#Glass and Repulsive are for

[iggydabirdkid]

So I was tagged by @just-a-tiny-goldfish ​ to do this WIP word tag thing with the words ‘ Cloudy Sparkle Glass Repulsive’ And I gotta be honest. I don’t actually have any WIP’s, I just write stuff as it comes to me 😅 But! I have a bunch of things I’ve been meaning to write so it was a good excuse to do so!

Some of the snippets below I may expand on at some point. Some are just for funsies. I will put it under a keep reading, as its kinda long  😅

+++++

Cloudy

When you wake she’s not in the bed beside you. You sigh and throw the covers from your body, sitting up and swinging your legs round to hang off the side of the bed before you hop to the floor. You stumble as you head to the door, still not quite use to the rocking of a ship but you know you will with time. You’re greeted by the dark of night as you emerge from your quarters. A few crew are wandering about the deck below, drunk and shouting, laughing pushing each other about. She won’t be among them, not tonight. In fact when you squint you can just make her out on the other end of the ship, standing on the tip of the bowsprit her resting against the jib topsail, her form illuminated by the moonlight. You smile as you make your way down the stairs. She’s the reason you know the correct terms for every part of her ship, hungry for knowledge as you are. She’d taught you a lot about how to be free and in turn you had given her your heart, even thought she still kept parts of hers locked away.

She denied it whenever you brought it up but you knew. You just wish that she would tell you what was bothering her so you could help. You cherish the feeling of the ocean breeze and the salt spray upon your face as you climb the stairs to the bow and when you reach the top you approach her, watching her dark hair flow in the breeze.

“Val?” you call out and ahead of you she startles, hand momentarily gripping the sail tighter before she twists to meet your eye.

-----

“Annabelle.” She smiles as she says your name, dark eyes shining but you catch the wrinkle on her brow and the nervous flicker of her ears. You hold an arm out towards her and you watch as she deftly makes her way towards you, all confidence, no hint of fear of walking into the waters below. Not that she would of course.

She takes your hand as she steps down besides you and she loops an arm around your shoulders as she returns her gaze to the sky. You watch her face, watch as her façade of cheer turns as cloudy as the sky on the horizon and you reach for her hand, giving it a squeeze.

“What wrong?” you ask and you watch as her body goes rigid.

“What makes you think there’s anything wrong?” An edge to her words, defensive, but you know her better by now. She’s afraid.

“Valerie.” You pull away from her embrace and plant your feet in front of her. You’re not tall enough to block her view but she looks at you all the same, “Please don’t push me away.” She sighs, her shoulders slumping and her head dropping and when she speaks her voice is low.

“I’m sorry,” the apology tumbles from her lips and you reach for her hands, “I just… I don’t…”

“Take your time,” you whisper as you rub your thumbs over the backs of her hands, her skin cool against your own.

“I.. there’s… There’s something I have to tell you.” When she meets your eye her features are pulled taught, and you brace yourself for whatever has her fearing so.

Sparkle

-----

It’s on the longer journeys like this that you miss having companions at your side.

You wrap your well-worn furs tighter around yourself and you really should have purchased some new ones before making this journey but you were full of excitement and just couldn’t wait. Your breath leaves you in a fine fog as the chill of the mountains aims to penetrate you to the bone and you’re shivering beneath your armor but you push on. Not much further now, you’re sure of it.

You miss talking and the idle chatter of others surrounding you. You grew up living with the cacophony of sound that a bustling city provides and the quiet of the wilds never quite sat right with you. The possibility of too many things lurking in the shadows the trees provided, you’d seen first-hand how miscalculating the danger could lead to the downfall of those stupid enough to not be on their guard. But the trees were sparse here and up ahead you saw them break into a flat expanse of snow, the cold wet of which had been seeping into your old leather boots for a while.

You weren’t prepared to trek through this and you had been travelling by halla up until recently. Having been attacked further down the mountain however you had chosen to let her free rather than have her caught in crossfire. The memory of the battle brings a wicked grin to your lips. Fuckers never knew what hit them.

You emerge from the treeline at last and step onto a path of rough-hewn stone that had originally been hidden from your view. Huh. Closer than you thought. The loud clunking of armor has your head snapping up to fix the solder heading your way with a dangerous glare. Your hands go to the daggers at your sides and your fingers curl around their grips and the soldier has some smarts when they slow their quick jog to a walk.

“Hail traveler!” they shout and a modicum of suspicion eases from your mind at the too friendly greeting, your hands stay where they are.

“Hail,” you reply pushing your hood down, eyes not leaving their face and when they stop near you straighten up.

“What brings you this far up the mountain?” they ask and you can see the way their eyes go from studying your features, the tips to your ears and the markings on your face, to freezing when they spy the griffon emblazoned on your chest plate. You’re not worried about people knowing who and what you are. As an elf scrutiny and distrust was something you had had to deal with your entire life, and as a Grey Warden you fought too hard to not be recognized. You grin, the edges maybe a little sharp looking for the soldier takes a step back when their eyes find your face once more.

“I’m journeying to Skyhold.” Your eyes slip from their face to regard the enormity of the castle at the other end of a long stone bridge, “I’m expected,” you add. They nod fervently and beckon you to follow and you fall in step as you begin across the bridge.

“We were told to look out for you. I just didn’t expect you to be…”

“An elf? A female?”

“So short.” The tone of shame has you barking a laugh which echoes back at you from the ravine below.

“I have to say that is a welcome change!” The solider laughs nervously and you clap them on the back, “Relax! I don’t bite. That’s a lie I do bite,” you chuckle, “But only the people who deserve it. And you, so far, have done nothing to deserve it.” You don’t think that’s put them at ease, but oh well.

There’s a commotion up ahead at the gatehouse. Voices shouting words you can’t quite hear and the portcullis begins to lift. There’s people crowding just inside the entrance and though you’re at a distance you know she’s not there. There’s a nervous flutter in your stomach that has you swallowing back butterflies and the soldier looks down at you.

“You’re all she’s been talking about since she received your letter,” they say and a hope blooms in your chest, “I’ve never seen the Spymaster smile before.” You’re not sure what to say in response so you opt for silence as murmuring of voices up ahead grows louder. Your palms are clammy and your hands are shaking and as your draw near the small crowd that has gathered parts.

And there she stands.

At the other end of the path created and she’s as still as you are.

You both stare at each other and even the crowd has fallen silent and then a grin breaks out on her face that mirrors your own and then you are running towards her with a desperation born of a too-long separation. Your heart is full of love and life and when your bodies collide the dam you had built to keep your emotions at bay simply crumbles apart. Her arms clasp you tightly and she pulls you in against her chest as you wrap your arms like a vice around as tears stream steadily down your face. The subtle aches that have been plaguing you for months vanish as you stand steady and safe in the arms of your love.

“Leli,” your voice is but a hoarse croak as her name leaves your lips and she squeezes you even tighter.

“Arianna. My love.” Her voice is wavering and when you pull apart, but not away, there’s tears in her eyes as well. Though they do nothing to dampen the sparkle of happiness shining so clear in the pale blue. You lift your hands from her hips to grab her face and pull her down into a kiss. You’ve gone far too long without knowing the taste of her lips and if you had it your way you would never be parted again.

Glass

-----

You’re paralyzed. Broken. Laying on the pavement with no chance of anyone coming to save you. You can’t even sense their minds, so far above they would be and you know something else inside you must be broken. It must be. You try to cry, try to scream but all that leaves your mouth is a spray of blood and a pathetic series of moans and groans. How could it have all gone so wrong? You thought you were stronger than this. You thought-

Hands secreting acid, the sickly smell of burning flesh laying thick and sweet on your tongue. Skin sloughing off her face and you can see the bone-

You rip yourself from the memory with enough force that your broken body jolts sending sparks of pain through limbs no longer able to function. Right now you wish you could feel the full agony that the pain gate is keeping at bay. It would be better than the dark tendrils threatening to overwhelm your mind. Your ears blur with the weight of your tears and they sting as they stream from your eyes, the salted liquid getting trapped in the cuts and gashes you know are there. You did go face first through the glass after all. You can see the shard just out the corner of your eye, large enough that you don’t need to strain to see it jutting up from your skin. Its an odd sensation, being able to sense the thin sliver of window embedded in your face yet feeling no pain.

You try to move again. Lifting your head up from the ground and you look down at your broken form and you can see bone jutting through skin and suit alike and there’s so much blood. The shards of glass surround you, framing you like some sort of macabre painting that would be beautiful if your predicament wasn’t so damn terrifying. Something got into your mind, snuck its grimy greasy fingers under your shields and took ahold of your thoughts like everything you had learnt was all for nothing. You had been lying to yourself. You weren’t prepared. None of you were prepared. And now your friend is dead and you could be next.

You hope you’ll be next.

With the amount of blood flowing from your wounds you know you will be. Sure, it’s a slower death than the gun would have afforded you but she stole that chance away. You should resent her for that and part of you does but you know she was acting on instinct. She always did. You can’t fault her for being her. She did her best.

You were all just doing your best.

But it wasn’t enough. And now you lay broken and beat on a cracked pavement as your blood slowly seeps out of you. Your vision begins to dim and you smile as you stare up at the hazy sky. Finally.

But there’s a sound at the edge of your perception now. Coming closer, towards you with intent and it sounds like a vehicle but nothing was supposed to be past the perimeter-

And you were wrong before. Your mind isn’t completely broken because you can sense the thoughts coming your way, fluttering and fleeting at the edge of your consciousness and before the static descends on them you pick out one mind. One mind, one thought that has wave after wave of terror coursing through your body. Like she knew you’d be searching for her.

Like she knew.

Welcome home.

Repulsive

You weren’t sure how you had caught this cold but if you ever found out you would kick their ass. You thought you’d be fine to handle it on your own. You thought it would simply pass over and through you in a couple of days. Oh boy were you wrong. You had never had a cold as bad as this before. With shivers and shakes, complete with hot and cold flushes and bouts of nausea. Still, at first, you had been determined to struggle through it yourself.

The path to your downfall had begun when Julia had invited you and Themmy to her apartment for a movie night. You know the smart thing would’ve been to say no, but you hang around them too much and you know they would have pestered you until you showed up. At least this way you had an out if you wanted to leave.

It was a rare chilly day in Los Diablos so this time you had a reason to be covered up. From head to toe the only part of you showing were the tips of your fingers, even your head and eyes were covered. You headed straight into the apartment complex, the fact that you were late meant Themmy would be there already, and gave a nod to the security standing just inside the door. Climbing the stairs had you flushing hot so by the time you had found yourself outside Julia’s door your gloves were stuff into the pockets of your pants and your jacket was draped over your arm.

And that’s where you stood now, hand poised to knock as your vision swam in front of you. Oh geez. That was new. You knock loudly three times and the door swings open to a familiar freckled face before you.

“Annie!!” Themmy grabs your free arm and pulls you into a hug as she throws the door shut behind you. You hug her back with one arm and let out a chuckle that threatens to turn into a cough before you pull away and step further into the apartment. You throw your jacket onto the couch and head into the kitchen where you know Julia will be.

“Hey Annie,” she throws the greeting over her shoulder with her usual grin from where she stands at the stove. You can hear the sizzle of whatever she’s cooking and can see the steam rise but your nose is so stuffed you can’t smell a thing. You take a seat the counter, scooting over to make space for Themmy as she hops up next to you.

“You going to take your layers off?” Themmy leans one arm on the benchtop as she turns side on to face you.

“I have a cold,” you mumble.

“What was that?” You know she’s doing this on purpose. But you’re a sucker aren’t you? You sigh beneath your thick scarf before simultaneously pulling it, your goggles and your beanie off.

“I said I have a cold alright?” you croak, wiping the back of your hand across your nose as you sniffle.

“¡Dios mío Annie.” You turn in your seat to see Julia fixing you with a look of panic, “You look horrible.” You roll your eyes before squeezing them tight when the motion causes your head to spin.

“Yeah yeah, rub it in why don’t you,” you reply.

“You look like death,” Themmy jokes.

“I look repulsive, I know,” you chuckle and this time it does turn into a cough. A wheezing hack which has you doubling over with one hand on the bench for support. When you’re finally able to take a breath it sounds worryingly wet as it rattles in your chest.

“Alright. Change of plans,” Julia’s tone switches from the easy-going Charge to the Marshall of the Rangers as she addresses the both of you, “Themmy, grab a blanket and pillow from the cupboard in the hall. Annie. Go sit on the couch.”

“But-“ you start and the protest is stopped short.

“Couch. Now,” Julia points and you grumble, getting to your feet as Themmy scrambles off down the hall.

“I don’t take orders from you, y’know?” you throw the words at Julia as you head into the living room and all you get in reply is a light-hearted laugh and part of you is relieved. That she’s doing this with the intention to take care of you. You sink down into the plush of the well-worn couch and sigh as you tilt your head back and close your eyes. Maybe it’d be okay to let yourself be taken care of. If only this once.

[il3x]

lord huron is soooo good bc so many of their songs are like, Emotionally, Thematically, they're very moving and relatable love songs. but Literally, they're always about some paranormal Situation. and I know that both readings are 100 percent real

[biblicalhorror]

this past weekend I was at a bachelorette party and I was smoking weed with this girl I didn't know very well and she was like "yeah everyone assumes I'm a lesbian because I work in construction and I don't wear makeup" and I was like 🫣 girlie I thought you were a lesbian because you just told me verbatim your type in men is "when they're silent and leave you alone" but it reallyyyyy doesn't seem like you're ready for that conversation yet

[cheese-water]

Literally the entire server in a nutshell

alt under cut:

I love this server so much dude

[pergaminaa]

I think milk is another thing that they don't agree on.

Aelin, Dorian and possibly even Chaol have no problems with drinking milk. Idk they seem to be like those people you know? Especially Dorian and Aelin because while reading, nothing beats snacking on cookies and a cold glass of milk because they're silly like that.

Manon (and the rest of the witches) is the opposite. They'd visibly flinch at the sight of someone drinking milk casually and honestly, Dorian thought the witches are being dramatic and he turned to Manon because she is different (they like to mess with him this is why he confirms things with Manon). However, she was reacting exactly the same way because ew this thing is disgusting and just the thought of it was enough to make her feel nauseous (but Dorian didn't think her being dramatic she's just being herself).

[fangirlinginleatherboots]

Instagram weddings are insane. The money people pour into completely fake and staged things just for follows....-》 unfortunately has a cousin who did this

[yb-cringe]

whys there more representation in wilburs qsmp appliances then most modern media

[the-dist-ortionist]

I forgot the physical affects kf caffeine and now I'm all jittery and lightheaded plessehelp

Uh anyways I finished the jekyll and hydenovella jt was great I loved it I don't know if I want hyde or want to be him (The alter co con wants him and js bejnfvsry vocal abiut)

[steelycunt]

lactose tolerant people who bash a nice glass of cold milk dont even fucking deserve the ability to digest lactose. some of us would fucking kill for that you miserable cunt

[plutonianplaything2]

Hello! Here are some life updates!!

- We still don’t know if my foot is *actually* broken so I’m getting an MRI done 🤭

- I’m on crutches

- It’s the last month (ish) of my second to last semester of school and I am on the verge of a breakdown (Yay!!!)

- Someone who I thought I was over has been consuming my thoughts the last few days and all I want to do is cry (yes, it IS Z in case you were wondering)

- I’m in pain and over being human!!! I wish I was a rock.

-I really, really need a hug.

-I’ve been taking my antidepressants consistently so my libido is down to 0 and that’s why I haven’t been posting (sex is starting to turn me off lmfao)

Come say hi, please be nice, I am tired and fed up and just want to be babied.

[leviabeat]

Ahhh!!!

Via Volbeat on Instagram

[nephyria]

eh. eht! I just get the feeling that sometimes when ppl say “destigmatize [Condition]” they do not actually know what a stigma is and in fact are just looking up How To Not Mis-ID Some Poor Un[condition]ed Bystander And Actually Target The REAL [Condition] Freaks So We Can Stig All Over Them

[ourtintedworld]

listen the whole thing with my ex was wild but i will never let myself forget how i convinced my parents to let us share a bed by telling them he was asexual

[acid-ixx]

brutus: out for blood (villain au concept)

ft. neglectful yandere! bruce wayne x gn villain! reader

— masterlist !

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: did anybody ask for this? no! did i decide to write this anyways? abso -fucking-lutely. is this a rantfic? mayybee. anyways, this is not my best piece nor will anything i write be my best piece but i just love destroying my happiness with angst and altho writing a very anxiety ridden mc is fun, i also love to dabble in sadomasochistic traits for a main character. like i said, i am not proud of this but i figured i should post something. erm... leave comments bec i love reading whatever stuff u guys have in store hehe.

you've tasted blood on your tongue far longer than you've felt the loving touch of a family.

it's metallic. it's salty. it twists every vein in your gut.

it tastes of broken metal pipes in playgrounds, destructive tantrums and broken dreams, of skipped classes and detention rooms, of ripped test papers and missed diplomas. it reminds you of your bitter past every single time; one you swore you've buried six feet deep into the ground. a burning memory with nothing more than heartaches and heartbreaks.

you taste blood whenever they reject your advances for even a single moment of bonding time. you feel it pumping slowly, steadily, painfully whenever you stumble upon a room, only to see them, smiles and all, huddled together in a group with junk food in their hands and a movie playing in that stupid flat screen tv. you know it's the only thing accompanying you whenever he misses another event in your school. it becomes the only friend you have whenever you're alone, inside your too-small room, with shatters glass scattered around and bruised knuckles.

blood, for most, is vile, utterly repulsive. it reeks in every corner of a room, its scent is overpowering, it stains, it's hard to clean. it imprints. and it will always remind you it's there, in the depths of your body, curdling and boiling and ready to burst out of the seems every time you rip at your skin with a razor sharp blade. blood has always been your only friend, like a scar that will never fade away.

yet you embrace crimson like it was the color of your soul, and accept how it's the only color you allow in your grim life. black has never provided you solace, but red allowed for a mantra of emotions to trail into your very being.

blood. it's more homely than you let it out to be.

and you're far more familiar with it than anything else. you cradle it like an unwanted child, you kiss its wounds, allow it to fester and grow into an abhorrent disease that crawls like a lump in your throat that you could never get rid of.

in moments of solace, of quaint prayers and hours of kneeling into the floor— it is the thing that slides on cold, hard tiles. it is the warmth, the numbness, the thing that seeps out of your bruised knees, your scratched neck and your thighs with fingernails buried deep into flesh.

you've come to love blood, cherish it even.

especially if it's your own.

especially if it came from the punch of none other than your father.

left, right, left, right.

his punches were cruel and his kicks can easily crush bones into powder. he demands answers with every strike he delivers, he exudes an energy far more adrenaline based than yours. batman is methodical in the way he moves, the way he acts, and you're not; you're impulsive, you had no plans to counter the towering man— no counter for the brutal hits he lay upon you. you let him, you open every doorway world to beat your body black and blue, with red painting the canvas as a finishing touch.

he's stronger than you, and every time he bashes your head into the wall, the urge to spit into his face, to piss him off, to laugh at him and his Idiocracy; it all becomes stronger.

yet all you do was allow him multiple openings, denying yourself the pleasure of attempting to even take your abandoned gun at the corner and shoot at his cranium— you want him to suffer, even if it costs you your mobility by the near future, fuck it.

up, down, to the side, then an uppercut to your jaw and you're nearly depleted of anymore moves to counter. you want to seem like you've given up; but you want him pissed off, enough to punch you 'til blood seeps into the fibers of your mask. until your face starts bruising, until your nose breaks, until he finally rips your mask off and sees your face.

and he'll come to regret.

you shift to the side, and ignore the sting of your throat, the lull of your head and the soreness of your entire body.

because if you hadn't dodged, then your head would've left an imprint on the walls. you would've preferred that now, rather than the disgusting feeling of sentimentality that creeps into your heart at the implication that his blows were slowly, but surely, weakening.

he's holding back, you hold back a sneer.

as if he actually cares about you.

maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. you know he cares far more deeply for his enemies than he does you, and you hate how glad you are at the pride that finally, just finally are you being acknowledged. at the opposite end of his side, as enemies. but for once you can feel the care he offers others, most of which were nonexistent back when you were just some... nobody.

batman never kills; but he can hurt, he can injure, and he can destroy. and right now, you feel all the air leaving your body as the cloaked vigilante delivers the last punch to your ribcage.

you fall, on your hands and knees, a loud thump resounding through the empty abandoned building. all you hear are your crackling joints, and heavy breathing. heavy, like your eyelids, about to fall, about to shut until black encompasses your vision. if not for the remaining adrenaline coursing through your veins, you would've fainted— but you won't, you wouldn't, not until you see him, see his face.

the thumping in your heart beats louder, and your hands. god, they feel like jelly, it's burning, it's one step closer on collapsing under gravelly concrete and piercing skin into rocks. yet you're forbidden any time for grace, not when he lightly shoves you out of your position, and not when you fall to your sides, hands paralyzed, tears prickling against your cheeks at the pain that burns throughout your body.

"you don't deserve peace after shooting that family in front of that child, you know it."

his voice, domineering, absolutely fucking vibrating with a tremor of sheer anger. he directs his words at you, without empathy, without mercy. he wants you to learn to never mess with him in the streets of gotham. but you'll never... not until he notices you. fuck, you just want him to notice you. and now, he is, with utter vexation that causes a lump in your throat to form.

shit, you've never felt so happy.

it's when his tussled form — heavy, pitch-black boots slathered with crimson liquid — enters your sight that you cough, violently, out of breath, and you can feel it one second, then taste it in your tongue the next.

blood.

you grin, and slowly, ever-so eminently, did you spiral into a cackle. your throat gurgles crimson liquid, and yet it only builds into a cacophony of a broken record. you move your head, look through your nearly shredded domino mask, with so little strength to accompany you, to look at the man above you, eyes glinting with a glow never so alive until now.

you're genuinely so fucking happy.

batman, he who strikes fear into the hearts of gotham villains and civilians alike. he who protects the city at night. he whose name is said with wavering uncertainty— he's looking at you, only you.

'bruce wayne: my dad— is finally looking at me.'

and you! you're laughing, the sounds that emanate from your throat are so scratchy, so utterly decimated that it sounds like vultures feeding through a dead corpse; but you don't let your chuckles die down, because you're so, so happy.

he looks at you, with contempt, with disgust, you don't know; but you're still so overjoyed.

"y-yeah... it's me, i did it. are you proud of me...?" you ask as you look up, through the tears that flow out your eyes, through the grin that couldn't die down. he looks at you like you're insane, and you know he's confused, shifting uncomfortably as he gives someone a status update through the comms, his eyes never leaving your pathetic form—

you look at him like he means the world all throughout.

"call for red robin, i have one of the culprits," he orders through the intangible device, eyes squinting as he takes you in— you whose chuckles slowly calmed down, as your breathing finally becomes heavier, as blood, yours, seem to seep into clumsily made apparel. you, who bruce realized seem too oddly familiar, too small, too childish, whose moment of spiraling insanity is too damn innocent to ignore.

you're not like the typical rogue he encounters, no. and right before you finally allow sleep to overcome you, you muster the last of your energy, to stare back at him with shining eyes, expectant, and like a child's, you ask with the meekest voice.

"hey... dad, i have a surprise." scratchy, absolutely broken, yet spilling with joy, with... your last word right before you continue, bruce's heart thumps ever the slightest faster.

"take my mask off, please?"

crimson began to overtake your entire body, and bruce should've never complied with your... request, but as he kneels and finally gets a grasp of what you truly look like, he notices the frailness, the vulnerability, as if you were never built for... combat. with just how quickly you succumb to the depths of rest, with how oblivious you are to the fact that if it were anyone else, they would've killed you.

you're not properly trained, you fight out of impulse, and he knows it with just how swift you gave up midfight.

when he pulls the domino mask (which seems oddly inspired by the shape of... his vigilante partners, the robins...) off your face, did his heart finally hastened its pace, loud thumping crawling its way to his ears, his eyes registering your face: its form, its shape, your eyes, your nose—

all similar to his, all an amalgamation of your mother's, too.

no... wait, no.

it's not...

it's not his... child?

you?

your eyes, flickering one last time stared at him, softly, like that of a child who looks at their father with pride like nothing else. your hand, it shakes, it shivers, as your fingers find its way creeping to his hand, holding your mask. fingers so dainty, now pulverized bones lay atop his shivering hand, tenderly, as if trying to comfort the very same man who has nearly killed you.

batman— no, bruce looks at you. at what he's done, and only now did he realize his greatest mistake. a child, his child, one whose innocence retained through heinous acts, now a villain, whose actions were all a testimony to merely wanting their father's attention.

he failed you, his child. he failed to protect you, who he has never held up close until now— as your body is hastily taken into his arms. so small, so easily wrapped around his body, so unbefitting of committing criminal activity. now bloodied and laid into barren ground by their very own father.

bruce wayne never felt this much terror, for nearly killing his child.

this, this day marks his sin.

and you? dearest you feel like today is your greatest day.

crimson, nearly every part of you is stained with that putrid color.

yet blood has always been your best friend, no? and right now as you bleed into the arms of your father, you find yourself grateful that it is the last thing you see before a black cloak wraps around you, before black fills your entire line of sight.

short rant ahead: another author's note??? wow. yeah this was such a hard drabble to write. plsplspls leave a comment or some sort of input. anything will do. ive been so demotivated to write lately and i feel like anything i write is just, so bad 😭 like is my pacing good? are the emotions out of place? am i even doing this right ?? i don't know, and i feel like every time i post something i always put up expectations on myself that I should've done better so yeahh. is this attention seeking behavior? probably. but i don't get how people have come to like the stuff i write when i hate whatever i write hence why im in a constant cycle of hiatuses and short breaks. and really, it's just so hard to come into terms with things and i need input lest i accidentally get into a year or two of hiatus, lmaoo.

[josephquinnswhore]

the consequence of us

dbf! joel miller x female reader

summary: joel broke off your affair two weeks ago, and now he realises he’s made a grave mistake.

word count: 3.4K

content warning: age gap, joel is old enough to be her dad, reader is mid twenties but unspecified. Reader has cellulite, mentions of power play, Joel’s a bit of a creep lmao, possessive, obsessive behaviour, use of baby girl & daddy dynamic. Collaring, male masterbation, p in v, raw fucking, creampie, sorta rough sex, public sex, submission. (no outbreak)

Everyone has felt the eerie sensation once in their lifetime, the paranoid feeling of being stared at; only this time, you know you're being stared at. Everytime you bend down to pick up a discarded beer can off your fathers perfectly mowed lawn, with each soft handed gesture on one of your fathers older friends arms, every laugh that seemed a little too real.

But it was your intention, for him to notice you. Perhaps to show him that you could indeed live without him, despite the fact that two weeks ago, on his front porch you'd been weeping, grasping onto him as you beg him not to break things off with you.

The shameful memory of snot and tears mingling as you sobbed on your knees for another chance, like you’d even done anything wrong. Clinging onto the small silver chain he'd gifted you - a subtle everyday collar, one he’d promised with the intention of making you his, properly.

That someday he would make you his girl officially.

This evening, it seemed as though that girl had never existed, maybe it was all a figment of his imagination, of how he saw you, and wanted you to be. A sweet little girl dependent on him.

Joel had managed with teeth scraping against his bottom lip that this was for the best, that a sweet girl like you didn't need him invading your personal life, or that this was wrong, for a man twenty years older than you–let alone the fact that he was your fathers best friend.

Now as he watches you standing next to your fathers friends, with a middle aged woman on his arm, he feels sick to his stomach. You should be doing this with him, the shameless flirting, touching and sneakily bending over for him when no one else seemed to notice. It's like now, you didn't care who saw. Any attention was yours for the taking, and that repulsed joel.

The sweet girl he knew wasn't some attention starved daddies girl dying to fuck every single one of his colleagues and friends, Joel was special, had been.

What was this then, revenge? An attempt to outshine the woman he had on his arm that was closer to sixty than he was. No doubt, his date–Sue. She was beautiful, but she was too outgoing, too loud, too chatty. She drank too many glasses of wine and clung onto joel like he was some kind of prized show dog. Much like that mangy purse mutt she had at her house. Joel didn't belong with Sue, in her middle class house and aggressive teacup chihuahua.

The only place he had ever felt himself belong was with you, a subservient, submissive and sweet girl, did anything Joel had ever asked, found pleasure in being submissive. Maybe he did ruin you, turned you into some kind of modern day sexually aware woman that knew that she was too good for him anymore.

Once again, you're bending over to reach into the large cooler in your fathers shed not bothering to pull down your dress, Joel's eyes were drawn to the sight like a hound. He felt himself growing stiff at the sight of your asscheeks barely covered by the tight dress, each curve, hill and cellulite dimple could be seen leaving nothing to the imagination besides one thing.

What colour panties were you wearing?

“Excuse me a moment, won't you?” He utters to sue under his breath, prying her clinging arm off of his own and approaching you across the lawn, swerving between guests. Before he could reach you, you've left the shed, three cans of drink in hand as you hand them out to your father and two of his friends.

Joel scowls, snatching a cold can out of the cooler and watching you shamelessly across the front yard. He couldn't stop staring at you, your legs, the way your hips swing with every step. It was a fucking nightmare knowing that he had done this, created this confident vixen hell bent on torturing him. He couldn't grab at you, swiftly text you to steal you away for a few minutes for a quickie in the bathroom.

He had ended this, told you it was for good, for real this time.

You know he hasn't been able to take his eyes off of you, and finding your stomach, you approach his date later on in the evening after she's had a few drinks and is standing by her lonesome. “Hi, we haven't met, have we? You're Susan?”

The older woman greets you with a look of complete indifference, a non subtle judging stare in her olden glassy eyes as she gives you a look up and down. “Sue, actually, and you are?”

You reply with your name, giving her a sickly sweet and fake smile, standing tall and rolling your shoulders backwards, ready to cause some strife for the old hag. “So.. you're Joel’s.. what exactly..?”

The disbelief in your tone had the woman feeling insulted, and the stiff look of her face gave that away. She seemed incredibly insecure, you noticed the way she had clung onto Joel since they got here. “We’ve been talking for a while, I’ve heard he's going to ask me to be his girlfriend soon.”

A small snort escapes your nose, and before the woman could drill into you about your reaction..

“Oh you know.. He's just not that good with relationships you know? Totally a ladies man, he likes ‘em young–or younger than you, anyway. So don't hope too much that Joel even likes you at all..anyway, it was so lovely meeting you.”

You hear the woman huff loudly as you abruptly turn and walk away, knowing that you caused an absolute shit fire for Joel to deal with tonight, but you didn't expect Sue to start screaming at Joel the moment you walked away from her.

He sends a glare to you, across the yard, his eyes dark and furious. You were the cause of this, he knew it. As Sue screams at him, he drags her away, down the street.

It's a while before Joel returns, but he comes back alone, explaining to your father what happened. “She's having a moment, probably menopause or something.”

That was hilarious to you, and Joel catches you laughing, beelining straight to you. He grabs your hand, which you shake off, and he doesn't attempt to make another effort to grab you.

“The hell was that? Are you gonna start causing issues for me now?”

With a faux innocent tilt of your head you shrug your shoulders. “I'm sorry, I was just being honest with her, is honesty a problem now, Mr Miller?”

He shouldn't have gotten hard over such a minor thing, being called Mr Miller instead of Joel, that doe-ish look in your eyes as you look up at him, he cant help the stiffness in his jeans return again. Of course you notice the tension, the way he becomes uncomfortable, but you don't dignify him by looking at the thick bulge in his pants, not bothering to show any interest at all.

That.. is what bothers Joel the most. Your disinterest.

His eyes are glued to your every step as you walk away, he subtly palms himself through his jeans and makes his way inside of the house with the intent to wash his face and try to calm down the raging hardness of his cock, but when he smells your perfume in the bathroom.. He loses any sense of control he thought he had.

It was the same perfume you'd spritzed onto your skin before sneaking out to see him all those times, the floral scent lingering on your warm velvety neck. He locks the bathroom door behind him, looking at himself in the mirror. “Get a grip, Miller. She's done with you, you're done with her.”

He quickly contradicts his hollow whisper as he picks up a pair of used black panties on the top of the laundry basket, ones he knew were yours, the soft lace g-string, with a silver love heart on the front, covered in small diamonds, ones he had pulled to the side more times to fuck your hole than he could remember.

It's a desperate and shameful act, he knows, but doesn’t care. He desperately unzips his jeans and pulls out his thick, weeping cock from his jeans, stroking desperately. The other hand holds your panties and he looks at himself as he brings the lace material to his nose and smells it. They're used, and he pulls his cock faster as he shoves the material further into his face, a wet patch on your panties is all he can feel.

The smell of you has him groaning into the lace, desperately fisting his cock faster than he ever had. His knees buckle and he whimpers quietly as he starts sucking on the delicious soaking crotch of your panties as he doubles over the sink and spills a thick load, shooting across the basin.

Joel's sweating, taking one last inhale of your panties, before tossing them back into the laundry hamper, stuffing his softening cock into his jeans before turning on the tap to wash away any evidence of the violating act. He cups his hands under the running water and splashes some onto his face.

As he swings the bathroom door open, you're standing there with a shit eating grin. “All good in there?”

“Fine,” he utters, wondering if you knew, he couldn't meet your gaze after what he’d just done.

Fuck, you were evil for making him like this.

By midnight, everyone had gone home, stumbled off down the cul de sac to their houses, but you don't see Joel leave, which is strange. With your father inside of the house, and the lights shut off, you sneak out of the yard with your phone in hand, texting your friend with the intention of going to her house to drink, walking down the pathway down the street to where your car is parked.

Oblivious, you reach your car and are shocked to see Joel, leaning against the driver's side door. “Where do you think you’re going?” The growl sends a shiver up your spine, a feeling you miss.

“Out,” Joel towers over you as he stands upright, no longer leaning against your car.

“Like hell you are.” There's an edge of possessiveness to his tone, and the way he stands over you. “You need to explain yourself, all that shit you've been doing tonight.”

“I don't have to explain shit–” he cuts you off, his hand shoots out quickly to grab onto your hand. But you react without thinking and slap him.

His eyes snap shut from the force of your hand on his cheek, your hand now stinging from the contact. When he opens his eyes, his gaze is darker than before. He wraps his arms around your waist, grabbing a hold of you as he shoves you roughly against the side of your car door, you wince as your back makes contact with the cold metal. He stands flush against you, whispering in your ear as he cranes his neck downward.

“Careful. You shouldn't start something’ you can't finish baby girl.”

“I’m not your baby girl.”

God-if only you knew how much that struck a nerve within him. “Don't start that.” His voice is harsh, fingers digging tighter into the soft flesh of your chin.

“You're nothing to me.” You insist.

He bit back, his temper flailing. “Yeah? You really tryin’ to convince me that I ain't anythin’ to you, baby girl? That you don't care no more?” His thumb grips your chin harshly, jolting your neck up to look into his eyes.

There's a challenging look in your eyes, defiance, no sign of the devotion or submission he's so used to with you, he really has ruined you.

“Move Joel.”

He knew if he could just manage to get a peep out of you, a small whine or a moan out of you, that he could draw you back into him. His hand trails downward to your nipples, pinching softly, he knew it was such a sensitive area for you, which usually had your back arching.

You should have reacted, whimpered and squirmed or let out a small whine from those pretty lips that he was so used to hearing when he touched you like this. But you gave him nothing, no reaction at all, how did he let this happen? “Why the hell are you bein’ like this? Why are you fightin’’ me so hard?”

“Because I realised something, Joel.” Stepping forward, you bring your hand down to his belt, grabbing onto the buckle.

“And what is it that you think you have figured out?”

“It’s you who needs me.”

He couldn't even deny it, how his stomach felt sick at the thought of you knowing. That somehow you knew that this went beyond physical for him too. When he's silent, you roughly shove him away by the buckle of his belt. Stumbling a few feet back, he hated how weak he felt right now.

“You’re old, Joel. You love how it feels to have someone so much younger to pine over you, that's why things won't last with that old cunt, sue. Part of you needs me, joel, that why you were so fucking insistent on pushing me away.”

He freezes at your observation, words that are sharp, and true. Gritting his teeth, with his chest rising and falling, all he could do was breathe heavily.

“But me? I have options, time too. To find someone who would be proud to show me off. But you won't, you’re scared Joel, and it's because you're insecure.”

He feared this, thinking about you with men your own age, how they threw themselves at you, fit and capable of taking you out and giving you everything you ever wanted. Joel was selfish for wanting you all to himself, for craving you, obsessing and unable to let you move on. Because as long as even a part of you still wanted him, he was worth something. The grey hairs didn't matter, nor did his softening belly or the developing ache in his worn knees.

He hated how much he needed you.

You grip his chin, the salt and pepper scruff tickles your palm. Forcing him to look at you. “Say it Joel.”

His entire body tenses as you try to force the admission out of him, try to cut him open and deflower his tightly wound emotions. “Stop it.” He growls weakly, voice strained.

“Admit it!” You shout at him.

Every part of him begged for him to let go of this stubborn defiance and tell you how he felt, that he felt afraid, even though all he'd known was keeping you at arm's length. “Stop!”

With another harsh shove, you growl. “Just admit it!”

“Admit what? That I'm insecure, that I’m afraid of losing you? That every moment all I can think about is you, how much I fucking love you? What are you tryin’ to get out of me, huh?”

As his chest heaves, he can't help spilling out how he felt now, you broke the dam. “I worry that you'll find some other man to love you, touch you. That you'll come to your senses and realise you need someone your own age who is better able to take care of you.”

“So you broke my heart? That's how you face those fears?”

“The hell was I supposed to do?” With a defensive snap, he hated the weakness he felt now that you’d expelled the truth.

When you don't have an answer Joel is becoming more desperate for you to feel something for him, to let him know that there's still some space in your heart for him after all hed done.”Baby girl..” he whimpers, voice cracking with emotion..

“Don’t,” you protest weakly.

Joel realises that you don’t need him like this, all self doubting, you need your daddy.

He cages your body between his own and the car. “Too damn bad, because I’m touchin you, you ain’t rejectin’ me, you ain't gonna ignore me.” He leans his head down to your level. “And you sure as shit aint ever fucking leavin’ me.”

As he slams his hips against yours, finally a pathetically small whimper leaves your lips.

There it was, you were giving into him, that pretty sound he hadn't heard from you in weeks. “There's my pretty girl,” he whispers against the soft flesh of your neck.

“Don't fight me baby girl..” his lips on your neck have your back arching away from the car, leaning flush against Joel’s chest, but he doesn't want you to have any semblance of control. Roughly, he spins you around and shoves your body against the car, his chest flush against your back.

His hands unzip his jeans, pulling out his thick cock for a second time this evening, lifting your dress up to find you weren't wearing any panties at all, his eyes barely able to process the sight of your bare sopping cunt under the haphazard dim street light. “You knew what you were doin’ to me baby, wearing this tight dress and no panties.”

The palm of his hand smacks your wet lips, using the slick to coat his cock as he pumps it a few times.

His cock is thicker than you remember and you whine at the protrusion, forcing his cock inside of you as he forces you against the side of your car. A yelp leaves your lips and he quickly covers your mouth with his large hand. “Shh baby girl.. Daddy is gonna take you in the middle of the street, as a punishment for your actions. Don't want nobody to hear, do we?”

Frantically, you shake your head no, and he shakily praises you. “That's a good girl.”

Without any warning at all, he slams his cock into you, pushing your face into the car as he rams into you ferociously, fucking into you so deep that your eyesight starts to blur. “Think you can leave me? No body ain’t ever gonna fuck you like I do, baby girl.”

You squeal into his hand as he fucks you harder than he ever had, proving to you and himself that he was worthy of you. As your legs begin to tremble, Joel brings his other hand to pinch your nipple, and the orgasm crashes over you in waves, the feeling is intense and your body is limp between Joel and the car. Tears leave your eyes as your cunt clenches around Joel.

Joel's muttering under his breath. “That's it baby.. Make daddy feel so good. I'll kill anyone if they ever try to take you away.”

His thick cock pushes so deep inside of you for a final time as the tip twitches and he cums inside of you. Growling into your ear as his forehead rests on your shoulder.

Hesitant to pull out, he thrusts a few more times into you, making sure most of his cum stays inside you.

Pulling your dress down, he stuffs his cock back into his jeans and turns you around, wiping the steady tears off your cheeks. “Now go on back inside, alright? We’re going on a date tomorrow, a real one. Take you to a fancy place where we’ll sit down an’ eat. Just us. Daddy ain’t gonna leave you again, so that means you start wearin’ your collar again.”

Numbly, you nod, unable to form coherent words after the encounter. Pleased, he kisses your forehead, then gives your ass a light pat to send you on your way back inside your house. He stalks you down the street, making sure you get home safely, before retreating into his own house.

He watches you from his bedroom window as you turn on the dim lamp, and put on your silver collar just as he’d asked. He had his baby back, hell would freeze over before anything came between you, if your father found out.. Joel would handle him when it came to that.

No matter what that entails.

[bitterrfruit]

southpaw

boxer!Ghost x reader, ghost is lefthanded and i won't argue about this cw: dubcon - 18+ mdni So this was supposed to be one long fic but then i got carried away, here's part one of two. forgive me. [read on ao3 if you want]

You met Simon at the pub, on a Wednesday. 

It had been an arduous day at work, and a long week, despite having only made it halfway through - and you were on a knife edge, exhausted and sour. It was visible at first sight of you, you wore it like a greasy, raggedy cloak when you leaned slump-shouldered over the bar. 

He had drawn your attention like a magnet the moment you spotted him, the towering buzzed-blond behemoth standing alone at a tall table, a half-empty pint glass in his thick fist. You’d shoot furtive little glances in his direction, and each time they were caught. 

Caught being the operative word - when you met his eye you were trapped there, forcibly hooked on him as he glowered at you like he was angry. His eyes were shadowed from where you were perched - requesting a gin and tonic, short - and you should have found that frightening. Instead the adrenaline in your belly fizzed like a pinger, a girlish buzz that made your hairs stand on end and your cunt all warm. 

You would not have begrudged any male attention, in fact you were long starved of it; but you felt guilty, in a way, subjecting a man to the state you were in. Short-fused and frazzled, thin knitted scarf wrapped tight around your neck, autumn coat slipping from your drooping shoulder. You dug around in your bag for your wallet when the bartender handed you the card reader, scooping frantically through the piles of receipts and hairclips and loose tampons. Offered sheepish apologies to him; so sorry, it’s definitely in there. I’m a mess! Long day, sorry. So sorry. Sorry. 

You jumped when you heard the thud of a light slap on the counter, the low huff of an exasperated man, sick and tired. Looking up from your bottomless satchel, you saw the tenner left beside the card reader, and the bartender nodded in thanks before taking it swiftly. 

“No problem,” came the gruff voice from above you, implicitly chastising your lack of thanks when you tilted your head upward to blink at him. 

He was pretty - your first thought - in a dirty, brutish sort of way. Heavy-browed and amber-eyed, with thick blond lashes and a deep golden stubble. He was adorned with freckles and little scars, slivers of pink and white, some fresh and some old. And when he smirked knowingly at your silence, a dimple pulled in his cheekbone, the crater of an injury once sustained. 

He had just been to the gym, you could smell it on him; ripe and heady, a musk you should have been more repulsed by than you were. Instead you savoured it like some little animal, turned your head at the raw pheromones as though a doe sniffing out her stag during the rut. You could also tell as much from his gym gear, grey marled wife-beater under his unzipped black hoodie, stained with dried sweat, navy blue sport shorts that sat high on his hefty thighs and strained over their magnitude. 

“You didn’t need to do that,” you said abashedly, giving him an awkward smile in the hopes of concealing your flustered embarrassment. 

“I didn’t,” he agreed, and he leaned on the bar by his elbow to get a shred closer to your height. Through a haughty growl, he insisted, “You gonna thank me?”

His brazen arrogance should have put you off. You quickly got the sense he was well used to these encounters - a presumption that you’d be grateful for his interest, a raffish ease that reeked of habitual sex. You wouldn’t have called him well-practised, nothing about him was suave or carefully preened. No, instead, he was viciously masculine in a primal sort of way, rugged and unkempt around the edges. A cold gaze and a serrated smile. The kind of man that oozed testosterone and potent virility without needing to utter a word in his own favour. The unashamed lack of effort was bait in itself. 

You might have dismissed him if it were a Saturday, and you had friends to discourage you and drunkenness to embolden you. But, worn-out and sober, you felt obliged to entertain the man that had paid for you. Besides, something about him gave you the impression his attention was non-negotiable. 

And once you had thanked him as requested, soon followed a superficially understated conversation, though every word felt laden with some lude prescience. A simple question, then a simple answer, each delivered with more weight than the last. I’m a mechanic. Was in the army. This one’s from a scrap, got hit with a chair. From Manchester. Don’t normally come here on Wednesdays, maybe I should more often. No, not married. Yourself?

Minutes bled quickly to hours, and you didn’t spend a cent on your own alcohol. Soon you had migrated to a booth, and your sticky table became the graveyard of three gin and tonics, tired lime slices floating in the melted ice as you mindlessly prodded at them with a soggy straw. You ogled him shamelessly from the other side of the table, resting your tilted head in your palm, elbow extended on the wooden tabletop. 

He was a gladiator. Broad shoulders, pure meat - every part of him was thick with muscle and padded with a warm layer of fat. Winter bulk. You imagined his mammoth arms would be soft and pillowy if you were to squish them with your hungry hands, but that they’d turn as solid as rock if he were to engage them more forcefully. 

You asked him if he normally did this, went to pubs on weekdays to prey on bored working women and got them drunk so he could fuck them. 

He shrugged, shook his head. “Don’t need to get ‘em drunk.”

His tone was cocksure but insincere, and you didn’t yet have a good enough read of him to determine whether or not he was joking. It wouldn’t have surprised you if he were something of a lothario, given how quickly you had been sucked into his orbit despite his astonishing apathy - and yet, something told you he was more of a prowling wolf than a peacock. The kind of man that sets his eyes on his quarry and is unsatisfied until he has her between his teeth. It made your heart shiver to imagine yourself that meal. 

“Just me, then?” You bit back, thanking the bartender when he brought over a fourth gin for you and a third pint for the Mancunian. 

He dropped his pint glass down hard after he took his hefty swig. “You’re putting up more of a fight than they usually do.”

“Fighting the inevitable, am I?” You teased, facetious but not entirely unserious. 

“You tell me.” Is all he said. 

When you checked the time and decided it was far past your bedtime, seeing four fuzzy hands on your watch, he offered to walk you home - never know who’s out this time o’ night. You decided to take him up on it, the plentiful alcohol pumping through your blood blurred your already dubious sense of self-preservation. 

His vast hand travelled boldly down your back while you walked, and in a more sober state you would have told him off. Instead you giggled demurely, flicked his hand away half-heartedly just to test how quickly he’d put it back. And when he took an audacious and greedy handful of your ass you yipped at him, falsely agog, but you did nothing more to stop him. He grinned as he did it, sharp teeth, kneading your soft flesh as though evaluating how it felt in his thick fingers. Determining its adequacy. 

Arriving at your door he stood behind you like a shadow, watching you key the lock and breathing down the back of your neck. Such a lecher, already so bold as to assume you’d welcome him inside, spread your legs for him after so little effort. When his hand slithered to your waist and took a presumptuous grip, so confident, you felt your fortitude begin to waver. Would it hurt? 

But as you spun on your heel you blocked him out with your body in the frame, and gave him a sweet and hazy smile. A chaste kiss on the cheek. 

“Not lettin’ me in?” He asked, a grumble, with just enough mirth for you to lower your hackles. 

You traced along the jamb with your fingernail. “Maybe next time.”

A test, you drunkenly thought, for if he were really an unashamed cunthound you’d expect him to sulk, or to get grouchy, or to call you a fucking bitch for leading him on. Maybe, you wondered, he might dismiss your refusal entirely, shove you into the apartment with an angry paw and make you fulfil your unspoken proposal. Not much of a fight you could put up, if he were such a beast. 

Instead, he merely gave you a rakish grin, and brushed your chin with his thumb. “Next time, then.”

Next time came unexpectedly on the Friday, shortly after you had come home from work; freshly showered and lotioned, you answered the knock on your door in only a blue towel wrapped around your torso. Confronted immediately by the gargantuan man on your doorstep, you stepped back in fright. 

There were smudges of oil on his ruddy cheeks, grime embedded deep into the fibres of his black work jacket. With his fists in his pockets, a cigarette jutting out of his pursed lips, he sniffed brashly in the cold. “You busy?”

Your eyes scanned him shrewdly for a short moment before the memory came speeding back to you, flew across your face like a slap, and he gave you a fleeting smirk when he saw your eyes widen and your cheeks go red. The stranger from the pub remembered your address. Not something you considered as you stupidly welcomed him to walk you all the way home. 

“I’m not inviting you in,” you murmured, adjusting your towel higher on your chest when you felt his gaze warm the cleavage it failed to conceal. 

“Come out, then.” 

His imperious persistence was another warning you should have heeded, bright red and clear as day. Not often a man so obstinate is worth pursuing. Better avoided. His resolute silence compelled you, though, made unspoken demands that you dared not refuse. He wasn’t asking, he was telling. 

You didn’t recall his name until he reminded you, after you had already gotten yourself dressed and met him out the front of your apartment; Simon. You smothered your more rational counterpart with a pillow, shutting her up when she warned you about going out with the man that showed up uninvited on your doorstep - particularly this one, who had your intuition screaming at you so ferociously. Play stupid games.

He hadn’t planned a date, no prior effort had gone in beyond the sudden compulsion to come and try his luck.

“Didn’t want you to forget me,” is what he told you when you asked. 

You went with him to get fried chicken - his choice, an option wasn’t given - and ate it together on a park bench. Unsophisticated and to the point, a din of crunching and sucking on toothpick bones, broken up occasionally by your coy laughter. He made no effort to conceal a potently authoritarian nature, one you had as yet only caught glimpses of, and you were ruefully drawn to it. Reared its head when he told you where to sit, how fast to walk, what not to talk about. When you had demurely requested a single small punnet of hot chips from the food truck, and he had snorted at you; “Don’t take the piss. More than that.”

You shared a cigarette with him, sat under the bare elm tree and observed the chipmunks that came to feed on the crumbs of fried batter. Talked about nothing until the sun had set and the frost began to settle. 

After returning you home he quickly had you trapped against the front door of your flat, laving your flushed neck with his ravenous mouth, tongue under your jaw like he was tasting you. Palmed your cunt through your jeans with a thick hand, uncaring of passersby, and you let him persist, just for a little bit - selfishly, you thought, because you weren’t going to let him sink his cock into you yet. 

It was simply an experiment, you told yourself. Some part of you was well aware of the fire you were playing with, warning you vociferously about what happened to the curious cat. And that you were - dangerously eager to know for how long he would pursue you if you abstained from presenting your cunt to him off the cuff. What might happen if you dangled your prizes in front of his nose and continued to withhold them. 

His hand was so big, warm, strong like he might lift you up by it. He knew exactly where to press the heel of his palm to push a needy whine from your throat, right at the throbbing crux of your heat. If you had let him continue kneading you unfettered you’d have pathetically come inside your jeans before you had even taken him inside. 

You clutched his wrist to thwart his efforts, flustered and out of breath. Sheepishly warned him; “I - I don’t put out until the third date.”

Not a conviction you’ve ever held firm on, but it has been a long while since the last time you had taken a man home. You were slightly fearful that the second you let him fuck you, he’d be satisfied and spent and move on to the next helpless woman at the pub who couldn’t find her wallet. And, in truth, you relished in starving him. Delighted in the appetite you could see swelling in his belly, frothing at his jaws when he glowered at you under dark lids. 

He huffed mournfully, patience waning, as he removed his hand from between your legs with a purposeful swipe. Grumbled huskily, “You’re really testing my strength o’ character.”

You chuckled breathily as you fondled the door handle behind you, letting out a puff of relief when it gave way to you and you stumbled onto your back foot into the foyer. You could guess what he implied from his crude remark - barely a veiled threat, and yet you were only more eager to peer under the shroud. 

“Mustn’t be very strong if you can’t wait a little longer,” you prodded, emboldened by the false safety of being indoors. 

He nodded, gritting teeth as he adjusted his jacket. “You make it weak.”

Your throat nearly closed at that, the air suddenly warm and acrid. “Well, I hope you can hold strong till then.” 

He let out a hoarse groan, rubbing his neck with stiff knuckles. Dints pulled in his temple as he clenched his jaw, exerted no effort to mask his frustrations. 

“Wednesday count as date one?” He asked stiffly. 

You pursed your lips as you thought of a response, conscious that if it were the first ‘date’ - in heavy quotes - he’d expect your cunt on the next. You would likely not have bemoaned that, given the thumping you felt already in the peak of your swollen bud, the slick that you felt soak into the gusset of your underwear after such moderate attention. But it was a bit of a game, now, wasn’t it? A creature within you, one whose nature was perhaps a cause for concern, wanted to see if he would crack. Wanted to know what he would do to you if he did. 

“No,” you told him. 

With a terse nod, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and left. 

Date two came to pass on the Sunday, as presumptuously as the first, but he had at least sent you a text from an unsaved contact beforehand; picking you up in 10. 

You didn’t recall giving him your number, but wistfully assumed you must have put it in his phone on the drunken night you met him. 

With nothing better to do, you replied, what am I wearing? 

Dress. 

Following his blunt text like it were an instruction from your manager, you dug through your closet for a dress that would suffice - nothing too dressy, you didn’t want to expend too much effort - and nothing too provocative, lest you provoke him. Settled on something plain and black, dense cotton with a bit of flow and sat low on your neckline, but not too low. Once you were dressed you snapped a photo of yourself in your floor-length mirror, concealing your face with your phone, and sent it to him for his approval. 

He replied after a few minutes; No stockings. 

You frowned as you typed out your answer. It’s cold though. 

He never followed up, and you took off the stockings. 

When he arrived to pick you up in his black off-roader pickup and you hopped inside - he didn’t open the door for you - you immediately spotted a big purple welt protruding from his cheekbone, fresh and throbbing and speckled with broken capillaries. You asked him if it was the result of another ‘scrap’, so he called it, and he shook his head.

“Match last night,” he told you, before shrugging it off. Then joked - or, intended to joke; “You should see the other lad.”

“Match?” You asked him to clarify, perhaps stupidly, as he revved the rumbling engine of the four-wheeler and drove off like he was in a hurry. 

The cab of his truck smelled like tobacco, and the redolence of old sweat embedded in his seat; from how often he’d hop in unshowered after working out, you guessed. There was a tired old Evian bottle in the cup-holder of the centre console, next to it a half-empty pack of cigarettes and a clear orange lighter. The passenger seat was stiff and dusty, you must have been one of very few people to have sat in it.

“Boxing,” he answered. 

A boxer, you thought to yourself, eyes clinging to his bulky arm as it gripped and shoved the gearshift; forearm turning stiff as you had imagined it would, where it peeked out from the rolled sleeve of his black crewneck. Thick veins ran in webs under his skin. Tendons bulged in the back of his hand. Now that you looked more closely, you could see the bruises on his knuckles - some turned ochre yellow with age, others fresh and plum and looked tender to the touch. He’d have to have been a heavyweight, given the fucking size of him. Built like a bear, wide set and heavy and so comically tall that he looked too large for the cab of his own truck. 

He took you out for dinner, a proper date, he called it - a hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant with four tables and a single waitress. Far more of a date than his last two attempts - you briefly considered counting this as date number one. He ordered himself two meals, an unsurprising quantity, and requested that both be as hot as the chef could make them. 

You asked him about his boxing, and he said that he made some money from it but not quite enough to live on. That you probably wouldn’t have seen him on the telly, because he usually fought in the undercards and didn’t like the cameras. 

Told you under his breath that he made more cash when the games were ‘under the table’. What that meant you weren’t certain, and he kept it thrillingly vague. “No gloves,” was how he explained it, “and no referee.” You told him that sounded illegal and he only gave you a shrug.

“Are you any good?” You asked with a kink in your brow. 

He smirked at you, mouth full of rendang. “I’m alright.”

Something in his tone told you he was being humble. You felt a little giddy. “You ever knocked someone out?” 

“Did last night,” he admitted indifferently. 

You questioned him a little more. “Are you a violent person?”

He tilted his head either way as though considering his answer, shovelling a hunk of beef folded in naan into his mouth and chewing it thoughtfully. “Not all the time.”

A little shaken, you asked if you should be worried. 

“I can be gentle,” is what he answered, with a lidded glare and the faintest smirk that flickered in his lips. You didn’t believe him. 

After he paid for your meal - told you crudely to shut it when you offered to split the bill - he put you in his truck ostensibly to drive you back home. But when he missed the turn that he should have taken, you shuffled disquieted in your seat, lacking the bravery to mention it just yet. Perhaps he was simply taking an unfamiliar route. 

He must have noticed your unease, because he turned his head to look down at you, but he did little to assuage your discomfort. 

“Takin’ you to mine,” he declared bluntly, as though reminding you of a fact you already knew. 

You blinked at him, felt the prickles of adrenaline creep down your neck like a nettle sting, an alert from your primal subconscious to a looming threat. “This is only the second date,” you diffidently reminded him. 

“I know,” he said, through a toothy grin, apparently amused by your skittishness, “‘m not ready to let you go just yet.”

You nodded stiffly, chewing on the inside of your cheek and picking your nails in an anxious habit. You weren’t frightened of him - despite the awareness that you should be - if you truly were, you’d kick up much more of a fuss. But he was quite unreadable, purposefully so, and what could you possibly do if he decided he wasn’t interested in waiting any longer? Win stupid prizes.

“Don’t panic, love,” he asserted, reaching his burly arm over and taking hold of your knee, thigh dwarfed by his hand as he gave your meat a quick squeeze. “Not interested in takin’ what I haven’t earned.”

His terraced flat was modest and unadorned, a skinny three-storey house sandwiched between rows of similar boxes. Two windows per floor. A layer of tan stucco smeared over its brick. No garden, only some moss and a few sprouting weeds, and a wrought iron fence that lined the sidewalk out the front. 

He pulled his pickup to a stop on the side of the road, killed the engine and barked an order at you as he opened the door, “Out y’get.” 

The street was barren and dark, and every breath you let out echoed in the lifeless silence. Not even after nine in the evening and the neighbourhood seemed to be devoid of inhabitants, only one or two windows glowed from within - an indication of at least some life. You felt a chill as you stepped out onto the road, tightened your arms around your torso as you wandered bashfully behind him to his front step. He huffed impatiently as he jammed his keys in the lock, shoving and shimmying them loudly until the door reluctantly gave way to him. 

He marched into the depths of his flat, swallowed by the darkness within - didn’t bother to turn on the light. You only saw which direction he had headed once a yellow light flickered on in a distant room down the hall. Shutting his front door behind you, leaving it unlocked, you quietly walked in the direction of the light. 

His flat was painfully undecorated. Raw, messy with clutter and miscellaneous belongings, in stacks and piles, on tables and chairs. Torn open envelopes, old socks, misplaced boots. Jackets hung over the bannister and sweaters over the backs of his seats. You found yourself in an open kitchen and living room, bare save for the odd piece of secondhand furniture and empty bottles of beer dotted about the place. 

You found him leaning into an open fridge, illuminated by its dim bluish light. “Can I getcha somethin’?” 

 “Um,” you pondered, failing to conceal your unwelcome nerves, a shiver in your voice. “No - thank you, I’m okay.” 

He shrugged as he shut the fridge door with his elbow, a bottle of Carlsberg dwarfed in his hand. Stuck the top in his open mouth and popped off the cap with his teeth in a horrid crack, spat it aimlessly into the kitchen. “Suit yourself.”

He left you standing like a fool as he went to sit himself down on his sofa, landing in it with a gruff and satisfied sigh. Sunk into the cushions and spread his knees to make himself comfortable, big enough that he took up two seats of the three-seater. He reached for the remote and turned on the telly, volume low, but audibly some football game or other. 

His eyes fastened on you, though - narrow and pointed as though you had been caught in his crosshairs. He tipped his beer into a jutted jaw, took a noisy and insouciant sip. 

“All shy now?” He asked. 

A defensive no caught in your throat and it emerged as a quiet hiccup. You wanted to smack yourself. “I just - I’m not sure why I’m here.” 

He huffed testily. ”Want to go home, do you?” 

You knew you should say yes. “No - no it’s not that. I’m - I’m okay.” 

He cracked a grin, a flash of teeth before it vanished. “Do I make you that nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” you retorted, voice higher-pitched than would otherwise be convincing. 

“C’mere, then.” He gestured a lazy hitherto with three fingers, an edge in his glare. 

Your feet were moving before you disputed. “What for.”

“Siddown,” he grunted.

Better judgement hammering at you, you hesitated before you obeyed, standing in front of him but just out of reach. 

“What’re you so afraid of, sweethear’,” he asked richly, and you blinked at him before looking down at your hands. 

“I’m not,” you insisted. “Just not - not really used to this sort of thing.” 

“No?” He questioned with aplomb, pride oozing from him like crude oil. “Been a while, has it?”

You fawningly shrugged. “Guess so.” 

“Am I taking you home, then?”

The second time he had offered it, though this time there was something discerning in his tone; cocksure yet challenging, a last call. Resolved, you sat down mousily in the cushion next to him. Shrivelled so that you took up as little space as possible, held your arms tight to your body. 

You shook your head, steadfast. “No, that’s okay.”

He let slip a grin at your answer, canines sharp and catching the glint of the dim television in front of him. You thought he might hang his mammoth arm over your shoulder, or rest a hand on your thigh; might test the waters with a noncommittal touch to see how you reacted to his crossing of the boundary. 

But he had no such subtlety nor restraint - instead he slipped his hand behind you and hooked you by the waist, hoisting you one-armed from your distant spot with the ease of picking up a house cat. You let out a sharp gasp as he plonked you on his left knee so that you straddled it, back firm against his side as he riveted you in place with his forearm.

You yelped as you were made to forcibly bestride his thigh, left tongue-tied in your shock and momentarily unable to utter a word of dispute. Heart set to panic, scarcely able to subdue your hurricane of thoughts, you exerted all effort wriggle out of his grip - bucked and twisted and pulled, all painfully futile. 

His strength was unfathomable and frightening, the muscles of his only restraining arm hardly even tensed to hold you in place. It was easy for him. He briefly leaned to the side to dump his beer on the side table. 

You barked;  “Simon - let go of-”

Me was muffled by the right hand that swiftly sealed over your mouth, fingertips burrowing into your cheeks, the top of his hand tucked under your nose and barely allowed you to suck in a breath. 

He shushed you quick and sharp, and you let out a defeated moan as you persisted in your attempts to writhe free. You clamped your legs closed around his thigh as if you might seal off your cunt from him, but he simply let out a breathy chuckle - lightly bounced his knee to remind you that he had you wedged open as he pleased, and the force beared down on your centre with each jolt had you squeaking like a mouse into his palm. 

“Settle down,” he chided, stern-toned, you felt the coarse stubble of his jaw scrape down the side of your face as he craned his head beside yours. “Don’t you kick up a fuss now.” 

His colossal paw raked up your thigh, hitching the forgiving fabric of your skirt along with it and leaving pointy gooseflesh in its wake. 

Still you squirmed, but your defensive tenacity was rapidly fizzling away - doused with the sobering knowledge that you had made the very bed he was now forcing you to lie in. 

“You knew what you were after when you came out, didn’t you,” he snarled, accusing, lifting the hem of your skirt up to your belly. 

You shook your head as ferociously as he allowed you to, his suffocating hand stifling both your movement and your breathing. You whined into his clammy palm, hoping he’d be able to translate the sounds you made in place of words; not yet. 

Whether or not he understood, he ignored you; his fingertips clawed over your mound, catching in the thin fabric of the plain underwear you wore under your dress - dug into the leg hole where the hem sat against your groin, before yanking it to the other side. He tugged at the elasticated cotton, shimmying the gusset so it was entirely out of his way; cunt bare and exposed, your vealy lips rubbed raw against the rough denim of his jeans. 

“Like a cat in heat, eh?” He grumbled, feeding his imperious hand between your legs where they were held open by his titanic thigh. Jammed his thick fingers into your folds without hesitation, indifferent to your whimpering. 

His solid nose buried under your ear, right into the underside of your jaw, and he took a deep and wolfish sniff.  “Can fuckin’ smell it on you.”

You winced as he pressed the pads of two fingers against your twitching opening, not yet slick; nudging at the precipice as though hoping to milk you of your nectar - but he didn’t puncture you. Instead, he languidly dragged them back up to your timid bud where it was hidden under its hood, used your scant fluid to barely lubricate his incursion. 

He bucked his knee, making you bounce into a better position for him. Began chafing circles with the tips of mean fingers, kneading out your clit with a steady pressure that made you sob into the palm of his restraining hand. 

He was deft, knew how to make quick work of you - you felt your watery blood turn viscous and hot, it flooded down the middle of you as though spiralling an open drain. Pumped warm right into the centre of your bud and made it shudder and swell, twitched with hypersensitivity.

Morally, you spurned it, fought against it viciously - the man so arrogant and cruel as to forcibly pleasure you despite vehement protest. But your feeble body spoke far louder, betrayed you with its carnal appetite. Your acrid resistance turned to pudding under his abrasive hand. 

No longer wrestling, your hips leaned into him, spine arching and curling, flesh so pathetically desperate for purchase that it begged implicitly in spite of your expressed dispute. 

He sensed your blossoming acquiescence, heard your grunts and moans of defiance melt into high-pitched, needy whines; you felt his wrenching grip of you soften and a rough smile curl against your cheek. 

“Tha’s it,” he purred, low voice thrummed directly into your skin. You could only mewl into his palm like a trapped animal, his hand growing wet against your mouth. “Tha’s what you were after, eh? All that whingeing.”

A wanton oh, fuck, was muted by his palm as he slowed and eased his pace, no longer toiling to subdue you. With two fingers flat against the crux of your folds, he ran them up and down your seam - uncovering your puffy clit with each upward stroke and making you flinch with the shock. 

You tightened your legs around his thigh on reflex, curling your pelvis away from his touch as you grew so sensitive it began to burn - but your range of motion was sorely limited, and relief you could not find. 

He removed his smothering hand from your mouth and smoothed it down your waist, finding the meat of your hip and taking a fastening grip. Anchored your pelvis still and held you down, exacerbating the pressure on your cunt; parting it like a butterfly and grinding his coarse denim against flushed lips, you felt your slick seep out of you and soak the fabric underneath it.

You rocked your head back against his collarbone, feeling its rigidity at the back of your skull, and your eyes fluttered shut; you felt his hot breathing on the side of your head, an airy chortle at your whimpering capitulation. He only slowed his infliction, gently grazing your yearning clit as though to tease it, to force you to debase yourself as you pleaded for his brutality. 

“F-fuck-” You mewled, face flustered, skin febrile - you were suddenly so infuriatingly close, wracked by a surging current that shuddered into your core and made you spasm and shiver. The dawning heat was abruptly overpowering, and you leaned desperately into his hand to chase it. “Simon - Please - I-”

Every attempt you made to speak or complain was bitten off by an indulgent sob, weak and pleading cries, begging him to release you. 

“Please, what?” He gloated deeply, you could hear his smug grin without having to see it. “Speak up.”

Your mind was frayed, and your tongue was fat and heavy in your mouth. You squeezed out your answer through a strained whine; “I’m - I’m going to-”

“Y’gonna come, are you?” He mocked, voice rumbling and cruel. Seemed to find immense satisfaction in your pathetic desperation. 

He pressed down on your scalding clit and forced a pained cry from your throat when you failed to answer him.

“Y-yes,” you bawled, driven close to pitiful tears.

He pinched your plump and angry bud between his fingers and made you jolt, before he let out a chuckle, and his hand glided out from between your legs. Left glossy trails of your syrup up your mound, your belly, as he abandoned you. 

An agonised groan lept from your chest as you buckled forward, wrecked with desperation, suddenly and brutally hollow. 

“Taste o’ your own medicine, eh?” He crooned, haughty, he smacked the side of your thigh with two firm pats as if to reassure you. “I don’t put out easy, either.”

You only sobbed, deafened by the thunder of your throbbing blood in your ears, cunt still so ravenous you were rendered a slave to it. You were unconsciously grinding your cunt on his thigh, rocking your hips, hissing at the abrasion of the denim on your clit - but it was better than nothing. 

“Look at you,” he snorted, leaning back on the sofa with his arms hung over the back, as if to enjoy the show. As he reached for his abandoned beer, he chided; “Fuckin’ needy slut, aren’t you?”

He glided a hand up your spine as you rode his leg like a little animal, and maybe you could finish yourself off like that, if you tried hard enough - but his claw settled at the back of your neck and took malicious hold. He yanked you back by it so that your head knocked against his shoulder, the angle he had you at starving your clit once more. 

“‘Nuff o’ that, sweethear’,” he muttered into your temple. “You can wait, like me.”

You whimpered, the humiliation finally having caught up to you - it rained over you cold and bitter, and you suddenly wanted to run and hide. 

He put both paws on your hips, then, and hoisted you up and off of him - dumped you into the sofa cushion beside him and you landed with a bounce. 

You grunted bitterly, still panting. “You’re such a-” you breathed, twitching. “Prick.”

“Careful,” he grumbled, scolding you, and you sealed your lips. 

After a short and breathless silence, you heard him chuckle to himself as he stuck his beer between his lips, swallowing a frothy sip as if he hadn’t just left you a wreck. 

You glanced at him, to see what was so funny - and you saw him swipe his thigh with his thumb, a mortifying patch darkened by your slick, more than you had thought, soaked through. 

“Fuckin’ mess you made,” he jeered, voice low and harsh as though distracted. He grunted out a tiresome sigh. “Gonna be tough to wait for date three, eh?”

You only nodded, mind blunt and blurry, suddenly remembering the rule you had set. 

“What’ve you got in mind,” you puffed, shimmying your dress back over your thighs to regain some of your stolen decency. 

He sucked his teeth, rocked his head as he took another sip of his Carlsberg. 

“Come watch me fight,” he said.