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mountainsandmayhem · 14 hours ago

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BDSMaid - Chapter 9

Series Summary: In order to save money for law school, you accept a job working as a maid for high end clients. You aren’t supposed to know whose home you’re cleaning, but your curiosity is peaked by your first client, and when the two of you have a shocking and surprising run in more than just your curiosity peaks. Word Count: 5k CW: see small red lettering below the cut AN: I'm going to miss them!! I'm absolutely heartbroken that I'm done, but so fucking proud of myself for what I've created. Thank you to @lotusbxtch for being my beta from pretty much the very beginning. I am so grateful to you and so honoured (yes, with a u because I'm Canadian lol) to call you my friend. Also little shoutouts to @for-a-longlongtime, @alltheirdamn, @mermaidgirl30 and @littlevenicebitch69 for listening to me go on about them for 80% of 2024. As always, graphics and dividers by @saradika-graphics

My Masterlist || Series Masterlist

TW: unprotected p in v, one spank, multiple orgasms and Overstim hinted at, pining, heartbreak

Eight Months Later

Joel

“I got yelled at by a feisty brunette last night at that gala,” Tommy says as the two of them sip whiskey at the bar of the club.

“Probably deserved it.” Joel deadpans and closes the folder of invoices he’s looking over.

He should be doing this in his fancy, and newly renovated, office across the street. He was in the large office for all of three minutes the day after you left when he could only see the ghost of you. From the chair you sat in when you first asked him to teach you how to be a sub, to the door he pinned you against and confessed how out of his mind he was over you, everything was you, and it had to go if he had any chance of following what you needed from him. Joel hasn’t even been in his room at the club out of the fear of what it would do to him. Would I still be able to smell the lavender of her shampoo in there? Still be able to hear her beautiful cries of pleasure and pain bouncing off the walls?

“She thought I was you,” Tommy says, glancing over at his brother and interrupting Joel’s impending spiral.

Joel sighs, slipping his reading glasses from his face before taking a long pull of the amber liquor from his crystal glass. Tommy looks straight ahead as he continues.

“She’s doing great, by the way. Or at least that’s what her friend said when she was scolding me.”

Joel winces at his words, “Of course she is, Tommy.” Even though it's been almost a year since you left, just the mention of you rips his barely-mended heart back in half. It doesn’t seem to matter how much time passes, he still feels like he did in his kitchen.

The very fibers of his being ache just as hard for you now as they did then. He longs to see you and touch you, to feel your warm, soft skin under his hands again. Anyone before you was always, ‘Yes, Mister Miller,’ even when they weren’t in a scene; but not you. You weren’t afraid to be curious and unapologetically yourself. He hasn’t laughed as hard with anyone, including Tiffany, as he did with you. But the part that he misses the most is the way you look at him the first time you see him. Your eyes soften, velvety pink lips parting slightly before they curl into a smile that makes his heart hammer behind his ribs. Then, he watches your shoulders relax and it makes him feel like he hung the moon and stars for you, and if he could have, he would have.

He clears his throat and then rasps, “She’s too smart to not be doing well.”

Tommy stands, bringing his hands to rub at Joel's shoulders. He squeezes his tense deltoid muscles and with a hint of mischief in his voice he says, “Lots of pretty girls here tonight if you feel like moving on.”

Joel shakes his head and pulls away from Tommy’s grasp with a grunt. “Never gonna happen. Get outta here before you get yelled at two nights in a row.”

“Just too bad for me that you aren’t a hot brunette,” Tommy says with a laugh.

“I have brown hair,” Joel replies defensively, running his fingers through the grown out curls.

“Not to kick you when you’re down, but it’s mostly grey at this point.”

Joel holds up a single finger at Tommy over his shoulder as he laughs and walks away.

Two and a half years later

You

You’ve been up to your eyeballs in studying as you prepare for your finals. These last few years in California have been the hardest yet most fulfilling time of your life. Two nights in a row now, you’ve fallen asleep in the library, only waking when your Spotify would switch from the white noise playlist you use to help you focus, to your “getting ready” playlist. After dragging yourself to your dorm room in the dead of the night, you’d get a few restless hours of sleep before heading right back to your favourite studying spot. You can’t believe that in just a few short weeks you’ll be graduating and stepping into the life you’ve always envisioned for yourself.

The unmistakable FaceTime jingle fills your AirPods. Jamie’s name is splayed across the screen of your phone, along with a photo of the two of you at Albany Beach when she visited this past Christmas break. You put your highlighter down and slide the answer toggle over.

“Hey!” She says, her warm smile shining up at you. You squint, trying to place where she is. You don’t often let yourself think of Joel, but the cracks across your screen make FaceTiming difficult, and the selfish side of you always wishes you had grabbed that new phone before you left. Your head cocks to the side; broken screen or not, you don’t recognize the background.

“Where are you?” You ask.

“Oh, I’m good, thanks. How are you?” She jests with a mocking eye roll. “I’m at a cabin.”

“What cabin?” You say, glaring at her jokingly. A deep laugh comes from the otherside of the phone and your eyes widen. “Who’s that?”

The man's voice comes from offscreen, “I can’t believe you thought she wouldn’t ask where you were. She’s going to be a lawyer, for god's sake.”

“Jamie, who is that? What is going on here? Blink twice if you need rescuing!” You joke.

Jamie blushes, looking over the phone at whoever that voice is coming from. “I just wanted to call to see how the studying is going, and to let you know that I got the graduation tickets.”

A glass of white wine appears in front of Jamie and she smiles before puckering her lips in a kissing motion towards the man in the room with her. “Ok, seriously, who the fuck is that and where are you?”

“I was also calling to let you know that Laren can’t make it anymore and Odette is in New York,” she takes a small sip of her wine.

“Oh, well that’s ok,” you say, trying to squash the disappointment and hoping it doesn’t show in your voice or face. You wished that at least two of your three best friends would be there for you. “It can just be me and you, baby!”

“Well…I’m wondering if I could maybe bring my boyfriend? Might be a good opportunity for you two to meet.”

“What? What boyfriend?” You say, officially abandoning all study materials until you get some answers. Jamie raises a perfectly manicured finger and calls the mystery man over.

You swallow hard as Tommy Miller appears beside her.

Jamie glances up at him, her bright green eyes full of admiration, his mirroring hers. The starry look in their eyes tells you everything you need to know; they’re so far gone for that even a search and rescue team wouldn’t be able to save them. She looks back at you. “Meet again, I guess.”

You try to push for answers, but either of them give in, claiming you need to focus on finals. Before you hang up, Jamie promises to tell you the entire story when you see each other next. You’re happy for your friend, especially seeing the way Tommy looked back at her. Even through your cracked screen you could see the love, but as you try to go back to studying you have a hollow feeling in your stomach.

Graduation Day

You

The late afternoon sun fills your dorm room, boxes of your belongings stacked haphazardly around you. After walking the stage tonight, you are going out to dinner with Jamie and Tommy, and then he has paid for a hotel suite so the two of you can have a girls’ night. You can’t wait to hear how Tommy went from, in Jamie’s previous words, “my dad’s new asshole friend” to her boyfriend.

You step in front of your floor length mirror, zipping up the black graduation gown over your knee length, form fitting, deep emerald velvet dress. The California sun has been good to you, your tanned legs and sunkissed nose and cheeks are glowing. You place your blue and yellow Berkeley Law stole over your head and then grab your cap, ensuring the ‘Class of ‘28’ tassel is secure. You fluff your curls one last time as a light knock comes from your door.

“Ready to graduate, gorgeous?” Ronan smiles at you, eyes trailing down your gown. He’s the type of handsome that’s almost painful to look at, but more importantly - you wouldn’t have made it through these last three years without him. You met the first day - the lock on your door wasn’t working, and he waltzed in on you half naked when he mistook your room as his.

You smile at him in your doorway now; remembering the way you screamed at him that first time, trying to cover your chest, and him scrambling to close the door. His eyes were clamped shut, and he slammed his finger so hard that you had to take him for stitches. Now, several years later, he fills out his graduation gown perfectly with those wide rugby shoulders, a sight you couldn’t even have imagined back then. Whichever angel made him didn’t make a single mistake - he’s tall and insanely broad, with dark sandy blonde hair, and clover green eyes that in the right light are a golden hazel. He’s easily one of the smartest men you’ve ever met and an incredible athlete. The cherry on top, because of course there’s more: he’s an international student and has a panty-melting Irish accent.

“Beyond ready. Let's become lawyers, babe.”

He steps aside, one arm out in a ‘ladies first’ gesture. Handsome, charming, and thoughtful - a dangerous trifecta. You slide your hand in the crook of his muscle-lined arm and walk across campus together.

Ronan jerks his head towards the coffee cart. “Remember when you spilled your entire coffee on your new puffer jacket?”

You glare up at him, you saved for weeks to buy that jacket. “No, but I remember you throwing up in that trash can after the Halloween party last year.”

“Well, if Beach Party Barbie had helped Lifeguard Ken with all those shots we wouldn’t have had that problem, would we?” You laugh as Ronan puffs out his chest, but you both know he was more than willing to take your half of the ‘Best Couples Costume' shots.

Finally, you reach the courtyard where the law students will be walking across a stage that acts as the symbolic bridge to the rest of their lives. I’m a lawyer, you think to yourself and try to force a smile. The magnitude of the day only really starts to sink into your bones as you see the friends and families of your classmates start to take their seats. The excited feeling you had earlier starts to morph. You’re proud of yourself for what you’ve done these last three years, and this was just the first step. You have so much to look forward to, so why do you feel a sense of dread building in the pit of your stomach?

Ronan walks you to where you need to line up alphabetically, kissing your cheek and then, after leaning in and placing his large hand on your lower back, he whispers a joke about how you better not trip. You glance around the thick crowd for Jamie and Tommy. After realizing it’s hopeless to try and spot them in a group this large, you slip your cap over your hair and get in the procession line.

You try to soak in every minute of the day, from the speeches to the birds chirping in the background, but something akin to loss flutters at the base of your spine. You’re just as sad to be leaving Berkely as you are excited to carve out your future. Leaving here isn’t what’s causing you to feel this way, however. You try to tell yourself that maybe it’s just nerves; even with all the job offers coming in from your internships, it’s normal to be nervous about what comes next.

As the student union president gives his toast to the family and friends, you look down at your lap, pushing back the cuticle on your left thumb. Maybe it’s leaving Ronan. He’s been an anchor for you, grounding you almost every day of the last three years and you don’t know how you let yourself become this dependent on anyone, especially a man, again.

You shake your head at yourself and try to move your focus to the cuticle on your other thumb. Seeing the skin clean from the nail bed eases the tension slightly for you. ‘I’m allowed to be nervous when leaning on people, but not everyone will leave me,’ you recite almost automatically in your mind, the mantra you’ve had these past few years whenever you feel yourself getting this anxious. Just as you finish the thought, a car revs in the distance and the realization of what - or who - you’re actually missing slams through you so hard that you almost feel winded. Your lungs ache, tears pushing behind your eyes as his name rings loudly through your mind.

Joel.

You kept yourself busy since the minute you left Austin. The busier you were, the less time you had to focus on the void in your heart. During the school year, you didn’t have to find things to stay busy with; law school nearly chewed you up and spit you out. Over the summers, you worked as an intern and visited your friends. There was never a quiet moment, never too much time alone with your thoughts, and it was better this way. You can confidently say that you’d only thought of Joel six times since you walked out of his house that day: when you fell asleep on the beach and were so sunburnt you could barely move for three days; when you failed your first test; when your rusted SUV, that acted as your ticket to freedom at eighteen, died on the freeway in rush hour (from that point on you had to rely on public transportation to get you to the homes you cleaned). When you experienced your first earthquake; when you stayed up for forty-two hours straight after your partner in a group project didn’t have their side of the work done; and, lastly, this past New Year’s Eve when you were in Austin and thought you saw him at a party.

“Is he here?”, that little box of feelings that you shut away in a vault long ago wonders. “Has anything changed for him in the last three years?”

The small smile that pulls at your cheeks, and the excited flutter of your heart when you think about the possibility of seeing him again, proves that maybe nothing has changed for you. As the minutes tick by, your mind races with all the possible scenarios for after the ceremony. What if he is here? What will you say? What will he say? How will Ronan react, you know he has strong feelings about what happened between you and Joel. Even worse though, what if he’s not here? But maybe he’s at the hotel where Tommy and Jamie are staying?

Before you know it, your row is standing and walking single file towards the stage. With each strike of your high-heeled strappy sandals against the concrete, a memory of Joel floods your system. The toast he made you in his kitchen, the kiss in that dimly lit hallway on your birthday, the way he walked you through his club and how calmly he talked about you being in charge before going into the voyeur room. The multitude of orgasms he gave you within the four walls of his private room. Him singing on the small stage of the dive bar you found, followed by him spanking you right there in the bathroom with his hand clamped to your face to keep you quiet. His strong hand grasping your thigh as he drove you to his house. The way he tasted on your tongue. The smell of his skin: all ash and leather, occasionally mixed with whiskey or mint. The feel of his body: hard, broad and hot. His shuddered breaths as he confessed so many things in so few words.

‘It’s only you, sweet girl.’

‘Just call me Joel.’

‘I know, and I’m so proud of you, sweet girl.’

You carefully walk up the stairs, forcing the thoughts of Joel from your mind, just in time to hear your name announced as a graduate of Berkeley Law. You float across the stage, grabbing the piece of paper that acts as your degree until the real one comes, shaking the hand of the Dean who flips your tassel before you walk to the stairs on the other side; the stairs that symbolize the ending of your time here and the beginning of the rest of your life.

As you reach the top of the steps, you look out into the audience and see Jamie. She pumps her fist in the air and before you can process the empty seat beside her, you feel it; a strong tug from behind your navel. It takes you less than a heartbeat to find him and the sight before you floods your body with a familiar warmth. Standing under a large tree at the edge of the audience, dressed in all black, and holding his Stetson hat to his heart, is Joel. For the first time in years you feel whole again.

You keep your gaze on him, worried that if you so much as blink that he’ll be gone. You are supposed to follow your classmates, but you veer left, walking towards Joel. The closer you get, the more at ease you feel. He’s real, you think, he’s here. You stop a foot or so in front of him.

“Hi, Freckles,” he whispers, his voice cracking slightly. His eyes dance around your face, almost as if he’s trying to memorize this moment. You can’t help but wonder if he’s feeling exactly how you are.

“Hi, Sweet Cheeks,” you say, the same tremble in your voice, as you try desperately to hold it together. “You’re here.”

He nods and you give him a tight-lipped smile as your mind races. There’s so much you want to say, but now that he’s standing right there in front of you after three years, you don’t know where to start.

Joel breaks the silence, jutting his chin in the direction of the other graduates as he says, “I saw you come in with your boyfriend. When I saw you kiss, I was going to leave, but I made you a promise.”

You knit your eyebrows together and take a step closer. “Boyfriend?”

“The man you walked over here with,” Joel says, his black Stetson sliding down the chest you so desperately want to touch as he drops his hands to his sides. He’s left no barriers between the two of you except the heartbreak that’s evident on his face.

You laugh quietly, “No, he’s - that’s Ronan.”

Joel nods. “Okay.”

“He’s my friend,” you clarify, and when Joel’s face stays the same, you add, “And he’s still as gay as the day we first met!”

Joel lets out a whoosh of a breath and closes the distance between the two of you, his free hand comes to one of your curls, twirling the end of it around his thick fingers. Soft and silky meets rough and calloused. “I’m so proud of you, Freckles.”

You don’t miss how he watches your tongue dart between your lips, “Thank you.”

“So? How does it feel?” He gives you a soft crooked smile, his dimple carving into the short facial hair of his salt and pepper beard. Between that smile, and the way his brown eyes wash over you, you’re overcome with affection. He let you go. He did exactly as you asked him. He didn’t chase you or try to convince you to stay. You told him if he really loved you, then he’d do exactly this; and in turn, he did what he said he would.

He showed up.

“I love you,” you state and the air between you turns electric, almost like this moment could either set you both aflame or act as a generator for your future together. Joel gives you that look, the one that makes you feel like you’re the center of his universe. He lets the curled end of your hair slip from his fingers, reaching up towards your graduation cap but hesitating.

“May I?” He rasps and swallows hard.

You nod, and knowing exactly what he’s going for, you take the Stetson from his other hand and place it on your head after he removes your cap. The brim of it blocks out everything but the two of you.

“Say that again, sweet girl,” he murmurs.

“I love you,” it’s barely a whisper this time. “Even after three years apart, you are everything to me. I asked you to let me go so I could accomplish this, and you did. You’ve always done what I asked, what I needed. I’m not sorry for what happened between us, but I am sorry that I missed out on getting to spend the last three years with you looking at me how you are now. I love you, Joel Miller.”

He brings his lips within a breath of yours, and your body practically vibrates with the knowledge that if you leaned just a bit forward, you’d finally have his mouth on you again. You can almost taste the mint on his tongue as the familiar fragrance of ash and leather surround you. “I have dreamed of hearing those three words leave your beautiful lips more times than I can count, baby. You’re it for me. I’ll do anything for you, even if it means breaking my own heart, but I’m always going to be here for you, rooting for you and encouraging you. I’m glad you’re not sorry, because I’m not, I’m so fucking proud of you. I love you, too, my sweet girl.”

Finally, he presses his warm, firm lips against yours while pulling you tight to his body. You wrap an arm around his neck, holding the black cowboy hat against your head with your other hand. It doesn’t matter that the ceremony isn’t done, or that there are hundreds of people to your right. For the first time in three years, everything goes quiet. He hums contentedly and you feel yourself melt against him, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss. He parts his lips, letting you take the first swipe of your tongue against his. Need floods your system, and based on the way he grinds into you, he’s feeling the same.

He breaks the kiss, but doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours. “Take me home,” you practically purr.

“Where do you want home to be? I’ll go anywhere,” Joel rasps, running his nose down the bridge of yours.

“Austin,” you respond, your breath catching as his lips ghost along the side of your mouth.

“I sold my portion of the club to Tommy and Tess. I don’t have anything holding me in Austin anymore, sweet girl. If you have a job offer you really want, that’s where we’ll go.” You pull back to look at him. You can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s serious.

“I want to go to Austin. I have a job offer there.”

“Good thing I told Tommy not to touch my room at the club then.”

“That’s a very good thing,” you moan and then pull him in to kiss again. The audience behind you erupts into cheers, celebrating the accomplishments of every student in that crowd.

You’re a lawyer, and suddenly, the future doesn’t seem so scary.

Joel

Taking you home to Austin that night unfortunately wasn’t an option. After finding Jamie in the crowd, and being formally introduced to Ronan, he called the car to pick up the three of you. You all met Tommy at the restaurant, celebrating with all the expensive homemade pasta and overpriced wine that you wanted; even though seeing you in that curve-hugging velvet dress was slowly killing him. Joel had kept at least one hand on you since seeing you again, and he doesn’t plan on changing that anytime soon.

He didn’t want to rush you on your big night, so he waited patiently, listening to you tell stories of your last three years, and revelling in the evident joy that you and Jamie share over being together again. When dessert comes around he catches Tommy’s attention and gives him a small smile. It’s fitting that the two brothers, who have been so close their entire lives, would fall in love with best friends.

Once in his room, he spent two hours stripping you down at an almost painfully slow pace. He kissed every inch of your skin twice over and has pulled five orgasms, and counting, out of you so far.

Now, Joel is seated in the wide velvet arm chair in the corner of his hotel suite. His cock is buried deep inside of your tight cunt as you straddle him. Your skin feels like butter under his hands as he trails them along your back and the globes of your perfect ass. He’s missed tying you up, but this is what he longed for: the earth shattering intimacy he feels with you in these moments.

“Please,” you mumble into his neck, desperate to move your hips.

“Not until you answer me,” he demands softly. “How many times was it that you needed me, but were too stubborn to reach out?”

Earlier tonight you told him about the six times you really needed him. He’d kissed you softly after each confession, returning the trust with a time he needed you. After the last one, he’d pulled back to look at you with dark eyes. He’d hated that you needed him and he couldn’t be there. He’d clenched his back molars twice before he said you’d be denied six orgasms the next time you were at the club, but tonight you have permission to come as often as you need to.

He swats your already reddened ass cheek and your pussy flutters as you cry out. “Mister Miller, stop. Please, just let me move.”

“Do you need to use your safeword?”

“No,” you respond with a pout.

“How many times?” He says again through gritted teeth, even though already knows the answer.

“Six,” you sob.

He tuts and then growls, “That doesn’t sound like my good girl, does it?”

You shake your head against his throat and moan a sound of disagreement.

“Do you want to come for me again?”

“Yes, Mister Miller. Please!”

He trails his fingers up and down your back again, the thin sheen of sweat on your skin makes it easy for him to caress you. He smiles to himself at the shiver that racks through your body at his touch. You react so beautifully to him. “Yeah? You wanna grind your swollen little clit on my piercing, baby girl?”

“Please,” you whine again, stretching out all the vowels in the word.

“Show me. Ride my cock, take what you need.”

You lift your head from the crook in his neck and pull back slightly, rocking your hips back and forth; a sultry laugh leaves his lips at your eagerness. You look at him with hooded eyes, hair stuck to your forehead. His eyes trail down your neck to the bruises he sucked into your collar bone earlier and then to your breasts; both of which are covered in his marks. He watches the little gold nipple clamps, and the chain that connects them, bounce with each flick of your hips.

“That’s it, sweet girl. You look like a goddess, my goddess. Who do you belong to?”

“I’m yours, baby,” you say through shallow breaths. He pulls at the chain and you cry out in pain. “S-sorry, Mister Miller.”

“Again, sweet girl. Tell me who you belong to.”

“Oh fuck, y-you, Mist -” his hands come to your face and when he whispers your name the rest of your sentence dies on your tongue.

“Just call me Joel.” The commanding voice of his alter ego is gone as he says it.

Your hips slow, changing from a frantic back and forth to a sensual swirling motion. “I’m yours, Joel. Forever.”

He kisses you softly, a silent telling of how vulnerable he is at this moment. “Don’t ask me to let you go ever again.”

The smile you give him causes his heart to skip, “I won’t.”

“You might, sweet girl. I won't survive it if you do, so I’m going to remind you of this moment as often as possible for the rest of my life. Remind you how much you’re loved and supported. You’re mine, Freckles.” Your hips swirl and he feels you tighten up around him. “Come for me, my sweet girl.”

“Fuck, fuck, Joel!” It’s a cry and moan all at once.

“I’m here, it’s ok, baby.” With that, your body shudders and you fall into him as you shatter. Your pussy clenches and releases rapidly around his length. His cock twitches, and once he can’t hold it anymore he relaxes, letting his orgasm rock through him in time with yours.

“I’m yours, too,” he gasps as he melts into you.

The End

Coming Soon:

Curious how Jamie ended up with her "dads new asshole friend?"

Part 2 of the BDSMaid Trilogy coming mid 2025!

Also, stay tuned for the epilogue for Joel and Sweet Girl.

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mandosaur · 3 days ago

Text

Morningstar (The Salesman / Reader)

Fandom: Squid Game

Pairing: The Salesman / Reader

Summary: Extreme graphic content warning. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Read at your own risk.

“My friends and I are about to play a game. One you know well, darling,” he explains. He uses the gun to push a strand of his hair back innocently.

The gun prompts your memory. You feel your hands begin to shake.

Russian roulette.

Of course. He is terribly fond of this one. You’ve played with him on a few occasions, and it doesn’t get easier. Each time he makes you play it with him, you feel the familiar squeeze in your chest of panic.

“Rock, paper, scissors,” your benefactor turns back to the men, “And one. I’m sure you’ve all heard of it, yes? Little star, will you demonstrate?”

Female reader is present during the first Russian Roulette scene.

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, canon character death, explicit sexual content, gun play / gun violence, and gore. Dead dove; do not eat.

Word Count: 7,794

Estimated Reading Time: 28:20

At this point, it’s not much of a surprise just how low your threshold for what is normal and abnormal has fallen. Your walls have been forcibly brought down. What might have scared you years ago has become something mundane. You don’t even blink as you enter your apartment to find two people tied up and gagged.

The sound of the door opening makes everyone snap their heads towards you. You hesitate at the entrance, eyes taking in the scene before you.

Two men are tied up in your living room. One is young and covered in a sheen of sweat. He screams as he sees you and looks desperate. He seems to mouth, “Help,” over and over through the gag in his mouth. His hands reach out for you as if pleading with you to do something.

The second man sits opposite of him. He’s older, gruff, and his eyes are full of alarm. He moves his hands like he wants you to back off and he mouths at you to run. It seems he wants you to save yourself from whatever threat is in the room with them.

A low chuckle sounds from somewhere in the back of the room. Your attention is drawn to the man you missed upon your first entry. Understating floods you as he steps into the low light of the room.

“Ah, little star,” comes a cheery, bright voice, “you’re home early.”

In the low light of the living room, you can make him out. Your benefactor. He’s standing in his business suit in the middle of the two restrained men. He holds something up in his hand that glints in the lighting and sends a low shiver down your spine.

A gun.

You close the front door quickly behind you and latch it. A breath hitches in your throat and you drop your coat and bag by the hallway. You hope your neighbors haven’t seen anything yet because you’re not sure how you can explain this one.

The two men make a noise. The youngest is frantic, muffled words and pleas getting lost along the rubber gag, meanwhile his companion is straining against the rope that binds him trying to find a way out. You ignore the way the sight of them makes your stomach heave and instead focus on your benefactor.

He’s turned to you now with the gun still aimed at the ceiling. His smile is wide, too many white teeth, and his eyes have something glinting within their depths. You know that look well. He wears it every time he’s about to play one of his games.

You’ve known this man for years now. You met him when you were just a university student in your second year barely scraping by. He had met you on the subway and his too wide smile had shown razor sharp when he had offered you a red and blue piece of paper.

You’re not surprised at whatever scene you have just walked in on. Heaven knows he’s shown you worse.

“Friends of yours?” Your voice cracks on the last word and you awkwardly hang by the hallway unsure whether to approach or leave.

This happens sometimes. You’re not sure what shady business your benefactor is involved in, but sometimes it follows him home. You’ve grown used to him ordering you to leave when his friends in red show up or when a car pulls up front waiting silently for him to enter. Whenever that happens, he usually orders you to leave your apartment for a few hours until he sends you an all clear message. You’re not sure if your presence has inconvenienced him somehow, and, quite frankly, you don’t really want to know. Despite the way this man has twisted your perceptions of right from wrong, you aren’t too keen to watch whatever is about to happen with these men.

Your benefactor beckons you over with a single tilt of his head. He turns back to the men with a flourish. His voice is still bright, loud, and clear. He takes your interruption in stride as if it was insignificant.

“Come, little star, join me,” he orders.

Silently, you do.

The men grow quiet at the sight of you slotting yourself next to your benefactor. The youngest one sobs and squeezes his eyes shut at the realization that you are with him. The hope of escape evaporates as he sags and cries freely into his lap. The oldest clenches his fists tight and pins you down with an ice cold glare that sends a shiver down your spine.

You look away from them both and instead turn to your benefactor.

“My friends and I are about to play a game. One you know well, darling,” he explains. He uses the gun to push a strand of his hair back innocently.

The gun prompts your memory. You feel your hands begin to shake.

Russian roulette.

“Rock, paper, scissors,” your benefactor turns back to the men, “And one. I’m sure you’ve all heard of it, yes? Little star, will you demonstrate?”

He pushes you forward firmly with hand holding the gun. The cold metal stings as it presses against your back.

You swallow and extend your hands in front of yourself. You also know this one. You’ve played it with him on occasion although it’s usually when he’s feeling more playful in bed. It’s never really done with a weapon.

“Rock, paper, scissors,” he calls out. Your hands move at the beat. At the end, your right becomes paper and your left a rock. He extends his own hand and you see he’s chosen scissors, “Minus one.”

Your right hand falls away leaving your rock. You tap his scissors once and he drops it obediently.

“Well done, little star,” he praises. His voice drops to that low, seductive murmur you like. Despite the situation at hand, you feel a little flutter of excitement singe through your blood.

“When you lose a round, you play a round of Russian roulette. I’m sure both of you are familiar with it. You take a gun and load a single bullet in the revolver. Then you spin it around until you don’t know where the bullet is. The losing player takes the weapon, presses it to their head, and pulls the trigger. It’s a game of a chance. Your odds of surviving are 1 and 6. Those are good odds, yes?” He spins the revolver and presses the gun to his head.

Your mouth grows dry with worry as he pulls the trigger.

Click.

Empty.

A breath releases from your lips slowly in relief. He shoots you a wink with his lips curled up at the corner. He enjoys the moments he can make your heart skip a beat in fear.

“Again.”

This time he sets the gun down and extends both his hands towards you. You do the same.

“Rock, paper, scissors.”

Your hands become two rocks. His left becomes a paper and his right another rock.

“Minus one.”

You jerk one hand behind your back and he beats you with his left. The revolver is spun again and he hands you the gun silently.

Fear clenches its cold fingers around your stomach. As always, your hand shakes when you take it from him. You’ve never been a fan of this game, but you don’t want to disappoint him. His eyes are watching your every movement, and you know he won’t tolerate disobedience. If there’s one thing he hates more than anything, it is when you cannot do as you are told.

You press the barrel of the weapon to your temple and pull the trigger before you can second guess yourself. Dying doesn’t scare you. Living without him is far more terrifying.

Click.

A breath of air passes through your lips. You don’t have time to register your relief before he takes the weapon back and gives it another mighty spin.

“See, gentlemen? 1 in 6. My darling and I have both survived,” he taps your shoulder indicating you to step back. You move behind him and press yourself to the wall.

The two men are still shaking. The youngest lets out a noise of pure terror as your benefactor hums and raises the gun. The eldest glares at you from beneath his dark eyebrows. Idly, you wonder what he sees when he looks at you.

Does he see another captor deriving sick amusement from the torture or perhaps just a bystander watching it all from behind his captor’s back? You bite the inside of your cheek at the thought.

The truth is, this dark and dangerous world evades you. You don’t really know what it all means. You’ve spent the last few years dancing across the edges of it but never truly venturing forth. Even now, you don’t really know what it is that is happening or who exactly your benefactor is besides a savior.

Two years ago, you were a college student in your second year with the weight of the world upon your shoulders. Your home life had always been poor, an indebted dead father and an absent, broke mother, but your studies were the area you excelled at. You had managed to win a full ride to one of the most prestigious universities in Korea. The world of poverty you were born in was slowly coloring into rose golds and glimmers at the prospect of more.

Then your world had ended.

In your second year, you lost your scholarship. The burden of all the expectations on your shoulders had broken you beneath their weight. You who had always had good grades had suddenly burned out. Your test scores began to slip and your marks lowered across the board. Emails began to flood your inbox from the academic board warning you that you were now on academic probation and your scholarship hung in the balance.

The stress of being unable to raise your grades made them drop lower. You were so scared to fail that you failed at a faster rate. Eventually, a single email had appeared warning you that you had lost your financial aid.

In a puff of smoke, everything was gone. Your university account was locked, you were dropped from your classes, and the university warned you’d have a month to pay for the tuition before you were permanently withdrawn from the registrar.

You hadn’t had the strength to tell your mother. She was always so fierce and stoic that you knew nothing but reproach would follow. She would berate you until you were in tears then disown you if she found out. Not to mention the fact that she didn’t have the funds to pay for it all off.

You were stuck. You had some savings but not nearly enough. Even the shitty part time jobs you had been able to find waitressing and working overnight hadn’t made a dent in the tuition. How could you possibly pay for a full degree with little to no savings?

The world had seemed so bleak then. You’d fallen into despair and waited until the moment it all came crashing down. When your mother called, you feigned still being a student all while rushing from place to place looking for a way to earn some cash.

And then your benefactor had found you.

Like the North Star, he’d shown the way for you. He had approached you after a long shift at work while you were dead tired. Your fingers had shook at the sight of your bank account still too low to make a dent on anything. Your rent, your loans, and everything else had eaten up what little you had managed to scrape by. The tuition was still too far away. You’d begun to sob quietly when he had cleared his throat and introduced himself.

To you then, you thought he cut a striking image. He was handsome, charming, and his too white teeth stretched into a smile. He had offered to play a game with you. Ddakji.

He offered you a choice. If you won, he’d pay you a sum. If you lost, you’d pay him back with your body.

While a part of you had grown weary, you were desperate enough to do it. The won he offered wasn’t a lot, but it could pay for a few textbooks or maybe a part of your loans to allow you more room to breathe. As for you paying him back, fine. He was handsome enough that you figured it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you ended up on your knees in some alleyway before him. The desperation had killed your pride a long time ago.

Without second guessing, you had taken the red slip of paper from him and played several rounds. During the game, it became apparent you were good. Really good. He never got a chance to win. You beat him at every round.

Every time you won, his charming gaze grew darker and darker. By the end, his eyes were pitch black and his smile was all sharp teeth and razor edges. Somehow, you had beat his challenge without even trying.

A card had emerged from his blazer pocket with an offer of a different game you could play. You had only glimpsed some shapes before he had suddenly snatched it back out of your hand. As if deciding otherwise, he took it back and offered you an alternative to the game. His pupils were blown wide and his fingers had snagged a strand of your hair to play with.

He had offered to be your benefactor. A star like you, he claimed, didn’t deserve to burn out. He had sat down then next to you and explained he knew who you were. Your name and information had left his mouth rapid fire.

He knew your name, what university you went to, and the exact amount needed to complete your studies. He knew you had lost your scholarship and how much your mother was banking on you graduating to elevate your socioeconomic standing. He also knew your rent was due soon and the window to enroll for classes for the next term was growing closer.

It was then he had presented a new offer. He’d be your benefactor. He’d pay for it all out of pocket. Your rent and bills would be paid, he’d pay for your tuition and even any further post grad studies if you wanted, and he’d give you the life of luxury a star like yourself deserved if only you agreed to be his. You were interesting, he claimed. No one had ever beaten his challenge before. He felt like you’d make a thrilling playmate.

Alarm bells had rung in your head then. Every nerve and neuron had fired all at once warning you of this man. No one offered all of the answers to your problems freely. His proposition was also chilly. You were not too dangerously naive. You knew just what kind of “playing” he meant just based off the way his eyes kept picking you apart-

But you were desperate. The weight of it all was suffocating. You didn’t know how to claw your way out of the hole you’d found yourself in, yet here was this handsome man offering you everything you could ever want.

You’d taken his offer. He had extended his hand and you had accepted it.

The very next day, your problems had all disappeared. An email had arrived from the university happily letting you know your tuition had been paid for in full and offering you to re-enroll in your previous courses. Your landlord had sent you a message thanking you for paying for the next year of rent in advance and been very shocked that you had even sent extra to cover utilities. Plus, a big delivery van had arrived in the afternoon bearing several packages. Textbooks for the new year, a new computer for homework assignments, and some nice clothes had been left on your doorstep all with a note from your benefactor.

By the time you had finished unpacking every gift, your doorbell had rung again and your benefactor was outside your doorstep waiting to collect on your end of the deal.

And you had paid him in full.

You’d welcomed him into your apartment with all it entailed. He was fascinating. A thrilling mystery and exciting to be with. It had started small. Little stolen moments here and there in your living room or bed. Then it had escalated.

He’d trained you to be his perfect companion. He decorated you in the clothing and jewelry he liked best. He taught you all the little games he liked to play. Games that made your eyes roll back in pleasure or teeth grit in pain.

Before you knew it, he owned you completely. You’d taken cruelty at his hand. Thanked him for the insults and kissed his hands after the beatings. You’d let him cut you with knives and lick the blood afterwords. You’d played Russian roulette until the gun clicked 5 times and he’d decided it was enough. All of it you’d done for him.

He was a drug. He took care of you at a time when you’d felt abandoned. A light in the darkness. The morning star burning bright.

In the time you’d been with him, he’d broken down your barriers. You’ve learned to take his cruelty and fashion it into love. A part of you yearns for him, aches at the very core of who you are to be his forever. He no longer scares you. You’ve take it all. Played Russian roulette until he’s grown bored, accepted the thought of dying by his hand, and learned to love his rough edges and manic phases as long as he lets you stay at his side.

Perhaps this is what this man sees now. A girl half his captor’s age standing pretty at his back somewhere between cowering and leaning forward into the abyss. Maybe that’s why his eyes grow full of hatred and he levels you with a glare that makes you shirk back into the shadows of the room.

Your benefactor continues after a brief pause.

“Your odds of dying are 1 in 6. Your odds of surviving are 5 and 6,” he calls out. He presses the barrel to his head and it clicks empty a third time. A shrill whistle leaves his lips.

The men cower.

“Shall we begin?” He motions for you to take a seat. You hop onto the table at the back where a record player sits. You turn it on and music floods the room adding a nice backdrop to the game.

Your benefactor shoots you a grin at the top of his shoulder before he takes his place between the two men.

“Rock, paper, scissors.”

The men jump into action. The eldest raises his trembling hands. A rock and scissors. You raise an eyebrow as you see the youngest has been paralyzed with fear and hasn’t moved.

Your benefactor clicks his tongue disappointed. You wince. He hates when someone refuses to play.

“You didn’t play. You broke the rules for the first round,” he comments and raises his hand, “Disqualified.”

Muffled shrieks sound from the two men as the gun is pointed at the disqualified player. You bite the inside of your cheek and press your legs together in anticipation. A spark of arousal ignites within your blood. You like this side of him, you realize. It is terrible and twisted but oh so thrilling. Your arms prickle with gooseflesh and your fingers cinch around your clothing wishing desperately you could wrap them around him.

A click of the gun echoes followed by screams from within the gag. Empty.

A silence descends as the younger man hyperventilates. The older man sags against his chair in relief.

Your benefactor offers the gun for you to spin. His eyes are ablaze with excitement. He loves this and he knows you love that he loves it. He can see through you in a way no one can or ever will again.

You spin the barrel for him and the game continues.

The second round, the younger man wins. The eldest screams open mouthed as the barrel is pressed to his temple.

Another click.

You watch with mild interest as your benefactor dabs at the sweat gathering on the oldest man.

“Don’t be so nervous,” he reassures, “Like I said, your odds of survival are 5 in 6.”

You recognize those words. He’d said the same thing to you the first time you’d played the game with him.

He’d introduced you to it early on in your arrangement. You’d sobbed and screamed every time he’d pressed the gun to your forehead. You’d thought him crazy then, absolutely insane, and you’d begged him not to kill you.

He’d licked your tears and groaned at the sight of you so afraid. Danger excited him but fear drove him mad. He’d grown even more aroused with your terror. He’d pressed the gun to your head again and again ordering you to remain still and repeated the odds as if numbers had meant anything to you then.

You’d played ten rounds miraculously surviving each one. When he’d finally had his fill, he’d set the gun down and taken you again. That time, you couldn’t deny that the boneless feeling of the adrenaline crash after such a big fright wasn’t thrilling.

You hated the damn game. It scared you and made you want to faint. Every time you waited for that click felt like torture, but you liked the after. Liked the relief of survival and the way he grew even more excited at your reactions.

You bet he’s excited now. With his back to you, you can’t tell, but you suspect he’s straining against his pants.

It’s not the danger that gets him going, you know. It’s the fear.

And panic runs rampant in this room. It dances around the edges and leaves a hazy sheen. You clench your thighs together again and suppress the urge to make a sound. Perhaps you’re a little too much like him. You briefly wonder if you’ve always been this way, if maybe his presence unlocked some hidden recess of your mind you always buried beneath propriety and morality, or if he has corrupted you to the core and damned your soul through his proximity.

“Let’s play again,” he calls out. He spins the barrel again and his wrist snaps up. He moves like an announcer to a game show. Movements sharp and crisp.

“Rock, paper, scissors.”

The men move.

“Minus one.”

Click

Another scream. The youngest squeezes his eyes shut as the gun is moved away from him.

A weary sigh leaves your benefactor’s lips. You recognize the boredom that descends over him. He’s a man of extremes that flicker faster than light. One moment he can be terribly excited and the next terribly bored.

Now, it seems he’s grown uninterested. He moves away and towards the table with the rest of the bullets lined neatly in a row.

“It’s a little boring, isn’t it?” He directs the question at you.

“Hm,” you make a noncommittal noise.

You know what’s coming. Your fingers snag the bullets one by one and extend them towards him.

This is the part of the game you absolutely hate. Russian roulette is terrifying enough with the odds of 1 and 6, but 5 in 6?

The one time he had ever wanted to play it with you, you had adamantly refused. You’d cried and begged him not to terrified at the thought of dying in such a twisted way. He’d watched you cry for over an hour amused as you’d pleaded with him on your knees not to make you.

In the end, he had relented. He’d taken your face in his hands and kissed you humming that he had changed his mind. His voice had been nonchalant as he had remarked that it was better if your pretty brains didn’t end up splattered on the wall after all, and that had been it. He’d abandoned the hope of the game and never brought it up again. You’d played Russian roulette normally from then on when he felt adventurous, sometimes without spinning the barrel every round, but that was the extent of it. He’d never pressed for a more extreme version.

Except now.

Whatever these men have done, he does not care if they live or die. This is purely for his entertainment. It’s all one big game.

“Let’s reverse the odds, shall we?” He takes the bullets from you and loads them one by one except for the last one.

The men beg and plead for mercy. Your benefactor ignores them as if they haven’t said anything.

“Your odds of death are now 5 and 6. Your odds of living are 1 and 6. Let’s continue,” He doesn’t wait for them to agree. He takes his place at the front and looks towards you expectantly, “Darling?”

With a jolt, you realize he’s giving you the honors. You clear your throat and straighten up.

“Rock, paper, scissors,” you call out. You’ve done it a thousand times before, “Minus one.”

A tie.

You blink and the game continues. Over and over, the men tie. Eventually, you get bored of referring the game.

And then the tie breaks.

The men choose different options. It’s a win-lose situation. You and your benefactor lock eyes just as the song on the record hits its crescendo.

The eldest is going to win. You’re certain of it. All he needs is to move his hand with the scissors back. The youngest could win too, but he looks too scared to piece together the fact that victory is so close.

Deciding to close out the game, you call out one final command.

“Minus one.”

The youngest screams and the eldest closes his eyes. You lean forward to see who’s won and then raise your eyebrows.

Your benefactor clicks his tongue in disappointment.

“Too bad, you didn’t take one away. Disqualified.”

It happens before you even have time to blink. The gun is raised forward and a tiny scream escapes your mouth.

Bang

Blood and viscera splash on your carpet and walls. The youngest lets out his loudest scream yet and descends into tinier little screams of pure terror. Your benefactor hums and straightens. Before him, you can see the eldest has died.

5 in 6.

The record ceases its playing and you pause waiting for any indication that someone has overheard. Thankfully, your walls are pretty thick and your neighbor moved out last week. You suspect this is why your home was chosen as the venue for this little game.

Your benefactor hums and removes the remaining bullets from the gun, all but one. He wipes the blood from the barrel and hums a song under his breath.

“Congratulations, you’ve won,” he remarks to the other man.

The man is bent over his chair in agony still screaming. Whoever this man is, he was important. You know he has sacrificed himself for him. Briefly, you wonder who they are.

Bile floods your mouth at the sight of his corpse and you force yourself to look away. Instead, you focus on your benefactor. His fingers trace down your face and you see there’s some blood that stains them. You suspect some of the blood is on your cheeks and hair likely from the splatter.

“Thank you for the assist, little star. You’ve always been very good at this game,” he murmurs. He leans towards you and you adjust yourself to accommodate him. Your legs open for him to slot himself between them and your hands go to the lapels of his jacket.

He presses his mouth firmly against yours. You meet his kiss with a burning intensity. Your fingers card through his hair and his hand goes to the back of your head to press you closer. His teeth snag on your bottom lip and copper fills your mouth. A pained squeak leaves you before he swallows it down and pushes you closer.

It’s a while before he draws back. Your lungs burn and you’re sure your mouth is swollen. This close to him, you can feel something press against your core. He’s hard. The game has given him an edge of excitement. Your mouth waters in anticipation.

“Good girl,” he praises. His fingers swipe at your bleeding bottom lip. He licks at the blood on his index finger and meets your eyes as it comes away clean. His pupils are blown wide with lust. You imagine you look the same.

He knows what that praise does to you. You hold him close as he leans forward. His hands grip your thighs and he yanks you until you are leaning over the edge of the table. Your legs hang limply before he helps wrap them around his waist.

He is hard. He’s straining against the front of his pants and you automatically tip your hips up in anticipation. A gasp leaves you just as a growl resounds from the back of his throat.

He presses his mouth against a pulse point in your neck and bites down just as hips roll again.

“Did my little star enjoy the game? Is that why you’re so eager now? Hm,” he murmurs it against your skin and his lips tickle.

It’s embarrassing to admit it out loud. You close your eyes as his fingers slip beneath your skirt. They slip underneath your panties and find your excitement already beginning to gather.

He chuckles underneath his breath and offers them to you.

“See that? Taste yourself,” he orders.

You take his fingers in your mouth and swipe your tongue along his digits. The taste of you is sharp and raw. You can feel your core clench against nothing in anticipation.

He forces his fingers back into your throat. You protest as he hits the very back and tries to get you to gag. Your hand goes to his wrist to try to shove him off and he smacks it away.

“Ah, ah, all the way.”

The feeling of your gag reflex being suppressed makes your eyes water. You squeeze your thumbs hoping that old wives tale works.

He likes teasing you like this. His favorite thing in the world is when you cry. He often does whatever he can to get tears to pool at the corner of your eyes. Nothing gets him off quite like it.

A sound registers behind you both. It’s the man from earlier. You’ve completely forgotten about his existence too drunk on the feeling of lust.

The man is bent over with pure repulsion and disgust written on his face. His eyes are squeezed shut and he’s gagging. You don’t know whether it’s because of the gory sight of his friend in front of him or from your display.

Either way, your benefactor withdraws his fingers from your mouth giving you a chance to breathe. He tilts your head towards him and you meet his eyes. His eyes are pure black, lust clear as day, and he stares at the thin string of saliva that follows his fingers as he withdraws them.

“Ah, ah, don’t look at him. Look at me, little star. Eyes on me.”

You do.

Your heart is a humming bird in your chest and the way your core is clenching around nothing is uncomfortable. Desperately, you want him. Audience or not, you need him in that very moment or you feel like you will die.

“Please,” the plea leaves your lips before you can think. Your mouth moves to his neck to find a nice spot to sink your teeth into. His skin tastes like salty sweat and copper. He has blood specks all over him. You trace them with your tongue and the taste leaves you reeling.

He backs away a little and something cold presses to your mouth. The gun.

Your breath hitches in nervousness as he motions for you to open your mouth.

“Why don’t we show our guest how we play Russian roulette, hm? Teach him how it’s done?” He smirks and moves the gun further into your mouth.

Fear courses through your veins. The gun tastes of gunpowder and blood. You’d gag in revulsion if you weren’t already gagging from the feeling of it pressing against your throat.

“Put on a show, little star,” he urges, “Show our guest how we play our games.”

You know what he wants. You close your eyes and move your tongue around the barrel swirling and licking at the cold metal. You imagine your mouth wrapped around him and suck your cheeks in the way you would him. It’s vile and dirty and oh so tempting.

With him pressed so close, you swear you can feel him twitch against your core. Still, you continue. Obscene sounds fill the room as you lick and suck alternating between the two in a rhythm that you know would drive him crazy.

Click

The gun clicks empty. You realize with a flash of fear that he has pulled the trigger. So distracted by your actions, you had forgotten you were playing a deadly game.

He mistakes your momentary lapse in attention for fearlessness. He withdraws the gun and puts it in his own mouth tasting your saliva.

Click

It’s empty for him too. He pulls it out and uses it to trace down the front of your blouse. You feel your heart pound against your ribcage as it moves lower and lower.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. The gun traces down and underneath your shirt. The metal kisses the skin and he sinks his teeth right into your neck leaving an ugly mark you’ll see tomorrow in the mirror.

You sigh against him and move your fingers to his front. He lets out a pleased grunt as you slip your fingers into his pants and trace the shape of him. You want him so badly and aren’t above begging.

Still, he isn’t quite done.

He moves the gun down to in between your legs and the metal teases your entrance. He swipes it back and forth a few times teasing you. You moan against it and roll your hips expertly trying to get any sort of relief from the tension.

There’s a coil in your stomach ready to burst. The anxiety from the loaded weapon combines with your arousal creating a dizzying mixture. He’s gotten you hooked on the feeling of danger. He once promised he’d ruin you and by God has he. You’re too far from grace now. You’re so wrecked and damned that you doubt Satan would even want your soul now.

He’s absolutely ruined you for all men. How on earth could any man give you any sort of pleasure now? How could you want anyone else now that you have tasted him and found heaven in the stars he makes you see when he brings you over the edge?

You know what he likes. You want to bring him pleasure, so you move yourself against the damn weapon meeting his thrusts of it.

It isn’t enough, you want him not the damn thing. You wrap your arms around the back of his neck and meet his eyes. Both of gazes burn with lust.

He’s panting against you, you realize. Both of your shallow breaths are mingling. He’s as turned on as you are. Still, he doesn’t give in. He wants to show you off, show off the control he has over you.

You won’t run. You won’t scream. You won’t cry or beg. You’ll take the scraps he gives you and obediently play his game. If he tells you to play with him, you will and you’ll thank him for it.

His hands shake as he moves the weapon against you. He’s reaching his limit. You groan out his name, his real name only you are allowed to use, and close your eyes.

“Please, please, please, I need you,” you beg. The weapon provides some friction but it’s not enough. You want more. You want him to take you. Nothing else compares to the feeling of him deep within you. No other man or your fingers could ever make you feel the way he does.

Click

The gun clicks empty again. With a shock, you realize he’s pulled the trigger while it’s inside you. Horror floods your system and you hide your face into the crook of his neck.

He’s pulled the trigger 3 times without spinning the barrel. That’s 3 times either of you could have died. Some more bile climbs up your throat and some of those alarm bells ring again. You had thought he’d gotten rid of your self preservation long ago but every once in a while those pesky instincts swim back to the surface.

For a brief second, you imagine saving yourself. You imagine shoving him off you and bolting. Maybe you’d make it to the door while he gathers his bearings. With the gun only loaded once, he might not be able to shoot you in time.

You could flee into the night and disappear. There’s enough cash in the jewelry you’re wearing to escape. Either you disappear from Korea entirely and forget all about this dangerous incubus in between your legs, or you go to the police station and reveal everything you know. Either choice would let you be free of him. You could run now and save what’s left of you-

But the thought disappears the moment you hear the sound of his zipper.

He’s set the gun down on the table beside you now and is freeing himself from his pants. Your mind goes blank with the promise of pleasure and all thoughts of salvation evaporate.

You widen your legs and move your garments to the side allowing him access. With how aroused you are, he slips in with ease.

The stretch of him makes you sigh. You dig your fingers into his coat and hook your legs together welcoming him in deeper. He wastes no time burying himself to the hilt.

The table rattles and bangs against the floor as he thrusts into you hard. He’s close to his own limit. His eyes are closing shut and the tempo he sets is brutal. You cry out and arch your back at the feeling of him pounding into you.

Whether it’s the game or you, he is close. He’s been close this entire time. You know neither of you will last long.

You meet his thrusts with a roll of your hips and your back arches. Pornographic sounds leave your mouth and you hear his own hisses and grunts in your ear. He’s so, so close. He’s unraveling with every deep, hard thrust.

“Yes, that’s it, little star, yes,” he bites into your ear and increases the force of his thrusts. The table bangs against the wall and you’re sure the damn thing will break from the force. Fuck, he’s going so hard. You can feel the tip of him kiss your cervix with every thrust. Tears well at the corner of your eyes and you squeak at the impact of his every move.

“Please,” you babble. Your vocabulary has been reduced to that one word. You move your leg just up a little and he hooks his hand around your thigh and bring it up higher. The new angle has him hitting a spot deep inside that no one but him has ever managed to find before. You feel yourself begin to shake as stars dance before your vision.

“I’m going to-so tight-“

He bites into your neck and you feel sharp pain. When he moves his head, you can see blood in his mouth. It stains the skin of his lips and runs down the side of your blouse. You know you’ll look ghastly by the time it’s all done. You’ll be covered in bruises and bite marks, but it will all have been worth it once you hit your peak.

“Fuck! You were fucking made for me, fuck,” he swears again. His hips begin to stutter. You know he’s close and your own mouth opens in a silent scream. He hits a spot in you that has your vision flashing white. Your mind blanks of all thought as you arch into him and dig your nails into the back of his neck.

“Daddy,” you gasp.

That word drives him mad. He grips you impossibly tighter and all but folds you over as he looms over you. His thrusts increase into a force that has the wood of the table creaking and splintering. You cry out in pain and pleasure as he begins to falter. His eyes roll back into his head and he groans.

“Fuck-darling-I’m going to,” he bruises your cervix as he begins to fall apart. He’s all but breaking down before you, “Call me that again-fuck.”

You’re about to hit your peak. He’s so deep inside you that he’s all you can think of. Unimaginable pleasure fills you and you babble.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy-“

In the end, that’s what does him in. With a final, guttural sound, he buries himself all the way in and falls apart. His eyes are rolled back and he spills into you. It’s burning hot and painful. You hit your own peak right after and your vision turns white. A burst of feedback fills your ears and you’re boneless.

He rides out his climax making you hiss at the overstimulation. Finally, he stills.

Quiet fills the room except for your shared breaths. The man behind you is shaking and looking away horrified by the display. You must look absolutely wrecked to him. A vile display of psychopaths covered in blood and feet away from a corpse.

You don’t care. No one could ever understand the pleasure that comes from damnation. You don’t mind being perceived as something hideous if only the man before you finds beauty in your darkness as you’ve been able to love the monstrous thing that lurks within him.

The cold barrel of the gun presses against the underside of your chin. A forceful kiss is pressed against your mouth and you meet its intensity and fervor with your own.

“Beg me,” he orders. His voice is gruff, husky with his release, but commanding all the same.

You don’t have to feign the fear in your voice.

“Please don’t,” you gasp, “We’ve played enough rounds.”

You tremble as he presses the gun deeper into your chin. His mouth is curled up in a lazy smirk satisfied and satiated. You’re not afraid as you regard him through the misty tears spilling from your eyes.

He leans forward and licks them one by one collecting the salt on his tongue. The sound that leaves his mouth at the taste is infernal.

He takes your offering of tears and accepts the sacrifice. A trade for your life.

Silently, he moves the gun away and aims at the ceiling.

Bang.

Plaster rains from the ceiling as the bullet goes flying. You scream in terror at the realization that he could have killed you. Some of the haze of pleasure dissipates leaving behind the terror that you feel every waking moment at his hand.

The man before you screams and begins to sob. Full blown hysteria follows and he begins to beg in earnest again pleading to be freed.

Your benefactor tosses the gun down at the ground bored and offers you one final kiss before he withdraws. He slips out of you and you make a sound at the feeling of emptiness. He’s left you feeling hollow and already you ache to have him again. You’re an insatiable thing ruined by his hand.

He zips himself back up and uses his hand to fix his hair. There’s sweat on his face and he moves away to gather himself again. You slide off the table on shaky legs and feel his spend run down your leg.

The table is broken now and you narrowly manage to move before it falls on one side and breaks. You both ignore the noise of the record player shattering as you take a moment to breathe.

In through your nose and out through your mouth. You ignore the scent of gun powder and the way your shoes squelch with the blood on the floor. Your hands adjust your skirt and blouse with shaky fingers.

“You should feel lucky,” your benefactor snaps his fingers, “You survived and you got a nice show out of it too. No one plays this game like my little star, but you managed to beat the odds.”

He’s speaking to the man. The man is still full body trembling and sobbing. He looks so pitiful with tears running down his face and snot dripping from his nose. You look away and make a face at the feeling of more spend running down. You’ll need to clean yourself up.

Your benefactor straightens up and you feel jealous at the way he can always look so put together. If it weren’t for the little specks of blood on his face, you would never be able to tell he was so ragged moments ago. You’re sure you must look like a mess with your clothing in disarray and the bruises already forming on your skin.

He scoops the gun again and offers it to your mouth. You know what he wants. It’s a ritual.

You kiss the barrel as a thanks for letting you live another day then his fingers for introducing you to something so wicked. The corners of his mouth twitch up in a smirk.

“Good girl.”

He slings the thing in his jacket pocket and scoops the bullets into his hand. Nodding his head, he dismisses you.

“Now go clean yourself up, little star. I’ve still got some business with our guest. I’m going to be out late tonight,” he calls out.

You don’t need to be told twice. You move on still shaky legs and whisper out a declaration of love. Like always, it goes unanswered. Shrieks sound from the man as he is hefted out of the chair as if weighing nothing and dragged off into the night.

You watch your benefactor disappear out the door carrying the man out into the chilly air.

You never see him again.

#squid games #squid games x reader #the salesman #the salesman x reader #divider by sisterlucifergraphics

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autistichalsin · 3 days ago

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Once again drinking a lot of depresso espresso about Halsin's abandonment issues! How if you tell the group it's time to split up (forgoing a celebration at the Elfsong) after the final battle, he sadly says it was always destined to happen but it's no easier to hear it. How he says almost the same thing if you break up with him in your last pre-epilogue scene together, sadly saying that he of all people knows nothing lasts forever, but that he's grateful for having met you.

How this goes so deep that he's surprised when the player saves him from Orin. How he's surprised his romanced partner wanted to go with him in the epilogue; "you could have done anything. Gone with anyone. Yet you chose me," like he just can't believe he of all people is the one his partner wants, not anyone else.

He expects nothing of anyone, and still gives so much- everything he has and then some- to them at all times. It breaks my heart, and makes me glad again and again for the epilogue so my Durge can tell him that he chose Halsin for a reason and never looked back.

Hug this bear, god damn it!

#halsin #halsin silverbough #baldur's gate 3 #bg3

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rafesapologist · 2 days ago

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the 1 — rafe cameron (mini series)

summary: one summer with rafe cameron was enough to make you fall madly in love with him, but at the end of the day you were just a pogue, and rafe would be leaving for college soon.

warnings: angst, age change (y/n is 17, rafe is 18), swearing, underage drinking, unedited

author's note: a fair warning to all of you who know of it, but this mini series will be inspired by 'the notebook'. i rewatched it before i started this and i was inspired + i wanted to do a mini series for holiday break, so without further ado, enjoy!!

You stand there, your apprehension dripping off of you like the summer humidity clinging to the air. The Boneyard sprawls before you, a kaleidoscope of bonfires, shadows, and laughter carried on the salty breeze. This is your first party ever, even though you’re seventeen. Your friends had begged you to come, their promises of escapade outweighing your usual reluctance.

Now, standing in the open among a mix of Kooks, Pogues, and Tourons, you feel impossibly small. Even with your group of friends around you, the scene feels overwhelming. It’s the beginning of summer break, the time to shed inhibitions and let loose. But you don’t know how, your comfort zone is a quiet corner, not the chaos of a gathering like this.

Your mind races, a storm of doubt and self-consciousness that won’t quiet. You wonder again why you even came. Around you, everyone else seems to be living their best lives—laughing, shouting, throwing themselves into the night like it’s their birthright. It’s as if the start of summer ignited something in them that you don’t have, something wild and carefree.

But not you. You can’t seem to shake the tension knotting your shoulders, the unease simmering just beneath your skin. You take a cautious sip of your drink, wincing as the sharp burn of vodka mixed with cranberry juice scratches at your throat. It’s not pleasant, but you hope it might work some magic soon.

You linger on the edges of your friend group, pretending to listen as they exchange jokes and stories you can’t bring yourself to care about. Their voices blend into the background noise of waves and music. Your mind drifts, untethered, far from this moment.

You take another sip, silently pleading for the alcohol to loosen its grip on your nerves, to numb the anxiety you’ve carried here like a weight. But it doesn’t come. The tension in your chest refuses to yield, a stubborn reminder that this kind of freedom might not be yours to claim.

Reality snaps back the moment your friends erupt in sudden cheers, rallying you to join them at the makeshift bar just a few feet away. The noise jolts you like a splash of cold water. You glance down at your half-empty cup, the remnants of cranberry-red liquid sloshing faintly under the firelight. For a moment, you hesitate, but then you shrug, forcing yourself to down the rest in one go. It burns on the way down, and you fight the urge to grimace as you follow them.

At the bar, you retreat into your usual timid form, arms crossed over your chest, shoulders drawn tight. The crowd buzzes around you like a hive, each person louder, more confident, more at ease than you feel. You stand silently, watching your friends engage in their effortless chatter with the person mixing drinks, their laughter spilling into the night. You’re grateful for their boldness, it saves you from the awkwardness of having to ask for anything yourself.

When one of them hands you your new drink, a familiar vodka cranberry, you give them a small smile. It’s the best you can muster, but it feels genuine in that moment. “Thanks,” you murmur, raising your cup slightly in their direction before taking another swig. The drink goes down a little easier this time, though the warmth spreading through your chest still feels foreign. You hope it’s the beginning of something, anything, that will make this night a little less daunting.

The next half-hour drifts by in a blur of drinks and laughter, each sip peeling back a level of your apprehension. The alcohol works its slow magic, loosening the tight grip anxiety has on you. You’re not the life of the party, not yet, but you’re finding your voice in the safe confines of your friends. It’s a small victory, but it’s something.

Your group gravitates toward the bonfire, standing in a loose circle that feels warm both from the alcohol pooling in your veins and the fire crackling behind you. The world feels softer and easier now, its edges smudged just enough to make everything seem less sharp, less overwhelming.

It’s in this softened haze that you feel it: the weight of someone’s gaze, heavy and deliberate. It prickles at the back of your neck, enough to jolt you from the conversation. You glance up, scanning the crowd beyond the flames. The faces blur slightly, but then you see him.

He’s tall, towering even, easily over six feet. His hair catches the firelight, dirty blond despite the buzzcut that does little to dull his striking features. His broad shoulders and strong stance exude an intimidating confidence that sets him apart from the crowd. But it’s his face that holds you, the sharp angles, the perfection of it all, like something carved from stone.

You can’t tell if it’s the alcohol or something else entirely, but your chest tightens as his piercing gaze meets yours. It’s unrelenting, a tether that keeps you locked in place, even as the world spins around you.

Your breath catches, a sharp intake that barely fills your lungs. His gaze remains steady, unyielding, like he’s daring you to look away first. The boldness of it unsettles you but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift uncomfortably under the weight of being caught. If anything, he seems to relish it, a quiet confidence radiating from him.

You take in more of his surroundings, noting the group of guys he’s standing with. Their clothes polished, expensive, unmistakably Kook signal their place on this island’s invisible social ladder. His presence among them only cements your assumption: he’s a Kook too, one who belongs to the world that always feels just out of reach, a world that seems to thrive on your unease.

His appearance, so composed and self-assured, intimidates you further. It’s not just his stature or his looks, it’s the certainty in the way he holds himself, as if the world bends to his will.

Your friends are oblivious to what’s unfolding, their laughter a faint echo in the background. For a moment, it feels like time has slowed, the firelight casting shadows that flicker between you and this stranger. Nervous energy wells up in your chest, an overwhelming tide that you can’t push back.

It consumes you, forcing you to break first. You glance away, the weight of his gaze still lingering even as you turn back to your friends. Their conversation sweeps you back into its folds, and you force yourself to smile, to nod along as if you’re present. But in the back of your mind, the image of him and his piercing eyes, his commanding presence; burns like an afterimage you can’t quite shake.

A few more minutes slip by, and you glance down to see your cup empty, save for the faint red tint of cranberry at the bottom. “Be right back,” you tell your friends, raising your voice just enough to cut through their chatter. “Just getting another drink.”

They barely register your words, caught up in their conversation, and you head to the bar alone this time. Without your friends flanking you, the walk feels more exposed, but the alcohol dulls that vulnerability. It’s easier now to shift through the sea of bodies, the music and laughter blurring into white noise.

You order your usual, vodka cranberry, and step aside to let the next person take their turn. Leaning against the counter, you let your gaze wander, caught somewhere between the firelight and the rhythm of the night.

Then it happens. A deep voice cuts through the haze, pulling you sharply back to reality.

“Are you new around here?”

The words are casual, but they send a jolt through your chest. You turn, almost cautiously, to face whoever spoke them.

And there he is. The stranger from across the bonfire. Up close, he’s even more striking, tall and broad-shouldered, with a presence that seems to command the space around him. His piercing eyes meet yours, and though his expression is relaxed, there’s an intensity in the way he looks at you that’s impossible to ignore.

"Uh," you stammer, your voice catching as you clear your throat. "No. No, I’m not. I just… don’t go out very often." You laugh, hesitant and unsure, trying to chip away at the palpable tension settling between you and this stranger.

He tilts his head slightly, his expression shifting from curiosity to faint surprise at your answer. After a moment, he simply nods, taking a slow swig of his beer. The motion is unhurried, his confidence unsettlingly effortless.

“You shouldn’t be hiding a face like yours,” he says, the words slipping from his mouth with a sly edge.

The comment catches you off guard, and your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Heat creeps into your cheeks, unbidden, and you’re certain the faint flush is visible even in the dim light.

“Oh. Thank you,” you murmur, your voice softer now, barely audible over the surrounding noise. You chuckle nervously, the sound light but forced, and avert your eyes to the ground. The weight of his intense gaze is too much to bear, and you focus instead on the empty cup in your hands, fiddling with it as if it might offer some kind of escape.

There’s a silence that stretches between you, fragile and uneasy, like the moments just before a storm breaks. The fire crackles somewhere behind you, but its warmth can’t touch the chill that prickles at your skin. His eyes stay locked on you, unrelenting, like he’s studying the cracks in your armor. And you can tell he enjoys this.

He revels in the way you fidget under his stare, the way your breath catches and your fingers curl tighter around the plastic cup. But there’s something else, too, something darker in the way he looks at you. It’s not just confidence; it’s control, a hunger for whatever power this moment gives him. And yet, even knowing this, you don’t move.

His words shatter the silence. “Let me take you out sometime.”

It isn’t a question. It’s a statement, sharp and certain, like he’s already decided the answer.

Your eyes snap up to his, wide and startled. You almost laugh, because surely this is a joke, a cruel one meant to entertain him and his perfectly dressed friends who are probably watching from somewhere nearby, waiting for you to embarrass yourself.

“What?” The word tumbles out before you can stop it, your voice barely steady.

His lips curve slightly, but it isn’t quite a smile. “I said, I’d like to take you out sometime.” He repeats it slower this time, as if you didn’t hear him the first time, as if he’s daring you to challenge him.

You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. The world tilts slightly, whether from the alcohol or the weight of his words, you can’t tell. All you know is that he’s still staring, waiting for you to say something, to give him a reason to step closer or walk away.

And you can’t decide which one you want more.

You shake your head firmly, the movement small but resolute. "I don’t think that’s a good idea," you say, your voice steadier than you feel.

But he doesn’t flinch. That smirk, half amusement, half something you can’t quite name, lingers on his lips, and it sets your nerves alight. It’s infuriating, how unaffected he seems, like he’s already won this game you didn’t agree to play.

You brace yourself, expecting him to scoff or roll his eyes, to walk away and let this moment crumble into nothing. But he doesn’t move.

"And why’s that?" His words are low and deliberate, tipped with sarcasm, and they hit you square in the chest.

You falter, staring at him like he’s some kind of puzzle you can’t figure out. Why hasn’t he given up yet? Most people would’ve shrugged off your rejection and moved on, but he stands there, solid and unwavering, as if you haven’t just pushed him away.

You swallow hard and force yourself to speak. "Because…" You gesture vaguely at him, your words fumbling as you try to make sense of this. "Look at you. You’re clearly a Kook, and I’m not. I’m not going to say yes just to end up being laughed at, for what? Being some dare your friends put on you?"

His head tips back slightly, and he laughs. It’s not cruel, but it’s sharp and warm, like he’s genuinely amused by how wrong you are. The sound coils through you, confusing and unsettling all at once.

"You think I came over to talk to you because my friends dared me to?" he repeats, the question coated in disbelief and something dangerously close to admiration.

You don’t answer, just stare at him, your pulse quickening under the weight of his words.

Because he’s still standing there, still looking at you like he sees something worth waiting for. And it terrifies you.

"Well, yeah," you reply, matter-of-fact and sharp, but the edge in your voice doesn’t hide the unease curling in your stomach. "Why else would you be here with a Pogue?"

The words hang there, heavy and bitter. You force a half-hearted laugh, hoping it might soften the blow or drown out the doubt clawing its way to the surface. But it doesn’t. The uncertainty lingers, sticking to you like salt air and sweat.

He doesn’t waver. Instead, he licks his lips, slow and deliberate, before tipping his beer back for another sip. It’s infuriating, the way he moves with such ease, as if he’s never doubted himself a day in his life.

Then he says it.

"I came over here because as soon as I saw you, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you."

His voice is steady, low enough that you feel it more than hear it, but there’s no mistaking the confidence in his tone. It’s not a line, it doesn’t feel rehearsed or hollow. It’s simply the truth, spoken as plainly as if he were commenting on the weather.

And that’s what makes it so dangerous.

You can’t stop the sharp breath that slips past your lips or the way your fingers tighten around your empty cup. He’s too much; too bold, too certain, too beautiful for someone like you.

You drop your gaze, trying to regain some semblance of control, but it doesn’t help. His words linger, heavy and unshakable, seeping into your skin. You look back up at him, and he’s still there, still looking at you like you’re something worth staring at. And it terrifies you more than anything ever has.

Your breath catches, shallow and unsteady, as if the weight of his words has pressed the air right out of your lungs. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your voice caught somewhere between disbelief and fear.

Your eyes flicker away from him, desperate for an escape. You scan the crowd, the fire, the shadows cast by bodies moving and swaying in the night; but no matter where you look, you can feel it. Him. His stare clings to you like smoke, thick and suffocating, refusing to let you slip away unnoticed.

If he’s lying, he’s a hell of a liar, you think. Too practiced. Too composed. And yet, there’s something unsettlingly genuine about the way he’s looking at you.

You hate how much you want to believe him.

Still, you don’t move, don’t let yourself lean into the moment. You’ve been here before, dangling on the edge of something that felt real, only to fall flat when the truth unraveled. And you refuse to be played again.

“How do I know you’re not just messing with me?”

The words fall out before you can second-guess them, softer than you intended but laced with an edge of defiance. Your gaze finally snaps back to his, searching for cracks, for some sign that this is just another game, another pretty lie dressed up in confidence and charm.

But he doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he steps closer, just enough to make your pulse quicken. The firelight catches in his eyes, and for a moment, you swear they burn just as fiercely.

“You don’t,” he says, the corners of his mouth tugging into the faintest smirk. “But maybe that’s what makes it worth finding out.”

#rafe cameron #drew starkey #obx #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe angst #rafe #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #rafe fic #rafe x y/n #rafe x you #rafe cameron x you

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krys4h · 19 hours ago

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𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ◞﹒୧ .

✧ ⁝ 𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐤𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫 ◞ ྀི

— kaiser has a nightmare about his past and the urge to hurt himself, and you're here for him and help him soothe himself. slight angst, slight fluff, smut, vaginal sex, riding, tw : mutilation/cutting/self-harm, choking.

You were woken up by a punch in your back. Rubbing your eyes, getting used to the darkness of the room, you turned around to face your boyfriend Kaiser, who was all trembling and sweaty in his sleep. The poor man was shaking and mumbling incomprehensible things in his sleep as he struggled.

Another nightmare.

“Micha?” you whispered. Your voice was soft, careful, because when Kaiser had his nightmares, he always reacted violently, like the blow he had just given you. You moved closer to him and hugged him. His sweaty body pressed against you, and he struggled against you.

“It’s okay, everything is okay, love.”

Kaiser needed someone to absorb all the darkness of his mind, and you were there. The wounds of his past were still open, and they came to spoil his present with horrible nightmares of being beaten by his father. He claimed he didn't need anyone's help, but you, his girlfriend, knew better than anyone that he couldn't do it alone, and that he needed your love.

That’s why you hold him tight against you, whispering reassuring things in his ear. His struggling body quickly became calmer, your voice soothing him, and he let out a soft sigh as he let his head in the crook of your neck.

Kaiser’s eyes opened, and squinted in the darkness. He was instantly overwhelmed by your body against him, you breath in his hair. And that was what he needed to be brought back to reality and to be torn away from the monsters of his past. Panting in your neck, he inhaled deeply, reassured by your scent.

“’m sorry,” he whispered. His voice was low, vulnerable.

“Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault.” You hold him tighter in your arms.

“What happened in your dream?” you stroked his back, his shirt wet with sweat. “Only if you want to talk about it, of course.”

He tensed in your arms, and closed his eyes.

“I just relived a scene with my father,” he began, his voice weak as he recalled the memory of the dream. “He was hitting me with his belt. You don’t wanna know more details of this.”

Your heart ached for this man who deserved only love and yet received everything but that. Your heart ached for the little boy he was, in need of love but beaten by the one who was supposed to protect him. Your heart ached for your boyfriend, a person worthy of love, who deserved all the happiness in the world but was invaded by demons at night.

You wished you could heal him from his pain. You wanted to absorb all his suffering and traumas, and finally let him live the happy life he deserved. And it pained you to know that nobody could save somebody that didn’t want to be saved. Kaiser will have to take responsibility to working on himself to free himself from his demons, and will have to learn to heal on his own. But if your love could soothe him just a little, you were willing to give him your whole heart to help him.

Just like all the other times Kaiser had his nightmares, he had the sudden urge to hurt himself. It was like an automatic reaction. His hand came to his throat and he was about to squeeze it before you shooed his hand away.

“Micha.”

“I need this,” his gruff, pained voice made you tense.

“I can’t watch you hurt yourself.”

“Don’t watch me, then.” he mumbled, his tone harsh.

He pushed you and you were hurt by his reject. He got up from the bed, and walked towards the bathroom. Your heart raced, knowing what he was going to do.

“Micha, wait…”

You followed him, but he closed the door and locked it. You knocked on the door, worried about him.

“Michael, please,” you knew he was probably mutilating himself on the other side of the door, and it pained you. Your eyes stung as you banged on the door.

You stood there banging on the wall and begging him to open the door for a good five minutes before he opened the door. He looked at you with shifty eyes as if he was ashamed of you seeing him like this. Your eyes lingered on his arms where there were deep cuts in thin lines. Your eyes watered, and an immense pain invaded your heart.

“Let me disinfect this, it's still bleeding,” you grabbed his arm and guided him into the bathroom.

You needed to be strong for him. If you were sad, nothing could compare to what he must be feeling. You disinfected his wounds, he didn't even flinch, used to you taking care of him every time he had his nightmares. His eyes lingered on your face, seeing you fighting tears.

Sometimes he wondered if he wasn't too much for you, and that you deserved someone better than him. Someone not fucked up in the head like him. Someone not broken like him. You told him every day that he wasn't a lost cause, that he wasn't broken and that he could still get through this, but Kaiser didn't see that. Kaiser had to wake up every morning and repeat affirmations to himself in order to live, if he didn't have soccer he would probably have committed suicide in prison.

He didn’t understand how someone so pure like you could still love him after seeing his dark side. He thought you would run away if he showed you the demons he had in his head. But no, you were still standing here, taking care of him. He thought he didn’t deserve that. He thought he didn’t deserve your love, your care. You were an angel in his hell, and even thought he was grateful to have met you, his heart ached every time he had to look into your teary eyes because of him.

“It’s not enough,” he whispered.

“What?”

“It’s not enough,” he looked at the ground, feeling ashamed to be so broken. “I need something more intense.”

“Micha…”

“You don’t understand,” he flinched, his head down. “I need this to keep me sane. I know it’s not healthy, but I need this.”

“How can I help you through this?” you knelt on the ground and put your head on his lap. “How can I help you stop this?”

He had an idea but he didn’t think you would love it. He raised his eyes to look at you, and his whole body relaxed when he saw the love in your eyes. You were so caring. So willing to help him.

“You promise to not cry?”

“I can’t promise you.”

────୨ৎ────

“I can’t do this,” you sobbed.

“Please, do it like you hated me. It feels so good when you press it like that.”

You were riding him, hands on his throat. His hands gripped your hips as he helped you move on top of him. His blonde hair were all over the pillows, and his eyes were feverish when he looked at you from where he was.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I thrive in pain, baby. You’re not hurting me, you’re helping me.”

He placed his hands on yours and put pressure on them, helping you choke him. You shook your head.

“Micha, it’s not healthy.”

“I’m not healthy, I’m broken. I thought you liked me for who I am?”

“Micha…”

“Let’s just say it’s my kink to be choked, okay? Forget all about my mutilation, and just help me, please.”

His tone was desperate, and he looked at you with pleading eyes. You sniffled, thinking quickly.

You didn’t want to hurt him, but you wanted to help him. And if helping him meant hurting him, you had to do it for him. It was better than mutilating himself.

“If I do this, you will feel better?”

He nodded.

“I love you,” you whispered and started to squeeze his throat with your hands. Your hands were trembling.

He closed his eyes, placed his hands on your hips. Your hips were rocking against him, and he let out a groan each time he bottomed out, his cock deep into your tight heat. Riding him, you had power over him, but your moves were slow.

“Why are you so shy?”

He made you move faster with his hands.

“Stop these lame ass moves, and ride me correctly. I asked you to fuck me like you hated me.”

He was so commanding and dominant. He slammed you down his cock with force, his hands gripping your hips.

“Squeeze harder,” he thrust into you with passion, “squeeze harder!”

You listened to him and did what he wanted even though you were anxious about hurting him. Your hands squeezed his throat and he slowly began to feel his breath catch in his chest, and it felt so fucking good. Sex and pain was his favorite combination.

Your bounced your ass up and down as you rode him with the pace he wanted you to, you were sweaty and panting. As you continued to choke him, his eyes rolled to the back of his head as if he was delighted, and you shivered at the thought.

Your man was completely crazy and you loved him for who he was. If needed this to be sane, you were willing to help him.

────୨ৎ────

His strokes were sloppy as he was lazily fucking you. On top of you, he was crashing you with his muscular body. Pressed against you, he was making love to you at a tender pace. It was so rare. Kaiser was rough and aggressive, never soft. But maybe after the intense sex you had, Kaiser needed something gentler.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmured in your ear, his voice low and soft. He buried his head in your neck, and showered your neck with kisses.

You closed your eyes, your heart racing. He wasn't used to being like this. You held him tight against you, your legs wrapped around his waist.

“You feel better?” you whispered, stroking his back.

“Yeah, thanks to you.”

He continued to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses on your neck, and you shivered.

“You know, I was thinking,” he stopped kissing you and his mouth hovered your skin, his breath brushing you. “I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re my soulmate.”

Your heart fluttered, and you smiled, holding him tighter.

“Why?”

His hips continued to move against yours, not slamming, but brushing your body in a gentle motion.

“You accept me completely for who I am without judging me. I feel like I can entrust you my soul.”

“This is really how you feel?”

“Yeah,” he raised his head and looked at you with tender eyes. “Every time I think I might be too much for you, you prove to me that you can handle all of me. You’re my match.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” your smile widened, your stomach warming up. “You’re everything to me. I want to be here for you in every steps of your healing.”

He straightened up to kneel on the bed, and continued to make love to you with slow thrusts. He pushed into you with an almost unbearable slowness, and pulled out even slower. He grabbed one of your calves around his hips to bring them to his mouth to press soft kisses on them.

“You’re my match,” he repeated as he pushed in and out of you, his eyes locked on you.

You closed your eyes, letting your lover make love you slowly. After the intense night you had, this is what you needed. This is the type of love Kaiser deserved. Slow sex in a dark room, with souls tied by feelings. Maybe love was what could heal him from his torments. You were willing to give him your heart to heal his wounds, to heal his trauma. As he said, you were his match. His partner. The one who will always be there for him even if he was feeling broken. The one who will love him unconditionally even on days when he didn't feel worthy of love.

You were his healer.

𓍯 𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐬

#𐙚 writings 𓍢ִ🌸˙#blue lock #bllk x reader #michael kaiser #bllk kaiser #kaiser x reader #michael kaiser x reader #michael kaiser x you #kaiser x you #michael kaiser smut #kaiser smut #bllk smut #kaiser michael #blue lock kaiser

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tehamelie · 1 day ago

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Maybe this is an inspiring story. I'm as terrified of crowds as a regular autistic person, when we did our school plays in grade 8 and 12 I insisted on getting the smallest parts I could get away with, but what I learned the second time was that I'm actually great when the spotlight is on. When you know your lines and you've got a mission - to see the show through - being scared just won't do. When I'm on stage, I speak louder and clearer than normal. I'm in complete command of the stage. At one point, I think the second performance (still our 12th grade play) our big star lost his place in a monologue, skipped over one or two pages in the script and left the 12 people on stage frozen like deer in headlights, but I was the one who saved it by figuring out I could skip another page or so and say my line to keep the scene somewhat functional, as long as everyone else could get behind this initiative from me, the second lowest status student in our class. And I was able to deliver the line naturally and confidently enough that they did.

That's to say, you might never know what you are capable of when the stakes get real unless you try.

#the show must go on

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mama-qwerty · 3 days ago

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Let's talk about this little scene.

They're looking for Shadow, and Knuckles notices that the GUN truck is falling toward them. He shoves his brothers out of the way, and catches the truck, neat as you please.

He could have grabbed them and pulled them away, making sure they were safe when the truck landed. He could have punched the falling vehicle, shattering it to bits and causing all sorts of rubble and debris.

But he didn't. He pushed his brothers behind him, and caught the truck.

He showed off his strength, following it up with hefting it on one hand, and boasting once again about being "one million percent muscle".

Knuckles may have settled into family life, may have found a new tribe, but he's still a warrior, and is proud of his strength. He's proud of the abilities he has, and I think sometimes feels like they're not appreciated enough, as they're for fighting and after the last movie, he and the other boys have seemingly settled into a nice, quiet, non-violent family life.

Tails likely has been instrumental in fixing or improving various things about the house or town, and Sonic is the first child so he's already found his comfy spot in the family and community.

But what about Knuckles? His strength likely isn't as big a benefit in daily life. May be a bit of a hinderance, if he doesn't pay attention and control it properly. So he may have been hearing "Watch your strength, Knux," or "Not all conflicts require violence to solve, Knux," which is so different from what he's used to.

While he doesn't always immediately jump to violence to solve all his problems, that's his strength, no pun intended. In his journeys through the galaxy, he had to fight to survive. Fight to keep himself safe. And even in circumstances where he didn't want to fight, he was usually forced into it. So this is his norm.

So I feel like he caught that falling truck not only to save his brothers, but to remind them what he's capable of. It was kind of a "Look, I am your brother, I am happy in my new tribe, but I am still someone to be respected because of my abilities."

It could have also been a lowkey show of how he would protect them. Anyone could pull someone to safety, but only he could catch a falling multi-ton vehicle as though it were nothing more than a tossed baseball.

But now it's discouraged. Maybe he feels he's getting weak. Getting soft because he's not being forced to fight on a regular basis. Which is I think why he so willingly rushed to fight Shadow when it seemed like talking wasn't working.

In the novelization of the movie, after Shadow kicks his butt, when the others ask if he's okay he tells them that he "might be a bit rusty". His pride is what took the real beating, and may have added to this feeling of his strength being dismissed. Of him losing what made him special.

This is further enforced by being essentially benched during the raid on the GUN HQ. His greatest asset is his strength, but it's not being utilized except "in case of emergency". Which, based on how the others behaved, they didn't think it would be necessary. So they essentially told him he was the failsafe, the backup, even though they--and likely HE--did not expect to need him.

His constant boasts about how easily he could break the glass may have been as much for his own morale as convincing the others he would be there if necessary. He is a formidable warrior, he has bested many a foe in his years. He is still a force to be reckoned with, even if he hadn't been challenged much in the months since the last battle with Robotnik.

He needs to feel useful. To feel important to the rest of his tribe. And maybe he's felt that the others kind of forgot just how impressive he is in his own right.

His adventures during the series showed him how it was okay to let his guard down and not be so serious all the time. And we see that in the film. We see him content with simply being a member of the family, we see him goofing off with his brothers. Even while they went over the plan, he sat with his little hat and munched on some bread.

(The grumpy face is undone by the beanie, sweetheart.)

Knuckles does best when facing threats head on. He prefers to run in and deal with the problem up front, and get on with his life. Stealth and plans and even working with other people is new to him. But he trusts his brother, he trusts his tribe, and he will stay off to the side until he's needed. (Maybe even moreso now that he saw that rushing in to fight Shadow didn't get him anywhere.)

But when he's needed, he will show them that his strength is just as much an asset as Tails' brains and Sonic's speed. Even if it had unexpected consequences.

Knuckles has a much bigger adjustment to Earth and family life than either of the other two boys. Because his life up to that point was fighting, keeping on the move and ahead of bounty hunters, and searching for the one thing that meant more to his people than any other. He had a huge weight on his shoulders, one that neither Sonic nor Tails could understand. Even the humans in his life couldn't possibly comprehend just how important it was for him to find the Master Emerald and allow his entire species to rest in peace once more.

But now that his quest was done, and he doesn't have to look over his shoulder as much as he used to, he likely struggles with how he fits in with the world. For the longest time he was The Most Dangerous Warrior in the Galaxy, and the Last of the Echidna. Now he's simply Knuckles. And he may be having a hard time finding what that actually means, to him and to those he loves.

~~~

Check out my other Sonic 3 analysis posts

#knuckles the echidna #sonic 3 #sonic 3 spoilers

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foreverisntenough · 3 days ago

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‘Movie Night’

Summary: If only life was like the movies. For years, you’d flirted with the idea of something more with Trent, your brother’s best friend. You'd always danced around the edges of something more with him, sharing flirty moments that felt like scenes straight from the cinema. You had been silently desperate for the main character of your life’s film to finally get the boy but you knew moments like that were saved for Hollywood. The lines were clear; you were always going to be his mate’s little sister. So what happens when you go off script? In a whirlwind of passion, secrets, and stolen moments, you're left wondering: will you and your brother's best friend get the happy ending you've been waiting for, or was it never meant to be more than a fantasy?

Index:

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, dv, loss of a parent, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Disclaimer: Still the same.

Chapter 21 - 'Suffocated’ | ‘Movie Night'

word count - 11.2 k

Trent staggered into his home, the quiet darkness wrapping around him like a suffocating blanket. Every step he took was heavy, weighed down by the events of the night. His house keys clattered onto the counter, the sharp sound echoing through the stillness, but it barely registered. His head was spinning—not just from the alcohol but from the chaos, the betrayal, and the sheer weight of the situation. He ran a hand down his face, dragging it over his mouth, trying to steady his breathing. His chest felt tight, like he couldn’t get enough air. Images of you in the club flashed in his mind: your tear-streaked face, your trembling hands as you tried to hold yourself together, and the look in your eyes when he barely even began to tell you those horrible, false words. He felt sick to his stomach. He walked into his bedroom, his movements jerky, his anger bubbling just beneath the surface. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides as he paced, his thoughts racing. The memory of Josh’s smug grin haunted him, the way he’d dangled that video like a loaded gun. And Jess—how could she do this? How could she lie and hurt you, of all people? Trent stopped in the middle of the room, his breaths coming fast and shallow. The emotions he’d been holding back all night—the rage, the guilt, the heartbreak—surged forward, overwhelming him. Without thinking, he let out a guttural scream, the sound raw and primal, and drove his fist into the nearest wall. The drywall cracked under the force of his punch, a jagged hole splintering outward from the impact. The pain shot up his arm, sharp and immediate, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as the ache in his chest. He stared at the broken wall, his knuckles throbbing and speckled with dust. The anger left him as quickly as it had come, replaced by a tidal wave of despair. His shoulders slumped, and he sank to the floor, his back pressed against the wall. He rested his elbows on his knees, his hands clutching his hair as he fought to keep his emotions at bay. But it was no use. The first tear slipped down his cheek, and then another, and before he knew it, he was sobbing. Trent couldn’t remember the last time he cried—it had been years, maybe even a decade. But now, alone in his empty house, the weight of everything was too much to bear. He cried for you, for the way he’d hurt you, for the lies he’d told, and for the love he’d destroyed.

His mind replayed every moment of the night in vivid detail: the way you looked at him, the way Jack had nearly torn him apart, the way Josh had so effortlessly unraveled his life. And through it all, one thought kept repeating in his head: he’d failed you.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. The words echoed in the empty room, hollow and meaningless. “I’m so sorry.” He buried his face in his hands, his tears soaking into his palms. The silence of the room pressed in on him, broken only by his ragged breaths and the occasional hitch of his sobs. He was all alone. He didn’t know how long he sat there, crumpled on the floor, his body shaking with the force of his emotions. Time felt meaningless. Eventually, the tears slowed, leaving him feeling empty and drained. He leaned his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling with red, puffy eyes. His knuckles throbbed, and his chest ached, but nothing hurt as much as the realization that he might have lost you for good. He stayed there, slumped on the floor, the broken wall beside him a physical reminder of the damage he’d done. And as the night stretched on, one thought consumed him: how could he ever go on without you. You’d been there his entire life. You were in every memory, every high, every low, you were everywhere. You saturated every moment of his and dug your heels so deep into his heart, he had barely even noticed you’d pierced straight through it. He felt like his heart was about to flatline, give out entirely without you there, leaving behind the gaping hole you’d cut that nothing, no one, and no amount of time could heal. He was bleeding out for you.

Jack leaned back on the sofa, his hands running over his face as he tried to make sense of it all. The room was dimly lit, the silence between him and Noah broken only by their low voices.

“Jess said she didn’t hook up with him,” Jack started, his voice heavy with frustration, “but what I don’t get is why he didn’t fight back, you know, bro? Why didn’t he clear it up if that’s the case? He just left.” Jack looked for answers Noah didn’t have. Noah exhaled deeply, his gaze fixed on a point across the room.

“Mate, can I be honest?” Noah asked haphazardly. Jack nodded looking for anyone he trusted’s input because sadly, at the minute, his usual confidants were the very culprits of the problem at hand. “Bro, something doesn’t sit right with me. I know you’re pissed and that’s valid. No one wants Y/N hurt and upset but something’s off. That’s not Trenty. He put in a proper hard shift in to get her to be his girlfriend. He made too many waves just trying to even get with Y/N in the first place. This…fuck, the whole thing… this doesn’t make sense.” Noah explained just as discombobulated but equally in search of clarity yet with a bit more hope in Trent’s character. Jack nodded again slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, reluctantly agreeing.

“A part of me feels like he must’ve, though… you know? I feel like because so many people were upset, Jess now was just trying to cover for him. And she said she likes him.” His voice grew quieter as he recalled Jess’s confession. “There had to have been more there. There must’ve been an overlap or something. There has to be.” Jack spoke his thoughts aloud. He didn’t want to believe it but there was to big of a mess left behind for it to be nothing. Noah turned to him, his expression incredulous.

“She likes him?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “I don’t really believe that. That’s ridiculous. She doesn’t know him, mate. They might’ve hooked up a few times, but that’s it and it was ages ago. And to that point, he’d kick her out right after. She doesn’t even know the lad. Not really. Maybe his salary but not him as a person.” Noah looked at Jack for a moment, hoping he would be getting on his page. Jack was quiet for a moment, letting Noah’s words sink in. He was right, Jess didn’t know Trent and she definitely didn’t know him like you did. Would Trent sacrifice it all for someone he barely knew?

“You think it’s made up, then?” Jack asked, unsure of his own opinion anymore.

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t add up. Not with Trenty. We know end of the day he’s a good lad, even when he’s a bit of a knob sometimes. But with Y/N… he’s the best lad. If he was hitting Jess, he wouldn’t have ever started things with your sister like this. And… I don’t mean to make it awkward for you but didn’t we all know they’d get together? They are end game, bro.” Noah looked at Jack pleadingly. He couldn’t believe their best mate would do this. He was making a case for Trent he wasn’t even sure was true but he’d try because he believed in him. “Mate, he’s been in love with her for years. Y/N and him are like proper in love. They say it to each other, she’s sleeping at his house, he takes care of her. Always has. It doesn’t make sense…. He loves her in a way I can hardly even understand, you know that too.” Noah sheepishly continued on knowing the very idea of this relationship had been hard for Jack to stomach, let alone its demise. Jack sighed heavily, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“I… I.. guess.” Jack muttered knowing that all the points Noah made were valid but they didn’t wash away the other things that had happened, had been said. “Yeah, but the thing is Megan…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “She said she knew about Trent and my sister. Said nothing about Jess. But if she knew about them, why didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” He asked openly still not completely over your relationship with Trent in its entirety, especially now that it was up in flames with no sight of being extinguished. Noah shrugged.

“Maybe she thought it wasn’t her place. Or maybe she was trying to protect Y/N, knowing you’d lose your head about it.” Noah smirked sympathetically. Jack shook his head, staring at the floor.

“I gotta talk to Meg. I gotta apologize. I was too harsh with her, it wasn’t right.” Jack muttered mostly to himself. He felt so guilty. She was just caught in the crossfire but that didn’t make any of it okay.

“You should,” Noah agreed. “But what about Trenty?” He asked expectedly. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing.

“I’m not ready for that yet. Y/N’s a mess, mate. She’s broken. He fucked up regardless of what the truth is.” Noah nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this whole situation was more complicated than it seemed. He knew Trent, really knew him, Jack did too but he was too close. This didn’t sit right with Noah.

“I hear ya, Jack,” Noah said, standing up. “But I need to talk to Trent. I need to hear his side properly. I’m not settling until I know the whole truth.” He explained, gently but surely. Jack looked up at Noah, his expression torn. He didn’t trust Trent right now, but a part of him wanted answers too.

“Yeah, fine,” he muttered, standing up as well. “But if he tries to play you, or if he’s not straight with you…” Jack threatened, not really with any venom but more so with exhaustion. He was just so frustrated at how messy things had gotten.

“I’ll handle it,” Noah assured him. “You’ve got my word. I really don’t want to lose movie nights.” Noah smirked cheekily. It was just Noah’s backwards way of being sincere. He wanted to help. Jack nodded hoping he could assist because he didn’t want to lose movie nights either and least of all his friendship with Trent.

A day had passed, and the silence was deafening. Trent sat on the edge of his bed, his phone clutched in his hand, staring at the endless stream of unanswered messages and missed calls he’d sent to Jack. He hadn’t dared to try you—not yet. Every time he hovered over your name, his thumb froze, his mind spiraling into doubt. What could he even say? That he’d been blackmailed? That Jess had lied? Would you believe him, or would it just sound like another excuse? The thought of you, hurt and angry, twisted his stomach into knots. He scrubbed a hand down his face and hit redial on Jack’s number, fully expecting to hear the voicemail tone again. But this time, it didn’t come. A click on the other end was followed by a sharp voice.

“What do you want bro?” Jack answered, his hostility cutting through the silence like a knife. Trent’s heart raced.

“Jack. I need to see you,” he said quickly, the words spilling out before Jack could hang up. “I need to explain.” When Jack heard the words all he could think of was your face. The way you’d been sobbing for hours inconsolably. His anger wasn’t something he could push down. He was mad at Trent, no matter the circumstance.

“What’s there to explain, mate,” Jack snapped. “You’re not coming near my fucking house or my sister. Do you understand me?” He threatened his best friend of years, now sounding like a stranger he hated. If Noah wanted to dig for unsurfaced truths he could, but to Jack the only thing that mattered was that you were hurting and nothing would fix that.

“Then come to me,” Trent pleaded, his voice cracking. “Please, Jack. You have to hear me out.” He took a shaky breath, his desperation slipping through. “You need to understand.” Jack paused on the other end, the silence tense.

“Understand what?” he bit out. “That you cheated on her? That you fucked her over? That you lied to all of us? Again…” His voice grew louder, each accusation hitting Trent like a blow.

“I didn’t—” Trent started, but his voice broke, and he stopped to compose himself. “It’s not what you think. Please, Jack,” he whispered, his voice thick. He sniffled audibly, and Jack froze. Was he crying? Jack sighed heavily, his anger faltering for just a moment. Something about Trent’s tone—it wasn’t defensive or self-righteous. It was broken. And that shook him. Maybe what Jess had admitted was true. That this whole sequence of events wasn’t entirely clear cut and true. Maybe there was more to this mess than he’d thought. Maybe he should follow Noah’s lead and look beneath the surface.

“Where?” Jack finally said, his voice gruff but less hostile. Trent exhaled in relief, his grip on the phone tightening.

“My place, I don’t care, anywhere, mate,” he said quickly. “Whenever you can. Please.” Jack didn’t respond immediately.

“Fine,” he said eventually. “But if I don’t like what I hear, it’s done. Yeah?” He cautioned Trent.

“Yeah,” Trent whispered, his voice small. “I got it.” Jack hung up without another word, and Trent sat there, staring at his phone, his chest tight. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. It was a chance. And right now, that was all he could hope for.

It was a days time between that phone call until Jack entered the room, the air felt heavy, oppressive, as though it carried the weight of all the chaos and heartbreak from the past few days. Trent sat on the edge of the couch, his shoulders hunched, his hands nervously clasped between his knees. His eyes were fixed on the floor, unable to meet Jack’s piercing glare. Noah stood to the side, shifting awkwardly, clearly caught in the crossfire of tension, ready to be a mediator.

“Hey…” Noah started, his voice uncertain, as if testing the waters.

“Yo…” Jack replied curtly, stepping further into the room. His gaze flicked to Trent, sharp and calculating, before landing back on Noah. He didn’t sit, his posture stiff and unyielding.

“So… erm…” Noah began again, scratching the back of his neck. “I just thought maybe I should be here because I care too, you know…. And I just had to hear Trenty’s side. I told you, it didn’t sit right with me, mate. None of it made sense.” Noah babbled a little nervously for how things were going to go. Jack’s jaw tightened, but to everyone’s surprise, he nodded.

“I know,” he said simply, his voice low. Both Noah and Trent froze, their eyes snapping to Jack. Trent, who had been bracing for an onslaught, felt his breath catch. Jack’s answer wasn’t what he had expected. Not at all.

“What?” Trent finally managed, his voice hoarse.

“What?” Noah echoed, his confusion mirroring Trent’s. Jack sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

“I said, I know. I know something’s off. Jess was lying. Megan’s been going on about how things don’t add up, Noah too, and honestly, I’ve been thinking about it more now too.” He explained with a deep exhale. Trent blinked, stunned. He hadn’t allowed himself to hope for this—to think Jack would give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Mate, I—” Trent tried to speak. Jack held up a hand, silencing him.

“I didn’t come here to forgive you, alright? I came here to figure out what the hell is going on. Because if you’ve actually hurt her like this, Trent, I swear to God, I’ll make sure you never come near her again.” He threatened but Jack was tired of threats, he just wanted answers. Trent nodded quickly, his throat tight. Noah was trying to remain impartial, he understood Jack’s anger but he was praying Trent had an answer. Too much time had gone by without one and his faith in Trent was starting to waiver.

“Trent, you’ve gotta just tell us straight… What happened, bro? Did you…” Noah awkwardly pished for some truth, some clarity to lower the temperature of the room that was rapidly rising.

“I swear on my fucking life. I didn’t do what I said that night. I… I… I love her. I did it for her you have to fucking believe me.” Trent whimpered. He looked like a sad puppy. Jack and Noah had never seen him so weak. There wasn’t an ounce of the confidence that was usually oozing from his pores. He looked broken.

“So…” Noah probed confused but desperate for Trent to have an answer for it all.

“I didn’t, do it. I swear. None of it—none of what was said—is true. I’ve been trying to figure out how to fix this without making things worse, but it’s all so fucked up.” His voice cracked, and he rubbed at his eyes, trying to compose himself.

“Alright, then try to explain,” Jack said, crossing his arms. “Because as far as I know, it sounds as if Jess and you have been fucking and since it came out, now you and her are trying to protect yourselves saying you weren’t screwing my little sister over this whole time.” Jack laid out what he knew to true in black and white. Trent inhaled shakily, his hands trembling as he finally looked up at Jack.

“Mate….” Trent sighed, preparing himself to admit it all to Jack, ready to colorize the lie that got him to this place. “It… it was Josh.” He mumbled.

“Josh? Fuck off. Bro, serious. I’m trying to help you here and it’s just looking like you've been playing with Y/N’s heart.” Noah quipped desperately looking for clarity Trent was continually skirting around.

“What the fuck does that piece of shit have to do with this? Nah, serious, what the fuck is going on.” Jack threw his head. Not at Trent but at the fact that Josh seemed to lace himself intricately into their lives way too often as of late.

“I haven’t hooked up with Jess since, swear.” Trent jumped to the chase. “But Josh…” He sighed. “He has a video…” Trent sheepishly admitted.

“A what?” Noah asked incredulously. Jack tensed. You and Trent together was one thing, but you and Trent together intimately was another.

“A video of us, bro. I don’t know how he got it. He showed me at the club and said he’d send it out if I didn’t tell Y/N I’d been messing about with Jess still, that I needed to leave alone that night or… god fuck!” Trent shouted angrily at the situation he found himself in. “You have to understand, he said he’d release it… I couldn’t let that happen. He was fucked up. He would’ve done it.” Trent muttered. “I couldn’t let him hurt her anymore.” Trent whimpered.

“Fuck… “ Noah seethed.

“So you haven’t hooked up with Jess?” Jack pressed.

“No. On my life.” Trent confirmed. “He has this video though of me and Y/N. He said he’d send it to The Sun… I don’t know, literally anywhere, her work, my work, your dad all just to embarrass her, hurt her, tank my reputation using her, ruin her anyway if I didn’t play along. He just wanted to hurt her. He wanted everyone to see her on her knees, bro… It’s … I don’t know how else to explain it, mate but I couldn’t let that happen to her. I couldn’t do that. He was fucked up. He would’ve done it, I could see it behind his eyes. I swear, I honestly didn’t even care about myself, I just cared about protecting her. That’s why I lied. For her. That’s why I said I was with Jess.” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t know what else to do. I was just doing what Josh said so he wouldn’t hurt her, so the video wouldn’t get out.” Trent took a deep breath after his long soliloquy. Jack’s eyes widened slightly, the weight of Trent’s confession sinking in. Noah leaned back in his seat in shock.

“Josh?” Jack repeated, his voice sharp. “You’re saying this is all because of him?” He questioned Trent, his eyes narrowing as if he could gauge the story somehow clearer.

“Yeah, bro,” Trent said firmly. “He was trying to fuck with her and take me out in the process, Jack. You know what he’s like!” Trent yelped desperately.

“Jack, the lad’s fucking crazy, he stormed into that party trying to start shit too, he wants to embarrass her. He’s trying to hurt Y/N. That sounds exactly like what he was looking to do that night.” Noah added cautiously. He didn’t want to pile on but he felt maybe it would help Trent’s case and maybe it would help them all remain friends.

“Crazy is an understatement. He doesn’t fucking care. He just wants to hurt her and I wasn’t going to let that happen. I figured taking the fall would be better. I’d rather her hate me than him think he had control of her. You have to understand, he had the fucking email ready to fire off. He was going to do it, unless I lied, unless I left alone that night. I didn’t have another choice.” Trent babbled frantically, desperate for Jack to understand. Jack’s fists clenched at his sides, his anger simmering just below the surface.

“That fucking prick,” he muttered. He paced the room for a moment, running a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you just tell her, Trent? Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked with venom.

“He told me I couldn’t! I couldn’t risk it. He was drunk… what if he sent it right then!” Trent yelped. “I was trying to protect her,” Trent admitted, his voice dropping barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want her to get hurt more than she already had been. But I fucked it up. I know that. I just couldn’t risk it. I just—I didn’t know what else to do. It was better for her to hate me than to let that kid hurt her any more.” Trent whimpered. But as he said his words aloud he realized that maybe it didn’t make enough sense. Jack stopped pacing, his expression hard but less hostile. He studied Trent for a long moment, weighing his words.

“If you’re lying to us right now, Trent,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous, “I swear, I’ll never forgive you. I’d never let you near her again. But if you’re telling the truth… we need to fix this. For her.” Jack’s eyes flicked towards Trent and then to Noah looking for some confirmation.

“I’m telling the truth,” Trent said, his voice firm despite the tears threatening to spill. “I just want to make this right. I don’t want him to hurt her anymore. She’s endured enough. His fucking hands on her, his words, I can see her wince anytime anyone comes near her….” Trent voice shook. And finally… a tear tipped over. Trent was stood in front of his best friends crying. Jack and Noah were stunned. Never had they seen Trent cry. “It’s like she’s prepared for everyone to treat her like she’s already on her knees, to be thrown about and I couldn’t let him hold that over her, I couldn’t. He was going to exploit her, use her. I just couldn't stomach it. It’s breaking my own heart letting her hate me but I do it a million times over before I let him break her spirit once more. I couldn’t-“ Trent’s words were desperate with short gasps trying to catch his breath. He was completely distraught.

“T… mate. Just take breathe for a minute.”Jack spoke, cutting him off. The lump in his throat stifled his words. “Thank you.” Jack admitted and he meant it. The realization that the effects of Josh’s abuse was extending far past the expiration date of your relationship with him hurt Jack. He had to believe Trent. The strain in his voice, the desperation in his eyes, he could see it all written clear as day.

“We’re gonna sort that fucking son of bitch out.” Noah chirped adamantly about creating a plan to put Josh in his place. Jack nodded slowly, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Alright, then we figure this out. We need to sort this for her… and you know for you two.” Jack admitted through gritted teeth realizing that he was about to do anything to protect not just his little sister but he was about to do anything to protect his little sister’s relationship with his best friend.

“Just for her, mate. I need to make sure she’s okay. He can’t do this.” Trent answered, his voice breaking.

“I deserved this,” you whimpered, barely able to get the words out. Your voice cracked as if the weight of the pain you were carrying would physically tear you apart. Layla didn’t hesitate. She crawled toward you on the bed, her movements slow and careful, but her arms wrapped around you with urgency, pulling you into her warmth as if she could shield you from everything hurting you.

“You didn’t,” she said firmly, her voice a quiet strength that demanded to be believed. “None of it. Not Trent, not Josh, not Jack and your dad, not your mum. None of this is fair, babe. None of it. But I’m here. I’m always here. You’re going to get through this.” She pressed her forehead against yours gently, grounding you when you felt like your entire world was falling apart. Your skin felt icy, a chill that seeped into your bones and made you feel like you weren’t even in your own body anymore. The detachment scared you, but you couldn’t find the words to explain it. You just stared at the ceiling, tears slipping silently from the corners of your eyes and onto the pillow beneath you.

“I just…” you started, voice trembling, barely audible. “I thought he wanted me.” The words fell from your lips like a confession, raw and bleeding. Your throat tightened as the tears came harder, blurring your vision and making it almost impossible to breathe. “Like someone actually wanted me— He was always so nice to me and I was stupid enough to believe him.” Your voice broke completely as the sobs overtook you, violent and gut-wrenching. You pressed your hands to your face, trying to smother the sound, but it was useless. The pain was too much. It was too big to hide. Layla pulled you closer, cradling you against her chest like a child.

“Oh, babe,” she murmured, her voice filled with grief and love, trembling as much as your own. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve any of it. You deserve to be loved.” Her hand ran soothingly down your back, but even she was struggling to keep it together. “Not like this. Not in pieces. You deserve to be someone’s whole world.” Her voice cracked at the end, and you could feel her tears against your temple as she tried to hold it together for you. “Please… we’ll come out of this. I promise.” Her words felt so far away, too soft to reach you through the thick fog of anguish you were drowning in. All you could think about was Trent—his smile, his touch, his promises. He had felt like salvation, like the answer to years of brokenness, but now all he felt like was another lie. Another person who had used you and left you worse off than ever before. Every corner of your life felt tainted by him. You could still see him everywhere: you sat in the stands on weekends watching him with the rest of the world and yet somehow he still felt like he was just yours, his hand warm and protective on your waist in crowded clubs, the way he’d rest his head on your lap during lazy movie nights. His laughter, his whispers, his love—if it ever was love—were ghosts haunting every inch of your space. You couldn’t breathe without feeling him, without hurting.

“I can’t get away from him,” you admitted, your voice a shattered whisper. You buried your face in Layla’s chest, as if that might somehow shield you from your own thoughts. “It’s like… he’s everywhere. Everywhere I go, I see him. I feel him.” Your tears soaked through her shirt, but she didn’t care. She held you tighter, her hands never stopping their soothing motions down your back. You couldn’t even go anywhere in your own home, his imprint was ubiquitous; he’d sat in every chair, he’d held every glass, he’d opened every door. Now you found yourself feeling more battered and bruised than anytime Josh had ever touched you. You were starting to feel like maybe emotional hurt was worse than anything physical.

“It’ll take time,” Layla said gently, though her voice shook. “But you’ll get there. I promise. One day, he won’t hurt this much. He won’t have this hold on you. None of them will” You shook your head against her, the pain too fresh for you to believe her.

“He hurts more than Josh ever did,” you admitted, the words coming out unbidden, your voice raw and bitter. “At least with him, I could see the scars. I could feel the bruises. His hands on me. But this—” You clenched your fists against Layla’s shirt, your body trembling with a fresh wave of sobs. “This is worse. He didn’t just break my heart. He broke me.” Layla froze for a moment, your confession hitting her like a punch to the gut. She felt at fault, guilty that she didn’t see it all. What Josh had done, what Trent apparently had done. She hadn’t known you felt like this, hadn’t realized how deep the wounds Trent could leave behind went. “I never want to see him again but he’s plastered around the entire country. I don’t know how to escape someone I so desperately wanted to see for years. He was the only person I looked at for years. I had complete tunnel vision, focused on him. I just wanted him to look only at me and I wasn’t enough. He looked elsewhere but he’s still all I see… and it hurts.” Slowly, Layla pulled back, cupping your tear-streaked face in her hands, her own eyes swimming with tears.

“Listen to me,” she said fiercely, her voice trembling with emotion. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for this. You didn’t let him do this. You trusted him because you’re a good person. Because you have a good heart, and you believed he had one too. That’s not on you, babe. That’s on him.” Her words were like a lifeline, pulling you up just enough to take a shaky breath. But the emptiness inside you remained, a hollow ache that seemed too vast to ever be filled.

“I just want it to stop,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “The pain, the memories… I just want it all to stop.” Layla’s tears spilled over then, but she didn’t let go of you.

“It will,” she promised, her voice cracking. “I swear it will. And until it does, I’ll be here. Every step of the way, I’ll be here.” Her arms tightened around you again, holding you as if she could keep the pieces of you together by sheer will. And for the first time in days, you let yourself lean into her, the faintest flicker of hope breaking through the suffocating darkness.

When Jack stepped into your room, his stomach twisted in a way he hadn’t felt in years. You didn’t just look sad—you looked like you’d been hollowed out, a shell of the person you used to be. His chest tightened as he took it all in: the dim light from your computer screen illuminating your face, your body wrapped in a blanket like it was the only thing holding you together, the empty water glass on your nightstand and the untouched bowl of snacks Layla must’ve left earlier. You weren’t just grieving—you were unraveling. Jack didn’t knock. He couldn’t. The sight of you like this obliterated every barrier between the two of you. He pushed the door open fully, the creak of the hinges announcing his presence as he stepped inside. The room was suffocatingly dark, the blinds shut tight, sealing you in a cocoon of silence and despair. Without saying a word, Jack walked to the window and yanked the blinds open. The sudden flood of light made you flinch, and you burrowed further under the blanket, shooting him a weak glare.

“Need to get up,” Jack said, his voice gentle but firm. He didn’t move closer right away, instead giving you space to process his words. You blinked at him, your voice hoarse and barely audible.

“Why?” It wasn’t a challenge, just a broken question. Why get up? Why move? Why try? Jack took a hesitant step closer, his movements slow, like he was afraid you might crumble under the weight of his presence. He sat down on the edge of the bed, close enough to reach you but not close enough to overwhelm you. For a moment, he just looked at you, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read the pain etched into every line.

“Just for me,” he murmured, his voice soft and raw. “Please, Y/N. Just put on some sweats. Wash your face. You don’t have to do anything else. Just… do that for me.” He pleaded. You stared at him for a long moment, your lips trembling as tears welled up in your eyes. The lump in your throat was so thick you could barely breathe. Finally, you gave a small nod, sniffing back the sob that threatened to escape. Slowly, like moving through quicksand, you pushed the blanket off and swung your legs over the side of the bed. Jack didn’t say a word as you stood up, your body heavy and sluggish. He just watched, his heart breaking at how much effort it seemed to take you to even move. You trudged toward the en suite bathroom, the soft shuffle of your feet on the carpet the only sound in the room. Once inside, you closed the door behind you, leaning against it for a moment as you caught your breath. The light from the bathroom mirror was harsh, and when you finally looked up at your reflection, you almost didn’t recognize the person staring back at you. Your eyes were swollen and red, your cheeks blotchy, your hair a mess. You looked like you’d been drained of every ounce of life and energy. Turning the faucet on, you let the cold water run for a moment before splashing it onto your face. The shock of it sent a shiver down your spine, pulling you back into your body for a brief moment. You reached for a towel, patting your face dry as you tried to steady your breathing. The faint murmur of the trash tv you were watching in your room filtered through the door, a reminder that Jack was still there, waiting for you. He hadn’t left.

With shaking hands, you pulled on an oversized hoodie and a pair of joggers from the pile of clothes on the bathroom counter. It was from laundry you should’ve done but menial tasks fell to the wayside, lost on you days ago. The clothes weren’t much, but they felt like armor against the weight of the world pressing down on you. You heard Jack pause the show in the other room leaving the en-suite eerily quiet, the faint hum of the light above doing nothing to break the stillness. You stood still barefoot on the cold tiles, the chill biting at your skin, yet it wasn’t enough to ground you. It felt like you were floating, disconnected from your own body, staring at a reflection in the mirror you barely recognized. The girl staring back looked broken—eyes rimmed red, lips trembling, cheeks stained with tears.

Your gaze shifted downward slightly, catching a glint of gold and blue in the mirror. The earrings. The ones Trent had given you when he sincerely and thoughtfully asked you to be his girlfriend. You had worn them every day since, a tangible reminder of the joy, the love, and the hope that had bloomed in that moment. Now, they felt different. A lump formed in your throat as you stared at them—the delicate gold butterfly in one ear and the striking blue butterfly in the other. They had been a symbol of the start of something beautiful, of a relationship you had longed for. But now, they felt like a cruel reminder of what you had barely even gotten the chance to hold onto. You didn’t even know how long he was even your boyfriend for, that’s how short it all felt and yet the hurt made it all feel incredibly long.

The tears came back quickly, racing down your cheeks before you could stop them. You sniffled, clutching the edge of the sink to steady yourself as your chest heaved with quiet sobs. It wasn’t just the loss of Trent that weighed on you. It was the idea that you had finally allowed yourself to believe in something good, something real, only for it to be ripped away before it had the chance to truly take root. Your fingers hesitated as they reached up, brushing against the earrings. For a moment, you considered taking them out, desperate to erase the pain, the memories, the pieces of him that lingered. But as your trembling hand hovered there, you froze. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t let go of him—not entirely. Even if your relationship was over, your love for him wasn’t. It clung to you, stubborn and unyielding, refusing to fade no matter how much it hurt. Maybe these butterflies, pinned delicately to your earlobes, could still be a source of hope. Maybe they could remind you of what had been, but also of what could still be. You let out a shaky breath, wiping at your tears with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. The weight in your chest didn’t disappear, but as you looked at your reflection again, you realized something. These earrings weren’t just about Trent. They were about you, too. About the courage it had taken to open your heart and the strength you’d need to keep it from breaking completely. The Trent that gave you these was gone. The Trent that looked after you for years disappeared but the girl you thought he loved was still there staring back at you, you couldn’t change that. You couldn’t escape her. Maybe, the butterflies—fragile as they were—could carry you through.

When you stepped back into the room, Jack was standing by the window, his hands in his pockets, staring out at the street below. He turned toward you as he heard the bathroom door open, his eyes scanning you carefully. You tugged at the hem of your hoodie self-consciously, feeling exposed even though you were fully covered. Jack’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he gave a small nod of approval, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Thanks,” he said softly, moving back to sit on the bed. He patted the spot beside him, and after a moment’s hesitation, you shuffled over and sat down next to him. Your body felt heavy, like it might sink into the mattress and never resurface. For a while, neither of you said anything. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was just heavy, filled with all the things you couldn’t say yet. Jack placed a hand on your knee, his touch warm and steady, grounding you in a way you hadn’t felt in days. “I’m sorry I didn’t come in sooner,” he said finally, his voice thick with emotion. “I knew you were hurting… I just, I didn’t know this was how bad it was in here..” Jack cooed softly as he inspected the room. You’d been holed up for ages. “I didn’t know what to say… I didn’t want to hurt you anymore.” You swallowed hard, blinking back tears as you stared at your hands in your lap.

“It’s not your fault,” you whispered, but even as you said it, the tears started to fall. Jack didn’t try to stop them. He didn’t tell you it was going to be okay or that you needed to pull yourself together. He just wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a hug as you let yourself completely crumble. You sobbed into his chest, your whole body shaking as the dam broke.

“I’m here,” he murmured, his voice steady and sure. “I’ve got you, Y/N. I’m here.” He whispered as you fell apart.

After a long while and buckets of more tears. Jack convinced you to get into the car with the enticement of starbucks. The car ride was quiet, the kind of silence that wasn’t uncomfortable but still carried the weight of everything unspoken. Jack had barely said a word, his hands gripping the wheel tightly as he navigated the streets. You didn’t ask where you were going—because it was clearly not in the direction of the closest Starbucks but part of you was too tired to care, and another yet part trusted him to know what you needed better than you did right now.

When the car pulled to a stop, you felt a pang of recognition before you even looked up. Heaton Park. Your chest tightened, and you let out a shaky sigh, your fingers fidgeting in your lap. The moment you stepped out of the car, the cool air bit at your skin, but it couldn’t cut through the numbness you felt inside. You were sluggishly, the bitter wind brushing against your face and making you shiver. The familiar sight of the park stretched out before you, the stone paths winding through the greenery like veins in a leaf. The park stretched out before you, serene and empty, but it felt like the ground beneath you was unsteady. For a brief moment, you felt a flicker of something—a memory, a connection—but it was fleeting. Jack walked a few steps ahead of you, his strides purposeful yet hesitant, silent, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. You followed, your feet dragging slightly on the gravel path.

“Are we going to go to—” you began, your voice soft and tentative. Jack didn’t let you finish. He turned and just nodded, his eyes returning to be fixed ahead. He knew what you were going to ask. Of course he did. The greenhouse.

It was a sanctuary, a place where your mum had poured so much of her love and energy. After she passed, it became something more—a place where you could feel her presence, as though she lived on in the delicate flutter of the butterflies that filled the glass room. It was a space that brought both comfort and sorrow, a bittersweet reminder of what you had lost and what you still held onto. As you walked toward it, the weight in your chest grew heavier. You weren’t sure if you were ready to step inside, to face the memories that waited for you there, you hadn’t been in a long time. But before you could take another step, Jack stopped.

“Why are you stopping?” you asked, turning to look at him with confusion. As the greenhouse came into view, its glass panes glinting faintly in the muted sunlight, your heart sank. The lush greenery inside was just visible through the tinted windows, the flickering movements of butterflies a distant echo of life you didn’t feel. You frowned confused as Jack stopped in his tracks. He turned to you, his lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes didn’t meet yours. He nodded back toward the greenhouse for you to really look. Your brows furrowed as you followed his gaze. There, through the glass, was Trent. He was seated on a bench, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together like he was holding on for dear life. His head was bowed, his shoulders slumped, his entire body radiating a kind of exhaustion you recognized all too well.

“Jack…” you whispered, your voice barely audible. You didn’t want to be here. You didn’t want to see him. You swallowed, blinking back tears. You turned back towards the car.

“Just talk to him,” Jack said softly, but firmly, pleadingly. He didn’t push you forward, didn’t try to guide you. He just waited. Your feet felt like they were weighed down. Finally, you took a deep breath. At the very least maybe you could sever ties entirely with Trent. You could let Trent break your heart to your face. Let him hurt you, slice you completely open and there in the green house so full of life, you could let this all die.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked finally, your voice shaking as your emotions threatened to overwhelm you. And with those words, the dam broke once more. Jack didn’t answer. He just gave a small nod, his gaze shifting toward the greenhouse again. Your heart clenched, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe. He looked different—not in a physical way, but in the way he carried himself. His shoulders were hunched, his hands clasped tightly together as he stared at the ground. He looked like a man who had been hollowed out, as though the weight of the world had finally caught up to him. You turned back to Jack, your eyes wide and filled with questions. “Jack…Why—” You asked again because you wanted to know.

“I didn’t bring you here… for him,” Jack said quickly, his voice low and steady. “I brought you here for you. But… he asked to see you. Said he’d wait as long as it took. He’s been here for hours, Y/N. He’s not leaving until you talk to him.” Jack’s voice was calm. You could sense that he was comfortable with letting you go into an enclosed room with Trent. It didn’t make sense. He hurt you. Why was Jack okay with this. You felt your throat tighten, your emotions warring inside you. Part of you wanted to turn and walk away, to leave him sitting there in the greenhouse with his guilt and his regrets. But another part of you, a part you hated to admit existed, wanted to go inside. To hear what he had to say. Jack moved gently and slowly before placing a hand on your shoulder, grounding you. “You don’t have to do this,” he said gently. “But if you want to… Just do what you want.” Jack exhaled. “Y/N, for once, do what you want. Please.” Jack pleaded, desperate for you to be brave for yourself… not for him, not for Trent, but to either go in or get out on your own terms.

And so then in that moment you decided, you wanted to feel it all, all the heartache, let it pull you under, hot box you in what once was. You wanted to be suffocated by the memories of your mum and memories of the Trent you’d once trusted that filled the greenhouse and be able to close the door behind you. You nodded slowly, your feet carrying you forward before your mind could catch up. The closer you got to the greenhouse, the louder your heartbeat became, pounding in your ears like a drum. Every step toward the greenhouse taking more effort than the last. The closer you got, the more details came into focus. The way Trent’s jaw clenched as he stared at the ground. The way his leg bounced nervously. The way his hands trembled, just barely, as they hung between his knees. When you reached the door, your hand hovered over the handle for a moment, your breath catching in your throat. You wanted to turn back, to run away, to avoid the pain you knew was waiting for you inside, maybe you weren’t strong enough for what you decided. But something kept you rooted there—a flicker of hope, or maybe just a need for answers. You pushed the door open, the faint creak of the hinges cutting through the stillness. The soft hum of the greenhouse filling your ears as you stepped inside. The warm, humid air hit you immediately, carrying the faint smell of flowers and earth. It was warm and fragrant, the scent of memories mingling with the faint flutter of wings. Yet simultaneously, it was almost too quiet inside, the sound of your footsteps muffled by the soft mossy floor.

Trent didn’t look up at first, but the moment the door clicked shut behind you, his head snapped up. His eyes met yours, and the raw emotion in them hit you like a wave, his eyes meeting yours. The pain in his expression mirrored your own, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice cracking, as he stood abruptly, his voice raw with emotion. He looked like he didn’t know whether to move closer or stay where he was, his hands twitching at his sides. You didn’t say anything at first. You just stared at him, taking in the sight of the man you loved—someone who now felt like a stranger. The air between you was thick with unspoken words, with pain and regret and longing Trent stood as you approached, his movements slow and tentative, like he was afraid of scaring you away. You stayed quiet, your arms wrapping around yourself as you stopped a few feet away from him. The silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating, until finally, Trent spoke again. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice a meek whimper, a tone you had never known. “For everything. For hurting you. For not fighting harder to protect us. I—I don’t even know where to start, but I need you to know… I never wanted this. I never wanted to lose you.” His words hung in the air, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him. The anger, the hurt, the betrayal—they were all still there, but so was something else. Something softer, something that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, there was a way forward. But first, you needed answers. And you needed to know if you could trust him again.

“But you did hurt me. You didn’t fight for me. All you’ve done….” You whimpered barely able to get the words out. Tears were already coursing down your cheeks just merely at the sight of him. “All you’ve done is break me down in ways I didn’t even know were possible.” You cried, unable to look him in the eyes. You felt naked crying in front of him. Like your sweatset had vanished entirely.

“I know.” Ternt muttered, unable to stay quiet as guilt crashed over him. You heard Jack’s car wheels pull across the gravel leaving you with Trent. You were alone, fragile, boxed in with the boy who broke your heart in a literal glass house that felt it could shatter at any moment.

“Why did you hurt me…” You sobbed. Trent wasn’t sure he ever knew pain like this existed either watching you stand there doused in the tears he caused. “Why did you lie to me? Why wasn’t I good enough? You told me I was… you’re the only person who's ever even taken a second look at me, taken an interest in me, really saw me and… and… it was a lie. Why did you do that? What did you gain from that? Was it for the sex? You didn’t get enough of that elsewhere? You think I didn’t ache every time I saw you with a new girl for years and finally… god! fucking finally you really looked at me. I thought you loved me! You made me you’re fucking girlfriend just to screw Jess? Why would you hurt me…” Your words were fast, rushed, emotional, with gasps and hiccups interspersed between words.

“I didn’t touch her.” Trent looked at you earnestly. Your brow furrowed trying to deduce if he was being honest or if he had the gull to lie to your face right now. “Y/N, I swear on my life, I have not looked at another girl, let alone touched one since you kissed me. I did not kiss Jess. I did not have sex with her. The day you kissed me my fucking life got flipped upside down. You have been the only thought in my head for months and you’ve been the only girl I’ve wanted for my years.” Trent confessed, his voice was weak but it was raw and unfiltered. It was unapologetically honest and you couldn’t ignore it. “Y/N… baby, please. I’ve waited. God, I’ve fucking waited my turn… I watched you with all those fucking assholes wishing you’d let me have a chance, let me in… please don’t shut me out now.” He whimpered desperately.

“Then why… I don’t understand how this got so fucked up.” You questioned him quietly. “Why did you say those things? Why did you leave?” You asked hesitantly, not sure if you could stomach the answer.

“Josh… He has a video.” He confessed. The moment the words left his mouth, the air seemed to shift, heavy with a revelation that landed like a weight in your chest. Your mind reeled as Trent’s confession unfolded, the pieces clicking into place in a way that made your stomach churn.

“What?” you whispered, your voice trembling. He took a step forward. He’s hands gently wrapped around your biceps.

“Josh…” Trent said again, his grip on your arms tightening ever so slightly, like he was afraid you might disappear. “He has that video. I don’t know how he got it, but he threatened me. Said if I didn’t leave you, if I didn’t do what he asked, he’d release it. He wanted to hurt you. He used me to hurt you. He has a video of us and he was using it to exploit you and me, us. Baby, I would never do this to you unprompted. He pushed my hand, I didn’t fuck Jess, that fucking prick made me lie to you. To everyone. I just couldn't handle him thinking he had control over you anymore. It broke my heart hurting you, letting you hate me but I’d do it a million times over before I let him come near you again. I will always protect you, even if it came at the cost of losing you. I lost the love of my life that night but….” Trent tried to keep talking but the look on your face made him pause. Your knees buckled, and Trent was quick to steady you, his hands sliding down to your elbows. But you pulled back, stepping out of his reach as you tried to process what he was saying.

“He’s been blackmailing you?” you asked, your voice breaking. Trent nodded, his eyes red-rimmed and pleading.

“I didn’t know what to do. I thought—I had to play his fucking game, it was the only way I could protect you. I could keep him from doing something worse. I didn’t want to lose you, baby, but I couldn’t let him hurt you again. I couldn’t.” He whimpered as you stumbled backward, your hands clutching your temples as the weight of it all came crashing down. The betrayal, the heartbreak, the manipulation—it was too much.

“You should have told me,” you said, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions. “You should have trusted me. Trusted us.” Trent stepped forward again, desperate to close the gap between you.

“You don’t understand, he was going to send it at his fucking table that night. He had a video of you on your knees, Y/N ready to send out to anyone and everyone. I didn’t want you to carry that weight. You’ve been through enough. I don’t want him near you. My only option was to handle it on my own. I was protecting you the only way I could, that night.” Tears streamed down your face as you shook your head.

“But you weren’t. Trent, you weren’t protecting me. You were letting him win. Letting him keep control.” You whimpered, explaining your very real thoughts. He dropped his head, his hands falling to his sides in defeat.

“No. He doesn’t have control,” he said softly, yet unsure. “I know I messed up. But please, baby, I’m trying to make it right now. I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this. To fix us. He won’t take you away from me.” You looked at him, your heart aching in a way that made it hard to breathe. You wanted to believe him, to let yourself fall into his arms and trust that he could make it right. But the pain, the betrayal, the fear—it wasn’t something you could push aside so easily. You didn’t respond, your body too numb and your mind too overwhelmed to form words. It felt like the ground had been ripped out from under you. You couldn’t comprehend it—Josh, holding something so intimate, so vulnerable, like a weapon against you. Your tears continued fast, hot and unrelenting, blurring the lush greenery around you into an indistinguishable haze. Trent stepped closer into you, his voice trembling. “I know it hurt, baby, but I couldn’t risk it. Not that night. Not with him. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to lie to you, to everyone. You have to believe me.” His words cracked, and you saw his own tears spill down his cheeks. You’d never seen him cry like this before, and it broke something inside of you.

“So Josh still has a video of us?” you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible as you wrapped your arms around yourself protectively. The nausea hit you like a tidal wave, and you staggered slightly again.

“I don’t know how he got it,” Trent said, his voice hoarse. “But he was trying to use it to get you away from me, to keep hurting you but I won’t let it happen.” The betrayal and disgust churned in your stomach, but amidst it all, there was one truth you couldn’t deny, one thing that felt louder than the rest.

“I don’t want to be away from you,” you whimpered, your voice raw with emotion. That small admission shattered whatever invisible wall had been keeping you apart. You took a single step forward, and it felt monumental, like crossing a chasm. Trent didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest as if he could shield you from everything, even the weight of the world. His embrace was warm and steady, but it also unraveled you completely. You broke down, your sobs shaking your whole body as you clung to him. It was a release you didn’t even realize you needed, all the pain, fear, and uncertainty spilling out in waves.

“I’m not going to be away from you,” Trent whispered into your hair, his voice steady despite the emotion lacing it. “I’m here. Okay? I’m not leaving.” He kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering there as if trying to reassure you of his promise. The greenhouse felt both fragile and comforting, the tension in the air gradually giving way to something softer, something hopeful. For the first time in days, you felt like you could breathe. The lush oxygen in the greenhouse was no longer suffocating, it was liberating. It was quiet for a long time, only the sound of tears, ragged breaths, and broken hearts.

“Are you still my boyfriend?” you whimpered against the soft cotton of Trent’s shirt, your voice barely audible. The words felt heavy in your throat, weighted with everything you’d been through, everything that had been said and done. Despite it all you were desperate to repair the gaping hole he’d left behind in your chest. You didn’t even know if you wanted the answer—because what if it wasn’t the one you needed? Trent froze for a moment, his breath catching in his chest. Then, with a tenderness that almost broke you, he pulled back, his large hands moving to cradle your face. His thumbs gently wiped away the tears spilling down your cheeks, his dark eyes swimming with emotion. He leaned in, his forehead resting lightly against yours, his breath warm and steady on your skin.

“I’ve waited my entire life to be your boyfriend,” he said, his voice trembling. “I’m not backing out now. Not for no one. I’ve got you.” The sincerity in his words hit you like a wave, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned forward, capturing his lips in a kiss. It wasn’t rushed or desperate; it was slow, deliberate, and filled with everything you couldn’t find the words to say. It felt like you were pressing your broken pieces into him, hoping he could hold them together. When you pulled away, your chest heaving with silent sobs, you noticed a flicker of movement out of the corner of your eye. A delicate blue butterfly flitted through the still air, its wings shimmering in the golden light streaming through the glass walls of the greenhouse. It circled once, twice, and then landed gently on Trent’s shoulder, its tiny legs gripping the fabric of his hoodie. The sight made you gasp, your tears momentarily forgotten. “That okay, pretty girl?” Trent whispered, his voice soft and almost hesitant. He didn’t move, afraid of disturbing the fragile moment unfolding between you. You nodded, your throat too tight to speak. “Supposed to be with you,” Trent continued, his voice barely above a murmur. “Take care of you. Love you. I know that.” He paused when he noticed your eyes weren’t locked on his anymore. His gaze shifted to the butterfly, his lips curving into a small, reverent smile. “And she knew that.” He cooed softly. Your heart clenched as you realized the significance of the creature perched so serenely on him. It wasn’t just a butterfly—it was a sign, a reminder of your mum, of her love, her presence, and her belief in you. Your fingers trembled as you reached out, brushing them lightly against Trent’s arm.

“I miss her so much.” You sniffled. “I can tell she’s here though,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I can feel her.” Trent nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.

“I know, baby.” He whispered. You blinked, tears blurring your vision, and suddenly remembered the earrings he’d given you—the ones you’d worn so often without fully understanding their significance. They were just like the butterfly: delicate, blue, shimmering. A quiet tribute to your mum, a connection between the past and the future.

“She always knew I loved you,” you murmured, your voice gaining strength. “Even now I feel like she pushes me to remember that it’s always been you… Even when it shouldn’t work.” You whimpered. Trent shifted slightly, tilting his head to get a better look at the butterfly as it fluttered its wings.

“It should work. I will make it work. She knew that I would take care of you, that I’m supposed to take care of you,” he said, his voice steady now. “And I will, Y/N. I promise because I love you.” The emotion in his voice shattered the last of your defenses. You stepped into him fully, burying your face in his chest as your tears soaked into his shirt. His arms wrapped around you tightly, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

“I love you,” you sniffled, the words muffled but clear. Trent pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering.

“I love you more than you will ever know, more than I could ever even begin to tell you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. The butterfly finally took flight, fluttering upward toward the glass ceiling. You both watched it go, its wings catching the light as it disappeared into the rafters. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. When you turned back to Trent, he was already looking at you, his expression filled with so much love and determination that it made your knees weak. “C’mere. My perfect pretty girl,” he cooed, taking your hand and lacing your fingers together. “Love you so so much.” He whispered almost to himself as his other hand pulled your head into his chest. He kissed your hair again and again. The way you smelt, the way you felt, it all felt like a dream. It didn’t make sense that this was real but as you marginally separated he opened the door to exit the green house reality came crashing back down. The light catching your cheekbone, a tear streak stain on your cheek, a painful reminder of how very real you were. How very real the hurt he had caused was. You were real and you were his and he’d do anything to keep you safe.

“T…?” you questioned softly, your voice barely audible as your fingers curled around his hand. The two of you walked slowly along the winding paths of the park, the faint rustling of leaves and the distant laughter of children filling the quiet space between you.

“Yeah, pretty girl?” he hummed, glancing down at you, his dark eyes full of warmth despite the tension lingering between you. You hesitated, your steps faltering for a moment.

“I’m… I’m scared of Josh. That video getting out would be so bad for you,” you mumbled, your gaze fixed on the path in front of you. The words felt heavy, and saying them out loud made the fear all the more real. Trent stopped walking, turning to face you. He placed his hands gently on your arms, his thumbs stroking soothingly over the fabric of your sweatshirt.

“Y/N, baby,” he began, his voice low and steady, “I would risk my life, my career—everything—to protect you. And I’m so sorry that trying to do that ended up hurting you. I swear with my whole heart, that piece of shit will never hurt you again. He can’t even get close to my baby, alright? I gotcha.” The conviction in his voice and the fierce protectiveness in his eyes made your heart clench. You nodded, leaning into him as his arm wrapped around you, pulling you tightly into his side. The spring breeze carried the scent of his cologne, wrapping you in a cocoon of safety and comfort.

“Okay,” you murmured, though the unease still lingered in your chest. After a moment of silence, you tilted your head up to look at him. “Are we going to have to hide again?” you asked hesitantly, the thought of going back to a secret relationship filling you with dread. Trent’s grip on you tightened slightly, his arm anchoring you to him. You had so many questions you almost felt bad asking them but Trent felt worse having to answer them, it should’ve never come to this.

“No, pretty girl,” he said firmly. “I’ll protect you, alright? No more hiding. We’re doing this right. You and me.” His words brought a flicker of warmth to your chest, melting away some of the fear.

“Okay,” you whispered again, your lips curling into a small smile. “So… I’m your girlfriend again?” you asked playfully, a hint of mischief creeping into your tone. Trent chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest.

“You’ve always been my girl,” he murmured, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your temple. Your cheeks warmed, and you let out a quiet giggle.

“Good,” you said, squeezing his waist. “Because I want you to be my boyfriend.”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” he teased, kissing the top of your head. You walked in comfortable silence for a while, the park’s serene atmosphere working its magic on your frayed nerves. The weight of the past few days still hung over you, but in his presence, it felt a little lighter, a little easier to bear. “Thank you for listening…understanding,” Trent spoke after a while, his tone soft but serious. “I know that night was hard—harder than I can even imagine on you. For me too. I just… I was trying to protect my pretty girl.” You looked up at him, your heart swelling at the sincerity etched into his face.

“I’ve always waited. I understand,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “I do.” Unable to resist the pull of his warmth, you wrapped your arms around his waist, holding onto him as if he were the only thing tethering you to the ground. He didn’t seem to mind—if anything, he held you just as tightly, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back as the two of you slowly made your way out of the park. For the first time in days, you felt a small spark of hope. Maybe the two of you could get through this. But maybe, just maybe, as you felt relationship coming up, you'd also be reminded of that little video of you going down still existing on Josh's phone.

•

Thank you for reading! Please like, comment, or message what you think of the chapter or of what's to come!

Next part - Chapter 22 xx

#trent alexander arnold #Trent Alexander Arnold x reader #alexander arnold #trent alexander arnold imagines #taa x reader #footballer x y/n #footballer x reader #fie fic #Movie Night Fic

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unknown-cold · 21 hours ago

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Omg that's true!!

I'm so tired of these people saying Vi and Caitlyn's relationship is toxic, I mean literally the same thing she said Jinx and her relationship with Ekko wasn't good either and Jayce and Viktor too.

It is natural for problems and disagreements to occur in relationships, but it is not natural to think that a relationship will be peaceful and good all the time. These things only exist in Disney movies.

But apart from all that. Seriously guys hating on Vi or Caitlyn or both is way over the top. Like let's just imagine JUST IMAGINE, if Vi were male, the narrative surrounding her actions and character would change dramatically. She would likely be hailed as a "brother hero," a model of loyalty and kindness despite impossible circumstances. Her trauma, in prison, losing Vander, failing to save Jinx, and so on, would be sympathized with as a testament to her strength and determination.

Her status as the “bad sister” is undoubtedly tied to gender expectations. Women, especially older sisters, are often burdened with the role of caregiver, and are expected to be endlessly compassionate and self-sacrificing. Vi’s moments of anger, guilt, and mistakes, however, conflict with societal stereotypes of women as the natural “fixers” of emotional and familial conflicts. The fact that Vi is pigeonholed as the “bad sister” while Jinx is often seen as the tragic victim reflects deeper gender biases. Vi’s traumas and emotional wounds are ignored or minimized because she is expected to be the “strong one,” while Jinx is given sympathy and a more nuanced lens because her messiness and vulnerability fit into certain stereotypes of women who are broken or in need of saving.

It’s a frustrating double standard, and it underscores just how progressive Arcane is by refusing to fully give into those tropes. Vi’s character still shines as someone strong, flawed, and deeply human, but the criticisms she faces highlight how society treats female characters with such biases.

The misogyny is REAL and don’t think for a second that other women aren’t fully participating in that also. The amount of shit Vi gets for temporarily joining the Enforcers with Caitlyn to stop Jinx is insane. A male Vi would have been seen as a TORTURED HERO for joining up with the EVIL FORCES that took his parents away all so he could do HERO THINGS. But Vi does it? “Wah wah she joined the COPS she’s A TRAITOR THE REAL VI WOULD NEVER”. Like. Watch the show, my friends, and you will see she did what she thought was best and it was a very complex and very emotional decision for her; she hated every second of that uniform. But no, people shit on Vi and then complain like any of them could write a better show. Ugh.

And nobody would have hated a male Vi for having his love scene. Nobody. In fact, it would have been EXPECTED, but because Vi’s a woman, and a lesbian expressing her big gay love for her gorgeous gay lover, some people refuse to see her humanity and her growth as a person in that moment. I'm so tired

And the argument that we hate them because they did bad things is not true, I have seen people hate Caitlyn just because she is lesbian and one of them said if she was a straight woman I would have accepted her character on the show. Seriously this is someone who takes his criticism seriously, he forgot the story and everything in the show and focused on whether the characters are gay or straight or worse when I saw a comment from someone saying why are the main characters on the show female characters? Like is this an idiot or is he drug or what exactly? I think we should also ask, why do men always take the lead roles and when they are evil they are better, and if they are good they are also better, but if a woman comes along who is evil or wants to be evil or does just one mistake everyone hates her and she is the worst person in the world, but men are the only ones who deserve to play the role of evil and do bad things and we will sympathize with them and love them. THIS IS CRAZY!!

To understand what I'm saying more, compare Viktor's character and Caitlyn's character and you will see that Caitlyn was the character who was criticized the most even though she didn't kill anyone innocent and in the end she tried to fix things, while Viktor tried to kill all the people of Piltover and Zaun and didn't care about anyone, even his friend's pleas, he didn't care about them and Viktor thought that this was the solution but to end the conflicts between the two cities. But is there anyone who criticizes this, is there anyone who says that this is a bad act, of course not, yes you will see some people justifying it, as they did with Silco, the person who killed an entire family for control and drowned all of Zaun with shimmer and made the children work in dangerous factories, and there is not a single criticism, and people defend him even after Jinx's condition worsened, no they say that he is better than Caitlyn, my god like what the fuck!?

Then they tell you we don't hate women we don't hate gays or lesbians, just shut the fuck up, everything is clear, Arcane revealed to us that there are still people who are fanatic and traditional to the extreme who still want to see a man as the hero of the story and that all people and women should respect him even if he is evil and cruel he is always better than this bullshit, Arcane proved to us that it is possible for both sexes to appear in an excellent, strong and realistic way without insulting or belittling the other because these things are not useful and will not help in telling the story in any way.

Quick note I don't hate Jinx or Viktor and many of you who follow me know that I love Viktor very much but I will not deny the bad things he did and I am also really tired of the hypocrisy of some people and their constant criticism of other characters and characters. Just bc they say like these characters

Like I don't like Silco but have you ever seen me post every day criticizing Silco and Silco fans all the time or go to Silco fans and tell them if you like Silco then you support child labor and the drug trade and blah blah. Like they do with Caitlyn fans when one of them says he likes Caitlyn they accuse him of supporting collective punishment and corrupt governments and police brutality just because he likes a fictional character. I've never seen such stupidity and backwardness and bullshit in my life, just because I like a fictional character you think I will act like her in real life?? These people need to grow up seriously or find a job

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asagewitch05 · 1 day ago

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(you inspire me sm)

Dick isn't sure why, but the scene in front of him hurts. There's nothing wrong with it; in fact, it's so wholesomely domestic that it should make his heart all fuzzy and warm- like how he gets when he gets to spend some time with his siblings, or when Damian sleeps over.

But it doesn't. It makes his heart twist painfully, like someone is trying to tug it out of his chest. It doesn't make sense, and that hurts too. Why does this bother him so much?

Bruce is sitting, chatting with Tim about some science article, with Jason sarcastically adding in every once in a while when he looks up from his Jane Austen- Pride and Prejudice, again. Steph and Duke are gossiping about some celebrity, while Barbara scrolls through her phone, trying to find the cat picture she had saved to show Damian, with Cass peering over her shoulder. Alfred is watching them all with a small uptick of his lips, a slight crinkle to his eye that shows how happy he is.

Dick doesn't fit in this scene. He knows he can, if he sits on the free couch, or on Jason's couch where he was splayed because he'd- begrudgingly- make space for him. Damian would likely sit beside him with ease, managing to finally tell him about an art assignment he has to do.

But he doesn't just slide into it like the rest of them. He can distantly realize he's been standing in the shadow of the doorway for a while, but no one has noticed. Even him.

He's pretty sure the issue is Bruce. He'd had a rapport with Bruce, he'd had a dynamic and he still does, but it isn't like his siblings and Bruce. Bruce doesn't have that same smoothness of chatting about his life anymore. That same ease.

He remembers the Titans being utterly horrified that Dick had trained so hard under Bruce, been so mistreated and neglected (although he still found that hard to swallow as a concept because Bruce was just Bruce. That was how he acted. Except not with Jason. Or Tim. Or Steph or Cass or Duke or Barbara. It's just him and Damian. And he'd finally understood why the Titans were so upset and angry at Bruce when Dick saw how Damian was being pushed to the side because he didn't deserve that.) He remembers even more so how angry they were that Bruce only treated Dick that way.

And Dick has shrugged it off and smiled because the performer, the supporter he is wouldn't just let himself admit that it was wrong.

He is glad, though, that no one else got that cold shoulder. The pure exhaustion of training until you passed out and then getting up and doing it all again. He did have to admit that it kept him alive and safer when he was with Slade, but still. He guesses that's why he watches them closely, when they train or spar with Bruce. Because Bruce never knew Dicks limits as a kid, why would he know theirs?

He feels guilty, and horrible for that wretched twist of jealousy in his gut, at both his siblings and his teammates. Their mentors knew limits. Knew when to stop. They knew that passing out or vomiting up bile was more than enough reason to just stop training for a bit.

'Why couldn't he have had that Bruce?' is what he always asks himself. But then he remembers that they would have gotten that Bruce too if Dick hadn't charted out some of the path for Bruce. Smoothed out his ragged edges.

So he shoved down that writhing feelings monster in his gut and puts on his best smile and walks in, sitting down at the free couch.

After all, he is but a performer.

Me after making this:

I hurt myself so bad man. Not even joking this was painful to write (totally not projecting *at all*)😭😭😭

Ok, but a canon-divergent AU where Bruce is a terrible father figure to Dick, but he doesn't know it.

Of course, in canon Bruce is far from being a perfect father (even a good one in many cases), but at least he cares about Dick, even if he has a peculiar way of showing it (I'm talking to you, Bruce, who decides if saving the world is worth it only if Dick will be okay).

But imagine an AU where everything happened the same, or almost, except that neither Alfred nor Bruce cared to show, not even kindness, but that much empathy for Dick. However, in this AU Dick's father was not very affectionate either, so Dick does not associate male figures as affectionate.

It's not until Dick is with his team that he learns... That's not normal.

Dick: So... You guys didn't train until you pass out? Weren't you taught that the only way to get better is to push your own limits?

Roy: *wanting to kill Bruce* No, Dick. The first thing they teach you is how to stay safe, you know, avoid getting to the point where you pass out from the effort.

Dick: Oh.

Donna: Dick, you should rest, you're hurt. You literally have a broken ankle.

Dick, who is at the gym, doing arm exercises and twists that are not at all safe for an injured person: I'm fine, Donna. I'm just warming up. I've been on patrol in worse conditions.

Donna: Wdym by that? Worse???

Dick: Yes...? Villains don't take a break just because you're hurt, you know that.

Donna: That's why there are other heroes to help!

Dick: Don't you guys have a rule about not taking help from anyone? That shows weakness and...

Donna: No, Dick, no.

Dick, confused: Oh.

Wally: Please tell me you're not doing that thing again.

Dick: What thing?

Wally: Not sleeping or eating to be on guard.

Dick: Well, it's my job, so...

Wally: You. Are. A. Human. YOU NEED REST AND FOOD.

Dick: I'm fine, it's not like...

Wally: Don't you dare say that Batman made you stay in those conditions for more days. That's NOT normal, Dick.

Dick: ... It's not?

Dick: So... you guys aren't on guard all the time waiting for your mentors to surprise attack you to test your reflexes?

Roy: I swear to God I gonna kill him.

Donna: I'll help.

Wally: On it.

Dick: *panics*

It's even worse for his friends when they discorver that his siblings are being treated much better, as after he leaves, Bruce and Alfred finally begin to notice how to treat children.

Dick was literally trial and error.

#angst #nightwing #dick grayson #bruce wayne #he sucks as a father #batfamily #batfam headcanons #i think this counts #dick grayson headcanon #dick grayson needs a hug #give him a hug #now #😭😭😭#oops #my hand slipped #fanfic writing #on tumblr

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greenandsorrow · 1 day ago

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Morning Wood.

rut!Alastor x gn!reader

☞ I had some leftover smut scenes from the first chapter of "The price for misbehaving" and so, I decided to combine them with a slightly different depiction of Alastor. He's all fuzzy, basically covered in deer fur -anthropomorphic animal vibes and not the cartoonish, bright red guy we all know!

☞ You don't need to have read the actual multi chap in order to enjoy and understand this. However, I did keep the rutting/mating season theme. I love it when fictional men act pathetic -and the fact that I'm the one determining that in my silly, not so little, fics.

☞ Lots of horniness and hormones. Pet names. Masturbation and a blowjob, but make it goofy and playful! The reader is full of sass. Alastor is eepy and needy. Pre-established relationship. You're his mate!

🪻

Alastor is a mess.

A mess of sharp edges.

And antlers.

Antlers that bear little nicks along their edges.

His wiry frame is covered in patches of scruffy fur that cling to his body in a disarray. It's a chaotic blend of rough textures and soft tufts. His chest and arms are a map of scars, faint reminders of a past that seems to be trying to hide beneath some of the fluffiest tufts.

His tail is twitching with restless energy.

Somewhere on the upper floors of the hotel, his bedroom is dimly lit, the only source of illumination coming from the radio dial of a fancy antique. Alastor is sitting perched on the edge of his bed, legs spread wide and claws digging into the mattress beneath him. His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths.

The air is heavy with the dizzying scent of his rut.

He lets out a low growl, his usual composure cracked by the haze of primal need that's clouding his mind. His cock is already in his hand, long, throbbing and impossibly hard, with veins pulsing. The fur at its base is damp with sweat and precum. His heavy balls are drawn tight against his body.

Alastor squeezes the base of his cock and the sound that escapes him comes out unbidden, raw and guttural. He can feel it... The unbearable heat coursing through him, a wild and instinctual drive he can't suppress.

He pumps his shaft, slowly and deliberately at first, as he tries to maintain an ounce of control. But his rut isn't something he can just ignore... And soon his pace quickens, his hips bucking into his hand.

"F~ fffuck~" he hisses through gritted teeth, his free hand gripping his thigh -in an attempt to not tear the poor bedding. His thoughts are filled with glimpses of you... The way you tease him with that infuriating smirk, the way your hands feel on his chest, your breath ghosting over his neck.

It only makes things worse.

His cock twitches violently in his hand, precum running down the length in sticky lines. His clawed hand grazes the sensitive skin of his cock head just enough to sting, but the pain only spurs him on more.

"Why now?" he growls, his voice gravelly.

His tail thrashes behind him.

Alastor is imagining you beneath him, your hands exploring every inch of his furred body while your voice whispers filthy encouragements in his ear.

The thought alone sends him over the edge. With a strangled cry, his body tenses, his hips jerking forward as his release spills on his hand in thick, hot ropes. His vision blurs for a moment, the intensity of his orgasm leaving him trembling.

The room is now silent, save for the sound of his ragged breathing. Alastor slumps forward, claw still sticky and cock softening slowly. He grimaces, dragging a hand down his flushed face before letting out a defeated sigh.

"Disgraceful" he mutters to himself -though the shame is only fleeting. The rut isn't done with him yet and he knows it's only a matter of time before the unbearable ache returns.

Had you found him like that... What would have happened?

For now, though, he allows himself a moment of tranquility.

You said it'll only be four days... He can go four days without you, right? Pfft. Sure, he can. That was literally day two.

The morning light filters through opac curtains and the hotel fills with the familiar sounds of its guests going about their day.

Alastor stirs on the couch, his lanky frame sprawled across the cushions, tail twitching lazily. He lets out a small groan, rubbing at his chest absentmindedly.

The Radio Demon is practically draped across the couch like he invented the concept of fatigue. His shirt is half-tucked, the fabric wrinkled like he's been sleeping in it for days. His legs dangle off the arm of the sofa, one hoof idly moving to some rhythm only he can hear. His hair sticks out in every direction, defying both gravity and logic.

That's when he feels it.

"Oh, dear" he mutters, blinking, as he shifts his hips and feels the unyielding pressure against the front of his slacks. His cock, half-hard when he fell asleep, is now achingly stiff...

Alastor gives an exasperated sigh, though it is also tinged with some embarrassment. He shifts his long legs awkwardly, but the motion only heightens the friction, earning an involuntary hiss from him.

"Of all the things to wake up to" he says under his breath, voice carrying its usual cadence despite the situation.

One hand is already slithering near his waist before he thinks better of it... But he decides to resist.

It's no use.

His cock throbs, demanding attention, the weight of his balls adding to the torture. Alastor whines softly, while his tail is moving erratically against the cushions of the couch.

That's the sight you walk in on -Alastor spread on the couch, red-faced and visibly aroused, brows furrowed in sleepy distress. You lean against the doorway, taking a moment to soak in the ridiculousness of it all.

"Well, good morning to you too, sunshine." you begin, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I see you've got a… pressing issue in your hands."

Alastor's head snaps up, his wide eyes widening even more. He had forgotten it was today you were coming back.

"Wha-?!", he struggles to sit up.

You toss a pillow at him. He doesn't dodge -it smacks him in the chest and he groans theatrically, clutching it like it has wounded him mortally.

"Careful!" he pouts, half-lidded eyes gazing at you under messy bangs. "I'm already frightfully weak. Don't make it worse."

You rollyour eyes. "You're always weak when you want something, Al. So spit it out. What do you need?"

Alastor stretches, the movement languid and a bit too purposeful as his shirt rides up, exposing his lean, scarred stomach and the dip of his hip bones.

"Well", he drawls in a tone full of fake innocence, "since you're offering…"

He really is weak.... He hates but simultaneously loves how lust dictates his decisions.

His ears flatten against his head, hands moving to shield himself, though it does little to mask the twitching outline beneath the thin fabric of his slacks.

"Relax." you say, stepping closer with an amused smirk. "It's nothing I haven't seen before. Though, I'll admit… you look particularly needy this morning."

"I- I wasn't expecting company s- so soon again..." he stammers, his usual smoothness nowhere to be found as his tail continues to flick nervously behind him.

You raise a brow, letting your gaze drift deliberately downward.

"Clearly. But hey, I'm here now, so why don't I help you… ease into your morning?"

It's obscene, the way his cock is straining against the fabric like it is fighting to break free. The outline is clear -a fat dick, slightly curved and frankly, too big for him to be this embarrassed about it. His trousers don't stand a chance... The poor button at the top looks like it's holding on for dear life.

"Wow" you observe, crossing your arms. "When you called to say you were 'resting', I didn't realize you meant that. I guess you really were up all night."

His lips part in protest, but the words get caught in his throat when you kneel between his legs, smiling up at him.

"Don't act so shocked... You always do that." you tease, dragging your palms up his hairy thighs. "Y'know Alastor, you look like you could use a hand -or a mouth."

"Y- You are positively scandalous" he manages out, though his voice wavers -probably from the excruciating anticipation for your touch.

"Yeah, yeah" you quip, tugging at the waistband of his slacks. "Now shut up and let me work."

He can't help but make a strangled, static-laced whine at your order.

The moment his cock springs free, it hits his stomach with a thud, the thick shaft flushed and throbbing with need. A soft, furry, happy trail goes down till the base -where his balls rest against the couch, each movement causing them to shift enticingly.

You let out a low whistle, leaning in close. "Well, aren't you a pretty buck."

"This whole ordeal is utterly flawed!"

"Oh, I wouldn't use that word. It's more like an opportunity."

Alastor's right ear twitches at that, his breath ragged. "A- An opportunity for what, exactly?"

Grinning wickedly, you answer. "To see just how needy the great Alastor can get."

Alastor freezes... like a deer caught in headlights, the eternal grin faltering. He shifts his limbs, trying to compose himself, but there's no hiding it -there he is, the Radio Demon, infamous and terrifying… now looking like prey that has wandered into a very compromising situation.

And oh, is it compromising.

Your newly acquainted mate's cheeks flush a deeper crimson, his grin stretching unnaturally wide in a desperate attempt to assert himself. "Ah, well, you see- It's not- !"

"Save it. You're not fooling anyone, stag boy. Look at you... All scruffy and needy... Rocking an erection on your favourite vintage couch."

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I- I assure you, it's entirely… involuntary!"

"Yeah?" you quirk an eyebrow, letting your hand trail up his chest and then back down his stomach, relishing in the feel of his muscles clenching underneath your fingertips.

"Sh- shocking behavior! I- I don't know what you're-"

"Alastor" you cut him off sharply. "Stop talking."

He did.

The trembling demon's shaft isn't just stiff -it's... raging, twitching as if annoyed that it's not already getting attention. And oh, the head. Flushed an angry red, it's bulbous, slick with an impossible amount of precum that's dripping lazily down the sides. It is cartoonishly swollen to say the least.

"Good lord. How can you always wake up like this?"

Alastor squirms, his grin trembling. "I- I am a creature of many talents, my dear!"

His hand grips the armrest of the couch so tightly that the fabric starts to fray.

"Right" you mutter, your fingers finally wrapping around him. The moment you touch him, he lets out a static-filled gasp and the hotel's lights all flicker, his whole body jerking as though he hasn't been touched in centuries. It's been four days.

His cock is hot to the touch. The contrast between the smooth head and the slightly fuzzy base is oddly satisfying under your palm. You give him a little squeeze. He twitches violently in response, tail flicking and ears flattening again.

"Eager, huh?" you tease, stroking slowly. Alastor's sharp teeth clench, his head falling back against the couch as he lets out a broken groan.

"N- nothing like that! I- I'm always prepared!" he babbles, his voice breaking into static again.

"Sure, sure."

That earns you a petulant glare.

The smell of him -something earthy and musky- fills your senses. You let your tongue dart out, licking a stripe along the underside of his cock, slowly, tasting the salty precum that has been pooling at the tip.

Alastor lets out a sound that can only be described as pathetic, his sharp claws scratching the couch (aka the real victim) in a vain attempt to ground himself.

"Prepared?" you mock, your breath falling on his slick glans. "You're shaking like a leaf,u freckled sweetie. I'd say you're anything but prepared."

Alastor whimpers, an uncharacteristic noise for someone so smug. His deer tail is lashing furiously now, the coarse fur of his thighs brushing against you as he shifts in place.

You wrap your lips around him in one swift motion, taking him just far enough to feel the weight of him on your tongue. The ridges along his shaft catch against the wet heat of your mouth as you slide down his length. His claws dig into the couch, again.

He almost chokes... His grown antlers momentarily catch on the backrest. His chest is heaving.

Meanwhile, your lips remain around his hot cock. You hum, the vibration making him jerk so hard he nearly bucks into your mouth. He spills even more precum, coating your tongue.

Pulling back just enough to tease, you let your lips part with a wet pop, his shiny length gleaming.

His ears are still pinned back, his teeth biting into his lip as he struggles -and fails- to suppress a shuddering moan.

You don't wait for him to recover. Instead, you lower your mouth back onto him, taking him even deeper this time. His cock twitches and twitches, the veins pulsing against your tongue as you hollow your cheeks and suck hard.

"Ah- !", static again.

You pause to look up at him, his sweaty and flushed face making you feel oddly proud. Alastor's response to your simple gaze is a little pat on your head. He appreciates what you do, even if it brings him equal amounts of relief and torture.

An incoherent and strangled series of moans leave his open mouth as you work him over with a mix of slow strokes and hard sucks. His legs tense, the fur along his thighs bristling as he teeters on the edge.

"P- Please" he begs, his voice cracking in a way that makes heat pool in your stomach. His usual bravado has vanished completely, leaving him dazed, needy... and utterly at your mercy.

You hum again, the sound sending a shockwave through his body. His cock pulses hard in your mouth and you can feel him getting closer with every ragged breath and broken moan.

You shift your position on the rug slightly, your hand slipping lower to cup his balls. They are heavy and warm in your palm, fuzzy with coarse fur -like the rest of him. You give them a teasing squeeze. Alastor practically yelps, his thighs snapping shut for a moment before falling open again, leaving him vulnerable and exposed to you.

"Sensitive, aren't we?" you comment, rolling them gently between your fingers. His cock twitches violently in response, a bead of precum spilling onto your lips as you kiss the base of his shaft.

Alastor's hands claw at the couch helplessly, his sharp nails ripping the fabric. (🛋️RIP)

"I- I can't take this anymore!", his voice breaks into a high-pitched whine. His antlers clatter against the backrest, as his head tips back, neck taut and exposed.

"Oh, but you can, deer boy" you murmur, your voice sultry. "And you will."

As if spurred by your words, his hips jerk forward, his instincts betraying him. The movement is sudden, sharp and almost frantic, his cock sliding further into your mouth as he begins to rut against your face. His balls slap against your chin with each desperate thrust, their weight a reminder of just how pent-up he truly is when he's in musth.

"G- Goodness gracious, I- ah- oh my~!"

His fur bristles everywhere now -all over his back, his arms and chest- and his ears are spasming.

Static crackles in the air.

You tighten your grip on his base, your free hand moving to steady his hips.

"Easy there, mister buck" you say, pulling back just enough to catch your breath. "Getting ahead of yourself, don't you think?"

"F- forgive me... I really c- can't help it!" he stammers, eyes glazed over with a mix of embarrassment and raw, animalistic need. "You're- you're too good! And frankly, I missed you!"

You chuckle.

Then, you lick a stripe from the base of his cock to the very tip, savoring the way he shudders. "Oh, I know", you say smugly. "Now, be a good little deer and stay still, or I might stop altogether."

The threat makes him whine again, the sound almost pitiful -but he forces himself to stay still. His thighs tremble, the tension in his body visible.

Satisfied with his obedience, you take him back into your mouth, your tongue swirling around his tip before sliding down to the base. His hips twitch despite himself, his cock pulsing hard as you swallow him down.

His breathing grows extremely ragged.

"I- I'm... ah! I'm so close" he chokes out. His balls have drawn up tight against your palm, a telltale sign of his impending orgasm -making you moan around him.

Simply, that's enough.

With a desperate cry, Alastor comes undone, his cock throbbing violently as he spills into your waiting mouth. You swallow it, the salty heat flooding your senses as he slumps against the couch, his body trembling with aftershocks.

When you finally pull back, he is even more of a mess than you found him -his hair disheveled and wet, his chest heaving rapidly and his face flushed with a mix of exertion and satisfaction. You lick your lips, your eyes gleaming with mischief as you look up at him.

"Feeling better, bucko?" you ask, your tone smug but with an undertone of affection.

Alastor's ears rise on top of his head and he gives you a sheepish, toothy smile. "I… suppose you could say that", he admits, still breathless.

You laugh, the sound light.

You stand up and give his lips a peck."Good. You look cute like this... completely wrecked and at my mercy."

"The couch looks worse."

Thank you for reading!🪻

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~ My Hazbin Hotel masterlist ~

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