#he makes up words all the time he doesn’t care

[sunni-stuff]

You, the butchers daughter, end up stalking your father's new hire.

The first time you see him, he’s hauling a side of beef off the truck like it weighs nothing, muscles taut beneath his apron. His broad shoulders stretch the fabric, veins running thick down his forearms as he grips the meat hook. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing strong arms marred with faded scars—some thin and clean, others jagged, stories you’ll never hear. His hands, wrapped in black gloves, are steady as he works, but you wonder what they’d feel like bare.

Then there’s the mask. Black, snug, covering everything from the bridge of his nose down, leaving only his sharp, calculating eyes visible. Dark and unreadable, they barely glance your way. You’ve tried to catch him slipping, maybe when he wipes sweat from his forehead or adjusts the apron strings that crisscross his powerful back, but he’s careful—never lets you see too much.

The tattoos peek out beneath his sleeves and creep along his collarbones where his shirt dips. Flames coil around his wrists, swallowing skulls with hollow eyes. A soldier, masked like him, grips a rifle among the chaos. A bomb mid-fall, grinning shark teeth, dog tags suspended in ink—each piece a fragment of something unspoken. You’ve glimpsed ink curling over the tendons of his neck, bold lines, and intricate designs that hint at a past you aren’t meant to know. It’s all war, death, and destruction, an unspoken story carved into his flesh. When he moves, the shadows shift over the ink, making it seem alive. You want to ask, to pry, but he’s as unreadable as the art on his skin

He doesn’t talk much, just nods when your father gives orders. The others joke around, laugh, make noise—but he’s silent, methodical, unsettling in the way he moves like he’s done this before. Like butchering meat is nothing new to him.

But what frustrates you the most? He never looks at you for more than a second. Never lingers, never smirks, never acknowledges the way you watch him. As if you’re invisible. And that, more than anything, makes you want to figure him out.

At first, it was just curiosity. No man had ever outright ignored you before—not when you batted your lashes, not when you "accidentally" brushed too close, not when you lingered just a little too long in his space.

But him? He barely acknowledged you. A nod if you were lucky. A grunt if you spoke directly to him. Most of the time, he just kept working, muscles flexing under his apron, strong hands wielding a cleaver with practiced ease.

The others—your father’s old hands, the regulars who came in for their weekly cuts—would’ve tripped over their feet to get your attention. They always had. You were used to the lingering stares, the awkward compliments, the way men fumbled through conversations just to keep you talking. So why didn't he?

It was maddening.

So, you did what any sane young woman would do.

You prodded. You poked. You tested.

You stood too close, pretending to inspect the marbled meat he was slicing, only for him to shift away without a word. You asked him pointless questions, just to hear his voice—low, rough, with an accent you couldn’t quite place—only for him to answer in as few words as possible before returning to work.

It became a game. You knocked things over in his path just to see if he’d catch them (he always did). You “forgot” something near his station just to have a reason to come back. You even tried teasing, playfully calling him mystery man under your breath.

Nothing.

Not a flinch, not a smirk, not even a flicker of amusement.

That should have been the end of it.

But then you started watching. Not just at work—no, you started watching him.

The way he left every night at the same time. The way he took the same route, never straying, never rushing. The way his head tilted slightly whenever he passed certain corners, as if he was listening.

It fascinated you. And when fascination turns to obsession, well…

That’s when you started following him.

You followed him—never too far, never too close—always careful, watching him move through the streets with an air of confidence that seemed to thrive in the quiet of the night. For weeks, this had become a routine, one that started innocently enough. Just a few blocks at first, just enough to ensure that he was who you thought he was. But over time, the habit deepened. Each night, you followed him further, until it became something you couldn’t help but do.

Yet, despite your best efforts, he never made any stops, never took any detours. He just kept walking, heading toward some destination that only he knew. And every time you reached the point where you would turn around, you still didn’t have any answers—no clue what he was up to or where he was going. Just that he moved through the night like someone who belonged there. Unfazed, untouchable.

Then one night, the weather turned.

The rain hit hard, cold droplets splattering against your skin, soaking through your jacket in seconds. You’d stopped for a split second—just long enough to get the damn zipper up, to pull the hood over your head—but in that moment, he'd vanished.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you cursed under your breath, glancing quickly down the wet street, searching for the familiar outline of his tall frame. But there was nothing. No sign of him.

“What the hell?” you muttered to yourself, your voice drowned out by the downpour. You couldn’t let him slip away. Not now, not after all this time.

You started to jog, your boots splashing in the puddles as your eyes darted left and right, scanning the alleyways and storefronts. Your breath came faster as you pushed yourself harder, frustration building. You weren’t going to lose him now.

Then, suddenly, your body was jerked backward, your breath caught in your throat as a strong hand pressed over your mouth. The air around you was thick with the scent of rain-soaked pavement and something darker, something more familiar.

Before you could even react, you were shoved hard against the cold brick of an alleyway wall, your back colliding with the rough surface, your head snapping back slightly from the impact. Your pulse spiked in your ears as panic started to claw at your chest, but the firm grip on your mouth held you silent, still.

For a second, everything went still. The rain beat against your jacket, heavy and relentless, but there was no sound, no movement—just the suffocating pressure of his hand over your mouth and the close proximity of his body.

You felt the heat radiating off him, the sheer strength of his presence as if the space between you was no longer your own. The tension in his arm, holding you against the wall, was undeniable. He was in control.

Your heart raced, but it wasn’t from fear. It was from the frustration, the adrenaline coursing through your veins, the urge to finally break the silence between you. You had followed him, hunted him, and now here he was—this close. The tension was suffocating, and you couldn’t decide if you were going to scream or say something sharp.

But before you could gather your thoughts, his voice broke through the storm. Low, smooth, with an edge of something dark. “Thought you’d lost me, didn’t you?” His words came muffled through the mask, but the tone was unmistakable.

He didn’t seem in a rush, like he knew you were trapped in the moment. You didn’t even know how long he’d been standing there, or how he’d managed to close the distance between you so quickly. The rain drummed relentlessly on the alley’s pavement, but his eyes, those sharp, dark eyes, never wavered from you.

“Can’t say I’m impressed by your little game,” he murmured, fingers brushing against your cheek in a movement so deliberate it made your breath catch. “You follow me for weeks, but never thought of what might happen when you get too close.”

“Were you hoping to catch me doing something interesting?" he asked, his breath a warm tickle on your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. There was a calmness in his voice, like he was in complete command, and the way his body molded against yours told you he was used to people being in positions like this.

“I…” You swallowed, struggling to free your voice. “I wanted to see if you’d… notice me.” You hadn’t thought this far ahead. Why had you been following him? What had you hoped to find? You were just a silly girl who wanted the attention of a man who wanted nothing to do with you.

Simon’s laugh was low, almost quiet, but it carried a weight to it that you didn’t expect. It was rich with amusement, deep and rough, and it rumbled against the tension hanging between you both. The sudden sound caught you off guard, your breath catching in your throat as you tried to make sense of it.

For a moment, you were frozen, not sure whether to be annoyed or confused. Had you just made a fool of yourself in front of him? Why was he laughing?

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your nerves, but it didn’t work. His laughter still echoed in your head, and your voice came out shaky. "W-what’s so funny?"

He didn’t immediately answer. Instead, you could feel him shift slightly, his hand easing off your wrist but still close enough to make you aware of the power he held. Simon took a breath, the rain still pouring around you both, but his presence was like a shield, solid and immovable.

"You," he finally said, his voice quieter now, but the amusement was still there, like a shadow in his tone. "You think I didn’t notice you? You’ve been practically waving a flag." His fingers brushed lightly over your wrist, tracing the spot where he’d gripped you, his touch soft now, almost teasing.

"I wasn’t… I wasn’t obvious," you managed to protest, though it came out weaker than you’d like. You could feel your cheeks heating, your frustration mixing with something else you weren’t ready to admit.

"All this time, and you still think I didn’t know?" He shook his head, though you couldn't see his face behind that damn mask. “Sweetheart, you’ve been following me around like a lost puppy, and I was just waiting to see when you'd finally stop pretending.”

For a moment, you stood there, silence pressing in between you both, broken only by the sound of the rain pelting the alley around you. Simon’s words lingered, his laugh still echoing in your mind. You weren’t sure if you were frustrated or flustered or both, but you knew one thing for sure—he had misunderstood what you asked.

Finally, you spoke, your voice clear despite the uncertainty brewing inside you. “That’s not what I meant,” you muttered, taking a step back, shaking your head. You weren’t sure why, but you needed to ask, needed to get to the bottom of it. “Do you have a girlfriend?” you asked bluntly, your eyes never leaving his face.

Simon’s expression didn’t change much, his gaze still sharp but unbothered. “No,” he replied simply.

That answer made something inside you tighten, though you couldn’t quite pinpoint why. But you weren’t done. You shifted your weight, suddenly daring to ask the next question, the one you knew would make him uncomfortable. “Do you find me attractive?”

His eyes flickered for a split second, the usual guarded look breaking, but he nodded, his voice low. “Yes.”

The answer hung in the air like a challenge. Your heart was racing, your mind spinning, trying to connect the dots between what he said and what he did. “So why,” you demanded, “don’t you ever look at me? In the shop, I mean. Why don’t you notice me like the other guys do? They stare, flirt, and… well, pay attention.”

For the first time since you’d started this strange back-and-forth, Simon looked genuinely confused. He stepped back slightly, brows furrowing as he regarded you. “I don’t understand,” he said slowly. “I do pay attention.”

You blinked, taken aback by his response. “What do you mean?”

Simon’s gaze softened just a fraction as he tilted his head. “During lunch... I cut your deli the way you like it—slices thin enough you can stack ‘em. And when I’m working, I stay in your section. Always have.” He paused, his expression almost apologetic. “Flirting with my boss’s daughter at work isn’t exactly the best move. But…”

You stared at him, your mind trying to make sense of his words.

He stepped closer, his presence filling the space between you both, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “But work’s over now, lass. And here we are.”

You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, the real meaning of his words sinking in, and suddenly, the whole night felt like it had shifted, like the game you were playing had just changed.

You opened your mouth, about to say something—anything—to break the silence, to clarify what had just happened, but before you could speak, Simon moved with startling speed.

One moment, you were standing there, staring up at him, and the next, he had lifted you effortlessly into his arms. Your breath caught in your throat as his strong hands gripped you, pulling you flush against his chest, his heat seeping into your bones despite the chill of the rain.

“Your house or mine?”

[yanderedrabbles]

Foreign Yandere x Air Hostess Reader

He's beyond shady. Got connections and friends in all the lowest places. But you're just a little too slow to realise it.

Foreign Yandere who sees you for the first time on his first flight out of the country. He’s a sketchy guy, got a pack of fake passports in a hidden compartment in his bag, but you smile at him like you don’t see the tattoos, the scarred knuckles, the too quick hands.

Oh, you’re pretty. All the cabin crew are, but you’re something new. Exotic almost. Got him wondering exactly how different you are in bed too, got him wondering if you’d put up a fuss if he cornered you in the bathroom. Hell, you might like it. Folk always said foreign girls were down for so much more.

It’s a long-haul flight and your supervisor is bitchy about damn near everything you do. Passengers aren’t much better after twelve hours with their legs cramped up and only shitty plane chow to eat. He can see it wearing on you, can see the way your smile gets tighter after every too sharp complaint. Makes him want to beat their faces into a pulp.

His last straw comes at hour sixteen, when you’re clearly exhausted and one passenger just won’t let up. Practically screaming at you about not getting his specially ordered meal. You’re dealing with it as best you can, but everyone has a limit. He can see the tears starting to brim behind your waterline, can see you struggling to fight them back.

He stands so fast that his seat mate actually flinches. Comes to stand behind you and glares at the troublemaker. The man doesn’t let up, just switches his anger to him.

“You got a problem, huh?”

Foreign Yandere who doesn’t have a lot of English, but he knows a threat when he hears one. He leans down, shoots the man a smile filled with all the menace of a streetfighter.

“What did you say to me?” he asks, in his own language. It isn’t the standard dialect. It’s the regional kind, the type that’s as rough ‘round the edges as its speakers.

The man quails.

 “Sorry,” he mutters. But that’s not good enough.

Foreign Yandere who jerks his head at you, his message clear even across the language barrier.

Apologise to her.

The guy does. Red in the face, resentful about it, spitting his sorry through his teeth like an insult.

You look up at him, the foreigner with the hard eyes, and thank him. In his own language.

Your accent is thick, the pronunciation too rounded on the vowels. But he’ll be damned if it ain’t just fucking adorable.

“Anytime,” he tells you.

It’s not long after he’s back in his seat that you bring him a complimentary cup of coffee and a muffin. The good stuff too, not the swill that usually gets served in economy. He grabs your wrist before you can leave, grip just a little too tight without meaning to be.

“Can I see you again?”

Your grasp of the language isn’t the best, and it takes you a minute to puzzle out what he's asked. When you finally get it, you smile at him and shake your head. Rueful.

“Against company policy to meet the passengers after the flight ends.”

He lets it go. Sighs and says he understands, wouldn’t want to get you in trouble. A surprisingly polite answer from a man who looks like he never hears the word no without following it with a punch to the teeth.

But he doesn’t let it go. Not really. After the plane is deboarded, he skips lines and almost skips customs to keep his eye on you. When you get into a shuttle bus with the rest of your coworkers, he takes careful note of the hotel name scrawled on the side.

His business goes well - if you can call smuggling business that is. The boys he’s dealing with have their own plane to get him home. The kind of small jet that never lands at any airport marked on a map. He slips them all a little something extra under the table and asks if he can bring a guest.

“Will they be conscious?”

He grins. “Not if I can help it.”

Getting you is the tricky part. He borrows a suit and cleans himself up. Shows up at the hotel desk in the middle of the night and tells them he’s here to pick you up for an unscheduled early flight. He knows your name, your company, even your damn rank in the crew. Everything he says checks out. And if the receptionist that calls you thinks he looks a little rough to be a driver, she doesn’t mention it.

You show up with your uniform a tiny bit askew and a sock sticking out of your suitcase. You must have scrambled out of bed without even bothering to double check with your supervisor. Good. The less people that know the better.

He mostly keeps his back to you. Doesn’t want you to recognise him too soon. He shouldn’t have worried. You’re too jetlagged and blurry eyed to even recognise your own mother.

It’s only when you’re in his car and speeding down the wrong highway that you start to get suspicious. Start to come awake fully.

“Which company did you say you work for again?”

He doesn’t reply. You’re going to have to put more effort into learning and speaking his language. No point encouraging you by answering.

“Excuse me?”

You lean forward to get his attention and when he hears your little gasp, he knows the game is up. That you recognise him. Honestly, he’s a little offended that it took you this long. He could keep track of you through a sea of faces back at the airport after all.

“Listen, I don’t know why you’re here. But please stop the car.”

See? You’re speaking his language a bit better already.

“No chance sweetheart. You’re coming home with me.”

He can almost admire your guts when you go straight for the door, despite the speedometer showing over 200. Locked of course. He’s not an idiot.

When he finally arrives at the hangar, it takes him and two other thugs to finally hold you still.

“Fucking feisty thing,” one of them snarls when you land a good kick to his knee.

When he finally manages to prick the injection into your neck, you’re crying so hard that your mascara is running.

“You put up a good fight baby,” he comforts you as you go limp in his arms. “But I just want this more than you.”

His buddies smirk when they look at your body sprawled out on the seat.

“Nice catch. I’m mad I didn’t see her first.”

“You gonna be nice and share?”

That makes him grin. “We’ll see. If she’s too much to handle, well…”

That makes them snicker.

You shouldn’t assume someone’s a thug just ‘cause of the way they look. But in his case, those scars weren’t earned through gentle accidents.

And when he gets you home, someplace probably tropical, someplace where a missing foreigner isn't that surprising a thing, he'll show you exactly how dangerous it is to smile at a criminal and expect him to just let it go.

[ivyues]

Reunited Moments: Stray Kids’ reactions to seeing their S/O after a long time

Bang Chan

The moment Chris sees you, his eyes widen in disbelief before softening with overwhelming emotion. A breath catches in his throat as he takes a step forward, then another – until he’s practically running.

"Y/N..." he whispers.

Before you can even respond, he pulls you into his arms, holding you close, as if making sure you're really there. His warmth engulfs you, and you feel the way his fingers clutch the fabric of your shirt, refusing to let go. His chest rises and falls unevenly, and when you tilt your head up, you notice the slight shimmer in his eyes.

"I missed you so much," he murmurs against your hair, his voice thick with emotion.

A tear escapes, but he doesn’t care. He kisses you gently, his lips soft against yours as though he’s afraid you might slip away again. His kiss deepens, letting himself believe that finally, finally, you're back in his arms.

Lee Know

As soon as Lee Know sees you, he freezes, his lips pressing into a firm line. His arms cross over his chest as he shifts his weight, trying to play it cool.

"Took you long enough," he mutters, looking away, but the way his fingers twitch at his sides gives him away.

You smile, stepping closer, and that’s when his façade cracks. Before you can even tease him, he sighs in defeat and pulls you into a tight hug, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“…Idiot. I missed you," he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper. His grip on you tightens for a second before he quickly pulls back. "Don’t disappear like that again," he adds.

Even as he tries to regain his composure, his hands linger on your waist, unwilling to let you go just yet.

The rest of the day, Lee Know doesn’t let you stray too far. No matter where you go, he’s right there, a little too close, always glancing at you like he’s making sure you’re still within arm’s reach.

Changbin

The moment Changbin lays his eyes on you, his face lights up with pure joy. "Y/N!" he shouts, already moving towards you at full speed. Before you can even react, he scoops you up, spinning you around in the air as laughter bubbles out of you.

“I missed you so much!” he exclaims. The world blurs around you, but all you can focus on is his bright smile and the way his arms feel so secure around you.

When he finally sets you down, he immediately pulls you into another bone-crushing hug, squeezing you so tight you can barely breathe.

"Binnie—I can't breathee!" you gasp, laughing while patting his shoulder.

"Shh, just a little longer," he mumbles against your shoulder, refusing to let go. You feel his arms tighten slightly as if he's afraid you'll disappear again. "I don't wanna let go yet."

And honestly, neither do you.

Hyunjin

Hyunjin stops in his tracks the moment he sees you. His eyes go wide, his breath hitching as he stares like he's seeing a ghost.

"No way…" he whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. He even blinks a few times before looking at you again. "Is this real? Am I dreaming?"

You laugh softly, taking a step closer. "I—I can't believe it," he says, voice trembling slightly.

You roll your eyes at his dramatics but smile nonetheless. "Yes, Hyunjin, I'm here. You can touch me if you want proof."

At that, he finally snaps out of it, rushing forward and pulling you into a desperate hug. His arms wrap tightly around you, his body molding against yours.

"I missed you so much," he murmurs, his voice quieter now as he simply holds you. 

You smile into his shoulder, squeezing him just as tightly. "I'm not going anywhere."

Han

The moment Han lays eyes on you, his expression shifts instantly – his playful smile falters, his lips part like he wants to say something, but no words come out.

The second he reaches you, he crashes into you, wrapping his arms around you so tightly it nearly knocks the breath out of you. His head buries into your shoulder, and that’s when you feel it – his quiet sniffles, the way his body trembles slightly against yours.

"You—" His voice cracks, and he grips you even tighter. "I was gone for so long…"

Your hands run soothingly through his hair as you hold him just as tightly, your own heart aching. Minutes pass, but Han doesn’t let go, as if making up for all the time spent apart.

“Just a little longer,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. "As long as you need."

And so you stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, neither of you willing to let go.

Felix

The moment Felix sees you, he completely freezes. His eyes widen, lips parting slightly as if he can’t believe you’re really there. Then, before he can stop it, his eyes glisten with tears.

You barely have time to react before the first tear rolls down his cheek. That’s all it takes for you to rush forward, closing the distance between you. The second your arms wrap around him, he melts into you, gripping onto you like you might disappear if he lets go.

A shaky sob escapes him as he buries his face into your shoulder, his whole body trembling against yours. “I missed you so much,” he whispers, his deep voice breaking with emotion. His hands clutch the back of your shirt tightly.

You rub his back soothingly, holding him just as tightly. “I’m here now, Lix,” you murmur, pressing a soft kiss to his hair asyou feel a wetness on your own cheek.

You pull back, gently wiping away a tear from your face. “Hey, no fair. Now you’re making me cry too,” you tease, your voice light but full of warmth, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

Seungmin

The moment Seungmin sees you, a playful smirk plays on his lips. But is gaze softens the moment he notices the glisten of tears in your eyes, replaced by an expression of concern.

You try to brush it off, sniffling and wiping your eyes. "Aren’t you gonna tease me for crying?" you ask, trying to laugh.

But instead of teasing you, Seungmin steps forward, his arms immediately enveloping you in a warm, reassuring hug. His grip is firm yet gentle, as if he’s trying to convey just how much he’s missed you without saying a word.

"Hey I'm not that mean," he murmurs softly, his voice quieter than usual. "I missed you, too, you know."

You rest your head on his chest, the warmth and comfort of his embrace enough to make everything feel okay again.

I.N

The moment I.N sees you, his entire face lights up with pure joy. His bright smile spreads across his lips, his eyes crinkling with excitement as he practically bounces towards you.

"Y/N!" he exclaims as he rushes to you without a second thought.

Before you can even react, he pulls you into a warm hug, his arms wrapping securely around you. There's no hesitation, no shyness – just the sheer joy of having you back in his arms. He rocks you slightly from side to side, his laughter bubbling up like he can’t contain it.

"I missed you so much," he says, pulling back just enough to look at you. "You have no idea how happy I am to see you again!"

Seeing him this cheerful makes your heart swell, and you can’t help but smile just as brightly. “I think I do,” you say, squeezing him again.

masterlist

[missdynamighttt]

Situationship with Bakugo 😵‍💫

a situationship with katsuki bakugo would be chaotic, intense, and incredibly frustrating.

KATSUKI BAKUGO, who's not the type to do things halfway, so the fact that he won’t fully commit (or admit his feelings) means he’s fighting himself the entire time.

KATSUKI BAKUGO, who takes care of you in little ways—grabbing your favorite snacks when he’s out, making sure you get home safe, memorizing all your food orders from various places—but if you call him out on it, he’ll scoff and say, “tch. don’t think too much about it. it was just on the way.”

KATSUKI BAKUGO, where he’s got no problem pulling you into his lap, throwing an arm around you, or grabbing your wrist to keep you from walking away during an argument, only for you to cuddle right back into his arms again. "you always come back anyway. might as well stay where you belong."

KATSUKI BAKUGO, who will go out of his way to coincidentally be where you are, but if you ask, he’ll act like you’re the clingy one. "the hell are you lookin’ at me like that for? it’s a free fuckin’ country—you act like i’m followin’ you or somethin’. maybe you’re the one who can’t stay away."

KATSUKI BAKUGO, the man who kisses you like you’re the only thing keeping him sane but refuses to call it love. the man who pulls you into his arms after a rough day but won’t say he needs you. the man who gets pissed when other guys flirt with you, yet still won’t claim you as his. he knows they’ll never measure up to him.

but then, one day, you get tired of it. tired of the mixed signals, tired of feeling like you’re caught in something he refuses to name.

so you pull away. stop answering his late-night texts. stop letting him hold you like you’re his when he won’t even say the words. stop caring because what’s the point when he won’t admit he cares just as much?

at first, he acts like he doesn’t notice. like it doesn’t bother him. but it does.

KATSUKI BAKUGO, who sees you laughing with someone else and his jaw tightens so hard it aches. he catches himself reaching for you before stopping short, fingers twitching like they’re fighting the habit of pulling you close. he sees you stop waiting for him and realizes, too late, that he never thought you would stop.

KATSUKI BAKUGO, who stands at your doorway, all heat and tension, eyes burning like a wildfire ready to consume you whole. he doesn’t say a word at first, just grabs your wrist—gently, but firm enough that you can feel his frustration thrumming beneath his skin.

“you’re ignoring me,” he accuses, voice low and dangerous.

you lift an eyebrow. “i thought you didn’t care.”

his grip tightens just slightly before he lets go, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

he hates this. hates feeling out of control, hates that you make him feel anything at all.

but he’s done lying to himself.

“you think i don’t care? you think i don’t—” he cuts himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose.

you scoff, crossing your arms. "you sure as hell act like it. or is this just another one of your games?"

his jaw clenches. "it was never a damn game, sweets."

"then what was it, katsuki?" you throw your hands up. "because it sure as hell wasn't a relationship."

"you think i don’t—" he cuts himself off with a frustrated noise, pacing like he's physically fighting with himself. then he turns back to you. "damn it, i was trying!"

"trying what?" you challenge. "to string me along until you got bored? to keep me so that no one else could have me?"

"no! i was trying to—fuck—i was trying to figure it out! trying to—" he stops himself again, exhales hard through his nose, then looks at you, really looks at you. "trying to not fuck this up."

the words hang between you, heavy, aching.

your voice is softer now, but no less sharp. "and yet, you still did."

for a moment, he just stares at you. and then, before you can turn away, before you can push him out of your life completely, he closes the distance.

"no," he growls. "i'm not letting you walk away from me again."

you shake your head. "you already let me go."

"the hell i did!" his hands grip your arms, not to restrain but to hold on. "you think i don’t want you? that i don’t—"

he stops, sucks in a breath, and then—

he cups your face and kisses you. not like before. not out of desperation, not just because it’s easy. not like the heated, desperate, i need to feel something kisses he’s stolen in the past. this one is different.

raw, messy, everything he’s been too damn stubborn to say.

this one is real.

and when he pulls back, breathless, eyes blazing, he mutters, "you wanna know what this is? it’s me, fucking telling you, that i’m all in on this. now tell me you don’t want me, and i’ll walk."

you swallow, your own breath uneven. but you can’t say it. because you do. you always have.

and he knows it.

you stare at him, chest heaving, your lips still tingling from the force of his kiss. your mind is screaming at you to push him away, to remind him that he had months to figure this out, to tell him that it’s too late.

but your heart? your heart is beating so damn loud it drowns out the logic.

katsuki sees the hesitation, the war behind your eyes. he doesn’t rush you. for once, he doesn’t bulldoze his way through with brute force.

"you’re such a fucking asshole," you mutter, shoving at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.

he exhales, a short, almost bitter laugh. “i know.”

you lick your lips, looking anywhere but at him. “you put me through hell, katsuki.”

“i know that too,” his voice is rough, but there’s no anger anymore. just quiet, painful honesty. he huffs, rubs a hand down his face before dropping it. “i was scared, sweets.”

you blink. katsuki bakugo, scared?

he sees the doubt flash across your face and scowls. “don’t. don’t look at me like that. like i don’t get to be scared of this—of you.”

your breath catches, and suddenly, the anger flares up again. “me? you were scared of me?”

“yeah,” he scoffs, eyes flicking between yours. "i ain't good at this shit, alright? but don't ever think for a second that i didn't want you."

your jaw tightens. "then why the hell did it take losing me for you to say it?"

something flickers across his face—regret, maybe. frustration. the words sound like they hurt to admit. "because i was a goddamn coward. because i didn't know how to have you without screwing it all up."

you stare at him, searching his face, waiting for the catch—for him to backtrack, for him to make another excuse. but he doesn’t.

instead, his grip on you softens, hands sliding down to your wrists, fingers brushing over your pulse. he watches you carefully, fingers grazing your wrist.

"tell me you don’t feel the same, and i’ll let you go. but if you do…” he leans in just slightly, gaze flickering to your lips. “then stop fighting me and let me be yours.”

and damn it—damn him—because you do. you always have.

your breath is unsteady, your chest tight as you stare at him. he looks like he’s ready for a fight, ready to prove himself, but you’re not making this easy for him.

he doesn’t deserve easy.

you step back, but he follows, unwilling to let space grow between you again. "if you really mean it, you’re gonna have to work for it."

his lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. then, he huffs, shoving his hands into his pockets. "fine. i will."

"you don’t even know what that means."

"doesn’t matter," his eyes burn with determination. "i’ll figure it out."

you study him, searching for hesitation, doubt—any sign that he’ll walk away the moment things get tough. but all you see is conviction, a stubborn resolve that’s so him it almost makes your chest ache.

still, you’re not going to let him think this is some quick fix.

"no more mixed signals," your voice is firm. "no more acting like i don’t matter just because you're scared of your own feelings."

his jaw clenches, but he nods. "yeah."

"and no more kissing me like i’m yours and then pretending it doesn’t mean anything."

his eyes darken slightly. "that one was never pretend."

you don’t give in just yet. you let the silence stretch, let him sit in it, let him feel the weight of what he’s asking for.

then, finally, you nod. "alright. then we’ll see."

from the moment you demanded he work for your trust, he treats it like the most important damn mission of his life.

KATSUKI BAKUGO, who starts showing up—not just in the ways he used to, sneaking into your life with little gestures he refused to acknowledge. no, this time, he makes it clear.

KATSUKI BAKUGO, who texts you good morning. goodnight. little things throughout the day that show you he’s thinking about you. "did you eat? i know you don’t like the coffee at work, so i left one for you on your desk, call me if you need a ride."

KATSUKI BAKUGO, where at work, he swings by your office under the pretense of “checking in,” but you catch the way his eyes linger, the way his fingers tap against your desk like he’s resisting the urge to touch you.

KATSUKI BAKUGO, when he knows you’re out with friends, he doesn’t pull the usual possessive coincidentally running into you routine. he lets you have your space but makes sure you get home safe. "text me when you’re back."

but the real proof is in the way he listens. the way he remembers.

KATSUKI BAKUGO, who recalls things you mentioned offhandedly weeks ago—your favorite dessert from that bakery downtown, the dumb movie you wanted to watch but never got around to. one night, you mention offhandedly that you’ve been stressed, and the next day, he drags you out of your apartment. "c’mon. you need a break."

you expect something explosive, something him—but instead, he takes you to a quiet spot, lets you rant, doesn’t rush you. just listens.

and when you look at him, skeptical, waiting for him to make some kind of sarcastic remark, he just shrugs. "told you i was serious."

he never demands anything from you. never pushes you for an answer.

but one night, after another long day, after another moment where he reminds you, without words, just how much he’s changed—how much he’s trying—you finally give in.

you reach for his hand.

it’s tentative, just a light brush of your fingers against his. he looks down, then back up at you, something unreadable in his expression.

you squeeze lightly, voice quiet. "okay."

he blinks. "okay?"

you take a breath. "i believe you."

and for the first time in a long time, he smiles. really smiles.

then, with all the patience he’s learned just for you, he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

"’bout fuckin' time."

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ hi!! a little something to publish bc i feel i havent been posting much like i've been before? js burnout from school and shit, also indulging my free time😭 hope you guys enjoy💜💜

[iimplicitt]

hiii 🤠 anon here

how do you feel about writing for mafia lando where he’s married to the reader who’s not his choice it’s basically an arrangement and his family hates her and she’s having a really hard time in his house and Lando doesn’t notice and he’s cold and one day her family causes her to have a panic attack and he sees her in his room all small and scared and then he helps her and makes her a feel better and etc something about a heated confession and people being put in their place. if you do write this thank you :)

HAPPINESS IS A BUTTERFLY | LN4

pairings: mafia! lando x arranged marriage reader

an/warnings: arranged marriage, violence, mentions of abusive parents, angst, panic attacks, fluff, hea

wc: 5.2k

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

He bit the inside of his cheek as he watched the sleek back car roll up in the long drive way from his office. Windows tinted but he could make out the faint outline of a person as they moved around before Oscar got out of the car to open the door for its passenger.

His new wife.

The words tasted sour on his tongue as he drank some of his whiskey, not caring that it was nine in the morning. He needed a pick-me-up for the day that was ahead.

Gleaming hair caught in the sunlight, a delicate hand with a blinding diamond hesitantly taking Oscar’s as red bottom Louis’ met the pavement.

His eyes narrowed a bit as he watched you, mere curiosity to see how you acted when he wasn’t around. When the wedding happened it was short and extravagant. All the glitz and glamour expected of such a pair. A politician's daughter and a booming business man whose money usually came tinted red. A shame that most of the world didn’t know your fathers money was just as dirty as his.

It was an alliance in London’s eyes. A step towards peace.

He hadn’t even seen you until the white lace veil was lifted.

You were pretty but that wasn’t enough to suddenly sway his mind into liking the whole arrangement. He didn’t have much choice. Having coppers on a payroll was a deal too good to pass up, so he agreed. Shook hands. It hadn’t mattered much, not in the long run. Lando was always busy. Always working. If a marriage hadn’t been forced upon him, he didn’t think he would’ve ever had a ring on his finger.

He watched silently as you waited for Oscar to grab your bags. Your eyes flickering around the property, taking in the well kept gardens and security cameras mounted every few yards. A fortress.

His eyes took in the dress you wore, expensive silk draped over skin. Flowing like liquid in the subtle summer breeze. He took note of how your hand kept flexing, the one with a ring. His ring.

The one he had slid on your finger a week ago as he whispered, “I do.” Your own voice low as you muttered the vow, eyes not meeting his.

He could barely remember what the kiss had been like. It was quick, soft. Obligatory. Both of you seemed relieved it was over with, arms linked with one another as you left the cathedral. White flower petals falling into hair as they were tossed into the sky.

Lando set his tumbler down and backed away from the window, trying to take a calming breath before walking downstairs. He needed to make this livable. An ecosystem. Staying out of each other's way, respecting boundaries. Telling where and what was off bounds. If you needed help, ask Oscar. If you wanted someone to talk to, also ask Oscar. Leave him be, because he was busy.

You seemed reasonable enough in the few minutes of shared company. You knew this was a business transaction. It wasn’t something to get hopes up on. Lando knew you were smart enough not to be a burden so hopefully it would feel like nothing had changed. Just an extra person in the household. Another echoing voice.

He could hear the sharp click of your heels as you entered the front foyer, the soft sound of your voice as you spoke in hushed tones. Your whole presence seemed cautious. Like you were treading in a minefield.

As he stepped down the stairs and into the light, your eyes met. The air shifting. Tense. Dangerous. Your painted lips pressed into a line as you waited for instruction. Ever obedient. Compliance being woven into you as a child.

He had met your father on more than one occasion and he knew he wasn’t a kind man.

But the problems of your past were yours.

Lando sighed lightly through his nose, head tilting and hands in pockets as he let himself look at you for another moment before dismissing Oscar.

The foyer was still. The only thing he could hear was the faint hum of electricity and birds outside. Watching you as you watched him.

“Nice drive?” He asked, not quite sure on the formalities of the situation.

You laughed slightly, the sound coming out in a short exhale as you looked away from him. “It was fine.”

He hummed, not seeing a point in furthering the conversation and he gestured for you to follow him.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

The summer had gone by in a repetition of droning days and lonely dinners. The only thing keeping you company were the few books you packed, although you had already read through them all. An endless cycle of talking to the walls and sitting near your window, feeling like a modern day Rapunzel.

It’s not necessarily like you weren’t allowed to go anywhere, but it still felt off limits. Frowned upon. A burden if you were seen walking the halls.

His family didn’t like you very much. Which you both understood yet couldn’t come to terms with. They had to have known this wasn’t any more of your choice than it was his. And why shovel the blame onto someone’s child? It wasn’t your fault your father was corrupted and played a better hand.

Pressing your forehead against the cool glass, you watched as the world went by. The silent hum of air conditioning was the only thing to droll out your thoughts and lately it hadn’t been working. The room felt suffocating but there was no one to turn to. Even voicing your thoughts out loud to yourself seemed like some boundary was being crossed. Maybe even to yourself. That you were starting to get too comfortable.

Oscar seemed nice enough. Timid. Not sure how to approach you or if he even should. He brought your meals to your door like clock work. Part of you felt bad but the thought of eating in the dining room seemed like suicide. You had tried the first night, assuming that was just part of the routine. To have dinner with your…husband.

But Lando was nowhere to be found, leaving you at a large oak table alone and shoveling food around. Appetite non-existent. Oscar had told you he usually took dinner in his office. That most of the other members of the household ate out.

His words hit you dully as you stared at the polished wood, not quite believing this was going to be the rest of your life. Then again, you weren’t sure what you wanted. Did you want Lando to make an effort? Did you even want to be around him? You didn’t know much, just that he was a bad man. But aren’t they all? Apparently that’s all the world thought you were fit for. Violent men with money in their eyes.

No, you didn’t want to know him.

But god, loneliness caught up to everyone.

The hours ticked by and you sat there, tracing lines into the skin of your thighs with your nail. Over and over again till skin prickled and red lines appeared. The itch and sting foreign, numb. As if you’d shot your heart with novacaine. Your eyes unblinking as you did the action, pure muscle memory. You didn’t have to think. You didn’t want to.

At least you never wanted to think about yourself. Your situation. The listless marriage you now found yourself trapped in.

But your mind would wander. What did he get up to? What did he even do? Was it really any different from the current political affairs the nation got up to? Would he one day change his mind and want more?

The thought made you shiver, eyes trailing to your locked door. He’d never tried to come in. Hell, he’d never even been to your room. In the weeks you’d been there you had probably only seen him a handful of times. Walking down the hall and his eyes would catch yours for a moment but nothing else. Looking through you like a ghost. Cold. Indifferent. Sometimes you’d hear him in the house. Talking to Oscar or on the phone. Always business. Always something you didn’t understand.

He couldn’t seem bothered at the thought of you being around. Didn’t seem interested. And that weird, fucked up little voice in the back of your mind whispered that Lando was keeping himself entertained just fine. That he found comfort in other women. Having affairs. You barely felt married. There weren't technically any commitments beyond regurgitated vows. So why did the thought still make your stomach churn?

Perhaps it was the feeling of being unwanted. A constant companion of doubt. Your family didn’t want you, pawned you off. Your husband didn’t want you. You would never get to experience love. You’d go through life longing for creature comforts—

You pressed your forehead harder into the glass. Wanting the thoughts to stop. You pushed so hard you hoped it’d break and you’d go hurtling towards the ground.

There was a sharp knock on the door. Six o’clock sharp.

Dinner.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

You felt like you were going insane. The walls bending inward. The wallpaper swirling. The ceiling breathing.

Crazy.

Wandering the halls was reckless but you started to care less and less if Lando saw you. For the first time in months you wanted him to see you. Be reminded that you were there. Proof you were alive. You were here. Even when it never felt like it. You felt like a phantom who haunted the house, mostly only coming out at night when the rest of the world slept. Chasing the creaks of wood and following the patterns in the rug. Chasing something. Feeling wild. Deranged like a white rabbit who was late for tea.

His mother yelled at you. For something, you weren’t sure what. It seemed like no matter what you did you were wrong. Skin not fitting right over bones. Disassociating and staring at her. That only made her more mad and she slapped you. Not for the first time. Hard across the face. You hadn’t noticed till you heard the echo of it around the kitchen. Didn’t realise till some of the staff gasped, hands flying over mouths. Glowing wide eyes staring at you in shock.

You blinked again, subtle warmth creeping into your cheek. Hand slowly going up to hold your face. What had you done wrong? Why were you always wrong?

His mother scoffed. “You’re no good. You’re not even all the way there are you?” With a look of disgust she turned away, disappearing down the hall.

One of the cooks slowly approached you, as if you were some wounded animal. Holding out a pack of ice. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“For what?” Your voice sounded distant. Distorted. Like it was coming from somewhere else. Taking the ice, you left. Letting it sit in your hand instead, the bitter coldness of it sending a dull shock up your arm.

You felt like crying. At least you thought about it. But nothing would fall out. Your eyes felt dry and heavy. Staring at nothingness as you walked with your heartbeat thudding in your ears.

This was your life. This was going to be your forever. Sucked into yet another man's orbit who didn’t give a shit about you. Because fuck what you want, right?

You turned into what you thought was your bedroom. You weren’t quite sure how you got there. It had been odd lately. Like moments of time blacked out. Arriving one place and not knowing how you got there. Tuning out to your depressing reality.

You were going to die alone. It wasn’t even your fault. Or maybe it was. Maybe you should’ve tried harder. Fought your father and left as soon as you had turned of age. Why didn’t you try harder to fight back? Did some twisted part of you want this? The lack of effort. Things being handed to you. Maybe you thought you deserved it. After all, you'd been living off your fathers dirty money guilt free. Perhaps this was just your karma.

Longing for a life you’d never have.

You sucked in a sharp breath, tears finally beginning to prick at your eyes. The droplets stung so bad your vision went blurry.

You barely felt it as your knees hit the hard wooden floors. Didn’t register the scratching sound of your nails dragging against the planks, blindly trying to crawl your way out of the hell you were living. Feeling pathetic and ungrateful because you knew it could be worse. It could always be worse.

A sob left your throat, bubbling up and out like acid.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

The door flew open to his office and he was about to yell at whoever had the audacity when he turned, paused. The look on Oscar’s face wasn’t one commonly seen.

“What?”

“There’s a problem.”

Lando sighed, tapping his pen on his desk. “Care to elaborate?”

“It’s your mother and your wife.”

Lando reared back slightly at the word. It wasn’t thrown around often. Hell, he hardly saw you. And when he did, when he’d catch you wandering around well past three in the morning something was just…off. He didn't know how to approach you. Or if he even should. You’d seemed equally disinterested by his company. Staring at him sometimes like he was an apparition that wasn’t meant to be there.

He wouldn’t blame you if you hated his guts. Lando knew most women would prefer a love filled marriage compared to whatever the hell they had.

“What about them?” He asked, eyes flicking down to his papers again. Not seeing why—

“The staff said there was an altercation in the kitchen.”

Pausing, his eyes flicked up. Brow raising.

Oscar sighed, “your wife is in your room.”

That got him up. What the hell were you doing in there? And why? It wasn’t like he kept important documents in there, he knew better than that but he still didn’t trust you much. You were your fathers daughter. Maybe this was all some ploy to get into his personal things, find weaknesses, cracks.

His feet moved briskly down the hall, his polished shoes clicking dully on the ornate rugs and painted eyes followed him as he went. Lando didn’t pause as he saw his door, didn’t pause as he turned the handle.

“What do—“

Lando halted to a stop as his eyes found you. Feeling as if the earth had been yanked out from beneath him when he heard you try to smother the sound of your crying with a hand. Curled up in the space between his bed and the nightstand. Looking so small as you trembled.

Your eyes didn’t meet his. He wasn’t even sure if you heard him come in. Your breathing was too fast, too ragged. Short bursts of oxygen, your lungs not being able to keep up.

He shut the door softly behind him and quietly made his way over to you, lowering himself to his knees. Debating if he should touch you or not. You hadn’t touched in months. Not since the wedding.

“Hey,” his voice was soft and you flinched. Head shooting up and staring at him. He’d never seen you look so frightened and you tried to push yourself back harder into the wall. Shaking your head as if he’d caught you doing something wrong.

He immediately caught the red outline of a hand on your cheek. His jaw clenched. An odd, unbearably awful sensation churned in his stomach at the thought of someone hurting you. Knowing it was his mother only made the fire burn hotter. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t like you were close. But the rage was itching up his spine like a spider.

“You’re okay,” he said again. His voice was rough, but a whisper. He reached out to you, slowly. Hands gently taking hold of you as he pulled your shaking frame into his, feeling the way your lungs struggled to catch up. Your muscles coiled in tension as he touched you. He hated it.

“You’re alright, darling.” He soothed your hair back, feeling your nails bite into his skin as you twisted the fabric of his shirt. Trying to ground yourself. Trying to make sense of it all. Of why he was here.

He knew it had to be confusing. That his sudden reassurance was off putting and regret was starting to inch its way up his throat. The spindly legs tickling and desperate. He should’ve handled this whole thing better. It was selfish. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. Holding your head beneath his chin as you tried to calm down. “I’m here, if you need me to be.”

You didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what to do. Where to go from there. This was new territory for him. Second guessing wasn’t usually in Lando’s playbook but you were something new entirely.

He began to lean away but your grip tightened on his shirt, your head pressing further into the crook of his neck.

Sighing, he maneuvered himself into a sitting position, holding you in his lap as he leaned against his bed. Giving you time. Gently running circles into the nape of your neck. His grandmother always did that for him, it always seemed to help calm him down. Lando waited patiently, taking in the faint scent of your shampoo. Smiling to himself a bit despite everything because it was the same one he used.

Slowly your harsh breathing began to subside but your body still trembled from the aftershocks.

His fingers still ran lightly over your skin, his voice a low hum and he could feel the vibration of his own rib cage with your weight against him. “I’ve had panic attacks too, you know?”

You didn’t do anything for a moment, and then, like the first break of daylight, you slightly shifted your head and your voice was a whisper. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Something had shifted. Maybe others wouldn’t have noticed, but you did. That next morning there was a knock on your bedroom door. Eight o’clock sharp. You hadn’t slept much, your eyes still raw and body restless from the previous evening. The feeling of his light, delicate touch on you was on replay in the back of your mind. You hadn’t been held in what felt like years.

You hadn’t expected such kindness from him.

Padding over to the door, you rubbed at your eyes, trying to look alive before opening it. “Morning, Oscar–” you blinked at the form of Lando standing in the hall. Wearing a casual linen shirt and dress pants, jacket draped over one arm and he looked at you expectantly.

“Ready?” He asked.

You felt dumb as you continued to stare at him. Not expecting to see him so soon. Not thinking he’d even want to see you after yesterday’s mess. “What?”

He sighed lightly through his nose. “We’re going out for breakfast.”

“Why?”

There was a slight crease forming between his brows. “Do you not want to?”

You blinked again before reality finally caught up to you. “No, no. That’s fine. Just… let me get dressed.” You eyed him as you shut the door. He was acting weird.

It was nice.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

“What on earth are you doing?” His mother shouted over the sound of a power drill. Standing in the doorway with her arms crossed.

Lando looked at her for only a moment. Still cross with her after the kitchen incident a couple of weeks ago. He had yelled at her after he managed to get you into bed. Yelled at his whole family. The staff, for not telling him.

“She is the lady of the household and my wife. You do not touch her, you do not say a fucking word to her unless it’s praise.” He looked directly at his mother. “Understood?”

“I’m building a reading nook.” He finally said, standing back to look at his progress so far. He took you to the fabric store yesterday but you were beyond indecisive and he wasn’t sure the new couch went with the interior of his office.

He had been trying to go out more, just small places. When he found out you hadn’t left the house since you arrived he was confused and furious with Oscar. His friend and right hand had merely raised his hands in surrender, muttering how you had never wanted to go anywhere.

“Whatever for? Since when do you read for pleasure?” His mother asked, mostly teasing. Trying to weave her way back into his good graces. He doubted that would ever happen. He was on the verge of throwing her out but you managed to talk him out of it.

“It’s not for me.” Lando left it at that. Watching how his mother’s shoulders fell at the realisation and she turned away.

He smiled slightly to himself as he set up the couch, pushing it under the window so you could get good light and a nice view of the gardens. Plus, he could watch you more easily from his desk when he worked.

You looked pretty when you were reading.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

For the first time in months you were bored, and not in a bad way. Lando made sure there was always something for you to do when he wasn’t around. Part of you felt bad, following him around like a kicked puppy. But any time you’d start to back off, give him some space, it was like his hand blindly found yours, not even looking up from his work, tugging you back.

Muttering a quiet, “stay.”

You tried to ignore the butterflies that began fluttering in your stomach, chasing after whatever this was. You didn’t know why you felt stubborn over it. He was your husband after all, butterflies are supposed to be a good thing.

You took up cooking as a hobby, mostly different kinds of fresh pasta. Trying to keep your hands steady as Lando would walk behind you, fingers lightly dragging along the small over your back. Leaning over your shoulder, lips nearly brushing your neck as he quietly spoke, “that looks lovely.”

He always spoke so softly to you. His touch always delicate.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Lando fixed his cuff links as he stood in the foyer, making sure his suit was wrinkle free in the large mirror. There was a big Christmas gala that night in London. A whole cluster of politicians, businessmen, philanthropists, etc. He didn’t have much of a role to play besides being seen, given his bookies did most of the under the table work.

When he’d asked you to go with him, you hesitated. He knew seeing your father was something you’d like to avoid. Over time you slowly opened up to him about how strained the relationship was.

He had lifted a hand to your cheek, gently brushing his knuckles along your cheekbones, watching in satisfaction as your pupils expanded at his touch. “I won't let him near you,” he whispered. Watching as you debated before eventually nodding, leaning slightly into his touch.

When he heard the sound of heels clicking sharply against marble flooring his eyes flicked up, watching you approach in the mirror. Looking like heaven in high heels. Your black dress fit you perfectly, the white fur shawl was draped lazily over your shoulders.

Lando felt his mouth go dry as he turned, his heartbeat pounding in his ears as you approached. The sweet smell of your perfume swirling around him, making him feel hazy.

God, if you knew what you did to him.

It seemed like every night now that he dreamt of kissing you, doing a whole list of unruly things. Despite the ring on his hand and yours it still felt off limits. Not feeling sure of what you actually wanted.

“Ready?” You asked, a small smile playing on your lips.

He blinked at you, still in a daze. “What?”

You bit your lip, holding back a laugh and he felt his stomach pool.

“The gala. Yes, right.” He cleared his throat, not thinking twice as he took your hand. “Let’s go.”

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

You felt all the eyes on you as he took you around the dance floor. The whispers. Lando Norris’ wife who he liked to keep hidden away. Apparently most people hadn’t even known he was married. They thought you were just a new date till they saw the blinding diamond on your finger and his matching gold one.

You felt stiff. Too perceived.

But he lightly took hold of your chin between his fingers, making you look at him.

“It’s just you and me, love.”

Love. You felt equally reassured and nauseous.

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

Lando was using every excuse he could to touch you. Hand splaying on the small of your back where your dress dipped low. Fingers lightly brushing the back of your neck as he talked to the other guests. Hand on your thigh beneath the table. When he’d first done it you jumped slightly and his heart skipped a beat when you looked at him, eyes low, before turning away again and taking a sip of your wine.

He couldn’t help it as his lips pulled back slightly when he began to rub circles with his thumb, feeling the muscles of your leg tighten. But you leaned toward him, an invitation. He felt more drunk off of you than any wine he had been drinking.

He’d only see glimpses of your father. Lingering to the side of the ballroom walls. Whispering in corners with other greedy men. His eyes always on you, though.

Lando didn’t like it. Then again he never liked anything enough for that to be a fair test. But he knew never to ignore his intuition, so he took your hand in his and tugged you along until you were outside, the cold December air twirling around them.

You shivered as you waited for the valet to pull his McLaren around, blushing a bit when he draped his jacket over your shoulders. Or maybe it was just the wind, he wasn’t sure. But he’d liked to think he made you flustered.

The engine purred as he drove away, feeling your eyes on him as city lights flicked back.

“Why’d we leave early?” You finally asked.

His grip adjusted on the steering heel, looking in the rearview mirror, always vigilant. He hadn’t realised till now that going public made you a target. Made him vulnerable.

“Just wanted to,” is all he offered. Not wanting to scare you. He knew you already had a difficult time adjusting to his world. Then again he shouldn’t cut you any credit. Growing up with your father couldn’t have been any easier.

You hummed, not believing him. Your eyes finally pulled away to stare out the window. Letting him relax. It was strange, having somebody for the first time see him. The thought was equally relieving and terrifying.

When they pulled up to the house the car fell quiet, a heavy silence falling over like a blanket. He wanted to say more to you, but what? This was all new territory and the thought of messing up this bridge he’d built—

“Lando.”

He turned, looking at you as moonlight painted your skin through the window.

You reached forward, hand taking his, “I know you’ll keep me safe.” Another pause and you played with his wedding ring. “I trust you.”

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

A loud thud woke you up, your heart beating erratically as your door handle began to move. Thankful that you had locked it but fear was still crawling up your spine. You were just about to reach for your phone to call someone for help when a ragged voice poured out from the other side, weakly saying your name. The sound of a body slumping to the floor.

Lando.

You quickly tore off the sheets, stumbling a bit in the dark and you yanked your door open. A hand flying up to your mouth as you took in the state of him. Bruised and slick with blood, one arm wrapped around his rib cage, his breath rattling.

His eyes cracked open, gleaming in the low lamp light of the hall. His lips pulling back in a bloodied grin.

“Hello, darling.”

“Oh my god,” you did your best to get him up, almost falling under his weight as you maneuvered him to your bathroom. “What happened?”

Your heart lurched as Lando coughed, turning his head to spit out some blood into the bin and he sat himself up on the sink. Wincing as he did so. Not answering you.

“Lando,” you said quietly, afraid that even loud noises would hurt him and you gently took hold of his face in your hands. Not caring blood and dirt would get on them. Gently running your thumbs along his cheek bones.

He seemed to melt into you, letting his head fall forward and rest against yours as you brushed the damp curls back. Seeing him like this was a new kind of pain you never wanted to experience again.

“Who did this to you?” Although your voice was gentle, there was a layer of conviction under it that even surprised you.

He sighed, a wheeze coming up from the back of his throat and his hands came up to hold onto your wrists. You didn’t miss his cracked and bleeding knuckles.

“I have a duty of care,” he muttered.

Your father. You felt like throwing up.

Gently pulling his head forward, you held him to you. Letting his heartbeat bring some life back into you. He was okay. He was here. He came back to you. Everything would be fine.

Slowly, Lando’s arms wrapped around you, holding you as tight as he could.

“I’m going to kill him,” you mumbled into his hair and he laughed, not caring that it hurt.

He leaned his head back slightly, eyes flicking between your own and your lips. His hand that had snaked up to the back of your neck pulling you in slightly. Hesitant. Then all at once.

Mouths colliding, a kiss that felt like a tuning fork struck against a star.

His fingers twined in your hair and you tried to be gentle with him. As much as you could. But the feeling of finally was making you feel weightless. Reckless. Desperate as he held you tighter.

You felt high as he whispered the words my wife between kisses.

“So much for a marriage of convenience,” you managed after you pulled away. You didn’t want to, but he needed your help.

He smiled again, those dimples you loved so much deepening in his cheeks. “Nah,” he said lightly. “I think this will be a marriage of inconvenience.”

And he kissed you again.

taglist: @theonottsbxtch @fortunapre @c8lap1nto @ashbone

[delugyu]

not that same og anon but *i* am ovulating right now and i think if pt3 never sees the light of day i *will* cry

here u go bae!! each of these parts are just gonna get longer and longer until it’s ridiculous to call it a drabble 😭

part one / part two / part three

(wc: 4.7k / warnings: searing hot jealousy, possessiveness, corruption kink, oral (f rec.), lots of heavy petting, marking, grinding, overstimulation, cumming in pants yayyy)

when beomgyu sees taehyun’s caller id on his phone, he almost doesn’t pick up. he knows that would be awful, though, and that maybe he shouldn’t ruin one of his closest friendships over you, so he puts his pride aside and accepts the call. it doesn’t make it any easier to listen to taehyun’s voice, though.

he’s zoning out, just letting taehyun ramble without really processing his words, until he hears him say your name. his full attention snaps to taehyun’s words, suddenly completely interested in whatever he has to say.

it sounds a lot like taehyun’s bragging. he’s going on and on about this light festival he took you to last night, how much you loved it, how you just adored your time there. 

beomgyu might be a maniac. he’s scared of how bad his urge is to fight taehyun, all because he got a little too hung up on you. taehyun probably has no clue you were with beomgyu just a few days ago, that you had his dick in your mouth, that you swallowed his cum and behaved so well for him. he wonders if that would piss taehyun off. he wants to do a hell of a lot more that would piss him off, too.

it’s when taehyun tells him that he kissed you for the first time yesterday that beomgyu decides he’s had enough. he really doesn’t need or want to listen to this shit. there’s an ugly and confusing feeling sprouting in his chest that he doesn’t care to foster any longer, so beomgyu makes up some excuse and tells taehyun he has to go.

he hangs up and puts his phone down on the table with more force than necessary, holding his head in his hands. he lets out a heavy sigh as he tries to summon tranquility back to him, willing away the bitter jealousy that made itself way too comfortable inside of him.

beomgyu’s not even a jealous person. he doesn’t even care. it’s your life—if you want to go make heart eyes at taehyun all day, then you can go on your merry way and do just that. it doesn’t concern him at all, seriously.

he thinks about taehyun stealing your lips for a quick kiss, and he tells himself that it only makes him feel sick because taehyun’s his friend, and thinking about your friend kissing anyone is gross. but he didn’t care when it was taehyun kissing mina. he didn’t care when it was yujin, or chaewon, or minji. he only cares cause it’s you.

you haven’t even talked to beomgyu since you left him that day. he’s been stuck replaying memories of his tongue inside your mouth, your hands on his body, your legs shaking with pleasure, your little gasps and whimpers as you came with your fingers over your cunt. he’s been dying here, and you haven’t reached out once.

it’s not like you guys talked that much before this, but he figured that maybe you’d care a little more now. he wants you to ask him to spend time with you, wants to hear your voice and touch your skin. he wants you to want him half as bad as he wants you. if he’s being really honest, he wants you to need him more than he needs you.

he pictures you in tears, clawing at your clothes, shoving your hand between your thighs as his name falls from your lips. you’d be a desperate little thing, waiting impatiently for beomgyu to come save you with his gentle touch on your bare skin. only he’d be able to give you what you need. no other man—and certainly not taehyun—would be able to satisfy you enough.

you prove yourself yet again to be the thief of his sanity, because he finds himself staring at your contact profile, thinking of what to say if he calls you. do you want to come over? ugh, no, that’s so sleazy. what are you doing? let’s hang out right now. that’s one way to make himself sound desperate. he doesn’t want to stoop quite that low.

his fantasies of you are just going to get worse and torment him more if he doesn’t grow a pair and call you. maybe he could do something productive with all this pent up energy instead. go to the gym, hang with some friends, get some work done…

his leg bounces rapidly as his phone rings, waiting for you to pick up. to hell with productivity, you’re more important.

“hello?” the second your voice reaches beomgyu’s ears, his cock throbs in his pants. you’ve got him conditioned like some animal. he doesn’t have it in him to feel humiliated by that, but he knows he should be.

when your name spills from beomgyu’s lips, it sounds absurdly close to something like a moan. he holds his head in his hands, exhausted and frustrated, unable to take this anymore. it’s disgusting how much of beomgyu’s energy is being used toward not fisting his cock right now. just knowing you're on the other end is enough to get him going. fuck, he hopes you’re all hot and bothered too.

“are you doing anything right now?” beomgyu asks. he knows you’re smart enough to understand why he’s asking. he shouldn’t have to elaborate.

“not really,” you answer. he hears you shuffling around—you must be getting ready to head out. he likes to think that you’re just as excited and ready to jump at the opportunity to be with him as he is with you. “why?” you ask.

are you serious? he’s not going to spell it out for you. “you know why,” he says. he can’t sit still now, itching to get his hands on you. he paces around his apartment and convinces himself you’ll be here soon.

“i can’t,” you say, and it makes beomgyu freeze. “i’m going to see taehyun tonight.”

beomgyu’s quiet as he processes your words. this is probably some test from the universe to see how good of a person he is. he should laugh it off and tell you to go have fun, but seriously? you fucking saw taehyun yesterday! it’s been days since beomgyu last saw you! so no, beomgyu’s not going to be a good person. the universe can condemn him to however many eternities in hell it pleases. he’ll take his twenty minutes with you.

“don’t,” he urges. “don’t see him. come here tonight instead.” you wouldn’t have half as much fun with taehyun as you would with him, beomgyu knows it. he’s got so much to show you. frankly, at this point it’s going to ruin his pride if you choose taehyun again.

“i just texted him though.”

“i don’t care. please come here.” he’s reduced to having to beg for you again.

you sigh. you must be contemplating it. beomgyu worries for a second that he’s going to have a heart attack if you say no.

“alright. this is the only time i’m cancelling plans for you, though.” beomgyu feels his soul return to his body. god, he needs you to hurry up and get here.

the minutes spent waiting for you might as well have been hours. his dick is fully hard just from the anticipation of getting you to himself again, of being able to touch you in ways no one else has. the moment he hears you open the door to his place, he’s bolting to you and getting his fix. you barely even get to shut the door behind you before he’s on you like some fiend. he’s got no time to waste.

you look surprised when he captures your face in his hands, kissing you so hard that your body’s forced back against the door. he sucks at your lips like it will be enough to erase taehyun’s traces from them, to replace any memory of what his lips felt like on yours. you moan into beomgyu’s mouth, and it only makes his wanting worse.

“fuck,” he growls out, pulling away only long enough to talk. he kisses you again quickly. “i need you right now. i need you all the time.” he dives right back in, coaxing your lips open and forcing his tongue inside. he wants to burn his name inside your mouth and keep anyone else from kissing you again.

he’s not in control of himself, letting his instincts take over and throwing rationale to the wind. he leaves one hand on your jaw to keep your mouth open and pliant while the other travels down to squeeze your hip and run wildly across your thigh. you’re wearing another one of those stupidly short skirts, giving him the easiest access to your core. it’s like you wanted this just as badly as him. the thought makes his lips tilt up in amusement.

you jump when beomgyu’s hand cups your core over your panties, pressing his fingertips against you needily. “gyu..!” you sound scandalized, like he’s taking things further than you expected, like you didn’t know he’s been dying to feel your cunt in his hands. you must be lying to yourself if you really think that. beomgyu’s been making his intentions more than clear.

you bring your hand to his wrist, holding it but not pulling it away. beomgyu takes that as a sign to keep going, continuing to rub against your clothed folds. he brings his mouth to your jaw, sucking the skin and trailing his lips down to your neck. he’s been waiting for so long to feel your pussy, even just touching you through your panties is getting him lightheaded.

you’d think he’s a sick freak if you knew how much he thought about you. you’d run away if you found out what kinds of things he fantasized about when he can’t fall asleep at night. he’d try everything, play around with your body as he pleases, work you past your breaking point, leave you ruined for anyone else forever—anything he could possibly do, he wants to.

his tongue laves over your skin as he pants into your neck. he has to keep himself from rutting against your thigh, getting too heady at the feeling of finally touching you. he’s been so patient. he’ll show you everything, you’ll never want to leave his side again. he’ll turn you into something more desperate than himself, make sure you’re the one left haunted and longing. the idea of it all makes him whimper, dick aching in his pants.

he wants to see your knees buckle, wants to watch your eyes get glossy and wet. he wants you trembling and begging for mercy, wants to give you more and more because he knows that you’ll be good and take it. he’s sick, he can’t help it, you did this to him.

he feels your panties dampen up, and some evil sense of satisfaction hits him knowing that he did this to you. you cancelled your plans with taehyun to get your virgin pussy played with by him. something like a power rush gets to him, and it makes him want to wreck you all the more.

“how is it, baby?” he asks, smiling meanly at you because he knows you can’t give a proper response. he presses down on your clit, watching your mouth drop open as he swipes it fervently, needing to get you dripping and ready. he steals your lips for another kiss, letting you pant into his mouth as he takes everything he wants from you.

he holds your hip still when your legs start getting unsteady. he thinks it’s so cute how you’re already wobbling—you really are that inexperienced. it’s so entertaining to watch you fall apart over something so simple. he wishes taehyun could see you now, getting beomgyu’s hand all wet and giving him all your little gasps and mewls.

he wants to rip his hand away and watch you cry, but he thinks that might be too mean. he’s got something better to show you, though. he can’t rip his hands or lips off of you as he walks you into his room, coaxing you down against his bed until he’s hovering over you.

he’s reminded of the last time you two were in this position, when you left him to go straight to taehyun. did he know that you were just with beomgyu that night? that your hand was wrapped around his dick, that you were so eager to milk him dry? he’ll make sure you don’t head straight to taehyun again.

he holds your legs open, staring at your center with a wicked grin. your skirt is useless—it covers nothing when you’re spread out like this, soaked panties on full display. he wants those as a keepsake. he might be able to pocket them if he’s discrete and you’re delirious enough.

his stomach is in knots, he almost can’t believe this. he feels the way your legs keep shaking in his hands, and he knows you must be feeling so needy. you don’t even know what to do with yourself. your hips roll up, trying to seek pleasure that isn’t there, and it almost makes him want to keep you like this until you go crazy. it wouldn’t take long, you’re already whimpering and whining like you can’t handle a minute without his touch.

“let me go down on you,” beomgyu says, dropping his head between your thighs. he kisses up your leg until he gets to your core, ghosting his lips over your heat and blinking up at you. you’re holding yourself up on your elbows so you can stare at him, and he smiles up at you reassuringly when he sees how unsure you look.

he eases his hands up and down your thighs, calming your nerves. he has to remember that this is all so new to you. as much as he wants to go wild and do everything the way he wants, he needs to make sure you’re comfortable. he wants you to be all in on this too.

“how does it feel?” you ask, something in your voice sounding a little shaky. “i mean, i just heard from my friends that it’s not even… that good. for a girl, anyway.”

beomgyu laughs at your nervous rambling. he gives a gentle kiss to your thigh again and rubs his thumbs soothingly across your skin. “it will feel good,” he says.

you look away meekly. it’s sweet how shy you get, but beomgyu is very needy and wants your attention back on him. he kisses your clothed cunt just barely, so lightly that he’s not even sure you feel it. your eyes are back on him, though, so he supposes it worked. he runs his finger gently over your folds, waiting for you to tell him to go further.

“wouldn’t it be wrong?” you ask. your body jolts a bit when he applies some pressure to your clit.

“why?” beomgyu doesn’t see why you think it’s fine to give him head, but he can’t do the same for you.

“cause of taehyun,” you answer, voice dying out at the end. any sort of amusement leaves beomgyu in a heartbeat.

“he’d probably care a hell of a lot more if he found out about you sucking my dick and jerking me off.” his fingers get a little angrier against your cunt, dipping down to push at your entrance through your panties. your eyes widen, thighs clamping shut. all it does is trap his hand right where it is, though. 

“t-that was cause i was learning!” you defend. beomgyu draws his hand back and studies your face. he’s trying to see if you really don’t want this or if you’re just being difficult.

“so why’d you come over then?” he asks.

that seems to shut you up. you stare at him all guilty, no answer even attempting to leave your lips.

“that’s what i thought,” beomgyu continues, hand creeping back up your thigh. “will you let me eat you out now?”

your thighs stay pressed together, and beomgyu thinks it’s so cute. you must be embarrassed now. he feels a little bad for you.

“i’m sorry,” he says, a gentle hand on your shoulder guiding you to lay flat against the mattress. “i’m sorry, that was mean.” he pecks your cheek in apology, then looks back at you with a smile. he peppers a few more kisses across your face for good measure.

beomgyu grins when you open your legs back up a little, making room for him. he steals a quick kiss from you before descending down your body, stopping every now and then to nibble at your collarbone, push up your shirt and lick at your waist, suck a mark into your thigh.

his hands sneak under your skirt to find the hem of your panties, tugging at them slightly. “can i take this off?” he asks, watching you blink sweetly at him. you nod eagerly, and it makes his heart skip a beat for some reason.

he peels your panties off slowly, but it feels more like he’s teasing himself than he is you. his head is spinning as soon as he sees your cunt, hands forcing your legs further apart so he can get a better view. he’s salivating like a dog, abandoning all his patience and smothering his face between your legs without a care in the world.

he’s already thrusting against the mattress, he can’t help himself, he doesn’t care how pathetic it is. his tongue is desperate as it works over you, slobbering over your cunt as you writhe and squeal beneath him. he keeps a strong grip on your thighs, not letting you dare try to close them even a little. you’re gasping and lacing your fingers in his hair, motivating him with every little tug you deliver.

“you’re going—nngh, gyu! fuck! going really fast..!” you cry out. he feels how much you’re shaking already, even your hand is unsteady against his scalp. it just turns him on so much fucking more, though. he needs to see you ruined, see how far he can push you.

his tongue pushes into your tight little hole, and his eyes almost roll back from how much resistance he’s met with. fuck, you really are inexperienced. he can’t imagine how he’ll even fit his fingers in there, let alone his dick.

his nose is right against your clit as he fucks his tongue into you. you’re moaning out much whinier than he’s heard from you before, and it does crazy things to him. he wants to fuck you so bad. he’d ram his dick into you, relentless and mean, and you’d take it so well because you’re so wet and so good to him.

he has to make you cum, he needs to feel you fall apart over his tongue. shit—you’ve never even had a guy make you cum before, he’s gonna be the first. the thought fuels him further, doubling his efforts, fingers digging into your skin to keep you still. he feels your walls start clenching down on his tongue, and he wonders how much more it will take before you’re spasming wildly around him.

he pushes his face further against you, desperate to get as close as he possibly can, reach as far into your cunt as his tongue will allow. he needs this more than he needs air, aching to finally taste your orgasm after days of longing for it.

“oh my god, gyu—gyu! i’m..!” you can’t even form coherent sentences, and your words are barely decipherable with how high pitched and whiny they are. you're putting up a hell of a fight against his hold on your thighs, but he doesn’t give. he moans into your pussy once he feels your cunt clamp down on his tongue like a vice, trapping him in so all he can do is curl his tongue up inside you. you’re squirming beneath him, sounding so beautiful and pathetic that he almost cums in his pants.

he only stops once you’re pulling hard at his hair, forcing his head off of you before he can overstimulate you any more. he pulls away panting, catching his breath and licking his lips, staring at your cunt like he’s entranced. the way your arousal still leaks from your entrance is teasing him, making his brain get all foggy.

he has to pull himself away before he gets too ahead of himself and dives into you again. he hovers over your, smiling at how fucked out you look. pride fills his chest knowing that he did this to you. your hand falls onto his shoulder, trailing up his neck and landing on his jaw, cupping his face gently. he decides to kiss you then, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. you must have used up a lot of energy when you came, cause your lips move against his much slower than before.

beomgyu’s still just as needy, though, dick throbbing almost painfully in his pants as he grinds against your thigh. he wishes he had some shame, but that left him the moment you let him take off your panties. he pulls away from your mouth to suck your neck instead, unable to control himself, barely able to cling onto reality right now at all.

“not too hard, don’t mark me there,” you say, trying to pull his face away. he doesn’t even really register your words, too far off in his own world in which you’re some pretty little virgin lying on his bed waiting for him to fuck you.

he just wants to get you all cute and bruised, purple hues all over your body from his mouth or his fingers gripping you tight. you’d never be able to go back to taehyun like that. you’d have to stay right here with beomgyu, be his pretty little toy to use whenever he wants to get you wet and pliant.

you successfully tug him off of you when you pull his hair particularly hard. he pouts at you, finally coming back to reality as he watches your eyes dart across his face. he wonders what you must be searching for.

“how was it?” he asks.

“really good,” you say with an innocent smile that doesn’t match the situation.

“told you,” he laughs, tugging you up and moving you around until you’re sitting in his lap, your back to his chest.

“what are you doing?” you look over your shoulder, eyes big and shiny, and it’s almost like you’re tempting him to kiss you again. he rolls his hips up and grinds against your ass, pulling a gasp from you.

“can’t i get off too?” he asks with a grin, guiding your head back to lean against his shoulder, wanting you to get comfortable. his hands smooth up your thighs and stop at your hips, holding you tight there to keep you in place while he thrusts against you.

he’s obsessed with this, could stay in this moment forever with you. some domestic feeling comes over him, something that urges him to keep you happy, keep you feeling like this all the time. his hands get greedy on your thighs, drawing closer and closer to your core, wanting to feel your heat once again.

he brings a gentle hand to your center, spreading your folds and collecting your arousal. you sigh dreamily, tucking your face into his neck. he feels your lashes flutter as your eyes close, and he wants nothing more than to please you again. he brings his fingers to your clit, rubbing soft circles there, carefully watching your face.

you look so peaceful like this. his heart is aching now and he doesn’t know why. you’re painfully beautiful. why can’t this last forever?

he wraps an arm around your waist, pressing you right into him so he can grind against you deliciously. he moans at the feeling, hastening his pace as he chases his high with more determination. his fingers tease your entrance, wondering what you’d do if he just pushed in a little, only up to his first knuckle. he doesn’t, though, because he wants you to trust him.

“a-are you close?” you ask, hand reaching blindly behind you until it tangles in his hair. he pecks your nose, finding you awfully cute like this.

“yeah. are you?” he returns his attention to your clit, rubbing a little more wildly now. you let out a strangled moan as you nod. he watches your stomach clench and your hips roll. he’s so greedy; he wants to pull away just to keep you here a little longer. anything to keep you from leaving.

his hips work harder against you, blinded by the need to make you his and take you from anyone else. you're twitching uncontrollably, and he realizes that you’re cumming again, which satisfies him so much that he crashes right into his own orgasm. his arm fastens around you tighter, pressing himself as close to you as he can while his seed spills out of his cock.

“so good, so good,” he babbles, fingers flying over your clit, not listening to your protests and whines. he can’t let you go. he doesn’t want this to end.

“too much!” you gasp out, body defenseless to his ministrations. he hushes you with a kiss to your forehead.

“don’t leave yet,” he begs. “there’s still more i wanna do.” he’s selfish, he won’t hide it. he’ll wear his desperation on his sleeve now if that’s what will work.

“gyu!” he doesn’t even know if you’re registering his words. you might be too busy running away from the next orgasm he’s trying to bring you to. he feels how you keep getting wetter—you’re soaking his hand, dripping down your thighs.

“could show you so much,” he rambles, letting his mouth run wild. “i have some vibes we could use. those feel nice, you’d like those. i could get my fingers in you, stretch you out. whatever you want.”

you’re a mess of moans, and your body’s trembling more than he’s ever felt before. you must be getting close again.

“could teach you how to take dick,” he says into your ear, grinning when he feels you shudder. his fingers continue to rub recklessly at your pussy. he doesn’t care about being sweet or gentle or slow—he wants you to be blinded by your need for him, to ache for him so bad you’d shed tears.

“ah, fuck—i’m cumming!” you moan, body going limp as you finally succumb to the feeling. beomgyu feels so proud.

“good job, fuck, just like that. what a good pussy, so perfect,” he praises, words falling past his lips without a thought in the world. he wonders if you’ll be worn down enough to spend the night with him. that’s much more than he should be asking for, but he wants it just as badly as anything else he wants from you.

he finally lets up once you come down, smoothing your skirt back into place. you look so tired as your chest heaves, getting your breathing back to normal. he thinks you’re pretty like this, too.

“do you wanna sleep here?” beomgyu offers, testing his luck. he’s summoning any spirit that wants to be on his side today, chanting prayers in his head that you’ll give in without him having to beg.

you blink up at him slowly. god, you’re already falling asleep. he’s not letting you walk back home like this.

“i shouldn’t…” you say, but you’re already lying back against his mattress. he grins at you and pulls a blanket over your body.

“yeah, you shouldn’t,” he teases. your eyes flutter shut, and he almost wants to take a picture of this. “i’ll get you some water,” he says quietly, walking out of the room to do just that.

he comes back to your sleeping figure, slow breaths filling the room as he places your cup on his nightstand. he might have to buy some lottery tickets tomorrow, he’s feeling insanely lucky.

he changes out of his soiled boxers and sweatpants, quickly throwing on new ones so he can hurry up and lay with you. before he can get in bed beside you, he spots your panties on the floor. he looks back at you, making sure you’re asleep before bending down and swiping them up. he wonders if you’ll believe him tomorrow morning when he says you must’ve lost them.

this is unedited so plz excuse any errors lmfao

[tsunodaradio]

pick your poison, babe (i'm poison either way) ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

♫ and i'll tell you one thing, honey: i can tell when somebody still wants me. come clean.

ꔮ starring: lando norris x dj!reader. ꔮ word count: 2.8k. ꔮ includes: fluff, romance. profanity, mention of alcohol consumption. unspecified monza race win, feelings realization/denial, lando has a crush. title from taylor swift's imgonnagetyouback. ꔮ commentary box: feels apt to dedicate my first post on this blog to the person who introduced me to F1, @norrisradio. papaya forever, baby. this feels like something that could be part of a bigger story, but for now! enjoy a down bad lando. <3 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The Monza podium still feels like a fever dream. The kind of night he should be spending at an over-the-top afterparty, champagne showers and all, with people yelling his name like he hadn’t just spent two hours driving for his life. 

Instead of basking in the glow of P3 with the rest of the grid, Lando finds himself tugging the brim of a McLaren cap lower over his eyes, slipping past the bouncer of an underground rave.

He mumbles something unintelligible when the bouncer glances at him for a beat too long, and the guy doesn’t press. Maybe he doesn't care, or maybe he just thinks Lando’s another kid trying too hard to look mysterious. Either way, Lando is grateful. 

Lando hurries down the narrow hallway, his trainers squeaking against the concrete floor as the bass rattles through the venue like a pulse.He tells himself he’s here for the music. That he’s been desperate for a proper night out, a way to blow off steam without the whole world watching. 

But the truth is, he knows exactly who’s playing tonight. He’d seen the lineup on Instagram— your name sandwiched between two other local DJs— and something in him short-circuited.

You’ve met a couple of times, exchanged a handful of words over mixing decks at a mutual friend’s house party in Monaco. He picked up DJ-ing as a hobby a few years back, a way to kill time between races. 

He had become painfully aware of how much of an amateur he was the moment you’d started playing. You made it look effortless. 

He’d been hooked since.

Not in a crush way, obviously.

That would be ridiculous.

Lando shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and follows the glow of LED lights deeper into the venue. The air smells like sweat and cheap liquor, the crowd a chaotic mess of limbs and blurry faces. People bump into him, and Lando mutters apologies swallowed up by the music.

He clocks you at the DJ booth almost immediately.

It’s embarrassing how quickly he finds you. How his eyes cut through the sea of bodies like they’ve been trained on you this whole time. 

You’re lit up in shades of red and blue, fingers dancing across the soundboard with a kind of swagger that makes Lando want to rip his cap off and run straight back to the paddock.

He tells himself he won’t get too close. That he’ll hang back, maybe grab a drink and nod along like he’s just here for the vibe. But then you glance up from the decks, and your gaze flickers through the crowd like you can sense him there. 

Lando panics, jerking to the side and bumping into someone holding a full cup of beer. “Mate,” the guy groans, shaking liquid off his arm, but Lando doesn’t even register it. 

His pulse is hammering, a bead of sweat rolling down the back of his neck. Must be the heat, he thinks to himself. 

He’s not nervous. 

He’s not.

Lando leans against a graffiti-splattered wall, heart in his throat as the bass thrums through his chest. He’ll stay for a bit. Maybe until your set ends. Maybe until you step off the stage, and he can casually, accidentally cross paths with you.

Just to say ‘hi’. 

Nothing else. 

The beat thrums through the floor, reverberating up Lando's spine like the aftershock of a race. Bodies move in synchronized chaos under the strobing lights, but he only sees you.

You, perched behind the DJ booth, fingers deftly turning dials and sliding faders. Your hair is damp with sweat, the glint of neon catching on your skin. You look like you belong here— like the music isn't just something you play, but something you breathe.

Lando tells himself he’s just appreciating the artistry, the technical skill. 

It has nothing to do with the way his chest tightens every time you flash a grin at the crowd.

His feet start moving before his brain can catch up. He snakes through the crowd, heart hammering harder than it did on the podium. He angles himself perfectly— or so he convinces himself— lingering just by the side of the stage. 

When you descend, your set concluded, your shoulder brushes his chest. Lando executes the most intentional accidental bump in history.

“Oh, shit— sorry!” 

He barely registers your words. The second your eyes meet his, he knows he’s completely screwed. 

Recognition blooms on your face like a firework. When you smile at him, it feels like the entire world tilts.

“Lando Norris?” you laugh, incredulous. “What are you doing here?”

He tugs his cap lower, hoping it might shield him from how devastatingly charming you are. “Just thought I’d check out the music scene,” he lies, his voice failing to land anywhere near casual.

You cock your head, suspicious but amused. “And you just so happened to end up at my set?”

Lando swallows, throat tight. “Just my luck,” he says, the words brittle on his tongue.

You laugh, the sound bright and sharp despite the dozens of other noises warring for his attention. The music hums through Lando’s body like a second heartbeat, but it dulls to a murmur the longer he stands next to you. 

He’s keenly aware of every movement you make. The way you tuck loose strands of hair behind your ear, the lingering adrenaline in your smile, the subtle shift of your weight as you rock on your heels.

“You here with anyone?” you ask, voice still pitched a little louder from your set. “Want anything? A drink?”

Lando shakes his head so quickly he almost gives himself whiplash. “No, I’m good. Thanks, though.” He licks his lips, nerves writhing in his chest like live wires. And because he’s a masochist, he asks, “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Here with anyone.”

You tilt your head, brows lifting. For a second, Lando thinks he’s made a mistake, that you’re about to brush him off, but then you shake your head with an easy grin.

“Nope,” you say. “Just me.”

The knot in Lando’s stomach loosens, and the relief is instant— almost shameful in how palpable it is. He feels a little steadier now, a little more like himself. The familiar tinge of confidence edges its way back into his voice.

“Well,” he starts, just on the right side of teasing, “I hope I’m not keeping you from anything.”

Your gaze lingers on him, contemplating. Lando swears his pulse stutters.

After a beat, you shrug. “Nowhere better to be.”

A small, smug smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but he bites it back. “Guess that makes two of us,” he says, just loud enough for you to hear. 

The bass thumps back to life, rippling through the crowd like a living thing, and you tilt your head at Lando, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Do pretty little drivers like you even know how to rave?” you ask, voice raised over the music.

Lando scoffs, the sound drowned out by the beat. He lifts his chin, his usual cocky edge peeking through. “Do pretty little DJs like you know how to drive?” 

You laugh; Lando thinks he could live off the sound. Before he knows it, you’re tugging him back into the crowd, bodies pressing in on either side as the music surges. The neon lights flicker across your skin, and Lando, without really meaning to (or maybe meaning to a little too much), lets the crowd shift him closer to you. Shoulder brushing shoulder, arm to arm, fingertips grazing as you both move to the rhythm.

It’s a flimsy excuse to touch you, and he’s pathetically grateful for it.

You notice the way his eyes flicker to the occasional flash of a camera, the way he subtly angles his face down to keep the shadow of his cap in place. You lean in, close enough that your lips nearly graze the shell of his ear. Instinctively, he tilts his head down so you can reach him without straining too much. 

“Tell me, Norris,” you tease, your voice a low hum that curls through his chest, “are you still racing?” 

“What?” he sputters out with a laugh. 

“Answer the question,” you insist, unable to hold back your own laughs. “Are you racing away from something? Racing towards something?” 

Lando knows the answer. That doesn’t make things any easier. And so he does what he does best— play it off, be incorrigible. “Pardon?” he asks, feigning the hardness of hearing. “You have to speak up!” 

You roll your eyes, the expression making you look a lot cuter than Lando cares to admit. “Nevermind,” you holler, pulling away. 

The pang of loss he feels is incomparable to his relief. For the next hour or so, that’s how he dodges your more invasive queries. 

“Why are you really here, Norris?” you ask at one point, voice raised to cut through the noise. 

Lando cups a hand around his ear and squints at you like he’s struggling to understand. “Sorry, what did you say?”

You shake your head but try again. “Why are you here?”

“Did you just ask if I’ve got hair in my ear?!”

You smack his shoulder, but he only grins wider, reveling in the way your touch lingers just a little longer than necessary. “You’re impossible,” you huff, but your smile softens the words.

A beat passes, and then you add, quieter, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Lando’s chest tightens. For a second, he forgets how to breathe. He recovers fast, though, leaning closer until his forehead nearly bumps yours. “Yeah,” he says, voice low but clear despite the music. “That’s what I thought you said.”

Your eyes narrow in suspicion, catching him out. “So you can hear me!”

He laughs, and laughs, and laughs, feeling very much like he won for a second time that night. 

The night wears on. Lando could keep going, really, but then your hand grazes his wrist. A fleeting touch before you beckon him with a tilt of your head. Lando follows without a word, the warmth of your fingers lingering on his skin like a brand.

He keeps his head down, tugging his cap lower as you weave through the venue. He glances around often, wary eyes flitting to clusters of people, to the occasional glint of a camera lens reflecting the strobes.

“I promise you’re not going to have dating rumors come tomorrow,” you say, catching his unease. Your voice is low, teasing, but there’s a sincerity beneath it that makes his chest ache.

“Promise?” he asks, trying to match your tone, but his voice wavers.

You smile, throwing a casual look over your shoulder. “Swear on it.”

Lando doesn’t know how you manage to navigate the labyrinthine corridors of the venue, weaving through bodies and shadowy hallways with practiced ease. You take him through a side door and up a flight of stairs, the clatter of your footsteps echoing in the narrow space.

At the top, you push open another door. Suddenly, you’re outside. The rooftop stretches out before you, bathed in the glow of the distant city lights. The air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming flowers and lingering smoke. From up here, the music is a distant hum, the chaos below reduced to a quiet murmur.

You walk over to the edge, resting your elbows on the ledge. “Better?” you ask, looking at him out of the corner of your eye.

Lando exhales all the tension in his body before settling next to you. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Better.”

The view is breathtaking. Monza sprawls out beneath you, a patchwork of golden lights against the darkened landscape. Lando watches you tip your head back to look at the sky, the faint sheen of sweat on your skin catching the glow from the streetlights. 

You’re radiant. 

It’s not fair. 

“Is this your usual post-set ritual?” he asks, leaning his forearms on the ledge.

“Kinda,” you answer vaguely. “Helps me clear my head.” 

Lando hums in agreement, though his head feels anything but clear. His heart is still pounding— not from the dancing, not from the adrenaline of sneaking around, but from being this close to you.

You half-turn to face him, your shoulder brushing against his. “So,” you start, playful but quiet. “Are you finally going to tell me why you’re really here?”

“Ah.” Lando laughs at your attempt to double down. “So that’s what this is. A trap.” 

You arch a brow. “I mean, it’s a fair question. Podium finisher skips team dinner to go rave in Monza?”

Lando squints at you, a slow grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Wait,” he starts slowly, “you knew I podiumed?”

“Everyone knows,” you deflect, looking back out over the city lights.

He inches closer, eyes gleaming. “You checked.”

You don’t even hesitate, barreling on where Lando might’ve sidetracked. “Of course I did,” you say. “I wanted to know if you’d win.”

Lando blinks, caught completely off guard. The rush of exhilaration that barrels through him is almost disorienting. “You were rooting for me?”

“You act like that’s weird.” You glance at him again, the corner of your mouth twitching upward. “I may not know much about racing, but I know enough to hope you’d end up on top.”

Lando’s throat bobs with a hard swallow. He doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know how to process the fact that you— the person who makes him feel like he’s spinning out even when he’s on solid ground— had been watching, keeping tabs.

He clears his throat, feigning nonchalance. “I guess I had to come celebrate with my number one fan, then.”

You snort. “I never said I was your number one fan.”

He clutches his chest like you’ve physically wounded him. “Ouch. Brutal.”

You laugh, the sound echoing into the night, and Lando fears it’s becoming his new favorite noise. Much better than the squeal of tires, the roar of crowds, the electronic dance music that’d been spun downstairs. 

“So?” you prompt, turning to face him fully. “Why are you here, Mr. P3?”

He tilts his head, mouth curling up in a sly smile. “What was that?”

Your eyes narrow. “Don’t start.”

“Couldn’t hear you,” he quips, cupping a hand to his ear. “Something about my heart?”

You push off the railing. “I swear, Norris—”

"Okay, okay!" He laughs, hands raised in surrender.

The second your expression softens, though, he falters. 

The truth sticks to the roof of his mouth like honey, too sweet and too heavy to spit out. He glances down, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the concrete. “I just… wanted to unwind. Long weekend. And…” 

Fuck it. Lando swallows. Scratches the back of his neck. “Maybe I wanted to see you play.”

The words slip out like he’s admitting a felony. He doesn’t dare look at you, afraid of what he might find in your face. Amusement, pity, or worse— understanding. Because you’re smart enough to figure it out, figure him out. Because you probably already know what he’s danced around this entire evening.

He risks a glance, and his heart stutters.

You’re smiling.

Not in a way that mocks or patronizes, but something softer. Something that knots him up inside.

“Maybe?” you echo, tilting your head.

Lando exhales, rubbing a hand over his face like he can physically scrub the embarrassment away. He takes a careful step closer, shrugging like the confession doesn’t carry the weight of the world.

“Okay, probably,” he relents. “But, like, only a little.”

You hum, pretending to think it over, and Lando swears his heart is trying to punch a hole through his chest.

“I can live with that,” you say after a moment. 

It’s not much. It’s not a denial, not an acceptance, but it’s not like Lando is asking for anything, either. 

He could, he realizes. Ask what you have planned after this, ask if you’d like to chase each other through Monza’s streets like one of those old romantic comedies his mum would make him sit through. 

Instead, he only manages a soft, almost breathless, “Yeah?” 

The hope in his tone is a dangerous, treacherous thing. It’s almost as damning as the way he shifts just a little bit closer to you, the two of you leaning back against the railing. 

Lando isn’t going to kiss you tonight. He knows that much. 

Not tonight, but maybe—

“Yeah.” Your voice sounds just like his. Tender, hopeful. A whisper of I don’t mind seeing you, a promise of next time. Wherever and whenever that might be.  

Your shoulders press against each other. 

Neither of you pull away. ⛐

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

Baby Preparations

Sam and Dean & pregnant little sister!reader

Requested by Anonymous

Synopsis: you’re pregnant, that’s literally it, that’s the plot

Warnings: short and sweet, pregnancy and tooth-rotting fluff

“Sam!”

Your voice calling out Sam’s name had him doing a 180, heading back from the direction he’d came to find you. You were sitting on the floor of the War Room, and instead of the usual newspaper clippings and lore books, there were dozens of paint sample cards.

“You need something?” He asked.

You held out your hands to him, as if you were 6 years old again and asking to be carried.

“I can’t stand up,” you huffed. At Sam’s light snicker, you scowled. “It’s not funny! I can’t move!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” But Sam couldn’t keep the grin off his face as he helped you to your feet. “How’s my nephew doing?”

“He kicks like he’s a dang Winchester,” you grumbled, rubbing your stomach. “And every time he moves I have to pee, and he—“

“Ok, ok.” Sam stopped you, holding up his hands in surrender. “I get the picture, and I really don’t need to know more.”

“Coward,” you scoffed.

“Hey, when it comes to my baby sister’s pregnancy, you bet I am,” Sam admitted.

“Has anyone seen my pie?” Dean’s question could be heard before he even entered the room, a quizzical and grumpy expression on his face.

“The baby wanted it,” you answered, drawing an eye-roll and a huff from your oldest brother.

“Is that always gonna be your answer?” He demanded.

“Not always,” you admitted. “Just maybe another two months until this guy is eating his own food, not mine.”

Dean face twisted, but he didn’t argue—he never did anymore, and you took full advantage of it. Sam saw right through how you were playing Dean like a kazoo, but he didn’t comment on it; it was too much fun to watch.

“Fine,” Dean grumbled. “I’m gonna go on a run.”

Without a word, you pulled a piece of paper from your pocket and handed it to Dean.

“Again?” He demanded. “It better not be full of weird snacks again.”

“Last time wasn’t that weird,” you insisted.

“I’ve never bought so many pickles or marshmallows in my life,” Dean scoffed.

“It’s marshmallow fluff, not marshmallows,” you corrected.

“Remind me why I’m doing this again?” Dean asked.

“Because my stomach doesn’t fit behind the steering wheel anymore.” You grinned. “And you never let me drive Baby anyway, so you get to make the runs.”

“Fine,” Dean caved. “But if I see orange-flavored beef jerky on here again, I’m throwing the list away.”

…

“Hey Sam?”

Sam glanced up from his lore book to see you still staring at your paint samples.

“Yeah?” He asked.

“I can’t pick a color. Can you help?”

Sam shrugged, ditching his book and coming to your side.

“You really can’t pick?”

“I just…” you huffed. “I want it to be perfect.”

“I don’t really think the baby’s gonna care,” Sam argued.

You were quiet for a long moment, and Sam watched as you started to pick at your hands.

“Hey.” Sam’s hand over yours stilled you. “What’s got you all worked up?”

“I mean…we-we never got anything like this. You know, the rooms and—and a house. But Charlie will…and I want it to be perfect.”

Sam smiled—he loved hearing his nephew’s name, the one you’d chosen to honor your best friend—and rested his hands on your shoulder.

“Charlie doesn’t need the perfect room paint to have a happy childhood. He already has so much more than we had—he has a home, and he has a wonderful mother. He’s gonna grow up so happy—it’s not gonna be like how it was with us.”

“Ok.” You took a deep breath. “Ok, thanks Sam.”

“Any time. And you should totally choose the green.”

Taglist:

@nyotamalfoy @mrvlxgrl @chocorade @aestheticdaisies @inlovewhithafairytale @that-wannabe-vangoghgurl @casmustdiee @987coley @deadlymistletoe @wayward-impala83 @whump-loverz @johannelis2302nely @studiogrimm810 @tell-elle

[eliasmelody]

He Doesn’t Say I Love You, He Says…

Tag: RAFAYEL x f!reader, Mutual pinning, fluff, short fic Warning: grammar & spelling

“Oh how sweet is time for allowing you and I to live in the same lifetime.” - Love and Wine

✦.────────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ────────── .✦

You let out a soft chuckle, unable to hold back your amusement. He turns his head slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with a curious expression.

You two just emerged from the ocean, the cool waves retreating behind you as you step onto the shore. Dress clings to your skin, heavy with seawater, droplets cascading down in shimmering trails.

Rafayel drapes a towel over your shoulders, the fabric cool and slightly rough against your damp skin. He moves with quiet focus, gently patting away the seawater clinging to you, his touch careful, almost hesitant.

"What’s so funny?" He asks, his voice laced with curiosity.

You shake your head, still grinning. "Nothing. Just… you."

His brows raise slightly, intrigued. "Me?"

You nod, but you don’t elaborate. The words are there, lingering just behind your lips, but saying them out loud feels like crossing a line you’re not sure you’re ready to step over.

"Oh, how weird destiny is…" You murmur, a hint of wonder in your voice.

Taking a moment to admire him, a warm smile spreading across your lips. There’s something about this moment, as if the universe had conspired to bring you both here, right now.

"Out of all the infinite roads I might have taken, fate has led me here…"

Eyes soften as you gaze at him with quiet admiration.

"To you."

He holds your gaze for a moment, his eyes widening slightly as your words sink in His lips part slightly, as if to respond, but no words come. Instead, he exhales a quiet, breathless laugh, one of disbelief, maybe, or something deeper, something he isn’t ready to name.

A faint flush creeps up his cheeks. After a brief pause, he dares to glance at you again, his eyes flickering with something soft and uncertain.

"You say that like it’s a good thing." He murmurs, his voice quieter than usual, almost careful.

You tilt your head, smiling softly. "Isn’t it?"

His throat bobs as he swallows, his gaze searching yours, as if trying to find some trace of hesitation, some sign that you don’t truly mean it. But all he finds is sincerity, steady, unwavering.

And that terrifies him.

Because if destiny really did lead you to him, what happens if he isn’t meant to keep you?

But as he looks into your adoring eyes, something shifts. He doesn’t like hearing "Happy Birthday." He’s lived too long, heard it too many times, it lost meaning long ago. But you… you make it feel different.

You don’t just speak the words. You give them weight. You give him meaning in a way nothing else ever has.

And for the first time, he isn’t afraid of destiny.

Because if fate brought you to him, then maybe, just maybe, it intends for you to stay.

And that thought doesn’t terrify him at all.

"You should know that a Lumerian never parts with their greatest treasure."

Because no matter what destiny has planned, no matter what twists and turns the future holds…

"And I would sooner let the ocean take me than lose you."

Because you are his fate now, his most precious treasure, one he’ll never let slip from his grasp.

✦.────────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ────────── .✦ Art work and char: belong to Infold Game ✦.────────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ────────── .✦

Our Shayla 😭💜 Small fic cause school is back baby

[evillama666]

“Taking it slow”

“Taking it slow”

Daryl Dixon x reader

When I think about Daryl being in a relationship, I think about how slow he’ll need to take things. I, for one, like taking things slow. Daryl is new to this, of course you're going to have to teach him things and be patient. As much as I love confident and cocky Daryl, it’s going to take him a minute to actually get there. There’s going to be lots of baby steps! 

Summary: Must I explain much? Slowly entering a relationship with Daryl and getting comfortable 

Tags: Fluff, baby steps, inexperienced, headcannons, cuddles!!! No specific era or season

Word count: 4765

꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…

You’ve known Daryl since Atlanta. Of course, you two have been through a lot together, so he’s grown to care about you. Like the way he cares about Carol but, maybe more. You’ve seen him grow as a person, and all he’s gone through. You’ve always been there for him for everything, even if he tried to push you away at times. You two have a very close relationship, but lately, it seems to have been getting closer. Daryl needs a deep emotional connection with someone before anything happens. He’s probably on the ace spectrum. It makes sense. He’ll fall for anyone, doesn’t matter who, as long as they appreciate him. He just needs to feel loved. He’s bi just doesn’t know it or acknowledged it. 

You had to reassure him you can go slow, like really slow. You’d happily teach him everything since he’s never done this before. Eventually, he reluctantly gave in. First step was touches. He wasn’t used to affectionate touches. Whenever you touched him, he flinched. There was clearly some trauma bubbling up, so you never pushed. Eventually he trusted your touch and stopped flinching, even began to crave it. However, he doesn’t enjoy being affectionate in front of the group. That’s something you can put up with. If you want this to work, you have to respect his boundaries or he’ll push you away. Sometimes he’ll casually put his hand on your shoulder, or graze your arm around the group to show his appreciation. 

It took a while for your first kiss, and another week for your second. Sex would take even longer, but that’s not on your mind right now. The first kiss, he was hesitant, unsure, but when your lips brushed against his, he melted and kissed you back. Of course, you had to make the first move. His touches were slow, shy, and a bit clumsy, and he didn’t know where to put his hands. He was a mess after that kiss. That’s why it took so long for the second. However, the second one felt much more natural. He put one hand on your cheek, the other on your hip to pull you in close. He even used some tongue. His touches were much more confident. He’s a fast learner, after all. You're not sure where he picked that up from, but you liked it. He doesn’t kiss you often though, he’s still getting used to it.

He needs lots of reassurance from you. He always feels like he’s doing something wrong or it’s not good enough. If you teach him something new or if he picks something up from you, like something you do to him, he’s very tentative and hesitant. He’ll gradually feel more comfortable after you reassure him he’s fine. This man cannot make the first move. Not yet anyway. He needs you to give him a sign that it’s fine. There’s a lot of little affectionate gestures he wants to show you, but he’s just too shy. He’ll get more comfortable as time goes on and touch you whenever without hesitation. (:  For now anyway, he’s fighting with himself a lot. 

He has a lot of thoughts about how he’s not good enough, not handsome enough, doesn’t deserve you, you can do better. Thoughts along those lines. Why do you think he needs so much reassurance? When you two first started getting closer, he had a lot of those thoughts, so he pushed you away, avoided you. Little did he know is you melt those thoughts when you're around. He feels most at ease around you. It’s like you clear his mind. Of course, you gave him his space at first, but eventually you had to be near him. That little push made him realize how nice it feels to be around you. However, if you push too hard, he’ll push you away. He’s like a scared puppy. He has to make his way to you. 

We all know Daryl is a man of action, not words. He won't say ‘I love you’ too often, not early on anyway, but he’ll show you. He’ll pick up little trinkets for you on runs, let you have the first serving of food, or pick up rocks that match the colour of your eyes. When he’s more comfortable with touches, he’ll always show you small acts of affection to make up for his lack of words. Lots of little kisses everywhere and soft touches. He’s only gentle with you.

(Present)

He’s sitting on a log by the fire eating alone while the rest of the group is either still asleep, or grabbing food. You come up behind him slowly so you don’t startle him, and kiss his shoulder as you step over the log and sit. He grunts in surprise before smiling just slightly. He’s been getting more comfortable with your touches. He didn’t even mind that the group was near for that one, not like anyone of that actually saw. “Mornin’.” He says in a gruff voice, swallowing his food. You’re sitting closer than usual. He shudders when your shoulder brushes his. “Morning!” You reply cheerfully. 

His face scrunches when you kiss the corner of his lips, thinking he won’t want a proper one just yet. You were mistaken. He glances at the group behind him before cupping your cheek and pressing a quick peck to your lips. He looks back down at his bowl like nothing happened. He’s sure the group has picked up what’s been going on between you two. You two have been sharing a tent, after all. Your eyes widen after that quick kiss. “You’ve been getting bold lately.” He must be feeling comfortable. He just shrugs, quietly eating. You notice how he keeps looking over his shoulder at the group. “Worried about what the group will think?”

He looks back at you. His eyes say everything. You’ve gotten better at reading them since he’s so quiet. “How about we try something simple?” He thinks for a second, then nods. He’s been trying to work with you, push past his boundaries. Anything for you. He sighs contently when you lay your head on his shoulder. That’s something he can handle. He looks back and gets a small smile from Carol. Yea, she knows. She’s glad he found someone…. Or more like someone found him. 

He watches you from the corner of his eye as you eat. He’s always watching you, observing, trying to figure out how you work. Also… admiring you. He doesn’t get how such a pretty thang could fall for him. Why you're willing to go through so much to be with him. He usually has to push those thoughts away. When he finishes his food, he lays his head on top of yours. You both aren’t getting any looks from the group, so he’s willing to be affectionate right now. You set your food down, wanting to soak up this moment. You don’t get to many of these. “Are you going hunting again?”

“ ‘Course.” He closes his eyes, allowing himself a moment of vulnerability. You sigh softly, knowing this moment won’t last too long. “I’ll be waiting for you.” He holds you for a moment before he pulls away, standing up to go grab his crossbow. You look down at your food with a slight pout. You know he’s just trying to fend for the group, but he always spends the whole day hunting. He ruffles your hair before heading off to the woods, and you give him one last look.

Nighttime is your favourite with Daryl. He’ll come back, feeling exhausted from hunting, wanting nothing more than to just cuddle with you. He’ll be more affectionate since you two have the privacy of your tent. You tiredly lift your head when you hear the tent zipper. “Daaryl.” You say his name softly with affection. He hates the way his heart reacts each time you say his name like that. “Hey sw-” He cuts himself off before he lets ‘sweetheart’ slip. You wish he would just say it, but you’ll take what you’ll get. “How’d it go?” Daryl groans as he takes off his vest. He’s sore after a long day and can’t wait to cuddle with you. “Mmmh… Didn’t get shit, but set up some traps.” He huffs as he collapses on the pile of blankets on the tent floor. His eyes close as you run your fingers through your hair. This is when he lets you touch him. Let’s you push past his borders and boundaries. This is the time for you to test new things. Push him just a little. His eyes open when he hears you giggle after you boop his nose. There’s a small smile on his lips. “Enjoying yaself?” You scooch closer and nod. “Uh-huh.” He leans into your hand as you rub his hair. He wouldn’t ever admit it, but he’s clingy. You might get a few shy kisses from him, but you're usually doing all the work. Not that you mind, this man needs all the affection in the world. He sinks into the blankets as he unwinds from the day. “Ready for bed, Daryl?”

“More first.” He mumbles, enjoying the way you play with his hair. He’s never loud, but you can hear a few pleased sighs and content hums from him. He groans as your hand moves from his hair down to his shoulder, rubbing his taut muscles. “Damn…” He groans out. He didn’t think this would be so nice. His mind has always been focused on survival. He never stopped to consider the perks of a relationship. If he knew you’d do this for him every night, he would have probably been with you a lot sooner. “You like that?” 

“Hell yea.” His voice is barely audible. This man is in pure bliss right now. You need nothing more to be perfectly happy with him. It brings you such satisfaction to get him like this. He doesn’t even realize how vulnerable he is. That thought didn’t cross his mind. All he knows is how warm and safe you make him feel. Feeling a bit bold, you move your hand down to his chest.

His eyes open and he grabs your wrist, before seeing your look of surprise. He holds it for a second before letting go. Sometimes you’ll get something like that when you cross a boundary he’s not ready for. So, doing something you know he’s comfortable with, you bring your hand to his cheek, stroking your thumb over his goatee. His eyes close once he relaxes again. His head sinks against his pillow as he sighs.

You love the soft little sounds you're able to pull out of him. It’s a sign that you're doing something good. These are the times he’s most relaxed. When you're showing him affection. It’s easiest to read him when he’s vulnerable. Figure out what he likes, what he doesn't. Which isn’t much since he loves all the affection you give him. That’s what he needed in his life.

He grabs your wrist again, making you feel you did something wrong. Your brows furrow when he pushes himself up, then leans over you. “How do I…?” Oh, he wants to reciprocate. He hasn’t really done that. This must be growth. “Just do what feels natural.” He just looks at you, waiting for you to give him some more direct directions. “Uh… start with kisses. Kiss me wherever you’d like.” His eyes roam over your face and neck as he nods. He lowers his head, his lips just above yours, then he hesitates. You don’t close the gap, not wanting to push him. You want him to be able to make his way to you. He swallows thickly before tentatively pressing his lips to yours. You don’t kiss back until he does. For such a rough man, he has the softens lips you've ever kissed. 

He’s using this kiss to memorise your lips. All his other kisses were usually quick and shy. He never really felt your lips. After a good minute he sighs heavily against your lips as he pulls away. Then he moves his face down to your neck. He keeps his head buried there, enjoying your soft warm skin before he finds your pulse point and kisses it, since it's most vulnerable. It’s his way of showing you’re safe with him. One of your hands makes it to his hair. It’s gotten so long, it’s easy to tangle your fingers in it.

His hair is one of his favourite places to be touched. Why do you think he grew it out? You ruffled it once, back when it was short and he was hooked. He trails a couple of kisses down your throat before lifting his head for reassurance. He’s always asking for reassurance from you. He wants to be doing all of this right. You brush his hair out of his face. “That’s good, that’s good. Feels nice.” Your voice is breathless. He must be doing a damn good job if he was able to get you to sound like that. 

That’s all the confirmation he needs. He’s treating your skin so delicately. He hits a few sensitive spots that make you pull his hair. So those are the sweet spots? Duly noted. Now Daryl knows where to focus. You don’t know what this is leading to, if anything. Either way, you're happy. This is the most expressive Daryl has been since the two of you have gotten closer. His kisses are slow and soft, trying to make up for all the affection he hasn’t shown you yet.

Then he slowly lowers his weight on your chest, making sure not to crush you, and just lays there. There’s a lot going through his mind, there always is. You’re happily playing with his hair. His weight on your chest is soothing. It seems like he needs a minute, so you’re giving him all the time he needs. You don’t press, just leave him be. It must be a lot for him, but you're proud he pushed himself. You press a little kiss to his hair as a way to tell him he did good. You two have a way of communicating in silence. 

His brows furrow as he struggles with his thoughts. Is he doing this right? Why is it so difficult for him? He cares about you. Cares about you deeply, but it’s just so hard for him to get himself to show you. His thoughts get interrupted as you ruffle his hair. It’s like you’re directly scratching those thoughts away. He must be doing ok since you’ve never complained. 

He nuzzles his face into your chest. It’s the warmest part of you, so he loves it. That and your thighs. He loves laying his head in your lap, having his hair played with as you talk about your day. “Sleepy?” You ask quietly. He just grunts in response. Yea, he’s tired, but if he goes to bed, that means no more kisses. He tugs on your shirt like a child, silently asking for more. You happily give them to him, placing kisses all over the top of his head. He’s trying hard not to doze off. He craves more, but the warmth is getting to him. 

You lightly nudge his shoulder to see if he fell asleep. Apparently not, as he lifts his head with a small grunt. “Sorry. Thought you were asleep.” He huffs at that idea as he lowers his head. “Don’ wanna.” Wow, he sounded like a whiny child. You brush his hair back, trying to get him to look at you again. “Why not?” You're always trying to get Daryl to communicate. Even if it’s not vocal. Sometimes if he wants a kiss, he’ll nudge you or lay his head on your shoulder until you do something. Those moments are so cute.

He’s reluctant to speak. He’s not good and not used to voicing what he wants. “Wan- need more.” You laugh softly. Just a few words are good enough. You cup his cheek in your hand as you kiss all over his face. His face scrunches and he sucks in a breath before relaxing. And look at that, his cheeks are pink. Daryl loves and hates all the tingles your kisses leave behind. He never thought they could do that. He thought a kiss was a kiss, but you’ve taught him they're so much more than that. He lays his head back on your chest, listening to your heartbeat. It’s one of his favourite sounds. Your heartbeat, laughs and giggles, your breaths when you sleep, and the way your voice gets when you're excited or talking about something you're passionate about. 

Once he heard your voice get like that when you were talking about him to Carol. That’s when he figured you must truly have feelings for him. You’ve never once faked that voice. Thinking back, there were a lot of signs he missed. Maybe you didn't realize, or maybe you needed to take your time before you told him. Either way, he knows you’ve cared for him for a damn long time. 

He slowly untangles himself from you. Your hand lingers in his hair as you watch him pull away. Then his hands drop to his belt. Assuming he’s just taking it off for bed, you close your eyes and cuddle up with a blanket. He’s never taken his jeans off to sleep, even though you’ve told him to because, let’s be real, sleeping in jeans is uncomfortable. Maybe he’s not comfortable yet to let you see him like that. Your eyes snap open when you hear his fly. Damn, maybe tonight’s different. You catch a glimpse of the bulge in his boxers before forcing yourself to look away to give him some privacy. This is the first time he’s done this. Don’t ruin it by ogling him like a perv.

He slips under the blanket with you, cuddling your back, wrapping an arm around your waist. He presses a small kiss on your shoulder before closing his eyes. “Night.” You glance at him as he settles against his pillow. “G’night handsome.” A small breath of amusement passes his nose. You’ve been slowly easing into calling him pet names. He buries his face into the crook of your neck as he falls asleep.

The longer you slept with Daryl, the fewer nightmares he had. Of course, one will pop up once in a while, but mostly, his nights are peaceful with you. He loves using you as a pillow or holding you to his chest, using your weight for deep pressure therapy. It helps with nightmares. The warmth from your body is his favourite. Sleeping in a tent, the nights get cold, so he likes to snuggle close. He likes to think he’s doing this to keep you warm, but he’s doing it for his own comfort.

The first couple times he slept with you, he’d get up with the sun and leave, going on about his normal routine. One morning he slept in later than he wanted but didn't mind after he watched you wake up. You were so cute, all groggy, clinging to him, still pretty out of it, and so natural. But what he really liked? Your morning voice. It was so soft, softer than usual. Now he’s heard you use a soft voice with him before but this felt different. He ended up starting his day a lot later because he enjoyed watching you be all disoriented as you woke. He found it so interesting. He thought you were so beautiful at that moment. Like you were unreal. 

The first night you invited him to sleep over at your tent, he didn't cuddle. Sure, he let you touch him a little, but he kept to himself as he fell asleep. You tried to get him closer but he kept his distance. All your little touches were still new for him so cuddles would’ve been too overwhelming. However he slowly made his way to you. That’s how it works. You need to let him make his way to you. Let him take his time. 

He always wakes up before you. He’s just used to waking up early. Waking up before you, he’s always greeted with your sleeping form. He gets to see you at peak vulnerability. When you wake up, he’s sitting beside you, quietly watching with a soft gaze. He’s already got his jeans and vest back on. He watches as you blink rapidly to clear the blurriness. Now he’s waiting for you to see him and cuddle close. He’s memorised the way you work each morning. And there it is, you're grabbing him, trying to pull him down, so he’s laying with you. He happily complies. 

He brushes your hair out of your face, then glances at your lips. Is this the right time to kiss you? Should he wait until you’re fully awake? He doesn’t know. He wants you to engage first. That way, he knows you actually want it. He’s always afraid of crossing a boundary. Fuck it. He’s going to go for it. You’ll tell him if you didn’t like it right? You're so much better at communicating than him.  He pushes his lips against yours, lingering for a moment, before pulling away. The happy hum he got from you makes him feel better. He’s considering a way to push himself a little further, but not entirely, so he’s not out of his comfort zone. Soooo... “Mornin’ sweetheart.”

Your eyes light up when he finally calls you that. He’s been wanting to for a while, he was just too shy. “Good morning, handsome!” Your excited demeanour makes him chuckle. Ok, so you like that. He’ll call you that more just to see you react like that. He runs his hand through your hair, trying to smooth it out. “Ya lookin’ a lil’ messy.” A small pout forms on your lips then you get an idea. “Would you like to brush it?”

His hand falters. That’s a very intimate act for him… but it seems easy enough. That’s something that can ease him into something more. He nods once with a grunt. You sit up, grabbing your brush, then sit in front of him. He hesitates as he looks at your hair. It’s messy, and he doesn’t want to hurt you. He’s rough with his hair on the rare occasion when he brushes it, but he knows he can’t be like that with you. You look over your shoulder when he doesn’t start brushing. “I’ll let you know if you pull.” He sighs as he brushes the ends of your hair. He’s brushing slowly, being extra mindful not to hurt you. “How’s tha’?” 

You close your eyes. You can feel how careful he’s being. “You’re doing good.” While brushing your hair, he only snags a couple times, but it’s not enough to really hurt you. Still, he feels like shit. “You’ll get better the more you do it.” He pauses. You’ll let him brush your hair more? He… really likes that idea. He runs his fingers through your hair, making sure he didn’t miss any knots. Then he tries something you always do to him. He lightly scritches your head, drawing giggles from him. “Haha, Daryl!” You laugh, leaning back against his chest and he wraps an arm around you. He’s learned the way you play with his hair, so he has some idea about how he’s supposed to do it. He presses his head against your shoulder, leaving little kisses. He’s observing your reactions, seeing what makes you react how. See, he’s learning. “I’m not goin’ huntin’ today.”

“Why-” You get cut off as he pulls you down with him. “Oh.” You laugh, cuddling up with him. Today, he wants to focus on getting closer with you, learning about you, and feeling more comfortable with you. He’s never going to get any better at affection if he doesn't try it. He compares it to hunting. There’s a lot to learn, a lot of patience, but if he practices then it’ll become second nature. He’s only really affectionate with you at night, and that doesn't last too long because you both end up falling asleep. When you wrap a leg around his waist, he tenses. He wasn't expecting the gush of warmth that would come with that. A second later, he relaxes, holding you close. “C- can I kiss ya?” 

“Of course. You don’t have to ask.” You’ve told him that a couple times before, but he still asks. Though if you keep telling him, he’ll slowly learn. Just reassure the baby. It’s all he needs. He presses kisses to your shoulder, making his way up to your neck. Soft little grumbles and sighs can be heard from him. He’s never let his hands wander, he’s just been too much of a sweetheart for that, but today he’s feeling bold. His hand moves down to your waist, gliding over your curves, then rests on your hip. He likes the way your body feels. It’s perfect. It’s so soft to touch. He’s not used to feeling something like that. His fingers squeeze just slightly, not wanting to be rough. 

Never feeling him touch you like that before, makes you feel those nice tingles. So, you snuggle closer, trying to encourage him to keep going. It takes him a second to realize what you want before running his hand up and down your side. The baby boy is learning! His movements are stiff at first before becoming more natural. He’s giving into the feelings you make him feel. You're soaking up every touch. It's the first he’s really ever done this. “Am I… doin’ ok?” He asks nervously. You sigh happily. As much as you love showing him affection, it’s nice to have some in return. “You’re doing more than ok.” Daryl's eyes gaze over your face and body language, trying to get a read on you. You’re really not that hard to read. You’re basically melting under him. He has to bite back a smile. He can’t believe he’s actually making you react like this. Do you know how good that makes him feel? Knowing he has an effect on you? He’ll be using that against you when he’s more comfortable. 

You mess with his hair as his hands roam from your sides to your tummy. He’s trying to memorise how you feel. He closes his eyes and buries his face in your neck, so he’s solely focused on the way you feel. He’s very bold this morning. He’s never this brave when he touches you. Once he feels like he let his hands roam for long enough, he takes a peek at your face. You look peaceful. He got you like that, huh? That makes him feel a sense of accomplishment. 

He flinches back when you suddenly bring your hand up to stroke his cheek. His facial muscles relax when he realizes you didn’t mean any harm. He’s gazing at you tenderly. His eyes always give him away. And when he closes them, that means he’s feeling comfortable. It’s his way of lowering his guard. He lets out a low groan as you ruffle his hair. That always makes him melt. He turns his head, pressing a kiss to your palm while he makes eye contact. 

The fucking BUTTERFLIES, this man just made you feel. He knew what he was doing. When he’s confident with his touches it’s going to be fucking over for you. He chuckles slowly as your cheeks flush and you try to hide your face with your hands. He grabs both of your wrists, holding them firmly to his chest. “Ah, ah, girl.” You meet his eyes. He loves the pink flush to your cheeks. Sure, he’s gotten you to blush a few times, but never like that. He hides his smile by resting his head on top of yours. He sighs contently as he wraps his arms around you. His thumbs are tracing little patterns on your back. 

You close your eyes as you relax, giving into his embrace. His big strong arms are perfect for wrapping around you and holding you close. Have you seen his arms? They’re perfect for this. His grip is tight and secure, shielding you from the world. It’s his way of showing he’s protective of you. He likes to keep you close to his chest. That’s where his heart is after all. 

꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…꩜…

Soooooo, this turned out to be a lot more fluff than I was originally going to write but who’s complaining?

[sanjisprincesss]

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Dating Headcanons

*ೃ༄ Bat Family x GN!Reader

ׂ╰┈➤ Dick Grayson x Reader, Jason Todd x Reader, Tim Drake x Reader, Bruce Wayne x Reader, Wally West x Reader, Stephenie Brown x Reader.

·˚ ༘ Content warning- Fluff Fluff and more fluff no warning needed.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Dick Grayson (Nightwing)

♡︎ Supportive and Playful: Dick is the kind of partner who makes you feel seen and valued. He’s always there to support your goals, whether it’s something big like a career change or something small like a new hobby. He’s the first to cheer you on and the first to offer help if you need it. Expect a lot of encouraging texts, sweet notes, and spontaneous surprise dates.

♡︎ Playful and Teasing: Dick loves to tease you in the most affectionate ways. He’ll make fun of your little quirks (like that habit you have of always forgetting where you put your keys), but it’s always with a playful smile and a wink. He knows how to make you laugh and lighten the mood, even in tense moments. And when you’re out in public, he’s not afraid to show affection, whether it’s holding your hand or leaning in for a quick kiss.

♡︎ Romantic Gestures: Dick is the type of person to plan spontaneous date nights, even if it’s just picking up your favorite food and watching a movie at home. He enjoys the little things that make you feel loved—like waking up early to make you coffee or sending you cute messages during the day.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Jason Todd (Red Hood)

♡︎ Protective and Intense: Jason can be a little intense, especially when it comes to protecting you. He’ll never admit it, but he’s constantly worried about your safety, especially in Gotham. He’s the one who’ll always check in with you, even if you’re just going out with friends. It’s his way of making sure you’re safe without hovering too much. Jason can be very serious, but when it comes to you, there’s a soft side that shows up when you least expect it.

♡︎ Passionate and Loyal: Jason is incredibly loyal, and when he’s in a relationship, he’s all in. He doesn’t do things halfway. He’ll make it clear that you’re his and no one else’s. He’s not the type to hide his feelings, and you’ll know when he’s frustrated or upset, but he’ll also go to great lengths to make things right.

♡︎ Tender Moments: Though Jason has a tough exterior, he’ll surprise you with his tenderness in private moments. He’ll open up about his past or his thoughts in ways that he doesn’t with anyone else. He’ll hold you close when you need comfort and always make sure you feel safe in his arms. Expect surprise cuddles after a long, hard day, or him running his fingers through your hair while you’re relaxing together.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Tim Drake (Red Robin)

♡︎ Thoughtful and Supportive: Tim is incredibly thoughtful. He’ll remember the smallest details about you, like your favorite flavor of ice cream or your preferred way of drinking coffee. He’s the kind of partner who goes out of his way to make you feel understood. Expect lots of little gestures—he might buy you something you casually mentioned weeks ago or make you a playlist of songs that remind him of you.

♡︎ Low-Key but Affectionate: Tim doesn’t necessarily show his affection with grand gestures, but in his own subtle way, he makes it clear how much he cares. He’ll hold your hand during walks or gently place his hand on your back as he guides you through a crowd. His affection comes through in quiet, meaningful ways, and even in the midst of chaos, he’ll always prioritize spending quality time with you.

♡︎ Honest Conversations: Tim values open and honest communication. If something’s on his mind, he won’t shy away from talking it out with you, even if it’s uncomfortable. He’ll be the first to apologize if he thinks he’s wrong, and he’ll always be there to listen to you when you need to talk.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Bruce Wayne (Batman)

♡︎ Mysterious and Reserved: Bruce’s love language is subtle, and he tends to show his affection through actions more than words. He’s not one for grand declarations or over-the-top romantic gestures, but his loyalty and care for you are unwavering. He’ll ensure you’re taken care of in ways you might not even realize, like checking that your favorite book is in stock or arranging for you to have some time off when you’re stressed.

♡︎ Protective and Caring: Bruce can’t help but want to protect you. He might be distant at times, especially when his work takes over, but he always makes sure you’re safe. He’ll check in on you when you least expect it, just to make sure you’re okay. When you’re with him, he’ll always keep an eye on your safety, whether it’s walking you home or ensuring your surroundings are secure.

♡︎ Quiet Moments: Bruce isn’t the most outwardly affectionate person, but when he’s with you, he lets his guard down just a little. He enjoys quiet moments—whether it’s sitting in the Batcave while you help him with a case or sharing a meal in silence. It’s his way of saying, “I trust you,” without words.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･Wally West (The Flash)

♡︎ Playful and Spontaneous: Wally is the kind of partner who keeps things exciting and fun. He’s always coming up with new and spontaneous dates, from surprise trips to the beach to random ice cream runs in the middle of the night. He knows how to make you laugh and bring out your playful side, often pulling pranks or making silly jokes just to get you to smile.

♡︎ Affectionate and Open: Wally is incredibly affectionate, and he has no problem showing it. He’ll hold your hand in public, kiss your cheek randomly, or surprise you with a bear hug when you least expect it. His love for you is clear in the way he treats you with kindness and warmth.

♡︎ Always Makes You Feel Special: Wally is great at making you feel special, no matter the occasion. Whether it’s remembering your favorite snack or surprising you with a small thoughtful gift, he knows exactly how to make you feel appreciated. He’ll always make time for you, no matter how busy he is, and he’ll always find ways to remind you that you matter to him

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ Stephenie Brown (Spoiler)

♡︎ Playful and Fun: Stephanie keeps things light and fun in the relationship. She’s always making you laugh, even when things get tough. She’s not afraid to act goofy, and she loves to make your days a little brighter with her antics. Whether it’s planning a spontaneous date or sending silly texts, she keeps you entertained.

♡︎ Caring and Thoughtful: Stephanie may be goofy, but she’s also deeply caring. She’ll always check in with you when you need support, and she’s a great listener. If you’re upset, she’ll make sure you feel heard and comforted, often with a comforting touch or a silly joke to cheer you up.

♡︎ Romantic in Her Own Way: While she may not do grand gestures, Stephanie will surprise you with small romantic moments that are meaningful. Whether it’s buying you your favorite dessert or leaving you a cute note

©Sanjisprincess ||| do not copy or translate my work.

[rafeysbangs]

°🂶 ༘˚↷rafe is always just out of reach

warnings ; not proofread sorta... , simply just angst, sortof almost a mention of fwb? ish?, interpret this how you will as to yours & rafe's relationship !

notes ; HI !! i'm so happy to be back. srry this is straight up angst. but i hope you enjoy. can you tell uni is strangling me lol ( this was actually sitting in the drafts.. waiting... oops )

rafe cameron is an enigma you can’t quite solve. a puzzle with missing pieces, a shoreline that recedes every time you step forward. you think you have him—hands grasping the edge of something real—only for him to slip through like sand through parted fingers.

you watch him from the passenger seat, the engine humming beneath the weight of silence. his knuckles are tight against the steering wheel, pale from pressure. he’s always holding on too hard, to everything, to nothing. a boy who doesn’t know how to let go without breaking something in the process.

"you’re quiet," you say, just to fill the space. to remind him you’re still here.

his jaw flexes, a brief movement, barely anything at all. then a chuckle, low and humourless. "that’s a first."

it’s a dance, this thing between you—if you can even call it that. he keeps his distance, but it’s not apathy. it’s something else. something tangled up in the way his hands tighten around whatever’s in his grasp, the way his gaze lingers just a second too long when he thinks you won’t notice.

you do notice. you always do.

you see it now, in the way he shifts gears with more force than necessary. in the way his hands tremble when he runs them through his hair. in the way he looks at you, like he wants to say something but won’t, like it’s locked behind his teeth, rusted shut with years of unsaid things.

and you—what are you to him? a distraction? a reminder? a tether to something softer, something he doesn’t think he deserves?

"you don’t have to do that," you say, softer this time.

he glances at you, brow furrowed. "do what?"

"pretend like you don’t care."

his lips part, but no words come out. just a sharp inhale, a slow exhale. and then he laughs again—quieter, this time. almost bitter.

"maybe i don’t."

but he does. you know he does. it’s in the way he says your name, in the way he always finds you first in a crowded room, in the way his fingers brush against yours but never stay long enough. it’s in the way he pulls away just before he gets too close, like he’s afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t.

rafe cameron is a hurricane dressed as a boy. all storm and sharp edges, all lightning that never quite touches the ground. people talk about him like he’s reckless, like he’s all impulse and violence, but you know better. you see what they don’t—the hesitation, the flicker of something softer just beneath the surface. you see the way he clenches his jaw when he’s trying not to feel. the way he swallows words before they can make it past his lips. the way his hands shake when he thinks no one’s looking.

he is not empty, not hollow like he wants the world to believe. he is full of things he will never say, full of rage and grief and longing. full of a love he will never let himself hold.

and you—maybe you are just another thing he cannot let himself have.

you could reach for him, could close the space between you, could press your palm against the warmth of his arm and wait for him to lean in instead of pull away. but you already know how this ends.

he’ll let you get close. close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to believe that maybe, just maybe, this time will be different.

and then he’ll slip away—just like always.

( no taglist bcs its wayyy to old um i'll be redoing that too so look out for a post - sorry guys ! )

[odileeclipse]

Hello!! Could you do a shadow milk cookie x reader except one sided with smc liking reader and reader is smart but just nonchalant about everything and can see through Shadow milk cookie but doesn’t say anything about it since reader doesn’t really care about him. Reader also can manipulate other people really well but except reader just uses it when it is absolutely necessary and not just for fun

you could say it’s like manipulator x manipulator type of relationship 😭🙏🏻🙏🏻

so whenever smc tries to manipulate reader, they just look at him with no interest whatsoever and then after, reader just brushes him off lmao

A Scholar's Indifference

A/N I took the liberty to make them a scholar because they're intelligent so what better way to show it than be a scholar.

The Grand Archives were quiet, save for the faint scratching of quill against parchment. The scent of aged paper and candle wax lingered in the air, untouched by the passage of time. It was a sanctuary of knowledge, a place where scholars sought wisdom, where history was preserved and studied. And where, unfortunately, Shadow Milk Cookie had made himself a nuisance. “I can offer you more than dusty old tomes, you know.” His voice coiled through the air like a whispered spell, smooth and deliberate, laced with that ever-present undertone of mischief. He lounged atop your desk as if he belonged there, one leg lazily crossed over the other, his fingers absentmindedly toying with the edge of an open book.

You didn’t look up. “That’s nice.” Shadow Milk Cookie narrowed his eyes slightly. A non-response. Not rejection, not curiosity just sheer, effortless apathy. How irritating. “You wound me, dear scholar,” he sighed, dramatic as always, his free hand pressing against his chest. “Is it truly so awful to imagine a world beyond these walls? A world where you are not simply a collector of knowledge, but a wielder of it?” You dipped your quill into the ink, barely acknowledging him. “Knowledge doesn’t need to be wielded. It simply is.”

“Drowning yourself in scrolls again, dear scholar?”

Shadow Milk Cookie’s voice curled around you like wisps of ink in water, smooth and dark, filled with a performer's flourish. He emerged from between the bookshelves, mismatched eyes gleaming with playful intent. You didn’t bother to look up. “Drowning implies struggle,” you replied smoothly, scratching your quill against the parchment. “I find knowledge rather easy to breathe in.” He laughed, slow and rich. “Oh, how clever. But tell me, what will all this knowledge do for you, hm? You sit here, day after day, collecting truths like dust on old tomes. And yet, do you ever stop to wonder how small this kingdom makes you?” You turned a page. “Enlighten me.” Shadow Milk Cookie leaned against the desk beside you, propping his chin on his palm as he watched you work. “You are brilliant,” he mused, “yet your talents are wasted here, confined to these halls, buried beneath limitations.” He waved a hand, gesturing vaguely at the bookshelves around you. “The Vanilla Kingdom tells you what you can and cannot study. They sift through history, preserving only what benefits them. But me? Oh, starlight, I hold the knowledge they do not want you to find.”

At this, you finally lifted your gaze, eyes laced with the same disinterest you always regarded him with. “Let me guess, if I simply cast aside my oaths and follow you, you’ll show me the hidden truths of the world?” Shadow Milk Cookie smirked. “You say it so mockingly, and yet, I can see the hunger in you.” You let out a soft hum, studying him. “Tell me, Shadow Milk Cookie. If knowledge was truly your grand gift to me, why present it with such flair? Truth does not need theatrics. it stands on its own.” He faltered, just for a fraction of a second, but you caught it. You always did. You leaned back in your chair, folding your hands neatly. “You see, I know the difference between a charlatan and a scholar. Charlatans weave grand words, dress their lies in gold, make impossible promises to those desperate enough to believe them.” Your gaze sharpened. “And you? You are nothing more than a talented illusionist. A puppet master in a carnival of shadows.”

Shadow Milk Cookie chuckled, though his grin was slightly tighter than before. “And yet, you keep listening.” You smirked. “Because you are a wonderful study in deception. I find you fascinating, in the same way one might study the tactics of a conman.” His eyes flickered, momentarily losing their playful gleam. “You wound me.” “No,” you said, tilting your head. “I intrigue you.” Silence stretched between you. For the first time, you had taken the stage. And Shadow Milk Cookie who had spent centuries puppeteering the minds of others found himself being played. The realization must have struck him as well, because after a moment, his lips curled into something more genuine than his usual theatrics a slow, appreciative grin. “Well, well,” he murmured, voice lower, smoother. “Perhaps I miscalculated. You’re not just another mind to mold, are you?” You lifted your quill, twirling it between your fingers. “Of course not. And that’s where you made your first mistake.” Shadow Milk Cookie laughed, a real laugh this time deep and delighted, his eyes gleaming not with victory, but with something far more dangerous. Interest. “You are wasted in this kingdom,” he purred, standing to his full height. “One day, you will see that. And when that day comes…” He let his words trail off, a silent promise woven between them. You merely returned to your parchment. “I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

He grinned, sharp and intrigued. “Spoken like a prisoner who doesn’t realize they’re in a cage.” You finally, finally lifted your gaze, leveling him with a stare so perfectly blank, so wholly unimpressed, that for a moment, he felt the slightest twinge of irritation. And then you smiled small, knowing, and just a little bit cruel. “If this is a cage,” you said, tilting your head, “why do you keep coming back?” Shadow Milk Cookie hesitated. Just for a second. Then, his grin widened. “Ah, but you mistake my presence for captivity, starlight. I am merely… entertained.” “Mm.” You turned back to your work, brushing away a stray ink blot. “So am I.” The amusement in his expression flickered, just for an instant, before he laughed. Genuinely. “You are playing with me.” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation. You didn’t bother to confirm or deny it. Because you were. And he knew it. Shadow Milk Cookie had spent lifetimes weaving illusions, twisting perception, ensnaring minds in silken lies spun with the utmost precision. And yet, you? You saw through him. Not because you were searching for the truth. Not because you wished to challenge him. But because you simply did not care. And that was infuriating. “Oh, you are delightful,” he purred, resting his chin in his palm as he watched you work. “Truly, I cannot decide if I admire or despise you.”

“I don’t think about you enough to make that decision,” you replied idly. That one almost made him scowl. Almost. He hummed, watching as you dipped your quill back into the ink, utterly unbothered by his presence. “You’re wasted in this kingdom, you know,” he said, shifting tactics. His voice softened, dipping into something lower, something enticing. “They will never recognize your full potential here. But I will.” You let out a quiet hum, seemingly entertained by his attempt. “Is that what you tell everyone you want to recruit?” “Oh no, no, no,” he chuckled. “This is different.” He leaned closer, voice lowering to a whisper. “I see you, dear scholar. You and I? We are the same.” That made you pause. Just for a breath. Then, slowly, you turned to face him again. Your expression didn’t change. Your voice didn’t waver. But your words? Your words shattered him. “You mistake recognition for importance.” Silence. For the first time, Shadow Milk Cookie did not have a response. You let the moment stretch, tilting your head slightly. “I am no more like you than a scholar is like their book. You, Shadow Milk Cookie, are a performer.” You rested your chin against your hand, mirroring his own smug posture. “And I? I am simply watching the show.” His fingers twitched against the desk. It was annoying. It was intoxicating. It was exhilarating. “You are fascinating,” he murmured, his usual teasing lilt replaced with something real. Something dangerous. You shrugged. “I know.” And just like that, you turned away again, utterly, completely unbothered. Shadow Milk Cookie stared at you for a long moment. Then, he laughed. A breathy, delighted sound, as if he had stumbled upon the greatest puzzle he had ever encountered. “Oh, you are going to be my favorite,” he whispered, grinning to himself. You didn’t respond. Because as far as you were concerned, the conversation was already over.

[revelboo]

REVEL! I request some of the lost light starscream story 🙏

Absolutely been obsessed with your writing, i legit have been checking every hour to see if you’ve uploaded anything new. I’ve read probably everything you’ve posted except for the bumble bee stories, you’ve made me fall in love with so many characters, the way you write all of them is absolutely amazing. Also this your reminder to hydrate!

Yeah, Sundays aren’t usually good days

Overdone Pt 3

Starscream x Reader

• Slumping into his chair behind his desk, he leans his chin on a fist as you ramble utter nonsense. Claiming you’d come to just falling to your death. Lies. They have to be, but then you’re turning big eyes his way and thanking him for saving your life and his wings flick. When’s the last time someone thanked him for anything? Shaking himself, he growls. Someone has to have put you up to this. “So I’m to believe you just teleported to Cybertron without meaning to, without even knowing how you accomplished it?”

• Staring up at his scowl, you understand why he doubts your story. It sounds crazy even to you, but you honestly don’t know how you ended up here. The only things you’re sure of? He’d saved you when he hadn’t had to. And that makes you sure he’s good deep down despite how intimidating he is, despite his threats to harm you if you’re a spy. Hands clasped together, you study him as his optics shutter and he presses his servos against them in an all too human gesture like he has a headache. “I swear I’m not a spy. I’m baker.”

• “And I can just take your word for it?” Everyone’s out to get him, to take away what he’s worked so hard for. But he can’t figure out the game here. Maybe you’re not a real human? Just something meant to look like one? Comming Rattrap, he vents when you just stare up at him with wide eyes. Why a human? Thundercracker is the one that cares for the little meat bags, not him. Anyone familiar with him would know that. ‘Bring me a scanner,’ he growls at Rattrap, cutting the connection without waiting for a reply.

• Of course, he doesn’t trust you, but you’re certain you can trust him. And short of him giving you a kitchen and baking supplies, you’re not sure how to prove your claim. You’re also not sure what a scanner is or who he was just talking to. What you are aware of? How massive he is. Alien and strange. His face, his body metal, but malleable. Able to give enough to form expressions and his hands had been warm holding you, making you painfully aware of how cold you are right now. “Why did you save me?” You ask almost against your will and his frown deepens.

• “Would have rather I let you make a very small splatter on the surface?” Growling, he turns toward the door when it opens and holds out a hand in demand. Aware of Rattrap gawking at you as he hands over the scanner. And you flinch when he powers it on and seizes you by the leg to drag you closer when you try to back away. Huffing through his vents at your little squeak when you fall on your butt and he pulls you closer. Your expression almost comically indignant when he scans you. Finding you really are just a human. You don’t even have any hidden tech meant to spy on him and he’s almost disappointed. Almost eager to root out a plot or a conspiracy. Tapping the scanner on the desk beside you to make you flinch, he vents. “Go find Wheeljack,” he mutters to Rattrap. Because you’re still a mystery he means to solve.

Previous

[ilium-ilia]

a fox cries; never howls

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | in limbo au | masterlist

Part (1/3): marco's girl

a/n: this is an alternate universe to my story, In Limbo. you do not need to read In Limbo to understand this au, but if you are reading In Limbo, i recommend not reading this story until you've read chapter 14 due to some spoilers. please take care to read the warnings on each chapter, this is a very heavy fic.

tw: rape/non-con, pedophilia, human/sex trafficking, forced prostitution, abduction, suicide, self harm, whump, hurt/comfort, reader has long hair for plot reasons (can be natural, braided, etc)

Each time it happens, you tell yourself it’ll be different, but it never is. 

Broken promises lay in glistening shards around the heels strapped to your feet as you grit your teeth through the pain. No matter how much you beg and plead, it’s always the same. That visceral ache shooting through the core of your being still brings tears to your eyes the same it did the first time. It will continue to plague you. Haunting your cheeks in messy streaks as it drips onto the counter your hands so desperately palm at. Each tear that splatters by your fingers shimmer with black flakes. Running mascara. It stains everything it touches—especially you.

You’re prettier that way. Ruined. At least, that’s what you’ve been told. 

Always pretty on your knees; bent over; looking up; crying; pleading; beg; beg for it; and keep crying; yeah, just like that. 

Your skin is scarred, marked in the shape of greedy lips, and it stings like the wound is fresh. Words seep into the soft tissue where it continues to fester. Burrows its spindly roots until it can bear fruit. You can pull at the stem all you like, but you can’t escape the fact that it’s now a fundamental part of you. It’s the only thing keeping your bones from crumbling. This mantra. This throe. 

“Not tryna hide, are you?” 

Avaricious fingers dig into the firm cartilage of your throat as you’re yanked back and forced to look at yourself in the mirror. The ripples of your defilement echo throughout your body—and you’re forced to watch it. The bounce of your breasts and the smudged makeup dripping along your cheeks. In some odd way, you are a masterpiece. You’re sculpted of nothing but obloquy yet carved just like if you were made of stone. You would close your eyes if you thought you could get away with it.

But Marco likes when you watch. Savors the tremble of your lips as your eyes find him in the mirror. Pristine teeth glint in the pallid light. Perfectly white and straight. He always takes care of himself—of his appearance. It shows in the carefully carved muscles that flex in his abdomen as he pistons into you; in the well groomed locks of his dark hair. This is the sweetest liquor he could ever indulge in—enjoying not only destroying you, but of making a show of it. 

He must always be the performer and the audience; having his cake and eating it too. 

A fury of grunted whispers slice straight through your ear drums. It’s a hardly comprehensible slurring of English and Russian, and though your fuzzy brain can’t make sense of it, you know what it means. Marco teeters close to the edge, hands dragging your body back against him as he holds himself flush against the crux of your ass. Hot warmth spills into you, and despite the hand around your throat, you’re finally able to breathe. This impiety does not offer you comfort in your tainted skin, but it offers you the one commodity you rarely seem to come by: rest. 

That incessant ache lurks deep in the pit of your stomach, even as Marco pulls out, but it’s quiet. Doesn’t demand your attention. You feel the dull throb that harasses the raw tissue of your cunt, and you try not to wince as you feel his seed spill out. Chuckling, he releases your throat in favor of wrapping his fingers around your hair, bunching as much as he can into the palm of his hand. It’s overgrown. Messy and dead. But he refuses to allow you to cut it. 

Nothing about you gets to change without his permission—not even your appearance. 

“Look at you, my sweet little girl,” he coos. Sharp teeth nip at the side of your jaw and you wince. You’re surprised his mouth doesn’t unhinge; that he doesn’t shove you into his maw and swallow you whole. “So goddamn perfect. Can’t get enough of this pussy. Christ.” 

When Marco backs away, you swear your knees will give out. Without his puppeteering hands to hold you up and bend you to his desires, you’re nothing but mush. A disgusting mess of smeared eyeliner and dripping cum. You can hardly stomach the sight of your body in the mirror. Neck littered with faint teeth marks, body bare and on display—used and abused to his content. You’re abhorrent. A pathetic creature you can’t stand to behold. 

Marco’s belt clinks just as a knock rattles the door. Your heart thuds loud enough in your ears that it nearly drowns out the sound of his heavy footsteps crossing the glorified dressing room. You attempt to steady yourself as you back away from the mirror, but the straps of your heels dig into your toes. They’re the only article of clothing you’re allowed. Marco says he likes the way they make your legs look longer. Likes the angle it gives him when he bends you over to fuck you.

When you turn to face him, he’s already sitting on the loveseat shoved into the corner of the room. A fresh bottle of mead sits on the tray next to him, and he pours himself a generous amount before knocking it back for a sip. The soft amber liquid overflows and dribbles past his lips, soaking his bare chest. His verdant eyes find you as he collets the drink on the tips of his fingers, then sucks them clean one by one. 

“Didn’t you hear that knock? You have a guest,” he says, tilting his jaw toward the door. 

With each step you take, you feel Marco’s seed dribble down your legs. It makes a sticky mess between your thighs, and you know he wouldn’t have it any other way. This is how he marks you. How he makes sure everyone knows who you belong to before he lets them take a piece of you home. 

A stranger with a thick neck stands at the door when you open it. His eyes are an odd shade of grey that sends a shiver down your spine as he looks you over, greedily drinking in the sight of your bare body. The chill of his gaze gets worse as the door closes behind him. He begins to crowd you and the sharp stench of vodka fills your nose. There’s something familiar about him. Every man in this club is familiar to you, in some way. Always hazy. Too fuzzy to place a name to. You think it’s your brain’s way of protecting itself. Of purging the bad things done to you as best as it can, lest you crumble in the palm of Marco’s hands. 

The sharp point of your heel catches on the plush rug that sprawls out in front of Marco’s feet, and you squeak as you nearly lose your footing. Both Marco and the stranger chuckle. The cacophonous tone grates against your eardrums, but you hide your discomfort as you stare at the ground. You wait. For the exchange. For the banter. They speak in Russian with one another through laughter as cash is passed to Marco. The air is still cold, and your thighs are still soiled, but the stranger looks at you like he would never dream of having any other meal than you. 

“Well, go on then,” Marco prompts. You look up at him with dull eyes. He swirls the mead in his cup as he tilts his head. “On your knees, babe. Wants to use your mouth tonight. Be a good girl, now.” 

Comply. Listen. It’s all you can do. So you sink to your knees like the well behaved girl you always are. Resting on your haunches, you look up at the man with a tight throat. He smiles, and your stomach drops. Roils and screams as he begins to unbuckle his belt. As he fishes himself from his trousers, you remind yourself all things are temporary. Especially pain. 

Nothing lasts forever—though, it often feels like it will. 

When it’s all said and done—when you’re thoroughly used—Marco walks you to the door like a gentleman. Hastily adorned clothes hang from your body as you pull your jumper tight around your core. Your cervix still aches from the virulent abuse it had taken earlier, but you attempt to ignore it as he opens the exit. Your only reprieve from this nightmare is that he didn’t parade you throughout the club like this; looking like a whore for hire, advertising you to anyone else with fingers itching in greed. Tonight, he allows you to take the back exit far away from prying eyes. 

Cool night air cuts through your scanty clothes, and you stare out at the vast space of the car park before you. Weekdays bring little business and customers to Makarov’s club. Most of the strippers who work for him end up lazing around in back rooms and closets, getting drunk or high enough that they can forget all about their shitty night. 

You wish you had that luxury. 

“Hey,” Marco hums, grabbing your wrist. You turn to face him. Dim shadows from the flickering hallway lights cast his face in darkness, but the glint in his eyes is unmistakable. “See you tomorrow, babe.” 

He sends you off with a kiss. Sloppy and wet—he likes messes. Savors making one out of you. Sweet mead and mint seeps into your mouth as you kiss him back with a tight jaw. When his hands caress your cheeks, pulling you closer, you wonder if he can taste the brine and bitter cum that lurks in the back of your throat. If he relishes in feeling every single way in which you’re destroyed. 

“See you tomorrow,” you murmur. 

Breathing only comes easy the moment you’re locked in your car. The movement is fluid—that gentle expanding of your chest—but it’s still agonizing. Diaphragm seizing with the sobs you fight back, it’s another reminder that you’re alive. As long as you draw breath, you don’t belong to yourself. 

Hot tears sear down your cheeks as you turn the key in the ignition. A gentle rumble follows as the engine hums to life. It’s a smooth, quiet purr. A car that’s much more expensive than you deserve. A lovely gift from Marco. It’s not at all uncommon for him to give you things. Expensive things. A car; an apartment; clothes—you’ll pay it back eventually. The numbers just add up to the big debt that’s hung over your head since you were sixteen. It ebbs and flows but not enough to save you. Not enough for you to belong to yourself again. 

As you bring the heels of your hands up to wipe your eyes, a gentle glow catches your attention. It moves. Dances and swirls in the numbra of the car park. Blinking, you focus on it. Golden yellow embers flicker and fade as life is breathed into them. It’s faint, but it reminds you of the well adored fireflies in America. Squinting, you can make out the outline of a car. It sits patiently and silent, but the windows are cracked. Faint smoke swirls through the openings where it climbs into the dull night sky and dissipates. 

Someone sits inside of the car, puffing away in a nicotine haze, but when your eyes lock onto the fingers pinching a cigarette, they freeze. Glowing embers quickly smother and die somewhere inside of the vehicle, and you’re left with nothing. You stare into the darkness, and it stares back. You feel its gaze tingling along your spine. Sniffing, you look away from that void. Be it man, or be it monster, you know nothing ever happens to you without Marco’s permission. 

That sentiment is equally as terrifying as it is comforting. 

When you arrive home—to the apartment paid for with your own body—you shower. No amount of water and soap is enough. You can lather yourself in all of Marco’s favorite scents, but the mint on his tongue still follows you everywhere. It lingers like an old scar that refuses to fade. As you exit the bathroom, you leave feeling just as disgusting as when you entered. Nothing but some sordid creature that hardly knows how to take care of herself. 

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you feel sick. Golden glitter still stains your eyelids, and the teeth marks on the side of your throat have only grown more noticeable. Still, nothing is worse than the mark on the back of your neck. Though you can’t see it, you feel it. It makes your skin itch and crawl, and you find your fingernails tearing at it. As if you could rip it off like a bandaid. But it stays. Festers and embeds itself deep inside of you. 

Swallowing, you try to forget it as you continue to dry off. This is your brief moment of comfort, where you’re too far out of reach and well out of sight to be gawked at and abused. Your only reprieve before you spend another night rotting as a trophy of glitter and bone. 

Weekends are better, but only marginally so. Wide eyed men fill Makarov’s club to the brim with wads of cash and twitchy fingers. Lingering gazes and hands brush against the crux of your ass and the back of your neck as Marco parades you through the crowd by your wrist. With your strappy golden heels and matching exiguous outfit, you’re flashy merchandise. Something soft and sweet that he flaunts in an attempt to make a quick quid or two as a way to fund his means of pleasure and keeping control of you. While you’d normally spend most nights on your hands and knees, on busy nights, Marco allows you to earn your living in an honorable way—

—dancing. 

Sharp heels tap on soft mahogany as your hips and arms sway, practiced and repetitive, atop a round table. Dull music thrums and shakes the dust off your bones as the men on the crescent sofa surrounding you chat and laugh the night away. Marco’s in the mix of them all, cold glass resting on his knee as his foot taps against the floor. A hazy film covers the spring green of his irises as the liquor settles deep into his marrow. Each time you rotate his way, you watch his pupils dilate. A vast forest covered by the smokey darkness of that void, he licks at the alcohol on his lips as he stares at your clothed cunt. 

His fantasy fills your mind before his own can even make sense of it. Every spare glass and bottle that litters the table around your feet would be thrown on the floor in an instant just to put you on your back. To open your vulnerable stomach. To tear off the little clothing protecting your feeble dignity and truly put you to work. He’d spread your limbs and pin them like a specimen to a board, and he would cut and slice until you have nothing left to hide. Until there is nothing left of you at all. 

“Babe!” 

Marco’s voice cuts through the discordance of the crowd and pulls you out of a nightmare and back into the present. Your terrifying reality. Slowly, you turn to face him, and he looks up at you with a grin on his face and a card stuck between his fingers. That sly haze still obscures his vision as he offers you his hand. Numb to the feeling of his skin against your own, you take it and allow him to help you down from the table. He wastes no time in dipping his fingers into the strap of your lingerie where he secures the card beneath the band. 

“Looks like you’ve got work to do,” he teases. 

Warm hands settle on the curve of your hips as he guides you to turn around, faced away from him. Then, they wander up. Greedy fingers brush along the line of your spine before they find purchase in your hair, grabbing it as if he were trying to help you put it up. You hate how long it’s gotten. That he won’t let you cut it. He doesn’t care if it’s straight, curly, braided—anything. Marco wants it long. Uses it like a leash in which he keeps you bound to him with. 

“I know you’re a good girl, so I’m sure you won’t forget, but a little reminder never hurts,” he coos into your ear. Intoxicated breath fans across the side of your face as he leans closer to breathe you in. A shiver prickles across your skin as he kisses the back of your neck, and your throat involuntarily contracts at the sensation. It’s as if he’s marking you again. Branding you. “If this… patron wants more, I get to watch.”

Swallowing, you nod as best as you can with his fist gripping your hair. “I know.” 

Chuckling, he relinquishes his grip on you before stepping back. “Of course you do, smart thing you are. I’ll be waiting here for you.” 

You wait until you’re well away from Marco and his friends before you fish out the card he stuck beneath the strap along your hip. A pitched ringing plagues your ears as you enter the VIP section of the club. Things are quieter. Less crowded and the speakers don’t blare as loud. But the silence allows something malevolent to burrow inside of you. It festers as incessant tinnitus and broiling nervosity in your stomach. A wordless, desperate prayer breathes past your lips as you approach the room in which your patron awaits you. 

You pray he is kind. You pray that he wants nothing more than to hold you and vent his problems, like others have. 

When you open the door and step into the threshold that always makes your palms sweat, you think for a single fleeting moment that you are lucky. The room is abandoned. Dim lights illuminate the dull leather of the couch in front of you and yet there is no man sitting there for you to serve. Gentle music drones over the wireless speakers, giving the impression that there should be someone here with you. The attendants even set out the ice and whiskey for his drink. It now thaws on the tray, water nearly overspilling in its decay. 

Brows furrowing together, you look down at the card to ensure you haven’t misread it in your haze. The attendant’s handwriting is chicken scratch. He always manages to make a nine look like a zero, but you’re certain this is a six. The door clicks shut behind you as you sigh, too defeated and confused to make sense of this confusion. A pit forms in your stomach at the thought of slinking back to Marco with some saturnine cloud hanging over your head. 

If you can’t find work tonight, he’ll make some for you. 

That pit quickly becomes a gaping hole the moment a fat palmed hand clasps over your mouth. Cardstock flutters out of your fingers like dainty butterfly wings, and hits the ground just as your back collides with an immovable chest. You don’t scream, but your heart nearly stops when you feel the cold press of metal against your throat. You are stuck in a vicious cycle. One of fear and sharp blades you’ll never wield yourself. 

“Not a fuckin’ word.” The voice that growls in your ear rattles your spine as the words erupt in his chest. Faint tobacco stains his fingers. Its earthy aroma seeps into your nose as your hands tremble against his tattooed forearm. “Don’t wanna hurt ya, so make this easy and listen to me, yeah?” 

Marco has taught you plenty well enough that the word no should be expunged from your vocabulary, so you nod. 

“Good.” 

You’re as stiff as a board when this stranger releases you. No amount of curiosity can get you to turn around and face the violent truth, not even as a thick jacket is tossed over your shoulders. The fabric is warm. Freshly removed off of the man behind you and placed on you as if it were a blanket. He presses his hand on your lower back and despite his caution, you still jump. 

“We’re going for a quick drive. Easy now. You’ll be home before sun up. C’mon,” he mutters. 

There is no such thing as saying no. There is no such thing as fighting. 

The knife vanishes from your sight but it’s all you can think about as this stranger leads you through the haze of the club. Everything blurs around you as you’re escorted to the nearest exit through quiet hallways that reek of cheap perfume. The only thing you can focus on is your feet. The glittery heels that match perfectly with your pedicure. You want to trip. To fall forward and hit the ground. Cry out and demand attention. The hand on the small of your back is all too grounding for you to make any mistakes. 

You approach and exit through an emergency fire door and the alarm doesn’t trip. Night air hits your skin like razor blades as you’re escorted across the car park. He shoves you into the back of a black car, and you only squeal a little when he slams the door behind you. When he situates himself in the driver's seat, the car hums to life and quiet lights flicker on just enough to scarcely illuminate his face in the rearview mirror. His eyes are dark. The darkest you’ve ever seen. 

“There’s a blindfold in the seat next to you. Put it on,” he orders. Stuck on autopilot, you do as he says. It’s a thick scrap of cloth, something you hastily tie around your eyes and knot at the back of your head with trembling fingers. It only touches your skin for a fleeting moment before it’s soaked in briney tears. “Don’t even think ‘bout takin’ it off.” 

Not even your morbid curiosity can convince you to peek from between the threads. The word no is not in your vocabulary. Neither is disobeyment. 

Each turn the man takes as he brings you to some unknown destination has you swaying in your seat. Every pule that leaves your lips is smothered behind the palm of your hand as you wipe snot along the ridges of your knuckles. You do well to keep the aftermath of your fear to yourself. Even though this man has abducted you—something that was all too easy for him to do as you fawned, and you’ll surely pay for this when Marco finds you again—you do not want to ruin the coat around your shoulders with spit. 

Of course you think of escape. You always do. It’s a self soothing daydream that florescences in the neurons of your brain. Unlock the door. Open the handle. Jump out. It’ll hurt. It always does. And it’ll hurt when you’re caught, but it always does. 

You don’t move. Freedom is just a dream.

Despite the knife he greeted you with, this man is surprisingly gentle. His touch is soft when he eventually parks the car, and his fingers do not dig too terribly into your skin as he helps free you from the back seat of his car. You do not trust his softness as he leads you into a room that smells like alcohol and cigarettes. Nicotine burns your nose as you’re settled into a plush seat, and for a fleeting moment you think you were only driven around the block before being thrown right back into Marco’s maw. 

That theory is proven terribly wrong when your blindfold is ripped from your eyes. 

A man with impressive tepidity sits across from you at an antique wooden desk. Rich red walls close in on you. Crushing. Looming. Smoke blurs the space between the two of you as he puffs away at a thick cigar, blue eyes scanning a single piece of paper. He’s dressed nicer than you anticipated. A dark button up shirt, neatly combed hair and groomed beard—he hums to himself as his eyes scan the page in front of him before they land on you. You look away as if his gaze has burnt you. Instead, you focus on your nails and the manicure Marco made you get last week. Baby pink gel; his favorite color on you. 

“It’ll take more than crocodile tears to tug on my heartstrings, love,” he hums. 

The climate in your mouth suddenly becomes sere. All the snot and saliva that had built up before seems to vanish at his words. He’s nonchalant; terrifyingly so. 

“I don’t… uhm,” you attempt. 

“No need to explain yourself,” he interjects. “I understand. We all need to make a living.” Pausing, his eyes flicker back to the paper in his hands. “You’re Marco’s girl, aren’t you?” 

Thick obloquy heats the pit of your stomach as your fingers twitch. That term—that title. It fills you with more shame than you can name. You attempt to swallow down the cotton-like dryness in your mouth as your hand paws at the back of your neck. Expertly manicured nails scratch at the skin, and you wish nothing more than to peel back the layers of your epidermis and toss them aside to rot. 

Stiff, you nod. 

“John Price,” he introduces. 

He drops the name like it bears weight. As if it should crush you with each heavy letter that it carries, yet it doesn’t add on to the anxiety raging in your stomach. Your hand falls back into your lap as you dare to look at him once more. His eyes are sharp, as if he’s using his gaze alone to cut back your layers, but there is nothing to show for it. No secret except for a sour ignominy that you’ve carried for so long it imprints in your very skin. 

“Has Marco not told you about me?” he asks. He’s not upset; or if he is, he hides it well behind curious eyes. 

“No,” you answer truthfully. 

John chuckles. “Thought the man would’ve at least told his benefactor about me.” 

You blink. “...Benefactor?” 

“No need to play dumb. Like I said, it takes a lot more than faux tears to get me to feel sorry for you.” 

Your fear and confusion grips you so relentlessly that you don’t even feel it anymore. It’s wound so tightly around you, restricting blood flow to your body, that everything tingles if it is not numb. This man—John Price—gives you no chance to rest or fix your muddled thoughts. He tosses the paper in his hands across the wooden top of the desk, and your eyes nearly cross at the numbers printed on the pristine sheet and the amount of commas between them. There’s math. Addition and subtraction. Transactions of a bank account with a name at the top: 

Marco Anatolijus Kanas

Funny. You’ve never seen his full name before. He’s only ever been Marco.

You’ve only ever been his girl. 

While you stare at the numbers, John throws question after question at you, none of which you know how to answer. He asks about transactions. He asks about what they’re for. Each and every time he’s met with the same answer. You are just as clueless as him. Marco does not concern you with his real work. The work that gets him enough money to have a bank account as padded as the one you’re looking at currently. 

His finances make the sparse contents of your stomach curdle. The amount of money you owe him for your unfortunate existence is trivial compared to what he already has. So miniscule it would hardly budge his savings. Marco has been making you work half your life away for something akin to a mere couple quid to him, and it stings just as bad as it always does. Seeing it at face value just how trapped you are—how Marco owns you and always will. 

“Don’t get coy with me.” John’s getting frustrated. Each question he presents you with is met with the same carking response of I don’t know. It’s nothing but the truth, but he seems to be informed otherwise. You’re significantly less important than he believes you to be, but the man looming behind you doesn’t help in settling your nerves enough to explain your situation properly. “Word on the street is Marco’s girl supplies him with his spending money. You’re tellin’ me I heard wrong? Or are you too daft to ask him what he’s using his finances on?” 

You swallow. What a polite way to put it—the things Marco does to you. 

“He… He makes money off of me but I… I don’t know how much or what he uses it for,” you choke out. “Well, I… I know a little bit but it’s not, it’s not like, whatever you’re asking, it’s just… it’s stupid things, it’s like, my housing or… it’s not… important.” 

There’s a quiet beat that settles between you and John, and you feel whatever vexation he harbored for you previously quickly evaporate in the air. He’s silent for so long that you force yourself to look up at him. You’re expecting curiosity, even the most morbid of iterations. John Price is not curious. You can tell by the way his jaw unclenches and eyes soften that he finally understands what you’ve been too inept to say. 

“How long have you been workin’ for him?” he questions, softer this time. 

“Since… I was sixteen,” you reply. 

“Sixteen?” He’s appalled. Repeats the word like it’s the worst taste he’s ever had on his tongue. “What’s he making you do for work? Dance?” 

Shame sears the back of your neck, leaving nothing but wounded, marked skin in its wake. You palm at the burn. Try to will it away with desperate fingers, and the movement causes the coat resting limply around your body to slip off your shoulder. This is the first time you’ve considered lying to John. Omitting the truth just to save the small shred of dignity you still have left, no matter how imaginary it might be. 

“Yeah. I… dance on stage but he… has me do private sessions too but he… sometimes he-” 

A hand brushes against the side of your arm and you flinch so hard your teeth nearly pierce through your tongue. Weathered wood squeaks beneath your weight as you freeze after nearly jumping out of your skin. This well meaning hand that startled you so terribly is well meaning. It pauses in its endeavor to cover your body once again with this stranger's coat, and instead lets it fall. You had almost forgotten all about him—the strange man who stole away Marco’s favorite toy from right under his nose. 

John and the stranger share a look as you retreat back into yourself. Hands folded over your bare lap, you didn’t feel naked until they finally understood who you are—what you are. Pristine nails dig into your palms as you swallow back the bilious vomit that threatens to spew free. 

“If we take you home, will you be safe there?” His eyes land back on you, but you can’t bring yourself to give him the same courtesy. 

You shake your head. “He’s going to be so mad. He… he pays for my apartment. I don’t have any money of my own. I don’t have a phone. I… There’s nothing. I have nothing. Marco’s provided everything for me and I never… he never gave me the chance to…” 

“I understand,” John interjects, carefully quelling your rambling. He waits for a moment before leaning back in his chair, retracting every bit of malice he exuded while interrogating you. “I’m sorry, love. Should’ve done our research better.” 

“It’s okay… Marco didn’t leave much of me to find.” 

John’s eyes darken in a way that would leave most men with their tail tucked between their legs. You’re too busy making yourself small to notice. “We’ll fix that.” 

In the next few hours, your life changes drastically. It’s sudden and feels just as violent as everything always does, yet it is intimidatingly soft. The gazes that are cast your way scream pity instead of lust, and you are handled with so much care you’re convinced you’ve become nothing more than a tchotchke. At least these men treat you with fragility rather than flippancy. 

You learn the man who took you from Makarov’s club is named Riley. You’re able to get a better look at him without the blindfold and terror willing your vision elsewhere. He’s intimidating. Arms drenched in ink, it’s almost enough to smother the scars that map the story around his body. It can’t shroud the ones on his face. The thin line that dissects his eyebrow, or the one on his nose which only makes the curve of the bridge more dramatic. His eyes are darker than anything you’ve ever seen before—so empty and yet full at the same time; nothing but a contradiction as he watches you pull his coat tighter around your shoulders. 

It is decided that—for your safety—you are to live with Riley until it is determined you are out of Marco’s reach. 

Despite your apprehension, you can’t say no. 

Riley’s house feels like a den. Well guarded but comfortable, the plush cushions that cradle you on the couch feel false. Fake. Everything does, but it’s mostly you. Your hair. Your clothes. Your skin. Nothing about you is tangible, not even to yourself. 

You’re still swaddled in Riley’s coat by the time he tells you that your room is ready. Really, it’s his room. You want to tell him you’d rather sleep on the couch than in some stranger’s bed, but you can hardly bring yourself to speak a single word to him. He scares you, but not in the way people usually do. It’s not the fear of pain that he riles within you, but rather something light. Something that flickers and sputters, waiting to grow. You smother it as he hands you proper clothes to change into. You don’t know where he got them from or why they fit so well, and you don’t care to ask. 

His room is… what you expected of a man like him. Plain walls, sturdy wardrobe and bed. A wristwatch ticks on the nightstand. It laments quietly, so much so that you only notice it when you sink into the mattress. He’s changed the sheets and pillowcases for you, but it’s not enough to snuff out the faint scent of tobacco. You like it, you decide. Or rather, you don’t mind it. Grounding earthy notes are much better than the synthetic chemicals Marco soaks himself in. 

Sleep comes about as easy as you expect it to. A TV drones on quietly in the living room as you toss and turn among unfamiliar sheets. Dull anxiety claws within the cage of your chest, but it holds itself at bay better than you anticipated. Or rather, you are just too numb to fully appreciate the pain. You should be afraid. You know it, and it’s lurking there even if you can’t fully feel it yet. 

It manifests suddenly as you feel the ghost of Marco’s hands on you. His teeth digging into your skin, demanding flesh. He wets his maw with your blood just as he wets his cock with your cunt. It sears. Rips through you in the brutal way it always does. Raw. Sinew on bone. And you don’t cry because it’s what he wants. He wants that brine and that sapor and he’ll claim it with claws and a smile. 

His mantra pants. It sweats and drips. It’s wet on your ear. 

There’s no escaping him.

You wake just after the sun does, and it is only then that you cry. 

Grief is the quintessence of escape. You’ve crossed the threshold—you were dragged beyond it—and now there’s no way back to the way things were. Your life wasn’t good, and it was far from comfortable, but it was familiar. You only know how to navigate things when bound. Chained to an unforgiving master. How are you supposed to live with free hands? 

What happens when Marco yanks your leash and finds no tension? 

What becomes of his favorite toy—Marco’s girl—then? 

By the time you finally gather the courage to leave the room, you find Riley in the kitchen. It’s what drew you out of your hiding spot originally; that scent of freshly cooked food. Sizzling meat and steaming eggs. He works at the stove with his back turned to you, arms dancing above the heat as he fries up a breakfast that should make your mouth water, yet it fails to do so. 

“Morning.” He hears you before he sees you, but he pauses with a spatula in hand to look at you from over his shoulder. He gestures to the island in front of you—something you suspect was only built to compensate for the lack of counter space on either side of the stove—then hums to himself as he turns his attention back to his work. “Breakfast’ll be finished soon, if ya wanna grab a seat.” 

There’s a stiffness that plagues your limbs as you sit on the high top chair Riley pointed to. It rolls off you in waves. Taints the air; souring it with your presence. You are not comfortable in this place—with this man. His palm haunts the chapped skin of your lips the same way his chest haunts your back and you can’t help but wonder what he and John would have done to you had they deemed you guilty. If they had looked at Marco’s girl and saw an opportunity rather than a pitiful creature, would you be sitting here now? 

Breakfast is a quiet affair of scraping plates and muffled chewing. Riley doesn’t sit next to you. Rather, he stands on the other side of the counter with a bowed head as he shovels egg and bacon into his mouth as if he’ll starve if not. He tries to rest his elbows on the counter, but it’s too low. It curves his spine uncomfortably, and he shifts as if standing on hot coals. 

Hunger does not pull at your stomach. Nervosity fills you to the brim—too full to consume something other than the ache. 

“I’m sorry ‘bout last night.” Riley’s nearly finished with his food by the time he speaks, prompting you to look up at him for the first time since you sat down. All you’ve managed to do for the last few minutes is drag the tip of your fork around your scrambled eggs. “Boys really thought you were dangerous. That you were workin’ with Makarov and Marco. Shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.” 

Dull teeth dig into the wet flesh inside your cheeks. “It’s okay.” 

“It’s not okay,” Riley argues adamantly. “But I am sorry.” 

It’s difficult to discern the purpose of his apology. Is it to make himself feel better for what he did? For dragging you out of that club and into John Price’s office? To interrogate you until your innocence was proven? Does he say sorry to comfort himself, or you? To prove he’s not as monstrous as he looks with dark eyes and tight lips. He is, after all, awfully kind for a monster. You have yet to meet a beast that knows how to apologize without digging their teeth into you afterwards. 

Perhaps his apology is truly for you. To settle fried nerves. To make you feel safe. 

You know better than that. 

You were safer in the clutches of Marco’s jaw than you are now. 

“Riley, can… can I ask something?” 

A cheeky remark bubbles along his tongue. You just did. He takes one look at you and decides to bite it back. “Course.” 

A noisome lurch pulls at your stomach, embittering the sparse bites of food you were able to force down your throat. Thunder roars in your chest as your heart attempts to break free—leave your body behind to rot while it escapes. 

“Would I… Could I get the pill?” you ask. 

“The pill?” he repeats. 

“Yeah, like… the… the morning after pill?” 

His silence doesn’t surprise you, but it stretches long enough to be concerning. Looking up from your cold food, you’re met with soft eyes. They’re the softest ones that have looked at you for what feels like ages. Gentle. They don’t greedily rake over your body to soak in every twitch of your skin—rather, he reads you. Between the lines and and in the margins, he devours every word. 

For the first time in your life he makes you feel more like a victim than a toy, and you’re not sure if that feels any better. 

“Will you be alright by yourself if I go buy it for you?” he asks. There’s no judgment; only pity. 

You nod. 

Riley mulls it over as his tongue swipes along the back of his teeth. When he straightens, he brings his plate with him as he steps back and hums. Your attention is quickly brought back to your hands as he sets the dish in the sink to be cleaned later. 

“Alright.” You try not to choke as he motions to your plate. “Should eat. I’ll be back soon, yeah?” 

Once again, you nod. “Okay.” 

Not a single morsel has been consumed off of your plate by the time Riley returns home, and you are not in your seat. Disappointment buzzes at the base of his skull, but he’s not surprised. He knows what it’s like to be too full to eat—to be plagued with something not even hunger can triumph. He sets aside the pill box to clean up after you. Food in the bin. Plate in the sink to be washed later. 

It’s quiet. It’s never this quiet. Not even when he’s home by himself, which he usually is. Riley stands in the kitchen with furrowed brows as he looks around the room like he’s misplaced something. His keys. His lighter. 

God, he could use a smoke. 

Heavy feet cause old wood to creak as he pokes his head into the bedroom. An imprint of your body still dips into the mattress from this morning, but it’s gone cold. He was going to stay politely stationed in the doorway until the thought flickers across his mind that you’ve left. Got too scared of the brute whose home you’re trapped in and ran off. Away. Hiding from the world—from Marco. 

There’s little reprieve to be found when he notices the light shining through the crack of the bathroom door, but it’s smothered the moment he hears you crying. They’re pathetic, stifled pules. Ones you attempt to desperately hide, yet they bleed out of you anyway. He wants to leave you alone, to let your emotions wash over you, but he can’t. 

Even with your crying, the house is too quiet. 

“Everythin’ alright?” 

Both his voice and knock startle you, and your sobbing swells. Breathing out of control, he can hear you choke on the snot flowing through your sinuses. You’re panicked, and he realizes that this is more than grief. More than anxiety. More than fear. 

You’re terrified. 

You’re standing in the bathtub like a scared cat when Riley opens the door. Tears stream down your face. Relentless. They nearly glisten as bright as the kitchen knife in your hand. 

You told yourself it would be easier for him to clean up the mess of your corpse if you killed yourself in the bathtub. Blood festers and rots in the smallest of crevices, but there’s none of that to be found in the ceramic that surrounds you. However, you’re having trouble getting any blood to flow at all. You’re not sure if it’s you or the knife, but you’re hardly able to break the skin on your wrists. The crimson blood that flows through your minor cuts feels trivial. There needs to be more. 

It’s not enough. You’re scared that you might have to stab yourself. Spill your guts in the tub. Witness your offals for yourself before you fade away. Something. You want to die, but you don’t want it to hurt. 

You don’t want it to hurt, but you need to leave. 

“Hey. Hey, easy now.” Riley feels as if he’s talking to an animal. Some feral cat poised to bite and scratch if he’s not cautious. He approaches you with his palms faced out in surrender, and the walls around you seem to close in. “You don’t wanna do this sweetheart. Give me the knife.” 

“You don’t understand. I can’t. I can’t do this. You-You don’t know what he’ll do to me. Marco he... It’s- I- fuck, I can’t. I can’t do this, please just let me do this.” 

Each word is muffled. So far from your ears that it hardly reaches you. Still, they spew along with your cries. It doesn’t deter Riley from closing in on you. Swallowing the spit building on your tongue, you hold the knife with both hands. A simple kitchen blade, now brandished like a weapon. It’s nearly laughable. You couldn’t even kill yourself. How can you expect to hurt him? 

“I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it’s gonna be okay. We’ll make it okay, but I can’t do that if you’re not here.” His words feel stupid in his mouth, but he knows he has to try something. “Please. Give me the knife. I don’t wanna hurt you. Hey, give- fuck!” 

There’s a lunge. Grabbing. Blade on skin. Blood on tile. 

Riley meant it when he said he didn’t want to hurt you, but you still cry out as he yanks you out of the tub. Once again, your back is against his chest. You are enveloped by him as the two of you sink onto the bathroom floor, held down by his weight, and it is then that you truly can no longer hold yourself together. Vision darkening, chest ceasing; you panic. It rips through you with shaking hands and writhing legs, causing your feet to kick at the dull kitchen knife at your feet. 

For a moment, you are lost. Consumed by overwhelming grief and fear, and still Riley holds you through it all. You feel his heart beating against your spine, feel the exhale of his lungs dance on the top of your head. It’s a flicker in the darkness. In the primal fear of knowing you are still somehow chained to the man who has abused you for countless years. 

Dread transcends physical space. Marco planted it inside of you the first time his lips found the quiver in your throat. 

“Breathe, sweetheart. I’ve got ya.” 

Riley’s voice fades in like radio static. Disconnected and muffled, yet growing evermore clear. Then, it hits all at once. The slight sting of your wrists and the ache in your leg. Did you trip? You feel the growing bruise pulse and throb on your shin, and another one in your hip. It’s hardly bearable, but neither of them are as uncomfortable as the warm, sticky mess seeping into your shirt. 

It takes several seconds for you to realize it’s blood. 

“There, good. It’s alright,” Riley whispers. His voice is thick—heavy enough to make your stomach sink. 

“Am- Am I bleeding?” you stutter. 

“No, you’re alright. Don’t worry ‘bout the blood.” 

But you do. You worry about it because you don’t want it to hurt, you don’t even think you want to die anymore—you just want it gone. For it to dissolve around you, or for you to waste away into dust. Your chin rests against your chest as you look for the source, scouring your own body for the wound. Your wrists, your arms your legs—

—the wound is on Riley. 

Blood gushes through a gash on the top of his forearm, obscuring your view of the damage. It’s just as steady as every stream you ever used to jump over as a child. It slices through the meticulously crafted ink that graces his skin, and you feel as if you’ve cut through the canvas of a painting. Ruined something good. Something more useful than yourself. More than that, you hurt him. 

“Oh my god, your arm,” you gasp. 

“It’s nothing,” Riley attempts to assure. 

“There’s so much blood, I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s nothing,” he reiterates. “Just a cat scratch, sweetheart.” 

His cat scratch takes twenty minutes to patch up. You count the time on the ticking of his wristwatch as you lay in his bed. Body too weak and afflicted with malaise to make something of yourself, you stare at the ceiling as you listen to him hiss and grunt. It’s the blood, you’re sure. Despite the flow, he manages to smother it to nothing more than a scab beneath pristine dressings. 

It takes him another ten minutes to clean you up. He assesses the wounds you left on yourself—shallow horizontal cuts along the delicate skin of your wrists. You stare at them as he cleans and bandages them, and you tell yourself the sting from the antiseptic is what makes your eyes water. 

You’ve created a mess for nothing, and Riley is the one paying for it. 

“There.” He secures the last piece of tape on the gauze. It feels unnecessary. Band-aids would have sufficed, and you tried to tell him as much only for him to mutter something about infections. “Not too tight?” 

You shake your head. “It’s fine.” 

Content, he hums as he steps away from the bed, gathering up items off of the nightstand. You watch as his fingers swallow rolls of tape, forearm flexing beneath his own dressings. Teeth digging into your bottom lip, your heart lurches, as the guilt pierces through you like a blade. You’re not sure why it lurks. Is it because you hurt him? Because you tried to leave a corpse for him to come home to? 

“I’ll get you some water. Ought to take that pill sooner rather than later,” Riley says, turning to leave the room. 

He only makes it a few steps before you stop him. “I lied.” 

Pausing, his eyes find you with more confusion than you expected. “Yeah?” 

“I lied about… needing the pill. I just said it so you would leave,” you admit. You push yourself up from the bed, legs swinging over the side of the mattress to sit and properly look at him. “When… I first… Marco used to make me take birth control. Like, the actual pills. I got pregnant anyway. Made me get the IUD after that. It’s more effective, so I don’t think I’ll really need it. I mean, I’ve never needed it before, so…” 

Listening, Riley nods as you bare the raw parts of yourself. It’s impossible to share without that warble in your tone—that pain that always leaks into your voice—but in some strange way, it feels good. Refreshing. You’re airing out an old, festering wound that hasn’t ever seen the light of day. 

“You got a kid to take care of? If they’re with Marco-” 

“No,” you interrupt. Riley’s words die on his tongue. “No, he… he made me get an abortion, too. It’s for the best, really. Kids shouldn’t be around that monster anyway.” 

Again, he nods. The house feels loud. Every inch of the four walls around you seems to buzz with an energy you’re not privy to. 

“Well, some water wouldn’t hurt. Food wouldn’t either, since you never finished breakfast,” he continues as he turns. “Want anything specific?” 

He’s so… casual. Nonchalant despite the trauma you subjected him to. He should be angry with you. Furious at having made a mess; at having hurt him. His entire life was turned upside down the very same moment yours was—he should hate you for it, but he doesn’t. 

“Whatever’s easiest.” The floorboards are loose by the door. They squeak as he crosses the threshold, and you feel your stomach lurch. “Riley?” 

Pausing, he turns on his heel as his head pokes back into the room. “Yeah?” 

So calm. So patient. 

“Thank you. For everything. I just… Thank you, Riley,” you choke. 

For the first time since he caught you in that club, he smiles; small and kind. 

“Just Simon to you, yeah?”

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[bunni-v1]

so shadow milk legendary costume is coming so can we get more content of pre-corruption smilk 😝😝😭 pretty please and thank you ♥️

🍓Again I’m gonna call him Blueberry Yogurt because typing out pre corruption is annoying as fuck. Anyway, yes you can pookie mwah mwah mwah! These are short, but I still hope u like them :)

-Blueberry Yogurt is veryyyyy different from Shadow Milk. Shadow Milk describes his past self as a “Goody two shoes wet rag with no personality,” and while he’s being dramatic I don’t think he’s far off.

-Blueberry Yogurt is contemplative, gentle, kind, and above all else caring. He loves his subjects and his friends and he aims to share his knowledge with everyone. He’s in all sense of the word harmless. A sweet cookie with nothing but good intentions.

-He’s, essentially, his position as sage. And he doesn’t mind that, but he’s never really considered that he could be anything more. It’s what he was baked for, of course.

-Booooriiingggggg, as Shadow Milk would put it. But Blueberry Yogurt was content with things, it’s only after he realized cookies turn from the truth — mixed with the understanding of the sheer amount of power he held, that his mind changed.

-You we’re part of that realization. That, maybe, he could be more than what he was. That the life he lived wasn’t all it seemed to be. He was never made to fall in love, but he did, whose to say there isn’t more for him out there?

-But before that, he was likely the perfect partner to have. He cares a lot about his partner and their well-being, and he wants to be their total equal, even if they’re weaker than him.

-He spends a lot of his spare time with you. He’s an incredibly busy cookie with too many things to do, but he will always find time to spend on you. You are a high priority in his life, and he makes sure you know that.

-He likes having you around him, even when you aren’t doing the same things. Just you being there brings him peace of mind and makes him feel content.

-You being educated is equally important to him, so he takes the time to have conversations about serious topics. He’s particularly fond of reading with you and discussing the books with a critical eye. He won’t let you be blind to the truth, and if you’re afraid of it, he’ll work with you to ensure you aren’t.

-He’ll take you around the town when he visits, and most cookies know you as “The Sage’s Lover”. He won’t admit it, but that fact makes him proud. He loves to show you off, and he loves the fact that others know you’re together.

-Oh he does this cute thing where he’ll sweep you up in his arms and dance around with you. He’ll press you tightly against his body and swirl around like you’re at a real ball.

-He is so much more open about how much he loves you. He has no reason to hide or fear his affections for you, so he just doesn’t. His love is unabashedly displayed through physical touch as Blueberry Yogurt.

-Soft and gentle kisses pressed upon you dough. He burns into your dough his love for you so that you never forgot how much you are adored.

-He pulls you close and whispers his adoration like a prayer, as if to convince you of his love for you. Like you might forget if he doesn’t remind you so tenderly.

-He treats you to beautiful dates in locations you’ve only dreamed about, each one more heartfelt and romantic than the last. They’re built specifically to wow you, and he’s phenomenal at his job.

-He also gives you gifts all the time, hand made or things he found around the kingdom, it doesn’t matter. They’re all things you’ll make good use of, he makes sure of that.

-His goal is to make you feel considered and thought of. Again, he’s very successful. Everything he does takes you into account, and you become a very important part of his day to day life.

-One thing he does that Shadow Milk keeps is his love for carrying you around. It’s not a strength thing, he isn’t showing off, he just loves carrying you around. He feels like he can really care for you like that, so he does it as much as he can.

-He’s also very protective of you. He doesn’t stop you from engaging difficult topics and finding out truths, but he does stop others from disturbing your peace. It’s the one time he’ll use his magical abilities for selfish reasons, his need to keep you safe and happy winning out his morals for once.

-This is why when he feels himself… slipping… he sends you away as soon as he can. He doesn’t want you to think of him differently, and he’ll even take extra measures to ensure he won’t find you once he’s fully gone. (It’s the most annoying thing about himself, if you ask Shadow Milk. He plans for everything far too well.)

-It does ache and pain him to be so far from you when he does it, but it’s more important to him that you are safe. Even if it means you have to be safe from him.