#but it's been eroding from him over the months

[jawllines]

“I think this is the best idea you’ve ever had in your life.” Niall answered, his voice lowered while they sat across from each other in a cafe booth. It was a relatively nice day, the weather was beautiful, so they were planning on doing something – what that would be, they weren’t sure, but they started it with lattes and croissants and discussing something that shouldn’t be discussed in public (but what’s new), “Seriously, like – and I just need to take a deep breath because you’re finally listening to me. I don’t know how to tell you this but I bought you a collar like a month ago because I knew you’d pussy out.” 

Y/N’s mouth falls open, jaw loosened, “Ni, you did not!” 

“I did,” he nodded, “I didn’t get the rest of all the things because I didn’t know how you’d feel about it,” he swallowed, then shook his head, “No, I’m lying, I wanted you to fully commit to the bit so I ordered everything. Leash, tail. . .I mean, fuck it, I got ears too.”

or

Y/N likes Harry, and that's convenient, because Harry likes her too

[warning: pet play!!]

part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4

part 5

(8.4k+ words)

vi.

Y/N has never been very good at science. 

Life sciences, like biology, she could figure out easily enough if there were pictures, and chemistry, she could fumble her way through after spending at least an hour screaming into her pillow about how much she didn’t want to do it. Things like physics, though, always zipped right over her head. With a limited understanding of whatever the hell Newton and Einstein were talking about also came a limited understanding of anything that may have to do with space. It was interesting, but actually learning about the concepts that shape their whole universe? Terrifying. Y/N would rather not know how big the galaxies are, because then she needs to start considering the existence of extraterrestrial life, and she feels like as soon as you go down that rabbit hole, you’re asking to get abducted. 

But she does know about supernovas. Only because of a song that she really liked mentioned them, and she had to see what it was. There was a long, intricate explanation as to why they happen, but what Y/N took away from it was that they were an explosion, and it was so bright, it could outshine galaxies. Beautiful colors emerge, blues, purples, pinks, greens, oranges, impressive and intense. 

Whatever is happening in her chest right now, Y/N thinks is close to a supernova. It feels just as colorful and complex. As bewitching, and as dazzling. As captivating, and as terrifying. Her heart races with it, confused, excited, overjoyed, hopelessly giddy. She probably needed a moment to sort through all the thoughts spinning around in her head, but right now, she knew she wouldn’t get one. She didn’t mind that either – not right now. Not when this is a version of Harry that she’d never been privy to. One that she’d never believed she’d ever get to witness. 

Harry, from the moment he’d stepped through her door, was more vulnerable than she’d ever seen him. And she’d seen him with his cock out and everything, consumed by lust, his bare bum walking to her bathroom – all pretty vulnerable positions, she’d say. Like, he definitely wouldn’t want to be caught by a bear in that state. But this emotional vulnerability was something else entirely for such a typically emotionally guarded, closed-off person. The impassive and at times apathetic man that she had come to know had been dipped in honey and set before her. Or, better yet, maybe dipped in an acid, to erode the outer shell and reveal the honeyed center beneath. 

He’d taken her to the sofa immediately, sat down across from her, his hands held out with his palms facing upward, and Y/N wasn’t sure if it’d been a silent request or a silent offering. Maybe both – she took it, no matter what it was, and slid her fingers between his own. Their hands were tight around one another's, as Harry curled his over her knuckles, his thumb stroked her where it lay. 

“I wanted to apologize to you,” Harry started, measured and sure, despite the way his cheeks flamed hot and fiery with what she could only imagine was immense embarrassment. Not that she thought his reaction was anything to be embarrassed about – had roles been reversed, she probably would have cried the moment she saw him then tried to crawl up under his shirt or something. But she knew that Harry wasn’t used to expressing himself or his feelings this intensely, so she understood the nerves behind it. “I should have warned you that Maren would be there, but I wasn’t sure how. . .how to explain why I was telling you? I guess that’s the easiest way to put it. And I really didn’t think she’d be a problem – she’s always been a thorn in my ass, but she usually isn’t so pointed with her advances.” He shook his head with a soft sigh, “But that’s beside the point. You mentioned me not messaging you as much?” Y/N nodded, and Harry nodded with her, “That had nothing to do with Maren,” he explained, “I was. . .if I’m honest, I was worried that I had been too overbearing while you were out for that week.” 

Y/N tilted her head, “Overbearing? I didn’t think so.” She shook her head, “You really took care of me. If you want to see overbearing, you need to meet Ni’s aunt – she checks his forehead like 5 times in the span of 10 minutes to make sure he isn’t too warm.” 

A small smile wormed onto his mouth, warmed and soothed the worry off of his face, “That’s good to know,” he replied, “I suppose I got into my head too, about it all. Especially when you didn’t want to talk to me.” 

With a grimace, Y/N explained herself, “Yeah, that – I didn’t handle that well, I don’t think,” she swallowed hard, “I just – um. . .like I was – I kind of thought I walked in on you two kissing?” Then she hurriedly adds, “Which is within your right to do! You aren’t not allowed to do what you want, I just didn't –” she huffed a sigh, unsure of how to articulate it beyond the easiest way, which happened to be the most humiliating, “I know we aren’t technically together or anything, but it made me jealous. I was jealous, and petty, and wanted to ignore you until I could sort myself out. I get it if the whole jealousy thing makes you uncomfortable, and like...I mean, I want to promise that it won’t happen again, but I don’t know if I can.” She swallowed even harder, chin tipped down, staring at their hands. Even just two weeks ago, Y/N would have rather worked with notoriously difficult Chhurpi cheese than tell Harry that she was jealous. To even allude to the fact that her feelings for him might be beyond what they had started this with.

But tonight, it didn’t feel so hard. It took her a while to spit it out, sure, but she still was able to get there. Part of what encouraged her was the way his hands felt against hers, the expanse of their palms pressed together so warmly that it thaws out her usually cold fingers. Another part was the blatant, and unremitted display of affection he’d doled out to her as soon as he stepped through the threshold of her flat, as if he didn’t peck her face with a hundred kisses, she’d disappear in a puff of smoke. And another – the way he was looking at her. His eyes were softened in a way she only vaguely recalls after they had sex, when she’s only a couple of minutes from passing out, pressed tightly to his side. 

“When I called you the other night and you were with Youngjae, I was so jealous that I could barely see straight,” he admitted suddenly, honestly, “Surely, you realized that? I threw a fit, practically – covered you in all of those marks. Even before then, when he’d only just complimented your meal, invited you to practice under him, and I was just so mad that he’d asked right in front of me. So I took you home and I fucked you that night. Don’t you remember?” 

Y/N nodded, but still, she considered his words, “I kind of figured. Or, well, at least Niall kind of figured and then told me that you were jealous.” 

“Niall is smarter than he looks.” 

“But I guess I just wondered what it was you even had to be jealous of? I mean, you and YoungJae are kind of carbon copies of each other, only he’s Korean!” 

Harry clicked his tongue, “No,” he disagreed, “That’s not the only difference. He’s more personable, more gentle, he seems sweeter, and more patient. Adam told me you had a dedicated crying corner to go to when I yelled at you. It’s different,” he seemed stressed, remembering it, “He’s different than me, and I figured that you’d go and realize that you could learn with someone nicer, who was attractive, and probably had a crush on you.” 

“A crush on me?” Y/N gaped, then sat up straighter, “What the hell? What made you think that?” 

His eyes go wide, “What, you don’t think he likes you? He looked at you like you’d given him a star or something. It was so irritating.” Y/N couldn’t help it when she snorted, a giggle bubbled from her throat, and she had to slip one of her hands from his to cover her mouth, “Don’t laugh at me.” 

“I’m not!” She bit down on her lip to suppress it, but it still slipped free, “It’s just – Harry, he looks at everyone like that! He even looks at you like that – actually, he looks downright dreamy when he even thinks about you.” 

Y/N has never seen Harry truly, genuinely pout until tonight. His bottom lip jutted out, and he still looked grumpy, but Y/N wanted so badly to slip her hands onto his face and pull him to her mouth. To dig her teeth into his lip and nibble and pull at it until he whines, too. She took his hand again, then chanced pulling his hand up to her face, running her cheek along his knuckles, “You’re just saying that.” He muttered. 

“You’re so silly,” Y/N replied. This is such a refreshing development, she thinks. Never would she have expected this from Harry – this pouting, jealous, slightly insecure version of him that thinks she’d run off with Youngjae because he was nice to her. She doesn’t even have time to consider being mad at Niall for exposing her crying corner to Adam, because all she can think about is how upset Harry seemed that it even had to exist. There was a guilt clear on his features, but whispered between his words. Honestly, Y/N hadn’t even thought about how Harry used to yell at her for a long time. “I’m not just saying it! He didn’t give me any vibes like he might like me.” 

Harry tipped his chin up and looked to the side, and wow, she wondered if she reached out and touched his ear, if it’d feel as hot as it looked, “Well, I don’t know how much I trust your detection skills, if I’m being honest.” He mumbled, “It seems like Niall has to do most of the ground work.” Still, despite a grumbled reply, he flipped his hand around so that he cradled her cheek instead, resting it against his palm. 

This giddy feeling that overruns her is nice. It’s fun – she likes it, after so long of being so upset and confused and distraught. She thinks she’s finally starting to understand, though. . .that she’s finally getting it. What Niall had been seeing this entire time. 

“Harry?” She inquired, and he hummed, eyes following Hazelnut as she sat across from them, and looped her tail around her bottom paws. When she doesn’t say anything to immediately follow it, Harry turned to look at her, his green eyes bright, “If I asked to see you and we didn’t have sex, and we didn’t cook something. . .would you be okay with that?” 

Harry answered without hesitation, “Yes.” 

“And if I. . .if I said that I only wanted you to do stuff like this with me? Sex, and…and seeing each other outside of it?” The nerves almost stop her from saying it, threatening to clog her throat.

“Then I’d tell you that it’s been like that from the start,” he replied again, immediately, “I’d tell you that you’re the only person I want to see. The only one I want to sleep with. The only person I’d like to be with.”

Y/N grinned. She scooted across the sofa to wrap her arms around his shoulders, and Harry slid his arms around her waist. It was warm — Y/N wondered when the last time they hugged like this was. If they’ve ever even hugged like this. There’s so much that they have done together, but still so much they hadn’t, and if this was them opening the door to all of that, she was more than enthusiastic.  

With her chin hooked around his shoulder, Harry’s face is dipped into her throat. He takes a deep breath, then a slow exhale, “This is a lot, for me,” he told her, “I wish that you could just siphon information from my brain instead of me having to say it.” 

“Ah, you might need to get used to saying it, though. I’m kind of dense – Niall says so at least.” 

Somehow, they had ended up in her bed. Nothing crazy, nothing sexual, just the two of them tangled up in each other’s limbs, and for the first time, Harry falls asleep first. He had all but demanded that she let him spoon her, so she didn’t get to look at his face, but with the way his breathing had slowed and how heavy his arm felt around her waist, she knew he was resting. This is a sort of content that she seldom gets to feel and still be all in her head to truly enjoy it. Harry’s body is pressed warm against her back, he sounds sweet with little snores, and Y/N can’t help but melt into him entirely. 

All the vulnerability must have tuckered him right out. Y/N smiled to herself, stretching her arm over his, her hand resting over his hand. Even in his dreams, he raises two fingers for her to curl around. Twists his fingers up in hers.

Her insides feel bright, wicked, an ebullition of colors that rival a supernova. 

                                                          .                              .                             .

The thing is, Y/N feels bad. 

Listen, she knows she shouldn’t! She and Harry have discussed their feelings, and they’ve communicated relatively decently about the entire situation and how to avoid it in the future. Harry only implores her that if she has an issue, she bring it to him directly, no matter how intimidating she might think he is. Whether it be work-related or not, Harry is not the type to let issues fester. He’d like to nip it in the bud immediately, as soon as possible, even if he’s the one who is upset. 

So they’d discussed it, and they’d apologized for the misunderstandings, and it should be in the dust by now. Just something they had learned and grown from – something in the past. 

But Y/N replays how Harry had walked into her flat, how he’d cradled her face, kissed her a thousand times, told her to never completely ice him out again. To never not speak to him, to leave him in the dark, and it’d only been a few days – barely. 

She feels bad, though. He’s told her dozens of times that she shouldn’t feel bad, because it wasn’t her fault – the situation was just an incorrect interpretation of the other’s thoughts and feelings at the time. That he wasn’t upset, to stop apologizing, that if she said sorry to him one more time, he would get upset. 

So she has an idea. And she takes her idea to Niall, because he hadn’t steered her wrong at this point, and he would let her know if it was stupid or not. If she would look ridiculous doing it. If she should just make him a meal or something to quell the ache in her chest. 

“I think this is the best idea you’ve ever had in your life.” Niall answered, his voice lowered while they sat across from each other in a cafe booth. It was a relatively nice day, the weather was beautiful, so they were planning on doing something – what that would be, they weren’t sure, but they started it with lattes and croissants and discussing something that shouldn’t be discussed in public (but what’s new), “Seriously, like – and I just need to take a deep breath because you’re finally listening to me. I don’t know how to tell you this but I bought you a collar like a month ago because I knew you’d pussy out.” 

Y/N’s mouth falls open, jaw loosened, “Ni, you did not!” 

“I did,” he nodded, “I didn’t get the rest of all the things because I didn’t know how you’d feel about it,” he swallowed, then shook his head, “No, I’m lying, I wanted you to fully commit to the bit so I ordered everything. Leash, tail. . .I mean, fuck it, I got ears too.” 

“Niall!” She exclaims, but he pulls his phone from his pocket and quickly drags up the link from an email, “How much was – why am I so shocked?” 

Niall clicked his tongue. “I don’t know why you’re shocked at all, actually, I told you I was going to,” he spun the phone around, sliding it across the table, “S’crazy right? It wasn’t that pricey, consider it a birthday present. So, I’ll kind of guide you through this because I know you’ll get in your head and freak out. I was actually intensely into pet play like three years ago, so this is perfect.” 

That’s how Y/N ended up here, after extensive teachings from Niall, examples, and demonstrations that make her face feel so hot it might melt off. It all led to her inviting Harry over to her flat on their day off, with a medium-sized collar around her throat that had his name stitched into it. A leash was clipped to the metal clasp at the back of it, which she looped around her wrist while she moved around so she didn’t get tangled in it. She had a set of ears clipped in neatly on her head, flopping, similar to her hair color, but stuck out enough that it was clear what they were. The most shocking of all, however, and the most time spent between her and Niall, was him teaching her how to open herself up for a plug. 

He showed her how to on his Fleshlight, which looked like a bum, and he’d promised her he’d cleaned it out before he pulled it out for their “fingering-lesson” as he continued to call it. Y/N thinks that if she had said it was okay, Adam would have been on the phone guiding her as well, but she was feeling way too bashful for that. Hell, even talking about it with Niall was a lot, as he described how much lube, the depth she should start with, how many fingers, but even before that – her diet and how to clean herself out to prepare for it. Y/N doesn’t think she’d ever stared so hard at a fleshlight in her life, as she watched him spread it open, talk about the right and wrong way to do it. 

So, spreading her open, a plug with a tail fixed to the end of it caressed the insides of her thighs every time she moved. It was insane, all of this, but they had talked about it before – briefly. Discussed what they wanted to do, how he wanted her to be a proper puppy, and Y/N wanted that too. She just wishes she could skip to the part where she was so cock dumb and empty-headed that she didn’t feel all the anxious, jittering nerves inside of her. 

Because what if Harry was just saying that as pillow talk? What if he’d just been trying to work her and himself up, but the actual thought of it he didn’t want. Maybe they needed to sit and have a proper chat about it, before she just balls to the wall went all in and dressed like a fucking dog then invited him over to her flat. This is actually insane work, honestly, and yeah Niall is right about most things but he’s also a horny freak who typically has partners equally freaky and horny as him. She doesn’t think he’s ever not thoroughly discussed a scene before he did something new with someone either, so when Y/N had mentioned that they’d spoken about it, he probably thought she’d meant actually discussed it. Like sitting across from each other, going through hard nos, dos, and don’ts, and not when Harry was twisting a hand around his prick, and she was a hairpin trigger away from cumming untouched. 

Y/N has nearly completely talked herself out of it by the time she hears her front door open and completely stills. She was sitting on her bed, feeling stupid, silly, and a ton of other negative adjectives that did not instill any confidence in her before something she probably needed a lot of confidence for. She was trembling, her stomach turning, her heart kind of felt like it might be thudding in her throat, and her blood roared through her ears when Harry called for her. First, just her name. Then, “Baby?” Which is a new development – a welcomed one, but one that gets her all fuzzy inside, no matter how many times he’d begun to casually refer to her as such. 

Eventually, she hears his footsteps get further inside. The floorboards shift at the beginning of her hallway, then again right outside of her door, and his hand presses against the wood as he swings it open quietly. He probably thought she had fallen asleep waiting for him or something, which would explain why he was attempting to be so quiet. Instead, he is met with her, sitting on her knees, her hands were supposed to be in her lap per Niall’s instructions, but instead they were curled up in the blankets at her side. 

Harry’s gaze falls upon hers. He blinks a couple of times, like he might be trying to adjust his eyesight to the lower lighting of the room. Or maybe he’s just trying to make sure that this wasn’t some elaborate hallucination that he’d suddenly uncovered. When he stops blinking, the image of her stops disappearing and reappearing before his eyes, and there she still stays. Did he think this was embarrassing? Maybe he was experiencing the world’s greatest second-hand embarrassment – so bad that they could put it in a world record book. Or maybe he was trying not to laugh at her. She probably looked ridiculous, didn’t she? She’d barely looked herself in the mirror once she put the ears in – just enough to make sure they were level with one another before she fucked off into the bedroom. There’s no bra, there’s no underwear – she’s stark naked, just sitting, waiting, like a dog would. Like a puppy. 

“Ohhhh, I see,” his voice is careful, as he takes a step forward, “My baby isn’t here, hm? I just have a sweet little puppy instead.” 

Y/N swallows hard, dipping her head down and lowering her front half against the mattress. When Harry outstretches his hand, she rubs her face into his open palm; her cheek, her nose, her mouth. It felt good, especially when he curled his fingers up in her hair and scratched gently at her hairline, caressing upward through it, to stop at the ears. There’s a soft tug, and her head jerks with it before she settles again, letting his hands explore and move around her new accessories.

It’s when his fingers dance from her head, along her human ears, down to her neck that the pads trace around the collar. He follows the border of it, the threading, slips two fingers between her throat and the leather. It’s tight–not so tight that it’ll choke her, but it’s definitely a weighty presence–one that’s hard to ignore.  That must be when he sees it, though, as he strips around the material, because he pauses, he reads, his breathing hitches, and – 

– he moans. Something loud, a little whiny, erupting from the back of his throat. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles out, dragging his thumb along the embroidery, “Oh my fucking god.” YN lets him continue to pet her but shifts forward, nudging the back of her head against his hand. He slides his fingers to the front of the collar again, twists the thin leash around his knuckles, and gives a soft, gentle tug, “C’mon, you know better. No puppies on the bed.” He helps guide her down, on hands and knees, carefully dismounting from the mattress in the most awkward, limb-filled way she could have. Eventually, she is on the floor, the carpet digging into her nails and into her knees, her face flaming hot when she rubs her cheek against his calf, which may be more of a kitten thing than a dog thing. Niall told her that it could be interchangeable a bit, because typically, all the non-geared-up person in the dynamic cared about was that the other person was giving in to base desires and acting like an animal. 

From this angle, he must be able to see the tail because another murmured curse slips from his mouth, before she feels the same gentle, prodding fingers that usually nudge at her lips, move around her bum. The rim is stretched and messy with lube, so when Harry carefully pushes into it, Y/N whines and lurches forward. Her skin is sensitive, where it’s soft and slick, and he goes from moving around the plug to letting his fingers drag through the tail, “Such a filthy fucking thing. Where did you even get toys like this?” 

Y/N doesn’t answer, because she’s a dog and dogs don’t speak. She does shake her bum, though, move her hips from side to side so the tail swings and tickles the back of her thighs. It’s humiliating in a way that she can’t describe but the way Harry is looking at her, the heat that flurries through his gaze, the lump in his trousers where his cock is pressing up against the zipper. It’s worth it. It’s well worth the way part of her wants to crawl her way right under the bed and not let him pull her out until science can figure out a way to wipe her memory clean. 

But it also feels. . .good. Kind of, she doesn’t know – she needs to stay like this for a little longer. To really get the feel for it. Really see how deep into puppy space she could get. 

Y/N, let’s Harry guide her out of the bedroom. He leads her carefully, doesn’t tug or pull, and Y/N appreciates it. Since they weren’t able to sit down and discuss every avenue of this, she could tell that Harry was approaching it cautiously. He doesn’t just automatically start tugging her around because he doesn’t know that she’s okay with that yet. Doesn’t start spanking her and fucking her with her plug because he doesn’t know that she’d like that. Doesn’t shove her nose into his crotch and make her mouth at him wetly, because he has no clue that the thought makes her want to start drooling. 

He guides her to the sofa, and when he sits down, Y/N sits pretty beside his feet. Harry pets her head like she really is a puppy, cooing at her sweetly, “Such a good girl,” he murmured, his hand sliding down to her jaw, his fingers caressing her skin, “Knows exactly how to be a good puppy already, don’t you? Might not even have to train you.” He hums, “But if my puppy wants to stop this at any time, all she has to say is Duck, okay? And if you can’t talk, then just squeeze my hand three times.” 

Y/N nods and shudders, dips her face against his knee, and nudges against him. Harry chuckles, grabs a pillow off her couch, and sets it on the floor between his spread feet. Once again, he gives the leash a little pull and coaxes her with sweet words, “Knees on the pillow, Pup. Why don’t you rest your head on my thigh for a little bit?” 

That’s easy enough, Y/N could do that. Niall had told her the brunt of this – what makes this all so sexy – is the complete control that Harry would have over her. If he told her to bark, then bark, if he wanted her to pant with her tongue hanging out and drool all over his cock, then she’d do it. Of course, she doesn’t think they’d get too intense tonight, because Harry is – above all else – a good, dominant partner in the dynamic. He knows when to lead and when to step back, how far to take it, and what to relax with. 

So she trusts him implicitly. Even more so when his fingers press against her lips, Y/N opens them eagerly so that he can feed them into her mouth. She sucks on them, licks around his knuckles and sighs contently – it’d been a while since he’d had his fingers in her mouth like this. Y/N forgot how much she liked it; the weight of his fingers against her tongue, the scrape of her teeth along his nails, the salty taste of his skin. She likes how full she felt with only two of them in there. Even more than that, she likes that two of her holes were plugged, and wondered how it might feel to have all three of them. The thought alone makes her shiver. 

They stay like this for a while. Harry turns the telly onto something, but she can’t tell if he’s really paying attention or not. Just feels him stroke the top of her head, fuck his fingers inside of her mouth every so often, stretch them against the inside of her cheeks. It’s mind-numbing in a good way, lulling her somewhere else–somewhere sweeter and softer, as the insides of her legs get sticky from how much she’s leaking down between them. Y/N had been good at first, perfectly still just sucking on his fingers, but she starts to wriggle more. Adjusting her hips, pawing at his calves as she slowly began to get restless. 

Y/N doesn’t realize she’s whining until she feels her throat vibrate with it, and Harry clicks his tongue softly, “What is it, puppy?” He inquired, and Y/N’s brain is full of cotton and clouds when she looks up at him. There’s drool building up at the corner of her mouth, dribbling out of the sides that Harry drags away with his thumb, “Hm? Are you feeling needy?” He pressed down on her tongue before slipping his fingers out of her mouth entirely. Y/N whines, chasing after them, but he uses his grip on the leash to keep her in place, “You can talk, Honey. Can my dumb puppy speak?” 

She opens her mouth, “Please,” her voice sounds wrecked already, “Please, I want – I need it, daddy.” 

There’s a flash in his eyes that has her clench around the plug, only making her more painfully aware of how empty her pussy was. “Yeah, you need it?” Harry repeated, biting down hard enough on his lip that the flesh blanched around the indents of his teeth. She swears she saw his cock twitch in his bottoms, which were doing very little to hide how worked up he was. “Okay, baby, show daddy how much you need it, hm?” But when Y/N starts to lift her hands toward his thighs, Harry grabs for both of them, curling his fingers around each one, “Mm, no, no, Sweetheart. Remember, puppies don’t use their hands.” 

Y/N nods, swallowing hard, not even worried about it. She could do it without her hands – she didn’t need them. All she needed to do was stretch forward and rub her face into his crotch, which should be more embarrassing than it feels right now. The way she buries her nose against him, breathing in deep, mewling when the pure scent of Harry slithers through her. Her mouth is wide open, tongue pressed out against the fabric of his thin linen trousers – the lavender ones that she was fond of – and soaking it around his cock. How he’d had it trapped against his body had made it hard at first, but the harder he got, the easier it was for her to find the head, to lull her tongue around it. She whimpers, brows curling, lips pursing at the tip and suckling through the fabric like it was all she knew how to do. 

Her hands are slid beneath the sofa cushion, so she really wouldn’t use them, but her neck and jaw start getting a little tired from how she has to move without any support. Harry must be able to tell because he tucks his fingers around the back of the collar where it lay against her nape and pulls her away. He laughs when she whines at him, her tongue hanging from her mouth, drool spilling from her, “Wow,” he murmured, “I thought it might take a bit more to get you into a sweet little spot like this, but I forgot how easy you were for it, hm? You trust me, baby?” Y/N nodded – she trusted him more than anything, “Yeah? G’na let me make you feel good?” 

Again, she nods, leaning forward when he slackens his grip and runs her tongue over his cock several times, in wet, long strokes. The fabric’s taste isn’t what she wants, though, and Harry lifts his hips and pushes the bottoms down so that his cock is out. 

He’s hard. The tip is red, leaking already, and it sways a little with the motion of him pulling it free. Y/N barely waits for permission to get her mouth on him, and while she thinks on a different day, when Harry was more prepared for a scene like this – he might have scolded her. Instead, today, he just lets her do what she wants. Laughs through his nose and strokes the side of her head as she mouths out at his cock, which feels bigger right now for some reason, than it usually does. Especially when she can’t use her hands to help guide it, she just has to part her lips and chase after it. She thinks she probably looks dumb, but she doesn’t care. She wants him in her mouth – needs it, actually.  

“Ah, maybe I will have to train a greedy puppy like you after all,” he hums thoughtfully as she slurps around his cock, taking him deep, deep, deep until it touches the back of her throat and it convulses around the intrusion. Y/N slips off, takes barely a breath to compose herself, then goes right back in, “But it’s your first time being my puppy for real, isn’t it? I’ll be more lenient now than I will in the future,” he murmurs and it sounds a little like a warning, when she drools over his cock, down to his balls, lapping at them. He groans, wanton and loud, needy as she was, “God – fuck, c’mon, g’na take care of you. Bet that pussy is so messy, isn’t it baby?” 

There’s some maneuvering involved, but Harry ends up on the floor with her, slipping out of his trousers the rest of the way. When he pulls his top over his head and tosses it to the side, Y/N reaches out for it, grabs for it – she doesn’t know why, but she wants it near her, kind of. Lays it next to her head so she could smell him some more, and if she were more in her head, then she’d realize how very omega-like of her this was, and how prideful Niall would be if he realized she’d done this. But she’s nowhere near that level of conscious thought right now. She’s swimming somewhere so beautiful and brainless that she doesn’t even feel shy to press the fabric to her nose and breathe in deeply. Smell his cologne and his sweat from the day. 

Harry’s cock twitches when he watches her, and he splits her thighs and looks between her legs. She probably is messy right now, lube and her arousal dripping all over the place. Y/N had been worked up after stretching herself open and sliding the plug in, imagining what Harry’s reaction would be to her, and how hard he might fuck her made her touch herself a little bit too. She’d only gotten to two fingers and only did enough to get herself a little more needy, so she feels deprived and restless right now. 

He starts with one fingers, and when her hole sucks him in greedily, he gives her two, right down to the knuckle, “Always so ready for it. Slutty fucking pussy,” he is tentative as he preps her, and with the plug in her bum, it somehow feels more intense. There’s more pressure everywhere, so much so that three of his fingers feel like four, and four of his fingers feel like five. Still, Y/N moans, keens, whines, whimpers – does every sound but bark for him – as he splits her open. It’s so good, she feels so fucking good right now, but all she wants is his cock. Wants him to fill her up and fuck her dumb, even stupider than she is right now. Wants to drool, wants him to fuck her hard and deep, and split around him, and feel the head nudge against her g-spot. She wants to squirt on him and get him messy. She wants him to keep going even when she’s too sensitive and is wiggling away, she wants him to drag her right back to him. 

Y/N starts fucking her hips down into him, her arms slung beneath her knees to keep them spread but her hips moving tirelessly. Harry places a hand on her thigh, fingers stretched wide, but he doesn’t stop her from moving. He almost seems amused by it, above anything else, his eyes watching closely, his lips curled into a smile, cooing little encouragement like, “Yeah, there we go, baby, that feels good, doesn’t it?” She nods helplessly, and he curls his fingers relentlessly as her legs tremble, getting tired, “Why don’t I give you something a little bigger, hm?” 

This time, she nods as enthusiastically as she can. As soon as his fingers slip from her, she rolls onto her belly unprompted, lifts herself onto her knees, and presents herself for him. Years of omegaverse lore aid her subconsciously as she rests herself on her shoulders, reaching back and pulling herself apart to show him where she’s wet and needy for him. Nobody can ever resist that, and at the end of the day, Harry is only a man. He makes a sound kind of close to a growl behind her, cursing beneath his breath when his left hand covers hers to keep her steady, and his right hand guides his prick to her hole. Even though they both knew she was more than ready enough, Harry is still slow about sliding into her. Makes sure she feels every single inch that slides inside of her, stretches her out further. Y/N wonders if it feels tighter because of the plug inside of her. Harry does show an interest in the tail, smoothing it out of his way so that he could look at her again, where she’s stretched taut around the plug. 

“Can’t stop thinking about you getting ready for me,” Harry grinds inside of her deep, and Y/N cries out, her fingers digging deeper into her flesh, “How did I find such a naughty, greedy puppy, hm? Fuck, you were made for this,” he prods at the skin around the plug, threatens to dip his thumb in too as his he slowly starts to build up a rhythm. Y/N wishes she could see him – even if she craned her neck, it would do the view no justice. She wants to watch him from the side, from the back, from between her legs – wants to see how big his cock is, how far it stretches her, how his balls slap against her with every stroke he bottoms out in. 

She can feel herself drooling, and later on, she would cringe about it, and how it smears against her cheek while her face rubs against his shirt. Oh! His shirt, she’d forgotten – she slides her hands from holding herself open and curls her arms around his shirt. Presses her nose into it and breathes in so deeply, taking in every lick of Harry’s scent that she can from it. For some reason, it made Harry’s hips stutter behind her, his fingernails digging into her skin as he paused deep inside of her. Y/N whines, and he must be able to feel that she’s going to move her hips again because he tightens his grip, “No, just – fuck, just give me a minute. You almost made me cum.” 

“Want it,” she whines, “Want it, want it, want it –” 

Harry stretches himself across her back, slips his fingers into her mouth, and muffles her mid-beg, “Shh, dumb puppies like you don’t need to talk or think,” he groans as he slides out of her, slowly rolling his hips, wary to start where he left off right away, “God, you love being my little doggy, don’t you? You’re so fucking wet,” Y/N quivers, holding his fingers uselessly in her mouth, unable to suck or lick or bite, just pant and drool around them, “You wanna cum for, Daddy, Sweetheart? Get me all nice and sticky with it?” 

His pace picks up again, the slide of it easier as he makes more space for himself inside of her. It’s much more intense with Harry pressed up against her like this, and it doubles when his fingers slip between her thighs and swirl around the swollen bud of her clit. It flicks beneath his touch, stiff and engorged, and just the press of his index and middle finger pads against it makes her cry out. The ears are flopping against her head with each thrust. Her legs want to close, but there’s no easy way to, and her back arches against him. But her mouth is full, her clit is being played with, the plug still sits inside of her and Harry rocks his hips into her like he’s trying to make sure the shape of him never leaves, hard and deep, an impression of himself in her insides. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” she sounds around his fingers, and it’s muffled, a staccato sound with every collision of their hips together. Words escape her; she just feels, and she feels everything so intensely right now. 

Her whole body shakes when she cums. It starts with her thighs, shaking hard, making the rest of her legs tremble, and the heat of her arousal swells into a tight balloon that expands rapidly, the latex filling out until it pops, and the warm wave of water that was inside of it flows through her. Washes over her whole body as she pulsates around him, milking him, and Harry fucks her through it, despite how difficult it gets when she squeezes so tightly around him, “Yeah, that’s it, that’s my girl,” he murmured, “I’m not g’na stop, baby, not unless you say your special word.” 

Duck, Y/N remembers, or to squeeze his hand three times. Both are far away from her now though, even as she comes down from her first orgasm, she feels oversensitive as he fucks into her but not in the way where she’d need to shove him off. So she starts working her hips back against him again and Harry curses beneath his breath, then starts fucking her earnestly again. 

She’s unsure for how long it goes on, or how many times she cums. She just knew that around her fourth orgasm, Harry had flipped her around so that she was facing him and had pulled her nipple into his mouth. And she knew that he had started fucking the plug in and out of her bum too, and Y/N felt a bubble in her belly that popped, forcing Harry out of her body when a swell of liquid followed his cock’s exit. He’s made her squirt before, and Y/N had wondered if it was just a one-and-done type of thing, but clearly not. It’s fully within his capability to do it, and leave her breathless, shaking, gasping. 

This time, Harry isn’t able to slip back into her. He peels the condom off, slips his hand through the mess of her pussy and uses that as lube to fuck himself with. Y/N watches through lidded eyes as he strokes his cock, “Yes, yes, such a messy fucking puppy, so perfect for me,” he rambles, “So good, and fucking perfect, made for me, shit – only me,” before he starts to cum, all over her belly, in thick spurts that land heavy on the skin. Some of it even reaches her neck, and the knowledge of it makes her open her mouth, let her tongue hang out in hopes of catching more of it. None comes organically like that, but Harry does smear his fingers through the mess on her belly and feeds it into her mouth. Y/N licks it away, the taste heady and Harry, and so good because of it. 

Y/N can barely move. Her muscles are kind of achy, and her head is so feather-filled she might as well be a pillow. Harry, above anything else, drops to her side and pulls her into his body, not caring about the sticky, drying cum on her skin when he pulls her into him. Rolls her over and maneuvers her limbs until she’s lying on top of him, running one of his hands up and down her back, “That was so beautiful, baby,” he says it so gently, Y/N almost wants to cry for some reason. She feels emotional and exhausted and like, maybe in love, a little bit, she doesn’t know – maybe it was just post-orgasm endorphins or maybe Harry was actually her soulmate, who could tell right then. “Did so well for me, for your first time. So perfect.” 

As he is with all things, Harry is more than careful as he removes the floppy ear clips from her hair, unbuckles the collar, and slowly slips the plug out of her bum. For a moment, one of his fingers does slide around into the little gape that was left, and when she twitches and whines, he kisses the side of her head, “Sorry, Honey, couldn’t help myself,” before slipping it away, “We’ll have to play with that pretty hole too, it was getting jealous.” Y/N manages a laugh, though it’s just breathless and soundless enough to sound like a puff of air through her nose. 

They stay there for a while, until Y/N feels like she can move, but even then, words haven’t come back to her yet. This was the deepest into subspace she thinks she’s ever been, but she isn’t scared of it. Y/N revels in it. With Harry there, she feels safe, and cared for, like she doesn’t need to worry about a thing at all. And she’s right, because he takes her to the shower with him and they get clean together. Harry wipes her down first, tenderly, slowly, and goes quickly for himself so that she isn’t standing there for too long. He coaxes water into her, too, at least half a bottle until she’s pulling her face away. Eventually, they find themselves in her bed, Y/N in a big shirt, her favorite band’s last album cover on the front, and Harry in one of her big shirts with a bunny on the front. He slid her underwear onto her, tucked them nicely around her hips, and then brought her up under the covers. Harry rubs her elbows and knees for a little bit, where they were rubbing against the carpet kind of hurt, and the skin was irritated. He pushes kisses to all the spots that seemed sore. 

“I liked that,” she finally spoke, after what might have been 20 to 30 minutes of silence. Harry doesn’t seem startled, and she wonders if it usually took her a while to start talking anyway, “A lot.” 

“Me too, Sweetheart. You play the role of a greedy puppy very well,” he rubs up and down her arm, where it’s stretched across his chest, “And you were very cute. I’ll probably touch myself to that for weeks.” 

Y/N makes a noise in her throat and tips her face into his chest, “Shut up,” she grumbles, then continues, “I – um – like you a lot,” she sighed out, her lips rewarming, preparing for a ramble that she just knew was going to happen soon. Not that she had anything in particular to ramble about, except the fact that she’d seen a really pretty garden today, before she’d puppy-fied herself. 

Harry, who had begun to play with her fingers, seemed delighted. “Is that so? That’s convenient, because I like you too.” 

“Yeah, and we should probably plant a garden together,” she rumples her lips, “But neither of us has any yard to plant a garden, so we’d have to steal someone’s yard or something. Or buy like a little patch of dirt on someone’s property. Do you know anyone who has a yard?” 

“I’m sure I could find someone,” he replies, amused, “You like gardening?” 

“I’m so bad at it, actually, but you seem like you’d be good at it, so that’s why we should plant together. Are you good at planting?” Y/N feels him nuzzle his nose against her temple, “I feel like you’re good at everything.” 

Harry hums, “No, m’not,” he murmured, “I’m actually not great at folding laundry.” 

“Really?” She tilted her head to look at him, “Like – how?” 

He shrugged, “Dunno, it always looks messy though. You haven’t seen my drawers?” 

“No, was I supposed to see them? Should I be looking through your drawers?” 

“If you wanted to, you could,” he offered, then immediately took it back, “Actually, no, I want you to pretend I’m good at everything still, I don’t need you to see my folding.” 

Y/N laughed, then nestled close to him again, “You’re silly,” she murmurs, sighing again, letting sleep weigh heavy in her bones, “I’m glad I was delusional enough to think that you were obsessed with me.” 

Harry squeezes her close. 

“It’s not delusional if it’s true.” 

[rcmclachlan]

Reading the comments on this post and you know what? Tommy does have a podcast!

It's called Getting Rom-Commy with Tommy and he breaks down the history, plots, tropes, and cliches made famous by romantic comedies. He recorded the first episode—Tillie's Punctured Romance, the first feature film in the genre—in 2020 during the early days of the pandemic, and has since gained a small but loyal following who love his deep dives, quirky sense of humor, and the random breadcrumbs about his own life that he drops occasionally.

For three and a half years, he's posted an episode every other Thursday without fail, so it's the talk of r/romcommytommy when the promised episode about A New Leaf doesn't materialize. They worry about Tommy being sick or dead—or worse: growing bored with the subject matter—and flood his podcast inbox with well wishes and pleas to continue the series.

Finally, the episode goes up the following Thursday, and he prefaces it by apologizing for the delay. He had gotten tangled up in a work thing and had spent the previous week dealing with the fallout (i.e.: paperwork), but he's in high spirits because he isn't in federal prison and has reconnected with old friends. And made some new ones! Which has nothing to do with Walter Matthau's performance, which in Tommy's opinion is one of his best, and he jumps right into the movie and says no more about what kept him away.

After that, for months, the series takes on a different tone—more buoyant, almost bewilderingly cheerful—and it elevates what was already a great program to something that truly has a happy ending every time. More people start listening. The subreddit hits 10k members, and speculation about what's causing Tommy's audible joy runs rampant, with most agreeing it's because he has someone special in his life.

Then, the 103rd episode goes live. It's an unflinching look at the movie Blue Valentine, which is very much not a romantic comedy, and for the entire episode Tommy vacillates between sounding dead inside and on the verge of tears. "It's just another example of how even the most passionate relationship will erode over time," he murmurs. The episode ends without its usual jaunty outro.

It becomes clear over the next several weeks that something devastating has happened, because Tommy has ditched his beloved rom-coms for the most depressing movies ever made. The subject of the top trending post on the subreddit for a month is 'If I ever listen to the Closer episode again I will need the following: a gun.'

His listeners debate whether or not to jump ship, but the film analyses are still really good. Plus, it feels like abandoning a friend in their time of need.

I don't know if you will ever see this, Tommy, but I think I speak for everyone when I say: we love you, we're here for you, we're not going anywhere, but for the love of GOD please go to therapy, u/marshedmellowout comments on the post for the In The Mood For Love episode.

No one's quite sure if u/marshedmellowout got through to him, but it feels like a turning point when the subject of the next episode is Desert Hearts. Tommy spends almost half the episode runtime analyzing the film's hopeful ending, and even cracks a couple of jokes. While his voice doesn't have that incandescent happiness from before, it's much lighter.

The next few episodes continue that slow, upward trend, and the movies Tommy deconstructs go from having hopeful endings to happy ones. He's back to making terrible puns and laughing at his own jokes, and everyone on the subreddit breathes a collective sigh of relief. He's going to be okay.

None of his listeners are prepared for how he starts the 118th episode.

"You're all in for a treat today, because I'm joined by a very special guest. He's not a big fan of movies, usually, but he's got a mind made for analysis, so making him watch Groundhog Day was kind of a no-brainer. I've been dying to hear him pick this one apart. Evan, say hi."

The joy from all those months ago is clear and present in Tommy's voice, but it's tempered with something new: certainty.

"H-Hi, everyone," Evan says, bashful and a little giggly. "Sorry, I've never done something like this before."

"You literally had a walk-on role in the country's most watched TV show. 22 million people tuned in that night, and that's not including the streaming numbers."

"That was different! I had one line. Plus, I didn't care about making Brad look dumb."

"Brad didn't need your help with that," Tommy says, audibly besotted. "Evan, you can't possibly make me look dumb. They can't see me."

Groaning through laughter, Evan gasps, "Oh my god, I said you get five stupid jokes and you just wasted one. Better make the next four count."

"I'll do my best," Tommy says. "So, overall, what did you think of the movie?"

It's the most listened to episode of the entire podcast, and u/cadburybunnyeggs's post 'Evan needs to be a permanent host and here's why' makes the front page of Reddit.

(A year later, the Four Weddings and a Funeral episode, which goes live two days before Tommy and Evan get married, is nominated for a Webby Award. What happens afterwards in the subreddit breaks containment and winds up in the New York Times.)

[bybobbysbeard]

You choose the ship, just give me #13 :)

Droid, for you. The kiss meme: "Discreetly." Bucktommy, 1000 words, no warnings, mentioned canonical MCD.

Buck thought it would feel weird. Putting his dress blues on again. And it did, a little. The last time he tied this tie he was brittle, sharp and fractured behind a shell of competence. Trying to get his family through one of the worst days of their lives. Now the grief is muted, in the background where it seems to live, a tide that ebbs and flows each day. The feeling hasn’t shrunk, but Buck has grown around it, therapy and love shoring up an eroded breakwater. 

It’s been three months since Bobby’s funeral. 

He tugs on the hem of his jacket, straightening the lines of buttons. He’s found an out-of-the-way corner of the ceremony hall, trying not to draw attention to himself, but still keeping an eye on the rest of his team. Eddie is leaning against the bar, chatting with Lucy and Lena. He’s smiling, ducking his head and laughing while Lena socks him gently on the shoulder. It’s good to see him in uniform again. 

Chim is standing in one of the aisles catching up with a few of the paramedics from B shift. The hollow look in his eyes is finally starting to fade after the lack of sleep and literal running from his feelings made his already lean figure even more trim. But the last month has been better. Like Buck’s grief, Chimney’s guilt hasn’t shrunk, but he has learned to live with it. Maddie, Jee, and little Robbie have helped. 

It looks like Ravi’s gotten trapped coming back from the washroom by a few probies that Buck doesn’t recognize. He’s got a slightly panicked look on his face, so Buck should probably rescue him. And he will, soon. Definitely.

Hen is talking with Chief Simpson near the stage, her shiny new captain’s badge sparkling in the overhead lights. Karen is at her side, one hand tucked into the crook of her elbow. Denny and Mara are nearby, looking at something on Denny’s phone and laughing. They look happy, a family unit celebrating a deserved win. 

It’s such a relief to see that silver shield pinned to Hen’s chest. After Bobby, everything was unmoored. Weeks of uncertainty, Gerrard’s unwelcome presence, and of course, the Pacific Plate trying to shake them all into the ocean again. Buck knows better than to pin his hopes on something like this, but celebrating Hen’s promotion feels like it might be the first step towards a new normal. 

Buck checks his watch. Even though the ceremony is over, the hall is still packed. Considering the year the LAFD has had, it's not a surprise people are taking the excuse to chat. He pulls out his phone, bringing up his text thread with Athena, and sending off a quick message to let her know everyone is still talking, and they’re going to be late for the dinner she’s hosting in Hen’s honour.

Looking down at his phone, he doesn’t notice his visitor until warmth presses up against his arm and a low voice speaks in his ear.

“What’s a handsome guy like you doing over here, all by yourself?”

Buck can’t keep the smile off his face, but he doesn’t look up, sending a thumbs up to Athena’s unimpressed response. “Waiting for my boyfriend, and he knows muay thai, so you had better move along.”

Tommy laughs, a throaty chuckle that makes their shoulders bump together. “Well I don’t see him around anywhere, so I think I’ll take my chances.” A hand slides down to his elbow, slowly spinning Buck away from his view of the room. He pockets his phone and looks up.

Tommy’s head is tilted, scanning over Buck's face, cataloging whatever expression is there. He was pretty good at noticing when Buck was hurting or overwhelmed when they first dated, but the last two months of their second (third? Does the hook-up count?) try have turned him into an expert. He’s been a bulwark, a wall between Buck and the normal world. While Buck focused on keeping the 118 going, trying to be what each member of his team needed at all times, Tommy focused on keeping Buck afloat. 

Some days it felt like Tommy’s steady support was the only thing getting Buck out of bed in the morning. And on the nights when neither of them could sleep, they talked. About their histories, and their families. Why it cost Tommy so much to come back; why it hurt Buck so much for him to leave. 

Buck’s not sure what his face is doing at the moment, but Tommy straightens up, seemingly satisfied. He looks out over the crowd, tracking Eddie, Chim, Ravi, and Hen. “Do we need to get them moving soon?”

We.

Buck just looks at him. He’s clean shaven, cap tucked under an arm, broad shoulders filling out the seams of his dress uniform so nicely. His hair is carefully styled, curls brushed back into that thick wave Buck loves to mess up. The perfect cupid’s bow of his lips is begging for a kiss. They’re surrounded by their coworkers and hundreds of other LAFD members, but Buck chose this spot well. Tommy’s half in shadow, a wall against his back and a support pillar to his left.

Buck leans in, lightning-quick, pressing a barely-there kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

Instinctively, Tommy turns towards him, tightening the grip he has on Buck’s arm. His eyes glitter in the low light. He licks his lips, and hums. “What was that for?”

“I-I’m just happy you’re standing here with me. That’s all.”

Tommy’s hand drops down, tangling their fingers together in the shadows between their bodies. “I’m happy I’m here too, Evan.” He squeezes once before letting go. “Come on, Ravi looks like he’s about to do something desperate. I saw him eyeing the emergency exit a minute ago and I don’t feel like explaining another 118 misdemeanor to Chief Simpson just because I was nearby. I’ve already filled my quota for the year.”

Buck snorts a laugh. “I think it’s officially Hen’s job to explain those now.”

“Thank God for that.”

[fridgemissionmaster]

I just want to say how much I loove your writing despite having found your blog only recently. The way you write the characters just makes them feel so real somehow

If I may make a request then maybe a little domestic Solomon fluff? I was rereading Nightbringer story recently and the way he's with MC in the begining just feels so cozy and warm and he's so fucking cute

I wish you a nice day!!

Ancient bones creaking, rigor mortis losing it’s grip, numbness faded away a dull and sharp pang of pain shooting through the back and neck, a deep trembling breath of life filling those collapsing lungs.

Slowly the wizard sat up. He kept forgetting how awful he felt after sleeping on his workbench. Slowly he stood, his muscles too stiff for comfort.

What time was it anyway?

Meandering across the room he paused for a moment, standing on his tiptoes, back arched, a great big yawn escaped him, sleepy dewy tears formed in the corners of his eyes, hands held high above his head as he stretched getting some of those air bubbles to make that satisfying pop sound before he continued.

Smacking face first into the wall and falling to the floor with a loud thud.

He didn’t bother to get up.

At least he was awake now, but that meant he could think again. And all that did, was make him miss you.

Even now after, what? Months? Or was it weeks? He couldn’t bother to keep track any more. Every last day at Cocytus Hall he cherished, marked down into his memory, chiseled into his heart. Although even stone eroded over time, at least he tried something to make sure that time stayed with him as long as his mind would allow.

His half hazy body still moved as if he were back there, the layout of that place, he could recall it, make a detailed map of it without a second thought, down to where you usually left your book bag or where you tended to lose your phone.

Not that he didn’t like being here with Simeon and Luke but… it just felt too sudden, leaving that paradise.

Who was he kidding, it always would have been.

He learned long ago how easy it was to simply let go and move on, but not this. He never could, nor did he ever want too. But the price was this wretched heartache.

He couldn’t help laughing.

It was so odd, to REALLY feel like he was human again. Or perhaps STILL human was a more apt wording. How could a man love such a pain so much.

Slowly he made his way out of his room and down the hall for the kitchen and living area. And since he was still dressed from last night, all he had to do was smooth out his shirt. Hopefully nobody would notice the wrinkles that had gotten pressed in from his awkward sleeping position, he didn’t want to needlessly worry his roommates over his nonexistent health… again.

Well, he heard the scrapes of a spatula or something against the pan, now all he had was to hope the scraping was for a breakfast and not a lunch or even worse dinner.

But judging by the delectable smells, it had to be breakfa

.

.

.

Cautiously he drew closer. Wrapping his arms around from behind, squeezing you close, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck. He almost couldn’t believe the feeling of your warmth seeping through his clothes.

“Hey, enough of that, I don’t need you getting a crick in your neck if you haven’t gotten one already.”

And that playful tone. “Ah, sorry. But I’m still so tired.”

He had to be dreaming, your chuckle. “Come on, now you’re sounding like Belphegor.” Turning you head to better face him, he could melt from how soft your skin was against his, your cheeks pressed together. “Now shoo, get to the table. I promised Simeon and Luke I wouldn’t let you blow up the kitchen while they were away.”

“Away?”

“You poor man, you’re still out of it, aren’t you?” No, he very well knew why, he just didn’t think they’d have left this early. But he’d take any excuse to hear your voice just a little more.  “They’ve left for some sort of business in the Celestial Realm, they must have told you about it.”

“uh-huh”

You’re really here? Right now? Just the two of you, no one to interrupt, no one for you to want to leave his side for? No one else who need you?

“But they started getting worried about you, and your recent stint of late-night experimenting.” You looked to him, brow raised getting him to shrink a little on the spot.

“Well, maybe I need someone around to remind me how late it is?”

You scoffed, no bite to it, a delicate smile playing across your lips as you flipped over another pancake. “I’m your apprentice, not your assistant.”

‘your apprentice’

A giddiness came trembling through his whole body. “Yes you are!”

“And I’m also your babysitter.”

“Eh?”

“Dude. Ever since we got back I’ve been hearing nothing but about how you’ve been working yourself down to the bone, staying up late. It’s just… a lot more than before…”

“I see.” Perhaps so.

“And here I thought you might have broken the habit, but apparently you’ve been skipping out on dinner for instant noodles near midnight again.”

“…” He couldn’t. He didn’t need to act afool in front of you again. At least then he had the excuse of alcohol making him loose lipped last time he spilled his guts.

“That depressed without me?” Not that his feelings weren’t obvious without it apparently. “Well, they asked me to keep an eye on you while they’re away.”

He couldn’t help smirking, resting his chin on your shoulder. “So, you’ll be staying the night?” Or was that too hopeful, knowing how possessive Lucifer was, especially over your ‘curfew’.

“The whole time. How else am I to make sure you actually get to bed on time? Now, go take a shower and put on new clothes. I know your tricks.”

“… Maybe I need help showering?”

“HAH! Nice try, but I already took one.”

“I can tell, this bodywash is so nice.”

“Right? I… wanted to find something similar to the one I used… in the past, but they don’t make it anymore… Anyway, get going,” You lightly shook him off, and the man reluctantly letting go. “-breakfast and coffee will be ready once you’re back. Oh,” With the spatula you pointed to the fridge. “I’ve kinda used the last of everything so we’ll need to do some shopping.”

“Alright, I’ll be back in a minuet!” And so he ran off, like some excited child about to go on a trip to the candy store.

“wait, N-NOT A LITERAL MINUET, RIGHT!? NO MAGIC, ACTUALLY SHOWER!”

…

Only because you insist. Besides maybe you’d notice he got the same bodywash too.

And when go shopping, you’d have to hold hands, after all, in this time the streets are much more crowded, it wouldn’t do for him to get separated from his adorable apprentice.

Not again.

A VERY quick, little something. Hope you like it, but if you want something little bigger you can always ask again, it'd just take a lot more time.

[celestialprincesse]

Simon coming home to sleepy partner💤☁️

nsfw below the cut 🪽 mdni 🤍

Simon, more often than not, comes home late after getting back from deployments. seeing as after landing on home soil, they still have to mission debrief, collect and pack up their belongings and say their goodbyes, Simon is itching to get back home - back to you.

When he does, and you're all curled up in your shared bed, head resting on his pillow, one of his shirts clutched tight to your chest, sound asleep in his sweater, which had ridden up the arch of your spine to reveal thin cotton panties that have him straining at his boxers. It's when your eyes open at the sound of him dumping his bags, half lidded and lazy until you register his presence and spring up in the bed, running to meet him with tears of relief already pooling on your lower lashes. By no means does Simon Riley consider himself a needy man - in fact, quite the opposite, he's practised restraint his entire life. That said, after months away with nothing but his hand and some very private polaroids to sort himself out, he's desperate, already pushing you back until the backs of your knees are hitting the bedframe, collapsing underneath him with the thick comforter giving a whooshing exhale of air under the sudden addition of your bodyweight.

The latest deployment had been especially tough, stationed in some shithole with no cell service or access to a secure line. Soap had been fine, copping off with local women when he grew bored of his hand, Gaz had Simon fully convinced that he had some kind of erectile dysfunction with how long he could go with no contact, whilst Price and Simon had to settle with a few grainy photos of their partners and the thought that they'd soon be home.

Now, when he noses at your neck and smells sweet perfume and your laundry detergent, it feels very much like a wet dream coming true. He doesn't even bother to fully take your panties off before he's thumbing at your clit through the flimsy material, stripping himself of his gear with one hand. He quickly grows frustrated with the way his dick is straining at the fly of his pants, grunting as he pulls his hand away to strip his clothes off, whilst you take the opportunity to lose your panties, throwing them vaguely in the direction of the hamper , parting your legs and bending them at the knee, waiting for him with your bottom lip chewed anxiously between your teeth. He doesn't even bother kicking his clothes away, kneeling on where they're piled up at the side of the bed as he grabs your hips with hands that have forgotten to be gentle after being rough for so long, pulls you to the edge of the bed, hooking his forearms under your thighs and splaying his hands over your stomach as he noses at your clit. There's a feral, barely concealed glint in his eye as he whispers kisses against your cunt, murmuring how bad he missed you, about how you look more beautiful than when he left. "Missed y' so fuckin' much baby. Missed your angel face." He growls into your skin, the tears mixing in your eyes split between need and pure relief.

He doesn't even bother with his fingers as he licks a hot stripe between your folds, your hips twitching under his hands as he savours you like a last meal. "Si.." You whine out sweetly, voice whiny and utterly pathetic. "Tha's right. Tha's it, gonna let me hear ya?" His Mancunian accent, eroded around the edges from years of travel, and the rumble of his voice have you on edge, hands gripping into the sheets as you let your eyes fall back into your head swimming with utter bliss. "Mmhm!"

Not even a minute later, Simon looks utterly perplexed as you try and shimmy yourself away from his tongue, despite the way your thighs are clamped like a vice around his ears. "Wha's wrong baby?" He growls, messy brows furrowed in concern as he looks up at you in the near darkness of your bedroom. "Jus' need you, Si." You whine, body short circuiting as you consciously attempt to free his face from between your legs whilst the animal side of your brain compels you to keep him there and continue the ecstasy his tongue spearing into you provides. Your needy words cause his expression to perk up as he gently guides your knees outwards so he can actually remove his face from where it's stuffed between your thighs and cunt.

From your position on the bed, and his kneeling beside it, you'd been unable to see the way his cock was already hard and leaking, bouncing against his stomach, but as he pushes you back to the centre of the mattress, you got a full view of his pretty dick as he lines the pearly tip against your entrance, smearing precum against it as though to make the stretch easier (which is a total placebo). His fingers loop through yours as he notches his tip inside, refusing to blink as you take him to the hilt with a quiet whine, lashes fluttering against your cheeks as you fight the urge to squeeze your eyes shut. "Fuck, 've missed seein' you take me so well." the sound of his grunts and the lewd squelch which accompanies his thrusts is the only thing besides your airy moans and his soft growls filling your blissful bedroom.

The sight of you alone has him almost embarrassingly close to finishing inside of you, but when your pussy flutters around him and you give a choked off keen before cumming around his cock, he gives up on any restraint, snapping his hips so that his tip hits your cervix, ropes of hot cum spilling into your tight heat as he lets his head fall into the crook of your neck, repeating how perfect you are, how much he loves you and missed you.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Meant for this to be some cutie, fluffy little brainrot not 1k of smut Sorry! (not sorry!😚) also this isn't edited because rereading my own writing makes me cringe so apologies 4 any mistakes 🩷

[nexmalin]

Don’t mind me, I’m just gonna write my silly idea:

over 15 years ago, after the Battle of the Bay, Bumblebee’s death was faked and he was commanded to go into hiding. Bumblebee, ever the loyal soldier, obeyed the orders, changed his alt mode from the classic Volkswagen Beetle to a Ford GT40, and began his new life in hiding. At first, he took the chance to get used to his new Alt mode, join some races, travelled, and left voice mails to Optimus every day.

However, after 5 years, he stopped leaving voice mails, did much less racing, and spent most of his days just… thinking. He would see images of the other Autobots partying with their new human allies, not a care in the world… as if he didn’t even exist. Bumblebee hadn’t expected that realization to hurt so badly.

The months that followed were some of the darkest moments in Bumblebee’s life, and considering all he’s seen and been through, it’s saying a lot. He gave up reaching out to anyone a long time ago, and now, he sat in an old warehouse. It was spacious and off the grid, however, through the broken glass windows, the sunlight made the dust particles in the air shine like glitter, the concrete floors were covered in dust and debris, eroded, and cracked, old crates and storage containers covered in graffiti, and the constant scent of rust filling the air only made his spark ache more.

At night, or whenever he attempted to get recharged, his audio receptors were quick to pick up and slight sound, the creaking of metal shifting as it was heated by the sun, then cooled off at night, the scurrying of mice, opossums, and raccoons, the call of the loons in the nearby lake, the swishing of the leaves in the trees, the whistle of the wind, and the rare shift of the old assembly line conveyer belts. This skill came in handy as a scout in a war, being able to hear possible enemies from far away, but during peace times, and in hiding all alone, the sounds can become overstimulating.

The mix of isolation, lack of proper recharge, and the growing pit of hopelessness and despair filling his spark caused Bumblebee to become increasingly paranoid. Each sound setting a ticking time bomb in Bumblebee’s processor, he felt like he was constantly being monitored, being stalked by G.H.O.S.T agents all the time, every movement he made being sent to the G.H. O.S.T headquarters. The paranoia then turned into delusions, seeing shadows of people that weren’t really there, making him want to chase after them or cower away, depending on who he was seeing. His processor, trying to protect Bumblebee from slipping further, began putting him into episodes of derealization or maladaptive daydreaming. He would spend hours, even days, in his own processor, daydreaming about a world, where he wasn’t alone, in an old warehouse, becoming a victim of his own mind.

Bumblebee no longer looked at the days, as seeing how long he has been alone had only dampened his hope. He would sometimes go into the lake, and just sit at the bottom, and watch the critters and animals live their lives. As much as he would try to tell himself that it was so he could clean his frame, but really, it was so he could feel like he was part of something again. Something so primitive, and yet it has more meaning to its own life than Bumblebee did.

The warehouse had been cleaned of the dust and debris a long time ago. Bumblebee, after the first few months of staying in the warehouse, he decided to clean it up, to keep him busy and his mind off of everything, and to make it feel more homey… well as homey as an old warehouse can be. A few days later, he moved the crates and storage containers around, to make “furniture” and to clear more clutter. However, he could only move things around so many times until it no longer works.

In the dead of winter, Bumblebee shivered underneath an old tarp, trying to stay warm as the blizzard continued to pour down, whistling as it hit the walls of the warehouse. Bumblebee had tried to warm himself up, but he only had so much energon to keep him going, and had shut off many systems that weren’t necessary to keep him online to reserve his energon use.

The wood was too wet to make any sort of fire with, and turning on his heaters would waste too much energon.

Bumblebee heard a crash, and footsteps, and they were loud, clearly from a cybertronian. He couldn’t bring himself to care anymore, Optimus Prime’s scout, who has escaped from the clutches of enemies twice his size, and has secured intel with half his helm missing out of sheer force of will, has finally given up. It didn’t matter anymore, it was clear no one was going to come for him anyway, and he was either he die from energon depletion, his systems freezing, or at the hands of a Decepticon.

As the footsteps were closing in, stopping right behind him, Bumblebee accepted his fate. He had dodged the pull of the Well of the All Spark one too many times, and if this was his end, so be it. The old tarp was pulled from around him, exposing him to the cold, and he waited for the pain of the shot of a blaster, but it never came. Then, an all too familiar voice spoke up, “…Bee…?”

When Bumblebee woke up online again, he noticed that he was much warmer now, and that he was no longer alone. Slowly, he turned, and he was facing Breakdown, who recharged soundly, holding him snugly, as if he let go for even a second, Bumblebee would melt away. As much as Bumblebee knew that he was supposed to make sure no one knew he was alive, it was so nice to be held after so long in isolation.

He felt optical fluid welling in his optics, and he nuzzled into Breakdown’s neck taking in that scent that comforted him, no matter the situation. The scent of home… Finally, Bumblebee was home.

Breakdown heard sniffling and felt something nuzzling against his neck cables. As his optics focused, he immediately noticed the familiar gold helm and his gaze flicked down. Bumblebee… his Bee, was alive. Alive and… he wouldn’t say he was well, but he was alive! Breakdown hadn’t even realized he was mumbling Bumblebee’s name out like a prayer to Primus himself. Eventually, he whispered, “I… I thought you were gone… that I’d never see you again”. After a few moments, Bumblebee weakly croaked out, “I-I’m… so sorry, I had no choice…”. Breakdown was surprised at how weak Bumblebee’s voice was. A voice that was so full of life and energy, now quiet and crackly, clearly from lack of use.

The two mechs didn’t talk, just held each other, terrified the other would disappear. Breakdown felt optical fluid on his chest, and he let Bumblebee cry, it was clear he needed that at the very least. Bumblebee was shaking, not from the cold, but from anxiety, relief, hunger, and the years of pain of isolation.

[leycorice]

devil's pawn

sylus x zayne // post death&rebirth (ig) // 1k words

zayne works for the devil of n109 zone, only because he needs intel on ever group. but he should've known sylus was never gonna play fair.

sylus had predicted many possible reactions when he cut off the flow of intel—frustration, perhaps, or even anger. but zayne had been a study in patience.

for the first week, at least.

the doctor went about his usual routine, tending to patients in his makeshift clinic, his expression as cold and indifferent as ever. he never once reached out, never once asked for more leads, more information. he simply waited, methodical and calm, as if sylus’s silence meant nothing to him.

but by the end of the second week, the cracks started to show. sylus’s men reported seeing the doctor lingering near the city’s shadier establishments, his eyes scanning every passerby, his fingers twitching as if craving action. zayne’s discipline was eroding under the weight of his bloodlust and thirst for revenge, and sylus knew it was only a matter of time before something snapped.

by the end of the month, sylus’s curiosity got the better of him. he decided to pay the doctor a personal visit. it had been too long since he’d last seen his little scalpel up close, and he wanted to see for himself what the lack of direction had done to him.

the clinic was quiet when sylus arrived, eerily so. the only light came from a small desk lamp casting long shadows across the darkened room. medical equipment lined the walls, meticulously organized, though much of it remained unused. zayne didn’t work on the minor injuries that other street doctors handled. his skillset was reserved for the critical, for the desperate—and for those on whom sylus wanted his special touch applied.

but tonight, the clinic was empty, save for the man himself. zayne was sprawled across a worn leather couch pushed against one wall, his face partially obscured by his arm. for a moment, sylus paused in the doorway, taking in the sight with a mix of amusement and surprise.

zayne was asleep. completely, utterly unconscious. sylus arched a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. it was rare to see the doctor so vulnerable, and even rarer to see him off guard. the sight would have been almost peaceful—if not for the stark white bandages wrapped around zayne’s torso, the fabric stained a faint, telltale crimson.

“well, well,” sylus murmured under his breath, his amusement growing. “what have you been up to, doctor?”

the answer was obvious. sylus hadn’t given him any new leads, but the injury spoke volumes. zayne had gone out on his own. he had hunted without permission, chasing after ghosts and shadows, tearing apart the city in search of targets sylus hadn’t approved. all because he couldn’t stand the silence, the stillness. impatient, just as sylus had suspected.

but a dog that hunts on its own without its master’s leash is still a bad dog in the end.

sylus’s smile turned razor-sharp as he strode across the room, each step deliberately soft to avoid waking his prey too soon. when he reached the couch, he leaned over, eyes narrowing as he examined the crude bandaging. whoever had patched zayne up had done a passable job, but it was rushed, done in the field. it hadn’t been zayne’s own handiwork.

interesting.

slowly, almost delicately, sylus placed his hand over the bandages. for a moment, he simply rested it there, feeling the heat radiating off the wound. then, with a sudden, brutal twist, he pressed down hard.

zayne’s reaction was immediate. he jolted awake, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as pain flared through his side. before he even registered what was happening, his hand shot out, clamping around sylus’s wrist in a crushing grip. his other hand darted under the cushions, fingers brushing against the familiar handle of a scalpel hidden there. but sylus was faster. with a sharp, predatory smile, he caught zayne’s free wrist and pinned it against the armrest, his body looming over the doctor’s prone form.

“ah, ah,” sylus chided softly, his grip tightening around zayne’s injured side. “none of that, doctor.” he applied more pressure, savoring the way zayne’s muscles tensed, the way his teeth clenched as he struggled to suppress the pain. “someone’s been busy.”

zayne glared up at him, hazel-green eyes dark with fury, but he said nothing. his breathing was labored, his skin slick with a cold sweat. he looked half-dead, exhaustion and pain carving deep lines into his face. but that blank, indifferent mask was cracking, the rage beneath it simmering to the surface.

“did i spoil you too much?” sylus murmured, leaning closer until their faces were only inches apart. “were you that impatient to wait for your next treat that you had to go out and hunt on your own?” his voice was low, dripping with mockery and amusement. “tsk, tsk. what am i going to do with you, zayne?”

he pressed down even harder, and zayne’s breath hitched, his entire body arching involuntarily under the pressure. his fingers tightened around sylus’s wrist, nails digging in deep, but he still didn’t cry out. he just stared up at sylus, defiant and unyielding, even as blood began to seep through the bandages.

��your life belongs to me,” sylus whispered, his voice softening to a deadly murmur. “i told you before, didn’t i? if you go around as you like, putting a huge target on your back for others to kill you...” he trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.

zayne’s gaze didn’t waver. even now, even as sylus loomed over him, pain radiating through his body, he refused to submit. it was infuriating—and thrilling. sylus could feel the doctor’s pulse thrumming under his fingertips, fast and erratic, his breathing shallow and uneven. but zayne’s eyes remained steady, his lips curving into a faint, almost taunting smile.

“i didn’t realize,” zayne rasped, voice hoarse but steady, “that i needed your permission to do my job.”

sylus’s smile froze, the amusement draining from his eyes. “your job,” he repeated slowly, his tone cold. “your job is to do as i say.” he tightened his grip on zayne’s wrist, twisting it painfully. “or have you forgotten who holds the leash here?”

the smile on zayne’s lips widened, sharp and mocking. “you don’t want a dog, sylus,” he whispered, his voice low and strained. “you want a monster. so don’t be surprised when it bites.”

for a heartbeat, there was silence. then sylus threw his head back and laughed, a low, dangerous sound that echoed through the empty clinic. “oh, i see,” he murmured, leaning down until his lips brushed zayne’s ear. “so that’s how it is. you want to bite, doctor? then go ahead. bite.” he pulled back slightly, eyes gleaming with dark excitement. “but remember this—every time you disobey, i will make you regret it.”

he released zayne’s wrist, standing up in one fluid motion. the doctor lay there, panting, his body trembling with pain and exhaustion, but his eyes still blazed with defiance. sylus’s smile returned, slow and dangerous, as he looked down at the broken, bleeding man before him.

“get yourself cleaned up,” he ordered softly. “i’ll be sending you a new file soon.” he paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “and zayne—next time you decide to go hunting on your own, make sure you come back alive. i’d hate to lose my favorite.”

with that, he turned and strode out of the clinic, the door slamming shut behind him.

zayne lay still, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, his chest heaving with each labored breath. the pain was unbearable, but he welcomed it. because beneath the pain, beneath the exhaustion and rage, there was something else—something cold and fierce and unyielding.

he would bite.

and when he finally sank his teeth into sylus’s throat, he would make sure the devil bled.

[bullet-prooflove]

Bad Boy: Chef Luca x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @djlnkaled @10ava01 @freckledhorse @wabi-sabi1090

Companion piece to:

Something Special - Luca knows you're something special from the very moment you meet.

Sfogliatella - Luca spends months perfecting your fav dessert leading to a surprise proposal.

Luca used to be a little wild, he tells you that when you’re sitting on the deck of the boat that he lives in, sharing an expensive bottle of wine. Your gaze is fixed on the lights from the city as they glitter across the canal as he hands you the glass before taking up residence alongside of you on the cushioned bench.

“Used to be?” You ask carefully. “Or still are?”

“Used to be.” He reassures you because he knows your history.

You’d had a thing for bad boys in your early twenties. You’d fallen in love with a man you were translating for, one who rode motorcycles and was possessive over his woman. He was fun, adventurous and secretive.

You can’t say when you started to lose the pieces of yourself, only that one day Armand didn’t like the way you dressed, he preferred you to wear darker scents instead of floral. A tracking app appeared on your phone so he could make sure you were ‘safe’. You wanted to leave but by that point yourself confidence had been eroded so much that you just couldn’t bring yourself to walk out the door so you stayed.

You’d stayed until you were woken up at three in the morning to the police bursting into his home and raiding the place for drugs. They had found nothing on the premises but you were both swept up for questioning. They’d detained you for five hours before they ascertained you had no knowledge of the operation. Armand had been charged and sentenced to twenty five years in prison for his role in cross state heroin operation.

It had taken such a long time to put yourself back together again after that, to reclaim who you were. You’d taken a job at the UN to get out of the city, bounced around a few countries before you found a home in Copenhagen.

It’s Luca’s words that bring you back to the present. He hasn’t told you how he ended up in Denmark, what led him to become a chef.

“My home life, it was messed up. Most of the time we were this close-” he says indicating a tiny gap with his fingers. “- from being taken into care. I was stealing all the time, trying to make ends meet, bunking off school, lashing out...”

Noone in Copenhagen knows this story, they just know him as the guy who used to with for David Fields. Someone dependable, someone capable, someone stable. They don’t know that there were nights he used his hide his sister in the closet and sing her to sleep because their mother was on another bender.

“Cheffing saved me from all of that, it gave me the structure I needed at the time, the discipline and the cash to provide for my family until my sister was old enough for university.”

“What happened to your parents?” You ask him and he gives you a sad smile.

“Dad was never really in the picture. The last time I saw him I think I was seven and he took me to an Arsenal game, after that radio silence.” He says shaking his head. “And mum… well the drugs took her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” You tell him and he shrugs his shoulders.

“We expected it to happen a lot sooner if I’m honest.” He tells you. “I know it sounds cold but when you live like that…”

“I kinda get it.” You say softly. “When I was with my ex, he would have these moods…”

You trail off and he understands the subtext. He’s not the only one that’s seen violence, that’s managed to escape it and make something of himself. His fingers entwine with yours, a show of solidarity because if there’s anyone that understands what you endured, it’s Luca.

“I was relieved when the police arrested him, I didn’t have the strength to leave him before that but after…” Your eyes flicker up to meet his and truly they are the most beautiful shade he’s ever seen. “I got to be me again, the real me, not the one he’d tried to shape me into.”

“I’m glad that you escaped that life.” He says, reaching out to brush a strand of hair back behind your ear. “That we both managed to find our way to each other.”

You clasp his hand to your cheek, your lips brushing over his pulse point as you whisper.

“Yea. I am too.”

Love Luca? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[zablife]

Peanut Butter and Banana Sandwiches

Summary: Even though you've promised to marry him, you still feel as though you might not be what Elvis needs. An argument over dinner proves the perfect time for him to set you straight.

A/N: I've never written for Elvis before, but something came to me I couldn't resist!

"Get up 'ere and tell me whatsa matter with you!" Elvis demanded, obviously displeased by the way you'd stormed away to the kitchen.

You pursed your lips into a defiant pout, arms crossed over your chest as you heaved for breath. He'd knocked the wind out of you when he picked you up and slammed you down onto the counter. The gasp you'd stifled was proof of it.

"I don't got anything to say to you," you retorted, averting your gaze and staring down at his dark suede shoes.

He was a gentleman at heart, but his temper often got the best of him. You heard him huff, watching him stuff his hands in his pockets to keep from manhandling you further. It was clear he only wanted to know what was wrong and he paced silently as he waited for an answer.

You were stubborn too though and often tested his patience by being deliberately willful. If he didn't know what he'd done this time, you certainly weren't going to tell him. He could figure that out for himself, you thought as you let him stew.

A moment more of shoes squeaking against the linoleum and Elvis snapped. Charging back toward you, he captured your jaw in one enormous palm forcing your eyes to meet his penetrating stare.

"Said I was sorry, didn't I?" he demanded and you could only gulp in reply. He hadn't been kind about your efforts cooking dinner and the jokes he made to the mafia eroded what little confidence you had left.

Your lip quivered despite your best efforts and hot tears welled at your lash line. Of course he noticed the change in you instantly, reaching up to catch the first tear as it fell.

“Don’t do that darlin’,” he pleaded, voice dripping in honeyed concern.

You sniffed back emotion so as not to show weakness and he chuckled slightly. "Always a brave little soldier, ain't ya?" he teased.

"M not, tho," you admitted. "I don't think I can do this," you whispered, pitching forward to press your foreheads together. You breathed in his comforting scent, allowing the waves of calm to wash over you before you continued. "I'm sorry, but I can't be your wife," you confessed. You knew it to be true, unable to keep house or cook meals for him perfectly the way his mama did for him when she was alive. You didn't have the same experience and it was killing you to know how you were failing him.

Elvis breathed deeply as his large hand came to cradle the back of your head, making you feel safe and secure as only he knew how. You could feel him smirking against you and you held your breath waiting for whatever reply he'd give to dismiss your concerns.

However, he surprised you when his voice rumbled low and sincere from deep within his chest. "You're gonna make the most wonderful wife, sweetheart. I know it cause you're kind and gentle..." He paused to gather his thoughts, fingers twisting in your hair as he added softly, "but most of all cause you love me like I love you."

Your heart nearly skipped a beat as he spoke the words of affirmation you'd longed to hear so many months now living with him at Graceland. However, your old insecurities ate at you faster than he could banish them. Your head shook softly against his broad shoulder, tears dripping down his shirt front as you proclaimed, "Tonight you said I couldn't do nothin' right. Maybe it's true." Then you gave in to the melancholy, hiccuped sobs leaving your parted lips.

You felt his chest puff out against you, ready to deny the accusation before he thought better of it. He looked back toward the dining room where a dozen witnesses could easily corroborate his sharp criticism. With you tugging at his heart strings now, he realized his mistake.

"Look, baby, I don't care you can't cook," he swore to you. As you looked up into his sapphire eyes, you knew he was telling the truth. Searching your tear stained face for forgiveness he added, "I'll hire us a chef and you don't ever have to worry again, alright?"

"You won't think less of me?" you asked, wiping at your ruined mascara.

A wide grin spread over his face as he thought for a moment, the devilish glint returning to his eyes as he answered, "Not as long as you learn to make me a peanut butter and banana sandwich. I can't go on a two week honeymoon with no help and nobody to make it f'me," he chuckled.

You hit his chest playfully, a giggle escaping your lips. "And how am I gonna do that?" you teased back, biting your cheek in anticipation.

Elvis' broad hands came to rest at your waist, raising you from your perch with ease. With controlled precision he placed you onto the ground beside him, pulling you into his side. "What if I teach ya?" he asked in complete seriousness.

Hands resting against his firm chest, you looked up at him expectantly, wanting to please him more than anything in the world. "I reckon I could learn."

"Yeah?" he asked, lips twitching into a tentative smile at your willingness.

"Mm-hmm," you confirmed with a quick nod.

Elvis took you by the hand and drug you toward the pantry as you furrowed your brow in confusion. "R-right now?" you stuttered, unable to believe he'd forsake his guests waiting for a proper meal in the next room.

"Ain't no time like the present, sweetheart," he declared, shutting them all out to spend time with you.

[1methylmatcha]

Dear God — Lamine Yamal

elio’s note: this is heavily inspired by the song Dear God by Tate Mcrae! since i’m totally obsessed with this album of hers (yes until now lol), this is my first fic-oneshot on here, please enjoy!! 🫶🏻

(p.s. i don’t speak spanish, sorry if the translations are inaccurate! lyrics are in bold italics, and ik lamine has that bright blonde hair rn i just couldnt get myself to put it in the fanfic😭)

Mood’s Mini Playlist:

All I want - Kodaline

From the Dining Table - Harry Styles

WILDFLOWER - Billie Eilish

Dear God - Tate Mcrae

Yellow - Coldplay

goodnight n go - Ariana Grande

It’s all a haze, ever since that night happened.

The cries, the tears shed, the yelling.. and most of all, your insistence on leaving, the heavy heart through the insistence, the wet spots on the sleeves of your—his barça sweatshirt, your smudged and melted mascara tears running down your face like a young river eroding through land.

He hated seeing you like this, but still, it was not enough for him to be better for you, for the relationship. “I’m sorry,” He speaks, his jaw clenching as if letting it go might ruin it all, “Last time, I swear.” He swallowed, visibly, his adam’s apple bobbing, nervous.

Not because he doesn’t know if you’ll actually forgive him this time or not, you’ve already given him so many chances you both lost count of. But because he’s never seen you like this, it’s all new to him.

“No,” You took a deep shaky breath in, catching on a soft but sharp sniffle, “I’m done with you.” You add, choking on your own words, holding back a sob.

Silence.

“Qué?” He held his own breath, his eyes widened, expressive.

“Yes, I’m fucking done with you,” You spoke almost immediately, more sure this time after seeing the clear and obvious surprise on his face, fueling your anger more, “Surprising, right?” You laugh bitterly, gathering your stuff in your purse, to leave.

“Calm down and we’ll talk again later—“

“We’re done, Lamine.”

He blinks once, twice, as if he’s trying to click out of a dream.

“Y/n—“

“No.”

“You’re frustrated, I know—I–just listen.” He says, rushed as he tries to reach for your arm but you quickly snatch it away from his grip as you storm out of his house, he follows. He can’t help but rush behind you, he feels it now, deep, raw, ugly.

The withdraw.

It’s dark outside, several puddles have formed on the low edges of the pavement from the rain earlier, none of you noticed, too engulfed in your own feelings to notice anything. The street lampposts flickered a little as you rush by, he still follows.

“Let’s just talk, please.” He pleads. Again and again.

“Leave me alone, god damn it,” You stop and shove him back firmly, your emotions feeding your strength somehow, “We’re done, don’t text or call me.” You spit, voice trembling with finality, before storming off to your place. He stays there this time, too stunned to speak or move.

A few months pass, you’d think everything is alright after you both finally broke up, since it was your decision anyways.

But no, It’s hell, ugly, dreadful even.

He did exactly what you asked him to do, no texts, no calls, not even a staged bump-in on the street. Zero contact.

You’ve been forcing yourself to cope, your friends cheering and giving you head pats like a puppy ever since you told them you dumped him, you always had that poker face on. That face that screams “Fuck him!” shamelessly whenever his name comes up in any conversation or intentional gossip about him.

Shamelessly as if you don’t still cry over that night, or stare at your polaroid pictures together before you sleep every night, or even worse, wait for your phone screen to light up with his text, his name.

It’s 3:14 AM.

The sky’s clear as the pacific, occasional whistles from the midnight breeze and some grasshoppers’ chirps every now and then through your slightly ajar window. Your siamese cat’s hopped on and off your bed a few times, as if it’s checking on you, sensing your off energy, but you don’t even notice it.

You lay flat on your back on the bare mattress, no bedsheets, you wore some old, bleach-stained spaghetti strap top and shorts—his barcelona shorts, bright 19 printed on the right side. His number.

A few tops and shirts are inside out, carelessly thrown on the edge of the bed, hanging, other garments are also thrown scattered around the floor. Several mugs, some half-filled, some empty, placed on the nightstand with some painkiller tablets aside, pack almost empty, obviously abused judging by the clinging dark circles beneath your eyes.

It hurts, so much, like someone keeps twisting the knife over and over again. He’s literally everywhere in your mind, rent free, his voice is engraved in your internal soundtrack, it feels like sometimes you hear his voice louder than your own heartbeats and his haunted hands all over your body again, touching, caressing, grounding.

Your phone switches off, dead, you curse under your own breath and roll over to the ground now–since your bed is low anyways, reaching for the charger near the edge of your faded persian pattern carpet, plugging your phone. You sit still next to it, both legs folded underneath you.

“Hands on your chest and your knees on the carpet. Hoping he’ll stop it.”

You realize that even when he was driving you nuts, ignoring texts, forgetting the planned dates, not posting you, never even doing the bare minimum, you still wanted him more than anything in the whole world, he was the antidote to your poisoned life. You feel like praying, even when it’s been years since you’ve done anything like it, just anything to ease the pain, the memories, Him.

“Dear God, take his kiss right out of my brain

Take the pleasure out of my pain

Take the way he'd used to say I love you

Dear God, get his imprint out of my bed

Take amazing out of our sex

Take away the way I still might want to”

Your cat walks softly next to you, almost startling you, checking on you again before you lose your own sanity, purring rhythmically as it hops on your lap then stretches her lean body against your chest, facing you now, like she’s grounding you.

“I’m okay, Milky.” You whisper to it, with tears welling up in your eyes, as if the poor cat can understand human words. The cat blinks a few times before settling in your lap, curling around itself, its soft fur pooling warmth on your lap now, you pat its head gently.

“Dear God, I hope you're listening

I pray it ain't him I'm missing.”

You breathe in and out a few times now, and when you least expect it, it comes right to you. Your phone screen shines bright in the corner you left it in, charging.

You blink a few times, skeptical. You swallow the lump in your throat and you swear you can feel it travel right to your gut, growing bigger. Is that him? Or is that just a random notification as usual?

You lean forward, careful not to wake up your feline therapy buddy on your lap from its precious nap, reaching for your phone. Your heart skips a beat as you read the fresh notifications.

Lamine 3:47 AM.

“i can’t sleep”

“are u okay?”

You 3:52 AM.

“yeah”

“why”

Lamine 3:52 AM.

“can i come”

“porfa”

You 3:55 AM.

“lamine we’ve been over this please”

Just as your finger hits send, a sudden but soft click on your glass window, your head bolts to the right—towards your window.

Then another click

Then another

Then another

You watch in pure shock, some pebbles being tossed at your window at almost 4 AM, standing up gently not to wake up Milky, walking slowly to the window next to your bed, opening it a bit more than before, just not fully open yet.

“Mi corazón.” He immediately spoke, gently, as he looks up to your window observing your disoriented gaze and messy form. My heart.

“Lamine, what the hell?” You spoke faintly, voice breaking at the end. You can’t lie to yourself but you’ve been dying to see him, even if it’s against everything you’ve built for these past few months. You slightly let yourself stare at him, it eases the ache in your chest, your heart beats a little harder at his sight.

Crazy, just a few minutes ago you’ve been calling for every high power above to make the pain stop, just for the right medicine to be right there, warm brown skin like caramel dusted in bronze, dark set of sharp eyes, dark chocolate curly hair… now has golden highlighted strands, reflecting the faint lamppost light.

He stays silent for a little bit, analyzing you, his jaw clenches like he’s been so sure you’re in this state but been telling himself no.

“Definitely not okay.” He spoke, softly, still looking up at you.

“It doesn’t matter, please leave.” You fix the strap falling down your shoulder, still holding on to whatever’s left from your morals.

“There’s no ego in this, none of your friends will know,” he replies, his face slightly pleading now, “Not even Milky.” His pupils dilate but he doesn’t smile at his own words, not like he usually does. “Come down, porfa.” Please.

You stand there awkwardly, weighing your options, then look down at your clothes.

“Oh c’mon—I’ve literally seen you naked.” He frowns as he notices your gaze shifting to your messy outfit. And he’s just talking about the bleach stained top, not his shorts you’re wearing, hidden by the high frame of your window, that still had a lingering faint scent of his sandalwood cologne.

He waits on the pavement for you to come down, his foot taps on the pavement in anticipation, till you appear in front of him, wrapping your short robe around your frame.

“What do you want?” You spoke immediately, putting up your guards, shielding what’s left from your dignity.

“You don’t look okay.” He steps forward towards you.

“None of your business.” You step back.

“Y/n,” he spoke softer now,

“How did you spawn immediately outside my house?” You interrupt him, “Were you stalking me?” You breathe out audibly.

“Y/n, listen,” he replied, now interrupting you back.

“What?” You cross your arms.

“I’m not here to tell you the old excuses I used to tell you,” he speaks firmly, “I miss you so much it hurts, but I’m also not saying this to win you back or anything from that act,” he shifts his weight to his other leg, stimming and fidgeting with his hands, “I know you made up your mind about me long ago, but I just can’t handle the no contact anymore, I’ve been talking to you in my diary like it’s a ritual,” he takes a step forward towards you again, testing the waters, but you don’t step back this time, a small but warm smile creeps up on his face, “Can we start over?”

“Let’s start off as friends again, I promise you I won’t act like I’m expecting or pressuring anything more than what you give me,” he scratches the imaginary itch at the back of his head, “And I also promise to act like I don’t know that your favorite flowers are carnations and your favorite brunch is a cream cheese bagel and a dirty matcha.”

You smirk a little, unable to keep it down, but he bursts into his contagious boyish laugh and slowly reaches out for your hand, softly grasping onto it like it’s made out of glass.

“I’m sure friends don’t hold hands like that.” you cockily say.

“I’m also sure friends don’t wear each others clothes to sleep.” He shoots back, mocking you with the same impression, his eyes pointed at the subtle blue of your—his blaugrana shorts, peeking from underneath your robe.

“Coño.” You jerk your hand back from his grasp, and walk back to your front door. Cunt.

“Goodnight to you too, mi alma.” My soul.

[kravinoffswife]

Room 87 - J. Todd x fem!reader༊*·˚

Fandom: DC

Summary: [y/n] receives a message from Jason telling her to pay him a visit and she can't resist.

Content warnings: a bit angsty, suggestive, some touching, reader is AFAB

A/N: First time writing a oneshot, I hope it's not horrible.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Come over.

These two words stared at [y/n], the illumination from her phone screen blinding in the otherwise dark room. She squinted at the message as if trying to decipher some hidden meaning. He had to be drunk, Jason never contacted her sober, the inverse was also true. It had been a year and a half since they had broken it off. Since then, they had seen each other every other month. It was a cycle, really. She'd drown herself in cheap cocktails and the touches of strangers to try and distract herself from what she really wanted - the feeling of his lips on her neck, his cock in her cunt. It was rather counter-intuitive; her alcohol fueled benders always ended up with her splayed out in Jason's bed.

She groaned and looked at the message again, her mind rattling off reasons as to why she should ignore it. She continued to give the more logical side of her brain center-stage as hopped into the shower, shaved, massaged the scented body lotion that she knew drove Jason crazy into her skin, picked an utterly devious set of underwear, put on a contrastingly tame outfit, applied her favourite lip gloss and left the house.

Her journey to the address he had sent was trance-like. She saw each street-name, each dingy apartment block, stray animals and strange people that reminded [y/n] that Gotham had a bit of a crime problem, but nothing seemed to actually register until she got to her destination.

It was a motel that was somewhere between decent and semi-nice. For Jason, this was shelling out. He was a very practical man, not willing to splurge on luxuries. She entered through the slightly weathered front doors, the clean smell of citrus and patchouli hitting her as soon as she crossed the threshold. The woman at the desk surveyed her, hot-pink lips chewing fervently on a wad of gum.

"Evening, lovely." Her tone was friendly and inviting. "How can I help you?"

"I'm visiting someone in room 87."

The receptionist looked at her knowingly, her periwinkle eyes sparkling with mischeif.

"Third floor." She smirked. "Gum?" She held out a stick of spearmint gum and winked. [y/n] took a piece gratefully.

"Have fun!" ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The elevator dinged once she had reached the third floor. [y/n]'s knuckles had barely grazed the door when it swung open. Jason's large hands wrapped around her waist and pulled her inside. He kicked the door shut.

"Hey" He rasped.

"Hey" She said quietly into his chest.

"I missed you."

"Mhm" She inhaled his musky scent. "I'm guessing you haven't just missed my stellar conversation"

"No, not just that."

She played with the hem of his shirt. Jason was not as playful and tugged her shirt over her head in one swift movement. She squealed as her skin was greeted by the cold air. Jason had a tendency to have the AC turned up. She shivered a bit.

"Cold, baby?" She nodded. He chuckled and ran a finger along her collarbone. "I'll get you all warmed up in no time."

She moaned at what he was alluding to. Her fingers dropped from his shirt to his belt buckle. As she did so, his lips captured hers in a kiss. There was no romance, only pure desire. He pushed her up against the wall. His hands ran through her hair, turning it into a mess of curls, something that she would ultimately tell him off for doing later as she had gone to the salon that very morning. She moaned when she finally got his pants off. She cupped his length through his boxers; rock hard. This only seemed to get her wetter and erode her willpower further. She bit his bottom lip and sucked on it gently. Jason groaned. Such a pretty sound. She wanted to make him do it again.

He pulled away from her, breath slightly ragged from the intensity of their union.

"You're too dressed for this, baby." He spoke against her neck, peppering the perfumed skin with rough kisses.

"Could say the same about you."

"Why don't we fix that, huh?" He took off his fitted black tee, revealing his sculpted torso, strong chest and wide shoulders. Although, she had seen his body several times, [y/n] couldn't help but gasp. She ran her fingers along the dips of his abdomen before settling back on his chest, her thump swiping over the raised skin of one of his many scars. Jason unclipped her bra and helped her out of her pants. He eyed her hungrily and his hands moved lower.

"You're so perfect." He mused as he kneaded her ass. "I love you."

"Love you more." She responded without any hesitancy. It was going to be a long night.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

[ladytauria]

things unspoken (now said)

Pairing: Tim Drake/Jason Todd Rating: Teen Words: 19k Warnings: None

When Dick asks for help with a case, Jason and Tim find themselves undercover as a couple to lure a killer out of hiding.

This is fine. Except for one problem…

They broke up two months ago, after no one knew they were dating in the first place.

written for the red on red holidays event! this one’s been up for a couple of days but authors were just revealed today <3

>> AO3 <<

“I am so sorry.”

Jason’s hand is still clutching Tim’s, a little too tightly to be comfortable. Tim still doesn’t make any effort to pull away. He’s pathetic like that.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jason says immediately. His other hand is braced around the elbow of the man who just crashed into him, keeping him from sprawling to the floor. The man’s coffee wasn’t so lucky. Most of it is splattered over the front of Jason’s sweater, though some also landed on the floor and the other man’s jacket. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says, shaking his head and stepping away. It lets Tim get a better look at him. The man is taller than he is, though not as tall as Jason. His face is rather plain—the kind of face that Tim’s eyes could just skip right over, if not for the fact he’s spent the last several days studying it intently.

This is Alexander Miller, avid skier and one of two suspects in the case he’s currently working with Jason.

It says something about his life that this isn’t the first time he’s had to pretend to be happily in love with his ex. What, exactly, it says, he’s not sure—except maybe that he needs to stop giving in when Dick asks him for favors.

Not that Dick knew what he was asking. He was under the impression, as was the rest of the world, that Tim and Jason had never been anything more than just friends.

“Your shirt—”

Jason glances down and grimaces. The coffee is already sinking into the fabric, turning what was a nice off-white into something more beige. Tim reluctantly disentangles his fingers from Jason to pat himself down for napkins.

Alexander beats him to it. He fishes a brown paper bag off of the floor and pulls a wad of napkins out, holding them out. “Here, maybe these will help.”

“Thanks,” Jason says, pulling his sweater taut to dab at the stain. “Sorry ‘bout your coffee.”

Tim kneels. He knows he packed some wipes in his carry on—and if he can’t find them, then he’s sure there will be some in Jason’s.

“No, don’t apologize,” Miller says as he kneels again. This time to retrieve his cup and throw it in the bag the napkins had come from. He uses the napkins that had been wrapped around it to mop up the spill as best he can—there aren’t enough to do the job properly, though, and streaks are left behind. “I should have been paying more attention to where I was going. I hope I didn’t ruin your sweater.”

A-ha! Tim finds the wipes where he’d stuffed them and zips his bag up again. He bats Jason’s hand away so he can scrub at the front of his shirt. As soon as he starts, a wave of regret hits him.

This is the closest he’s been to him in… nearly two months. The scent of coffee nearly overpowers that of Jason’s aftershave… but even that much of a whiff of it makes his throat feel tight, his eyes burning.

Not now, Drake. You have a job to do.

He doesn’t have much confidence in his ability to repress his feelings this time. Jason’s presence has a way of eroding all of his self-control.

“Nah, it’ll come out in the wash,” Jason says. “Little cold water and some spot treatment will take care of this no problem—right, baby?”

Tim glances up and finds Jason looking at him—the expression on his face is so soft it makes him ache. He makes himself smile back. He can tell Jason sees the tension in it because for just a moment, a muscle tics in his jaw before it relaxes again.

“Right,” he says.

Tim thinks he’s done as much as he can for the stain now—the fabric is damp with both coffee and the cleaning solution in the wipes. There will be no telling what the damage actually is until it’s had time to dry.

He glances up at Jason again, grimacing slightly. Sorry. Think that’s the best it’s going to get.

Jason’s shoulder twitches; a brief facsimile of a shrug. It is what it is. I’ll deal with it later.

Tim steps back. Alexander holds the paper bag out, allowing Tim and Jason to throw the used napkins and wipes away before he crumples the end.

“This place is busier than I expected,” Alexander says, scanning the area. They’re waiting for a tram to arrive to take them up to the ski lodge, which is about halfway up the mountain. “I thought for sure it would be quieter this year.”

“Oh?” Tim asks. Jason’s fingers tangle with his again. He steps closer to him, until their arms are brushing. It feels so natural it takes Tim a moment to remember why it shouldn’t be. Jason’s thumb strokes over his knuckles, and Tim aches.

It’s unfair. Something should have changed, after everything—but if anything it feels like it’s even easier now than it ever was before. Tim remembers sweaty palms and too-tight grips as they fumbled through the most innocent of romantic gestures.

He supposes, somewhere along the way, they must have finally gotten it right.

Alexander’s mouth tightens so briefly Tim almost misses it. “Ah—I don’t suppose either of you have looked into the local news then.” He laughs uncomfortably.

“No. Our flight just got in an hour or so ago,” Jason says. “Did something happen?”

This time, Alexander doesn’t bother suppressing his grimace. “Not recently.” He pushes his hand through his hair as he shifts uncomfortably. “Look—the last thing I want to do is put a damper on your holiday, but—well. I suppose you ought to know. A few months ago, they found a body in the forest around the lodge.”

Interesting.

Not the fact itself—that Tim knew. It’s the language he can’t help picking apart. ‘They found a body’ and not ‘someone was murdered.’ But even more importantly: Alexander only mentions one, and not that this is one in a series of four murders taking place over a period of about three years.

Of course, his cover doesn’t know that, so his eyes widen in artificial surprise. “That’s horrible. Was it an accident?”

Alexander shakes his head mutely.

“Did they catch the one who did it?” Jason asks, using his grip on Tim’s hand to draw him in closer.

Tim’s heartbeat quickens in his chest.

“No.” Alexander doesn’t elaborate further. Tim supposes he doesn’t blame him—he’s not sure he would want to confess to a pair of strangers that he was a suspect in a murder case either.

The ski lodge is far enough away from Gotham that normally, the murders wouldn’t have attracted their attention… if it weren’t for Dick. Or, rather, Richie Grayson. He came up with a group of civilian friends—or, well, ‘friends’—and learned of the murder through happenstance. Obviously, he couldn’t resist digging deeper.

He’d found that this murder was one of four, which have taken place over a period of about three years. All of the victims had been vacationing at the lodge before their bodies were found in the surrounding pines. Two of the victims had been men, the other two were women. They worked different jobs, lived in different places, and had little in common physically. However, all of them had been in relationships at the time of visiting the lodge, and all four couples had been seen spending time with Mikayla Vaughn, ski teacher, and Alexander Miller, hobbyist skier.

There had been another name, too—Jack Manning, a bartender at the Lodge. He had been investigated in connection to murder number three after he’d been seen arguing with the victim. However, while he was in custody, a few weeks before his trial date, the fourth murder had been committed.

It was more brutal than the previous three, and unlike the others, it had taken place during the off season.

The case against Jack had been dropped—for now—and he’d been released. He had not come back to work at the Lodge.

Given the sloppiness of the last kill, and the break in pattern, Dick believes that the killer is going to strike again soon. Being otherwise occupied, though, there’s not much he can do to investigate.

So… he’d called Tim and Jason in to help instead.

Alexander seems to shake himself. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.” His face smooths into an apologetic smile. “Look, why don’t you let me make things up to you? I’m heading up to the lodge to grab drinks with a friend. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you joined us. Drinks will be on me.” He winks.

It’s almost charming.

Tim glances up at Jason. Jason’s head cocks in silent question. At Tim’s slight nod, they both turn back to Alex.

“We’d love to,” Jason says.

“Excellent.” Alexander holds his hand out. “The name’s Alex, by the way.”

Jason shakes it. “Jay. And this is my boyfriend, Tim.”

Tim shakes Alex’s hand next—the man has a good grip. “It’s a pleasure to meet both of you.”

>> AO3 <<

[saturnyo]

Before You Go

Chapter 1- Something Borrowed, Something Burned

Pairing: dbfJoel x OC(Delilah)

AO3

Warnings: Emotional Cheating, Angst, Age Gap, foul language, Suppressed Emotions, Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Minor injury, mentions of possible Infidelity,

Summary: It's a month before my wedding, and I have to return to my hometown to finalize the details before the big day. But then i see the man I've been trying to forget for years. Joel Miller, my dad's best friend. He's always been off limits. But now, with too many late nights and lingering looks, the line starts to blur.

Word Count: lil over 3.2k

Song Choice: Eyes Closed- Halsey

**I just discovered this song and I thought this goes perfectly with the vibe of this fic**

In one month, I'll join my fiancé in holy matrimony, the happiest event of my life.

Amid the chaos of wedding planning and the constant flow of congratulations, I stand beside him, managing only a small, tight smile while Dustin, my husband-to-be, is head over heels in love.

It’s not that I don’t love him. I feel something for him, but “madly in love” isn’t exactly how I would describe my feelings.

Maybe contentment? But nothing more.

One specific memory slowly erodes into my mind as a bit of guilt settles in my heart while I watch Dustin deep in conversation with my dad. He talks about the effort he put into the proposal and the struggle he went through to keep it a secret. Marriage had come up in discussion before, which I expected after being in a relationship for two years, and the idea of it was nice. But in that moment, seeing the way Dustin’s eyes lit up as he spoke about the wedding made me realize something.

That night, when he was down on one knee, explaining how much he loved me and wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, I realized I had never truly envisioned my life, my future, with him.

Needing a moment to clear my head before dinner started, I stepped outside onto the front porch, taking in the cool autumn air. The memory that slowly came to the surface was practically screaming at full volume as I remembered the feeling of another man's lips on mine, sending a persistent ache between my legs. Joel Miller, my dad’s best friend, the man who was a constant in my childhood. He worked alongside my dad at their construction company while being co-CEO.

He would make me lunches when my dad forgot, caught up in his work, and he would drive me and Sarah to the mall on Saturdays. The age difference between us was 20 years. Completely off-limits. That crush I used to have was just some silly childhood fantasy, and the kiss we shared, the feeling of his lips molding perfectly against mine, was just a fluke, a moment of alcohol helping me make bad decisions.

It was my 25th birthday, a final sendoff my dad wanted to throw for me before I moved to the big city. During the night, Joel seemed to get closer to me, placing light touches on my arm and whispering in my ear. His voice cut through my drunken haze, making every nerve ending light on fire. Stepping away from the party, I ran into him. I’m not sure how it happened, but he started kissing me, pushing my body against the wall as he found his hands beneath my dress. The magic of the moment came to a grinding halt once we both realized where we were, the sound of footsteps coming toward us in the hallway.

Since then, we avoided each other like the plague. The kiss, despite how it made me feel, was a mistake, and it seemed Joel thought that as well. His cold gaze stared at me whenever I came home for the holidays.

Holding the wedding in my hometown was for family reasons, but deep down, I knew Joel’s presence played a huge part. Shaking away those thoughts, I thought about how I insisted I would not hold the wedding in the summer, no matter how much Dustin tried to convince me otherwise. A Texas summer would be brutal on my makeup and would make me uncomfortable in my wedding dress. Finally, he caved, and the ceremony was set for October 18.

My relationship with Dustin was calm and steady, a huge contrast to my past relationships. But this was the life I wanted: stable, predictable, and simple. Not every couple needs to have that earth-shattering love that creates sparks every time they kiss; that kind of passion is for books and movies. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing, which I ignored, chalking it up to pre-wedding jitters.

“It’s normal,” I thought to myself. Not every day needs to be exciting. Some can be boring, and that doesn’t mean the relationship should end. But that nagging feeling deep in my gut just wouldn’t leave.

The hard concrete scratched against my thighs, pulling my attention from the storm of doubt and uncertainty raging in my mind. The autumn breeze tousled my hair as night fell, biting cold and sending a shiver down my spine. My thin jacket offered little protection, leaving goosebumps all over my body. The clouds settled along the skyline as dusk blended hues of orange and red, offering a sense of familiarity amidst my inner confusion.

Despite everything I was feeling, home was the one place where I could find peace.

Or so I thought.

My tirade of emotions was cut short by my dad calling for me from the kitchen.

“Delilah! Dinner is ready!”

A deep sigh fell from my mouth as I got up, putting on a fake, award-winning practiced smile as I walked inside. The tune of some old 2000s song I used to listen to played from the speakers my fiancé set up earlier that day. I walked up to him, placing a kiss on his cheek before he pulled out my chair for me.

He was always a gentleman, opening my car door for me whether I was driving or just a passenger, getting me things at the store that he’d say reminded him of me, and just a bunch of other stuff that felt like it fell out of my typical romance novel.

His tastes and mine were vastly different, though. I wanted someone dominant, someone to take control. That was my preference. But Dustin… he was like milk toast. Extremely vanilla. The sex was lackluster.

As I took in the mountain of food on the table, settling in before the chime of the doorbell rang out throughout the house.

“Oh wait, I almost forgot,” my dad mentioned. He rushed over to the front door, swinging it open to reveal someone I certainly did not expect to see.

Joel Miller…

The man who had been haunting my subconscious since I was a teenager.

I thought I escaped him, and the way his brown eyes made me melt into a puddle. The way his lips parted slightly, taking in my full figure and narrowing in on the 6-carat engagement ring on my left hand. His jaw clenched in a way that I wouldn’t have noticed if I weren’t really looking at him. His micro-expressions showcased the first two steps of the five stages of grief, and I say that because Joel was never really a man for bargaining, so that negated the third, fourth, and fifth step.

I was angry.

He didn’t necessarily do anything, but him being here in front of me felt as though I was put back at square one. Suddenly, Sarah threw herself into my arms, giving me a huge hug. A part of me was glad she was there to at least take away some of the tension.

“Delilah, I've missed you so much,” Sarah said excitedly. “And that ring of yours is gorgeous. Your fiancé chose well.”

“Of course. I'll always know what my future wife loves,” Dustin answered. His grip on my waist grew tighter, staking some sort of weird claim on me. It rubbed me the wrong way, even though I knew he was trying to be sweet. Sometimes he had this strange notion of saying “mine” or “all mine.” I just didn’t like it when it came out of his mouth.

Joel’s gaze grew even more hardened at Dustin’s words. I’m not sure why, he has no right to be upset with me or Dustin.

“Come eat, everybody,” my dad waved us all back over to the table. It was filled to the brim with enough food to feed an army.

I sat down beside Dustin and Sarah as they started to talk about the proposal and the upcoming wedding. I needed to distract myself, so I began to stuff my face full of the delicious food my dad made. It did provide me with some comfort. Words flew around about the flowers that I chose and the theme of the wedding and reception. My dress and his tux and how his tie matched me.

I kept nodding along, seemingly engaged in the conversation, but my eyes kept drifting to Joel, also deep in conversation, but with my dad, talking about some random construction job that’s coming up where the client is demanding. Despite not knowing anything about it, I couldn’t help but tune in to their conversation. The way his deep voice rumbled as if he was grinding his voice through clenched teeth. Every word, every syllable feels deliberate, like he’s not letting anything slip.

It was low and quiet. I never remembered him raising his voice, ever. But there’s a bite in the way he folds his hands, clenching his knuckles almost turning them white. If he clenched them any tighter, I think he would break them. The drawl in his voice is dragged out on certain syllables, as if he’s buying time to rein himself in from jumping across the table and attacking my fiancé. I felt bold in the way my hand gripped Dustin’s shoulder, looking him in the eye and daring Joel to do something. A part of me actually wanted him to do it so this whole charade would be over.

But there’s one frustrating thing about him. Despite his being quick to anger, he has an incredible amount of patience.

The loud clinking of forks and spoons against plates cuts through the tension that everyone is seemingly blind to. I finally got a moment to breathe as I take the dishes into the kitchen. When dinner was over, I practically jumped at the chance to get as far away as I could from Joel. Being near him caused a lot of feelings that I just did not want to deal with. Dustin did notice something weird, but of course, he can’t see past the fog of our wedding looming over our heads.

He figured it was because Joel was there when I was growing up, so alongside my dad, he took up some sort of fatherly role as well.

Thank fuck my husband-to-be can be pretty dim sometimes. If he truly had half a mind, he would notice the way my eyes couldn’t quite meet his gaze and the way I clenched my legs, trying to ignore how wet I was.

The beautiful dusk creates a beautiful mirage of colors as the night settles down, and the lights make the city come alive. It looked like someone had spilled wine and fire across the horizon.

I felt like it was mocking me on how perfect it was. a huge contrast to the broken jumbled mess i was

The dishes were stacked in the sink in front of me as the steam rose and fogged up the window. I braced myself against the counter, pressing my palms into the linoleum. My chest felt tight. I could still hear Joel’s voice coming from the dining room. It was as smooth as bourbon and extremely dangerous. Needing something to distract myself, I started rinsing, scrubbing the dishes harder than necessary. My hands felt raw as the sponge dried out my skin.

Like a broken record, the way Joel said my name kept replaying in my head, deep and slow. He only said it just once, but the way he did made me want to punch something. Or kiss. Honestly, I'm not really sure.

And that confused me more than anything.

Sarah had left just a few minutes before, but Joel stayed behind. Casually and effortlessly, he made an excuse to stay, pretending it was only because he needed to talk to my dad. I'm not sure what his goal is here, but I think it’s just to piss me off.

I didn’t realize the way I was gripping a knife I was cleaning until blood started to drip from my hand. The stinging pain was a welcoming distraction, even though it was brief. Remembering my dad had a first aid kit somewhere in the kitchen due to his having accidents and accidentally cutting himself by using the knife the wrong way.

Like father, like daughter.

The blood drips onto the counter and into the grooves of the once pure white countertop. The disinfectant stings like a bitch against the cut, making me wish I was anywhere but here. This was supposed to be the happiest time of my life, but here I was in the kitchen of my childhood home, a gash on my hand, with my fiancé, and thinking about the 56-year-old man in my living room bending me over this countertop.

I’m such a terrible person for thinking that.

I hear footsteps against the floor, expecting it to be the two of the three I would rather see, but the universe threw up a middle finger and sent Joel my way. His stature is imposing no matter what room he walks into. It’s like he demands his presence to be known.

“Are you okay, Delilah?” Joel asks. His concern rattles me as if ten minutes before he wasn’t just staring me down like I was the most delicious thing at the dining table.

I gulp slightly, shaking off the feeling of want and need. “Yeah… I just somehow accidentally cut myself while washing dishes.”

“Like father, like daughter,” he says. A small chuckle comes deep from Joel’s chest. I never really heard him laugh all that much growing up while hanging out with Sarah after school or on weekends. He was the strong, silent type, always brooding in a corner.

“Yeah, it seems like it is.”

Tension settled back into the air, stifling and heady, making me feel uncomfortable. There was a question demanding to be answered, and neither one of us wanted to be the one who had to.

“So you’re getting married soon…” Joel muttered. He asked it like a question, but deep down, it was a matter of disdain. He never seemed to be the type of man to stoop so low as to play with my mind and linger beside me, dripping uncertainty, infecting me with the thought of his lips on mine. Bringing me back to that night about five years ago.

“You haven’t changed much,” he said

I clenched my jaw, ignoring the sudden urge to just throw myself in the middle of the road. I would rather get hit by a car than be standing here with him in the kitchen. Joel carefully steps forward, taking my hand in his as he puts the final bit of disinfectant on my cut. His fingers dance across my wrist as i notice his own hands shaking, his touch sends shockwaves and overloading my nerves. It’s unusual. Such a feeling I haven’t experienced in years. The very look in his eyes sends me into orbit and into the heavens, stealing my breath and giving me his instead.

He places a band-aid on my hand and gives it a light kiss. A sweet gesture that not even my future husband would do.

What the hell was I doing?

Backing up from Joel, creating as much space as I possibly could, I pretended there was some sort of invisible barrier between us, acting as if he’s on the other side of the world. Far away from me.

“Don’t…” my voice trembled, unable to hide my frustration. “You can’t do this. Not now.”

“Darlin’, I… that kiss…” Joel hesitated. “That kiss felt right, but your dad… he would kill me.”

“I spent the last five years in torment because of you. And now that I’m getting married, you’re here and for what? Your big ego couldn’t handle it?”

“Delilah, that is not—look, that guy is not right for you. I can see it plain as day.”

“That guy is Dustin, and he will be my husband. And what do you know about what’s right for me? The man who kisses someone and then runs away like they’re some shy teenager?”

Joel’s face fills with guilt and shame. He looks like someone who’s about to confess a sin and ask for repentance. I could tell it was gnawing away at him, stripping him down to sinew and remorse.

Dustin’s voice cuts through the remaining bit of sanity I had left.

“Delilah… are you okay in there?” Dustin asked.

“Yes, honey, I’m almost done with the dishes,” I replied.

I finally put away the first aid kit as I hear Joel shuffle behind me, leaving the kitchen, hopefully to leave and go home. This month is going to be like when I was a kid, being dragged to church on Sundays. Long and drawn out.

The rest of the night was uneventful. After I finished the dishes and Joel finally went home, my dad decided to go to bed. Wishing us goodnight, he headed upstairs, leaving me and Dustin alone. I kind of wished that he wasn’t here, as terrible as that may sound. I felt overstimulated, and I didn’t want him to be all over me. His touch wasn’t the one I wanted. He’s downstairs while I’m up in our room, my childhood bedroom, trying to sort out the extremely complicated situation that I have somehow put myself in.

After all these years, Joel still ignited a fire that pooled in my lower belly. I’m not sure what I did in a past life, but I was being given torture and punishment like how Prometheus was punished after stealing fire for the humans. Never-ending, rib-sticking pain.

A hot shower did nothing to soothe my aches and pains of being rigid and stone-faced all night. Hopefully, some sleep will fix it. I laid in my bed, the mattress molding into my frame, giving some relief.

The stick-on stars I put on the roof glare at me as I start to nod off, my eyes growing heavy with drowsiness. I got them when I was about eight. It was when I was really into outer space and everything in between. Begged my dad for weeks to let me, until he finally gave up. Him and Joel put them up one weekend, and they’ve been there since. Everywhere I look is a constant damn reminder of the southern drawl that reminds me of a warm summer day here in Texas, sipping on sweet tea while sitting on the porch.

The last thought I had before finally going to sleep was a pair of brown eyes instead of the usual blue ones, and rough, calloused hands instead of smooth and soft ones.

I am absolutely screwed.

[dewdrop-writes]

Blood of Ambition: Chapter 6 - Lurking In The Dark

Dio x reader

Um....Dio isn't a great person in this! Kinda possessive and. Yea

<<First || <<Previous || Next>>

Something uncomfortable nipped at the back of Dio’s mind. It wasn’t painful, yet the ever present sensation refused to ebb away no matter what course of action he took. He felt hollow. Like a magnet trying to find its way back to the other half, only to be stopped by a surface between them. It trickled down from his pain, onto his tongue, lacing his words with far more venom than he’d used in a while. It trickled down even further, eroding away the insides of his chest, of his stomach. It burned, the sensation similar to a rabid cat trying to claw its way out, ripping mindlessly at flesh in desperation.

Dio hated it.

It made him feel too weak. 

It clouded his judgement.

He sighed, running his hand through a tangle of golden locks. They’d grown much longer during his studies, as he’d found no need to trim them. It suited him, he’d heard from others. Made him look somewhat regal. He figured it only right he’d embrace that.

The blank page before him stared at him, mocking him for his scattered thoughts. How foolish of it, Dio thought bitterly as he cast a glance at the discarded pile of it’s crumpled brethren. 

He could feel his jaw tightening, teeth clashing against each other almost painfully, grinding away at one another in a destructive battle. His fingers gripped around the quill, ignoring the painful sensation flowing through his arm as the material dug into flesh. His mind refused to cooperate, unwilling to do the job set out for it. Assignments held little importance in the forefront of his thoughts, when something much more impactful had stolen away his attention. 

Months had passed, autumn bleeding into winter, winter withdrawing into spring. The incessant singing of cheerful birds outside his window irritated him to no end each morning. The sun began stealing moments for itself, pushing past dark and heavy clouds and beaming down brightly for all to enjoy. 

Yet Dio couldn’t help feeling as though he alone had been captured in a singular moment. No matter the changes in his appearance, no matter the weather outside, he was imprisoned in limbo. No letters had come since his last encounter with you. Dio didn’t often lower himself to reaching out more than once after his initial attempts were rebutted. Yet he still found himself writing follow up, perhaps secretly hoping you had good reason not to respond in a timely manner. After weeks bled into months, that could clearly no longer be the case. 

It angered him, your sudden callous distance. 

What right did someone like you have to ignore someone like him?

Those thoughts were strong, burning hot in his mind, in his chest, tightening the drawstrings around his heart. Moments after cursing your very being, however, he could feel something pitiful wash over him. Melancholy. Distaste for his own thoughts. Your mere existence was weakening him. The lack of it was actively causing him distress. 

Many times, he considered marching over to London and giving you a piece of his mind. Tear into you with feral rage, rip open your skin and flesh til you were nothing but a pile of gore. That desire was often followed by a feeling of wrongness. Something sharp and painful. The thought of watching the light leave your eyes frightened him. He’d been no stranger to taking a life. He took pride in it, regarding the lives of others as far below himself, after all. Thinking of snuffing out the Joestar line brought him no such tightness in the chest.

You had done something to him. Perhaps when you had first met all those years ago. Despite your miserable state, your human weakness, he could not discard you as he wished he could. How could you possibly discard him? Perhaps his words had been unkind. Perhaps he had undermined you. But his goal was to make you rise. Rise from the ashes of your pathetic life of poverty and blossom into something as magnificent as he. Stand beside him as you had for all those years. Look into his eyes with sincere affection as you whisper his name. As you told him he could achieve all he wanted to.

He knew his temper was getting out of hand. He’d been cooler than usual to Jonathan, allowing his mask to drift. He’d been more curt with Lord Joestar, too. It goes without saying that the servants and his schoolmates bore the brunt of his frustrations. 

What was he to do?

His nineteenth had come and gone. You hadn’t sent him your congratulations. The lavish gifts he had received stood in his room untouched. All he could do was stew in an ever growing pit of resentment that soured his every action. His only cold comfort was the fact he must only wait a couple more years to enact his plans. At the very least, soon he’d be a wealthy lawyer with a hefty inheritance. 

Jonathan, despite it all, was a pest. The kindness he so generously distributed made bile rise in his throat. It was pathetic. It was weak. Still, he supposed, it helped his cause. 

At times like these, however, Dio was forced to consider that perhaps Jonathan wasn’t as much of an oaf as he’d thought him to be.

“Would you like to join me in London? I’m attending a seminar there and thought that…a change of scenery might do you good.” The offer was genuine. There was no malice, no sneer, behind those words. Still, Dio bristled at the idea. It felt like an insult. Like some sort of pity. His teeth dug into his cheek to hold back his tongue from spraying venom.

“A change of scenery?” he mused, his voice strained. If Jonathan took note, he did not speak on it. 

“Very well. When will we be setting out?”

With that, he’d been confined to a carriage ride shared with the Joestar brat not long after. He managed to bite his tongue, reign his temper. Managed to come across as relatively pleasant. He could see the faint outlines of a mask clinging to his companion’s features as well, his eyes flashing with something more suspenseful now and then. Something simmered behind those serene blue eyes. Perhaps Dio wasn’t alone in his games. 

He discarded the brief sense of unease that thought brought him. No matter what, Dio would win in the end. All he had to do was keep it together for a couple more years. Soon, he would be allowed to rip the mask from his face and allow it to shatter. 

Their lodgings were lavish as usual, no expenses spared on food or drink. After an exhausting journey, Jonathan was quick to retire into his quarters to freshen up. Dio supposed he should allow himself the same freedoms, if he were to accomplish his goal. He had to look presentable. Healthy. Radiant. No crack of insecurity or restless nights could be allowed to slip past his mask. For the first time in so long, he found his hands shaking as he tamed his hair, staring at his visage in the mirror. A hot flash of anger burst in his veins, bubbling under the skin and tinging the corners of his vision in white. Something animalistic deep within him screamed obscenities into his ears, urging him to lunge forward and shatter the reflective surface.

He restrained himself, leaning onto his dresser as unsteady heaves rippled through his frame. 

Something was deeply wrong with him.

Control and restraint were slipping through his fingers by the minute, threatening to tear off his skin and reveal all the ugliness hidden under porcelain smiles and gilded words. He hated it. He had yet to experience such spiraling emotions since the death of his father. Yet now, despite being older and wiser, he still felt like a little boy cowering before his father’s raised fist.

It simply would not do.

It was well past noon by the time he’d managed to soothe his frayed nerves and smooth out his appearance. The bleak spring sun was high in the sky, vigilantly casting an unified glow across the streets of London. Dio found himself sneering at the grime and filth it highlighted. Still, swallowing his distaste, his feet led him to a location that had become so very familiar to him.

The bakery.

Sweet aromas of baked goods wafted across the streets, greeting him before he even saw the establishment. It was both right and wrong at the same time. Your very existence sent him spiraling on many sleepless nights, questioning his very being. He both loathed and admired you at the same time. 

He came to a halt not far from the building, peering through the window from across the road. As expected, he could make out your silhouette bustling through the store, unchanged from when he’d last seen you. If nerves and doubts plagued your minds as they did his, you showed no signs of it.

Of course you were not alone. Clients filtered in and out as he watched, feet rooted firmly in place on the cobbled streets. Were his mind more at ease, he would have felt the stiffness setting into his back and legs, yet the discomfort was overshadowed by the unwelcome gloom breeding within him.

What finally snapped him from his trance, was the sight of another vaguely familiar figure entering the bakery, a wide smile spread across his gaudy features. Dio could feel sudden heat bursting past a dam, flooding his frame with fury and frustration.

That pesky regular of yours.

Through the window, he could see the way he leered at you, leaning closer across the counter, breaking past the norms of decent politeness. His fingers grazed your arm, lingering longer than they should have. He reminded Dio of a dog. Desperate and mindless. Lead only by impulse and instinct. He could hardly believe you would allow this, yet you made no show of discomfort or unease. A serene smile settled across your face as you chatted away, motioning towards the display with a graceful flick of your hand. Briefly, you laughed, eyes crinkling as your hand rose to cover your mouth.

The fire within Dio could only continue to rise, flames of anger flickering from the tips of his fingers to the back of his skull.

The young man was rooted in his spot for longer than he would have liked to admit, gaze glued on the silent show played out before him. Finally, after a stretch of time that seemed both unendingly long and incredibly short at the same time, that vermin left the premises. Dio’s cold gaze followed his movements, narrowing in suspicion. Before he could even pose the question for himself, his feet moved without his input, trailing behind the offending man. His steps were soft and innocuous, veiled by the busy streets of afternoon London. He couldn’t quite decide what it was that urged him to follow. There was nothing remarkable about the man. Perhaps that was why. It was difficult to swallow the bitter reality that you would rather speak with someone so insignificant than him. Him, who despite his greatness made space for you in his life. Him, who took time to write to you. Him, who remembered you all these years, despite his desire to bury and burn any fragments of his past.

It felt like a personal slight. It was you, who should have been pining and yearning for even a sliver of his attention. 

So why was he the one navigating the labyrinthian streets of the dirty capital, trailing behind a man he would have not spared even a second glance? 

He could not find an answer that would satisfy him. 

So, he followed. Like a predator stalking prey. His victim moved at a leisurely pace, clutching a small bundle wrapped in paper. Pastries from the bakery, no doubt. He led the way from the bustling streets towards the more familiar, narrow and dirty alleyways. Living quarters were just as cramped as the streets, large groups packed into small houses. The familiar scent of sick and misery invaded Dio's nostrils, burning, overwhelming. Despite his best efforts to contain himself, a shudder creeped down his spine. He felt dirty himself for entering this scene that he had sworn to leave behind. 

The man finally came to a halt, entering a pathetic hovel. It was, admittedly, not the worst Dio had seen, but certainly unimpressive and foul. Even from his measured distance, he could make out the sight of the young man being tackled into a hug by his younger siblings, before turning to an aging frail woman. The sudden lurch in his stomach made his feet sway underneath him. His teeth clashed together angrily as he reeled the unpleasant sensations back, sucking a deep breath past his lips, feeling the rancid air whistle through them.

He had work to do.

By the time Dio returned to his lodgings, his spirits had lifted significantly. A cold smile stretched across his lips as he caught sight of himself in the faint reflection of a window. He paused briefly, tousling his hair and ripping open the first button of his coat. He had to make his display believable. As much as he hated to appear weak, this would help tackle some of his problems for now. He was never above playing a little dirty if it got the desired results, after all. With a deep inhale, he smoothed the features of his delicate mask before entering the townhouse. 

He was greeted by a servant, who he waved over with an agitated flick of his wrist. The young man looked confused, surprised to even be addressed by the young lord. Dio caught a flicker of panic washing over his features before he managed to catch himself.

“How may I help you, sir?” he asked, voice timid and small. It was laughable, yet Dio kept his cool.

“I need you to fetch Scotland Yard for me. Make it quick. I was stolen from.” Dio’s voice took on a sharp edge, his features darkening as he put on a masterful display of embarrassment and anger. The young servant could only nod before rushing off and out of the door. As soon as he was out of sight, the blonde sank into a plush seat nearby, rubbing his temples. The warmth of the room washed over him, sinking into him gently and soothing the tension in his back. Now, all he needed to do was wait. He would emerge victorious from this simple game of chess, soon enough. Perhaps, then, he could plan out his next move.

[daylite-writes]

Yandere Xiao Thoughts

cw: previous kidnapping, mild self harm, yandere, soft yandere, fairly mild.

Oh immortal yanderes. The ones that steal you away, the ones that don’t quite understand how humans work. The ones that didn’t do their research.

The ones in over their head.

Learning quickly how much humans need socialization, need stimulation, need sun and nature. Learning quickly how badly humans react to being deprived of it.

Xiao doesn’t know how to react once it starts getting to you. You’re breaking down more often, quicker anger, quicker to cry. Pacing the small area he’s forced you into. At first, he thought you were just going through a… rougher period of adjustment. Until your coping mechanisms become self destructive.

He doesn’t know what do when he comes back from patrolling Liyue to find the skin of your forearms red, covered in scratches from your own nails. He offers little except panted out comforts and promises of safety as he pins you down, trying to keep your hands off you, deathly afraid of you hurting yourself even more. This goes on for hours, until you eventually fall asleep, exhausted and worn out from the months.

After a short consolation with Zhongli, the reality that he’s been caring for you horribly becomes apparent. His previously iron will and rules eroding a bit as he tries to meet the less visible, psychological needs that a human requires.

But bending his own rules for you does not mean freedom.

You need sunlight? You’re in his lap for hours, his arms wrapped around you as you two sit in the sun atop a isolated mountain peak. It’s better than nothing, but he refuses to let go. This becomes routine.

You need mental stimulation? Entertainment and occupation? Zhongli suggests books, but Xiao decides on you singing and playing music. So he can hear it. You’ve never played, but when he presents you with several masterfully crafted instruments, you eventually have no choice but to take a violin bow into your hands and open the guide book he gave you. What else is there to do. He’s always lingering whenever you’re learning.

You’re touch starved? Now his hands won’t leave your skin. It’s not even lewd, more threatening as he rests his hand around the back of your neck, or forces you to hug him.

Previously, you felt like a little bird in a cage, never to fly, owned by a passive master. Now though, you’re role is that of an unwilling lap dog. Better, even if you yearn for something else.

[thefreakandthehair]

A Steddie fanfiction written for the @steddiebang with art by @sungods-healingg and @oriarts. 55k. Rated E.

Chapter One coming soon to ao3 on November 25, 2023! Sneak peek included below!

“Give it, hey! Give me the check,” Eddie argues, trying to pry it from Steve’s hands. “I’m not letting you pay, c’mon.” 

“I—” Steve starts grappling and tries to maintain some degree of subtly in the still bustling diner. “I’m paying, give it.” 

“Not a chance, I don’t want stories going around that I’m some kept boyfriend who uses Steve Harrington for his money.” Eddie’s lips purse and his eyes narrow. “Hand it over.”

With a final tug, Eddie celebrates internally as he yanks the envelope from Steve. He realizes belatedly that he only won that battle because Steve freezes. It takes a few seconds, maybe a moment as he slips his credit card into the little pocket and flags down their waitress again, to figure out why. 

Boyfriend. 

Presumptuous at best and enough to scare Steve off at worst. The silence is hard to read so Eddie simply hands over the check and stares with wide eyes, his heart pounding in his chest. 

“Or-- you know, just, someone who uses Steve Harrington for his money. Big baseball contract and all that?” He tries to brush it off and deflect with humor, something that usually works well enough but apparently, not on Steve. 

“You said boyfriend.” He says simply, ignoring Eddie’s attempts entirely. 

Suddenly, Eddie regrets that sweet dessert for dinner because his stomach is tumbling in a dangerous way. He rubs the back of his neck and pulls at a strand of loose hair.

“I uh, yeah, I guess I did. Do you… have thoughts? On that?” 

Steve blinks at him, three times in quick succession, before the right corner of his mouth quirks up. “I do, actually. But I think I’d rather show you and I’d probably lose that big baseball contract if I did that here.” 

“Oh?” Eddie teases, pausing to grab the check back from the waitress to sign and slide his credit card back into it wallet. When she’s far enough away that Eddie’s sure she won’t hear, he reminds Steve of their location. “My apartment’s just like, two blocks over. If uh, if you’d like to show me in a more private spot?” 

The first time Eddie massaged Steve, he felt called back to the dangerous adrenaline rushes of his youth, all impulsivity and carelessness, and he feels it again as he invites Steve back to his apartment. Or maybe, it never even left. Maybe it’s just been slowly eroding his resolve for the past two months.

Whatever the case, his body trembles when Steve says Yes. 

tagging people who've asked, expressed interest to me or in tags, etc. and some pals: @hbyrde36 @steddieasitgoes @sidekick-hero @dryptid @sharpbutsoft @cuoredimuschio @kkpwnall @starryeyedjanai @scarcrossdlvrs @marvel-ous-m @pearynice @judasofsuburbia @corrodedbisexual @shares-a-vest @hellion-child @pumpkinspicestevie @delta-piscium @perseus-notjackson @thisapplepielife @withacapitalp @nostalgicbones @hereforanepilogue @stevethehairington @nostalgicbones @t-boyeddie @theheadlessphilosopher @stobinesque @imfinereallyy @hexiewrites @maxineholtzmann @starrystevie @steddieas-shegoes @daysarestranger @goodolefashionedloverboi