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chaoticforever · 7 months ago

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Remnants of Regret | Tony Stark x Son! Reader

Summary: All Y/n ever wanted was his father’s love. Was that too much to ask?

Y/n sat on the floor in his bedroom, legs crossed, focusing intently on the canvas propped up before him. With a charcoal stick in his hand, Y/n carefully sketched the outline of a cityscape, his e/c eyes narrowed in concentration. His room permeated with the soft scratching of charcoal on canvas, a melody in the air.

Once Y/n finished the final touches and scooted back to examine his piece. One simple word crossed his mind: beautiful.

Since childhood, Y/n has loved drawing, sketching, and painting. He started with simple subjects like trees, flowers, and stars, then progressed to more complex images like people's faces and vehicles. He loved it so much that he pursued an art degree in college, unable to imagine a life not surrounded by art of some kind.

Furthermore, art allowed him to express emotions that words couldn't convey by providing an escape from the chaos of everyday life. It was just him, his brush, and the many possibilities on a canvas.

However, Y/n sometimes wondered if choosing art as his passion was a good idea since his father, Tony Stark, did not seem to appreciate his artistic abilities. Instead, he shifted the appreciation that he should have for Y/n to someone else.

Peter Parker.

See, Y/n Stark is the type of guy who preferred music and painting to building suits and technology that Tony loved so much, which only seemed to widen the gap between father and son. Tony didn’t seem to have much time for his son but made sure to have lots of time for Peter, who shared Tony's love for technology.

Y/n couldn’t help but feel jealous as he watched his dad always dote on Peter, offering him opportunities and praise that Y/n craved. But he seemed to have little time or patience for his artistic son.

He placed his finished piece on his desk and started putting away his sketching utensils. Just then, he heard a knock on his open door and turned around to see that Steve was standing in the doorway. Y/n smiled when he saw Steve. Besides Tony, Steve was his favorite Avenger. He sometimes acted more of a parent than the one currently in his life and the guys both bonded over their love for drawing.

"Hey, Steve. How was the mission?"

"Tiring. Dealing with rogue mutants can certainly take a toll on me," Steve replied, his eyes suddenly drifting to Y/n's newly crafted sketch, "Nice drawing Y/n. Is this for your end-of-semester art project?"

Y/n nodded his head in confirmation. "Yes, my professor wanted the class to draw something that represents our unique perspective on the world."

"And what perspective is that?"

Y/n paused to think about that question. "I guess... It's my view of the world as an artist. The world is full of life and energy, but there's also darkness and shadows. It's a reminder that beauty and struggles coexist. Nothing can ever change that."

Steve nodded, tracing the bold lines and subtle shading. "That’s an interesting yet accurate perspective. I am proud of you. You’re going to do great things one day."

A small smile appeared on Y/n’s face. He may not have gotten his dad’s praise, but he was happy that someone praised his artistic abilities and told him that he was proud of him. It warmed his heart.

"Thank you. That means a lot to me."

"You’re welcome. By the way, we’re having a group dinner tonight. We’ll be having lasagna, so bring your appetite."

Y/n grinned. He loved the soldier's cooking, especially when it was a dinner meal. It was so much better than eating takeout. "Oh, I'll be there, and y'all better hope that it all doesn’t get eaten by me."

Steve laughed before pivoting on his heel and leaving. Y/n watched as the soldier's retreating figure disappeared down the hall before turning back to his sketch, contentment washing over him.

As Y/n admired his work, his thoughts drifted back to his father. He knew that Tony loved him in his own way, but their relationship had always been strained. Tony’s focus on technology and his busy lifestyle, along with mentoring Peter, left little room for the two to hang out or for Tony to understand Y/n's passion for art.

But now, Y/n was determined to fix their relationship. After all, he lost his mother over a decade ago, and his father was the only blood family that he had left. He didn’t want their relationship to continue to be strained, and if Tony could make room for Peter in his life, then he could make some room for his biological son.

With that thought in mind, the e/c-eyed male headed to the private elevator that would take him to Tony’s workshop. And as he rounded the corner, he bumped into Rhodey, whom Y/n often looked up to as well. They greeted each other with their signature handshake that was only made for them two before Rhodey took off, explaining that he had a meeting to attend with a council member, and Y/n continued his journey to the workshop.

When he arrived at Tony's workshop, he saw his father standing next to his work bench, typing on his phone. Behind Tony, there was his Iron Man suit, opened up. Y/n figured that he just stepped out of it.

"Hey, Dad." Y/n greeted politely, crossing the room to give Tony a one-armed hug.

Surprisingly, Y/n's father did reciprocate the hug but didn’t even bother to look up at his son when he greeted him. He just kept his brown eyes glued to the phone in his hand. "Y/n. How was your day?"

"It was good. Classes were pretty light today, and I mostly just worked on my end-of-the-semester project for art class." Y/n explained, hoping that Tony would ask him more follow-up questions, such as what piece Y/n decided to draw or if he could see the work for himself. However, all Tony gave was a curt nod, still typing on that phone of his. So, Y/n cleared his throat and switched topics: "Dad, do you want to hang out this Saturday? There’s this art showing at the museum, and—"

"An art showing?" Tony finally looked up from his phone, his eyes flicking briefly to his son’s face before returning to the screen. "Sorry, kid, but I have meetings this Saturday. Besides, I’d rather watch paint dry than look at old paintings. You know that I’m more of a technology and engineering kind of guy than an art one."

Y/n's shoulders drooped, and he tried to hide the disappointment he felt. "Yeah, I know. I just thought maybe you’d want to spend some time together. It’s been a minute since we did something like that."

Tony seemed oblivious to Y/n's reaction, continuing to tap away at his phone. "Well, we’ve been busy. You're busy with college, and I'm busy with SI and saving the world, two full-time jobs for me," he put his phone down on the desk, finally giving Y/n his full attention. "But you’re right, we haven’t hung out in a long time. How about we go see that new Outlast movie that’s coming out next weekend?"

Y/n nodded, a small smile coming onto his face. Even though it wasn’t what he wanted to do, he was just happy to have some father-son time with his dad. And more importantly, it was without Peter.

"That sounds good to me. I can’t wait."

Y/n turned around and prepared to leave the room, excitement fluttering in his chest, just as Tony got a phone call from Peter. Y/n stood there for a moment and listened to how Tony asked Peter when he would be coming over and that Tony cleared the rest of his schedule today to help Peter with his last semester project.

The h/c-haired son frowned, feeling the excitement he felt a couple seconds ago disappear and the raw disappointment return. So, Tony can clear his schedule for Peter and make time for him, but he can't make time for his biological son?

It was ridiculous.

But Y/n had to remind himself that it was okay. Peter could have that time with his father all he wanted to today because next weekend, the two Starks would be spending some time together.

Feeling satisfied, Y/n left the workshop and returned to his room. It turned out that he had two things to look forward to: lasagna and the movies next week.

He couldn’t wait.

XXXXX XXXXX

The days passed slowly, but finally, the long-awaited Saturday finally arrived. It was the day of the planned outing with Y/n and his father, a day Y/n had been looking forward to. He hoped this would be a turning point in their relationship, a chance to bridge the gap that seemed to widen between them every passing day.

Now, he was getting ready in his room, choosing a casual outfit of jeans and a T-shirt. He knew that, even though it was April, the weather was rather cool with it being sixty-five degrees outside. That made him add a blue jacket to his outfit.

After checking himself out in the mirror, he walked down the hall to the common area, where Tony had told him to meet. As he walked down the hall, he hoped that the horror movie they were going to see would be good. The trailer did look promising but they can also be deceitful.

Y/n rounded the corner and entered the common area, where the Avengers were watching a movie and enjoying a spread of pizzas, popcorn, nachos, and cheese fries. Thor was the only one who wasn’t here since he went to Asgard for a few days. He noticed they were watching the first "Back to the Future," a classic Steve had promised to watch at the next team movie night after Y/n discovered that he had never seen that movie series before.

Guess he finally listened, Y/n thought as he looked around the room and noticed something that he had failed to notice.

His dad was nowhere to be found.

"Hey, has anyone seen my dad?" Y/n asked, looking over the team of heroes.

"Yeah, he left. You just missed him too." Clint answered, his fingers reaching into the popcorn bowl that was in his lap and shoving some popcorn into his mouth.

Y/n frowned. What? "Left? Left where?"

"He said that he was taking Peter to the science fair." Steve munched on a pizza.

The college student's heart sank and his shoulders sagged, feeling disappointed. So, his father had forgotten about their plans. Again. And it was for Peter. Again.

"Oh," was all Y/n could manage to utter. He knew that he should be used to this, but it still stung every time it happened.

Natasha, sensing the disappointment in Y/n's timbre, glanced over at him. "You didn't know he was going out with Peter."

That was a statement, not a question. Natasha had always been perceptive.

"No, no, I did," Y/n backpedaled, forcing a grin. He didn't understand why he was protecting his father, but he just wanted this conversation to end. "I just forgot, but you telling me made me remember."

Y/n knew he was a terrible liar, and he didn't sound convincing. He knew they didn't believe him, considering Steve's frown, Bruce's concerned look, and the looks shared between Clint and Natasha.

Bruce grabbed the remote and paused the movie. "Look, why don't you join us, Y/n? You can finish the movie with us."

"Yeah, come on, Y/n!" Sam piped up. "We've got plenty of food, and we were just about to start a game of charades."

Y/n glanced at the team of superheroes. While he appreciated their invitation, he had been looking forward to spending time with his dad, so he shook his head but still kept the forced smile on his features. "Thank you guys, but I think I'll just head back to my room. Next time."

The h/c-haired male turned around and left the main area, frustration nagging at his insides. When he got to his room, he flopped down on his bed, back pressed against it as he stared up at the ceiling.

He didn’t understand.

Why did Tony continue to treat him as an afterthought? And what the hell was so damn special about Peter? Why did he always have to be the recipient of his father’s love? He couldn’t help but feel like he was always playing second fiddle to the guy who was two years younger than him. It was ridiculous to be jealous of someone younger than him, but Y/n couldn’t help himself. It hurt so much that his father favored Peter over him.

Y/n pulled out his phone, intending to call his dad when he got a notification from Instagram that his dad had posted a pic. He clicked on it and found himself staring at an image of his dad with Peter.

The caption read: Peter will take over my company someday. #prouddadmoment.

Proud dad moment...?

Peter wasn’t even his actual son and Y/n couldn’t stand the way his dad looked at Peter with such praise. What can I do to make him look at me like that one time?

And before Y/n knew it, his cheeks were pelted with water, and he just realized at that moment that he was crying. The tears fell to his cheeks before dropping onto the bed, but Y/n wiped his cheeks angrily since he shouldn’t allow this to make him sad. But it was so hard not to.

His e/c eyes drifted to the photo that was on his side table. He reached for it and picked it up. It was a photo of his mom. Y/n allowed his finger to run over his mom’s smiling face in the picture. It’s times like this when he wishes that she was still alive. At least then, he’d have a parent in his life who cared about him.

Suddenly, a knock came from his door.

"Come in," Y/n called out, setting down the photo back on his desk. He wished that it was his father knocking on the door, but he wasn't surprised when the door opened, and it wasn't him. It was Steve. "Hi, Steve. Did you like the movie?"

Steve nodded, taking a seat on the bed. "I did. It was a great eighties film. I can see why you love it so much." Steve then changed the conversation. "You okay?"

Y/n nodded. He knew he wasn't okay, but he didn't want to ruin Steve's evening with his problem. "I'm fine. Shouldn't you be playing charades with everyone else?"

The soldier disregarded the question and simply stared at Y/n for a moment, seemingly sensing that he wasn’t telling the truth. "Hey, why don't we grab some dessert? I know a great ice cream shop."

Y/n hesitated briefly. He didn't want to be a burden to Steve, but he also didn't want to spend his evening in his room.

"That sounds nice, thanks." Y/n smiled and followed the soldier out of the door.

Steve drove them to a small ice cream parlor that was tucked away in the city on his motorcycle, a vehicle that Y/n had never expected to get on willingly. Steve got the classic chocolate sundae, while Y/n got a vanilla sundae with chocolate syrup, sprinkles, and a cherry on top.

They then went to the park to watch the beautiful sunset and enjoy their sundae. The sun, a fiery orb of warmth and light, dipped beneath the horizon, painting the sky with two shades of orange and pink.

Y/n and Steve watched the breathtaking scene in comfortable silence. The park was lively with kids playing, the distance hum of cars, and the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze. Y/n's vanilla sundae sat untouched. His mind was elsewhere, consumed by the disappointment and hurt he felt over Tony's absence. Steve, on the other hand, enjoyed his chocolate sundae, taking slow, deliberate bites of it.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" The super soldier broke the silence, his eyes shifting over.

"Yup," Y/n murmured, his e/c eyes taking in the stunning view. "It's like a painting."

Steve smiled, nodding his head in agreement. He then spoke again, his voice deadly serious. "So, what's going on? You've seemed a little down lately."

Y/n let out a sigh, knowing there was no point in lying to Steve. "It's my dad. I just feel like he always puts Peter first. It's like I'm not even his real son sometimes."

The blonde's expression softened, and he placed a comforting hand on Y/n's shoulder. "I know it's tough, but try not to take it personally. Your dad has a unique relationship with Peter, but that doesn't diminish his love for you. You're his son."

He sighed again, "I know but it's hard not to feel overshadowed sometimes. Peter gets all the attention, and I'm just... here."

"Your dad may not always show it, but he's proud of you, Y/n," Steve assured him. "And I know that he loves you very much. Sometimes, parents just need a little reminder that their kids need them."

Y/n nodded, but he couldn't help feeling skeptical. After all, actions spoke louder than words, and Tony's actions indicated that he loved Peter more than him. Like Y/n would always come second to Peter.

But he didn't feel like dwelling on Tony's absence anymore. Instead, he turned his attention back to the sunset, watching as the last sliver of the sun disappeared behind the horizon. The sky grew darker, the colors of the sunset fading into the twilight. He didn't get the opportunity to spend the evening with his father as he planned, but at least he had spent it with someone who cared about him deeply.

And that made him smile.

XXXXX XXXXX

The next morning, Y/n found himself in the kitchen, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. The events of the previous day still weighed heavily on his mind, leaving a bitter taste that even the strongest brew couldn't mask. He wanted to confront his dad about his behavior, but at the same time, he didn't want to talk to him after what happened.

As he added a dash of sugar to his cup, the familiar clanking of Tony's footsteps drew closer. He saw his father enter the kitchen, but Y/n leaned against the counter, his back stiff and his gaze fixed on the windows. He deliberately avoided greeting his dad as he would usually do.

"Morning, Y/n," Tony greeted politely, but Y/n remained quiet, his back still turned. Feeling perplexed by the cold shoulder, Tony frowned. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing that concerns you," Y/n replied, voice low and dismissive as he finished his coffee and placed the cup in the sink.

Y/n moved forward, attempting to leave the kitchen, but Tony stepped in front of him, unsatisfied with the response. "I'm your father. It's my job to be concerned."

Y/n's laughter rang out, harsh and bitter as if Tony had just told him a funny joke. "That is quite ironic coming from you."

The frown on Tony's features deepened. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Y/n's voice was quiet, "that lately, you've been anything but a father to me. But I can't say the same for Peter tho. You literally drop everything for him, but you can't even remember our plans."

Tony took a step forward, his tone rising defensively. "That's not true, Y/n. I do my best to be there for both of you. I juggle a lot, but I make time for you when I can."

Y/n's gaze didn't waver and he cocked his head to the side. "You make time for me? Then where were you last evening?"

"I took Peter to the science fair."

"Even though we had plans to go to the movies?" The younger man pointed out.

Tony's eyebrows furrowed as realization dawned, shame washing over his face. "I'm sorry, Y/n. I know we had plans, but Peter needed me. I couldn't leave him."

The two Starks were so busy arguing that neither of them noticed a stealthy figure that managed to infiltrate the compound, temporarily disable Friday, and had a knockout device in their hand.

"Peter needed you?" Y/n shook his head, his voice thick with hurt. Why did he forget about me? "What about what I need? You're my dad, not his. I need you."

Tony sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You have me every day, Y/n. Don't you see that I am always here for you?"

"Are you, Dad?!" Y/n's voice rose to a shout. "When was the last time we spent quality time together, just the two of us? When was the last time you and I had a real conversation that wasn't about your work or Peter? When was the last time you asked about what's going on in my life? You probably don't even know that my birthday is in two days. I'll be turning twenty-three, by the way. You don't know that one of my art pieces was presented at the museum you found too boring to visit. And you don't know that I made the Dean's List in school for the third year in a row!" Y/n's voice dropped to a whisper, but the words still stung like acid. "Mom would never treat me the way you do."

Tony flinched as if struck, his eyes widening at the mention of Y/n's mother. The weight of his son's words hit him like a physical blow, and he opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the room began to fill with a thick fog.

Y/n noticed it too, confusion clouding his face. But as more of the mysterious substance was released into the air, he dropped to his knees, his vision blurring. Tony staggered and slumped against the kitchen counter, his eyes falling shut.

And then, everything went dark. The gas in the room caused both father and son to collapse, slumping to the floor hard.

Later, once Y/n regained consciousness, his head pounded as he tried to piece together what happened. The last thing he remembered was the argument with Tony in the kitchen, and then everything went dark. But now, he found himself in an unfamiliar room, dimly lit by a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls were made of rough concrete, and the floor was cold and hard beneath him.

"Y/n? Can you hear me?" Tony's voice, filled with concern, reached him, and he turned to see his father hovering nearby.

"Dad?" Y/n's throat was dry and scratchy as he tried to sit up, but dizziness forced him to lay back down. It's overwhelming.

Tony helped Y/n into a seated position against the concrete wall. "Easy there."

Y/n looked around. "Where are we?"

"I'm not sure," Tony admitted, his gaze scanning the room for any clues. "But it appears that we have been kidnapped."

Y/n's heart pounded in his chest as the reality of their situation sank in. Oh crap. He couldn't believe that they were in this predicament, but he didn’t know why he was completely surprised. Since he was a Stark, people have always attempted to kidnap him since the day he was born, but this was the first time someone had successfully managed to kidnap him.

And he couldn't shake the feeling that it was somehow his fault. If only he hadn't argued with his dad, they wouldn't have been distracted when their captor struck.

"I'm sorry, Y/n," Tony apologized, his eyes filled with remorse, and Y/n was slightly taken aback because he hadn’t been expecting that. "I should have been there for you more. I let my work and my relationship with Peter overshadow our bond. That was wrong of me to do that."

Y/n eyes drifted to his hands, clasped in his lap. "You know, it hurt every time you chose Peter over me," he admitted, his voice quiet. "I don't understand why you always favor him. Why is everything he does amazing, but when it comes to me, you're never satisfied? Was it something that I did wrong? Or didn't do? Because I can change if it means you'll love me."

Tony shook his head vigorously, moving closer to his son. "No, Y/n. I don't want you to change for anyone, especially not for me. I can admit that I haven't always handled things perfectly. Peter reminds me of myself at his age, and sometimes I get caught up in my own nostalgia. But that doesn't mean I love you any less, Y/n. You're my son. I'd do anything for you."

Y/n's heart swelled at his father's words. He forgave Tony the moment the words "I'm sorry" exited his lips. Y/n had never been one to hold grudges, and now that Tony had acknowledged his mistakes, he hoped that they could finally move forward and rebuild their relationship.

Y/n wrapped his arms around Tony, who reciprocated the gesture. "I just want to spend more time with you," he muttered. "You know, do all that father-son stuff."

"And we will," Tony promised, pulling away. "As soon as we get out of here, I'll clear my schedule for the next month. We can go to the Bahamas. The water is beautiful, and I know they have amazing art exhibits there. It can be my birthday present to you. It'll be just the two of us."

It was impossible for Y/n to refrain from allowing the corners of his mouth to curl upward into a smile. He experienced a sense of optimism for the first time in a long time. As he looked into his father's eyes, he was certain that he would fulfill his promise. Y/n couldn't help but feel like a ten-year-old on Christmas morning.

"I'd like that, but how are we going to get out of here?" That was the big question.

Tony smirked. "Leave that to my team."

He informed Y/n through sign language that he had a secret tracker implanted in his watch, which had been confiscated. The Avengers were aware of the tracker, so it wouldn't be long before they arrived.

And then, as if on cue, the door to the room they were in flew off its hinges by a man getting thrown through it. Then, Steve walked into the room, dressed in his Captain America outfit. Steve threw his shield at the cell the Starks were in, allowing the two men to finally escape.

"Tony, Y/n, are you guys okay?" Steve walked over to them and started looking for signs of harm or injuries of any kind, but was relieved that he didn’t find one.

"Just peachy," Tony assured the blonde, grabbing his watch from a nearby table and taking Y/n's arm. They rushed out of the building, with Steve leading the way.

As the three made their way out, Y/n heard the sounds of gunfire, screaming, and growling echoing in the air. The Hulk was in full force, dismantling one of the kidnappers, while the other Avengers fought alongside him. Steve sprang back into action, and Tony transformed his watch into an Iron Man glove, joining the fighting. Even Spider-Man was there, taking out multiple opponents with ease.

But in the chaos, Y/n spotted a gunman aiming at Spider-Man from a distance. Acting without hesitation, he pushed Spider-Man out of the way, taking the bullet meant for him. The gunshot tore through Y/n's stomach, and he fell to the ground, eyes widening in shock and pain.

Tony had just fired a beam of light from his repulsor, sending the man flying into the nearby truck. But as he did, he heard the crack of a gunshot. He looked over to see where the shot had come from.

And his heart dropped to his stomach.

Y/n had been shot.

The bullet had pierced Y/n’s stomach, and blood was already soaking through his shirt, dripping onto the ground below.

"No, Y/n!" Tony screamed, running over as Steve hurled his shield at the shooter. Tony caught Y/n just as he began to fall, blood seeping through Tony's fingers as he peeled off his jacket and pressed it against the wound. Y/n trembled in his arms, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

"D-Dad."

"I know, I know, it's going to be okay," he whispered, his voice thick and his eyes shone with unshed tears. "You're going to be okay, I promise." His jaw clenched as he peered over at his teammates who had finally finished their fight and were rushing over. "Get us to a hospital, now!"

They didn't need to be told twice. Steve moved forward and quickly helped Tony carry Y/n to the Quinjet, with the other Avengers following closely behind them. Once inside, Natasha took her place in the pilot seat and Clint sat in the co-pilot seat next to her. Natasha quickly turned on the controls and maneuvered the jet into the air above, racing to the hospital.

The Quinjet soared through the sky, the city a blur below. Inside, the atmosphere was filled with worry. Everyone watched as Iron Man tried to help his injured son. Tony refused to let go of Y/n, his hands shaking as he tried to stop the bleeding, mind racing with fear and desperation. He had faced countless dangers as Iron Man, but nothing compared to the fear he felt at the thought of losing his son.

Finally, the Quinjet landed on the rooftop helipad of Metro-General Hospital, and Steve and Bruce rushed out, carrying Y/n on a stretcher. Tony was right beside him, keeping his hands clasped in Y/n’s.

"We need a doctor, now!" Tony shouted as they burst through the hospital doors.

Immediately, a group of two doctors and two nurses came over, taking over Y/n's care and wheeling him away. And Tony was beside them, still holding his hand.

"What happened?" One of them asked.

"Some idiot shot him," Tony explained.

The medical team wheeled Y/n into the operating room fast. The female nurse commented how Y/n had a weak pulse rate as the group of medical specialists lifted him onto the bed. Tony held onto his hands, tears welling up in his eyes.

The male doctor assessed the situation, noticing a smaller entry wound in Y/n’s upper right back and a larger exit wound in his abdomen. "Lungs failing," he said, his voice steady but grave. "Start an I.V. — two units of O, stat." The female nurse hurried off to fulfill the order. The female doctor asked for adrenalin, and the male nurse rushed to comply with the request.

Tony stood by his son's side, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched the doctor's work. He couldn't remember a time he prayed, but he found himself silently pleading with any higher power that might be listening to spare his son's life. "Hang in there, son," he whispered.

Y/n struggled to speak, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t think I’ll make it."

The billionaire's heart broke a little more. "Don't you dare die on me." Tony's voice was borderline pleading, begging for his son not to leave him. He has to survive.

But as the doctors worked frantically to save Y/n's life, his condition continued to deteriorate, his grip on Tony's hand weakening. "Dad," Y/n whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'm so cold."

Hearing this, Tony couldn't hold back his tears, which fell onto his son's hand. "I-I-I can't feel my legs," he continued, making Tony feel an enormous sense of dread and despair. He wanted to leave, unable to continue witnessing his greatest fear unfolding before his eyes. However, Y/n gripped Tony's hand tightly. "D-Don't go." Their eyes met, and Y/n let out a gasp before managing to utter three words.

"I love you."

The heart monitor's steady beep began to slow, then faltered, finally falling silent as Y/n slipped into full arrest. Tony cried out, "Oh god." His hand clamped over his mouth as he watched his son flatlined.

"Full arrest. Paddles!" The male doctor shouted, and the female doctor brought over the paddle machine. Tony stepped back as he witnessed the scene unfold. The lady squirted gel on a paddle, and the male rubbed them together. "Clear!" He yelled and used the paddles on Y/n.

But it didn't work.

"Recharge," he barked, and she obeyed. "Clear!" He used the paddles once again.

Still, Y/n’s heart did not respond and the heart monitor remained silent. His grip fully weakened in Tony’s hand, and his eyes remained unmoving. Sadly, it was officially. Y/n, son of the billionaire, was dead. The male doctor looked at Tony with a mix of sympathy and sadness.

"I’m so sorry," the male doctor voiced.

And, just like that, Tony Stark broke.

He leaned over Y/n, his body heavy with grief, tears streaming down his face as he clutched his son's lifeless hand. The pain in his chest was unbearable as if his own heart had stopped beating. He couldn't believe his only child was gone.

Now, he would never witness his son's college graduation, celebrate another birthday, see him walk down the aisle, or become a dad himself. Y/n was gone, and Tony would never see his son again.

And Tony felt like he had died too.

His sobs echoed through the hospital room, a sound so full of anger and pain that it seemed to pierce the very air. The doctors and nurses quietly left the room, deciding to let the genius grieve alone.

"Y/n," he choked out, his voice breaking on his son's name. "Please... come back. I can't… I can't live life without you here."

But he knew that his son wasn't coming back, no matter how much he'd beg for it. That thought was unimaginable, a nightmare from which he couldn't wake.

He had failed his son, failed to keep him safe, and now, Tony was forced to face a world without the h/c haired male in it.

It was bad enough that the genius had been such a shitty dad to choose Peter over Y/n, but now he wouldn’t be able to show Y/n that he was fully committed to changing, to being the dad Y/n deserved.

That made his sobs grow louder.

The Avengers entered the room, their faces etched with sorrow. Each of them had faced countless battles, but nothing could have prepared them for the pain of watching one of their own lose a child.

Steve placed a hand on Tony's shoulder, a silent gesture of comfort for his friend. He knew that no words could ease the pain of such a loss, but he hoped that his presence would offer some solace. He took a moment to say a silent prayer for the man who was like a son to him.

Natasha's stoic expression cracked, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She had seen death countless times in her work, but this — this was different. This was one of their own, a part of their family.

Sam also couldn't hold back his tears. His vision blurred, and he wiped them away, not wanting to add to Tony's pain. But the pain was there, a dull ache in his chest that echoed the grief of his friend.

Clint had to look away, his jaw clenched. He had lost people before, but this was different. This was a young man, full of life, who left this cruel world too soon.

Bruce stood with his hands clasped in front of him. His eyes were downcast, but there was a hint of green in his eyes. He couldn't imagine the pain of losing a child, especially someone so wonderful.

Peter was the most visibly shaken and he felt somewhat responsible. If he had been more aware of his surroundings and saw the hidden shooter, then Y/n wouldn't have taken the bullet for him.

Parents shouldn’t have to bury their child, but Tony was going to bury his.

Tony's fingers trembled as he closed Y/n's eyes. "I’m sorry, son," his voice was a broken whisper. "I love you so, so much."

For Y/n, the light had gone out. For Tony, the darkness has never felt so complete.

XXXXX XXXXX

#avengers x reader #avengers x male reader #marvel x reader #marvel x male reader #tony stark x reader #tony stark x male reader #tony stark x son reader #tony stark x son!reader #tony stark fanfiction #tony stark imagine #son reader #x son!reader #x son reader #platonic #x male reader #male reader #male reader insert #male reader imagine

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guiltyasdave · 1 month ago

Text

the road not taken

pairing: Dave York x f!reader

word count: 2.5k

tags/warnings: childhood friends trope, angst, fluff, no use of y/n, able bodied reader, reader has hair that she uses a hair dryer on, things that i don’t want to spoil but when i say angst i mean angst

a/n: remember how last year, i said that i’d only write happy endings for dave? yeah, about that…

thank you @sizzlingcloudmentality for beta reading, for encouraging me (through tears lol) and for just being the best of friends <3

follow @guiltyasdavenotifs for fic updates and find my full masterlist here :)

dividers by @saradika-graphics 🤍

Water cascades down on you, hot on your skin, soaking through your hair and collecting at your feet before it circles down the drain. You don’t know how long you’ve been standing here, staring at the glass fogging up around you.

It had been summertime when Dave moved in next door. You took your first glimpse at him with your nose almost pressed against your bedroom window. He opened the sleek silver car door, his mouth set in a firm line, the apprehension written all over his face as he looked up at the house. You had ducked out of sight when his eyes flickered over to your window, but when you took another peek, he was looking straight at you, a smirk playing around his mouth.

Your fingers massage over your scalp, spreading your shampoo’s soft foam, the fresh scent engulfing you. Your shoulders relax a little, sinking into the familiar feeling.

The first time you talked to each other, it was through the gaps in the fence separating your garden from his. Neither of you tall enough to reach over the wooden barrier, so all you could see was a glimpse of dark brown hair falling over even darker eyes, their gaze so much more pensive than you were used to from boys your age. Smarter, too. He made you laugh, made you curious to know more about him. You immediately wanted him to be your friend.

Your body wash’s scent joins in, suds gliding over your skin, cleansing you.

Over that summer break, there were only a handful of days when Dave wasn’t over at your house. It was new for you, to be around somebody so much, to not get bored of their presence after a short while. But Dave was different. He challenged you, never backed down from a discussion, riled you up just for the fun of it.

One evening, the day coming to a close, you were both sprawled out over your mattress, feet dangling off the edge. Golden light was spilling through the open window and painting shapes onto your wall, when he told you how his parents were fighting after moving here for his dad’s job, how he preferred being with you, away from the shouting and the following silence.

You made plans about running together, to a country far away, to become knights, or pirates maybe. Painting stories with your words, creating adventures that you would have together, each idea more exciting than the last.

The light was already gone, but none of you had moved to put on a lamp, so you were lying in the semi-darkness, your shoulders almost touching. His breath hitched before he quietly admitted that he was scared of going to a new school, of not knowing anyone.

“You know me,” you had replied, sliding your small hand into his, squeezing reassuringly.

“Yeah,” he had agreed, squeezing back.

You let the water wash everything away, until both your hair and your body are clean again.

Dave had fit in without issue, getting along with the other kids just fine, but you never strayed from each other. Side by side, from hopping on the bright yellow school bus in the morning until parting in the evening.

He was there to talk you into climbing trees much higher than you would have dared alone. He held you when you were sobbing after falling off your bike, both your hands and knees bloody and burning. He built his snowmen right next to yours on the lawn between your two houses. Always right there by your side, and you were right by his. Trading books back and forth, learning how to ride a skateboard when he did, opening your window for him and letting him crawl into bed with you when his parents were fighting in the evenings.

Your nerves flare up. Just a few more moments under the hot stream, just a few more moments of not needing to think.

You were both lazing on your parents’ sofa, your head in Dave’s lap and remains of a frozen pizza cooling on the coffee table. One of your favorite movies was playing on the TV, one that you had both seen so often that you could recite every line by heart.

“She’s pretty,” Dave said, eyes trained on the actress on the screen when you tilted your head to look up at him. His voice had become deeper this year, and from where you were laying, you could see hints of a stubble scattering his chin. “Like you,” he added, his gaze flickering down to your face.

Heat bloomed in your cheeks and your eyelashes fluttered as you giggled. Your hands found a throw pillow that you whacked against his arm, a “shut up” on your lips that came out way too breathy.

He laughed too, shrugging in that nonchalant way of his, as if to say ‘What? You are.’

Finally, you turn the water off and step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around yourself.

As you grew older, you noticed how other girls looked at Dave. More than once, you had been asked if the two of you were dating, had seen how relief painted their smiles to be more genuine when you assured them that you were ‘just friends’.

“Can you bring him to my birthday party, then? Please? He never comes when we invite him ourselves.” One girl from your biology class looked at you with big, hopeful eyes.

Your quiet nod was followed with an excited giggle, and as you watched her retreating figure, a sharp sting made itself known in your chest. You couldn’t imagine Dave liking someone, spending as much time with them as he did with you. Having hobbies, inside jokes that you weren’t part of. You didn’t want to imagine that.

Your hair dries slowly, as warm air whips around your head and you stare at yourself in the mirror. Finally, you can put it up, a hairdo similar to one Dave once told you he liked.

Still, you entered the house, filled with thumping music, flashing lights and drunk teenagers with Dave by your side. His eyes flickered over the scenery before he pulled you into his side by your arm, sending pinpricks of something through you.

You giddily accepted when someone handed you both a beer, clinked your bottle against his and eagerly took a swig. Your brow furrowed, lips pursed, before you broke out into a laugh to see a similar expression of distaste on Dave’s face. But you took another sip, and then another, until you felt strangely weightless and the world around you turned blurry.

It didn’t matter, because you were anchored to Dave’s face in front of you. Everything was funny, both of you dancing clumsily, laughing for no reason, until you were breathless, your skin damp with sweat.

You would have denied it at the time, but maybe the underwear you're putting on had been bought with Dave in mind. Not at the forefront, but he had always been there.

You were walking home together, faces illuminated by the glow of the streetlamps. Your hand had slipped into his and he held on tight, like you’d vanish into the darkness if he let go. It was nice, the warmth of his hand engulfing yours. Something you thought you could get used to.

“Did you even talk to Laura?” you wondered, the words coming out a little slurred. “She asked me to bring you, you know. I think she likes you.”

You weren’t sure what you wanted him to say, what you’d do if he liked her too.

Dave snorted, throwing an arm around you and pulling you close.

“No. And I only like you.”

“Yeah, but that’s different. I’m your best friend.”

A fingernail rips a hole into your tights as you pull them up your leg. You curse under your breath as you retrieve another one from your suitcase.

He took you to prom, the possibility of going with anyone else never even entering your minds. He had drunk you in as you descended down the stairs, before he took an exaggerated bow and grabbed your hand, pulling you out the door in a fit of laughter.

It would have been so easy, that night, when he danced with you. To take that one step closer, to just brush your lips against his. Quick enough to play it off as a mistake. But you never did.

A dress follows, ending just below your knees. The fabric is cool against your heated skin, calming your nerves a little.

Dave drove you to college, along endless strips of road, with the end still looming just beyond the horizon. He played the mixtape you had made together when you were sixteen. He sang along with you, smiled when he caught you stealing glances at him.

You never wanted to let go of him, hugged him to you for several minutes. Waiting, wishing for his warmth, his scent, to surround you until you were part of him, until you wouldn’t have to watch him leave.

He wiped the tears off your face, his fingertips tender against your skin, his own eyes shiny.

Doing your makeup is tough today. Your hands don’t stop shaking.

He didn’t call as often as he said, not that you expected him to. Military training was hard, and when you did talk to him, he sounded exhausted.

He wasn’t slipping away from you, not really, but you could tell that there were things he didn’t want to, couldn’t talk about. His voice turned colder, his answers clipped, not leaving room for questions.

You had a few boyfriends, guys from your classes. But none of them ever managed to make you feel less lonely. None ever felt like they really understood you. The way Dave used to.

Finally, you’re content with the face you see in the mirror. The bathroom turns dark as you flip the switch.

You both went home for Christmas, had you counting down the days for weeks every year.

He looked so different each time, his features sharper than you had ever seen them, a never fading tension in his jaw and his eyes stormy, the warmth that you had known all your childhood almost completely drained out.

Still, he held you like he used to, still smelling like him, like home.

I miss you, you wanted to scream every time you said your goodbyes again. I miss my best friend.

You put on heels, your steps muffled by the carpet.

He told you that he met someone late one evening years later, the telephone cord wrapped around your fingers, the plastic pressed against your ear.

You forced a smile that he couldn’t see, ignoring the searing pain in your chest, telling yourself that it was good that he had someone. He had never liked you like that, you were just a ghost from his past at this point. A monthly phone call, nostalgia tying you to each other more than anything else.

You attended their wedding, tried to see what Dave saw, tried to be happy that he was happy. You just couldn’t tell if he was. He smiled when he was supposed to, laughed at jokes, held his wife’s hand, danced with her, but there was a void of nothingness in his eyes.

Your mother’s words echoed through your mind, how often she had teased you about how the both of you would surely get married someday. Your twelve year old self had hated it.

But, apparently, hidden deep inside your heart, you had hoped too.

You slip your purse and phone into a handbag. There are several notifications as the screen lights up briefly, but you ignore them.

It was no use trying to picture the boy you used to know as a father, aligning your best friend Dave with this new version of him.

His voice had been ecstatic when he told you, more alive than he had sounded in years.

You had cried yourself to sleep that night.

After putting your coat on, the door falls shut behind you. Your steps echo through the stairwell.

Calls had become farther in between. You didn’t blame him. He had a whole life, a whole family.

Until your doorbell rang. Until he showed up on your doorstep, late at night, deep circles under his eyes, his hair a mess, his fingers twitching.

You ushered him inside, questions of ‘are you okay?’ and ‘are you hurt?’ on your lips. He caught your hands, fluttering over his face, his shoulders. His fingers rubbed over your skin, his warmth sinking in, a sensation that you had almost forgotten pulled back to the surface.

He cupped your face, searched your eyes as he slowly leaned closer, his lips almost touching yours. You reacted without thinking, your own lips finding his. A thing that you hadn’t realized you wanted until it was too late, and now it was happening, here in your hall, after you hadn’t spoken to him for months.

“Dave, what—”

He parted from you breathlessly, his hands dropping to his sides.

“I’m sorry.” One hand ran over his face, before his eyes locked on yours again. “I’ve been— I think I made a mistake. I don’t know if— I think something bad might happen.”

“What do you mean?” You had never seen him like this, so out of sorts, all his carefully built composure crumbling down.

A sad smile pulled at his mouth before he stepped closer again, his arms engulfing you, pressing you against his chest.

“I can’t say. But—” His lips moved against your hair, down to your neck, his breath hot on your skin. “I never told you. I always thought you deserved better, and now you never even knew—”

Understanding glimmered at the edges of your mind, giving his words a meaning that couldn’t be right.

“It’s been you,” he murmured into your skin, “it’s always been you.”

You pulled him back by the hair at his nape, messing it up further. His eyes were swimming with sadness, so much that you couldn’t bear it. Your lips connected with his again. Anything to take his pain away, anything to let him know.

“It’s always been you for me, too.” It was barely a breath, shared between the both of you.

“I have to do something. But I’ll come back to you, I promise.”

It’s raining as you walk to your car. You take a deep breath, sinking into the leather seat. It’s only a short drive to the cemetery.

It has echoed in your head every day since. The words he said, the look of grim determination on his face as he stepped outside again. One last squeeze of your hand, and then he was gone.

Putting your car into park, you step back out into the downpour, your shoes crunching on the short walk over gravel.

You spot Carol, tears streaking her face just like your own. Dressed in black, just like you. Two little girls clinging to her.

He didn’t come back.

thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are love <3

#dave york x reader #dave york #pedro pascal #dave york x you #dave york fanfiction #dave york x f!reader #dave york x female reader

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wreckedandpolemic · 9 months ago

Text

white and gold - matty healy

(mdni) in which you become both entangled and enamoured with your father's boss. 13007 words.

warnings (buckle up): 18+, problematic age gap, masturbation, corruption kink, slight exhibitionism, praise, degradation, heavy daddy kink, slight dumbification, unprotected sex, oral (f and m receiving), filth filth filth filth filth!

Your heels click against the tiled floor as you stroll across the lobby of your father’s office, giving a winning smile to the familiar security guard as he waves you through. Humming along to the song that plays over your headphones as the lift rises, you wonder idly why your father wanted to have lunch with you today; he had been oddly insistent that morning. The doors ding open and you step out into the office, fairly quiet at lunch hour. Men in suits mill around, their gazes catching on you and darting away so they can pretend their lurid thoughts aren’t painted plain as day on their faces.

Scanning the room, you don’t immediately spot the man you’re looking for. On a closer look, your father’s thinning hair and crisp suit are nowhere to be seen. Strange, again; he’s always here to meet you when he wants to take you out for lunch. Your searching gaze lands on a man heading for the lift, the sight of him arresting, practically rooting you to the spot. Greying curls haloed around a sharp, handsome face, lips plush red. A silver hoop shines in one of his ears, standing out against his dark hair. The designer sunglasses that sit across the bridge of his nose should be obnoxious, but he wears them louche and rakishly charming. He’s younger than your father, but not by much; probably nearing twice your age. You don’t recognise him — you know everyone who works for your father practically inside and out, and you’d never forget a face like his.

Suddenly, he’s in front of you, and you’re blinking dumbly at the material of his expensive suit. “Are you lost?” he asks, his voice low and alluring, wrapping around you like a caress. The sunglasses block your view of his eyes, leaving you unfairly unable to tell whether he’s reacting to you the way you are to him.

You swallow thickly, fighting to find your voice. “No,” you say confidently. “Well… kinda, I guess?” you add with a laugh. “I’m looking for my dad.” You offer his name, and he nods in recognition.

“Ah— My fault, that. Sorry, love,” he says, voice softening on the final syllable in a way that has you biting the inside of your cheek to get your racing heartbeat under control. “Kept him late in a meeting.” You nod absently, distracted as his tongue flickers out to wet his lips and leaves them pink and glossy. Hopefully you aren’t wearing your thoughts too obviously on your face. “Matty,” he offers, holding out a hand.

You take it politely, surprised at the calluses scraping against your palm. He doesn’t look the type for hard work, the very shape of him insouciant, privilege scented on him under the smell of cigarettes and expensive cologne. The weight of his hand in yours as Matty holds your gaze for just a split-second too long feels charged, tension welling between you. After a beat, you give your name and Matty quirks an enigmatic half-smile that you just can’t get a read on. You wonder what kind of picture you’re painting for him; ribbons in your hair, skirt short enough to tease without any promise, socks biting into the flesh of your thighs. Your soft pastels boast innocence, a clean sweetness begging to be ruined where the sharp lines of him are rough around the edges, something dark tightly controlled under his easy smile. The pair of you are incongruous, yet symmetrical somehow, an artist’s rendition of impropriety.

The coolness in your palm when he lets go feels like a physical loss, your entranced gaze lingering on his face for another brief moment. Then he gives a cursory nod and strolls off, the spell breaking and leaving you stock-still as if you’ve been doused with a bucket of cold water. His name rolls around your head as you pick your way to your father’s office; Matty, Matty, Matty, like a litany, the concurrent chime of warning bells going unheard, or maybe just ignored.

Your father smiles up at you when you enter his office, getting up as if to hug you and stopping awkwardly short. He doesn’t know how to act around you, a consequence of the years of long hours and late nights that afford you your lifestyle but cost you a family. You make clumsy small-talk on the drive; he asks you how uni is going, you ask about work, he forgets the names of your friends, you remember the names of his. The same circles you always talk in. It’s never unpleasant, but always stiff, artificial.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you,” he says once you’re seated in a quiet corner of your favourite restaurant. He remembered that about you, at least. “I was in a meeting that ran long.”

You try not to visibly perk up at the reminder of possibly the most gorgeous man you’ve ever met. “Oh, yeah,” you say, feigned casualness layered over your tone. “I met the guy you were with on his way out. Who was he? I don’t think I’ve seen him before.” Your father pauses briefly, and you wonder if you’ve laid it on too thick, showed too much interest. But you know your father couldn’t reconcile the idea of you being interested in one of his coworkers with the image he holds of you as his little girl.

He sits up straighter, adjusting his tie in the way he does because he thinks it’ll lend more gravity to his next words. “It was actually a very important meeting, or I wouldn’t have let it run as long as it did. It was with the VP of the company, Matthew Healy.” He nods self-importantly. “Very nice chap, honestly. I convinced him to allocate us more budget next quarter, which means that…”

You tune out the rest of his corporate jargon, letting the new information you’ve gleaned rattle around your brain. Vice fucking President. The scandal you’d cause selfishly thrills you more, because who could gainsay it, really? Sure, your father would have some choice words, but he’d keep them to himself in public for the sake of his job. You almost giggle picturing the vein that would throb in his forehead, and then remember yourself and focus back into the conversation right as your father finishes talking.

The waiter who has been hovering a tasteful distance away seizes the gap in conversation to take your order. You order without looking at the price, leaning casually back in the booth as you rattle off the name of the dish in perfect Italian. A few minutes later, the smooth, dark flavour of an espresso martini on your tongue, your father finally gets to the point.

He says your name seriously, levelling you with a look that’s laden with meaning over his drink. “I wanted to meet with you today to talk about something.” You nod uncertainly, unable to track where this is going. “Your last year at university is starting in September, and I’d like to know you have somewhere to go when you’re finished. Other people studying your course have been making industry connections and networking for years, and I’m concerned that you’ll be behind when you’re trying to get into work.”

You let him talk, even as you mentally roll your eyes. He’s showing care in one of the only ways he knows how, and you can’t really begrudge him that. Never mind that the idea of trudging to the office every day in a dull grey pantsuit and attending mergers and meetings for the rest of your life gives you the shivers. You open your mouth to bring this up, but pause when he continues. “I know you aren’t sure about using your degree, but there’s a dinner this weekend that I’d like you to come to. Just to see how everything works, show your face, start making yourself a name, hm?”

The refusal sits on the tip of your tongue, balancing there on instinct, but then you consider that this might be your only chance to see Matty again. Of course, he might not even be there, but it’s a risk you’re willing to take. Your thoughts haven’t strayed from him for more than five minutes since you met, he’s a nagging itch under your skin that you just can’t scratch, and you need him. “Okay,” you say, cutting your father off. He goes silent mid-spiel, having anticipated you taking more convincing than that. “Is it black-tie?”

Your father watches you curiously as you sip demurely at your cocktail. “Yes. I’m very happy you agreed,” he adds, the implicit question hanging heavy in the air between you.

With an airy shrug, you set down your glass. “Like you said, I’m not committing to anything. I just get to have a free fancy dinner, basically.” It’s a casual excuse, characteristic enough of you that your father couldn’t even begin to guess at your real motivation. The same waiter suddenly materialises with your food, and you dig in happily.

Over the course of your meal, your father explains the most important figures who’ll be attending, and Matty is among them, thank God. You try, subtly, to pry into his personal life, but come up fairly short; you can’t find a tasteful way to ask if he’s married, although it’s not unlikely, with a face like his. Once your father’s free hour has dried up, he drops you home and you slink off to your room and fall into your bed.

Guiltily, you pull up a private browsing tab on your phone and search matthew healy wife. A grin spreads as you find no results, wider when girlfriend turns up nothing but a string of articles about his latest breakup. Switching to image searching, you scroll through dozens of photographs of him, posed and smiling, this time missing the sunglasses and letting you admire his sweet brown eyes. Then you come across a photo of him giving the camera the eyes, your thighs clenching as he smoulders in a way that feels directed to you, a twin of the look he gave you earlier.

You let your eyes fall closed, your phone thudding against the pillow as your hand creeps under your waistband. The first brush at your clit buzzes bright up your spine, a pleased whine falling from your lips. Instinctively, you dig under your pillow for your vibrator, your other hand tugging your skirt and panties down your legs. You lay in just your blouse and socks, the barest hint of wetness beginning to pool between your thighs.

The sudden pulse of heat as you press the vibrator to your clit is almost too much, your body tensing at the sensation. Your hazy mind conjures up an image of Matty, his spectre watching you touch yourself for him. He’s on you in seconds, the ghost of his kiss almost tangible against your lips, the idea of his calloused fingers running over your skin so real they almost feel like a memory. Rocking your hips, you chase the pleasure that rolls over you, coiling low in your belly. You can almost hear Matty murmuring encouragement in your ear, telling you how pretty and good you are for him.

Body writhing against the sheets, a whimper of his name spills from your bitten lips, pleading as you rub tight circles into your clit. Molten pleasure drips down your spine, sticking in your lungs and melting against your ribs. The phantasm of Matty’s touch trails over you, his hands replacing yours as you thumb over your nipples, moaning at the soft spark of pleasure that flickers under your skin.

It’s not enough.

Your hands are too delicate, too far from the memory of thick veins and scraping callouses that your body craves. Still, you work diligently at yourself, falling into a familiar rhythm. Your motions are perfunctory now, an aside to the fantasy building behind your closed lids. You picture Matty’s sleazy smirk, heat in his gaze as he rubs at you, working you closer and closer, filthy words pouring from his lips. Pleasure burns under your skin, close and electric under the sheets.

The coil in your belly winds tighter and tighter until it finally snaps, ecstasy rippling through your limbs as you bite down hard to keep a scream at bay. Rolling your hips, you ride out your orgasm, chest heaving as you gasp for breath and twist your fingers in your sheets.

Your face begins to flame as the afterglow wanes, the image of Matty fading and leaving a column of mortification in its place. God, how are you supposed to look him in the eyes after this? Flinging your covers off with a groan, you corral your thoughts into shape and march into the shower. Hot water pounds between your shoulder blades and you scrub at your skin until it’s pink and tender; you still don’t feel clean. It feels, suddenly, like you’re wearing a scarlet letter, like the evidence of your depravity is scrawled over your body in bold, dripping ink.

Still, you can’t stand under the shower spray forever, and the endless slog of summer reading you have to do won’t wait for your sudden crisis to be over. Taking a seat at your desk, you crack open a textbook and force yourself to stare at it until the words stop swimming in front of your eyes and you can process their meaning. You type up notes with practised ease, almost automatic and scarcely retaining the information. A chill grips you as you remember that this might be the rest of your life.

A self-indulgent fantasy drifts across your mind, and you snatch at it greedily, rewarding yourself for your work with an unjustified distraction. Is it so much to ask that you want a life of ease? To be spoiled and showered in affection, to have no expectations on you? Maybe that makes you a lazy brat, a typical, self-absorbed princess, but you’ve worked damn hard the last three years. At graduation, you’d have your pick of droning, selfsame corporations if that was what you wanted; you’d have no difficulty following your father’s footsteps, letting your own daughter trace yours.

Truthfully, your private desire is much harder. Men that run in your circles want a woman like you, superficially — from the same stock, with your own family money, barely old enough to know who you are. Under the surface, though, you know women like that. They’re your aunts, the mothers of friends and old boyfriends. Unfulfilled, wearing dead-eyed Stepfordian smiles, finding their only pinched joy in passing snide insults dressed up as compliments, laughing behind their hands when their victim du jour takes the bait. No, being one of those wives would be the only fate worse than spending your decades as a spinning cog.

Without your notice, the sun has sunk beyond the horizon, a moonbeam slanting through your curtains when you switch your desk lamp off. You slip between your sheets, clad in a thin nightdress and low-waisted underwear, the thoughts that circle your brain winding slower and slower until they slip away like a whirlpool draining from the sink.

The next morning, you really are planning on taking school seriously, in line at a coffee shop with scholarly intent before 9:30. Impossibly, though, a familiar head of curls is waiting in the queue only feet ahead of you. Your heartbeat speeds as you debate whether to speak to him, hands clammy with nerves at the sight of him. You step up to the counter to order, and Matty’s head whips around at the sound of your voice.

“Oh! Hello, love,” he grins, and you smile back, hoping you don’t look as nervous as you feel. “Hey, no, I got it,” he says as you pull out your phone to pay. Matty taps his card before you can even react, then leans forward to address the barista. “Can I get mine for here instead? Is that okay? Thanks,” he flashes a winning smile and your heart flutters.

“Thank you,” you say shyly, toying anxiously with the buttons of your cardigan.

He waves a hand, his smile almost dizzying as he looks down at you. There’s a faint dusting of stubble over his jaw, and you have to force yourself not to get distracted by thoughts of it scraping over your skin. “Don’t worry about it. Always happy to do a pretty girl a favour.” Your knees almost buckle, heat flooding your cheeks as you swallow thickly. Thankfully, the barista calls your orders and Matty goes to collect them, giving you a second to catch your breath. “Is it okay if I come sit with you? Just realised I never asked.” He grins sheepishly, and you practically melt into a puddle. “Don’t wanna distract you if you’ve got work to do, or something.”

“God, no, of course,” you say, suddenly a little panicked at the idea of him leaving. “Feel free. I mean, if you have time,” you add, a last-ditch attempt to feign casualness as you slide into a booth.

Matty sits opposite, observing you with an inscrutable look on his face before he speaks. “I’ve got time. I’m the boss, darling, they can wait.”

Your thighs clench, the casual reminder of his status sending a shudder up your spine as you smile blithely. Neither of you speaks for a moment, both taking in the sight of each other, testing the boundaries of this thing blooming between you. “Do you make a habit of taking time out of your busy day to have coffee with girls?” you say, tone teasing to conceal that you’re truly curious about the answer.

He grins. “Like I said, I do whatever I like,” he says with a shrug. “If I wanted to, I don’t know, spend my morning having coffee with a pretty girl, well. Nobody would be surprised, let’s say.” It’s a non-answer, and you swallow down the jealousy that starts to rise in your throat.

“You keep calling me pretty…” you remark idly, pausing to sip delicately at your coffee before you speak. “I’m starting to think you might have an ulterior motive, Mr. Healy.” You tack on the title with a smirk, leaning forward in challenge.

Matty swallows, slightly unnerved for the first time. “I think you’re pretty,” he says simply. “Don’t have to have any motives. Unless you want me to,” he adds with a smirk.

“And if I do? What’s that say about you, sir? Chasing after a twenty-year-old girl? Quite inappropriate, wouldn’t you say?”

He chuckles softly, eyes darkening. A shock of heat sparks under your skin as he takes your hand, gaze searching. “Very,” Matty agrees lowly. “Good, sweet young girl like you shouldn’t be getting mixed up with me, angel.” Something in you flutters at the nickname, the way it rolls thoughtlessly off his tongue.

“I don’t have to be good,” you say, deliberately widening your eyes and biting your lip in a show of innocence. “I can be naughty. If you want.” You lean back and deliberately pop a button on your blouse, a hint of pink lace peeking out from the gap in your shirt.

Matty tips his head back, nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply, eyes closed and trying to compose himself. “What am I going to do with you?” he mutters, more to himself, unable to drag his gaze up from the sliver of exposed skin.

“You’ll just have to keep playing and find out,” you smirk, purposefully leaning forward as you stand to give him a deliberate eyeful. “Have a nice day, Mr. Healy. Thank you for the coffee.” His gaze burns hot into your back as you walk away, and you make a conscious effort not to look back. You’re slightly annoyed as you wander down the street — that cafe is your favourite study spot, and you’ve effectively handed it away. You’ll never be able to set foot in there without remembering Matty’s smirk, his heavy gaze, the feeling of his hand over yours.

So, despite your best intentions, you find yourself spending the morning dipping in and out of stores instead, smiling blithely as your bank account dwindles. In the end, your evening winds up the same as yesterday, mindlessly copying up text without absorbing any of the information. You’re gonna kick yourself so hard when you have to use these notes to take an exam. Giving up, you shower and get into bed, shutting your phone off to sleep at around midnight.

When you stir, you know acutely that you’re dreaming. The bed is your own, the man sharing it is not. “Morning,” Matty says, in a low, sleep-thick voice that seems so real you can scarcely believe your mind conjured it up. He kisses your nose, your cheek, the hollow of your throat, but never your lips, as if your subconscious is saving the memory for the real thing.

“Hi,” you giggle, savouring the heat of his body against yours, willing yourself still for fear of the barest shift ruining your dreamscape. Matty’s hands run over you, one taking a firm hold of your ass, the other pinching gently at your nipple.

You whimper, and he gives a mocking pout. “Needy, hm?” You nod, eyes wide and pleading, and he cups your pussy, your hips rolling as you chase your pleasure against his hand. Arousal drips out of you, soaking your panties as Matty grinds the heel of his palm against your clit. Your head swims in pleasure, distracted and flailing as the dream blurs around you. Whining, you try desperately to grasp onto the vestiges, convinced that one last touch would have brought you there.

Eyes twitching open, morning light slants through the crack in your curtains, a gentle kiss over your sweat-slick skin. Embarrassingly, like you’re a hormonal adolescent again, there’s a throw pillow wedged between your legs, desire soaking into it through your ruined panties. An experimental thrust of your hips sends a scattered, delicious burst of pleasure up your spine, but you refuse to indulge yourself, already humiliated without feeling that sudden, crushing guilt again.

Once again, you force yourself under a punishingly hot shower, and once again, you can’t scrub yourself free of the sin. It becomes something of a routine; three more nights you dream of him, and three more mornings you try your hardest to melt the flesh off your bones in an effort to forget. The fourth night, the day before you’ll see him again, your sleep is mercifully dreamless, though you still wake with him on your mind. You stand in front of your wardrobe, hands balanced on your hips as your gaze darts between two dresses.

You need to be stunning, fuckable in a way that caters to Matty’s tastes perfectly. The amount of time you’ve spent scrolling through pictures of him with old girlfriends would surely be impressive if it wasn’t embarrassing, but it’s helped you narrow your choices down to two options. There’s a wine-red number, the thigh slit so high it practically bares your ass and the neckline plunging almost to indecency — it’s reminiscent of how his last girlfriend dressed, simple, dark elegance, deep hues paired with bold, striking makeup. Then, there’s a floor-length, pastel-pink silk gown, evidence of the virtue you’ll pretend to possess until you can show him just how dirty you can be.

The second dress speaks to you, more similar both to your own style and that of the youngest girl he’s ever dated. She was still older than you, though, you think wryly, four years ago twenty-three to his thirty. That being said, you wouldn’t be surprised to find he’d fucked every college girl from here to Edinburgh whose father had so much looked at her askance once. The thought sends a ripple of jealousy through you and you shudder, picturing dozens of faceless girls under him until you want to tear your hair out. The man practically has you in a chokehold, and you’ve met him once.

Your rational brain knows it’s crazy, that the idealised version of him built up in your mind means he’ll only disappoint, but you’re almost sure you’ll get a good fuck out of it at the very least. More, if you play your cards well enough.

With ribbons in your hair, silk gloves over your hands and a string of pearls at your throat, you pose in the mirror, practising your teasing pout, your innocent smile, the eyes that say please, sir, let me make you feel good. Your mother shouts your name, and you follow the sound down the stairs and across the foyer, smiling blithely at your parents as they take in the sight of you.

Okay, maybe you’ve laid on the innocence too thick, your makeup subtly widening your eyes and faintly flushing your cheeks. But there’s nothing technically wrong with your outfit, so your mother simply heaves a sigh and leads you out to the car. You arrive perfectly, politely on time, pose quickly for the few cameras and take your seats. Wait staff linger discreetly around, filling champagne flutes thanklessly, as if they exist on a plane below the guests’ notice.

You have to bite back a grin when the placard beside the empty seat at your table reads Matthew Healy; by some magnanimous twist of fate, he’ll be directly across from you, giving you an excuse to gaze at him as long as you like. He’s late, but only fashionably so, smirking and doling out insincere apologies as he saunters to the table. You don’t stand until everyone else has, playing clueless as Matty greets everyone around the table politely.

When he reaches you, his eyes flicker over you in a way that has your knees threatening to buckle, and you finally let yourself take him in properly. He looks fucking gorgeous, dressed in another expensive suit, his curls gelled back with that same smell of cigarettes and cologne seeping from his pores. He leans forward, brushing his lips against the apple of your cheek, and you almost moan at the contact your body has been craving for days. “You look stunning, darling,” he murmurs, so quiet that you could almost be convinced you’d imagined it, if not for the dark look in his eyes when he pulls back.

A half smile pulls at your lips as he sits down, one of the ubiquitous, black-clad waiters coming forward to fill his glass. The conversation quickly turns to business you couldn’t care less about, giving the automated, reflex responses to questions you’ve heard hundreds of times. You pay attention only when Matty speaks, the low timbre of his voice addictive even when he’s not addressing you. Emboldened by his heavy gaze and the significant looks he fixes you with each time his eyes land on yours, you slip a stockinged foot out of your shoe and trace it across his calf. His eyes widen a fraction, and he raises his glass and an eyebrow in your direction, his gaze laden with promise.

There’s still time before any food gets brought out, and after a few minutes, Matty offers to take you on a spin, introduce you to some of the more important people in suits that are clustered around the room. Your father preens, convinced you’ve made such an impression in the bare moments you’ve held your own in conversation that he wants to mentor you, or something. You accept gratefully, his proprietary hold on your arm falling low to your waist as soon as you’re out of your father’s sight, the heat of his palm splayed over your hip hard to believe. “Let me get you a drink,” he says, steering you to the bar. The crowd parts around him, conversations going quiet like he’s some kind of divine figure, taking a nod and a brief greeting like a blessing from on high. “You’ll need one to deal with this lot,” he adds, jerking a thumb at the gathered crowd, still murmuring awed in his wake.

Smiling, you take a seat at the bar, letting Matty flag down the bartender before you speak. “What’ll you have, darling?”

“Surprise me,” you grin, batting your eyelashes teasingly at him. “So, you hate this stuff, huh?”

Matty huffs a surprised laugh as the bartender pours him a glass of top-shelf red and hands you an Aperol spritz. “Is it that obvious?”

You take a long, slow sip of your drink, watching the way his eyes fall to your lips, pursed around the straw. “I don’t think so. Not to anyone here, anyway. They’re all too worried about what everyone else thinks of them to worry about what anyone else is thinking.”

Something shifts in his expression as he takes in your words, suddenly appraising you critically as a person with thoughts, rather than just a pretty face he wants to take to bed. And he does. Want to take you to bed, that is. His eyes are wide, dilated, his tongue unconsciously wetting his lips more often, his gaze trained on your face so it doesn’t fall further. “Beautiful and smart,” he says finally, leaning back in his chair, all at once dropping the intensity and sinking easily back into irreverence.

“I try,” you say with an artfully careless shrug, letting one of the thin straps of your dress fall from your shoulder, enjoying the way Matty’s eyes trace the movement. There’s a dance in this, a skill; overt flirting between the pair of you, a casual, if laden, conversation to an observer.

“I want to do bad things to you in that dress,” Matty says, low and sudden, a bolt of arousal striking you at your core.

You match his tone. “Like what?”

“The kind of things a man like me shouldn’t be thinking about doing to a girl like you.”

“So, why don’t you?” you challenge, a flicker of carefully masked surprise crossing his face as you drop your facade of naïveté. “There’s always somewhere private at a party like this,” you say, implication heavy in your tone, spreading your legs slightly and licking your lips.

A muscle jumps in Matty’s jaw, jealousy and lust warring in his expression as he pictures you crowded up against a bathroom sink, mouth parted and eyes glassy. “S’that what you’re used to? A quick fuck in a bathroom with some pathetic boy?” He leans close, delivering his next words slow and quiet. “I’m not going to do that, princess,” he says with a disparaging scoff, the sobriquet sending heat pooling between your legs. “Have you ever fucked a man, angel?”

Swallowing your moan, your thighs clench as you whisper, “No.”

“Good. Means I get to show you how it should really feel. Because when I fuck you for the first time, I’m going to make you fall apart for me. Piece by pretty, perfect piece. Shall we?” he adds, standing and offering you a hand without giving you any time to process his words.

You swallow thickly, accepting his hand and standing on unsteady legs. True to his word, he introduces you to what feels like an endless string of people. Their faces all blur together, your body working on autopilot to churn out pleasantries as your mind turns over Matty’s words, spinning them over and over like a coin set on its edge.

“Stay right here,” you whisper to him as he starts to head back to your table, and you’re pleased to find when you return from the bathroom that he’s obeyed. As discreetly as possible, you press the scrap of lace you peeled off from under your dress into his hand. The sound of his choked-off inhale is infinitely gratifying, and you savour his gaze at your back as you stride away, a deliberate sway in your hips.

By the time you’re back at the table, a thick wedge of business cards is tucked neatly into your purse to be left there and forgotten about until you shake them onto the floor the next time you need the bag. All but the one sitting on the very top, with Matty’s personal number scrawled on the back. He doesn’t take his eyes off you all through dinner, his hand dipping into his pocket at every free moment, the knowledge that his fingers are running over your panties driving you wild. Your legs cross so you don’t start dripping on the seat as you throw pleading glances at Matty every chance you get.

You practically chase him to the bar as dinner winds down, draping yourself over him as much as you dare. “I need you,” you whine, pressing a hand to his inner thigh, feeling the heat of him through his suit trousers. “I can’t wait anymore,” you plead, as close to begging as you can get without prostrating yourself on the floor in front of him.

Matty laughs, condescending. “Needy girl,” he pouts, crooking a finger under your chin. “If you were anyone else, I’d take you home right now, fuck all of these people. But we can’t have that, can we?” he teases. “Because you’re a good girl, yeah? And what would people think, good girl like you all spread out for a dirty old man like me?”

A pathetic whine slips from your lips, lust overtaking you even as the gears start to turn in your mind. “Take me home,” you beg, pulse hammering in your throat at the very prospect. “I can make an excuse, say I’m meeting friends or something. I’m a big girl, they won’t care as long as they don’t know where I actually am. Please?” you pout, leaning so close that your breath kisses across his lips. “I’ll be so good for you, I promise.”

And Matty is only a man, with a man’s self-control. He’s had a few more years to refine it, but he’ll never be immune. “Go on, then, sweetheart. Make your excuses and meet me out front, yeah?” He gives your ass a firm slap as you stand, the brief flash of pain melting into sticky desire that hums under your skin.

You spin a lie to your parents, some story that your friends are in a bar a few streets away, and surely they don’t mind if you slip away just a few minutes early? Honestly, they’re ecstatic you stayed as long as you did, waving you off with unsuspecting smiles. Then, before you know it, you’re in a taxi with Matty, your thigh pressed against his, one of his hands tracing a pattern into your skin. You crowd closer to him, struggling to breathe as lust swallows all the air between you.

He stays teasingly out of your reach, tutting softly when you chase his lips. “You promised to be good for me, princess,” he admonishes, trailing his hand further up your thigh. You obey, squirming as you fall back into your seat, his fingers cruelly close to where you need them. “Good girl. You want me to touch you?” Matty murmurs, leaning in to breathe the words against the shell of your ear, a shudder rolling up your spine at his closeness. You nod, bating your breath as his fingers find the wetness between your legs. “Nice and still for me, yeah, darling?”

Pleasure floods you when the pad of his finger finds your clit, the gentle scrape over your sensitive nerves somehow blinding, your hips rolling as you chase the sensation. “Matty, please,” you moan, pouting pathetically when he takes his hand away.

“You’re not being very good, love. Still, remember? You can sit and keep your hands to yourself until we get home, understand?” You nod, sinking back in your seat and sulking. “Don’t be a brat, princess,” Matty chides, closing his lips around his wet fingers, sucking your arousal off them with an exaggerated moan. “Just a few more minutes and I’ll give you what you need, yeah? Sweet, needy girl.”

You flush at the praise, at the way he can switch from gentle to commanding and back in a second. Your blood is thick with desire, heart working in overdrive to pump it through your body. Then, with no ceremony, the end of the most agonising minutes of your life is signalled by the crunching of gravel under tyres. Matty leads you into the house, his control on a tight leash until the door clicks shut behind you.

He all but slams you against it, crowding into your space, his breath hot on your lips. His smell of cigarettes and cologne envelops you, fills your lungs, dizzying and intoxicating. “Please?” you whine, and he finally, gloriously obliges. Your lips crash together, a messy slide of spit and teeth and tongue that leaves you bruised and begging.

Matty’s hands fall to your ass, squeezing hard at the soft flesh, pliant under his touch as his nails bite crescent-moons of desire into your skin. “Can you jump for me, baby?” he asks, breaking away from you just long enough to breathe the words against your lips. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, your dress hiked up so far that it bares your cunt as Matty grips you by the thighs.

Pleasure spreads slowly through you as you grind yourself against him, his lips falling to your neck as he carries you up the stairs, a squeal escaping you as he tosses you on the bed. He stands at the foot of the bed, breathing hard, greedily drinking in the sight of you. “Take that dress off. Now.” His tone leaves no room for argument, practically puppeteering you, expensive silk crumpled on the floor before you can even react. “Gorgeous,” Matty murmurs, one hand coming up to unbutton his shirt. “Can you touch yourself for me? Wanna see how to make you feel good.”

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the inches of skin being revealed, a covering dragged off a masterpiece. Dark ink peeks from the V of his shirt, dissonant from the toned, marble skin surrounding it. Impatient, you dip two fingers into yourself, the familiar stretch sending heat shooting up your spine. Gasping, you pinch at your clit, rolling it between two fingers, hips rocking as you moan wantonly up at him.

“Good girl. Does that feel good, princess?”

“Not as good as you,” you pout, fucking yourself desperately on your fingers. “Daddy,” you add, watching that final thread break, Matty’s eyes going dark as he collapses on the bed above you. He kicks off his trousers ungracefully, tugging your hand up to his lips.

His warm mouth closes around your fingers, sucking the taste of your desire off them with a moan. “Such a dirty little girl, dressed up all innocent like that when you just wanna be ruined by your fuckin’ Daddy.” His clothed cock grinds against your aching, soaked core, the contact achingly close to what you need, and yet agonisingly far. “You taste so good, angel. Want me to eat that sweet little pussy of yours?”

Your mind swims at the thought, his skilled, clever tongue buried between your legs, your hands tight in his curls as he devours you. But that isn’t what you need. You shake your head. “Want you to fuck me,” you say, the simmering well of desire endless in the pit of your stomach. “I need it. Please?”

“Oh, sweet girl,” Matty croons, shoving his boxers down his legs. You watch his cock spring free, thudding hot and sticky against his belly. “You want my fingers first, or can you take me all by yourself?”

The subtle condescension sets you on fire, liquefying your brain and sending it flooding down your spine, dripping out of you onto the mattress. You reach down, wrap your hand around him and pump slowly, swallowing his quiet hiss against your mouth. “I can take it, Daddy,” you promise, wide, innocent eyes turned on him.

The stretch when he enters you burns gloriously, your mouth falling open in a perfect, round ‘O’ of ecstasy. Matty fills you slowly, burying himself to the hilt, so deep that you can practically feel him rearranging your insides. “Such a good girl, takin’ all of me like this,” he praises. Discomposed, his accent thickens, rounding the vowels and blurring the ends of his words. Matty rocks his hips one shallow thrust striking a spot inside you that has your vision whiting out, ecstasy buzzing in your heavy limbs. “That felt good, huh? Yeah. I know, I know,” he soothes, swallowing your whines with wet, deliberate kisses, tongue sweeping every corner of your mouth and teeth grazing your lips.

Matty pulls almost all the way out of you, your body crying out at the loss, then slams his hips against yours so hard you see stars. “M-Matty, fuck,” you whimper, back arching desperately as he fucks you into the mattress, hard and fast, the obscene sound of skin meeting ringing out around you.

“Ah-ah. That’s not my name tonight, princess.”

His hips still, the waves of pleasure subsiding in punishment. “‘M sorry, Daddy,” you whine, bringing your hand down to rub at your clit, bright heat bursting between your legs.

“That’s it, angel,” Matty murmurs, pinching softly at your nipple with one calloused hand. “So beautiful all fucked out for me. I’m the only one who can get you like this, huh?”

Subtle jealousy hums in his tone, his kiss turning possessive as you writhe under him. “Yeah,” you whimper breathily. “Never had it this good before.” It’s not a lie. Your body feels at once wound into a coil and loose on your bones, the point where your hips meet your only anchor to your physical form.

Matty scoffs. “That’s because you’ve only fucked boys, princess. Never had a man before, have you?”

“N-no, Daddy,” you whine, rubbing frantically at your clit, Matty’s rhythmic groans warm against your lips.

His lips fall to your neck, kissing and biting against your tender skin, the scrape of teeth a flash of pain undercutting your desire but gentle enough not to bruise. “That’s right, baby. ‘M your fuckin’ Daddy. Wanna be my girl, huh? Could have you like this whenever you want, never let you worry about anything, ‘cept staying all pretty and cockdrunk for me.”

Oh, God. How does he know? Involuntarily, your legs wrap around his waist, the new angle rapturous as his thrusts continue, long and so deep you practically choke on them. “Mm-hmm. Yeah. Could just be your little toy, never think unless you told me to. Want that so bad, Daddy.”

Matty’s eyes light up, wide and liquid with desire, your heartbeat hammering in your cunt as it throbs around him. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs. “Sweet girl. You wanna be my dumb little slut, huh? Want Daddy to fuck you stupid, turn you into my pretty fucktoy?” The words turn you to liquid, dripping and sticky under his skilled hands. “Yeah, you do,” he grins, arrogant and cocksure, your mind melting into fantasies of being Matty’s kept girl, of bending over with a smile whenever he liked, of spending your days keeping yourself pretty for him, and your nights split open like this. “I can feel how bad you want that, your pretty cunt keeps squeezing me so fuckin’ tight, angel.”

“‘M close,” you whimper, the words choked from your closing throat, desire clamping down on your body like a vice.

“Good girl,” Matty whispers, one of his hands joining yours at your clit, the pressure suddenly dramatically intense, every nerve in your body firing as one. “Cum for me, angel,” he orders, and your body obeys.

You come unglued from yourself, feel it in your whole body, euphoria crushing the air from your lungs. Your cunt pulses, thumping a sick rhythm in tune with Matty’s thrusts into you. Barely conscious, you feel amorphous, a messy string of liquid desire more than a corporeal girl. WIth a final, low groan, Matty spills inside of you, painting your insides white.

A whine escapes you as he pulls out, the loss tangible in your heavy limbs. “Oh, I know, baby, I know,” he soothes, falling beside you and cupping your jaw to kiss you tenderly.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you murmur shakily, and a soft smile brushes at his lips.

“So polite,” he says reverently. “Such a good girl.”

You pout at him and drag two fingers through your slick, messy cunt, sucking the taste of both of you off your fingers. Matty gasps, eyes wide, and you smile around your wet fingers. “You want more, darling?”

You nod frantically, the fire under your skin still raging, ferocious and uncontrollable. Weakly, you lift your head, transfixed to where his cum trickles out of you, pooling white on the mattress. “We taste so good together,” you tell him, without taking your eyes off your ruined core. “Looks so good, your cum dripping out of me. Want you to finger it out of me. Please?” you add, pouting until he kisses you gently, breaking away to smile against your lips.

“Whatever you want, you’ll get, princess.” His fingers find your hole, teasing at you for a moment before toying with your sensitive clit, a stab of pleasure-pain winding sharply through you. “S’that sore, darling?”

“A bit,” you say, your body lax as he plays with you gently. All the urgency is gone now you’ve both come, the air honey-thick, your breathing slow and deliberate. “Feels good, though.”

Matty’s fingers are broad and thick as he pushes two of them inside you, your soaked cunt accepting him easily. He crooks his fingers, brushing that sweet spot that sets your nerves alight, and begins a slow rhythm. Lewd, wet sounds echo off the walls as you both watch his fingers disappear where you take him, cum leaking out around them.

An orgasm builds slowly at the base of your spine, your body jolting as Matty’s thumb comes up to circle over your clit. He swallows your sudden moan, languid kisses that have your eyes fluttering closed and let you fall into a daydream as he brings you closer.

“Mmm, can I cum again? Please?” you moan, hips rolling down to meet him. Pleasure swims hazy through your head, your blood syrup-thick and heavy with it.

“Can you hold it for a minute, baby? For me? Just wanna watch that pretty cunt of yours taking my fingers a little longer.” You whimper as he curls his long fingers inside of you, trembling with the effort of holding your orgasm at bay. “You make such pretty sounds, princess. Tell me who you belong to and I’ll let you cum, okay?”

“‘M yours, Daddy. Your good little girl,” you promise, words coming out slurred, your tongue too thick in your mouth.

“That’s right, baby,” Matty says, encouraging, grasping possessively at your hip. “All mine, yeah? Go on, princess. Cum,” he instructs, curling his fingers against your g-spot and rubbing a harsh circle into your clit in the same, breathless moment.

All the air crushes out of your lungs, white-hot pleasure melting your brain into liquid. Matty croons reassurances as you writhe under him, the thickness of his fingers visceral where you clench around him. You moan his name over and over in a litany, tasting something divine where the word spills from your lips.

You float back down to Earth, blissed-out and smiling, adoration in Matty’s gaze as he watches you. “There you are, sweet girl,” he grins, warm hand stroking gently up and down your side. “How do you feel?”

“God, incredible,” you answer, stretching back and luxuriating against his pillows. “Best fuck I’ve ever had,” you grin, watching his jaw clench at the reminder that you’ve fucked other people.

“Ruined you for other men, have I?” he says, smug smirk pulling at his lips.

“Other boys,” you correct airily. “Men like you know what they’re doing. Maybe you’ve given me a taste for it. Maybe I’ll fuck my way through the office, get all those men you see every day eating out of my hand.”

Matty practically snarls, silencing you with a harsh kiss. “Those fucking pricks couldn’t make you cum if their lives depended on it. Believe me, darling, I’m the best you’ll ever have,” he promises, and you give a quiet giggle. Your eyes are heavy even as electricity still buzzes under your skin, and you yawn, catlike, and settle against his bare chest. “Tired, angel?” he says, a hint of humour in his tone.

“Right shattered me, haven’t you?” you complain, swatting playfully at him. “Can I stay?”

“‘Course, darling. Long as you like,” Matty says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Want me to make you something to eat? Can’t have my girl going hungry after I’ve worn her out like that.” The casualness with which he flings the words my girl sends your heart racing, one of his hands coming up to cup your jaw then trailing up to play with your hair. It’s all so sickeningly domestic, more intimate than when he had you split open and dizzy under him.

“Sounds nice,” you say sleepily, but whine when he moves to get up.

You pout when Matty tugs on his discarded boxers, and he chuckles softly. “What?” he adds as your frown deepens, watching him pull on a pair of grey joggers.

“Was looking at you,” you say sulkily. “You have a cute ass.”

His head tips back as he laughs, baring the sloping column of his neck gorgeously, his curls bouncing with the movement. “Are you objectifying me?” he grins, mock-affronted.

“Yes,” you say immediately, sitting up and tracing your gaze deliberately over his chest, muscles rippling as he breathes. Your attention falls to the tattoo at his hip, half-hidden by his joggers, and the sudden need to taste the skin there overtakes you. “What else is a big, strong man like you good for? Fucking me right and cooking me dinner, and looking gorgeous doing it,” you tease, sucking in a sharp breath when he crosses the room in two strides and catches your jaw in a harsh grip.

“Don’t be a brat, princess. ‘Cause then I’ll have to show you what I’m fucking good for.”

“Okay,” you breathe against his lips, trailing your hand down his chest and thumbing over the tattoo, savouring the way Matty shudders under your touch.

The air under your hand goes cold as he steps away. “Needy girl,” he grins. “Food first, yeah? You want me to bring it up here? Serve my princess dinner in bed?” There’s that my again, one tiny, thoughtless syllable sending a thousand fantasies flickering behind your eyes. “Or do you wanna come down with me?”

You slip out from under the covers and set your feet on the floor, only for your knees to buckle when you try to stand. “Fucked me so good my legs don’t work,” you say with a weak laugh, smiling softly when Matty comes to fuss over you. “Can you carry me downstairs?”

“Here,” Matty says, handing you a shirt and boxers that are probably too small for him; they dwarf you, the shirt swallowing you while the boxers hang indecently low on your hips. At the sight of you in his clothes, he stops still, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply for a long moment. “Look fucking gorgeous wearing my clothes, darling. C’mere, I can carry you if you want,” he offers, scooping you into his arms.

Nestled happy against his warm, bare chest, you notice for the first time how fucking big his house is. It’s almost brutalist, but still homey, evidently lived-in. Framed photographs and prints litter the walls, slightly wilted flowers sitting in a vase atop a gorgeous upright piano.

“D’you play?” Matty asks, catching you admiring it.

“Since I was a kid. Do you?”

He huffs out a laugh above you. “You think I’d have a fifty grand piano sitting around that I don’t play?”

You shrug as best you can, still wrapped in his arms. “My parents have a baby grand that nobody played until I came along. It’s like a status symbol, or something, I dunno.”

“Yes, I play. The guitar too,” he adds, slowly strolling in the direction of the kitchen.

The realisation dawns on you, and your mouth drops in an ‘O’ of understanding. “So that’s why your hands are like that. I don’t know why I didn’t put that together. You’re hardly the type for hard labour.”

Matty laughs, setting you down on the kitchen counter. “You don’t know,” he teases, pressing a featherlight kiss against your cheek. “I could’ve been a mechanic in a past life.”

The thought of him, sweaty and dripping in grease, bending you over the hood of a car, makes your head spin, and he smirks as your jaw goes slack. “I wish,” you grin as he retrieves a pan from an upper cabinet, flexing the muscles in his back gratuitously with the movement. ement.

“What are you feeling like? Eggs? Pasta?” he offers, setting the pan on the stove.

You mull it over for a moment. “Can you make me French toast?”

“‘Course I can, baby.” You watch his hands as he cracks two eggs in a bowl, whisking them together with cinnamon and sugar. He steps between your legs as the bread sizzles in the pan with a healthy spoonful of melted butter, kissing at your neck and jaw. In the light, the fading hickeys scattered over your skin are visible, and he prods jealously at them. “Who gave you these?” he says, gravel in his voice.

Shrugging airily, you smirk up at him. “Some boy,” you tease, Matty’s nostrils flaring as he fights to control his reaction.

“Did he make you cum?” he asks, nails biting possessively into your hips.

“We didn’t get that far. Just made out on the couch. He was a good kisser, though.” At that, Matty captures your lips, kissing you slow and deep, the lingering taste of red wine filling your mouth. The kiss is hard, almost aggressive, like he’s trying to forcibly erase the memory of any kiss you’ve ever had. He bites gently at your lower lip as he pulls away, not hard enough to sting, but enough for you to read the message in the action. “Careful. Don’t burn my toast.”

A mumbled fuck makes you giggle, and he turns to flip the bread in the pan. “Don’t worry, angel. Still perfect.” He watches you as he speaks, wide brown eyes liquid and luminous, framed by delicate lashes.

Still, if he gets to be jealous, so do you. “Do you make midnight snacks for all the girls?” you ask, swinging your legs back and forth off the counter.

“Can’t say I do, darling.”

The implication of his words thuds hard in your chest, a warm flicker of hope striking to life like a match under your skin. “What’s so special about me?”

“Good girl like you deserves the princess treatment. ‘Specially from a dirty old man like me,” he grins, sliding your toast onto a plate. The sudden reminder of your age gap, of the scandal you’d cause if even a whisper of this got out, sends a shuddering thrill up your spine. Matty hands you the plate, topped with icing sugar and drizzled with syrup, and you tuck in eagerly.

He picks up a pack of cigarettes from the counter, eyebrows going up when you go to reach for one. “What? I’m not always a good girl.”

“Oh, I know, love,” Matty smirks, lit cigarette dangling indecently from his lips. “Can’t have you ruining your pretty lungs, though. Here,” he says, pulling deeply on the cigarette and then pressing his open mouth to yours. Grey smoke curls from your parted lips as you suck in the smoke greedily. He shotguns you half the cigarette, your head light as the nicotine buzz hits.

You drink in the sight of him as you eat, taking advantage of the light to appreciate the finer details of him. The gentle glow of the cigarette where it sits between his plush, pink lips, the joggers obscenely low on his hips, the V of muscle that points tantalisingly down, a light trail of hair disappearing into his waistband.

“You wanna go back to bed, angel?” Matty smirks, the air between you shifting as he meets your gaze, eyes darkened.

You scoff. “Bed’s boring. You have this whole fucking house, and you wanna take me back to bed?”

Matty crowds close to you, stealing a kiss and dropping to his knees. “Alright, princess.” His fingers dig into your hips as he eases his boxers off you, dipping his head to kiss at your bare thighs. A filthy smirk spreads wide across his lips as he looks up at you. “You’ve eaten. Now it’s my turn,” he promises, and your giggle turns to a moan when his tongue meets your centre.

He devours you like he’s been starved, lapping at your still-soaked cunt in a toe-curling rhythm. A sudden flash of pleasure-pain strikes sharply where his teeth scrape at the tender flesh of your thigh, sucking and biting hard enough to bruise. A quiet moan tumbles from your lips, and you squeeze your thighs around his head to urge him back to your cunt. Obediently, he wraps his lips around your clit, the pressure at your sensitive bundle of nerves making your head spin. “C’mon, princess. You make such pretty sounds, I know you can be louder than that.”

Matty sets a dizzying pace, tongue-fucking you with fervour. Burying your hands in his hair, you shift so you can rest your legs over his shoulders, the new angle letting him drive his tongue even deeper inside you. Heat roils in your belly, winding around your organs, entangling sweetly with your veins. “Fuck,” you whimper, rolling your hips against his face wantonly. “Feels s’good, Daddy,” you moan out, gasping as Matty curls his tongue perfectly inside you, white-hot pleasure buzzing up your spine.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs and tilts his head up to look at you, his lips and chin practically dripping with your slick. He sucks another bruise into your sensitive skin, kissing over the mark apologetically. Your skin is on fire, tension pulling tight in all your limbs at once. “Taste so fucking good,” he moans, kissing softly at your cunt, his laugh ghosting over your skin as you flutter needily in response. “Could spend the rest of my fuckin’ life between these pretty thighs, darling.”

Your head is hazy, barely coherent thoughts drifting in and out, an incomprehensible plea falling from your lips. Matty won’t let you get complacent with a rhythm, switching between broad, flat strokes over your cunt, deep thrusts into you and sucking on your clit so fast it deliriates you. “‘M close,” you whine, tugging hard on his curls as ecstasy builds at the base of your spine. “Wanna cum for you,” you add, a hint of begging in your tone.

“Say please, darling.” The words vibrate gloriously in your cunt, a shock of pleasure rolling over you.

“Please, Daddy, I wanna cum. Need it so bad,” you plead, whimpering when he scrapes his teeth over your clit, fighting to hold your orgasm at bay until he gives you permission.

“Go on, princess. Cum for Daddy, yeah?” The words are all you need, a string of obscenities interspersed with breathless moans of his name tumbling from your lips as pure euphoria overtakes you. Hot pleasure cascades over you, racing down your spine and along every nerve in your body. You writhe against Matty’s mouth, half-convinced you’ve left your body behind, made of pure sensation.

Boneless, you slump backward, sure you could fall asleep on the cool granite of Matty’s kitchen counter. He catches you, steadying, and gathers you back into his arms. “Thank you, Daddy,” you smile up at him, curling into his chest.

The thump of his heartbeat is soothing as he picks you up again. “Such a good girl,” he murmurs fondly. “Now do you want me to take you back to bed?” he adds, grinning teasingly. He carries you back to his room, laying you softly against the pillows and pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Just need you awake for a few more minutes, sweetheart. Need to get you cleaned up, then you can sleep, yeah?” He’s so tender, speaking softly and petting your hair for a moment before he fetches a damp cloth. Running it softly over you, he makes soothing sounds at your pained whimpers. “I know, baby, I know. ‘M sorry. Just a little more, okay?”

You’re half-asleep by the time Matty climbs into bed with you, sweeping your hair off the back of your neck and kissing softly at the skin there. An arm drapes over your waist, the pressure warm and soothing. “I wanna be your girl,” you mumble, more than half-asleep, barely conscious of the words as they slip unbidden from your lips. You’re unconscious before you hear his reply.

You’re sore in the morning, momentarily disoriented by the weight of a body in bed with you, before last night comes flooding back and you smile to yourself. “Morning, princess,” Matty murmurs, voice low and sleep-thick in your ear.

“Good morning,” you smile, stretching out your muscles and arching your back. Matty hisses as your ass meets his hips, his hardness pressing against you. “Oh, very good morning, hm?” Turning to face him, you reach down, slipping your hand under his waistband to palm his cock. He twitches under your touch, a sleepy moan falling from his lips as he rolls his hips into your hand. “Wanna suck your cock,” you murmur, his reaction visceral in your palm.

“Such a sweet girl,” he says, sliding his boxers off as you climb over him. You kiss his neck, the hollow of his throat, working your way down his chest. Indulgently, you bite a bruise into his chest, a twin to the ones that litter your thighs. You trace your tongue over the tattoo at his hip, his body shuddering at the sensation. His cock twitches against your lips as you press a kiss to the head, the taste of salt filling your mouth when you lick your lips.

You mouth at him teasingly for a moment, needy whines filling the air above you. Having power over him this time is intoxicating, and you hold his hips down as he tries to thrust into your mouth. “Not so fast,” you grin. “Keep still and hands to yourself, remember?” Matty swears softly as you repeat his words back to him, hands fisting in the sheets.

Teasing him for a few more moments, you kiss at his lower belly, smirking as he trembles under your lips, cock drooling. The moan Matty lets out when you wrap your lips around the head of his cock is obscene, low and keening, and you dip your head to take him in deeper. “That’s it,” he murmurs, threading a hand gently in your hair. “C’mon, sweet girl, just a little further. I know you can take it, angel.” The encouragement sends a shudder through you, liquid pleasure pooling between your thighs.

Obediently, you relax your throat, sinking further until your nose meets his skin. “Good girl,” Matty says. “Good fucking girl, takin’ me so well. So fuckin’ pretty all stretched out around my cock.” Saliva pools under your tongue, dripping helplessly from the corners of your mouth. “Fuck,” he groans, thrusting gently into your mouth. “Such a pretty slut, fuckin’ drooling on my cock.”

You pull off him, a string of saliva connecting your skin for a split-second. “‘M your slut, Daddy. Can go harder, if you want,” you say, wrapping your hand around his cock, spit-soaked and dripping, and pump slowly. You lave at him for a moment, licking messy stripes over his cock before taking him all the way in one motion.

Matty groans, bucking his hips. “You want me to fuck your pretty mouth, huh, angel?” His hand tightens in your hair as he thrusts into your mouth, the stretch in the corners of your mouth gorgeous.

“You can do better than that,” you murmur. “Want it hard. I won’t break. Unless you want me to,” you add with a grin, moaning around his cock as you swallow him back down. Finally, gloriously, Matty fucks into your mouth, sets a deep, punishing pace. He pulls you by your hair, the sting in your scalp divine as he uses you; you let yourself slip out of your body, sinking into the warm, fuzzy feeling of being his toy.

“That’s right, baby. Fucking made to take my cock, yeah? Good little girl just wants to be Daddy’s cocksleeve.” The filthy words wash over you, thighs clenching as arousal thrums low in your belly. Wetness pools between your legs and you slip a hand down your body to rub at your clit. The soft spark of pleasure grants you the briefest relief, and you moan around his cock. He’s losing control, the movement of his hips turning sloppy as your throat burns raw. “Fuck,” Matty hisses. “Gonna cum, angel.”

“You wanna cum in my mouth?” He nods, transfixed by your flushed skin and spit-slick lips. “Say please, Daddy.”

He moans, long and low, as you take him back in your mouth, swallowing around him. “C’mon, princess, I wanna cum in that pretty mouth of yours. Fuck, I need it.” He fucks your throat wildly, heat firing through your body, sensation cascading over you. “Please?” The word sounds delicious falling from his lips, sliding sweetly across your brain as you moan around him. With a final groan, he spills in your mouth, a cry of your name tearing from his throat. His cock pulses in your throat, the salt of him filling your mouth as you swallow obediently. “That’s it, take it all. Such a good little cumdump for me, princess.”

You pull off him, sitting back on your heels with a grin. “Did I do good?” you ask, pouting down at him.

You’re only teasing, but when Matty meets your gaze, chest heaving and eyes lidded, and murmurs, “So good, princess.” A gush of heat floods between your sticking thighs. “Where’d my good girl learn to suck cock like that?”

Falling back onto his chest, you give him a wicked smirk. “I told you already, Daddy.” You shift your hips, grinding your soaked cunt against his cock and whining at the soft buzz of pleasure that lights under your skin. “I’m not always a good girl.”

He groans, rolling his hips against yours. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me, baby.”

You giggle, pressing a kiss to the tattoo in the centre of his chest. “The elderly and their weak hearts,” you scoff, hissing when he pinches the flesh of your ass.

“Oi. Be nice.” Rolling your eyes dramatically, you mime zipping your lips. His fingers wander between your legs, anticipation thrilling under your skin as he finds your clit, the rough pad of his finger scraping against your sensitive nerves. “So wet, princess. Does being my little cocksleeve turn you on, baby?”

“Mhmm,” you murmur. “Feel a bit gross right now, though. I wanna shower first.” Matty grins, a vision of you naked and dripping wet from the shower playing out so clearly on his face that you can practically see it reflected in his eyes.

You hop up on the bathroom counter as Matty runs the shower, rinsing your mouth out with mouthwash and leaning over the sink to spit it out. Matty does the same, then steps between your legs, and you cross them instinctively behind his back. He catches your lips, mint taste mingling in your breaths as you kiss open-mouthed, hot and messy. Distracted, you lose yourself in the kiss, forgetting why you’re in the bathroom at all until the air is thick and cloying with steam.

Matty breaks away from you and helps you to your feet, tugging his shirt up over your head and discarding it to the floor. He can’t resist a greedy handful of your tit, gazing down to where the flesh spills over his fingers. “Pretty girl,” he murmurs, walking you backwards until you’re stepping into the shower.

You pull him under the spray, curls sticking to his forehead as the water soaks him. His hands trail over your body, grasping at your wet flesh as you press yourself needily against him. His cock is hard against your belly, heat pooling in your core as he pulls you in for a wet kiss. Matty grips your thighs, your head spinning as his tongue sweeps your mouth. “Jump up for me, sweet girl,” he says against your lips. “I’ll catch you, don’t worry.” Something in your chest catches as he smiles earnestly down at you, and you force it down before it bubbles out of control and something incriminating slips from your lips.

Obediently, you jump up, your legs tangling around Matty’s waist as he crowds you against the shower tile, his nails biting at your thighs where he holds you in place. You moan against his mouth as you grind your hips down against his stomach, a soft buzz of pleasure growing where your skin meets his. “Daddy, please. Want your cock,” you whine, steam curling around your bodies as you grasp weakly at his wet skin.

He laughs softly against your lips, angling your hips carefully as he lines up his cock. Torturously slow, he lowers you down, pleasure rolling hot under your skin from the point where his hips meet yours. Your cunt throbs, stretched wide around him as Matty moans against your neck. “God, this fucking cunt drives me crazy. Made for this,” he groans as he bottoms out, hips flush under the warm spray of the shower.

“C’mon,” you whimper, clenching your cunt around him and rolling your hips. “Fuck me. I need it,” you beg, scraping your nails down his back.

His cock twitches inside you, the barest flicker of sensation sending a pulse of heat thrumming under your skin. “Needy girl,” he says, clicking his tongue condescendingly.

“Please, Daddy,” you moan, writhing in his arms, the plea on your lips breaking into a whine as he pushes into you agonisingly slow. Your head thuds back against the tile as your eyes slip closed, hot pleasure coiling between your legs as you clench your cunt around him.

Matty groans as he bottoms out, your legs locked around his waist as you pant into his mouth. “God, takin’ me so well, princess. Look so beautiful while I’m fucking you like this, fuck,” he praises, his words sending heat rushing to your cheeks. His head falls to suck and bite at the flesh of your tits, pain blooming into bliss under your skin as he fucks into you slowly.

You moan desperately, scrambling for purchase against his wet skin. “More, harder, please,” you whimper, rocking your hips as arousal pools in your cunt and drips out over him. He laughs darkly, and you shudder slightly, wondering what you’ve let yourself in for.

“Harder, huh?” he murmurs into your neck. “Whatever you want, princess.” It’s the only warning you get before he lifts you and slams you down on his cock, your hips meeting hard as he strikes deep inside you. He fucks you wildly, the slick heat of his body pinning you to the wall as he mouths at your neck, his breath hot on your skin. Incoherent moans fall from your lips, your head hazy and distant, pleasure welling hot under your skin.

His lips come up to cover yours, swallowing your wanton moans greedily, the faint taste of mint on his tongue as he licks into your mouth. “God, such a good girl,” he murmurs. “Wish you could see yourself, baby. Such a pretty little cocksleeve for me.” Arousal drips between your legs, mingling with the water soaking you, your cunt throbbing at his words. “You like that, princess?” he asks with a soft laugh, subtle derision cascading down your spine. “Little slut. Wanna be Daddy’s pretty toy, yeah?”

You whine, nails digging into his shoulders. His rhythm doesn’t slow, your grip on sanity slackening with every pulse of heat in your cunt. “‘M yours, Daddy,” you manage to get out around broken moans.

“That’s right, princess.” He’s practically dragging you up and down on him, using you like you really are a toy. “Gonna be a good girl and cum for Daddy, hm?” Your legs tighten around Matty’s waist as one of his hands leaves your hip to play with your clit. The rough scrape of his calloused finger over your sensitive bundle of nerves is too much, and it barely takes another minute before your world shatters.

Your scream echoes off the tile, cunt pulsing as your blood burns with ecstasy. Heat floods every nerve in your body, bone-deep pleasure swelling under your skin, incessant gasps and whines falling from your lips. Matty’s brutal pace never slows, chasing his own pleasure, silencing your whines with his mouth as you squirm against the overstimulation. “‘M almost there, baby. Just a little more, takin’ it so well, princess,” he assures you, rhythm sloppy and faltering as he gets closer. Your name spills from his lips in a groan as he pulses inside you, ropes of cum dripping sticky down your insides.

“Fuck,” you murmur, whining as he pulls out and gingerly setting a leg on the floor, testing whether they can hold your weight. Matty’s hands hover at your waist, ready to catch you if you slip, and you stretch up to press a grateful kiss to his lips.

Matty pulls you fully under the shower, reaching for a bottle of shower gel and soaping his hands. “Feeling good?” he says, cocky smirk playing on his lips.

“Mhmm,” you sigh happily, settling against his chest as he runs his hands slow and tender over your body. In your blissed-out state, you barely notice your next words as they slip from your lips. “Wish it could be like this all the time.”

Matty croons softly, brushing a thumb over your nipple and kneading at your tit. “Wanna be my sweet girl forever, hm? I’d love that, princess,” he murmurs, the fantasy rooting in your mind despite how obscenely ridiculous the idea is — you’ve barely known him a week, for Christ’s sake. Something about him makes you feel safe, though, secure. Like you’ve known him for years — although, maybe not, given the circumstances. A moan slips from your lips when Matty digs his thumbs into your back, working the tension free from under your skin as your eyes slip happily closed. He cleans your cunt gently, smirking at the cum stringing between his fingers and swirling down the drain. “Can I wash your hair?” he offers with a soft smile.

Your chest feels distended, bloated with an affection you know you shouldn’t be feeling as you nod, the scent of his shampoo maddeningly comforting, sickeningly familiar. Matty’s skilled fingers work over your scalp, a quiet kind of bliss rolling over you as you relax into his touch. Stepping out of the shower, your hair scrunched up in an old t-shirt of his that he swore he didn’t care about getting ruined, you can’t hold back a pout when he wraps a towel around his waist. “Hey, no, what do you think you’re doing?” you gasp, suddenly distracted as Matty starts to bring a towel up to his hair. Puzzled, he stares at you blankly as you snatch it from his grip. “Gonna ruin those pretty curls if you keep doing that,” you tut. “Here, sit down. Let me spoil you for a second, okay?” You’ve never felt so cared for by one of your hookups, even by some of your boyfriends, so you seize a chance to return the favour.

Obligingly, he sits on the closed toilet seat, letting you advance on him with a tub of obscenely expensive hair gel. He smiles softly, leaning involuntarily into your touch as you twist his curls around your fingers, defining them neatly and admiring the way they bounce back on themselves. You straddle his lap to scrunch the gel into his hair, batting his hand away when he tries to grab your tit. “Behave,” you chide, laughing and stepping away to take in your handiwork. With his hair loose and framing his face sweetly, he looks younger, more innocent, a far cry from the man calling you a pretty little cocksleeve not even half an hour ago.

“What are you thinkin’ about, darling?” Matty murmurs, searching gaze heavy on your bare skin.

You blink, shaking your head as if to clear it. “Just about how I could really go for that breakfast in bed right now,” you grin, teasing to alleviate the intensity in the air between you.

He huffs a laugh. “Think it might be closer to lunch by now,” he smirks. “How about I do you one better? Let me take you out for lunch, yeah?”

Your jaw hangs open in shock. Of all the ways you were expecting this to end, this wasn’t it. “Like… like a date?” A date means something, means being seen together in public, means being more than just a dirty little secret.

“Yeah, princess. Like a date.” He smiles fondly. “Here, I’ll call you a car. You go home, get changed, and I’ll pick you up in an hour, okay?” Instinctively, you nod, his tone leaving no room for argument even if you’d wanted to. You open your mouth to ask how he knows where you live, the answer coming to you with sudden, shocking clarity. Right. Because he’s your father’s boss.

Well, fuck. That certainly complicates things.

…But it’s not like complicated has ever stopped you before.

#the instalove is instaloving STRONG here loool #why is this longer than my Actual Novel that im writing so far #matty healy x reader #matty healy smut #matty healy imagine #matty healy #the 1975 smut #the 1975 fanfic #the 1975 #writing #smut #white and gold

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kentopedia · 1 year ago

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my girl dad dazai post but now i’m thinking abt pm boss dazai as a dad …

he knows the mafia is no place for a child, but then you get pregnant, and he realizes just how badly he does wants to be a dad (even if he thinks he’ll bad at it)

he swears to himself he’ll protect her from all the bad things in the world, but it’s not just him … she’s got everyone in the port mafia wrapped around her little finger. so dazai feels a little better, knowing he’s got a handful of the most powerful ability users looking out for her <3

and she can get away with anythinggg. there is a lot of “just don’t tell your mom” happening (from dazai & everyone else). she loves that everyone has a special ability, but chuuya’s is her favorite bc he can float anything ! and she is dazai’s child so don’t doubt she is a menace !! if chuuya won’t fly her in the air, she’ll start tearing up bc she knowssss it makes him feel bad >:)

dazai has a lot going on with the port mafia, but nothing is more important than you and his daughter. he puts everything aside for the two of you !! the most devoted husband and father

dazai stops, mid sentence, looking up at the sound of the door slamming shut, little footsteps sprinting across the room. he’s in the meeting room with the execs, discussing the foreseeable future of the mafia.

“daddy! daddy!” she shouts, running with something waving wildly in her hand. you’re two steps behind, her but she’s far too quick, too excited about her newest creation to stop. “look what i made!”

and though dazai is in the middle of an important meeting, his entire body language changes, and he’s turning towards the little girl, a big smile on his face. “what did you make today, cutie?” he asks, picking her up to pull into his lap.

“mommy showed me how to paint!” she shoves the canvas into his hand, a proud grin on her face as dazai brushes away her tangled hair. “look! it’s all of us!” she says, but her l’s still sound a little like w’s, and dazai can’t help but marvel at the fact that this sweet little girl has been raised by him.

she points to herself, a stick figure with an odd-shaped head, and nothing more than two lines of dark hair. “that’s me! and there’s you and mommy!” there’s a heart painted between your heads, and it makes dazai melt, the fact that even your daughter can see all the love you have for each other.

he wants to kiss you so badly, overwhelmed by affection for the two most important people in his life.

but then his little girl is pointing to a chaotic block of red and black, painted in splatters in the corner of the canvas. “and there’s uncle chuuya!”

dazai stares at it, blinks, then bursts into a fit of laughter that has his stomach aching. there’s a little hat on top of the mess of paint, and it sends dazai into another spiral.

“let me see that!” chuuya says, grumbling as he snatches the canvas out of dazai’s hand.

“what?” your daughter asks, frowning as she pokes her dad in the face, trying to get him to stop his laughter. “is it bad, uncle chuu?”

and chuuya, who previously had a grumpy expression, softens, not wanting to break the poor girl’s heart. “no, it’s real good,” he promises, even if he’s a bit offended by the portrayal, when she made her own family look so sweet. “it looks just like me!”

dazai chokes, but finally stops laughing to himself when you flick the back of his head.

“yay!” your daughter says, throwing her arms up high, grinning at chuuya’s praise. she’s so adorable that dazai has half a mind to squeeze her tight and never let her go. “see, mommy i told you they’d like it!”

you sigh, and take her from dazai’s arms. “you were supposed to show them after the meeting.” she’s still making grabby hands at her dad as you hold her, a pout forming while she squirms in your arms, trying to escape. “sorry, ‘samu. i know you’re busy today.”

dazai leans up, standing halfway out of his chair to kiss the frown off your face. “don’t apologize, darling.” he caresses your cheek softly, before looking back at his daughter, who just wants to be nosy and listen in to the adult conversations. “i always have time for my two favorite girls.”

you smile, softening as dazai ruffles his daughter’s hair.

“i want to stay here with you!” the little girl says, and dazai laughs, closing up her fists with his palm gently as she tries to climb onto him.

“i’ll be done in just a little bit, sweetie. then, how about we have a tea party? i’ll go get you some ice cream too! but you have to listen to your mom until then, okay?”

“i’ll listen, i promise!” she squeals in excitement, and then sobers, leaning back into your arms with a serious expression. “can you bring a special guest again? maybe akutagawa this time? he hasn’t been to a tea party yet!”

dazai’s lip twitches, but he doesn’t let the smile break free. still, the mere thought of akutagawa pouring tea for his daughter is enough to have him complying with her wishes. “sure, honey. i think i can arrange that.”

#guys idk whats going on with me #i do not have baby fever ! i do not want a child rn !#but i keep thinking of dazai being a dad and i’m like #yeah let me give him a baby right !!! now !!!!#sigh #osamu dazai x reader #dazai x reader #dazai fluff #xoxo rylie 💌 ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆#dazai x fem reader #xoxo rylie 💌 ⋆ ˚｡⋆

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keyaho · 2 months ago

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.summary: terry and blaire are in shambles while aaron and brennan make things more official. .word count: 6k+ .co-writter: @zillasvilla

Blaire stood in front of her vanity toying with the zipper on her dress. The white dress was covered in red and blue flowers. She accented it with red jewelry and heels. Even Noah’s outfit for Sunday service matched. A red button up polo shirt and tan slacks. She had blown her hair out, the kinky texture creating volume. One side was pinned back in a twist.

As she was getting dressed, Noah’s father, Terry, was getting him ready. He had brought over his clippers and it was his first big boy haircut. For the past seven years she kept Noah’s hair braided and she’d miss the way he fell asleep in her lap while she did his hair. He was already asking to spend more and more time with his Dad.

Another frustrated grunt fell from her glossed lips as she tried pulling up the zipper, but once again, it caught on the inner fabric. She rolled her eyes and held the dress as she walked down the hall towards Noah’s room. Blaire could hear them talking and she called out to them as she came into their line of sight.

Terry wasn’t dressed. His slacks were on and so were his shoes, but he was shirtless, holding their son’s head still as he lined up the back. Blaire looked at the sink. Her son’s curls in a dark brown pile. She turned around, the tears forming in her eyes. She hadn’t wanted to cry over his first hair cut, but seeing his hair gone sent her over the edge.

Noah looked at his Dad after seeing his Mom walk back to her room. He knew she was going to cry over his hair.

“Mommy cries a lot,’ Noah says.

Terry stopped cutting and straightened up. “What do you mean?”

”She cries a lot?” Noah wasn’t sure what else to say. “Sometimes I can hear her in her room.” He shrugged.

Terry finished up Noah’s haircut and sent him to the kitchen for breakfast. Terry walked down the hall towards the main bedroom, where he used to lay his head. The door was cracked and he looked in to see Blaire trying to tug the zipper on her dress. Every now and then she’d sniffle; a sign she had been crying. He pushed open the door and slowly walked in. It was still decorated the same, earth tones. There was more green though he noticed. The wall behind her bed was painted in a rich emerald. The four poster bed was draped in green and brown sheets. There was a thick white comforter on top and tucked in between the pillows was a Lambchop puppet she had since she was a kid. It never left their bedroom. Her. Her bedroom.

“You’re going to rip it,’ Terry whispers, coming up behind her to still her hands. She avoided his gaze as he looked at her in the mirror. “Blaire,’

"Not, now, Terry.”

He placed one hand on her hip while the other zipped the dress easily. She moved to step away but he stopped her. His hands pulling her hips backwards.

“Just listen to me, please,’ he asked. When she didn’t move he came to stand in front of her, his hands still holding her.

There were moments when she trusted him enough to touch her, because he was quick to drop those hands where they shouldn’t be. However, when he wanted to be serious they stayed on her hips. He needed physical contact.

“I miss my wife.”

This had been the longest they went without being under the same roof. Yeah he was kicked to the couch a few times, or the guest room, but when she asked him to leave the house he knew he had fucked up royally. It’s been almost a year of him renting an apartment because she didn’t want him in the house. Not while he was still entertaining Summer from Rebel Ridge. And it was never like that. Blaire knew about his issue down there and what happened to Summer. She was a recovering drug user and he felt like he had to keep an eye on her. So much that it came between him and Blaire.

“You haven’t divorced me and I think that’s because you miss me too.”

Terry read her face and could see the truth in her eyes. He hadn’t been the only one to notice how they started to gravitate towards each other again. It wasn’t awkward at family dinners or when they had to sit beside each other. In fact, he had been able to rest his hand on her thigh. He remembered her curling her hand around his while she ate. Those moments of tenderness he missed.

She hadn’t worn her wedding ring in months. Her hand felt light and odd without it. He still wore his. It hurt him a little to know he had upset her to that point, but she never explained how she was feeling so he was in the dark on what he himself had done. He apologized over and over to her, but he didn’t know what was holding her away from him.

“Noah,’ she begins, shifting the focus to their son as she always did.

“I’m talking about you. Noah is good. You’re not.”

Blaire scoffs. “What are you talking about?”

Terry got closer and her hands fell on his thick biceps. She could still feel the heat from his body and the bare skin was smooth to the touch, like it always was. He smelled good. He always smelled good. Blaire found herself relaxing in his arms, his scent, and the feel of his thick body against hers. He smelled like oak and pine, the outdoors, and something smokey. It was like smelling the earth after it rained. Terry knew just what to do to get her guard down. She let him do it every time. His hands rubbed her sides, pulling her back from the brink of crying again. She was such a crybaby.

“There’s my girl,’ he coos. “Tell me why you’ve been crying.”

“You need….,’ she stuttered, ‘you need to put on a shirt.”

He let her go with a smile, but grabbed her hand as he was walking away. She followed him to the guest room and he made her sit on the bed while he finished getting ready. They could hear the tv going and knew Noah was waiting for them. As he did every Sunday.

Terry was up to one night a weekend and he always picked Sunday night to stay over. It allowed him to see Noah off to school at the start of the week and he felt Sunday’s gave him more time with Blaire.

“Why are you sitting there like that,’ he asked, frowning as she picked at the hem of her dress.

She looked up and shrugged. “Because whenever you sat me on the bed you were scolding me for something. Acting like my damn daddy,’ she mumbled.

Terry had been over protective since the day they met. He walked on the side of street when they were out, he opened her doors, held her hand when she wore heels because he knew she got tired, his jacket was hers while he was drenched in the rain, the list went on and on. Terry was what social media called a ‘traditional man’ or ‘masculine’ by their gendered stereotypes. Full on Daddy kink with him and he took it seriously. Despite all that, and despite her own independence, she liked that he made her feel helpless, she just hated when that turned into hopelessness.

Blaire could go get all the jars in the kitchen and he’d stand there and open them for her, but she couldn’t tell him how much he had actually hurt her seven years ago.

“Don’t leave out how much of a brat you can be.” He tsks.

Blaire watched him pull a blue shirt from the closet, the material was stretchy but if it was the shirt she bought him, then it wasn’t going to stretch much. That shirt was sized perfectly. He slipped his arms into it with his back to her. She watched him tuck the shirt in and add a belt.

Terry was rough around the edges. Always had been. He played football in high school, went to the Marines right after, she knows he does a few classes at the YMCA for boxing and still keeps up with his jiu jitsu training. When he wasn’t at those places he was hauling concrete slabs and shit with her father. He was blue collar through and through and at one point him coming home was the highlight of her day. She didn’t mind working and coming home to cook for him. He made her feel safe enough to do it. He never took advantage of it and when he would come home to her having forgot or was behind he’d step in and do it.

Terry was damn near perfect. Except he was so damn helping. His morality being his vice. He would stretch himself thin trying to help and it would push her away.

“I can’t begin to fix what I broke if you won’t tell me, dushi.”

“We don’t have time before Church to talk about this.” Blaire stood up and headed for the door.

Terry would normally let her go, to not stir up another fight, but he was tired of her running. In a few strides he was in front of her, closing the door.

“You can’t keep running from this Blaire.”

“I’m not running.”

Terry rolled his eyes. “We’re going to have this talk tonight. Or,’ he sighed.

Blaire leaned back from him, crossing her arms at this point. “Or what?”

“I’m done. No matter how much I miss you, if we can’t clear this up, I’m done.”

The light from beneath their door shined through the cracks and her soft humming filled his ears. Aaron groans while stretching out his legs and swinging them over the bed. The morning sun was starting to peek through the windows as he squinted. He could feel when she wasn’t in bed, her side having been cold for a while. He reached for his glasses, the thin frames sitting on his nose as he stood up and stretched.

He sifted through large brown moving boxes–some of them labeled as clothes or shoes. They had yet to finish unpacking, living out of boxes in the shared bedroom. He and Brennan had been together for three years before finally moving in together. He finds what he needs in one of the smaller boxes, while picking his phone up. He checked his messages while peeking through the small crack of the bathroom. Her rich complexion shines in the mirror. Brennan’s hands were working the small black flat iron over a small section of hair.

Aaron: Come do Bre’s hair in two hours Nique: It's 4 in the morning. You're not about to sweat out her hair. Aaron: I will pay you. Nique: Text me a time.

Aaron shakes his head while putting his glasses back on the dresser. Her soft humming gets louder as he walks in the bathroom. Her eyes found him through the mirror.

“Gud mɔnin, ɔni”.

Aaron’s morning voice was something Brennan had to get used to. It was deeper, raspier, and certain words just came out in that thick Krio accent that he husked in ear on the nights she used to stay in his town home.. Aaron’s lips leaned over to kiss her cheek. Brennan relaxes against him as his arms circled around her waist. This was their first Sunday morning together. They were used to parting ways the night before or she was already at her mom’s place. Aaron had become a nice change to her morning routine, usually sitting up with her, a book in hand while she did her morning routine–stealing quick kisses here and there.

“What I say about talkin’ to me like that.”

Aaron only speaks in Krio when he wants to fluster her. She had learned what a few words meant.

“Oni.” Honey.

Brennan’s fingertips stroke lightly on his arms, the pads of them rubbing along the visible veins. The time on her phone reads four-thirty. Service started at 11, and she knew her momma was gonna have some words if they didn’t make it on time. She bites her lip. “Service starts at eleven, baby.”

Aaron turns his head into her neck, pressing soft gentle kisses along the length of it. “Mhm. then why are you up so early?” Her hair was already down, Nique had come over the day before and blown and pressed her hair–and here she was going over it when she didn't have to. He preferred it in its natural state, loving the way her curls bounced and framed around her face.

“You know how my hair is.” Her eyes closed at the feeling while he opened his eyes to watch her in the mirror. The curves of her body, and the swell of her breast covered in a thin silk material that stopped mid thigh. Her breast jiggled beneath the dress, he could see the outline everytime she moved. “Can’t be late for Church either.”

“We're making a baby.” Just as quick as he turned her around, he had her sitting on the sink, pushing his way between her thighs and making the nightdress bunch at the waist. His green eyes scanned over her features with a bit of his lip.

“Aaron.” She feels his fingers sneak up the material, his hands warm against her skin. She leans forward to wrap her arms around his neck.

7:30

Aaron sat up against the headboard with different hair products scattered around him as he adjusted Brennan's head in his lap. Their early morning session led to her hair getting wet in the shower. He had already texted a friend to come fix it, but decided to speed up the process by helping her blow dry and braid it. Brennan comfortably fell asleep during the process as his thick greased fingers parted and braided the last side of her head.

He would've been done sooner but he found himself watching her sleep; the rise and fall of her back, the way her nose and eyebrows scrunch together when she was dreaming about something. How she let out soft whines when he moved to grab some more grease into his fingers.

Her hair soft between his fingers was braided down to the crown of her head He secured the last braid to the others with a clear rubber band.

“Didn’t I just do your hair?” Dominique asks. She had come over to fix her hair-having seen the braid down Aaron did, she sped through securing the wig for her. She spoke through the comb between her teeth. Her right hand held onto bonding spray–the left covered her eyes as she shook the can and sprayed wig glue across the wig cap.

“A-a-ron thought it be a good idea to fuck in the shower.” Aaron in the guest room taking a shower. They had set up in the dining room–the only room set up with higher chairs. They only had an hour before they had to leave and now she was rushing to finish.

“And you let him?” While she let Brennan’s hair air dry a little, she put up the stuff she brought, leaving out what she would need to style her hair.

Brennan bites her lip, watching her face through the decorative mirror that she finally unpacked and made her Dad put up for her..

“Well this is our first morning in our first house.” Brennan was sentimental–everything always had a meaning for her and Aaron being the sappy man he was fed into that shit. The two were joined at the hip.. Dominique didn’t understand why they were hiding it.

“Girl.” Dominique shakes her head–she has a blow dryer in hand on high heat to speed the drying process.

“What?” She bites back a smile.

“You and him might as well be married.” She finishes, sectioning off the hair to curl the ends. “That man ain’t letting you go any time soon.” Dominique was the only one outside of her family that knew the two of them were really together–catching them both at the gas station down the street from Melanin Preparatory Academy.

Brennan stood between him and the car while he pumped gas in her car. His free hand rested on her hip as they talked–Brennan hid a smile behind the drink she was holding, whatever he was saying to her had her flustered. She had never seen Brennan so soft.

“Kinda don’t want him to.” Brennan bites her lip.

Aaron had walked into the room fully dressed. He was simple when it came to fashion–especially when it came to church. The brown turtleneck shirt fitting loose around his frame-larger sizes gave his arms room to flex. A pair of black dark washed jeans that stacked a little at the ankles. She caught a whiff of the cologne he was wearing. Clive Christian. The wood spiced scent made her wonder who else he was trying to smell good for. He glances at her frowning face with a chuckle.

He sets down their coffee to walk over to where she was sitting.

Dominique, having already finished the last curl, turned away to pack up her stuff.

Aaron leans over Brennan to keep her seated in the chair. She had to tilt her head up to look at him. The smell of him was stronger than the moment before and she knew for sure it was about to linger on her.

Their lips smack against each others in a quick, but lingering kiss.

“Fiks ya fes.” He whispers against her mouth before pulling back.

Brennan’s mind was jumbled as he walked away. He grabbed the black mug and the caramel scent hit her nose as he sat it on the table. Coffee–made exactly how she likes. He held his own while moving to sit in the den, the large tv playing several highlight reels and a few stack of papers and a stapler.

“Nigga-”

“You got until I'm done or we're gonna be late.”

“I'm almost done.” Dominique curled the last few pieces of hair. Brennan was lucky she had bought a new wig. She didn’t like the length of it but knew Brennan would. “Are you dressed already?”

“Yeah, just gotta put my shoes on.”

Brennan had already put on a black silk button up, and her own black jeans. The only thing she could get to with Aaron's clothes in the way. The closet was too small and she was really close to calling her dad to build her a new one. Brennan can feel the mist of hair spray being put on her hair, letting her know she was done. Aaron was half-way through with his task when she looked over at him.

“You're stapling papers?”

“First day of school tomorrow and picture day.” He answers like she doesn't already know. He was the reason they were probably gonna be late. “Where's your shoes?” He looks back at her down to her pretty brown feet, toenails in a sharp white color- a small gold anklet peeking from the leg of her pants. The same one that dangled over his shoulder while he thrust–he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. If it was him they would stay home, but her mama would beat his ass if she knew he was the reason they were late.

“I'm going to get them.” She pulls Dominique in a quick hug and thanking.

Aaron shook his head, turning around to pack up the last stack of stapled papers. He could hear hear race up the stairs and Dominique packing the last of her stuff and jiggling her keys.

“Alright, I want my money Aaron!” Dominique rushes to the door, pointing in his direction.

She expected he would Zelle it to her until his voice echoes to her. He had looked up just as Brennan comes around to stand in front of him. She wore a pair of black wedges that he was sure she was going to pull off in the truck.

“It’s by the front door Dominique."

She spots the bills peeking out from under the key bowl. It looked like a good four hundred.

“Oooh! And you tipped! I see you big spender.” She grabs the money, pocketing it into her purse. “Bye girl, I’ll see you tonight.”

Once the door closed he pulled Brennan into his chest as he stood up. “You look real good.” He kisses her cheek and moves around her to grab his keys. “Let’s go before your mama beat my ass.”

Sunday Service had been particularly short compared to the long services they were used to growing up– but they weren’t complaining. The sun beamed down on them as they exited the church. Aaron and Terry had gone to grab the car, Noah going along with them so the AC could be running before they got in. Brennan and Blaire waited for their mom to finish talking to a few friends back inside. They probably wanted her to cook for the next church potluck.

“Thank you, again Angela.”

“Alright, see you,” She waves at one of the other church members while coming down the steps to stand in front of her daughters with a shake of her head, she follows Brennan’s gaze to Aaron who was tossing Noah, their nephew in the air and catching him. She places a hand on her hip as Blaire completely ignores Terry looking at her.

“That was Ms. Gladys.”

“Mhm.” Brennan hums, eyes never leaving him even as he gets in the truck.

“She said she dreamt about fishes last night. Brennan, are you pregnant?”

“Why are we talking about this on the lord’s steps?” She looks confused trying to figure out what she’s talking about. Blaire laughs from behind her. “And why are you asking me? Blaire could be pregnant.”

“Don’t put that on me.” Blaire stops laughing and points her finger at her sister. “He’s already been bothering me to talk all week.”

”When are you going to tell him?” Brennan asks, not caught up on the latest Blaire & Terry episode. “It’s been seven years, Blaire, the man has practically groveled at your feet.”

She knew her sister was right, but, if anything, she was scared. Not of Terry, but actually losing him. His ultimatum from this morning was heavy on her. The sudden fear of not having him at all?

“He’s not going to wait long, Blaire,’ their mother added.

“I know!” She hissed. Brennan and Angela looked at Blaire with wide eyes. “He told me that this morning. Either we figure it out or he’s done trying.”

The last thing she wanted to do was tell her mother and sister what Terry had said, but pretty much everyone was on his side and they didn’t fully understand how she felt.

“Wait,’ Angela softens her tone at Blaire’s somber expression.

“He said what?” Brennan chimed in. “Oh he’s serious this time.”

They quickly changed the subject when Aaron and Terry came back. Noah was already in his seat.

“Y'all ready,’ Terry asked, his eyes on Blaire and she rubbed her arm.

“Hell yes,’ Brennan shouts, then covers her mouth when Angela smacked her arm. “Ow, my bad!”

Terry held out his hand as Blaire reached for the rail. She took his hand and let him guide her towards his truck. Confused, she looked over her shoulder.

“Where are we going?”

Terry stopped at the truck and leaned her against it. “I need to know now.” He says.

“What? You said we would talk tonight,’ Blaire replied.

“I don’t want to wait. I don’t want you to have time to give me some politically correct answer. I want to know now.” He tucked his hands into his pockets. “Do you want to stay married?”

“Yes!”

Blaire looked up at him. The word falling from her mouth with little hesitation made Terry feel slightly better about where this was going.

“Do you want me back in the house?”

She nodded. “All the time.”

Terry was confused then. She wanted everything he wanted but she was pushing him away.

“Then why are you so upset with me?”

“Can we talk about this with a bit more privacy?”

Everyone was waiting by the other car, staring in their direction. When she looked over his shoulder and waved, they all jumped- pretending they weren’t watching.

“I don’t want to be church gossip.”

“Come on so we can eat!” Brennan groans from the backseat of her mom’s car. “Noah, tell your parents to hurry up.” She glances at her nephew.

Noah looked to his aunt with a ‘do you think I’m dumb’ expression.

“We’ll just see them at the house.” Angela waves them off. “And why ain’t you with Aaron, Bre?” She looks at her youngest daughter in the backseat. "Why are ya'll always I my car?"

“He said he had to talk to Daddy about something.” she shrugs, pulling off her heels. “Men things.”

“What he got to talk to him for.” Angela shakes her head. “Markus better not be at my house, Brennan.”

Marcus parked the truck in front of Angela’s house. He cuts the engine while looking over at the passenger side. Aaron had been quiet the whole ride. His leg bounced nonstop and he could see the nervous posture he had.

“You gon speak or what?”

Aaron didn’t get nervous often. He usually keeping his composure in any setting, however talking to Brennan’s dad about something so important. He just couldn’t shake the anxiety he was feeling right now. His hands were clammy as he wiped them on his jeans.

“It’s about Brennan.”

“Yeah? Something wrong?”

“No. No.” He sighs finally making eye contact with Marcus whose face was etched with concern. “She perfect… I just wanted to ask you something.”

“You want my blessing.” Marcus asks him, seeing where he was going with the conversation.

Marcus had half expected for them two to elope or have a Vegas-style wedding. His youngest daughter was his wild child. He’s learned over the years that she was mini-Angela. He thought she would be the one to end up with Terry, the both of them were hot heads-however Brennan wanted Aaron. “Thought you two would elope.”

Aaron lets out a soft chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. He doesn’t look him right in the eye. Marcus takes that silence for an answer to a question he didn’t even have to ask. “When.”

“June 17th.”

Marcus thinks of the date, turning in his seat to look at Aaron, an oh wow expression on his face. “And on her Birthday too.” He has to open the car door and get out, confusing Aaron and making him get out to. He stuffed in his hands in his pockets. Marcus walk around the front, stopping in front of Aaron in disbelief.

“So why are you asking me for my blessing. You did it behind my back already.”

“I wanna do it right this time.” Aaron could see another car pull into the driveway.

The doors open, Angela, Brennan and Noah. The three of them heading into the house.

“Right my ass.” Marcus grumbles. “What are you gonna tell me next, that she is pregnant?” Aaron makes a face and turns around, he jogs up the brick steps just as Marcus yells out. “Yo, Aaron! She better not be!”

Angela and Brennan had set the table, Noah in the other room, watching cartoons. The food was catered from Cajun Station, the scent of fish that lingered from being warmed in the oven masked by a lit candle. Brennan had snuck pieces of of shrimp to snack on, sneaking a few pieces to Noah.

“You’ve been gaining weight Bre.” Angela says from the kitchen. “You sure you ain't pregnant.” She brings the conversation from earlier backup. She noticed a certain glow to her and it wasn’t because her and Aaron finally moved in together.

“No mama.” She groans wondering where her sister is. She moves to look out the window. Aaron and her dad were still talking. She watched as Terry’s truck pull in.

Blaire slid out the front seat having stopped by the house to change. She switched to a white sundress and sandals. She had a bag in her hand and Terry’s half smile could be seen from the front porch.

”Stop looking at me like that,’ Blaire says.

“It feels good,’ he replies, while shutting her door.

“What feels good?”

“To know my wife missed me.”

He leaned in as if he was going to kiss her but instead pulled the bag from her hands to carry. The front door opened and the screen smacked against the wall as Noah ran towards his parents. Their private moment was interrupted, but Blaire knew it was going to be a long night.

“Let’s get inside, Terry,’ she pushed at his arm, guiding the son back towards the door. He followed behind them. She sent Noah back to the table and grabbed Terry’s hand before pulling him to the kitchen.

Terry had sent Blaire upstairs once they got home. It was the night before picture day and with it being the first day of school Noah had been anxious. So much that he had been telling Blaire he didn’t want to go. Knowing Blaire, she’d keep him home until he was ready, opting to homeschool instead of helping him to grow up.

Helping Noah, Terry sits on the floor by his son's bed, mostly to get his backpack and clothes ready for the next day. He did his full nighttime routine while they waited for dinner to be delivered. Neither parent wanted to cook and with their talk looming over their heads, their minds were occupied.

Giving Noah a snack he had him sit in the den. TV time was rare in the house, but Terry managed to get Blaire to compromise on a few shows on the weekends. Finding Blaire in the same place he did this morning, Terry closed the bedroom door behind him as he walked in.

“Alright,’ he says, ‘let’s talk.”

She sat up on the bed, tucking her legs under.

“I miss you being in the house and the routine we had, just all of what we had.”

“So why am I in an apartment?” He folded his arms across his chest. “If you want me here.”

Her bottom lip started to poke out and her eyes welled up. Shit. Terry thought. He forgot she was a bit of a crybaby.

“What did I do, Blaire?”

Seven years of pent up frustration had finally blown over. The resentment she held onto had no base to hold onto once she spoke.

“It felt like you put Summer before me and Noah.”

Terry’s shoulders rolled back as her words blew him. “You weren’t answering your phone.” She went on, telling him the same story, this time he had perspective. Hers. “Brennan called, my mom called, my dad, your brother!” The tears poured down her face as she hissed the words at him, trying to keep her voice low. “You just barely made it to see him be born.”

“I apologized for that, over and over, Blaire. I’ve begged you to forgive me for that.”

“I have!”

“Then..”

“You shouldn’t have been late.” Blaire threw up her hands. “You should have dropped whatever you were doing and came to me. Your wife.”

“She-’

"Oh fuck her!” She snaps. “Labor was hell for me. I had to lie there knowing where you were! And you to have the audacity to give me an ultimatum.”

There was no arguing her on this. She was right. He cut it close to Noah’s birth and he knew she had been upset with him over it, but to cling to it for seven years? He understood the bitterness now. He never apologized for putting her second, because that's exactly what he had done.

“You missed that. It wasn’t your hand I was holding. It wasn’t you telling me to push. You just barely made it! Then you came in smiling like you had been there! I wanted to sock that fucking grin off your face.” She punches her hand for emphasis and Terry looks down.

“Now,’ she says, plopping down on the bed, ‘how can you fix that? How can you fix my trust in you?”

Speechless, Terry rubbed a hand down the back of his head.

“I’ve never felt so vulnerable,’ she explains, ‘and alone, my husband somewhere-’

Terry slipped into the bed with her, carefully reaching out to pull her into his arms. She fought him at first and he held his hands up. She didn’t get off the bed so he tried again and successfully pulled her into his chest. She looked up at him, eyes drenched in her tears. She couldn’t even keep up with wiping them away as they fell.

He’d known Blaire all his life. Having grown up a few houses away from her she was one of the few neighborhood families that welcomed the Richmond family when they moved in. Blaire had always been a cryer. Her emotions so big she couldn’t help but cry. Instead, this time she was crying because of him. That he didn’t like. Holding her, he rubbed his hands up and down her back. He brought his hand around, using his thumb to wipe at the tears on her face. Blaire sucked in a deep breath, trying not to cry again.

“Are you mad at me?” She asked.

“What,’ he whispered, ‘no!” His head shook. “I just didn’t know how much I hurt you. Now I do.”

She noticed he didn’t have on a shirt and she pushed at his chest. “Why don’t you ever have on a shirt?”

“I’m hot natured, you know that.” Terry cupped her face, his fingers stroking the hair on the back of her neck. “Are you going to let me earn your trust back?”

“Yeah I can t-’

"Don't try anything." His thumbs pressed to her lips. “Just be my wife again. Let me fix it.”

The tv was on pause as Aaron kept her in a heated kiss. The two of them had returned home after a day with their family, Publix, and a quick run to Men’s Warehouse for Aaron. School started back tomorrow and it was picture day–he wanted to get a shirt that matched her outfit for their pictures.

“We’re supposed to be watching the movie.” She reaches over him to sneak some popcorn and move her legs across his lap.

His arms come down from the back of the couch. His hands warm against her thigh while rubbing her smooth skin. After getting takeout, and coming home to finish unpacking, she found some of his old high-school shirts. Her name was etched into one of the sleeves in black sharpie and it became the shirt she decided she wanted to sleep in. His lips press against hers, using the hand on her thigh to pull her closer. She’s almost in his lap when she giggles.

“You’ve seen this one a thousand times.” He mumbles, rubbing his hand up to grab her ass, massaging the flesh between his fingers.

“So, it’s my favorite movie.” she pushes him back to get up. She slides her feet into the stitch slippers he randomly got her.

Aaron’s face drops in a ‘where you going look', the dark lighting making his hazel-coloured eyes look sharper. “I’m going to the bathroom.” She points to the tv. “Restart it.”

“We ain’t gon’ watch it.” He lets her go to grab the remote.

“You probably won’t but I am.”

Aaron shakes his head and restarts the movie but pauses it on the opening scene of SharkTale. Once he hears the bathroom door close, he rushes to a small room just off the den.

Brennan took her time in the bathroom, relieving herself while reaching into the sink cabinet to pull out a small black gift bag. She set it on the sink vanity, finishing up to stand and wash her hands. Aaron was still sitting in his spot, arms resting in the back of the couch, phone tucked in his left hand to scroll through messages. Her eyes trail up his fingers–they look naked.

“You gon’ come sit down or keep starin'.”

“I got something for you.” She moves around the couch, forgetting that she was staring. How could she not when he looked the way he does? He gives her his attention–phone dropping somewhere on the couch.

“What is it.”

Aaron sits up with a cheesy grin, eyes flickering from the small bag in her hands to her face. She sits next to him and puts the bag on the coffee table. “Gotta open it and see.”

“I got you somethin’ to.” He reaches on the side of the couch to pull out a small blue bag and place it in front of her. “Open yours first.”

Brennan grabs the blue gift bag–reaching inside she pulls out a small black velvet box. “Aaron.” She pulls her lip between her teeth to hide back a knowing smile. The material was soft beneath her fingers. The pads of them over the name ingrained in it. He reaches over to open it for her. The round cut diamond shines in her face that was accented with smaller ones. “This is beautiful.”

Brennan had her eye on the woodland wedding set since the moment they decided to elope. Aaron had seen her looking at the rings on a jewelry website a few months ago. In the midst of them deciding to elope they hadn't thought about rings. She had been dropping hints the past few weeks, not realizing he already had the ring sized and delivered to his brother's apartment.

She holds her left hand out palm down, making him chuckle at the excitement in her voice. “Put it on for me?”

He gently grabs the ring and silver band between his fingers. It slid on her fourth finger like butter. The silver-leafed band fitting snug below her left knuckle. Brennan would have to get used to the new weight on her finger, but her heart swelled knowing Aaron paid attention to details.

Brennan almost forgets about her gift. “Open yours.”

Aaron kind of had a clue on what it was when he pulled out the small wood grained box. The material smoothed against his fingers as he opened the box. “Damn.”

Brennan grins at the appreciative look on his face-eyes squinting as he pulls out the black and gold band. “Do you need your glasses?”

“Nah, baby. This.” He blows out with a small laugh and a smile that reaches his eyes. “It's perfect.”

Tungsten Carbide wasn’t a cheap material. The gold interior and then cut around it accented the black texture. She pulls it from his fingers and grabs his left hand. She had to sneak a couple of his other rings just to get it sized right. He watches her grin as it fits snugly around his ring finger.

“Now them bitches can know you're married.”

@liquourlaughslove @heytaewrites @wrestlingprincess80 @simplyzeeka @prettyfilmz @venusesworld @nayaesworld @peachbuttetfly @harmshake @heauxvibez @avoidthings @mymindisneverhere @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @eilujion @heytaewrites @nahimjustfeelingit-writes

@browngirldominion @insidefeelingofanadult @blackerthings @gwenda-fav @brandithecrystalgem @captainwithoutmakingitlove @dremmmm @kindofaintrovert @thegreatlibraryofalex @jimmybutlrr @beenathembo @kuromiish @virgomess @bbyxgall @theereina @randomhood @ash-ketchumzzz @dundienominated @mymindisneverhere

#terry Richmond x black!reader #terry richmond x black reader #Aaron Pierre x black!reader #Aaron Pierre x black reader #terry Richmond

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inklore · 1 year ago

Text

garage rooftop

premise: the lines of friendship or something more grow more blurry the longer your eyes move from each mole, his cheek bones, his dark eyes, his lips. and you really don't understand why the two of you hadn't become something more ages ago.

pairing: ben solo x (f)reader

word count: 1k

contents: college au, fluff like this is nothing but fluff with one sexual innuendo and that's it, friends to lovers, quick mention of han being a lackluster dad sorry it's for the plot.

note: let's ignore that i actually wrote this back in april and just never got around to editing it but now that i'm in my driver era i had to come back to it. the title is from this song that i highly rec listening to while reading <3

The way his face morphs into something that was once joyful and silly—the blissed high that paints your cheeks red from laughing too hard over being overheated from how weightless it feels to be laying on the roof of your apartment building. The space decked out with rugs, blankets, and cushions from past and current tenants, mostly college kids like yourselves.

Making it the perfect place to get high and look up at the sky at night. The city lights outshine the stars, but the clouds—and the strain of ganja Poe recently snagged from his dealer—give the same ethereal effect.

“Why haven’t we ever...”

“Ever what, Solo? Dated?” There’s a pause between your words, and a slow, sly smirk moves across your lips as you look over at him. “Fucked?”

The blush painting his cheeks quickly moves down to his neck as he shakes his head in laughter, biting his lower lip to hide whatever feelings are currently making him look like a shy schoolboy—something he was far from.

It’s the “both. Why haven’t we done any of it?” That makes you both fall silent. That makes the joyfulness fade and something else fill the air the longer the silence spreads between the two of you.

And it’s not the weirdest question or the wildest thing that’s come out of either of your mouths.

It’s a question that makes you wonder, why? Seriously why? With the longer you stare at him, the more you take in the nervous tick of his chiseled jaw. The way his dark hair falls into his face each time he laughs and he has to continuously push it out of his eyes. How the crook of his nose looks oddly kissable and more attractive than you’ve noticed it before when it’s this close to your face.

When the haze from the weed is making your body feel limitless and swoony.

It’s a feeling that has you turning on your side. Putting a hand under your head shifts your body closer to Ben’s. Smiling when he doesn’t act phased in mirroring you, his body moving in the same motions and position as yours. Now putting the two of you so close that you can feel his breath hit your face, and the space between your legs barely exists without some part of him touching it.

The two of you had been friends for forever, it seemed. Stuck in the woes of academia, making your parents proud does that to you. Makes you lose track of time and forget how the two of you became friends after getting into an argument over a Hamlet book in the library.

A fight Finn quickly broke up, but Poe enthusiastically cheered on.

The lot of you—Rose and Rey included—became inseparable after that day. Something that didn’t have a timestamp or expiration in your mind. It just happened.

And now you have four best friends, and you’re coming to the conclusion that you’ve possibly liked one more than that. The lines of friendship or something more growing more and more blurry the longer your eyes moved from each mole, each scar, and each strand of hair. His cheek bones, his dark eyes, his lips. And you really don't understand why the two of you hadn’t become something more ages ago.

“Have you wanted to?”

“The fact that you’re asking me tells me that you’ve never noticed. I’m not that subtle.”

“Nose stuck in a book at all times, Ben, not subtle?” You make a sarcastic face, “yeah, who would ever think you’re subtle?”

His knee nudges your thigh as his cheeks rise in that smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the edges. “You think I’d let Poe or Rey borrow my stuff? Steal my takeout from the fridge—which I know you do—without consequence?”

“In their defense, Poe and Rey have three late library books from two years ago and only you and I like the takeout you get from the bodega on the corner, so…it’s not really a fair asses-”

The squeal that comes from his fingers digging into your sides, pinching the skin at your hip and rib bones, fills the air and knocks the wind out of you all at the same time as you realize the position the two of you have wrestled yourselves in.

Strands of dark hair moving against your forehead, your fingers instinctively reach up to brush the strands from both of your faces. Ben’s lips so close to yours that all it would take is a heavy breath and you’d be kissing. The relaxing rhythm of your heart now feeling like a hammer in your chest.

Ben’s fingers run along your jawline, resting at your chin.

“What if we did?” He asks. Searches your face for any reaction or indication that the subject should be changed. That he should stop asking, and the two of you should move away and pretend like this never happened. Go back to how things were—which was clearly not subtle and most definitely screaming ‘I’m in love with my best friend’.

“Why have you never asked until now?” You answer with a question.

“Losing my best friend is not the traumatic life experience I’d like to put on my resume beside divorced parents and an absent father.” He jokes, his smile playful, as the pad of his thumb draws small circles against the skin of your jaw.

“No wonder you’re unemployed.” The two of you laugh, breaths mingling in the joys of this moment. Of the jokes that come easy and the touches that seem to come even easier. But then there's silence, and you’re leaning closer to him, a feathering touch of your lips against his as you murmur, “maybe you should stop being so afraid, Ben Solo. And have me.”

And if you’ve ever felt like there was something missing—some cataclysmic event in your life that could rewire your nervous system and make you feel like you’ve been barely making it, your heart barely beating and keeping you alive: Ben’s mouth is the puzzle piece as he brings your mouths together in a bruising kiss.

#ben solo x reader #ben solo fluff #ben solo x y/n #ben solo imagine #adam driver fanfiction #ben solo fanfic #ben solo x you #adam driver x reader #star wars fanfiction #ben solo #ben solo one shot #kylo ren fluff #adam driver fluff #ben solo fic #kylo ren x reader

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highinmiamiii · 3 months ago

Note

High sex, with dad’s best friend Butcher if that tickles your fancy?

just a lil high sex blurb

i missed yall and i missed writing it has been waaaay too long, i know this isnt much but i’m planning on starting a more full length piece soon along with continuing my 90s butcher series

the pungent scent lingers in the air, the cool breeze seeping in through the slightly cracked open window of his Cadillac. it was almost routine now, he'd pick you up from your shift at work and smoke you out in the back of his caddy. typically it's just a lot of tension and nervous inebriated back and forth. that was until tonight, you were wearing a sheer little short white linen dress with nothing but a pair of panties on as butcher couldn't keep his fucking eyes off of you, he never could, really. always thought you were the most bloody gorgeous, innocent, sweet, yet perfectly corrupt little lass. the air was thick and hot, you could feel the droplets of sweat on the back of your neck and the fuzzy warm head rush of whatever nice expensive medical weed butcher managed to get his hands on. as time moved slower than ever, things started to feel fuzzier and hazier, lines blurring until you somehow ended up in his lap, your dress bunched up to your hips as you sigh into his ear, slowly rocking your hips against the growing bulge in his tight, dark jeans. the only separation between the two of you being his jeans and your lace panties. "bloody hell, would ya look at that" butcher hisses, rough wandering hands roaming your body and grabbing a nice rough handful of your tits "whaddya think yer dad would think seein' his little girl lettin' me ravage her like this, hm sugar?" he whispers gruffly in your ear, you groan and roll your eyes at the mention of him right now.

things pick up eventually and you're rapidly switching back and forth from him holding you down with his palm against your stomach, pressing lightly with each deep drag of his length deep in your walls to bouncing up and down on his cock. his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips, urging you to move faster, to take him deeper. you could feel the muscles in his arms tense and flex as he held you in place, his breath hot and heavy against your neck. the slow drag of his throbbing cock sliding through your slick, absolutely soaked walls had you feeling melty and so goddamn needy for him. billy's voice is gruff and laced with desire as he speaks through gritted teeth, his hands gripping your hips tightly "yer soakin' wet for me, ain't ya? such a naughty little thing, bouncin' in my lap like this…"

“mmh..” your head lulls back as you rock your hips up feeling the rough tip ram into that sweet spot that had you letting out the shakiest, breathiest little whimper. billy's voice drops to a low growl as he feels you tighten around him and his breathing becomes heavier as he feels you getting closer. he growls "you're gettin' so close, ain't ya?… come on then, show me… let me feel you come all over me…" he speeds up his pace, his hands gripping your hips tightly. you feel your legs begin to shake as you grasp tightly onto his shoulders gasps getting breathier and hips slowing as your trembly legs begin to give out. he grunts and tightly grips your ass, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he pushes into you with hard, jerky thrusts. you can hear him growl against your skin "that's it, baby…let it all out" billy's face contorts in pure pleasure as he buries himself balls-deep inside you, hissing. he grunts, his hips bucking upward as he begins to paint your insides with his seed. as billy spills into you, you let out a shuddering breath and your eyes roll back. You can feel every throb and pulse as he fills you, the warmth spreading and intensifying the high from the weed. you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as waves of pleasure crash over you.

tags: @scrmqwn @butchersdarkbird

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puppietooth · 11 months ago

Text

let me preface this by saying i will love and adore and cherish s3 no matter happens. however, i will say — the one thing i want to see is carmy going out of his way to get back on sydney’s good side.

i’m talking begging for forgiveness, grovelling at her feet, bending over backwards for her.

imagine:

carmy gets out of that walk-in, sees the queasy look on her face, and is already drafting that notes app apology in his head. he tells her he’s sorry and that he fucked up and she tells him they managed to pull everything off without him but she cannot with his bullshit right now.

that hits him like a punch to the gut and, well, he gets it cause it’s definitely deserved.

but as the weeks go on, carmy tries to talk to her she only responds in shrugs, nods, and yes chefs. sydney goes home straight after service, after she helps with clean up, does not linger and talk in the office with him like they did before. carmy tries joking with her and she rolls her eyes more often than not. he asks her if she wants to work on the menu with him and she says no and he gets the feeling that she doesn’t even want to be alone with him anymore.

and that’s when he realizes — fuck. she’s so mad at him.

my girl is mad at me i want to die.

so? what else is carmy supposed to do but the most?

sydney comes in one morning and tells tina she was running late so she couldn’t stop by her favourite spot to get her morning latte. carmy overhears this and takes it upon himself to run to that spot, ten blocks over, to get her that latte. and when he gets back, sweetly and breathless, he gives it to her only to find out it’s the completely wrong order. but syd smiles, just a little, says a small thanks.

during family, he casually hints at the fact that he’s seeing a therapist now — says sorry chef i have therapy saturday afternoon when marcus asks if anyone would be down to go to the farmers market with him. because he needs her to know that he’s trying to get better. for himself, yes, but also for her.

his notifications are on and his phone is never on silent anymore — carmy vows to never miss a text or a call from her ever again.

carmy starts checking in with her about everything. when the walls need to be painted again he tells her, asks sydney if she’s okay with changing the floral arrangements but the bar, lets her know he’s ordering new aprons for the line cooks, runs tweets by her before posting them to the bear’s twitter account. and it gets to the point where syd has to tell him to chill — that she appreciates him not wanting to keep her in the dark, but some things just don’t need her approval. pats him on the shoulder and tells him it’s his restaurant, too.

it might come off as a bit showy but he tells her great work today, chef sydney after every service — because she is doing great work.

when sydney’s finally moving out of her dad’s place carmy is there, bright and early, moving her boxes into his car, trying to avoid the subtle stink eye her dad is giving him. again, deserved. he drives her out to her new place, helps her set everything up and lingers when she asks him if he wants coffee.

carmy shows up for her, everytime. he sets his own priorities aside, swaps them out for hers. sydney says jump and he asks how high?

it all comes to head on her birthday. before service he goes up to her and gives her a present — a scarf, fabric pink and decorated with prints of various different flowers. it’s soft and silky and he saw it on a mannequin in a window front while he was downtown a couple of weeks ago, immediately thought of her. she tells him it’s lovely and beautiful and she’ll wear it all the time but that he really didn’t have to — that he doesn’t have to keep trying to win her over, that she isn’t mad at him anymore, that she hasn’t been mad for a few weeks now, that she can see he’s trying.

then, sydney hugs him, strong and gentle at the same time, tells him — i see you, carmy.

whatever is supposed to happen after that does not happen because fak starts yelling about an exploding toilet from the room over so sydney scoffs and says she’ll go take care of it.

and it’s at that exact moment that carmy becomes aware of what he hasn’t been aware of but that has been there, right in front of him this whole time.

holy shit.

he likes sydney.

he likes her a lot.

#ahhhhhhh so excited for s3 #my girl is mad at me i hope i die!!!!#sydcarmy #sydney adamu #the bear #carmy berzatto

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oceandolores · 2 months ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | chapter 19

dbf!joel miller x female reader

"Every time I close my eyes , it's like a dark paradise"

summary: you met someone you thought you will never see again

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, pedophilia, cannibalism, human trafficking, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 19

masterlist!

previous | chapter 18

next | chapter 20

Joel’s days bled into nights, each second stretching painfully into the next as he searched for you, his desperation sinking into his bones, gnawing at the core of him. It had been a year—a long, relentless year without you. And yet, each time the sun set, he felt the ache deepen, as if it were the first day all over again.

He barely slept, barely ate, his mind only running through endless, frayed memories and half-seen shadows, trying to piece together the face of the man who took you.

In his hands, the maps were worn soft, smudged with the faint ink of hastily scribbled notes, each line a fragment of his obsession. Every lead brought him from one shabby motel to another, each with rooms that smelled of stale smoke and peeling paint, rooms that looked like places where people vanished.

And still, you weren’t there.

Each disappointment drove him further into the kind of desperation that made him push aside his pride and seek help. He went back to Frank and Bill. They did what they could to help Joel, sheltering him, keeping him out of the FBI’s reach, printing missing posters and scattering them across countless towns, reaching strangers who might hold a shred of information.

Anything to bring you back.

Back home, Tommy, Maria, and Ellie were waging their own quiet battle to find you, doing all they could without raising suspicion. Their quiet alliance held the family together as the months dragged on, sharing hushed updates through phone calls that grew more desperate, more strained.

Ellie tried to keep her hopes up, imagining you somewhere safe, waiting for rescue. But in her heart, she could sense the tremor of fear that everyone else tried to hide.

Alone, Joel grew unraveled, each night lost to bottles of booze that only burned his throat and numbed nothing. He let the papers pile around him, scraps littering tables and floors, covering the walls of Frank and Bill's guest room as if he could somehow will them into an answer.

Sometimes, he’d find himself whispering to the empty air, as though you could hear him, as if his voice might reach through the miles. He pictured your face—so vividly, it ached—wondering if you felt him out there, searching.

Joel held that crumpled, fraying photo, it was the photo of him and you in Houston night fair a year ago. His thumb brushing over your face frozen in that photo booth smile.

It was a memory he clung to in moments of weakness—when everything had been beautiful and right, when he still believed the world held space for happiness.

“Where are you, doll? Come back to me... I can’t do this without you.” His voice cracked, swallowed by the darkness. Every silence, every cold night, brought him closer to madness. He could almost hear you whispering back, as if in the ghostly hush, your spirit hovered just beyond reach.

But across that unseen distance, your reality was twisted, tethered to the darkest kind of survival. Negan’s shadow stretched over you, growing more sinister, feeding off your misery, his cruelty sharpening with every "client" he sent your way.

Each encounter made you sick; the nauseating dread gnawed at your insides until you turned numb. He forced you to swallow handfuls of pills, snort lines of powder until the world blurred, all to make you obedient.

And you were compliant now, the fight in you dimmed to a silent acceptance. Resistance meant pain, bruises, and the relentless smirk on his face as he reminded you who held all the power. So you learned to still yourself, to play dead, just to survive the hell.

Each night, you sank further, disappearing into the numbness the drugs provided, the feeling of survival slipping through your fingers. The hollow shell you’d become didn’t fight him, didn’t flinch under his gaze or resist when his rough hands traced over your skin, marking you in ways that left scars deeper than any wound.

He raped you over and over again. Every night, almost every day.

One night, he gave you a room of your own. A twisted gift of “freedom.”, a mockery of comfort in this prison where he kept you. He still came to you each night, creeping into the darkness, and if you moved or whimpered, his hand would clamp over your mouth as he told you, sweet as sugar, not to fight, that “we’re just playing house.”

You could barely keep your eyes open, the haze of sleeping pills thick in your head. His sickly-sweet games bled into the hours until you lost track of time. By morning, your body felt like a shell, hollow and sore, skin pulled tight over bones.

And that smell—it clung to the air, especially strong near the heavy metal door down the hall that Negan kept locked tight. A rancid, metallic odor, a reminder of something you’d rather not know.

You avoided looking at the fridge, too, its shelves stuffed with slabs of meat that didn’t look like anything from a grocery store. Your stomach turned at the thought, and you took to cooking whatever you could, clinging to some shred of normalcy with pancakes and eggs, anything but that meat.

But when Negan stomped into the kitchen that morning and you put the pancakes on his plate, his face twisted with disgust. His hand shot out, sending the plate crashing to the floor as he barked, “You call this breakfast?” You flinched, heart hammering in your chest.

“There’s nothing left, just the meat,” you managed to whisper, trying to calm him, to avoid the sting of his rage.

But his face darkened, and he hissed, “Then eat the damn meat.” Nodding, you moved to the fridge, pulling it open, but before you could even start, the nausea hit you hard.

You stumbled to the bathroom, stomach heaving, bile rising as you clung to the edge of the sink. It had been days of this—dizzy spells, constant nausea, a weakness that wouldn’t fade.

You asked him, once, to take you to a doctor, but he’d only laughed, brushing off your words as if they were nothing.

But that morning, as you knelt there, Negan’s mocking voice drifted from the kitchen. “You sure got a weak stomach, sweetheart. Or wait,” he paused, as if a dark thought dawned on him.

“you wouldn’t be knocked up, would you?” His words sliced through the air, and in an instant, dread filled your veins.

Negan’s grin spread, a slow, dark realization flickering in his gaze. He tilted his head, studying the growing horror in your expression. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Got something to tell me?”

You tried to dismiss the thought, No, every clients always use condoms or pull out, there's rules, strict rules by Negan that everyone need to follow.

"Alright, tell me which one of ’em didn’t pull out, huh? You let one of ’em break the rules?” His tone shifting from amusement to something far darker, his voice is low, cruel and invasive, as if he could peel back your skin and see into every memory you wanted to erase.

You shook your head, unable to hold back the tremor in your voice. “No one… they all followed the rules..." Then the realization hit you.

No.

No, It couldn’t be.

You couldn’t carry his child.

Negan’s smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with a twisted satisfaction. “Guess that leaves only me, then,” His fingers grazed over your jaw, tilting your face up.

"Goddamn, I knocked you up, didn't I?" He mocked you with his laugh and a big grin on his face.

“Guess we’ll be a real family now, huh, sweetheart?” You shuddered listen to what he said, nausea twisting into a spiraling fear.

The room spun as panic clawed at your chest. A child bound to this, bound to him, a part of him, growing inside you, chaining you to this nightmare forever.

This couldn’t be happening. You can't bring a child into this prison, no. Not with him.

The thought ignited a fire of panic deep within your chest, yet you felt paralyzed, frozen in his grip. Your hands trembled, and a numbness spread through your veins. The world around you blurred, his face, his voice, everything distorting in a haze of disbelief and horror.

***

Tonight’s your last client for a while, he’d said, with a twisted grin that made you feel sick to your core. He wanted you to carry his child, to tie you to him with an unbreakable chain, to make you his forever.

The thought was unbearable, a darkness spreading through you, filling every corner of your mind with a terrible dread.

You kept your face blank, expression as smooth and placid as a lake’s surface while your insides churned. You couldn’t let him see the fear, the desperate calculations racing through your mind.

But every time you imagined the life inside you, growing, becoming a part of this nightmare, the dread swelled, crashing over you like a wave.

That afternoon, Negan took you to the grocery store, his hand firm around your arm as he steered you through the aisles. He had that sharp glint in his eye, the one that warned you not to cross him.

Normally, you did this on your own, gathering what you needed while he watched from his truck outside. But today, he hovered close, his presence a constant reminder of the leash you couldn’t see but felt tightening with every step.

The store was cold, the fluorescent lights harsh against your skin. You moved mechanically, plucking items from shelves, the rhythm of normalcy a bitter contrast to the chaos inside.

Your fingers shook slightly as you reached for a can, and you forced yourself to breathe slowly, in and out, hoping he wouldn’t notice. He was bored, restless, eyes scanning the people around you with thinly veiled irritation. When the line at the checkout stretched out, he sighed impatiently.

“Fuck this,” he muttered, leaning close, his grip firm on your face. “You try any shit, and you know what’ll happen. Got it, sweetheart?”

You nodded, throat tight, and he released you, storming out to wait in the truck.

The line crept forward, a snail’s pace that made your pulse thud in your temples. Each second felt stretched, unreal, the world around you moving in slow motion. You clutched the handle of the shopping cart, mind racing.

People milled around you, chatting, smiling, oblivious to the shadow that lingered just beyond these walls, waiting to consume you whole. You wanted to run, to disappear into the crowd and never look back, but his warning echoed in your ears, a brutal reminder that you were still chained.

When it was your turn at the register, the cashier was kind, offering a smile that made your heart ache with longing for something that felt impossibly far away.

You fumbled through paying, glancing nervously toward the parking lot where you knew he waited, his gaze a weight you could feel even from a distance.

You made your way to the truck, feeling his eyes on you, his smirk as you approached. You tried to keep your voice steady as you loaded the bags in. “They…they didn’t have pregnancy tests. They were out of stock.”

Negan chuckled, a sound that made your skin crawl. “Figures. Bet all the other sluts in this town already cleaned ‘em out.” He smirked, a gleam in his eye that held no warmth.

“Get your ass in. We’ll grab one at the gas station."

You climbed into the truck, feeling trapped, the seat belt tight across your chest like a noose. His words echoed in your mind, each one a nail hammered into the cage around you.

The plan he’d laid out twisted your insides, a sickness coiling in your stomach that was worse than anything you’d ever felt. You couldn’t bring a child into this—a child tied to him, a child trapped just as you were.

The weight of it settled over you, heavier with every mile you drove, until it felt like you could hardly breathe. Your mind raced, grasping for something—anything—to stop this.

You were spiraling into a dark pit of despair, thoughts swirling like autumn leaves caught in a tempest. The closer you got to the gas station, the more your heart pounded against your ribs, desperate for freedom.

As you arrived, Negan leaned back in the truck, his eyes glinting with impatience. “I’ll wait here. You go in, but be fucking quick.” His tone was as sharp as a blade, leaving no room for disobedience.

You nodded, pushing the weight of your dread aside as you stepped out into the sunlight, a harsh reminder of the world beyond this nightmare.

Inside, the fluorescent lights flickered above, cold and clinical, You moved for selecting the pregnancy test from the aisle, fingers brushing over it as an image flickered in your mind—Joel’s face, his soft smile, the warmth of his hand brushing over yours.

You bit back the tears that burned in your eyes, the ache in your chest deepening. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

You always wanted a family of your own, but not like this. Not with him. A child tied to this nightmare would mean a lifetime under Negan’s thumb—a life bound to his sick, twisted idea of family.

You blinked back tears and moved toward the counter, your thoughts in turmoil, when a voice—a familiar voice—pierced the haze.

“Is that you?”

You turned, heart pounding, and there she was—Emma. Your best friend, the one you hadn’t seen in what felt like a lifetime. The sight of her sent a jolt of warmth through your veins, but it was quickly overshadowed by the shadows lurking in your mind.

Her face was lined with surprise and worry, and as your eyes met, memories flooded back—laughter shared in the hallways, secrets whispered under the stars.

She stepped closer, and you felt her arms wrap around you, a lifeline in a turbulent sea. The embrace was both a comfort and a reminder of everything you’d lost.

“Oh my god, it’s really you,” Emma whispered, pulling back to study your face, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears. You felt the weight of her worry pressing against you, and you wished you could share the whole truth, but the words tangled in your throat.

“Where have you been? It’s been over a year…” Her voice trembled, and for a moment, you were lost in the familiarity of her presence, a beacon of hope in your dark reality.

You took a shaky breath, trying to piece together your thoughts. “How—how can you be here?”

After a moment, she explained, her voice rushing as if she were afraid time might snatch you away again. “After graduation, Jim and I moved to California. We just got married last month!” The excitement in her voice felt like a distant echo, contrasting sharply with your own turmoil.

But as quickly as the happiness arrived, it faded. “Are you okay? Where’s Joel?” Emma asked, concern etching deeper lines on her forehead.

You felt a sharp pang in your chest at the mention of his name, the very name that felt like both a lifeline and a chain. “I got kidnapped,” you managed to choke out, your voice trembling.

Emma’s expression morphed from surprise to confusion, and then to horror. “What? What are you talking about?” She looked around, panic creeping into her eyes, as if the very ground beneath you was about to give way.

“I can’t explain it to you,” you said, your heart racing. “He’s out there.” You gestured vaguely, your heart sinking as you glanced outside and saw Negan, an ominous figure lingering like a dark cloud over your thoughts.

Emma’s eyes widened as she took in the scene. “Wait, it’s not Joel,” she whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Where the fuck is Joel? What is happening?"

"Didn't Joel fucking killed your parents and Jamie and Ben?"

“No! He didn’t kill them. Negan did." You said, "Please Emma, you have to help me,"

“Who’s Negan?” Emma asked, her brow furrowing with confusion and fear.

“He took me from Joel. He framed Joel,” you said urgently, dragging Emma to a quieter corner of the store, heart racing with the urgency of your situation. This was your chance, a lifeline thrown to you in the storm.

“Help me, please, please,” you begged, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I can’t stay with him any longer. I need you to do something.”

Emma’s expression shifted as she processed your words, the gravity of your situation crashing over her like a tidal wave. “Can we call the cops?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“No, we can’t! He’ll kill us!” Panic flared in your chest, a wild beast clawing at the walls of your sanity. “I don't have much time, but you need to tell Tommy, Emma. Call him and say I’m in California. I don’t know where Negan’s house is, but his name is Negan Smith. The man who took me is Negan Smith. Tell him to find his address.”

Emma's eyes widened, the reality dawning on her. “W-we could just run away. My car is out there.”

“No! You don’t understand. He'll hunt us down. He’s dangerous, Emma. We need to be smart about this.” The words poured from you, desperation lacing every syllable.

“I just need to get out of here.” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I can’t stay with him another day.”

In that moment, she stepped closer, enveloping you in her arms. The warmth of her embrace was a balm against the icy grip of fear that had settled around your heart.

You could feel her tremble, too—an echo of your own turmoil. It was a shared sorrow, a recognition of the gravity of your plight.

“I promise I’ll get you out,” she whispered fiercely, her breath warm against your ear. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and you felt your own grief swell anew, a flood of emotions threatening to spill over.

The weight of everything—the fear, the pain, the uncertainty—pressed down on you both, and in that fragile moment, you wept together, two souls adrift in a storm.

“I can’t stay with him another day,” you sobbed, the truth cutting through you like a knife. You could feel Emma’s heartache mingling with your own, each beat a reminder of the love and hope you were fighting for, despite the darkness that loomed.

She pulled back, searching your eyes, and then her gaze dropped to the pregnancy test clutched in your trembling hands. “Are you…?” she began, her voice faltering.

“He raped me, Emma,” "Over and over again," you admitted, each word a raw confession, a wound laid bare.

“and he pimped me out. He made me into a prostitute.” The weight of those words crushed you, the reality so unbearable that you felt like you were going to shatter.

Emma’s expression shifted to one of horror. “Is it… is it his child?” she stammered, and you could see the disbelief in her eyes, the way your pain struck her like a physical blow.

“I can’t… I can’t, I can't have this baby,” you whispered, choking on the anguish. You could barely comprehend the gravity of it all, a future painted in shades of dread.

Just then, you caught a glimpse of Negan climbing out of the truck, and fear twisted in your gut like a knife. “Tell Tommy to find me,” you urged Emma one last time.

“And if you find Joel… please tell him I’m waiting for him. Always.”

With that you pulled away, forcing a smile to mask the turmoil swirling within you. You had to play your part. You turned away from Emma, letting the illusion of normalcy settle over you like a shroud.

Emma ducked into the shadows, her presence fading from your periphery, and you approached Negan, your heart pounding like a war drum in your chest.

“What took you so fucking long?” he barked, irritation etched on his face.

You feigned confusion, forcing the words out. “I’m just… confused, Negan. It’s my first time.”

“Then just fucking pick anything! Jesus, woman.” His voice cracked like a whip, sending a shiver down your spine. You nodded, swallowing the knot of fear in your throat, feeling smaller than ever.

As he stepped outside, waiting by the truck, you turned toward the cashier, each step heavy with the weight of what you were about to do.

The store felt surreal, a juxtaposition of mundane normalcy against the tempest brewing in your heart. Each item on the shelves seemed to mock your despair, the fluorescent lights flickering like distant stars in a darkened sky, reminding you of everything you had lost.

Approaching the counter, the world around you began to blur, thoughts racing through your mind like a whirlwind. What if this was it? What if you didn’t escape?

The reality of your situation sank in, pressing down on you like a lead weight, suffocating in its intensity. You were here, a ghost of your former self, trapped in a nightmare of someone else’s making, and the walls felt like they were closing in.

As you laid down the items—each one a reminder of a life you once knew—you thought of Joel.

His warmth, his laughter, the way he made you feel safe against the chill of the world. Those memories glimmered like fragile stars in the darkness, a bittersweet ache that filled your chest.

You wondered if he was fighting for you, if he even knew what had become of you.

You took a breath, trying to steady the whirlwind inside. As the cashier rang up your items, your mind spiraled back to the pregnancy test, the weight of it pressing down on your conscience.

In your faith, it was a sin to kill a baby, a sin that echoed through your upbringing like a haunting hymn. The Bible spoke of life being a sacred gift, a trust from God.

But this baby is not a gift.

The thought of bringing a child into this world—a world filled with darkness and pain, where they could inherit a life as broken as your own—sent waves of panic crashing through you.

You steeled yourself, feeling the tremor of fear and guilt intertwining within you. “Do you have anything?” you asked, the words tumbling out before you could second-guess yourself.

“I want to get rid of it,” you said, your hand instinctively brushing against your abdomen as if to shield the burgeoning life from the shadows lurking in your reality.

The cashier’s eyes widened, shock painting her features. “What do you mean?”

You swallowed hard, fighting back tears. “I… I want to get rid of it.” You gestured to your belly, feeling the weight of your confession settle in the air between you.

The cashier hesitated, her expression flickering between concern and caution. “You sure about it?” she asked, her voice softening, an unspoken understanding passing between you.

“Yes,” you whispered, desperation threading through your tone. “Please, just anything.”

She studied you for a moment, weighing the gravity of your request. “Are you really sure about it? It’s none of my business, but you should consider going to a hospital for this.”

“No, I can’t. I—I just can’t,” you managed, urgency coursing through your veins. “Just give it to me.”

“Alright, but it ain’t my fault if anything happens,” she replied, her voice laced with a mixture of sympathy and resignation. You watched as she reached beneath the counter, pulling out a small, unassuming package that felt like both a lifeline and a curse.

As she handed it to you, time seemed to stand still, the world around you fading into a blur. This was it—a moment carved in time, one that would alter your path forever. You grasped the package tightly, your fingers trembling as you felt the weight of your decision press against your chest.

You turned to leave, but just before stepping out, you glanced back at Emma. Her eyes were glistening with tears, her face a mixture of fear and heartbreak. The sight of her anguish sent a fresh wave of guilt crashing over you, a reminder of the innocence that had been stolen from both of you.

You wanted to reach out, to assure her that you were going to be okay, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you silently nod and gave her one last smile, you don't know if you're gonna see her ever again.

As you stepped out of the store, the fluorescent lights flickered behind you, casting long shadows on the pavement that stretched out before you. The outside world felt colder, more foreboding, as if it sensed the turmoil brewing within your heart.

Each heartbeat echoed the weight of your choice, the urgency of your situation clawing at your mind. You were standing at the precipice of an uncertain future, the horizon obscured by the storm clouds of despair and fear that loomed above you.

But amidst the chaos, a flicker of resolve ignited deep within. You thought of Joel, his strength, his unwavering presence that made you feel safe even when the world was crumbling around you. In your darkest moments, his memory became a guiding light, urging you to fight for the life you once had.

You needed to find your way back to him, to reclaim your story from the shadows that threatened to consume you. The road ahead was murky, each step a treacherous dance with danger, but you steeled yourself for the fight. The thought of Joel ignited a fire in your belly, a relentless determination to survive.

With each breath, you whispered a silent prayer into the darkening sky, clutching the small package against your heart as you resolved to face whatever lay ahead.

You would find a way to escape this nightmare, to reclaim your future, and to make sure that Negan would never have power over you again.

The night felt heavy with anticipation, the air thick with a tension that twisted in your gut. You stood in front of the hotel mirror, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glare on your reflection.

Each detail felt foreign—your skin, once vibrant, now dulled and pale; your body, a ghost of its former self, now a canvas marked by the weight of what you had endured.

Emma’s words echoed in your mind: “It’s been a year since I last saw you.” It means now it's been a year and a half. A lifetime spent away from Joel, the man whose laughter had once wrapped around you like a warm blanket.

You missed him so fiercely it was like a physical ache, a void in your chest that no amount of prayer seemed to fill. You whispered your pleas to God, each word hanging in the air like a desperate song.

But as the days blurred into nights, doubt began to creep in, gnawing at your faith like a hungry wolf. Was there even a God to hear you?

You glanced down at your stomach, where a life was growing inside you, innocent and unaware of the darkness surrounding it.

You remembered the test you took earlier with Negan, the little plus sign a cruel twist of fate.

Pregnant with his child.

The thought twisted in your gut, an iron weight pressing down, reminding you of everything you had been taught.

Your father’s sermons flooded your mind, words from the Good Book spilling into your consciousness like water from a broken dam. “Children are a gift from God,” he had preached, his voice booming with conviction.

But this child felt like a curse, a cruel reminder of the monster that had taken you from the light and plunged you into shadow.

If it was a boy, what hope did he have of escaping his father’s blood? If it was a girl, you couldn’t bear the thought of her living in a world ruled by a monster like Negan. You don't want them to live your life, no.

No, you couldn’t bring this life into a world so steeped in pain and darkness. You would save them, save them from their father’s sins, from your own sins.

In the solitude of the bathroom, you grasped the small package tightly, your heart racing as you decided to take four pills, hoping to end what had begun.

Your hands trembled as you swallowed them, each one feeling like a stone lodged in your throat, a final act of defiance against the life growing within you.

Almost immediately, pain erupted in your abdomen, sharp and relentless, as if the very fabric of your being was unraveling. You doubled over, gasping for breath, your body turning weak and unresponsive.

The world around you blurred, the edges softening into darkness.

Then, a sudden pressure built within you, an overwhelming urge that felt like it was ripping you apart from the inside. You stumbled toward the toilet, only to be met with the horrifying sight of blood—thick, dark clots spilling out between your leg. Dizziness swept over you, and your knees buckled beneath you.

A loud knock echoed from the door, a frantic urgency that barely registered in your foggy mind. You didn’t respond; you couldn’t. The world spun wildly, the darkness closing in as you finally succumbed to unconsciousness.

In those final moments, you caught a glimpse of a figure—a man, not Negan, shrouded in shadows—his face indistinct. A fleeting sense of fear gripped you before everything faded to black.

***

You jolted awake in a hospital bed, the sterile scent of antiseptic assaulting your senses. Confusion clouded your mind, disorientation settling in like a thick fog.

What had happened? The memories of the hotel room came rushing back, a torrent of pain and loss flooding your thoughts.

Then, you saw him—Negan. His face twisted in fury, a storm brewing behind his eyes. “What the fuck did you do?” he barked, the words sharp and menacing, cutting through the haze of your consciousness.

You were no longer in the hotel. Your heart raced, each beat a reminder of the choices you had made, the life you had tried to save, and the monster that now loomed before you.

"Wha--what happened?" you managed to stammer, confusion clouding your mind.

“Robert,” he spat, the name dripping with venom. “The man supposed to be satisfied by you found you passed out, blood coming from your fucking vagina.” His words struck you like a physical blow, and the reality of your situation settled over you like a shroud.

“I lost the fucking money because of you!”

Your breath hitched in your throat as Negan’s hands closed around your neck, squeezing tightly. Panic surged through you, and your vision blurred as you gasped for air.

"And you. You fucking killed it, you killed my child." he hissed, his face inches from yours, anger radiating off him like heat from a fire.

“I can’t… breathe…” you choked out, the world around you spiraling into darkness.

The realization crashed over you like a wave, and the weight of his accusation sank into your bones. He knew.

You successfully killed it.

Desperation clawed at your throat as you felt the pressure tighten. “Please… let go…” you begged, tears welling in your eyes.

"I should have fucking killed you for it. I gave you everything. I gave you a house, jewelry, dresses—everything. And you... You can’t even say thank you to me." His voice was a storm, his breath hot against your skin, suffocating you with anger and betrayal.

“This is how you repay me? Murdered my child? You ungrateful bitch.” His grip was like a vice, unyielding and cruel, squeezing the breath from your lungs. Your hands flailed, grasping at his wrist in a desperate attempt to free yourself, but it was futile.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the pressure released. A sound echoed in the room—the quick, heavy footsteps of someone entering. The doctor. She rushed in, her expression a mixture of concern and urgency, breaking the spell of Negan’s rage.

Before she could assess the situation, Negan released you, feigning innocence as if nothing had happened. The mask he wore was chilling in its calmness, a predator in a sheep’s clothing.

“Good, you’re awake,” the doctor said, her voice laced with concern. “I’m really sorry to say, but you lost the baby.”

Each word was a heavy stone, dropping into the depths of your soul, sending ripples of anguish through you. You had made a choice, a choice steeped in desperation and fear.

You had committed a sin that now hung over you like a dark cloud, one that would shadow you for the rest of your life. The weight of your actions settled on your chest, squeezing the air from your lungs as effectively as Negan’s hands had.

You had killed a life that had barely begun, snuffing out a flame before it could ever flicker. The echoes of your father’s sermons filled your mind—his rigid beliefs, the scriptures twisted into weapons against anyone who strayed from the path.

You remembered the fervor in his voice as he spoke about children being blessings, gifts from God. But how could you bring a child into this world, into the clutches of a monster?

“It was three months old,” the doctor continued, her tone gentle yet firm. “You took too many pills. You had a miscarriage. We’re already getting everything out from you.”

With each sentence, you felt the ground shift beneath you, the world tilting as the weight of what you had done bore down on your heart.

"Now, your condition is not stable, we recommend you stay here or do you prefer to go home?"

Before you could respond, Negan’s voice cut through the room, harsh and authoritative. “No. We can take care of ourselves. We just need to go home.” His words dripped with a possessiveness that made your skin crawl.

The doctor nodded, taken aback by his decisiveness, and you could see the thin veneer of professionalism slipping away as concern flickered across her face.

As she prepared your discharge, a whirlwind of fear enveloped you. The idea of returning to that dark house, of being alone with Negan, sent icy tendrils creeping up your spine. You felt like a bird caught in a storm, wings clipped and unable to escape the chaos.

What would he do to you? The thought gnawed at your insides, a relentless whisper that echoed through your mind. You had already seen the monster within him, and now that you had taken away his child, you feared what lay ahead.

Would he unleash his fury upon you? Would he kill you?

The hospital room felt like a fragile bubble, a temporary refuge from the darkness that awaited. As the doctor handed you a few papers, explaining what to expect, you could hardly focus.

Your mind was a flurry of thoughts—about the life that had been extinguished, about the man who now loomed over you, and about the impending return to hell.

Every moment spent in that sterile room felt like an eternity, yet all too soon, the time came to leave. Negan’s presence loomed beside you, his anger barely contained, a smoldering ember threatening to ignite.

As you walked through the hospital doors, the world outside felt both foreign and suffocating. You stepped into the night, it only served to highlight the darkness within you.

With every step toward the truck, your heart raced, a drumbeat of dread marking the rhythm of your impending fate. You asked God this time.

***

The journey to his house was a blur, each mile a countdown to the inevitable confrontation. The walls of the truck felt like they were closing in, pressing down on you with an unbearable weight, and you fought against the rising tide of panic swelling within your chest.

Each bump in the road sent jolts of fear coursing through you, reminding you of the storm that awaited you in the shadows of Negan's world.

As the truck lurched to a stop in the driveway, dread coiled tightly around your heart. You were still weak, your body aching from the remnants of your earlier ordeal, but that didn’t matter to Negan. The moment the door swung open, he was upon you, his rage igniting like wildfire.

Without warning, he punched your stomach, the pain radiating through you like a shockwave. You gasped, doubling over as the world blurred around you.

He didn’t wait for you to recover, dragging you by your hair as your body felt the ground, from the truck with a brutal strength that made you feel like a rag doll.

“Get fucking inside!” he snarled, his voice a low growl, devoid of any compassion. The darkness of the basement loomed ahead, an abyss waiting to swallow you whole, and with each step, the walls seemed to close in tighter, the air heavy with unspoken threats.

Once inside, he unleashed the storm that had been brewing during the drive. “You killed my child!” he roared, his fury reverberating off the walls like thunder.

Each word was a strike, sharp and relentless, cutting through the fragile remnants of your spirit. “I SHOULD FUCKING KILL YOU FOR IT! YOU UNGRATEFUL BITCH!”

His fists rained down on you, each punch a testament to his rage, and the pain was a visceral reminder of your shattered choices. You cried out, tears streaming down your cheeks as you tried to shield yourself from his wrath.

You felt small, powerless, as he pulled your hair, yanking you back into his orbit of violence.

“Please, Negan… stop!” you begged, but your words fell on deaf ears. Your pleas were drowned out by his anger, a tempest that raged against the fragile vestiges of your hope.

Then, in a terrifying twist, he dragged you toward the toilet in the basement. You knew what was coming, the reality of it sending a shiver down your spine.

As he held you down, your heart raced, fear curling around you like a snake. He plunged your head into the cold, unforgiving water of the toilet, and instinctively, you fought against him.

You screamed, the sound echoing in the confined space, desperate for someone—anyone—to hear you. Your voice was a fragile thread, straining against the suffocating darkness that surrounded you.

The water rushed into your ears, muffling the world, and in that moment, you felt like a drowning sailor, flailing against the tide, praying for the hand of rescue to pull you from the depths.

Each gasp was a desperate plea, each breath a struggle against the overwhelming force threatening to swallow you whole.

Every instinct screamed at you to fight, to survive, but in that suffocating darkness, you felt your resolve weaken. You were trapped in a nightmare of your own making, the very monster you had tried to escape now looming over you, and all you could do was pray—pray for an end to the torment, pray for mercy, pray for the light to break through the crushing darkness.

He pulled your hair, yanking you up and forcing you onto your back, the rough floor digging into your skin. The pain ignited your senses, but he didn’t stop there.

His boots connected with your body in brutal kicks, each impact sending shockwaves of agony radiating through you. “I keep you alive! I put a roof over your fucking head! And this is how you repay me?” he spat, venom lacing his words.

“I should have fucking killed you from the beginning!” With every kick, you felt your spirit crack, your body weak and unable to retaliate.

You crawled backward, instinctively trying to escape, but there was nowhere to go. You were a fragile leaf in a storm, tossed about and battered, your only response a quiet, desperate, “Please… stop….”

He advanced, relentless, an embodiment of fury, each blow a reminder of your helplessness. “Now I can’t fucking kill you,” he growled, eyes blazing with a twisted sense of satisfaction, “What a fucking waste!"

As he beat you, the world faded into a haze of pain and fear. You felt your thoughts slipping away, replaced by a singular mantra—God, please make it stop.

You realized you hadn’t prayed in so long, hadn’t found solace in faith, and yet now you found yourself begging for a reprieve from this torment. “Why won’t you help me?” the question echoed in your mind, a haunting refrain amidst the chaos.

Negan grabbed you by the hair again, lifting your head as if to force you to confront the monster before you. “What should I do to you, hm?” His voice dripped with malice, and you could see the gears turning in his mind. “You killed my child. You need to suffer.”

You were too tired, too hurt to even look at him, your body pleading for relief, but his grip was unyielding. "You would fucking regret this," he hissed, before he slammed your head against the wall, over and over.

Each impact sent a jolt of pain coursing through you, and you felt your vision blur, blood trickling down your face. The metallic taste of it mingled with the tears streaming down your cheeks, a bitter reminder of your despair.

“Stay fucking here!” he barked, his final words a command that felt like a death sentence. He kicked you one last time, a parting gift of pain, before he stormed out of the basement, leaving you alone in the darkness.

You cried out, the sound a desperate, broken thing, a haunting wail that echoed through the empty space. You were so tired, so desperately exhausted.

You felt like a wilted flower, struggling to survive in a garden of thorns, every breath a battle against the encroaching shadows.

With each sob, you crawled to the corner of the basement, seeking comfort in the darkness. You wrapped your arms around your knees, rocking back and forth, feeling the warmth of your blood seep into the cool concrete beneath you.

You didn't know what Negan would do next, but the fear of the unknown was almost worse than the pain you had already endured.

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lu-dao-writes · 11 months ago

Text

— 𝐀 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐎𝐟 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞 (𝘼𝙡𝙥𝙝𝙖!𝘾𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙤 𝙆𝙖𝙢𝙤)

꒰ྀི ᥫ᭡ 𝙎𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨 Despite being semi aware of his and his siblings existence, that’s all he knows. Choso not only has to navigate being fully alive, but he has to understand his role as the older brother, and understand his role as an alpha.

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜(𝙨) Omegaverse/ABO dynamics, SPOILERS, scenting, nesting, Kenjaku and him being a questionable dad, Mahito being… himself really, mentions of sex/ heats and ruts, mentions of porn watching, gn!reader, reader is Gojo’s sibling (you decide if biological or not), reader’s dynamic is not specified but hinted you’re either an alpha or omega, angst, bittersweet ending, vague threat alluding to sa not made by Choso but Kenjaku, grief.

𝘼/𝙉 It’s finally here (on my tumblr anyway lol)! This is more of a character study for Choso that I wanted to do, and because I also wanted to do an omegaverse piece. Reader and Choso interact later down the line, and the last bit is just the Reader’s perspective. Not too confident with the last bit but I’m ready to be done lol. Idk if I should have the minors dni warning cause there’s nothing super explicit here, but I’d say this is probably for a mature audience? I’ll be lenient but I’d rather not see a 13 year old like this🤣. But I hope y’all enjoy this! Also thank you for your patience!𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ ꒱ྀི

꒰ྀི𝙒𝘾: 5,232 ꒱ྀི

꒰ྀི 𝙏𝙖𝙜(𝙨) 🏷️ ꒱ྀི @staygoldsquatchling02

THE first breath of life is usually a special, momentous moment.

Sometimes it’s the start of a miserable existence where a soul must struggle before finding the sweet taste of… Whatever it is.

But for Chōsō, it’s more disorienting than anything, and the main thing on his mind is his family.

Chōsō and the rest of his siblings have been aware of each other, almost as if they’re connected by a mind link, but there’s no words to be said nor heard. It’s just a faint thrumming, almost like the thin strands of a spider's web being plucked.

The death painting cared not for anything else outside of his siblings.

That is until he had to when he took his first official breath.

Chōsō awakens to two people in front of him; two men with various smiles plastered on their faces. One a mild smile with slight interest in his eyes with ink black hair cascaded down past his shoulders, a scar across his forehead and dressed in some traditional getup.

And the other has giddy, dual colored eyes seemingly bright with.. Something that makes him feel a bit uncomfortable. He’s got dull blue hair and stitches in various spots on his body.

After briefly studying their appearance, scents infiltrate his nose. A wave of multiple things and so overwhelmingly strong that it makes his skin itch and belly clench.

On one hand there’s a mix of spicy, and smoky with hints of sweetness, and on the other hand it’s sour and bittersweet.

Chōsō covers his nose before becoming slightly infatuated with his new appendage. Too pale skin with a few bulging veins. He wiggles his fingers before a voice finally speaks up.

“You’re finally awake, Chōsō,” the dark haired man speaks, his voice giving Chōsō the feeling like something creeps up his spine, but he’s not sure if it’s a pleasant feeling or something dreadful.

Chōsō blinks at him cluelessly, purple eyes mirroring each other as they look at one another, but eventually Chōsō can see a hint of delight in the others eyes, but his face remains composed.

The man with the stitches giggles, the sound being higher pitched compared to the ink haired man.

Chōsō looks at the other with a bit of confusion.

“Ignore him, but I’ll cut to the chase. Your name is Chōsō and you are the oldest of 9 siblings.”

Chōsō finds himself nodding, being aware of this knowledge, but he does not interrupt him.

“Behind you are Esō and Kechizu.”

Chōsō whips his head around, his heart swelling as he watches the vessels slowly morph until they’re at their final shape.

His beloved younger brothers…

The reasons for him to strive to be the best role model and pave the right path for them and them alone, no matter the mistakes he’s bound to make.

His responsibility…

“You are responsible for them and each other,” the man continued from behind him.

The man with dual colored eyes wanders closer, crouching down near Esō and Kechizu. He reaches out and pokes at them carelessly, the action infuriating Chōsō to a high degree. He acts before he could comprehend what he's doing, his hand smacking the other’s away and a rancorous snarl spilling from within his throat, startling himself. His eyes are wide and he touches his throat, the pad of his middle, ring, and index fingers pressing at his Adam’s apple.

The man that was prodding at his brothers only cackles. “Oh, he didn’t like that!”

“Mahito, I suggest not testing him too much. He’s an alpha that doesn’t know how to control himself, and I certainly won’t help if you get hurt because you couldn’t stop running your mouth,” the other man warns, not sounding concerned in the slightest.

The unserious man, Mahito, scoffs. “Oh please, Getō, I’m not scared of some untrained alpha mutt.”

Chōsō is left even more confused, but he’s not insulted, instead he focuses on hovering over his brothers, not wanting Mahito to touch them again.

Now that he’s more present, he can tell who’s smell is who. Mahito’s is the one that smells sour and bittersweet, while Getō is the smoky, sweet and spicy one. It’s still overwhelming to smell them both, the urge to snap at both of them was strong, but he was not going to break composure again unless necessary.

Esō and Kechizu’s scents were slowly coming to life, their scents not being bothersome to Chōsō.

Esō smells faintly of something soft, floral, and sweet, but underneath that it’s death.

And Kechizu’s scent is earthy, metallic, and also smells of death underneath it all, but his scent is not as strong as everyone else’s.

They’re perfect in his eyes.

Chōsō holds their hands as they wake up, his gaze almost blank but there’s a touch of softness there in those dark purple eyes of his.

“Hello younger brothers,” he greets, his voice dull while his hands hold theirs tenderly.

“You’re Esō,” he directs to his brother who looks like an unearthly human.

He then looks to his other brother who looks less human. “And you’re Kechizu.”

Esō and Kechizu smile at him and wrap their arms around him, their scents meshing together and onto each other’s skin like a semi permanent tattoo.

Seeing their smile, and feeling their warmth… Chōsō wants to make sure he keeps them safe and happy.

Mahito scoffs and Chōsō is alerted.

“Chōsō is the only one that looks good. How come the other two look so gross?”

Another cord of uncontrollable anger surges through him, but he restrains himself enough that only a small growl leaves his throat, purple eyes glaring pins and needles into Mahito who looks like he couldn’t care less.

Esō’s scent suddenly grows foul, permeating through the room and alerting everyone.

It further pisses Chōsō off but before he could lose the little amount of control he has, Getō cuts in calmly.

“Where are my manners? I’m Getō Suguru, and I’m sure you heard me address him as Mahito. Before we let the three settle in I have more to discuss with you.”

Chōsō noticed while Getō was talking that he had a way to command his attention even though Chōsō was far more focused on making sure his brothers were okay, especially Esō.

Getō goes on to talk about his plans for the world and wants them to join in his cause. Chōsō frankly does not care, as long as he and his siblings can live peacefully in this “new world”.

“We’ll join under one condition,” Chōsō declared once Getō was finished with his speech.

Said man’s smile grows an inch. “Go on and name your condition.”

Chōsō speaks firmly, never once wavering as he and Getō stare each other in the eyes. “As long as my brothers, as well as our other siblings, can live peacefully in the end of all of this, we’ll cooperate.”

Getō looks like he expected nothing less from the ill looking man. “I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

Seeming that it seems to be a deal, he nods before speaking again. “Now then, what is with you calling me an alpha?”

“Ah yes! I will give you books on your biologies and as well as get you and Esō the proper medications you’ll need.”

Mahito gags, toying with his hair. “Those pesky suppressants. Who even needs those when they end up becoming a problem later?”

Chōsō’s eyes fly open with alarm, his purple orbs darting over to Getō and narrowing slightly, silently demanding an explanation.

Getō waves off his gaze, still having that carefree expression of his. “That’s years and years down the line.” Then he suddenly pins Chōsō with a knowing stare, looking a little arrogant now. “Esō is an omega and without them he could get hurt. You wouldn’t want that now would you?”

Chōsō swallows and only gives him a stiff nod, the terms still lost on him, but if the medication can keep Esō stable for now, that’s all he needs to know. He’ll figure out another solution later when he’s more knowledgeable.

Getō then guides the three beings into a room and inside there’s a large bed, small wooden desks beside the bed, light fixtures, a tv, empty bookshelf, a standing mirror, and a fuzzy couch. On the bed there’s a pile of random articles of clothing and some shoes that the siblings wander over to.

“This will be your living space, when you’re able to go outside feel free to buy anything to liven the place up more,” Getō advises, remaining at the doorway. “I’ll let you three get dressed and I’ll be back shortly.”

The siblings don’t acknowledge him, focused on finding the right pieces of clothing for themselves.

And Chōsō finally runs into his first problem as an older brother. When Esō was trying his first set of clothes on, he was absolutely horrified when he saw what was on his back. His scent soured and stunk up the room, drowning Chōsō and Kechizu.

Esō moves away from the standing mirror, keeping his back away from his brothers, his eyes slightly welling up. “I look disgusting!” he gasps, a million thoughts and scenarios passing through his eyes and it makes Chōsō panic and clam up. He wants to help him immediately, but when he takes a step towards him, he’s lost on what to even say.

“Esō don’t be so harsh on yourself. Kechizu nor I even batted an eye on what’s on your back. You’re not disgusting,” Chōsō explains to him, his voice blunt but with a twinge of gentleness.

Esō's expression softens but he looks off to the side, his attention elsewhere again. He shakes his head and moves to the pile of clothes again. “Please.. Don’t look at my back.”

“But-.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Please, Ani…”

Chōsō wants to push, but hearing the pleading in Esō’s voice makes him reluctantly sigh and let it go. He only wants to make his brothers happy, and if Esō doesn’t want to talk about it, fine. He’ll have to trust that whenever Esō’s ready he’ll come talk to him.

“I don’t think I want to wear any of these,” Kechizu chimes in before the silence could swallow them. “It’s not like I’ll be able to walk out in public anyways,” he adds with a shrug and tossing the shirt in his hand, not having a care in the world about that fact.

Chōsō hopes that Kechizu keeps that attitude because he doesn’t even know how to help Esō with his current situation.

“That’s fine,” Chōsō murmurs, admiring some boots that were on the bed.

Once dressed to their liking, Esō’s smell had gradually turned back to normal, easing the other two.

“Are you both comfortable?” Chōsō checks in.

“We’re fine!” Esō replies while Kechizu nods with a smile. “Are you?”

Chōsō nods with a hum. “I want you both to have the bed. The couch will be fine with me.”

They tried to argue and insist that he could also take the bed with them, but Chōsō insisted that he already took a liking to the couch anyways. Since the younger siblings knew there was no way to change Chōsō’s mind, they give up, settling down onto the bed.

“What do you think of all of this?” Esō eventually asks.

“All I care about is my family,” Chōsō answers without hesitation. “We live for each other, and as your older brother I’ll do my best to keep you both happy and safe.”

‘I will set a good example for them like I’m meant to. Even if I stumble along the way..’

“And we’ll keep you safe and happy!” Kechizu declares with Esō nodding with his arms crossed.

“That won’t be necessary but I appreciate it,” he says softly, lips curling up slightly. “Your happiness makes me happy.”

Suddenly there’s a knock at the door before it opens, revealing Getō with books and a bag of medicine in hand like he promised. “Here you all go,” he says, handing them off to Chōsō.

Chōsō stares at the book that was on top: “Alpha Biology 101 For Dummies.”

“Whenever you three are ready the rest of us will be out here,” he says before gliding away once more.

As Chōsō learns to grasp what life is now for him and his brothers, he soon learns the meaning of what are alphas, betas, and omegas.

Kechizu is a beta. People with this dynamic don’t have to take suppressants like alphas and omega have to to regulate sexual urges. Their scent is not as overpowering, and… Well… In simple terms they’re basic.

Not his words.

Now onto omegas. Omegas were highly sought after, spoken of like they’re prized treasures. They have heats that occur and are said to be “submissive” and the “caregivers” of society. Lot of the texts in the books he was given speak of omegas being frail and are made to be infantilized. It was weird, and it made him feel dread in the pit of his gut as he thought of either of his brothers being treated that way.

Chōsō was conflicted about what was being told to him from the books, and his own analysis from being around his brothers, Mahito, and omegas outside the hideout.

Mahito and Esō were not submissive. While Esō is sensitive that does not mean that he’s submissive. He’s clever and likes to dominate the room and anyone that tries to walk over him. Just as long as no one speaks or gazes upon the face on his back he’s fine.

Mahito… He’s playful, sadistic, and dominates the room, especially those he considers inferior. He’s anything but fragile and doesn’t need protection. The world is his playground and he doesn’t care who gets hurt or what gets broken by him.

Chōsō knows there’s not a caring bone in his body.

If anything.. Kechizu, despite being a beta, had what the textbook would describe as “omegan behavior”…

Even while he people watched he could see that what was said in the textbook was so… Wrong. Outdated.

It all just seems to be one big insult to omegas while only slightly uplifting them.

But Chōsō takes the basics so that he’s got a foot to stand on when taking care of Esō's and his omegan needs. And of course he made mistakes along the way, and at first he’s hard on himself when it comes to forgiveness.

Esō likes to nest with minimalistic things, even though he’s somewhat forced too since the brothers don’t have much to begin with. Esō also isn’t a perfectionist when it comes to his nest. He just wants one or two items that belong to his brothers and somewhere comfortable. He’s not big on constant need of physical touch, something he snapped at Chōsō for when he tried to coddle him a little too much. He does however like to wear bracelets that have Chōsō and Kechizu’s scent on them. It’s something he never likes to take off unless they need to be rescented. Those bracelets keep him happy just as much as being in his brother’s presence.

But finally onto alphas…

Alphas seemingly have too much power. They’re viewed as dominant, aggressive, and almost as gods, and the superior beings of the world. Like omegas they have heats, but they’re called ruts.

But once again, Chōsō goes off what he sees amongst Getō, Jōgo, himself, and people outside.

Chōsō has yet to really lose his senses, unless it comes to his family. But he’s not possessive of anything, outwardly aggressive, and he doesn’t even look like a typical alpha, something Jōgo mumbled about once with Mahito also agreeing halfheartedly.

Chōsō also doesn’t bother to assert himself when it comes to Jōgo or Getō.

Jōgo every now and then tries it, but Getō asserts himself elegantly without doing much effort, and he mocks Jōgo when he fails.

There’s also a big aspect on sexual urges and he himself hasn’t crossed that path and neither has his brothers.

Even when he accidentally walked in on Mahito cackling about the porn he was watching- although the obscene noises startled him- it overall did nothing to him.

Briefly he does wonder if something is wrong with him, but in the end he doesn’t care enough. He appreciates that he doesn’t have to deal with it because it’ll just get in his way.

Chōsō believes he has a decent understanding of all the dynamics, but he has no interest in telling anyone how they should behave. It’s not his place and he sees no point in it.

People watching has helped, but soon it starts to take a toll on him. Looking at the humans… He has no hatred towards them, but looking at them constantly reminds him how his other siblings will not be welcomed. Only he can walk around without much problem, and that sucks.

So eventually he stops going out so much, keeping himself at the hideout and leaving only when necessary.

He just hopes that following Getō’s plans doesn't come to bite him in the ass later…

But unfortunately the universe isn’t so kind to him. While playing a silly little board game with the other residents, Chōsō feels like his heart was being gripped so tight while simultaneously being slowly torn apart and beating rapidly, his mind flashing with images. He ignores Mahito’s whining and barely even moved to respond to Getō when he asked if he was okay.

“Both… Both of my brothers just died,” he says, his voice heavy. His scent is sour and oozing from him, causing Mahito to complain more before he’s distracted by something Getō says.

Chōsō breaks through the static when he feels Getō’s hand on his shoulder, gazing at him with a slight look of sympathy. The game board was already cleared up and everyone else was gone, leaving them alone.

“Let’s go retrieve their bodies,” Getō orders lightly.

Chōsō blinks at him, a little stunned he’s willing to even do that for him. He just nods, his throat thick with saliva. Or maybe it’s bile.

As they walk together Getō never once walks ahead, just remains at Chōsō’s side. His scent wraps around him as if to comfort him, and he still doesn’t know what to make of it, but it does keep him grounded and… It feels nice.

But surely he’s not trying to act like a father to him. Getō’s not soft either.

Chōsō pushes it aside for now the moment he sees his dead brothers laid up next to one another. That’s when the tears suddenly came.

Tears continuously drip down his pale cheeks, never ceasing even as he tries to swipe them away. He falls to his knees and hugs their bloodied bodies into him, sobbing and begging for their forgiveness for not being there and saving them.

He felt their fear and it was sickening. He felt everything up until they took their last breaths.

Chōsō whimpers that he’ll avenge them. He’ll slaughter Yūji Itadori and Nobara Kugisaki for what they’ve done.

Getō watches with a soft expression, his lips quirked just slightly with wicked twinkle in his eyes. He reaches over to lightly ruffle Chōsō’s head, comforting him and letting him grieve.

After properly burying his brothers, Chōsō started caring less and less about the plain, the only thing truly fueling him being revenge.

So during the fight with Gojō Satoru in the Shibuya subway he hardly put much effort into it, letting Jōgo and Hanami take the lead and do the heavy lifting.

From Getō, Chōsō has been made aware just how strong he is, and Chōsō has no wish to die by his hands. His quarrel is not with him and he doesn’t want Gojō to be in his way.

Especially not when he’s so close to his brothers’ killers.

Just when Chōsō can find himself falling asleep due to sheer boredom and from his legitimate lack of sleep, a sudden scent wafts in the air and punches him straight in the lungs, his pupils slowly widening. There’s a sudden electricity running through his veins and he’s become alert, head swiveling around.

It’s a scent so alluring and it floats around the subway, slowly becoming stronger, and standing out amongst the gore and sour rot. It comes closer until his head is snapped to the side, a foot quite literally snapping him out of it.

Chōsō grunts as he crashes to the ground, and when he looks at his attacker he’s once again stupefied.

“This right here is Gojō Satoru’s sibling. A special grade just like him. Do be careful if you happen to cross paths,” Getō warns before slipping the photo back into his pocket.

Chōsō only grunts, his disinterested eyes moving off to the side.

The air around them is almost electric and soon enough the light overhead bursts, but neither flinch.

Chōsō assumes it’s the youngest Gojō’s technique, but he’s not certain, nor does he dwell on it for long, his brain becoming inebriated from the scent.

Neither move and the once fierce expression on the other’s face slowly morphs into one of trepidation, scent souring and causing him such great discomfort that he lets out a timorous whine he couldn’t withhold.

Chōsō’s skin suddenly becomes hot, tingling all throughout his limbs, and something stirs to life deep within himself.

Those pretty eyes still have him locked in place before they’re gone within a blink of an eye.

“Satoru!”

The ever thinning bit of control he has is snapping thread by thread, and he’s down to the last few strings.

“Y/N, for once just listen to me and get the hell out of here! Go warn the others, I’ll be fine!”

Dark purple eyes watch as Gojō Y/N struggles for a moment before unwillingly turning tail to leave the scene, effortlessly blasting away any trouble that stood in the way. Chōsō was surprised that Getō even allowed it to happen.

But that’s beside the point. The moment the younger Gojō disappeared, Chōsō felt like everything was going to collapse around him, his mind struggling to stay coherent and rational, his scent unknowingly stinking up the room.

Find Gojō Y/N and cage the sorcerer in his arms.

‘Follow the scent, take Gojō Y/N, keep safe. Don’t let Y/N die like I let my brothers die.’

Despite wanting to give chase, the small, single strand of sanity left in him told him not to do such a thing. He’d be what he’d criticized other Alphas for. He may be half curse but he’s no insatiable animal.

“Woah,” he heard Mahito remark. “Looks like we’ve got a problem. Chōsō seems to have finally hit his rut! Talk about bad timing!”

‘Rut? This is what a rut feels like..?’

“Is that so?” Getō croons, with a wicked look of delight. He studies Chōsō’s panting figure before taking a peek back at a shaken Satoru.

“Pfft, it was all because of Gojō Y/N! That’s hilarious! Are you a masochist, Chōsō since you’re getting all excited from a kick to the face? Priceless!” Mahito giggles.

Chōsō can see Satoru begin to struggle even more despite it being futile, he’s bound up so tight and soon going to be swallowed into the prison realm. He’s snarling furiously and his feet even manage to crack a few tiles underneath him, but Chōsō can tell from his panting there’s a bit of panic.

For a moment Chōsō can get him. His family is possibly in danger and he can do nothing but struggle.

He’s mildly offended though since the last thing he wants to do is hurt the ones he’s drawn to. But he understands so he doesn’t take it to heart.

Chōsō’s attention soon goes back to Getō who throws his head back, laughter spilling his lips. “Oh, this is unexpected!”

The laughter only pisses Satoru off and excites Mahito. And meanwhile Chōsō is left with anticipation along with the others.

After his fit of laughter Getō hums with amusement and turns to look at Chōsō, smiling oh so sweetly with an evil twinkle in his eyes. “Well, go on then, Chōsō.”

Chōsō blinks, hearing his own ragged breathing and the permission granted from Getō.

“Go on and hunt Y/N down if you wish. It’s a shame I couldn’t capture them both, but this can work just as well if you capture—.”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Satoru practically howls, nearly foaming at the mouth.

But Getō ignores him, still staring daggers into Chōsō’s eyes. “Go, Chōsō. Take what’s yours.”

Chōsō feels disgust bubbling in his gut at his words, feeling that the ravenette meant something more sinister when he told him that. But he takes this chance and runs, wanting to find the person that triggered his rut and hope the ache goes away. He also hopes he can keep himself together.

You sprint like you never have before, the wind smacking your face and your lungs beginning to burn. Your heartbeat is like thunderous drums and the air doesn’t seem breathable to you.

That scent.

The scent of elderberries, a pinch of spice, and a touch of blood…

It’s imprinted in your mind no matter how much you try to forget it.

There’s just no way that he’s your fated one.

The universe truly likes to play wicked games…

What’s worse is that it seems like your meeting has brought upon his rut. You just hope to god that your cycle won’t come about from this.

You always take your medication, never missing a beat, but when alphas and omegas typically meet their fated pair or pairs it sometimes doesn’t matter, a cycle may or may not occur.

The best case for you obviously is that if you do hit your cycle, it comes after the battle. If you’re still alive anyways..

So you keep your fingers crossed and push it aside, trying to find the nearest group around.

And thankfully it’s Nanami’s you run into.

Just as you’re about to break the news you’re swiftly cut off by Yūji bellowing out that your brother has been sealed from atop a building.

It makes your chest ache at the news.

“Yeah… S’what I wanted to say,” you pant.

“There’s still hope since we have you here,” Nanami soothes while striding up to you, keeping calm and collected as he typically did.

“There’s just one more problem..”

“And that is?”

“I… I ran into an alpha who’s in a rut,” you explain, leaving out the crucial detail so as to not embarrass yourself. “And he may or may not be coming after me. I didn’t stop to check because Satoru really wanted me out of there,” you continue before gasping, a familiar face appearing in your mind.

“Oh shit! Kento, I just remembered! Suguru— no .. Someone wearing his face is the one behind this.”

Nanami’s eyes widen just a tad and a heavy sigh leaves him. Ino and Megumi both also become alarmed in various degrees.

“That truly is a problem for us all… Here.” The blond alpha rubs his wrist glands against the ones at your neck, dousing you in his comforting scent and slowly muting out yours.

Megumi even comes over and rubs his and your wrists together, not saying a word and not meeting your appreciative stare.

Meanwhile, Yūji is still yodeling.

“Thanks, Gumi. Go ahead and get Yuji,” you tell him softly, ruffling the young alpha’s spiky hair.

The teenager only nods before heading off to get to his friend.

Ino comes over and slings an arm around you for support and to subtly put his own scent on you while Nanami’s nose twitches a few times.

“Your scent should be muted enough, and I’m sure blood and sweat will cover it even more so you should be okay.”

“Thanks, you guys didn’t have to,” you murmur with a weak smile, anxiety still nipping at your heels.

“What did he look like,” asks the blond as you three head up to meet Yuji.

“Dude looks like he’s on death’s doorstep. Like sickly pale looking, dark bags under his eyes, cute spiky space buns, and he’s wearing mostly white and got a purple vest.”

He hums. “Noted. Try to stay with someone if you can.”

You nod. Simple enough but not completely possible.

And as expected you were practically everywhere in Shibuya as the battle ensued, curses swarming the city and people that’s still within the veil being in danger.

You do your best to keep everyone safe, especially the kids, but when the ground underneath you suddenly gets sliced along with a street sign, you throw yourself down the subway where Yūji went not too long ago, slaughtering curses that stood in your way

The underground transit is in complete disarray. Broken glass, walls dented and crumblings, electrical wiring exposed and popping, and blood splattered almost everywhere like it was some art project and the blood is red paint.

Suddenly a wall that connected from the bathroom crumbles away slightly, revealing a bit of pink hair peeking from the other side.

Your feet are already moving, Yūji’s name nearly falling from your lips as dread grips you tight and unforgivingly.

And there’s that smell again, only this time it’s ten times stronger…

Right as you get inside you see the man from before standing over Yūji’s body seemingly about to deliver the killing blow.

Fated person or not, no one was going to hurt the people you care about.

So with your technique you manipulate the water spurting out from the pipes and use it to lock onto the man’s throat, and with an aggravated cry you swing him around and throw him through the wall he made Yuji hit, feeling an immense amount of satisfaction from the pained cry he made.

With him being spat out on the other side seemingly laid out for now and away from Yūji, you rush to cradle the young omega’s bloodied body, fretting over him and trying to figure out how to deal with his shoulder.

You don’t have much to help him and you snap at Sukana to do something, but the bastard for once doesn’t have anything smart to say, the boy still unconscious and bleeding. You pick him up and rush out of the bathroom when a voice stops you in your tracks.

“W-Wait… Please don’t… Don’t go…”

A mixture of anger, stress, and touch of guilt form a cocktail in your gut at his wheezing, panic filled voice.

You hear him dragging his body desperately amongst the rubble to try and get to you.

“You must got a few loose screws in that head of yours,” you spit, turning to look at him.

“N-No, please I—! I had no idea he’s my brother!” he coughs, his pale lips stained with blood.

Your stiffen, your grip on the wounded boy tightening slightly. Either he’s really lost it , or… No, he’s definitely lost it.

“Please I—.”

“ I can’t help you ,” you force out. “Especially when you’re currently the enemy .” And with that, you force your feet to move, leaving him behind.

And Chōsō only watches you with a helpless expression, tears stinging his eyes and a pained noise leaving him as he gives up…

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angellesword · 7 months ago

Text

BAGGAGE | JJK (06)

Summary: Drowning in debt and blood, Jeon Jungkook knows he's better off alone, lest he brings people down with him.

But one drunken night changes everything.

In a blink of an eye, Jungkook found himself drowning not only in debt and blood, but also in dirty diapers and judgmental stares from you, a.k.a his long-lost love and the guardian of the son he didn't even know existed.

Genre and warnings: best friends to lovers, co-parenting, idiots in love, mutual pining, angst, fluff, implied smut, kissing, minor character death, slight getting back together, drama, OC cusses excessively so watch out

Pairing: dad! Jungkook x adoptive mom!Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

← Previous Chapter (05) | Next Chapter (07) →

****

Six Years Ago, 2017

As much as Jungkook hated to admit it, you were right. This venture with Jimin was doomed.

"Jungkook, what should we do?" Jimin paced back and forth, a rare image of anxiety painted on his face. Jimin always gave Jungkook the perfect picture of a calm adult who knew exactly what he was doing. As such, Jungkook naturally looked up to him. Jungkook was also an adult, but his reliance on Jimin was of another level, allowing him to see that there was something to look forward to in life.

"We have to kill him, Jimin-hyung~." But darkness still loomed over the younger man, only that it was masked by his starry eyes, giving people the wrong impression that he couldn't and wouldn't harm even a fly.

Truth be told, Jimin sighed, but he cast an affectionate look at Jungkook as if Jungkook were his mischievous younger brother who did not propose murder but simply a joke of putting salt in someone's food instead of sugar.

"Jungkook-ah, I'm serious, okay? This can potentially harm our employees. I need you to think of something."

"Who said I was joking?" Jungkook deadpanned and crossed his arms lazily. "You said it yourself. This will harm our people. Why not get rid of the root cause first?"

"Jungkook," Jimin warned, his voice turning serious.

The brunet pursed his lips into a thin line, petulant. He wished to kill Francis Fitzgerald, one of Port Mafia's board members and their certified public accountant. Naturally, Francis dealt with the company's financial statements.

Unbeknownst to Jungkook and the others, Francis used the company's money for his own gain and concealed that the Port Mafia was incurring debt.

"This is all my fault." Jimin blamed himself. He was dating Francis and blindly trusted him, but Jungkook did not want to blame Jimin.

"That son of a bitch is cunning. He'd find another way to hide this from us even if we didn't give him freedom."

Admittedly, the only reason why Jungkook and Jimin found out about Francis' scheme was because Jisoo sent a formal request to inspect Port Mafia's book. Jisoo had been wanting to increase her investment, but she didn't want to jump into the fire immediately. She wanted some sort of proof that Port Mafia was doing well. She couldn’t buy this whole unicorn company thing. Something must be up.

"Maybe we should report this to the authorities. Does anyone else know?"

"Only the two of us, Jisoo and her independent auditor," Jungkook answered. It was all thanks to your sister's painstaking effort that the anomalies were discovered. "You don't have to worry about Jisoo-noona. She'll keep her mouth shut."

"We're really going to hide this?" Jimin was uncomfortable, but what other choice did they have?

"It appears that's the only thing we could do. Unless you change your mind about murder." Jungkook shrugged off. They would just discreetly force Francis to 'resign' and slowly correct his wrongdoings. Jisoo said she knew many reliable accountants and auditors who could handle issues like this silently. Jisoo also said she was willing to buy Francis' shares, though she had no interest in being a board member.

Jungkook was a cunning man, but he had to admit he couldn't exactly figure out why Jisoo was willing to help Port Mafia clean its mess up. Thankfully, Jimin gave Jungkook the go signal to work with Jisoo while he continued to manage their business operation. It gave Jungkook the time to scrutinize Jisoo. He had done the same thing with others before, dining and sweet-talking them until they willingly opened up to him.

"Why the long face, Jisoo-noona? Did you change your mind about helping us~? Or maybe you're just looking for a little extra persuasion~?" The corner of Jungkook's lip ticked up. They were at Jisoo’s house because Jungkook proposed to cook for Jisoo to thank her for helping Port Mafia. He slowly poured wine on Jisoo's glass while maintaining eye contact with her.

Light teasing and flirting usually worked, but Jungkook didn't see the blush on Jisoo's cheeks. She indolently picked up her wine glass and swirled it to release its aroma.

Jisoo did not drink her wine. She furrowed a brow at the younger boy, "Jungkook-ah, tell me. How much do you love my sister?"

Her question stunned Jungkook, causing his throat to get dry. For a moment, Jungkook didn't know what to say. He opened his mouth to speak but pursed his lips at the last minute.

It took a while before Jungkook settled with an answer.

"It's complicated." While it was indisputable that you were his best friend, Jungkook also knew that his bond with you transcended all superficial feelings, such as love. Yes. Love, among other things, was superficial compared to what you were to him.

People often wondered how you and Jungkook remained friends for many years, considering that all you did was fight, but none of those people saw you two’s desperate glances and how soft they actually were. No one understood that while it was easy to buy crab spring rolls, you would rather make them at home and add some pureed vegetables so Jungkook could eat healthier.

Or how no one understood Jungkook's intention of cutting you some slack after all the hurtful words you had said because he knew he'd be damned to take an angry woman’s words at face value.

Love was there—it was easy to say and feel that, but it was a different story, knowing that you might hurt each other. However, at the end of the day, you and Jungkook were each other's constants. You would return to each other's embrace no matter how fucked up the situation was.

People like Jisoo would not understand that, so Jungkook could only settle with a simple "it's complicated" response.

As expected, Jisoo shook her head. She didn't look enthusiastic to hear Jungkook's answer, as her question was merely rhetoric or a preamble.

Jisoo's intention was to tell Jungkook how much you meant to her.

Jungkook smiled. "I know, Jisoo-noona. Everybody loves your sister."

"No, Jungkook." Jisoo stopped swirling her glass. She caught Jungkook's eyes, voice serious. "You don't understand. I love that kid with my life."

You and Jisoo had absent parents, so Jisoo basically raised you.

Jungkook remained silent, sensing that there was more to Jisoo's admission of her feelings for you.

And he was right.

Jisoo stopped swirling the glass; she looked at the crimson liquid intensely, a bitter smile blooming on her face. "This wine seems quite tasty."

"You would know." Jungkook took a sip of his wine. "That's your fourth cup, right—"

Jungkook was abruptly cut off when Jisoo poured the wine on the floor. Its splattering reverberated through Jisoo's dining room.

Then she confessed:

"I'm dying, Jungkook."

The wine glass shattered, broken pieces falling on the floor.

"Jisoo-noona." Jungkook was by Jisoo's side in a flash. He enveloped her in an embrace to get her to stop shaking. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

Jungkook sat Jisoo on her couch, bringing a towel to wipe at her hand. He didn't know when their playful banter turned into something this gloomy, but that should be his least concern.

"Are you with me, Jisoo-noona? Come on, breathe." Jungkook usually did this with you. You had quite some temper. Jisoo was the relaxed one, almost always gracious. Her smile was reserved for big occasions only.

It was an...experience to see her like this.

"You're okay, Jisoo-noona. Jisoo." Jungkook learned it was effective to utter someone's name when they were in distress. Fortunately, it worked on Jisoo. She released a deep breath before swallowing thickly.

"You good?"

Jisoo nodded. "Thank you, Jungkook-ah."

"Not a problem," he hummed. "Care to explain to me what you meant earlier?"

Perhaps Jungkook's tone was gentle, so it made it easier for Jisoo to open up. It was part of her plan, anyway. She knew Jimin and Jungkook must have been curious why she still invested in Port Mafia. The truth was, it was all for you.

Cancer.

Jisoo recently found out that she had cancer, and her days in this world were numbered. Jisoo didn't want to leave you alone, so she could only place her bet on Jungkook.

She knew that Jungkook would be in trouble if the authorities found out about Port Mafia's anomalies, and who would care for you if she died and Jungkook ended up locked up in prison?

"I've researched about your company. It would have been good if Francis did not mess up. I see the potential in Port Mafia; that's why I'm risking with you."

As long as Jungkook and Jimin stayed vigilant and not let scums like Francis come back, then Port Mafia would continue to prosper. By the time Jisoo was gone, all her investment would be passed down to you. That was her goal. She wanted you to enjoy a financially stable life with Jungkook.

"Are you going to tell her about your health situation?" That was all Jungkook could say.

Jisoo puffed a breath, kind of like a snicker. "Are you going to tell her about your business situation?"

There was a pause in the air.

And then they both laughed. They both knew the answer to their question.

"Did you know why exposing Fitzgerald's crime to the authorities is not an option?"

Jisoo shook her head at that. She had meant to ask that; luckily, Jungkook made it easier.

Francis Fitzgerald was not the only one who had something to hide. Jungkook and Jimin weren't exactly clean.

Port Mafia was a business process outsourcing company. Everyone around Jungkook thought that he chose to venture into this kind of business for money, and while that was true, it was not his primary goal.

Park Jimin opened Jungkook's mind to what was happening to the world—how unfair it was and what they could do to make it slightly better.

Their solution was to make Port Mafia a catalyst for changing immigrants' lives. Not just immigrants but illegal immigrants. These people had built a life in Incheon and would never choose to go back to their own country that couldn't provide them with a proper lifestyle because of war and corruption.

Jungkook and Jimin hired these people to give them a chance at a better living. If they were to expose Fitzgerald's crime, there was no doubt that the government would also pry about how they conduct their operation. Everything would be exposed, and their employees would be at risk of deportation.

It was a band-aid solution, and Jungkook and Jimin were aware of that, but how cruel could one be to just sit and watch those people suffer?

"It's a different feeling, Jisoo-noona. I know their lives shouldn't be reduced to my feelings because Jimin-hyung often tells me it's not about us, but you're not there. No one else saw how happy those kids are..."

Jungkook never liked kids, but he would never forget when one of the kids ran to him, hugging his leg and telling him how happy he was. He didn't have to eat the bitter chocolate anymore—the bitter chocolate being dirt.

"This world is cruelly unfair." Jisoo felt defeated. One thing about sick people was how easy it was for them to be covered in a mist of bluishness. Jisoo did not see the point of living anymore. These days, all that prevailed was regret of how she lived her life and hope of how she could make someone else's life worth it.

"How much time do you have left?"

Jisoo shrugged noncommittally. "Depends. Longer with chemotherapy, shorter without chemotherapy."

"And what do you plan on choosing?" Jungkook just couldn't shut up with his damn questions.

"Are you kidding me?" Jisoo scoffed, feeling a bubble of anger rise in her. She furiously wiped at her mouth, the trace of lipstick gone. This was the only time Jungkook had seen her lose her cool. "I don't want to die with no hair. Fate is cruel enough to me. This."

She pointed at her lips and continued to wipe them with her bare hand, "Is of no use to me anymore. I can apply makeup and all those expensive skincare, and it will all be for nothing. Can't I die with my hair? Can't I die looking like me?"

She did not want to be remembered as someone sick. She wished to die simply as Jisoo, the girl with a reserved and pretty smile.

"Jisoo-noona," Jungkook called when he noticed Jisoo was shaking again.

She shook her head aggressively. "I'm so fucked up, Jungkook."

Jungkook held her hands, squeezing them. "You're not alone."

Tears trickled down her cheeks.

"We're so fucked up."

"We're so fucked up." Jungkook agreed.

They were inches away from each other.

"My sister can't know about this."

Their noses touched.

Jungkook hummed, cupping Jisoo's face, "Your sister will not know about this."

The first touch of their lips was like fire, hot enough to burn all evidence of their messed up life. They seemed to agree on one thing:

Grief.

They grieved about their imperfect lives, which they so badly wanted to share with the person they loved the most (you ) but couldn't.

You couldn't know about this because your life was perfect. You had everything, a good educational degree, friends and family who loved you, and a life where you wouldn't be scared to wake up thinking it was your last day as a free man or a living man.

With every touch and thrust, Jisoo and Jungkook grieved a life you had, but they could never have.

In each other’s wretched body was where they found the solace the world took away from them.

And come morning, when they were both sober, all that was left were sadness and fear.

← Previous Chapter (05) | Next Chapter (07) →

***

A/N: This is a short chapter and I might regret posting this immediately, but it's here and I'm going crazy. Anon people in my inbox, thank you for reading this fic, but I noticed most of you are so stressed. Please hhuhuh not to be that person, but...the fictional characters are not in the room with us right now. It's okay. I love you all.

Not gonna lie, I am thinking it's a mistake to turn this into a JJK fic, because as a soukoku fic, the characters' actions just make sense, you know? But here...things are just different, I guess. But anyway, enough rambling. It's going to work out in the end. When is the end? I don't know. hahahaha

I recently posted a light JJK oneshot, read this if you want to calm down. This is pretty much fluff and crack 😆 click here

Good night. <333

#jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook x reader #ficswithluv #jungkook x you #bts fic #jungkook x oc #jungkook fanfic #pseudo cheating

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aliaology · 1 year ago

Text

HOUSE THAT BUILT ME

summary: reader (older hughes sister) takes a small flight to toronto to say goodbye to the home she grew up in before moving to michigan.

pairings: hughes brothers x older sister!reader

warnings: just angst. part three of my older hughes! sister au so it kinda contradicts never grow up bc i almost made the michigan house be her childhood house with the childhood room line, but the toronto house was her childhood house, i just lowkey forgot they lived in toronto in the first part.

you didn't expect to be here. you didn't expect yourself to take a last minute flight to toronto and stand in the front of the house you used to call home. but you felt drawn to do so, you had to come back one last time. even if people told you you couldn't, you still did.

you felt yourself walking up the stairs. your handprints littered them, along with little quinnys, little jackys, and little little lukeys. the multi-colored handprints were a stark contrast to the white, chipped paint of the porch stairs.

they creaked under you, causing you to step slower. you now stood in front of the screen door that covered the red door. your hand shakily reached up to the doorbell, pressing it. the all-familiar tune played. it wasn't a normal 'ding!' no, your mother made it ring to a beat. one you would tap your foot to every time it was rung.

the door creaked open, revealing a slightly older woman. "can i help you?" she asked, eyes squinted from the sun.

"im so sorry to bother you, i know you dont know me but, i um- i used to live here." you awkwardly laughed. "me and my brothers are actually the kids who did those handprints on the stairs." you informed.

she opened the screen door, stepping out. she had a soft smile on her face and waved you over to the small swing that was on the porch.

you two ended up sitting and talking. "the back bedroom, that was mine. i did my homework on a dainty desk and that room is where i learned to play guitar." you spoke.

a fond smile was on the womans face. "i've never once changed anything in this house since me and my family moved here." she told.

"i couldnt. i actually hoped one of the kids who did those handprints would show up. i like learning of what this place used to be. plus, whoever did that kitchen was amazing." she chuckled.

"my dad helped my mom do that. it was a dream kitchen for her. he helped a lot of her dreams come true with this house." you said.

you looked over the property. the green grass, the live oak, the trees that surrounded the house. you looked back at her.

"do you- do you think i could come in? i just want to look around. i swear as soon as im done, ill leave. i wont take nothing, just my memories." you smiled.

she let you. you found yourself tracing the walls as you walked upstairs. the same texture was there as it used to be. the steps still creaked twice with every step. the air was still cold, as it used to be.

you walked into your old room. the walls were still the dark purple they used to be. it made you remember who you used to be. the happy-go-lucky little girl whos only care in the world were her three younger brothers.

you weren't done looking around, but you already dreaded the idea of leaving. leaving home wasn't what you wanted to do. doing it once was hard enough. you could see yourself, your younger self, sitting at her desk.

feet kicking with a pencil in her hand as she hummed to some random song that she heard on the tv. she would smile every once in awhile as she did her math homework, realizing she understood something.

you could see young jack running in, a water gun in his hand, and shooting you with it, ruining your mood and your homework. you could see little luke rushing in behind him, tackling jack to the ground. little quinn would pin jack down and little you would tickle him as payback. luke and quinn were your little sidekicks.

after awhile, you walked back to the porch. "thank you again, ma'am. this meant a lot to me. it helped being able to see and feel the house again." you told her.

she smiled. "of course dear." you gave her a polite nod and walked down the handprint-filled stairs. you got to see the house that built you, and instead of leaving with tears, you left with a small smile.

tags (perm); @slaythehousebootsdown13 , @um-mads , @outrunangelss

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auras-moonstone · 1 year ago

Note

omg i love your ethan imagines so yk i have to request one!!! a gf!ethan x reader imagine based on the lines, “never was much of a romantic, i could never take the intimacy. and i know i did damage, cause the look in your eyes is killing me” from the song runaway by kayne west? (ignore that its a kayne west song i dont support his actions, and i do love taylor swift lolol) but its an angst where the reader and him are in like a complicated relationship where they both like each other but aren’t dating, and then the reader is their when he reveals himself in act 3? sorry if this request was long lol!! tysm 💖💖

hiii, i love your request and i love writing angst😫 i hope you enjoy it <3

hoax — ethan landry

word count: 1,686

pairing: gf!ethan landry x fem!reader

summary: y/n finds out the boy she loves is behind the killings, and thinks the love they had was a hoax.

warnings: angst. mention of death.

GROWING A LIKING TOWARDS Y/N HAD DEFINITELY NOT BEEN ON ETHAN LANDRY’S PLAN. He never even considered it a possibility, even though her dizzying smile and angelic laugh should’ve been enough warning signs. Ethan really thought it would be easy. Sure, Y/N was indeed super kind and funny—and she was lucky enough to have been out of Woodsboro during the murders, so the Kirsch family didn’t have a vendetta against her—, but the plan was the only thing on his mind so he never gave her a second thought outside of it.

Having juked the roommate lottery, he ended up sharing a dorm with Y/N, which meant spending most of his days with her as she was also his classmate. The plan was just to infiltrate the group through Y/N’s friendship. But her charm was inescapable, and soon enough Ethan’s eyes started to absentmindedly find her, his heart slowly began to pound faster whenever she was around, and his soul itched to maker her laugh, because he had grown addicted to that magical sound.

He didn’t have time to run, because he had fallen for her like an early spring snow—unexpectedly, shockingly but beautifully nonetheless. Y/N had swiftly entered his heart and mind to show him the romantic kind of love he had been missing his whole life.

No, they weren’t officially dating, but they both knew the feelings were reciprocated. They had difficult lives, and they couldn’t commit to a relationship yet. But neither of them minded that much, the mere presence of the other was enough. A simple etiquette wasn’t going to make any difference.

Ethan loved that Y/N wanted nothing from him, unlike his family—especially his dad, who forced him into a dark plan he never asked to be a part of. Ethan loved Richie, that was never in doubt, but he had it coming. His own decisions pushed him to his death. Was that the rest of the family’s destiny too? The thought of it paralysed Ethan, he didn’t want that to be his ending. He was just nineteen, he had a whole life ahead of him. But he also was terrified of hurting and disappointing his dad and sister, who were still a wreck after Richie’s death.

He had an internal war constantly going on inside his head and painted on his face. Y/N had noticed the anguish surrounding the boy for a couple of days now, and it worried her a lot.

“What’s going on in that pretty mind of yours?” she finally asked one day, wrapping his arms around his waist from behind as Ethan washed the dishes.

Her touch was as calming as a lullaby, and it was the only thing that could make him forget about what was going on in his life. “Family issues” he admitted.

“Everything okay?”

He turned around to face her “It’s just… they expect more from me” his answer was vague, but Y/N would never push him to tell her something he wasn’t ready to share. “They want me to focus more on the family business, and at first I was okay with it, but now I’m not so sure that’s what I want for my life.”

“Did you tell them that?” she asked softly.

He shook his head “I don’t want to disappoint them. This business is really really important to them.”

“I can’t tell you what you do, but you do know it’s your life, right? And you shouldn’t let yourself be miserable to keep someone else happy. If they don’t respect your wishes, why should you?”

Ethan hugged her to his chest and wished with all his strength for a future like this—with no revenge plans, with no fear of disappointing anyone, with not having to lie to the person he loved the most in the world. A future with her on his arms, without having to be constantly worried of losing her.

He knew better, but just for a moment, he let himself believe that future was possible. It was a little hoax that allowed him to keep going.

Y/N FELT LIKE HER BODY WAS GOING TO COLLAPSE FROM TIREDNESS AT ANY SECOND. She was exhausted, scared and tired of running for her life. Tara, Sam and Y/N were now cornered by not one, not two but by three Ghostfaces. Her feet hurt almost as much as her soul—they had just lost Chad, and there were no signs of Ethan and Mindy.

“Just quit the drama and show yourselves for fuck sake” Y/N said in irritation.

Officer Bailey looked at her, showing him a smirk she didn’t like at all. It was evil, secretive, the smirk of someone who knew something crucial that she didn’t. “Oh, kid, this is about to get more dramatic. Especially for you.”

When Ethan felt a pat on his chest, he knew it was time. He took off the mask. He had imagined that scene countless times, wondering what Y/N’s face would look like once she knew the truth. Yet no image could have prepared him for the immense amount of pain he was felt when his eyes met hers.

Y/N stood frozen, but her eyes said it all. They spelt betrayal, astonishment and above all, sadness. A hoax, a sleigh of hand, that’s what their bond had been. It had meant everything to her, and was just an strategic move for him. Ethan could read every thought on her mind, and he wanted nothing more than to cradle her into his arms and sweep all those ideas from her mind.

It all happened in a blur—one second her gaze and mind were focused on Ethan and the next one she was being dragged away by him.

“No!” she tried to fight him, her feet tried to stay firm on the ground but his strength was unbeatable. “Ethan, please.”

“I’m moving you to a safe place” he explained in a calm voice. But she didn’t trust him anymore, so fear crept into her body. Was this how she was going to die? At the hands of the boy she loved? “Here.”

The closet was dimly lit and narrow, their bodies were almost pressed against the other. “Let me go.”

“Y/N, it doesn’t matter to them if you had nothing to do with Richie’s death. They are going to kill you, you need to stay here.” he explained desperately.

Y/N’s eyes went to the knife held in his right hand, then she looked down at the stitches on her stomach, and she swore she heard the way her heart shattered like glass. Had Ethan—the one who had kissed the wound better, the one who had held her hand as the nurse stitched her up, the one who whispered reassuring sweet words on her ear as she looked down terrified at all the blood she had lost—been the one who inflicted that very same wound on her?

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she was wondering, so Ethan grabbed her by the cheeks as if she was the most fragile thing in the world. The terrified look on her eyes didn’t go past him, and it killed him. “No, baby. No. I swear, I didn’t do that to you. I would never hurt you.”

“Don’t call me baby! And don’t you get it? You already did.” her lower lip trembled. The guy who she had trusted with her body and soul, the one that felt like home to her, was the person whom she should’ve been running away from all along. “Was I just some pawn in your game?”

Ethan’s eyes widened “What?”

“Was I just some kind of Trojan’s horse? The girl you used to get inside the group?”

The brunet wanted to say no, but they both knew it would be a lie. “Only at first…” when Y/N hid her face in her hands to sob, he couldn’t help but bring her into his arms. The action destroyed her, because his arms were the place she used to shelter herself in whenever she felt sad. And despite the fact that he was now the one piercing her soul, his embrace still quieted her pain. “But I fell for you, for real, Y/N. I hate myself for bringing you into this mess, you don’t deserve it. You’re… you’re the one who made me feel happy again after everything that happened last year.”

“Fuck you, Ethan. I hate you.” she cried in his chest. Y/N wanted to pull away almost as much as she wanted to lock her arms around his frame forever.

“I know, I’m sorry” he whispered. “I have to go.”

“No. No, please. Don’t leave me here, stay with me.” the panic in her voice was heavy.

“I’m going to come back for you, I promise. Don’t leave unless I come back, okay?”

What if you don’t come back? was the question that lingered on that small room. There was a high chance that he might not see her again, and that this was the last time she would see him alive.

“If you’re not back within ten minutes, I’ll go find you. And you better be alive, Ethan Landry.” the boy smiled, and pressed a short kiss to her lips. “Please come back to me, okay? I love you, please don’t make me live a life without you.”

“I will, Y/N. And then we’ll go home, and cuddle and everything will be okay. I love you.”

But that night, Y/N walked back to the apartment alone, leaving a part of her back in that shrine. She arrived to the place that stopped being a home and became a house instead. She tucked herself to bed and closed her eyes waiting for warm arms to hug her waist, but they never came. Instead, she had to hug the pillow that smelled like citrus—his shampoo—and let the salt tears fall freely.

She’s got a lot to live without now, and she’s never going to meet what a future with Ethan could’ve been. The battle was over, but the worse was yet to come. Now, she had to learn how to be without Ethan.

#ethan landry #jack champion #jack champion x reader #jack champion x y/n #jack champion oneshot #jackchampion #jack champion imagine #ethan landry fluff #jack champion fluff #ethanlandry #jack champion fanfic #ethan landry x reader #ethan landry oneshot #ethan landry x you #ethan landry angst #ethan landry fic #ethan landry drabble #ethan landry x y/n

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ringleaderising · 10 days ago

Note

:-) very sweetly comes over and asks about your ideas for Runt (the specialest little-older brother) outside of him being really smol (and the hinting of his powers in the godfall post)

"Child-God, you know not the power you contain."

Despite his accent on site (put on him bc I want my sweet lil guy to be pretty.) He actually very clearly visually resembles his parents, clumsily painted face to match his father, a clown ruff and dirty fingerless gloves- children's toys made of bone and scrap tied to strings wound around his wings like both of the Harlequins' bone chimes, and his own little cleaver and sub-weapons, though the cleaver is clearly a blunted, adorned cooking cleaver, and where swords of bone and flesh should sit on his parents and siblings he has the two missing throwing knives from Pig's bandolier. (He thinks his dad doesn't know. his dad knows.)

He is sealed shut with thin gilt lines of metal, though it's not always gold trailing the length of his belly, it's typically whatever Pig has on hand at the time after the kid uses his powers.

He has a little backpack for his art supplies! It has his name on it and plenty of space for crayons and paper and sometimes, if he's good, and Sow wants to piss off her situationship, he gets glitter and glue.

Runt is only about as tall as Pig's hip in anthro form, and operatively an 8-10 year old human as far as intelligence goes. He is constantly dirty, sticky, or covered in some kind of goop he's run through.

He's missing teeth- they're gonna grow back in though.

It is unclear as to why Runt has not aged the way his siblings did, but for the sake of his safety, his parents have elected to keep him with them, if he's bound to be a child forever then they will simply have to care for him forever.

Unlike his nearly-topless parents his little clown costume has those overalls with the puffy pants and sleeves and jingly bells.

His wings don't appear to be completely normal- depicting reaching, clamoring tentacles grappling toward a dark sun high above.

The metal sealing him down the centre is magically infused, and while his family tends to stay tight lipped about why, those who have chased Godfalls alongside Pig and Sow swear they've seen the boy open up down the length of it not unlike a mouth, lined with thousands of teeth to become... something else.

We're not worrying about that he's just a baby.

#runt;#the piglets;#he's just a babyyyyy

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nancyheart11 · 5 months ago

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Dad in a dungeon pt1

They were following fast on the trail of a group of Yiga, almost where they could touch them, Abel was sure. If they could capture just one, then he felt sure they could finally get some straight answers about where to find Abel’s son, along with the others. They moved down on a slope lined with colored rocks and a dip in the middle of the path from the many feet that had trodden it in times past. The Yiga scum slipped in a small opening of great wooden doors that had seen much better days, but peeling paint and chipped carvings aside, the doors were magnificent in scale and in lovingly rendered carvings of something Abel didn’t pay attention to as the Fierce Deity nearly threw the doors off their hinges in his haste to enter the space.

They finally cornered the Yiga against a wall only to hear dreaded giggles of the sort that were part of Abel’s nightmares. He could have sworn he saw one of the blasted traitors wink at him through the mask before the air was filled with dark, sickly sweet smoke and mocking laughter. He felt air move on his back and Abel whirled around squinting through the thick smoke and try and get a hit on one of them.

The air finally cleared enough to see more than the sword in front of his body and Abel felt as though he had been doused in ice water as the great wooden doors slammed shut with finality. He had a feeling that there would be no getting out that way, even with the Fierce Deity’s absurd Strength.

“Well that didn't work out.” Rusl said with a scowl on his face.

Fierce simply turned away from the door, sheathing his huge blade as he did so. He inhaled very loudly and held it for what would have been a concerningly long time for a mortal, then let it all out in one annoyed exhale through his nose making Abel’s heart jump even as he had kept an eye on the Deity.

“I sense a great darkness further in this building and it grows, even now… My little one would feel obligated to clear the place, to protect the land from whatever may emerge from the depths. I suggest we do the same in their places.” Abel could’ve sworn he saw the shadow of a smirk on the deity's face, but a blink later and it was as impassive as ever. “Besides, the items sealed in such places are often very helpful.”

Abel raised one exasperated eyebrow. They didn’t have time to clear some forgotten ruin of monsters! They already dealt with far too many just trying to get to the next town, the next clue to where Link (and the other Links) could be. He turned to Rusl for help and found him lighting a torch, already moving to follow the deity further into the foreboding dark. Abel felt a headache start behind his eyes as he went to follow, hating that Fierce was right and knowing that the kind of man he’d been before the calamity wouldn’t have thought twice about trying to help.

The group started down crisp sharp stairs which after a small time turned a perfect 90 degrees to the right. Then again and again and–

Abel was right back in front of the giant wooden doors.

He groaned in frustration because he had heard tales of people getting lost in seemingly simple dungeons and dying. He didn't have time for that!

He finally took his hands from his face only to see Rusl standing uncomfortably close to the edge, stone held in hand. Before Abel could ask how it would help Rusl dropped the stone straight down.

Abel felt something hit his arm. He turned to the threat drawing his sword as he did so only to see–

The stone?

Rusl grinned at him and Fierce, then confidently walked off the side.

When no sounds of Rusl’s body hitting the stone far beneath them sounded Abel began frantically looking for his brave but far too reckless–

A whistle broke his thoughts and pulled his attention to a wall on the side of the stairs beneath him, where Rusl stood casually, like he wasn’t defying the laws of physics and oh look Fierce was joining him.

Abel brought a hand to his nose and tried not to scream, no wonder dungeons were so deadly if this was the kind of thing required to even get to the next door. Abel let all the air inside him out in a huge, disapproving sigh before following his companions, since he wasn’t going to let common sense of all things get him killed.

—-

It quickly became apparent that nothing in this dungeon was as it seemed at first glance. Normal doors when approached turned out to simply be startlingly realistic paintings, the actual doors being cleverly hidden until you were at just the right angle or needing to do things like leap across a series of poles to reach the ledge containing them.

Upon reaching the first such door, Abel leaned his head against the smooth wood to catch his breath and wait for his heartbeat to slow, after all Tilieth was the one with the paraglider and he did not want to end up as a hylian pancake on the floor. He looked back just in time to see Fierce take a couple steps back, run at the wall and scramble up it smoothly in his armor, grabbing the ledge in one hand and pulling himself up with ease. Abel swallowed the hot envy in his mouth and went to open the door–

Locked

Why was it locked? Fierce seemed unsurprised, as did Rusl from where he perched a pillar way, since there wasn’t room for all three of them in the doorway at once.

“The Key must be elsewhere” Fierce nodded as though this was expected

He simply lowered himself and dropped the remaining 15 feet with no problem. And Abel’s knees groaned at the thought of having to cross those stupid pillars even once more, much less twice more just to make it back to this door which was most certainly not the end of the dungeon from the few bits of conversation Rusl and Fierce had shared on the subject.

“Hey Fierce, could you catch me?”

“Of course, little Farmer. It would be more efficient than crossing the pillars in fact.”

So of course Rusl jumped down, Fierce jumped up and, . . . huh that actually looked way more comfortable than Abel had imagined.

Fierce turned in his direction and raised one perfectly sculpted brow in silent question. Abel was grateful he didn’t have to answer out loud as he closed his eyes and took one small step over the ledge. Despite the armor the deity wore, his arms were gentle and he cushioned Abel’s fall and within minutes he found himself set back on solid ground.

With that done Fierce turned and began walking a direction they hadn’t gone yet. They found some red bokoblins camped around a fire soon enough and Abel almost relished something simple to do. Once they were defeated the group moved on, coming to a strange smooth curved wall.

Rusl’s touch flickered and in the corner of his eye Abel spotted scratches. He approached and based on the regularity and uniformity he felt sure it was writing!

Writing he couldn’t read.

“Can either of you read this? Since we all apparently have different writing maybe it’s one of ours?”

Abel couldn’t help the hopeful note that crept into the end of his voice. He may not be a soldier anymore, but he still craved the easily understood nature of it. Stand here, fight these monsters, try not to claw your eyes out over this paperwork. He was starting to be more impressed with the other son’s if they had had to deal with things like this on a regular basis.

The others shook their heads and Abel felt his heart sink a little, but then Fierce tilted his head, then walked up to the wall and raised his arms, the tops of which easily cleared the top of the wall. Rusl came over quickly and Fierce lifted him to the top of the wall, then turned to Abel, grabbing him in an embrace with hands that nearly wrapped around his entire torso and lifting him up to join Rusl on the top of the wall.

Abel looked around and from this angle was able to see that the wall was entirely flat, save for a few areas that bulged out. He looked to Rusl who grinned at them.

“Looks like we just avoided a whole puzzle with Fierce’s height. Guess they didn’t expect anyone eight feet tall to come here.”

Fierce jumped the wall and helped them down from the other side without a word. Abel was starting to feel as though he wasn’t pulling his own weight with this whole dungeon exploring thing. Rusl had figured out that the whole dungeon didn’t follow the rules of physics as he knew them, while Fierce had been making what were surely meant to be dangerous and difficult obstacles seem like child’s play. Before he could back down Abel mumbled out a thanks, and felt his heart sink a little bit at the way Fierce’s eyes widened minutely at the words.

Finally looking forward Abel wanted to throw his hands over his eyes at the sight, in front of them was a stairway stretching as far as the eyes could see in stark black and white, somehow seeming to go both up and down at the same time, almost looking at thought someone had taken a chessboard, broken it into the individual squares and then put back together in the most confusing manner possible.

They moved until they were almost to the staircase and objects dropped from the ceiling! One black, one white and one half and half. Abel ignored them and went to put a foot on the stairs? If that’s what they were, but felt as though he had been doused in ice when he foot went through the square. He pulled it out quickly as though it had been burned and fell from the sudden change in momentum.

Rusl looked at him, looked at the stones? Boulders? Things that were round and large enough Abel would have to use 2 hands to hold them properly. Then his eyes lit up, he grabbed the white one, and stepped confidently onto the white square next to Abel. When he didn’t fall through Abel realized that colors weren’t just there to mock his eyes, but to make even moving on this strange staircase a puzzle of it’s own. He picked up the black stone and felt it’s weight, heavy, but not so much that he would tire quickly. Fierce of course picked up the swirled stone in one hand while holding his sword in the other and they all began to move on their designated squares. Rusl’s took him up, Abel’s took him down, and Fierce’s went sideways . . . for some reason.

Abel felt nervous separating from the others for any reason inside something as dangerous as a dungeon. Abel got to the bottom of the long walk and saw white on his left, so he held his head high and walked straight through what looked solid to find himself in a room with water running down open archways on all sides, with bright starlike lights wavering in the water with beautiful cerulean fishlike creatures swirling and occasionally blocking out the light.

On the ledge of the archway he was standing on without falling in the four corners were four statues, one a bird with open wings, one a Lizard sunning itself on a rock, one a horse like creature with lumps on its back, and the last statue was so intimately familiar Abel’s heart hurt looking at it, for it looked Miphas divine beast, which he believed the girl had once said was based off something called an elephant.

He walked around the room trying to take in every detail and figure out what the trick was, trying not to think about how he was able to feel the cool trickling water under his boots and what appeared to be open space should he fall through.

His neck hurt from looking down so much, and Abel stretched it back as far as he could comfortably go, relishing in the relief it brought him before opening his eyes and immediately feeling stupid.

There was a bright shiny chest on the ‘ceiling’ in plain sight, and it probably held something that he very much needed to get out of here. Abel walked over to one corner made of good solid stone and put his foot on the wall wanting to see if he could walk up the side. He lifted his other foot–

And his back hit the ground, a long low groan being drawn out of him at the pain. He was never a thinker, it had never been his strong suit, but he was going to have to figure it out if he wanted to get his son and wife back, or ever leave the dungeon for that matter. Rubbing his likely bruised backside he got up and shook out his arms, now that they weren’t holding the weight of the stone–

Wait, where had it gone?

He looked and saw it had rolled just out of reach on the water he’d been standing on moments before. Moving a boot off the stone and into the water it went through, and Abel breathed out an annoyed sigh.

Great, now he was confined to the stone ledge on the edges of the room since he didn’t want to find out just how endless the space below was and he didn’t have a way to reach the stone yet. He got up and seeing as his hand was able to pass through the water of the arch he was next to very easily, Abel decided to lean on the stone and stick his head out, to see just how distorted the space beyond had been by the water.

They outside looked like piles and piles of velvet layered on something, soft and luxurious almost calling to be touched, though he knew that it was too far away if it was even something that could be touched. Studded along the background where dots of pure white light, shaped like tears individually with what Abel had first thought to be fish now appearing to be whale’s in a deep blue at their center, lightning as they went out and delicate porcelain white patterns scattered along their surface as they swam peacefully in the area. The one he was watching moved enough to unobscure the area and Abel sucked in a breath.

He knew that symbol in the not sky, everyone did, it was the one that had been stitched into the champion blue cloth for Revali. Abel quickly pulled his head back through the water headless of how much splashed everywhere. And he looked–

There

In the farther left corner from where he currently stood was the bird statue. Abel looked out the arch to his right and squinted, seeing the lizard of Daruk studded in the sky. He moved to the nearest statue, which was the lizard curled on the rock and started pushing with his whole body, gritting his teeth against the awful grinding noise made by the statue's movement. After continuing for some time and turning the corner he felt the statue click into place, and for a moment he wanted to jump in the air! He’d figured out some strange part of this all on his own, but then he remembered the other three statues and winced.

He cracked his knuckles and got to work. Eventually when the last statue (Mipha’s) was pushed into place after the light click there was a loud thonck as the Chest fell to the ‘floor’. Abel sighed wondering just how he was going to get out there before realizing that now the archways appear to have been filled in with translucent glass, no longer having water run in the space. He almost lamented the beauty lost before testing the sturdiness and went to open the Chest. Inside was a silver key along with a purple rupee and he was glad to see that because now that he was visiting towns more often money was something he had more need of.

Abel stuffed the key in his pocket, grabbed the stone, and found the area of the wall not as solid as it appeared to go back and hopefully meet with his companions. When he got back to the place the stones had first dropped he blinked at the pedestals that were definitely not there before they appeared as though they had simply grown out of the stone Abel stood on, with no joints or lines to separate them at all. As he watched a third pedestal bloomed in front of him to make three, and Abel got a feeling that the stones they had just used were meant to be returned here.

Rusl called out to him and Abel turned to greet him, only to begin laughing when he saw that Rusl’s clothes and hair were covered in splashes of various colors, all bright, none matching, and with his headband hanging askew on his head, nearly covering one eye. Coming from the opposite direction of where he had disappeared earlier was Fierce whose boots were once more bloodstained, though it was such a usual sight it took Abel a minute to realize most was fresh.

They showed the things they had gathered in their individual rooms. Rusl had gotten quite a few rupees, Abel had his key and Fierce had both a key and compass for the dungeon. They put their stones into the pillars and watched as they receded smoothly into the floor. Behind them the strange stairway was disappearing, step by step, until a rather small door was left revealed.

Abel frowned at it. So far everything in the dungeon had been spacious, to the point Fierce didn't have to duck his head to enter doorways, but this door was so short that even Abel, shortest of the group, would need to crouch to enter.. He grimaced at how much his back would hurt from just this room and moved forward. He went to put his key in the lock and Rusl put his hand on the door. Abel looked over and raised an eyebrow in question, far too tired for words already.

“We’ve been in here a while now, I think before we head in there some food might be a good idea.”

Abel wanted to get this over with and leave, but he saw the sense in Rusl’s suggestion and was also the only one of the group who could cook anything decent. Fierce made sense but how Rusl managed to char a sandwich? Abel didn’t want to know.

They sat on the smooth cold floor and Abel took some of the leftover rice from the night before and began shaping it adding salt, pepper and some hyrule herb as he went to make rice balls. He made sure to make ones too large for one hand so that Fierce would have an easier time holding them. He grumbled about others who were no good at cooking for themselves while Rusl sliced a few apples but felt his chest warm when both Rusl and Fierce hummed appreciatively at the rice balls along with the apple slices.

When that was finished Abel took several long drinks from his skin, swishing the water around inside to dislodge any random food bits and trying to decide how much to ration should they be stuck in this dungeon for days.

Then he got up, popped his knuckles and marched forward. Immediately upon entering the small room he saw a river rushing along inside a built stone bed, with pillars holding up the impossibly zig zagging structure. Abel mourned his briefly dry self before stepping into the cool water, since the ledges on the edge of the bed were quite thin and he didn’t want to test his balance. Then he realized the bed sloped downward, like an artificial hill in all the zigging and zagging, yet the water ran up? He turned to investigate and followed the flow of the water, feeling like that was the closest thing to a clue he’d encountered thus far.

Eventually he got to the top where the water arched beautifully off the stone as it was released to a water wheel? A water wheel that somehow held the water as it went upside down and deposited the water back at the bottom to move up again.

Looking closer at the water wheel Abel could see that it was guarded by a group of fish with extremely sharp teeth and that something was glinting at him from in between slats in the wheel.

It was times like these that Abel really missed the infinite bomb capacity of the sheikah slate. Instead he looked inside his bag, rooting through to see what useful items he–

Aha! He pulled out a spear triumphantly, then thought better of it and pulled out some rope as well.

After securing the spear with rope he threw it towards the bottom, it did not reach. So Abel trudged down a few levels ignoring how his head hurt when he looked too closely at the nonsensical architecture. He threw his spear once more and hit a couple of the fish head on, confirming they were monsters with puffs of smoke they emitted upon death.

With that out of the way it was simply a matter of getting more accurate in his throws the less fish there were to hit. When the area was cleared the water changed direction and Abel was swept off his feet unprepared for the change as he slid down the slope.

His arm jolted uncomfortably in its socket as the spear clenched in his hands caught on what felt like every corner and his legs hit walls before he could turn. Eventually he was deposited into a body of water, and once he gets his head above water he sees the water wheel.

Alright then.

He swims over to it and sees that there is now a solid stone platform he can climb on next to it. It puts him at just the right height to grab the strange object in the middle. There was a delicate sphere that looked like it was made from metal Spidersilk surrounding a triangle that didn't make sense. The triangle was made of a thin square piece of metal twisted upon itself in a way that just didn't work, yet here it was in front of Abel.

He twisted the sphere to get a better look at the triangle, where the blue side had been down, and once the red side was down there was the door in front of him.

Abel blinked and looked behind him,the room he'd just been in still there, but now he didn't have to go all the way back up the stone banks, so he shrugged and moved on.

He exited back to the now smooth room. Rusl was busy organizing arrows while Fierce watched on with interest. Rusl jumped a little when he noticed Abel.

“That was quick, thought you’d be in there longer!”

Abel didn’t take offense to the statement, though he felt like he’d spent some time spearing the fish, guess he lost track of time doing so.

After Rusl had put all the good arrows back in his quiver they continued on, going back to the door by the pillars, though having Fierce lift them up and hand them the key being far easier of Abel’s joints than the alternative.

Rusl turned the key this time and they both pushed open the door, waiting inside for Fierce to lift himself and join them. Once he crossed the threshold the door slammed closed behind them and Iron bars slammed down over both the set behind them and the one in front, trapping them inside.

Then the room rumbled and a paper crane fell on the floor? Abel furrowed his brow and went to pick it up, but at that moment a wave of paper cranes swooped down, seemingly of their own accord, all moving in one great rush to form some sort of giant creature. The thing roars at them and Abel can’t help wondering a little hysterically if this is one of the fabled dungeon monsters, something so dangerous it’s been confined to this place for who knows how long.

Abel readies his sword, feeling like the steel in his hand is woefully inadequate for the task before him, but prepared to fight with all his might–

Then Fierce almost lazily unsheathes his giant sword, slices it across the air nowhere near the monster shifting towards them, and Abel watches with something like disbelief as a beam of light is emitted, moving unerringly towards the monster and burning the cranes it comes into contact with. They were packed so closely together to make the creature that they are all ashes in moments.

Wait, something is still moving! Abel turns and almost feels pity at the sight of a lone crane, charred on one wing, pathetically shuffling along the floor trying to get away from them, Fierce walks over and sets one large boot on the thing, slowly grinding it underfoot with an expression of boredom, like this was beneath him. Abel feels ice in his veins at the reminder of the terrible power the deity wields so casually.

The bars slide up from where they came and a loud Click is heard as the doors unlock. Rusl runs up to Fierce and claps him on the back, grinning at him and Fierce seems happy? Pleased? Less bored at least with Rusl asking about the sword beam and thanking Fierce for taking care of the thing.

Abel shakes his head to try and clear it of such gloomy thoughts, sheathing his sword for the moment and following the others out of the doorway. They came out on what appeared to be giant hands, where they stepped out on the cupped palms of the hands, with the fingers coming up to act as a guard from falling. On the wall opposite them were notes? And under each note was an illustration of the hands with a finger raised, to make a total of 8 different images. But why!

Fierce made a little noise, one that sounded almost delighted? And pulled out a lump, with holes. He blew into the spout? And a note came out, smooth and windy sounding, though the grind of stone behind him quickly distracted Abel. The index finger on the right hand had lowered with the note, but when Fierce went to play a different one the first snapped back into place with a loud crack that made both Abel and Rusl jump. Fierce hummed and and played some more notes in varying orders, managing to find 2 that when played sequentially, kept both fingers down.

“This method is inefficient, there must be a clue elsewhere in this room that we can access to get the correct order of notes.”

Abel and Rusl both did their best to see what else may be in the room. It was Rusl who leaned around the hands and noticed the nails were painted in different shades. This made the fact that the illustrations on the other wall were colored more significant, though it didn’t help them know what order to play in. Abel, tired of staring down a seemingly endless abyss turned back to maybe see if they had missed something previously and noticed the door they came through was outlined in a rainbow of color. The rainbow was off, because it wasn’t in the right order!

“Fierce! The colors around the door must be what order to play in!”

Fierce nodded, and immediately began playing from the innermost to outermost color. When he did, an object appeared in the middle of the room, another chest, joy.

Fierce then played from outer colors in, and once the simple melody was finished the hands now flat underneath them jolted, and began moving towards the far side. They stopped at the platform (held by nothing as far as Abel could tell) opened the chest and pulled out a map and compass? Fierce gasped and seemed happy to hold onto the items, Abel didn’t understand why you would need to solve a puzzle in the middle of a dungeon to get the map.

@skyloftian-nutcase here's the first part as promised! now to continue onward! hopefully soon i'll have this up so that the parts of Dad squad written to be post-dungeon can start going up as well!

#nan writes #Dad Squad #fierce dadity #rusl #abel #poor abel #I'll do a better version of the dungeon map and post that with pt2 #Fierce is having a great time! he's doing something that little Link has talked about #Captain gains the urge to dungeon crawl without actually getting the skills for it #Rusl has helped clear a temple or two in his day #he's happy to have fierce so he doesn't have to jump or swing around things as much #Abel is grumpy #and getting reminded of the dead champions :D

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