#idk if i want this one on ao3 for some reason so

[netherfeildren]

Busy, Dying. Part 2;

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: In an in-between place called his life, Joel Miller is alone. In search of a cure. In need of a miracle. In want of God.

Can I interest you in a cure for loneliness? She'd asked him in a language without words. Taking it is the easy part. Letting her go is impossible.

-OR-

an a/b/o soulmates AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No Outbreak AU, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Soulmates AU, Infidelity, Cheating, They're behaving badly and doing things they shouldn't be doing idk, HEA!!!!!, Angst, Fluff & Smut, Scenting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Group Therapy, Social Experiments, Explicit Sexual Content, Dom/sub Undertones, Complicated family dynamics, Discussions of self harm, Depression, Existential Angst, He’s a loser your honor!!!

Word Count: 6.3K

Read on AO3

Part 2;

It is your own conspiracy that if you say the words three times in the mirror—I am so alone I am so alone I am so alone—the feeling will go away. Banished ghost. 

You commit yourself to this practice religiously for three weeks before you feel you must absolutely return to the meetings held in the basement of the Emmanuel Episcopal Church or you might just die. 

The first Friday back, you watch him. He blunders around the crowd, struggling to find a seat when he rushes in late that evening, trying to sit as far away from you as possible and, to his great misfortune, ending up right behind you. Squashed between two old ladies, his big body comically trying to fold itself into the tight rows. You laugh at him the whole way through the meeting. 

He’s like a raging bull after that. Scowly and unapproachable as the omegas in the group inevitably make their meager attempts to talk to him. It makes it all the more irreconcilable, a man like that here in a place like this—all the while with a wife at home. 

You wonder about her. 

“That one has a bad temper,” Maria warns as the two of you watch him. They seem to know each other in some way outside of this church, and it takes everything in you not to beg for details. “Big and hairy like a bad, lonely dog.”

You say, “I think he’s shy.” 

She watches you very peculiarly after that, and tells you, “You’re lost, girl. Joel Miller isn’t what you need finding you.”

But you know this, you assure her, and you continue to avoid him. 

The following Friday, he’s the one playing the disappearing act. The next week, as well—no show. You start to dread even your own shadow, wondering where he is, wondering if he’s ever coming back, if he has children and how old he is. Wondering if he wonders about you. Wondering why you’re so obsessed.

Too full of curiosity for your own good, you hover when he finally appears once again. Circling him and Maria, desperate for any sort of information. 

His wife had been sick, he says. He’d had to take her to the doctor. 

You wonder if her sickness might be his baby—sick to your stomach at the thought of it yourself. 

Finally, the week after, the two of you break your fast from one another. 

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he says, coming up from behind, ambushing you once again at the dessert and coffee trough. This is supposed to be a safe space, yet it feels anything but with him near. 

“No I haven’t.”

“You’re not supposed to tell lies in church. It’s a sin.”

“I don’t believe in sin.” You turn to face him, and your stomach hurts. 

He’s got on a dark green fisherman’s sweater—well worn but knit sturdy. A thing that looks as if it’s been his for years. 

You’re feeling thin-skinned and unable to face him today, and for no good reason. You don't know this man. You have no right to punish him with your silence, no right to be angry, to wonder about him. But that sternness from before, the one that looked too heavy for him to carry, has been wiped away from his face now, and in its place he only looks very earnest, like he really wants to talk to you. And it’s only that, well you don’t know him, yes, but you’d felt that you needed to, or that you would. That you were meant to find him in this place, and you’re angry at yourself and at him at how wrong you’d been, still even after all these weeks of radio silence while he’d been busy caring for his sick wife. 

“Me either,” he gives a small huff of laughter, shoving his fists into the pockets of his dark jeans. 

Setting the donut in your hand back on the table—rude and gross, but it’s an afterthought—you wipe your sweet sweaty palm against your hip, appetite all gone now. The basement is suddenly unbearably hot, your heart beating in your throat. 

“Anywho, I gotta run. Somewhere to be—” you mumble, brushing past him. There’s a sudden rush of itching heat burning its way up your chest, your throat, ants crawling over your scalp. The room is stifling, your limbs leaden and too many bodies; so many disgusting, clashing scents: pheromones, and desperation and such terrible loneliness, and him at the center of it, ambrosial.

You’ll have to recite your mantra more faithfully in the mirror every night, not a single miss. Remind yourself, I am so alone, so that the feeling might go away, and you’ll forget him and the way he smells and his eyes like amber green river stones, more quickly. 

“Whoah, hold on,” he calls after you, following to the exit and up the steps to the world outside of this church. You’d brought a coat today, unable to enjoy the cold the way you usually do, uncharacteristically chill, aching limbs, miserable in the biting morning air. He calls your name, and you clutch the wool against your chest, trying to hurry away from his much longer legs and pace as he catches up. 

Suddenly, though, you change your mind. Whirling around to look up, you stop your running, and he’s right there, so close. “I haven’t been ignoring you. You were gone.” Mind changing again, your gaze falls, unable to hold his eyes. You watch his left hand flex like he wants to do something with it. 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

A scoff. “What are you apologizing to me for?” 

“You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met in my entire life.” He says it quietly by way of explanation, like another apology. 

“You must not have met very many interesting people.”

It feels hot and cold at the same time out here. Your stomach still hurts. Your eyes ache as if you could cry, which is ridiculous because you have absolutely no reason to cry. 

“Maybe not,” he says very low. It seems he’s drifting closer, like you’ll float away. A car honks its horn loudly somewhere in the background, and you still can’t look at his face. His own coat is clutched in his fist and now the honker is shouting too, expletives and God’s name being taken in vain. 

“You should go back in there,” you tip your chin at the depths you’d just fled from, stealing a quick glance at his face, “Find someone else who’s interesting.”

He grunts once, a wordless no and lifts his coat to drape it over your shoulders—you decide you’re even colder now, you don’t think you’ll ever be warm again—and takes yours from your listless grip, draping it over his elbow. 

This man. “Aren’t you here to get to know people?” You demand, finally looking up at him angrily. 

“No,” he shakes his head. “Let’s go for a walk.” His palm at your bicep urging you towards Arlington and the garden sends all sound skittering out of your ears. He reminds you of your earlier words, that he might like to walk, and you can hear yourself agreeing while you look up at the muted light of the late November afternoon leaching through the cloud cover. Through the wool and cotton you feel your skin sucking heat from that singular point of contact, warming you entirely.

It had been blisteringly cold last night, the alluring taste of incumbent winter in the air, and a vicious frost had ermined all the tree trunks within the Boston Public Garden, roughened the surface of the grass. 

Joel chooses a quiet spot by the pond, the willow weeps above your head and all around the two of you the sharp autumn air is lightly laced with the fragrance of leaf rot. An elderly couple floats serenely in a lone swan boat at the center of the pond, not a ripple in the surface, as if they weren’t really there. 

Helping you to sit, he gently pulls his coat from your shoulders, laying the garment for you to rest on protected from the frigid ground and carefully looping your arms through your own coat now, he pulls the excess fabric of his up, draped over your shoulders once again, leaving you securely enveloped from the cold. 

“Here, let me help you,” he says, and the sudden gentleness in his voice makes you want to burst into tears. His character, that of some matryoshkin sort, one embedded in another in another, never knowing which is the realest one, the truest one, which will come next. Angry snarling dog one day, a gentleness that burns the next. You have the sense that a person could know him for decades and still never reach the center, never cease to discover more. 

Sitting before you—you perch alone on the island of his given coat—he tilts his head, leaning back braced on thick arms to look up at the swaying vines with just an impression of brilliant yellow-green, as if that were the color of the air. A sudden breeze stirs the softness of his hair, lifting a stubborn cowlick, and at that exact moment, the cloud cover parts on the face of the sun. In the brilliant shaft of buttered sunlight, his dark curls glint with specks of purest silver, leaving you wishing you could touch the fan of fine lines at the corner of his eyes, feel his age with your fingertips. 

“You’re angry with me,” he finally says, head still tilted towards the sky. You watch him very closely, learning. His voice is deep, quiet. He looks tired, the violet shadows beneath the brilliant hazel eyes. Still beautiful, the full, slightly sulky curve of his mouth surrounded by dark beard. He is everything, all of him, masculine. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

Finally, he looks at you, too. He’s got a big head, proportionate to his big body, that falls back heavily. You can’t help smiling at him, it feels too natural. 

“Now you’re honest.”

“I wouldn’t tell a lie here,” you say, and he sighs like you’re a supremely difficult little omega, too impossible to be reasoned with. But turning back to the sky, eyes closed now, there’s a smile across his mouth also, and you wish the two of you could sit here and laugh forever in this moment.

The silence between the two of you is marvelous enough to be unnerving. Settled beneath his great coat, you’d never believed you could feel the cold so little—learning every fine detail that makes up the man. Even inches away from him, he seems utterly unattainable, each of the two of you existing on your separate islands—you trace the woolen edge of his coat against the ground—some twenty years your senior and married. But the cold has given you such a feeling of grounding buoyancy. You’d awoken angry, miserable, so full of despair you would’ve been sick with it if it were possible. And now—you hadn’t felt this alive or awake in years, perhaps your entire life. He is a marvel, and there are bubbles in your head threatening to take you floating away, and yet, your feet are firmly melded to the ground in reality. 

How attractive, how delicious the prospect of intimacy is with someone who you know will never grant it. It fills you with something ferocious or hungry or snapping, something pathetic that makes you want it all the worse. And he, with a gravitational pull too strong to even think of escaping.

Yes. You hadn't felt so happy in years. 

“How old are you?” Breaking the silence, you ask him.

“Forty three.”

“You have a brother.” He nods. “I have one too.”

“Do you speak to yours? I don’t.”

“He calls me once a month. It’s all he can bear of me.”

“Mine won’t speak to me.” He sounds sad saying so. 

“Why not?”

“I hurt him. Scared him.”

“My brother, he says my whole life is papier-mâché. My values are all wrong, I’m a crowd-pleaser. It’s probably true.” You’d felt it impossible to better yourself, and yet still, you tried for him. “How did you hurt him?”

“You can’t change a man, only make him more secure. Depending on his character that may then bring happiness or strength or success. Tommy’s failure of this in me was more than he could bear, also.”

The willow becomes your confessional. “I spiked my own drink once just to see what it would be like. A doctor told me afterwards that I have self destructive tendencies. I want to hurt myself, but I don’t want to actually feel the hurt, which makes me all the more addicted to it. A supernumerary on the stage of my own life, too afraid of hurting and hungry for it at the same time.”

The heel of his left hand, you notice, is bearing down on an old acorn burr, and yet he seems not to feel the pain. 

He’s looking at you very intently now. Some glimmering streak in his eye. It almost looks aggressive, and a muscle flutters madly at the edge of his jaw. He straightens, sitting up to face you. The acorn burr is left flattened and disfigured in his wake.

“The last doctor I saw told me I was depressed. I never went back after.”

“Are you?”

He laughs surprisingly full of humor and then instantly serious again. “Probably. I’ve been watching my life, scratching at it trying to get in. I can’t. It’s right there.” The matryoshka shuffles, locked in his melancholy one moment, spilling brightness the next. 

You want to understand him so badly your hands shake with it. 

“What’s your favorite thing about your work?” You ask him. 

Where does his wife think he is right now?

“That’s a nice question. Maybe…” he thinks a moment, “Getting to make things that’ll go in people’s homes. The idea that something that came from me will be surrounded by a family.”

You can’t help yourself. “Why aren’t you at home?” You ask him imploringly, unbearably sad for him, sick with need, desperate to understand what it is he’s doing here, and all at once, utterly certain of what it is you are. “Don’t you love your wife?” The question is posed with no bravery, and yet it still comes out into the world demanding. 

He clicks his tongue, taken aback, a shocked breath, maybe even a small, reproving smile. A hundred different emotions coming to life across his face in that single moment. 

“I don’t know,” he finally answers. “I remember loving her. Maybe. At best? She’s a stranger. At worst? An excuse?” But he says it like a question. He’s asking you, not telling, for he isn’t even sure of it himself. You’ve caught him off guard. 

“No…” the click of his tongue snapping you to attention, “That's too generous. We’re trapped in a box together, but completely strange to one another.” It suddenly feels like he shouldn’t be telling you this—about her. You’re sure he shouldn’t be. 

“Do you hate each other?” You ask anyway. There’s something…your only example of love and marriage being two people who had always hated one another and filled the home where their children lived with more hate. It’s difficult to fathom something different than what that had looked like. 

If you were truly brave, you’d ask if he has children, too. 

“No,” he says immediately, a non option, his brow furrowed. “That would take too much effort.” 

Now you understand. He’s alone anyways. The feeling of urgency within you mounts. You’re frightened by this moment of discovery. 

“You’re Southern. Your accent…” You can’t discuss this anymore, needing to change the subject. 

“Texas.”

“When did you leave?”

“Long time ago.”

“Do you miss it?”

At his, he laughs like the question is ironic. “No. Where are you from?”

“Sometimes it feels like I can’t even remember.”

And as if he’d pulled the feeling straight from your mouth, he tells you that he understands what that’s like, and you can’t help it when you reach for his hand, being as careful with him as you would any shy creature, needing to hold him. 

-

“I’ve never been in love,” you tell him, childish look of recklessness and valor coming across your face as you pick up on the earlier thread of conversation you’d frightened yourself with. “It seems too daring, even grotesque.” 

He thinks he wants to capture that look in a bottle and take it everywhere with him. His entire body throbs with a heartbeat and the shape of your hand fits his as if every joint and muscle and soft ligament had been specifically designed for him to hold, filled suddenly with a terrible sense of foreboding. Looking at you, one just knows there’ll be a broken heart. 

Your small thumb smooths gently over his large one, and he marvels that such an exquisite creature would touch him. God, but you’re beautiful. Your touch, soft and enticing and painful all at once. No one had ever been so gentle with him.

“Won’t you tell me a secret?” You beg.

He will. He might give you anything in this moment. In the weeks he’d been kept away, he’d desperately counted the days and minutes until he could return to that place of worship and honesty. 

“I think about you,” voice hushed, the shaking of the leaves not loud enough to mask the soft breath you suck in as he gives you his confession. He maps the architecture of the small hands in his grasp, fingers tracing fingers, uncured clay fragile before the heat. He feels tired and strangely spent, almost drunk on your touch. His thumb slides upwards, marveling at the softness of your wrist, and then there, beneath the shivering distraction of your pulse and his disturbing search, the unlocked fragrance of your scent gland. It drifts towards him slowly like smoke rising from sleep.  

The air seems to pulse between the two of you with heat and premonition. That singular moment before everything goes terribly wrong, he can see it in your eyes. Such vibrancy, excitement, recklessness turned danger. 

“We should…” you feel him begin to pull away, grappling to hold on to the moment and his hand, “We should fuck.” He takes himself back, letting you go. Where else was this being led?

He cringes away from you. “Excuse me?” 

“Sex. You’ve had it before.” His mind reels. His body’s reaction at hearing your mouth say these things, the way it shapes them, the soft, full lips wrapped around the words.  

Looking away, he watches the pond’s couple help each other out of the swan. In his periphery, he can see you begin to bristle at his silence. 

“Don’t be peevish. It’s unbecoming.” 

He can’t help feeling angry. “I’m not. I’m old enough to be your father.” And you laugh at him. You’re deviating paths now, going opposite ways and angry at one another for it. 

“We could pretend that—if that’s what you want,” you say, voice husky and seductive. A small palm smooths up his thigh and his gaze snaps fire at you, hand clamping painfully at your wrist, fingernails digging at your gland, disturbing more of that gorgeous scent into the air. 

You make a pained sound. He needs to leave. He needs to never see you again.

“Don’t be disgusting,” he shoots back, hot everywhere. 

“Don’t be a prude.” He flings your wrist away, and you cradle it against your chest as if he’d hurt you. The heat turns to guilt pulsing through his limbs. 

Warring to wounded then, your eyes. You wrap your fingers around your discarded wrist. “What if we lose everything? What if tomorrow’s the end of the world? What if we’re so thoroughly cured of our loneliness after all this is done, we never feel like we need another person this way again?” 

His muscles tense with the need to flee or attack, the thought of you needing him, of being needed in such a way—he’s like some creature coming upon its mate. 

Despite his age, he had never tried to truly seduce anyone. He had never truly wanted anyone. Not in any real and base sort of way. Desire for him had been a mute and ordinary thing. But he could have you now, turned into a thing he’d never been before, he could mount you and rut you into the dirt like an animal. Never so much a product of his designation as he feels in this instant. 

He can’t even form word, and your body seems to pulse against his with embarrassed heat and indignation. 

“Have you ever even fucked an omega?” You spit at him meanly. 

“We shouldn’t be talking about this.” Voice carefully restrained, each syllable off his tongue is measured with his tenuous control. 

“Tell me anyways,” you demand, shoving his coat off your shoulders being the thing that almost makes him lose it. 

“It’s cold. Put that back on.”

“Tell me.” And he shouldn’t. You should have no sway over him. No demand of his honesty or anything else that belongs to him.

“Once. Only because I wanted to know what it was like.” He’s man enough to admit to himself the embarrassment he feels telling you this.

But it seems to quell some tremor in your eyes, and you sit back, palm petting at your throat as if you’re trying to soothe yourself. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, gaze averted, glassy, delirious look there. “I’ve always gotten my feelings hurt easily. I’m—” you shake your head quickly, sucking on your lip. “...too sensitive. Sometimes I feel like I’ll float away if I don’t find anyone to hold me down.” 

He should tell you that you’re not, wants to, but the image of you weak and pinned beneath him churns in his mind. Whole body aching suddenly, needing his hands on you before he does something truly heinous—he straightens abruptly, abandoning your reassuring warmth. Feeling suddenly cold despite the sweat dotting his spine. 

Without another word he turns to leave you there, alone, while the swan pair watches from across the pond as the two of you part ways. 

The next morning he awakens stiff and burning, his cock a brand of heat against his stomach. And works his entire day in a static haze, lavender spots at the edge of his vision where all he can think about is how you smell and the way your hand feels in his. By five o’clock, his fingers ache, spasming painfully from gripping his tools too hard. Breaking his weeks-long habit, he decides to attend the Saturday night meeting, full of constrained energy and sullen moodiness. Reasoning that a pretty, young girl like you wouldn’t waste her weekend in the basement of a church abandoned by God. 

And is sick to his stomach with equal measures elation and dread when he spots you sitting amongst the crowd of metal folding chairs—wearing his coat. He doesn’t hesitate even a little when he claims the seat next to yours. 

The two of you sit in strained silence the entire meeting, the other alphas and omegas surrounding throwing alarmed and intrigued glances your way as the tension brews hotter and more frenzied. 

His body hurts. This is a painful kind of lust. 

He listens to the speakers tonight with only half an ear, instead, occupied with the memory of what you’d looked like the other week eating a jelly and cream filled donut, imagining what your mouth would look like smeared with his blood and come. He can smell your body, how hot and trembling nervous you are. So unlike all that blistering, innocent valor from yesterday. 

The omega with the cruel husband turned sick one is taking her turn again tonight. Now that he looks at her, she has hair that at one time was vibrant red, now turned a softened copper threaded through with white. Time is such a painful, slow thing, Joel thinks. 

“Have you ever been with someone you knew you were too good for?” The omega asks the room, while the one beside him begins to shake, knee jolting nervously.

You’re anxious, and it makes him angry that you should be made so by his actions. 

Too rough for forbearance, his palm clamps down tightly on your knee, holding it still, and you make some supplicant whimper at the back of your throat. Almost imperceptibly, you draw away from him, the line of your shoulders growing rigid, and a wild, irrational sense of loss steals his breath. 

He’s been so busy lately, distracted. He’s hungry, overstrained, anxious himself. He doesn’t mean to be brusque with you. He just can’t help himself. 

Would we be here if we had? Someone lost in the crowd pipes back. 

The woman laughs, she has a kind face. “Me either.” You shove his palm off your leg as if it burns. “But there was someone… once. A chance, maybe. Someone I didn’t choose but should have. We were friends. We came very close to being happy.” 

And he suddenly feels a wave of desolation so overwhelming wash over him. He turns to look at you, your vibrating profile, so pretty, and he’s gentle this time when he touches your knee. Just to feel you. How terrible, he thinks, to only come very close to being happy. 

The speaker changes, and then it’s Maria’s voice talking to them all. Joel still can’t look away from you as you, in turn, refuse to look at him. “Stop, Joel,” you whisper. But he can’t. 

“At the start of this, we usually discuss a second option for those of you who aren’t able to find what you’re looking for in this. Sometimes it’s not so simple,” Maria tells them. 

A miracle move on drug, she calls it. 

The group’s coalition is sponsored by a pharmaceutical company, one testing a cure for loneliness. Something they think of as pilled perfection, something to numb the pain of loss. Any emotional wound, now with the potential to be a thing of the past. The young omega handing out the pamphlets had promised an easy cure, it seems this is what he’d been referring to. And if the potential side effects included an inability to hold on to any sort of emotional attachment afterward, well, the encounter groups they’d targeted thus far were grateful for it in the end anyway. They were all alone after all. 

“It’ll help you let go of everything you can’t let go of,” Maria tells them. “Help make you forget. Help make you un-lonely. We’ll be holding a session Wednesday morning for anyone who’s interested in being part of the trial. Our sponsor company, Firefly, is very happy to welcome as many of you as possible.” 

Beside him, you whisper, “Only a coward would take that option. What a cheat.” He hesitates, perplexed and wounded by your words. 

“You’ll never have to grieve or miss something you can’t get back, ever again. I know that for many of you, this is the ultimate fantasy,” Maria says.

“I think it sounds like something to help let go. Like what I came here for.”

You exchange cards. Now it’s your turn, the wounded look. 

When Maria’s through, bidding the group goodnight and setting them all free to mingle, you’re up and out of your seat before he can get a word in. He watches you go as if he were some sort of abandoned lapdog, only for a second, before he’s once again, striding after you. 

You weave almost drunkenly through the crowd, first heading towards the exit, then to the beverage station, then correcting and veering towards the back hall where the restrooms and catechism classrooms are. 

Gaining on you, he takes you by the elbow, pushing you deep into the darkness of the long hallway. Going far enough the din of desperate socialization turns a quiet murmur. You’re really in the belly of the beast now. So quiet and dust infused it feels as if it’s been years since a soul stepped through here. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Your face glows with fevered sweat. 

“I’m sick,” you mumble on the tail end of a whine when he shakes your arm into responsive compliance. “Let me go. Stop,” you fight, trying to claw away from him.

“No you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. I threw up all night. And you have the personality of a snarling dog more than a man. Has anyone ever told you that?” Shoving at his chest now feebly.

Ignoring your caterwauling, he takes you in entirely. “You’re not sick,” he says again, sure now. 

There’s a timeless hunger gnawing at his gut. Joel suddenly feels more himself than he think he’s ever felt in his entire life. 

Dragging you high against his chest by the collar of his own coat, he brings the tip of his nose slowly to the valley of sweet fragrance at the side of your throat. Inhaling deeply at the flushed, swollen scent gland there. The sound of your toes scuffing against the floor excites him even more. 

“You’re not sick. You’re going into heat,” he says slowly; gathering the overwhelmed, shivering creature as gently as he can in his arms. 

Your fingers claw at his own throat in return, as if digging for his own answering scent. “No. But it’s not time. I had one not so long ago.” You sound on the verge of tears, and he makes a deep, soothing sound in his chest. “My blockers...I— I can’t be. It’s not time yet.”

“It’s a breakthrough heat.” His other hand comes around to the small of your back and ever so slowly, he presses your hips closer to his. “It’s mine. Because of me.”

“No.” You shove back with renewed strength suddenly, spinning around to scurry deeper down the dark hall and then careening on weak legs into an abandoned classroom. 

Heart beating madly at the prospect of the hunt, he takes a singular calming breath before he’s prowling after the sound of your crying. 

-

“You need to not run from me right now. It’ll make my rut come faster,” his deep voice comes from somewhere in the dark unknown. 

You scramble around the children’s desks, weaving your way clumsy with disorientation to the far end of the classroom. You don’t want to go into heat right now. You can’t. Not with him. You need to be safe and alone in the confines of your warm, comfortable bedroom, far away from the temptation of him.

His heavy, panting breath sounds closer and there’s a shriek in your throat like a struggling kitten. 

“You want me to lose my self control. That’s what this is, isn’t it?” There’s a loud crash as he shoves one of the little desks out of his way, followed by your answering shriek. And then he’s here, coming up behind you but finding mercy enough to hold himself back at the last moment, panting as if he’d just run miles fighting against himself. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry. Come here, baby. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s okay.” He takes a step closer, and the slowing of his breath and soothe of his voice calms you in turn. “You’re only going into heat, that’s all, sweet girl. I’ve triggered it for you and I’m sorry. Let me come to you.”

You let out a high and harried sound, palm smoothing over your throat over and over again. “Joel,” you say once.

“I’m here. It’s okay.”

“It’s only that—”

“What is it?”

“I have to tell you something.”

“Tell me.”

“I’m embarrassed.” A helpless tear spills out over the edge of your eyelid. 

“You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about with me. Ever. We understand each other, you and I. Don’t we?”

And he’s right of course. You’d picked his face out of the crowd in instant recognition, after all. “I’ve had heats…but I’ve never—never had a, a heat with someone. With an alpha.” 

He’s utterly silent and you feel deranged enough you’re almost certain you can hear the pound of his heart inside his chest.

“You’ve never had a knot take your cunt?”

“No.” You swallow. “Never.”

You hear a muttered fuck, and his breathing goes quick and shallow and then even again. He has better control over himself than you do at this moment. 

“Then how?”

You flush full of heat, embarrassed. “T—toys,” you stutter. “Medication to help ease it.”

When he steps closer, only calm accompanies him. All is suddenly quiet. You want him. Your disjointed mind, overwhelmed by too many confusing emotions had gone into overdrive for a moment, but now, with the scent of hot, aggravated alpha surrounding you, it’s obvious this was all you’d needed to calm down. 

You can feel his hot breath against your forehead, the wash of heat on each exhale and the lingering scent of sweet musk at his inhale. You touch his cheek with shaking fingers and feel him turn ever so slightly into your palm, and then he’s bending slowly. 

First, it’s a soft, wet nudge of his mouth, your bodies held apart. Then his strong nose bumping into the side of yours, the splendor of inexperience turning to knowing, a nuzzle. Coming in again hungry, with the slick of tongue now, and the deep inhale of shock at first taste. Your breaths rush through one another, and you feel yourself backing away in maybe fear, more likely overwhelm, but his mouth follows your retreat and then his palms are at your waist, tugging you into himself, pressing you tightly to his body with a ragged groan. 

“Your mouth…Your mouth is so beautiful,” he says.

Everything in your lower belly cramps in painful agony, and you scratch at his arms and neck without much strength, trying to climb higher and take more of him into your mouth. Oh, you want this so badly. You want it to be everything you’ve dreamed of so obsessively the past weeks. Nothing else in the world exists except for your two mouths pressed together.

His lips burn a wet path across your cheekbone, sliding to the side of your neck to suckle at your scent gland. “Fuck.” His scraped teeth along the patch of sensitive skin. “Have you had sex before?” The question is gentle, understanding, his tongue tasting your sensitive earlobe, head ducking suddenly to give a sharp bite at your breast. 

“Yes.” His erection is pressed firm at your belly, hot even through his jeans and your sweater. His large body radiates heat. At your back, his palm finds the edge of your top, sliding underneath to make first contact, blistering skin against blistering skin. 

“But not an alpha.” He says it smugly, the bastard. Palm sliding down to your rump, tucking you more tightly against his hard cock. You shake your head at the crook of his neck, fingertips twisting in the back of his hair. Your breath comes in wet little pants that sound too pathetic to bear. 

“It’s going to feel so good,” he promises, rubbing slow circles low on your back with that wide, strong palm. “It’s different. It’s…” That palm slides lower, squeezees the curve of your ass. “It’s ordinary if it isn’t with someone…special. If there’s not the possibility of—” 

You tell him you understand what he’s trying to say. 

“I think it’ll be so good between us,” he finishes. 

At the waist of your skirt, his fingers press between your skin and the stretch of your tights, forcing his large hand into their confines. Your breath skips into his open mouth, panting into one another he cups you between your legs and suddenly all you can focus on is the tight ache there, the nylon soaked obscenely between your thighs. His arm around your back squeezes you tighter to his chest and his fingertips are pushing past lace edge to feel the slick swell of wet cunt. 

“Oh, Joel. Not here,” you moan. “Someone will come in.” He’s circling your clit, so sensitive and so swollen it hurts. You tug him impossibly closer, and he presses you back into the cold stone wall. “We can’t in a church.” Your protestations sound weak even to your own ears as you spread your legs wider for him. 

“I don’t give a fuck.”

He takes your mouth again, sucking deeply, groaning even deeper when he presses inside of you to the first knuckle. “Tight, baby,” he breathes into your neck, his hips slowly grinding into your pelvis. 

He feeds you more, then presses a second finger, holding still for a second, then another. Panting like a rabbit caught in a trap with three of his too thick fingers stuffed in your overstretched cunt. The sound of popping seams moves up your spine. 

“Can feel your little cunt shaking around me. Jesus—” he groans. It’s all mine, whispered into your hair. 

Suddenly, there’s the open and close of a door nearby. And then the sound of someone’s voice calling your names. Joel huddles you further into the dark corner, confined by the protection of his body, his fingers still moving in and out of you, stretching you well enough to burn as he presses as deeply as he can and with the utmost gentleness, pets lightly at the painfully sensitive mouth of your cervix. Humming in satisfaction at the feel of you. 

“Right there?” He hums. 

You’re crying, clutching at him even more tightly. Your name sounds again, being searched for, like a warning. 

“If I fuck you, nobody else ever will.” His voice is so dark it’s menacing. It’s recklessness, verging on a lie. Maybe it’s hope. 

Pressing lightly again, petting, petting, he pulls his fingers back a little, the loud sucking sound of your cunt trying to hold onto him, and you’re coming for him, crying into his neck, sucking on his scent gland so that the taste of him floods your mouth. The sound of a door opening, and you hear him growl at someone to fuck off in a very scary voice, his fingers never ceasing their steady thrust inside of your clenching pussy, and the frightened slam of a door. 

“It’s alright. You’re alright. That’s my good girl,” he pets and soothes at you, pressing a kiss to your temple, your eyelids, your mouth again and again.

Part 3;

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

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Haul

Part Seven MDNI

master list | on ao3

slasher!trucker!141 x reader

series cw: dark fic. major character deaths, rape/noncon

cw: abuse. like a lot. it's bad. idk how to tag it but i don't want to blindside anyone so: they play at drowning reader.

One of them is always home. That's the important part. Which is why it takes you a minute to realize when the ringing of the landline above you goes on too long, each shrill call rousing you slowly, dulled by layers of soundproofing and the fog of your depressive rest. You crumble when you roll over, stare apathetically up at the cobwebs above you and will Price to answer the damn thing already, then cock your head in confusion as another ten rings sound off, undisturbed. When it does die off, it's a slow peter out instead of the abrupt stall mid-ring, like when John plucks it from the receiver with an impatient hand. Whoever was on the other end has hung up, sick of waiting on an answer that wasn't coming. Was John out? Were they all out?

A potential way out of the warehouse won't do much good if you don't have a way out of your room, but it's hard to test the limits of your enclosure without tipping John off, now that you know for certain he is watching. So instead, you watch back, carefully documenting the movements of each of the boys. Dissecting patterns you'd noticed in the past but not thought much of. They handle you in shifts, when available, and visit you as a team more often than not. As far as you can tell, they do not relock the door after themselves when inflicting themselves upon your room. You're sure this speaks to the impossibility of the lock, and their disinterest in tempting fate, but it also speaks to their confidence in their ability to physically retain you themselves if it comes to it - and they've given you no reason to doubt it yet. Sometimes, when inclined to keep yourself up at night, you think about all the women who've come before you, all the trial and error the boys must have gone through to arrive at this risky procedure, and pinning your hope on ambushing one of them when they come fetch you for breakfast sounds more and more like a good way to have your corpse scavenged by coyotes off some disused highway in Southern Nebraska. And you're not ready for that easy-out, at least not yet.

So you mentally map the warehouse instead; every inch of it that you've seen, at least. The small area with pallet racking where the overhead doors spell deceptively easy freedom, the attached kitchen area and the office space off of it. There's a short hallway past the bathroom lined with closed doors. Your best assumption is that this is where the boys sleep, though you've yet to be trusted in their rooms. They let slip stories sometimes however, past girls they've made warm their beds. They phrase it as a treat, a privilege to look forward to. When you note the absence of locks on the outsides of the doors, you almost agree.

You have options, when you get creative. In addition to the hope for a night behind an unlocked door, there are times when they turn their backs on you a beat too long, or when they forget to parade you around the warehouse with a hand on your back. It would just take one sidestep to start, a quick dart out of their reach before the most high stakes game of hide and seek ever played. There's plenty of places to lose yourself in the warehouse, especially if you can time it to coincide with a day when most of them are out on jobs, or asleep. The problem with that, however, is, aside from John, none of them seem to have very dependable schedules, and you don't want to miss one of very few opportunities to hitch a ride with another trucker if you're biding your time for a chance to escape when fewer people are home, just to let months pass and find there are no such chances. It's not something you can bank on anyway, not when you've no way of keeping track of them. You do try to, though, carefully rehashing your deck of cards so that the suites read off like a flush, ace through king, before re-counting out the days in your passed pile. Now whenever a full suite changes you'll know you've been there another two weeks, and some change. (Is that a fortnight? The itch you get for the internet always strikes you at the weirdest times.) With that in place, you create a system of particular notches to tear into the cards to denote what days which boys are missing. But when the deck runs out and you've still not discerned a pattern, you give up on maintaining your marks.

One of them is always home. That's the important part. Which is why it takes you a minute to realize when the ringing of the landline above you goes on too long, each shrill call rousing you slowly, dulled by layers of soundproofing and the fog of your depressive rest. You crumble when you roll over, stare apathetically up at the cobwebs above you and will Price to answer the damn thing already, then cock your head in confusion as another ten rings sound off, undisturbed. When it does die off, it's a slow peter out instead of the abrupt stall mid-ring, like when John plucks it from the receiver with an impatient hand. Whoever was on the other end has hung up, sick of waiting on an answer that wasn't coming.

Was John out? Were they all out?

When the telephone rings again, you about jump out of your skin. It's annoying, a noise you can see when it rattles around your skull and that familiar blind spot blooms in your bad eye. You rub the tension from your temples delicately, not for the first time wondering if this is just something you'll have to live with now. Agitated, you pull yourself from the bed and grab the stool to bang on the ceiling, as if your upstairs neighbor is being quite inconsiderate. Of course, even if they do hear you, they do nothing to fix the situation because they don't care, or because they like torturing you. Probably both. So you try your own switch, the one that rings a separate phone upstairs - the one they've never yet ignored except when punishing you rather severely. 

Only, they ignore it now - the dual ringing of the receivers thrumming in your eardrums, stirring ill-advised thoughts to the surface.

For the first time since arriving, it's possible no one's watching. 

Fuck, you hadn't accounted for this. In all your imaginative planning, you'd never considered what you could do from your little cell because the obvious answer is, nothing. Even with no one home and no one to stop you from just walking out, there's not a damn thing you can do. The locks don't magically give when you try them; no window manifests above the foundation level for you to pull yourself out through. You kick the door out of frustration, and then bite your lips in fear when you realize that John might see that when he reviews the tapes later and get mad that you've damaged his door for no reason, because even if you somehow manage to force the lock bolts clean through the frame, there's still the trap door at the top of the stairs which you're fairly certain they padlock when you're below. You can just see them now, laughing cruelly as you fail to break the reinforced frame from the rotted sash, their faces glowing in the pale light from whatever outdated CRT screen they probably still -.

Now there's a thought. One that will likely get you punished more severely than you have yet, but perhaps worth it all the same.

If you can find the surveillance equipment and trash it before they get home in time to stop you, you could spend your days doing useful things, like fashioning weapons, or working out so you stand a better chance of outrunning them when you decide to make a break for it. 

If they let you keep functioning limbs.

Your hands shake when you make up your mind, rifling through the room like a madman. There aren't many fixtures in which to hide something, but with the exposed rafters you can see clearly enough that it's not some average dome camera. Tearing everything you can away from the walls, you search first through the mounted furniture, trying to find where any cords might run through the walls. You think you've got it when you flick the desk legs and find them hollow, imagining the feedline tunneling down through your unfinished floor, but a thorough inspection reveals nothing out of the ordinary, and the more you think about it, the less sense it makes that John could have known about your little card trick if the camera was set up close enough that such activity would have likely been out of frame. 

The ringing finally stops when you turn back toward the bed - abrupt, yanked from the receiver. Fear courses through you like icewater, spilling over your skin in a wave of goosebumps. You could stop now, hunker in bed and pretend nothing happened. But if the camera wasn't in the desk, it's likely in the bed frame - the only other mounted piece of furniture - which means it very much did see you, transmitted every second of your frantic search for something, and if they come asking about your odd behavior and you've no explanation, you're going to get the same punishment you would have anyway, without the added benefit of having blinded them.

Over your head, John's raspy laugh booms dully through the ceiling, and your temple aches with it. 

Fuck it, an eye for an eye.

Adrenaline high, you work more efficiently than you would have thought possible even just moments ago. Figuring that if you were a collection of sick monsters with a little pet caged in your basement, you'd want a good view of their bed, you try the head post first, the one in the corner which would allow them to see the room nearly in its entirety. It's a cheap frame. Metal, so they can mount bindings to it, probably, but unreliably assembled, especially when the cap piece is missing a screw, replaced instead by a pin-prick camera. 

Your thumb finds the hollow texture first, the second socket you try. You duck down to be sure, and smile cheekily at the glint of glass you find there, a dark hole in the brass fixture you're upset you've never noticed before. The cap puts up little fight when you yank on it, the decorative piece held in place only by tiny, eighth-inch screws. After the first one dislodges, the thin trim of the post bends enough you can peel the whole thing back like a sardine lid, and you peer inside the hollow of the post to find the bulk of the camera, corded down through the floor much as you'd expected. After the struggle of the cap piece, the camera and its mount look like no trouble at all, except you can't quite reach it, fist too fat to properly fit through the opening and you hiss in frustration, shoving your hand through until the warped metal and the dangling screw bite into your flesh. 

Retreating with a huff, you cast about for some sort of tool to use and freeze when you think you hear the quiet sound of the trap door opening. Stillness follows, so vital you think your heart even stops beating, every cell in your body waiting for the familiar tread of heavy boots on the top step. The moment drags on, long enough you begin to doubt yourself, long enough your lungs heave from disuse when the tread finally lands, and John begins his descent. 

No time. No time. Your knuckles catch first on the metal but it's no matter, not when you keep shoving past it, feel the raw edge dig into the heel of your hand. You gasp in pain, fingers slipping over the edge of the camera when the blood begins to flow down your palm but you grit your teeth through another push, breath laboring through a grimace more than a smile when you finally catch the mount in a firm grip and yank, tossing the little electronic on the floor and stomping on it, barefoot and wincing, just as John finally disengages the last lock, swinging the door open to find you, panting and successful, leaning over the broken remnants like Ali over Liston. 

***

It's a short-lived victory.

Turns out you weren't home alone, the boys all sidling through the side door where Johnny had sprayed you down when John calls for them, dragging you through the warehouse by your hair and weathering the viscous kicks you land on him with insultingly little reaction. You yell in frustration when they filter through the door, try to drown out the sound of John's barked orders with a shriek of your own. It earns you a hard slap and nothing more, your head whipping around so fast you don't see when Simon's arms wrap around your waist, tilt your world on its side as he drags you to the bathroom.

The faucet is already running, the water filling the tub so frigid that it emanates, soothes the ache in your fist even as you make it worse, clawing at the hands which disrobe you unceremoniously. You don't truly start to panic until Johnny squeezes in after as well, frame so wide he jostles everyone to the edges of the room so he can hand John a length of rope, fibrous and coarse, before slipping away again, lingering in the frame with Kyle.

Your eyes dart from the cord to the tub, a halfhearted shiver running through you as you try to dislodge Simon one last time. John notes your sudden docility with a humorless smile, taking in the blood on your hand and foot disinterestedly. "Did that to herself," he tells his assembled audience blandly, even though they didn't ask. He stands too close over Simon's shoulder, stares you down as he asks if they can guess what you did. In the stretch of silence that follows, John prompts you to fill them in with a thick, arched brow.

"Smashed the camera in my room," you whisper, voice drowned out by the thundering of water from the tub. 

"Not so brave now, are you?" John snarls, his hand reaching around Simon viper-quick to bury itself at your scalp, wrenching your head to look at the boys crowded in the doorframe. Kyle has the decency to look mildly concerned, but Johnny's eyes are alight with the same mania you'd seen in him the night he killed Ash. Your voice is stronger than you expect it to be when you answer, a level of spite you didn't know you were capable of. 

"I smashed the camera in my room."

Johnny just laughs. "Now why would ye go an' do a daft thing like tha'?"

Snark sits on your tongue, slips blessedly down the back of your throat when John crowds behind you, tips your head back into his shoulder so he can press his teeth too far into the tender arch of your cheek. "Because she's not so fuckin' smart. Simon." John shoves at your shoulder until you face the other man completely, nose pressed into the hard plane of his sternum. "Hold her still."

Simon's arms are like a steel cage when they wrap around your shoulders, pinning your elbows back behind your waist as far as you can manage. You stamp on his foot on instinct, bloodied sole scraping over the eyelets of his boots. John just kicks your ankle savagely, bodies himself between your legs. The rope smarts when he weaves it between your forearms, a ladder of ties running from your elbows to your hands which do not give an inch when you test them. John yanks the remaining length like a leash after fashioning them too-tightly around your wrists, the knobs of your carpels bulging as blood pools in your fingertips, the trickle of blood from your palm pulsing.

You only know he's crouched behind you when Simon lifts and a callused hand wraps around your bare ankle, the rough saw of jute following after. Panicked, you kick wildly, but John dodges the first and catches your free leg under his armpit on the second. When you wriggle, Simon just crushes you to his chest until your breath wheezes from you and John ties his first knot much too short, your back straining with the arch he's forced.

The way he manhandles your last limb into place despite your struggles would be embarrassing, if you weren't too preoccupied by the growing pit of fear in your belly, or the way it's so hard to breathe when Simon bears all your weight with a compressing grip around your chest. It makes your head throb, vision darkening in your bad eye where it was already struggling after John's slap. So it's nearly a relief when John takes some of your weight, his hands wrapping around your calves with bruising force. Simon shuffles his grip, your body tilting dangerously forward until his big hands wrap around your upper arms. You dangle between them as they turn toward the tub, and then you watch, upside down and one-eyed, as John hikes a leg up over to the far ledge of the bath and they begin to lower you, face first. 

You scream when your hips sink past the frigid surface first, Simon lowering your top half quick enough that water floods your mouth and you arch your back as much as you're able, spitting and gurgling as your head breaches the surface. With the faucet still running, the water rushes around you, splashing over the side as you twist about, trying to get your knees under yourself. A sharp crack sounds behind you, and you turn to find its source just as John canes you over the ass with a broken off broom handle, Johnny tossing the head of it down the hall. 

Crying out, you tip forward again and panic when you crash through the water, more so when your knees jerk back and your nose slams off the basin. You feel your restraints being pulled back - hard, and harder - before suddenly slackening, just a touch. Not enough to let you get your knees back under yourself.

Your back aches with the strain of pulling yourself up, shoulders bearing most of your weight. You gasp when you pull your head above water, engage your biceps enough to keep yourself there while you test your restraints. From the corner of your eye, you see the broom handle overhanging the edge of the tub, laid flat across the top to keep you suspended by your bindings, must be. Sputtering, you try to orient yourself, figure out the depth of your situation by reminding yourself it's only a tub, and not that deep. But the arch it forces your spine to maintain, and the stress of disused muscles after months of atrophy just laying about combine with the frigid cold to conspire against you, leave you too shivery and weak to maintain the hold for long and you relax just a touch, mouth still above level, just to flinch back up when the bubbling of the surface splashes into your nose, makes you cough. 

Over the thundering of the pipes, you hear a familiar growl, too close to your ear. "Don't look so fucking clever now."

"John, please," you sob, twisting until you can see his shoulder in your peripheral, Johnny's eager face beyond it.

"Shut the fuck up," John hisses, dunking your head back under with a heavy palm on the back of your head. He lets you squirm for what feels like minutes, only dragging you back up when your panicked movements slow. You swallow more water than you spit out when he pulls you back up, breaths ripping through your esophagus like white water rapids. 

Over the sound of your coughing, Kyle's voice is loud and patronizing when he asks why you had to go and ruin a good thing. "Thought we were all getting along, luv. What drove you to do such a stupid thing?"

You want to tell him to go fuck himself, can't for the water pouring from your nose. Probably for the best.

"We feed you, clothe you, bathe you," John ticks each item off with a quick dunk beneath the surface, just enough to feel the sting of water. Johnny laughs at the last one, throws a bar of soap into the tub. "And you show us your thanks by breaking my expensive fucking camera?"

It seems foolish, in retrospect, the possibility that they could simply replace it - tonight, even - only occurring to you now, now that the urgency of a snap decision has worn off and you're faced with the repercussions you'd shrugged off earlier. 

They might kill you. You might drown in a dirty trucker tub.

John drops you as if disgusted and you fight to pull yourself up again, your hip glancing off the bar of soap when you finally get it and dropping you back under. John waits patiently for you to resurface, watches as you cough up as much as you can before speaking again. "Shoud just fucking leave you there."

You don't realize you're crying until your breath rips out in a sob of fear, the tears blending with the bathwater. It shouldn't be a relief when Johnny pipes up.

"Ach, if ye wan' tae kill her, at least let us have some fun wi' it."

Response barely audible over the water, you strain your ear to hear John's low pitch. "What did you have in mind?"

Johnny's eager, answer too ready. "Nothin' wrong wi' a good chase."

"Si's favorite," John agrees, contemplative.

"If we kill her, we have to find a new one," Simon counters, sounding almost bored. "Sounds like a lot of work."

"Gotta agree with Ghost," Kyle offers. "Kinda like this one, when she's not being a bitch."

You measure the silence in heartbeats, your vision tunneling with each dull thump in your chest. When John speaks again, he's deliberately louder, voice carrying enough that you don't have to strain to hear. "Alright. Compromise. We'll have a good chase, but winner gets to decide what we do with her." He leans close, his next words spoken against the shell of your ear. "So you'd best hope it's not Johnny who catches you."

[1mlei]

Demon Twin Au Thoughts

I've been thinking a lot about Demon Twin AUs lately.

I've read nearly all of the ones on ao3 (Please do send recs my way <3), and I adore the different interpretations of this concept. I will always love the version of this where Danny and Damian are reunited after Danny ends up in Gotham, or Damian in Amity.

I love this classic take on the AU, but I've been thinking about fun ways to spice it up. My favorite idea so far is the idea that the twins reunite after Damian temporarily dies.

Imagine Danny just minding his business in the Zone and he randomly sees his twin, who is supposed to be alive. Damian would be happy to be reunited, he's been under the assumption that Danny was dead since they were kids so he's just glad to see his twin again. Meanwhile Danny is freaking out because he literally faked his death and ran away so Damian could live, what the fuck is this?

You could add a touch of Sam and Tucker being confused on the side. I always imagine that Danny never told them about where he came from or his brother. (What can I say? I love the drama that secrets bring.) You could either have Damian look like his civilian self as a ghost, and have Sam and Tucker be confused af about this random ghost that looks just like Danny. They might think it's a weird duplicate or something, but then why is Danny so freaked out? You could also have Damian be in his Robin costume, I imagine Sam and Tucker would be shocked to randomly see the ghost of Robin in the Zone, but it's far from the weirdest thing they've seen in there. Again, Danny has never been a huge fan of other heroes or vigilantes, so why is he so freaked out about this one being dead? Of course, though Danny has stayed away from Gotham for various reasons he is aware that his twin brother has become Robin after moving in with their father, so he knows that this new ghost can only be one person.

Now moving away from the idea of the twins just randomly running into each other :)

You could try turning it into a twin telepathy type thing, where Danny senses Damian dying, or at least that something happens to him and goes to investigate.

Or, something that I feel is quite in character for Damian, he might hunt down Danny himself the moment he realizes where he is.

You could turn this in different directions again depending on whether Damian is in civilian clothes or his Robin costume. Either way, I imagine him questioning some other random ghost (maybe one of Danny's rouges for fun?) and regardless of how he's dressed they'll point him towards Danny.

"Oh you're looking for your brother? Idk man, go ask Phantom or something."

OR

"Your brother? You look fucking identical to Phantom so you might wanna start there."

Either way Damian tracks down Phantom and concludes that yes, that is his brother. Dramatic reunion ensues.

Last little thought I had on this, Damian doesn't think Danny is a ghost, he assumes he moved on, or maybe he somehow knows he faked his death and thinks he's alive? Regardless, Damian is a man on a mission the moment he arrives in the Zone, he refuses to stay in this pathetic realm and decides that whether he's dead or alive he will make his way back to Earth. Best way to get there? Damian goes to talk to the king of course, to negotiate (or fight if necessary) about going back to Earth. If not that, he just happens to hear about a certain half-human, half-ghost hybrid and tracks him down for help. A hybrid sounds like someone who would know how to go back and forth between the realms after all.

---

All this to say, I want more of the Demon Twins reuniting in the Ghost Zone. If anyone has recommendations or ends up writing a story of this please do send a link my way, it would be most appreciated <3

+ Bonus points will be added if there is a scene where Damian is resurrected and Danny decided to tag along. Cue confused batfam freaking out because oh god there's two of them now how did that happen.

[djevelbl]

Alright, so, final thoughts, the short version: gET ON WITH THE NEXT SEASON, CHOP CHOP STORY BOY--

Seriously tho, GREAT story — there's something about it that has made me go existential crisis levels of poetic over it that NOTHING ELSE has made me go which like. props to Evbo, he's doing great! I WILL be going feral over that ending and Parrot and that Clown cameo and Zam and all things I liked and so on so forth, like always. I wanna make character designs but it feels... wrong, I guess, in a sense to give them all designs beyond the cubic space they inhabit — I don't do well with simple and detail-free designs (like Zam's and Wemmbu's like seriously, 5 year old in paint level of detail smh /aff) and I believe that giving them ANY amount of detail they don't already have is doing their characters a disservice?? ESPECIALLY with clothes???? Idk how to say it or explain it, but the fact they don't wear armor is VERY intentional, right? I mean, PVP typically involves armor and the fact that acquiring armor is OPTIONAL is intentional for whatever reason so, again, in my head giving them any more detail than they have (or lack I say as I side-eye Zam and Wemmbu) is a disservice to how PVP Civilization works. But that's honestly just me

More spoiler-y territory up ahead, gonna put in one of those good ol' "click here for more!" thingamabobs that tumblr has. Don't say you weren't warned.

Alright, now that all the cool kids are here, let's discuss details:

When I say I went "existential crisis levels of poetic" over this thing, I mean "I wrote a whole thing about being a spectator willing and wanting to help, but unable to due to the nature of being in different levels of reality" type shit, might drop it on my ao3 (y'all should go by my ao3 i have fun stuff there and might start dropping some other stuff as well wink wink ok. self promo over) and it was honestly fun! Will DEFINITELY do some MORE of that around this new episode! Unironically frothing at the mouth waiting for a new season to start slowly being drop-fed to us like little fish being thrown those fish food chip things idk I'm too drunk to think (not really. but it's fun to say anyway)

I LOVED Zam but tbf I've been loving that motherfucking asshole bastard /aff this WHOLE TIME so like. nothing new lmaooo. I ALSO love Clown's little cameo! (not counting it as a SPOILER spoiler cuz like. it's 2 mins or so in. I won't count that shit as spoilers c'mon) but uh. ALSO nothing new lol I'm a HARDCORE (not really) Clown fan I WILL be bought and EASILY swayed over with the promise of Clown content, I'm REALLY that easy; anyway it was really fun and OFC he's an antagonist smh — he's either a bad guy protagonist or an antagonist, NEVER on the same side as the protagonist/a good guy who DOESN'T wanna murder ppl (I see what kinda theater kid he is. I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE MR. CLOWN. YOU CAN'T HIDE FROM ME)

I said it already but I'll say it again: Tabi had ALWAYS been fucking sus to me from the start, what with being SO AT THE READY to exploit Evbo's respawning ability for her own gain and all that, so her backstabbing him ain't a surprise to me; but what someone (I'm too lazy to get to the computer to give proper credits or quoting. y'all are gonna have to make do with paraphrasing) said in the comments is actually fucking interesting: Evbo respawned; after the cut to black Tabi is seen holding her diamond axe and while that serves to show the audience what she was really born as, it could very well also show that Tabi gave Evbo a mercy — she let him respawn. She — potentially — didn't kill him with The Eternal Sword, and instead delivered the final blow with her diamond axe: an object that would allow Evbo to come back from death. She's gone soft.

That's gonna be her downfall, one way or another. Clown was right in doubting her — while she's physically strong and knows all the techniques, she's not detached enough from her emotions that she's fully capable of pretending to form friendships without actually making friends; aka: she can pretend she doesn't care, but something deep inside of her does care what happens to Evbo. Until proven otherwise I'll take this scene as bEING RIGHT MOTHERFUCKERS, I READ TABI LIKE A FUCKING BOOK LET'S GO--

So all in all I'm gonna be OBSESSED over this for the next while — well done Evbo, well fucking done

The end to the story. whatever happens, I guess it happened — I have hopes, idk where they're placed or what they mean, but I have them.

Whatever happens, I know Evbo is going out with a bang.

[trans-leek-cookie]

as a certified Aromantic Asexual (I should make myself a certificate) I genuinely don't Believe there is systemic oppression that specifically targets Aromantic or Asexual people.

I do however believe that people Cannot be normal about ppl who don't have sex or romantic relationships, and that can Really Impact Aromantic And Asexual People.

Also like. Aros n aces are still. Experiences Other forms of oppression that can interact with the aro and/or ace-ness

[nostalgia-tblr]

on one hand i know i don't write popular fic and This Is Fine cos i write things i want to read which is The Important Thing on the other hand some people have more kudos than i have hits and hits-wise if i added up 3-4 most popular i'd just about be at the same number D:

[strawberryseeded]

as a reader i LOOOVE going thru the comment section of different fics of a particular ship & bumping into the same faces (aka pfps) over and over.... we sure enjoy this brand huh

[randomshyperson]

Baby, I'm Yours - Wanda Maximoff Oneshosts

Summary: The Avengers gain a new member, and Wanda Maximoff mistakenly assumes she has gained a rival instead of a friend. Or the one where Wanda has a crush that she doesn't know how to deal with. [Requested]

Warnings: really fluff, enemies to lovers, some kissing and a lot of teasing, avengers being a family, emo!Wanda and her first gay crush. | Words: 4.564k

A/N-> This was requested a while ago and I used it as practice for a winter soldier!reader idea that I had. Idk if I would ever make a series out of this idea, but it was fun to write this reader.

General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad

-&-

Seven months after she joined the Avengers, someone else did too.

Unlike her, Sam was extremely excited by the news, he woke up early and somehow managed to convince Vision to join him in the welcome. 

Wanda would have skipped the interaction - She only went to get breakfast and intended to spend the rest of the training-free day filled with interactions between the team, hiding in her room and watching old TV shows. But as soon as she noticed the little witch sneaking around the kitchen trying to go unnoticed by Sam's excited theories about who the new avenger would be, Natasha whistled and called out to her.

"Good morning, Maximoff. Do you intend to welcome our new colleague in pajamas?" The widow asked, hiding a teasing smile behind a cup of coffee. 

The question already implied what Wanda had feared, and made her sigh. "I didn't know I was expected to take part in the welcome."

Nat grimaced softly - she seemed to be finding the whole thing very amusing.

"What an idea, Maximoff, of course you are! We were all there waiting for you when it was your turn."

She forced a smile, resisting the urge to snap back something bratty like "Thor wasn't". Deciding she had no reason to argue with Natasha, she busied herself with preparing some toast and pouring herself some tea.

When Sam suddenly tapped on the counter, everyone looked at him.

"I got it!" he declared excitedly. "I bet the new guy is Spider-kid!"

Nat frowned. "Who?" and then chuckled to the Falcon's obvious disappointment.

"Come on, the colorful vigilante who keeps throwing webs around? How come you've never heard of him?"

Assuming a thoughtful expression for a moment, Nat flipped through the newspapers on the counter before clicking her tongue on the roof of her mouth.

"Ah, I think Tony's got his eye on that one." She says. "But, no, Wilson. The new recruit isn't the spider. And there's no point in giving me that look, as I won't spoil the surprise."

It looked like the subject was ending - at least that Sam was going to give up. It wasn't long before the rest of the team showed up for coffee, and Wanda mumbled a few good mornings back quickly before making her way to her own room, to change into something more presentable than fluffy pajamas.

But on the way to the bedroom, from one of the glass entrance doors, Steve Rogers appeared and he was accompanied.

"[...] Come on, we're early, they must still be having breakfast." Commented the older Avenger, busy taking off his coat, it took him a moment to notice that Wanda was in the hallway. She was staring, probably. "Oh, good morning, Wanda. I want you to meet someone."

But Wanda already knew you, straight from the television. And from the Shield's files of potential Avenger-level threats. 

So maybe that's why when Steve said your name, patted you on the shoulder and you held out your hand for Wanda to shake, she just stared.

"Okay, not a handshaker." You mumbled awkwardly, lowering your arm. "You're Wanda Maximoff, mind reader and former enemy, right? I didn't expect the shock, given the circumstances."

"Hey, easy." Steve grumbled at your aggressiveness, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. Wanda narrowed her eyes at you, but you didn't look too intimidated, your posture relaxed and your hands in the pockets of your leather jacket. "That's in the past. We're all friends now. Aren't we, Wanda?"

With some resistance, she eventually forced a smile and tried to relax her posture. She sighed and nodded. "Of course, Steve. It's nice to meet you apart from the news, Miss Barnes. Should we wait for your brother to join us or does he still have Interpol on his back?"

You chuckle dryly. "Listen here, you-"

"Okay, enough." Steve interrupts, pulling you by the shoulders and giving Wanda a disapproving look. He also whispers that he'll have a talk with her later, but the witch turns away, dragging her feet back into the bedroom while you and Rogers head in the opposite direction.

On the way to the kitchen, you mutter: "And here I thought superheroes were polite."

The soldier chuckles briefly. "You tried to blow up the White House, you can understand the hesitation. Now come on, we've got the rest of the team to shock." 

It had taken her hours to see you again, not that anyone had asked her opinion, but Steve had put you in the room next to hers on the justification that it would be good for the two of you to have someone close in age to pass the time.

Wanda grimaced and reminded him that you were about 150 years old. Steve chuckled.

"Technically, yes. But she spent almost all that time on ice, so she was only really around for less than 20 years. Can you please try to be friendly? You have more in common than you might think."

Wanda begrudgingly agreed to be the one to give you a tour of the tower. And so she could also discover that she was apparently the only Avenger who was hesitant about your presence on the team.

She knew your list of skills off the top of her head, but still wondered if you could read what she was thinking when you added; "Your hesitation is totally fine, Maximoff. It must be hard to share the podium as the team's coolest person, but you get used to it."

She chuckled awkwardly at the compliment mixed with teasing at the end of the tour. You offered her a farewell wink, thanking her for the favor before muttering that you needed a shower after several hours of driving. You disappeared to your own room before Wanda could come to a coherent conclusion as to why her heart was racing inside her chest.

Perhaps she was having a panic attack? 

Wanda turned on her heels and made her way to Bruce's lab. A quick check-up would clarify things.

While assuring her that she didn't have a chronic arrhythmia, Bruce also - under the influence of Natasha and Tony - diagnosed her with something very common to teenage patients: a crush.

"Did you consider Miss Maximoff, that perhaps, you may have just liked her?"

She did not take this very well. 

"What? That's ridiculous! I'm not even gay!" Bruce looked up from the normal results of the cardiology test she had demanded and offered her a small smile.

"All right, Miss Maximoff, maybe I made a mistake. You're probably just anxious about your return to action next week." The doctor suggested and Wanda stood up from the lab chair with an impatient huff.

"That's definitely it." She assured him, not wasting any more time on Bruce and his absurd theories after thanking him for the tests.

After such an unfortunate situation, Wanda began to avoid you. It was the most viable solution when someone caused her to have irregular heartbeats, sweat or tremors. Perhaps she was allergic to you.

Obviously, she should keep her distance.

But it seems that the team had other ideas.

"Barnes and Maximoff, you're together. No gloves, come on." Natasha arrived at the gym announcing, an iPad with the training schedule in hand. Wanda, who had spent a good few weeks with the successful plan of interactions limited to greetings, nearly had a stroke. At least her partner, Sam, was keen enough to hold off his punch before it got to her. Wanda hadn't even heard his comment about her getting distracted in a fight and her feet were moving towards the mat, her eyes quick to notice your breathless figure removing the fighting gloves you had been using on a practice dummy for the last few minutes.

"Let's see if training with Wilson has taught you anything, Maximoff." You commented with a smile that made her stomach jump. Something about your sweaty, panting appearance was making her dizzy. 

The rest of the team spread out on the edges of the mat, interested to see the exercise, and it was only Natasha who came up to you to lead the whole thing.

"Start with the basics, I want to see Wanda's reaction time." The widow explained, squeezing the two of you on the shoulder. Before turning away completely, she raised a finger in warning to the younger brunette. "And no magic tricks, Maximoff. Even if you're losing."

Wanda smiled, rolling her eyes. Only once had she done that to Natasha and it seemed the widow would never let that story die.

Before the whistle blew, you looked her in the eye. "I'll take it easy on you, little witch." You whispered teasingly, and Wanda felt something burn in her lower belly. She also decided that she had to win because she had to get that smirk off her face.

It was an easier task than it looked - and it was all down to the fact that if there was one thing Hydra had taught her well, it was to exploit weaknesses. 

And yours was to care about her. Every hesitation in your movements, your awareness of the super-soldier strength that could hurt her, made it very easy for Wanda to exploit it, slip away, and dodge all your blows. And there was something else too; a soft choke in your breathing every time she got too close, tangled up between one move and the next. The way your ears turned three shades redder when she managed to knock you over and landed on your chest. 

"Wow, Maximoff really is kicking your ass." taunted Sam from the corner of the room, grinning at Barton and Nat.

You didn't seem to mind, licking your lips as you took a second look at the position Wanda now found herself in; sitting on your hips. 

She did, however, give you an annoyed look. "Don't hold back, I can take it." 

"I'm sure you can, little witch." You retorted ironically, leaning yourself fully back onto the mat. 

Wanda grunted angrily, then grabbed the collar of your blouse. "Fight for real! I don't need you to take it easy, I can handle it."

The disarming was so quick that she barely had time to blink - one second she was on your hips, the next her back was pressed to the mat with her hands pinned to the side of her head.

Your body on top of hers, pressing her to the floor, made her choke.

For a moment, as your dilated eyes descend to her mouth, you also seem to forget what you were doing, and the audience around you.

But suddenly, you let go; a dry, humorless laugh escaping you as you stand up. And you turn to Nat as if you hadn't just dropped Wanda on the mat.

After ignoring you for weeks, she thinks she deserves it.

"Her fight is decent, so I think we had enough."

Nat raises an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips. "Oh, are you the one deciding on the training now, Barnes?"

You smile briefly before retorting; "Come on, everyone knows she's not punching her way out of fights when she can use the energy tricks. It's a waste of time making the girl train like a soldier."

Natasha doesn't seem to agree. She follows you towards the locker room, arguing how important it is to eliminate the team's vulnerabilities, while the rest scatter around the gym, some giving up practicing to get something to eat and others going back to wrestling.

Wanda regrets sitting on the mat because in that position she can watch you at the locker room door, tugging at your training shirt, exposing a strong muscular back and a lot of skin because of the sports top that doesn't do much good to hide it. 

Natasha continues to talk to you without taking any notice of the gesture, so Wanda is sure she's the problem. Her stupid brain and heart are clearly forgetting that she can't handle a crush right now. 

She doesn't even have Pietro anymore, who, as soon as he'd finished tormenting her about it, would give her advice. Because he's always had a natural talent for this kind of thing, while the last time Wanda tried to flirt with a boy, it sounded like a threat. 

She can't do this on her own. And with that conclusion, she tries to get over it. Maybe Google has some tips, or maybe, the walking computer that hangs around the tower can help.

"Vis?" 

The synthesized man took his eyes off the book in his lap when Wanda called out to him, a few days after the training session where, since being pressed into a mat by you, Wanda found herself unable to think of anything else. 

"Hello, Wanda." He greeted her gently, closing the pages and waiting for her to approach.

"I need your help with something."

"Oh, what would that be?"

Wanda pressed her lips together, her hands restless in front of her body. "Would you be able to tell me the most efficient way to... get over someone?" Vision frowned in surprise, and Wanda sighed. "Someone we shouldn't like. Definitely inappropriate."

Vis opens her mouth, still in shock at the whole thing, but it's someone else who speaks;

"What's definitely inappropriate?" Tony asks, and Wanda thanks the gods he didn't hear the first part. 

"N-nothing!" Rebuts the witch quickly, the color of her cheeks probably giving her away. Stark looks at her suspiciously, then at Vis.

"Okay, what are you two love birds talking about?" The Vision would have blushed if he could. He gets visibly embarrassed, smiling shyly.

That's great as if Wanda needed one more extra thing to stress her out. 

She can barely contain her grimace at the nickname, but Tony doesn't bother; Vision is at least quick to change the subject, and surprises Wanda with his ability to lie very well. 

"We were just commenting on how inappropriate General Ross's accusations were at the last meeting." And that's enough to distract Stark.

Wanda practically flees the scene after that. For a long moment, she had even forgotten about the tension that had been swirling around the Avengers over the last few days, precisely because your absence from the compound made her - not that she would admit it - miss you terribly. And all she could think about was inevitably you, busy on missions with Steve in search of your brother James.

With your presence increasingly rare in the Compound, Wanda hoped that the crush would go away, but every time she happened to bump into you between missions, the feelings came back with an overwhelming force, like two lovers the war kept apart. It was frustrating, to say the least. Especially since Wanda was nothing more than a teammate. Hardly a friend.

When Lagos happened, and it was the worst thing that could possibly occur, at least Wanda had something else to think about. And this time, Ross's visit to the Compound was more than inappropriate - it was final.

Accords and fights between the team led to an unbearable situation. With half of her colleagues out for meetings with the United Nations, Wanda was still grounded at the Compound, waiting for news.

She didn't expect you to be sneaking around.

"You shouldn’t be here." That's the first thing she says as she fully opens the bedroom door you left ajar. Wanda could lie about being your fault that she found you, when in fact she had become an expert at sensing your aura over the last few weeks, the ability to just know when you were around, perfecting itself every time you two met.

You chuckle, without diverting your attention from the task of filling your backpack with as many things as you can squeeze inside. Wanda had the impression that many of the items you came to collect in your room were old presents; everything the others had gotten you over the last few holidays. Things that were precious.

"I'm aware. I won't be long." You retort, folding some socks together to put them away in the closet.

Wanda should call Vis - he's working as a sort of watchman for the tower or something. And he was supposed to notify Tony of your presence. But instead, she closes the door.

Twisting her fingers in anxiety, she asks:

"Where are you going to run off to?"

Offering her a quick glance as you returned to your suitcase to put away some underwear that made Wanda look away, you replied; "I can't tell you that, little witch."

Wanda almost smiled at the nickname. Instead, she took a desperate step forward.

"Would you take me with you?"

Standing back, you chuckle. "Funny."

"I wasn't joking."

You leave the St. Petersburg snow globe you got as a present from Natasha on the dresser and turn with a frown to the witch behind you. "Maximoff, come on-"

"I'm serious." She insists. "Stark grounded me. Like a fucking child. “ She then chuckles sadly. “Or worse, a problem he didn't want to deal with. And I know I fucked up in Lagos-"

"Don't say that, Lagos wasn't your fault." You interrupt her with a certain determination. "You need to remember that, alright?"

Wanda smiles softly at your reassurance, looking away because her face is suddenly very warm. You sigh then grab just one more change of clothes before zipping up your suitcase.

"It's not because of the company, Wanda." You mutter suddenly, with the backpack on your shoulders. She looks at you with confusion, but you don't meet her gaze. "I just don't think it's right, everything that's happening. And I don't think we should all be fighting with each other. But that's what's going to happen from now on. If you come with me, Steve probably expects you to be choosing sides. And I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt."

Her heart skips a beat, but Wanda takes a chance;

"Anyone... or me?"

You're taken aback, but you don't lose your poise. You sighed deeply before approaching her without haste, without any hint of what you were going to do either. Wanda opens her mouth again, to apologize for being so difficult, but you muffle the statement with a kiss.

It's the first time she's kissed another girl if that isn't obvious. She melts, panting and so very shy; it's a good thing that you hold her waist, while your other hand keeps your face close by grabbing her chin gently. Wanda's lungs scream for air after a moment, but she refuses to pull away from a sensation as good as kissing you.

Something like a whimper of need escapes her when you break the act, or maybe it's the way you give her lower lip a gentle tug with your teeth that leaves her trembling, ready to beg for more.

"Sorry if that was sudden." It's the first thing you say, your voice is hoarse, and as affected as your breathing. You smile, your thumb wiping away some of the mess left by Wanda's gloss. "But I think it took us long enough."

She babbles like a fish, unable to form a coherent thought for a whole moment. You wait patiently, your hands touching her shoulders, sliding down her arms as a way of calming her. Wanda has dreamed so much of feeling you that the touch meant to ease her nerves has quite the opposite effect; every inch of skin you touch tingles.

"H-how... did you know?" she asks, and you give a short laugh.

"I didn't." You retort gently. "Not for sure, at least. Not until two seconds ago when you asked to come with me. I had this... feeling. And this tension. Every time we walked into the same room, every time we were alone. I just felt…” You can put it into words exactly, so you just take a deep breath and smile at her. “I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, that the way I felt was making me imagine things but then you came in here. Sneak out into my room and ask if you could leave this fancy tower to run away with me to fight. I just had to be sure."

Wanda bites back a shy smile, feeling the heat spreading from her chest to her face and eras, and knowing for a fact that it's only going to get worse because of the way you're looking at her.

She tries to get some ground again.

"And are you..." A sigh, as one of your hands settles on her waist. "Sure?"

You hum thoughtfully before breaking the distance, kissing her in a different way than before. It's more intense and hungrier. Your tongue invades her mouth, exploring everywhere and your hands prevent her from pulling away when the oxygen is off. Every needy sound that escapes her is muffled against into lips. 

Wanda tentatively follows the rhythm, one of her hands wrapping in your hair. Your backpack falls to the ground and you hold her tighter now, pulling her into you. It's a significant difference between a super-soldier's body and her own, and just the quick memory of you pressing her against the mat makes her moan into your tongue.

The sound makes you lose your mind - Your hands become more determined, the kiss desperate. Wanda struggles for air, exposing the collarbone that keeps you busy as she tries to catch her breath. You bite down on her skin and she arches against you, her hands becoming bold enough to scratch your back and pull up your blouse.

But you break into a husky chuckle, slowing the kiss and pulling away to remind her; "We have to go." Between one touch and the next, "We don't have time."

She needs a whole moment to force her brain to work, and even after you're no longer touching her, and she's sneaking off to her own room to prepare a suitcase, she's still shaking.

When you meet again, running hand in hand with suitcases back to the garage, Wanda is surprised to realize that she was foolish to be afraid of something as good as this. 

That is, of course, until reality hits again.

Wanda has never seen you in action as a Winter Soldier before. She saw it through television, Shield files, and testimonies about deserters captured by the Avengers.

But she was never there.

The Avengers split up and fought each other, and your brother fled with Steve Rogers. She thought you were safe on the plane with them, she made sure you got on - but she didn't see you climb off.

Wanda accepted being captured, she accepted being drugged as a security measure. And throughout the confusion that was the transportation of the Avengers in custody to the Raft, she thought she was hallucinating the whole way there. The masked figure attacking the soldiers and opening the cells was a projection of the sedative in her mind.

She only knew what had really happened, had been able to remember, when you both were already in another country as fugitives from the United Nations.

You were by her side the whole time. You held her on your lap after getting rid of the straitjacket that had trapped her and lay down next to her when there was finally a secure roof over your heads.

Wanda was exhausted. She had lost the only thing she had left; her freedom. There was no longer a home, a team, a brother. She was drugged and trapped like an animal by people she considered family.

She started crying, and you woke up. You didn't say a word or ask her to stop. You just held her and let her sob into your chest until she fell asleep again, this time from exhaustion rather than through the influence of chemicals.

When what was left of the team moved on the following day, to another location to avoid suspicion as Natasha clarify it, Wanda got the impression that maybe it was you who needed her to hold you until you went to sleep now.

Bucky didn't come back, and neither of you knew what had happened to him or Steve. 

Wanda let you cry all you wanted.

But then finally, everyone who had fought for Steve was back together. Even Clint and Scott, who would probably make deals for their families, to try to be with them, and would have to leave soon. For a moment, everyone was there and you found out that your brother was going to stay in Wakanda to be free again.

It wasn't perfect, but it was a good moment. Steve got food for everyone, you had something that resembled a Christmas, or at least an end-of-year celebration.

We're alive and safe. We're together. Steve was a man of words.

Even if they were sharing a safe house that was too small for such a group. Even if half the world was after them.

The team fell asleep between sleeping bags and sofas, and you left the trailer to get some air. Wanda went after you without thinking much about it.

"It's cold, witchy." You commented as soon as she was close enough, even though you opened your arms for her to wrap hers around you.

Your back was against Nat's truck, and Wanda pressed a little closer to hide her face in your collarbone.

"Where are you going to run off to?" She questions into your skin.

You sigh, one hand caressing her back. "I don't know." You confess quietly. "I wouldn't get to Wakanda with this, but I wasn't feeling very well in there. Having a Christmas meal without him."

Wanda adjusts her face to look at you. "Bucky needs to heal first."

You nod, giving her a sad smile. "I know, but Steve told me they put him back on ice. Until they found out what they were going to do with him. Just the fact that he's there, freezing again... " You look away, sniffling softly. "It reminds me of the past, our time as Winter Soldiers. And It makes me very sad.” You explain softly before sighing. “I know there's nothing we can do to help him now, but it's all so frustrating. I just needed to get out of there for a moment."

Wanda absorbs your words for a moment until she returns to her previous position and smiles as she feels you relax and put your arms around her. 

She murmurs; "It's a shame we can't go out there. Natasha said this place has beautiful spots to visit."

You snort slightly. "Actually, we could drive somewhere further away. Far from the city." You comment. "We can watch the Aurora Borealis."

Wanda bites her lip for a moment, considering your invitation, until she adds; "Just the two of us?"

You chuckle. "Unless you want to wake up the team..."

"No, I wasn't complaining!" She clarifies quickly, and you start laughing again. 

She taps you gently on the shoulder to make you stop. "Idiot."

"Your idiot." You hit back with a smirk, and Wanda's heart stops beating for a moment. There's a pause, between exchanging intense glances as you bring your hands to her face, adjusting her hair out of the way. "Don't forget, witchy."

She swallows dryly, her voice hoarse when she speaks: "I won't." She whispers back and you smile before pressing your lips into hers.

[altcvnningham]

canis major

adler x bell!reader

summary: adler doesn’t go back to berlin to forget, but he isn’t so eager to remember, either. after leaving you for dead on that clifftop in the arctic, he knows best to leave the past well alone. too bad that past seems to be alive and walking right in front of him; though where he wants to forget, it seems you’ve already beaten him to the punch. or; bell survives solovetsky and only has a hole in her head and amnesia to show for it. read on ao3

tags/cw: bell!reader, amnesia, light angst, referenced adlerbell, somehow bell survives the ending of cw, adler can't let shit go, adler is not capable of remorse but mayyybe a lil guilt?? dog symbolism always, no pairing yet but hopefully i continue this as a spicy drabble series idk wc: 2.7k

a/n: sooo this is my first fic for the cod fandom and the first fic i've posted online in a long time so hopefully this lil ramble suffices!! i've had adlerbell brainrot and wanted to get at least something out before bo6 ruins all of my headcanons so here's a snippet of something i hopefully find the motivation to continue into a mini series. enjoy :')

Sometimes, he goes back to Berlin.

Stumbling out of the muggy bar into the dank alleyway out the back, Adler fishes out a pack of cigarettes from the front of his jacket; two firm knocks of it against his palm before he plucks one out with his mouth, pockets the box, and flips open his lighter. The clink of the metal echoes into the empty around him, the sudden quiet suffused with the sounds of passing cars on the street, muffled laughter from inside the bar, and the distant barking of dogs. Strays.

The cigarette ignites, glowing a cherry red, and he gasps around the filter greedily. Upon exhale, he sighs.

Adler isn’t a sentimental man by any means. What little he clings to, he does so with a loose grip, less than happy but stolid enough to allow whatever else he deems unnecessary slip through his fingers. Places, people. Things. Memories. Tucks the important things- logic, rationality, work, duty- into orderly compartments at the forefront of his mind, archived and marked off ‘til he needs it, while the rest, the mess, gets done away with, thrown into the great black gorge of oblivion. Anything else that stays- more often than not a thorn in his side, an unbidden, wriggling tumour he can’t find let alone cut out- is sequestered to a dark aperture in the back of his mind, anchored deep where it can’t come back up. Yet somehow, some nights, they always do. The smell of his ex-wife’s hair. The day he got his scar. Vietnam. The lab. Solovetsky—

The next word, the name, forks across his mind like lightning, and he bites his tongue before he can think it. It sits at the back of his mouth, nestled like an aching cavity in his molars. A tremulous breath that he forces down with another drag of his cigarette. Out with the rest. Out with the rest.

The barking doesn’t cease. Dogs, a pair of them, he can hear a couple streets over. He pictures them from the gravelly register of their snarling- maybe German Shepherds, a Bullmastiff or a Rottweiler. Their fight enunciated by the violent rattling of chain-link fences, segregated, the only threshold that keeps teeth from necks.

But no, not a sentimental man. He tells himself that the itch to revisit Berlin every Summer is for superficial reasons, and by no means is renting out a shithole hotel room opposite a sewer-laden river considered a vacation from anything other than the luxuries he gorges himself mindlessly on at home- maybe this is to keep him humble, more than anything. It doesn’t do well to remind himself of old times, not when he’s lived the life he has. Remembering seldom accompanies itself with the bittersweetness of reminiscence, and the taste it leaves in his mouth is always acrid. He doesn’t miss Berlin any more than he misses that dismal safehouse, or that sterile room he wheeled you into, questioned- tortured- no, interrogated- well, he doesn’t care to remind himself of the picture. Or the person he strapped to the gurney. But he catches himself thinking back to the city divided more than he likes to admit, and for whatever ostensible reason it is that drags him back here, he relents to it every time.

He tells himself it’s the weather, the cool rain a nice reprieve from the scorching California heat. Or that the food is better, not so much overprocessed shit and sugars. Can take his coffee as black as he likes without the waitress turning her nose up about it and double-triple-checking if he’s sure. And it’s the people, maybe, who leave him well enough alone. Or the drinks. The views, some places. The- air.

Not like Arctic air. Not like—

The one dog’s snarl rips bloodcurdling through the night, all froth and venom, and as the chain-link fence screeches and judders in its rusted welding the other mutt quiets a moment. Cowers under the meaner dog’s ferocity. Then, like it had been wounded, it lets out a low, anguished howl, beast reduced to a scared little pup. Adler holds the smoke in his chest around a stifled breath anticipating a release. But the first dog just grumbles, the fence clinks, and there isn’t much noise after that.

But the quiet doesn’t last long- just as Adler drops his cigarette and snuffs it with a wrench of his heel, another sound resonates, yowling through the alley.

The grinding of tires upon wet asphalt crunches from just beyond the alleyway entrance. The streetlamp overhanging the entryway glares bright yellow as it bounces off of the garishly coloured taxi cab, pulling up to a groaning halt outside the bar.

He thinks nothing of it, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket. It’s getting cold, and he’s left his drink inside. Wouldn’t want to waste good beer. Adler turns, and makes for the door.

And you step out of the car.

A half-finished cigarette bounces on the sidewalk before you exit, the softened heel of your boot following soon after in a splash upon the flooded curb. Your German is rusty- always has been- but it’s easy enough to utter a quick and easy danke as you pull yourself up out of the cab. The door shuts with a slam, and you tilt your head back to gaze up at the sign above the bar- Der Fluss Lethe glaring in faded lightbox red- and you let out a contented sigh, your breath suspended in the frigid air. Pink, bitten fingers pluck at your gloves, fingerless faded green knit, shovelling them into your jacket pocket.

Adler’s fist is already curled around the handle of the back door as he clocks your presence in his periphery, a stranger like any other- but your image resembles the one that coagulates in the borders of old memory, the dried blood of you he hasn’t been able to wash his hands of since ‘81. Enough that he does a double take, his eyes wide behind tinted glasses, and he stops, his heart following suit.

He’s seen enough bodies in his time to fill the morgue in his mind twice over, and plenty ghosts to wander coldly among the unmarked graves. Vietnam alone is an unwinding cemetery stretching endless, catacombs along the inside of his skull, lined with what his old shrink would call remorse. Guilt. As if the feeling mattered. As if self-reproach could turn self-flagellation into something so incandescent as redemption. As if the bile in the back of his throat could bring back the dead.

And it couldn’t, because it isn’t… that’s not—

Bell.

It’s in the way you stand, your back rigid, that slight slouch to your shoulders, always dragged down upon you like they bore the weight of the whole world (and they did, once, do you remember?). The pelting of rain smacks off of the lapels of your jacket and ricochets like stars, caught in the light of the streetlamp overhead, but for all he knows or cares it could be raining diamond and all he sees is you- the wrinkling of your nose as you accommodate to the cold, how your cheeks flush at the chill (as they had those nights he pulled you into the darkroom, evidence of your apprehension drowned in the red glow of safelights); your hair is longer, unkempt, but still that same colour (clumps he’d find in his clenched fist when you’d argue yourselves into a wrestling match, pinning each other by the throats to dented walls in Die Landebahn); that scar upon your brow; that wavering line of your lip, pursed and hiding behind your reticence as you always did, and your eyes- your eyes—

—you feel someone watching—

—your eyes turn, and fix upon him with the startled softness of a doe, hunter betrayed by the snapping of a branch underfoot. Adler’s heel crunches against broken glass, his hand lingering right in that threadbare threshold upon the doorhandle, and he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think—

Open the door, Bell, open the door—

—and you stop outside the cab, your breath caught in your throat. You see a shadow in the alley, in the shape of a man.

The darkness of the alley gives enough cover that you don’t see much, but what you do make out of the man prickles at a part of your mind long dormant: the haughtily broad set of the shoulders; the halo of blond tinted red just beneath the flickering exit light above the door where he stands; the shadow of a strong, clenched jaw; and in the brief glinting of passing headlights as cars rush on behind you, you see a face half gorged by a thick, forked scar, a fissure struck down his furrowed expression. A pair of dark aviator glasses hide those eyes that you know are looking at you, reflecting back nothing but your own bewilderment.

There is something you know. Deep inside that half rotted head of yours, where an incomplete recollection of your existence before you awoke bleeding on that clifftop lies, you feel a twinge of recognition. Familiarity. Something. Something stirring deep in your marrow- a fear inherited, a conditioned surrender, a faded polaroid, a kiss? Your migraine, chronic, comes clawing back with a vengeance, as it does most nights, but this time with a savage fervour that wrenches your face into an involuntary grimace. Where the hole in your head had once been all those years ago it tickles and burns, burrowing into your brain and groping greedy fingers along remnants of memory. It claws at you, digging through your amygdala to find something fresh, something old, something palpable, real, something- anything. Searching what little remains visible to you in the thick fog of your own mind to pin a meaning to this feeling, an answer to your question, a name to that face.

You’ve seen him before. You swear. Somewhere. In a dream, reoccurring, behind a red door. You don’t know how, or why you’d think you recognise him- in those dreams, the door never even opens. Your hand ever stuck on the handle, jammed and impenetrable, what sits behind it forbidden to you. Like not even your own mind wants you to know. It confines you to your ignorance, almost blissful.

Adler’s heart kicks violently in his chest. He shot you. He killed you. He’d heard your death rattle on that clifftop in Solovetsky and the sound was almost like singing, your last word, your last breath. A miserere for your short and fractured life. And he’s looking at your ghost, standing there all owl-eyed and as beautiful as the day he found you bleeding out on that airstrip. Before he took you. Before he took you and collared you and made a damned mess of things.

The only thing separating you from the Bell he knows he killed- his Bell- is the star-shaped scar split across your left temple. The only wound he never had to sit and heal as he belligerently patched you up, poking and preening you like his prize dog. Yet in spite of never seeing it before, he recognises the wound all too well. He put it there himself.

And as you stand there for that brief moment- no more than twelve seconds stretched to an eternity- he thinks for a moment that you’ve put it together. You recognise him. You see him. As he is. You’ve figured him out, Bell, as you always do. You’re the only one to have gotten away with it, nearly. Or so he thought. And now he’s watching a corpse having dug itself out of the grave he put it in, standing there, staring at him. Suppose you’ve always been a dead man walking.

You could do it, he thinks. Turn. Fling your heel round and barrel towards him with all the enmity of a cornered animal. He thinks of the strays, barking. Can picture your mouth frothing at the sides as you sink your teeth down into him- gnarled canines, hooked to your chain-link fence- which he probably deserves. Not an unfamiliar feeling by any stretch, but one faraway enough to seem almost sweet now through the hazy lens of nostalgia. If there truly is a sentimental bone in his body after all, then maybe it’s just for that. Still, he holds his breath, awaiting the killing blow he’s surely due. But it never comes.

You release your held breath, finally, tearing your eyes away from the callous faced stranger. It’s a ridiculous notion. Just an uncanny instance of déjà vu. You don’t know that man any more than you know yourself. You settle on a more rational answer- just one of those faces. And with a disgruntled sigh you rub the scar upon your temple to soothe the ache, turn around, and enter the bar alone.

Adler sighs, his heart sinking from up high in his throat back down to his chest. His hand has latched onto the doorhandle for so long it’s gone numb from the cold, bruised knuckles bluer than they were before (bar fights- not here, but another, as there will always be). He wrestles his jaw pensively, knowing he ought to take it off, keep the door closed, turn away, and leave. Slink back, tail between his legs, to that shithole hotel room to drink himself into a stupor. Let you haunt him there, instead. As you always have.

But he doesn’t. He has no idea what idiocy compels him, what soft, dewy-eyed weak link in him snags on that chain, to willingly wander back into the viper den of reminiscence, but he wrenches his fist around the handle, pushes, and lets himself back into the bar, the thick, hot air hitting him like a drug that he breathes in, tart and sour with the cloy of sweat and alcohol but still faintly- just faintly- of you. Like rain carried along the wind.

And Russell Adler is not a sentimental man.

But from across the bar he hides behind his beer glass, watches as you move about, a phantom, weaving through the faceless mass of people celebrating a championship he cares nothing to follow. You take your order at the bar with a smile he’s never seen on you before, boots folded to tip-toes as you lean over the liquor-stickied top, your perfect mouth pink and sweet and laughing and alive. The world seems to move about you in a haze, an indistinct mist of blurred faces and bottled voices and beyond all the light and life and joy that seems to burn bright around you like a halo all he sees is you.

Maybe, then, he’s a fool.

But it isn’t lost on him, how your fingers skirt across your hair in an attempt to hide the scar upon your temple. Nor is it lost on him how you wince at the feeling, the stars in your eyes dimmed for just a split second as you shiver, like a touch imperceptible running fingers down your back. Nor even the way you fight the urge to look, to follow the feeling of his eyes fixed upon you, and surely not the way you lose that fight, surrendered to it, your sweet face turning and finding him in an instant. Without so much as trying, like instinct, like something as pathetic and saccharine as fate. Your heart called to it, a lighthouse in the fog. Port in the storm. Ships passing in the night but called crashing to the same shore.

(The pieces of you are scattered everywhere, Bell. He finds you in every split seam inside himself. Splintered shrapnel dug through his temporal lobe, severing synapses ‘til they go dark. Even stars die quicker than that. Quicker than you. Is that what it felt like for you, too? When the lights went out, was it him you last saw- or the sky, waxen, over the Arctic? A waning night, a distant moon. The inconsequence of death- brief celestial ephemera.)

The stranger across the bar looks at you, offering nary a smile, eyes indiscernible behind shadowed sunglasses. And where you ought to find his apparent coldness disconcerting, instead you wring out of your chest with a white-knuckled caress a feeling like… comfort.

Sometimes, Bell, you go back to Berlin. You don’t quite know why.

[cherry-pop-elf]

Kiss it Better Pt:3

Curly x Reader

AN: I am just speechless. All this support is making me tear up. Like holy shit. Thank you. Don’t worry! When this finishes(god idk how it will I’m making up as I go since yall want more chapters) I’ll make sure to post it to AO3 for easier access! Just thank you again! And uh. Don’t forget I have a Kofi and Wishlist if you wanna like tip or something. NO PRESSURE! Just a reminder to anyone who WANTS and CAN! You come first! Just. Thank you again!

SUM: You couldn’t sleep, so you try and remember things with Curly to lull you to sleep. As you do, you remember things that are important for a captain to have. Very important, and you are gonna be certain to find them

Warnings: Jimmy, sexual assault, mentions of abortion (it’s a rather calm chapter really. Take it as a pallet cleanser because the next chapter imma really show you how fucked up Jimmy is))

You just couldn’t sleep. It felt criminal to right now. So much was going through your head. So much has happened and now you had time to let it all soak in. The crash, Anya, why there was a crash, Curly’s condition, it made sleep impossible. Especially alone in that big bed that was meant for you and your husband.

You tried to take in deep breaths, and just let the thoughts wash over you. There was responsibility as the Captains Spouse. You weren’t just ‘eye candy’ like Jimmy said. You had worth, and were just as much important to the team as everyone else.

Such as learning a thing or two about what Captain should do in case of an emergency.

Curly was in no state to help, and Jimmy sure as fuck won’t help either. He was the reason everyone crashed after all. He’s a loose cannon and you needed to tip toe around him. Who knows what he might do next. You weren’t even sure if telling Swansea and Daisuke about what’s going on was smart.

Swansea has little girls of his own after all. He won’t react well at all. Then there’s Daisuke. Barely nineteen and thrown into this mess. He might panic or maybe even do something crazy like confront Jimmy. There was just to many what ifs.

So you were left on your own.

You would wrap yourself up in what was once Curly’s sleep robe and grab his spare ID card. The very thing that can unlock any door, and be the one thing that can lock your bedroom door. Definitely should have Anya sleep in here for a while. She deserves to be able to sleep soundly.

While you were waiting for everyone to sleep as well you would explore the bedroom. Looking into nook and cranny to see if there was anything of use. The Captains always were given a bunch of extra shit after all. Even Pony Express had to meet some safety protocols. Curly was their best after all. Even went as far as to try and help him fine work else where. That’s what he explained to you.

Shame. Was just a normal bedroom. The only thing that made it special was it was bigger, and had a lock. Dammit all to hell.

That’s when you tried to think back on past memories of you and your husband. To try and recall any kind of special thing the ships carry. Oh how you felt so guilty for never paying enough attention. Made you feel stupid and useless, but you weren’t.

At least not in comparison to Jimmy.

With a deep breath, you managed to recall something. Something not long before the crash even. You had knocked on the cockpit door to enter it, and was greeted to your husband and Jimmy working. Curly was rambling on about something, while Jimmy kept eyeing the locker suspiciously. As if he wanted to get inside of it for some reason.

That’s your best lead now. God dammit was it a shitty one. The cockpit was stuffed to the brim with foam. But then again that’s the front of the cockpit. If you were careful, and cut the right spot, maybe you can access the locker.

It’s something. Something is better than nothing.

With the robe tossed aside, a change into your jump suit, gloves slipped on, and beanie pulled on to keep your head safe you would make your way to the kitchen. Card key tucked securely inside of your jumpsuit compared to a pocket.

Jimmy can’t know.

Can’t know that you were stealing the only knife that the ship had.

Was going to be a pain in the ass to cut that foam but you really had nothing better to do. So, you unlocked the cock pit and focused on remembering its layout.

“For Anya, for Curly, for Swansea, for Daisuke, and all our families back home.”

You would start the slow and agonizing cutting. Little by little. Just chopping away to try and reach the right side of the pit. To get to that locker and see what was inside. That locker was in the cockpit for a reason. It can only be accessed by the pilots for a reason. There was a reason.

Any time you felt like your arms would give out you thought back to Curly. How he didn’t really have arms anymore to begin with. How Anya was busy throwing up right now. How they needed you. They both needed you.

It had been well over a hour, but you managed to reach the locker. You allowed yourself a breather at the sight of it. Damn was that a pain, but it’ll be worth it. Right?

With your breather over you would use the key card to access the locker. Inside was….Honestly junk. That had you very disappointed. You were honestly ready to cry out of frustration, only to see there were a few locked cabinets inside.

Ones that needed codes.

Codes you knew.

Curly made you memorize them in case of an emergency. He just said to memorize them. That it’s meant to just unlock pin pads. That Pony Express never bothered to change them.

You went to the lower locker and typed it in.

Strange, there was nothing inside. Suppose whatever was inside was taken out. You wondered what could have been in there. Was a very small locker so maybe it was some code scanner or universal unlocking device. Just wasn’t big enough for something you hoped for.

A transmitter.

He prayed it was near the front of the ship. That a transmitter would stuck in the heart of the foam, or as far as just shatter on contact. They had to have a spare communicator. Pony Express had to follow SOME rules after all. Imagine the ship being discovered and the people who found it saw it was missing something as important as that.

So you typed in the code for the larger locker. You were kinda afraid of opening it. To be met with another empty void of metal and dust.

You took a deep breath, and opened.

There really was a god.

There was what you were looking for. A real deal communicator. It was real, it looked untouched and even had dust on it to show that Jimmy never reached it.

Before you grabbed it you made sure to close the door behind you. Just to be sure. Was the dead of night, well from what the clocks say, and everyone should be asleep. Even Jimmy had to sleep. You had to make you move now.

Remain calm, and focus.

You can’t fuck this up.

You snuggled yourself into the corner of the pit, with the communication device in your lap. You hooked the head phones onto your head, and turned it on.

As you waited for it to boot up you made sure you were positioned so that if anyone came through the door, for some reason, you’ll notice. As far as anyone was aware though this room was basically a wall. No purpose to enter. You should be safe, but you had to think ahead. Jimmy was unpredictable, and so full of himself.

Better to be over prepared than see what happens if Jimmy finds out what you are doing.

Couldn’t help but give a squeak of surprise when someone finally spoke to you.

“This is the Emergency Spaceship Retrieval Sector. What seems to be the problem?”

A woman, through the static, spoke to you. Tears of relief fell down your face but you forced yourself to remain focused. You can’t mess this up now. No way no how.

“This is Tulpar for Pony Express. We have suffered a crash about a month ago. From what I can recall we had been a little over four months into our twelve month journey-“ You immediately explained, as to best help them get an estimation on how far the ship had traveled.

“Alright, who may I be speaking to at this moment?”

Deep breaths.

“I am the Spouse to Captain Curly. It is me, Jimmy the co-pilot, Anya the nurse, Swansea the mechanic, and Daisuke our intern.” Deep breaths, keep things quick and to the point.

“Are you all in any immediate danger?”

You had to think about that a moment. Jimmy is a dangerous man. Who knows what he might do next if you don’t play along. So, you had to be honest. You felt guilty for telling the operator what happened. That Curly suffered greatly and needed immediate medical attention, how Anya was a victim of assault and required an abortion as soon as possible, and that the reason for it all was because of Jimmy. He crashed the ship, he raped Anya, he destroyed Curly, and god knows what he will do next.

“Estimated arrival time will be about a month. We have your exact location thanks to the communicator. Remain calm, and know that help is on the way. We have logged this down in the report. Take care of your crew the best you can, Captain.”

And she would log off. You would let your head thump back, and simply cried. Cried in pure relief and joy. That a real person heard you, and was aware of what’s going on. That if anything did go wrong that at least someone knows. Someone will know what happened.

There was hope.

Now was a matter of survival.

One month.

You all needed to survive one month.

One Month Until Rescue…

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Tag List

@dinkyzoop @danart501 @spudfromspace @niyamamiya

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Some randomly assorted six of crows headcanons/thoughts/theories/idk

(feel free to agree/disagree/add your own to the list)

I think this is a pretty popular one but that Baghra survived the Grisha trilogy and was the blind Grisha amplifier being held captive at the Ice Court

Kaz is everything that Van Eck wanted in his child and that’s why he and Wylan bother him so much more than the other Crows (I have a whole essay on Kaz & Wylan parallels if anyone wants to read it)

Matthias’ mother and/or baby sister were Grisha and he didn’t know, and that they were actually killed by Drüskelle during the skirmish and Brum told him it was Infernis as part of his manipulation (this is not mine originally but I’ve seen it a lot so I don’t know who first said it, sorry)

Cornellus Smeet’s wife is brunette

I don’t necessarily think that Alys’ child is Bajan’s, though I have wondered this in the past and wondered what Wylan’s reaction might be if the kid weren’t actually his sibling, but I do think they were in or prepared for a secret relationship and that he would happily help her raise the baby as though it were his own

Mentioned this is a post recently but I think it’s possible that the reason Wylan has so few memories of his mother but such clear memories of being 8, and even younger, and going on all of the trips abroad with his father (Ice Court, Elling, Novyi Zem, Shu oil fields, etc) is because whenever Marya stood up to Van Eck, either in defense of her herself or Wylan, Van Eck would punish her by separating her from Wylan and Wylan was too young to know that was happening

I think that if Van Eck won and Kuwei went back to the Ice Court after Crooked Kingdom that the Kerch would have formed an alliance with the Fjerdans. I think they would have been able to successfully move through Ravka and I think that the Shu Han would have then declared war against them both. I also think that it’s possible Novyi Zem would ally themselves with the Shu and it would lead to a WW1 scale event. I have my reasons for this and I have a fic on ao3 exploring the idea and following the Crows in the potential aftermath (Our Gods Have Abandoned Us), but I also think it would be a really interesting discussion to get going I would love to hear other thoughts on it as well

[takes1]

p. 4 bratty tsukishima x manager!reader enemies to lovers

thank you so much @v15aexe for giving me that suggestion! i tried my best to honor it and make it feel as organic as possible! and thanks to everyone who's supported this little series :) next part should be heavy nsfw. lmk if ya'll want any other series/characters in my requests

warnings. sfw somehow again idk how this keeps happening to me. minors DNI

details. sfw? / build-up to nsfw / PDA / during: training camp arc / first kiss / jealous!tsukki / stupidshima / needyshima / suggestive petting / kuroo rizz / hand holding / unspoken feelings / communication / obsessed tanaka/nishinoya / 2k words

🤍 kei series. part one / part two / part three / final part / reply and get added to the taglist to get notifs for the last part!

more links. my ao3, my other stuff. request box. haikyuu collection

Tsukishima couldn't believe that it was so dark outside when he left the gym. This training camp would be the death of him.

Dreary and a bit dehydrated, he stepped to the doorway and looked at the surrounding gym-trailers, envious of all the ones that were dark and unoccupied.

His eyes naturally landed on one that was still in-use, though.

Kuroo, who had left early for unspecified reasons, was chatting you up with an unmistakable rizz charisma at the entrance.

You (the now-specified reason) looked downright delighted to be talking to him.

Tsukishima bit the inside of his cheek, heart racing, and barely noticed Bokuto's heavy shoulder slap on the way out of their gym.

"Yeah," He gave a half-cocked, hardly engaged smile and it fell right away.

Bokuto looked over his shoulder for a moment with a confused look- he said nothing to warrant a 'yeah,' but the thousand-yard stare across the kid's face was enough for even him to understand it was out of his paygrade to pry. He continued walking back to his own lodging, quickly becoming absentminded once more.

His immediate reaction at this discomfort was to roll his eyes, put his shoes on, and step out onto the concrete, facing the way back.

Your sweet laugh rang in his ears as he did this.

He looked back, and the older, better in now every way version of himself was brimming with pride that you found him funny.

His dignity couldn't take another beating today. He'd never be able to look you in the eye if he let this one go.

A newfound swiftness in his legs carried him three trailers down to where the light was pouring out into the dark night, blocked only by now: three shadows.

"-that was real sexy-- U-hum, admirable when you told your team off like that today," His fake 'slip-up' had you blushing from ear to ear, hands folded neatly in front of you.

The sly way he lowered his voice to just above a mutter was reminiscent of pillow-talk. He was undeniably smooth and radiated confidence. Even the successfully casual manner in which he leaned against the doorway to both get closer to you and to come across as more conversational.

You corrected him, pushing down his hand; he was about move some of your hair, so you moved it yourself.

You were keeping a polite distance both physically and verbally, "If this is your way of getting intel, you'd be barking up the wrong tree."

Unfazed, he took your hand in his effortlessly, "The only intel I need is your number."

When you took a breath to deny him that for the fourth time, you jumped at Tsukishima's haunted appearance just coming into the light.

Kuroo looked back and nearly jumped out of his skin with an uncool yelp- he quickly covered it with a, "Fuck--! Four-Eyes! You scared the absolute shit out of me."

He caught his breath, holding his chest, "You look like a damn ghost."

You laughed, sharing an entertained glance with Tsukishima, but saw that he was much less delighted to be standing there.

He crafted something on the spot, monotone and sounding just as disinterested as usual, "Coach needs you back at the dorm. It's getting late."

"Oh," You threw a look back to Hinata and Kageyama, who were still practicing, "I was just making sure these two got back in one piece. And- at a decent... time."

You checked your watch and realized it wasn't exactly a decent time anymore.

As you called out to the two still inside, Tsukishima and Kuroo stood in front of each other and crossed their arms with identical scowls.

Kuroo knew that face well. He'd seen it many times with other guys. The 'Go Away, Stop Talking to Her' stare. But he'd place good money on the fact that Tsukishima didn't even know it was a thing.

Even though he was just a freshman, and even though you were too damn good-looking to be Karasuno's manager, and even though he scared him- he took pity on him.

So he let up, but not without one last punch.

"I hope Bokuto grilled you enough while I was gone," He smirked, "You'll need to step it up for tomorrow's match, Tsukki."

There was a slight drop from the gym to the concrete. Tsukishima held his hand out for you to hop down with, and with a look he didn't return, you decided to take it and fixed your shoes.

"I plan to."

You felt a chill between them and had zero desire to intervene. Kuroo seemed to give a subtle, proud smile.

"Good."

The walk back was dead silent. It was slowly suffocating you, nagging at you like flies to just say something about what happened between you.

The pace wasn't fast, but it wasn't slow. And the accommodated lodging wasn't too far off from the lined-up gyms, so you both felt the opportunity growing smaller and smaller.

"It's nice seeing you stay for solo practice."

He said nothing.

"And- you've been getting better."

He scoffed, "Tell me that when we're not hitting penalty sprints after every match."

You smiled. It was quiet again.

"I will."

He looked down at you, brows raised, softer now. He realized how mean he sounded and couldn't take it back. There were a lot of things he couldn't take back.

That feeling helped him not shut down your candid question.

"So, what was that? Back there?"

His response was careful and slow. You were waiting on your toes for each following word.

"I guess-... I'm- surprised."

"What do you mean?"

"That you'd-- entertain that. You're not the type."

"You should be more careful putting girls in boxes, Tsukki-" The nickname just slipped out. You felt your face get warmer.

He stayed silent, though. You couldn't read him no matter how hard you tried.

You continued, treading lightly, "I... I don't know, it is nice being fawned over. It's flattering, at least."

The "Yeah," he choked out sounded like he'd gotten stabbed through the middle with a serrated knife- and you just twisted it.

"Much easier than having to deal with some jackass that doesn't know how to talk to me."

A surprised half-laugh, half-scoff left his lips at your brash comment.

"Really." He rolled his eyes, heart sinking, and regretting just about every moment between you. Especially that out-of-body shit he pulled back there.

"But," You leaned to look at him and found it nearly impossible.

He was staring at the sky. He really did look in pain.

"I wouldn't say I prefer it," A smile crept over your lips, a small laugh at how absurd your own words sounded, "It's not interesting enough."

His Adam's apple bobbed and his jaw worked. He was already at rock-bottom, so there was nothing to hide.

Another sigh-laced response, "What... would you prefer?"

The shared dormitories were approaching closer. You began to mosey, your footfalls with more time between them, smaller distance, in the hopes that you could steal more time alone. It was such a warm night and you were craving to get under a fan, but sweating out in this muggy, paved path had steady-growing appeal.

"Tall," You started to list, struggling to keep a nervous, yet amused grin down, "Blond,"

He finally looked down at you.

His eyes were glossy under his glasses. There was no such smile on his face, but his chest rose and fell faster.

"Intelligent, but-," You stopped and he followed your lead without a moment's hesitation. The pause felt right because now, the street light next to your housing was setting between you in a warm, flickering glow, "Somehow incredibly stupid."

An unfiltered laugh broke his melancholic silence and it was the most beautiful sound you could've asked for.

"Mean," You felt inclined to include through his bout of relieved laughter, "But- secretly really thoughtful, and sweet. And a really cute laugh."

You giggled with him, giddy and incredibly apprehensive as you took his hand. He laced his fingers through yours and your tummy started to dance with a billion butterflies.

Another tentative, gentle hand found its rightful place on your waist.

"I'm sorry," He muttered, "About... everything."

Crystal clear feelings of guilt flashed across his face, despite holding you, your admission, and his reparations today. His insecurities really did manage to worm their way back in.

"I thought it was pretty clear that I forgave you," You grinned, squinting up at him, "But since you're so stupid-,"

He smiled and looked away, shy.

"I guess I have to tell you directly that," You grabbed his chin to force him look at you, "I forgive you."

Those eyes were beyond complex. His charged, but needy stare sent a shiver down your spine and made your knees so weak that you were appreciative he pulled you closer to his chest.

You knew he didn't know how to kiss.

So you made the first move- a soft hand to the side of his face to guide him down, and a gentle, barely-there, slow peck. He started to kiss back, but it was over before he got the proper chance to try.

"One more," He breathed, the tiniest smirk covering a bottomless desire for you.

He could hardly form a kiss through his smiling, you weren't sure if he was really even trying on the second time he asked for another.

You leaned up for a third, hand at last unlacing from his, and slid to the base of his neck for a subtle pull for control. A deeper, much better kiss ensued as the result of this direction.

That unsure hand on your waist gripped harder with growing certainty- his thumb wrapped forward around your hip and squeezed, sending a shock throughout your body that left you tugging at the roots of his hair.

"Mmn," You buzzed against him and, a bit breathless, sucked a small, red spot to his jaw when you couldn't keep kissing him anymore.

"Ye-ah-" You seethed, brow knotted, "We can't do this here."

He was panting at the loss of your touch and your pretty voice. He nodded dumbly but didn't move.

You carefully guided his hand off of yours, holding it for a moment, and smiled at his dazed expression for all it was worth.

Your timing couldn't have been better. Just as you climbed the first steps to get into the building, Tanaka burst through the door in a fury.

"(Y/N)!! Where were you?! I'vebeenworriedsick!" He cried, only just barely drowning out the rapid, thundering of footsteps (interrupted only briefly with a crash and resulting shout) from your other personal fan, Nishinoya, who burst through the door in an identical fashion-- "Thank GOD!"

They both collapsed against you, not even giving you the chance to register their incessant noise.

"Jesus," You wheezed at the absurd weight of them both.

Tsukishima went completely unseen for the second time that night.

"Get off, both of you!" Daichi's disembodied, reprimanding voice called from upstairs. He certainly couldn't see them, so he must've just known.

With great, exaggerated labor, they did as told, but didn't drop the subject.

"You've never been out so late before!" Nishinoya exclaimed, taking both of your hands in his with big, dinner-plate eyes. It was only 9:30.

"Well, you have Tsukki to thank for getting me back safely," You joked, much quieter than them, heart light on the heels of a good kiss and in the company of good friends.

They looked around before spotting him, generating an amused smile on your face, and shook both of his hands at the same time, thanking him many times for his service.

"He saved me from Kuroo," You added with a playful glance back to Tsukishima, now free to walk in with them out of the way.

Now he was the one bombarded with questions as you slipped your shoes off in the doorway.

taglist:

this has been so nice writing! thank ya'll for the support! drop any suggestions for other characters or series you'd want to see in my requests!

@hotvinimon @cyzvx @aloveablechaos @kozumesphone

@beaniedoodz @idiotboys @djmoyolehuani @ilovemymomscooking

@imiqz @vierciale

[olderthannetfic]

Getting this off my chest:

Back from a small fanfic hiatus, and I am absolutely flabbergasted by all of the fic authors now practically begging their readers to READ THE TAGS.

I’ve been seeing this warning written in summaries, in author’s notes, highlighted in all caps in the actual tags. I’ve read so many apologies written by authors in the comments in response to people chastising the author for writing what they wanted to write, for what they tagged correctly — for what essentially comes down to nothing more than having had other people actively ignore their tags or read despite them.

And there seems to be this bizarre, somehow largely accepted idea that it is the creators job and responsibility to beseech their readers to ‘use caution’ and to ‘stay safe’, to ‘be mindful of their health’…

I am beyond confused here.

Since when??? did exercising the most basic form of common sense and acknowledging one’s personal yeas and nays, likes and limitations, become some other random stranger’s burden rather than one’s own? And especially a random person who tagged their work correctly??? Does no one remember how to harness their own powers of discernment and self-regulation???

This little jaunt back onto ao3 has been unlike any that I’ve ever experienced before. What. Happened?????? Who is this new, apparently severely emotionally unstable and obstinately tags-reading resistant audience everyone has come to focus on?

It all feels so out of touch. The basic concept of ao3 is for the reader to seek out what they want, not what they don’t want. And to actually read. But there seems to have been an extremely strong shift away from reading. On ao3. A site built specifically for reading and writing. (And other fandom artistic pursuits, but not my focus, atm; though I’m sure whatever this is has crept steadily into all spaces there.)

Plummeting reading comprehension must be somewhat to blame; the popularity of fanfic amongst younger and wider audiences, as well. But… young people have always been there, as far as my own experiences go, and it was never like this. It’s as if too many readers don’t know how to make good or even practical decisions for themselves anymore, that they’ve lost the skill of choosing, and now believe that they must consume everything that passes before them; — that they have, for some reason, adopted the belief that any turmoil or dislike or discomfort felt within themselves is harm purposely being done to them by the author.

Idk. Idk, idk, idk. It’s just such a bummer to see how much nervousness and distress has entered the community. Authors notes and comments used to be hilarious fun, or a peek into someone else’s real-life world, used to be casual and full of personality, whereas nowadays, there seems to be an underlying hesitancy and distrust, a sort of growing divide between writers and readers, groups which, until recently, very much were not mutually exclusive.

--

Idiots have been around forever. The more you cater to them, the more entitled they get. It's best to shut that shit down fast and use no warnings that indicate a willingness to entertain stupid complaints.

[clitorphosis]

TOMB FOR TWO

Rockstar Leon S. Kennedy x model reader | AO3 18+ MDNI. smut, female reader, drugs and alcohol addiction implied, Leon is scumbag i guess, blowjob, use of coke, deepthroat i guess, dirty talk. tags: @ivmp words: 2,934

notes: so.... dont do drugs/alcohol and idk i feel like i need to clarify, some stuff here i heard in real life directly from insufferable men, so don't interract with such kind of people for ur own good.

Leon loves ladies, he was always the kind of man who loved every woman, if she was attractive enough to his taste of course. Also, he considered himself a nice guy, but a lot of girls didn’t get him. It got a lot worse when he cheated on his ex-girlfriend, after that nasty breakup and a slap he received, it felt like she had put a curse on him. Maybe he is cursed, it would explain why his attempts to form established relationships always failed. At least the passion for music was always with him, no matter how hard it was for him and it has helped indeed him in many areas; gaining more ego and becoming finally a rockstar, which certainly has helped him find lovers to warm his bed.

In his mind, he has already created his own list of preferences, models were always a big ‘no’ cause pretty dolls in the majority were the most annoying ones in his honest and ‘humble’ opinion. A lot of them are anorectic, and Leon doesn’t need a girl whose only hard thing in her mouth would have been his dick. Also, pretty women are usually really intimidating and have high standards, he doesn’t want to risk a possible denial. Cool guys don’t get hurt.

But that list didn’t help him at all, it didn’t prevent him from getting involved with you so quickly. A model and you looked sick for his tastes, dark circles under your eyes and lack of any vivid light in them too. He put two and two together, probably you did often drugs and he didn’t know which ones, he never asked. Your first appearance was at one of the events where his band performed and you were bored to death, gaze leaped around the surroundings, trying to find something more interesting to linger on than whatever this place is. Your pupils were dilated as hell and your jaw was tensed, making those useless movements and biting inside of your cheeks. He didn’t give much thought and he was drunk already while your fingertips were tracing his jaw and a sparkle in your eyes was enough for him. And after all, you agreed to come with him. His expectations weren’t high, another quick one-night stand he would forget about, but after stepping into his apartment you got sick. Vomiting in his toilet until it became quiet and he decided to check, after all, he is a good guy, really. And he doesn’t need a corpse in his flat. Pulling your hair to tilt your face towards him and witness your exhausted expression; your lips parted with saliva glistening on them and circles under your half-lidded eyes got more evident and darker. All this combined led to him having the hardest boner he has ever had.

Your presence in his life only gave him a boner and a headache, also an urge to strangle and shake you like a doll, but he never had enough strength to leave you behind and forget everything related to you. He tried, his mind would fill with thoughts about you, leading to jerk off a lot when he is sober and not recording music. His drunk ass would always crawl back to you, after feeling your eyes on him everywhere even when he was smoking out of a bar. Those billboards with your face, promoting some products and looking ethereal, without sickness all over your face, feeling your gaze as if it was only directed towards him. Those photos were the reasons his legs always lead him to your place, finding you already hammered as much as he is, if not worse, more than happy to let him spill his load in your mouth or pussy. After all, Leon is a simple man, not a romantic one, romanticism has died within him after that ‘undeserved’ slap.

Needles were a big ‘no’ for you, explaining they can leave marks and they are scary, also those are used by drug-addicted people which you believed you aren’t. After all, you like them thanks to your dear and generous friend who shares them with you. While Leon was an old-fashioned man, he has always preferred booze, even after finding himself in weird situations without any memories, only with pain pulsing in his head and hangover. You didn’t understand that at all, it has never brought you any good sensations, also alcohol has a distinct smell you have always hated and there is nothing sexy about it. That’s why Leon was always simple in your eyes, a rockstar with little to no existent layers in his personality; one hand with the bottle and the other one on his dick. In the end, both can destroy many lives.

Of course, whatever you both had going on gave you the possibility to visit his concerts without spending a penny. Leon has never asked if you like his music though, but still, he believes it is good, after all, there wouldn’t be a big female fanbase over anything? So there was never a thought behind his eyes to consider your tastes. Besides, you didn’t attend often, always brushing off your runway shows to which he was never invited. Not like he needed to be there, but still it made him feel a little bit bitter. Other reasons were similar to ‘I don’t want to’ and if to be honest, this isn’t a valid reason for his calls to be ignored.

This time you didn’t have other options, nor Leon would let you skip his performance. Soon understanding it was a mistake, you shouldn’t be here, cause during the entire concert his attention was drifting in between his music and you, trying to find you among many women. Every time he notices you not listening to the sound the instruments create, it fills him with bitterness and annoyance. Time passed slowly, finally finishing performance and emptying his flask quickly. He was tempted to leave you alone, to not give any warning, and get another girl from the crowd, but also this would be risky for a lot of reasons; first, he doesn’t have any condoms, and second, groupies are annoying and he doesn’t want to deal with them for a quick fuck today. The only solution he came across was to leave this place earlier and push you into his car.

The ride is okay, the only noise is some music coming from the car stereo. He twitched a little bit with the switch before, but he didn’t really listen to whatever was on until he recognized his own song. A nice touch. “Your music sucks” you say, breaking the silence which was only filled with his voice coming from the radio. This is new for you, music is his job, and what does a model know about it? His face turns to look at you for a brief moment, he is driving and he doesn’t want to get himself killed cause of you. “It doesn’t.” Leon protests quickly, but your voice interrupts him again, making him groan and want to stop the car. To strangle you. People love him! His groupies would be green with envy if they ever got to know about you. “It does” you say, resting your chin on the palm of your hand and looking through the window before rolling it down and letting fresh air coming in. The wind noise is ear beating, enough to give him a headache, nor does it help with his mood right now. Bashing noise to his ears, but you don’t care. Your voice fills the room, too bad it is loud enough to catch on and it is not mixed with the sound of the wind. The road is dark, and it is already hard to drive after consuming alcohol, but your voice makes this worse. “Your music never changes, mundane, same melody. Boring even, and generic. I don’t like it”

Then you stay silent, Leon’s mind is buzzing with only two thoughts in it: what a bitch you are, how he wants to shut you up with his dick and he needs to calm down, to let off steam. That’s three or four though. Math wasn’t his forte.

He pulled over his car, almost stumbling over from it as the chilly night breeze hit his face, filling his lungs. Refreshing and sobering in some way. It is dark, he didn’t even notice how he moved to your side and opened the door, looking down at your face with a blank stare, while his slow mind keeps processing your words. You shift on the seat of the car to face him with a raised eyebrow, looking so annoyed and confused by his attitude. Leon isn’t sure why he was hurt by your words, but this look was not new for him; every time a sentence would leave his mouth, your face would express an annoyance as if he just said the dumbest thing possible. You are probably just trying to mess with him and this always made him hornier, his cock would start stiffening in his jeans and even this isn’t an exception, like one of Pavlov’s dogs he is. Or this is just alcohol talking.

The inside of the car enlightens your features and it is maybe the only thing so bright in such a dark spot right now of the road. His index finger brushes over your lower lip, tracing the contour of soft flesh beneath his thickened skin after years of playing guitar. He can’t help but stare at your mouth, admiring the lipstick on it, looking clean and emphasizing the shape of your lips. Too bad his digit smeared the color a little bit over the form. You don’t notice that thank God, cause he doesn’t need another comment from you. Silence makes you much prettier. Your hand reaches for his thigh, brushing over the inner part and the annoyance in your gaze quickly changes to interest as it slowly travels down to the bulge which started to form already. Leon doesn’t know what magic you use on him, cause it is much easier to get even half-hard dick with you, while the majority of girls would waste his time and then cry about not being able to turn him on. He blamed this trouble on them, not on his best friend (booze). To not waste much time, you tuck out his cock from his pants.

Your fingers envelop his half-hard length, before stroking, spitting a mouthful of your saliva down on it. Spreading over the hardened skin with a quick and easy motion of your hand, your touch lingers on the spot below its tip which makes him groan lowly. His fingers tangle in your strands, pulling your face closer to his cock as a silent plea to sink your mouth down around him.

“Don’t play, come on,” Leon says, not noticing how his voice got hoarse. “Give it a kiss, doll” In the past, you would be annoyed at his words, but tonight you don’t mind, enjoying how pretty he is when he wants to shove his dick down your throat. Your lips press against his tip and kiss around it, teasing him and licking away precum, finally bobbing your head down. The warm and wet heat of your mouth envelops his cock, your tongue flicks along the shaft. Leon can feel himself getting harder and his hips buck back in response, letting quiet groans. But the bliss didn’t last a lot, you pop out his cock and slap it against your tongue, rubbing against your lips while keeping eye contact with his eyes. The sight is dirty, lipstick leaves its color on his wet and throbbing dick, intensifying the moment.

Until he noticed there was something under your silver sequin top, that caught his gaze only now. But also he doesn’t know what it may be, wondering silently and fixating on your chest. Or he is just seeing things, until your hand slightly lowers the edge of fabric to take the bag with white powder, satisfying his curiosity. The timing made him frown, almost convincing himself you could read his mind. But also, what should he have expected? Boobs would be nice, actually.

He isn’t going to deny a pleasure to see them. That’s why his hands reach for the edge of the fabric, pulling down to expose your breasts, nipples get harder at the contact with the cold air of the night. His fingers knead soft flesh, thumb and index pinch nipples to evoke your moans out, observing your face change even for a brief moment because of him until you slap away his hands. It was nice while it lasted. He watches how you make a thin white line on his cock, almost dripping some on your skirt, and letting a curse fall from your lips. If to be honest, this is his first time seeing you doing drugs in front of him. Also, there are too many ways to consume Coke, he heard about how some women shove it in their vagina, but he isn’t sure if this is true. You lean down and snort it away with an ‘ah’ leaving your lips, while rubbing your nose and blinking messily, trying to shake off some tears forming on your waterline. He was tempted to try, but you don’t share.

“Fuck, that was hot” Leon comments, letting a low whistle. Your hand pumps his cock in a steady rhythm.

The little pause was over, with a giggle and lightened expression on your face, coke does wonders. Your mouth starts giving kisses, before sucking on the tip more eagerly than before, and your tongue swirls in a circular motion around it. For a brief moment, you shift to the underside too by flicking over that sensitive spot, making his hips buck, pushing your head deeper to sink you down along the length. You can feel more saliva pooling in your mouth, slobbering over his cock now, and spit drips down onto his balls. The Coke has its visible influence now, dilated pupils are directed into his blue eyes, keeping eye contact. He knows that state of yours, being happy and confident to do anything, clinging and not letting him go away until powder’s effects don’t start to weaken. Your heart is beating loudly in your ears, not hearing those loud suction noises your mouth does which he adores. Leon’s fingers tighten his grip on your hair, tugging and pushing your head deeper, his tip kissing your throat and he groans, while your nose rubs against his happy trail. Your jaw is more relaxed, taking him deeply and you try to swallow the excess of saliva and his precum, so your throat tightens around his cock, he can feel you choking on his now twitching arousal. It is useless, you can feel saliva dripping not only on his sac now, but also from the corners of your mouth down to your collarbone. Leon pulls your head away before slamming with quick motion his hips against your face again. His cock is slick with your saliva, sloppily moving out and back into your mouth, constant stimulation of your tongue flicking against his head and at the base made his balls tighten signaling that his orgasm is approaching. Initially, his own moans are breathless, slowly starting to increase in volume, as he took more control in his own hands. His movements are erratic, the sight of your teary expensive mascara and lipstick ruined by him and leaving marks on his cock is one of many reasons to be alive, he thinks.

“Do you see yourself right now, huh?” He moans, shaking his head with disbelief, as you keep sucking him off sloppily, making more wet sounds that intensify and fill the air between you both. His voice is at the edge of quiet whine, needy moans reach your ears. “Yeah, that’s it, all you have to do is let my cock just slide in and out of your pretty mouth, doll”

He slams his hips for the last time burying his cock deep into your throat, the head grinds before twitching for a last time spurting out a load of cum. His fingers grip tighter, almost painfully, not letting you pull away and spit it out, swallowing the bitterness that fills your senses, making you gag more. The booze diet isn’t the best one. He lets you pull away, your tongue for the last time brushed his tip and he stands still, his breathing is unsteady and chaotic, while you wipe away the remaining saliva from your skin.

“So….” Leon interrupts the silence between them, he is speaking without giving too much thought, and he quickly pauses for a second, trying to organize a decent sentence. “What about… something formal? Between us I mean” Your eyes don’t even linger on his face after his question, the so-known-annoyance returns to your face and you pull down the sun visor to fix your makeup. “Ew, no” your voice expresses disgust at the thought of being more than just a quick hookup, you roll your eyes as your thumb cleans the smear of your lipstick. Your nose twitches still, even if the effect of the drug starts to lessen. “I don’t like you like that” “It was a joke,” he brushes off quickly, feeling his own body recovering from orgasm and wanting to get away from you, so the bitterness and disappointment would not irk him so much. “For God’s sake, smile at least.”

Story of his life, nothing new.

[dnd-writes]

Boulevard of Broken Dreams - Pt. 1

AO3

Tags: Non-con, this whole fic is just one whole degenerate lump of non-con, so warning all of you already at the beginning. BFH, very degenerate, unedited, Third-person PoV (cause easier that way), sex slave!Julie, sex slave!Natty, sex slave!Belle, sex slave!Haneul, sex slave!Kiss of Life, sexual slavery, sexual exploitation, contract manipulation, clothing control, slapping, punching, kicking, spitting, deflowering, anal deflowering, painal, dry vaginal sex, facefucking, cum on food, frozen dildos, I think that's all or most of it but you get the point

A/N: 1. First of all, thank you to @fillinforlater for the fic idea. Idk what the fuck happened, at first I was following the plot he laid out, then I changed this part, then I added this part, then this, then that, and I blink and all of a sudden I have this monstrosity of a fic 2. Fic has nothing to do with the song, just thought it would fit as a title 3. If anyone asks, for this fic I "changed the timeline" of KIOF's pre-debut stuff to essentially fit in June 2023, cause y'know, Haneul. 4. Part 1 cause Smite's prompt had a second part that I also want to write but it's gotten so long I decided to split the fic into two? parts.

It’s finally happened, she’s finally done it! After years of hardships and struggles Natty has finally achieved her goal of being in a K-pop girl group, the dream she once thought to be impossible now becoming a reality as she takes the pen and puts her signature down on the contract with tears filling her eyes. Some might call her crazy or an overreactor for bawling out but for someone who has gotten eliminated in the finals of not one but two survival shows, tears of joy sound like a reasonable reaction. 

Although Natty has already spent nearly a decade training, she is still looking forward to training more with her new groupmates. Even if it might take a decade more, as long as her dream comes alive, to her it’s all worth it. 

Natty expected to be surprised on her first day but she wasn’t ready to face what was in store for her. Having been a trainee for almost half her life, there’s no doubt that Natty has heard rumors about the industry, the drastic measures required to stay in form, the horrible things that happen away from prying eyes, the exploitation, the harassment. Though to her, they were all just rumors, just silly little things that people made up, little did she know that the rumors were just a teaser of what’s to come.

Natty goes through the front doors but instead of the vibrant and cheerful place she visited not long ago, the company now has a faint and eerie atmosphere. Lights are off, not a sign of any person in the immediate vicinity, it’s like the place never was alive to begin with. “Maybe I just came in at a wrong time,” she thinks as she navigates her way to her destination. Natty ascends to the fifth floor and as she makes it there, she hears subtle heavy breathing echoing along the halls. She decides not to get too curious and instead looks for the meeting place.

Natty stands just outside the door with a large smile prepared on her face, “This is it,” she tells herself as she gets ready to meet her new sisters. Her jolly expression quickly fades as she breaches the door, sitting inside are two of her three new groupmates. While very excited to finally meet them for the first time, what catches her attention the most are their outfits—both of them revealing way too much skin, a stark contrast to the jacket and jeans she has on. One of them is wearing booty shorts and a crop top cut short enough to barely cover her nipples and Natty notices that she doesn’t seem to have a bra underneath it. And all she can see on the other is a large red shirt barely making its way past her hips. 

Natty forces back a smile, trying to regain the excitement she previously had. There’s just four seats in the middle of the room all facing each other and Natty takes one of the two empty ones. It was awkward at first but the tension slowly dissipated as the three began talking, though a sense of eeriness still lingers behind. They start off introducing themselves to each other and Natty quickly learns that it’s Haneul who is wearing the crop top and Belle is the one wearing the red shirt. Once they got the awkward introductions out of the way, they proceeded to talk about random things. They start to talk about their lives now, their lives as trainees in previous companies, how the two knew of Natty in her time in survival shows. Although, every time Natty would try to talk about their outfits, they would pause and take a deep breath but then they would either play it off as if it was a normal thing or just change the subject entirely.

With no obstructions between them, Natty can’t help but notice some details with their apparent choices of clothing. Natty doesn’t know if she’s just imagining it but when she looks at Haneul’s crop top, she swears she can see a hint of darkness which she can only guess to be are areolas. Then there’s Belle who is sitting in the chair across from her, her short red shirt hikes even higher up her body while she sits down and Natty can see, clear as day, Belle’s pussy just hanging in the breeze. Natty tries to ask her about it but Belle just looks at her as if she was a crazy person.

Eventually the last member arrives, Natty somewhat expected her to also be similarly dressed which she is but the state she came into the room in was what shocked her the most. The last member arrives wearing a yellow sundress though from the looks of it, it might be a size or two too small. As she stands there trying to introduce herself to Natty, she keeps on adjusting her dress, struggling between pulling it over her chest or pulling it below her hips. But her attire is the least alarming part, her hair is all frizzled, her lipstick is smeared, and there’s drops of liquid dripping from between her legs. Natty forces another smile as all four of them start to talk together. The mystery girl introduces herself as Julie, their new leader. Julie takes the remaining seat and, similar to Belle, her dress hikes up, even higher compared to Belle’s shirt, and Julie’s pussy is visible to everyone. No one comments on it but Natty quickly sees that a pool of white is forming between Julie’s legs and it seems to come from her pussy and her butt.

Natty was right in that her first day would be full of surprises, though she did not expect to be such horrible and gut wrenching surprises. On her way home, she starts to recall the rumors she has heard over the years and after thinking back to what she saw earlier, they’re starting to become less like rumors and more like the harsh reality of the industry. But Natty brushes the thoughts aside, thinking to herself that her dream of being part of a K-pop group is being fulfilled and if it means even worse and troubling obstacles, then she will just overcome them too. She has had years of training, what’s a questionable dress code compared to that?

The next day arrives and Natty tries to remain optimistic, wearing another bright smile as she enters the practice room, though just like the day before it quickly drops. There’s a fifth person joining them that day and Natty can only assume he’s their choreographer only except he’s wearing nothing but shorts. While his toned body is in no doubt hot and amazing, given the situation and the very very prominent tent he’s sporting, Natty is deeply disturbed.

She says hi to him and then at her group mates who she has just noticed are still wearing the same outfits as the day before albeit with some slight changes—Haneul’s isn’t even covering her chest anymore, just dangling like a necklace above her shoulders; Belle’s red shirt has streaks of white all over the front; and Julie’s dress has a rip at the top as if her breasts were breaking free. Natty couldn’t even find the time to feel sorry for them as the man starts to talk to her as she comes in. “Hey, you’re the new girl right? What are you wearing?”

Natty stands frozen in place. She hasn’t gotten any sort of instructions or clothing to wear. Has she missed something? 

The man carries some papers over to her. “Did you not read this?” Natty recognizes the papers he’s holding, it’s the contract she signed. He flips through the pages and gives it to her, “See? Right here.” He points at the clause labeled “Attire” and Natty reads through the fine print. “In the company, the members should wear what is given to them or any clothing that they have. Provided that their tops have sleeves not longer than 10 cm and bottoms not longer than 20 cm.” With just her luck, she’s wearing a sweater and jeans that day. Natty couldn’t believe this, she remembers reading every detail of the contract but not once has she seen this. Natty continues to read the page and the next clause is labeled “Sex.” It reads, “The members cannot object to their bodies being touched or used by the employees of S2 Entertainment. The members must follow every order given to them, whether they are willing to do so or not. If the task is impossible to do, the members must accomplish it to the best of their ability. None of this can be mentioned to anyone outside of S2 Entertainment.” Natty could not believe her eyes, such inhuman clauses on her own contract. She hastily checks the last page and there sits her signature, bright as day. She looks at the others in disbelief but they can only stare right back at her with empty expressions.

The man grabs the papers back. “Well? The clothes we have are still in the laundry, so unless you have spare clothes with you or something, the only solution is to undress.” Natty looks at the others again for help but they just shake their heads and Julie mouths “Sorry” to her. “Are you going to do something about it or do you want me to take care of it?” Driven by fear of getting manhandled, Natty turns around and rushes to take her clothes off. Even with her back to everyone, she can feel the stares stabbing into her back. She feels so sick and dirty as she takes her sweater off and as she shimmies her pants off of her hips, she doesn’t realize she was involuntarily shaking her ass for everyone not until the man squeezes her butt.

Natty shivers in the cold room but it pales in comparison to being just in her underwear. Though it’s just the choreographer she has to be worried about, the lustful stare he gives her is enough to make her cry. Julie tries to console Natty but not a second later Natty hears a slap echo in the room, she looks up to see the choreographer in front of Julie who’s holding the side of her face.

The rest of the day goes pretty ok given the circumstances, mostly just going over the song and the choreography that went along with it, though their instructor occasionally helped himself to cop a feel while teaching and he seemed to be most interested in Natty, always focusing on her mistakes, groping and feeling every inch of her body as he “teaches” the dance.

The next day, Natty moves into the group’s dorm. “This time, it will be better,” she tells herself, maintaining that bright and optimistic perspective on life. She hopes that in the dorm it will be much funner and freeing, just her and her group mates living together and hanging out all the time. 

She opens the door and peers inside, to her surprise it’s really clean and quiet. Although she’s been very optimistic about things, deep down she was expecting similar horrors to what she has seen the previous days and seeing such a pristine and spacious living space is enough of a relief for her. After bringing her things through the door, Natty explores the place. In the living room there’s a huge flatscreen TV and a couch big enough to fit more than four people, and in the kitchen there’s lots of space available and a big fridge. Natty checks the fridge and salivates seeing lots of veggies and drinks inside, then she checks the freezer and almost falls to her knees from hunger seeing all the meat. Natty was about to slam the door shut when she notices a red dildo slightly hidden in one of the layers, she gives it a touch and confirms that it is ice cold. She blushes slightly, thinking that one of her group mates is kinky like that.

Natty hops over to the rooms, excited to see what those are like after seeing how extravagant the common areas are. She first checks on the room to the right, as she goes in she’s met with a very odd-looking room, half is very bland and empty while the other half is very decorated. “This must be my side,” she whispers while looking at the empty space. Over in the decorated half she sees Haneul fast asleep in her bed, seeing her wearing pajamas and not some skimpy outfit brings a smile to her face.

Natty closes the door gently as she makes her way to the next room. She barges through the door and immediately regrets it, the dorm which she expected to be their “safe space” away from the shit they have to go through at the company, turns out to just be an elegant looking prison. Natty was so happy about the place but unfortunately, it was too good to be true.

Natty sees three people all in one bed. Nearest to her is Belle, lying on her back and sobbing into her hands while a red dildo is shoved in her ass. Next to her is Julie and some man relentlessly pounding into her from behind. Only the man reacts to Natty’s arrival, looking over his shoulder to smile at Natty, it’s a different man, one Natty hasn’t met before. “Hi, Natty… I’m your… manager… Will you be a good girl and… pull that out of Belle?”

Natty should feel offended by such a crude question but after a week of “training,” she’s gotten to know better. Disgusted and disturbed yet Natty still drags her feet across the floor towards the three of them. “Just pull it out but do it slowly, don’t want to hurt her… even more,” he quickly adds the last part, chuckling as he does so, clearly enjoying himself at the expense of Julie’s and Belle’s pain. 

Natty glances at Belle, her face hidden in her hands, her body red and blue all over, her ass adorned with a bright red toy. She touches the base and immediately recalls her hand, it’s cold, ice cold. Natty considers herself a fool for even thinking for a moment that the freezer dildo was a kink thing, perhaps it might, but not for the person she thought it to be.

Belle’s quiet sobs turn to whines as Natty starts pulling the dildo out, the sound alone is enough to bring tears to Natty’s eyes, knowing that even though she’s helping, she’s still causing some pain. Natty continues to pull but at her slow pace it feels like it would take forever, she doesn’t even know how long the dildo is and as more inches get pulled out, the more worried she gets knowing how far it was in Belle and how much it could have hurt. 

Finally she pulls the thing out which calms Belle, her asshole closes back up, her body relaxes, and her cries die down. Natty looks at the dildo in her hand, the thing is almost as long as her forearm, she quickly throws it away and out of her sight.

Their manager turns to see that Natty has done what he requested, he gives Belle a slap on the ass and then Natty a pat on the head. “Oh nice… you’re a good girl... Natty… So here’s… your reward…” Before Natty could process anything he said or did, she feels her hair being yanked and her face quickly diving towards the bed. He makes her face to the side and starts to paint Natty in his cum. She hasn’t felt cum yet, let alone seen a dick in person, but the warmth and stench it leaves is enough for her to hate it.

“Wake Haneul up and have her clean you up, or you could just drink it all yourself, I wouldn’t mind. Just make sure to record, ok? When you’re done, Natty, meet me in my room, it’s at the end of the hall.”

And just like that he leaves, satisfied and so full of himself, while the three girls lay exhausted and broken.

Julie is the first one to recover among the three of them. “Let’s get you cleaned up. I’ll go get Haneul, he hates waiting too long.” Before Julie can step away, Natty grabs her wrist. “N-No! I’ll do it. I’ll… try to do it.”

“You sure? Alright then. My advice is just do it quickly. Hwaiting.” Julie flashes a weak smile and raises her fist for encouragement and Natty reciprocates the action. 

Julie takes her phone and starts recording. Natty sits at the edge of the bed with Belle just slightly out of the shot. Natty scoops up all the cum on the side of her face, just doing so disgusts her immensely. With most of the white liquid in her palm, she puts everything in her mouth and gulps it all down. For a second all is well but the aftertaste hits her like a truck and she starts coughing again and again. She expected to hate it but it was beyond awful. Only when Natty calms down does Julie stop recording.

“Go to his room, it’s on the left. I’ll just put this back in the freezer,” says Julie as she picks up the dildo from the floor.

“He hates waiting.” Natty repeats, with no time to rest, she gets to her feet and moves to the manager’s room. Natty’s hand reaches for the doorknob but she stops herself before she can even touch it. This time around she opts to knock instead of just barging in. “Come in,” says the voice from the other side. Natty enters the room, it looks much bigger and more grand than the other rooms, a bigger bed, a TV, a mini-fridge, it was practically its own apartment. “So nice of you to knock, you’re still dressed but that’s an easy fix.” 

She notices him ruffling through some stuff in his drawer, she tries to take a peek but he closes it before she can see what was inside. In his hands are a remote and a collar with her name on it. “We just met a few minutes ago but I think you’re my favorite already.” He puts the collar on her, tightening it so it fits exactly around her neck. “Whenever you’re here at the dorm, you have to wear this, ok? And everytime I press this button.” He raises the remote and clicks it, sending a small stinging sensation to Natty’s neck. “You have to come to me. It’s only at one right now but if you’re not here within five minutes of me clicking it, it goes up by one, permanently.” Natty gulps but with the collar snug around her neck, it made it a little uncomfortable. 

“Ok so where’s the video?”

“Ah, Ju-”

As her name is mentioned, Julie barges into the room, phone outstretched with the video ready to play.

“Ah, there it is. Thank you, Julie.” Julie hands her phone over and stands in place, like a robot waiting for her next command. “Aww, look at Belle sleeping so peacefully. Oh wonderful, drinking it all by yourself. See, I knew you would be my favorite.” He hands the phone back to Julie and she starts to leave but before she makes it out he issues one final order for her. “Julie, be a dear and get Haneul. She’s been sleeping all day, I haven’t had my fun with her yet. Actually, you know what? Now that Natty’s here, just get everyone.”

With just the two of them left in the room, he walks over to Natty. Seeing his erect dick twitching so much causes her to involuntarily step backwards and his brows suddenly furrow. “Now, now, Natty.” The sudden change in his tone and expression is enough to strike fear in her heart, afraid of a punishment she puts her foot back to its original spot causing his smile to return. 

“Sweaters. Always so annoying, I heard you’re huge but I can’t really tell with that stupid thing hiding your tits. From now on in the dorm, Natty, only wear tight tops. Oh, better yet, no tops at all. The only thing I want to see you wearing above your hips is that collar.” 

Instantly Natty’s hands start to move, getting rid of any clothing on her torso as soon as the new rule is implemented. She can see it in his eyes, hunger ever growing with each article of clothing she removes. As soon as her shirt comes off, he starts salivating. “My, oh my, you’re huge. Looks like Julie’s got competition.” Natty reaches behind herself to unhook her bra but pauses for a moment, she realizes this is the first time she would show her breasts to anyone, many have touched and played with them at the company but not one has unveiled her boobs. As her bra falls, his dick twitches in excitement. 

The rest of the group arrives. Belle is the first to enter, her legs very tired and her ass still very sore. Next comes Haneul, yawning and rubbing her eyes. Last is Julie, her head held high and her face serious, looking like a guard rounding up the inmates although she isn’t any less of a prisoner compared to the other girls in the room. The four just stand in silence like mannequins and their manager walks around and gropes whatever he pleases as if doing some inspection. 

“Haneul… what did we say?” says the manager very disappointedly. His tone shocks her awake, “I-I’m sorry,” she bows then starts getting out of her clothes. He scoots over to her and slaps her in the face. “I’ll let you off easy this time since Natty’s finally here but I’m doubling the next punishment.”

After Haneul, he moves over to Belle, whose legs are barely keeping her standing. “You cross me again, I’ll make sure you won’t even be able to walk for the rest of the day.” He punches Belle and she easily drops to the ground sobbing, he kicks her while she’s down to add insult to injury. Natty can only shiver upon hearing everything happen behind her, does she even want to know what Belle did to make him so mad?

He moves over to Julie and the first thing he does is spit on her face then he uses his fingers to smear it all over. Julie keeps her composure, just closing her eyes as he plays with her face, not flinching or whining at all. “You should thank Natty for being here, ‘cause you’ll finally have some time to rest.” His hands cup her breasts, giving them a proper feel before he moves on to a bigger and better pair. 

Finally he comes back around to Natty, the only person in the room with any piece of clothing still on. “Tell me, Natty… Have you fucked before?” Natty gulps again knowing the implications, though it was bound to happen eventually. She shakes her head and he smiles. “Oh, a virgin? So many people in that building and not one has fucked you? Well their loss, we’re gonna have so much fun together.”

“Change of plans girls, looks like I need some ‘catching up’ to do with Natty. Go do whatever you want for now, we’ll be here for a full day or two.” 

But just before he dismisses them, he goes back to Belle, still on the ground holding her side. He spits on her face too but this time he uses his foot to smear her face. “Don’t think I’m done with you just yet. Be ready for your final ‘lesson’ when I’m done with Natty. Now go, all three of you, leave.”

It’s wicked really, how sick and twisted all of this is, all the expectations Natty had, completely flipped around. Shining eyes looking up to her turns out to be lustful stares looking down, helping hands turn out to be forceful gropes, and managers turn out to be owners. Natty looks over her shoulder with tears starting to form in her eyes, though her hands remain still, her stare acts like a hand reaching out to save her from the depths of hell but alas, all Haneul and Julie could do is return similar sad gestures as they carry Belle away.

The manager locks the door as the three leave and immediately gets back to Natty, even with all the time in the world at his disposal, he wouldn’t want to waste a single second. With the rest of the group gone, Natty feels even more miniscule and useless, even more of a toy as his gaze is solely on her. He comes up behind her and fills his hands with her tits, with Julie’s he can still grasp the whole thing in his hands but Natty’s can barely be fully contained. He starts to fondle and play with her nipples while slowly moving his mouth closer to her neck.

Natty easily starts to moan loudly, she wants to keep quiet to avoid giving him that pleasure but her complete lack of experience and the resulting lack of tolerance betrays her. He sniffs along her neck, “You smell so good and your tits… so fucking soft.” He finds a patch of skin along the front of her neck and starts to kiss and suckle on it, Natty explodes into a moaning mess, shouting in pleasure as if she’s having the time of her life.

The pleasure gets cut short as his hands move down to her waist. “Sweatpants… another cock blocker. From now on, just don’t wear anything, Natty. Your body is so hot and irresistible, wouldn’t want any clothes hiding your beauty. Don’t worry about getting cold, just come to me and you’ll be warmed up in no time.” His fingers slip into the waistbands and he slides both her underwear and her sweatpants down to the ground. He’s the first one to see her tits and now he’s also the first one to see her bare ass and pussy. As much as she doesn't want to think about it, he probably will be the first dick she takes in every hole.

The manager circles Natty slack-jawed and wide-eyed as if admiring a sculpture he has just made. “Fat ass, soft and heavy tits, pretty face. You’re just the perfect little toy, aren’t you? And a virgin too, just the absolute best, if I could I would just own you forever but sadly I’ve got a job to do. Although… maybe I can have you be my roommate instead of Haneul’s, that’s probably the closest I’ll get.” He leans down and frowns at what he sees. “Unshaved, unfortunate, guess you can’t have absolutely everything but it’ll do. First thing I want you to do when you’re out of this room is get that shaved, got it?” Natty’s been unmoving and frozen in place for so long that it takes her a second before nodding her head.

The manager pushes Natty onto the bed then flips her to face him. Her full body is on display for him, each delicacy just sitting idle like food in a buffet, up for grabs at any time. He licks his lips as he considers his options. 

“Two virgin holes, which to try first? The other three bitches came here already used, so this will be a first for you and me.” He slaps his dick against her pussy, grinding on it and feeling the slight hint of wetness it’s giving off. Next he considers her asshole, very puckered and looking very small compared to the head of his cock as he pokes her with it. He licks a finger and prods inside, the way his finger barely pushes through excites him and the way Natty winces seals the deal for him. 

He lifts Natty’s legs up and hooks them over his shoulders, giving him a perfect angle to ravage her ass. He lines himself up and slowly pushes his way in, not even bothering to spread her cheeks to mitigate the tightness. Natty is already breathing heavily as she feels her asshole stretching to accommodate him. “Please,” she begs. “It… It won’t fit.”

He just smiles and caresses her cheek. “That’s the fun part, a tiny virgin asshole broken open by my cock. I’m gonna remember this forever.”

As soon as Natty’s sphincter spreads wide enough for his girth, he shoves the whole thing inside. “AHHHH!!! TAKE IT OUT! TAKE IT OUT!” Natty fires a blood-curdling scream as his cock swiftly overwhelms her. It hurt for him too given how dry her butt is but only barely, plus her cries only work to alleviate him. 

He locks her legs in his arms and her hips in his hands to keep her from moving. Her hands might be free but Natty doesn’t have the strength or the courage to lift them up. Her ass feels like it’s on fire from the dry friction between the two of them. To her, it’s like hell. To him, the fire feels like an invigorating force. 

Her anal walls hug him so tightly, it’s like Natty’s ass is begging him to fill her up and who is he to turn down such a request. Her ass is so tight, it’s practically milking him dry, any tighter and he might not be able to pull out. In just a few minutes he starts to orgasm, the hardest and fastest one he’s had with any of the four girls. He pulls out and scrambles to find his phone, wanting to cherish this moment forever. “Second load of cum and many more to go. You’re gonna be such a wonderful cum bucket, Natty, milking me everyday. You’re going to love my cum and my dick in no time.”

Natty tries to stand, to do something, anything, but her body is just worn out already, completely exhausted, completely given up. The manager, on the other hand, is the exact opposite, even after tearing Natty’s asshole apart, he’s still hard and ready for another round. This time he has his eyes set on her cherished virginity. 

He hooks her legs back onto his shoulders but this time he carries her then pins her to the wall with her wrists bound by his hand above her head. While flexibility isn’t a problem for Natty, she is now face to face with her assaulter. She closes her eyes and looks away but that doesn’t stop her from feeling his hot breath on her face. His tongue pokes out and licks along her cheek, tasting her tears and her sweat, he leaves a trail of his saliva as he travels from her jaw to her ear. “So salty, so delicious. Everything about you is so delicious, you know that? Now I’m gonna enjoy fucking your pussy, I’m gonna see just how tight you fucking are.”

Tears fall nonstop from her eyes. Natty’s sobbing grows strong as she feels his heat pressing against hers. She so badly wants to beg him to stop, to let her rest, but her voice can’t manage to form words and she knows he wouldn’t listen anyway. 

He lines himself up with her folds and in one swift motion, he pistons his cock inside. “AHHHH!!! FUCK! PLEASE!!!” her voice only manages to come back during moments of intense pain. “Oh, Natty, your cunt. Fuuuuuuck, that’s the best pussy ever.” Her pussy is heavenly, it’s so tight that it’s almost orgasmic when he penetrates her. He just loves the way Natty squeezes around him. He also loves hearing her cry out in pain, to him it’s like a choir of angels. He relishes in the feeling of Natty’s pussy, living in his own twisted version of heaven.

As he pounds into her from below, Natty’s tits bounce freely in front of him and he doesn’t waste a second as his mouth latches onto her chest, after all, a little side dish won’t hurt while he enjoys the main meal. He bites her nipples, pulling and squeezing them with his teeth, only adding more pain to what Natty is already experiencing.

The two of them fucked endlessly in that locked room while the other three finally got some rest, though they couldn’t quite live in blissful harmony as Natty’s screaming kept them aware of their situation, the walls were thin enough to let Natty’s wails of terror flood the whole dorm. While the other three girls were able to sleep through it, in the morning they still heard Natty screaming and begging, though her voice much weaker and hoarser. 

There’s just so much to do with Natty, just pure lust and adrenaline fueling the manager all throughout the night. All the positions he could take her in, all the things he can do, all the possibilities, everything that Natty’s body can offer, he takes. He fucked her all over the room, didn’t even matter how or where, he just slams her down somewhere and fucks her in whatever hole he felt fit. He fucked her face against the wall, then fucked her ass while he pressed her face onto the floor, then fucked her pussy while missionary on the floor, then fucked her ass doggystyle on the bed, then fucked her face while her head hung off the bed, then fucked her ass in the shower. Just so much cum in and on her body in the span of a couple of hours and yet he is still going strong.

The next day comes around and there doesn’t seem to be any lapse in their action. Stretching from before the rise of the sun all the way to after it set, just endless screaming of pure pain and agony coming from Natty. The only time the manager interacted with the rest of the girls was when he asked Julie to cook up a meal for them. The door finally opened again for the first time in two days as Julie brought her cooking.

“Ah, pork belly, I’m starving. Thank you so much, Julie. I see you’ve gotten comfortable without me pestering you all the time,” he says as he sees Julie wearing some pajamas. “Oh, two plates? We won’t be needing that,” he chuckles as he returns the second set of utensils as well. Just before the door closes, Julie takes a peek over his shoulder and sees Natty practically lifeless on the floor. The manager gives Julie a quick smile, proud of his own work, then locks the door.

The manager walks over to the bed and nudges Natty with his foot before getting himself comfortable. Natty, almost void of all energy, springs to life as she smells the delicious food. Natty sits patiently, silently jealous as she stares at her manager eating all by himself. He points to his dick and Natty can only sigh as she lowers her face in front of it. 

The manager puts his hand on the back of her head and Natty opens her mouth, but instead of pushing down he says, “Let’s play a game, Natty. If you make me cum before I finish the food, you can have the rest of it.”

Natty doesn’t exactly have much knowledge on how to pleasure a dick, her only experience being the one dick that’s been forced in her body the past two days. She’s already come to terms with the fact that she might not eat for two days straight but regardless she tries her best. 

Natty employs the small pieces of advice she’s heard him tell her. Even though she’s basically just moving her head along his length, judging from his moans he seems to be enjoying it so she goes faster. 

“Fuck, Natty. Fuck… I’m gonna cum…” He takes over this time, gripping the back of her head as she immediately chokes. “Don’t… swallow it, fuck.” He struggles to squeeze his words out of his mouth as another orgasm makes its way into Natty’s mouth, only this time around it pools on her tongue. She already hates cum to begin with, cringing inside whenever she would taste it but with a whole load lingering in her mouth, revolting is an understatement. She struggles to hold it all in, not just because of the taste but also because of how much he gave her, her cheeks are full and just a little more it would probably overflow. 

He holds the plate of what’s about a quarter of the total meat still left on it. “Spit,” he commands and without hesitation she opens her mouth and deposits the batch onto the plate. “Go on, everything, spit into it.” She does as ordered, mixing the remnants with saliva and spitting onto the food. He spits onto the plate as well and mixes the meat with the “sauce” then puts it on the other side of the bed from her. “Go eat.”

Natty tries to get up and walk to the other side but the manager has other plans. He grabs her hair again and pulls her across the bed, forcing her to kneel down. “Come on, eat up.” He moves over behind her and lines up with her pussy. “Don’t waste anything, when you’re done I want that plate clean.” Natty stares at the disgusting abomination in front of her and she feels even more disgusted and degraded knowing that even when it comes to food she’s being treated like a dog. Her stomach gurgles, no matter how disgusting the food may be, she still has to eat. Natty tries to look at the brighter side of things, at the very least she’s eating actual food and not some slop that looks inedible. 

On the third day of her imprisonment, Natty is completely exhausted and broken. She just lies on her back, barely even reacting to anything her manager does anymore, there’s cum on almost every inch of her body and yet she doesn’t bother to clean it. 

Julie knocks to bring them breakfast, the manager gets the door but instead of just taking the food he tells Julie to give it to Natty. “She’s not fun anymore so I’ll be going back to you guys. And besides, the company is looking for her, can’t have her here forever.” As soon as the manager leaves, Julie rushes over to Natty and tends to her. 

The manager, clearly unsatisfied with Natty’s unresponsiveness and clearly needing a release, turns to Belle for release.

“AHHH!!! Wait, no, please… I’m sorry.” He barges into her room and she immediately shrieks upon seeing him. In the short span of two days, she’s gotten used to not being around him but here he is to remind her of her place. “I promise I won’t do it again, I—” She tries to get away but she’s stuck in the corner and all she can do is sink herself further into it. He doesn’t stop or even think for a second about what he’s doing, he just walks up and punches her face, adding another bruise to the multiple he’s given her. 

“Haneul? Get in here!” he shouts at the top of his lungs. While waiting, he pulls Belle’s face to the edge of the bed and starts facefucking her, all the while alternating between slapping her tits and punching her pussy. 

“Haneul?!” he calls again after a few minutes. After cumming down Belle’s throat and Haneul still hasn’t arrived, he marches over to her room. Not really to his surprise, he finds Haneul sleeping soundly in her bed. For one second he smiles, admiring her beauty before proceeding to ruin it. 

He punches her which brings her wide awake. He tugs her hair to bring her face close to his. “Always sleeping, you lazy cunt. Maybe you need a lesson too.” Haneul screams and thrashes as she’s dragged across the floor by her hair towards Belle’s room.

The next few days and weeks go by with the members somewhat getting used to and coping with the treatment that they are going through. Lots of practicing and “training” happens at the company, mostly the latter, then their manager has fun with them at the dorm. At the very least their manager is kind, all things considered, just as long as they follow his orders, so they still get to somewhat relax at the dorm. And whenever no one is using their bodies, the girls hang out, talk with each other, and comfort each other, growing a bond and giving each other hope to carry on until they debut.

The month ends and it’s finally time for Kiss of Life to debut. The four are no doubt incredibly excited, they finally get to wear clothes that cover most of their body, finally have some time away from the perverts, and most of all, they finally get to debut and live out their dreams of being K-pop idols, though little do they know what their company still has in store for them, even in public view.

A/N 2: So if you made it here, congratulations, you're as much of a degenerate as I am :). Anyway, while part 1 is mostly focused on Natty, part 2 would likely be four "mini-fics" in one, each focusing on one member. Subject to change but most likely it would be like that

[letters-to-rosie]

timebomb headcanons 💚

(doing this because my fic talk revolution to me is over 15k hits on ao3! it reached that a while ago it's 23k now but I'm slow ahhhh it's a long story)

Jinx is the better cook. She learned the basics while living at The Last Drop and can canonically bake, so it's not too much of a stretch. Ekko's not a disaster in the kitchen, but he follows her lead

both of them suffer pretty bad nightmares; for Jinx, she finds that Ekko holding onto her helps calm her down, but Ekko is more likely to want to get up and clear his head

any shared living space gradually becomes covered in doodles

they are both very cuddly

Jinx's attachment style is more anxious while Ekko tends to be avoidant. typically, this isn't the best mix, but they work together to accommodate each other

they call each other their partner. idk why but I insist on this one lol it just fits

the biggest obstacle in their relationship (be it canon or an AU resembling canon events) is dealing with the harm Jinx caused many of Ekko's friends while they were apart. I think if she were able to get to a healthier place, she'd take the process of reconciliation seriously not only for Ekko's sake but for her own, as part of a process of coming to terms with everything

but I think that would work for her because Jinx, as we see hinted with season 2, has political goals that align with Ekko's and give them plenty of reason to work together. I doubt the Firelights would all love her, but there are certainly ways to imagine them reaching some kind of understanding. Ekko would also find this political Jinx very hot lol

despite their flairs for the dramatic, they have a lot of quiet moments together. they calm each other down, paradoxically. this idea is mostly based on them sitting together on the bed looking super cute in Act I lol

Jinx makes the first move. she says I love you first, too.