#because I know that can be triggering. he's just. gonna be fucking stupid

[ask-eden]

Alaxia begins laughing hysterically, but still trying to continue speaking Alaxia: That just HAhah.,.,. THAT JUST AHHAHAAa.a.. HAPPENss..S OMETIME AHAHAHAHAhAAA Oh my GOD Alaxia covers his mouth with both hands to try and avoid laughing further His earlier painful outburst, seems to have calmed down For now. It still...... lingers. Deep within the back of his head, feeling like claws raking the back of his skull The alcohol barely masks the thing inside, desperately trying to rip its way out. Yet, Alaxia remains calm. Happy even. He begins to purr and leans back into his arms. Alaxia: I'M fINe... Heeeheeee~ I'M FINE IM FINE... Alaxia begins to laugh to himself under his breath a bit, covering his mouth once more to try and hide that he's giggling. Much how like a child would hide their laughter. He is failing terribly -- -- -- [ Alaxia is now Intoxicated ] [ Anon ] [ Background by @/sinnohsiblings ] Mod note: This doesn't effect ongoing interactions or anything previously set up. If a interaction set up from before continues, he will not be drunk. This is for most things going forward.

[cumironi]

CREAM-OF-THE-CROP CUNT, MAMA

feat, gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. what? just because you are six months pregnant your husband is gonna stop worshipping you? nooooo. . . he became worse, and the idea of making sure you are pregnant (despite the bump) makes them go crazy, especially with your little sweet bump.

trigger/warnings. non-sorcerer, everyone trying to be a gentleman (fails), calling reader “mama,” pussy-drunk behavior, pregnant sex, belly worship, size kink, deep penetration, unprotected vaginal sex, leg-folding position, full nelson vibes, praise kink, possessive language, swearing / explicit language, references to breeding kink (implied), overstimulation, internal ejaculation, cum leaking, soft dom / feral energy blend, emotional intensity, aftercare / caretaking (gentle touches, kisses), power imbalance (older man / younger woman), oral fixation (kissing, belly + knee worship)

GOJO SATORU

“—you’re gonna kill me,” gojo groans, forehead pressed against yours, voice ragged like he’s been running for miles, but really, all he’s been doing is holding himself together—barely—as your legs wrap tighter around his waist and you moan his name like it’s a damn prayer and a curse all at once. “no, seriously, baby, i’m—i’m dying. you’re murdering me with this pussy. it’s a crime. i should call the cops. except i am the fucking cops. i’m the fbi. i’m the law. and you’re under arrest. for being—fuck—for being too hot while pregnant.”

you try to say something, maybe something like “shut up” or “just keep going” or maybe just his name again, but you can’t—you’re too full, too stretched, too wrecked already and he hasn’t even really started yet.

“so tight,” he breathes, like the thought has him hypnotized. “how are you tighter while pregnant? is that a thing? can i google it later? because this is—jesus, baby—this is like heaven. like… like heaven wrapped in velvet wrapped in a vice grip wrapped in the greatest porn i’ve ever watched except it’s real and it’s you and it’s mine.”

he kisses your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts that’s grown fuller over the last few weeks—his obsession. he talks to them like they’re separate beings. he’s lost his mind and he’s made peace with it.

“gonna feed our baby with these,” he mutters, latching onto one nipple like it’s instinct, groaning like the taste of your skin alone could make him cum. “gonna wake up at 3am to help you, promise, swear to god. but only if i get to do this first. every night. every fucking night, sweetheart.”

you whimper, and it makes his whole body stutter, hips rocking deeper, harder, like your sound gives him permission to lose rhythm entirely.

“there it is,” he grins, breathless and boyish, completely wrecked and stupid and so very in love. “that’s the sound. the one that says i’m the best dick you’ve ever had. right? right, baby? tell me. tell me i’m better than anyone you’ve ever let near this sweet pussy.”

you moan, back arching. he whines, literally whines, like your approval is the only thing keeping him alive.

“please—please just say it. tell me i’m your favorite. tell me this cock is your favorite. tell me i ruined you for other men. tell me you forgot what it feels like to walk straight.”

you grab his face and pull him down to kiss you, hard, messy, open-mouthed and wet, your teeth knocking a little and your breath catching when he grinds into that exact spot inside you that makes you cry out his name again, and he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder.

“fuck, fuck, yes. that’s it, baby. say it again—no, scream it, moan it, tattoo it into my brain. god, i’m so fucking obsessed with you. you don’t even know. you don’t. i think about you 24/7. i check your pregnancy tracker app more than you do. i’m unwell. i’m feral.”

his hips move faster, deeper now, but not rough—he still holds your body like it’s made of glass, one hand bracing under your lower back to tilt your hips just right, the other rubbing slow, firm circles over your clit like he’s trying to make you finish before him and prove a point.

“wanna cum in you again,” he growls against your throat, “wanna fill you up more even though you’re already pregnant, like my dumb caveman brain doesn’t understand we already did it. it just wants to do it again, because it likes you like this. likes you glowing, round, leaking—fuck, baby, you’re leaking, i’m gonna go insane—”

“satoru,” you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulder as your thighs start to tremble, “satoru, i—i’m gonna—”

“yes,” he hisses, pace erratic now, “do it, do it, cum on this cock, make it tight, milk me, baby, do it so good i forget my own damn name—”

you shatter under him with a cry that hits the ceiling, your body pulsing around him so hard he lets out a strangled noise, like he’s not sure if it’s a moan or a sob or both.

he falls apart seconds later, buried deep, coming with a broken gasp of your name and a string of barely intelligible worship like “so good, so pretty, made for me, mine, mine, mine” until he finally collapses onto your chest, heart racing, sweat-slick, and completely, utterly gone.

a long beat of silence passes.

“…you good?” you murmur, stroking his hair.

he doesn’t move. just groans into your neck like he might cry.

“i think i left my soul in your pussy.”

you laugh.

“i’m serious,” he says, lifting his head with that wild, disheveled, utterly sexed-out look he wears so well. “if you don’t name our baby after this pussy i’m gonna be personally offended.”

“you want me to name our child… pussy satoru gojo?”

“well, i mean—middle name at least. or like a secret codename. for the groupchat.”

you sigh, rolling your eyes.

he grins like you’ve just married him.

“love you, baby. love you so much. let’s do it again in like fifteen minutes. or five. i’m stupid. i make bad decisions.”

“clearly.”

“i would literally die if you asked.”

“…fine.”

“i’m naming the second one ‘round two.’”

GETO SUGURU

“you know what you do to me?” geto growls into your mouth, lips slick from kissing, voice thick like smoke and syrup as he thrusts into you again—deep, slow, brutal. “you fuckin’ know what this pussy’s done to me, baby?”

you gasp—louder than you mean to, thighs trembling where they’re wrapped around his hips, nails clawing down his shoulders because there’s no logic in your body right now, just raw sensation. he laughs—a dark, low, chest-rumbling sound—and grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, not hard, just enough to keep you right there.

“oh, don’t go dumb on me now,” he coos, filthy and fond and absolutely feral. “we’re just gettin’ started, sweet thing. gotta give me that voice, yeah? lemme hear what my good girl sounds like when she’s pregnant and cockdrunk.”

you whimper, and he moans, like your breath is enough to push him right over the edge.

“that’s it,” he hisses, licking the corner of your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “fuck. fuck, you’re so good like this. all fucked out, all round and soft and warm for me—jesus, this body? i could live inside you. no house. no job. just this pussy, twenty-four-seven. put me on your goddamn lease.”

his hips snap forward hard, and the sound your body makes when he hits bottom is wet, obscene, absolutely unholy.

“listen to that,” he pants, dragging your leg higher over his shoulder, splitting you open wider. “god, you’re so fucking wet, baby—like you like when i fuck you like this. like you want me to ruin you. knock you up again, even though you’re already full.”

he palms your belly—his belly, really—with one big, gentle hand, cupping the firm swell like it’s the most sacred thing in the world. his thumb moves in lazy circles as he rocks into you, slower now, deeper, pressing against every spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back.

“you’re everything,” he says, softer now, reverent in the worst way, like he’s praying to the altar of your body while rearranging your insides. “everything. this body—fuck. your tits are bigger. hips too. got this glow, baby, you know that? like you were made to carry me. to take me. to breed for me.”

you clench around him so hard he stutters, eyes going wide, mouth falling open.

“oh fuck—fuck,” he moans, suddenly undone. “you like that? yeah? you like when i talk about putting a ring on this pussy? you like hearing how ruined i am for you?”

you nod, frantic and breathless, and he kisses you hard—sloppy and hungry—before dragging his lips down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“gonna cum inside,” he growls against your skin. “gonna stuff you full and hold it in with my cock. keep it there. make sure every drop stays in, yeah?”

“suguru—” you cry, already close, voice breaking on his name like it’s the only thing you know anymore.

he fucking shudders.

“say it again,” he gasps. “say my name while i fill you up. say it like you want it.”

“suguru, suguru, i—fuck—i’m gonna—”

“yeah, baby,” he moans, gripping your hips, thrusts rougher now, faster. “cum on it. cum on this dick, show me how good i fucked you, lemme feel this pussy milk me dry—”

you tighten, legs locking around him, and then you're gone—clenching, shaking, falling apart under him while he watches you unravel with this fucking look on his face like you’re a miracle and a sin and the only thing that matters.

he cums right after, hips jerking as he empties into you with a loud, broken sound, like he’s dying and being reborn at the same time.

you nod, dazed. “you’re insane.”

for a long moment, all you hear is your heart racing and his breath—harsh, warm, uneven—ghosting across your skin. then, soft, “you okay?” he whispers, stroking your thigh, still inside you, not even thinking about moving yet.

“mhm,” he grins, kissing your temple. “insane for you. and for that pussy.”

you slap his chest halfheartedly.

he just laughs, still deep in you, still hardening again.

“round two?” he murmurs, voice all wicked sweetness. “or you want me to eat you ‘til you cry first?”

NANAMI KENTO

“i can be patient,” nanami grits out from behind you, voice low and sharp like he’s holding himself together with string and sheer willpower. “i can be—gentle.”

you’re on your side, belly cradled by soft pillows, one leg bent forward over his thigh as he moves behind you, slowly rocking into you like he’s afraid you’ll break if he goes too hard—like he doesn’t already know how filthy you get for him when he’s trying to behave.

and he’s trying. god, he is. his hand’s on your hip, warm and steady. the other one cups under your belly, like he’s shielding you even as he’s pushing deep, deep into you from behind.

“you’re doing so well,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and reverent, brushing kisses to your shoulder. “i don’t want to hurt you. i want to take care of you. i want to make you feel good, not—”

you moan.

just a little. just a soft, breathy “kento—” as your fingers grip the sheets and your hips push back into him.

and that’s it.

the last thread of his control snaps.

he groans—growls, almost—and suddenly he’s pressing forward harder, deeper, his breath catching as he ruts into you like he’s been holding back for weeks.

“fuck,” he grits, forehead pressed to your back. “you’re so goddamn warm. too soft. too tight. i can’t—I’m trying to—shit—”

his grip on your hip tightens, dragging you back against him with every thrust now, and his hand slides from under your belly to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip so he can push in even deeper.

“you feel that?” he groans into your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “feel how deep i am, sweetheart? god—i can’t be gentle when you sound like that. when you feel like this.”

you whimper, back arching, and he moans again—louder this time, raw and low and completely undone.

“you’re perfect,” he pants, hips snapping faster. “everything about you. this body—this sweet, wet little cunt—fuck, it’s made for me. even pregnant, you take me so well. better than anyone ever has.”

you choke on a moan and he presses his palm to your belly again, as if the feel of it grounds him.

“i think about you all day,” he confesses, fucking into you now with slow, brutal depth. “about this. about how you sound. about how you feel when i’m inside you, tight and hot and fluttering like you’re made to be full.”

he kisses your shoulder, your neck, his other hand sliding between your legs to find your clit—slow, careful, precise.

“come for me,” he whispers, mouth right against your ear, filthy and tender all at once. “come around me while i’m deep inside you. show me how good i make you feel.”

and you do—shaking, moaning, gasping his name like it’s the only thing you know, and he follows with a desperate groan, spilling into you so deep you feel the warmth spread through your belly, his body trembling against yours.

after, he doesn’t move. just stays inside you, one hand over your womb, the other tangled with yours in the sheets.

“…i was trying to be gentle,” he says quietly, embarrassed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

you hum, sated. “you tried.”

he sighs. “i’ll try again tomorrow.”

pause.

“after round two.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

“slow,” toji murmurs, his big hands gripping your hips just barely, letting you grind down on him with shaky control, his cock sheathed inside you and twitching like it’s barely surviving this torture. “take your time, baby. i’m good. i’m—fuck—i’m fine.”

he is not fine.

he’s seated on the couch, thighs spread wide, muscles tense as hell under your legs, back arched ever so slightly, jaw tight. you’re four months pregnant, round and glowing and gorgeous, your belly pressing against his abs as you roll your hips slow and sweet—just like he asked for. like he said he wanted.

and he’s dying.

“look at you,” he groans, eyes glued to the way you take him. “ridin’ me so good. so pretty. so fuckin’ wet. you were always tight, but now? now you’re perfect.”

your hands are on his shoulders, clinging. your breath catches every time your body takes him deeper, and he feels it—feels how warm you are, how your walls squeeze around him like you don’t want him to leave. it’s driving him insane.

“you said slow,” you remind him, voice breaking with a whimper as your rhythm falters.

and that’s his breaking point.

because your voice? shaking, breathless, wanting?

it wrecks him.

“fuck that,” toji snarls suddenly, surging forward, arms wrapping around your back and pulling you flush to his chest. “nah. no. fuck slow. i can’t. you sound like that, and expect me to wait? you’re outta your mind.”

he lifts his hips, thrusting up into you so hard your mouth drops open in a silent moan, hands scrambling for his chest as he sets a brutal pace from underneath.

“you wanted gentle?” he growls against your throat, licking and biting at your skin while he pistons into you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. “you’re riding me, baby. i’m not gonna sit here like some saint while this tight fuckin’ pussy squeezes the life outta me.”

you cry out, and he grins, savage and wild and in love with the way your face goes all slack and overwhelmed.

“that’s it,” he pants, one hand gripping your ass, the other sliding between your bodies to rub tight, fast circles over your clit. “gimme that look. gimme those sounds. lemme hear how good i’m fucking my pregnant girl.”

you whine his name, and he loses it.

“say it again,” he groans. “fuckin’ say it, baby. tell me who put this baby in you.”

“you,” you cry, clinging to him, “you did—”

“damn right i did,” he growls, pounding up into you, your belly bouncing slightly between your bodies with each thrust, “and i’ll do it again. and again. keep you pregnant. keep you full. keep you so cockdrunk you forget how to fucking walk.”

your orgasm hits you like a lightning bolt, your whole body spasming in his lap, and he catches you with a moan of pure worship, holding you tight as you milk every drop of his release from him.

“shit, baby,” he pants, hips twitching. “you were made for this. made to take me. made to carry me.”

he collapses back against the couch, pulling you with him, still inside you, cradling your body in his massive arms.

a beat of silence.

“that was you being gentle?” you ask, breathless.

he shrugs, smug. “i didn’t bend you over. that counts.”

you groan.

he kisses your shoulder and mutters, “round two, though? i’m not holdin’ back.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“slow,” he grits out, jaw clenched, breath shaking as he presses his hips flush to your ass, thick cock buried deep and throbbing inside your soaking heat. “we’re going slow, sweetheart. we’re taking our time. i’m not gonna break you.”

he says that, but his hands are already digging into your thighs, thumbs pressed to the crease between your cheeks and your legs like he’s trying to brand you with his grip. you’re four months pregnant, hips rounder, belly starting to show—and you’re on all fours, arms trembling, moaning into the pillow with every slow, too-deep roll of his hips.

“you good?” he mutters, pretending to breathe through it like he’s not the one seconds from blacking out. “you okay, baby?”

you nod, gasping, “yes—yes, ‘kuna—feels so good—”

and that breaks him.

“fuckin’—shit,” he growls, slamming into you with a sharp, wet slap, and you cry out, head dropping, body jolting forward from the force. “don’t say my name like that. don’t moan for me like that and expect me to stay sane.”

he grips your hips hard, pulling you back into every brutal thrust now, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“you were made for this,” he snarls, staring down at the way your body takes him, slick and tight and fluttering around him like you like being used. “look at this greedy little cunt. fuckin’ dripping. goddamn soaking me. you like getting fucked with my baby in you, huh?”

you sob out a moan, and his grin turns feral.

“you want me gentle?” he pants, fucking into you so hard your thighs shake. “or you want me to fuck you like i own you?”

you can’t even answer. you’re too wrecked already, too full, too overwhelmed by the pressure and heat and the way he hits that deep spot inside you like he knows exactly what it does.

“that’s what i thought,” he hisses. “fuckin’ moaning like you need it rough. like you need me to snap. you want it, don’t you? want to be fucked so hard you forget where you are. want to feel me dripping outta you all day like a good little cumdump.”

his hand snakes around your waist, palm spreading over your bump, possessive and so wrong and reverent all at once.

“this?” he mutters, low and filthy in your ear as he leans over your back, “this is mine. you’re mine. and this pussy? fuck, this pussy’s the tightest shit i’ve ever had. i could stay buried in you for hours. days.”

your legs buckle as your orgasm builds, loud and fast and impossible to stop. he feels it.

“there it is,” he growls, fucking into you harder, faster, punishing. “you’re close, huh? gonna cream around me like the perfect little thing you are? let me feel it. let me feel you lose it.”

you shatter—screaming, shaking, convulsing around his cock—and sukuna doesn’t slow down. he snarls, slams into you one last time, and groans as he cums deep, spilling inside you with a raw, broken moan like he’s being torn apart.

he stays there—buried, panting, shaking, his chest pressed to your back, both hands cradling your belly now like he’s apologizing with touch.

then:

“…i was trying to behave,” he mutters, voice raspy, and you wheeze out a laugh.

“you said ‘slow’ and then folded in thirty seconds.”

“yeah, well,” he grins, cock still twitching inside you, “you were moaning. that’s cheating.”

he kisses your shoulder, pulls out with a groan, and watches his cum spill from you with the most self-satisfied, absolutely feral look you’ve ever seen.

“round two’s gonna be worse,” he promises.

“worse how?”

“i’m not gonna pretend to be nice next time.”

SHIU KONG

“you feel that, mama?” shiu murmurs low, breath thick with smoke as he exhales slowly, cock buried deep inside you from behind, dragging it out slow just to watch your legs shake. “feel how this pussy keeps suckin’ me back in? like she misses me every time i pull out.”

your cheek’s pressed to the desk, fingers curled around the edge, thighs trembling. you try to say something—but he thrusts back in, sharp and deep, and your words turn into a soft, broken moan.

“fuck, yeah,” he grins, watching the way your back arches. “that’s my good girl. takin’ it like a champ even with my baby in your belly. still greedy. still so tight. you got no shame, huh? gettin’ fucked over my desk like this?”

you whimper, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter, his tone dropping deeper.

“god, look at you. four months pregnant and still so fuckin’ sexy. makin’ me obsessed. makin’ me stupid. you know what it does to me when you walk around like this, belly all round, tits all full, smellin’ like sweat and sweetness and mine?”

he grinds his hips forward again, harder now, making your body jolt. you moan his name, voice wrecked, and he smirks around his cigarette.

“there we go,” he breathes. “that’s it, mama. keep callin’ me like that. makes me wanna knock you up all over again, see how many times i can stretch this body before you break.”

he pulls out halfway and slams back in, deep and deliberate, the desk creaking beneath you. you gasp, and his hand slides down your spine, warm and heavy, keeping you flat against the desk.

“y’know,” he says, smoke curling from his mouth as he fucks you in slow, ruthless strokes, “i tell myself every time i’ll go easy on you. that i’ll be nice, treat my baby mama with respect.”

he laughs, low and wrecked.

“and then you bend over like this, ass up, pussy drippin’ down your thighs, beggin’ for it—an’ suddenly i’m back to being a filthy fuck who can’t stop.”

you cry out as his hips slam into you again, and he moans—loud and shameless.

“you feel that, mama?” he pants. “that’s my cock hitting the back of your fuckin’ throat from the wrong direction. you’re so full right now—goddamn, i can feel you pulse.”

his hand slips down, two fingers circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle.

“c’mon, baby,” he urges, voice hoarse and wrecked, “give it to me. let this cock ruin you. let daddy hear how good he’s fuckin’ his perfect little mama.”

you cum with a cry, clenching around him so hard he curses, nearly drops the cigarette, and loses rhythm entirely as he groans, slamming into you once, twice, again—before burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a rough, filthy moan of your name.

he stays there, panting, one hand on your belly, the other sliding up your back to your neck, grounding you both.

then—

“...we’re doin’ this again after you nap,” he mutters, pulling his cigarette back between his lips, grinning like a devil. “mama needs to be real full tonight.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

“that’s it, mama,” higuruma groans, voice low and rough as he presses deep into you, eyes locked on the curve of your stomach where your bodies meet, “just like that. let me in. let me make you feel good.”

your thighs tremble where they rest on his shoulders, and he tightens his grip around your ankles, palms warm and broad, grounding you as he starts to move—slow at first, like he’s savoring every inch of you, every slick drag of your walls squeezing him in.

“fuck,” he breathes, watching your face contort as you gasp, “you’re so tight. how are you still this tight, mama? this pussy was made to milk me.”

you whimper, one hand cradling your belly, the other tangled in the sheets as he rocks into you with long, deep strokes. your bump rises slightly with every thrust, your body pliant and flushed and already soaked from the way he touched you before this even started.

and he adores it.

he adores you.

“look at you,” he mutters, pace growing faster without meaning to, “legs up, belly out, takin’ my cock like a good mama. my perfect mama.”

you moan his name—ragged and helpless—and his eyes darken, hips snapping harder.

“that’s it,” he growls, leaning in until your knees are almost beside your head, his cock reaching so deep now. “say it again. let me hear how good i fuck my mama.”

“hiromi,” you gasp, back arching, “feels so good—too deep—”

he groans—loud, wrecked—and fucks into you harder.

“you can take it,” he hisses, lips grazing your ear, “you’re so strong, baby. carrying our child, takin’ this dick like it’s yours—‘cause it is. this cock belongs to you. every part of me does.”

your eyes roll back as he slams into that perfect spot inside you, over and over, his pace no longer controlled—he’s feral, now, panting and moaning, eyes flicking down to where you’re stretched open around him, cum-slick and pulsing.

“gonna fill you up again,” he whispers, reverent and wild all at once. “stuff you full, even though you’re already carrying mine. fuck, mama—this pussy needs it. she’s beggin’ for it.”

you’re trembling, legs shaking against his shoulders, and he grabs under your knees, folding you further, giving you nowhere to go—just take it, every inch, every praise-dripping thrust.

“cum for me,” he commands, rough and soft all at once. “cum with me inside. let me feel you. let me feel how good this pussy knows her man.”

you cry out as your orgasm hits, tightening around him like a vice, and his whole body shudders.

he groans your name, hips jerking, and spills inside you with a low, desperate moan.

“fuck, mama—fuck. you’re everything.”

he stays buried for a long moment, breathing hard, watching your body twitch beneath him—flushed, used, loved—and then lowers your legs gently, kissing your knees, your belly, your lips.

“did so well,” he whispers. “my mama’s so good for me.”

you hum sleepily, still dazed. “you went crazy.”

he smiles, brushing your hair back from your face.

“i am crazy,” he says, kissing your forehead, “for you.”

[kekewrites]

Tw. Insecure/bratty/tsundere reader, dark content, noncon, dubcon, obsession, sloppy blowjob, attempted breakup, manipulation, size kink, overstimulation, multiple creampies, cunnilingus, baby trapping, coercion, aftercare

***

Thinking about dating an angelic guy.

You always wonder why, out of all the pretty and influential girls chasing after him, he chose you. It doesn't help how of a unit he is. Your typical perfect guy, popular, rich, and body that's comparable to a Greek God... and his voice— how you love his gentle and warm voice, there's just something about it that hypnotize you.

He always compliments you, shower you with affection, and be an absolute sweetheart. It gets you pissy. You don't know why you're always in a foul mood around him, he's not even doing anything that could trigger you. He takes a breath and you're already fuming. Grumbling profanities that he would laugh at wholeheartedly, like you didn't curse his entire being.

You hate how perfect he is. Hate how much you adore him. Hate how much you love him, and inside your mind you always question if he genuinely loves you. Maybe he's just playing with you? Waiting for the day he'd humiliate you, telling how you're too idiotic to even believe someone like him could ever love you.

That's probably why you're always cautious around him, you don't believe him enough to love an average girl like you.

***

He can't believe he's dating the cutest in the world. Everytime you scowl, show that adorable pout, he just wants to squish your cheeks together and kiss you plenty. Like a little kitty hissing when you sneer curses at him.

It's adorable really.

You'd say you didn't want to go to the movies he chose. Yet, you arrived earlier than expected, wearing a hint of makeup in that cute dress of yours. Makes him want to crush you. You put in the effort, took the time, even gave him the watch he'd been talking about—his favorite.

He really loves you. Really really loves you but why are you acting like he doesn't? He's confused. Hasn't he done enough to show you, tell how much he adores you? It makes him sad. Don't you know how much he's holding back? There's only so much he could take, you know. He could just take you everytime you run that cute foul mouth of you, shove his cock to make you shut up. But he's so patient with you because he loves you.

So don't push him too much, ok? Or else you might not like it when he finally show you his desire.

***

"You're late," you grumble, sending him a glare. Your arms are crossed, and your foot taps impatiently on the ground.

He chuckles, a soft, knowing smile playing on his lips. "I arrived just on time, sweetie," he says, stepping closer. "You're just too excited for our date, no?" His voice is teasing, but his eyes are warm, sparkling with affection.

You huff in response, but you can feel the corners of your mouth betraying you, tugging into a smile. He notices and takes your hand, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

"You're just so cute, you know? I really wanna crush— ow!" He hiss slightly as you swat his arm. He pouts a little, "You're strong, you're gonna leave a bruise."

You roll your eyes— as if that's gonna happen. Huffing you tug on his hand, "Let's go. I'm starving."

He smiles, looking at your back, "Ok, sweetie~."

Ah, you really are so cute.

He can't wait to fuck you.

***

"Why're you not eating, sweetie? Is the food not to your liking?"

Your appetite was gone the moment that waitress flirted with him, leaving you empty and bitter. This always happen. You're sick of it, sick of being jealous and feeling shitty for not looking like his girlfriend. Are you really worthless by his side? Do people not see you as his companion?

"Sweetie?"

You didn't want to lash out on him so you remained silent. Too bitter to talk. Even the food turned bitter, leaving you more upset.

He's such an idiot. But you're more of an idiot for being triggered by that stupid waitress, too much of a wuss to tell her he's taken, that he's yours. You're the idiot.

"I don't wanna eat anymore," you bitterly muttered, your face covered by the shadows of your hair, hiding that frown you wore he always seems to love on you.

He gets a sick twisted feeling in his guts, watching how jealous you get whenever some worthless wench tries to get his attention. It satisfies his urge, his sick thoughts hidden by his angelic face. You really love him, don't you? His lips curving into a sweet smile, eyes twinkling with desires. If only you know how much he gets off with you being jealous, you'd never doubted your pretty little self.

So… why are you saying such stupid things?

“Let’s break up.”

“Hm?”

“I said…” You take a breath, steadying your voice. “Let’s break up.”

For a moment, his smile wavers. Just a fraction. His right eye twitches ever so slightly, a crack in the carefully crafted mask he wears. But then, like a master of illusions, he recovers, his sweet facade sliding back into place, though something darker lingers beneath the surface.

“Now, now,” he says, his voice dripping with a saccharine softness that makes the hairs on your neck stand on end. “What’s the matter?” His tone is gentle, almost soothing, but there’s a sharp edge to it—a venomous undercurrent that cuts through the air.

You don’t answer immediately, your chest tightening under his unblinking stare. It’s as if he’s waiting, watching every little twitch of your expression, trying to peel you apart without lifting a finger.

“I just think…” you start, your voice faltering as his head tilts slightly, his smile remaining unnervingly intact. “I-I think we’re not… good for each other anymore.”

His smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, his gaze sharpens, a predator sizing up its prey. He takes a step closer, the air between you growing heavy. “Not good for each other?” he repeats, feigning confusion. “Sweetheart, where’s this nonsense coming from? Didn’t we promise forever?”

The sweetness in his tone sends a chill down your spine, but you hold your ground. “Forever shouldn’t feel like this,” you say, trying to steady your trembling hands.

It shouldn't make you feel bad about yourself, shouldn't make you anxious, shouldn't make feel... pressured.

For a moment, he says nothing, his eyes boring into yours. Then, his chuckle breaks the tension, soft and low. “Ah, I see,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for you to feel the weight of his presence. “You’re upset. That’s all. We’ll talk this through, won’t we?”

But his words aren’t a question—they’re a command, wrapped in the guise of concern. And as his smile lingers, you realize leaving might not be as simple as you hoped.

***

Why is this happening?

You thought he would accept and move on.

"Mmm, that's it sweetie. Take it deeper." He coaxes, his grip on your hair tightening. He starts to push forward, forcing more of his thick length past your stretched lips.

So why?

Your eyes squeeze shut tighter as he pushes in deeper, your throat convulsing around his invading cock. He throws his head back with a guttural moan.

"That's a good girl. Mhm, your throat feels so good wrapped around my dick." He grunts, starting to set a steady pace. Fucking into your mouth, using your face like a cock sleeve.

It was gross. He never did that to you.

Lewd, wet sounds fill the office as he picks up speed, his heavy balls slapping against your chin with each rough thrust. Drool escapes the seal of your lips, dripping down your chin and onto your messed up clothes.

He looks down, taking in the debauched sight of you on your knees, choking on his cock. His dick is spit-shined and glistening, streaked with their drool. Shit. The sight makes him thrust harder, faster, chasing his pleasure.

"Look at me," He demands breathlessly, wanting to see the tears and desperation in their eyes as he uses their mouth ruthlessly. He's close, so fucking close already from the intense, vice-like grip of your inexperienced throat. He grunts and curses, slamming forward one last time before pulling out abruptly.

Thick ropes of cum paint your face and hair, marking you as his. Some of it even lands in your eyes, making them sting and water.

"You're so pretty... You look so pretty covered in my cum," he whispers lovingly, smearing the head of his cock across your messy face, pushing the hot seed into their skin like makeup. "The prettiest girl in the world."

You were supposed to break up with him...

How did it escalated to this?

***

It's not like he's losing a lot... you aren't that special. So why is he acting this way? There are a lot of better options for him, prettier, smarter, and richer girls. Someone who can actually match him, who doesn't embarrass him, worthier to stand beside him.

Why is he fucking you like his life depends on it?

Your eyes already hazy and unfocused, breathing hard as you couldn't count how many times you've already come.

One of his hands snakes up your trembling body, finding a soft breast. He squeezes the supple mound roughly, fingers sinking into the pliant flesh as he kneads and gropes. He finds a pert nipple and pinches it cruelly between his thumb and forefinger, rolling and tugging until it stands stiff and aching in the cool air of the room.

"Hm? Are you already tired? We're just starting," he coo, his hips slamming forward with renewed vigor. He leans down, his mouth finding your neck, sharp teeth sinking into the tender skin. He bites and sucks, determined to leave his mark on you, to claim you as his own. His. He can feel his orgasm building, his heavy balls tightening as he ruts into your abused cunt. The wet, obscene sounds of your coupling fill the room, punctuated by the creaking of the bed and your cries. He's close, so fucking close to filling your cunt with his seed.

"Gonna... hngh... fill this pussy..." He grunts between clenched teeth, slamming home one last time. His cock throbs and pulses as he starts to come, thick ropes of hot cum painting your inner walls. He grinds against them, making sure they take every last drop as he marks your womb with his essence.

Finally, with a last shuddering groan, he collapses on top of you, his softening cock still buried deep inside your tender, cream-filled pussy. He pants harshly against the shell of their ear, his hands still groping and fondling your sensitive body.

"Y-You're an idiot..." You sniffle, "Why me? There's a lot of—."

He cuts you off, "You know, I would never cheat on you, right?" He whispers tenderly, kissing your ears as if assuring. "No matter who comes to me, I would never pay attention to them. Never. You're the only one I want." His other hand comes up to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his intense, burning gaze.

It was the first time you ever heard his voice to be so... vulnerable.

"The only girl I want... So..." You can hear his voice shake, "Don't break up with me, ok?"

Your eyes glaze with tears, your heart tugging at his words. No, it wasn't supposed to end up like this. You made up your mind a few weeks ago, always nagging at the back of your mind. Ending your relationship would be the best for you two—.

He kisses you then, any doubts in your mind disappearing as his mouth claiming theirs in a brutal, dominating kiss. His tongue pushes past your lips, plundering the warm cavern as he grinds his hips forward, rubbing his throbbing erection against your thigh.

Ah, you don't care anymore.

"Don't think anymore, ok? Just let me do it for you."

He starts to rub the broad head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your combined juices. "Tell you what, sweetheart. I'll be gentle like the usual... for now." He promises darkly, his voice rough with restrained lust. "I'll make this first part nice and slow, nice and easy for you."

"H-Huh?"

With that, he starts to push forward, the thick length of his cock slowly sinking into your tight, clutching heat. He has to fight the urge to slam forward, to bury himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. But he resists, forcing himself to go slowly, to savor the exquisite feeling of your walls stretching around him.

"Ah, you're still so tight." He grits out through clenched teeth, his fingers flexing against your hips as he fights for control. "Such a perfect cunt."

"Too soon! I'm still... s-sensitive!" You cried out but he starts to move then, his hips rocking in a slow, sensual rhythm as he fucks into you with deep, deliberate strokes. Each thrust pushes him a little deeper, a little harder, until he's finally buried to the hilt inside you. He pauses for a moment, letting you feel the heavy weight of him, the way he's stretching you impossibly full.

"Hehe, sorry can't help it. Does that feel gentle enough for you, sweetie?" He asks, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, yet his angelic face covers it. "Or do you need me to be even more... careful?" He punctuates the word with a sharp thrust of his hips, grinding his pelvis against your clit.

Your brain short circuit by the overstimulation, all you could think about was him, and his big cock, "A-Ah, you— ish... so good~!"

He snarls in feral pleasure as he feels your pussy clench and ripple around his pistoning cock. The way you are moaning and crying out, begging him not to stop... it's the headiest fucking thing he's ever heard. It makes him want to ruin you, to fuck you so hard and so deep that you'll never forget the feeling of his cock splitting you open.

You came in surprise, your eyes rolling in the back of your head, chest heaving, "C-Can't too much..!"

"You can do it," He growls, his voice a dark, distorted rumble. He can feel his own release building, his balls drawing up tight as he fucks into you with wild abandon, "A-ah~ clench this greedy cunt around my dick, dollface. Milk it for all it's worth.

You never saw this side of him before, a more vulgar side to him. Spouting dirty words that's the opposite of his facade. Maybe, you didn't know your boyfriend that well? He was always gentleman to you in bed, always going with your pace and being mindful about his words but now...

"N-No~ I really ah! Can't!" You shake your head frantically, having enough of the sensitivity.

"Yes, you can! You will, sweetie~!"

He buries his face in the crook of her neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin as he chases his pleasure. He wants to mark you, to leave his claim all over your body for everyone to see. He wants the whole world to know that you belong to him, that you're his to fuck and fill and love as he sees fit. The thought of another man putting his hand on you makes him mad, you're only his and he isn't afraid to take that way for you to be officially his.

"I'm gonna cum, sweetie." He grits out, his hips slamming forward with sharp, brutal thrusts. "I'm gonna pump this tight little pussy full of my seed, gonna breed this fucking cunt until it's dripping with my cum."

Breed?

He reaches down, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing mercilessly at the sensitive bundle of nerves. "I want to feel you cum on my cock, sweetheart. I want to feel you shake and quake as I fill you with my my child."

Wait...!

His other hand slides up, wrapping around your throat and squeezing lightly. It's enough to make you gasp for air, pulse jumping wildly beneath his touch. It's enough to make you even tighter, body instinctively clenching down around him as he fucks into you with short, vicious thrusts.

Too much!

"Now, sweetie~ cum. Now." He commands, his voice a dark and sinful. And with a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself balls deep inside her and starts to cum. His cock jerks and pulses as he paints your insides with thick ropes of his hot seed, filling you up just like he promised.

So full...

You gasp out, your skin flushed and damp with sweat. The room spins around you, his weight pressing you down into the mattress as you struggle to catch your breath. Body aches all over, especially between your legs. The feeling of his cum painting your insides is strange, unsettling.

Your vision having black spots, your consciousness fading as you hear him murmur promises to you.

"I'll take responsibility whether we have a child or not, we'll get married and have a cute child."

You feel a warm kiss on your forehead.

"I love you. I love you more than anyone else, I only love you."

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

lads boys during angry sex

disclaimer : MDNI | minors dont interact | explicit | mature | might be triggering for some - read at your own risk.

rafayel

the only time rafayel is not sassy, not dramatic as fuck. instead, his eyes are blazing, as if ignited by his evol, teeth marking your neck, hands gripping your thighs so tight that you know its gonna bruise.

you return his fiery gaze with your own defiant one, meeting his every thrust with your own, nails marking his smooth skin, legs locked around his waist, not giving in, not letting him win.

why was he angry? because you missed his calls and text messages and he was damn worried out of his wits that a wanderer has eaten you - yes, eaten, for dramatic reasons. and when you arrived at his mansion, no words, just marched towards you and grabbed you in a frenzy, intense kiss - not his usual gentle and soft ones.

your defense? your phone was set in 'do not disturb' mode, by accident. he could have let you explain, but given that rafayel hated waiting, you knew you just have to let his fire pass.

after all, angry sex with rafayel is one of your favorites because for once, the sassy painter's mouth is shut and silent. plus he doesnt treat you like a fragile, immaculate thing. its one of those when he fucks you stupid, legs trembling orgasm, knowing that you'd wake up with hoarse voice because you screamed his name all night long.

xavier

xavier shows his vulnerability when angry. and when he does, he loses his control - every bit of control.

angry sex with him means being overstimulated until your mind is totally blank, until he fucks you into apology and swearing you will not be careless again during missions, especially the ones where he is not there with you.

then what started as intense, would eventually lead to the softest, most intimate sex with him, where he'd let you be on top as he memorized every roll of your hips, every movement of your body, the way your lips part to an 'o' while he is seated deep in you.

usually, he controls the tempo, but when he is vulnerable, he just wants to feel the warmth of your body in the most intimate way possible.

zayne

zayne doesnt usually lose his temper, not unless you were compromised by your own recklessness.

and when zayne is mad, you already know what is next, and you cant help but become more cheeky, more sassy, just wanting to push his buttons until he snaps.

why? because you wanted him to let it out. you wanted him to express his deepest, darkest fears and thoughts - lay it bare for you to see. you'd stand there, matching his intense, angry gaze with your own challenging one - baiting him to just let it out.

and when he does? you take it. every thrust, every hold on your neck, every mark on your skin, every dirty whisper in your ear - you take everything.

and once he lets it out, he'd apologize and you will too. then you'd kiss him softly, not allowing him to pull away, and you just show him how important he is to you.

and in the morning, once you're both calm and level headed, you'd talk about it like adults, despite your aching limbs, reminding you of how he folded and split you the night prior... and he'd sigh, knowing that you're still thinking about it.

and he'd raise an amused eyebrow at you, "maybe if you'll promise to make better decisions, i can turn your thoughts into reality."

and you'd do just that so that you can have his lips on your aching core once more.

sylus

two things that make sylus mad : jealousy and refusing his pampering - hence not burning his unlimited wealth.

he'd take that as an insult, offensive.

especially when you use your own money to buy stuff - he'd give you a piece of his mind, while thrusting deep in you to make a point.

he'd keep his composure, his poise, but the way he tortures you - you know he is subduing you, punishing you, not because he is robbing you of freedom - no, not that, since he only has a couple of rules : make good combat decisions for your own safety, loyalty and let him love and spoil you. he doesnt keep you away from your friends - he'll even fund those getaways and girls night out.

so as you stood before him, trying to keep your pride and point, he stares at you with that all-knowing gaze, confident, cocky and devouring, ready to put you in place.

even if you try to dominate him, he'd let you just for fun, but he'd grab the reigns back and put you in place, hitting every spot that makes your toes curl, eyes rolling to the back of your skull, hands holding on to his arms or shoulder for your very dear life.

and he doesn't let you hold back. he'd torture you, inch by inch in the most agonizing way possible, that you can feel every movement, every vein, every twitch - then he'd ram his length hard, and repeat the whole process - driving you insane.

he never considered you as trophy - never. but as his girl, he wanted the best for you. afterall, it's the main reason reason he stacked up his wealth. not using it is an insult to his hardwork.

"so you were saying?" he drawls, voice more husky and low than usual,.watching your lust-filled expression, knowing he has already won this argument.

caleb

an angry caleb means being under his control. he would show you who really owns your body, your lust, your release.

his voice is enough to make you obey, make you pliant.

and his eyes? they're dark, intense and commanding - the kind that makes a whole fleet tremble with just a single gaze.

he would lecture you and you would listen, watch his movements, how his fingers would dance teasingly on your skin, making you shiver, making you anticipate.

and when caleb is like this? you can't find any counter-argument. because he is right, and there is no point in fighting a losing battle.

you'd feel his lips trace your skin, then he'd mark your neck, soothe it with a swipe of his tongue. then he'd hold your neck firmly, controlling your airway, making you gasp as he'd kiss you, his tongue dominating yours.

it would make you light-headed, make you chase his lips as he pulls away.

he'd chuckle darkly, as he'd tell you that you were being difficult, as if you were testing his patience on purpose, as if you wanted him to snap.

caleb would take his time with you. he'd savor every bit of skin, but he will not touch the places where you're aching to be touched, not until you learn your lesson.

then once he starts to touch you in those places, he'll edge you, stop seconds you're about to come, and do it again.

and once you apologize sincerely, he will melt into your arms, then make love to you in the most intimate and sweetest way - as if he wasn't torturing you moments ago.

[luvyeni]

you’re crazy , baby i know ๑. ( 엔하이픈 )

[ req? yes / no ]

𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗘 ─── yandere! enhypen a reactions to you call them crazy and lashing out on them …

( 対 ) ot7!enhypen + fem. reader wc. 0.6k genre angst , yandere · contains! dark themes , suggestive themes in heeseung mature content. / back to library

𝕼 ㅤ𓈒ㅤ𓈒 yeni’s note .ᐟ little bit of yandere for the people …

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 정원 : jungwon ﹚ .ᐟ

you think he’s crazy? he’s gonna show you crazy. he gonna go mad and give you a reason for calling him crazy. “you think i’m crazy?” he shouts slamming the glass down on the floor making you shriek. “a narcissist are you serious?” he laughs , but like a crazy one. when you try and runaway , just trying to leave him be, he grabs your hand. “you want crazy ? do you really want too crazy?” he said gripping your wrist. “because trust me i can show you it , but trust me you aren’t strong enough for that.”

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 희승 : heeseung ﹚ .ᐟ

he just smiles , because he knows; heeseung knows what he’s doing is wrong , he just doesn’t care. he loves making you get to that breaking point , smiling in joy as you finally snap; throwing things , breaking things around as you scream about how crazy he is and how much you hate him. “yeah?” he says coolly. “what else baby , tell me everything.” he knows it will drive you even more crazy with the way he’s talking .. and he loves it , it turns him on almost every time.

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 제이 : jay ﹚ .ᐟ

he doesn’t care; in fact he watches you with so much disinterest just letting you go on and on about how you think he’s a narcissist. once you stop talking , he just goes. “are you done?” it throws you through a hoop of emotions on how uninterested he was. “are you even sure what you’re saying? do even know what those words mean?” he makes you feel stupid. “crazy ? you’re the one screaming like a crazy person right now. he will gaslight the fuck out of you , until even you believe you’re the crazy one.

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 제이크 : jake ﹚ .ᐟ

so you hate him and you want him to die? because that’s what he hears , if you loved him you wouldn’t be insulting him like this. “why would you say that?” he’s a crybaby , so he’s full on sobbing when you say this. “i’m not crazy, please don’t say that.” he’s literally begging you to take it back , he’ll drive himself insane with the way he begs for you to take it back. “don’t call me crazy , i’m not crazy , i just love you , i love you so much , why are you saying that.” he’s a messx

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 성훈 : sunghoon ﹚ .ᐟ

much like jay; he doesn’t care what you’re calling him, but how dare you raise your voice at him. throwing and breaking things? oh you’re really asking for it. grabbing your wrist to stop you from slamming the vase down. “say what the fuck you want , i really don’t care.” he wrestles the vase out your hand , tossing it on the couch. “but breaking shit and yelling at me? baby you’re the crazy one here.” he said , gritting through his teeth. “because i’m being nice , i can show you the true definition of crazy if you fucking want me to.”

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 선우 : sunoo ﹚ .ᐟ

this might actually trigger him; like this might actually make him snap and go crazy. he thrives on your opinion of him and if you think he’s crazy he’s going overthink it to the point it actually drives him fucking nuts. “you’re crazy!” you shouted at him? you think he’s crazy , he fucking spirals out of control , to the point he’s throwing shit and crying about how could you say such awful things about him , even though he’s showing you the exact reason why.

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 니키 : ni-ki ﹚ .ᐟ

complete opposite to heeseung , he hates this , because in ni-ki’s eyes … he’s not doing anything wrong , so how dare you speak to him in such a way? but like he’s also kinda of amused , he’s conflicted… he might let you go off , smiling watching you make a fool of yourself but when he gets tired of the insults and the throwing and breaking stuff he just grabs you , pushing you down. “enough , okay? you’re on thin fucking ice already.”

©️LUVYENI

[slasherscream]

the absolute INSANITY of the pushing your s/o away thing with the crazy ass boy gang… it’s like triggering a dog’s prey drive but for serial killers w abandonment issues

CRAZY ASS BOYS GANG + PUSHING THEIR HAND AWAY/REJECTING AFFECTION

❥ who gets pissed the fuck off ❥

Billy Loomis - Is irritated off rip. Billy plays it cool but he needs physical affection from you. He’s casual about it so he flies under the radar, but this is a stage five clinger. He’s always doing something small. Touching your fingers. A hand on your back. Neck. Sitting behind you instead of putting you directly in his lap. It’s little stuff. Hovering. Smack his hand away one of these times and his jaw clenches right away. “What the hell is your problem?” Please snuggle up to him and don’t start world war 3. It’s not worth the joke. 

Kevin Khatchadourian - Quick question, why do this to yourself? Kevin does not need, nor does he particularly enjoy, physical contact. Period. He is gracious enough to give you physical contact because he knows you’re built different (pathetic). For you to then turn around and spit in the face of him being kind enough to meet your needs? …. Quite crazy of you. The look he gives you is pure confusion because he’s honest to God baffled. What do you want to accomplish here? Go ahead and start begging now, because he’s not touching you for a long while. 

Sparrow!Ben Hargreeves - Swings wildly between damn near dodging any physical affection you attempt to give him to hanging off you like a squid on a ship. No in-between. For you to have the audacity to reject him when he’s feeling clingy? How dare you. He doesn’t have to beg anyone for attention! Did you forget who you’re dating? Doesn’t even care if you did it with obvious playfulness. He’s sensitive. He’s tender. He’s a bitch. He goes to get up and leave entirely and you have to grab him and beg him to cuddle so this doesn’t become a week long cold war. Happy ego stroking! 

Stu Macher - What you’re not about to do is ruin his mood. Baby, he’s about to ruin yours. How about that? If you push his hands off you once he enjoys a little playful bitchiness. Playing hard to get. He likes to chase, it’s cool. Twice? Okay…. We’re irritating him. Three times? He’s gonna grab your hand, stop smiling, and stare at you. When he places his hand back where it belongs, on your thigh, don’t act up again. He could make your whole week go to shit. Don’t start wars you won’t win. He’s the king of playing stupid games and winning stupid prizes. 

Nathan Prescott - Has to bluster and get visibly pissed off because he is rejection sensitive to a degree that is astounding, frankly. Let you see him upset after he tried to be affectionate and you said no? Hah! Not fucking likely. Being physically affectionate in the first place doesn’t come easy to him. Quality time is more his speed. Even worse if it wasn’t a sexual advance he was making. He tried to wrap an arm around you and you shrug him off? You’ll be lucky to get a hello out of him for the next week. Good luck soldier.

David Mccall - Outwardly, he pretends to be despondent and sheepish when you bat his hand away. He’s using sadness as a shield. If he’s sad then you might feel bad and give in. He’ll use any tool in his arsenal to get his way. One of his greatest skills is speaking in a soft voice, just shy of how you’d speak to a toddler, and telling you: “I didn’t mean to upset you, sweetheart. I’m sorry.” This is all to hide the fact that you rejecting him in any way, shape, or form makes him so angry he can barely think. You might be able to catch the rage hidden behind the veil. If you’re quick enough. David puts on a convincing show, but his gentle smile is twitching at the edges.

❥ who gets sad and mopey ❥

Jordan Li - Oh you pushed them away? No, that’s cool, it’s totally fine. You can want space. Everyone’s entitled to their own space bubble. Of course. Are you having a bad day? Are you mad at them? Did they do something wrong? Did they piss you off? These are the types of questions Jordan is going to “casually” ask for the next ten minutes while they sit really close to you. They’re not touching you! They always sit with their legs spread so wide. Their arm isn’t around you, it’s on the back of the couch. You’re nitpicking here, babe. They’re staring at you with their big brown eyes. No, they didn’t get any closer while you weren’t looking. 

Josh Washington - Why would you do this to him? Don’t push his hand off you unless you mean it or you’re being obviously playful about it. If you pretend to be mad at him while you do it, no matter how unconvincing of an actor you are, he will believe you. Sensitive king. He also won’t go to touch you again until you initiate the contact. Physical touch is reassuring and comforting to him but even he (category five clinger) gets touch aversion at times. As observant as he is, he knows some people are uncomfortable asserting their boundaries, so they’ll try to soften the blow of saying no by being “playful”. He cannot take the risk! You could mean it but don’t want to hurt his feelings. Josh interprets many playful no’s as real ones. Better safe than sorry.

❥ secret third worse thing ❥

Sebastian Valmont - Doesn’t take it for anything more than what it is. If you’re being playful he recognizes it. If you’re seriously not wanting to be touched at any given moment he understands that as well. However, in the case of being playful, you’ve started a war you can’t win. Because, as much as Sebastian enjoys chasing you…  Sebastian also likes to be chased. Ten minutes from now you’ll go to give Sebastian’s cheek a kiss and he’s going to dodge you. Hard. To such an extent it’s bordering on insult. He’ll be wearing a cat that got the canary grin all the while. 

Jason Dean/JD - Doesn’t take you seriously even if you are dead serious. I’m sorry, you’ve discovered his worst character trait by far. Most boundaries are a joke to him. He always wants to touch you. He loves you! He craves you like a drug. You should feel the same for him, in equal measure and desperation. So why wouldn’t you want him touching you? Holding you close. He’s so gentle with you (usually). His arms should feel like home. No matter how long a day you’ve had. No matter how overwhelmed you might be with sound, sight, touch. In JD’s eyes you’re one soul in two bodies. He always wants you near. He knows you want the same. You’re just a little dramatic sometimes.

[ebonyheartnet]

Jason wished he could give a fuck beyond the hostage they were here for, but honestly? This latest cult’s lack of originality just pissed him off. Times like this, he wished contacts were an option to hide the glow so Dick would stop it with the puppy dog eyes.

“Stupid fucking corrosive reservoir condition,” he muttered.

“All good, Hood?”

“I’m fine, O. Just being a normal amount of crazy.”

“Chatter,” Batman snapped.

Jason groaned and checked his position for the fifth time. On Batman’s signal, they all dropped.

The plan was simple: neutralize the doomsday cultists trying to summon a creature to protect its daughter. They’d done harder, more complicated extractions with half the manpower and a quarter of the time.

Maybe it was the itch in his bones.

Maybe it was the sudden headache.

Maybe it didn’t matter what distracted him, because the outcome was the same. Jason had been pulling the unconscious hostage out of the summoning circle when he felt something hot against his neck.

Of course someone got a lucky shot.

All Jason could do was fling the girl clear as the green rose around him.

____

“Madam, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to step back,” Alfred said calmly, cocking his shot gun.

“Good thing you’re not gonna need that since it won’t work,” the glowing woman said. She crossed her arms and tapped a spectral foot. “Listen, this is entertaining, but it was a fight just to get here. I know you can help me get to my son.”

“And I believe I asked you to identify yourself.”

“Right, Jason didn’t have any pictures of me…”

“Madam, I will not ask—“

“Catherine Todd, at your service, Mr. Alfred.” The ghost glared. “Some fucker decided to botch summoning a, “nurturing spirit that would burn the world for their child,” so here I am.”

Alfred blinked, which was practically a spit take for him, and the shot gun lowered a fraction.

“Ms. Todd, that is quite the remarkable story. I don’t mean to cast any doubt, but…”

“Did I mention that I beat the shit out of Sheila for the right to be here?” Catherine’s smile was all knives. “The bitch might be blood, but that’s my baby she sold out. The spell didn’t leave much room beyond that.”

“Does that sound plausible?” Alfred said into his comm.

“It’s way more than probable,” Oracle responded. “I’ve lost Hood, RR, Wing and B. Black Bat was closest and is attempting recon.”

“Tell Barbara that Jason falling into the circle probably triggered a strong enough pulse to fry their tech. Ecto doesn’t play well with untreated electronics.” Catherine laughed at the carefully blank look Alfred gave. “Dead men tell no tales is a fucking lie. We’ve gotta pass the time somehow.”

“Well that’s… Hmm.” Barbara groaned. “If she knows, she knows. Bringing her down might be worth it.”

It was finally Alfred’s turn to smirk. He opened the door and lead Catherine towards the cave. Bruce wouldn’t like it, but he could be mollified. Video evidence of Sheila’s loss would be a powerful bribe.

[pleasestayawayidonotlikeyou]

I didn't know how much I needed to write this until you requested traveler 🙏🏼🙏🏼

Also yes! Ted's the name I use to write Horror (the one of the bad sanses.)

Featuring:Killer, Dust and Horror

Trigger warning: mentions of sexual content, swears, mentions of crimes and criminal cases.

Masterlist

Congratulations traveler, you are now dating three of the most dangerous serial killers in all the multiverse.

You're definitely not living in Nightmare's castle, nuh uh, it's not like he doesn't like you, it's just that your positive feelings may let Dream find the castle easily.Plus he doesn't want to hear you get banged by his subjects.

Every night it's a problem, Dust and Ted don't really mind sleeping together with you, but Killer? He bothers them until he can get you all to himself.

Which doesn't really work 90% of the time, as Ted is big enough to simply hold both Dust and you at the same time, leaving Killer to hug whatever side of your body is to his reach.

The times it does work though, it's usually when Ted and Dust are stressed out because of something, most of the time missions, they simply make Killer sleep on the couch while they sleep with you, sometimes even make him hear your moans as they senseless fuck you.

If you ever find yourself sick, worry not! Because Ted's hands don't know only how to smash skulls, they also do wonderful soup! Dust's going out to buy you the medicine you need, and Killer? Well he's cuddling you on the couch while watching some random criminal case Dust put on the TV.

Killer has a LOT of cats, like 8 in total, so I really hope you aren't allergic..

Be prepared for them to come home covered in blood and Killer running up to you, screaming how much he missed you as you think about how another of your favorite shirts is going to the washing machine because of him.

They take very precise turns cuddling you, the moment the time ends the other's already in front of you.

Dust usually gets really mad with Killer when he tries to find ANY excuse to have more time, especially when you're sleeping. "I want to get up, but they're just sooooooo comfortable here with me!".

"CABRON ES MI TURNO, DESAPARECE!!"

Ted's the one who ends their stupid discussion as he grabs and cuddles you, leaving both skeletons with their mouths open.

"Will... You two... Shut up.... Now..?"

Talking about Ted, you and him often cook together! You know, like a romantic date! Only you and him...except Dust and Killer are arguing in the background.

You snuggled against Killer's chest as he covered your head with the blanket while hugging your waist and kissing your forehead, seeing your eyes close to rest.

"Sleepy now are we, (____)..? Is your headache getting better..?"

He says, his hands brush your hair as you slowly nod. Suddenly he hears Dust's voice.

"Oh vagabundo, levántate, es mi turno."

"C'mon hood man, can't you see they're comfortable with me?"

"I don't care, it's my turn now, get the fuck up and let me cuddle them."

Killer moves so your head is laying on his lap and looks up at Dust.

"And what if I don't huh? What are you gonna do?"

He rests his arm on the armchair of the couch. Dust looks at him furiously, closing his fists as he watches Killer form a sly smile.

"Listen here you-"

The two start arguing loudly, attracting Ted's attention, who just got out of the shower and saw you press your hands to your ears, trying to muffle the noise. Ted signs and approaches you quietly, he grabs you and walks away to your room, he's gonna make sure you rest far away from any type of noisy fuss.

"...Good night.... Darling.."

[ghostgirl-22]

Art getting GANGBANGED💜

This made me giggle when you sent it anon, I won’t lie <3 Then I thought oh god now I have to write it. So here you are. I am so sorry for this. I don’t know what this is (it’s quite nonsensical). Honestly, feel like I flew too close to the sun. I need to retire from writing smut and start writing an older Art living peacefully by the sea. (Decide if that makes you want to read it or run away) But I digress…

CW: 18+ !NSFW! EXPLICIT bimbofication, feminization, objectification, D/s vibes if you squint, there can be the perception of CNC but I promise you everyone really wants this, especially blondie, but please avoid if things like gangbangs trigger you. Can feel a bit AU…let’s be generous and say canon drift…

Your reference is this post about a negligée (an impossible word to spell btw so watch me fuck it up repeatedly along with all my other spelling and grammar mistakes).

—-

It’s a game of truth or dare. That’s how the whole thing happens.

Regular and completely normal Friday night. Patrick’s visiting Stanford. The girls team is at an away game, traveling back tomorrow and the boys just finished a tournament playing the same team here and Art sends him a text.

Hanging out with friends probably gonna play video games, you should come and bring drinks.

And then 10 minutes later: I think my roommate wants to fuck me lol

Patrick has to laugh because this is actually the kind of stupid thing that could only happen to Art.

Art is already dizzy and flirty when Patrick arrives at his dorm with the alcohol. His cheeks are already coloring, his eyes are dilated. And it’s no wonder because he’s already getting way too much attention. There are three other boys in the bedroom with him, his roommate Carter who Patrick could tell, so very obviously wanted to fuck Art since he first met him. But it’s worse now ever since he woke up once in the middle of night and heard Patrick doing it.

And then two others Patrick doesn’t know but Art calls them Jamie and Max, “friends” from the Stanford tennis team. Patrick clocks them right away as having the same desire to fuck Art that Carter has.

That kind of male attention makes Art go silly. At this point Art doesn’t even need a drink. He’s half lost, giggling at things that aren’t even funny just because some cute boy is touching his knee, pinching his cheek, calling him pretty. Patrick’s hard immediately.

It’s truth or dare, Carter’s idea, and Patrick’s probably drinking too much. The game gets nasty pretty quickly. Art can’t sit still, he’s on his hands and knees when Max says “I dare you to kiss me.” Can’t stop himself when Jamie dares him to do it again, but with tongue. He’s in his t-shirt and boxers, ass sticking out as he crawls over Patrick’s lap to kiss Jamie. Carter’s adjusting himself, mouth open, staring at it. Patrick thinks once or twice about letting them pass him around. Shit like this is usually foreplay for him but right now he’s feeling so buzzed he might just want to see how deep this rabbit hole goes.

He’s horny as fuck, but his brain doesn’t actually break until Art’s roommate says, “Truth or Dare, roomie, is it true you stole your ex-girlfriend's lingerie?"

“I didn’t steal it,” Art hiccups, he’s distracted because Max runs his fingers through Art’s hair on his way back to the circle, with a new drink which he hands to Art. He cups Arts cheek, fingertips brush against his lips. Art’s whining “stop it,” but Patrick sees the way he follows the touch. Art doesn’t even notice it when Patrick takes the drink out of his hand, because he’s dangerously close to spilling it everywhere. He’s not even drunk, barely even tipsy and still just so empty headed.

Carter goes to Art’s Stanford issued dresser and pulls out this thing from the first drawer. Barely a thing. A pink little slip of a thing. “What’s this?”

“She let me have it,” Art says, voice pitched too high. He’s sitting on his knees, hands pressed between his thighs.

”Why?” Carter asks, like he knows something they don’t know. Patrick thinks he likes him the least.

“You said you wouldn’t tell anyone,” Art says, it’s too whiny and playful.

Patrick’s mildly annoyed now, “Share with the class,” he says. He doesn’t really want Art keeping secrets with roommates that aren’t him.

Art goes all compliant and he’s squirming on the floor as he looks at Patrick, “She said it looked better on me.”

Both Max and Jamie start snickering.

Patrick thinks of himself as a genius. He generally thinks he’s the smartest person in the room most of the time, but this has to be one of the smartest things he’s ever said or done ever. In ever. “Okay…I dare you to try it on.”

“You want me too?” Art asks, glassy eyed, as he gazes at Patrick.

Patrick grabs at his t-shirt and he doesn’t even have to pull. Art just gravitates towards him, closing his eyes, parting his lips instinctively and Patrick thinks he’s in love with him. Like one day he’ll probably marry him, move him into a house with a white picket fence and fuck him so full of come that… etcetera etcetera. The American dream.

“Yeah, put it on sweetie.” Patrick says gently. “Call me when you’re done… I want to see it first.”

Art licks his lips and opens his eyes again before he stumbles to his feet. He tries to take it from Carter but Carter hides it behind his back which means Art’s got to reach around him, touch him, play with him. When Art manages to get it away he’s already blushing. He goes in the bathroom, telling them no one better laugh. And Patrick needs a cigarette. Needs to run a marathon or climb a mountain for all the pent up energy inside him right now.

“You his boyfriend or something?” Max asks, curiously.

“Or something,” Patrick says. Truth is Art only started putting out after he found out Tashi was. And as long as Patrick has wanted to fuck Art he’s never really stopped to think about why Art chose now. Patrick isn’t picky. He’s not picky at all. He’ll fuck Art, he’ll fuck Tashi, he’d fuck them both at the same time if they wanted it.

“Can you share?” Carter asks.

Patrick shrugs, “I think I have been.”

“No I mean really share,” Carter says and he stares at the bathroom door.

Patrick smirks. “I think I need another drink.”

He can hear Art calling for him and when he taps the door to let himself in he’s pretty sure that’s the moment— the exact moment— his brain fully and completely short circuits. From that point forward he’s actually an entirely different person.

“It’s just too…” Art whines, unable to think. He’s sitting on the toilet lid bouncing his leg. The blush goes everywhere. Down his chest to the pink lacy teddy. It fits like a glove. It’s hugging his waist, see through sheer fabric over his chest embroidered with with some kind of threading that would barely hide his tits if he had any. Patrick can clearly see his nipples, taut and erect through the sheer fabric. It’s not the only part of him that’s erect. The equally sheer lace panties underneath the negligée are straining to keep him contained and he’s fucking soaking the lace with precum, so wet, Patrick thinks, leaking through his panties like a fucking girl.

Patrick thinks he’s gonna fuck him right there. Pull him on his lap and go fucking crazy.

“Patrick I—I wanna— I need—“ he stammers, helpless. He’s gone full, if I only had a brain.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Patrick says, swallowing thickly. “I know what you need. Come here.”

Art’s still bouncing his leg, he’s got pretty legs, soft and smooth and toned and so long. Still in his nearly knee high white socks. Fucking slut. Patrick guides him to his feet, and immediately Art’s wrapping his arms around Patrick. Patrick can feel the way he’s starting to rub himself along Patrick’s thigh. The wet hot heat of him. Patrick shoves Art up against the wall to stop him and he takes a deep breath, coming to the distant realization that he’s actually shivering. “Can you hear me?” Patrick asks, probably trying to calm himself down more than anything else.

Art nods.

“You hear my voice?”

“Mmhm. Patrick—- Patrick please I need—“

“I know. You need to be fucked, don’t you baby?” Patrick’s not sure what he’s saying but Art just moans. “Fuck. You don’t even care who fucking does it. You’d let anybody in right now.” Patrick continues.

Art is nodding his head. ”Mm, yes Patrick please, please, please—” he groans, begging, pleading. For one terrifying minute Patrick thinks he’s gonna get on his knees in that slutty little slip and break Patrick forever. His eyes are all glassy and wet and he’s trying to get friction, attention, something, his blonde curls falling into his eyes.

“Oh fuck it, come on,” Patrick says and he opens the door. Art walks timidly into the bedroom. Patrick stays a second longer to look for the lube under the counter and finds a box of unopened condoms too. The second he stayed was too long. Carter’s already got Art pressed up against the wall, tongue in his mouth, Jamie’s got his hands inside the fabric of the negligée, rubbing his nipples like he’s got a full set of tits or something. Max is watching, touching himself, idly over his boxers.

The whole time Art’s moaning helplessly moving his hips. Needy like he’s in heat. Patrick makes them wear a condom if they want him. And holy fuck do they want him.

Patrick starts it first on the bed, pulls Art on his lap just to get him wet, get him loose. He’s careful about it. Art’s so horny he’s trying to lose it quickly so Patrick has to grab onto him, slow him down. Even him out.

“Fuck,” Art’s whining, mindlessly. “Fuck, Patrick it’s so big. It’s so big. It’s so fucking… much.”

Patrick’s rubbing his tummy through the fabric, he’s flexed so tight, barely breathing. Patrick moves up to brush his nipples and he moans.

“Hey gorgeous, you wanna try this?” Max whispers, pressing his cock to Art’s lips. “I dare you.”

Art doesn’t need the dare. He takes it in his mouth eagerly. Patrick can feel him squeezing, clenching, grinding as he sucks on it… can feel the overwhelming heat of his tight little body. Patrick grips him tighter to steady him. “Take your time,” Patrick whispers.

He’s taking so much in his mouth. Max starts groaning, “Oh fuck. Yeah, take your time gorgeous, holy shit.”

Patrick kisses on his throat where he’s swallowing and tries to coax him off. If he stays inside much longer he’s going to lose his mind and that’s the last thing he needs right now. They need at least one working brain between them.

Art’s breathing heavy when he opens his mouth, drool spilling everywhere. Patrick pushes him to get up and Carter grabs him next. He pushes him on the bed on his hands and knees and goes to town, so eager he barely lasts. As Carter’s fucking him Art is licking Jamie’s cock, and then swallowing on Max’s, occassionally both at the same time. Patrick is sitting on the other twin bed, trying his best not to lose it untouched for how fucking hot this is. Art is so far gone Patrick wonders if he even realizes how much of a fucking mess he is.

He’s got it all over him, hands, tongues, cock. They’re all kissing, touching, putting fingers in his hair, in his mouth, in his ass. Jamie and Carter both fighting to get a turn. Jamie fucking him till he’s coming, hot sticky ropes of it dripping, dripping slowly from his soaked panties onto the bed. He’s overstimulated taking Max, but he doesn’t stop. He’s pushing back on it, moaning in a way that sounds like he’s vacillating between pleasure and pain.

Carter starts kissing him and eventually Arts just moaning into his mouth.

“You’re so goddamn pretty,” Jamie’s cooing, jerking himself. “Gonna make me wanna nut again, fuck.”

Art’s making pleasure sounds only now. His cock filling up again just a few minutes before Max is finishing inside him.

“Shit, that felt so fucking good,” Max breathes. Art looks around dizzy as Max pulls out and starts tying the condom off. And then Carter’s on him, kissing him again, so he sits up and crawls into Carter’s arms so he can be held. But Patrick grabs him by the waist.

“My turn, come here, princess,” Patrick says, teasingly, pulling him back onto the second bed. His bed.

“Patrick—I think I— I need to—“ Art’s climbing onto him all doe eyed and wet, wet lips, wet eyes, wet with sweat and come and lube. The lingerie falling off one shoulder and his pretty pink nipple just exposed. Patrick nibbles at it gently.

“Patrick,” Art whines.

“You wanna come?” Patrick asks softly. His voice doesn’t sound like his own. He pulls Art onto his lap and eases himself inside and Art’s moving right away. He feels looser than Patrick’s ever felt him before but he’s still so nice and warm, and too fucking tight for him. He’s not ever to be trusted alone with boys, Patrick decides. Not boys like this at least. He just barely gets Art over the finish line when he’s losing it. It’s not even 5 minutes and he’s losing it. Does it raw just to spill it all inside him. If Patrick had something to prove he might be embarrassed but he is the one holding onto Art in the end, soothing him. Calming him down as he comes back to reality and in that reality Art is his…even if Patrick is more than willing to share when Art needs it.

When the other boys have left and Carter’s in the shower and they’re finally alone together Art is mostly back to himself. They’re eating leftover pizza and watching Sports Center. Art is devouring his, probably starving after using all of that energy. Patrick tangles his fingers into Art's hair, it’s still a little damp from the shower.

“Truth or dare,” Patrick says

“Truth,” Art says, his mouth half full.

Patrick sighs. “I don’t know what that was but you’re fucking beautiful.”

Art turns to look at Patrick with a little smirk, still chewing. “I know.”

“And you can’t ever do that when I’m not there.”

“I know,” Art says again.

“So I’m keeping the lingerie.”

Art shrugs, “I know.”

“Okay know it all,” Patrick gazes back at him and then takes the rest of the pizza crust out of his hand, smiling as he takes a bite. “Good.”

[di-writes-stuff]

loml

Greg House x Reader

A/N: So, I haven’t written anything in months. Whoopsies! (I have no excuse, I just didn’t want to.)

TW: It’s House. There’s your trigger warning. (Drugs.)

“Who’s gonna stop us from waltzing back into rekindled flames, if we know the steps anyway?”

This is a mistake.

That’s the only thought that runs through your head as you sit in the sterile examination room, the chair under you hard and entirely uncomfortable. It’s fitting, nothing about this will be pleasant, you knew it going in.

And yet you still did. You walked into this damn hospital, snuck around like some criminal, praying that you wouldn’t run into him before the time was right. If it ever is, it never really has been with you two. Maybe it never will be, maybe the world is trying to tell you something you’re just too stubborn to hear. How many times can you keep going back to the same broken thing?

Apparently you haven’t hit your limit yet, considering where you are.

It’s like every nerve in your body spurs to life as the door slides open and he walks in. Him, House. His eyes are glued to the chart in his hand, not really bothering to look at you. He’d treat his patients through the door if he could.

“What’s wrong with you?” He asks in a way that’s so typically him you almost roll your eyes. Abrasive, cold, these should be red flags. They are, you just don’t care.

Maybe he had a point with all the masochist jokes.

You quickly refocus, clearing your throat and waiting. For what, you’re not sure. Obviously he’ll look up, recognize you as, well, you. His ex, but that’s not even close to covering whatever twisted role it is you serve in his life. On and off for…how long? Years, you know that. Two, at least, maybe more. There’s always something wrong, something ruining your chances. The drugs, the painfully obvious emotional unavailability. The same one you ignored the existence of when you decided to come here.

Then there’s you. The constant desire you have for more. More devotion, more love, more than he’s willing to give.

Or more than he can, you refuse to explore that option.

You’re fucked, simply. There’s no possible way that you two work. It’s too much conflict, more than a mouthful of pills or some hate sex can solve.

His eyes flick up and widen as he freezes. Speechless. In another circumstance you’d be proud of this. It’s an achievement after all, he never does know when to shut his mouth.

He wasn’t expecting you, not for a second. Maybe he should’ve. You’ve always been stubborn, a trait you both share. It made for some agonizingly long arguments, and some wildly good make up.

That’s the issue with you two. You are eachother. It’s why you’re so chaotic together. It’s also why you can’t be with anybody else.

“Hey.” You say weakly, and the word feels stupid as it comes out of your mouth. You’re long past pleasantries, which is exactly why you receive silence in return.

You knew he’d be like this.

You feel your face heating in humiliation anyway. At the very least, you won’t cry, you won’t let yourself.

The stinging sensation in your nose is persistent as ever.

He slowly crosses the room, sitting down in the chair next to you, a small creaking noise filling the otherwise empty silence. A thick swallow from you, the awkward drumming of fingers from him. This is painful, and for a second you hope his pager will go off. He’d bolt with an excuse, you know he would. And because you’re the same, you would too. And then you’d be back, in a week, maybe a month, and it’d be even worse.

You’ve always had a knack for self-destruction.

You both know how it ended last time. All over a stupid bet. Cuddy thought he couldn’t make it a week without Vicodin, he thought he could. Back when he was still adamant about denying his addiction. Halfway through it might as well have been torture. Deep into detoxing, and still, he wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t listen as you begged him to stop being so childish, so stubborn. He wouldn’t even let you come near him, let alone help. He said it’s cause he didn’t need your pity.

In reality, he just didn’t want you to see him like that. Nobody would. Every inch of his pale, shaking frame was covered in sweat, bags under his eyes and a bloodshot gaze had him looking damn near dead.

He was sick, and he hated having to face it more than anything. The Greg House being forced to admit he was wrong. Sometimes you wondered if he’d rather die than say it out loud.

Neither of you handled it well, you never do. He was too stupid to see the obvious, see that he needed help. Needed you. And you, you were too sensitive to let it go. Let him go. Give up on any hope that this could go anywhere.

You still are, and you feel it keenly as the two of you sit in silence. His eyes are trained on you, and if you didn’t know him any better, you’d think the look in his eyes was judgement. But no, it’s a myriad. Confusion, anger, guilt, longing. All things he’d never admit. That’d be far too human.

“Say something.” Your voice comes out pleading, a tone you loathe on yourself.

He turns to you, his eyes tracing over your every feature like he can’t decide which one to settle on. How many times has he seen you like this? Desperate, vulnerable, because of him. He loses count. He wants to forget it, but you have to go through the motions. Pretend you’ve worked through your issues so you can live in a momentary state of bliss. Maybe it’ll last a few months this time. Could be less, if he really screws it up.

He’ll take what he can get.

“What do you want me to say?” The words come out harsh, cold, and for a moment he expects you to turn away. You don’t. Of course you don’t.

You sigh heavily, you expected it, the ice you’d be met with. You know him intrinsically, predicting his moves like the plot twists of a movie you’ve watched one too many times.

“Something, anything.” This is sad, pathetic, even. You always do this. Go back to each other, pulling out a past that’s probably better off left in the dark closet it belongs to. Still, how can you just forget? The idea feels foreign after all this time weaving in and out of one another’s lives.

Still, this is familiar, comfortable, in a way. The feigned indifference, the cold tone, the need to pretend neither of you care nearly as much as you do. It would be easier, less painless, to just move on. Have lives separate from each other.

But he’s starting to think he lives off pain. Physical and mental. It’s all he’s known for years. Why change a routine that’s become so commonplace? And even with the pain, he’s never been happier than he was with you. You understand him, and the part of him that hates that kneels to the part that needs it.

The break ups, the separation, it’s all just a low between highs. Ones he finds far more addicting than the pills sitting in his pocket.

He begins tapping his cane on the floor, a restless rhythm. “I miss you.” His voice is deadpan as the words come out, and you know why. He’s being honest, his tone can’t betray how hard that really is for him. He leans his head back, letting it thud against the wall behind you in a way that makes you flinch.

For a moment, you wonder if he’s just saying what you want to hear.

You quickly remember who you’re talking to.

He lets his knee fall sideways, brushing against yours. It’s tiny, imperceivable, almost. If you weren’t so clued into everything he was doing, maybe you wouldn’t have noticed it. But you did, your eyes flicking down to the point of contact. It feels dangerous.

“I missed you too.” Your voice is shaky, quiet, pathetic. To you, at least. Most might see this as normal. A healthy display of vulnerability. You, though. This is hell. It is for him too. It’s also necessary. Maybe this is your twisted way of proving yourselves to each other, giving evidence to your devotion.

“This won’t end well.” He says, pragmatic as always. Cold, sensible. Too smart for hoping, waiting on change that’ll never come.

“I know.” And I’m here anyway. Words go unspoken, you’ve had enough honesty for today.

He sighs, and the noise is too tired. For a second fear settles in that you’re the one doing this to him. That trying to be decent. Trying to be suitable for a relationship is just too much for him to handle.

“Then why are you here?” He knows the answer, he’s not stupid. Maybe he just needs to hear it, and then he’ll get the common sense to tell you to leave. To give up on this, spare both of you the inevitable pain.

You sigh, the idea of having the explain worse than just letting the truth linger unspoken. “What if it works this time?” You know it’s stupid, and you know he’ll tell you just that. For a second you remember something your therapist told you. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome. You’d rolled your eyes, told her this wasn’t anything like that. That people can change, you can change.

You stopped going to your appointments after that.

You just look at him, watch as he closes his eyes, running a hand over his face before looking to you. “For how long?” For a second, you think there’s hope in his voice, like he’s waiting for you to lie to him, say this can last forever. It probably will, you think. On and off for the rest of your lives, never stable.

“We can find out.” The words are an invitation, a reckless one. You’ll let him back in, and it’ll end poorly, and you won’t be able to be mad. You knew how this would go from the start, how can you blame him for the inevitable?

He looks to you, and you can tell he’s given up. It was always gonna happen, you wouldn’t stay away forever. No use in wasting time waiting.

“I hate you.” The words are empty. It’s his last ditch effort to push you away. He has to do it, he has to know he didn’t just let you in. Something in him has to hold onto the false belief that he doesn’t need this, that he’s indifferent. That he’s the same cold man he’s always been.

As he mutters the words he reaches out, his hand sliding over your jaw, pulling you in closer.

You smile weakly, rolling your eyes at the absurdity of the statement. You know him, you know when he’s lying, and he’s never done a worse job at it than he just did.

You’re hardly inches apart now, your lips nearly ghosting his own. Your voice is shaky as you speak, “Love you too.” As his lips brush yours, he just melts, leaning into you with a fervor he used to call lust. There’s no use pretending that’s all this is now.

The kiss ends all too soon as he pulls away, shallow breaths leaving both of you, filling the silence. You almost wonder if you should leave when his voice sounds, quiet, tentative, all things he’s normally not.

“I’m going to screw this up.” The look in his eyes is guilt for something he hasn’t even done. He will, but you ignore the nagging voice in the back of your head that says to run before he has the chance. Yes, he’s hurt you. It’s not as if you haven’t done the same to him. You know where to aim when you’re mad, and you’ve turned him to a dartboard more times than you can count.

“I’m okay with that.” For a second, as the words fall off your tongue so easily, almost instinctually, you wonder if your mother would be disappointed in you. This isn’t how she raised you. Offering some man a hundred second chances all because what, you love him? Because when it’s good, it really is so good?

Because at the end of the day, you don’t think you could do it. Leave him, live the rest of your life without him in it. You’d wonder, you’d always wonder what would’ve happened if you just gave him one more chance. And so you will, again, and again, and again.

Sometimes you wonder what your life would look like if you’d never met him. Maybe you’d be married, happy with some man who gave you far less trouble than House ever did. You curse the way you find the thought boring. He’s awful, but he’s thrilling. You might even have kids, or at least be ready for one.

You know deep down you could have a future like that, and still, all thoughts of it dissipate when he opens his mouth.

“I’m off at eight.” Self loathing drips from each word. He’s a selfish bastard, he’ll let you forgive him, and time and time again, he’ll know he doesn’t deserve it. Still, he can’t turn you down. He can’t leave. He can’t not have you. The one good thing that’s ever come out of his life. He just can’t. Not when you’re offering.

“I’ll be here.” The words are so horribly fitting. Won’t you always? Will there ever be a time he takes it too far? Or will you always go back to him? Will you always turn away from the better life, the happier life you could have without him?

Yes. It’s always yes, because deep down, you stopped wanting a life without him the second you experienced life with him. Everything else became boring, commonplace, once you’d had him. There’s nothing like House. Not a person, or drug, or liquor strong enough to come close to how he makes you feel. Nothing can make the memory fade, and nothing can replace it either.

There’s no good outcome, it’s either life alone or life with him. And so you let his fingers interlace with your own, let the sensation numb the thought that never left your head this whole time, the one that’ll haunt you on sleepless nights you spend in his bed, staring at the ceiling with his arms wrapped around you.

This is a mistake.

A/N: thank u to the taco bell fire sauce packet i quoted.

[polydamnory]

Poly Shaw Pack Headcanons

⚠️SOME NSFW BELOW - LIKE ONLY 2 BUT STILL YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED)⚠️

Sometimes when David says something kind of snappy or rude to Angel (tsunderes gonna tsundere), Darlin will just come up, pick Angel up, and walk away saying “nope. Mate privileges revoked” - doesn’t matter if Angel isn’t bothered by it, he was mean

Milo HAS borrowed that choke collar from Baaabe and used it on Asher 👀👀👀

Almost all of them have tried their hand at teaching Asher how to cook - none have succeeded

Asher and Angel both keep getting caught late night gaming by the others, and David. Is. Not. Happy about it.

Sweetheart doesn’t purposefully sneak up on/startle Darlin the way they do Milo - they know that due to Darlin’s past trauma, they’re a lot more likely to lean more towards the fight part of fight or flight instincts, as well as just not wanting to accidentally trigger them in general

The non-shifter mates will go on a group date just the four of them once a month - the shifters do too but most of the time they just end up playing video games together (Asher) or spending some time in their wolf forms

Milo and Angel are both huge dorks for Aggro and baby him excessively

When Darlin gets really touch starved (which is most of the time), the rest of the polycule just kind of pile on top of them

Baaabe and David learned how to cook some of the dishes Sam’s grandmother used to make for him to help him feel better on the anniversary of her death - Darlin tried to help but got kicked out of the kitchen

Asher and Sweetheart occasionally team up to fuck with Milo (also Christian lol)

Angel moves around in their sleep a lot so whoever’s closest to them in bed have to be the ones to essentially smother them to keep them from accidentally kicking or punching somebody in their sleep

Solar Solstices are TOUGH with them all staying together, but thankfully the four non-shifters can team up to tackle it - Baaabe’s on cooking duty, Angel’s the one keeping David and Darlin from getting up out of bed (they are NOT above sitting on you, Darlin, stop it!), and Sweetheart and Sam team up to do some sleeping or healing magic - it doesn’t help much, but it’s something. They typically end up watching movies or playing some easy video games that at least keep them laying/sitting down for a majority of the day. EDIT: the lovely @darlin-collins (sorry for the at) has pointed out to me that both stealth’s AND vampires are negatively affected by the sun bound solstice so I guess Angel and Baaabe are gonna have to fight for their fucking lives lol

The mates groupchat still exists and Asher begs to be let in it like once a week

Darlin kind of wants to be included in it too but refuses to admit it

Asher and Angel can both dress like total gremlins and it physically pains Milo to have to see it

Baaabe has dommed most of the others at some point

Sam took a bit to feel comfortable asking to feed on any of them other than Darlin, and even then he still typically goes to them first if he’s feeling hungry - he doesn’t really have a favorite, it's just that in that regard he feels the most comfortable with them specifically

Asher will shift and comfort any and all of them in his wolf form like he does for Baaabe - he has to do it a lot for Sweetheart, their job has them stressed

David often feels like he’s babysitting a bunch of toddlers because even when they were just friends, the stupid shit this group would get themselves caught up in is insane - the fact that none of them have been arrested yet is a miracle in itself. No, Sam is not an exception.

Darlin, Milo and Angel are all terrible with horror movies (this is canon) and David sometimes likes to choose one he knows will particularly get them when it’s his pick for movie night just to fuck with them

I feel like some of these could technically apply outside the context of the polycule, and you know what, yeah that too

[trippinsorrows]

looking through your eyes + seven

authors notes: so this one leaves probably more questions than answers, but there's also a lot of things sprinkled throughout, and all questions will be answered....eventually.

if any cw/tw’s are missed, please let me know, and i will add them!

cw/tw: fluff, language, discussion of parental loss, brief (two line) flashback of aftermatch following csa, suggestive themes, ptsd trigger

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

masterlist

words: 8k

Solana: Are you busy today?

Normally, Roman would keep his phone face down during business meetings but with increasing communication with Solana, he’s leaned more on the side of having it face up so he’s aware when notifications come through. 

It’s not a priority. Just a…..preference. 

Grabbing his phone, he quickly shoots her back a text.

Roman: What do you need?

Before he can put his phone back down, those three dots appear. He keeps the thread open for her reply to slide in.

Solana: Nvm. I’m sorry to bother you.

Roman curses inwardly, barely keeping it to himself and not making the room of men aware of his frustrations. He can acknowledge Solana has slightly improved with her over–apologizing over the past couple weeks, but it’s moments like this that get him upset all over again. 

He fucking hates repeating himself.

But….

There’s that small, annoying ass, nagging voice in the back of his head that reminds him of why she’s always so apologetic, why she thinks her damn existence itself is an inconvenience. And he can’t really fault her, blame her for years of trauma fucking with her mental.

Roman: You’re apologizing again. How many times I gotta tell you to stop that shit?

It could probably, definitely, be worded better. Maybe even a bit…kinder. But Roman is a lot of things. 

Kind is not one of them.

He then adds, knowing she’ll probably try to find another excuse to not be honest with him. 

Roman: What do you need? The truth, Solana. 

There’s an appearance and disappearance of those dots at least three or four times. He can picture her biting down on her bottom lip as she tries to word what probably is a simple request as best she can.

The amount of overthinking she does has to be fucking exhausting.

Solana: I was just gonna see if you could meet me at the library. I wanted to show you something.

Solana: But, it’s not a big deal! Please forget I said anything.

A couple of things strike Roman strange, two in particular. The first being that as soon as she says what she needs, the answer is an automatic yes. Like, it’s not even something he really thinks too much about, but he also chalks it up to a level of genuine curiosity. This might be the first time she’s actually directly asked him for something.

It must be important. Important enough for her to ask him to come see whatever it is, at least.

It’s why he doesn’t even comment on her second, follow up text.

Roman: What time you get off?

He can make whatever work.

Solana: It’s okay. Really.

This damn girl….

Roman’s jaw clench as he types out a text that matches his mood. 

Roman: Solana….

She’s giving him a damn migraine. He’s not sure why he doesn’t just ignore her at this point. If it’s that fucking important, she wouldn’t be giving him such a hard time.

But then the stupid nagging voice returns, reminding him that her even asking in the first place is a huge deal that shouldn’t necessarily be shot down because of lingering struggles that are probably going to be around for a while.

Solana literally has years of baggage and trauma she needs to heal from.

And that shit doesn’t happen overnight.

Solana: 3pm

Roman blows out a breath. Fucking finally. 

He lays his phone back down, not necessarily wanting to hear any pushback or counter arguments she might try to supply, fake ass reasons she wants to back away from her assertive request. 

Not happening. 

Roman: I’ll be there.

“Jey.” Roman’s deep voice cuts through the group who set their eyes on him. “I need you and Jimmy to handle the Barrett meeting for me.”  While the twins are annoying as shit majority of the time, they’re effective all of the time. Roman has trusted countless meetings with them, and none have turned out badly. They always get shit handled. 

His cousins both echo okayness with this change in plans, as expected. The same way Roman expected his Wise Man to be the one with questions.

“My Tribal Chief, we’ve had this meeting scheduled for weeks. What could possibly be more important?”

It’s a fair question, Roman isn’t too stubborn to admit that. But, it’s also not a question that applies. Again, it’s not that Solana is important, per se, it’s just that if his alternative is dealing with Barret’s loquacious business dealings, he’d prefer Solana.

He’s also partially intrigued by the mere fact she’d even had the balls to ask something of him in the first place. It’s promising. Assertiveness has always been more attractive to him than passiveness. 

Roman’s answer is both simple and vague. “I have somewhere to be.”

“But—”

“Wise Man.”

Paul’s childlike smile deepens suddenly, as if he’s been picked to be fucking line leader. “Yes, my Tribal Chief?”

“Who’s the Tribal Chief?”

Rikishi is the only one to offer a visible reaction, hiding his chuckle. He knows exactly where this is going, even if his decades old friend does not. 

“Y–you are, my Tribal Chief.”

Romans voice is sharp and lethal. “So why the fuck are you asking me to answer to you?”

Paul’s expression pales. “I would never, my—”

“Sound like it to me,” Jimmy’s messy ass chimes in. He looks at Jey. “What you think, Uce?”

“Sound like it to me too.” Jey, as expected, agrees. Only for him to nearly fall back in his seat when he jumps up so both feet are on the expensive ass leather. Roman is annoyed all over again for a new reason. “Ayo, Uce, ya’ll got a rat problem!”

At that, Jimmy is twinning with his brother in more than just appearance, also with his feet off the floor and onto the leather chair. Roman hopes they both fall over and break their goddamn necks. Rikishi can handle Barrett just fine.

“Ain’t you like a goddamn billionaire? How the hell you got Stuart Little and his fam running around your crib!”

Roman’s gaze follows the line of vision the twins are so damn focused on only to be met with Dulce calmly walking past both of them to sit in front of him, looking up with a tilted head. 

She’s clearly looking for Solana. 

And he knows this because it’s become a bit of a habit. If he’s home and she’s not, Dulce’s nosy ass seems to seek him out as if he’s supposed to magically make her owner appear. It’s not something he’s brought up to Solana, because he knows she would just freak the fuck out and over apologize for Dulce “bothering” him. 

And that’s not the case. 

It’s a bit annoying, but it’s not a bother.

His staff keep an eye out for her when Solana works, and he’s even seen Solana come back to the house on her lunch breaks to check in Dulce, so he doesn’t mind. She’s keeping up her end of the deal, being the primary caretaker for the puppy. 

“That’s Solana’s dog.”

Jimmy’s bewildered gaze is on him. “This a dog?”

“Yes.”

“You let her get a dog? Like a real ass dog?”

“You fucking see her, don’t you?” At that moment, Dulce calmly lays down on the floor next to Roman’s feet which are literally bigger than her small ass. It’s followed up by Paul starting to sneeze. 

Jey, who is now sitting back in his chair like a normal human being, points out, “man, you hate dogs.”

Naturally, Roman goes a bit on the defense, shoulders straightening. “I don’t hate them.”

Jimmy makes a sound, also with his feet planted on the ground. “Bruh, you literally use to tell us when we was growing up, ‘I hate dogs.’ That’s why we started calling you Big Dog, cause it was funny to see you get all mad and shit.”

Roman may or may not remember that, but it doesn’t mean he’s going to acknowledge it. Besides, he’s allowed to change his mind. Hate was always probably too strong of a word to use anyway. 

There are a lot of things Roman hates, even more people that he hates, but dogs are not on the list. 

It was more irritation than anything.

“Whatever.”

“What’s her name?” Rikishi asks, bending over his chair to try to catch Dulce’s attention.

Roman watches the puppy gradually make her way over his cousin, ears dropping as he gently rubs the top of her head. “Dulce.”

“Dul–what?”

This…..this is why Roman is on high blood pressure medication, why Dr. Michaels recommended he start wearing one of those smart watches to monitor his heart rate and other shit. Not that he did it.

“Dulce. It’s Spanish.”

“Aw man, why you ain’t say that in the beginning?” Jimmy turns to Jey. “The dog only speak Spanish.” He looks over at his dad who now has Dulce in his lap, continuing to pet her. Roman rolls his eyes. This dog is a damn attention whore, just like he predicted. “Hola, lil’ chalupa.”

Jey punches his brother on the arm. “Uce, you can’t be saying that kind of shit. It’s racist.”

“No, it’d be racist if I called the dog Taco Bell since her mama half Mexican, but I ain’t do that shit, cause I like Soso.”

“Stop calling her that.” 

Jimmy avoids Roman’s warning and proceeds to ask with all of the intrigue. “So not only did you let her bring a dog up in here, but you let ole’ girl pick a rat for said dog?”

Already irritated and on edge, Roman isn’t sure why Jimmy’s question irritates him as much as it does, and not even because it's a question that’s being posed when he’s trying to review a contract. It’s that Jimmy is questioning Solana’s decision in general.

He answers as calmly as he’s capable of responding. Roman also notices that Paul is red as a tomato as he pulls out an Epipen. Roman easily brings his focus back to Jimmy. “It’s what she wanted.”

“Should have got a big dog,” Jey suggests, hovering over by Rikishi as he tries to interact with Dulce whose eyes are fluttering closed. Roman swears this damn dog sleeps 23 out of the 24 hours in the day. 

That answer is simple, Roman grabbing a pen to sign off on the contract in front of him. It’s satisfactory enough. “She’s scared of them.”

“What is she not scared of?”

But that comment, for whatever reason, is what makes him snap. “Get out.”

Both the twins are unfazed, but it seems to trigger something for them as Jimmy exclaims, “I forgot!” He looks over at Jey, reminding. “Remember, Soso made some extra food for us.”

“Oh shit, she sho’ did!” 

Roman makes a mental note to write Solana about that. It’s not her job to keep feeding his grown ass, married ass cousins. 

The two bid their farewell, Jey shouting out as his parting term, “yeet!”

“Stop doing that,” Roman calls after their retreating forms as Paul also excuses himself for some air. 

Maybe he really is allergic to dogs. 

Rikishi stands up and walks over to him, still holding Dulce but not saying anything. He’s just looking like he wants to say something. Another of Roman’s pet peeves, of the many.

With a mutter and scowl, he asks, “what?” 

His cousin simply shrugs, nonchalantly commenting. “The girl is growing on you, Uce.” It’s an assessment, for certain.

However, Roman has zero desire to have this conversation with his older cousin, or anyone, in general. Hence, his vague ass reply of, “she’s tolerable.”

Because that’s the truth. Solana is neither amazing nor insufferable. She’s in a pretty balanced space between the both: tolerable.

Rikishi gives him that sly ass look that makes Roman want to punch him in his fucking face. “E tua le fale tele i le faleo’ o.”

It’s an old Samoan proverb that means “Even the mighty need others.”

Instantly, Roman’s gaze is cutting. “I don’t need anyone.” He never has, and he never will.

Rikishi just offers a knowing smile, lowering Dulce back to the ground and placing a hand on Roman’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. “Of course not, Uce. Of course not.” The older man says nothing else, just walking out, Dulce returning back to stand by Roman’s feet, head up, staring at him.

He rolls his eyes, murmuring as he gets back to work. “She’ll be home later.” 

Dulce barks in response. 

________

The minute Roman pulls up to Solana’s job, sees the expression on his cousin’s face, he knows something is up.

Solo may have a dangerously good poker face, but Roman invented that shit. 

He got the blueprint from Roman. 

Solana is sitting near the front of the building, surrounded by fucking children as she reads some basic ass book that they’re all clearly eating up based upon how they can’t seem to take their eyes off her.

Roman isn’t entirely indifferent, instantly taking note of her outfit, more colorful, less covered. It reeks of Naomi’s influence, but in a good way. 

As always, she looks good, better than good.

Not wanting to interrupt, Roman motions for a few of his men to take Solo’s place as he gestures for his younger cousin to follow him.

As soon as they’re outside the building, Roman gets right into it. “You got something to say, so say it.” 

Roman knows his cousin well enough to know that despite his brutal fighting abilities, the man is always careful and meticulous with his words. Unlike his hot headed older brother, Jey, Solo always thinks before he acts.

It’s why Roman doesn’t think twice about the space between the issuance of his prompt and Solo’s answer.

“You made me your enforcer for a reason, yeah?”

It’s an easy answer. “Yes.” 

“You upped me in the ranks to prove myself, right? To earn my way into the inner circle?”

Roman is already bored with the conversation, but considering this is family, he throws a bone. “Yeah.”

“So just how am I supposed to do that when you got me playing babysitter to your new wife?” The turn in topics as well as increase in Solo’s volume does slightly, very slightly, take Roman by surprise. Granted, he does a masterful job, as always, hiding that surprise. “Any lower guy could do this shit. She don’t—”

“Solo.” Roman gives him that tight smile and scratches his beard, typically the last thing people see before they meet their maker. “You answer to me. You do what I say you do, and I say you’re assigned to Solana.”

Roman doesn’t know what’s in the fucking water for people to be testing him the way they are, but it’s really starting to piss him off.

Solo looks down, clearly embarrassed by this talk down but not enough to shut his mouth. “I get that, but—”

“Wasn’t she already hurt once under your watch?” Roman’s voice is razor sharp as he reminds the younger man of his failure. The memory of that fucking bruise on Solana’s wrist from her bitch of a brother returning all of those strong emotions. “I gave you a job, and you didn’t do it. She got hurt while under your protection. It’s because you’re my cousin, you're even still breathing right now. You know better than anyone I don’t accept failure.”

At that, Solo concedes, knowing good and well there is no excuse or justifiable reason. “I understand, my Tribal Chief.”

Roman does his best to chip away some of his anger at this outright disrespect as well as the memories of Solana hurt. He steps past his cousin, calling out over his shoulder. “And Solo, don’t think because you’re family I won’t put a bullet in your head for questioning me.” Out of the corner of his eye, Roman can see Solo still has his head down. “Fail me again, let her get hurt again, and I’ll put your ass six feet under.”

Roman doesn’t allow the conversation to persist beyond that, big steps taking him back to the library just in time to see the children disperse, whipping past him as Solana approaches. The wedges on her feet give her a bit more height, but he still towers over her, which is a usual experience for him.

But, it doesn’t negate the fact that she’s so damn small.

“Hi,” she greets in that familiar unsure voice, eyes darting from him to the ground. “Sorry—I mean—story time ran a bit over.”

He’s appreciative she at least caught the apologizing before he had to call it out. “It’s fine.”

She offers a tight smile and motions for him to follow her, which he does, just as his eyes follow the sway of her ass as she leads the way.  

He’s starting to really enjoy seeing her in jeans. 

She leads him up the stairs and in the back area he’d visited her before what seems like so long ago, finding that her bastard of a brother had manipulated her into being alone with him. The last fucking time that shit will ever happen.

She pulls a key out her back pocket and unlocks the door, informing, “I have to grab something first.”

He doesn’t say anything, just nods. It’s like she feels the need to justify every little thing she does. 

Roman watches her walk over to the desk, leaning over as she grabs him something out of her bag, a notebook, the journal he first found her writing in the first time he came to see her at her place of employment. 

She’s back by him, closing and locking the door. “Come on.”

Typically, if this was anyone else, Roman would have demanded to know just what the fuck was so important that caused him to have to rearrange his whole schedule. Granted, he can’t take that out on her, nor would he ever, when he’s the one who rearranged his whole schedule for her. She didn't ask him to do that shit. 

He did it on his own volition for reasons unknown. 

The walk to the next stop doesn’t take long at all, Solana soon sticks her key in another, unfamiliar door, opening and stepping aside but directing him to walk in.

He does as such, naturally and instantly taking in his surroundings once she hits the light switch. It’s a room obviously, a previous storage room he would guess based upon the large filing cabinet lined against the wall to the right of him. There’s also another couple pieces of furniture against that same wall, like a desk and mini bookshelf, but that’s not what immediately catches his attention.

He’s instead more interested by the remaining walls that are essentially lined with larger, white bookshelves, all filled with a combination of notebooks, books, and journals. Completely filled. 

Intrigued but also confused, the latter of which is unfamiliar to him, Roman turns to Solana, asking, “what is this?”

Her cheeks redden, but she manages an answer that’s somehow not marked by as much stuttering. “There are all my journals—well,” she stops, giving a nervous laugh. “Most of them. Some are books I’ve read, and….” She walks over to a section that somehow seems different from the others, albeit lined up neatly with the rest of the items. Solana’s hand almost hesitantly feathers over the spines of the journals. At closer look, Roman can see they’re a bit dated and worn than the others. “These were my mother’s.”

Her answer surprises him, but he quickly recalls her sharing that she started writing because of her mother, because they wrote to each other.

She clears her throat and then turns back to him, sharing, “every time I finish a journal, I leave it here.”

Obviously. “Why here?”

“My mom started it. It—it was an arrangement she had with Mrs. Jensen. She worked here, and along with her pay, she arranged so she could keep her writings here and after….” Solana starts to hesitate, and Roman can see it’s because emotion is brewing. Just gently bubbling under the surface. “After she died, I kept up with it.”

Roman recognizes the sensitive nature of the subject and makes a subtle effort to change the topic on her behalf. “You’ve really written in all of these?” It’s impressive. He has to give her that. The thought of writing in general has never appealed to him, so for her to have a room full of journals she’s completed is fucking impressive. 

She nods, adding sheepishly, “filled em’ up.” Solana then takes the one in her hand, lifting it a bit. “Finished this one this morning.” He watches her squeeze it into a row that’s probably already being pushed to the limit.

She’s going to run out of space eventually.

She’ll need something bigger, sooner rather than later. Roman compartmentalizes this for a later date and time to navigate.

“You keep em’ here to hide them also, don’t you?”

“They can never know what I’ve written….” She doesn’t need to say who they are. It’s more than obvious. It’d be a sure death wish. “I just—-I know you said you’d write for now and it’s been almost a month, but—but I—I figured if you knew just how important and helpful writing is to me—”

“Solana.” There’s no need for her long ass, drawn out explanation. He understands now why she wanted him to see this space, the goal behind the request. “We’ll write as long as you need it.”

He watches her shoulders drop, a sign of relief. She bites back a smile he wouldn’t be opposed at seeing. She looks even better when she’s smiling. “Thank you.”

He only nods, and Solana finds herself taking him in. 

All of him.

In recent weeks, she’s discovered yet another newfound difficulty and source of anxiety for herself. And that new addition would happen to be in the form of the 6’3 man before her.

Roman has always made her nervous, for a variety of good and valid reasons, but recently, the cause of that anxiety has shifted to something else, something a bit on the unfamiliar side for her, or rather something she hasn’t really had to think about since her last disastrous relationship.

Attraction

Solana has come to terms with the fact that she’s attracted to Roman, yes, but also that she hasn’t the slightest clue of what to do about and with that said attraction.

It’s always been there, to a certain extent, but it was more dormant, something she knew was present but voiceless and nameless, almost invisible.

Now, in interacting and engaging with him more, it’s formed more defining characteristics, creating a sense of butterflies in her stomach whenever his smoldering gaze falls on her or when he says something to her, that deep, baritone voice sprouting goosebumps on the back of her neck.

It also doesn’t help that he’s indicated a couple of different times now that he also finds her attractive, or pretty, beautiful even.

That he thinks she looks good.

None of that makes sense to Solana nor can she understand why he would believe any of those things, but she would never make him out to be a liar, so it must be true, to some extent.

And therein lies the dilemma. 

One of many that exist in her life.

How she’s supposed to balance attraction with fear, desire with aversion, peace with trauma. It’s all a muddled mess. 

“Solana.”

“Sorry.” He only has to sigh one time for her shoulders to sulk, but instead of apologizing, she points out in a small voice. “It’s—it’s a habit.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a fucking habit to break.” His irritation is palpable, and Solana feels even smaller around him, like she’s done something wrong. “It’s not you I’m annoyed with.”

“Oh.” And that genuinely surprises her. In Solana’s experience, she’s always been the source of people’s, especially the men in her life, exasperation. But before she can step out of her comfort zone and ask him what’s wrong, he informs her of something that completely makes her emotions flip and twirl into a puddle of distress.

“Your father called for you today.” And just like that, any sense of relation and ease she’d achieved is dissipated, replaced with growing unrest. “Relax…” It’s not missed upon Solana how Roman’s tone quickly and almost easily jumps from irritated to almost soothing, like he’s trying to calm his nerves. “I told him to fuck off.”

That doesn’t make her feel any better. “He doesn’t like being told no.”

“And you think I give a fuck?” His deep voice is full of indifference and edge, but this time around, Solana knows it’s not directed towards her. He then asks, “do you want to talk to him?”

It takes her off guard. “What?”

Roman repeats himself with a surprising lack of irritation. “Do you want to talk to him?” 

Solana can’t remember the last time she was asked such a question. Been given a choice. Then again, it’s happened quite a few times since her marriage to Roman, starting with Bayley asking her something as simple as how she wants her makeup done. 

She doesn’t know what to make of that. Just another thing added to that mounting list of confusing and conflicting thoughts and feelings. 

“If you want to, I’ll allow it.” He quickly adds the caveat. “But not without me present.”

Prior to the past couple weeks, Solana would suspect Roman’s stipulation stems from a place of possessiveness. But now….now it feels like it comes from someplace else, something so unfamiliar and foreign. 

Protectiveness. 

It feels like he’s being protective of her. 

His proclamation from earlier returns to the forefront of her mind.

“I’m not going to let anyone lay a fucking hand on you.”

He’d also included a list of people he wouldn’t allow to do as such, including her dad and brother, which is why he clearly would only let Solana speak to her father if he’s around. 

It’s just the why that has her stumped.

But, back to the question being posed, the easiest and most simple answer is no. She’d rather not be around someone who’s only ever left her hurt, emotionally and/or physically. Or allocated that task to her brother. 

Not to mention the fact that the only reason he probably wants to talk to her is to discuss this nefarious plot she still refuses to allow herself to think about because it’s so inconceivable. 

“Not really,” she answers after what feels like forever, “but…”

Roman picks up on her hesitation. “But?” 

“Like I said, my–my father doesn’t like being denied.” And before he can protest or again reiterate his outright indifference to her father’s feelings, Solana adds in a quiet voice, “and I usually end up being the one to pay for it.”

Roman steps towards her, and before she can process what’s happening, his finger is under her chin, tugging so that her head is lifted, eyes locked with his. 

His voice lowers, quietly asking, “you still don’t believe me when I say I won’t let anyone hurt you, huh?” It’s rhetorical, sure, but Solana is too focused on the fact that this man is touching her. It’s as innocent as innocent comes, but it’s still touch, something she usually hides away from like the plague. However, outside of the initial shock and borderline discomfort, Solana doesn’t jump away, doesn’t feel the need to put as much distance between them. She’s almost….almost comfortable.

“I’m going to kill them both, eventually.  Fucking with them in the meanwhile only makes the outcome that much more worthwhile. But…” And the surprises keep coming, especially as he makes her aware of his intentions. “One word. All I need is one fucking word from you. That you want them gone, and it’s done. No questions asked.” 

Power.

Solana wonders if this is what power feels like, the ability to say one single word and have a life be ended. How she feels about those lives belonging to her brother and father remains to be seen, but even being given such an option, such an almost promise, it’s an indescribable experience.

Roman’s brown eyes, light and contrasting everything about him that is sharp and hard, study her. “You understand me?”

Naturally, she nods against his index finger that’s under her chin, demanding maintained eye contact. 

“I need words.” It’s a reminder from the infamous wedding night, something that seems so far in the rearview mirror now. 

“Y–yes.”

He seems pleased by this acknowledgment, enough to pull his hand away from her, Solana trying not to make too much of the strange sensation that floats in her stomach at the absence of his touch. 

Roman suddenly offers. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll up your security detail.” Before she can protest and probably apologize if she’d unintentionally indicated it wasn’t already enough, he asks, “you get off at 3 every day?”

“Essentially, y–yes.” 

“I’ll start meeting you.”

The surprises just keep on coming.

Instantly, she feels bad, shaking her head. “You don’t have to—”

“Solana.” This man must get tired of having to say her name, she’s certain of that. “I’ll meet you.” He says the same thing, but this time, she knows not to push back because it’s a done thing. “Just make sure I have your updated work schedule.”

“Wh—what about Solo?”

“He’ll still be assigned to you for any other outings.” This makes her feel a little better, that he’s not entirely rearranging and inconveniencing himself for her. “You ready to go?”

Yes. No. Maybe. There’s so many different questions she has with only a select number of answers, but in this moment, she goes with the one that feels most right. 

Especially with Roman reaching for her hand.

Nodding, she swallows and accepts his gesture, noticing how his large hand closes over hers, almost protectively.

“Yes.”

________

“That for me?” Solana looks up from the notebook she’s almost certain she’ll have filled and completed by the end of the month. Roman’s presence and question both catch her off-guard. She didn’t really expect to speak to him again today, especially after he already spent time with her earlier that day. She figured he’d had his maximum daily dosage. 

Especially after she’d already prepared and fixed dinner for him, the two of them falling into their now routine of him eating in his office, her in the living room before she makes her way out back to the patio where she either writes or, now, plays with Dulce.

Solana shakes her head, answering softly as Roman sits on the chair opposite her.  “no. It’s…”

“About your mom?”

With him now aware of the nature of some of her writing, she answers, “yeah.” Roman’s question triggers something she’s certain she intentionally never commented on because it was such a shock to her system that she really didn’t know how to respond. “When….when you said it wasn’t my fault….did—did you mean that?”

If she expected there to be delayed response or even confusion on his end, she was entirely wrong because he answers almost on the spot. “Yes. I told you, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

She’s starting to believe that. 

Wetting her lips, she informs in that same small voice, “no one’s ever said that to me before.”

Xavier’s unshaven face and dark, judgmental gaze is focused on her, Solana doing her best to ignore the pain that wrecks her body, the beeping of the machines and IV’s in both her arms. The throbbing between her legs is equally scary as it is confusing. What did they do to her, and why did it hurt so much?

He pulls the cigar from his mouth, dropping and stomping it on the floor, gruff voice asking, “why didn’t you fight back?” He shakes his head, spitting at the same spot that’s littered with remnants of one of many poor habits. “You’re weak just like your mother.”

Roman’s firm voice snatches her away from spiraling too deeply in dark memories of an even darker past. She does her best to shake away any sign she was about to dissociate when he surprises her for what feels like the 10th time today, almost quietly sharing, “My mother was killed when I was ten years old.” There’s a synchronous dropping of her mouth and stomach at the exact same time. “You think that shit was my fault?”

The answer is obvious and immediate. “No. Of–of course not. You were—you were just a kid.”

While her response is borderline automatic, coming from a place of pure logic, everything else is so confusing. Roman’s mother is….dead? Not even dead but murdered when he was a child?

Just like hers.

Solana doesn’t know how to process this. It’s not until this very moment that she realizes not once has she ever considered or thought about his immediate family, like parents and even siblings. At the wedding, so many people were present, obvious family members of his, but she’s just now realizing she never considered who was who. Were they all cousins, aunts, in-laws even? 

Where is the rest of his immediate family? Better yet, who makes up his immediate family? She’s aware of the twins and even his older cousin Rikishi, but is there not more?

“So were you.” She can’t tell if Roman intentionally works to redirect the focus back onto herself or if he’s unaware of the fact she’s suddenly wondering just how much about the man across from her she still knows nothing about it. “So why is it different for you?”

It’s an effective diversion and valid question that she’s never once asked herself.

“No one’s ever said that either.” Her voice is only a couple octaves above a whisper, and Solana finds herself sharing more than she’s probably ever divulged to anyone. “When I….when I’m writing, a lot of the times, I’m writing letters to my mom.” Having this conversation with anyone, let alone Roman, of all people, wasn’t on her life agenda. But, it seems like a lot of ‘nevers’ are gradually morphing into ‘actualities.’

It’s such a strange experience, too.

“Like I said, we used to write to each other, and after….after she was killed, I couldn’t find it in me to stop. I think at the beginning, I kept doing it because….because I didn’t want to accept she was gone.” The understanding and underlying emotion shifts to the surface, resulting in her quickly wiping at her eyes to keep the tears from falling. “Like I was waiting for her to write me back.” It’s not missed upon Solana how Dulce suddenly moves closer, tucking her body right up against Solana’s thigh. “And I’ve kept at it over the years, cause—she was the only person I could ever talk to.”

Roman repeats the same message he wrote to her, almost reminding her of a lifeline she’s gradually starting to realize is available for the first time in almost twenty years. “You can talk to me, Solana.”

And she is. She doesn’t know how and especially why, but she is, and as heavy as the topic is, there’s a hint of relief at finally having another living, breathing person to speak to and with about these things. 

Especially…..especially someone who can maybe relate to her. “How did you do it—how did you….move past it?”

It’s not the best wording, she’s certain of that. Losing a parent. Having a parent be murdered isn’t something one gets over. 

Solana knows this better than most, but Roman….he’s so composed, so together, so unbroken. 

So unlike her. 

His expression darkens as he answers in an eerie but calm voice. “I got my revenge, and I killed every single son of a bitch who played a role.” His delivery unsettles her a bit, but he seems to easily shift back into that almost patient tone she’s only ever heard him use….with her. “But, I’m not like you, Solana. You're innocent. My ledger bleeds red.” Solana doesn’t know what it looks or even sounds like for Roman to be uncomfortable, but his delivery in the next part definitely feels as such.  “I don’t….feel things like you do. You feel everything. I feel nothing.”

She whispers. “I wish I was like that, that I didn’t feel.” Because it’s true. Because it’s how she initially started to self harm, because she wanted to feel something other than emotional pain. Even physical pain was better than the anguish that racked her every day, 24/7.

He’s quick to shut that down, to tell her the complete opposite. “No, you don’t. That would mean you’ve lost that innocence you have.”

That actually makes Solana smile, chuckle, but there’s not an ounce of humor as she shakes her head. “I–I lost my innocence a long time ago.” Stolen. It was stolen from her a long time ago is the more appropriate way to word it. Stomach a complete freaking mess, she does her best to power through her anxiety at what she’s about to tell him. “Roman…..I—”

“Ayo, Uce—”

“What!” Roman snaps, Solana jumping back away from him, hypervigilance back on high and alert. He briefly casts his gaze back in her direction, and she can almost swear she sees a speck of guilt. Like he’s apologetic for scaring her. 

Jimmy, however, is unfazed by his cousin’s temper. He’s lived with it his whole life. Ain’t nothing new. “Rhodes men were on Bloodline territory—”

“What?” At that, Roman’s head snaps back in Jimmy’s direction. And Solana watches as any sign of Roman, patient and almost kind, is replaced almost instantly with that same cold, stoic demeanor that could strike fear in the heart of even the strongest man. 

He stands up, hands on his hips as he moves a bit away from her. Solana also stands, fighting her urge to move closer to him. 

Jimmy also presents with a seriousness she’s never seen in him, never even really knew he was capable of, to be honest. “We got three guys down. Another two critically injured.”

Roman curses, turning away, back toward Jimmy and her. He then asks, “you got a location on em’ yet?”

“Pearce should have it any minute now.”

“Good. Let’s go.” Roman nods, stepping away from Solana and in the direction of Jimmy just as Dulce walks over, clearly wanting Solana to pick her up. She must also pick up on the sudden shift in the atmosphere. 

Dulce in her arms, Solana finds herself calling for Roman. “What—”

“Not now.” His dismissal is sharp and sudden. It shouldn’t hurt her feelings, because it’s obvious he’s in an entirely different zone now, but it does. 

Solana sinks back into her shell of silence as Solo steps forward. “You want me—”

“Stay with Solana. She doesn't step foot outside this fucking house, you understand me?” Roman’s orders are indisputable, an almost sense of urgency in his tone. “Heighten security around the premises.”

Solana has so many questions. Just what is going on? Why is Roman so on edge all of a sudden? Who is Rhodes and why do they present such an imminent threat where Roman marches out the house, Jimmy on his heels without even a second glance at her.

It’s all so confusing. 

“You need to get inside.” Solo’s equally stoic reminder, command maybe, pulls her from her thoughts. And Dulce suddenly growling at Solo definitely redirects her focus.

“Shhh. It’s just Solo,” she comforts, petting and trying to calm the puppy who quickly upgrades her growling to barking. This also confuses the mess out of Solana.  

She’s not sure she’s ever seen Dulce both growl and bark at someone.

Wordlessly, she walks in the house, past Solo who she notices makes sure to lock the door behind them. 

“Stay in your room," he instructs, and while she has more questions than anything, his austere tone is more than enough for her to not push back. 

Dulce will just have to use the crate if she has to use the bathroom. 

Without another word, Solo carries Dulce up the stairs and into her room where she lays the puppy in her bed and Solana climbs onto her.

Chewing on her bottom lip, she grabs her phone and opens up the latest group text thread she was messaging in. 

Solana: Can I ask you guys something?

Their replies come in not even five minutes later. 

Bayley: Of course!

Naomi: Anything.

Without allowing herself too much time to overthink it, Solana sends out the simple question.

Solana: Who or what is Rhodes?

Solana: Roman just rushed out of here after Jimmy said something about Rhodes men being on Bloodline territory. I’m not allowed to leave the mansion.

Just like the start of the conversation, the replies come in almost instantaneously. 

Naomi: Fuck.

Naomi: Yes, stay put. Solo’s there with you, right?

Solana: Yes.

Solana’s anxiety is only growing. Naomi sounds just as intense as Jimmy and Roman were. 

Her follow up text doesn’t do anything to help the confusion either.

Naomi: The less you know, the better. The guys will handle it.

Handle what, though? That’s what Solana really wants to know. What is the story here, and why did this Rhodes person or group have Roman so wired. 

Just then, another notification comes through. From Bayley, but in their individual thread and not the group chat. 

Solana switches over, reading her messages as they arrive almost back to back. 

Bayley: Rhodes is a person, but…that’s a complicated story.

Bayley: And I'd feel bad telling someone else’s story, but what I can tell you is that Rhodes is Cody Rhodes, head to the Nightmare Factory, the Bloodline’s biggest opp. Tensions have been at an all time high for like two generations with countless bodies dropped on both sides. It’s always a bloodbath when they’re in the same vicinity. 

Solana is regretting even asking anything in the first place. Bloodbath when they’re in the same vicinity, the same vicinity Roman is heading for as she types. Her shoulders drop, anxiety starting to shift to a new target. 

Concern for his safety.

Bayley: If you’re somehow ever in a situation where someone from the Nightmare territory is around, get the hell out of dodge. They won’t hesitate to kill you, especially with you being Roman’s wife.

Bayley: Or Rollins. Seth Rollins. Especially him. Guy is fuckin’ psycho.

Solana: Rollins?

Bayley: Roman, Seth, and Cody used to be friends a long time ago, like way long ago, and it just….it went bad. Really really fucking bad, and Cody and Roman have hated each other since. Like, I don’t know if hate is even a strong enough word for how much they can’t stand each other. 

Solana: But why?

Bayley never replies. 

________

Roman doesn’t step back into the house until almost 4am. He feels every bit exhausted as he probably looks, more physical than anything, some mental, maybe more than he’d like to admit.

Dealing with anything Nightmare related typically has that impact on him.

Solo meets him at the door, looking as on alert as he did when Roman first saw him at the ass crack of dawn this morning. 

The first thing to leave Roman’s mouth isn’t intentional as much as it is unintentional. “How was she?”

Solo motions to the marble flooring leading to the spacious living room. “She’s waiting for you.”

Roman wasn’t expecting to hear that, and he’s certain it shows in his facial expression. “What? Why? Why is she still up?”

Solo shrugs. “You’ll have to ask her. She don’t talk to me.” Which is more Solo’s preference anyway. It’s his job to protect her, not be her fucking friend. “Everything good?” Roman nods but doesn’t say anything, still stuck on the fact that Solana is still up. “Imma head out.”

Roman’s response is as distant as his expression. He doesn’t care whether Solo stays or leaves. “Alright.”

Once his enforcer is out the house, Roman sure enough finds Solana sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, notebook in her lap as she writes away.

“Solana.”

She gasps, clearly taken by surprise, but when her head lifts and her eyes land on him, she untangles her legs and moves the journal to the side. Solana walks over to him, keeping a distance that makes sense for her. “You’re back….”

“What are you still doing up? Don’t you have work in a couple hours?”

“It’s okay.” She shakes her head, adding sheepishly, “I–I don’t sleep much anyway.” He knows this well. “I just—I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Her eyes widen as she hones in on the nasty looking cut near the middle of his hairline. “You’re hurt….”

It’s really not until she says anything that Roman remembers the only “injury” he received from tonight’s bloodbath. “It’s fine.” He then redirects the focus to the main topic at hand. “Solana, you don’t have to wait up for me.”

She ignores him, actually ignores him and instead reaches up to feel the cut that’s maybe a bit more deeper than he realized because her feather light touch brings a bit of a sting. 

“You need stitches.” It doesn’t sound like a suggestion, and he realizes as such following her next surprising action. She takes his hand and leads him into the kitchen, motioning for him to sit down on the stool as she pulls out the medical kit from under the sink. 

Similar to the night of WarGames, she moves in between his open legs and starts tending to his cut, meticulously and carefully stitching him up.

She says not a word, and neither does he. Truthfully, it’s more an unconscious thing than conscious, like neither knows what or if to say something. Especially considering both are currently feeling more than what they know how to properly verbalize, or verbalize at all, really. 

“There….” Roman can tell when she’s done. She gently runs her fingers over her diligent work, her eyes focused on the source of her apparent concern when all he wants is for her to look at him, for her eyes to lock on him. “I think I’m—” And just as Solana goes to move away, to step back and clean up, she’s stopped. 

She’s stopped, because Roman reaches for her, keeping her near him.

His hand is initially on the small of her back, and Solana has the same experience from earlier. That initial tense feeling that quickly mellows into something almost calm, almost secure. 

She’s not sure she’s ever been this close to him, not since the last time she tended to his injuries, not since their wedding day, since their wedding night.

But unlike that last almost traumatic time, she’s not pummeled with anxiety, not paralyzed with fear. 

It’s just the calm. 

His eyes never leave her, bouncing back and forth between her eyes and lips. He then says in a low voice that’s unlike anything she’s heard from him before. “Solana….”

There’s something different about the way he says her name, something more sincere, something almost….vulnerable. 

Roman suddenly has both hands on her hips, holding her, just as her nervous hand moves to lay her palm against his chest. 

His eyes instantly shut at her touch. Interactions with anything regarding Rhodes have always done something to Roman emotionally, but it’s always been something he can manage relatively well. Something simple and easy. There’s nothing simple and easy about whatever the fuck is coursing through him at having her so close to him, having her touch, soft and unsure as the expression in her eyes. 

She doesn’t know what to make of his eyes closing nor does she have time to consider what to make of that because an image, a flashback of a different kind of touch, a much more painful, visceral touch shoots to the forefront of her mind.

And her chest starts tightening, that fear drawing back up. 

“I–I can’t.” Because as much as some part of her, albeit big or small, likes this, likes being close to him, feels safe being this close to thim, another part, much larger and much stronger, can't handle being this close to him. “I’m sorry.” Eyes watering, she breaks away, Dulce is quickly behind her, Solana reaching to hold the puppy as she dashes up the stairs. 

Roman sits unsure, confused, angry. He stands up, pacing across the floor, hands up and on the side of his head before his fist slams against the refrigerator door. He curses, but not from the blow. That shit doesn’t hurt. 

His reaction and frustration is directed solely toward the fact that he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s feeling right now.

The same thing Solana is struggling with as she sits on her bed, legs pulled up to her chest, silently crying into her thighs.

Both of them wondering the same exact thing:

What the hell just happened?

[kate-inthedarkness]

hiii, could you please write angst with Bobby where like the reader is going through a tough moment and Bobby is there to support her. Thank uu and take your time. Love u

Thank you for sending this in!!!

Hope you like it, and love you too lovely!!! Xxx

I’m Sorry - Robert Keating

Summary: (based off request) You’ve always had a complicated relationship with your father, but this incident is what ends up sending your emotions over the edge, and Rob is there to pick up the pieces.

Warnings: Complicated father/daughter relationship, angst, sadness, fluff because Robert’s a cutie.

A/N: If this hits too close to home for you then it’s okay not to read it!! Look after yourself, acknowledge your triggers, love you all lots and lots xxx

You were staring at the untouched cappuccino in front of you. Foam had collapsed in on itself like a broken promise, lukewarm now, just like your hope. The café was busy, but the noise had blurred into something muffled and distant.

You checked your phone again.

Nothing.

Just like last time. And the time before that.

It had been over an hour.

You didn’t cry—at least, not in public. You packed your things with shaking hands, left the coffee untouched, and walked out into the dull grey afternoon. The street outside smelled like car exhaust and baked concrete. You took the long way home, walking without aim. You passed families in parks, friends laughing outside pubs, strangers making plans that probably didn’t involve breaking hearts.

Eventually, you found your way back to the flat.

By the time you walked through the front door, your face was set—tight-jawed, eyes dry, but burning. Robert looked up from the couch, laptop in his lap, fingers lazily typing out something that died the moment he saw you.

“Hey, love,” he said, voice soft. “You’re back early.”

You didn’t say anything. You dropped your bag harder than you meant to, kicked off your shoes, and walked past him toward the kitchen.

He was up immediately.

“Did your dad not show up?” He asked gently from the doorway.

You turned quickly, faster than you intended. “Why do you even have to ask?”

Rob didn’t flinch at the tone—he knew it wasn’t really aimed at him. But he stepped back just slightly, giving you room.

“I’m sorry,” he said carefully.

“No, you’re not,” you snapped. “Don’t say that. You didn’t do anything.”

He nodded once. “I mean I’m sorry for you. Because I know what that meant to you.”

You let out a breath, exasperated. “It’s just… How many times am I supposed to try? How many times do I let him do this before I finally get it through my thick skull that it’s not gonna change?”

Rob stepped in slowly, like an approaching a skittish animal. “Can I come closer?”

Your eyes welled up without warning. You nodded.

That cracked something. The gentleness. The patience. You turned away again, pressing your palms to the countertop as your shoulders started to shake.

“I just—“ your voice broke, “I keep thinking maybe this time will be different. And it never is. And I don’t know what’s worse anymore. Being disappointed or being stupid enough to still have hope.”

Robert moved behind you and gently rested a hand on your back. You didn’t move, but you didn’t pull away either.

“I waited an hour, Rob,” you whispered. “An hour. Like a fucking fool.”

“You’re not a fool,” he said immediately. “You’re someone who believes people can change. That’s not stupid. That’s hopeful. There’s a difference.”

You turned and finally let yourself fall into him. He caught you instantly, arms strong and warm, one hand on your back, the other cradling your head as though keeping it from falling any further.

You cried.

Not dramatic sobs—just that quiet, painful sort of crying that creeps in when you’ve been holding it back too long. It wasn’t just today’s disappointment. It was all the ones that came before it.

Rob didn’t rush you. He didn’t ask you to calm down. He simply stayed there, arms steady, lips pressing light kisses into your hairline as you let it out.

After what felt like forever, you pulled back just slightly.

“Why does he keep doing this to me?”

Rob’s hands slid to your cheeks, brushing tears away with his thumbs. “Because he’s broken in ways that have nothing to do with you. And you’ve spent your whole life thinking maybe if you’re better, or more forgiving, or just enough, you can fix that. But it’s not yours to fix.”

You nodded, barely.

“He doesn’t get to define you,” Robert replied. “You are not the pieces he left behind. You’re the one who stayed kind anyway. You’re the one who still sees the good in people even when they don’t deserve it.”

You let your forehead rest against him shoulder, almost exhausted.

“How do you always know what to say?”

“I don’t,” he said honestly. “But I know you. And I’ll keep showing up—even when other people don’t.”

That was the part that made you cry again—softer this time. But now there was safety in it. Warmth.

“Come on,” he murmured, guiding you by the hand. “You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m not hungry,” you said, though your stomach hurt in that hollow way that wasn’t hunger, exactly, but not far from it.

He led you to the kitchen island anyways, moving around with the quiet ease of someone who knows your cabinets as well as his own. He filled the kettle, chopped some fruit, reheated the leftover pasta from the night before. You sat at the island, elbows on the cool marble, watching him.

“I used to pretend he was just busy,” you said. “Like, that’s all it was. Work. Life. Traffic.”

Rob glanced up, waiting.

“I think I just didn’t want to believe it could be me,” you continued. “Like, if I made myself perfect—if I didn’t cause problems, didn’t ask for anything—then he’d want to be around. But he never did.”

Robert set a plate in front of you and walked around the counter, wrapping his arms around you from behind.

“You’re not hard to love,” he whispered into your hair. “You never were. He just wasn’t capable.”

You tilted your head against his chest. “Thank you for not making me feel crazy.”

He chuckled softly. “You are a little crazy. But the lovable kind.”

You smiled—small, but real.

Later, you sat curled on the couch together, a blanket over your legs, Robert’s arm slung around your shoulder as some slow film played in the background. You weren’t really watching it. You were watching the flicker of the screen on his face, the way his jaw tensed whenever something in the film reminded him of what you’d been through.

“You know,” you said softly, “when I was little, I used to make up stories about my dad. Like, full-on fantasy versions of him. In one, he was an undercover spy and couldn’t come see me because he was off saving the world. In another, he was trapped in a different timeline and trying to find his way back.”

Robert let out a quiet breath. “That’s kind of beautiful.”

“It was all just lies I told myself so I didn’t feel forgotten.”

He kissed the top of your head. “He missed out on the best thing he could’ve had. But I didn’t. I got you.”

You turned to look at him. “I’m glad I came home to you.”

“You are home to me,” he said, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. “Always.”

You rested your head against him again. Safe. Loved. Whole, even in the breaking.

[lowkeyivory]

Listen I know people might disagree with this...And hey I completely understand and I'd like ur opinion about this (only if it's said nicely) but... wouldn't it make sense if five in s4 would go depressed? Like I know SOME people also agree on this, but this is how I think his depression would've been in s4 (coming from someone who's depressed too)

First off, I think it would be fitting for him to have depressive episodes every two weeks or so. Like the last week five was just doing fine, living normally, spending time with his family, feeling neutral about everything but still enjoys life because hey at least he gets to have his retirement right? But oh boy then the depression hits him in the face like a slap and the following week, he suddenly doesn't want to get up from his bed or do anything in general.

He pushes himself to go to work, but bottling up his emotions inside while trying to focus on his work would've been really difficult for him so when he gets back from his apartment (he lives in an apartment because fuckass Steve didn't even bother to show where he lives at all) he suddenly breaks down into tears and just let's everything out all night and doesn't get any sleep until it's like around 3 am

And irritability!! it would suit him because we all know he's the type of old man who's irritated and intimidating in other seasons. So it'd make sense how he's suddenly irritated for no reason at all. He's irritated at his family for no reason, his irritated at himself for no reason, just... everything. And he doesn't understand why because he has no reason to be irritated (fuck depression for having myself debate wtf is wrong with me and these mood swings)

And honestly? When I first watched s4 and his hair was long, I also thought like the others and was like "his hair would NOT be like that, that is so out of character for him like what the hell is that" and I just thought that... maybe he hasn't taken good care of himself properly for the last six years. Because hey... depression and hygiene?? now that's very fucking difficult and I can't even manage to brush my own teeth either. But maybe it's just a stupid excuse because I love his hair in season 4 nonetheless, and him not taking good care of himself + depression, making his hair look long?? it'd make sense.

BUT we do see five still caring about his own appearance in the previous seasons, looking neat and clean and all. So maybe he would care to go to the barber and ask for his usual clean haircut and not some tiktok thirst trap haircut. But his hair would be messy, having bed heads, his eyebags like he hasn't slept in ages (I can't even sleep the whole night 💔) etc etc.

And oh boy here it comes, the sudden guilt!! He probably feels the sudden guilt of not being able to do enough for his family, (which would be mostly likely what he'd be very guilty of) his childhood trauma finally comes at him and he gets super guilty for "leaving" his siblings in the first place and his guilt of not listening to his father. And this next part... would be VERY TRIGGERING SO TRIGGER WARNING

Suicide. or thinking of death in general. Like he gets these ideas and just "what if I just died in the apocalypse, I would've been better off dead anyway right?" ouch. yes. that was harsh and u may think it might be ooc for him too and I'm sorry 😔 or or while he's drinking (yes this old man still gets drunk because we barely see him drinking in s4) he gets the sudden idea to smash the bottle and grabs the glass shards and just use it to... you know. 😬 And I'm not gonna continue this whole thing because y'all get the point but at this part? You can exclude this cause either five wouldn't think something like this or you'd disagree with it.

But like... I dunno, I always wondered if five did ever had these thoughts, even in the apocalypse. Because of how isolated and lonely he was for decades, the pain and suffering, having to survive alone, u can't convince me that there wasn't a day that went by that he didn't think ONCE about this. I was isolated back then to the point I had those thoughts, so... 🤷‍♀️

Okay on top of all that, the reason why I think five should've been depressed in s4 is because of how lost he is in reality. I swear I saw another comment about that on YouTube, saying how he should've been a depressed old man lost in reality in s4. And I agree with them too, his siblings left him, he doesn't know what to do anymore, there's no apocalypse for the next six years and he finally gets the retirement he can get! But oh no all the trauma and PTSD he's been suppressing suddenly gets back at him and now he suffers for the next six years!

so uhm.. I think that will be it for now? I just wanted to say what I think five would've been with depression and stuff in season four. Let me know what ya think about this!! Disagree or not it's completely fine just be kind about it and maybe u can rant abt what five would've been in s4 too!

Peace out

[sillyguystrawb]

Normally I talk about TicciJack in a poly-ship setting where Toby dates both Eyeless Jack and Clockwork, but this time I'm just gonna be thinking about Eyeless Jack and Ticci Toby as a monogamous couple because that's also cute to me too <3

Hey @reddetur this one's for you

Ok Ticci Toby X Eyeless Jack ramblings, thoughts, ideas, etc. because I have problems and I'm gay and my stupid and gay serial killers and cannibals are so mmmmmm sweetie pies in looovvvveee!!! Entirely sfw and doesn't contain commonly triggering topics, but it is messy and all over the place, no thought is baked more than half way.

Ticci Toby X Eyeless Jack Time!!

An idea I had for Toby and Jack to get together was Toby and Jack being friends for a long time and Toby being completely romantically inexperienced and terrified of rejection and cannot read what's somebody liking him as a friend versus romantic where Jack just thinks Toby knows how Jack feels and doesn't feel the same way (idiots who can't communicate due to being socially inept). At some point Toby cracks a "Forever alone nobody loves me" joke and Jack is just genuinely confused like "What?? I've been in love with you for like a year though, I thought you knew that?" and Toby is like half trying to explain it was a joke and half trying to clarify that Jack just confessed to loving him and anyway they're idiots <3

Jack is like ... a fucking tall guy, terrifyingly tall. But that means he gets BIG CLOTHES, and Toby steals them. All the time. Jackets, shirts, underwear, socks, pants, it's comfy and he feels safe and like Jack's hugging him when he's not around and it's baggy and lose on Toby and super cozy. Jack only gets his clothes back when Toby wants them to smell like Jack again.

Jack shows love with acts of service mostly, and will literally do everything for Toby from make food (Toby does not let him, DO NOT let Jack near a toaster and then walk away, lest the house catch on fire and he blame the "way the kettle boiled" for it), to literally sitting beside the tub and bathing Toby, to stitching his wounds (with intense annoyance at the fact Toby should be careful), to cleaning his room, just ANYTHING. Toby says the word and Jack gets it DONE.

Toby shows love with physical affection and words of affirmation. Toby's a pretty brutally honest guy in the vast majority of situations, and this extends to the way he talks to Jack. Jack cannot get Toby to shut up about how much he loves Jack (not that Jack ever has wanted him to, or would want him to), and Toby will often find Jack and beg for attention when he's busy (deliberately when Jack is busy) to tell him that he's the most important person in Toby's life.

When Toby learned that Jack liked being touched (not even in a sexual way, just as a romantic affection thing!) he was over the moon. Jack isn't very inclined to initiate physical touch, because he much prefers it when Toby just does... affectionate Toby things? Toby will burrow into Jack's hoodie while Jack's wearing it and claim it's for warmth reasons to which Jack replies "You can't feel temperature" and Toby says "Can't feel I can see just fine and I can tell you're pretty hot". Jack especially likes it when toby decides that the only acceptable way to get around is by making Jack give him a piggyback ride, or the only acceptable chair is Jack's lap.

Toby is obsessed with finding new random excuses to initiate any physical touch with Jack. Like "Hey is my skin warm or cold I can't tell if my body needs a blanket" and then just shove his face into Jack's neck and nuzzle him, when they both know that Toby's temperature is far from concerning in any way and that Toby just wants a big hug. Which Jack obviously provides.

For like the first month of their relationship Toby referred to Jack as a full title in EVERY POSSIBLE CIRCUMSTANCE. "Jack, who is my perfect boyfriend" was inserted anywhere in any conversation because Toby was so excited and happy. Jack thought it was fucking adorable. Toby eventually asked Jack why he didn't talk about how excited he was that they were together, and Jack's reponse was "Why spend time talking about how much I love you to people who won't understand just how much I mean it anyway, when I can spend that same time showing you, the person who matters most."

Toby's assigned side of the bed is whichever side Jack is already on. Toby lays on top of Jack, and Jack acts very annoyed at this but Toby knows Jack can't sleep without the equivalent of a weighted blanket on him. Toby once slept on his own side of the bed only to be woken up an hour later by Jack telling Toby he couldn't sleep, and that their usual sleeping accomidations were a necessity for his physical wellbeing as sleep is an incredibly important routine to maintain, and the weight Toby provides is a physical importance to this due to the relaxing effect Toby has on his emotional state and the anti-anxiety properties of sleeping with a weighted object or entity. But because Toby was half asleep he was just like "So you wanna cuddle because it gives you good dreams?" and Jack's like "... yes."

Jack knows Toby likes to collect rocks, so he carves hearts into cool rocks he finds on his own and leaves them on Toby's desk to find.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for Jan behind the cut; “project sidekick”. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“This is such bullshit,” Wally bites off, because it's not like he's not Wally, he's been Wally all this time, nobody could tell the fucking difference including Uncle Barry and his parents and Batman and his teachers and friends and him–except they're not, none of them are, the Flash is his uncle but he's not the Flash's nephew, he–he–

He’s not. He remembers them, but none of them remember . . . remember . . . 

It’s a different Wally West that they’re all remembering. A different Kid Flash. A different . . . 

They think he’s different. They think he’s not . . . 

He’s not Wally West to them. Not to any of them. 

He doesn’t–he doesn’t know what . . . what’s going to . . . what’s he’s going to . . . 

“We must only wait, my friend,” Kaldur says like they’re even actually friends at all, but Wally doesn’t know how to think of him as anyone else. He is Kaldur, same as–he remembers everything Kaldur remembers and he’s genetically identical to Kaldur and he’s actually technically probably more Kaldur because everything he did was something Kaldur would have, because he didn’t know the stupid difference! He’s Kaldur, just three months farther along. All he ever did was what Kaldur would’ve done. 

So he’s Kaldur. He’s more Kaldur than the real Kaldur. 

And literally no one else thinks that. No one else thinks that, and if Wally ever actually said that, they’d all think he was about to go fucking supervillain on them or something, which actually maybe would be justified, if only because supervillains get to do shit like burn down or explode or disintegrate entire fifty-three level labs and every single doctor who’s ever worked in them and also break into Belle Reve and personally vibrate Desmond’s larynx out of his fucking throat! 

It’d take longer to kill him than the heart would, and maybe Wally really is going to end up a supervillain. Maybe he’s a shitty person or he has mind control somewhere in his head that just hasn’t gotten triggered yet or– 

“I am actually very not-good at waiting, that’s kind of my whole thing is being bad at waiting, if you forgot,” Wally cuts his own thoughts off with, forcing his hands not to vibrate with speed–or Speed. “Or it’s Kid Flash’s whole thing, anyway, and my stupid ass didn’t know the difference.” 

The Flash kept looking at him like he was worried about what he was gonna do and his–and–and the Wests are gonna be so, like, upset and horrified and probably be upset with themselves, too, since it’s not like they tweaked he wasn’t really there–wasn’t their–wasn’t the same kid they’d been raising all his life, and Batman told Dick he was sorry, which–how often does Batman even do that, say he’s freakin’ sorry like that?! 

And–and the Wally who’s been in stasis on sublevel 53 for the past three months is gonna come get his life back and not know anything that’s happened or anything that’s going on, and–and–

And M’gann and Artemis are gonna be so freaked out. Like, Conner’s one thing, they came in knowing about Conner being a clone and he does, actually, look different from Superman, what with the whole “being half his physical age” thing, but them–they all look exactly like the guys whose lives they stole and maybe they do have freaky mind control in them, maybe they’re not safe to be around, maybe they’re creepy awful evil sleeper agents or–or– 

“And yet the necessity for the waiting remains,” Kaldur says gently, the total actual asshole who can only act like that ‘cuz he got cloned from the most chill and most responsible sixteen year-old who has ever walked the fucking earth, Wally is pretty sure, and he got made out of a socially-inept loser who literally no girl alive would ever look twice at and who can’t just slow down when he–! 

“Sure it does,” Dick says, then lets out a mean, bitter little laugh. It’s not a laugh Wally’s ever heard from him before. 

But he heard it when Dick told him about . . . told him about the circus, and Zucco, and . . . 

That’s not even something that actually happened to him. Not even something that happened to this Dick, which–actually, yeah, never mind, Wally will take the socially-inept loser who can’t slow down compared to remembering watching the Flying Graysons fall. Remembering watching that from their kid’s perspective, all the related thoughts and emotion and–and Dick remembers all that awful stuff, remembers losing his parents and his life and his whole world, and he doesn’t even get to feel anything about it anymore. 

He never even met the Graysons. Never lived with them or travelled with the circus; never performed in front of cheering crowds like he remembers loving, never knew any of those people, never actually felt all that rage and grief and helplessness. 

So no one’s going to think it counts, now that they know he’s not the Dick Grayson that actually did do all those things.

And now Dick’s actually lost his parents and his life and his whole world, because none of it them were ever his at all, and he remembers feeling that twice, and remembers exactly how awful it was the first time. Remembers what it did to him the first time. How it changed him, and what it made him, and . . . 

Yeah. Wally will take the socially-inept loser of a gene donor, actually. The socially-inept loser of a gene donor is looking pretty good right now.