#you’ll be infantilized for the rest of your life if you still look like a kid as an adult 🗿

[tariah23]

This trend of 90’s babies going around bragging about how “you really can’t even TELL that I’m actually 30 lol. I still look like a teenager 😌. Even younger than actual teenagers-“ has been so weird man. This obsession with youth and even the competitive nature that a lot of these people have with literal kids is very strange and it’s only getting worse. It sucks since most adults who do look younger than their age are usually treated like children and are not taken as seriously as they would if they looked older. It’s not a good feeling at all :(.

[deluluass]

Red, like blood. Blue, like love.

Content warnings: rape/noncon; nsfw; bullying; soulmates au

Prompt: 88 & 183

There’s someone for everyone, you’d learned growing up.

 "Remember, blue means happy," your mother would say. "The happiest you'll ever be.”

She liked reminding you about this fact— for it is an indisputable truth, every so often when she could still carry you. You’d be hugged from the back, as she recounted stories of first meetings, serendipitous and life changing in their nature; belonging to those who’ve lived long before you, sometimes even those who’ve only lived in tales.

Mostly, your mother loved telling those involving the people she knew. And if you’ve behaved properly, she would tell you about hers. 

Tracing your palm, starting from the forked lines to the dashed ones on your fingers, she’d say, “These would start to glow like stars.”

“That’s weird!” you’d burst out, shrieking a laughter as she tickled you. 

“Listen carefully,” she chastised. “Blue is for your soulmate, okay?”

And you’d repeat: Blue is for my soulmate.

“Then, mama,” you tugged at her sleeves, “What if it’s really, really bright red! Like! Bloody glow sticks! Say, mama, you see, everyone at the park was talking about the man who died because he touched someone and his hand became bright re— ”

You never brought that up again. What your mother said about it had been enough to never make you forget.

“Tell me if you get red,” she said firmly, clutching your arms as if she feared someone would snatch you away from her. “Red is bad, my heart. Red means run.”

 It hadn’t nearly been as gruesome as your mother made it out to be. 

Case in point, when you turned twelve the couple three houses down your street found out, shortly after their honeymoon, that their palms gleamed a fierce red once they clasped each other’s hands in front of the neighborhood aunties.  

Their marriage ended with a swift and ordinary divorce, a year or so later.

Red: Not just an ominous warning for homicide, then. That was a relief, you’d thought.

Contrary to how your mother framed it, you were thankful, actually. It helped some of your friends escape from potentially hellish relationships. How lucky is it that you lived in a reality where the universe seemed exceedingly benevolent. Though, you sometimes have to question if that generosity extended to everyone.

Fat lot of good it did for you. 

Because, from where you’re standing, it doesn’t have to take some arbitrary and unsolvable scientific mystery to heed that Oikawa Tooru must be avoided like the plague.

Any person in your shoes would be conditioned to do exactly that. 

You’d first met in Elementary. You thought he was the prettiest kid you’d ever seen, with chestnut curls and doe eyes and lashes that swept past his cheeks, and when you’d asked for a hand shake he’d called you “the ugliest girl I’ve ever seen” and “fart face.” 

Recess and lunch were when he’s most fearsome. Spiky burdocks slapped on the collar of your dress; dead lizards in your food; the boy was determined. The worst part was that it always happened when no one was looking. And if someone were, it was his best friend. So when you finally told on him to your mom, both your teacher and the principal simply judged Oikawa as the victim of an attention deprived child.

“Please discipline your daughter,” they told her. “We are all aware of your situation at home, but do ensure that she’s not getting out of control.”

You couldn’t even muster up the strength to defend yourself. In that moment all you could do was swear that you’d never allow anyone to talk to your mother in that way again. 

You moved out of that school. 

You didn’t wait for your palms to flash a warning signal because, somehow, you knew that boys who discover early that they could get away with anything cannot get any better. 

There’d been no way to be sure of that until Aoba Johsai— after a peaceful interim of no Oikawa; no red palm lines (and no blue ones, either).

The proof hit you in the face. Literally. 

“Oi, Shittykawa!”

Heat permeated from your nostrils as you patted your cheek, detached and staring back at the large gymnasium. 

“You hit someone!”

How unlucky did a person have to be to bleed right on the first day of classes? 

You tried to lean forward. “It’s okay,” you slurred nasally, pinching your nose and averting your embarrassed gaze from the boy kneeling next to you.

“Trashykawa! You better hurry and apologize!”

“Don’t be mad, Iwa-chan,” that disgustingly saccharine voice came from behind you, making you flinch, as if the years you’d spent apart had done nothing to purge it out of your system.

In all honesty, you hadn’t really cared for whoever was responsible for the ball that careened all the way to where you were standing, so sure that it had to be an accident. No one in their right mind would want to injure someone they barely knew, especially if said someone is a couple of feet away from you. 

Morally and athletically, it should’ve been improbable. But then you saw who did it and everything made perfect sense.

Iwa-chan. The boy beside you. Iwaizumi Hajime.

If he’s here, then— 

“You,” he whispered. 

“Eh?! Gosh, I’m so sorry!” Oikawa Tooru gasped. “You’re bleeding.”

Time is cruel. It wears down on you, tears you and molds you into something you can’t even recognize, if it decides to. (Fate, more so). You didn’t know if you wanted to cry or laugh, looking at him. If the universe were so benevolent, then perhaps Oikawa Tooru had received all of its favor.

He was beautiful. You’d known this before, but with all the baby fat replaced with sharp yet slender angles, figure lean and imposing even when he’d lowered himself to meet your eyes, Oikawa didn’t seem real.

“I did hit someone, didn’t I?” he pouted, wiping the dried blood atop your lip. “And such a pretty girl, too.”

That volleyball existed should’ve made life better for you. It didn’t. If anything, it seemed that out of the court, when he’s not taking names and being praised like a god, you were his little pastime. Something fun to take his mind off whatever it is he thinks about it. 

The mocking comments, you could handle; every time you’d recite and he’ll interject with something playful and then the entire class would laugh (because he’s Oikawa) and your professor would reprimand him but you could always tell that they, too, are holding in a giggle. 

Those were easy to bear, because although his insults hit way too close to home, it’s just— it’s just so petty.

Really, it’s the aftermath that does the damage.

“They’re like Christmas lights under your skin!” 

This topic pops up every month or so. Most people your age can be lucky enough to meet their soulmate this early. 

“And it’s the most awesome feeling in the world,” your classmate sighed. “When we touched hands? Man. We just- we glowed.”

Then, the others would poke fun, faking a gagged expression, but they’d always ask afterwards, “What happened next?” And everytime, you’d watch from the sidelines. Like an uninvited audience. 

You tried being a part of it once, wanting to share about the time your close friend met her soulmate. But all you’d gotten were side eyes and titters, as if they were laughing about a joke only you didn’t know about. 

“They’re so mean to you.” 

You groaned.

Oikawa was seated behind you, resting his head against his elbow. Everyone was too busy talking about blue lights and destined souls to notice what’s happening at the back of the room. 

He continued, “Not including you in conversations, treating you like an outsider.”

You didn’t bite, focusing on the opened book in front of you.

“Must be lonely, having no one.”

“Oikawa,” you muttered under your breath. “I don’t have the energy for this.”

The silence that came after that was unexpected. You were sure it would be short lived; he’s just gearing up for more. He usually went at it until you’d have no choice but to physically remove yourself from his presence. You’d thought once that that may be why he does this so much. Maybe he still thought you were the “ugliest girl” he’s ever met and he wants you out of his sight. Because Oikawa’s infantile like that.

But the silence stayed, accompanied by the background noise of eager conversations; lingering some more as white, fluffy clouds passed by the glass windows. 

When he broke it, all Oikawa said was, “Soulmates, huh.”

You felt a finger touch your back, drawing the barest of lines over your uniform. He removed them just before you could stand up and leave. 

You disliked those moments with him. 

You disliked him especially when he played. 

Oikawa’s a monster, be it in volleyball or with you. There are times, though, that you’d notice some things that you think you’re not meant to see. Like after a serve— its impact booming throughout the court, he’d have this puzzling expression on his face. 

It looked like....anger. 

He scored a point, right? Everyone’s cheering for him, aren’t they? Wait, didn’t they win?

You thought maybe it’s the adrenaline making him nastier than usual, but sometimes you’d pass by the gym when he happens to be alone. And that anger is still there, punctuated by the sound of the ball exploding against the floor. Jump. Hit. Spike. Jump. Hit. Spike. He’d do it, again and again and again. 

As if he’s trying to grasp something even he cannot reach. 

Those instances should’ve taught you that the best thing to do is look away. 

That’s what you should’ve done. Look away.

They lost the Interhigh tournament.

You knew this not because you’d watched, but because for one day, Oikawa Tooru wasn’t your bully. 

The derision was replaced by sulking. He didn’t speak for the entire period. The funniest thing about it was that everyone kept staring at you. Like somehow you’d been the cause of this, when all of them were lamenting the loss just as much as the team itself. 

 What was supposed to be a reason for celebration suddenly became a crime that you had to explain for.

 “Great,” you grumbled to yourself. “One time I don’t have a target on my back, now I’m the bad guy.”

Trash bag in hand, the scraps inside rattled against each other as you stomped to the recycling bin, both sleeves of your P.E jacket folded up to the elbows. You affected a tone, choosing to mock the grating way some of classmates talked:

“Oh, hey, if it’s not too much,” you began. “Can you please be his punching bag again? If you will, can you relieve our superstar’s burdens? By, I don’t know, alluring him into walking all over you? Like the good old days! Please, oh please? We rely on you, oh Great Punching Bag! We Beseech thee, oh Esteemed Doormat! We compel— dude, what the fuck?!”

Crumpled papers and steel and tin cans rolled to the ground. You didn’t pick them up, like you should’ve; you left it there, trash bag lying open, and grabbed the ball that whisked mere inches from your face. 

This time you’re not making the same mistake. The asshole is more than capable of suspending what little morals he has, just to hurt someone he barely knew. As well as athletically adept (an understatement, that) at hitting a walking target; or not hitting it, in this case.  

You stormed the almost empty gym. Oikawa is a ray of sunshine, greeting you with that smile. It makes you want to punch him.

“What is wrong with you?” you spat. 

He chuckled. “Whoops. Sorry!” 

“I’m not having this-” you shoved the ball to his stomach. He didn’t even blink. “This isn’t gonna slide anymore, Oikawa.”

Wide grin still in place, he took it from your hands with his much larger ones and said, “Wow, you’re actually mad this time. ”  

Then, he added, “I didn’t mean it! Honest!” 

Must be nice, you thought with a scowl, to be him. Anyone can be sincere if they look anything like Oikawa. 

“Sure. Fine. No, actually,” you glowered. “You know what?” 

“Hm?” He tilted his head. Oikawa tilted his pretty little head.

You seethed. “I get it. You lost. That doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me. I mean, what did I ever do to you, Oikawa? I have-” you exhaled, surprised by the break in your voice. 

“I haven’t done anything to you. We stopped being kids a long time ago. That shit you pull should’ve ended by now. We’ve grown.” You jabbed his chest. “But I see that maybe not all of us have.”

His pleased expression hadn’t dropped. “Ouch,” Oikawa grimaced, glancing amusedly at the place you’d touched. “How mean.”

This isn’t going anywhere. 

You don’t know why it took you this long to realize this, as you shifted your gaze away from him, noticing the gashes on the floor that tear the surface like scars that never healed. That must’ve been because of him, with the amount of practice he does. 

“It won’t be enough, won’t it, Oikawa?” you whispered. “Not for you.”

The smile that’s been there since you arrived tensed, straining at the corners of his lips. 

“Yeah, I’ve been told,” he beamed. 

He was bathing in his own sweat, seeping through his shirt and matting his hair to his face, and he looks— Oikawa looked tired. His eyes were sunken in, too. Did he even sleep?

You’re so used to seeing him not a hair out of place, with a sweet scent that you amusedly thought lures his gaggle of admirers into following him everywhere. It takes you aback, honestly. Particularly the wobble in his step as he bent and squeezed his knee with shaky fingers.

You don’t think he’s aware he’s doing it in front of you.

Then, just like that, everything seemed to have added up.  

“You’ll never be happy,” you said.

You should’ve stopped there. You should’ve left. Instead, you looked him in those brown eyes, the warm hue becoming a lot colder as he moved closer. 

Oikawa sneered. “And what do you know, huh?” 

(Go. Leave.)

“Nothing,” you told him. “I don’t- I don’t know. Because, I don’t get it.”

(Shut up. Shut up.)

“Why you try any harder, I don’t know. Win or lose, it’s all the same. You’re still the same. You’re still awful and annoying and- and still you.” You laughed, unsure why you’re running your mouth like this. 

“Win or lose. Oikawa is still Oikawa,” you breathed in. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

His teammates must’ve gone somewhere. For lunch, maybe, you thought as you eyed the abandoned bottles and used towels scattered around the court. “Besides,” you huffed, not without a twinge of envy. “They’ll all still love you, either way.” 

Everything went still for a while, and you’d just realized what you’d just said.

“What about you?” 

You looked back at him.

“What?”

He tipped his chin. You stepped backwards. 

He brushed your wrist.

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed, but he only smiled and wrapped his entire hand around it. 

Oikawa had been your first bully. Before you could even comprehend what that meant, Oikawa had been the source of your mother’s worries whenever she parted with you at the school gates. It is funny, thinking about it, for letting this boy affect you despite making an effort to stay away the first time. 

But it is only now— now that he has a firm hold on you, gentle yet smothering— that you truly feared Oikawa Tooru. 

It rattled your breath, squeezing your heart and refusing air to pass through your lungs, as you felt a shock zap through you. And apparently through him as well.

You broke away from each out with a cry.

Your hand was burning. That’s the only explanation for it. Your hand was burning and any moment now smoke will diffuse from the pores. 

You waited. Any moment now. But the more you stared at it the more tiny spots of flames sparked under your skin, bursting along the palm lines— first, the forked ones; then, the dashed lines— glaring back at you, glowing brighter, blotting and spreading until they mapped your palms then your entire hands like constellations. 

“Red is bad, my heart,” your mother said. “Red means run.”

“I knew it,” you scoffed, shaking your head. 

Well, it’s not as if this is news to you. 

“What about that, Oikawa?” You put both your radiating hands in the air. “The universe is telling us, you and I? We just don’t—”

Why are you crying?

Why is Oikawa crying? 

“I knew it,” he croaked.

Your mother made the red light sound so horrifying for a reason. 

There has to be a reason, too, why the universe is warning you so late into your life. You’d actually ran before. And when you thought it a waste of money, you chose to stay and not fight back; thinking that his punches have become less severe, degraded into verbal taunts that induce social exclusion at most; that, certainly, red doesn’t forbode something as bad as murder, right?

Well, what now? You were wrong, after all. This time you have a feeling that you actually need to hide. 

Because Oikawa’s looking at you like you’re the last two people left in this Earth. 

Just you and him. Without any need for anybody else. 

You didn’t breathe, attempting to bolt despite the overwhelming need to throw up right where you're standing. He stepped closer, faster than you’d liked, and touched your face, caressing your cheek up to your aching temple.

“You should really stop trying to run away,” he said, voice low as if he’s sharing a secret. “I’ll always find you, you know?”

You didn’t have to look to know. Even if you closed your eyes, as well, you know it’s still going to be there; glowing in the darkness behind your eyelids.

“Me and you—” Oikawa sighed. 

Listen carefully, your mother said.

“ —we have a connection that no one else will ever understand,” he said.

The light emitting from his hand was so harsh it hurt you, pricking your sight until it drew fat tears, reflecting against your damp face and tinting the fallen streaks with bright—

Blue means happy, she told you. The happiest you’ll ever be.

And you’d repeat: Blue. Blue is for—

“My soulmate," Oikawa said, before locking you in a deep, searing kiss. 

The lights didn't die even as he dragged you into the storage room.  

"Hey, where'd senpai go?" 

The rest of the volleyball team came in droves, occupying the hollow court with their squeaking shoes and questions about Oikawa's whereabouts.

"Must've gone somewhere," you heard a deep voice say. 

You could answer that question. All you  had to do was scream. They weren't so far from the room that they wouldn't pick it up over the noise of their volleyball practice. Really, if you needed to, you could even outshout their guttural yells of "Nice kill!"

Though, you'd have to remove the underwear lodged in your mouth first. 

Yours, in fact; soaked now by your own saliva, drool dripping to your chin as your wrists chafed against the rope that's keeping them tied at your back.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" You felt every sickening movement of Oikawa's lips against your throat. "Feels good when you- ah, fuck- when you give in."

With the cloth muting your shrill bawling, you tried your best to recall how you ended up here: seated on his lap as he sluggishly humped himself against you, his still glowing hands cupping your ass.  

The only thing left on your body was your bra, and even that he's already lowered to let your tits spill over the top. Your pants and t-shirt and jacket are lying around somewhere. You couldn't determine where in particular; the only sources of light were behind you.  

He was leaving imprints of blue all over your skin; around your waist as he slithered his hands to reach your breasts, scantily brushing over the hardened nipples and making you keel over.

"So sensitive," he tutted, smooching your neck so gently that even the underwear couldn't muffle your loud yelp when he suddenly bit into the flesh. Hard. 

You wanted to claw his eyes out and call for help and you wanted badly to scream don't do that Oikawa someone please save me he's gonna kill me he's gonna kill me-

But the gag remained intact and the boys outside continued their game, ignorant that their precious captain is taking everything away from you. 

Sharp canines bruised your skin, provoking a fresh batch of tears as he sucked and licked every after cruel bite. 

Then, when you thought the worst had passed, he removed his mouth from your neck to spit onto your bare cunt, allowing it to slide from the hair on your mound to the nub sticking out in the middle.

(It is not enough that he is killing you. Oikawa must defile you, too.)

His fingers gripped the insides of your thighs open when you tried to shut them together. "Don't be a brat," he clicked his tongue.

"Be a nice little kitten for me," Oikawa drawled, smearing the slick that's soaking your folds against the spittle coating your clit.

You didn't notice when he'd taken his cock out, you only realize that he's about to enter you when he teased your entrance with it, pushing the tip to nudge the drenched hole, only to pull it back again.

And you didn't dare look. The feel of it almost stretching you out with just the head is already driving you to insipid begging.

"What'd you say, kitten?" he pouted.

Oikawa you've already taken too much is it never going to be enough Oikawa let me go.

"I can't understand you," he chuckled. "Here—"

He pulled the underwear out of your mouth as he thrust all the way inside, your back arching, driving him deeper, as his cock throbbed against your pussy walls.

"Now, what were you saying?"

You swallowed your cries and heaved and swore you were gonna tear his heart out after this. 

"Say," he whispered, sniffing your wet panties without breaking his gaze. "If everyone saw us right now, how'd you think they'd react?"

It was so reverent, the way he did it, blue light revealing that he closed his eyes as he took a whiff, as if he hung onto your scent like a lifeline.

But you thought that'd been a calculated move, because as you dumbly stared at him, he immediately gyrated his hips under you, rocking back and forth ever so slowly, and you remembered that you had to keep quiet.

His cock was so big inside you, making you bite your lip as it filled you up, the curved tip hitting a spot that has you squirming in his embrace.

"At this point they'll know how much of a whore you are," he said, tangling his muscled arms around yours and anchoring you to his body. "Made just for me."

"Oika-Oikawa…"

You don't know this person. 

"Help..me.."

You don't know who's speaking out and whimpering for Oikawa, on her knees and bouncing up and down on his lap with weak, quivering thighs. 

It couldn't be you.

"Help you?" You felt him nuzzle your neck. "I thought you wanted me to stay away, though?"

Someone mewled out a pathetic, "N-no."

"No? Then what d'you want, kitten?"

(Oh. Oh, he feels so fucking good.)

Your belly has never felt this hot before and it's driving you crazy that you're chasing for something you cannot see and it feels so near but there's something, something that's keeping you from it that all you can do is grind your sopping cunt closer to him.

"Wanna- I wanna cum."

Oikawa kissed you on the forehead, and then he said, "Go ahead, then."

He released your arms. 

Then, he's scooping cum off your pussy, making sure to drag his fingers under the lips, before circling your large, swelling clit. Then, he's sucking your tits and swirling his tongue around a nipple and you're so so close.

"That's it," Oikawa sighed. "Ride my cock, baby."

His rough palm slapped both your ass cheeks and the cry that erupted from you only made him laugh. 

"Make yourself cum on my cock," he grunted, licking his smiling lips as he leaned back against the wall, hand idly rubbing your dripping clit. "You're making a mess, darling. Leaking like that."

You're quivering all over; your cunt is spasming and your legs are complaining beneath you, but you don't stop. You lift your hips and then sink your pussy down, down until you feel his balls touching your sore ass, the sloshing sound growing louder as you move faster. 

You don't think about what this'll all mean later, what you're doing giving in to him, when you scream out his name. But as soon as you did, Oikawa's growl had been your only warning.

He grabbed the back of your head and kissed you, plunging his tongue into your throat, his strong arms pressing you so close to him you can no longer tell his skin from yours, his battering heartbeat from yours. 

You didn't move—weren't allowed to, when he hammered his cock into you, pounding your cunt and fucking you raw until you're breathless and nothing but a shuddering wreck, splitting at the seams in his hands as you feel thick spurts of hot cum slide out of you. 

"My pretty girl," came his hoarse whisper. "My pretty, pretty girl."

The lights have dimmed, when he cradled your shaking form and moved out of you, faint traces left on just the palm lines and fingertips. 

They were flooded by the sudden brightness that enveloped the storage room.

"Holy shit."

You pressed your eyes close, your entire body prickling at Oikawa’s touch.

It shouldn't be surprising, at this point, that Oikawa, as quick as he'd stripped you off of everything, has already covered you back in your jacket. The smell of it striking you ruthlessly, that old cologne that you always use to school reminding you of who you were, before all this.

Had it only been a few hours? It felt like a lifetime ago.

"Ah," Oikawa murmured. "They caught us."

"Oikawa,” someone roared. Oikawa held you, hiding your face against his chest. “Why you son of a-"

"C-coach..! Stop- Oi, someone help me hold him- no, coach! "

You heard him chuckle. “Sorry about this, everyone.” He held up his hand and you had to keep yourself from sobbing. “But, look.”

There were several gasps. 

(Everybody knows now.)

“You..and her?” 

The boy who said that sounded so astonished, clearly overjoyed for some reason, that it revolted you.

“Mhm,” he nodded, a smile in his voice. “Now, can you guys please give us some privacy?” 

Feet shuffled out of the room, along with stuttered apologies. They all left. 

Except for one.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa pouted.

“What did you do, Oikawa?”

A beat. Then, he repeated, “Iwa-chan.”

Please. 

Iwaizumi didn’t say anything. 

Please help me.

“Sure,” he grunted.

He was gone, too, after that.

You were back in the darkness, with nothing but the faltering red and blue on your hands and his, while he untied your wrists and kneaded the abrasion away, cooing sweet nothings to your ear. 

“I hate you,” you rasped. 

“Don’t say that.”

“I fucking hate you-”

“Please stop yelling-”

“I won’t ever forgive you, Oikawa!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he cried, shaking his head as he brushed your tear-stained cheeks with both thumbs. You clutched them, wanting him off you, but he only latched himself firmly into you. “We’re meant to be.”

“You’re the only one for me.” 

Oikawa brought your numb hand to his face, pressing a kiss to your palm, the red light basking him in its soft glow.

“And I’m the only one for you,” he said, intertwining your fingers together. 

The lights flickered in and out, at first, as you stared vacantly into it, the red and blue swallowing each other. Until they finally disappeared, leaving just you and him, curled against each other in the shadows. 

[aphroditedahlias]

Yandere dabi x fem reader

Tw // stepcest, infantilization 

Taglist

Please keep in mind I am a new writer / not edited

Jolting out of your sleep, your body is drenched in sweat, tears streaming down your face your not sure if you’re even awake.

You start to sob yelling out “ I just want touya nii back please don’t take him away forever.”

“ lookin for me angel?”

Your eyes snap to your bedroom door, making out a lanky figure with spiked hair. You know it’s him.

Noticing your sobs he immediately comes to lay with you asking why you’re crying.

i- I keep having these dreams, you always die. why does it keep happening? Are you going to die?” You whine out softly, gripping onto his shirt seeking his comfort

“ you know I wouldn’t leave you baby. If I left who’s gunna take care of your clingy ass?” He pinched your cheek trying to get you to smile but instead a cute pout forms on your face.

“ nii san I’m not clingy.”

He looks between you and your fingers gripping onto his shirt for dear life raising an eye brow at you. As soon as you get it, you snatch your hand back, turning away from him. He has a smile on his face, happy to have distracted you from your nightmare.

The only light in the room is from the moon shining through the window which just so happens to shine on you. He can see the way your loose sleep shorts reveal your leaking slit to him. he needs you and by the way he can see slick forming he knows you need him too.

He tries turning you around just for you to ignore him with a refusing whine.

“ awww did nii-San make his sister sad? I was just messin with ya, youre not clingy- well actually you are but it’s okay. I like my baby clingy.”

He can see the side of your face lift up into a smile as you turn towards him.

“ really? You like me how I am?”

“ yes, so stop whining and gimme kiss, haven’t felt you in forever.” He says , pulling you on top of him.

You look down at him feeling your heart crack at the idea of loosing him. you lean down and smash your lips against his, opening your mouth and sliding your tongue in waiting a few seconds for him to dominate the kiss.

After a moment he breaks the kiss in order to flip you under him and take off yours and his shorts.

“ no underwear, always ready for me huh?“ he breathes against your lips.

He chuckles as Your hands are tugging at his shirt again trying to get him to come back to you.

After taking off the rest of yours and his clothing, he leans down to kiss from hidden valley of your neck to down your stomach going back up in order to seal your lips together. He flicks a thumb across your nipple watching as you jerk beneath him, before taking the bud into his mouth. He sucks untill it’s puffy and swollen while his hand travels down to your heat.

“ nooo nii-San hurry, wanna feel you it’s taking too long please.” You say, breathless as he starts to play with your clit.

“ just relax. M’gunna take care of you it’s ok.” He says after letting go of your nipple with a loud pop.

He makes his way down your body leaving more kisses until he’s face to face with your drooling cunt.

He presses a hard kiss to your clit before licking a stripe starting from your hole. He toys with you for a few minutes, enjoying the way you writhe and whine from the stimulation. He finally stops teasing you when he sucks your clit into his mouth swirling his tongue around then lifting the hood and hollowing his cheeks. He works two fingers into you, feeling around as you get used to him then curls his fingers immediately hitting your sweet spot. Hot Juices are quick to fly into his mouth, dripping down his chin as he looks up at you smugly. You buck your hips into his hand causing him to press his hand against your pelvis to ground you.

“ calm down, you’ll be crying if it hurts just let me do this.” He sneers at you

“ nii-San I can take it I know I can, I’m ready please.” You stutter out, still writhing under him from your previous orgasm.

He looks at you with a raised eye brow again before sighing and raising above you. He strokes himself then smacks his length against your slit , moving it around to collect your juices. You lift your hips hoping to get him to fill you faster.

He presses down on your hips before slowly sliding inside, revealing in the sounds you make as he bullies his way into your cunt. Once fully set inside he leans down to take your neglected nipple into his mouth, stroking your clit to calm you down.

“ you okay? “ he asks, letting go of your nipple

“ f-feels good, want you to move.” You say

He throws your legs over his shoulders, grabbing the nearest pillow lifting your hips to place it under you. He angles your chin so that your looking straight at him before pulling out slamming into you. Your breath gets caught in your chest as he pounds you into the mattress making you reach your second orgasm of the night in just seconds. Your eyes cross as moves back to stroking your clit.

“ fuck. So good for me, only my lil sis can do this. Only you can make nii-San go crazy like this. Only you.” He breaths out, his voice raspy

You’re in too much of your own heaven to hear everything he’s saying, only catching the part about you making him crazy but that’s enough to snap you into reality and flash him a bright smile. He leans down, not kissing you but breathing heavily against your lips. His breath is hot against you and you take matters into your own hands by connecting your lips to his, allowing him to slide his tongue in. You can taste traces of yourself on him and you’re happy to have your taste on his tongue.

He changes his angle while pounding into you, keeping the mold of your lips against his before you feel him lift you up wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you to the closest wall, slamming you against it.

The pain mixed with your nearing orgasm sends you into complete bliss making you squirt warm fluid. it hits his pelvis and he breaks the kiss to smirk at you.

“Nii-San makes you feel good right? You owe him. He always takes care of you. gunna let him fill you up and make you his little wife? “ he says, diving in to liter your neck with hickeys.

The way his teeth scrapes against your neck has you screaming as you say “ yes nii, want you fill me up, want you to make me your wife. Just wanna please you. “

That’s all the confirmation he needs as he grunts into your ear, holding you tight against him while he pumps you full of hot thick cum. The pressure of it sends you into a frenzy making you gush around him leaving a creamy white ring at the base of his cock.

Without saying a word or pulling out of you he carries you back to bed resting on his back with his eyes closed while you fall against his chest.

Nii-San…. Please don’t leave tonight. Just wanna sleep with you at least one more time.

He nods, kissing the top of your head as you both fall asleep wrapped around each other.

———————————

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[sugardaddytonystark]

Love Bites (Love Bleeds)

author: sugardaddytonystark pairing: vampire Tony Stark x Reader word count: 4000+

*Explicit*

🔊 Love Bites

At thirty-eight years old, Tony Stark was bitten.

That was ten years ago, and he’s been either blessed or cursed to live out eternity in that same body, hidden away from the light, from people. Few know that he’s fallen victim to the virus. Rumors say that he’s just a shut in, an eccentric, only leaving the house when he’s in his armored suit. But you know better.

You have been his court-appointed guardian for a few months now, and you’ve spent more time with Tony in that short time than most people have in the last decade. You two were getting close, but lately he’s been distant, holed up in his basement workshop. And that’s the one place you don’t go, his private sanctuary.

You have free reign of the rest of Tony’s house, it being your home now as well, and you make good use of it. It’s dark now as you make your way down the stairs in a half-stumbling, middle-of-the-night daze. But you know every step by rote, every creak and every corner. So, even though there aren’t any lights on in Tony’s Malibu mansion, you can navigate it just fine.

You do turn on the light when you round the bar nestled into an alcove in the sitting room. You don’t feel like walking all the way to the kitchen, and you know that the mini bar will have stocked some kind of juice for making cocktails.

As you sip on your drink, you look out into the darkness of the living room and see two shining eyes staring right back at you. The glass slips from your hand as you startle, and in your panic, you step directly on the broken shards.

“OW! SONUVA B—”

Before you even realize what’s happening, you’re off your feet, cradled in a pair of strong, solid arms. You look up and it’s Tony, brows furrowed above concerned, blackest-brown eyes. He tries to give you a little smirk when he sees you staring up at him, but the space between his eyebrows is still pinched, the look of worry on his face.

“If you wanted to join me for a nightcap, honey, all you had to do was ask,” he says, voice low and smooth as he carries you into the adjoining living room.

You clench your jaw, trying not to show how much pain you’re in. “Well, you know me,” you say, “can’t do anything without a little flair.”

“Something we’ve got in common,” Tony replies as he lays you down on the couch. He gently places your head against the arm before getting a throw pillow from the chair and placing it behind you. He sits down on the other side and puts your feet in his lap.

“Here, drink this,” he tells you as he leans over your legs to pick up a glass from the coffee table. “Your nightcap.”

You take the drink and just hold it for a moment, letting the cold radiating from the glass sink into your fingertips. You bring it up to your lips and catch the scent of whiskey, of citrus. You didn’t even know Tony could drink alcohol.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he mutters, looking at the sole of your foot, “next time, a little less flair.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, the glass perched at your lips.

He looks up at you beneath thick eyelashes, a flash of crimson in his otherwise dark eyes. He places two fingers under the glass and tilts it up. “Drink,” he tells you. “You’ll thank me later.”

You tip your head back as you down the rest of Tony’s drink. It goes does smooth, heating up the back of your throat, the warmth blossoming in your chest. You hand the empty glass back to Tony and he sits it on the table.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

You nod your head and close your eyes, fists balled and nails digging into your palm as you prepare for the pain. You can feel Tony’s grip on your ankle tighten, and when he pulls the shard of glass out of your foot, you have to try your damnedest to suppress a scream.

His grip tightens even more, managing to ease the pain a little, slow the flow of blood, as he gently slides your bloodied sock off your foot.

“Shit,” he says, dropping the sock from his one hand and your ankle from his other.

Tony grabs the hem of his shirt, brings it up and over his head. He presses it to the sole of your foot to stop the bleeding and you hiss at the pressure, recoiling at the touch. He wraps his palm around the fabric, keeping his shirt tight against the wound, fingers curled up and over the wounded appendage.

His hold on you is tight, forcing you to stay still. His other hand is stroking your ankle, up your shin - a soft, soothing motion. His eyes are cast downward, fixed on the place where you’re bleeding into his wadded-up shirt.

You watch Tony as he works, trying to distract yourself. He’s nice to look at. More handsome in person, even, than in pictures. He has a lean build, slender but with strong muscles under cool, winter-pale skin. His eyes are the darkest shade of brown, flashing with crimson when they hit the light. They’re big and round and warm, making him look innocent and young, even younger than his everlasting thirty-eight years. His hair is dark, his beard slightly longer than stubble. His lips are flower-petal pink.

The angle of the light from above the bar casts half of his face in the shadow, highlighting the slope of his nose, the curve of his cupid’s bow. A glow emanates from the metal embedded in his chest, and now more than ever, you’re reminded that Tony is part man, part myth, and part machine.

He is truly incredible, you think, and not for the first time. He glances up at you, catches your gaze, then quickly averts his eyes.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.

“I just… feel like I haven’t seen you in a while,” you reply, feeling like velvet – throat dry, head thick and fuzzy. You don’t know if it’s the blood loss, the drink, or just being in Tony’s presence, but everything is starting to feel slow-moving, like you’re stuck in a daze.

The corner of Tony’s mouth turns up in a smirk, but still, he doesn’t look at you. “Have you been missing me, honey?” he asks.

“Yes,” you tell him, unabashed.

He huffs out a quiet laugh, shakes his head, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he gently peels his shirt from the sole of your foot, inspecting the damage. It must be bad, because you can see his brows furrow again, his nostrils flare.

“Shit, you’re gonna need stitches,” he says. “I’m gonna call the Doc, alright?”

“Wait, Tony,” you say, before he can stand up. “Can’t you just… you know?”

His grip tightens on your ankle. “No,” he says sharply, but he doesn’t try to stand up again.

You’re tired and weak and in pain, so when you whine, “Why not?” you don’t even feel bad about sounding so infantile. “You can heal me in a minute. If not, I’ll be limping around here for weeks.”

Tony, being what he is, can heal a wound almost instantly. His saliva mixed with his blood, and whatever science or magic that is involved, can keep you from being bedridden for however long it would take your wound to heal on its own. You wouldn’t ask normally, but he’s here and, well, you’re curious, not to mention that you’re not ready to be without his touch once again.

“I don’t know if I’d be able to control myself,” he admits to you, softly, as if ashamed.

“I’m bleeding everywhere and you’re controlling yourself now.”

“Do you think this is easy for me?” he responds, almost a growl, his voice deep and low. “I wouldn’t call how I’m feeling ‘being in control.’”

“Maybe not, but you’re doing it!”

You two just stare at each other, neither of you budging nor relenting. It’s not even awkward, just tense, this silent battle of wills. But you know that Tony is more stubborn than you, so finally, you give in.

“Fine,” you say. “Just get someone to sew me up.”

But Tony doesn’t move. He just looks at your wounded foot, your ankle still in his painful grip. His stillness is almost unnerving, his dark brown eyes unblinking, his pale face statuesque against the darkness of the room.

“Tony,” you say, nearly frightened. “Please, do something. I’m bleeding!”

“I know,” he replies, his voice soft again, as he seems to shake himself from his stupor. “I know you are.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Tony lifts your leg and presses his nose against the inside of your ankle. He breathes in and closes his eyes, rubbing his cheek against the side of your foot, his short beard brushing over your skin.

“You have no idea how incredible you smell,” he says, so low you barely hear him. “How tempting you are. It’s not that I don’t want to…”

And as he speaks, your hands curl into fists beside you, his words shocking you into near panic. It’s too much, this quick shift, this sudden change in atmosphere. You’re suddenly too caught up in the scene playing out before you to manage any coherent though, let alone words. Do it, you want to tell him, but you can’t, heart pounding, voice caught in your throat. Do it.

“...it’s that I want it too much.”

Tony brings up one of his knees to kneel on the sofa so that he’s turned toward you, between your legs, your ankle still in his hand, your other leg resting across his thigh. He eases up on the pressure around your ankle and you can feel the blood start flowing to your foot again, wet heat running down your wounded sole.

You watch him, enraptured, as he wipes his mouth across the bottom of your foot. You don’t even flinch from the sting of it, too fascinated to move. But you can feel him trembling, his breath coming out ragged against your skin.

When he lifts his mouth from the arch of your foot, there’s a smear of dark blood against his lips. And then, behind, sharp teeth shining white and deadly. His eyes flash with a nocturnal sheen – deep, deep burgundy all but glowing in the darkness. He looks dangerous and feral and like nothing you’ve ever seen before in your life.

You barely register that the pain in your foot has faded, the wound now a mere memory. You can only focus on Tony’s lips, painted red, and the intense pounding of your own heart. Never have you been more aware of the blood rushing through your veins. Or the reality that you’re living under the same roof as the person who would desire it the most.

Tony doesn’t relinquish the hold that he has on your ankle, but the other hand lightly grabs hold of your calf on the same leg, and then slowly, slowly, you feel his palm slide up to the back of your knee. He doesn’t stop. He keeps moving up, palm sliding across the inside of your thigh, his hand squeezing your flesh and staying there.

In the stillness and in the quiet, you can feel your pulse pounding beneath his palm.

Tony then sets your ankle on his shoulder, his hold giving up its claim. He smears blood from his lips up your ankle, kisses the side of your calf. From behind coal black eyelashes he looks up at you, mouth hovering above your skin.

“Aren’t you gonna stop me?” he asks, placing his lips on the inside of your knee. He kisses you there and you shiver, almost tickled by the soft touch against your sensitive skin, overwhelmed by him worshipping places that no one else has ever even cared to touch.

You slowly shake your head no and he closes his eyes, dragging his cool mouth up the inside of your trembling thigh. You arch your back as he moves higher still, planting a line of kisses up your delicate flesh.

“There are places where you smell the most you,” he whispers, almost absentmindedly, lips grazing your skin as he speaks. “The back of your knee... the inside of your elbow... your throat, your hair… your cunt.” He buries his face between your legs and inhales deep, moaning. “You should really tell me to stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” you tell him, your voice hardly even a whisper. “Don’t stop, Tony.”

“What do you want?” he asks, mouth hovering over your pussy, those shimmering black eyes looking up at you from behind dark lashes.

You roll your hips up. “I want you to bite me.”

He rears back so fast that you jump in surprise. You sit up and grab his arm, afraid that he’s going to leave. You must have gone too far this time. Too far too fast and now you’ve pushed him away.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says, voice hoarse and rough. “You don’t really want that.”

You lead him closer by his arm, then wrap your other hand around the back of his neck. You lean your forehead against his and you hear him take a shuddering breath. You close your eyes and savor the feeling of him being so close to you – forehead to forehead, the sides of your noses resting against the other, your fingertips against his flesh and his hands noticeably absent from your body. You shiver, chilled at all the places that you two are touching, his skin cold against yours.

“I do,” you tell him. “I want you, Tony.”

You stare at him, waiting. He stalls a heartbeat before he tilts his chin, angling for a tentative kiss. He presses his soft lips against yours, wraps his arm around your waist. You cup his face in your palms, thumbs running across his cheekbones. He nips softly at your bottom lip, not even close to breaking the skin, before soothing the spot with his tongue.

It should disgust you – having Tony’s mouth on yours after he licked up your blood – but you only taste a slight metallic tang, mostly masked by the whiskey that both of you drank. It’s intoxicating, Tony’s cool mouth, his sharp teeth against your sensitive lip, his taste, yours, the sharp sweetness of the alcohol.

“More,” you moan. “Please.”

“Impatient,” he chides, then plants a kiss on the side of your mouth. “Greedy.”

Tony turns his head and kisses the inside of your wrist, your hand cupping his cheek. He runs his tongue over the delicate veins, and you gasp, trembling in anticipation. He doesn’t stop, though. He keeps moving, kissing up the inside of your arm, his mouth leaving a trail of goosebumps on the surface of your skin.

He moves his arm from around your waist, bracing one hand against the couch behind you as he slides his other hand under your shirt and up your stomach. His fingertips are cold and soft against your body, the temperature almost a shock, and you’re torn between moving away and arching toward him. But the sensation is nice, you’ve never felt anything like it, and you know you won’t be forgetting it any time soon.

Tony’s lips touch your bare shoulder, once, slowly, and then once more, lingering against your skin. He moves upwards and your breath catches when you feel his open mouth against your neck. He sucks the blood to the surface of your throat like he can taste it through your skin, marking your soft flesh with soon to be tender bruises that you’re sure will last for days.

You can feel your pulse in your throat, hear your quickening heartbeat. Tony is saying something, but it doesn’t register in your mind, you’re so caught in feeling of his lips against your skin as they move.

“Where –?” you sigh, echoing what you think you heard.

You groan as Tony pulls away from you, and when you open your eyes, he’s staring down at you, half-smiling. “Where do you want it?” he asks again, cocking an eyebrow. “The throat is conventional, but –"

“Yes,” you reply, impatient. “I – anywhere. Everywhere. Just… please.”

You want him to devour you, consume you. You want his lips against your body, to feel his teeth sink into your skin. You’ve dreamt about it almost every night, giving yourself to him, him having his way with you, doing whatever he wants to do with your body.

Tony’s smile grows wider, and he bites down on his bottom lip, sharp white teeth gleaming in the low light. He bends down, chest to chest, and kisses you again, his cold skin melting against your warm body, the two of you separated by just your shirt. He makes quick work of that inconvenient piece of fabric, his lips leaving yours just long enough to pull it over your head and throw it out of the way.

His mouth moves down your throat, slowly, across your collarbone, down your breast to latch on to your hard nipple. His tongue licks across it, then he lets his teeth graze the taut peak, his hand coming up to pinch and pull at your other one.

The chill of his fingers has you shivering, arching your back up toward him. Your eagerness must spur him on because he grabs your breast in his palm, almost too rough and desperate, fingertips digging into your flesh.

Too soon, Tony moves between your breasts, then kisses down your stomach. You roll your body to meet him at every place his lips touch – sternum, then stomach, then hips. He grabs the waistband of your shorts and panties, pulling them down your legs as he sinks to his knees on the floor.

His hands grip the back of your knees and pull your legs apart, opening you up to him. The way he’s handing you now is neither gentle nor shy, maneuvering you so that he can get his shoulders between your thighs, his face level to your cunt.

It’s jarring, to realize that you’re naked on Tony Stark’s living room sofa, with Tony himself below you, in just his sweatpants and socks. That his blood, no matter how little of it, is inside of you now. Your blood in him. This joining seems irreversible, more momentous than you would have ever imagined. There’s no possible way that you will ever be the same after this, regardless of what happens.

What has happened will have been enough to change you completely.

And then Tony tongues the sharp point of one of his deadly teeth, a strange glint in his dark eyes, and you are thrust back into the present, aware and frightened of what you’ve asked for.

Tony no longer seems hesitant, not when he grazes the tip of his nose against your clit. Not when he inhales your scent, moans on the exhale. And certainly not when he covers your clit with his mouth, lips and tongue shockingly cold against your hypersensitive flesh.

“Tony!” your practically scream. “Fuck, Tony!”

And he moans at the sound of your voice saying his name, the noise vibrating against your pussy, making you squirm. Your hands find his hair, soft between your fingers. Having something to grab on to is somewhat grounding, but you can feel him move against you, your hands not guiding him but just touching, and that only adds to the realization of what you’re doing. Only makes you that more desperate.

There’s no build up to get used to the sensations. Tony starts immediately licking and sucking your clit like he can’t help himself. Like he’d want nothing more than to eat you up here on his sofa. And you’d let him too, let him have all of you if that’s what he wanted. More than just your blood or your pussy. You’d let him devour you whole.

Your body arches and you push against him, making him bury his face harder against you. Tony flattens his tongue and licks at your clit, then moves lower, and lower, tongue lapping at your entrance, then, the sensitive spot between your pussy and asshole.

You’ve wanted this, dreamed about it, and now that you have him, it’s so much more than you could have ever imagined. And when he slides a finger into you, easily with the aid of how wet you are for him, you can barely hold yourself together.

Tony pumps his finger in and out of you, slowly, while his tongue plays with your clit, explores your folds. You could cry, you feel so good, and when he adds another, you do. Tears spill down your cheeks as his fingers fuck you, pressing against your soft inner walls and curving just right.

As he pumps into you, the inside of his knuckles rub against a spot below your clit that you never even knew was there, and you can feel that pressure building, that feeling growing low in your belly.

Tony’s mouth leaves your pussy and his thumb finds your clit, his strong, dexterous fingers touching you in all the places that you need. He kisses your inner thigh, licks at the skin there, sucks, nips, and you jerk at the sensation. His works at the soft skin, sucking a bruise into your flesh.

You couldn’t stop it if you wanted. You come. Hips rolling as you fuck yourself on his fingers. You hands still gripping his hair tight. Your eyes are pressed closed, the wetness of your tear still lingering on your cheeks.

And then – he bites. And it’s euphoric. There’s ringing in your ears like the aftermath of a scream, and maybe you did, your voice rough and raw as you call his name, as you plead for something that you don’t even know you want.

Everything is black, your entire body narrowed down to his fingers filling you up and his mouth sucking your blood. You can’t even hold on to him anymore, your hands drop from his hair as you come down from your orgasm, Tony still sucking on the tender and bruised skin of your punctured thigh.

You feel weak, only moving when Tony wipes his mouth on the inside of your thigh. And then he lifts up, face to face with you and you make a feeble attempt to kiss him, instinctively. You can smell the bitter copper scent on him as he turns his face to the side, nuzzles his cheek against yours.

He’s warm now, such a drastic difference than from before. Warm, pink cheeked, thin lips red and slightly swollen. You could mistake him for human.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Tony says. “Can you walk?”

You nod your head, but you sway as you stand. Without hesitation, he picks up like he did before, and carries you effortlessly up the stairs and toward your room. The walk is peaceful, silent, and you let the lull of his footsteps calm you. You close your eyes and almost as soon as you do, you are in your bed, warm and comfortable under the blankets.

Tony stands above you and you hold onto his hand, then run your fingers up his arm, from his wrist, softly, to his elbow. How long will you be able to touch him like this? Now that you’ve had him, you’re not sure you’ll be able to let him go.

“Will you come see me?” You ask. “Tomorrow night? Please.”

Tony gently takes your hand off of his elbow and brings it up to his lips. He kisses your knuckles, almost chaste. “Goodnight,” he says, eyes shimmering in the darkness of your room. “And sleep well. You’ll need your rest for tomorrow.”

if you’ve got love in your sights,

watch out, love bites

[asweetprologue]

my burden to bear

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Piggyback Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: Gen Content Warnings: None Summary: Jaskier gets hurt during a hunt and Geralt has to carry him back to town. Jaskier has mixed feelings about this. ao3

“You’re hurt,” Geralt said. Jaskier groaned from his position on the ground, more at Geralt’s tone than any amount of pain.

“I think I’m fine,” he said, pushing himself up into a sitting position. When they’d come to the woods, they’d been working under the assumption that the creature plaguing the nearby village was nothing more than an overactive godling or maybe a hag. Neither of them had been expecting a leshen, and no amount of staying back from the fight did any good when your opponent could sense your location through the ground. While Geralt was valiantly slaying the beast, Jaskier had been darting away from roots shooting up from the ground and attempting to impale him. They’d not succeeded, but they had managed to send him sprawling as he tripped over an exposed root. He’d feared he was done for when suddenly the writhing plant life had collapsed. Though he was pleased to be still in one piece, his ankle throbbed traitorously where the root had tugged his feet out from under him. 

Geralt narrowed his eyes suspiciously and offered him a hand up. 

Jaskier took it and allowed himself to be pulled to standing, only to stumble as soon as he put weight on his left leg. Geralt caught him as his knees buckled, one hand snapping out to grab him by the elbow. Jaskier’s face lit up, heat spilling over his cheeks in an embarrassed flush. “Ah, shit,” he cursed. 

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, looking down at the offending appendage with a stormy expression. “No Roach.” 

“So true,” Jaskier said morosely. They’d left Geralt’s trusty steed behind for this venture, as the brush was generally too thick for her to navigate. The village was a good mile or two away. Jaskier’s ankle seemed to throb even more intensely at the thought of the walk. “Well, nothing for it I suppose. I’ll manage.” He tried to pull out of Geralt’s grasp, gingerly testing the weight on his ankle. It felt like being stabbed in the tendon with a razor, but he would be alright. He had plenty of experience limping along beside Geralt on the Path. This time it would just be a bit more literal. 

Geralt did not release him, much to Jaskier’s surprise. “You’ll make it worse,” he said, mouth tightening. Jaskier’s pulse, only just having begun to settle down now that the leshen was dead, began to rise again. Angry Geralt he was plenty used to, but angry-at-him Geralt was not something he enjoyed. They both knew that Jaskier was a liability at best on hunts, and he was well aware that he was only ever one misstep from being left behind, at least for the truly adventurous moments. He hadn’t realized it would be an actual misstep that did him in. 

“I can manage, Geralt, I swear,” he protested. “What else am I meant to do? Stay here forever? I’m sure I could make a nice home out of the leshen’s abandoned burrow. House. Whatever.”

“They don’t have those,” Geralt said dismissively. “I could get Roach.”

“Sure. So I can be eaten by the wolves that ran off when you killed the beastie. I’m sure they’ll be eager to finish the fight once the huge man with the swords fucks off. I’ll walk, it’ll be fine, I’ll -”

“I’ll carry you.”

Jaskier blinked, and then blinked again. He must have heard wrong. “Come again?”

Geralt glared at him, as if daring him to offer up a different solution. “I’ll carry you. It’s not that far of a walk, and I still have Thunderbolt in my system. It wouldn’t be hard.”

If Jaskier had thought he was flushed before, it was nothing compared to now. “Ah, well. Um. Are you certain? I suppose - I really can walk, truly -” He took a step backwards, away from the warm hand that still cupped his elbow, only to nearly drop to the ground when a bolt of pain shot up his ankle. Even his knee ached with it. Geralt caught him around the waist, hauling him upright again and, unfortunately, directly into the witcher’s space. Jaskier gasped at the contact more than the near tumble, though he hoped Geralt thought it was just the surprise. 

“I can see that,” Geralt said dryly, their nose barley inches apart. Jaskier swallowed. 

“I take your point. How, uh, how do you want to do this?”

Geralt released him, allowing Jaskier to take a deep, fortifying breath. Leaning all his weight on his good leg, he waited while Geralt turned around and knelt down on the mossy forest floor. Jaskier exhaled slowly. “Put your arms around my shoulders,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier ran a hand along his face, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “This is so infantilizing,” he grumbled, but he leaned over and pressed his chest to Geralt’s back, wrapping his arms around his broad shoulders. He was extraordinarily grateful for Geralt’s armor, separating him from the heat of his body. As it was, he still felt like he might spontaneously combust when Geralt’s large hands came up to grip under his thighs and raised him effortlessly into the air. 

Holy fuck. “Melitele,” he said, “do I weigh anything to you?”

“No,” Geralt said with an amused huff. He began to take sure steps through the clearing and back the way they’d come. Jaskier shifted to find a more comfortable position for his arms, and found that he could lift them away entirely without Geralt dropping him an inch. 

“I feel like a toddler,” he groused. 

“Next time watch your step,” Geralt grunted. 

They made their way through the forest slowly, Geralt carefully navigating the underbrush. Jaskier was aware that he was being more delicate with his footwork than he typically was, avoiding any areas that might throw him off balance or land Jaskier with a face full of branches. He was being nice, Jaskier realized, not even getting back at him for the fact that he had to carry Jaskier’s sorry ass through the woods. Always so chivalrous. 

That was Geralt though. Even when he was grumpy and upset and probably worn out from a fight, he was always going out of his way to be kind. He wasn’t always nice, Geralt, but he was almost always kind. It was a miracle, honestly, that he didn’t lose hold of his temper more often than he did. They would bicker, often, and fight, sometimes. But even when he was mad, Geralt was often still considerate, still worried about Jaskier’s safety and comfort. He was always taking absurdly underpaid jobs, even taking payment in a simple meal or a roof over his head sometimes, just because there were people in danger. This village, for example, had scraped together a tiny purse to offer a passing witcher, desperation writ on their faces. Seven people, including two children, had disappeared in the last season. It was a small village, only a little cluster of houses, and such a loss must have been felt deeply. Geralt had looked at the purse, a frown maring his features, and pushed it back into the alderman’s dirty hands. The job had ended up being even more dangerous than he’d assumed, but Jaskier knew Geralt wouldn’t take payment beyond maybe a warm loaf of bread and some hearty stew from the alderman’s wife. 

It was wildly unfair that the reputation of witchers remained so heavily tarnished. That Geralt’s reputation still suffered so. It was starting to mend - in the decade since Jaskier had begun traveling with him, the White Wolf ballads had become popular, enough so that many towns they passed through were already ready to throw their crowns and orens at his feet. But the further north they went, the closer to Blaviken, the less people were swayed by his songs. People didn’t always see what Jaskier saw. Not everyone felt the depth of affection swell in their breast at the sight of his silver hair and golden eyes, regardless of how many times Jaskier tried to put it to words. Maybe it wasn’t something he would ever be able to capture. This haunting, aching thing inside him that just loved and loved and loved Geralt of Rivia. 

He wished he could do more, more to alleviate Geralt’s pain and stress. And instead here he was, only putting more weight on his shoulders. Literally. Jaskier rested his forehead against the leather of Geralt’s armor with a sigh. That was the story of his life, though. Try to help, get in the way, get pushed aside. An infallible cycle. 

“Alright?” Geralt asked suddenly. Jaskier blinked back to himself, attempting to shake off the shroud of self pity that had settled over him. 

“Hmm?” he responded, lifting his head from Geralt’s shoulder. “Alright what?”

“I’m asking,” Geralt said. “You’re quiet. That only ever happens if you’re writing a song or you’re dying.” He paused. “It’s only your ankle?”

Jaskier huffed out a laugh, stirring the hairs at the base of Geralt’s neck. The silver strands were pulled back into a short pony, leaving the pale expanse of skin beneath exposed. Jaskier had to tamp down the swift and overpowering urge to tuck his nose into the spot just behind Geralt’s ear, to press his lips to the scar just above the line of his armor, where some monster must have gotten in a lucky hit. Forcing himself to focus, he said, “Just the ankle, I swear. I’m only thinking.”

“So it is a song,” Geralt said darkly. 

“A great ballad about how the White Wolf of Rivia once again saved a humble bard,” he agreed, eagerly latching onto the half lie. “You’ve made a bit of a habit of it.”

Geralt grunted, sounding unamused. Suddenly there was a burst of sunlight across Jaskier’s vision, warm on his face. They stepped out of the forest and onto the small dirt track that led to the village, which Jaskier could just barely see peeking out over the rise of the next hill over. The sky was a sprawling blue tapestry above them, not a cloud in sight. “I don’t like it,” Geralt said, stopping to scan the road briefly. 

Jaskier’s throat felt tight. “Saving me?”

Geralt hummed an affirmative and began walking again, towards the village. 

Jaskier let out a long breath, equal parts annoyed and hurt. “Well no one’s asking you to,” he snapped. “I know it’s, I don’t know, part of your job, but you don’t need to go out of your way.”

Geralt shook his head, nearly hitting Jaskier in the face with his short ponytail. “It’s not a fucking chore, Jaskier. I just don’t - I wish you didn’t need saving.”

“Well, you and me both,” Jaskier said. “I know you think I do it on purpose, but I don’t actually want to get in the way.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt gritted out. Truly annoyed now. “Nothing you do could keep me from doing my job.”

“Well obviously you always finish the fight, I wouldn’t imagine you’d just quit on my behalf -”

“I don’t like it,” Geralt interrupted, “because I don’t like this.” He moved one hand to Jaskier’s injured ankle, the touch feather light. Jaskier’s knees tightened automatically to hold himself in place, but it was barely necessary. Geralt was strong enough to hold him in one hand. It made Jaskier feel deeply fragile, but not necessarily in a bad way. More like something precious and delicate. Worthy of being preserved. It made his fingers tingle where they were latched together between Geralt’s collarbones, just at the base of his throat. 

“Oh,” he said, at a loss for words. “I didn’t know that it, um. Well - I’m really fine.”

“I know,” Geralt said, sounding tired and a little amused. “You always are, mostly. I still don’t like it.” He tapped a finger against the heel of Jaskier’s boot, still light, and then put his hand back to support Jaskier’s thigh. “Sometimes I forget that you’re not like witchers.”

Jaskier laughed outright at that. “I can’t imagine how you could lose track of that piece of information. I complain about my bad eyesight and sore feet daily, as you are certainly aware. I’m the same as any other human.”

“You’re really not,” Geralt said, so quiet that it almost seemed to be said to himself. Jaskier stilled at that, startled and somehow warmed by the sentiment. 

“Thank you,” he finally said. They were nearly to the outskirts of the village, where hopefully they would find a warm welcome with the alderman or another grateful peasant. They might be given a place to rest for the night, maybe a few, while Jaskier’s ankle healed. Maybe they would be asked to move along, and Geralt would let him ride on Roach for a few days, and in the evening he would give Jaskier the salve he used for bruises and pulled muscles. Maybe even rub it into his swollen foot himself.  “I’m sorry to burden you.”

“You’re not a burden, Jask,” Geralt said. Then he laughed, a dry rasp that Jaskier never tired of hearing. “Well, alright. Technically you are at the moment. But I don’t mind.” As they reached the first house, he gently set Jaskier on his feet, turning to offer support. Jaskier let him slip a broad arm around his back, Jaskier’s own stretched out across Geralt’s shoulder to grip at the rough leather there. After having Geralt’s face hidden from him on the walk back, the sudden confrontation with golden eyes and square jaw was enough to make Jaskier flustered. Their faces were close now, and it felt almost too intimate, too raw after being unable to see Geralt’s expression during the rest of their conversation. Geralt quirked a small smile at him, a fondness there that Jaskier felt echoed in his own chest. “I don’t like it when you get hurt, but I don’t mind saving you.” 

Jaskier couldn’t help but smile back, even though his heart was racing and he knew his face was flushed from their proximity. “I suppose I’ll have to let you keep doing it then,” he said, only the tiniest bit breathless. 

“Good,” Geralt said, and together they took their first steps into the village. “But for the love of the gods, at least try not to get yourself into trouble.”

Jaskier laughed even as his ankle flared with renewed pain and he spotted a few villagers stepping out of their homes, concern plastered across their faces for the injured bard. So it would be hot stew, he thought giddily, and a warm place by the fire, and Geralt would still probably rub that salve into his ankle. He could be satisfied with that. “Geralt, my dearest, just try and stop me.”

[jojo-reader-hell]

(The bio says that requests are open but if they aren’t, feel free to delete this!) Jotaro’s sibling (whether his twin or just a younger sibling) nearly dying/getting severely hurt during the adventure and both of them trying to process it as best they can. Light angst - nothing too heavy around here! I’m just a sucker for sibling stuff.

Ask and ye shall receive my child.

Jotaro and Sibling!Reader

(Had to add grandpa in there too because I love this part of the SDC OVA 🥺)

It’s so cold, but they won’t let you stay.

They constantly push you away from their warmth, even though you’re trying to fight to go where they are. You don’t want to go back to the cold that’s waiting for you. No matter how many times they tell you that if you return to the cold it will warm up again.

Baby... please breathe!

“Please darling, go back! She’s calling to you!”

“I don’t want to! It’s too cold!” You broke free from the hands trying to keep you away, crying when your path was blocked.

Please fight!

“No! Go back love. It ain’t your time yet!”

“Please don’t make me go! It’s so cold... I don’t want to be cold anymore!”

No matter which way you try to run, they stop you. You try to cling to a dress, or duck underneath an arm, nothing deters them from trying to make you return. The older one is strict and swats at you when you try to cling to his wife’s dress. Another one, young and blonde, asks his grandfather for assistance in corralling you. The other one with the scar helps the two. In the meantime you hear voices calling to you from the cold. They sound familiar, you’re sure you know them from somewhere. But you want the warmth that awaits you with the ones trying to push you away, if only they’d let you through. Maybe if you’d slap the tall top hat off the man and dodged between his grandson’s legs you’d be home free...

Just as you attempt to try, a hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you into a warm, familiar chest. You beg and plead with your captor. You want to go with everyone else, the coldness you want to leave behind is seeped in pain and suffering. It’s easier with her and the rest of them.

Don’t leave me...

“My love, look! Your mother wants you back with her. Just go.”

It’s your captor’s husband. You try and reach for him but his normally welcoming arms are closed off to you.

“Sweet pea it’s time to go back to them!” She insists, enlisting the help of her son when you struggle and cry.

“No! No I don’t want to go back! I want to stay with you!” You can feel the hot tears streaming down your face. A voice continues to call your name but you pretend like you don’t hear it.

I need you... I need you!

“Don’t let me go back there all alone...” you sob.

“You will not be alone.” She insists, and you can feel her dragging you back to that cold path.

“I love you so much.” She coos.

“If you love me you’ll let me stay!”

You try one last desperate attempt to play on her heart strings, maybe if you guilt her into keeping you with all of them... but it doesn’t work. She pushed you forward into the cold maelstrom, the snow storm howling like wolves and drowning out the noise of everyone in the warmth telling you they love you too. As her voice fades away, the calls that wait in the cold get louder and louder.

The last thing you remember is her sweet words:

“We all love you. You will never be alone, I will be with you always. I love you. You hurry back and be good! Tell your grandpa to take you home, that Granny said so… you tell him to stop pouting and make sure you’re loved... we all say so-!”

Papa! Mama! Come quick!

It’s like being born all over again. Your lungs are burning with your first cry of pain, you have no control over any facial movement, let alone any type of movement. You want to open your eyes, or at least let the tears stream down your cheeks freely. Even your crying sounds infantile. You fight the ventilator they have you on, struggling to breathe on your own even though it doesn’t feel like you can draw a breath to save your life. It hurts so badly. Everything does. Your legs, hands, arms, head, so many things feel broken or frost bitten, and you want the warmth you were surrounded by.

They’ve pushed everyone you love out of the room by the time you’ve come to, and the doctors don’t seem to care one way or another if you’re lonely. The kind voice of the one who sent you back is nowhere to be found. She lied to you. No one is going to stay with you. All you can do at this point is cry. Cry for someone to come get you and help you.

You spend the whole night and most of the morning alone, save for a few nurses that come in to assist you with the ever embarrassing prospect of changing your catheter drainage bag. Every so often, they have to clear the mucus from your lungs. It’s arduous and painful, and makes you gag every time. There’s no way you can eat on your own now. They’ve told you that the doctors don’t want to take you off the machine just yet. It will most likely take a couple weeks to wean you off, so for now all of your meals are taken courtesy of a tube they put down your nose. You’re not sure what they’re feeding you. It’s not like you can taste anything, but you sure feel the coldness going down the tube in your throat. When you whine, they discuss warming your food in the future. Like it’s an afterthought.

No one allows you visitors until you are fed and given pain medication, and then, it’s only one person for an hour per day. Your mother is the first one in, shuffling towards you quietly and whispering your name.

Holly can’t hold you like she wants to. She wants to cuddle you, kiss you, try to comfort you, but all they allow her to do is hold your hand. After hearing her encouragement, you realize this whole time she was the one calling out to you, telling you how much she needed you.

“Baby… you did it!” She encourages every small milestone, smiling and wiping the tears from your face and dribbling her own on you.

“You made it through the worst of it, I’m sure you did. You’re going to get better. And when we get better, we’re going back to SoHo with your big brother. Won’t you like that my love?”

All you can manage is to squeeze her hand. SoHo… Even the name makes you feel lighter. It’s when your heart beats faster at the prospect that the doctors and nurses usher your mother out of the room all too quickly, each one fussing over you and helping to only make the situation worse.

Time blends together. It feels as though sometimes you can only tell the passage of time by who has come in to see you. Your grandpa comes after your mother, he seems strained, angry, but he reassures you that everything is fine when you make your sad eyes at him. He still holds your hand gently and tells you that you’ll be ok. Nonna Suzie echoes his sentiments on the next visit. The nurses even allow her to kiss you, and you can make the tiniest whimper when she says how much she loves you. She says the same thing your mother did: you’re going home with all of them after you get better.

“Nonna got you some beautiful outfits to wear on the plane ride home. And we have your room all ready. I’m going to make you something special to eat, anything you want my love. Ok?”

A weak whine. Your only affirmation. After she’s ushered out of the room you close your eyes, wondering who else will come to see you. It alternates between your mother and grandma, your Grandpa’s appearances are peppered throughout but they don’t often last too long. Joseph is troubled, mind miles away now that he knows you’re ok. Even Jean Pierre stayed to see you recover. He insists that he’ll stay in New York with you for a short time to make sure you’re back on your feet.

It’s hard to measure time in visits at first. Eventually you start getting better at being able to make out details like the clock on the wall. You expect everyone at certain times. The nurses to change and clean you between each feed. The doctors to monitor your progress. Your feedings of breakfast, lunch, dinner. And your visits which are always after breakfast.

They start letting in more than one person in at a time. It’s mostly your mother and Nonna. You notice that your mother looks strained, holding Suzie’s hand and yours the whole time they’re with you. Grandpa and Polnareff come together, but Grandpa never stays long and will kiss you absently.

It’s not until they take out the feeding tube and the ventilator for good that Jotaro comes to see you at last.

Thus far, they have you on so many meds you don’t do a whole lot of talking. A few grunts, murmurs of “uh huh” or “no” if you can manage. So it wasn’t as if you could ask if Jotaro even made it through the carnage. He looks like his usual self, save for a scar or two and a cast on his arm.

“Bubba…” your first words are his nickname. He doesn’t smile. Just takes your hand in his and kisses your knuckles softly.

“You ok?” He asks.

It takes too much effort to shake your head no, so you whimper it out. He sits closer to you, Jotaro’s love language has always been his presence, but you notice now he’s trying to let you know he’s there by touch. He lets go of your hand after a while and begins doing little things like wiping the sweat from your brow or smoothing out your hair.

“... it’ll be ok.” He says.

His voice is low. You appreciate the fact that your stoic big brother wants to be near you now. After what happened both of you seem to be unsure of what to say to one another, you have a lot of burning questions now that some of the pain is gone.

“... happened...?” You manage weakly.

He hesitates. Just for a little bit.

“... They said you had a lot of bad breaks. No lacerations, some internal bleeding. Skull fracture though, but nothing that required them to shave your hair to operate. Your Stand... the ice protected you from the worst of it. It kept growing. Said that you had some areas that were frost nipped though. You have some spinal injuries and your legs are braced. They also said you wouldn’t remember what happened.”

That was true. You didn’t remember much of anything before you woke up. Vaguely you recall some little key points, but it’s nothing that Jotaro seems to want to push. He tells you that as soon as it was over, Holly woke up and your ice melted. By then it was a matter of rushing you to the hospital where they said you might not make it out alive. Grandpa had gotten on the horn with Suzie Q and Holly. As relieved as he was that his daughter was alive, he knew this might be the one chance she had to see her own child. You were still in a deep coma by the time she got in to see you. Now that Dio was gone, she was able to get anywhere she needed to a lot faster. Granny followed her, had been taking care of her as best she could when your mother nearly lost her will to live seeing you so beat up.

Apparently you’d almost died a few more times. Your heart seemed like it was struggling to keep up. At one point it did stop, and you remember the numerous people telling you to go back to everyone.

But that’s not something you think you’ll tell anyone anytime soon.

“We’re not going back to Japan now...” he says.

“Why?”

They tell you that you’re going to the penthouse in SoHo nearly every day, but they don’t say why. You hadn’t been looking forward to returning to Japan, but in some part of your mind accepted it.

Jotaro leans back in his chair. He looks stiff and agitated again.

“... mom and dad are getting divorced. The whole time you were out, she tried to get a hold of him. Jiji pulled a few strings and got through, but he said he couldn’t leave the tour now when they were almost done. Told mom that you’d pull out of it and he’d see you when you got home...”

Good old dad. You thought. You could literally be dying and he’d insist you’d be ok and he’d see you later on. What would have happened if you had literally croaked, you wonder dryly that he probably would have said “oh, I’ll see my kid at the funeral”, then probably send his regards the day of by letter.

“Mom snapped.” His words make you refocus on what’s happening instead of the what if. “She... I never heard her get that angry in her life. Called him a worthless piece of shit, said that if you died and she caught him beating his chest about how much he loved you that she’d make sure his death looked like an accident. Told him not to bother calling back, or even to expect a home to go to once touring was over. She even told him that if you died, not only was your blood on his hands, but that he needn’t bother showing up to your funeral.”

It must have been bad... Jotaro even shudders at the memory, and you suspect that the version you got of the story is the PG version. You can’t imagine what she said to your father, nor can you imagine what would have happened if Joseph had been in the vicinity. Doubtless he’d made a few threats of his own. Probably why he couldn’t even stay focused on you during visiting hours. He was probably plotting his next journey to kill your “deadbeat Jap” father, as his racist tendencies would often so eloquently refer to your sire.

“Everything’s moved to New York now.” He continued. “It took them 24 hours. That was maybe three weeks ago. Now that you’re off the ventilator, the doctors said that they’ve got a plane ready for us to medically repatriate you stateside. At some point they’re going to do more testing. They’re going to continue to treat you in home. You’ll probably need to learn to walk again. Great Grandma is going to come and take care of you too. Says she might be able to help you get back to your old self again.”

His time is nearly up. The nurses and doctors are mad dogging him from the doorway. You can already feel that it’s time to have your drip bag cleaned and to try having a normal bowel movement, and by the looks of the extra doctors, it seems this must be the day they examine you for medical repatriation. Before he gets up to leave however, you both feel the icy touch of your Stand taking hold of both of you.

Well... looks like that little problem wouldn’t go away even if Dio was dead.

“Grandpa... tell grandpa...” you manage. You can already feel the pain coming as the doctors try to scold you for over exerting yourself. But Jotaro knows. He knows you need to tell him one thing before he goes back to everyone else.

You tell him the last words you remember. Queen of Swords smiling down on both of you without her helmet or veil on. It’s the first time you’ve seen her during this whole recovery period.

“Tell grandpa...” it’s an effort, but you’re going to try to get it all out at Queen’s encouragement. “Granny said take me home... make sure... love me... Granny, ‘n everyone said so...”

He notices Queen of Swords smiling at him. She looks roughed up, some of her clothes are ripped and each correlating arm or body part is frozen where you’re injured. Her long white hair is disheveled, fallen into a half ponytail where the rest of her long tresses trail down her back. But she looks happy, pets his arm and hums ever so gently. When did she gain this sentience? And more importantly, why does she look so familiar without her helmet?

“I’ll tell him.” He reassures you.

Joseph had to have been shaken from his icy demeanor, because by the next visit, he breaks the rules to hold you gently in his arms, telling you to tell Granny not to worry. He’s going to take you home and make sure you’re never going to lack for love again.

Queen of Swords smiles down on both of you, petting your grandpa’s hair and humming. It only makes him break harder, because it’s a lullaby he’s not heard since he was a small boy.

Granny Erina didn’t lie after all, you think to yourself as you manage to wrap your arms around your grandpa’s back. She didn’t leave me, not once.

[yandere-daydreams]

What about a darling that goes to Simeón for help avoiding the brothers? I can see him being an infantilizing Yandere for sure!

I think there’d be a lot of resentment in Simeon that’s not really explored in the game, and I may’ve subconscious, accidentally, very purposefully tapped into that. He just thinks Lucifer and the others are so big, so bad, it’s the least he could do to help you out. Even if his assistance is a little more patronizing than it should be.

Title: Contaminate.

TW: Implied Physical Abuse, Infantilization, Non-Consensual Displacement, and Dehumanization

~

Simeon liked to hold your hand.

It sounds sweet when you put it like that, doesn’t it? He liked being there to guide you, being there to lead you, guiding you through the trials of day-to-day life without ever letting his softened expression harden. It’d been a habit of his since the day the two of you met, when he found you crying on the doorstep of the House of Lamentation, took you by the wrist, and asked if you’d like him to see about having you moved to Purgatory Hall with the rest of the exchange students, rather than forcing you to face the demonic brothers on your own again. He’d taken you by the wrist as he showed you to your new room, kept an arm draped over your shoulders as he explained the extent of your discomfort to Lucifer, and even now, months after you’d been reduced to little more than a trembling pile of confusion and panic, you still found your fingers intertwined with Simeon’s as he walked ahead of you, attempting to find your next class before he sought out his own. You’d made the journey a thousand times before by yourself. There wasn’t a doubt in your mind that you’d be able to make it again, but that was the thing about Simeon.

He really, really liked holding your hand.

But, he could never seem to bring himself to let go.

You couldn’t help but squirm as he came to a stop in front of your classroom, arriving at his destination but making no move to pull away. You didn’t try to, either, but it was hard not to avert your gaze, not to loosen your grip and shrink at the feeling of a hundred pairs of inhuman eyes prying into your back, your arms, the spot where your skin met his, the place where the helpless, magicless human clung to the kind, benevolent angel to protect them from all the big, bad evil-doers in the Devildom. You could never bring yourself to say that kind of thing outloud, not when Simeon had already done so much for you, but it was hard not to feel… patronized when he smiled and pushed slow, steady circles into the back of your hand with his thumb. When he treated you like the blind, naive devotee every demon in the realm thought you were.

But, you didn’t have to say anything. Simeon was good at that - telling when something was wrong, even when you did your best to shove down your worries and keep your thoughts to yourself. Even when you wished he’d do the same, for your sake, if nothing else. “Is something wrong, (Y/n)?”

“It’s nothing,” You assured, hardly thinking before you opened your mouth. And yet, a question was already playing on your tongue, more of a concern than anything. A nagging, gnawing anxiety, one that’d been bothering you more than it should’ve lately. “I’ve just been thinking,” You admitted, your gaze trailing downward, coming to focus on his chest and following the swirls of his golden pendant. “I should talk to Lucifer, or… one of his brothers, at least. They’re trying to be nice, and I’ve been treating them like monsters since I arrived.”

That earned a hum, a contemplative glance. As if you’d just suggested someplace to shop, or told him a piece of trivia he could barely pretend to find interesting. “There’s a council meeting tomorrow,” He said, giving your hand a light squeeze. “I’m sure waiting another day won’t be a further insult to their hospitality. We can talk to them--”

“Actually-” You didn’t mean to cut him off, but you couldn’t stop yourself. If you let him talk, if you let him sound rational and reasonable and convincing for any longer than you had to, you’d find yourself nodding along, unable to argue in fear of spoiling his shimmering, glass-thin sense of tranquility. Reflexively, you stiffened, your apology coming in the form of bent posture and a bitten lip, but Simeon only looked on, staying silent as you tried to find the right words to go on. “I mean, it’s not that I wouldn’t appreciate your help, but… I’m afraid he might be starting to feel like you’re talking for me. I don’t want to be the exchange student he dragged to hell just so I can hide behind whoever looks the least threatening.” You forced yourself to laugh, the sound coming out too uneven, too pitchy. Simeon chuckled, but it was more sympathetic than amused. More pitying than humored. “I should approach him on my own. If he was going to hurt me, he would’ve done it, by now. I should stop acting like he’s going to tear me apart as soon as I give them the opportunity.”

A that, he smiled, finally letting go of your hand. You were relieved for a moment, already moving to thank him for being so understanding, but his palm was on your cheek before you could, cupping your jaw, tilting your head back so delicately, it was little more than a suggestion, a hint at a change until your eyes met his and you couldn’t imagine ever being able to look anywhere else. You didn’t relax, but you thought you might be able to. You could, if he just--

“And what makes you think he won’t?”

Right, right. There it was.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected.

“Demons are dangerous, lovely. You have to understand that, they aren’t safe to be around, not for someone so breakable.” His smile was more genuine, now, his thumb idly tracing over the area under your eye. You tried to look away, tried to take a step back, but all it took was a tap to your chin and a slight, wordless coo to have you fixed in place, as silent and as still as any other member of his tempered, obedient little herd. “Lucifer may act charitable, but he still took you away from your home. He still removed you from the place you belong and brought you here, where you’re powerless, where you need to rely on the other exchange students. No one blames you for holding it against him.”

“I was scared,” You muttered, beginning to toy with the hem of your uniform’s sleeve. Anything that might distract you. “I don’t hate him, I don’t hate any of them, I was just--”

“You’re lying to yourself.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an assumption. To Simeon, it was a fact, and there was nothing you could do to convince him otherwise, not when he was so sure that angels were good and those no longer worthy of holding the title weren’t. “See? This is what they do, this is what he does. He’ll work his way into your mind and he’ll make you believe things that aren’t true. Clearly, just being near him is starting to have an effect on you.” He clicked his tongue, his hand falling from your face. He took you by the crook of your arm, instead, hardly bothering to shake his head before he started to tug you away from your classroom, away from your peers, away from the prying eyes and the concerned glances and the poor influences, as Simeon so often called them. “Imagine how bad it’d be if I hadn’t intervened. We should get you back to your room now, before you do something you’ll regret.”

You opened your mouth, intent on arguing, on pushing him away, on telling him that you didn’t need his help, that you didn’t need anything badly enough to take being treated like a child who didn’t know the difference between a friend and a stranger. But, all it took was a glance over his shoulder for you to swallow down the words again, all that confidence swiftly replaced with seething, brewing, frustrating fear.

You still weren’t scared of Lucifer, you couldn’t be. Simeon never let you get close enough to have anything to be afraid of. Honestly, you might’ve preferred him over your current guardian, if you ever got the chance to see the other side.

You were sure you’d find a way to live with his ‘influence’, as long as his touch left fewer bruises than Simeon’s did.

[allthecolorsofourlove]

author’s note:

(maybe it’s just because it’s Valentine’s Day and i don’t feel like i should be alone when you talk about me like this every time the sun goes down. maybe it’s just because i know that given the right location you would look at me and see through every layer on my body and every wall in my fucking head and see the rot and scar and new wildfire growth in my chest cavity and you’d pull me in for a kiss anyways. maybe it’s because i keep thinking about touching you, not in any which way, just touch. walking up behind you and looping my hands around your waist. nuzzling into your shoulder blade. resting on your skin. i just am feeling docile. i’m feeling generous. i’m feeling needy drip away from me and excess take its place. i feel like shit tonight and it doesn’t even matter because all i can think about is pressing a kiss, routinely, calculated, systematic, into every square inch of your existence. i want to hold your soul in my palms and feel her breathe against me before i put him back in your lungs. i’m feeling docile. i don’t know what’s come over me. jesus. i fucking wish you were here. sorry if you burn red when you read this [1]. i feel almost sugar-sick writing it. i just wish you were here.)

(i wrote this last night and felt too embarrassed to say it. i woke up [at 10:10! you were right on time.] [note to self: do not mention that you woke up at 5:15 on accident and checked four times before falling back asleep.] [fuck. ignore that.] and teared up a little and smiled and felt no more shame. i’m golden. i’ll probably be late for class. i’m trusting. i’m new.)

(aside [1]: no longer sorry if you are embarrassed reading me. you let your roommate tease you? wow, cringe. learn how to hide a thing or two [but….not from me.])

(it’s not cruel. i didn’t miss her for a long time. i felt better for a long time. you don’t realize you do for a bit, or maybe you won’t at all. the human heart is fickle. i’ve been referring to this as ‘shrimp emotions’. my heart is crustacean. i am learning to swim. i am learning to lose. i am remembering how to win.)

(he’s upset. got drunk, like really drunk for the first time and said some things i think he regrets. i don’t know why. i knew he felt that way. he can’t hide anything—and fuckin especially not from me. he’s an idiot. i’m just sad that it took being plastered for him to feel like he could tell me. i made him promise he’ll do it sober when he panicked in a boozy haze. he did. he won’t. i’m coming to terms with that. my best friend is pulling strings. it hurts like hell. it hurts worse than knowing i’ll never have the chance to kiss him with intent.)

(i don’t mean to put a damper on things. you just put it so well: the worst part is the realization, not the losing. i want to be honest. i want to tell you. i still should. you’d still laugh. [i am such a fucking idiot.])

(your hike looked lovely. i don’t wake up early for anything, but clearly i do for you. take me there. wake me up, shake me awake gently after a night of fire escapes and your roommate poking and watching the sun drop out of the sky like a stone. pepper me in kisses and drag me out of bed. i’ll cling to you while we get dressed. you’ll worsen my bed head, i’ll worsen yours. we’ll set out and watch reverse stars swim up from purple fog. shrimp emotions: to see something so fantastical is to be so small. to watch the sun rise is a once in a life time experience, but something you’ll find a million times. there’s a dichotomy in all this. my favorite book says, “maybe we just lived between hurting and healing.” i’m doing both. i’m the old god, i’m blessing your crops, your mouth, your hands. i’m something ancient now and something new. blood and scars. infantile and decrepit and full of love. [there’s dichotomy in that word choice—intent. the sounds and connotations of the first two versus something as tender as love. i’m learning to be a better writer—no, lover. i’m testing it out on you. you’re taking it in stride. with every day that passes, more and more often my first thought of the morning emerges with warmth: i can’t wait to see your face.])

[ceratonia-siliqua]

The Good Boy (winterspidershield)

So remember how I said @send-me-your-hcs and I can’t be left alone without making nasty shit? Well here is said nasty. 

Ao3 Link

Summary:

 After months of living with his captors, Peter's grown mostly used to the humiliating way of life that's been forced upon him, including the baby bottles. 

But tonight, he can't help but notice that his bottle tastes...different.

Warnings (SPOILERS): Forced Daddy Kink, Forced Infantilism, Under/aged (Peter is 16), Non-Graphic Diaper Change, Non-Consensual Come Feeding, Affectionate Captors, Mentions of Abuse, Post Kidnapping, and most importantly DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

 The padded walls of the crib loomed over Peter. Left over from the days he’d taken to throwing himself against bars until he was covered in bruises. He hadn’t done it in what must have been months. It made him sick to think that it had been that long. He used to know the exact number of days, had scratched them into the plaster in the playroom behind the toy box. He’d counted 74 days before Steve had found it while moving the chest after Bucky decided to reorganize the playroom. Steve had spanked his ass until it was hot and red for ruining the wall. It was filled and painted the next day. Bucky had carried him on his hip and set him on soft pillows to offset the sting, but it couldn’t alleviate the claw marks scratched across his pride. He had so little of it left these days. 

The men that held him captive were moving around downstairs, he could hear the faint notes of their voices. They left him unrestrained, he was painfully aware of that fact, but he knew better. He’d tried climbing over the walls before, it didn’t end well. They had placed a cover over it to ensure he stayed in, even restrained. It had felt like sleeping in a coffin. Dadd- Bucky. Bucky had caved after the first three nights of his panicked screaming, but Steve kept it on for the week. Had upped the sedatives they gave him in exchange for taking the cover off. That, though, was months ago. 

He heard Bucky coming up the stairs, knew it was him by the way his bare feet slapped lightly on the wood. Steve always wore slippers around the house before bed and had thundering footsteps, like a man on a mission, even in the privacy of his own domain. The door opened slowly. The soft tone Bucky used exclusively for him drifted into the room, Peter ignored the relief he felt hearing it. The softer of the pair, he was always gentle, had never laid a hand on Peter, though he let Steve do it plenty for the both of them. 

“Daddy has your bottle for you, sweet boy,” Bucky’s head appeared over the top of the crib, his long strands of hair pulled back into a low ponytail. “We need to change you before your bottle, baby. Up we go.” Bucky had set the bottle down on the table by the crib where the baby monitor sat. Hefted Peter up under his arm pits like it was nothing. All of Peter’s 5’3 height and 100 pounds (though he suspected by the gentle little pouch he was developing on his tummy that he was more than that now. Weird to think it took being kidnapped to finally leave the underweight bracket). To be sixteen and lifted like it was nothing was humiliating, but at this point it was just another ticked box. Bucky dwarfed him. Well over six feet and all muscle, he was terrifying. Which made his husband utterly petrifying. 

Bucky cradled him in the crook of his arm, cooed and kissed at his cheeks, his forehead, his nose. Laid him down on the changing table like he was made of glass. Suddenly Peter felt it. Started to tremble but couldn’t stop it. Teared up as he saw Bucky notice. 

Peter’s stomach dropped as Bucky took his day pants off. Folded them and set them off to the side to be washed later. It revealed the pull-up he was wearing underneath. He sobbed, saw shit leaking around his legs. Bucky rubbed his belly, slow soothing circles. 

“Shh… you’re okay Petey, it happens. Let it all out. Daddy will clean you up when you’re all done.” 

Everything else he could stick in a box, could power through and tell himself it meant nothing about him if it was done to survive this. This, though, this was always too much. Usually he could feel it coming, could make it to the plastic training toilet they had for him in the bathroom. They must have given him a laxative during lunch. The bastards. 

Bucky stripped the pull-up off. Tore it around the side seams so as not to get it on Peter’s legs. He cried, long and hard as Bucky grabbed his ankles and set them both over one shoulder so Peter’s butt dangled off the changing table. Trembled as Bucky pulled wipes from the warmer to clean him up. The only time Bucky ever touched his dick was when he needed to clean it and this was one of those times. The whole time his captor whispered to him, tried to soothe him. Fuck him because, god dammit, it worked. With large, gasping breaths he settled. By the time he was taped up in a diaper, he was exhausted. It was naptime anyway, but this always laid him out. 

“You did so well, baby. So good for Daddy.” 

Peter hiccupped in response, didn’t want to play the game right now. Was glad Steve hadn’t been in the room when it happened. 

“Pete alright in there, Buck?” Speak of the devil and he shall appear. 

Peter couldn’t see Bucky’s face but he could tell he was giving Steve an almost sad smile by the tilt in his shoulders. “Yeah, his bowels finally cleared out. He won’t need an enema in the morning.” Peter counted the small blessing in that. The only thing he hated more than shitting himself was an enema. 

“Ah, that’s good. I was worried the poor baby was hard as a rock and we were going to need a laxative with it.” Steve stepped further into the room. Peter never looked him in the eyes, was scared it would be like challenging a wolf, only Steve was far, far worse. He’d been nice to Peter lately, but he knew how quickly that could change. He resisted the urge to flinch when he felt that callous hand settle on his belly. He knew Da--fuck, Bucky, had convinced himself he loved Peter, showed it to some degree when he held Peter, kept him out of trouble when he could easily get into it with Steve. Steve, on the other hand… He could never read him. 

“I think he’s ready for bed. I’m glad we didn’t need the laxative tonight, I always worried about over doing it.” Bucky moved back towards the crib. Laid him down and put the thick quilt over him. Peter blocked out what Bucky was saying. Pretended that Bucky was lying, even though he was well aware that as cruel as the pair could be, they wouldn’t play coy talking about it like this. Sure, they lied to him, but not between each other, even when it was in front of him. 

He was left in only a diaper and a T-shirt. He was too weak to pull at the diaper straps; the last dose of sedatives would wear off soon, but the husbands were strict when it came to his bottle schedule. Papa was the one to guide the bottle into his mouth, didn’t let go as Peter lifted his hands enough to settle on his chest and prop the bottle up.

He closed his eyes and took the nipple between his lips. The nipple was designed so he could bite at it without breaking it, something Peter appreciated on the days he just wanted to take a chunk out of one of the men standing over him, watching. This moment, though - this was calm. He would never admit it, but the slow drag of milk was calming, the pace was his to control, he could be as fast or as slow as he wished. Tonight, he was more in the arena of the latter.

The bottles were normal by now, something that was always without fail to happen. One would think he would die without it with the religious dedication they had to getting it to him. He had grown accustomed to the taste overtime. Peter knew Bucky made it himself out of dry milk powder and powdered vitamins and minerals, there was always a little variation because of it, but tonight, something was… wrong. There was a bitter note, a hint of something salty. It made his nose crinkle and he pulled away with a pop! 

Steve attempted to press it back to his mouth but he shook his head. “Noo, tastes funny.”

“Your Daddy just needed to add something special, honey, it’s good for you. You need to drink it.” 

Peter made the very mistake he knew to avoid, he looked into Steve’s eyes. Intense blue depths met his. There wasn’t the normal threat behind them, but the way he was looking at him… It was scary. He knew that the pair got their kicks out of this, they had to at least somewhat, but Steve looked like he was enjoying this. Steve’s eyes pinned him to the bed as Daddy came into view and gently nudged Steve’s hand, and the bottle, against Peter’s mouth. 

“You’re okay sweetheart. You’ll get used to it. You need the boost.”

He took the nipple back into his mouth, unable to look away from Steve until the suckling slowed everything down once again, and his eyes slipped close.

—

Bucky smiled down at his little boy; smiled wider when Steve wrapped an arm around the small of his back and pulled him into his side. He sighed happily and tipped his head to rest it on his husband’s shoulder, watching as Peter obediently drank from his bottle.

Their baby was a sight to behold. Everything Bucky had ever wanted. Peter had come a long way since they first brought him home, and Bucky couldn’t be more overjoyed about it. Steve still had his doubts, but Bucky knew they wouldn’t last – especially in moments like this, when Peter’s reservation about the strange taste of his naptime bottle wasn’t enough to make him disobey.

He was learning so fast.

They had the smartest little boy in the whole world.

The sedatives they’d added to keep Peter well-behaved were already taking effect – Bucky must have added a little too much in an attempt to offset the new ingredient. The bottle was only a quarter empty, and already, Peter’s hands were losing strength; his lips could hardly retain any suction at all as sleep overcame him.

But this bottle was special.

He needed to drink it all.

“Baby,” Bucky said, leaning down and patting the boy’s tummy to rouse him. “It’s not quite naptime yet. You’re not done with your bottle.”

“You need to drink it all up,” Steve added – not unkindly, but leaving zero room for argument, like always. “Come on – eyes open, Peter. You’re not even halfway done yet.”

Peter let out a soft, grumbling complaint as he tried to blink his eyes open. The sound melted Bucky’s heart, the sight even more so. Peter lifted one hand to sleepily rub at his eyes, the other clumsily trying to keep the bottle upright. The heavy bottle slipped and slid out of his small, tired hand, rolling across his chest, but Steve caught it before it got any farther.

“I think our baby needs some help, Buck,” Steve said. Bucky smiled, ignoring the way Peter’s body had gone completely still. He took the bottle from Steve and watched as his larger, stronger husband sat their boy upright, then lifted him out of the crib and into his arms.

“Come on, Petey,” Steve said. “Let’s get the rest of Daddy’s milk into you.”

Steve carried Peter over to the plush loveseat by the bookshelf and sat, cradling Peter against his chest, his small body resting in the crook of Steve’s arm, like an infant. Peter had his hands balled up in front of him and he was shyly avoiding Steve’s gaze, but other than that, there was no sign of discomfort from their angelic little boy.

Bucky sat beside Steve and handed him the bottle. Steve took a moment to adjust Peter comfortably in his lap, supporting the boy’s neck and head with his left arm as he lifted the bottle with his right. Peter whimpered as the nipple of the bottle pressed against his lips, but Steve shushed him.

“No sleeping till you’ve had your bottle, baby. You know the rules.”

Peter’s large, tired eyes nervously flicked to Bucky. The man smiled at him and set the boy’s legs firmly in his lap so he could rub them in gentle, soothing circles.

“Listen to your papa, baby,” he softly urged. “He’s just trying to take care of you. Be a good boy now.”

A look akin to guilt washed over Peter’s face. He sucked in a shaky breath and took the nipple gently between his lips, clenching his eyes shut as he began to suckle. Steve smiled and lavished him with praise immediately, telling him how good he was, how happy he made them.

Slightly more awake now, Peter drank his milk a little faster than he had before. The bottle made quiet squelching noises as Peter suckled from it, his face crumpled in a look of disgust from the unfamiliar taste.

“I know baby. You’ll get used to it soon,” Steve promised, repeating Bucky’s words from earlier. They didn’t seem to appease the boy much, so Bucky ran his hand up the boy’s bare thighs, over his padded pull-up and underneath the hem of his shirt so he could soothingly pat his tummy.

“You’re being so good, Peter. Our perfect baby boy.” He rested his head on Steve’s shoulder once more, smiling when Peter blearily blinked up at him. “So good for us. Look at you, you’re halfway there already. See? It’s not so bad, is it? Daddy made it special, just for you.”

He reached down where Peter still had his hands curled into tight little fists against his chest. Gently, he coaxed the boy’s left hand towards him, slipping a finger into the tight curl of his fist to slowly pry it open. It didn’t completely work – Peter just grabbed his finger instead, squeezing it like a little baby python – but that was okay. As long as their baby was relying on them for comfort, it counted as a victory.

“We love you so much,” he whispered down to him, the adorable bundle of joy in his husband’s arms. “You have no idea how long we waited for you, Peter. You’re the baby boy of our dreams.”

“And you’re such a good boy for us. Especially for your daddy. Couldn’t help but turn out to be a little Daddy’s Boy, could you Pete?” Steve said, teasing him gently. “There’s no one else I’d ever share him with.”

Bucky smiled. Peter probably thought Steve only meant Bucky, but little did the boy know, Steve absolutely meant it both ways. He might not show it as much or as obviously as Bucky did, but Steve was just as taken with their wonderful little boy as he was. Peter was perfect. He was worth the wait.

The three sat together and basked in each other’s company as Peter slowly drank, forcing himself with everything he had to stay awake. When the bottle was mostly empty – and Peter was too sleepy from the sedatives to suck the last little bit out – Steve sat him up and uncapped the bottle, tilting the boy’s head up and gently placing the rim against his bottom lip. Peter tried his best to drink the milk as it was slowly poured into his mouth, but a few drops splashed and spilled down his chin.

“Messy boy,” Steve chided, though he clearly wasn’t genuinely upset. He handed Bucky the empty bottle and used his thumb to wipe away the spilled milk, scooping it up the boy’s chin, gathering it on the pad of his thumb before he gently pushed it into Peter’s mouth. Peter gave another whimper, but obediently sucked his papa’s thumb clean, groaning at the taste.

Bucky watched the smirk spread across Steve’s face. They both knew why the milk was the most bitter at the bottom. It was the same reason it was the thickest and the most viscous. Poor Peter seemed clueless as to why, but that was for the best. Their baby boy didn’t need to know the details. He just needed to be good and do as he was told.

“You were such a good boy, sweetheart,” he said, carding his fingers through Peter’s soft curls. “So good for us, drinking all your naptime milk without a fuss. You wanna sleep now?”

Peter nodded, letting go of Bucky’s finger to rub his tired eyes.

“Use your words, Peter,” Steve reminded him. His tone wasn’t overly harsh, but Peter still stopped dead. The boy swallowed thickly and quietly said, “Naptime please, Daddy,” which earned him a kiss from Steve, right on the bridge of his nose, and another from Bucky, who leaned down to plant it on his little tummy.

“Our perfect boy.”

Steve effortlessly carried their little tyke back to his crib. Bucky tucked Peter in just as he had before, smothering the boy’s sweet little face in soft kisses as Steve prepared to raise the crib’s side railing.

“Love you, baby,” Bucky said, kissing Peter gently, before standing to let Steve do the same. They closed the crib, wished the boy a good sleep, and turned the light off as they left the room.

Bucky hardly made it four steps down the hallway before Steve was spinning him around, pinning him to the wall. He laughed into the desperate kiss Steve pressed against his mouth and let his lips fall open for the other man, arms wrapping tightly around his neck.

“God, Bucky – ”

“I know,” Bucky said, quieter, so their baby wouldn’t hear. “Me too, Stevie. Fuck.”

Steve bracketed him against the wall and rutted between Bucky’s legs. Bucky held him, soothing him as he trailed one hand down his husband’s firm chest, down, down, down until he gently grasped Steve’s bulge tightening the front of his pants.

“You know, the more consistent we are with his bottles, the faster he’ll get used to them,” Bucky said, whispering it into the shell of Steve’s ear. “How about tonight, at bedtime, we give him Papa’s milk instead?” He squeezed the mound of Steve’s cock, making him moan loud, deep and guttural. If Peter was still awake, he certainly heard it. “Feels like you have a lot saved up for him, Stevie.”

Steve pulled back far enough to crash their lips together. It was hungry – starving, really. Animalistic. Bucky whined as Steve thrusted their hard cocks together, sending jolts of electricity shooting up his spine.

“Tonight, I think Peter should get both his papa’s and his daddy’s milk,” Steve said, panting from their brutal kiss. “Don’t you, Buck?”

Bucky grinned and pulled his husband closer. “The sooner we start, the more milk he’ll get.” He kissed Steve square on the lips and dropped his arms from around the man’s neck. “Lead the way.”

[fidothefinch]

Playing House - Ch 1: Welcome Home

He shifted the duffle bag higher over his shoulder and walked on, toward the back of the dealership building. “I’m here, just like you asked,” Dick said, raising his voice. “Alone. I have your mon—”

He stopped dead in his tracks as car headlights flicked on, directly ahead of him.

This wasn’t a ransom drop-off.

Read more on Ao3

This chapter fills the Whumptober 2020 prompt for Day 2: kidnapping. I have planned on writing about five prompts into this story, but who knows?

Overall warnings for this story: kidnapping, nonconsensual restraints, attempted nonconsensual drugging, domestic abuse, using family members as hostages, forced infantilism (not the kinky kind), some form of gaslighting, and the antagonist uses some “parenting phrases” that may be triggering for some folks (counting down, for example)

Warnings for this chapter: all of the above, plus ransom demands, being threatened with a gun, non-consensual non-sexual kissing (not on the lips), (the word “sugar,” as in “give me some sugar,” has a familiar affection connotation rather than a sexual one where I am from (southern US); I am warning for it regardless)

Dick’s feet hit the pavement as hard as the rain.

“Tim! Damian!”

There were no answers. A few people taking shelter from the weather in a nearby pavilion glanced over, but nobody said anything. This was Gotham, after all.

Dick’s jacket was soaked through, but he didn’t stop long enough to take it off. He wiped water out of his eyes and peered into the foggy weather around him. There was an open gazebo smack-dab in the center of the park, and he raced to it so he could get a better look.

His feet slid on the wet floor when he got inside, but he wasted no time pulling out his phone. While it rang, he searched the park again, in all directions, as though there were a chance the two of them had left their bags under a picnic shelter to play a demented game of hide-and-seek and would pop out from behind a tree, cackling.

He turned Tim’s broken camera over in his hands. No way he would have left it; it was new, a gift for his birthday.

He was so focused on his search he didn’t notice, at first, when Bruce answered the phone. He snapped back to reality with a sharp, “Richard. Report.”

“They’re gone.” He was panting from his sprint through the park. “I’ve looked everywhere, and they’re gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“They left all of their stuff at our pavilion. Tim left his camera – the lens is cracked. I found it on the ground a few feet away.” He had to stop to catch his breath, and he swiped his soaked hair back off his forehead.

“Have you tried calling them?”

“Nobody answered.”

“I’ll have Alfred try again from the secure line. When did you last see them?”

“We had just finished setting out the food. I saw an old friend from school and we got talking, and when I got back they were gone.” His breath hitched when he saw two figures running down the path ahead of him. “Wait. I think I see them.”

Without hesitation, he ran after the figures. “Tim! Damian!”

They didn’t answer, but that was typical. As Dick got closer, though, he realized with a heavy heart it wasn’t his brothers. The two joggers hurried past him without a second glance.

“Dick?”

“It wasn’t them.”

A sound caught his attention. A familiar tune, one he had heard chirping through the thin walls of the manor countless times. He tuned out Bruce and followed the sound of Damian’s ringtone, hope building in his chest.

He found Damian’s cell phone, and that hope plummeted.

He reached into the weeds and pulled out the device. The screen was cracked, but he could clearly make out the caller ID across the screen. He hung up his own phone to answer Damian’s.

“Master Damian?”

“It’s me, Alfred,” Dick answered, voice flat.

“I think Tim and Damian have been abducted.”

xXx

Twelve hours later, Dick pulled his vehicle into a used car dealership’s parking lot. He scanned the lot as he pulled through, but didn’t find any signs of life. The shadows were still; the night silent. He seemed to be alone.

“I want to talk to Richard,” the kidnapper had said through a voice modifier. Bruce had spluttered a refusal, but Dick didn’t hesitate to answer with, “I’m here.”

Dick found a spot to park, but hesitated before opening the door. He rested a hand on the seat next to him, where a stuffed black duffel bag waited.

“Bring $100,000 in unmarked fifty-dollar bills. No consecutive serial numbers. Pick it up from different banks and accounts. Come alone.”

Dick hoisted the bag over his shoulder, wincing as its weight dug in. It was heavy, and nearly dragged him off-balance as he exited his car. His breath fogged in the night’s chill, and his car door shutting sounded like a nail in a coffin.

“Don’t involve the police,” the kidnapper had said. “If I see a single cop get involved in the case, I’ll kill one of the boys. And I’ll let you decide which.”

Batman was around here, somewhere. Dick looked from the corner of his eye, and spotted a flash of movement from a rooftop not too far away. If they weren’t able to catch the criminal tonight, they would still be able to collect enough evidence to put him away.

But the most important thing was getting Tim and Damian back.

“We need proof they’re still alive.”

“Oh, I can help with that.” Dick and Bruce exchanged a worried look over the phone speaker as footsteps sounded over the other end. A door creaked open. Then, “Timmy, honey, say something for your dad?”

The distinctive sound of bedsprings squeaking. “Bruce?”

“See? Safe and sound, as long as you follow my rules.”

There didn’t seem to be anybody at the meeting place. “Hello?” Dick called out.

No response. He shifted the duffle bag higher over his shoulder and walked on, toward the back of the dealership building. “I’m here, just like you asked,” Dick said, raising his voice. “Alone. I have your mon—”

He stopped dead in his tracks as car headlights flicked on, directly ahead of him.

This wasn’t a ransom drop-off.

He dropped the duffel bag to the ground and backed up, but he couldn’t outrun a car. Wheels squealed on the pavement as the car lurched forward and took a sharp turn, cornering Dick against the brick wall. The trunk of the car popped open, and the streetlights glinted off the barrel of a gun.

“If you ever want to see your brothers again, you’ll get inside right now.”

It was a woman.

It was all the thought he had to process before a warning shot buried in the brick wall next to him, spitting dust and shrapnel at his face. He blinked and coughed, ducking to avoid a second shot.

“Get in right now! Don’t make me count!”

Weird choice of words. When he looked up, Batman had crept into the parking lot, and waited behind a car to pounce.

“One!”

Dick looked over the car, using his shock and fear as an excuse for his hesitation. There was no license plate, no identifying marks. He suspected it was a car from the lot itself. The woman wore black clothing; none of her skin or hair showed.

“Two!”

They didn’t know enough to identify the kidnapper; even if they were able to catch her, they wouldn’t be able to find Tim and Damian on their own. There was a chance she didn’t intend to take Dick to the same place, either.

Dick made eye contact with Batman, across the lot. Batman’s mouth was a hard flat line.

“Two and a half!” the woman shouted, through grit teeth.

Dick raised his hands. “Don’t hurt them,” he pleaded. “I’m coming.”

He rose to a full stand and shifted to the side, toward the trunk. The woman turned to point the gun at the back of the car while he climbed inside.

It was clean, at least.

She barely waited long enough for him to get both feet inside before she slammed the accelerator, and the trunk slammed shut over Dick’s head.

xXx

He felt the car swerve through city streets for what he estimated was twenty minutes, before they pulled onto a highway and drove for another hour or two. He reached out to smash one of the car’s taillights, but found them blocked with an extra layer of sheet metal. He used his hands to search the darkness for the switch that would open the trunk from the inside, but, predictably, this was missing, too.

She changed cars nearly two hours after they began their journey, forcing Dick’s wrists and ankles into two sets of leather cuffs that buckled behind his back. He felt sick to his stomach when he realized they were soft from use. She let him sit in the back seat, this time, with the assurance that the child lock was engaged and any “shenanigans” would be met with severe punishment. After she buckled him into the seat, she put a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. The lenses had been taped over; he was effectively blindfolded.

They drove another two hours. Dick worried his bottom lip with his teeth the entire car ride.

xXx

“Dick!”

“Tim?”

The sunglasses were ripped from his face, and he stumbled in the sudden light flooding the room.

It was a relatively small space, with two identical twin-sized beds set against opposite, pastel-blue walls. A dresser and desk took up most of the far wall. The lone window, above the desk, was boarded over.

Tim was lying in one of the beds. He wore similar cuffs to Dick’s, except his were attached to the metal headboard, keeping him pinned back. There were dark circles under his eyes, but Dick couldn’t find much else wrong with him on his first look-over.

“What are you doing here?” Tim asked.

Dick ignored the question, trying and failing to get closer to his little brother. “Are you hurt?”

“Timmy,” the woman behind Dick said, saccharine voice strained with the effort of pulling Dick toward the opposite twin bed.

Tim stiffened. His eyes tracked over Dick’s shoulder.

“You kicked your sheets down again. How many times do I have to tell you?” she admonished. “If you do it again, you’ll get time-out.”

“You’re crazy,” Tim said. “And I’m an adult.” He scowled at the look Dick shot to him. “Shut up, Dick.”

“Young man, you’re already in trouble.” The woman pushed Dick down onto the opposite bed. “Language like that is not allowed under my roof.”

“Then let us go.”

“That’s not how families act.” She pinned Dick down with a hand on his chest, and Dick got his first good look at her. She looked to be around her mid-thirties. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and her face was still round with youthfulness, even if there were the beginnings of creases around her eyes and mouth. Her makeup reminded Dick of old Hollywood movies.

As Dick studied her, she pulled something out of her pocket. When she smiled, it was sweet and warm. “Open up, sweetheart.”

Dick eyed the pill. He couldn’t tell what it was. “Uh. No, thanks.”

“Take the medicine and you’ll get some sugar.”

Dick recoiled. “No.”

She sighed. “The longer we have to do this, the longer it will be until I can check on your baby brother.”

Dick glanced around the room again. There were no signs Damian had even been there.

Tim seemed to know what he was looking for without him having to voice it. “I haven’t seen him since the park.”

“Hush, Timmy. You’re supposed to be asleep.” The sharp words were tempered by her soft expression. When she looked down at Dick, she held up three fingers. “I’ll give you to the count of three, and if you don’t take your medicine, I will have to put you in time-out, too.”

The counting again. It wasn’t unusual for Gotham’s villains to have their themes, but Dick had to admit this one was new.

“One.”

Maybe one of Calendar Man’s cousins? Dick fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“Two.”

“Dick,” Tim said, voice quiet. Dick looked past the woman’s hand and met Tim’s gaze.

Tim shook his head, just slightly.

The woman’s face was slowly getting more red, but her expression was frozen. “Thr—”

Dick opened his mouth.

“Oh!” Her smile stretched wider, revealing pearly white teeth. “Thank you for doing what I asked.” She placed the pill on his tongue and waited expectantly for Dick to swallow it.

Dick pocketed it under his tongue and pretended to swallow.

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” The woman didn’t seem too interested in waiting for the drugs to take effect. She got busy unlocking the cuffs behind Dick’s back and reattaching them to the bedframe in a mirror of Tim’s position. When she had finished, she stood up, admiring her work. “Would you like me to tuck you in, Richie?”

Dick’s face screwed up at the nickname. Ew. “No.”

She seemed determined to ignore him, reaching down and pulling the navy blue sheets over his legs and torso, tucking them into the sides tight enough they practically pinned him to the mattress.

“Where is Damian?” Dick asked.

“Dami’s in the nursery, where he’s supposed to be.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Shh, Richie.” She bent down at the foot of his bed, and a night light flicked on. “It’s time for bed.”

She leaned down over his face, and Dick cringed back.

She pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead.

He froze.

She stood up again and walked over to Tim, tucking him in again and repeating the gesture. Tim twisted his head away, and received a sharp slap in retaliation. Where she kissed his forehead she left a smudge of bright red lipstick.

The woman walked to the door and waited in the open doorway. “Goodnight, boys,” she said, sickeningly sweet. “Sweet dreams.”

The door locked behind her.

[rileywrites]

If you’re still doing prompts, this is from your prompt list in the random section — nos. 4 or 14, or from the fluff section, no. 12, in yet another of my reluctantly shipped ships, the Book of Nile. *sigh* (I have fulfilled the requirement of the manifesto) 😆

I wanted to give you options just in case someone already asked for any one of these!

Or, if you want, you could go for my original prompt, which would be: Nile has now learned Italian, Ancient Greek, Modern Greek, perfected her Arabic, etc. When Booker returns to the fold, Nile asks him to teach her French, (which Andy, Joe, and Nicky always said would be his job when he came back) but he basically gives her the “Ask your mother” “Ask your father” treatment, passing the responsibility like a hot potato between the other members of the Guard. After some time has passed, Nile catches him quietly singing songs in his old dialect of French, and oddly, only when the two of them are alone in a room. Since his old dialect has basically died out, she can’t exactly google translate. But she begins to suspect something’s up when Quynh stops dead in her tracks after she walks in on Booker singing something while making breakfast, as Nile sits at the table, enjoying everything, which leads to Quynh disappearing, and quiet laughter coming from the bedrooms. After a confrontation, he admits he didn’t want to teach her French, at least not for a while, because he wanted to have the ability to tell her how he feels about her through singing ancient French love songs, without her knowing, promising himself he’d teach her his language, when or if the day ever came that he could tell her in words.

I’m so sorry it’s a bit long, but this just popped in my head, and I know you’ll do wonders with this, if you decide to do it. No hard feelings at all if you don’t!

Thank you so much, you’re an amazing writer, you capture the voices of the TOG characters so well — I always smile when I see your name pop up with a new BoN story on AO3!

Thank you for this wonderful prompt, darling! I have absolutely run with it. I will write the snippet prompts eventually, but this one grabbed me by the throat.

Read on Ao3 Here.

...

After fifteen years with the Guard, Nile has a pretty good handle on just about any language you could think of.

Nile can give a eulogy in Spanish, ask for directions in Pashto, negotiate a weapons deal in Russian, woo a honeypot target in Italian, con a businessman in Greek, and navigate trade in Arabic. She can read, write, and speak Ancient Greek (circa Nicky and Joe's era) and is passable in several dead languages from the Steppe and Southern Asia. She's decent at Mandarin, getting pretty fucking good at Vietnamese, and doing her damnedest to learn Hindi. (It's  a struggle.)

The one language she hasn't picked up yet is French.

It isn't for lack of trying. Her grasp at French is enough to not get her killed, but most of her practice has been with Quebecois or the dialects spoken in Morocco. Basically, if she spoke French in France, they would laugh at her, and her comprehension isn't great

"When Booker comes back, he'll teach you," Andy promises. "He has the most modern French between the five of us. It will do you better to learn from him."

"That doesn't do me any good in the interim," Nile points out.

"He'll be back any day now," Andy says. "Trust me, he'll crack soon."

...

Nile gets to their most recent safehouse late after a long night of schmoozing. She hates long cons, hates that some of humanity's evil can only be taken down with espionage and not brute force.

Her feet are killing her. These sky high boots make her ass look amazing, but her leg muscles regret every life choice she's ever made.

The TV is on, even though Joe and Nicky are supposed to be on recon. With Andy and Quyhn in Istanbul following a lead (to keep a grouchy Andy off of desk duty for a weekend), Nile's senses are on high alert.

She enters carefully, gun drawn.

"Don't shoot," Booker says, hands up. He smiles slightly. "I would have messaged, but I don't have your latest code."

"I still have the Nokia you gave me," Nile points out. "Andy could have told you that."

"Maybe I wanted to surprise you."

"You definitely have too much of a death wish for someone who can't die."

Booker doesn't have a comeback for that. Nile holsters her gun.

"Hug me, you sneaky bastard. It's been literal years."

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He crosses the room in two strides and steps into her waiting arms.

When they collide, it knocks the wind out of Nile's lungs. Breathing is irrelevant anyway, when she's in Booker's arms.

"I missed you, asshole," Nile says into his shoulder, probably getting makeup on his dumb denim shirt.

"I missed you too. I'm sorry that I did not visit sooner." Booker rubs one massive hand over her back. "Your feet probably hurt. I should let you get changed."

"One more minute."

Later, when Nile has had time to change into an oversized t-shirt and Nike shorts, her wig back on its mannequin head, Nile sits down with her feet in Booker's lap and grills him for information.

"I got sober about five years ago." Booker rubs her feet without hesitation, well-trained from centuries with Andy. "I haven't had a drop since."

Nile nudges his chest with the foot he isn't massaging.

"I'm proud of you. It can't have been easy."

"It wasn't." Booker bats her foot away. "It was worth it, though. You deserve a better teammate - you all do. Besides, I don't need to spend the rest of my immortality intoxicated. Six thousand years is a long time to be drunk."

"So what have you been doing since?"

"I spent a lot of time Journaling, processing my emotions. I worked in several literacy programs across the world, staying long enough to help but not too long." Booker shrugs. "Safer that way, I guess."

"Did you bring me pictures?"

"Of course. I have no clue how you keep finding film for Polaroid knockoffs though. It's twenty-thirty-five."

"I have my ways." Nile makes grabby hands in his direction. "Pictures. Please tell me there's pictures of you holding cute children you're teaching to read."

"Of course there is." Booker finds the envelope in his bag, careful not to dislodge her.

The tiny gesture is so fucking heartwarming it hurts.

"I have training in literacy coaching in English and French, so I've worked just about everywhere."

The photos are fucking adorable. Nile flips through them with glee, enjoying the tiny humans and huge Booker sharing textbooks and screens. One little girl in particular pops up in several.

"That's Adelaide," Booker says when Nile holds one up. "I stayed in Port Au Prince for almost a solid year, because I couldn't bear being another to abandon them. When she was adopted by a family in the church, I decided it was time for me to come home myself."

"That reminds me. You're back, which means I finally get to learn proper French."

Booker hesitates.

"Come on, Book, I know you have the qualifications." Nile retrieves her feet so she can kneel by his side on the couch. "You promised. Andy promised. No one else will teach me."

"Nicky hates French," Booker points out.

"I know, and everyone else is too stubborn. They all want you to teach me." Nile fidgets with his rolled-up sleeve. "I want you to teach me."

One good bat of her eyelashes later, and Booker finally agrees.

"Fine, fine, I will teach you French."

"Yes!"

"Eventually. For now, you need rest. Andy will insist on a stupidly early call tomorrow."

...

Six months later, and Booker hasn't said three words to Nile in French. He uses it on jobs, with Joe and Andy, when he talks to himself, but not with her.

They end up in Calais for three days, longer than expected, and Nile bugs him to go out with her.

"Come on, you can teach me in the field. I can practice." Nile pokes him in the arm. "You can laugh at my shitty attempts to use your language, and then you can correct me. Fun and educational!"

"I have too much to do, Nile. I have to make sure this program runs properly, or else we can't get on that plane." Booker waves her off. "Go read something. We have more books than sense here."

"That's not hard, when you're dumb." It's petty, infantile, but it gets Booker to smile and that's enough. "Fine. Don't think it's the end of this, though. You promised to teach me."

"I know, ma cherie, and I will. But for now, entertain yourself."

Nile grumbles. "I am forty-one years old. Don't act like I'm a child."

"I know you aren't a child. However, you are being a brat, so shoo."

"Asshole."

Nile pokes through the books in Booker's latest pile and fishes out something newer and trashy. Brainless. It'll do.

(And if she gets him to throw couch pillows at her by doing dramatic readings of the worst bits, all the better.)

...

Booker has been back in the fold for almost a year.

"Booker, you promised."

A year, and Nile is still just as shit with French - except for the curse words. She knows a whole stable of curse words now.

"Ask Andy."

Nile huffs. "I've been asking Andy for almost sixteen years, Booker. She says you'd be the best one to teach me."

"I don't know about that," Booker says, frowning.

"You're the French one."

"They've spoken French since it was invented."

Nile sighs. "Forget it. I'm going for a run."

She slides her ancient Nokia into her armband and pulls on her sneakers. A run will clear her head.

He doesn't say anything when she leaves. Nile tries not to take it personally.

They're in Istanbul, following up on the lead Andy and Quyhn have been chasing down. They're going to the Hippodrome in the morning, but for now, Nile has the evening to herself.

Why does this whole French thing piss her off so much?

(Nile isn't an idiot. She knows why.)

Maybe she'd be less irritated if he hadn't started singing recently.

It's nothing too obvious, just little snippets of old-sounding songs in a version of French that is either impossible for her to spell, too old for Google Translate, or both.

Nile turns a corner, mentally marking her distance as her feet hit the pavement.

Maybe she wouldn't care as much if Booker sang when the others were around, but he doesn't. It's just when it's the two of them.

Booker is asleep in the armchair by the time Nile gets back. She pokes and prods at him until he's awake enough to shuffle back to the bedroom.

"We've got a long day tomorrow." Nile shakes him gently. "Don't fall asleep in your boots."

"M'good," Booker says, then mumbles something incomprehensible in French.

"Goodnight, Booker."

"Bonne nuit, ma cherie," Booker says.

Nile can figure that much out.

...

The next morning, Nile wakes to singing and the smell of breakfast. She pulls on a hoodie and shuffles out of her room, scarf still on because fuck it.

"G'morning," she says, muffled by a yawn. "Coffee?"

Booker pours her a cup as she sits at the table. Before she's done with the coffee, an omelet appears before her.

"You are the fucking best." Nile digs in, content to enjoy the moment.

Good food, good company, and surprisingly good singing.

Nile is halfway through her omelet, Booker still be-bopping around the kitchen singing, when Quyhn and Andy get in from their morning run.

Both freeze in the doorway before Booker can notice, but Nile watches their minds race.

"Good morning," Nile says.

Quyhn whispers something in Andy's ear, and they walk quickly back to their bedroom.

Booker seems to realize they're there about the moment quiet giggling comes down the halls.

Nile didn't realize Andy could do anything other than chuckle gruffly these days.

Booker blushes bright red and his eyes go wide.

"Booker, your breakfast," Nile points out before it can burn.

"Fuck." Booker rescues his omelet. "I should go talk to them."

Nile stands, hemming him into the kitchen.

"Why are they giggling, Book?"

Booker refuses to make eye contact, but Nile doesn't back down.

She's been a mercenary for a decade and a half. She's faced down gangsters and serial killers and oligarchs. She can handle pinning Booker down with a glare.

"They, ah..." Booker rubs the back of his neck. "They speak French?"

"I know they speak French. Why were they giggling?"

Booker finally makes eye contact.

"They're love songs, Nile. I've been... I've been singing sappy shit from my youth, because I knew you wouldn't understand."

"That's why you wouldn't teach me."

It isn't a question, but Booker nods anyway.

"I was scared," he finally admits. "Scared for you to know."

Nile wants to say something meaningful. Wants to sweep him off his feet, wants to kiss him stupid, wants everything in the world.

Instead, she steps back.

"We have a job to do. Tonight, if you want to, if you're ready, I want you to translate your songs for me. Then we can talk, yeah?"

"I-" Booker nods. "Yeah. Yeah, that works for me."

She turns on her heel to go get ready for the day, leaving Booker in the kitchen staring after her, baffled.

...

Later, blood and mud spattered and healing from a sizeable fall from a horse, Nile limps into her bedroom. She manages to get most of her layers off and into a basket to see if they can be salvaged, but her ribs are still healing so bending too much is out of the question.

Getting her bra off is an Olympic event.

Booker doesn't knock until after she's showered.

"Come in."

"I brought you... well, the translations." Booker holds out a new-feeling leather journal. "I wrote down all the ones I could think of. You can read them, and I'll just-"

"Sit," Nile says before he can escape. "Please, stay."

Nile reads, connecting words to tunes he's been singing for weeks.

They're sappy, fond, romantic, saucy. Nile enjoys peeking up at Booker to see him blush almost as much as the love confession she's holding in her hands.

When she reaches the end of the lyrics, Nile crosses the tiny bedroom and looks Booker in the eyes.

"Booker?"

"Yes?"

"Are you ready to teach me French?"

Booker nods, blushing. "If you would like, ma cherie."

Nile finally kisses him. "I would like that very much."

[a65232-joshywoshy]

Colorado Crybaby

Chapter 9     

     "I'm so sorry, Penny. I didn't mean to get you in trouble." Rachael reached out for her friend's hand.

     "Oh, Rachael, no." Penny snickered and smiled. "I'm not in any actual trouble. I'm not being assaulted or unjustly punished or anything. I mean, I will get my butt spanked, but I broke the rules. I broke a play agreement we had discussed a while ago. We're play partners. We set up a scene, like we did here, we have boundaries in place, and we still make sure to have some fun. Through this whole 'getting in trouble' thing, there wasn't one time where I got near any of her or my actual boundaries. I didn't ACTUALLY offend her. I broke her play rules…” Penny smiled a mischievous grin, “kind of on purpose."

     "Oh. Wow. I guess I don't know much about how that kind of relationship works." Rachael sat back in her chair and eyed Penny inquisitively.

     "Yeah. And we never do anything sexual. That's a hard limit. I mean, she'll spank my butt with her bare hand. She probably sees… me... but she doesn't touch anything. She's..." Penny giggled, remembering her past infantile states, "She’s my Mami. She's changed my diaper before. So she saw me all laid out, but we never do anything sexual. I mean, don't get me wrong. Once she leaves, or that night, I'll hump my brains out. But… that just works for us."

     "Okay.” Rachael was smiling. “That sounds like a lot of fun, honestly. Especially being babysat. It's partly terrifying, partly amazing."

     "Like she said, you can play with us this weekend, if you want. She's so much fun to be with. See, me calling her “V” was actually an agreed-upon trigger to begin a small play session. If she didn't want to, she would have started talking about how the weather will affect her outdoor plans. Veronica is a little annoyed by that name, so we decided to use that name as a starting point to escalate me getting in trouble. When I didn't tell you about the diapers I bought earlier today, that was on purpose, too.” 

     Penny continued. “Sorry. I'm supposed to announce the diapers to my close friends when they’re around. It's part of our agreement. If I don't acknowledge my little side by saying it out loud often enough, she forces me to acknowledge it when she’s around. When I don't acknowledge that side of me, I have a valid reason to be in trouble. I've let that side of me build up too much before and It wasn't good for me. It can take me to bad places, which is why she’s in my life. She helps me to stay leveled out. The bratty whining at the end was just me acting out, because it's so fun to do."

     “That… is amazing.” Rachael just kept smiling. “So you two have all these little phrases and words set up so that you can play…” Rachael gestured to the club. “Pretty much in public? That’s really cool. And nobody knows any different. I’m sure the dialogue is a little more laid back when it’s in public public, like at a movie theater or something.”

     “Of course. We don’t want any nilla’s getting their panties in a bunch. Do you want to go cuddle the giant teddybear now? I know I do. Just leave the…” Penny huffed, “diapers... here. No one’s going to touch someone else’s diapers.”

     Penny got up and walked over to the bear in the corner of the room. She plopped down next to it, rested her head on its arm and closed her eyes. Rachael followed her over to the bear. As she walked across the room, she was much more aware of the diaper under her shorts. Penny was padded, too. She had almost forgotten. A couple to her left were wearing onesies as they shared a plate of nachos. A woman to her right sucked on a pacifier as she played a game on her phone. There was an aura of familiarity to the room and Rachael felt like she was in her element. She felt as though she belonged here, with these people. It was a group of people who didn’t know each other, but had at least one common trait. They were people whom she could immediately identify with, at least in part.

     "Can I borrow your sweater?" Rachael was starting to get cold, just like Penny had predicted.

     "Of course.” Penny snickered. “Silly babies like you don't know how to plan ahead." Penny smiled as she took off her sweater to hand Rachael, then leaned back against the bear.

     Rachael put on the sweater, then sat down cross legged on the other side of the bear. She looked over at Penny.

     "Silly babies like Penny get in trouble for not following instructions." Rachael grinned at Penny again.

     "Well… " Penny blew raspberries at Rachael and they both chuckled.

     It was fun to act childish. They both believed that adulting was too hard, at times. It seemed like the best way to wind down was taking time to be childish, play, and relax. They had both heard their grandparents say that retaining youthfulness was best accomplished by acting somewhat childish. So acting childish, at times, was a key to retaining youth. The girls fully intended to do their best to act childish when they could get away with it.

     "Penny, I'm thirsty. What do they have to drink here?"

     "Only the finest of concoctions, prepared by artisan crafters and aged to perfection." Penny looked at Rachael with a mock seriousness. "Strawberry… or chocolate. The flavor is but a minor choice, for the decadent liquid which you will consume will satisfy your palate in ways you've never imagined.”

     Rachael laughed. "You are ridiculous. What do they sell here, thousand dollar wine?"

     "Strawberry or chocolate? Pick!" 

     "Chocolate, ma'am."

     "As you wish, my lady." Penny got up and bowed at Rachael. "I shall fetch the lady her royal beverage."

    “Thank you, Penny!” Rachael put on her best British accent. “Mr. Bear and I will discuss your exceptional service while you’re away. Hurry, now.”

     Penny laughed as Rachael watched her walk away. Rachael marveled at how wonderfully silly and adorable she was. She could see that Penny's dress had caught on the diaper underneath. Nothing showed from underneath, but Rachael couldn't help but stare at the distinct fold in the fabric that was caused by fabric hung on something underneath. 

     “Mr. Bear,” Rachael watched Penny walk towards the bar as she started a pretend conversation with the bear. “I like that girl. I mean, I really like her. She’s sweet, smart, fun, kind of a rebel at times. She’s a diaper girl, which is, of course, amazing. I mean, for so long, I thought I wanted a guy. But, I mean, it’s really just different parts. People are people. She's got a great personality. She’s just a great person to me. She might have literally saved my life today, too, Mr. Bear. Some scary dude came up to me and Penny drive him off like it was nothing. She’s perfect, Mr. Bear.” 

     Rachael sighed and leaned back against the bear's shoulder, still watching Penny order drinks from the barkeeper.           

     “Part of me wants to throw myself into a serious relationship with her, but another part says it’s too soon. I mean, we’ve known each other for 5 years, so we’re not strangers. We took a nap in the same bed today. We’re close friends that are getting closer as time goes on. She’s coming back.”

     Rachael whispered as Penny started to walk back. “Are those bottles? We’ll talk later, Mr. Bear. Thanks for listening.”

     Penny came back with two baby bottles, both larger than normal. One had strawberry milk inside, the other had chocolate. Penny stuck one of the bottles in Rachael’s mouth as she sat in the bear's lap to face Rachael.

      "Hey!" Rachael mumbled through the bottle, smiling all the while.

     “See? Finest of concoctions.” Penny started to drink her bottle unashamedly, seeming to have done this before.

     Rachael blushed slightly, having had a baby bottle shoved in her mouth. She took a drink of the cold chocolate milk, enjoying the richness of it. 

     “This is good,” Rachael said, taking a break from drinking. “And out of a baby bottle. You’re right. This place is amazing.” Rachael smiled and continued drinking.

     Penny sat and drank her bottle, staring at Rachael all the while. She was enjoying watching Rachael in her element. She could tell the experience was still a little new, but Rachael was taking to it quickly. Penny had felt uncomfortable for the first several times here, too. After having visited for over 2 years, drinking a bottle here was as comfortable to Penny as breathing.

     “Penny?” Rachael had been too busy looking around the room to notice Penny staring at her. 

     “Yeah?” 

     “I like you.” Rachael smiled brightly as she looked at Penny.

     “Well, I like you too, silly.”

     Rachael blushed a little more.

     “No, I mean, I LIKE you like you.”

     Penny had caught Rachael’s meaning.

     “Oh.” Penny smiled back at the woman sitting beside a giant stuffed bear. “I… um… I like you too, Rachael.”

      Penny looked away, though she was happy to hear how her friend felt about their relationship.

      “Do you want to… you know…” Rachael’s cheeks burned red now.

      “Date or have sex?” Penny’s cheeks started to turn red now. 

      "What?! No!" Rachael laughed. "Sorry. Date. Can we start dating?" 

     Meekly, Penny said, “Yes. Who could be better to date than your best friend?" She smiled.

     Rachael moved to be between the bear’s legs, next to Penny, who was sitting on a leg. She wrapped her arms around Penny’s waist. Penny wrapped her arms around Rachael’s neck.

      “I love you, Penny… DeLa Cruz.”

      “Wait. Whoa. Why did you pause? Are you so blushy that you forgot my last name?”

      They both laughed.

     “No. I forgot your middle names that Miss Veronica said.”

     Penny huffed. “But then you’ll know my full name for when I’m in trouble.”

     “But it’s part of who you are, Penny. I really want to know everything about you. Including your middle names! Which you have a lot of, by the way.”

     “Yeah, it’s a common thing for us Mexican girls." She sighed. "My full name is Penny Rosita Eleana De La Cruz. You better not repeat that ever again.”

     Rachael laughed. “I won’t. I know your whole name is to be used in emergencies only. It’s very pretty, though.”

     “Thank you. Drink your milk. You drink so slow.” Penny continued drinking her bottle. It was half way gone already. Rachael had barely drank a fourth of hers.

     “Hey. I’m not a baby bottle guzzling champion like you, Penny. I guess you really are a baby if you know how to drink from a bottle fast.” 

     They both smiled.

     “I guess maybe I am kind of a baby.” Penny said. Having Rachael here with her at the club was helping Penny feel more comfortable with herself as well.

     "I'd rather you be a complete and total baby than be like Nick. I hope I never meet another soul that's like him." Rachael shivered.

     Penny moved to sit beside Rachael, between the bear's legs.

     "It's been a while since you talked about him. He was the guy who started trying to gaslight you, right? The guy who wanted to convince you that he was the best thing since sliced bread?"

     "Yeah. That Nick. Can we get out of here? I don't want to talk about him here."

     "Yeah. We can go. We've done everything I wanted to do here. I just wanted you to see this place."

     The two got up and walked back to their table where they picked up the box of diapers. They walked back out, said goodbye to Pablo and got back into Penny's car.

     The mention of Nick put Rachael in a bad mood. She was quiet as Penny drove to Rachael's house. Penny didn't say much, either. She only commented about other drivers on the road on occasion. Penny knew that Rachael would need some time and space to relax.

     They finally arrived at Rachael's house, and Penny got out to take her box of diapers inside.

     "I'm so happy I got to hang out with you today, Rachael. I know you just want time and space… just… call me if you need me."

     Rachael had been lost in her head for several minutes, but she still processed what Penny had said. Rachael didn't want Penny to go, but she knew they both needed to get ready for work tomorrow. They had to go back to being adults, living their separate lives again.

     "Thank you for today, Penny. You make me so happy." 

     Rachael kissed Penny on the cheek. It was the first time their faces had ever touched. Penny smelled wonderful to Rachael. There wasn't any particular scent to her. She just smelled like Penny. Rachael's lips had felt her warm cheek against them and it felt wonderful.

     Penny hugged Rachael. 

     "I'll see you at work tomorrow, okay, kid?" 

      Penny kissed Rachael's forehead, then turned to go back to her car.

      "I love you, Rachael."

      "I love you too, Penny."

[millennial-star-gazer]

The Draconic Demon Within: Chapter 4: A Demon’s All-Consuming Rage

The Draconic Demon Within

Genres: Romance, Friendship/Family, Drama/Angst, Hurt/ Comfort, & New Adult Fanfiction

Vera's April 2018 Prompts: Soul, Empyrean, Savage, Memory, Trust, Fear, Unstoppable , Resilient, Supernatural (Implied) Lost (Implied) and Loathing.

Nalu Lovefest 2017 Prompts: Dreams

Nalu Week 2019 Prompts (Implied:) Lost, Curse, Trial, Treasure, Chance and possibly Bare.

Pairing: Nalu/EndLu,( Natsu x Lucy/ E.N.D. x Lucy)

Rating: M for language, steamy and mature adult sexual content (all consensual) in these and future chapters. Reader Direction is advised.(You have been warned!)

Summary: Now faced with the reality of who he is truly is, the son of Igneel must contend with the new darker instincts of his new demonic identity- all while navigating through his ever-growing, intense feelings for a particular celestial wizard. Originally a Submission (semi -au) for Nalu lovefest 2017 (on my previous celestialgeekmage account and now an entry for nalu week 2019 with chapter 3. (Also was on my earliest previous accounts of teamedwardjace/Twishadowhunter in the past. Also part of Vera's April 2018 prompt challenge from fic-writers appreciation on cosmicdragonwizard).

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Chapter 4: A Demon's All- Consuming Rage

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A/N: Hey guys, it's your girl back again with another installment of TTDW! Fun fact: Being temporarily off work for a few weeks due to pandemic has provided some extra free time to edit and posta new chapter for this fic ( which is on account of the temporary closures of public institutions, and public spaces along with non-essential businesses/services in Ontario-the Canadian province I'm from). This isn't to suggest I'm not without fear or concern about the pandemic or potential effects on global infrastructure but at least I'm mostly coping as best as anyone can at this time. Hope you guys are all too. ( A bit more on this in the A/N at the end of this chapter .) Anyway, hope that this chapter and my other fanfics along with those from amazing writers can help you all while stuck at home. All right, that's pretty much my whole spiel for now. Without further ado, here's Chapter 4 of TTDW-Enjoy! 

(Note: Scroll down past the read more button/cut for the  designated legend menu and actual story content).

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Disclaimer: Fairytail does not belong to me, but to the most honourable Hiro-sensei instead, for whom without this work of love wouldn't be possible. 

Read Previous Chapters of TDDW and on platforms here:

(Copy and paste the links into another  window if need be)

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Previous (Click Here:)  (or here: https://millennial-star-gazer.tumblr.com/post/185917542578/the-draconic-demon-within-chapter-3)

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C. A03 (Click Here:) (or here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17365061/chapters/40861307)

2. Ongoing Master  Post Of All My Writing (Click Here:) (or here: https://millennial-star-gazer.tumblr.com/post/179665258923/master-fic-rec-post)

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Legend:

Italic: Song Lyrics/Quotes (or flashback dialogue)

Bold: First Person Thoughts

Bolded Italics: Empathized, stylized Word(s) or bloodthirsty fantasies

Bolded Italics (Within and Outside Bracket) including for author's side notes also known as (A/N:) within brackets (though none for side-notes in this chapter ).

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"Your body is full of rage.

Every sinew. It is easy to read.

You speak volumes with a clenched fist."

( Paolo Bacigalupi: The Drowned Cities)

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"Seriously? Luce's alive?

That…. I can't...

A wave of overjoyed relief was washing over Natsu from the spectacular news about his best friend still breathing.

"Hear that Luce?!" He sobbed, not bothering to wipe the moisture from his eyes." You're alive and gonna be okay— Thank God! Really... don't ... know what I'd do without ya…," Scarlet-red eyes remained focused/trained on the face on the motionless angel in his arms.

"Pretty sure the guild and the rest of the people we know would be just as devastated if they lost such an incredible person and wizard . Glad you're okay either way though." Natsu's hands were stroking sweat-plastered strands of Lucy's hair back from her eyes with delicate care .

Really glad she's still in fact alive and kicking…

In that very moment , it was as if the world had fallen away; leaving just the two of them. Nothing else seemed to matter then . Not cold-blooded enemies in the room, or the recent battle just moments before; Not even E.n.d's unnerving metamorphosis. Just a dragon-demon and his most precious star with those subtle breaths, the visible rise and fall of her chest that somehow escaped any kind of major notice before.

Words can't even describe how relieved I am . Digits combed through Lucy's blonde tresses from crown to tip in a physical display of tender affection.

Hmm... Lucy's hair feels really nice. Natsu couldn't help but marvel at texture of her beneath his fingertips .Don't think I've ever stopped to fully appreciate it before .

"Gotta say that your hair feels really nice, Luce." Natsu voiced this innermost thoughts aloud; though his words were coming in soft. ."Smells real amazin' too."

Damn was the appealing fragrance of jasmine with a hint of cyclamen flooding his senses beyond intoxicating."like jasmine and that other flower we saw once— cyclamen, I think. . You've been using a new scented shampoo again, I see. Not that I'm complainin'."

"Psh—Listen to me" Natsu tacked on with a rueful chuckle that was still a bit thick from all that weeping before. " Gettin' all sentimental and crap. Hell... stripper would never even let me live it down if he heard . Still be damn proud of you though just like I am for how well you handled yourself in battle. Why don't we tell him all about it once you're awake and we're out of here?. Bet he'd like that . Till then, the two of us just need to sit tight and figure out our next move, okay?"

Wait ...

The fire demon's hands continued their fond movements- only for blood to freeze in his veins when noticing an unsightly contusion on Lucy's forehead; accented by a small gash just above her brow.

When did this happen? I swear those injuries hadn't there been seconds before .. .

Crimson eyes scanned his best friend's battered frame for further damage in alarm . My God... Natsu's breath caught in his throat at the sight of that line of discolorations on her legs . Not to mention all those scratches along with the small gash peeking out through the tattered remains of Lucy's Star dress .

"Oh Luce..." He sighed, remorseful voice breaking on her name. "Can see that you're in pretty rough shape right now. I'm so sorry. Honestly don't know how or why you had a delayed reaction to all the damage. But this wouldn't have happened if I only had grabbed you and run or got your spirits to transport you to their world, Hell— Maybe we could've both escaped and I could've helped kept you safe while figuring out this new demon form means for us together. Anyways, time to put pressure on your wound."

A hand tore a loose piece of fabric to apply pressure on the hemorrhaging wound. "See? You'll be okay . Gonnal get ya' all fixed up and good as new in no time ."

Damn Luce stills looks like an angel to me, Natsu mused in reverent admiration . Even with those injuries...

"Ooh- how cute!" Jackal's dervisie voice cut  through  the other demon’s reverie; whose arms automatically protectively tightened around Lucy's frame out of fierce instinct-automatic without a second though. Not to mention those two pair of eyes he could sense that set him on edge."

"Aw Damn." Jackal broke in again with a gleeful taunt that bordered on sadistic."That poor,pretty girl of you is covered in ugly bruises and scratches, Dragneel."

That little ...

Natsu's head automatically snapped around to meet Jackal with a baleful snarl. Damn was that all that black rage roaring in his veins all too consuming.

"There's that growling again" Jackal cackled, clearly unfazed at by the alpha demon's bared canines ." Bared fangs and what not. Such a shame what happened to Blondie here , or is it? You really did a number on her, huh Tempester?"

"Huh," Tempester mused, bland disinterest colouring his tone."it seems I did . Kind of forgot that my curses can sometimes have o delayed side effects on people . Who knows? That pathetic wrench might even have internal bleeding.

"You goddamned bastard!" The flame- eater raged, fury boiling over. "Lucy ain't pathetic or some kind of toy to play with ... God.. All those injuries… are you fault and . I swear that You're both gonna pay for what you did to her!"

"Oh-You think so?" Jackal scoffed with let out another infantilizing laugh —beyond infuriating .

"Someone's rattled." Tempster pointed out, listless eyes trained on the stone-brick wall ahead. "Unfortunate."

"You don't say," Jackal deadpanned, with a disdainful roll of the eyes ."But Seriously Though , E.N.D, do you even hear yourself? .I mean getting all riled up over a human girl in that way —talk about pathetic. Sure said girl is extremely beautiful with a killer bod and feisty personality to boot—I'll give you that. But is she worth losing your cool over or fraternizing with? I don't think so and neither should you . God knows all that pent up rage and aggression would be far more suited for another cause. Not to mention, you'd better off without her life tainting your judgement and hindering your full potential as the most powerful of all etherious. So let's resolve this, shall we? Hand over the celestial wizard and I'll gladly dispose of her for you . Sound good?"

" 'Sound good?'Sound Good?!’ Are you kidding me?"!

Good God did those last words only serve to incense the snarling dragon further.

" There's no way in hell I'm gonna give Lucy up or let either of you touch her!"

"Come on Dragneel-be reasonable."

"No-rot in hell!"

"Oh honestly E.N.D.-"

"My name is Natsu!"

"Well okay then, Natsu— Just calm down ." Jackal's couldn't seem to resist reprimanding the fire demon; as if he were some errant child pitching a fit ."You're being ridiculous. Anyways, tell you what. I promise to make her death as qui-"

"Shut up!"

" Quick and mostly painless..."

"I said shut up!" En.d's voice rose to an ear-splitting roar that could've struck terror into the hearts of the gods themselves. "Try anything on her and I swear I'll kill you!"

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To Be Continued

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A/N: Well that's Chapter 4 folks- hope you enjoyed! Now a bit more about the pandemic situation in Ontario . Like many other provinces and countries around the world,, the government of Ontario has opted to shut down/ temporarily close non-essential services, businesses, public spaces and institutions to help curb the spread of the virus for a few weeks (or more) before spring break. Such institutions include all schools and childcare centres/ services in those settings which applies to the childcare company I'm currently employed with. You know on account of most of their centres and programs being based in public schools. (Independently-run Daycares also remain closed. And yes i'm a ECE by trade for any who were wondering or didn't already). Schools and child cares were tentatively scheduled to reopen after April 5th; though the closures have been extended for another month (according to Doug Ford (the premier/leader of Ontario). Not ideal but at least it gives me some extra time for me to work on things alongside my writing(i.e editing upcoming chapters for fics and WIPS). All right folks, that's all I have to say on that subject.

As usual, please feel free to let me know what you think by leaving a comment/review , through a reblog or by any other means. Be sure to check out the rest of my writing while staying tuned for future updates of my fics and new projects along the way! (Links above, in the navigation and in bio If on tumblr . Also on fanfiction.) Anyway, take care and stay safe! Ta ta for now!

[50scentsofsoap]

Little Things

In a world where you’re trapped by what people expect of you and Jungkook is your boyfriend.

word count: 2k genre: fluff/angst/smut-y tw: depression

It’s the little things you know. It’s him sliding his freshly moisturised hands into yours, just to make sure you’re there next to him. It’s him playing with your hair because he’s bored and wants you to not work either. It’s him looking at your screen whenever you freak out about something new or fresh, to better understand what makes you tick and what you like. It’s him letting you take the last salmon bagel even though he likes them too. It’s him grabbing you by the nape as he wraps his ankles around your calves, to pull you in closer and to kiss you deeper. To get as much of you as he can, because this is the only time he’s allowed to be greedy… only in those stolen minutes.

It’s him looking away from you as you get changed, because he respects your boundaries and absolutely loves whatever you limit him to. It’s him waiting for you to initiate the kiss so he knows when to go as well. It’s him asking “no?” if you pull away from the kiss, to make sure you want to stop or if you’re teasing him. It’s him biting your lip with a tender pull, as to not harm you, although you wouldn’t mind either way. It’s him looking at you with those hungry eyes, with such ferocity and depth that makes you feel so lucky to have him. The glare that tells you loud and clear that he only sees you, only you. The passionate stare that you’ve only read about but know now it’s completely different to how they describe it in the books. It’s so much more raw… vulnerable… pleading… ecstatic, as if he just took a hit of all class A substances in one go. That one look that lets you know you’re loved, wholly and truly.

It’s him giving you a good morning kiss on your forehead, as you startle from your slumber. It’s him pulling you back to bed as you try to get some work done, because you both know alone time is very rare and so you’d rather make the most of whatever time you have. It’s him shuffling closer to you as you’re trying to fall asleep, just to be closer to you, to drink in your scent. It’s kissing him deeply and slowly in the dark as you try not to wake up your roommate. It’s waking up with your arm wrapped around his torso, as your fingers are intertwined as well. It’s him kissing purple galaxies onto your skin, biting the soft flesh as he elicits a soft gasp from you.

It’s him stopping you walking just to pull you to the side of the road to kiss you because “you’re so damn cute when you sing like that.” It’s him pushing you onto the wall in the hallway, whispering a small confession of “I love you” before his lips collide with yours. Tongues trying to dominate one another, grazing each others teeth, lips locked with no room to breathe out. It’s pulling away from the kiss suddenly as you hear the lift doors open, trying to keep your cool. It’s losing your control and giving him a hickey on his neck, a no go zone. It’s him caressing your cheek as he looks deep into your eyes before going in for a soft peck, just to reaffirm your beliefs that he still likes you and knows you still like him.

It’s him asking you to be more forceful with him, as he wants to test his own limits and try to grasp an idea of what it is you like too. It’s scratching his back just hard enough to cause a response but not so hard as for it to hurt. It’s suddenly pulling his hair back to get better access to his neck, as he slowly exhales, lips parted, shallow breaths, a look of shock laced with excitement in his eyes. Lust, that’s what it is. It’s so much more powerful to view it right in front of your own eyes, but also so painful. You want to touch him more, but you’re only allowed to go so far as you’re bound by religion and faith to be true to your beliefs before all else. Guilt washes over you, not because of what you’ve done but because of the things you imagine doing with him. Such pervasive thoughts should never be acted upon, and it is up to you to control your emotions as well as your flesh.

It’s you being difficult and a bit of a mess and him being able to tolerate your presence, even though you’re being an insufferable bitch. It’s him invading your every thought, permeating your walls and slowly breaking them down, one by one, even though he doesn’t even realise it. It’s being able to talk to him about pretty much anything, a task you’ve had much difficulty with your whole life. It’s giving yourself over to him emotionally and physically, one step at a time. It’s crying so easily at the thought of how easily he accepts your flaws and opinions, even if they conflict with his own. It’s being able to feel this precious concoction of hormones and neurotransmitters and know what it’s called, along with the fact that day by day it’s growing. It’s feeling scared that you’ll screw up and lose what you two have over something completely idiotic. It’s feeling your heart get heavier every time you think about the ‘inevitable’ break up, because you can’t help but think of the worst. It’s knowing that how much more you give into this, how much more it’s going to hurt if it ends. If. Not when. If.

It's him asking you to meet up as often as possible, so see each other whenever you can. Meeting in those stolen minutes during summer which you could account to 'train delays’ in order to walk with him to the tube station, hand in hand, step by step, glance after glance. It's messaging him the little 'good morning’s and 'good night's like clockwork, a working system that keeps on going. It's sending him the ugliest pictures of your face, only for him to react with the heart eyes emoji, causing you to wonder how on earth he could even like you looking like that. Then again, he's seen you at your worst behaviour and has begun to get accustomed to your habits. It's using excuses to go on a date with him, so that you can pretend for a few hours to be a normal person on a date with their boyfriend, not this being who is bound by familial duties and house rules.

It's pondering on the time differences during your travels and counting the hours until you have WiFi and can feel connected with him again. It's keeping the snap streak alive by sending selfies of bed-ridden hair juxtaposed with half done makeup, or him sending his face complete with puffy after food cheeks and his bottom lip slightly curled inward. His lips are so plump, you oft feel envious of them, but that soon dissolves away whenever you feel how soft and velvety they are on your skin. The way he absentmindedly grabs your hand, only to rub the back of your hand against his lips, get you as giddy as a teen around her first crush. The way he rests his hand on your thigh, halfway encircling it, makes you feel at ease and a sense of calm washes over your. His cologne reminds you of morning dew, sugary drinks, and butterscotch, quite an intoxicating concoction.

It's getting angry at him for the smallest of mistakes, and yet not telling him he's made you feel this way. Rather, bottling it up and letting your frustration simmer away until you've had enough, so you ignore him, the only way you know to behave if you're angry at someone. It's forgiving him in an instant as soon as he apologizes, because you know you can't stay mad at him for so long, but the anger you felt gets stowed away, ready to erupt. It's working together as an excuse to be around each other more, despite the fact that you're both really stressed out from everything piling on. It's you feeling guilty about not being a good girlfriend, because you can't make time in your schedule for a date, a movie or even a cuddle session. It's the fear of your mother finding out about this too soon that keeps you from being more bold about spending time with him. It's the fear of what you'll do if you're in bed with him again, as you know each time you stay over, both of you go a bit further every time. You want to stay loyal to your faith and your beliefs, and you know giving into your flesh prison requests aligns well with that, yet you feel scared of accidentally betraying your identity if you do so.

It's feeling the weeds of doubt grow in your mind, and your anxiety saying he'll leave you soon enough. It's being tempted to leave him before he can leave you, so that you feel more in control of where your relationship is going. It's messaging him constant “I love you”s and “I appreciate you” to remind him that you care deeply for him, and also to convince yourself of the same, in order to remove those weeds. It's realising that the doubts are a mixture of the manifestations of your own insecurities and an imbalanced brain chemistry. It's convincing yourself that you are not depressed, when you know you are and it's causing you to sabotage your relationship with him. It's about this being a good thing, which may not always have good times, however that is something to work on and build together, not something which stays constant throughout the course of your relationship. Feelings change, but you must put in the effort of making sure your relationship changes with it. It's homeostasis after all, and this relationship is still infantile. You need to see a doctor about you, it's not healthy or normal to be this volatile, still pondering about death or dragging him into your own mess.

It’s about getting intimate under the covers. A sense of familiarity and comfort washes over you when you’re near his body. It’s his scent consuming your senses, drinking him in. It’s about following through all the motions leading to sex, but never actually daring to go any further south with him. It’s about controlling your desire to do more with him. To him. For him. The control is what keeps you in check about your faith. It’s about him also doing the same, not crossing your boundaries, not even an inch. Hair tugging, neck kisses, ear bites, cheek schwomps, bear hugs and so much more. You are drunk on his essence, and you would not have it any other way. It’s the morning alarm snoozes and convincing the other to get dressed. It’s the morning burritos and the morning cuddles. Wrapped up and comfortable, just enjoying the seconds tick by. It’s him wanting to spend minutes just looking at your face, as you enjoy his features too, taking in every detail of his complexion. This level of intimacy is beyond physical pleasure, and what you enjoy building your mutual affection upon. The sensual and the silly, all things you enjoy and bring a warm smile to your face.

Yet, the age old testament proves to hold true once again: All good things must come to an end. In the blink of an eye, it had ended as abruptly as it had started. A blip in the grand scheme of life but a lifetime of bittersweet memories to carry around. You shared a lot of firsts, and you’re grateful for this opportunity. However, you do need all the jealousy, agitation, contempt, disgust, rage and resent in order to overwrite all the good memories. Akin to taping over an old home movie with a twelve season tv show. The If turned into a Did and you turned into something other.

[quakerjoe]

Look Up the word SOCIALISM. Please. It has fuck-all nothing to do with guns.

I ran across this comment:

“I am for gun rights.. does that make me less socialist?”

Are you fucking kidding me? There are really people THIS stupid. This is why America is about to collapse like the Soviet Union did. It’s not because we were outspent like they were, it’s because we’re suffering under TWO pandemics right now- Covid-19 AND TOTAL FUCKERY because far, FAR too many people are just that ignorant.

As a veteran, I was trained to use firearms. They’re tools for hunting and killing. End of story. Want one? I’m all for it! Everyone who’s willing to put in the effort to train and get a license for one should have one if they really want to. I’m all in, hoss.

However, when you’re equating having a killing tool that makes it way too easy to put someone to death with alongside a political style of governance, you’re a fucking idiot. Only in #Murica do people have this issue. By my account, the 2nd Amendment should be shit-canned. It’s outdated and nobody takes it seriously anymore. How so?

“A well regulated militia...”

Let’s stop right there. When this was written, children, there was no standing army in the new USA. At best, each state was, in theory, expected to raise their own militias and even then, they owned their own weapons that they had to buy themselves (and we’re talking the same rifles they also used for hunting with). A British Regular of the time, a professional, well-trained soldier, could fire 3 rounds per minute. A yokel from some Colonial/State militia? One. Maybe two at best. Training was nothing less than lax back then and it was insanely expensive. 

To the point- if you want to join a state militia, i.e. the National Guard, then fine; own a gun. In the more modern sense, if you want to join a branch of our fine armed forces, then you’ll train and you can have a gun. No problemo. Once you’re discharged and leave, you can transfer your training creds and easily get a civilian license to own and operate one. Easy-peasy. Right?

But no. Not in #Murica. Here, people no longer read and deteriorated cognitive skills only let too many yokels retain what they want to hear, like NRA talking points on FOX fuckin’ “News”. These selfish cunts are so wound, stupid and bent on being free-range ammosexuals. What the fuck are they afraid of? I’ll tell you.

Smart people.

The whingers on the far right... motherfuckers one and all... with their bibles in one hand and guns in the other... They fail to know what hypocrisy is here. Be that as it may, they’re scared of smart people. They know that more often than not, they’re ability to have an intelligent conversation is rather stilted and smart people can kick their asses when it comes to how politics work, what Jesus actually said in that bible they never read, and how viruses work for that matter. These wank-socks need their guns to make them right in an argument.

To compound things, these knuckle-dragging, inbred, mouth-breathers are mostly a bunch of “nigger haters” and they know that the “Justice” system will continue to jail the Black Community for the most minor infractions, essentially re -instituting slavery while they can literally go into Federal property, armed, take it over, vandalize it, and then leave scott-free. Precedence has been set. They can shoot Black people with little to no repercussions. Precedence has been set.

I could go on and on, but I’d like to bring this question to your attention: What the unholy fuck does that have to do with socialism? Eisenhower was not only a president but he was a general during WWII and his policies were very socialist. By today’s standards, the man would be what right-wing fuckwits would call a “radical leftist”. So would Abraham Lincoln.

Capitalism, as it stands today, un-regulated and un-tethered, has done what for the USA? Massive class warfare and overwhelmingly unfair practices by the top financial elites? Yep. All the rules of olde that were put in place after the Great Depression that were designed to keep that from happening again have been dismantled since Reagan’s time and mostly by the GOP while the Democrats say and do little to nothing about it and they’re only getting more complacent about it. I’m not saying that Capitalism is bad; far from it. However, if it is left to its own devices, it will work like a cancer, not like a working form of governance. No system is perfect, but Capitalism is the most vulnerable, especially in a nation with a base in democracy like the republic that the USA used to have and doesn’t anymore. Once disinterest and complacency set in, the rich and powerful will swipe democracy out from under you like a table cloth without a care as to how many dishes they break or how big the mess will be; you won’t see it coming and you’ll be the one left having to clean up after. The food and drink will be gone along with the silverware, but the mess is all yours to enjoy. You know- like NOW.

Switzerland has a government a lot like ours. It’s a Democratic Republic. “Everyone owns guns!” Um, true to a point. Men do. Women do. BUT. They’re all trained. Come legal age and graduation from high school, you’re in the army, Fred. You do your bit for country and then when you get out, you keep your gun. NO AMMO. Repeat- NO AMMO. That’s all under lock and key where you, as a reservist for life, would go to train periodically.

Chicken-shit fuckwits in #Murica are too fucking scared and/or lazy to join the armed forces or law enforcement. BUT they still want their guns without having to earn the right or privilege. THAT is what pisses me off. No “militia” skills, but boy they’re fast and happy to endanger everyone else just so they can sit out in the woods with their friends, shoot beer cans and have circle-jerks around the ol’ campfire while talking about race cars and titties and swapping jokes about how many “niggers” it takes to do something.

It’s not just a redneck stereotype; it’s the real deal. Those industrial-grade gun fuckers out in Michigan who thought it’d be just fine to “occupy” the capital while armed make the rest of us who earned the right and privilege to have firearms look bad. You also know damn well that there really aren’t BLACK people acting like these infantile taint-barnacles either. You don’t see hordes of women packin’ heat on the way to the clinic for a routine checkup, do you? They ought to, especially when there are anti-abortion fucks out there ranting about shit they know nothing about, spewing their lies by twisting biblical verse when in fact the bible is NOT anti-abortion. It is only mentioned ONCE, and the verse is FOR abortion. Imagine a woman coming in for a pap, palming a .357 on her way through a crowd of these ignorant cultists who think they’re doing “the lord’s work”...

All of this shit isn’t particular to any form of government except for American-style “democracy” where uninformed opinions are now given the same merit and weight as that of a well studied, well informed fact. Anyone who wants to “make America great again” would have noticed that the policies in place that made us a world power to begin with were all backed by SOCIALIST principles, providing a regulated and more fair framework on which the gears of capitalism were attached to run like a smooth, well tuned machine. Today, that framework is shot to pieces and the whole system works more like the junk drawer in your kitchen.

Today, #Murica has a framework made of PLUTOCRACY, welded together with FASCISM and let’s not forget that it is painted in Red Socialism for the Wealthy, White Supremacy, and Blue, sunny-skies of Nationalism that keeps the masses proud of this country because of what we were, not who we truly are. Those days are far gone; days when the NRA was FOR GUN REGULATIONS and were all for proper education, safety and training, in an era where SOCIALISM built our infrastructure, rich fucks were taxed heavily to keep them from gaining too much power over the masses, and we were on the rise in industry, sciences, and education.

Today, smart people are feared, intelligence is out of fashion, and pride in how stupid and ignorant one is has become the national pastime. As a nation, its people are arrogant and endlessly selfish and too stupid to know to punch up when punching down is easier because Americans, in general, are lazy. Even worse, they’re offended by everything while BEING one of the most offensive people to wander the Earth.

Don’t believe me? Keep an eye on the comments to this post...

[slash-em-up]

Marry Your Monsters Pt. 5

A step back. A first meeting.

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

17 Years Prior

This tray of cupcakes was definitely going to fall if Miranda didn’t get over to that table fast enough.

The tall blonde student tried her best to juggle the dozen brightly frosted confections along with her book-bag and was failing miserably.

This had not been a good week.

The semester was nearing its end and for some that meant that all you needed to worry about was your final tests – celebratory parties were already beginning to pop up during all hours of the day in several dorms – but sadly Miranda didn’t have that luxury.

As a pre-law student, Miranda still had her LSATs to worry about, and with the semester winding down for most, the sorority Miranda was treasurer for had decided that one more end-of-year bake-sale would be just the ticket to cement their funding for next fall.  

To Miranda’s annoyance, what brought her to the quad today was neither of those things.

Her elective class in American Sign Language had a final project that was due in a week and she hadn’t even completed the interview she was assigned.  

This was partly because the class wasn’t exactly high on her priority list, and partly because she was truly dreading meeting up with her interviewee.

Several of the deaf and mute students on campus had volunteered to be interviewed by the class to give their introspective on living life with a communication disability. Unfortunately, Miranda had been late to class the day they were assigning partners and had been saddled with Jesse Cromeans.

To say Jesse had a bad reputation on campus would have been an extreme understatement.

He was well known for being a lazy, vain, brutish, man-whore and that was being kind.

Privately, Miranda was pretty sure the only reason he hadn’t been kicked out of university entirely was because his grandfather's name was on every other building and at least one member of his family was on the board of trustees at any given time.

Privileged asshole.

Probably 3\4ths of the way to some pretty painful STDs and dying in a drunken yachting accident.

Arriving at the table, Miranda quickly settled the cupcakes on the surface, adjusting the ones that had shifted around on the tray with a slight jostle. At least that was one less thing for her to worry about.  

Now if only Jesse would get here so she could get this over with.

The meeting time approached.

And passed.

Five minutes late.

Ten minutes late.

Fifteen minutes late.

Miranda sighed in disgust and began to pack up her bag when a large hand entered her peripheral vision and snatched up a green-frosted cupcake.

Another defining characteristic of Jesse Cromeans was that he was tall. Like, really tall. So how he’d managed to move his giant ass all the way across the quad and sneak in close enough to steal a cupcake without Miranda noticing was beyond her understanding.

‘For me? You shouldn’t have.’

Miranda gaped in dumbstruck indignation as the arrogant bastard smirked and took a large bite of the confection while swinging one long leg over the side of his chair.

Her lips pursed.

“You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago...”

Jesse continued to chew as he glanced down at his watch. He shrugged.

‘I got tied up.’

That was the last straw. All the stress and anger that had been building for the last week was finally coming to a head.  

And she was about to take it out on Jesse Cromeans ass.

“Jesse, I set up this appointment with you a week ago – if you had something else come up you should have told me earlier! I just wasted most of my morning trying to get here!”

The tall man smirked up at her, signing a quick, insincere ‘Sorry’.

“Oh, fuck off.”

Now it was Jesse’s turn to gape at her; but Miranda was far from done.

“You... arrogant, selfish prick! Just because you have grand-daddy's money to fall back on doesn’t mean you can waltz all over the rest of us! Some of us are here because we actually want to be – not because it’s the closest source of pussy and coke. I could have spent this morning doing actual work! I was so fucking angry when I got stuck with you as a partner because I KNEW you’d pull something like this! Because you. Don’t. Care. If it doesn't benefit you it doesn’t even make it onto your radar. You’re an asshole, and you’re going to die alone.”

Jesse was giving her his full attention; brown eyes serious and locked on her face.

‘Finished?’

Miranda was breathing heavily as she digested the words that had just come out of her own mouth.  

Oh god.

“Jesse, I’m so sorry... I -”

Jesse waved a hand, cutting her off.

‘You’re going to make one hell of a lawyer...’

The comment could have been playful; but the tensing of his shoulders and the flash of hurt in his eyes said it was anything but.

Not knowing what else to do, Miranda murmured another quiet “sorry” at Jesse, not meeting his eyes as she gathered up her bag and retreated back across the quad, not stopping until she was safely back inside her sorority house behind her locked door.

She’d forgotten the cupcakes and several books at the table; but they were the least of her concerns right now.

Feeling lower than low, Miranda slipped into an uneasy slumber.

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

The nap did not help.  

Miranda went through the remainder of her day with a cloud over her head. It wasn’t like her to be unnecessarily cruel – which she absolutely had been. The punishment she’d dished out in no way fit the crime he’d committed.

Even the passive-aggressive comments she’d received from the sorority president about ‘losing’ the cupcakes simply bounced off her shell of melancholy.

How do you apologize to someone when your first real interaction included you telling them they were going to die alone?

Miranda was moping on her bed, looking at but not really absorbing her study material when one of her friends popped her head into the room.

“Hey Randi, this was outside your room. Did you lose a book?”

Standing from the bed, Miranda walked over and took the book from the other girl, eyebrows raising when she saw it was the ASL textbook she’d left on the quad.

“Who brought this back?”

The girl shrugged.

“I don’t know – it was just sitting outside. Maybe Krista saw...”

Miranda flipped open the cover and saw a plain white envelope with her name written on it in neat text.

“Uh, thanks, no worries, I’ll figure it out later...”

She closed the door and sat back on her bed, fingering the paper with a sense of dread.

Well, better to rip it off like a band-aid.

She opened the envelope, eyes widening when a hundred-dollar bill fell out with a small bundle of papers.

The first on the stack was a note from Jesse.

‘Miranda,

I’m sorry I was late for our meeting the other day.  I’ll admit to being a selfish asshole, and you were fully within your rights to call me out on it.  

I found your interview questions in your book and wrote out my answers for them as best I could – I hope you don’t mind, I added a few jokes and quips – no one would believe we actually ‘talked’ if we didn’t add SOME color to my responses.

Also, I ate your cupcakes. Sorry about that. I’m not really sure what the going rate is for charity bake-sale goodies, so I hope the enclosed money will cover it.

I was being serious when I said you’ll be a great lawyer. I hope I never have to see you in court.

Jesse

p.s. I don’t do coke. I haven’t got the fingers to carry off a coke-nail.’

Re-folding the paper, Miranda wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh, cry, or get angry at Jesse all over again.

The rest of the packet was the answers to her interview questions that Jesse had promised; but even giving them a cursory read-through, she could already tell she was going to have to edit them heavily. As it turns out, Jesse wasn’t a short-winded guy when you got him going on a topic –and he’d really gone off about what life was like without the ability to speak.  

Miranda was surprised that so many of his answers seemed to be given in complete honesty rather than the infantile jokes and self-aggrandizing she’d expected.

Sure, those were there too – she saw the bit about him being a ‘master debater’ and a ‘cunning linguist’ and rolled her eyes hard enough to give herself a headache – but the parts where he was being forthright were very telling about the person Jesse was behind all the smoke and mirrors.

That was a completely different guy. She thought she might even be able to like him.

Maybe someday they’d run into each other and she could take back her comments in-person.

Only time would tell.