#take your pills little mouse

[emmg]

The Suckerpunch-that-doesn't-really-get-into-the-whole-gist-of-Suckerpunch Raphael x Tav AU I rambled about the other day lmfao. Originally tossed onto ao3, but I've decided it's gonna hang out here instead, on my silly lil tumblr, since I likely won't be continuing it.

Psychoanalytic therapy in Avernus with Dr Raphael. They chat, they fuck, they gossip about Freud, Lacan, and Faust. Shit is weird, shit veers more closely to psychological horror, nothing makes sense, all lines are blurred. I guess this can be considered part of kinktober lol

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It's very hot in Avernus. It always is.

She hesitates, her fingers resting just shy of the cup of tea Raphael has placed before her. It steams faintly, a burnished liquid that doesn't smell like anything she knows. Raphael is gracious. Raphael is a good host. But she never drinks the tea. 

His claws tap in that rhythm of his, a soft clippity-clap, clippity-clap, like the measured hooves of a steed on marble, punctuated by the occasional clank as his talons strike the edge of the chair. When he flips a page, though, the sound shifts, the tap softening into a velvet hush, parchment brushing against parchment. It isn’t a book, no, not a book—a file, a neat stack of yellowed papers tied with a silk ribbon.

“My dear,” Raphael’s voice lilts, “I do so abhor the boorishness of our little rituals, but... well, your past transgressions have made my attention ever so necessary.” 

There’s a silence in the air, pregnant with unspoken threat. She swallows and nods, her throat suddenly dry. “Of course.” 

“Wonderful,” Raphael beams, too wide, too perfect, his fanged smile catching the light. With a flourish, he places the file down and reaches instead for a small, ornate box, its mahogany surface twisted with carved, snarling faces. He drags his chair closer, the legs scraping across the stone like a knife on bone. 

There’s a stain on his crisp, white lab coat—a smear of tea—and before she knows it, her hand moves, absentmindedly reaching to wipe it off. His tail—long, sinuous, and idle just moments ago—rises, curling through the air. It coils around her wrist, hot against her skin, gently but unforgivingly guiding her hand away. 

"I am ever so grateful for your attentions," he purrs, the sound rich and decadent, making her pulse stutter. His tail releases her wrist but lingers in the air, a constant, looming presence. "But now... now is not the time for such... ministrations." 

He presents the box as though it holds the most precious of treasures, lifting the lid with reverence. Inside, the same contents as always—but today, there's something new. 

“Ah, yes. I know, I know," Raphael sighs, "They make you stumble, don’t they? But you must take them. You must.” His voice takes on a sing-song lilt as his claws hover above the items. “The Quetiapine should help with the... complications. Yes, a little more tired perhaps, but..." His hand slides along her jaw. "At least my little mouse won't go tumbling off the balcony and into the Blood War below, hmm?" 

She should be used to it by now, but something about the ritual is always deeply, deeply wrong. Inside, the same familiar pieces: a soul coin, pulsing faintly with the trapped whispers of damned souls; a potion of healing, glistening a sickly red. And... something else. 

An iridescent white feather, gleaming like a fragment of moonlight. 

Raphael watches her closely, amusement flickering in his eyes as he plucks the feather from the box with his free hand, twirling it lazily between his fingers. "A feather of a Couatl," he muses, brushing it against her nose. She giggles. He does it again. The sounds escapes once more. He smiles. "Purification for the soul. Something to balance the EPS from the Haloperidol, yes?" His voice dips lower. "We wouldn't want those hands of yours trembling, now, would we?” 

He places the box into his lap, freeing his hands. Then, with the gentlest pressure, he tilts her chin down, guiding her face to meet his, and his voice—oh, how it curls into her like smoke, seductive, insidious—whispers softly without saying anything at all.

Without waiting for a response—because he never needs to—he uncorks the vial. 

It smells like cherries and flowers that should never bloom. He tilts it to her lips, slow, careful, and the liquid flows down her throat in a sickly wave, pooling, filling her insides with its awful warmth. She tries to choke it back, but he drags her head just right, fingers trailing her neck as it slides down. His thumb gathers the moisture from her lips, and for a moment—just a moment—he lingers there. 

"I am so sorry the Quetiapine makes you sluggish," he sighs, wiping her mouth as if consoling a child. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “But you’re still the prettiest mouse, even when you cannot answer." His breath fans her face, intimate, too close. "I do like it, sometimes. Yes, I do like it when you do not protest." 

Next comes the soul coin.

"Open," he commands and she does. 

The instant it is placed onto her tongue it begins to melt, sweet and hot and coppery. The metallic taste spreads until she winces.

"My deepest apologies," Raphael says and he sounds sincere. He taps her chin lightly, making sure the coin, or what remains of it, slides fully down. "The Haloperidol does leave you stumbling through your own body, doesn’t it? But don’t worry, little mouse. I’ll always catch you when you fall. Or watch you crawl." 

The feather, already in his hand, is used to tickle her nose. He drags it slowly across her face—her nose, her cheekbones, her collarbone—the sensation light, maddening, every stroke like the ghost of a breath too intimate to bear.

She giggles, ticklish. He does it again. She giggles harder. The feather lingers, just below her throat, before he pulls it back, his hand quivering, a faint tremble that she can’t tell if it’s his or hers.

He sighs, a long, drawn-out sound of disappointment, before dipping it into her tea. The liquid darkens as the feather begins to dissolve, swirling in the cup like ink spilling into water. 

"A little anticholinergic," Raphael explains, blowing at the rising steam. "Though I fear it may dry out your mouth." Only once he's satisfied it isn't too hot does he offer it to her. “But no matter, no matter. I will lend you my tongue.” 

Ah, how generous.

She drinks and she smiles.

Raphael taps his knee, says, "I do believe it's time for our session now."

She rises, stepping lightly, and perches on the edge of his lap. But of course, that’s not enough for him. His hands, quick and nimble, pull her closer, and she feels the slither of his tail wrapping around her waist, tightening. His arms bracket her in, caging her in that familiar way as he turns them both toward the table. 

There’s a quiet click—his glasses appear on the tip of his nose, balanced just so, a caricature of professionalism. He leans over her shoulder, close enough that his breath grazes her neck, and with a smooth motion, pulls a fountain pen from the pocket of his white coat. It gleams in his hand, ready, poised.

Her eyes drop to the file in front of them, her very own, its pages spread wide, waiting. At the top, in bold, angry red, the word CONTRACT stares back at her, shouting in her mind, louder than it should be, pulsing, like it’s alive. She can almost hear it screaming. She swallows, hard.

"Ah," Raphael sighs, and he almost sounds genuine, pained, “if only you had delivered the crown to me. If only you had been... cooperative. We wouldn’t be here, would we, darling? In this... predicament.” 

"But you look so much better without it," she murmurs, trying to sound playful, her fingers drifting up to squeeze his wrist, as though that could somehow anchor her, as though charm might save her now. Her smile feels plastic, stretched too thin over something broken. 

Raphael doesn’t even glance at her; she doesn't need to see it to know it. His smile is gone, she no longer feels it against her skin, replaced with that cold, clinical focus as the pen scratches across the paper. Scribble, scribble, the ink bleeding into the fibers, leaving marks that feel like scars. Diagnosis by possession.

She frowns, feeling the word crawl over her skin, but he’s already moving on. The pen dances in his hand like it knows more than she does. 

"How have you been feeling?" he asks. 

“Well,” she answers, her voice automatic, rehearsed, puppet-like. “So well. You’ve been so good to me.” 

He sighs against her skin, the sound dragging out, heavy, almost mournful, but laced with something twisted. His forehead rests on her shoulder, the weight of his body sinking into her, holding her there. Too long, far too long. “But you have not been good to me,” he whispers, the words sliding from his lips like a confession, or a curse. “No, no, no... you haven’t been good at all.” 

She doesn't answer. A shadow on the wall seems to wail, voiceless, twisting.

"Gouging out your eye, replacing it, prying that tadpole from your skull—so messy, wasn’t it? But I did it for you. I did it for us. I’ve given you a nice private room, haven’t I? Making sure those delicate hands of yours never have to scrub the floors, keeping you soft, so you can play your little lute, sing your little songs. What more do you want?" 

"I want to leave," she says immediately.

“Leave?” he repeats, incredulous, as though the word itself is some sort of tragic joke. His tail coils tighter around her waist. "But, darling," he sighs, "then you would have to catch a bus." His voice dips into a condescending whisper. “And it is so very hard to get a ticket in Avernus. You see, Zariel—bless her little tyrant heart—hasn’t exactly been keeping up the infrastructure. Not much of a road system, I’m afraid.” He clicks his tongue, a mock gesture of sympathy. “No roads, or worse, very bad ones. Potholes the size of balors—where are the taxes going? You might find yourself stuck in a river of lava. Or, heavens forbid, your wheel might get caught... rolling over a lemure.” 

His glasses slip down to the edge of his nose, the shimmer of fire from the pits below casting shadows across his face, giving his devilish features a grotesque refinement. He taps the pen once more, each strike on the paper like the sound of hoofbeats in her mind. "What a foolish thing to ask," he muses, the nib of his pen sliding across the page with furious strokes. His hand moves faster, more erratic now, as if he's trying to contain something wild within the ink. The paper beneath his hand bleeds with scratches, jagged letters forming in crooked rows. 

She reads; he doesn't conceal any of it.

"Loss of power triggers delusions of grandeur. Rebellion against authority—a defensive response. The tadpole incident… ah, yes." His lips curl into a smile, soft, sympathetic, but wrong. "The prying, the pulling, the cutting it free from your mind—" Raphael laughs, the sound disjointed, manic. "Messy, yes. But necessary, my dear. The tadpole, a symbol of your repressed fears. It wanted to control you, but I stopped it, didn’t I? I saved you." 

His fingers twitch, scratching out more words, rewriting the diagnosis over and over again. Nothing is stable. Nothing is true. Nothing is enough. 

"Psychotic features with delusional attachments—episodic, of course," he mutters, eyes flitting over her as if she’s a textbook entry, a collection of symptoms wrapped in skin. "Do you hear the Absolute in your sleep, even now? I imagine you do. Auditory hallucinations. Residual effects of the mindflayer influence. So very classic." 

She can feel the pages piling up around her—his frantic rewriting, his endless annotations. And yet, somehow, none of it sticks. He erases, rewrites, diagnoses her again and again, each time more chaotic, more unhinged, as if he’s chasing some perfect version of her illness, a disorder that’s just out of reach. 

"Delusions of escape," he whispers, leaning in close now, his breath hot against her cheek, his words sharp. "You think you can leave, but that’s part of the pathology. You see? It’s all in your head, little mouse. You can’t go anywhere." 

Then, he falls into silence.

She stares at the wall, but her focus falters, slipping, her attention drifting to the shadow cast on the stone. It’s growing—no, it’s changing, becoming more obscene, more brazen. It moves in ways shadows shouldn’t move, mocking her. One hand raises, flipping her off, but at the same time, another beckons her closer. She blinks, tries to shake it off, but it watches, always watching. 

And Raphael—he waits.  

What did the Crown of Karsus look like? It was... regal, yes, but she can’t quite grasp it. 

Raphael's hands begin to move, slowly at first, a creeping exploration. They glide over her own, his fingers lacing through hers, bizarrely tender. Then, they wander—slipping from her hands to her thighs. Higher. Find the hem of her shirt. Slide beneath it. His fingers splay out, counting her ribs, before retreating. 

"You know," he says and he sounds entirely too calm, "there’s a psychosexual theory that suggests memories can be unlocked through physical therapy." 

"Oh?" she breathes, her voice barely more than a sigh, caught between disbelief and the warmth spreading inside her. There’s a heat building in her belly, creeping up her spine, making her limbs feel heavy and weightless at the same time. 

"Perhaps we can unlock these memories of yours together. Perhaps we can find where you stashed the crown yet."

His fingers find her middle, slipping deftly beneath her waistband, and she doesn’t resist as he undoes the laces of her pants. There’s no hesitation in his touch now—just intent, freeing her from the confines of fabric. He pulls her panties aside, his fingers slipping beneath, and when he touches her, it’s with a deliberate slowness that makes her heart pound. 

"Freud, Jung, even Lacan—they all understood the subconscious holds more power than we give it credit for. Memories, desires, shame, power... all tangled together in the mind’s darkest corners." 

She clenches her thighs tight, but his other hand grips her knee, forcing her open. She exhales sharply, surrendering with a shaky breath. His fingers swirl over her slick skin, coaxing her wetness before he thrusts inside her, dragging painfully slow. Her breath catches at the sight of his claws, though they don't hurt—just a reminder of his control. His fingers curl deep, his thumb pressing against her clit, teasing in circles. The wet, obscene sounds—squelch, squelch, squelch—echo in her ears. Her panties keep tangling in his movements, and with a low curse, he shreds them, yanking out to flick her clit before plunging back in, this time with three fingers. The stretch burns, almost too much, and a rough moan escapes her as her head falls back onto his shoulder.

“Freud, dear Sigmund, would have quite the field day with you, I think,” Raphael muses. “He’d chalk all of this up to repressed desire, probably blame your id for hiding that crown away." His hand retreats, showing her how thoroughly she stained him before generously returning and she begins rocking her hips, fucking herself on his fingers. "After all, wasn’t everything about sex to him? It’s either that or an unresolved fixation on your father.” 

She can feel him hardening beneath her, the press of his cock against her back becoming unmistakable. He pushes her down against him, his fingers curling deeper, coaxing more slickness from her until it begins to pool between her thighs, the rhythmic squelching only fueling her need. 

Again, he pulls away, pushing her forward as he reaches leisurely for his tea. His fingers, glistening with her juices, dip into the cup. “Mmm,” he murmurs, swirling the liquid slowly, “I do believe this needs a bit of honey.” He takes a slow sip, savoring the taste, as he rests his chin on her shoulder. Only when he’s done, setting the cup aside, does he return to her cunt, plunging his fingers back inside without warning. 

“Jung—Carl Gustav—would have loved to dig into your shadow self. All those dark little urges you keep tucked away. Perhaps the crown represents your anima, the part of yourself you’re afraid to let out, afraid to confront.” He clicks his tongue, feigning concern. “Such a shame, really. Jung would probably have a lengthy dialogue about integrating that shadow, about owning it, about becoming whole... but where’s the fun in that, hmm?”

Raphael shoves her up just enough to free his cock, the thick, hard length slipping between her slick folds the moment she drops back down. He doesn’t push inside—just lets it grind between her swollen lips, hot and teasing. He starts rocking her back and forth, the friction building with every slow, torturous thrust, while his fingers keep pumping deep inside her, dragging against her walls. She reaches down to rub her clit, and each time her fingers graze his cock, he groans into her shoulder, the sound rough, hungry, and desperate for more. 

“And then, there’s Lacan,” he adds, almost offhandedly. His fingers slip out of her soaked cunt, where they’d been guiding her touch to match his relentless thrusts. She whines at the sudden emptiness, needy, but he shoves them against her lips. She parts instantly, sucking them clean, breathing hard as he traces the sharp edge of her teeth. "He’d tell you the crown is a symbolic lack, something you desire but can never truly possess. A constant reminder of the gap between your desires and reality. That sense of never quite being complete. A real tragedy, wouldn’t you say?” 

With his hand no longer sticky, he urges her off. She drops to her knees without hesitation, turning as he spreads his legs and pulls her between them. His cock is already standing at attention, the tip slick with precum, and he grabs the back of her neck, pushing her down. She starts slow, teasing him, dragging her tongue along his shaft, coating it with thick saliva. She circles the leaking head, tracing that ridge underneath that always sends a shiver through him. Maybe, just maybe, she can make him come like this—without having to choke on him. But he’s not having it. He lets out a low “tut-tut” before shoving his cock fully down her throat. Her eyes water instantly, her jaw aching as she takes in his girth, but she keeps sucking, cheeks hollowing with every bob of her head. Her hums vibrate around him, spit leaking from the corners of her mouth as her lips begin to crack. 

Sometimes, he grips her head tight, holding her still, stopping her rhythm just to fuck her face, thrusting deep and hard while filth tumbles from his lips. The salty taste coats her tongue as he keeps pounding into her, her nose pressing too close to his base, his coarse pubic hair scratching against her face. She almost can’t breathe, choking slightly as he fills her mouth. The taste of him is thick—musk, sweat, the raw scent of a long day, pungent but not unpleasant. 

Other times, he grows lazy, letting her take over, moaning low as she works him. When her pace slows and her mouth tires, he doesn’t mind—he makes her pump him, forcing her hand into the mix. Eventually, she lets it drift lower, cupping him as his groans fill the room. 

Raphael lets out a satisfied sigh, his hips jerking upward as the head of his cock pushes past her molars, making her gag. "But me? I like to think I’m offering you a more... practical therapy session," he murmurs, his hand gently caressing her head. He brushes her hair back, keeping it from sticking to her face or getting caught in the wet mess of saliva and precum coating her chin. "No need for all the psychobabble when a little physical exploration can do the trick."

He comes with a deep groan, no warning, spilling hot and thick down her throat in heavy spurts. She’s forced to swallow, choking as the flood overwhelms her—too hot, too much, too fast. His seed fills her mouth, almost too abundant to manage, and for a moment, she feels it threatening to rise up her nose before she finally gulps it all down, struggling to keep up with every pulse. 

“Good girl,” he praises, tapping her cheek as she finally pulls away. The last strands of saliva stretch and snap between them as she exhales heavily. She stays on the floor, still panting, trying to catch her breath, while he calmly tucks his cock back into his pants. 

"Pass the file, dear," he says, his tone returning to its academic neutrality. She retrieves the gilded instrument that always rests on the table, handing it to him. He goes nowhere without it. 

With the calm precision of a surgeon, he takes it from her, inspecting the edge of his claw with meticulous attention. "I’ve noticed this one’s been making you uncomfortable," he mutters, as if he’s discussing a minor inconvenience, not the clawed fingers that had just been inside her, threatening to shred her to ribbons. He runs the file over the sharp point, dulling it with a few decisive strokes. The scrape-scrape-scrape fills the silence, like bones grinding together. 

Then, without looking up, he shifts his focus to the jagged edge of his left horn, still absentmindedly filing away. Those horns, spiraling black and gleaming, twist out of his skull like a grotesque crown. Why does he have need of another? He’s smoothing the imperfection on the tip as though this bizarre grooming ritual is the most natural conclusion to their encounter. As though filing his claws and horns after coming down her throat is just another part of their everyday routine. 

Wait, she thinks. It is. It actually is.

“What are you doing next Tuesday?” he asks, his voice airy. 

“Nothing,” she replies, her voice hollow, automatic. Of course, the answer is always nothing. 

"How fortunate," Raphael croons, his lips curling into a smile that’s a tad too wide. "Would you accompany me to dinner with that sex fiend of a bedlamite? I’m afraid I completely forgot I’d accepted his invitation." 

Her mouth twitches. "Which one?" 

"The bore. Sigmund."

She swipes her tongue along her lips, tasting the faint, drying remnants of him still lingering there. There’s something obscene about how natural it feels to be talking like this while cleaning his cum off her mouth. 

"Will Faust be there?" she asks, more out of boredom than genuine interest. Her tongue flicks over her lips again, chasing the last trace of warmth. 

“Heavens no,” he answers, the words slipping out a little too quickly, like he’s trying to cover something up. "That would imply Mephistopheles would attend, and we all know how insufferable he can be." His laugh is hollow, the sound of a man trying too hard to seem unaffected. "I do not need Daddy Dearest there for Siggy to psychoanalyze us in real time." 

She chuckles softly. "Pity. Faust is good company." 

Raphael cocks his head, still lazily running the file along the edge of his horn, his eyes sparkling with that unsettling blend of amusement and calculation. She notices the wretched stains on his white coat—her stains—and it makes her stomach twist in an odd mix of disgust and something else she can’t name. Arousal. Desire. Self-hatred. He catches her noticing and smirks, not breaking the rhythm of his grating, scraping sound. 

"I suppose we could pay Faust another visit. Ask after Marguerite. I hear suicide suits her." 

"Oh, no, no," she interjects, her tone sharpened to a razor’s edge. "Let's not, Raphael. I’m not as gullible as you seem to think. I know exactly why you like her." Her eyes narrow, glaring at him as she shakes her head. "Last time, you let her drone on endlessly about angels and music, about how they could 'lift the soul' and 'uncover hidden memories.' It was like being slowly smothered with a velvet pillow." 

She rests her hands on his knees, gazing up at him. "She tried to play all friendly, showing off her jewels, talking about how precious they were. And then, wouldn’t you know it? She starts hinting that maybe I have something just as special. The crown, of course." She tries to shake off his touch when he laughs, when he reaches to pet her face. "I don’t remember where it is, Raphael, and even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to you. Just like I did last time."

"My dear," Raphael murmurs, his tone uncharacteristically gentle, "you cannot fault a man for trying alternative therapies when even clozapine has failed you so spectacularly." 

The file screeches across his horn one last time, the sound reverberating in her skull. "There," he says, satisfied, inspecting his work. "Much better." He tosses the file aside with a casual flick of his wrist. "Now then. Shall we continue our session?" 

"I suppose," she agrees, slowly rising. "Let me get a glass of water?"

"Of course, little mouse," he replies, his tone syrupy sweet, almost mockingly polite. His tail snaps playfully at her ass as she walks away, moving toward the curtain that separates the room from his private sanctum, where she knows he keeps liquor older than her memories—but also fresh, ever-cool water, the kind that tastes like a drowning. Exactly what she needs. 

The moment she pushes past the curtain, it’s like the world turns inside out. The fluorescent lights above her blaze unnaturally bright, searing her eyes with their cold, sterile glow. She blinks once, twice, but the light only intensifies, burning her retinas like the afterglow of some unforgiving nightmare. Her hands fly to her face, pressing against her eyes to blot out the brightness, but it feels like the light has already scorched its way inside her skull. 

"There, there," comes a voice, too soft, too soothing, like a whisper in the back of her mind. "Haloperidol does occasionally cause photosensitivity. Poor mouse, always getting hit with the side effects, aren't you? Why don't you sit down?" 

Hands guide her—strong, insistent—and she finds herself pushed down onto a sofa. Her head spins, her eyes still aching from the light as she rubs them, trying to make sense of the world around her. 

When she looks up, Raphael is sitting next to her. Not the Raphael from the balcony, not the devil in his infernal, seductive form, but Raphael in his human guise, the doctor. His pristine lab coat is now spotless, free of the stains from their earlier encounter. A nametag gleams on his chest, the letters swimming before her eyes. She tries to read the last name, but it refuses to take shape, morphing and shifting until all she can see is Raphael, Raphael, Raphael.

She does hate how he switches between faces.

Her gaze drifts to the diplomas hanging on the wall. There, too, his name appears in the same relentless repetition. Raphael, printed in delicate black ink, stretches and warps across the certificates like a spreading disease.

Raphael tilts his head slightly, brushing back his perfectly styled hair. There are no horns now, nothing to snag on. He looks so human it’s almost laughable. She wonders how many fall for it. He offers her a cup of tea, the porcelain delicate in his hands, his fingers too clean, too poised. 

"I’ve adjusted the light for you, Tav," he says softly, his voice almost too gentle. His smile is indulgent, wide, the kind of smile that stretches too far across his handsome, tanned face. The light above them dims, and with it, the room seems to settle into a false sense of comfort. 

"Thank you," she replies, her voice flat. Now that the light has softened, her eyes drift to the shadow on the wall behind him. It moves strangely, just as before—dark and obscene—but this time, it’s unmistakably Raphael’s, no longer pretending to be human. She watches it carefully as it twists and contorts, one hand flipping her off just like before, the other gesturing like a devil’s lure. And then the tail appears, swaying in the background with irritation, flicking back and forth like an animal growing impatient. 

He notices her staring and chuckles softly, his hand gently brushing her shoulder. His glasses slide further down his nose. "Oh, don’t mind that. Shadows have a life of their own, you know. Especially in places like this. At any rate, I believe we are done for today." 

It is unbecoming, perhaps, but he's done it so many times that she barely notices it.

Raphael’s fingers glide through her hair, as if the act of braiding is something sacred, an intimate ritual that binds them. His touch is precise, too precise, each motion measured and exact, tugging the strands into place with a tightness that makes her scalp sting. He hums softly under his breath, the sound vibrating through her, a sick lullaby of sorts. The ache spreads, not just in her scalp but deeper, into her bones, her mind. She knows this—too well, knows what comes next. 

"Up, up, little mouse," he murmurs softly, his breath warm against her ear as he finishes with the braid, the weight of it pulling down against her skull. It’s a command more than a request, spoken with the lazy authority of someone who has said these words far too many times. She obeys without thinking, without hesitation, rising to her feet as he guides her, his fingers lingering, brushing her neck as he finishes adjusting the final loose strands. 

He leans closer, the heat of his breath on her ear as he whispers the rhyme, he always gives her a rhyme when they are done. 

"Marguerite and jewels, so fine and bright, She treasures them close, though lost in the night. Her memory’s gone, like a fleeting thought, But still, she brags about things she forgot. Shining gems, a hollow boast, Lost to the one who needs them most."

Raphael's hand, firm but deceptively gentle, leads her back through the halls, his tail flicking behind him in idle sways on the wall. The air is heavy with the fading echo of his hoofbeats—click clank, click clank—the strange rhythm growing fainter with each step until he disappears, leaving her at the doorway of the common room. 

The shadow lingers a beat too long before chasing after its master.

[witherby]

What would happen if Mouse got sick? Like super, probably at deaths door kind of sick? ok maybe that last part was exaggerating it a bit...But like almost 39 degrees fever, coughing to the point of gagging and vomiting, runny nose, fatigue, no appetite for anything, etc. Based off my own experiences when I get sick. I wanna know what they would do and who would panic the most. Who would lose the little sleep they already have even more. Who would think that the babeh is at deaths door. And who would be the most relieved when Mouse is better a few days later with the help of a paediatric approved medication

-🍨

I like this prompt a lot so I'm gonna do it. Hope u reaaaally like angst tho.

The Littlest Wayne: Sick Bed, part 1

Masterlist is Here!

⚠️ Spoiler/content warning: Young sick child, fever, depiction of seizure ⚠️

It starts with a cough.

"Hey, careful," Jason says, patting your back. The water you'd been sipping sprays across the table as you choke. Tim reaches over to right the glass and Alfred goes and collects a rag to mop up the mess. "You okay?"

"Mhmm," you mutter, wiping your mouth with a napkin. "Sorry...I can clean it, grandpa Alfie."

"It's quite alright, Flittermouse." Alfred gently runs a hand through your hair. "Oh, my, you're quite warm. Why don't you head up to your room and I'll have someone bring a tray to you with soup and crackers?"

"Okay." You push your chair away from the table and duck underneath it, allowing the shadow of the furniture to swallow you up. Bruce watches the dark blob you've become slide out of the dining room and towards the stairs with less energy than usual.

"I'll take it, Alfred," Dick says before anyone else can volunteer, rising from his seat. He sets his leftovers in front of Jason as he passes, helping the butler prepare a tray for you. "Do we have any Tylenol for little kids? If not, I can just crush up a half-pill for them."

"Child-friendly medications will be found in the young master's en-suite bathroom cabinet," Alfred says. "It will just be a few minutes for the soup, Master Dick. I'd recommend you head upstairs and measure out a small dose for your sibling before it's ready."

"Kay, sure," he nods, excusing himself.

Dick hops up the stairs two at a time and enters the family wing of the manor, trailing his hand along the walls and door frames until he finds yours. He knocks lightly and rapidly, a silly little sequence to let you know which brother it is, then opens the door to let himself in.

Your bedroom is almost pitch black. Since the development of your powers, your space has changed to reflect your needs overtime, which means the overhead lightbulbs have been removed and the sheer, pastel blinds over your window have been replaced with thick blackout curtains. For your family who require some form of illumination to see, you have several night lights you pick and choose from; you currently have a round projector plugged in that casts aurora borealis across the ceiling (a gift from Tim) and you've activated the touch sensors installed in the floor that briefly light up everywhere Dick walks, leaving his footprints behind for several seconds until they fade away.

The furniture you originally had, designed in warm, woody colors with bright accents, have also been replaced with black hardware and dark materials. Your bed frame is a dip-dyed wood with silver accents, your mattress and sheets are black, and your dressers, nightstand, and closet have all been painted to match.

At first glance, the large bedroom looks like every goth kid's biggest dream, but the light from the hallway spills briefly into your space when Dick walks inside, showing the bright, colorful books sitting on your black bookshelves, the even more colorful clothes in your wardrobe, your vast collection of toys, and a litany of pictures and photos on all the walls. There is a vibrant, beautiful life in the darkness, which encapsulates you perfectly in his opinion.

"Hi, Flitty," he greets, moving slowly as his eyes adjust to the light. "Alfred's working on your soup, so big bro Dicky's here to do medicine time. Holler at me so I don't accidentally step on you in here."

"Okay," you say from his left. Dick turns and squints, spotting a lump on your bed. He smiles.

"There you are. Lemme see if there's any of the gummies in your med cabinet. Those ones don't taste all gross."

He steps into your bathroom and turns the fairy lights on, bathing the area in a soft glow, and rifles through your cabinet for a minute. Then he makes his way to your bed, sitting on the edge of it with some chewables and a glass of water.

"C'mere," he says, and you comply, shuffling across the bed to give him a quick hug. "Alright. Can you show me you're a big kid and take this for me? Then you'll get a nice bowl of soup and maybe some juice."

You comply without fuss. Dick hears more than he sees you take the medication in the low light, and you go back to hugging him when you're done. Dick wraps his arms around you and lies down, propping you mostly on his chest.

"You okay?" He asks.

"Yeah. Just sleepy," you reply. "And my throat hurts kinda, from when I spit my water."

"Aw, I'm sorry. You only need to stay awake long enough to take a couple bites and then you can rest as long as you want."

"Okay...stay?"

Dick hums, running his fingers gently through your hair. He was supposed to go back to Blüdhaven this afternoon, but...

"Yeah, Flitty. I'll stay."

--

It turns into a fever.

"I'm sorry to turn you away when you've already come by, Delilah," Bruce says, meeting your private tutor in the vestibule. "Mouse came down with something yesterday, and I don't think they'll be up for lessons for the next few days. I forgot to tell you."

"Oh, that's absolutely no problem, mister Wayne," the tutor smiles, shaking her head. "I wish them a speedy recovery! Let me know if there's anything you need."

"I will, thank you. Take care!"

Bruce closes the door after seeing her out, the Charming Socialite mask slipping off his face as he heads for the stairs. He meets Alfred at the top with a nod, stepping past him and walking up to your bedroom door.

He gently knocks three times against the glossy wood, calling your name. "Can I come in?"

After a moment, he watches it click open, and you squint up at him in the doorway.

"Hi, daddy," you croak, voice dry and harsh from the progression of your flu. Bruce tuts and scoops your clammy body into his arms, carrying you back to your bed.

"Honey, you didn't have to come greet me," he says, "manners get thrown out the window when you're sick, remember? Let's get you tucked in."

You don't fuss or complain, which makes the worry flare up in Bruce's mind. He pushes it back, refusing to catastrophize a cold. All of his children get sick, it's not unheard of. A little fever is fine, and so is your lack of excitable energy. It's normal and expected.

"How do you feel?" He asks, pulling the blankets up to your chest. You squirm a bit, kicking them down.

"Hot," you say, "sleepy."

Bruce compromises by tucking the blanket around your tummy instead. You don't push it down any further. He pulls out a thermometer from his pocket and scans your forehead.

"Yeah, you are running a bit hot," he admits. An even one hundred degrees. Should be easy enough to control with careful attention. "Alfred says you refused breakfast this morning. Do you want to try eating something small for lunch? More soup?"

You shake your head. "Not hungry."

"I know you're not hungry, pumpkin," Bruce says, gently squeezing your hand. "But you don't wanna starve, either. Then you'll shrink up like a raisin! How am I supposed to snuggle a raisin?"

You smile a bit and give a wheezy huff of laughter. Bruce smiles back.

"So, will you try? You can have anything you want. I just need to see you take a few bites of something."

"Okay, daddy. Want...um... I want more soup please."

"You can have more soup," Bruce promises, running a hand through your sweatslick hair. He reminds himself to run you a bath in a couple hours. Maybe after a nap. "Do you want anything else?"

"Mmmyeah. Bedtime story?"

"Yeah," he says. "Any story you want, after we get some soup in you."

You smile again. It eases the knot of dread in Bruce's chest.

--

It gets worse.

Three days into it, your fever spikes in the middle of the night. You completely refuse any sort of food or drink all day, despite the angry growling of your stomach, and the family unanimously decides to bring you to the hospital in the morning to get looked at. Dinner without you is full of worry and tense glances toward the family wing, and it seems like not a lot of sleep is going to be had before they find out the total extent of your illness.

When tossing and turning in bed for a few hours doesn't lead him anywhere, Damian decides to give in to the nagging in the back of his head and pop in your room to check on you. He rushes to your bed when he sees you seizing and gasping for breath. Your temperature's shot up to a hundred and six and you don't react when he tries to shake you awake.

Fearful and, for once, feeling every bit the child he still is, he clutches your body to his chest and screams.

"BABAA!!"

The door slams open in seconds, though to him it feels like an eternity. Hal and Jason are coaxing Damian to let go of you and Bruce climbs on the bed to roll you onto your side, carefully wiping the foam and drool away from your mouth while he checks your vitals. Tim is in the hallway calling 9-1-1 and texting Dick to let him know what's happening.

"Dami, you gotta move," Jason says, placing his hands overtop his brother's. Damian's grip on your arm is so tight it's bruising. "Let go, they're okay. Let go."

"I'm tracking their pulse, you dumb bastard!" Damian snaps. "Release me!"

"You're hurting them, Dames," Hal says in his ear, wrapping his arms around Damian's waist. "Bruce has them, now. You have to let go and get out of the way for the paramedics."

Green eyes snap to your arm. He seems to finally take stock of what he's doing and eases off, letting Hal pick him up and pass him off to Jason, who carries him into the hallway.

"Stay out here," Jason says. "It's our job to keep out of the way for now."

"Who's going to let the paramedics in?" Damian asks, trying to pry himself out of Jason's grip. As much as he tries to crane his neck, Jason's standing too far away from your door to let him see how you're doing, and his iron grip is unyielding.

"Alfred's by the gate controls, he'll let them inside."

Tim gets off the phone with the emergency dispatcher and glances at your door with a frown. Every hitching gasp and choke you make can be heard from the hall, along with Bruce and Hal's barely-concealed, panicked murmuring, and he crosses his arms tightly and shuffles over to Jason now that his task is done.

"Can we wait downstairs?" He mutters. Jason keeps one arm wrapped around Damian and slings the other around Tim's shoulders, guiding them to the staircase.

"I want to stay!" Damian insists, pulling against Jason, who ends up needing to sling the little assassin over his shoulder to get him to move. "Todd!!"

"Robin," Jason snaps in his best Batman impersonation. It's a damn good one, because Damian quiets immediately, stiffening in his arms and ceasing his struggling without further protest. Tim freezes beside him, but Jason just pats his back and keeps guiding him down the stairs.

The trio is quiet as they file into the main living room. Jason and Tim sit on the couch and Damian gets propped up in his brother's lap. Try as he might, he can't wiggle out of Jason's arms.

"This is asinine," he hisses. "I should be up there."

"Doin' what?" Jason asks. "Bruce and Hal are both in there with Mousey. Alfred's about to guide the EMTs inside. Tim called 911 and then told Dick the situation. You were the one that first found 'em and got help."

Jason gives Damian a squeeze, propping his chin on top of his head.

"You saved their life, Damian. Ya don't need to do more than that right now. Let the grown-ups take the reins for a while."

"But I —"

"You've done more than enough," Jason insists, not unkindly. His tone has been uncharacteristically soft the whole time, Damian realizes belatedly. "I'm sure they'll thank you when they come out the other side of this."

Damian didn't do it for your thanks. He did it because he loves you. Despite you quickly approaching the age where Bruce might offer you the Robin mantle soon, which has filled him with more anxiety and anger than he's had in a long time, he loves you dearly and doesn't want anything to befall you.

In spite of everything, he's your big brother and he loves you just as much as he can't stand you.

"They will be fine," he mutters firmly. "There's no alternative."

"Right," Tim speaks up. He sounds like he needs the reassurance just as much as Damian. "M is gonna be okay."

The three of them turn their heads when several pairs of footsteps enter the vestibule. Four paramedics rush in with a stretcher and duffel bags of medical equipment. Alfred orders them in the direction of your bedroom with simple, firm instructions, and they head off.

The butler then turns, spotting them out of his periphery, and he clears his throat and adjusts the belt around his robe. He's still in his sleepwear, having rushed out of bed to help prep for the emergency like everyone else.

"I've had my fair share of exciting nights," he comments, "but I must say, they never become more enjoyable. Why don't you all join me in the kitchen and I'll prepare some drinks? Hot chocolate should suffice on a chilly evening."

"Sounds fantastic," Jason says, hopping to his feet. He lifts Damian up with him, denying him the chance to refuse, and with a glance and jerk of his chin, coaxes Tim to get up and follow after.

"Put me down," Damian says, reaching up to tug on Jason's night shirt. "I won't run back upstairs. I swear."

"Yeah? You double-swear? Don't make me chase you, kid, I really do not have the patience."

"On Father's life," he insists.

Jason sets him on the floor. Damian follows them into the kitchen and takes a seat at the island, cupping his hands around a warm mug of hot cocoa when Alfred hands it to him a couple minutes later. He watches the wisps of steam curl up into the air and dissipate, unable to stop thinking about your writhing body in bed. Your eyes had rolled back and your limbs had locked up, jerking uncontrollably. And the noises you were making...

The mug gives a foreboding creak under his grip. Alfred gently places his hand on Damian's back and gives it several soft pats.

"Do not fret, master Damian," he says, "our little Flittermouse is very resilient. An illness turning poorly won't keep them down for long."

"I know," he says. Alfred nods, and with a final brush against his shoulder, tends to Tim next to ensure he's also doing okay. When Damian looks at Jason, he sees him calmly drinking from his mug without so much as a furrow in his brow. But there's an almost imperceptible ricketing noise that means he's bouncing his leg nervously. It makes his stomach twist almost painfully, to know he's just as scared as everybody else.

Damian takes a deep breath. He sips his coco. He thinks of the froth pouring out of your mouth when Bruce rolled you into the recovery position. He puts the mug down.

He knows you'll be okay. You have to, because he just can't live with the alternative.

[youryanderedaddy]

tw: female reader, non - con, kidnapping, fdom (technically), m!sub to m!dom

When you get taken off the streets by a rich, cruel woman with dubious morals and rough, roaming hands (and lips), you don't expect to have to fight against her old beloved pet for her attention. You don't even want to be here, but the man, awfully possessive of his oh-so-generous owner, doesn't seem to understand that. So he pushes you around and snitches on every single misstep you take - steals the butter knife you hid under the mattress, drowns the stash of sleeping pills you pocketed and meant to put in the lady's dinner. He will never let you hurt her - or yourself. As much as he hates you, he sees how happy you make his mistress, and for that reason he would rather die than let himself give into the urge to rip into your soft little body and chew on your bones.

Yet every time she holds you close or kisses you breathlessly, or even bruises up that delicate skin of yours instead of his, you can feel the man's cold eyes tearing into your back, his dulled steps following you deep into the mansion - trying to understand what makes you better than him, what it is about you that made her forget about him completely.

But this game of cat and mouse doesn't last long. Soon your master catches on to it - she gets tired of cleaning up your messes, of punishing you, or him, or sometimes both; after all such lack of discipline and respect is completely unacceptable under her roof. So she decides to settle things once and for all. With you as the center piece, she holds you down, spreading your legs wide apart as she gestures at him to come closer with a tiny knowing smirk.

"Look at her, baby boy. Such a pretty girl, no? Don't you want to kiss and make up? I know she'll play good if you give in a bit. How about a little taste, hmm?"

She looks at you, her voice a tad too sweet to be anything other than terrifying.

"Now you be a doll and stay still for mommy, okay?"

He's unsure at first, wet puppy eyes moving swiftly from you to her, and back to you, his gaze following the naked skin of your legs to your thighs to her sharp well manicured nails baring all of you for him to see. He gulps, mouth watering at the sight - there is something so vulnerable, so tempting about your provocative pose, the air of helplessness, of being unable to fight back or run away. It awakens something in him, something primal, and when his mistress snaps her fingers, signaling that it's time to let go completely, he doesn't need a second reminder.

His lips are on you in the next moment - licking up and down your sensitive folds, wrapping his mouth around your clit and sucking so very lightly you're stuck between cursing at him and begging him to go deeper.

"F-fuck, she's so sweet, ma'am, t-thank you, thank you!"

He's shaking all over, hushed vibrating moans escaping his body and sending wicked tingles through your throbbing, overstimulated pleasure button - setting all those strung, pent up nerve endings on fire by keeping you on the very blink of ecstasy, the very hill of depravity. For the first time he's looking at you, really looking at you - noticing every dimple and smile line, every curve, each moment of softeness, of reckless abandon on your face, your body, your mind. And you're beautiful.

He can't wait to play with you again.

[oceanicwriting]

a deal.

summary: for weeks, rumors of a new drug have been circulating in the halls of hogwarts. your friends, curious about the stories of those who have tried it, send you, a hufflepuff prefect, to buy it. your surprise is great when mattheo riddle himself is the mysterious seller... although the boy's luck was greater.

pairing(s): dealer!mattheo riddle x fem!hufflepuff!reader

a/n: english is not my native language! i didn't check this work twice, and it was inspired by a clip of babygirl movie hehe.

tension, mention and use of drugs

ㅤㅤㅤ—why should i do it? —you say complainingly, putting on your cape—. what if i make a mistake and they makes me disappear with a spell?

ㅤㅤㅤ—don't be exaggerated! —one of your friends exclaims, smiling to calm your nervous gaze. it wasn't working—. you have much more character than any of us...

ㅤㅤㅤ—besides, you're the best at defense against the dark arts.

ㅤㅤㅤ—just go.

ㅤㅤㅤyour gaze travels between them one last time, and you nod while you adjust the black hood on your head. if you had had the courage to refuse, everything would have been much easier for your nervous system, but you didn't.

ㅤㅤㅤthe girls had been obsessed for weeks with trying a drug that was going around among the students of hogwarts. according to your classmates, who dared to try it, the effect was like going up to heaven and returning to mortals, christening the pill as "the road to merlin". you are not sure how they managed to convince your friends, but it was much easier to convince you.

ㅤㅤㅤthe hiding place of the mysterious seller was on the fifth floor of the castle. according to your friends, you had to find a perfect mouse house and press the highest stone. when you get there, without having met any teacher, you look at ground level for what would let you in.

ㅤㅤㅤwhen you find it, everything happens just as they told it, opening the wall to a hallway with lit torches. when you are fully inside, the wall returns to its natural state, leaving you trapped in that place. walking down the length of the corridor, you come to an old wooden door that swings a little, making the hinges creak, muffling the sound of your unsure steps.

ㅤㅤㅤbefore entering, you take the handle of your wand, resting in your back pocket, and sigh all the air trapped in your lungs. then, gently pushing the wood, you feel a strong, musty aroma take over your nostrils and spider webs break in your head. it seemed to be an old classroom because of the tables built into the wall, while right in the center sits a boy with wavy hair. he hadn't even flinched at the sound of your presence, and it makes your skin crawl.

ㅤㅤㅤ—hello. —only then you see how your companion's back tenses. you try not to let the simple reaction interfere with the courage you've built up to get there—. i'm here to buy something.

ㅤㅤㅤa thread of smoke rises from his head, and the chair makes a loud squeak as it's dragged against the floor. he was getting up with exasperating slowness.

ㅤㅤㅤ—of all the people in this place? —he says, his voice rumbling like an endless echo—. you?

ㅤㅤㅤand he turns, giving the mysterious face the shape of mattheo riddle. on his lips there's a disinterested and arrogant smile that flips your tight stomach. your heart had stopped for a second because without knowing him at all, you knew the reputation a riddle had.

ㅤㅤㅤ—interesting —he says, leaving the cigarette in his fingers in the ashtray on the table. he begins to advance in your direction with a predatory slowness—. who told you my secret?

ㅤㅤㅤ more than a request, it is an order that leaves no room for refutation. attracted by the sound of his voice and the way his small eyes study you, you feel that you must answer truthfully or he will catch you.

ㅤㅤㅤ—answer me.

ㅤㅤㅤ—the weasley twins have told my friends. —you whisper, tightening your hand on the wand.

ㅤㅤㅤmattheo stays completely silent, looking you up and down with amusement. he had observed you many times before in the halls when you were alone or accompanied, in the library when you were trying to memorize something for potions or in the courtyards when you were playing with your cat. he saw you every time at dinner, hoping that you would notice it... but you never did.

ㅤㅤㅤhe loved the way your hair moved when you walked and the exquisite way your uniform fit your figure. it wasn't a surprise to dream about you every night, because he was sure that just by tasting you, he could become as addicted as all those who went in search of drugs.

ㅤㅤㅤ—do you want to buy something for yourself, princess?

ㅤㅤㅤyou don't answer, because you weren't interested in getting high on who knows what, but your friends wouldn't let it go either.

ㅤㅤㅤ—or are you doing what you always do? are you following orders? —you frown at his questions, trying to understand what he means. you're motionless because you somehow know he hasn't finished speaking—. tell me, do you want to try this or not?

ㅤㅤthe small white pill is placed in front of your eyes. mattheo can notice the doubt in your scared expression, putting it back in his closed fist.

ㅤㅤㅤ—i don't know what you're talking about. i-i just came to b...

ㅤㅤㅤ—what I mean is that... i think you like to be told what to do, or am i wrong?

ㅤㅤㅤhis hand tightens on your arm, the one that was tightly holding the wand in your pocket, and with a sideways smile, he forces you to let go of the object. your shaking hand doesn't go unnoticed by him.

ㅤㅤㅤ—y-you don't know what you're saying, riddle.

ㅤㅤㅤ maybe you should have thought it through better because your words manage to light a flame inside the boy. although you had no way of knowing it. mattheo caresses the fabric of your cape before pulling it hard and beginning to push you into the room gently. you wanted to say something, run, hit him, or react, but there was something much stronger than your own will burning you from within.

ㅤㅤㅤ—so if i order you to kiss me, you won't do it? —your whole body stiffens with the sound of his voice behind you, pushing you closer and closer to the table—. i want you to take a seat there.

ㅤㅤㅤyou can't ignore the way your whole body reacts to the boy's deep voice, less when you turn around to try to regain your dignity. his carefree smile, demanding gaze, and wide body only intensify the wave of unknown sensations.

ㅤㅤㅤ—i said take a seat.

ㅤㅤㅤyou do. the hardness of the old wood presses against your butt, releasing a soft creak. mattheo looks at you, fascinated and excited by the obedience you've shown. although his thoughts are elsewhere, he tries to keep his head on what he's really wanted from you all this time.

ㅤㅤㅤhe searches for something under the table, then places a small, clear plastic bag right in front of you with three small pills. all three are different colors and don't look as dangerous as you'd imagined. when you direct your hand to your pocket, he quickly stops you.

ㅤㅤㅤ—can you help me... —his hand approaches your cheek, brushing away a strand of hair that had gotten into your face—. let me repeat it, you're going to help me. i should ask you if you want, but i'm not interested in knowing what you think. i need someone like you, princess.

ㅤㅤㅤhis gaze runs over your entire body quickly, and he smiles, satisfied with the way your breathing quickens at the scrutiny. mattheo, in his head, has two options: you remain terrified of his presence or you react to his voice. he liked to think it was the latter.

ㅤㅤㅤ—no one would suspect someone as correct as you, right? no one will notice that you are working for me. —his hand travels from your cheek to your hand, slowly traveling the entire length of your body—. besides, aren't you the best in your group in defense against the dark arts?

ㅤㅤㅤ—do you want me to help you sell... drugs?

ㅤㅤㅤyou don't know what face you must have made, but mattheo can't hold back the laughter that escapes his lips.

ㅤㅤㅤ—yes. —his hand takes your chin delicately, but his gaze couldn't be more demanding and serious—. and i want you to be clear that it's not a request, princess. you're going to be so loyal and... useful to me.

ㅤㅤㅤ you try to refuse, say something to let him know your disagreement or move out of his sight, but it's not allowed. mattheo was being so serious that it scares you a little when he stops playing and orders you to leave. you don't know why, how or when you would have to meet him again, but somehow you hope it won't be soon.

[animeyanderelover]

Anon: Can I have Chrollo, Feitan, Jouno, Inumaki and Gojo with a s/o that has social anxiety?

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, delusional behavior, clinginess, manipulation, isolation, abduction

Tags: @jamayah @chxxz @leveyani @hyakki-yosai @shenryu-sama @maggiequinn59 @shumidehiro @izanami78 @lovley-valentine7

S/o with social anxiety

Chrollo Lucilfer

📖​How sweet of you to gift the devil in human clothing only more possibilities to manipulate you and trap you within his spider's web. For Chrollo your social anxiety isn't something he seeks to cure. No, it is something he only plans to worsen. The only people you should be comfortable around are him and other members of the Troupe, but mainly him. And it is delightfully easy to push you into withdrawing yourself more and more from others, even those you are close with. It is easy to stir your already overthinking mind into wrong directions, to have you question even the bonds you have already established and to slowly crumble all relationships you hold until only he is left. Chrollo hords you mostly only to himself like a dragon would his treasure but you do not really mind as social events are far too overstimulating for your emotions and he takes great enjoyment in this. For Chrollo you are an open book as he always notices when you're anxious, your hands clammy and your muscles tense. Usually he reassures you, his voice, scent and touch surrounding you to ease your anxiety. It truly is a bitter pill to swallow that Chrollo is such a soothing presence yet makes you completely dependent on him.

Feitan Portor

☠️​You are just pathetic to watch with the way you stutter and walk nervously around, always contemplating long and hard before you dare to approach someone. It's so pathetic that Feitan isn't sure if he should laugh at you or pity you. Honestly, your anxious and quiet behavior threatens to drive him mad with the amount of frustration he experiences yet at the same time he also finds himself torturing those who dare to take advantage of you. Ultimately unable to watch you defenseless mouse out there he abducts you as he is fed up with your inability to even hold a simple conversation. He is nowhere near as smooth as his leader is though. Annoyed glares and quiet threats he utters are mostly what you receive from him, only heightening your anxiety. Feitan has little to no patience, often grabbing your chin and hissing lowly at you to just speak properly whenever you stutter and stumble over your words only to walk away annoyed when you burst out in tears, surprisingly enough not taking joy in your tears. He realises that he should make you at least more comfortable around him though he's also smart enough to know that with his impatience and your fear this won't be easy.

Jouno Saigiku

♦️​Jouno uses your social anxiety to his own advantage too as he has pretty much just a kink for making his darling skittish and nervous for his own entertainment. Your quickened heartbeat and short breath are always dead giveaways for your current emotions, the stutter in your voice always indicating your anxiety in that moment. He often taunts you that it is always easy to track you down within a crowd, the anxious melody of your heart always guiding him towards you. Still, Jouno remains possessive in quite a twisted way as he is not fond whenever it is someone else who frightens his darling. It is a pleasure he only allows himself to indulge in, the delightful sounds of your heart only meant for his ears. It is for this selfish reason that you are extremely isolated once he transfers you under his care with the help of the government as only he remains as your sole form of social interaction. Mocking you isn't uncommon, especially if he senses that you're upset. After all you were already avoiding people left and right before he brought you here. Jouno really only did you a favour in that aspect. As much as Jouno enjoys it, occasionally your anxiety may overwhelm him due to his sharp hearing in which case he avoids you.

Inumaki Toge

🗣️​The only one from this post who actually wishes to help you. If you were simply more introverted like he is, Inumaki wouldn't have a problem and just let you be. That isn't the case though as you actively avoid people and social interactions altogether, always overthinking or drawing a blank within your mind. You isolate yourself, never ask for help and that is where the problem lies. You can't even use Inumaki as your shield as he can't talk for you due to his abilities. Instead of throwing you directly into cold water though he asks other students from Jujutsu High if it would be alright for you to meet them as he briefly explains that he hopes to help you. Luckily no one of them minds and so he soon brings you along, clutching your clammy hand in his own as he can already see how worried you are already. He's a tad bit worried that Maki may intimidate you but thankfully she holds her normally harsher tone back. When you buy something he usually remains close to you or even allows you to hold his hand tightly if it lowers your anxiety even a bit as you pay, constantly giving him anxious glances as you do so. Slow and steady is the way with him but it must be done.

Gojo Satoru

🩵​Any hope you might have held somewhere in your heart to one day be more courageous turn into dust once Gojo enters your life. He takes over every aspect of your life, orders everything you need for you and always is the one talking when both of you are around people. Partially because Gojo realises the golden chance he is presented with and partially because he hates sensing your fear and nervousness whenever you are under a lot of people or attempt to talk with someone. Isn't it just so much easier to let him do everything for you? Indeed, he stays true to his words as he isolates you more and more and only worsens your social anxiety as a result. If you were to argue against his treatment he wouldn't listen to you because even if he might acknowledge the truth in your words he knows he wouldn't be able to hold himself back the moment he would let you attempt to socially interact again only to experience your anxiety much more intensely after so much isolation due to him. Is it really that terrible to only spend time with him? He loves you, he spoils you, he adores you so much that he feels like he can't breathe without you. He needs you. You need him too, now more than ever.

[arbitrarykiwi]

Pill Poppin!

Thanos/Choi Su-bong (Player 230) x Fem producer!reader smut one-shot

Summary: you’re a self made producer, making tracks for many underground rappers, but one client always gets under your skin. Choi Su-bong. He’s forgot to pay you on more than one occasion, shows up to your studio like he owns the place and is so cocky it’s annoying. When he shows up to your studio at 2am randomly, he comes bearing gifts- one of them being the little pill you’ve been dying to try.

Warnings: smut (18+), drug usage, weed and alcohol mention, pill swapping, reader is described to have used various drugs before, you take a lil aphrodisiac pill with him <3, sex under the influence, spit- lots of spit, oral (f receiving), pet names (slut n bitch is used a couple times), dirty talk, squirting, creampie, i feel like Thanos in himself is a mf warning, there prolly more- read at your own risk.

You huff, clicking the same three buttons yet again, removing a small snippet of some drums and clipping it back- trying to get it right.

You tucked your knees up onto the chair you sat on, reaching out to grip the desk- pulling yourself forward on the wheeled chair, tucking yourself comfortably in front of the mouse and keyboard.

Recently, you found yourself working late nights in the small music studio you rented. For some reason the summer months had people lined up at your door with cash in hand offers for your beats. So there you found yourself, blanket over your shoulders, knees tucked up to your chest as you work on the same .5 seconds of the track over and over- trying to get it right.

Your eyes are tired, your ears ringing with the same loop of drums, snares, and mouse clicks. The routine ensemble of sounds is interrupted by three loud and harsh knocks at the door to your studio.

It causes you to jump, launching off your headphones and whipping around in your chair to glare at the door. Maybe you misheard it?

Three more loud knocks, the force shaking the door. You look over to the large digital clock, 1:45am. You weren’t expecting anyone.

You get up out of your chair in a slow creeping motion, the fluffy blanket dropping off your shoulder and piling into the black chair you just got out of. You make your way over to the door- your slippers shuffling against the carpet.

When you make it to the door you look back to your workstation- open alcohol cans and a tray full of weed. Great- you think. Could be the fucking cops you’re opening the door to and you have nearly an ounce scattered around the place.

You unlock the door, unchain the deadbolt and crack it open, peering around the door with an annoyed scowl. Your body is tense as you see who’s at your door. The light from your music studio floods the street from behind you in a thin line. You can’t make out exactly who’s there, but you see it’s definitely not a cop- no weapon belt or badges and you sigh, much more relaxed, shoulders dropping.

You open the door more- your face still in the scowl. “You knock like the fuckin’ cops. Now what do you-“

You’re cut off as the light floods out into the street, revealing who exactly is at your studio this hour. “Su-bong?!” You say both annoyed and surprised.

“I’ve been telling you~ it’s Thanos, baby.” He says pushing past you and into your studio. You scoff, opening your mouth to object but you don’t, instead closing the studio door behind him and locking it back with a sigh.

“Okayyyy,” you draw out, the word accompanied by a roll of your eyes, “Thanos.” You correct with a scoff. You scowl when he makes himself comfortable on the couch in your studio, like he owns the place.

“What are you doing here. It’s late and I already gave you your track…” your tired eyes widen as you dart to the computer “…didn’t I?!” You say frantically, sitting back in your chair and pulling it to the desk, beginning to rapidly open your email to see if you actually sent it to him- that had to be why he showed up so randomly.

You hear him laugh, “Señorita,” he called out with a cocky tone, you can hear the stupid smirk on his face even with your back turned to him, “you sent me by beat, it was perfect. I can’t just come by to see my favorite producer?” He says leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

You groan, annoyed that he made you so worried, you grip a small plush bear that sat at your desk, turning around and throwing it at him, “You fucking asshole!” You yell. He simply catches the bear midair and laughs. Then you spin the chair you sit in to look at him, and eyebrow raised in an accusatory look. “So you came by…at…” you turn to the clock behind you, “2 in the morning just to see me?” You ask.

He shrugs, “Yeah exactly that. Wanted to see your pretty face.” He says, tilting his head with his smirk widening, almost akin to the cheshire cat. You cross your arms and glare at him.

You knew he either came around when it was time to pay or cause trouble. He was no stranger to paying you late for the tracks you send him, or showing up to your studio high out of his mind in the middle of the night to beg you to record an incoherent track, or to crashing on your couch in the studio when he gets evicted for a week before he gets a new place, or to even beg you for free work.

For years he has caused you nothing but trouble but you still worked with him, you still let him crash on the couch, and you still let him have new beats despite having not paid for the last one you made him. You were attracted to him in some weird way but it pissed you off so much. You realize now, at 2 in the morning as he lays sprawled out on your couch, legs up and laid back like he owns the place, you snap.

“I don’t care what you’re here- it’s 2am, You barge in here, acting like you own the place. I really am fucking doing any free work for you, I’m fucking sick of you coming around here late at night and pulling dumb dumbass stunt.” You scold your anger beginning to rise. “And you know what else-“

You’re immediately cut off by him bolting up off of the couch, bounding over to you in a single step. His hands slam against the armrests of the chair you’re sitting in, caging you in. His face is inches from yours. You can’t even see his irises, his pupils are blown out beyond belief- he’s beyond fucked up. The quickness of him changing from annoying but somewhat charming to terrifying is… well terrifying.

His teeth are clenched, his breath is heavy and it comes out in heaving puffs as he glares at you. “You just don’t know when to shut your fuckin mouth.” He seethes, emphasizing his words by slamming his hands on the armrests of the chair, the sheer force causing the chair to shake. “Rude bitch.” He spits out.

Your initial fear is taken over by rage, you sit up taller in your chair, your gaze narrowing, “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” He says, his voice raising. One of his hands picks up from the armrest and grips your chin. The grip is rough, painful, you’re sure it will leave bruises if he didn’t let go soon.

You swallow thickly, trying to pull back from his grip but it’s impossible. “You’re going to fix your attitude and shut the fuck up for one second.” He growls, pushing your face back and releasing his grip. You know better than to move or speak.

You look up at him with wide eyes as he pulls back, standing up straight. “I came here for multiple reasons.” He growls, his voice still raised and seething. “For one, I brought all the money I ever owed you and then some.” He says, reaching into his pants pocket and pulling out a massive wad of cash and throwing it onto the desk next to you.

“Second, I came to show you that the last track you made, the song and music video I put out hit over 3 million views allowed me to get a hook up for you with the big DJ that you always ramble on and on about. He wants to work with you.” He says pacing around the room, your mouth just drops open, you can hardly process what’s going on.

He pauses his pacing, returning back to you, arms on the armrests of the chair- caging you in again, but this time it isn’t as violent. “And lastly, I remembered you whining that you didn’t get to try that new shit that just dropped yet so I brought you some. I came to do it with you so you’d have a fucking trip sitter.” He seethes.

You genuinely think you’re already tripping and you know you’ve only smoked maybe one blunt in the last hour but you could not believe what you were hearing. He’s brought you what looks like seven times what he owed you- something in all the years of knowing him you’d never thought he would have done.

He somehow got your beat to not only go viral but the vitality got your favorite DJ to converse with him. You couldn’t even fathom that he remembered your various rambles about how much you liked this specific DJ- but somehow he remembered and set up a collab for you?!?

And lastly, he remembered a passing comment you made about wanting to try the new colorful pills that had hit your shared circle of people, not only bringing it to you for free- but offering to stay with you while you tried it for the first time.

He smirks, scoffing when he realizes you’re at a loss for words. “You just keep running your mouth and don’t let me fucking talk. So what is it? Huh??” He asks his hands coming up to either side of your face to cup your jaw and force your neck to crane upwards. “You gonna keep bitching, or are you gonna be nice?” He says, shaking your head back and forth like you were just a dog or something.

You swallow, wanting to hit him or yell at him to get out but the way he looks at you, the crazy stunt he just pulls and his proximity- you simply bite your lip then nod. “I’ll…” your voice comes out hoarse, cracking as you speak. You don’t even get to try again before he’s laughing. “Where’s that bratty attitude of your’s now? Can’t fuckin’ speak now, huh?” He speaks in an amused growl. His hand taps on your cheek in quick succession, “C’mon now, speak up.” He says in a mocking, sing-song voice.

You clear your throat before speaking, “I’ll be nice…” you say softly, “Thank you..” you add. You don’t even have to be asked- you mean it. All these years of wishing. hoping that somehow he’d show some signs of actually caring about you- he finally did it, in his own weird way. He came here late at night to give you gifts you don’t think even your best friends could think of.

He seems to relax some, letting out an annoyed sigh but collecting himself. He already hated that you made him feel all weird- like how he feels he has a heart condition with the way he swears it skips a beat when he hears you laugh or now- when you were just standing up to him, oh so defiantly, and so quickly turning into a deer in headlights, wide eyes looking at him trying to wrap you mind around what’s going on.

It’s cute.

You’re cute.

He lets out a low noise, one that reverberates off his chest and resonates deeply in his throat. He keeps his hand on your jaw, his eyes tracing over your face- pupils blown out- he’s already high. His hand that’s not keeping your face in place comes up to his neck, gripping at the silver chain and pulling it up, hand running down the length of the chain to grip at the large cross locket at the end.

“Now do you want the shit or not?” He hisses, dangling the cross locket in front of your face like a toy. And when you nod, staring at him with a frenzied, wide eyed stare- the grin that spreads across his face is wicked. “Good girl…” he hums, dropping the locker and taking a step closer to you.

He’s standing between your legs as you sit stunned, so close to you that you can smell his cologne and the undertone of the last blunt he smoked- it’s oddly intoxicating. His hand still on your chin forces you to look up at him, almost painfully so, pulling you so your chin is practically touching his stomach.

The best part about this, he thinks- you just let him.

You just let him manipulate you, looking up at him like he was your king who was bestowing you with a royal gift. Your lips are slightly parted, he can feel your heavy breaths against his stomach, and fuck, if it isn’t one of the best ways he’s seen you.

“You’re always so bitchy ya know that?” He chides with a smirk. He stares at you some more, just taking you all in, his thumb moves to run along your bottom lip. “’m not!” You call out at his insult, his eyebrow quirks up as he hears you try to talk back to him. It’s funny how you think it will do anything, given the position you’re in- the position you so compliantly let him move you into.

“Mhm sure…” he lets out in a long drawn out hum, his grasp suddenly becomes harsher, making you let out a whine at pressure, “then what was that dumb fuckin’ stunt you just pulled? Hm?” He says, leaning down, his face inches from yours, teeth clenched and words coming out in terse angered syllables.

“Yelling at me like that…” he says, his grip loosening and his words becoming almost a playful scolding. “S’like no one ever taught you manners.” He says with a pout, his voice soft- almost pitiful. “S’okay…Thanos‘ll teach you…” he says, both his hands coming up to old your face, squishing in your cheeks and shaking your head.

It’s a little unsettling how rapid his emotions seem to change- it should terrify you but you’re not normal…no, the way it puts you on edge and unnerves you only makes a warmth grow in your lower stomach and your thighs press together desperately.

He notices your thighs, pressed together and rubbing against each other- trying to get some sort of relief for the heat that envelops your cunt. It’s a quick movement that has you keeling over in your chair, his hands drop from your face and push your knees apart. “And here you are…” he growls, bringing his face so its level with yours. “…rubbing your thighs together like some bitch in heat when I’m trying to talk to you.” You can’t help the moan that slips out your lips, the absence of the pressure your thighs were creating brings the ache in your cunt to tenfold.

The movement forces you to realize how much he’s effecting you. It brings up years of pent up sexual tension that has your chest heaving and your panties beginning to feel damp. “I-“ you choke on your words, embarrassed at how easily he caught on to you trying to ease the ache in your pussy by squeezing your thighs, “it’s not what you think.”

When the words fall out of your mouth, you know it’s dumb. It’s stupid. Lying through your teeth when you know there’s nothing it’s it could be.

“Oh really?” He says laughing, his hands forcing your legs apart even as they try to fight his grip to try and close. His eyes move from your face to your clothed cunt- shielded by your sweatpants and underwear. “So if I checked right now, your pretty pussy wouldn’t be soakin’ your panties?” He says, moving his face down from being level with yours to being level with the crotch of your pants, laughing at your desperate attempt to hide how needy you really were. You shake your head no.

He laughs. He knows you’re lying….there’s a darkened spot on your sweatpants- there’s no way of hiding it yet you’re still set on lying to keep some sense of pride. How adorable. Despite the two layers of clothes, you can feel his breath and it has you draw in a shuddering breath. “Like I said…someone oughta teach you some manners…don’t you know lyin’s bad sweet girl?” He hums, eyes looking up at you from his spot between your legs.

“So I’ll give you a chance…since it seems you haven’t been fucked good enough…haven’t been set straight.” He rambles on, breath fanning over your covered cunt. You can hardly hear what he’s saying, you can only focus on how good the purple haired male looks between your thighs. “So let’s try again…” he says, placing a kiss directly over your clit that’s hidden by your sweatpants. You jump at the contact, body twitching and hips chasing his mouth. Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth as your heavy breaths turn into soft whines. “If I checked…and think about this real hard princess..” he says, with a wicked grin, “If I checked, your cunt would be soakin your panties, huh?”

You nod, “Mhm…” you hum through your bit lip. He grins and rewards you with another kiss to your clothed pussy. “Seeee~” he says in a sing song voice “S’not so hard is it?” He’s pulling back, standing back up straight to hover over you.

“Now…you said you want some of this shit?” He says, gripping at the cross locket that you know holds the drug you’ve been desperately wanting to try. “Y-yes…” you respond, he looks at you with a warning glare. “Y-yes please.” You correct yourself.

He nods, hand reaching out to hold your chin, “atta girl, you’re learning.” He hums, thumb rubbing over your bottom lip. “Open up f’me.” He says, and you obey, your mouth opening. He lets out a soft laugh, the hand that was cradling your jaw in its iron grip moves to the back of your head. His fingers entangle themselves in your hair to keep your head right where he wants it. “There you go….” he praises, “Now you’re listening, not so hard is it?” He says with a shit eating grin. His eyes scan you, “Fuck you look good like this…” he says, mumbling through gritted teeth.

He keeps you held there, mouth agape as he moves to grip the cross locket again. With a shaky hand, he opens the locket and dumps two of the colored pills out. You watch on as he closes it, fumbling with it a bit to get it closed back with one hand.

When he drops the chain and locket back down, it falling back on his chest, he pops the two pills in his mouth. “Tongue out.” he commands, his words muffled by the pills he has tucked in his cheek.

You suck in a breath, trying to tell yourself to have some shame- to tell him off and kick him out. But as you intend to move your mouth to yell at him- no words come out- instead you obey. Tongue lolling out of your mouth.

He seems to catch on to the way your mind fights itself- he can see it in the way your eyes dart around, trying to look anywhere but him, to talk yourself out of this. But your eyes return back to him, looking up at him oh so expectantly, and giving in once again- waiting patiently for whatever he has to offer.

He tilts your head back the slightest bit, sucking his teeth. You’re confused at what was going on until a trail of his saliva drops down from his pursed lips. It hit your tongue in a warm wetness, one that you had you letting out a breathy whine, eyes rolling into the back of your head when you taste him. Your tongue sinks back into your mouth, lips closing.

Only when you close your mouth, his spit mixing with yours, do you realize he’s spit one of the pills he had tucked into his cheek, into your mouth. You chew the pill, knowing it will make the effect of the drugs hit you faster.

He hisses, your little sound doing numbers on him. He reaches down with the hand that’s not in your hair to palm his erection. As you watch on, tongue licking your lips and pupils beginning to dilate, he continues- only gripping at his clothed cock harder under your gaze.

The way you can’t figure out what to look at, his face or where his hand fists the tent in his pants has him snapping. He surges forward, and bends down attaching his lips to yours in a frenzied manner.

You whine into his mouth, arms coming up to lace around his neck and pull at the purple baby hairs at the base of his neck. It’s a messy, sloppy clash of lips and teeth.

You’re quick to haul yourself into a standing position, pressing your body against him, fingers pulling at his hair and keeping him bent down. His hands are over you in a feverish haze, trailing under your shirt to grip at your waist. The warmth of his hands makes a jolt run up your spine forcing you to arch into his touch.

His teeth bite down on your bottom lip, pulling at it as he parts to begin yanking your shirt over your head. You step back, pulling it above your head by yourself- you suddenly feel so so hot, like your insides are on fire. When you look back up to him he smirks, grabbing the sides of your head to pull you close to him.

His palms cover your ears, painted nails tangled under your hair as he stares directly into your eyes, when he finds what he’s looking for his grin widens, “You’re starting to feel it, huh? Works quick doesn’t it?” He mumbles in a low voice, he was looking at your eyes.

Your pupils, although you couldn’t see them, were blown out, a sight that only made him want to devour you more. It was like you were a little fawn, looking at him like he was a wild wolf about to strike. You bite your lip, letting out a ‘mhm’ as you nod.

He laughs at your state, his hands moving down the sides of your neck over to your arms- running the tips of his fingers down your skin. He continues, looking down on you as his colorful nails trace along the swell of your tits, running over the top of your bra before ghosting his thumbs over your nipples hidden behind the lace fabric of your bra.

It was insane how pleasurable it felt. Just a simple touch has you keening over, falling into his chest with heaving breaths. It felt like his fingers electrocuted you in waves that only helped to force syrupy drips of arousal out of your cunt and into your panties.

“Heh…yeah it’s working.” He mocks his hand cradling your back, running up your spine until he reaches the back of your bra, doing it with an expertise that should make you uneasy- he’s had to do that many times before- but you just pull away and try to hurriedly shove the straps off your shoulders and pulling the fabric off.

He wants to mock you, degrade you for being so easy, so shameless- but when he finally sees the tits he’s been dreaming about for years, his mouth is watering. He’s back on you like lightning. Hands reaching up to massage the flesh in his palms. “Fuck…I knew you’d have a perfect set of tits on you…fuckin picturesque.” He rumbles, eyes transfixed on how the flesh of your breasts spills out between the spaces of his fingers when he squeezes harder.

“F-feels s-so fucking good..” you whine out it’s raised at the end, like you’re questioning how you can be this worked up with him fondling your tits. He bits his lip and nods, “Awh I know sweetheart…” He coos, a pout forming on his face that you know isn’t sincere. “…see the thing about this drug here that you were so eager to take…without asking what the trip is like I may add…”

He says, like you’re some dumb girl new to the drug scene- you weren’t. Far from it. But he did have a point. You just heard about how good the trip was, not what made it so good.

One of his hands drops from your breast to wrap his arm around your waist caging you into him. The hand that was still attached to your breast moves to pinch your nipple, pulling at it, “…it’s main highlight isn’t the visuals like the shit you’re used to doing…” He begins to talk again, smiling at how you twitch against him, “’s the feeling of euphoria it gives you when you’re getting fucked stupid. Makes every touch so so so…” he repeats, every ‘so’ he’s pulling harder at your nipple, “so much better..” he finishes finally releasing your nipple, eyes trained on the way your breast falls back against your chest with a lewd jiggle.

You can only pant against him, hands gripping at his shirt and nodding helplessly. You want his clothes off. You want to feel him against you. You whine, pulling your head off his chest to stare up at him, tugging at his shirt like some needy puppy.

“Manners slut. C’mon. Haven’t even touched you properly and you’re already too fucked out to speak?! Tell me what you want..” He scolds in a degrading, it’s so mean and debauched, like he’s looking down on you for not being able to contain yourself and the feelings that this new drug gives you. But fuck, it just makes your cunt throb.

“P-please, wanna feel you. ‘S not fair, I don’t have a shirt on.” You say, defiantly, hands pulling at the hem of his shirt. He scoffs, as cock-drunk as you seem and as fucked out as the drugs make you- you’re still your firey self, always talking back.

“When have you ever seen me play fair.” He says with a laugh, quirking up an eyebrow- he was right up until the cash he brought you tonight he would play you out new beats despite the many he had yet to pay you for. His hands reach down and capture your hands, both wrists engulfed by his tattooed hand. “I’ll humor you this one time since you’re so desperate…” he says with a chuckle, releasing your hands and pulling his shirt over his head.

He was toned, well built, a brick of a man really. His baggy jeans hung low on his hips, the waistband of his boxers visible. A truly delicious sight. You stand there, stunned and mouth agape, eyes trailing to the defined ‘V’ of his hips. At the visual in front of you your body seems to become even hotter than before- your face flushing pink, your thighs rubbing together and your pussy practically weeping.

He pulls you back into him, your tits pressed against his bare chest, mewling at the warm sensation that envelopes your nipples. You two meet in a mess of tongue and lips again, his tongue immediately entering into your mouth, spinning around yours in a sloppy dance. One of his hands slips between the two of you, maneuvering under your sweatpants and panties, immediately petting at your sopping pussy.

At his touch you both moan into each other’s mouth’s. You nearly sob out when his finger parts your folds, collecting your thick wetness on his fingers- brushing over your clit. He can help but growl into the kiss feeling just how wet you are, it makes something primal in him snap.

He’s spinning you around and pushing you onto the couch he was on when he first arrived. It has you crying out in surprise as you land on the leather. He’s wasting no time, gripping at the waistband of your pants and panties, pulling them down and off your legs.

You feel so bare and vulnerable in front of him. Shirt and bra long gone, legs spread and pussy on display for him as he looms over you still in his jeans. He’s dropping to his knees, hands gripping at your ankles to force your heels up onto the couch. It surges you forward, allowing him to place his large hands on the backs of your thighs and push them back.

He observes your cunt with a wicked devilish gaze. You’re already red and puffy, so worked up and he had only barely started. Your arousal is a mess between the back of your thighs, dripping down your ass. He thinks he’s in heaven.

“Such a fuckin’ slut…” he muses, hands sliding down your thighs, thumbs moving to spread you nice n’ wide for him. “Already so sloppy just from a little pill and groping.” He says, his voice degrading as he emphasizes his words by rubbing his thumbs up the sides of your pussy, meeting at your clit before circling back down to spread you open.

Even this is almost too much, your face is flushed, hand over your mouth as you try to keep yourself for sobbing out in pleasure at such little stimulation, and thighs already threatening to close, twitching back against his hands. “Oh no, sweetheart…” he says, sitting up a little, hovering over you as he forces your legs open and back, your knees touching the back of the couch where your back rests, “None of that. You wanted to act all big n bad and take that pill, you wanted to tease me and work me up by yelling at me, so you’re gonna take whatever I fuckin’ give you….”

You’re about to retort, tell him you yelled at him because he pissed you off but you’re cut off by his tongue flattening against your pussy, licking a long slow stripe up to your clit. He stops, bringing his tongue into his mouth and fully tasting you.

You don’t know how, but his pupils seem to dilate even more, a low chuckle coming from his throat. “Now I knew you had to have good pussy….” He drawls on, leaning back in to your cunt to repeat the same action, this time making an obscene slurping sound- collecting as much as your arousal as he can before pulling away and swallowing. “But this sweet cunt…even better than what I could have imagined all those times I’ve beat my dick to the thought of fucking you on my tongue.”

There he goes, rambling on in the most raunchy way he can. You can hardly wrap your mind around the pleasure you’re feeling now, the situation you’ve found yourself in- let alone the idea that he seemed to have masturbated frequently to multiple ideas of you.

He’s back on your cunt, tongue dancing through your folds. And he’s messy. It’s a crazed, hungry effort that seems to have no real rhythm. You’re embarrassed by the wet, slurping sounds that come as he eats you like a man starved. His eyes are closed and he’s shaking his head into your pussy like a dog, literally bathing in the syrupy juices that continually flow out of your pussy.

Your hand reaches down, gripping at his purple hair, hips grinding down, trying to chase his tongue with your throbbling clit anytime he slips it back down to your weeping hole. His eyes dart open and the view of him, cat like eyes peering at you through thick lashes, mouth buried in your messy cunt. You moan out what you want to be his name, but it comes out as babbled breathy syllables.

He fights your grip, pulling back with an evil grin. His mouth and chin are covered in your arousal as he stares down at you, “What you want more? ‘S not enough for your needy cunt is it?” He hums, his tattooed fingers coming up to play with your pussy.

He’s just running his fingers through your folds, smearing the creamy liquid that gushes out of your cunt, grin widening as he watches white sticky webs collect between your folds, pulling apart anytime he plays with your pussy. “‘S not enough, I know it isn’t…you need more don’t you….practically cryin f’me.”

Your eyes widen, one finger circling your entrance, collecting a drop of your arousal before bringing it up to his lips. He makes a show of licking it up. It’s when it hits you- he’s not even taking to you. He’s talking to your pussy. The realization making you writhe and whimper, hips twitching trying to find any sort of stimulation.

“Poor thing….so neglected. Probably have had a good fuckinf’ in a long while, hm?” He coos at your cunt, lowering his face back to be level with your shining entrance. “S’okay Thanos will help you out….” He mumbles, placing a kiss to your clit. His arms wrap around your thigh, dragging you impossibly closer to his mouth.

You hate that he’s right, it’s been so long since you’ve been with anyone let alone been fucked on some sex enhancing pill that also has you high out of your mind. It only just makes you so much more receptive to his touches- like you haven’t been touched in a millennia. Like his touches are that of pure bliss, a tangible heavenly experience that will definitely ruin you for any other man who try’s to get with you.

It’s so much at once. It has you seeing colors you didn’t even think existed. You can’t even think straight, only babbling out praises like he’s your savior. His tongue is all over you, working up to flick lightly at your clot before wrapping his soft lips around it, sucking into his mouth. You can feel yourself dirty the leather of the couch under you, the wetness pooling under your thighs and ass.

He moans into your cunt, pulling away to stare at your raw pussy, licking his lips clean of your taste. Then he’s spitting directly on your clit, the warm saliva hitting your cunt in a messy spatter that leaves a warm hot trail anywhere it touches. It is so fucking filthy, scratching desires in you that you never knew you had. It has you crying out a babbled string of pleas for him to put his mouth back on you.

He laughs, taking in your needy state, pussy covered in his saliva, puffy and red, begging for more. His tongue delves back into you. It’s a viscous onslaught of licks and sucks that has you convulsing and creaming around his tongue.

His tongue makes its way down to your sopping hole, circling your entrance before thrusting itself into your walls. It’s a heavenly feeling, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull and your back arching up off the couch.

His tongue fucked you ravenously, like you were the last meal he’d ever consume. His fingers are squeezing your thighs so hard you know there’s going to be circle shaped bruises once he removes his hands.

“Oh god..” you whine out, it’s a pathetic shuddering sound that only makes him laugh against your cunt, your moans and words only making him pull you down onto him. He’s so fucking messy. It’s something straight out of a porno, you’re sure of it. He’d pull back every so often to spit in your cunt to only go right back to fucking his tongue into your walls- drinking up his spit and every bit of your creamy arousal.

It’s so good. Too good. You want to push off the blooming heat that begins to swell deep in your cunt, to drag this out, but you can’t. You’re sitting up, hands trying to dig into the leather couch, trying to ground yourself.

You’re moaning out pathetic pleas of “‘s too much” and “more, more, more”. Your cunt is erratically spasming against his fingers, you know you’re getting close.

“Gonna cum all over my face, huh girlie?” He muses up at you, words muffled against your pussy. His fingers don’t let up, curling up into your tight walls with fervor. You’re gushing around him, anytime his fingers push into you they come out covered by even more of your thick arousal. “Want you to make a mess f’me.” He continues on.

You nod, biting your lip and entangling your fingers into his hair. “OhmygodOhmygod-“ your voice comes out in a high pitched mess of words, shaking against his tongue. The feeling of your orgasm beginning to build inside you is almost too much. It’s never felt like this, it’s an almost violent insatiable itch, one you’re chasing even though you feel so sensitive to the point it almost hurts. You’re almost scared of the orgasm that’s building up in you.

“Yeahhhh…that’s it’s, you got it sweet thing.” His words seep into your ears like the sweetest melody, “Needa have you cummin’ on my face.” He says, almost begging for you to allow him such an honor. His words spur you in to not shying away from the feeling. All you can think of is how badly you want to cum and how badly you want to please him.

His fingers rapidly pump in and out of you, every motion beginning to let off a wet sloshing sound. You sob out, looking down to watch on as his tongue flicks over your clit and fingers slam into your cunt. “H-holy fuck I’m g-gonna… oh fuck…I’m gonna cum!” You cry out.

You hear a growl in response from the man between your thighs, a low primal, no, a feral sound that vibrates off your clit. It sends you over the edge, your hurled to your orgasm before you can even realize it.

It has you seeing starts, sobbing out a mix of his name and obscenity’s as you cum. And you cum hard. You can hear it gush out of you like a fountain, soaking his face and chest. The slurping sounds he’s been making only becoming louder, like he’s drinking glacier water after being stuck in a desert.

Your head falls back onto the back of the couch, your hand forcing his head still with a strength that surprises not you and him. Your hips grind in helpless jerking motions as you continue to cum, his fingers stroking your walls and beckoning every last drop of your cum out of you.

He pulls back slowly, fingers pulling out of you, his breath coming out in heavy pants. You come back down, breath still catching in your throat as you try to regain your breath. Your eyes open to finally see the extent of the mess you made.

His chest, chin and mouth is covered in your glistening arousal. He’s sucking your cum off his fingers and just staring at you with a shit eating grin. “I-I just…” your voice trails off, genuinely surprised at what just transpired. It has never happened before.

“Squirted?” He finishes your sentence while he pops his fingers out of his mouth. “Yeah, I know princess.” He says in a low mocking tone as he leans over you, pulling you into a kiss. It’s slow, methodical, he’s making sure you taste yourself.

He pulls away, a trail of saliva connecting the two of you. He collects it with his thumb, puts his digit to your lips and nods approvingly as you take it into your mouth. “You oughta get used to it. Gonna be happening a lot with me.” He mused.

In a quick motion his thumb is pull from your lips. He’s standing back, eyes trained on your fucked out form as he begins to remove his pants. He kicks them off into the corner of your studio, his boxers soon following.

When you finally see the cock that was causing the huge tent in his pants, you’re at a loss for words. He’s girthy, long, and he’s got a mean upwards curve. It stands attention, pre-cum leaking from the fat cock-head. He moves his hand across your pussy quickly, the motion making your body jolt. His hand then wraps around his length, twisting his wrist up and down his dick with the help of your cum.

He’s sitting down next to you on the couch, reaching over and pulling your limp form onto his lap, his fist still working around his dick.

“Haven’t broken you completely have I?” He mocks, staring on as you watch his fist squeeze his angry red tip before moving down his shaft. Even though you know you’re overly sensitive, all you can think about is how his cock would feel deep inside you. “N-no, ‘m not broken, want your cock inside me s’bad.” Your words are slurred, you can’t even believe the sentence you said- usually you’d have more shame.

But fuck did that little pill he gave you have your body already working itself up, cunt pulsing around nothing in anticipation for the fucking you were about to get. He lets out a low chuckle, his fist releasing his dick. It hits your stomach with a hefty ‘plap’ sound.

You look down, biting your lip when you see his cock resting against your stomach, the swollen tip resting just below your navel. You suck in a breath, relaxing just how deep he will be. “Gonna be able to take it, princess?” He mumbles, pressing a thumb against his cock, pushing it further against your stomach, the hot thick skin of his cock pressing into the flesh. “See how deep I’m gonna be?” He questions, eyes trained on his cock against your stomach, imagining what it’s going to feel like to be balls deep in your tight cunt.

You just nod in let out a hiccuped moan, canting your hips forward to try and brush your clit against the underside of his cock. “Imma take it…I can, I promise.” You pout, raising your hips the smallest bit and gripping the base of his thick length.

When your hand wraps around the length and your fingers don’t touch, you realize fully what you’re getting yourself into. “Go on then…you said you could take it.” He says, a shit eating grin on his face as he sees your concern in your face- how was he going to fit.

He shifts back on the couch, spreading his legs more and looking down at where you run his leaking cock head through your dripping folds. He bites his lip and lets out a muffled groan as he feels your wetness immediately begin soaking his length.

“Mhm…there you go.” He says, arms thrown languidly behind his head, watching you with dark eyes as you begin to sink down onto his cock. You cry out when his bulbous head slips past the tight ring of your cunt. His head throws itself back a sigh slipping past his lips as he feels your walls squeeze around him, enveloping his cock head in a warmth he never wants to leave.

“That was jus’ the tip, come on you can take more. Like you said you can take it all..and we’ve already gone over how lyin’s bad pretty girl.” He says using your own words against you, and that seems to spur you on, sinking deeper onto him.

You finally drop down, your hips connecting with his pelvis, his tip kissing your cervix. You let out a sob of his name. He lets out a porn worthy moan his hands immediately darting down to grip at your hips in a bruising strength, keeping you still.

He swears he might cum then and there. Being buried balls deep in your tight cunt, your arousal spilling out on his pelvis, it’s better than he could have imagined.

And he’s imagined it. More times than he can count.

“F-fuck you’re so god damn tight…” he hisses out, head dropping back forward so he can look at you. Your lips are dropped open, eyebrows upturned, eyes watering from just how full you feel. “O-oh my god…” you mumble out looking down to where you two connect.

It’s shameful how much your arousal has already dirtied his pelvis and your inner thighs with a milky white sheen. With the drugs in your system you can feel every inch of him in ways you didn’t even think was possible. Your hands are braced on the strong muscles of his abdomen, your breasts heaving with every shuddering breath you take as you try to accommodate his thick cock into your cunt.

“‘S big isn’t it?” He boasts, quirking up an eyebrow, a cat like grin on his face. The way you’re already fucked out he’s so composed makes you whine, nodding your head. When you finally move your hips the slightest bit and clench around him you’re rewarded with the sight of him breaking the slightest bit. He lets out a breathy sound, almost a choked whine. Hell, he’s also tripping ass on the same drugs you were- even if this isn’t his first time like you, it still has his nerves on fire. He can feel every clench and spasm of your pussy around his cock. Every drop of arousal that seeps out around him, he can feel it before it even comes out of you, feeling it swell in the depths of your cunt- being forced out by the intrusion of his thick length and trickling down the top of his cock, down the length of it, eventually dripping out along his pelvis.

“Your pussy feels s’good baby- fuck- c’mon get to work, use those hips” He says, looking at you with a hooded gaze, lip caught between his teeth- hands still resting behind his head. You take in a large breath, lifting up your hips only a bit. The drag of his cock along your walls is deliciously sinful. You know you’re fucked- figuratively and literally. No man is ever going to make you feel this good.

You repeat the motion, not even lifting half way up his dick before dropping back down. It’s so much. “Ohhh…” he hums in a low locking tone, “you can do so much better than that.” He growls, it’s harsh, you know it’s a demand.

You situate yourself better on his lap, leaning forward on him, arching your back, and placing your hands in the in the spaces his arms leave on either side of his head and resting them against the back of the couch.

When you begin to move your hips, this time guiding them expertly up and down the entire length of his cock it doesn’t take long until his hands come to grip at your ass. He’s growling, restraining himself from thrusting up into you and taking over- truly ruining your pussy.

His hands are splayed open-palmed on your ass, moving with the flesh that recoils anytime you connect back down onto his lap, his swollen cock-head kissing your cervix. “Fucking hell!” He laughs out, it’s laced with a frenzied growl- like this was he’s been waiting for all the years he’s known you.

He’s no stranger to looking at your ass. Watching as the flesh jiggles when you wear those thin pajama pants that you wore when he came to pay you late, watching as you bend over to fix some cord in your set up or even the one time he was at the same party you were- being graced with the visual of you shaking your ass playfully against one of your friends.

But this? Fuck this was so much better than watching you.

“Mhm…” he moans, nodding his head as you look at him in a fucked-out haze, a moaning mess as you continue to ride him. “This fucking ass…” he growls through gritted teeth, hands gripping the flesh in a rough grasp, “Always knew you’d know how to ride cock like a good whore.” He spits out, one of his hands coming into contact with your ass- a sharp sting that has you meaning out his name. “You know how many times I had to beat my shit to the visual of your ass bouncing against me like this?”

His words are filthy. Raunchy. You’re sure if he kept talking you could cum right now. You surge forward, capturing his lips in yours. He swallows each of your moans greedily-lips messily moving with yours. Your tongue dance in a sloppy manner that has spit trailing down your tongue.

You continue to bounce on his cock, crying out into his mouth. Anytime you lift your hips up there’s a wet, sticky sound that resonates throughout your music studio. He pulls away from the kiss, his hands coming up to hold your face, keeping your face close by his. His eyes flutter close and a shuddering breath comes out of his lips as he feels your ass bounce against him more fervently now that his hands aren’t holding the plump flesh in place. He opens his eyes, letting out a low growl, his hands gripping your face, tighten the slightest bit. “Fuckin’ look at you…taking all of me…’s fuckin’ deep isn’t it?” He chides, it’s a degrading mocking tone that has your eyebrows turning up as you nod.

“Mhm s-so fuckin’ deep ohmygoddd.” You cry out in response, leaning back the slightest bit and reaching your arms behind you, placing your hands on his knees as you continue to fuck yourself on his cock. He bites his lip, eyes trained on where you two connect. Watching with blown out pupils how your cunt continuously gushes around him, adding to the white ring that’s forming at the base of his cock.

“So fuckin messy…” he coos, one of his hands coming down to rub his thumb across your clit. You let out a high pitched sound- almost like a squeak- at the sudden added stimulation. “Ohhh…” he groans, his thumb circling your puffy clit, “…that was a cute sound.” he growls in praise. His thumb and pointer finger begin to rub up and down the edges of your cunt, tracing the outline of where his cock is splitting you open.

You continue to raise and lower your hips, circling them and spearing yourself on his thick cock. “‘M stretchin’ you out baby…” he hisses, the image he’s one he swears is the most beautiful sight he’s seen- your cunt gaped obscenely wide, squeezing his dick, leaking more and more creamy arousal everytime you drop your hips onto his lap.

You feel your thighs ache, but the way his cock effortlessly hits your g-spot each time you slam down has you continuing your motions, letting out pathetic whines in protest. He chuckles, his hand that’s still resting behind his head comes down to smack your ass.

You moan out, falling forward on his chest, your hips gyrating desperately. “Oh c’mon, can’t do it no more? I gotta do everything for you?” He says in a degrading, mocking tone. Both his hands find purchase on your ass, gripping and massaging the flesh. You whine and writhe against him, making feeble attempts to keep riding him- but your thighs just ached too much and he was making you feel so full.

“P-please…” you whine out, your head in the crook of his neck, breath fanning the skin, every moan and whine right under his ear. “Awhhh now you’re begging?!” He says with a chuckle, beginning to bounce his legs, it’s not enough but it bullies his pulsating cock further into you. “Not even ridin’ me that long sweetheart…I’m gonna fucking ruin you..” he says, laughing at how fucked stupid you already were.

“F-fuuuck” you moan out in a sinful song as you twitch against him, “you’re so big, it’s so much…” you babble against his flesh.

He hums, his hands on your ass beginning to guide your hips up and down his cock, a sob wracks through your esophagus as you’re closer to what you finally need, “And yet here you are…” he growls, “creaming all over my cock and taking it.” He says beginning to thrust upwards into the warm velvety walls of your cunt. “S’not too much” he says, thrusting up hard into you, it makes a raunchy squelching sound, pushing more of your syrupy arousal onto his pelvis “…you can take it, you’re a big girl.” He says, every word is punctuated by a thrust and echoed by the sound of his balls slapping against your ass.

You cry out, your hands raking across his shoulders leaving blooming red stripes in their wake. You can hear him growling, it’s a primal low rumble that reverberates through his chest as he fucks up into you. It’s a brutal, rough pace that continues to speed up with each thrust.

You let out a surprised squeak when he grips your ass harder and stands up. Your legs are thrown over his shoulders his hands holding you up by your ass. His hands lifting you up and dropping you down on his cock like you’re a ragdoll.

It makes his dick reach places you never thought would have been possible. You’re completely speared on his cock, your sopping wet cunt only aiding him in dragging you along his veiny length.

“Fuck!” You cry out pathetically, tears beginning to water in your eyes, it felt so. fucking. good. “Mhmmm…” he says biting his lip and nodding, “Gonna fuckin’ ruin you.” He says with a chuckle. The deep thrust of his cock and his words are brutal. Mean.

“And you’re gonna let me…cause you love it.” He hisses, hands never letting up on splitting you on his cock. Your face tells him all he needs to know, your eyebrows are turned up, your lips parted and tongue lolled out, drooling down your chin. “Yeaaahhhh you do…” he coos, mockingly.

His cock bullies its way into your cunt, pushing past your sparking walls to kiss your cervix with the head of his cock. “You’re fucking squeezing me sweetheart..” he chokes out, “pussy’s fuckin addicting.” He adds, looking down to watch how your cunt slides up and down his cock, leaving streaks of milky white arousal arcross the expanse of his girth.

“Messy fuckin’ cunt, just fuckin creamin all over me.” He babbles, you can tell with the way his thrusts were speeding up, slamming you down even harder, that he was close to cumming. And you were too.

“Want you to squirt on my cock..make more of a mess f’me. You can do that, yeah?” He growls, looking back up to you and you nod furiously, “mhm, please- oh my god- ‘m so close.” You whine out, words cut off by heaving cries.

“Touch yourself.” He orders, “let me see how you play with yourself.” You obey, a shaky hand releasing itself from his shoulder to rub circles on your clit. Your fingers slip lower, feeling just how much he has you stretched out before returning up to your clit.

Your fingers draw figure eights, working in sporadic movements to push you further to the edge. You look up at him through lashes that were clumped with tears. You feel like you’re floating, it’s such a delicious pleasure that you know you’ll dream of for days to come.

“C’mon princess…” he growls, hands slamming you down brutally as his hips thrust up. Every movement makes a raunchy sticky sound, anytime he drives his cock deep inside you it makes the same wet sloshing sound as before- you’re so close. “Cum f’me, princess, wet my cock.” He growls, his thrusts becoming sloppy, impaling you down onto his dick.

“Fuck ‘m gonna…” your breath is heaving “I’m gonna cum,ohmygodfuckfuck!!” You scream out, fingers swirling over your clit in rapid movements to drive you over the edge. A sob wracks through your body and with a silent cry of his name you cum.

It’s a violent gush of clear liquid, spraying out of your cunt and flowing down his cock, covering his pelvis and even dripping onto the carpeted floor. When he feels it, head snapping down to watch your cum flow out of you, your hand still moving frantically against your clit and spraying your cum around- he breaks.

He cums deep inside you. You can feel every thick rope paint your insides. You both let out strangled moans, the feeling of cumming deep inside your warm cunt is a heavenly feeling that has Choi Su-bong’s eyes rolling into the back of his head.

He thrusts you two lazily through your orgasms, each push of his cock into your cunt forces globs of his cum out and around his length. He slows to a hault, his hands moving up to wrap around your back pulling you flush to his chest.

He slowly backs up and when the back of his knees hit your couch, he sits back down. You both moan at the movement, his softening dick thrusting back up into your over sensitive pussy. “Shhh I know…” he says, shushing you, hands reaching up to brush back your messy hair.

“Did so good f’me.” He coos, smiling up at you. You’re still in a haze, leaning into his hands and nodding. “Fucked you stupid, did I? You can still speak can’t you?” He jokes, you laugh, swatting weakly at his chest. “Made me squirt twice…and I didn’t even know I could do that…so yeah I’m a lil tired, sue me.” You bite back playfully.

He lets out a loud laugh, hands dropping down to your hips. “There she is….there’s the bratty lil producer I know.” He says with a grin, you roll your eyes in response. “Well we’re gonna see if we can make it at least 6 times.”

Your eyes shoot open, “W-what?!” You asked incredulously. He smirks hands beginning to massage your hips.

“Another thing about that lil pill I gave you…” he says, his eyes looking down to where you two meet, it’s a mess of his and your cum, a delicious sight, “it also helps with stamina.” He says, his thumb brushing over your clit.

And you realize he’s right, with that one touch your body is ignited again, your hips starting grind against him- proving he’s right. You’re ready to go again.

This was gonna be a long night.

hiiiii lovelies!! I hope you enjoyed this lil one-shot. I literally just had my mind FIXATED on gettin’ fucked up and fucked by this man 😩

ALSO I MADE IT TO 100 FOLLOWERS?!!! THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH!!? I’m off work for the week soon and I have some really exciting plans coming up as a thanks for 100 friends!!! 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

[whatsk-poppinhomies]

Pairing : Yandere!Lee Minho x F!Reader TW : yandere themes ; basically a forced pregnancy ; late term pregnancy complications ; Minho is like, the worlds worst narcissist in this ; let me know if there's more ; Word Count : 6.9k A/N : The amount of research that I did for this one is crazy, but I also learned a lot so... building knowledge while writing fanfic is a plus! This request has been in my ask box for probably over a year and a half now, so... I hope that whoever requested it... I hope you enjoy! (Also, this was supposed to end WAY worse... But you all weren't ready to be sucker punched with sadness, so...) Request : Anonny : Pregnant with yandere leeknow/ yandere leeknow as dad Aaaangst

In The Beginning…

“Minho…” You called timidly from the bedroom, the way you called for him was about the same volume as when someone would talk regularly to a friend. When you spoke it was nothing more than a mouse-like whisper, always scared of what would happen if you raised your voice a little too much. Your doting boyfriend came into the bedroom, his hair tousled and wet from his shower, his eyes always seeming to carry a seductive look, dark and hungry for you at all times. “M-Minho…” You spoke his name again, this time more nervous now that he was standing in front of you. 

A chuckle built in his chest as he sauntered over to you, water wrinkled fingers that were warmer from the hot water he had been standing under, trailed across your cheek, one finger slipping under your chin to tilt your head up as he towered over you. “Mm? What do you need, darling? Are you hungry? Thirsty? I know that last night was quite… exerting for you…” He teased, and you felt your body heat up at the mention of the sinful activities you had taken part in the night before. 

“Uhm… n-no…” You stammered, blinking a few times as you seemed to lose your train of thought constantly when he was standing so close to you, looking at you as if you were a delicious meal that he couldn’t wait to get his hands on. “We… We didn’t use protection and… Usually you’d get me a… a plan B pill and… I just was wondering if you had gone and… and gotten it by now?” You were always so nervous around him, still not quite sure what made him tick. One second he was happy, or at least he seemed happy, and then the next he was going through an outburst that had you locking yourself in the bathroom until he came to the door apologizing and giving you the same spiel that he would never do it again. You hated when things got like that, you tried to avoid getting him to that point at all costs. 

“I decided you don’t need it anymore.” Minho spoke nonchalantly, as if he was the one who could make that decision for you. Your mouth opened to protest, and he stared at you, waiting for you to say something, anything that would give him a reason to lash out. It’s like he wanted a reason, he wanted to go off on you, like he enjoyed seeing you scared, enjoyed being the hypocritical hero when he comforted you after making you cry. “Think about how wonderful it would be, to have a part of me growing inside of you… you’d be mine, all mine. You’ll never leave me…” His hands moved down to your stomach, as if there was already something in there. “I’ll pick up tests in about 2 weeks, I want to be right here when you take them and read the results.”

The First Signs…

Sitting at the dining room table, the chicken still in your mouth after you had taken a bite, an awful sensation washed over you. A sort of sickness that you couldn’t fight back, and an urge to throw up that you couldn’t breathe your way through as you usually would. “Mm’scuse me…” You mumbled through the palm of your hand that was clasped over your mouth as you ran to the bathroom, slamming the door behind you, not even bothering to lock it as your body practically folded over the toilet. 

“Darling…” Minhos soft cooing from the other side of the door had goosebumps forming on your skin. When he cracked the door open, you could see a rather excited smile beginning to spread across his face. “Are you alright?” The juxtaposition of his expression and his words made your head reel. He looked too happy for someone who had just watched their girlfriend throw up all of their dinner. You nodded your head in response, making sure the contents of your stomach were cleared out before taking a few steps to the sink and washing your face and then rinsing your mouth out with water. “I thought you loved that chicken… Hmm, I wonder why it would make you sick all of a sudden…” 

He stepped into the bathroom fully now that you were done being ill, the nausea seeming to be completely gone now, as if it hadn’t been there at all. You knew exactly what he was insinuating, and while it might seem that way, you weren’t ready to accept that it could be what he was thinking, you didn’t want to accept it. “I think they just changed the frying oil or something…” You excused, dabbing at your lips with a bit of toilet paper before exiting the bathroom, Minho right in tow. You couldn’t be pregnant, that would make him all the possessive, all the more obsessive and overbearing. You wouldn’t be able to ever leave, not that you were able to do that now anyway, but it would be so much worse. You probably wouldn’t even be able to look at the windows without him lecturing you. No… pregnancy wasn’t an option for you. 

As you stood at the sink, getting a glass of water from the tap to wash out the taste, Minho stood behind you, his hands placed gently on your stomach. It was the softest he had ever touched you, but you knew that it wasn’t exactly for you, it was for the little demon spawn that he assumed was inside of you. “Does my baby not like the fried chicken? Hmm? Whatever you want, daddy will get it for you… As long as your mommy tells me.” How could he sound so sweet? It was gag inducing, how he pretended to be so caring when he was practically trying to hold you hostage using a potential child. 

The next days were the same, the sudden nausea not even having the common courtesy to creep up on you, instead, hitting you full force, barely allotting you enough time to run to the bathroom or the trash bin to vomit. It didn’t matter what you ate, each day at the same exact time, it was always the same. You could see the light in Minhos eyes growing brighter each time it happened, but you were in denial, and you quite liked being in that state. You didn’t want to accept that there was a very real, very high possibility that you were now carrying his spawn. “I must be coming down with something…” You mumbled, resting your head in the palm of your hand, suddenly feeling exhausted, as if you hadn’t slept in days. It was another sign, another symptom, you knew that, but you hoped that Minho would overlook it. 

“Well it has been 2 weeks, more than that actually, my darling.” The smile that he was was nothing short of sinister as he ran to the bathroom and returned with two boxes in his hands. You knew this time was coming, you had been dreading it, hoping that you would get your period at any moment now. It never came though, and you were terrified of what the tests would undoubtedly reveal once you took them. “I’m sure taking them would answer a lot of your questions… Here…” He slid the boxes across the table, but you refused to even look at them, instead staring out the window, trying your best to block out everything that he was saying. You didn’t want to be pregnant, not by him at least. How could you even be happy bringing a child into this type of lifestyle? “Darling…” He murmured the pet name softly, but rough hands suddenly gripped your chin, turning your attention to him fully. “Take the tests. Now.” 

You huffed loudly, pushing yourself away from the table and snatching the boxes up before rushing to the bathroom. You knew well enough that if you didn’t get there in time and lock the door, he’d probably try to come in and watch you take them just to make sure you weren’t fabricating the results. It would have been a good idea, but you knew he’d notice. There was no way you could just run the test under the sink water and pretend they were negative. It’s not like he’d let you go if they were anyway, he’d just keep trying and trying… and once you started showing… He’d probably be more pissed off that you lied to him. 

“You’re taking quite a while in there… Do you need help?” The question was genuine, but you glared at the door, knowing that he wouldn’t see it. It was the only time you could make those kinds of faces at him without being reprimanded for it. The tests laid on the back of the toilet seat, and much to your dismay, the second line showed up faster and darker than you ever expected it to. “Fuck!” You thought to yourself as you unlocked the bathroom door and flung it open, slipping past him as he rushed in. He was too preoccupied with being excited over the tests to focus on you, at least for right now. All you wanted to do was sleep and hopefully wake up from the nightmare that you had been living in for the last 3 years. 

The First Trimester… 

There was no bond forming. For the most part, you tried to forget that you were pregnant at all. It was easier during this stage. Other than the nausea and the exhaustion and the slight pulling and pinching sensations you’d feel in your lower back and upper thighs, all things that you could write off as any other reason, you didn’t feel pregnant. You were still in denial, you didn’t want this. Minho wanted this, and he was the only one happy about it. This was the happiest you had seen him though, he was absolutely elated, but he was also overly protective, which was becoming a real pain in the ass. 

“I can get dressed on my own.” You muttered as he sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to help you pull down your shirt after you had just put it on. “I really don’t like the hovering, it’s making me uncomfortable.” Were you allowed to be honest with him now? Would he excuse it as your hormones going crazy because of the baby? He wouldn’t yell at you, right? Not when you were in such a fragile state. He reached out further, grabbing your wrists, rather tightly, and pulled you towards him. Of course, he wouldn’t dare try to be so rough anywhere around your stomach, but everywhere else was still fair game. 

“You’re carrying my child, and as long as you are, I can hover as much as I like.” He hissed, and even though you didn’t like his tone, you were grateful that he wasn’t yelling. “I know you don’t want it. You’d probably be overjoyed if you miscarried. I won’t allow that to happen though, so just be good for me, let me help.” His expression immediately shifted, his head tilting to the side as the most innocent looking smile had his teeth flashing up at you. It was like whiplash, it made your head hurt. “So what would my babies like to eat today, hmm? Are you craving anything in particular?” He cooed, although his attention was still primarily focused on your stomach. 

Any other woman would want a man like him, a man that treated them this way and got this excited to find out they were pregnant. Any other woman could have him and all of his psychopathic tendencies. “I’m craving a nap.” You snapped, and you watched his nostrils flare out at your disobedient tone, but he didn’t say anything, instead getting off the bed and yanking the covers back for you, waiting for you to climb onto the mattress before carelessly throwing them back over your body. “Thank you.” You mumbled, rolling over onto your side so that your back was to him, tucking the covers around your chin and squeezing your eyes shut. It wasn’t just the raging hormones that tired you out, it was Minho too, him more than anything honestly. Living with him, well, no, not living, being stuck with him, was the most exhausting thing ever. 

“I’ll wake you up for your vitamins and for lunch.” He said sternly, more like a strict caregiver than the father of your unborn child. You hated him. You hated that he did this to you, that he chose you to be the object of all of his desires. Why did he choose you? He still hadn’t told you why, he just insisted that you were the one that he wanted. Now you were carrying his child, and you feared that you’d truly be stuck with him forever. What did you do to deserve that? 

The Second Trimester…

Most women would get an ultrasound at around 9 weeks. However, you had yours at 20 weeks. You didn’t go to a doctors office, instead, Minho had the doctors come to you. Even still, he didn’t want you leaving the house. Before the doctor was even allowed to see you, he had to sign an NDA, with Minhos reasoning being that he was an idol, and he didn’t want the public to know about his fiancées current condition. You still didn’t know when you had gotten engaged, but apparently it had happened at some point before the doctor's arrival. 

Seeing your baby on the screen made it impossible to deny that you truly were pregnant. It also made it hard for you to hate it as you during your entire first trimester. Was it truly the baby’s fault that their father was crazy? Did it’s fathers behavior make the baby inherently evil? No… of course it didn’t. The baby was still a part of you, and you were a good person. You wouldn’t allow your child to grow up to be like Minho. “It’s a girl.” The doctor said, pointing to the screen as if you’d understand what you were being shown, but Minho was mesmerized by what he was seeing, his jaw slacked in awe. 

“That’s my daughter… Our daughter? Really? Is she healthy?” It was Minho asking all the questions that most women in your position would be asking. You were too caught up in your own thoughts though. A baby girl, you were carrying his daughter. She’d be more like you, right? Maybe having a daughter would change the way he is, he’d become normal, a man that you could actually love and welcome having a family with. He wouldn’t want his own daughter to be with a man like himself, right? 

The doctor turned up the volume on the little tv, a rapid pulsing sound filled the room, both you and Minho were silent as you listened. “She’s healthy, very healthy.” The doctor said, smiling to both you and Minho. You were… happy. A single tear rolled down your cheek as you stared at the screen, watching the baby squirm around, and you couldn’t wait to be able to feel her moving beneath your skin. “I’ll print out the pictures and then be on my way. I’d like to make another appointment for next month though, make sure she continues growing the way she should. I also want some bloodwork from you…” He motioned towards you, and you swallowed thickly, looking at Minho who looked slightly annoyed at the doctor's pushiness. “Don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong, we just like to make sure that there’s no underlying problems. Better to be safe, right?” 

His words had you tensing up, your hands moving down to your stomach, rubbing over the small swell that had begun to form as your daughter grew bigger. “Why… Why would there be underlying problems? What could be wrong?” You squeaked out, not wanting to look up at the doctor, worried that his expression would give you a silent answer, one that you were scared to know. Minho was still, like a statue, only his eyes moving between you and the doctor, but there was no answer, just a soft sigh and a gentle tapping against your hand to try to calm you. The gesture was supposed to make you feel better, but you heard Minhos teeth gritting together. 

“It’s just precautionary. This is your first appointment since you’ve gotten pregnant. It’s to make sure both you and the baby are healthy and that there are no problems now or in the future. From what I see though, you and your daughter are perfectly fine. You have nothing to worry about.” Your hand was held lightly by the doctor who offered you a reassuring smile, but before you could thank him, Minho was, quite rudely, ushering him out of the room and shutting the door. On the other side of the door, in the hallway, you could hear Minhos aggrivated voice, low enough that you couldn’t make out what he was saying, but you could feel it, reverberating through the walls and the floorboards. He was talking so fast that the doctor didn’t have a chance to speak, and before you knew it, the front door was slammed shut and then Minho was storming back into the bedroom. 

“Touching you… Holding your hand… Who the fuck is that guy?!” Minho growled as he shut the door behind himself, pinching the bridge of his nose as he leaned against the door. “You don’t need any more fucking doctors. You were doing just fine without them. There’s nothing else we need to know anyway. Our daughter is healthy and that’s what matters. There’s no need to have some touchy ass fuckwad coming in here, looking at you… Ugh!” You could see the heat radiating off of him, he was beyond angry, he was absolutely irate, and while you didn’t want to push him any further, what the doctor had said prompted you to speak up. 

“Min… Honey…” It was an attempt to soften him up, you never called him that, not unless you were trying to get him to agree to something. Most of the time it never worked, but it at least would keep him from going off as rashly as he would without the pet name. “What if there is a… a problem… I think we both should know. We don’t need to keep him as our doctor… We can find someone else… But I think the bloodwork is important.” You sat up on the bed, trying to get a better look at him, trying to read his expression, but he was completely blank. “Minho…” You tried to get his attention, unaware that you already had it fully and he was just deep in thought. 

“No…” His hand was held out, one finger up to silence you as a chuckle was huffed out of his parted lips, his breaths coming faster and faster as he pushed himself away from the door. “I know what you’re doing. I know what this is…” The pet name didn’t work, nothing would work, he was already angry as it was and you were simply making things worse. “You want him to come back… You want him to take you away from me. That’s what you want. I know you! You’ve wanted nothing but to leave since you’ve been with me! He can’t have my fucking daughter! And he sure as hell can’t have you!” He climbed onto the bed, straddling you and holding your face between his hands. It wasn’t exactly painful, maybe you were numb to the pain it might have caused at first, but now you just found it annoying. “What do I need to do to make you stay!?” He shouted, his breath fanning across your face with every word. It’s like he was using all of the air in his lungs to enunciate every syllable. 

“Minho, stop it.” You whispered, knowing that the wrong word, a wrong look, saying it in a way that he didn’t like, it would only have him spiraling deeper and he’d drag you right along with him. “Please… h-honey look at me… I’m not trying to leave you… I just want to know that me and the baby are healthy, that there’s nothing wrong. I don’t want anything to happen to either of us… I want her… Honey, I want a family with you…” Sure, you were really sugarcoating it to try to get him to calm down, but you also really needed to know that everything would be okay. The last thing you wanted was for something to happen to you and him blame your daughter for the rest of his life or vice versa. 

His hands dropped down to your shoulders, his body now shuddering, although you didn’t know if it was because he was about to cry or if he was just shaking with anger. It was always hard to gauge his reactions or how he was truly feeling. It had you on edge all the time, and you felt like a tiny rodent, cornered by a feral cat. “Nothing is going to happen to either of you…” He mumbled, his head hung low, his hair curtaining his face. “Stupid fucking doctor, putting that shit in your head, scaring my darling…” This wasn’t what you wanted, his anger once again shifted towards the doctor who was just trying to do his job. “Do you really think I’d let anything happen to you and our baby?” You shook your head, of course he wouldn’t let something happen to either of you, not because he cared, but because he couldn’t fathom the thought of not owning you anymore. “You’ll be just fine, darling. You’re overthinking what that jackass said.” And with that, it’s like all of the anger washed away, a sudden wave of calmness rinsing him clean of the negativity. “Let’s get something to eat. My girls are hungry, aren’t they?” He pressed a kiss to your forehead before shifting off of you and off of the bed, grabbing your hand and carefully helping you up to your feet. The sudden shift had you feeling dizzy, but it was welcome, at least he wasn’t yelling at you. 

The Third Trimester… 

Something was wrong, although you weren’t sure what it was. The ongoing nausea, the headaches, the blurred vision, you knew there was a problem. All you could think of was the argument that you had almost 15 weeks ago, wanting to at least have bloodwork done to make sure you were okay, but of course Minho had denied you of the simple procedure. If anything happened to you, it would be his fault, but he wouldn’t look at it that way, no, it would be someone else’s fault, it always was whenever he fucked up. 

“Someone’s tired…” He whispered when he walked into the bedroom where you were still laying. It’s not that you were actually that tired, you just couldn’t move without feeling sick. When he pulled open the curtains, you squeezed your eyes shut, groaning loudly as the bright sun only amplified the raging headache you were already suffering through. “Sorry, darling. Can’t lay in bed all day. Gotta get you up and moving. Come on.” He yanked the covers back and his eyes landed on your feet which had become so swollen you could barely even fit them in your slippers anymore. “What happened?” He whispered, although there was a slight panic in his voice as he gently grabbed your ankle and lifted it, looking over the extremity for any signs of injury. 

“I think… I think…” You kept starting the sentence only to be left practically winded after only saying two words. “Problem…” You settled for one word, hoping that it would get your point across and that he’d take some kind of action. He blinked a few times, backing away from the bed, his hands running through his hair as he seemed to be fighting an internal battle with himself. “Please…” You pleaded, your hands cradling your swollen stomach. If not to help you, at least to help your baby who he seemed to want more than anything. 

“Shut… Shut up! I’m thinking!” He screeched, suddenly pacing back and forth as his breaths came out sharply, sounding more like whistles as they came through pursed lips. “Why would you let this happen! What even… God dammit!” He shouted, his fist colliding with the wall in an act of frustration, and even though he was fully across the room, you jumped at the sudden act of violence. He would never hit you, no matter how mad he got he had never actually hit you, but when things got this bad, you always feared just how far he would go or how far gone he was. “What am I supposed to do?! Take you to the hospital?!” 

Yes. Yes, that’s exactly what he was supposed to do to keep both you and your daughter from potentially dying. “If I could just… have her… get her out… we could be… okay…” You said breathlessly, and he whipped around in your direction, his eyes wild and crazed. It truly seemed like he was losing his mind. “Min… I don’t want t-… to die… please…” You begged, the sudden onslaught of tears only making it harder to breathe. 

“Fuck! You think I want you to die!? You think I want that!?” He questioned, and soon his hands were back in his hair, tugging at the ends as he let out a loud scream. “This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it! It’s what you wanted to happen! You wanted to leave me so bad! You’d rather die than be with me!” He was once again blaming you, yelling at you for something that you didn’t even understand at the moment. You didn’t know what was happening, so why the hell was he attacking you for it? “Such a fucking bitch! God! Fuck! Get up!” You were being… belittled… insulted… cursed at for… dying? At least if you did die, you wouldn’t have to deal with it anymore. You wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore. But did you really want to leave your poor baby with someone like him? 

Getting up was a daunting task, it took you longer than it usually would just to swing your legs over the side of the bed. Every small movement made you feel like you had run a marathon, your breaths becoming more labored, your vision becoming spotty, and the urge to vomit became more of an oncoming threat as the bile from your otherwise empty stomach rose to your throat. There was no time to get to the bathroom, you weren’t even on your feet yet, and before you had any time to even warn Minho, you were doubled over, heaving up the acid that burned your throat on its way out. He watched, not coming close or helping you, but he watched, his lips parted and his eyes blinking rapidly as if what he was seeing wasn’t true. “Sorry…” The word was spoken in a single raspy breath, your head hung low with both shame, embarrassment, and pain. Your throat was scratchy now, and it felt like fire was being held against the back of it. Tears pricked your eyes and snot ran down your nose, stopping at your upper lip, and you didn’t even have the energy to wipe that away. 

“What happened…?” He asked, his voice once again soft, laced with the false tone of worry. It used to make you think he cared, but now you knew it was an act. It was all an act. “Let’s… Let’s go…” He said, his voice wavering. He truly didn’t know what to do, but he knew that he didn’t want to do this. It’s not like he had a choice though. You looked awful, like you were already standing at death's door, and that terrified him. He had seen you sick before, but he had never seen you like this. “C-Can you walk? Do you need… Uhm… Shit…” He was tripping over his words, but when he saw you try to get up on your own, he rushed over, his arm wrapping around you. 

Looking at you this close, he could see that your face was swollen too, and beads of sweat lingered on your forehead. “She hasn’t moved… Min… I’m- I’m scared…” You whimpered, and he pulled you closer to him, letting your body fall against his side, trying to take all of your weight as he walked you towards the front door. “Min…” You breathed out his name, your head falling against his shoulder. He hummed to let you know he heard you, grabbing everything he needed with one hand as he walked through your shared apartment. “If you have… to save any of us… save her… save the baby…” You wheezed, all of your weight falling against him, everything that he had been carrying was dropped immediately to catch you. 

“No… no no no! Stop talking like that! Stop it!” Minho shouted, his voice trembling from the sobs he tried to hold back. “I’m not losing either of you, dammit! I-…” He sniffled softly, and while your eyes had been closed the entire time, trying to block out the light that shone through the window in the living room, you could feel his eyes on you. “I love you… You know that, don’t you? I’m not… If anything happens…” The thought was stopped before he could get the words out, but you were stuck on the three words he had said prior. Love was such a strong emotion, you hadn’t felt loved the entire time you had been with him, and he had never said it before now either. Did the thought of you being gone forever make him change? If you did make it through, would he go back to the way he was before? Maybe death was the only escape… 

I’ll Make You Stay… 

There was no way the doctors would make him choose… It couldn’t be that serious. You were absolutely fine, right? He hadn’t noticed anything wrong until today… or were you just that good at hiding things from him? Why would you hide something like this from him? Were you afraid of him? Why were you scared of his love? He just loves you so much! What’s wrong with that? He wanted you to be with him forever, he wanted you to be his darling, why did you make it seem like that was so awful? He’d show you that you could be happy, that he could make you happy, you just had to stay with him, you had to stay. 

“Why can’t I go in?” Minho asked once again to the nurse who slipped out of the room. Each time he said it he was more irritated than the last. He just didn’t understand. What could be so wrong that he couldn’t be there for the birth of his daughter? Every time, the nurse would just sigh, getting more agitated with him. “I’ll just go in then. You can’t keep me from seeing her. That’s my wife, that’s my daughter! If you won’t tell me what’s going on then I’ll just-“ 

The nurse cleared her throat, although it sounded more like she was groaning. He tried not to let it bother him the way it usually would. He had far better, far more important things to worry about than the bitchy attitude of the nurse. “She didn’t want me to tell you. I’m trying to respect her wishes. She wanted to be alone.” The nurse explained, but it only stirred up more questions in Minhos now overactive mind. What was the reason behind you wanting to go through this alone? Did he not have a say in being able to watch his daughter be born? It was unfair, and once everything was over with, he’d be having a talk with you about how rude and humiliating it was for him to sit out in the hallway while you were delivering his child. He opened his mouth, not even to speak, just to breathe, and the nurse started talking, as if she assumed he was just going to continue complaining. “Both of them are not well. The last thing I wanted to do was go against what could possibly be her last wish. Are you understanding now, sir?” 

Your… last wish? It sounded like you were dying… It couldn’t possibly be that bad… Is it? Why would you want to be alone during a time like this? How could you leave him this way? Do you not even care about his feelings? It’s like you want to make him miserable! All he wanted was to have a family with you, to make you stay with him forever, and now you’re trying to get away by dying!? You were so selfish! Why couldn’t you just be healthy?! He had done everything right. He made sure you ate and had your vitamins and did daily exercises and that you always got enough sleep. If anything happens to you and the baby… It would be your fault! It would all be your fault! 

“An early blood test would have shown that this was a possibility. It would have potentially kept this from happening. If she was getting proper appointments, this would have been caught before it got this bad. Who was her OB?” The nurse asked, her clipboard resting against her forearm, her pen held in her other hand, as if she was waiting for the information to jot down. The mention of your doctor had his mind pausing for a split second… This is why you needed the bloodwork done? Why had no one told him that back then? Why was he not informed of the risks that would come along if the bloodwork wasn’t done? This still wasn’t his fault though… No, the doctor should have talked to you and him more about the benefits of getting early bloodwork done. 

It was the doctors fault… If he hadn’t been so touchy with you, it wouldn’t have been such a big deal for him to come back and do the bloodwork. It was all the doctors fault, and if something were to happen to you or the baby… Minho would make sure that the doctor paid for it. He told the nurse the doctor's name, trying not to let his smile break through the mask of sadness that he was wearing, but it was hard. The thought of getting that guy to potentially lose his job, it was nice, and he couldn’t help but feel a little… overjoyed, knowing that if anything were to happen to you and the baby, it wouldn’t be in vain, at least the doctor will suffer as well. “I guess I’ll… wait out here…” He said, the frown once again returning to his face as he dropped down into the chair beside your door. It was still hard not being in there with you, knowing that so many people were looking at you, touching you… He felt like he was going to lose his mind, and the only way that he was keeping himself slightly sane was by constantly telling himself that he could potentially lose you and his daughter if those doctors didn’t help you. 

He was in and out of sleep the whole time, his head falling against the wall and his eyes drooping shut, only for them to shoot back open whenever an alarm would go off, looking up at the light above your door to make sure it wasn’t for your room before drifting back to sleep once more when he realized it wasn’t. It had been hours, he finally stopped counting after the seventh, when the door finally opened and one of the nurses, different from the one before, walked out. There were dark circles under her eyes, she looked frazzled and exhausted, but there was no urgency, there was no sadness… Was everything okay? Would he be able to keep you and his daughter? “Sir…” She started, and Minho sat up straight, his eyes hopeful as he looked up at the nurse. “I don’t want to sugarcoat anything, I don’t want you to get excited just yet… Although your wife and the baby are… alive… That doesn’t mean that things are… okay.” It was like all of the hope was drained from his body immediately, even after hearing that you were alive… How could you still not be okay? 

“Well… what’s wrong? What happened? I mean… I need some information here!” He was trying not to get worked up, but the way the nurse seemed to be beating around the bush was highly aggravating. For Christ's sake, he’s your boyfriend, the father of the child, and she was talking to him like he was some nobody. He deserves… No, he needs to know what happened! “How is she not okay? Is the baby okay? Come on, tell me something, dammit!” He didn’t care if she was tired, or if she was emotionally worn out after helping you. That’s her damn job, and part of it is telling him what the hell is going on. 

She sighed loudly, clearly not happy with the way that Minho was talking to her, but he didn’t really care for that either. He wasn’t even allowed in the damn room, the least she could do was tell him what had gone on while he was locked out in the hallway. “The mother had preeclampsia which advanced to class one HELLP, which I will not go into full detail about, a simple google search will tell you what it is, but I will say that she had the most severe case of HELLP that I have ever seen in my years of working here. We were at a point where we worried that we would have to choose whether she lived or the baby lived. She had to have blood transfusions before we could even deliver the baby, she was in the early stages of kidney failure, and while we were in the process of trying to help the mother, the baby went into respiratory distress. We had to do an emergency c-section, which wasn’t easy because we were worried about hemorrhaging, which did in fact happen. The baby is currently in the NICU, she is underweight, we have to do tests to check her platelet count, she’ll most likely be in the NICU for a couple of weeks, and that’s minimum, especially if her platelets aren’t normal. The mother needs to stay because we have to make sure she doesn’t have any other underlying health issues, and we need to monitor her closely because the first couple days after delivering a baby with HELLP syndrome could be fatal. So yes, the mother and the baby are alive… But they are in no way, shape or form, okay or healthy enough to come home anytime soon. Does that answer your questions, sir?” 

Minho didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know where to start. He didn’t understand anything that had been said to him, all he knew was that it was bad and that you wouldn’t be going home with him. How could you let things get this bad? Why didn’t you tell him? Surely you must have felt ill or something when this was all going on? And that damn doctor… Why did he have to touch you? Why did he have to make him so angry? If he had just been a normal doctor, he would have been allowed to come back and do your bloodwork. This all could have been avoided! It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t! How was he supposed to know that something like this could happen?! He had never read anything about this online! He didn’t know something like this could happen! It wasn’t his fault! 

“Anyway…” The nurse spoke once more, taking Minhos silence as an opening. “She’s resting, they both are. There’s going to be doctors in and out of the room constantly, so, if you’d like to go in there, you can, but I wouldn’t expect to get any rest. If I were you, I’d honestly just go home, get some sleep, and come back in the afternoon. They’re not going anywhere, it’s going to be a long road ahead of the both of them… And you need to get as much rest as possible to prepare for it.” And with that, she walked away. He was left alone in the hallway with his thoughts, the faint sound of a heart monitor beeping just beyond the closed door to your room was the only sound he could really focus on. 

You were alive… You had stayed… You weren’t leaving him. He would have his family, and he would have it with you, his perfect darling. Nothing like this would ever happen again, he had his baby girl, and he had you. The two of you were all he needed. Once he had you and his baby back home, he’d make sure he never had to let you out of his sight again. You were going to stay with him, he would make you stay. That’s why he wanted the baby in the first place, and in the end, he still got exactly what he wanted. 

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[alba1221141]

Mary Janes

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵

2

Y/N

"Now this one's called Mouser," Powder says, shoving the mini smoke bomb into my palms.

"Mouser?" I peer at the scrawled whiskers and ears.

"Yeah, silly, 'cause it's a mouse," she giggles, prodding one of the ears. "Ya like it?" She looks so hopeful when she asks that, like a puppy just wanting to make its owner happy.

I nod, smiling. "I love it. It's so cute. What color does it boom to?"

"Guess!" Powder singsongs, and I groan.

"Don’t make me guess. I hate guessi—"

"Just guess! Pleeeaase."

"Fine... pink?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Blue?"

"Guess again!" But before I can... BOOM.

I jolt awake in bed, panting softly. This is an infestation, relentless and vile. First, she worms her way into my daily routine, always there… looming. It’s disgusting, absolutely revolting. And now, this ridiculous fixation is ruining my sleep schedule—worse, my study schedule.

I find myself at my vanity, applying a ridiculous amount of makeup to hide the bags under my eyes. It’s fine, just a slip-up—one tiny mistake. Nobody has to know everything fell apart. Not today, not ever.

My hairbrush clatters to the floor as I throw it, frustration rising. No. No. My entire day cannot be derailed by this one tiny lapse. It was just a dream. My subconscious was simply in the mood to revisit the past, nothing more.

I take a deep breath and focus, moving with deliberate precision. When my hair is halfway secured in a perfect pink bow, I grab my uniform. The school uniform is simple—appropriate, modest, as it should be. Certain people, however, don’t wear it that way, why did my mind jump to her so instantly? There are plenty of other people who flaunt the dress code, make a mockery of it. Why her? It’s infuriating. Completely nonsensical.

I grab my bag from its designated spot by the door, double-checking its contents—binder, planner, pens in their correct case, and books for every class, organized by schedule. Satisfied, I sling it over my shoulder and head downstairs, the rhythmic click of my Mary Janes echoing throughout the otherwise empty house.

I move through the familiar routine—toast, tea, and the faint hum of the dishwasher in the background. Every detail falls into place, a perfect puzzle...

Until I step outside. The cool morning air brushes my skin, crisp and biting, and my mind drifts again. Why her? I shake the thought away, gripping the strap of my bag tighter. This is school. My space. My domain of control and focus. She can’t ruin that too. She won’t.

By the time I reach the front gates, my mental walls are firmly in place. They hold strong as i rush over to Cait and Mel waiting by our grouping of lockers. But then I catch a flash of blue in the corner of my vision—braids swaying, a grin that’s far too self-assured. My barricades shudder, and I bite down on my lip. Hard. Hard enough for those tiny droplets of blood to form.

I force my eyes forward, swallowing the sharp sting. Today will be just like any other. I won’t let her mess it up.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿

Jinx

School’s supposed to be a regular thing for me—well, that’s a lie. I only show up when Silco’s got that whole “I’ll cut your allowance!” thing looming over my head.

He's always 100000% bluffing, the mans a softie at heart.

Anyway, I only actually give a shit about the damn place when I’ve got a deal lined up. And hey, two days in a row?

Fucking impressive.

Todays little deal is 3g of molly, ecstasy, MDMA whatever floats ya boat.

It's a person by person basis. The pompous little Pilties will always call it Molly, like saying ecstasy would give them a fucking meltdown.

Like somehow Molly makes it sound all sweet and innocent—total bullshit to be honest.

As I march through the school parking lot, boots thudding against the cracked tarmac, I spot her. Miss Saboteur. I shove the bag of pills out of sight, just in time.

Ha, not today, toots.

She's standing there with her little Piltie entourage.

Honestly, it's pathetic. Her naivety to the class divide. And she let me tell you Y/N must be insanely thick because its very, very obvious.

You can even see it in the lovely parking lot.

On one side, you’ve got these busted-up Chevys and beat-to-hell sedans. On the other? Shiny Cadillacs and those fancy little luxury cars, the ones that scream Daddy’s money with every brrrrr of the engine.

A very diverse range if i do say so myself.

But ladies and gents, deny it all she wants, roots stick—Zaunite dirt doesn’t just brush off.

I toss the little purple baggie into locker 505 as requested, and it lands with a soft plop at the bottom. Job done.

The bell rings, but who even cares? School’s just a place to mess with people, anyway. Everyone’s all in their little cliques, walking like robots to their boring classrooms, all stiff and predictable.

So fucking boring.

I shove my way through the crowd, elbowing a few people ‘cause why the hell not? My boots clunk on the floor, and I can practically hear them wincing behind me. Good. I love that sound.

The second-floor art stairwell is, by far, the best skipping spot.

none of those nosy hall monitors or teachers lurking. Plus, it’s got this weird, artsy vibe from all the random graffiti and doodles left behind.

Honestly? It’s mostly me. Who else has the guts? Or the creativity? Maybe Ekko, when I rope him in. He always starts with "Jinx, don’t," blah, blah, blah—but give him five minutes, and he’s tagging like it’s his idea. Classic

So, I’m waiting for him now. He’s my usual skipping buddy—rebelling against authority and all that jazz.

By the time Mr Boy Saviour appears I've got a shit eating grin on my face as a doodle a certain girl on the wall, a little too focused on getting the details right.

"Look," I chuckle, "she's got horns."

"That Y/N again?" He leans in front of my masterpiece, raising an eyebrow.

"No," I giggle, lying through my teeth. "Totally not."

Liar, liar, liar.

"Gosh Ekko, get off my back, heard of artistic expression?" My grin vanishes, like, boom, gone in an instant.

Poor guy’s used to my outbursts by now. He just plops down next to me when I curl my knees to my chest, all casual-like, like I didn’t just snap at him for no damn reason.

But there is a reason, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N.

"I don't even get why you still talk about her, Ekko," I mutter into the fabric of my ripped tights. "I fucking hate her."

"Right, don't lie," Ekko says, leaning back against the wall, his voice all too casual. "You’ve been drawing her nonstop for the past week."

I huff, glaring at the floor.

Typical. He always knows.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Calls me out like it’s nothing. I roll my eyes, sinking into my knees even further.

“Shut up, Ekko,” I mutter, my fingers twitching against the ripped fabric of my tights. “It’s not like that.”

It totally is, though.

"Don't lie, you've been drawing her for days," Ekko says, grinning like he knows something I don't.

I squint at him. "I’m not—" I cut myself off, glancing at the sketch again.

Shit.

He leans closer, all smug, "Oh really? Then what’s this?" He points at the doodle like it’s the evidence that’ll finally put me on trial.

"Fuck off," I mutter, tossing the pen in his direction like it's some kind of missile, damn wish it was before stomping off.

.˳·˖✶𓆩𓁺𓆪✶˖·˳.☁︎

authors note: hey this is my first fanfiction on Tumblr, hope you like it :) please like and reblog!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 7: Apollo, God Of Music]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 8.7k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

“My uncle, he is a doctor in Zabrze,” Ludwika says, red Yardley lips, Camel cigarette. No one cares if she smokes; she’s not campaigning to be the next first lady. Fosco is puffing on a cigar. Mimi sips drowsily at her Gimlet; you could use a few shots, but you’re making do with a Pink Squirrel, something sweet and feminine and without any bite. “So I go to him and he gives me a bottle of chlordiazepoxide.”

“Oh, Librium,” Mimi says, perking up.

Ludwika waves her hand dismissively; cigarette smoke wafts through the air. “Whatever. The next day I have my audition. A tiny man who thinks he’s God. And I give it a real shot, I try my best, I’m nice, I’m charming, but he doesn’t like me. He says my teeth are too big, like a mouse’s. This is very rude. I did not comment on his fidgety little rat hands. But okay, no problem, I have a plan. No one will stop me from getting out of Poland.”

“You drugged him?” you ask, incredulous, grinning.

“You are a criminal,” Fosco tells Ludwika. “I will call J. Edgar Hoover, you should not be so close to positions of power.”

“Listen, listen,” Ludwika insists. “Here is what I do. I thank him very much for his consideration, and then as I leave I drop my purse and things go everywhere. I filled it before I left my apartment, of course. Anything I could find, empty lipstick tubes and perfume bottles, old makeup compacts with broken mirrors, coins, hair pins, tissues, pens, gum, Krówki candies, it is an avalanche. And when he bends down to help me pick up the mess—I have to encourage him, ‘oh sir won’t you grab that, I am just a stupid girl in a very short dress,’ you understand—I put the pills in his tea.”

“How many pills?” you ask.

“I don’t know. You think I had time to count? Maybe seven.”

“Seven?!” Mimi exclaims, and you take this to mean it was a generous dose.

“What? He did not die,” Ludwika says. “I wait two days and then I go back to his office. And it is so strange, can you believe it, he does not remember my audition! So I remind him that he thought I would be perfect for the ad he is shooting in Paris. He keeps squinting at me and saying ‘are you sure, are you sure?!’ Of course I’m sure! A week later, I am standing under the Eiffel Tower with a bottle of Coca-Cola. And then I book a job in London, and then another in New York City, and one of my new model friends sets me up on a blind date with Otto. Lunch in Astoria at a horrible Greek restaurant. Who wants to eat pie made out of spinach?! Now I am here with you people, and the journalists love when I smile for them with my big mouse teeth.”

All four of you laugh at your table, an elite club, the ones who married in. It’s Alicent’s 60th birthday, and the ballroom of the Texas State Hotel in downtown Houston is raucous with clinking glasses and chatter and music and the shutter clicks of photographers. The DJ is playing Fun, Fun, Fun by the Beach Boys. Alicent is dancing with Helaena and the children, and it’s the happiest you can ever remember seeing her. Otto, Aemond, and Sargent Shriver are deep in conversation by the bar, furrowed brows and Old Fashioneds, today’s newspapers and tomorrow’s itinerary. Criston is standing with the men but watching Alicent, face wistful, silver streaks in his jet black hair, and it occurs to you that they must have grown up together: Alicent a 19-year-old bride and Criston her husband’s fledgling bodyguard, the person closest to her age in the household, near and trusted and forbidden, orbiting adolescent twins like Artemis and Apollo. You keep looking around for Aegon. No one else seems aware that he’s gone.

“Otto thought he died and went to heaven when he found you,” you tell Ludwika. “His Eastern Bloc defector princess.”

“He is going to bring my mother to the States. I would be anything he wanted me to be. I would be a model, or a housewife, or a nurse. I would be Bigfoot! But this…” Ludwika gestures broadly: to the ballroom, the city, the latest stop on the campaign trail. “It is not so bad. I never expected to serve the Polish people so far from home. You know how you stop communism? You show the world that capitalism can do more for them. There must be a path to a better life, wars must be ended, injustices must be dealt with. Aemond will do that.” She grins at you, exhaling smoke through her nostrils. “You will help him.”

You reply a bit wryly: “It’s an honor.”

“We are like four legs of a table,” Fosco observes. He points at Ludwika with his smoldering cigar. “You are a Slav fleeing the Russians. My family has ancient titles in Italy and yet no castles, no land, we are essentially homeless. Mimi’s father is a third-generation oil tycoon from Pennsylvania. And she was supposed to fix Aegon.”

“I don’t think I succeeded,” Mimi confesses.

“And then when it was time for Aemond to get married…” Fosco turns to Mimi. “Do you remember? What an ordeal. The discussions went on and on and on. She must be smart, she must be sinless, she should be from a self-made family, a real rags-to-riches story of the American Dream.”

“Right.” Mimi nods groggily, reminiscing. “And from the South.”

“Yes! But not the Deep South. No, no. Someplace Aemond could actually win. Texas, Tennessee, North Carolina. Or Florida, of course.” Now Fosco notices how you’re looking at him, because you’ve never heard this before. He quickly pivots. “But the weekend Aemond met you, it was settled. Nobody could compare.”

His tone is odd; it suggests backstories, history, mythology. Ludwika appears to be just as intrigued as you are, taking a drag off her Camel, her eyes narrowing until they are thin and catlike. You ask: “Who else was being considered?”

“No one,” Fosco answers—too quickly—and he and Mimi exchange an uneasy glance.

What did Aemond and I talk about the night we met? you think dizzily. In those first hours, minutes, thirty seconds? Where I’m from. What I was studying.

Fosco, a true Italian, then attempts to deflect by flirting. He makes emphatic, passionate motions with his hands. “You were just so captivating, so clever…”

“And young enough that Aemond could easily beat Aegon’s record of five children,” Mimi adds. Fosco clears his throat and glares at her. Mimi realizes what she’s said and gazes forlornly down into her Gimlet, mortified, groaning softly. You’ve had one c-section already, and no living son to show for it. At most, you might be able to give Aemond two or three more children; and you don’t even want them. You want Ari back. You want to touch him, to hold him, even if only for a moment, even if only once.

“It’s fine,” you try to reassure Mimi, but everyone can tell it’s not.

Ludwika breaks the tension. “You do not want twenty kids anyway. Your uterus will fall out onto the floor.” And you’re so caught off-guard that all you can do is smile at her from across the table, knowing, appreciative. It’s a strange thing to be grateful for.

“She’s right,” Mimi says mournfully. “They had to sew mine back in.”

Fosco pleads: “Stop, stop, I will need a lobotomy.”

Mimi slurps on her Gimlet. “It’s sad. I used to love sex.”

“Mimi, please,” Fosco says, wincing, holding up his palms. “You are like my sister. I prefer to think you are the Virgin Mary.”

Ludwika sighs dramatically and looks to where Otto stands on the other side of the ballroom. “I used to love sex too.”

Now you’re all howling again, rocking back in your chairs. The DJ is playing Go Where You Wanna Go by the Mamas and the Papas. Cass Elliot is the real talent in that group and everybody knows it, but of course any mention of her must be dutifully accompanied by: If only she was more beautiful. If only she could lose weight and find a husband.

“I think you like it, yes?” Ludwika says to you like a dare, puffing on a fresh Camel, red lipstick staining the white paper, blood on sheets. She combs her manicured fingernails though her voluminous blonde hair. “I could tell when I met you. You dress like Jackie Kennedy, but you are not such a statue. She belongs in a museum. I can imagine you at the Summer of Love.”

Fosco and Mimi shift uncomfortably. It’s not the sort of thing they would ever ask you. It’s too personal, too easily a segue into criticizing Aemond. It’s a usurpation of the natural order. Mimi guzzles her Gimlet and flags down a waiter to get another. Fosco takes off his glasses and cleans them with his skinny black necktie.

Sex. You think back to before you began to dread it. This is difficult, like trying to remember Greek words or British manners, which fork to use with each course. Memories from another lifetime come back in flashes: tangled up with your first boyfriend in his tiny dorm room bed, Aemond peeling off your still-dripping swimsuit on the floor of your hotel room during your honeymoon in Hawaii. You shrug and give Ludwika a nod, a brisk, ungenerous answer in the affirmative. “I always feel like I could keep going.”

Paradoxically, this does not end the conversation. Ludwika, Fosco, and Mimi study you with the same bewildered, gear-spinning curiosity. After a moment Ludwika says: “Not after you’ve finished, surely. I am half dead by the end if it’s good.”

“Finished?” you ask, puzzled. All three of them gawk at you, then at each other.

Aegon breezes into the ballroom wearing the Gibson guitar he bought in Manhattan, blue like the Caribbean or the Mediterranean or the crystalline waves off the coast of Hawaii, dotted with fish and sea turtles. Your eyes go to him immediately and stay there; you can feel the swirling warmth of blood in your cheeks. As Aegon passes the table, he squeezes your shoulder—brief, familiar, welcome—and Fosco raises his thick eyebrows. Mimi is too busy gulping down her Gimlet to notice. Ludwika chuckles, low and wicked, then slides a makeup compact out of her Prada purse to check her lipstick. Aegon goes to the DJ and yells something over the music. He’s fucked up already, you can tell, pills or booze or both.

Fosco stops a passing waiter. “Signore, did you hear who won the United Nations Handicap?”

The waiter stares blankly back at him. “What?”

“The turf race at Monmouth Park. I have $200 on Dr. Fager.”

The DJ abruptly cuts off the music. Aegon gives his guitar a few practice strums to make sure it’s in tune. He stumbles when he walks, he lurches and sways. His blonde hair sticks to the sweat on his forehead. He is woefully underdressed. His white shirt is half-unbuttoned, his denim shorts tattered; on his feet he wears black moccasins. There is a small gold hoop in each of his ears. Otto keeps telling Aegon to take them out, and every time Aegon ignores him.

“Happy birthday, Mom,” you hear him say to Alicent, and she presses a palm to her heart, her dark eyes wide and shining. “When I first heard this, it made me think of you.”

Otto and Sargent Shriver—the aspiring vice president—are glowering at Aegon. Aemond smirks as he nips at an Old Fashioned, amused; but he makes sharp, intentional eye contact with each of the three journalists. You will tell the right version of this story, he means. You will not print anything we wouldn’t want written, or my family will be your enemies for life.

As soon as Aegon plucks the first few chords, you recognize the song. “Oh, that’s really funny.”

“What?” Fosco asks.

“It’s Mama Tried.” You stand and begin clapping, then motion for the rest of the table to do the same. They obey without protest, though Mimi can’t seem to keep track of the beat. Aegon is beaming as he sings.

“The first thing I remember knowin’

Was a lonesome whistle blowin’

And a youngin’s dream of growin’ up to ride

On a freight train leavin’ town

Not knowin’ where I'm bound

And no one could change my mind but Mama tried.”

Cosmo sprints over from where he had been dancing with Alicent. He grabs your hand and tugs you towards the center of the floor. “Let’s go, let’s go!” he shouts impatiently.

“Call the FBI, I’m being kidnapped,” you say to Fosco and Ludwika as you let Cosmo drag you away.

“One and only rebel child

From a family meek and mild

My Mama seemed to know what lay in store

Despite all my Sunday learnin’

Towards the bad I kept on turnin’

‘Til Mama couldn’t hold me anymore.”

At the heart of the ballroom, Criston has swooped in to dance with Alicent, slow chaste circling. Helaena has floated off to the bar to chat with Otto, who keeps all his smiles for her. The children—Targaryens and Shrivers alike—are stomping and cheering and alternating between various moves: the Mashed Potato, the Twist, the Swim, the Loco-Motion, the Watusi, the Pony in pairs. Aemond whistles to a photographer and then nods to where you are holding onto one of Cosmo’s tiny hands as he spins around at lawless, breakneck speed. Of course this would make for a good image: you being maternal, you promising the American people that they will one day have not only a first lady but a first family.

“And I turned 21 in prison doin’ life without parole

No one could steer me right but Mama tried, Mama tried

Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading I denied

That leaves only me to blame ‘cause Mama tried.”

Cameras flash and the crowd keeps clapping. Cosmo giggles wildly each time he almost falls and you pull him back to his feet. There is a hand skimming around your waist, a listless powder blue dress your husband chose for you. Aemond replaces Cosmo as your dance partner. Aegon’s 10-year-old daughter Violeta spirits Cosmo away; Aemond reels you in close, one palm pressed into the small of your back, his left hand gripping your right. When you steal a glimpse of Aegon—still strumming, still singing—he doesn’t look so triumphant anymore. His grin is frozen and artificial. His drunk muddy eyes go steely.

“I need you to do something for me,” Aemond begins.

Of course, you once would have said. Anything. “What is it?”

“I want you to cut your hair like Jackie.”

You’re so stunned your feet stop moving. Aemond coaxes you back into the steps. “No.”

“Think about how much more versatile it would be. Jackie is an icon, she’s sophisticated, she’s mature.”

“If you wanted a wife in her thirties, you could have easily found one.”

“Honey—”

“I do everything you ask,” you say, barely more than a whisper. “Everything. I wear what you want me to. I go where you want me to. I spend ten hours a week getting my hair fixed. I keep it up, I keep it presentable. But I’m not chopping it off.”

“You’re never going to be able to wear it down anyway,” Aemond counters, so calm, so rational, like your skull is nothing but incendiary feminine mania. “If I win, you’ll be surrounded by staff and journalists for years. You can’t be photographed with it down, you look about eighteen. And like you live on a park bench in Haight-Ashbury.”

“It’s my hair. I’m keeping it.”

Aemond leans in and says, cold and severe: “You’re my wife, and everything that’s yours belongs to me.” Then he kisses your cheek as cameras click and strobe. “Think about it. Now smile.”

You force yourself to. The crowd applauds as Aegon finishes singing and flees the dancefloor. The DJ puts on Light My Fire by The Doors. You and Aemond leave in opposite directions: he goes to talk to Eunice Kennedy, who is hugging her 3-year-old son Anthony to her chest; you return to your table to drain the last of your Pink Squirrel. You need something stronger. You need to be alone so you can collect yourself.

Now Aegon has shed his guitar and is standing with his back to the wall, smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to some campaign staffer—she looks like a girl, but she’s probably your age—who is gazing up at him worshipfully. She says something that makes him laugh, his head thrown back, his eyes sparkling, and you feel like you’re waking up from your c-section all over again, your belly split open and rearranged, aching, stabbing, nauseous.

“Are you okay?” Ludwika asks, scrutinizing you.

“I’m perfect. I’ll be right back.”

You hurry out of the ballroom, the music fading behind you. You slip into one of the elevators in the lobby and hit the button for the top floor, where Aemond’s entourage has booked every suite. As the door is closing—as only a foot of space remains—Aegon shoves his way into the elevator, startling you. The door shuts behind him and you begin the ascent. Aegon slams the red emergency stop button, and the elevator jolts to a halt.

“What the hell are you doing—?!”

“What pissed you off, huh?” Aegon taunts, stepping closer. You back away from him until you run out of room; not because you want the distance, but because you’re afraid of what you’ll do if it’s gone.

“Nothing. I’m so great, I’ve never been better, can’t you tell?”

He’s so close you can feel the heat rising off his flushed skin, you can see the miles-deep murky blue of his irises, open water, shipwrecks and drowning. “You want all this to be over? You want the women with their big, adoring eyes and their short skirts to disappear? Grow up. Stop acting like a kid. Ask for it.”

“Ask for what?”

“You know.”

If you touch him now, you won’t be able to stop. There’s nowhere for us to go. There’s no way out of this family, this year, this world. “I don’t. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Aegon barks out a sardonic, cutting laugh. “Yeah, you’re definitely 23.”

“I thought you loved girls young enough to be your daughters. Isn’t that what gets you hard?”

“You’re a fucking coward.”

“You’re sweating on me, you pig.”

“You want it so bad,” Aegon whispers as he presses himself against you, his ribs and thighs and hips, and you clutch for the walls of the elevator so you don’t reach for him instead. His left hand is tearing your hair out of its clips and pins so it falls free like you used to wear it; the right is all over your face, your jaw, your chin, your cheeks, touching you ceaselessly, ravenously, a blind man reading chronicles of braille. You’re trying to turn away from him, but he keeps pulling you back in. You’re breathing his rum and nicotine, you’re gasping in low, starved moans. It might be more intimate than kissing, than sex. He’s already felt your body. What he asks for now is your soul. His words are warm and aching as he murmurs through loosed strands of your hair: “Tell me you want it, please, just tell me, just tell me, tell me and it’s yours.”

Your palms land on his bare, damp chest, and Aegon starts unfastening the last buttons of his shirt. Instead, you push him away. Aegon lets you. He surrenders. “I can’t,” you choke out. You hit the red button, and the elevator resumes its rise to the top floor of the hotel.

“I’m really fucked up right now,” he says with sudden realization, swaying, staring down at his feet like he fears he’ll lose track of them.

“I’m aware.”

“I’m sorry. I think…I think I wanted that to happen differently.”

“I can’t trust you when you’re like this,” you say. I feel like I can’t trust anyone. Aegon looks up at you, his glassy eyes large and wounded. When the elevator door opens, you step out and he stays in, riding it back to the lobby.

In the suite you share with Aemond, you turn on the radio and spin the dial until you find a Loretta Lynn song. You go to the minibar cabinet and down two tiny glass bottles of vodka, something that won’t make you smell like too much of a drunk. You’ll have to fix your hair before you go back to the ballroom; you’ll have to change your dress. You’re painted with Aegon’s sweat and smoke. You can’t risk your husband noticing. You slide open the top drawer of the nightstand on your side of the bed and take out the card you keep there, the one that travels with you to each stop on the campaign trail. Loretta Lynn croons from the radio, wronged and wrathful.

“If you don’t wanna go to Fist City

You’d better detour around my town

‘Cause I’ll grab you by the hair of your head

And I’ll lift you off of the ground

I'm not a-sayin’ my baby is a saint, ‘cause he ain’t

And that he won’t cat around with a kitty

I’m here to tell you, gal, to lay off of my man

If you don’t wanna go to Fist City.”

You lie on the floor and peer up at the card in your hands: jubilant cartoon cow, festive party hat. You know exactly what’s written on the inside; it’s etched into your memory like myths passed down through millennia. Nevertheless, you read it again. The original message is still crossed out, and there’s an addendum below it in hasty black ink: I thought this was blank…congrats on the new calf!

You graze your thumbprint across Aegon’s scrawled signature. It’s smudged now. You do this a lot. One day his name might disappear altogether from the stark white parchment, from memory.

You close the card and hug it to your chest like a mother holds a living child.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What’s going on between you and Aegon?”

Alarmed, you meet Aemond’s gaze, two reflections in the vanity mirror. It’s the next morning, and you’re finishing up your makeup. Your dress and jacket are striped with black and white, your jewelry is silver, chains on your wrists and small tasteful hoops in your ears. “Nothing.” There is a lull you have to fill before it becomes suspicious. “He’s been helpful, he’s been…you know. Ever since Mount Sinai.”

Aemond adjusts his cerulean blue tie, studying himself in the mirror. He’s still wearing his leather eyepatch. Putting in his glass eye is the last thing he does before leaving the suite each day. “He was a comfort to you.”

“Well, he was there.”

“Because I told him to be,” Aemond says, resting his hands on the back of your chair. “Someone had to stay at Asteria to keep tabs on things, to let me know what you were up to. Aegon was the most expendable. Mimi and the kids make for good photos, but Aegon…he’s not especially endearing to the public. Those few years as the mayor of Trenton just about ruined him. I’d love to make him the attorney general if I win, but I don’t think the people would stomach it. Maybe if he behaves himself he can have the job for my second term.”

Eight years, you think, unable to fathom it. Eight years in a fishbowl. Eight years lying under Aemond as he tries to get me pregnant with children neither of us can love.

Aemond leans down to touch his lips to the side of your throat. “I’m glad you’re finally friends,” he says. “Aegon’s not all bad. But don’t let him get you in trouble.”

“I wouldn’t.” What did you and Aemond talk about before Ari died? What was this marriage built on? The senate, the presidency, civil rights, poverty, the Space Race, Vietnam, Greek mythology. Everything but each other. Dreams and ideals that would dwarf any mortal, would render them invisible.

“And watch out for any reporters from the Wall Street Journal. They’d kill for Nixon. If they can twist your words, they will.” He gets something from inside his own nightstand: the bloodstained komboskini from when he was shot in Palm Beach. He places it in your right hand, all 100 knots. “Give this to someone today. You know how to do it, you’ve always understood this part. Pick the right person, the right moment. Make sure there are plenty of cameras around.”

“Where am I going? Lunch with the mayor’s wife, that’s this afternoon, isn’t it?”

Aemond nods. “And a few other stops. Then we’re going to the Alamo in San Antonio tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

He recoils, reaches for the left half of his face, kneads the scar tissue there as nerve pain radiates through his flesh all the way down to the bone. Once you felt such agonizing pity for him; now all you can think about is the matching scar you wear on your belly, hidden and shameful and a badge of your inadequacies: your body too weak to protect Ari, your mind too pliable to resist being ensnared by the crushing gravity of this man, this family, this life.

“How can I help?” you ask Aemond, because it’s the right thing to do. And randomly, you find yourself remembering the statue of Apollo in Helaena’s garden back at Asteria, the god of music, healing, truth, prophesy.

“You can’t.” Aemond goes to the bathroom to force his glass eye into its socket. You depart for the hotel lobby where Ludwika and Mimi, your companions for the day, are already waiting. Ludwika is wearing a rose pink Chanel skirt suit. Mimi—relatively functional, as she hasn’t been awake long enough to ruin herself yet—is dressed in delicate dove grey.

Alicent, Helaena, and the children are scheduled to tour a local high school and library; Criston, unsurprisingly, is going with them. Aemond, accompanied by Otto, has a series of meetings with local business leaders and politicians. Aegon and Fosco are headed to the Michael E. DeBakey Veterans Affairs Medical Center to promise maimed soldiers that Aemond will end the war that carved out bits of them and filled the voids with screaming nightmares. The limousine you share with Ludwika and Mimi ferries you first to the NASA’s Manned Spacecraft Center. Mimi is entranced by the reflective surface of the helmets, coated with gold to divert blinding sunbeams; in turn, the astronauts are entranced by Ludwika, who leaves lipstick smudges on their cheeks when she kisses them. Next is a tea party hosted by Iola Faye Cure Welch, the mayoress of Houston since 1964 and the mother of five children. And as you nibble daintily at triangle-shaped sandwiches and trudge through small talk about flowers and furniture, you can’t stop smiling. You can’t stop thinking about how ridiculous Aegon would think this is if he was here.

The driver mentions one last stop, then coasts through midafternoon traffic towards the city center. You spend the ride touching up your hair and makeup. Ludwika offers to let you borrow her seduction-red lipstick; you politely decline. You step out of the limo and shield your eyes from the glare of the Texas sun. It takes your vision a moment to adjust, and then you realize where you are. The sign above the main entranceway reads: Houston Methodist Hospital. The air snags in your throat, your lungs are empty. Your hands tremble violently. The earth rocks beneath your white high heels. Mount Sinai is the last hospital you walked into, and you left with your son in a casket so small it could have been mistaken for a shoebox.

“Alright, let’s go,” Ludwika says, linking an arm through yours. Mimi, badly in need of a drink, is looking deflated and edgy. “We are almost done. And I have been promised a medium-rare steak for dinner! Mushrooms and onions too! The Statue of Liberty did not lie. This country is a golden door.”

“I can’t.”

Ludwika stares at you. “What?”

“I can’t, I can’t go in there.”

“What is she talking about?” Ludwika asks Mimi, who shakes her head, mystified.

“I can’t,” you whimper.

They’ve never seen you like this. They don’t know what to do. They listen to you, that is the hierarchy; but it’s too late to change course now. Journalists are approaching in a swarm. Nurses and doctors are gathering by the front door to welcome you.

He knew, you think, suddenly furious. Aemond knew, and he didn’t tell me.

“It will be okay,” Ludwika says, patting your back awkwardly. “We are here with you. Nothing bad will happen.”

“Oh,” Mimi breathes, understanding. She looks at you with sympathy that shimmers on the surface of the opaque, polluted lake of her mind. Then she catches Ludwika’s eye and skims a hand down her own slim midsection. Ari, she mouths, and Ludwika’s face falls.

The doctors and nurses are whistling and applauding; the journalists are snapping photos and scrounging for quotes. You feel your conditioning over the past two years taking over: straight posture, gentle smile, hands clasped demurely together. But you are locked away somewhere underneath.

“Do not worry,” Ludwika tells you softly. “We will talk, we will make it easier for you.” Then she and Mimi begin boisterously shaking hands and thanking people for coming as you make your way through the crowd of journalists and towards the main entrance of the hospital.

People are saying things to you, but you don’t really hear them. You reply with words you won’t remember afterwards. You nod frequently and go wherever you are led. Doctors are explaining new research into placenta previa and c-sections. Nurses are showing you a state-of-the-art NICU for premature infants. Someone is placing a baby in your arms, and you can’t do anything but accept it numbly. You can’t look down at it, you can’t allow yourself to feel the weight of some other woman’s child. You wear your smile like armor and let the photographers capture their snapshots, painting a frame around you, deciding where you live.

Then you are introduced to the parents, women in hospital beds and men perched in chairs beside them, just like the one where Aegon slept at Mount Sinai. They take your hands when you offer them and tell you about their small children, sick children, dying children. One patient just delivered twins. The first did not survive beyond a few hours, but the second is in an incubator and gaining strength. You recall the komboskini stained with Aemond’s blood and take it out of your purse, give it to the suffering mother, watch faith rise in her face like dawn over the Atlantic. But you won’t remember her. You cannot allow yourself to.

Outside as you, Ludwika, and Mimi are headed back to the limousine, the journalists make one last attempt to poach a headline-worthy quote. “Mrs. Targaryen! Mrs. Targaryen!” a young man shouts, clambering to the front of the horde and jabbing a microphone in your face. “I’m from the Houston Chronicle. Can you tell me how the senator feels about the failure of the most recent phase of the Tet Offensive?”

You are in a fog; you don’t feel real, this moment and this city don’t feel real, and so you cannot remember what Aemond would want you to say. “The Vietnam War has claimed too many lives already. We should have never sent our men there to die. But since that is done, the best thing we can do now is end the draft immediately and then withdrawal from the region as soon as the South Vietnamese are able to defend their own territory, which is their responsibility.” The journalist already considers this effort fruitful and begins to retreat, but you have one last point to make. Ludwika and Mimi watch you anxiously. “I lost someone in Vietnam. I met him when I was in college. He had a good heart, and he joined because he thought it was wrong for poor men to have to fight while rich kids got exemptions, and he was killed in action in October of 1965.”

“This was a friend?” the journalist asks, eyes glowing hungrily. Then he adds as an afterthought: “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

“A boyfriend. Corporal Cameron Marino from Schenectady, New York. People called him Cam.”

A solemn murmur ripples through the crowd. Hats are removed, hands held to chests. “Rest in peace, Cam,” someone says. Maybe they have somebody they care about in Vietnam, a friend or a lover or a brother. You wave goodbye and climb into the limousine. The outpouring swells as you vanish: We love you, Mrs. Targaryen! God bless you, Mrs. Targaryen!

In the lobby of the Texas State Hotel, you tell Ludwika and Mimi not to follow you. They have to listen. After some hesitation, Mimi heads for the bar in the ballroom; Ludwika asks the staff at the front desk if she’ll be able to make a call to Poland with the phone in her room. You take the elevator to the top floor. Fosco is in the hallway, on his way back from one of the vending machines with a Fresca. When he sees your face, his jaw drops.

“Dio mio, what happened?”

“Nothing,” you say, tears biting in your eyes. You pass him, digging your key out of your purse.

“Are you sure—?”

“Fosco, please. I don’t want to talk.”

“Okay,” he says doubtfully. Then he seems to get an idea and strides away with great purpose. You take shelter in your suite, silent and dim; Aemond isn’t back yet. You brace yourself against the locked door and sob into empty, trembling hands, at last hidden away where no one can see you, where no one can be disturbed or disappointed. You know now that none of it was healed—not the loss, not the revelations—but only buried, and now it’s all been unearthed again and the pain shrieks like exposed nerves.

It’s not fair. Ari deserved better, I deserved better.

There’s nothing you can do. Your hands ache to hold someone that no longer exists. You can’t unlearn the truth of what your marriage is.

There are two knocks, quick and rough. “Hey, it’s me.” And there’s such pure intimacy in those words. You know my voice. You know why I’m here. “Open the door.”

“I’m okay, just, just, just leave me alone—”

“Open the door,” Aegon says again. “Or I’ll get security up here to do it for you.”

Swiping the tears from your face, you let him in. He’s dressed in baggy black shorts, nothing on his feet, an unbuttoned stolen green army jacket. You once thought he wore those to play the part of a revolutionary from the comfort of his East Coast seaside mansion. Now you understand it’s because he misses Daeron, because he believes he should have gone to Vietnam instead. There are several dog tags strung around his neck; some of the veterans at the medical center he visited must have gifted them to him.

“What’s wrong?” Aegon’s eyes sweep over you, seeking, horrified. “What did he do?”

You can’t answer, you can’t breathe. You back away from him as more tears spill down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, hey, let me help you. Please don’t be upset. Did he say something, did he hurt you?” Aegon reaches out, and as soon as he touches you your knees buckle and you’re on the floor, trying not to wail, trying not to scream, and Aegon is pulling you against his chest—bare skin, borrowed metal—and his hands are on your face and in your hair, and his lips are against your forehead as he murmurs: “Shh, shh, don’t cry. It’s okay.”

“No it’s not.”

“Whatever it is, I can help.”

“I had to go to a hospital and hold babies and I, I, I never even got to touch him, not once, not ever, and I can’t now because he’s gone. He’s locked in some fucking vault, he’s just bones, but he was supposed to be a person, and those other babies are going to get to grow up but he isn’t, and it’s not fair.”

“You’re right,” Aegon agrees softly, still holding you.

“No one else knew him.”

“I did. I was there the whole time.”

“Only because Aemond made you stay.”

“No,” Aegon swears. “I was supposed to spy on you. He never told me to do any of the rest of it. I stayed because I wanted to.”

“You did,” you say, very quietly, weakly, conceding.

“And I’m still here now.”

Your lungs aren’t burning quite so much. Your tears are slowing. You unravel yourself from Aegon, averting your eyes. Now you’re ashamed; you aren’t in the habit of revealing to people how much you’re splintering like cracked glass, fresh fractures every time you think to check the damage. “I’m, um, I’m really sorry.”

“Look, I don’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories, but this is definitely not the most embarrassing thing I’ve seen you do.”

You laugh, only for a few seconds, and Aegon smiles as he mops the tears from your face with the sleeve of his army jacket. Then he turns serious again.

“Can I ask you something? It’s very personal. It’s offensive, honestly. But I have to know.”

“You can ask.”

“Do you want more children?”

More children. Because Ari was real. “Not now. Not with Aemond.”

Aegon nods, suspicions confirmed. “Can you do that sponge thing you told me about?”

“No. I think he’d be able to feel it, he’s…” You gesture vaguely. It’s difficult to say. “He’s big.”

Aegon didn’t want to hear that. He didn’t want to have to think about it. He flinches, just enough that you notice. But as much as he’d like to, he doesn’t change the subject. “What about the pill?”

“No doctor is going to write me a prescription without my husband’s permission. Especially considering who my husband is.”

“I hate this fucking country,” Aegon hisses. “Puritanical goddamn hellscape. Old Testament bullshit.” He drags his fingers through his hair a few times, then pats your cheek like he did before: twice, gently, playfully. “Come on. Let’s go smoke.”

“I can’t do it on the balcony. Someone might get a picture.”

“Okay. No big deal. We’ll go to the roof.”

You stare at him. “The roof?”

“You really think I haven’t already been up there?” He stands and offers you his hand. “You’ll love it. The view is fantastic.”

The view is good, but the grass is better. You know that it makes some people useless, others paranoid, but for you it’s always painted the world a color that is softer, kinder, lighter, more bearable. You and Aegon lie next to each other, smoking and watching twilight fall over Houston like a spell. You’ll have to shower and gulp some Listerine before Aemond gets anywhere near you. It’s interesting; each day you seem to acquire new secrets to keep from him.

Aegon asks: “Where would you be right now if you weren’t Mrs. Targaryen?”

“Probably married to someone worse.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Okay, but let’s say you weren’t. Let’s say you can do whatever you want.” He points up at the lavender sky and acts like he’s moving the emerging glimmers of stars around with his fingertip. “There, I’ve changed your fate. Who would you be?”

You ponder this. “I want to teach math to kids and then spend every summer break getting baked on some beach.”

Aegon cackles. “Hell, sign me up.” He lights a third joint for himself with his tiny chrome Zippo. “Those are the people doing the real work. Teachers, nurses, farmers electricians, plumbers, welders, firemen, therapists, janitors, public defenders. The normal, unglamorous types.”

“You don’t think presidents and senators make a difference?”

“Sure they do. But only like 5% of the job is actually helping people. The rest of it is schmoozing and tea parties and making speeches, because looking and sounding good is better than doing good. They’re addicted to vapid pretenses that make them feel important. You live like that and you forget how to be a human. I mean, look at Nixon. The man was raised as a Quaker, one of the most peaceful religions on earth, and now he’s planning to throw ten or twenty thousand more boys into the great Vietnamese meatgrinder and probably napalm the hell out of Cambodia and Laos while he’s at it to get the communists’ supply lines. The man’s got no idea who he is anymore. I’d feel sorry for him if I wasn’t so terrified he’s gonna start World War III.”

I wonder who Aemond was a few decades ago. “What makes you feel important?”

“Nothing,” Aegon says. “I’m not under any delusions that I matter.”

“I think you matter, old man.”

“Really?”

“A little bit. About this much.” You hold your hand up to show him the infinitesimal space between your thumb and index finger, and Aegon chuckles, his eyes glazed and bloodshot.

“Let’s do it,” he says with sudden, forceful conviction. “If Nixon wins in November, we’ll get out of here. I’ll go back to Yuma to teach on the reservation and you can come with me. You get a math class, I take English, or Music, or both, whatever. We’ll buy a bungalow out in the desert and make s’mores every night and look up at the stars. I’ll show you how to play guitar if you give me algebra lessons.”

You peek over at him, intrigued. “Is that all we’re going to do?”

“Well we’ll fuck, obviously.”

“Oh, obviously.” You giggle; it’s ridiculous, it’s paradisical, it’s insane how good it sounds. But surely that’s only because you’re high. “I don’t know how Mimi would feel about that.”

“She won’t care. She doesn’t want me anymore, hasn’t in years. Sometimes she just forgets that when she’s wasted. Mimi can go to Arizona too. We’ll load up the kids in a van and strap her to the roof.”

Now your voice is somber. “She was supposed to fix you.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says: slow, meditative, guilty. “I think Mimi and I have a few too many of the same demons.”

You roll over, push yourself up on your palms, and crawl to the edge of the rooftop. You prop your elbows on the ledge and gaze out into the city lights, the sky turning from violet to indigo to primordial darkness. Aegon joins you, staring down at the distant aquamarine rectangle of the hotel pool.

He asks: “You think I could make that?”

“No.”

“Should I try?”

“You definitely shouldn’t.”

“A few months ago, you would have pushed me off this roof.”

You shrug. “You’ve proved yourself useful.”

“That’s why you like me now? Because I’m useful?”

“Who said I like you?” you tease, smiling.

“You like me,” Aegon says, grinning and smug, radiant in the silver moonlight and urban incandescence. “You like me so much it scares you. But there’s no need to panic. It’s okay. I know the feeling.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You want to touch him, you want him to touch you, you want to study every arc and angle of him like he’s a marble statue in a garden: too beautiful to be mortal, too fragile to be divine.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three nights later in Nebraska, there is a knock on the door of your hotel suite. The nannies have herded the children off to bed; the adults are unwinding downstairs in the courtyard of the Sheraton Omaha, designed to resemble an Italian garden. There’s a brand new Jacuzzi that you’re looking forward to taking a dip in. You finish pulling on your swimsuit, white and patterned with sunflowers, a one-piece with a flared skirt.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Richard Nixon,” Aegon says through the door. “Naked. Horny. Please love me.”

You laugh and let him in. He’s leaning against the doorframe in Hawaiian swim trunks and nothing else, pink sunburn glowing on his soft chest. He holds up a brown paper bag and shakes it.

“For you.”

“What is it, heroin?” Instead, you open the bag to find small, circular packs of pills. “No way. You did not.”

“That’s enough for six months,” Aegon says, smirking, proud of himself. “I’ll be back again in February. Guess that makes me your dealer, babe. I don’t accept cash, checks, or cards, only sexual favors. You want to get down on your knees, or should I?”

“How did you get these?”

“I told a doctor they’re for one of my whores.”

“Maybe they are.”

You’ve surprised him, you’ve got him thinking about it now. His face flushes a splotchy, charming pink. “So, uh, you coming down to the courtyard?”

“Yeah. Right now. Just let me hide these first. Are there instructions in here…?”

“Mm hmm,” Aegon says, still distracted, studying the entirely unremarkable carpet. You stow the paper bag of birth control pills in the bottom of your bras and panties drawer, then walk with Aegon to take the elevator down to the ground floor. You both notice the bright red emergency stop button and share a glance, smirking, taunting.

In the courtyard, Alicent is struggling to pay attention as Helaena identifies each and every species of plant and explains where in the world it is native to. Fosco is simultaneously teaching Criston how to yo-yo and berating him for not believing the Cubs will end up in the World Series. Fosco has apparently bet $500 on them. Ludwika is stretched out on a lounge chair like a cat and reading a copy of Cosmopolitan. Aemond, wearing his eyepatch and a blue pair of swim trunks, appears to be arguing with Otto over the contents of a newspaper article. Mimi is alone in the Jacuzzi, bubbles rumbling all around her as she slumps against the rim, a frosty Gimlet clutched in one hand.

“Mimi, get out of the Jacuzzi,” you order.

“I’m fine!” she slurs, and you groan, knowing you’re going to have to drag her out.

Aemond is approaching; no, not approaching, raging. “What the hell is wrong with you? What the fuck is this?” He hurls the newspaper at you, the Houston Chronicle. The headline reads: To Mrs. Targaryen, ending the Vietnam War is personal. “Why would you tell somebody that? Other papers are going to start reporting this. You gave them his full name. They’ve found his school, his friends, his gravesite in motherfucking Arlington National Cemetery—”

“You set me up,” you say. “You didn’t tell me about the hospital.”

Aegon takes the newspaper from you and frantically skims the article. “Hey, man,” he tells Aemond as he pieces it together, attempting to deescalate. It’s not a skill you knew he possessed. “She was rattled, she wasn’t thinking clearly. And there’s nothing bad in this article. It makes her sound invested and sympathetic, not…um…whatever you’re thinking.”

“You don’t get it,” Aemond seethes. “Journalists are going to start hounding his friends, his classmates, people who lived in his dorm building. Nixon’s newspapers will publish any gossip they can dig up about what she did when she was in school. Things people saw, things people overheard—”

“What, the fact that she had one boyfriend before she met you? That’s worthy of a nuclear meltdown?! Better prepare for Armageddon, a woman got laid, launch the goddamn warheads!”

“She doesn’t get to have a past! She should understand that, she signed up for this, she knew exactly what was expected of her!”

“And what about your past?” Aegon says, low and searing, and Aemond goes quiet. Their eyes are locked on each other: Aegon defiant, Aemond unnerved. You try to remember if you’ve ever seen that expression on his face before. You don’t think you have. Not even when he was shot and half-blinded. Not even when Ari died.

“What does that mean?” you ask your husband. Still staring at Aegon—tangled in a thorny, silent battle of wills—he doesn’t reply.

There are swift, thudding footsteps. Otto grabs Aegon by his hair, hooks a finger through the small gold hoop in his right ear, and tears it straight through the earlobe. Aegon screams as blood streams down his face, feeling the ravaged fringes of his flesh.

“I told you to take those out,” Otto says. “Now remove the other one before I rip it free, and go get yourself stitched up.”

You do something you’ve never done before, never even thought of. You strike out with both hands and shove Otto so hard he goes staggering backwards, his arms wheeling. The others are yelling and rushing over. Aemond is trying to yank you to him, but he can’t get a grip on your swimsuit. “I will kill you!” you roar at Otto. “I will push you down a staircase, I will slit your fucking throat, don’t you ever touch him!”

Alicent is weeping, appalled, trying to get a look at Aegon’s damaged ear. Criston is helping her, moving Aegon’s bloodied hair out of the way. Fosco links his arms around your waist and drags you out of Aemond’s reach just as he’s getting his fingers beneath a strap of your swimsuit. Helaena is covering her face with her hands and wailing. Ludwika is shrieking at Otto: “What did you do? Don’t give me that, what did you do?!”

You are engulfed with rage, red and irresistible. You’re trying to bolt out of Fosco’s grasp. You want to claw Otto’s eyes out; you want to put a bullet in him. As you struggle, you catch a glimpse of the Jacuzzi. You don’t see Mimi anymore.

“Wait,” you plead, but nobody hears you over the noise. You look desperately at Fosco. “Where’s Mimi?!”

Once he figures out what you’re trying to say, he whirls towards the Jacuzzi. “No!” he bellows, releasing you, and careens across the courtyard. You dash after him. Now the others understand, and they come running too. You see it just before Fosco dives in: there is a shadow at the bottom of the Jacuzzi. When he bursts up though the roiling water, he is carrying Mimi, limp and unconscious and blue.

Everyone is shouting at once. Fosco lays Mimi down on the cobblestones of the courtyard. Criston sends Ludwika to call an ambulance, kneels beside Mimi, checks for a pulse. Then he begins CPR. When he breathes air into her flooded lungs, there is no response, no resurrection.

“No, no, no, she has to be alright!” Aemond says, and everyone knows why. If she’s not, this will consume the headlines for days: no victorious campaigning, no speeches or photos, just a drowned alcoholic with a damning autopsy report.

“Oh my god,” Otto moans, pacing. “This can’t be happening, not this year, not now…”

Alicent seizes your hand and squeezes it until you think it will break. She is reciting prayers in Greek. Helaena is curled up under a butterfly bush, sobbing hysterically. When he realizes this, Otto hurries to comfort her.

“Don’t watch, Helaena. Let’s go inside, I’ll walk with you, there’s nothing more we can do here.”

“Mimi?!” Aegon commands, slapping her hard across the face. “Mimi, come on, wake up! Mimi? Mimi!” She’s still motionless, she’s still blue. Aegon turns to you, blood smeared all over the right side of his face. He’s petrified, he’s in shock. “I think she’s…she’s…”

“She’s gone,” Criston says; and he lifts his palms from her hollow body. The silent sky above is a labyrinth of bad stars.

[theangelsheardyou]

In a dominant mood so here's how I think bsd men would act as subs

Atsushi

Would be a very obedient sub

Trusts you in every way imaginable

You know how parents tell you "well if your friend told you to jump off a bridge, would you do it?"??

Yea that's him

If you told him to do something stupid or dangerous whether in the bedroom or not he would immediately trust that you have a plan behind it (even if you actually don't, he doesn't know that)

Other than that, he's very anxious when it comes to PDA, at least at first

But once he gets used to it, and by that I mean used to the feeling of being loved, then he will slowly start warming up to and even asking for it

When it comes to sex, he can be even more bashful and awkward about it

He mostly whimpers and whines and it's not super loud, but if it does get to that point he's very self aware and scared of others hearing him, so he covers his mouth right away

I think he'd be most compatible with a more gentle top

He can't handle very heavy scenes and I can't imagine him having a very active libido

He has sex to express love and passion, not just for a quick fling that doesn't mean anything

Outside of the bedroom, he's very quiet about what goes on in there

Dazai likes to tease him about it and you love how his pale complexion turns into a pretty shade of red

Dazai

Oh this man is OBNOXIOUS

He's the type of sub that makes you wanna fuck him so hard he actually shuts the fuck up for a second

One of the brattiest of the bunch, for some reason has to turn anything and everything into a game of cat and mouse

Also one of the horniest, believe me you'll be drained DRY after like a week or so

This man's libido is UNMATCHED

He may be taller than you, smarter than you, and possibly stronger than you when it comes to his ability,

But in every other way you are in charge And some part of him always wants to challenge that

Loves to be paraded around like a showdog (but prefers the term "trophy wife")

He's a little princess and always gets what he wants

I think he'd fit best with a dom who could handle his.....special traits

He needs someone who won't get tired of him so quickly and leave, just like everyone else in his life did

But he also needs someone to put him in his place from time to time

Dealing with dazai isn't for the faint of heart, anyone who's done it before knows that

So maybe if you're strong enough, smart enough, and a little bit delusional and crazy, you could have this cute little former mafioso wrapped around your finger like a worm on a string <3

Fyodor

Tbh this one's the whole reason why I made this post in the first place😆

This one's also a little....different...from the others

And by that I mean he's worse

His brattiness doesn't come in the form of disobeying orders or having a fit in front of your friends

No, this one will purposefully pick you apart psychologically

Trying to get this man to behave will require a labyrinth of words, a battle of the minds

He needs someone who can challenge him, because if they don't, he wouldn't bother to be submissive towards them at all, they don't deserve it.

He's one half sickly and one half pride, so taking care of him isn't gonna be easy

Of course you'd have to know going in that Fyodor's self care is abysmal and as his dom you'd have to take responsibility for his health

Taking care of his pills, his diet, making sure he eats and sleeps on time, gets enough rest, drinks enough water, exercises, that's all on you from now on

But you do it cause you love him

Sometimes he'll be bratty and arrogant enough to take you for granted, and would snap at you and tell you he doesn't need someone to baby him when you just were trying to help

But after enough time, he'll realize he was wrong, and as his health depletes, he'll slowly start to inch towards you, asking for your help

You would make sure it gets to the point where he'd have to beg. Make him realize what it's truly like to not have you "distracting" him with your care and concern

And eventually, if he's put up a pathetic enough display for you, you'll hold him in your arms, warm chest comforting him as he leans his head and torso on it

You'll watch how he shivers each time he takes a breath, his eyes are glassy and staring at nothing, his hair is drowning in grease, and it's obvious he hadn't showered in days, but you don't mind

All of this means he's vulnerable, which means he's weak, which means he's malleable.

Malleable enough for you to mold into whatever you please.

Because the only person who could dominate the demon Fyodor is someone who could become the demon Fyodor.

Whether he knew it or not, you were just as sinister as he was, possibly even more.

And every breath he took was another foolish step into your web, a plan you had conducted just for him

So he can be as proud and smug as he wants, but at the end of the day,

You are in control.

Chuuya

It's kind of hard for me to decipher what kind of sub he'd be to be honest

I want to say he'd be a brat but that term doesn't seem to describe him exactly

Sure, he's got a lot of pride, so getting him to submit to you or even to simply let you take the wheel will be difficult.

He's too stuck in his old habits, too used to having to take care of everything, so being taken care of for a change will be a new feeling to him.

He's also scared to love you, scared to let himself bring another person into his heart, afraid of instead accidentally luring you to your death as he had done with so many others.

No, he's not ready to lose another person. Not again.

He's grown to see his love for others as a trap, a ploy, a misfortune. It was like a prophecy for someone's death.

But you, you were different from the rest.

You were strong. Strong enough to protect yourself, strong enough to stand your ground. In fact, you could probably even protect the gravity manipulator Chuuya Nakahara himself.

It took a long time for him to be ready. Ready to open himself up for you. But you let him take his time. You let him think things through. And despite everything, you were there.

You both sprouted a relationship neither of you thought you could do before

And the sex wasn't just sex to you two, no, it could be a distraction, a vacation, an escape, a break, an apology, you name it.

Sex would be a big part of you guys' relationship

I like to think that Chuuya is a lot hornier than he says he is, and also a lot more submissive

Learning that he was a sub was surprising for you, especially because of, well, everything about him

But that was cool for you, as you were vers, and you had to admit you loved the way he screamed and cried under you.

The look in his eyes, the blush in his cheeks, the spit dripping from the corners of his mouth, even the small wounds he had gotten from biting his lips so hard to keep in a moan was adorable

Fucking in his penthouse was great because he had red lighting in almost every room, giving it a sexy, moody vibe.

It also reminded him of his place. He may be rich, he may be a mafia executive, and he may have a couple dozen people under his command, but no matter where or what he is, he will always be a pathetic little whore for you.

You fuck him in his room to remind him his riches mean nothing. He means nothing. All he is is a slut, and he must be reminded of that.

I think he'd be best compatible with a quieter personality to counter his loud one, but I think that loud, brash personality is most present around Dazai. Though he can have a little bit of a temper from time to time, even around you

He needs someone who doesn't care about status or ranks, Port mafia executive or not, you'll fuck him like there's no tomorrow and once you're done he'll be clinging to you like a lost little dog.

Ranpo

Brat. Brat Brat Brat. NOTHING about this boy is topping.

I mean, I do see him as a switch, but in this case, he's the brattiest brat to ever brat.

Will require you give him sweets and cold drinks whenever he asks, will make you drive him places, teach him things and even fuck him when he's too lazy to do the fucking.

He'll be obnoxious all day and then look at you like he's done nothing wrong his whole life. Spoiled little shit.

He's exactly the type of sub you would fuck into submission until you hear a sorry or any sort of appropriate apology.

He likes to be fucked lying down, sometimes sitting and leaning against something, but sometimes you'll force him to sit on you and ride you up and down even though you know he hates it. You'll never hear the end of it from him, though.

He likes to be fucked while eating, too. You'll fuck him from behind with a hand out and spoonfeeding him cake, and the rapid shaking of your bodies and the table he's up against will leave traces of cake all over his chin and cheeks. He doesn't know if he wants cake or if he wants you to eat his cake. Either way, he wants and needs you bad.

I think he'd be best fit with a top who would usually just give in to all his demands and would be patient with his bratty personality, but knows when it's been taken too far. You'd be calm and gentle with him, but come nighttime, you're a beast in bed, making sure he makes up for everything he did in the office that day.

He's not the type to apologize I don't think, he'd definitely beg if it's gotten too much for him but an apology? That's asking too much. Just take the moans and cries and leave.

However, right afterwards he'd go back to his usual bratty self no matter how bad the punishment was. In couldn't have been that harsh anyway, as you could never say no to Ranpo's cute face.

Akutagawa

When I say this man is a Virgin I mean he's a VIRGIN VIRGIN.

As in as virgin as the virgin mother mary

He hadn't even had time for sex before you came along.

You taught him everything, even things about his own body that he didn't even know. Like how he doesn't like the feeling of frotting because he doesn't like how another man's dick is on his own. Or how he likes when you pump his cock slowly, especially since he's so new to the game that he couldn't handle more even if he tried. Poor boy😔

He finds it odd, the feeling of being pampered. Being provided with food everyday, a warm place to live, constant affection, he didn't know what to do with it. It was as if he was an alien studying earth and experiencing the most mundane things for the first time.

And the weirdest thing about it was, he liked it. He liked the feeling of being taken care of, being provided for and pampered, and it was odd. He wasn't sure if he even deserved such wonderful feelings.

When it comes to sex, you better believe this man's got some weird shame thing related to sex

He sees it as a filthy task that he, unfortunately, likes to partake in.

He's ashamed even bringing it up, let alone asking for it.

But once you get the memo you take action and calmly and gently take care of him

Akutagawa's been used to violence, been used to screams of pain and agony, but this? It's soft. It's sweet. It's tender. He's not used to it but part of him wants to be. He's never been so happy in his life.

He's not the type to whine and whimper so much like Atsushi, instead he'll let out a low grunt here and there and maybe throw in a moan somewhere too.

He's into the wildest things, most of which involving your ability with his. It's probably some weird psychological thing where he's associated his ability strength = worth thing to the bedroom which......isn't healthy.

But once you're done his sickly little body is spent, his already damaged lungs trying desperately to keep moving. You hold him over your shoulder, as being carried bridal style would mess with his pride. Arm wrapped around your shoulder and tugging at you inner arm, he leans into you the way he's never done for anyone before.

He feels odd now, as if he's just discovered something new. Learning and even participating in sex has left him with many questions, that hopefully you could answer.

[drmaddict]

Free by Choice

Summary: Simon and (Y/n) don't want children. After his vasectomy, (Y/n) realizes how much the fear of becoming a father has inhibited him.

Wordcount: 1.010

She had never experienced Simon like this before.

"The tests look good. If you want to, you have green light."

As neither of them wanted children, Simon had decided to have a vasectomy.

As he had never had a relationship before and sex wasn't really a big issue, he had never given it much thought, but that had changed.

(Y/n) didn't want children either. They're cute as long as you can give them back. She was more than willing to be 'just' the cool aunt.

The decision was final for both of them. The pill worked, but this way (Y/n) could finally stop taking it and no one had to worry anymore.

"Good means absolutely safe?"

"Yes, Mr. Riley. Your last semen sample was positive... or rather negative."

Simon just nodded and held out his hand. The doctor tried to grab it, but Simon slapped it away and pointed to the papers.

The doctor handed them to him with a slight blush on his cheeks.

Simon skimmed the pages and nodded with satisfaction.

"Thanks, doc.", he mumbled.

The doctor nodded. "If there's anything, just let me know."

It wasn't until the evening, when they were both lying on the sofa, that it started. Simon began to gently kiss her jaw, letting his hands wander under her shirt.

If only she had known then, what was in store for her.

Three hours later she wasn't really sure, whether she still had a functioning brain cell. She was lying on her stomach, exhausted and drooling on the bed. She hadn't really come down from her last high when she felt Simon's lips on her back again. Her breath caught. Simon moaned with pleasure and a little laugh underneath. "Just one more little mouse. Seven is a lucky number.", he whispered in her ear and bit tenderly into the shell of her ear.

The next morning, everything hurt. Her thighs were covered in bite marks. Her back was a mess. Her neck felt like her thighs looked and all in all, she was mostly sore. No matter how gently Simon had rubbed her with ointment.

Surprisingly, he was still sleeping next to her. Usually he would have been up and away by the time she got up. He had already trained and made breakfast, but today he was lying on his pillow, slumbering, with a cute little pout on his lips.

She turned to him with a smile. What had gotten into him? They'd had good sex, but this? Despite being on the pill, he always insisted on using a condom. He usually never came more than once inside her. Despite everything, he often pulled out and came on her. She had just assumed he was into it, but after last night?

Had he been so afraid of having a child? Had this procedure taken such a weight off his shoulders?

He moves slightly.

His eyes opened slowly.

"Morning," he mumbled.

"Morning," she simply replied.

He rubbed his face and stretched. "Fuck. My back." he grumbled.

She laughed. "Serves you right."

He didn't answer that.

She snuggled against his shoulder. He buried his nose in her hair.

"You realize, you have to carry me everywhere today, right?"

"Hm. Anywhere you want."

"Why didn't you do this before, if it was weighing you down so much?"

He closed his eyes again. "I have a therapist for that kind of talk.", he mumbled.

She punched him lightly on the shoulder. "I'm serious."

He sighed. "I've never had a relationship and the one night stands were rare and sporadic." He shrugged. "Wasn't necessary up to this point. Sorry, if it was too much."

She kissed his shoulder. "It's okay. Just remember that, when I get ugly, after I get off the pill."

"Why would you get ugly?"

"Hormonal acne and hair loss are definitely coming."

He grinned. "I've been through the meat grinder once and you're worried about a few pimples?"

She pouted. "That's a sensitive subject."

He tousled her hair, "I'll help you squeeze them out, too."

She smacked him on the chest with a grin and no emphasis. He laughed.

Five months later

Simon looked at the nutritional supplement packs that had been piling up in her kitchen for the last few months.

(Y/n's) skin had rebelled briefly, but the worst of it seemed to have subsided. For two weeks, she had been in so much pain because of the inflammation under her skin that she had sometimes stood in the shower crying.

Simon had given her every bath that could even help in the least.

But now, two months later, it had subsided. Things seemed to be settling down, even if they weren't perfect yet. She had an appointment with her beautician today and Simon had thankfully stayed at home.

He was reading the newspaper, when he heard the front door open and close again.

(Y/n) came into the small kitchen. Her skin was still shiny from some cream, but she seemed to be glowing somehow.

Unimpressed, she threw her bag onto a chair and sat astride his lap. She immediately pressed her lips to his and wrapped her arms around his neck. Taken by surprise, he tried to figure out what was going on when she pulled at his shirt. He had no idea what was about to happen.

Hours later, he lay wrung out on the bed, breathing heavily.

"I want another round. When can you manage that?"

"Today?" He looked at her in shock. She nodded.

He looked up at the ceiling, shocked. "Nothing happens here for the next three to five business days."

She looked at him, pouting.

"What's gotten into you?" he asked, pulling her hand towards him, which was already exploring again.

"Not only is my skin fourteen again, but it looks like my libido is too."

"But I'm no longer fourteen mouse... My jaw hurts... And my back."

She grinned. "Will you at least take a bath with me?"

"At least? That was eight rounds!"

"Nine is a lucky number."

"Oh Fuck."

[geekintofeet]

A bet between colleagues

You’ve been working for now 3 years in this IT company. Small team, you’re only three in a small office. Not much to do. Your colleagues, Jose and Fabio are two straight men in their early 40s, a bit nerdy and goofy, always teasing each other whenever they could. As a game, they suggested to play some bets with topics ranging from who will get promoted first, what would be served at the cafeteria…

At the beginning the penalty for loosing a bet would be quite silly, but as a general theme they liked to make it humiliating for the loser. Things like calling the winner(s) « master », being used as a human chair…

Increasingly, the stake went higher and the punishment for losing the bet became more and more humiliating.

One day Jose arrived in the office all excited, and showed you a strange purple pill: « Guys guys, guess what I bought for us? That is one of those forbidden pill they use in prisons in China to save space. You know, the one that can shrink people to the size of a mouse hahaha »

« The fuck Jose, where did you even find this? » asked Fabio, a bit disconcerted.

« Well everything can be found on the dark web with enough money » he winks.

« Guys… you’re crazy… » you say.

« Why don’t we make a bet and the loser has to take the pill? » says Jose, very seriously.

« I mean c’mon Jose, we don’t even know if that’s safe, what if we stay little forever?? » says Fabio.

« hahaha then I’ll keep you in my pocket, you’ll be my good little pet hahaha! No seriously guys, I’m not so crazy, I bought the antidote too » he shows another pill, of a strange green color.

« Let’s make that bet guys, don’t be chicken! Let’s bet that the first person the boss will talk to today will have to take the shrinking pill! »

You all agree and go back to your work.

Suddenly you hear a knock at the door, it’s the boss. He enters and greets you first, asks a question, greets your two other colleagues and goes away.

After he closes the door, Jose is laughing at you « hahahaha that was quick, alright it’s time for your pill ».

You take the pill, a bit hesitant and swallow it. The process is weirdly painless and you quickly see the world around you getting bigger and bigger. And you two colleagues looking with amazement at you looking more and more like giants.

« oh my god, that really works, you’re really the size of a mouse! » says Fabio.

« He is, the perfect size to smell our feet! » says Jose while removing his shoes and socks.

Fabio laughs: « hahahaha that’s what you had in mind all this time Jose, alright little one, you’ll not like what you smell here for sure, but you don’t really have a choice with your size! »

« C’mon serve your new masters hahaha »

[munson-blurbs]

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2

Summary: You're determined to figure out why Eddie hates you, and he's more determined to avoid you at any cost. But confrontations with Jeff and Wayne may have him reconsidering all of his choices--including the one to become a father. How long can he run from his demons before they catch up to him?

Warnings: angst, Eddie is really mean to Reader, mentions of drug dealing, mentions of Eddie's dad, Reader's grandma has Alzheimer's, slowburn, strangers to enemies to lovers, angst, Eddie is 30, Reader is 28, no use of y/n

WC: 5.9k

Chapter 2/20

Scruffy!Eddie edit credit to @eddiemunsons-missingnipple Divider credit to @saradika

“He called you what?” Jess screeches, and you have to pull the receiver from your ear to avoid losing your hearing. “Oh, he’s a dead man.”

You place the phone back between your shoulder and cheek so you can stir the pot of marinara sauce while talking to your friend. She’d called to ask about your first day of work, and of course you’d mentioned Eddie’s frigid bitch comment. “I shouldn’t have expected anything less from a grown man who promises to call and then basically drops off the face of the Earth,” you say, trying to keep your anger at bay. There’s murmuring in the background coming from a voice deeper than Jess’s. “Do you have company? Because we can talk later–”

“Nah, I’m just at Viv and Jeff’s place.” Before you can tell her not to say anything, you hear her spreading the news to her sister and future brother-in-law. The girl’s a sweetheart, but she spreads news faster than the New York Times. 

There’s the sound of shuffling and the phone being exchanged between parties, followed by Jeff saying, “Please tell me that you’re joking.”

“About being called a frigid bitch? I’m afraid not,” you confirm with a terse chuckle, draining a pot of spaghetti into the colander. “But, honestly, it’s really not a big deal. I’ve been called worse.”

Jeff’s quiet for a moment before he replies. “He’s such an asshole. Christ.” You detect a note of sadness in his tone, almost grief, like he’s mourning someone he thought he knew.

“Look, I shouldn’t have called him out on that stupid Cat and Mouse thing,” you say. “I should’ve just let it go, put a smile on my face, and acted civilly. I only said it to piss him off, and it worked.”

“No, this is more than you,” Jeff protests, letting out an exasperated sigh. “He never used to be like this. He used to actually be a great guy.” It sounds like he has more to say, but he just blurts out, “I gotta go,” and quickly hands the phone back to Jess.

The two of you talk for a few more minutes until the sauce on the stove starts to bubble, indicating that dinner’s ready.

“Grandma,” you call out, “it’s dinnertime!”

Your grandma pads out of her bedroom, hair disheveled even though you’d just combed through it this morning, and wrinkles her nose. “Not hungry,” she mutters, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Well, you gotta eat so you can take your medicine,” you tell her, keeping your tone even and patient, “otherwise, you’ll feel sick. C’mon, you love pasta.”

“I don’t have to take any goddamn medicine,” she snaps, scowling at the three pills at her table setting. “These aren’t even mine.”

Well, then, whose are they? Do you think I robbed a Rite Aid? You want to snap, but you bite back the retort. “Yes, Grandma, they are. This one,” you point to a small, white pill, “is for your blood pressure. And this one,” you point to a larger yellow one, “is your multivitamin, and this little yellow one is for, um…” you hesitate, “for Alzheimer's.”

“I don’t have Alzheimer’s!” Grandma shouts, swiping the pills to the ground. They fall with a clatter, bouncing underneath the table. “And I’m not eating shit.” She storms off to her room, muttering a slew of swear words under her breath.

You take a deep breath, feeling the oxygen fill your lungs. This isn’t the first time she’s had an outburst like this, and you know to just leave dinner on the stove, and she’ll come and eat in a few minutes when she forgets that she’s “not hungry.” In the meantime, you pick up the fallen medication and place them back on her napkin before digging into your own bowl of spaghetti.

Sure enough, she joins you about fifteen minutes later, exclaiming that “something smells good,” and eating her dinner happily. She only asks you twice where you’re from and when you’re leaving, but your heart still sinks with each question. The grandma who never missed a birthday and brought your favorite candy when she visited had all but been erased by a vicious disease. All you can do now is keep her safe and enjoy the brief moments when she’s smiling.

There’s only silence when Eddie shows up at Gareth’s house after dropping Harris at Wayne’s trailer. He’s usually greeted by the sound of everyone warming up and tuning their instruments. For a second, he thinks that he has the wrong night, or he forgot that they canceled practice, but he finds the guys sitting in Gareth’s garage. They all look up guiltily when they hear him walk in.

“Who died?” Eddie asks with a nervous laugh, shoving his hands in his pockets and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Seriously, guys, what’s going on?”

Gareth bites his lip, wordlessly turning to Jeff. Eddie stiffens a bit at the silent shift to Jeff’s newfound leadership. Since when does Gareth look to Jeff to speak up? 

“Ed, we need to talk with you,” Jeff says, sitting up a bit taller. “We, uh, we think Corroded Coffin needs a bit of hiatus.”

Eddie crosses his arms over his chest and gives a disbelieving snort. “Oookay,” he says sardonically. “And why are you telling me that we should break up the band I founded?” He walks closer to his bandmates, challenging them with the fury behind his eyes.

“It’s not fun for us anymore, man,” Danny admits. “This is supposed to be something we do to relax, blow off some steam and get a break from the real world. But lately, it’s been more of a chore.”

“A chore?” Eddie echoes, scoffing loudly. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Jeff stands up, ready to bulldoze through whatever counterattack Eddie concocts. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re a miserable person to be around. When you first moved back, when Harris was a newborn, we figured it was just a lack of sleep. But your kid’s four now, Munson,” Jeff says pointedly, “and you’re still a dick.”

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Eddie mutters with an incredulous laugh. “Let me get this straight: I have a couple of bad days, and you shut shit down? Without even talking to me about it first?”

This ignites a spark in Jeff, and he puffs out his chest and takes another step towards Eddie. “You wanna talk about it? Fine; we’ll talk. What should we start with, hm? The way you can never be happy for any of us unless it benefits you? The way you act like an immature teenager, selling drugs instead of getting a real job? The way you treat women like they’re disposable?” He looks Eddie dead in the eyes and says curtly, “I heard about your little ‘frigid bitch’ comment. And at her job, too. Real nice.”

“Why do you care whether or not I still sell? Or how I treat women?” Eddie shoots back. “Did I get you in trouble with your old lady or something?”

“That’s the other thing,” There’s no mistaking the bitterness seeping from Jeff’s pores. “I tell you–one of my oldest, closest friends–that I’m getting married and having a baby with the love of my life, and you couldn’t be bothered to give a shit.”

Eddie feels his mouth dry up, knowing that everything Jeff’s said is true; he clears his throat and tries to play it off. “You cool with this, Gareth?” he asks the drummer, hoping no one caught the waver in his voice. 

Gareth can’t even let his gaze meet Eddie’s as he mumbles, “I used to look up to you, man. You were my honest-to-God hero. But now, I…I don’t want to be like you anymore.”

The confession is a total knockout; Eddie stumbles back as though he’s actually been punched in the gut. “Whatever. You can all choke for all I care.” He slings his guitar case back over his shoulder and starts towards his car.

“Let us know when you decide to grow up,” Jeff calls out. Eddie just flips him off, slamming the car door and speeding down the road. 

Fuck them, he thinks, barreling through a stop sign without even noticing. Who the fuck do they think they are; breaking up the band because they don’t like my attitude? They didn’t mind my attitude when it protected them from all the assholes at school, or when it got them into clubs when they were underage. But now they’re complaining about it? Fucking pricks.

As he turns into the trailer park entrance, a thought occurs to him: how the hell did Jeff know that I called her a “frigid bitch” at work? What did she do, call him up and snitch on me? Trying to ruin my life all because I didn’t call her? He grips the steering wheel even tighter, throwing the car in park and stomping out to Wayne’s trailer. He knocks impatiently, as though he’s been kept waiting.

“What are you doing back so soon?” Wayne asks, concern written all over his face. “And why do you look like you’re about to punch a wall–Jesus, Ed, take a breather.”

“They kicked me out of the band,” he mutters through gritted teeth, walking over to where Harris is eating a bowl of macaroni and cheese in front of the TV and sitting down next to him, pressing a kiss to his curly hair. “Gave me some BS about taking a break, how I make all of them miserable, blah blah blah.”

“What’s ‘BS’?” Harris pipes up with a mouthful of cheesy pasta, but Eddie just mumbles, “don’t worry about it,” under his breath, and the boy goes back to watching a rerun of The Flintstones.

Wayne sighs, scratching at the scruff of his beard. “They said that you make them miserable?” he asks, wincing slightly. He knew that his nephew’s demeanor had changed considerably over the years; what was once teenage cynicism had slowly morphed into a constant state of anger and unhappiness. Wayne thought maybe it was just in his head, or just around him, but if Eddie’s best friends noticed it, too, it was more serious than he’d initially thought.

“More or less,” Eddie chuckles tersely. “And then they threw something in there about my–my job, about how I, um, pursue lots of different women, how I don’t support their choices when we all know it’ll take away from the band.”

“Support their choices?” Wayne echoes.

“Jeff’s girl is having a baby, and he wants to marry her,” Eddie explains, biting his thumbnail as he shakes his head incredulously. “So he’s gonna have less time for Corroded Coffin. How are we supposed to make something of ourselves if he’s gonna flake?”

“I don’t know if that’s flaking–”

“I mean, let me get this straight,” Eddie interrupts, standing up to pace. “Jeff’s a goddamn superhero for knocking someone up and taking time away from the band, but I’m the one who’s ruining it for everyone? Because I actually act like a rockstar?”

“Well, Rockstar,” Wayne crosses his arms over his chest angrily, “have you ever stopped to consider that maybe they’re right? Stopped to think about how your actions impact them? How would you feel if Jeff berated you for wanting to start a life with someone you care about?” He pauses for a moment, glancing at his grandson. “I’m not saying you have to get married or settle down, but if you aren’t gonna have a maternal figure in your boy’s life, you should at least show him how to respect women.”

Eddie snorts, grabbing his keys from his pocket and walking towards the door. “Like how women respected me? How all the girls at school called me a ‘freak’ or a ‘loser’?”

“You’re not in high school anymore!” Wayne shouts, snapping Harris from his Fred Flintstone-induced daze. “You’re a grown-ass man! With a kid! And if you spend the rest of your life jumping from girl to girl because of how you were treated fifteen years ago, you’re gonna continue to be one miserable son-of-a-b–gun.”

Ignoring his uncle’s rebuttal, Eddie waves Harris over. “C’mon, Har-Bear. We gotta get home. Say good-bye to Grampa Wayne”

“Ed, you don’t have to–”, 

“I’m really not interested in what you, or anyone else, has to say about my life,” he snaps, taking Harris’s empty bowl and tossing it in the sink with a clatter. “I’m doing the best I can; my kid is fed and clothed, and the lights and water are on in my place. Harris, I said, let’s go.” He takes his son’s hand and walks him to the car. 

“Daddy!” Harris whines as Eddie buckles him into his carseat. “I didn’t get to say goodbye to Grampa Wayne!”

Eddie lets out an exasperated sigh. “It’s okay, bud. We just gotta get home. Grampa understands.”

Harris bursts into tears, screaming and wailing at the top of his lungs. “I! WANT! GRAMPA!” he shrieks, kicking the back of Eddie’s seat over and over. “I don’t like you anymore, Daddy! You’re mean!”

Eddie tries to ignore the sting of Harris’s insult, reminding himself that he’s just a kid, but the words are like a thorn in his side. “I’m mean?”

“Mhm,” Harris says with another heaving sob. He tries to catch his breath between his words. “You…m-made…Grampa Wayne…yell. A-And th-then you…didn’t let me…say…goodbye!”

A dull ache thumps behind Eddie’s frontal lobe. “I’m sorry, Har. I should’ve let you say goodbye. We can call him when we get home, and you can say goodbye then.”

This seems to quell Harris’s tantrum, and his soft hiccups slowly fade out as he drifts off to sleep. Eddie gingerly unbuckles his seatbelt and lifts him. There will be a day where he won’t be able to lift him anymore, but he can’t bear the idea right now. 

He carries his son up the three flights of stairs and places him in his tiny race car bed. Eddie’s frameless mattress is right next to it, and he lays down and watches Harris’s chest expand and contract with each little breath. His bow-shaped lips are slightly pursed, and there’s a smudge of dried mucus under his nose, a remnant from when he was crying earlier. Eddie makes a mental note to wash off his face before he goes to school tomorrow. 

School—the thought of seeing you, really—had his stomach twisting in knots. Everything was fine until you waltzed into town, getting so bent out of shape over a one-night stand that you ratted him out to his bandmate. And now he looks like the asshole. 

He’ll sort it out tomorrow. He’ll march into the school and ask for—no, demand—that Harris is transferred to another classroom. And then he’ll never have to deal with you again. 

“I’m sorry, but all of the classes are full.”

Eddie raps his fingertips on the school secretary’s desk impatiently. “They’re…full?” He sputters, unable to believe his shitty luck. “Nah, there’s gotta be space for him somewhere. Can you check again?”

The secretary peers up at him over her coke-bottle glasses and rolls her eyes. “Mr. Munson, in order to remain in compliance with Indiana state standards, we are allowed a maximum of ten students per class. All of our classes already have ten students.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he hisses, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Can’t we just swap him with a kid from another class? He can have their teacher and they can have his.”

“If a student from a different classroom moves or requests a transfer, we can discuss allowing Harris to switch. For now, we can just make a note of it in his file and let you know if that opportunity arises.”

Harris looks at his dad with a puzzled expression. “But, Daddy, I like my teacher! She’s really nice and she doesn’t get mad at me if I forget the rules.”

Heat creeps into Eddie’s face as he feels the secretary’s glare–a mixture of bewilderment and irritation that he’s wasting her time with his asinine request. He gives a resigned sigh and takes Harris’s hand as he walks him towards the classroom.

“Have a great day, Har-Bear!” he says, feigning enthusiasm as they reach the door. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Harris frowns. “You’re not gonna walk me inside like tomorrow?”

Eddie pauses for a second, brows pinching together in confusion before he realizes what Harris means. “You mean yesterday?” Eddie corrects him, the corners of his lips tugging into a small smile at his son’s error. “I, uh, I think it’s better if I just stay out here.”

He waits for the impending tantrum, but to his surprise, Harris just shrugs and says, “Okay, bye!” and swings the door open, backpack bouncing as he speedruns into the room excitedly. Eddie can hear your voice, calm and patient, saying, “Harris, we use our walking feet in the classroom,” and his son replying with a chipper, “Oh, yeah! Sorry!”

He’s halfway down the hallway when you call out, “Mr. Munson?”

“Ya?” He stops walking, but doesn’t bother to turn around and face you. He stares at a bulletin board that reads Welcome Back to School in glittery red cut-out letters. Framing the message are little cardboard apples, each with a student’s name written on them in permanent marker. He spots the one that says Harris in the top left corner, and an unfamiliar twinge of pride sets in his chest. 

“I need you to sign Harris in,” you say, trying to keep your tone as even as you do with your students. “It’s school policy.”

“Christ on a cracker,” Eddie grumbles under his breath, spinning back on his heels to head back to the room. So much for avoiding you. You’re standing outside the door, and he immediately notices the way your maroon pants hug your curves in all the right places. If only her personality was as pleasant as her ass, he thinks bitterly, dragging his gaze to the clipboard in your hand. “I didn’t have to do this yesterday.”

“It was the first day of school. I forgot,” you admit. You’re not exactly sure why you’re giving him so much ammunition; perhaps it was the way he just conspicuously drank in the sight of you. “Kinda crazy around here.” You will yourself to shut up, practically clamping your lips together so you’ll stop talking.

Eddie scoffs, yanking the clipboard from your grasp. “Well, aren’t you Teacher of the Year,” he sneers, clicking the pen and scribbling his signature next to Harris’s name before jabbing the sheet back at you. 

Ignoring his insult, you force yourself to make eye contact as you inform him, “You’ll need to come back in later to sign him out.” 

He bites back an irritated laugh, shoving his hands in the pockets of his torn black jeans. He’s equipped with another comment ready to launch at you, one related to your rendezvous a week earlier, but he stops when he sees Harris tugging on the hem of your shirt with urgency.

“What if I’m with my new teacher?” he asks innocently, eyes wide with concern.

“What new teacher, honey?” you ask, crouching down to his level. “You mean Mr. Will?”

Harris shakes his head fervently. “Daddy asked the lady at the desk if I could have a new teacher instead of you.”

You expect Eddie to be embarrassed by his son’s candidness, but he doesn’t even appear to be fazed.  “It was your idea, Sweetheart,” he says with a sly grin. “I’m only making good on my word.”

“Well, look at you, keeping your promises,” you bite back instinctively, silently cursing yourself for snapping at him when you’re on the clock. He might be a total asshole, but he’s Harris’s dad first. At least while you’re at work. You turn your attention back to the little boy. “I’m sorry if we confused you, Harris. I’m your teacher, okay?”

Harris nods slowly, indicating that he doesn’t quite understand what’s happening, but he doesn’t press the issue further. His gaze flits between you and his father. “Why’d you call her ‘Sweetheart’?” he questions Eddie. “Are you boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Eddie nearly chokes on his own tongue. “Absolutely not,” he insists at the same time that you chime in with a firm, “no.”

“Then why–”

“It’s a nickname,” Eddie interrupts before Harris can say anything else. “Like how I call you ‘Har-Bear,’ or how I call Grampa Wayne ‘Old Man.’”

“Oh.” Harris chews on the answer before seemingly accepting it, giggling when he thinks of the way his grandpa grimaces at the name ‘Old Man.’. He smiles up at you. “Can I call you Sweetheart, too?”

You smile back at him, ruffling his curly hair. “That’s Ms. Sweetheart to you,” you tease, but as a four-year-old, he doesn’t pick up on your sarcasm.

“Okay, Ms. Sweetheart!” he laughs, and he mimics your movements and ruffles your hair right back before you stand up. How is this kid so precious when his dad is a complete and utter douchebag?

“Well,” Eddie says finally, crossing his arms over his chest, “I won’t forget about signing him out when I pick him up.”

“Try to get here on time today,” you retort, guiding Harris over to where Will is playing with the other students. “Really makes my job easier when the parents do what they’re supposed to do.”

He walks away with a haughty laugh. “Bold of you to assume I’d want to make anything easier for you.”

The rest of Eddie’s morning proceeds as normal. He picks up the product from Rick’s place and gives him his cut of what he made yesterday. Carefully separating it into small baggies, he delivers to his usuals: the guys who work down on the loading dock, the supergenius stoner who allegedly works as some top government official, the young teacher at Hawkins High who, more than once, has paid for her share with decent head behind the football field. Of course, Eddie keeps a bit hidden away for himself. Whoever coined the phrase don’t get high on your own supply never had a seemingly never-ending stash of weed.

He arrives back at his apartment just before noon, ready to crash on the couch and watch some mind-numbing TV. Opening the door, he kicks off his muddy sneakers to find his uncle sitting on the couch, twiddling his thumbs anxiously.

“Jesus, Wayne!” Eddie shouts, putting a hand to his chest. Giving him a key to the place suddenly didn’t seem like such a great idea. “Scared the shit outta me. What’re you doing here? Don’t you have work?” 

“Took the day off,” Wayne explains, reaching for the manila envelope that he’s placed on the cushion next to him. “Had, uh, an appointment.”

Based on the serious look on his face, Eddie assumes he’s talking about a doctor, and the blood drains from his face at the thought of Wayne battling a terminal illness. “Shit, you okay? Are you sick?”

“Sit down, Eddie.” He hands him the envelope without another word. Eddie does what he says, flipping up the edges of the silver fastener and taking out a small stack of stapled papers. He scans the documents, expecting to see some kind of medical test results. Instead, his eyes widen as he reads the opening lines:

TEMPORARY CUSTODY AGREEMENT: 

I, EDWARD JOHN MUNSON, the custodial parent of the following child(ren): HARRIS WAYNE MUNSON, do hereby give custody to WAYNE ALBERT MUNSON.

“What the hell is this?” Eddie snarls, clenching his fists and crumpling the papers. “Are you trying to take my kid away from me? Is this some kind of sick revenge because of our fight yesterday?”

Wayne shakes his head. “Ed, this has nothing to do with what happened yesterday. I’ve had this meeting with the lawyer for a while now.” He lets out a long, tired sigh. “When you got arrested a couple months ago, it made me realize how much I was turnin’ a blind eye to your…business.”

“You mean when Hopper let me off with a warning?” Eddie reminds him. He rolls his eyes impatiently, but his bouncing leg gives away how nervous he is to have this conversation. “The Chief isn’t gonna let anyone lock me up just for selling pot. I won’t sell the hard shit anymore, and Rick knows that.”

But the older man presses on, ignoring his nephew’s rebuttal. “When your dad got arrested, I was lucky that the state gave you to me instead of sticking you in foster care. But we were both twenty-odd years younger; I don’t know they’d be so willing to let an old man take care of a four-year-old without it in writing.” 

The mention of his father has Eddie seeing red. “I’m not my dad.” he spits. “My dad didn’t fucking take me to school. Couldn’t even be bothered to make sure I had everything I needed. Food, water, shelter? That piece of shit didn’t give a rat’s ass.”

“But he did sell drugs. And that’s how he got busted,” Wayne points out, voice rising a bit. “And Hopper’s nearly as old as I am. He’s gonna be retiring soon; we can’t keep countin’ on him to cover for you.” His eyes are misty with tears as he says, “all I want is for Harris to have the same kind of protection that you had. Just until you get a job that doesn’t put you at odds with the law. It’s all temporary, see?” He motions to the first bolded word at the top of the document.

But Eddie’s too enraged to care, tearing up the papers and letting them fall to the floor like legal confetti. “I’ve gotta go,” he hisses, grabbing his keys so quickly that they clatter among the sea of document scraps. “You should go, too.”

“I could get you some work at the plant,” Wayne offers meekly. It’s not the first time he’s extended the opportunity, but he figures it’s worth a shot. “Just somethin’ while you look for what you really wanna–”

“I said, leave!” Eddie shouts. “I don’t need you poking your nose in my life anymore. My life works for me, and it works for Harris, and there’s no reason to turn everything upside down.”

“You think his dad gettin’ thrown in prison won’t turn his life upside down?!” Wayne snaps, finally unloading everything onto Eddie. “You think being torn away from the people he loves won’t hurt him? I’d do anything to keep that boy safe, just like I did for you, you ungrateful sonofabitch.”

Eddie’s response flies off of his tongue before he can bite it back. “And look how that turned out for me.”

A pained expression crosses Wayne’s face, but he recovers quickly. “I’ll always love you, Ed. No matter what.” He pauses. “But I don’t like who you are anymore. Ever since you moved back here, all you’ve done is push away the people who care about you.” He starts towards the door before briefly turning back. “When you’re ready to let people in, to be happy again, you let me know.”

Eddie scoops up his keys and flings open the door, letting it slam behind him. His fingers tremble as he fumbles for the pack of cigarettes in his back pocket. It takes a few tries before he can steady his hands enough to light one, and he inhales deeply to try and calm his nerves. How could Wayne possibly think that Harris wasn’t safe with him? After everything Eddie had sacrificed for his son; the dreams he gave up, the life he let go of…

Did anyone actually believe that he still wanted to be here, in Hawkins, the town bursting with haunting memories? Every time he drove near the high school, he could practically hear the echoing taunts of freak and loser emanating from its hallowed halls. No; he was only here because he couldn’t raise a kid alone. Apparently, Wayne thought he was incapable altogether.

He goes through another three cigarettes on the ride to the preschool, snuffing out the last one with the toe of his scuffed Vans outside the entrance. 

“I need to sign out my son, Harris Munson,” he tells the secretary, who gives him a bemused glare. “Family emergency.” 

The secretary nods, picking up the phone without taking her eyes off of Eddie, as though she’s concerned that he’ll bolt if she lets him out of her sight. He hears her relaying the message that Harris’s dad is here to pick him up early, but he’s too busy pacing back and forth to eavesdrop for a response.

All he can think about is how it would feel to sign those papers, basically admitting defeat. Admitting that he couldn’t handle fatherhood. Just because he stepped up when Harris’s mom wasn’t able to be a parent didn’t mean he was a good dad. It just meant he stuck around.

Maybe his presence in Harris’s life was doing more harm than good.

“Mr. Munson?” Your voice draws him out of his rumination. You’re holding a now-empty Tupperware that once contained a salad; dressing smeared on the inside, and your eyes hold nothing but concern. Nothing in your body language demonstrates any sort of contempt, and Eddie has to wonder how bad he looks for you to not hate him, even briefly. “Is everything okay?”

It’s then that he realizes that his lip is bleeding from biting it so hard, and his cheeks are wet with tears.

“Don’t you have a classroom of kids to watch?” he sneers, watching as you wince. “Really vying for that Teacher of the Year spot, aren’t ya?”

“It’s my lunch break…” you start before realizing that you have no need to defend yourself to him. “Why are you so mean to me?” You keep your tone as hushed as possible, not wanting to attract any unwanted listeners. “Seriously, what did I do to you?”

“Besides ruin my life?”

You scoff incredulously, annoyance creeping back into your posture. For some reason, this bothers Eddie less than seeing you worried about him. “What are you talking about?”

“Your little gossip session with Jeff?” he spits back. “The one where you told him I called you a frigid bitch? Or maybe the one where you painted me to be some asswipe womanizer all because I didn’t call you?” He rakes his fingers through his long brown curls. “I have no one now; are you happy? Christ, you’ve lived in this goddamn town for two minutes and you’ve managed to turn my best friends against me.”

“I didn’t do shit,” you fume, whispering the last word in case children are passing by. “I told Jess, and I didn’t know she was at her sister’s place. And the only reason Jeff even knew about our night together was because I needed a ride after you basically kicked me out of your apartment.”

“You weren’t supposed to sleep over,” he murmurs so softly, you can barely hear him. 

“Why not? What would’ve been so bad about that?”

He doesn’t have the chance to answer–or come up with a half-hearted excuse–before Harris is flinging himself into his legs, wrapping his arms around his waist in a tight hug. “Daddy! Mr. Will said I’m going home, but none of my friends are going home.”

Eddie scoops up his son, resting him on his hip. “That’s because you and I are having a super-special, super-secret Daddy-Son Day at the zoo!” he whispers in his ear, and Harris beams in response. Eddie’s own father never took him out of school and brought him on fun outings. The only time he got out early was when they were on the run from the cops or evading an eviction notice over unpaid rent. Zoo trips? Unheard of. So there, Wayne.

“Have fun!” you chirp, swallowing your anger for Harris’s sake, and for your own. “I can’t wait to hear all about it, Harris.” You rub his back gently and walk back to your classroom. Like most of your encounters with Eddie Munson, you leave with more questions than answers.

“Daddy, look at that!” Harris shouts happily, pointing to a flamingo stretching and flapping its pink wings. “Look how fluffy it is!”

Eddie squints in the sun to get a better view. “Yeah,” he agrees with a laugh, squeezing Harris’s hand. “Fluffy like a teddy bear.”

Harris frowns, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “No, Daddy. That’s a bird, not a bear.”

“You’re right,” Eddie says, trying to hold back his laughter. “You’re really learnin’ a lot in school, huh?”

“Mhm,” Harris says, leading his dad to the next exhibit. A hippo pops its head out of the water and glances around curiously before lowering back down. “Ms. Sweetheart is the bestest teacher ever! She sings songs, an’ reads to us, an’ she’s even helping me write my name!”

At the mention of your inadvertent nickname, Eddie’s jaw clenches. It’s my own stupid fault for bringing up school, he thinks bitterly, but brushes past it. “Are you having fun on our Daddy-Son Day?”

“Most fun ever!” Harris jumps up and down with each syllable. “Did you and Grampa Wayne do Daddy-Son days?”

Eddie shakes his head. “Har, remember? Grampa Wayne is actually my uncle, not my dad.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harris says, slowing his pace slightly. “But he was kinda like your dad, right? He took care of you like he’s your dad?”

“Y-Yeah,” Eddie nods. “Yeah, he took care of me like a dad.”

“Where is your dad? Why didn’t he take care of you?”

“He, um, he couldn’t,” Eddie offers lamely. “He didn’t know how to be a dad. So Grampa Wayne decided to raise me.” As he says the words, he feels sick. He’s tried so hard not to be like his old man–his biological one–and yet he’d basically become a carbon copy. Just a guy in way over his head, failing to be the man his son needed him to be. “You know I love you, right?”

“I know,” Harris chirps happily. “Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we go see the penguins now?”

“Sure thing, bud.”

On the way back from the zoo, with Harris nodding off in the backseat after the self-proclaimed “best day of his life,” Eddie pulls into the record store parking lot. It’s changed quite a bit since his younger years, but the music selection is still the best this town has to offer. He peruses their metal section, a snoozing Harris resting his cheek against his chest. Plucking a few cassettes from the bin, he places them on the counter and digs into his back pocket for his wallet. A handwritten HELP WANTED sign catches his eye.

“You guys hiring?” he asks the bored teenager behind the register.

“Yup,” comes the monotone reply, not making eye contact as he rings up the tapes.

Eddie waits a beat before continuing. “Is there an application or something?” The cashier pulls a sheet of paper from behind the sign and hands it to him. “Cool. I’ll drop it off tomorrow.” Eddie takes the bag of cassettes and shuffles back towards the car.

The application feels like it’s staring at him from where he’s set it on the passenger seat. The idea of being a minimum wage employee makes him cringe; it’ll probably take him weeks to earn what he makes in a day for Rick. He glances in the rearview mirror at his peacefully sleeping son.

“Only for you, Har-Bear.”

--

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[restless-mama]

Sol Exposed

Back at it again! Encouraged by my beloved friends from the 14DWY Discord server (I love yall!), I decided to write Sol (from The Kid at the Back, visual novel) fic. Sol belongs to @fantasia-kitt and Christine belongs to me. Female pronouns and etc are used. THIS FIC CONTAINS SPOILERS TO TKAB!

Summary wise, sometimes you just can't do what you want and think you can get away with it! Christine finds out what her crush has done to her and she wants to get even. She exposes him in at least three ways. His naughty deeds, his body, and his feelings.

Warnings: Stalking, Drugs, Handcuffs, subby Sol

Banner belongs to @arklayraven

It was late but as your typical college student, Christine was tapping and clicking on her laptop as she sits at her desk browsing the internet. A glass of orange juice sitting by her laptop. Her phone lights up with a notification. Her lamp on her nightstand was still on emitting light throughout the room. It was Sol, her current crush. He wishes her goodnight and that he’ll see her tomorrow. A high pitch giggle escapes her lips while she kicks her feet a little. If only she could confess her feelings to him. Yes, she had a crush on Crowe in the beginning. She felt it would be better off if Crowe and her remained friends.  Grabbing her phone, she sends a reply biding him goodnight and reminding him to not stay up so late. She was aware of him staying up in wee hours of the night, doing God knows what. 

She looks through some false nails to buy since Halloween was around the corner which is her favorite holiday. Christine orders a set of false nails from an Etsy seller of the name AnastasiasNails. The set of nails were in a coffin cut set with black lace and red small false rubies as designs. 

Another thing she had to order was a costume for the Halloween party her school hosted. She decided to purchase a black gothic lolita dress. It was a halter dress with a bowknot on the halter neck which exposed the rib-shaped cutout on the back. The skirt part of the dress was laced tiered ruffle. After placing her orders, she looked out of her window. The lock was still broken, and it reminded her to look at the hidden cameras she had set up in her apartment. Some of her laundry has gone missing, like her favorite pair of panties. Also, items disappearing and reappearing around her house. Then there were a few mornings with some dried substance on her stomach. A few times she notices bruises on her neck and/or collar bone. However, she doesn’t remember a thing.  

Christine pulls up the footage as her fingers wrapped around the cold glass of orange juice. She sip from the glass that consists of the fruity, tangy drink. Her finger clicking on the mouse to fast forward on the video. Suddenly she stops and watches to see someone climbing through her window with the broken lock. Her brown eyes widen and swallows hard. A surge of anxiety and fear coursed through her body as she continues to watch the hooded figure walked out of her room. Her eyes darts over to the camera recording that was in her kitchen. 

Her brown eyes studied the figure and noticed how tall he was. He was most definitely taller than her which she was only 5’5”. She watches in horror as the figure opened her fridge door to take out her orange juice and twist open the top. Then they took out a pill that looked very familiar, opened the capsule and dropped the powdery medication into her juice. Christine drops the glass that she was drinking out of, onto the ground. She watches in silent horror as she realizes her drink has been spiked. No wonder why she has been sleeping so well lately. 

“Son of a bitch!” Christine curses as she stands up. Her body was shaking a little from what she has watched. She was about to move to grab a nearby towel to dry the orange juice off the carpet, until the figure’s face caught her attention. The brunette stands there in shock and turns her head back to her laptop screen. Their eyes looks very familiar... They were orangey-red. 

“No...” Christine whispers. She knew who those eyes belonged to. ‘He... he wouldn’t... would he?’ The brunette thought her herself.  

The spilled juice was longed forgotten. The young college student sits back down and continues to go through the footage. He does leave her apartment but comes back late at night when she was in bed, asleep. Once again, he sneaks in through her window. She watches him pick up her arm and drop it, confirming that she was in a deep, drugged sleep. He pushed his hood down to reveal his black hair with green highlights and his mask was pushed down under his chin. It was indeed Sol. In the footage, he kisses her face close to her lips. He strokes her hair, tucking a strand of her messy dark brown and red hair behind her ear. She watches him suckling her neck, creating the mysterious bruises, which she realizes were hickies. Then the unthinkable happens. How could he...? He was so kind to her. So protective and caring. 

Christine watches in shock and....arousal? She couldn’t believe she was getting turned on by the sight of Sol doing this to her while she slept. This type of behavior wasn’t acceptable for normal standards, yet she could not deny the surge of pleasure course through her veins as she watched him. The tip of her tongue darts out and laps her top lip, imagine how he would taste. Perhaps she was just as crazy as him... Maybe... She should get even. 

~*~ 

With little effort, it didn’t take much lure Sol back to her apartment. They both had an assignment to finish anyways. Christine, being such a lady, offered Sol something to drink. Once they finished their refreshments, they retreated to her bedroom.  Christine sat down in her chair as the taller man sat down on her bed as he drew her. She could feel his red-orange eyes trace every bit of her body. Her heart pounded in her chest as she keeps it together as she suppresses the need to make him beg. It’s only a matter of time now. 

Sol wipes the sweat off his brow as he notices he has gotten hotter than usual. A surge of lust rans through his veins. He forwards his brows as his eyes bore into his drawing of his beloved. He usually could control his urges when he’s near her. Something was wrong. His heart begins to beat faster, and his pants felt a little too tight against his body. His body is getting hotter by the minute. 

“Sol...?” Christine’s voice could be heard, and the artist looks towards the direction of the voice. He jumps and gasps as he realizes she was inches away from him. His face becomes more flustered. Another surge of pleasure rushed through his body, especially his member. How did she get so close? When did she get so close? The brunette couldn't help but giggle, he noticed the tone of it was more... menacing.  

The brunette moves in closer to him. Her lips inches from his lips. “Are you okay...? My little stalker?” Christine confronts him. His eyes widen in shock.  

“Fuck...!” He whispers. Before he can explain himself, she presses her lips against his in a passionate kiss. His pencil and sketch book drops to the carpet floor as she pushes him down onto her bed. Her hips rolls against his member through the fabric of their pants. This earns a muffled groan from the taller man. Seizing the opportunity, she got a hold of his arms and handcuffs him to the bed frame. 

Sol looks up in shock at his the woman above him. “Christine... let me-” A delicate finger pressed on his lips shushing him from explaining himself. Christine staddles his hips rubbing her groin against him earning a moan from the man below her. His skin was so sensitive and hot. Her scent on her bed was driving him insane more than usual. He wondered what was going on. Then it dawned on him that he didn’t get like this after he drank something she gave him. No... his own beloved couldn’t do this right? She wasn’t capable? Or was he wrong? 

The woman on top of him breaks the kiss. "I added a little something to your drink... Just like you did mine but mine is an aphrodisiac.” Christine giggles. She looks down at him with her caramel eyes full of mischief. “I put hidden camera around my apartment Sol... I know everything... And now, it’s my turn to have my fun with you~” Her soft hands moves under his shirt, pushing it up as she touches his tone torso. As if her touch left a trail of fire in her wake.  Her fingers reach to his pierced nipples and strokes them with her fingers. 

“Ahhh! Christine!” Sol pants out with his face flushed with red, choking down his moans, trying to remain quiet. He was panting and sweat formed on his forehead. His eyes half-lidded and full of desire.  

“Someone’s very sensitive, aren’t they?” Christine said seductively and playfully, “Tell me Sol...” She darts her tongue out and swirls her tongue around his pierced nipple causing him to squirm and whimper uncontrollably, “Is this what you wanted me to do to you? To take this big cock of yours?” Her hand undoes his pants and pulls out his thick, long member and strokes it very slowly. She had to admit... She was impressed by the length and size of his erection. 

The green haired artist looks up at his beloved with a mixture of shock and desire. He hadn’t expected her to be so brazen and forward. “Yes.... Yes! This is what I wanted...” Sol whines out as his throbbing cock leaks precum onto her hand. His own obsession with her was bad enough but with the aphrodisiac running through his veins took it to the next level. Without any hesitation, she pulls off his pants and boxers off.  

“You’re so hard for me...” Christine teases. She sits on her heels and lowers her head over his veiny member, which still leaking with precum. Her lips parted around his wide cock and sucks off his salty seed. She sticks her tongue out and traces the thick veins on his member. Sol’s eyes roll back into his head as he feels Christine’s wet tongue swirling around the over sensitive tip of his cock. He could feel shivers down his spine while his body becomes overloaded with pure pleasure. 

All he could think of was her. Her scent. Her touch. Those lustful yet mischievous, caramel eyes. His fantasies were becoming a reality, but this exceeded his expectations. “Oh fuck, Chris...” Sol gasps between labored breaths, his eyes hazy and burning with desire. “You make me feel so goddamn good...” 

His needy words and pleas were music to her ears. The brunette could feel the surge of arousal shoot down her clit. Christine takes his cock into her mouth sucking him in and taking him deeper into her mouth. Her brown eyes shot up at him to meet his red-orange eyes, maintaining eye contact as she sucks his dick. Sol watches Christine takes his throbbing member deeper into her mouth, swallowing his erection with ease. He gasps loudly at the sight, like he was in a trace. He finds himself utterly captivated by her beauty and the way she seems to relish having power over him. His hips buck involuntarily, driven wild by her experienced oral skill. She takes him deeper in her mouth and into her throat, deep throating him. She swallows, causing her throat to squeeze around him, earning a straggled moan from Sol. 

Suddenly, Christine pulls away. A mix of frustration and confusion could be seen in his eyes as he watches her pull away. “W-why did you stop?” He whines between heavy pants. 

The corner of her lips tugs upward into a smirk as Christine gives Sol a seductive look. Her hand reaches down to the hem of her tight red shirt and slowly pulls it off revealing her breasts in a black lacy bra. She could hear him tug hard against the cuffs. Metal clashing metal. He lets out a long ragged, breath and looks at her hungrily, unable to contain the raw lust burning through his body. His mouthwatering. His eyes never leaving her body as she slowly undresses in front of him. She removes her bra, releasing her breasts from the confines which earns a breathy gasp from him. Her hand finds her hair tie on the end of her brain and removes it, letting her brown and red hair free from the messy braid. 

“Oh God... Pumpkin..” Sol pants as watches her remove her black ripped jeans and panties. Just looking at her nude body, his face was burning from lust and desire. “You’re so beautiful... Please Christine. Take the cuffs off. Let me touch you. I need to touch you.” The green haired handsome man begged. His voice was hoarse. His eyes never left her nude body. They always reminded her of lava and she could feel the heat of his gaze burn onto her skin. 

“No...” Christine denies him and straddles him, rubbing her wet cunt on the underside of his shalf. Sol trembles beneath her and whimpers out her name. She had to admit, her name coming out of his mouth sounded like music to her ears. “You been a very, very bad boy, Sol... I think I’m going to make you beg for forgiveness.” She rolls her hips slow against his throbbing member, earning a needy moan from him. “Or I won’t let you cum.” 

“Fuucckkkk.....!” Sol cried out low as he pulled hard against the cuffs in desperation again. Metal raddles against one another. His body quivers in need. His aching cock was getting harder and hard to the point where it began to hurt as his body reaches to its limits. It needed a release. He HAVE to cum. He couldn’t even think to control himself any longer. His mind clouded by what his body needed. Their eyes met once again, and she could see his pupils blown wide with desire.  

“I’m sorry Christine! Please...” Her stalker chokes out, “I’ll do anything! Anything! Just please, please! Make me come... Let me come!” 

Christine giggles lowly. “So needy and desperate...” She teases him, “You look so cute when you’re at my mercy...” 

Before he could respond, the brunette slips him inside of her warm cunt, earning a throaty groan from the man beneath her. A gasp escapes her lips as his wide cock stretches her pussy walls. Perhaps she may have underestimated his size. Christine forwards her brows and bites her lower lip as she takes all him inside her. Sol watched her intensely and couldn’t help but chuckle. 

“Guess I’m a lot more to handle than you thought, huh?” Sol pants out still flustered and desperate yet still able to give her a smug grin. Christine narrows her caramel eyes at him. She pulls herself up until his tip was barely in, she slams down hard in a fast motion taking all of him again.  

“Fuck!” Sol lets out a surprised yelp as his soulmate slams down onto him with force. The cuffs rattle once again as he yanks against them again. His head is thrown back onto her pillows, inhaling her sweet floral scent. God... She smelled divine to him. Her walls tighten hard around him, giving him a hard squeeze before as she starts to move up and down his veiny cock. Suddenly she slams down onto him again and they both let out a moan. Her fingers find his pierced nipples and begin to stroke them as she rides him. She kept her pace unexpected and erratic, driving him into her cunt. 

“Ohhhh fuck...! Pumpkin... You feel so fucking good..” Sol rasped out with his eyes hazy, his face still red, and his mouth slightly agape, drool starting to hang out from the corner of his lips. Christine couldn’t help but moan as his thick girth rubs her sensitive walls in the right places. He was the thickest she had ever taken. 

“Ahhh...” She pants, “You know... You could have asked. I might have said yes... Instead of drugging me...” She whispers as she slams her cunt up and down his cock. She begins to increase her pace, bouncing wildly on him. It was pushing him towards the edge.  

“I know... Ahhh...” Sol moans as his eyes roll to the back of his head, “I’m sorry, Christine...” He sounds sincere even though he sounds so fucked out of his mind. He could feel her warm juices which are mixed with his pre-cum flow down his cock and balls. His balls tighten as he draws near his climax. It didn’t help that she was near her own peak and her walls became tighter and tighter than before. 

“Ahhhh... Fuuuccckkkk...” He groans lowly. His eyes find her face and a surge of pleasure shoots down his hard cock. Before him was his beloved with her face contorted in bliss with her puffy lips parted. Her eyes half lid as she rides him in abandonment. That sight alone threw him over the edge. “Christine...! I’m going to cum!” Sol bucks his hips up wildly to meet her pace, trying to catch his high. They began to move in sync causing both parties to cry out in pleasure. His balls tighten. He could feel the intense pleasure coursing through his veins. His back arches as he releases a torrent of his pent-up seed inside her tight walls. Christine was not far behind him. She moans out sweetly as she cums hard against him member. Her walls gripping him like a vise, milking every drop of his seed. His name leaves her lips as a whisper.  

“I love you, Christine! I love you so much...” Sol whimpers out his confession as he rides out his orgasm. He could feel the heat leaving him a little. It seems that the aphroditic was wearing out. Just a little.  

“Y-you love me?” The brunette breaths out, trying to catch her breath. Her warm caramel eyes looks down to catch his hazy gaze. It was time for Christine to become flushed. Her heart pounding against her chest. “Why didn’t you just say so...?” 

Sol sighs and looks at the woman on top of him, “Shit I don’t know... You looked like you have a crush on Crowe.” He said Crowe’s name with such venom. Was he jealous all along? 

“I had a crush on Crowe.” Christine corrected him and crossed her arms, squeezing her tits together. “Past tense, Sol... Besides, I have a crush on you.” 

“Wait... What?” Sol couldn’t believe his ears. She then slowly pulls herself off him which makes him whimper out in disappointment.  

“You heard me... Now let me uncuff you.” Christine said as she moved to take the key from under her other pillow and uncuffs him. She assumed that he was done and the aphrodisiac had wore off. However, once the cuffs were off, Sol’s large hands were on her waist, and he gently pushes her down onto her bed. A gasp escapes the woman’s lips as the green haired man pins her down by her wrist. Her brown and red hair scattered on her bed. A blush forms on her shocked face. Sol growls lowly at the sight of her. He could feel his blood rushes down to loins, making his member erect once again. 

Her caramel brown eyes meets his red-orange ones which are filled with so much burning desire. She could just simply melt in his gaze. She can’t deny her own desire, especially being held down by him. Sol leans in, their lips just inches from one another. She could feel his hot breath against her cheek. His short green hair tickling her skin. "What happened? You were so bold earlier...” He teases and whispers lowly, “Or you like being held down do you?” 

Before Christine could answer, Sol crushes his lips against her roughly. His cold lip piercings rubbing against her soft lips. She parts her lips, allowing his tongue in as they both kissed passionately. Then she felt the cold metal of her own hand cuffs being applied on her wrist. All she could do was just submit to his power. They continue their heated, passionate kiss until they both break away to breathe. They both pants and gazed into each other's eyes. Sol then pulls away to sit on his heel and removes his two shirts, along with the long black key necklace he had on. After tossing them aside, he lowers his head down to one of her nipples and suckles it into his mouth.  

A sharp gasp was heard followed by a moan as he swirls his tongue around the bulb. Her body arches back. She felt his hand slip down between her legs, his index finger rubbing against her entrance, teasing her and smearing his cum around. Christine moans and squirms beneath him. Sol releases her nipple with a loud “pop” then parts her thighs with his large hands. He growls in delight as he admires his own cum leaking out of her cunt. His member growing harder at such a delectable sight. 

“Fuck... You look so cute when you’re filled up with my cum...” He groans lowly as he rather his own seed with his own fingers and pushes them into her pussy making Christine cry out in pleasure. 

“Sol!” Christine cries out. She could feel her falls stretch to accommodate his thick fingers. His fingers begin to stroke her sensitive walls making her throw her head back in pleasure. Her hips roll to meet his thrusts until he pulls his digits out of her and brings them to her puffy lips. She obediently parts her lips, letting him push his fingers into her mouth. Her tongue swirls around the digits to lick and then suck off the cum off his fingers. Once they were licked clean, he pulls them out of her mouth as a string of saliva was still attached from her tongue and his wet fingers.  

The green haired men then push his fingers back into her wet cunt and curls his fingers repeatedly, searching her sensitive spot. A sharp inhaled gasp was heard from the brunette. She was never able to find her own g-spot with her own fingers, but it seems Sol’s fingers were far better. They were longer and able to reach the right spot in her cunt. Her body trembled in delight. Her back arched and she began to moan uncontrollably.  

“Oh my GOD!” Christine cries out in pleasure as her tight walls tighten around. Suddenly, she cums and squirts all over his hand and forearm. Sol doesn’t let up, he continues to drive his digits into her franticly, making her soak her bed sheets beneath her. His name continues to leave her mouth in such debauch manner as she cums and squirts repeatedly. 

“Ahhhh! It feels too good!” The woman whimpered and moaned wildly, uncontrollably. Her walls spasm and contract against his fingers. 

“I just got started and you’re already falling apart.” Sol said lowly, a playful smirk tugged on his pierced lips as he teased her. He then lowers his mouth and stroke his tongue against her clit making Christine roll her hips. A straggled moan escapes her lips. The sounds she made were like music to Sol’s ears. He pulls out his own fingers and replaces them with his tongue, sucking and lapping up her liquid gold. She tasted so divine. She sounded like an angel to him. Just like how he imagine she would.  

Christine feels his then laps up to her clit once more and suck gently onto the swollen clit. She could feel electricity courses through her body from his administrations. Shivers shooting down her spine. She gazes at him, watching him with her half-lidded lazy eyes. He could hear her pants for air. His pierced lips brush away from her clit and onto her thigh. She could feel the coolness of the small metal. Teeth gazing over the flesh, he bites down softly and sucks forming a soon to be small bruise on her thigh.  

“This is how I will make you feel every night.” Sol pulls back and gazes at his mark in admiration. “That’s what you will get for being mine.” He pushes her legs up until her knees meet her chest and parts her legs with his large hands. Christine moans as she felt him rub himself over her clits and wet folds, teasing her. She makes a rasped out a desperate moan, “Please... Don’t tease me...” begged Christine. Her eyes pleading him. Her face flushed red, and her eyes barely opened. 

Sol chuckles softly and slowly pushes himself in, inch by inch. He could feel her slick and wet pussy envelop him, wrapping around his thick member. Christine moans softly as she involuntarily contracts her walls around him, pulling him in deeper.  

“S-shit... you’re so tight...” Sol growls lowly as his cock is swallowed by her warmth.  Unable to contain his desire, he quickly pulls back until his tip only remained and drives his thick member deep inside of her wet folds with one forceful thrust. The brunette cries out in bliss as he filled her completely.  His hips begin to move rhythmically, thrusting himself into her tight walls again and again, fucking her hard and making her scream in pleasure. “And you’re all mine. Mine to take. Mine to fuck.” 

“Yes.. Yes! I’m yours... Only yours! Please don’t stop! Harder. Sol.... Harder!” Christine moans out loudly as he obeys her command and buries himself into her in an unrelenting tempo. His name leaves her lips repeatedly like a prayer, making his heart swell with emotion. She gazes up at his face and her heart flusters at such a delectable sight. His face was contorted in pleasure. Sweat drips down from his brow. Some of the ends of his green hair wet from sweat, sticking against his cheek. A blush was formed on his face. His mouth a gape as he pants. His eyes sadly shut. She wanted to see those beautiful, lust filled red-orange eyes of his. 

Her hand shot up and placed on his cheek, stroking it. He snaps his eyes open at the sudden touch, recalling that he did cuff her. Apparently, she quietly uncuffed herself earlier. “Keep your eyes open Sol... Let me see those beautiful eyes of yours. I want you to remember how I look while you fuck me...” She purrs. 

Her words cause a surge a desire to run through his veins as it adds more fuel to need to please her. Sol places on of his large hands on her shoulder and one on waist. HE holds her in place as he slams into her wet folds in pure reckless abandonment, giving into his primal instincts. Christine's eyes rolls to the back of her head and cries out his name. Her hand slips off his cheek and onto his shoulder, digging her nails in. The sounds of skin colliding, along with lust filled noises from the couple could be heard throughout the room.  

“I’m cumming!” Christine moans out, her walls tighten hard around him earning a low growl from Sol. Her cunt gripped him like a vise and then she squirts all over his member and his groin.   

“Fuck!” Sol chokes out as his pace becomes brutally fast as he chases after his own orgasm. The scent from her sticky fluids overwhelmed his senses. Her tight walls tighten around his thick cock, driving him to the edge. He thrusts into her once more until he unleashes a torrent of his seed into the warm, wet pussy and sending himself in a lust filled Eupora.  “I love you Christine! You’re mine... All mine!” 

They both gasp and pants to catch their own breath, trying to normal their breathing. Sol then buries his face into her neck, nuzzling her. “Mine...” He breaths. 

“Yours... just like you’re mine...” Christine whispers in his ear as she runs her fingers in his green hair.  

~Later~ 

Christine runs her fingers through her wet hair, applying her hair product into her hair in front of the bathroom mirror. Her black towel wrapped securely around her torso. Sol was still taking a shower. At first he didn’t want to take a shower, stating that he wanted her dried fluids to remain on him which earned a look from Christine. He eventually relented and agreed to a shower. Christine went first and once she was done, Sol have already put on new bed sheets after removing the ones that were stained with their fluids. She felt so embarrassed but Sol reassured her that he just simply wanted to take care of her. 

The sound of water being cut off could be heard, indicating that Sol was done taking a shower. He steps out and dries himself off with one of Christine’s extra towels. He steps in in view of the mirror and dries his green hair. Christine’s brown caramel eyes traced his naked form in the reflecting surface. His body was slim but toned. His tight muscle flexing in his arms. She also notices a good number of old bruises that have faded to yellow.  

“Enjoying the view, pumpkin?” Sol said playful, shooting a smirk at the mirror as he dries the side of his head. Christine blushes and drops her gaze. She grabs her perfume to spray on her wrist, as he chuckles behind her. As she rubs fragrance on her wrist and neck, Sol wraps his arms around her from behind and bends down slightly to rest his on her shoulder to nuzzle her neck. She could feel his bare chest on her back, his hot breath on her neck. 

“Hmm...” He inhales her scent, rubbing her nose against her tender flesh. “No wonder why you always smelled so good...” 

Christine could feel him getting semi-hard and she elbows him gently. “Behave yourself. Sol.”  

A low chuckle emits from his throat, and he kisses her temple. “For now... But I’m pretty sure you’re hungry. What does my soulmate wanna eat?” 

“Soulmate, huh?” Christine giggling and turns around to wrap her arms around his neck, pulling him close, “Surprise me. I always enjoy your cooking. Just don’t spike my orange juice again...” 

Sol laughs and picks her up to kiss her lips. He knows that she’s not going to let him hear the end of it. 

[honeylations]

- Angry Pupu -

KIM CHAEWON x FEM!READER

Prompt: Chaewon is known for her anger issues, always yelling at the smallest things whereas you’re her calm and collected girlfriend, always so soft spoken and doing everything with a cute smile. Your members wonder how you two ended up dating despite the obvious opposite personalities.

Warnings/Notes: cute pupu, angry pupu, reader is adorable tooooo, soft and fluffy, a mix of comedy

———

“YAH WHO ATE MY MINT CHOCO ICE CREAM!”

———

“YAH WHO USED MY HAIR STRAIGHTENER? WAS IT YOU HUH YUNJIN? WHY THE FUCK DO YOU NEED A STRAIGHTENER WHEN YOU’RE NOT EVEN STRAIGHT YOURSELF!”

———

“WHERE THE HELL ARE MY TAMPONS?!”

———

“WHO WENT INTO MY ROOM AND TOOK MY FAVOURITE PEN?!”

———

The members lost count at the amount of times their leader had screamed today and you seemed to be the only person unbothered by it. Sakura had just finished taking pills for the headache she received from hearing the short girl’s anger.

“I swear this is her new record. How is her throat not hurting?” Sakura whined, rubbing her temple and flopping down on the couch next to you.

“How are you even dating her, Y/n?” Yunjin groans as she joins you two with a bowl of popcorn in her hand.

“Y/n is like the off switch for Chaewon’s tantrums” Kazuha appeared shortly after with a whisper, tensing when she heard Chaewon’s little feet stomp downstairs.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY ZUHA?!”

The youngest Japanese girl ran to you as a shield, angering the leader even more. “BACK OFF MY GIRLFRIEND, NAKAMURA!”

Kazuha squeaked and ran to Yunjin instead, not daring to say another word. Eunchae comes in with a bowl of strawberries and feeds you one before going upstairs to finish her Lilo and Stitch marathon. You hummed at the delicious taste of the fruit and turned to your girlfriend who got jealous of the hand feeding gesture between you and the maknae.

“We should buy more strawberries, love. They taste amazing” You spoke with a smile, Chaewon’s anger disappearing almost immediately.

She cupped your face and pecked your lips. “You’re so fricking cute. ISNT SHE GIRLS? SAY IT TO HER!”

The 3 girls sitting on the couch flinched and started complimenting you chaotically, voices going over each other, not wanting an ass beating from their short tempered leader.

“TOO MUCH COMPLIMENTS! BACK OFF!”

“Love, calm down please” You said, caressing her arm and Chaewon obeyed, sitting in your lap.

“Ok, babe”

“Whipped” Yunjin commented, earning a couch cushion to the face. “OW! God Y/n, I want you to answer my question for real this time. How the hell are you dating this monster?”

“She’s not a monster. She’s my hero~” You cooed, hugging your short girlfriend tighter.

“I’ll be needing a hero if I get screamed at one more time” Kazuha muttered, seeing Chaewon glare at her.

“Chaewon? A hero? You’re saying this girl who’s scared of a mouse toy is your hero?” Sakura scoffed as the leader flipped her off.

“You’re just jealous” Chaewon hisses.

“And you’re a comedian.”

You held your girlfriend back down on your lap before she drop kicked the eldest member.

“Chae saved me from so many people before we debuted. Her yelling may be annoying to you girls but it always reminded me of why I love her! She’s so tough~ Without her anger, she wouldn’t have saved me from the bullies back in high school. She does the same now with anyone who shares hate comments about me. I’m too shy to stand up for myself like that” You explained, your heart swelling at the memories.

“Yeahhhh. Y/n was this cute little chubby nerd in high school” Chaewon grinned, pinching your cheeks again.

“Woah wait what, okay, this was something we haven’t been told before” Yunjin said, adjusting her sitting position and looking at you, Chaewon growling.

“Oh please, pull your head out of your tiny ass Kim, I’m not gonna take your girl. I just wanna know more about this cute little chubby nerd you were just talking about” The American added.

Chaewon got off your lap and sat next to you instead, pushing Sakura further into Kazuha who was already getting squished. The younger Japanese member gave up and sat on the ground instead, snatching Yunjin’s popcorn bowl.

“Yeah it’s true. I wasn’t that good looking in high school” You shyly smiled.

“Hey don’t say that. Nobody starts off as a hottie, like, me in high school with the dark ass eyebrows that didn’t match my hair colour? Goddamn” Yunjin joked, making you all laugh. (A/N: I’m not actually talking about Yunjin like that guyssss! The whole dark eyebrow thing is something I added based on my experience in high school💀💀)

“I’m being honest, I swear! I was super chubby, wore these thick purple glasses and always got bullied for reading books all the time. See?” You pulled out a photo of you in high school and all the girls (besides Chaewon) gasped.

In the photo was 14 year old Y/n with a bob cut and thick fringe, using one hand to hold a thick novel to her chest while the other put up a peace sign. Your purple glasses were indeed huge and you smiled widely, presenting the braces you had at the time.

“Oh and here’s Chae” You zoomed out of the photo and 14 year old Chaewon was exposed. She looked the same, only difference was the long hair in the photo. Sakura squinted her eyes and noticed how Chaewon’s hand was around your waist in the picture.

“Awwww! Chae did you have a crush on Y/n at this time?” The eldest asked as you closed your phone and returned it to your pocket.

“Yeah I did. Couldn’t tell if she liked me back though”

You blushed and slapped your girlfriend’s arm. “I did! I told you before, I just thought you were too good for a nerd like me”

“Nerdy y/n is cute, don’t get me wrong, but you’re absolutely stunning right now. Hellooooo? Your body? Your abs? Your facial structure? It’s so hard to believe that was you in the picture” Kazuha complimented.

“I just finally took the initiative in eating healthier and working out” You shrugged, letting Chaewon play with your fingers.

“Was Chaewon this loud back in highschool too?” Yunjin asked with a blunt tone.

“YAH IM GONNA KILL YOU, HUH YUNJIN!” The shortest member screamed and jumped onto the tallest member, shoving the couch pillow into her face.

You rolled your eyes with a smile and looked at Sakura. “You grab her legs, I’ll grab her arms”

“Absolutely not, she kicked my face last time we did that. Get Kazuha”

The said member stood up. “Sorry I don’t speak nor understand Korean very well so imma just go” Kazuha quickly says and runs upstairs to join Eunchae.

“Stop pretending you loser!” You screamed out to Kazuha in Japanese, knowing damn well this wasn’t the first time she’s done that. (A/N: Fun fact for everyone, Kazuha sometimes pretends that she doesn’t understand what the members are saying to her in Korean😭)

You sighed and stood up, patting down your pants. “Come on, babe, let’s go to bed”

“WHY DO YOU ALWAYS PISS ME OFF WITH EVERYTHING YOU SAY!” Chaewon continued to scream while violating Yunjin with the pillow.

“Y/N HELP PLEASE!”

This was gonna be a long night.

[emmg]

Ok but hear me out:

An AU, Sucker Punch style. It’s a mental asylum, but not the kind you ever wake up from or leave.

Raphael is the Director, Head Doctor, Superintendent—whatever you call the man in charge. But it's all fucking weird and wrong, like I said, Sucker Punch. He looks perfectly normal in his pristine doctor’s coat, but his shadow? Horns. Tail.

And Tav/You are there for some reason.

Throw in Asmodeus as the High Roller for good measure.

The other patients? Just that, patients. But they’re all dressed in debtor’s rags like they’re from the House of Hope. Except for you. You're different. And you don’t know why.

Looming over everything is the Elder Brain or the Absolute—an unspeakable horror that you do not disturb. Ever. They don’t even have to threaten you; you just know. Break the wrong rule, and it’s lights out—straight to the lobotomy room, where your thoughts go to die. There's warnings scribbled on the walls.

One moment, you’re scrubbing pans in a plain asylum uniform. The next, you’re in a psychiatric session with Dr. Raphael, perched on a balcony overlooking Avernus. You're wearing a dress spun from gold, and suddenly he has a tail again, asking you to pass the file so he can sharpen the tip of his horn. Have you been taking your pills, little mouse?

Time slips away. Reality blurs. One minute you’re a patient, the next you’re fucking the devil and he's telling you how there's nine levels to the facility, just like nine layers of hell. And you're not even sure you want to fuck him, but maybe you do, but maybe you don't after all, but maybe he's holding something over your head?

For some reason you're being asked to sign a contract. The contract can make it all go away. Why is a doctor handing you a contract? What use a doctor has for a contract, and why does he suddenly have claws?

The nightmare just keeps folding in on itself.

Honestly, I might just write this train wreck, lmao.