#the self loathing is so fucking strong tonight

[clandestinegardenias]

.

[readychilledwine]

Heavy

Summary - Being a mother is so much harder than you expected, especially when Cassian is gone

Warnings - motherhood, signs of postpartum

A/N- I needed therapy, and this happened. To all my readers who are moms, readers who want to become moms, or dedicated aunts who are bonus moms: you are all amazing, strong, and valued.

You closed your eyes as your daughter cried out for the fifth time tonight. 

She had just fallen asleep. She was warm, content, fed, clean diaper. You didn't know what you were doing wrong, but when she wasn't on your chest, her small wails would break the silence of the House of Wind. You sat up, picking her up to try to stop the crying and sat against the headboard. 

Cassian had been gone for the past 4 days in Windhaven. He had, begrudgingly, agreed to go with Rhys and Azriel. Each item he packed was slammed into his bag haphazardly before he finally realized his anger was keeping your daughter awake, her little wings fluttering with each loud noise. He had slept with her skin to skin the whole night. He refused to allow anyone else to hold his girl before he left in the morning. 

And Gods her cries when she realized daddy wasn't there, that daddy wasn't going to cuddle after feedings with mommy that day, they shattered you. 

She loved her daddy. She loved you. She wanted you both at all times.

But daddy had to work, you would whisper before crying too. 

Tonight had been your last straw. You didn't remember the last time you bathed and changed clothing, the last time you slept for more than 30 to 45 minutes at a time.

The tears came before you could stop them. Cassian's absence had taken a huge toll on your mental health as you constantly had your newborn attached to your breasts, in your arms sleeping on you, crying for you if you so much as left the room to go to the bathroom.

You leaned your head back crying with her little sniffles, “I know, babygirl. I miss daddy too.” 

Cassian glared at Rhys as your stress and emotion stuck him. You had grown so exhausted that keeping the bond locked tight was no longer an option. "She's fine, Cassian. She's a great mom," Rhys said softly. "I wouldn't have pulled you away if she couldn't handle it."

Azriel made a face, having stayed the past week with you and Cassian at the house to be an extra hand. "She's an amazing mother, Rhys, but Sulwyn is a daddy's girl," Azriel leaned against the wall in the cabin. "This is probably overwhelming for all three of them. It's only be 4 weeks."

Cassia was about to respond, thanking Azriel for understanding, but you sent him one last wave before you realized the bond was open. It was that last emotion that hit him that had him standing without warning and taking off. 

That he had never felt from you before. That feeling of completely worthlessness, of self doubt, of complete self loathing. 

He pushed himself, straining each sore muscle before landing hard on your shared balcony in record time. 

And the sight inside broke his heart. 

Your daughter crying on your chest, and you with her, telling her you didn't know what else to try, what was wrong.

“Give her to me,” he said softly. “Give me our daughter. Go bathe. Do something for you.” You shook your head, holding her tighter. “y/n, give me our baby. You need a break, sweetheart. I can feel it. I can feel you falling apart. I can feel the pit forming. Let me take care of you two.”

“But Rhys-”

“Can fuck all the way off. My wife isn't okay. You need to give me Sulwyn and take a break.” You moved slowly, handing Cassian the tiny Illyrian female who instantly calmed in his arms. His face softened immediately, heart warming. “I missed you too, baby.” 

He felt the moment that shattered you too. Another heavy emotion hitting the bond. 

You sat curled up in the tub for what felt like hours. It was long enough Cassian had put Sul down and now sat next to you.

“Tell what’s going through your head,” he pushed wet hair behind your pointed ear. “Talk to me, sweetness.”

“I feel worthless. Like I've lost my sense of who I am and all value I held to the court.” You paused, wiping a few stray tears. “I feel like a burden to you, her, and now our family.”

That one struck Cassian straight in his heart. “You could never be a burden.”

“I can't even calm our daughter to sleep,” you broke again, voice shaking as you began to sob. “All I am her is her personal food slave. No one said it would be this hard.”

“I know, y/n.” Cassian sighed deeply. “We need to get you out of the House,” Cassian tilted your head to him, kissing your forehead lightly. “Madja warned us about this, remember? She warned us that you potentially would start to feel really down. Everything you are feeling is normal, even if it's so far from true.”

Cassian kissed your lips gently. “I need you to listen to me and hear me right now, okay? You are not a burden. You are not worthless. You are not her personal feeding dummy. You are her mother. Her  best friend. Her safe place.” Cassian paused, wiping your tears. “You are my wife. My mate. You are the strongest female I know. You birthed an Illyrian with the wrong anatomy and somehow survived. You're caring for a newborn the size of your torso, and you do it with a smile and without voicing these feelings. She and I would be lost without you.”

He paused again, a small squeak being heard from the bedroom before silence fell back over. “You are her favorite person. She lights up at just the sound of your voice. I have to cuddle her under your blanket. Yes, she was upset and missed me, and Gods I missed her, but you are her world. And you both are mine, and it is killing me to see you like this.”

Another small squeak came. “She's hungry,” you whispered. 

“Would a shitty mom know that just from the noise she's making?” You shook your head, allowing him to help you stand And wrap you in a warm towel. “I'll hold you two while she eats, so you can fall asleep if you want?” 

It was such a little gesture. One of his small smiles gracing his face as he carried you back into your shared room. 

Cassian dressed you gently kissing your fingers, your palms, your cheekbones. He laid in the bed with you two motioning for you to come between his legs and holding Sulwyn to you. 

“Tomorrow mama is going to leave for awhile, Sul. You, daddy, and Auntie Nesta will hang out while Uncle Az takes mom to the Cafe they like to go to so they can discuss the latest in gross spy shit-” Cassian froze behind you. “Stuff.”

He smiled looking down and realizing you had fallen asleep in his arms. “You, little baby,” he looked at Sulwyn, “Are beyond loved. We need to make sure mama feels that way too, okay? Daddy is going to tell Uncle Rhys to shove it tomorrow. Then we're going to work on spoiling mommy.”

Your daughter gave Cassian a small smile, looking up at him with bright doe eyes as she continued eating. “That's my girl.”

[purple-writer8]

I Can Do It With a Broken Heart - ACOTAR

Eris x Rhysand’s Sister (Reader)

“I cry a lot but I am so productive. It’s an art.”

warnings: toxic man implied, abused eris, emotionally unavailable eris, depressed reader, broken up mates, angst

968 words

Masterlist :)

"Yes, I went to Day and reported the findings to Helion. Then to Thesan." You reported to your High Lord and Lady. Rhysand looked more than pleased, and Feyre could only gape at you in awe. 

"You did all that in a day?" She asked in shock, admiration gleaming in her eyes for you. You nodded, a tired smile adorning your face, "and the ball is all set for tonight." 

Feyre gaped along with her mate, they could hardly believe it. "You are a blessing, a real fucking blessing. Thank you, so much... you will get more than a hefty bonus in your next payment." Rhysand grinned, dark talons caressing your mind in a soothing way. 

You rolled your eyes at your brother, then asked, "why do you two always act like I'm some kind of miracle fae?" 

They glanced at each other, then back at you, and then pity overtook both their stares. You know why. You were supposed to be heartbroken, as you had just ended your betrothal to Eris Vanserra. The two of you were mates, but the abuse he had suffered from his father and the toxic familiar dynamics he had grown up in, made him less than emotionally unavailable. 

He was unable to communicate what he felt, all he could do was share his feelings through your bond. But that was not enough, not when he had commitment issues and acted like an ass to your family. The bond was strong, but your self-respect was stronger.  Especially when you knew what you were worth, being the Night Court's High Lord's sister and Princess of Velaris. 

"What happened with Eris... at the last ball... it was bad..." Feyre trailed, not wanting to exactly mention what had happened. It was fucking painful for you, you had broken your engagement in front of everyone. "And I saw you crying last night... and this morning before your mission..." she added. 

"I cry a lot, but I am still very productive. I can do my work with a broken heart." You replied with a simple shrug, much to Rhysand's dismay. You had always been like that, had always hidden your feelings and done your work even when you were breaking down.

“You’re a real tough kid.” He said softly, violet eyes eyeing you closely, “you complete all your missions seamlessly. You are an example to follow.” 

You chuckled dryly, “yeah, yeah, I am the best. Can I go get ready for tonight? I got the most beautiful dress and I want to try it on.” With that, the couple simply nodded and excused you. 

They were right to be impressed. You wanted to die, and yet— you were ready to shine that night, like every other night. 

Ready to show everyone lies. 

-

The ball in the House of Wind went off without a problem, and like every other night-- you were the center of attention. The gown you wore was magnificent, the light reflected off you in a majestic manner, almost as if you wore liquid starlight in your frame. You stood at the side of the bar with Azriel, watching as everyone arrived, sipping on a tall glass of champagne. You knew Eris was coming, you needed to drink before seeing him. 

"You look pretty," the shadowsinger said in a stoic manner, hazel eyes traveling up and down your frame swiftly. You smirked into your glass, "as do you." 

"Have you spoken to him?" He asked, and you knew he referred to Eris. Azriel cared, and he showed it, having known you since the moment you had been born-- he was protective of you. Especially because he loathed Eris with all his being. 

"Please, he avoids me like I am faebane," you snorted, the alcohol working its magic on you already. And you were grateful for it, because you almost choked when your eyes met the red - haired male that had once promised he would love you for his whole life. What a short life. 

You felt Azriel's eyes on you, his shadows coiling around your ankles in support as you watched Eris strut into the ball as if he owned it. He commanded the room, but that was normal. He was a magnetic force of a male. You looked at Azriel, seeking shelter in his hazel eyes-- the mating bond was tugging you to Eris, his presence was like a fire roaring inside your heart. 

You were about to break down, so you hit the dance floor. Dragging your sister-in-law from her seat next to your brother, you danced and danced. Feyre and you were always a force to be reckoned with when you partied together, and that night was no exception. You both were grinning as you danced, twirling about the Hall as if you were made of starlight. 

The crowd of fae chanted and cheered for you, and you could feel the pieces of your heart shattering on the floor. It was always like that. You were miserable, and no one even knew. You laughed as you danced with Feyre, as if you couldn't feel your mate's heartbreak from across the room. "Eris looks like he wants to die," Feyre whispered as if she could read your mind. 

"Yeah, but if I try to talk to him, he avoids me like I have fae plague," you snickered, your eyes finding the heir of Autumn. As soon as your eyes found his, they were looking away from you, as if he hadn't been watching you dance. You wanted to die, but instead you twirled and grinned as if you were having the time of your life. 

"Then let me talk to him," the High Lady offered, and you stopped your dancing, giving her a stern look. 

"I can handle my shit, Feyre." 

-

Author’s note:

This will probably have a part two because i love eris and i want him to be happy. Also ttpd has me in my feels soooooo probs a lot of angst coming ehfuhihoiqhioghhrueiuifio3iij4rijj

Taglist: @mybestfriendmademe @lilah-asteria @sheblogs

[seethesin]

i hate that i love you

pairing: Shane McCutcheon x F!Reader

tags/warnings: sexual content, established friendship, cheating, hatefucking, fingerfucking, service top!shane, power bottom!reader (mdni, 18+)

a/n: this is my angst attempt. as per usual, i have to add smut to it. still rubbing my brain cells together for some fluffy ideas. enjoy :)

"I can't fucking believe you, Shane."

Who were you kidding? You knew her; this was inevitable.

Monogamy was uncharted territory for Shane. There was a reason she was so hesitant to commit to any romantic relationship when the opportunity presented itself. When things got stagnant, she got fidgety. Her eyes wandered and before she even knew it, she was leaving a trail of broken hearts and crushed egos in her wake.

As one of her closest friends, you understood how Shane operated. You've come to accept everything that came with her. Each night there was a new woman in Shane's bed and each night you were kept awake by the constant reminder that what you wanted would always be out of reach.

From the beginning, the lothario's charms never worked on you. According to Alice, you were impervious to the Shane test since they met you. Whether it be your strong will or grounded sense of self-worth, you refused to be wooed by the shaggy-haired ladykiller you now shared a house with.

But as your friendship deepened, pesky feelings began to brew in the pit of your stomach. Unlike the women she slept with, your friendship allowed you to see Shane in a three-dimensional light. Her fierce loyalty to her friends, immense love for those close to her, and unwavering determination to meet her goals dragged you further and further down a rabbit hole you weren't prepared to venture through.

You despised the way your heart would hammer in your ribcage anytime she flashed a genuine grin your way. You hated how meaningless touches made your stomach flip and your breath hitch. And you loathed sitting through any conversation that included Shane fucking a woman that wasn't you. But no matter how frequently you recognized your feelings, you could not pursue them.

You heard those women when they left your house. A switch flickered on for most of them but the ones who didn't realize soon enough were left devastated. There would be no next time. There were no feelings to talk about. It was just about the sex.

Shane needed to stay your friend.

So you did what you did best; you swallowed your feelings and shoved them down deep into your gut. This was an act of self-preservation.

It didn't take long for you to find someone else. She was sweet, compassionate, and most importantly, could commit to a relationship. It was what you needed and what you couldn't get from Shane. You've been dating steadily for a month now. A blissful, healthy month may you add. You had even introduced her to your friends who were thrilled by the new addition.

Except Shane.

Any time you brought your girlfriend along or even mentioned her to Shane, her mood did a one-eighty. She was uncharacteristically colder, more aloof, and found any excuse to leave you sooner than necessary. Saying it hurt would be putting it lightly. You expected Shane—as one of your closest friends—to support you the same way she did for Alice, Bette, and the rest of the ladies. Was your happiness less important to her than everyone else's?

Apparently so.

Tonight, you were coming home from Tina and Bette's house. They had asked you if you could watch Angie and naturally, you agreed. As you made your way up to your front door, it opened on its own, revealing your girlfriend. She was in a wrinkled dress, had unkempt hair, and smudged makeup across her face. The two of you locked eyes and she visibly paled. Like a deer in headlights, she froze, lower lip trembling. Without a word, she ducked away from your sight and hurried away. Looking into your house you saw Shane sitting at the kitchen table, hurriedly closing the clasp of her belt.

This instigated the current screaming match you and Shane were currently participating in.

"She didn't tell me she was seeing anyone!" Shane yelled, elbows digging into the hardwood table as she cupped her head in her hands. You paced around restlessly, gritting your teeth before snapping your attention back at her.

"I've brought her over here before, Shane—you met her numerous times already! Were you too busy shoving your tongue in her cunt to notice?"

Shane's lips mashed shut at your response, eyes trained on the floor. She had no response and you scoffed, rolling your eyes as you threw your hands up.

"You don't even fucking care," you breathed, pulling the chair across from her out so you could sit down. "Why do you not fucking care?"

"I'm sorry," she starts, and no, no she is not sorry. If she was sorry, she wouldn't have done this to begin with. Shane wouldn't have fucked your now ex-girlfriend—she finally decided to try calling you by the way, not like you were going to pick up now—in your own house.

"Bullshit."

Your anger churned in your gut and seared up to your throat like bile. The rage triggered your buried feelings for Shane, melding them together into something that made you physically sick. Right now, you hated yourself more than Shane. This was a grave offense and here you were, wanting nothing more than to crush her face between your legs. You wanted to yank her by her hair, part her lips, and shove yourself down until she was gasping for air. Digging half moons into your palms, you stared daggers into her head.

"Why did you do it?"

Shane is silent, but you can almost feel the gears turning in her head. She wants to say something, but she refuses.

"Shane."

Nothing.

"Shane, look at me."

She obeys instantaneously, jerking her head up to meet your gaze.

"Why did you do it?" You ask again, each word staccato as you wring your hands into fists.

"She wasn't good for you." she finally replies and you laugh in disbelief.

"So what is good for me, Shane? Is being cheated on good for me? Is my friend taking part in that good for me too?"

"No—"

"Then why did you do it?" Your voice slides an octave higher, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. You can feel your throat begin to close as a stray tear rolls down your face. Quickly, you brush it away.

"Because I love you."

That does it.

The dam in your chest breaks and you finally cry. Shane is stunned, plastered to her seat as she watches you rack into sobs. Gently, her hand slides forward on the table, finding your hand. You recoil as if she slapped you and she retreats back to her side of the table.

"No, fuck you; you don't get to say that to me." Not when you spent all this time getting over how you felt about Shane. You couldn't go backward.

But a sick, nasty part of you reveled in the proclamation. It was warped validation that everything you've felt for her was reciprocated. It satisfied you in a primal way and your stomach twisted itself into knots over it. Not even bothering to filter out your rampant thoughts, you ask her the question burning on your tongue.

"How did you fuck her?"

The silence after you spoke was deafening. Shane's eyes are wider than saucers.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

She looked at you like a cornered animal.

"I—" you get out of your chair, stalking around the table before standing in front of her. Glaring down at her, your hands find themselves on the arms of her chair. You lean in slowly—predatorily—before speaking again.

"Show me, Shane. Since you love me so much." Your voice cracks from crying, but the venom drips from every word.

Shane's throat bobs as she swallows. Her hands are on your hips, dragging you forward. You're already working on the button of your pants, unzipping swiftly before shoving them down your knees. Your underwear comes off soon after and both garments are abandoned on the floor.

Cautiously, she beckons you forward. You comply, lowering yourself into her lap. Your cunt brushes against the rough denim of her jeans and you refrain from groaning. An arm hooks low around your hips while her dominant hand worms itself between your legs. Her digits find the wet slick of your pussy and she glances up at you.

You nod.

She plunges two fingers inside of you. Your walls immediately adjust to the intrusion, stretching deliciously. The moan escapes your lips and you teeter in Shane's lap. Your lips meet the junction of Shane's neck and you bite down roughly. Smoothing the newly forming bruise with your tongue, you sneer at the way Shane hisses.

"Faster."

She adjusts her wrist and immediately hastens her pace. Her fingers are like a piston, thrusting in and out. They curl against the spongy wall of your pussy and you throw your head back, breath shaky. Your hips swivel in rhythm with her thrusts, taking every ounce of pleasure Shane willingly gave.

The edges of your vision begin to darken as you feel the heel of Shane's hand rub against your clit. You gasp, rutting aggressively into her touch as she continues fingerfucking you. Your hands thread themselves in her hair, pulling down to expose the curve of her neck. Moaning, you leave a trail of hickeys down her throat, smirking at the way her face contorts in painful pleasure. She curls her fingers inside of you at just the right angle and you finally cum with a shout.

Your body goes rigid as your knees buckle into her sides. Bobbing on Shane's fingers, you don't stop until the high of your orgasm subsides and reality comes crashing down around you. Swiftly, you pull yourself off of Shane's lap before disappearing into the bathroom to clean yourself up. You return a few minutes later, sliding your underwear and pants back on.

Shane is still glued to her chair. Her fingers are still coated in your slick and she has not made the effort to wipe them off yet. She stares at you numbly and you begin to walk towards the front door.

"I'll be gone by the end of the week, Shane. Then you can fuck whomever else you want in here."

There will be no next time. There are no more feelings to talk about. It was just about the sex.

Shane could no longer be your friend.

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Beneath Miles of Stone - Part thirteen - John Wick x Plus Size Fem Reader

Summary: John has been in prison for nine months. He’s content to stay if it means appeasing the high table and keeping peace between the owners of each continental. However, he meets someone who erases that willingness. Peace be dammed.

TW: rape/non-con ; violence ; blood ; violence against women ; name-calling, bullying, and fat-shaming ; self esteem issues ; awkward, embarrassing situations

He doesn’t come back. From the time she wakes up at 5PM, she waits for him. Impatient, distracted, not knowing what to do to pass the time. Midnight peaks around the corner ominously, and she’s pacing back and forth in the living room when Michael walks through the door.

He smiles big, sets his bag down on the counter, and greets her. “What’s wrong?”

“I wanted to see him tonight,” she says, trying not to start crying like an idiot again.

“Oh, hun,” Michael sighs. He pulls her into a cold hug after hanging his jacket up. “Did he tell you you would see him tonight?”

She shrugs. “He said maybe.”

Michael motions for her to sit on the couch. His hair is still glittering with icy rain drops. “Well, at least he’s not lying.”

“I’m just confused. I don’t even know if he actually likes me.”

“If he’s kissing you and introducing you to his friends, then he likes you. Men are stupid. They think that things can be simple and clear cut, but they don’t factor emotions into their master plans.”

“So you don’t think I’m just a…fling?” She asks.

Michael cringes. “Honestly, I don’t know. On one hand, he sounds like he wants you in his life, but, on the other, he seems distant and secretive.”

She nods. “But I haven’t told him how I feel, either.”

“That’s the other thing; most men, like I said, emotionally inept. They need it spelled out. Maybe try telling him or asking him?”

She almost bursts out laughing at that, but just ends up snorting and rolling her eyes.

Michael laughs for her. “Why do you think I’m so bad at commitment? You tell a guy you really like him and suddenly you’re dog shit.”

“You tell anyone you really like them and suddenly you’re dog shit,” she clarifies.

“Men have broken my heart so much and disappointed me that I should be a nun,” Michael nods. “But, here I am, a slut.”

“You’re not a slut, Michael.” She glares at him for the first time since he’s known her. “Plus, there’s nothing wrong with having sex.”

“Well, if I’m not a slut, then I should be. Seriously, how many guys have smashed your heart into pieces? I’m betting the number is one or more.”

“Honestly,” she replies, turning toward him, “my worst heartbreaks haven’t been through relationships. Family and friends have fucked me up more.”

He pats her shoulder. “See, I envy you. You don’t need anybody. You’re strong.”

Now that, makes her burst out in laughter so hard she shakes with it.

“I’m serious.” It’s Michael’s turn to glare. “You’re self made. No one helped you get here. You clawed and fought your way to the top despite being hindered every step of the way. For Christ sake’s, you put yourself through nursing school. You’re a tough bitch and you need to start acting like it.” He pauses, collects himself. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine,” she tells him, holding back her protest.

“I’m just. Sometimes you talk so bad about yourself that it’s just kind of pissing me off.” Michael grabs her hand and squeezes. “I get that you think bad about yourself, and it sucks, and sometimes you can’t help it. But if you don’t value yourself, then neither will leather jacket man.”

Michael’s words sting. He’s making her realize that she’s falling into a pattern of self sabotage and loathing again— the depressing epiphany would be helpful if she knew how to fix it.

“Let me help you get more confidence,” Michael asks. “Come out with me more often. Go shopping with me. Get your hair done just for the thrill of it. You just said the other day about how you wanted to get a haircut.”

All of that sounds truly wonderful in theory, but what about reality? What about the fact that she has no idea how to style her hair once it’s cut or act with the confidence to sport it?

“When you were young, what did you do for fun?” Michael asks.

“Lots of stuff—movies, books.”

“Did you ever play a sport, go to prom, have a shopping spree, go to parties?” Michael asks, eyebrows pulled down in concentration; obviously, they’ve led very different lives.

“No.” She looks away, a little embarrassed by her trashy upbringing.

“Get your nails painted, make out with cute boys under bridges?”

“Nah, boys didn’t…I didn’t really like guys. Feeling was mutual.”

“Jesus,” Michael sighs. “Then we have a lot to catch up on, don’t we? Oh-“ he puts his hand out to stop himself from talking. “My mistake. We can cross the making out off our list.” He grins. “Unless he isn’t cute.”

She drops his hand, laughing sheepishly. “He’s…” she struggles to find the right word, but gets upset just thinking of his absence. “Very cute.” She finds herself sinking into the memory of high cheekbones and woodsy eyes and thermal skin and hungry, rough lips.

Michael waves his hand in front of the glassy look on her face. “Oh, god,” he murmurs. “You’re totally fucked.”

——————————-

Michael thrusts a lace babydoll into her chest so hard that it makes her stumble backward. “Here, is this your size?”

She looks around the room to make sure no one’s watching. Just other women minding their business and digging through racks of lingerie.

She glares at Michael, because he promised that if she at least went in to Victoria’s Secret, he wouldn’t give her any suggestions on purchases. And here he is, handing her a piece of fabric that won’t cover her palm let alone ass.

She sticks it back on the rack it came from. “I don’t think it will fit me.”

He sighs, rummaging through the underwear bin. “How do you know until you try?”

She picks up a tiny, silk thong from the top pile and shows it to him. “How can you wear this stuff? Isn’t it in you the entire time rather than covering you?”

Michael takes the panties from her and examines them, chuckling. “No, see, you’re looking at them wrong. This one my ass would swallow.” He tosses it back, and holds up another in its place with seemingly better coverage all around. “This one would be cute yet practical.”

“Hmmm.” She tilts her head, trying to understand what he’s talking about. “I’m pretty sure my ass would swallow all of them.”

Michael sticks his tongue out at her. “No need to brag.”

While Michael decides on underwear, she goes to smell the perfumes. Now this, she thinks, Victoria excels at. In fact, she just might buy a cotton candy scented bottle that’s half off and the lotion to match.

Michael is proud, grinning, patting her on the back as they walk the mall. “See, Vickie isn’t that bad.”

“Eh, she smells nice, I’ll give her that.”

They both share a giggle.

She asks Michael if they can go into the book store, and he rolls his eyes.

“Babe, no offense, but you go in without me and I’m gonna check out Sephora.”

“Ah, that reminds me.” She taps her face. “When are you teaching me how to do winged liner?”

“As soon as you buy eyeliner,” Michael replies. “Which is why you should come to Sephora. I mean, not to sound like a vapid bitch, but.. the book store? Really?” He’s smiling, teasing her.

“That’s why it’s here, right?”

She doesn’t want to mention the real reason she came in, which is to get a present for John. If she ever sees him again.

She goes right to the romance section and begins to peruse around for something he might like.

The Jackal and the Cat, One Foot in Santa Monica, The Clandestine Candle.

She tries to picture him reading any single one of these, but her mind comes up blank. Maybe he meant that he likes older romance books?

Classical it is.

Two men in suits standing by Agatha Christie’s showcase catch her eye and remind her too much of a certain well-dressed gentleman she admires. Both are tall, well built, fancy and stoic, looking very out of place here in Books A Million.

They unabashedly and suspiciously watch her, and it freaks her out enough that she ducks behind a case of Edgar Allen Poe and Shakespeare. Weird merging timelines, but a great safe haven.

A small elder woman with white, wispy hair, dark skin, and sharp grey eyes smiles brightly up at her. She wears a black pant suit and smells like flowers. Tasteful jewelry adorns her neck and wrists. She has a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo in her hands, flipping it over to examine the shiny hardback spine.

“Oh, excuse me dear, but could you do me a favor? I left my reading glasses at home and I’d really like to hear the summary on this. Can you read it to me?”

“Oh, yeah, of course.”

After she’s done stumbling over her words, the older woman looks entranced and astonished like she’s one of the best storytellers from this century instead of a fumbling oaf. “Oh, that sounds wonderful,” she says, folding the book into her weathered palms for safe keeping. “Thank you so much. Have you read it?”

“Um, yes, I think in high-school?” Her cheeks get a little warm with embarrassment from being visibly uncultured in front of this sophisticated looking individual.

“Ah,” the stranger muses, “and A Picture of Dorian Grey?”

“I, um, wrote my big book report on that one,” she chuckles, rubbing her arm.

“Anything specific you’re looking for?” The woman asks, ready to return a favor.

“Romance? Something cultured? Older?”

The woman puts a finger to her lips in thought, then her grey eyes light with an idea. “Come with me.”

She’s surprisingly light and quick on her feet for a woman of her age. She actually has trouble keeping up as the tiny woman floats through the store until settling at the back wall. A large sign above the shelves reads: ROMANCE.

The older woman, knowing exactly what she wants, narrows in to the right handed corner. She fingers through some hardbacks, pulls out a plain blue novel, and hands it to the waiting person behind her.

In Safe Hands by Jane Sanford. The inner synopsis promises a thriller romance with a great twist. Plus, it’s a beautiful book. Simple and hardbound, shiny Robin blue. Something that John would appreciate, hopefully.

“Have you ever read this one?” Soft white hair floats into view as she examines the book.

She looks up and smiles. “It’s not for me.”

The elder grins and the devilish look makes her seem years younger. A certain knowing reflects in her face. “Ah.” Her tone is teasing. “A love interest, perhaps?”

The accent wasn’t noticeable before, but now it’s apparent. Some kind of rich, articulated drawl that she thinks she’s heard before.

Her skin heats. “Yes.”

“My, you live in this moment and love it no matter what hardship it brings.” Her crinkled eyes run up and down over the expansive shelves of paper before she looks back up at her and smiles. “Love is rare, you know. At least the good kind.”

She chews her lip. “The good kind?”

The woman chuckles. “I can tell you have the good kind. You’re buying them a romance novel. It can’t be anything else but the kind of love that makes everything else seem dull.”

She wants to believe this desperately. The words resonate in her chest and pound true through the pulse of her arteries. Once again, she misses John violently. Misses the feelings he gives her. She rubs her fingers over the spine of his present and thinks of his wish to be a librarian.

The old woman pats her shoulder. “You have a great day, dear.”

Her attention is drawn back to the movement of her acquaintance. She never noticed the the two men from earlier standing behind, still staring daggers at her head. They tuck the tiny, waving lady between them, and disappear behind shelves.

She meets Michael at a pizza place near the exit and tells him about the weird encounter while they eat.

“You’re living in a romance mystery novel and you refuse to buy lingerie?” Michael rolls his eyes. “That checks out.”

She shrugs. “It’s more pathetic than that.”

“I got you eyeliner,” Michael tells her, taking a bite of baked ziti.

“Michael!” She admonishes. She grabs a bag from their feet and opens it to show him the eyeliner, lip gloss, and small eyeshadow palette that she purchased after leaving the bookstore. “Do you really have that little faith in me?”

Michael cringes and smiles all at once. “Yes, but I’m surprised and proud.”

She grins. “Thank you, I guess.”

They take Michael’s car to a little coffee shop on Wall Street Court that he promises she’ll love despite the hustle and bustle at the heart of the city. He gets a big iced vanilla latte and she orders a smoothie. They sit next to floor-to-ceiling glass windows that give an amazing view of the lavish cityscape.

Important men in business suits and beautiful girls in bodycon dresses flit in and out of crystal business doors. Expensive limos line the streets. It’s strange, to have this scene at her back door when she’s always felt so separate from it. She watches like it’s a movie.

“Do you want to go to the theatre?” Michael asks, tapping at his phone. “Emily and Syreeta are going and want us to join.”

“They want you to join,” she corrects.

Michael glares at her. “Were we not just talking about this self pity thing? They don’t hate you.”

It stings because he’s right, but climbing out of a pit of despair is harder than it looks. Every time she tries to get a hand on the ladder rung above her, the hating darkness bats her away and keeps her stagnant.

“They just didn’t talk to me in the club,” she explains.

“Funny, they said the same thing about you. Just be yourself, like you were with me. When you actually talk, you’re the easiest person to get along with I’ve ever met.”

She sips her drink and thinks about it. “Thank you, Michael, but you’re pretty easy to get along with, too.”

He sighs, puts his phone down, folds his hands, and leans over. “You coming or not? It’s the Nutcracker. Uh, hello, earth to -“

Her attention is totally and suddenly taken by something on the other side of the window, eyes glassed with that unfocused, enraptured look again, and Michael waves his hand in front of her face. “Babe?”

John Wick stands on a street corner, waiting to cross, hands in his pockets. He’s dressed in a black suit and red tie, hair fluffed back, looking as good as ever. Michael glances over at her center of attention.

“Oh my god, it’s him, isn’t it?” Michael is suddenly whispering, although she does not know why. “Which one?”

“Shhh,” she says, embarrassed, looking away, playing into the top secret thing despite no one in here caring about them or what they’re talking about. Welcome to good old New York.

“Listen,” Michael tells her, pushing his coffee out of the way so he can lean over the table. “If you want to go after him and ask him what the hell is up, I don’t blame you. In fact, I support this cause and am here to help.”

“He might be working, Michael,” she says, looking away from John reluctantly.

“Only one way to find out,” Michael grins. “Go after him. Show him that you’re serious.”

Michael’s suggestion is all too tempting. Mostly because she misses him dearly even though it’s only been around 24 hours since they last interacted. It’s obsessive behavior, borderline creepy of her. He’ll probably hate her if she walks up and talks to him, now, but on the other hand, he’s the one barging into her apartment without an invite and cornering her at clubs and waiting outside for her to get home. Isn’t it fair if she returns the favor, shows him she wants this just as much? She glances once more at his broad back—he’s getting away again—and makes a split second, dumb decision.

She gets up, grabs her jacket, tells Michael she’ll be back, and slides her chair in.

Michael yells after her as she walks out the door. “Don’t get kidnapped!! If you’re not home by midnight I’m calling the cops! You better text me! I’m drinking the rest of this smoothie!”

She’s too clumsy to be any sort of sneaky, but she doesn’t really care if he sees her walking behind him - trying to keep up - because he’s going to get a full view of her anyway when they’re face to face.

The sidewalk and streets are blessedly clear of ice and slush and snow, and if she didn’t know better she’d say that divine intervention was on her side, because if she had to walk this fast on slippery ground, she’d already be K.O.’d by the earth.

John turns a corner and she is practically running to catch up with his long legged stride. She murmurs sorry as she whizzes by nicely dressed street patrons a little too closely and receives glares and annoyed murmurs for her trouble. By the time he stops, she’s struggling to catch her breath. He stands on the steps of a large building constructed to take up two corners of the street. It’s center piece among the business district, bleached white by the sun.

A bellman dressed in silver and red stands at the door and waits patiently for the only visitor, John Wick.

Shes grateful that he’s stalled on the steps, staring at a phone that she didn’t know he had, too distracted to see her as she clears the busy street. Drivers lay on their horns, someone screams at her out of a passenger window, and, finally, when her feet hit the curb and she almost wipes out trying to get away from moving traffic, John turns.

“Are you following me?” He wears the exact opposite expression that she wants to see; hatred and anger slash his angular features into something to be afraid of.

She feels like a fox in a henhouse with the farmers gun pointed at her muzzle, head between her legs and automatically backing away from him. She misinterprets his own fear for disgust at and now just wants to turn tail and leave, but the doorman sees her, and he undoubtedly notices her connection to John, and it’s far too fucking late for that.

There is a point that needs to be made to protect the precious pumping blood inside her body and he can’t decide what to do to get that point across when adrenaline is binding fury and fear inside of him tighter and tighter. He feels the tick of his watch against his wrist and relates it to her dwindling innocence and safety. He stalks toward her, one step from him matching four of her own.

John grabs her up by the bicep and drags her along like a stuffed doll to his car.

His grip is hard enough to sink bone deep and make her ache, but she shuts up and lets him take her where he wants, too ashamed to argue with him now.

She’s not sure what’s happening when he hustles her into his backseat and makes her lay flat down on it with her legs curled up on the freezing bench, but she doesn’t resist.

He doesn’t bother telling her to duck into the safety of the vehicle, just handles her into a fetal position himself. “Stay,” he says, and the door shuts behind him, leaving her alone and shivering in the cold leather.

Charon is waiting at the front desk to greet him with a placid smile. John flips him a gold coin in greeting. “Charon.” He tips his head as the man catches his bribe.

Charon’s smile turns ardent. “Hello sir, nice to see you, what can I help you with today?”

“I have a guest in my car. Could you take them somewhere comfortable, safe, secluded while I do business?” John’s voice is poised but his eyes are pleading.

Charon slips the coin into his pocket. “Of course, sir.”

His tensed body relaxes while one of the few people that he trusts to protect an innocent woman takes his keys and leaves the building. She still won’t be safe enough for him to feel entirely calm, and he only has a second to regret not putting her under his arm - the only place she will be completely protected - before he’s walking into the dining hall to meet Viggo and Winston.

“John,” Viggo cries, standing and pulling him into his side for a brief embrace. “Three minutes late?”

Cool sweat forms under his collar at the comment while he tries to remain composed in the face.

Viggo looks suspicious. But John can’t decide if it’s because of a tell on his features or the fact that he’s never been late twice in his entire life.

Viggo motions for him to sit, still cheery. Winston stays tight lipped, formal, poised. John envies him for the mastered skills.

He’s so wound tight that he almost jumps when he feels the oncoming, light pressure of a hand on his shoulder. He’s never been like this in line of Viggo’s sight, and he knows that the man can tell he’s not himself, but he can’t seem to get the vision of her bloody, pulseless body out of his mind. And what he will do to everyone in this hotel as a consequence of it.

“Hello John, can I get you something to drink?”

He turns to the waitress and tries a smile. “Hello Rachel, nice to see you. I’ll have a Blanton’s. Ice, please.”

“On the rocks,” Rachel winks at him. “Got it.” As she walks away, Viggo talks business.

————————————————————

Charon is very nice. He introduces himself, assures her that she will be an “honored guest”, and lets her sit up front while he drives the car into the attached, Continental branded parking garage.

The section they settle John’s car into is filled with other expensive-looking vehicles. She recognizes BMWs and Jaguars from TV commercials. Charon insists upon opening her door, much like someone else she knows, and then guides her to a big silver elevator with neon, red and green buttons blinking in sequence on an expansive wall panel tucked to the side. She thinks he’s going to press one, but instead, he pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks the plain metal door beside the elevator that she assumes, at first, is unimportant.

The staircase is lined with soft blue paisley carpet and the walls are decorated with pictures of strange art pieces. She stares at distorted naked bodies and eyeless characters and blurred grey crowds and angels battling bloody demons on top of cotton candy skies as Charon leads her into the dim underbelly of the hotel.

“They are all painted by former and current members,” he tells her.

“They’re really amazing,” she says, not wanting to push questions in fear of offending the overly kind man guiding her to safety that she didn’t realize she needed until she was being manhandled into John’s back seat.

If she lives through this, she’ll have to get permission to take pictures and show Michael. It’s strange, to not know if she’s going to be alive tomorrow or not. Fatality that seemed so fanatical and far away two weeks ago now stands at her doorstep waiting like an expectant courier and she’s starting to get strangely used to its harrowing presence.

Charon lands light on his dress shoes off the last step, and waits for her to catch up. She stumbles a bit on the rough rugs, and he reaches out a hand to steady her shoulder while she smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“Do not be sorry,” Charon tells her, patting dust off her jacket. “These floors need a remodel. This is our old entrance: The only people that use it are the ones who can navigate it blindfolded.”

He motions her into a doorway that leads to a drastic change of scenery. In here, everything is modern and brightly illuminated. There are grey leather couches seated around a large table in the center of the room. A bed with black, shiny sheets sits perfectly in the open floor plan, with bamboo plants flourishing on each side of the wide mattress. There is a room that she assumes to be the bath, because it’s the only part of this place with a door attached. Two glass coolers glow with rainbow assortment bottles of alcohol and seltzer waters.

She blinks up at the high ceiling, too distracted by the view to hear Charon ask her if she would like something to eat.

“Miss?”

She stops and looks at him. “What? Sorry?”

He repeats the question. Her stomach growls, but she tames it and tells him that she’s fine, not wanting to be a bother.

“Help yourself to the beverages,” Charon motions, referring to the large coolers. “And feel free to use the room as you please until Mr. Wick retrieves you. This is a private, isolated suite we reserve only for select guests. No one will bother you, but if you should need something, please just pick up the phone and I will be waiting on the other line to assist you.”

She nods at him, using the gesture of gratitude that John favors - already adopting his mannerisms - and gives warm thanks.

“It is my pleasure,” Charon says, “any friend of Mr. Wick is a friend of mine.”

With that, he leaves her.

She has a million questions, but none of them seem more important than keeping hold of John Wick, so she quells them and waits like an obedient dog for his return.

————————————————————

Viggo is leaned back, drinking sweet vodka, negotiating the terms of John’s re-employment.

“It has been different, without you, John.” Viggo rubs the just-greying scruff on his chin, eyeing his former body guard. “Winston, can we still smoke in here?”

“‘Fraid not,” Winston replies, taking his own sip of sour scotch and pursing his lips as if in distaste. “Only downstairs.”

Viggo grumbles. “Gav-no. Why didn’t we go down there?”

“I figured it would be easier for you to run and get to your men if John decides to kill you,” Winston shrugs.

His dry sarcasm and witty grin has Viggo belly laughing, clutching his chest.

John says nothing and takes a drink, trying futilely to calm himself with liquor.

“I think it was stupid that they put you in prison and didn’t expect this to happen, John.” Viggo bites into his ravioli, chews, swallows. “And if they want a war, I will give them one.”

“We did it to prevent a war,” Winston interjects.

“Bah!” Viggo spits. “The war is already happening - it has been for a long time - what’s a little more blood shed going to do?”

“A lot more,” Winston corrects. “Blood shed.”

Viggo comes forward, eyes determined, tosses the silk bib from around his neck onto the table. “So be it. I want you with me, John. And I will make sure no one makes one hair out of place on your head.” He leans back, done eating. “And your head too, Winston.” He nods at the older man, an afterthought.

Winston raises his eyebrows and looks at John expectantly. “Your ball.”

————————————————————

The bathroom is more of a sauna. Different height benches, numerous sprayers on the ceiling, vents that leak hot steam into the room at the push of a button. A toilet with a bidet behind another secret door. The sink is concave marble, adorned with freshly wrapped toiletries and beautiful smelling lavender soap that she honestly thinks about sticking into her pocket and taking home.

Just as she’s about to exit, she hears the loud slam of a door and laughing male voices clanking against one another.

She freezes, turns the lock back, steps away, looks around for an escape which there is none of.

Then, a female voice, pitiful and pleading. She presses her ear to the smooth wood, listening as the woman - language different from her own - becomes more distressed.

Her heart rises from her stomach to her ribs and burns in anger and disgust as she tunes in to the exchange.

“Look at her, all tied up and nowhere to go.”

“Fucking slut.” A hard slapping sound and then a scream of agony from the high pitched female voice. Crying, more despicable taunting from the numerous male visitors.

She’s not thinking of anything but that gut-wrenching yelp of pain when she pushes through the door and steps out into the room.

Five young men have a small woman, completely naked and bound in rope, prone on the cold floor. Their hands bruise her skin as she sobs.

As all their eyes turn to her, reality smacks her in the face like a burst of fire burning her eyebrows off. The woman’s eyes are red and sore, tears streaking down her face. One boot has her cheek pressed down while a hand grabs her hair and pulls taut.

“Hey,” she says, voice filled with venom, adrenaline in her body fire that smokes her vision. “What are you doing to her?!”

The only problem here is that she’s a lone woman in a hotel room with no weapons and these guys look angry for the interruption. Very angry. The one with the boot on the girl’s head gets to her maybe as fast as John can, and grabs her by the collar. “Блять,” he spits, “тебя никто никогда не учил не лезть в свои дела?”

Her heart plummets again as her angry glasses cloud with fear. She’s up on her tiptoes, choking at his grasp, and choking on reality.

He pushes his face down to her own and she smells the potent liquor on his breath. “давай преподам поросенку урок.”

One of his companions answers in English. “Tie her up and make her help.”

The group laughs—this is a joke to them. Isn’t it always a joke? For scumbags who hurt those smaller and weaker than themselves?

She’s so tired of this shit. Men. Thinking they can do whatever they want with no consequences. Hatred tastes bitter in her mouth, so potent it hurts her teeth.

And this guy is nothing like Benny. Benny who she couldn’t even fathom fighting because he was so massive. This man, she could fight. This man, she could hit hard enough to knock down, if it wasn’t for his companions ready to ambush her.

This guy is small, thin, barely taller than her. She knows she can hurt him, so she does, slams upward with her knee and makes squelching contact with his dying erection.

He drops her and she falls back onto her ass.

As his companions laugh, he grabs his dick and moans through his teeth, eyes squeezed shut.

The victory isn’t for long, because now all the rest are coming at her with wicked, delighted intent.

The redhead gets in front of her and crushes her back against the legs of the more muscled member. She’s stuck sitting between them, but she still has her hands and feet, kicks and hits furiously at any soft body part she can find. Redhead yelps in pain as she makes blunt force contact with his balls and screams for someone else to get on her.

Two grab both her arms and twist them at angles that make her screech in pain. It gets the point across, and she stills. Redhead and Russian have stepped away to lick their wounds, but two of the others still hold both her arms in a neatly breaking fashion and the other one has her neck in his hands.

He pats her cheek and squeezes her trachea to play with how much air she’s allowed to have.

“Ah, a wild bull.” His thick accent is hard to understand. “Maybe we should have some fun with you?”

“Disgusting,” the muscled one hisses.

“No, she can clearly eat well,” redhead growls. “Make her eat pussy.”

“Would you like that?” It’s clear now from the potent smell that they’re all very drunk. “You hungry, little pig? Want to get all sloppy at the trough?”

Her wild eyes catch the ones of her bound counterpart, and this woman almost looks bored, in sharp contrast to herself. The agony is gone from her face and she’s watching this scene and practically yawning she’s so uninterested.

She doesn’t have time to be confused before one man twists her arm back again, and she’s sure it’s going to break, so she screams.

The Russian claps a hand over her mouth and tells her what she thinks is the equivalent of shut up.

Charon opens the door, John catches her scared eyes, takes in the picture, and the last shred of his building anxiety snaps in half.

First, he charges the one holding her throat, and a defensive hand doesn’t have time to raise before John returns the favor, grabs him by the neck, and tosses him into a wall.

He’s ready for the others before they have time to realize he’s an enemy.

She watches the unfair fight play out, not because she wants to, but because watching John move is like watching a captivating, bloody ballet, and it’s hard to look away. A big, dumb part of her feels bad for these stupid punks while he wrecks their shit.

He’s just so much bigger than them that it’s insane they think they can counter him. He looks like a giant being pounced on by miniature people. Maybe it’s just the way he doesn’t even try to hit them that makes him seem so massive in comparison. Flipping someone over his shoulder looks like playground antics.

Two by two they fall, until the last one pulls a gun from his holster and aims it at John’s chest. John moves an inch, the bullet hits him in the shoulder, and he simply grunts, inconvenienced, like a bear being shot with a paintball, knocks the gun out of his hand, and moves forward, backing him up and glaring down at the man who is now visibly shaking in fear, head down to submit, hands in the air to keep the apex predator at arms length.

He grabs him by the neck and this guy is thick but John’s whole hand covers his throat. He lifts him completely off his feet with his right hand, and punches him in the face so fast and graceful that it doesn’t even look like it would hurt until she sees the blood fly out of his skull and his nose cave inward.

He’s done with them, so he goes right to her, pulls her up and holds her at arms length to make sure she’s not hurt.

She pushes against him. “John.” Her urgent tone directs him to the bound woman.

John releases her and they both go to help.

She starts working at the knot around her wrists and stomach while John cuts her ankles free

He moves her fumbling hands aside to slice through the rest of the half-assed binding job.

“bạn có nghĩ họ đang làm tổn thương tôi không?” The free woman addresses her rescuers.

John stops. “Đúng.”

John and the woman have a full conversation that she can’t understand.  Catching any word is truly pointless.

The woman sits up and pats her on the shoulder. Then, she rubs her bare breasts and yawns. She tilts her head at John, questioning.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” She asks him. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” John says. “They paid her to have sex with them.”

“She was screaming.”

John shrugs. “That’s what they wanted from her.”

She feels so stupid it hurts. “I’m an idiot,” she whispers.

“She doesn’t think you are,” John says. “She admires you.”

She resists the urge to ask him what she really cares about, which is what he thinks.

They are sitting on the floor criss cross applesauce like in 5th grade reading class when Winston and Charon enter scene. Embarrassment, regret, and pure humiliation consume her as they assess.

“Jesus,” Winston says, looking over the mess. “Is anyone dead?”

“No,” John assures.

Charon starts profusely apologizing to John, but John shakes his head at the repentance and looks, instead, at the naked woman, asking her to tell the newcomers what happened.

Naked woman sighs, annoyed but agreeing.

Winston lays adoring eyes, flooded with realization, on the clothed woman sitting at John’s side, and smiles warmly. He comes and holds out his hand for a shake.

She gives him her own hand and he flips it over and kisses the back. He looks at John while she warms with embarrassment.

“You sure know how to pick ‘em..” Winston muses.

The muscled man tries to stand, but Charon pushes him back down with a shiny black heel. “Sir,” he alerts, motioning at the pile of men. “What should we do with them?”

“Probably something involving a doctor,” Winston says.

“Right away, sir,” Charon nods, pulling a phone from his pocket.

“Are you hurt?” Winston asks her, examining her closely.

She shakes her head no, but points at John. “He got shot.”

Winston looks over and John pulls his suit open to reveal a clean white dress shirt free of bullet holes.

She has to look twice and second guess her own eyes.

Winston sighs. “He wears Kevlar. Most bullets don’t pierce it. He’ll be alright. He’s taken worse than this, I assure you, my love.” He must see the worry on her face because his voice soothes and tames.

She looks at John with a million questions in her eyes, but asks none of them, which he’s thankful for.

Winston addresses the person in the room with the least clothing and they talk for a moment.

John puts his hand on her shoulder and slides over to talk low in her ear. “Did they hurt you?” He asks.

“Not as much as you hurt them.” She tries to comfort him.

“I’ll kill them if you want me to.”

“No you will not.” Winston switches from Chinese to English, turning on his heel to point a warning look and finger at John. “I’m already going to have enough trouble trying to make it seem like this wasn’t business, Johnathan. Plus, I don’t think Viggo will keep you employed if you kill his son.”

John sucks on his teeth and glares at the annoyance that is Winston’s rude interruption before focusing back on her. “My offer stands.”

“No,” she tells him, looking from him to Winston. “I don’t want you to kill anyone.” She grabs his hand and squeezes, pulling it into her lap.

She sounds like she means that, so he stays put, but he hasn’t decided for himself whether they’re going to live or die yet. Especially when they leave Continental ground and hunting season opens.

A loud knock brings the conversation to a small Asian man in a white suit and slacks entering the room. He wears a stethoscope and carries a brief case.

“John.” His set frown turns into a natural smile. “Long time no see.”

“Hey Doc,” John nods.

He sets to work like this is all completely normal. The smell of ammonia and iodine and salt is an affront to the senses as he opens his briefcase and begins waking and treating.

John tugs on her as if to escort her away, but Winston stops them. “Let me get you out of here so that no one else sees her.”

John settles, but he’s not taking chances, so he drags her into his lap with her head tucked under his chin and his tight arms wrapped around her protectively. Want her, go through me - the point is apparent

“John,” she grumbles, squirming to adjust, embarrassed by his parenting behavior but clinging to him anyway. She’s just happy he doesn’t seem to be mad at her, now.

Naked woman comes over and snuggles into John’s side, gripping his bicep to bulging, starring smugly at the groaning group of bleeding, bruised men.

John side eyes her, but allows it, reasoning that she must be weary of them trying to get their money back, and not one to deny someone - who is seemingly vulnerable - protection.

Viggo’s son sits up, spits out blood, and looks their way. He opens his mouth to say something, but the look on John’s face makes his snarl falter. “John,” he nods in greeting.

“Iosef,” John nods back.

The braver Russian man starts with venom, but Winston interrupts him. “If you think I can actually keep him from killing you or worse, you’re very wrong.”

He closes his jaw.

She feels like they’re in kindergarten and they have all just gotten into a fight so the teacher is making them sit on the floor and have quiet time.

Violent stares, instead of words, are shot back and forth until the doctor breaks a nose back into place.

Then, the only voice that has occurred in a while is the scream of this man.

John wants to make them apologize, because he knows she’s hurt by the things they said about her, but he doesn’t know if it would actually help her self esteem or harm it, so he stays quiet and promises death with his eyes.

“Now,” Winston addresses the room. “Unless you wish to forfeit the protection this hotel provides, you will forget this happened.”

“He beat us up,” the man with the thick accent argues.

“And you broke into a private room and assaulted a woman,” Winston tells him. “Sounds like you started it. If he’s in trouble, you’re in it bigger. So, nothing happened, correct?”

“We payed her,” Iosef growls, staring at the naked woman who clutches John tighter.

“That’s not the woman I’m referring to,” Winston says.

She looks up at John and it seems like he’s daring the other man to say something. She pulls at his shirt to get his attention, and he looks down at her, misreading the worry on her face.

“We’ll leave soon,” he says.

She sighs and leans her head on his chest, giving up.

Winston begins to say something, but interruption comes in the form of her phone’s vibrating ring.

All eyes focus on her as she digs it from her pocket, puts it on silent, and texts the frantic Michael that she’s fine and she’ll explain later.

John makes a mental note to beat the roommate into submission so that he’s a little less possessive.

“Uh, sorry,” she tells Winston.

“Quite alright,” Winston assures, smiling big at her like she can do wrong when, judging by this debacle, she definitely can and will.

John refuses to let her go until they’re in the back seat of an unlicensed black suv and being driven away from the building.

Even now, he keeps her tucked under his arm.

She looks up at him. “Sorry,” she says.

He keeps his eyes on the window scenery to avoid making her feel awful with his uncontrolled, cold expression.

He sucks on his teeth. “We will talk, not here.”

He pulls her further against him and she stays quiet.

[silenceonset]

It’s been exactly 7 years since Kaveh’s mother left him behind in Sumeru.

Each year on this day, Kaveh is a little quieter than usual, a little more distracted than usual.

His mind is filled with what-ifs, regrets, and silent self-loathing.

“Stop playing with your food.”

Kaveh looks up from his plate in surprise. Alhaitham is watching him from across the table, his own plate already empty.

“Oh, sorry,” Kaveh mutters, looking down at his half-eaten fatteh. His appetite is too poor to finish it.

“I’ll wash the dishes.”

Kaveh takes his time with the dishes, finding comfort in the echo chamber of self-hatred that is his mind. He deserves this.

A pair of arms snake their way around his waist, startling him. Kaveh feels Alhaitham press a kiss to his nape. He tucks Kaveh’s messy hair behind his ear, his other hand sliding lower to Kaveh’s hip.

“Want to shower together?”

Shower sex does sound like the perfect distraction. Besides, Alhaitham has given Kaveh everything he needs and more.

Who the hell is he to say no?

“Okay.”

When they’re entangled in the steam later, Alhaitham pulls back from a deep kiss to ask Kaveh, “Up for anything in particular tonight?”

Kaveh smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Have your way with me.”

He’d expected to be bent in half and fucked senseless, pushed up against the marble wall and pounded numb.

Manhandled and abused like he so deserves. 

 What he did not expect was Alhaitham kissing every visible inch of his skin, holding him as though he might break like glass.

Whispering sweet nothings into his ear and praising him with every extra finger he slides in.

Alhaitham has never been this affectionate. Sure, they’re a couple, sure, Kaveh knows he cares, but he never knew just how much.

He never knew he could be loved like this.

Kaveh cries when he cums.

He cries and cries, hands shaking in front of his eyes, not wanting to see Alhaitham’s reaction to him in this pathetic state.

Alhaitham says nothing. He holds Kaveh up in a hug, arms still strong and unwavering even after sex.

“Was the sex that good?” He jokes, gently tracing circles on Kaveh’s back. Kaveh chuckles between sobs despite himself.

“I told you to have your way with me,” he murmurs into the crook of Alhaitham’s neck.

“I did,” Alhaitham replies easily. He sets Kaveh down on his feet and cradles Kaveh’s head in his hands, guiding it to face him.

Kaveh doesn’t have it in him to look Alhaitham in the eyes—he probably looks like shit from all the sobbing.

“Your eyes are swollen,” Alhaitham says, swiping away the tears under them. “Sleep early tonight.”

Kaveh nods obediently. He turns to step out of the shower, and Alhaitham pulls him back in.

“Do you promise?”

“Yes—”

“I don’t believe you. Sleep in my room tonight.”

Before Kaveh can react, Alhaitham sweeps him off his feet and carries him out of the shower.

“What?! Haitham!” Kaveh yelps, squirming in his arms. “Put me down!” 

 Alhaitham wordlessly releases Kaveh, who lands butt-first on the very cold marble floor.

“What is wrong with you?” Kaveh yells, scrambling to stand up. He jabs Alhaitham in the chest as he rambles.

“Why would you even drop me like that?! And don’t ask me to promise something if you aren’t going to believe me, asshole!”

Alhaitham just smiles at him.

“What?” Kaveh snaps.

“Feeling better already, I see.”

“You—” Kaveh feels his face burn red with embarrassment. Finally accepting that he has lost, he huffily towels himself off and tucks himself into one side of Alhaitham’s bed, laying on his side and pretending to sleep.

After a few minutes, he feels the mattress sink down behind him as Alhaitham gets into bed. He slings an arm over Kaveh’s body. A comforting weight, reassuring Kaveh that he’s not alone.

“Sweet dreams, Kaveh.”

Kaveh stays still for a moment, until he’s sure Alhaitham is asleep.

Then, he holds Alhaitham’s hand and kisses his palm.

“Thank you,” he breathes into it. In response, he feels a kiss against the back of his neck.

Goddamn it. He just can’t win against Alhaitham.

But then Alhaitham’s fingers curl tighter around his own.

Warmth pools in Kaveh’s chest. He intertwines their fingers and thinks to himself, “Maybe it’s for the best.”

[cinnamontoastcrunch-15]

I love your Hippie Remus x Scientist Sirius stories so much! I'm just so curious how they met. I feel like it either has to be the most random place ever - like a Costco or they met through mutual friends at a party. We all know how good they are for each other, but how did they meet, and who asked who on a date?!

HELLO this ask was sent ages ago but I got so genuinely fixated on the idea and wanted to make it perfect because holy fuck yes

Masterpost pinned!

Remus had a plan for Dorcas and their girlfriend Marlene’s Halloween party. Namely, stick with Lily.

It lasted a good 5 minutes, until Lily spotted people she knew and somehow managed to disappear, because of course she did.

Remus wasn’t bad at talking to new people, pretty social on a good day; he was just high and bored, honestly, mostly just wanting to stand in the corner and observe. For the most part, everyone was pretty much the same, drinking and talking, a fair few people dancing. Remus stood and watched as people drifted over to the drinks table, almost everyone winding up with a drink in their hand.

Almost.

All apart from one guy who seemed wrapped up in his own world. He had his phone in his hand, and seemed to get progressively more irritated as he typed, until he finally tapped it aggressively and held it to his ear. Remus almost felt compelled to look around everyone, watching as the guy argued into the phone, running a stressed hand through his long black hair as he spoke, before crossing the room.

He was quite clearly headed directly for the corner Remus was stood in, probably looking for somewhere discreet to ‘talk’, and something in Remus knew they should move out of the way, but they didn’t want to. Whether it was him being much too nosy or not, he was pretty sure he was staying, as the guy almost walked directly into Remus, finally coming in earshot of them.

“Of all days to ‘work up the courage’ to tell me, fucking halloween? Never, in my entire bloody career, have I so desperately wanted to murder somebody! Christ!” He paused, eyes sliding shut as he took a deep, seething breath. He seemed ready to say something slightly quieter, when his face shifted. Oh, the other line had really pissed him off. “No, it’s not nothing! It’s just half of my motherfucking findings! Right, you have to go into the lab. Now. Oh, I’m sorry, is that inconvenient for you? Here’s the thing, I don’t give one! I don’t care that it’s Halloween for you too! You’re the one who fucked everything up! If it’s not either fixed or perfectly recreated by Monday, you bet your arse you’re not welcome back in my bloody lab. Now I’m going to try and salvage the scraps of tonight, so get working!” He pulled the phone from his ear and hung up quickly, before leaning with his back against the wall and scrubbing his hands over his face with a sigh. Remus knew they shouldn’t speak, it would seem really weird, he shouldn’t-

“That didn’t sound good.”

Fuck.

He watched as the guy jumped a mile, finally noticing Remus. The moment Remus got to look at him, really look at him, Remus felt something in him shift.

He was drop dead gorgeous.

Now, Remus had gotten past the self-loathing part of their life, actually found himself liking his own face when he looked in the mirror, but this guy? Everything paled in comparison to him. If his black hair tumbling down to his shoulders and framing his face wasn’t enough, he had strong, warm silver eyes, an insanely defined jaw and full lips.

Lips that Remus really needed to stop staring at.

He had really come to the conclusion that he wasn’t one for instant attraction, and this guy had just swanned in and proved him wrong. It was like the universe was laughing in their face. They weren’t delusional, it had been a good while since he had found someone that attractive. Still, he was reasonably good at staying composed. It wasn’t like anybody could tell they were high, so clearly they were a pretty good actor.

“Yeah, no, it wasn’t good at all.” The guy answered, offering Remus a small smile. “I just found out one of my newest hires accidentally grabbed a sample I’ve been working on for ages, thinking it was theirs, and now I’ve lost months of work.” He finished with a groan, turning away and letting his head hit the wall with a dull thud.

“Just blame Mercury.” Remus answered simply. When the guy looked at him blankly, Remus elaborated. “Mercury’s in retrograde?”

“I… have no clue what that means.” He answered, and Remus never thought he’d be endeared by someone not knowing astrology. They smiled, wanting more and more to know everything about him.

“Mercury’s backward motion really fucks with life.”

“Right, right.” Remus glanced at him, finally taking in his outfit. He was wearing black leather trousers and a tight black shirt. Remus frowned, confused.

“What are you supposed to be dressed as?” He asked. The guy turned to him.

“A dog?” He tried. “I had ears, but Marlene stole them.”

“Ah, I had a feeling you were Marlene’s friend. I went to school with Dorcas, so I figured I’d have met you before if you were Dorcas’.” Remus observed calmly, the guy watching them carefully.

“What’s your name?” He asked, and Remus almost thanked every god on the spot for how straight to the point the dog man was.

“Remus. Remus Lupin. Yours?”

“Sirius Black.”

“Well, Sirius Black, I want to see your costume with the ears.” He answered.

“Yeah, yeah sure!” Sirius answered brightly. “Marlene’s gone awol, so I can send you a picture? What’s your number?”

Oh.

Smooth.

He was a smooth motherfucker, and Remus was pretty sure Sirius was going to be sticking around.

[nerdieforpedro]

You're not Broken

Frankie Morales x plus size female reader

Fanfiction: Teens and up

Masterlist / Francisco “Catfish” Morales Masterlist

Approx word count: ~2200 (I edited a bit after starting my draft post.)

Warnings: references to smut, descriptions of past violent traumatic events, depression, PTSD, minor physical altercation (wasn't intentional), anxiety, self-deprecation, Fluff at the end

Notes: I'm happy to finally have a fic for Frankie Friday! In many of my fics as of late, the angst has been HEAVY, this one is no exception. I tried to include all the warnings I thought would apply, please let me know if I need to add anything. I think at some point depending on what weird, painful, happy or fun path life has taken you down, we all may feel broken at some point.

We're not, we're just humans in an imperfect world just trying to figure it out.

The same question had been nagging your thoughts for the past month, “Why doesn’t he let me sleep over at his house?” You’d been with your boyfriend Frankie for three months, getting to know each other, having mind-blowing sex and having a great time so you thought. You’d even met his daughter, Camilla, who was an adorable two year old toddler a few times. Frankie would sleep at your place, playing big spoon to your little spoon, his strong arms wrapped around you, his chin and scruffy beard against your shoulder and neck. You’ve been to the man’s house, just haven’t stayed overnight in it. You realize it’s dumb, thinking too hard about this, you’ve only been together three months, it’s not that long, but it’s also not that short either, at least to you. He makes sure you get home safe from your dates and calls to let you know he’s in his house safe. 

One night, you decide that tonight you’re going to ask him why, why he doesn’t want you in his house overnight. Frankie doesn’t offer an explanation, only that he didn’t realize that it was that important to you. Instantly, you feel like an idiot for bringing it up. He assures you you’re not and you both go off to bed, sleep soundly and he cooks you breakfast. Slowly, you spend more nights at his house, but it was one particular night within the week you had been staying overnight at Frankie’s house why he was hesitant to have you over.

It turns out, Franscico Morales is a man with layers, like an onion. He hates that analogy because his friend Santiago says it too often and Benny mentions that his feet smell like onions, anyone’s feet would after wearing heavy boots all day with no breathable material. He’s a kind man, a loving partner and a doting father. He was also a soldier in the Special Forces of the US Army. This left him with blemishes on his mind and frayed his soul, he tries to remember he’s not that man anymore and has moved on, left that behind. As a concept, he understands, but his body and soul never forget what he did in the name of his country. Most times, he can keep busy to stave off the intrusive thoughts, the fears, the self-loathing, the guilt of surviving, the blood he can still see on his hands and head shots he made. Even flying, something Frankie loves doing which lead him to the army, reminds him of his past, moving his comrades bodies to and fro, sometimes they were alive, sometimes not. Frankie has talked to some people about it, some at the VA, and those he served with, but it’s a struggle each day. He is happy though, his daughter lights up his world and so do you, his new girlfriend who he does want to see when he wakes up.

Instead, Frankie sometimes sees the faces of those left behind, those who he couldn’t save, other times, it might just be blood or his old comrade Tom on that damn mountain a hole in his fucking head. He doesn’t want to burden you with this quite yet, things are new, they’re good. He can’t bear for you to walk away as others have, scared of him, feeling he’s defective in some way. Even Camila’s mother felt that way about him, she told him he’s a wonderful father but a haunted man that can’t let anyone in. That stuck with Frankie in the subsequent years.

Now he’s here, happy that you’re lying next to him, but wondering when it will happen. When his mind will fail him again and he’ll see the past horrors taunt him once more. Thankfully you’re a heavy sleeper, he was sure that he had woken you at your place when he got up in the middle of the night and went for a walk, sat on the couch, read one of your books, scrolled through his phone and then when he was near exhausted, he climbed back into bed. You were never the wiser though, you’d wake up with that gorgeous smile and ask him how he slept, give him a kiss and ask him what he wanted to eat. It was as it should be, no nightmares, no horrid dreams, no violent visions, maybe he got three or four hours of sleep tops, but it was next to someone who treated him like he was normal. He had found that he slept slightly better at your place so he was hoping to keep that going as long as possible. The veteran would get up to four and a half hours of sleep consecutively at your home

Tonight in Frankie’s house was fine, better then fine actually because once again, he made you say nothing but his name for at least an hour. After you both came down from your highs, your boyfriend wiped you down per his routine. If there was one thing you had learned about Frankie, unless he approves, don’t disrupt his routine. He takes special care to wipe you down first then himself, encourages you to use the bathroom followed by himself. Then the pair of you got into bed, his big spoon to your little spoon. A lovely end to a lovely evening. 

Except at one in the morning, you heard whispering. Frankie’s large hands weren’t on your round belly or wide thighs, instead, he had them wrapped around himself as sweat dotted his brow. An unfamiliar grimace was on his face as he mumbled something you couldn’t make out, it didn’t sound like words. You reached to touch his shoulder and he snapped back, he looked at you but his eyes were wide and unfocused. One of his hands grabbed your wrist as he draped you out of bed, he crouched behind the bedroom door. You didn’t say anything at first, shocked by what was happening but you started calling his name, first Frankie which he didn’t answer to, then you tried Francisco, he still gave you nothing. He was rattling off numbers now which were nonsensical. Finally you tried Sergeant Morales which got him to focus on you finally.

It took him a minute, but he recognized you and gasped in horror. Frankie didn’t remember getting out of the bed or grabbing you, ‘a new horror has happened’ he thought as he released your wrist. You actually hadn’t felt your hand for the last few minutes and now that he wasn’t putting any pressure on it, your wrist throbbed in pain, you winced but didn’t want to scare Frankie more than you already assumed that he was. He turned to head toward the kitchen but you stopped him.

“Wait, don’t go. I’m alright Frankie.”

“No you’re not cariño. Look at your wrist…I…”

“You didn’t mean to. I know you would never mean to. Is this…” You paused, taking a deep breath before asking. “Is this why you didn’t want me to sleepover?”

Frankie looks away for a moment, closing his eyes. Is this the moment he loses you? You say it’s fine but like hell it is. He knows your wrist hurts and you’ll be lucky if it doesn’t bruise by morning. You’re one of two people he wanted to be his best self for, you and his daughter, but he’s failed. Shown you what the outcome can be if his mind plays serious enough games with him. He looks into your patient eyes and nods. “Yes. Though not as severe as tonight was, most nights I…I don’t sleep well.”

You surprise him by embracing him, wrapping your soft body against him with your arms around him, massaging his back. “I’m glad I now know Frankie. We’re supposed to be up front with each other right?”

Frankie laid his head on your shoulder, placing a soft kiss on your round shoulder, he was in your arms and felt better, still guilty but better. Maybe you wouldn’t leave right away, he’d have time to convince you to stay at least.

“Frankie, let’s go back to bed, but I’ll be the big spoon this time.” His body stiffened, that was not part of the routine, his regimen with you. Before he could mention this, you’d pulled him back to bed and laid down, patting the pillow beside yourself. The man sighed and laid next to you in bed, giving in to your whim. He rolled on his side and felt your body against his, though your arms, especially your sore wrist didn’t quite make it around him due to the broadness of his back. 

“Cariño, I think we should switch positions. Doesn’t your wrist hurt like that?” You knew Frankie wasn’t wrong, it still pulsed with pain, though slightly less since it had been a few minutes. You decided to turn on your back and patted your chest.

“Lay here then. No funny business though, we have work in the morning.” A playful grin spread across your lips. Frankie let out a happy huff and laid his head on your tender breasts as his chest lay across half your plush belly. One hand patted your head, his fingers rubbing your scalp as his other hand squeezed your hip. 

“This is a lot better. You sure you can sleep like this though? Are you comfortable?” Your boyfriend asked, that was the man you knew, always concerned for your well being, even when you’re trying to get him settled.

“Yes, I can sleep through you having horrible dreams most nights.” You closed your eyes, realizing that may have been a cutting statement to make, but it was mainly directed at yourself. He’s been suffering like this and you didn’t know, slept happily without a care because you don’t remember your dreams but he does and it’s detrimental for him. “Sorry, I just…I would have tried to help you sooner you know. I get why you didn’t tell me. It’s a hellova thing to deal with Frankie.” You feel his body start to relax and to put more of his weight on you, he’s accepting of the position at least, you’re hopeful that it can get him back to sleep with minimal issue.

“Thank you cariño. I don’t deserve your understanding or your kindness.” A small acknowledgement comes from Frankie, though it makes you frown. He shouldn’t speak of himself that way, it’s not his fault his mind is in this state, it took years to become this. You had an arm that was laying across the pillows, above his shoulder, you bent it to place his scalp in your palm grasping and releasing his soft curls.

With a kiss placed on his forehead you told him, “You’re not broken Frankie. You’re entitled to so much from life. I love you and I won’t hear you talk about yourself like that. You’re too important to me.” A heat rose from your cheeks and spread throughout your body, you might burst into flames. You just told this man you loved him and you’ve only been dating him three months, that seems a bit soon. Even if a real tender moment is happening right now, that could sour it a bit or weird it out. You stayed perfectly still, closing your eyes to avoid the look on his face whatever it was. You worry too much.

Frankie is ecstatic with this turn of events. In fact, he too was wondering if it was too soon. Your plush body he loses himself in, your melodic voice where it always sounds like you’re singing his name, Camilla appeared to like you - she didn’t do the stranger danger and waddle away, you make him laugh, his friends liked you, you were aware of his past transporting discretion and although you didn’t excuse it completely, understood that he was trying to make ends meet at the time, enjoyed how comfortable he could be with you even in silence. Why shouldn’t he tell you that he loves you, especially now that you’ve said it first, though he did want to beat you to that originally. Francisco popped his chin up to look at you, your eyes were closed and he snickered, he had horrible dreams and you spun too many things inside that pretty head of yours.

“Look at me, Cariño,” he waited until you made eye contact with him. This was important after all, “I love you too and I also thought it was too soon. We’re on the same page most of the time. Stop spinning and sleep.” A small peck landed on the top of your breast before he laid his head back down.

Soon both of your respirations slowed and you slept until the morning. Frankie did not wake during the night or need an early morning walk. He had the best sleep he’d had in years. You were ecstatic to see him the next morning actually looking well rested for once, sitting on the side of the bed as he said good morning to you. Your hands pressed against his back as did your cheek - a wonderful start to the day for you both.

[irkimatsu]

Irk - I am gonna apologize in advance for this note but just imagine:

Someone pulling Husk by the suspenders and just like kissing him hard. Either because tension from an argument arose or he was just being self deprecating and it’s a way to shut him up. But just grabbing onto those fucking hot suspenders and laying it on the man.

I feel like he would definitely be shocked at first but would lean into it. Definitely tentatively but oh boy if you get him going? Be ready to be taken on the bar counter (low key a dream of mine) Just a mess of moans and teeth and if you are wearing short pants? Even better, this man will worship your legs till kingdom come (or you come either way)

Okay have a great day and know that you’re awesome!!!!

Oh those suspenders were made for pulling. Add in the "stop being so self-deprecating" kiss and this is absolutely gourmet

Husk is even drunker than usual... he's trying to drown feelings he told himself decades ago that he was done with. He knows you've been flirting with him, he knows how much you like him... and he likes you back. Too much. Even as he returns your flirtatious advances, he knows he can't let it get any further than that. He wants you, but knows he can't have you; he'll only drag you down and make you hate him in the end. It's better in his mind if he stays a fond memory to you, the one who got away, instead of becoming the one who broke your heart.

You've been trying to have this serious conversation with him for nights, and each time you try he's even drunker. Tonight, the alcohol helps his self-loathing pour freely from his lips. Why are you bothering? He's a drunk, a gambler, an addict. He has nothing, not even his own soul, and it's his own fucking fault. What could he possibly offer you? Hell, he'll probably do something stupid that gets you into as much trouble as he's in, and he'd never be able to forgive himself for that. Don't give him the chance. Just leave him here to drink himself as near to death as he can get when he's already in hell, it's all he's really good for anymore-

And then you pull him in for a kiss, his fur tickling your knuckles as you grab onto his suspenders. The alcohol is so strong on his breath, but you don't care - that scent has been reminding you of him for a long time anyway, and the taste represents him even more strongly. You comb one hand through the fur on his chest, letting all of your senses absorb as much of him as they can. He freezes, still for long enough that you worry you've crossed a line and he's going to push you away-

But the alcohol has lowered his inhibitions enough to allow him to grab your head and forcefully kiss you back, gently nipping your lips, practically climbing over the bar to be closer to you.

"You shouldn't," he slurs with a groan, but it doesn't stop him from kissing you again. "I'm just gonna- gonna fuck this up-"

You grab his head and shut him up again with another kiss. He gives in and slots his mouth against yours, practically devouring you. With you holding his head in place, he's free to run his paws down your back. You press yourself firmly into the bar as his paws cup your ass, wishing the damn thing wasn't in the way.

"Do you wanna go upstairs?" you ask, breathlessly.

"No."

You think for a moment that you went too far with that suggestion, but he interrupts your concern by pulling you over the bar. You collapse on top of him, pinning him to the floor, but it doesn't stop him from continuing to kiss you. His paws run down your body again, this time taking the opportunity to squeeze your bare thighs. A purr rumbles in his throat as his claws gently graze the soft flesh.

"Let's do it here."

You two will definitely need to talk about this in the morning - while sober, preferably. But for now, it's nice to finally let out the sexual tension that's been building to unbearable levels for so long...

[bungalowbear]

I’ll Cry If I Want To II

Pairing: Aegon Targaryen x reader (60s AU)

Word Count: 2.4k

Summary: Aegon recalls strong feelings from the night of your party.

A/N: Here is the final part. Enjoy!

Part One

Aegon’s father’s house is a grand abode at the edge of the city. Tonight the dining room is prepared for the rehearsal dinner, where a long table is arranged to accommodate both the bride and groom’s families. 

You sit directly across from Aegon between your mother and father. You have on a black velvet dress with a square neckline and long sleeves. Coupled with your neutral expression, you look presentable for a funeral. He supposes that’s what this is. The end of life as you both know it.

Aegon watches you take a sip of your wine. A stark opposite to his large gulps. Where he is eager to drain every cup to get to the next, you are patient as you savor each drop. His eyes fixate on where your tongue swipes away the few drops that linger on your lips.

Your birthday party was months ago, yet your cold demeanor towards Aegon hadn’t thawed. Your mothers arranged outings, to keep up appearances, during which you hadn’t struck up your usual conversations. They weren’t about your fathers’ work or how this engagement was one big farce. No, you’d ask about Aegon. His interests, his childhood, what he hoped for himself in the future. He’d actually enjoyed his time with you. But as always he managed to screw it up. 

Aegon hadn’t intended to drink so much. He’d been drinking less since the announcement of the engagement. But the morning of your party he and his father got into a terrible fight. It was the usual rant about Aegon being irresponsible and essentially not good enough to be his father’s successor. Aegon had heard it all before, so he wasn’t sure why this time it affected him so much.

When he arrived at your apartment, your presence was enough to quell some of the self-destruction that was building. First he started with one glass. He shared a dance with you and it was the best he’d felt in so long, free from expectation. But as the night went on he fell into old habits with his college friends. They kept placing drink after drink into his hand. If he was a better man he would have refused the excess and went to find you, to seek solace in your presence. Instead he kept going.

The rest is a blur. He remembers a hand on his arm. Heavy and needy. Whispers of warm desire in his ear. Unsteady footsteps toward the bathroom in the hallway. Clothes hastily removed. Snapping hips. Heavy breathing. Cries of pleasure.

Aegon takes a deep gulp of wine.

The one thing Aegon can remember clearly is the feeling of disappointment that washed over him as soon as it was done. It sunk deep into him and planted its roots, allowing anger, shame, and self-loathing to sprout. It all blossomed out of him and he pricked you with his thorns. Even at the sight of your tear stained face he couldn’t stop. He told you to suck it up. To deal with him like everyone else had learned to do.

And that’s what you do now. Your eyes don’t look in his direction. Not since your arrival, which granted him an obligatory greeting from you.

Aegon wishes he were different. That he didn’t have to drink and fuck his way around the city to bury his dread and miserableness. Even though it’s the exact opposite of what he wants, Aegon knows one day he’ll have to take his father’s place. His half-sister Rhaenyra is the true eldest and better suited, but everyone does go on about having the first born son inherit the proverbial throne.

Another swig of wine.

The entire table seems to be willfully ignorant of his inebriated state. But you are also glossed over as everyone else strikes their own conversations around the table. You and Aegon are an island occupying two separate sides. The sea surrounding you is filled with sharks, the vicious jaws of your families waiting to devour you both.

You push your food around your plate, a blank stare occupying your face. Even when all of the plates are cleared and everyone moves into the large den you keep yourself tucked in a corner of the room. If anyone notices the way you and Aegon keep your distance no one says anything. There’s no need for pretense among family. 

Aegon heads for the bar and pours himself a glass of bourbon, watching his family and yours dance and share laughter. He thinks what a wonder it is to be so jovial while the couple whose union they’re celebrating is so blatantly miserable.

Aegon doesn’t know how long he stands at the bar, but when his brother Aemond comes up beside him to refill his own glass he lingers. 

“It would be wise to keep your wits about you tonight, brother.”

“What for? Everything’s already been settled,” Aegon grumbles. “I’m getting married tomorrow.”

Aemond turns to him, the sapphire in his eye catching the light. “It’s not the fate worse than death you think it is.”

“Easy for you to say.” Aegon chuckles humorlessly. “Your marriage is perfect.”

Aemond glances over his shoulder at his wife, who is speaking with their mother. 

“Nothing is perfect. No matter how much we wish it were.”

Aegon looks between his brother and sister-in-law. “Are you two…fighting?”

“We’ve hit a bit of a rough patch.”

Aegon’s brows rise. “Didn’t think you of all people would have one of those.”

“We’re dealing with it. Like adults.” Aemond turns back, lips pulled down into a frown. “Unlike you.”

“I am. If I weren’t, would I be able to do this?” 

Aegon tips back his glass and drains the rest of his drink. The action leaves him slightly disoriented. The room tilts off its axis and he feels his legs quiver slightly. Aegon slams the glass on the bar counter and looks to his brother, offering him a wide grin.

“If I were you I’d switch to water for the rest of the night,” Aemond warns.

“And why is that?”

Aemond turns and sets his eyes on two people in the middle of the room. Aegon follows his gaze and lands on you. Nowhere to Run by Martha and the Vandellas spills from the speakers of the record player and your body moves in perfect rhythm. Aegon stares as he’s taken back to the night of your party when you shared a dance with him. A smile begins to form on his lips until he realizes who you’re dancing with.

Daeron.

Of course the only person who’d be able to coax you out of your shell would be his obnoxiously sweet and amicable little brother. If Aemond was the perfectly pious and responsible child, then Daeron was a close second. Just freshly turned eighteen, Daeron has been naturally gifted with a magnetism that has girls from all over the city flocking to him. And even more infuriating, he doesn’t indulge them in the nefarious ways Aegon would. No. He simply offers brief flatteries before going on his merry way, leaving a trail of fawning ladies. And apparently his fiancé is no exception.

Aemond leaves the bar without another word. Aegon turns away from you and grips the bottle of bourbon and pours the rest of it into his glass. He isn’t a fool. He’s seen the way his brother looks at you, as if you’d hung the moon. No doubt the reason he hasn’t pursued any other girl is because of his childish crush on you. No matter how much he tries not to be, Daeron is still just a boy. There’s no way you would entertain any dalliance between the two of you.

With that comforting thought, Aegon turns around with a confident smirk only for it to fall when he realizes you are gone. And so is Daeron.

Aegon’s bleary eyes jump around the room, hoping you’ve retreated back into your corner. Instead he sees a flash of your black dress as it disappears into the hallway. 

Aegon clenches the glass in his hand and stumbles along the edges of the room until he’s out in the hallway. It’s long and wide and lined up with doors on either sides. He curses his father for living in such an enormous house.

His pulse quickens when he spots you and Daeron farther down the hall. His brother’s hand is on the small of your back, stopped in front of an open door. Light from within illuminates the sweet smile you give his brother. Hot jealousy spurs Aegon forward, but his feet stumble and he falls heavily to the ground. The remainder of his drink spills along the plush carpet.

Aegon calls your name, a weak attempt is all he can manage, just as the door closes and you and Daeron disappear. His head spins and he sinks against the wall, the image of your face in the light the final memory he clings to as he plummets down into the dark pit of unconsciousness.

—

The wedding ceremony is a vision of green and gold. His mother had insisted it be the color scheme for the wedding and you hadn’t objected. She’d have you walk down the aisle in green if she could, but you wear the traditional white dress.

Like a ghost you walk among the sea of living people to take your place beside him. Vows are exchanged. Aegon gives your lips a peck to make it official. Your mothers shed a tear, and your fathers smile victoriously.

You and Aegon March out of the church, and are transported to a dining hall. Another dinner. This one to commemorate the sacrifice of your lives for your now united family’s continued wealth and prosperity. 

Although he and his new bride are perched on a platform above the others, no one pays them any attention. They revel in their victory. Eat and drink and negotiate their next corporate venture.

When the food is served you and Aegon are the first to receive a plate. He doesn’t have much of an appetite. You on the other hand, contrary to last night, immediately dig into your food. You cut a piece of meat and bring it to your mouth along with a sautéed carrot. 

There’s something different about you today. He’s sure it’s not the joy of being a newlywed. Though you don’t look at him, he can tell the defeated air you carried around yesterday is no longer a burden for today. He ponders for a moment what it could be, then your eyes dart across the room briefly, and he follows them.

Aegon’s mouth forms a hard line when he spots Daeron nodding in your direction. It’s a brief gesture before he returns to talking to one of his cousins. But it’s enough to get Aegon’s blood boiling and remembering what he’d witnessed last night.

“I saw you last night,” Aegon says suddenly, staring at the side of your head as you skewer another carrot with your fork.

“I saw you, too,” you respond dryly. “You were draining glass after glass.”

“Don’t try to deflect. I saw you and Daeron.”

If his words affect you, you don’t show it. But Aegon knows what he saw, how close Daeron had been to you. And he won’t let you deny it.

“I saw him take you down the hall,” Aegon insists. 

You nod. “He did.”

“I saw his hand on you.”

“A common gesture between a gentleman and a lady.”

“I saw you both go into that room,” Aegon seethes, tiring of your cool responses. 

“Aegon.” Your brow furrows. “That is a serious accusation.”

“It’s true.”

Aegon is alight with vindication. He’s caught you. For all of your righteous silence to punish him you end up being just like him. Finding another body to heal the pain of your wounds.

“Daeron was leading me to the bathroom,” you explain. “I’ve only been to your parents’ home once before and I couldn’t remember the way.”

“Bullshit.”

“He stayed outside the door and waited for me. And on our way back do you know what we found?”

The fire in Aegon’s eyes dims. His back tenses. He knows exactly what you found.

“Why, it was you.” Your gaze locks onto him, not shying away. “Passed out and drooling on the carpet.”

“I know what I saw,” Aegon insists, though his words don’t have the bite they did a minute ago.

“Your mother wasn’t happy about the stain on the carpet.”

Aegon grips the edge of the table, knuckles turning whiter that his already pale skin. “You bitch.”

“Your brothers had to haul you back to your room.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“No, it’s not,” you agree. “So maybe you’d better think very hard about what you think you remember.”

“But, I…” He falters, unsure what it is exactly he wants to say. 

“Aegon, I’ve only ever wanted to get along with you.” You sigh and put down your fork. He feels the warmth of your hand over his where he still grips the table. “I admit I distanced myself from you after my party, but I want us to at least try to get along. We are married now after all. We knew we could never stop it. So why not make the best of it?”

Aegon looks down at your hand. You thumb smooths over his skin to coax his hand to relax and release its grip. He sits back against his chair and stares at you. He nods. You smile and return to eating.

A wave of defeat washes over him. He’d been so sure of what he saw. Daeron’s hand was on your back, leading you to the door. He shits his eyes and tries to remember what happened. 

Aegon saw the door close, the hallway shrouded in darkness. He lifted his head to call out to you. But there’s a faint silhouette now. It stands guard. But that can’t be right. Didn’t Daeron go in with you?

Aegon’s eyes jump open. He reaches for an empty wine glass, uncorks the bottle of champagne, and tilts it to pour himself a generous amount. He pauses. The lip of the bottle rests against the rim of the glass as he contemplates whether to go through with it. It wouldn’t be his first drink of the day.

He wants a clear head to sort through this. To reassess what is real and what he might have conjured in his own head. But then he thinks about you and how you’re the only one who’s been the most genuine and pleasant around him. 

He glances at the seven pointed star resting on your chest. A gift from his mother, a golden symbol of your shared virtue. 

Aegon is comforted by this and pours himself a glass of champagne.

[rigginsstreet]

teen fp lying in freds bed at night after he crawled in his bedroom window bedraggled and hurting at 3am and he's faking being asleep so fred wont talk to him about it but he's wide awake trying to shut his emotions down out of shame but it's too much for him tonight and in a moment of weakness he starts crying and he can't stop... and he doesn't know what to do, he just keeps crying in the dark and freds holding him and hugging him and petting his hair and saying its ok its ok they're gonna get through it together its not his fault etc... and fps trying to reach inside himself for that self loathing that makes it so easy to shut fred out and to tell himself he deserves what he gets but he's just so sad... and he gives in and lets himself cry and cry and freds wrapped around him holding fps face to his chest letting him cry it out... and fps so vulnerable in that room but it's just him and fred there so he lets himself be just this one time... and its been so long since his defenses came down like this so he's just completely falling apart crying like he'll never get another chance and he was worried fred was gonna get too upset seeing him cry or it was gonna scare him off but its like fred just knows what to do to make him feel better and he's being strong for both of them and if fp feels a physical weight off his chest afterward even though he's embarrassed about it...... yeah

what the fuck...

[starwarsmum]

Final HMB Word Darts submission! 🎉 Written in a sleep deprived haze last night, so if you think it's angsty af, you're right! But with a happier ending than my other BioDad Bruce Wayne ones that are full of angst so...

Jason was nervous. No, fuck that, he was terrified. It had been a month since his little Paris ‘vacation’ and he still felt vulnerable and raw. He still half expected to wake up one day and the Pit Madness would reappear.

On top of that, he had promised Marinette that if he went an entire month without any sign of the Pit, he would go on a date with her. They'd carried on texting throughout the month, and he had seen her around, but this would be the first time since returning to Gotham that they would be one-on-one.

But Jason Todd was not about to break a promise to Marinette Dupain-Cheng, not in this lifetime. Or, er, any other lifetimes, if he was unlucky enough to die again. Not only had he put her through hell when he'd run after Sheila, but she'd saved his sanity when she'd convinced the Kwamis to cure him.

He spent the day vacillating wildly between being ecstatic that she wanted to go on a date with him and regretting making the promise in the first place. He had always thought Marinette was cute, even when she was a traumatised shell of a fifteen-year-old, but now? Now she was a strong, passionate, gorgeous young woman who should really have higher standards than a recently dead guy with anger issues and no high school diploma.

He was in a particularly severe self-loathing funk when he got a message from her. Torn between hoping it said that she wanted to cancel and hating the idea, he was half relieved when she was only messaging to confirm the time and place she expected him to be that evening.

It was roughly two hours before he needed to meet her that someone rapped sharply on his door. Instantly he was alert and reached reflexively for a holster he wasn't currently wearing. He approached his front door cautiously and groaned out loud when he recognised the two people through the peep hole.

“What are you two even doing here?” He said, not bothering to open the door. He was going to have to head to a new safehouse which was honestly such a hassle.

“Jaybird, just open the door so we can talk, please,” Dick said in a tired voice. Jason debated ignoring them but relented when he decided they would probably just knock down the door. “Thank you.”

“Don't mention it,” Jason said darkly, ushering them inside and shutting the door with a snap. “To what do I owe the ‘pleasure’ of your company today. And make it quick; I have plans tonight.”

“Those plans are why we're here,” Dick said immediately, glancing at Tim as he took point. “We know you're planning on going out with Marinette and we just wanted to make sure you've thought this through.”

“Thought what through Dickhead?” Jason asked, feeling his annoyance growing by the second. “It's just a date, what's there to think through?”

“You’re smarter than that, Jason,” Tim said impatiently, slumping onto the sofa. “You have to know how much it affected Marinette when you died and now that you're back she's probably putting you up on some sort of pedestal. What if you don't live up to her expectations? Can you honestly say that you're the same person you were when you left her?”

“I think it's none of your fucking business, replacement,” Jason growled. He hated that they were picking at all of the insecurities that Jason knew were hiding behind his anxiety. “You know precisely shit about Mari and me, or what we've been through. So thanks for showing me that my safehouse isn't, and show yourselves out whenever you're done.”

Jason stormed out of the apartment and found himself stalking angrily along the streets aimlessly. Or, at least, he thought it was aimless. He pulled up short outside of Marinette's apartment and felt a resolve firm in his gut.

“Coming!” Marinette called after he knocked on her door. His heart started to race as he waited for her and his breath caught when she opened the door and beamed up at him. “Jay, you're early! I'm nowhere near ready, you ass, come in.”

Jason hadn't been to her apartment yet and he looked around as he entered, looking at the soft pinks and reds of her furnishings. There was a comfy looking sofa stuffed with cushions and throws, a bookshelf full of a range of books and trinkets and a kitchenette that had various baking appliances. 

“Nice digs,” he said quietly, feeling completely out of place. She grinned at him and he gave her a once over, feeling a twist in his stomach at how comfortable she looked. Her dark hair was twisted up into a bun, a knitting needle holding it in place. She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt that came to her knees and he swallowed as he actively moved away from thinking about whether she was wearing anything under it.

“Thanks, Bruce hates it so I had to have it,” she laughed, opening the fridge and rooting around in it to pull out a carton of juice. She opened a cupboard and looked at him over her shoulder. “Do you want some?”

“Sure.” Jason was pretty sure he was about to die again, his heart could not possibly take the strain of looking at her for this long, never mind spending an entire evening in her company. “Listen, Mari, we need to talk-”

“You're not backing out of this date,” she said firmly, slamming a second glass down and turning to glare at him. “I spent this entire month planning this night and you can't turn up early to dump me.”

“That- it's more complicated than that,” he said, which only made her jaw clench and arms cross. “Nette, you can't honestly think that us having a date is a good idea. Whatever we might have had before I died isn’t going to be good anymore.”

“So you don't want to date me,” she said, her voice full of hurt. His heart hurt when she turned away from him but he didn't dare move. He couldn't say anything because if he told her she was right he would be lying but if he said it wasn't like that she would argue. “Okay, fine, I understand. You don't have to keep any promises you made, I won't- we can just be friends, Jay.”

“I don't want to be friends, Mari,” he said softly, and the hurt noise she made cut into him like a knife. “Mari, I owe you…everything, you cured me of Pit Madness and I would do anything you ask. But please, don't ask this of me.”

“And you couldn't have told me this a month ago? Hell, you could've told me when I found you in Crime Alley. I still would have helped you. I didn't…I'm sorry if you thought you had to humour me.”

Her voice was almost a whisper and it sounded like she had to choke out the words. Jason closed his eyes, swallowed down the desire to take back everything he had said, and turned back towards the door.

“I'm sorry,” he said, stopping with his hand on the doorknob. He wished she would shout at him, to get angry so that he could get angry too. Because he was angry, he hated that he'd missed his chance at something he was sure would be amazing. 

But she didn't, so he left. 

_ _ _

Jason spent the next few days missing the Pit Madness. It was stupid, he knew, but if he had the madness then things would go numb from the rage for a while. He wouldn't be stuck in his own head, reliving every second of the same damned evening over and over again. 

He had managed to hole up in an apartment that he hadn't used before, barely leaving it for longer than it took to run to the store and grab some food. He wondered how long it would be before he could go out without running the risk of bumping into her, however small the chances were.

But finally his patience wore too thin and his boredom grew too big. He had to get out there, had to do something. So, after ten days of solitude, he grabbed a holster and a gun, slid his wallet into a back pocket and headed into the early evening. 

He has managed to stop some petty crime and was feeling pretty good about himself for once when he heard the voice of his replacement. The kid was talking in low tones to someone outside of a cafe, his voice worried. When Jason chanced a look at him, Tim looked tired and stressed, so he decided to eavesdrop a little.

“...not really answering her phone, Conner. She texts back like she has to pay by the letter and none of her friends say they've seen her in over a week. I don't know what to do, her coworkers say she's been calling in sick and Dinah said she's been skipping all of her sessions too, which can't be a good sign.”

“She's an adult, Timmy, there's not much more you can do,” the boy next to him said and Jason recognised him as one of Robin's Teen Titan teammates. Superboy, if he remembered correctly. “She's bounced back from worse than being dumped before, she'll be okay.”

Jason was frozen in place, desperate to hear more but dreading it at the same time. They had to be talking about Marinette, but he hadn't…he wasn't important enough to have broken her. It…she would move on, she had to move on.

“Aw hell, Bruce is calling,” Tim groaned, face scrunching up. He sighed before answering. “What's up, B? I'm out with Conner…no, she hasn't answered any calls or texts today, that's why I- no, Dick hasn't heard from her either, but- B, she needs support right now- I haven't missed a single shift! Look, can you just get someone to check in with her?!”

Tim hung up, a thunderous scowl on his face. Jason held his breath as he dialed another number but nobody picked up. He could feel a numb sort of panic building inside him. Before he could second guess himself, he made a beeline towards the place he had been thinking about every minute since he had left it.

He didn't remember a lot of the journey but he clearly made it because he hammered on her door hard enough that the hinges creaked. He waited a few seconds for the same cheery ‘coming’ he had received when he was there last, but it didn't come. 

It was too much. He made a split second decision, and lifted his booted foot and slammed it near the handle. It didn't give. He felt his panic hit a new high and slammed it again, but the door held firm. He looked around desperately for something that would go through the door and his hand brushed against the holster.

“Nette, if you don't open the door, I'm gonna have to shoot the lock out,” he called recklessly, already lining up to take the shot. He gave himself a mental count of ten…nine…eight- the door opened and there she was. She looked almost the opposite of how she had the last time he had seen her, hair straggling down her face, eyes dull and red. She was wearing a pair of leggings with a t-shirt that he almost recognised.

“Jason? What- what are you doing here?” Even her voice was opposite, hoarse and lifeless. She let out a squawk when he grabbed her up in a tight hug, but didn't return it. She seemed thinner than he remembered and he put her down to look at her properly.

“Fuck, Mari, when was the last time you ate something? Or slept? What, someone tells you they can't date you and you turn into a fucking rogue gallery reject?” He knew he was being harsh, but he was scared of what he was seeing. She didn't look like she had been doing any form of self care. Even in the days after she had been brought to the manor after her parents’ deaths she had stayed on top of personal grooming or whatever.

But instead of making her angry, she just shrank in on herself a little, shrugging her shoulders. They stood on either side of her threshold, him holding back from touching her again and her staring blankly at a point behind him. They stood there for longer than was natural before she finally moved.

“Thanks for stopping by,” she said in that awful raspy voice before going to shut the door. Impulsively, he shoved his foot against the door to halt it and she finally turned her eyes onto him. He shuddered at the emptiness in her face. “I can't close the door if your foot is in the way, Jason.”

“Mari, please, just tell me what's going on,” he said, only barely managing to keep his voice level. She didn't move except to try to push the door harder. “Look, I can't let you just fade away like this, the replac- Tim's worried about you and-”

“You do realise that you don't owe me anything, right?” She said, a sharp edge entering her voice. Relief washed through him that was quickly replaced with horror at her next words. “Me getting the Pit Madness out of your system made us, given you don't want anything else from me. So if you're here in some misguided attempt to clear a debt, you can leave. I'm not your problem anymore, Jason.”

“You were never my problem, Mari,” he managed to spit out, putting a hand on her door and pushing it fully open. She didn't move but a crease appeared between her eyebrows. He stepped past her into her apartment before closing the door and she turned slowly, putting her back to it. “And I owe you my life, Nette, not that it's worth much.”

“Agree to disagree then,” she said emotionlessly, staring at her feet. The silence that spread was broken by her phone ringing from the other room.

“Not gonna get that?” He asked, anger colouring his tone. She shrugged and he made a frustrated noise before turning on his heels and making a beeline for the phone. The bedroom was dark and in complete disarray so he didn't find it before it stopped ringing. 

He spotted a rectangular shape on the bed and snatched it up before realising it wasn't a phone but a paperback. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the age of the pages, breathing in the old book smell as he riffled them. The cover was as familiar as the back of his hand and his brain stalled as he realised it was his book.

“You can have it back, if you want,” she said in a monotone. He span around to stare at her but she was playing with the hem of her shirt- his shirt, one of his favourites from before. He felt like a creep for liking that she was wearing it, but there was a warmth in his gut that told him he should be touching her, should be-

“I didn't realise you kept anything of mine,” he said in a muted voice. She stepped into the room, crossing in front of him to climb onto the bed and pulled a box towards herself. She pulled out a few different things that he recognised as his own and he sat on the edge of the bed to take them. “I don't understand, why would you keep any of this? It's just junk.”

“It's all I had,” she muttered, almost too quiet to hear, but he did and it was a fresh knife in an old wound. The two dipshits were right, she'd been romanticising him ever since he died and he would never be able to live up to that.

When his hands closed around a thick jacket that he didn't remember, he pulled it out and frowned at it. It was way nicer than anything he had bought for himself but it had clearly been his size before the Joker had ended that part of his life. Marinette must have seen the confusion in his face because she cleared her throat.

“I was making it, before you left,” she said, touching the leather tentatively. “It was going to be a surprise but…well. It doesn't matter anymore but if you want it you can have it. Or you can toss it, or give it to a kid that needs it. I was boxing all of this up to give it back to you anyway.”

He wasn't entirely sure what happened, but the next thing he knew the box was on the floor and he was pinning her onto the bed, kissing her like it was the only thing that mattered. She barely hesitated, her hands pulling him against her while his own roamed everywhere, trying to touch every inch of her skin.

He pulled away from her sharply when her phone began to ring again and a voice that sounded horribly like Dick's was reminding him that he wasn't supposed to be touching her, that he wasn't good enough for her and never would be. 

But she was looking up at him, her eyes finally awake, and his resolve to stay away from her crumbled. How could the way he felt about her be wrong, if she felt the same? And how could he possibly stay away from her when she looked up at him from where he had her pinned to a mattress with a heat that made him want to do it all over again?

“I am such an asshole,” he murmured, before leaning back in to kiss her softly. His hands stayed respectfully on her waist and he pulled away again before he could get too caught up in kissing her. “I should never have tried to push you away, I'm so sorry.”

“Does this mean you'll…stay?” She asked in such a heartbreakingly soft voice that he swore softly and buried his face in her neck. “I don't- not to pressure you. I just really, really want to be around you Jay.”

“I want to be with you too, Mari,” he said into her collar bone, finger making circles on the skin of her stomach. “I thought I was doing the right thing, letting you go. But all I've been able to think about since I left is you. And if I haven't completely screwed up my chances, I'd like to try.”

“It really hurt when you walked out,” she said in a quiet voice. He tensed and lifted his head to look her in the face. She was smiling slightly, the way she did when she made a joke and nobody understood it. “But how about we just start again? Hi, I'm Marinette and I moved to Gotham to get to know my biological father, rather against the wishes of everyone else I know.”

“Hey Mari, I'm Jason and I'm a reanimated zombie with wicked hair and a grudge against clowns and my adoptive father.” He grinned when she giggled but it was punctuated with a yawn and he pulled her around so that she was tucked against him. “Get some sleep. We can talk more after you've rested.”

“You'll stay?”

“I'm not going anywhere,” he promised, spooning around her. She fell asleep ridiculously quickly and he swore to himself that he wouldn't let his fears get in the way anymore.

[bpdthatsme]

I have been working on a few things ….

One big fucking contradiction

* the life of a borderline

This should be fun. For you maybe, the memories, the feelings all brought back again. Just when you think you have this disorder under control. Guess what, it sends a big Fuck you !! to remind you, you were wrong. Born in Birmingham Alabama, at cooper green hospital, which has long been closed! The hospital of the poor, homeless, degenerate, lazy ass people of this backward ass southern state. The ones that live off of the system. The people I now loathe. The Bible carrying, mainly for the help from the churches. Living so sinfully until that light bill is due, or they need the food box they give out so generously!!! Lmao,I promise I’ll discuss this later… why have I decided to write this??? Maybe it’s the crazy dreams that will not go away, the memories that flood my brain in the most inappropriate times. Like right now sleep evades me, it doesn’t matter that I’ve taken two Xanax two 50 milligram toradol, 4 glasses .. Angie glasses.. of wine. A couple of shots of vodka plus I’m high as fuck!!! Self medicating??? Hmmmmm.. you think??? Damn I’m so fucked up in the head, but guess what I’m a high functioning borderline.., a black padded room is my dream room, most days. Dark, and silent, I think a white padded room would just be torture, I think about that often. About the people who are in there, how in the hell can so much white and light help? It reminds most of us of hospitals,in our minds. Borderline minds… that equals death, so no it’s not going to help anyone heal .

I figured I’d do a rambling journal I promise it will not be organized I might find old journals, I’ve kept so many and throw that in as we go. It’s a very cold, for Alabama in March night. It’s suppose to get down to 28 degrees, I love it. But everyone else around me is just bitching about it. Oh yeah 2023 is the year. I do believe that is important. It’s a typical “BPD” night. Was suppose to see one of my guy friends, the one that my body has no control with, he looks at me and my body automatically responds. his birthday was yesterday, we’ve been FWB for over a year now. He went out with Family tonight,inside that little piece of heart I still have I wished he would’ve invited me. But I know I chose these men that are not going to do that, I do it because I’m not sure I will ever meet anyone that will understand me, take the time to get to know me, I’m usually the one that will stop talking to them, if I start getting to close or they do I pull away. Toxic trait 1 !!! I’m also talking to someone that would be a good partner in life. Known him and been FWB with him or over 7 years. We came close to being together, that’s when this tall stranger walked into my life, I was instantly hooked!!! Like I was under a spell. It ended up being the most toxic love relationship by far. It so wasn’t love. Yet I’m still there for him, I sill love him, I’m just not in love with him. I honestly don’t know if I believe that kind of love really exist. I know that a mothers love exists, I would die for them any day. That’s unconditional love, I believe. You only have that. For your children. Or you should have, my parents didn’t fucking have that for me!! It’s another cocktail night, vodka, painkillers, Xanax,weed!! I didn’t sleep at all last night, maybe dozed for one hour. Yet I’m still awake and it’s almost midnight, let’s go ahead a tear the bandaid off my sex addiction and the FWB toxic trait. I’m keeping my most toxic ex, close just incase I need a big strong man, then there is Hazelgreen, he’s the one my body craves and responds to… it’s hypnotic. Then we have Tennessee, dated him for a bit, the sex is good. We have fun, but he has a rocky past and needs to get his shit together, Huntsville is the 7 yr FWB he’s really good in bed has his shit together but has commitment issues. Coffee guy, FWB 9 years he’s married and I really try to stay away from him but we always end up talking and fucking again, supposedly he’s going through a divorce now. Has promised me the world, then fell off the earth the past week and a half. One more😱🤦🏼‍♀️bucket list. This one was my boss at one point, I would get so turned on when he yelled at me!!! He left the company, haven’t seen him in a year. Well check off the bucket list. I don’t know if we were nervous or what. But I think we need to try again 🤷‍♀️ I’m such a fucking slut!!! Why do I do this, hmm it is fun!! It does feel good, I can’t get pregnant. And I only feel like shit afterwords about 60 percent of the time. Which in turn makes me mix cocktails again. I’ll pick back up tomorrow my cocktail tonight is finally making me sleepy. Time to go into my dreamland, most mornings I don’t wanna wake from them. Even the nightmares are better then this she’ll of existence.

[fortheboys-forthegirls]

who checks on the checker?

who asks “how are you doing, really?” To the person who is so used to asking others.

to answer the question, I feel like I’ve been better than before. I’ve improved. But there are times I’m not so sure. Where I worry if this is just a temporary feeling. And I’ll end up in the pits I’m so used to sitting in again. Ones filled with despair and self loathing. I know I can’t let myself. I’m doing my best not to. But tonight’s a heavy night. Fuck, these last few months have been heavy. But I feel my strength improving. Let’s hope it keeps up. I want to be strong for myself. And in turn for whoever’s next. I still hope it’s you. But I know it’s not just up to me. I can’t make it happen. I just have to let it be whatever it is. It’s just hard to let go of that hope for what you know you want, ya know? So I’ll hope. But I’ll also let it be.

[queerbratsummer]

i just want someone to love me is that too much to ask

[jungk0oksthighs]

Against The Odds | Walls

Pairing - jungkook x reader, taehyung x reader 

Genre - smut, angst, fluff, established relationship, love triangle au, ceo!jungkook, ceo!reader, attorney!taehyung

Word count - 1.7k

Drabble 1 - The walls aren’t so thick after all - tae pov

warnings: swearing, unrequited feelings, self loathing, male masturbation 

FULL SERIES COLLECTION | PREQUEL SERIES

“Goodnight Tae!” You stumble into your room but he’s sure to catch you and break your fall before it happens.

“You sure you’re gonna be okay in here?” Taehyung asks, silently praying to every higher power that you ask him to stay a little while longer when he physically lays you onto the bed. He tries to ignore the exposed skin of your thigh when the split in your dress opens, but he can’t, he’s seen it now…there’s no going back.

“Yesssss…” You’re ginning widely, “Thanks for tonight Tae.”

“Anytime sweet—”

“Ah-ah!” You hold up your palm in objection, “Stop doing that! Stop being weird!”

“Sorry, fuck I’m wasted…why did we drink so much?” He chuckles, looking down at your body on the bed, imagining you were his for the night. Fuck, no, you’re Jungkook’s. His best friend Jungkook’s.

“Was your idea,” You’re giggling, covering your face, his heart starts beating just a little bit harder at the sound of your laughter, “Goodnight Tae…thanks for getting me here.” The drunken smile on your face is going to be burned into his memory forever.

“Goodnight Y/N.”

Taehyung slips into his own hotel room and crashes his back against the closed door, fuck, he is wasted. He finds himself smiling at memories of this evening but shakes his head as if to rid himself of any more thoughts before he gets carried away.

It’s when he’s laying atop of the bed completely alone that reality sinks in. He has feelings for his best friend’s girl, whether he wants to admit it to himself or not – he does. It’s not like he’s in love with you or anything ridiculous like that, it’s just…you’re just… A pained whine leaves his lips. What kind of sick pervert ogles their best friend’s fiancé at the table? And then again when she’s drunkenly sprawled out in bed? Him, that’s who.

The way you carry yourself, so strong and confident, never letting your past darken your present or future. He respects that, fuck he respects that so fucking much. He respects you so fucking much, he respects Jungkook so fucking much, so why, fucking why does his chest tighten every time he sees you?

Ever since you fell asleep on his shoulder on the flight home from Korea he’s held a soft spot for you. At first he willed it away, far away, burying it deep down so he didn’t have to deal with it. When you first started seeing Jungkook he recalls being taken aback by how smitten his life-long friend had become, infatuated even. Guk had never been like that with anyone. But then again Taehyung realises now, you aren’t just anyone.

You turned a scandalous sex tape leak into a business and found a way to help others. Why are you always helping others? Even just the little things like…picking up lunch and painkillers for him yesterday because you knew he was hungover. Why? Why did you have to be so fucking kind. Furthermore, why did he have to convince Jungkook to buy you a drink the night he saw you at Black Swan? You could be engaged to him right now instead. Another frustrated noise fills the otherwise silent room.

The only reason he offered to come here with you tonight was to be a good friend to Jungkook. Jungkook, who’s like a fucking brother to him and yet here he is in a room next to yours, his best friend’s fiancé, already desperate to get back up and knock on your door. Usually he’s much better at keeping his thoughts to himself, hell he’s 99% certain nobody suspects a thing, or at least nobody did before tonight.

You must know by now, surely. Right? It’s not like he’s ever going to act on it, but you’ve seen the way his body tenses when he has to watch you sit on Guk’s lap, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. You’ve heard him complain about you kissing your fiancé in front of him too many times to not know. Going back to over a year ago when he bumped into you in the supermarket in the midst of your temporary breakup…you asked him if he thought you should call Jungkook. He couldn’t give you a straight answer even then.

“I know it would mean a lot to him if you do.”

He cringes at the thought, throwing a tired arm over his eyes as if to shield himself from his own memories. But the way you looked tonight…the coy smile on your face when he called you beautiful, the way you giggled at his jokes and mistook his drunken confessions for him just being friendly. He feels like an idiot, a fucking idiot. There are billions of women on the planet, billions. So why does it have to be you that he wants? You with your perfect smile that lights up a room, the way you don’t put up with anybody’s shit, including his own, and that ass…oh god that spankable ass… Jungkook is one lucky fucking bastard.

“What kind of best friend am I?” He’s physically pulling the hairs at his scalp by this point, “You’re gonna be Jungkook’s best man at their wedding, get it together.”

That’s when he hears it, it’s unmistakable…your voice, you’re whiney desperate little voice through the wall.

“God I wish you were here…want you to fuck me so bad…”

“Are you fucking serious?” Taehyung directs his question to the ceiling, why, fucking why. He punches the mattress with a huff of air. Perfect, this is just perfect. Of course in your drunken state you’ve booty dialled Jungkook to help get you off.

He can hear your soft moans and groans, you’re probably fucking yourself with your fingers right now, toying with yourself while you tease the man you love. Blood rushes to his cock at the thought of it, he’s growing harder and harder by the second under his trousers.

“This is so fucking wrong, no Taehyung. Get it together. You’re hearing things.” He tries to convince himself with a whisper.

And for a moment he thinks that he’s right, he can’t hear anything at all now. Okay…good? He’s nodding in approval, thank god for that. He’s quick to rid himself of his clothes, pulling the sheets back before slipping beneath them. When he closes his eyes he sees you laying on the bed, your dress opening just enough for him to see…

“Oh my god Taehyung, pull yourself together for fucks sake.” He mumbles.

His erection stands proud now, balls hot and full of come that’s desperate to be released. No, it’s wrong, it’s so wrong! The unmistakable sound of Jungkook’s voice is what he hears next, muffled through the wall behind him.

“You’re so fucking sexy…”

He can’t help but groan into the back of his hand, biting down hard on the flesh. He’s right, you are fucking sexy. That dress made you look…perfect, fucking perfect. Except you’re probably not even wearing the dress by this point…you’re probably naked, cunt spread wide open while you fuck yourself with your manicured fingers. Fuck. His cock is twitching with anticipation but he promises himself that he’s not going to give into temptation, and boy does he want to stay true to that statement.

“I-I’m close already.” You sound so needy, like such a good little sub…

“Fuck this.” Taehyung spits, angrily gripping the base of his thick cock. Fuck you for not being quieter, fuck you for tormenting him like this, fuck you for always being so nice to him and always looking so good. To put a long story short – fuck you.

He can’t make out all of what’s said, nor does he want to, but he’s certain he hears something that sounds just like ‘Pretend it’s my tongue’ when he fully loses control, flipping over onto his stomach while he messily fucks his tightened palm imagining it’s the walls of your tight little pussy you no doubt have. He wishes you’d pretend your fingers were his tongue instead, god he bets you taste so fucking sweet.

“Fuck, I’m so close…”

“My god Y/N are you trying to kill me?” Taehyung grunts into his pillow with eyes squeezed shut, your voice spurring him on even more so, “Because it’s fucking working.”

He knows this is wrong, he knows he shouldn’t be doing this. You’re Y/N, you’re off-limits, you’re marrying his best friend, the man he’s known since he was a fucking baby. So why, fucking why is this the most turned on he’s ever been? Knowing you’re only one room away, presumably naked, doing unspeakable things to yourself knowing full-well that he can hear you.

He picks up the pace, fucking his fist as though it’s your writhing body beneath him, begging him to go harder, to pound you faster, deeper, tears in your pretty eyes when you gasp at his size. Fuck this is so wrong.

That’s when a loud, guttural moan along with his best friend’s name almost shakes the wall, fuck, he shouldn’t be doing this. But the sound of your whines and whimpers are you ride out your high only draw him closer to his own orgasm. A few seconds later he’s spilling his hot seed onto the mattress with furrowed brows and breathy chants of your name.

“Fuck…sweetheart.” He hisses at the oversensitivity, pressing his forehead further into the pillow.

Shit. Taehyung shudders while he tries to catch his own breath.

“I just hope the walls are thick, Taehyung’s in the next room.” He hears your airy giggle, his chest tightening with unwanted emotions. Unwanted being the key word in that statement, and the word that’s going to keep him awake for the rest of the night.

He wants you, but he doesn’t want to.

x