#but I'm not sure the author even cares that much

[tossawary]

Recent "Star Trek" reboot universes have really tried to sell me on three different romances for Spock with other TOS characters whom he did not have romantic relationships (at least not positive ones) with in TOS, which makes it particularly annoying when some fans try to squirm away from the idea of ST ever doing a future reboot or remake in which Spock/Kirk are explicitly queer.

Like, "But it's not in the original! They want to be faithful to the original!" really, REALLY does not pass the "I think you might just be discomforted by queerness and you should work on that, rather than making appeals to the authority of textual accuracy to avoid being called a homophobe or transphobe" check here. Because it's not as though these reboots care about perfect faithfulness on pretty much any other front. We'll accept that the costumes and special effects get updated to move with the times, we'll accept wildly different characterization choices that essentially give these characters new personalities, we'll accept new timelines that change the entire political map of the galaxy, but you as a fan draw the line at "What if this character was bisexual this time?" Really???

To be clear, I am not trying to dunk on Spock/Uhura, Spock/Chapel, or Spock/T'Pring here, I am merely trying to illustrate a frustrating double-standard. TOS Uhura does notably flirt with Spock several times! I see it! I remember TOS Chapel's feelings for Spock being one-sided, but I also don't think it's a bad thing to try to update TOS's more misogynistic writing choices regarding female characters. TOS T'Pring did... kind of try to kill Spock because she didn't want to marry him, but again, I don't necessarily think it's immediately a bad thing to try to explore her as a character and her betrothal to Spock. It's fine! It's fine by me to explore new takes in new AUs.

It's just that none of that evidence from TOS for those relationships holds much of a candle to whatever the fuck Kirk and Spock had going on to inspire The Premise. "Amok Time" is an Experience. There's only so many times that Kirk can say something like, "The cost [of abandoning Spock] would have been my soul," before you want to put your face in your hands. They are taking shiny pebbles from TOS and trying their very best to sell them to me as the basis for romantic relationships in reboots, sure, while they are standing in the shadow of Spirk Evidence Mountain (TOS).

(Yes, I have seen the recent "Unification" short film. Yes, I enjoyed it. No, I will not consider Spirk "officially canon" until all plausible deniability for the squirmy folks has been completely, explicitly destroyed by a HUMAN kiss onscreen.)

And okay, I must admit, at the moment, I don't actually want Spirk to eventually happen in "Strange New Worlds" now that they've finally met. I'm mostly indifferent to their Spock and Kirk actors, personally, and the writing for every canonical romantic relationship in both SNW and "Discovery" so far has gotten a solid "well, they certainly are standing next to each other" from me. (Yes, even the gay marriage in "Discovery". I just haven't been into it so far.) I think the writers would fumble Spirk if they tried it in this specific show and then annoying fans would use the fumble as "evidence" never to try to do Spirk or queer retakes on other TOS characters ever again, or as "proof" against other queer ST in other shows characters generally.

I'm mostly just mildly annoyed that I have to keep watching Spock specifically, famously read by many people as a queer man, be straight and messy about it, especially when there has not really been a significant queer relationship onscreen in SNW yet, unless you count M'Benga's daughter Rukiya and her glow cloud friend named Debra, which I personally don't, honestly. I'd like an onscreen relationship with a main character with zero plausible deniability. There's definitely nothing yet that comes remotely close to the screentime that Spock/Chapel, Spock/T'Pring, and Kirk/La'an have all been given so far, unfortunately. (Sulu is not here yet. Scotty has just shown up. If Scotty gets to make out with a guy next season, or Uhura or Ortegas gets to make out with a lady, without it being part of some god-like-being's fantasy world, then I may be satisfied.) (Also, yes, I am aware of queer characters and relationships in other "Star Trek" shows, thanks. I very much enjoyed Mariner having her incredibly silly breakup with her girlfriend in "Lower Decks".)

"Star Trek" is one of those properties where some people's double-standards regarding romantic interpretations of the original series really jump out. "They can't do Kirk/Spock because they want to be faithful to the original!" Get real.

[aylacavebear]

Soulmates? Yeah, right, pft. - Ch. 31

When you turn sixteen, and your soulmate's name doesn’t appear anywhere on your body that you can find, you figure you had to be the only person on the planet who didn’t have one. Most of the town shuns you, so you stick close to family. Your Aunt Ellen raised you after your parents died in a car crash when you were two, but what happens when the Winchesters return to town and buried secrets begin to come to light?

Pairing: Mechanic Dean Winchester x OC Reader/You

Word Count: 3380

A/N: This chapter is from several different perspectives.

Warnings: The Angst is back, Dean being Dean, navigating being an empath, suggestive thoughts, longing, Fluff, Premonition, Talk of Bonding (This is something specifically for this AU. I do not see this as a "requirement" to fully connect to someone, but for this story, it is needed).

A/N: This is my non-Supernatural fic I'm attempting. Please let me know what you think, as I always love hearing from my readers.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 31

Even though it had happened near four in the morning, neither of you could go back to sleep. The images that bombarded Dean’s mind had his nerves on edge just as badly as if he had had the nightmare himself. He must have held you for an hour before the both of you finally made your way to the kitchen for coffee, then lots of cuddles on the couch. Calling Crowley had gone far easier than you had pictured it. 

You explained the first nightmare, then the second one, adding what Pamela had told you. At first, you weren’t sure if Crowley was going to be of any help with as silent as he got on the other end of the line. Then, he said something that brought both hope and fear. “You’ve had two, both involving Cole. I’ll take care of it.” He didn’t give you more than that before he hung up.

With a sigh and a frown, you looked up at Dean, who placed a soft kiss on your forehead. “It’ll be alright,” he tried to reassure you, even with the knot in his stomach.

“It’s not fair. Why can’t they just leave me alone?” it was a question you both already knew the answer to, but neither of you wanted to speak it out loud. You were partially relieved that you didn’t know more of what was going on with Cole, but only partially.

Dean set your cup and his on the coffee table before he pulled you into full-on cuddles on the couch, something you both needed. There was so much he wanted to say, but none of the words that went through his head seemed right. The last thing he wanted to do was brush off what you were going through. —------------------------------

Crowley had spoken to Pamela the day you had visited her. Now, he was sitting in one of his studies, leaning back in the chair and sipping his drink. The computer in front of him was on, but his gaze was elsewhere. Cole had been released only a day ago. There wasn’t enough against him to hold or charge him with anything. Abaddon had made sure of that.

He was currently debating how he wanted to deal with this. It wasn’t like the authorities did anything in a timely manner, and Crowley hated red tape. “Sir, Mr. Winchester is here,” the butler stated, standing in the doorway.

“Show him in,” Crowley sighed. With Meg staying in Sioux Falls, he was down one of his best helpers. He knew Ketch could easily handle this job, but that was far riskier. Ketch had a tendency to enjoy his work far too… deeply.

After Dean’s phone call almost a week ago, Sam had been trying to help Crowley find a way to keep Cole locked up. That had led from one dead end to another. Since Cole hadn’t left any sort of paper trail, there was literally no evidence that he was anything more than a victim of what his father had started over twenty years ago.

“Alright, Crowley. What the hell is going on?” Sam demanded as he burst into the study past the butler, who hadn’t even had the opportunity to announce him.

“Nice to see you too, Moose,” Crowley muttered before sitting up. “She’s had another premonition, and Pamela confirmed it.” The bombshell hit Sam hard, causing him to sit in one of the chairs as his mind began racing. “Where’s Cole now?”

“According to my informants, he’s in Madison. His jeep is parked outside a Super Eight motel off Second Street. I’ve already confirmed that he’s there, room seven,” Crowley replied, still figuring out how he wanted to proceed and the repercussions of his options.

All Sam could do was stare at Crowley in utter disbelief. Cole’s location was only an hour from Sioux Falls. The silence stretched between the two, neither ready to speak the things circling their thoughts. “Coffee, Mr. Winchester?” the butler asked from the doorway, pulling Sam from his thoughts.

“Uh, yeah,” he answered absentmindedly, then turned back to Crowley. “So, what are you doing to stop him?”

Crowley looked over at Sam, debating just what information to share and what to keep to himself, then leaned back in his chair. “I’ve already alerted the main office here. They said they would take care of it, but I don’t trust them.” He paused, taking a sip of his drink, studying Sam. “I contacted a few other places, to speed things up. Ketch will be flying out in a few hours.” Sam didn’t have to ask who Crowley contacted. There was an intricate system in place for those who had premonitions, and Pamela was well-known within that system. Ketch had already packed, and he was waiting to board his flight. His assignment was simple: follow Cole and keep Y/N and Dean safe.

“Then why am I here? You could have told me all this over the phone,” Sam finally asked Crowley, quite bluntly as the butler returned with his coffee.

For a moment, Crowley let the silence stretch between them as the tension built in the small room. It was cases like this that got to him, even if he never let it show. He had a reputation to uphold. “Pamela wanted me to pass on a message. Don’t go to Sioux Falls till after your brother’s birthday.” With a sigh, Sam leaned back in the chair. He knew what that meant. Pamela had seen something, and had been cryptic on purpose. Running a hand down his face, he sighed, lost in thought. This was supposed to have been easy. Cole was supposed to go down with his father and grandfather, but Abaddon had found enough of a loophole and gotten him released. Now, you and Dean were in danger, again. “I’ll reschedule my flight,” Sam finally mumbled out before heading for the door. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

“It’ll be taken care of, one way or another,” Crowley muttered, causing Sam to pause for a brief moment before leaving. 

—-----------------------------------

When the plane touched down at the Sioux Falls airport, Ketch was attempting to stay patient. Flights always took far too long, but they were faster than driving, and right now, time was of the essence. He had wanted to follow Cole the moment he’d been released, but Crowley had forbidden it. 

Going through the airport, he paid no attention to the people passing by, living their lives in their own bubbles. Ketch was focused on his current assignment, bag slung over his shoulder. It was already early afternoon, and he still had driving to do. At least his contact was parked outside in a relatively inconspicuous black car. Ketch didn’t even bother noting its make or model as he placed his bag in the trunk and then slid into the passenger seat.

“Your rental is already at the motel, waiting,” Mick began before popping the glovebox and handing him several items. “That’s your new ID-” but Ketch cut him off.

“Just drive, Mick. I don’t have time for this. I know the drill,” Ketch’s words were pointed, taking the papers and giving them a quick once over before slipping them into the inner pocket of his suit.

Mick was more talkative than Ketch preferred, wanting to make small talk. Ketch’s focus was on his next ten moves, like in chess, letting his thoughts drown out Mick’s voice on the nearly forty-five-minute drive to his motel. He didn’t need anything fancy. He was there for an assignment, and the less conspicuous his accommodations were, the better.

A slight smirk formed when he saw the motorcycle parked in the lot outside the motel. It would serve his purpose perfectly, allowing him to go off-road if he needed to in order to follow Cole. Even as Ketch got out of the car, Mick was still talking, something about a tracking device on Cole’s Jeep. “I’m aware,” was all the reply he gave, closing the door and grabbing his bag out of the trunk. Mick sighed, then held out the key to Ketch’s room. “I think you’ll need this.”

Ketch gave him an annoyed look, grabbed the key from Mick’s hand, and went to his motel room, ignoring Mick’s amusement. The motel room was basic, but Ketch wasn’t concerned with creature comforts. He had a job to do. 

The sounds of engines came and went outside with the traffic, but his focus was on his laptop, now watching as the tracker made its way along a backroad toward Sioux Falls. With the roads Cole was choosing, Ketch made a projected route to your house. About two more hours. He glanced over at his bag as he leaned back in his chair. Time to go.

His focus was on his assignment as he made his way through town. The chill of January not bothering him through the layers of clothing he had adorned before heading out. Ketch didn’t go directly to your home. He pulled off the side of the road, heading into the forested area. This was a stealth mission. Once his bike was hidden well, he went back, covering his tracks, his tactical bag slung over his shoulder. It was well past noon, nearly evening, and the sun would be setting soon. Good. The night would be his friend. Ketch weaved through the forest toward your home, the only sound was the crunching of the leaves under his feet and the occasional bird. The trees had already lost their leaves, making the area look desolate. 

Ketch stopped just inside the treeline and pulled out his phone. Cole wasn’t far now. He turned off his phone after setting it to silent, then slipped it into one of his pockets and zipped it shut. This way, even a simple notification wouldn’t give him away. Ketch took in the area, needing to find not only a decent location to keep an eye on Cole but also a place he could easily slip inside your home if need be. 

The shed in the back was a no-go, as it was too far away from the front, and he wouldn’t have a clear line of site. The tree line was too far away, and it would take too long to get to one of the doors if Cole went inside. Ketch let his gaze fall on your home. The roof was typical for places with snow, and it clearly had an attic. Crossing the distance in quick strides, he listened carefully to the sounds that seemed to echo in the area. So far, though, no indication that Cole’s Jeep was nearby. Using your porch, he climbed up on the roof with ease, using skills he’d perfected over the years. Ketch carefully inspected the roof, finding two different ways inside if he needed to. One of those was your bedroom window, which he could easily slip down to.

Ketch crouched down, watching your driveway as the early moments of twilight set in. With you living outside the city, he could hear things for what felt like miles as they echoed off the sleeping forest. It wasn’t long after that when an engine rumbled in the distance. Ketch lifted his head slowly in the direction of the sound. It was coming from the opposite direction he had taken. Clever.

Setting his tactical bag down in front of him, he opened it, then went through the motions he’d done hundreds of times as he assembled the sniper rifle. It was only a precaution. His sidearm was what he knew he’d probably end up using. Ketch stowed the empty bag near the chimney before nestling himself behind it, watching the driveway that weaved through the forest.

—---------------------------------

Dean had heard the alarm go off, quickly making his way to the security room before you and sliding into the seat. Just as you were about to join him, having only made it to the doorway, he got right back up and blocked you from going further. “Let’s just go watch another movie,” he suggested, wanting to shield you from what was taking place outside.

You could feel that he was hiding something, his worry trickling through the connection between you. “What are you hiding from me?” It was a simple question, but your fears were creeping in again.

He sighed and pulled you into his arms. “Please, Sweetheart. Can we just go watch a movie and cuddle?” Dean asked again, and even though his tone was soft, you felt the plea within his words. 

Reluctantly, you gave in, even with that nagging fear, and let him guide you back into the living room. It had already been a long day after the nightmare you’d had, and now Ketch was here, on the roof. Dean knew that could only mean one thing- Cole was on his way. Trying to push his thoughts away, he focused on the movies, needing one that would completely distract you and him from everything. Batteries Not Included it is.

Dean steadied his emotions as he slipped the VHS into the player and joined you on the couch. You kept trying to feel what he was trying to hide, but he was doing a far better job of it than you cared to admit. Something was going on, and whatever it was, he knew. Even as the movie began playing and you snuggled against him with him holding you close, he felt… off. 

I wish you’d just tell me.

Please. Just be here with me, in this moment.

As those words whispered through your mind, that knot returned to your stomach, the fear that never seemed to truly leave you. Dean felt it, twisting his insides. Relax. We’re safe. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It took everything in him to calm his stomach, letting out several shaky breaths. You wanted to apologize but didn’t, remembering what he’d asked of you in the beginning. So, instead, you focused on the movie, on being in his arms, and how his heartbeat finally evened out in a steady rhythm. That finally allowed Dean to relax, just not all the way. He didn’t need to be in the loop to know what was going on. Cole was on his way there, for you, and Ketch had been sent to stop him. Which also meant that the authorities that were supposed to take care of this, hadn’t moved fast enough. Or, they simply hadn’t thought it was a high priority.

You allowed the movie to completely distract you, remembering how Pamela had told you that you let fear run your life. Even if it was hard, you’d been trying to push past it, to truly hope for a normal life with Dean. His presence steadied you. His embrace comforted you. And halfway through the movie, you were finally able to let go of the fear that had gripped you earlier. 

—--------------------------

Ketch watched as Cole parked twenty feet from your porch, then sat in his Jeep after turning everything off. Cole’s movements inside the Jeep were easy to watch with the overhead light on inside. He has a handgun. Ketch cocked the sniper rifle but knew he would need a damn good reason to use it. For now, neither of you were in direct harm. He watched Cole slip on a bulletproof vest, then a heavy jacket, and double-checked his gun, keeping it in hand.

Just as Cole stepped out of his Jeep, Ketch heard the sound of several vehicles in the near distance, pulling his attention to the darkness beyond the Jeep. Six sets of lights were rabidly approaching down your winding driveway. He quickly looked through the scope, keeping it trained on Cole. The moment Cole went to move back to his Jeep, Ketch fired a warning shot at the ground, effectively keeping him from going further.

Cole glared up toward the roof of your home, making Ketch smirk. He would have happily shot him, but now he wouldn’t have to. The six vehicles surrounded the Jeep and Cole before over a dozen people quickly got out with weapons drawn.

“Cole Vaught, put the gun down and put your hands behind your head,” one of the men barked the order at him. 

He did as they told him, knowing they’d shoot him without a second's hesitation. Ketch just smirked at Cole’s predicament but kept the sniper rifle trained over the man’s face. Four men rushed Cole while another retrieved his gun. With Cole in handcuffs, they hauled him toward one of the vehicles, and Ketch watched as he disappeared into the back seat. 

Ketch stayed there on your roof, even after they had driven away, one of them driving Cole’s Jeep. Silence had fallen on the area again before he disassembled his rifle and placed it back into his bag. With a disappointed sigh, he pulled out his phone, “Looks like they weren’t completely incompetent. Cole has been taken into custody.”

“Stay there for a few days, just in case. I don’t trust those people,” the voice on the other end replied before hanging up.

He had no plans of staying on your roof all night, so he made his way back to his bike and then back to the motel, already planning his next moves off of numerous possibilities. He had one job, to keep you and Dean safe.

—----------------------------

The following day, you woke to those beautiful green orbs watching you, pulling a smile to your lips. “Morning, beautiful,” he said softly, leaning down, placing a tender kiss to your forehead.

“Mmmm…” you hummed, snuggling a little closer to him. “How long have you been awake?” you asked sleepily, enjoying the warmth of his body and the comfort of his embrace.

“Not long,” he murmured, letting his hand slide down your back before finding your hip.

You tried not to let your mind wander, but his hands always felt so inviting, and he had always been so considerate that it was getting harder and harder not to let go. “Tease,” you mumbled, a bit playfully.

Dean loved mornings like this, when you were completely relaxed, and the weight of everything was far from your thoughts. You were playful, receptive, and the love in your eyes when they met his had his heart racing. That smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, tightening his grip on your hip just a little before he pulled you flush against him.

“And that’s all I’ll be, till you’re ready,” he teased before kissing you. 

When his lips met yours, you closed your eyes, getting lost in the way your emotions danced with his. You set your hand on his side, taking a deep breath through your nose, but allowed yourself to let go of everything but what you felt at that moment. His lips teased yours, occasionally letting his tongue taste you, and you didn’t pull away. He stifled a groan when you reciprocated his movements, and he shifted his body so he was lying more on his side as you let him lie you more on your back. The feeling of safety enveloped you like a warm blanket. These were the moments you wanted just to let go in, but the outside world always seemed to interfere as your phone began ringing on the nightstand.

You groaned, loudly at the interruption while Dean just sighed, lying back and staring at the ceiling, attempting to hide his frustration. It was a number you didn’t recognize but answered it anyway; it could be important.

“Hello?” you asked, sitting up in bed.

“Y/N, I know you’ve been told not to leave your home for at least four more days. Cole is in our holding facility. He’ll be transferred to the main security hold this afternoon. I’d like to meet with you today. Would it be okay if I came by?” the woman with a southern accent explained as your anxiety spiked.

“Who is this?” was all you could get out while Dean quickly shifted in the bed so he was now sitting up and as close to you as he could get.

The woman let out a sigh, “I’m Missouri. We need to meet. Pamela gave me your number.”

----------------------------------------- Chapter 32

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[theoburrsvirginitybalcony]

It took almost 100 pages for Hamilton to interact with Betsey which is crazy considering this is a Hamliza romance novel

[sskk-manifesto]

Finally got around to watching ep 11 (´；ω；｀)

[yoihino]

Auuaghh undertale fandom video essays my beloathed. Is it really so much to ask for just one (1) of these to be made by an actual fan who was in the fandom? Like it is so clear they are talking about it from an outside perspective or that they got into it just fpr the video and uggh. Where is the love? The appreciation for the aus and their creators? For the history for the fandom? Honestly I just want like a text post of someone saying 'hey remember those times? They were wild and they may not have been perfect but we sure had a lot of fun'.

[zukkaoru]

i support women's wrongs but i have to say i'm also a rather big fan of consistent characterization,,

[louderfade]

exene talking about the state of the world. the good stuff starts at eight minutes. or you can just read the transcript complete with the usual errors that accompany robot transcribed speech (the irony of which is not lost on me). maybe it's not about transhumanism and living forever (or maybe it is who knows), but there's definitely an agenda of surveillance and control at work which is designed to keep the powerful in power. cash rules everything around me and you will own nothing etc. the future is worse.

[concerto-roblox]

just had a sudden vivid flashback to the dan and phil/h*rry p*tter crossover fic i read on wattpad when i was 14 where dan had a younger brother who was dying of cancer and they were both obsessed with hamilton and would write letters to each other while dan was at hogwarts and they'd all start with "my dearest, [x]" and then his brother's make a wish was to meet lin manuel miranda and when they got in the taxi with him the driver was playing the moana soundtrack and then realised it was him and there were whole entire scenes where dan and other people would quote hamilton at each other and the slytherins would get confused because obviously they didn't listen to hamilton and yeah idk where i was going with this post

[amplexadversary]

.

[milkbreadtoast]

exactly this...🥹😭❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Oh my god.......

[acid-ixx]

ch.4: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: self-esteem issues, alcohol abuse, allusions to self-harm.

"baby bird, i know i haven't been talking to you much as of lately. but i just want to let you know that we miss you alright?"

not delivered.

"i really regret ignoring you, we all do. i'm-"

he hesitates, then deletes the last word of his message.

"—we're the ones in the wrong for everything, alright? you blocked me, i'm sure you did for everyone else too, i get that, but we care for you now and that won't change anytime soon. please remember that."

not delivered.

"and it pains me seeing that you're not replying to my messages at all, baby bird. but i promise i'll-"

dick bites his lips at the mistake of addressing himself only rather than that of the family, but a greedy part of him wants you to read the messages and to see only him in spite of everything rather than them, feeling a sense of... need to be the first and only one you see when you think about accepting their apologies, even if he's writing to you whilst simultaneously trying to get his family in your good graces.

dick doesn't know it. why he's suddenly obsessed with you. you? yes you, his stupidly precious sibling, the one who looked up to him, frail and wronged by the world, with so much drive behind that stare. third child of bruce, yet second youngest in the family. the one that got away, the one he has never once saw outside that one memory of glinting, awe-inspired eyes that told more stories than poets, drew more emotions than artists.

nobody saw you outside of your status as the manor's ghost— but compared to your other siblings, he knew you the most. he wants to be the only man good enough to be considered your brother, your oldest brother; an obligation he's willing to uptake just for you. he wants to be the only one with the authority to call you his baby bird. he doesn't know why, despite the thirteen and a half years, it's him wanting, no, needing to see you again.

you, just you.

every bits and pieces of you.

in his mind, it's just him and you. in your tiny little bedroom, with your dozens of sketchbooks and diaries, with only your brother, dick, to accompany you. in your own little world, as you speak to him of your dreams and passions with nothing else in your mind. you'd look up at him with sparkling eyes, look at him like he means everything in the world to you, and he'd see you as his world.

when he thinks of that, the more he hopes of the possibility of you reading his messages; his declaration of never leaving you alone anymore. and with hope comes along this dread that you'd reply with a nasty reply, or that... you'll never bat an eye him anymore.

dick doesn't take a second glance to correct his mistake again this time.

"i promise i'll be better for you baby bird. my little hatchling, my little one. i discarded you, someone so precious. you must've felt hurt, no? i get that, i'm so sorry you have to go through that because of me. but look! you have me now, we have each other now! and that might not be enough yet to mend the bridge i left to fall, but if you just, please reply to me, or anyone else, then we can fix this. i promise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"you won't ever feel hurt anymore, or sad or lonely. hell, even bruce is getting you a new bedroom fixed up, isn't that great!? i'll even convince the old man to make sure your room is close to my old one so you can visit me anytime. i'll even stay over at gotham for even longer, just for you! and i'll spend my time with you, with just the two of us, okay? nobody else can disturb us. i'm sure you'd like that too."

not delivered.

"and we can hang out anytime you want, no? sleepovers, movie nights, journalling— all the cool stuff you wanted to do with me in the past, we can do now! and it'll be fun with you, i can see it happening alrrady, i just know it. you can't convince me otherwise, baby bird."

not delivered.

"that's why i'm begging you to unblock me, little one, or to at least read all my previous messages, please? :( i'm still so sorry over how i treated you in the past. i've nothing to defend myself over how i acted towards you. i was so delusional, ignoring you when all you clearly wanted was to spend time with me, with the family."

not delivered.

"we can even have that dinner together, remember?! at that fancy restaurant you talked about, yeah? my treat, of course. you can order the entire damn menu and i'll leave you room for seconds and desserts. i can even make arrangements to get bruce to rent out the entire restaurant so it would just be the two of us plus the family, but mostly just us— that would be good! then you can sleep at my room after we get home to the manor since we're turning your old one into an atelier just for you! i'll even carry your cute little figure up any flight of stairs whenever you get tired."

not delivered.

"i promise i'll really make it up to you baby bird!!! <3"

not delivered.

"for all the times we neglected you, left you thinking you didn't deserve a spot in the manor (which you truly do, it's us to blame for never seeing it that way), made you feel negative emotions towards us— i'll take your pain and turn that into joy, i promise."

not delivered.

"and if you do manage to read through all this, please remember..."

not delivered.

"i love you so much, alright? we'll find you soon, and you'll be happier with us, i'm sure of it. i love, love, love you so much my baby bird."

not delivered.

he sighs, resigning his thoughts all to himself as he checks his phone every minute for a simple ring of notifications just from you. he prefers to leave his phone in silent mode from the multitude of other contacts bothering him, but god forbade if that means he'd scroll past to a single reply of yours, then he'd rather burn in hell.

and anything is better than the pain inflicted on him when it comes to the thought of you ignoring him.

because after all, he does mean it when he says he loves you, his baby bird, his adorable little sibling.

he'd rather hell than you seeing him any less of an older brother.

what takes longer? is it a seed growing into a bud, a bud into a bloom, or a flower to fully shrivel and die?

how long does it take for it to be considered worthy? deserving of attention and the rightful spotlight to attain its needs for life?

what takes its time? what other variable does it need for it to survive in such harsh conditions? if it's forcefully pried open as a seedling, as a bud growing in a field full of weeds sapping, draining it of its nutrition, or in a scorching, desolate desert, or pestilent lands; would it still be considered a flower?

what does a seed need to grow into a flower? beautiful, treasured, with vibrant colors reflecting off the surface of each petal, growing pollen for every pollinator to spread its bountiful success you call development?

what does it require?

everyone knows the answer, some could only be ignorant enough to turn the other way and reject the idea altogether.

it needs care, nourishment — healthy soil building a strong foundation, its home with roots carefully embedded in the ground, then it also requires water, a source of life given to it in specific times with just the right dose, and sunlight kissing its stems and petals warmly — and finally, love.

lots of love, attention, and patience from mother nature herself and its caretakers we call humans.

but how could a flower receive any, if not, all it needs, if it's raised under a marshy, overgrowth rainforest that speaks of death and cruel poachers that could step on the bloom of any moment?

how could a flower live, let alone survive, if its careless caretakers who took it away from its fertile lands neglect it of its requirements to grow and bloom into its rightful imagery?

just how?

you are a flower.

and you will wilt soon the longer you live in what you once thought was your home.

growing in cracked, dry soil, with no water nor sunlight aiding your growth.

you are a flower.

who had been loved by your creator, mother nature herself; your mother. but you've never once felt the care nor love of your cruel humans you call family, your father had never once saw your budding petals, kissed it, patiently watered or spent time outside in the sunlight with you. your brothers don't notice your dehydrated pets, shriveled leaves and bent stems, nor do they tend to it. your sisters don't decorate the pot you reside it, they don't talk to you every time you sag down in loneliness and isolation as you are forced to stay in the same place and witness the same scenarios over and over again.

not much knows it, but flowers, much like any plant, can communicate, they can feel. and when they do, they do deeply.

and you are a flower. a flower worthy of being pressed into books, storing your beauty forever. a flower worthy of being situated into a stunning arrangements of bouquets, worshipped through birthdays, dates, weddings, and even funerals.

you're a flower, and you're beautiful and deserving of praise and honor from your stages in life as a seed, from a bud, to a blooming flower. yet you're neglected the same way ignorant trespassers would step on growing blooms, uncaring for sabotaging their life completely, and oh-so easily.

you're a flower, a symbol of nature's fertility, resilience, and tranquility.

you symbolize your mother's long standing determination to care for a child whose father looked other ways but her. who raised her seedling with care, watered them with stories of fairytales: fantasies about prince charmings who take their flowers away from barren lands to spoil them with rich soil and neverending sunlight, about princesses who stop by flower shops to awe at the arrangements of bouquets, eyes glazing with fervor as they recount each and every symbolism every unique flower shares.

your mother places you in your favorite, decorated pot: your shared bedroom with her, and she kisses your cheeks, your forehead, your chubby little fingers, the same way the illuminating sunlight kisses at your flushed body whenever you two would go out for your walks.

she was your mother nature, and you were her precious flower.

you were once a blooming bud then, and you wished you would still bloom now.

how could you grow into what you're worth, when even you couldn't grow without the love that was taken from you?

what about the care, the patience, the determination she once held in her warm gaze, now cold and fading with life the last time you saw her; would it all be a waste?

how could you grow now?

and yet you don't even need to ponder for solutions. the answers were clear, clear as the water your petals used to bathe in, clear as the rain that pitters against alfred's car windows the same day you were taken away from your mother's hold—

you simply wilt.

8:31PM.

your friend said she'd pick you up quarter to nine, so you'd at least have the time to prepare and make yourself look good. but right now...

god, right now, you don't feel anything good, not even a wee bit of it at all. ever since he texted you, you feel like shit, utterly repulsed. vile, like the image of you vomiting every contents of your stomach— and now you're going out drinking with an empty one. you can already feel the bitter taste of heavy alcohol mixing in with the acids of your stomach.

you can already feel the breakdown you're having right now as you remember how fucking broke and useless you are for having to ask your friends to treat you to drinking because you have nothing left to offer beyond the fucking taxes you have to pay and the nearly due rent and bills.

you have nothing to offer. you're so shitty. you deserve to die.

the more you stare at the mirror, the more your eyebags seem to deepen, your lips began to dry, and the pit in your chest sunken.

and that makes you exhale even deeper, ignoring the way your throat constricts on itself in instinct.

your eyes flitter to your fingers, nails bitten, skin ripped at the seems with dry blood staining chipped cuticles.

when you looked back at your reflection, you want to cry even more, seeing an image of a moving pile of flesh. all puffy skin and sagging eyes.

you don't remember the last time you felt pretty about yourself.

whether it was in the manor, or back when your mother was the only one raising you— it seems like your memories are in shambles right now.

you don't remember the last time you looked in a mirror, looking healthy, fresh, and proud of yourself for dressing up in your style. in the back of your mind, there will always be hatred, resentment for how you look. and right now, you hate how you every bit of your appearance because...

because you look exactly just like an image of your mother and bruce wayne. a reminder, your punishment for your parents' beautifully tragic affair with one another. a billionaire who courted the lowly dirt-class slut of gotham.

yet you're uglier because you're not them, you couldn't be them. you're not picture-perfect brucie with slick-black hair and a face like fine-aged wine, or the image of your sultry, "man-eater" mother in her lingerie. you're just, you— you've inherited all the stupid flaws you wished you could shave off your damn body.

you remember seeing your father's face in television with your mother beside you by the couch, combing your hair and giggling when your eyes had lit up at the sight of the rich man. you haven't once took your eyes off the news channel whenever he appeared, looking at bruce, always enamored with his aesthetics, only to never notice your mother's tired eyes, or how shaky her fingers would sometimes become.

"momma, that's daddy, right?!" you asked her whilst the side of your body was pressed against hers, with all the enthusiasm a child could muster. your grin was wide, eyes peeled to the screen, enough to ignore the flinch in your mother as you had once thought it was her igniting with the same excitement as yours.

she simply leans down and kisses your cheeks, her eyes, a beautiful shade of your eyes color, albeit lighter in hue, never once left the crown of your small head, ignoring the headline for the news about 'brucie's new fling caught on camera!'.

your mother was so glad you were still illiterate at your age. she wish she could never break off the illusion that it was her who simply birthed to you, with no face for a father. maybe you would've never ask her about why he had never once came to visit your small family, why you could never meet your other siblings, or why he's seen with multiple other women by his side every time you open the television.

you ask at frequent intervals; it makes her wish to strip away the past in which she chose to tell you who your father was. you would've experienced less heartbreak, she would've never seen the way your eyes would dim at her every excuse, or the way she felt your heart crack at the seams, only further breaking hers.

yet after a while, she replies and buries her thoughts, ignoring the tears that lid her eyes. with not so much enthusiasm in her light voice, with the undertones of guilt and sorrow digging deep throat her throat, but it was enough for young, little you to jump on your springy couch with her response.

"... oh, yes, that's your papa...! isn't he so nice looking—?"

"and handsome! i'm so lucky to have such beautiful parents! i wish i was as pretty as you, momma, and daddy too!"

when you had looked up with haste, glinting eyes staring up at her with a wide grin, some baby teeth still present, others absent from your gums, yet you displayed admiration no less; your mother just as quickly wipes her red eyes and sniffling nose with the worn sleeves of her sweater and reciprocates your beaming energy with a small smile.

she wishes you'd dismiss her previous melancholic expression, replacing it with the same fond, yet tired gaze she always offers you, wishing you'd be as oblivious to the pain it brings her to see your hopes and dreams of meeting a father you could only admire through a screen or article. yet you're always so perceptive, so interlinked with her reactions that she's sure that one of the few positive traits your father had given you. she should've expected your words, yet her broken heart finds a path to heal whenever you sense her pain and soft a bandage to the cracks of her bleeding scars with your kindness.

you would always be her little flower. the one she'd nurture in a garden filled with rosy bushes and scarring thorns.

"—you're so beautiful, momma, even if you cry because daddy isn't here with us, or you're too tired taking care of me. you're beautiful because you're my mother, and i'll take you over everything in the world..."

and you tell her, an inaudible whisper to your voice, with eyes that were once wide, beaming with joy, now gazing at her with softness like the wind kissing blades of grass in a gentle dance. you look at her, and she stares back, eyeing your chubby cheeks and lips the same shape of hers, the ends of your lashes curves the same way as hers, and your voice matches her like a lullaby when you speak every vowel in a soothing lilt.

you calm the hurt in her chest, replacing it with a mellow warmth. she even forgot the tears that slowly dripped her eyes, all replaced with the comfortable softness of her precious child's palms, smooth and cozy, resting on both of her cheeks as you pepper her crying face with kisses.

she holds both your palms caging her, and allows the your hold to linger for longer. the silence ensues, yet you both embrace the unsaid assurances.

it's times like these where she realizes you encapsulate the beauty of both worlds.

it's moments like this, she sees herself in you, and maybe she could lead herself to believe that she is beautiful, because she sees her beauty through her child, her grace.

the memory only further deepens the guilt in your heart.

if there's one word to describe you now. it would be disgrace. to your father's honor, and your mother's legacy. for easily letting yourself go, for being so weak, for being the line that jumps between two polar opposites of one another; trying to traverse their path of belonging.

you're a disgrace, a mistake, and you deserve to be treated as such.

it was why you never find yourself beautiful. a person such as yourself would always find allure, worth in all things chaotic - you live in gotham after all - but never find that same value in yourself as you look at your reflection that distorts your image even more, making you uglier and uglier the longer you look.

split ends everywhere, hand tangled, reddish eyes from nearly crying again.

even if you beat at yourself, erratic and impulsive, even if your skin is colored an ashen blue and purple, rotten shades of yellow and red, you think of yourself ugly and repulsive.

no matter how much color you try to bring into your bleak, repulsive life, at the cost of hurting yourself to become pretty— every part of you will always be that ugly, little duckling in comparison of your siblings who always outshone you.

dick with his playboy body, jason and his towering one, tim with soft boyish features, damian's silky tan and smooth skin, and duke's baby face.

you couldn't even have your hair frame you as perfectly as steph's light blonde hair does, or share barbara's proportionate face, or look as gracious yet deadly like cassandra.

you're nowhere near as special, you're not like them. you have features too unique, yet out of place, and you couldn't bring yourself to be conventionally good-looking.

you hate yourself so much. you hate every little mole, every little pimple, every damn imperfection that litter your body, making you even lesser than what you already are.

your family; mother, father, brothers and sisters, god, even your fucking friends! every time you sit by them side-by-side, you'd feel insecure, imperfect, an eyesore and you just want to strip away every part of your limbs one by one if that meant replacing it with even better ones; all for the sake of at least feeling pretty.

you remember the first time you tried to find a sense of style, and damian's comment and– god fucking damn it—!

your hands found its way to your brushed hair, tangling itself through already fragile strands to rip at the seams. you don't care, you don't fucking care, you pray to any god out there to get them out of your head, pleas unheard, you're always left to hurt.

"what are you trying to achieve with that, huh? what even are you trying to think with that horrendous color combination? what are you, a clown? even that damned joker has more coordination than you think you could achieve."

in front of his friend, jon kent, with a scowl on his ever-so angry face and his hand already making a way to grip his sword; an absolute threat to dice you up shall you ever bother being in the same room as him.

he said that to you... you're older, you could've been stronger, could've at least found a semblance of fight in your bones. but no! god, no. your life was ruled with fear with damian wayne being the demon haunting you in the manor, always making living harder, making breathing a heavy task.

how could you ever fight back? not when you've conditioned yourself to tear up at the slightest bit of noise, feel goosebumps prick your skin when you hear someone raise their voice at you, and your heart rate hasten at the slide of a knife against any surface?

you! you who's so fucking weak to even make a comeback. you, who ran away with wide, traumatized eyes. because you're scared, so fucking fearful of an even bigger cut to your skin marked by damian— even if you're accustomed to cutting yourself with even deeper gashes.

because it's him that you fear, not the pain, not anymore. just him and his contempt at you for ruining his pure bloodline just by you being his half-sibling.

you don't want a repeat of your first meeting, or any meeting with him at all. not when you'd drown even deeper in a pit of fear every time you stare at his glaring, emerald eyes. one that tells you he chose to merely not kill you out of the goodness of his heart. but he will, god he will if he feels you've been too comfortable in his presence.

every damn time, everytime you feel fear, you see green. you hate green, any literal meaning of it, every implication of itx even seeing it, and fuck! your outfit has green embellishments.

you feel even uglier, yet the twinge of fear immediately overpowers any concern your had with your appearance. it's as if eyes were suddenly on you, and it's not only yours staring at you in the mirror.

your lips wobble, snot began blocking through the passage of your nose.

fuck, fuck, fuck.

why?! why can't you just forget about them all. why, why, why?!

you bite your lips harshly to conceal the pained whimpers from the back of your throat, but it doesn't work. it only makes the fear worse.

tears rim at your eyes, you merely wipe them away. your heart attempts to beat out of its gilded cage, yet you swallow your quivering chokes and proceed to continue staring at yourself in the mirror, dressed in a rush, with nothing to conceal your ghastly eyebags and sunken skin.

and green. you'll see it everywhere now. fuck, would dick send out damian to kill you now? you don't know, you're scared but you can't chicken out, not when your friend is already near to your apartment. god you wish you had beer in your cabinets instead, but you're broke and unprepared for life and your hair's all in a tangle and you just fucking want to die.

your hands grip at the edge of your sink, you look at your mirror and see the blood on your already bitten lips.

not even concealer can cover the damn scars all over your face all through the neck.

calm down.

you stare even deeper at yourself and ignore the green, trying to think of something else—

something less emotionally scarring, like your appearance. even if it brings you great pain, too, you'd rather that than your family. no more of them, fuck, no more. even if you stare at your eyes and see that familiar mix of colors of your mother and bruce's eyes. the shape of your face, even the curve of your brows all resembled your late mother— and you miss her, her captivating beauty that you never saw aged like fine way before she was taken away from you. you see bruce in the strands of your hair and the way it sometimes fray when too stressed. you see them in every image you wish to erase of yourself.

yet your genetics are nothing to them, not when you can't even care for your tangled hair or ashen skin.

even the dead looked more lively than you ever could.

with a pale complexion, with scars that litter all over your shoulders, wrists, and hidden parts of your body, one you're too ashamed to show anybody— it was no doubt that you looked pathetic and erased the beauty that both your parent's cultivated. and it makes you wonder; would it really be worth it?

would it be worth it if the people around you see you?

you with your melancholic eyes, trying to find an escape in a maze you call your mind? you can picture yourself drinking alcohol until you reach the domain of death, sitting in a stool, alone, as you nearly empty the contents of your stomach remembering the sole reason why you're there in the first place.

would it be worth it if all eyes suddenly were on you? they turn to you to gaze at the ugly bruises on your body, they mock your appearance, call you names, look at your sniveling, red nose and warm cheeks intoxicated from all the heavy liquor you'd down, and whisper. they'll whisper insults, slurs, and every known jab until it's all their words that pierces through your eyes, until the loud bass becomes mere background chatter for all the gossips that ensue.

are you actually going to do this right now?

you don't know, you don't know and you wish never cared as much.

all you could really focus on was your eminent goal of getting out of your stuffy apartment, to rid of the paranoia that somehow, you're being watched over in the confines of your four walls and that the familiar image of green will come attack you. the more you think, the more the hairs on your skin start to raise with every known intention to signal you of your anxiety.

eyes, they may be everywhere.

eyes, eyes, eyes. as you stare at your eyes, you try to ignore emerald eyes, they dilute even further. you gulp, yet your focus remains distorted. images flash at the mirror, and suddenly they're here, with you, with their eyes. bright blue for some, dark green for another, and they all gaze at you with contempt. one's hand claws at your throat, the other pins your wrist down on the edge of the sink. the eyes glare, and they never soften. yours merely shook, unblinking as your breathing becomes heavier; trapped in the cages of their wanton staring.

you yelp, then blink. when you did, they're gone. and you're back to looking at the same image of yourself. you grimace slowly.

ugly, with dry skin and falling hairs. the worst version of you, the normal version of yourself— there was never a best version for you.

as long as it's you, you'll never be enough.

all you wanted was to drink with your friends at a club; some working nightshifts at the location you're going to— yet you want to back down. want to take your phone by the corner of your vision and cancel your sudden plans.

but you're scared, you're so fucking scared of any new messages.

hell, even finding the contacts for your friends was a task in itself you wish to never repeat. with jittery fingers trying to type of messages and blurry eyes navigating through the screen of your slippery, glass screen protector.

you're scared, rightfully so.

you're scared to find his message once more suddenly popping up, your fingers accidentally pressing on it like the clumsy swine you are, and rereading that damn heart over and over again.

you slam your dominant hand against the tiled sink, hard and uncaring for the pain it induced all throughout your body. the tremors of the impact shook you to your core, yet you seethe in your breath and don't allow yourself respite to let the tears flow freely from your already red eyes. you feel your heart beating erratically through your chest, the shivers controlling your body, the shrieks that you contained within you— and you enchain them all with no respect for yourself.

you deserve this. you deserve to be hurt, to be punished for your actions, for your mistakes, for your sins.

even if your hand became swollen, splotched with varying shades of disgusting purples and yellows, you won't treat it with medicine. even if the sharp edges of the sink broke the fragile layer of your already scarred palm, and bled profusely with that familiar shade of red; you won't rush to wrap it with gauze or even spare a droplet of betadine. even if by the next day you'd have to write out your overdue assignments with that specific hand, then you'll force yourself to learn through the other and punish yourself again if you fail once more.

you deserve this.

and as your phone pings, lighting up to show you a notification of one of your friend's messages about being ready to pick you up by the lobby of your apartment's ground floor, you ignore your injured hand and the bruises on your knees from falling so abruptly on tiled floors just moment's ago. you dismiss the ache of your head, the soreness of your eyes and the disgusting beat of your heart.

you ignore the pain that wrecks at your entire body, in favor of destroying it even more, just as you deserve.

you don't recall how many shots you had before you're nearly passed out by the bar, sitting on its stool with your head leaning on one both your arms crossed, drool close to slipping out of the corners of your mouth and heavy eyes lidded, about to fall into the depths of sleep.

you're sure you looked wasted, absolutely drop-dead drunk with no thoughts circulating in your head other than the pleasant buzz in your ears and the flash of colors in the disco balls blanketing the entire room with its neon lights. your face must've been an unearthly shade of red, and you can already feel just how blazen it is, and how your fingertips are ice-cold to the touch (probably colder than the marble you lay your arms upon). in other words, you're actually wasted.

and it's so worth it if it means it gets you to forget. and forget you did, because you can't even dig deep into your head to even remember a single memory of whatever grief you went through earlier in your apartment. not even the throb of your head from when you pulled your hair from its roots, all to the way you slammed your dominant hand on your bathroom sink, bruising it with unnatural shades of purples and yellow.

it makes you omit every type of pain, both physically, mentally, and emotionally. it doesn't cure you of your ails, but god forbid you if you just want to savor moments where nothing but a mind numbing headache is the only feeling present in your current state.

the remix of songs were long forgotten in your mind, they all become an amalgamation of miscellaneous sounds. your body is so inclined towards the flat, rectangular cool surface of the marble glass of the bar that you can guarantee you could sleep here, especially since black behan to cloud both your vision and your mind.

everything feels so hazy, and pleasant, and straight-out peaceful that the screaming tandems of equally drunk clubbers and the occasional sobers holding up their friends who sang along with whatever remix the dj comes up with, or the forming crowd as people began to rock and dance to the bass that shakes up the entire floor to the point you can feel vibrations run along your spine— didn't register within the crevices in your mind.

all you can focus on, is the gratifying pleasure ll alcohol induces in your body. gone is the feeling of fear that emanates off of every inch within your body. your bones don't feel as if it's locking up everytime you feel eyes on you, and your throat doesn't certainly feel constricted with the lack of flow of blood anymore.

god, this is why you've never once regret drinking right after the moment you turned eighteen— not when it's positive effects outweighs all the negative emotions that rule over your body.

you couldn't even notice a man with shades (seriously, who wears that to party? isn't the club dark enough?) sitting beside your drunken form in the corner of your eyes, raptured in the thin line between focusing on reality and drifting off to dream world. you don't even bat an eye to his muffled giggles and the way he twisted his stool just to admire the view: you.

you're oblivious to the entire commotion happening within the depths of his mind because you couldn't feel any aptitude to danger right now— thanks to the effects of the hard liquor overtaking whatever fear you've felt being watched long ago.

or maybe you just felt safe beside the stranger. or, you're merely drunk. you don't know.

fuck, you're so close to passing out.

you don't know where your friends are, where they came running off to but you know you won't be getting out her sooner or later and you definitely don't have a ride home. so your only way back without getting ambushed as a completely vulnerable citizen of gotham, is by a safer, more convenient means of a ride— but that certainly wouldn't be safe if your friends are as equally drunk, or even more so, as you. but does your hazy mind care? no. not when you flip your head to rest on the other side once the other side became hotter that you notice a conveniently attractive man staring right back at you with an entertained grin.

as if your existence alone makes him happy. as much as your mind keeps blanking out, that mere implication made your heart pang just a teensy bit. of pain, or pleasure, or mere joy, you don't know. but you do know that it triggered some unknown feelings and you don't want to feel.

you want to drink some more, feeling solemn all of a sudden just from staring at him. you're sure the obvious frown on your quivering lips and the heavy, hot sigh

and it doesn't help that his face seems similar. the longer you stare, the more his grin seems to sharpen. confidently? or shyly? you can't seem to gain a clear image of him; what when rainbow lights are blazing out through the holes of the disco ball and your eyes recently just opened to your near journey to traverse through sleep.

all you can make out to be is his jet-black hair, side bangs framing the left side of his face, a faint outline of an eyebrow piercing

you also took note of his spiky jacket— yet what draws you the most to him are his sunglasses that he chose to wear conspicuously in a damn club of all places.

he's attractive, to say the least, but he triggers a set of emotions deep into the cages of your imprisoned heart that sets itself free. he gives you a sense of nostalgia, of familiarity that you can't pinpoint but feel; like you've seen him before but don't know when. your eyebrows furrow in and your eyes squint at him, unknowing to the judgement you're subjecting him in. your lips wobble, though, because his presence just makes your heart feel something, akin to pain but not quite, and makes your head buzz that you just want to cry as a reaction.

he, the stranger, don't know it, but he makes you all sad, primal emotions overtaking any drunkenness you feel as deep tremors buzzed into the confines of your chest, until all you're doing is staring at him with pouting, downturned lips and sad, puppy eyes; rimming with salty tears.

you don't know why you feel sad all of the sudden, and you can faintly see through blurry, watery vision how his face shifted from entertained to worry, eyebrows raised and eyes wide open at your sudden mood shift.

maybe you or him could've spoken up, you more so, but you're just so emotionally drained and overwhelmed today that you began sobbing silently without breaking eye contact with the man.

despite you wanting to say anything: an introduction, a question opening up as to why he's staring at you, or even a mere phrase telling him to "back off"; the only words that came out from your parched throat, all from trying to reason in your head on what a proper sentence should be, were:

"you're hot," and if you were sober enough, you would've felt sheer embarrassment and shame from eyeing the boy, but you're not— and because you're not sober, or any bit sane, the next few sentences you spewed out were all coherent, yet wonkily pronounced utterances paired with teary eyes and sniffling nose, as you can't seem to control the feelings of melancholy in your heart and the sudden emotional burst from your ramblings.

"thank you, you too, actually— but are you alright-"

"you're so hot, god, please. i don't know..." you gave him no time to speak as you hiccupped, lips wobbling even more than you can imagine. and you're trying your damn best to rid of the urge to punch at your chest as a coping mechanism through the multitude of emotions eating you up and away. but you never realized you were trying for an absolute stranger, palms fisting into itself as he stares at you worriedly all of a sudden.

"like... you're familiarly attractive, i—" the next few sentences were incoherent as your words bubbled around you like detergent soap. your fingers found itself into your face as you try to wipe off both tears and nearly dripping snot as you continued rambling drunkly.

"you just! you're hot, for me, i don't know... i'm just, we all—eughh... i don't know, i'm so sad..." and you truly are, for no reason at all other than seeing the man. poor him, must've felt so ashamed that he's the reason you're crying but at the same time... nothing can really stop you from ceasing your tears.

at least, that's what you've convinced yourself to believe in. that you're truly incurable of the ailment of being constantly depressed with nobody to aid you with your troubles. not even your friends, nor past therapists that you've consulted.

you've nothing to comfort you, and that makes you even more solemn than ever.

the simplest of emotions felt, the deeper and complex you take it out to be. sadness, or moreover depression, the horseman of apocalypse that destroys any hope you've tried to kindle with your life.

it makes you all the more burst into a wave of even more tears.

"... okay, okay, wait here for me, alright?" he suddenly stood up, hurriedly, probably unsure, or disgusted by you. you're unsure about what he's saying, too caught up crying that you simply nod to whatever he said and continued on with your episode.

as you're left alone, you allow your tears to dry only cry once more. when he left you, you weren't aware but you just felt even more lonely. at pushing away the only company you had after your friends left you in the dust, you feel depressed and regretful and all emotions related to grief and you just want to drink some more but you don't know if you can take it anymore!

god, it all returns to pain. pain you thought you could bury deep once you took multiple swigs of alcohol.

pain that makes you want to bang your head against the marble of the bar—

and you're so close to doing so, but only stopped when your blurry vision sets itself on the man returning with a handkerchief and a cold glass of ice water. at his kind gesture, you simply teared up even more, pouting when he walked your way and looked at you with a sheeping grin.

when he sat right back up on the stool seated to your right, he hesitated with his hold on the handkerchief near your face. but the moment he gathered up his pride and pressed it against the unnatural blaze of your cheeks, you merely leaned closer to his palms, eyes closing as you can feel the tears cease itself finally at the blind comfort he's unknowingly providing you.

"there, there... be careful, 'kay stranger?"

he mutters, a light chuckle accompanying him. it's only now you can finally focus on the cool churn of his voice and the , with your eyes close and the haze of your thoughts washing away, leaving you breathless in your respite— not restrictive, nor lonely, but still short of breath.

this reminds you of the times alfred had to hold you in his arms everytime you threw a tantrum at the manor.

it made you realize that the months, a near year even, after leaving the manor, made you crave physical affection. making you feel like a husk of yourself when not given. you feed off of the scraps of physical lovez to the point that even this man who's wiping away the tears from your cheeks makes your heart beat faster, in a comfortable manner.

sensations. he once told you that if you feel too deeply within, then to ground yourself you must feel beyond interior ranges of emotions.

and that's the technique you've been willing away from your head for so long. because it always requires another person in the room to comfort you, to simply touch you softly, gently like you're porcelain the same way the stranger is pressing damp fabric against your tearstained cheeks and hollowed out eyes.

the pain you've felt was because you're merely touch starved. alone, in a space where everyone has someone, and a no one can't have anyone.

but now that you do have a someone, no matter how dangerous he could've been outside of your impression of him, you feel the pain lessen, the heavy burdens become featherlight at his kind gestures of wiping all the salty tears from your face, the runny snot from your nose with no rush whatsoever.

"feel better now, hon?"

"mhm..." a long, drawled out yawn emits from your mouth, yet you're too comfortable with him to even care, suddenly feeling a wave of drowsiness after your emotional episode.

after he finished wiping your face, and felt it considerably cool down from the damp fabric, he placed it on the bar, one hand on your face keeping you stable. yet his other hand promptly went back to your cheeks.

he chose to do this of his own volitions, even leaning closer as your head finds itself slowly dropping to his clavicle (careful to avoid the spikes from his peculiar designed jacket), looking up at him and staring at his gray eyes.

the man looks down at you as you now realize he's cupping your face. at the implication of your entire ordeal with him, you might've felt flustered sober, but you're just so drunk that any spacial awareness for the proximity between your bodies just disappeared and left you with the need to sleep within the confines of the safety this man left you with.

you don't know it, but yet again the man smiles down at your adorable antics, finding the way you're absolutely trusting of a stranger both stupid, yet endearing. because he's no more stranger, and heaven bless him because he's so glad he's the person who approached you rather than anyone else because you looked so cute, and his crush on you may have lead him to stalk you occasionally just to ensure you're safe— that doesn't erase the gesture that he did it purely because gotham is too dangerous for your own good. and he's glad he trusted his human side of intuition, rationalizing with himself that today just seems to be the day you'd bump into danger if he's not there.

you're so stunning up close... how come tim never once found interest in someone as admirable as you is a mystery. but you trusting a stranger in your vulnerable state is much more.

and he's grateful he's that stranger.

because he may be a stranger to you, but a familiar one. and you feel safe, a feeling you haven't felt in so long that you simply just melt against him like clear putty; because you're transparent with what you feel right now.

and right now you feel warmth. not the uncomfortable one that blazes through your (now) cool face when you were drunk, nor the burning one whenever you thought of your family— but a pleasant one. like sitting near a fireplace as you watch the embers crackle, drinking hot cocoa whilst a quilt covers your body from the cold of the winter. you feel this way at his kindness, at his efforts to help you contain your emotions to a reasonable degree.

"what's your name, kind stranger?" you mutter on his chest (how come your head is laying on it, actually?) hearing the soft thumps of his heart. it's warm, he's warm and every bit of comfortable, as he does his best to move slightly back to remove his jacket and drape it over your body before he could reply to you, chuckling whilst doing so because you looked up at him with your eyes conveying every damn emotion that made you feel soft.

"it's conner, conner kent. call me kon, though. or yours if it's you." he purrs. it took you a minute to register his obvious flirting but what comes after is an absolute flush on your body and you recoiling from his hold as you look back at him, mouth agape. the tips of your ears were warm, and every bit of

an overexaggeration to his flirting, sure. it makes you look less appealing in your eyes, extra sure! but it's been so long since someone last attempted to flirt with you; but most were under the guise of when you were still a wayne and... and not as yourself. you! you who sports so many imperfections that—

"haha! is it strange to say that you look so cute whenever you look at me with wide eyes in the short span of time we just met?"

he slides in through your train of thoughts before you could delve even deeper through self-deprecation. and you're glad that he did because... god, he makes you want to shamelessly gloat as a reply. you've never had someone complement your eyes before, actually...

"i'm..." you look back at him after you stared down at your palms, heat overtaking your entire body. yet again it wasn't uncomfortable, and just the right temperature. you stutter your name afterwards, making sure it's your mother's last name that you highlighted implicitly and not bruce's.

he seems to grin even wider when you introduce yourself. that's when his next reply generally warranted you to nearly burst off your seat out of sheer diffidence.

"well," he says your name, tasting every syllable in his pierced tongue. "your name tastes sweet, dove. but i think your face is even sweeter now that you're not crying — not saying that isn't cute too but you're so stunning now that i look closer at you without any barriers. your eyes, especially, they're like some mix doe and siren eyes, or whatever my other friends talk about in social media. point given, you're drop-dead gorgeous in my eyes."

it all comes naturally from him that your brain merely shortcircuited and fried itself comprehending his message, forgetting you were drunk in the first place replacing it with a flush in your heart, the pit of grief and despair replaced with the lighthearted need to banter or reply meekly at his shameless flirting right after he comforted you.

this is the first time you felt something for someone's romantic gestures, instead of that wave of nausea that accompanies you.

he makes you feel... pretty about yourself. in a good way, in a way you don't feel the need to hide your insecurities for once and instead allow his eyes to flitter around your entire face, analyzing your features because... because he simply makes you feel pretty the more he stares at you.

yet all you did was take his hand on your own, a sudden burst of confidence even you couldn't explain, and played with it, as you pouted in reply before thinking— using his hand-now-turned-fidget-toy — of a good enough response.

you simply said, coughing before continuing, "i don't take back what i said moment's ago. you're hot too, even if my vision was obstructed by my tears."

"oh, really?" he smiled gently and allowed your hands autonomy to play with his. it's like telepathy, he knows it's automatic that you crave physical affection and attention and he's willing to provide you that solace.

"now that you're not crying— you think i'm even more handsome?"

you snort at his question, then took a step back with your thoughts to properly study him. neat, yet messy hair, piercing on the eyebrows and on his tongue (hot), sunglasses and spiky jacket draped upon your shoulders— goddamnit, of course he's hot! and you made it efficiently clear that he is, with your hands fiddling pattern against his soft, yet calloused hands, by squeezing it.

"yes, you are even more handsome, kon..." brief and concise, just how you like it. even if he gave you an entire essay describing you in his eyes, for you, you prefer actions; and you did so by simply being affectionate with the stranger, now acquaintance you have a slight crush on.

you'd never expected this turn of events, but it was a pleasant one and one you'd never really want to trade with anything else now that you've met kon.

so when he opened his mouth to spew something else, your ears perked up to listen and your mind, albeit slowly sobering up, prepared itself to reply to whatever flirting, conversation topics, and anything random it is that he wishes to talk about to you.

you smiled at him whilst he talked, he reciprocates as always.

yet this time, you weren't afraid to hide just how joyous you feel, for once, having a person interested in you not only physically but with your interests, too, as your conversations kept shifting to things about you.

it made inclined to learn about yourself, too. and that makes you happy, and fuzzy in the insides the more he asks you questions beyond your favorites. like in movies, he didn't simply just ask your favorites and you replied with an answer and moved on, no! you both discussed the emotional depth it impacted you with, why symbolism matters so much, and why in the near future you'd both inevitably meet up, you'll both watch it together.

that makes you feel excited.

you even forgot the main reason why you're here in the first place; to drink. now, though, it seems like you just wanted to talk to kon all night long.

fortunately for you, that's how the rest of your night went. with a pleasant buzz in the background, the sounds of remixes all drowned out in your ears as you favor the chatters of the man beside you, with the tremor of his voice a comfortable volume and his tone laced with freshly made honey.

when your friends finally ran back to the bar where you all collectively agreed to meet up at once everyone's shenanigans were finished, they giggled drunkenly whilst some sober ones whistled at seeing your hand unknowingly massaging his palms like a stresstoy and the jacket draped upon your shoulders.

the moment you returned it to him, he joked about wearing it every second now since it reminds him of you, and how it's his favorite piece of attire now beyond all his other clothing. you merely blushed and ignored the cooing of your friends behind you.

you didn't feel concerned over not seeing him anymore, as he had given you a slip of paper with his number on it in through a tissue with paracetamol pills wrapped around it (like the thoughtful gentleman he made himself out to be when he excused himself a second time to get those items, since you'd left your phone with one of your friends; you swore you felt a blush creep into your cheeks and heating the tip of your ears), you instead felt a pang of longing and furrowed your brows, looking at him as if asking if you'll see him around anytime soon as he reciprocates with a sure grin that makes you feel a wave of feather like affection.

he left shortly after, striding to you as your group recollects all your stuff and whispering a, "text you later, dove. stay safe for me, alright? don't let any other strangers get to you."

you're glad this night would end on a good note, willing away any prior doubts towards spending the night in a completely foreign street and expecting fir criminals and thugs to break in but no! you can't help but admit that your new... interest, conner, made your night a thousand times better.

and his little nickname for you... haha, you're so flustered thinking about texting him tonight. you'd neglect your assignments for now if it meant messenging him right after you get home, safely, for his sake.

when your group all came outside though, that's when things shifted.

time is a construct. it's complicated and structured like that as well. it can either be too fast, or too slow. when your friends had taken their sweet time to spend the night dancing about the dancefloor, when you'd taken the precious time to flirt and talk to kon; that's when you all collectively realized that their damn cars were stolen.

the air suddenly shifted to this thick atmosphere when you all stepped out, one that can be sliced through with a sword, and you swore—

god, you swore this night couldn't have been any better with the turn of things, but now. right after you got out the club, it all took a turn for the worse.

this is it.

you're going to die today.

you're going to die, in some dirty ditch, your friends nowhere to be found, with nobody to save you.

nasty bruises already began to form on your skin, one with harsher colors of purple, blue, and yellow on your wrists and other patches of skin; way harsher

the man in front of you was gnarly, but you've no time to judge as he kicks you in the guts.

matted brown hair lay atop his head like a bird's attempt at a near, he has an odor that reeks of sewer rats, piss, and feces, and an unruly beard that houses bits of his leftover.

he holds a weapon whose shape you couldn't make out with your hazy vision, body nearly cramping in on itself once he kicked you again.

straight in the abdomen, with brute strenght accompanied by his worn leather boots decorated with glinting spikes that sparkle under the moonlight's glow.

in the abdomen, spikes.

blood first, then curdling pain next.

no noise rips through your ears, only wringing ever present, but your mouth opens, and you can feel its tender chords crack as a scream erupts from your throat, shrill and resounding from the deepest depths of the cockpit your mouth has to offer you; uncaring for the man in front of who who suddenly covers his ears and grits his teeth, who looks at you like you're mad, yet unlike same way his two other lackeys from behind look at your like you're the creation of carnage itself.

pain shot throughout your body, most especially at the core of the holes that pierced through your clothes and right inside your skin. and as your bulging, teary eyes try to look down with an agape, whimpering mouth, his shoes still connected to your body; you could only hold off so much of that familiar taste of acidic bile paired with that lingering scent of cheap booze.

tears were a byproduct of the misery, as it began to escape from your already puffy eyes. when the man released his legs fron pinning you down, your sobs only worsened as your unpinned, shivering arm try its damned best to cover the already leaking blood.

six holes, the diameter of the more than half of your finger, was what you could make out in your line of sight. the blood that leaked from them looked black, you couldn't find where the gradient of black and red connects, your only certainty in this situation was that you'd bleed to death before help could come to you.

the spikes were as long as a toothpick, a crimson puddle lay dripping on the floor.

your legs were shaking against your will, your eyes frantically search around you yet your pinned once more, his larger body framing against your own, providing no room nor qualms for an escape.

but the only escape you wanted was one from the pain of his pressing against your injury, even more blood spilling out of its confines. your tears only hastened its descent from your shaky eyes.

when your mouth opened for the nth time to wail out, he seethed in a breathe and threatened you, with his breath as vile as his entire being, that smells like every mix of synthetic chemicals from cigarette flavors, all expired, with teeth rotting and sporting yellow and black wallpaper.

gross, so gross. you want to die when the stench hits your nose. you shrivel in yourself, you couldn't breath.

"listen here, little bitch, you quiet down or i kill you. and 'ya either give me everythin' you own in your damn possession, or i'll kick you even more until a thousand little holes will fuckin' make you bleed to death, hear me?"

hearing his statement only made the adrenaline pump even more fight of flight into your heart. but you can't do either, you can't, not when you're still hazy from the fucking alcohol and the self defense tools in your tiny pouch were thrown a few feet away from you.

you've nothing to defend yourself.

oh god, oh shit, fuck.

you want to die, you want to so fucking die than go through the same pain of nearly being abducted or held hostage again.

yet your eyes could only close, your teeth kissing your bottom lips, biting hard to drown out another pained scream. whimpers, god, they're so loud yet you can't help the whimpers and the broken faucet from your eyes. even if you beg your own body to stop, it doesn't listen to the pleas of your mind.

the only thing it can focus on is the pain. recreant, volatile pain.

a moan escapes you, shaky and prolonged. the only other emotion that you could experience after is sorrow.

you didn't expect your pleasant night to end off in such a tragic note, but as your attacker held you by your throat with one hand, a knife pointed against your face, the next that happened was your head slammed roughly against the wall; a dull, beating ache lulling the back of your head after the momentary spark of pain— you're reminded that this is reality, and you're close to losing consciousness quick.

you're going to die.

bloody, a sobbing, dissociating mess, with your thoughts spinning around the same way the stranger and his lackeys laugh — bared yellow teeth, with the smell of ichor prevalent in their clothes, predatory eyes leering at you like you're prey — at your drunken moans of pain.

you're going to die.

"well, you gonna answer me or what, bitch? you wanna die!?"

he shouts you with spit that sprays all over your face, flashing you a grin and by extension flashing you his ugly, bared teeth. some missing were in his gums, others were artificial, most rotten like him.

you're going to die.

alone, in a ditch. bloody, laying in a pool of your own crimson the same way you saw your mother drowns in a puddle of hers.

you'll die like her—

what an honor.

the more you think about the situation, the more you're led to believe that the only way to solve this was through death alone, with no restrictions, no buts or ifs. you've no fight left in your body, or any weapon to fight. you're drunk, defenseless and if you actually managed to escape, you'd still bleed to death in some unknown alleyway. if you're lucky, a stray police may find you and give you a proper burial. but you remember you're in the living incarnate of hell in america, you'll never have a proper death.

this was night in gotham. your death alone only adds to the already astounding high percentages of all the other lives lost to the same twisted fate. you were no different. and to die early than to suffer from torture is better.

i mean, who would give a shit if you die tonight, right? your family— wrong! alfred would panic at your disappearance, but he'll forget about you like he did others, you're sure of it. that's why he still chose to fucking serve the wayne's instead of fully taking your side. if he had to choose between saving you or the people he swore his loyalty onto, he wouldn't hesitate. you're sure. even if the thoughts made the doom in your heart heavier. even if you know your story would never be covered nor acknowledged, you still year

but life is unfair, everything is. that's why you're here now, in a dark fucking alleyway with men who'll more than take advantage of your dying body and leave your corpse in the dump after. life is unfair, yet it's even more cruel in gotham. you should've expected this, should've known that a turn of events could be possible. you'll feel regret in the afterlife, only for a life that could've been well-lived, but never for the choice of living through the torture you call being a wayne.

so you came to the conclusion; confident for once after living for thirteen and a half years walking on eggshells around a manor.

this is not as bad as their neglect.

you smile in response to the guy, genuine and filled with grace as your heart that once pounds against your chest now slows down to a calm pace, finally at peace. with no other intention than to rattle him even more, to the point of choosing you to kill with his own hands as brutally as he likes— so you finally take a well deserved rest from life.

you gather saliva at the center of your tongue, ignore the taste of blood that swirls, nor the soreness of your throat and the crimson dripping down your nose.

when he looks down at you, disoriented at what you're doing, you spit at him, all the beating in your heart hastened, yet slowed down as quickly as you heave in a final breath.

... you're finally going to die.

"FUCKING HELL, YOU DAMN CUNT—!"

you close your eyes, bracing yourself for the knife that would hopefully stab you in the face, or the chest, and think of your last thoughts. you thank alfred for caring for you for those thirteen years, you hope you win your mother's graces in the afterlife even if she discovered your deliberate choices for killing yourself in the spur of a moment, and you wish your old family a happy life living without you, even if they already did so for so long.

all you needed was seconds to conclude your prayers.

but they weren't answered as you wanted them to be, not when you open your wide eyes to what was supposed to be a glint of silver piercing through the middle of your face was replaced by a bullet, quick and precise, shooting through his cranium without mercy, body immediately laying limp within those seconds.

the other two behind him were good as dead, too, your savior not wasting any moment to end their lives then and there.

and as you stumbled from the grip released from your body, your torso nearly crumpling in on itself, a flash of familiar, metallic red enters your vision when you'd look up from your savior who's huge form now meticulously acts as your shield from the brutal carnage that lays upon your line of sight and a pillar of protection trying to help you stand from the pain that shot through your lower abdomen.

but you don't want to stand, you want to drop dead right now. you don't want this, you didn't want this to happen.

instead of gratitude, dread fills your lungs with water and your fingers were left to tremor.

he looks down at you, you couldn't make out his expression, but you could feel the anger coursing through his body, the same as the day you first met him when he was still newly rebirthed, like it's telling you of his unadulterated rage at witnessing the scene before him. his body shakes, heavily, and his grip on your hands tighten, a mechanical groan drawling deep from his automated voice banks that changes his voice.

yet all you feel was fear overtaking your entire body prior to the comfort at the prospect of death.

you'd rather die than this.

even you couldn't believe the whimper of his name from your wobbling lips, as your body, out of instinct despite the pain, tried to push itself against the wall, away from him.

he only moves to hold your waste protectively, like a... brother suffocating his younger sibling with blankets when they complain it's cold. overbearing, disgustingly affectionate; you don't want it.

you feel cold.

this day could've been any worse— and it took a turn to the all worse scenarios you could imagine.

"jason...?"

"angel..."

a single familiar name was spoken, yet a new nickname was introduced. angel: the same way jason swore what you looked like when he sped through his motorcycle after hearing a shriek from all across the streets, finding you, bleeding and beaten to a pulp, with your attacker almost stabbing you.

of course, who wouldn't hesitate pulling a gun against someone trying to kill your precious? jason doesn't even need to choose.

and whether he did it in the name of justice and respect to his moral code, or because finding someone with a familiar face, sharing the same hopeless, yet death-accepting expression as he did back when he died— it all doesn't matter in the heat of the moment now.

what matters is that his angel is hurt and the madness in him festers the longer you bleed out in his arms, defiant and fearful all the same.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,000+ words. AND I LITERALLY HATE THIS CHAPTER (new least favorite fr) 😭 this decision is so impulsive i gonna regret it soon. chapter 5 will be released after a few days and i promise it has more action than this I SWEAR. first parts are always boring. anyways, there're so many song references in this chapter and for the next chapter. if any of you could guess what they are, i'll be rewarding all of you with something special. otherwise, please leave comments for this chapter! what motivated me to write was reading everybody's comments and inputs, about the love they have for this series as much as i do. interactions, asks, comments, they're all important and dear to me and i heavily appreciate it. so more interaction = more content. after all, i'd rather a post with little likes but with no interaction than a post with no interaction but all likes.

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[lyrefromthesea]

Male pillars x Reader - sitting on their lap

author's note: I'm strictly against any kind of sexual interactions with minors. That's why I will either exclude Muichiro from such fics of or portray a wholesome interaction instead.

pairing: Tengen x reader, Obanai x reader, Rengoku x reader, Sanemi x reader, Giyuu x reader, Muichiro x reader, Gyomei x reader

content warning: suggestive words and actions

Tengen:

"excuse me? I'm married!" he dramatically exclaimed, looking down at you. the man was already trying to refrain from smiling, watching you turn your head towards him.

"i'm sure Hinatsuru, Makio and Suma will forgive me." you answered, showing him your hand. he smirked at the all too familiar ring. he was glad he had married you.

"just playin', i could never disappoint the flamboyant person i married!" he laughed, clearly proud of himself. when you cocked your eyebrow at him, he let out a dramatic gasp, pulling you closer.

"are you trying to say i'm not the most perfect husband you could imagine?" he asked, displaying a huge amount of shock. you knew he was just making fun, especially when he pressed your back against his chest, bringing his lips to your ear.

"you were saying entirely different things yesterday." he said, watching you shudder at his words. you slapped his knee, scolding him for saying such things outside.

"come on, you know you love it!"

Obanai:

he freezes, his brain nearly malfunctioning. it's not like you've never sat on his lap before, but you usually gave him a warning first - asked for his approval.

"[name]? what's-" he asked, surprised when your arms wrapped around his neck, barely giving Kaburamaru time to slither away. words got stuck in his throat, feeling your lips against his mask - right above his own.

"nothing. i was just feeling affectionate." you answered, shifting to wrap your arms around his torso. he looked down at you, letting out a quiet yelp when your hips moved a bit too much on his lap.

"oh..?" you looked at him, a smile slowly forming on your lips. a blush made his way towards his cheeks, luckily covered by his mask. at least he felt lucky, you would've liked to see him blush.

"it looks like you're feeling affectionate too, Obanai." you chuckled, purposely drawing light circles with your hips. of course you had noticed the growing bulge in his pants, his hands now holding yours.

"don't tease me, [name].."

Rengoku:

"little flame! how was your day?" he enthusiastically asked, his arms wrapping around your torso. he pulled you closer, placing his chin on your shoulder.

"it was okay, i missed you." you answered, leaning against his chest. he smiled at you, enjoying the way your bodies were pressed together so gently.

"we can't have that, little flame! how about we go eat later?" he asked, holding you a bit closer. you chuckled at his words, he really loved taking you to new places - especially restaurants.

"i'd like that. let's go eat something later."

Sanemi:

"and what the hell are you doing?" Sanemi asked, feeling you make yourself comfortable on his lap.

he had cleaned his sword moments prior, hearing the door open - it was you. you moved towards him without warning, getting between him and his sword.

"getting your attention." you answered, moving even closer. don't think he didn't notice the way you purposely squished your chest against his own.

"yeah? didn't I give ya enough attention, sweetheart?" he teased, watching you pout in response. you had been alone for far too long, you finally wanted to spend time with him.

"you've been working on your sword for two hours now.." you complained. he placed it down, knowing that you were right. he just felt like the proper care could safe his ass one day, though a shiny sword probably wasn't that important.

"fine, ya win. this was getting uncomfortable anyways." he answered, almost making you question what he meant until he pressed his hips against yours more. oh, now you could feel it too.

"does that mean you want my attention as well-" you asked playfully, getting cut off by his lips pressing against yours before you could finished talking.

Giyuu:

"is everything alright?" his voice broke the silence, you've been sitting on his lap for almost 5 minutes now, not saying a single word. he was confused, not sure if you were fine or needed help.

"Giyuu, attention?" you asked, feeling him relax under you. he had been tense, thinking you could've been hurt somewhere. your words instantly calmed him down, his lips pressing against yours gently.

he didn't expect you to turn his soft kiss into something more passionate. his hands slowly came to hold your hips, tongues swishing against each other.

you broke the kiss, panting against his lips. he pressed his forehead against yours, pulling you a bit closer, only to have your hips start grinding slightly.

"l- love.. t- that's not.." he muttered, his cheeks visibly growing more red. hands squeezing your hips more, trying to create more friction. he could only moan when you finally started grinding against him properly.

"i.. i need to go on a mission later.." he panted against your lips, but he didn't object when you kissed him again, your hand wandering to his belt.

Muichiro:

"Muichiro! i finally caught up to you.." you heaved, letting yourself fall onto his lap. you had been running for nearly twenty minutes now, watching the boy leave his estate without food. being the good friend you were, you ran after him.

"[name]? what are you doing here..?" he asked, letting you lean against him. your cheeks were flushed from running. it would've been different if you also were a hashira, but you still had much to learn.

"you.. you forget your food, Mui.." you panted, reaching into your pocket. he looked rather surprised when he saw the small box of food he usually brought with him.

"thank you..! i've completely forgotten." he laughed, eventually coaxing a smile out of you. you gave him the box, seeing his eyes lit up at the promise of food.

he wanted to dive right in before he had a quiet growl come from your stomach, making your cheeks flush. "do you want some?" he asked, watching you shake your head.

"i brought my own!" you countered, grabbing into your back once more. silence filled the room when you noticed you had only brought his food.

his arm wrapped around your torso, forcing you to stay on his lap a while longer. "let's share." he said, offering you some of his food. you knew he wouldn't let you go until you have had a healthy portion.

Gyomei:

"welcome back." the giant said, feeling you plop onto his lap, nuzzling against his chest. you let out a tired hum, feeling a large hand soothingly rub over your arm.

"is there something wrong? you're more quiet than usual." he asked, gently bringing your head closer with his hand - allowing you to be closer to him. you could hear the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat.

your day had been stressful, but he somehow always managed to calm you down. his warmth. his voice. his actions. they put your mind at ease.

"i know it's ridiculous, but i've felt really stressed out lately. i just want a break.." you muttered, closing your eyes. you were trying to focus on his heartbeat and ignore everything else around you.

"it's not ridiculous, you deserve a break. perhaps a visit to the hot spring would help calm you down?" he offered, feeling you nod against his chest. you felt warm hands rub over your thighs, his head now closer to yours.

"and i could pamper you a bit more after that.." he muttered against your ear, your eyes opening again. the warmth pooling in your gut could probably rival the hot spring's temperature

[luvyeni]

( reaction ) unintentionally riding them ! ୨୧ 一 엔시티드림 ՞

⸃ ⸰ ⌁ unintentionally riding nct dream on a rideヾ

boyfriend!엔시티드림・ fem!reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ g ・ smut ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ cw ・ ‎ nudes , allusions to sex wc ・ ‎n/a ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎| ‎ click to library

request. hear me out…… what about nct dream going with yn to that ride disco pang pang and you end up on top of them (idk if you’ve seen a video that’s been going around where a girl is literally riding other girl😭)

「 ୨୧ authors note 」 those rides are scary as hell i couldn't imagine falling into a strangers lap like the video.

﹙ 𐙚 : mark﹚ .ᐟ

he knows you mean no harm; the ride was quite literally tossing you both around , and you just happened to land on him — but it didn't stop his cock from growing inside is jeans. he's stressed , he knows you feel it. “fu-fuck im so sorry.” he said , your face is hot , cheeks are rosy as you feel him beneath you , he's embarrassed , but so turned on , he was gonna cum . “but fuck you feel good , im sorry , im so sorry .” he's just wishing the damn ride would end.

“fuck im sorry but im about to cum.”

﹙ 𐙚 : renjun﹚ .ᐟ

he's embarrassed as hell; but his ass is not about to let you know that. “re-renjun are you hard?” he scoffed , rolling his eyes. “you're straddling me , and this ride is bouncing you on my dick , of course I'm hard , wouldn't you be hard if you were in my position? i know you're probably turned on right now , don't make it seem like it's only me.” he stressed , he's about to cum in his pants and he wasn't about to give you leverage to further tease him. “oh fuck will this ride ever fucking end.”

“we're leaving this fucking amusement park arter this.”

﹙ 𐙚 : jeno﹚ .ᐟ

his hands immediately come to your waist to hold you from falling when the ride tossed you into his lap. “hi.” he tries to smile it off — even though the ride is practically bouncing you on his dick. you're actually the one profusely apologizing , but he pretends that it doesn't even bother him , even though he's hard a fucking rock and you're riding him unintentionally in front of all these people and he has to force himself not to moan. “i don't think i can get up after this.” he said. “it's already embarrassing with you on top of me.”

“i don't want these people to see my dick hard.”

﹙ 𐙚 : haechan﹚ .ᐟ

shameless motherfucker; you would've thought he was already hard before the ride tossed you into the boys lap. “haechan are you serious?” he smirking holding you close by your waist. “you're grinding on top of me and you're confused as to why im hard.” he scoffed , your eyes widened at his sudden brazen attitude , you knew he was a wild card but even this was too much for you. you only come back when he groans , he doesn't even care.

“fuck if this ride doesn't stop soon i’m gonna cum.”

﹙ 𐙚 : jaemin﹚ .ᐟ

with the smirk on his face , you would've thought he orgistrated the entire thing himself , his hands on your waist , meanwhile you're the one who's embarrassed as hell. “why are you so embarrassed?” he knew you could feel his hard on , he could feel you as well. “im-im glad you're having a good time.” you on the other hand , your body was on fire. “I am baby i am.” the ride still tossing you around but he made sure to hold you still.

“but i'm more excited about the time we're about to have when we get off this ride.”

﹙ 𐙚 : chenle﹚ .ᐟ

completely turns it on you; yeah he's the one thats hard , but you're the one on top of him and you're the one who caused it in his eyes , not the ride. “if you wanted to ride me you should've just asked , not force me on this nauseating ride so you can do it shamelessly.” you wanted to slap him so bad , but you were too busy grabbing the bar to keep yourself from flying off. “sh-shut up.” your face hot from embarrassment as you straddled him. “im not gonna cum in my pants like a teenager.”

“but all bets are off when we get off this ride.”

﹙ 𐙚 : jisung﹚ .ᐟ

he wants to kill himself to moment he feels you on top of him; his face is red , he wanted to die — but it felt good and that's what made him feel like a pervert , because it wasn't sexual , but his stupid cock didn't seem to get the message. he swore the person who managed the ride had something against him because the ride was never ending and no matter how many times you tried to get up , the ride was plopping you back into his lap. “ji-jisung.” your hands holding his shoulders , he stops you before you can finish.

“please don't say anything , im sorry , so fucking sorry.”

©LUVYENI

[satoruan]

THINK I WANNA HAVE YOUR BABY w/Jujutsu Kaisen

( TW ) f!Reader, Breeding kink, unprotected sex, cream pie, cum inflation, hair pulling, sex toys, overstimulation, stepdad!Toji, daddy kink, overstimulation

Featuring: Gojo Satoru, Toji Fushiguro, Geto Suguru & Choso Kamo

authors note: repost bc tumblr took it down for no reason...

☾ GOJO SATORU

“Fuck Love, you’re sucking me so good.” Satoru groans, struggling to not crash the car. During dinner, you two kept passing each other such heated looks that even your friends commented on the tension. Earlier today, you got a notification from your health app that you were ovulating. Satoru jumped on you as soon you told him, he wanted to stay in all day and fuck, but your guys’ friends blew up his phone reminding him of the promises you both made to them. After dinner you couldn't keep your hands off each other, you were desperate for his cum and Satoru was desperate to breed you. “Don’t cum ‘Toru.” You warn before sticking his cock back in your mouth. “Can’t help it Love, mouth too fuckin’ good,” he says, sighing in relief when he pulls onto your street, clicking the button in his car that opens the garage. He barely has the chance to take the keys out of the ignition before you pull him out of the car. “Don’t have time to make it up to the bed, just fuck me right here.” You demand, leaning over the car and presenting Satoru with your ass. Satoru pulls your dress up and shoves his cock into your pussy. He reaches over your hip to stimulate your clit. “‘Toru, just cum in me, I don't care ‘bout gettin’ off.” You move your ass in perfect sync with his hips. “You sure Love–” “Breed me ‘Toru!” You moan, feeling his cum fill you up. You drop your head to the still-warm hood of the car, finally able to catch your breath now that his load was deep in your cunt. “C’mon Love, let's finish this in the bedroom.” 

☾ TOJI FUSHIGURO  

You peak over the corner of the hallway, winking at Toji who was busy talking to your mother. ‘Come fuck me.’ Your mouth once you catch his attention before running back up the stairs, careful not to make any noises. You told your mom that you weren't feeling well, that during the drive back from college you must’ve caught something. In all honestly, you just wanted a chance to freely fuck your stepdad without your mother coming in and out of your room. Specifically, you wanted to be bred by him, and the best way to keep his cum in you was to use several pillows and put them under your ass so his cum didn’t spill out, hence why you didn't want your mom to barge into your room. Thank God she's a germaphobe. You strip out the Pj set you threw on and lay yourself face down, ass up. Your stepdad’s favorite position. As expected, you hear your stepdad softly shut the door a few minutes later. “Desperate now, are we?” He grips your hips. “Always desperate for you Daddy.” you mumble into the bed. “Huh,” he slaps your ass before pulling you up by the hair. “Didn’t hear you slut.” “Said ‘m always desperate for you Daddy, even prepared myself with the dildo you bought me.” You whimper. “Such a good girl,” He pulls his hard cock out of his slacks, gives it a few tugs before stuffing your cunt to the brim. “Now take this dick slut.” He pushes your head down into your lilac duvet. You try and fail to be silent when his dick hits that special spot every time he goes deep enough. “You okay in there, y/n?” You hear your mother's muffled voice through the door. You clench down on your daddy's dick in surprise, causing him to fuck you faster. “Y/n?” “Y-yes mom, I'm fine, just go away p-please.” You gasp out, throwing your head back into the bed in ecstasy when you hear her mumble and walk away. “Daddy, 'm cumming! Cum with me!” You whisper-yell. “Gonna fill this pussy, get you so full of my seed you can never leave this house again.” He grunts, slamming into you at a bruising pace. “Yes, please Daddy, fill me up!” You orgasm and Toji follows suit, filling you with so much cum it spills out.  

☾ GETO SUGURU 

“I'm so full Sugu.” You mumble, dazed. You fight the urge to close your eyes and fall back into Suguru’s big, warm chest. “Wake up sweet girl. ‘M not done yet.” He mumbles into your sweaty neck. “B-but Sugu–” “Shush Lovebug, one more time.” Suguru looks over your shoulder to see where you two are connected. He plugged you up good, but after so many loads a trickle of his cum slowly travels down his almost empty balls. “O-one more.” You grab his chin and kiss him sweetly. He rubs your noses together before grabbing your hips and moving you down the shaft of his cock. He pays close attention to not pull you over the tip of his cock. You hold onto your stomach, feeling it protrude slightly more than normal, Sugu’s cock and cum inflating you. You feel like a cum filled, flesh light as Sugu moves you to his liking. It’s hard to believe he has more cum in him. “Fuck Lovebug, you feel so warm and tight.” He mummers, giving you a few more neck kisses. You lean closer into him. Right now, you want to live in his skin. “Love you Sugu, can’t wait ta have your baby.” “I Love you too, can’t wait to see you carryin’ my child.” He grips your hips tighter at the thought.  “‘bout to fuck another load into you sweet girl, you wan’ it?” “Yes please, more than anything.” You rest your head back into his shoulder. He shrugs at your head until your mouth is close enough to kiss. He slams your hips down and cums as you two make out and whisper sweet nothings. 

☾ CHOSO KAMO

“Again, Baby.” Choso holds the vibrator to your clit. You arch your back and forget the fact that you have nipple clamps on. You scream when the clamps move. Your entire body is sensitive, Choso came up with the idea to simulate you to the max when you said you wanted to have his baby, that you wanted him to breed to and fill you to the brim with his cum. You readily agreed to his idea because you knew that the more orgasms you had the better chance you had to get pregnant, something about the virginal walls relaxing when women orgasm. Now though, you’re regretting it. Choso’s been holding the vibrator on your clit for the last hour and every time you think you’ve gone numb to the sensation; he finds a way to make you cum harder than the last. “N-no Choso, ‘m done down, I've cum as I can, wan’ you to fuckmenow!” You slur your words, the pleasure making you lightheaded. “One more Babygirl.” He soothes you, rubbing your stomach and imagining what you’d look like full of his cum. Beautiful, you’d look beautiful. “At least fuck me while you give me another orgasm!” You argue, staring at him with glossed-over puppy eyes. Choso gives in and situates himself between your legs, still holding the vibrator over your clit. You sigh happily when he sets the vibrator down and thrust his cock in you. You thought you were completely numb down there but the feeling of Choso thrusting into your hole that’s been contracting nothing felt godly. Adding that with the vibrator that he put back on your clit, you come immediately. “Choso!” You scream clenching around him so tight he can’t help cumming. “Fuck! ‘M filling you up so good baby!” 

[thaddeusmike]

So Neil Gaiman's arguments here are really bad. In order:

1) He has an estimated net worth of $18 million. He could lose copyright tomorrow and his child would not starve. This is aside from the fact that basing policy on one dude's kid is bad policymaking.

2) marikorawlton explicitly says there are other ways to leave things to one's family; Gaiman's claim of "so you're arguing for a world in which no property of any kind physical or intellectual lasts longer than the death of the person who bought or made it?" is outright bullshit. That is not at all what the post he is responding to says and I don't know how he could come to that reading in good faith.

3) Of course he wants work he did 20 years ago to pay him for the rest of his life. I want work I do today to pay me for the rest of my life. Everybody wants financial stability guaranteed. This isn't as egregious as the previous two, but it's still a bad idea to make policy favoring one group based on a desire that pretty much every group has.

I also disagree with thebibliosphere's arguments but Gaiman's arguments are so bad I felt compelled to respond.

Sir - have you any opinions on the current Berne Convention copyright length?

It’s too long. 70 years after death feels wrong. I’m good with 50 years, though.

[swanlikely]

Current Brainrot: Helping Husband Nanami! Unwind

Author's Note: This scrumptious gem graced my timeline today, and I couldn't resist writing a fic about it. Do yourself a favor and follow the artist on Twitter, and while you're at it, check out her Patreon—it's totally worth it! (Artist & Her Patreon)

not proof-read! (sorry if there are any errors - let me know and i'll fix it!)

CW: AFAB! reader, usage of she/her, handjob (m! receiving), oral (m! receiving), pet names, role-play (prostitution), public sex

word count: 2k

✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖₊✧✧₊🦢🫖

Nanami was the epitome of dedication, tirelessly clocking in countless hours at the office to ensure his sweet wife lived in the lap of luxury. He was a gentleman in every sense. Yet, sometimes, this relentless work ethic could be his Achilles' heel.

Stress was making its unwelcome presence known in Nanami, with shadows deepening under his honey-gold eyes and the weight of the world pressing down on his broad shoulders. He was beat. After surviving yet another grueling twelve-hour shift, he was at his limit. All he craved was to return home to you, his loving wife.

And as his loving wife, you couldn't miss the signs. You saw how he would collapse into bed like stone after a long day, too exhausted to even finish his dinner. You heard the frustrated groans as he dragged himself out of bed each morning. But most importantly, you felt the strain in your bedroom.

Not to say Nanami wasn't satisfying you—quite the opposite, he was only satisfying you.

Despite his exhaustion, his touch was tender yet fervent, his kisses a mix of urgency and devotion. He'd make sure to lap at your cunt each night, with his talented tongue. Letting you know just how much he loved you, how he put your needs above his own. But that was exactly it—what about him? It worried you to no end; all you wanted to do was make sure your husband was happy. Seeing him give so much of himself, you felt a uncomfortable combination of gratitude and concern. You wanted to reciprocate, to show him the same level of care and passion. You longed to ease his burdens, to be his sanctuary just as he was yours. The thought of him carrying all that weight alone tugged at your heart, and you resolved to find a way to bring balance, to ensure he was taken care of as well.

Which was exactly why you weren't at home, playing the doting wife as always, but leaning up against his car hood, dressed in something completely out of character for you.

Fishnets, Daisy Duke shorts, and a tank top that hugged every curve clung to your body, making you a walking temptation. You watched your husband approach the car through glittery, half-lidded eyes. Letting out an exaggerated whistle, you purred, "Well, hello handsome," catching your husband's eyes.

He was just a few steps away, his furrowed brows and confused smile giving away his exhaustion. The dark circles under his eyes were still visible, and his button-up shirt was slightly wrinkled. It had clearly been another long day for him, and you were ready to melt away all that stress. But you couldn't do it as his wife; no, you needed to become someone else entirely. You had to offer him an escape from reality.

"What're you doing here, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice gruff and drawn out. His hair was still neatly groomed, and oh, you wanted to make a mess of that. Make a mess of him. "Also, I'm not one to tell you what to wear, but this is different." His eyes roamed your body, lingering over your breasts to the tips of your black heels. He was right, this was different.

"Mmhm, you like?" You bite down on your glossy, plump bottom lip. Nanami swallowed hard.

"Just a girl trying to make some money tonight," you continue, against the hood of his car. Your elbows prop you up, pushing out your breasts that were practically spilling out. "Ah, I see," he murmured. His eyes, though shadowed with exhaustion, now swam with an almost predatory hunger that swirled in the depths of his amber gaze.

You giggled at the fact that your husband was playing along with your little game, as he always did. Though tonight wasn't for you; no, it was all for him. Placing your delicate palm against Nanami's sculpted chest, he shivered for a moment. That was new.

"So, Mister, would you like to help a girl out and make use of my services?" Your voice was hot and breathy as you slowly undid the first button of his dress shirt. Nanami's eyes tracked the movement of your perfectly manicured fingers, lingering on the way they teased each button. A surprising rose-tint spread across his cheeks, his usual stoic demeanor giving way to a vulnerable flush. You could get drunk off of him.

"What kind of man would I be if I didn't help a pretty girl like you out?" Nanami chuckled, a bit sheepish, as he fumbled with the car keys, finally managing to unlock the doors. Seeing such a strong, composed man acting so coy made your thighs clench. This outfit and role were really doing it for him, huh?

After hearing the car beep, you quickly pulled both yourself and your husband inside, sliding into the backseat. It was a tight fit, with Nanami's broad frame hovering over you, his arms and legs straddling your body. The closeness made you acutely aware of just how much bigger he was than you. Instinctively, his mouth found your neck, immediately shifting into husband mode. But tonight, you wouldn't let him neglect his own needs just to please you.

"Stop," you groan, fighting the urge to let Nanami do what he normally does. He immediately pulls away, his eyes filled with worry. He searches yours for answers but only finds eyes brimming with lust. "No touching, you're paying for my services, remember?" you giggle, pressing against his chest to flip him over. Now, you were on top, straddling his lap. His heavy cock pressed against you, straining against the confines of his trousers, yearning to be free. The two of you were panting, the heat between you making the car windows fog up. You were lucky the parking garage was deserted at this hour.

"I, uh, sweetheart…" he stammered, struggling to find the words as you mirrored his earlier actions. Your mouth traced a path from his neck down to the exposed part of his collarbone, licking and sucking gently. Lips parted and teeth against skin. You couldn't help but think, God, you needed to do this more often.

His hips jerked against yours, causing the both of you to throb with want. The fabric of your shorts was already damp, barely able to contain the heat building between you. Your hands roamed down his muscular frame, your fingers tease as they reached the zipper of his trousers. You fumbled with it, the anticipation making your breath hitch. His low groan in your ear sent shivers down your spine, and you pressed closer, feeling the urgency of his need matching your own.

"Please let me touch you, just a little," he pleaded, his grip tightening on the leather seat, veins on his arms standing out. The desperation in his voice sent a thrill through you. You had made Nanami Kento, usually so proper, whine like a slut. You leaned in closer, your breath mingling with his, reveling in the power you held in that moment.

"Here, you can get a kiss, but it'll cost you extra," you laugh, pressing your open mouth to his. The kiss was sloppy, tongues intertwining with a fervor that made your head spin. His mouth was hot, and he tasted delectable—an unexpected blend of mint and cinnamon. You were melting into him. "Nghhh, sweet girl, let me touch you..." Nanami's voice was trembling, his restraint barely holding on. This was absolute torture for him; he wasn't used to being the one pampered.

"No," Your fingers hooked onto the belt loops of his khaki trousers, slowly tugging them down to reveal his throbbing cock, leaking precum. A frustrated moan caught in his throat as he waited for you to do something, anything.

His cock was pretty, more so than usual tonight. It was a darker shade of pink, thick and pulsing, with veins prominently visible at the base, likely from all the accumulated stress. Nanami hadn't cum in the past two weeks, so naturally, he was this pent up. His cock was so tempting, begging for attention.

As you wrapped your glossy lips around the tip, Nanami's hips jerked involuntarily, aching for more. The desire to thrust into the back of your throat and make a mess of your slutty makeup consumed him, but Nanami, being the gentleman he was, forced himself still. After all, he wouldn't want to harm his lovely wife, right?

But that's not what you wanted. You wanted Nanami to take out all his anger, all his stress, all his bad days on you. To defile you in a way he would a slut. That's who you were tonight, right? No longer his wife, but the whore he needed.

"Don't hold back, use me," you groaned against his cock, your mouth still wrapped sweetly around it. Drool dribbled down as you pleaded for him to let go. Getting Nanami to be rough was like asking to be struck by lightning—rare, but when it happened, it was electrifyingly intense.

"Such a dirty girl," without hesitation, Nanami began to buck his hips, driving his cock deep into your throat. Your mouth watered, saliva pooling at the base of his needy cock. He was so thick, making it a struggle not to gag. "Such a good whore for me," Tears welled up in your eyes, and your cheeks hollowed as you fought to keep up with his relentless pace.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…" He kept repeating, babbling at this point as he used your mouth. He was drunk on pleasure, feeling the plush, wet insides of your mouth and the back of your throat. The sensation was overpowering for him, and you could see it in the way his body shuddered and groans flying from his mouth. It felt so good watching him writhe in ecstasy, completely lost in the moment. His hands gripped your hair tighter, guiding you as he continued to lose himself in you. The sight of him so vulnerable only fueled your urge to push him further into this blissful state.

You began to hum as he thrust into you, the vibrations around his length driving him insane. He let out the most beautiful grunt, a sound that sent jolts straight to your dripping cunt. You could tell he was close; his movements were becoming erratic and more forceful, causing you to gag and choke each time he hit the back of your throat. Perfect. He needed this release, and so did you. The anticipation had been building for weeks, and now you were desperate to taste him, to feel that connection you had been craving.

"Sweetheart, I can't," he breathed out, his legs stiffening and back arching slightly, plunging him deeper into your throat. His tip was bruising your throat by now, but you didn't care. You needed to see your husband come undone. Using a free hand to grip the base of his length, you began to pump up and down in rhythm with his thrusts. You were going to send him into a spiral, make him regret not being more selfish these last two weeks, make him wish he'd never taken that overtime at the stupid office.

"Gonna come," he winced, the words dragging out as his handsome face contorted in pleasure. Nanami's grip tightened on the back of your head, thrusting his length into your throat with desperation. You could definitely feel the bruises forming, but the feeling only heightened the moment. His hot, salty cum erupted into your throat, filling your mouth and leaving you with barely any time to savor its taste. The sheer force of his release made your eyes water and throat flex, but you reveled in the raw, filthiness. As he pulled back, you licked your lips, catching the last remnants of him, a satisfied smirk playing on your face.

His mouth agape, cheeks flushed, and eyes completely spent as he was panting to catch his breath. You completely wrecked him. "God, you're...incredible," he managed to say between shallow breaths, still reeling from his orgasm. The sight of him so messy only made you want to see him like this again and again. You could see the way his muscled chest heaved, each rise and fall a testament to the pleasure you had just given him. His hands, which had been gripping you with such fervor, now lay limp at his sides, fingers twitching slightly as if still remembering the feel of you.

As he slowly regained his composure, a lazy smile spread across his face. "I don't think I'll ever get enough of you," he whispered, his voice hoarse but filled with sincerity.

"Now, how much extra for another kiss?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes.

"It's on the house,"