#What Drugs Can I Take For Premature | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inkedtae · 7 months ago

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the underground ⇾ bgc. [M] | PART I

⎡ In a city fuelled by greed and ambition, secrets are a currency. Yet here you are, gambling yours away on a captivating smile.⎤

PART II ➡︎

⌁ pairing; boxer!chan x curvy!reader (f.)

⌁ genre; boxing au, s2l, angst, smut, 18+

⌁ word count; 14.4k

⌁ summary; You’re just a runner. So why the hell are you straddling the lap of an undefeated boxer, massaging his chest and whispering secrets you have no right knowing? Oh, yeah— ‘cause he’s hot.

⌁ warnings; dark themes: mentions and depictions of graphic gang activity, abduction, possession and distribution of drugs, addictions, use of deadly weapons, violence, blood, gore, and death threats, explicit sex: dom!chan, sub!reader, daddy kink, size kink, multiple orgasms, ruined orgasm, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, rough sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, overstimulation, degradation, dirty talk, handjob, thigh riding, spanking, face slapping (m. receiving), rimming, fingering, edging, manhandling, gun play, anal play, cum play, spit play

⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩

❥ prefer ao3? keep reading here

❥ i want to give special thanks to jen ( @anobodyslove ) for being so patient with me and reading this monster of a fic over! 💕 and @awrkives for the most amazing banner! 💗

❥ and happy birthday to my channie! here's to another year of unhinged love letters. 🐺🖤

❥ okay so i'm moving this fully to tumblr as well as it being available on ao3 HOWEVER the entire fic is over the character limit for tumblr post so this one-shot has been divided into two parts. both parts are uploaded.

!! the following story contains mature themes, including mentions and graphic depictions of racketeering, gang activity, weapons, drugs, violence, blood, gore, and death threats. please do not read nor interact if these themes cause you discomfort !!

Dusk is a medley of tangerine and indigo. Peachy rays of the sun shine between drifting clouds. A quartered shadow of the moon makes a premature appearance. You breathe in the early October air, eyes fluttering shut with the exhale. Clutching onto the balcony’s rickety railing, the rusted metal so cold on your bare hands, you fill your lungs again, taking deep, slow breaths.

The world stops spinning. The muffled music, once pounding against your temples, fades away. Body steady, you sip on the fresh air and swallow away your nausea.

I can do this, you tell yourself. Just one last drop off. I hand it over and leave.

They probably won’t even recognise you. You let your hair grow past your shoulders and dyed it strawberry blonde. You changed your style, trading your baby pink and blue matching sets for muted mixtures of red and black. Fishnets, little gym shorts, a graphic KISS babydoll tee and an oversized, knock-off fur coat you nicked from a local bodega weeks ago, you transformed yourself into someone new.

You turn back to the glass doors now. Catching your reflection, you cringe at the smudged eyeliner and runny nose. You wipe your hands under your eyes and above your lip, sniffling your worries away. You fix your jacket, reapply your dark red lipstick, and frame your hair around your face.

“I can do this,” you mutter as you slide open the door and step back into the party.

You spot Vince by the DJ, Danni and Andrea lingering nearby. Your heart drops to your stomach. They once told you they hated Day-1 parties, yet here they are, taking shots of gin and robbing the entertainment of their equipment. They once told you they loved you too, that they would never leave you behind. All at once, the three of them turned their backs on you, forever haunting your every waking moment.

You push between bodies. Tonight is not about ghosts. You have a debt to settle.

“Name?”

“Don’t be an asshole, Vik.”

Viktor crosses his arms over his chest. “Think this a joke?”

You fight off a smirk. “Nah, that’s not what I think a joke looks like.”

He grits his teeth, tossing you a vulgar gesture before moving aside. “Bitch,” he hisses in your ear as you walk into the master bedroom.

Red lights, smoke, needles. Two topless women dance to the muffled music, bottles in hand. Three Day-1s watch, one with his hand on his crotch. The bed shakes by them, two junkies bouncing on it like children as another Day-1 makes out with their friend.

By the window, two more members stare out to the street.

Exit compromised.

Gagging erupts from the en-suite, coaxing your curiosity. Another topless woman hunches over the toilet. Horny Day-1 members crowd around the entrance, trousers around their ankles as they watch.

You redirect your attention to the table on the far right. Reggie, point-man of tonight’s drop off, sits facing the door. He flashes a toothy grin, racking his gaze over your curves.

Hands remaining by your side, you fight against the instinct to wrap your coat tighter around yourself.

Reggie calls you over with the curl of two fingers, puffing his cigarette smoke out through his nostrils.

“Name?”

“Vinny sent me.”

The three men sitting around him exchange glances.

Taking a drag of his cigarette, Reggie, dressed in a blood speckled undershirt and baggy cargos, sits up in his seat. “Is that what I asked?” He looks around his fellow members, drily chuckling with them before repeating, “Name!”

The rules for runners are very simple; there’s only one— Never state your name. It creates a trail and binds you to an affliction. Rival gangs won’t work with a spy, and your name will be the first they spill if caught. You’re simply a messenger, no different than the guy that delivers the same-day Amazon order, distributing grams of coke and meth instead of a Roomba.

Honour gangs, like Day-1, are tricky, however. They have a second rule:

“Never lie,” Vinny warned.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do then?”

“Figure it out.”

You shift your weight. His insistence on your name, knowing you will risk your safety, is simply a test of will and grit. You purse your lips, flirting your eyes over his all too arrogant, lanky frame, and reply, “Bitch.”

Reggie raises a brow. He stands, reaching a hand behind him.

“That’s what everyone calls me,” you quickly add, then you shoot him a wink. “Fat bitch, if you’re nasty.”

The room stiffens. Even the gags from the bathroom cease. You keep your attention tunnelled on Reggie. You watch as he fixes his shirt over his gun, holding your breath when he rounds the table.

Nearly an arms length away, a smile finally settles on his old face. “Where the hell did Vinny find you?”

You force yourself to return that same easy grin and peel back the lining of your coat. “Be sure to ask him that the next time you see him. I’m on a tight schedule.”

Reggie gestures for his members. You pull out the wrapped bags of crystal and pass them out, ignoring the way his eyes devour your frame.

“Are you handling the cash too, princess?”

You try not to cringe at the pet name. Licking your lips, you keep your features soft and peer at him from your lashes. “Not tonight. Vinny said you know where the drop point is.”

He hums.

You pull your coat back around your body, resisting the urge to recoil under his glutinous gaze. He looks no younger than forty-five, the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes not doing him any favours. Vinny warned you Reggie might get handsy. Under any other circumstance, you would have kicked him in the balls and spat on his face by now. But you’re in Day-1 territory and don’t have a gang of your own for support.

Reggie reaches his hand out. You take a step back.

Before the thrill of your resistance can poison his stare, you flash him a coy smile and playfully whine, “I’m working tonight.”

He nods towards the door, laughing to himself. “Go on then, princess.”

You turn your back to him, unable to force down a gag. Though you’re eager to escape, you keep your steps steady and even. You stride towards the door, knock thrice and shift your weight to make a show of your boredom while waiting for Viktor to respond.

A relieved breath topples out of you once the door shuts. You lean on your knees, shakily trying to catch your breath.

Viktor carefully scans your hunched frame. “You good?” He whispers, voice is strained, carefully void of emotion.

You nod, standing back to your full height.

Hazel eyes lock on you from the bottom of the stairs. Vince furrows his brows. Danni follows his gaze, Andrea already staring, lips moving.

Shit.

They can’t know it’s you, right? From the way Vince merely narrows his eyes, he must simply suspect something.

You turn to face Viktor.

He tosses you a cautious look, muttering, “I can’t help you.”

You know this, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Just tell me if they’re still looking.”

“Yes.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Viktor keeps his features neutral, posture stiff with his hands clasped before him. “They still got a hit on you, yeah?”

You nod.

“You packing?”

“You know I’m not,” you snap.

Non-members are not permitted entrance if carrying a firearm. You left yours with Vinny before running. Shoving your hands in your pockets, all you feel is your phone, lipstick, and switchblade.

“On the move,” he warns.

“Give me your gun.”

Viktor casts you a sidelong glare. “I can’t.”

You sneak a peek over your shoulder to find Vince halfway up the stairs. You see Danni reaching into her pocket, catching the glare of the lights against a blade. They’re in no rush, but if they make it to the landing before you can secure a proper weapon, you’ll be out of options.

“Do you have a knife?” you ask, taking a step back.

Viktor stiffens.

Shit, are they close?

“Last room down the hall,” Viktor mumbles.

You know you shouldn’t have, but fear triggers adrenaline and soon overwhelms your nerves. Panic binds to your bones, snapping tense muscles into action. You bolt— alone, alarmed. Pushing between drunks, jumping over junkies, you hurry to the farthest room and slam the door. It doesn’t have a lock so you tuck a chair under the handle. Rummaging through drawers, digging through the closet, lifting the mattress, you look for a knife, a gun, anything other than a three-inch switchblade to defend yourself.

The door trembles from the pounding of their fists.

“Come on out!” Vince shouts.

“It must be her! She’s always fucking hiding!” Andrea adds. “Get the fuck out here! Have the balls to face what you did, bitch!”

You find yourself warped in a memory—

“No one wants your boyfriend, Danni,” you shouted. “He came onto me.”

Her open palm landed on your cheek.

Tears gathered in your eyes, face stinging. You stumbled back.

“You’re a lying bitch,” she spat. “At least have the decency to face what you did.”

You blink out of your thoughts, dropping the mattress.

Dresser, closet , bed— Where else could a weapon be? You scan the room, heart hammering with every forceful knock of the door.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Reggie asks, voice muffled.

Your attention settles on the window in front of you. You hurry towards it to find the fire escape.

“Viktor, you sneaky fuck,” you whisper through a relieved chuckle. He wasn’t directing you to a weapon but rather an exit.

You quickly push it up, catching rumblings of orders to blow the door open. Up and out, you jump, sparing a second to shut the window behind you. It might be counter-productive to waste precious time on a window but you know that concealing your exits always gives you a head start.

Rushing down the stairs, you don’t look back upon hearing the loud blast of metal on wood. You just catch their commotion over the heavy bass of the music.

Jumping the final steps, you run.

The Underground sits on the corner of Bank and Third Avenue, tucked under a row of red-bricked townhouses. You lean against the wall, stowing yourself away in the alley to catch your breath. Sirens whirl down the street, casting red and blue lights over your sweaty face. A man of very little wealth stumbles by, clothes torn and stained, waving a sign that reads, JESUS LOVES YOU.

You roll your eyes, wondering where the fuck Jesus was when your parents failed you, when the bank repossessed all you had and when the system passed you from house to house.

The thick stench of sewage and rotten trash suddenly sets in, blighting your next inhale. Leaning over, you succumb to a gagging fit. Thankfully, only bile and saliva gather. You cough and spit it out, then wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. An annoyed sigh escapes you at the realisation that you fucked up your lipstick yet again.

“Just some drunken slut.”

You carefully redirect your attention to the far end of the alley. Two men stand a couple of inches apart. One of them wears a grey tracksuit, glaring at you under the light of the backdoor. He has a towel resting around his neck, just over a thin gold chain. Perhaps in his mid-twenties, his relatively handsome twists with contempt. The other one wears an oversized jersey and low-riding jeans. Though dressed like a boxing fan, you can tell by his rigid posture he’s anything but. No one who gambles their mortgage away on Underground matches stands that straight.

And then you catch it, in the glimpse of the light, the flash of his badge nearly slipping out of his pocket. You wish you were surprised, but you know all too well that it’s dirty cops like this legitimising gang activity.

He pulls his pants up, and continues to pace. “Is he gonna throw it or not?”

“He won’t,” Tracksuit replies, looking over his shoulder.

The dirty cop curses.

“You know how Bahng is,” Tracksuit explains. “He’s too prideful. He won’t ruin an undefeated streak for a few thousand.”

“It’s five hundred thousand, Mickey. Did you tell him that? Does he know?”

Mickey nods, readjusting the towel behind his neck. “And I’m telling you he doesn’t think it’s worth it.”

A shiver dances along your spine at the way the cop’s face hardens. Sinister desperation gleams in his gaze and he pulls out a long knife. In a single motion, he shoves Mickey against the wall and presses the blade against his throat.

Mickey chokes back a scream, throwing his hands up in surrender. “W-whoa, Andy! C-Come on, man.”

Andy bears his teeth, quietly laughing to himself. “Do you think this is a fucking joke? Do you know how fucked I am if he wins this match? Day-1s, Ravens, Siphons— they’re all after me, Mick. I have a family— a fucking career.”

“That’s not my pr—”

“Problem?” Andy finishes, his laughter becoming more manic. “You think it’s not your problem? What do you think I told them when I promised that Bahng would lose?”

Mickey’s face drains of colour.

“I told’em Mick with the little dick can fix it for us.”

Tears gather in Mickey’s eyes. He swallows thickly before shakily asking, “Wh-Why would you s-s-say th-at?”

“Come on, everyone knows you have a small—”

“You know what I mean!” He shouts.

Andy applies pressure with his knife. You catch a trail of blood running down Mickey’s throat.

“L-Look,” Mickey starts, screwing his eyes shut, lips quivering. “He’s hard-headed. The only way he’s not w-winning this ma-tch is if s-someone gets to h-him bef-ore he makes it to the r-ring.”

Andy smiles.

“He takes the long way ‘round. He likes the attention, c-can’t resist it, you know?” Mickey continues. “He goes thr-ough the back h-hall to circle the a-arena and enters the c-crowd from the fr-ont.” He takes a second to swallow before continuing, “It-It would be a real sh-shame if someone g-g-got to him before he can m-make it.”

You watch Andy nod.

“What did you do?”

You jump, hand already grappling for your switchblade as you turn to face your assailant.

Vinny glares back at you.

Giving him a shove, you clench your jaw and hiss, “Don’t do that!”

He corrects his stance, hands in his pockets, then spares a look over his shoulder. “Day-1s are blowing my phone up about some blonde bitch. Did you lock yourself in Tatiana’s room?”

You look back to the other end of the alley. Only flies circle under the backdoor’s light.

“Hey!” Vinny hisses, forcing your attention back to him. “Are you listening?”

“It wasn’t me,” you lie.

He deadpans. “You’re the only bitch I know who has a score to settle with Vince.”

You avert your gaze.

“What happened?” He repeats. This time his voice is less accusatory.

You’ve known Alvin “Vinny” Tucker since you were sixteen. He lived in the apartment above yours and later became your foster brother. You dropped out of high school together a couple months later to sell bootleg Marvel movies on Sixth Street. He really wanted to see Madonna in concert and promised you a front row seat with him if you helped. He was recruited by the Sixers around the time your foster mom came to collect you off the street and force you back to school. He told her where you were, you later found out, to spare you the violence the Sixers had in store for you. He never said it was a debt, though you did feel like you owed him something.

Things changed when Vince set a hit on you. Your description and name were on the radar of every gang, the reward being the acquisition of new territory. The left port is the most sought after piece of land, currently managed by Vince’s father, Vincent Jones Senior. Anyone able to deliver you back to your ex-friends alive suddenly has access to the docks and a monopoly on shipments.

With nowhere else to go, you turned to Vinny. He called Viktor, cashing in a favour, and got to work. The dyed hair, new wardrobe, change of address, it was all done in a matter of hours. And all you had to do was run, hand over the rocks and not attract attention— the goal was simple.

“So how the fuck did you manage to screw that up too?”

“I told you that it wasn’t me!”

“Say that again and I will lose my shit.”

“They can’t prove it was me, okay? Tell Day-1 Vince is paranoid. Run them my old description. Tell them he’s desperate. Let him clean that mess up himself,” you reply, rubbing your temples. “It’s not that fucking hard, Vin.”

You could use a hot bath right now. All you want to do is scrub off the stench of the alley and chaos of the night. For someone who swears he doesn’t want you, Vince took one look in your eyes and knew it was you. He always acted strange but you just thought he was being friendly. It wasn’t until he was rubbing your thigh between shots and rounds of cards that you realised he wanted more than friendship.

You cringe at the memory, pulling your coat tighter around your body, and push past Vinny.

He grabs your arm, yanking you back to face him. “Not that hard? Jesus, you’d think there isn’t a bounty on your head,” he hisses. “You need to be more careful, alright? This is my life too!”

Guilt gathers bile at the base of your throat. You let out a shaky breath, redirecting your gaze to the floor. “I-I know,” you mumble. “I’m sorry, okay? I just—”

Vinny grasps onto your biceps, lowering himself to meet your remorseful gaze. “You can’t panic like that,” he reminds, cutting you off. “The guilty don’t run. You know this.”

“I’m sorry.”

You hate the shakiness of your voice, the admittance of guilt. It’s fucking Vince and Danni and Andrea, the same fucking people that swore they were there for you. It’s their fault everything is falling apart. You’ve known Danni for five years, Andrea for three and both of them just believed Vince when he told them that you were hitting on him, even going as far as kissing him. Had they always suspected you to be a conniving whore, the type of malicious bitch that would risk five years of friendship, of real connection over some guy?

And you were too nice to him— a mistake that now could cost your life.

Vinny releases you with a defeated sigh, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“Let me walk you home,” he offers, shoving his hands back into his pockets.

You nod and hug your coat tighter against your body.

He nods towards the entrance of The Underground. “After the match,” he promises. “Sixers have a bet to place.”

Bracing yourself, you follow him down the steps. “Against Bahng?”

“Boxing fan?” he half-jokingly asks, tossing you a confused look over his shoulder.

You shrug your reply.

The main hall smells of sweat and beer. One side holds five queues for refreshments and ticketing, while the other fosters chaos. Men clutching cash and shouting names crowd around the betting stands. Security struggles to keep them in line. Loud rap music plays over the looped announcement of tonight’s opponents — AIDEN MATTHEWS VERSUS CHRISTOPHER BAHNG. You watch their names flash over the screens, pictures of both boxers on either side of the doors. While Aiden is actively fit, muscles and abs on display, Christopher is the embodiment of perfect physique. Muscles defined, shoulders broad, chest puffed out, abs tight and chiselled, he stands with the grace of Adonis himself. Tall, confident, he leers over spectators through the screen with a cold-cutting glare.

Your knees almost buckle.

“It is the clash of titans! Reigning champion, Aiden Matthews, against the undefeated, the unstoppable, the undeniable, Christopher Bahng,” the announcer enthuses over the intercom before urging the audience to lock in their bets.

The only titan you see is Christopher, trailing your gaze up and down his televised body.

“You’re drooling,” Vinny teases.

You turn to cast him a sidelong glare to find he’s no longer by your side. His red beanie bobs in the crowd, through the doors and further into the arena.

“Vinny!” you call, trying to push your way through.

The crowd pushes back, almost throwing you against the wall. You curse under your breath, realising you might have to wait until the match starts to navigate through the arena.

Isn’t there a back hall that circles around, though? You recall Mickey’s words, scanning the crowd for that red beanie again. It still sits atop Vinny’s head by the ring on the other side of the arena. You look for a nearby door or access-point, finding a guarded door to his far left. If you can find the entrance on your end, you can skip through the large crowd and get to him easily.

You survey your surroundings. Another security guard stands before a door to your right. Pushing through the gamblers again and again, you force your way towards him.

“Authorised personnel only,” he gruffly informs.

“I-um—”

“You need to move, miss.” he cuts you off with a pointed look.

“I’m here to see Bahng,” you lie, letting your jacket drop off one of your shoulders.

He raises a brow. “Who commissioned you?”

“Mickey,” you reply before you can stop yourself.

There is much honour among gangs, this Vinny always makes sure you know. He always warns you against dishonesty, especially to certain gang members, since you have no affiliation of your own. But it’s just so easy when you have the right information and you like the way lies just happen to roll off your tongue, effortless and oh-so convincing.

The guard nods, much to your concealed surprise. “Just his type,” you swear you hear him grumble as he opens the door for you.

Hiding a smile, you make your way in without another word.

The back hall is dimly lit. The click of the door echos. Medleys of muffled bass and roaring fans only just seep through and bounce off the brick walls. You adjust your jacket on your shoulders and follow the turns of the hall.

DING!

You jolt, cinching a yelp at the base of your throat. Hastily, you dig into your pocket for your phone.

Vinny: where r u?

You: be there soon

“Lost?”

You look up at the sound of an Australian accent. To your left is an open door of a dressing room, casting a bright spotlight on you amidst the dark hallway. You put your phone away and take quick note of the bodies around the room. Mickey stands by some weights in the corner, eyes narrowing. A handful of medical professionals assess their equipment, rummaging through their kits and looking over clipboards just across from him. By the punching bag, right in front of a wall of mirrors, a couple of men, one with long, icy blonde hair and the other a short midnight black, evaluate your presence.

And there, in the centre of it all, stands Christopher Bahng. Jawline sharp, nose large and lips plush, those big brown eyes soften. You recall the way they were once glaring at his opponent on the screen, wondering what the hell it is about you that makes him opt for a gentler approach. Wrapping boxing tape around his hand, he approaches you.

“Can I help you find something, darling?”

The pet name sounds so casual, so natural, you wouldn’t have guessed that you just met. Your posture relaxes, coat falling off your frame, held up only by your arms. There is a softness in his deep voice that nurtures something forgotten deep within your soul. You feel it- whatever it is- sprout roots in your gut.

Searching his eyes, the cursed word escapes within a breath— “You.”

He smirks.

Does this happen often? Does everyone simply fawn over him?

He smells of leather and vanilla, towering over you. His minty breath fans your face. He rubs his thumb under your lip, cleaning up the smudged lipstick from your chin.

You lean into his touch.

“You’re early!” Mickey shouts from his place in the back. “Sister Maria knows you’re needed after the match.”

Sister Maria can fuck herself, you think. She has tried and failed to recruit you one too many times. Though, if you had known that her clientele was anything like Bahng, you might have reconsidered.

Looking at him now, you can confirm that those screens barely did him any justice. He’s big. It’s no wonder he’s undefeated, the sheer size of him dominating enough. He barely even has a scratch on him, just a couple of cuts on his perfect cheekbones and a bruise that is well on its way to being fully healed, along his jaw. You resist the urge to trace the length of his shoulders, or the ridges of his abs all while leaning in to kiss his wounds away.

Instead, you swallow thickly and nod, “Yes, I-I just got confused.”

Bahng curls a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s okay, darling,” he smiles.

You bite back a moan. God, when did you get this pathetic? So what if he’s hot, and sweet, and beautiful, and huge, and—

“You can wait in here for me,” he nods back into his dressing room. “I won’t be too long.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks. He flashes a cocky grin, knowingly gazing down at you. He really is prideful, a bit arrogant too, but you’re not quite sure it’s misplaced. Undefeated in the ring, the only chance anyone has at beating him is by planning an ambush before a match .

Shit.

Your eyes flicker to Mickey. He’s going to kill him. In a matter of minutes, Bahng and his team will circle the arena to enter the ring and get intercepted. And for what? A fucking paycheque?

You shift your weight.

“No!” you shout, starling the room.

All eyes snap to you.

What? You mentally scold. I can’t just shout ‘No’ and expect the entire fucking shit-show to be called off.

Bahng raises his brows. A smile plays on his lips and he lets a chuckle slip. “That needy?” he teases.

Fuck, he’s insufferable… You need to ride him.

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you force yourself to concede, “Mhm.” You grasp the waistband of his crimson silk shorts and tug him closer. He lets you, pressing himself against your stomach.

A trembling breath slips.

He holds back a chuckle.

Say something, your mind shouts.

“Fuck me.”

Not that!

He cups your face. The way you instantly melt into his hands is truly pitiful, your chest raging with humiliation. But then his lips meet yours and those roots that grew deep in your gut begin to blossom up through your rib cage and around your lungs. Absolute serenity blinds whatever contempt took purchase in your chest. You try to grapple onto that anger, that disdain, finding this sudden light feeling much too foreign.

But just as his lips cradle yours, this incomparable feeling of pure contentment soothes your panicked instincts. And it’s as though those roots, those branches that sprouted around your lungs, bloom petals of… Acceptance? Approval?

The feeling of his hands trailing down your spine ground you back to him. You wrap your arms around his neck. Cheek by cheek, he cups your rear and squeezes, pushing your hips up into his.

You moan, the muffled sound so frail. His tongue slips through and, for a boxer, he doesn’t put up much of a fight. He lets you take the lead, following your tongue round and round until you release another fraught groan.

And then he’s torn away.

Mickey stands between the two of you. He shoots you a nasty look before pushing Bahng back into the room. You can tell Bahng allows the meek force of his coach to overtake him, lazily stepping back.

The ease of his movements is not what arrests your thoughts, however. It’s the mess of red lipstick around his mouth, of which he makes no effort to remove.

“… and I’ll say it again!” Mickey shouts, his voice finally registering. “No sex before a match!”

You blink your attention off Bahng as Mickey moves to shut the door in your face.

“Let her in,” Bahng orders.

Mickey turns to give him a look. “She’s a distraction.”

You catch Bahng walking towards the weights along the back brick-exposed wall, effectively ignoring Mickey’s protests. “Don’t make me come over there, Mick,” he playfully warns, taking a seat on an inclined workout bench, “Let my girl in.”

You’re in the midst of wondering whether he’s merely his coach, a friend, or both when his final words set in. You hold onto the door frame to keep from falling over. His girl? You’d turn yourself in, confronting Vince, just to hear those words in that Australian accent again.

“You commissioned her for me, didn’t you?”

Right, you think to yourself as you will strength back to your legs. You’re his sex worker. This is nothing personal.

You roll your shoulders back and adjust your stance, channelling bored seduction, as Mickey begrudgingly opens the door.

Bahng calls you over with a nod. He has heavy weights in each hand, curling slow reps.

You lick your lips and force one foot before the other. But his biceps are flushed, flexing with every lift. You can’t help gawking, bouncing your attention from arm to arm, and almost run into one of his men.

“Jacket,” Midnight-hair says, positioning himself between you and Bahng with an outstretched hand.

While there isn’t anything of value left in your jacket, you know that if they find the lining is removable, your cover will be blown. You cannot deny them it either, especially if you want to get close enough to warn Bahng.

So you slowly peel the jacket off, sticking out your chest in hopes of distracting Midnight-hair. He keeps his eyes trained on you, gaze hardening as if he is struggling to commit to his choice. From the corner of your eye, you see Icy-hair push himself off the wall to carefully watch. If they refuse to get lost in your show, you’ll have to switch gears. In one swift motion, you whip the jacket off and roll it to a ball.

Midnight-hair glares. He unfolds the jacket as soon as he takes it– a detail you should have anticipated. Rummaging through your pockets, he announces, “Switchblade, lipstick, phon—”

You freeze.

Though it is quick, occurring in a blink of an eye, you know he sees it, cutting himself off at the realisation.

The lining flaps open.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shi—

“Hang it by the door, Seungmin,” Bahng orders.

You meet his gaze. That easy playfulness that once danced within it, now dims into calculated intrigue. You spare a quick glance at Mickey. A relieved breath escapes at the sight of him muttering into his phone, alone in the corner.

Looking back at Bahng, you finally see it. There, sprayed on the back wall in black and silver paint, is a three pointed crown. In the middle, drawn with jagged, lazy lines, are three letters— SKZ.

Of all the fucking gangs.

Stray Kids, speculated to have immigrated from Australia or Korea, have slashed their way to the top of the city’s food chain. The chambering of a round— chk chk boom — shoot first and ask questions later. It’s how they’re known. Notorious for money laundering, drug trafficking, vandalism, extortion, arson, street racing, they’ve swept the city up from the coast to the police department. You’ve witnessed gangs fall silent at their mention, caught the way they would take hold of their weapon.

While there have been whispers about the members, the leader remains faceless. Vinny once informed you that no organisation can become this connected without someone calling the shots. At the time, you wondered if that was the most terrifying thing about them— how unknown they really are.

Staring at Bahng now, white canines on display behind a wicked grin, you realise that his leader’s anonymity is futile compared to the intimidation of their members. It’s their silent power, the ease in which they can rattle bones with a single look, perhaps even crack them with a single blow. You are not sure who Christopher Bahng is to Stray Kids— the muscle, the brains, some money pawn as they infiltrate the underground boxing scene, but you know he is dangerous.

Arousal dampens your shorts.

“Take a seat, darling,” he purrs.

He’s lethal, and your lies are unravelling. If you are going to make it out of here alive, you must reassess your information. You inhale deeply, filling your lungs with wavering courage, and move towards Bahng.

Step.

Mickey is a rat.

Step.

This is Stray Kids territory.

Step.

Bahng knows you are not a sex worker.

Step.

Exits are compromised, Icy-hair now standing at the door.

Step.

Your life is now in the hands of an unrivalled boxer.

Bahng nods down to his lap. You carefully straddle it when it dawns on you— His life is in your hands too.

Half-hard, his cock pokes at the clothed apex of your thighs. Your lips quiver as you try to fight back a pathetic whine.

“My pecs tend to ache after working out,” Bahng sighs, continuing his reps. “Won’t you be a doll and massage them for me?”

You don’t need to be told twice, shifting yourself closer.

His jaw sets at the gesture.

Pecs of pure muscle, big and tight, you take a moment to gawk. They extend beyond the span of your palms, pale skin flushed under your touch. He’s sweaty but cold, nipples hard. You hold his gaze and kneed the heel of your hands into his chest. Again and again, you apply gentle pressure, watching as his brows furrow, large nose scrunches and full lips curl into a pleased sneer.

He hisses between breathless gasps. You resist the urge to catch another kiss at the sound.

“How does that feel?” you ask in a whisper.

Bahng sets his weights down. You notice Seungmin straightening his stance in the corner of your eye. Though your hands start to tremble, you continue massaging, knowing sudden movements might trigger a bullet.

Hands on your waist, he pulls you closer into him. “Have you done this before?”

You shake your head.

“Don’t do much massaging in your… line of work?”

You mentally curse. He knows you’re a runner.

“This is not the body part most people want massaged.” You try but cannot keep your lip from slightly curving, the thought of servicing him on your knees all too captivating.

He presses his fingers into your skin and parts his lips. You can tell from the force of his grip and shape of his mouth what he’s about to ask.

Sparing a quick glance at Mickey, you find he is still tied to his phone, muttering quietly into the receiver.

But then he catches your eye.

“Who—”

You throw your body over Bahng’s, exaggerating the force with a whip of your hair and a loud, erotic yelp to cut him off. You wrap your arms around his neck, press your lips to his ears and whisper, “Mickey is a traitor.”

While he originally hugged your waist to keep you from falling, Bahng now stiffens.

“Alright, whore,” Mickey shouts. “Get the fuck out!”

You spot him stomping towards you through the mirror. The collided image of your body intertwined with Bahng’s then overwhelms your attention. You have never felt small a single moment in your life, yet in his arms, you are minuscule. Your body relaxes into his, despite the chaos that ensues around you.

“…a fucking distraction, Chris,” Mickey argues. “You can fuck her after the fight.”

Chris. You like the sound of that, can see yourself moaning it as you bounce on his cock. You clench at the thought.

“Go back to your little corner, Mick,” Chris nods. “Don’t interrupt us again.”

“You want to win, don’t you?”

You can’t hold back your scoff. You can see the room stiffen at the sound through the mirrors. Peeling yourself from Chris’s strong frame, you fake a string staggered cough. The physicians ignore you, Mickey dismisses you, but Chris and his other friends remain observing, analysing.

“I’ve fucked plenty o’bitches before a match,” Chris confesses, flashing a smile so dazzling you almost abandon the jealousy that plagues your chest. “I always win.”

Mickey looks between your tangled bodies. His jaw sets, throat bobs. He wipes his face with the towel around his neck and forces a smile. It doesn’t meet his eyes, but it’s the thin scab on his neck that leaves you queasy.

Chris’s legs bounce beneath you, beckoning your attention. You grip onto his shoulder to maintain your balance as you meet his gaze. Wetness pools at the sight of his mischievous eyes. He peers at you under his brows, quirking one at your enamoured silence.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

What if you just kissed him again? How would he let it go? Knowing you lied and now leveraging information, would he be outraged if you closed the distance between you and played with his tongue? You know he enjoyed himself from the grip he had on your ass alone, not to mention the bulge pressing against your stomach.

You lean forward, leaving one of your hands rested on his shoulder, and brush your nose against his. He remains still, letting his gaze fall to watch your lips. While oh-so tempting, you don’t press them to his. Instead, you knead into his pectoral muscles deeper with your other hand, pushing into his skin with the heel of your palm. You’ve made sure to angle your head towards the mirror to gauge the distance of the other bodies in the room— particularly Mickey’s. Back in his “little corner,” he resumes his phone call.

Chris’s soft groan redirects your gaze to his features, contorted in relieved pleasure. Is he really tense or is it simply your touch?

Seungmin clears his throat from his place in front of the mirrors.

Chris shoots him a warning stare before offering you a softer version of one too. “Tell me what you know, runner,” he orders, voice quiet but full of command.

“I know he came to you with an offer to fix the fight,” you reply, keeping an eye on Mickey’s pacing frame. “I know you declined.”

His hands find a comfortable place on your thighs, and begin to glide up and down, soft and slow. Calloused, bandaged in boxer’s tape, they somehow provide tender care. You relax into him once again, resting your forehead against his.

“I know Mickey sold you out. I know he cut a deal to save himself and they’re coming for you.”

“Who?”

You nudge his nose with a shake of your head.

A ghost of a smile hovers over his plump lips at the gesture. He breathes half a chuckle and presses his fingers into the fat of your thighs, between the diamonds of your fishnets.

“You don’t know?” he practically coos. “Did you happen to catch a name, little one?”

Your attempts at pressing your legs together are pathetic. Instead of subtly easing your clenching desire, you squeeze his sides with your knees. Blood rushes to your face, heating your cheeks.

Chris lets that smug smile settle on his lips, tonguing his cheek. “Yeah,” he chuckles, “You like it when I call you that?”

“I like it when you talk to me like that,” you stupidly confess. You switch sides before he can reply, turning away from the mirrors to face Mickey’s corner, and kneed his other pec with just as much pressure, perhaps adding a bit more to combat your embarrassment.

He allows you, leaning back and watching.

He’s so patient, you fondly think, avoiding his gaze. Won’t he let you suck him before his fight? Even allowing you a little taste would suffice. Swallowing, you cannot stop thinking how empty your throat is, how wonderfully agonising it would be to try to accommodate him.

You spare a sidelong glance at Mickey, snapping yourself out your lustful yearning long enough to ensure you aren’t being overheard. When you find he is tapping away on his phone, you press your lips to Chris’s ear and whisper, “Andy.”

Chris continues rubbing your legs, asking, “What do you know about him?”

“I think he’s a cop.”

“You think?”

“He never said it.”

“So how do you know?”

You force your hips to remain still even as goosebumps rise in the wake of his risky touch, inching closer and closer to the apex of your thighs.

“His posture, he said something about his career being on the line, and I think I saw a badge. I just–” you pause to swallow the excess saliva gathering in your mouth. He’s barely even touched you and you’re already drooling. “I just connected the dots.”

Chris hums.

You lean back to get a better look at his face. His features are compressed in thought, brows knitted and eyes uncertain. Your hand has a mind of its own, abandoning its task on his chest to comb your fingers through his dark hair. Leisurely, he meets your gaze, even leans into your touch. You graze his scalp with your long nails, soft and slow.

You have had sexual partners. You have allowed your lust to cloud your judgement, tossed back drinks and spread your legs quite a few times between parties and side-jobs. But you have never been able to hold someone down, however. You have never been able to consistently see the same person over and over or even call them yours.

Here is Christopher Bahng— undefeated boxing champion, the best The Underground has seen. Sitting beneath you, erection pushing against your clothed crotch, he contently sighs. His hands move up to your hips, rubbing, soothing, adoring the shape of your curves and rolls. And his gaze gleams with admiration, bouncing around your features as if looking for a flaw.

You allow yourself to forget the world, the distant chants of fans and gamblers alike eager for the show to start. You forget the bounty on your head, your ex-friends, Vinny, Viktor, Seungmin lingering around the door with Icy-hair, Mickey texting in his sad little corner. You forget who’s territory this is and the title of the man sitting under you. You allow yourself to isolate this tender moment and pretend that Christopher Bahng is yours.

Your man, your protector, your love. He’d crush skulls between his fist and snap spines over his knee. He’d make sure you’d never have to run again. He’d make sure you’d never have to fear for your life. He’d hold you when you’re tired, and carry you to bed when you’re too lazy to make the trip yourself.

You wonder what that’s like— Love. You remember your mother once said something about it when you asked about your father.

“Love is a lie men created to seduce women,” she said while heating the bottom of her spoon. “Any man telling you otherwise is just desperate to fuck you.”

You mentally roll your eyes. You also remember instantly regretting your mention of it. You were about eight years old when she shared that nugget of knowledge. She then wrapped the conversation up by telling you the heroin she was preparing was her “special medicine” and you shouldn’t, under any circumstance, touch it when she passes out.

If that’s not motherly instincts, you’re not sure what is.

“How can I trust you?” Chris asks, lulling you out of your thoughts.

You make sure Mickey is still preoccupied with his phone before joking, “The word of a whore isn’t worth much anymore, is it?”

He cracks half a smile before leaning his head away from your touch. You take the hint, retracting your hand from his hair.

“You’re not a whore,” he states, voice gruff but quiet.

You swallow thickly. “I could be.”

“Yeah?” He quirks a brow. “Tell me what you’d do right now if you could.”

You wonder how honest you should be. Vinny always said that lying would get you killed, but you have an audience. Looking over your shoulder, you find Seungmin alone by the door. Icy-hair must have left when you let your delusions engulf you earlier. The physicians are desperately trying to look busy, sneaking glances at your proximity with their client. Everyone, save for Mickey who seems the most peeved by your presence, is already uncomfortable by your position on his lap.

How dangerous could the truth really be?

Meeting Chris’s playful stare again, you rest your hands on his tight abs and let a shy smile tug on your lips. “I would ride your thigh,” you confess. When he raises his brows, a surprised smirk gracing his lips, you explain, “They’re just so big and strong. I’m just curious to know what it would feel like on my clit.”

The transparent vulgarity of your confession dries your throat. Your chest heats, humiliation trembling your fingers. You part your lips, wishing you can take it back. But your voice fails you, as if standing firm with your statements.

“Interesting,” he muses. “Do it.”

You clear your throat, furrowing your brows. “What?”

“You want me to trust your word?” he asks.

He lets his hands fall to his sides. Your legs suddenly feel so cold.

“In—” you cut yourself off, taking another quick look around the room. “In front of everyone?”

He shrugs. “You told me you would do it.”

You projected two outcomes the moment they discovered you’re a runner and you decided to exchange information for your life.

One — You get laughed at and kicked out of the establishment.

Two — Chk chk boom.

You might have hoped that Chris considered fucking you before discarding you to the streets, wishful for a good orgasm or two. But you did not expect him to order you to grind on his leg in front of his team.

“Match starts in five,” Mickey announces.

While you turn to acknowledge the warning, Chris keeps his attention on you.

“It starts when I say so,” he replies.

Mickey grumbles profanities under his breath before turning back to his phone. You start to wonder what the fuck has held his focus all night when Chris cups your chin, forcing your gaze back on him.

“I’m beginning to lose my patience, darling,” he warns. “You’re either telling the truth or you’re not.”

You lick your lips. Of all the things you thought your life would depend on, you did not think it would be an orgasm.

Inhaling deeply, you adjust your stance and straddle his thigh. Your lips tremble at the sheer strength of his leg, so tense and taut under your wet shorts. You couldn’t have been more thankful for laundry day and the lack of clean panties available. With nothing but your tiny gym shorts between your crotch and his leg, you can feel every mighty muscle.

You notice movement in the mirror from the corner of your eye. One glance and you find Seungmin has turned to face the door. How often has Chris played with a whore in front of his friends? You clench your jaw as envy pesters your heart. What the fuck did those other girls have that you don’t? Why did he pick them? Why—

“Look at me.”

You obey, meeting his pacifying gaze. He curls your hair behind your ears, the gesture gentle and genuine.

You suck in your bottom lip, eyes wide as jealousy transforms into wonder. He may have picked others before you, but he chose to let you in now. He had a chance to turn you away and he fought to have you in this specific position, all to himself. And maybe he wants others to know that. Or maybe he really does have a fucked up way of verifying his sources. What matters is this time, it is you. And you’ll be damned if you don’t take advantage of that.

Hands on his stomach, fingers sliding between the ridges of his abs, you thrust. The first jut of friction is tentative. Hiccups of pleasure spark from your bundle of nerves and you wobble over his leg. Chris grabs your waist simply to steady you, and retracts once you regain your balance.

You continue, jaw dropping at the constant surge of satisfaction. Wetness gathers and stains your shorts, making the glide of your hips all the more effortless. One look in his eyes, and you know Chris feels it too. However, that wicked smile of his does not overwhelm his features until you moan.

Strained, frail, the sound cuts over the ruckus of the physicians. The room falls silent as you ground yourself hard against his thigh and release another fraught moan of pure enjoyment. Your hands travel higher on his chest, and you lean forward into him, keen to gain more leverage to arch your back.

Chris catches onto your intentions, his attention all too consumed by the curves of your rear. He grabs your waistband and pulls on it, tightening the fabric to sharpen the friction of the thrusts.

“Fuck!” Your voice breaks from bliss, orgasm already festering in the base of your gut.

It’s all too hot. Face, arms, legs, your skin burns, blood racing, nerves jittering. You need everything off. You need his skin on yours, his body engulfing you with more pleasure, more attention.

Lips quivering, breaths shaky, you sit back. You continue to chase your high while grabbing the hem of your shirt and pulling it off. Your hips don’t miss a beat as you reach back to unclasp your lace bra in a few simple manoeuvres and toss it aside as well.

Chris lowly groans. His eyes flicker between each bouncing breast, hands finally finding their rightful place on your backside. He digs his fingers into the fat of your cheeks and helps you with your final few thrusts.

“Can you go a little faster for me?”

You enthusiastically oblige.

A powerful smack, landing on your left cheek, triggers your most erotic moan, voice laden with submission. He issues another on your right and you whine this time, squeaky and breathless.

Chris leans forward so your breasts bounce against his face. He doesn’t bury his face between them however, eager to watch your face eventually contort in ecstasy.

“Good girl,” he praises. “That’s right, keep looking at me.”

Twisting and turning, your arousal gathers.

“You’re doing so well, riding my thigh just like you promised, yeah?”

His voice is condescending, almost making a mockery of your whimpering. He even momentarily mirrors your rounded eyes and slightly pouty lips, looking up at you tauntingly. So why does it fuel your desire, motivate your hips?

You nod, despite your humiliation, voice whiny as you confess, “I’d do it again too.”

A growl of approval resonates from his chest and into yours. He kneads your cheeks, letting a deep groan of his own escape and collide with yours.

“That’s my good girl,” he affirms. “Don’t stop, darling. You’re almost there.”

Your toes curl, tight in your platform boots. Your eyes roll back, twitching when you throw your head back. Your jaw drops, a loud, shattered moan escaping. You cum between sporadically clenching, pathetically gyrating on his firm thigh.

Chris holds you still, mumbling quiet affirmations between your breasts. He presses wet kisses on each one, pulling you back into him. Draping your arms around his shoulders, you fall limp against him. He moans from his smothered place in the valley of your breasts and rubs soothing circles around your backside.

Head foggy, chest heaving, you let your eyes flutter shut. You know you won’t be staying here for long, either meeting the barrel of his gun or the side of the street. There’s no harm in soaking in this moment then, is there? You pretend he is your boyfriend, issuing tender aftercare as you attempt to collect your sanity. You don’t have to try so hard to keep up the delusion with the way he delicately wraps you in a warm hug and comforts your hammering heart with his lips. He peppers kisses up your collarbone, neck, then jaw before meeting the shell of your ear.

“You know you’re really pretty when you’re cumming,” he teases. “Does your right eye always twitch like that? Or was that just for me?”

You open your eyes, squinting against the brightness of the room. Nuzzling the bridge of your nose under his jawline, you whisper, “Do you really need more convincing, Chris?”

You like the way his name rolls off your tongue.

The widening grin on his face tells you he likes it too. “I might,” he replies.

You tell yourself that it just slips, but you’re only lying again. You just want him to know. You want him to imagine you when he jerks off later, when he pounds that traitor to a bloody pulp, when he’s standing in the ring and winning his fight. You want him to be thankful for your presence tonight. You want him to repeat it over and over, to tell his friends about you.

So, shifting back enough to whisper in his ear, you offer your name.

Chris moves back to meet your gaze. He scans your features, his own a blanket of neutrality.

The weight of your action does not settle upon your shoulders until his eyes meet yours again, and you realise you cannot decipher them. Swallowing thickly, you blink back tears. How could you say that? Vinny just warned you against being this reckless. Your new image is tied to him too. You’ve been running around town, disturbing drugs on his behalf or Viktor’s. And you just offer your name, for what? A second of appreciation from a pretty face?

It’s my life too, Vinny’s voice quietly returns. He reminded you of that not even half an hour ago. Why the fuck would you tell some Stray Kids member your darkest secret? Why would you gamble the lives of your only remaining friends?

“I’m—”

Chris cuts you off with a shake of his head. So, you swallow your words.

He reaches for your shirt and helps you put it on. You don’t have the courage to tell him he forgot your bra. He then gestures for you to stand, and fixes your ruined shorts so they’re not riding up anymore. You watch as he studies the damp spot and clenches his jaw to force back a smile.

“Seungmin,” he calls, standing up and towering over you again.

You wonder how tall he is but know better than to ask now.

Seungmin reports to Chris’s side. Chris nods to your fur coat, “Grab it and escort her to the stands.”

“You’r—”

“Now,” he reaffirms, cutting you off again.

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you accept your coat and follow Seungmin out. You shouldn’t have, but you sneak a glance at the mirror eager to catch his reflection one last time.

Chris’s features harden as he faces Mickey. His fists clench.

Mickey stiffens, all previous irritation dissolving into fear.

The door shuts.

Waves of painted faces and torsos, endless banners, and flashing lights— the arena succumbs to insanity. Roars of chants echo upon the ring announcer’s behest. The thick stench of sweat and spilled beer is what overwhelms you, however. Scrunching your nose in disgust, you try to swallow your nausea.

You wonder how anyone here can stand it, turning back to take a final look at Seungmin. He stands at the doorway, arms crossed, gaze lingering around your rear. His ears flame a hot pink at the realisation he’d been caught.

A lazy smirk plays on your lips. He didn’t get a good enough look before?

Seungmin mutters something to the security guard stationed at the door then hurries back into the hall. You wonder if the guard is a Stray Kids member too. Is the ring announcer? What about the employees behind the stands? Or do they simply work for the gang?

“Runner!” Vinny’s voice cuts through the crowd. You turn at the call of your position, finding him standing on his seat and waving you over.

A relieved smile spreads across your lips. He meets you halfway as you push between rowdy spectators. He takes your hand firmly in his and leads you back to your seats.

“Where the hell were you?” He asks over the commotion.

“It’s complicated.”

Vinny’s face darkens with scepticism. “What the fuck did—”

“Who did you bet on?”

He clenches his jaw. “Matthews,” he practically screams.

So the Sixers are in on it too. You wonder if the gangs are onto Chris, knowing he might be affiliated with Stray Kids, and are working together to bring them down.

“Change it.”

“The bell rings in less than a minute,” Vinny shouts before looking over his shoulder to the front doors. He meets your gaze, uncertainty flooding those cerulean eyes, and mouths, It’s fixed.

You shake your head.

Vinny rolls his eyes shut, teeth grinding. He swallows his anger, knowing he cannot hurl insults right now with such an audience. Unlike you, he knows better than to call attention to himself. Exhaling sharply, he harshly holds your gaze and parts his lips.

Profanities? Threats? You expect both, bracing yourself with a clench of your fists.

But Vinny merely shakes his head in disappointment. He pulls out his phone and begins dialling. While waiting for someone to pick up, he yells, “If I die, I’m going to kill you!”

You suppress a smile and stifle the urge to respond with a joke. You fear you might have reached his limit. You’ve dragged him into your dark vortex of despair, endangering his life again and again. You should reach out to him now, pull him into a tight hug and offer endless apologies. You should have taken the chance he gave you when he called your foster mom, and stayed off the streets. You should have finished high school, applied for colleges outside of the wretched city of Crimson Heights, and never looked back. Instead, you continue to test his patience.

Side-jobs were simply more lucrative. You have a talent for blending in too, a permanent look of indifference plastered on your face. No one ever suspects some girl, twirling a joint between her fingers, to be running or organising hits on corner stores and local diners.

The first time you held a gun, power ignited through your veins. You carried the weight of life within a bullet, finger teasing the trigger. The first time you pointed it at some store clerk, black ski mask over your face and tongue swirling around a pink lollipop, you felt that stone cold power of metal and powder snake along your spine and caress the nape of your neck.

You rolled your shoulders back, angled your head and smirked.

The clerk soiled himself, hands up in surrender.

You pressed the barrel to his head anyway, boring your wild eyes into his fearful ones.

“Well, this is awkward for you, isn’t it?” you giggled before cocking your gun.

The memory lures a smile. While you didn’t shoot him, provided he was very cooperative, it was fun toying with him.

The lights begin to whirl around the arena, snapping you out of your thoughts. Vinny hangs up the phone, and though the crowd is deafening, you can still hear his heavy, nervous breaths beside you.

All lights converge in the centre of the boxing ring. The cheers increase, crowd buzzing with anticipation. A tall, slender man dressed in a clean, glittering suit enters and takes his place in the middle of the ring. He holds a hand up and waves, encouraging excitement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to The Underground!” He shouts into the microphone. Cameras capture his perfect white smile, projecting the image on the large screens hanging over the ring.

“My name is Jackson Wylder and I will be your ring master this evening. Now, I have an important question for you tonight.” He scans the audience, displays a look of curiosity and asks, “Are you ready to rumble?”

The cheers surge.

“I said,” he starts before darting around the ring, “ARE YOU READY TO RUMBLE?”

You clap your hands over your ears at the thundering roars of the fans. A group of manic men jump behind you, almost pushing you off your seat and onto the spectators in front of you.

Vinny links his arm with yours and pulls you into his side. You turn to give him a thankful look, but he avoids your gaze.

“Tonight, we have a clash of titans!” Jackson continues, turning to point to his left. “In this corner, weighing in at 210 pounds and hailing from our very own, Crimson Heights, give it up for the man who’s always up for a fight— the skilled and tenacious, Aiden Matthews!”

Aiden emerges from a dark hall closest to his corner. He wears a blue silk robe and white gloves, bouncing on his toes as he makes his way through the unruly crowd. They holler at him, either tossing praises or insults, and bump their hands against his fists. He waves his arms up to encourage their hectic energy then finally enters the ring. His coach unfolds a chair and then helps him out of his robe.

Jackson shakes Aiden’s hand. He mutters a few words before returning to the centre of the ring.

“And in the opposite corner, we have a fighter who needs no introduction—” Jackson starts again. A childish smile plays on his lips, like he’s a fan, himself. “A crowd favourite, a sensation, and the undefeated champion who makes every match feel like a blockbuster!” He’s giddy, practically giggling his words. “Standing tall at a staggering 6 feet 9 inches and weighing in at an impressive 215 pounds, please put your hands together for the man who’s taken the boxing world by storm, Christopher ‘The Phantom’ Bahng!”

The roars bellow deep from the crowd as they cheer and chant, “Bahng! Bahng! Bahng!”

Everyone, even Jackson, turns to the front door, waiting for Chris to emerge.

You swallow thickly.

The lights then shift to the other end of the arena.

Your heart already falters at his height. He’s still almost a foot taller than you in your thick platforms. You stand to see him, legs almost giving out when you spot his large figure appear through the back door. But it’s the mess of red lipstick still smeared on his lips, the blood speckled like freckles on his cheeks, and the dark patch on the leg of his shorts that wrings your soul. He didn’t even give you a chance to be grateful that he trusted you, slaughtering your sanity with such a dishevelled look.

Decorated in you, he enters the ring and shakes the hand of a bashful Jackson. No one seems fazed by his appearance. Jealousy pangs your chest at the thought of him being drenched in his past whores, the admittance of his pre-match rituals returning to you.

One look from Vinny might indicate otherwise. He glares at your smudged lipstick.

You roll your eyes and lean into him, too breathless and trembling to fight off his wrath.

“Tonight,” Jackson smiles, raising his hand to redirect the crowd’s attention. “Tonight, we’re in for a spectacular display of skill, heart, and,” he shoots the fans a little wink, “perhaps a bit of humour—because let’s face it, if you can’t have fun while throwing punches, what’s the point?!”

He takes a moment to laugh at his own joke.

You keep your eyes on Chris. Mickey does not unfold his chair and take his robe. Instead a shorter, just as muscled, man does. He gives Chris a weary look, of which Chris ignores, and squirts some water in his mouth.

You force yourself not to focus on the droplets that drip from his pouted, stained lips.

“This is not just a fight, folks,” Jackson informs with a raise of his brows. “No, no! This is a showdown!”

He lets the crowd go crazy before continuing, “Aiden Matthews is ready to prove that he’s a force to be reckoned with, but Christopher Bahng,” he turns to his favourite star and grins, “has captured the hearts of fans everywhere. Can Aiden dethrone the giant, or will Bahng continue his reign of dominance?”

You suck in a shaky breath and blow it out. You fill your lungs of tainted sweat-slick air, fighting the urge to gag, and release it once more. Looking around the arena, you swallow the growing lump in your throat. All these fans have come to watch Chris win, and have no idea that he almost died.

“So, buckle up, ladies and gents! Keep your drinks close, your snacks handy, and your eyes glued to the ring! It’s time to witness boxing history unfold right before our eyes!” Jackson’s eyes twinkle with astonishment and wonder. He holds his arms out and turns in a slow circle. “Are you ready for this showdown?” He asks as if truly probing for a personal answer.

“Let’s get ready to rumble!”

Mouth guards in, both fighters stand.

Aiden, while built and tall in his own right, looks like an ant compared to Chris. He pounds his fists together and grunts to assert his dominance. He bounces on his toes and shoots Chris his most menacing glare.

Chris flashes a lazy smile. He rolls his shoulders back and holds his fists up. He peers over his gloves at Aiden like a predator stalking its prey.

The bell rings.

“And here we go, folks! Round 1 is officially underway! Aiden Matthews is looking to prove himself against the undefeated giant, Christopher Bahng!” Jackson comments ringside.

Aiden cautiously circles the ring with Chris. He maintains a safe distance, the heat of his gaze wavering under Chris’s relaxed stance. Testing the waters, he tries his luck with a quick jab.

Chris has the height advantage, however, effortlessly leaning back to dodge. The punch barely grazes the air before him.

Aiden narrows his eyes.

“Ooo,” Jackson hisses. “So close!”

The crowd laughs, almost as one, before splitting between chants for each boxer.

Aiden, eager to recover, steps in quickly, unleashing a flurry of body shots aimed at Chris’s midsection.

You hold your breath and tighten your grip on Vinny’s arm.

But, Chris doesn't flinch. His arms, long and strong, keep Aiden at bay with precise blocks. The controlled ease of Chris’s movements highlight Aiden’s childish, tantrum-like fighting style. You can’t help wondering how the fuck Aiden made it this far. Perhaps other boxers can’t track the chaotic jabs as well as Chris does. Maybe they didn’t even try.

“Matthews is coming in hot, throwing quick combos, but Bahng is as cool as ice—deflecting every shot with ease!”

Chris, ever patient, waits for an opening. He keeps his elbows tucked in, movements minimal, letting Aiden expend energy. He evades each punch with swift swerves of his head, taking small steps back. Even hunched, crouched inwards, his frame still looms large over Aiden.

The majority of the crowd now chants Chris’s name, flooding the arena with jittery admiration.

Like a trigger, fast and smooth, Chris snaps forward with a sharp jab. The blow lands against Aiden’s guard, but the sheer strength of it forces him back.

“Bahng with the first real strike of the night!” Jackson shouts.

Aiden’s eyes widen. He finally feels the power, you realise, and his gaze floods with fear.

Jackson tosses the crowd a giddy look and gushes,“That jab was like a freight train!”

The crowd clamours with laughter in agreement.

You catch a ghost of a smile hovering over Chris’s lips. Is it insane that you find him even more attractive when he’s menacingly playful? An image of his face inches from yours, that same impression of a smile unable to settle on his lips, surfaces. Those feline eyes, teasing, daring, coaxing you to ride him.

You bite your lip and refocus your attention on the match.

Aiden resets and presses on. He bobs and weaves to avoid Chris’s long reach. Ducking low, he slips inside Chris’s defence to unleash a rapid combination of punches to the torso and a hook aimed at the chin.

Chris blocks the body blows then, all too calmly for someone being beat up, rolls with the hook, avoiding the brunt of it. That sinister smirk settles, oh so cunningly, curving the corners of his lips. Without delay, Chris counters with an uppercut from the right, the snap of his arms swift and steady.

Aiden only just manages to block it in time, but the impact leaves him rattled. He stumbles back with a loud grunt. Wheezing and regaining his footing, his eyes betray him, glowing with newfound respect for his towering opponent.

In awe, Jackson remarks, “Bahng is a mountain of patience—waiting for just the right moment to strike! Matthews is going to have to dig deep if he’s going to find a way in!”

You glance at the final seconds of the first round, glowing red above the ring. Less than thirty seconds remain.

Aiden, perhaps knowing he has to make a statement, launches a last-ditch effort. He levels a heavy left hook aimed at Chris’s side, almost mirroring the speed Chris recently displayed.

But Chris, as if seeing it in slow motion, smoothly side steps.

You gasp with the crowd.

He counters with a punishing fist aimed at Aiden’s temple. The punch connects cleanly, the crowd choking on their cheers. The thick sound echoes between the staggered shouts, twisting your stomach with unease.

Aiden stumbles towards the ropes, using their stability to keep himself standing.

The bell rings before Chris can issue another attack.

Jackson steps back into the ring. He eyes Aiden with wide eyes before sharing a look with the audience. “What a way to end the first round!” He laughs. “Bahng’s precision is something to behold, and Aiden Matthews has already felt the sting of that power! Can I get…”

The rest of his words fade as you fixate your attention on the boxers. Aiden returns to his corner with a shuffle of his feet. He’s drenched in sweat, face red and eyes tired. His coach wipes his face then squeezes some water into his mouth.

Chris leisurely walks to his seat. He wipes nose with his arm as he sits. Composed, unbothered, he stares his opponent down.

Aiden shifts in place.

You can’t help but do the same.

You’ve been wanting to leave since the fourth round.

You thought it was over when Chris landed an uppercut so sharp, you swear you heard Aiden’s jaw shatter. You watched as his eyes rolled back and he met the floor with a loud, echoing thump. Aiden’s team flinched, leering over the ropes only to be scolded by the referee.

Chris’s eyes gleamed with something ominous, standing over Aiden’s limp body. He tilted his head and tongued his cheek, lips heavy with the impression of a smirk. He doesn’t merely look proud, but gratified. You wondered at the time if he loves the splitting sound of a bone breaking just as much as you love the chambering click of a loaded gun.

But the crowd remained in the arena. Vinny gave you a reassuring look as if silently telling you it won’t be much longer, and the fifth round commenced.

Jackson returns ringside now, two more rounds later, announcing after the signal of the bell, “Round seven, folks, and this has been an all-out war! Aiden Matthews has been relentless, but Christopher Bahng’s defence is like a fortress!”

The crowd roars as Aiden and Chris step toward the centre of the ring again. Aiden, slick with sweat, jabs at the air, his face tense and determined. Chris, towering over him with his eyes ever so calm and calculating, bounces lightly on his feet.

As the audience resumes their chants for Chris, Aiden charges forward. He jabs with considerable speed and aggression. His punches are fast but painstakingly desperate. It’s almost embarrassing to witness, and you’re not even a fighter.

One glance at Chris and you catch his mask of cool flicker with hushed notions of pity, as if feeling sorry for his opponent. You scan his fighting stance, devouring his toned body with your eyes. His skin gleams with sweat and blotches of forming bruises. His left cheek holds a patch of purple; right brow split.

You swallow thickly, watching his muscles twist as he effortlessly weaves. He slips left, right, then ducks under an all too wide hook.

“Stay still, you fucker!” Aiden orders through gritted teeth, the microphones hovering over the ring catching every spit-splattered syllable.

Chris faintly smiles, eyes locking on Aiden's. He moves just enough to miss another jab by mere inches, dancing around the ring like he has all the time in the world. He then jumps high, resembling a kangaroo, once, twice, only to circle the ring again.

The buzzing energy of the crowd grows, their cheers building as if Chris’s little gesture is any indication of a shift in the round.

The screens cut to Jackson. He swallows thickly as his eyes track Chris’s movements then comments,“Matthews is giving it everything he’s got, but Bahng…” he takes a moment to let out a whistle, “Bahng is like a ghost out there! Just out of reach!”

Aiden presses harder, frustration creeping in as he tries to close the distance. He throws heavy hooks and uppercuts.

You almost scoff, wondering why he hasn’t learned yet. His efforts are useless against someone as skilled as Chris. Truly a phantom in the ring, Chris’s footwork is flawless, always just a step ahead, and he barely reacts.

He then ever so slightly adjusts his stance, leaving an opening wide for Aiden to pounce.

You furrow your brows.

Jackson voices his concern too, narrowing his eyes. “Is Bahng showing weakness?” He asks as if he cannot believe it himself. Then his eyes widen. “Matthews sees it—he’s going for it!”

Aiden lunges forward, hurling all his power into a swift right hook toward the exposed side.

However, as steady as his opponent commits to the punch, Chris sidesteps with speed that rivals lightning, and counters with a sharp left jab that snaps Aiden’s head back.

You stand again with Vinny, both gasping with the crowd. A hand flies to your mouth as you watch Aiden stagger back.

“OH!” Jackson beams, “Bahng saw that coming from a mile away!”

Chris is relentless. He moves in smoothly, landing a quick, precise combination—jab, cross, uppercut—that sends Aiden stumbling backward.

Aiden’s guard falters.

Chris steps forward. He drives a thunderous right hook straight into Aiden’s gut.

Aiden gasps for air, the force buckling.

Chris, collected and focused, steps back, allowing Aiden a moment to gather himself.

Your eyes widen at the pacifying gesture, wondering what he has to gain by giving his opponent a chance to strike again.

All thoughts cease within seconds as Chris feints an attack. It draws Aiden’s guard up high only for Chris to slip low and deliver a devastating body blow, placed perfectly under the ribs.

Aiden groans, dropping to a knee. The air is completely knocked out of him.

The referee stands over his kneeling frame, counting, “One!”

The crowd erupts with excitement, some jumping as they cheer for Chris, while others remain shackled in disbelief as Aiden tries to regain his strength.

“Two.”

Jackson is rocking in place, jittery with joy as he enthuses,“Bahng is not just beating Matthews—he’s outthinking him! Every move is a step ahead, like he’s reading Aiden’s mind!”

“Three.”

Aiden is wobbly, but pulls himself back to his feet. He shakes his head, attempting to refocus. You suppose that Jackson’s comment must have struck a cord because Aiden looks as though he is done thinking. He lunges again, impulsive and messy.

Chris is undeterred by the chaos Aiden becomes, this time feinting a right cross.

Aiden’s guard flies to the right. Then, Chris pivots and delivers a clean left hook to his temple.

“What a move!”Jackson praises. “Bahng’s precision is surgical!”

Aiden collapses against the ropes.

Chris steps back, watching, waiting.

The stillness of Aiden’s muscular frame worries the referee. He steps in, leaning by Aiden’s side to get a better look.

The camera pans over his swollen, bloody face. You cringe.

The referee stands back to his full height to wave his arms, calling, “It’s over! It’s over!”

The crowd explodes into catastrophic cheers upon the referee’s decree.

Chris raises his gloves in triumph and pride. While he is well within his right to gloat, and perhaps has done so before based on the fact that you know he likes to show off, he remains composed. The only emotion hinting towards elation is in the lightness of his gaze as he looks around the arena at his fans. He nods to them, lips finally curving into a smile.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was shy.

Jackson returns to the centre of the ring. He gestures his hands towards Chris, encouraging the howls of the crowd. “Christopher Bahng has done it again!” He says, smiling fondly at Chris. “Not just with power, not just with speed, but with pure brilliance in this ring. He’s shown everyone why he’s the undefeated champion!”

You don’t get a chance to revel at the sight of Chris stiffening as Jackson holds his arms out wide for a hug. Vinny tugs on your arm instead, nodding his head towards the exit. You keep your arms linked and stay close as he pushes between the manic crowd for you.

“Explain yourself,” Vinny orders the moment you’re back on the street.

You look over your shoulder at the entrance of the arena, then whisper, “Not here.”

Vinny rolls his eyes but starts walking towards your apartment. After three blocks of silence, he says, “Talk.”

“I was looking for yo—”

“Don’t bullshit me,” he seethes, cutting you off. “How the fuck did you know Matthews would lose? It’s been fixed for the last week.”

“Just listen to me,” you plead, raising your voice. “When I was waiting for you in the alley, I heard some things.”

Vinny shoots you a nervous look.

You continue, “One of those things was that there were back halls that go around the entire arena. I really was looking for you in there, Vinny. You left me to fend for myself and those people were hard to squeeze through. So, I found one of the doors. And— listen, I know you’re gonna be mad at me, but I really thought it would be easier this way.”

His face falls into disappointment. “You lied.”

“I lied,” you confess, avoiding his gaze as you continue down the street. “I told the guy at the door that Chris—”

“You call him Chris?” Vinny interrupts, voice heavy with astonishment.

“Well—”

Vinny cuts you off with your name and a shake of his head. “No, no, you don’t understand,” he humorlessly chuckles. “No one but his inner circle calls him Chris. What the fuck did you do?”

“I told the guy at the door that I was his prostitute. It was only supposed to get me in so I could find you.”

“You didn’t,” Vinny says. Upon the guilty look in your eyes, he closes his own and sighs, “You fucked him?”

“Not exactly,” you hesitantly correct. “He’s really hot, okay? And he was really nice to me, and I don’t know if you know this,” you sarcastically start. “But not many people have been lately.”

Vinny offers you a vulgar gesture.

You roll your eyes. “I just told him what I heard and he needed convincing.”

“You fucked him,” Vinny concludes.

“Do you think I would be able to walk right now if I did?”

You try not to laugh as Vinny’s features coil in disgust. Parting your lips, you’re about to tell him that it doesn’t matter now. Chris is fine, the Sixers didn’t lose a dime and you can finally get that bath you have been craving earlier this evening.

However, the shriek of tires pierce through the silent night instead.

Vinny reaches for his gun, pushing you behind him. You go to grab your own only to remember you don’t have one. The switchblade will have to do if running is not an option.

A black van speeds down the street, darting past you to swerve onto the sidewalk and block your path. Seungmin jumps out of the passenger seat. Icy-hair and another tall, dark haired man, whose features remarkably resemble that of a fox, emerge from the back.

Vinny cocks his gun.

“Wait,” you shout, stepping between them. You hold your hands up, giving Vinny your most reassuring look. “I know them,” you explain.

Looking amongst the intruders, Vinny furrows his brows and asks, “How?”

“They’re Chris’s friends,” you reply, quietly adding, “I think.”

Vinny glares. “You think?”

“Walk away,” a deep voice orders.

Icy-hair steps forward with a gun of his own. However, he is not aiming it at Vinny.

You deadpan. “Did he tell you to do this? God, is he always this dramatic?”

“Tell me about it,” Seungmin mutters, then nods towards the van. “Get in.”

Turning to Vinny, you offer him a small, assuring smile. “I’m fine, Vin. Just go.”

Vinny scoffs, narrowing his eyes in disbelief at you. “He has a gun to your head.”

“Chris is an egoistic, attention-seeker,” you dismiss. “If they wanted to shoot me, they would have done so already.”

“How can you be sure?” Vinny shouts.

Chk chk boom, you think. Your brains would have already been splattered on the sidewalk.

Nodding behind him, you repeat, “Go. I’ll call you later.”

Vinny shakes his head, clenching his jaw and directing his frustrated gaze to the ground. As if wrestling his intuition, he resentfully lowers and uncocks his gun. He takes another look around at the men, swallowing thickly.

You wonder if they know he’s trying to memorise their faces. You wonder if they care.

“If you die,” Vinny says, voice wavering. “I will kill you.”

You suppress a laugh, tightening your lips. “Good.”

He breaths a baffled chuckle, gives you one final look, then forces himself to walk away

You turn to face the others, or at least you’re in the process of turning.

A black bag slips over your head. Arms pulled back, hands bound, you attempt to struggle against their grip. Too slow, your squirming does not distract them. Someone hooks their arms under your shoulders, another scoops up your legs. Heart pounding, you release a searing scream, attempting to wrangle your way out of their grasp. You kick and try to flail your arms, grunting as you fight against their hold. The three men look strong, but they are nothing compared to Chris. You doubt only two of them can maintain their grip this well when you feel another set of hands, then another.

Vinny shouts your name.

Your body is tossed into the back. You land with a loud groan, cursing at the impact of the pain.

He shouts your name again, the hard stomp of his feet echoing in the street.

A bullet sounds.

No, no, no—

“No!” You desperately scream. “Vinny!”

Tears gather in your eyes. This is all your fault. It goes beyond sticking your nose in business you had no right knowing. Since that day he found you back on the streets, hustling scammers out of their well-stolen money, you have dragged Vinny into your hole of reckless misfortune. You asked him to bail you out of one too many fuck-ups, forcing him to further implicate himself in your thoughtless schemes, often against the advice and support of his gang. He has risked his reputation, relationships, money, his good fucking sense, all in the name of childhood friendship.

And how do you repay him?

With a bullet.

Lip quivering, you ask between sobs, “Did you shoot him?”

You never deserved kindness. You never deserved freedom. You never even deserved compassion.

You are a tornado of vile anguish, a chaotic force of impulse and betrayal. You are a waste of space, your very existence is a curse set upon your parents. You should have known as much when the universe tore them away. You are not worthy of connections— all your friends withering in the wake of your misfortune.

What compelled you to believe that Chris would be any different? He might have been devastatingly beautiful and the look in his eyes might have continuously hinted at something tragically scarred. His kisses might have breathed new life into your soul, hands might have cradled every nightmare to rest. But he is still a victim of your calamity. You should have known a good feeling never lasts.

The back door slides shut. The engine revs, jolting the van into motion.

“Did you fucking shoot him?” You cry, voice breaking as a sob overwhelms you. “Vinny!”

Please forgive me, you want to scream.

“Shut up!” Someone shouts over you. You move to kick the speaker only for someone to grab hold of your ankles and bind them together too.

“He shot at us.” The same speaker clarifies. “And he has terrible aim for a self-appointed hero.”

Relief washes over you, ice-cold upon your trembling bones. You lean back, embracing the pain of the awkward position of your hands under you.

“He told us to knock her out,” Seungmin says, voice slightly distant. He must have returned to his place in the front seat.

“He did?” Icy-hair’s deep voice replies.

“I don’t think so,” someone else adds.

You lay limp amongst the shuffling of movements, ignoring their argument, too lost in thought to care. Though Vinny is alive, it does not alter the epiphany that has just dawned upon you— You inevitably ruin anyone foolish enough to come too close.

The edge of the bag lifts and a damp cloth presses against your mouth.

You embrace the darkness.

PART II ➡︎

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other reader. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.

#chantober 2024 #bang chan #bang chan smut #bang chan x reader #bang chan fanfic #stray kids smut

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little-miss-dilf-lover · 6 hours ago

Text

THE SUNDAY REGULAR. 18+

bucky barnes x waitress fem!reader

wc. 4605 summary. you’re a waitress working at some shitty run-down diner in the middle of nowhere. and every sunday you see the same person at the same time walk through the doors. the pair of you forming a bond over time. though today, he doesn’t at his usual time and you begin to worry that you’ll have to wait another week to see him. the regular then finds out some information about you that he didn’t wish to know, and in turn, information you didn’t wish to share. warnings. 18+ only! very brief indirect drug description, reader is engaged, small moment of violence, wound tending, repressed feelings, yearning and pining bc its yummy, idiots in love, filth, pinv, premature ejaculation (he can't help it. he's wanted her a while, okay?) creampie. mdni

⎯ ☆ ⎯

Sunday, 8:26pm. 24 minutes until closing time.

40-some miles outside of Washington DC.

You peer up at the clock on the wall behind you and weirdly find yourself hoping that it was displaying a lower number — wishing it to be an hour, maybe two earlier. You would never wish to be working at the diner for longer than you needed to be, but you were a customer short today and you were starting to grow restless.

The regular's presence becoming all the more noticeable as the hours passed you by. They were truly the only reason you began to pick up Sunday shifts in the first place.

Your hope begins to dwindle as you watch the second hand briskly move its way around the clock. There was a very strong chance that you won’t be seeing him walk through those doors tonight and you had to start welcoming that possibility. Unless your Sunday regular shows up in the next twenty minutes, you’re sadly going to have to wait another week more.

You rest your arms across the counter of the bar, hands stretching outwards as you slot your head between your upper arms. Using the moment as a way to ease the strain in your eyes. You hear the sound of what you know for certain is a motorcycle, his motorcycle, and your head whips up, checking if your suspicions were as true as you knew them to be.

And it was. It was him. Only several hours later than what he usually is.

You twist on your heel to the wall of mugs behind you and reach for the cleanest one you can see. You place it onto the bar just as he walks through the doors, meeting him with one of those smiles you only show to those who mean most.

The feeling of relief fills your lungs as you in turn fill his cup, pouring him some black coffee.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t show,” you welcome as you turn your back to him, placing the pot back onto its spot.

“You serve the best coffees, how could I not?” Bucky smiles, taking a seat at the empty bar — dismissing his usual seat in the far left booth against the window.

“The trick is to let it sit for hours at a time.”

He takes a sip and nods, letting the particularly bitter liquid sit in his mouth a moment. “Yeah that would do it.”

“The kitchen is closed for the night, but I can offer you some pie? I was gonna take it home but it’s all yours if you want it,” you offer, suggesting a compromise to his usual order. “It’s pecan,” you tempt, pulling the paper box out from under the counter.

He looks at the singular slice and back up to you briefly, appreciating the rather selfless offer. But he couldn’t do that to you, it was yours.

“No no, I’m fine thanks. The coffee will do just fine.”

As you close the box, something shiny on your left hand catches his attention. He grows quiet and his eyes become fixed on your hand atop the box, focusing on an engagement ring.

You snatch your hand away and laugh dryly, hiding it like you were ashamed of it.

“I uh, didn’t know you were—” he stops himself, pulling his gaze away from the band. He swallows thickly and coughs in his fist. “Congratulations.”

It doesn’t match your other jewellery, he thought. It's the wrong metal.

“Thanks,” you smile weakly, stashing your hand into your pinny – keeping it from his view, and quite frankly your own. “It all happened kinda fast, but uh,” you pause, trying to find the words. “I’m happy.”

Such a lie.

“Good,” he forces a smile. “I’m happy for you.”

You clear your throat, and nod. “Thanks.”

You each still rather awkwardly, the announcement –or if that’s what you’d call it– making you both fumble for conversation for the first time ever. But what else could one say after that?

Bucky stares down at the mug in his hand, mentally plucking out conversation starters — hoping to think of something to say. But frankly, he was rather devastated, heartbroken even. The sight of the engagement ring feeling like a knife to the chest. Any chance of speaking was likely to result in further heartbreak.

He really thought you liked him.

He peers up at you when he notices your silence, though your eyes never meet his — they've become rather focused on a spot above his shoulder. He follows your eyeline and sees two men by a tree swapping items from their pockets.

Bucky’s gaze slowly finds its way back to you, moving slow like he was reluctant to see the upset cloud within your eyes.

“That’s him, right?” he asks hesitantly.

You can only scoff, head shaking disapprovingly as you watch the exchange play out. You had already previously suspected that the quitting was a ruse, and now you have the proof. All of it happening in front of your eyes.

“He said he stopped,” you mutter under your breath, forgetting your present company.

Though Bucky hears, he doesn’t say anything. Rather he doesn’t know what to say, and he’s quite sure he’d make the situation worse if something were to be uttered from his mouth. But in truth, he was disappointed in your choices, and while he doesn’t know you a whole lot –nor you him– he’s always had the assumption that you were strong of mind. That you were capable of making good choices for yourself.

“I need to start closing up,” you hint, avoiding Bucky’s eyes as you make yourself busy behind the counter.

Any other time you would’ve given anything to stall closing up shop, do anything to just spend a few more minutes in his company. But after everything that’s happened in the last few minutes, you could barely look at him. Quite frankly, you were embarrassed with the events of it all, mortified and ashamed even.

You knew you were making a mistake with your choice of partners, and you could tell that Bucky knew it too.

“I understand,” he nods.

He stands and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a ten and placing it under his mug. He can only observe you from behind, your lack of eye contact telling him all he needs to know. And so he slowly begins gathering his things, stalling to see if you would give him anything more than the back of your head.

“I’ll see you next Sunday?” he questions as he backs away from the counter.

He prays that you would give him a smile or wave perhaps, just something before he reaches the doors, though you never do — you just continue to busy yourself with things that do not require your attention. You couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in his eyes or for him to see the heartbreak in yours, so you faked work: adjusting already adjusted cups on the shelf.

“Yeah,” you hum, your back still to him.

As soon as you hear the doors shut, you begin to quickly make your way around the diner to shut things off, finding yourself in a rush to confront your fiancé outside. You lock the front doors and head out into the back, grabbing your things so you could exit through the kitchen.

You see and hear your partner’s truck off to the side and head towards it, walking to your fiancé in the driver's seat.

“You’re a liar,” you shout over his loud music, talking to him through the rolled down window. “You are a fucking liar!” your voice grows louder, physically expressing the hatred in your heart.

He shuts the music off with a smack to the console and turns to look at you.

“You’re outta your fucking mind, you know that?” he returns, his tone matching yours.

You scoff, laughing at him like it was entertaining. “Wow,” you shake your head.

“Okay then, give me back that ring,” he extends his hand towards you out the window, opening his hand. “You clearly don’t trust me, give it back.”

“Oh what, the ring you found at a fair?” you scoff. You yank it off your finger and throw it into his truck. “It’s the wrong metal anyway. I don’t wear that colour.”

In the front parking lot, Bucky waits. Lingering and pretending that he was trying to fix and adjust something on his bike. He could tell something were to go down, and he couldn’t leave you on your own to fend for yourself with a man that’s off his head. He hears voices raise from the back and his ears prickle, his suspicions proving to be correct. He slowly makes his way around on foot, walking a little faster when he hears a man’s voice raise.

“Get your own way home,” your fiancé, well, now ex-fiancé yells and unmutes his deafening music, turning it up even louder.

You weren’t sure if you were able to say anything more without crying, so instead you hit his truck, kicking a dent into the rusty door. He shouts something indecipherable and opens the door to get at you, but you push on it, shutting it closed.

And in that moment warning signs flicker rapidly in Bucky’s brain – his brisk footsteps becoming a hastened jog. He didn’t know this man or what he was capable of, and he did not want to find out.

But before he could get there, he sees you land a hefty punch to the man’s face inside the truck, a shout and a curse following after. Bucky rushes to your side, like he was offering his assistance, but the man in the truck speeds off — the large, manly company seeming to scare him off.

“Are you okay?” he swallows thickly, heart pounding in his chest. He turns you by the shoulders to face him, a look of pure worry slapped across his face.

You stare off into the distance, gaze detached as if you were trying to process everything. It all happened so fast. You direct your eyes to focus on Bucky and nod slowly, finally able to look at him once again.

And while one may think that you were lying with that nod, it was one of truth, because you really were okay. Maybe for the first time since you put on that ring.

All you can do is hug him, arms wrapping tightly around him as you bury yourself in his comfort. At first he’s reluctant, his own arms hanging at his sides while he debates with himself. This is all he’s ever wanted, why else would he travel forty miles for a cup of shitty coffee and dry pie? And so, he finally gives in, his arms finding themselves circulating you, hands tight to your back as if he’s trying to prolong this moment. Take it all in, in case this were to be the last.

You eventually pull away and look down at your feet, staring at the cracked concrete beneath you. “I uhm,” you start. “My car’s in the shop and he was my ride.”

“Of course,” is all he says, understanding exactly what you were trying to ask of him.

During the short walk to his motorcycle out front, nothing was said with words — all of the talking being said through glances and smiles, small shy looks away when gazes were to meet.

Reaching his bike, he hands you his helmet and hops on, extending a hand to help you get on behind him. You were hesitant at first, the thought of being on a motorcycle for the first time ever made you feel sick. But you knew you were in safe company, him giving you his own helmet proving so.

You reach your arms around his waist, securing yourself to him as your fingers interlock around his stomach. His eyes close briefly, the feel of having you so close to him makes it difficult to breathe. He glances downwards, wanting to curate the memory in his brain.

He watches your hands adjust in front of him and sees a lack of shine on your left ring finger. The sight practically made his heart swell.

Conversation was non-existent on the way to your house, which one would expect while on a motorcycle, but that didn’t mean neither of you had nothing to say. Quite the opposite in fact.

He pulls up outside yours with the help of your direction and shuts off the engine. He helps you off first, holding your hand as if to give you balance before he joins you on the ground. Standing a few short inches from you.

You pull out your keys from your bag and head to your small, quaint house — walking towards the windchimes and well attend to potted flowers on the porch. Bucky shadows you, keeping a respectful distance as he walks you to your house.

“Would uh,” you pause and turn to look at him, offering a smile. “Would you like to come in for a bit?”

He so desperately wants to, though he’s not sure if you’re in the right frame of mind to have a guest –practically a stranger– in your house.

“I promise I make better coffee than the diner,” you playfully offer, exhausting routes to get him to come inside.

He hesitates, footing scuffing against the doormat as he battles with himself.

“Only a small one,” he smiles and begins to take off his jacket.

Your smile widens and you turn to open the door, making your way inside. You flick on a couple lamps and gesture him inside, trying to make him feel comfortable. Doing whatever you can to get him to stick around a little longer.

“Take a seat,” you nod to the sofa in front. “Be right back.”

You head into your room and mimic a silent scream, you couldn’t remember the last time you were so excited to have a man in your house. Undressing from your work uniform, you put on your pyjamas from the night before: mismatched oversized tee and plaid bottoms. You didn’t want any exaggerated effort in your appearance to be known in case it makes him flee, so you opt only for a few spritzes of deodorant.

In the other room, Bucky shares a similar feeling. He chews on a mint from his pocket and adjusts his hair, suddenly feeling a sense of pressure in the way that you might now perceive him.

You join him in the main room a few moments later and head to the kitchen, making a start on the drinks.

“Can I ask you a question?” you call out to Bucky and he turns to follow your voice.

“Anything.”

“Do you even black coffee?” you ask, a lively tinge in your voice.

“I do,” he mimics your tone, nodding a singular time.

“Okay, let me rephrase,” you pause and reach into the freezer, pulling out several large ice cubes. “Do you like the diner’s back coffee?” you smile, heading towards him as you twist the ice into a dishtowel, securing it.

His lips form a straight line as he thinks about the weight of the question. Either way, his answer would contain a lie of some kind.

“I don’t,” he answers truthfully.

“I knew it,” you smile and plonk yourself down beside him. “No one likes our coffee.”

He twists slightly to look at you, watching your grin widen as your eyes fall to your lap. You’ve begun icing your hand from the punch earlier, holding the cold compress to your knuckles. His eyes fall to your hand, watching you struggle to hold the awkward shape in your non-dominant hand.

He once again battles with himself, mentally weighing it all in his mind. He wanted to help you, but he didn’t know if he could go without not being able to touch your skin ever again. But as he continued to watch you struggle with the shape, he thought that surely one touch couldn't hurt.

“Let me,” he whispers, moving closer.

And so his hands reach for yours hesitantly, holding your hurt one carefully within his left, metal hand as the other presses the compress to your skin. Your eyes flicker up to his, silently appreciating how attentive and gentle he’s being with you. And how he seems to be doing it all from the kindness of his heart — no other ulterior motive following.

It made you realise how much of a mistake you made by saying yes to that proposal earlier this week. How much it’s complicated things if you would have just been honest with yourself from the start. You only wanted security, and you’ve grown to realise that what you were getting with your now ex-fiancé, wasn’t safety. It was fear. Fear of being alone and for admitting you had deeper looming feelings for your regular than you had first realised.

And while Bucky could only speak on his behalf, he always had a feeling there was something more between you. He wouldn’t have travelled eighty miles every Sunday if he didn’t think there was a possibility that you could in fact like him too.

So, he enjoys this moment, eyes transfixed on the kindling of your fingers atop your lap. It’s all so casual, so intimate. The feeling in person far better than what he’s imagined.

You wanted something more. You wanted it to progress into something you weren’t yet quite sure of. So, you place your free hand atop his, holding the back of his hand as he attends to the swelling on your knuckles.

He meets your eyes to see that your focus was already set on him, gaze soft and trusting as you watch him tend to you. The ice beginning to melt between the warmth of your touch.

You move your hand from atop his and extend it outwards, slowly reaching for the side of his face. You hold him there as you lean forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek as if to show your thanks. It wasn’t originally the placement you had in mind, but truthfully you copped out at the last minute — far too afraid to be the one to ruin things.

He sensed that.

And so, he took the pressure off you by being the assertive one: guiding you back in for a kiss to the lips before you were to get too far. It was clearly what you both wanted, the prolonged contact of your lips a physical declaration of that.

Setting the ice towel on the coffee table, you bring your other hand to his face, holding him within your palms. And in turn his hands slip up to your waist, grip tight like he was afraid that if he were to let go, you’d disappear like you’ve done in all of his dreams before.

The kiss grows deeper and you each move closer, both eager to make this moment last. But it has to end at some point and Bucky parts away first, forehead resting to yours briefly. The tips of your noses rubbing against one another.

“You’ve had a tough night,” he catches his breath, speaking quietly between the close distance. “You shouldn’t rush into anything.”

“I’m not,” you pull away, shaking your head at him sternly. “I have wanted this for so long,” you finally admit, your hands falling to rest on his shoulders.

He just simply stares at you, head tilting as his lips open to speak.

“You’re the reason I started picking up Sunday shifts,” you whisper, trying to persuade him that your feelings about progressing with him could not be swayed. And that this is what you wanted.

His eyes lower bashfully and his head shakes. You were the reason he would drive that distance every week.

“And, I…” you cut yourself off, pausing as if it had all become too real. So you change what you were going to say, thinking it may be too soon to proclaim such wild, outlandish feelings. “And I made a mistake… I didn’t love him.”

Bucky places his fleshed hand to your cheek, holding you dearly while you speak into existence the things he too feels.

“I couldn’t have what I wanted… so I settled,” you divert from his eyes, suddenly aware of how little he’s speaking and how much you are..

He itches closer and closer, mouth ghosting yours once again. “And what did you want?” he whispers, speaking against your lips. It was like he was trying to pry it out of you for his own validation, tease it out of you almost.

All you can muster in response is a small, “You.”

And that's all he needed.

He directs you to lay lengthwise across the sofa, his body joining yours mere seconds later to over atop — the weight of him supported so as not to crush you. You wrap yourself around him as quick as your own body could allow it: bent knees lifting to hug at his sides, arms wrapping around his neck. Hips winding up against his desperately, keeping him close.

The deepened kisses divert, and the trail of his mouth moves across your face, heading for the skin under your ear. He litters a few flutery kisses into the patch before lowering, peppering open-mouth kisses down the side of your throat.

He wished that this moment could last, that he too could last. But he was fairly certain his stamina would fail him tonight, the way you look and smell and feel and sound all hindering his self-control. The sheer fact that this was all finally happening makes him feel like a very weak man indeed.

And suddenly the panic settled in for him. He had nothing. He wasn’t expecting this to happen, especially not tonight.

You sense a sudden worry and pull back, lusty heavy eyes flickering across his face. “What is it?” you ask breathlessly.

“I don’t have anything,” he hints, waiting for you to fill in the blanks yourself.

“Don’t worry about it,” you reassure, wandering hands moving down his sides. “I do… I’m on something,” you reassure.

He looks quite visibly relieved.

Your fingers slink into the hem of his long sleeve and you tug on the fabric. And while you’re eager to get him out of it, your pace remains slow. Like you were savouring it all. Your fingers skit over his skin as more of it becomes exposed, the top almost all the way off by now. He helps you help him out, alternating the anchoring of his hand so that you could pull his arms from either sleeve.

You drop it to the floor and in turn he starts to undress you from your t-shirt. His knuckles skim your stomach and the slow lifting begins to feel tortuous, the presence of him growing overwhelming.

And when your top half is finally bare, he adjusts himself over you, itching down your body. He presses a trail of kisses around each tit and down your stomach, moving hesitantly to the waistband of your pyjamas. His lips halt in place, searing white hot warmth to just under your belly button.

Your hands follow with him, fingers weaving through his dark hair as if to offer an ounce of the pleasure he’s giving you right now. His movements are slow and teasing as he starts to undress your lower half — removing both your underwear and bottoms with the same motion.

He stills for a few seconds, taking all of you in. How surreal that it is that you’re lying there completely naked on the couch before him, your gaze intently following every one of his movements. Sealing a final kiss to your upper, inner thigh, he sits back on his heels to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants. Tugging them both down to pool at his knees — saving the trouble later on.

Bucky moves back up you to resume his prior position. Chests close, faces even closer. He reaches between your bodies and to his rock hard cock, carefully wrapping a hand around himself as he guides his aching dick towards you. Touch faint to ensure things don’t end prematurely for you both.

He presses his head to your folds, coating himself in your arousal and you both gasp at the sheer contact of the other. You were both virtually at the edge already, despite not having touched each other properly yet. It was as if this has been building for months and months and months. And now that you’re finally touching skin, it’s nearly impossible to contain yourselves. Control yourselves.

He taps his head at your cunt a couple times, swirling it around briefly before lining up with you, tip of his cock resting perfectly against your entrance. Stilling for a second, he simply allows a moment to soak all of this in, take it in that this really is happening. But he can’t leave you waiting too long, especially when you’re looking up at him so keenly.

And so he leans in to kiss you, lips locked with yours as he simultaneously feeds himself into you, cock worming its way inside your pussy. You gasp into his mouth and the noise vibrates on your tongues, the sound becoming a strained muffle. He mirrors you with a groan of his own, unable to keep himself quiet from the way you feel wrapped around him.

Bucky retracts his hand from his dick and places it on your cheek, holding you as he sinks more of himself inside, moving slowly so as to allow you time to adjust. Eventually easing the entirety of himself in you. Balls pressing firmly to your folds from the depth of him.

You feel even better than he imagined. So warm, so snug, so safe. And he has to pause, halt any further movement so that he doesn’t explode right now and then.

Your fingers grasp at his hair, using it as something to hold onto — something to pour your intense want into. You break the kiss and your head falls back against the cushion, weight of it growing far too heavy to hold up.

“I can feel you in my stomach,” you whine in a whisper, eyes half lidded as you peer up at him.

He shakes his head and his brows furrow, the utter filth you whispered seeming to strip him of his control, and he wasn’t entirely happy about it either. He’s wanted this for seven months and it was over in as many seconds. He groans faintly from atop and strength vanishes from his neck; forehead resting against yours as he empties himself into you. Muttering indecipherable nonsense

“I'm so sorry,” he murmurs, clearly embarrassed.

You’ve grown rather engrossed in the lewd display above you and you find yourself smiling, head shaking sweetly. “Not at all.”

He kisses the underside of your jaw and the crown of your head tilts backwards, exposing the full length of your throat to him. His mouth linger on the base of it and you begin to speak, your words vibrating against his lips.

“Well,” you pause. “I think…”

“Mhm?” he hums, head lifting to look you in the face.

“I think you should stay the night,” you start, eyes honing in on his, emphasising your severity. “And I think you should make it up to me.”

Who was he to object such a request?

“Yeah?” he smiles lazily, speaking softly between the close distance. “Lead me to your room.”

And who were you to object such a request?

⎯ ☆ ⎯

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky x reader smut #bucky smut #bucky x female reader #bucky fanfic

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lunajay33 · 2 months ago

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Where are You Part.5

•🍃🌑🕊️🧟‍♀️•

Summary: You’ve been with Daryl since you were teenagers having a lovely little girl and another on the way but then the apocalypse happens and you’re left by yourself with your daughter and unborn child, will you ever find you husband again? Mean while Daryl is with a group that has no idea about his family

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x f!reader

Warnings: Usual twd violence, pregnancy

Part.4

•Masterlist•

•Daryl’s Pov•

Watching her scream in pain killed me, feeling Harlow shake in my arms broke me even more, but hearing the one I love cry to god to not take our baby is what really took me out, like the air was ripped from my lungs

She passed out and I couldn’t help but scream at Hershel to fix her but Maggie calmed me down hearing Harlow cry and pull on my shirt

“Daddy stop you’re scaring me” she whimpers as she curls up in my lap, I rub her back until she settles and her breathing evens out, Hershel keeps running tests and I can’t help but gnaw at my fingers anxiously

She always wanted a family together, two kids, a boy and a girl and after everything that’s happened this was the last thing she was holding onto from the old world, something she could still hope for, she’s always been the sunshine one in our relationship but I can see it fading everyday and it kills me knowing I can’t give her everything she wants

“It’s not looking good son” Hershel sighs in despair as he takes out the stethoscope from his ears and my heart plummets

“What’s wrong?”

“The baby’s heart, it’s weak, I don’t have proper equipment but from my opinion I’m guessing with all the stress and trauma her body has been going through it taken a toll on the baby, she’s going to have to be bed ridden if she doesn’t relax she’ll go into labour premature and the baby will be at risk” I wanna punch something, I wanna kill the bastard that been hurting her if it wasn’t for Rick and Dale, I wanna…..I wanna cry and hold my girls and never let them feel another day of pain

If it wasn’t for y/n my life could’ve gone done a different path, could’ve followed in Merle’s foot prints and sell drugs and just hope around from place to place, even with my shitty home life she was always there promising me that one day we’ll have our own home that’ll be a happy place and she made sure that came true and I love her everyday because of what she’s given me

I get up pulling back the bed sheets laying Harlow down and covering them both as I sat back down on the chair I know I won’t be getting a lick of sleep until she’s up

“I love ya” I whisper holding her hand in mine

•Y/n Pov•

I wake up still exhausted like the sleep drained me more than it helped me, I turn my head seeing Daryl right by my side, brushing my stray hairs back

“How’re ya feelin?” He asks his voice husky

“I’m tired, how’s……is the baby okay?” I ask nervous

“He’s weak, Hershel says yer bed ridden until he comes, ya got too much stress sunshine” I nod just relieved I still have a chance with my little boy

“But will we be okay?” I ask squeezing his hand for reassurance

“I wish I could say ya, but Hershel’s worried, imma do what I can ta ease yer stress” I cover my eyes trying to compose myself, this isn’t what I envisioned

“This isn’t right Daryl, just take me back to our home we can live out our lives there right the walkers should be gone, we can make a garden I…..I wanna go home” his eyes soften and he sighs

“I know, I wanna go back too, but ya know we can’t” the room fell silent except for Harlows snores

“Can I just be alone for a moment” he nods leaning down to place a gentle kiss to my lips then picking up a still sleeping Harlow and left the room

What am I suppose to do

•

It’s been a week since Hershel’s advised me to stay resting, Daryl’s been updating me on what’s been going on, this guy Randel they’ve brought back and how the group can’t decide what to do with him, saying Shane gone off the deep end

It’s late at night now and I hear panicked chatter out in the living room, I wobble out to see what’s going on

“What’s happening?” Daryl comes to my side squeezing my hip

“The barns on fire, Randel he’s dead and Shane Rick and Carl are missing”

“Would you go look for them?” Lori asks Daryl and I can’t help but glare

“He’s not your pet, why should he risk his life when you should be looking for your own family”

“It’s alright I’ll be back fer ya” Daryl states trying to calm me

“Promise”

“Promise ya, get ready” he leaves and I take Harlow to the room packing up our bags and getting dressed properly

“Mommy what’s going on I’m scared” Harlow asks as I zip up her sweater

“It’ll be okay we might have to leave but you’re a big strong girl right!” She nods

“Okay whatever happens you don’t let go of my hand no matter what”

“Alright mommy” I pull on the backpack and wait on the porch but things go south fast, walkers are everywhere, people are being separated and I can’t find anyone after a while they all drive off and Harlow and I just get pushed farther and farther into the woods

“We gotta run” she holds my hand tight and we run through the dark woods thankfully only a few walkers noticed us so we had a chance to out run them but how will I find Daryl again, we can’t go back there

Exhausted after running most of the night, day breaks and we find an abandoned convenience store and hold up in there for a while to rest

Laying out a blanket for Harlow to lay down I find some food on the shelves and we eat before resting

He should have stayed but now I may never see him again and after everything we’re separated again

For months it’s just the three of us, luckily barely coming across any walkers but Harlow was only little and all this walking was exhausting her, and carrying her was out of the options while I’m 8 months pregnant, almost due any second

We come across a little waterfall around a broken down structure

“We can rest here for the night sweetie” I gasp when I feel a pop and my legs become soaked, no no no not yet I can’t give birth alone

“Mom what wrong?”

“It’s your baby brother he’s coming” I groan as I see her quickly pull out a blanket laying it on the ground but a still standing stone wall

“Lay down, I’ll help you” she just turned 6 a few weeks ago and this isn’t how a 6 year old girl should be living, but she was still my sweet little girl and always wanted to help

“This is going to be a lot sweetie okay just don’t be scared your little brother will be here sooooooooon” I cry at the end as another contraction runs through me

“It’s alright mommy just breath, uncle Hershel said you need to try to stay calm” I nod remembering all the instructions he gave me incase I was alone like this

I try to be quiet still aware that walkers could be around, Harlow helped me get ready, as she gave me water every now and then and rubbing my belly

“You’ve got this momma! Just breathe and push!” I could help but smile at her cuteness before pushing trying not to scream at the pain

I keep pushing readying to catch him, and with one final effort the pressure is gone and I catch him in my hands bringing him up to my chest, Harlow took off her sweater and wrapped it around him taking a cloth and wetting it and wiping his face gently

“You did it! He’s so cute mommy” she smiles as he whines opening his eyes thanking whatever god that he’s not wailing

We both cleaned him up dressing him in the onesie I took from the start of the apocalypse and a little beanie to cover his brown whispy hair

I handed him to Harlow covering them both up so I could take care of myself, exhausted I manage to clean up blessed to not have torn, setting a little fire up infront of us and laying back down holding them both close as we all huddled under the blankets

“Do you think he looks like daddy?” She asks tired as I take him in my arms

“Just like him, he looks just like when I first met your dad, so cute” he babbles a bit before falling to sleep, my heart felt whole all I needed now was Daryl

•Daryl’s Pov•

After the farm fell I couldn’t find them hoping they’d gotten in with someone else I made my way to the highway seeing the others, I look around and neither of them are there

“No one got them out?!” I yell

“They got separated from us, last I saw them they were running into the woods” Tdog said as I get back on my bike

“Daryl they won’t be there, you found them once you’ll find them again” I was so angry and so heart broken knowing they’re out there alone again

Months went on and i looked for them everyday, and everyday i came back with nothing was another stab to my chest, we thankfully found the prison and got it all settled, after the lose of Lori and Judith on our hands it reminded me of when Harlow was born so small and fragile and y/n is out there due any day and anything could go wrong

“Thinking about Harlow?” Maggie asks as she sits next to me while I fed little ass kicker

I nod feeling that weight on my chest

“You’ll find them you know, she’s a fighter and she’ll do anything to get back to you” I nod again smiling at her words before she takes Judith so I can go looking for them again

I’ve gotta find them

•

Part.6

Taglist: @rainymads @stories4you04-x @mylle5 @nessatea @onerockontheway @moncherriis @writer-ann-artist @itsjustmeandmyanxiety @yoonjisgirl @remuslupinscumslutt @rockstarlover123 @bigbaldheadname @azanoni @deansapplepie @itsmytimetoodream @holb32 @whump-loverz @pollito-chicken @ankhmutes @nadeleine888 @prettylittlepsycho03 @daryldixmedown @holdmytesseract @snackthatsmilesbackchlldren

#twd fanfiction #twd daryl #twd x reader #daryl dixion imagine #daryl dixon #twd fluff #daryl dixon x reader #twd negan #twd rick #daryl dixon twd #daryl dixion smut #daryl x reader #daryl imagines #daryl fanfiction #daryl dixon smut #the walking dead daryl #daryl x female reader #daryl dixon series #daryl dixon x pregnant reader

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yearsbecomingcool · 4 months ago

Text

good boy | daniel markowitz 18+

donate to gaza here | masterlist | part 2

pairing | daniel markowitz x f!reader

synopsis | your best friend is there for you after a shitty day at work.

warnings | f!reader, me ranting about working retail, drug use, sexual context, premature ejaculation, hair pulling, subby!danny, and grinding.

word count | 3k

a/n | the lack of fics for daniel is insane to me so naturally i had to fix that. thelma is amazing and you all need to watch it, super fun and cute!! i'm so thankful the screenplay for thelma is up online because i used it as a guide for daniel while writing. there will be a part 2 to this i swear. next fic is going to be for caracalla and I'm very excited for it. if y'all have requests for any of fred's other characters please feel free to send them in :)

There’s nothing you hate more than a customer who comes in at the last minute. You were at your retail job, clearing the last of the hangers out of the fitting room when you heard the front door open. You glance over at your coworker, giving her an annoyed look. You drop your voice low, with an empty store and the music turned off it won’t take much for your voice to travel. “Who comes into this place right before closing, who needs jeans at 9:51pm?” You groan.

“Let’s just hope they’ll be quick.” She returns to sweeping up the fitting room. About five minutes later the customer, a middle aged woman with a haircut that screams ‘I will call your manager over nothing’, walks into the fitting room holding a pile of jeans. You decide to grit your teeth and open up a room for her before wandering off to the back to find your manager. You put in the door code and head into the back, pounding on the office door where your manager is counting the registers already. If this woman tries to pay in cash you all are fucked. You hear your manager putting up the money and she opens the door just a crack. “We just had someone come in to try on like ten pairs of jeans, should I tell her that we close soon, or?”

Your manager sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose in annoyance. “I’ll handle it in a minute, just let her try it on for now and put someone at the front to make sure no one else comes in.” You nod in response and head back out to the floor, sending someone up to the front before you slip into one of the fitting rooms. You open your texts, a small blue dot next to your conversation with Danny. Sometimes you envied him being unemployed, right now is one of those times. You open up the conversation, smiling down at his message. He had finally watched the horror movie you’d suggested ages ago and was telling you how much he loved it. You type up a quick response as you hear the other fitting room door open, you slip your phone into your pocket and slip back out.

“Do you carry anything not…ugly?” She asks, motioning down to the pair of atrocious jeggings she’s tried on. You internally cringe at the printed on pockets and crease lines.

You put on your best customer service voice and nod, “Yes ma’am. Do you know what you’re looking for?”

She gives you a look that makes you want to quit on the spot, “If I knew what I was looking for do you think I’d be trying on so much shit?”

You manage to stay calm, giving her a strained smile. “Well if there’s anything I can help you look for just let me know.” The woman shuts the door in your face and you sigh, slipping back into the fitting room you were just in. You pull your conversation with Danny back up and type out a text to him.

please tell me you’re free tonight, work is making me lose my mind

You slip your phone back into your pocket and try to keep yourself busy. It’s ten minutes past close now and you’re getting more annoyed as every second passes. As you’re fixing the clearance section for the hundredth time your phone buzzes, a new text from Danny.

i am

what time are you off?

You smile and type back a response

i was supposed to be off at 10:30 but some karen came in and is trying off half the store

so when i know i’ll let you know

i need canes so bad tonight

His response comes quickly.

canes sounds so good

do you want me to pick you up or?

You bite down on your lower lip, trying to decide.

yeah

do you wanna stay over tonight?

a movie night and canes maybe?

Your phone buzzes again with his response.

sounds perfect

mom is driving me up the wall again

You send a thumbs up react and head back to the fitting room to see if that customer is gone yet. You sigh in relief when you see the door is open and then immediately want to bash your head into the wall when you see she left every single item she tried on in the room and on the floor. You can hear your coworker locking the doors and feel relieved that she’s at least gone now. You snap a quick picture of the mess and send it to Daniel.

i love my job.

He’s quick to reply, the message coming seconds after yours.

canes will fix it

promise

You smile down at the message and quickly type out your response.

if it doesn’t i bought more edibles last week

You ignore his next messages to fix and put back the items she had left in the fitting room. You hold down the button on your walkie, “Are we still getting out of here at 10:30? I fixed all the stuff she left.” As soon as she replies you send Danny a quick text to let him know to be here at 10:30. You pray the next 15 minutes will go by quickly as you find things to busy yourself with until finally you can grab your things and leave. As you all walk up to the doors to leave you smile at the sight of his car in the parking lot, parked right next to yours.

As soon as you’re out you’re quick to run to his car, knocking on the passenger window, scaring the shit out of him in the process. You throw your head back and laugh at the sight of him dropping his phone and screaming. He unlocks the door and bends down to scoop his phone up off the floor. You’re still laughing when you get in. “Holy shit, I forget how easily scared you are.” You drop your bag to the floor next to a crumpled Wendy’s bag and buckle up, leaning back comfortably in his seat.

“You’re such a dick,” he mutters, still recovering from how you scared him.

“You looooove me,” you tease, reaching over to ruffle his already messy hair.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you need to sleep at night,” he jokes, buckling up and turning the car back on.

You sit in silence for a minute as he drives out of the parking lot. “Thank you for coming to hang out, work has been such a goddamn nightmare lately…I’ve missed you.” You say softly as you play with the rips in your jeans.

He smiles, his cheeks turning pink, “I’ve missed you too…I started taking those classes at the community college last month. I’m not taking a lot but they’ve kept me a little busy.”

“I’m glad you’re doing them, I thought you were gonna lose it having to be stuck around your parents constantly,” you chuckle. As sweet as his parents are they can be a nightmare to be around at times, you think they’re why he’s so anxious but you’d never say that out loud.

“They’ve been driving me insane today, I keep telling them it’s so hard to get anywhere to call back but they think it’s bullshit. They haven’t had to apply for a job in like 30 years, they think you can still walk in and get an application,” he rants.

“Oh my god…there’s no fucking way. Every time someone comes in to get an application we have to tell them to apply online, I feel like an asshole every time I have to tell them. Y’know you should come work with me, it sucks but it’s something at least. We’re hiring.”

He smiles, “Maybe I will, then I can get paid to annoy you.”

You groan playfully, “Y’know what they actually just filled every position so-”

“Oh fuck off!” He laughs, pulling into the packed Canes drive through.

“Do you know what you want, or?”

You cut him off, “You have my order memorized by now.”

He holds his hands up defensively, “Hey! For all I know you could’ve picked tonight to branch out.”

You roll your eyes, “When have I ever branched out with food a day in my life?”

“Fair point…”

As you sit waiting for the line to move you glance over at Danny, you grab his wrist, examining the rip on his cardigan. “Dude, you need to throw this out, or like go get it fixed.”

“If you think that little rip is bad just look at this.” He leans forward to show you an even worse rip towards the back of the dark blue cardigan.

“Jesus did something take a bite out of it? You know we sell one that looks a lot like that, I could always get you a new one.” You offer.

“I like this one, it’s soft. Just let me wear it until it falls apart.”

You sigh, “I think it’s about halfway there, bud.”

Silence falls over the car again, you scramble for something to fill it. You regret the first words out of your mouth. “So, how are things with Allie?”

His face sours, he looks down at his lap trying to come up with an answer. “She’s got a new boyfriend…seems like he’s got his shit together, so y’know, that’s uh…good.”

“Shit, dude…” You place your hand on his shoulder, “She’s missing out. You don’t have it all together yet, and that’s fine, but you still have a lot to offer.”

He sighs, shaking his head. “You sound like my grandma,” he sounds amused.

“I still can’t believe she pulled a fucking heist to get her money back…what a legend.”

He laughs, scratching the back of his neck, “I don’t know how she pulled it off still, she’s incredible. God…I was so stressed that whole day.”

“Yeah, I know, you were practically blowing up my phone. But hey, I’d do the same if my grandma pulled something like that.”

He turns to you smiling, “Well if she ever does you have an expert to help you handle it,” he gestures to himself cockily.

“I’m sure you’ll be great at helping me freak out.”

He smacks your thigh playfully, “Hey, be nice if you want me to pay.”

“Right, right, can’t upset my sugar daddy…”

“Fuck off,” he cackles, rolling his eyes.

Once you get your food he starts heading back to your place, you feed him his fries while he drives, the radio playing softly in the background. “It’s a good thing we both got extra sauce, I don’t know why they don’t just sell bottles of this shit already,” you say as you dip another fry into the sauce for him.

“If they did, I think we’d be enough to keep them in business,” he laughs.

Back at your place Danny makes himself comfortable on your plush couch, it was one your grandma had been nice enough to donate once you got your own apartment, a one bedroom just big enough for you and your cat. You retreat to your room to grab your edibles, a small baggie with candy that looks similar to Airhead Xtremes. You toss the bag into his lap as you plop down next to him, grabbing your Canes box off the coffee table. “Don’t take a lot, you know I’ve never been one to go for a low dose,” you caution.

“Thanks for the warning, the last time I took some with you I woke up high.”

You laugh at the memory, “You were such a mess that night, I felt so bad.”

He pats your shoulder reassuringly, “It’s fine, I lived, didn’t I?”

“Unless I’m hallucinating you right now, then yeah, you did.”

He takes his turn feeding you your fries as you scroll through your streaming services to find something to watch. You turn to him, “Are you gonna kill me if I put on Spree again?”

“I might,” he deadpans.

You click on it anyway, starting the movie and taking a small bite off your edible, Danny doing the same. You lean your head on his shoulder, cuddling up to him like always. He glances down at you with a smile, wrapping an arm around your shoulder to pull you in closer.

“I’ve missed this…I hate being busy.”

You smile up at him, “I wish I was rich, then I’d have all the time in the world to do whatever I wanted. I’d spend all my days watching movies, annoying the shit out of you. Sounds like a better life to me.”

“Then you could be my sugar daddy.”

You roll your eyes, “I practically am your sugar daddy, I barely let you pay for anything.”

“You shouldn’t do that y’know,” he says softly. “I still live with my parents, I can afford to pay for your stuff. You’re like…an adult, you’ve got bills to pay.”

“You’ll be in the same boat soon, Danny. Maybe I’ll need a roommate.”

“In a one bedroom?” He asks incredulously.

“Yeah, you can sleep on the floor. I’m a generous host,” you joke.

He cocks an eyebrow at you. “You let me sleep in your bed with you every time I stay over but I’ll have to sleep on the floor when I move in?”

“Fine, you can sleep at the end of my bed. Is that better?”

His brows furrow, “Like a dog?”

“Mhm, you can bark, right?”

His cheeks go pink and he stumbles over his words, unable to string together a comprehensible sentence. Eventually just nodding shyly.

You love to see him flustered. You reach out and pet his hair like a dog, “Good boy.”

You bite your lip at how red he gets. You wonder if Allie ever messed with him like this.

They dated for a year and yet you feel like you barely know anything about what happened between them. You glance down at his lips. You kissed once, it was junior year. He’d come over after school, muttering a lie to his mom about needing to work on a project. Instead you had managed to get your hands on some bud, fluttering eyelashes and a twenty was all you needed to pay with. Your parents were working late, again, so it made it easy to get away with. He laughed at you, watching you pull up a tutorial on Youtube for how to roll a joint. Laughing even harder when you rolled quite possibly the worst joint in all of history. You smoked together, watching the Jackass series, laughing too hard at every bit. At some point you ended up in his lap, he pulled you into his chest, resting his head on your shoulder. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling playfully at the blonde strands. Your eyes went wide when he whimpered. You pulled his head back, his eyes squeezing shut in pain and…something else. You watch how he bites down on his lower lip to keep quiet, you’ve always thought his teeth were cute, as weird as it sounds. “Danny?” You say his name softly.

He opens his eyes, “Mhm?”

“Can I kiss you?”

He blushes, “I-I’ve never…” He looks away, embarrassed.

“It’s easy, can I show you?” You ask softly, trying to make sure he’s comfortable.

“Please…” It comes out more pathetic than he intends.

You pulled him in, kissing him softly, helping him figure out his pace. You want to take it further, but before you can his phone goes off. His embarrassing ringtone blaring, making him jump back, startled. You pull away from him and slide off his lap so he can answer it.

After that you two never spoke of the incident again, but you thought about it constantly. He had a few girlfriends here and there over the years but never any as serious as Allie. You hated her at first, a weird misogynistic jealousy bubbling up. But you got over it, sort of. You were kind to her, you liked her, but the jealousy still lived in you quietly. It gnawed at you every time you saw them put their hands on one another but you kept it to yourself. You wanted Danny to be happy even if it made you feel sick.

Danny wants to lean in, he wants to kiss you, but he’s nervous. He couldn’t be casual, it wasn’t in his nature. He hadn’t been with anyone since Allie, much less kissed anyone. He felt pathetic, a normal guy his age would kiss you easily. They’d lean in, maybe push your hair behind your ear. But he couldn’t, his hands trembled at the mere thought of it.

“You look nice tonight,” he says softly, still staring at your lips. He means it, he thinks it’s cute how your mascara has smudged slightly under your eye from a long day at work.

“You’re sweet…so do you,” you giggle. You reach up and caress his face softly.

“Me? I-I’m a mess, I stayed in bed all day doing school work.”

“Let me compliment you. You’re pretty. I love your eyes and your hair, you even have cute teeth…if you ever get veneers I’ll stop talking to you.”

He laughs, cheeks permanently pink at this point. “It’s sweet you think I can afford veneers.”

“Can I kiss you?” You blurt out as if you’re back in high school perched on his lap.

His eyes go wide, he runs his tongue over his bottom lip and pulls you into his lap, your thighs falling onto either side of him. You kiss him softly at first, almost like your kiss from high school, this time less sloppy. Your hand finds his way into his hair, the other gripping the back of the couch. You pull at his hair and deepen the kiss, your hips instinctively roll against his, he whines against your lips. His sweet pathetic sounds are like music to your ears. His hands are on your waist, pulling you down on hip by your belt loops. You roll your hips again and that’s all it takes. He whines loudly, his head knocking against yours. He grips your hips tight, his eyes squeezing shut, hips bucking up as he comes. You caress his face as he comes down from it, you can feel his cheeks heating up.

“Danny did you just…”

He whines with embarrassment, “Don’t laugh…please.”

#fred hechinger #thelma #thelma 2024 #fred hechinger x reader #fred hechinger imagine #fred hechinger x you #Daniel markowitz #Daniel markowitz x reader #Daniel markowitz x you #Fred Hechinger fanfic #divider by cafekitsune

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jksprincess10 · 9 months ago

Text

You just leave it up to me, we could have a good time || Eddie Munson x f!reader

A/N: Thank you to the discord server friends who helped me out with this !!!

Summary: You reunite with Eddie at the hideout, and he confesses that he's still a virgin. You're more than willing to help.

CW: No y/n, no physical descriptions of reader, sub!eddie, virgin!eddie, mentions of drinking, implied small age gap (reader is around 2 years older) awkward idiots, bad DND jokes, oral sex (f receiving), protected p in v, premature ejaculation.

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

"That's it Eddie, you're being such a good boy." You slur, drunk on pleasure as you hold up his hair in a ponytail to keep it from getting wet. Eddie slurps energetically on your pussy, encouraged by your kind praises.

It had all started when you reunited with Eddie at The Hideout. After you had graduated - and he had been held back again, you found yourself busy with college life and you rarely saw him, albeit living in a small town.

But a night in a shitty small-town bar led to so much more.

You had forgotten how beautiful he was. And on the stage, guitar in hands, he simply looked in control. You wanted to make him loose it.

"That was really good." You said as you offered him a drink after he went off stage.

He looked at you, and it took a few seconds until he recognized you, his gaze lighting up as he found your name.

"Oh shit! You were at my school, right? One year ahead of me?" He took the drink in his hand, and you couldn't help but notice the rings on his hand. Your eyes slipped from his fingers, then to his big, brown eyes before he caught you staring.

"Yup."

You got to talking and a few drinks later, your tongues had gone loose.

"Did you finally graduate?" You asked, eyebrow raised.

"I did. I'm just... figuring things out right now. Still a virgin loser, though." He chuckled and lifted his drink for a toast.

"You'd think being a guitarist would help." You laughed and hit your glass against his for a mock-toast. "I can help, though."

"... what?"

"I can fix this." Your fingers grazed his, and his gaze darkened as he looked at you.

"Fuck it, let's go."

"This is my humble apartment." You said as you welcomed him in.

Eddie looked around with a smile on his face.

"Nice. D'you mind if I... freshen up?"

" 'Course not. I like my men clean."

You pointed him to the bathroom, and you waited in your bedroom, undressing to your underwear and your bra. You felt giddy and nervous as you waited for him. When Eddie came out, he was only clad in his boxers, black with a dungeon and dragons log printed a few times.

"Hi." He said awkwardly.

You rose and walked towards him, placing your hands against his chest.

"Hi." You smiled at him, big and sincere. "Can I kiss you?"

Eddie nodded enthusiastically, and you wrapped your hands around his neck to angle his face towards your mouth. He tasted like cheap beer and Chapstick. His lips were surprisingly soft and when he held your waist, you could feel his confidence building. You licked and tugged at his bottom lip until he let you in, you glided your tongue into his mouth. His moans vibrating in your mouth went straight to your core. You pushed him to your unmade, messy bed, and he supported his upper body with his forearms as he looked at you, astounded.

"It's my fucking lucky day, damn." He said, voice rough as he wrapped a hand around your neck, bringing you down to him. You felt his cold rings on your warm skin. Eddie looked you up and down, taking you in, like you were some kind of beautiful dream or perhaps, the type of hallucination he would have on drugs.

"You know, I always thought you were cute." You confessed as you kissed the corner of his lips.

"You don't have to flatter my ego."

"It's true." You pulled back his hair to look at his face, then your fingers trailed down his chest, lean, with sparse hair and faded tattoos that looked like they were made with a single needle and pen ink.

"Now Eddie, do you know how to please a lady?" You asked in a sultry voice, the pad of your fingers tracing the vague shape of a tattoo that had blown out.

"In... theory." He responded, unsure.

"Do you want me to show you?"

The boy nodded his head a few times, and kissed your forehead as you swapped your positions, pulling him on top of you.

"Just take your time." You took his hands in yours and guided them to the back of your bra. He unclasped it with surprising ease and pulled it down your arms, after tossing it on the floor. "Hey! This shit's expensive, Munson." You joked, falsely offended.

"I'll buy you a new one." He seemed hypnotized by the sight of your breasts. You leaded his hands on your skin, letting him touch, pinch and explore. "Beautiful." He muttered to himself.

"You're cute." You let out without really thinking. You shouldn't get too attached. He smiled shyly, his cheeks red.

"Can you show me how to eat you out? Please?"

"Asking so nicely, like a good boy."

Your words stirred something unknown inside of him and went right to his cock. You could see the online of it through his thin boxers, and you unconsciously licked your lips.

You slid down your panties and opened up your legs for him.

"Go ahead. Spread my lips, lick around until you find my clit."

Eddie's fingers followed your lead, spreading you open. His tongue explored your slit, shyly at first, and when the tip of the wet muscle found your bundle of nerves, he became more confident. You encouraged him with soft praises and moans.

He looked up at you with big, innocent eyes, watching each and every one of your expressions.

"You can suck, graze your teeth... you can be messy. Can you hear how wet you're making me? Do you wanna feel it too?"

“Y-Yes, I hear it.” Eddie whispered against your soaked cunt, the warmth of his mouth heightening with your sensitivity.

Eddie's tongue circled your clit, fast, then slow, before sucking it into your mouth, sending shocks of pleasure through you.

Slowly, two of his digits breach your hole, stopping at his rings. He looks up at you for approval, and you nod with a fucked-out smirk.

"P-Push them in and out while you keep eating my pussy. Curl your fingers until… you feel something spongey." It was getting difficult to give him instructions as you were blinded by your own pleasure.

As he follows your directions, you arch your back and you gasp when he found the right spot, pulling on his hair tightly.

"R-Right there, oh god Eddie. "

He doubles in fervor and enthusiasm until your legs are shaking and you're gushing on his fingers. You let his hair go, and he sits back on his knees as if to look at a beautiful painting; pussy glistening with your come and his spit.

"You did so fucking good, Eddie." You look up at him as he overs over your body, biting your lip. When you looked down at his crotch, you can see the wetness in his boxers, until you meet his glazed eyes.

"Take this off. I wanna please you."

He lowers his boxers until they rest under his balls. Eddie's cock is red and leaking, his balls, tight. When you wrap your hand around him, he almost looks startled.

"Hey... I'm sorry baby."

"N-No it's just. I might fucking come on the spot if you touch me. Shit."

"It's okay. Tell me what you need." You caress the light stubble on his cheek.

"I-I want to fuck you. If that's okay." Eddie stutters as he pulls his underwear all the way down.

"Of course." Your hand finds a condom in your side table drawer, and you hand it to him. Eddie tears it open with his teeth and unwraps it on his erect cock.

"I'm not... really sure how to do this or-"

You lay a hand on his torso and push him against the bed. "Let me take over." You sit on his lap, and he looks up at you in pure wonder. You wrap your hand around the base of his cock, and you descend on him slowly. He takes in a sharp, shaky breath.

"So fucking tight. Fuck." He curses, his hands taking place on your waist. When your thighs are flush with his, you give him a few seconds to adjust to the new feeling. "Kiss me. Please." He says needily. You could never refuse anything to this man. You bend down and latch your lips onto his, taking the opportunity to move your hips slowly. He groans into your mouth.

You use your hands to support your upper body, laying your palms against his chest as you jump up and down on his cock, faster. Eddie is a babbling mess under you, thrusting his hips against yours. When you feel him unintentionally hitting that deep spot inside of you, you cry out his name.

"I'm s-sorry... I- I can't last."

"S'okay baby boy. You can come. It's normal on the first time." You say between heavy breaths. Eddie's hips keeps thrusting in a disorganized rhythm, until he stops, deep inside of you. He moans as he comes, so hard until he sees stars.

"Well, that was a fucking NAT 1 on performance." He says as you pull off him. His forearm lays against his forehead as he catches his breath. You snort as you get off him.

"You made me come, so that's better than 90% of dudes. You need anything?"

"Water. Please."

You nod and go to the bathroom, before coming back with two glasses of fresh water that you leave on your bedside table.

Eddie has already discarded the condom and is back in his boxers. "Huh I should... go."

"You can stay. If... if you want."

You watch him drink the water, the way his throat bobs when he swallows.

"Sure. And... I can bring you on a date tomorrow? If you want." He repeats.

You lay on the bed and smile at him. "Yes. Of course Eddie. Let's go on a date."

#stranger things #stranger things fic #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x f reader #eddie munson x yn #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fic #eddie munson oneshot #joseph quinn #joseph quinn smut #joseph quinn fic #eddie munson x reader

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griefabyss69 · 2 months ago

Text

A Moment

Written for @steddiemicrofic!

[ AO3 ]

'RIDE' wc: 453 | rated: T | cw: off screen bullying

Eddie's stuck, but Steve comes along and helps him out… after getting something he wants.

It’s a vulnerable thing, standing on his toes, hanging from a towel hook by his wrists in the locker room.

So... he went too far today—teased at the mad-dogs until they had snapped and trussed him up with his own shirt—but he doesn’t regret it. They had it coming, and... and so did he. It’s not like he could’ve planned for this, but he’s been pushing at the edge of danger for so long that now that it’s snapped, he can only laugh at himself and give in, even though he’s cold, and his calves are going to start aching soon. He wore his sneakers today so they don’t even give him an inch of height to help him unhook himself.

The door slams open and a straggler comes in, his aggravated sigh cut short at the sight of what must register as some pale insect desecrating his holy showering chamber.

“Uh,” Steve Harrington says, swiping a hand back through his sweaty hair.

Eddie clenches his teeth around a goading how articulate and gives him a tight smile. Anticipation builds and threatens to prematurely crest in his gut as Steve steps closer—is he gonna punch him? Set him loose? Ride him like a horse?—and Eddie has to swallow down a sudden mouthful of spit.

Steve smells like basketballs and deodorant. The rubber smell is all on his hands, when he reaches for Eddie’s wrists but stops short.

“Munson, I need a win today,” he says, and the way he looks levels Eddie’s insides.

“Letting me down wouldn’t be a loss,” Eddie points out.

“No, I... What’ll you give me if I do?”

“True love’s kiss,” Eddie scoffs. “I dunno, what do you want?”

Steve’s eyes shoot to his lips, then down to his belt.

“To be good at something again.”

“Not weed? Hallucinogens? Uppers? Downers?”

“I don’t want drugs,” Steve says plainly. “I’m good with my mouth.”

Uh.

“Are you going to monologue at me unti—”

Steve leans in, shutting him up. He holds his neck and uses his thumbs to force him still, pushing his lips harder and harder against Eddie’s—he’s gotta start kissing back or he’ll have to take a long walk off the quarry.

The fact that Steve moans when Eddie slips him tongue will stick to his ribs forever, even if Steve breaks out of this magical curse or whatever and ends up slapping him silly.

“There,” Steve pants, once Eddie’s mouth feels more swollen than a fat lip ever did, glancing at the tent in Eddie’s stupid shorts. “I’ve still got it.”

Eddie’s speechless—a once in a lifetime event, given up to a jock—as Steve unhooks him, winking as he heads for the showers.

“See you around, Munson.”

#griefabyss69 writing #steddiemicroficmarch #steddiefanfiction #steddie fanfic

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dancingtotuyo · 1 year ago

Text

Part I

High Infidelity | Joel Miller X Female Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Summary: Tommy gets himself into more trouble than he can get out of.

Tags: Tommy x Reader, Joel x Reader, Tommy's Wife Reader, infidelity, emotional affair, slow burn (as much as you can get for 5 chapters), Tommy goes to jail, Reader has had a child

Warnings: US justice system (it don't work, probably bad understanding of how it operates), mention of drugs & weapons, alcohol consumption, let me know if I missed anything

Notes: when I planned this out, I didn’t realize I’d scheduled the first chapter to drop on Pedro’s birthday! So happy birthday to him!

Shout out to @janaispunkfor beta reading and @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin for letting me scream about this endlessly and shaping this world. Finally, @saradika-graphics for sustaining our fic writers with an endless supply of dividers!

Words: 4396

Series Masterlist | Author Masterlist | Daily Clicks for Palestine & Other resources

You’re asleep, or at least you should be except the phone is ringing and the bed is cold next to you. That’s a bad sign. It always is.

A small grunt echoes from your gut as bare feet hit the cool hardwood floor. You can’t find the phone before it stops, buried under clothes you haven’t folded, scribbled crayon drawings, and bleary eyes. It starts back almost immediately.

“Tommy?”

“He called me.” Joel’s voice echoes through the line. “It’s bad this time.”

“How bad?”

“He asked for a lawyer.”

You press your palm to your forehead. “Shit!”

“The sitter is on her way to yours. I’m getting Sarah up now. We’ll be there in 10.”

“Thank you, Joel.”

“Of course. See you soon.” Joel hangs up.

You roam through the laundry basket for a clean pair of jeans and an acceptable t-shirt. You run a toothbrush through your mouth to freshen your breath. You do your best to push back all the possibilities running through your brain.

You crack open the door to Nathaniel’s room. Your two-year-old son sleeps tightly, his mop of black curls spread out on the pillow. You want to run your hand through his curls and kiss his cheek, but he’s the world’s lightest sleeper, just like his daddy.

The sitter is there 5 minutes later, all too familiar with this routine for your liking. Joel ushers in a bleary-eyed minutes later. He tucks her into the spare room bed. Sarah doesn’t ask questions. She’s asleep before he can kiss her head.

You move like the well-oiled machine that you are. He grabs your purse, ensuring the checkbook is there while you say a few words to the sitter. Joel hands you the small black bag and a light jacket.

Doors open before you and close without you touching them. You and Joel are riding down the highway. The windows are cracked, the breeze playing through your hair as street lights play off the windows, growing bigger and brighter as your eyes fill with tears. You chew on your thumb as the thoughts finally begin to take over.

You’ve felt Tommy slipping these past few months. You’ve tried to ignore it, excuse it. He’s had a hard time adjusting. This is hardly the first time he’s been in jail. It feels like a weekly occurrence at this point, but he’s never needed a lawyer. He’s never been held longer than overnight.

“Did he say what they got him for?”

“No… he asked me to come alone.”

“Fucking hell.” You run a hand over your face. Tommy’s antics are aging you prematurely.

“He’s going to be okay.”

“Says who?” You snap. “We’ve been doing this dance for months, Joel! I know he’s having a hard time adjusting, but maybe we’ve been giving him too much room.”

Joel sighs, letting silence fall over the truck cabin. His blinker clicks as you turn into the familiar station. You wonder if the night shift is actually going to fulfill their punch card offer this time.

Joel has barely pushed the truck into park before you’re out of the vehicle, flying through the front doors. Joel is hot on your heels, not bothering to lock his beat-up pickup.

Your ID is already on the desk, you don’t even have to say a name. The officer at the front desk doesn’t need your license. He barely looks at it. It’s all a raging formality. They escort you to a room, not a holding cell as you’re used to.

Tommy sits at a table talking to a tired-looking public defender. His head snaps up, eyes jumping from your face to Joel’s behind you. “I told you to come alone.”

“The fuck you did Thomas James Miller!” You say before Joel can defend himself.

Tommy stands to his feet, the chair skidding back. “You’re not supposed to be here for this!”

“I’m your wife! You call me!”

“Or maybe you should be home with your child!”

“Oh, I should be home with our son? And what about you?”

“I’m not having this fight with you right now.” Tommy throws his hands in the air moving his attention to Joel who leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “You were supposed to come alone!”

“What’re you in for?” You ask, not giving Joel a chance to answer. Not that he was going to. He knows not to let Tommy deflect to him when you are around.

Tommy sighs falling into the chair like a rag dog. Stress lines engrave themselves deep into his forehead.

“Tommy…” A pit drops in your stomach. “What did they get you with?”

“A gun-“

“Without a permit.” The Lawyer speaks for the first time. There’s a roll to Tommy’s eyes.

“And?”

Tommy can’t meet your eyes. He shuffles in his seat.

“Tommy,” Joel says, voice low and gruff. It’s automatic, parental even.

“A couple grams of coke.”

“Fucking hell, Tommy.” Joel hits his head against the wall.

“I didn’t- I never took it. I promise.”

You take a shaking breath, trying to calm your worn nerves. “So what are we looking at here?” You ask, eyes trained on the lawyer.

You see Tommy out of your peripheral vision using his pleading puppy dog eyes on you. You square your shoulders determined not to fall for it. They’re the reason you’re in this boat in the first place.

“Babe-“

You hold up a hand cutting him off, eyes trained on the lawyer. “What are we looking at?”

“Probably Jail time. DA’s office has been cracking down on these kinds of cases the past few months.”

“Is he getting out tonight?”

The lawyer shakes his head. “We have to wait until tomorrow for arraignment and bail.”

“Then, I’ll see you two tomorrow.” You give them a firm nod, exiting the room in a flash.

The Texas air wraps around you as you exit the stale police station. Joel’s pick-up is cool under your fingers, anchoring you to something.

This can’t be happening. You’ve felt him slipping through your fingertips for months, but you wonder if this is it if this is the moment you lose Tommy for good.

Firm arms wrap around your waist. It’s a warmth you’ve become way too familiar with over the last couple of years. You turn around, letting your tears soak Joel’s shirt as they have so many times before. You twist his shirt in your fists as he cradles your head against his chest. There’s a slight sway in his movements, soothing your wrenching soul.

“We’re going to get through this.”

“He had cocaine!”

Joel sighs. “I know.”

“I can’t keep doing this. It’s going to kill me.”

“Let’s get you home. Get some sleep.” Joel squeezes you and then guides you into the passenger side seat. “We have a long day tomorrow.”

“What time is-“

“Lawyer said about 11. Wants us to meet them at the courthouse at 10.”

You nod, clearing the tears. “Okay.”

The drive home is quiet. You’re used to Tommy throwing out every excuse in the book, promising he’s going to change. The silence makes you want to scream. How do you go forward? How do you explain to Nathaniel that Daddy won’t be home for a long time? Jail Time. It bounces off the walls of your brain like a gong over and over.

You’ve done this before. Raise your son alone. Tommy was overseas when Nathaniel was born. You did the first 3 months on your own- or sort of alone. Joel and Sarah spent many nights at your and Tommy’s home those first few months helping you through the learning curve of being a new parent. If you’re completely honest, you’re still doing it alone, but now with a shell of a man to look after as well.

Joel hands the sitter cash and she’s gone without a word. Your purse and jacket are forgotten on the chair as you collapse onto the couch, holding your head in your hands. The weight of the night threatens to finally break you.

“Here.” The cool weight of a bottle presses against your jeans.

“Thank you.” You take it, tipping the bottle back in unison with Joel in a quiet ritual.

“I think I’m just gonna crash on the couch tonight.”

You nod, a humorless huff leaving your chest. “Just like the good ole days, I guess.”

Joel looks over your profile, catches the wear in your frame, the silent tears slipping from your eyes. The rattle in your chest changes from sarcastic to sorrow and then a sob slips from your lips.

Joel sets his beer on the coffee table, arm slipping around your shoulders. He pulls your loose body into his side. For the second time that night, your face burrows into his chest.

“Shhh, I’ve got you, Darlin’. We’ll get through this.” His voice is soft and soothing. His fingers brush softly over your head down to the back of your neck. You fall asleep like that, lulled by the steady beat of his heart.

You wake up to the morning sun, your body stiff from sleeping on the couch against Joel. He’s up, the smell of coffee wafting toward you. You hear him talking to Sarah and Nathaniel in the kitchen.

You stand, stretching out your sore muscles in wrinkled clothing following the promise of caffeine. Sarah and Nathaniel sit at the kitchen table with syrupy smiles.

“Mommy!” Nathaniel yells.

You force a sleepy smile, kissing his sticky cheek. “Morning, sweet cheeks.” You dip your finger in the syrup on his plate, licking it off your fingertip making him and Sarah laugh. “Morning, Sarah Bear.”

“Morning, Auntie,” She says. “Your clothes are wrinkled.”

Joel’s hand lands on your back and a cup of coffee lands in your hands, sending warmth through your body. The hum in your body is automatic. “Thank you.”

Joel only nods, returning his attention to the pancakes sizzling on the stovetop. You sip on the hot coffee. Joel prepared it exactly how you like it, just like he always does.

“You hate pancakes.”

“Yeah, but the gremlins love them.”

“That they do.” You grin, sipping on the coffee again. “Ugh, it’s infuriating the way you come into my home and make better coffee than I do.”

Joel chuckles, flipping two fluffy pancakes onto a plate. He tops them with cut-up strawberries and whipped cream handing them to you with the biggest shit-eating grin. “And pancakes.”

For a minute you forget it all, the impending arraignment, your husband in jail for unregistered weapons and drug possession, the two children sitting mere feet away. It’s just you and Joel and a stack of whipped cream-covered pancakes. Joel who held your hand through labor and helped you with midnight feedings. The man who got you through Tommy’s deployment. The one who always calls the sitter and drives you to the police station when Tommy gets himself in trouble. You and your rock.

The shattering of glass echoes through the kitchen. “Uh-oh!”

You spin around, taking in the broken glass on the floor. Orange juice leaks over the table, dripping over the edge. You and Joel spring into action, pancakes forgotten. “Both of you stay in your seats,” You say.

Joel grabs the broom before you, sweeping up the shards, his feet already protected in his boots. You turn off the stove, keeping an eye on both children to ensure you don’t add bloodied feet to your morning agenda.

“Sorry, Daddy,” Sarah says, keeping her feet crisscrossed beneath her. She looked up at you. “Sorry about your glass, Aunt Bonnie.”

You smile at her, handing Joel a towel to soak up the spilled juice. “It’s okay, Sarah bear. I just want you to be okay.”

She nods back, curls bouncing around her face. “I’m okay.”

You sigh, staring at the pancakes on the counter. The whipped cream has melted into a lopsided mound, half of it turned back into cream that soaks through the pancakes. You take a bite, the flavors settling nicely over your tongue even if the texture of the pancakes is slightly off. For a man who claims not to like them, Joel Miller sure knows how to make a mean pancake.

Your mind plays back to the nickname. Not many people call you Bonnie anymore. Just a few years ago, it had been a constant. Stemming from Tommy’s group of army buddies, they declared you Bonnie for always stealing Tommy away from their group cookouts and whatnot, and Tommy was Clyde due to his propensity for getting into trouble. For whatever reason, probably just to annoy you, Tommy had introduced you to Sarah as “His Bonnie.” So that’s what she calls you.

Joel empties the remaining shards into the trash can. Several high-pitched clinks sound off until the shards settle. Your fork stirs the whipped cream and syrup together.

“Pancakes are usually best eaten, not played with.” Joel teases, picking his coffee up to take a sip. His fingers graze your arm as he sets it back down, returning the broom back to its rightful place.

”You don’t even like pancakes.” You furrowed your brow, taking another bite. Whipped cream marks your upper lip. You take another bite. “God, one day you have to tell me your secret.”

Joel chuckles. He leans across the counter, elbows resting against the granite much like yours. He sips on his coffee, eyes watching as you stuff another bite into your mouth. “I’ve got many secrets, Darlin.”

You laugh, mouth full of fruit and cream. “You’re an open fucking book, Miller.”

”I think I could surprise you several times over.” He chuckles. Something sparks behind his eyes like he’s actually keeping something from you. You’ll figure it out. You always do.

“These are delicious, Joel, but if I take another bite, I’m gonna be sick.”

Joel frowns. “You feeling okay? You don’t have a fever do you?” He presses his fingers to your forehead before you can roll your eyes.

“Anxiety.”

Joel nods. “You’ve got a little-“ He motions to his mouth.

You cock your head to the side brain not picking up on the obvious signals. He sighs in mock exasperation. Reaching forward, he wipes the whipped cream from your lip with his thumb, pressing the excess to his mouth. The moment catches you off guard, something stirring in the back of your mind as you zero in on the thumb pressed to his lips.

“You should go get ready.” He says as if nothing happened, taking your plate. “We need to leave in an hour.”

You nod, pushing back from the counter. The weight of the day at hand keeps that moment from playing over and over again on a loop.

”Daddy,” Sarah says. “Isn’t it time for school?”

”You’re going to stay here with Nathaniel and Miss Lacy today. Your aunt and I have some things we have to do.”

”Oh,” Sarah nodded. “Uncle Tommy things?”

You stop, sharing a look with Joel. You’ve tried your best to keep Tommy’s troubles from the kids, but it’s inevitable. Sarah is almost 6 after all. She’s always been incredibly perceptive and observant.

“Daddy?” Nathaniel asks, looking around. Your heart breaks a little bit.

Your mind wanders. When will he get to see Tommy again?

Joel takes the lead when you arrive at the courthouse for which you’re grateful. You’re both dressed in nice clothing. High heels clack beneath you. A tie reaches around Joel’s neck. You hold Tommy’s suit in a garment bag as a guard leads you to an office-like room. Tommy sits at a table with his layer from last night and another man you don’t recognize. They seem to be deep in a serious conversation.

All three men turn as you enter, making you feel like you’re in the wrong place. You can’t tell if Tommy is relieved to see you or not. A pit forms in your stomach, like you’re not going to like the outcome of this meeting.

“What’s going on?” You ask.

The door clicks shut behind you as Joel’s scent creeps around you.

”We’re talking.” Tommy says.

“About?” You press.

Tommy sighs, unable to meet your eyes. “A plea deal.”

You bite your lip, tears threatening to spill from your eyes. This is easier. It’s probably better in the long run, but you’re not ready to face the music. You prepared for court, not a plea deal. Not for Tommy to admit guilt with a stroke of a pen, not a judge in sight.

“What’s in it?”

”Baby…” Tommy pleads like he wants to make amends right now.

“What are you signing us up for, Tommy?”

“Two years and a half years. Probation after that.”

You inhale sharply.

“It’s a good deal,” The man you’ve never seen says. “He’s looking at at least twice that if this goes to court, and he will be convicted if this goes to court.”

You look to Tommy’s lawyer for confirmation. He doesn’t make it obvious but gives you a solid nod.

“You were about to sign it.” You look at your husband. It’s not a question.

“Yeah.”

”I’d have appreciated it if you had talked to me first,” you say.

“You’d have told me to sign it.”

You nod, barely keeping the tears at bay. “Yeah.”

The DA holds a pen out to Tommy. Tommy looks back at you for final permission. You give it, watching that expensive ass pen glides across the paper with Tommy’s chicken scratch of a signature. Your heart breaks with each stroke, crumbling a little more as he dots the I and crosses the T.

Joel places a hand on your shoulder. The heat spreads, anchoring you to the moment, keeping you afloat as you stare down the barrel of being a single mother yet again.

Tommy slides the paper back to the DA. He looks them over, tapping them against the table with a satisfied nod as if a family hadn’t been torn apart.

“You have about 30 minutes before they come to get him.”

”That’s it?” You ask. “We can’t even take him ourselves?”

The DA shrugs like he’s being generous, igniting a deep hatred of him inside you. You don’t even know his name. He holds up the papers before sliding them into his briefcase. “Terms of the plea deal.”

You clutch your fists as he walks out of the room. Tommy’s lawyer slips out with him, and then Joel, leaving just you and Tommy.

He stands and you finally realize it’s all happening again. You’ll be alone, worrying about your husband though this time for different reasons.

“Baby, I-” He steps towards you. You don’t move offering zero indication that you register Tommy’s movements.

He reaches for your hands, but you pull them back. “You weren’t supposed to take the Bonnie and Clyde thing seriously.”

You fight back tears, turning so he can’t see them. “Pretty sure they both died.”

A humorless laugh leaves your body as you collapse onto a couch, holding your head in your hands.

Tommy kneels in front of you, slowly peeling your hands from your face, taking them into his. Despite it all, you feel yourself melting into his familiar touch. It only confirms what you are beginning to fear. It doesn’t matter what Tommy does, you’ll always be here waiting for him. He is the love of your life and you would burn the world down to look into his sweet brown eyes and feel his skin against yours.

You look at him through blurry eyes, sniffing back the congestion gathering in your sinuses. He gives you that crooked smile you love so much, and you feel better despite the weight bearing on your shoulders. The past three years have aged him ten. You suppose time has done the same to you.

Slowly, he presses his lips to your hands. “I know I fucked up. If-” He pauses, swallowing. His thumb plays with the thin gold band on your left hand. “If you’re not waiting for me when I get out I understand.”

You squeeze his hand. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Tommy snorts. “Easily? Just last week you were yelling at me for putting you through hell.”

“Yeah, well…” You run your fingers through his black curls as you sniff back your tears. “You kinda hold my heart in your hands, Tommy Miller. I don’t think I could get it back if I tried.”

He smiles at you. You lean forward, pressing your lips to his. His hands creep up your thighs as he rises to his feet. Your back collides with the plush back of the couch as your fingers tangle in his long hair. Tommy presses his tongue into your mouth, a smile growing across your face. This is the first taste of your Tommy you’ve had in months, the one you fell in love with.

The door opens, and before Tommy can pull away, Joel’s gruff voice echoes through the room. “Prospect of going to jail really puts you two in the mood, huh?”

Heat surges to your cheeks. You’re not sure why. You and Tommy had been caught in much more compromising positions throughout your relationship.

“Gotta get what I can while I’m still a free man.” Tommy grins at his big brother, pressing another exaggerated kiss to your lips. Joel’s eyes move to the corner of the room. Your smile feels a little more forced after that.

Your thirty minutes fly at lightning speed. They take Tommy before you’re ready. Any energy you gain from Tommy’s affection is drained the moment he’s led out of sight. You barely catch the look he gives Joel.

”Take care of them.”

Joel nods, gripping his brother’s shoulder. There’s a silent exchange between them. “Take care of yourself.”

A clerk goes over everything with you and Joel. You’re given a strict list of items you can drop off for Tommy at the prison. You don’t process a word, the weight of it all falling on top of you. You came to the courthouse today expecting an arraignment and bail, not to be kissing your husband goodbye for the next year and change. It feels unfair like something was taken from you.

Joel is the one who keeps it together. He always keeps it together. He asks the questions and makes note of the important things. He secures the horde of important documents held limply in your hands.

When the clerk says your name for a second time, or maybe a third, you’re not sure, it snaps you out of the fog. Joel’s eyes are sympathetic as he holds out a pen. His single nod tells you he has all the information in his head. You can sign. You don’t have to think. You sign as flashes of Tommy doing the same filter through your vision.

The pen drops to the table as you push back headed straight for the nearest exit. You feel like you’re in a dream. Joel catches up, tucking everything you forgot under his arm. He grabs your elbow, steering your aimless body in the right direction. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows the answer.

You feel like a toddler, wandering and lost, relying on Joel’s firm grip to get anywhere. He opens doors and boots you into his pickup, patting the door once it’s closed. The car is warm from the sun. You fumble with the seat belt, but Joel’s calloused hands are there, guiding your weary bones.

The ride is silent. You basket in the warm sun, head pressed to the window with your eyes closed. The world feels so far away, but you’re extremely tuned into the heat of the sun, the rumble of the truck on the shitty roads, the blinking indicator light, and Joel’s listless tapping on the steering wheel when the vehicle draws to a stop from time to time, toeing the line between consciousness.

This is just a dream, right? You’ll wake up soon and Tommy will be behind you, drawing random patterns around your stomach hip, or thigh. The past year of your life and the past 12 hours have just been the world’s longest nightmare. That’s all.

The truck lurches to a stop. The engine turns off with a distinct click. Your eyes blink open slowly. Your stretch out, toes curling in your dress shoes. Joel’s tie lays haphazardly on the dash. His cuffs are unbuttoned, pushed to his elbows, and the top couple of buttons of his dress shirt are undone. He still looks out of place in his dress attire, but a little more like himself. He hadn’t dressed this nicely for your and Tommy’s courthouse wedding.

Your eyes drift out the windshield. A neon light reflects off your irises. This isn’t home. You look at Joel. “Why are we here?”

His seat belt comes undone with a click, snapping back. “We’re going to go in there and get drunk off our asses.”

”It’s the middle of the day.”

Joel raises an eyebrow at you.

”Can we just go home?”

”No.”

”Why the fuck not?”

“Because we have a sitter all day, and you deserve a night before the weight of the world falls back on your shoulders.”

”Joel.” You want to go home and crawl in bed.

”This is three times longer than his deployment.” The statement hits you square in the chest. “You need this. Give yourself today. If you don’t do it now, you never will.”

You sigh, staring down the flickering neon in front of you. He’s right. You know he is. You might be exhausted, but it’s tempting. When was the last time you let go? Maybe that one good month you had after Tommy got back? When it was all making up for lost time and shit.

“We’ve got a sitter for the whole day,” Joel says. “My treat.”

You inhale deeply, allowing the memories of drunken nights past to fill your brain. You can feel the thrum of alcohol already. You haven’t cut loose in a long time unless you count the nights spent at home alone drowning away the world after you’d tucked your son in for the night.

Your fingers press the red release button of your seat belt. The metal buckle hits the window. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

Joel smiles, dragging you inside.

Taglist: @pamasaur @alltheotps @rizzraa @moel-jiller @misstokyo7love @justagalwhowrites @pedritosgfreal

#the last of us #joel miller #tommy miller #tlou hbo #tlou #tlou fanfiction #tommy miller x reader #joel miller x reader #pedro boys #ppcu fanfiction #pedrostories #pedro stories #high infidelity (joel miller)

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gallusrostromegalus · 1 year ago

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ok I need elaboration on pretty much all of those bankais that you haven't already talked about but for now i'm probably most curious about ichigo and hanataro? please, a measly few crumbs of context

The short version of Ichigo's sword situation is that he is D'artanigan to Zangetsu's Three displaced-during-the-fuckery-surrounding-his-parent's-meet-cute-slash-manslaughter-thing Musketeers. We got his dad's half-starved family Zanpakuto, The Family Ghost from his Mom's side, and a guy made in an evil instapot that wandered in here on accident and precipitated the whole enfuckening. They are untied in their goal of "Keep Ichigo Alive" but unfortunately they also have a collective IQ of Negative Four.

Reader: Gee Ichigo, why does the author let you have THREE Zanpakuto spirits?

Ichigo: That's nothing! Orihime has SIX!

Ichigo and Orihime's nonsense is connected to how The Almighty operates:)

Meanwhile, short summaries of Unohana and Byakuya's Bankai under the cut:

Unohana:

Minazuki is a sword primarily about the manipulation of flesh- healing injury, making better fighters by pushing the flesh to it's limits- This is a spirit that is distinctly VISCERAL in nature. It has mass. It has a very distinct body.

So it follows that, in order to supply injured patients with blood and drugs and new flesh and everything else, Minazuki is giving up some of her Mass. Consequently, the Stingray form of Minazuki is the SECOND one- she cannot create her elixirs and make new flesh from nothing. First she must FEED.

Which is why Minazuki's liquid format is acidic blood that devours anything organic. It's why Kenpachi!Unohana's bloodthirst was so bloodthirsty: she was literally starving for biomass to complete her sword's two forms and finally put her Soul in Balance.

In the fic, Ukitake is one of a handful of people old enough to remember "Yachiru" Unohana, and until Zaraki's arrival, probably the closest to understanding her. That Unohana and Retsu both understand the horrors of the flesh he lives with every day more intimately than anyone else in his life, and it's the basis of an almost sacred friendship between them. He knows perfectly well where the emergency transfusions and drugs she creates come from, and they have a standing agreement that if he predeceases her, she is to feed his body to Minazuki so he can pay forward at least some of the debt given to him.

He will not be the first of Unohana's friends that have been willingly devoured by her sword.

Byakuya:

Senbonzakura has been with the Kuchiki family for generations, passed from one head of the clan to the next in a sacred ritual that allows the Zanpakuto to bond to its new weilders and grant them the power accumulated with generations.

But for course, everything has it's cost.

Byakuya was not the head of the Kuchiki clan when his father Sojun died prematurely and make Byakuya the orphan heir apparent as an adolescent. He was not the head when he met Hisana in a grove of cherry trees in the middle of harvest, and fell in love with her He was not the head when he had a terrible row with his grandfather Ginrei and the rest of the clan elders about his elopement. He was not the head five years later, when on a cold spring morning before the plum trees had blossomed, Hisana died of a miscarriage.

One week later, when the plum trees bloomed and the cherry trees had budded, Byakuya came to his grandfather, head bowed and heart broken, and agreed to take up the mantle of Clan Head. His soul had already been torn in half, what was another half?

Everything has it's cost, and the price of Senbonzakura's power is the sacrifice of the weilder's own original Zanpakuto spirit, and by transference, the imminent death of the previous head.

He had known this day was coming, ever since his own native Zanpakuto spirit failed to awaken at the academy. At the time, he'd thought it a mercy that the poor thing wouldn't awaken and be aware of being devoured. But now, as he held the tiny, warm body of the spirit out to Senbonzakura, he could only think of the child he never got to hold.

...with Senbonzakura, at least, she'd be at rest with something beautiful that loved her.

Because Senbonzakura loves it's family, and in particular it adores Byakuya. It has, ever since Byakuya fearlessly climbed it's branches as a small boy, since he partook of the sword's fruits as a young man, and now, when Byakuya offered the most precious parts of himself to the sword with a sense of peace and profound trust. And Senbonzakura repays that trust in kind.

The sword's shikai release is the same, or at least similar for all it's wielders, but long-term friends of the family note that that is a LOT MORE blades than the sword ever summoned for Ginrei or any other head.

The Bankai is different every time. Senbonzakura is ready to give Byakuya whatever Bankai he wants immediately, but it's not until after he adopts Rukia and sees her fooling around in the family orchards when she thinks he isn't watching that he realizes the shape it should be.

It's name is "Senbonzakura: Sakura no Kaju-en" and it is beautiful and terrible.

Sakura no Kaju-en requires only that Byakuya pierce the flesh of his enemy or the terrain around him with one or more of his petal-blades. Once in the ground or embedded in flesh, the blade is transformed into a seed and an entire magical cherry tree grows from it, converting the Reishi and spiritual energy around it into its own mass. Since Byakuya is effectively wielding somewhere around 10,000 petal blades in his shikai alone, he can summon up to 10,000 devouring cherry trees, which will radically alter the landscape of battle and blossom into millions and millions of new petal-blades.

That is, unless his foe is unfortunate enough to have the blades penetrate their flesh. Then the trees will devour them as they grow. Even a truly massive opponent like Yammy can be mulched in minutes.

The trees initially blossom almost white, but as his enemies are felled and Senbonzakura drinks, the blooms grow pinker and then redder until they transform into deep crimson fruits.

It's a brutal Bankai, but a beautiful one. When Byakuya looks out upon the blooming landscape and tastes the sweet fruits of his efforts, it brings him peace to know the small, sleeping spirit he had to sacrifice is playing somewhere within, they way he saw Rukia playing in the family orchards that day.

#AEIWAM #An Elephant Is Warm And Mushy #bleach #bleach fanfic #ichigo kurosaki #retsu unohana #yachiru unohana #byakuya kuchiki #minazuki #zangetsu #senbonzakura

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radioactive-earthshine · 2 months ago

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Hi! Im sorry if this is a silly question but I was wondering if you know what the Flash diabetes thing is? I've seen it around occasionally but never found out if it was a canon one off thing or a fanon group theory because on one hand I can kinda see it making sense although it would probably have to be re-worked to fit a speedsters bodily profile (in terms of their hyper-metabolism and all) but then on the other hand I'm reminded of the times I've read YJ fanfic and out of nowhere Bart is taking ADHD medication and I'm like.. he would not be able to take ADHD meds and actually feel a difference for more than maybe 3 seconds as seen with general painkillers and medication when he had the knee surgery with nothing. I just can't help but feel like, in canon, neither of these theories/situations would be possible but then again fanon is meant to be fun,, not serious etc. How do you draw the line?

Hello!

I have NEVER heard of it phrased as "Flash diabetes" but looking over the meat of your question it appears this is more about their metabolism, so I am approaching this as a metabolism question rather than a blood-sugar question.

When it comes to speedsters and their metabolism in the comics, it is very inconsistent and it honestly depends on the writer and what would be most exciting or inconvenient the most in any given scenario.

On one hand, the prevailing canon is that speedsters heal FAST. Their metabolism is so high they can get over broken bones, lacerations, even gunshots very quickly. We even have instances of them getting over drugs very quickly or drugs just not impacting them the way they should, because they metabolize them too fast for them to work.

The biggest in-comic example of this is Bart's famous knee surgery in Teen Titans v.3 when they were unable to put him under ANY anesthetic because his metabolism would negate its effectiveness.

Teen Titans (2003) #3

(Side note, the amount of laws broken in this scene would have probably shut that entire hospital down, licensees would have been lost, and Cyborg probably should have done jail time or at least been kicked out of the tower because holy shit the ethics.)

Teen Titans (2003) #4

This scene is one of the more poignant and famous examples of speedster metabolism being a medical foil as much as it is an advantage in combat and it is extremely dramatic.

We also have a more recent example of drugs just not working properly on speedsters, from Bart yet again in more recent publication history.

Young Justice (2019) #16

Sedatives or maybe even some sort of anti-psychotics only stayed in Bart's systems for so long before they wore off well before they should have and he was able to just leave.

If these are pushed out of his system prematurely, then it is extremely unlikely any ADHD medication would work on him unless they were specially made for speedsters which is not outside of any realm of possibility in a comic.

However... because these are comics and because these sorts of foils are variable and depend on whoever is writing them we also have some evidence that certain things do work on speedsters... but in heightened ways such as caffeine which makes no sense and yet...

The Flash (2011) #3

Barry had an espresso and got so hopped up and jittery he lost control of his vibrating for a while and ended up through multiple floors. How caffeine works on them, and in extreme ways, but other drugs don't, is something maybe a biochemist can answer which I am not.

We also have decades of publication going back to the silver age of Barry and other speedsters interacting with drugs, poisons, alcohol and them not working or not working properly and the above examples are just those I knew I could cite easily because I think about them a lot.

So returning back to the question of if ADHD medication would work... I feel like again in the comics they wouldn't work how they are supposed to unless they are specialized because even the caffeine did not work how it is supposed to.

But again this is fanfic and fanon so anything is possible and with this particular subject it wouldn't be too outside of canon to have ADHD meds work. Again any writer could also explain them as special speedster-strength medication then it is good to go.

I hope this sort of answers your question?

This is for the comics and the comics alone, no other form of media.

#bart allen #barry allen #my meta #speedsters #flashfam #the flash #dc comics #again this is for the comics and the comics alone

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heartlilith · 1 year ago

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Astrology Observations (part 3)

Here are some of my observations and opinions on various placements - Part 3

🖤The Sun in a Solar Return Chart will show you what you focus on the most that year:

🐸 Sun in the 1st house: The focus will be on yourself, your image, your appearance and the way you approach life. You might start working out and becoming more fit, you might experience something that changes the way you look at life, you could change your appearance in some way; getting tattoos or changing your hairstyle. You might focus on putting yourself first and taking care of your own needs.

🐸Sun in the 5th house: The focus will be on romance, creativity, the inner child, and joy. You might prioritize having fun over working or things just seem to work out that way. You might pick up a new creative hobby; painting, writing, creating. You might find that you're around children more often than in past years. You might find that you're content and happy most of the time. You might focus on dating and meeting potential partners or maybe you don't focus on that, but it happens anyway.

🐸Sun in the 10th house: The focus for this year will be on working, your reputation and public image, your father, and fame. You might find that most of your energy is going into building a career or advancing in an existing one. You might receive a lot of attention in the work place (good or bad depending on aspects). You might have a good relationship with bosses and coworkers (again, aspects). You might have a change in relationship with your father, or this relationship becomes prominent in some way. You might get famous on tiktok!

(Should I do separate post on this?)

🖤Moon aspects can reflect what your relationship was like with your mother and how it affects your emotions.

🐸Moon square/opposition Saturn: This aspect makes you prematurely self sufficient. Maybe you couldn't count on your mother for emotional support or maybe she was ill or dealing with things that kept her from being an emotional support system. This aspect would in turn make you hesitant to voice your emotions, it can make you feel uncomfortable with vulnerability or make you side eye someone that puts on a grand display of emotions.

🐸Moon trine/sextile Saturn: This aspect could mean you have a close and strong bond with your mother. Your mother could've demonstrated how to be nurturing without smothering. This could impact your emotions by making you value family and morals. You feel a responsibility toward your loved ones and are a "rock" to them so to speak. For men, you respect women and their struggles. You might believe in traditional gender roles but nonetheless you are respectful.

🐸Moon conjunction Saturn: This aspect could signify that the father (Saturn) was absent in some way which put a lot of stress on the mother. You may have been a burden to her in some way or felt like it. Emotionally, you probably felt like you didn't get enough love or attention. This could impact your emotions by being very observant to what other people need. If your friend is outside shivering without a jacket, you would give them yours without any exchange of words. You're giving them what you lacked; love and attention. You may not trust people easily and you may miss out on opportunities because of your fear of rejection. After your Saturn Return, things can ease up with this aspect.

🖤Neptune in the 11th house natives can have friends that peer pressure them into drinking/doing drugs. Neptune rules things that put you under the influence whether that's anesthesia or other drugs like alcohol, weed, etc.

🖤Moon-Neptune hard aspects can use drugs and become addicts in order to cope with emotions. It can also manifest as being an escapist or being completely avoidant when it comes to emotions. This aspect can be seen in children who run away from home a lot.

🖤Mars - Neptune hard aspects can make you easily deceived regarding sex. Partners can "get you drunk" in order to have sex with you.

🖤Venus - Neptune hard aspects can put up with a lot of shit in relationships that other people might not. People cross your boundaries a lot because they know they can get away with it.

🖤Jupiter is known for being lucky and expansive but it can also go the other way as well. For instance, having Jupiter in the 6th house can make you extremely healthy or extremely sickly, depending on the aspects.

🖤Gemini placements might like the thought of doing something rather than actually doing it. I saw a post that said Gemini placements always carry around notebooks but have they ever filled one? That's what I thought.

🖤Air signs, especially Gemini and Aquarius, are naturally able to think outside the box. For instance, a person may think they only have 2 options and air signs name 5 more options you didn't even think of.

🖤Aries fashion sense is underrated, whether its the sun or rising sign.

🖤New York City being established on January 1st, 1898 .... do you know what sign that makes it ..... it's not a Pisces or a Taurus I'll tell you that. Astrology is real.

🖤Libra Suns and Rising women makes me think of fluffy clothes. Like teddy sweaters and those sandals with the fluff on them (examples x x x)

🖤Leo placements want to be where the sun is, do not take them on a cruise to the Arctic please ... I really wish someone told my boyfriend this

PART 1 - PART 2

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hold-him-down · 11 months ago

Text

Hold Him Down (pt. 1)

TW: Med Whump, Gratuitous Med Whump, Medical Restraints, Chemical Restraints, Noncon Touch, Referenced Noncon, Parker Destin, Institutionalized Slavery, Noncon Drugging, Conditioning, Referenced Food/Water Restriction, Referenced/Described STI testing, Referenced/Described Shock Collar, Whumper POV, literally over 4k words wtf, get leo a pet fish and warm hug when.

Notes: This is one of those things that I'm, as usual, not sure needs to or should exist, but I spent so much time writing it that I couldn't just NOT post it, sooo here it is. Parts 4-6 coming eventually. Takes place in the 12-ish hour span after Leo is prematurely returned from our best guy, Parker Destin. This may be one that I revisit and try to refine down the line.

✥ ✥ ✥

From behind a two-way mirror, Handler Otto Gray and an unfamiliar intake handler stand, arms crossed over their chests. They watch Leo quietly, relieved that, at least for now, the dust has settled.

His eyes finally closed, a few hours earlier, following a massive fight that ended in a sizable dose of Lorazepam. Even drugged, it took what felt like ages for him to settle down, and even longer for his body to finally go limp. Hours later, the salty tear-streaks are still visible on his cheeks.

The doctor asked them to wait on cleaning him up; in spite of the second handler’s objections, in spite of the apparently innate desire to put this unconscious boy in his place, the handler turned on his heels and left in a huff. Otto hesitated, sparing a quick glance at Leo. He wondered, briefly, how he had managed to fail so spectacularly, before dismissing the thought all together. Against his better judgment, he squeezed Leo’s hand briefly, then he checked to make sure the restraints were appropriately secured and exited. Today was sure to be a long day, sure to be even longer if they could not get a handle on whatever panic-induced psychosis Leo was clearly grappling with.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, shift change happened. The handler who had spent the evening scowling at Leo’s lifeless form clocked out, muttering a, “Good luck,” to his replacement. Otto stayed, though, with a quick glance at handler Nick Ford, according to his name tag, and a muttered greeting. Hopefully, he thinks, this one is better suited for this type of work than the last. The doctor comes up behind them, and the three stand in silence for a moment.

“He’s asleep?” the doctor asks, which is a question that could ordinarily be answered with a quick glance through a chart, but Leo has a notoriously unpredictable response to sedatives and that, if nothing else, has been noted numerously in his file.

Otto nods, his jaw locked. “I think so.”

Leo’s wrists are red, raw where each strap hugs them, but for the last few hours, they have been still. Mostly.

“For how long?” the doctor asks, thumbing through the notes from the night before. A colorful account of the events that led to this moment, which, although maybe not immediately helpful, might lend insight into the inner workings of Leo Evans.

“A couple hours,” Handler Ford supplies, and Otto is struck suddenly with a potent distaste for how this night has played out.

It’s not out of the ordinary, exactly, for a worker to require this level of support after a contract. He hoped, though, maybe naively, that Leo was more resilient than this.

He’s been drugged out of his mind, and as hard as he fought it, the drugs eventually dragged him under. To Otto’s understanding, it was only after several hours of trying to calm him down using other methods that he was eventually medicated, and, to Otto’s understanding, the doctor intends now to keep him drugged until he’s under control. He idly wonders if there’s a chance at modifying those plans. Leo is tough, sometimes damn near impossible to work with, but they had found a kind of balance when Otto was his handler. And he thinks, now, he can perhaps spare everyone some heartache if he can have a go at his former trainee.

Otto peers in closer to the window as Leo gasps, his wrists pulling once, lightly, at the straps.

“Alright,” the doctor says, at the same time that Leo’s eyes crack open. As Handler Ford reviews the notes with the Doctor, Otto studies Leo. He hadn’t been an easy trainee. He had been downright defiant at times, resistant to every standard training tool the DLS employed. Otto had been called in in his second month, after his primary handler was fired for, more or less, losing his patience with Leo one time too many, with Leo landing in the ICU. Even after that, success came in short, nearly unpredictable bursts.

When Leo had finally been cleared to take his first contract, that would usually have been the end of Otto’s time with him. But, at least in some of his most challenging successes, he liked to keep an eye on them, if not just to see how they did. He would tell you he did this to improve his own methods, and to help him understand the longer term implications of his work. That wouldn't be the whole truth, though.

Leo was one of the select few that Otto found himself keeping an eye on. He had gotten through his first contract easily, and Otto recalled the feeling of immense relief as he read through Ms. Smith’s post-contract interview. Leo had been put in a short term holding site and almost immediately secured his second contract. That one wasn’t set to terminate for three months still, so when Otto got the notification that Leo’s file was being updated last night, he called in some favors with the intake department.

He stands here now, mostly frustrated, a little bit confused, and perhaps, maybe slightly sympathetic. Simmering beneath all that is anger, misplaced but a constant undertone that, he worries, may drive some of his decisions today. He buries it as deeply as he can. It serves neither him nor Leo.

Leo blinks hard toward the ceiling, but seems to clock his circumstances quickly. His head turns toward the mirror and for a moment, Otto thinks Leo can see him, right through him, right into the place Leo used to occasionally access and attempt to exploit.

Otto stares at his eyes, red, heavy, and unfocused, and wills Leo to remain calm. Leo swallows, and pulls again against the restraints.

Stop, Otto silently commands. But he doesn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t.

“What are the odds he’ll take it on his own?” Otto hears from next to him.

“What?” Otto responds, shifting his focus.

“The meds?” Handler Ford says as he holds up a small cup of pills in one hand, a syringe filled with an off-white liquid in the other.

“Oh,” Otto responds. The odds, he thinks, are nonexistent. The good news is this isn’t explicitly his problem anymore.

“Any pointers?” Handler Ford asks then. At Otto’s look, he says, “You worked with him, right?”

Otto nods, but doesn’t offer any pointer. Handler Ford stares at him intently, so, out of some misplaced desire to prove that he is not, in fact, completely incompetent with his trainees, he says, “A long time ago. I did his initial training after his first handler got canned.”

“What for?” Ford asks. He’s stalling, Otto thinks.

“Assault,” Otto supplies. He inclines his head toward the room, and turns away from Handler Ford, re-orienting himself toward the window.

“Wish me luck?”

“Good Luck,” Otto says, not unkindly, as the handler disappears behind the door. Moments later, he is in Leo’s room.

Leo’s demeanor immediately shifts, from alarmed and fighting to gain function to panicked, but he stills, he swallows, he forces his eyes on the handler, and takes a breath. Good boy, Otto thinks.

He’s whispering something, but Otto can’t make out the words. He thinks he’s heard Parker’s name, and Handler Ford shakes his head.

Leo nods, then, and takes one of those deep, shuddering breaths that usually mean he’s on the edge of some big feelings. Otto, once more, leans closer to the window.

Handler Ford begins listing out the things he needs Leo to do this morning, and Leo’s brow creases as he takes it in, nodding after each item, but seemingly oblivious to the actual requests.

Inside the observation room, the doctor joins Otto.

“Do you know what happened?” Otto asks the doctor. Otto, immediately realizing he could be asking any number of things, clarifies, “That led to this. He didn’t have an issue after his first contract.”

“Sometimes they get freaked out after spending some time with a particularly cozy buyer,” he replies.

Otto nods.

In the room, Handler Ford’s hand is on Leo’s neck, pressing under the collar. Leo stays still, but Otto can see the fear in his eyes, behind layers and layers of grief. It’s odd, seeing him like this.

“You didn’t last too long, did you?” Handler Ford is saying, dripping condescension, as Leo swallows, holding in a fresh wave of tears.

✥ ✥ ✥

“It’s nothing personal, Leo.” Parker’s driver waits for Leo just beyond the threshold. In his hand, Parker holds out a DLS-issued bag.

Leo nods.

Parker grabs his face between his hands and presses his lips to Leo’s forehead. “You have to understand I didn’t plan for this,” he’s saying, but Leo’s ears are ringing. “I would have waited to take on a worker if I had any inclination I would be called away.” His words are kind, Leo thinks, but there’s almost a note of condescension under them.

Leo feels a sort of emptiness spreading throughout him, a cold void that precedes what he could only describe as terror. For what’s next. For losing this thing, that he isn’t sure he should want, but he wants, so desperately. He clings to it.

“Parker, I– I can,” Leo starts, taking a step back. He can, what? fix this? do better? be better? “Please don’t do this…”

Parker’s thumbs glide across Leo’s cheeks.

“I thought they beat that out of you,” Parker says, his lips pulled into a half-smile. Leo falters, the words he has prepared are completely knocked out of him.

“I– I’m sorry,” is all he can now formulate. He can feel his circumstances changing as every second passes. He’s going to be sick. The feeling of bile rising wars against the knowledge that if he is sick at this moment, it will be unforgivable.

Parker’s hands drift down to Leo’s shoulders and he pulls him into a half-hug, pressing his forehead against Leo’s.

“Don’t worry about it,” Parker says. He wants to say more, Leo thinks.

Instead, Parker uses the grip he has on Leo’s shoulder to push him away and rakes his eyes slowly over Leo, from his head to his toes. He smiles and grabs the collar of Leo’s shirt, poking out from under a deep blue sweater. It’s Parker’s favorite.

He inclines his head briefly toward the door and Leo counts every breath he takes.

“They said not to send your books and clothes and things,” Parker explains as he pulls open the front door. “It’ll just go to waste. I can donate it, if you’d like?”

And Leo, in that moment, hesitates. Can he ask Parker to keep it, for when he gets back from his trip? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe Parker hasn’t considered that Leo could stay in the house and look after it, and he doesn’t need to send him away.

And then it occurs to Leo that maybe Parker is using this time to help figure out the gaps in his training, because they’ve been butting heads lately, and if that’s the case, he wants to tell Parker that he will take this time seriously, and will be better suited to be what Parker needs him to be when he returns.

Leo opens his mouth to say this, to say any of it, even just to tell Parker that he will try harder when he gets back from his trip.

But the panic wraps itself around Leo’s throat, and Leo says nothing.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Are you ready to behave?” The words distort around the edges and Leo blinks hard, willing himself to focus.

This handler, Leo thinks, is unfamiliar to him. There is a fuzziness to both his vision and his thoughts, compounded by blurry memories of the night before. The handler is standing just outside of his line of sight, offering terse reprimands each time he fails to respond. He is trying, though. He wants to tell them he’s trying, but his tongue feels too thick and his voice won’t work.

There’s an added danger that Leo tries not to acknowledge, even silently. They’ve put a training collar on him, but they haven’t gone so far as to shock the world into focus. Even if his limbs didn’t weigh a thousand pounds, he would not be able to lift them. Thick canvas straps wound tightly around each wrist and ankle keep him in place, and Leo blinks at the unexpected wave of terror: these people can and will hurt him with no regard for the fact that he is wholly unable to protect himself.

The drugs help him accept these facts, but do not help him to forget them.

Memories of the night before claw their way to the surface. Of the sound of his own screaming, of gloved hands pinning him down, of his clothing being pulled off of his body. Of Parker's favorite sweater, which he held tightly to his chest, as it was ripped from his arms. He flinches at the memory of himself, just [some?] hours earlier, as he begged them to let him keep it, as a needle digs its way deep into his thigh. The darkness was quick to swallow him up after that.

And then there are other memories, too, from later in the night. Distorted flashes of the handlers coming to visit him, of cold hands pulling off the thin blanket that had been draped over him. He wondered if the drugs might ease the pain. When they didn’t, he allowed himself a moment of relief in the hope that this might all just be written off as a drug-induced nightmare in the light of day.

And now, the drugs fading, and the light of day doing nothing to erase ache deep inside of him, he swallows, blinking slowly, and longs only for the reprieve that unconsciousness may bring. That maybe they will drug him again, before they touch him again. His stomach turns over, and he draws his focus to the lights on the ceiling.

“He’s lost some weight,” he hears the doctor say, but they aren’t speaking to him, so he closes his eyes and taps each finger on the pad beneath him, just to see if he can feel them all.

“His buyer kept him hungry,” the handler replies. He can, he thinks, feel them all. “My understanding is he kept him on a pretty strict eating plan.”

Leo recoils, hearing Parker’s voice in his head. The DLS has asked that you start out on a kind of strict meal plan for a little bit. He blinks back tears at the unwelcome memories. Of Parker, event after event, selecting everything he ate, everything he touched. Of the imperceptible nod Parker would give him when he reached for something at the dinner table. Or the terse shake of his head when he moved to something unacceptable.

Leo wants to tell these men that Parker didn’t keep him hungry. That he was just enacting the plan he had been given.

“I’ll need a copy of it,” the doctor responds, and Leo squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his mind blank.

“It’s in his file,” the handler says. Leo’s ears ring.

“Good.” The doctor presses his hands fingers into the back of Leo’s neck, the collar momentarily tightening as the fingers explore under it. “He’s dehydrated,” he says, and Leo can picture the handler typing his notes. “Are you going to tell me the buyer restricted his water intake too?”

From somewhere far away, the handler laughs, and Leo’s expression tightens, momentarily stunned by the mockery.

“It’s alright,” he thinks he hears, but the voices are so far away now. He doesn’t know that he’s crying until he feels a thumb wiping at his cheek, and Leo sucks in a breath. “You’re alright.”

The world stands still for what could be seconds or minutes or longer. When the doctor’s hand finally migrates upward, and a light is shined into each of Leo’s eyes, he is momentarily blinded, but immediately aware that he has lost time.

The doctor’s fingers, inches from his face, snap once. “Hi, Leo,” he says simply. And then, “I’m Dr. Grant. Are you with me?”

Leo swallows, which hurts, and other memories slide to the surface of the night before. He tries to nod. The movement makes his head pound. “Yes,” he whispers, but based on the doctor’s– what was his name?– grimace, he doesn’t think it came out right.

The doctor sighs and seemingly gives up on Leo’s active participation, instead pulling the blanket down to Leo’s waist and putting a stethoscope to Leo’s chest. It’s nothing, Leo thinks, but it’s never just this. He closes his eyes again and begins counting in his head. Every so often, he forgets where he left off, and he starts over.

The doctor explains what he’s doing as he works, and Leo wonders idly if it’s for his benefit or for some other reason. To pass the time, and maybe to distract himself, Leo imagines a new doctor in the adjacent observation room, learning this trade. He wonders if it’s a good doctor or a bad doctor, and opens his eyes just enough to glance toward the mirror, to see if he can spot him back there. There are no good doctors here, he decides, and starts counting again.

The doctor looks at Leo’s wrists and describes them to the handler, who writes it all down. He examines Leo’s arms and his shoulders and his chest and his stomach as he searches for signs that Parker hurt him beyond what would be considered reasonable, which he didn’t, Leo wants to say, and that Parker will come back for him after his trip, and that he needs to be ready to go home. Then he starts counting again, because the idea of telling this man that Parker will come back for him will be met with laughter, and Leo doesn’t know if he can handle it. He’s pretty sure he can’t.

Fingers prod at Leo’s stomach and he can’t suppress the accompanying flinch, and as the drugs start to wear thin, he feels himself less and less able to accept what is being done to him.

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says, and Leo opens his eyes and is met with mostly, he thinks, concern.

“I’ll be back.” The doctor shoots the handler a look, and Leo wants to close his eyes again, but as the handler approaches, Leo knows, acutely, that it’s a bad idea.

“Are you going to cause a scene?” the handler asks, before lifting the blanket from Leo’s lap. Leo shrinks back, an instant passing in which his entire body goes rigid, but shakes his head ‘no.’ He hopes it’s enough.

He holds his breath, waiting for it to be over, or, waiting for it to start, and feels the handler’s eyes sliding down his body.

He thinks he might be shaking, but he isn’t sure.

The doctor returns a moment later, and after a quick assessment of how things have evolved, issues a quick but gentle, “It’s alright.” It’s not, though, and Leo locks his jaw to keep from crying. He wants to ask if he can close his eyes again. Sometimes they would let him, when things were about to get really bad, in initial training. Sometimes, if he asked clearly, and if he caught them on a good day, they would let him.

“No wonder he was returned,” the handler says, leaning back against the wall.

“Can I close my eyes?” he whispers then, before he can catch the humor in the handler’s expression. The doctor looks at him once, and nods. Leo doesn’t hesitate to clamp his eyes shut, unwilling to chance opening them at all, maybe ever, and instead continues counting in his head.

“Continue working on your empathy,” the doctor says evenly, but Leo is pretty sure he isn’t speaking to him so he works on breathing and counting and nothing else.

He tries to block out the words. This is another moment in training, and it too will end eventually.

“They put him through hell in training. He has a right to be mistrustful.” And then, to Leo, he says, “I’m going to give you something to help balance you out,” and his touch disappears. “Just hang tight, Leo.”

Without warning, a hand clamps around his neck, pinning him in place. His eyes fly open, his arms pull instinctively against the restraints, as the tip of a syringe is pushed past his teeth and to the back of his throat.

He gags, his head knocking back against the thin pillow, but the handler’s grip is merciless, and in the next instant, a thick, bitter liquid is sliding down his throat. Tears well in his eyes, and he would swear the culprit was simply the bitterness of the medicine.

It’s mistaken for something else, though, and the handler releases him as the doctor runs a hand through his hair and says, “You’re alright.”

Leo’s shaking harder now, and his fingers grip into the pad he lays on and he urges himself to still. His chest aches as he tries to catch his breath, the taste of the medicine still heavy on his tongue. But still, almost immediately, he can feel his body lightening, the tension pulling back until the shaking eases, and the doctor nods, and approaches. Leo can’t feel the fear he knows he should feel.

He can feel nothing.

Even with the memories of the night before, even with the doctor and the handler so close to him, he can breathe again.

Still, Leo can’t contain the subconscious jerk of his body as a flash of sharp pain shoots through him. The doctor issues an apology, along with a soft, “almost done,” and turns the swab, over and over, as Leo’s legs fight against the hands that hold them in place. He tries to find a place in his mind to retreat into, but he hasn’t been there in months, if not longer, and in that moment, it offers no reprieve. He thinks he cries out, locking his teeth and pressing his head back into the pillow as hard as he can to distract himself from what goes on lower. When the doctor is finished, he wipes Leo down and drapes the blanket over his lap.

What he doesn’t say is ‘Good, Leo,’ because they would both know it to be untrue.

Still, in the next breath, the restraints are being unbuckled, and Leo is lifted at his shoulders until he is sitting, and his wrists are being examined, and there is a hand rubbing his back. He blinks slowly, willing the room back into focus, and he can hear voices but he isn’t able to follow their conversation.

“It doesn’t need to be this hard,” he thinks the handler is saying, and even though his head is hung low and his shoulders are scrunched to make him as small as possible, in his peripherals he can see the doctor shooting the handler a sharp look. “What?” he bites back. “It’s true.”

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says then, ignoring the handler entirely. Leo keeps his eyes locked on the ground and he takes the blanket in a white-knuckled grip.

The doctor lets him catch his breath, rubbing his back every few seconds. Leo thinks he’s using it to get a read on his heart rate, but he doesn’t care just then. The doctor explains what’s next, and moves to ease Leo onto his side. Leo, for his part, cooperates, lowering himself slowly, watching as his fingers shake. He wraps his arms so tightly around his stomach he think he might leave bruises, but when the doctor touches him, he doesn’t flinch.

“There’s some bruising,” the doctor says neutrally, but Leo can’t look at the handler to see if he types it. It could be from the handlers, or it could be from Parker’s friends the night before. Leo chokes on his next breath, and in spite of the drugs, he can feel the panic rising.

“Leo?” the doctor says. “Are you doing alright?”

The handler takes a step forward.

“I don’t consent to this,” Leo whispers, so softly he isn’t sure anyone hears him. The look the handler levels on him is scathing. “I–I kn…know it doesn’t… I know it doesn’t matter.” His voice is soft, slurred around the edges, but clear enough. “But I… I j-just– I want to make sure you know.”

The doctor says nothing, and the handler frowns. Leo wants to ask him to type it into his chart, but the doctor moves behind him, and Leo’s vision is suddenly and immediately blurred by his tears.

By the time they finish, by the time the doctor drapes the blanket over his hips, letting his hand rest on Leo’s head briefly before retreating, Leo’s body is wracked with sobs. They leave him to calm himself down, and he finds himself, for a moment, grateful for the simple mercy.

But he cannot stop crying, as he stares into the mirror and thinks of all he’s lost. Of what, in spite of what he tried to convince himself he could have, he will never have. Of Parker, laughing with his friends as he picks out a new worker. Of the handler, and all those that came before him, smiling as they hurt him. The door opens with no warning and a familiar voice, a voice warm enough to burn Leo’s entire world down, issues a commanding, clear, “Stop this, Leo.”

And almost instantly, Leo stops.

FIGHTER TAG LIST:

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@whumps-and-bumps

#Med Whump #Gratuitous Med Whump #Medical Restraints #Chemical Restraints #Noncon Touch #Referenced Noncon #Parker Destin #Institutionalized Slavery #Noncon Drugging #Conditioning #Referenced Food/Water Restriction #Referenced/Described STI testing #Referenced/Described Shock Collar #Whumper POV #literally over 4k words wtf #get leo a pet fish and warm hug when?

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