and living room like a wild animal. You flipped the couch over in your rampage, and there's broken ceramic all over the floor. Remarkably, Yuji avoided stepping on any of it on his way to the bedroom. You ripped Satoru's piece offering apart at the center of it all, and the food is smashed and sprinkled everywhere.

"You put quite an effort into hiding your tantrum," Satoru breaks the veil of silence that's fallen over. He knows Yuji is pressed against the closed door, trying to hear as much as possible.

"Nothing has changed," you seethe quietly, shoulders trembling. "You're going to get the kid fucking killed." Satoru can hear the lodge in your throat as he remains behind you.

"His name is Yuji," Satoru insists. "He's here for his protection."

"He's here so you can train him like a soldier without the fucking higher-ups interfering," you say bitterly. "You're punishing me for leaving."

"That's not what I'm doing," Satoru promises, his shoulders growing heavy. "He has to learn how to protect himself."

"He isn't you, Satoru. He's going to die."

"You didn't."

You're quiet for a moment, mulling over his rebuttal. "I might as well have."

You withdraw your illusion, and the terror you caused in your home reveals itself. Empty bottles litter the floor next to broken ceramic. Your hair is unkempt, and your clothes are dirty.

"You don't mean that. You're drunk."

You laugh, but it's empty, devoid of humor. Rising from your seat, you pick up the chair from the top and swing it at Satoru. It smashes to splinters an inch away from his arm. He doesn't even flinch.

"You bring back these fucking memories," you croak, swinging again. It doesn't land. "You bring a kid here for me to protect." Another swing. "You're a fucking asshole!" You keep swinging until there's nothing left of the chair.

You hear your name called quietly, but it's not Satoru. Yuji stands in the opening with wide eyes, taking in the destruction. You're panting, and Satoru is standing untouched.

When you're distracted by Yuji, Satoru slides his hand up to your neck, hating the way you flinch before tears finally run down your face. You easily allow him to render you unconscious, and the Gojo descendant catches your limp body.

Yuji says nothing when Satoru takes you to your room and lays you on the bed.

"It's because of me, isn't it?" The young boy whispers like he might wake you up.

Satoru slowly takes off his glasses and gently sets them aside. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he carefully takes your hand, staring at your serene expression in torment.

He finally says, "She begged me to leave with her—the higher-ups excommunicated our friend, and she wanted to go after him. I wouldn't let her."

"Is…is your friend-" Yuji knew the answer, but Satoru's curt nod shed light on your tragedy.

"She is trying to ignore you, Yuji. You can't let her."

The drinking and the mess outside flash through Yuji's mind. No matter how much you drank in front of him, you were always coherent in your conversations, hinting at frustration but nonetheless reciprocal.

Yuji's brows pull together in sadness. "What if she doesn't want to, sir?"

The weak smile that grows across Satoru's lips, gleaming blue eyes blessing you, is wrought with pain.

"I'm a selfish man, Yuji…and I won't let this world keep taking from me."

—

"We could leave. Please, Satoru, let's go." You're begging him, pulling at his sleeves. "We could find Suguru and help him. He needs us."

He's gone, Satoru thinks. Suguru left you, disregarding your feelings.

"You're acting insane," he says bitterly, wanting nothing more but to cave in. "We can't just leave Japan without sorcerers."

"We can, though," you argue, tears welling as you stare at Satoru desperately. "We could take Megumi and Tsumiki with us. We could save them from this life, Satoru."

"And everyone else? People will keep dying."

"You're willing to risk Megumi's life for a stranger? My life?"

"None of you are going to die," Satoru says plainly like it's divine intervention.

"Haibara is already dead! Do I need to remind you?" You hiss, confused and heartbroken. "Please, Satoru."

He thought he could hear your heart breaking back then. When he rejected you, he walked away, leaving his heart with you.

And in your dedication to Satoru, you stayed despite your longing. You stayed for years, quiet and suffering, knowing how Satoru couldn't choose you.

When Suguru died, you still couldn't keep yourself away—because you loved the strongest sorcerer that killed him. And as much as Satoru loved you in return, he wouldn't change. Not even for you.

[silky-nereid]

— a family friend

tw : death, attempted of an elopement.

Yandere!noble friend x friend!reader/you

Yandere! Noble friend who is your best friend and always had her eyes on you but bitterly watches when you get betrothed to a Count that held a small footing in the higher elite class.

Yandere! Noble friend who is heavily yearning for your appearance during noble parties, just to see you since she hardly saw you after your marriage.

Yandere! Noble friend who notices the sudden behavioral change in you and the tiredness etched in your eyes. She questions it but you brush it off.

“Are you truly alright, dear?” she asked.

“Swimmingly well,” you responded. “Why do you ask?”

“You look tired,” she responded.

“Just…It’s difficult.” You smiled at her. “I heard about the courting of a noble for you. I never expected for you to get courted that quickly.”

She looked away, a champagne flute glimmered in the yellowed light of the candles from the chandelier. A smile remained on her lips, slipping on the champagne and looking back to you who wasn’t there anymore rather seemingly pulled back into the arms of your spouse and lost in the crowd of aristocrats.

Yandere! Noble friend who somehow loses contact with you and desperately tries to write to you but the letters always get sent back and she’s utterly distraught as her spouse notices her behavior and tries to comfort her but can’t since she only wants you and nobody else.

Yandere! Noble friend who is trapped in a loveless marriage with a sole heir but the color is seemingly brought back into her life when she sees you again, time hadn’t been kind to you but you still held a respectable title and still looked ever so lovely from afar; swooning again.

Yandere! Noble friend who heard about your niece’s arrival to your house and her betrothal to the prince but days later, the prince’s farewell ceremony to go to the unfortunate frontlines. She watches your tearful eyes, saying that your spouse will return despite her hoping that they don’t.

Her eyes scanned the study floor filled with crumpled pages of failures. Polished shoes clicked on the floor, it was a servant holding a letter on a silver platter.

“A letter—“ they said.

It was you, disheveled and hands trembling, the fresh fallen snow clung to your cloak. Had something happened to you? She got up from sitting in her cushioned chair which you paced, nails cut and bloodied.

“We—I need your help,” you said. “My friend, please help me. I’m in need of your services.”

Her warm hands grabbed your cold, bloodied hands and looked at you with concern.

“What happened?” She asked.

“She’s let down the family!” you cried, “She has broken her betrothal to the prince and tried to elope!”

“Who has she tried to elope with?” she questioned. “Doesn’t this girl understand what would happen if the prince agrees to breaking the betrothal as well?”

“Adrian Wells.” You pulled away from her. “I…I will lose everything. Please I beg of you to find him and speak to him, your brother in law about this or…or I will never speak to you again.”

Yandere! Noble friend who flips the world on its head to find him because she can’t risk losing you again which she does end up finding him. After a little roughhousing, she manages to get him out of the country to somewhere safe.

Yandere! Noble friend who comforts you despite hearing the arrival of the soldiers coming home but how deeply she wishes to replace your spouse and wants to hold you in her arms. She smiles internally when you come to her arms, sobbing about the demise of your spouse; it was a pure gift to her.

Yandere! Noble friend who continues to comfort you and spends more time with you than her actual family. She holds you and lets you cry in her arms while she reassures you that she’ll always be there for you.

She looked down at the fresh pile of dirt that held her spouse who recently died from an illness. Dressed in black, the veil covered her face and she wiped away the tears from her face with a handkerchief. She held your trembling gloved hand, her thumb rubbed your knuckles and she looked at you.

“Come, my dear,” she whispered. “We must return back home and our child is awaiting our return.”

She entered the carriage and helped you in closing the carriage window, she pulled back her black veil.

“Shouldn’t your son be present during this?” You asked. “It wasn’t right to come here without him.”

“Our son dear,” she added, “it would be meaningless because he’s too young to remember them. You would be a perfect fit to parent him with me.”

“I…I,” you stammered. “Please don’t make me, Evangeline. I can’t—“

“I know you can,” she said. “Let me into your heart, my dear. You have done it so many times with them, why am I so different?”

Yandere! Noble friend who after a few days and she has you move in with her since she knows how lonely it is since the servants hardly ever appear.

Yandere! Noble friend who starts being more of a prevalent parent with you by her side. She begrudgingly wears her mourning clothes to events and smiles when you wear yours as she has on occasions custom ordered matching mourning clothes for you and her.

Yandere! Noble friend who occasionally forgets that you did love your spouse to a degree since she wants to be the only person in your heart.

Her hands rested on your shoulders, both of you were in your nightwear. You had taken refuge by sitting on the new vanity chair that she had brought you days prior, your forehead rested on the wood. She stood behind you, hair tucked back into a loose braid with a light familiar smile on her lips.

“You have been like this for a while, my dear,” she said. “Tell me what’s wrong? I can help you get better.”

“I don’t think that I can do this, Evangeline,” you said. “I…please.”

“I saw you eyeing a specific spot yesterday,” she said. “Would you like that we have a walk tomorrow and we could bring our son too?”

You looked up at her from the vanity mirror, her eyes stared down at your scalp then to the mirror; still smiling.

“I..I would like that,” you said.

“Excellent,” she replied, “now come on, let’s go to bed. Tomorrow is going to be wonderful.”

[phantomvegetable]

♡ Hello there ♡

Coming in to politely ask if you'd be happy doing a request for Legion (of the Frank variant please). 100% fine with creative liberties, but I'd adore a story following along the lines of the reader being an old flame before he ended up in the fog, and he is delighting in being a general nuisance for old times sakes. Why be nice and romantic when you can be a pain ♡

ALSO! All the best to you, your writing is really cool from what I've read, and I'm hyped you opened up requests ♡♡♡

h-HI *VIBRATING UNCONTROLLABLY* KSKSKSKDJ

YES ABSOLUTELY <33333 i love the dynamic, hehehehehheehhe

THANK YOU SO MUCH btw ;;A;; it makes my day / makes me want to write more when I hear things like this !! I really appreciate it <3

Legion (Frank) x Reader

ghosts of the future notes: soulmate au, legion members are 18+ at time of disappearance and during reader’s interactions w/ them before the fog tw’s: frank is an ass, strong language, canon typical violence & maybe some torture ?

What would it take to find out what happened to Frank Morrison?

That would be your question for the next two years after his disappearance along with his friends (if you could even call them that—they mostly just followed him around like deranged cult members… but, then again, they were your friends, too). The fucker left you with far too many questions, an unforgiving anger, and the tragic mark of a soulmate.

Yes, Frank was your soulmate—it was proven by the unsuspecting fingerprints wrapped around your wrist in an attempt to grab you during one of your more violent moments of roughhousing. It left Frank speechless, for once; meanwhile, you went berserk. Julie was his girlfriend, not you—you were just some bonus lackey with far too much time on your lonely hands and a concerning obsession with crime.

You avoided him and the Legion for days; only coming into contact with Frank when he approached you one night, alone and seemingly troubled.

“We’re finally doing it,” Frank muttered with his hands in his pockets, masked face turned away from you. “Making a name for ourselves. It’s happening tonight.”

“Good for you,” You barked out bitterly, arms crossed as you stood uneasily in your living room. “I won’t bail you out if you guys get caught.”

“Come with us,” Frank offered after a beat of silence, finally facing you with an outstretched hand. Just looking at it made you shudder—made you want to run and hide. He seemed to sense your discomfort and pocketed his hands instead, straightening himself out before you.

“I—“ You shifted, glancing away warily. “I can’t.” Frank seems to pick up on the double meaning, huffing in irritation.

“Look, Toots. Just because we’re marked or whatever doesn’t mean we haf’ta act like strangers or nothin—“

“I don’t care!” You had snapped, baring your teeth like a caged animal. “Maybe it doesn’t mean that much to you, Frank, but it does to me.” He doesn’t respond. You curl in on yourself even tighter and turn your back to him. “So just—just go.”

You didn’t mean for him to take it literally. He left you alone after that, going so far as to vanish seemingly from existence after the uncovering of a janitor’s dead body just a few days later.

But you wouldn’t let him get away that easily.

The stubborn fire that kept you alive this long coaxed into you following Frank’s trail, leading you down the same path that ended up with blood on your hands. The fog came shortly after. And when it did, you were still the one hunting. Hunting answers, hunting a hunch, hunting feelings that wouldn’t go away.

The trials were easy. You simply had to slash, stab, and destroy through them until the fog returned you to the same decrepit building that quickly became home; and, the place that you continued your search.

“Still obsessing over lover boy, hmm?” A sickly sweet voice purrs from behind, stirring you from your pondering. You barely flinch.

“What do you want, Danny?” You sigh, removing your mask to rub at your face in exhaustion.

“What, I can’t visit my favorite psycho?” He chirps playfully, fiddling with the decaying photo of you and the Legion from where he sits in the dark. You swipe it from his grubby little hands with a look that could kill. “Easy, tiger,” The masked murderer lifts his hands in mock defense. “I was just looking.”

“Yeah, well, could you not?” You groan, hunching over various notes splayed out messily on a desk. “I’m trying to concentrate.” You feel his stare on your back, the sensation louder than the silence that follows.

“You know, I could just show you where he and his puppets hang out.” The way you turn around and stare at Danny is almost comedic.

“What?” You seethe out after a moment, bones popping from how tight you ball your hands into fists. “You mean you knew where he was this whole time and said nothing?” Danny shrugs.

“You never asked.”

The urge to strangle someone was never stronger than in that moment, and you told Danny as much. He just smiles coyly from behind the mask.

When you arrive at Mount Ormond, the numbing cold is a welcomed sensation as freezing winds nip at your skin. Anything to distract you from the nerves that ate at your insides like maggots feasting on a corpse.

The instructions Danny gave you were simple enough, and even though the drawing of the cabin where the Legion supposedly camped out in was utter shit, you found yourself on the doorstep of a to-be reunion with your old mates. It felt way too formal to knock; so you fell into the familiar habit of entering unannounced, climbing through a second-story window that was left unlocked after discovering that the front door wouldn’t budge. Typical.

Tiptoeing through an unwelcoming room consisting of one worn-out couch and a busted TV, the telltale mark of a Legion mask—Susie’s, from the looks of it—resting on a torn cushion has your heart lifting as your fingers stretch to brush against it. They really were here. You swallow thickly.

“Susie?” You find yourself calling out, stepping into the empty corridor. You look left, then right. Nothing. You try a room down the hall, finding no sign of life there either. “Joey? It’s me!”

“They’re not here,” A strikingly haunting voice that makes your breath stutter says coolly from behind, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand up straight and chills to prickle all along your arms. Turning to face your ghost, your gaze strikes like iron against Frank’s green one hidden from behind a smiling mask that looks like it’s taken a decent beating over the years. His arms are crossed, and he leans nonchalantly against the wall in an unbothered display. But you knew Frank, and he was pissed. And, quite honestly, so were you.

You find your fists tightening as you stand across from him just like that night, becoming more and more angry. Even more annoyingly, Frank senses this and sighs, unwinding his posture to mimic that of someone trying to calm a wild beast. “Toots—“

That did it.

With a snarl, you spring forward; your fist connecting with Frank’s stupid smiling mask and cracking it nearly in half. He grunts out in shock as he tried to dodge your right hook, hands instinctively catching your wrists just like they did that fateful day and pulling you with him as Frank is sent careening to the floor.

And, just like that, the two of you are whisked into a trial.

You’re still on top of Frank when you spawn outside, wrestling him into the snow.

“What is wrong with you?!” Frank hisses, teeth bared visibly from where you broke his mask.

“What’s wrong with me?!” You laugh cruelly, using your hips to pin him down. “What’s wrong with you?! You fucking disappeared, Frank!” He exerts an impressive amount of strength in order to throw off balance, flipping you over.

“And why would that fucking matter to you?” He retorts. “You’re the one who shut us out!”

“Well excuse me for needing a minute!” You bristle, struggling against his hold. “I had just found out that my soulmate is an asshole who also happens to be insane!”

That strikes something in Frank. He growls audibly as he pulls you up, immediately shoving your face into the snow and making a hasty retreat. You gasp as you stagger to your feet, spitting out melted chunks of ice. You whip around to search for your culprit, eyes narrowing at the sight of Frank running towards the town.

“Coward!” You call after him, giving chase.

You pass multiple survivors that are surely watching on in a stupor as you catch up to Frank, tackling him to the ground again. The two of you grapple until he has you pinned again, this time holding a knife to your throat. Your fury flares.

“Enough!” He commands. “If you want to prove something so badly, why don’t you show me what you can do?” Frank emphasizes his point by pulling his knife away and hurling it at the first unlucky bystander that attempts to flee, sending him to his hands and knees. As the man—Dwight, you bothered to remember—cries out in agony, you glare up at Frank’s slowly-forming smirk, knowing he’s caught your interest.

“Fine,” You relent, and Frank releases you. You stomp to where Dwight grovels, brandishing your own weapon and striking him down without a moment’s hesitation. Jutting your chin over your shoulder at Frank—who fails to hide his smugness—you remove the knife embedded in Dwight’s shoulder and toss it at the brute’s feet, pulling your own accoutrement free. Without waiting, you move on to your next victim, leaving Frank behind to watch you ruthlessly chase them down. He grins, joining you in the hunt.

The two of you manage to bring down five of the eight survivors, wreaking havoc to generators along the way. It becomes a sick sort of game between the two of you to see who can kill the most, and just how diabolically you executed the final blow. Unexpectedly, it does a lot to bring your anger to a simmer; your tensed muscles finally relaxing from their coils as you hack, hack, hacked away.

Another survivor falls to the ground beneath you, dead.

“That’s six,” You announce, Frank just a few feet ahead of you. He laughs—a sound that tickles your brain.

“Keeping count, are we?” He teases. There’s a playful lilt to his voice that you haven’t heard in years—a welcomed gesture.

“Someone has to,” You quip back, and Frank laughs again. You smile.

You step over the carcass and vault the window that was so narrowly missed by the unfortunate woman Frank has trapped underfoot, coming to stand by his side as she squirms and fights to no avail.

“You’re sick!” She gasps, moaning in pain as Frank increases pressure, surely breaking a rib or two.

“That’s no way to talk to the lady,” He jeers, eyes flickering at you. You snort.

“Both of you! You t-two are—ack—psychos!”

You half-expect another witty remark from Frank, half-expect him to snuff her out.

What you don’t expect are his next words.

“Then we must be perfect for each other,” He mumbles, making your ears perk. “We’re soulmates, you know?” Your heart backflips.

“Frank,” You begin to warn him, but he continues.

“Fuckin’ soulmates, you hear?” He suddenly grabs your hand and you go rigid, the contact making your stomach turn. The two of you had been wearing gloves for the entirety of the match, so no marks would be visible—but the touch was enough to make your skin tingle underneath the material. The woman’s brows tighten.

“K-Killers can’t have soulmates,” She wheezes. “You don’t have souls.” Frank’s hand tightens around your own.

“Well it’s a good thing you ain’t God, ain’t it?” He utters snidely before driving his heel down as hard as he can, ending her life. Seven. You let go of Frank’s hand and step back, Frank letting you.

“What the hell, Frank?” You whisper in a shaky breath, clouds of white dispelling the sentiment.

“…I’m sorry,” He tells you finally, turning to face you in shame. His eyes speak of the remorse he feels. “I completely disregarded your feelings when we found out we were marked, and I’m sorry.” Your chest swells in a flurry of emotions.

“But… but you disappeared,” You remind him, unconsciously drawing in on yourself. Frank, ever so cautiously, takes a step towards you.

“It wasn’t my fault,” He speaks calmly, eyes boring into your own. “I was taken by the fog, same as any washed up bastard that ends up here.”

“But—but Julie?” Frank sighs.

“Jules and I… it’s complicated,” He grimaces. “She freaked when she found out I was marked and it wasn’t wit’ her. She doesn’t know it’s you.” Your mouth feels dry.

“But…”

“If I didn’t know any better,” Frank’s voice is low and a husk away, and you didn’t realize just how close he’d gotten. “I’d say you’re fighting for reasons to stay angry at me. Why did you come all the way out here?” Is his disarming question—that, paired with the way his hand brushes cheek when he moves a strand of hair behind your ear—that has you sharply inhaling.

“I—“ You stammer, searching his face. “I was so angry at you,” You begin. “I was so shocked to find out I even had a soulmate, and then you treated it like it wasn’t a big deal—“ Your breath shudders. “I was so mad at you, Frank. To top it off, you up and disappear after telling me you were finally ‘making a name for yourself,’ and a dead body is discovered a few days later? What was I supposed to think, Frank?”

“You could have just let me go,” He mutters, hand lingering on your cheek. You drop your head in resignation, sighing.

“I know,” You grumble. Frank lifts your chin up between his forefinger and thumb as he raises his mask at the same time, finally revealing that same scruffy face you’d grown accustomed to. An oddly soft expression graces his scarred features, and you find yourself unable to speak over the lump in your throat.

“Do you still want to accept me as your soulmate, even with all of…this?” Frank gestures to the empty space where the survivor’s body once was, it having been swallowed up by the entity minutes ago. The chuckle that escapes you surprises even yourself.

“Frank,” You snicker. “I literally just killed people with you. That’s how I ended up here,” You tell him, matching his gaze evenly. He continues to search your eyes for a beat before stepping back.

“In that case…” Frank lowers his mask over his face again, retrieving his knife in one hand while holding the other out to you. “Would you care to finish what we started?”

Whatever anger you held towards Frank in that moment was now gone, seemingly melted away by those eight simple words. You accepted his hand with a small smile; one that said, okay, I’ll trust you. He begins to lead the two of you forward but stops, catching you immensely off guard when he whisks you into his arms, slides his mask up, and plants a massive, wet kiss on your cheek, surely leaving a mark that wouldn’t be so easy to hide without a covering. You let out incoherent noises as Frank slips his mask into place, laughing at your disposition while dodging your sloppy fists.

“Frank, you asshole!” Your words lack any actual bite to them, this serving to make Frank cackle even harder as he once again evades you by taking off with you hot on his heels.

[tartarusknight]

the hair falls to ruin

5,208 words | read on ao3 | this is just part 1 | Part 2

tw: spiraling self-doubt, not feeling like you're enough, of never feeling like someone's favorite person, absent parents, friends who take jokes too far

tags: Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Loves The Party, Steve Harrington Has Self-Esteem Issues, Steve Harrington's King Steve Persona, Steve Harrington is Not Okay, Haircuts

Summary: People pretended to see it. To believe that he was someone new, someone better. But in all of their hearts, he would always be King Steve. The asshole, the jock, the bully, the prep, the douchebag, the idiot… The Hair.

Steve used to go to the party’s houses because he found safety in them. They weren’t silent hallways or awkward shifting around each other like his parents did whenever they were home. They were full of life and so much fun to be around, for a while.

But after a while, it felt like an obligation. Like he had to show his face just for a little while. Not too short but not too long. Because they didn’t actually want him around.

But he couldn’t just stop showing up, that would raise questions.  So, he did it slower. It made him feel like he was around his parents. Like his dad’s silent nods before he disappeared on business trips. Like his mom who hid behind books and wine glasses. Like his dad and his suits that looked like armor. Like his mom and her perfect hair, perfect face, perfect outfit as she went out with friends. Like he could just show his face without even being in their lives in the way that mattered.

It was easy to leave, to stand from the table and head towards the door. It was always easy to slip away. He just had to find a moment when Eddie and Dustin were roughhousing. Or a moment when Robin was talking all excitedly to Nancy. He’d stand like he was going for more water, taking his cup with him. But he’d leave it by the sink on his way out. So easy. Too easy. And it hurt. It was like a slap in the face. Another reminder. Another thing to add to the list that seemed endless. As he moved from the room, no one followed him. No one asked him to wait. And he didn’t expect them to.

The silence in his car was deafening as he sat there. A minute turned to 5 minutes to 15 minutes, at 30 minutes he turned on the Bimmer and backed out of the driveway. He stayed idling at the very end for a few minutes watching the door, but it stayed shut. He clenched his eyes shut and took another to just catch his breath, to try and stop the tears. Yet when he opened them and glanced at the still-shut door, he began to cry.

The drive back to his house was filled with the sound of the engine and his sobs. There was no music someone made him play. There was no one to ask him questions he didn’t want to answer. There was no one to bother him to get him to let them use his pool or drive them somewhere. But most importantly there was no one who rambled about their day, telling him everything.

When he turned off the car in his driveway next to his parent’s car, he couldn’t move. He curled up tighter, a hand to his chest. He could barely breathe through his sobs. But as his brain spiraled, that weight on his chest shifted into anger. Into a harsh thought.

He thought that maybe Spring Break from Hell would’ve made them better about stereotyping people. After all, Eddie was almost killed because of it. But Steve was aware it had only gotten worse. He saw Lucas drop out of basketball, not because he didn’t like it but because it wasn’t worth it. The basketball players all saw him as a Satan worshipper because they realized his connection with Eddie. And Hellfire was now pretty solid in their belief about jocks being the worst. And even though Eddie had given Steve a heartwarming speech in the Upside Down about how much he liked this new Steve, that he was a better person than Eddie realized… Steve watched Eddie’s own viewpoints, his beliefs, grow stronger.

At first, he pushed past it. At first, he believed the few people who said that he had changed for the better. That they liked him for the person he became. But… it was too easy to see through. The kids made enough jokes about him for him to not pick up on it. He knew that they would never fully trust him because he still held onto pieces of who he had been. He still had polos and hair spray. He still enjoyed sports and flirted.

And Steve always knew they didn’t think of him as smart, that he would always be the dumb jock to the party. They’d see Steve stop and look at himself in the mirrors and tease him for being vain, but they never noticed how Steve’s eyes would land on the scar around his throat. On the scar on his cheek from pulling Eddie from a horde of demobats and barely making it out alive. They never noticed the way he would make bracelets to cover his wrist that was covered by a scar from a demobat’s tail that had attempted to pull him from the encloser he had pulled Eddie into. The way he wore longer sleeves more often because of the scars that trailed down his side from shielding Eddie with his body.

The party didn’t notice a lot of shit. But they liked to point out what they did. Maybe that’s why Steve flinched when Mike “teased” him about his hair. Just a quiet, “I see your still clinging onto your Steve The Hair days.” Mike rolled his eyes and it was blood in the water. The party swarmed like sharks. Eddie’s hair ruffling his hair and called him Narcissus which Steve didn’t understand but it didn’t sound good. Robin wolf-whistled and winked at him, calling out that she loved him as much as he loved his reflection. Which made Eddie laugh. Nancy from her spot curled up with Robin, had asked him if he still redid his hair every 6 weeks. And she didn’t mean anything by it, even if there had always been a little judgment about it, but that didn’t mean the kids didn’t find it hilarious. And Steve just had to smile through it. Until he would slip away.

And he had been slipping away more and more lately. Leaving a group hang out early. Dropping kids off instead of heading inside with them. Turning down invitations to hang out with the other older party members. And no one noticed. No one had asked him where he had been or why he was pulling away. Because they always noticed the shit that never fucking mattered.

They made stupid fucking jokes that made him feel vain. Made him feel like having pride in anything about himself was wrong. They noticed the stupidest things about him that they could point out to the world. And he had been trying so hard to let them keep rolling off his back. But eventually, they held too much weight for his body to bear. Eventually, it became too hard to shrug off. Hard like when he used to ignore comments from the basketball team. Comments on how only queers cared about their appearance that much.

But the thing about those jokes, is they always stuck. He could pretend and put on a face of nonchalance. But they always stuck. They always hurt. They dug into your chest until suddenly even if maybe… even if there was some truth in their words, you dug it out. You ripped up your own soul, and your own feelings, trying to rid yourself of what was wrong. Until every part of you was in ruin.

But it was that thought, that emotion that helped him get out of his car and head inside. He didn’t kick off his shoes to sit next to his mom’s or put his keys in the bowl, he just headed upstairs, straight into his room and to the large closet. He slammed open the closet doors that he had let Will paint like they were a fantasy forest. They hit the walls that Robin had chosen to repaint a soft blue like the sky in Will’s painting.

He pulled out shirt after shirt. Jacket after jacket until his wardrobe was left with only a handful of items that were things Eddie picked for him or things that Robin and Nancy bought him. He gathered it up in his arms and trudged down the stairs and out the sliding glass door. Then he dropped it all straight into the swimming pool that only the kids used nowadays. Because Steve Harrington had been in swimming, King Steve the swim team captain. Or shitty boyfriend Steve who took Nancy’s virginity as her best friend died in this pool. This pool is the reason Nancy lost her best friend. So he couldn’t swim in it. He wasn’t allowed that old joy anymore.

Then he turned back inside and to his fridge. He pulled out food that he had bought for himself. Items he bought because they were good when he was an athlete. Because even though the diet sucked, some of the food he actually enjoyed. He threw those in the pool too. “Steven?” His mom asked her eyes on him from her spot on the couch. She couldn’t see what he was doing from her spot but he wasn’t trying to keep down the noise.

“Everything’s fine, Mom,” he lies and brushes past her to keep taking his past out of the house.

He pulled item after item from his house, items that were his from high school days. Items that were from before he was in high school and threw them all into the pool. Over and over until the pool was spilling onto the tile around it. Overfull with all the shit that wasn’t meant for a pool. All of him that was dated before. All of the pieces of him that he would miss at night. The pieces he thought weren’t bad.

The floating mixtapes he had made with Tommy when Tommy was the only fucking person that cared about Steve. The varsity jacket that had sunk to the bottom that had always held the memory of when he became team captain of both basketball and swimming and how his dad had actually smiled at him. A reminder of one of the only times his dad had been proud of him. One of the bowling pins that he and Carol had stolen from the bowling alley to commemorate him being the last in their group of three to turn 16.

The photos of stupid times with the best friends he should hate because they weren’t perfect people. Photos of games he had won and lost, that shouldn’t be good memories to him. Photos with past dates who weren’t the one but had been fun, that he should feel ashamed of just by the number of them. Photos of parties that ended with the cops being called or everyone passed out in weird places around his house that he should feel guilty about because he had been popular. Photos of memories before the party, before his change of heart. But what he had changed wasn’t enough. It was never enough… but this, this had to be enough. This all had to be enough because he didn’t have anything left to give away.

Only as he stared down at his reflection in the pool, did he understand that wasn’t the truth. He turned back into the house and moved through the halls like a ghost of a man. Past his room and his dad’s office. “Steve, what’s the racket down there?” His dad called out as he walked past the door.

“It’s fine, Dad,” he lied, continuing on. Through his parents’ bedroom until he reached their master bath. His hands which shook from a tremor caused by too many hits he’d taken, barely managed to grab his mother’s big bag of hair care supplies.

They spilled out on the ground and he didn’t bother picking anything other than the razor back up. With his fingers gripping the tool he locked eyes in the mirror. He saw someone so tired of trying. Someone who worked so hard only to be seen as the same person he had been years ago. A person who wouldn’t have been friends with the people he’s friends with. A person who wouldn’t have sacrificed what he had. A person who would’ve been disgusted by the person he’s become.

Yet… he was the only one who truly saw that change. That switch. That growth. People pretended to see it. To believe that he was someone new, someone better. But in all of their hearts, he would always be King Steve. The asshole, the jock, the bully, the prep, the douchebag, the idiot… The Hair.

He held back the sobs that wanted to tear through him when the first strand fell. But he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. If anything, his hands just shook harder, causing him to nick his ear. But he didn’t stop, he just cut more hair and ignored the blood that dripped down his neck into the collar of his light blue polo. It was one he liked. One that was soft and comfortable and something he enjoyed wearing. But it was all just a tie to who they thought he was. Because god forbid, he likes parts of himself. God forbid, he keeps pieces of himself that had never hurt anyone. God forbid, he has good parts of himself.

His hand shook as he brought up the razor for another cut but the sound of the door slamming open has it slipping from his grasp. It tumbles from his grip and he doesn’t feel the sting even as blood bubbles out of his arm. “Steve,” his mom’s words sound underwater as she pulls a towel from the counter, holding it onto the wound. It didn’t even hurt. But as her wide frantic eyes take him in, he starts to come back into his body.

A small sniff is the first sign but then it’s a sob. His whole body curves inwards and she holds him there. And who else was supposed to hold him? One of the people that had teased him? One of the people who were supposed to love him but made it so hard to believe that they could. One of the people who had left him hating himself more than he ever did. Or the woman who never tried but caught him anyways?

“Steven, baby?” His mom sounded worried and he didn’t know the last time he heard her like this. Even when he had come home with a cut around his neck that bruised until it scarred, she hadn’t held him. She had watched him with her eyes that matched his and asked him if he was okay, but she hadn’t opened her arms. Her voice hadn’t shaken as she said his name.

This time was different, her eyes were wide and teary and she held him up like a mother should. “Oh, baby it’s going to be okay. What’s wrong? James!” She shouted and he flinched at the volume. It made her murmur apologies into his skin and hold him closer, “Steven, I’m right here-”

His dad’s footsteps were hurried as he slammed into the bathroom just as loudly as his wife had done just a minute before. His dad froze at the sight. His eyes dropped to the cut covered by a towel on his forearm. “Steve,” his dad’s voice was monotone but not the normal indifference. Like he was in shock and unsure what else to say. “What happened?”

He looked away from the man he constantly tried to impress but what he saw was his own reflection. The side of his hair shaved roughly, terribly. And his knees just gave out. His mom couldn’t catch him in time but instead went down with him. The two of them landed next to all the things his mother had shown him when he was younger. Gadgets that his mother used to make her and her husband look presentable. Lipstick and hair curlers alike spilled over the tile.

Steve never really had a good relationship with his parents. It wasn’t something he told many people, but it also wasn’t something he went out of his way to hide. His old slogan if he had one, was "no parents, big house". But it had been that way for years. A week here, a week there. They were never there for a month straight. And when they were around, they felt like boats passing in the night. Never connecting, never speaking. It had been isolating, there had always been a barrier between him and them. He knew he wasn’t their favorite person, but he still tried to be.

But one of Steve’s earliest memories of his mom was her love for her hair. The way she’d take time in the morning, every day, to make sure it was perfect. He saw her care and attention to her hair and had hoped that maybe, she could show that attention to him. So, he had asked her how she did it. She had looked at him with a look almost like excitement before showing him how to do his own hair.

She started teaching him how to keep it healthy, how to make it always look so fluffy and soft. She had taught him to take pride in his hair and he did. And that little moment had gotten him a relationship with his mom. As young as he had been, he kept up with his hair and poured his time and energy into it. She had seen his care and it had felt like there was finally something they could bond over.

So, even when they still continued to leave, she’d always make sure to set up a time just for them to go get their hair retouched. It became one of the only moments he had with his mom. It became something he kept up day after day, not knowing if he’d still have that relationship with her if he didn’t. But people had noticed the care and love he poured into his image. In high school, people started to give him the nickname “The Hair” and he knew it was mostly a play on his last name but it still made him flush with pride.

Until it didn’t. Until everything that tied Steve to his high school years was wrong. That Steve “The Hair” Harrington was an asshole. Not just King Steve, but any version of Steve. Until he was made aware that he had to just be… Just Steve. He couldn’t keep anything- any part of who he had been, was tainted and wrong.

And for a moment it had made sense to just shave it off. To rid himself of that tie to the old Steve. But now staring at the hair on the ground next to him and his mom, he was terrified. He didn’t know what to do without it and even with most of his head left untouched, it was enough. Like maybe his mom would look at him now and think he was dumb for failing at taking care of something so simple.

Only his parents weren’t looking at the hair on the floor but him. Like they couldn’t see the way the hair lay around him like dead leaves. It made it hard to breathe. Like maybe his hair had held his love like it had always felt. Like maybe he actually succeeded in removing it from himself. Like he had pulled it from his being until there was nothing left. There wasn’t any emotion in him other than loss. Gone was the pride and care. Like the love inside of him was switched with loss. Loss of that one piece of himself he liked. Leaving them to sit there in the wreckage of what little left of him there was. 

“My hair,” he choked out and reached to touch a chunk on the ground.

His mom stole that hand before it could touch the hair. “Steven, look at me,” she tried but Steve couldn’t tear his eyes away from the hair. He felt different than before but he also felt the exact same. Like maybe he would have to rid himself of every single cell, every single strand of his DNA, his organs, his skin, his life before they’d believe he’d changed.

His dad moved and crotched next to them, his hand landing on Steve’s shoulder. Steve doesn’t remember the last time his dad even touched him. He attempts to curl in on himself but his parents hold him up. Maybe if the situation was different, he’d be happy to feel the care his parents never showed him but he could only focus on the hair on the ground. On the hair that was on his head. Without thinking he reached for the razor he had dropped but his mom grabbed his hand as his dad grabbed the razor. He shakes his head, “I need to- it’s still- I’m still-” he tries to say but his voice sounds wrong in his ears.

“James, grab the first aid kit, he’s still bleeding.” His mom ordered and his dad hesitated, looking at Steve with something Steve didn’t recognize in his eyes before he stood, leaving them in the bathroom. “Baby, can you talk to me? What can I do for you?” His mom’s voice is so unsure and he’s not sure he’s ever heard her sound like that. “Those kids you love, why don’t you- why don’t you talk about them? Do you have plans with them soon?”

He can feel tears welling up in his eyes, “they don’t like me.” Steve blurts and his mom’s movements stutter.

“Of course they do, they always pop over.” She starts but he shakes his head.

“They think I’m a bad person.” His voice sounds wrong to his own ears. “They just want what I can give them. Not me, no one ever wants me.” Steve pulled his hand away from his moms iron grip and she looked like she wanted to protest. “They hate everything that makes me, me. I’ll always be a bad person to them. I’ll always be a rich bully who cares more about their appearance than others feelings.” He whispered and his mom looked over his face.

She took his hand back in hers, “Being proud in your look doesn’t mean that-“

“I can’t even wear a polo shirt without being teased about it. Nothing I do is good enough for them.” And the tears come back harder as he knows that he’ll never be enough. All the things he can let go, push away, all those things his friends believe aren’t good, ignoring them won’t fix him. It will only fix their gaze on him. “I just need- I need them. I can’t- can’t lose them. I have to- I have to change.” He tells her but when he finally looks her in the eyes, he’s shocked to see tears welling up in her eyes.

“If they don’t love you for who you are then-” She starts but Steve interrupts her.

He shakes his head, “No one loves me as I am.” He states and his dad takes that moment to return. Return to the wreckage that was Steve. “I’m no one’s favorite person. If I was myself they wouldn’t want me around.”

His dad moves slowly and it’s almost gentle as he moves and sits down next to them again. His fingers are kind as they take Steve’s hand and Steve looks down to see his blood get on his dad’s fingers. “It’s okay to change but don’t let others change you,” his mom says again like he’d believe for the second time.

But this feeling, this emotion in his chest wasn’t new. Because when he was growing up, he worked for people’s praise. He worked to be accepted and loved. He changed himself and threw away his own beliefs just so someone would tell him it was okay. Just so someone would look at him and give an approving smile. God, he’d changed for his parents just as often as he’d changed for everyone else.

This feeling wasn’t new it just changed because the people he cared about had changed. He cared about the party and everyone who came with it. He cared about Dustin, Erica, Robin, Eddie, Lucas, Max, El, Will, Mike, Nancy, Jonathan, Joyce, and Hopper. He cared about who they saw when they looked at him. He cared about what they wanted from him. He wanted them to say he did good, to compliment him on something, anything.

When Steve was growing up, he loved it when people complimented him. Maybe it was a byproduct of his parents never telling him how much they loved him. Maybe because even when he does his best to ignore it, he really does just live to please people, to get their approval. So even as he moved from King Steve and left the spotlight, he missed the way the jocks had given him a slap on the back and told him he did a good job, or the way girls would flirt with him and tell him how good he looked. He missed it a lot.

“Steve listen to me, you don’t need to change.” His mom states and she smacks her husband’s arm. “Right, James,” she gritted out and Steve glanced over at his dad’s rocky expression.

His dad’s hand tightened around his wrist for a moment and Steve wished he’d agree. He wished that his dad cared about him. “What were you trying to do?” His dad asked and Steve looked at the hair on the floor. “You need a change?” He asked and Steve glanced back at his dad. Whatever expression on his face was enough for his dad. “Georgia,” his dad didn’t order her around. Just said her name, just looked at her.

Steve watched as her face shuttered. “A change can be good,” she choked out. Her words came out wet and her fingers wiped at the tears that hadn’t yet fallen. “We can make it look good. Look like you but new, right?” She asked and he just shrugged.

His mom reached over to the bag he’d left half open and grabbed out a few other objects. One being her nice pair of scissors she’d use to trim her own hair when she wanted to do it herself. She didn’t speak as she worked on his hair and he let his eyes close. “Steve,” his dad said and he forced his eyes back open. Looking over at his dad, his dad was wiping the blood from both of them. “I’m proud of who you’ve become. You’ve grown up a lot in the past few years and I know we’re never really here… but I just- I know that it’s unfair for us not to be here but you’ve grown into a good man.” He says and it’s awkward and stilted, but it’s not as uncomfortable as Steve thought it would’ve been.

It's what he’s always wanted to hear, for them to say that it’s wrong what they’ve done to him. But as he sits there, he realizes that he’d given up on hearing them. He’s 21 almost 22 and he’d been waiting for those words since he was 10. Except as he’s given them, he realizes that his dad’s- his parent's love just always seemed out of reach. His mom’s thumb smooths against his forehead, “so proud.” She murmurs and he looks away from them. They fall into silence and Steve doesn’t know what to do about it. He just closes his eyes again and listens as his hair falls to the ground.

“Okay, I think- how about that? This is new, right?” She asks and both of his parents rush to help him to his feet, like they weren’t sure he’d be able to stay up on his own. For a moment he wants to pull away, but he can’t bring himself to. He lets them hold him and looks into the mirror. His hair is closely cut around the base of his head, but the top still has some length. It reminds him of that punk guy Eddie groaned about the other day. He locks eyes with his mom in the mirror and she looks anxious. “You like it?”

He thinks of all the times they did their hair together but this time, it was closer than ever before. “I don’t- thank you,” he says instead. Because when he looks in the mirror, he doesn’t see himself anymore and he hopes it can be enough.

She smiles, “Why don’t you shower off the hair, and then we can pop some popcorn and watch a movie?” She asks and she’s reaching out. It’s new and terrifying. But he doesn’t want to be alone, so he nods his head and lets them guide him back into his own bathroom. They hesitate to leave him alone, but he just moves to the small stereo he has in the room and picks up the tape Robin loves. They nod to him as Dolly Parton fills the room and he’s finally alone.

The shower he takes is boiling and makes his skin go pink under its stream. And the shampoo he needs is half the amount it used to be. It’s all just so wrong but it’s not for him.

However, as he finishes up and the conditioner rinses from his hair, he steps back out into the chill of the night. His mirror is fogged up and it’s another reason he loves hot showers so much. When he was younger, he’d take cold showers, going fast from his time in locker rooms. But as he grew up, he enjoyed warmer and warmer showers. Only after being in the Upside Down. Only after experiencing a chill, he’s never felt walking barefoot and bare-chested through a Hell dimension. After the scars covered his body… he felt a comfort in them. In the way, they eased his muscles and kept the mirrors from showing him in all his naked glory.  

He towels off and winces at the numbness in his side from the scars covering him. But he doesn’t let that stop him. He finishes drying himself off but when he renters his room, he sees the emptiness of his closet. He swallows hard but as he steps towards it, he notices clothes on his bed. It’s his dad’s flannel pants and a thick Standford sweater. It’s easier to slip those on than pick through the remains.

When he heads down, his parents are both down there with blankets and snacks. He sees both of them in their own pajamas and he doesn’t think he’s seen them like this in years. If ever. His mom pats the spot between them, and he hesitates but does as he’s told. They don’t crowd into him, but they still comfort him. His dad’s arm was behind him on the couch and his mom’s slightly leaning towards him instead of away. It’s nice in their own fucked up way. And as the night goes on, he falls against his mom, into a dreamless sleep.

[detectivebambam]

Andrew Scars Headcanons

TW! for child abuse and SA

also we are talking about scars so if that upsets you don't read

andrew was tiny the first time, if 7 even was the first time= stitches from upper thigh to lower back (yeah I'm sorry for this one gang)

keloids under armbands

star shaped scars on knuckles from hitting shit all the time (like the window in tfc or trk can't remember)

scar over both lips on the left side (car accident)

scar above right ear on the back of his head (drake hits him with a bottle in trk)

scarring on bottoms of feet (not wearing shoes as a child (choice or inaccessibility))

scar on left cheekbone close to his nose (car accident)

scar next to right eye (mob fight in tkm)

scars all over his fingernails from biting them off when he was younger (anxiety/trauma tic)

scars on knees from roughhousing as a child

scar on his right ankle from (poorly) jumping over a barbed wire fence

scar on left hip from his seatbelt in the car accident

[rreskk]

Mama's boy

Summary: How the tables have turned. Trevor learnt his lesson from having attitude.

TW: -Smut -Usage of drugs

Pairings: Fem!reader/Trevor Philips

Word count: 2976

“ – Your mouttthhh, so hot… Your web; I’m caught. Your skin? So wet. Black lace – “ Sung Trevor who drifted out of his bedroom, shirtless and holding a cigarette bud close to his lips. He stomped over and slapped your thigh, gesturing you to move over so he could take a seat on the sofa as well.

The song “poison” by Alice Cooper continued to be lowly hummed as you recognised the melody. He manspreaded and gave you little to no space, your annoyance going unnoticed since the cig was the only thing he seemed to be focussing on. Trevor was cross-eyed as he’d stare down at the smoke fuming. You watched him attempt some tricks, but of course, it resulted in him growing impatient and burning the bud against the tiled floor. He then wiped his face with irritation before giving him a small pout.

“I’m bored.”

“You’ll find something.”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t right now.” He mumbled back, displeased with your remark. You felt his eyes burning Hell into the side of your head. Without any recommendation of ideas that would entertain him, you gave him an innocent shrug.

“You could always watch TV with me.”

Trevor gazed towards the TV with subtle curiosity, “What’s on?”

The channel was nothing special – by all means, it was broadcasting the latest cartoon that was inspired by celebrity drama. You weren’t interested but it was somewhat entertaining. The occasional comedy sketches made your belly chuckle, and when it did, you’d look over at Trevor to see him utterly disgusted. He scoffed a little bit and ruffled through his pockets to seek out – what you’d predict to be – another lighter. You could only imagine he was planning on getting high to defuse the boredom.

“It is a good show.” You tried to explain.

Trevor held a pipe and gave you a laugh, “No chance.” Then he began warming the glass with his lighter, the meth bubbling, making you feel uneasy.

His body relaxed when the substance spiralled into his system via oral consumption. He closed his eyes, feeling the buzz. You watched closely and when he went to breathe in another hit, you grasped his wrist tightly.

The grab caused Trevor to eruptively sit up. He looked between you and the hand with a confused grin. A few tugs wouldn’t fix it, and he was soon yanking around his arm to break your hold, but you weren’t budging. Nonetheless, the hand grew tighter – ensuring some bruises.

“The fuck?” He croaked out in confusion, holding the pipe in his other hand.

You remained speechless as to opposing a daring hand around his gruffy wrist. Although his tugs would send your body forwards and backwards, it seems as though he’s mistaken this as some roughhousing, chuckling lively at your challenging stare. He proceeded to misunderstand your irritation with playing until he was caught off-guard when you snatched his other wrist – restricting both mobility of his hands. And the pipe fell onto the floor.

Trevor’s gaze followed it and he wasn’t okay. He grunted, his fists clenching.

“[y/n], let go. My pipe.” He protested.

“Stop smoking that shit around me.” You finally vocalised.

His mouth twitched into a grumpy scowl. His face screamed his refusal, so your grip tightened.

“Let go – it ain’t funny anymore.”

“It never was.”

“[y/n].” Trevor warned.

“Just stop it, okay?”

“Let go of my fuckin’ wrists.”

“You are just gonna pick that pipe up and smoke it again.”

He laughed, “Talk about lack of faith.”

“Can you blame me?” Your words had struct him a bit, “I came over to spend time with you, not that thing you turn into when you smoke that crap.”

“That thing? Quit the shit-talk, [y/n]. I ain’t in the mood.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Don’t be short with me.”

“Pardon?” You encouraged his temper with a smile.

“I said – “ Trevor paused before his face coiled into a cheeky smirk, “Oh… You’re good. You ain’t fooling me, sugar. How ‘bout you quit clowning around and let go of my wrist?” His face playful yet his tone serious.  

You slyly kicked the pipe further away and freed his hands. He immediately went to reach for the drug – but you came prepared – snatching his wrists again, earning yourself an angry man who was trying to squirm out of your entrapment.

“Fucks sake!”

His inability to learn had gave you a light bulb moment. If he wasn’t gashing at your hands, he’d notice the way your eyes enlightened with madness – but instead, he carried on causing a scene. Which was an unfortunate decision since you were beginning to enjoy this tantrum. It made him look pathetic, easy, addicted.

“[y/n]! Fuckin’ let me go! Fuck!”

Holding a grudge, despite the countless threats, it resulted in you practically spawning him down against the sofa. Trevor was trapped underneath as you’d pin his hands above his head, your body weight trapping mobility to his legs as well. He was purely outraged – daggers in his eyes. His energy fell and his yells turned into muffled cries and grunts. Thanks to his stamina, Trevor could only pant to express the pure anger. He’d pant out your name and attempt to detain the partial conviction of his hands.

“Lemme go, for Gods sake. I hear you, I hear you! Just cut the crap, Christ…” Now he had realised this wasn’t rough-housing. He defeatedly relaxed his body and just stared at you above, sweat slowly dripping down his forehead from the fighting and withdrawal of the pipe.

You hadn’t of said anything in this 20 minutes of pinning him down, and it was beginning to rile him up again. Trevor’s jaw clenched and he fiercely tugged on his legs, trying to lift you up with just his hips (as is it happened before), it didn’t exactly work due to his weakened, worn-out frame.

“Fuckin’ speak, [y/n]. You know I hate the silent treatment.” He urged.

“I know you do.”

He scoffed at your ignorant acknowledgement, “You enjoy fucking with me, babe? ‘Cause I don’t. Now do me a favo – “

“No, I don’t think I will.” You’d cheekily smile, holding his hands up higher that it outstretched his chest, causing him to muffle out sweet groans.

“[y/n]…” He had closed his eyes to avoid giving you the pleasures of seeing him riled up. However, his face says it all. The way you only pinned him down more, the gradual exposure of his arousal would become more and more obvious; flushed face, whiney voice, growing urge in his pants. He couldn’t hide that one.

“This was the only way to shut you up.”

Trevor pouted, “Surely not – “

“You know it.”

“But – “

“Don’t lie.” You continued to cut him off with a smirk, forcing him into this vulnerable state where he was getting more vocal with this new tension. Whenever you dominated the conversation, he’d relentlessly whinge and squirm (but in a sensual way).

“I’ve been bad,” He had finally admitted, “I’m a fuckin’… I’m a…”

“Go on.” You egged him.

“I’m a fuckin’ brat. Piece of shit, I deserve to be beaten – “

“Like a?”

“Like a naughty boy.” He whimpered.

“You wanna learn your lesson, baby?”

“Mmm – fuck, maybe I do. Fuck… Yes, please.”

“Are you sure?” You whispered in his ear.

His body trembled when your breath managed to tickle the side of his face. Trevor released a strained whine as he nodded his head frantically, an erection lurking just in front of your lap, occasionally touching your thigh.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Beat me, hit me, shit! – Fuckin’ make me cry, ma!”

“Aren’t you precious?” You forced him to look up, “It wasn’t worth the trouble, hm? What do you have to say to me?”

“I’m sorry, ma…” Trevor lowly grumbled from the depths of his chest.

“That’s my boy. Keep your arms up for me, baby. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.”

“Good boy.” You let your hands fall as they fell to his face. Trevor tried his best not to abuse the sudden freedom, his arms jerking but he had the authority to restrain himself (for a while). Nonetheless, he was too distracted by the way you’d caress his cheeks and inspect his neck. He was getting used to this love before a hand striked his left cheek, a bellowing cry leaving his cracked lips.

“Fuck!” And it stung horrifically. His skin throbbed at the impact of your hand. Trevor wanted to question you, but after you had slapped him another time, the more he was beginning to praise your palm. The more he began to plead. The more he began to enjoy the burning pain it caused.

Then soon you were beating the living Hell out of his tortured face, throwing punches and slaps until his skin was threatening to bleed black and blue. You’d watch him laugh and moan, squirm and tear up. Trevor disobeyed your commands and lowered his hands, using them as pathetic self-defence to lure you in more. He loved when you broke the barrier between his arms and face, he loved making it a challenge. It brought him more punishment, therefore, more pain and bruises.

“Fuck, fuck… Yeah – “

“You’re enjoying this, huh?” You panted between slaps, “Should of known.”

“I love you so bad, ma… God, keep going, I deserve! Make me bleed, mama!”

Your fist reconnected with his cheek another, a streaming gush of blood seeping from his nose and staining his naked chest. You stopped for a minute but Trevor grabbed your wrists, giving you a begging face.

“Don’t stop, mommy.” He whimpered – extremely submissively.

You looked conflicted when seeing how much blood poured from his battered nose. It caked his mouth and neck, and when he spoke, it stained his teeth as well. Some spats would find themselves covering your hands and arms as well.

“Don’t stop.” He repeated.

In a matter of seconds, you sighed and raised your fist again. Trevor squeezed his eyes closed in preparation before you sent another punch to his cheek. He moaned, his head falling back against he sofa as he lifted his arms up again, sitting them above his head like you ordered him to before. You longingly leaned forward and pressed kisses against the skin you abused, ignoring how his blood would cover your lips.

Trevor tried to meet with you, his own lips desperate to feel yours. So you gave him the chance and you both grabbed each other’s heads, deepening the kiss with such hunger and aggression. He sat up from the sofa and crawled onto your lap, your arms holding him like a big baby. Trevor wrapped his arms around your shoulder as you were both mangled in this red, hot liquid. So much so that his hair was mattered, but it gave him this ugly charm.

“I love you –“ He murmured between hot kisses.

You both departed to gain some air as he’d lean in again but you held a hand to his chest, keeping some distance. Trevor gave you a panicked expression, his neediness overcoming the temptation. He tried to kiss you again and missed. He tried to kiss your neck, but was held back. He’d whine and bury his face in your chest, removing any original colouring of your shirt to be replaced with his messy blood.

So you stroked his hair and allowed him to mumble inaudible words into your temple. You made out sentences like “I need you” and “I wanna feel you, mama”, the usual pleads to get what he wants – the typical “mommy boy” manipulation.

“Trevor.” You recollected his attention and adjusted his body on your lap, your chests smothering each other.

“I wanna feel you, [y/n].”

“I know.”

“I wanna see you, real bad.”

“I know, baby.”

He groaned and pressed his forehead against yours, “I wanna see you.”

“Why should I let you?” You chuckled, your fingers massaging his sweaty scalp.

“Stop playing with me, ma… I really want you, so bad.”

“I’m not playing with you.”

“M’no, you are – “

“Trevor, baby,” You kissed his cheek, “I’m not playing with you. Sometimes you have to earn it. I’m not going to give everything to a naughty boy, hm?”

“But – “

“Do you understand?”

He refused to say anything as he licked his lips and stared down at your chest, ogling whatever he could find from under your shirt. This behaviour itself was affirming prejudice and you groped his ass, throwing him aside where he limped onto the sofa with a groan. You stood up before he eruptively lashed onto your legs, his hands begging for mercy upon your thighs.

“Babe!” Trevor cried out.

“Always begging, aren’t you?” You belittled when staring down at him on all fours.

“Please…”

His hair was being tugged brutally, small whimpers escaping, yet he maintained a serious face with glassy eyes. You forced him to his knees where he looked up with admiration. His eyes darted to your crotch area as you slowly undressed, revealing your wet pussy that had been enjoying Trevor’s submission from the course of the night.

He chewed his bottom lip and went to reach forward, but you snatched both of his hands and pinned them directly behind his headd. You kept your grip there, enforcing little to no chance he’d free himself.

“Take a good look, Trevor,” You opened your legs up as he was facing the glory, “You keep your hands behind your head while you eat my pussy good, you hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good boy.”

Trevor’s lips quivered, leaning forward until he was breathing against your cunt. His knees were still dug into the floor, hands shaking behind his head (by your authority), and his tongue slowly extended to greet the utter wetness. He moaned when tasting you. A little tease turned into full desire as he dived into your sex and feasted upon your clit.

Justice was served to his own arousal since the define stench of your cunt on his tongue was enough to cause staggering pleasures in his own cock. You forced his head closer so he was merely suffocated, the muffling of his mouth feeding your sex the lust and neediness he portrayed from all that time struggling.

“Fuck, yes.” You praised when he was licking you savagely.

It was hard standing there when your legs were shaky with joy. You had used Trevor’s head as stability – whenever you felt a lunge in your legs, you weighted onto his pathetic figure that was praying your pussy. He, being a good boy, kept the promise and held his hands behind his head, even when he wanted to cuddle you during this heat. Trevor would moan, signalling this need of extra attention, but of course, you refused to gift him anymore (which secretly turned him on more and more and more).

“I’m gonna – “ He breathed against your cunt, “I’m gonna cum.”

“Aw… You’re such a cumslut, baby. I didn’t even have to touch you.”

“Please…”

“Such an easy little shit, aren’t you?”

Trevor panted, his tongue becoming sloppy. He enjoyed being undermined as it made him tremble.

“Let yourself cum, baby. Don’t slack.” You ordered when noticing his tiredness.

“It hurts – “

“C’mon…”

“I wanna touch myself – “

“Shhh. It’s okay. C’mon, I know you love it; not being able to touch yourself. It feels good, Trev?  I bet it does…”

He gained the motivation and took you into his mouth again, pestering a spot in which he began to thoroughly ignite. You gasped out a heavy moan, begging him to go faster as his tongue began working hard-labour to trigger a climax.

All while he experiences his own.

Trevor cruelly groaned when his cock squirted out semen from the overstimulation you had caused him. It evolved when his blood began to dry out on his skin, your pussy drenched on his tongue, your hands restraining his own, your dirty words – it blew him up, and he came. He came hard.

“Fuuuuuck!” Trevor murmured from inside your cunt.

You didn’t give him a moment to process the orgasm. You evilly pushed him further into you – mockingly.

“That’s right…” You’d whisper and examine the way his hands would shake as you hold them tightly against his damp hair.

“I love you, fuck – “

“Keep going.”

He slurped before it was clear that you were finishing soon. He grasped a safe momentum and eagerly slashed your pussy, his mouth inhaling every pleasure you felt until your legs were weak. Trevor finally sucked, and this was where you threw your head back and gasped.

“FUCK!”

Cum dripped onto his face, replacing the blood. Trevor smirked and invited your fluids into his mouth as you continued to orgasm swimmingly. He licked every last drop like a reward and leaned away to see you. There was a proud glimpse in his eye, cum running down his face, making him look ruined.

“You tasted to good, ma.” He whispered from his knees and begged to hear you again.

“Shit… Baby…”

“I love you. I love your taste, I love your voice, I want to marry you – “

“Trevor, shhh…” You pressed a finger to his lips, recovering from the intense orgasm, “Fuck.”

“Thank you for coming on my face.” He desperately tried to resist your attempt to silence him.

So with that, you rolled your eyes and embraced him into your arms. Trevor nuzzled his face into your neck and repeatedly asked for more cuddles as he’s “tired” from all the begging and fighting. He dragged you to the bedroom and lied on top of you like a kid. He rested his chin on your stomach and smiled cheekily.

“I like when you hit me – “

“I thought you were tired, baby?”

“Nuh uh… I just wanna hold you…”

[howlsofbloodhounds]

TW:

Biting.

Feral and Animalistic Behavior.

Growling, snarling, biting, etc.

Roughhousing.

Subtle attempts at asserting dominance.

Implied dehumanization.

Mentioned violence.

Mentioned blood and possibility of infection.

Deep loneliness.

Badly translated Arabic.

Implied one sided Color x Delta.

If anyone told Color that he would one day be used as a chew toy for his traumatized, crazed, alternate version of himself, mass murdering best friend; he would’ve called you crazy.

But as luck would have it: he was the crazy one. Because he was currently allowing Stage 3 to chew on his arm like it was a fresh piece of bacon.

It was better than the alternative, of Killer attempting to break Color’s neck with his teeth maybe, but by the stars did it hurt.

“okay, buddy,” with a grimace, Color attempted to shake Killer off his arm. Which was a bad move, because the way Killer’s head snapped towards the skeleton, wide and intense gaze pinned straight on him, was a soul stopping moment.

Color could hear the growl building up in Stage 3’s chest, the ribs rattling, and wasn’t that just swell? Sweat dripped down the skeleton’s forehead.

“look, bud,” Color gulped, attempting to keep his voice steady and to maintain a sense of calm. He knew Stage 3 wouldn’t understand what he saying, but it would understand the emotions. He didn’t know how the crazed being would react to signs of pain or fear, but he knew he shouldn’t stare directly in his friend’s (?) eyes. Animals typically took that sort of thing as a sign of being challenged. “i know you think you’re being nice..”

The responding rumble from the skeleton body latched on his arm seemed to confirm that, and Color couldn’t help but find that a bit sad.

What exactly led this part of his friend into thinking not immediately ripping someone to shreds was being kind, and leaving bite marks in flesh and bone was friendship?

It was a rhetorical question. Color knew who made them like this. Not exactly what, but he could guess. Was it really even a surprise that Killer could hardly function in society? People were either threats, lines of code, or interesting toys to play with his friend’s eyes.

Somehow Color managed to worm his way into being something different. But that didn’t mean he was safe, he was aware of that. He was something new, really.

He just hoped his novelty wouldn’t ware off one day. That maybe that bits of Sans that was left over in Killer had enough care for him to not throw him away once he got boring.

Guilt suddenly overtook Color at that thought. It was a cynical way to view things. He knew Killer was trying, he knew his friend was relearning how to care for or trust others.

The fact Color had gotten as far as he has with Killer, to the point that the multi souled creature would proudly proclaim him a friend, already said a lot.

But it was times like this that Color couldn’t help feeling insignificant; very much like a toy. He knew the higher Stages of his friend’s soul certainly weren’t stable or mentally sane, in a way that was different from Stages 1 and 2. At least they could pretend to keep it together.

But not Stage 3, and probably not 4, either. Definitely not Stage 4, actually. Killer had attempted to hide the existence of that one from Color for a while, and he was clear when he said he didn’t understand Stage 4 in the slightest.

Stage 3 was feral. Or..”crazy,” as One has described it. It didn’t take Color long to realize that 3 didn’t think in complex ways, like he or the lower Stages could.

It saw the world in movements and survival. Non verbal cues, body language, the tone of your voice and facial expressions. The creature was unpredictable; one wrong move could have it attacking whoever moved or looked at it a certain way.

Stage 3 twitched sometimes, uncontrollably. When it was excited or nervous, mostly. Those could pretty unnerving to see.

Its movements were very much like a predator, graceful and adaptive, yet it was clear that it was ready to attack at any moment. Look it in the eyes or smile a certain way, and it’ll be on you before you could even blink.

This even applied to..”friendship.” Color couldn’t really say if the feral animal living inside his friend’s broken body knew what friends were, but Stage 3 was the definition of love bites and roughhousing (if leaving teeth marks and bruises during play times counted as that.) Perhaps a better word would probably be more animalistic, like a pack mate.

Or a pup that 3 had to care for. Or a sheep it had to herd, maybe even a resource that needed guarding. Territory.

Color couldn’t say, and Stage 3 couldn’t tell. Out of all the Stages, navigating this one’s world was the most confusing.

“..but, that hurts.” Color reached out, cautiously placing a skeletal hand on his friend’s skull. He hissed when Killer instinctively clamped his teeth down harder, thanking whatever Gods existed that he didn’t hear a bone snap. Stage 3 was tense, shaking with what seemed like excitement (or maybe it was fear? Fear of the unknown?), yet it wasn’t growling and going for the neck yet. “not everyone can endure what you can.”

Slowly, slow enough that the feral thing could stop him if it wanted to, Color began to lightly scratch along the top of its skull. Killer was quiet and unnaturally still, staring with those dark, huge eye sockets at Color. The flame head attempted to avoid staring back, suddenly aware of how awkward it is to be giving your grown adult best friend head scratches.

He couldn’t help but wonder if this was how he was going to die. Killer had warned Color against Stage 3 for a reason, after all. Had even advised using extreme methods such as killing him, putting Killer down as if he was a rabid dog, if that meant Color lived.

Killer wasn’t the type to exaggerate the danger, not while in Stage 1. Stage 2 was all about the flair and the dramatics, pretending he cared about anything more than he actually did. Emotionally fake, in any way that actually mattered. Everything about 2’s acts was..unreal, like watching an alien putting on its human skin and play acting.

(Color couldn’t hold that against him. There was no winning in his situation. Mask and be seen as a creep, don’t mask, and be seen as an emotionless husk that was still a creep.)

Stage 3 was a threat. It can, has, and will brutally kill. Anything resembling friends and allies were temporary things in its world. The only luxury is that it won’t bother to draw out the death. It doesn’t want pain, it wants you out of its way. Away from it.

Color’s soul felt tight, conflicting thoughts pulling him in different directions. Perseverance urged him to cease any potentially life threatening actions immediately, but kindness and patience insisted in giving this a chance.

Bravery suggested taking a bolder action. Maybe Stage 3 would react better if Color could show that he was stronger?

Justice reared its head in disgust at the thought. Hadn’t Killer had enough people forcing dominance over him?

Judging by the way Color still hadn’t pulled away, his fingers even bravely making their way down and underneath Killer’s chin, the decision had already been made. A unanimous one, once Color carefully went over every perspective.

Sudden movements would only scare Stage 3 off, or provoke its temper. Color didn’t want to hurt Killer, even if said friend was currently chomping down on his bones like a tasty meal. Especially when this was just 3’s atypical way of showing affection, despite how bad it hurt.

With a gentle hand, Color was sure he could show Stage 3 a way of love that didn’t have to hurt.

“it’s alright, جرو.” He muttered lowly, watching the way Killer’s body shook in its fear and confusion. It still wasn’t attacking, despite it all. Trust was there. The hold on his arm was present, but certainly not as hard as it was before. “i won’t hurt you. أنت آمن مع—“

Color’s words were cut off by Killer suddenly lurching away from him, and Color leaned back when the skeleton bared his teeth at him. Dark ink slid down the porcelain white face, staining the teeth, and the soul was barely anything resembling a shape. More red than white.

Color tensed, his breath catching, as he stared back; his eye socket blown wide and the eye light a mere pinpoint. Despite his fear, the flames burned a fierce orange, as he stood his ground; raising his chin up at the animal and narrowing his eye.

It wasn’t a challenge, but there was no way he would allow the fear and surprise to show. And he needed Stage 3 to see that he wasn’t going to be pushed around.

The two stared, one attempting to maintain eye contact while the other stared intently at the space between eye sockets. It was quiet, not a sound beside the rumble of the air conditioner in Color’s run down, crappy apartment.

3 suddenly let out what sounded like a chuff, snapping his teeth at Color. Before the cracked skull skeleton could even react to that, Killer was on his feet and rushing out of Color’s bedroom; in what could only be described as his tail between his legs.

Color watched his friend run away in quiet astonishment, slumping against his bed pillows. He knew where the animal was likely running off to; Nightmare. Or to be more accurate, the dark, warm, and quiet closet in Killer’s bedroom.

Which meant Color likely wouldn’t be seeing Killer for another few days. A few weeks, if Nightmare keeps him busy.

Disappointment was a knife in Color’s soul, that ever aching loneliness already making itself known; an empty cavern in his being that he could never seem to keep filled.

Blood dripping on to his shorts demanded his attention, and Color glanced over at his arm. The bite was in a perfect shape of Killer’s teeth, covered in salvia. An infection was likely, if Color didn’t heal it.

Color didn’t want to. He wanted someone else to heal him for once, to feel the warmth of healing magic and intent washing over him. Battling off darkness and bone deep loneliness.

But Killer just ran away. Dream and Ccino were likely busy with their duties, Epic was likely spending the day with Cross. Gaster was still in the Void. Core Frisk..he didn’t want to have to rely on them. They were just a kid, they’d probably freak out if they saw the injury.

..It might reflect badly on Killer. And his chances on getting into the Omega Timeline, once Color managed to help him leave Nightmare.

Which left Delta. Color was overdue in giving his ex roommate the souvenirs he got for him, anyway. With his uninjured arm, Color reached over to grab his phone from the nightstand; immediately pulling up his most recent contacts.

As soon as he caught sight of the profile picture, of Delta’s brazen smile, Color couldn’t help but consider if things had been different. If he had decided to give up on Killer like everyone seemed to want him to, stayed in the Omega Timeline with Delta and tried to live a normal life.

The thought of it caused his non existent stomach to churn. He wasn’t built for staying in one spot. He couldn’t give up on Killer. He knew it was dangerous, possibly even impossible. Maybe it was even pathetic to be chasing after someone as unstable and danger prone as Killer.

Everyone kept insisting the same thing, over and over. He can’t change.

But Color couldn’t believe that, not for a second. Not when he’s seen the way Killer crashes and breaks after each mission. Not when he’s seen the man come apart at the seams over the injuries of a beloved pet, blaming himself for every single thing that goes wrong.

Not when Killer looks at him in that way. Scared, but hopeful. Trusting. Admiring and loving. He can’t be the reason why such a look no longer grazes that face. The reason why his hope up and shatters and flies away in the wind. He won’t be.

But it’s nice to have support, whenever Color is the one left in shambles. He’s grateful for Delta, truly. But he can’t give the man what he wants. He’s just glad that Delta seems to understand that.

Without allowing himself to ponder much more on it, he quickly presses down on that green call button. He’s silent as the rings fill the air, the sounds breaking through the silence in such a way that Color has to resist the immediate urge to hang up. Grating on his non existent ears.

The rings seem to go on for such a long time that Color finds himself holding his breath once again, wondering if perhaps this is the point where Delta finally leaves. Or maybe his friend was busy, and Color will once again have to patch himself up.

Then the soft, welcoming click of a phone call being answered fills the room, and Color heaves a sigh of relief. He can’t stop smiling when he says,

“hey, de. you have a moment?”

—

I had to use Google Translate for the Arabic bits, so it probably isn’t accurate, but here’s what they’re supposed to mean:

‎الجرو = Supposed to mean pup. But translates to puppy.

‎. أنت آمن مع = “You are safe with—.” Supposed to be “you are safe with me,” if he wasn’t cut off.