#but really neon and eye bleed

[trashmyash]

I love rhythm games to death but I'd never played an arcade ones before, I love arcades but I've only been to like Dave and Busters and REALLY old arcade cabinet only ones

I went to a tucked between stores with barely a sign type one with my wife and got to experience a Wacca machine for the first time??? My life is changed, I've unlocked a new level of mentally ill that I can never truly come back from, I eat sleep and breathe thinking of you oh glorious slidy circle game....

[willowser]

honestly if i had a bigger brain, i would write an entire android shouto fic

[pin-k-ink]

thirst // kageyama tobio

tw ⇢ friends to lovers, jealous sex, possessive!tobio, lingerie, unprotected sex, manhandling, dirty talk, nipple play, titjob

wc ⇢ 3.1k

"If you keep wandering around the mall like a hungry nomad, your feet are going to bleed." Tobio eyed your overloaded shopping bags with a mixture of exhaustion and amusement.

You stuck your tongue out at your best friend's teasing. Though the spring day was warm, you relished the coolness of the air-conditioned shopping plaza after hours of storefront hopping.

"Says the guy who spends entire days on the court practicing serves until his shoes wear through." You nudged him playfully with your elbow. "This is cardio for shoppers."

Tobio chuckled, running a hand through his raven locks. As athletes, you both lived by pushing your bodies to the limit - whether that was on the volleyball court for him or outside the dressing room for you.

With a sigh, he resigned himself to more carrying and following as you led the way toward another blindingly well-lit storefront. Your face brightened with childlike excitement at the lacy displays in the windows.

"Oooh, let's go in here!" You grabbed his muscular forearm, pulling him along excitedly. "I need to replenish my underwear supply."

Tobio's eyes widened almost comically as he took in the word "Intimate Apparel" spelled out in a calligraphic logo. A rosy blush crept up the back of his neck, but he allowed you to tug him inside the upscale lingerie boutique.

The boutique's plush crimson carpet muffled your footsteps as you eagerly browsed the satin and lace-trimmed displays. Tobio trailed awkwardly behind, the tips of his ears still tinged pink from embarrassment. Surely as your oldest friend he'd accompanied you lingerie shopping before, but the experience never failed to fluster him.

You ran your fingers along a silk negligee, admiring the delicate floral embroidery. "What do you think, Tobio? This one's pretty."

He swallowed hard, averting his gaze. "I, uh, yyeah. It's...nice."

Sensing his discomfort, you let the filmy fabric fall back against the mannequin's curves. With a teasing grin, you decided to have a little fun at your easily-flustered friend's expense.

"Oh wow, look at this!" You gestured toward a particularly risqué teddy with tantalizing peekaboo cutouts. "Maybe I should get this and finally snag myself a boyfriend to model it for."

Tobio made a small choking sound in the back of his throat. You laughed at the bright red now staining his chiseled features.

Before he could sputter a retort, a petite blonde salesgirl materialized at your side. "That's one of our lacier numbers," she said approvingly. "Very popular with the daring crowd looking to spoil their lovers."

"Well, I don't currently have a lover to spoil," you replied with a wistful pout. "Maybe I'll get it anyway in hopes of someday landing a special someone..."

You made a show of examining the flimsy negligee, tugging at the shimmery fabric as if gauging how it might hug your figure's curves. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Tobio's reaction intently.

The salesgirl watched your teasing display with an indulgent smile. When you glanced over at Tobio, you found he had wandered a few paces away, studiously examining a display of silk robes. His broad shoulders were tense, whether from discomfort or restraint you couldn't say.

"You know..." The salesgirl leaned in conspiratorially. "If you really want to knock his socks off, you should take a look at our specialty Brazilian line."

Your brows shot up as she led you toward a curtained-off section with a neon "Sexy" sign. Taking in the sheer, fringed confections on the mannequins, you felt your cheeks grow warm.

"These are...wow. Definitely bold," you murmured, running a fingertip along a minuscule G-string. The floss-like scrap of stringing and ribbons could hardly be called underwear at all.

The salesgirl's eyes danced mischievously. "For the woman who wants to drive her man wild. I'd bet you could get that tall, gorgeous friend of yours hot and bothered in two seconds flat wearing one of these numbers."

You threw a furtive glance in Tobio's direction, suddenly envisioning him flustered in an entirely different way. A shiver chased down your spine at the thought.

"You know, these might be just the thing to break the tension..." The words slipped out in a hushed tone.

Seeming to sense she'd accurately read the chemistry between you and your oblivious companion, the salesgirl gave you a conspiratorial wink.

Despite your pounding heart and flushed cheeks, you found yourself at the register purchasing one of the daring lingerie sets before you could overthink it. The salesgirl gave you a sly smile as she tucked the tissue-wrapped parcel into your bag.

"Good luck," she whispered with a wink.

You rejoined Tobio in the main boutique area, your steps feeling uncharacteristically shaky. He eyed your bag with furrowed brows but didn't pry, instead falling into step beside you as you headed for the exit.

The ride back to your neighborhood was a tense, charged silence that made you hyperaware of Tobio's proximity. You snuck sidelong glances at his chiseled profile, wondering if he could possibly guess the secret you now carried in your purchases.

Finally you arrived at your building, ascending the stairs up to your apartments on the third floor. Tobio walked you to your door out of old habit.

"I'll let you get settled," he said gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Long day."

You nodded, keenly aware of the slinky lingerie set tucked away and suddenly burning with curiosity over what Tobio might think if he saw it. Before losing your nerve, you blurted out, "Tobio? Do you maybe want to come in for a minute?"

A flicker of surprise crossed his features before he gave a slow nod. "Sure, if you want some help with your haul."

Once inside, you excused yourself to freshen up, leaving Tobio alone in your living room with your multitude of shopping bags. Quickly you stashed away the lacy negligee in your dresser, hoping he wouldn't stumble across it.

When you returned, you found Tobio rooting through one of the bags, brows knit as he pulled out unfamiliar tissue paper packaging.

Tobio's dark brows knit as he pulled apart the tissue paper, his calloused fingers brushing against sheer, silky fabric. As comprehension dawned, a deep flush crept up his neck.

"Y/N...what is this?" His gravelly voice was tight as he held up the scarcely-there lingerie set.

You froze in the doorway, feeling your own face heat up. Of course he would find that particular purchase. Suddenly your heart was pounding.

"Oh...um, that?" You willed your voice not to waver. "Just a little something I treated myself to at the boutique."

Tobio swallowed hard, unable to tear his eyes away from the flimsy ribbons and frills draped over his large palm. "But...why would you need..."

"Need sexy underwear?" You arched a brow. "Maybe I'm finally going to put myself out there. Try to catch myself a boyfriend."

His penetrating blue gaze snapped up to your face, an unreadable storm brewing in their depths. You held his stare steadily, trying to gauge his reaction.

"A boyfriend?" The slightest edge crept into Tobio's tone. "Who did you have in mind for modeling this stuff?"

You pretended to examine your nails nonchalantly. "Oh, no one in particular yet. Maybe I'll put out feelers on a dating app..."

A muscle ticked in his clenched jaw. With two long strides, Tobio closed the distance between you until his body heat enveloped you.

"You really want to prance around in lingerie for some random guy?" His low rumble made your knees feel weak. "Let someone else see you like this?"

Dragging in a shuddering breath, you tilted your face up until it was a scant inch from his. "Would you prefer I only modeled it for you, Tobio?"

His gaze darkened with a molten heat, one large hand settling possessively on your waist as he angled his head down until his mouth hovered a hairsbreadth from yours.

Tobio's heated gaze dropped to your parted lips for a loaded moment before he tilted his chiseled jaw, the roughness of his stubble grazing your sensitized skin as his mouth brushed a feather-light, tantalizing caress against the corner of your lips.

A shuddering breath escaped you at the electrifying almost-kiss that was somehow more maddeningly provocative than a full-on lip-lock. Tobio's lashes were low, his pupils swallowing the blue of his irises as he leaned back just enough to hold your yearning stare.

With agonizing deliberation, he pressed the lacy negligee into your hand, his calloused fingers boldly grazing the swell of your breast as he stated in a low rasp, "Put it on. For me."

You felt your core tighten with heated anticipation at the commanding growl underlying his words. There was no mistaking the want, the hunger simmering just beneath Tobio's restraint now.

His hand fell away as you clutched the lingerie to your chest like a lifeline. You struggled not to squirm under the smoldering promise flickering in the depths of his eyes. With leaden legs, you forced yourself to turn and head for your bedroom before your weakening knees could betray you.

Shoulders squared, you shot him one last look over your shoulder. "Don't go anywhere."

The words emerged lower, huskier than you intended. But from the way Tobio's strong throat reflexively constricted, you knew the message had landed.

In your bedroom, you tugged the sundress over your head and quickly shimmied into the sheer bra and matching panties, taking in the sight of yourself in the mirror. You were no stranger to lace, satin, and all the accoutrements of seduction, but the lingerie set was far more scandalous than anything else in your closet. The delicate ribbons and sheer panels accentuated your curves, making you feel impossibly more exposed - and more irresistible.

Giving a little shimmy, you adjusted the straps and let out a shuddering breath, nerves fluttering. It was hard to believe that the moment you'd been imagining and fantasizing about for years was finally here.

Pulling open the door, you were met with Tobio's piercing blue gaze roving over you with unmasked hunger as he stood hunched over with his hands braced against the doorframe, trapping you in his shadow.

He straightened, a predatory glint flashing across his features. Your pulse quickened as he backed you slowly toward the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight as you sat back.

Tobio loomed over you, his large frame blocking out the light, the air crackling with tension as his hooded gaze swept over you. He looked every inch the conquering king surveying his domain.

You fought to steady your erratic breaths, feeling suddenly dizzy. A small whimper escaped you as Tobio reached out, the rough pads of his fingers skimming the sheer, gossamer panels of your bra, tracing the swell of your breasts.

Your body trembled as he brushed his thumb across your nipple, sending a jolt of electric heat straight to your core. Tobio's intense, heated gaze never left yours as he repeated the motion, his touch firm and deliberate, watching you respond.

"This is the kind of stuff you wear for someone who’s about to fuck you," he said, his voice a low rumble that had you clenching your thighs together. "And you're telling me you wanted to model this shit for some random guy?"

Your breathing quickened, a fresh wave of arousal flooding you as he palmed your breasts through the thin fabric, his thumbs and forefingers deftly tweaking the hardened buds.

"What if I told you I didn't want you to model it for anyone but me?" Tobio's low, silken tone was almost a purr as his calloused fingertips drifted higher, curling around the slender straps holding up the scant top.

Slowly, torturously, he eased them down your shoulders, his eyes following the path of his movements, drinking in every inch of bare flesh. You watched, transfixed, as he pulled the fabric down further, exposing your breasts and the hardened, rosy peaks.

Tobio let the straps fall to your elbows, his large hands moving to cup your naked breasts, squeezing them with just enough force to make you gasp. A small smirk curled his lips as he thumbed your sensitive nipples.

"Answer me."

"I..." The words caught in your throat, and you had to swallow hard. "I wouldn't let anyone else see me like this. Only you."

Satisfaction flared in Tobio's gaze at the confession, his thumb and forefinger twisting the pebbled buds harder, sending a fresh wave of sparks dancing over your skin. He let his knuckles dance over your skin, skimming the smooth expanse of your throat before he roughly slammed you down onto the bed, his broad frame covering yours.

His lips captured yours, and the kiss was fierce, possessive, claiming, as he nipped and sucked at your bottom lip. His tongue plundered your mouth, demanding and unyielding.

Tobio's calloused hand slid along your skin, skimming the curve of your waist before palming your thigh, the touch scorching through the sheer panties. Your body felt on fire as he traced a finger along the elastic waistband, teasing and taunting, his teeth scraping against your bottom lip before he bit down, sucking hard enough to draw a moan from you.

Your hips bucked as his hand delved lower, his fingers pushing the panties aside. You moaned again as his thumb swirled around your swollen clit, applying the perfect amount of pressure.

Tobio chuckled lowly against your neck, his breath hot on your skin as he kissed and licked his way down to your breasts. You arched against him as his tongue swirled around one of your hardened nipples, and then his teeth were biting down, and you were moaning his name, begging for more.

The sound of his zipper sliding down was like a gunshot, and your core tightened in anticipation. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans, shoving them and his boxers off completely, his thick, erect cock springing free.

The sight of his length was almost intimidating, and for a moment you wondered how he would even fit. He smirked at your reaction, a gleam in his eye as he rubbed the tip against your wet slit.

"Not yet." His voice was low and husky, the promise of pleasure dripping from his tone. "I want to fuck those tits first."

Next thing you knew, his hands were on your hips, tugging you further down the bed until he was straddling your stomach. His hands bunched up the lacy material, his cock sliding against your sternum.

He grabbed the front of the negligée you wore, the lacy cups forcing your tits together as Tobio held the fabric as what could only be described a rein. Your lips parted in a gasp as his thick length slid between the soft globes, the tip of his cock appearing above the sheer cups.

Tobio's gaze was fixed on yours, his eyes dark with desire. You couldn't tear your eyes away, watching as his hips rocked, his cock thrusting between your tits. The sight was obscene, and you felt a fresh wave of arousal flood your core.

The sensation of his cock sliding between your tits was unlike anything you'd ever experienced. The friction was intoxicating, and you could feel the tension building in his thighs as his pace quickened, his length growing slick from the beads of precum that had gathered at the tip.

He leaned forward, his hands gripping the headboard as his hips continued to piston, his cock thrusting in and out of the makeshift opening of your bra. His eyes were half-lidded, his jaw clenched, his muscles rippling under his skin.

Your own hands found their way to your nipples, playing with the sensitive nubs, and Tobio growled at the sight. The sound went straight to your core, and you squeezed your thighs together, desperate for some relief.

You could tell he was close, his pace growing erratic, his breaths coming in sharp pants. His hips snapped, and then his body tensed, and you felt his cock throb between your tits. His cum spurted, landing in white ropes across your throat andchest, and he continued to rock his hips, fucking his release out.

His chest heaved as he stared down at you, and a slow smirk tugged at his lips. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting himself.

You were a mess, his release staining the fabric of the lingerie, the front of it twisted and wrinkled. But Tobio didn't seem to care, his hands still tangled in the lace as he tugged it down, exposing your breasts again.

"I wanna see those tits bounce when I'm pounding into you," he said, his tone dark and possessive, as if he had no intention of letting you leave his sight.

Before you could react, he grabbed your thighs and yanked you to the edge of the bed, his hands digging into the soft flesh as he spread them wide. You were soaked, your pussy dripping and aching to be filled.

Tobio gripped his cock, using the tip to nudge your sodden panties aside. You gasped as he slowly pressed into you, and your walls stretched to accommodate his thickness. He paused for a moment, giving you time to adjust, before he began to thrust.

His pace was relentless, his hips snapping against yours, his balls slapping against your ass. You could feel the tension building, your muscles clenching around him as his cock plunged in and out.

Your moans were loud and wanton, and you were sure your neighbors could hear, but you didn't care. All that mattered was Tobio and his thick cock driving into you, the feel of him filling you, the slap of his skin against yours.

His grip tightened around your thighs, pressing them back until you were almost bent in half. His cock hammered into you, and the new angle made your toes curl, his length hitting all the right spots.

Your orgasm hit you like a truck, and you cried out, your pussy clamping down around him as you gushed and sprayed him with an obscene amount of liquid. He kept thrusting, prolonging your pleasure, his eyes locked on yours.

His pace faltered, and his body stiffened, and you could feel his cock throbbing inside you, spurting and filling you with his seed. He grunted, his cock pumping rope after rope, his thrusts slowing as he milked his release.

Finally he stilled, his length buried inside you, and his gaze locked on yours. His lips curled into a smug smirk, and he leaned down, brushing his lips against yours.

"Don't think I'm done with you yet," he said, his voice husky. "I plan on fucking you over every surface in this apartment, and then some."

[bluerosefox]

A Fair Warning

It was only a matter of time, and a long awaited and well deserved comeuppance, when Joker tried to hurt the wrong person or people.

Not everyone was going to play his games like 'Batsy' does. Not everyone will hesitate or let him live should he put his hands on someone to hurt them. Not everyone will believe Arkham could 'fix' him, he just needed more time and help.

No.

This time Joker bit off more than he could chew when he kidnapped the newly hired Arkham psychiatrist Jasmine Fenton (and he had plans, so many plans, for her. With her mixture of Harley's mind and her looks matching Gordon's daughter would sure to cause some chaos and pain in memories) and the girl's visiting sister Danielle 'Ellie' (and did he laugh when he noticed the 'Wayne' adoptive looks the girl had, on the fun he'll have, maybe he'll beat her the way he beat the second Robin just for funzie's, it'll no doubt upset Batman) from Jasmine's apartment.

He had plans to keep the Bats guessing where he was and by the time they reach him it'll be far to late for them to save either of the two girls, he had just sent the little video he taped to the Bats and the police to get the ball rolling...

So...

So why did a shiver run down his spine for the first time in years when they both looked unafraid (it was their eyes that made him shiver, a look of already dead yet somehow alive, something he never seen before. He's seen the light fade from people's eyes before yes, he's even laughed as he watch people desperately cling onto life only for it to fade into nothing as they took a final breath but never have he seen someone, something alive yet dead at the same time before. It, their eyes, held a natural yet unnatural sense as they stared at him, stared at everything that made him Joker and it unnerved him), honestly they looked very bored, and one of them (the youngest of the two, and the one with more of the look of death than life in their eyes) said with a chill tune in their tone.

"Last chance to back out of this Freakshows Reject. You wont like what'll be waiting for you."

The tone alone was enough to send another bone deep chill down Joker's spine.

But instead of listening to his natural instincts, the deep inkling of run blaring at him, Joker merely placed a grin on his face, ignoring the strain he felt from doing so, and said as nastily as he could in order to scare the two girls (BOTH OF THEM STILL LOOKED BORED WITH HIM?!?! Not even a twitch of fear!)

"OH? And pray tell what is awaiting little ol' me hum?"

His mocking question got a wide feral grin from the smaller girl, a grin with sharp teeth and iris eyes beginning to bleed slowly from sky blue to neon green with each second he stared at her and he barely stopped himself from jumping in his spot when Jasmine answered his question.

"Your end."

-x-x-

By the time the Bats get to the warehouse Joker had taken Dr. Jasmine 'Jazz' Fenton and Danielle 'Ellie' Fenton they were prepared for anything and everything to go wrong. As much as they held the tiniest bit of hope that the two young women were still okay they knew better than to really do, this was the Joker that had them after all.

They had manged to narrow down his location much quicker than normal when they gotten Joker's first video and his little 'game' he was setting the Bats on, most locations he gave them were going to be red herrings or traps to keep them busy and it would had worked. Batman and the others would had been searching for hours for even a hint of the clue of where the Joker and his hostages were actually being kept.

It was nearly, not really, a shame all of Joker's plans went to waste when Red Hood had stumbled onto something when scooping out Jasmine's apartment with Red Robin.

You see, not only were they looking for clues at first but something about the apartment Jasmine rented seemed off, Red Robin noticed it first and called in back up encase there was more to oldest Fenton than what they could dig up (oldest daughter of Dr's. Jackson and Madeline Fenton, grew up in a small Illinois town, straight A student and a goal to become a psychologist, has two younger siblings, etc etc) and their suspension raised up more when the moment Red Hood entered the apartment and seemed to freeze for a moment.

Red Hood couldn't really explain it but he said it felt like something was... strange. Not evil bad danger strange but it felt familiar? Like he was a kid again on the streets and had walked into someone else's territory but knew the person wouldn't be too much of a hardass about it as long as he didn't stur up trouble or disrespect. A kind of... as long as you don't fuck around you won't find out feeling.

It was because of this feeling that Jason had manged to stumble across something in the room, his instincts telling him there was more to it, and they had discovered a clunky old custom PDA hidden away in a false floorboard in the office room. Thankfully Red Robin, was there in person because the old thing apparently had a rather ingenious firewall to keep others (aka Hackers) OUT but it did nothing against someone who held the main thing.

But still it took Red Robin almost frying the damn thing to get to open up, turns out the ghost and star stickers on the PDA was a rather large hint of the pass code. Once Red Robin was in the PDA he noticed some rather interesting files, one of them labeled "Gremlin Tracking" with a tiny green blob with red eyes and a green outlined star as the icons.

Curiosity taking a hold on the most curious of the Bats he opened it up, hoping it would need another password, and watched as the screen split into two maps, one was... strange, there was no land marks or anything but the star icon seemed to be right in the middle of wherever it was and the only hint of anything was the name "baby brother" and the map labeled as IR.

The other one showed an above map of Gotham, before zooming into the city, heading towards some abandoned warehouses Red Robin knew of and stopped right at one. This was the green blob icon, the short abbreviation for Gotham in the corner of the map, and the name for the icon was 'baby sister'

Red Robin immediately got onto coms to tell the others of what apparently was a tracker for Jasmine's younger siblings. Some questioned why the young woman had trackers on her siblings, though some of the others snarked back that "oh didn't know keeping trackers on each other wasn't normal. Mind if I loose the one you got on me than?"

After a quick sweep into the warehouses camera feeds, the very few up that could be accessed, done by Oracle they quickly discovered that yes the tracking on the younger girl of the two, Danielle Fenton, was correct and that was where they and Joker were at.

Despite this, Batman decided that in order to make sure Joker didn't have suspicion that they already know his actual location he made sure to send a few of the others to the fake locations.

So here they were now, staking out the warehouse where they could see a few of the Jokers goons walking around and looking for a way into the building without alerting any of them. As they talked low into coms, Robin mentioning a possible way in for Red Robin by how small it was, Red Robin hissing back a "just because you got a growth spurt doesn't mean you can poke fun at my height you little-"

"Wait!" Red Hood suddenly hissed shouted, his tone startling the rest of them and they all turned their heads to him. Batman made a quick and harsh grunt as a way to say "report."

Under his helmet Jason's eyes were wide and wild. He could feel something, something huge was on the rise, like something was out of sight but the energy of it was felt.

And if Jason could feel it from his spot, the Jokers goons all felt the same thing from the way they all dropped their weapons, turned toward the warehouse and looked ready to bolt like scared animals.

Jason opened his mouth to explain but fell silent when the feeling suddenly popped. Whatever was causing the feeling was here and like the calm before the storm he could only watch as the first drop of rain fall.

The next thing they know, was the noise and the screaming.

It was inhuman, a mixture of noise and sounds to hard to explain. The closest they could explain was a thousand voices coming in all at once mixing with radio static that kept changing volume so only few words could be even hinted at, and the angry cawing of crows along with the flapping of their wings as they took flight. The noise was so bad that many who heard it nearly ripped their coms out, or covered their ears. Thankfully it only lasted a few seconds.

Then, the air itself shifted. It felt like the coldest of winter nights and bone chilling shivers ran down their bodies for a moment. The air was suddenly that sharp cold that hurt to breathe sometimes.

The goons surrounding the warehouse fled in fear. Many scrambling to get far, far away from whatever was happening. If they felt even a fraction of what Jason could feel, he could understand. He honestly felt like a small animal cornered by a predator and there was no escape.

Then just as suddenly as it happened, everything shifted again. The noise of Gotham returned to normal, cars honking, a stray cat hissing or a dog barking, police sirens in the distance, hissing steam from a nearby factory. The air went from winter cold to a chill mid winter harbor feel now.

Once everyone registered what had just happened and not wanting to waste anymore time they bolted towards the warehouse, cautious and alert in case they needed to fight. Batman went in first, quickly making his way to the area he knew Joker would be with the Fenton sisters and wondered just what the fuck was that? Did Joker do something? Was he messing with things outside of his usual MO?!

He walked into the room and stopped.

There was nothing.

The room was in fact the room Joker had used to record his first message to them, the layout was correct and the evidence of two people who had been tied up were still there as well, ropes that weren't cut sitting on them, a lone lamp light above shining down from above no doubt to emphasize the two girls were meant to be the 'stars' of Jokers latest show. Thing was, the two weren't there despite the fact Oracle swore she could see them a few mins ago from a camera set up in the room, she would later explain that she heard the noise as well and that all her tech had glitched hard.

The only other thing in the room was, sitting innocently on one of the chairs was a green sticky note and on a tiny pillow was a tiny sickly green orb with hints of purple, white, and red swirling in it.

A note they would later read the following message written on it after carefully examining it over.

'Joker learned not to touch what is mine to protect. Sorry not sorry, but hey one less killer clown and he was warned not my fault he didn't take it seriously... The massive amount of souls wanting to rip apart the Joker's soul into nothing was quite a sight to be honest.

They were so ruthless. Best not mess with the vengeful dead am I right?

PS. I left a tiny gift for Jason Todd aka Robin Two. It's the tiniest piece of Joker's soul left over after everyone else got done. He can finish it off since he's a reverent and all, and well they need their revenge filled in order to peacefully move on later or else they'll be stuck forever in a loop of madness and revenge. So yeah. Hope he likes the gift.'

D.P.'

It took Jason less than a second after those words were spoken out to reach for the orb, ignoring the cautious and alarmed cries of the others, and could feel deep, deep, deep in his own soul the absolute pure weeping joy as he threw the orb onto the floor, the bottom shattering thus it didn't roll away and stomped hard with his reinforced boots. Crushing the broken orb into more pieces and if one listened closely they could hear the pure screaming terror that came from it.

And Jason for the first time in years felt his rage finally leave him.

[inkykeiji]

you can always take more than nothing

character: bonten!mikey x fem!reader

genre: smut

notes: here’s my halloween piece, only half a month late! still, i hope you can enjoy it! as always, please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title cred: alice in wonderland

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, public sex/exhibitionism, dom/sub dynamics, daddy kink, size difference, biting/marking, blood, minimal prep, rough sex, teasing, begging, dacryphilia, humiliation, a lil bit of degradation, drugs, toxic relationship

words: 8.6k

synopsis:

Those few remaining scraps of decency you’d both been clinging to have been devoured by Mikey’s growing selfishness, no longer caring about what others might see or think or say—it’s not like anyone’s dumb enough to do anything about it anyway; it’s not like anyone has enough of a death-wish to try. He’s the motherfucking Boss. And the Boss gets what he wants, where he wants, when he wants, always. 

The music is loud, so loud the walls seem to be breathing with it, bleeding with it, flashes of neon pouring over the frosted mosaics of glass and marble. 

A party, thinly veiled as a corporate event. 

There are people everywhere, scattered across every surface, crystal glasses filled with expensive liqour and cocktail concoctions glittering in their palms. You barely know any of them. 

They’re all supposed business partners, allies and associates, ‘friends’ of your Daddy. Not that it matters all that much to you; they aren’t allowed to say a word to you anyway. 

Your eyes scan the expanse of the club, on the hunt for a familiar face. Takeomi is in the corner, obnoxiously blowing smoke into some of the higher end girls’ faces. He’s really taking his role of The Caterpillar earnestly. 

Good. You told him it suited him.

At your request (AKA at Mikey’s demand), the top members of Bonten have dressed up as Alice in Wonderland characters, donning an impressive group costume. You’ve been taking the whole thing pretty seriously—beginning your extensive planning in August, drafting up designs and taking everyone’s precise measurements to have each outfit custom made to their exact frames—which means the rest of Bonten has been taking the whole thing pretty seriously, too. 

Not that any of them mind. 

What Mikey’s little angel wants, Mikey’s little angel gets. It’s standard protocol, really; you’re merely an extension of the Boss and thus must be treated as an extension of the Boss, and Mikey’s best men have no issues complying. 

Sighing, you rest your chin in your palms, sombreness souring your features. An ache, dull and dense, settles in the pit of your chest. It’s a desolate sort of longing, a gentle but constant gnawing that cannot be sated by anyone or anything other than it’s creator, something that weights your lungs and heavies your heart and stalls your breath, a vital part missing.

You miss Mikey.

You miss Mikey, but you know this ‘event’ really does have some sort of business significance; that, while it’s mostly an excuse to get drunk and high on Halloween night, it also serves as the grounds for some sort of meeting or negotiation or proposition—you can never be sure which, with Bonten. 

You aren’t allowed to know. You’re lucky to be here at all.

But you miss Mikey.

You shouldn’t be selfish. You know you shouldn’t be selfish; he’s already stretched so thin between so many obligations and obituaries, and you shouldn’t add to that strain. You won’t add to that strain. You’ll sit here, pretty and perfect like his precious little princess should be, and you’ll wait, patiently, until Daddy has a moment to spare you. 

He always finds a moment to spare, no matter how many duties and commitments he has. He always finds a space for you in his day, even if he has to carve it out with his bare hands.

So you mustn’t be greedy. You will be good. For him, you’ll do anything, no matter how difficult. 

“No frowning, miss Alice,” Sanzu chastises through a stretched grin, wide and carved into his cheeks—a smile so sharp, so sinister it puts the true Cheshire Cat to disgrace. 

He swims into your vision, teeth glinting with teals and fuchsias, an intricately wrapped box in his palms. Tugging on the ribbon a little, he unboxes it to reveal a wealth of small confections, individually wrapped in colourful foils.  

“Look, your favourite kitty brought you some chocolate.”

That brightens your mood a little—a sugar fiend, just like your Daddy is—and your mouth drops open expectantly, cute tongue unfurling in invitation. 

Sanzu rolls his eyes but places a truffle on your tongue anyway, pressing it down on the slick muscle and forcing your lips to close around his first knuckle to suck the treat free from him, laughing at the way your face twists.

Pervert. 

His nails taste like blood—not that you’ve come to expect any less—but the rusty copper is quickly eradicated by sugar, a content little hum vibrating around the melting chocolate.

“Good, huh?” Sanzu asks around his own chocolate, shuffling a gold box of expensive Italian truffles in his palm as he picks through them, confections jumping perilously with the motion, shimmering wrappers catching in the flashing neon strobes. “They’re imported.”

“Where’d you get those?” you ask through strings of caramel and cocoa, welding to your molars. 

“A little Halloween treat courtesy of Mikey,” he says dutifully, jostling the box in emphasis. “And an apology, for taking longer than expected.” 

Warmth blooms in your chest, swelling with your heart and stretching your ribs. The last few remnants of displeasure fade from your face, giving way to a small smile.

How very Mikey of him, to send his second in command armed with artisan chocolates and a short, sweet explanation; something he knew would make you smile, something he knew would alleviate some of your impatience, a reassurance that he misses you too, that he’ll be back soon, that he’s thinking of you. 

“There’s our pretty girl,” Sanzu teases, but his own grin has softened a little, the glint in his eyes dulled to a twinkle. “No more pouting, ‘kay? Your trusty Cheshire Cat will be by your side until your Hatter returns.”

Ah. A polite way of saying that you’re stuck with him until Mikey’s finished his work, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

That takes longer than either of you expect, though, Sanzu’s plan of entertaining you by leading you, hand-in-hand, around the club to assess each Bonten member’s costume not nearly as lengthy as he had anticipated. 

Because it only takes a mere twenty minutes or so to examine all of them, with you near instantaneously deciding that the Haitanis have won the make-believe costume contest you and Sanzu had been holding between yourselves. 

Sanzu had agreed—everyone looks impeccable in their custom-made costumes, tailored specifically to them at your behest, but no one had any hope of eclipsing the Haitanis in their form-fitted pinstriped suits, each stitch and thread molded flawlessly to their frames, perfectly pressed collars embroidered with Dee and Dum in shimmery purple thread, powder blue bowties immaculately symmetrical around their tattooed necks. 

Now you’re back at the bar, Sanzu’s shaky fingers sifting through the box of truffles as he searches for something, anything, to distract him from the way the blood in his veins is beginning to dry up, the way his capillaries are withering, brittle and thirsty, the way his skin is beginning to itch.

Because he can’t do a goddamn thing about it. Not yet, anyway.

No narcotics when he’s chaperoning you; that’s a hard rule. That’s a rule that’s been sewn into the tissues of his brain so tightly it’s interwoven with his synapses. That’s an execution rule; a one time only rule—breaking that rule will get him fucking killed. 

But you’re both starting to become a little bit restless. 

“Come on,” you’re begging, word dragged across your tongue in a petulant whine. “Just one more chocolate?”

“I said no,” Sanzu snaps, eyes hard. “Mikey said three. Mikey’s the Boss. Whatever Mikey says goes; Mikey’s girl, Mikey’s rules!” 

“You’re no fun,” you huff, forehead scrunching with a pout. 

“Yeah, and that’s why he sticks me with you,” Sanzu says, though he sounds almost proud, as if it’s an honour to babysit you, a title of high esteem. “Because I can resist your tricks.”

“My charms,” you correct.

“Whatever,” he waves a hand. “It’s all semantics. Point is, I know how to say no to you, unlike a few certain someones.” 

Unimpressed ice blue eyes sweep across the venue, hovering pointedly on the faces of his colleagues—Kakucho, the Dormouse; Kokonoi, the White Rabbit; Rindou, Tweedle-Dum.

Your eyes follow his, and you smirk to yourself. Kakucho is the easiest out of those three; Kokonoi sometimes deceives you, allowing you to do as you please only to tattle to Mikey later, and Rindou always demands some sort of payment, claiming it’s only fair that you give him something he wants in return. 

Turning back, you’re about to respond, something bratty and bitter simmering on your tongue, when a pair of hands and a smooth voice cuts you off. 

You’d know that touch, that tone, anywhere.

“Pray, tell me, Miss Alice,” Mikey murmurs in your ear as he slinks up behind you, palms curling around your hips and pulling you back toward his chest. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

“Because it can produce a few notes,” you answer dutifully, head tipping back against his shoulder to glance at him through the corner of your eye. “Though they are very flat.”

“Correct,” he responds. “My, what a smart little girl you are.”

It’s soaked in condescension, compliment drawled out through a supercilious smirk, breath wafting across your face sweltering and saccharine. 

“Do I get a reward, Mister Hatter?” you ask, sweeter than sugarcane, batting eyelashes framing hopeful, dewy eyes. 

A hum vibrates on his tongue, onyx gaze apathetic and appraising as it glides across your features slowly, thoroughly, pulling each of your thoughts apart and putting them back together again. 

Your head rolls to the side, over his protruding collarbone, to stare at him more resolutely. And God, it’s the way you’re looking up at him, eyes glazed with dedication, with devoutness, like you want to fucking devour him. 

Like you want him to devour you. 

Hips pushing back, you rub your ass into his cock in inconspicuous little motions, lashes fluttering a little, back arched in a perfect curve and tits on full display. 

From this angle, there’s no way he can’t see right down your dress; there’s no way he can’t see the red lace of your bra straining against supple skin as your chest rises and falls with gentle breaths, no way he doesn’t notice the very tips of your nipples, cheekily peeking out from beneath the delicate material with each swell of your breasts. 

Bony fingers flex on your waist, and he huffs out a smirk.

His ebony pupils are enormous, blown wide and gaping, gnawing away at the whites of his eyes. 

He’s high. 

It’s evident in the milky film of artificial ecstasy lacquering his gaze, doped up and hazy, but it does nothing to dilute the potent love he has for you, melting his stare to something soft and sticky, pouring past his lashes.

He’s feeling good tonight.

“I think I know what my little girl wants,” one hand flattens against your stomach, holding you flush to his body as the other slides up your ribs to cup your breast, filling his palm with it and kneading, slow and deliberate, simply enjoying the feeling of you. “And it is very naughty of her.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mm,” he hums, head drooping to nose along the curve of your neck. “Really.”

His lips brush along your skin as he speaks, his voice barely more than a gentle vibration along the column of your throat, and you whimper a little, fingers curling around his wrist and pressing him closer.

“A-And what’s that?”

“Aw, can’t you guess?” he tuts his tongue. “And I thought you were smart. Must’ve been mistaken. Where’s my smart little girl gone now?”

Grip firm on your waist, his hips rut forward, hard cock prodding at you through the layers of tulle. A discontented little sound vibrates in your throat as you squirm a little—and oh, he knows what you’re whining about, greedy girl, knows that you can barely feel his cock through the thick petticoat, knows you want more—and he presses his hips further forward, grinding harder into your ass.

“Daddy—Da-Daddy, it’s—” 

“What?” he shoves again, stronger this time, teeth nipping at the skin below your ear. “Hm?”

“Your cock is hard,” you nearly whine, pushing back against him in a pitiful little wiggle, desperate for more friction. 

“And who’s fault is that, huh?” 

The hand massaging your breast gives a final squeeze before his fingers find your nipple, pinching it through the material of your dress and bra, then rubbing the heel of his thumb over it in hard, rhythmic motions. 

“Is your pussy wet?” he huffs the question into your ear, his hot breath procuring shivers. “I bet it is, naughty girl. Daddy wants to feel it.”

“Please, please,” your hips buck a little, punctuating your pleads, chest pressing into his touch.

“Please? Please what?”

“Touch me, Daddy, touch me, touch me.”

Slender hands slip beneath the puffy layers of lace, calloused fingertips rough as they skim up your smooth thighs, outlining the silk ruffles of the bloomers he bought you specifically for this costume. 

Your hips twitch slightly, legs spreading instinctively as his fingers trail along the scrunched hem to the apex of your thighs, pressing two into the rapidly dampening material. Pensively, they caress your slit through the material, prodding your hole just a little before rubbing two slow, hard circles into your clit.

“Christ,” he breathes out, curse splintering at the end. “You’re so fucking wet baby, and I’ve barely done anything yet.”

His palm flattens against you, all four fingers dipping into your core nearly to the first knuckle and then curling, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit, and your pelvis cants reflexively, almost as if you’re attempting to draw his fingertips further in. 

“How are you this wet already, huh?” he keens, voice straining beneath his own desire. “Been thinking naughty thoughts?”

“Jus’want your cock,” you slur out honestly, hips gyrating in pathetic little circles, an embarrassing attempt to follow his touch. 

“Oh, yeah? That’s all it takes, eh?” he rolls your clit between his thumb and his forefinger, nonchalantly toying with it as he mulls. “Just my cock?” 

“Uh-huh,” you nod blearily. “Uh-huh, uh-huh.”

“Cute,” Mikey spits, the compliment sheathed in venom, “how utterly stupid just the thought of my cock makes you.” 

His fingers clamp down on the swollen nub and tug, your whole body jolting with the pain, a yelp hitching in your chest. 

The arm wrapped around your waist tightens in response, holding you close, holding you still as he humps away at you, sloppy and uneven.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, fingers tweaking your clit in rhythmic motions, sparks of pleasure chased by shocks of pain. “You’re so fucking easy for your Daddy, aren’t you? So quick to get soaked for him, so quick to get ready for him, such a good little slut for him, yeah?” 

His voice is gravelly, letters wispy around the edges despite fact that he’s nearly shouting over music. Another rush of heat surges between your thighs, and he laughs, dark and dangerous. 

Your clit throbs in his touch, the silk of your panties drenched all the way through, aiding his fingers in their slippery motions—several small, fast S gestures, followed by a few firm strokes of your slit, fingertips gliding over your folds with ease. You’re so soaked, whole cunt now outlined by the shimmery material, molding to your folds and enabling him to feel every dip, every bump, every crevice, another chuckle dripping from his lips as your little hole clenches around nothing.

“Daddy,” you whimper, thighs squeezing together tightly as you attempt to fuck his fingers. “Daddy, I—I can’t—I need—” 

“Shh,” he hushes you, lips caressing the curve of your ear. “I know, baby. Daddy knows what you need.” 

A palm wraps around your wrist as Mikey mutters something about going somewhere a little more private, pulling you along behind him and leading you toward those purple velvet VIP couches, empty and roped off in a darkened corner. 

“What are we—” you begin as Mikey collapses heavily on the couch, knees spread wide open, hips shifting up slightly as he forces his feet even further apart, getting comfortable. 

C’mere, his lips mime, voice drowning in heavy bass, his chin jutting in the general direction of his straining cock, yearning against pin-striped pants. 

Strong hands curl around your hips and yank you backward, the abrupt motion punching a sound of surprise from your chest as you tumble into his lap, spine pressed tight to his sternum. 

The hinges of his jaw hook over your shoulder, a crude way of keeping you from squirming as he manhandles you into straddling his thighs, hard cock pressing into your core. 

“Holy fuck,” he pants out, the curse damp against your skin. “You’re so wet I can feel you leaking through my pants.”

“Daddy,” you say, and although it’s meant to be a warning, it comes out as a whine, stringy and petulant.  

Because it already feels so good, and he’s already so hard, and you just can’t help but rock your hips back, slow and firm, whimpering a bit as the head of his cock glides over your clit, teasing as the slick, swollen little nub jumps beneath the dull pressure. 

He laughs a little, nothing more than a deep, dark rumbling within his ribs, reverberating against your back.

“You’re so fucking nasty, baby,” he chides lowly, though you can hear the self-satisfied smirk sewn into his voice, tinged with sadism, as he rolls his hips up twice, grinding his cock into your drenched core. “You’re so fucking needy, baby, trying to get yourself off in the middle of this crowded club.”

You are, you are, another little sound escaping your lips as you rut back against him, already beginning to speed up, rubbing the head of his cock over your clit in quick little strokes.

“It’s really precious, y’know, how pathetically eager you are for me,” he murmurs, notes of fondness negating the sting the insult should bring, words gone melty and sweet. “But you gotta stop humping Daddy for a moment, so he can get his cock out and give you what you really want.” 

A disgruntled little whine sounds in your throat, motions stuttering a little as you attempt to stop moving. But it all feels so incredible, greedily unable to quell your hips completely as they rotate in messy little circles, tummy starting to ripple with each graze of his blunt head against your clit.

“Hey,” he warns, sharp and stern, a palm colliding with your bare thigh and leaving a burning handprint seared in its wake, the impact of the slap loud enough to draw a few pairs of eyes. “Don’t get bratty with me, or you won’t get anything at all, you understand?”

Your head’s nodding before the words are even finished leaving his lips—yes, Daddy, of course, Daddy, brats don’t deserve to be filled by Daddy’s cock—desperate to be good for him, to be the best for him.

Because you know he isn’t fucking around; Mikey’s threats are never empty threats, each and every word plucked from his brain with superlative care, heavy and infused with meaning.

It’s terrifying and tantilizing, how easily and instantly he can switch from one mode to the other: from playful to imposing, from Daddy to Leader, a pleasant shiver skittering up your spine, your hole clenching and pulsing as your stomach plummets, gut weighted with a tingling pressure.

It’s a bit of a task, freeing his cock and manoeuvring yourself as you try to inconspicuously sink down on it, but you both manage, your fluffy petticoat of crinoline and tulle providing a decent amount of privacy. 

A hiss slips through the gaps of your gritted teeth as it begins to tear you in two, cute little hole stinging as it strains around his cock, struggling to accommodate his girth, delicate skin splitting itself open for him. 

“That’s it, that’s it,” he breathes lowly, voice vibrating against your ear. “There you go, good girl.” 

An airy little moan spills from your lips as he bottoms out, cockhead pressed snug to your cervix, and you melt back into him, skull knocking against his shoulder, eyes slipped shut. 

“Feel better, princess?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you mumble out dreamily. “S’good, S’right.”

“It feels right, huh?” he chuckles a little, thumbs rubbing fond circles into your hips, his hands all the way up your skirt, slipped beneath the frills and fluff, forearms buried in your dress. “You like it when Daddy fills you up?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod. “Stretches me out real good, makes me feel all stuffed ‘n full.” 

Whole, complete, one. Like everything feels as it’s supposed to again.

And it hurts, because it always hurts, because he’s too thick and you’re never prepped enough, never patient enough, core split open on his cock and little hole aching as it attempts to adjust to him, but it’s so fucking perfect, too. Your cunt spasms around him, hips twitching a little in desperation—like you’re trying to suck him in further, like you’re trying to bury him deeper—and he groans, fingers flexing as he holds you still, nails gorging on your flesh.

“Eager, are we?” 

“S’not my fault,” you mewl, back arching a little as you attempt to push your hips back, squirming a bit in his strong grip. “Need you, Daddy.”

“Is that so?”

Grasp tightening, his hips thrust up, grinding the head of his cock into your cervix in slow, hard motions—back and forth, back and forth, inspiring a dull pang throbbing in your gut. 

Gasping sharply, your hips jerk back in response, automatic and instinctual, pulling a hoarse groan from his chest. 

His clutch turns to near bone crushing, a fractured little cry sticking in your throat, and he forces you to hold still for a moment, muscles in his thighs gone rigid and stiff as his hips press up further and tug you down, frozen, revelling in the way your cunt pulses around him, as if it’s whining for him.

“M-Mikey,” you echo its sentiments, his name a sulky plead on your tongue, brows knit together and lips jutted in a pout. 

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“You know,” you huff out, wriggling a little in his palms, feebly trying to fuck yourself on him.

“Tell me anyway,” he demands.  

Scalding embarrassment pricks your cheeks and you whimper, fidgeting in his grasp again, head shaking in defiance.

“Come on,” he chides, but there are notes of amusement infusing his tone. “Daddy can’t give you what you want if you don’t ask for it.” 

Sharp teeth sink into your shoulder suddenly, your half-formed response strangled by a gasp, Mikey’s jaw tensing as he burrows his teeth further into your flesh, piercing through tissues and snapping capillaries until copper explodes in his mouth. 

He holds it for a moment, all thirty-two of his teeth latched in your skin, ensuring he leaves a full, detailed outline of his mouth etched into you—a signature of sorts—before his tongue flattens against the wound, dragging over it in a single wide lick and sealing it with blood-tinged saliva. A gentle exhale wafts over the bite, cool against the searing pain, and you shudder, chills erupting across your flesh.

“You’re a big girl,” he coaxes over your whimpering, the encouragement steeped in condescension. “I know you can do it. Use your big girl words and tell Daddy what you want.”

Your eyes squeeze shut against the burn of humiliation, lids crinkling at the corners, the softest hiccup catching in your throat, and you feel his cock twitch inside of you. 

“I—I wanna ride your cock, Daddy,” you push the stubborn words from your tongue, trembling and breathy.

“Yeah?” he asks, bloodied tongue tracing along the shell of your ear. “How bad?”

“So bad,” you bleat out, striving to bounce on his cock under the firm restraint of his hands, dewdrops of annoyance clinging to your lashes, glittering in the beams of magenta and teal as you blink rapidly.

“Hm,” he muses to himself, nonchalant as he readjusts his grip, hands constringing, completely halting your pathetic little movements. “It doesn’t seem like you want it all that badly.”

“Daddy,” the word leaves your lips in a whine, scrunched and petulant through your pout, body thrashing beneath his strong grip. “Come on—” 

“Are you sure you wanna be such a naughty little whore in front of all of these people?”

Your body stops its writhing, his words like a slap to the face.

It’s a bit of a shock, to hear it spoken aloud so bluntly, cut and dry and honest, and it sends a torrent of sparks fizzing through your chest to collect dense and tight in your tummy. 

Shame and revulsion sets your skin aflame, the cinders in your gut flaring in response, an intoxicating combination. 

“Yes—”

“Huh? What was that?” he shouts theatrically in your ear. “I couldn’t really hear you over the music.”

“Y-Yes,” you repeat, trying to steady your hiccuping voice, to be stern and resolute, even as tears begin to stream down your cheeks.

“Really?” he breathes, and he sounds astonished, he sounds appalled. “You’re so fucking sleazy, baby. I wonder what all these people would think, if they knew how truly filthy my little girl is...”

“Manjirou,” you weep out his birth name, whole face saturated in frustration.

“Oh-ho-ho,” he chuckles out the word, and it’s vicious. “Graduated to using my full name, now, have you?” he licks at the steadily oozing bite, mopping up more blood with his tongue. “Christ, you do really want it.” 

“I do!” you cry out, struggling against his grasp again, hips bucking in wild, erratic motions. “I do, I do, please, let me ride your cock, please.” 

“What if I made you sit, still and straight like the good little girl I know you want to be, on my hard cock for the rest of the night? Do you think you’d be able to handle it?”

You know he won’t, know he’d never be able to, because he’s just as addicted to you as you are to him, just as desperate, just as eager, just as needy; because even as he holds you motionless, he can’t quite halt the delicate jerk of his hips, rolling up into your core; because you know he wants this just as badly as you do, gets off on the depravity just as much as you do.

Even so, the mere thought of being teased like this, of being forced to hold such a degrading position, is still enough to inspire a rush of agitated tears to flood your eyes, vision gone bleary with despairing desire and rendering the club a bleary haze of glowing neons. 

“No, Daddy, no, I—I just want to ride you, please, Daddy, I c-can’t—” 

You’re nearly wailing now, head thrown back dramatically as your neck twists into an uncomfortable knot, anguished as you try to bury your face in his throat, looking for solace. Your chest stutters as you stammer out half-finished pleads, gone garbled with spit, and Mikey smiles.

You’re starting to cause a scene. 

It’s exactly what he wanted.

“Okay, baby, okay, okay,” he’s pacifying as he feels hot tears soak into his neck, a choked sob catching painfully in your chest. “Daddy’s here, Daddy’s gonna make it all better.”  

And finally, finally his grasp loosens, stiff fingers gone lax, massaging lopsided circles into the rapidly developing bruises left in the shape of their prints. 

“Go ahead, angel,” he urges, nuzzling into the junction of your shoulder, pressing a chaste kiss to the congealing bite. “Ride Daddy’s cock.” 

Then he’s slumping back, settling into the couch cushions and spreading his thighs a little wider, pressing the soles of his boots into the waxed floor for stability and leverage. 

His hands stay on your waist, a gentle guidance, but he allows you to set the pace—a rare occurrence—patient as your hips work up a steady rhythm of quick, shallow gyrations, each swivel dragging his cock against your favourite spot.

And God, you’re so cute when you use his cock to make yourself feel good. It’s a shame that he can’t see your face in this position, can’t see the way your lashes flutter and frame the rolling whites of your eyes or the way your features scrunch so delicately; a shame he can’t hear your gorgeous noises, all your sweet little gasps and pitiful little whines consumed by the blaring music. 

But he can see how your back is bowing, spine forced into a near perfect arc by your building pleasure, bending just a hint more with each brush of his cock; he can feel your palms clutching his knees, nails digging little crescents into his shins and using them for support as your movements accelerate, as you fuck yourself harder, faster, better.

And he lets you have your fun for a little, lays back all languid and lazy and watches through lidded eyes as you play with yourself and use his cock like it’s your favourite toy—because, well, it is—but eventually it just isn’t enough and you need Daddy’s help. 

Just like he knew it wouldn’t be. Just like you always do.

Not that he minds one bit.

Yes, it isn’t enough, because it never is, because you can never manage anything more than teasing yourself when left entirely to your own devices, spritzing kerosene on the dull smouldering in the pit of your stomach as the head of his cock brushes up against that engorged spot inside of you, not nearly hard enough or fast enough to have you anywhere close to creaming on him, merely enough to have your clit throbbing, swollen and neglected. 

He knows you’re beginning to get restless when your hips turn sloppy, tempo starting to falter as your motions stutter, and then you’re looking over your shoulder at him with a beseeching pout, glazed eyes begging him to do something!

So he does. 

He’s straightening up in a split second, hands around your waist tightening as he yanks you back toward his chest, chin hooking over your clavicle again and grinding the sharp bone into your skin.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs against your jaw, mocking and mean. “Can’t even get herself off without her Daddy’s help.” 

“I can’t, I can’t,” you wail over the roar of EDM, head shaking in accentuation. “Need you, need you to do it for me.”

“Of course you do, angel,” he says, as if it’s obvious, as if it’s common knowledge. “But that’s okay—Daddy will make it feel good.” 

That’s the only warning you’re given before his hips are ramming up, rapid and rough and downright ruthless, the abrupt motion slamming a high-pitched yelp from your throat, so pure and genuine and full of lust that it rises above the music, breaks through the heavy bass beat, gathering a handful of glances from a few nearby party-goers. 

So much for being inconspicuous. 

You should’ve known that that just isn’t Mikey’s style. 

They lose interest just as quickly as they gained it, though, going back to their drinks and their drugs, unconcerned. What the Boss does at his own club is none of their business, even if it is on display for the whole venue to see. 

Still, it’s enough for Mikey.   

“Everyone can see you, you know,” voracious black eyes scan the balcony space. “Everyone can see you being such a good little whore for your Daddy.” 

The thought of being watched, of being caught, inspires a whole flock of butterflies to flit around in your tummy, another surge of heat gushing between your thighs, and Mikey laughs. Oh, he felt that. 

Because he’s right; if anyone dared to look a little closer, a little longer, cared to paid a smidge of more attention to the two of you, hidden on one of the velvet couches wedged in the corner of the VIP section with your hips rocking and Mikey’s hands buried in the lace and tulle of your skirt, they’d know exactly what the two of you are doing.

But it doesn’t matter; you don’t care. Neither does he. Why should either of you?

“Do you—Do you think they like it?” you question, and Christ, it’s so precious, that pathetic hope ringing high and clear in your voice. “Do you think they like watching me bounce on their Boss’s cock?”

“Fuck,” the curse fragments in his throat, sharp and pitchy, and he coughs on the shards. “I know they do, sweetheart.”

“Do you think they’re g-gonna go home and touch themselves to the thought of me—of us?”

“Aw,” Mikey coos out in a chuckle, breathless and condescending. “It’s cute that you think they aren’t already jerking off to you on a regular basis.”

Of course they are, you silly little stupid thing; how could they not be? With all the sweet, short little dresses he buys you to prance and twirl around in—the ones with the sweetheart necklines that dip just a hint too low, teasing the swell of your breasts with each of your gentle inhales; the ones with the rippling hems that end just a touch too high, swishing and swaying and flashing with each of your movements, riding up and fanning out to gift them with teasing little glimpses of the lace and satin underneath. 

“You think I don’t know what my—ah, Christ—what my men think of you? How my men think of you?” He tongues a little at the bite, using his front teeth to scrape off a few half-formed scabs, blood rushing to pool in their place. “You think I don’t see the way they look at you?” 

A whine stammers in your throat, your back arching a little more as your cunt quivers around his cock, that drove of butterflies sending your stomach swooping, the organ tensing, tying itself into thick knots pulled tight and taut with each plunge of his cock. 

Mikey laughs again, the sound nothing more than a deep, dense vibration rumbling within his ribs, seeping into your back and sending tingles up your spine. 

“Would you like to see the way they look at you?” 

“H-Huh?” 

Oh, how adorably fucked out you already are, mind gone dumb and numb to everything but him, but his voice and his touch and his steadily driving cock; oh, how adorably easy it is to make you this fucking idiotic. 

“Look over there,” he presses his cheek into yours, forcing your head to turn and follow his gaze. 

Across the club, Rindou sits with an elbow resting on the edge of the bar, a glass dangling from his fingertips. His eyes are cavernous, carnivorous, a smirk smearing across his face as your stare meets his, heavy lids framing a leering look. 

Using a shoulder, he nudges his brother’s stomach, jutting his chin toward you and his Boss in indication when Ran looks down in question, redirecting his attention. 

Now they’re both watching you, with doped up violet eyes and identical sleazy smiles, toothless and worming.

It makes you want to scrub and scratch at your skin, their gazes painting you in a thick coat of grime, body soiled by their lust and left feeling dirty, feeling gross, a strong shiver crawling across your flesh.

Your head jerks reflexively, desperate to hide from their lechery, skull knocking against Mikey’s hard enough to send thorns of pain searing through your temple. 

A yelp cracks in your throat, and Mikey snorts, seemingly unfazed. 

“Aw,” Mikey tuts in false admonishment. “Don’t get shy now. Look at them. Look at them while you ride my cock.”

“M-Mikey—” your eyes shut tightly, a pitiful attempt to escape their invasive eyes, head shaking in little judders.

“C’mon,” he goads, forcing you to face their stare. “You want them all to see, right? How good my little girl is? How pretty my little girl is?”

Peeking through your lashes, you squint at the Haitanis, features teetering on the verge of a wince, as if you’re expecting them to physically strike you. 

They’re still looking at you, wide and unblinking, speaking out of the side of their mouths in laughs and murmurs to one another. 

Dressed in matching pin-striped suits and thick suspenders, Rindou has discarded his jacket, shirtsleeves rolled haphazardly up his forearms to his elbows, first few buttons of his shirt popped undone, revealing a defined collarbone. 

Predictably, Ran is still the perfect picture of poise and elegance, not a single hair out of place, suit jacket square on his shoulders and flawlessly tailored to his body, each stitch outlining his edges.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee respectively, and just as treacherous.

Whatever it is they’re saying to each other, they’re clearly enjoying themselves, amusement playing in glassy irises as Ran rests a hand around Rindou’s neck, slim fingers pressing into plush muscle. His younger brother instantly relaxes into his touch, mollifying back against his stomach and hooking an arm around his thigh, hugging it to his ribs. 

And it’s the way they’re looking at you, as if they’re peeling the clothes from your body and the skin from your bones and peering into the depths of your soul to dance with your demons and devour your secrets; as if they’re singeing your expression into their minds, the sight of your features saturated in perturbation and pleasure branded into the tissues of their brains, carved into the walls of their skulls, ensuring they’ll never forget.

Everything feels overexposed as they pry you apart bit by bit, heady mix of hedonism and humiliation hazing over your brain.

Mikey’s hips slow to a drag, thighs tensing and soles of his boots skidding across marble as he expertly angles his hips and presses up, rubbing the head of his cock over your g-spot in slow, controlled motions—back and forth, back and forth, over and over and over again. 

And the moan that claws at your throat is almost obnoxious, is definitely embarrassing, which means Mikey needs to fuck at least three more from your chest, grunting a little with the effort as his cockhead jabs against that plush spot, hard and precise.

A whine that sounds suspiciously like his title, tangled in spit and weighted with shame, spills from your lips, and you nestle your face against his own even as your hips jolt, desperate for comfort, desperate for cover.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” he nuzzles your damp cheek. “I know you do. I can feel it.”

It’s true, he can—you’re sure he can, with the way your straining little hole keeps pulsing around his length, another stream of heat cascading down his shaft, viscous and wet and so, so much, to pool in the folds of his balls, to stain the waistband of his pants and the velvet of the couch.

But you know he likes it just as much as you do. 

Because you’re both so fucking naughty, so fucking nasty, but the depravity just works to heighten it all, makes it that much better, amplifying every touch and brush and tease and fondle and making it all feel so fucking good, even as Mikey’s pace eases into something unhurried, his thrusts turned languid but powerful.

So you join in, you rise to his challenge, a sick little game the two of you play, a sick little game you force others to participate in—because you’re fucking untouchable.

“Do you think their cocks are hard, Daddy?” you ask, the question dripping with syrup as you roll your hips backwards, slow and purposeful, returning the Haitanis’ smouldering stare through fanned lashes, unblinking and tenacious. 

“Ah, f-fuck,” Mikey’s cock jolts, rhythm stammering for a moment before he regains his composure. “Yeah, baby, I bet they’re wishing they were me right now.”

You bet they are, too, mouths stopped moving and gazes gleaming with want, lips parted with uneven exhales pushed from their heaving chests, entirely enchanted by your movements.

It’s the most affected and authentic you’ve ever seen them before, and it sends a thrill of power shooting through your body, blood left fizzing in its wake. 

One of them reaches into their pocket, groping around blindly for their phone, not daring to spare a second of their attention away from you, and Mikey snarls, nose scrunched in disgust and lip curled in a sneer, baring gritted teeth.

Because that’s too much, that’s crossing a line, and Mikey swiftly redirects your face, effectively hiding your expression from the Haitanis’ hungry eyes. 

Mikey’s always liked to show off. Mikey’s never liked to share.

He swaps shoulders quickly, the defined hinges of his jaw clasped firmly over your collarbone, and smushes his face flush to yours again, skin clammy with sweat. 

“And look over there,” he steers your gaze toward the other side of the club, where Kokonoi sits with a smattering of men surrounding a tall cocktail table, littered with crystal glasses and white lines. 

The men around the table are laughing about something, sloshing liquor and cutting powder into thick, fat stripes, but Kokonoi isn’t paying attention to any of it. 

No. Kokonoi is looking at you. 

His eyes snap away when they meet your own, head whipping forward with such speed and such force it’s a marvel he doesn’t instantly give himself whiplash. A deep laugh rumbles in Mikey’s throat in response, something dark, something decadent. 

“He’s gonna go home and touch himself to you, too,” he says. “He might not even make it before he goes home; might end up jerking his cock in a bathroom stall or the front seat of his car.” 

“How can you tell?” 

“Well, look at him,” Mikey snorts. “He’s so hard he’s about to burst outta his pants.”

Following the line of Kokonoi’s body, your gaze travels downward, to the straining lump in his white pants. His hips shift a little uncomfortably as his thighs tense, hands curled into fists on his knees as he steadily trains his stare forward at the wall opposite of him, throat bobbing with a thick swallow.

Mikey’s right—Koko’s about to burst.

The thought of Koko rushing to his car to collapse in the driver’s seat, head tipped back against the headrest and hand shoved down his pants as his palm rubs frantically at his hard cock, or hastening to the washroom to lock himself in a stall, forehead pressed tightly to the rickety door and panting out stuttered, half-stifled whimpers hotly against his upper lip as he hurriedly relieves the problem you’ve created, is almost too much to bear, stomach clenching in time with the throbbing of your cunt, a torrid pressure building and burning in your gut. 

The sudden acceleration of Mikey’s thrusts snaps you out of that tangle of thoughts, effectively drawing every ounce of your attention back to him.

A mewl pries past your lips, sharp and high and cracking at the end, whole spine arching as Mikey resumes his assault on your favourite spot, cockhead driving hard and fast against plush flesh. 

“They can look all they want, but you’re mine.” His fingers tighten, his grasp rigid and unbreakable, the words nothing more than a snarl spit in your ear, wet and harsh. “I won’t fuckin’ share.” 

“Never, never, never,” you babble in time with the bouncing on his lap, head nodding in sloppy motions with each repetition of the word. 

“Never,” he growls, teeth sinking into the flesh of your shoulder sloppily, excess spit dribbling from the corners of his mouth as he breaks the skin for the second time tonight and sucks hard, drawing blood from the string of tiny wounds.

It has another cry escaping your throat, whole face crinkling in a sordid mixture of pleasure and pain, head instinctually thrown back against your Daddy, automatically giving him more room to work. Drops of watered down blood drool down your back and Mikey takes a moment to admire them, mesmerised by the way they shimmer in the strobing lights of the club, before he licks at them with the tip of his tongue, leaving crude strokes of fresh spit in their wake.

Those few remaining scraps of decency you’d both been clinging to have been devoured by Mikey’s growing selfishness, no longer caring about what others might see or think or say—it’s not like anyone’s dumb enough to do anything about it anyway; it’s not like anyone has enough of a death-wish to try.

He’s the motherfucking Boss.

And the Boss gets what he wants, where he wants, when he wants, always. 

He’s really fucking you now, vicious and vigorous, your entire body juddering in his lap as his hips piston up, cockhead pounding against that sensitive mound of tissue buried deep within you. 

Each thrust shoves another shattered sound from your tongue, splintered moans of his name and his title pouring past your lips in a jagged stream. 

The knot your stomach has twisted itself into strains under the building pressure, growing heavier and heavier with each jackhammer into you, stretched taut and stiff and ready to snap. 

It’s all so much, the ogling eyes and the ramming of his cock and the tightening in your belly, every muscle in your body coiled and aching for the ecstasy that comes with release. Your breath mangles with the mewls shoved from your lips with every slam up, sticking to your throat and you cough, wheezing past the splinters.  It’s all too much, and—!

“M’gonna, m’gonna cum, Daddy!” you gasp, tears dotting the corners of your eyes, sparkling in spidery lashes.  

“Yeah, baby?” he breathes, voice dropping to a ragged rasp. “You gonna cream all over Daddy’s cock? Huh? Make a mess on my cock surrounded by all of Daddy’s closest and most esteemed colleagues?” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” you nearly sob out, palms curling over his wrists, nails clawing at the delicate skin, desperate for an anchor. 

“My dirty fucking girl,” he hisses out, sharp breath stinging your cheek. “Such a good—Ah—good little slut for me, aren’t you?” 

You can no longer respond, rendered stupid from the ardor, potent pleasure corroding your brain and gnawing through your synapses. It’s downright intoxicating, it’s fucking insatiable, it’s simultaneously immense and insufficient, way too much yet not nearly enough, because you need more, you need more, unintelligible pleads shattering on your tongue.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, baby, gush all over Daddy, make a pretty mess on his lap for him. Show everyone in this Goddamn club how gorgeous you look cumming for me.” 

And so you do, ever your Daddy’s best girl, body eager to obey its owner as your cunt convulses around him, copious amounts of slick cascading down his shaft to drench his thighs, sticky and sharp and so fucking sick as he continues to bounce you in his lap. 

The spasming of your cute little hole draws the sweetest whine from the back of his throat, panted out against the curve of your ear, and another bout of warmth rushes to the apex of your thighs, earning you a shuddered little curse, the exhale sweltering against your sweaty skin.

You sound so pretty right before you cum, Daddy. 

Three more pumps of his hips and he’s following, thrusts stuttering as he fucks up messily into you, cock throbbing almost violently and stuffing you to the brim with thick, hot cum. Strong hands hold you firmly in place, cockhead pressed flush to your cervix as he spills himself into you, as he forces you to take every fucking ounce of what he’s giving you. 

And you love it, you love it, you love it, you’re telling him, sentiments pouring from your mouth in a jumbled stream, singular and continuous until your lungs run out of air, voice cutting off with a squeak. 

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Mikey’s murmuring into your skin in response, lips leaving smears of sugary saliva just below your earlobe. 

He allows you to sit on him for a moment, chest heaving against your back with ragged breaths, sweaty forehead pressed tightly to your shoulder. Tilting your head, your rest your cheek on the back of his skull, eyes slipping shut as your own heart begins to calm, cunt still pulsating irregularly around his shaft, almost as if it’s attempting to squeeze a few more drops out of him, his cock acting as a crude plug, keeping most of his cum buried inside of you.

Finally, his head lifts, pressing a tender kiss to the blood-encrusted bite glittering on your shoulder. 

“Go get cleaned up in the washroom,” he mutters gently, pressing another string of kisses along your jaw. “Don’t wipe away any of Daddy’s cum; let it soak into your panties real nice and good, let them get really wet, and then snap a few pictures and send them to me. Can you do that for me, angel?” 

“Yes, Daddy,” you slur out, nodding in loose, liquid movements. 

“Good,” he pats your thigh twice. “Now, go.” 

A small noise of affirmation sounds in your throat, head still nodding as Mikey helps you stand between his spread thighs, hands on your waist keeping you upright while you wobble on unsteady legs. 

And the noise that you make as his cum and your slick surges out of you—something caught somewhere between a mewl and a whine, turned on and disappointed simultaneously—is the cutest thing he’s ever heard, a muted coo slipping from his own lips as your hands wrap around his, using them to further stable yourself. 

He holds you for a moment or two longer, making sure you’re sturdy and your knees won’t suddenly give out, before giving you one final squeeze and releasing you, smirking a little as he watches you teeter away on rickety feet. 

Initially, his plan was to have you capture a few naughty photos for him—pretty little things to stash away in his phone for later use, during the nights he’s forced to spend away from you, sitting in expensive cars or laying in lush hotel beds—and force you to wear the gluey, cum-drenched undies for the remainder of the party. 

But then his phone is buzzing, and he’s unlocking it to find your cunt perfectly outlined by thin silk as it sticks to your folds, little clit and hole contoured and accentuated by the slick, shining fabric, soiled by a large, irregular patch of wetness, and oh, there’s no way he’ll be able to wait until you arrive home to fuck you again. 

No, he needs to fuck you now, a sudden burst of adrenaline buzzing through his veins, little sparks and minuscule explosions that have him up and moving in under a second, cock already beginning to fill with life again.

Sheer, potent power permeates the atmosphere around him, trembling off his body in sharp bolts; dense, heavy, cracking with electricity. 

The way the crowd instantly parts for him is awe-inspiring, their gleaming eyes full of terror and worship, hastily tripping over their own toes and ankles to move from his path as he strides toward the washroom, desperate to not be stung by his brilliance, desperate to get as close to the currents as possible without being scathed. 

You’re just exiting the restroom by the time he reaches you, breath punched from your lungs as he backs you into a tiled corner, trapped between the cold wall and his scorching form, his hands splayed wide on either side of your shoulders.

“We gotta go,” he’s nearly panting out as he shoves his forehead against yours, eyes closed and noses nudging, straining cock grinding unceremoniously into your hip. “We gotta go, now.”  

And, well, Daddy always gets what Daddy wants. 

[softshuji]

𝟖:𝟑𝟎𝐏𝐌 | 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐑𝐎

Title: August Rain

Summary: Mikey tends not to celebrate his birthday, and on the one day he allows himself to, he gets more than he bargained for. Happy birthday to my prince! Reblogs appreciated as always.

cw: fem!reader, all of Bonten make an appearance, Sanzu being insane, mentions of marriage and divorce, explicit violence and bad language, use of guns, both suggestive and explicit mentions of sex, some painful angst because Mikey is a sad boy :(

Mikey lets the others take him on his birthday. He knows they enjoy it, whatever remains of this ragtag group of men, the Haitani’s and Sanzu, Kakucho driving, and him in the passenger seat. There’s been a lot of fuss, he knows. Venues decided and paid for, Ran preparing the evening for the few of them, smiles all around because they want him to feel like for one day, maybe everything else matters less. 

It's a cold August all things considered, the kind that has them taking out coats rather than jackets, hoods and collars pulled up to their ears. 

They chatter, and Ran elbows Rindou in the ribs, to which he hisses and Sanzu laughs, genuinely this time, the fine striped waistcoat bulging from where the gun presses against the linen inside. Mikey’s lips twitch, the frame of white hair falling against the window and the evening’s first rain trickling towards the mattified black metal of Kakucho’s expensive car.

‘Can you keep it down? I need to concentrate,’ he says and shifts into gear, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbow and a lean on the seat as he reverses out and into the open city. 

But they bicker, incessantly, and Mikey, maybe this time, isn’t perturbed by the sound of their voices permeating the wind whistling through the open windows, Ran’s baritone voice that’s deep underneath the music.

He chances a glance back, as if he’s watching the trees disappear and whiz past the sunroof, the orange flare of evening sun bleeding through the green and Rindou catches his eyes, softens, just a bit, and smiles before turning to his Brother. 

And Mikey almost feels something as the moment passes quietly.

He thinks of all of them as they drive, coming out on a day off to enjoy the day, a request he never asked for, but appreciates anyway. Rindou and his Brother, Sanzu too, whose Wife is expecting their first child, the others and their lives marred by the weight of their loyalty to him. It should be easy, to not care for them in some way, when he knows what they’ve done, both of their own volition, and for him, all the blood that has led them here, bones and lives added to the pile underneath his feet. Koko, whose Wife is sick and still needs him, juggling the responsibilities of Fatherhood alongside it all, Rindou and the messy and complicated divorce with the Woman he still loves despite what she’s done to him and Kakucho, still grieving for a love that never really ended.

‘Boss?’

Mikey twitches, his cheek leaning against his open palm, a quick pull from his reverie as they turn onto the highway. ‘Hm, yeah?’

Kakucho spares a glance, his eyes flashing as they flit to the side, one hand braced on the wheel. ‘You okay?’

He deliberates, and turns to the window, where the shadow of the trees has the buttery sunlight falling over the ivory of his skin, and behind it, a greying cloud encroaching over the trees. The window is open from the top and the evenings first few specks of rain fall on his forehead, an icy chill that calms the flush of his cheeks in the warm interior of the car. ‘I’m fine Kakucho,’ he says and it is clipped, as it usually is. But they never mind, and Kaku only nods as he turns to the road again and presses a foot down on the gas further, the looming neon lights of a bar spilling over the horizon’s edge, a sharp line against the slash of darkening clouds. 

It had been Ran’s idea in the end. Hushed whispers that had passed from person to person, Sanzu eventually coaxing the idea forward a few days back. There’d been an uncomfortable silence, and Mikey had watched them in turn, a hopefulness they were so quick to repress because they expected him to say no, to push, to resist.

I don’t see why not, it’s only a few hours. 

And maybe the Haitani’s had smiled at each other from across the mahogany table and Takeomi had lit a cigarette and said he’d meet them there on the day and the air had felt a little lighter, a little clearer when they left the room and Mikey was alone with his thoughts for company again.

There has been anxiety on his part, and he ponders this when he exits the car as they pull up on the side and he pulls his coat collar up to cover a part of his neck and face, the old habits coming to bite at him with every gentle lash of the quickening rain. It’s been…months since he’s last stepped out and it surprises him that the world hardly changes during these bouts of self imposed isolation. The people still walk aimlessly, eyes glued to smartphones, conversations held over earpieces, toddlers wailing in parks, mothers shushing them and fishing for pacifiers in handbags. He wonders if the world should be different just because he is no longer the man from twelve years ago when he’d left you to venture out alone, a conversation had in a park that honestly could be any one when he thinks about it.

‘You still up for this Boss?’ Sanzu says, coming up behind him now, his own coat collar pulled to cover his neck from the rain, the flash of pink hair stark against the black wool, a light touch against the .22mm handgun tucked against his waist for good measure. 

Mikey feels a sting then, the five of them looking over at him, poised on the doors of the car, all concern, as if he has not asked them to commit unspeakable acts of violence in his name. He wonders if it haunts them as it does him, if the guilt shreds whatever hearts are left when they’re alone standing over the sinks at night, washing blood that refuses to leave without marking the indents on their fingernails.

There is a twinge of pain when Ran smiles placatingly, a gentle coax and a tilt of his head to the side and it burns that they still give a shit this many years later, when he knows what he deserves and he knows it’s not this.

Part of him wishes he was more like them. Sanzu and his Wife expecting a child, Ran and his Girlfriend that he seems happy with- his steps light and sure-footed, perhaps safe in the knowledge that he can protect her, that he is not as bad as Mikey is himself. The worst really, all the dark and suffocating things crammed into his body twitching with the need for peace.

‘Yeah, let’s go.’ And they nod, a quick check of their pockets and suits, rings glinting under the quickly fading sunlight, a waxing crescent moon that kisses the tiles of the bar’s roof, faded translucent white that hides behind the now grey sky.

Kakucho resists putting a gentle hand on Mikey’s back as he’s ushered towards the entrance, an instinct he never really lost after… all that happened. Maybe it’s in his blood to care so deeply, even after everything, or maybe he wonders if Mikey deserves a gentle hand even now, all that he’s seen and hates himself for seeing. If only it were easy to completely shred that part of him that still cares. About anything. Maybe he reminds him a little too much- of a man with white hair he once knew.

Mikey glances down at the pavement, flecks of rain slapped against the concrete and it’s then that he feels the full force of a person barrelling into him, a knock against his lungs that has the air drawn out in a quick breath, hands extended to brace himself as the fall comes.

There is a shout, and the click of guns with the safety pulled, a harsh and guttural, “get on the ground!’, a “Mikey!” that he hears as the sound fades, a ringing in his ears that thrums in time with his racing heart, flushed skin that flares a deeper red as his vision swims.

“Mikey! Boss, are you okay?” Kakucho has a hand on his shoulder and he feels its warmth through the coat. He braces a hand to his side, a squeeze of his eyes that has his breath coming slowly now, slow and calculated lungfuls of hair that have the foamy blackness of his vision clearing, the twist of Kaku’s concerned expression now coming into focus. He wheezes, coughs, the pain thrumming in his chest with every sharp and spiky breath, slow inhales that ache in beating sinew of his lungs. 

Sanzu is shouting, a hand held tightly on his gun, the cold and hard steel of his gaze now narrowed on a crouching figure on the floor, hands above their head and shaking, wracking swings of their shoulders with every word rushed out in panicked breaths.

‘I’m fine, what happened?’ Mikey says, his breaths coming easier now, a hand splayed on his chest, puffed cheeks and hair clinging to his neck. 

He wonders if he should have seen it, felt it, reflexes coming to life, or maybe he’s dulled enough not to withdraw from pain when he thinks he deserves it. Or maybe he’s getting tacky, all the time he spends so long cooped up by himself, dark rooms where there is never danger outside of the violent claws of his own thoughts sinking into his flesh. 

‘Shut up, enough crying,’ Sanzu says and presses the gun to their temple, a minor click of metal and the crunch of gravel under his feet, him looming over them in his pinstripe suit, the unmissable cold frost of his voice that has them shaking involuntarily.

‘Please, please it was an accident, I didn’t mean it!’ And they narrow towards the floor, hands held high above their head, hair swinging and dampening in the now steadier rain. 

‘I don’t give a shit-’

‘Sanzu-’ This from Ran who stands opposite from Rindou, a gun also drawn from the younger Haitani, a calculating gaze on the shivering figure kneeling at his feet, wordless assent and a narrow pinch of his brows when he catches the stockinged legs now muddied with dirt, a torn skirt that’s now patchy with mud splatter in his periphery. 

Kakucho stiffens suddenly, a hand still on Mikey’s shoulder as the descent of his realisation makes a steady crawl along his spine. ‘It’s a girl,’ he says, and his throat aches somehow, the harsh lump now dragging along his chest when he sees the books and papers now decorating the drainage, water clogged and sodden with rain. 

Sanzu casts a glance at him, a long and hard stare that he shakes off with some apprehension, the slight thrum in his bones that has the hairs on his nape rising on end. ‘That doesn’t matter to me.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake Sanzu-’ Ran again, two hands out as if to calm a child, his head turning this way and that for the police he knows instinctively is coming, sirens that only ever seem to be a moment away.

‘Shut the fuck up Haitani- she could have hurt Mikey.’

‘Yes but she didn’t, it was probably an accident. Put your fucking guns away.’

Sanzu sneers. ‘I don’t take orders from you.’ And the gun digs further into her temple, a drag of his gaze to his leader for assent for a bullet that can spill the red mush of brains over the sidewalk. 

‘She hardly looks like she’s a threat Sanzu,’ Kakucho says from beside Mikey, a worried zip of his eyes to the girl sobbing against the tarmac. He hates it again, the sound of pain that seems to follow him, these situations he can never leave, and a heart that still cares and tries even now. Somewhere, a child cries and he looks up and over the waist-high gate to the woman with a pram now whispering into her phone, a cut of her narrowed eyes towards them, hushed and guttural and suspicious, pushing the pram with one hand and holding the receiver to ear with the other.

Mikey watches, the angry slap of his heart against his ribs now cooling with the brisk evening chill, the dull shadowy ink of his gaze now moving between the four of them. 

Sanzu bares his teeth, a wolf entrapping the doe in the cage. ‘Did you miss the part where she knocked into Mikey? I don’t care if she’s a girl, no one touches the Boss.’ And he pulls the safety, a click of metal and sliding silver as it presses against her skin.

Ran hisses, stepping forward in confidence and Rindou stiffens at it all- his Brother moving between Sanzu and the Girl, breezing into danger, his hand now wrapped around the barrel of the gun to tug it up and away. 

He draws back his hand, a jerk against the silver, his knuckles splashed with cold rain running along his wrist and swallowed by the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Don’t make a scene Sanzu, people are starting to look. You’re being reckless.’ And he holds his eyes, purple flecks of light flashing under the clouds, and Sanzu frowning, a twitch that has a vein pulsing in his temple as he holds firmly on the grip, knuckles white with the strain.

Kakucho moves from behind Mikey, his hand slipping from his shoulder blades, both palms coming up as if placating an animal, his coat collar skewed from the lashings of rain slapping against the pale ivory of his neck. ‘Look, both of you calm down, I’m sure it was an accident. And instead of going for each other’s throats, let the Boss decide what he wants to do.’

Sanzu holds the elder Haitani’s gaze, Rindou hovering near his Brother’s shoulder with a piercing unflinching frown, before he breaks and turns to Mikey with a faint kiss of his teeth and a scoff as he slowly lowers the gun from her head. 

Kakucho turns back to Mikey, his head bent lower, voice a subdued whisper flecked with a concern that he can’t help, because he is just a man, and he has seen too much blood for one lifetime. And he thinks maybe after this long he shouldn’t care anymore, that the scars on his knuckles have faded to a muted silvery pink, or that the black ink on his chest has permanently made a home in his heart where the hope of anything better has long been locked and sealed, but he does. Care that is. Even if he shouldn’t. Even if it haunts him.

‘Boss?’ he says, a pinch of his forehead creased apprehension. ‘What do you want to do about this? We can leave her or…get rid of her, it’s your call.’ 

Mikey raises his eyes, the understanding whirling in the dark velvet of them before lowering them again, to where you look over your shoulder at him, lips parted in fear and shaking with the cold and mud splatter clinging to your skin.

Something moves in his chest.

A beat of his heart that’s a fraction of a second too fast, a tap of it against his ribs.

And an image flashes across his mind then, quick and slipping through his fingers like sand. Hair that he touched with a reverence that was godly, clear pretty eyes swollen with tears, lips reddened and smeared with saliva from his own, dripping down a trembling chin that he cups with his two bruised hands. And he had kissed you then, again and again and it had felt like a kind of freedom, a small respite before he abandoned you in this park, under the trees where the blossoms were still shifting to pink, and the cicadas hummed during the evening. And it had been a nice day really, he had made it so. A memory you could hold that hurt a little less despite what he’d done, that you could learn to heal from and forgive yourself for- because you were always like that, so quick to shoulder his shares of the blame. 

Your mouth moves, lips parting, closing, trembling with the rain splashed across your cheeks, tear tracks that gather on your chin to disappear into the same worn red scarf that’s frayed and repaired and frayed and repaired and patched in all the places he knows you’ve mended. 

‘M…..Manjiro?’ you say, a breathless whisper that slips across the wet tarmac, your eyebrows shooting up, confusion spilling across the blush dusted across your cheeks. 

Sanzu stiffens and the gun digs into your skull from the back again, a sharp lance of pain that sprints across your scalp and spine. ‘How do you know his name?’ he growls, a wolf circling prey, teeth bared to tear through your skin.

You whimper audibly, your hands reaching higher in surrender, chipped nail polish now flecked with rain, the mud caked under your nails and across your palms streaked with a crisscross of red grazes.

Kakucho takes a step forward and Rindou lowers his gun a fraction, takes a step back with an uncertainty that zips between him and Ran, who still holds tight to the muzzle of Sanzu’s now raised revolver, knuckles chill with the cold, the lapels of his coat now blown open with the lashes of icy wind.

‘Boss?’ Kakucho says, his eyes flecked with concern, the jet black sweep of hair now shining crystalline with the rain speckled across it. ‘You know her?’

Your gaze flits, a deer caught in headlights, between the five of them, each measuring you with an inflection of concern and curiosity, the usual pinch of Rindou’s eyebrows now tightened in anxiety. 

Mikey knows your face. 

He could know it in his sleep, in dreams where the image of you is pressed to his pillows, pressed to the swirling liquid at the bottom of his glass, pressed to his tongue when he fucks a cheap whore with you on his mind, your body underneath his hands and so responsive to all the small and minute touches. Only to kill them later because they could never be you, and they could never be his and he doesn’t care for using others anymore when he could never undo his wrongs- could never wash away the curve of your lips smiling against his, or the tight and snug fit of you pressed against his sheets, the mattress of his old place now indented from the memory of you, your hair caught in the woven fibres of his pillows and he’d hated it that much he’d torched it all and watched the flames eat the image of you alive. 

His tongue clings to the roof of his mouth, the taste of his saliva thick and cloying and heavy over his teeth. 

‘Y…..Y/N?’ he says, his whisper caught on the whip of the wind lashing at his cheeks. It’s tough, this many years later to say your name when he’s spent years burying it at the bottom of a bottle, underneath the copious pills Sanzu has offered to him, the taste of you swimming in his mouth, and washed and washed and washed down again and again and again. 

You shift, and lean on your caked palms, your knees drawn up to your chin, stockings torn at the knees and thighs, soft skin splattered with rain. 

‘Mikey,’ you say again, the feeling of it foreign on your tongue, tripping over it now after twelve years of resigning yourself to never seeing him again, of telling yourself it was for the best that he’d left you to nurse your heart alone. 

‘Y/N,’ he says, the sound of it a sharp gasp, the dark velvet night of his eyes now taking you in, the entirety of you burned into his gaze and it aches in his chest, pulses in his temple, a hot white kind of pain that zips across his skull.

Kakucho takes his cue and moves between the two of you, extending a hand and hoisting you up before fishing a handkerchief from the lapel of his waistcoat. He shakes his head, a short and abrupt glance at Sanzu who only scoffs at him in return, arms now folded over his chest with incredulity. 

‘I’m sorry, about this I mean.’ And he wraps your hand around the small fabric before shrugging his jacket off and draping it over your shoulders, a comforting squeeze that accompanies the hard set of his mouth into a shaky smile. 

‘It….it’s okay, I understand.’ You wrap your arms tighter around yourself, wrists and hands entirely gulfed by his sleeves. ‘I’m sorry I caused this.’

‘Do you really know him?’

‘He’s my….he’s someone I knew once.’

He nods, draws you slightly closer against a particularly strong gust of a gale before turning his gaze back to the others, particularly to Mikey who stands frozen and rooted, conflict whirling in the ink of his eyes.

Ran moves, foxlike and agile and bends to whisper. ‘Boss, if you want a minute alone, I can take the others. Kaku will stay with you for safety…and to make sure she doesn’t try anything.’ This last part hushed, and more for Sanzu who glares at you with a narrow pinch of his brow, pink hair now clinging to the wet collar of his black coat. 

Mikey glances up once to the clear shine of Ran’s earnest eyes, the usual smirk and lilt of his playful charm now buried under the concerned and protective tug of his eyebrows before nodding once, slowly, deliberately, as if he’s warring with himself.

And Ran smiles, genuinely, before patting Kakucho reassuringly on the back. ‘Alright let’s go, we’ll wait inside.’

‘I’m not leaving the Boss,’ Sanzu says, and taps his gun against his arm, the silver catching the fading daylight.

‘You heard what he said, we can go. Kaku will be here anyway.’

Ran, for all of it, the blood he has seen, knows the importance of this moment right here, the only flicker of anything left in the man who once held the world so tightly, the only thing maybe that he can provide that make him a little better, a little happier, a little anything other than what he is.

Sanzu scoffs and looks to Mikey again, who only flicks his eyes up once in recognition, before letting them fall on your mud splattered shoes where he’s resigned to let his gaze stay, burning holes into the tarmac under your feet because he just can’t look, can’t let himself see you in all the ways he’s wanted to for years. The clear clarity of your eyes where the sun soaks, the pinch of your eyebrows and forehead that he’d kissed because you’d liked it and you’d felt safe and warm and his.

‘Come on, let’s go, we’ll wait for the Boss inside.’ Ran puts a protective arm around Rindou, shooting a glare at Sanzu who turns hesitantly, casting a glance back at Mikey, his steps faltering, tripping towards the neon lights of the glitzy bar.

Then, Kakucho, as if sensing the tension. ‘I’ll be in the car, I’ll keep the window rolled for privacy but call if you need me,’ he says, a reassuring pat on Mikey’s back, his chest lurching with an ache when the the fading light bounces from Mikey’s platinum hair just right, in a way someone else’s used to once upon a time. 

You shift on your feet, a shy glance up and away again, settling your eyes on his shoes where the rain has splashed across the black leather. 

‘So…’ you start, a cough into your hand and he fights a strangled sound of uncomfortability, of hesitation and a shyness he thought was long dead.

‘It’s good to see you Manjiro.’ 

It hurts to hear you say his name, his real name, the taste of it in your mouth that feels so new and old and familiar and not, and he likes how it sounds. He always has. 

‘You…too…Y/N.’ 

There’s a silence again, him biting hard on his tongue, you moving from foot to foot and you hate it, that it became this, that everything you had is washed down the drainage, ruined and tainted and buried with the years when once, you had been something. Maybe nothing more than partners, but something. 

Your eyes flick up. ‘I’m sorry I hit you, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t see you there,’ you say. ‘Oh, I’m not saying it’s because you’re- y’know, I just mean-’

‘It’s fine, I wasn’t hurt.’ Clipped and aching in his chest, chewing the words up and squeezing his fingers into his palm, red crescents indented into the pale ivory of his skin. ‘Are you…well? You look well.’ This time, he does look up, at your face blooming with health, a happiness he had never seen on you back then, the worry lines now faded to muted smile lines and it burns him that he hadn’t put them there, that he’d been the reason for it all. 

Your eyes shine, a flicker of excitement spilling across them, a small smile curling at the edge of your wet lips and he has an urge to kiss you, press you against the car and hike your skirt up, to paint you with him again like he did, leaving a mark that blooms across your skin with his teeth. 

‘I am well Manjiro, I’m doing pretty good,’ you say, an embarrassed grin that you’re quick to hide behind your wet sleeve, the rain now petering to a soft and unsteady trickle that whets your lashes. ‘And you?’

You fight the temptation to mention that he seems to have lost weight since you last saw him, a hollowness to his skin, thin and dripping shadows under his eyes that accent the shine of his lustrous platinum hair, dark circles that line his ivory pallid cheeks. He hasn’t been eating, you think. Meals left unattended and thrown, drinks chosen to accompany the cold and lonely nights. 

He stiffens. ‘I’m doing fine. I don’t have much time to get out anymore, that's all.’ His nerves tighten with tension, your knowing gaze that melts with a curiosity and pity that he hates, that he loves, that he wants and never believes he wants because you always somehow knew, were always somehow so forthcoming even when he wishes you weren’t, even when he knew he deserved less. 

‘I see. I missed you y’know,’ you say, your eyes softening, mouth puckering to a soft pout. ‘I see you changed your hair too, it looks good on you Manjiro, it really suits you.’ And he wishes it hurt less like this, in the same park he had left you in, wishes that you had kicked and screamed at him when you met again, a rage that he deserved and would have let himself feel, all the anger and heartbreak he would have willingly endured for you because it could never atone for the sins he’d accumulated in time.

Something kicks in his chest. ‘It was for my Brother, after he passed.’ 

The rain slaps against the bonnet of the car, clouds greying like oatmeal, a sludge of cement across the sky.

‘Oh. I’m sorry, forgive me I didn’t mean to upset you or anything.’

‘It’s fine Y/N, you don’t need to apologise for everything…I thought you’d be angry.’ 

‘Huh? I don’t understand what you mean by that.’ 

He does look up then, at the tree overhead, the branches bare and bending, ticking the hood of your coat and snagging at you with the red scarf pulled tight to your chin, worn threads catching on the fading glossy lips and he thinks of them against his, the thump of your heart pressed to his, fingers tugging at his hair, a fist wound tight in the threads of it and pulling, yanking even, when he bites and licks and soothes over the marks made by his teeth. 

He takes an unsure step forward, Kakucho  in the car raising an eyebrow as he watches. 

‘I mean, why aren’t you angry? You’ve not said anything about it yet.’

You frown, sidestepping between the curb and the road, weight shifting from one foot to another. ‘About what ‘Jiro? The way we parted?’

And he nods, the dull lustre of his eyes swimming with an undefined and unusual clearness and you sigh, drawing out a long breath that mists in the now clear evening sky. ‘What’s to say? You left me, you no longer wanted anything to do with me and I gave up on pretending there was something I could have done to change what happened back then. I admitted it to myself finally anyway.’

‘Admitted what?’ he says and tilts his head to the side, the swing of white hair now plastered to his neck where goosebumps prickle across his skin. 

You wrinkle your nose, as if it’s obvious. ‘That you found someone else of course. Another girl, one prettier and smarter and better.’

‘Huh?’ Ice pours into his veins, a flash of white hot lightning across his skull. ‘That wasn’t it. I didn’t leave because of that.’

You stiffen, shaking your head, a frown bleeding across your forehead. ‘Then why?’

He clamps his lips together, a firm line that accompanies the uncomfortable shake of his head, the silence that stretches and yawns wide.

‘You know, I racked my brain for weeks, trying to think of if there was something I could have done, if I had accidentally done something wrong that I just didn’t know about. Was there?’

A beat. ‘No, no I made my decision weeks before that.’

Your chest falls, heart slamming against your ribs. ‘Then what Manjiro? I thought we were doing good, we really were, right?’ Your voice wobbles, tapers off at the end, a small and uncertain shake to the usually bright timbre of it and he aches, for doing this again, for a second time. 

‘Stop. Stop asking me this,’ he says, a hesitant step back, hand catching on the bonnet of the car and Kakucho- inside- raises an eyebrow at the two of you, mouths moving, glassy pearlescent shine of your eyes that makes Mikey seem like a deer in headlights, uncomfortable and uncertain. It does not take him long to put two and two together from that.

You press on, a step forward with more vigour. ‘Why Manjiro? I don’t get it.’

He balls a hand into fists, the hurt churning in his chest, old wounds flayed open and licked with salt, the blood running down his ribcage where the carving of your name has never left. ‘I don’t want to talk about this, and you will not ask again.’

‘Please,’ you say, your hands coming out as if in prayer, surrendering yourself under the thick wiry branches where the rain trickles through the wood. ‘Please, I just want to know, I deserve to know.’

Kakucho puts a hand on the door, nerves wiring with anticipation.

Mikey’s blood roars in his ears, the silence a cavern, deafening and loud and vibrating in his skull and when he pauses, the silence hanging on his breath, you go on, and the tears spill, years of them, so watery and full of a grief so big you’ve been swimming in it. Twelve years, all the love that died somewhere, all the love you never got to give, all the forgiveness you knew he could have taken for himself if he just stayed- because you had forgiven him and it had been easy and you’d have come back to his waiting arms if he’d let you. 

You take another step, within arms reach now, breath glossing in the mist, the lump in your throat spiky as it slides along your flesh with every sharp intake of breath. ‘I just wish- if it had been someone else- if you never loved me anymore- then you could have just said so, I could have taken it I swear.’ You’d have wished him happiness still, seen him off in some dignified way, left with a wave and a final smile as a parting gift rather than the grief and rage thrown at the wall, at yourself, for just not being enough for him to be honest to. 

‘Please stop,’ he whispers, hands balled into fists in his coat, shoulders pulled up to his ears and shrinking still against his coat, his eyes averted and glancing frantically between you and the tarmac. Kakucho eyes the two of you nervously, apprehension that simmers along his skin, knuckles white and gripping the door for the moment to step in should he need to.

You deflate then, your body sagging in on itself, a tiredness that seeps into your bones, cold licking across your skin and down to the fibres of your clothes and you fiddle with your hands, pulling at your sleeves, hanging your head and your gaze dragging to his shoes again, now flecked with lashings of cold rain. 

‘I loved you Manjiro,’ you say, a soft and hesitant whisper that’s lost under the rush and hum of passing cars, the puddles jumping and thrumming across the tarmac. ‘I really loved you.’ 

You look up and the pain is a knife across your lungs, sharp and fresh and fast, tears that are salty enough to sting, the devastation of all the untold feelings, all the hurts that were never resolved and never forgotten now rising to your tongue. From where Kakucho is, he only sees you, the bleak and crumpling turn of your once red lips, wobbling and glossy with tears, and Mikey struck still- a deer in headlights- his back stiff and hunched as if in pain.

‘You shouldn’t have, that was your mistake.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

'I do. I never asked you to love me, I never asked for anything from you.’

The edge of your voice seeps with a hardened bite then. ‘You’re an awful liar Mikey. Don’t think I didn’t notice how desperate you were just for someone to hold you- it was written all over your face.’

The inky velvet of his eyes flashes with cobalt steel. ‘Watch your mouth with me, I could have you killed.’

‘That’s the thing about you. You like to pretend you’re invincible, but I never forgot you at all and I would have stayed with you till the end.’ 

He swallows back a wince, a sharp lance of pain that slices clean across the shattered remains of his heart because he knows, he knew back then that it would have been true, that you’d have held onto him and waded through the thicket of sin, the debauchery you’d have endured for his sake, the violence you’d have scrubbed with the blood from his hands and then held gently- as if he had not killed to get there in the first place.

His skin burns, cheeks blazing with a furious heat, all the adrenaline now spilling into his blood and he hates you. He hates you so much that it feels close to shame, for this feeling still. That whatever he can still feel now, what passes as love to him still resides in his chest, an ache and a yearning for the heat and feel of you in his hands and he wishes it had been beaten out of him in some way, wishes your face was not so pretty, wishes your voice was less kind, less soft, less everything he so desperately wants to grab at selfishly and greedily. 

He swallows, a thick boulder that has his tongue weighing down. ‘I don’t want to hear anymore.’ He makes a turn when you grab at his wrist- a minute and split second decision that has the hairs on his arms rising.

Kakucho stiffens, his gun pulled quickly and efficiently from the glove box and tucked into his pants, the car door pushed open and him stepping out as the rain spits through the gaps in the wiry branches. 

‘Manjiro please, don’t just go- not again, not like last time,’ you say, your voice flecked with a desperation that breaks off into a sob, your other sleeve held to your running nose, your running eyes, tears that gather on your chin and his eyes rove over your pretty face, falling and falling till the glittery band on your ring finger snags him.

He freezes, and the silence is weighty, palpable when you glance down at where your fingers circle his wrist, thumb pressed to the indent of veins now thrumming with warmth under your touch, your heart punching against your ribs when his gaze flicks up to meet your eyes again, a fresh wave of pain quickly stamped out. He clenches his fist and pulls his wrist away, turning his coat collar up till his tattoo is swallowed by the black wool. 

‘I…’ 

‘Don’t.’

‘I can explain, I swear.’

‘You’re married,’ he says, bluntly, matter of factly even- his voice melting with apathy, a sneer that he can’t help, that he hates himself for when the jealousy burns in his lungs, green and ugly and hot. 

‘I am.’

‘You’re married and you didn’t mention it.’ 

You frown, your outstretched hand now pulled back and cradled to your chest. ‘Should I have? Why does that matter to you?’ 

His hackles rise again, a vein pulsing in his temple when Kakucho looms at his side, a reassuring hand coming to rest on his coat, the jet black swing of his hair flecked with frosty rain. 

‘It doesn’t,’ he says, forcing a nonchalance he doesn’t feel, and a pain he does far into his stomach. ‘I don’t care.’

And of course you are, when he thinks about it. You’re good and it pains him that that hasn’t changed his many years later, still saying sorry, still bright as the sun, still soft and too pretty to touch, terrifying and alluring all at once when he knows the world is not kind and yet you behave as if it is, as if it should be despite yourself. The years have not changed you and it is this that has the seed of envy sprouting in his chest- that all those wasted years he did not waste with you, the two of you growing up and growing older and becoming mellowed by time. The regret sinks into his bones. 

‘Oh,’ you say, stung and hiding it well behind your trembling lip, your sleeve coming up to wipe at stray tears, all the earnestness he knows he has to shatter time and time again because you are just like that. 

You remind him of someone, another person left behind in the past. Someone who was too persistent, annoyingly so and yet funny, adorable, nostalgic, beautiful, all the things he no longer had room for when it all changed, all the determination he had to stamp out of you because you wouldn’t do it yourself and the world couldn’t shake you.

And then. ‘How long?’

‘Huh?’

‘How long have you been married?’ and he’s not sure why he’s asking when he believes he doesn’t care, only that some locked part of him wants to keep you a minute longer, be a bit more selfish and greedy for your time when he has twelve years to fill and no amount of pining can assuage the ache of your absence in all of it.

Something like joy flits momentarily across your eyes, and Mikey wonders if you know, if you noticed the sun that breaks through the clouds when your eyes shine with a clarity, a clearness that punches against his chest, the barest sliver of a smile tugging at your lips that you’re ashamed of even now and still hiding as if you’re trying to save him from more.

‘Oh,’ you say, a little shyly and kicking at the ground. ‘Me and Mitsuya have been married for about five years but we were dating for five before that. We have a son now too, a baby boy just starting school.’ 

You avoid his gaze, the slow and naked crumple of his mouth, the edges turned down and vulnerable, ashamed, the ricochet of his breaking heart you swear you can hear and wish you didn’t have to. You love your husband, you swear you do and it’s a testament to him that when Mikey left, he was the one who put you back together again, the time taken and mended to fix you, nights spent so freely and willingly at your side and never once used to badmouth Mikey or you, or anyone for that matter. Love persisting, as he always had and does. 

But there is something that aches inside when you glance up at Mikey the same as ever, raw desperation and a need so great that you wonder if anything has changed in twelve years, if he lies awake on some nights as you do, the occasional thought and dream of him that you’re determined never to talk about, buried and locked in some dark part of your chest where the tangled thicket of your history lies dormant.

Do you ever really recover from the pain of first love? Is it even love then? When you are young and fickle and you think you know all there is to know about it and you wonder if the hurt can ever truly heal when it breaks you open and you recover and move on and forget, wounds painted over only to be peeled back again and again. Is it love? Or is it love for what you know it to be at the time?

‘Oh,’ he says, finally clearing his throat behind his hand, the mask falling as it does, as he’s used to and turning to nod at Kakucho now over his shoulder. ‘Get a driver to take her home, we’re done here.’

Your eyes widen in alarm. ‘Manjiro? No wait, we haven’t finished.’

‘We have, I have nothing more to say to you.’

He does. He doesn’t. He isn’t sure. He only knows with certainty that it burns him when he thinks of another man having you in all the ways he wishes he could, everything he should have been that someone else was so easily, pooling in a regret that’s a cavern so wide it’ll eat him if he thinks too long about it. He hurts, he inflicts pain, and you deserve a softer love than anything he could have ever given you. 

‘Manjiro!’

He glares at you over his shoulder, the velvet darkness of his eyes swirling with an ivory flash, an impulse sparking to life. ‘It’s Mikey. My name is Mikey.’

Ice pours into your chest and you pull back as if burned, the fresh tears brimming unbridled and unbidden. 

‘Mikey…’ you breathe, a plume of mist that dusts him with grey in your periphery, tasting the sound of it for the last time, savouring it on your tongue, anguish swirling in your voice when it cracks on the last syllable. 

He nods at Kakucho once and stalks past you, eyes trained on the neon lights of the building behind and you in the corner of his vision getting smaller, the ache and thump of his heart that claws at him for doing it again. Leaving again. Hurting you again. Breaking you again, because it is all he is capable of, and you deserve something softer than the jagged edges of him to cut yourself on.

You cradle your hand to your chest, the resounding footsteps getting further now, you glancing back at the swish and swing of white hair against the black collar of his coat, and always walking away, always the image of his back to look at like he had done before. 

Kakucho rests a hand on your shoulder, the soothing warmth of his voice dripping like honey. ‘Hey, I’m not sure what all that was about but you’ll be fine and I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry? For what?’ you say, your gaze snagging on the crimson light of his eye, the milky white of the other hidden by the midnight black of his hair, a look so gentle and soft, a comfort so warm. 

‘All of it I think. For what became of him that you know about, and even all that you don’t. For what it’s worth, none of it was ever your fault,’ he says, a faint tilt of his head to the side. ‘Mikey just changed after Iza-’ A pause, a harsh clench of his jaw, lashes kissing at his cheek as he heaves a weighted sigh. ‘After losing his siblings, all of them. It wasn’t ever you.’

‘I would have stayed, you know, I would have loved him through it all.’ 

‘That’s the problem. Look, I don’t know you but if Mikey felt like you could have come to harm because of him, then he left you for that reason. As unhappy as he is, and as you are with it, maybe the reason you’re alive is because of that decision.’

Apprehension bristles across your skin. ‘You know more than you’re letting on Mr….?

‘Kakucho, and yes I do. We heard things that’s all, and it’s my job to stay in the loop on his life. I recognised you from the pictures.’

‘Pictures?’

‘The ones he failed to burn, old pictures of the two of you that he thinks no one else knows he looks at. But we’ve all got skeletons in our closets and we just happen to know his.’

He watches you then, all the realisations that dawn and spill across your eyes, the turn of your mouth that has your lips trembling, your hair now plastered to your skin. It’s heavy, the weight of it all, truths and lies that unfurl like flags in the wind.

‘Look, I have to go, but there’s a car here to take you home, give the driver your address okay?’ And he shepherds you to the black unmarked car where the driver nods at you as you slip in, your mind blank and dizzy, a white noise that rings in your ears as he bends at the window. ‘Best you don’t tell your Husband about this either. For obvious reasons.’

‘Okay…’ you say, numb and blind, a grief so big clustering in your chest that it shows on your cheeks, where the tears continue, swallowed up by the red scarf now unfurling around your neck. ‘Thank you Mr Kakucho, for everything.’

He gives you a smile, a pained one at that, the shared weight and loss zipping between you two as he stands and taps the roof of the car, the driver calling a ‘Where to Miss?’ that’s cut when he rolls the windows up again. 

You drive off and he sighs, heavy and thick and painful, a sharp pinch in his lungs when he turns towards the club and walks, feet dragging to the doors where Mikey waits, agonised as he watches your car drive off in a plume of grey smoke.

a/n: I have nothing to add, u can pelt me with rocks for this one lmao, I figured it was time for something soul crushing. sorry for this being a little late though but I hope everyone enjoys it still. happy birthday to baby boy.

taglist: @reiners-milkbiddies @prettyiolanthe @sugusshi @snakegentleman @haitaniapologist @nafarsiti @bejeweled-night-33 @ranscutedoll @the-travelling-witch @orchid3a @qiiuusoup-xo @hoetani @sinfulseashell @sweet-seishu @burnishedcrown @nikokopuffs @mitsuwuyaa @haruwuchiyoo @mochimiyaas @theaonlax @blackfire2013 @wotakuhime @severellamahottub (pls dm or send an ask or comment to be added)

[pluvialpoet]

bergamot

Summary: moments of quiet reflection reaffirm what you both already know to be true- he’s always going to come back, and you’re always going to be waiting with open arms

Pairing: dick grayson x fem!reader

Requested: no

Warning: idiots in love, friends to lovers, mutual pining, scarecrow's fear toxin, mentions of death and grief, slight angst, fluffy ending, loosely based off of batman: hush (2019)- but no major spoilers

Word Count: 3,930

masterlist

a/n: I know that dick has a tolerance against/is immune to scarecrow's fear toxin, but let's pretend he isn't...for the plot

Sleep is cruel in the way it continues to evade you when you crave it most. Mocking and teasing, exhaustion morphs into desperation. Even with your eyes shut dreams fail you, and nightmares taunt.

A siren wails, bellowing out into the night and echoing caution even after the initial cry has faded. Could be a police car, or an ambulance. Maybe even a fire truck. You try not to consider all of the possibilities, knowing it’ll only starve your slumber, further. With a huff, you adjust the heavy comforter, pulling it up until it bunches just under your chin.

In a few weeks, branches will be stripped of their leaves. Snow will fall, and the city will suffocate under a blanket of white. July was only yesterday, sticky and never-ending- infinite until finite. Now, January lurks around the corner- weeks away, but daunting, nevertheless.

The pillow tucked behind your back is a poor imitation of the brawn you wish feathers and fill could replicate, just as the one pressed to your chest acts as an imposter mimicking the body meant to be sleeping peacefully beside you. It’s impossible to tell feelings of loneliness apart from being alone, and deep down you know that reminiscence is merciless. Memory is wicked. But you can’t help remembering. It’s the only way you won’t forget- and even then, so much time has passed that you’ve begun to fade, and he’s begun to blur. Spiraling further and further away from reality and control, you drift towards hope, feeding each dangerous possibility until you have nothing left to give, but delusion takes and takes and takes…

Answers elude like comfort- and sleep. When, how, and why is lost upon you. He’s been gone for so long. Even so, your life has continued, evolving to accommodate the gaps he used to fill. Though, it’s about as effective as papier-mâchéing an open wound shut. Everywhere you look, everything you do, every time you shut your eyes, he finds a way to bleed into you, one way or another, and you welcome it every single time. All you really have are memories and a space in your bed which has always been his to come home to.

Outside, the wind howls. Angry and violent, the sound rattles the windowpane and you burrow deeper into the covers trying to block it out. Shadows dance across the ceiling, but none of them belong to the ghost you’ve been waiting for. Another frustrated huff fails to quell burning exhaustion, and you rub your eyes with the back of your hand before checking the clock next to you. Neon green flashes, all too pleased to report that it’s well past midnight and you haven’t gotten a wink of sleep. Already tomorrow, and you’re still mourning today.

Pushing the covers off, you shiver. There’s a chill in the air and little comfort to be found in the fact that the entire apartment feels cold and empty without him in it. At least it’s not just the bed. It’s the entire room, the hallway, and the kitchen, too. You reach for the light above the stove and begin to search the cupboards for a mug. If nothing else, at least a cup of tea will warm you up. Thanks to muscle memory, you act on autopilot, filling the ceramic with water and placing it in the microwave before picking a teabag and waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting, always waiting. Three monotone beeps call your attention back before it has another chance to wander away from you, and you retrieve the cup and place the teabag inside. Steeping time be damned.

You can’t wait any longer.

One leg curls under the other as you take a seat and bring the mug to your mouth. It burns the tip of your tongue, a small price to pay for your greed, and you swallow the too-hot liquid regardless of the consequences. The pain barely registers, anyway. With both palms pressed to the vessel, warmth finally finds you, and a barely contented huff passes your lips to blow the steam from the cup. It’s not always like this. It’s not supposed to be, but for so long, it has been. Never months, always weeks. You don’t know how to do this or how much longer you can put yourself through this torture when every sunrise twists the knots in your stomach tighter and tighter. How much longer until you snap?

You’re so tangled up in your suffering that you miss it the first time, until the hair on the back of your neck bristles. Did you imagine it? Silently, you wait, setting the steaming mug down to listen, and this time, you hear it. Faintly, but there. Real.

Tap tap. Tap tap. Tap tap tap tap.

I’m here. I’m safe. Can I come in?

Your feet move before the rest of your body does, and the chair scrapes loudly across the hardwood as you jump from it in shock. A cocktail of excitement, worry, disbelief, and fear bubbles and swirls through you when you spot a familiar glimpse of black and blue through the window near the fire escape.

“Dick?”

Crossing the room without any memory of doing so, you fiddle with the latch that keeps you from him, and him from you, until finally it clicks. With only one foot through the window, you reach for him, desperate to savor the illusion until mass, warmth and a heartbeat prove it to be real. Upon realizing, your breath hitches. He’s real. He’s real, and he’s here. No longer a dream. No longer a nightmare. No longer a vision only sleep can grant or mold, he stands before you. He takes a moment to properly slide the window shut behind him, returning the lock to its rightful position- keeping the rest of the world and the winter, out- before turning to face you once more. He can’t even get a word out before you’re pressed against him, wrapping your arms around him and holding yourself back from crushing him with the intensity of your longing. Overly cautious of injuries you can’t physically see- mindful of bruises, tears of flesh, and wounds that remain eclipsed by kevlar and moonlight- you embrace him with a hesitancy that severely undermines your fervor. Holding him gently- delicately, tenderly- the way you’ve dreamt about entwining with him on nights when sleep has been generous instead of cruel, you finally look up at him.

A sigh of relief dispels the hoarded tension in your neck, shoulders, and chest when you rest your head against his chest and inhale. Sweat and copper muddle his natural scent, but even when he’s covered in his victories, even when he’s drenched in his defeats, he still smells like home- warm, safe, familiar, and comforting.

He hesitates to envelop you with the same thinly veiled desperation, holding himself back.

Every muscle in his body carries the strain of battles fought and won. His head throbs with the force of his thoughts, and the inescapable dizziness that always accompanies crashing down from a high. Then again, he’s never been one to ease into things gracefully. Tiny cuts and scrapes, angry blacks and blues, and even gaping gashes that are still seeping and tender to the touch hardly register as anything other than a stinging, burning sensation. Everything is dull. Ferocity and intensity both subdued. Through the haze of everything that competes for his attention, you’re the one thing that’s clear. As always, the hold you have on him, both physical and metaphorical, brings him back to his senses, but doubt keeps him withdrawn.

Warily wrapping his arms around you, Dick returns the gesture as best as he can. Cages built of muscle, meant to keep you close, refuse to lock you in place, and he finds it increasingly difficult to resist surrendering to you entirely. Just as his nerves begin to settle they spike once more when the gravity of the past few months finally begins to sink in. As you continue to tremble in his arms, he swallows a lump in his throat and fights the urge to hold you impossibly closer. If he weren’t so afraid, he’d never let go again. But he’s not the same man he was the last time you saw him. Having seen too much, he knows that he can’t let this become something more. Fear is rotten. He’s seen the future, and if he keeps leaning on you then he’s only going to drag you down with him. Regardless of what he really wants, he won’t let this become something more, but then he looks down at you in his shirt and realizes it’s always been something more- and it terrifies him more than anything.

When pink swirls around the drain- a muted severity of soapy lather and remnants of crusted, oozing red- he rests his forehead against the cold tiles and lets out a deep sigh. He can’t remember the last time he’d had a proper shower. Under the trickling scorch, he allows his shoulders to slump forward, letting the too-hot water soothe his muscles like a balm, and it stings in a way he welcomes- a reminder that he’s done it again, he’s survived the worst and now he just has to survive the recovery.

He’s never been good with the after, always losing himself in possibilities of what comes next without taking a minute to catch his breath, but he’s trying to be better. He owes it to you. Not only you but himself, too- but mostly you. So, he tries to forget. He pushes memories too fresh to be forgotten somewhere else, banishing them to the far corners of his mind and locking them away until he’s ready to face his demons at his own pace, on his own terms, but his wicked creations fight back. Even when they’re crafted from delusions, mirroring real-life counterparts with a precision too exact to be a figmented replication, he finds himself engaged in an internal match that never crowns a victor. It’s a conflict that never ceases, even after his own surrender. Still, he’s found that the intrusions are less when copper is overpowered by citrus, and when red, inevitably swirls into pink.

Steam amplifies the smell of sweat and body odor, so pungent that the only word to describe it is bad, and he holds his breath while he reaches for your soap once more. He can’t believe you let him anywhere near you. It’s even more unfathomable that you sought an embrace, despite the remnants of battle that’ve woven themselves into his being- lingering, even long after. He’s repulsed by that which exposes him, a stench so strong that it serves as a testament to the fact that he reclaimed you as soon as he could, coming right back to this haven of sorts without any prior stops, and his stomach churns uncomfortably, the once soothing mist tainting each attempt at air, and a weight teases the aching muscles of his chest which breath does not alleviate.

Through the haze, he sees the truth- when reality remains undistorted by the tricks of his own want and longing, he recognizes fact without his own warped perceptions of fantasy- and he realizes just how careless he’s been. By allowing desire to suade better judgment, he’s put you at risk. Guilt punishes with an onslaught of emotions ranging from frustration to anger, sadness to grief, and even regret to sorrow. His own reluctance to accept how dangerous it was, and always has been, to lean on your affections as a crutch has finally caught up to him. After all that he’s seen, after everything he’s been forced to bear witness to over the past few months, coupled with a lifetime of loss, he’s no longer able to ignore the thought that’s broken free from the shackles of elsewhere. What was once dull, always there but never really forgotten, has become intense and persistent.

Every time he finds his way back to you, he invites peril into your life. He’s hazardous. Even if he’s not, being attached to him- in any way- puts you at an even greater risk of endangerment. Trying to justify something even as tame as a friendship is absurd. You’re so much more than that. Whether he meant for it to happen or not, you’ve found a place within his heart. Every beat echoes your name and carries secrets of his devotion. All that remains of the walls meant to protect both of you is rubble, and Dick stands alone in the epicenter of the aftermath, unsure and torn between chaos and order. Selfishly, he wants. Greedily, he craves. Morally, he knows that he should just walk away- but he can’t.

The scene shifts, ceramic tile falling away to reveal an eerie, yet familiar boneyard, and he shakes his head. It’s not real. It was never real- but it was so vivid. Cold fog obscures his vision, and he closes his eyes. This is a trick. This isn’t truth. He knows what comes next. Forced to indulge in his worst nightmares, the shrill, piercing sound of your terror renders him numb. He can’t move. Paralyzed, he fights limbs of lead, but he can’t act. It surrounds him, your agony, and he can’t do anything to save you. He can’t protect you. With each cry of his name, you plead, but there’s nothing he can do. When silence follows his ragged breaths, he refuses to look down. He hates this part the most, but he doesn’t have a choice. Crimson stains the black and blue weave, and he can taste metallic. He doesn’t have any control over this hallucination, born and bred from his greatest fear, and all he can do is witness the fallout of your shared torture- your blood on his hands, his body slumped against your tombstone, and the triumphant laughter of a clown, a scarecrow, a ventriloquist, and a hundred more that delight in your demise.

He can’t catch his breath. Drifting further and further away from reality, he struggles to claw his way back towards the light. When his vision begins to fade, he reaches for more soap. In for three counts, out for four. In for three counts, and out for four, again, Dick feels lightheaded. There’s no limit to how far he’d go to keep you safe, not a single rule or code he wouldn’t break to protect you from anything and everything- and that’s an entirely different threat, in and of itself. His loyalty has the potential to become his ruin, and he’d let it- for your sake- but would that be enough? Could his devotion be enough to keep you safe from the otherwise brutal fate that awaits you with, and without, his intervention?

The bite of a washrag leaves his skin raw. Lost to his thoughts, he’s been mindlessly scrubbing away at his flesh, dousing himself with bubbled distraction. Another breath fails to alleviate his unease. All he can think about is that which is out of his control, and he can’t help but wonder, is there even a chance for the two of you?

Every thought is a contradiction.

He could wax poetic to Bruce about love- how precious and fragile and conscious it is- but he can’t even bring himself to act upon his own advice. Even worse than following in a denialist’s footsteps is being a hypocrite, but there are just too many variables for him to take into account- too many what-ifs and maybe’s that enable him to cower behind words left unspoken.

In spite of this, he dares to dream of a future where you’re his and he’s yours, and nothing else matters. Lost to his delusions, a smile threatens to work muscles that’ve remained dormant for months of disuse. It hurts. Stretching, pulling, and manipulating his face to actually convey what he’s feeling instead of trying to veil it, hurts. However, the worst pain follows. As he reaches for the illusion, it slips through his fingers- so close he can almost hold it, yet just out of reach, simultaneously- and just like that, reality distorts the mirage. Pried from him, ripped away and sporting his claw marks, what could’ve been remains what could’ve been- and it’s all his fault.

Fear suppresses his love.

He’s already lost so much, he can’t lose this, too. He won’t. However glutinous, he craves more- even when he knows he can’t have it, he wants with a desire that’s almost too strong to ignore. Almost. Locking his feelings away, he throws away the key, but his ribs begin to expand with the intensity of his longing, and his chest feels tight. This isn’t like before. It seems as if his secrets have outgrown their cages, and he finds himself at a crossroads. His mind begins to drift and he wonders if this agony is why Bruce kept Selina at arm’s length…

A sigh, and a revelation- he’s not Bruce, and you’re not Selina.

Dick’s been going about this all wrong. Despite everything he’s been taught about love and loss, he’s allowed a life outside of a domino mask and kevlar. He deserves to cherish someone, to protect and devote himself to something other than his work- someone to fight for, someone to come home to- and he deserves to be beloved, too. Even if only for tonight. Even if tomorrow isn’t promised and all you have is right now, you’re here. On the other side of the frosted glass screen and plaster, you’re waiting for him. Another smile, less forced and genuine, feels like a relief instead of a burden. His skin pebbles under the frigid stream left in the wake of molten steam. With a shiver, he seeks your warmth, reaching for the faucet and stepping out of the enclosure.

A worn shirt rests atop the counter, the fabric faded from years of wear and wash, folded neatly beneath a pair of fresh boxers and socks likely left behind from the last time, or the time before that, or even the time before…truth be told, he thought he’d lost it, misplaced it, or given it away. Of course, you’ve had it in your care, all along. The corner of his mouth threatens to twitch into a smile. Slipping the towel from around his waist, he begins to dress, wondering when you managed to sneak in without him hearing you. The door used to creak, and he realizes that you must have fixed it while he was gone. It’s hard not to think about what else might’ve changed since the last time he saw you. Would you have stayed with him, if he asked you to? You always have. Six years and counting, he muses if you always will…

His hair is getting long, again. Droplets fall from the overgrown strands at the base of his neck down his back, making him shiver and reach for his towel once more. He pats his hair down, ruffling it with the towel a few times before wiping away at the mirror. Making eye contact with his reflection he’s the first to look away. He’s looked worse and supposes that's a small win in and of itself, though he can’t stand the sight of himself any longer than he has to. A deep exhale and a shake of his head diverts his attention to the countertop where a spare toothbrush has been left out for him to use. Of course, he already knows where the toothpaste is. He helps himself with a growing smile and places it in the holder right next to yours when he’s done. His chest expands with something he can’t quite name when he finds himself surrounded by gentle reminders of your care. A small cup of water and painkillers act as physical embodiments of your thoughtfulness and he revels in the knowledge that you’re letting him know you’re there for him while giving him space to come down from whatever adrenaline rush the past few months have spiked. It’s in those silent gestures of love that he hears it the loudest, echoing and amplifying all around him.

It must be killing you to act so selflessly, and he tries not to be selfish with your affections, but it’s difficult not to feel like a burden when you’ve rearranged more than just a spot on the counter, or a place for him to keep his toothbrush next to yours, for him- giving him a home without expecting anything else in return.

Down the hall, the mattress protests against his arrival, angry springs squeaking from months of disuse before welcoming his weight and warmth on the side opposite of yours- his side, from the very moment, years ago, when he found his way back to you after a night that left him bloody and beaten but not broken. Never broken- not when he’s always had you. Though most memory of the first evening spent beside you remains a blur, the ability to recall details and specifics stolen from him as his wounds wept crimson tears that stained your hands and upholstery, fondness prevails. Despite robbed recollections, tender warmth, and affection remain. Even then, he knew. Without really knowing, without certainty, he was certain- he loved you, and you loved him, and every gentle, devoted gesture has always reaffirmed the one thing he could never doubt. Every silent offering, every selfless sacrifice, and piece of yourself that you’ve surrendered to him further insists that your heart acts in favor of three words never spoken.

His arm finds your waist easily, and he’s grateful that he doesn’t have to tiptoe around his reluctance to accept what this is, anymore. Not when you’re here. Not when you’re waiting so patiently for him, and snuggle back into his hold the moment he reaches out for you. Some limbs tangle, but not yours- the two of you fit perfectly together, like you were truly meant to be, and the moment that you’re allowed to converge, you press your palm flat against his arm, holding him close to you.

Reacquainting yourself with him after is always your favorite part. Though, your heart cleaves when your fingertips ghost over a new scar- the skin still raised and angry, even if the wound has closed. With something akin to sympathy, an apology for the pain he’s suffered that you can’t take away, you gently trace the new mark in acknowledgment.

Tomorrow, or later today, when the sunlight illuminates the sky, you’ll ask him about it. Or, maybe you won’t. When the first glimpses of warm light threaten to spill over the horizon, you might get answers to the questions you’ve spent the last few months pondering. Or, perhaps everything unasked will remain unresolved. Either way, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the fact that tonight, you’ll sleep- safe and protected, at ease and engulfed by all things him- and even if it only lasts for the night, you’ll cherish whatever small moments of intimacy the moon grants before the sun, inevitably, rips them away- a fate you’ve grown to expect, time and time again.

Still, you let your eyes flutter shut, basking in the silence for only a moment before it’s interrupted.

“I love you,” Dick confesses softly, words warm and whispered against your shoulder encouraged by a fleeting moment of courage- and the tender caress of your touch- that prompt the secret to spill from his chest, an accident he fears he may have to render excuses for to salvage whatever broken pieces are left of this unspoken relationship.

“I know,” With your back towards him he misses the stretch of a smile ghosting your lips, and finds himself tensing behind you. Could you have really known? All this time? Is that why he always comes back? Is that why you let him? “I love you, too,”

“No, I mean, I really lo-“

“Tell me in the morning, yeah?” You suggest before he can get too far ahead of himself. Torn between wanting to clarify his confession and realizing that maybe he doesn’t have to, Dick relents. He can’t really argue, anyway- having kept this to himself for so many years, another few hours won’t hurt. With a breath- of acceptance, not defeat or surrender- he closes his eyes and finally relaxes into your embrace.

It’s over.

For now, Dick can rest easy knowing that when the smell of bergamot fades, this tacit love will always remain, and he finds enough comfort in the realization to let it lull him into a peaceful sleep.

a/n: I love him so much!!! this has been rotting in my brain for nearly a year and I just found it in my drafts last night lol! anyway, this started as a challenge to myself where I wanted to see if I could write something with only five lines of dialogue, and I'm curious to hear how you all think it turned out! as always, requests are open! check out my request guidelines before submitting! and if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! 

everyone who requested to be tagged: @idyllcy @wicked-laugh @ul4lume

Send me some feedback, or request to be added to my taglist! (please specify which taglist you’d like to be added to- character or general) !Requests: OPEN!

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[swiggity-swexual-i-am-asexual]

Danny Phantom doesn’t want to be king.

And the Observants also don’t want him to be king.

Frankly, very VERY few people want him to be king, dead or alive.

But opening the sarcophagus, even if it’s closed NOW, disrupted some magic protections. Until those can be fixed, summoning spells need to be answered by SOMEONE. Not all of summons, just like—once a month or so. Because if they don’t let that power outlet happen, all of those summon magics build up and suddenly Pariah Dark reigns again. Answering the summon basically dispels the built up magic, like opening a dam.

Again, Danny doesn’t WANT to do this either, but everyone else involved is a bad choice. He won’t even be named prince, because THEN that implies he COULD be king. He needs a title, of some kind, a position in the court, no matter how tenuous, so he can do the thing. Something where no one in their right or even WRONG mind would think to try to kill him for the position or try to marry him or something equally annoying to deal with.

So.

He becomes the Ghost Court Jester.

He even gets a fancy little outfit upgrade when he’s summoned, all black and white bell hats and shoes, a stupid little ruffle collar and black parachute pants, even face paint with a tiny dot of glowing neon green at the tip of his nose. The works. Better yet, if he hasn’t been ‘unsummoned’, his human form is just the exact same costume with swapped colors. He can change into his normal outfits, but until that circle has been disrupted, the next summon, or the next full or new moon, he’s stuck into the outfit when he first transforms from either form.

The Phantom Jester, which is a title more intimidating than Danny appears to be if we are to be honest, cracks jokes and never, EVER takes the summons seriously.

“Listen, I just had to get my hours in and it’s the last day of the lunar month, you got lucky I came at all.”

“I got the position by virtue of not wanting to go to Time Jail for a crime I technically didn’t commit and technically probably won’t but, well, eyes are the beholder of the grudge or something else equally cryptic to make you mad.”

“Is this a slumber party? … do you have cake? Bummer. Well, enjoy the bleeding walls then.”

“Whether I help you or not is entirely dependent on how well of a run down you can give me on this book I have to read that I have not at all touched.”

“Explain the reason in three sentences or less. I suggest less. And if it’s stupid I’m hitting you—oh you think this circle can contain me? Haha. It won’t.”

“Is that chicken blood? Why?? What did the chickens do to you?”

There are props in his costume but he literally never knows what he’s gonna pull out of his sleeves. Danny can’t even do a balloon animal and knows exactly zero card tricks, which would be more of an issue if the cards weren’t the size of a dinner plate. He barely even juggles and he’s honestly probably just utilizing his rarely-used telekinetic powers, but he does give people flowers if they haven’t been a total jerk. And if those flowers are like, rare and have seeds for propagation, well… he literally wouldn’t know. No, really, he doesn’t. He gets summoned by at least two ecology departments and he has no idea why, I mean, if he had a nickel—

He also had pies and is NOT afraid to use them.

[heartfullofleeches]

Clown Talk

Yandere Crime Harem + G.N Clown TV-Showhost Reader

-

Extortion. Aggravated Assault. Murder.

The list went on for the royal who had it all, and lost almost everything in one night.

A well respected and charitable figure in their community, it was a shock to the masses to see local casino owner, and frequent donor to hospitals framed on the five o'clock news for misconduct. Anyone with a good head on their shoulders and a realistic outlook on the world could see straight through the facade. Beneath that mask was a monster - every good deal that person ever committed a cover for their true goals.

Those they had helped plead their innocence. Those they had wronged tied their noose. The documents leaked to the public would tell which party was correct, wiped clean from history before the victor could be declared. Read aloud in court, each word marked a new trial at play. The execution of the rat bastard who got them into this whole ordeal in the first place.

The criminal know exactly who it was. Caught his hand in the cookie jar resembling their safe weeks ago, but they had enough of a heart to let him go for being the one person his little girl had. Not again. Day in and day out they dreamt of how they'd carry out their revenge. Splattering his brains all over the wall. Slicing him into cutlets and having a nice cookout for everyone involved. It was a beautiful dream. The one thing preventing the compete lost of their sanity. Shouldn't be too long now until their people manage to get them out and their hands around that bastard's neck. Only a matter of time-

"Quit mumbling to yourself- I can't hear the TV."

As if this hell couldn't get any worse. A desaturated rainbow flies across the television screen, showering an empty field with stars and hearts that sprout colorful flowers from the earth. The theme song for the show plays in the background; the strums of each guitar string and the voice humming along to the beat drilled into the criminal's head like psychological warfare. While the voice wasn't totally abysmal it still belonged to their greatest enemy. That fucking clown.

"Good Day, everyone! I've missed you all so much, and am so excited to meet all the new faces. Are you ready all for an exciting day of fun and new adventures?"

The few shouts of agreement make their ears bleed more. Needless to say the prison they had been thrown in was a shit hole. Terrible food, hard beds, and televisions that only played one station without interference. That neon haired, colorblock mess of an entertainer had haunted them from day one of their stay; the sounds chasing them whenever they fled to the sanctuary of their cell. Pathetically, while there were a couple naysayers, majority of the prison population had begun to actually like the show. A body hurls into the seat next to them.

"Thank fuck I didn't miss it. You staying this time, Zero?"

Zero's face wrinkles from the frown lines. 4D was a fellow intimate and the biggest fan of the show. A crook booked for various robberies who just like Zero was ratted on by an acquaintance. The nickname came from their tag including the number fourty and they thought it would be cool in unison with the one they forced onto Zero.

"I told you not to call me that."

"I get that you're some big hot-shot and "adults shouldn't be watching shows for kids.", but it's really good when you sit down and watch it. That clown ain't too bad on the eyes either."

Zero resists the urge to snap their fingers as they air quote. "I'd rather flush my head down a toilet."

"Come on! If ya watch it, I'll leave ya alone for the rest of your sentence."

That catches their attention. Armz crossed, Zero looks at the television. The set had switched to that of a kitchen as the clown speaks

"Juno has been feeling better down today, let's cheer him up with his favorite snack! Before we begin, make sure you always ask for an adults help when handing sharp objects or using the stove. Unless you are one yourself. "

With a wink, they throw an apron and go through the steps of making homemade rice treats with the audience. After putting the tray in the oven, they discreetly pull out another one with a full sheet of the treats already made. Marshmallow fluff and melted chocolate chips ooze from their sides as the clown cuts out a heart shaped piece with a cookie cutter.

"And there you go! A simple, fun activity you can do with family and friends, and even get something taste out of it. Juno prefers chocolate, but you can add a number of things to your own and let your imagination run wild."

Great. Now they were annoyed and hungry. They couldn't stand another segment.

"I'm leaving."

4D whines. "Whaaat? That was barely anything. Hey, don't go-"

They grab Zero's sleeve, but are powerless to stop them as they leave the common area and venture up to their room. Over the guard rail of the second floor, they watch the other inmates mindlessly crowded around the television screen and unironically enjoying it. They would've spat at them had it not been for the guard by their cell. Inside the room, their roommate had left the tv on and that same damned show was playing. They go to turn it off only to be cut off by a fake cry of pain.

"Ouch!"

The clown tumbles to the ground, figure looming over them off screen. They come into frame as they grip the clown's arm and helps them to their feet.

"I'm so sorry, Y/n. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"It's okay, Juno. I know it wasn't on purpose."

The two face the screen as the clown speaks.

"Sometimes our friends do or say things that hurt our feelings. Take a breath, hear them out, but there's one important rule. Remember - forgiveness and friendship aren't always mutual. Sometimes people we may think are our friends go too far, and they believe an apology will make everything okay, but that's not always the case. The best thing you can do is forgive - and let go."

The background music is soft. The clown's smile is sincere, but an offshoot of that silly expression they had moments ago. Forgive. That weasel? There's no way in hell they could. He ruined them. Damaged their imagine. The bitterness Zero held was the only thing that pulled them forward. But what would come after they got their revenge?

"That's all for day, folks! And don't forget- you all may be my helpers, but I am here to help you the most!"

The intimate ends up watching the show until lights out. Each episode holds a new life lesson, cushioned by the silly activites prior to them and the songs the clown and their friends sings at the end. Regrettably, Zero finds their lips twitching upwards and a hushed laugh in their chest at some of the clown's jokes. When the clown visits them in their sleep, the dreams didn't seem as bad as before.

The next day Zero finds 4D in the yard. They're hesitant to speak.

"So... Why exactly do you like that clown?"

4D drops the equipment in their hand, looking flustered. "Wow, uh, why do you ask?"

"Just curious. If it's so embarrassing, I can make it worth while."

4D refuses the cigeratte they offer. "I quit. It ain't nothing serious like that, we just... talked."

Zero raises a brow. "Talked? You some kind of nutcase or something?"

"Maybe, but what I mean is I sent them a letter. After all the rush and freedom of the things I did, I was going mad in here. I got no friends, no family. At the end of every episode there's an address so I thought I'd try and send them a letter. I never expected them to respond. Hell, I thought the guards would tear it up and laugh, but neither of those predictions were true. They... helped me. More than anyone ever had in my life. Even sent me a couple things when I hadn't asked. They're all I have."

4D wipes their face with their sleeve. Zero, unsure, raises their hand to their shoulder, but falls short of a comforting touch.

"..Thanks... Take care."

Zero sits in their cell when the next show comes end. They pen down the address on the screen, wondering if they were really going to go through with this. They write out their letter and hand it off to the only guard they trust.

"What do you do, when you've lost everything."

A response comes in a week's time.

"Hey, there!

First off, I want to say thank you for sending your letter in. From the address and the others I've spoken too, I know that you're going through a really tough time. It's understandable to believe you've lost everything, but there will always be a new ladder to climb to the top so long as you try your hardest. You may be in the dark for now, but the sun will shine again for you some day."

Zero loses track of how many times they read the letter. They can see eraser marks from when the writer rewrote their lines. It was the exact same penmanship as when the clown wrote their name on a drawing they had just finished, clearing out the possibility of it being an assistant on the show. Zero crumples the envelope and throws it in the trash, but tucks the letter under their pillow.

When they are released the following month, they're found sitting in front of the community television.

-

"Sunshine's beautiful this time of day, isn't it?"

"B...oss, I'm sorry, please."

Zero takes another drag of their cigar as his head is dunked into the freezing waters. The silence makes the scenario one for the books, but for some reason the sun just isn't as bright as it was on those dirty screens. They exhale as the bruised male is brought out of the sea once more.

"I forgive you, and now I'm letting go." They wave to the others on the boat. "Drop him. I don't want to be late for the show."

-

Arriving at the studio, a whiny voice drills from behind them.

"Aw, man- you got front row seats? Switch with your ol pal. Its the least you can do since I introduced you to them."

[fortheloveofwonderland]

Me & You & Everyone We Know | Chapter 18 | S.R

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Summary - You and Spencer try to cope in the aftermath of running into each other. Spencer makes a series of stupid decisions which lead him back to you and then away from you once more.

Pairing - Single Dad! Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending, smut minors DNI.

Warnings - drinking, slightly tipsy reader, swearing, AA meetings, talk of therapy, tears, Spencer falls off the wagon, arguing, slightly aggressive and intimidating Spencer, mention of erectile dysfunction, making out, use of “good girl”, oral (f receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, orgasm denial(?), Spencer goes from 0-100 and back again, Spencer is incredibly mean.

WC - 7.9k

Chapter 18 - Sandcastles

We built sandcastles that washed away,

I made you cry when I walked away.

Oh, and although I promised that I couldn't stay, baby,

Every promise don't work out that way, oh, babe.

Every promise don't work out that way. 

“How much further is this place? I said we should have gotten a cab.” Tara groaned, her feet howling from the high heels she was wearing. 

“Just a little further.” Penelope insisted. 

Tara glanced at Emily and JJ who seemed to be struggling just as much as she was. Garcia was the only one of the four who wore heels on a regular basis and as such the walk wasn’t bothering her like it was them. 

“You said that five blocks ago.” Emily moaned, clinging to Tara’s arm to help keep her balanced. 

“A little walk never hurt anyone.” Garcia clucked. 

“Tell that to my feet.” JJ rolled her eyes. 

They continued for another two blocks before Penelope picked up her pace and started pointing down the street towards a blue neon sign proclaiming the name Trouble Bird. 

According to Penelope it was the best cocktail bar in the district and she’d insisted they go there for girls' night. 

The four of them had already polished off a couple of bottles of wine at Garcia’s apartment and the blonde had assured them the bar was just around the corner.  

“I don’t care what you say, next time we are getting a cab.” Tara huffed as they closed in on the bar. 

All that walking had seriously sobered her up, making the pre-drinks pointless. She couldn’t wait to get her hands on a cocktail or two. Maybe even five. 

As they neared the entrance, someone heading in their direction clearly caught Penelope’s eye and she slowed until she came to a stop. 

The others did the same, a collective groan leaving their lips. 

“Please god don’t tell me it’s closed.” Emily threw her head back in frustration.

But Garcia wasn’t listening. She took a few steps closer to the woman wearing a long, black evening dress, heels hanging limply from her fingers. 

“Y/N?” She spoke and your eyes shot up from where you’d been looking at the pavement. 

You blinked a few times, eyes darting between the four women and recognising two of them. You wiped your face where your mascara was probably staining your cheeks from crying. 

“Penelope, right? Spencer’s friend. And JJ.” You looked between the two blondes. 

“Y/N?” Tara frowned. “The Y/N?” 

“Uh…yes?” You frowned. 

“This is Tara and Emily, we all worked with Spencer at the BAU.” Penelope informed you. “Are you ok? Have you been crying?” 

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.” You shook your head. “It was nice to see you and meet you. I should be going.” 

You started past the women, meanwhile Penelope was giving them all wide eyed glances. 

“Look at her,” she whispered. “We can’t let her leave.” 

“Are you proposing we ask Reid’s ex-girlfriend to hang out with us?” Emily hissed under her breath. 

“I feel bad for her.” JJ replied in equally hushed tones.

“Me too.” Tara agreed. 

“For the record,” you spun back to face them. “You’re not being as quiet as you think you are. I’m fine, really. I’m getting used to being broken up with recently. Growing a pretty thick skin.”

Penelope’s face fell, her heart bleeding for you. She hated seeing anyone upset, even people she barely knew. She moved past JJ, Emily and Tara closer to you. 

“I insist you join us for a drink. This bar is supposed to be great.” She pointed over her shoulder at the Trouble Bird. 

“I think that sounds super weird.” You pulled a face. “No offence, I’m sure you’re all really lovely but as Emily said, I’m your friend's ex-girlfriend. I’m sure Spencer would not love the idea of me drinking with you.” 

“Can I ask you one thing?” Emily stepped forward now, eyebrow raised.

“I guess.” You shrugged. 

“You being upset, does it have anything to do with Reid?” 

“Uh…” you inhaled. “In a roundabout way, kind of.” 

“In that case, you will drink with us. If he’s upset you, screw him.” Emily smiled at you, clamping a hand down on your shoulder. 

“But you’re his friend?” You pulled a face. 

“Guess what, girly?” Garcia clapped her hands together. “We’re your friends now too.” 

And with that she took you by the hand and the five of you continued on inside of the bar. 

***

Two shots of a tequila and an exuberantly large glass of wine later, you’d eased up a little, spilling your guts to four women you barely knew. 

“It’s not even like I care that much, you know?” You sighed. “Sam and I didn’t have a future, I wasn’t in love with him. But bumping into Spencer like that was…fuck it was the worst.” 

“What was Spence doing at an art gallery? I am struggling to picture that.” JJ shook her head. 

“Blair,” you spat her name out of your mouth like a bad taste. “Beautiful, sweet Blair. She works at the gallery.”

“I’m lost.” Tara looked at the others. 

“Yeah, who’s Blair?” Emily added.

“Spencer’s new girlfriend.” You whined. 

“Spence has a new girlfriend?” JJ pulled a face. 

“Oh!” Garcia gasped, clapping her hands to her face. “The mom! The mom of the boy Daisy likes.”

“You knew?” JJ glared at Penelope.

“I knew he had a date a while ago. Luke and I watched the girls and…” she trailed off as the three BAU ladies smirked. 

“You owe me fifty bucks.” Tara nudged Emily. “I told you Alvez and Garcia were dating.” 

“Oh boy,” Penelope blushed. “Uh…surprise?” 

“I really didn’t think it was true.” Emily shook her head, slapping a bill in Tara’s hand. 

“Oh please, Alvez gets all heart eyes every time she walks into a room.” Tara laughed. “But back to the matter at hand. Reid really has a new girlfriend?” 

“Yes,” you pouted. “And Sam broke up with me because I got all heart eyes over Spencer without even realising.” 

“What is up with him lately?” Emily scoffed. “I’ve never known him date like this.”

“He was married for a really long time.” JJ shrugged. 

“He's going through some stuff. Cut him some slack.” Tara sighed and suddenly all eyes were on her. 

“What do you know?” Penelope asked her. 

“What? I don’t know anything.” Tara tried to shake her off.

“Liar! You know something!” Penelope gasped again. “Spill!” 

“I promised him I wouldn’t say anything.” Tara pulled a face. “He’s trying to get sober, I went to a meeting with him a while ago. And he’s seeing a therapist.” 

All four of you looked at Tara, letting her words sink in. Tara looked painfully guilty, feeling terrible for breaking her promise to Spencer. But the girls were worried about him, she wanted to try and stem their fears. 

“So he’s got himself all shiny and new for Blair.” You huffed. “Fabulous. So I was just the rebound after his wife and now this woman gets the new and improved Spencer? Fucking super.”

Out of nowhere you started to cry. And it wasn’t just a few tears, you started sobbing. You doubled over in your chair, resting your head on the table and wrapping your arms around yourself while you wept.

Penelope was next to you and she wrapped her arm around your shoulders, pulling you close to her.

“Oh Y/N,” She cooed, rubbing your back. “Oh dear, sweet Y/N.”

“Spencer is not himself lately,” Emily reached across the table and stroked your hair. “He’s not always like this.”

“I feel like such an idiot.” You sat up, tears still falling rapidly. “I should not be crying about Spencer in front of you guys.”

“Don’t worry about it.” JJ tried to placate you. “Honestly, it's ok.” 

“No it’s not.” You wiped your eyes on the back of your hand. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Don’t leave, not like this.” Tara tried to insist but you were already on your feet. 

“Thanks for this, and I’m sorry if I ruined your night.” You sniffed.

“Y/N, you really don’t have to go.” Penelope looked up at you sadly. 

“It’s best that I do. Enjoy the rest of your night, please don’t worry about me.” You turned on your heels and fled the bar, the four BAU ladies watching you go.

“Goddamn Reid.” Emily grunted. “She seems like a nice girl.”

“She is.” Penelope was pouting. “When Luke and I ran into them at Barkhaus they seemed so happy.” 

“I have so many questions about that sentence, that I am going to put a pin in for now.” JJ shook her head. “Clearly Spence is going through a lot.” 

“How long has he been going to therapy, Tara?” Emily asked her, turning to her left. 

But Tara wasn’t listening. 

She was looking down at her phone and the seven missed calls she’d had in the time they had been sitting here. As she stared at it, it started to ring again, the same number as all the others. 

“Who is it? Do you need to get that?” Emily nudged her arm. 

With a sign, Tara looked up at her friends, nodding her head stiffly.

“Yeah I probably should,” she exhaled. “It’s Reid.”

***

Spencer sat on the steps of the building with his head between his knees and his eyes closed. He listened to the passing cars, counted them in his head. He also kept count of every set of shoes he heard walk by.

He estimated he sat there for twenty four minutes before he heard another set of footsteps getting closer. He opened his eyes and lifted his head, her image coming into view.

“How many?” Tara asked softly although her body language was somewhat defensive. 

“Three.” He pushed himself to his feet. “I stopped at three scotch’s.” 

Tara exhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring as she did so. She put her hand on his shoulder. 

“You should have called me sooner.” 

“Most likely.�� He nodded, feeling like a naughty schoolboy. “I’m sorry.”

“I guess it's some kind of relief you stopped at three.” She guided him back towards the building steps he’d been sitting on. 

“Any more than that and I wouldn’t have made it back.” He confessed. 

He let Tara lead him inside to the meeting he so sorely needed. Afterwards she took him for coffee, despite the late hour. 

“Did I drag you out of bed?” He asked over his mug.

“No, I was at a bar a few blocks away with the girls.” She rolled her lip guiltily between her teeth.

“You told them, didn’t you?” 

“I had to.” She replied. “And uh, Y/N too.” 

Spencer almost dropped his mug. His eyes bulged and his mouth fell open as he glared at her as if she’d just grown a second head.

“Excuse me?” He spat a little angrier than he’d meant to.

“We bumped into her outside the bar. Garcia and JJ recognised her. She’d been crying and we felt bad for her.” Tara shrugged meekly.

“She’d been crying?” His face fell and his bottom lip pouted at the thought.

“Yeah, she broke up with her boyfriend.” 

“She did?” He sat up straight suddenly, like he’d been juiced with an electric current. 

“Don’t get too excited,” Tara rolled her eyes. “She’s heartbroken, Reid. You did a real number on her. She thinks she was nothing more than a rebound from Maeve.”

“That’s not true.” He shook his head frantically. “That couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“You moved on pretty fast.” Tara sighed, picking up her coffee.

“Only because she did.” He whined a little. “If anything, Blair is a rebound from Y/N. I love her Tara, I love her so much.” 

“I am not the one you should be telling this to.” She shrugged. 

“You’re right.” He nodded, slipping out of the booth and throwing some bills on the table.

“Where are you going?” Tara frowned up at him.

“To talk to Y/N.”

“Right now?”

“Yes right now!” 

“Seems like a pretty bad idea to me.” She cocked an eyebrow. 

“Don’t care. I need to see her.” He sounded like he’d made up his mind.

“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Tara focused back on her coffee. 

“Thanks for coming to the meeting with me.” 

“You’re welcome. See you soon, Reid.” She sighed, watching him flee the diner.

She hoped he wasn’t making a terrible mistake. But she feared this would only end in disaster. 

***

You were still awake, in bed and staring at the wall unblinking. The alcohol you’d consumed tonight seemed like a long distant memory and you felt horribly sober. 

Every muscle in your body hurt but you weren’t sure why. It was as though the heartache was spreading through your extremities, encompassing every pore. 

You’d missed Spencer every single second of every single day since you broke up. But after tonight you missed him with a renewed intensity. 

To see him with another woman, holding her hand, thinking about what they got up to behind closed doors tore your heart apart all over again. 

You’d meant nothing to him, it was as simple as that. You’d just been a notch on his bedpost, a rebound from his wife. 

You’d cried so many tears you physically couldn’t cry anymore. So you continued to stare at the wall and hope at some point sleep would wash over you. 

After a while there was a knock on your bedroom door but you ignored it. It came again twice more but both times you remained quiet. 

Then the door opened and your eyes flicked from the wall to the figure in the doorway. 

Your roommate Travis tentatively stepped inside, hands in his pockets. 

“Uh, you have a visitor.” He shrugged. 

“Don’t care.” You croaked. 

“I don’t think he’s going away.” Travis shrugged again. 

You frowned and shifted a little on the bed. 

“He? He who?” You grumbled, rubbing your sore eyes. 

Travis didn’t reply, instead he stepped aside so your visitor could enter the room. 

Spencer looked about as bad as you probably did as he shuffled in your room. Travis slipped out behind him and closed the door. 

His tie was undone, hanging limply around his neck and the top few buttons of his shirt were undone under his jacket. 

You sat up in bed, glaring at him angrily whilst hugging the sheets around your body like some kind of protective armour. 

“You’ve got a nerve showing up here.” You tried to sound angry but your voice was no more than a pathetic croak. 

“I drank tonight.” He seemingly ignored you, stepping further into your room. “For the first time in weeks, I caved and I drank. Because I saw you.”

“Am I supposed to apologise for that? You’re a grown man Spencer, if you can’t handle your alcohol then that’s on you.” You managed to sound angrier this time. 

“It’s called an addiction, Y/N! I don’t have any control of it! I don’t have a healthy, normal attitude towards alcohol. I’m not the kind of person that can just have a drink, I have to drink to excess, get wasted to forget my pathetic fucking life!” He yelled at you and you flinched a little. 

“If you just came here to yell at me then leave. I am in no mood to listen to your bullshit, Spencer. Go back to your girlfriend. I don’t want you here.” You shook your head at him. 

“No,” he stepped even further into the room. “I’m not going anywhere until I’ve said what I came here to say.” 

“And what did you come here to say?” You got out of bed as he got closer, hating the way he was looming over you. 

You only wore a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top and you tried to ignore how exposed you felt. 

“I quit drinking, or at least it tried, I’m trying. I started therapy, I’m trying to be a better version of myself.” 

“Yeah, for your new girlfriend.” You scoffed. 

“Seriously? That’s what you think? You think I’m doing all of this for her?” He sounded incredulous. 

“Who did you do it for then? Enlighten me.” You growled, throwing your hands up in the air. 

“For a start, I’m doing it for my daughters because they deserve more from me.” 

“Agreed.” You rolled your eyes. 

“But I’m also doing it for you! I’m doing it because I want to be the kind of man who is worthy of your love.” He lowered his voice a little but the anger still shone through. 

“Oh please,” you shook your head. “You didn’t love me, Spencer. You love your ex-wife. Or maybe you love Blair, who knows? I can’t keep up with you.” 

“Yeah, I do love my ex-wife, ok?” He grabbed you by the biceps suddenly, making you whimper. “Of course I do! It’s normal for me to feel that way. Her hurting me doesn’t change the fact that we had a lot of good years together. It doesn’t erase the fact she’s the mother of my kids. But it also doesn’t mean for a second that I don’t also love you.”

“I think you’re just scared to be alone.” You shook your head. “You can’t stand to be lonely. You don’t love me Spencer, you just want someone to play happy families with. Well it won’t be me.” 

Spencer hissed and suddenly, using his grip on your arms he spun you around and shoved you up against the wall. 

You whined as your back slammed into it, his grip on your biceps tightening. 

“You think I’m lying? You think I would stand here and lie to you?” He spat right in your face. 

“I didn’t say that. You might think you love me, but you only want me until the next pretty face walks by.” 

“What the fuck do you think of me?” He shook you a little. “You think I’m some kind of fucking asshole who uses women and throws them aside once he’s done with them?” 

“If the shoe fits.” You shrugged. 

His jaw clenched tightly and his eyes were brimming with his rage. 

“I didn’t throw you aside, Y/N, you walked away.” 

“Because I heard you telling your ex you were still in love with her!” You yelled again, fighting against his hold on you but he was stronger. “And then suddenly you’re dating someone else entirely. How is that supposed to make me feel?” 

“I thought she was what I needed. She knows what I’ve been through, she understands because she’s been there too. But she’s not you, she’ll never be you. And you aren’t exactly innocent in all of this, you moved on from me pretty fast if I remember correctly.” He was caging you into the wall, trapping you in your own room. 

“I was trying to get over you.” You scoffed. 

“By fucking some frat boy looking behemoth?” He raised his voice again. 

“Don’t turn this around on me. It was your fault we broke up, not mine. If you’re allowed to sleep with every single mom who looks your way then I’m allowed to sleep with the decent guy who has had feelings for me since college!” You yelled back but you noticed his expression falter. “What?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head, finally letting go of you and taking a step back. 

“What is it? I touched a nerve.” 

“I didn’t sleep with her, ok? Is that what you want to hear? I didn’t sleep with her.” 

“You expect me to believe that? You couldn’t get me into bed fast enough when we met!” You shook your head. 

“You want to know the truth?” He suddenly grabbed you again and you found yourself quickly being pinned to the wall once more. “The truth is I couldn’t get it up for her. And I thought it was because of my goddamn antidepressants but it wasn’t. It wasn’t my meds, it couldn’t have been.” 

“Why couldn’t it have been?” You swallowed thickly. 

“Because,” he clenched his jaw again. “From the second you got out of bed and I saw what you were wearing…I got hard without so much as touching you and I have been ever since.” 

You felt the air leave your lungs and you couldn’t stop from glancing down between your bodies, as if you needed proof. But low and behold you saw it, the obvious tenting in his slacks. 

Your eyes flicked back up to his face and he was staring intently at you. 

“So while you might have been spreading your legs for someone else, I couldn’t physically bring myself to sleep with her. I couldn’t even fucking masturbate because my hand isn’t you!” He spat. 

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” You scowled at him. “Am I supposed to fall to my knees and thank you? You think you can come here and tell me you can’t get it up for another woman and I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?” 

“You got in my head, don’t you understand? You got in my head and into my heart. You’re under my skin, in my veins like a drug. Maeve, Blair; they have nothing on you. I thought Maeve was the love of my life because I didn’t know any better. She’s not the love of my life, you are!” He pushed you more firmly against the wall, his hips now pressing into yours and you could feel just how hard he was. 

Did it make you a complete idiot for thinking you may fall back into bed with him? He made it so easy to hate him, but he also made it impossible not to love him. 

You didn’t want to forgive him, didn’t want to give in and relent to him but it felt inevitable. The way he was looking at you coupled with his firm hold on your arms and his hard cock pressing against you was making you weak. 

It was only a matter of time. 

“I’m not even sure you know what love is.” You scoffed. 

Were you deliberately baiting him? Were you purposefully trying to anger him further? Was there a part of you that liked seeing him like this, pushed to his limits? 

As expected he tightened his grip on you and you could feel the bruises starting to form. 

“Are you trying to get a rise out of me, sweetheart?” He spoke, practically reading your mind. 

“Whether I am or not, clearly it’s working.” You shrugged. “But if I really wanted to get a rise out of you I suppose I could tell you that while you couldn’t get it up for your girlfriend, I was having some incredibly mind blowing sex with Sam.” 

Why were you doing this? What the fuck was wrong with you? 

Perhaps it was the anger still flooding your veins, the hurt Spencer had caused you lingered like a rain cloud. Maybe you wanted him to know how it felt, you wanted him to feel your pain. 

His eyes darkened as he stared at you and a menacing kind of smirk spread across his lips. 

“Oh darling,” he chuckled deeply, angrily. “You and I both know he has nothing on me.” 

“Wow, big headed much?” 

“It’s not big headed if it’s a fact.” He laughed darkly again. “I put my all into everything I do, research and study so I am the very best at anything I set my mind to. And that is how I know I am good in bed. Better than that oversized asshat you spent your time with.” 

You swallowed again, subconsciously pressing your thighs together. You hoped he didn’t notice but of course he did. 

“How wet are you right now, Y/N?” He smirked, his eyes practically black. 

“I’m…not.” You lied and he saw right through you. 

“Oh ok,” he laughed again with a roll of his eyes. “So if I was to do this…” 

He trailed off and removed one hand from your bicep. You watched it move between your bodies and suddenly it was between your legs, ghosting over the fabric of your shorts.

The soaking wet fabric of your shorts. 

You hissed involuntarily and Spencer moved his hand back up to your bicep looking incredibly smug. 

“I thought so.” He grinned dangerously. “You know you only need to say the word and I’m yours.” 

“No.” You shook your head. “You hurt me, you broke my fucking heart!” 

“Let me make it better, princess. I can make it up to you.” He softened, looking at you with something akin to love in his eyes. 

“No.” You whimpered. “You can’t make up for what you’ve done.” 

The darkness quickly returned to his eyes and in one swift move his lips were slamming into yours. You whined and the second your lips were parted his tongue plunged into your mouth. 

You allowed him to kiss you, his hips grinding against yours. You were putty in his hands, a complete and utter idiot. But you didn’t care. 

The kiss didn’t last very long before he was pulling back and staring deep into your eyes. 

“You don’t want me?” He narrowed his eyes on you. “You want me to leave?” 

You swallowed, trying to muster the strength to tell him to go, to leave and never come back. But you couldn’t. 

Instead you quickly wrapped your arms around his neck and tugged him back in for another kiss. And if you didn’t know any better, you could have sworn he was smirking into your lips. 

Soon enough he was manoeuvring you away from the wall and over to your bed. His lips remained on yours, deepening the kiss as he went. You felt the back of your calves hit the bed but Spencer kept you upright with his hold still on your arms. 

He moved his hands now, fingertips grazing down the sides of your rib cage, lower and lower until they reached the hem of your tank top. He hooked his fingers in the fabric and started raking it up your body. 

He pulled back from the kiss, his lips puffy and swollen, and you raised your arms for him to lift the top the rest of the way off. He tossed it aside quickly and your hands found the ends of his tie, still hanging around his neck. 

You used it to pull him back in for another kiss and then started on the buttons of his shirt. He shrugged his jacket off in the meantime and let it hit the floor. 

You got him out of his shirt and it joined the other clothes on the floor. And then he pushed you back to the bed until your back collided with the mattress. 

He regarded you with his dark eyes and a sinful smirk before crawling on the bed, kneeling either side of your hips. He laid on top of you, hissing at the contact from your bare chests. 

He stroked your hair lovingly back off of your face in a stark contrast to his previous roughness. But it only lasted a moment as soon he was kissing you again with renewed fervour. 

He grinded his hips against yours, relishing in the feeling of being able to get hard again. He should have known it wasn’t his meds. He should have known you’d be the cure. 

His lips left yours and peppered kisses along your jawline. Your head rolled back to allow him access to your neck. In kind he moved lower, lips sucking against the skin on the front of your throat. 

Your hands wandered to his shoulder blades, nails kneading the muscles while he moved on to place kisses all along your collarbones. 

Soon they ebbed lower, lips leaving their trail over the tops of your breasts and then down your sternum. 

He circled back to place a deep kiss on the swell of your breast before you felt his tongue swirl around your hardened nipple. 

You moaned as he took the bud in his mouth, teeth grazing your peak, teasingly nibbling it. You arched your back, toes curling. 

He sucked and nipped for a few moments before offering the same treatment to your other nipple. You were writhing beneath him on the bed, wanton moans and breathy pants leaving your parted lips. 

A few more strategically placed kisses between your breasts and he was continuing his journey down your stomach, around your belly button and then across each hip. 

You were rolling your hips up to meet him, desperate for more. He smirked against your skin, knowing he was driving you crazy but that was part of the fun. 

He looked up at you through his hair which had now fallen into his face, while he placed kisses along the waistband of your cotton shorts. 

You’d moved to grip his shoulders and were not so subtly trying to push him lower. 

“Use your words, princess.” He spoke against your shorts. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want.” You whined. 

“Do I?” He teased. “I think you might have to spell it out for me.” 

He sat back a few inches, his large hands now on your thighs and parting them so he could kneel between them. 

Your pupils were blown out as you looked up at him, face flushed red with your arousal. 

“Please,” you whimpered.

“Please, what?” He was enjoying this. He was enjoying this too much. 

“Please go down on me. Please, Spencer? God I missed your mouth between my legs.” 

He made the most animalistic sound, closing his eyes and feeling his cock throb painfully. When he opened his eyes again you were staring right at him, begging him with your gaze. 

“Oh how I have missed being between your legs.” He lowered himself again, kissing along your stomach once more whilst tugging at the hem of your shorts.

You arched your back again to aid him pulling them down your legs, the wet patch left behind in the fabric making Spencer feral. 

He balled up the garment and brought them to his nose, inhaling deeply and moaning as the scent of your arousal encompassed him. 

“Is this all for me, angel?” He smirked, dropping the shorts on the floor. 

“Of course,” you nodded, hooking your legs over his shoulders. “Only ever for you, Spence.” 

“Such a good girl for me.” He rewarded you by placing a kiss on your inner thigh. “Who do you belong to?” 

“Y-you.” You stuttered, desperate for him. 

“Good girl.” He repeated and kissed the inside of your other thigh. “Who’s better in bed, angel? Me or that pumped up frat boy?”

“You are!” You whined. “No one’s better than you.” 

“You really are such a good girl for me, Y/N.” He smiled, kissing slightly higher on your thigh. 

“So g-good.” You agreed. “P-please?” 

“Well, since you did ask so nicely.” He bowed his head, blowing air between your legs and making you squirm. 

He lifted one arm and pressed his forearm over your hips, holding you in place. And then his tongue cautiously swiped through your silken folds. 

He collected your arousal on his tongue, moaning at how good you tasted. You whimpered and your eyes fell shut, blindly reaching out until you found his head and threaded your fingers into his locks. 

You dug your nails into his roots when he found purchase on your clit. He swiped his tongue back and forth over your sensitive bud a couple of times before wrapping his lips around it. 

He suckled on you, tongue jutting out every so often to add to the pleasure. You tugged at his hair, grinding against his face, needing more. 

He smiled against you, his free hand edging up your thigh. You felt two long, nimble fingers press against you. 

He glanced up at you through his lashes and he saw your eyes squeezed tightly shut and a few tears forcing their way out. 

He continued to lap over your clit while he pushed his two digits inside of you. He growled against you, he’d almost forgotten how good you felt. The way you stretched around his fingers was heaven, and suddenly he couldn’t wait to feel it around his cock again. 

He’d had every intention of bringing you to orgasm like this and he knew it wouldn’t take a lot. But as he fingered you, his digits moving deftly in and out of your throbbing cunt, he simply couldn’t wait any longer. 

He pulled his mouth away from you, causing your eyes to suddenly open. He kept his fingers inside of you, stretching you as much as he could in preparation.

“Why’d you stop?” You whimpered, tears staining your face. 

“I don’t think I can wait any longer.” His fingers brushed against your cervix and you shuddered and moaned. “I’m sorry, I need to be inside of you so badly.”

“Ok.” You nodded. “Please?” 

He kissed your hip bones whilst scissoring his fingers inside of you a few more times. His other hand worked on the button of his slacks. 

When he removed his fingers you whined again, feeling horribly empty. Spencer sat back so he could shimmy off his pants and underwear before laying back down on top of you. 

His hard member found its way between your legs and he moved back and forth through your slick a few times. He bowed his head to kiss you, cupping your jaw tenderly. 

“You’re not on birth control are you?” He spoke against your lips. 

“I am now, I started on the pill.” You replied. 

What you didn't say was that you’d gone on it because of his own paranoia. He’d somehow transferred his obsession with birth control onto you. He’d told you condoms were ninety eight percent effective, eighty five when factoring in human error. The pill, as you’d researched, was over ninety nine percent effective when taken at the same time every day, which you did religiously. 

“Great.” He swallowed thickly, sitting back between your parted legs. 

He held the base of his shaft and lined himself up with your desperate hole. 

“I have condoms though.” You frowned up at him. 

“I want to do this. I want to feel you, really feel you.” He insisted. 

“You’re sure?” 

“Did you use protection with him?” 

“Yes.” You nodded. 

“Then I’m sure.” He nodded although he wasn’t entirely sure that was true. 

He did want this, more than anything, but that didn’t take away his fear of getting you pregnant. Realistically he knew the pill was incredibly safe, and the likelihood of you getting pregnant was very low. He couldn’t help but be paranoid. 

But he wanted this, needed this. He wanted to take your relationship to a level he never thought he’d experience again. He wanted to be sheathed inside of you with no barrier, nothing between his cock and your throbbing walls. 

“I will warn you I have not had unprotected sex in a very long time and I’m already dangerously close so if this doesn’t last long…” 

“I don’t care.” You rolled your hips against him. “Please, Spencer?” 

He nodded, taking a breath to stem his nerves. Keeping hold of the base of his cock he slowly pushed his way inside of you, his eyes rolling back in his head the second he inched passed your entrance. 

The sounds emanating from his lips could only be described as sinful. He was careful in his movements, disappearing inside of you inch by painful inch. 

It felt like coming up for air. Being inside of you like this was the most incredible feeling of his whole life. He could feel every tiny movement of you stretching around his heavy length, the smallest fluttering of your walls.

He bottomed out inside of you and collapsed on top of you, nuzzling his face against your neck and breathing heavily. 

“There are no words in any human language to describe what that feels like.” He spoke into your skin. “You're definitely on the pill?”

“One hundred percent.” You confirmed, wrapping your arms around him. 

“Good,” he lifted his head enough to look you in the eyes. “Because I want nothing more than to come inside of you.” 

You moaned deeply and he felt you clench around him. His hips bucked involuntarily. 

“P-please,” you nodded. “Please I want you to come inside me.” 

He pushed himself back up, his hands either side of your face. You wrapped your own hands around his biceps, squeezing him to encourage him to move. 

He started slowly, not wanting this feeling to end too soon. He pulled back almost all the way before leisurely sinking back inside of you. 

He stared down on you, not breaking eye contact as he moved in and out of you. He was already close and he didn’t want this to end so soon so he continued his slow thrusts. 

With each one his blunt head nudged against your bundle of nerves, and elicited a deep moan from your lungs. He was panting and grunting, closing his eyes briefly every time you clenched around his bare dick. 

At that moment he had never felt so intrinsically connected to someone. He felt like he’d become a part of you and you him. Your body was simply an extension of his own. 

He could feel so much, he’d forgotten what it was like to be like this, it was a feeling he wanted to last forever. 

He’d never been so raw and exposed with another person and for a while that was the most wonderful feeling. But as he felt his orgasm start to build in the pit of his stomach, another unwelcome sensation joined it.

What the fuck am I doing? 

He closed his eyes as an onslaught of emotions erupted inside of him. The voice of a woman he’d had a one night stand with telling him she was pregnant. Falling in love with a woman who could so easily tear apart the life they’d built together like it was a house of cards. 

Spencer I’m keeping this baby whether you want to be a part of its life or not. 

Spencer I’ve been having an affair. 

Spencer, this is Bobby, my boyfriend. 

Why is mommy leaving? 

Why doesn’t she want to live with us anymore? 

“Can’t do this.” He mumbled, his movements slowing ever further. 

“Huh?” You panted squeezing his biceps. “I’m close Spence, don’t stop.” 

“Can’t do this.” He repeated, his eyes snapping open. 

He stared down at you again, stilling his movements completely. A look of remorse washed over him and he shook his head.

“I’m sorry.” He withdrew you, physically and mentally. 

You whined when he pulled out, sitting up and frowning at him. 

“What are you doing?” You mumbled, head hazy with your impending orgasm of which you’d been denied. 

“I can’t do it.” He moved off the bed, getting to his feet, ignoring the fact his cock was still standing at attention. 

“So we’ll use a condom.” You stared at his back. 

“No, it’s not just that.” He turned back to you, eyes full of sorrow. “I should go.” 

“What? Why?” You pulled the sheet around your body feeling exposed although Spencer didn’t seem to notice he was still naked. 

“I shouldn’t have come here, I’m sorry. I can’t do this Y/N.” 

“Do what?” 

“This. Us. It’s not going to work is it? We know that.” 

“How do we know that?” You frowned at him. 

“Have you just completely forgotten that we want different things? That hasn’t changed.” He shrugged, finding his boxers on the floor and pulling them on now as his dick started to soften with his overwhelming emotions. 

“You came to me. You came to me, not the other way around. You come here and tell me you love me and sleep with me and now you’re saying this?” You were incredulous. 

You jumped out of bed, quickly throwing your clothes back on while Spencer did the same. He didn’t button his shirt properly but he didn’t care or notice. 

“I can’t do this, I can’t bring someone into my girls lives when it’s not going to work out. They’ve already been hurt by one woman, I can’t have them be hurt by another.” He raised his voice a little, stuffing his tie in his pocket. 

“They have or you have?” You scoffed. “Let’s be honest here, Spencer. This isn’t about your kids, it’s about you.” 

“No,” he shook his head. “No it’s not.” 

“Maeve hurt you, I get it. But not everyone is like that.” You tried to reason with him but he kept shaking his head. 

“I’ve known you for all of five minutes Y/N, I knew her for thirteen years. If someone can hurt another person that way after over a decade of marriage and two children then who’s to say you couldn’t do the same?” He spat, pushing his hair back from his face. 

“So this is about you.” 

“No,” he frowned. “What is meant is, if someone can hurt their own daughters that way, who’s to say a stranger couldn’t do it too.” 

“Bullshit,” you rolled your eyes. “You’re scared Spencer and I understand that. What Maeve did to you was horrible, I can’t even begin to imagine what that was like for you. But you have to have faith that not everyone is out to hurt you.” 

“Faith?” He scoffed, his expression indignant. “I have to have faith? Faith in another human being not to hurt my girls the way their own mother hurt them?” 

“Spencer, come on. This isn’t just about them and you know it!” You yelled, getting frustrated by his deflection.

“You don’t get it.” He growled. “You don’t get it because you don’t have kids.” 

“Kids are tough. They bounce back quicker. It’s adults that are the vulnerable ones. We’re the ones that hang onto those losses, that feel the pain longer. I’m not doubting for a second that your wife hurt them when she left and I am not saying they probably aren’t still harbouring some kind of feelings about it. But they are buoyant and you’ve let yourself drown.” You folded your arms over your chest, shaking a head a little in disappointment. 

You saw the way he clenched his jaw, the way his eyes darkened again and it didn’t at all take you by surprise when he stepped forward and grabbed you roughly by the arm. 

“You don’t know anything,” he was really close to you, spitting his words right in your face. “You don’t have kids, you don’t get it. You don’t get to tell me what my kids are going through. You don’t get to tell me what I’m going through. You don’t know my girls, and you don’t know me.” He shook you by the arm but you wouldn’t show him your fear. 

“You think I don’t know you? Oh please.” You scoffed, his grip on you getting firmer, blunt fingernails pressing into the previous marks he’d left behind. 

“You know the things I’ve actively shown you. You know the side of me I am willing for you to see. You don’t know me. Not the real me.” He growled, spittal flying from his lips. 

“I know you.” You spat back. “I know you’re scared of being vulnerable, terrified of letting someone close to you because you were hurt in a way no one should ever have to be hurt by someone they love. You built up walls to protect your heart from another beating. You use your kids as an excuse not to let anyone in. Because deep down you are petrified of getting your heart broken again. So you’re pushing me away because you think it’ll be easier than giving me a chance to hurt you.”

His eyes were practically black now, his pupils and irises bleeding together in his anger. His grip on you was so tight it was starting to hurt but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of telling him as much. 

“You don’t know shit. You think because you're getting your doctorate in psychology that you can read me? If that’s the best you’ve got you’ve got a lot to learn.” He let go of you now, turning away from you. “This isn’t up for debate Y/N. This was a mistake, I shouldn’t have come here and now I’m leaving.”

“Coward,” you spat. “Fucking coward.” 

He spun back to you, eyes somehow even darker than before. 

“Fuck you.” He replied childishly. 

“You’d rather be alone and miserable than be with someone you love on the off chance you might get hurt? That’s pretty cowardly Spencer.”

“Did it ever occur to you that I only told you I loved you to get you into bed?” A menacing smirk blossomed on his lips. “You said it yourself, I couldn’t get you into bed fast enough when we met. I was touch starved, I needed to get laid. I would have said just about anything to get in your pants.”

“That’s not true.” You shook your head meekly. 

“It most certainly is true, Y/N.” He chuckled darkly.

“You’re lying.” You whimpered. 

“Am I?” He clucked. “Do you really believe that?” 

“If that’s true you are exceptionally cruel.” Your eyes misted over with tears. 

“Like I said, you don’t know me. Maybe I’m just a cruel person.” He shrugged, taking a few steps backwards. 

“I hope one day you wake up and realise you made a huge mistake.” You snarled at him. “I hope you wake up and it hurts, it hurts everywhere. It hurts because you threw away a chance at real happiness. I hope that day comes and I hope you track me down to tell me how much it fucking hurts. Just so I can say, respectfully Doctor Reid, go burn in hell.” 

You stormed past him, flinging the door open and glaring at him angrily. His expression faltered a little, the darkness in his eyes fading.

“Y/N I…”

“Leave.” You motioned to the open door. “Get out of my apartment you asshole.” 

He clenched his jaw, feeling a tightness spread to chest. It was as though he had been possessed for a moment, like something else had taken over his body. Now he looked at you, the pain behind your eyes, he wanted to take back every single word he hadn’t meant to say. 

“I don’t think that I-”

“Don’t care.” You cut him off. “Whatever you have to say, I don’t care. I am done listening to you now. Get the fuck out of my apartment and don’t even think about coming back here. You might have saved yourself and your kids the pain but you have shattered my heart into a million tiny pieces Spencer Reid. I hope you’re fucking happy.” 

“Y/N…”

“Go!” You yelled. “Now! Or I’ll call the cops.” 

Spencer clenched his jaw again, rhythmically grinding his rear molars together to try and stem any tears that might threaten to fall. He gave you one last look before he nodded and headed past you through the open door. 

Seconds later, before he even made it to your front door, he heard the bedroom one slam, so loudly the walls shook. 

And he knew before he even got to the door that he was going to leave here, find a bar and get so drunk he may never wake up. 

@foxy-eva @kbakery @chrissyflo3 @simxican @aysixdy @givemeth @loonalockley @shamelessfangirl-3 @redbulldinner @derekm24

@pinkiceee-prose @werewolfbansheelove @mindbelova @hades-disappointment-child @weirdothatwritess

[seravphs]

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — WOLFWOOD x FEM READER

You thought you'd be the one taking care of the stray you picked up off the streets, not the other way around.

wc — 3.6k

tags — fluff, dog boy/werewolf/shapeshifter au I guess, whatever you want to call it, “you become responsible forever for what you have tamed” but it goes both ways, animal abuse mention (non graphic and not from reader), shoujo manga vibes, title from runaway by Aurora

There’s a mangy old stray on your block. You’ve seen the kids chase him off with sticks too many times not to want to do something about it, no matter how your mother used to scold you for your bleeding heart. 

“It’ll get you hurt someday,” echoes now in your ears as the cashier rings up your dog food, both wet and dry. You’re not sure which he’d - it seems like a he - would prefer.

$12.97 is your total. Not a bad price to pay for a life. 

Only a gentle kind of revolt, more teasing than genuinely angry, remains in your mind as the first drops of rain land on your face. It was a light mist, barely enough to dampen the sweet smelling air. The wet haze pulled blurry rainbows across the clear summer sky, enough to put a hop in your step as you hurried back to your apartment. 

There are no children today, and the neighborhood is quiet. A half dug hole by the adjacent apartment’s peonies tells you that your target is either nearby or at least recently in town. You unpack your bag, setting out a trap in the form of a can of wet food. 

Something skulks in the periphery of your vision. Trying not to startle him, you peek at the shadow out of the corner of your eye. You didn’t know dogs grew to be this big. 

When you really look at him, your stray seems more wolf than dog. He’d be nearly as large as as a human if he stood up on his back paws. Hiding beneath the trees where he thinks you can’t see him, he’s tense and untrusting. 

It’s strange for you to think of yourself as capable of making anyone nervous, much less someone as big as he is. You take a step back.

He edges forward, then flees into the shadows again. He’s hesitant. His paws skitter across the grass, beating a fast and unsteady tempo that reveals how nervous he is. It’s obvious that he won’t come out to eat as long as you’re here. That’s fine.

Trust can be earned. 

From your apartment’s windows, you watch him gulp down the food. He’s so clearly famished that he doesn’t even pause to breathe between bites, leaving you almost afraid that he’ll choke. When he’s finished, he lies down by his bowl, his eyes glittering.

He’s not asleep - he’s too wary a creature for that, but it’s relieving to see him relaxed and sated. He dozes like that for a minute or two before he lifts himself back up on weary paws to trot back into the woods. 

You’ve tried to make it a routine to feed him after work, stopping by the pet store to pick up different flavors you think he’d like to try. Neon stickers pop out at you from various tags on the shelves, promising to boost muscle growth or improve bone strength.

In the end, you get them all. When all you do is work, you don’t worry about blowing your money on things like this. You have nothing else to spend it on - might as well spoil him. It’s nice to be able to take care of someone else.

It might be all in your head, but you think he’s starting to warm up to you. He still waits until you’re gone to eat, but it’s easier to keep tabs on him now. You don’t think it’s an accident.

Sneaking a glance out of the corner of your eye, you can spot the telltale signs that he was waiting. Sometimes you even find him waiting for your car to pull in. 

Today, you find him at the end of your driveway, his tail thumping against the pavement. He’s in a good mood, it seems. When you park, he even gives a short howl.

He still retreats when you climb out of the driver’s side, only inching forward when you rustle your plastic bag of groceries at him. You crack the lid and set it down slightly in front of you to wait it out. 

You’ve been trying to get him used to your presence so you can take him to the vet. It’s a slow process - some days he’s more amenable to your presence than others. 

It takes a minute or two for him to consider if it’s worth it, if you’ll hurt him. Eventually, he slinks forward, his body low to the ground. 

You smile at him encouragingly as you wait, crouched down to be on the same level as him. He’s a big dog, probably almost the same height as you sitting down. He pauses in front of the food and sniffs cautiously. Then, he passes it. 

Your heart drops. Maybe he didn’t like it. Had you picked wrong? He’s eaten everything you gave him before - you didn’t think he was picky. 

He comes right up to you, his hot breath gusting over your hand. Suddenly you realize that this is a predator. He might be feral or have rabies. After everything, you realize you don’t really know him.

Animals aren’t like humans. You’ve assigned a wild beast your own moral complications and assumptions. Perhaps it’s hungry enough to want to eat you. 

He’s close enough that you can feel the warm weight of his body against your shins. Something fuzzy bumps into your hand insistently until you lift it. You realize that he’s asking to be pet and with trembling fingers, you do. 

Your fingers stroke over his head and ears, growing surer with the way he’s pushing back against you. It tickles just a little, enough to make you giggle until he shoves his snout right into your palm. His nose is cold and wet. 

“Go on,” you encourage, trying to nudge him towards the bowl. No matter how nice his fur feels, there’s something heartbreaking about watching him choose love over food. 

“You need to eat,” you scold. He sneezes in a way that makes him shake all over. If he wasn’t a dog, you’d think he was smiling at you. He only takes a mouthful when you reach out to resume petting him. He seems to like it when you scratch right behind his ears. 

You almost feel like you’ve formed a bond until he stops right at the boundary of your home and refuses to walk any further. You had thought you were getting along so well, too. 

“Come on,” you coax. “Here, boy. There’s nothing to be scared of.” 

He skitters back anyways, circling your property with a low, mournful howl before he trots back towards the perimeter. 

Progress is progress, you try to remind yourself, however disappointed you are. 

Sometimes, it feels like you’re not making any at all. There are days where you can’t even watch him eat, not knowing if he’s alright until the next time you find an empty bowl. Your fears are only alleviated by the moments where he lets you pet him or waits for you, a reminder that you are earning his trust. 

It may be a slow process, but he is becoming more comfortable with you, little by little.

Now it worries you when you can’t find him sitting in his usual spot, wary but excited. He doesn’t come even when you peel back the lid of the can noisily, the metal crumpling easily in your hand. You can’t help your anxieties from multiplying, though logically you know that he’s probably just off doing whatever dogs do in their free time.

You’re already halfway up the walkway to your house when you turn back. You can’t go inside without knowing he’s safe. A quick lap around the neighborhood reveals nothing. You’re checking behind bushes and cars when you hear the first faint whimper. 

Frantically, you push the leaves aside until you find him huddling in the center of a rose bush. He’s curled up on himself, as small as he could possibly be. His tail is tucked under his nose. 

Your hands are pricked with thousands of little needles as you keep digging for him. You can’t imagine how much worse it would be for him. This could only have been his last resort. Something worse had chased him here. 

He wags his tail when he sees you, barely able to lift his head. Seeing him struggle, you can’t help yourself. You push the branches aside to help him drag himself out, his body battered. Those kids again. 

“Come on, baby,” you coo, stroking his matted fur as you pick him up in your arms. He’s not as heavy as he should be, starved as he is. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll take care of you.” 

It was settled before you could decide it for yourself. He’s your responsibility now. There was never a choice in it. 

Dr. Rem’s assistant comes out to fetch you less than five minutes into the check up. “I think you should stay,” he says, his tone just cool enough to sound a touch annoyed. 

Your overgrown puppy won’t submit to her ministrations unless you’re in the room with him, stroking his ears and promising that everything will be alright. He must’ve been a pet at some point, to know what needles are and have such a reaction to them. To know that despite the initial pinch, it’s okay as long as you’re being pet. 

When it’s finally over, both of you are exhausted, but Dr. Rem is as professional as ever as she walks you through the care routine for his treatments. “Honestly,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t understand how some people can be so cruel.” 

You don’t either, but it doesn’t matter. He’s yours now, and you’ll never let anything touch him again. 

“Does he have a name?” Dr. Rem’s incredibly blonde assistant asks as he’s filling out your release forms. 

“I’ve just been calling him dog,” you admit bashfully. 

He doesn’t need to speak. His expression says it all. Unbelievable.

You take a look at the creature you’ve decided to bring home. He does look more like a wolf than a dog. You’ve always thought so. “Wolfwood?”

“What a weird - ahem, interesting - name for a dog,” Nai, from his name tag, says. 

By your feet, Wolfwood wags his tail in agreement. 

“Wolfie?”

His tail wags harder. He pauses. It wags again. He turns around and nips at it, like he’s trying to hide the fact that he might like the nickname.

When you try to carry him from the car into your home, he clambers stiffly to his feet like an old man. You have to hide your laugh behind a couch. For some reason, he seems more human than animal. You’ve caught him noticing things no normal dog would, and you’re sure his pride would be injured. 

The sound his nails clicking across the floor is strangely comforting, like ASMR. You’ve heard that dogs are naturally helpful to lower cortisol and reduce stress, but you’ve never thought you’d experience those effects. You lean down to stroke a hand over his furry coat, carefully avoiding the spots where he’s still hurt. 

When it’s bedtime, you’ve resolved to give him the comfort of your bed and take the couch, but he’s not having any of that. His jaw snaps around the hem of your shirt, teeth digging into the fabric to prevent you from leaving. Immediately, you stop moving, afraid to hurt him worse. 

“Calm down,” you say gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He barks in discontent. He really does seem human, as if he understood you. 

Out of options, you resign yourself to curling up on the bed next to him, hoping you won’t accidentally roll over him in your sleep. Maybe you should invest in one of those bed dividers they use for small children. It’s the last thought in your head before you drift off. 

A deep, reverberating sound wakes you up. You roll over with the pillow shoved on top of your head to try to get some peace, but it continues. Fed up, you finally rise out of your comfortable sheets, ready to give whichever neighbor that’s decided sunrise was a great time to mow their lawn a piece of your mind. 

Instead, you’re greeted with a strange man in your bed. Your scream is cut short by his hand clapping over your mouth as soon as you start. 

“Oops.” He says. “My bad.” 

Your eyes grow wider in terror. 

“Hey, hey,” he says soothingly, like that’s going to help when there’s a random man in your bed. “None of that. I’m a friend.” 

You scream louder. In a spark of inspiration, you try to bite him. He winces. That’s when you start noticing the ears and the tail. The faint resemblances to someone else you know. The bandages wrapped around his torso. 

“That’s right,” he says, noticing you look. “Recognize me now? Would this help?” 

The tail flicks back and forth in a familiar motion. Someone else used to do that to show his happiness. 

“Wolfie?”

“That’s a stupid name,” he laughs. 

“I think I’m going to pass out.” 

“Don’t do that,” he says, but it’s too late. You’re going back to bed. 

You’re not sure why you’re not more surprised that the stray you picked up is actually a human, but after your initial reaction, you find yourself remarkably open to the idea. Part of you feels privately that you’ve always expected Wolfie to be special. He seemed so smart. 

You’re in too deep to kick him out now, human or not, but that also might be an excuse. Having him around is nice, you have to admit. Whether he’s a human or a dog, having someone to come home to has changed your life.

You hadn’t realized how lonely you were until you came home to Wolfwood preparing dinner, the apron you bought for him wrapped around his waist. It reads ‘kiss the chef’ in bright pink letters. 

Although you’re the one who took him in, you feel like you’re the one being taken care of. 

It’s not just you. Even your coworkers have commented on the way you rush home now instead of staying up until the very last minute. You can’t keep up with your bad habits anymore. There’s someone waiting for you now.

When you open the door, the delicious fragrance of something savory drifts to your nose, spiced and warm. “I’m home,” you call. 

There’s no need. He’s already waiting at the door. It’s a comical sight. He tries to make it casual, leaning against the wall with an oh-so-nonchalant air, but he’s there every single time you walk through the entrance without fail. 

It’s too easy to get used to his presence.  

Having someone to come home to makes you quicker to turn down overtime requests and more hesitant to take on additional duties. You thought this would hurt your work report, and you were willing to take the hit. Some things are worth it. 

Instead, your productivity spikes. Even your manager notices, doling out rare and surprised praise on one of your last projects. The change in you is palpable.

“Did you get a boyfriend?” Meryl asks. “You seem happier lately.” 

Everyone notices the way you seem brighter, more easygoing. You’ve started bringing homemade lunch boxes instead of eating out. Your good mood has translated into a better work product than any amount of indifferent hours you put in before. 

It’s still a surprise when you receive your promotion at the end of the quarter. Something you’ve been working towards for months drops right in your lap. Lately, it feels like everything has been falling into place. 

Good things arrive on the heels of even better things, all because you’ve felt more personally fulfilled than you have in years. You though taking Wolfwood in would slow you down, but it’s done the opposite.

You have more time now that you have someone looking after you. It also motivates you to have someone of your own to care for.

When you present the news to him, you can’t stop yourself from crying out of happiness, though it’s embarrassing. Wolfwood licks at the small tears rolling down your cheeks. 

“What are you doing?” You laugh, trying to push his face away with no real effort behind it. 

“Kisses,” he replies. “For doing a good job.” 

Not like that, you try to remind yourself. He doesn’t mean it like that.

“Why is your heart beating faster?” 

Stupid dog senses. 

There are other ways in which his dog nature comes in handy. He’s more sensitive to nature than you are. You’ve come to rely on him instead of the forecast as he sends you off every morning, his nose scenting the ozone and petrichor in the air. 

“Don’t forget to take an umbrella!” 

“I’m already running late, bye!” 

You should’ve listened. Now you’re forced to trudge through the damp muck, soaked to the bone. Your sneeze is so strong it rattles through your bones, making you feel achey and weak as you sniffle through the last leg of your journey. By the time you finally reach the front door, you feel as pathetic as you must look, like a half drowned rat. 

Wolfwood is waiting for you again, but you barely register it. You nearly stumble over a cabinet leg as you try to make your way to the couch through the dizziness, collapsing on it. Wolfwood pads over to you, making a low grumbling noise of concern.

“Shh,” you murmur as you feel his cold nose shove into your palm. “Not right now, Wolfie. I’m tired.” 

He puts his head across your thigh and whines discontentedly. Your breathing is coming a little hard. Still, you try to reassure him. “I’m okay. Just had a long day.” 

There’s human hands against your forehead now, nice and cool. You turn your head so you can nuzzle into it, the gentle pressure relieving your headache just a little. 

Someone’s holding you now, arms around your back and sides. “Come on, sweetheart, you gotta sit up. Eat something.” 

Almost like a dog yourself, you whine and pout, turning your face away. The idea of food is turning your stomach right now. Everything seems too rich for your weak stomach. 

“This is why I told you to take that umbrella this morning.” Wolfwood’s voice is stern, but his hands are kind as he props you up. 

“One sip, alright? For me.” 

Weakly, you part your lips so he can slide the spoon between your teeth. It’s a mild broth, barely any flavor to it, but it’s the only thing you can bear at the moment. The hot soup feels incredible, warming you from the inside out. 

“There we go,” he says. “Good job, sweetheart.”

With his help, you finish the whole bowl. He wraps the blanket tighter around you before he takes the dirty dishes. Even when he leaves your side, you can hear him bustling around the room, so you’re not worried. This is nice. Even feverish, you feel pleasant. 

When Wolfwood returns to the couch, his dog ears are peeking out of his hair. He kneels by you to check your temperature. Spotting your chance, you scratch at the base of his ears, listening for the satisfying thump of his tail hitting his thigh when you get the spot he really likes.

“What a good boy,” you coo, forgetting yourself. 

He laughs at you, watching you fluster. “Did you forget I’m not a real dog?” 

Your face is hot, but not from the fever. 

A few months into the strange miracle of having someone else to care for, and someone to care for you, Wolfwood asks you for an unusual favor. 

“Can you get me a collar?” 

Your gaze sweeps over him, considering. “I don’t know how I’d feel about that now that I know you’re a man.” 

“Honest, aren’t you?” When he smiles, you can see his fangs. It’s strangely charming, the wink of white bone in the corner of his mouth. 

“Why do you even want one?”

“I dunno, instinct? It just feels nice.” He braces his hand against his throat, testing the way it’d feel. “Yeah. It feels like something’s missing.” 

“That’s strange. I thought you’d prefer to be free.” 

He stretches out, lifting his arms. You can see the muscle lining his back beneath his thin, nearly transparent white tee. “Freedom is relative. Everyone is tied to something, you know. No use in pretending otherwise.” 

You tap his nose playfully. With a mischievous look in his eyes, he lunges forward and snaps his teeth over your finger. 

“You can be wise for a puppy,” you say teasingly. 

“Like I keep telling you, I’m a man,” he says, roughly pulling you towards him so he can punish you by messing with your hair. You shriek in protest, trying to push him off, but the request sticks inside your head.

On the weekend, you take a few leashes from the right section and sneak into a quieter corridor in the pet store. Even though you’ve agreed to this for Wolfwood’s sake, it’s still embarrassing. You have your pride, and it’d be hard to explain to anyone what your actual situation is. 

Perhaps understanding your plight, Wolfwood doesn’t mess with you as he usually does. Or maybe he’s just pliant at the thought of getting what he wants as you clip the leather around his neck. 

It looks good on him, you have to admit. He looks almost like a punk rock star, transforming it from dog collar to statement necklace. 

You flick the tag on his neck, watching the silver circle twinkle with your name and number. It’s meant for him to wear when he chooses to go on walks himself as a dog. “Now it’ll be okay even if you do get lost,” you tell him, satisfied.

“I’d be fine either way,” he says. “I know the way home.” 

For some reason, that makes you feel as owned as he looks, even though you’re not the one with a collar around your neck.

[amethystarachnid]

Hi! Its me again I had another found family troupe in mind if your up for it! I wanted to ask before the Christmas prompts started.

So this time I was thinking Deadpool x Teen!Male!Reader where reader is on top of a building, how he got there is up to you, but he's abt to make a bad decision (if ykw I mean) when dead pool finds him and starts to talk, and basically they end up making a deal, if wade can make the reader see how good life is then he won't do it, but if he fails the reader can go back, and basically its is a bunch of fun stupid shit for the rest and the reader becomes apart of the little odd family created in dead pool 3 (including logan) and decides to stick around. So heavy angst that's solved in a nice fluff, and if your not comfortable with the first part you can change the angst to a different scenario you totally can, and the how and why is up to you.

Readers personality is a sarcastic, cold teen, but he's caring and weird around ppl he's close to, he hides his emotions to keep himself safe

If you can do this I would be so so grateful, if not its totally understandable, I love your work sm its hard not to request things, keep up the amazing writing! Have a good day/night!

OPERATION MAKE YOU NOT HATE THE UNIVERSE

⤷ WADE WILSON

ᯓ★ Pairing: Wade Wilson x male!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: platonic!, angst, tiny bit of fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: normal request

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 4k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): This story deals with sensitive themes, including mental health struggles and suicide

ᯓ★ I'm happy that you like my works and don't worry, you can make as may requests as you want, I'm so happy when people make requests! <3

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The city sprawls below, twinkling and vast, but strangely quiet from this height. You sit on the edge of a skyscraper, your legs dangling into the nothingness, with only the hum of distant cars and neon lights bleeding through the foggy air.

You take a deep breath, the cold biting into your lungs. It makes sense, somehow, for this place to be the last thing you’d see. Who knows how long you’ve been sitting here, trying to drum up the courage or the anger or whatever it’s going to take to finally just let go. But the emptiness is louder than any fear. The world feels like it’s swallowed you whole, and this—you dangling on the edge—feels like the only time you’ve ever been able to look it in the face.

“You know, most people pick roller coasters or a fifth of tequila if they wanna feel a thrill.”

You flinch. Not from surprise—well, okay, a little from surprise—but more from sheer irritation. This is the moment someone decides to intrude? You glance over your shoulder and see him. He’s wearing red and black, looking like a deranged SWAT team dropout, leaning casually against the roof access door, arms crossed like he’s watching a really boring episode of a soap opera.

“And here I thought I had the whole roof to myself,” you say dryly, hiding your unease. “Guess we’re all just having a rooftop party.”

“Lucky for you, kiddo, I’m the life of the party. Deadpool, at your service,” he says with a bow. “But hey, what’s a young guy like you doing up here all alone? Besides reenacting all the worst Lifetime movies?”

You snort, because it’s exactly that bad. “Oh, just figured I’d enjoy the view,” you reply, deadpan. “And maybe gravity. Seems like a good combo.”

“Right, right, makes sense,” he nods, as if he’s in on some cosmic joke only you get. He crouches down, edging a little closer. “Let me guess. Someone pissed you off, the world sucks, you hate your life, blah blah blah, and now you’re about to end it all. Am I close?”

You don’t answer, just roll your eyes and stare back out at the city. But something in the fact that he said it—that he got it so easily—makes you feel strange. Seen.

“Oh, man, nailed it!” Deadpool cheers, like this is some sort of accomplishment. “See, I’m like a therapist, but with 90% more leather and 100% more explosions. And, I make house calls. You’re welcome.”

“Yeah? Where’s the PhD?” You give him a sidelong look, unimpressed. “Bet it’s in the mail.”

He gasps theatrically. “Excuse me, my online course was very thorough, thank you. You’re looking at a fully certified therapist-slash-savior-slash-pizza connoisseur.” He steps even closer, as if he’s trying to get a read on you. “So, what’s it gonna take for you to, I dunno…step back from the edge, champ?”

The question catches you off guard, but you school your expression back into that empty, unreadable mask. “Nothing,” you say. “Don’t need saving.”

“Aw, sure you do. Everybody does,” Deadpool replies, with a smile that’s a little too wide. He’s still in that crouch, head tilted like he’s studying a lab rat. “C’mon, take me up on my deal.”

“I didn’t agree to any deal,” you mutter.

“Well, that’s about to change, Mr. Antisocial.” Deadpool leans in, his voice a dramatic whisper. “I’ll make you a bet. If I can’t show you something worth sticking around for, something that doesn’t totally suck, you win. But if I can—and oh, I will—then you gotta promise not to do anything stupid up here. No ‘jumping’ and no ‘leaping gracefully off into the night’—not on my watch. Deal?”

You look at him, trying to figure out if he’s serious. But then, you’re not sure this guy even knows what serious means. A smirk slips onto your face, mostly from disbelief. “And if you fail, I get to come back here and do what I want.”

Deadpool slaps his hands together, eyes lighting up like he’s just scored a jackpot. “Deal! Signed, sealed, and delivered. What’s your name, by the way? So I know what to call you when I start ‘Operation Make You Not Hate the Universe.’”

“None of your business.”

“Oh, that’s not gonna work,” he replies breezily. “I’ll call you...” He pauses dramatically, finger tapping his chin. “Shadow Kid. Because of your gloomy vibes. Or Edgy McBroodface. Either one works for me.”

You sigh, exasperated. “Fine. It’s Y/n. Happy?”

He claps his hands like a kid on Christmas. “Delighted! Well, Y/n, pack your bags because you’re about to take the Deadpool Tour de Joy. First stop: that little bakery down the street that makes these empanadas that are just to die for—pun very intended.”

As ridiculous as he sounds, something inside you—against all odds—doesn’t completely hate this idea. Maybe he’s right, maybe he’s wrong, but at least he’s distracting you. And it’s better than the silence. So you sigh, push yourself back from the edge, and follow him, if only because he’s made it impossible not to.

“Don’t get too excited,” you warn, hiding a hint of curiosity beneath a mask of sarcasm. “I don’t like pastries.”

“Don’t worry, kid, you will,” he grins, guiding you off the ledge. “Deadpool guarantees it. Or I’ll give you a full refund. You know, after we make sure you don’t end up sidewalk art.”

It’s midnight, and you’re trailing behind a lunatic in red and black spandex as he skips down the street like he’s leading a parade of one. You almost regret stepping away from the edge of that building. Almost. Because, despite everything, Deadpool’s got your attention, even if it’s just so you can see where this trainwreck of a night is headed.

“Now, Y/n,” he says, spinning around to face you while walking backward, “it’s time I introduce you to my squad. My inner circle. The people who either love me or have given up trying to kill me. I figured, what better way to kick off Operation: Don’t Be A Self-Destructive Edgelord than some quality time with family?”

“Your ‘family’?” You raise an eyebrow, skeptical.

“Oh, yes. They’re the most dysfunctional group of weirdos you’ll ever meet, which, in our line of work, is high praise.” He turns back around, leading you down a couple of twisting alleyways until you’re standing in front of a building that looks like it was abandoned about a hundred years ago.

“Home, sweet home!” Wade announces proudly, shoving the door open. “Well, it’s not really mine, but Al’s not much of a decorator anyway.”

You’re about to ask who “Al” is when you spot her: a short, older woman with oversized sunglasses, leaning against a sofa, flipping through a Braille magazine. She doesn’t even look up when she addresses Deadpool.

“You brought home another stray, Wade? You’d think you were trying to start an orphanage for misfits,” she mutters.

“This one’s special, Al. Meet Y/n,” Wade says, guiding you inside. “Y/n, this is the one and only Blind Al. She’s my friend, roommate, therapist, probation officer, and part-time parole board.”

Al snorts. “You think I’d live with Wade if I had any other options?”

You almost smirk. “So you’re telling me he’s like this all the time?”

Al nods, and you catch the tiniest hint of a smile on her face. “Constantly. And unfortunately, you’ll get used to it.”

“Come on, Al, don’t ruin the surprise! I’m a blast to be around,” Wade says, slapping you on the back with a little too much enthusiasm. “Anyway, I promised Y/n the Deadpool Experience™, which includes only the finest influences and biggest badasses on the market.”

“Speaking of badasses…” Wade nudges you, gesturing to the kitchen doorway, where a tall, grizzled man in flannel and jeans leans against the frame, arms crossed. His eyes are hard, the kind that say he’s seen more than his fair share of horror, but he’s giving you a look that’s somewhere between curiosity and caution.

“Logan, meet Y/n,” Wade says, pushing you forward. “Y/n, meet Wolverine, aka Logan Howlett, aka the surliest Canadian this side of the Rockies. Logan, Y/n here’s having a tough time deciding if life’s worth sticking around for, so I figured you could help me convince him otherwise. Since you’re all about that whole ‘living through endless suffering’ thing.”

Logan looks you over, clearly unimpressed with Wade’s choice of words. “You tell this kid what he was getting into by sticking with you?” he grumbles, giving Wade a side-eye.

“Why spoil the fun?” Wade chirps. “Besides, I figured I’d ease him into the nightmare that is my lifestyle by introducing him to you first. It’s all part of my master plan.”

You scoff. “Not exactly a plan so far.”

Logan grunts, shooting Wade a look. “Kid, if you’re here, you better be ready to put up with more crap than you signed up for. And if you don’t, well, don’t expect us to sugarcoat it.”

“Gee, thanks, Logan. Great pep talk,” Wade says, clapping his hands together. “You’re practically the Canadian Dr. Phil.”

“Whatever,” Logan mutters, giving you a short nod of acknowledgment. “Stay out of trouble, kid.”

“Thanks,” you reply dryly. “I’ll make a note of it.”

Wade flashes a grin. “All right, now that we’ve got the somber stuff out of the way, it’s time to meet my real pride and joy. Follow me, Y/n.” He leads you down a narrow hallway, barely glancing back as he goes. “And here, in the third and definitely not cleanest room on the left, is the Mini Wolverine herself, Laura Kinney!”

You peer around the doorframe, and sure enough, there’s a young girl, no older than you, sharpening a knife with an intensity that could probably slice through steel. She looks up, one eyebrow raised as she sizes you up.

“So…another of Wade’s recruits?” she asks, her tone half-sarcastic but half-genuine, like she’s as surprised as anyone to find herself among this crowd.

“Not exactly,” you reply. “Apparently, I’m part of some…life-affirming experiment?”

Laura smirks. “Good luck. Most people just end up scarred. Or worse.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, mini-me,” Wade says, swooping in to ruffle her hair, which she swats at with the speed of a ninja. “Y/n, Laura here is what we call a ‘clone’—same rage issues, same claws, same immunity to hugs as Mr. Broodmaster in the kitchen. Laura, Y/n here is testing out the Wade Wilson School of Life Choices.”

She snorts, shaking her head. “Well, better you than me. Good luck.”

“Look at that, Y/n! She’s already rooting for you,” Wade says, pulling you back out of the room before you can reply.

“Sure,” you mutter. “I feel like I’m one big science project.”

“Nah, science projects are boring,” Wade says cheerfully. “And last, but certainly not least, the crown jewel of this ridiculous ensemble is… Peter!”

You frown, confused, as Wade leads you to the living room, where a man with glasses and a receding hairline is lounging on the couch, a sandwich in one hand and a soda in the other. He looks up and waves at you with a sheepish smile.

“Hey there. I’m Peter,” he says. “No code name, no special abilities, just…Peter.”

You raise an eyebrow at Wade. “How does he fit in?”

“Oh, he doesn’t,” Wade says matter-of-factly. “He’s just a genuinely good guy. The one, non-superpowered person who got tangled up in my dumpster fire of a life and didn’t immediately bail. I figured he’d be a nice balance to all the violent murderers in the room. Plus, he makes a mean ham and cheese sandwich.”

Peter shrugs, giving you a friendly smile. “Sometimes, it’s good to have at least one guy who knows what life’s like for the average person. And I figure, if Wade can make it, maybe there’s hope for all of us, right?”

You nod slowly, unsure what to make of all this but also, maybe for the first time in a long time, feeling something close to warmth. These people are rough around the edges, sure, but there’s an understanding in the way they look at you—like they know what it’s like to have the world chew you up and spit you out.

“Well, Y/n,” Wade says, clapping his hands together, “you’ve met the gang. Now, how about that empanada?”

You can’t help but roll your eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging at your lips. “Fine,” you mutter. “One empanada. But if it sucks, this deal’s off.”

Wade grins. “Deal! And hey, if you’re lucky, maybe you’ll even get a side of wisdom and life lessons from our merry band of misfits. Consider this step one on the path to…not hating everything.”

He leads the way, Peter and Al in tow, while Logan and Laura hang back a bit. And as you walk down the dimly lit street, surrounded by this unlikely crew, you realize maybe—just maybe—Wade might actually have a point.

The morning sun drips through the dirty windows of Blind Al’s apartment, casting a pale yellow glow over the chaotic mess of takeout boxes, weapon cases, and torn-up furniture. You’re sprawled on an old, threadbare armchair, an empanada wrapper stuck to your shirt from last night’s “Deadpool Tour de Joy.” You’d made it through an entire night with Wade and his crew of insane, sarcastic maniacs—and, against all odds, it wasn’t completely awful. In fact, you’d felt something almost like…belonging.

But now it’s the next day, and you’ve already told yourself a hundred times that you should probably just slip out, go back to what you were doing, forget all of this ever happened. You’re starting to push yourself up when Wade barges into the room, wearing his costume but missing the mask, eyes bleary, and looking like he hasn’t slept in days.

“Ah! Sleeping beauty rises!” Wade yells, startling you. “Figured you’d skipped out by now, but no! Y/n, my little suicidal protégé, how’s life on the wild side?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s early. Can you not yell?”

“Oh, no-no-no, kid, this is normal volume,” Wade replies with a grin. “Wait ‘til Logan shows up and starts shouting at me. Speaking of which…”

Right on cue, Logan comes around the corner, his expression twisted in irritation. “Wade, it’s nine in the damn morning, why are you already so loud?”

“Why are you such a ray of sunshine?” Wade replies cheerfully, barely dodging Logan’s hand as he tries to grab him.

“Because you’re annoying,” Logan growls, rolling his eyes and making for the coffee pot. But Wade is already blocking him, a mug in one hand, smirking.

“What if I told you there was no coffee left? Would you kill me?”

Logan raises an eyebrow, as if daring him to repeat it. Without a word, he pops out his claws, a metallic snikt slicing through the silence.

“Oh, I’m shaking!” Wade sneers, clearly egging him on.

“Deadpool, just get out of my way.” Logan tries to push past, but Wade laughs, making some obnoxious buzzing noise that apparently does the trick, because Logan grits his teeth and stabs him, right through the side.

You jump, stunned, watching as Logan’s claws slip back out, leaving Wade clutching his side. Blood pours out of the wound, and you’re about to call out when you realize that Wade’s grinning.

“Oh, there it is,” Wade says, inspecting the hole in his side, barely even phased. “You got me good, Wolvie. Was hoping you’d go for the chest, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“What the hell?” You can’t help but gape at him. “You’re bleeding, and you’re laughing?”

Wade winks, dropping his hand and letting you see that the wound is…healing. Muscles and tissue knit themselves back together, as if he hadn’t been stabbed at all. “Oh, yeah! Y/n, I forgot to mention one of my best features: I’m unkillable! Like an annoying houseplant that refuses to die. Cool, right?”

You blink, still trying to process. “So…no matter what happens to you, you just…keep coming back?”

“Yup! Think of it like this,” Wade says, throwing an arm around your shoulders, ignoring the sticky blood on his suit. “I am the miracle of human resilience, cranked up to eleven. Plus, I give Logan a stress outlet every morning. Win-win, really.”

“Wouldn’t call it a win,” Logan mutters, pouring his coffee. “If anything, you’re my worst nightmare.”

Wade smirks, turning to you. “Logan here’s my best friend. Don’t let him fool you.”

Logan takes a long, deliberate sip of his coffee, glaring over the rim. “One more word, Wade, and I’ll make it two stabs.”

“Oh, two stabs?” Wade clutches his chest dramatically. “Why, Mr. Howlett, you really know how to flatter a guy.”

“Honestly,” you mutter, looking at them, “this is the weirdest friendship I’ve ever seen.”

Logan glances over at you, grumbling, “It’s not a friendship. It’s a…complicated arrangement.”

Wade beams, throwing an arm around Logan’s shoulder, which Logan promptly shrugs off. “Call it whatever you want, sweetie.”

As they bicker, Laura enters the room, unfazed by the chaos. She gives you a nod of acknowledgment before grabbing a seat at the table, watching the two men as if this is just another morning.

“Y/n, how’s Wade treating you?” she asks, a smirk forming on her face.

You can’t help the sarcasm in your voice. “Oh, it’s just been fantastic. Nothing like witnessing multiple acts of violence before breakfast.”

She grins. “Get used to it. That’s pretty much every day around here.”

“Hey, I call it ‘combat therapy,’” Wade retorts, tossing her a wink. “You know, bonding time for the soul. Plus, Logan secretly loves it.”

You’re still processing all of this when Peter comes in, looking almost suspiciously normal, like a PTA dad in a nightmare of superheroes and chaos. He gives you a friendly wave, balancing a bag of bagels and a coffee tray.

“Morning, everyone!” Peter says, the only cheerful voice in the room. “Brought bagels for you all. Thought maybe today we could take it easy and just…you know, be normal for a while?”

Wade gasps. “Normal? Peter, buddy, you’re really asking a lot of me.”

“Don’t mind him, Peter,” you mutter, taking a bagel. “I think I’m the only sane one here.”

Peter gives you a sympathetic look. “I figured as much. Good luck with this crew, Y/n. If you ever need a sane friend, I’m your guy.”

Laura scoffs. “He doesn’t want ‘sane’ friends. If he did, he’d have run by now.”

You can’t argue with that. In fact, the thought does cross your mind—why didn’t you leave? But before you can dwell on it too long, Wade claps his hands.

“Today’s adventure awaits!” he announces, eyes alight with his usual chaotic energy. “We’ll start with breakfast and then…well, I’m not sure yet, but it’ll be something awesome.”

The group groans as Wade grabs his mask and heads for the door, beckoning for you to follow. Logan sighs, Laura grabs her knives, and Peter just looks resigned. But they all follow, like it’s a ritual they’re somehow tied to, and after a moment, you find yourself tagging along too.

The day is filled with antics. You lose track of the times Wade gets hurt, only to heal right in front of your eyes. Logan mutters that he’d be better off without Wade, only to punch him in the shoulder five minutes later with a hidden grin. Laura challenges Wade to a knife fight, and Peter just sighs, trying to keep everyone in line. And for the first time in…who knows how long, you’re laughing. Really laughing.

It’s almost night by the time you head back, the sky darkening as the city lights flicker on. You’re about to part ways and make your way home, but somehow, your feet keep taking you back to Al’s apartment. You know you don’t belong here, not really, but when you reach the door, there’s that same warmth—a strange pull you can’t ignore.

Wade notices you hesitate by the door and grins. “Aw, he’s back! See, I told you I’d be your favorite person in no time.”

“Don’t get too cocky,” you mutter, but you don’t turn to leave. Logan, Laura, Peter, and Al all glance at you, each with a look of welcome that they probably wouldn’t admit to feeling. It’s an odd sight, this bunch of misfits, but in some way, you realize that maybe they’re not as much of a mess as they seem. Maybe, just maybe, you’ve found something here that doesn’t completely suck.

“All right, all right, enough with the mushy stuff!” Wade says, breaking the silence. “Y/n, welcome back to Dysfunctional Central. We’re going to make you regret every second.”

You roll your eyes but smirk, stepping back inside and letting the door click shut behind you. Because this time, you don’t mind sticking around.

As night settles in over Blind Al’s apartment, the usual chaos of the group fades. Laura’s busy sharpening a blade on the couch, Logan’s nursing a beer in the corner, Peter is cleaning up the disaster of takeout containers from earlier, and Al is sitting near the window, her face turned toward the cool night breeze drifting in. Wade, in his typical way, is chattering aimlessly about everything and nothing at all, flipping between mocking TV commercials and talking up his latest “brilliant” idea for a reality show. And, as usual, you’re mostly tuning him out, feeling a mix of exhaustion and…something else. Something that’s starting to feel suspiciously like relief.

Wade breaks off suddenly, his head cocked as he glances over at you with a curious look. “So, Y/n,” he begins, his voice dropping a few notches in volume—a rarity. “How’s our little…adventure going? You feelin’ the spark of life yet? The whole, ‘maybe being alive doesn’t completely suck’ kinda thing?”

You shrug, fidgeting with the edge of your jacket. “I mean, it’s…been okay. You guys are insane, obviously, but it’s not the worst.”

Wade grins. “Insane and proud, baby. It’s kind of our brand. But don’t think I haven’t noticed your little act.” He leans in, dropping his voice even lower. “You’re good at the sarcasm, the deadpan thing. But I can see the cracks, kid. What’s under there?”

You freeze, not sure how to answer. Part of you wants to laugh it off, throw a sarcastic line his way, but something about the way Wade’s looking at you, uncharacteristically sincere, throws you off guard.

“Why’re you asking?” you mutter, looking away.

He shrugs, casual but not unkind. “Because, believe it or not, I give a damn. And because if I’m gonna help you out of whatever pit you’ve fallen into, I need to know where to start. So…give me the lowdown. What’s so bad it made you wanna bail on this whole rodeo?”

You swallow, throat tight. The last thing you want is to spill everything, to lay out every messy thought and feeling. But the words are there, just behind your teeth, begging to be let out after you’ve kept them buried for so long.

“It’s…” You hesitate, searching for the right words. “It’s not one thing, okay? It’s like…everything.”

Wade’s eyes don’t leave yours, an unspoken encouragement in his gaze.

You take a breath, still unsure, but the dam is cracking, and suddenly the words are pouring out before you can stop them. “I don’t know, Wade. I just—I feel like I don’t fit. Anywhere. I’ve tried, I really have, but no matter what I do, it’s like I’m some kind of outsider. The kid who’s always…wrong. Like I don’t belong in my own life. And the more I tried to fit in, the harder it got.”

Wade nods, not interrupting, just letting you talk.

“School was a nightmare,” you continue, voice barely above a whisper. “People either ignored me or treated me like I was invisible. Even my own family doesn’t seem to get me. I just…there’s no place for me. No one who actually cares, and it’s been that way for so long that I can’t remember a time it wasn’t. And I know you’re supposed to push through or whatever, but I just got so tired, Wade. Tired of always feeling like I’m on the outside looking in. Tired of being…me.”

You shake your head, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice. “Everywhere I look, it’s like people have these lives, friends, family, things that give them a reason to wake up. But me? I don’t have anything, not really. So I started wondering…if I just disappeared, would anyone even notice? Would anyone care?”

Wade is quiet, watching you with an expression you can’t quite place. It’s not pity—thankfully, you don’t think you could stand that—but something softer, gentler.

“That’s why I went up there last night,” you admit, surprised by the honesty in your own voice. “Because I couldn’t stand the emptiness anymore. I thought maybe if I just…ended it, at least it would stop hurting, you know?”

There’s silence in the room now, even the usual background noise faded to nothing. You can feel the weight of your own words, a relief but also a vulnerability that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin.

After a moment, Wade shifts, sitting down next to you. “Hey, kid,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I know that feeling. I know it all too well.”

You glance at him, surprised. “You? You seem like you’ve got everything figured out.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh, kid. I may be the king of talking big, but I’ve been where you are. Hell, I’ve been to worse places. You think I’m here just ‘cause life handed me everything I wanted? Nope. I got scars, inside and out, that’d make your head spin. And you know what? That ‘don’t belong’ feeling? I had that too.”

Wade pauses, running a hand over his mask, which he’s bunched up in his hands. “I used to think…if I could just disappear, maybe that would be the best thing for everyone. And that was before I became…this.” He gestures to his scarred skin, his voice low but steady. “When you look like this, people either turn away or look at you like you’re some kind of monster. It was…lonely. Really, really lonely.”

You swallow, something in his words hitting close to home. “So what changed?”

Wade smiles, a bit of his usual spark returning. “Well, I guess I just got stubborn. Figured if the world didn’t want me, then I’d make my own place. Found people—well, like the circus act you met last night. Turns out, sometimes family’s not about blood. It’s about…finding people who see the worst parts of you and stick around anyway.”

“Not everyone has that,” you murmur, glancing at the floor.

“True,” Wade admits, his gaze softening. “But kid, here’s the thing: you’re still here. And now, you’ve got us—like it or not.” He gives you a wry smile. “You don’t have to carry that weight alone anymore. I get it, I really do, but there’s no shame in letting someone else help pick up the pieces. Maybe you just haven’t found your people yet…but you’ve got me, and the squad. We’re not perfect, but we don’t go down without a fight.”

You look at him, a strange warmth spreading through your chest despite the heaviness of the moment. For the first time, you feel like maybe someone actually understands. Maybe, just maybe, you’re not completely alone.

“Thanks,” you say, the word barely loud enough to hear. “For…listening.”

Wade grins, reaching out and patting your shoulder, a bit rough but oddly comforting. “Anytime, kid. I’m annoying, sure, but you won’t find anyone more loyal.” He gives you a wink. “Besides, I told you—I’m not letting you off the hook that easy.”

You chuckle, feeling a little lighter despite everything. “You really don’t give up, do you?”

“Nope. It’s a gift and a curse.” Wade stands, offering a hand to help you up. “Now, you and me? We’re gonna keep going until you see just how much life’s got to offer. I mean, look at me—scarred, hated, stabbed on a daily basis—and somehow, I’m still here.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re a walking disaster.”

“Guilty as charged,” Wade says with a laugh. “But hey, you stick around with us long enough, maybe we’ll rub off on you. Logan can teach you how to growl menacingly, and Laura can teach you how to stab with precision. Peter’s got the dad jokes covered. It’s a real all-inclusive experience.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, you feel a spark of hope. It’s small, fragile, but it’s there. Maybe life’s not all bright and shiny, and maybe you’ve got a long way to go, but with Wade and this dysfunctional crew, maybe there’s a chance you can start over. At the very least, you’re not alone.

“Alright,” you say, meeting Wade’s gaze with newfound determination. “I’ll give this a shot.”

Wade’s grin stretches wide, genuine. “That’s the spirit, Y/n! I knew you had it in you.” He throws an arm around your shoulder, squeezing a little too tight. “And hey, if it ever gets too tough, just remember—you’ve got us.”

You nod, letting yourself lean into the odd but reassuring presence of Wade by your side. For the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe there’s a path forward, one you don’t have to walk alone.

And with this crazy group, maybe that path won’t be as empty as the one you were on before.

if you liked the story don't forget to like, reblog and leave a comment if you want!

[corroded-hellfire]

hi there!! hope you’re having a good day today :D not sure if you’re taking requests but if you are would you consider doing an angst/comfort follow up to the chrissy scene ask, where reader needs eddie to come pick them up because of their stepdad or something? ♡

Here’s the first part for anyone who is looking to read it! I have to thank the lovely and wonderful @dearest-readers for helping me with this when I hit a wall. I hope you all enjoy this 💗

Warnings: drunk assholes, mild violence, language, reader has shitty home life

Words: 2.6k

The strum of the same few chords repeats itself over and over again like a broken record. The notes echo through the empty trailer as Eddie tries for the hundredth time to get the guitar solo in Master of Puppets just right. His fingers are sore from practicing for so long, but the irritation in him won’t let himself quit. 

The ringing of the phone jostles Eddie out of his latest attempt and he sets his sweetheart down on his bed. Eddie’s eyes slide over to the alarm clock on his desk that lets him know it’s 11:44pm in bright neon green. He knew it had been a little while since Wayne left for work, but he hadn’t thought this much time had passed. 

Who could be calling this late? Eddie thinks as he pushes himself off the bed and heads down the hallway. Leaning against the wall next to the phone, he plucks the receiver off and holds it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“E-Eddie?”

Your voice, so small and scared, has Eddie straightening up and holding the phone a little tighter.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” Eddie asks, already mentally calculating the quickest route to your place. Then he hears the raucous laughter in the background and what sounds like glass shattering. 

“I’m, um, I’m okay. S’just that m-my mom’s boyfriend brought some friends over and they’re all wasted. I-It’s so loud and the way that one of them looked at me scared me.”

“I’ll be there in ten,” Eddie says. “Lock yourself in your room. Is it on the ground floor? Your room?”

“Yeah, why?” you ask. 

“I’ll meet you at your window. That’ll make it easier to get you out,” Eddie says, already grabbing his keys and shoving his wallet into his pocket. 

“Thank you, E-Eddie.”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Metallica song long forgotten, Eddie rushes to his van and prays it comes to life on the first try. He really needs to take a look under the hood and figure out what’s going on in there. Luckily, it catches, and Eddie is pulling his loud bucket of bolts onto the small streets of Forest Hills before pulling out onto the main road. 

His heart is pounding as he races down the road. It’s because he’s worried about you and the situation you’re in, he tells himself. But there’s a part of him that he’s trying to keep way down that knows his heart is also racing because he’s excited to see you. 

There are hardly any cars on the road this late at night, so Eddie zooms through the dark roads quickly. When he pulls onto your street, he immediately notices the gathering of cars parked in front of your house. At first, he’s afraid to have his van join the bunch, but remembers that everyone but you in the house is drunk and won’t notice another random vehicle parked at the curb.

He kills the engine and hops out of the van, taking care not to slam the door behind him. The loud laughter and cacophonous shouting from inside the house bleed out into the street, to the point where Eddie could hear every word being said by the drunk men. 

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie curses under his breath as he walks across your lawn, over towards the side of your house. The closer he gets to the side of the house, the more Eddie bends down to avoid being seen by anyone inside. He chances a peek into a window and quickly ducks back down again when he sees what appears to be your mom’s room. Moving onto the next window, Eddie releases a sigh of relief as he sees you sitting on your bed. The way you’re gnawing at one of your thumbs, legs tucked up to your chest, obviously terrified, has Eddie seeing red. If he wasn’t so hell bent on getting you out of this place, he’d be inside beating the shit out of some people. 

Softly, not wanting to scare you even further, Eddie reaches up and raps a knuckle on your window. Your head snaps up and the way relief floods your face when your eyes land on him has Eddie’s stomach flipping at the most inopportune time. Before coming over to the window, you slide a backpack on. Once you have the window cracked, Eddie helps you lift it enough for you to crawl out of.

“Hi,” you say, giving him a grateful smile.

“Are you okay?” Eddie asks as his eyes scan over you, trying to assess for himself.

“I’m fine. No one’s bothered me since I called.”

“Good,” Eddie says. “Throw your leg over, I’ll help you out.”

You do as he instructs and Eddie’s hands find your waist, helping to guide you down to the ground before he pulls your window closed. 

“My van is out front,” Eddie says. 

“Okay, let’s go.” You grab Eddie’s hand and he almost trips over his own feet as he leads you around the side of the house. Just as he’s opening the passenger side door of the van for you, the front door of the house opens, the drunken voices becoming even louder.

“Hey!” Both your and Eddie’s heads shoot in the direction of the door, your eyes widening at the intoxicated, belligerent man who’s staggering out onto the lawn.

“T-That’s the one who was looking at me funny. He scares me the most,” you say, cheeks heating up at the admission.

“Get in,” Eddie says, helping you into the van. “Lock the door.”

You nod and jam the lock down as soon as Eddie closes the door behind you. Assuming that he’s going to run around to the other side of the van, your eyes widen and your heart rate spikes even further when you see him step onto the grass and make his way towards the asshole. 

“Eddie!” you yell, banging on the window.

“Stay there,” Eddie calls back, looking at you over his shoulder.

“Eddie! Get back here!”

Whether he can’t hear you anymore or ignores you, you’re not sure. Reaching for the crank that will roll the window down, you only open it an inch before you can hear your mom’s boyfriend's buddy taunting Eddie.

“Where do you think you’re going with her, Van Halen? Hey! I’m talking to you, pissant.” 

Eddie doesn’t respond as he keeps striding towards the man. 

“Martin!” the drunk calls for your mom’s boyfriend. 

Eddie’s fist collides with the man’s jaw, sending him stumbling back a few steps just as Martin comes outside. 

“What the fuck is going on out here?” Martin asks. He takes in the scene before him: his pal stumbling and holding his face, Eddie fuming mad and a clenched fist. “The hell are you?”

“He’s taking the g-girl,” the creep slurs. 

Martin looks up and he locks eyes with you in the van. Your blood turns cold and your hands begin to shake where they rest against the window. 

“Get out of that van,” Martin yells.

Eddie huffs a humorless laugh and shoots a sneer Martin’s way before backing up towards the van, not risking turning around and having his back to the drunken low lives. 

“Hey, you little whore! I said get out of the van!”

Eddie stops, boots stilling against the grass beneath him. 

“The fuck did you call her?” Eddie practically growls.

“Eddie,” you plead. “Please, let’s just go.”

“You her boyfriend, Eddie?” Martin asks, nose turning up as if the younger man’s name is offensive. 

“Eddie, please,” you call again. “I just want to get out of here.”

These words seem to break through to Eddie, as he begins to back up again, only turning his back to the assholes when he’s in the street, far enough away from the both of them. He jumps into the driver’s seat and starts the car. You quickly wind the window back up as Martin heads towards the van, stumbling and weaving as he walks. 

“You’re in deep shit,” Martin shouts as Eddie puts the van in drive. “When you get back here, you’re in for it.”

Despite yourself, you tremble at his threat. As soon as Eddie pulls out onto the road, he reaches over and puts his hand over yours. Instantly, you flip your hand over to lace your fingers with his. When he feels the way your hand is shaking, he gives it a soft squeeze.

“Don’t listen to him,” Eddie says. “You’re okay now.”

You nod, despite knowing it’s not quite that simple. But for now, Eddie’s right. You’re okay.

When you get to Eddie’s, you change into a pair of the pajamas you’d stashed there. He’s in the kitchen, boiling water for “tea or hot chocolate or whatever you want.” Padding down the narrow hallway out to him, he gives you a small smile when you walk into the kitchen. You’re not sure how to tell him that you need a hug, so you’re grateful when he opens his arms as you get even closer. Eddie’s hold tightens around you and you bury your face in his chest. You inhale the comforting smell of laundry detergent and Eddie’s deodorant as you slip your arms around his small waist, holding yourself closer to him. The weight of his head rests against yours and the safety and contentment you feel almost overwhelms you. 

“What’s your hot drink of choice?” Eddie mumbles against your hair. 

“Chocolate,” you speak against his shirt. “But don’t let go yet.”

“I’ll hug you as long as you want me to.” 

Eventually, you loosen your grip on Eddie, and he lets you go as well. Grabbing two mugs that were hanging on the wall, Eddie prepares a hot chocolate for each of you and leads you over to the couch. Holding the steaming mug in your cold hands, you snuggle up to your friend’s side, which causes him to hide a smile behind his mug. 

“Thank you for coming to get me,” you say softly. 

“I’m glad you called me,” Eddie says. “Was afraid you would think I was just trying to be nice and didn’t really mean it.”

“I know you did.” You take another sip of your hot chocolate and lay your head on his shoulder. “You’re pretty amazing, Eddie.”

It feels like the hot liquid he’s just swallowed breaks off and turns into butterflies as it meets his stomach. He feels his face heat up and he’s glad you can’t see him from your angle. 

��So are you. And you deserve so much better than living in a house with that insanity,” Eddie says. When you stay silent, Eddie asks quietly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

A soft sigh leaves your lips before you respond. “I feel like if I don’t talk about it then I don’t have to deal with it. But I know that’s not true.”

“Unfortunately not,” Eddie agrees. 

“I just don’t know what to do,” you admit. “I’m scared in my own home and my mom won’t listen to me about it.” 

“Do you want my advice or do you just want me to listen?” Eddie asks. He’s slightly disappointed as you lift your head from his shoulder; he already misses the contact. 

“Actually… You know, I don’t think I really want to talk about it at all. I know I have to deal with it. But not right now. Right now, I want to relax. I’m not sure when the last time I did that was.”

“Relaxing?” Eddie asks with raised eyebrows. “I think that’s most of what I do.”

A small giggle leaves your lips as you turn your head to look at him. “I’m sorry I ruined your night.”

Frowning, Eddie shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin anything. Saved me, actually. I was practicing this damn solo over and over again on the guitar. Pretty sure one more time and my fingers would’ve started to bleed.”

“Can I hear it?” you ask, a hopeful smile lighting up your face. As if Eddie could ever say no to you. 

“As long as you bandage my fingers when they’re bloody.” Eddie sets his mostly empty mug down on the coffee table and pushes himself off the couch. 

“Deal,” you say, standing up next to him. He leads you to his room, where his beloved sweetheart is still resting on the bed where he laid her before. Gingerly, he picks up the instrument, as if it was made of glass or porcelain. You go to take a seat on his floor but Eddie nods at you to sit on the bed next to him. 

Eddie pokes his tongue out of his mouth as he concentrates on where his fingers need to be positioned for the start of the solo. He begins to play and your eyes can’t help but watch as Eddie’s hands glide effortlessly over the strings, each note ringing out into the air in pure perfection. The way his fingers dance along the neck of the guitar, contorting to change chords has your mind drifting to some less-than-innocent places. But the music itself is mesmerizing. You’d be the first to admit you don’t listen to a whole lot of the same stuff that Eddie does, but there’s no denying the beauty in what Eddie is playing. 

“Ah, shit,” Eddie says as he messes up. Truthfully, you wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t berated himself over it. 

“Eddie, that was amazing,” you tell him. He’s about to tell you that you don’t have to lie to him, but when he turns his head to look at you, he can see the awe on your face. No one has ever looked that way when he’s been playing guitar before. It makes his head feel light and his heart all fuzzy. 

“Thanks,” Eddie says, feeling his face heat up. “Um…are you tired? Because I’ll just set myself up on the couch and you—.”

“No,” you interrupt him with a frown. “Eddie, I’m not kicking you out of your bed.”

“And I’m not making you sleep on the couch,” he answers matter-of-factly. 

“Then I’ll sleep on the floor,” you say with a shrug. 

He lets out a bark of laughter and shakes his head. “No way, sweetheart.”

The pet name flusters you more than you’d like to admit. But it doesn’t mean he’s going to get his way. “Fine. Then we can both sleep on the bed.”

“No,” Eddie says again, and this time you roll your eyes.

“And why not?” 

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he says sheepishly. 

“Eddie,” you say with a giggle. “I’m the one who suggested it.”

“Fine,” he says with an over dramatic sigh. But he gives you a wink to let you know he’s only playing. “I’m gonna go get changed.” 

You watch as he snatches up some pajamas from his bedroom floor and heads off to the bathroom. Meanwhile, you pull down the blankets of his bed and slip underneath them. You’ve never slept in the same bed as a boy before. The tingling in your tummy tells you it’s more about sleeping next to Eddie in particular, rather than just a boy. 

He steps back into the bedroom and quickly climbs under the blankets with you, making sure to keep a respectable distance between the two of you. 

“You okay?” he asks.

“All good,” you reply. 

Eddie nods and turns off his lamp before properly getting cozy next to you. He’s so close to you, yet so far. All you want to do is reach out and touch him, but you don’t want to make him uncomfortable now. 

“Eddie?” Your voice is tiny and you’re surprised he hears it at all.

“Yeah?”

“Can I move…closer? Just, for comfort, ya know?”

“Of course.” Eddie lifts an arm, and you don’t hesitate to snuggle into his side. The smile on his face tells you that he’s enjoying it too. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Eddie. You’re the best.”

[greenbergwrites]

Just so you know I would read literally any thoughts/prompts you have about Buck and Eddie! Those two never leave my brain

You somehow divined that after those stills dropped yesterday, I spent every spare moment I could grab writing tit worship for Buck, didn't you?

[AO3 Link]

--

Buck’s shirt was off.

Buck stands on the ramp leading into the moving truck in Bobby and Athena’s new driveway, grinning, and his shirt is off.

The team had come together to move their captain into his new home, built on the ashes of the one that had burned down. The children play in the yard as the adults worked, Denny and Christopher—now officially teenagers—in charge of keeping the younger ones from being underfoot. Chimney is standing inside the truck itself, shifting a piece of furniture onto a dolly that Hen is holding steady. Bobby is on the other side of the dresser in front of Buck, ready to help him lift, and—

And Buck’s shirt is off.

Golden skin gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, droplets of sweat sliding down his flushed face. Every time he moved, his abs tensed, showing off the muscle he’d worked so hard for in the gym.

Buck picks up his shirt, tucked into the waistband of his pants, and mops at his brow. He claps his hands together, nodding at Bobby, and then the two of them lift the dresser between them.

Buck’s biceps bulge and that’s—that’s hot, sure, but it’s nothing compared to the way the movement of his arms has pushed his chest together.

Eddie’s frozen in place.

He’s somewhere between unbearably turned on and irrationally jealous, because—because anyone can see it. Everyone can see it.

Logically, he knows that no one here is giving it a second glance. They all have their significant others that they’re hopelessly in love with, and Buck is either a son or a little brother to all of them. It doesn’t stop Eddie from wanting to snatch one of the moving blankets from a piece of furniture and throw it over Buck’s—everything.

The perfection of that sight should only be for him. And it is perfection. That big, gorgeous body and warm, pink skin and those perfect fucking tits on display, looking so lonely without his hands to hold them, his mouth to suck on them, his cock to—

The blood in Eddie’s veins turns molten, rushing south as a bloom of heat tightens his gut.

Fuck. Fuck.

Why was he out here again? He’d left the interior of the house for a reason. No, he’d been sent out here for…something. He just couldn’t remember what it was.

Buck shifts, his elbows tucking into his body further. It only further accentuates his chest, pushing his tits together even more, showing off those pretty pink nipples.

Eddie can’t fucking breathe. God, he wants those tits in his mouth.

“Uncle Eddie!”

“Dad!”

Pain explodes on the side of Eddie’s face, right at his hairline. He jerks back, literally knocked out of his spiraling thoughts. Something clatters on the porch at his feet and when he looks, it’s a neon green Frisbee.

Before he can register much more than that, Buck is there. Big, warm hands cradle his face, Buck’s concerned blue eyes filling his vision. Just over his shoulder, Chimney helps Bobby right the overturned dresser.

Buck must’ve abandoned it the moment he heard the kids shouting. Warmth fills Eddie’s chest. 

“I’m okay,” he murmurs. “I’m okay, Buck.”

Buck touches his hairline, and it’s gentle, but it still hurts. He shows Eddie his fingers; they’re wet with blood.

“You’re bleeding,” Buck says back, just as softly, the rest of the world forgotten in their little bubble.

Athena appears beside them, frowning. “What happened?”

Eddie means to respond, he really does, but it’s just about that time that he realizes that Buck is still shirtless and just inches away from him now. His hands clench into fists, Eddie forcing them to stay by his side, because if he moves—

If he moves, he’s going to grab onto Buck’s chest and that would be embarrassing for all of them.

“First aid kit is in the guest bath,” he hears Athena say distantly, because while Eddie’s been distracted, Buck has explained the mishap. “Eddie, did you tell everyone about lunch?”

Lunch. Right. That’s why he’d been sent out in the first place; Karen and Athena set up a late lunch on the back patio so that everyone can take a break and refuel.

“No,” he says belatedly. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t look anywhere but somewhere around Buck’s neck region, because again, if he moves his eyes, they’re going only one place.

“Come on,” Buck says softly, nudging Eddie inside. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Eddie moves slowly, as if he’s stuck in molasses. He’s pretty sure the only reason he lets himself do it at all is because some part of him realizes that if they go inside, Buck will be out of everyone’s line of sight.

That’s good. That’s the way it should be. No one should be able to look at him like this.

Buck herds him inside, down the hallway and around the corner into the guest bathroom.

Eddie shuts the door behind them and locks it as Buck fishes out the first aid kit. He frowns, looking between Eddie and the door knob as he sets the kit onto the sink.

“What are you—”

Eddie’s composure finally snaps.

He hauls Buck up against the sink, stepping between his legs as he pulls Buck in for a searing kiss. Something clatters to the floor as Buck scrambles for balance, and Eddie doesn’t care enough to figure out what it was.

“Baby,” He asks, his voice more steady than he feels. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”

“I got hot,” Buck says, the pink of his skin deepening. “Eddie, your head. Let me—”

“Fuck my head,” Eddie counters, rather reasonably he thinks.

It doesn’t even hurt anymore. Whatever tenderness there might be, it’s lost to the need pulsing through him now that he has Buck flushed and half-naked against him.

Heat radiates from Buck’s skin, the scent of him nothing but sun and sweat. It’s like a drug to Eddie’s senses, clouding his mind until the only thing he can think about is licking Buck all-fucking-over. He can just barely remember why that’s not possible.

His hands trail up Buck’s sides, fingers shaking and cock throbbing.

“You were hot,” Eddie repeats, cupping Buck’s chest with both hands, letting his thumbs graze over peaked nipples. “So you decided to show off your tits to everyone in our family?”

Buck blushes furiously, the tantalizing pink of his skin turning red.

“Eddie,” he protests, but it’s a weak admonishment when his cock jerks against Eddie’s own.

Eddie smiles and it feels…fucking feral.

Buck will never admit it or bring it up outside of the moment—too embarrassed, Eddie thinks, and that’s okay—but he loves when Eddie does that. Refers to his chest as tits. It makes him squirm, makes him so fucking whiny.

“These are mine,” Eddie whispers, leaning down to press feverish kisses along the expanse of Buck’s considerable chest. “Mine, baby, and you show them off to just anyone?”

God, his tits are so pretty. So perfect. Buck is so perfect, big and broad and melting into Eddie’s touch so beautifully.

Buck’s hand is in his hair, running his fingers through it feverishly.

“Eddie,” he pants out. “Eddie, we can’t, not here—”

But even as he says it, he’s shoving his chest into Eddie’s hands, his mouth. Buck wants it. He wants it and so does Eddie and he can’t fucking remember why they shouldn’t.

Buck loves having his nipples played with. They found out, quite by accident, how sensitive he is there. Incidentally, that was also the night Eddie realized for the first time in his life that he was apparently a tits man. They just have to be a very specific kind of tits, attached to a specific kind of person.

Eddie leans down, laving slowly at Buck’s nipple. It’s peaked and tight, tasting of salt and so good on his tongue that he can’t help but do it again. And again and again. 

When it isn’t enough anymore, he closes his mouth around it and sucks. Sucking is good. Sucking them has Buck’s hands tightening in his hair, has him making those helpless, breathy little noises that drive Eddie fucking crazy. Their hips rock together, shocks of pleasure racing along Eddie’s spine.

Eddie makes his way to the other nipple, placing sucking kisses along the way. He can’t seem to lift his mouth from Buck’s skin. Just the idea of it makes him bite at the meat of Buck’s chest, his teeth scraping harshly against golden skin.

“Oh, fuck,” Buck hisses, shoving up into his mouth. “Oh, fuck, Eddie—Eddie—”

“Say it,” Eddie demands, biting again, just because he can. Because his teeth ache for it. “Say they’re mine, say they’re just for me, God, baby, you make me fucking crazy, don’t want anyone to see them but me—”

“No one else,” Buck promises breathlessly. “No one else, Eddie, I swear, Eddie, fuck, please, please—”

They rock together harder, faster, so close Eddie can almost taste it. He has one arm around Buck’s back now, keeping them steady, but his other hand is still on Buck’s chest, massaging, squeezing, pinching, while his mouth lavishes attention to the other side. The only way it could be better is if they were naked.

He thinks about shoving their pants down, feeling Buck’s thick cock against his own, his precome slicking the way, how good it would feel to rut together while Eddie sucks on his tits.

Before he can make that thought a reality, someone bangs loudly on the door  and rattles the handle, ripping them out of the moment.

“I know what you two are doing in there,” Chimney hisses through the door, sounding furious that he has to say it all. “It doesn’t take that long to slap some disinfectant and a bandaid on a shallow cut. If Athena catches you christening her house before she gets a chance to, you’re both dead.”

Slowly, Eddie pulls back, drinking in the sight of Buck dazed and trembling in his arms. He’s breath is fast and shallow, his chest heaving in a way that makes Eddie have to look away if he wants to clear his head.

“We’ll be out in a minute,” he calls hoarsely.

“I’ll be counting!”

They both listen as he walks away. 

It’s probably for the best that they were interrupted, even though Eddie mourns the lost potential of Buck fucked out and loose-limbed in his arm.

He kisses Buck gently.

“We’ll finish this when we get home tonight,” he promises. “Until then, you might want to put a shirt back on.”

Because Eddie, in his possessive, lustful haze, has littered Buck’s heaving chest in a smattering of hickeys. Now, there’s no way to look at him shirtless and not know that he’s taken. 

Looking down at himself, Buck blushes.

“You’re a heathen,” he says, but his voice is still thick with pleasure, his gaze still a little hazy.

He takes his shirt out of the waistband of his pants and tugs it back on. It’s a sleeveless number that he usually wears to the gym, showing off his biceps. 

Eddie hums, cupping Buck’s face to kiss him lightly.

“I’m your heathen,” he says, unrepentant.

In the quiet of the bathroom, Buck picks up the first aid kit and tends to the cut on Eddie’s forehead, which has long since stopped bleeding. By the time they’re done, they both have their bodies under control enough to join everyone else on the back patio.

Chimney glares and Hen snorts quietly, a knowing smile on her face, but thankfully no one actually says anything. They eat and get back to work.

Buck doesn’t take his shirt off again for the rest of the day.

[evercelle]

Sorry, I know you've sort of answered this before, so you don't have to answer again if you don't have anything more to add, but how do you pick your particularly bright color schemes? Your latest piece, and several of your past pieces of Shuichi or/or Kokichi feature these gloriously bright neon colors that would probably be right at home in a cyberpunk cityscape, but they still don't feel overly eye bleeding, just particularly striking.

Your art reminds me of a similar thing I've noticed with Splatoon's artsyle, where it feels very bright and colorful without becoming overwhelming.

Longwinded way to say "how do you construct a piece to look good with neon colors without veering into eyeball stabbing territory"

BIG disclaimer that i haven't read much about color theory, so a lot of this is purely anecdotal, as usual

for me, i think it comes down to managing contrast in your hues and value/luminosity :thinkingface: for example, this draw feels like there's a lot of neon blue, red, and lilac, but in actuality, these colors aren't very saturated (blue/lilac), or if they are, they're toned down in value (red). it's the placement next to areas of darker value that make them appear really bright or more eye-popping:

can't speak for the sploon art, but i feel like you can control eyestrain by making things appear brighter than they are via managing contrast... it's not actually super neon, but it feels that way! contrast makes things easier to "read," and your perception of color is influenced by the colors next to it (see: white/gold blue/black dress lol). check values as you go, consider how hues complement/oppose, think about contrast and where you want a picture to feel punchy... hope that helps...!!

[brewstersbru]

More radioapple with ace Alastor (cont. of last 📻🍎 fic) sorry if its a little ooc im sappy

“No.”

Alastor’s voice comes out quick and staticky as he expertly dodges Lucifer’s hands trying to pet down his waistcoat. Lucifer immediately steps back, eyes wide.

“Sorry! Sorry, Al, was that not okay?” He asks, still keeping his distance. Alastor’s expression is inscrutable, nose wrinkled as he smiles at the ground.

It’s quiet for a moment before Alastor shakes his head.

“I need to be alone for a bit.” He grits, then, just as Lucifer goes to respond, his shadows envelop him and he melts from the room.

“That’s-“ Lucifer sighs, “fine.” Leave it to him to somehow fuck this up. “This” being the unspoken, ever so slightly romantic thing he and Alastor have had going on ever since that night in the bathroom.

It started with meals; after figuring out that Lucifer was bearing his wound, Alastor- for lack of a better term- threw himself into feeding him.

Lucifer thought it was sweet that he used his, surprisingly human, ways to care for him through recovery. The food probably didn’t do anything tangible in helping Lucifer’s body patch itself together, but it made him feel warm, loved. Better than he has in an age.

The food, of course, was delicious, but what Lucifer liked most about taking meals with Alastor was the quiet sense of simply being with another person, without expectation. Without an unspoken asking for something in return. Lucifer had already done his part, and the pulsing pain in his chest each night was infinitely worth each peaceful hour.

At first, Alastor didn’t touch him if he didn’t have to, but just him being there, acknowledging Lucifer’s presence and doing his best to care for him through the pain was enough. Lucifer thought it would be over when he was finally healed, that Alastor would consider his debt repaid and leave him to his own devices once the bleeding stopped.

It was almost too much to imagine.

Lucifer has a nasty habit of getting attached, which is really quite unfortunate given his circumstances. Still, he hasn’t been able to shake it quite yet, and in a shameful moment of spiraling weakness, he had torn through his stitches, hoping to elongate the healing window, even just slightly.

He left the three green X’s alone, tried to keep it secret, but somehow Alastor figured it out, like he always seems to.

Furious, he’d marched Lucifer right back to the bathroom and redid his stiches, this time entirely with the neon green thread he is able to manifest at will.  The thread was warm, a little biting against his skin, but Lucifer liked it. Liked that it meant Alastor would pay attention to him.

God, what a pathetic thing to do. He still cringes when he thinks back on it, but loneliness will make a wasteland out of you. And Lucifer was desperate enough to bleed for the company, his blood is a mere pittance, after all. He’ll never run dry.

The longer they spent together, the more comfortable Alastor was touching Lucifer; little brushes against his shoulder as he passed behind his usual seat at the kitchen island, a steadying hand on his side when he checked his stitches.

It was bliss.

There was a starving, gnawing part of him that basked in it; that took the offered touches like scraps from a table and still wanted more. Another part of him, cold and still burnt from the last time, told him not to get stupid, not to ask for more than he was worth.

Never to beg, because begging is unbecoming of a king.

They fell into a rhythm, small touches, loaded glances, oh so subtle forms of care. Lucifer was healed before he wanted to be, but Alastor didn’t stop. Didn’t leave, even when he checked his stitches one day and, grinning, snipped them away to reveal a shining pink scar.

Even healed, Alastor cooked for him. Even on days when he couldn’t force himself to leave his room, a covered plate would be left just outside his door, food incomprehensibly warm even hours after being made. The touches- maddening, lovely as they were- continued, chaste and addicting as ever.

Lucifer began to feel wild with it. Something inside of him- frayed at the edges, and torn in the middle- couldn’t quite grasp what was happening. Why? He thought. Why, still? Why me? He never got the courage to ask, too afraid of Alastor realizing his mistake.

So, they continued like that. Alastor got more comfortable touching Lucifer who was more than happy to let him. It seemed like he didn’t get much practice with it. Touching.

The more Lucifer fell into the lull of security, the more he noticed the tentativeness of each touch, the careful laying of each finger against pale skin, as if Alastor were exploring touch for the first time. As if it fascinated him.

Lucifer never asked- always afraid of doing something stupid to make the final shoe drop faster- but he did notice. And he began coming up with a plan. Alastor is not the only person in hell who sees their relationships as transactional. Good deeds must be paid back. They must, or you’re indebted. Or, more frighteningly, at least to Lucifer, they will grow bored of you.

They will see that you are ungrateful, and they will leave.

Unwilling to let that happen, Lucifer devised a plot. Alastor has very obviously never been very intimate with anyone before, which is totally ok, if not confusing given his objectively handsome features. But he evidently, somehow, feels safe exploring intimacy with Lucifer, which is so incredibly heartening (it makes something hot burst in his chest every time he thinks about it). Lucifer can use this to pay Alastor back, slowly introduce him to different touches until he feels more comfortable with them.

It’s perfect. Or- he thought it was perfect. Until today. Until Alastor got that wide, panicked look in his eyes as he shouted “No!” before running off to recover. Father Above. How did Lucifer manage to fuck up this bad? There’s no way they recover from this.

He takes a second to mourn the relationship before squaring his shoulders and heading to his room to write about a hundred drafts of his apology letter. He can’t believe he so brazenly stepped over a boundary, not even realizing it was there!

He’s the king of hell for godssakes, he should know when one of his subjects is on edge, or uncomfortable. More than that, he’s spent enough time with Alastor that he should know his tells, as well.

Some king he’s turned out to be, huh? Fuck.

***

It takes Alastor two days to appear before Lucifer again, and not for lack of trying on his part. Lucifer had forced himself from his room each day, wandering the hotel’s grounds looking for him. Several times he would sit at the bar for hours on end, watching, waiting.

Not for nothing, though, he’s learned something quite interesting about the bartender, Husk, and Angel Dust, the porn star.

Over a series of poorly hushed conversations, and not-so-surreptitious glances, he’s learned that they’re dating. Have been for a good few weeks, and somehow no one’s noticed. They seem glad of that fact, though, so Lucifer resolves not to tell anyone.

More interesting, though, is that Husk has been urging his boyfriend to ‘go for what he wants, for once’ which Lucifer hadn’t really understood until he looked over and caught both of them hurriedly looking away. Super unsuspiciously. It was almost enough to make a grown man blush, the sudden knowledge that he was wanted. That despite what he tells himself in his worst moments, he is desirable.

Angel is an attractive man, Lucifer’s not too insecure in himself to admit that, but something curdles in his gut at the thought of pursuing anything with him while he and Alastor are still on the rocks. Which… Is new, and a little terrifying.

Plus, he doesn’t exactly seem like the type to take charge, if you catch his drift, and while Lucifer is happy to play any role his partner wants, he doesn’t know if he’d be any good at it. Not anymore. He just can’t see himself as a figure of authority, not when he knows what it’s really like to be himself. Pathetic, and lonely. The thought of embarrassing himself like that while vulnerable is excruciating, so he pretends not to have noticed their intentions. Thankfully, Angel hasn’t approached him yet. He’s not sure what he would say, anyway.

Back to the most pressing matter, Alastor knocks on Lucifer’s door late at night, two days after the awkwardness of Lucifer’s unwanted touches. When Lucifer opens the door, he’s smiling calmly, and holding two covered plates, one in each hand.

“May I come in?” He asks. Lucifer nods, doggedly, then flushes when he remembers the state that his room is in, after several nights of wallowing. Being the king of hell does have its perks, though, so he snaps his fingers and the place rights itself.

Not before Alastor gets a good enough look to purse his lips disapprovingly, though.

Lucifer manifests a small table and two chairs, which Alastor makes immediate use of, placing a plate in front of each chair, and pulling one out for Lucifer to sit in.

“Please, take a seat. I think we need to talk.” Great. That’s always a good start to a conversation. Not like that’s ever gone wrong for Lucifer before. Nope.

With a sigh- internally steeling himself against the impending rejection- Lucifer sits. Alastor hums, and follows suit, snapping his fingers to disappear the lids to their food as soon as he’s seated.

It looks delicious, as it always does. Some sort of colored rice dish with meat and veggies mixed throughout. Lucifer smiles and thanks him, snapping to manifest some drinks- a champagne for himself, and a rich red wine for Alastor.

It’s quiet for a bit as they take their first few bites. Lucifer hums his appreciation, which Alastor’s smile ticks up at.

Finally, stomach knotting itself enough to disrupt his enjoyment of the food, Lucifer speaks.

“I’m so sorry, Al. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but I did, and if there’s anything I can do- anything at all- to make up for it-“ before he can finish, Alastor cuts in, voice staticky.

“It wasn’t your fault, my dear. You didn’t know. I’m afraid I…” He trails off for a bit, mulling over his next words. Lucifer waits patiently, eyes wide.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that specific kind of touching. I don’t like it.” He’s not looking at Lucifer anymore, head turned to the side as he taps his claws against his wine glass. Lucifer tilts his head.  

“By ‘that kind of touching’, do you mean on your torso? I don’t want to mess it up again.” He asks. It’s a little presumptuous to imply that he’ll be able to touch Alastor, after this, but he’s too on edge to censor himself correctly. Alastor scoffs.

“You did not ‘mess anything up’. There was just a simple miscommunication. By that I mean sexual touches. Or anything meant to lead in that direction.” Ah, Lucifer’s hand had been quite close to his navel, and his intention was most definitely to take the touches further if Alastor was comfortable with it. He nods, apologizing once more.

“Got it. Sorry again, Al, I know you don’t think I need to say it, but I still feel bad. Thank you for telling me.” Lucifer- infinitely relieved and brimming with ill-advised hope- smiles up at him and rests his hand, palm up, in the middle of the table. Maybe he can salvage this. Maybe he doesn’t have to lose everything again.

Alastor’s grin softens at the edges as his eyes rove over Lucifer’s expression. He ‘tsk’s but places his own hand on top of Lucifer’s, gently intertwining their fingers and bringing them up to press a small kiss to Lucifer’s knuckles.

A giddy laugh bursts from Lucifer’s chest and he buries his face- or what he can manage to obscure of it- into the palm of his remaining hand. It’s okay. Alastor’s not angry with him, it’s okay.

A few tears gather on his lashline, but he blinks them away before they can fall. Alastor’s other hand leaves his wine glass to brush just underneath Lucifer’s eye.

“Oh, don’t cry, dearest. It’s alright.” He says, voice softer than Lucifer thinks he’s ever heard it. It occurs to him that this must have been hard for Alastor, too, so unused to being vulnerable, but still showing this part of himself to Lucifer, and for what? So that Lucifer feels better? To put his mind at ease?

It’s so stupid.

It’s so kind.

Lucifer shakes his head, “Happy tears, Al. Thanks for trusting me.”

Alastor’s thumb swipes against the apple of his cheek as he hums.

“As if I could do anything else.”