#What Drugs Can I Take For Premature

[screampied]

heyy vaygas how u doin babes?

first of, LOVE your work!!! the dads friend fic? can’t get over it, still did not recover!

can i ask for a mean dom nanami that makes you squirt through your panties and bullies u for it? 🥺 while enjoying himself as well hehe like “look at the mess u made/how messy u are” vibes

thx 💗

❤︎ ໋𓈒 nanami making you squirt for the first time.

warnings. fem! reader, praise, tried making him mean but he’s still soft :>, squirtin, dirty talk, talking you through it, mdni. an. 'm good!! thank u sm!

“make you do what, sweetheart?” he’d murmur right up against your ear. you felt a chill run up your spine the moment he presses a soft kiss near the inside corner of your neck. he was so gentle with his touch, you laid back against him with your legs practically parted—sprawled all open. “tell me what you want from me. talk to me nice.”

a near pout stretched against the corners of your lips before you reply with a sigh, “i- i want you to make me squirt again,” and you dragged out your words just a tad bit. his body heat behind you was immensely hot, warm even. “can never do it right by myself.”

“ah. course you can’t,” he purrs in a low melodic soothing tone. nanami’s fingers strum against the outer part of your panties and your breath achingly hitches. “say pretty please. use those manners, sweetheart. taught you well, did i not?”

he was practically insufferable, although he always did like the sound of your voice. “pretty please,” you reply with a quickness, feeling your knees merely buckle. he was a tease, brushing a few fingers near the middle part of your underwear. “pretty please, i want you to make a mess out of me.”

“atta girl,” he whispers, kissing the back of your forehead. and that’s the moment when he gently squeezes near your thigh, uttering out a playful. “now lie back ‘n i’ll do just that.”

“can i— may i take off my panties?” you breathe, moaning once he gingerly brings his right hand to softly grip near your breasts.

he grazes a thumb to run against your perky nipple before giving it a nice squeeze. he finds it cute, the way you’re so helplessly needy, squirming all against him just so he can start. your entire head was clouded, you hold in a sharp breath before a whine skims past your lips.

“nooo, darling,” he denies you, and that was probably the most sweetest ‘no’ you’ve ever been told before. his other hand that resided between your thighs starts to softly create strokes against your clit. he hums, feeling the nearly faded dampened spot, oh how soaked you were. “good girls get their panties removed. we aren’t past that part yet, are we not?”

you pout, another sweetened sigh leaving out of you. “but i said pretty please.”

“and i heard you the first time, my love,” he says, and you whimper once he feels all over your chest. his rough fingers had such a softness to it, you hadn’t even realized how prematurely soaked you were. it was a bit of playful sass to his tone, you swallow before rubbing the back of your head against his chest. “now. let me make you my messy girl as promised, ‘n i’ll think about removing this pretty panties, okay?”

“… okay.”

nanami lowly chuckles, and you lean back against him the moment he starts to create a bit of stimulation against your clit.

“oh, don’t be so disappointed,” and he starts slow strokes. deep filthy strokes, you wanted for him to just remove your panties … but alas, that wouldn’t happen just yet. nanami created a plethora of chaste kisses near the inner part of your neck whilst your legs twitch in pleasure. you were far too sensitive, moaning each time his tongue softly drags against the sweet soft parts of your neck. you were addicting, equivalent to a drug. nanami loved to kiss up and down your neck, leave all kinds of marks only for him to see. “you want me to go rougher? ‘s that why you keep whining?”

“p-please,” you concur, with a needy nod, feeling him bring a hand near your neck now. thick fingers swiftly of his wrap until you wear his hand that went around your throat like a necklace.

you wanted him to just be a tad bit rougher, just a little. you loved him being gentle, you did. but you also liked when he’d be a little mean. the times where nanami would come home from work stressed and full of fatigue. letting him taking everything out on your sweet pussy, his ultimate cure for stress relief. he was forever grateful for you. “more, kento. ‘wan more, choke me harder.”

his hand that went around your throat had a firm grip to it, a thumb of his softly swipes down the middle part of your throat and he turns your head for a kiss. you were panting heavily, each dramatic breath that left your mouth only grew substantially louder. “such a nasty fuckin’ girl. can feel you pulse all through your panties, sweetheart.”

“kento,” you’d whimper, reaching down to touch his wrist — but he lightly smacks it, earning a sweet whine from you.

“nuh uh. no touching. ‘s only for my hands,” he husks, making his strokes against your panties go ten times faster, the tempo was so vigorous that your moans became even more vocal. “silly girl. did you forget already? you have to ask to touch yourself.”

swallowing an invisible thick lump, you mewl out a sweet, “can i—”

“no baby,” he chortles, finding it cute at your attempt to even ask directly after the fact. nanami could essentially hear the pout curl amongst your lips before your eyebrows form into a perturbed adorable furrow. you were coming close, you knew that very much all too well.

it was coming at such a high chasing pace that you could barely keep up with your own breaths. even at his attempt of being ‘mean’ he was still so sweet. he couldn’t help it, especially if it was with you.

pathetically so, you felt yourself twitching within his hold. nanami’s hand that went around your throat softly massages the part where you breathe, he could feel the candied vibrations of your own moans leave out every few seconds. it was his favorite sound, forevermore his favorite tune to even hear.

“close, are you?” he simpers, and he’s using his entire hand at this point, maneuvering such rough circles against your clit. the cloth of your panties that protected it made you pout, you desperately yearned for it to just be taken off already. “mhm. wait, be quiet for a sec.”

all that could be heard was the sound of your cute exasperated breaths and the squelches that came from your soaked pussy. the fabric of your underwear was thin, basically shielding hardly anything.

“listen to her with me,” he whispers against your neck, referring to your pussy. he’s coating you with various more kisses to make you twitch and throb for more. “she’s needy for me. sloppy ‘n everything, so desperate to make a fuckin’ mess on her husband.”

“k-kentooo,” you’d moan, and his hand that was wrapped around your throat shifts its attention back towards your chest. he squeezes your right tit, massaging all around it before prodding a thumb against your nipple. “f-fuck i feel it.”

your orgasm gradually builds up, it’s like a wave that continued to rise and rise.

your thighs, even your legs began to quaver and by now, you were all slumped up against nanami. his words went straight towards your cunt, ringing all through your ears. even his dirty talk was bittersweet, rich and simply enchanting. “come on,” he sighs lowly, feeling himself start to get hard just from your pleasure. “give it to me. be a good nasty girl ‘n let go on me.”

everything came on a whim, your legs felt so numb and shook before whether moments—you felt yourself finally release.

a sudden slick gush runs out of you, and your panties were even more soaked now. you felt so flushed. the stupidest expression on your face, hooded eyes, maw dangled open as you’re panting heavily … it was a sight.

the dampened spot near the entrance of your underwear was so cute. he chuckles, strumming a thumb against that specific spot while you’re riding out your orgasm, legs vigorously still shaking from impact.

“…my oh my,” he sings, and that’s when he finally pulls your panties towards the side. nanami runs a finger down your slit before giving it a playful pinch just to hear you whimper out. “what a mess.”

“such a messy girl i’ve got myself here,” he continues, and then he slowly sinks a finger into your folds. “mhm. do you wanna be even messier for me though? we can always try it again, without the panties this time, my love.”

[jaewritesfic]

Everlasting Trio Nobody Knows AU DP x DC Part 4

Part 3

(Tim POV! This is a long one 😅)

 Tim almost has it. He's so close to cracking this file he can fucking taste it. He's been fighting this thing for two weeks. It's the most incomprehensible and infuriating code he's ever faced off against, which is fitting considering who gave it to them.

The engineer. THEIR engineer. The engineer they didn't ask for and Tim still isn't sure how they got, and the single biggest mystery in Tim's fucking life right now.

See, a significant amount of Bat gadgets at this point are Tim's brainchildren. He imagines them, he designs them, he workshops and tests them.

A few months ago, he'd had a pouch on his utility belt full of experimental pellets meant for slowing down fleeing vehicles. They were designed to break when run over and the compound inside would expand into durable, sticky foam that would ensnare tires.

He'd tested them in the cave.

He had not been prepared to take one hit to that side and have to frantically divest himself of that pouch before he became Gotham's latest foam based cryptid. 

His family had laughed themselves silly at him even as he broke off in pursuit of the drug runners he'd been fighting.

When Tim had doubled back expecting a mess to clean up and pellets to rework? It had been gone. All of it. The foam, the pellets, the pouch of his utility belt.

A serious problem, because who knows who got their hands on that?

Then it had shown back up.

That is to say, Gordon had called them because he found a pouch with a note labeled ‘for Red Robin’ sitting on the stand of the Bat Signal and didn't dare touch it.

After making sure it wasn't a bomb or some kind of biological weapon, Tim had opened the pouch - his own belt pouch - and found pellets. New pellets. Different pellets.

The note just read, “As funny as that was to watch, I fixed them for you. No more premature sploogage on the job. :3 P.S. here's a recipe for solution to dissolve future intentional discharges.”

They'd been right, too. The new pellets were tested (in case THEY were a bomb or biological weapon) and they'd been just strong enough to safely transport but still break when under the pressure of tires. Even the foam was more effective, and the spray Tim synthesized from that stupid recipe had worked like a dream.

What. The fuck.

This person not only improved his design and came up with a dissolution agent from scratch in days, they'd been watching without him knowing and made off with the original pellets without anyone noticing.

This was either a rogue in the making or someone they wanted on their side, and either way they needed to be found.

So Tim had done the obvious.

He'd put together a lockbox of money for the product they'd been given, loaded it with no less than ten (10) bat trackers and a note thanking their mysterious benefactor and requesting to meet up. He'd exploded a foam pellet on a rooftop and left the box on it in the hopes they'd notice and find it, then hung around far enough to not be seen and close enough to beat feet as soon as the trackers started moving. 

They did not start moving. They all went offline simultaneously. 

Tim has never moved so fast in his life, and yet by the time he got to the rooftop there was a pile of foam and nothing else. Not even a trace of whoever took the lockbox.

The next day, there was a ping of one (1) tracker that led them to a note thanking him for the money, refusing to meet, and asking if they'd considered certain improvements to their grapples with schematics for said designs.

Thus started the most bizarre and infuriating chase through notes, money, helpful designs and disappearing trackers Tim has ever been a part of.

Last time, the engineer had left them a USB stick and a note claiming that since they really wanted to know about him so bad, they could have the information on the USB if they could crack the encryption on the zip file inside.

Obviously they screened heavily for viruses or backdoors, but long story short Tim has been trying to crack the fucking thing for two weeks and refuses to let Oracle help. It's personal. It's a matter of pride. 

He could swear the code itself has actively been sabotaging his attempts to hack it, which is, you know. Impossible. 

Ping!

Tim blinks, looking over at the map on another monitor of the Bat computer. 

“Motherfucker-”

He taps into Duke’s comms. This is the first time this has ever happened during the day shift, he wasn't expecting it.

“Signal! I need you on the roof of the warehouse on the corner of Fifth and Everest - a tracker just came online.”

Another thing that infuriates Tim. You can't just turn Bat trackers on and off. They're activated, and then they either stay active or they're destroyed. They can't be turned off and then reactivated.

And fucking yet.

Duke groans, but his own tracker starts making its way in that direction.

“Dude. He's gonna be long gone by the time I get there. He always is.”

“He can't run from me forever,” Tim insists. “I'm almost in this damn file, and I am going to find him and dangle him off a roof from his ankles for giving us this runaround, so help me God.”

“Uh huh,” Duke deadpans. “Sure you are. I'm almost there, and- oh look! A note. What a surprise!”

Tim hears Duke touch down on the rooftop, eyes on the code on his screen while his brother clears his throat and reads aloud.

“Ahem- ‘Good morning, sunshine!’ - guess that's me - ‘I hear some bats and birds have been murdering tires at an alarming rate with the way they drive their bikes-’”

Tim freezes. He's not listening anymore.

“Signal.”

“‘- and that just can't be good for business. Nobody wants a bald tire ruining a chase. So boy do I have the thing for you-”

“Signal!”

“What?”

“I got it.”

“Huh? Got what?”

“I cracked his file. I got it.”

Tim is staring, wide eyed and full of a mixture of elation and trepidation at the contents of the zip file. It's a single text file titled, ‘Wow! You did it!’

“Oh, shit? Well? What's in it?”

Tim swallows, mouse hovering over the file. He takes a deep breath, then double clicks.

The file opens.

Tim blinks.

“Red Robin? What's in it?”

Tim scrolls slowly down, disbelief and horror dawning across his face. “Oh my God.”

“What? Come on, man, talk to me.”

Tim scrolls further.

“Oh. My God.”

“Red? Red Robin, you're scaring me, man.”

Tim puts his face in his hands. Voice muffled, he responds.

“Duke.”

“...Red? You okay?”

“No.”

“No?”

“It's the entire Bee Movie script.”

Silence reigns for a solid five seconds before Duke breaks and descends into raucous, hysterical laughter.

Even muffled by his own hands, Tim's scream of rage scares the bats in the cave into a tizzy.

Part 5

Masterpost

[inkedtae]

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.

[jksprincess10]

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.

"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, pushed by your kind praises. "Put your fingers in me."

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."

[dancingtotuyo]

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

[gallusrostromegalus]

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.

[heartlilith]

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

[hold-him-down]

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:

@whump-cravings

@afabulousmrtake

@crystalquartzwhump

@maracujatangerine

@pumpkin-spice-whump

@distinctlywhumpthing

@thecyrulik

@highwaywhump

@batfacedliar-yetagain

@finder-of-rings

@dont-touch-my-soup

@skyhawkwolf

@suspicious-whumping-egg

@also-finder-of-rings

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@peachy-panic

@melancholy-in-the-morning

@urban-dark

@nicolepascaline

@quietly-by-myself

@pigeonwhumps

@whump-blog 

@seasaltandcopper

@angstyaches

@i-msonotcreative

@mylifeisonthebookshelf

@anonintrovert

@whump-world

@squishablesunbeam

@considerablecolors

@whumpcereal

@whumperfully

@pirefyrelight

@whumpsday

@whumplr-reader

@lonesome--hunter 

@darkthingshappen 

@alexmundaythrufriday

@whumps-and-bumps

[levis-nut-dump]

~Break Away~

Description: Drug dealer ex boyfriend Connie tries to make you jealous.

TW: Drugs, gang, fluff, cursing

You never liked Connie Springer much. Since you were thirteen he was trouble in a small package and now you're twenty and he's trouble in a bigger package, which is why you weren't surprised when your six-month relationship was cut short because of his line of 'work'. You weren't too fond of being around a bunch of guns, drugs, and gangbangers every time you want to hang out with your boyfriend, you weren't cut out for that life. Not even two weeks later, Connie found someone who was.

You found the news out through a mutual friend of yours, Sasha Braus, she also hated Connie's work but knowing him as long as you have she knows just as well there's no pulling him from it.

"Already?!" you yelled.

Sasha jumped. "I mean, yeah. But that's ok, right? Your relationship was mainly physical and you don't like him that much anyway."

The truth is, you have grown to like Connie as a partner over the last six to seven months. You also found him sexy as you did dangerous. "Well... Whatever! Just how can he move on so quickly?! With Jackie nonetheless!" You grabbed your car keys and slammed your apartment door open.

Sasha jumped from the couch. "(Y/N) Where are you going?! He's around his people and Jackie's just as dangerous as he is! Don't do anything rash!" she begged.

"Fuck Jackie and FUCK Connie. I'm giving that prematurely grey jackass a piece of my mind!"

"Jackie?!"

"She can get in my way if she wants to. She doesn't mean shit to him. Connie's wanted me for years he didn't move on that fast. Jackie is just to make me jealous and it's not working." you say getting into your car.

Sasha crouched to talk to you in the passenger side window. "Are you sure about that?" she giggled.

"Are you coming or not?" you say with aggravation filling your body.

"Yes but only so I can keep my two best friends from killing each other. This is why we don't date in the friend group." Sasha said getting into the car.

You start the car on the way to Connie's corner. "You're dating Jean, who is in the same friend group." you point out.

"Jean who's not a gangbanger."

You flip Sasha off.

Finally, you get to Connie's corner hideaway. An old building he and his guys use to plan their moves. "Ok, so what's the plan? Do you have like a weapon or something or are we gonna take the sneaky app-" Sasha started.

You turned the car off and got out, slamming the door which alerted Connie around the corner as he smirked.

"Connie Springer!" you yelled turning the corner to Connie, his guys, and Jackie sitting on his lap. In front of them was a table full of guns, large bags of weed, and a white substance you didn't even want to know about, but you weren't scared, your ego was bruised. You weren't the violent belligerent type but when your pride was hurt no one was safe from your temper.

"Hey Connie." Sasha smiled and waved from behind you, fearful of the table that possessed at least three charges. Maybe Sasha's the only one exempt from your temper.

"Hey Sasha. (Y/N)." Connie grinned.

"Fuck he's so sexy." you thought. "You're kidding me, right? Jackie?"

Connie sighed. "We broke up babe. I moved on." he said cocking his head to the side.

"Yeah right. It would be more believable if it were with anyone but Jackie Fletcher." you scoffed.

Jackie got up and Sasha backed up. "And what's that supposed to mean? What's wrong with me?" Jackie asked putting her shoulder-length blonde hair into a ponytail and taking her earrings out.

"It means you have more STDs than Connie has warrants." you grit through your teeth.

Connie's boys laughed and this set Jackie off. "Bitch you better have the hands to back that mouth up." she said stepping closer

"My mouth isn't as 'trained' as yours but I bet my fucking hands are just as good hoe."

Jackie ran up and you don't know what happened but the next thing you knew you were on top of her punching her over and over.

"Guys take Sasha upstairs I'll take care of this." Connie ordered. As the guys were carrying out his command Connie went to pull you off Jackie. "Alright. Alright Tyson she's out!" he said finally getting you to your feet. You quickly turn around and push him. "The fuck (Y/N)?!" he yelled.

"What you want some too?" you asked, pushing him again.

"I'm not gonna put my hands on you (Y/N)." Connie said softly.

You push him again. "Why not?" You pushed him against the wall "Fucking pussy. Fight back." You slap him on his left cheek.

Connie stared at you with a hazel deadly glare that snapped you back to reality. Sometimes you forget just how scary he could be as he towers over you weighing two hundred all muscle. "You want me to put my hands on you (Y/N)?" he growled switching you against the wall faster than you can blink. "You come in here, yell at me in front of my guys, insult my girlfriend, then beat her unconscious. After that, you have the nerve to come at me?" He put your chin between his fingers and made you look him in the eyes. "You're so fucking sexy." Your lips smashed together in a sloppy kiss. You run your fingers through his short grey hair as he undoes your pants and drops them to the ground. With a small bite of your lip, Connie breaks from the kiss and peppers your neck.

For an hour, years of pent-up hatred and anger were released against that wall.

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Scares and Thoughts

Author’s note: More of Hura in Husbandry and his darling reader. Thank you to @sleepyfan-blog for letting me borrow Cedric!

Summary: You take a pregnancy test, because you have bee having some strange cravings recently and your period has been nonexistent.

Warnings: pregnancy. panic. consideration of abortion. Let me know if I need to add anything.

Past =-= Next

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams

Tagged: @sleepyfan-blog, @ms--lobotomy , @thevoidscreams, @i-am-a-dragon34, @gra93fruit-blog

Tagged: @felinisnoctis

You had been feeling poorly for a while, a bit aches in your body, a bit more emotional. Far more nauseous in the morning, but also in the afternoons as well.

You had been getting more tired recently. You were bummed out because you were gaining more weight recently, even though you have been trying to lose some weight and exercise more.

You got a notification on your phone that has your face drain of color. It has been three months since you added a period into your Period Tracker.

'Oh fuck me!' You think, in panic, 'could I be pregnant?'

You close your eyes and take in a few deep breaths, the only times you have had unprotected sex (or any sex really) was with Hura. You had taken the morning after pill when you had unsafe sex.

You also are on a long-term birth control that should keep such things at bay. Hura's words on 'unforseen side effects' of you eating Zaarius's drug chocolates come to mind.

You frown a little, if one of those 'unforeseen side effects' was pregnancy while on birth control and Hura didn't tell you. You were going to have a very LOUD and long conversation with Hura about hiding shit from you about medical stuff.

You don't have the best physical health- for a variety of reasons, family and genetics rolling and giving you the short end of the stick. Also being a twin- who was, naturally, premature at birth.

As well as having some other issues meant that carrying a child was... very risky for you. You hadn't ever really wanted to have a kid, if your siblings ever wanted to, and had a kid, you'd be the fun Auntie- and that you'd help take care of the kid.

You'd not talked about having kids or adopting one with Hura- mostly because you'd never thought about having that conversation with him. You know that Hura can be quite paternal at times, and is very fond of his younger brothers and cousins.

You go to the next city over- and make sure to keep a scar wrapped around your hair and face, while wearing some sunglasses as you buy a pregnancy test.

You squirm a little at the expression on the face of the cashier when they see the test that you want to buy. You frown a little at them, finding it uncomfortable and unfairly judgmental.

"If you want to," The cashier says with faux kindness in their voice, "You can use the test in our customer's bathroom."

"Th-thank you," You stutter and scan your card to pay for it and go to the restroom reading the instructions on the test- and taking a swig of your water bottle that carry with you everywhere you go.

You have had a voice in your head the entire time that was a low level hysterical screaming. Part of you wants to send a message to your siblings, but you want to wait. You are a Woman, you can woman up and deal with what the test says and... make a decision if... the test is... positive.

You read the results of the test and feel the anxiety claw at you. You close your eyes and lean against the wall of the bathroom stall. Pregnant. You are pregnant. Fuck.

You hadn't known that Astartes and base line humans, as Hura and the others on base call you and other humans could... interbreed. You have no idea what Hura is going to say or think.

Your hands are shaking, and you shove the test into your purse and flush the toilet. You wash your hands and face and run back to the bathroom stall and throw up.

There is a rasping, gasping noise, and someone sounds like they are in distress. You realize that it's you. You close your eyes and force yourself to calm down.

You use the calming techniques that you were taught as a child when your Anxiety started to become A Problem and it helps you calm down.

Fuck. That was tiring. You send a message to Hura that you want to have some space for a few days. You get a message from Hura that he's got a mission out for a few days- but that he loves you dearly and that if something is bothering you, that he's always there to listen. Always lovely little mouse.

You smile weakly at that and send him another message, [I know that. I love you too.]

You have a decision to make, are you going to keep the bundle of cells growing in your belly or not. You had never considered yourself to be very motherly, or seeking to be motherly.

You like kids, but you... don't think you'd be a good mom. You were wondering if you should abort the bundle of cells or keep it. The thought of keeping the bundle of cells has the panic rising in your chest again.

You rub your belly with one of your hands, you were going to talk to Hura about... about this surprise and... get a Medica Opinion, on if the child could even be viable.

Your Hura- you love him dearly, but your brain twinges as your eyes glass over as you recall what he looks like under his armor. You rub your nose, as something itches and drips, and you swear softly and grab some tissue paper to stem the flow of blood.

You didn't think Hura could conceive a child with you. Granted- you still had birth control, and took other measures to ensure that such a thing was limited.

Your family, you had been told was cursed with fertility. Catching and growing a child was very easy for the women in your family, was something that you had been warned, semi-playfully by your mother.

Oh! You were going to have to tell your mom- and siblings- both the of them about your... pregnancy. Your youngest sibling works in the military and is often far away- but you did send them emails and call at least weekly.

They came down to visit at least once every three months or so, per their schedule and military permitting, of course. Your other sibling worked in the medical field- and made a lot more money than you did, more successful.

... Both of your siblings were a lot more successful than you are. You are happy for them. That they are doing so well. With the baby on the way, and you grimace, that is going to be expensive, the medical bills, the doctor bills and visits, the prenatal and postnatal care.

All of the things you would need to get for the baby. Ugh. Perhaps you should talk to Hura about moving into the Base with him. That would certainly make Hura happy and it would cut down on your living expenses.

You have heard... rumors... that you had thought was... not true. About certain single mothers who have a Space Marine- and a child that ... in certain light... looks like a blend of the Marine and the Mother.

But, as you rub your belly... perhaps ... that might not be as... untrue and conspiracy theorist crazy as you had once thought it was. You know that Hura and the others have keener senses, so you make sure to wear a perfume (that didn't make you cough and sneeze) but would hopefully keep the pregnancy pheromones from been smelled.

You are very, very glad that Hura had been off on a mission of mercy- needing to help some brothers or cousins who had landed farther away that needed specialist care before being moved, or something.

There was a lot that Hura didn't tell you, or only partially told you. You understand that not knowing everything about your partner is fine. But... sometimes it felt like Hura knew more about you than you know about him, despite your best efforts.

You shiver a little and continue driving and park and stare at the Astartes Run clinic that you knew that Hura frequented working in. Same as that younger Apothecary- Cedric? Hura seemed to have all but adopted the younger marine.

It was very cute, and you had met Cedric more than once, awkward, terribly socially awkward, and he tried his best to be nice. Mostly didn't seem to have a clue on how to interact with you outside of Medical Situations.

He'd eased up over time, slowly at least, you think him and the other 'primaris marines' were terribly curious. Some of them seemed shyer and more skittish. Some were more cheerful and friendly.

You opened the app and tapped on the Astartes run clinic's app and saw what appointments were available for the week. You wonder if it was serendipity or something else.

There is an appointment open in thirty minutes from now. So, you decide to take the slot and put in the details requested. For some reason, when you had thought of going to one of the baby mama clinics that was human run, but something inside of you had murmured that it wasn't a good idea.

After all- if Astarte/human crossbreeding was a thing, why wasn't it known about? Or at least more than as fringe theories that were thought of as silly nonsense?

Unless it was known thing to happen, but for some reason, someone, or something was keeping it secret. You rub your face and let out a weak laugh, shaking your head.

No- that was just crazy talk. There is likely no crazy conspiracy going on where certain people, if they carry a hybrid child get kidnaped and stolen away for whatever reason.

That was as likely to happen as actual Human Killers. So, you get out of your car and head into the Astarte run clinic and fill in the other paperwork that the person at the desk handed you and you fill in your details. Again.

And sit in one of the human sized chairs as you wait to be called back and try not to scare yourself with silly nonsense. You get called back and the person to see you is Cedric.

"Oh! Hello Cedric, ah- Sorry, Apothecary Cedric," you say smiling up at him.

"Hello Miss," Cedric says, his ears a little red as he asks the normal questions.

"I took a home test-" You say licking your lips a little as you wrap your arms around your belly nervously, "For pregnancy, and it said that I was pregnant."

"Oh," Cedric says.

He's able to keep a professional demeanor, but internally he's panicking. "Do you want to be pregnant?"

"I... was surprised," You reply, "But... if the baby is healthy, I want to see the pregnancy through."

"Alright," Cedric says with a nod, "I... am not a specialist with pregnancy and obstetrics, but I will be reading up and researching."

He sends a message and gives her a list of pre-natal foods and pre-natal vitamins as well as exercises and other things that she needs to do in order to have a safe, healthy pregnancy.

[b4mpyre-k1zz3s]

Rules of the Harem

Y/N lives a life not many women can say they have: she spends her days in a luxurious, gothic mansion with America's hottest gang of freaks at her beck and call. Now, how on earth did all of this begin?

Johnny Knoxville X Fem!Reader, Chris Pontius X Fem!Reader, Steve-O X Fem!Reader, Bam Margera X Fem!Reader

(Fluff)

2.7k Words

Warnings: Extremely suggestive content, alcohol, friends to lovers, friends with benefits, drug use, injury, heavily implied sexual content, threesomes, premature ejaculation

An: Hello! This fic was inspired by this post by one of my friends, @xxxmargeraxxx! I couldn’t get this concept out of my head, no matter how hard I tried, and I think this has enough potential to become a series! Anyways, thank you so much for sending in requests, and please keep them coming!! :)

Upon hearing rumors of your living arrangements, people usually ask you one of two questions: ‘why would you do that to yourself?’ or ‘how the hell did all of this start?’. The former was pretty easy to answer- you liked it, however unconventional it seemed to others. You were like Hugh Hefner, only instead of living in the Hollywood Hills, your mansion was situated practically on the sand of the sunny, Miami coastline. The only other difference between the two of you was that instead of having flocks of girls in tiny satin one-pieces and bunny ears, you got your pick of the gaggle of half naked dudes running around your house. The latter question, however, that one’s a little trickier.

It started when, one day, out of the blue, one of your buddies from way back asked if he could crash for a week or two- said he was filming something in Florida and staying at your place would be cheaper than getting a hotel, which you happily obliged to because A: he was right and B: friends let friends sleep at their houses, especially when they have six guest rooms. You hadn’t seen him in a while, anyways- why not take the time to catch up a little? That night, over a few drinks, Johnny let you in on what he was working on - this pilot for MTV he was making with Jeff and Chris and the rest of the guys from that magazine he was writing for. “Hell, they don’t even know i’m here!” He chuckled, jabbing a thumb behind him, “Told ‘em I was stayin’ at the Motel 6 down the road.” You cracked a grin at his lie, sitting back in your patio chair as the blue light from the pool cascaded over the two of you. “When d’you gotta be up tomorrow?” Johnny shrugged, taking a swig of his beer, “Noon. As long as I get back there ‘round then, they won’t suspect a thing!”

So for the rest of the evening, you and Johnny went back and forth, talking for hours. He told you that they were going to meet this professional clown guy named Steve-O tomorrow who works with this flea market circus and who always gets great footage (or at least, really liked lighting himself on fire), and later that month they were flying out to Pennsylvania of all places to film with this professional skateboarder whose name you couldn’t quite remember given that you were pretty damn wasted by that point in the night. And as the evening went on, the topic of relationships came up, and you drunkenly relented to your best friend that the single life was torture. If you could die from not getting dick, you were on your last legs. Despite your dramatics, Johnny could sympathize with that- all those weeks on the road were wearing him pretty thin, he told you, looking at you from under those half lidded eyes which you couldn’t tell if they had grown that dark from exhaustion or desire. He cleared his throat, making eye contact with you, “Y’know, maybe there’s a solution that could help both’a us out…” Johnny proposed nonchalantly, “It’s just what friends do, y’know?”

Waking up in the same bed as your best friend made you realize something. Looking at the way the sunlight filtered in through the open, floor to ceiling antique stained glass windows made the tan muscles of his back just glow as he lay half-asleep, tangled up in your silk sheets made you realize how much you really liked having a man in your bed- not just any man, but him. And after a few moments he stirred a little, sat up with a tired groan, and then offered to cook you breakfast. Yep. That’s how your friendship with Johnny turned into a friends-with-benefitship.

Johnny didn’t return to Miami until after that pilot thing aired. Not only did they get the show picked up, but MTV wanted another season, and that meant more filming. The evening he flew in, he called you to meet up with him and the rest of his buddies from the show (minus those guys from Philadelphia- their flight was delayed till tomorrow) at this rinky-dink little shithole bar. But he didn’t introduce you as the lady who’s house he stays at and who he occasionally fucks- you were just Y/N. His awesome lady friend Y/N who lives in a mansion and has a pool- something that couldn’t be said about the hotel they were set up at, and that piqued Chris’ interest. It was the dead of summer in Florida, after all, and nothing feels better after a long day of banging yourself up than a nice cool swim. So when he asked to stop by sometime, you were eager to invite him over the next day they were off from shooting.

Peering out from your open kitchen window that afternoon Chris visited, you could barely believe what was happening. There you had two very attractive young men, one of which you were definately going to screw later, lounging around your pool in their swimsuits without a care in the world, all sun kissed and glistening. That’s the moment your idea of what you wanted changed- don’t get me wrong, you still lusted after Johnny like no tomorrow, but there was something with the idea of having more than one man to pick from that stirred something in you. It also helped that you were really into Chris’ whole long haired surfer dude thing he had going on- he was like a big, perverted golden retriever, and you weren't ashamed to say that you went for the dumb, jockish ones. Maybe you had him over for more than just wanting to help him cool off a little, but it’s not like you could blame yourself- he was right there. So as you finished whipping up the batch of strawberry daiquiris you were in the kitchen to make in the first place, you thought up a damn genius plan. And, taking a deep breath, you strutted out onto the pool deck in your little swimsuit with drinks in hand, sitting down at the edge of the pool deck to dangle your legs in the water right in front of Chris. Leaning forward, you asked him in flirtiest tone you could muster, “How’d you feel about stayin’ the night?”

Grinning, Chris took the drink you handed him and chuckled at your flirting, “Sure!” As you sat back with your own frosty drink, Johnny eyed you from the other side of the pool, his expression difficult to read due to those sunglasses that never left his face. You knew he wasn't the jealous type, but there was a distinct curiosity to his body language as he watched you (his friend) flirt back and forth with Chris (his other friend). As Chris started spending more and more time around the house, you discovered he had a talent for making you feel like the most perfect woman in the world, and not even just with his words or compliments. Whenever you’d walk in the room, he would just smile and look you up and down and give you that cute, sexy look. And you’d pinch his cheek and he’d laugh that dopey stoner laugh and it was just so sweet- he had this way of just anticipating whatever you needed to hear at a given moment.

So like that, the one guy you were screwing that night turned into two guys, and the next morning, before they slipped off to join back up with the rest of the crew, you let them know that they could come by anytime. Johnny and Chris told you they would be more than happy to stop by and pay their favorite girl a visit, and you felt a strange sense of pride at what you had. Sure, the arrangement was a little unconventional, but it was undeniably yours. Not to mention, you had something to look forward to. Pontius let it slip last night during pillow talk after Knoxville was out cold that they were starting work on a movie, and the two of them would certainly need a place to stay.

Filming for a movie is a lot different than filming for a tv show, namely that you have more time off. There would be days at a time where it would just be you, Chris, and Johnny at your beck and call, sitting around or doing whatever they felt like around the house until you gave them a wave of your hand and gave one of them an order: “Chris, honey- can you draw me a bath?” “Johnny, do you think you could rub my back?” “Both of you, meet me in my bedroom in five!” And they were both eager to jump at whatever you had in mind.

You know how Johnny was real discreet about what he and you got up to behind closed doors and the conditions your relationship operated on? Well, while he meant well, Chris just didn’t have it in him to keep secrets, especially from his best buddy Steve-O who he knew would just love this super sweet rich lady Knoxville was hanging out with. Once he started showing up (completely unannounced, by the way), you didn’t really say anything because you didn’t mind his presence and entertaining antics- what with all the jumping off of surfaces and lighting himself on fire. And you didn’t have to worry about Steve’s performance in bed not measuring up to that of the other two because he barely even made it to the bed in the first place. Sure, occasionally try to join you and Chris, but after taking about three steps into the room, he’d just stop for a second, turn around, and walk back where he came from, muttering to himself, “I’m out...” But that isn’t to say he wasn’t affectionate- in fact, due to his tendency to get his boxers glued to his left leg before the clothes came off, Steve compensated in other ways. If you weren't knocked out in bed with Johnny or Chris at the end of the night (or hell, even if you were), he would jump in under the covers next to you, wrapping those wiry arms of his around your waist and pulling you close to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck. As unappealing as it may sound, you never slept better than with Steve, that ole’ cuddle bug.

However, as the days went on, you found yourself spending more of your time with the guys outside of the bed rather than in it. As you wandered around the mansion grounds, you took note of what you usually caught them doing because, after all, they would be staying with you for a while and you wanted to know how to keep your men happy. Johnny was easy, usually lazing around on the red velvet chaise lounge that sat in your living room while watching tv or nursing whatever fresh injury he got on set that week with a bag of frozen peas. You’d plop down on the couch next to him and idly chat about whatever was going on on Tv, while Chris was often found on your rooftop sun deck, working out and getting all bronze up there- a sight you never got tired of. Steve, on the other hand, really made it a struggle to keep track of him. He was all over the place, just sorta lurking around or high off of whatever he could get his hands on if he wasn’t attempting some ridiculous stunt. On the off occasion you could actually find him, he was usually sat slumped over against the wall or arch or column, and as you’d walk by, he’d chuckle a little or lay his head against your leg like some weird family dog. In fact, the four of you really were like a big, happy, kinda fucked up family.

Eventually, Bam started getting curious about where the hell those three kept screwing off to, but he never got a straight answer from Chris or Knoxville when he pressed them about it. On the other hand, Steve was more than happy to vividly describe that smokin’ hot rich lady Pontius introduced him to who lets them stay at her huge ass mansion in exchange for, get this- them letting her fuck them whenver she wants. It’s basically a porno set-up. You can kind of see how the words got twisted as they wound through the grapevine? But, of course, that sounded like a dream to Bam, and he just had to get in on that.

So he stood there on your doorstep in his swim trunks and t-shirt because he wanted to at least pretend he was coming for that pool he’s heard so much about. And god, when you opened the door you could hear his jaw hit the doormat. Bam knew you were hot before he showed up but, Jesus- this lady was hot. He was never one to be nervous around chicks, but you left him speechless. “Are you, uh- are you Y/N?” Sure, you’d never met the guy who was standing on your doorstep before, and it wasn't typical of you to invite strangers into your home, but you found the way he looked at you with those big ole’ eyes kinda cute. A plan started to form in your mind and you decided to mess with him a little, “Mmhm.” At that point, the guys had started to take notice of what was happening and started gathering around behind you to watch the show. Bam still tried to sound all cool and confident as he rambled, “I'm a friend’a Knoxville’s- you know, the skater one? He’s probably brought me up before.” That’s the guy? Leaning against the doorframe, you checked him out, “So you’re Bam, right?” He nodded quickly and you cracked a grin, “Well, we’ve gotta rule around here.” From behind you, Johnny raised his eyebrows and gave him a nod as you gestured with one hand, “No shirts for guys. So…” Bam blinked in delete if for a moment as he realized shit, this woman was serious. But all the other guys in the house were fully dressed? Ah, fuck it. Bam tugged off his shirt. Part of him didn’t wanna give in too quickly, but damn it, he just couldn’t get over the way you were looking him up and down like that- not that he would admit how much it got to him.

After you invited him in, that’s when things started getting fun. See, Bam was really eager for you to like him- and I mean really eager, so he spent the entire time trying to impress you. Like when everyone was sitting around the pool drinking or idly swimming, he’d ‘accidently’ flex his muscles while toweling off directly in your line of sight, or if you so much as mentioned that you were thirsty, he’d go running to grab you a drink from the cooler. You weren't in the market for a servant boy, but Bam’s restless pursuit of your attention was endearing, and you wouldn’t mind having something like that around the house. Sitting next to you on the other pool lounge chair, Johnny leaned over to whisper in your ear, “If I were you, Y/N, I’d keep an eye on him. Seems like he’s just dyin’ for your attention.” He certainly would liven things up around the place. It’d be like having a puppy around, only with less leg humping. Oh hell, he’d probably do that too if you gave him the word.

And that’s how everything came together. Now every time Jackass came to Florida to film, your house would be filled with life and chaos and all the men you could stomach for a few glorious weeks. And you wouldn’t have it any other way. Sure, there would be some hiccups along the way, and rules eventually had to be made, but we’ll get into those at a later time. For now, you had a new addition to your little menagerie, and you knew exactly how you wanted to celebrate the occasion.

[frenchfrywrites]

You know once I start I cannot stop myself

MINORS DNI

Warnings: switch male amab reader, switch Leona Kingscholar, drug usage (weed), sex while high, ruined orgasm, premature orgasm, (implied/very light) internalized homophobia, scent kink, slight dehumanization, blowjob, not very canon compliant

very loosely inspired by this, continuation of this fic, thank you to @pulpbeing for giving me the littlest nudge to write this :)

"I think I saw somewhere,” Leona begins as he blows smoke in your direction like the asshole he is, before he passes the blunt back to you, “someone said that the bible says it’s okay to be gay, if you’re high or some shit.”

You’re both on Leona’s bed, tangled in the mess of blankets, and buried in the mountain of pillows that smells like the beastman before you in a way that's intoxicating. The two of you started smoking a bit ago, and it’s just starting to hit right now, which makes it all the more difficult to figure out what the fuck he’s saying to you. You squint at him, like seeing him more clearly will make what he said any more understandable, before giving up and taking another deep hit. 

As you exhale, you notice he’s closer to you than he was before. “Are you even listening to me?” he growls, irritated with you, but not by much. His tail curls into a question-mark like shape. Cute.

“Yeah,” you pause to laugh at nothing in particular. Leona frowns, getting more irritated with you.

“Don’t laugh, I was saying something important,” he huffs. 

“Sorry, sorry,” you apologize, but you can’t stop grinning at him, “I just don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” you end the sentence with another long drag. This time, as you exhale, you reach over and snag a hand around Leona’s waist, tugging him into your lap. He falls into you easily crossing his arms on your chest and laying his head on them as he gazes up at you. 

“Didn’t you stop looking for excuses a while ago?” you ask, passing him the blunt back so you can let your hands wander to Leona’s ass. Instead of addressing you, he takes a hit, then cups your face with his free hand. You get the message and part your lips so he can shotgun it to you. 

“Can I tell you something,” he sighs softly, licking into your mouth just as soon as you exhale the smoke. “I don’t even remember what it is I said to you,” he mumbles against your lips. He sighs out a weak laugh that dies quickly once you press your lips against his. 

Leona moans softly, clutching at your face as he sloppily deepens the kiss, then moans again as you grope at his ass. You can feel his cock harden against your stomach, and your own dick is similarly twitching and filling within your pants. 

He lets you lick into his mouth, lets you suck on his tongue and lips, and whines when he feels your teeth scrape against him. Cottonmouth is no longer an issue with Leona’s drool and spit pooling into your mouth. Yes, of course he’s normally lazy, but when he’s high he’s borderline dead weight, letting you touch him all over while his hands stay grasping onto you for support. It’s like he puts all his energy into not falling asleep, falling over, or drooling on you (things that happen a lot when he’s really stoned), and forgets that he can touch you too. 

“Wait, wait,” he gasps, pulling away from your mouth. Instinctively, you chase after him with a whine, but he stops you by pressing his hand hard against your face. “I said fucking wait, let me put this,” he leans over, delicately putting out the blunt in the ashtray on his bedside table. You’d honestly forgotten entirely about it with Leona in your lap. “Don’t want my bed to fucking catch on fire,” he mutters, then laughs as he readjusts himself on your body. 

He settles so that his cock is pressed nicely against yours, and shoves his nose into your neck. Your hands fly from his ass to his head, scratching behind his ears. He inhales deeply, before letting his tongue lick the skin there, moaning at the taste (smell?) of you.

Leona stays there for a while, or maybe only a few seconds; you’re sinking further and further into your high, losing track of time and space around you. The only thing you’re focused on is the man in your lap. He licks and sucks at your neck, his tail swishing back and forth, purring so loud you can barely hear your own thoughts. In fact, your brain feels foggy and sticky with thoughts, except, you think that the inside of your pants must be far more sticky than your brain is. You laugh at that thought, and Leona unlatches from your skin, glaring at you. 

“Sorry kitty,” you coo. He whines loudly at the pet name, jerking his hips against you. You figure that means he forgives you.

Quickly, his hands are under your shirt tugging it up so he has access to your chest. He pushes your pecs together, rubbing his thumbs over your nipples slowly, like he’s mapping every inch of your skin in his mind.

“They’re not tits,” you remind him, holding your shirt up so he can continue to play with your chest all the same. 

“Yeah,” he grins while squeezing and tugging at them, “they are.” You nearly roll your eyes, but he’s leaning down and taking one of your nipples into his mouth before you get to it. 

“Oh,” you hum softly, more than pleased at the feeling of his tongue and teeth sucking and grazing along your nipples. You try not to think about how many girls' chests he’s littered with bite marks and hickey’s in the past. He’s yours now. 

Leona nuzzles his face against your chest, letting his fingers comb through the hair there. “Did I ever tell you how good you smell?” he asks, looking up at you. 

“Nuh,” you mumble, moaning when he sinks his teeth into the flesh of your pec. He hasn’t told you, but he doesn’t really need to. He doesn’t really do a good job of hiding how aroused he is by your scent.

“You smell,” and now it's his turn to moan, licking his way down from your chest to the waistband of your pants– your pants which are now uncomfortably tight with how hard you are. 

“Let me suck you off?” he asks, voice raw and thick with need. 

“Please,” and with permission granted, Leona pulls your pants down and takes your cock into his hand. You’re too far gone to think about grabbing a condom. Leona doesn’t seem to mind. It’s not like either of you are fucking anyone else these days. 

He kisses the tip sweetly, before descending along your length. Leona’s gotten much better at sucking cock since the first time he gave you head in the locker room. He takes you down his throat with ease, especially in the state he’s in now.

“You’re like a fleshlight,” and you didn’t really mean to say that out loud, but it’s true. When he’s high his throat is perfect for fucking. He’s so relaxed he’ll take anything you give him. Leona moans like a whore, swallowing and sucking around you. He pulls off after a moment, but it seems like it takes every ounce of energy within him to do so. 

“Fuck off, that was so hot,” he groans, stroking your length, “tell me more, keep talking,” he tries to command it, but it's him begging though and through. He's quick to suck you back into his mouth, missing the weight of you on his tongue.

“You’ve gotten so much better at this,” you grind your hips gently against his face as Leona deep throats you. “Learning what makes me feel good, ah, letting me use your mouth. Letting me fuck your ass and your mouth all the same, shit, just like that sweetheart, taking it like the bottom bitch you are.” He gurgles around your length, drooling and moaning as you slowly and shallowly fuck his throat.

“Can’t even imagine you topping, can’t imagine you were doing anything but getting your pretty ass railed,” Leona pulls off for a second time, in a rush, getting drool and pre all along his chin. 

“No, I can,” he protests, “I can fuck you, I can top.” You laugh, loud and hard.

“Yeah right,” Leona bristles, bearing his teeth at you. You hum, a spurt of pre leaking from your tip at the sight of him. “Okay, go get the lube then.” 

It takes longer than usual, both of you moving like you’re stuck in molasses, getting distracted with kissing and touching one another, but finally Leona is seated between your legs, naked and fingers coated with lube. He presses two against your rim and shoves them in roughly, making you gasp. 

“Fuck, start with one, asshole,” you hiss. Leona furrows his brows giving you a confused look. “It’s not a pussy, babe, you gotta be slow with me,” you remind him. He bites his bottom lip, looking apologetic, “just–” you shift slowly but surely adjusting to the intrusion that his fingers make. “Think about how I do it,” he nods at that, slowly moving and working his fingers into your ass. It’s majorly uncomfortable for the first few seconds– or minutes?– but then he wiggles his fingers against your prostate and you sigh, sinking into the bed beneath you. “There we go,” you moan. Leona purrs at the subtle praise, leaning in to press his lips against yours as he slowly works you open. 

“Can you take me soon?” he asks against your lips, doing his best to scissor you open.

“Add another finger, and more lube,” you instruct. He does as he’s told, easing out of you, and lathering his fingers before stuffing you full again. Your cock is leaking and twitching against your stomach, begging to be touched, but you hold off because you want him inside you before you cum. 

He might’ve fingered you for a whole hour, and you wouldn’t have realized. Every moment feels stretched, you feel like you’re drifting, and only the curl of his fingers and the press of his lips against your skin brings you back to what you’re doing. 

“Fuck me,” you finally gasp, squeezing around his fingers. It catches up to you quickly, the wave of your pleasure nearly crescendoing, crashing into an orgasm.  

Leona kisses you slow and deep as he gently pulls his fingers out of your hole once again. You take deep, shuddering breaths, trying to ground yourself, to keep yourself from cumming as he drenches his cock with lube. He presses himself against your entrance, and you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him close as he pushes into your ass. 

“Oh fuck,” he practically growls, feeling your tight heat squeeze and twitch around him. “Oh my god, hah, you’re so tight,” he whines. You beam at the praise, grinning from ear to ear, and then you’re giggling. Leona ignores your laughter, pressing his face into your neck and inhaling deeply as he sinks inch by blessed inch deeper into you. 

He doesn’t wait much for you to adjust, which is fine because yeah, he probably did finger you for an hour (it felt that way at least).

Leona snaps his hips into you, fucking you hard and deep, it feels like he’s in your stomach, hitting all the right spots, it’s so good you can’t focus too hard on any one sensation, simply bathing in the overwhelming pleasure that you’re feeling. And then it’s over.

Even though you don’t have the best concept of time, you know that was fast. His cum paints your insides, and he rides out his orgasm without care. 

“Sorry,” he moans once his hips still. 

“That was quick,” is what you say instead of “what the fuck” because, what the fuck. He whines, 

“I’m sorry alright?” he huffs, “you just felt too good.” 

You suppose you’ll take the compliment, but you’re a little pissed because you’re hard and denied what you know what would’ve been a killer orgasm. Leona pulls out his flaccid cock, and falls beside you on his stomach, shoving his face into a pillow.

“I’m gonna use you to get off,” you tell him before he can doze off. Leona moans, lifting his ass and wiggling it enticingly. It takes some time to convince your body to follow your brain’s demands, but then you’re pressed up behind him, rubbing your cock against his hole. You squirt lube directly onto his entrance, and show him how to properly prep someone. 

Leona’s back to purring now that you’ve got your fingers deep in his ass. His cock is only half hard, swaying between his legs as he grinds himself against your hand. 

“Fuckin’ needy,” you groan, draping yourself over his body– being careful of his tail– to kiss his neck lovingly. 

“Don’t you wanna cum?” he asks, which definitely translates to “fuck me please,” in whatever tsundere language Leona communicates in. 

“I wanted to cum with you balls deep inside of me,” you complain, pressing your fingers in roughly to punctuate your point. 

“Said I’m sorry,” he growls. You kiss his skin again,

“S’okay baby, I’ll give you another chance when you’re sober,” he mewls at that, clenching around your fingers. “But right now I’m gonna fuck you ‘til you’re fat and full with my cum,” it’s a threat and a promise. Leona arches his back further as your fingers leave him, his hole twitching and clenching around nothing while he waits for you to slather yourself with lube. 

Your name falls from his mouth in a long drawn out moan as you slide inside of him. He purrs loudly, reaching a hand behind himself, blindly reaching for you. You cage him in, sliding an arm around his front so he can cling to you as you start to fuck him deep and slow. 

It’s an honest to god relief to be fucking him. His insides are hot, sticky, and tight around your cock, sending waves of pleasure from your loins to your gut. Being denied an orgasm worked you up more than you’d admitted to yourself, and you can’t stop yourself from increasing the tempo of your thrusts, chasing your pleasure. Leona doesn’t seem to mind.

His moans are punched out of him, all high pitched and wanton, with each time that your cock fucks into him and brushes his prostate. His purring is loud, nearly covering up the wet sounds the lube makes and the sticky skin slapping against skin that comes from each thrust. 

You’re not going to last long, but you will last longer than Leona did inside of you. Reaching your arm lower, you take hold of his fully hard and leaking cock. He keens, jerking himself into your fist.

“Fuh-uck, please, make me cum,” he begs, his voice wrecked and weak. You wonder if you’re starting to come down as you stroke his cock with newfound control over your body. The sloppy, desperate movement of your hips sharpens, and you hit Leona’s prostate dead on with each thrust. His moans border on screams now, and you’re just as close. 

“Cum with me,” you mumble, quiet but you know he’s clinging on to every sound you’re making. He hears you, nodding and fluttering around you. 

A couple more thrusts and you’re thrown over the edge, finally finding the climax that you’d been chasing. Leona follows a millisecond later, dirtying his stomach and the sheets beneath him. You follow through on your promise, pumping his insides with your cum, filling him up. Leona babbles something incoherently, his nails digging into where he’d been holding onto your arm. 

“Shit,” he gasps once you’re both soft and tired to the bone now that the adrenaline has worn off. “Shit,” he drags out the word when you ease out of him slowly, and flop onto the bed next to him. 

“I might fall asleep before you, for once,” you admit, feeling like you’ve run a marathon. Leona snorts, 

“Doubt that,” he says as he rolls over to cuddle into your body. “If you fall asleep, then who’ll clean us up?” he bats his lashes at you, like that’ll work. 

“We’re both just gonna have to be filthy, until one of us can carry the other to the bathroom.” Leona shrugs at your words, 

“S’not gonna be me,” he whispers, closing his eyes as his breathing slows and evens out. 

You know you’ll be the one to care for him, and that doesn’t bother you one bit. And you know he doesn’t mind the drying cum and lube that’s smeared along your bodies as you regain your energy.

[skyeslittlecorner]

It's 2nd April, so - time to meet the first lucky winner~

As I promised, today the first fanfic for your MCs and OCs. It's quite funny, because the first person in the draw turned out to be the one who entered last. Dear @de1-os, congrats! Looks like your waiting was a good strategy~

Writing was a challenge, after all, this is my first fanfic like this. But I had a great time doing it. Asher is a fascinating character, above all with a very sensible approach to these demons. I hope you will like it!

Note: If anything sounds wrong and ooc, please let me know. I'll change it. If you want, you can also change it yourself, it's entirely up to you, and you can edit these texts however you want.

Also, I apologize in advance for any mistakes, especially if I mixed up pronouns. I write in my native language, where there is no equivalent of "they". I could have translated something incorrectly and not noticed when editing. Then let me know too, of course I will correct it.

Words: ~1200

WHB MC Shuffle | Asher

Asher was the first to leave Leviathan's office. Prematurely - as the waiting Astaroth noticed - because the meeting had recently begun. The councils of Hades ended when their king released them. At least that's what he heard. In Gehenna, they ended when the king kicked them out. 

The demon stared at Asher, trying to guess what happened inside. But it wasn't easy when the only thing that changed in their expression was a wrinkled nose. They could just as easily be disgusted or angry as they could be terrified.

“Didn't everything turn out the way you wanted?”

Only a quiet grunt escaped Asher's lips. What were they supposed to say? What always happened, happened today too.

“Glasyalabolas.”

A few days ago, His Majesty Leviathan summoned the descendant of Solomon to attend an extremely important meeting; what was important, only he knew, because Asher was as bored as a pug during political talks. Today's session seemed even less interesting than usual. They achieved a new record of disconnection from the surroundings. They stopped listening before the nobles even started talking. What could they do? They were surrounded by a bunch of hot men, instead of stupid politics, they could have chill out a little. For example, unbutton the shirts to let the chill breeze brush their skin…

Astaroth's snap awakened them before the train of imagination could gain momentum.

“Huh?”

“I asked what he did this time.”

Legs carried them forward, away from this office, as if Asher were afraid that the boredom would spill out and consume them again. Or, even worse, Glasyabolas's hand would land on their thigh again. Although, actually, it wouldn't be that bad. He was quite hot. Except he was an asshole. But what could they do, it only increased the possibilities… They forced themself to at least partially come to their senses. Even though, the fantasies about Glasyal were much more interesting. Yes, they were angry with him, but they still could appreciate a good body and certainly even better skills. It's not easy to shake a connoisseur out of their professionalism.

“He is being himself.” Asher grumbled under their breath. “I'm starting to get fed up with him.”

“Maybe you should take a break. I know a place you might like.”

The place in question turned out to be a cramped shop. The shelves were full of suspicious drugs, they all smelled of herbs and that unusual, sleepy fog surrounding Hades. Raven feathers, stone amulets, and reptile scales were stuffed among laurel branches and incantation ribbons. Astaroth, wrapped in snake coils, looked like one of the exhibits. Surrounded by the mysticism of this place, he seemed even sexier than usual. But why did the demon brought them here?

“Look.” The man pointed to the jar of clay standing at their feet. “These are lumps of earth collected from the place where His Majesty Lucifer fell into Hell.”

Asher bent down and picked up a small thing that looked more like a vial.

“Should it really be standing that low? Someone will kick it and everything will fall apart.”

“The thing is, these stones are extremely…”

They put the jar on a shelf among engraved beads and blue-labeled containers. Old wood groaned and splinters appeared from the bottom.

“…heavy.”

“Never mind.” Asher quickly put that quirk back where it was. It occurred to them that they might throw it at Glasyalabolas. Maybe he would finally get his shit together.

“You're wrinkling your nose again. Are you thinking the same thing as before?”

“Maybe… I'm sick of him, you know? I want to throw it in his face.”

“I think you should let your desires take over. Be corrupted. Be yourself.” Demon reached for a drug with a blue label. “But I propose a more sophisticated way.”

“What do you mean?”

“These are sleep oils with little side effect. You fall asleep faster, but you wake up much more tired.”

Without much thought, Asher grabbed a package three times its size.

“We'll take it.”

The gift they had prepared didn't look suspicious. An ordinary pillow that smelled of lavender. People lie perfectly, so explaining it was supposed to be easy. Asher had some credible stories ready. In fact, they were even a little disappointed that Glasyal didn't ask where the gift came from. All that was left to do was wait.

On the first day, there were no signs of fatigue. As they sat in council, Glasyalabolas was as great and immovable as a mountain. The next day, the mountain hunched its shoulders, but so slightly that they barely noticed it. On the third day, dark circles began to appear under his eyes. The next evening, after a meeting in which Glasyal had given up even teasing them, another thing humans are good at stirred in Asher. Delicate, barely audible remorse.

they stood outside Glasyal's room, trying to think of why they wanted their gift back. Yes, the demon was annoying, but maybe, just slightly maybe, they a little, just a little liked him. Maybe it's a souvenir from another demon? Or maybe a pillow that is always warm on both sides and was mistaken for a real gift? Before Asher could think of anything, the door opened. Weird. They didn't knock.

“Do you need anything?”

“Yes.”

“Come in, then. I know you've been standing here for quite a few minutes.”

Even though Asher entered the snake pit with a straight face, their heart was racing. First, they entered the demon's room. A handsome demon. A terrifying demon. They regretted it even before the door closed behind. Maybe they should come back after all? 

All doubts were doubled when Glasyalabolas leaned forward, as if bowing, and took their hand.

“Two can play this game, you know that?”

Not only Asher's heart but also his breathing reached the pace of an asthmatic after a marathon when Glasyal placed their hand on his cheek. He rubbed their fingers under his eye, and the circles that were supposedly from lack of sleep became blurred. Everything that was speeding up, suddenly stopped. Makeup. It was makeup. And worst of all, when they looked closer, the makeup was of very low quality. 

“You think I can't recognize sleeping herbs? Especially since you poured so much into this pillow? Even a corpse would be disturbed.” 

Instead of letting go of their hand, Glasyal ran their fingers over his lips. They were surprisingly soft and warm. Asher couldn't help himself. They pressed harder, wondering if his tongue was as soft. Anxiety fought with desire as they stared at his tongue as it lazily licked its lips. Fuck. Before they take this pillow away from him, they can still use it in this bed.

They took a step closer and grabbed the dark horn to make sure the demon wouldn't get up. And that he won't have any stupid ideas. Glasyal just muttered under his breath, something that sounded like a cross between a groan and a laugh.

“It was a punishment to stop acting like an asshole.” 

“I guess it didn't work.”

“In that case” Asher tugged the horn, forcing Glasyal to bow even lower. “Looks like I'll have to work on this more bluntly.”

The demon knelt down. However, if Asher thought for a moment that he would politely give up, their legs immediately buckled under them. Glasyal grabbed them around the waist and lifted their shirt with his teeth, licking, nipping and biting their lower abdomen.

“I want to see you try.”

That evening, neither of them needed a pillow anymore.

[unknownperson246]

Daddy Wants You Slut Chapter 6: Without You

words: 815

warnings: *angst* *argument* *mentions of miscarriage* *pregnancy* *blood* *cussing* *use of drugs*

You woke up from the nap that Nikki and you took together. You're feeling way better than what you felt a couple of hours ago. Nikki gets up and starts to get ready for his concert. You feel so bored and sad from being alone. You know that it's Nikki's job to do the concerts but all you can do right now is be there with him and support him. 

Four months have passed by of constant traveling and all of the concerts. You can’t take it anymore. You don't want this type of lifestyle. You don't constantly want to be on the road. You want to settle down with Nikki, get married, and have your baby together. You want Nikki to be able to be there for you and his unborn child.  You are now 6 months pregnant with his baby. You feel that you're acting selfish, but it's the life you want for all three of you.

“Nikki come here I need to talk to you,” you say gently.

“I don't want to be on the road anymore, Nikki. It's exhausting and boring. You're barely there for me,” you say softly.

“I’m tired of this Nikki, Why did you even bring me? I told you I would be useless.” You say quietly.

“I brought you with me so I could take care of you and our baby,” He says.

“Well, I can't just stop now. What are you suggesting?.” Nikki asked as he scoffed.

“I think you should quit the band, Nikki,” You say.

“Well, I’m not going to,” Nikki says.

“I want to go back home Nikki” You start to argue with him.

“Fine, I'll get you a plane ticket back home,” Nikki says quietly

“I never meant it that way, Nikki I want to stay with you” you beg.

“Y/N I think we need some space right now okay?” He says firmly.

“I don’t want to go back home without you” Tears start to form in your eyes as you say this to him.

“I don’t want to leave you” you start to sob

“Stop being fucking dramatic Y/N we are only staying away from each other for a couple of months damn it,” He says frustrated.

You go over to the bed and you start to sob even harder.

“Nikki I feel the baby kicking” you cry out in pain while holding the spot the baby keeps kicking you in. 

Nikki comes over to you and you reach out for his hand. You gently grab his hand and put it on the spot where you felt the baby kick.

“Please let me stay with you Nikki,” you say softly as his hand remains on your protruding belly.

“I’m sorry Y/N I can't let you stay. You'll only be distracting me” He says with his eyes looking at you harshly. He pulls his hand away from your belly and gets up from the bed.

 You suddenly feel woozy. Your eyes roll back into your head and you let out soft whimpers of pain. 

“Nikki it hurts” you cry while holding your lower belly.

“It can't hurt that much from the baby kicking,” He says being ignorant.

You start to groan while holding your belly which is full with Nikki's baby growing inside you. You pass out from all the stress that overcame you. As you pass out you see everything around you hazy. Nikki notices and starts to get concerned. At first, he thought you were being dramatic and that you were acting. He starts to get worried sick after seeing you sob and cry out in pain. He calls Vince and Tommy panicked and he tells them what happened on the phone. They bolt into the room. Nikki sees a pool of blood and water leaking from your skirt on the bed. He goes over to the bed and he kneels to where your body is lying on the bed. He goes to grab your body in his arms.

“Hang on, both of you are going to be okay,” he says while holding your belly to try to soothe and comfort you in your unconscious state.

 Nikki is terrified. He is scared that you might be miscarrying. So many thoughts are rushing through his head. He feels so sick from seeing you like this. He feels awful that he potentially triggered labor for you early or that you might be losing the baby because of the argument. He is worried that the baby might come prematurely. They canceled the 6 concerts that were ahead so he could take care of you and the baby when it came. 

“We need to get her to the hospital,” Nikki says.

Nikki feels so frightened and nervous that he decides to shoot up his heroin before taking you to the hospital. Tommy carries you to the car because Nikki is high.

[bigshymen]

Hey! I just saw your account and I instantly became happy 🥹 Not many people write about Sam Sulek and I’m so thankful that you do ❤️

If you are taking requests can you do a fic that involves the reader ( female ) helping Sam relax after an intense workout, like giving him a bath or massaging him 🥰

( can be wholesome or 😏 upto you 😳)

YOU GOT ME THINKING THINGS…! (I apologize it’s only losely based on the prompt, I definitely took my own creative liberties on this one so there’s no relaxing here 😅)

SHOWER THOUGHTS (NSFW)

sam sulek x fem reader

summary : you are a bodybuilding influencer infamous in the community for hooking up with fellow bodybuilders before their untimely deaths. but you like that.

smut , shower s3x , protected s3x , light dom reader , bodybuilder reader , loss of virginity , inexperience , oral s3x , hook ups, reader is a fiend , drug use , oneshot , size difference , mentions of death , morbid fantasies , he’s loud ! , afab anatomy , v4ginal s3x , kissing , i love evil reader actually

It’s no secret Sam is on steroids.

He never outright said it but if you’ve ever seem him before.. it’s obvious. And nowadays, what bodybuilder isn’t on the juice?

This of course never bothered you because, well, it excited you. You got off to the rush of the shortened life span of steroid users, the knowledge that you would be the last fuck of their life because who else wanted them?

Most women aren’t attracted to ridiculously big guys anyway (and not the good kind of big). The last thing they would cherish before their untimely death was you and your charity towards them with their body.

it’s why you began this ‘arrangement’ with him. The two of you had a complicated relationship. Workout buddies by day and fuck buddies by night, basically. You knew what you were getting into when you got involved with a guy on steroids because he wasn’t the first and when he’s dead at 30 he definitely wont be the last.

The last guy you hooked up with was the stereo-typical-hypermasculine-bodybuilder influencer, both in looks and personality. Honestly, you only fucked with him because he supplied you with free anabolics, and while you weren’t a roidhead like the guy, you dabbled in a bit of testosterone because you wanted to get built up fast yourself since you were also a bodybuilder influencer.

When he ended up sick and dying a premature death, you set yourself on another bodybuilder.

With the reputation you built for hopping from one guy to another, (and the deaths that followed soon after) some happening to be well known with fanbases, you began to be regarded as a “curse.”

Any bodybuilder that messed around with you is bound to die when you break it off with them.

You were surprised when you caught wind of this when it eventually reached your ears by a joke “warning” you saw online. I didn’t bother you really. It was technically the truth, anyway, but you’d never admit it because it would scare away the game.

Fast forward, you discovered a seemingly overnight sensation when you opened social media one day.

“Sam Sulek, 21, Bodybuilder.”

He was young and already so huge. Normally you wouldn’t be interested in guys new to bodybuilding. They weren’t ripe and deep enough into enhancement drugs for death not to follow closely behind them.

But he was so, so huge for his age. And it was obvious he was using and using badly. Face massacred by acne, chest and shoulders red with it too. Unnaturally muscular and desiring to get only 30lbs heavier as his main goal, even though he was already so massive.

You were dripping through your tight, active shorts just thinking about it. He was ready, you just knew it.

The two of you met at a bodybuilding convention not long after. Most people recognizing you either wanted a picture with the infamous ‘curse,’ pointing with their friends and whispering that you were scouting for your next victim, or they were genuinely fans.

It wasn’t hard to find him. He was a massive hit among fans for his attitude towards fame and being so down to earth. And you had to admit, he was pretty attractive outside of his body.

You’d hoped he hadn’t heard about the “curse,” you were worried it may ruin your chances with him, and if he did he never mentioned it because only a day after the convention and an intense workout on his part, you invited him to the airbnb you were staying at in the area and he showed.

The chemistry sparked at the convention almost immediately and to your delight it continued to burn brightly at his place. Maybe he intended to collab with you and he thought it would be a good way to get his name out there, but you quickly made your own intentions clear.

And to your surprise he was receptive.

You moaned loudly as Sam went down on you, warm water spraying onto your body, obscuring the wet mess that wasn’t from the shower head between your thighs. His palms played with your hard nipples above him as he repositioned himself on his sore knees on the shower floor, but he didn’t complain.

He was hesitant at first about doing it in the shower because of the slipperiness, but you reassured him you’d make it worth it.

Obviously this was his first time because he was not a good eater. We can change that later. You stopped him after you faked an orgasm because you didn’t want to embarrass him. Normally with the previous guys you were with you didn’t give a shit about how they felt if they were trash at it, but Sam looked so eager to please.

He looked up at you with so much earnest. His wide and glossy nut-brown eyes and his pinky cheeks. It was cute, even. You couldn’t bring yourself to tell him was shit at head, at least not now.

You take your hand from his darkened, wet curls and beckon him up for the real treat. With your body pressed against the shower wall you let him have you the way he wanted.

Uncoordinated and weak as shit at first, but with your guidance, and his wrapped 3 inches you were screaming out in pleasure in no time.

“Oh.. oh!”

He re-paces himself slowly inside you, the stream of water working as an extra lubricate to your own. You rest your head onto the wall while he puts his head on your shoulder, sweet sounds exiting his mouth as well.

You pushed yourself backwards only drawing him deeper inside you desperately. Sensing that maybe his little peter wasn’t enough, he slithers his digits down your opening and begins to finger your clit, the enlarged size not seeming to phase him (thank tren).

With each thrust, the pain from his sore muscles increased but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

He leans impossibly forward, pressing his massive body into yours and sandwiching you against the wall for his own pleasure, his cries becoming louder from his muscle aching along with the intense sensations.

Sensing his orgasm and your own, you captured his mouth with yours with a deep kiss, tasting faint traces of you on his tongue. You imagined his heart giving out while he struggled to tell you he’s close because you wont let him.

“M..mnh!” He attempts to get out until he can’t hold himself off any longer. He frees you from the wall and almost manages to get away before you pull him back in and have him empty himself inside you with a loud moan. You wish he had died then and there. The thought combined with this caused you to orgasm harshly, crying out alongside him.

You weren’t worried about the condom breaking anyway for obvious reasons.

Though extremely heavy breaths Sam looked dazed with pleasure, not even questioning what had just happened.

You shared one last kiss with him, well, shared is used loosely because you did all the kissing and while he tried to keep up before the water turned cold and the two of you promptly exited the shower.

[happyhauntt]

gold rush modern au hcs

series masterlist | writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: the anya / nikolai brainrot is real and i want to start writing for their modern au so until i do, here are some fun headcanons bc i literally cannot stop thinking about them.

─── pairing: nikolai lantsov & anya kamenev (original character.)

anya lets her guard down when she's drunk and early on in their situationship it's the only time nikolai gets to take care of her.

like she calls him to come and get her from a frat party genya took her to and she's so cuddly he's honestly concerned she's been drugged and/or cloned

like 'who are you and what have you done with the girl who bullies me like her life depends on it???'

he's so soft for it when he realises she's just drunk and he tucks her up in her bed with painkillers and a trash can within reach and he sits on the couch until dawn to make sure she's okay and then slips out before she wakes up.

everyone: 'for someone who hates nikolai you sure are obsessed with him'. anya: 'no i'm not???' everyone: 'sure you aren't babe'.

they are the definition of 'fell first, fell harder' !!!

nikolai was out here pining for anya for years, and she just wakes up one day and gets slammed like a fucking freight train with the realisation. oh fuck. i'm in love with nikolai. somehow. how the fuck did that happen. WHY the fuck did that happen. my life is over.

this is right after nikolai is injured at winter fête during an assassination attempt against his father and her whole world just screeches to a halt.

genya and david are just in the corner and david's handing genya a wad of cash and they're laughing while anya has her little meltdown it's adorable.

entering into a friends-with-benefits situation when anya is engaged to vasily (it's an uno-reverse plot of their original story where nikolai is engaged to alina bc PARALLELS and also i can't let them be happy in any universe without first making them suffer) is a Bad Idea but these two are nothing if not self-destructive.

anya may be in love with him but she doesn't have the emotional capacity to Deal with that yet so she's just gonna fuck him.

being friends-with-benefits is all well and good until nikolai gets so fucking jealous of anyone who even looks at anya. she finds this hilarious (until someone's looking at nikolai and then she's throwing hands.)

anya is very insecure about her disability, especially because of her status and expectations, and nikolai makes it his duty to show her how much he adores every inch of her, every day.

anya is engaged to vasily and she and nikolai fully get caught by zoya sneaking out of the engagement party to go makeout in the bathroom. these two are gonna give her premature grey hairs honestly-

anya admits to nikolai that she misses being able to dance. nikolai helps her dance around her apartment by supporting her weight and they're giggling and suddenly they're slow dancing and it's so fuckin adorable.

it's hard to believe anya was so mean to him for literal years.

nsfw beneath the cut!

anya learning she's actually a sub is so fucking funny

like she is so submissive during sex but absolutely not at first. she has a dire need for control in her life and definitely runs their sex life/tops for the first few months.

it's really significant the first time she realises she trusts nikolai and surrenders that control to him, because what she really wants is someone to take care of her, someone to trust completely.

she's so bossy at first and then sex becomes this thing where she just melts and nikolai literally thinks he'll die the first time she allows him that control because it's like seeing anya for the first time, and he's so in love with her already even if it's just sex but in that moment he swears he fell in love with her again. knowing he had her trust like that was,,, everything.

teasing eachother like it's an olympic sport?? more likely than you think.

like she used to hate him (lol not really) and now it's her personal fucking mission to rile him up at any given opportunity. public events?? in the library?? at her own fucking engagement party?? you got it.

nikolai fucking anya in her wedding dress??? yes.

because she is a masochist and doesn't know when to stop hurting herself (or nikolai honestly) she's like 'hey it arrived from it's final fitting, can i show it to you?' and he wants to say no so badly.

she's marrying his asshole brother, there is no world where he wants to see this dress, see her in it, picture her wearing it for someone other than him.

but her eyes are so wide, so vulnerable, and he realises she needs this. needs him to be the first person to see her wearing it. needs him to understand.

so she comes out, and he's honestly,,, floored. and angry. and so, so turned on. his eyes grow dark and hungry and before they know it he's hiking the dress up to her waist and fucking her against the doorframe.

and it's so possessive and full of remember you're my good girl, not his and when you're saying your vows, you gonna think of this? think of me fucking you in this dress? you're so beautiful, my darling, he doesn't deserve you. look at me. you're gonna walk down the aisle and all i'll be able to picture is your face as you come for me.

it's so hot and the room smells like sex and nikolai takes a picture of her in the dress afterwards, draped on the bed, face flushed and eyes shining and happy. and he'll pretend it's their wedding night.