#i need to get back into writing for this continuity too man

[yukioos]

"Probably write a part 3????" BABY I NEED A WHOLE SERIES! This is SO good and I can't wait to see where you take it xx

BETTER IN THE DARK

SUMMARY: hwang in-ho x wife reader // after voting, the majority decides the players will stay in the game for at least one more round. after you’re served dinner, two men come up to you and flirt with you. when you don’t answer, they try to pick a fight with you. once it gets too intense, in-ho steps in and saves you. he brings you back to the group and gives you a kiss goodnight.

AUTHORS NOTE: hi! i’m probably gonna turn this into a series bc i like writing about this. hope u guys r okay with that! there are 1.8k words in this. here are the links to part 1 part 2 ALSO THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR 600 FOLLOWERS I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH

WARNINGS: not proofread, violence, cussing, thanos and nam-gyu are dicks

TAGS: @annasnape7 @watasinekoru @namelesslosers @sxmmerchxldblog @lisaannwalterlover @gracesworks @vkeyy

after the majority vote was to stay in the games, dinner was served to the players. you stood in line behind your husband, who tried not to glance at you once he walked away. a circle guard held out a metal container for you.

you gently grabbed the cold container, smiling and mumbling out a “thank you.” before stepping out of line to your bed. you opened the container to see rice, a fried egg, beans, anchovies, kimchi, and some sort of sausage. you sat on the stairs for a couple of minutes as you ate, before a crowd began to swarm gi-hun and a man next to him.

when you looked closer, you realized in-ho was leading the group. the ‘o’ group was asking about the next game, and the former player replied, explaining how dalgona was to be the next game, and the shapes to choose. however, gi-hun couldn’t have been more wrong.

his friend asked, “so, of those, which was the easiest one to do?” and leaned in close, the ‘o’ group copying him, listening intently to gi-hun’s next words.

he replied, “the triangle.”

player 390 then asked, “and which was the hardest one?”

gi-hun answered with one word, not caring to say anymore, “umbrella.”

in-ho scoffed, “umbrella?” he rolled his eyes, laughing, “what— players actually picked umbrella?” he stood up, “they had no idea what the game was so i bet they were totally screwed, right?” the crowd agreed, nodding their heads and murmuring to one another. player 456 stared at your husband, eyebrows pointed upwards, ashamedly.

you paused your chewing and giggled to yourself, knowing in-ho loved to get on people’s nerves, and he did so successfully. player 100 suggested no one should tell anyone else to pick the triangle for the next game, as he wanted more prize money to be added. gi-hun immediately refused, explaining he wanted everyone to survive. the crowd walked away, but your husband stayed, probably trying to interrogate the former player.

your husband sat down next to player 390, and began to ask why gi-hun came back to the game, opposing every answer he gained. once they’d argued long enough about players voting ‘x’ and players voting ‘o,’ the former player’s friend intervened, and began to talk about how they needed to win the next game. the conversation began to get boring, so you returned to slowly eating your food, missing all the activities back at home.

after almost finishing half of your meal, a boy with black shoulder-length hair came to your bed and leaned against it. he stared at you for a few seconds before leaning his arm against the metal pole. you stared back with intensity, attempting to appear unapproachable and rude. he asked, “what’s a pretty lady like you doing in a shitty place like this?” and gave you an uncanny smile, causing your stomach to twist uncomfortably. the words would’ve been better if they were from your husband.

you continued to stare at him, not yet answering him. a sinking feeling fled into your chest, you might’ve needed to eventually fight him if he continued giving you trouble. player 124 continued, “come on, why aren’t you talkin’? i’m not gonna do any harm.”

footsteps began to approach your bed, almost caging you in. a man with purple hair and painted nails, player 230, placed his hands above a metal beam. he inquired, “hey, why aren’t you answering him? you scared? he’s a good guy, promise.” you still kept your legs crossed, and looked down at your white sheets, wishing they would go away. deep down, you knew they wouldn’t.

in your peripheral vision, you saw the two of them give each other a knowing glance, causing your stomach to churn. you quickly swallowed your food, anticipating something odd to happen. a hand suddenly grabbed your jacket and threw you to the ground. as your knees hit the hard floor, you sighed, knowing this was to happen.

as you slowly pushed yourself onto your hands, your hair dangled in front of your face, making it difficult to see anything. a fist collided with your face, causing your head to bang to the ground. people all around the room gasped at the scene, which unfortunately, included you. before you could get up, player 230 grabbed you by the neck and put his face close to yours, “why the fuck didn’t you answer him, huh? he was tryin’ to be nice, and you ignored him.” he chuckled, “now this is what you get—“

before he could continue, you balled your fist up and punched him square in the jaw. as in-ho watched the scene unravel, he knew eventually, the two would team up on you and overpower you somehow. his breathing became erratic, his eyes were as sharp as knives. he clenched his fists and ignored a question of worry from player 388.

maybe acting weaker would be better. or would acting stronger be better? you knew you could easily win these games against everyone in this room, including the creator himself, but you didn’t know how to show yourself to others. how the hell were you supposed to appear as? timid? confident? polite? intimidating? rude? god, you didn’t know, but you began to occasionally fight the men back, wanting to appear as someone who isn’t one side of anything, but the middle. swing a punch or kick every so often, but enough to let them get a couple hits.

fuck, that was not a healthy mindset. in-ho would never let you take shit from anyone.

player 001 stood up and strode over with confidence and anger. he asked, “hey kids, what makes you think you can hit anyone like that? it’s disrespectful to her, and everyone surrounding you. it’s bad manners, “not to mention, it’s two against one.” he hoped your body would be feeling well enough to play the games properly.

as the men started to walk away from your body, which was laying on the ground, the two of you felt a wave of relief. you knew in-ho would be able to take them down easily, he was specially trained to fight like hell with little effort. the purple-haired man ran his mouth, causing your husband to grab him by the neck, immediately feeling a tugging hand around his wrist. player 124 walked over, attempting to stop in-ho, “hey, get your fucking—“ he was immediately kicked in the shin a numerous amount of times before he fell to the ground, weakly holding his knee.

all the pain in your body disappeared as you stared in awe at your husband. you couldn’t believe he was yours, but you were so proud. he barely broke a sweat as he fought those men to protect you.

the group groaned, some even covered their mouths in shock. your husband let go of his neck, almost throwing him multiple feet away. the rapper mumbled and attempted to make a swing at the older man, only getting hit in the stomach as a response he hunched over in pain and gasped, “wait— wait a minute—” but was treated with no mercy. in-ho grabbed the man’s outstretched hand and twisted it, making you wince once you heard bones cracking.

he fell to the ground and groaned as he was kicked in the chest and face multiple times, trying to pathetically back away. he mumbled, “i’m sorry, sir—“ as in-ho held his hand tight against his neck. he let go, still fuming and warm. the purple-haired man coughed, and the players erupted with cheer and compliments to your husband. he awkwardly glanced around and fixed his hair, not used to all the attention. he remembered the reason why he was fighting in the first place, because of you. he quickly turned around, wide eyes darting everywhere until they landed on your body, sitting on the ground. you nervously glanced up at him, and he placed his hand in front of you, wanting you to take it.

you stood up with his help and bowed, “thank you, sir, i don’t know what i would’ve done if you didn’t step in and save me.”

he replied, “please don’t thank me, miss. it’s the least i could’ve done for you.” you shyly smiled and averted your gaze, causing him to teasingly tilt his head in the way you were looking. he wanted your eyes on his again.

he loved feeling your soft hands against his. in-ho was in deep, as he was feeling uneasy without you even after an hour of not talking to you. in-ho stated, “how about i walk you over to a group? one of the players has participated in these games, so we’ll have a high chance of winning if we stick together.” you nodded and he guided you, asking you questions about yourself as if he didn’t know you like the back of his hand. once the two of you sat down and he introduced you to the other players, he sat down close to you, but not close enough to be knee-to-knee or shoulder-to-shoulder. he asked, “do you feel okay? you took a lot of hits back there.”

you nodded, and he and his group continued to fill you in with what player 456 knows about the game. you had to admit, it was difficult playing as someone you weren’t. it was even harder to act like you didn’t know your favorite person, your husband.

hours passed, and before you knew it, it was around time to sleep. as you were about to leave to walk to your bed, a hand stopped you, gently grabbing your arm. in-ho suggested, “how about you sleep here? player 456 recommended we stay close together, so we’ll be safer.”

he pulled that lie out of his ass. gi-hun didn’t say anything about staying together at night.

you thought for a moment and grinned, “sure, why not,” and laid down on a mattress, pulling the sheets over your body. you laid on your side and mumbled, “night, young-il,” as in-ho ordered you to call him, as it was an alias. he turned his head to you and smiled, muttering a soft ‘good night,’ when you heard those words, you immediately passed out.

in-ho took a moment to himself and glanced around, making sure no one was looking before he walked to your bed. he kneeled down and gently placed his rough hand on your cheek, rubbing it as he whispered praises into your hair. he kissed your forehead, as he always did after you fell asleep.

he was so glad that you were okay.

[mintyhollows]

Nam-Gyu x Thanos’ ex gf reader part 1

This is my first ever attempt at writing anything lmao so bear with me pls. I’ve had bits and pieces of this stuck in my head for DAYS and I just had to do something about it. This part is really just setting the tone as mc & Nam-gyu doesn’t even interact lmao. But lmk if this is anything worth continuing.

THANOS IS PROLLY OOC BUT I LOVE ME SOME MEAN THANOS🫶🏼🫶🏼

When life gives you crippling debt, you can’t really afford to make lemonade. And it wasn’t so much life as it was your ex boyfriend who gave you crippling debt either.

You’d left Su-Bong a long time ago, before he adopted the personality of Thanos rather than just the stage name, and you weren’t planning on ever seeing him again. He’d broken you down in so many ways. Convincing you to let him invest your money, promising you he knew what he was doing, promising you he was recovering from his addiction. If only you hadn’t believed him.

Unfortunately, it seems that when life gives you crippling debt, it doesn’t take your plans into consideration. Now you could only hope Thanos had the decency to leave you alone after everything, even if his new friend might not.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The first game shook you to your core. You hadn’t known what to expect after accepting some random business card and being somewhat consensually kidnapped to god knows where, but it wasn’t this. The sound of gunshots was still ringing in your ears as you were lead back to the main room, and you didn’t know if it would ever stop. You mindlessly found your way back to your bunk and plopped down, trying to regain some piece of mind.

«Fancy seeing you here»

So much for peace of mind. You looked up and met the eyes of your infamous ex boyfriend. He looked worse than you’d ever seen him, yet he acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

«What do you want?»

«Aw, don’t be such a downer. I always said you ought to live a little, come join the Thanos world and we’ll get through this.»

He gestured behind him, where you could see the rest of his presumed friends pretinding not to listen in on the conversation. You raised an eyebrow at him in annoyance.

«If I remember correctly, I already left both you and the Thanos world quite a while ago. Besides, I didn’t realize you had groupies»

He almost looked sorry for you for a second, but he kept the smirk on his face.

«Oh sweetheart. I’ve always had groupies, you were just too naive to realize that you were one of them»

Had he told you this a few months ago your heart would have shattered, but your resentment for him had only grown in your time apart, and so the only thing affected by his statement was your ego. Not that you were about to let him know that though, so you only shrugged at him as he turned to walk away. But not without calling back to you.

«Offer still stands sweetheart, the games are gonna be boring on your own»

You spent the time leading up to the vote mulling over his offer. However annoying he might be, his offer was tempting. It was his fault you needed money in the first place, so letting him show off and keep you safe during the next game was only fair, right?

Once it was your turn to vote you looked over at him and his little group. Thanos was whispering with who seemed to be his right hand man as they both looked at you in anticipatoon. You made eyecontact with the unfamiliar man and felt something in you click.

‘Player 124, huh? Fuck it’ You thought as you pressed ‘O’.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

[elleandstufff]

Let's Play a Game -`✮´- Part 2

Young and in the club scene due to the family business, you meet an up-and-coming rapper who calls himself Thanos. As the two of you become deeply embedded in the dark world of fame, money, and drugs, you begin to wonder if you can make it out alive. Pre-games, during the games, and post-games Thanos/Choi Su-bong x fem!reader

Chapter Warnings: Club setting, moderate drinking, reader’s dad kinda sucks, reader’s mom is dead, discussion of childhood trauma (including parent with addiction, overdose, death of a parent, physical/verbal abuse), hurt/comfort, pet names galore, dialogue spoken in English is written in bold italics, 3.2k words

Part 1

ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊

The next evening you arrive at the club before opening, anxious, hungry, and on four hours of sleep. Unfortunately, you know this scenario all too well. Most days are like this for you, but that just comes with the lifestyle. 

You are, however, a bit more anxious than normal. The reason why you got less sleep than normal is because a certain underground rapper plagued your thoughts. He was like no one you had ever met before. The many men you met over the last couple years mainly wanted to take advantage of you, so you swore to stop giving anyone a chance. Your father and brothers had even told you that you would never meet a decent man at the club. Now you were questioning everything you had ever believed all over a guy who got his stage name from a purple alien. 

Su-bong had been so sweet, yet persistent, last night that you were sure he would come back and prove that he was interested in more than some baseless sex or money. After leaving the club last night, you began to worry. What if you played too hard to get? What if he never came back and you never saw him again? The thought made your mind race and your stomach turn. 

Your first task of the night was to approach the front bouncers and make sure that Su-bong could get into the club if he showed up. Your heart drops when you get to their station and see that none of the bouncers were here the night before–meaning that none of them would recognize Su-bong. You approach anyway, determined to not let this be the reason that your plan fails. 

“Hi, I have someone that I need to make sure gains entry tonight. Someone who isn’t on my usual list.” You smile sweetly to cover up your nervousness. 

“Sure, Miss Social. What is her name?” The bouncer asks, expecting it to be another one of your girl friends. 

“Um, his name is Choi Su-bong, but he might go by Thanos.” 

The bouncer looks at you through a quirked eyebrow as he writes the information down on his clipboard. “Right… and do you have a picture of him?”

“Well, no.” You frown. “But he’s tall, dark hair, brown eyes-”

“Sorry, but that describes most of the guys who come through here. I really need a picture to be able to spot him in the line.” 

You sigh, then pull out your phone for your last ditch effort. You type Thanos into instagram and scroll through a couple profiles until you find the one that is indisputably his. Tapping on a picture that clearly shows his face, you hold it up to the bouncer eye level. He quirks his eyebrows at you yet again and uses his own phone to snap a picture. “Your dad know about this?”

“No, and if you don’t tell him I can give you an extra day's pay on your next paycheck.” 

The bouncer pretends to lock his lips and throw away the key and you excuse yourself. With step one done, now you need to ask a favor from your father without tipping him off. You find him upstairs in his office typing away on his computer. 

“Hi, Appa,” you say, entering the room cautiously. 

“Hi, Sweetheart,” he responds absentmindedly without looking up from his computer. 

You sit on the edge of his desk. “You know that new rapper guy the other night was pretty good…” You continue when the only acknowledgement your father gives is a mhm. “I was thinking maybe we could add him to our line up permanently, or at least for a while.”

“I don’t know, Princess. Our schedule is already pretty booked. Plus I don’t want to take more out of our budget to pay a rapper that no one even knows.”

For once you’re glad your father isn’t paying attention to you so that he misses the massive eye roll you give. You know very well that the budget is more than okay. “Appa, it would just be a very small amount of money, and he would still only have that fifteen minute slot. It’s not much, but then when he makes it big we could say that he got his start here.”

Your father considers for a minute. “Okay, whatever you think is best.”

“Thank you, Appa!” You hop off the desk and lean down to give your father a hug, He reciprocates the hug and gives you a kiss on the forehead all without tearing his eyes away from his stupid fucking computer. 

Back downstairs, you help around until open to calm your nerves. Once people start trickling in you keep your eyes peeled, hoping to catch a glance of a tall and handsome rapper. After an hour you feel a pit form in your stomach. He probably wasn’t coming back. Why would he? 

You wipe a stray tear from your eye and head to the bar to find something to do. There’s no point in crying over a guy you met one time. “Do you need any help?” you ask the head bartender. 

“V.I.P. table three just put in a big order. Think you can take it to them?”

She loads a tray up with several drinks and you carefully maneuver your way through the crowd to the V.I.P. table. As you pass out their drinks, several of the men’s hands linger against yours for longer than comfortable. You pull away and ignore their seductive smiles that they’ve been giving you for years now, even before you were of legal age. 

You shudder as you walk away, when all of a sudden you feel a pair of hands grab you by the waist and pull you into them. You’re about to throw a punch before you hear your favorite deep voice in your ear. “You miss me, baby?”

You turn around in his grasp and place your arms around his neck when he doesn’t break his grasp on your waist. “You came back.” 

“Of course I did. I was promised the phone number of the prettiest girl in all of Seoul.” You blush and he continues. “I was a bit worried I wasn’t going to be able to get in with how long the line was and how exclusive this place is, but right after I got in line the bouncer found me and told me I was on Miss Social’s special entry list. He even had a picture of me and everything. You stalking my Instagram now, baby?”

“It was either that or you weren’t getting in.” You playfully roll your eyes. “Let’s get some drinks and go sit down somewhere. I need to talk to you.”

He follows after you with his hand on the small of your back. “Is that a good talk to you or a bad talk to you?” 

You giggle at the slight worry on his face. “Good.” 

You find another secluded couch in the back of the club. Here the lights are dim, casting shadows across your features. Between the seclusion and the darkness, you feel like you are the only two here despite the music blasting throughout the building. He helps you sit first before joining you. He slides his body right up against yours, and this time you just let yourself relax. Su-bong rests his arm across the back of the couch behind you, his eyes looking straight into your soul. 

“So… how would you feel about performing here every night?” 

“That would be a dream come true.”

“Well, then I guess your dream came true.” You smile at him and his eyes grow wide when he realizes that you’re being serious. 

“What? How?”

You shrug. “I pulled some strings.” 

He brushes a piece of hair away from your face. “I knew you’d be my good girl.” 

He places a hand against your cheek and you welcome the comfort. You lean into his hand and the two of you look at each other through heavy-lidded eyes. You feel at peace, for once, until you see a familiar face heading toward you. 

“Holy shit, it’s my dad!” In your fear and haste to put space between you two, you accidentally shove Su-bong away harsher than you meant to. You see a flash of hurt on his face, but he acts nonchalantly anyway. 

Your father finally lays eyes on you as he approaches. “There you are, Angel! Been looking all over for you.” Confusion spreads across his features when he sees Su-bong. “Who’s this?”

You clear your throat, worried about getting caught. “Appa, this is Su-bong. He’s the new rapper I was telling you about…” 

“Hmm, nice to meet you.” Your father throws his hand up for him to shake. Su-bong doesn’t miss a beat as he shakes your father’s hand, but you see his other hand nervously fiddling with his vape under the table. 

Your father looks toward you. “I’m thinking about going home early tonight. It’s a pretty quiet night in terms of crowd and I think the rest of the staff have it handled. Let me drive you home.”

“No, Appa, I will just come home later-”

“Angel, I drove you here, I'm going to drive you home.” You begrudgingly start to stand. “Let me drive your friend home too.” 

“Oh, no, sir…” Su-bong tries to decline the offer. “It’s fine, really.”

“Well you took the subway, right?” Your father says to Su-bong, a hint of judgement in his tone that you don’t like. 

“Yeah, but-” 

“Then let me save you the trip.” 

Your father urges you out of the booth with a hand on your arm. You shoot Su-bong an apologetic look, but you’re forced to walk through the club. Once you reach the crisp air of the outside world, you’re surprised to see Su-bong still with you. You uncomfortably wait for the driver to pull around. When the black car approaches, your dad holds the back door open for you and Su-bong to slide into. Your father sits in the front seat, his aura making the atmosphere tense. Su-bong gives his address and the car goes into motion. 

You stay silent throughout the car ride, mostly staring out the window at the night lights of Seoul. The car stops sometime later outside of an apartment building. Su-bong thanks your father for the ride, and you turn to him before he exits the vehicle. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

He turns to you and gives you a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. You watch him head up the stairs to the apartment then throw your head in your hands. He didn’t get your number again and your dad acted like an asshole and probably scared him off. Now he definitely wasn’t coming back. 

You wait to say anything until you get home to spare the driver from having to be involved. You can tell your father is doing the same. Once at home, you storm inside the large house and try to make a beeline for your room, but your father stops you. 

“You don’t need to be talking to this boy.” 

“You just had to ruin everything, didn’t you?” 

“So he is your boyfriend?” 

“No!” You shout, anger pent up inside you. “But he’s the only friend I’ve made that I’m actually sure isn’t just using me to gain something! And you had to be rude to him because he wasn’t born into a rich family like I was.”

Your father sighs. “Friend or not you just don’t need to be talking to boys, Princess.” 

ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ˑ . 𖥔 . ݁₊

The next evening Su-bong shows up again by some miracle. Since he’s performing, he gets there early and you make a beeline for him. You reach to give him a hug, to apologize, but he backs away. You recoil, your face downtrodden. 

“Just don’t want to get you in trouble with your dad again.” 

“He doesn’t come down that often,” you say. 

“He did last night.” 

“That was different-” you plead, but he cuts you off. 

“Just don’t want your dad to think poorly about you the way my dad always thought about me.” 

You look down. You didn’t know that about his dad. You feel fat tears welling up in your eyes at the enormous complexity of the situation–you’re angry at your father, you feel guilty about making Su-bong feel like he’s the problem, and you don’t want to lose Su-bong before you even have him. “Can we talk more? I know a place.”

He follows your lead until you enter an unlabeled room. When you first walk in there’s box-filled shelves, but at the back lies a giant bean bag and some blankets. 

“What is this?” Su-bong asks. 

“Storage closet I guess. I don’t think anyone has used it in a long time. When I was sixteen I found it and put the bean bag in. Don’t get me wrong I love the atmosphere here, but coming here every single night of your life can get a bit tiresome at times.”

“Your dad is freakishly overprotective of you, but he let you start coming here when you were sixteen?” 

You laugh bitterly. “My nanny retired when I was sixteen. I don’t think he wanted to hire another one.” 

“You had a nanny at sixteen?” 

“I’m surprised I don’t still have a nanny,” you say. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad very much. I’m thankful for the life I’ve been given, but I wish he would give me a little space. He’s just trying to keep a tighter rein on me than he kept on my mom.” 

“Did she leave?” He asks cautiously. 

“She left this planet,” you say, then backtrack when you see his bewildered expression. “It’s okay, it was almost ten years ago.”

Su-bong’s encouraging eyes urge you to go on and you spill your guts. You tell him everything. You tell him about how you were an accident, your brothers much older than you. You tell him that your father was too committed to his job and your brothers too busy with school or work or girlfriends to ever be around. It was just you and Mom for the first part of your life. But being so close meant that she didn’t hide the most secret part of her life–the part that no one else bothered to notice. Day after day you watched your mother pop more and more pills. Our secret she would whisper. You didn’t quite understand what the pills did, but you knew they hurt her. So you would grab them by the handful and flush them down the toilet or bury them in a flower pot. But they always came back. One night you cuddled up to watch a movie and watched her eat them like candy. Our secret she whispered right before you fell asleep curled against her body. When you awoke in the early hours of the morning, her body was cold, her eyes glossy. You hit at her chest and screamed at her but you knew it was no use. Before you called your father you frantically ran throughout the giant house collecting all of her stashes and throwing them out. When the police questioned your father they asked if she had an addiction. No, I never saw anything he said back to them. What about you, Angel? You looked the police officer and your father in the eyes and said you never saw a thing.

You look over at Su-bong with a sad smile. “You have no idea how good that feels to get off my chest to someone I can trust.”

He rubs circles on your back and leans the two of you back on the beanbag, entangling your legs together. Then, he tells you everything. He tells you about how his family was good once upon a time, until his father started guzzling whiskey by the bottle. Then he started being mean to both Su-bong and his mother. Nothing about them was good enough. Then the physical abuse started, and it didn’t end until they ran away one night after he passed out. 

You lie there in the bean-bag that is definitely too small for the two of you for quite a while. Just fingers tracing shapes on thighs, backs, arms. Eventually you know that it’s time to go so he can perform. But you turn to him seriously first, “I don’t want this to end. I like talking to you. Can’t we just hide from my dad?” 

He pulls you to your feet. “Course, good girl.”

He performs. It’s brief but you’re right there the whole time in the front row soaking it all in. After his performance you dance together, then order way too many drinks and head up to your secret spot. By the end of the night you’re both pretty drunk and you finally remember that he still doesn’t have your number. 

“My phone has been dead for hours, Sweetheart.”

“Why does something happen at the end of every night that prevents you from getting my number?” You whine. 

“I’ll just remember it!” 

You groan. It’s nearly four in the morning, he’s drunk, and there’s no way he’ll remember your number until he can get home and charge his phone. But you tell him anyway. 

The following day you awake still tired, as usual. You’re dragging yourself and your blanket to the living room to relax on the couch for a bit when you see a message on your phone. What time does my princess wake up? Need to know when to send good morning… I mean good afternoon texts.

You’re absolutely beaming. You can’t believe he managed to remember your number. The next hour is spent texting him nonstop and not even trying to hide the smile on your face. You feel like a high-schooler again, even though high school wasn’t that long ago. 

“Who the hell are you talking to and smiling that big?” 

You smack a hand over your heart. “Jesus, Tae, you scared me!” 

Your brother walks into the living room holding a bowl of cereal in his hands. He’s still quite a bit older than you, but he is the sibling closest in age to you, so you have always been closest to him. He doesn’t live at home anymore, so you weren’t expecting him.

“So? Who you talking to?”

You roll your eyes. “My friends.”

“Those fake ass friends? Yeah, you totally smile like that when talking to them,” he says sarcastically. He snatches the phone from your hands and reads your screen with big eyes. You try to yank the phone back but it’s too late. “Su-bong with a heart emoji?!” 

“Give it back! He’s just my friend.” You snatch the phone from him and bury it in your blanket to protect it from getting stolen again. 

“Holy shit, isn’t that the rapper you just hired on at The Social? You realize Dad is gonna kill him, right?” 

“I’m nineteen, almost twenty. I’m allowed to talk to a guy if I want to. Besides, Dad’s not gonna kill him,” you say sternly. “Because you are not going to tell him.”

“So that Dad can kill me when he finds out that I knew and didn’t tell him? Yeah, no way.” 

“When you were my age I covered for you for far worse things. Just let me have this one thing, for once in my life.” 

He looks at you weird and you realize that you’re genuinely pleading with him. “Fine, whatever. Just don’t get all weird and emotional on me.” 

He walks off and you clutch your phone to your chest. Just let me have this one thing, you ask the universe. 

ᡣ𐭩 Taglist ᡣ𐭩

@naatggeo

@private-vampire

@arzias

[duachai]

DE.VIL - BANG CHAN | STRAY KIDS

A fashion designer under a mafia contract is Chan's one and only toy to play with.

Here, baby, take a sip, take a sip. Take a sip, take a sip, lick your lips, lick your lips

♱ PAIRING : BANG CHAN X MALE READER ♱ CONTENT WARNING : This writing contains explicit sexual content and mature themes. ♱ AUTHOR'S NOTE : This was supposed to be for Halloween, but I left it in my notion and then forgot about it. So... then I got carried away... turned it into smut... and then with railway and... well.... it's Chan. ♱ REQUESTED : YES (ANON) LINKS : Wattpad

Lollipops were M/n's stress relievers. His mother, wise to his anxieties, had given him the habit of carrying one at all times. In the face of conflict, the sugary treat became a calming ritual, helping him navigate the tension. 

The urge to pop a lollipop for comfort was eating him alive. However, he knew a childish indulgence wouldn't sit well with the wealthy client scrutinizing his latest masterpiece, or what he thought was one. 

"Is this it?" the client scoffed, slumping back in his chair. "This just looks like a bunch of draped fabric. And it's way too feminine for what I instructed you to. Listen, I respect your achievements, and you can do whatever you please, but this is a complete miss for me. Try again.” 

M/n clenched his jaw, the fingers of his right hand twitching to reach for his hidden stash of lollipops. This was the opposite of S-Class Styles’s brand. His brand thrived on pushing boundaries, not churning out these uninspired black-and-white suits. He craved the opportunity to inject some signature edge, a touch of that S-Class shock factor, to weave a story into the fabric itself. 

S-Class Styles was a front for a darker business, but as the specific gentleman who bought out the place, they offered M/n a secure job to do whatever he pleased, but still he got walked all over. 

And frankly, this was M/n’s fifth project for this man. Could he not catch the hint? 

“Alright, Mr. Jung. I’m sorry this doesn’t fit your… criteria. I’ll work on getting a better version for you.” M/n swallowed his pride, putting on a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He kept it moving, something he continued to do through the last six clients until the end of the day. 

The shop lights flickered off one by one, signaling the end of another grueling shift. M/n gathered his belongings and shuffled out, ready to escape the suffocating pressure of client demands. 

As he stepped into the lobby, he was greeted by a figure that instantly made his pulse quicken. Chan, the mafia leader who had an iron grip on the city, was lounging casually on a velvet chair, waiting for him. His dark eyes narrowed slightly, studying M/n with an intensity that left no room for distractions. 

“Bad day?” Chan’s voice was smooth, his presence undeniably commanding. He rose slowly, the tension in his muscles barely contained beneath his perfectly tailored suit, one that M/n made himself. The air around him seemed to shift, and M/n's breath hitched despite himself. 

"All the same," M/n replied, trying to mask the sudden heat crawling up his neck. 

“Mm,” Chan hummed thoughtfully, stepping closer with a predatory grace. He reached up, his thumb grazing M/n’s jawline, a movement that was as casual as it was intimate. "That look on your face tells me something’s eating at you. I don’t like it." 

M/n swallowed, his heart hammering in his chest. "It’s nothing. Just business, you know?" 

Chan’s lips curved into a dangerous smile. “Doesn’t seem like nothing. Why don’t you let me take care of it?” M/n was Chan’s personal... liaison. Chan took care of him and his shop, and M/n took care of anything Chan needed work wise and personally. 

Before M/n could protest, Chan’s hands were at his waist, pulling him into a firm embrace. The sudden closeness was overwhelming and M/n could feel the heat radiating from Chan’s body, and his breath caught in his throat. Bang Chan leaned in, his lips brushing just below M/n’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. 

“You’ve been carrying all that stress around,” Bang Chan whispered, his voice rough and low. "Is there someone bothering you? Let me handle it." 

M/n’s mind raced, but his body betrayed him. He wanted to push away, to retreat, but the pull of Chan was magnetic. He leaned into the kiss, their lips crashing together in a searing kiss. The taste of mint and danger mixed as their tongues tangled in a heated rhythm, all pretense vanishing in an instant. 

“There’s no one,” M/n whispered between the kiss. Chan’s hands moved down to M/n’s hips, pulling him closer, if that was even possible. The space between them vanished as M/n’s lower back pressed against the nearest desk with his sewing machine on it. The sharpness of the suit’s fabric dug into his skin, but it only heightened the fire burning inside him. 

Chan broke the kiss briefly, his lips brushing M/n’s neck as he trailed kisses along his skin. “Are you being honest with me, doll?” he murmured against his collarbone, voice laden with desire. 

M/n’s breath faltered, his hands reaching up, desperate to touch, to claim. The tension, the stress, everything melted under Bang Chan’s touch, and he knew, deep down, there was no turning back now. 

“Answer me,” Chan murmured, his voice dropping to a near growl, “Is there a problem I have to deal with?” His dark eyes searched M/n’s face intently looking for any sign he was hiding something. 

M/n took a breath, pushing Chan back a little as he dropping his head as he sighed. “There’s nothing, I don’t understand why you get so worked up.” Chan’s expression turned as he slightly rolled his eyes, his brows furrowing as he looked down at M/n with a mix of frustration and concern. He reached up, his thumb brushing over M/n’s jawline as he tried to coax him to look up. 

“Your shop looks a reck. Someone came here causing trouble. What I don't understand is why you keep protecting them.” He said sternly, M/n adverting his eyes completely. “When are you going to stop covering for people who clearly don’t give a fuck about you and what you’re doing?” M/n’s shoulders drop and his lips form into a pout. “One of these days, I’m not going to be here to protect you, M/n.” 

“Just stop with your gangster bullshit, Chan.” M/n said, pushing off from leaning on the desk as he grabbed his coat, “I can’t deal with another lecture. I’m going home.” 

Chan’s eyes flashed with a little bit of concern, he bit his anger back as he watched M/n walk away. He knew better than to push too hard, not when he already knew M/n was one for an attitude. With another sigh, he reached back and caught M/n’s arm pulling him back in  front of him, “Stop.” 

“I’m just trying to fucking help,” Chan said, his voice low and dripping with tense as he looked at M/n with slight puppy eyes. “You can’t keep letting people walk all over you, doll. I know you and I know one day you’re going to snap and it’s gonna to be a mess so I’m telling you here right now don’t do that. You’re my cover, so don’t blow it.” 

“I’m sorry, I can do better.” M/n said his lips pushing out. Chan’s expression softened as he pressed his forehead to M/n’s, his hands back at his hips. He became mushy, and folded under M/’s pout, one he could just kiss over and over. 

M/n drew in a gentle breath as Chan nuzzled his face into his neck, placing peppered kisses on the area as he inhaled the scent of cinnamon on M/n’s skin. “You always make it so hard to stay mad at  you,” He murmured, his hands roaming lower. He hooked his fingers under M/n’s waistband, tugging gently. 

“Chan...don’t-” 

Too late. Chan cut M/n off as he lifted the male on top of the desk, stepping between his legs as they wrapped around his waist instinctively. Their lips connected again and M/n moaned in a sexy fit of protests before melting into Chan’s lust. 

Chan’s hands slowly move to M/n’s backside, untucking his dress shirt. His cold hands gently caressed his bare skin as he pressed soft, slow kisses along M/n’s jawline and neck. He unbuttoned M/n’s shirt, pushing it off his shoulder, admiring M/n’s upper body. 

“You’re so fucking pretty,” Chan cooed, his hand wrapping around M/n’s neck lightly as he tipped his head up to look him straight in the eyes. 

Chan gazed intensely into M/n’s eyes, his grip around M/n’s neck feather-light yet so possessive. “Can you service me tonight, doll?” He asked, Chan’s thumb brushing over his bottom lip before it slipped between his lips, his eyes dilating as through his eyelashes M/n looked up at him so seductive. Chan inhaled sharply as the feeling of M/n’s warm mouth. 

“Open wider.” He commanded. 

“Yes, daddy,” M/n obeyed as Chan guided M/n down onto his knees, keeping his hand on M/n’s cheek as he used his other hand to unbutton his pants. M/n watched with pouty lips glazed in his spit, practically drooling to get Chan back in his mouth. 

“Good boy, now suck.” Chan commanded, releasing his now-hard length from his undergarments, a small bead of moisture already forming at the tip. He pressed the head against M/n’s open mouth, his hand now tangled in M/n’s locks of wild black and white hair, slightly guiding his head forward. 

“Yes...” M/n said in almost a whine, his lounge darting out to lick the tip of Chan, gathering the salty love liquid before sucking gently on the head. Chan’s hand in his hair tightened further, his hips giving an involuntary jerk as M/n’s warm, wet, mouth enveloped him. 

“Fuck,” Chan hissed, his head tilting back slightly at the pleasure M/n brought him. He gently thrust his hips forward, watching himself slowly disappear into M/n’s mouth, “You take me so well, doll. Go deeper, baby.” 

“Mm,” M/n hummed against Chan, his free hand stuck between his underwear as he palmed him in the rhythm of his mouth. Chan tuned on even more, if possible, watching M/n’s pleasuring himself while sucking him off. He throbbed between those perfectly shaped lip. 

“Yes, baby, fuck... just like that, my sweet doll.” 

“F-Fuck, I’m gonna c-cum. Shit,” M/n whined. 

Chan smirked with a hum, those dimples pressing on his cheeks, keeping M/n’s mouth stuffed with his thick length as he found himself pressing his own release too, “Go, baby, go ahead. Do it together” He encouraged. 

“Oh... fuck!” M/n half screamed as he halted for a second his mouth work on Chan just to use his hand to work the same pace on both, only to cum ribbons of his liquds over himself. 

“Mm mm, you’re not done, baby, come take this,” Chan commanded before letting M/n leave him without release. He lead M/n’s mouth back to his dick and stroked himself a few times before completely letting his cum funnel into his mouth. “Such a good fucking boy..” Chan cooed between one like moan as he slowly pulled out of M/n’s mouth. 

As M/n swallowed, he used his thumb to wipe away the drips from his abused and beet-red lips with a sugary, sexy grin, “Look at you, my doll. There’s no way I won’t keep you from everyone else.” 

[sad-solaris]

Guess? - Sirius Black

Summary: Sirius loves to guess the color of his girlfriends underwear

Warnings: suggestive, allusions to sex but not the actual act (foreplay), drinking, female reader

Word count: about 1500

A/N (Please read!): Hello!! Okay, I haven’t written anything in close to 7 years and never on this blog so fair warning for everything that follows. I’ve also never written anything smutty before so again, sorry if this is terrible🤍 I would like to continue with writing on this blog but would love to hear any thoughts you have when reading this! English isn’t my first language so warning for that too.

Again, I haven’t written in several years so preemptive excuses for any mistakes. I’ve just been listening to Charli’s guess a lot, and the marauders are my current muses so🤷🏽‍♀️, enjoy I guess!

(This was also written on mobile so again, again, again -Sorry!)

It’s unlike Sirius to be so disenchanted with the lively atmosphere of Londons nightlife. but on this specific outing he can hardly be at blame for the daze clouding his mind.

There’s a step down from the bar area to the dance floor, giving those lingering by the bar an overlook of the crowd dancing the night away. Sirius takes a sip from the bottle he ordered from the bar, the fizzy liquid does little to quell his racing pulse.

His eyes scan over the crowd for a short instant, he didn’t need to search particularly hard before he zeroes in on one person in particular. Your hair catches the color changing lights as it sways with your carefree movements, the pinstripe pants clings to your hips and bottom in a way that makes Sirius’ mouth dry up quickly despite his attempts to water it with the bottle in his hand, a hand coming up to tug a lock of dark hair behind his hair.

The black vest you recently purchased clung nicely to your body, accentuating your chest in a way that made his jeans tighten.

Sirius’ eyes swept over your frame several times before they once again focused on your hips. The pants were a favorite of his, and although floor length pants in any other circumstance may be a more modest clothing item, the pinstripe pattern stretched deliciously over your ass making Sirius tighten his grip on the bottleneck.

Sirius was enchanted with the sight on the dance floor, your hips swaying to the beat of the music. Despite the wonderful sight in front of him, Sirius couldn’t help his imaginative mind from wondering what might hide beneath those pants he was so infatuated with. The longer Sirius’ eyed your dancing form, the further his mind wandered from the London club. If you had gotten ready at your shared apartment he would have had the luxury to participate in your pre-party routine. Your usual shared routine having been passed over in favor of you getting ready at Marlenes, the birthday girl having summoned her closest girlfriends for pregames at her apartment.

Sirius was obviously no stranger to the body beneath your clothes. Much to the annoyance of the rest of the marauders who had been forced to listen to him wax poetically about your legs, the curve of your arms, and that oh so pretty neck of yours. No, Sirius was no stranger to your body. But standing here in this nightclub, Sirius liked to imagine what you were hiding under your pants.

Was it the pretty pink pair he had picked up a few months back? The ones with the matching bra? He recalls how your face had flushed when he held up the magenta colored piece of fabric, and how you had tried to argue that you were in no need for even more clothes, but had shut up when he so easily countered that “darling, I’m a selfish man, if anything this are more for me than they are for you”. And true to his words, Sirius was more than satisfied with the way the pretty pink had laid against your skin. His hands had mapped out every crease and crevice of your lingerie clad body later that night.

The jeans he had chosen for tonight suddenly felt even tighter than they had a minute ago. His eyes still never leaving his dancing girlfriend. But ones again they drifted down to your ass. Maybe you had forgone the pink pair today, he can recall that you wore them not too long ago to a date night. Perhaps you had decided on the nude colored ones, the ones that give the illusion that you weren’t wearing any at all?

Sirius thinks back to several weeks ago, on one of those odd mornings where he had been up with the sun, leaving you to rest for a little while longer. He had sat by the kitchen window sipping his morning coffee and looking out onto the street below, anything but envious as he watched passersby fight against the cold winds of a rainy morning. He had greeted you with a smile when as you joined him in the kitchen, the pajama pants you’d borrowed from him hung low on your hips. Sirius eyed you with that same easy smile as you walked over to the counter to get your own cup.

His breath had however caught in his throat when you had reached up into the cupboard for your favorite mug. The simple t-shirt you were wearing rising up. From where he sat a couple meters from you it appeared that you had forgone wearing underwear under the borrowed pajama pants. The image had had his boxers tighten slightly and distracted him enough to the point where he barely noticed that you had turned around to lean against the counter, your coffee mug nestled in your hands.

His attention drew back to your face as you addressed him by name, “hmm what was that darling?“

“oh nothing Siri, you just seemed distracted“. Sirius licked his lips, his own mug long forgotten on the kitchen table. His eyes drew back to your face as his lips curled into a confident smirk, “You know I’m always distracted when you’re around love“ he spoke lowly as you hid behind your coffee mug, “did you forget your underwear this morning darling?“ he had continued in an attempt to fluster you further. Your brows had furrowed, “what do you mean?“, you lifted your t-shirt to above your bellybutton reveling the skin colored sheer pair you were wearing, Sirius’ eyes darkening at the action. “I guess they kind of look see through“ you had chuckled before taking another sip.

Your brows had furrowed when your usually talkative boyfriend hadn’t answered with a quip of his own. Your mug lowering to reveal the hungry look in his eyes, the tight fabric around his crotch indicating that the otherwise quiet morning wouldn’t last very much longer.

“Careful, anyone who doesn’t know you might think you’re an ogling creep“ Sirius couldn’t have hindered how his body jumped as Lily appeared at his side, a self-satisfied smirk taking over her face at having successfully frightened the otherwise confident man. “har-har Evans, I happen to know someone even worse than me“. Lily chuckled as he tried to divert the attention towards James and away from himself, “She looks good tonight” she continued, ignoring his attempted diversion.

Sirius’ attention returned to your smiley face, your body swaying with the music as you and Marlene serenaded each other the song currently playing from the speakers, your hands outstretched towards one another. Even if he had tried to, Sirius doubted he could’ve stopped the genuine smile that stretched wide over his lips, pointedly ignoring how Lily muttered a short ‘whipped’ before leaving him alone once again, that previous smile never leaving her own lips. Sirius could barely wait to get you alone, suddenly thankful that the taunt fabric of his jeans hid at least some of his growing affection.

-

Later in the evening, as Sirius has you laid out in front of him on your shared bed, your heaving chests pressed tightly against each other as you seem to breathe in tandem. Sirius�� lips briefly leave yours in favor of roaming your neck, leaving teasing nips at your skin. Your heavy breaths intermingled with soft moans when bites down particularly hard at the junction between your neck and shoulder. The sounds are music to his ears as he works your pants zipper down, the buttons of your vest top already having been worked open in the hallway, a darkening mark just above the cup of your bra replacing the fabric that had previously covered that spot.

A particular high moan pulls Sirius away from your neck, admiring the tiny bite marks he’s left behind. He straightens up between your legs at the foot of the bed. Sirius looks at your face, the adoration in your eyes make him simultaneously want to melt through the floor boards and scream at the top of his lungs, happiness radiating off of him in waves.

His eyes travel down your body for the millionth time today as his hands finish pulling down the zipper, a gentle pat at your thigh signaling for you to raise your hips as he works your pants down your legs, they’re discarded in a pile on the bedroom floor as his attention once again this evening returns to your hips, this time unhindered by any fabric as he takes in the lacy black material of your underwear. Trailing his fingers along the waistband and over the little bows sitting at both sides just above your hip bone.

The soft wine of his name finally pulls Sirius’s attention back to you. The pupils of his eyes having nearly taken over that lovely shade of grey you’re so used to. His grin widens when your eyes meet, you beckon him back up to your lips, desperate to feel the closeness he’s depriving you of.

But you can’t be to upset when instead of crawling back up to your lips he sinks to the floor on his knees, his hands and eyes once again returning to your underwear.

Perhaps he was wrong in his guesses at the club, but Sirius can’t seem to pay any mind to that right now. Not when your breathy calls of his name intermingles with the soft moans of earlier.

[maximwtf]

“Stood upon your grave…”

Capitano x Guard!Reader

Words: 2530

Google Docs Pages: 4

Warnings: 5.3 spoilers, mentions of death and passing, mourning, angst/no comfort but also kind of at the end? But the comfort is also kinda sad, we all crying at the clurb, platonic I think, a small tma reference

Opening: Standing upon his resting place, you allow some thoughts to pass your mind. Why did things turn out this way? What is your purpose now?

AN// G/N Reader. Haha, It’s my 20th birthday so I get to write Capitano angst for yall before getting back to working on everything else :D I love this man so much yall don’t understand, I tweak out at the sight of one edit of him xd

“Stood upon your grave…”

Feet planted firmly against the rough stones, unable to move further in that moment. The steps ahead appearing as an obstacle far too tiring to attempt defeating. The frost on the old steps appeared like fresh snow, reminding you of home. Some of the ice had chipped off of the icey pillars and snowed down peacefully. Even the wind felt colder, sending a shiver down your spine. It felt almost eerie, like it didn’t belong here. The air surrounding the throne and the steps leading to it felt colder the further up the stairs you slowly walked. 

The icey walls protecting the now sacred spot kept everything within its cold hold, never allowing a moment of warmth to pass. Even through the warm clothing, the cool touch of the air somehow reached you, as if welcoming in the new visitor. Staying by your side even when the steps at the very top started feeling heavier. When the image of what was awaiting at the very top started coming into view better. It being exactly what you’d expected, what you knew was waiting. Yet the same old sting followed even without the help of the cold bites of the cool air. 

Not even having noticed your breath turning into soft white puffs as it came out, your eyes stayed glued on the figure sitting still on the throne. Right in front of you, the chest of this now empty shell, still continuing its age old movement. As if still breathing in the fresh cool air, taking a moment of rest. An aching sight, yet it made no change to the stoic expression you had carried all the way up here. 

You wanted to pretend you’d come to terms with the events that had transpired in this very place. Yet each time this place had laid its gaze upon you, you’d arrived with new thoughts to share. That being the exact same reason for your arrival this time as well. It didn’t feel right to visit if you had nothing to say, like you were wasting someone’s time. A part of you humoring the thought of someone, perhaps him, listening to your rambles. At least it felt like someone did when the very person you were talking to had to appear so life-like. And if you’d been anyone else, maybe you’d found solace in that thought. But to you, the sight only brought a deep feeling of bitterness. It raised questions which had no one to answer them, likely no one to listen to them either. It was a pain to know someone fated as he had been, so well. 

And here again, stood upon your grave, “I think I finally understand why you brought them peace.” You began explaining a recent revelation, folding your hands neatly before you. Guard lowered, no weapon in sight on your form. Just the captain and someone who’d once considered themselves as a follower. Willing to give their life for this person in battle, if it meant serving what he’d believed in. 

But that aside, you wanted to believe you’d truly come to a conclusion this time. Not because you wanted to stop visiting, but because it felt like it’d been ages since his departure. And the never ending thoughts running through your head like a cat chasing a mouse were beginning to boil over. 

Yes, he’d needed to finish the mission he’d given himself. A man of his word, a fitting description in your mind. He’d promised those poor souls peace, a place to call home once it was time to finally rest. He’d served without complaining for the whole time you’d known the man, not a word spoken of what he had put himself through in order to gain pity. 

500 long years of absolute life, having carried the souls of his men, died beside him, the whole way. Not a single night of rest nor a singular complaint. He’d made a promise, dedicated his time for the cause. Carrying those weeping souls within him while travelling the nations. Heart as pure as the first snowflakes of the winter, hosting a temporary home for the otherwise lost. For the men he had felt like he’d let down. Having watched their homeland become nothing but a story for others to tell. He’d watched his very own troops fall under the immense power of the enemy, leaving him to soothe their souls when they yelled out in terror within him. His people. 

Having lost himself in the process, what he’d considered himself before then. Watched his body rot as time went on but never really caught up with him. Not like it seemed to do to the people around him. Of which, none did he ever leave behind. Those brave souls deserved to be remembered, they deserved a place to rest. An end he grew ever so slightly envious of as time ticked by. What he wished he could one day gain when he’d finally rest his eyes after 500 years. 

But stood upon your grave, “I just don’t understand why you left me behind.” The words left your lips, shattering the conclusion you’d built previously. Even if what you’d thought happened to be exactly how he’d felt, the question still stood at the back of your mind. Capitano had left with the souls on their last mission, together. With honor, no less. But he’d left you behind, without a purpose. Wasn’t this existence the very same as that of those poor souls? 

You’d joined his ranks around the time he’d been appointed the title of The Captain. Following him ever since, without a doubt of his skills as a leader for his men. Having aligned your morals based on what he’d believed in. Not to mention the skills he’d taught the people he commanded. You’d even caught people outside his troops picking up movements you had noticed the captain using. His name was a heavy one to speak, he was respected well outside his troops. And it wasn’t out of fear, it was genuine acknowledgement for his skills and power.

You’d been by his side for long enough to have figured out what he’d been attempting, even if you hadn’t known the full truth by then. How he had travelled from nation to nation, examining the ley lines there. He’d been so insistent on finding a rest place for ‘something’ you hadn’t figured out back then, that it’d been the first time you had doubted following him. But out of respect and trust, you hadn’t turned away even then. And perhaps that’d been for the best. Hadn’t you done that, there would have likely never been a chance to understand even half of what had transpired after. 

How could have you understood why he’d decided to give his life away like this, if you hadn’t seen the attempts before? This was no simple task, not for a mere human. Of which you had to remind yourself from time to time. He was but a human, even if he wasn’t allowed to live as one. 

He’d dedicated so much time on research for the perfect nation, for the right resting place for his people. Had he not failed in the past, you wouldn’t have figured most of his plan out by yourself. Realising only the rest by the very end. A time far too late to tell him no, not when he’d revealed the rest to you so willingly. Like a sickening farewell. 

Before being so aware, you’d watched him struggle with the curse, the rot. Still fully unaware of the extent of this and what it truly meant. What he’d been dealing with for the past 500 years, watched the man he’d once been get completely erased beyond recognition. How the lack of rest wore him down, but the rot corroded even that. His exterior having concealed the screams of the dead for so long. But he’d still somehow never given up on the mission he’d set for himself. 

At times it felt like you’d seen too much, like you had understood something you weren’t meant to. Truthfully wishing what you’d found out had been a misunderstanding or a trick of the eye, each time. But you knew it was all unfolding before your eyes in full truth, and he was always so aware of this. To a point where you slowly realised he was allowing you to follow, to see what he was, who he was. And most of all, what he was planning on putting into action. Only filling in the rest at the very end of the line. 

He knew you’d figure it out at some point in the far future. But he, if anyone understood the pain time was able to cause, there was no need to cause that for you. Not when he wasn’t ashamed of his goal. “But death is the end I’ve been trying to reach all along,” was what he’d said. An odd thing to hear from someone cursed with absolute life, you’d thought to yourself then. So you’d been right, in the right direction at the very least. But this revelation didn’t feel like something to celebrate over. The reality of hearing him say that, admit he’d yearned for his end for so long felt painful. Selfishly so, now that you knew the pain of his existence. 

Was it selfish to stare at the aftermath of his long plan, and wish he hadn’t succeeded? Was it fair to even let that thought cross your mind when he’d so willingly gave up his life to save the nation you were now able to visit peacefully? To wish that he hadn’t found the solution now, maybe never? You almost wished to once more be unaware of the suffering he’d been through, just to let yourself soak in those selfish thoughts. 

After all, this had ultimately been the end he’d wished for. No one had told him to sacrifice his life here, he’d wished for that to happen. To give his life, extended beyond belief, for something that mattered to him. Allowing the continuation of the life of someone who was now greatly needed in the nation. It almost made you laugh, how far he’d been willing to go just so that his very own end was so fitting to his character. Of the man that even the curse hadn’t been able to corrode. 

It was selfish to wish he’d come back. But admitting that hurt when you knew how many of his close comrades he’d finally allowed peace, but left you behind. A soldier and a trusty guard, now something you couldn’t find a word for. Seen by no one, and at the same time having no one to follow. A person without a clear tomorrow, purely because the dedication in their life sat unmoving in front of them. Because you couldn’t have asked him to carry the burden of allowing you to join him in death. You couldn’t have asked him to carry your soul along those crying one’s who’d gotten their life cut short. Not by choice, by force. That felt disrespectful then, so it did now. Even while wallowing in grief.

But stood upon your grave, you couldn’t help but wonder why you couldn’t have joined them in the honor of leaving for a permanent home. Why he’d been so adamant about leaving you behind when he was no longer here. How unfair it felt to be stood here alone, with no way to change the past. Not knowing if you should have blamed the curse, perhaps the one to blame was Ronova herself? Or maybe you should have been blaming the five sinners of Khaenri'ah? Or could have you blamed yourself for not figuring his plan out earlier and maybe you could have aided him? No, any excuse was useless in the end. There was no one you could find in your hands to blame for this fate, seemingly set in stone so long ago. 

He’d done his all for his troops, his comrades. For his homeland, long before its downfall. And even after, he’d dedicated his life to so many others without hesitation. He’d done it all for his own name and honor. This was a man worthy of unyielding respect. 

So if there was no further use for your services, no purpose anymore that was verbally given, you had to find it yourself. And maybe that’d been exactly why he’d left you behind, why he’d allowed you to see and hear everything you now knew. Every detail he’d allowed you to learn of himself, to set your memory up as a library for his memory. Your dedication to him was far from its end, was what you’d decided then. 

If you were no use to anything else, you’d serve the dead. His memory was deeply engraved into your memory. Every detail you had held on to during these years being by his side. You’d make sure the memory of him would last eternally, exactly as he’d told it himself. As the honorable man he’d been to the very end.  

The very same cool wind blew against the hem of your coat, standing upon his grave. It was peaceful for him here, not many dared to take the trip to visit. It sounded like a crying shame to say out loud, but then again, maybe he needed the peace to rest. After all, this had been the first time in 500 years he’d been allowed to truly shut his eyes for a moment. 

Your eyes travelled to gaze at the bundle of red in your hands. Clutched there tightly without even noticing the force behind it. A gift you’d brought for him here, that now felt like some new form of a goodbye that you didn’t want to admit.

The deep red petals of the beautiful spider lily swayed a little along with the wind. Somehow still just as sorrowful yet beautiful as when you had picked it up. You’d tied a few laurel leaves to the bottom of the flower, bending them a little so they looked like actual leaves of the flower.  

You weren't sure if he was still around enough to be able to appreciate the thought behind it, yet you still placed the small bouquet of flowers on his lap. Tugging them safely in place, protected from the winds and cold. Backing up a little to look at the sight now. A small drop of blood red laying upon his lap, a chest aching sight. 

You stayed for a moment longer. Staring at the man, at the red spider lily encased with laurel leaves sitting on his lap. Trying hard not to find peace within the sight, not willing to admit that this was the end he’d wanted. This was an end to his journey, something that’d been up for him to decide. 

The cool wind swayed the hem of your coat along with it now that you stood further from the throne. But the dark icey pillars around the man kept him safe, kept the flower safe with him. Continuing his work even without realising it. Keeping the beings who trusted him with their life safe. 

[its-quiet-colter]

Worn Bedrolls

FTM! Pero Tovar x Male!Reader

Word Count: 2983

Warnings: 18+ NSFW smut, oral sex, vaginal fingering, face sitting, multiple orgasms, established relationship, its all very soft dw. switch!Pero, no afab language used, just 'hole 'and 'dick'. also! some size difference between the reader and pero.

Notes: i had to re-write this so many times and it's still unedited but i love my stinky man so this is the end result. enjoy.

| archive of our own |

The campfire crackles in front of you, casting warm shadows into the night. It quells the ache in your feet as you stretch out on a patch of grass, unwinding after a hard day. Darkness surrounds your little campsite of thieves and vagabonds, the shrubs and nearby bushland keeping the rest of the world at bay. The nearest village is at least a day's ride away. More than enough for you. All of you are tucked away from civilization, granted a brief respite from fighting. Serenity at last, if only for a moment.

Meat roasts over the fire, unseasoned and stringy. It does little to stir your appetite. The meals you get at taverns are a luxury that you’re rarely afforded. Out here on the land, there is little in the way of delicacies and treats. But when you’ve been exerting yourself all day, you’re not going to complain about the quality of the food served. You’re swords for hire, not cooks. Men living off the land, moving from place to place, each job just another means to an end. Mercenaries. Each new day brings the certainty of danger and the uncertainty of survival. The men beside you are as untrustworthy and sly as yourself, no doubt ready to stab each other in the back at the slightest scent of more gold. It wouldn’t be the first time your companions have left another behind whilst escaping the law or you’ve awoken to one less member of your group at breakfast. One less mouth to feed, you had heard the other’s say with a grumble as everyone continued on.

Only one watches your back.

Quiet and brutish, he sits down beside you with a heavy thud, his back hitting the log as the sound of his chainmail shifts along with his movements. Pero Tovar grumbles underneath his breath, always moody after being given the responsibility of keeping watch. He loathes the silence that comes with sitting on the outskirts of camp, restlessly fidgeting with his knife and looking up at the faintest sound of wind rustling leaves and twigs snapping under the hooves of your horses grazing. The man is unable to sit still with his own thoughts for too long, always on edge and grumpy.

He reaches over you, picking up the plate you had just finished with as he tops it with his own dinner for the night. The meat is overcooked and unflavoured, a perfect complement to the stale bread that he shovels it into his mouth with a sigh. Like a man starving, Pero eats quietly to himself. In all the years you’ve known him, he’s never complained about food. He eats quietly, eyes focused on the flames in front of him, and it’s there under the warm golden glow of the fire do you see the underlying exhaustion in his gaze. So subtle only you could catch it.

“Tired?” You ask, gentle and curious. There is a softness in your voice that is only reserved for when it’s the two of you. Hushed and low to keep the others out. Just as it should be.

Pero is your partner in crime, your other half. You complement each other. Where he is brutish and strong, you are agile and quick-witted. Each skill set offered to defend the other. There is a sense of safety in numbers, or in this case just two. Of course you both sleep with one eye open, but your hands stay intertwined between your bedrolls. It’s as if the world is a little safer knowing you’ve got someone like Pero watching your blind spots. And he would never admit it, but he needs you far more than he’s ever admitted aloud.

“Mh.” Pero grumbles out a response to your question, a rumbly noise made around a mouthful of bread. His calloused fingers tear off another piece of meat to chew, always a messy eater.

Despite his lack of words, Pero isn’t one to lie. Not to you. His leg presses against your own, the touch telling you more than his words ever could. Broken down, exhausted and tired; it’s his way of asking for comfort.

It had been a big day, riding all morning and guarding a stagecoach across the plains. It was filled with some rich nobleman’s precious cargo– you didn’t know what, but you weren’t paid to ask questions. And it would be enough to get by, to restock when you arrived at the nearest town soon enough. On another day; you, Pero and the rest of your wayward group would be robbing the very loot you’re being paid to guard. It didn’t matter to you, so long as the money came through at the end.

The sun had been harsh, beating down on your backs for hours on end. Unforgiving. The armour you wore was heavy and thick, weighing you down throughout the day and leaving a dull ache in your shoulders. Sweat slicking your hair down. Pockets of forest offered only a temporary reprieve from the harsh, hot conditions, but it did little to help keep your heads held high. The dry air wore all of you down after long enough.

Pero’s armour is still caked in blood from today’s labour, having done most of the hard work out there as he always does. Ruthless and strong, he runs towards danger, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Stubborn fool, you think. But as you look at him you hold nothing but fondness for your lover. It’s in his nature to be violent, and yet, through all the fighting, he’s watched your back since you were both little street urchin’s fighting for scraps. Pero has always swung hard and thought second, consequences be damned. But he’s always done it for you. Several of his scars are from the fact he charged head first into the battlefield to save you.

As children, you’d both steal food from vendors at bustling marketplaces, hiding under crates and maneuvering between legs, carts and stalls. Always sharing the scraps with each other. It made surviving far easier. Pero had protected you when a vendor had noticed you stealing from him, and called the city guards who chased you through winding streets and underground sewers. He nearly lost an eye that day. A nasty scar forever left on his face, marking from his left brow down to his cheek. He denies ever having cried that day, and you knew then that he would stick by you, no matter how many scars it earned him.

He’s a man of few words, but he loves you nonetheless.

“You’re filthy.” You say as Pero puts his now empty plate down, wiping his hands along his pants to be mixed in with dry sweat and blood. There is no heat in your words, nothing but gentleness reserved only for the man you love oh so dearly. Carefully, you pick up a rag and dip it into a basin of water, leaning over to wipe a streak of grime off his cheek. Pero looks at you, his eyes soft and warm as he blinks. Unmoving. He lets you pamper him for a moment, his hands resting over your wrists as he simply just… watches you.

You bring the rag over the dirt on his temple, cleaning his face. Mindful of the scar that adorns his cheek, your thumb brushes over his skin in reverent motions. The scruff of his stubble, the smell of sweat and gunpowder that lingers in his hair. All things you’ve come to love about him. He’s sunkissed from the harsh day outside, tired from the heat. There is a sluggishness about him, like he just wants to collapse in your arms and sleep off the exhaustion.

Pero’s hand moves down to your hip, leaning into your touch like a cat silently seeking comfort. He’s not a man that begs, and yet here he is, silently pleading for your touch. His hardened gaze softened to something far more intimate.

“Come on,” You whisper, standing up and offering a hand to Pero. Not that he needs your help, he’s far bigger than you. “Let’s call it a night, amor.”

He takes your hand, and instead of you pulling him up, you fall right over his chest with a soft sound escaping you.

“You did that on purpose.”

“No.” He lies. The flat tone in his voice hides his amusement as you huff and look down at him.

“Smug bastard.” You say, a hand brushing his wayward curls off his forehead affectionately.

“You love me.” He counters. And love him you do.

–

The tent you two sleep in is barren to say the least. Everything can be packed up and moved within a day. Bedrolls that have seen better days, a stray pair of boots, a rucksack for belongings, pieces of each other laid about. One day you’ll have a real home. But that day is far off for now whilst you’re out on some corner of the globe chasing your next job.

Pero flops down on his bedroll, and you lean down to tug at the straps holding his chainmail across his chest. Peeling away layer after layer of heavy armour until all that’s left is the man underneath. He watches silently as you straddle his lap, fingers sliding through his dirty hair as you brush his scruffy hair out of his eyes.

“Do you remember when we were children?” You start, tender and fond as you look down at him. “When we found that rusted old blade.”

“You cut my hair then.” Pero nods. He closes his eyes, resting his cheek against your chest as he takes comfort in your blunt nails scratching his scalp. “And you did a messy job.”

“They were blunt.” You counter against his half-hearted grumbling. A warm smile gracing your face as you kiss his head, nose buried in his hair. Pero smells like sweat and dirt– the outdoors clung to him, leaving him smelling like the woods you’ve taken to living in for a few months now.

His hands hold your hips, ensuring you aren’t leaving his lap anytime soon. Pero kisses at your collarbone, hands hiking up the back of your shirt to feel warm, smooth skin. Feeling you is grounding. He always needs your touch, needs to feel you close in order to know he’s exactly where he needs to be. Everything is okay when it’s just the two of you here like this. The outside world long forgotten.

Your shirt comes off, and then his as Pero starts to bite at your shoulder and leave marks along the curve of your neck. He loves the way he can make you sound, all breathy and relaxed as you lazily grind against his thigh and cradle his head against your chest. 

The tent feels warm and your hands move to grip his broad shoulders as your arousal starts to strain against your drawers. Pero’s body is marred by scars and bruises, years of fighting on display under you. The bandages wrapped around his chest are too tight, bound and put there in a haste to forget their purpose. It’s easier to ignore the bindings when they’re tucked under several layers of chainmail and leather. They’re old and caked in blood, starting to tear along his side where his armour pinches too tightly underneath his arm. You know he hates it, the discomfort on his face, the stubbornness to refuse to address it causes him more pain than he ever admits to having.

You see the way Pero’s brow twitches, the slight shuffle of discomfort that isn’t arousal as he feels your lingering gaze. You’ve seen him a thousand times before, and yet it’s still too much for him on some days. Even if you love him regardless of what his body looks like. You distract him with a kiss, pulling him away from his thoughts and back to the feel of you.

Pero pulls you impossibly closer, your crotch grinding together between thin layers of clothing. His hands slide under the waistband of your pants, squeezing your cheeks under his rough palm as he moans against your lips. Your fingers tug on his hair and Pero opens his mouth further, letting your tongue in as his breathing picks up.

“Shall I get the harness, mi espada?” You ask against his lips, panting for breath when you finally pull away just enough for breath. You’re already reaching for the rucksack, more than ready to be on the receiving end of his pleasure. There have been many incredible nights where Pero had fucked you hard and loving, in the harness you had made just for him and his pleasure. You’ll never forget the first time he wore it, how he made love to you in this very tent. How his face had been buried in your neck, your skin damp with his tears with your arms and legs thrown around him to hold him close.

This time however, Pero shakes his head and rolls you over so you’re pressed down on the worn bedroll with his legs on either side of your head. He takes a second to shuffle awkwardly out of his own trousers, throwing them off to the side. Your difference is so noticeable when he’s above you like this, how large his thighs are and how warm and heavy he feels on top of you. It’s intoxicating, the smell of his arousal and the way his hands slide into your hair make you groan in eager anticipation. He tugs you up slightly by the hair, biting his lip hard as he pulls you in.

Damp curls and slick coat your chin as Pero grinds against you, a guttural moan leaving him as you grip his thighs and lap him up hungrily. He rubs his groin over you, mouth left open and panting as a string of noises leave him. The tent does little to muffle the sound of you both but neither of you care. Your companions know not to ask questions anyway; or find themselves at the end of Pero’s blade.

Heat pools in Pero’s gut as your nose rubs against his dick, your tongue sliding into his hole. Pero’s hips involuntarily buck against your face as he clenches around you, trying to draw out every little bit of pleasure he can as he uses you for his pleasure. And oh he loves it– loves the way you make him feel. How you know his body inside out. 

“Ngh fuck, Pero.” You moan against him, muffled. The vibrations and the curl of your tongue make his back bow and his eyes close as he feels the coil in his gut get tighter. The taste and smell of him is intoxicating, you could almost get drunk off it. You’ll never admit it, but your favourite place is right here, underneath him, nose buried in dark messy curls. His thighs, thick and imposing on either side of your head, shake as he feels himself grow closer to the first of many orgasms you’re bound to give him tonight. A brute of a man, he could so easily crush you, but he doesn't. Instead, he gives himself over to you and lets you care for him. A vulnerability reserved only for you.

Pero groans as he grinds against your tongue, trying to take you deeper. He’s close. But you can tell by the twitch in his legs and the tightening of his fist in your hair that he just needs that final push.

“Fingers?” You offer softly when you pull back for breath, panting and coated in his slick. You’re a wreck as you look up at him, but Pero doesn’t look all that different.

“Please.” You hear him whine. It’s not often that he does. Only when he’s close to coming and desperate does a man as brutish and aloof as Pero Tovar whine for his lover. And you’re oh so ready to indulge him.

Your hand comes up beside your chin, nudging slightly until he takes two fingers. His face falls slack, brows furrowed as you finger his hole and curl your fingers, leaving room to suck his tip hard. 

Pero moans, gushing around your fingers as he grinds against you and rides out his orgasm. He shakes above you and you’re left to lap up his juices like it’s the first time you’ve ever tasted him. 

He shivers, boneless and satisfied as you roll him onto his back and resettle between his legs which rest over your shoulders. You pepper kisses along his thighs, starting from above his knee and slowly moving further towards his aching need, giving him the time he needs to catch his breath. But you don’t wait too long before your fingers are in him again, three this time and your tongue laps at his dick– lips wrapped around him in a way you know he loves.

Pero’s second orgasm comes much easier, as does his third. He’s completely relaxed under you, content to let you take him apart and put him back together. Grinding your cock against the bedroll is almost an afterthought for you, too caught up in the way his thighs shake and his toes curl as you draw another orgasm out of him.

By the time you’re both spent and the edges of sleep threaten to draw you closer, Pero’s legs are tangled with yours and your head rests comfortably on his chest. Your eyes are closed and your breathing is light and airy. Both of you content with each other.

You feel a gentle kiss pressed to your head, his nose buried in your hair like it’s the most comforting scent in the world to him.

“Thank you,” He murmurs, the words muffled by your hair.

A small smile graces your lips as you fall asleep in your lover's arms.

[waynes-multiverse]

Don't Blame Me (3.01)

Pairing: Dean Winchester x FBI Agent!Reader

Season 3 Summary: The deeper you fall into the world of all things supernatural, the more the lines between right and wrong begin to blur. With a little help from some magical friends, can you finally change the Winchesters' fate and give them the happy ending they deserve?

Warnings: 18+, language, flashbacks with enemies to lovers vibes (SPN S2 & 3 are saying hi 👋), canon adjacent re-writes, same old S2 cliffhanger (I'm genuinely sorry lol)

Word Count: 4.8k

A/N: Welcome back, guys!!! It's seriously been way too long. I got distracted with life and a ton of other projects, but I'm so happy to share more of those two knuckleheads 🤍

This will not be updated regularly but as much as I can. Thank you for understanding 🫶

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist|| Tag List || Ko-Fi

1. Lemons

November, 2006

One by one, people rushed out of the elevator, all either busy on the phone, stuck in research papers or the casual morning conversation with a colleague, until the stuffy thing eventually reached the 27th floor of the Hoover building, the ding not coming soon enough as you impatiently tapped your heels on the dingy linoleum before hurrying to your desk with a heavy stack of files.

You’d been up all night, racking your brain till your skull almost broke. It certainly felt like it a few times last night, catching yourself reaching for the wine glass more often than you used to, sometimes even wishing it were something stronger, like whiskey or a goddamn shot of tequila.

Unfortunately, a comfortable level of alcohol made the gruesome pictures that lived rent-free in your head slightly more blurry, and was a cure-all for a goodnight’s sleep. Better than NyQuil, or anything else you could get over the counter at the pharmacy at least.

But that’s the thing about signing up as an FBI profiler and specializing in missing children – there would never be a peaceful night for you ever again, and you knew that. You were fine with that deal, though, because in the end, you always helped the ones that needed it the most, which was probably the best sleeping pill of all.

Halfway through a cup of the blackest coffee and a bowl of sugary cereal to keep the engine running, a shadow cast over your cubicle before a folder unceremoniously dropped down in front of you. Curious as you were, you ignored the messenger at first and immediately pried open the folder, skimming over its contents.

Dean and Samual Winchester. Brothers. Born in 1979 and 1983, respectively. No noteworthy jobs. No steady address since 1983 – the year their mother was killed in a house fire. The younger one went to Stanford, pre-law, but dropped out a year ago after his girlfriend passed – also in a fire. Huh. Their father then died a few months ago in a hospital, while the brothers still continue to aimlessly drive around the country in a black ‘67 Chevy Impala, committing crimes along the way. Certainly, a lot of death seemed to surround that strange family and accompany them wherever they went.

“Can you get a profile going for me?” The deep, gruff voice ripped you from your trance and caused you to blink up at the man before you for the first time.

“Uhm, and who are you?” FBI agents were typically rude, stand-off-ish, and generally unpleasant to deal with. Everyone essentially thought they were a big shot, and the guy’s giant ego in front of you seemed to be no different.

“Special Agent Viktor Henriksen,” he introduced himself, a crooked smile shaping his lips. “And you’re Y/N Heller, top of your class at Columbia. Your boss says you’re the best one he’s got, and I need the best for those two. They’re a special kind of fucked in the head.”

You smiled half-politely at him, biting back the sigh, and said through your teeth, “Well, let me be the judge of that, Dr. Phil.”

“Oh, trust me. You’ll come to the same conclusion, sweetheart,” Henriksen replied cockily, making you clench your jaw at his little nickname for you. Guys in the FBI were the fucking worst. All of them were a bunch of competitive, cocky, alpha assholes. “I need a profile ASAP. They’re on the road and already have a couple of murders under their nasty belt. I know they’ve only just begun.”

You frowned slightly at the armchair analysis. Everyone always thought they knew everything. Funny how all those experts still seemed to need you, though.

And well, your first instinct told you the brothers weren’t as twisted as Henriksen made them out to be as you studied the folder in front of you once more. All you saw so far was a lot of trauma and some misguided notions that surely required extensive therapy – maybe even a pill or two.

“I’ll get right on it.” You gave him a resolute nod and accepted the case. Your curiosity was piqued, but not for the reasons Henriksen probably hoped it was. Either way, you needed more information first before giving a final judgment.

January, 2007

Henriksen stormed into the little trailer with you in tow, several heads turning your direction and bodies ducking out of the way as a group of police officers scowled at the two of you. Your superior bickered with the lead detective for a good fifteen minutes about jurisdiction, a true dick measuring contest, while your head was still with the young woman you interviewed at the jewelry store an hour ago.

Sam and Dean Winchester had taken Milwaukee under besiege – or rather a bank. Which you, frankly, found quite the odd duck. You really hadn’t taken the criminal duo for bank robbers. Petty theft? Sure. A full-on, big bank robbery with hostages and witnesses and TV cameras? Not so much.

You knew they used fake credit cards to keep themselves afloat – you collected their receipts religiously like your mother cutting out coupons from the papers. But maybe the brothers finally got tired of filling out one stupid application form after the next and needed a quicker fix. So, why not rob a bank?

Crazy people usually do crazy things.

However, speaking with a few witnesses of a jewelry store the brothers frequented earlier that day only left you with more questions buzzing in your mind. The two of them seemingly became even bolder, pretending to be FBI agents this time to inquire about a recent robbery – another odd thing to do.

Were they checking out the competition? And on top of it all, the oldest Winchester also cheerily flirted his way into the store clerk’s goddamn panties.

Patriot my ass, you thought with a scoff, repeating the words of the young woman. Who would do such a thing? You didn’t know whether to be offended or appalled.

There was a little itch in your gut that told you something was definitely off about the brothers, and it bothered you that you still hadn’t figured out what it was. No matter what evidence landed on your desk, you could never quite put your finger on it.

Nevertheless, the facts remained the same: Dean Winchester committed at least one murder and was a main suspect in several others. And together with his little brother, like a co-dependent Bonnie and Clyde, they frolicked randomly throughout the country, committing crimes that ranged from petty theft to grave desecration and, in a recent development, murder. They were raised on the road by a grieving ex-marine and never knew a real home, aside from cheap motels and an old car. Talk about “screwed for life.”

Judging by the ruthlessness of the crimes, however, the profile of the perpetrator simply didn’t fit the Dean Winchester of the infamous stories, heard in whispers around the Hoover hallways.

Furthermore, chatting to a few alive victims and witnesses of past cases in your research journey only led to more question marks than closure points. Every single person, young to old, male to female, poor to rich, all described the older Winchester as kind, sweet, and utterly charming. Could it all just be an act? The seductive means to a bitter end? The Manson and Bundy of the 21st century?

But then you also had to consider the source of their supposed crimes, the reason they did what they did. And well, if you asked the Winchesters personally, they’d probably claim they’re saving the world from real-life, flesh-eating monsters and whatnot.

Monsters – the stupidest thing you’d ever fucking heard. Did these grown men really believe in vampires and ghosts like two little kids? Or was it just a clever ruse to scam people? Some long con like those paranormal investigators and psychics, which everyone knows is just bullshit served in a crystal ball.

On the other hand, you had treated patients with a shared psychosis before, a folie à deux, but the brothers certainly took the whole goddamn cake and ate it, too.

Still, there were too many other puzzle pieces in play that simply didn’t fit, finding yourself surrounded by loose ends. You’d always hated those.

“You know, if I come to more field adventures with you, maybe I should finally get a gun, huh?” You smirked at your grumpy superior.

The bank robbery marked your third time away from your boring desk. Henriksen asked you for help with a few of his other cases as well, seemingly having taken a liking to you – a rare thing indeed. The guy was usually a hardass, and it took you a few weeks of schmoozing to win him over. However, once Henriksen had taken you under his wing, he had promised that if you proved yourself, he’d put forward his recommendation for your special agent training at Quantico’s academy and mentor you.

That was all you’d ever wanted. Truthfully, when the FBI recruited you during your master’s at Columbia, you’d never thought once about taking a weapon into your own hands and storming a building. But you wanted to do more, help more than what you could achieve from your boring, gray cubicle.

“You’re not ready for a gun yet, rookie. I don’t want you to fucking shoot me.” Henriksen laughed tauntingly and picked up the phone, ready for his threatening call to the brothers after you thoroughly coached him on what to say to get them to crack. “I’ll teach you how to shoot when we get back to DC, alright? Then it’s just you and me and the gun range, rookie.”

“Just remember to stick to the script, alright?” you reminded him with a frown, which only earned you a dismissive eye roll.

Of course, your superior didn’t stick to your profile and invented his own little background story, which was only remotely along the lines of your analysis.

What surprised you, though, was how defensive the older Winchester became upon the mention of his dead father, hearing the inconsolable grief in his voice even over the strained phone line. He sounded lonely and lost, and it admittedly tore on your heartstrings a little. Losing a parent was never easy, and you couldn’t help but sympathize – even if he technically was a potential killer during an on-going bank robbery and threatening the lives of around ten hostages.

And then, poof.

Never did you think there was any way the Winchesters could possibly escape the crime scene. Henriksen had that bank building locked down, sealed, and surrounded. And yet, the brothers still fled the awaiting claws of law enforcement, escaping with a clever plan straight out of a movie.

In all honesty, you were impressed – and slightly more baffled.

April, 2007

April finally marked a big break in the Winchester case. The brothers were caught during a break-in at a museum in Arkansas, and while Henriksen and his partner Reidy celebrated their big win like Olympic gold, you weren’t entirely sure it was even a participation trophy, finding the whole situation oddly suspicious.

It seemed too easy, and even though your superior told you to just accept it and grab a beer, you obviously couldn’t. Henriksen was cocky and eager, and Reidy was a downright idiot, so it was up to you to convince them you were right – which never worked. The men always loved to tune you out. You’d learned a while ago you had to work twice as hard as any man ever would just to be seen and heard.

Standing in the little gray and bleak room of the Green River County Detention Center, you watched Henriksen and Reidy through the one-way mirror as they interrogated the oldest Winchester, who seemed to collect a few drops of sweat on his forehead once he realized the FBI was involved. While you wished you could be in the room with them, laying down the law, you always loved the advantage of watching a suspect’s interrogation. This was where you truly learned all about a person of interest.

On top of it, this was a special occasion as it marked your first real observation of the brothers. It was more than boring black letters on a simple white sheet of paper, stuffed in a folder with a bunch of crime scene photos. The brothers were finally in a cage without an escape, and you were gifted the joyous task of studying them like zoo animals. Every facial twitch, every nervous tap of a finger, every insecure lick of chapped lips was noted by your brain and added to your overall analysis.

“And after Milwaukee, your brother is now a suspect in a murder case himself. I’d say for you two, ‘screwed to hell’ is a major understatement,” Henriksen told the older brother in his usual cocky attitude, which caused your eyes to roll back into your head.

The Milwaukee murder case was the strangest thing as of yet. One of the bank hostages was killed, and yet, that same hostage emerged alive and swore she did not have a twin sister. Neither were there ever any hospital records of a twin, albeit there was a dead body that looked like an exact replica of that woman. How was this possible? And more importantly, what did it all mean?

“Well, where there’s life there’s hope, huh?” Dean smiled up at the two agents, and you assumed he really had to believe that, considering the prickly situation he found himself in.

“See? That’s what I kept thinking as I was searching for your asses all over hell and gone,” Henriksen smirked and leaned closer to Dean over the metal table, which was the usual FBI dick move of intimidation. “Your dad taught you well. The way you cover your tracks, and after Milwaukee, the way you vanished,” your superior whistled lowly, which coaxed a soft laugh out of the suspect. He seemed to be proud of his escape, which, frankly, you couldn’t blame him for. It was pretty awesome. “Near went nuts trying to find you. Ask him,” Henriksen nodded to Reidy.

“He near went nuts,” Reidy confirmed, and you tried not to puke into the closest trash bin.

Honestly, “near went nuts” was the understatement of the year. That idiot Reidy didn’t even go through half the shit you went through when Henriksen stormed into your apartment at 3am and woke you up by slamming a bunch of files on your mattress.

Incidents like that weren’t a rare occasion, either. They happened quite often, and it was safe to say that Henriksen was positively obsessed with the brothers, which in return, was pretty common for FBI agents. Most of you were like bloodhounds, and once someone caught a trail, they would start digging and never stop until they held a bone between their pointed teeth.

“Shit,” you muttered when the public defender stormed into the room to save your main suspect from his interrogation.

Quickly exiting the room, you went across the hall and snuck into Sam’s, knowing you only had a few minutes before the attorney would fetch him, too. As your colleagues only made little progress with the oldest Winchester, you decided to pursue your own course of action and look for answers, hoping the younger brother was more willing to talk than his counterpart.

“Sam Winchester? I’m, uh… Dr. Heller. I’m a profiler with the FBI.” Smooth. Technically, you’d never interrogated someone on your own before. Usually, you’d sit in while Henriksen asked the hard questions, whispering your suggestions into his ear as you observed the suspect’s demeanor.

“FBI? Great,” Sam murmured with a huff, clearly not amused. He seemed annoyed to be stuck here, which wasn’t unusual for any criminal in his shoes. Still, something seemed different about his irritation as if it was geared toward someone specific, most likely his own brother.

“Yep, you and your brother made quite the headlines in DC,” you noted as you carefully took a seat opposite him. “Look, uhm, can I ask you a couple of questions?”

The younger Winchester scoffed. “Do I have a choice?”

“Kinda? I mean, it’s not like I’m here for official business or anything. I don’t even know if it’s legal,” you spluttered.

Sam furrowed his brow at the waterfall of words. “What?”

“Uh, nothing.” Subtly clearing your throat, you folded your arms on the table and took a deep breath. “I just need a few answers, okay? Off the record. I’m just-, I’m curious,” you admitted.

Leaning back in his chair with narrowed hazel eyes, Sam placed his cuffed hands in his lap and studied you. “Okay…?”

“Listen, I’m not an agent, but my two colleagues are, and they want you and your brother behind bars, preferably with the death penalty hanging over your heads,” you told him truthfully and swallowed the lump in your throat. “But, uhm…”

“But what?” Sam now leaned forward, titling his head in intrigue.

“But if you really didn’t commit these murders… if your brother didn’t, then you need to tell me who did,” you said and caught his gaze.

“Why would you say that?”

“Isn’t it true?” You shrugged your shoulders and sent him a small smile, which he mirrored. That was when you knew for sure your gut was right about the brothers from the start, but you still didn’t feel any closer to the truth.

“So, you think my brother’s not a killer?”

You chuckled. “Didn’t say that. I just don’t see him as the cold-blooded type. Crime of passion? Maybe, but the victims were all strangers to you guys, right?” Sam nodded, and you felt confident enough to continue, “None of the crimes fit the supposed perpetrators, which doesn’t happen that often. So, who killed all those people if it wasn’t you or your brother?”

Sam broke a smile, shaking his head, the mop of hair moving with him. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

You cocked your eyebrow. “What? The monsters thing?”

The younger Winchester just stared you straight in the eye and wet his lips before there was a noticeable shrug of his broad shoulders.

Great, you were dealing with delusional loonies.

“Told you, you wouldn’t believe me,” he smiled triumphantly.

You squinted your eyes at him. “You got caught on purpose, didn’t you?”

Another shrug.

“Why? Is there a monster here, too?” you snorted your question in mock.

“Ghost, actually.”

“Huh.” You frowned and tapped your fingernails against the metal surface. “You know I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth, Sam.”

“You can’t help me either way,” he said simply as if he had already accepted his fate. “Wanna know what I think?”

“Please.”

“If you didn’t believe me even a little, you wouldn’t have come in here to talk to me in the first place,” Sam mused cleverly, earning him a scoff from you.

“Sorry, but I’m not crazy. If you don’t wanna talk to me, that’s fine. Have it your way then.” With that, you rose from your seat and walked to the exit, pronouncing it a hopeless case.

“It’s not crazy if it’s true, though,” Sam added before you closed the door behind him.

You were greeted by the defense attorney and your two colleagues, who accompanied a cuffed Dean Winchester into Sam’s room for their counseling before Henriksen shot you a raised look upon your break of protocol.

“Uh, I was just checking on Mr. Winchester’s mental health for his psych eval,” you excused your behavior with a clear of your throat.

“Hey, why didn’t I get the pretty agent?” Dean threw in and grinned tauntingly at your superior before flirtatiously wiggling his eyebrows at you, deliberately scanning your figure like any low-life criminal would.

And yet, here you were, not buying into whatever he was trying to sell you as you met his green eyes and recognized it was all just a façade. For a moment, it even felt like he realized you knew and saw right through him.

“What can I tell ya? We left her a choice, and she chose the handsome one,” Henriksen retorted, smirking broadly.

“Ouch. So hurtful today,” Dean muttered in jest as the agents shoved him inside the bare room and shut the door behind him, breaking his eye contact with you.

“Going rogue?” Henriksen raised an eyebrow as soon as his attention was back on you, ripping you from your momentary stupor. You offered him a sheepish shrug as a response. “Did you at least find something out we can use?”

“Yeah.” You nodded. “I think they’re planing to break out.”

Henriksen laughed loudly, the sound mocking in nature. “Oh, they can try all they want. They’re not gonna MacGyver outta this one.”

“That’s what you said last time,” you cut into his laughter, causing it to halt as he threw you an annoyed look. “I’m just saying… they’re highly delusional. They actually believe all the bullshit they’re selling. They live in their own world and play by their own rules.”

“Yeah, well, the real world is starting to catch up with them,” Henriksen retorted. “Don’t worry. They’re not getting out, and come Tuesday, we’ll have them locked up tight in a Super Max, preferably with a straitjacket, but I’ll leave the details up to you.”

“Great, thanks.” You scowled deeply.

But when Tuesday rolled around, you were able to deliver a big, fat ‘I told you so’ to your superior instead, as the Winchesters managed to escape once again. Gone with the wind.

February, 2008

The last ten months remained quiet as you went through your special agent training at Quantico and finished your Psy. D. thesis before going on your first few assignments as Henriksen’s new partner. Most days, he still called you rookie, although just to tease you.

Your twenty-third case then landed you in the hospital with a life-threatening stab wound. After two surgeries and a short-lived coma, you were in the green, according to the gazillion doctors and tests at least. You quickly found your old spirit again when a new lead about the Winchester case came in – the first one in goddamn months. Naturally, Henriksen rushed right to Colorado, where the brothers were supposedly held by police, while you annoyed your doctors for an early discharge. Without any luck, though.

Regardless, your partner swore to keep you updated and reserve the main interrogation until you were back on your feet, so every time your phone buzzed on the plastic bedside table, you hurried to answer it, awaiting any news.

“Would you slow down? You’re only gonna hurt yourself more,” Patrick reminded you with a chuckle as he handed you your vibrating phone before you could clumsily tumble out of the narrow bed.

“Don’t you wanna get them, too?” you smiled at the young prosecutor in the creaking chair next to you.

“Oh, I can’t wait to grill them on the stand,” he grinned in return.

“See? But not without my files you won’t,” you smirked and joyfully picked up, recognizing the Colorado area code on your display. “Special Agent Heller, hello?”

“We got ‘em,” your partner’s voice chimed cheerfully through the phone. “Live and in flesh. Just talked to them.”

“You didn’t threaten them, did you? If you come in with a wrecking ball, they’re gonna block me when I’m trying to talk to them. I’ve told you this,” you reminded him sternly but were unable to hide the grin fully.

“Relax,” Henriksen brushed you off, and you were sure there was an eye roll involved. “I promise I had a very cordial chit-chat with them.”

“Uh-huh.” You frowned and teased, “Why don’t I believe you?”

In response, a deep chuckle rumbled through the phone. “Get better and get that ass out of that hospital bed, rookie. I’ll call you as soon as I have those two on a plane to DC, alright?”

“I’ll be happily waiting by the airport bar.”

Needless to say, that call never came, and the Winchesters never made it to DC – neither did your partner. Everything changed after Henriksen’s death, but most of all, you.

September 2008

As the sun downed outside your office window after a long day that just added to an endless row of long days, another shadow crawled across your desk and disturbed your solitude as you pressed pause on the Wu-Tang Clan and removed your headphones.

“Special Agent Dr. Heller?”

This time, you even glanced up, considering they had at least managed to call you by your full title. “Brown-nosing straightaway. I like it,” you cast a grin on your lips and deadpanned, “If you leave your case file on the stack with the others, I’ll make sure to prioritize it, mm-kay?”

The young agent smacked his lips, bobbing his head. “Uhm, actually, I’m your new partner. Special Agent Owen Slater,” he introduced himself with a smile, holding out his hand.

However, when you coolly leaned back in your chair instead, he dejectedly dropped it. “So, Number Four, what do you have to offer?”

“Wow, they really didn’t lie to me when they told me you were hostile, huh?” He scratched his beard, obviously pondering his next move on how to break down your walls.

“Nope,” you confirmed without batting an eyelash. “I just have high standards.”

Warily, he lifted one eyebrow. “Which are?”

“Don’t be unorganized, don’t be lazy, and don’t be a dumbass,” you listed off, smiling complacently.

“Okay, and the three agents before me were…”

“All of the above, yes,” you confirmed, nodding. “When did you graduate Quantico?”

“Uhm, a month ago,” Owen replied, swallowing as his Adam’s apple bobbed with nervousness.

“Great, so they sent me a rookie,” you huffed and got out of your chair with an eye roll, packing up for the night.

“Well, I was a soldier before that. Army Ranger. Did three tours in Iraq. Also had medical training,” he informed you in an attempt to woo you. And granted, it worked.

“Military man, really?” You met his hopeful gaze, cocking an eyebrow.

He smirked widely, albeit cockily. “You like that, huh?”

“Well, it means you’re not completely useless. At least you know how to take orders without questioning my authority.” You grinned at him and watched his smile disappear.

“Yeah, they also told me you were bossy,” the young agent quipped and scratched the back of his neck. “And – I know you’re still working on the Winchester case, even though it’s officially closed.”

“It’s not closed. I don’t care what forensics says. I know they’re still alive,” you muttered bitterly like a reflex. “No one should make the mistake of underestimating them. Trust me. Two months ago, I even found surveillance footage of Sam Winchester. I mean, granted, it’s blurry and very pixelated, but I’d recognize that mob of hair anywhere. And if Sam is alive, then I know his older brother isn’t far. Dean Winchester did not just get swallowed by the Earth.”

“I believe you.” Owen shrugged simply and without any second-guessing, causing your brow to furrow.

“Why? No one else in the FBI does. They all think I’ve gone nuts,” you shared.

“I don’t think you’re nuts,” Owen replied. “Well, maybe a little after I met you.” He chuckled as you fixed him with a glare. “But… you have a 98.7% solve rate. I don’t think you’re wrong a lot. You have great instincts, so I’d be a… dumbass not to bet on those.” He smiled slyly.

Impressed, you approved. “Not bad.”

“So, you wanna go for a drink, get to know each other, discuss this blooming new friendship?” your new partner in question asked with a puppy dog look.

You smirked. “Are you buying?”

Hiding his smile behind pursed lips, he nodded. “Sure.”

“Alright,” you accepted and strolled with him to the elevators. “I know a great bar. They have the best and most expensive whiskey.”

Owen took your teasing in stride, though. “I had a feeling you’d say that. But when life gives you lemons, you’re actually supposed to ask for the tequila and salt. My mom always used to say that.”

You snorted as you pressed the button to the ground floor, laughing, “God, I knew you were a momma’s boy.”

His head snapped to you, eyebrows quirking together. “What, how?”

“Smelled it from a mile away. Call it another instinct,” you sassed.

Owen smacked his lips, shaking his head. “You’re creepy.”

“You know what’s creepy? You not even denying it, momma’s boy,” you teased him and cockily folded your arms over your blouse.

“If I pour alcohol in you, are you gonna get meaner or nicer?”

“The latter.” You laughed.

“Thank God,” he sighed dramatically and grinned, “But don’t worry. You’re gonna like me. I’m gonna wear you down until we’re tying friendship bracelets.”

“Oh good grief… We’ll see.”

2. Tequila – FEBRUARY 24

I've been wanting to write this chapter for ages and show the reader's side of the beginning years. Those flashbacks were so fun to execute. Sam's deliveries in prison still kill me 😂

But rest assured the next part will definitely pick up where we left off in Season 2 😉

For all you newbies to this series: You can catch up on Season 1 and 2 in this master post 🩵

Ko-Fi ☕️Tag List 🤍

SNEAK PEAK 3.02:

For a bullet wound that surely had grazed an organ or two, you strangely felt fine, noticing none of the machines were even connected to you, which caused you to raise your eyebrow. Something odd was going on, and as soon as you rose into a sitting position, you realized what it was as you glimpsed back down at your own physical body in a damn hospital bed.

“Shit,” you cursed and clenched your jaw.

All of a sudden, the afterlife became a very real concept to you, albeit you’d listened to a thousand stories about it from the Winchesters. Still, a small part of you hoped it wasn’t true, as naive as that might have sounded. Seeing was believing, after all, and now, you definitely considered yourself a believer. Better late than never, right?

TAGS:

Even though it's been a while, I've tagged those who asked me to whenever S3 finally posts, so here it is. Let me know in the comments if you're still interested to be tagged in future chapters 🩵

@questionableppls @charmed-asylum @djs8891 @idreamofdeanie @xlynnbbyx

@deans-spinster-witch @jamerlynn @lyarr24 @hobby27 @never-here1992

[citrusbarking]

this is a long one guys, mb :P

Country son who was basically raised by his farmer dad alone, his ma died during labour so he has always been his dad’s special lil bud, never more then fatherly tho. But cause of this be raised his kid to be underlyingly emotionally spoiled by his dad and unable to share him, so when his dad hired a young handsome farmhand and was all close with him. It.made.him.sick.

it was only made worse by the fact the farm hand was obviously sweet on his pops…giving him those eyes, always following him around like a pup, drinking out of the same flask as him and savouring the taste….it was driving him mad, especially when he saw the way his old man seemed to notice and not call him out.

One day the boys tolerance hit the fan after finding his dad and the farmhand wearing his fathers prized Stetson hat…getting cozy in the barn, his dad watching him bent over the tractors engine, standing right behind him while whispering in his ear and pointing to parts…the son could tell that the farm boy wasn’t fixing shit. So….he “accidentally” put something in the lemonade he made them, only in the farmhands ofc, he could never disrespect his pa like that <3

So when the farmhand eventually collapsed the Dad assumes the poor kid just got heatstroke and drove him home. So once he arrives back at this farm already feeling upset and not in the mood for bullshit he notices his son…the boy in the his Dads prized Stetson hat looking cold and upset he sighed.

“aight boy, you know damn well you ain’t supposed to be wearin that. What’s gotten into yer? Yer inside for heavens sake. Have some respect-“ he began lecture, the man’s bushy brows furrowed only to be cut off by his sons whine.

“why don’t you ever treat me like that huh? All sweet and lovin…” he began, taking the hat off and holding it close “im your son..not him…stop lovin on him like that! You don’t need his help you got me old man!” He began to ramble, glaring and hugging the hat but his Father grunted and cut him off.

“boy..listen that’s a different kind of lovin….its been so long since your ma passed and well…the farmhands sweet on me kid…he is givin me a kinda loving I ain’t have since your ma passed…im lovin on him like a lover.”he softly said getting on his level on the couch….

“And why can’t you give that lovin to me?!” The son snapped, his voice almost pleading now. “Why is it only meant for your lover?! I-I could do better than him!! Plus-plus I’m more like ma then he is!” He was cut off-

”boy. No.” His father demanded, once again getting cut off, the tension rising

The almost growl in his pops voice made the son flinch , but he continued to hold his stance. “Why not? Why is the only person who’s allowed to get that type of affection from you your lover? What’s so wrong with me getting that too?”

and like that…the fathers patience just…snapped

“Yea? Yea you want me to give you a lovers affection?” The older, bigger man near growled….yanking the hat from his son’s hands and shoving it onto his head….

“you asked for this.”

get this too 10 likes and I’ll write the part two ;) within the hour!!!!

[deepwater-abyss]

you will lead us into a better future

[amelikos]

I am already a big enjoyer of Friede and Amethio's rivalry and dynamics in general, so if Crave turns out to be Amethio's father, I feel like this knowledge would reframe their rivalry in very interesting ways and give additional readings and perspectives..

[bunnyboy-juice]

spent the first hour and change at work deleting some old files and am having a grand ol time laughing at myself for not realizing i was a lesbian sooner

[arundolyn]

bruh. i know shit is dire for me mentally when i dont even bother to make a pot of tea for myself on a day off

[aria0fgold]

Chapter 1: This isn't the Sekai!

A rare blue supermoon overlook the world below. Emu and her friends happily gazed at it a few moments ago, with the Virtual Singers' hologram atop the phone as they gaze along them. But for Emu whose excitement was barely contained at the rare and beautiful sight, she wanted to share it with the plushies in the Sekai too. She even brought a high quality camera to take pictures of it, excusing herself from the others and Miku who was using her phone for her hologram, Emu stood up with camera on hand and clicked on “Untitled.”

It was the usual ceremony of the world being bathed in a bright white light before fading away to reveal their Sekai, well, at least, that's what was supposed to happen. Instead, Emu felt a rush of air pass through her as the ground below her feet vanished. The night sky was replaced with a bright sunny day, hurriedly yet seemingly, slowly going by her.

W-wait… I'm… F-falling?!!!

Emu's screams came with a slight delay from having only processed what was happening. She couldn't see the ground at all, and as she continued to fall, small patches of green start appearing in her view.

T-this is bad!!!

Tears welled up from the corners of her eyes, she doesn't know what was happening, wasn't she supposed to be in the Sekai? She clicked “Untitled”! She was sure of that! But where is this? Why is she falling?! Fear overflowed in Emu's chest as she could do nothing else but tightly shut her eyes, wishing with all that she can to get back in the Sekai, or at least…

Someone…

“SAVE ME!!!”

As if on cue, the breeze ruthlessly blowing past her as she fell, halted. In fact, her entire body stilled as she merely floated in place. Her eyes quickly opened then and beside her, she saw…

A man riding a… broom?

“Are you alright?!” The man's red hair danced with the wind as he flew towards her. He stretched out his arms to pick her up and placed her securely on the broom in front of him as one of his hands were on Emu's back, “Whew… Good thing we were nearby.”

Emu looked up at him, his eyes were two different colours. Although his hair was covering his other eye.

“How are you feeling? Are you hurt anywhere?” He continued to ask, worry clear on his face.

“A-ah… I-I'm fine!” Emu's voice was hoarse, throat dry and aching that she coughed a bit.

“Here!” The man opened his palm and muttered something under his breath, it didn't seem to be a language Emu knows of, afterwards though, a couple of star-like candies appeared on his palm.

It looks like… Konpeito!

“These should help for now.” He offered the magical candies to Emu.

She merely stared at them as she brought her camera and phone closer to her, unsure of whether she should take the candies or not. Questions continued to fill her mind, she was even more confused now than she first appeared in the sky. For one thing,

Where am I?

And another thing is that,

Who is he?

The most important question however is,

What is happening?

Emu didn't know what to do.

“Ah, right!” The man smiled awkwardly as he withdrew his hand, the candies disappearing as easily as it appeared, “It would be weird if a complete stranger suddenly offered something to you, huh.” His gaze landed upon Emu's camera and phone before raising an eyebrow.

“Sir Knight.” Emu looked at the source of a new voice, it was another man on a broom, one with silver hair and eyes matching with the man beside her, although it was mirrored.

Who's that?

As if an answer to Emu's unspoken question, “Sir Knight” called out the man's name.

“Owen!”

The other man called Owen glanced at Emu and a smile formed on his lips, it looked rather…

Scary…

“Ohhh and what is that you have there, Sir Knight? A lost bunny?”

The man Owen called Sir Knight groaned, “Not now Owen. She's already frightened enough as it is.”

Owen scoffed, “What ever do you mean, Sir Knight? What sinister ideas must you be thinking about?”

“That should be my question!” Sir Knight sighed, “Anyway, let's head back to Master Sage. I have a feeling they'd be able to help her more than us.”

The broom they were on moved then, a small squeak escaped from Emu's lips as her body tensed up, fearing that she might fall again she instinctively leaned closer to Sir Knight and gripped the front of his clothes with her free hand.

Sir Knight let out a small chuckle, “Don't worry! You'll be safe with me!” His hands never once leaving Emu's back. “We'll fly slowly, okay?”

“You'll surely take forever to get back. Bye then.” Emu glanced back at Owen, only to see no one there.

Whoa… He disappeared?!

“Sorry about Owen, that's just how he is.” Sir Knight moved the broom, a gentle breeze blowing on them as he maneuvered in the air, slowly, and carefully. It calmed Emu enough to feel assured that she will be safe, just as he said, “Right, I don't think I've introduced myself yet.”

He smiled brightly at her, as if the sun itself was shining right beside her. It reminded her of Tsukasa's smiles. “My name is Cain!”

Emu can feel her courage coming back to her, she leaned back a little to return a smile of her own, “I'm Emu!”

[joelsdagger]

that’s the way road dogs do it || one

joel miller x f!reader

a/n: this one is a little wild; part two is already shaping up to be even more wild. many smooches to my beloveds: @pedrospatch for all the reassurance and support and for beta’ing this bad boy for me, and to @dinandwhiskey for screaming with me about this idea many many moons ago <33

pairing: ex-boyfriend’s dad!joel x f!reader summary: on a night out with friends, you run into someone from your past. warnings: [no-outbreak au], big girthy age gap [reader is in her 20’s, joel is 50’s], alcohol consumption, allusions to cheating [not by joel or reader], no sarah or ellie but joel has a son, joel has tattoos and is a biker, pet names [darlin’, baby, kiddo], sexualization of the term kiddo [from the deepest darkest pits of my soul…idfc], a little bit of humiliation, panty sniffing, a teensy bit of fingering, a little manhandling, pervy!joel [he’s also a little fucked up and really unhinged but so am i so whateva], pussy pronouns, dirty talk [umm it gets weird lol], daddy kink, degradation, semi-public sex, rough unprotected p in v sex, mirror sex, hair pulling, dubcon [joel takes pictures of her that she doesn’t verbally consent to], smidgen of angst [ofc bc it’s me], creampie, body marking/writing [use of a pen], soft!joel, reader wears a skirt, has hair, wears makeup, and has two tattoos that are described within the story word count: 8.6k

masterlist || ao3 || follow @joelsdaggerupdates for fic updates!

Bad Habits is the bar where you spend every Friday night after work with your friends. It’s always too loud and too bright for your liking. But they serve good booze for a reasonable price and it’s on the way back from your office. Your Friday night usual; stopping at the bar with some friends from work before you bore yourself to sleep by looking over briefings and finalizing notes you need to send over to your boss in time for Monday’s nine am meeting.

You excuse yourself from the booth and head for the bar, plopping yourself on the velvet cushion of a creaky bar stool as you set your purse on the sticky bartop, ordering yourself another drink. Your phone chimes, and you sigh as you pull it out of your purse along with a pen and notepad, knowing it’s an email with a list of requests from your boss. He did tell you he’d send it to you before the end of the night. 

It’s when one of your hands is pressed to your temple, the other scribbling down your boss’ requests on paper when you hear it — a low, gravelly Southern drawl, a voice laced with honey — that you thought you’d never hear again. 

“This seat taken?”

Your pen freezes for a moment; you could pick that voice out of a suspect line-up. It never left you. But you willingly ignore him and decide you’re going to have a little fun of your own with him, so you continue finalizing your thoughts on paper as he situates himself beside you and orders a glass of whiskey while he’s at it. 

“What’s a pretty girl like you doin’ sittin’ in a place like this all by herself?” 

“I’m not alone. My friends are over there,” you throw your thumb, pen in hand, over your shoulder, jutting to your booth. “Just needed another drink,” you say, your eyes never leaving the notepad. 

“Why won’t you let me see your face, darlin?” he asks, head tilting to the side, assessing you. 

You snort. “Why. So you can decide whether or not my face is pretty enough to fuck — Mr. Miller?” Your voice drops an octave at the end of the sentence. 

You finally turn your head so you’re face to face with the man beside you, the father of your ex-boyfriend. 

Surprise flashes across his face; his mouth hangs agape briefly before he shuts it tightly. You watch as the Adam’s apple bops slowly in his throat. For once, the father of your shit-eating, cheating ex-boyfriend doesn’t have a comeback. He clears his throat as he attempts to recover. 

“Didn’t realize it was you, darlin’,” he says gruffly, a hand coming up to scratch his beard. 

You chuckle to yourself a little. “Of course you didn’t. The last time we saw each other was what? A year ago? Maybe more?” you quip. 

“You look different,” he says matter-of-factly, eyes glossing over your figure so quick you almost miss it. 

You raise an eyebrow at him; the corner of your mouth kicks up as you tilt the rim of your glass to your lips, hiding your smirk behind a sip.

“Good. I mean — you look good,” he tips his glass on its heel, eyeing it as he toys with it. 

You tilt your head in a shrug, “I needed a change.”

After Joel Miller’s son cheated on you and broke your heart, after you let the hurt linger for a few weeks and told your sob story to your friends who happily listened, you took their advice. 

You need something new, something fresh, babe. 

It really does help.

You’ll feel like a whole new person. 

Trust me, it’ll be good for you. 

You dyed your hair a few times, until you found a shade that felt more you. You got yourself a whole new wardrobe, something a little less fucking prudish and a little more slutty, and despite the cliché of it all, their suggestions did help to leave that shy, agreeable girl in the dust. The breakup was the last push you needed to leave it all behind. 

And now here you are, a little over a year later, sitting beside your ex’s father, whom you once hated to admit to yourself — no, you never really admitted it to yourself, but you found him attractive. Fuck. Who were you kidding? You didn’t just find Joel Miller, the father of your ex-boyfriend, attractive; you found yourself wanting to open your legs for him more than you did for his son, whom you had been dating for eight months. 

His eyes fall to your chest, trailing down the low cut of your top, and fixating on the peaks of your nipples beneath the tight fabric, and your heart stutters. “Quite the change,” a hint of a glint swimming in his hazel eyes. 

You can’t say the same for him.

You take him in now; he looks almost exactly the same, apart from a few more wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes. Still, he’s somehow more handsome. 

His tousled salt-and-pepper hair still sits messily on his head, though his beard is lined with more silver than you remember. 

Fuck. 

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes trail down his body, thick shoulders and thick arms deliciously clad in his black leather jacket, and beneath that, his white t-shirt pulls taut across his broad chest.  

 And oh. 

Joel’s head turns, peering over his shoulder at the sound of glass breaking. Your eyes flick back up and catch a curl of black ink on the tanned skin beneath his collar. That’s new. 

When he turns back, he raises the glass to his lips with a scoff, clouding the inside of it, and the dim light from above the bar catches on the square face of a gold band on his marked pinkie finger. That’s also new. Your eyes don’t miss that his fourth finger still remains devoid of a wedding ring. 

“I have your son to thank for that." You drop your phone, pen, and notepad into your purse, giving him your full attention.

A muscle in Joel’s jaw ticks. Flicks his tongue across his bottom lip before he bites it. Is it a show of anger? Disappointment? You’re not quite sure.

But there is one thing that you are sure of: Joel Miller liked having you around. You knew it. You were aware that his eyes lingered whenever he saw you. You caught it from the very first time. When you showed up at his house, in jeans that clung to you like skin, how you bent at the waist to fish your keys out of his sofa cushion, and in your periphery, caught the subtle tilt of his head to get a better look at how the denim hugged your ass just right, feeling his eyes boring into you, your skin sizzling with heat.

If you’re being honest, you didn’t care. You didn’t feel guilty or shameful for how Joel looked at you. You basked in how he made you feel; you certainly weren’t getting that kind of attention from his son. He had his eyes (and his dick) on someone else. 

You liked how that very last night you spent at Joel Miller’s house — a fortnight before you broke up with his son — you padded down the hallway to the bathroom in an old skirt that you had outgrown (wearing it only because it was the last of clean bottoms before laundry day), and you overheard Joel Miller in his bedroom, fucking his fist and coming with a gruff groan of your name on his lips.  

You just weren’t sure if he knew that you knew.  

His body twists, props a leg up on the footrest of your bar stool. “What happened between you two? He never talked about it,” he inquires. 

You scoff. “He gets that from you, you know, not talking about things. Think he knows it too.” 

Confusion floods his features. 

Your eyes drop to the inside of your glass. “Your divorce. Jason complained all the time about how neither of you talked about it.”

“There was nothin’ to talk about. She left,” he quips. 

“She cheated on you,” you retort. 

“How did–” 

“He knew, and he watched when you didn’t fight it. Think that’s why he did the same to me.” 

“That kid. Always fucking trouble,” he huffs, then takes a short sip. 

 “Hey, you raised him,” you joke. 

“I didn’t raise him to be a piece of shit,” he bites, shakes his head instantly, eyes meeting yours, and there’s something behind them that you can’t quite place yet.

“I’m not saying it’s your fault, I just—" You sigh exasperatedly, “I think seeing how you didn’t fight for your marriage, for your wife, messed with him. And as much as I hate him for getting his dick wet in another girl, I think... well, now I know why he did it." Right shoulder tips in a slight shrug. 

Joel’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. 

“What?” you ask. 

 “Nothin'—I didn’t expect I’d ever hear you say that.”

 You look at him pointedly. 

 “Gettin’ his dick wet,” he repeats. “I’m not used to hearing you say things like that s’all,” he says with a breathless laugh, shaking his head a little. 

You sigh. “Told you, heartbreak is a hell of a thing.” 

“You didn’t deserve that darlin’, M’sorry,” he soothes. He leans towards you, a heavy hand dropping to your bare thigh, fingers wrapping tightly around it. It takes everything in you not to squeeze your thighs shut at his touch. 

You avert your eyes, scanning the crowd in the bar, your eyes eventually landing on your friends all crammed in the booth before looking back at Joel. “Everything happens for a reason, I guess.” 

His head dips, eyebrows go up in surprise, his expression a slight mixture of shock and guilt. “You really believe that?” 

You flash him a soft smile. You’re not sure that you do, but selfishly, it’s easier than the truth, and whatever it was, you’re not concerned about it anymore. “It’s fine, Mr. Miller, honestly," you clarify. 

His calloused thumb rubs small circles on your thigh; heat radiates there. “How many times, I gotta tell you, it’s Joel,” he insists.

Your eyes roll, “alright. Joel, it’s fine. I’m much happier now.”

“Oh yeah?" His hand releases your thigh; your body feels like it’ll wilt without the heat of his touch. His arms cross over as he leans forward on the bartop. The cuff of his left sleeve raises, revealing ink curling around his wrist. Did he complete his sleeve? You swallow thickly, your eyes lingering. 

"Got yourself a new boyfriend?’” He asks. 

You finally peel your eyes away, arching your brow. “What makes you say that?” 

His boot brushes against your bare ankle as he turns towards you; electricity sparks up your leg and up the base of your spine, awakening a long-dormant need. “Nothin’, just reckon that a pretty thing like yourself has a new stupid college fella.”

You chuckle. “I don’t date, it's not worth my time anymore.” You take a swig of your drink, swallow the tang down, and it mixes with the lick of heat, slowly spreading its way into your veins. You’re trying to tame the surge of energy zipping through your body, but it’s so damn hot beneath the lights lining the bar. And the chatter buzzing around the room, coupled with the weight of Joel’s gaze, isn’t fucking helping. It’s overwhelming, the nerves and arousal taking over, lacing with the alcohol in your system.

“That so?” His voice is a low rumble, dangerous. The corners of his lips twitch; your eyes dart down to them. 

You set your glass down on the dark wood with a clink, and your fingers begin tracing the rim of the glass. “And you?” Your body is warm and humming, something churning deep in your core.

His hazel eyes slowly rake down your body, a hint of hunger in them as they pause at the hem of your skirt, barely covering the place where you need him most; your skin is on fire under the heat of his gaze, and for a moment you have to resist the urge not to pounce on him right there in a bar full of people.

His voice cuts through your reverie as he answers. “Not in the cards for me, darlin’,” his eyes crease before he tips the glass to his lips.

“Guess we got one thing in common,” you sigh and mirror him. 

His eyes never leave yours as he takes a sip, and your chest blooms. Black takes up the hazel hues in his eyes, full of lust, and you think back to all the times you’ve had his attention; only now it’s worse because you can act on it. And maybe it’s the liquid courage in your blood. Maybe it’s some stroke of desire for revenge. Maybe it’s just that — desire. Maybe it’s because you know him. Know by all those times you racked up in your brain of longing stares and fleeting tugs of every nerve of your body.

So you think, with the very obvious throbbing in your core, with desire turning molten and pooling between your thighs that you can no longer ignore, that now is your chance; you’ve got nothing holding either of you back this time.

“You want to get out of here?” Your eyes fall down his body and bite your lip as you take in his broad form again. 

He chuckles darkly. “Can’t leave my crew, sweetheart,” he juts his chin towards an area behind you. Your body twists, and laughter threatens to bubble in your chest when you spot them. Three men, all silver-haired and scruffy beards that cover surly faces, all clad in tethered leather jackets, sit in a corner towards the back of the bar. 

You turn back to Joel with a hint of smirk on your lips. “Aren’t you getting a little old to still be biking around? Shouldn't fossils be encased or padded up or something? You know as they age they don't hold up very well,” you tease. 

He bares his teeth with a crooked grin; the corners of his eyes crease. “Careful, kiddo,” voice a low warning, but there’s a hint of playfulness behind it.

You knock back the rest of your drink swiftly, ignoring how it burns the back of your throat. “Well, that’s too bad,” you start. Driven by the alcohol coursing through your burning veins and the painful ache at the apex of your thighs, your left hand grabs his, rested beneath the bar, and guides it under your skirt and towards your dripping sex. He stiffens, inhaling sharply through his nose as he feels the way the wet fabric clings to the lips of your pussy. You bring your lips to the shell of his ear and drop your voice to make it more deep and velvety — more enticing. “She’s already wet.”

You drop his hand and hop off the barstool and onto wobbly legs, your right hand looping your crossbody over your shoulder, and before your leg even brushes past his, his hand snaps out and wraps around your wrist, dwarfing it in his grasp. 

Without another word, he tugs you behind him, past your table of friends, all too loud and too drunk celebrating the end of another work week to notice the two of you sauntering by. He drags you down the dimly lit hall, and you’re biting your bottom lip, containing the smile that threatens to spread across your face as he shoves you into the bathroom. 

Within seconds, he’s on you, pressing into you so your back slams into the tethered wooden door. Your hands find his hair, tangling your fingers in the strands streaked with gray.

And with his mouth flush with yours, the taste of whiskey and cheap cigars is warm on your tastebuds, and you cannot get enough of it. You've dreamt of what he'd taste like for so long, and it's everything you've ever wanted. His tongue is heavy and hot as he pushes it into your mouth, swirling it around and cutting across your gums, leaving no inch of your mouth uncharted. It’s all rushed and sloppy and hungry, and very quickly does it become clear to you that he’s wanted this — wanted you, just as much as you had from the very beginning. 

Somewhere in the heady haze, you manage to remove your left hand from his dark curls, drifting it south behind your back to slide the greasy lock shut behind you, sealing your fate. 

The sound of the lock clicking in place has Joel maneuvering you towards the sink, your heels scraping against the tile as the both of you drift backwards, tongues still intertwined. 

Your hands fumble with his belt, and at the same time, your mouth skates down his neck, tongue darting out and lapping at the inked skin there. You hum at the taste of warm, salty sweat. As you try to drag the leather out from his silver buckle, you move to drop to your knees. You don’t even get halfway before he’s reaching for your wrists, pulling you back up to stand. “‘S much as I’d like that kiddo, I've been waitin’ too long to get inside this cunt,” he says bluntly, and then he’s taking a step forward, trapping you against the cold ceramic. “If m’gonna come, s'gonna be inside o' her.” 

Your stomach flips at his words, and you can’t deny that the use of that word again makes you want to drop to your knees for him twofold. Instead, Joel drops to one of his, grunting as his denim-clad knee hits the cold tile, and it’s what he does next that manages to shatter all essence of confidence you had tonight.

Joel flicks up your skirt with one large hand while the other grips the back of one of your thighs, and one of your hands finds one of his shoulders, fingers already clinging onto him for dear life as you try to anchor yourself. You’re throbbing for him as his hand drifts north to cup your sex through your damp panties; he tears his gaze away to peer up at you. “How many dicks has this pussy taken since my son?” 

His words strike you hard, and your blood runs as cold as ice. Your breath kicks out of your lungs. That was the last thing you expected him to say. Despite the fact Joel’s eyes often lingered and his breath often wavered in your presence, he always managed to compose himself. You never imagined he'd act on those impulses.

“I–I don’t–” you blink a few times, your brain malfunctioning, trying to find the words. 

“How many,” he taunts, his fingers prod at your lace-covered slit, his thumb applying pressure to your clit through your underwear. 

“I– I don’t know. I can’t remember,” you whisper.

Joel sniggers. “I figured. She’s just a little pocket pussy for us, ain’t she?” A shiver runs up your spine, and he watches you, hazel eyes glimmering in the soft yellow glow of the bathroom, gauging your reaction for a tell, a tick, something, that’ll give him a reason to stop. When you don’t, his head dips down between your thighs, and his strong nose presses up against the damp stain on the front of your skimpy black thong, which was doing a rather poor job of covering your cunt. His eyes close slowly, and he inhales. Long and hard, so hard you can feel his nostrils contracting against you as he breathes in your scent. And it’s not your fault a measly whimper spills from your lips when he does so. 

“This all for me now?” He coaxes, his fingers strumming up and down your slit through the lace. Words fail you as you look down and find his eyes already on yours. You nod once for him. 

“Words, darlin’,” his voice dark, thick fingers shifting your panties aside, exposing you to the cold air and spreading your soft folds apart, toying with your wetness. 

Oh fuck, sneaks past your lips in a whisper, and one of your arms snaps out behind you, hand wrapping around the edge of the sink.  

He tilts his head up, and your eyes fixate on his middle finger that reads, clutch, as the tip pokes into your aching hole. "S’this what you wanted? You oughta ask for it, pretty girl.”

“I want you. Fuck– I want you to fuck me, Joel.” You choke out. 

“Attagirl,” he starts, knees cracking as he stands. “Bend over ‘n let me see her up close this time,” he says with a smirk. 

You obey, and turn to drop your purse beside the sink before placing your hands on the wet countertop. But your eyes don’t find your own reflection in the mirror. Instead, they fall on Joel’s movements behind you and gulp down the near-pathetic excitement and nerves sizzling over you. Joel’s too entranced by the sight before him to pick up how your breath hitches in your throat when his calloused hands push your skirt over the curve of your ass and up to your waist. His sly smirk kicks into a low chuckle as he catches sight of your tattoo on your left ass cheek that reads, daddy’s girl.

You go perfectly still, and a firm hand between your shoulders pushes you forward, your upper body now parallel to the dark countertop. Your heartbeat thrums loudly in your ears, but you can still hear the low whistle he sings from behind you. And then–

“Jesus,” he breathes as he pauses and marvels at you, his gaze shifting up and down your form, goosebumps erupting across your skin as the knuckle of his index finger traces down the small of your back, cold metal from the ring on his pinkie grazes the meat of your ass by happenstance. “Pretty little thing, ain’t ya?” 

And it’s almost like he can’t believe he’s here — with you, thirty years his junior, and his son’s ex-girlfriend, in a bar bathroom, about to ruin not only you but every other woman for himself for the rest of his life.

The liquid courage must’ve kicked into overdrive because you don’t know what compels you to do it, but before you can stop yourself, you call out his name–

“Joel.”

His dark eyes flit upwards to meet yours in the mirror. 

“You gonna stand there and stare all night, or you gonna fill her up?” But the tone of your voice doesn’t make it sound at all like a question, and you don’t mean it to be. 

That seems to pull him back. He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Fuckin’ Christ, I didn’t think you’d be this filthy.”

His reaction manages to bring back your confidence, and your lips curl in turn. 

Joel doesn’t waste anymore time. You feel the rough drag of denim against the back of your thighs and hear the metallic clang of his belt and the buzz of his zipper as he frees himself from the confines of his jeans. When he hooks a thick finger underneath your panties, tugging them to the side and over one cheek, you can’t help but clench, and Joel definitely doesn’t miss it. 

He tuts. “Needy little thing too,” he grips his length, thick and heavy in his hand, and lines up the blunt cockhead with your throbbing hole; it winks at him. “Tiny hole’s begging for me to fuck her, ain’t she? Look at her flirtin’ with me,” Joel gloats. 

And the sane part of you wants to cringe at that, but your cunt betrays you and clenches around terrible emptiness again. Joel doesn’t wait for you to respond; his eyes flicker back down to your hole, pushing the wide head of his cock inside, and that spark from earlier ignites. 

“Oh, Christ,” he exhales, his jaw falling loose and eyes going hooded as he enters your warm, wet cunt. You gasp as your own eyes fall shut at the stretch, your face twisting upwards at the sharp sting. You didn’t get to look at it before, but you can feel him. He’s big. Bigger than anything you’ve ever had, and for a second you’re not quite sure he’ll be able to fit. But Joel being Joel means he’s a stubborn bastard. He makes it fit. He pushes himself in, in, in, and you whine, and he groans as your pussy wraps perfectly around every inch of his thick length, sinking in like a dream.

He bottoms out inside your cunt, his tip kissing your cervix, and you’re gripping the edge of the sink so tight that if it weren’t for Joel fucking you, you’d be worried if your knuckles would break the skin. “Fuck, that’s good,” he breathes, ragged and hard. 

And it is. He feels so good. Stretching your cunt out and carving a place for himself after all this time. All the wanting and pining. Shared glances and stolen moments that you believed to be over the moment you broke up with that bastard of a son have finally led you here with him. 

“Daddy,” pours from your lips involuntarily. Your eyes snap wide open, and you freeze. Joel draws his hips back, cock pulling out from your gaping hole and catching onto it’s head, and before you can scramble your brain for a pathetic excuse of an apology, his lips curl into a snarl, and he slams his hips forward, cock ramming into you full throttle. The force of his thrust so hard, your body jolts forward, and your pelvis collides with the sink.

He doesn’t give you time to recover; Joel sets a fast, unforgiving pace, and with every strong, expert roll of his hips, the edges of your vision begin to blur. And it doesn’t matter how fast he bucks into you; the size of his cock never fails to fill you up to the hilt on every long, punishing stroke. He’s fucking loving it. And so are you. Letting him use you and yanking you back onto his cock by the thin material of your thong, hips snapping back into his like a rubber band. The air quickly fills with delicious wet sounds of your skin slapping against his, your moans and his, and the sharp clink, clink, clink, of metal rattling against you as the movement of your bodies colliding increases. 

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he says, voice rough with arousal. “Been dreamin’ of this pussy since the first time I laid eyes on ya,” he pants, eyes never leaving where the two of you are connected.

Desperate whimpers and breathy moans spill from your lips, his left hand bruising on your hip. “Caught a glimpse of that pretty young pussy under your skirt. Couldn’t get it out of my damn head. I thought about you n’ fucked my fist every night to that image of you in your slutty little skirt. Too fuckin’ short to cover anything.” Your cunt drools with slick with every word that spills from him; you can feel it on the tops of your inner thighs. The wet suction of your cunt around his cock getting louder and louder and louder. It’s borderline pornographic. 

His voice cuts through the lewd sounds. “Some nights I heard those sweet sounds you made–fucked my fist then too. Were you fakin’ it, baby? Huh. Were you fakin’ it with him? My son ever fuck you this good?” He rambles, grip smarting your flesh. 

Your stomach jolts. Scratch that. That’s the last thing you expected him to say. If your ex-boyfriend’s father fucking you wasn’t going to send you spiraling, then him bringing up his own son while he fucks you dumb certainly will. 

Your mind is abuzz; your brain has gone completely blank. There’s no way you could form a proper word in response, even if you tried. There isn’t a single thought inside your head. It’s too much. Too many things are happening at once. For one, he’s never been this talkative; you were lucky if you got two sentences out of him a year ago. And now he’s asking you if his son fucks as good as he does. 

You don’t answer. You can’t. And he’s not expecting you to. All you can do is whimper and moan while he fucks you with abandon, the way you should have been fucked all those times by his son.

“You don’t gotta answer. I know he didn’t. That boy didn’t know what was good for him if it hit him til he was blue in the face.” And you moan in agreement, still not able to think of a response while his tip jabs at your most sensitive spot. 

“S’okay, you were made to take my cock,” he grits, his ringed finger digging into your skin by the unrelenting grip on your waist. “Made to take mine, not his. Tell me, my cock bigger than his?” 

“Daddy–” you gasp, your cunt flutters around him, and Joel laughs a little at you, a low mocking sound that fuels the fire roiling low in your belly. 

“Course it is,” he murmurs. “You were made for me. So fuckin’ pretty n’ perfect n’  – fuck – so goddamn tight. Tighter than a fleshlight, baby.” He hisses in between sharp thrusts.

“N-” you choke on your words, fresh tears pricking your eyes by the force of him fucking you so hard. 

He clicks his tongue. “You don’t like that, baby? You tellin’ me if I say it again, she won’t fuckin’ squeeze the hell outta me?”

Your cunt answers for you, giving him exactly what he wants and fluttering around him in response.

“S’okay, you can like it. You oughta. This sloppy cunt’s gonna be my new cocksleeve. Gonna blow my load in ya, pump you so full o’me.” 

You squeeze painfully tight around him again and bite your bottom lip to muffle the obscene, broken moan that escapes you. You can’t help but picture what Joel looks like thrusting himself into the toy. Was he using it that night? When you heard him coming with a groan of your name, was he pretending to paint your cunt instead of the inside of faux flesh? Or did he pull out and imagine covering your face in his cum? Your back arches as you push yourself up by the heels of your palms on the ceramic, your head topples back onto your neck, eyes rolling back into your skull, the walls of your cunt tensing at the thought. 

His fingers unhook themselves from your panties and his hand finds the back of your skull, and with a firm grip, he angles your head, so you are face to face with your own depraved reflection. “Look how fuckin’ sexy you look takin’ me,” he growls.

And you do; your vision refocuses on the wrecked girl in the mirror: hair wild yet pulled back by Joel’s tight fist, lipstick stained around your swollen lips, mascara smudged by wet tears at the corners of your eyes, temples glistening with beads of sweat as you’re split wide open, perfectly filled to the brim by your ex-boyfriend’s father’s cock. 

Joel’s fist tightens on your makeshift ponytail, pulling you back into him, and with your back now pressed flush to his chest, he brings his lips to your ear, his breath hot against your skin, eyes watching each other in the mirror. “You’ve got a velvet cunt, kiddo, s’damn shame my son didn’t know what to do with it.” 

You squeak, your body jostling and rolling with pleasure on every shift forward, the edge of the countertop bruising your hip bones. You’re blissfully unaware of the spit drooling from your lips and dripping all over the sink faucet until Joel points it out.

“Look at you, wanted it so bad you’re fuckin’ droolin’ f’me, naughty girl,” he pants, hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. “Wanted me to use you like this, huh?”

“Mmm,” you mewl in response, everything beneath your navel tenses while his cock grazes the opening of your cervix on each harsh thrust.

He tuts. “Aww, poor baby, you were all talk before. But you can’t talk back now, huh? You all cock dumb, s’that it? Daddy, fuckin’ ya stupid?” 

"So – good – Daddy,” you force a choked moan. Your cunt clamps down around him, and it burns, flames running wild, scratching away at your nerves as the fat head of his cock brushes against your g-spot again. As if he can feel it too, the snap of his hips grows more desperate. Faster. Harder. Deeper. 

“Keep doin’ that, doin’ so good for me, kiddo. Just a little more, give it to me, come on daddy’s cock, c’mon,” he rasps. Your stomach twists and your chest tightens, his cock hitting you so deep each time his hips swing, and the weight of his balls slapping wetly against your clit has you hurtling full speed towards your release. 

“Daddy – oh f– fuck,” your voice all broken and hoarse. Your entire body goes painfully tight, thighs quivering, and something deep within you snaps. Your eyes screw shut as the energy thrums through your blood. Your mind is a dizzying blur, white light streaking behind your eyelids, and there’s a low ringing in your ears as your orgasm fully engulfs you. 

"Yeah, that’s it. That’s it, kiddo, there you go, let her soak me,” Joel praises as he fucks you through your high, cunt throbbing while your hips move lazily back and forth on him. 

As your orgasm settles, your body goes limp, and your head begins to dip, but Joel tightens his grip on you, shifting your body like a ragdoll until you’re on your tiptoes, the perfect angle for him as he fucks relentlessly into you. 

And with the blissed-out daze of the afterglow and the roaring music from the otherside of the bathroom door getting louder, you can just barely make out Joel’s low rambles of obscenities — almost like he’s mumbling to himself — and the quick, wet, smack, smack, smack of his hips against the plush of your ass as he pummels your cunt, desperate for release — as if his life depends on coming inside you. 

He grunts and through bleary eyes, you watch him through the mirror. He looks wrecked as he chases after his high. He must feel your eyes on him because then his eyes lock with yours in the mirror, and your cunt squeezes him unconsciously. That sends him overboard. His movements become sloppy, and you feel him twitch inside you. His jaw slackens, his eyes pinching shut while his head lulls back, and a breathless chant of, oh shit, fuck that’s it, fuck, escapes him as he comes undone.

His hands clamp, hips finally stuttering, a deep groan slipping past his lips, and then you feel the heat spreading inside you as thick spurts of his seed spill deep inside your cunt. His body falls forward over yours, his sweaty forehead falls into your shoulders, and you let him stay there as his cock continues to pulse, hips lazily rutting into you and pumping you full of his load. Your spent cunt spasms around his throbbing cock, and your wet and his, gathers at the base of his girth and trickles down his balls. 

His hips finally come to a stop, but he doesn’t pull out. Instead, his hand drops from your hair and begins rummaging through your purse. It only takes him a few seconds to find what he’s looking for. Your pen. You watch through watery lashes as he pops the cap with his thumb and brings the tip to the small of your back; your body flinches at the feeling of the cold tip. 

As the ball of the pen drags and tugs across at your skin, for a brief moment you try to surmise what he’s writing, but it takes him too long, and the intensity of your orgasm finally catches up with you. You drop your head on your hand and wait for him to finish whatever the hell he’s drawing on your skin. 

You feel his body shift behind you again, but it’s not until you hear the familiar sound of a low click that has you snapping your head up to the mirror. 

Joel Miller has his phone in his hands. 

And he’s not just doing anything with it. He’s not scrolling through it. He’s not opening up the contacts app. He’s not typing on it.

You catch a bright white flash in the mirror. He’s taking pictures of you. But not just of you. He’s taking pictures of your wasted cunt still plugged full of his cock. 

And for some reason — you don’t move. You don’t stop him. You don’t turn around and snatch the phone from his grasp and call him a dirty old dog. You stay perfectly still, and you let him do what he wants. Letting him take a series of pictures.

But it’s the last few that have his lips curling into a smirk, and he begins mumbling under his breath, gawking at the mess he made of you. 

With his phone poised in his right hand, his left drops to your left ass cheek, his fingers splay across your flesh, pulling your cheek back, and the shutter sound goes off. "Fuck, she’s so pretty like this.” 

Heat blooms in your chest. No one’s ever made you feel like this. But there’s no room for shame when he makes you feel this warm and beautiful... and so fucking sexy. 

And then it hits you. 

No one’s ever made you feel like this. There’s a sudden pang in your heart, tears stinging in your eyes. You’ve always known it. But you never admitted it because it never mattered. How could it? When you’ve never had someone who made you feel worth their time. How could you know what you were missing out on if you’ve never had it to begin with? 

Your head tips back between your shoulders, forcing the tears back into your skull, and to keep them at bay, you redirect your attention on Joel; watch him as he presses his hips flush to your ass so he’s filled you to the hilt. With your body still trembling, you wince and close your eyes in overstimulation. Your body sags forward on the cold surface, melting into submission.

You hear a series of shutters coupled with Joel’s mutters of, Jesus, look at her, the prettiest little pussy, look at this messy little hole swallowin’ up my cock, while you feel his hand moving along the small of your back, no doubt getting different angles of the place where the two of you become one. 

It feels like hours have passed by when Joel seems to have gotten his fill. One of his hands finds your hip again; you shiver and gasp in unison as he slowly slips himself out with a wet squelch. He pumped you so full of his release that you already feel it beginning to trickle out. You didn’t think there’d be that much of it for a man his age.

When his cockhead fully slides out from your hole, you have to fight the urge to whine at the loss of it — of him. But it’s what he does next that stops you from reveling in that; his hand quickly reaches down between your bodies, and two thick fingers catch the cum dripping out of you and push it back inside. You whimper tiredly. 

You stay bent over the sink, and suddenly, for a very brief moment, you feel the heavy weight of his cock slap wetly against your left ass cheek, and for the last time, the camera shutters. 

He quickly pockets his phone, and then he’s pulling your panties over the ache between your thighs, and his hands tentatively pull the skirt back down over your ass, smoothing out the rumpled fabric. You can hear the low rustling behind you — the buzz of his zipper and the clang of his belt buckle, tucking himself back into his pants.

And then Joel Miller surprises you again. He leans forward over you and places a chaste kiss to your clothed shoulder before his hands are on you, gently tugging your body upright and turning you around to face him as he murmurs a low, Let me look at ya. 

His eyes scan over your face, grinning immensely, like he can’t help being proud of himself for ruining you. And you smile bashfully in tandem as you bring a weak hand up to your face. Joel shoos your hand away and rubs his thumb under your eyes, gently wiping away your tears and smeared mascara, then doing the same to the smudged lipstick at the corners of your mouth. 

He’s always been rather soft with you, but it’s a stark contrast in comparison to his earlier behavior; it almost gives you whiplash thinking about it. How he fucked you so full you could feel him in your chest, the stream of profanities he cursed under his breath, moaning the dirtiest things  — comparing himself to his son while inside you, taking filthy pictures as evidence of what the two of you have done together, then cleaning you up like it’s second nature to him. All of it was filthy. He’s filthy. But there was always a softness to him, and there’s no doubt about it in this moment.

You take the opportunity to mirror him and caress away the lipstick that stained his lips from your kiss, you smile and he sighs at the contact. His thumb swiftly pads over your bottom lip, his gaze lands on your lips, a sort of hesitance, perhaps deciding if he wants to kiss you again. Then, his thumb catches on your plush bottom lip. Joel’s lips twitch, his eyes go dark as he drags the flesh of your bottom lip down, eyeing something he knows he almost missed. He scoffs slightly and shakes his head in near-disbelief. You smirk knowing exactly what he’s reacting to. 

His entire face blossoms with cherry red as he does another once over on the black ink inside your mouth. 

“Angel, my ass,” he mutters under his breath before wetting his lips. Already hungry for more. 

He tilts your chin upwards and leans forward to kiss you. It’s softer, slower this time, but of course, he still nips gently at your bottom lip, and at the same time, he slips his free hand down between the two of you once more. It moves beneath the hem of your skirt, fingers shoving your panties to the side, the pulp of his middle finger pushing through your puffy folds and into your dripping hole, until the black ink that reads, brake, is entirely sheathed inside your worn cunt, making sure his come stays where it belongs. You whimper against his lips, bucking into his hand.

“Keep that in there, f’me,” he mutters, his hot breath fanning over your lips. “Want you thinkin’ o’me when it drips outta ya tonight.” 

You whine faintly when Joel removes his hand. He brings it up to his face, and his tongue darts out to glide across the tip of his digit, licking his finger clean of your wet and his, all while keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. 

There’s a long beat of silence between you, and then he drops his hand, pulling away. Your heart falls, already missing the warmth emanating from his touch.

“We oughta get back before people start looking for us,” he murmurs as he steps back. You smile softly and nod. You’re not sure you’ll see him again. And you don’t have the heart to ask him, nor do you have the strength to handle it if he rejects your offer. You have nothing else to give. 

You love how he made you feel, but your chest twinges — one that twists deep. And no matter how much you try to quell that deep-seated fear, it never truly leaves you. A little voice in the back of your mind that repeats on a loop like a broken record, telling you: He’ll break your heart. They all do. But he can’t hurt you if you don’t let him. You resist the urge to turn and run. And instead, you turn to glance back in the mirror, sure to tame your disheveled appearance, giving Joel a chance to leave before you, slipping back into someone from your past.

He makes his way to the door, sliding the lock open; his hand curls around the handle but pauses before pulling it open. He turns to face you. “You okay?” he asks. 

It shocks you. It’s more than his son ever did. Certainly means more to you after he’d ask, Was it good, after coming in you before you even got started. Everything Joel did tonight is more than his son ever did; asking you questions all night and listening attentively while you answered them — whether it was with the hope of fucking you or not — doesn't matter. You fought tooth and nail for a sliver of his son’s attention, but with Joel, he just fucking gave it to you. 

You do your best to ignore that gnawing feeling of fear, clawing its way up your chest by the only way you know how; you press your lips to Joel’s, pushing your tongue into his awaiting mouth, and licking along the rim of his teeth. A strong hand curls around your jaw, fighting for dominance over the kiss, but you don’t let him for long, though. Reluctantly, you pry yourself off him, but not before Joel’s teeth softly graze your earlobe, nipping the flesh there.

You flash him a quick smile, looping the strap of your purse over your shoulder. “Perfect.” 

He smiles softly at that, eyes dancing across your face. “Yeah,” he whispers and moves to the side, letting you step out first and following you out. 

You head straight to the booth where your group of four awaits you, but not before peering over your shoulder and seeing Joel stalk towards his crew. You smile to yourself and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear as you approach your friends. As you shimmy in beside one of them, they ask where you were, and their brows pinch when you mumble, I was feeling a little dizzy. Which isn’t a total lie, but no one presses you for more, and you’re glad they don’t. 

It’s not until your friends start collecting their belongings and announce they want to check out the new bar a few blocks down the street when you feel the weight of tonight’s actions sinking into you. You’re about ready to call it a night; your eyes are heavy, your brain is still fuzzy, and your body still has not recovered from Joel railing you. 

You mull over sitting in the booth until the car you plan to order shows up to take you home. But the thought of waiting around in Joel’s presence makes your chest tighten. You don’t want to find out if he’ll be like the rest of them. Something to scratch an itch, and then wiping you from memory. That urge to flee loops back, and your legs force you to stand.

Collectively, you amble through the bar, still bubbling with energy, and as you make your way to the exit, you can feel the heat of a stare on you. You don’t need to turn to know who it is; his broad form ghosts along the edges of your periphery.

You walk against that pull you feel towards him, ache festering, skin burning, and bones grating with every heavy step, your eyes locked on the door like a missile to a target, not letting your eyes wander over to his booth, trying to keep what’s left of your dignity. Resisting. Resisting. Resisting. 

Lucas steps out first, holding the door open for another group of younger twenty-somethings as they saunter into the bar. While you hang back, you quickly mumble over your shoulder to Nell that you’re thinking of heading home. Worry cuts across her face, and she extends an offer, At least let me drive you home, hun. 

Your answer is cut off by the chime of your phone in your purse. You still and fumble for it and see a message from Mr. Miller. You had forgotten you never deleted his number. 

Holding your phone close to your chest, cautiously away from your friend’s curious eyes, you click on the notification.

He’d sent you two of the pictures he happily took at the top of the hour with a message that reads, Look damn sexy on my cock, kiddo. 

Your mouth falls open in a gasp, and pride swells in your chest as you glance at the first picture: Joel plugging your used cunt full of his length, his graying pubic hairs drenched and the base of his shaft gleaming with a white ring of creamy release. Your eyes flit upwards, and you finally get a chance to read the dark permanent lines he’d written on your skin.

Joel had crossed out the latter half of your tattoo on your ass cheek. It now reads, daddy’s fleshlight, in sloppy penmanship. With his grip porcelain white, the cross on his thumb makes an appearance as his digit digs into your hip at the corner of your tattoo. Your eyes drift further north, and above the globe of your ass, the small of your back reads, mine. 

Your thumb swipes across the screen to the second picture. With his cock poised in his hand, he had pressed the swollen mushroom head, only a hairsbreadth beneath the ink on the plush flesh of your ass — black ink shiny with a pearly film, he had smeared it in your mixed juices. Your cunt clenches at the images — at his absence, missing the warm, thick stretch of him. And suddenly, you feel his cum beginning to dribble out of you and pool into the gusset of your already ruined thong. 

When you don’t answer. The message bubble appears.

A beat, then two, and then—

There’s a place for you here.

You swallow down the twinge, the ache, press your thighs shut around emptiness, and feel another slight trickle escape your lower lips when your pussy releases more of his cum. You lock your phone and look back up at Nell in front of you. You feign nonchalance and wave her off, telling her you can’t go home just yet. Tell her that you received a few more requests from your boss and you, Don’t wanna take work home. 

She asks how you’ll get home, you lie, and swiftly mention that you just saw Mr. Miller across the bar and that he’ll drive you home. Another tiny white lie. Your place is a solid halfway point from the bar to his house. And when she asks if you’re sure you’ll be okay alone, her hand gently squeezing your arm, brows furrowed with worry, bless her heart, your gaze follows that pull like a magnet and lands on Joel. 

He’s already watching you. 

Your eyes lock with his, one hand resting to the side while the other tips the glass he’d been nursing towards you, winking as he takes a short sip of amber liquid. 

And there’s no pang in your chest. No urge to flee. Just the warmth of his gaze that in any second now will radiate through his touch, turning your bones to ash. 

You flash Nell a smile. Yeah…You’ll be fine.

[webbluvrsugar]

hi! i absolutely adore your writing omgg

if it’s not too much trouble i was thinking maybe ethan landry x fem reader and continuing with that dynamic of the dom gf + sub bf in public but vice versa in bed? LOTS of size kink (if you’re comfortable writing it ofc) and maybe some degradation from ethan? ugh that would just be sooo 😩😩😩

tysm in advance, no rush in writing, and don’t forget to eat and drink water!!

— 🦚

a/n: guyyys it’s official!! I have my first emoji anon <333 and of course bae, tyyy sm!!!

proofread

﹒ ☆ 𓂂 ˚ ☆. ꙳ * ࣭ ࣭ casual dominance with Ethan in and out of bed

Outside of bed, it’s like you both have your roles assigned to each other, you take complete dominance, you ask him to do simple thing you could do like — carry your books, your purse and even cleaning your shared dorm for weeks and weeks without stopping, it was something he found particularly annoying, specially when you basically did nothing compared to him.

“Babe, do you think you can wash those dishes for me?” You’d ask the taller man in front of you, standing right next to the sink.

“Can’t you do them? You’re already close and I’m kinda busy right now.” He mutters, focuses on whatever project he’s working in his computer, slightly nibbling on his thumb.

“Come on… you always do them for me.” You say in indignation, crossing your arms and huffing before you sit down on the couch.

“Yeah but I’ve been doing them for weeks, and again, I’m busy.”

It almost serves as a warning, and by now, you’d stop, you’d do your own dishes yourself, but you really can’t find it in you to stop when you just want him to do one simple chore. — Why can’t he do them anyways? He’s not that busy, is he?

“Ethan are you serious? It’s like two dishes and you spend all your time in that computer, you can spare some time to do it for me, it’s not that difficult.”

See, that’s what does it for him, because he finally stops what he’s doing to look back at you, raising a brow as if daring you to keep acting that way, and when you do say something else, it doesn’t take more than two seconds for him to toss you over his shoulder and take you to bed.

He’s on top of you — all over you the way he likes it, fucking some sense into you with some quick and hard thrusts, one hand wrapped around your throat while the other gently holds your waist.

“This is just what you needed, huh?” He scoffs. “Some dick so you can finally learn to stop bothering me and do your own shit.”

You don’t respond, instead, you press your eyes shut while one hand paws at the one at your throat, moaning as you try to make him let go.

“Uh-uh, you’re gonna learn your lesson, you’re gonna learn that when I say no, it means — I’m fucking busy.” He groans.

He squeezes your neck a little tighter, bring his other hand down and slightly fiddles with your clit, loose and messy movements that somehow do get you closer.

“And after this —“ he breathes, leans down to whisper on your neck. “You’re gonna wash your fucking dishes.”