#rejected suitor | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

l1tw1ck · 3 months ago

Text

Denial

Omega!Bottom!FTM Kenma x Alpha!Top!Male Reader

Kenma couldn't force himself to think about any hot girls whenever the two of you would get off using each other's bodies. Not even that hot domme he saw on twitter could beat you.

🏐 Word Count: 2,021 🏐

AFAB Language Used | (had this in my drafts since DEC.. i forgor)

CW: Mild Dub-Con, Thigh Fucking, Oral Sex, Daddy Kink, Praise Kink, Voice Kink, Virginity Loss, Fingering, Creampie

“This is just what best friends do, Kenma.” You reassure him as you rub your cock in between his thighs.

“You're such a great friend.” You groan. Kenma silently stares in between his legs, extremely turned on and intimidated by your size.

You convinced him that doing this is perfectly normal between friends and that you’d be helping each other from getting blue balls.

“So you're into that kind of thing, huh?” You ask, looking at Kenma’s phone. He jumps and drops his phone in his lap. “Hey, don't be embarrassed. Nothing wrong with being into pegging. If it makes you feel better I’ll share my kinks too.”

Then one thing led to another and here you are.

It's risky for an alpha and an omega to do this kind of thing since it can escalate pretty quickly but you're both taking suppressants and you're virgins with absolutely no suitors, which helped get Kenma to agree.

“You just gotta imagine I’m a hot girl, like the one in that drawing.”

“Okay-” Kenma shuts his eyes and tries to visualize the hot fictional woman in the drawing he saw online. He tries his best to focus but the only thing he can think about is you. And how fucking hot you sound. The sound of your labored breaths and restricted moans is more than enough to make him come. Is it strange to get off on a guy’s moans? He slightly opens one eye, just enough so that he can see without you realizing, and shuts it right back when he sees you staring straight at him. Did you open your eyes first? Did you realize he opened his?

You bite down on your lip. “Shit— I’m close–” You warn him.

He opens his eyes. “‘s okay..” He mumbles. “You…you can.”

“Yeah? God, you're the best.” You groan. Kenma shudders and orgasms, his pussy longing for you to be inside it. He watches as spurts of cum splatter on his stomach and on the band of his sports bra. He wants to taste it. He wants it inside him. “Did you come?” You ask, wiping him off with a tissue.

“yeah-” Kenma says shakily, leaning back. “We…we should do it again..another time..”

“Agreed. This is so much better than getting rejected all the time.” You grin.

Kenma hugs your pillow as your cock slides back and forth in between in his ass. He’s once again only in his underwear. He has a vibrator, one part stuffed up his cunt and the other pressed against his t-dick. Kenma knows deep down he doesn't need the vibrator and that he could go multiple rounds just with your cock sliding against him but he doesn't want to admit that or worse, admit it to you.

You're under the impression that Kenma’s watching porn with noise cancelling headphones but in reality, the audio is muted and the noise cancelling feature is turned off. It's not gay to like the sound of a guy pleasing himself…it's basically the equivalent to watching porn with a guy who isn't afraid to moan.

“That's it– just lay there while I use you…like a good boy..” You resist the urge to slap his ass.

Kenma bites down on his lip. He’s glad you can't see his face or else you’d realize he doesn't give a shit about the random porno he has playing on his phone.

“So good for me…so fucking good..”

He whimpers quietly, his cheeks red. It’s hard to justify the arousal he’s feeling. He can't even convince himself that he's imagining some random girl saying that to him. He's getting turned on by you, your voice, your hands, your cock, your scent. He really wishes it was him you were thinking about. Then he wouldn't feel so weird.

Kenma’s toes curl when he hears your about-to-come voice. The slight change in pitch and your breathlessness is just what he needed to hear to push him over the edge.

“So good for daddy..” You groan. Nevermind, that is what he needed. Kenma squirts, shaking heavily. You come just seconds later.

You slowly breathe in and out, staring at the cum splatter on his back. There aren't many things more erotic than this. Your eyes trail down to his clothed pudgy cunt, a patch of his gray underwear darker than the rest, making you realize he squirted. God, you wish you could just stuff your face in that.

Kenma turns around and takes off his headphones. “I’ll shower first.”

You lean back into Kenma’s couch and look at him as he's avenging your character's death in the game you're playing. You wonder what he really thinks about all this. “Hey…I’m curious..”

“Hm?” Kenma hums.

“Can I touch you? Like…more than usual?”

He keeps playing the game despite his surprise. “If you want to.” His cheeks are red. “I don't mind doing whatever…cause we’re best friends, like you said.”

“Really? So I could like…finger you and that’d be okay?”

“Yeah.” His voice cracks a bit. “You could go all the way..if that's what you want..”

“Wow…okay.” You gulp, slowly inching towards Kenma. You hesitantly place your hand on his thigh before sliding it inside his shorts. He does his best to keep fighting the boss while your fingers explore the space between his legs. “Is this okay?”

“Mhm-” He nods, losing focus as you reach his dick. He lands the final hit on the boss and pauses the game. He can feel your heavy breaths.

“You're so wet— sorry.”

“‘s fine. You can…you can talk.”

You feel more confident now. “I just started and you're already this worked up..” You murmur, sliding a finger inside him. “See how easy that was..” You slowly add a second one. Kenma leans back. His heart is beating so loudly. He sets his controller next to him, then roughly grips the arm of the couch. Your fingering skills need work but Kenma definitely can't tell.

“Uh~ Daddy~” Kenma moans, a bead of sweat drips down his forehead. The noise you made in response makes him shudder.

“Say it again.” You breathe out, somehow finding his g spot.

“Daddy!” He cries out, his cunt aggressively squeezing around your fingers.

“Good boy.” You take your hand out of his pants. The two of you look at each other for a few seconds before turning away. You’ve both decided to ignore the elephant in the room.

“I- I’m gonna…. clean up..” He says, standing up abruptly.

Kenma figures that since you’ve basically given up on getting a girlfriend, he no longer has to feel bad about his arousal towards you. He can just give you everything a romantic partner provides without even having to tell you about his feelings. It's perfect.

“You did really well today.” Kenma holds your hand, pulling you inside your hotel room. “We're going to the quarterfinals ‘cause of you.” He pushes you against the door. He pulls your shorts down while getting onto his knees. He kisses your length and tucks his hair behind his ear.

“This is so much better than an after party.” You throw your head back as he sucks your cock. He makes good use of his tongue as he takes all of you in his mouth. Kenma’s head bobs up and down while he humps his hand.

The two of you jump at the sound of knocking at the door.

“Hey!” Kuroo calls out your name. Kenma knows he should get up and hide in the bathroom but he just can't pry himself away from your cock. You grab a fistful of Kenma’s hair and push him further along your length, letting him know you don't want him to leave either. “You're not coming to the party?” He jiggles the door handle. Kenma looks up at you with the most seductive eyes you've ever seen, his tongue swirls around your cock.

“Are you asleep?” He knocks again.

“I’ll be there later!”

“You better be! You're the reason we're celebrating! And tell Kenma to come too!” Kuroo leaves.

The adrenaline rush makes your cock erupt like a volcano in Kenma’s mouth. Kenma swallows it all then stands up. He leans into your ear. “I’ll give you something else after the party.” He smiles, making his way to the bathroom to freshen up.

As soon as you get back to the hotel room, you press Kenma against the door, reversing your previous positions. You couldn't stop the guys from getting you drunk. You forgot you're not supposed to drink alcohol when you're taking suppressants and now you're extremely horny. “Sorry, Ken-” You mumble with your face buried in his neck. “You're such a good friend for me…so fucking good, baby.” You quickly expose both of your lower halves and grab Kenma’s legs, your dick throbbing against his pussy.

“Wa- wait-” Kenma looks down. He was planning for this but he didn't anticipate you acting like this. He's only a little tipsy but he can tell his scent is making you drunker. And your strong pheromones definitely aren't helping him suppress his own.

“You can handle it, Ken, it won't even hurt.” You slowly align the tip of your cock with his entrance. “‘Cause your pussy’s made for me. It’ll fit.”

His cheeks are burning hot. He knows you're super drunk and super influenced by your arousal and his pheromones but hearing that makes his heart flutter. He is made for you. Every part of him. It won't hurt. “Ye- yeah- it's made for you.” He watches your lips curl into a smile.

“That's right.” You slowly slide inside him without much resistance. “There we go…there we go, baby.”

Kenma digs his blunt nails into your shoulders and presses his head against the door. It does hurt but it's not as bad as he thought. He moans your name. None of the dildos he's used could even come close to your cock.

“Fuck—” You moan. You sink your teeth into his neck. Kenma gasps, his eyes widening. You marked him. He bites down on his lip and grins as you bottom out. He knows it's wrong but he's so glad you marked him. Now you have no choice but to stay with him. You belong to him.

You thrust into him slowly. “You feel so good..”

He moans your name. “Yes- yes– like that—” He loves the pace you're going at, it gives him the opportunity to really take you in properly. He doesn't even care if his teammates can hear him. He's too happy. “Daddy~”

“‘M gonna knock you up, Ken…breed you til you're full.” You grow.

“Yes! Breed me~!” Kenma squeals. He rolls his eyes back and moans shamelessly. He's already gonna come.

You quicken your thrusts. “Mine.” You both reach your climax at the same time, his pussy happily takes in your seed.

You slowly open your eyes. Kenma’s next to you fast asleep and wearing your shirt. Your memories of last night are foggy. All you remember is fucking Kenma and marking him. You wonder if he’s mad at you. You hope not...this is what you wanted all along. You didn't plan for it to happen so soon though.

He wakes up thanks to you shuffling out of bed. He says your name sleepily.

“Sorry, I didn't want to wake you up.”

“‘s fine.” He sits up. “Last night…”

“I…I barely remember it, but I know I marked you..” You stare at the teeth marks on his neck. “I’ll take full responsibility. You're my best friend so I won't abandon you.”

“Thanks..” He smiles softly. “I don't mind. It's better than dealing with rejection and break ups, right?”

“Right.” You nod, smiling back.

“Can you help me shower? My legs are sore.”

“Of course." You pick him up.

The team stares at you and Kenma as you sit down for breakfast. They're almost done eating. Kenma’s ears are bright red.

“Soo…” Kuroo pokes the last chunk of his food with his fork. “Should we be worried about…a baby….?”

#wicks🕯works #top male reader #male reader #ftm character #dom male reader #sub kenma #bottom kenma #kenma kozume smut #kenma x male reader #kenma kozume x reader #tw dubious consent #male reader smut #kenma smut #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x male reader #haikyuu smut #alpha reader #omegaverse

2K notes · View notes

spencersmopbucket · 1 month ago

Text

A Daddy's Girl | Stack Moore

Pairing: Elias 'Stack' Moore x Reader Summary: You're just Stack's type — feisty, strong willed, and damn pretty. Only thing is.. You won't give Stack the time of day on account of your daddy.

Your upbringing was a lil' different than girls your age. It was 1932 — you were nineteen, having grown up on your daddy's ranch. Instead of white cotton dresses, neatly combed hair, and puppies, you were raised wearing stained skirts, your hair wild and curly, riding horses and rejecting every boy that dared come near you.

Mama died when you were real young — too young to remember her face without staring at a photograph. Daddy did his best, though. He didn’t much care for you doing "girl’s work" when there were fence posts to mend and cattle to brand. So he raised you like he would’ve raised a son: rough around the edges, stubborn as a mule, and twice as fast with a rifle. By thirteen, you were driving the wagon solo into town. By sixteen, you could outshoot most men at the fair. And by nineteen, most folks knew better than to speak to you sideways.

Still, no matter how tough you acted, there was something that always drew in men. It was a competition almost. Any time you walked home from the schoolhouse at age 16, you heard them talkin'. The boys. Betting on who could secure a kiss first, maybe a date.

"First one to kiss the farmer’s daughter gets braggin’ rights for life," one of ‘em would say, real cocky. Like you were a trophy instead of a person.

But you weren’t some daisy to be picked. You were wild thistle — sharp, stubborn, and grown in hard soil.

None of those boys ever made it past your front gate. One tried and ended up limping back home with a busted lip and a bruised ego. After that, they mostly kept their distance. Called you a spitfire. A man’s girl. Trouble wrapped in curls and sunburn.

And maybe they were right.

You didn’t care much for dresses, or dancing, or sitting pretty at socials. You cared about the land, about your daddy, about making it through the droughts and the hard winters. You were proud of the calluses on your hands and the dirt under your nails. You knew how to clean a gun, break a horse, and break a man’s nose if need be. You didn’t need anyone — and that scared the hell out of every suitor that came sniffin’.

Until Stack Moore.

He was the opposite of his brother, though they were both law breakers. They'd come back into town like a storm, claiming it back again when they got sick of being men of war or taking over Chicago. They brought money, they brought booze, and they regained the enemies they'd always had before.

Your daddy knew exactly what type the Smokestack twins were. That's why he was so put out the day Stack spoke to you.

It was hotter than hell that afternoon, the kind of heat that made the air shimmer off the dirt road. You were hitchin’ the mule to the wagon outside the general store, sweat rollin’ down your spine, dust clingin’ to your boots. Stack leaned against a post with a matchstick between his teeth, lookin’ like the devil dressed in Sunday black — suspenders off his shoulders, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make your throat go dry.

"Need a hand, sweetheart?" he drawled.

You didn’t answer him. Just wiped your brow and kept workin’, jaw tight, heart louder than it oughta been. You felt his eyes on you like heat from a fire. That was the first time he spoke to you.

You grunted, finally getting it hitched, before glancing up at Stack with irritated (and curious, though you wouldn't admit it) eyes.

"I got it. Somethin' I can help you with, Stack?" You responded coldly. In a moment, your daddy would be coming out of the store. He wouldn't take kindly to Stack chatting you up.

Stack smirked, slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world and not a care who saw him spending it on you. That matchstick rolled between his teeth as he looked you over, not lewd, not disrespectful — but bold. Real bold.

"Nah, darlin’. Just figured I’d say howdy," he said, voice molasses-smooth with that slick edge he and his brother hadn’t lost, even after years in the city. "Hard not to, when you’re standin’ there lookin’ like trouble in a skirt."

You narrowed your eyes. "Keep talkin’ like that, and you’ll find yourself wearin’ that matchstick in your eye."

He laughed — a warm, low sound that made something flutter deep in your belly, though you kept your scowl firm. He liked that. You could tell. The way his head tilted slightly, his eyes sharpened like he was memorizing the way your mouth twitched when you were pissed.

"I like a woman who bites," he said.

You opened your mouth to fire back, but the screen door of the store slapped shut behind you. Daddy stepped out with his purchase — a sack of flour and a bottle of tonic. His boots hit the porch with that heavy rhythm that always said someone was about to get corrected.

Stack’s smirk didn’t fade, but he straightened up. He tipped his hat slow and easy, like he wasn’t worried one bit about the man standing between him and a shallow grave.

"Afternoon, Mr. L/N," Stack said, polite as a preacher.

Your daddy didn’t respond. Just stared Stack down, eyes like steel under the brim of his weather-beaten hat. You could feel the tension crackling in the air, thick and dangerous.

"You got business here?" your daddy asked, voice flat.

"Just admirin’ the view," Stack replied, not looking away from him — but the weight of his words sat heavy between you and your daddy. Like a line drawn in the dust.

You cleared your throat, loud enough to break the moment. "We done here, Daddy?"

Your father gave Stack one more look — the kind that could kill a lesser man — before nodding to you. "Yeah. Let’s get home. Storm’s comin’."

You climbed into the wagon without another word, trying not to think about how your skin still tingled from Stack’s gaze. As the mule started off, you glanced back once, just once — and saw him watching you, arms crossed, eyes lit up like he’d just spotted a gold vein in a rock.

It was the first time Stack Moore spoke to you. And the last time you knew peace for a long while.

When you got home, Daddy cleared his throat awkwardly, cleaning his gun in the common room of the house.

"Y/N." He called to you from where you stood in the kitchen.

You paused, hands deep in the dish basin, the soapy water stinging a nick on your finger you hadn’t noticed ‘til now. His voice was gruff, but there was something under it — something tight. Wary. Protective in that way only a father could be when he knew his daughter had just caught the eye of a wildfire in a man’s body.

"Yes, sir?" you called back, wiping your hands on a dish rag as you stepped through the archway into the common room.

He didn’t look up right away. Just kept running the cloth over the barrel of his Winchester with a quiet, deliberate focus. You could tell he was turning something over in his head, chewing on it like a dog with a bone.

"Stack Moore," he finally said, like the name tasted bad. "You stay away from him."

You blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness.

"Didn’t plan on inviting him for supper," you muttered, crossing your arms.

Daddy looked up then — sharp and dead serious. "I ain’t jokin’, girl. That boy’s got blood on his hands and more comin’. His kind don’t leave nothin’ but ruin behind."

You didn’t say anything. Mostly ‘cause you weren’t sure what you wanted to say. It was the first time a man had looked at you like you were a woman and not just the farmer’s wild daughter in scuffed boots. And maybe that was dangerous. Maybe Daddy was right. But maybe you didn’t give a damn.

"I know you think you’re grown,” he went on, his voice softening a bit, “but there’s men out there who take one look at a girl like you and see a challenge. Not a future. Stack Moore’s one of ‘em."

You swallowed, throat dry. "I’m not stupid."

"I didn’t say you were. I said he’s trouble. And I’ll be damned if I let him put you in harm’s way."

Silence hung between you. Thick as molasses. You could hear the wind picking up outside, dust scratching against the shutters. Storm was comin’, alright. But it wasn’t just in the sky.

You finally nodded. "I hear you."

He held your eyes for a long moment.

"You're better off with that Boone. If you really hafta marry. He's a nice boy and ain't gonna put you out when he has his fill."

Boone was a ranch hand your daddy had hired. He wasn't unattractive, no. He was tall, strong, worked with a smile and never complained. His parents were respectful and they were fans of how your daddy did business. Boone was who you should've been with, if you gave any man a chance.

He'd been pining after you since the two of you were sixteen.

You rolled your eyes, smirking in amusement.

"You like Boone so much, why ain't you marryin' him?"

Daddy’s face went dark, like you'd just knocked over a beehive.

"I’m your father. I make the calls ‘round here."

I folded my arms and leaned against the table, matching his glare. "Ain’t no law says I gotta marry the man you pick."

He set the gun down with a heavy thud. "It ain’t about law, girl. It’s about keepin’ you safe. Boone’s steady. He don’t bring trouble like those Moore boys."

You groaned.

"I ain’t sayin’ I’m takin’ up with Stack. But don’t reckon I’m gonna be Boone’s bride just ‘cause you want it."

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You’re stubborn as a mule, just like your mama."

You knew that was the final word.

But that night, long after the lights were out and the crickets had taken over the silence, you found yourself sittin’ on the edge of your bed, fingers twitchin’, heart restless. Because even though you’d said you understood, and even though you knew what kind of man Stack Moore was…

You also knew you weren’t the kind of girl who turned her head away from fire.

Your friend Lizzie had to beg you to go out.

"I swear, Y/N, one night won’t kill you," she said, tugging at your arm as you rolled your eyes. "You need to dance. Laugh. Hell, even just drink something that ain’t water or dust."

You weren’t exactly the type for blues clubs or lipstick-stained whiskey glasses, but Lizzie had that kind of persistence that wore you down like river water over stone. So by the time the sun dipped low and the sky bled pink, you were dressed — not dolled up like the city girls, but enough to turn a few heads in town: a dark skirt that hugged your hips, boots polished cleaner than usual, and your wild curls pinned just enough to look like you tried.

Club Juke was loud, smoky, and packed to the rafters. Lights glowed like sin on velvet, blues players' moaned from the corner stage, and the air buzzed with liquor and secrets. You followed Lizzie in, your fingers hooked into the belt loop of her dress, and tried not to flinch when a man brushed too close or looked too long.

You made it to the bar and ordered something you didn’t even hear over the noise — some whiskey drink served in a chipped glass. Lizzie had already pulled a fella onto the dance floor, leaving you with a half-sip of burn down your throat and the sudden awareness that someone was watching you.

You didn’t have to look far.

There he was. Stack.

Sitting in a corner booth like he owned the place (because he did), sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned, smoke from a lit cigar curling around his jaw. His eyes were on you, unmoving. He didn’t smile. Didn’t wave. Just looked like he’d found exactly what he came here for.

Your pulse jumped. Damn it all.

You turned back to the bar, heart thudding. Maybe if you ignored him, he’d —

A warm voice slid in behind your ear like a sin on Sunday morning.

"Well now," Stack drawled, low and slow, "ain’t you a sight. Didn’t expect to see you in a place like this."

You didn’t turn around. Just took another sip of your drink, ignoring the heat rolling off him in waves.

"Didn’t come for you," you said coolly.

He chuckled. "Maybe not. But I figure fate don’t give a damn."

He moved beside you, close enough that your elbows brushed. You could smell leather, smoke, and something sharper — danger, maybe. He rested his forearms on the bar and nodded to the bartender.

"Two of whatever she’s drinkin’."

You shot him a glare. "What’re you doin’, Stack?"

He looked at you then — really looked — and for a moment, the noise of the club faded under his steady gaze.

"Tryin’ to figure out why a girl raised to fear me keeps lookin’ like she’s itchin’ to find out what makes me so damn interesting."

You swallowed.

Then, you fixed the usual glare back onto your face.

"Well, what the hell makes me so interesting? Everyone with a dick in this town can't look away."

Stack barked a quiet laugh, low and raspy, like he wasn’t expecting you to come back that sharp — but damn if he didn’t like it. He leaned in just a hair closer, eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes and back again, that grin of his growing just a little wider, a little darker.

"What makes you interesting?" he echoed, voice like smoke. "You walk into a room like you own the land under everyone’s feet. You don’t smile unless you mean it, and you don’t flinch at a man like me." He tilted his head, still watching you. "That kinda thing makes folks look. Makes ‘em wonder."

You crossed your arms, hip cocked, not letting him get the upper hand. "You mean it makes ‘em bet. Run their mouths. Act like they got a chance."

Stack shrugged. "Let ‘em. Boys bet. Men watch. I’m just here enjoyin’ the view."

You scoffed. "You’re all the same."

His expression shifted then — just a flicker of something deeper beneath the charm. He leaned in again, but this time his voice dropped lower, real low, just for you.

"No, darlin’. If I were like them, I’d already be braggin’ about what I could do to you. Not sittin’ here waitin’ to see what you’ll let me do."

That shut you up for a second. Long enough for the air between you to grow thick and heavy.

Before you could fire back, the music kicked into a new number — a slow, sultry blues rhythm that rolled across the club like honey.

Stack held out a hand. "Dance with me."

You looked at his hand like it might bite you.

"I don’t dance."

He smirked. "Then just stand close and sway. I promise I bite softer than I look."

You stared at him, heart thudding somewhere stupid.

And then, without knowing why, you placed your hand in his.

His palm was warm. His grip was gentle. And your daddy’s voice was nowhere in your head when Stack pulled you onto the floor like he’d been waitin’ his whole damn life for this.

The floor didn’t feel real under your boots.

Stack's hand rested firm against the small of your back, pulling you close — but not too close. Just enough to feel the heat rollin' off him in waves, enough to smell the faint scent of whiskey and smoke on his collar. Your fingers hovered just barely on his shoulder, stiff at first, like you were afraid of giving in.

"You’re stiff as a fence post," he murmured against your temple, voice rough and warm. "Ain’t nobody lookin’ to bite."

"You just told me you were," you shot back, eyes narrowing even as you swayed to the rhythm.

That earned a quiet chuckle from him — one that rumbled in his chest and traveled straight through you.

The music curled around the two of you like a fog, blues guitar crooning through the haze of cigar smoke and perfume. Other dancers swayed nearby, but none quite like you and Stack. You moved like magnets pulling in, fighting it, pulling in again. A war with no guns — just glances, breath, and the occasional accidental brush of leg against leg.

His thumb stroked a small, deliberate circle at the back of your waist. You stiffened — just slightly — and he caught it.

"You alright, spitfire?" he asked, voice a low purr. "Ain’t used to men touchin’ you, or just not used to likin’ it?"

You glared up at him, lips parting to throw fire — but the words got stuck somewhere between your pride and the warmth blooming beneath your ribs.

"…You think just ‘cause you talk smooth, I’m gonna fall at your feet?" you finally snapped.

Stack leaned in, close enough that his breath kissed the edge of your jaw.

"No," he said. "I think you’ll fight me every inch of the way. And I like a fight."

The tension snapped taut between you, so tight it hummed. His hand slid just a breath lower on your back. Your fingers curled tighter into his shirt. You weren’t smiling, but you weren’t pulling away, either.

"I ain’t your conquest," you muttered.

"No," Stack said, eyes locked to yours like a vow. "You’re the kind of woman a man earns. Or dies tryin’."

The music slowed to a crawl. The last long note of a saxophone kissed the silence.

Neither of you moved.

You didn’t know who leaned in first — but suddenly your face was inches from his. Lips barely apart. Breath tangled.

"Lord.. If you ain't the devil."

His mouth curved just slightly — not a smile, not quite — something darker. Hungrier.

"Then what’s that make you, sweetheart?" he murmured, breath brushing your lips. "The lamb wanderin’ into the fire… or the flame that keeps draggin’ me back to hell?"

You blinked up at him, your heart thudding so loud you swore the whole club could hear it.

Everything inside you screamed to pull away — to do what you’d always done when boys got too close, when their hands wandered and their eyes lingered too long. But Stack wasn’t like those boys. He didn’t leer. He didn’t plead.

He waited.

Like a man sure of the storm and patient enough to let it come to him.

Your voice came low. Dangerous.

"I ain’t no lamb. And I sure as hell ain’t chasin’ you."

He laughed — a quiet, genuine sound that rolled through his chest.

"No," he said again, like he was committing it to memory. "I'm chasin' you, baby."

Then his hand slid up — not low, not greedy — just firm and reverent, fingers skimming the side of your jaw like he was feeling the edges of something sacred.

"And I’m tellin’ you now," he added, voice dropping like molasses in your ear. "You keep lookin’ at me like that… I will find out what you taste like when you stop pretending you hate me."

Before you could bite back, before you could even think, the club doors burst open again —

And Boone’s voice came, loud and panicked: "Y/N! What the hell are you doin’?!"

The spell shattered.

You jerked back like burned, your spine stiffening, eyes snapping toward the entrance.

Boone’s chest heaved, face red and soaked in sweat. Eyes darted from you to Stack, and the rage built fast — like a match tossed in dry brush.

Stack turned lazily toward him, jaw twitching. The charming smirk faded into something else. Something sharp.

"You know," he said, stepping just slightly in front of you, “if he was any kinda gentleman, he wouldn't swear at a lady."

Boone didn’t flinch. Just pointed a finger, shaking with fury. "Your daddy’s gonna hear ‘bout this. And when he does, he’ll bury that bastard himself."

Your breath caught.

"Boone, it's—"

"Oh hell no. This ends now."

You stiffened, pulling away from Stack slightly. A glare rose to your face.

"You think you control anything I do? You're daddy's ranch hand, you ain't his informant, and you definitely ain't my husband, so I don't reckon you should be telling me what ends now."

Boone's jaw dropped.

"You know this is against his damn wishes. He wants you with me, not with Stack Moore."

Stack smiled, his gold grill glinting in the light of the juke.

"She don't want you, Boone Jones. Hell," he snorted, stepping forward. "She don't even really want me. I suggest you get to movin' before my brother and I toss you out this juke."

Boone’s eyes flashed, muscles tightening like coiled steel. "You got a real mouth on you, Stack. But don’t think for a second I’m scared of you or your brother."

He stepped forward, the heat between them crackling like a storm about to break.

You swallowed hard, heart pounding. The tension was thick enough to slice through, and neither man was backing down.

Stack’s grin twisted, teeth flashing like daggers. "Well then, looks like we got ourselves a showdown. You ready to back that up, Boone?"

Boone faltered for a moment. He spotted the gun on Stack's hip, glinting under his jacket. He was torn. But eventually, he turned away from the two of you.

"Get home, Y/N. I'm warnin' you. Your daddy'll be out lookin' for you soon as I tell him this shit."

With that, Boone spat on the floor and walked out.

The jukebox sputtered a slow country tune as Boone’s heavy footsteps faded into the night. Stack turned to you, smirking like he’d just won a war without firing a shot.

"Well, looks like the ranch hand knows when to fold ‘em."

You stood frozen, the weight of Boone’s warning settling deep in your chest.

Stack’s voice softened, almost mockingly gentle. "Now, tell me… what’re you gonna do with all this heat you’re sittin’ on?"

Your eyes burned with quiet defiance, but inside, a storm was brewing — one that wouldn’t be settled so easily.

Without another word, the defiance and want burning in your chest boiled over. You pulled Elias Moore into a crushing kiss, ruffling his suit jacket.

Stack’s smirk faltered for just a heartbeat, a flicker of surprise flashing behind his gold teeth. His hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing the side of your jaw with a teasing, deliberate lightness that sent a shiver down your spine. His voice dropped, low and dangerous, like a velvet promise edged with steel.

"Careful, baby. You’re playin’ with fire."

But you didn’t pull away. Instead, your breath hitched, and your heartbeat thundered in your ears like a wild stallion breaking free. The air between you thickened, charged with a heat that wasn’t just from the summer night or the sticky tension in the jukebox’s flickering neon glow. It was raw, electric, and impossible to ignore.

Your fingers curled into the lapel of his jacket, tugging him closer, hungry for the heat that radiated off his body. The scent of leather, musk, and something uniquely Stack invaded your senses. Your lips pressed harder against his, demanding more, needing more. His hands found your waist, strong and possessive, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left — only the desperate dance of two bodies claiming their own wild territory.

His mouth moved over yours with fierce intention, teasing and tasting, trailing a path of fire down your neck. You arched against him, breath mingling, every nerve alight. The weight of Boone’s warning dissolved somewhere in the back of your mind, drowned out by the thunderous storm between you and Stack.

Stack’s voice, rough and low, was a whisper against your skin. "You gonna be my woman. One way or another."

His hands slid lower, fingers digging into the curve of your hips, grounding you even as your pulse raced with reckless abandon. You tugged at the buttons of his shirt, exposing the warm skin beneath, your nails grazing, marking. Every touch was a challenge, every breath a promise.

Your lips parted in a silent plea, and Stack answered, his tongue tracing the line of your jaw, down to the swell of your collarbone. The heat in your chest ignited into a blaze, scorching and sweet. It wasn’t just passion — it was war, desire, defiance, and something dangerously close to surrender.

The air thickened, charged and heavy with all the words neither of you dared say. His fingers tightened on your hips, pulling you impossibly closer, as if he wanted to press you into him and make sure you couldn’t slip away. Your hands trembled slightly, caught between the urge to push him away and the desperate craving to keep this fire alive.

Stack’s breath hitched as his mouth dipped lower, kissing the hollow at your throat, leaving a trail of heat that seared through your skin. Your fingers tangled in the coarse fabric of his shirt, dragging it open just enough to feel the steady thump of his heart beneath your touch. Every beat was a promise, wild and relentless.

That night, you thought you'd be in wicked trouble with your daddy.

You got home and he was sitting in his chair, rifle by his side. There was no glare. No anger. No fight. Just disappointment.

His eyes met yours — quiet, heavy, like the weight of every unspoken word between you.

"Boone stopped by. Said you was almost kissin' Stack in the back of his juke joint. That the truth?"

You froze in the doorway, the screen creaking shut behind you. Your boots felt heavy against the floorboards.

"Is that the truth? I won't ask again." he asked again, voice like gravel and smoke, worn down from years of silence that meant more than shouting ever could.

You swallowed, but your throat was dry. "Yes, sir."

Your daddy looked away then, toward the window. The moonlight spilled across the hardwood like spilled milk, cold and pale. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even shift in his chair.

“Didn’t raise you to chase heat just ‘cause it burns bright.”

You stepped further inside, your heart thudding in your chest. “It ain’t just heat.”

He turned back to you, slow and steady, the way storms roll in without hurry. "That boy’s trouble, Y/N. His people bring it like flies bring rot. You think Stack Moore gives a damn about you come winter? When the crops are dry and the nights are long?"

“I ain’t askin’ for your blessing,” you said, quietly. “But I ain’t askin’ for forgiveness, either.”

His jaw worked, clenched and tight. The rifle stayed at his side, but his hands curled on the armrests like he was gripping the weight of every fear a father could carry.

"You know I’d ride to hell for you, girl." "I know."

A beat. A breath. The porch creaked under the weight of the wind.

"Then don’t make me bury you for someone who wouldn’t ride back. If you think Stack Moore is worth it, I can't stop ya," he asserted wisely. "But he better be. Because if a single tear drops to this floor and he's responsible for it, I'm buryin' him. And his brother."

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t let it show.

He wasn’t threatening. He was promising.

That old chair creaked as he leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, eyes pinning you like a hawk pins its prey.

"You understand me, girl?" His voice was low, but there was thunder in it — a quiet kind of rage built on love and fear and the kind of heartbreak only a father can carry.

You nodded, chin up even though your chest was tight. "I understand."

He let out a long breath through his nose, like he’d been holding it for years.

"Then go on to bed. And think real hard ‘bout the kind of man you’re givin’ your name to. 'Cause once you do… you don't get to take it back."

You stood there for a moment longer — the screen door groaning open behind you again, the wind pushing against your back like even the night was trying to warn you.

But you didn’t look back.

The next day, Stack stopped by the ranch, as if he was askin' for a gun to go off towards his head. You were out back, tending to the horses, brushing your favorite tenderly.

The horse, Annie was her name, blew air out of her nose, as if she knew trouble was approaching. You cooed at her.

"Settle down, pretty girl. Ain't nothin' comin' to get you."

But even as you said it, your eyes flicked toward the dust trail creeping down the long dirt drive — slow and deliberate. A dark car. Stack’s.

Annie shifted under your hand, hooves stamping once against the earth. You didn’t blame her. You felt the same tight pull in your chest. That mix of anger and ache, nerves and want, all tangled together like barbed wire.

Stack stepped out like he owned the goddamn world. Boots still dirty from whatever hellhole he'd walked through last, and that cocky tilt to his mouth like he'd slept just fine while the storm he stirred brewed all night long.

He spotted you in the paddock, and his smirk deepened like he’d expected a bullet and got a welcome mat instead.

You didn’t wave. Didn’t call out.

Just kept brushing Annie’s side like you weren’t burning from the inside out.

Stack leaned on the fence, one arm slung over the top rail, eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing that ever moved slow in his world.

"You didn’t call," he said, voice low and teasing. "Thought maybe Boone talked you outta me."

You looked up then, slow and measured.

"No one talks me outta anything, Stack. Least of all a man who runs when daddy’s rifle’s on the porch."

That knocked the smirk clean off his face for a second. Then he chuckled — slow, deep.

"Figured I’d come back ‘round today. Let your old man know I ain’t runnin’. I’m standin’."

You shook your head, a bitter little smile tugging at your lips.

"He already knows. Question is… do you?"

Stack’s jaw twitched. His eyes dropped to your hands on the horse — the way they moved, firm but gentle. Like you could break things and fix them all the same.

He straightened off the fence.

"I ain’t scared of your daddy," he said. "And I ain't here for a quick trip to the sheets. You're the typa woman worth marryin'."

You froze.

Annie huffed beside you, but you barely heard her over the rush of blood in your ears. Stack’s words hit you like a hammer to the ribs — not because you didn’t believe him, but because deep down… maybe you did.

Still, you kept your hands busy, brushing through Annie’s mane like she was the only thing keeping you grounded.

"You don’t even know what marryin’ me means, Stack Moore," you said quietly. "It ain’t just Sunday dresses and kissin’ under porch lights. It’s long winters and hard land and family that don’t forget where you came from."

He stepped into the paddock without asking, boots crunching over the straw and dirt. That alone told you something — Stack had never waited for an invitation in his life.

"I know it won’t be easy," he said, stopping just a few feet from you. "I know your daddy don’t think I’m good enough. Hell, maybe I ain’t. But I know this — I’d rather fight every damn day for your heart than spend a single one without it."

Your hand paused on Annie’s shoulder. For the first time, you looked at him — really looked.

There was no grin now. No sharp teeth. Just a man, standing there with his scars and swagger stripped down to something real.

"You’re serious," you said, more to yourself than him.

"I’ve been in fights I ain’t walked away from. I’ve stared down the barrel more times than I can count. But you?" He stepped closer, voice low and steady. "You’re the first thing that’s ever made me scared to lose."

Your chest tightened.

Goddamn him.

Because you wanted to believe it. Wanted to throw your arms around him, take him in the barn, and kiss the past right off his mouth. But you’d learned too young that want didn’t make a man stay. Promises were easy when the sun was out — it was the nights that told the truth.

So you swallowed hard and said the only thing you could.

"Then don’t say you want me, Stack. Show me."

His eyes flickered, something fierce and warm lighting in them.

"I intend to, darlin’," he said. "Every damn day. Starting now."

And when he reached for your hand, you let him take it. Just for a moment.

Just long enough to remember how it felt.

He raised it to his mouth. Kissed it gently, if Stack Moore was even capable of being gentle.

"Now.. Take me inside to see your daddy. I'm sure we can find somethin' to agree on. Gotta get along before I ask for the blessin'."

You snorted, tying Annie up and kicking his boot with your own.

"It ain't that easy. You've got to court me before you marry me, and even then, you gotta impress daddy."

Stack chuckled low in his chest, the sound rich like molasses and twice as thick with trouble.

"Darlin’, I didn’t think anything about you would be easy," he said, falling in step beside you as you started toward the house. "Hell, if you were, I wouldn’t be out here riskin’ a shotgun sermon and a boot up my ass."

You cut him a sideways glance, amused despite yourself. "You’ll get more than a boot if you don’t stop runnin’ that mouth."

He grinned, flashing that infamous gold tooth like a warning sign. "That mouth’s gonna be the reason you marry me, just you wait."

You stopped at the bottom of the steps, boots crunching in the dirt. Stack did too, waiting for your lead. Waiting, you realized, for your say-so — and that was rare.

"You serious about this?" you asked, voice lower now. No teasing. No fire. Just the honest question of a woman who knew how easily hearts cracked under pressure.

He nodded once. No swagger this time. Just steel and heat.

"I want a wife. I want babies. I wanna hang my guns up until I need 'em. And I want you. So, little lady, let's go."

You held in a tear, the only tear that had ever developed in your cold e/c eyes since mama died. Then, you willingly threaded your fingers into Stack's and tugged him towards the house.

2K notes · View notes

sewingsillythings · 12 hours ago

Text

We gotta rally for Edward Evrett Horton y'all. He sings a ballad to Corned Beef and Cabbage:

youtube

Tell me that isn't Collins over-complimenting his first meal at the Bennets!

Him being goofy and acting with too much pretension:

youtube

And of course, him getting rejected after feeling entitled to a woman because of their friendship (the whole clip is good, but skip to 1:25 for the most relevant part):

youtube

this is a poll for a movie that doesn't exist.

it is vintage times. the old hollywood studios, captivated by the electorate's previous casting of cinema classic dracula, have decided to celebrate jane austen's 250th by releasing an all-new vintage motion picture extravaganza based on her celebrated romance pride and prejudice. whoever is cast will impact the picture's tone and genre, so they are counting on you, the electorate, to deliver cinema magic.

you are the casting director for this star-studded epic. choose your players wisely.

This is one of many polls that will gradually drop over the next few weeks. You can find all the P&P polls under #pride and prejudice casting. If you need a reminder on who's who, here's the Wikipedia page listing the cast of characters. Thank you to everyone who suggested actresses for this poll!

previously cast:

Georgiana Darcy—Mary Pickford

Colonel Fitzwilliam—Albert Finney

Caroline Bingley—vote here

Aunt Gardiner—vote here

Uncle Gardiner—vote here

Charlotte Lucas—vote here

Mary Bennet—vote here

Kitty Bennet—vote here

Lydia Bennet—vote here

#okay i know people are primarily voting for people they are familiar with #which is why peter lorre is winning #but lets be real if they were actually doing an old timey pride and prejudice (accurately) it would have been Edward Evrett Horton #please he is like the og rejected suitor #in EVERYTHING #love him #Youtube

211 notes · View notes

torpublishinggroup · 2 months ago

Text

The Library at Hellebore by Cassandra Khaw

The Hellebore Technical Institute is for the gifted: Anti-Christs, Ragnaroks, and monsters in the making. But on graduation day, the faculty feast on their students. Trapped in the school’s vast library, Alessa Li—kidnapped and forcibly enrolled—must lead her classmates in something they were never taught: how to survive.

Out July 22, 2025!

Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil by V. E. Schwab

From V. E. Schwab, the #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue: a new genre-defying novel about immortality and hunger.

Santo Domingo de la Calzada, 1532.

London, 1827.

Boston, 2019.

Three young women, their bodies planted in the same soil, their stories tangling like roots. One grows high, and one grows deep, and one grows wild. And all of them grow teeth.

Don't Sleep with the Dead by Nghi Vo

Nick Carraway has built a quiet life in 1930s New York. He's good at watching high society and pretending: pretending to be straight, to be human, to have forgotten the summer of 1922. But when a familiar face appears one dark night, he realizes Gatsby, dead or not, isn’t finished with him. In all paper there is memory, and Nick's ghost has come home.

Brighter than Scale, Swifter than Flame by Neon Yang

With an armored, oath-bound hero reminiscent of The Mandalorian and the Asian-inspired epic fantasy of She Who Became the Sun, Neon Yang’s Brighter than Scale, Swifter than Flame is a stunning queer novella about a dragon hunter finding home with a dragon queen.

Infinity Alchemist by Kacen Callender

Only an elite few are legally permitted to study the science of magic—so when Ash is rejected by Lancaster College of Alchemic Science, he is forced to learn alchemy in secret. Caught by brilliant apprentice Ramsay Thorne, Ash is sure he's about to be arrested—but instead she makes him an offer: help her find the legendary Book of Source, a sacred text that gives its reader extraordinary power, and she’ll keep his secret.

The River Has Roots by Amal El-Mohtar

In the small town of Thistleford, the Hawthorn family tends enchanted willows and honours an ancient compact to sing to them in thanks for their magic. Sisters Esther and Ysabel are devoted to the trees, and even more to each other. But when Esther rejects a forceful suitor for a lover from Faerie, the bond between them—and their lives—are put at risk.

Notes from a Regicide by Isaac Fellman

After losing the parents who saved him from an abusive home, Griffon Keming is left with a single journal—his father’s, written from death row. Bloodstained and grief-soaked, it tells a love story between two artists on fire. Notes from a Regicide is a heart-wrenching tale of trans self-discovery with a sci-fi twist from award-winning author Isaac Fellman.

Tell Me I’m Worthless by Alison Rumfitt

Three years ago, Alice spent one night in an abandoned house with her friends, and her life has spiraled since. Memories of that night torment Alice, but when asked to return to the House, she knows she must go. Alison Rumfitt’s Tell Me I’m Worthless is a dark, unflinching haunted house story that confronts both supernatural and real-world horrors through the lens of the modern-day trans experience.

Not enough books? Check out our other list!

1K notes · View notes

bunnis-monsters · 3 months ago

Note

Could you please do a one-shot or drabble about dragon prince x reader. Like reader is learning life in court and having to deal jealousy ex suitors of the prince or the dragon prince walks into the reader in compromised position by evil stepmom.

The Dragon Prince, in need of a mate

It’s been a week since your lover has left for a war meeting in another country. Due to the atmosphere there being toxic to human beings, he had to leave you behind.

All week, you’ve been bullied by ladies in the royal court. They had all tried their best to win his affections, but he rejected each one of them.

You, a mere human, weren’t seen as someone that deserved his love, much less the throne. Because of that, you were targeted by them.

It started off with slight indiscretions. They’d “forget” to walk with you to dinner, or keep your personal maids so busy they couldn’t tidy up your room.

The longer the prince was away, the worse they treated you.

Soon you’d receive your laundry smeared with dung, or your food would be dropped on your clothes. At one point, they even ganged up on you and pushed you around in the halls.

“Have you no shame, you little whore!? The prince has been far too generous, a mere human should have never set foot in the celestial realm!”

One of them pulled out a knife, but before they could even raise their hand to attack you, their head was severed from their body.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Silence.

No one moved as the prince approached, licking the court lady’s blood from his finger. Her corpse fell to the floor, causing the rest to scream.

“Simple minded little pests. You better hope my mate doesn’t have a single mark on her skin, or you’ll all be executed. Anyone who raises a hand against her will suffer my wrath.”

He glared at the women, who scattered, leaving their fallen sister behind. You were in a state of shock, but you weren’t afraid of him.

His gentle eyes met yours, and he carefully cupped your cheek with his clean hand. “Are you alright, my little one?”

You nodded slowly, letting him inhale your scent. The prince knew then and there that every single one of those insolent women would be executed by sunset, but to prevent you from feeling guilty, he kept quiet.

“My dear, if you are being bullied, you are welcome to go to father and ask for his assistance.”

The two of you spent the rest of the day relaxing, and you never saw those women again.

a/n: want more stories like this? Go to my Patreon or Kofi!

1K notes · View notes

awesomebutunpractical · 3 months ago

Note

she will propose to him to get out of uncomfortable situations but he's too serious and old for her and he knows that if she had any actual romantic feelings his way she'd be too sheepish to express them so he just calmly rebuffs her

🖊 pretty please?

I have this one character, Galena. She was about... I want to say the fourteenth in line for the crown of a little tiny principality.

Well! It seems a series of things have gone horribly wrong and now she's suddenly ruling it. Which is a huge change from her position as an apprentice healer.

She is sheltered, a bit spoiled, but undeniably compassionate. She wants to help people, hates pain in just about form, and has no guile to her whatsoever. Also, cannot say no to save her life.

And in place were the last thirteen would be rulers have suddenly become ineligible (through death), you really need an edge of political savvy. For continuing staying alive reasons.

She has that in the form of an ogre bodyguard. He's actually a cursed prince, formerly a pretty ruthless one. But the only way to become a human again is to steal a heart. In the not romantic sense of the word. More of a kill his brother who arranged the curse sense.

She obviously deduces that he's stuck like this then, and he cannot bring himself to let her down. Becomes her most faithful friend and advisor.

#oc talk #uncomfortable situations like rejecting suitors

22 notes · View notes

australet789 · 6 months ago

Text

Some assholes on Instagram saying that Epic fans are "gaslighting" themselves about Odysseus being faithful to Penelope because of the Circe part and being pretentious about it and how we are stupid for considering The Odyssey romantic

Motherfucker

1. The Odyssey is an epic poem we all fucking know that? That it's a tragedy, technically comedy (comedy in ancient literature used to mean "happy ending", not funny stuff)

2. The Circe bit can be interpreted in different ways, as if it was fully consensual or not or just a transaction. There was still a difference in power dynamics, which was 100% mentioned by Calypso in the beginning, but if you choose to ignore that part if the same as saying some of Zeus' kids were ok to be conceived because the women agreeded to what A GOD wanted.

3. Obviously Epic!Odysseus is differente from Homer!Odysseus, but trying to say Homer! Odysseus is a horrible person that fully wanted to cheat on Penelope just because you want to defend ALEXANDER HAMILTON, i have bad news about you.

4. "The crew had to beg to go back!" I read the Odyssey too. As a child and a few days ago. They stayed on Circe's island to rest so Odysseus job as a captain was literally wait until his crew told him they were ready to leave, specially after what they have lived. Odysseus didnt force anyone to stay in that island, when the crew went "oh, sir, we miss our families, please lets go back now, yes?" Odysseus immediately said "ok". It literally felt like a father waiting for the kids to stop playing in the playground.

5. Homer!Odysseus is not perfect, at all (man killed his disloyal maids because he didnt want to deal with shit anymore, even if they also were coerced/raped by the suitors), but come with a better gotcha than Circe. You are just fixiated on the Telegony and it shows.

6. Idk what to tell you, but if you think renouncing a life with two inmortal godesses (one of whom offered you immortality), traveling for 10 years defying a God's rage, killing 108 men who wanted to marry your wife (and ruined your house), almost killed yourself when said wife rejected you only for her to go "haha i was just testing you, silly :)", have your literally marriage have a word created for you two specifically is not romantic... Idk go read Bridgerton

#the odyssey #epic the musical #odysseus #epic odysseus #penelope #epic penelope #odypen #you are the illiterate ones and it shows #there are so many things to analyze about Homer's Odyssey and discuss and you fixiate on that is shameful #gosh i really should have studied literature but i had to get sick and i dont want to go over the process again #anyways #sorry bridgerton fans not against you you were the first thing that came into my mind about 'sweetly romantic stuff too much for my aro ass'

2K notes · View notes

acid-ixx · 6 months ago

Text

that's my type! (again &. again drabble)

ft. yandere john constantine x gn! neglected reader w/ the batfamily

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist !

absolute shitpost, but i keep thinking in my series, again &. again, the awkward tension of having to reject all your suitors right in front of your family.

they don't explicitly force you to tell anyone off – suddenly, bruce believed in the means of gentle parenting after your abduction – but you can tell with their expectant eyes and damian's harsh glares or cass' fighting stance against the small crowd, that if you don't play with their whims, there might be more than broken bones and sore bodies after, compared to simply rejecting them as nicely as you could.

it's kind of like a peace treaty, a silent agreement between your side and theirs to ensure no harm befalls anyone you're close to, if you think about it.

you're still too considerate for your own good, after all.

"... sorry, haha... i'm not interested in dating any one of you right now," your voice is faint like the ghastly whispers of the hallways you're once subjected to, fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt, eyes downcast in fear of watching their reactions churn out.

if you don't take kindly to the past rejection of your family, then what of them?

imagine the silence that ensues first, then the short celebration after from your family's side. steph shoots your love interests a harsh glance, shooing them away in her high-pitched mockery paired with a mean grin and a tongue sticking out at the heartbreak plastered all over their faces.

there's a brief, "hn," on damian's side. despite the short reply and his still-crossed arms, you can tell it's a tone of satisfaction with just how his lips quirks up at the corner of his mouth.

you look away when your eyes meet his.

at first, you braced for the blinding shame that overcomes your being, these were people precious to you after all. yet the more you think about yourself even further, the more the cup spills with overwhelming anger instead.

anger at just how you allowed your sardonic, dictatorial family the belief that they could just control who you should and shouldn't spend your years of romantic pursuits with.

it's your dating life, not theirs! and you're a full-fledged adult, mind them!

no! this shouldn't be their moment, you shouldn't lose your dignity and reputation, seen as someone in the public eye allowing the very same people who estranged them the delusion of control over your emotional autonomy to romantic feelings.

you don't allow the time to stretch even further, touching your precious amber necklace when you're sure nobody's looking. it's gifted by someone special, and you hope your beloved on the other side, in another dimension, could hear your distressed signals.

there's an unsound churn, a melodic beat akin to the thrum of a heart that plays mechanically at the pattern your fingers run on the shiny crystal. a warm, intangible glow encases your body like a hug, he'll be here for you soon.

then before the celebration ensues, before dick could explode with absolute joy, praising his baby bird about how he's so proud that they're prioritizing themself or any other patronizing bullshit he wants to splurge, or before bruce can come over to you to give you a pat on the head, possibly even an awkward sidehug, and one of his rare smiles; you breath heavily, then with all your heart, retort with:

"— in fact," your voice booms with a sudden assertiveness that shocks even you, commanding everyone's attention on your furrowed brows and tired glare at the nuisance they're causing. once their eyes are looking expectedly on you, you continue with no hesitation.

"...i'm- well... i'm actually into older men...

— hell, i'm dating one right now..."

a magic circle appears right behind you, encasing your form in a sheer, yellow glow. goosebumps erode from across your body, both from giddy anticipation and the dramatic entry of wind that kisses your skin cooly.

after a momentary beat, alongside watching your wide-eyed crowd, john fucking constantine steps out of the space, his arms already wrapped dangerously close to your hips to be considered not intimate. you turn your back, head meeting his chest, and bring your arms to envelop his shoulders.

he smells of booze and pride.

"miss me already, darlin'?" john laughs and sweetly kisses your sweaty forehead, you giggle at the ticklish sensation of his shaved beard hovering above your head and the faint scent of cigarettes hitting your nostrils.

"oh, more than you could ever know, babe."

his lips find their way to your mouth in a quick peck, as your nose nuzzles with his. there were no other sounds surrounding you other than your shy laughter when his hands explored further below your hips.

after a moment of love-filled gazes, he turns his head to the crowd and offers them a bemused smile, the expressions of those watching makes your shameless pda all the more worthwhile.

alfred's jaw drops to the floor, the tray on his hands cluttering on soft, velvety capets, poor him. even your father couldn't even believe, in all his years of living, that this man had the balls of steel stealing the heart of his precious child.

he doesn't even have the contingency plan for- for this...!

cue the absolute shitshow that plays in everyone else's mind, as you try to convince your boyfriend to get you both out of the place because sloppily making out with you and fondling with the sensitive parts of your body in front of your suitors and family isn't the best course of action if he wants to lose all his limbs.

jason already got his guns out, damian his sword, and duke wouldn't waste a beat triggering his metahuman powers— you know your man, constantine, is a capable lover and fighter with years of experience, but against a crowd of metahuman love interests and a literal house full of trained combatants, you don't want him to sore his body out protecting you before the real fun begins in your shared bed.

all that trouble, when he's capable of teleporting you both away into a safer area, a different dimension where it's just you two. and, you know...

his hand playing with the fat of your ass is already enough to cause a heart attack for all of them, anyways.

a/n: woah, my writing style fluctuates a lot. as i've stated, the more i become invested with the dc fandom, the more i want to branch out with other characters too. i also want more creative plots ngl. this is inspired by my own fic, just a taste. please leave comments below, it's my main motivation bec i'm an attention whore (slash jay) and my works have been flopping lately LMAO. i hope you guys become as feral as i am for this british man.

1K notes · View notes