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youandtom2 · 10 months

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The Hunting Ground (18+)

Dom!Tom Holland x sub!bratty!Reader

Summary: How else would you get adventure back into your life than to visit a speakeasy that's definitly not a kinky-cult-sex-club? Themes: EXPLICIT, BDSM and mentions of BDM, dom/sub, knife play, breath play, unprotect p in v, oral (fem rec.), orgasm denial, overstimulation w/c: 13k oops

a/n: it's late and it's 13k so I'll probs revisit another time whoops. apologies if writing gets sloppy.

MASTERLIST

“Come on. This has got to be a joke. This is the kinkiest cult shit I’ve ever seen.”

“Nope. Not a joke.”

“When I said I was looking for something exciting and adventurous, I didn’t mean a sex club!” You flippantly disregard the masquerade mask onto the couch, whilst your friend Danny, holds his elegantly in his hand as if it is the beholder of all his memories.

“It isn’t a sex club. It’s…an opportunity.” Danny’s lips twist into a smirk that wavers between sweet and sinful. That alone should’ve told you that his opinion on this ‘club’ was simply that. An opinion. A biassed one at that. The other thing Danny doesn’t account for is that opinions are subjective, interchangeable and while he sees his little kinky sex club as an opportunity, you see it more of a shameless hookup with cultic motives.

But you’re curious to hear how he can possibly sell this to you. “Oh yeah? An opportunity for what? Enlighten me.”

Your friend coyly swivels his hips playfully, that all too familiar bashful glow emanating from his olive cheeks. He leans gayly over the edge of the couch with his bottom lip snagged between his teeth, entrapped in his childlike manner and embracing his inner Princess Diaries by swinging his feet. He so desperately wants to say ‘to flirt with hot men and recklessly have sex with them with no strings attached’, but to your surprise, his answer is a little more profound and in-depth.

“To meet like-minded people who share similar interests. To embrace a community that doesn’t judge you for what you like, who…take you as you are. It’s actually very liberating.”

“Puh-lease! You threw that innuendo in there on purpose. Look. It’s a sex club. You meet up to have sex. That’s the common ground.”

“Oh my God, you speak about it like it’s a brothel and you couldn’t be more wrong. Okay, okay, I’ll admit, it’s a little provocative, but it’s not like some sex dungeon, it’s a speakeasy. There’s a bar, drinks, music, dancing, it’s totally chill. You don’t even need to have sex, it’s not a guarantee.”

You fold your arms, staring outwardly and chewing your lips as you mull over the possibility that it might not all be what you initially think it is. But the only way to prove otherwise is to go. Dammit you wish you weren't so curious.

“And…what’s this place called?”

Danny smiles contentedly. “The Hunting Ground.”

~~~~~

“Do I really have to wear this?” The flimsy black ribbon of the mask trickles through your fingers. The shell is midnight black with a faint covering of silver lace, embellished with enough sparkle to catch your eye under the streetlights. Ahead of you is what looks like an ordinary bar under the false name of The Playground. The tinted windows and low purple LED lights inside is a clever ruse to fool anyone who is none the wiser to believe that the mystery is revealed when you step inside, leaving no other incentive to keep exploring. However, hidden behind the facade of an ‘ordinary bar’ as confirmed by Danny, is the speakeasy. It’s quietly genius; it’s all hidden in plain sight.

“Yes, you have to wear it; it’s like a pass for entry into the club since it’s invitation-only. Plus, anonymity is kinda a thing here. Especially for newbies if they’re not too sure what they’re looking for. You get all types of people here. You’re bound to find someone who is yours.”

You roll your eyes as you tie the ribbon tightly around your head with a grunt, the thick plastic mask sitting squarely on the bridge of your nose. “Anonymity, sure. These things are as good a disguise as Superman putting on his glasses and all of a sudden he’s Clark Kent and completely unrecognisable.”

“Trust me. They do their job. Oh and one last thing.” Why is he smirking again? “Sub or Dom?”

“Come again?”

“What are you, Sub or Dom?”

You blink. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what that means.”

“God, you’re so vanilla--they’re, um…types of people.” Danny vaguely explains and purses his lips, thinking as he evaluates you. “Hmm, we'll stick to sub for now. When you get inside grab a white cup.”

“Fuck sake.”

You follow Danny down a poorly lit, narrow staircase and you get a sense of entering a restricted area, having it not as well decorated, but then you remember; it’s supposed to be secretive and unwelcoming to any wandering stranger. The staircase is quiet compared to the floors above you and below you, giving off a feeling of limbo, neither here nor there as the pounding of the bass-heavy music distorts your sense of direction. There’s two different songs playing and they blend into each other so well that you can’t quite tell what is coming from where, but the further you descend down the staircase, the more obvious it becomes. The floor above you is phased out when you come to a stone archway, lined with plum velvet curtains hanging at either side where wisps of vapour spill from the room. A fiery red spotlight casts a shadow where the words ‘The Hunting Ground’ are projected on the wall to welcome you. Danny stops you before you enter.

“And you told me this wasn’t a sex club,” you quip, motioning to the entrance to hell.

“Remember it’s just to socialise. Nothing needs to happen, okay? After a drink or two, you’ll start to loosen up and have more fun.”

You huff. “I’ll take your word for it.”

You take one step into the stuffy haze and instantly you feel the change in aura, perhaps because you know what people are here to do. Danny patiently waits with you as you soak in the sights, the smells, the heat and the very suffocating atmosphere of the room in front of you. A fine mist hovers in the air, just enough to hinder your view of anything further than 10 metres in front of you - probably intentional to hide the erotic acts in the corner - and only the blacklights and the dancing neon laser lights shoot through. Unlike the bar above, the music is slower and less adrenaline pumping, perfect to fulfil its purpose of enticing its listeners to socialise rather than all-out partying, but in effect, it makes you more nervous; how do you socialise with people you’ve never met? You bump shoulders with Danny is a quiet plea to stay close.

A few people within eyesight turn their heads as you enter in your sage green dress, making their judgements on you through the narrow slits of their masks, a symbol of membership to the club, identical to the one you wear. Under the cover of darkness, the masks do actually provide a sense of anonymity and you take back an earlier thought; what the hell are these masks going to hide? Everything apparently.

You decide not to linger around the entrance any longer for you feel that others can smell your hesitance a mile off. You make a B-line to the table adorning white cups, directly across the table that hold a much smaller number of black cups, and perpendicular to a table with grey cups. As soon as the rim of the cup touches your lips and alcohol sears your throat, you ease a little.

“God, I feel like I’ve just entered the mafia. Why is this place so stiff?”

Danny laughs inwardly. “Oh they’re stiff alright.” That earns him a swift elbow to the ribcage. “Ow!”

“You said this place was chill and judgement free.”

“It is--”

“Then why do I feel like I’m being victimised?”

For a fleeting moment, you catch Danny’s eyes flitting over to the white cup you hold in your hand, being quickly emptied by you. There’s obviously significance behind the white and black cups and you’re certain Danny knows why as he too picks up a white cup with conviction, but what significance they have is being purposely withheld from you.

It’s definitely a cult thing.

“They just want to get to know you. Give them a chance. It’s all with friendly intentions, I promise.”

“Uh-huh.”

Like Danny said, there’s all sorts of people here; men, women, and more situated around the room whether it’s standing in small clusters around a table or sitting in smaller, more private groups in booths. Few white cups, some grey cups, but black cups hold the majority. Some are dressed more provocative than you would ever dare where some keep their secrets to themselves. Those who begin dancing are booming with confidence, sashaying their hips while others simply observe with a glass of whisky in hand. Even hours into the night, you’re still pondering over the likemindedness of such a diverse group. There must be something that ties these people together, because every hour or so you catch a glimpse of couples' escapades, hand-in-hand as they disappear through another archway with a black curtain.

“I’ll be right back,” Danny murmurs into your ear.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m just going to catch up with a friend. I won’t be long. You can manage your own for a bit, can’t you?”

“Don’t think I have much of a choice.”

Danny quickly disappears into the smog and across the dancefloor, and by the time he reaches the bar, he’s out of your sight and anxiety creeps in. As ever, you find solace in the very alcoholic drink, quietly sipping away in a dark corner of the room.

Or at least you thought you were in the corner of the room…

The solid wall behind you suddenly swings open and you lose your balance, falling backwards into the void that has just opened up. Your heart leaps to your throat and your lungs flood themselves with oxygen to prepare for what you know will be a painful fall and the loss of your dignity. Inches from disaster, a miracle happens when two hands reach out to hook underneath your arms and break your fall, leaving you hovering over the floor until the stranger finds the strength to bring you back to your feet again. Sadly, there’s nothing to be done about your drink that puddles on the floor…

With a breath of relief, you quickly compose yourself, turning around to see that indeed the wall you were standing against was actually a door, and in that doorway now stands the masked stranger that saved you from your fall. He stands just a couple of inches taller than you, dressed in a black suit (it could be navy - it’s just so damn dark in here) but replaces the standard crisp, white shirt with a baby blue one, keeping it casual with undone buttons by his collar. You want to make more guesses of his appearance but this club’s obsession with anonymity is slowly becoming a nuisance.

“I’m so sorry, I really thought that was a wall.”

“No worries, it’s easily done.” His words are smooth and puckish, and you feel like he genuinely believes you when he places a gentle supporting hand against your back.

“Right? Especially with a place like this, I mean, would it hurt to turn up the lights even just a little bit?” An innocent laugh escapes you but the second you see his lips parting in what you can only assume is disbelief, you instantly feel like you might’ve crossed a line. His hand drops and sinks deep into his pocket. So much for no judgement…

“Well, we could but most members here know there’s a door here.”

Caught.

He doesn’t watch for your reaction as he picks up the empty white cup from the floor, long, slender fingers holding it tightly while he studies it for a moment and the corners of his lips tug a little before settling it on a nearby table. You’re still not privy to the colour codes and their meanings, and something itches inside of you when you see this stranger turn to you with a knowing smirk on his face. Because he knows.

He folds his arms, muscles defined in the tight squeeze of his blazer and stands stoically before you. “You’re looking a little lost, newbie.”

“I’m just waiting on my friend Danny. He’s the one who brought me here. I don’t know why to be honest. I don’t really think this is my kind of scene.”

The stranger tilts his head curiously. “How so?”

You snort. Isn’t it obvious? “I mean the mask thing is a little weird. And the segregation of cups? What the hell is that all about? Like, I’m always down for something different but the anti-religion cult vibes just isn’t doing it for me. I haven’t been here that long and already I’ve had so many daggers from people that I just can’t tell whether they want to kill me or eat me.”

“Oh my God, you really have no idea, do you? Tell me then, if this place doesn’t suit your majesty’s preferences, why are you still here?”

This stranger doesn’t need you to take off your mask to know that there’s a scowl taking over your features. Affronted, you decide to mirror him, folding your arms and delivering his own stinking attitude back to him.

“Cut the sass. You asked me a question and I answered it. If you listened, you would’ve heard me say that my friend brought me here. Said that if I was looking for something exciting and adventurous I should come here, but I’m not seeing either. Anyway, what does it matter to you?”

“Careful, newbie. Some people here don’t take too kindly towards being spoken to like that. It can get you into a lot of trouble, unless you’re searching for it, in which case, Danny was right to bring you here. And tell him he should’ve put a straw in your drink too.”

You’re so fed up with these innuendos. “I don’t even know what that means!”

The stranger takes a step forwards and brushes your shoulder with his. You hold your breath as he leans down close to your ear and murmurs words that sound like a threat. A shiver descends down your spine. “Ask him to explain it. Tell him that Tom told him too.”

Your stance stays strong as the stranger sweeps past you in an obtrusive manner without a word to spare. Finally out of sight, you give in to the urge to roll your eyes and scoff with as much conviction until satisfied, having suppressed it in front of that stranger. You’re never one to be so outwardly rude to someone, but unless it’s warranted, then by all means, give them hell.

The interaction has somewhat soured your mood, and considering that this place has yet to prove any of Danny’s claims of what a ‘friendly, non judgemental’ place this is, you might make the move to leave. You’ve been here long enough and you doubt that the fun has yet to come.

Not three steps towards your leave, you’re stopped by Danny emerging from the smog like a phantom. “Oh hey! You’re alive! See? I told you’d be fine.”

“Yeah, not fine, Danny. Don’t leave me ever again.”

“Such a drama queen. Where’s your drink?”

“Spilled it almost falling over. By the way, what do the colours on the cups mean? Some guy ‘Tom’ said that you were to tell me what they mean.”

His smile drops and hangs ajar, eyes wide as he processes the words, the name you’ve just invoked. “Tom--did you just say Tom?”

“Yes, why? He also said that you should’ve put a straw in my drink too. Danny, for the love of God, what the fuck does that mean?”

Annoyingly, he ignores your last question. “What did you say to him?”

Danny devotes all of his attention to you as you recount the interaction from beginning to end, sure not to leave any details out. As your friend, all of your expectations are placed on him taking your side in it all, but with each word you spill, he cringes further and further into himself.

“Then I told him to cut the sass--he was being so rude to me!”

“Oh you have got to be kidding me!” You’re struggling to understand why your friend has descended into a fit of laughter, creasing over until he can no longer catch his breath. It’s great that he’s finding it so hilarious that he can’t even seem to straighten himself up to give you an answer, but what’s even better is that you can’t even begin to imagine how many people are witness to Danny descending into mania while you stand with your arms folded, a slack jaw and a look that could kill. And even if some can’t see it, they can bloody well hear it. “I cannot believe you said that to him!”

“Danny, I don’t have time for this. If you don’t tell me at least something, I’m leaving.”

“Wait, wait, wait, sorry, I’ll tell you, okay? I’ll tell you.” After wiping the tears from his eyes, he latches onto your arms and pulls you into his side, directing you to look out at the room before you. “Okay, so you remember the question I asked you before we came in? About being a sub or a dom?” You nod. “The cups are representative of that. White for sub, black for dom. Grey if you don’t particularly have a preference. They’re sometimes called switches.”

“Okay, but what does sub and dom actually mean?”

“They’re just abbreviations. Submissive or Dominant if you want to be proper. They define what a person likes to be in the bedroom. Dominants are usually controlling, they like to manipulate and gain pleasure from using submissives in whatever way they like. Submissives gain pleasure from being controlled, from being told what to do and will usually go through extreme measures to satisfy their doms, and in lieu, themselves. For example, see over there?” Danny points to a booth of what looks like two guys sitting on either side of a girl. They are shadowing over her, running fingertips up and down her leg whilst she sits bashfully in the middle. “Two doms and a sub.”

You look to another area of the room and in the corner you see a woman, dressed in the tightest latex corset you could imagine, and she looks fucking amazing in it. Full of luscious curves. Her confidence is striking as she walks with her head high like she owns everything in the room. She somehow makes picking up a black cup look sexy, drinking from it until it’s empty but inexplicably doesn’t swallow. With her puffed cheeks, she grabs the face of a man who kneels beside her, opening his mouth—“Oh my God!” The words spill from your lips as you watch the woman spit her drink into the man’s mouth, swallowing with glee in his eyes.

“Anyone can be sub or dom. That’s why the cups make it so much easier to identify who’s who and cuts out all the small chat bullshit in between.”

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. This is a fucking sex club. “But how did you know I was going to be a sub?”

“I just guessed. It takes a certain confidence and skill to know how to be a dom, and no offence honey, but I don’t think you’d be a good dom.”

“And the straw?”

“Signifies a bratty sub. A sub who likes to be controlled but also loves the fight against it. Anything to piss their dom off.”

“Hold on. A brat?! Who the fuck does this Tom guy think he is? He’s talked to me for no more than five minutes and he calls me a brat?”

“Shhh!! Shut up!!! Oh my God!!” He hurriedly ushers you away from prying ears and you feel a sort of trepidation when he looks around cautiously. “Honey, you know I love you and I care for you but you have seriously fucked up to the point where I literally cannot protect you from what’s about to happen.”

“What? How?”

“Tom’s the owner of this place.” He’s trying to hold in his laughter again. “And you just stood there and insulted everything about his club to him--oh my GOD you are so dead. I’m weak just thinking about it.” Had he not been squealing and bouncing on his tip-toes in a nervous but weirdly excited way, you probably would’ve taken Danny’s warning a little more seriously. In Danny’s overly-dramatic fashion, his translation of ‘dead’ just means that you’re only slightly in trouble.

“So what, he’ll probably just kick me out.”

“You better wish that’s what he’ll do because Tom is a capital D-O-M and is a stickler for obedience. He has everyone, sub or dom, address him as sir. It’s like one of his rules.”

“Sir? Really? Are we back in school?”

Your own mocking laughter is the last thing you hear before a voice creeps up behind you, settling deep into the canals of your ear and shocking you into a small but powerful fright. “We can be if you like. At least then I can teach you a lesson or two about how to respect me, newbie.” The way his voice instantly scorches everything inside you is mildly terrifying. It’s the mixer in your soup of emotions; trepidation, anxiety, curiosity, exhilaration, anticipation, swirling together in the pit of your stomach.

You and Danny’s eyes are locked in a stupor, both of you donning guilt-ridden, colourless faces. You think it wise to follow Danny’s lead in not speaking, not moving because only he knows the repercussions that you face. Besides, if you listened to what your brain initially told you to do, you would be in a lot more trouble.

A wordless plea twinkles in your eye and your heart plummets when you see your friend respond with tightly pursed lips and a subtle shake of the head.

“Next time you bring your friends, Danny, I would expect you to inform them on how to conduct themselves around me. You should know better.”

“Sorry, sir.” Danny’s voice wobbles. Fucking wobbles. Loud and proud Danny, centre of attention on the worst of days, always one to speak his mind and is never afraid of judgement, and now he’s…scared.

“Now go. Justin’s waiting for you.” The unfamiliar person Danny has become swiftly brushes past you with no more than a final apologetic look and disappears further into the centre of the room. A certain desperation keeps your eyes on him for as long as you possibly can until you eventually accept your defeat, standing here alone with Tom stalking very close behind you. You notice his shadow standing just on the coast of your peripheral, lurking.

After an excruciating silence, Tom eventually murmurs into your ear, just the edges of his mask skimming the side of your hairline.

“Follow me to my office. We need to have a chat about rules.”

“Okay,” you breathe.

Sure enough the door you nearly fell through enters the hallway leading to his office. It’s well lit, spotlighting the framed memorabilia on the wall and you almost choke a gasp when you see what they contain. Whips, paddles, cuffs, chains, anything of an erotic nature is framed, dated and hung on these walls in plain sight. Tom catches a glance of your awestruck eyes from over his shoulder, smirking wickedly. Little do you know that that isn’t even half of his collection.

He enters the office first leaving you to nervously trail in behind him.

“Sit.”

The tickle of velvet feathers your bare thighs, knees already knocking together while Tom takes a stand behind his desk, underneath the low-intensity spotlight that shines down on him from above. Your eyes skate over his features the second he unties his mask, shadows hugging every sharp angle from the crook of his brow bone to the contour of his cheeks. Holy fuck. Your knees lock tighter together.

“Mask off.” It falls to your lap. When you look back up at him, you see that he doesn’t bother hiding how he takes in every inch of you and it makes the burn of his stare even more obvious. “What do you know already?”

“Um, not much. Danny told me about the masks, Doms and Subs, the thing about the cups, addressing you as ‘sir’ and…” you clear your throat, a previous anger returning, “having a straw in my cup.”

“Ah, so he explained it to you, did he?” Fuck, even his grin is perfect.

You bite your gums, eyes averting. “Wish he didn’t.”

A piercing whistle rings in your ear, short and sharp in the small, panelled office causing an audible wince. “Oi, eyes up here.” Did he just whistle at you? “I’m going to handle this very delicately because you’re new, but if you keep testing my patience then I won’t even give you the chance to back out.”

What the fuck.

“Since your friend failed to explain the rules, I’ll have to do it instead. This is my private establishment and I expect anyone who enters it to follow my rules, including newbies like you. Rule number one: respect. Respect for me, respect for others, respect for the property. Simple, yes?”

“Yes.” His eyes widened slightly, “sir.”

Tom begins to circle around his desk, nearing you. You tuck your feet in underneath the chair as he leans against the desk a foot in front of you. “Rule number two: boundaries. Boundaries must be set by every individual and must be adhered to by every individual. That includes things they consent to and things they don’t consent to, and safe-words should be agreed to and abided by also. Yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I know you know rule number three.”

But does he know that you also hate rule number three? Grinding your teeth together, you bite back his answer. “Yes. Sir--” Before you’re able to utter another syllable from your lips, Tom has your cheeks in the pinch of his fingers, pulling you from your seat until you’re just a breath away from his own. Despite the circumstances of your racing heart and your throbbing cheeks, you come to realise that Tom has brown eyes, that his suit is really black, that he has one strand of hair that curls against the rest. Shit. You’re really dipping your toes into muddy water here.

“See this fucking attitude of yours? Drop it. If you’re really so eager to talk, you’ll tell me what it is you want out of this. And know that before you start speaking, you’re on your last warning.” Thankfully, his grip loosens but it doesn’t disappear completely. Keeping you just as reigned in as before, his fingers sink to the curve of your chin and curl around it gently. It’s hypnotising enough that it coaxes you into spilling the truth.

“A little bit of excitement and adventure. Danny suggested I could find it here. So I came to find out for myself.”

“And?”

“I’m…not sure yet.”

“We can certainly offer what you’re looking for, but it depends what kind of adventure you want to take. Do you want to explore or do you want to experience?”

“What’s the difference?”

Tom drinks in your curiosity, content with a quirk to his wet lips. All is silent in his sound-proof office, the beat of your own heart thundering in your ears and it’s the only thing you can tune into while the incredibly intimidating man in front of you sadistically drags out each and every second. “We can start off slow, test your endurance and your tolerances, discover your likes and dislikes, introduce new things one at a time, a soft start over a number of weeks.”

“...Or?”

His pupils dilate. “Everything all at once. A full session, right here, right now. Thrown in right at the deep end. No restrictions and I get full control. An experience to say the very least.”

You gasp and the breath gets stuck in your throat. As the idea is spoken into words, you can’t help but picture everything you saw in the hallway, the whips, the paddles, the chains, the ludicrousy of them ever being used as sources of pleasure and begin to feel yourself being overwhelmed. Albeit, the rebellious side of you plagues you with the mentality of saying ‘fuck it’ and trying it anyway, its voice ringing with the sound of your youth; willing to try everything, to say that you were brave enough to try it, to run away from the boring life of always saying no because you just weren’t sure. You might even find that it’s something you like…

“What do you say?” He whispers with the small coaxing of his thumb gracing over your pout. “And don’t leave it up to me. I think you know what I would prefer.”

You take a breath, cheeks already flushing knowing what’s to come. “I…I want the experience.”

He doesn’t move aside from his lids opening a fraction wider. “Say it again. To be sure.”

“I want the experience.”

A slow, salacious moan sings through his sigh, his breath crashing against your skin like a wave. “Mmmm, I was so hoping you would say that. I’ve been wanting to put this brat back in her place all…night…long. Now I can. All. Night. Long.” Warmth encircles your neck and you realise that his hand has completely captured your throat, controlling every breath you breathe. You desperately try to whimper but even then, all your sounds are clamped down by him. Sensing danger, your own hands reach for his wrist as he pushes you back against the spine of the chair and shadows over you with fire in his eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Safe word?”

“Err…” You don’t have one. You’ll have to make one up. What did you have for dinner last night? “Pasta.”

Tom chuckles but accepts it. “Pasta it is.”

When your one and only chance to speak is taken, Tom quickly readjusts his grip on your throat again, closing it off until your skin is tinted red with exertion. He sinks low, invading your space until there’s nothing but him in your darkening sights, until his lips skim the tips of yours.

“I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you all night. Do you have any idea how hard it was to keep that urge at bay? So fucking hard. I knew you were a newbie, but fuck, you were so fucking rude. You know, you never even thanked me for helping you up earlier. Instead, you chose to insult my club and my customers, and when you do that, you insult me. That doesn’t fly with me and something will need to be done about that mouth of yours.”

You gasp erratically, fighting for breath and his vendetta against you refuses to relent. Just as blackness consumes your vision, just as you're hanging on the precipice of consciousness, he finally relieves the tension and you gulp down air like it’s your drug, your lifeline. Almost simultaneously, Tom thrashes his lips against yours, seizing back whatever oxygen you just gained in a vicious attack. His tongue slips in almost too seamlessly, brushing against your own and tasting every inch he can reach.

From one method of suffocation to another. With his hand no longer occupied at the base of your throat, you find it clamped to the roots of your hair, keeping you detained as he forcefully kisses and licks every part of your mouth, barely leaving any time to breathe. It isn’t painful as such, but god damn it’s overwhelming. The small squeak of struggle easily gets swallowed up by him and he growls for more. In time, another is drawn out but this time it's the result of Tom’s other hand pulling down the neckline of your dress and finding your tits, pinching and squeezing with a passion that’s guaranteed to leave behind a bruise. To say you completely underestimated what the experience is and how little prepared you are for it, is under-statement of the fucking century.

He really isn’t shy, is he?

Minutes go by and you’re losing sensation in your swollen lips and Tom can sense that too; you become lethargic, sloppy and out of control but that’s exactly what Tom is waiting for. He can feel the plumpness of your lips as he drags them out slowly between his teeth, perfect to have wrapped around his cock.

He stands to his tallest, your hair still tight in his grip. “Do you have anything to say to me?”

“I’m…I’m sorry, sir.”

“What else?”

“Th-thank you for helping me up, sir.”

“There’s actually one thing you should know about me,” he murmurs darkly. “If someone is apologising or thanking me, I expect them to show their regret or their gratitude to me. Usually on their knees. That way, I know they mean it.”

“And if I don’t?” You are genuinely curious.

A shadow casts over his face, eyes glowering at your words. He clenches his jaw so tightly that you have to remind yourself to unclench yours out of fear. In quiet, articulated words, he provides you with the first piece of insight of what kind of night lies ahead of you. “I will fuck you and edge you against this desk until you are spent of every piece of sanity that keeps your bratty brain together. Even if you beg, even if you are crying out for release, I will not stop until you are nothing but my cum-filled slut.”

“Fucking hell,” you whimper quietly, but he hears it all the same.

“I would think very carefully about your next words, newbie, or you’re going to become very familiar with my temper.”

Hey, you said you were up for the experience…right?

It takes just a fraction of your lips to curl into a smirk for Tom to realise your motives. Provoked by just the smallest of your smiles, he runs his tongue along the lining of his cheek. He can’t quite tell if he’s insulted or pleased, regardless, the result of either is the same; he will have you reduced to absolutely nothing if his life depends on it. After all, he doesn’t allow insults to run dry on him, he snuffs them out as soon as possible and that’s the lesson you need to learn.

“Don’t fucking do it,” he warns one last time. How generous of him.

The air is tight and feverish, and so very, very quiet. Until…”Fuck. You.”

Your words trigger a pregnant pause, leaving just enough time to hear a pin drop before something sinister happens. A cacophony fills the room: the wooden scraping of the chair legs as Tom yanks you from it, the squeal and the grunt that marry together, the clutter of objects as they fall from the desk to the floor, the resounding thump as your body mercilessly collides with the wooden desk and subsequent the yelp of pain to be heard by no one other than Tom.

The brute’s groping hands impatiently tug at your dress, whipping it up to sit around your torso and the moment your ass is exposed to him, he wastes no time to drill his hips into yours in a desperate bid to split your legs wider and keep you still. The sweltering heat of your cunt seeps onto his trousers and, even contained, his cock feels it all. The harder he pushes to force you down, the harder the edge of the desk cuts through your pelvis, and the longer you stay there, the louder your pleas become. And every second of it all is like heroin to him. This is his high.

Tom rips your underwear from you, the thin material reduced to rags in seconds and just as quick, they become your bindings. With your hands now tied behind your back by the remains of your wet thong and your head smothered against the wooden surface, you are unequivocally oppressed.

“Stay there, and don’t move.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t bother trying that shit with me. You’re too late. You’ve already made your decision to be a brat, so I’ll fuck you like one.”

The recognisable sound of chain links clinking together stops your heart dead in your chest. “Wait, what are you doing?” You try to shimmy a look over your shoulder to take a peak, but you can’t see Tom crouching down behind you.

“Extra precaution.” Cold metal tightly hugs your ankles, grinding away at your bone with every tug. There’s little room to move, you can barely bend your knee without causing yourself harm. You didn’t want to believe it, but the reality is true: he’s chaining you to his desk.

“No fucking way.”

“Yes way. This is what you asked for.” He leans down to leave a patronising kiss to the shell of your ear, unbinding your hands and placing them exactly where he wants them, gripped to the edge of the desk beside your head. Not chained, but the wordless warning to keep them there is evident in the squeeze to your wrists. You’re almost crucified to the desk. It’s enough to make your sweltering body shiver. “And I’ll gladly provide.”

Without warning, he spits into your ass and stops to watch it trickle down to your clit with hunger ruining his patience. He collects it with deft fingers, spreading it through every lip of your cunt, all the way back to gloss your puckered hole. You can feel every movement of his whether feathered or anchored, following the path of his fingers from your asshole to your clit and back again, only stopping to teasingly circle your entrance. He repeats it over and over and over again until you’re leaking with your own slick, glistening underneath the singular spotlight and the fire of Tom’s eyes. It’s tantalising. Worse yet because you can’t move to stop him. You’re stuck with a burning cheek pressed against the desk and your hands trapped under what feels like Tom’s invisible reins.

“Look over to my clock and tell me what time it is.”

“It’s 11:57pm.”

“Good to know.”

By 11:59pm he has you teetering towards the edge of your first orgasm with as little as two fingers and a thumb violating your cunt. By the turn of a new day, he has you wishing you had just said sorry and meant it.

“Such a tight little pussy.” He groans behind you, littering small kisses along the base of your spine and your ass. His two fingers enter you again, anchoring down on the spot that winds you up so perfectly, stroking it with the curl of his knuckle and just when you both sense the coil tightening, he picks up speed and power. Anxiety and excitement broil in your stomach.

“Oh God, f-fuck, I’m gonna cum.” He already knows this. He doesn’t need you telling him. In fact, he’s familiarised himself with the quivering of your thighs, the shaking of your body and already, he knows exactly when to stop. “No! Fuck!” You grieve over the loss of your climax quietly with a small groan laced with heavy breaths.

His gruff, irritated voice buzzes straight down your ear, vibrating with impatience. “You will take what I give you. And you will thank me for it.”

The voice that spills from your lips is hardly recognisable. Whining, winging and moping, you don’t quite understand where the grovelling came from and how it took over, but you can’t find it in you to stop it.

“Thank you, sir.”

And just like that, the routine starts again and without a doubt, the result is the same.

Muscles ache, bones shaking, you feel yourself teetering on the edge of liquifying here on his desk. Alas, Tom possesses the ability to keep you solid like no other man has, keeping you somewhat stable and conscious enough to make you feel every last drop of his torment. No matter what sweet relief you feel when he gently massages your cunt, it’s completely forgotten about the moment he slaps the back of your thighs for moving your hands one centimetre out of place. And just like that, you’re back in the room.

When Tom painfully edges you for the sixth time, he asks you to read the time again. The digits of the numbers have blurred since the last time you checked, but you can just make them out. “It’s 12:32am”

He smirks. “Good to know. Fuck, look at the mess you’re making on my floor.” A flat palm smacks against your cunt, seizing at the stimulation. Your thighs beg to squeeze together, anything to build up some friction to tame the urge but the chains rattle beneath you, keeping you contained.

He tames the fire with the lick of his fingers that curl eloquently onto your clit and swivels it around in circles in the same, insatiable manner as before. At first, you think he’s going to build you up again like he has done for the last thirty-something minutes and you’re not so sure that your mind and body can take the strain, but you feel the pressure of his other hand anchoring down onto your back, pressing your stomach flat against the wooden desk and eliminating any chance you have of escaping. Not that you had any before, but Tom’s a man of guarantee rather than possibilities.

It’s new and the prospect that he might allow to cum reignites the exhilaration in your core.

Effortlessly, he sets your nerves on fire, plucking every one with overstimulation and you're on the cusp of the well-desired orgasm that you’ve waited for for what seems like all night. You writhe so desperately for it that your pebbled nipples are starting to chafe underneath you.

Tom’s maniacal laugh drifts into your ears, his lips pressing soft, tender kisses against your ear and your neck. “What do you want?”

You open your mouth and moans spill out, not the words of an answer. He continues to ruin you anyway. “I want…I want to cum. Please!”

“So you don’t want my forgiveness? You’d rather cum instead? So fucking selfish of you.”

He rips his fingers from you and the sensation is lost. “NO!”

“Yessss.”

~~~~~

You still haven’t came yet. How the fuck have you not been allowed to cum in all the pleasure Tom’s fingers and teasing words have granted you? He hasn’t allowed you to move either leaving all of your muscles, joints and sanity aching against the stiff wood as you remain prisoner to his chains. And as his prisoner, all of your self-control has been stripped from you. With your eyes closed, voice gone, mind vacant, Tom decides to finally, finally, re-evaluate the situation.

And by re-evaluate, you mean change position.

Now unchained, he forces you to lie on your back and you’re thankful that the desk is long enough to support your head, because when you are being punished with extremities, the littlest things can be a saving grace.

“Tell me the time.”

You look over, Tom catching a glint of your red cheeks and the imprints of the wooden grain etched into your skin. “It’s…it’s 1:23am.”

He grins wickedly, licking his lips, and with a smooth wink, he replies. “Good to know.”

“Please, Tom.” The crack is your voice is liquid gold in Tom’s ears and with his hands skating over your thighs, he hears what you have to say. “I’m so sorry about earlier. I am…so sorry. Please--I…I can’t take it anymore.”

“What is it you want?”

“I want your forgiveness. Please, sir.”

He sees it. He really does; the desperation in the tear that leaves your eye, the look of absolute surrender donning your features in fear that he won’t accept your apology, and even in the way your body warms at his touch tells him that there’s nothing else that you desire. That’s the part he loves most and the main attraction for his dominant tendencies; the moment when the bad turn good. When they’re at such a loss with their original intentions that they have no other option but to surrender and submit. From brazen words to pitiful pleas. From bratty attitudes to willful compliance. From ‘fuck you’s to ‘thank you’s. When that switch is pulled, that’s when Tom knows he’s won.

He holds your legs dearly in his hands, your swollen cunt perched directly in front of him as he crouches to the floor. It’s red, puffy and glistening in the light, screaming out to be touched, filled and ultimately freed of the orgasm that is running ragged inside.

He eases the slight quiver in your thighs with a grounding kiss, powerful enough to emboss just the traces of teeth marks onto your skin.

“What a good girl you’ve become.” The same kiss is planted on your other thigh, just a hint closer to your crying cunt. “I’ll tell you another thing about me,” he whispers, feeling the softness of your skin against his lips. “I don’t just dominate and manipulate people, I manipulate pleasure too. I control it. I can stop it from happening, but sometimes I can be in the mood to make sure it never stops happening.”

You take a breath and hold it. The anticipation of what’s about to happen savagely ruins your mind that you just can’t settle your pulse, and even if you try to slowly release that breath, you realise that it is all in vain. Your heart still positively thunders in your chest.

“And guess what, sweetheart?”

Traces of your voice weakly spill out. “What?”

“I’m in that exact mood.”

Tom doesn’t waste a second before his tongue is licking a fat, wet strip up the centre of your cunt and completely destroys your sanity. It’s slow, meticulous in its travels as it covers every inch of you from your hole to your clit and your body involuntarily searches for more. It’s like a wave, rolling over your cunt before crashing into the bundle of nerves at the end. Your cries vibrate through your body, all to be felt by Tom when his lips tightly seal around your cunt, suffocating it with the heat of his mouth and the lashings of his tongue. It’s incredibly enthralling; being constantly aware of every small minuscule change in direction. From thrusting into your hole with tenacity to swirling tightly around your clit in a frenzy, there’s no telling what he’ll do next.

Your body drips with sweat and you can’t decide if it’s from all the involuntary squirming upon the table or if it's the fire within, being fuelled by Tom’s uncontained lust. There’s a small explosion waiting to happen inside you, and Tom holds the detonation trigger.

“Holy fuck.”

“Mmmmm.”

With his head buried beneath your thighs, his hands blindly roam your body. They descend down your thighs and over the valleys of your hip bones, shaping the contours of your waist before feeling the grooves of your ribcage as they expand with each pant you breathe, until he finds your tits, groping and pinching where he can. In both of your minds though, his hands are an afterthought, especially when his gorgeous mouth is massaging your pussy so rhythmically, moving against you like a ship on a wave.

“Ohhhh my God,” you whimper, feeling the burn in your abdomen descend deeper and deeper towards your cunt. You’re so close it hurts. Your legs start to twitch closer together.

“Legs open,” he mumbles. “And look at me. Look at who’s got you shaking.”

You cast your eyes downward, unblinking as he sucks and pulls at your cunt with his lips, making what you think to be the most salacious, delicious sounds a man could make while eating you out.

“F-fuck. Tom, please—.”

Tom’s dark lashes lift, lids heavy as he stares at you with such forbidden intentions that it’s enough to make you shiver. Neither of you break the connection and you think it might just be the final nail in the coffin. With a deathly snarl, he claws at the back of your thighs, lifting them until they are pressed harshly against your chest and pans all of his attention, mind, body and soul into forcing you to cum. You sob as his tongue darts out, abusing your clit in all directions and it slingshots you directly towards the climax you have been aching for.

“Tom!”

With a final flick of his tongue, you crash into your orgasm. It immediately wreaks havoc on your system and splinters your sanity completely, so much that you can’t tell whether you're ascending or crumbling right here on his desk. Your lips part to scream, but your consciousness is shattered into a million pieces and your voice is lost. Wood creaks as your nails dig into the edge of the desk, white-knuckled and numb with a grip so tight you swear you feel your bones begin to bend under the strain.

Like he promises, Tom doesn’t stop. Despite being trapped between your thighs, despite the wriggling and writhing, your pleas and desperate whispers, Tom doesn’t stop. Not for one second.

Every flick of his tongue is more intimate than the last, plucking at your nerves so harshly, nerves that are already pulsing and in need of mercy. Regardless, Tom remains kneeling, feasting on you like you are his last meal, last drink, last breath he’ll ever take.

Swimming through the pain, you come out of the other side to find another climax already waiting, just seconds from bursting as drastically as the first one. With one final pleading look to Tom, his dark eyes swallow you whole, subliminally telling you that he’s more than ready to keep this cycle going for as long as he deems necessary.

Mercilessly, his lips seal around your cunt, tongue slithering itself straight deep into your entrance, still not yet satisfied with what he’s tasted all ready. You’re so wet, and with Tom’s constant laving and licking he only just adds to the mess that he spreads with his hands to your thighs until the glossy sheen catches your eyes. The sparkle of it makes you truly realise for yourself just how aroused he has made you, the sight so alien from your own eyes. No man has ever worn you down like this before. It’s…unnerving. Only because you’re not sure if this is supposed to be what it’s like.

As another orgasm explodes, your body shudders violently on the table, his hands digging themselves into the crooks of your knees being the only thing to keep you from completely wriggling away. Your head collapses against the desk and gives way to a desperate whimper. It isn’t cute, it isn’t coy or coquettish like what you’ve heard before in porn or films. It’s raw, painful and very, very real.

It never seems to end. You’ve lost the ability to determine when one climax ends and when the next starts.

By the fifth time - at least, you think - he claims yet another, an hour later, you break.

After his torture renders you thoughtless, mindless and perhaps a tad vacant, your instincts quickly take over. Your hands whip from the silent hold he had on them and swing down to push Tom’s head full of curls away from your aching cunt while it still throbs through the orgasm. He grabs your wrists, far too quickly for your liking. Tom watches your every movement through his brows, still latched onto your clit, giving nothing away of the disapproval you know he would be demonstrating had he not been so adamant in eating every particle of you. “Please,” your hoarse voice scratches your throat, sounding nothing like you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll do anything, please--ah, fuck--it’s too much.”

Slowly, deathly slowly, Tom’s lips detach from you, finally granting you freedom, salvation, relief. Yet he just can’t resist recoiling every other second for just one last taste, one last swift lap of his tongue from entrance to clit in one clean strip. The moment all touch detaches from you, your thighs swing close, nursing the pulse that squeezes at your abused clit, taming the orgasm as it flickers its last flame.

“Fucking hell,” you pant. “You truly are a sadist.”

Tom only chuckles, deep, dark, leaking from lips soaked in your slick. It rumbles straight to your core. “Tell me the time, sweetheart.”

Bleary eyes lazily drag themselves over to the clock and after a few blinks, the numbers sharpen. “It’s 2:38am.”

His fingers tickle up your shin, tracing circles around your knee. “So, so good--” you gasp, darting to catch his hand before it sinks between your thighs. He smirks, “--to know.”

Your sadist allows you just one minute, you know because he counts it, to cool down and let your body reset; a glass of water, a clean rag and a comfy seat, unshackled and dressed. He also very calmly warns you as he sheds his blazer and unbuttons his cufflinks, rolling his sleeve up his tanned, muscular arm, that although it’s very late into the night, traipsing on the verge of closing, that you still have a long night ahead of you.

A small breath narrowly slips from your lips while you hold his stare. You can’t even dwell on the gravitas of the situation, not risking spending the valuable seconds of your - likely - only cool down. So you bite your lip, sit yourself down and quietly regain your energy.

Your heart beat doesn’t slow as quickly as you want it to. The exhilaration doesn’t leave your system either, stuck in a perpetual cycle of replaying all that had just unfolded.

You force your way through a breathing exercise sitting on the chair he originally placed you in, facing forward, blocking him out behind you because you know that one look at him and he would detonate all that you had worked to subdue. Once calm, the tether between mind and body reconnects and there’s one thing that screams down the line.

Filled with pleasure, yet still feeling empty. Yet to be fucked.

Tom alerts you that your cool down has come to an end as he saunters out of the dark corner behind you. It felt like barely a second. He had watched you the entire time, eyes roaming your figure, how it shook, how it quivered, how you barely managed to stand on your own two feet as you jumped from the desk, body scorching with the heat from your core. You were like a new-born deer learning to walk while he was a wolf waiting in the shadows.

Sat on the chair, you spin around to complain, attitude brimming, mouth open, words at the ready and…“Hmph!” His hand clamps down hard onto your mouth, pinching your nose with the other. Not a breath slips through.

“Here’s me thinking you had learned to know better than to talk back to me.” His body arches over your head above you, tilting your head back to catch the panic glaze over your wide eyes. You think he’s going to do something rash, something to make you regret even thinking about turning around to answer him back; a slap to the face, a tug to your roots, something as evil as his wicked voice sounds in your ear.

So you can't exactly blame your heart for tripping over itself when, as smooth as butter, he lowers his head, lips puckering to lay a slight kiss to your forehead. It feels like air, an offering that doesn’t conceal something malice behind it. A fragile dusting of comfort to your skin, gentle like a snowflake feathering down onto the ground. Your conscience arrows towards it.

When he lifts his hands from your mouth and nose, you don’t find yourself desperately sucking in the air you lost. Rather, you inhale slowly through your nose and out through your mouth. It had to be that small, insignificant little kiss that lay your nerves to rest.

Tom is one hell of a manipulator.

His lips remain lingering on your skin, skating over the surface, mirroring his hands as they trickle down your cheeks and hold your jaw in their embrace. He whispers…“Do you think you can behave like my good girl again?” A small hum of confirmation buzzes at your lips. It isn’t enough for him. “Take this as your warning. If you decide to be a brat, if you decide to not listen to every word I say from now on, know that I cannot be responsible for what happens to you.”

The severity of his caution has your eyes opening just a fraction wider, able to read the same warning that traces his words in his eyes. He means it. Really means it. Danny’s words echo around your head. ‘He’s a stickler for obedience’. What is he about to do to you that it’s imperative you listen to what he says?

You could say no. You could invoke upon your safe word and make it stop right now. But when you delve deeper into the part of you that made you agree to this in the first place, you find that it still roars with life, telling you that your need for adventure hasn’t quite been satiated.

You swallow, throat bobbing under his digits. “I understand.”

He scrunches his nose in delight. “Perfect.”

You don’t turn to follow his movements to the back of his office, your ears tell you what you need to know. A cupboard door squeaks open, old, rickety, likely an antique. Then rustling. Objects hard, soft, textured, plastic, rubber, metal. A hum of satisfaction, then the closing squeak of the door, different to the first. His footsteps near you, perching directly behind you while you feel the soft sweep of his torso brush against your hair.

Then darkness. Soft, pillowy darkness that floods your vision. Remnants of light trapped in your irises float around like shooting stars before fading completely. It’s the only thing you can hone in on as the knot tied behind your head tightens, confirming that he has indeed blindfolded you.

“Remember your safe word.” He breathes into your ear in earnest. Pasta. “Don’t hesitate to use it.”

“Yes, sir.” You don’t know if he’s still expecting you to say that, but you do it anyway to stay in good graces with him. You’re not entirely sure if it will make a difference to the impending danger Tom warned you of. Even if it doesn’t, Tom’s lip still curls anyway.

“Good,” a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth has you blushing, “now don’t move.”

A single breath is all you have to prepare yourself before something cold eases across the skin of your arm. Insubstantial, almost weightless, it falls from the curve of your right shoulder and descends down until it reaches your hand, resting on the velvet arm. The sensation is ghostly but frigid, gliding but piercing. You can’t quite work out what it is…

The same icy coldness retraces its path back up your arm, floating and gliding along your clavicle and stops directly at the base of your throat, the pit where your collar bones meet.

It knicks your skin.

“Oh my God--”

“Don’t. Move.”

Holy fuck. It’s a knife. It’s a knife. It’s a knife. It is a fucking knife.

That’s the metal object you heard. And its sharpest point is resting directly against your neck.

Your skin pales and your stomach swirls with nausea. All your efforts to stay still and keep calm drains very quickly and panic floods in. Any chills the knife aroused in its cold path is replaced by small beads of sweat, your entire body blazing, screaming danger. Surprisingly, among other things, your nipples begin pebbling, brushing harder against the silk slip of a dress that adorns your body the more the blade's sharpest edge tickles along your skin. Your heart pounds, the sound of panic-infused adrenaline thrumming in your ears, comparable to the time you went on that rickety, old roller coaster when you were younger.

You guess the memory isn’t too dissimilar; forced to feel the thrill of having your own safety rest in someone else’s hands. You have no control here.

It’s…intoxicating.

A dark admission on your behalf, but you’re here for the experience, right?

You dare not speak, dare not break his rules as the peak of the very sharp knife trails lightly up the column of your throat as its runway, bumping over your trachea, scraping the finest layer of your skin, commanding you to incline your head as it rises higher and higher. Your lungs expand and you can’t deflate them until the knife flicks off your chin. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

In the stone cold silence of his room, the resonating shwing of the knife rings in your ears. A small respite.

From what you can hear, Tom moves behind you somewhere. The creak of the floorboard dances from the left to the right and back again, giving you not one hint of where he plans to strike next, subjecting you to the torment of crippling anticipation until he does.

Suddenly the blade comes into contact once more with your skin, laying its long, razor sharp edge against your neck. Your body freezes, your nails scratch the edge of the armchair.

“Stand,” Tom commands sharply. The knife’s blade maintains the same pressure on you, even as you come to a stand, knees knocking beneath you.

Seconds later, the chair clatters behind you, just the swiftest of touches of velvet to your calves before it crashes off to your left, and where four legs once sat now stand just two. Tom. The warmth of his breath flowing past your ear is a stark contrast to the cool blade on your throat. But it’s the low grumble bubbling against your back that plucks a chord deep in your stomach. You can feel yourself getting wetter…

“I can feel your heartbeat hammering against your ribcage, newbie. Worried?”

Yes…

“Or is it more than that? Excitement? Anxiety? Lust? Desire? What is it? Tell me, a penny for your thoughts.”

“Nerves. Mostly. But…exhilaration and curiosity. And confusion.”

“About?”

“Do people actually get off on this?”

He chuckles at your naivety. “Lots of people do. It’s perfect for keeping any brat in their place. But you’ll find it’s mostly the sort that spend all day bossing people about. Whose jobs are to take on the burden of responsibility, leadership, authority. If it’s been a particularly long and hard day for them, they come here. This is their relief.”

“To be held at knife point?”

“To relinquish control. To let someone else take the reins for once. To be controlled rather than being in control. The knife just adds that flare, the incentive to keep them in that headspace of receiving orders instead of being the one to make them. It could be a gun if you’d like,” he jests. You’d shake your head, but you might slice your throat in the process.

You take a constricted breath, feeling the weight of the knife’s edge becoming just that little bit heavier. “And…do you like it? Being the one in control?”

He presses himself against you as if to mould the contours of your body into his, lips furrowing deep into the crook of your outstretched neck roaming where they please. His free hand anchors down onto your hip, slithering its way across the expanse of your abdomen where, if he held you long enough, would feel the flutter of butterflies wings coming from within. Alas, he spreads his fingers, sinking lower onto your pelvis, teasing the curve of your pubic bone and presses down hard, bending you into him. As if the knife he holds against your neck isn’t controlling enough.

His erection pokes and prods at your backside. He’s so hard you release a whimper. What you would give to feel him inside you.

Tom’s words speak directly onto your neck like he’s tattooing them onto you. “I love it.” A beat, then--“Tell me,” he says, low in tone and volume. “Your dress. Any sentimental attachment to it?”

“No.”

The knife’s blade glides to the strap of your dress on your shoulder and picks it up, pulling it taut. “Good.”

One tug and the material snaps.

A small yelp falls out and a flinch has your shoulders raising just an inch closer to your ear. The integrity of your dress now hangs precariously with just one strap holding on for dear life. If one thing is for certain, it won’t be holding on for much longer. You smother the urge to scold him for ruining your dress, your property, and lest you forget the threat of the very sharp knife he holds against you, it’s only the straps, you could tie them back together as a temporary solution. An easy fix.

The knife repeats its actions on the other side until your dress hangs lifelessly around your hips. The cold air bites at your nipples and Tom doesn’t wait one second before he brings the tip to circle around the little bud.

“Oh--” You can’t stop your head tilting back onto Tom’s shoulder when the slight overdose of adrenaline makes you dizzy. The tickling sensation refuses to relent, crossing over the valley between your tits to tease your other bud just as salaciously.

Just when you find pleasure of the tip running rings around your nipples, when Tom’s hand sinks to cup your pantiless sex, when his scent rushes in through your nose, a harsh slap of the blade's flat edge to your tit whips you back to caution. It’s unexpected. Being blindfolded, every touch is. Any touch you feel, whether blade or not, makes you flinch. Quick as a bolt of lightning surging through your body. It’s torturous because in your darkness, in your paranoia, you’re permanently recoiled, shielding, flinching at nothing, waiting for the next hit.

He’ll strike. You know he will. Not knowing when is killing you. And he knows it.

“You asked if I like what I do-” his finger sinks into you, skimming over your clit wet with your slick, “-from what I can feel, I think you like it too.” Your hips buck to gain more friction from both his fingers and from his hard cock pressed against your ass, desperate to feel that euphoria of pleasure again. A sick, twisted crack of satisfaction surges through you when you hear him moan. “Shame you’ve forgotten your manners.”

The surface of the knife slaps you again, harsh against your nipple. “Ow! T-thank you, sir.”

“Better. Now move.”

A few blind steps clumsily place you facing a wall, palms resting flat against the wallpaper while Tom kicks your feet further apart. He makes sure that while he puppeteers you to never let you forget that the knife he holds is always within close proximity, that if you dare defy him, he wouldn’t hesitate to use it. Gentle scrapes, warning knicks, cold presses, even to go as far as break skin would he warn you.

The audacity he has, though, when he takes the knife and slices his way through the remaining fabric of your dress, leaving you to stand stark naked before him. That’s going to be less easy to fix…

“You ripped my dress!”

“Problem?” His voice is challenging, subliminally daring you to bite the bait.

“How the hell am I supposed to get home with no clothes?”

The fiery attitude that tries to bloom inside dies the instant he presses the flat edge of the blade flush against your cunt. The cold surface lying against your heat causes a stutter in your breath. It pushes upwards, almost lifting you off from your feet and onto your tiptoes from fear that any slight movement of defiance would trigger excruciating pain. It’s dangerous, careless, and reckless, and you wish you could scream it, thrash around, push him away and yell in his face. The compulsion is overwhelming. If only you didn’t have a knife to your cunt…

“Telling me your problem isn’t going to make it my problem.”

Your jaw slacks, away from his prying eyes and you suppose you could allow yourself just one moment of freedom. Just one moment of no restraint because releasing what you’re dying to say would just be as gratifying as the first time Tom allowed you to cum. You can easily feel the knot that’s dying to unwind, and saying what intransigent words would tease out the knot inside you, and also send him reeling.

He wants to call you a bratty sub? Fine. That’s what he’ll get.

“You are such a bastard, do you know that? I think you’ve spent too much time being told ‘yes, sir, of course, sir, thank you, sir’ that it’s all gotten to your head. Maybe you could do with being reminded that not everything you do deserves that.”

Quick as a whip, the blade snaps to your neck, digging into your skin that you feel it tearing your skin. The wince is evidence of your pain, but Tom ignores it, settling on placing his focus not on the knife he holds against you, but how quickly he can undo his belt, his trousers, springing his hard cock free and lining it up with your sopping cunt.

Without a warning, because you don’t deserve one, he thrusts into your core, holding your breath hostage under the knife. “So fucking tight,” he stutters to himself. Even for him, the sensation is immense. His next message is for you. “Cheeky little bitch. Think you’re clever? Think you’re funny? We’ll see who’s laughing when you’re begging me to stop.”

Your bodies clash as Tom begins rutting his hips against your ass, the staccato notes of skin on skin and the room swallows every snap, barely making out the door. He fills you, stretches you, and ruins you within seconds and you can’t explain how the pain you feel translates so quickly into pleasure. You feel yourself needing more of it. The stretch, the burn, the knife, it’s indescribable.

His relentless pace maintains, stopping every ten or so seconds to ensure he fills every inch of you, submerging himself to the hilt and mercilessly grinding his hips against you, rolling around your cunt. Without fail, your hands claw at the wallpaper when he does, begging for reprieve.

“When I tell you,” he pants, lips pursed and eyes ablaze, still holding the knife firmly against your neck. “You are going to give me everything.”

He drops himself, snatching a slab of flesh between your neck and shoulder between his teeth and bites viciously in his frustration and you howl. His thrusts only become faster and harsher.

“I need to feel you squeeze around my cock.” A hand slides between your bodies and starts toying with your clit. “I’m not going to stop until I feel you cum around me.”

Tom effortlessly tugs at the elastic band in your stomach and you are about to snap. He overloads your senses, violating your sensitive cunt to the point where you can feel it pulse in anticipation of the orgasm that is threatening to spill. Under the knife that now trails down your body, a pressure builds and it clenches your muscles with its tight grip, and with each pounding Tom hits you with, it grows a little closer to letting go.

Tom fucks you in phases, fast, slow, harsh, gentle, silent, loud, anything and everything thrown into his efforts to completely tear you apart. If it’s regret he’s after, he’s got it. If it’s an apology he wants, it’s there for the taking. If he desires to hear you begging, then it’s on the horizon. You’re willing to give because you’re not sure you know where your limits are, and with your legging threatening to crumble beneath you, you sense that you’re about to get a good idea.

Tears brim your eyes only to be soaked up by the blindfold, a quiet plea for release.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, please! ” Tom denies relief, keeping you squirming on his cock until his needs are satisfied. He has no care for you writhing to get away, because he can easily drag you back where he wants you with just a swift reminder of the blade that pierces your skin. You’re certain by now that you have tiny little cuts littered over your body, accidental or not.

“Tom, stop! I can’t! It’s too much. Fuck!” He doesn’t heed your cries because to him, they are the symphonies he is waiting to hear.

Your entire body quivers and with the flick of his deft fingers and the thrust of his cock, you come undone. There’s no holding it in anymore. The elastic band snaps and a white-hot wash of pleasure convulses through your body. Blood pumping at your core but Tom isn’t relenting.

The squeeze of your orgasm around his cock is suffocating, but yet just as painfully pleasurable as he needs it to be for the euphoric feeling to consume him. Finally, as the walls of your cunt contract once more, he cums inside you. But by this point, you are weak and Tom can clearly see just how destroyed you are. Nevertheless, his selfishness convinces him to pull away and sink into you over and over again, slower and with purpose.

“Don’t you have something to say to me, sweetheart?”

“I’m s-sorry, fuck, I’m sorry!”

“Taking me so well. My little cocksleeve, aren’t you?” He peels away the blindfold to find your eyes over your shoulder, but in your pain and exhaustion you can’t focus on much else and your eyes serve a very glazed-over look. “Look at me,” he spits, you obey. “You’re mine. This pussy is mine. Remember that any time you want to act like a brat.” He thrusts into you again as a testament to his words.

“Yes,” you meekly whisper. The word comes out of your mouth before your sex-inebriated mind can comprehend what he actually said. Once it does, you gulp.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. Stay still.” Blinded by bliss, Tom pulls from you and with his size, it’s a feeling equivalent to an orgasm in itself and you hiss. Your pussy is hot, swollen, pulsing and leaking and yet somehow, as evident as it is for how sensitive it is, Tom can’t resist one more taste. The knife clatters to the ground. Salvation.

“No, no, no, no, it’s too much, Tom, please, I’m begging you.” The words drip with a desperation you don’t recognise. He simply hushes you, kneels behind you, splits you apart and continues to savour the taste of your arousal, meticulously circling his tongue around the small bundle of nerves once again. The warm, wet muscle glides from entrance to clit, cleaning you up of your wetness and replacing it with his own. For as excruciating as it is to endure so soon after an orgasm, you find yourself melting into the feeling and dizziness envelopes you in a warm hug.

~~~~

“Tell me the time,” he murmurs, turning you around.

Your eyes peer to the clock. “Fuck, it’s…it’s 4:29am. When does this place close?”

Tom sniggers, floating over you with a smirk. “It closed an hour and a half ago.”

“What?! Why am I still here?”

“I’m the owner of this place. I decide who gets to stay and I promised you an experience did I not?”

“You did,” you agree quietly. The slight stickiness between your thighs bears a reminder of the experience and suddenly you’re burning again. You bite your lip, trying to contain the coy giggle like a teenager with a crush. “Some experience that was.”

“Sweetheart, that was child’s play,” he laughs.

“What?”

He pulls you close, skin to skin, soothing out your muscles in a gentle massage. “You didn’t actually think I was going to show you everything, did you?”

Would it be stupid of you to admit that you did? “I don’t know, you did say--”

“That I would give you an experience. Something new, something outside your comfort zone, something you hadn’t done before, an adventure.”

“But--” But the paddles, the chains, the whips, all the things you saw outside…

Not another word lets slip before he cups your cheeks, holding your stare and wordlessly silencing you. “If I had shown you everything, there would be no incentive for you to come back again now would there?” You shake your head. “While you may think I’m a sadist, there are some things within BDSM that newbies like you just can’t be thrown into. Trust me. I wouldn’t put you through that. At least, not yet.”

“Like what? Tell me, I wanna know.”

Tom’s lip curls. He’ll definitely be seeing you around here soon enough given you’re so invested. “Voyeurism, roleplay, flogging, bondage, anal, wax play, primal, orgies, consensual non-consent--”

Your brain fumbles over his words. “Wait what? What’s that?”

The way his eyes lit up so brightly. He brings you closer to brush his nose against yours. “Consensual non-consent or CNC. A fetish where people enjoy being either the victim with the extreme lack of control or the predator with extreme control. Sometimes called rape play--” your eyes widen, “--but it is thoroughly negotiated beforehand and varies from scene to scene. Consent, as well as safe words, are vital. But for some people, verbally communicating consent takes away from the mood. To overcome that, they assign consent to an object. It would be agreed beforehand, could be a red scrunchie that you tie in your hair. If you came here one night wearing a red scrunchie, I would know that you would consent to me taking control over you. Perhaps drag you away against your will, take you somewhere where no one would see, make you get on your knees, suck my cock…” his voice reduces to a whisper and lets you feel his words on your lips. “Would do things to you…”

“Oh…”

Tom sighs, pulling away and composing himself. “For another time.” He winks. “But for now, you need to clean up. There’s a bathroom through that door. Feel free.”

“Oh, uh, thanks.”

~~~~

You don’t emerge from your bedroom until early afternoon the next day. In your true stubborn nature, you do anything you can to prolong the confrontation with Danny. He knows what prevailed between you and Tom, and munching away at a bowl of cereal, you find him smirking at the breakfast bar. All because he knows he was right, he knows that bringing you to the Hunting Ground was the ideal thing for you. You can’t deny him of it.

His eyes find the bite mark on your neck first, bruised and marked. Then to the large T-shirt that he’s certain isn’t yours. The memory of Tom dressing you in it last night has your heart thrashing against your ribs.

“So how did the kinky-cultish-sex club turn out for you?” He grins, a smile stolen from the Cheshire cat.

You click your tongue, deliberating the two ways you could go about this. Against your better character, you grin back at him, colour rushing to your cheeks.

“When can we go back?”

#ive been reading a lot of spicy books recently so this is why this exists #this is foul #knife play??? who am i #truly foul #tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland fic #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #smut #dom!tom holland #sub!bratty!reader #tom holland x you #the hunting ground #peter parker #dark!tom holland

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wannaeatramyeon · 11 months

Text

Word quantity: high. Word quality: low. You have been warned.

Goo Kim x Reader: School Days with Princess & the Delinquent

Chapter 8 - Please read chapter 1 first!

Tiptoeing around anything doesn’t come naturally to Goo, not when he doesn’t need to, and definitely not when there’s no cash incentive.

He likes to stomp in, loud and sure-footed with a dramatic flourish.

So then, the near misses, the yearning and longing gazes are killing him.

He understands himself enough to know that if he didn’t leave soon, if he stayed any longer, if he took anymore of you which you would happily give, he would never be able to go.

Goo tries to withdraw, to add a little distance and to keep his hands to himself.

You become the one chasing after him without even realising. Previously, he had never been self conscious in seeking you out, and you subconsciously followed his lead and followed him.

On the rooftop alone, Goo sits and stares until you join him, taking his silence for melancholy.

He should pull away but instead leans in, pressing his shoulder against yours until the heat from your body sears him.

Unpleasantness surfaces with harsh words, becoming every bit the juvenile he’s known for and spitting venom at you.

You flinch at his malice, knowing this Goo Kim only by reputation rather than experience and storm off.

Good, he thinks, a bare-faced lie. Good riddance.

Is it that everyone is born with a conscience? Maybe Goo had one when he was younger before he learned to silence it.

Hasn’t heard from it in years. Not when he uses unscrupulous methods to get rich, not when he beats someone that looks at him the wrong way to within an inch of their life.

Due to you, today it rears its ugly head after lying dormant. Screaming at him, ear-splitting and shrill until all he feels is regret.

Tail between his legs and not even an hour later, Goo looks for you.

He doesn’t apologise, but you recognise the remorse at his outburst from the way he touches his glasses, the slump in his form, the contrite look in his eyes and forgive him anyway.

“Princess,” Goo purrs, giving you a dashing smile when you throw him a furious look instead of teary eyes. When you stay instead of running away.

So much for that then.

Like a joke, Goo also starts reaping karma for all his past wrong-doings.

He cannot miss the way your eyes drop to look at his lips, your tongue darting out and wetting your own as he talks.

Notices how when he leans close, murmuring something to your ear, your skin prickles with goosebumps at his proximity.

The way you gulp as he stretches, shirt lifting and revealing a sliver of inviting skin, is impossibly loud. And when the blush creeps from your collar up to your hairline, your ears burning crimson, it has him crawling out of his skin from how much he wants you.

Goo Kim has a terrible effect on you. You make no secret of it.

It’s a very cruel and terribly timed joke.

He’s not sure how much longer he can hold out. If he has any restraint left so the words won’t just gurgle up and slip out, shouting and declaring how much he likes you.

You’re the flame and to his moth, and he thinks maybe it’s not so bad to burn.

To make matters worse, because truly things do come in threes, you become ever brazen with him.

Emboldened by the months of having Goo Kim being at your side, his shamelessness rubbing off on you and dirtying your previous squeaky-clean disposition.

Hands squeezing his waist as a way of greeting. Or ruffling his hair, fingers running through his blonde tresses when the urge takes you.

Turning the tables, whispering into his ear, sharing inside jokes, hot breath ghosting his skin as he tries not to pant.

Lecherous grins as innuendos and entendres that are so Goo spills from your lips and he also tries not to imagine you in compromising positions.

You tell him he looks good, casual niceties and compliments that you have learned from him, and his brain stutters.

Goo really has made a rod for his own back.

Worst of all, Goo notices, is the way you wait for one another.

A familiarity of routine that comes from lives being intertwined and always wanting to be in each other's company.

The few classes you’re not in together, you can always find one or the other lurking outside in the corridor.

Waiting to spend more time together. Waiting to spend lunches together.

Either in empty rooms, libraries or in the cafeteria as you both laugh, you still somewhat demurely and Goo like a hyena, ignoring everyone else giving you nervous looks.

You never really know what Goo gets up to after school, but he still accompanies you when he can. You wait for him to walk you home from extracurricular clubs or in the evening from your job.

If his schedule doesn’t allow it then Goo is the one waiting. On the other side of the phone, he waits to hear from you.

Trouble finally arrives.

There’s nothing special about the day. An ordinary Thursday sitting in classes together. Almost the weekend.

There’s nothing special about the trouble either. It doesn’t announce itself with a bang. It’s a special kind of trouble that has been years in the making, seeping into everything it touches. Of yours and Goo’s life path diverging for good.

Goo receives a text. He should be elated, instead finding he needs to school his face to hold back a frown.

Oh well. What’s done is done.

Hand in pockets, whistling, he leaves the classroom, not caring about the class he’s disrupting or the teacher's lecture on a Physics theorem.

(But he doesn’t look in your direction. He can’t.)

No-one bats an eyelid. Typical Goo shenanigans.

Yet he doesn’t return 10 minutes later. He doesn’t return for your next period. You don’t see him for the rest of the day.

Or for the next week. Or the next month.

Taking a page out of his own playbook, you bombard him with calls and messages. Double-texting, triple, whatever to get a response.

Initially, he leaves you on read, and your calls ring out.

Eventually, the number is not in service.

You keep trying and keep hearing the same automated voice.

In your desperation, you ask around for anyone that knows where he lives.

They don't. He's been a stranger to everyone but you.

#uhhhhh #lookism #lookism headcanons #lookism x reader #lookism hc #lookism webtoon #lookism manhwa #goo kim #goo kim x reader #kim joongoo #kim joongoo x reader #school days with princess and the delinquent #wannaeatramyeon

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thequietkid-moonie · 11 months

Text

Sweet S/O gets a cruel punishment

[ ONE-SHOT ] [ Kokichi Ouma ] [ Danganronpa V3 Killing Harmony ]

⚠️ This contain a little bit of spoilers

This was requested by @sleepyone2three, thank you for requesting it!! The version of the other characters requested you can find it in the masterlist

I have a love-hate for Kokichi, I don't justify Kokichi's actions but I kinda understand him, and from my point of view at the end he was brave and super smart the little bastard. Also, this is my first time writing for him I hope you like it!! 💜

It could be pretty surprising to see someone like Kokichi, who likes to mess with everyone and always put jokes on others, with someone so sweet and patient, people may don't completely understand why you two are together but that doesn't matter, Kokichi loves you and you love him, that is the only thing that matters

Once you two get into the Saishu Academy and the killing game his attitude doesn't change much, however at the start he was a little more calm, still he finds this whole situation pretty interesting and exciting, or at least that was what he tell everyone, he find it interesting in a bad way, he doesn't trust the academy nor Monokuma at all and the posibility of you getting killed terrify him (but he doesn't tell you this)

Kokichi doesn't really trust in people and whenever he is atracted to someone normally is just because that person could be of use or bring him some fun, so for you two being a couple means that Kokichi deeply loves and trust you (not blindly but he does trust you), that is why he wants to win this killing game with you, you may don't like his idea but he doesn't like the idea of losing you, the only person he actually trust

Kokichi really appreciate and loves your patience, he can say a lot of little lies or put on you a lot of jokes and tricks and still you never get truly mad at him, he may annoy you sometimes but you still love him and you still are sweet to him. Under other conditions he will like to test your limits but inside of this killing game it wouldn't be a good idea if he wants to keep you by his side, in addition Kokichi grows more clingy and a little more serious and strict with you (it could seem like he is just joking or may he himself says that he isn't saying it seriously, but with you and only you he gets sincere and you can tell that his worries are true), he loves your sweet and calm personality but in a killing game that is just a disadvantage, you could be easily tricked by someone and end up killed, or worst, use you to kill someone else

Kokichi tried to warn you more than once to don't trust in anyone inside of the academy, anyone could be planning something against you or even use you, Kokichi doesn't trust in anyone there aside from you and he is trying to make you see that too, is his weird way of trying to protect you

However, no matter what Kokichi says or do that doesn't stop you from still trying to help the others, with your sweetness and patience you easily inspire the others and motivate them to work together, specially after what happened to Kaede

Kokichi has his own idea of how to end the game and he doesn't care what he has to do to fullfil his goal he is planning to do everything in his power to make the two of you survived and win this whole game

The killing game was stressful enough, the only situation made everyone nervous and somehow a little paranoid from time to time, adding Monokuma, the Monokubs and the incentives that they bring after every trial it makes things more difficult to endure, even when everyone wanted to end with the game the attitude of some of them doesn't help at all (Kokichi being one of them)

As patient as you can be everyone has a limit, between Monokuma and the Monokubs, Kokichi messing with everyone and you trying really hard for them to not attacking him was driving you crazy, and the situation just get worst when you add the investigations, the trials and losing more and more friends. Kokichi tries to remind you that you can't trust anyone, specially after the trials, and he isn't really good to bring you comfort and support in those moments, in other situation he would have less troubles with trying and show some vulnerability with you, giving you and craving for some comfort, but he can't just let himself do it right now, he has to be strong and keep his facade, Kokichi feels like that is the better way to survive but in his need of survive he forget about you in a more personal way

Everything started with an argument between you two, you wanted to make Kokichi see the things from your perspective, you wanted for him to stop messing with everyone and just try to find a way out of there, a way to end with the killing game with everyone else, into the other hand Kokichi just insisted on his own plan, he insisted that you shouldn't trust anyone in there and that he himself will end with the killing, even if he has to do it alone. The stress were making both stubborn, even it were making you lose your patient, however the problem comes with Kokichi, he was starting to feel desperate and stop thinking on what he was saying and just start to compare you to Kaede, remember what happen to her! she tried to help everyone and now she is gone! Do you really want to end up like her? You can't trust in anyone in here! Heck, you shouldn't even trust in him! He can easily being planning something against you too!

What Kokichi told you hurt, it hurt a lot, the discussion was escalating rapidly, it was just rising and rising in tone, even if you tried to cut him and go away it was too late because your argument bring the attention of the Monokubs, now under the lead of Monodam and he can't just let this happen, everyone is supposed to be friends and don't argument like this

It was just like an instinct for you to shield Kokichi, you were always like this, standing up for him when he gets into problems for messing with someone and trying to calm the other person, so this time you, once again, stand in front of Kokichi like hidding him and tried to reason with Monodam, you tried to tell him that everything was alright, you two are friends and get along really well he doesn't have anything to worry about, but Monodam heard your angry voice, and the hurtful words Kokichi had told you a moment ago it still hurts, as much as you tried to put an smile and look calm the sadness was all over your face and tears were close to fall from your eyes

Monodam obsesion for everyone being friends blind him from understanding that the situation was stressful, that in this kind of situation will be normal to break out just like how you two were just doing, he just take your obvious signs of sadness to say that you two weren't friends and he can't alow that, since now he took the control from Monokuma he has the power to punish the students, his plan was to just give the two of you a lesson, hopefuly after this you two will be friends, but human bodies are diferent from the bodies of his robots siblings and the hit were too hard for you to handle, and since you were shielding Kokichi you were the only one who recived the attack

To Kokichi was like it happened is slow motion, he isn't able to react until your body hit the floor, screaming in desesperation your name he runs to your side, with tears in his eyes he kneel by your side and check all over you, the hit was really hard, the exterior of your body maybe doesn't look too bad but the internal damage was the problem, there is no way to help you now (specially since no one in the academy has the profesional knowledge to do so), from this point there is nothing else to do than wait for your death

Even if Monodam understand what he have done Kokichi won't let him get near you again, not him, not the other Monokubs, not even the other students, he isn't going to let anyone get near you for a long time. On your last moments Kokichi can't do anything else than cry and beg you to please don't leave him, this whole time he just wanted to make sure that you two could get away from that stupid killing game and now, for his stupidity, he is going to lose you

When Kokichi finally start to calm down he quietly apologize to you and promise to end with the killing game for you, even if you weren't hearing him anymore

After Kokichi calms down he returns to his normal self, he isn't going to let anyone see how sad he is, how hurt he is nor how much he miss you or how much he blame himself for your death. However the others can intuit it since he doesn't let anyone talk about you, not even if is something good he imediatly gets irritated and scream at them, also he never tell anyone what happened, if they want to know how you died they will have to find out themself because he isn't going to tell them (nor Monodam, he is too ashame for what he had done)

After this Kokichi is more motivated and eager to end with this stupid killing game, he doesn't care what he has to do nor even if he has to put himself at risk, he is going to to finish this hell for you

#danganronpa #danganronpa v3 #danganronpa x reader #kokichi ouma #kokichi ouma x reader #kokichi x reader #x reader #x gn reader #video games x reader

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seneitut · 9 months

Note

What is your opinion about gekko with a himbo male reader?? 😏 fr if i was gekko i want to suck that boobs or maybe sleep on it too lmao.. Just thinking the reader olso have hip dip dayumm...

[NSFW +18 mentions]

Oh my god, Gekko would be the most enthusiastic and eager man ever.

To finish training and crash into his boyfriend's chest and bury his face onto the mounds is the highlight of his day.

He finds it very soothing, listening to reader's heartbeat while sighing with happiness oozing off of him, hugging his torso and just, limp and dead to the rest of the world. [Bonus points if reader scratches Gekko's head while he doozes off.]

If it were a small in height himbo or Gekko's height, I believe he would tease the shit out of his boyfriend. You know, resting his arm on reader's head, spooning him on bed and grabbing his boobs while they sleep—perhaps and if Gekko is feeling frisky, he would grind against reader's ass while grunting in his ear. He would even get more handsy and beg to fuck in that position while his hands travels on reader's body and under the clothes to feel him up. [Gekko will stop if reader says no, but that is unlikely since the two of them are just horndogs and fuck anytime they can get their hands on each other.]

Now, if it were the other way around, Gekko would still tease the fuck out of reader. He has a very...unique sense of humor when it comes to his teasing, the "how's the weather up there!" kind of jokes, is so bad is hilarious. Would cling onto reader's back if he has a chance, good luck trying to get him off there.

The cuddling would remain the same, Gekko wants the big spoon and grabby hands to reader's boobs. But like said before, if Gekko is in need of reacharging? Face down and drowning between the mounds.

There is no escape to his neediness and spikes of libido when together, worsening with time and the longer the relationship evolves. Gekko tends to fall in love fast and hard, gets obsessive with reader real quick, too.

Digging his fingers on reader's hip, holding him still and pretty for Gekko to thrust his pelvis against the other and sliding his cock in and out repeatedly until he has his boyfriend moaning and babbling incoherences.

The slaps of skin deafening and echoing on the room is like an incentive for Gekko to be harsher with the way he fucks reader, watching the tip of his cock bounce against his stomach and leaking pre-cum, god, he might cum right then and there.

Gekko becomes the most dominant person ever with a himbo reader, wanting to have him under control, have his pleasure at the palm of his hand and denying reader of his release everytime he's on the brink of cumming. Gekko gets off with the idea only him can provide reader the pleasurable and most wonderful experience when having sex because he knows of every single thing that can set reader off.

He would enjoy railing him with a fast pace and sucking on the mounds of flesh from reader's chest while listening to his cries and non stop begging to fuck him harder. And Gekko complies, because he's been such a good boy; opening up to him so easily, prepping beforehand with lube and three of his fingers inside his hole, and letting Gekko do whatever he wants with reader's body afterwards.

Balls deep inside, nipples perked up and sore to the touch, Gekko would finally wrap his hand around reader's cock and pump it alongside his thrusts, watching with want the pre-cum smeared on his shaft and making a mess out of it while masturbating him.

He would admire his work on him, flushed face, eyes rolled to the back and mouth ajar letting the most sinful sounds he's ever heard on his life. That mixed with the way reader's walls clamp down on his cock, sucking him in and squeezing him deliciously is enough to make Gekko cum inside of him, leaving his seed and slumping against his chest while riding out the orgasm.

Reader's climax always hits him so hard, the knot on his belly finally releasing, and moaning out Gekko's name, he passes out for a while.

Is a pleasing experience for the both of them.

#LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID #ME RAMBLING #GOSH I LOVE MALE READER X GEKKO #gekko smut #sen answers #ALSO IF IT WASNT CLEAR YES I LOVE THE IDEA OF HIMBO READER AND GEKKO NFGHJDGNFDF #gekko x male reader

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aelinschild · 2 months

Text

Paradigm; side by side

˙✧˖ March 8th: Sweater

Main Masterlist | Paradigm; side by side Masterlist |

A/N: Huge apologies for missing the post yesterday (March 8th), life is busy :) But, the post for today (March 9th) will be out shortly following this.

SYNOPSIS: Carry my heart. WORDCOUNT: 1.4k (whoops, ignore that.) WARNINGS: Cursing(?), Lustful roommates (theyre both guilty)

Huge thank you to @throneofglassmicrofics for organizing! Make sure to check out other works over on their account!

Its worth a shot. “Rowan, uh, where do you keep the towels?”

He paused. The ample expanse of his back pushing ridges and dips in the fabric of his shirt. Something worn and tired, a breathy material that probably had molded to his shape. If Aelin had to guess, most of his clothes had. Or would have to.

He had yet to show a penchant for nudity, but there was still time.

Twirling the hem of her cover-up between nimble fingers kept the current of energy burning through her at a gentle hum. A buzzing inside bones, just under her C1 vertebrae. Target and switch, a noise she could flick off…if she wanted to, of course.

“Are you out in your washroom?” He gruffed out. Muscles assuming their previously arrhythmic movements.

“Not out. I was just wondering if you kept towels for the beach…?” She layered the question in a politeness, consideration lining every word. Had evaluated her grounds, found herself lost in the unsaid dance of the days.

“For the beach?” Swiveling on his spot, eyes like magnets to he being. “Why, are you-”

She wanted to make a joke, some sort of dig at his proclivity for repetition. Something to ease the brute of silence. But it had dripped from fists like a fine sand, slipping out of her mind when the force of direct seeing struck her. A breathless conclusion from moments of buildup. Green; deep fern and new life, no longer a smokescreen of skepticism – mistrust, but a telling. Seven days in close quarters had somehow drained the oxygen from her atmosphere, sharing noxious gases that toed the knife edge of ruination.

Back and forth, a game of shared breaths before the final gasp of air. Suffocating and final.

She would ignore the burning path of his eyes, would ignore the clenching of jaw muscles or the tightening of fists. Pulling at tendons in forearms that she had felt against her neck- Let her roommate collect his thoughts, simply a shock. A lapse in judgement. “Outdoor cupboard, by the stairs. Check for spiders, though. The bites sting.”

It would be like snuffing out a flame, maiming its burn until it failed to exist. But in its darkness, grew life from a form of other worldly exoticism.

“Thank you, Rowan.”

“Wear sunscreen. And try not to drown again, yeah?” She laughed.

When she had made the leap – most definitely by her own choice, no financial incentive or anything of the likes – to take up residence with a complete stranger, she hadn't expected the result. This result. At the time, getting away from a place where the traffic had permeated her internal monologue like a cursed whispering was conceivable only in dreams. The space between consciousness and not. Woman-Rowan had been a respectable option for a half crazed Aelin needing an escape for metropolitan life. Man Rowan was not.

She needed the baggage that men carried like she needed more debt.

It was possible that the exorbitant distance between where she was now and who she was not too long ago had shaped her, relaxation and unrestrictedness, into a pacifist. Sensation and thrill were closer to ones closed hands, just footsteps across the hall. Eyes like new growth incurring reactions so deeply chemical she could have described the shift as primal. A knee jerk reaction awaking a piece of herself she had tucked in so long ago.

And… Rowan was different. Nothing like the men she had found herself in company with. This strange man, isolated and admittedly stunted, was a balm and a surge at once. Just talking to him hours ago had set her rationality aflame.

She could not help but toe the line, jump over an invisible edge with every moment and find his eyes, his gaze, to gauge the reaction. Just to see. Desire and shame played like a record lowly in the background, inching further and further into some unparalleled mistake, or something else.

Ultimately, though, it was only a game. Life would resume; this lapse would come to an end, and Aelin would be erased from the land like the drawings she was toeing into the sand. Nothing is forever, and she was not delusional enough to believe so. But, just enough to soak up the incredulity of every moment and lean into misinterpreted glances and burning touches.

So as the sun began to set, the last washes of colour bleeding from the sky in a way that could only remind her of the man himself, she stayed on clear sand. Surrounded by whispering grasses and mumbling waters. On a towel – shook and beaten to assure that no pests would be biting her ass – borrowed and dirtied from sandy footprints. Skin still pulsing for unrestricted sunshine that left a golden luminosity to skin, highlighting the silvery scars on hips and bruises still healing over. Her novel and journal a quiet company. It was peaceful and healing.

But, the March winds washed over with the final dregs of winter, chilling and nipping at the great areas of exposed skin. Gooseflesh, much different from how it appeared yesterday, rose to her skin. Nipples stiff with the chill. She could only laugh, of course she forgot suitable clothes. The sheer dress – appropriate for beach settings, would not warm her.

“Aelin!”

Good gods.

Sound was heard differently on sand. This, she had learned. Weight played a part in the muffle of footsteps. Heavy strides were lower, less sound noise from the redistribution of sand. An unusual thud from the immediate compression. Being dropped resounded that way. A run often echoed in the movement of sand elsewhere. Spraying up and landing metres behind. But it was nearly impossible to silence ones own footfalls; sand would find a way to warn ever the most prepared creatures.

Except for, of course, Rowan.

“Couldn't hear me, huh?” He chuckled. “Cooked up some dinner, wanted to know if you were hungry.” Throaty and…shy? She had scrambled up to sitting at the first shock of his voice, body nearly exposed. Hidden behind fabric masquerading as a swimsuit. Tan lines aren't needed with the proper preparation. The sheer cover-up in her lap, balled up between fists. She had let out a hum of acknowledgement.

“Oh, yeah I would love that. Uh, thank you.” Rowan. Thank you, Rowan.

“Right.” He mused, hand scratching at the length of his forearm, over fading tattoos. She had yet to notice, but his gaze was anywhere but herself.

Gathering her novel and notebook, Aelin made to stand. She could feel the tension in her legs from the horizontal position of the day. Residue of lactic acid and tranquility. Pinpricks of chill, the gusts sweeping her hair over her shoulders and twining it into a mess. In a curious way, his presence before her had warmed her core. The offering, his kindness, gruff and untried.

“Here,” snapped the suspended introspection, a offering of cloth was jerked forward. Aelin only looked up, snagging her gaze on his. Blown out pupils and dancing hair. Swept across his forehead, ruffling the strands that begged for her touch. Following down, to his body now unclothed with the sweater she was so sure he had been wearing. To the fabric in outstretched arms.

“No need,” she laughed. A little shocked at the boldness. “I’ll just change when I’m inside. I’ve got to get used to the temperatures somehow.” Moving to pull her shift on, the hand that had haunted her sleep last night was wrapped around her wrist.

“No.” Shaking the sweater out, with one hand, Rowan maneuvered it so it would be easy to pull over. “Put this on.”

“Rowan. Thank you for the gesture, but truly, I am fine.”

“Just… please. Please put it on.” It was strained, like it hurt to push those words from the recesses of his mind. “No need to catching a cold, yeah?”

For a moment, his hand still tight like a vise around her wrist and her with the sheer dress in clenched fists, Aelin faced off with him. Staring directly into eyes dwarfed by pupils. Indignance seeped from her pores. She didn't acquiesce easily, but usually there was solid ground for her to stand upon. Stone formed from a life lived, hard to push over or redirect. But… it was like toying with fire. He didn't care about a cold or her frigidity. Curious, indeed.

“Sure. A cold, yeah.” He dropped her wrist and she pulled on the sweater. Curious, indeed.

Taglist: @mariaofdoranelle , @leiawritesstories , @renxzs

Let me know if you would like to be a part of the taglist :)

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figmentof · 4 months

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so i've been seeing a lot of people ask "what streaming service would want to pick up a show that only has one season left?" and i think that's a really valid question

now i'm not by any means a media analyst nor do i know the inner workings of the streaming industry but maybe my logic could help alleviate some of that anxiety

ofmd has a solid and very loyal viewer base. the ratings of both s1 and s2 have proven that, especially s2. s1 already outperformed in every way by running circles around MCU projects like Moon Knight and Loki, left both SW shows The Mandalorian and Book of Boba Fett in the dust, and did exceptionally well for a freshman series when going up against existing IPs. now we know that that alone was what got us s2 with max, but even then max/WBD went and slashed the budget by 40% 😬. BUT, even with this limitation and the pacing getting fucked up by rewrites/cut downs for the last three episodes, s2 still came through and delivered record breaking numbers, rave reviews across the board with major media outlets, and outdid their s1 performance that max officially listed ofmd as their max original flagship show. the unfortunate thing however is that none of this made a difference, we still got dropped last minute when the bts crew was already gearing up for pre-production

just because WBD/Zaslav doesn't respect or see the value of the show, doesn't mean other networks/streamers don't. a huge reason why i pushed for apple tv is bc they're a service that i've noticed cares about letting a show do their thing and not as much about viewership. apple tv did get a lot of attention and money from Ted Lasso though, and it was their flagship show for the three seasons it aired. i'm sure their 45 minute per episode season 3 was granted to them mainly because the show brought so much attention to their platform, so i think they'd absolutely do that for ofmd too what with it also being a feel good rom com with positive messages

ofmd also has a huge social media presence. the most recent and very successful example DJenks could use within his pitch is the astroglide incident. within an hour of astroglide tweeting about ofmd, fans are already photoshopping their product into screencaps, editing them into clips, and drawing fan art-- free advertisement delivered to them just because they gave us some attention. the fan tweets with astroglide reached thousands of eyes and astroglide was trending. any service that chooses to pick ofmd up isn't just getting a fanbase that would save them some budget in terms of marketing, but also help them market their lesser known shows too. and Casey Bloys said so himself, albeit very tone deaf and for all the wrong reasons, the twitter gays are the ones who have the power to bring attention to a show (queer word of mouth is no joke)

sometimes all a streaming service needs is a show to push people to subscribe, and i think a lot of these services have good shows but no one is looking for them. ofmd fans are pretty good at browsing through what a service has to offer but you need to give them an incentive, as would any business, that makes them want to spend money. i just think that picking ofmd up is only ever a win for a streamer and it would be stupid of them not to

of course, if you want actual insider knowledge with stats and more realistic talks of what might happen (cautiously optimistic!), you know to check out thecozypirate and meowzawowza_ on twt

#Our Flag Means Death #ofmd #save ofmd #renew ofmd #renew as a crew

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moonlight-prose · 2 years

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BADLANDS | THREE

a/n: i don't want to jinx it but i'm on a fucking roll here people. i have never churned out a fic series faster in MY LIFE. miles teller i would like to personally thank you for the inspo. couldn't have done it without you and your mustache my dude. so there are only two more parts to go and i know exactly what's going to happen. things are about to get a little messy for panther and rooster. this is semi edited but not beta read so hopefully this chapter makes sense!

reblogs, comments, and feedback is always welcome!!

i don't have taglists anymore, but i do have a library blog.

summary: being shit out of luck happens to everyone, but you seemed to be a special case.

word count: 5.7k+

pairing: bradley "rooster" bradshaw x fem!reader (callsign panther)

warnings: not explicit (we're getting there), cussing, angst, arguing, rooster being a jealous little shit, ptsd mention, anxiety, panic attack, catastrophe, near death experiences.

previous chapter | next chapter

“Good morning aviators.” Mavericks voice brought your attention back to the front where he stood, watching all of you standing in line outside.

The blazing heat was starting to make you sweat underneath your flight suit, but you forced yourself to pay attention. Phoenix stood beside you, Bob on her other side. She turned to glance at you, an eyebrow raising over her sunglasses as she asked you the silent question you all seemed to be wondering today. What the fuck are we doing today? Normally you would be inside already, but apparently they wanted the pilots to wait until Maverick arrived.

He began to head towards the building, the others falling into step behind him—Hangman right on his heels. You had half a mind to bark in his direction, but thought better of it. It would just give him even more of an incentive to be up your ass. He was already pissed that you and Bradley were being considered as team leader.

“I don’t know about you but I’m pretty sure they’re taking us in to kill us,” you whispered, trying to stifle your laughter as Phoenix elbowed you in the side.

“There’d be no point in that.” Bob piped up behind you, managed to duck around Fanboy and end up on your other side.

“Oh yeah why’s that?” you asked, peering over your sunglasses at him.

“Because I’m pretty sure Hangman’s already planned our deaths.” He shrugged. “Would be a shame to let all that trouble go to waste.”

Your mouth parted, lips spreading into a wide smile. “Robert Floyd, did you just make a joke at the expense of Hangman?” His cheeks turned red, head ducking as you swung an arm over his shoulder and leaned against him. “No, this is good! This is progress. Does this mean you consider me as your friend?”

Phoenix scoffed. “Don’t get too cocky Panther.”

“You can’t possibly think he likes you better.”

“Well I’m the one in control up there,” she said, gesturing to the sky.

You however turned back to Bob, taking in his slightly baffled expression. “We can’t let her do that to us, Bob. We’re pals.”

“That’s enough chit chat for today,” Maverick called, grabbing your attention as the three of you headed into the room.

The room was where you’d been briefed on the mission before and you figured new tactics were being taught today. They made sure to wait until the very last second to tell you what exactly that was. Taking off your sunglasses, you slipped them into your front pocket before planting a kiss on Bob’s cheek and taking a spot in front of Fanboy. He and Payback were in the midst of having a silent conversation—the worry on their face prominent enough for even you to see with one small glance.

Shifting, you caught Hangman’s gaze as he shot you an all too cocky wink. To which you returned in kind with a lovely gesture of your middle finger. He wanted to throw you off your game just as he did with everyone else here, but it seemed you and Bradley got the worst of it. He didn’t like competition. That much was clear.

You and Bradley still hadn’t spoken since last night. Hell, you’d hardly seen him all morning, and you had half a mind to ask him why he left. You weren’t mad. Just surprised. Turning your head even further you managed to meet his gaze head on, an icy stare being sent your way. He looked at you like last night never happened, like you were back to being enemies, and it caused your heart to sink in your chest. Quickly, you turned back to the front, placing your sole focus on Maverick as he pulled up the mission plans.

Bradshaw would have to wait for now.

Your attention went to the screen, as you watched Maverick step back and give the attention to the other men in the room. Even while you sat there—eyeing what you knew were the new plans—you could feel Bradley’s gaze burning a hole in the back of your head. There was something up with him today and while you wanted to ask what was up, you simply allowed yourself to settle into the role of being a pilot once more. You were familiar with it.

Being a pilot oddly enough…felt safe.

Bradley on the other hand was a storm. One you weren’t sure you were ready to brave quite yet.

Snapping back to reality you caught the final bits and pieces of their explanation and felt a knot begin to form in your stomach and grow by the second. The mission was now being moved up. A decision they clearly didn’t like, given the grave expressions they wore and you could feel the tension in the room rise. Fanboy and Payback quickly began talking to one another about what had to be done and you were greeted with a flash of you and Hunter.

For a brief moment, you wished Hunter was there with you.

He’d know how to fly this mission—he’d know how to get you home safely.

You however were drowning with the intensity of it all; making you wonder why you were even considered for this mission in the first place.

“You’ve now got two weeks. Which means you’ll be moving on with your training.”

“Oh shit,” you muttered, hearing the others begin to mumble to one another.

“Sir how are we supposed to move on when no one here even accomplished the canyons?” you asked, glancing at Maverick who was busy looking at someone else.

“Well lieutenant there’s no other options at this point.”

Hangman scoffed beside you, his eyes glinting with enough malice to remind you that he still hated your guts. You were half tempted to punch the smirk off his face, but figured it wasn’t worth getting reprimanded. Still…he was on thin fucking ice.

The man stepped back, allowing Maverick to take over and you shot a glance at Bradley over your shoulder. He was the only one who made it to the target last time, but he was behind schedule—a fact Hangman refused to let him forget. He kept his gaze straight, jaw clenched as he sat upright in his chair, his posture stiff enough to almost seem painful.

You gave up and turned back to the front, listening intently as Maverick explained the parameters of the second half of the mission. A fact that let you know if you didn’t get miracle one right, you were sure as hell not getting near accomplishing miracle number two. Tapping your finger on the desk, you felt someone’s gaze come back to you. Figuring it was Phoenix, you stayed put—waiting for Maverick to finish his lecture.

“Today we begin working on hitting the targets.”

“How the hell is that supposed to go down?” Hangman asked, the drawl of his voice exhibiting peak cockiness.

“The pilot would have to be going at intense speed,” you replied, fixing your gaze on him. “I’m sure you have enough experience with that.”

He smiled. “Do you want to find out Panther?”

“I’d rather crash my F-18.”

The comment was ignored, but you could hear Phoenix snort in the background, no doubt proud of you for putting Hangman in his place. He needed to be knocked down a peg or two. So, you risked turning around, winking at her quickly before your gaze was drawn to the man glaring at you across the way. Bradley watched you with enough ire in his stare to send a chill down your spine—your eyes widening briefly before you shifted in your seat.

You were too afraid to ask what his problem was; the circumstances of last night aside, Bradley and you were still toeing the line of hatred and something akin to love.

“Like you haven’t already,” he snipped.

Narrowing your eyes you felt your hand clench into a fist on instinct, prepared to defend what little honor and reputation you had left. If it came down to it, you’d bring him to the floor. Perfectly happy to land a few hits in before someone dragged you away.

“That’s enough Hangman,” Maverick snapped.

He sighed, shifting in his seat like he was bored of all of this, but you could see the wheels working in his brain. You’d known pilots like him before. Seen how they enjoyed picking and prodding until their competition was left in the dust. Except Hangman was different. He knew things that he wasn’t sharing yet and you could already feel the destructiveness of his actions heading everyone’s way.

“No one has ever experienced a mission like this,” Hangman started to speak again, the toothpick between his teeth being moved with every word. “Not even Maverick.”

You had to begrudgingly admit that he had a point there. Maverick’s past experience was extensive to say the least, but it wasn’t anything like this. If a pilot survived this, they would be able to make it out of almost anything, but that was the thing.

The pilot had to survive.

This mission didn’t come across as something one would walk away from unscathed, and that’s what terrified you.

Which one of you in this room wouldn’t make it home in the end?

You had half a mind to turn and look at the man you were most worried about, but could already feel his eyes on you. Even though he would never admit it. He was just as afraid as you were that this thing between the two of you—whatever it was—wouldn’t be around after the two weeks were up.

Grabbing your helmet, you headed outside and towards the jets that were lined up. Unease had filled your body the second they announced having to move on with the mission’s training and it had yet to fade. They were giving you no time at all to figure out what had to be done in order to survive and it seemed that you were meant to accomplish turning miracles into reality. You were shit out of luck a long time ago—already having lost one pilot.

You just hoped that the others still had some luck left to spare.

“Fuck,” you spit as your sunglasses fell on the floor.

You were barely able to handle the first parts of training and yet now they expected you to succeed in something everyone else deemed impossible. Hangman’s words rang in your head from inside of the room. Not even Maverick had experienced a mission this demanding, this grueling. Yet they wanted whomever they picked to come out of his perfectly fine and ready to keep going.

The parameters for the flight weren't even the hardest part. Hitting the target would be your main goal. You fought against the doubt that filled your mind as you tilted your head up, squinting at how bright it was outside.

You did your best to keep your demeanor calm given the circumstances. After all it was simply training today—nothing bad could go wrong. Yet why did you have a horrible feeling you were going to be eating your words later? Before you could grab your sunglasses off the floor, someone else did it for you. The black—now slightly scratched—aviators being pressed into your hands.

Bradley of all people stood in front of you, all ready and prepared to get into his F-18. He would be with you, Phoenix, Bob, Payback, and Fanboy on the first run of training. Four jets, two leaders. You could feel the anxiety rush through your veins at the very thought of it. Instead of giving into the panic, you chose to focus on Bradley with a glow of sunlight around him. It was unfair how beautiful he looked standing there doing absolutely nothing. Really it felt rather rude. But you shoved those thoughts away.

You needed to remain focused on the task at hand; not on your silly relationship problems.

“Thanks for last night,” you said, unnerved at the way he wouldn’t take off his sunglasses to meet your eyes. “You didn’t have to—”

His hands latched on your upper arms, pushing you slightly backwards until you were pressed against the side of his jet. His eyes were covered, but you recognized the stoic expression on his face. The same one he wore a few nights ago at the bar. Something was clearly bothering him and yet instead of talking about it—he pushed it away, focusing his irritations on you instead. You were right last night. This relationship—whatever it consisted of—was far from being healthy in any way shape or form.

So much so that it made your head spin.

“You need to back down from trying to be leader,” he said, causing all of the hope in your chest to crash down into your stomach.

“What?” Had you been remembering last night wrong? Was him helping you all a figment of your imagination?

“They’re going to pick soon and I need you to let me take it from here.”

A sour taste filled your mouth as you regarded him with a withering stare. “Are you being serious? Or are you just fucking with me?” Bradley had gone from loving to suddenly picking up that long forgotten fight you shared with him this time around. “Am I remembering last night wrong or are you suddenly back to being a dick?”

He made no move to back away from you—his face so close that if you leaned up just a tad you could kiss him. Or slap him. In all honesty the latter sounded like the most appealing action right at this moment. He was asking you to tank your career by backing off, by letting him take what you worked so hard to gain. Where the fuck was your Bradley? The man who held you last night until you slept comfortably beside him.

It was clear to you now that the person who stood before you wasn’t him.

“We both know who the better pilot is here.”

You shoved against him, trying to get him to back off, but he barely even shifted on his feet. “Fuck you. I’ve earned my place here and I’m not going to have you of all people trying to take a position that I’m clearly competent in. I have just as much claim on being leader as you do Bradshaw.”

It seemed his mind—his whole demeanor—had shifted into him being an asshole again; the Bradley you cared for now gone. Oh how you wished he’d simply give up this petty fight and allow you both to get on with your lives. He dropped his hands from your waist, giving you some room to cool off, but he was far from done. There was something he wasn’t telling you. Something that was clearly bugging him, and you couldn’t discern if it regarded you or not. You considered the possibility that he was just having an off day; that he woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

“Is there something going on with you and Floyd?”

Until he said that.

“What?” you laughed, unsure if you ever heard him correctly.

“Are you and Floyd starting something? Because I want to know I’m wasting my time here.”

You reared back, your mouth dropping open in disbelief. A white hot anger filled your veins, as the realization finally settled in your mind. He was jealous. Bradley was jealous of one fucking kiss on the cheek meant to be friendly. You hardly even knew Bob other than a small conversation here and there. How could he even consider it when last night he was in your bed? Yet again, rather than ask you about the situation calmly, he picked at the wounds that were still healing. He treated you like an enemy rather than a friend and you couldn’t stop the doubts from flooding into your mind.

Was this it? Was this all there would be between the two of you?

Precious moments of comfort that were found few and far between, and at the end of it all a raging anger that would still peek its head out more often than you expected. More often than it should. You wanted Bradley; wanted to be with him. But you weren’t sure how many times you could handle being treated this way. You couldn’t tell anymore if he even loved you, or if this was simply a relationship of convenience for him until he shipped off to his next mission.

Meanwhile you might never truly heal from the wounds he reopened.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You really believe that Bob and I…that we’re…what? Together? What the fuck Bradshaw?” You pressed a hand to your forehead—your heart twisting violently in your chest. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

“Doing what?’ he asked. He was clearly oblivious to the war of emotions battling it out inside your mind and for some reason that only made you angrier.

“Loving you!” His posture stiffened and you heard him inhale sharply at your admission of the truth—finally. “I don’t know if loving you is worth all of this back and forth Bradley. I’m so tired. I’m tired of pretending to hate you and hoping that you were pretending too. But clearly you’re not. Not if you think I would willingly choose to be with another man when you know how I feel about you.”

“Kitten—”

His words were no longer registered in your mind. “I’m sorry for leaving, but if I remember that night correctly only one of us actually said their feelings out loud. And it sure as shit wasn’t you.”

You caught the sight of Maverick heading your way, helmet in his hands and fell back into your professional ways. There was a mission to complete, a job to be done, and you couldn’t allow petulant emotions to get in your way. They would only hinder you in the end. Wiping your face clean of any expressions, you straightened your spine. Bradley’s mouth was still opening and closing—the words unable to get out. Except you knew the truth.

He wouldn’t have to force the words out if he truly meant them.

Nodding his way, you grabbed your helmet from where it fell to the floor. The black color now matched the emotions that flooded your body the longer Bradley stayed quiet. Maverick gestured for you to follow him and you felt like there was a ball in your throat that wouldn’t go away. Your heart sank even more the longer you stood there watching Bradley process your words, but you had done your part. You told him the truth. There was nothing more for you to give him.

“I’ll see you up there Rooster,” you said for the first time in years. The name felt odd on your tongue.

He flinched as if you’d slapped him across the face and you wanted to feel sorry about it. Only you couldn’t.

Not anymore.

“You are a go,” Maverick’s voice echoed in your ear as the jet flew through the air.

Phoenix and Bob were right behind you, Rooster having taken the front for Payback and Fanboy. After climbing into your jet and only acknowledging him through his callsign, you simply allowed yourself to become numb to your emotions one last time. Today would be routine, just like every day. You would flip the switches, bring the jet into the air and follow the directions Maverick laid out, because that’s the only way you would survive finally cutting Bradley Bradshaw off.

For good.

You couldn’t go on like this. Being wracked with guilt for leaving him all those years ago, only to suffer the brutal consequences in the end by his hand. Love wasn’t supposed to be this painful. Here you thought he’d forget your existence, move on and get married, but instead you were left with a man who didn’t seem to know what he wanted. Let alone if what he wanted was you.

“You with me Phoenix?” you asked through the radio, pushing the control stick forward to remain close behind Payback and Fanboy.

“I’m with you Panther.”

Bob’s voice followed after hers, telling you exactly how far out the target was and like you were on autopilot you responded with the reminders to check his lasers. If you missed the first round, you’d have to try again. Until eventually you got it right every time, but your gut instinct told you something wasn’t exactly right. You were stupid enough to shove it away—having told yourself that this was just training. You could make mistakes in training and try again to right your wrongs.

“We’re coming up on the target. Stay sharp for the second missile,” Bradley’s voice felt jarring at this time, but like everything else…you shoved it down.

“Copy that Rooster.”

You fucking hated using his callsign. The feeling as if you were just anybody else on the team had turned your body cold, but as of right now…you were just that. It was clear to both of you that whatever happened before wasn’t meant to be brought up here. Not when things were life and death. Except you couldn’t help but notice the edge to his voice as he let you know the first missile had been fired. You played it off as your mind overthinking again; changing the manner of his tone to fit your heartbroken demeanor.

“Coming up on the target,” Bob said. “Laser is all good.”

“Phoenix?”

“After you Panther,” she replied. You could hear the smirk in her voice, letting you know that it was now your turn to show them who was leader and who wasn’t.

Flipping a switch, you took a deep breath before pushing the control stick forward, flipping the jet as Maverick had explained and coming into a dive. Evening out the jet, you heard Bob line up the shot through the radio and without a second of hesitation you took the chance the second he said go. Now came the hard part. You heard Maverick’s voice in your head, explaining that the pilot would be pushing Mach 9 in order to get out of Coffin’s Corner.

“Fuck,” you spit, feeling the pressure on your body become excruciating.

Breathing was painful, turning your head was painful, fuck even surviving this felt as if you were being torn limb from limb. The gravity pulled against you as the jet took off even higher—Phoenix right behind you. All you needed was to push on just a bit further, but that gut feeling from earlier reared its ugly head. A beeping started to echo in the small cockpit, a red light flickering above you, and a cold chill went down your spine as flashbacks started to return in full force.

“Smoke in the air! Smoke in the air!”

Hunter’s voice practically screamed in your ear, the beeping only getting louder the more you continued to push the jet to its limits. You could see his face, see the image of him lying dead on the ground, and suddenly…getting air to your lungs wasn’t your biggest problem. Phoenix’s voice shouted through the radio, trying to shake you out of your nightmare, but nothing worked.

The jet was dropping altitude too quickly. Yanking on the stick, you tried to even it out, but another red light flashed in front of you, altering you to the right engine dying.

“Fuck!” you shouted, pressing the switch to extinguish it in the hopes that would be enough to get you back on the runway.

“Panther what’s going on?” Maverick called, his jet not far behind.

“The right engines out!” You’d been trained for situations like this and without another thought you began to even out the jet, gaining altitude as you shook your head to rid yourself of the flashbacks.

You’d managed to even out, the sight of the runway coming up in the distance, but another sound began quickly after the first. The echo of your left engine now going out—leaving you dead in the air. You panicked. Hunter’s face was all you could see and for a moment you felt your lips form around the letters of his name. Perhaps he was there with you. Finally ready to take you with him after all these years going it alone. The prospect of crashing didn’t scare you as much as it should.

No, what scared you was that…you weren’t afraid to die at all.

“Panther bail out! I need you to eject!” You barely heard Mav’s voice.

“I can’t outrun them. I’m going to get a bit lower, enough for you to eject.”

“I’m not leaving you here to die.”

“Eject Panther! Eject!” Maverick was practically screaming at you now, but your head had gone hazy—the force of hitting Mach 9 causing you to fade in and out.

“Either you eject now or we both die!”

Gasping, you flipped another switch, trying to slow down the jet, but you couldn’t see straight—your heart beating rapidly in your chest. You heard Phoenix yell at you through the radio, her voice trying to bring you back and you wanted to scream that you were trying. That you could see the hill coming even closer, yet you were unable to reach down and pull the chord beneath you.

Why couldn’t you move?

“I—” you gasped, trying to get air into your lungs. “I can’t.”

The radio crackled, another voice coming in clearer than the others. “Panther I need you to eject!” Bradley’s jet was diving down towards yours, his panicked voice causing your heart to twist.

“Roo—” you mumbled.

His jet was right beside yours, the dive he was in breaking the rule of the hard deck. “Do it now Panther! Please!” You could vaguely make out the terror in his plea. “You can do this. Just breathe.”

Fumbling, you felt the roughness of the rope scratch against your hands and you inhaled, shutting your eyes tightly as Hunter’s face showed up vividly behind your eyelids. Yanking it with all the strength you had, you felt the gust of wind hit you harshly in the face—the echo of your chute opening a few moments later. You could hear the distant crash of your jet, the explosion nearly rocking the ground below, but your vision was fading with every passing second.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, tilting your head to the side, the sunlight blinding you. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

You hit the ground hard, your knees taking the brunt of the fall and on instinct you unlatched yourself from your chute. Leaving your body to collapse—the breath leaving your lungs. The exhaustion refused to leave your body even though you fought against it. Pulling that many Gs left you in a state of disorientation. One that you couldn’t get out of.

The air was stale from the heat of the day. The sun still beat down as you lay there, sweating the longer you drifted in and out of consciousness. You fought to stay awake, but your mind seemed to have other plans entirely. It had decided to be cruel today—forcing you to relive things you wished to forget at a time like this.

“I know I say it every time we fly,” Hunter said, glancing up at the sky like he’d find his solace in the clouds. More often than not every pilot preferred to be up there rather than on the ground.

Up there…heartbreak, grief, pain it all disappeared. Probably why so many refused to retire; why they remained until they were forced out or lost in the heat of battle. You knew which path you were on long ago—the futile choice already made for you.

He turned his eyes to you, a sorrow in them that you recognized after knowing him for so long. “If we don’t make it back, Panther. If I don’t…” He blinked, wiping away his pain and slapping an all too false smile on his lips. “Tell my girl I was flying back to her.”

It was an omission of truth, a terrifying thought no pilot wanted to consider, but you did it anyway. Returning his smile you clapped him on the back lightly. You didn’t know then that you’d be delivering his message after all these years. That he’d leave his final words with you, but there it was…the reality of being an airman. One day your heaven became your ultimate hell and nothing would ever be able to change that.

You were jolted awake by the sounds of a chopper landing near you, someone running out and grabbing you quickly in order to get you on board and back. Pain erupted in your side, searing down your leg as they shifted you, but you had no energy to cry out. Everything shifted as the chopper took off; someone reached down to gently pull your helmet off as they attempted to check your pulse. You wanted to say you would be fine. All you needed was a moment, but even this was too extreme for your body to handle.

Before you could open your eyes, you were pulled under again.

The bar doors swung open as you sat there finishing the bottle of whiskey you and Phoenix were meant to drink together. She’d taken off in a hurry after learning what choice you made, but at least she promised things were okay between you two. You just wished you could tell her the truth—why you were so adamant on running in the first place. But you didn’t even know what the truth was. You were just a hopeful idiot, waiting for life to hand you love on a silver platter rather than fighting for it yourself.

“I thought I’d find you here kitten,” Bradley’s voice bounced off the empty bar walls as he took the stool beside you.

“You told me to come here.” You didn’t want to say it, but he looked almost…bashful. “Why…did you ask me here, Bradshaw?”

He poured himself a glass, taking a deep breath as he drank before meeting your eyes for the first time that night. “I know we’ve graduated and you and I have done nothing but try and kill each other, but…”

“But?” Fuck, you hoped what you thought he was going to say next actually came out of his mouth.

“I want to be with you,” he blurted out. His face turned red when he caught you staring at him with your eyes wide. “I…I care about you kitten. Fuck I don’t know if it’s love or if it’s just some crush, but…I know I want you.”

Your throat felt dry as you tried to swallow, his words sinking into your mind. “You…”

“Yes,” he replied.

“And what if…” You could barely get the fucking words out. “What if this—” You gestured between the both of you, your hands shaking slightly. “Is just an itch that needs to be scratched to get me out of your mind?”

“It’s not.”

You couldn’t stand the way he was watching you with so much calm in his expression; as if he was so sure about what the two of you shared. “How do you know?”

He leaned forward, lips twitching as he heard your breath catch in your throat at his close proximity. “Because you’ve been in my mind since day one, kitten. Believe me when I say nothing could get you out of it. Nothing would make me want you to leave it.”

“She’s fighting being unconscious,” someone said over the loud echo of the helicopter blade. “Her body’s gone into shock.”

They moved you again swiftly and you could barely make out the sunlight through your shut eyes. Vaguely in the back of your mind you knew where they were taking you. The hospital no doubt. You’d taken a hard hit on the way down—your body unable to handle the sustained G’s in the training. The gurney was stopped suddenly, jolting you again and bringing back the pain in your side. You nearly cried out, but not even your voice would work.

Footsteps pounded against the asphalt, your name echoing in the distance; the paramedics stopped them halfway to you and you tried to raise your head to see them. Why was it so fucking hard? Why…were you still drifting in between being conscious and unconscious?

“I need to see if she’s alright.”

Bradley.

“Lieutenant, I need you to wait with the others. She’s going to be taken to the hospital—”

“I just need to see if she’s okay!” he shouted, the scuffle of his feet echoing on the ground.

“Lieutenant Bradshaw I can’t let you—”

“Let him through.” Maverick. Your brain registered they were there and for the first time, you managed to slowly open your eyes—able to make out the shape of Bradley rushing towards you.

He looked so blurry as he stood there, his hand dropping to your cheek before cupping the back of your neck when he leaned over to get close. This is what you longed for. This is what kept you afloat when everything else was falling apart around you. Hunter’s face, the memories, they all retreated to the back of your mind as a new image took form. A bright eyed pilot who had stolen what was left of your already shattered heart—his crooked smile enough to send your entire being into overdrive.

“Kitten, can you hear me?” he asked softly, tilting your head. “Fuck.” Something wet fell on your chin. “Fuck I’m so sorry.”

“We have to take her.”

His grip got tighter, the broken tone of his voice nearly breaking your heart again as your eyes fluttered slightly—the ability to move returning. “Is she going to be okay?”

You could easily tell them that it was just a panic attack. You were used to them popping up at random times, but you were so tired and Bradley’s skin felt warm pressed against yours. Vaguely you felt them move you, his warmth leaving you for the cold bitterness of the outside world. Except by the time you could open your mouth, attempt to reach for him, they were already slamming the doors shut on the ambulance.

“Bradley,” you faintly breathed, the paramedics shifting around you to continue and attempt to check if you were comfortable where you were.

Yet you couldn’t tell them that your only source of comfort had been left behind. Bradley’s face flashed in your mind again, his voice whispering in your ears as you were finally sucked under into the darkness one last time. The panic, the pain, all of it…finally gone.

#bradley bradshaw x fem!reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw x y/n #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster x you #top gun maverick #my writing

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 5 days

Text

Emotional Distance

Ngl I feel like a lot of people sleep on the angst potential of Remus being the one to distance from Roman. Roman's discomfort from Janus saying "You know I love you"? His initial distrust of Virgil and trying to keep distance plus the jabs? His desire to not be like his brother? His people pleasing? All of it could be fed into based on that concept alone. It can be taken in so many hard angst or hurt/comfort directions. – ax3-e0ns

Read on Ao3

Warnings: roman has pretty severe abandonment issues

Pairings: none

Word Count: 3783

Once upon a time, in an Imagination far away, there lived Creativity. Creativity spent his days making anything he wanted. He made skies of sapphires and great stone castles. He made forests of magical trees and filled them with wonderful creatures. He filled the sky with diamonds and made stories that anyone could get lost in, because the happy endings would find them and everything would be right again. But stories do not stay the same, we do not always get our happy endings. And when Creativity rips itself apart, it seems as though there might never be a happy ending ever again. But Remus is back. And now Roman has to deal with seeing his brother after they've been Split.

Virgil didn’t think too much of it. Princey was going to be a jerk to him because he presented obstacles to Princey having everything he ever dreamed of—or what Thomas ever dreamed of. But that was his job, so he didn’t care. If pressed, he might actually admit he enjoyed the verbal sparring. Princey was fun to mess with and remind that he wasn’t actually the perfect prince he claimed to be. C’mon, the flaws in perfection are fun to mess with. And if Roman blew himself up and got all blustery and rude, well, that was just incentive to keep going.

Yeah, sure, some of Princey’s insults hurt more than others, but that was a risk that came with the job. They were making a habit of it, throwing sharp words back and forth, some of them were bound to hit eventually. Besides, Virgil always gave as good as he got and it wasn’t like the others would let Roman get away with it. He may or may not have been keeping a tally of how many times they made Roman apologize for something he said. And it wasn’t like Roman only aimed for the soft spots. He knew better.

So yeah, it wasn’t surprising to Virgil that Roman tried to keep him at a distance. That’s what they were supposed to do, wasn’t it?

Patton gets it. He’s a lot! He can be overwhelming and enthusiastic and sometimes that’s not what people want. He’s all about making sure people are happy and if that means they need to take a break sometimes, that’s what they should do!

He’s just happy that Roman lets him know.

The two of them get along really well most of the time: they have their own inside jokes and they go on adventures in the Imagination together and they watch funny cat videos and they talk about the stories they want to read, it’s the best. They have great fun just messing around doing absolutely ridiculous arts and crafts projects that normally end up with both of them covered in glitter and their new things proudly displayed on the wall in Patton’s room. He always asks Roman if he wants them in his room instead, but Roman always says no.

“All my walls are covered with my stuff, I want you to have the stuff we made,” he says, “unless you really don’t want it…?”

But Patton always does, so he puts it up and Roman grins when he comes over and sees it.

But sometimes they need slow days. So they bake or just watch something and sometimes even that’s a bit too much. So Patton doesn’t mind when Roman says he’s too worn out to do something that afternoon after they went into the Imagination the day before and made cookies all afternoon the day before that. It’s the right thing to do, really, to help support Roman. After all, Roman’s always so good with making sure he feels better and gets him all cheered up, it’s the lease he can do to leave Roman be when he asks for it, right?

So no, Patton doesn’t think about it too much. Roman likes to be left alone sometimes, and that’s okay.

Janus understands, he does, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Roman was easy to manipulate. Roman always has been easy to manipulate. When Roman discovered just how much he’d been manipulated, it made sense that he would react…strongly. Insults, yes, pushing him to the outskirts of the conversations, yes, banishing himself away when Janus came around, yes, yes, all of that. And Janus would weather it with minimal complaint because it was fair. Completely justified? No, not really, but understandable.

He would be happier about it if it weren’t so obviously hurting Roman too.

Creativity is not something to be neglected. It needs an outlet, somewhere to express itself, somewhere it can be appreciated, even if it’s only internally. And Roman has more than his fair share of personal projects, things he never lets Thomas see, but he doesn’t let them see it either. And it seems like he goes out of his way to keep it like that.

Every time Patton asks him what he’s been up to: vague answer. Any time Logan asks him for a brain storm: only Thomas’s ideas. Even when Virgil lobs a painful softball about him being lazy or unproductive: volley back about Virgil being an expert or he just shoulders it without a response. And Janus can hear the lie of omission buzzing around Roman’s head but he can’t do a damn thing about it.

It’s not like Roman would ever open up to him. Not when it’s like pulling teeth to even get him to acknowledge that he’s upset about something more than just…surface level things.

So yes, Janus understands. He just hates that he does.

Logan does not understand what is going on and he intends to get to the bottom of it.

Roman is isolating himself and intentionally keeping them all at a distance. There have been no long-lasting arguments that would result in such behavior, and any smaller disagreements have been settled to the best of everyone’s respective ability. He would not be amiss to ascribe a level of immaturity to Roman, but that seems an unlikely cause given Roman’s levelheadedness—and he did not ever think he would be attributing that characteristic to Roman—in other circumstances. So that means either it is something that Roman is not telling the rest of them about, or it is something else entirely.

He goes to Roman’s door after he opts out of movie night and knocks politely on the door. Roman comes to answer it in a plain T-shirt and shorts.

“Yes?”

“May I come in, please?”

Roman shifts but does not allow Logan entrance. “What did you need, Logan?”

Logan frowns. “You’ve been isolating yourself from us, why?”

Roman blinks, momentary surprise flickering over his features before it settles on a familiar half-smile. “Thought you’d be happy to not have to deal with me for a while, Specs. You miss me that much?”

“It’s not about whether I miss you, this pattern of behavior is alarming.”

“Are the others worried?”

“I would imagine they would be if they knew the extent to which you were—“

“So you didn’t ask them?”

“What?”

Roman sighs, running his hand through his hair. “Look, Logan, I’m not…’self-isolating,’ or whatever you want to call it. I’m just tired tonight and I don’t feel up to watching a movie with the rest of you. I’ll try and make it next week, okay?”

“That’s not—“ he catches the door when Roman tries to close it— “it’s more than just movie nights. You don’t talk to us about things that are bothering you, really bothering you, and you keep trying to brush us off when we ask about you or your projects.”

”Never thought you’d be the one anxious to hear about my work, especially when it falls outside of that 0.5%.”

“See? Like that.”

Roman shakes his head. “You should go back downstairs, Logan, they’re probably going to start the movie without you at this rate.”

“Now you’re not even trying to be subtle about it. You should—“

“Logan.”

The firmness of Roman’s voice startles him into silence. Roman gives him a look and gently yet firmly moves Logan’s hand off the door.

“I’d like to be left alone now,” he continues, jerking his head toward the stairs, “enjoy the movie.”

The door closes with a decisive click. Logan stares at it for a long moment before hanging his head and walking back downstairs.

”No luck?”

“No. He shut the door on me when I tried to push.”

Patton toys with the ears on his cat onesie. Virgil sinks a little more into his hoodie. Janus sighs.

“I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Me neither.”

”I don’t know what else to do,” Logan says quietly as he takes a seat, “I don’t understand.”

“None of us do.”

Then Remus appears.

He sends Thomas on a horror show roller coaster with a sinister music number and knocks Roman unconscious for nearly half an hour. For Janus and Virgil, it’s something they’d seen coming for a long time, for Patton and Logan, less so. Remus cackles and throws them all off guard every chance he gets, delighting in the mayhem he causes and everyone is left scrambling to pick up the pieces.

Everyone that is, except Roman.

The first time Roman sees Remus, he stops. Fully stops, staring at him, as Remus grins and keeps doing…whatever he’s doing with the inflatable dolphin. Eventually, he looks up and spots Roman and his grin widens.

“Ro-bro! Wanna help me out? I could really use a hand with the extra bamboo skewers.”

Patton quickly ducks behind Logan. Janus just sighs and Virgil mutters here we go.

Roman looks at him for a long pause.

“Remus,” he says eventually in a completely even voice, “you’re back.”

“Back and bloodier than ever!” A squib explodes on his chest as he spreads his arms. “Did you miss me?”

Something moves across Roman’s face too quick to name. He looks at the dolphin and then back at Remus. “Welcome back, I guess. Good luck with the skewers.”

And he turns and walks up the stairs.

They’ve never really described Roman as…cold before. And yet that’s exactly what it is. It’s not like with Logan, where he takes Remus’s creations apart with cold logic, or even that he ignores Remus altogether. No, it’s just…the briefest of acknowledgements, the weakest of yes-ands, the polite yet insistent removal of himself from whatever context Remus might be in.

It’s not what they expect from Roman. It’s exactly what they expect from Roman.

”He’s getting worse,” Patton mumbles when yet again Roman declines their invitation to dinner, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Is he still eating?” Virgil pushes his food around his plate. “I don’t see him eat anymore.”

”He’s eating, his box of snacks is still being emptied.”

“You check?”

“Of course I check, what do you take me for,” Janus scoffs, “an amateur?”

“We’re missing something.” Logan adjusts his glasses. “There’s something we haven’t taken into consideration.”

“Me.”

They all turn and look at Remus, eating his food on top of the fridge. Despite his comically contorted position, he looks oddly serious.

“I’m sure it’s not that,” Patton tries, “Roman missed you, he said so.”

“Yeah, he might’ve missed me, but it’s not like that makes up for anything.”

Logan frowns. “What do you mean, Remus?”

Remus sighs, setting his plate aside and getting down from the fridge, still strangely stoic. “I mean what happened when we were younger.”

“…what happened?”

+1.

But as time went on, and the people got older, some of his ideas started to…change. Now he thought of deep caves filled with monsters, monsters that would kidnap people. The heroes would still rescue them, because they had to, but now they left with scars that didn’t heal quite right and memories that hurt to think about.

Creativity didn’t understand. He wanted to have fun with his work again, just make things that people would like—but what about what he thought of? Weren’t the dark ideas fun in their own way too?

No, because they hurt people—

—but those people aren’t real, so what does it matter?

Why did he want to hurt people?

Why did he hate the part of himself that kept coming up with these ideas?

He didn’t hate himself, he just wanted to be better—

—well, if he wanted to be better so badly, maybe it’d be better if he didn’t have these kinds of thoughts anymore.

Yes, that was it, he just wouldn’t have though thoughts—wait—wait, no, no, no!

Creativity Split and the Imagination howled in pain, a deep chasm forming between two sides: on one side stood the castle, the castle he had loved for years and years, and on the other rose a massive thing of oily black stone, a tower that stuck out like a sword hilt impaled in the earth. The forest grew black and twisted, monstrosities lurking around rickety hanging bridges. Creativity was no longer unified, no longer was control over the Imagination absolute.

The people of the Imagination found half of Creativity weeping on the floor of the castle, a bright sash of red the closest thing to blood it could manage. His tears ran gold over the white of his shirt, a new costume forming before their very eyes. He looked younger, stronger, more like the Prince they all expected him to be, except for his eyes.

A drawbridge shut that day for half of Creativity, and they never again saw it open.

Roman sighs as he opens his door and heads down the hall. Janus had been pestering him about a rematch for weeks and he’d just managed to get him to agree to a time. He picks up the well-worn deck of cards and starts down the stairs.

“I hope you’re ready,” he calls as he goes, “because I won’t be going easy on you this…time.”

He stops halfway down.

Janus is not the one sitting waiting in the living room. Instead, Remus looks up at him. His hands are folded in between his legs and he actually looks somber.

”Huh.” Roman glances at the cards and put them in his pocket. “So that’s what this was?”

“Yeah.”

“Janus doesn’t actually want that rematch, does he?”

“No, he does. I had to bribe him with a heat lamp with an extra long battery life to get him to help.”

“Mm. Is he in his room?”

“Yeah, I think so—wait,” he says quickly, standing up when Roman turns to go, “can we…talk?”

“You want to talk?”

“Yes, Ro, I want to talk.” Roman stops and just waits. “Can you—just come all the way down, for Beezlebub’s sake.”

Roman walks down the stairs and stands at the end, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed. Remus looks for a minute like he wants to protest before he sighs and walks over.

”I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

“Did you?” Remus scoffs. “Because it seems like you want nothing to do with me.”

“I do miss you. I’m glad you’re back. It’s been hard without you.” Remus frowns. Roman inclines his head in the direction of the Imagination. “You know some of them still ask what happened?”

“You didn’t tell them?”

“I told them you wanted to follow your own path without me getting in the way.”

Remus suppresses a growl. “What else did you tell them?”

“To be careful going over the bridges if they went to go see you. I didn’t make you out to be the bad guy, Remus, I didn’t forbid any of them from seeing you. I never put up walls or a big sign that says don’t come back, or anything.”

“I know you didn’t.” Roman just nods and doesn’t say anything. Remus growls again and lightly shoves his shoulders. “Where are you? What’re you doing, aren’t you mad at me? Say something!”

“I mean, I’m not thrilled that you left without helping me fix that outer wall—“

“Then let’s go do it!”

Before Roman can say anything, Remus grabs his shoulder and sinks them into the Imagination. He shakes his head to get his bearings—it’s so much harder to sink right in as opposed to going through one of their doors—and sees Remus already hefting a giant block of stone.

“Well? Come on, we can do it together.”

Roman goes over and helps Remus lift the stone block into place. One by one, they repair the wall. Remus keeps trying to get him to talk. He doesn’t. They put the last one in and Remus stands back, panting with a beaming smile.

“There, how’s that?”

“Looks good. Thank you.”

Remus’s smile drops. “That’s it?”

“I mean, it’s not like we can extra fix the wall—“ he’s cut off when Remus shoves his shoulder. Hard.

“Stop it,” he snarls, stalking forward and shoving him again, “whatever you’re doing, whatever punishment this is supposed to be for me, it’s working, alright? You’ve made your point, you’ve punished me, I’m sorry, now stop it!”

“Stop what?”

”This!” Remus shoves him again. “This thing where you’re being all cold and stoic and emotionless and letting me shove you around!”

He does it with two hands this time, enough to make Roman stumble. Roman dodges out of the way of the next one and it just makes Remus angrier.

“I didn’t come back for this—this version of you, I want my brother back!”

“This is your brother!”

Roman grabs him and pins him against a different part of the crumbling wall. He’s panting now, not quite glaring at Remus, who must’ve gotten the wind knocked out of him. He takes a deep breath and lets it out as calmly as he can.

”You left,” he says, deliberately slowly, “you tore us apart because that’s what you wanted. You wanted out, you wanted to be away from me. Do you have any idea what that did to the rest of Creativity?”

Remus’s lower lip wobbles as he shakes his head.

“Creativity got sorted into you and what wasn’t you. It hurt, Remus. You have no idea how much it hurt.” He tightens his grip until his nails dig into Remus’s arms. “Because you ripped free but you were going somewhere. You…you left me there.”

“I didn’t know,” Remus manages, “I…I didn’t know.”

Roman scoffs before he can stop himself. “Of course you didn’t. How could you? You weren’t here.”

He lets go and pushes himself away, turning and walking a few paces. Behind him, he can hear Remus pulling himself together.

“But I’m back now,” he hears, and his fists clench, “I’m back, Ro. We can—ah!”

He reels back, covering his bloody nose with a hand. He looks up, panting.

“Okay, I deserve that.”

Roman punches him again.

“That too.”

He draws his leg back and aims right between—

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, not that, not that, maybe not that.”

Roman stops, breathing slightly heavier. Remus looks up at him, blood gushing from his nose. He turns his back again, taking a deep breath. The crumbling tower looms over them, its fractured shadow etching black lines into the ground. The grass rustles as Remus takes another step closer. Roman raises his chin.

“You left and it hurt me,” he says, trying to keep his voice even, “it still hurts. I won’t go through something like that again, Remus.”

“Is that why you won’t get close to the others?”

“I know better now.”

For a brief second, something wells up in his chest, strong enough to take his breath away and threaten tears at the corners of his eyes. He chokes it back and shoves it under his tongue.

“I think you should go now,” he says, choking a little, “thank you for fixing the wall.”

He only has the briefest of moments before he hears two quick steps and something throws itself at his back.

Warm warm warm solid real Remus safe brother hug hold keep stay Remus no don’t warm cold so cold so cold it hurts it hurts please stop oh god don’t let go—

“Go,” he chokes out, the force of the hug and the emotions running through him breaking his voice, “Remus, go, go, just leave, you need to leave, I can’t do this again, just go, just go—“

Remus doesn’t let go. He digs his heels in and locks his arms around Roman’s waist. He tucks his head against the space between Roman’s shoulder blades and holds on, even as Roman starts to pull and push at his arms.

“No, no, no, Remus, no,” he manages, sobs beginning to steal his voice too, “let go, let me go, you have to go, you have to leave, you have to…you have to, I can’t do this again, you can’t do this to me again, I can’t, I can’t—“

His knees buckle, sending him to the ground. Remus is on him the second he lands, wrapping his legs around him too like a koala, just clinging onto him for dear life. Roman tries to get away, tries to pry him off, tries to crawl, but the warmth and solid arms around him keep making his limbs turn to jelly. HE can’t catch his breath, not with the way Remus’s mustache keeps scratching against his ear because that’s his brother, his brother is back, his brother is hugging him, his brother won’t let him go, he won’t leave, he won’t leave again—

“I’m here,” Remus whispers as Roman starts to sob desperately, “I’m right here, Roro, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m here now, I’m not leaving, I won’t leave, I promise.”

Roman thrashes, wiggling in Remus’s hold. “Let me—wanna hold you—let me—le’ me turn ‘round—“

Remus lets up just enough for Roman to turn and get his arms round his neck, clinging to him life a raft in a storm and sobbing to his shoulder. He hunches protectively over his brother and presses his cheek hard to the crown of Roman’s head.

“I’m here now,” he murmurs over and over, “I’m here, I’m not leaving, I’m here, I’m here.”

Gold tears mix with silver tears. Blood drips onto red and green sashes. White meets black in a fierce embrace as the setting sun turns the green grass red, red, red. The brothers stay there, wrapped around each other, as the Imagination shudders once more.

The tower stands, crumbling it may be, but it stands.

Happy endings will find them and everything will be alright again.

General Taglist: @frxgprince@potereregina@gattonero17@iamhereforthegayshit@thefingergunsgirl@awkwardandanxiousfander@creative-lampd-liberties@djpurple3@winterswrandomness@sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes@iminyourfandom@bullet-tothefeels@full-of-roman-angst-trash @ask-elsalvador @ramdomthingsfrommymind@demoniccheese83@pattonsandershugs @el-does-photography @princeanxious@firefinch-ember@fandomssaremysoul@im-an-anxious-wreck@crazy-multifandomfangirl @punk-academian-witch@enby-ralsei@unicornssunflowersandstuff@wildhorsewolf @thetruthaboutthesun @stubbornness-and-spite @princedarkandstormv @your-local-fookin-deadmeme @angels-and-dreams@averykedavra @a-ghostlight-for-roman @treasurechestininterweb @cricketanne @queerly-fluid-fan @compactdiscdraws@cecil-but-gayer@i-am-overly-complicated@annytheseal@alias290@tranquil-space-ninja @arxticandy @mychemically-imbalanced-romance@whyiask@crows-ace @emilythezeldafan@frida0043 @ieatspinalcords @snowyfires@cyanide-violence@oonagh2@xxpanic-at-the-everywherexx@rabbitsartcorner @percy-07734@triflingassailantofmyemotions @virgil-sanders-the-gay-emo@cerulean-watermelon@puffed-up-bees@meltheromanstan@joyrose-fandomer@insanitori@mavenmush@justablah65@10paradox10@uhhh-hi-there-i-am-nervous@cutebisexualmess@bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti@ultrageekygirl

#dragonbabbles #roman sanders #roman angst #roman sanders angst #remus sanders #sympathetic remus #janus sanders #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #logan sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #fic

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