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deadsetobsessions · 1 year ago

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Alley Drunk! Danny AU- Part 1

[Pt.2] [Pt.3] [Pt.4]

To not turn into a giant raging asshole hell bent on murdering people and destroying the world after everyone he loved died, Danny had ran from Amity with his chosen vice.

A bottle. That’s right. Even after Jazz’s talks about alcoholism as a poor coping mechanism as a form of self harm, he still chose alcohol. Or maybe that’s why he picked it, because it reminded him of her, right before the booze took the sting of grief off of her memory. He was never really all that good at listening to Jazz.

And now she’s gone, so it’s moot point. Danny really hated Nasty Burger.

Danny made it all the way to Gotham, bottle constantly glued to his hand. It’s better than Vlad’s creep-o-self looming over him all of the time. He bummed out on the streets, fitting into crime alley like a native. Danny learned to pickpocket. Not much, just enough for a bottle when his ran out. He stayed human. At first he tried to convince himself that it was because he didn’t want to be perceived as a meta in a city where Batman notoriously disliked metas. Then, as he sunk deeper, he admitted to himself in a shameful curl of a whisper that it was really because alcohol affected his human side much easier.

Ghosts need an ungodly amount of alcohol to even get slightly buzzed. Danny’s human side? Only one full bottle the shittiest tequila he could find could even hope to be more than buzzed. It sucked.

He’s spent two years being an alcoholic that didn’t actually get that drunk. Technically, underage drinking was a crime. But then again, so was being a vigilante ghost. So, whatever. He does what he can to dull the grief. Mostly, he slept on covered and hidden nooks on top of Crime Alley’s roofs. Gotham city had taken pity on him and cleared her smog clouds when he was awake at night. Stargazing helped, at least. It gave him a little hope. It gave him a little wish to change and better and live like he wants. But then the night ends and when the day comes, Jazz isn’t there. Sam isn’t there. Tucker isn’t there. His mom and dad are not there.

Danny always went back to the bottle, in the end. Not that it did much.

Which was why, when he saw three looming figures over a tiny child, Danny’s saving people thing flared with a vengeance and his surprised ectoplasm burned what little buzz he had achieved by downing most of the bottle away, leaving him stone cold sober and pissed.

Danny sighed, dumping the rest of the nasty tasting liquid out. There’s no point drinking that little.

He approached the trio, who were beating up an actual child. Ancients, he hated Crime Alley sometimes.

“Give me your shit, you little punk!” Asshole 1 decided to say like a typical mugger, raising his leg to kick the curled up kid below. Danny doesn’t let him land the kick, smashing the bottle on the asshole’s head before any of them clocked his presence. He pivots, pushing a bit of that extra strength he normally keeps on a tight leash into his hands, and punched the other two in a quick fashion, knocking them out.

With that taken care of, Danny turned back to the kid who was still curled up. Danny sighed again, the trembles in small shoulders plucking on his heartstrings.

“You okay, kid?”

The kid uncurls, and Danny stared. Holy shit, is he looking into a mirror? Blue eyes, black hair, and tanned skin. Holy shit, he’s even got similar jaws to Danny.

“Huh.”

The kid flinched.

“Y-y’er the drunk,” the kid flinched again, eyes darting to the broken bottle still clenched in Danny’s hand. “I- I ain’t got money, honest. Please-”

Danny blinked down at the kid, brain connecting the dots after so long without actual interaction. He’s panicking and staring at the bottle in Danny’s hand like it’ll kill him. Danny raised the bottle and the kid closed his mouth with a click, terror worming its way into the kid’s eyes.

“I wasn’t going to mug you myself, kid.”

“But- y’er the- the Alley drunk.”

Danny blinked. Did he get a reputation without knowing again? Goddammit.

“I guess. Am I famous or somethin’?”

“Nobody- nobody fucks wit’ ya.”

“I also don’t hurt kids.”

“…”

The kid stared at him dubiously and with a sinking feeling, Danny realized that maybe the kid already had some terrible experiences with a heavy drunken hand. He promptly chucks the bottle further into the alley.

“I drink, yes. But I’m also not the kind of scum that would lay hands on a kid, let alone anyone that didn’t provoke it first.”

“Oh.” The kid uncurled more, looking at Danny warily, more at ease now that the bottle has left the chat.

“Yeah. I’m Danny. Stone cold sober, right now.”

“…”

Danny waited.

“Peters.”

“Okay. Peters, do you wanna take their shit?” Danny pointed a thumb at the knocked out would-be-muggers behind him.

“Y… yeah, sure. What’s my cut?”

“All of it.”

Peters stared.

Danny shrugged and started looting.

"Y'er so fuckin' weird."

----

See, the thing is, Danny hadn't anticipated saving Peters- "'s actually Jason"- would result in having a duckling following him around. The kid, Jason, glared at everyone who even looked at them wrong. But that's not the problem, because Danny could take anyone who took issue with Jason's looks, it's more like there's a child following him around now and Danny doesn't want to be the reason Jason turns into an alcoholic. It's- well, it made him cut down on the drinking. He even got jobs- legitimate jobs that sucks out his his poor ectoplasmic soul.

Why? Because Jason's apparently homeless. While that's something Danny's okay with for himself, he can't ever condone that for an actual child. Jason's walking around in threadbare clothes and thin soled shoes in the middle of Fall, for Ancient's sake.

Danny grumbles as he piled a bunch of clothes into the shopping bag as he checked out. Gotham's Walmart is a different kind of hell, but Danny feels right at home.

Sure, the work might suck out his soul and he might hate being sober, but Jason's face every time he comes home to an actual place to live, warm clothes, and food was worth everything.

#danny phantom #dc x dp #DCxDP #dpxdc #jason todd #batman #crime alley #Danny: im gonna be an alcoholic #also Danny: a child needs help and I don’t drink anymore #Danny phantom’s saving people thing #drunk danny #alcoholic danny #but not for long #danny adopts jason todd #jason todd follows his big brother into being a vigilante #kind of #he becomes robin #but gets rescued by his long suffering brother every once and a while #alley drunk! Danny AU

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awkward-walking-potato · 5 months ago

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Just looking through some of your work and MA'AM. Not to be a straight woman, but oh m y god ohm yg od oh my g od-

So prompt: Logan is pretty good at casual possessive gestures. I wanna read a reaction to reader's possessive gestures towards him.

I'm thinking hand on thigh, hand on waist, staring, putting space between someone else and him, sky's the limit

You could make it a 5+1 format (I am a sucker for those)

Five Times You Were Possessive of Logan, and the One Time He Was Possessive of You

1. Hand on His Thigh

The first time it happens, it’s completely unplanned. You’re at the bar, sitting next to Logan as the two of you chat with some friends. He’s his usual stoic self, gruff but present, the warmth of his body a comforting presence next to you. As the conversation continues, you notice someone across the room eyeing Logan with more interest than you’re comfortable with.

Without thinking, your hand moves to rest on his thigh under the table. The action is instinctive, a way to ground yourself and subtly remind whoever’s watching that Logan isn’t available. The moment your fingers curl around the muscle of his leg, you feel him tense ever so slightly, the briefest hitch in his breath. He doesn’t say anything, just glances down at your hand before looking back at you with a raised eyebrow.

You offer him a small, almost shy smile, as if to say, This okay?

Logan’s lips twitch into the barest hint of a smirk, and his large, rough hand covers yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. He doesn’t move your hand away, doesn’t ask any questions. But there’s a look in his eyes that’s both amused and a little bit surprised, like he’s pleased with your boldness.

He leans in close, his voice low in your ear. “You don’t gotta worry, darlin’. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

2. Hand on His Waist

The next time it happens, it’s at a crowded event. Some kind of gathering at Xavier’s that’s brought in mutants and allies from all over. You and Logan have been mingling for a while, but the room is packed, and you find yourself getting separated from him as people move between you.

You spot him across the room, chatting with Jean and Scott, and feel an inexplicable urge to be close to him. Navigating through the crowd, you slip between the bodies until you reach his side, where you slide your hand around his waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Logan stiffens slightly, glancing down at you with an unreadable expression. For a second, you worry that you’ve overstepped, but then his arm slides around your shoulders, pulling you close against his side. He continues the conversation without missing a beat, but you notice the subtle way he shifts his stance, positioning himself just a bit more protectively between you and the crowd.

His hand lingers on your shoulder long after the conversation ends, thumb tracing idle circles against your skin.

3. Staring

It’s been a long day, and you’re sitting in the common room, watching Logan across the space. He’s talking with Ororo, something serious by the look on their faces. You know it’s important, that they’re discussing something related to the latest mission, but you can’t help the way your eyes linger on him.

He’s all rough edges and raw power, yet there’s something about him that’s magnetic, something that draws you in despite the gruff exterior. Maybe it’s the way he’s always so intensely himself, unapologetically so, or maybe it’s the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention—like you’re the one thing in the world that makes sense to him.

You realize you’ve been staring when Ororo glances over at you and raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on her lips. Logan follows her gaze and finds you looking right at him, your eyes soft, full of something you can’t quite name.

He tilts his head slightly, his gaze narrowing as if he’s trying to figure you out. For a moment, you think about looking away, but you don’t. You just keep staring, letting him see that he’s the only one in the room you care about.

Eventually, he huffs out a low chuckle, shaking his head before turning his attention back to Ororo. But he’s watching you out of the corner of his eye, and you can tell that he’s more focused on you than whatever they’re discussing.

4. Putting Space Between Him and Someone Else

It’s a lazy afternoon, the kind where everyone at the mansion is doing their own thing. You and Logan are sitting outside, enjoying the fresh air, when one of the younger mutants—someone new and a bit too eager—approaches him. They start talking, standing a little too close for your liking, and you can see the way Logan shifts uncomfortably.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you’re on your feet and moving towards them. Sliding yourself between Logan and the newcomer, you offer them a friendly smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Hey,” you say, cutting in smoothly. “Logan and I were just about to head out. Maybe you can catch him later?”

The newcomer looks a bit surprised, but they nod, glancing between you and Logan before backing off with a mumbled apology. You watch them leave, then turn to find Logan looking at you with an expression that’s both amused and impressed.

“Didn’t know you were the jealous type,” he teases, but there’s a warmth in his tone that tells you he doesn’t mind one bit.

You shrug, trying to play it off. “Just didn’t like the way they were crowding you.”

Logan’s smirk widens, and he reaches out to pull you close, his hands resting on your hips. “Gotta admit, I kinda like it when you get all protective.”

5. Hand on His Chest

The fifth time is more deliberate. You’re out on a mission, tensions running high as you and Logan work together to neutralize a threat. When it’s finally over, you’re both exhausted, adrenaline still coursing through your veins.

As the team regroups, one of the other mutants—someone who’s always been a bit too friendly with Logan—sidles up to him, laying a hand on his arm as they talk. You feel a sharp pang of something hot and possessive in your chest, and before you can second-guess yourself, you’re right there beside him.

You place your hand on his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath your palm, and lean in closer than necessary. “You alright, Logan?” you ask, your voice laced with concern.

Logan’s eyes flicker with surprise, but then he smiles, his hand covering yours as he nods. “Yeah, I’m good,” he replies, his gaze never leaving yours.

The other mutant quickly excuses themselves, and Logan turns his full attention to you. “You know,” he says, his voice low, “I’m startin’ to think you don’t like sharin’.”

You give him a sly grin. “Maybe I don’t.”

Logan chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that sends shivers down your spine. “Good,” he murmurs, pulling you even closer, his lips brushing against your temple. “’Cause I don’t either.”

Logan’s Turn

The one time Logan decides to return the favor, it catches you completely off guard.

You’re in the kitchen, chatting with Bobby as you wait for your coffee to brew. The conversation is light, filled with jokes and teasing banter. Bobby’s always been a bit of a flirt, but it’s harmless, and you’re laughing at something he’s said when Logan walks in.

Before you can even greet him, Logan is suddenly right behind you, his arm wrapping possessively around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. You can feel the solid heat of him, the way his grip is firm, almost claiming. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmurs, “What’s so funny?”

Bobby’s eyes widen slightly as he takes in the scene, and you can see the flash of understanding in his expression. “Uh, nothing, man. Just talking.” Bobby backs away with a nervous chuckle, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll, uh, catch you later.”

As Bobby quickly exits the kitchen, you turn to look up at Logan, still caught in his embrace. There’s a look in his eyes that’s both playful and intense, and you realize with a start that he’s the one feeling possessive now.

“Logan?” you ask, a bit breathless, your heart pounding in your chest.

He just grunts, the sound more of a satisfied hum than anything else, and his hand tightens on your waist. “Just didn’t like the way he was lookin’ at you,” he admits gruffly, but there’s a hint of vulnerability in his voice, like he’s not used to feeling this way.

A slow smile spreads across your face as you lean into him, your own hand finding its way to his chest, fingers tracing the familiar contours. “Guess we’re both a little possessive, huh?”

Logan huffs out a low laugh, his gaze softening as he looks down at you. “Yeah,” he agrees, his voice rumbling against your skin. “But I’m not complaining.”

You stand there together, wrapped up in each other, the world outside fading away as you both realize just how much you mean to one another. In that moment, it doesn’t matter who’s being possessive or why—what matters is that you belong to each other, and neither of you would have it any other way.

#marvel imagine #x men imagine #wolverine imagine #wolverine x reader #logan howlett imagine #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett #wolverine one shot #wolverine #deadpool imagine

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logaenhowlett · 3 months ago

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THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD IN HER HANDS - L.H.

Summary: After months of watching you relentlessly try to gain control of your powers, Logan finally takes matters into his own hands.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Fluff - so much damn fluff, Slight angst, Language

A/N: Suffering from writer's block on a plot-driven angsty Logan fic so I wrote this to focus on something else. Shout out to End by Frank Ocean. Enjoy!

MASTERLIST

“You’ve been going at it for hours.”

His voice makes you pause, shifting your concentration to the man leaning against the door frame. Logan watches as you swing your head down, possibly frustrated by his interruption.

“Professor said I’d get better at this,” You swipe the sweat off your face, grabbing your drenched shirt as it clings to your skin, “It’s been months and I'm nowhere near strong enough.”

He huffs in amusement, he would often catch you in moments like these, tiring yourself hour after hour till you were exhausted enough to finally pass out. It reminds him of his early days at this place. Young and eager to prove himself to everyone here, that he was capable of being good once again.

“Old man doesn’t know what he’s talkin’ about.” A measly attempt to shut down your self-deprecation, he knows nothing will convince you otherwise, that much he learned over the last few times he tried reasoning with you. When you shoot him a questioning glance, he relents, raising his hands up in defense. “Alright. But you’re not doing any good wearing yourself to the bone.”

“I just want to be like Storm and Scott and you.”

“Well, if that’s the case, the bar ain’t that high.” A teasing grin shining as he approaches you, the annoyed expression on your face does little to stop him. “Come with me.”

“What?”

He chuckles at your confusion, wandering dangerously close into your personal space. “I wanna show you something,” He murmurs.

Flirting isn’t a new concept to him at all. Though you never get used to his attempts, always brushing it off with the assumption that it’s just a game.

“Logan - I need to keep practicing.” You take a few steps back, creating a little distance from his very distracting presence. “It’s the only way I’ll get better at controlling this.”

“Okay.” He drags out, “You can still keep doing this when we come back.”

As you contemplate his request, he knows he has you convinced, a grin tugging on his lips. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

When he leads you to the mansion's garage, you recall all the times he'd whisked you away from moments of misery and fatigue. He seemed to have this innate ability to know when you're in over your head, too absorbed into whatever you were doing to take a step back and relax. A tinge of embarrassment creeps into your thoughts, feeling bad for him to constantly keep checking in as if you were incapable of knowing your limits. Fuck, I'm a mess. You snap yourself from going down the negative route, shifting your focus to Logan, a chuckle escapes you.

“You know he hates it when you steal his bike, right?”

He swings a leg over, revving the engine. The sound seems to unintentionally comfort you, your mind having subconsciously associated it with him. Despite Scott being the owner of vehicle, he rarely saw it since it was Logan’s choice of transportation. Fucking dickhead, he used to curse up and down, unwillingly giving up after Charles reasoned with him one too many times. You remember the entire ordeal, having to intervene during one of their many childish fights when Scott attempted to blow up Logan’s ass.

“I’ll fill up the tank.”

“No, you won’t.” A short laugh leaves you as you wrap your arms around him.

He flashes a smile, tilting his head back to ensure you’re properly seated. “No, I won’t.”

You hardly pay attention to his driving, instead mindlessly watching the scenery zip past. It wasn't the first time Logan had taken you on a ride. In fact, after the initial fear, you had grown fond of this time you got share with him. A quiet and peaceful journey where you could turn your restless mind off and simply enjoy each other's company. An unspoken vow of trust had always lingered between you two, which was something he cherished more than he could ever express. He smiles softly at the weight of you resting on his back as the breeze encompasses around you.

“How’d you even find this place?” You ask, sliding off the seat as he kicks the stand.

“Used it for shelter during that snowstorm a while ago. The bike gave out on me.”

You hum in response, spinning on your feet to look around. It's an abandoned gas station that had definitely seen better days. Despite all the damage and vandalisation, it was an oddly interesting location, a lake nearby overlooking lush fields. Nothing in Logan's expression gives away his intention of bringing you here. He slowly steps backwards, a hint of a smirk tugging his lips and when he's a decent distance away, “Hit me.”

“What?”

“Use your power, sweetheart. Don’t be scared, you can do it.” It's rather encouraging and not at all akin to his usual cocky tone.

“Logan - what, no!” You exclaim, finding his proposal ridiculous. “I’m not - I can’t even fully control it. What if I hurt you?”

He scoffs, amused you could even suggest such a thing, “Well, you’re gonna have to control it, aren’t ya?” When you make no attempt to try, his gaze softens, “I can take it.”

You take a deep breath, channelling your focus to create a ball of energy between your hands. Despite being small, it hits him with enough force to push him back a few steps. A groan leaves him as he clutches his stomach, you shift to run towards him but he lifts his hand, making you stop.

“Again. Don’t hold back.”

This time you think of Charles, remembering all the lessons and training sessions you've had with him. Where you had always doubted yourself, he had constantly reassured you and your ability to control your gift. The ball of energy grows more between your hands, crackling with intensity. Using all your might, you aim at Logan once again, hitting him square in the chest, thrusting him back several feet, the impact denting the ground in the process. He stands up feeling a bit lightheaded, though that sensation disappears as he flexes his muscles, grateful for his healing factor.

“I did it!” You laugh in surprise, running to him.

His arms immediately wrap around you, slightly lifting you off the ground. “You did it,” He says with a faint smile, taking in your satisfaction.

Caught up in moment of finally making progress, you notice the lack of space between Logan and you. And suddenly, his hands on your waist, his tender expression, it all becomes too much, making you pull back. “You’re insane. That could’ve gone so wrong,” You spit out, trying to relieve some tension.

“I trust you.” He whispers, softly.

Your body seems to be on fire, everything about this begins to overwhelm your senses. With a shaky breath, you try stepping away from his gentle grip.

“Why do you always run from me?” His words still your movements. His eyes can't seem to find yours, instead settling on the charred ground beneath him, "I know… you feel this too.”

“I’m - I don’t…”

“Let me in, sweetheart. I won’t run away.” He approaches you, giving you the space to reject his advances. ”I promise.”

When you don't respond, he hangs his head low, accepting your decision. “Let’s go home,” He mumbles.

As you walk down the hallway to your room, you can't seem to shake the urge to run back to him. You take a moment, hand grasping your doorknob before you spin around. Within seconds of knocking on his door, he swings it open catching your distinct heartbeat on the other side.

“Logan - I just…” The words die on your tongue. Every little feeling you'd held for him comes rushing forward. As he stands there, growing concerned for your wellbeing, all you can think about is kissing him till the air leaves your lungs.

“You okay?”

That's enough for you to slam into him. You grab the collar of his white shirt, pulling him down. Your lips find his own, slowly moving against the soft flesh. It takes him less than a second to comprehend what's happening before he reciprocates your actions.

You tilt your head back, inhaling his comforting scent. He continues peppering kisses on your face, unable to stop once he finally got a taste. “I'm sorry, I was scared. I am scared,” You whisper.

“I know. But I’m here for you. I’m always gonna be here for you.” He murmurs against your lips, “If you let me.”

Your smile sends flutters to his heart. His low chuckle echoes within you as he leans down, capturing your lips with a hunger he'd suppressed for as long as he could remember. When your moan teases his senses, he lifts you with ease, one arm securing your waist and the other gently stroking the underside of your thigh. He lowers you down onto the bed, noting your exhaustion from earlier. Sliding right next to you, he presses a light kiss on your temple, pulling you into his warm embrace. A silent promise that he'll never let you go.

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett fluff #logan howlett angst #logan x you #logan howlett imagine #wolverine x you #wolverine #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine imagine #wolverine fluff #wolverine angst

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penvisions · 1 month ago

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stages of devotion {holiday hustle}

Pairing: Holiday Impaired! Joel Miller x Expert Holiday Baker! Reader

Summary: The holidays came fast this year, but with it comes a father and daughter pair you didn't ever expect to see again.

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: holiday triggers, holiday stress, baking stress, food industry triggers, family issues, minor off screen family dynamics, super soft yearning, mutual pining, sexual tension, smut, p in v, creampie, joel's dirty talk deserves its own warning, lemme know if i missed any!

A/N: so its a few days after the holiday that i announced this on. so so sorry for the tease, y'all. finally made it to my "weekend" only to get sick :c trying to make the most of the days though (within reason). love y'all and hope you enjoy this!

ao3 link || series masterlist || navigation || ko-fi

The holiday season sucks.

That’s about all you’re confident in as you twirl the piping bag in your hand for what feels like the thousandth time that morning. There’s an entire rack of pies beside you, tray after tray that needs to be garnished with cremieux and a little chocolate coin that has the first letter of your bakery branded on it in gold. Behind it are three more of the same pie. Behind that are four more of apple.

Apple and pumpkin. The only flavors you offered for the season. One hundred each, plenty enough to keep you afloat for the next month or so if you sell out. Especially if you sell out the display case as well.

Your bakery is small, just you and your friend Colbie. Something to be passed in the blink of an eye on the busy downtown street. But it was born of passion and creativity, a space you carved out in the big scary world all for yourself. You’re none the wiser of how your day will turn out as you continue to pipe the faintly black spotted vanilla over the remaining pies, moving onto fetching things out of the oven as timers begin to go off and garnish the ones already chilled from an earlier bake.

Just down the street, Joel and Sarah are strolling down the sidewalk from where they parked the car at the end of the block.

“Don’t see why the crew needs more food, baby girl.”

“Because we need to show our appreciation for them, dad. They’re working the morning of thanksgiving, for crying out loud.”

“This isn’t exactly a tax write off…”

“Dad!” The exasperated teenager nudges at his side with her shoulder, catching his ribs lightly. But he doesn’t stumble nor do his steps falter, he lets her win a lot of the time but this? He still loves how she tries to roughhouse with him only to realize that he’s always gonna have the upper hand unless he gives into her. Her pout and huff draws a laugh from deep in his chest.

“It’s true! I gotta pay for it all outta my account, not the business. We already picked up breakfast for everyone and half the men are gonna store it in their coolers for a later time.” He pivots her toward the doorway just past a large window display, squares of glass allowing for a glimpse inside a local bakery.

“Don’t you put the catering on the business card?”

“Well yeah, but their overtime for today is coming out of it too.”

“Maybe if we ask the owner, they can discount us or something?” Sarah is suddenly stopping just inside the threshold, watching with wide eyes as her father walks in behind her. The scent of fresh baked bread and flaky pastries welcomes them despite the empty lobby. “Is there a reason you’re so hesitant to use the company card? I thought the business was doing good?”

Joel heaves a heavy sigh, placing both his hands gently on her shoulders to hold her attention and give her all of his.

“Everything is fine, Sarah.” His brown eyes take in the way her own multifaceted ones gleam in the bright sunlight shining in the muted green space the lobby has been painted. Plants alive and well, live wood bar top against the window for people to sit at. “Money is my worry, but there ain’t nothing to worry about okay?”

“We can still ask after a discount, it doesn’t hurt, right?” Suddenly shy, her eyes break contact with his and turn down to her scuffed shoes. “I know that it’s new, but the therapy sessions aren’t exactly cheap or covered by the insurance.”

“Hey now, don’t go worrying about all that either.” Joel’s voice is so soft, floating through the air and sneaking into the kitchen through the siding of the swinging door. You pause in the rosette you were piping atop a cake, just little personal ones with autumnal flowers for the season. “I’m the dad, and that’s a dad thing, okay? You want to keep goin’ and that’s all that matters. Just want you to be okay, that’s all I ever want ‘cause I love you so damn much, okay?”

She nods once, still not bringing her eyes back up but she huffs out a giggle when he leans down and kisses her cheek, deliberately nuzzling the scruff on his cheek against her own.

“Besides, I don’t wanna bother them, baby girl, it’s such a small place.” With that settled they both turn back to the display cause and counter, just in time to see you approach through the window in the door.

“Joel?” There’s no hiding the smile that breaks out across your face as you push through the swinging door that leads separates the kitchen and public area. Even despite the inner turmoil you had endured after first meeting him. The will he won’t he of leaving your number for him…

“Camp lady! Dad, look, it’s her!” The excited teenager hops up and down on her long legs, arms hanging onto one of Joel’s and she jostles him. The slight melancholy of her previous words and worries forgotten with the aid of Joel’s soothing ones and your appearance. “You work here? That’s so cool!”

“Yes, Sarah, honey, I see her.” He rolls his eyes for you to see as she skips forward up to the counter. He looks good, if a little tired. His scruff is longer, body a little leaner than when you had seen him last…two months ago now. You had been so sure he would call or text, reach out in whatever way was easiest for him. And when he hadn’t…you had thrown yourself into work and prep for the holiday season. Reveling in the night you shared and taking it for what it was, not letting the lack of communication taint what had been an electric connection. His eyes are glued to you, ignoring the twirling and excitement of his daughter as she flits in front of the display case.

As you round the corner of the counter and display case, it’s obvious how busy you’ve been in the morning hours as stains darken the fabric. Reaching with a flour dusted hand, you go to shake the man’s hand but he surprises you and pulls you into a tight hug. The smell of his spicy cologne and wood shavings spurs butterflies to life in your belly and heat rise to your cheeks.

“It’s good to see ya, darlin’.” He whispers in your ear, voice all baritone gravel. He releases you just as Colbie enters back in through the front door. You see the way her eyes widen at the show of affection, she knows you better than anyone and casual touch is not something you’re a fan of. But you can tell that she immediately knows who Joel and his daughter are if the sparkle in her eye and the smirk she flashes at you says anything.

“I’m so sorry, I thought I locked the door behind me. Want me to keep it unlocked, we’ve got about fifteen minutes until we’re open.”

“Leaving it open will be fine, do you mind-“ The timer pinned to your apron tie goes off and a second later the one for the oven blares from the kitchen.

“Got it!” And she’s rushing behind the counter to slip back through the sliding door.

Joel looks like he’s about to apologize for barging in, Sarah leading him in the early hour. Coffee thermos left on the counter in the rush and his brain is working overtime without it. The pickup order she had placed with a breakfast place too busy for him to grab something there. You wave him off with a soft smile, not minding the intrusion one bit.

“My dad would not shut up about you on the way home, especially since we still have that air mattress you leant us! Thank you again so much for that, I didn’t want my dad to have to sleep on the ground with his bad back.”

“Hey now, you’re a little too forward with the embarrassing details.” Joel’s bashful words are bathed in an even tone, trying to parent his daughter but still treat her like the independent person that she is.

“So what can I do for you?” You try to fight the slight awkwardness of randomly happening across them as customers in your shop and you swear you see Joel duck his head as he roughs a hand across the back of his neck. Your causal tone and polite smile dousing the hope that had flared in his own chest when you walked out from the kitchen. “I’ve got plenty of pastries, the pies aren’t quite done yet but if you need one or two, I can add the finishing touches real quick?”

“Dad, we should get them pie! Like one each, you think? There’s five on the crew and then the secretaries too, they should get one since they’ll be waiting for us in the office. We can put the bonus checks on top with some pretty stickers! Oooh, dad we gotta stop at the art store now!”

“Sarah, honey, take a breath.” Joel claps hand over her shoulder and she beams up at him. “We only got half an hour to get to the office.”

“Oh, that’s okay! We can still do the pie each thing, right?”

“Whatever you wanna do,” He presses a kiss to the top of her head, her kinky curls flattening as he does so and earns him a grumbled ‘spent so much time on it this morning, old man’.

“So that was seven pies then?” You ask, trying to keep up with the both of them, they’ve got such an easy-going way that they communicate. Their bond obvious and their love pure as you had witnessed back at that campsite, he wants for her to have everything he can give her. It’s admirable, a good man, a good parent.

“Uh, make it ten, please.” Joel steps up to the counter, taking out his wallet from a back pocket. “Half pumpkin, half apple. So folks can pick whichever one they want.”

“Ten, got it. It’s gonna take me a few minutes to finish up, do you want a coffee while you wait?” And you swear his gaze hardens as he looks up to see the price displayed on the screen, card ready to press against the pad after you finished punching in his order on your own side of the register. The same way they had just before he had kissed you, angled toward you in front of that fire, the determination set his face in such an endearing way.

“Would be wonderful, darlin’. Just a black drip, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Hey, just so you know, ‘m sorry I didn’t call.” Joel shuffles on his feet, watching as Sarah starts up the truck and begins to dance to the loud beats he can make out through the cracked window. You had walked out with the pair to help load the bags into the extended cab of the gleaming gray truck. “I wanted to, but-“

“Life is hectic sometimes, it’s okay. I’m not gonna say I wasn’t disappointed, but I do understand.” You know he’s got a lot more going on in his life, with a child he’s raising on his own. The bakery keeps you busy, hours not quite the same as everyone. You never want to feel like you’re holding expectations for a life that just doesn’t fit into your schedule sometimes. And that included Joel, his own busy schedule not allowing for personal indulgences either. It’s hard not to feel like it’s a cruel twist of fate, that you two met only to realize the puzzle pieces of your life don’t quite match up.

“The paper, I had it. Put it in my pocket but my brother snatched the flannel instead of his own at the work site and washed the damn thing.”

“Little brother?” You tilt your head to the side, all too familiar with the chaos of sheer unpredictability one could bring.

“Yep, meddling, clueless little brother.” He’s fascinating, every little detail you learn about him draws you in closer, a pull toward the man you’ve only gotten glimpses of as of yet.

“Mine is pretty clueless too, god love him.”

“But- uh…oddly enough,” A large hand rubs at the back of his neck, the muscles of his arm straining against his flannel sleeve and catching your eye. “Mine is having a small dinner tonight, just us two, Sarah and his wife. Their twins. I know you got work today and don’t really know me at all, but I was wondering if-“

“Apple or pumpkin?” Lips pulling into a wide smile, you swear your heart is about to beat out of your chest, thudding wildly the second you realized where he was going with his explanation of his own holiday plans.

“Huh?”

“Do you want me to bring an apple or pumpkin pie?” You look up at him through your lashes, heat blooming in your chest at the insinuation he wanted you there, at the invitation you hadn’t been extended in years. Everyone always wanted the good you baked, the bread, the skills you had for the kitchen. But they never particularly wanted you around for the holidays. The family disappointment, for not being married, for not having kids, for not finishing school, for being too different.

“Darlin’ you don’t have to bring anything, just want you to come and be my date.”

And he couldn’t have said anything more perfect as you feel your throat constrict and tears well up in your eyes.

“Hey now, I mean it.” He’s shifting, hands reaching for you and you feel a little sorry for the ‘oof’ he lets out when you crash into his open arms. “Wanna get to know you, but only if you want that too. If we can carve out some time for each other.”

“Of course, Joel. That would…that would make me happy.”

“’m droppin’ Sarah off now, gotta head to the site for a few hours but I can pick you up here once I’m done. That sound okay to you?” He looks so hopefully, so happy that he can ask you in person, can ask to see you again now that he’s found you and it melts your heart. You’re sure the smile you give him is just as dopey at the one he’s beaming down at you.

“Yes, that sounds perfect. Here.” You pull away from him just enough to reach into your back pocket and brandish a business card at him. The thick cardstock is embossed in gold lettering, your name and number displayed on it proudly. “This is a little more permanent than a flimsy piece of paper.”

He pulls one of his own business cards out from his wallet as he securely puts yours away.

You continue to feel the warmth of his fingers passing it to you even hours later as you hold piping bags filled with cooled frosting, as you add frills and garnishes to pastries set in the cooler after leaving the oven a nice golden brown. And even as you feel your face heat up at the confrontation Colbie sneaks in throughout the day about your ‘gentleman caller’.

Around noon, Joel’s truck parks out front of the bakery. He’s showered, it looks like it as you see the shine to dark curls. He’s taken a shaver to his scruff as well, it’s not as long as it had been this morning.

“Please tell me you’re closed tomorrow.” Joel taps the hours displayed on the door as he steps through it, the gold lettering telling him that you were in fact not. But open at seven am sharp. Looking up from where you’re closing down the register, you hold up one finger up to indicate you need a moment.

As you continue, you can sense his gaze as it takes in the space you poured your blood, sweat and tears into. Devoted hours to manifesting and making it a reality. The case is completely empty, parchment paper adorned with errant crumbs all that he sees inside through the shiny glass.

When you step out from behind the counter, bag and keys in hand, you clock the second Joel realizes you’ve taken a moment to change as well. No longer in your dirty apron or black athleisure, but in a skirt that flows to about midthigh, tights underneath and a thin sweater. Your hair is down too, now, no longer pulled back into low pigtails and covered with a beanie for safety reasons around the kitchen.

“Darlin’, you look-“ He swallows, tongue watering as he takes in the sight of you all dolled up for him, for a date with him. “You look amazin’.”

“Just some spare clothes I had in my office. Didn’t wanna roll up to your brother’s house covered in flour and chocolate.” He’s shushing you as he ambles up, pressing his lips to your forehead as he cradles your face.

“He wouldn’t have cared and neither would I. Today is about family, no matter their shape or mess, got it? Miller households are safe places, you hear me?”

The drive over to his brother’s is short, the two of them in the same neighborhood but different blocks something that tickles you to know end. Watchful big brother, independent little brother who didn’t want to stray too far. It’s endearing, so different from you own family. Parents live upstate, brother is still in university, opting to live in the dorms instead of with you. Younger sister god knows where now, she pops up every year with a crazy tale of where she ended up for most of the time she had disappeared.

His brother doesn’t seem surprised in the least when Joel shows up on his doorstep with you at his side, his greeting a wide smile and bright eyes. His wife, Maria is just as easy going, just as welcoming. Praising you for bringing dessert and that she had totally blanked on it for after the meal in the hectic planning of the day.

The atmosphere is cozy, holiday cheer abundant despite the temperate Texas weather that plagues the state year round. Sarah is particularly excited to be helping out this year, the first she’s old enough to. A set of twins half her age run around with shrieking laughter as Joel and Tommy chase them around and keep them busy while you help out in the kitchen as well, not wanting to just show up and sit around waiting for everything to be done.

It's so different from your usual meal alone, normally just leftovers from the day before on a tray as you settle in bed and binge watch something once the bakery closes up.

It warms your heart and makes you feel full in a way that being with your family never has. From the easy going conversation with Maria, the light teasing and focus of following instructions from Sarah, stolen glances with Joel, the wide brimming smile of his brother as he realizes that the scene is a little more complete with you there now.

“Tell me I can kiss you, please.” Joe’s lips brush the shell of your ear, causing you to shiver at the vibrations that caress the sensitive skin. He’s been angling closer all afternoon, the couch cushions flattening and sloping. Pooling you closer to where his thick thighs rest, to the intoxicating warmth of his body and the heady smell of his spiced cologne. The movie credits are playing softly on the screen, everyone well fed and just now recovering to tend to things such as packing up leftovers and beginning to organize what was left.

The second you two were alone, Joel had used the arm he had slung up on the back of the couch around your shoulders to tug you in close. Tucking you into him, he used his other hand to pivot your legs into his lap. He’s kneading the skin there, over your tights. Thick fingers daring to trace higher and higher as he pulls back to look into your eyes.

“You’re so goddamn pretty, baby, can’t believe my streak of bad luck.” And at the flash of guilt in the depths of warm brown eyes, you surge forward and kiss him with a ferocity that startles him. The small ‘humph!’ and the tightening of his hand around your thigh curls desire low in your middle as his tongue eagerly meets yours as you part your lips.

“Bad luck, good luck. Doesn’t matter.” You manage between deep kisses, hands threading through the thick locks of chocolate curls atop his head. “We’re here now, I’m here with you.”

“Good.” He’s swallowing the moan that bubbles up from how he presses into you, how he pulls you flush with him.

“Joel! We got a house full of impressionable kids and you’re just makin’ out on the couch with the baker?”

The deep rumble of his chuckle does nothing but make your stomach jolt as heat lances through your core. The sound hitting deep and making you bury your face in the man’s neck as he parts only his lips from yours.

“Gotta embarrass me always, huh?” He’s holding you tight still, hands gripping and knuckles straining with the effort it’s taking to stop his ministrations.

“Just keep it in your pants, we’ve got everything packed up for y’all to take home. Sarah’s tucked into the spare room, helping out this year really took it outta her.”

“That where she snuck off to?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. We can watch her for the night. She don’t go back to school until next week right? Just come get ‘er tomorrow. And you,” Tommy aims twin finger guns at you. “Are welcome back anytime, Maria really appreciated the help in the kitchen but mostly I think she just loved having another woman around to chat with. Seriously, she’s gonna offer to come by the bakery and grab lunch one day soon.”

With that, Tommy saunters back into the kitchen with a snicker of his own and some words you can’t quite make out to the woman in question.

“Well, what do ya think?” Joel moves to whisper in your ear again. “Wanna come back to mine? Or I could take you home? Whichever you want, sweetheart.”

The sudden image of you and Joel tangled up on top of your bed has you kissing him full on the mouth one last time.

“Take me home and then take me to bed.”

Giddy anticipation fills the cab of his truck, the engine ticking as he shuts it off and just sits back for a moment. His eyes find yours and you can’t help the giggle that bursts from your chest, hands tangled and fingers twisting around each other in your lap. His hand reaches and takes one of your own, engulfing it with the sheer size difference. His beautiful hands that craft houses and woodwork, his beautiful hands that raised his amazing, rambunctious but sweet daughter, his beautiful hands that held his young nephew and niece with such care. His beautiful hands that you’ve felt explore your body twice now, the urge for him to do so again so strong it makes you feel dizzy.

“I can leave if you’re nervous, darlin’. No pressure, no hard feelings.” Joel Miller, the man that he is, knew just what to say to ease your worries.

“No, no. I just…”

“Thank you, for today.” You whisper, emotions getting the better of you. “I really thought that…this year I’d be alone again. My family only ever asks after desserts, always schedules the meal late and too far away for me to make the drive. I…I really liked spending time with you and your family today, they made me feel so welcome and included. It- it was really nice, Joel.”

The trembling of your lower lip is embarrassing but you can’t fight it off as you bare your heart to the man beside you.

“Hey now, it’s okay. I got ya,” He’s shuffling closer, the console pushed up to allow him to slide across the bench seat. “They loved you, ‘m sure they wouldn’t mind seein’ you more.”

And it’s easy, the way he soothes the turmoil in your mind, begins to help heal the trauma that bubbles up this time of year.

It’s easy how he kisses you and makes you feel like the most important person in the world.

It’s easy how he let’s you guide him into your home with clasped hands and a shy smile.

It’s easy the next morning when you wake up beside him, his naked body like a furnace under the sheets as it wraps around your own. The hours posted on your bakery door correct except for the day that follows any holiday. His breath little puffs against the back of your neck as you both share a pillow, while your exhalation becomes needy as you feel an ache between your legs. Little whimpers thrown into the air with no regard to how desperate they sound.

Heat sparks through you as you recall the desire in his hooded eyes the night before as you straddled him, taking your time with lowering yourself onto his hard cock, already dribbling when he had shucked his pants off for you to see all of him for the first time. The sight of him sprawled across your bed, head thrown on the pillows and bronze skin gleaming in the low lights strung up over your bed had all but turned you possessive. The memories were too much, kindling desire and pleasure in you in such a way that should be a warning in itself that you were fucked.

You were gone on him and you could only hope he felt the same way.

Soon enough, the shifting of your thighs to relieve pleasure that tingles there rouses him.

“Woke up needy, huh darlin’?” His voice is deep velvet, the early morning blessing him with such a soothing baritone that it almost has you rolling your eyes at it caresses over your skin much like his exploring fingers.

“Mhm, can still feel you. Right here-“ And his hand flattens against the soft give of your stomach where you guided it, just below your belly button.

“Fuck, that’s so hot, you have no idea.” He’s crowding you, body shifting to press your chest to the bed, his legs tangling with yours as he kneels behind you. He hinges your hips, bringing them up to rub the length of his cock between your glistening folds. “So full a me still, holding it like such a good girl for me.”

The whine of his name from your lips has him pushing in, slowly and carefully until his hips meet the back of your thighs. Turning it into a low moan that raises the hairs on the back of his neck. Your panting is all he can hear, the clench of your walls all he can feel as your back arches and you press back into him.

“Right here, huh?” His hand is still on your belly, and it presses now, pulling a yelp from you as the pressure in your core intensifies. Your cunt gushes around him, earning you a hiss as he grinds himself against you to make a squelching sound.

“Please please please tell me we’re going to do this again.” You move on him, pulling forward a bit, knees spreading and hands gripping tight to the sheets underneath you. Joel’s answering groan is more than enough but his voice delivers your fate in such an easy way.

“Oh darlin’, we’re gonna be doin’ this every day for the rest of our lives.” And with that he moves to grip your hips so tight you’re sure there will be reddened imprints of his fingers, pulling out in a slow drag before he slams back in and sets a brutal pace.

And maybe the holidays aren’t so bad, after all.

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artistmarchalius · 1 year ago

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Innit VS In’t - a PSA

I’ve seen some confusion in Hobie fics around the word “innit” and I think I’ve figured out why: aside from general confusion about the use of the word, I believe some people are occasionally mixing it up with “in’t”.

So let’s dive into it!

Innit - isn’t it

Can be used at the end of a sentence to make it a question or for emphasis.

E.g. “That’s a load of rubbish, innit?” Or “I’m Spider-Man, innit.” (The latter is an example of emphasis. It’s not grammatically correct but using slang isn’t always about being grammatically correct).

“Innit” can also be used in the middle and at the beginning of sentences (in place of “isn’t it”).

E.g. “Innit lovely out here?” Or “You told me that a Vulture variant was loose in Holborn, but innit true you’ve been tellin’ porkies?”

In’t - contraction of “isn’t”

You can use “in’t” in place of “isn’t”.

E.g. “In’t that the guy who was in here earlier?” Or “That’s a metaphor for capitalism, in’t it?” (You could also use “innit” in the second example).

It can be a bit confusing to a non-English ear to distinguish between “innit” and “in’t”, especially when they’re spoken quickly. For example: if you think you’re hearing someone say something like “Innit that right?” (which would be saying “Isn’t it that right?”, then you’re probably actually hearing them say “In’t that right?”

But wait!

Couldn’t you just use “ain’t” instead of “in’t”?

Sure!

“Ain’t” is a very versatile contraction. It can mean: am not, are not, is not, have not, has not, do not, does not and did not.

E.g. “I ain’t a liar!” Or “He ain’t done his homework.” Or “Ain’t that the truth.” Or “It ain’t right.”

Fun facts:

The earliest records of “ain’t” are from the 1700’s but it was popularised by Dickens’ representation of Cockney dialect.

“In’t” originates from Northern England.

So why use “in’t” instead of “ain’t”?

Personal preference, innit?

And there you have it, a dive into the world of “innit”, “in’t” and “ain’t”!

As always, I’m not an expert, I just wanted to share the knowledge that I do have. There may be other ways to use these words, depending on what part of the country you come from, but this should cover the vast majority of them (if not maybe all of them)! Hopefully someone will find this helpful, informative or entertaining at the very least. I know a lot of this seems basic, but there are a lot of non-native English speakers in the fandom so I wanted to cover all my bases.

Let me know if there’s anything else you’d like me to cover and I’ll see what I can do! If you’re using “innit” or “in’t” in your writing but aren’t sure if you’re using it right, I’m happy to look over any sentences you’d like me to!

Happy writing!

#hobie brown #spider punk #atsv #hobie brown fanfiction #writing help #innit #in’t #ain’t #British slang #fic help #across the spiderverse #hobie brown fanart #hobie fanart #comic #writing #writing tips

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boolger · 4 months ago

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A lapdog at a farm - chapter 1

AO3 link. next chapter -> Call of duty. Explicit, 18+, minors do not interact. read the tags. wc: 4,147

Maybe support me on kofi?🥺👉👈

Farmer!John Price x Hybrid!Reader, hybrid! Kyle Gaz Garrick x hybrid! Johnny Soap MacTavish x hybrid! Simon Ghost, John Price x Nikolai.

Summary: When Price was young and left his childhood home, a farm in the middle of nowhere in England, he didn’t enter the military. Instead he moved to London, got a degree and a good career, earning good money. He got you, a human dog hybrid as a pet, after feeling lonely - and you lived your best life for years, spoiled and pampered, Price’s lapdog who got praised at every party. Loved and fucked every night. That was until Price decided to return to his roots and go back to farming - dragging you along to the middle of nowhere, away from all the wonders of the big city. Expecting you to accept this sudden change in lifestyle and pretend to be a farm dog. Bad luck however, because you fucking hated it, and became more and more unruly. In hopes of getting you to calm down and to keep his live-stock and farm safe, Price then got three working dog hybrids - and all at once, your life was even worse than before.

tags: Rape/non-con elements, dub-con, dog!hybrid!people being kept as pets, alternative universe - farm, dark, farmer!John Price, working-dogs, punishments, mating cycles/rut/heat (no omegaverse), the dove isn't dead but its dying, reader is a brat, knotting, animal tails and ears, mentions of trauma, violence, angst, hurt/comfort, collars, rough sex, breeding kink, biting, threesome, foursome, everyone is fucking your honor, enemies to lovers, chubby reader, reader has a pussy

author's note: Hi sinners <33 Just a heads up; the reader is gonna be a spoiled brat. If you want a smart and sweet reader who isn’t mean at times, well. Bad news. This ain’t it.🥰The reader is she / her and has a pussy and is chubby. I tried my best to keep the descriptions somewhat vague otherwise. Reader is a cocker spaniel hybrid. I will tell the others along the way. In this universe, hybrids have ears, tail, claws beneath nails and canine fangs. There will be heats and ruts but there is no omegaverse. They will have personality traits of their dog breed and so on. Now. I know there aren’t wild wolves in the UK… but in this fic there is, ok? mwah.

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The countryside was peaceful compared to the city; the absence of the bustling streets and constant traffic, created a quietness that was indescribable.

Out here, at the new farm, the noises only came from animals that lived in the stables and barn or the occasional rumble as a tractor turned on. The wind caressed the never ending fields of wheat and the long rows of fruit trees, under which the goats and sheep walked most days.

The stress here wasn’t the same kind as in the city. Sure , there were stressful moments and sometimes Price looked like he needed to sleep for more than just the few hours he got everyday.

But he didn’t have to worry about the morning traffic, waiting in a queue for an overpriced, questionable tea or coffee. There was no need for him to wear a suit, no noisy, overfilled train cars in the underground. No crowded dog or hybrid parks, no meetings or rules to follow - except those John Price decided for himself.

He was happy, so much was clear to you. It had been three months since the move - Johnhad gone back to his roots, buying back the farm that his parents had used to own a little while ago, using some of his endless wealth on renovating the place. There was no step on the stairs that was loose, like it used to when he was a kid - sure they still creaked, but you weren’t afraid they would disappear from beneath you.

It was modernized, but most of the old charm left. Price fit right in; the furniture he had inherited and never believed he would use was suddenly in the living room. His knowledge of the business world was abandoned in the city, for the knowledge of farming that he still had left from his youth. John got a couple of farm hands and workers, who helped him with the big place.

It was like he reclaimed his own self that had been buried beneath the suits, ties and paperwork. Now he didn’t smoke his cigars from stress, but from pleasure, clearly much content.

It was like the farm had truly made John Price happy once more; his smiles more genuine, his true self stepping forth. Returning to his childhood home and taking over the farm had been the best decision Price had made. There was no question about it.

… and you hated every bloody day at the farm.

The early morning hours in bed with him, being disturbed by the farm waking up, the rooster crowing and John leaving the bed, giving you a pat in between your ears, taking all the heat with him. The constant bugs, the muddy stables and the big animals, the helpers who always teased you for not fitting in, the lack of friends you had out here. The foxes’ screams in the night, the wolves howling, and the cows occasionally mooing sounded like creatures stepping out of nightmares.

You were not made for farm life. Literally. Simply not made for it.

Some would argue that you, as a hybrid pet, didn’t have a say in it and sure , legally you didn’t. But you were a lapdog, an elegant pet. Not a farm dog. Created to be cared for and cuddled, you were a purebred cocker spaniel hybrid; you weren’t made to run around on a farm, following John on his duties And doing work.

Sure, you had the instincts to hunt a few things here and there, but it was mostly balls and the occasional bird or squirrel. You weren’t a guard hybrid, not really a working dog.

You had had enough trauma throughout your life - you deserved not to be forced into this! You had grown up being trained to be a lapdog, not a working-dog like you felt like John expected you to act like now.

You wanted John to be happy, you really did - you loved your Master! When he bought you a few years ago, when you were still aggressive and unruly (… more than now at least), you had thought he would tire of you like everybody else had. But with patience, rules, training, praise and punishment and a whole lot of sex later, you were a perfect hybrid pet for the city! People always praised how well you looked, laughing when Price said you were really a little troublemaker. You would follow him throughout the fancy apartment, on your daily walks, sometimes for meetings.

But why the fuck did it have to be a farm? He worked somwwhat the same time that he did before, genuinely seeming to enjoy himself. Forgetting about poor you!

Out here, there were no hybrid daycare that you would go to when he had long days, there were none of your playmates nearby, everything stank of animals and there were no places nearby for you to get your hair and fur styled and pampered! No nail technicians, no fancy cafes, no shops for John to buy you things in! No special made coffee or chef-made meals every other evening, no freshly baked croissants.

You felt like you had tried . You really had.

But after the first week, you had your first breakdown - and as the weeks passed, they didn’t stop. At first, John was sympathetic, like the perfect owner he was.

Cooing at you, kissing your forehead, as he gently scratched your ears. Kissing away any tears, saying it was okay - that you were just overwhelmed, that it would be okay. That you would come to like it out here.

Big fucking joke.

He had tried every trick in the book, in an attempt to please you and made you less upset, but as days turned into weeks and tantrums began to appear, you knew his patience began to disappear.

He followed professional advice and then the advice of the neighbors down the street, Rodolfo and Alejandro (who had caught you running away at one point), tried some of the workers’ advice. He had given you your own room, and it was mostly designed like your own, perfect to the pale green paint on the wall, all your toys and dog beds, your CDs - everything. He had tried hauling you along every day, trying to give you a routine to follow - but after two weeks, he gave up, not having the energy to deal with a tantrum that got worse and worse each day. He went on walks with you, fucked you silly, tried his best — and you didn’t want it.

No, you wanted to go back to your old life. Not this country life that you hadn’t signed up for, with horses that neighed loudly whenever you passed them; they were definitely going to trample you at the first chance, you knew that. You could hear foxes scream in the night, warning you of the dangers. The goats and sheep were so fucking loud and no you didn’t want to go pick fresh apples off the trees - had he seen the size of the spiders crawling on them?

When you in one of your biggest tantrums took off and bolted from the farm in distress, Rodolfo and Alejandro had almost hit you when you emerged from the corn fields onto the road.

You had cried the entire drive home, no matter what the two men had tried saying, especially as Rodolfo called Price in advance — your master was livid . The worst thing was, that it was not that kind of anger where he yelled at you before punishing you - no, this one was almost silent, a sharp grip on your collar as he dragged you along after thanking his neighbours.

He had belted you then, ignoring your crying and screaming, only stopping when you broke, sobbing and going quiet. He had explained it to you then, what could have happened, what dangers you could have ended in - and as you sobbingly apologized and tried to explain, that you wanted to go back to the city, John had sighed .

Said that he had pampered you too much since he got you, which had made you greedy and attention seeking. Which only made you cry more, as you hid your face in his neck, fingers digging into his shirt, ass cheeks burning.

“Spoiled rotten, little birdie,” he mused, though you could hear the softness in him, your tail wagging a little, hoping to get him to be less mad.

“‘M sorry,” you had whined in distress, upset with yourself as well, ears tipping down, “wanna be good but I don’t like it.”

Your rather dull escape attempt resulted in several things. An AirTag on your collar, so that he always knew where you were. A remarkable lack of treats, sex and then… the crate .

You fucking hated the dog crate.

Sure, it hadn’t been nice of you to bite one of his pillows into a simple pulp of fabric, feathers everywhere. Or create chaos in the kitchen… or get drunk on his fancy whiskey (that one had ended worse for you, hangover was a bitch and there wasn’t much sympathy from John). And yes, you might have ripped most of the flowers surrounding the house up, until one of the workers had caught you. Maybe pissing yourself in the middle of the living room while staring him in the eyes and ignoring his warnings had been a little…excessive.

But the dog crate? You hated that thing with a burning passion.

Hated it when he locked you up, ignoring your whimpers and whines, your promises to behave, ignoring your little howls as he left.

Mean. The farm had made him mean. Perhaps you had become a bit unruly too, but it was like he didn’t take your clear suffering seriously.

Mean and happy - unruly and suffering. What a pair you were. One of the workers, KAte Laswell, who was a big helper and often stayed over for dinner, suggested a fucking shock collar. You had growled, only stopped when John sent you a sharp look.

You had even heard him talking over the phone with somebody, saying that he didn’t want to rehome you, but he didn’t know what to do.

That had made you melt a little and you had cried as you had crawled into his bed a couple of hours later, begging him to not abandon you. Fears of never getting to see John again or being loved again by him made you cling onto him as he kissed away your tears, gently fucking you.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

It was a random morning a couple of days later, that you found him still in the kitchen, reading the newspaper, humming to himself while smoking a cigar.

He looked nice like this. Despite how he sometimes muttered about being too old, he wasn’t really that old. Late thirties, and perhaps it was the peace on his face or the sun rays that kissed him, which made him look younger. But still. There was a decade between you, but days like this, you were reminded that it didn’t matter.

“Are you going to stare all day or are you going to join me, Darling?” He asked teasingly, pulling you from your thoughts. You let out a little huff and kissed him good morning, receiving a pat on the ass before you sat down on your own seat. It had been a while since the two of you had eaten together - often he was up at the crack of dawn, so his calm behavior and gentle humming was unusual to say the least.

“Why are you not working?” You asked carefully, as you ate some of the bread, trying to ignore how it wasn’t a fancy sourdough one - though you were pretty sure he had picked it up from a local bakery in the village which was a little drive away.

“Because,” he put the paper down, then tapping some ash off the cigar into his ashtray, before looking over at you, a pleased smile on his face, “you and I are going on a trip.”

“A trip?” You didn’t even bother to be embarrassed about how your voice got higher with excitement or how your tail thumped against the backrest of the chair as you wagged it, “where are we going? When? Can we go now?”

Price had laughed, a happy sound that you knew not many got to hear; it made your heart beat a little faster, made you feel butterflies in your stomach.

“Well, we got to do a few things first to get ready, and you ,” he used the cigar to point at you, your tail wagging a little faster, “need to not freak out when I tell you where we are going.”

Despite the warning, tears streamed down your cheeks when he told you. John didn’t get mad as a part of you had expected; he knew your abandonment issues first hand, knew how you had been left behind before, from one bad owner to another.

“You’re going to sell me and leave me with a mean owner and I’m gonna die of hunger and thirst - and - and —“

“Not gonna leave you, princess,” John crooned, covering your face in kisses as you hiccuped and sniffled, clinging to his clothes, “you know that. My favorite puppy. Pretty girl.”

Despite your tears and small sobs, your tail wagged at his words, “silly puppy,” he mused with a smile, gently scratching your lower back, “‘m not gonna sell you. Ale and Rodolfo are looking for a hybrid, I figured we could go look at the auction as well.”

“What if - what if - what if you’ll like them more?” You sniffled dramatically, sure that your life was only going to become worse than it already was. One thing was this bloody farm and the crate, another thing was having to share Price. You didn’t like the idea one bit. If that happened, you were going to show him how a proper tantrum was thrown - the crate would probably be the least of your worries.

As if to prove his love, John bent you over the table, fucking you in between the clattering dishes and cutlery, tea and coffee almost spilling over. Despite how many times your owner fucked you, it made you lose control of your mind every single time. His cock reached so deep inside you that it bordered on pain, your mouth open as you panted and moaned at each thrust; your soft stomach being pressed against the edge of the table, one hand holding onto the back of your collar, the other on your tail. The table rattled, John groaned and moaned, your fingers desperately trying to hold onto anything.

“My princess,” he snarled darkly into your ear, “you’ll always be mine-“ a moan, a grunt, “- no matter what happens, yeah?”

“Yes ye-ah- yes, sir, I’m yours - ah ah - I’m yours!” you managed in between pants and wails of pleasure, fear of abandonment forgotten in the ocean of euphoric satisfaction.

You came harder than you had for a while; the reminder of your worth, of how you deserved his worship, making you cream around his throbbing length, legs in spasms afterwards. He pushed deeper, filling you up with a loud roar like sound, his hands moving to grab onto the fat of your ass and hips as he came. Pain and pleasure made your toes curl and a content sigh left you, your tail wagging against Price as he chuckled.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

The auction hall was filled to the brim with humans and hybrids alike. Every owned hybrid followed their respective owners, all wearing mandatory leashes so no pets would be confused with the ones that were being sold. You wore your own pink one with pride, gem stones sparkling. A matching leash connected to the D-ring on it, that also bore your tags. You were convinced yours were the most beautiful in this entire place.

“They’re bonded,” Laswell pointed out, pointing to the papers that hung nearby, showing off general information about them, “gotta get all three.”

You dared to look at the little board with the informations about the three hybrids they were looking at.

“Ah, we don't have space for three, mi amor.”

“eso es una pena,” Rodolfo answered, while you looked over at John - who kept looking at the three hybrids. You dared to peek over at them.

All three of them were enormous .

Two of them wore muzzles, meaning they were biters. At least at the auction. You shouldn’t judge then, not really, but you did... Even though you had worn a muzzle five years ago, when Price had chosen you. You hadn’t tried biting people out of malice; you had been scared and angry at the world. Angry for being abandoned once more, over the fact that you were most likely being passed on to another abusive master. You leaned a little closer to Price, taking in his scent.

Even from the start, despite all the problems and your attitude problems, he had been sweet. Strict at times — probably not enough — but kind.

The biggest one looked like a Great Pyrenees breed, most likely. The fur on his ears and tail looked shorter, badly cut. Probably due to matting or if he refused to get it cut. His hair, a dark blonde almost brown, was in a buzz cut. He had scars, all over - unable to hide because of the lack of clothes most hybrids were given, only underwear. There was a lot in his face, though you suspected a bunch were hidden by the muzzle. He stared into nothing, his ears curled back, though they moved now and again, listening to different sounds.

“Hard to get sold,” Laswell commented and you looked over at her in synchronicity with John, “they’re ex-military.”

Like he had been called to them, a man who wore one of the seller badges appeared.

“They’re obedient once they fall into place,” he happily explained, going full seller-mode, “they’re just not too fond of the auctions - too many people.”

“Makes sense,” Price mused, clearly interested - much to your annoyance. The fact that he asked follow up questions made you frown, fingers tightening in his shirt. He was here to look. To help Alejandro and Rodolfo, who both had continued their walk. You dared to look over at the hybrids again. All three were staring at you and John.

“How come they were discharged?”

“One of them got a hearing loss -“ he nodded towards them, “the one with the mohawk. And they’re a bonded pack.”

“So only retiring him was out of the question,” John concluded once more looking over at them.

You felt your tail go in between your legs. He couldn’t be seriously considering those three . you couldn’t help but let out a small whine. Price gave your leash a little tug.

“They’re working dogs,” the seller continued, his eyes flickering to you, making you huff, “so they’ll need something to do, not just be pets.”

“Oh I know. I have a farm. Need some work dogs - this one isn’t guarding much.”

They all laughed, your tail going even further between your legs with embarrassment.

“You can’t be serious,” you whined in a whisper to John, not caring that you sounded needy - spoiled would Laswell had said and you ignored her as she rolled her eyes.

“Hush, Princess.” John didn’t even look at you.

“You have animals there?” The seller asked, “one of them is a herding dog - the border collie.”

“I do - several. That’s why there's a need for guarding dogs as well, bloody wolves have been terrorizing us.”

You knew he was telling the truth; he had muttered about dead sheeps and goats several times - even a calf had lost its life to the wolves in the area, despite he and Laswell having shot two already. Even foxes had gotten into the coop, despite the fences.

“They’re good at that too, with their training,” the seller offered, clearly interested in selling them or at least getting John to bid on them. “The one with the mohawk, Soap , will have hearing aids with him, so you don’t need to worry about that.”

You looked over at this “Soap”, scrunching your nose. They were still staring, the biggest one bending down to listen to the third one, a beautiful black man, whisper in his ear. No doubt judging you.

“It says here they don’t do well with others,” you muttered, in a desperate attempt to sway John, pointing to the board with their papers. It did indeed say so, to which you wanted to argue that YOU should be his main focus in this whole thing - how would he even consider adding them to your household if these dogs could get a hold of you?

“It’s in the sense that they’re not really housetrained to be social family pets,” the seller swooped in, pushing your argument away, annoying you even more, “they’ve had missions all their lives. They need to have something to do.”

“I’m sure you’ll get along with them, sweetheart,” Price answered, giving you a small scratch beneath your chin as he finally looked over at you, a glint in his eyes, “some company will do you good.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. Hardly . Price’s smile told you that he thought this was a great idea however. You dared to look at the men again. Still staring, fucking bastards.

The black man seemed like a mix of some breeds, German shepherd and… you looked shortly at the board. Belgian malinois. Fancy. He wasn’t as tall as the big one, but broad and with scars as well. There was a more slender look to him, but his six pack proved he was strong. His curly hair wasn’t too long, probably cut not too long ago. He was looking at you curiously, making you raise your upper lip a little, as if to warn him.

The one with the hearing loss looked like some sort of border collie - covered in scars as well, some of his skin looking like it had been too close to fire. He was broad like the two others, his upper arms the size of your head. He even sent you a cheeky grin, even daring to wink at you. You just looked away, tipping your chin up a little.

“You can look closer if you want, sir?”

You were pulled back into the conversation at once and before you could argue, John had already passed on your leash to Laswell and walked towards the men with the seller. You whined, distressed that he was really, actually considering this.

“You’ll be fine,” Laswell commented calmly, with empathy in her voice for once, though she didn’t look at you, merely at John and the others.

“He is gonna lose interest in me,” you whined, perhaps a little dramatically, bottom lip wobbling a little as you could feel tears welling up in your eyes, “then he’ll leave me in the crate all day and only care about them an—“

“Calm down,” Laswell said, “you’ll work yourself into a fuss.”

“He can’t do this to me,” you argued in a sullen voice, already imagining John forgetting all about you, focusing on these three hybrids for the rest of his life, leaving you cold and lonely inside the dog crate - maybe even rehoming you, “he promised he wouldn’t get rid of me.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Laswell answered just as calmly as before, “John loves you too much, you’re just being spoiled. Hanging out with some working dogs will do you good.”

“They probably have fleas,” you said, your prejudices seeping into your words, knowing you’re being mean, judgmental against your own kind, “they’ll kill me and eat my dead body.”

Laswell laughed. “No they won’t. Worst thing they’ll do, is probably knock you up.”

A high pitched, scandalized sound left you, despite knowing you had an implant. Laswell laughed again, giving your leash a little yank and then scratching you behind your long ears.

“Settle, Princess. That won’t happen without John’s permission.”

You almost cried at the sight of John shaking the seller’s hand.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

They all met up again for the actual auction part and you sat at John’s feet, sniffling a little. Crying hadn’t helped, in fact John had just petted and kissed you, calling you sensitive. Alejandro had gotten a hybrid earlier that they didn’t need to bid on - she was for sale for a certain price. Something about being too intense without enough space to roam, having attacked others before.

Fucking great. Beasts all around you.

John won the bidding on the three working dog hybrids he had been interested in - because of course he did. He spent way too much money on them too, according to you.

One more - or well, three more fucking things to hate about this “farming life” that had been forced upon you.

Maybe John had gone mad.

next chapter ->

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hauntedjellyfishwitch-blog · 4 months ago

Text

Too Far.

Summary: He's like a wounded animal when he's angry, lashing out when he feels cornered. He's gone too far this time, snapped and said something he definitely didn't mean, so now he has to fix it.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader (No use of Y/N)

TW: Fighting. Daryl is a dick, but not really, but also he is. Apologetic!Daryl. Alexandria Era. Sex.

A/N: Inspired by an excellent post by @love-norman which I'll link in the comments. I wasn't sure if you were okay with smut, so there's a fairly brief mention of sex but nothing overly explicit.

He’s a surprisingly effective communicator, once she can convince him to talk more and with enough time to work out exactly what ticks and grunts mean what. Daryl Dixon’s entire bag is self-sacrifice, so if he can assume that she needs him to tell her what’s going on in the always too busy head of his, he can do that for her without much care for how it impacts him. It’s not his most healthy coping mechanism but it certainly isn’t his worst and the reward? Oh, the reward is sweet. The reward is comfort and kindness and being held; being loved. What’s a moment of discomfort for a lifetime of her?

He's had to practice letting his walls down, slowly but surely since he met her, all the while failing to realise she was just digging her way underneath them. She didn’t ever pry, not really, not in any way that felt invasive, but she’d patiently wait him out; ask the question quietly, softly, and let him linger in the comfortable silence until he chose to answer back. Sometimes she’d work out the information without his need to speak at all; it happened the moment he realised he was fucked, that he was absolutely, irrefutably hers. She’d worked out exactly who he was as a person and he’d barely sad a word.

He’s attentive, and whilst that shocks him it comes as no surprise to anyone around him. He has spent his life fearing that he is exactly who he feared, but those who are lucky enough to consider themselves, correctly or not, close to Daryl never fear for much but his wellbeing. That he is a careful, thoughtful and tender partner surprises nobody but him. That’s not to say they don’t argue, the end of the world comes with its own set of tensions even without the usual relationship concerns, but he’s learnt not to bite first.

He shouldn’t have drunk anything, in hindsight, they’re both in bad shape, overwrought and under-fed and they shouldn’t have been at a fucking party, of all places. He definitely shouldn’t have had the four glasses of scotch Reg offered him on a mostly empty stomach. He can’t get used to the Alexandria walls, the houses he never could have afforded to breathe near let alone buy, the soft comforts he’d never had even before the end of the world. He’s never been to a party that hasn’t had a piss-stained couch or an overly full ashtray.

“You know that’s bullshit, Daryl, you’re being ridiculous!” She yells, firmly back in their own living room after he’d practically stormed out of Deanna’s. One minute they’re in full swing, standing talking about vacations from the old days with some new faces, the next his hand is dropping from around her waist and thudding from the front door like she’d said, ‘fuck off’ rather than the word ‘Canada’. He’d slammed the door behind them and snarled about how he would have embarrassed her and her fancy fucking vacations in ‘the real world’.

“Lil’ miss travel abroad and see th’ world cause she’s better than Daryl fuckin’ Dixon”

“What? That’s not-“

“I’m jus’ an idiot redneck with nothin’ an’ you’re this smart chick who saw the world, I get it, I ain’t dumb, th’ fuck would ya have wanted wit’ me?”

Her heart would shatter for him if she wasn’t seething quite so much, the sheer desperation in his words at odds with the tension in his body, clenched hands dragging through his finally clean hair. His eyes are stinging and he absolutely refuses to cry, has never gotten over thinking it makes him weak even when he feels weak.

“Daryl, what the fuck? Why are you being such an asshole?“

“Shut up, always yappin’ about stupid shit, fuckin’ hate ya sometimes!”

He turns quickly, wants to throw something, wants to scream, broad shoulders and harsh angles and all the wind leaves his body when he sees her flinch away from him. She’s cowers backwards, he feels like he’s going to be sick, body collapsing in on itself as he feels the anger leave his bones, replaced with ice laced panic. For a second, a horrifying second that feels ten times as long, he’s his old man. Shitfaced and angry with a glass in hand and if he had a mirror, he knows exactly whose face he’d see staring back at him.

“I would never hurt ya” he whispers, voice low and so broken, full of conviction as his breath hitches in the middle and crumbles at the end and she’d hug him if she wasn’t so shell shocked. Neither of them move for a beat, standing stock still as he trails his eyes over her, clocks the way her gaze refuses to lift to meet his. He can’t breathe. The room is too small for everything he’s feeling, like the walls are inching close and closer and the air is getting less. He tries to move like lightning but his whole body feels sluggish and slow as he inches past her and out the front door, flinching as it closes behind him and he wanders out into the street. He stares back at the house for a moment before deciding he needs a walk to clear his head.

When he comes back she’s sitting on the couch waiting for him, thumbs twiddling, head still down and worry eating her alive. He eases the door shut behind him, loud enough to tell her he’s home but soft enough to show he’s not mad. He wishes a door could convey remorse but it’s taken him long enough to be able to do it with words he doubts a block of wood would be able to in the timeframe he needs. He shucks off his boots, realising he shouldn’t have been wearing them in the house in the first place.

The fresh air has cooled his body enough that he feels less of the alcohol circulating around his system. He tries not to squeeze the flowers he’d plucked from the bush outside Aaron’s place as he stands with his back against the wood.

“’M sorry” he whispers before clearing his throat and repeating it at a higher volume. She turns her face towards him, looking at him over her shoulder. The anger is gone from her face, replaced with a dwelling worry that spikes at him, makes him replay his words over and over.

“What did I do?”

“Nothin’” he insists quickly, pauses before he realises he should say more, that she sometimes needs him to say more, they’ve talked about this “Ya didn’t, I promise”

“I’m sorry”

That does it, rips him from his safe haven by the door because he can’t stand the thought that she deserved anything he said to her, that she’d said anything wrong when he knows she hadn’t. Talking at a party, about stupid old-world stuff whilst her spare, wine glass free hand kept his back warm. She hadn’t said a damn thing wrong, and he’d scared her.

He strides over to the couch, coming round to kneel in front of her. He places the somewhat squashed flowers on the couch cushion next to her. He hovers a hand above her knee, placing it gently on the fabric of her dress when she doesn’t flinch away at the sight. He doesn’t want her to flinch ever again.

“Dun’ apologise to me when ya ain’t done nothin’ wrong”

“I’m so-“

“Dun’ ever apologise to me when i’s my fault. ‘S my shit an’ I shouldn’t take it out on ya”

She knows he loves her, has proven it time and time again, has put his body in front of hers in the face of almost certain death, would protect her with his last breath, would love her with it. But she knows she’ll never be able to unhear it, that some things you can’t take back, that she’ll always wonder, just a little bit if its true. Logic and love are very rarely intertwined.

“Okay”

He can still hear his fathers words ringing in his head, he knows, more than most, the power that words hold over people. He tries not to say anything he doesn’t mean, and he’ll admit he’s acerbic, pointed sure but never cruel, never unnecessarily unkind. He doesn’t know why tonight was different, but he takes her hands in his, locking his eyes on her so she understands.

“I dun’ get t’ speak t’ ya like that”

“No, you don’t” she agrees, voice firmer, back to her usual tone, the one he’s always loved going hand in hand with the certainty she can hold her own. She pauses, bringing his hands up to press a kiss to his knuckles, soothing because she’s terrified that after all this time, he’s still going to break them by thinking he’s not allowed to claim his hurt “You alright?”

He doesn’t answer, instead sitting back on his feet, raising a small hopeful smile at her.

“Tell me about th’ vacation”

“I don’t-“

“Please. Ya said ya still think ‘bout Canada all th’ time”

He really does want to know, he hadn’t been outside of Georgia before everything went down, and she’s mentioned travel but Canada hadn’t come up; he’s not sure if it was that, that set him off or that he felt inadequate in a room full of people with experiences he never got to have.

“I think it was my favourite trip. Packed a bag and went alone on a whim, found a lake in the forest with a little cabin. Just mountains and trees and lakes. It’s the most peaceful I’ve ever felt. I never wanted to mention it, I know you missed out on so much, but then everyone was talking and I-“

“Nah, go on, ‘S’alright”

“When Reg asked…I was going to say that’s what I picture, when I think of life outside of all of this, me and you in Canada”

“Ya think of that with me?” his voice is low, incredulous awe pulled tight at the edges, he was so busy feeling less than everyone else that he’d missed out on the fact she was thinking of him. She nods, smiling at him, working it out without him needing to say it, figuring out what drove him to snap without asking, under his walls and right in the centre of the internal world he’s built.

“We’d have a house, out near a lake with a wooden porch, and a dog, big scruffy one who likes to catch fish. We’d have coffee together overlooking the water in the morning. You’d work at the local garage, ‘cause you’re good with your hands and tools, wouldn’t have to deal with people all day, fix up all the bikes you’d secretly want...”

He’s staring her at in silence, watching her wistful face glow in the lamplight, he can barely breathe let alone find words knowing that she’s not just dreamt about a life with him, she’s thought it out in detail. He wants it, wants that life with her so badly it aches, thinks it’s the first time he’s wanted anything from life except to get through it.

“I’d work at the bar, play guitar at crappy open mic nights and you’d come for a beer after my shift to walk me home”

He hums, all the response he can manage, guilt chewing at him from the inside, clawing at his mind knowing that he’s taken his own problems out on her, told her he hates her all the while she’s dreaming of something so utterly fucking perfect.

“We’d make dinner together and dance in the living room, go camping at the weekends and make love all night long”

“In another life?” he chuckles, warm and full, knowing he’ll dream about this for the rest of his life.

“In every life…If you’d find me”

“I’d find ya”

He runs her a bubble bath, still amazed and confused that he can, that they’ve spent months on the road starving and struggling and here there’s a pantry that has bubble bath. The flowers from Aarons front garden are perched in a glass of water by the bed, the lamps turned off and the doors are locked up as tight as they can be. He’s insistent that he shows his apology, but he’s never had a way to do it outside these walls, nothing beyond words and affection and his experience with what women might like is limited at best.

He stands in the doorway, watching as she wraps herself in a dressing gown. He wonders idly if the amount of love he feels for her could kill him; he feels it so deeply in his bones that he physically isn’t sure it should be able to fit inside of one person. He feels it explode warmth around his body when she shuffles forward to rest her head on his chest.

“You know you don’t have to do all of this? I’m not mad”

Later, when he’s apologised again, reassured her and comforted her and she’s convinced him he’s worth loving in return, he takes them both to bed. Touches her with soft, repentant hands that have always been gentle, hands that are gentle exactly because he knows how dangerous they can be. Atonement seeping from every inch of him as he inches home inside of her, cherishes the contended sigh she lets out at the feel of him. He could never hate her, not even if he tried.

He stills when he bottoms out, rests his forehead against hers as her hips press against his firmly, dragging him as deep as he can go.

“Wha’ ya see in me, anyway?” he whispers against her lips, full of self-doubt.

She looks into him with an intensity that almost hurts, brings her hands to the sides of his face, makes sure he believes her as sincerely as she believes his apology.

“Everything”

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bruciemilf · 6 months ago

Text

Need a no capes! AU where Clark is Just A Guy trying to help his folks keep their farm going. It’s not easy under the Luthors.

Having to sell their property rights because their farm is on a purchased land wasn’t an easy choice. But if Clark knows something, is that Kents don’t go down easy.

Once Thomas Wayne buys it from Luthor Senior, — Clark doesn’t know the specifics; He just heard the words “old college teammate” and “lost bet” and “fuck you, John” and put it together.

So, Thomas Wayne buys their farm. They have peace, for a while.

Except one day the man himself knocks on Clark’s apartment, switchblade smile bright and fraudulent. Clark quickly learns Thomas Wayne can either be your best friend, or your biggest fear.

“It’s really nothin’ personal,” Thomas shrugs. Maybe, to him, it’s a good apology. “Luthor just found out some…Nasty lies about me. And it’d really affect the cancer research fundraiser if they got out. “

People don’t fear lies, Clark thinks.

“So, your daddy ain’t answering me, and your mom threw a bottle at me when I went over there, so I figured you’re my last resort. I can’t buy if they ain’t sellin’, son.”

“We don’t appreciate being bought, Mr. Wayne.”

“Right, but the other alternative would be kicking ya’ll out on the street, and it’d make me feel like a real asshole,”

You already are, Clark wants to say, but decides it wouldn’t be a good idea.

“ So we have two options: Either you sell me the farm and everyone’s happy; Or you get the best bed at Gotham’s homeless shelter. I’m sorry, Clark. Really.”

He swallows an angry gulp. World’s strongest man and he can’t help but feel such sorrowful helplessness. “And what’s option 3?”

Thomas knows that’s a challenge, and knows Clark has a right to it. Something just clicks in the man’s eyes, thought. Clark isn’t sure he likes it. “Option number three…I deal with this my way. But you gotta do something for me.”

And that’s how Clark ends up babysitting infamously anonymous Bruce Wayne.

No paper touches him; He successfully evaded and escaped any journalist that ever approached, hunted, or tracked him down.

The man is awfully quiet, lilly pale skin glowing pink in Kansas sun. Clark studies the wide, impressive curve of his shoulders, surprisingly thick and strong for such a pretty thing.

The way his eyes are alert and focused and the color of watercolor rain. Mostly, he’s crushed by Bruce’s timidity. God, he’s so beautiful.

“Imma need a week and Brucie’s outta your hands faster than a devil in a church,” Thomas jokes, affectionately ruffling chestnut hair. Clark can see the resemblance, but not the relation. “You be good for Clark, ya hear?”

Bruce doesn’t give a verbal or physical answer. He seems awfully angry about something. He picks up his bags, storms past Clark and stomps off upstairs. He has a feeling this week will be hell for all of them.

“Well, you have fun! And Clark?” Thomas’ voice lowers, “You take care of my boy, now.”

“Oh, I will.”

It’s not a lie.

He’ll take care of Bruce so good he won’t ever want to leave.

#too long didn’t read: enemies to friends to lovers #Bruce is a sheltered prince and Clark is in charge of watching him while thomas comits literal atrocities #AND WE LOVE THAT #superbat #clark kent #battinson #bruce wayne #alternative universe #dc #dc comics #text #batman #writing #writing prompt

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darlingdaisyfarm · 3 months ago

Text

a small gift

tags: Stan x fem!reader x Ford, birthday, humour, fluff, just had to write this wholesome little fic for them because they deserve to be happy, singing, awkward Ford, sfw, inspired by Lana del Rey song

Stanley Pines leaned back in his old armchair, glancing at the calendar on the wall. His eyes landed on the circled date — June 15th, their birthday. He couldn’t help but smile as he thought of his brother, hunched over his never-ending stack of research papers, buried in his makeshift lab. Typical Ford. Always with his nose deep in some crackpot science theory, instead of, you know, enjoying life.

"Yeah, no way I’m lettin’ him get away with that this year." Stan muttered to himself. This time, he thought, Ford’s gonna get outta his damn cave and actually have some fun for once.

Stanley strode towards the stairs, stopping at the basement door. He gave it a sharp, rhythmic knock. "Hey, Poindexter! You better not be down there doin’ more of your ‘save-the-universe’ mumbo jumbo! It’s our birthday, ya know!"

There was a brief pause before a muffled voice responded. "Yes, Stanley, I’m fully aware of the date. Just let me finish these calculations—"

"Calculations, schmalkulations! You been finishin’ calculations for forty years, Ford. Trust me, that last decimal point ain’t gonna make a difference to the end of the world or whatever. Now c’mon!" Stan rapped the door again, growing impatient. "I got somethin’ special planned for us tonight. And don’t even try pullin’ that ‘I’m busy’ crap on me this time!"

Ford’s face appeared at the door, peeking through his glasses, which were just a little too smudged from the constant tinkering. "Stanley, I’ve told you, I’m close to a major breakthrough with this—"

“Yeah, yeah, ‘major breakthrough,’ like I haven’t heard that one before." Stan cut him off, grinning as he leaned against the doorframe. "Newsflash, nerd, we ain’t gettin’ any younger, and you’ve barely stepped foot outside since you got back from that other dimension. So, guess what? I’m takin’ ya out tonight!"

Ford frowned. "Out? To where exactly?"

Stan waggled his eyebrows. "Oh, you’ll see. Let’s just say it ain’t the library."

Ford looked at his brother with disbelief. "Stanley, I have absolutely no interest in your usual haunts, whatever dive bar or—"

"Whoa, whoa, slow your roll, Stanford! It’s our birthday! You’re actin’ like I’m draggin’ ya to a strip club or somethin’." Stanley chuckled, already imagining Ford’s awkward reaction if that was the plan. He slapped a hand on Ford’s shoulder. "Nah, I’m takin’ ya to a place with some class. . . and somethin' that'll remind ya why the real world’s worth livin' in, instead of buryin’ your head in books all the time."

Ford adjusted his glasses, still hesitant. "Stanley, I really don’t think—"

“Ah, save it! It's out of the question, buddy, tonight’s gonna be a birthday to remember! Trust me." he turned, heading towards the door, already sensing his twin following behind reluctantly. "And don’t forget, you owe me for all the times I’ve bailed your six-fingered butt outta danger! So, tonight, you’re gonna relax, have a drink, and maybe even talk to someone who ain’t made of equations or alien technology."

***

Stan grinned smugly as looked at Ford’s face. Neon signs flashed ahead, but this wasn’t one of those rough, rundown places Ford hated. It was something fancier. Classier, at least by Stan’s standards. From the open door came the low hum of jazz, mixed with the clink of glasses and soft chatter.

Stan slapped Ford on the back, ushering him forward. "Don’t make that face, Ford It’s nothin’ crazy, but it’s got live music, good drinks and a whole lotta people who don’t speak in alien gibberish. It’s a start, huh?"

Ford blinked, looking genuinely surprised for once. "This. . . isn’t what I expected."

"Yeah, I bet it ain’t!" Stan chuckled. "thought I was gonna take ya to some cabaret joint, didn’t ya?"

Ford didn’t respond, but his silence said enough.

“Look, Ford, I know you’re allergic to fun, but tonight’s our night. No weird science, no alternate dimensions. Just you, me, and a stiff drink. Let’s enjoy it while we can, alright?"

Ford hesitated, looking at the customers sitting at candlelit tables with soft jazz swirling around them. He slowly nodded, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Alright, but only because you’re my brother."

Stan clapped his hands together, beaming. "That’s the spirit! Now, come on, let’s get some drinks in us. You might even get lucky and find someone who actually understands all that nerdy crap you talk about."

Ford smirked, adjusting his coat. "I highly doubt that, Stanley."

Stan winked. "Well, let’s hope so, Sixer. Let’s hope so."

Stan and Ford made their way deeper, the soft jazz filled their ears. The place was packed, but not in an overwhelming way. Couples sat at small round tables, sipping drinks, while a few loners nursed their glasses at the bar, heads swaying to the music.

Stan led Ford to an empty table in the corner, claiming it like he’d been there a hundred times before. He slid into his seat with a satisfied grunt, slapping the table lightly with the palm of his hand. "Alright, Poindexter, sit your six-fingered butt down. I’ll go grab us a couple drinks."

Ford eyed people with a mixture of curiosity and discomfort, still adjusting to the unfamiliar scene, a little anxiety crept into his head. "Stanley, I really don’t think this is—"

"Ah, none of that thinkin' stuff tonight, Ford. You’ve done enough of that for ten lifetimes." Stan got up, heading for the bar with a mischievous grin. "Just sit back and let me handle the drinks. Somethin’ a little more exciting than your usual black coffee or whatever sludge you drink."

Stanford couldn’t help but observe the people around him. They were just different. Lively. Engaged in conversation. Present. It was strange to him—an entire room full of people who weren’t obsessed with solving the mysteries of the universe. They were just living. He sighed, running a hand through his graying hair.

Stan returned a few minutes later, balancing two glasses of amber-colored liquid. He slid one across the table to Ford with a satisfied smirk. "There ya go. Whiskey. Nothin’ fancy, but it’ll do the trick."

Ford picked up the glass, inspecting it with confused face. "Stanley, you know I’m not much of a drinker—"

“Yeah, well, tonight you are." Stan raised his own glass in a toast. "To another year of not gettin’ ourselves killed, huh? And maybe to you actually takin' a break from savin’ the world for once."

Ford hesitated, then clinked his glass against Stan’s and finally smile appeared on his face. "Alright, to surviving another year."

They both took a sip, though Stanford immediately winced, the burn of the whiskey stronger than he’d expected. Stan, on the other hand, downed half of his glass in one go, letting out a contented sigh.

"Ahh, now that’s the good stuff, that's what I call life." Stan leaned back in his seat, eyeing his brother with a knowing smile. "So, how’s it feel to be out in the real world again, Poindexter? A little better than starin’ at equations all night, huh?"

Ford looked around again, enjoying the warm golden glow of the place. It was nice, he had to admit. The music, the atmosphere. . . it was different from his usual solitude. "It’s certainly a change of pace," he said, chuckling softly.

Stan smiled, shaking his head. "I swear, Ford, you could be sittin’ in a room full of clowns on fire and you’d still be playin’ it cool."

"I’ve seen stranger things, Stanley."

"Yeah, yeah, I bet you have. But look around!" Stan waved a hand at the room. "All these people? They’re just livin’ life. No wormholes, no time anomalies. Just fun, just drinks and music. And trust me, you could use a little more of that."

Ford stared into his drink, swirling the liquid around before taking another small sip. "You’re probably right," he admitted, though his tone was still a little stiff. "It’s just difficult to switch off sometimes. My work, it—"

“Your work ain’t goin’ anywhere. You’re always gonna have some world-endin’ thing to worry about. But that don’t mean you gotta shut yourself off from everything else." he leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly. "I mean, you spent thirty years away from here, Ford. I’m just tryin’ to make sure you don’t spend the next 30 stuck in your own head."

Ford was quiet for a moment, listening to his brother’s words. He knew his brother was right. As much as he valued his research, his wish to understand the universe, he had to admit—there was something refreshing about being out here. With real people. But much better, with his family. With Stan.

Stanley must have noticed the gears turning in Ford's head, because he suddenly slammed on the table, breaking the silence. "Alright, enough of this sappy crap! Let’s get you another drink and maybe we’ll even see if there’s a lady in here who’s crazy enough to listen to you talk about multiverses for more than five minutes."

Ford nearly choked on his whiskey. "Stanley, I’m not here to—"

"Ah, come on! It’s your birthday too, ya know. And don’t pretend you ain’t lonely down in that lab of yours. I saw the way you looked at those nachos. Pretty sad, Poindexter. And frankly, disappointing.”

Ford thought he was imagining it. “I didn’t—“

***

Their evening was going great. Stan entertained himself by cracking jokes at the expense of the room’s more eccentric patrons, while Ford watched, occasionally interjecting with his dry wit. They argued about everything from the proper way to run a business to the existence of life on other planets.

Stan leaned back in his seat, nursing his third glass of whiskey, and let out a long, satisfied sigh. "Y’know, I gotta admit, It’s good havin’ ya back."

Ford looked at his brother and a genuine warmth was reflected on his face."It’s good to be back, Stanley."

For a few seconds, neither of them said anything because they simply didn’t have to. The jazz band played on and the low murmur of the bar filled the silence between them.

Then, just as the moment threatened to get too sentimental, Stan ruined it in classic Stan style.

"Now, let’s see if we can’t find you a nice gal who can keep up with all that crazy stuff in your head."

Ford groaned, rubbing his temple. "Stanley. . .”

Just as Stan was about to say something to embarrass Ford once more, the lights in the room dimmed slightly, drawing everyone’s attention toward the small stage at the center of the club. A soft spotlight illuminated the area, casting a golden glow over a lone figure standing in front of a vintage microphone. There you were,breathtaking, wrapped in a dark red dress that shimmered in the light like velvet. The fabric hugged your form perfectly, falling to the floor in gentle waves that wrapped around your legs. A high slit revealed a teasing glimpse of your leg as you stood with one hand resting lightly on the microphone stand.

The dress was luxurious, dark crimson in color, like wine aged in the shade. It clung to you in all the right ways, that made you look like something out of a classic movie, a femme fatale come to life. There was something called old-Hollywood glamour about you.

You scanned the audience, searching for faces in the dimly lit room, but two figures near the front caught your attention. Mysterious twins, two men, were both staring straight at you. Their eyes widened, and in unison, as if connected by the same thought, they spoke under their breath.

“Wow.”

But Stan continued. "Well, I’ll be damned. Now that’s somethin’ you don’t see every day."

Your lips curved into a small smile as you began to sing, letting your voice fill the room and as you sang, their attention never wavered.

"I've seen the world, done it all, had my cake now,

Diamonds, brilliant, and Bel Air now,”

Stan couldn’t stop admiring, resting his arms on the table, his grin spreading wider with every passing second. “Well, look at this. Ain’t she somethin’,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. He tipped his head slightly in your direction, his eyes trailing the line of your dress. “Charming girl, isn't she, Ford?”

Stanford sat frozen, his eyes never leaving you, completely entranced by the way you moved, by your voice, dress, face, by everything. He swallowed hard, shifting awkwardly in his seat, his mind racing but his body still, as if locked in place.

“You hearin’ that, Ford?" Stan nudged his brother without taking his eyes off you. "That voice. Like honey, huh? Bet she’s got every poor guy in here wrapped around her finger."

Ford finally said something. “She’s. . . remarkable.” he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

Stan, of course, couldn’t let it go. “Remarkable?” he gave a short laugh. “C’mon, Poindexter. Don’t be shy. You can’t tell me you’re not feelin' that.”

You let the lyrics spill from your lips, your voice rising with the music. “Hot summer nights, mid-July, When you and I were forever wild,”

As you sang, your gaze drifted back to them, and you caught Ford, he stared at you dumbfounded, biting his lip. God, he was flushed, was it really that stuffy here? His fingers tapped lightly on the table. He was hooked and he didn’t even realize how obvious it was.

Stan, on the other hand, couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “Just look at that,” he said, shaking his head in admiration. “This girl’s got it, yeah? Ain’t often you see a performer like that. It’s the whole package - looks, voice, everything.”

But Ford’s compliments weren’t loud, weren’t teased out like Stan’s, but they were there, written all over his red face. The way his brow furrowed slightly, the way his lips parted just a bit when you hit a particularly emotional note, it was clear that he was just as captivated, if not more so, than Stan.

"I know you will, I know you will, I know that you will, Will you still love me when I got nothing but my aching soul?" as you hit that line, your gaze settled squarely on them, locking eyes with both brothers, one after the other.

“Now that’s a question, huh?” Stan said with a smirk, leaning closer to Ford. “You think she’s askin' us that? 'cause, uh, if so, I ain’t complainin'.”

Ford’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes fixed on you. He didn’t say anything, he couldn’t.

You moved into the next verse.

"I've seen the world, lit it up as my stage now, Channeling angels in the new age now,” you didn't just perform, you lived every note, every lyric.

“Look at ya, Poindexter. You're sittin' there like a deer in headlights. Ain't you ever seen a girl before?" he chuckled under his breath, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Hell, you’ve seen aliens, damn demonic triangle! this should be easy for you.”

Ford tried to hide it, to look anywhere but at you, but useless, his gaze kept drifting back. He was still speechless, lost in your performance.

Then came the line that took both twins' breath away.

“Dear Lord, when I get to Heaven Please let me bring my man,”

Here, the crowd melted away. It's just you, the music and these two mysterious men. Your voice softened, and you sang with all your heart, with all your soul and love. You looked directly at them, first at Stan, whose grin widened even more, then at Ford, whose breath caught in his throat. You held both their gazes and you smiled at them. It was playful, teasing, what made both brothers mutter another “wow” at same time.

Stan almost spilled whiskey on himself. “Well, darlin’, I sure as hell hope they’re lettin’ me in, ‘cause if you’re up there, I’m signin’ up early.”

But Ford still couldn’t find his voice. He tried, opened his mouth, closed it again, then opened it again. You had him completely disarmed, and he didn’t know how to handle it. As you continued to sing, you knew their attention locked on you. Stan’s gaze was open, unashamed, drinking you in with every word, while Ford’s was more cautious, but no less intense. They were both falling and you could see it plain as day.

Ford glanced at Stan, then back at you, clearly wrestling with himself. He finally managed to speak, but his voice sounded shaky. “She. . . she has a beautiful voice.”

“A voice? Told ya, she got the whole damn package, Ford! Look at her!”

You smiled, even if you didn't hear what they were talking about as the song drew to a close. You hit the final note, letting it linger in the air, and when the applause came, it felt like a distant sound compared to the connection you’d felt with them, both of them.

The stage lights dimmed as you walked off, your dress sweeping behind you like a crimson river. The applause rang out across the room and you slipped behind the curtain, disappearing from view. Back at the table, Stan and Ford sat frozen, their eyes still locked on the now-empty stage.

Stan was the first to speak, his usual swagger returning full force. “Well, that was somethin’. Hell, she practically dedicated that song to me.” he smirked, tapping his fingers on the table in satisfaction. “She’s got good taste, I’ll give her that.”

Ford shot him a side glance, his expression annoyed a bit. “Stanley, she doesn’t even know you,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “Calm down.”

“You jealous? ‘cause I’m pretty sure she was lookin' right at me when she sang that whole ‘Dear Lord’ line.”

Ford stiffened. “I’m not,” he replied quickly. “I’m just pointing out the facts.”

“Sure, sure. No need to get worked up, Ford.” Stan laughed, watching his brother’s obvious discomfort. “Looks like she’s got both of us good, huh? don’t you worry, Poindexter, I’ll let you have a shot. Maybe.”

Ford muttered something under his breath, avoiding Stan’s teasing gaze. He couldn’t shake the image of you, standing there in that dress, your charming voice echoing in his mind. It was magnetic. He wasn’t one to get distracted by things like this, but something about you had hit him hard. Harder than he was willing to admit, even to himself.

Stan, meanwhile, was already planning his next move. He stood up, all cocky swagger again. “Alright, Ford, let’s go. We’re meetin' her.”

Ford blinked in shock. “Wait— what?”

“You heard me!” Stan’s grin was all confidence. “we’re gonna find her dressing room. Gotta congratulate the girl on a performance like that, right? Besides,” he added with a wink, “she might want a closer look at the Stanley Pines himself.”

Ford shook his head, already regretting this, but deep down, he couldn’t deny that he wanted to see you again. “This is ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous? Nah. It’s genius.” Stan patted Ford on the back as they made their way toward the backstage area. “C’mon, Ford, live a little. Believe me, she’ll be all over us. And hey, if you get nervous, just let ol’ Stan handle it. I’m great with the ladies, y’know.”

Ford sighed, not bothering to respond. His heart was already racing in his chest, his mind replaying the song over and over.

And then they reached the dressing room.

Stan took a deep breath. “Alright, here we go. Follow my lead.”

He knocked on the door and then there was a moment of silence before it slowly creaked open. You stood in the doorway, your stage dress still clinging to your figure.

For a second, neither of them said anything. Stanley suddenly found himself at a loss for words, his usual cocky grin faltering. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His mind scrambled for something to say, but all he could think about was how stunning you looked up close.

Ford, standing behind him, wasn’t much better too. His eyes met yours, which took his breath away. Every thought he had prepared vanished the moment he saw you again. Oh god.

You looked at them a bit confused, but tried to hide it with curious smile. “Can I help you?”

Stan blinked, finally snapping out of it. “Uh— yeah, we— uh, just wanted to say,“ he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “That was, umm, one hell of a performance!”

Ford nodded. “Yes, it was really beautiful.”

Stan gave him a quick glance, then forced a grin, trying to recover his usual confidence. “Yeah, what he said. You were amazin’. Best thing I’ve seen in a long time.”

Ford shot him a glare, but said nothing, still too flustered to form a coherent sentence.

You raised an eyebrow, amused by their obvious struggle to compose themselves. “Thank you,” you said softly, stepping aside to let them in. “I didn’t expect to have such enthusiastic admirers.”

Stan’s grin returned, a little more confident this time. “Well, y’know, when a girl sings like that, it’s hard not to be impressed.” he winked, but it was so obvious he wasn’t as sure of himself as usual.

The room felt smaller now, air not enough, the three of you standing in this intimate space and this damn silence isn’t making it any better. Stan shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling strangely out of place for the first time in decades. Hell, they were both pushing sixty, damn sixty, and yet, standing here in front of you, they felt like awkward teenagers all over again.

Stan glanced at Ford, mentally asking for support, but his twin looked equally as lost.

For all the things they had seen and done over the years, monsters, mysteries, the paranormal, nothing had prepared them for you.

Surprisingly, Ford spoke up. “What we meant to say is—” he paused, realizing he was rambling, and cleared his throat again. “It’s rare to find someone with such talent. And, um, charisma.”

Stan nodded. “Ya know, we’re not exactly the youngest guys in the room, but damn, if you didn’t make us feel like a couple of teenagers again.” he chuckled awkwardly. “Never thought I’d be this tongue-tied at my age, y’know?”

You couldn’t help but giggle at their awkward flirts, it was clear they were both trying hard to impress you, even if they were struggling to find the right words. “You guys really don’t have to flatter me like that,” you said, feeling your cheeks turning a little bit red. “but I appreciate it.”

Stan looked at his brother and then at you. “See? Even Poindexter here’s smitten,” he teased. Ford flushed, shooting his brother a glare, but didn’t protest. If he was being honest, he couldn’t deny it. Being around you, he felt awkward and unsure.

You took a step closer, smiling gently as you regarded them both. “You two are adorable, you know that?”

After that, the room felt lighter now, like the tension had eased into something more comfortable. Stan and Ford, for all their differences, were in this moment, together, both stunned by you, equally out of their element, but somehow, that was okay. You had them both wrapped around your finger without even trying.

Then Stan leaned closer to you, whispering. “If anything, choose me, not this weirdo, he has a fetish for triangles.”

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dixons-sunshine · 25 days ago

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Ice, Ice, Baby | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Day Nine: Ice Skating

“I dun’ like this.”

“You haven’t even tried it before, Dar. How could you know if you don’t like it?”

“Dun’ like not bein’ stable on my feet. This shit’s gon’ be a guarantee that I fall on my ass, then m’gon’ be wet and cold, and then you’re gon’ have a grumpy asshole for a partner on the way home.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Well, first of all, thank you for being so honest about what’s gonna happen if you fall. Second of all, just try it, okay? If you stay on the ice for five minutes and then decide that you still don’t like it, we can go home.”

Daryl grumbled and finished tying the laces of the ice-skates you had given to him. “You’re lucky m’so damn fond’a ya, woman.”

The smile that spread over your face made butterflies erupt in the archer’s stomach. At that moment, Daryl knew that he was done for. If you asked him to steal the moon for you, he would do it. Anything to keep that radiant smile on your face.

“Thank you!” you said enthusiastically, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek and laughing lightly at the red that coloured the skin on his face. You extended a hand towards him and helped him up from the log, taking a few steps back and situating yourself on the ice. “Come on, you can do it. Just take it nice and slow.”

The moment Daryl’s feet hit the ice, he grabbed your arms instead of your hands, his eyes widening slightly as he wobbled on the ice. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” he muttered to himself, trying to follow your lead as you led him further onto the ice.

“You’re doing great, Dar,” you reassured him, trying your hardest not to laugh at the look of nervousness mixed with concentration on his features. “You’re a natural at this.”

The moment your words met his ears, he wobbled again and nearly fell down, but thankfully steadied himself. “Yeah, right. ‘Natural’. Ain’t nothin’ natural ‘bout walkin’ on frozen water.”

“It’s fun!” you laughed, slowly leading him over the ice, making sure to keep him as steady as you could. “Come on, you gotta admit that this isn’t that bad.”

It really wasn’t, Daryl thought to himself. The actual ice skating bit wasn’t the part that made that fun for him. He felt like a baby giraffe trying to learn how to walk for the first time. It was the look of pure happiness on your face that made that all worthwhile. You had mentioned that you missed skating on the ice since the world ended, and he was thrilled that he was able to give you the experience you so deeply missed.

It certainly didn’t mean that he had to like the feeling of nearly falling flat on his behind every time the two of you turned, though.

The two of you skated around together on the ice for another few minutes, and Daryl felt the unstableness melt away. Slowly, but surely, he managed to copy your movements, and he felt rather proud of himself.

“See? I told you that you’re a natural at this,” you complimented him, slipping one of your arms from his grip and instead opting to hold his hand instead.

“I guess s’cause I had a good teacher,” he replied, a faint smile on his face as he gazed down at the ice, feeling a rush of excitement at his new ability.

“So, what’s the verdict? We going home?” you inquired, although you had a feeling about what the answer was going to be.

“Nah,” Daryl said with a shake of his head. “You’ve been wantin’ to do this for a while now. Guess I can tough it out for a while longer.”

“And this is totally not because you’re actually enjoying ice-skating?”

“Nah.”

“Okay,” you replied with a disbelieving laugh, rubbing your thumb over Daryl’s knuckles as the two of you continued to glide over the frozen water. “Just wanted to make sure.”

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ponderingmoonlight · 1 year ago

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Having to share a bed with Gojo Satoru at a love hotel

Listen...I've got a little carried away by this one. While I'm currently writing for Geto and Toji, this part will only contain Gojo as it ended up so damn long. Hope you still enjoy <3

Part l (Megumi, Nanami, Yuta)

Part lll (Toji, Geto, Haibara, Choso)

Sharing a bed with JJk men pt ll

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,8k (this was supposed to be a cute little one shot lol)

Warnings: No real smut, but it's getting REALLY spicy - you have been warned...

Synopsis: After pretending to be in a relationship with Gojo for some time, the two of you seem to be the perfect match for a mission at a love hotel.

It is ridiculous. You both know that all too well. Will it stop you from pretending to be Gojo’s girlfriend even though you aren’t more than friends? Absolutely not. You’ve been doing this for a while now, at the beginning only to take him as your plus one to a wedding and for him to fake proposals at restaurants for free meals. You are very aware of the fact that this is already going too far, especially when you consider that whole Jujutsu High seems to believe you.

“Hello there Gojo-bear!”, you cry out.

But it’s just way too fucking funny and comfortable to stop now. The thing is, it has a whole lot of benefits: easier missions, raises over raises, less trouble because everyone seems to fear your ‘boyfriend’ but most importantly you get to spend some time with Satoru himself. You hate to admit it, but the way he smiles down at you and wraps his arm around your waist does things to you you’d never say out loud.

“There you are honey!”, he replies with a sly grin, embracing you in his arms just like he always does.

The problem is, you just know that it isn’t more for him than a joke. Your heart stings in agony just thinking about the way he immediately scoots away from you as soon as nobody’s around anymore. To Satoru, you really are nothing more than a friend he enjoys to spend time and mess with.

“Yikes, why is this so cringe?”, Nobara mutters.

“Just wait until you find your true love, kids”, Satoru shouts towards them.

Fuck that ass eating smile of him and the way it makes your heart flutter. It’s all a lie and nothing else. Nothing but a made up story. Remember that.

“Satoru, (y/n). I have a mission for you. Follow me.”

The harsh voice of Masamichi Yaga pulls you out of your distress. A mission for both of you? Normally Satoru is sent alone. After all, he is the strongest and every other jujutsu sorcerer is only in his way. What is it that makes him think it is a good idea to send the both of you together?

“We were informed about a curse that killed over 100 couples within the span of a few weeks in several love hotels located in Tokyo. As you guys are the most disgusting couple I’ve ever seen, both of you were assigned to stay at the love hotel with the greatest number of deaths and exorcise that curse once and for all. Understood?”

It’s like your world turns upside down. Did you really hear that correctly? This has to be a joke, right? Ain’t no way he really thinks you and Satoru…Your gaze wanders to his shamelessly gorgeous face that seems as unbothered as usual. Of course. Everyone thinks you are a couple. Therefore, you are a perfect fit for this mission.

“Nothing easier than that. Just send me the location and we’ll get this done in no time. Right honey?”

“Right…”, you mumble.

“You know what that means, right?”, you hiss into his ear after leaving the director’s office.

“Yeah, a free night in a luxurious hotel on the back of the school!”

“No.”

You sign. How the hell is he so unmoved by all of this? Not even Satoru can be too dumb to realize what staying in a love hotel in order to exorcise a curse means…Right?

“If this curse only shows up in front of couples at love hotels then…then…”

Your mouth refuses to say it out loud. No, you are too prideful to confess to him that it makes your knees go weak and your heart bang inside your chest. Why do you bother anyway? You stretch your shoulders and look at him, face hardened.

“Let’s just get this over with.”

The ride into the heart of Tokyo is longer than you remember it, considering Satoru is sitting right beside you and watching anime on his phone.

“Damn, this part gets me every time”, he almost sobs.

“How often did you watch that already?”

“I lost count at 17. What is that look on your face? Don’t you know what happens next?”

“I never watched that one”, you admit, casually shrugging your shoulders.

Satoru drops his phone, intense gaze piercing through you even though he’s wearing glasses.

“You’ve got to be kidding right? You are my girlfriend and you never-“

Thick silence, your eyes widen at the sound of this words coming from his mouth. Girlfriend? Did he actually say that?

“I mean fake girlfriend of course. Just getting ready for later I guess”, he adds along with scratching the back of his head.

“Sure”, you reply automatically.

Can your heart just stop beating so damn loud? This is ridiculous, it was a slip of the tongue and nothing more.

“Listen, (y/n)…As soon as we step through the door of that hotel, you have to be my girlfriend”, he instructs you in a dead serious voice.

“No need to tell me, Gojo-bear…”, you comment dryly, more directed towards yourself than him.

After all, it is you whose love isn’t just a funny little prank. Your feelings are more than real, considering you can almost hear your heart shattering like fragile glass. How stupid it was to even think he could somehow feel the same way, that it’s more than a game to him. Who knows how much time he spends with other women behind your back…

“This is it. Are you ready?”

Get. Yourself. Together. You smile confidently and nod. Being in love with Gojo Satoru might be senseless, but revealing your true feelings towards him is even worse. No, you are way too prideful to give him that. Without thinking twice you grab his hand tightly just like you did multiple times before. You will get through this and bring this madness to an end after this mission.

“Hey, we’ve booked a room here for two.”

“The name?”, the man behind the desk asks while eyeing you intensely.

Fuck, don’t let your face turn red, withstand his gaze. Maybe he’s asking himself why a man like Satoru is with a girl like you…

“Gojo Satoru.”

“There you go. Feel free to use the elevator and call immediately if something is strange. Please check out before midday. Have a nice stay.”

“We sure will!”, Satoru replies with a cheeky grin before taking the key card and maneuvering you into the elevator.

“God, I can’t wait to be alone with you baby.”

You feel like choking while staring at him. Did he really just say that, is this for real?

“Listen, (y/n)…As soon as we step through the door of that hotel, you have to be my girlfriend”

Your heart sinks. Calm down, idiot. It’s only for the mission. You never know when and where the curse is, so it just makes sense to play along until it shows up. Reluctantly you smile at him with dead eyes. Why does this hurt so fucking badly? You pretended to be his girlfriend for more than a year now and it never bothered you that he held your hand and called you stupid nicknames. But this…This is something completely different. You are at a love hotel and Satoru is straight up trying to seduce you. How the hell are you supposed to feel about all of this?

“Let’s go, shall we?”

His hand rests on your hip while he leads you to the right room with ease. It feels like his hand burns against your skin, suddenly the air is way too hot to breathe properly. You want to get out of here, away from Satoru but at the same time you need him so much closer…What has gotten into you?

“Hey, no need to be nervous babe, I got you”, he breathes against your outer ear.

“I just…never done something like this. That’s all”, you admit dryly while avoiding his gaze at all cost.

“I’ll guide you, no worries.”

He closes the door behind you and cages your body with his. You are trapped between Satoru’s arms, no way to escape his intense stare and the way his large frame feels pressed against yours. At this point it seems like all of your senses and the ability to interact have simply vanished from your body. His gaze is…filthy, completely occupied by lust as it seems. You feel like your knees will give in any minute, heart almost pounding out of your chest while blood begins to pulsate between your legs. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Are you fainting? What is this feeling?

“I’ll make you feel the way you deserve it”, Satoru rasps.

Before you can react, he lifts you in the air with ease and throws you on the soft bed in the middle of the room.

“S-satoru…I-I…never done this”, you repeat with choked voice, sweat dripping down your face while you desperately try to stop yourself from wincing.

God, he makes you feel so weak with the way his eyes hungrily linger over your body and seem to swallow you whole.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.”

And then it happens. His lips brush against yours. Slowly at first, almost sweetly. You close your eyes, hands automatically grabbing his strong biceps in a frantic attempt to get a hold of this situation. Is all of this a dream? Impossible. The way his arms are wrapped around you while his unmistakable scent fills the air around is way too real for that. Satoru picks up the pace, his tongue inviting itself into your mouth to get instantly into a tangled dance with yours. Fuck, this feels so good, almost like you’re on drugs – addicted to his touch and kisses.

“Satoru”, you literally moan into his parted lips.

You need to feel his body even closer, his touch a little rougher, his lips even better. You want more. No, you need more. More of the drug that only Satoru Gojo seems to be able to give you.

“I-I need more”, you stutter, eyes gleaming in pleasure.

“I would give you the world, (y/n). Fuck, I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long…”

“How much I hate all of these fucking happy couples. Die! All of you, die!”

It’s like you get hit by a train when the distorted voice of a stranger fills the room with hatred and disgust. Satoru’s body blocks the view of the curse making its way through the ceiling at the speed of light. Automatically, you claw into his upper arms for hold.

“Took you quite some time to get here. I was almost afraid that you wouldn’t show up for our rendez-vous.”

“Would you mind letting me go for a second, darling?”, he words addressed to you.

Your hands let go of him immediately, body rolling to the other side of the bed in order to give Satoru the room he needs. The fight itself doesn’t take long. In fact, you aren’t even able to catch a glimpse at the curse before the room is lit up in purple, lilac glibber raining down on the bed with pieces of the ceiling, threatening to hit you right in your face. Pressing your eyes shut, you surrender to your fate. Not the first time you get covered in the remaining of some disgusting curse…

“Do you really think I’d let you get covered in this? You don’t know me well, darling.”

When you open your eyes again, you aren’t greeted by lilac glibber. In fact, it stopped right before hitting you with full force. You let out your breath you didn’t know you were holding, gaze finding Satoru’s bright blue orbs that seem to glitter.

“I’d say we smashed that mission”, he proudly announces, shaking the remaining of the ceiling and curse away from both of you while lifting himself off the bed.

You slowly get up from your trance, heart completely shattering at his words. You smashed the mission? Is this everything he is able to think about? Just seconds ago he laid on top of you, his tongue in your mouth while he told you over and over the finest things you ever heard from him. Everything nothing but…a lie? You want to get away from him as soon as possible, the pictures of him and you burn into your heart like a fuel rod. It was all just a game for him, a necessary price he had to pay to complete the mission.

“Thank god we did”, you hiss and abruptly jump out of bed, body swaying back and forth in dizziness.

Salty tears start to burn in your eyes, flooding over any second. No, don’t cry. What about your pride, how you always carried yourself with your head held high? A sob shakes your body before you can stop it. Fuck all of that. This hurts like hell.

“Hey, what is going on? Are you sad because I didn’t let you have your moment with that curse? Y’know, he was a pretty weak grade 1 any-“

“Is all of this a joke to you?”, you yell into his face, tears now running like a waterfall while your chest feels like it’s going to explode.

Satoru’s eyes widen in horror. Fuck, he never saw you like this. And the worst is that he seems to be the cause of your tears.

“You’re anything but a joke to me, (y/n)”, he replies dead serious.

“All the things you said were nothing but a big lie! All these kisses meant nothing to you!”, you cry out.

“(y/n)-“

“They did to me though. I never shared a bed with a man before, Satoru. It was special to me.”

Your voice sounds so defeated that Satoru instinctively gets up and walks towards you.

“But it was special to me too, (y/n)! It was always more than just pretending for me.”

“Stop kidding me. This pretending comes to an end right now. From now on, I’m not your fake girlfriend anymore.”

“Good, that’s what I wanted to say.”

You nod to yourself while his cruel words hit you like a wall all over again. So this is how it comes to an end. You always knew that sooner or later, you wouldn’t be able to keep up with the lies anymore. How were you supposed to build a future on top of a pile of foul lies? It was beneficial as long as it lasted. You shouldn’t have expected more from the start.

“I don’t want you to be my fake girlfriend anymore. Please, just make it real and official. I loved you this whole time (y/n). It always felt better to pretend than to potentially not having you at all. Today showed me that I can’t be without you, that I want to share a bed with you every night and not just for a mission. I’m beggin’ on my knees if I have to, please be my girlfriend.”

Time stands still, you are unable to move as your mind desperately tries to process what he just said. He want you to be his girlfriend…for real?

“Stop messing around with me, Gojo”, you warn him.

But a little voice inside you tells you that he isn’t lying, that his face tells nothing but the truth. Can it really be that the Gojo Satoru wants you to be his girlfriend? Your skin starts to prickle while your heartbeat picks up in an instant. Please let this be real…

“I’m not. I want to hold you like I did before that fucking curse appeared every hour of the day and not just when someone’s around, (y/n).”

“But…Why did you always break away from me when we were alone? You could have just told me, I-“

You stop. You did it just like him. Pretended that it’s nothing but a stupid joke to you, that Satoru didn’t mean more than a friend does. You told yourself over and over that your feelings aren’t real, that you are just a good actor. Oh, but it was so much more. It is so much more.

“I did the same”, you confess your thoughts to him.

“Please, (y/n). Let’s make it real, no pretending anymore. Be by my side.”

His hands gently cup your face while your arms instinctively wrap around his neck.

“Nothing better than that”, you mutter before pressing your lips against his.

“You know, that bed is still looking good and we’ve booked for a night…”

“Let’s not waste the precious money of Jujutsu High, then”, you moan while he bites down your neck.

1K notes · View notes

leighsartworks216 · 2 months ago

Text

Fallen Angel

Sylus x gn!Reader (more fem-coded)

I literally didn't do work yesterday when I told myself I would bc of this fic. I was so in it that I had to keep working on it or else. And I'm so glad I did cuz I love writing in the Raven universe I've created

Warnings: torture, blood, injury, gun violence, mind control, swearing, (wanting to) vomit, slight invasion of privacy, pet names, sleep deprivation, alcohol + drinking, possessive behavior, kissing, some religious imagery, selectively mute reader, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 4,887

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

The Raven Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form (Fill this out to be tagged in future works!)

“Look at you. Sylus’s prized pup.”

Electricity tears through your body. It steals the air from your lungs. Your bloodied fingernails dig into the wood of the chair. Your legs shake against their will. You grit your teeth so hard they hurt. You taste copper.

When it stops, your body sags forward, chest heaving desperately for air through the aftershocks of pain. You refuse to scream for them. Refuse to let them hear your voice when it is reserved for one man only.

“Give it up already, pup.” The man supervising your torture grabs your chin in deceptively soft hands, contradicting the tight hold he has on your jaw. He brushes his thumb against your lower lip. It comes away red. “He would have found you by now if he actually cared. You know that.”

You glare at him. Silent.

“Besides, be honest with yourself, pup,” he leans in close, too close, “why would a man like him need a bodyguard?” He tilts your head to one side, then the other. “You’re just a mangy stray he took in out of pity. A fighting dog. Good at ripping out throats, and nothin’ else. Ain’t that right?”

He shoves your face away sharply. Your world spins from that small action alone, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut until you see spots in the darkness. Boots scrape along the floor behind you. You take in one last gasp of air before the metal touches your skin.

Sylus checks his messages again. Nothing.

No texts, no calls, no mysterious notes before you left.

Shouldn’t we set the rules for hide-and-seek before the game starts?

It isn’t necessarily unusual for you to disappear, but it is unusual for you to ignore his messages. Even if you didn’t answer right away, you still read them. Now, the patronizing notice of Delivered stares back at him.

He snaps his fingers and Mephisto is there in a flash, perched on his finger and rapt with attention. The poor bird is missing you, too. His hoard of trinkets to give you is stagnant - nothing coming in and nothing going out. He’s too nervous to even go collect more.

“Search Linkon City. Any sign of them, you report it.”

The mechanical crow leaps off his finger and out the window in a flash.

In the next instant, the twins are standing before him, summoned by a quick message. They stand at attention, too. No banter passes between them. “Search the N109 Zone for any sign of Raven. By any means necessary.”

“On it, Boss.”

“Sure thing, Boss!”

He stares at the messages again as their footsteps recede into the hall. He scans your last message, searching for any miniscule clue as to where you’ve run off to.

One of my old “colleagues” is bugging me again :/

Want me to take care of them for you?

I can do it myself

I know you can, sweetheart

It was too vague to go off of. You were very tight-lipped about your past, only making off-handed comments about it here and there: You don’t sing anymore (implying you did once, which came as a minor shock to him), your apparent wealth is stolen (but no hints to where from), and you’re more familiar with the streets of Linkon than the N109 Zone. Never any mentions of past dealings you had before, or anything close to a partnership that could have involved “colleagues”.

The longer he sits here, straining for any glimpse of a past you never involved him in, the more he wishes he’d asked more. It wasn’t for lack of interest, but you weren’t very vocal at the best of times. It felt more appropriate to leave it alone and wait for you to offer up tidbits on your own.

Two prominent marks marr your skin, presenting where the alligator clips had pressed into your back over and over and over again. Charred flesh, bubbling with blisters. Something sharp pops one of them. You draw blood from your cheek to avoid screaming.

The man sighs. “You’re a stubborn one.” He pushes off of the wall and leans down to be face-to-face with you. “What’s it gonna take to get you to sing for us?”

Your body trembles with exertion as you raise your head. You haven’t been allowed to sleep. Every time your eyes droop, you get shocked. You fight not to collapse. You can’t let the torture break you. You can’t.

He smirks as he sees the blood dribbling from your mouth, mixing with saliva and snot as it trails down your chin. His satisfaction sickens you. For as much as you understand the thrill, understand the rush of bringing someone to their knees before you, you never looked at them like this. This is revolting.

You spit in his face.

“Ah, fuck!” He almost falls on his ass as he jerks away. His nice sleeve is ruined as he wipes his face.

Lightning sears through your nerves. It burns you up inside. Your muscles clench harshly, spasming uncontrollably. All air rushes out of you. It feels like drowning. Your eyes stare at the bright white light on the ceiling, unable to cry out, unable to look away. Unable to breathe.

For the first time since this whole thing began, tears form in your eyes.

The clips are removed from your skin. Colored and black spots obscure the blurry light. You think you might pass out. You think you’ve reached the end of your resolve.

And then you can breathe again.

The breaths come in wheezy and ragged. Your body lurches forward as you cough. Your throat spasms, stomach twisting with the need to throw up. But nothing comes out. You dry heave into your lap, blood landing in wet droplets on your pants.

The man pulls your head up by your hair. You can’t see him. Can’t see the ugly grimace on his face. Your eyes won’t open. You cough, desperate to vomit in the false hope that it would make you feel better. Hot tears slip down your cheeks.

“You-!” He growls in frustration as he drops your head again. You’re vaguely aware of the sound of his shoes as he paces back and forth in front of you. “Okay. Okay! Fine! You can rest now, pup. How’s that sound? You can take a nice, long nap. Sounds good, right?”

You don’t answer him. Don’t show any signs you even heard him.

“Keep an eye on them. I’m gonna go fucking change.”

Sylus hasn’t been idle. Fully aware of the breach to your privacy, he taps away at your laptop. The password wasn’t guessed, merely bypassed. He didn’t trust that he’d be able to guess it before being locked out.

He pulls up the same messenger app you use on your phone. Bypassing the password again, he watches the spinning buffer as it syncs up with your phone. It takes far too long. He busies himself with going through your search history with no luck. You know how to play this game, how to meander in and out of danger without leaving any traces. It’s a remarkable talent that frustrates him to no end right now.

No messages from Luke, Kieran, or Mephisto.

A quiet jingle comes from your laptop speakers as the sync completes. He searches the most recent messages, ignoring his own despite the red dot next to his avatar. One chat exchange in particular catches his eye:

Hello, angel~ When u gonna come sing for me again?

Never.

So ur still alive then? Thats good to hear

Ive missed u <3

Stop sending your men after me. Our business is done.

U know damn well it isnt. U reneged our agreement AND stole from me

U owe me bigger than ever, angel

You’ve made more since I left. You’re not hurting for funds.

Its the principle of the matter

U still flaked

- Read 9:38pm, Thursday -

Okay, don’t respond

But if u want this stain off ur back, u gotta finish ur deal

Same stakes as before

Ill even shorten ur sentence to one week

Now doesnt that sound fair?

- Read 12:02am, Friday -

Second Circle

David will pick u up

No thanks.

Fine. See u in hell, angel~

By the end, Sylus’s face is set in a sour sneer. The way whoever this was spoke to you was demeaning, controlling, disgusting. They acted like they owned you. You’re a bird that can’t be caged; Sylus knows this well.

But, it’s the best lead he’s got. Nothing else is as recent as this, except for your text to him complaining about your old “colleague”.

He messages Mephisto, telling him to scope out the Second Circle, a nightclub on the outskirts of Linkon. He starts digging into the place, its owner, and what he can do to have a meeting with them.

You fight sleep for as long as you can. You try everything to avoid letting the exhaustion sink in. You rub your wrists raw with the rope holding you down, hoping the pain will distract you, but the person overlooking you stops you immediately. You try to put together and take apart a gun in your mind, imagining the heft of it in your hand, the recoil that shoots up your arm, the satisfaction shooting these fuckers in the face would bring. You even try running through your last escape from this place, mentally following the corridors and steps it took to secure your freedom.

None of it works. Against your will, your body gives in. You slip into dreamless sleep.

You don’t know how long it is when you’re awoken.

The chair tips, snapping your consciousness back to the present as gravity shifts. It falls backwards, the ceiling light bearing down on you like the desert sun. Your head hits the cold floor. Hard. Before your mind can catch up, a cry is torn from your throat.

The cry is cut short.

A haze of disconnection washes over your body. You can’t feel your pain, can’t feel your body. It’s like your mind is trapped in a prison. You’re forced to watch through wide eyes as the man leans over you.

“Finally…” His voice floats in like a distant echo. “Take them to the boss. He’s got his angel back.”

No. No, no, no, no, no.

You try to fight against them as they untie your hands and ankles, as they lift you up, as your legs start walking without your input. You try to scream. To lash out. To do anything.

And you can’t.

The man must notice your struggle. Must feel it through his Evol. “Relax, pup. The worst of it is over. Now you just gotta complete your end of the bargain.”

Your body walks down a long, familiar hallway. The doors at the end are wide open. A poker table sits in the middle of the room, surrounded by faces you wish you didn’t recognize. Some of them bear the scars of your last escape.

In a gilded throne, sitting across from the dealer with a tall stack of poker chips, is the man you’ve been running from.

The Devil.

The neon lights of the night club shine like a warning sign through the tinted windows of the car. The electronic red curves and twists of a script font. The outline of a devil girl lounging on top of the name, cleavage out and winking. Her tail ends in a sharp point, underlining the name.

The Second Circle.

The air in the vehicle is suffocating. Rage boils under the surface of Sylus’s skin, barely contained. His Evol burns his hands, aching to be released.

Luke opens his door as Kieran stands guard next to it.

You’re in there.

It’s been almost a week since you disappeared. Two days since Mephisto spotted you through the door of the club. One day since he requested an audience with its owner.

Sylus gets out of the car. Luke closes the door behind him. The twins flank his sides as he walks to the entrance. A long line of patrons waits to be let in by the bouncer, a man as tall as he was and twice as wide. He barely glances at Sylus before letting him in. The customers closest to the door fall eerily silent as he passes, oppressed by the energy surrounding him.

Purple, blue and red lights break up the darkness. Poles occupied by dancers are interspersed through the room, with girls dressed up in skimpy red devil costumes or sinfully revealing nun attire. One of the poles stands on a prominent stage, gauzy red curtains drawn to a close behind it. All three of them scan the room for signs of you with no luck.

Drunken dancers and tipsy customers pass by in a blur as he crosses the dance floor to a door hidden in the shadows. Two men in suits guard it, shoulder to shoulder.

“I have a meeting with the Devil,” he announces over the music. Despite the heat raging within him, his words are cold.

One of the men nods his head. “Mr. Sylus,” he greets, too warmly given the circumstances. “The Devil has asked that you please wait until after the main show. It will be starting soon.” He gestures over to the stage.

Sylus stares through them, searching for any reason why he really should wait and not release his Evol right now and tear his way through the building.

The lights shift from bright neons to sultry reds and oranges as the music fades out. The anticipation in the room is palpable as all eyes turn to the stage. A silhouette with feathery wings stands behind the curtain.

None of this was interesting to Sylus. What stopped him in his tracks was a voice. Your voice.

His eyes shoot to the stage, face hardening as he watches the curtains part.

You, dressed up in a white angel costume, altered from something pure and holy to be lustful. Wings stick from your back, short but no less enticing. He can’t hear the slow jazz music over the siren sound of your voice. Can’t feel the burning of his Evol as his eyes follow your movements to the pole.

“You must like this song,” he points out with a grin. “You keep humming along to it.”

You smirk as you meet his eye, not pausing as you copy the melody note for note. It’s much better than his singing.

“Do you know the words?”

You nod. You push yourself up from the sofa where you lounged to lay yourself across his lap. Your arms wrap around his neck, lips brushing against his ear as your humming fades away. “I don’t sing anymore.”

His hand trails along your spine before resting on your waist and pulling you closer. “Shall I sing them, then?”

You pinch his shoulder. He chuckles.

All at once, the music turns sour within him.

“Boss, is that…?” Luke pipes up.

Kieran shakes his head. “No, it can’t be. Right?”

His hand clenches into a fist by his side. It’s minutes of torture. His eyes can’t seem to look away as you move fluidly around the pole, smiling too softly at the patrons who stand at the edge of the stage. At one point, you kneel down, knees spread apart, right in front of one of them. She gulps as you grab her by the chin, gently guiding her while you sing until her face is so close. If she’d been a little bolder, she could have met your lips. But your fingers trail along her jaw until you let go, slowly standing up while maintaining eye contact with her.

As soon as the final notes leave your lips, Sylus is at the door. He doesn’t stay to watch the curtains close. Luke and Kieran rush after him as he speeds off down a hallway.

Once the door closes, the cheering is silenced, unable to reach through the thick material. What takes its place is the laughter down the hall.

Each step feels too long. It seems to stretch on forever. Door after door, all leading up to the open double doors at the end of the hall. He only stops once he’s crossed the threshold, standing just inside the doorway as the players turn to acknowledge his presence.

The man in the throne doesn’t bother to pull his face out of your neck.

The sneer on Sylus’s face deepens. This isn’t you. You would never perch on another man’s lap like this. You would never giggle as his mouth drags over your skin, whispering sinful things in your ear. You would never turn to look at him like that, like he’s a stranger you’re passing in the street.

“We have business.”

The Devil sighs boredly, finally drawing away from the angel in his lap to look at Sylus. He smirks easily. He’s completely relaxed. The players set their cards down slowly.

“Well, well, well. Mr. Sylus. How nice to finally make your acquaintance.”

“What did you do to them?”

“Who, me?” He chuckles. He reaches for a glass on the edge of the table and brings it calmly to his lips, drinking the expensive scotch long and slow. “I didn’t do anything.”

Sylus sighs sharply, bored of this game. “Fine. What did your men do to them?”

The Devil cocks his head to the side, smirking wider. It looks too big for his face. “Nothin’ they couldn’t handle.”

Luke and Kieran keep a close eye on the poker players as their hands reach beneath the table. Their own hands come to rest at the weapons on their hips.

“Didja wanna make a deal, or are you just gonna stand there all night?”

There is no deal that could be made that would be fair. The Devil already had what he wanted - you. Under his control, on his lap, answering to his every whim. If he can’t deal with the Devil…

“Whose Evol is it, sweetie?”

You tilt your head. It’s familiar, and it’s horrifically not you. “What do you mean, mister?”

His right eye glows as he levels his stare on you. He’s never used this on you before. It feels like a betrayal of your autonomy. Somehow, he knows you forgive him.

A face flickers across his vision. Blood stains a nasty grimace. You desire the owner of that face to die. You don’t care how. Your rage almost makes him dizzy.

He pulls a gun from his waistband. The owner of the face stands first, aiming for the Onychinus leader. Sylus shoots first.

Blood splatters on the cards.

All hell breaks loose.

Your eyes seem to come into focus in a flash. Luke and Kieran are too quiet as they shoot down the other players at the table. Sylus’s own Evol reaches throughout the room, evaporating bullets before they can hit either of the twins, himself, or you. He doesn’t stop watching you.

Your face is contorted with fury. The usual calm neutrality that hides your emotions when you fight is gone. You shatter the glass of scotch on the wooden rim of the poker table. The shard you grab digs into your hand as you aim for the Devil’s jugular. He grabs your wrist with one hand, the other gripping your throat in a vice grip. Even as you lose oxygen, you fight back. You will never stop fighting back. You shake with effort as you push against his hand, but you’re gaining ground.

A black and red tendril of smoke grabs the Devil’s wrist, wrenching his hand away. The shard of glass goes clean through his skin, through his artery, until the pointed tip is caressing his spine.

He sputters up at you with wide eyes, choking on blood. It stains the white of your costume. Stains your skin. Stains the table. His hold on your neck loosens.

You lean down to his ear. “Our deal is over.”

Blood gurgles in his throat as he tries to protest, to argue, to get the last word in.

His hand falls from your throat, hanging limply off the side of the throne. The life drains from his eyes.

The room is still. Bodies lay across the floor. Some lean over the table. Chips and cards are scattered everywhere.

Luke and Kieran disappear down the hall, taking care of the rest of the security that would prevent your escape. Sylus steps over the carnage as he rounds the table. You slowly let go of the glass, not bothering to hide your wince as tiny fragments imbed themselves in your flesh. He wordlessly helps you stand from the dead man’s lap, hands becoming stained with the same blood that covers you.

You finally meet his eyes. And it’s you. The pain and anger and hatred in your eyes is too real, too genuine, to be faked by a puppet master. He brushes the blood splatter off your face with the back of his fingers. You lean into the touch without hesitation.

“Are you alright?” he asks, voice soft.

You take a deep breath in and release it through your nose. You slowly nod.

“The car’s waiting outside.”

You take a step forward. Your knees give out underneath you. Sylus catches you before you can hit the ground. You hiss in pain as you grab onto him with your injured hand by pure instinct. Your body is still trying to recover from the torture, from the sleep deprivation, from being under someone else’s relentless control for so long. He effortlessly lifts you into his arms.

“You can rest now,” he whispers against your hair. You can feel the rumble of each word deep within his chest. It calls to you, encouraging you to let go. You give in willingly this time, holding onto his shirt even as your blood seeps into the expensive fabric, and close your eyes with your ear pressed to his heart.

You look so small and fragile in his arms. He glances at the miserable man in his gilded throne. If you hadn’t already killed him, he would have delighted in torturing him the same way they’d done to you.

The hallway feels shorter as he carries you out of the building. His Evol lashes out at anybody that tries to stop him that the twins missed; footmen who flood in from the side doors. The club is devoid of patrons by the time he passes through the door at the end of the hall. Dancers panic as they hold each other, free from the same power that controlled you minutes prior. Luke holds open the front door. Kieran holds open the rear passenger side door. The car pulls away from the curb minutes before police arrive.

You wake up in agony.

Your shoulder blades are the worst. Excruciating pain pulses into your muscles from the injuries left behind from the alligator clamps that pumped electricity into your body. You’re laying on your stomach to avoid making it worse. It doesn’t feel like it can get worse.

You force yourself up onto your hands and knees, your body screaming at you to get away. You can’t see where you are through silent tears that plop on the pillow you were just using.

“Kitten,” Sylus quietly calls out. You recognize his hands on your sides as he gently lowers you back down to your stomach. You sob into the pillow. “Stay still. I’ll be back in a minute.”

You clutch at the covers and pillows until your knuckles are white. A bandage is wrapped around your hand. Blood begins to seep through it.

The bed dips beside you when he gets back. Cool cloths are draped over your back, tamping down the burning temporarily. You sigh with relief. As your fingers relax, Sylus takes your damaged hand and begins unwrapping the stained bandage. His touch is tender, careful not to hurt you further.

“Tell me the next time you intend to settle a debt.” Despite how careful he is to make his voice sound neutral and unbothered, it’s edged with genuine worry and care.

You nod slightly.

With the bandage removed, you can see through your blurry vision the telltale sign of stitches pulling your skin closed along the width of your palm. A couple of them are snapped, but there are still enough in place that fixing it now would bring more pain than necessary. His hands don’t falter as he wraps fresh gauze around the agitated wound.

“I’m sorry…” You don’t need to look to know his red eyes are trained on your face. You can tell in the way he pauses, freezing for just a moment right before he starts wrapping your hand in a new bandage. “He wasn’t this… powerful before. Back then, it was my own desperation that caused me to stay, not some fucked up Evol.”

He huffs, remembering the messages that led him to you. “How much did you steal from him?”

You shoot him a disapproving look, knowing immediately just how he got that info, but the quirk of your lips betrays your amusement. “I almost emptied the whole account.”

He chuckles as he tapes the bandage in place. You lay your hand back down on the bed. He brushes some tears from your cheek. For you to let your guard down around him so freely, especially after what you went through… “Where else are you hurt?”

“Bumped my head, but it’s not so bad anymore,” you assure him. It wouldn’t be good business to have your prized dancer covered in bruises and welts. The wings of your costume had hid the damage to your back pretty well. Besides, nobody was looking at your back when you sang anyway. Your neck had some bruising from the final confrontation. It would fade with time.

The bed shifts again as he stands up. You can see him disappear into the bathroom out of the corner of your eye. From a window right nearby, a familiar black shape swoops in. Mephisto wastes no time in cuddling up to your cheek, tucking his body by your neck. His beak nips gently at your ear and cheeks while he makes a strange cooing noise.

You smile, closing your eyes and basking in his affections. “Hello, Mephie. I missed you, too.” He clicks his beak and bites the corner of your lips. “I’ll tell you where I go next time, too, okay?” Seeming to approve your promise, he starts preening your hair.

“You’re going to wear your voice out if you keep talking so much,” Sylus teases. He sets a glass of water on the nightstand and sets two pills beside it. They’re not regular over the counter pain meds; these are definitely heavier duty.

You look up at him sadly. He catches your meaning in an instant. You want your voice to run raw, until speaking hurts too much. You’ve spoken so much the last few days against your will, you need to remember how to shut up again, need to remember the pain of talking.

Mephisto complains as Sylus slowly helps you into a sitting position, fluffing up against the pillow as he watches on impatiently. The cloths fall from your back. He sets them aside once he’s sure you won’t fall over. You hold the pills in your mouth as you take a sip of the water, closing your eyes and focusing on swallowing everything without gagging. You drain half of the glass after with a sigh.

He takes the glass and helps you lay back down. The cloths are replaced on your burns.

“You should get some more rest,” he says. Mephisto picks at the fine hairs on the back of your neck, continuing his preening. “It’ll be easier to sleep this off.”

You pat the bed next to you with your good hand, giving him a pointed, questioning look. He leans down and places a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“How could I say no to you?”

You watch as he undresses and puts on something more comfortable to sleep in. You flip your head over when he crawls in beside you. He lays on his side, hand gently tracing your cheek and jaw. He watched the movement. Your hand glides up his arm to put a stop to his restlessness. Crimson eyes meet yours.

You smile. The motion captures his attention. You drag your fingers lightly along his arm, up his shoulder, and to his cheek. His skin prickles everywhere you touch. A red-hot possessiveness wells inside him, desperate for him to be the only person to experience you like this, mixing with fear that he may never know exactly what they used you for before his arrival. And… something softer, full of longing. A desire to keep you safe, to ensure you never have to be afraid with him.

He leans forward with very little coaxing, capturing your mouth like it will redeem him of every sin he’s ever committed. It’s reverent, full of silent worship. Your lips tremble. He cups your cheek as he kisses you again and again and again.

This will never happen again.

You sigh into his mouth, pure relief stealing the tension from your body.

I know.

---

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