#having to be perfectly behaved and pleasant and kind and reasonable | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

formerly-wraith-caller · 5 months

Text

Rogier is a character that we meet early on in game, and probably one many of us think on fondly as he is perhaps the first NPC to help us out with one of our toughest battles. His pleasant and friendly demeanor left many players with the impression of a cheerful ray of sunshine in an otherwise melancholic, dreary, duplicitous, or outright hostile cast of characters.

This post seeks to disabuse you of that notion. "Wraith, you dumb bitch," I hear the doubters and the critics say, "not everything needs to be miserable and secretly tragic." And to you I say, welcome to FromSoftware, where yes, everyone dies and it hurts the whole time they're doing it.

🚨Spoilers Ahead🚨

I. A quick recap

The first place you can encounter Rogier is at a summons sign just outside Margit's boss fight. From there, you will meet him again in Stormveil at a church where he is one of a few NPCs that can't be killed. There is cut dialog of him reacting to a player attack, but in game, he's untouchable for some reason. I can only guess at why - perhaps since he is part of two different major storylines, the devs wanted you to be sure to hear what he has to say. After this meeting, you'll see him again at the Roundtable Hold. If you interact with him, he'll urge you to seek out Ranni, he'll tell you a bit about himself and why he's seeking her cursemark, a bit about D, and expound on some history of the Lands Between's most fateful night. Additionally, interacting with a specific bloodstain near the corpse will show you Rogier being deathblighted. Soon after entering Ranni's service, he will die.

II. Detachment and its implications Throughout his questline, Rogier maintains a mostly approachable demeanor. I say mostly, because the initial meeting is a little more standoffish and cautious, which is to be expected when infiltrating the castle of a Tarnished-butchering madman. In fact, Rogier takes a pretty sarcastic tone with us when he says

This place is bristling with Tarnished hunters, you know. They sacrifice our kind, for grafting. Not exactly a place I'd stroll into without a purpose in mind...

and a bit pessimistic/negative when he says

You can see it then, I take it? The guidance of grace. Well, enjoy it while you can.

This is primarily relevant as a counter to the assumption that he is a perfectly cheerful and perpetually friendly guy. Now, all this is not to say Rogier isn't friendly. He is, very much so. But I am of the mind that this isn’t due to any genuine, innate warmth. I do think Rogier is kind-hearted and compassionate, that he does want for friendship, that he is not secretly scheming against us. Instead I think that he is something of a people-pleaser, a liar, a bit of a manipulator, and that this is not done maliciously but as a sort of trauma response to his past.

"Dear god wraith," I hear you say, "not everyone is secretly traumatized." And I agree! But Rogier almost certainly is, and here's why. From his set:

Rogier spent his entire life behaving with utter detachment. No one noticed the anger, grief, regret, or fear that existed along with it.

Get very familiar with that description, because it's gonna be doing a lot of the heavy lifting in this post. So let's figure this out first: what is detachment and what does that have to do with trauma?

Emotional detachment refers to being disconnected or disengaged from the feelings of other people.

This can involve an inability or an unwillingness to get involved in the emotional lives of other people.

Emotional detachment can sometimes occur as a coping mechanism when people are faced with stressful or difficult situations. In other cases, it can be a symptom of a mental health condition.

Some things which may cause emotional detachment are abuse, neglect, trauma, mental illness, or certain medications. We can probably scratch out that last one, but the rest are all potential explanations. Given that Rogier's set specifies he has lived with this detachment “his entire life", I am inclined to believe that whatever adverse situation he was faced with, it began/occurred in childhood. It could have been abusive/neglectful parenting, some sort of violent/traumatic event he witnessed or was involved in as a kid, or the death of a close loved one such as a sibling or parent. Whatever it was, it was something formative that shaped who he is. How does this "utter detachment" manifest in Rogier's behavior throughout the game? After all, he seems perfectly friendly, and stays upbeat even as he's inching his way towards death! But that's just further evidence of his issues. At no point does he express any of this “anger, grief, regret, or fear” mentioned in his set, even as he’s dying in front of us. If anything, he brushes it off. You'd think someone who is slowly watching their body succumb to what the game itself refers to as a “gruesome fate” would have a bit of a stronger reaction. But no, in fact, he apologizes to us, a person he barely knows, about not being able to stand to greet us, saying:

I apologize for any offence given by my bearing, but I'm quite unable to move, you see. So. What do you need?

There’s also cut content which seems to be part of an encounter at Godwyn’s corpse wherein we meet a freshly injured Rogier. And here he has the same apologetic behavior in spite of his injuries, saying:

Well, this is a bit embarrassing, but things did not go quite as expected.

Not only does he give this astounding underreaction to having been impaled and blighted by deathroot, he doesn’t ask for any help, and is sooner moved to shame than terror over his deadly predicament. He deflects immediately to talk of his research, and informs us of how he’ll be returning to the Roundtable Hold. This is where we begin to see not just his lack of an emotional response to his own problems, but also a degree of people-pleasing behavior. It isn't enough for him to apologize for this imagined offense he's committed, he quickly turns the conversation away from himself. He doesn't doesn't seek out help, or even a little companionship in spite of the absolute horror he's been afflicted with. No, he instead asks after our needs, and continues to offer us lessons in sorcery and history.

The lack of reaction to whatever miseries befall him is seen throughout the rest of our interactions with him. The closest he gets to lamenting his fate is to warn us of Godwyn's corpse:

And...that thing is to blame for the shape I'm in now... I urge the utmost caution. Don't disturb the corpse more than necessary...

And that’s not what he starts off with when we ask him about the corpse, which you would think someone would do when having been injected with death by it. No, he delves into a history lecture instead, once again redirecting from the personal/emotional to the abstract/intellectual. His dialog is almost entirely comprised of his scholarly endeavors, which he has no issues discussing with us. We learn precious, precious little about Rogier himself, but those little bits which slip through paint a less than happy picture.

Take for instance the line, “I once wished to become a scholar.” He mentions spending hours in the archives doing research. What makes him think he isn’t one already? What made him give up on that goal, or stood between him and achieving it when he has shown such tenacity in the pursuit of answers? Remember the cut dialog mentioned in the recap, which would have played if he were slain by the Tarnished? He says on his death:

This is unfortunate. Couldn’t change a thing…

A bit of a reserved response to being murdered if you ask me! Instead of threats or rage, he laments his own inability to change anything, betraying a sense of dissatisfaction with himself. Then of course there is his split with D, who refers to him as “piteous”, and Fia’s mentioning of Rogier weeping when in bed with her. I wish I could say more on this, but essentially everything else Rogier says is about his research, not himself.

These things come together to form a picture of a person who may think very little of themselves. I’d even go so far as to call it self-loathing. We have the anger, grief, regret, and fear mentioned by his set, his disinterest in his own emotional state, his readiness to be of service to others, his desire to be pleasing rather than himself(he’d rather lie to D than upset him). We have his detachment, a coping mechanism indicative of some early trauma. And we have one of a few instances of naked emotion from him in his reaction to being killed by the player. It is not of anger at being betrayed by one of his own kind, it’s not fear or sadness for his own end. It’s frustration, it’s agitation, it’s disappointment, and it is directed entirely at himself for being unable to make a difference. Even if we don’t want to call it self-loathing, these are hardly the signs of a well-adjusted person. Those are hard to come by in The Lands Between, after all.

III. Speculation on the past

So what made Rogier this way? We’re unlikely to ever know, but I’ll throw out my two cents. Let’s look at Rogier’s gear. It’s described as being “graced with an intricate, aristocratic decoration”. His rapier bears a similar description, stating it is “of superior quality, featuring intricate ornamentation”. Taken together, we can reasonably assume that Rogier doesn’t come from an impoverished background. He wears fine clothes, wields a fancy sword, and does not appear to have the backing of any particular faction to finance or supply this. It’s likely Rogier comes from either an aristocratic, or even noble, background. The desire to pursue scholarship, rather than any mention of a life of menial labor, also points in this direction, as does his well-spoken and polite behavior, and his decorum even in the face of his own death.

Which group in the game is comprised of aristocratic sorcerers? The Carians. How does the game commonly indicate associations with certain clans among characters? By use of the first initial in a character’s name. All of Marika’s and Godfrey’s descendants begin with the letters ‘M’ or ‘G’. And Rennala’s with the letter ‘R’. We see this with other NPCs we meet, like Gostoc, Millicent, and Rya, who are related to Godrick, Malenia, and Rykard. This is not to say I think Rogier is directly related to Rennala or her children, considering he's Tarnished and these other 3 NPCs aren't. More that, it is not wholly unfounded to think he is in some way connected with Carians. There are further connections of note, such as his use of Carian sorcery. The only NPCs to employ this class of sorceries are all affiliated with the group somehow – Seluvis and Miriel can both sell us Carian spells by default, while Thops and Sellen only sell glintstone sorceries(thanks to elden_things for pointing this out to me!!). And the most mysterious connection is that of the timing of his slumber and subsequent death, which align closely with Ranni’s own slumber and the defeat of Radahn. The fate of Carians is linked to the stars, and with Radahn’s hold over them surrendered, their fates can no longer be forestalled.

Of course, he makes no mention of any such affiliations, but he mentions very little about himself at all. What we know is that he holds regrets and anger about something, that he is likely of an aristocratic background from a people who practice sorcery, and that he wields a thrusting sword requiring dexterity to wield. Why’s that last thing suddenly relevant? Because all of these together sound similar to the description of the prisoner starting class.

A prisoner bound in an iron mask. Studied in glintstone sorcery, having lived among the elite prior to sentencing.

Some things very suddenly begin to make more sense to me. Maybe Rogier holds regrets over a crime he’s committed, or even one he did not commit but was accused and sentenced for all the same, the consequences of some powerplay among the elite looking to eliminate him from the playing field for whatever reason. Maybe he’s angry over this humiliation, maybe he grieves this loss of his freedom. And if it is a Carian society that did this to him, maybe he’d hold a resentment towards them, a resentment shared by a sect of Raya Lucarian knights symbolized in the form of a feather. Sort of like the one Rogier wears in his hat. Beyond this, he uses the Scholar’s Armament ash of war, an art taught to Cuckoo Knights. “Our enemy is none other than Caria itself,” says the Cuckoo Greatshield item description. Maybe there is room for the argument that Rogier would agree with them. But again, this is all admittedly speculation on my part.

Let’s take a further look at Rogier’s design while we’re on the subject, because it too relates back to the prisoner association in some ways.

(thanks again to elden_things for these images)

On first glance, we’re bedazzled with glintstone and golden hues, the colors so bright and vibrant, especially in comparison with so many other more sedate color palettes seen on many NPCs. But taken as a whole, both color and form, I can’t help but think of the phrase “bird in a gilded cage”. The thing that jumps out to me about his design is the theme of restraint. His costume is full of straps, ropes, chains, items which evoke notions of bondage and imprisonment. He is wrapped from head to toe in clothing, not even his hair left free, cuffed by gold at the ankles, cuffed by frills at the wrist, neck tangled in chains(the long end of the necklace down his back is even reminiscent of a leash), arms lined with glintstone-studded straps, the opulence of nobility becoming symbolic of confinement. It’s noteworthy to me that Rogier aligns so very well with the prisoner class while also sporting clothing that easily reminds us of all the ways a person can be bound.

The color gold in game is very much tied in with the Order, with Marika and the Greater Will. While Rogier is often characterized as someone who opposes the Golden Order due to his split with Darian, his dialog would betray otherwise, something I delve into in this post. In short, he recognizes the flaws and defects of the Order, but actually expresses admiration for its ability to adapt to resolve them. This ability to adapt is in direct contrast to Rennala’s inability to do so – when met with abrupt and devastating change, she breaks, and doesn’t recover. This is another point in favor of Rogier possibly holding some frustrations with Carians. The Order is changeable, can alter itself to meet the needs of the times they live in. Caria simply wilts.

Seeing a glintstone sorcerer, one wearing the hat of a heretic no less, bear the colors of the Order is more than a little interesting in a game where people’s allegiances are generally pretty clear cut. The delightfully detailed Elden Ring colory theory video by hawkshaw speaks of blue as the color of intellect and mind, gold as faith and order. Rogier sports both, reminding me again of Caria, specifically the joining of the Moon and the Erdtree, Rennala and Radagon’s union. Of course, if we hold to the belief that Rogier is related to Carians, there’s another way in which he may remind us of this union between the Order and the Moon, and that is in his time spent with D, Hunter of the Dead.

IV. D and Rogier – “Opposites attract.”

Aside from his history lessons on Ranni and Godwyn, Rogier doesn’t really have a lot to say about anyone else, even himself. In spite of his interactions and shared interests with Fia, the only other person we hear him talk about is D. An old friend, Rogier says with a sort of fondness or melancholy. As with Fia, Rogier bonded with D over an interest in death, and for some unspecified length of time in the past, the two traveled the lands together. Eventually, Rogier’s desire to save Those Who Live in Death became too much of an issue for D, and the pair split.

Theirs is an interesting relationship, whether you want it platonic or otherwise. They’re opposites in a lot of ways. Impulse vs control, pity vs scorn, heretic vs devotee, warm vs cool, elegance vs brutality, mind vs faith, the list kind of goes on, but you see the point. Even after their falling out, the two can get along without acrimony. D tells Rogier about seeing the sign of the centipede in Summonwater. He helps us defeat the Black Knife Assassin in the Death-touched Catacombs, thus making it possible for Rogier to study the knifeprint. Rogier doesn’t speak of D with resentment, or anger, or even much distaste (his tone strays towards sarcasm again when mentioning D’s opinions on TWLID, “these defiled fiends”, but that’s about it). Rogier’s lines about D are generally his most emotional and most personal, and given how very little we get to know about Rogier otherwise, we can assume that the friendship meant a great deal to him.

Between the pair, he’s clearly the more composed about the split. While D freely expresses his disappointments in Rogier, Rogier is more wistful and collected, and does a lot less mudslinging than D. He is the less emotional of the two, however, that’s just par for the course for him. He’s used to keeping things close to the chest, as this is basically what emotional detachment does to you. Emotions aren’t easily expressed or handled, and it becomes simpler to separate oneself from them rather than experience them. And any falling out, whether between friends or lovers, is bound to be emotionally challenging even for someone without such issues.

V. Fia and Rogier – “Birds of a feather...”

There is someone Rogier eventually became comfortable expressing emotions around, even if it’s curious he never mentions her. Fia and Rogier may have a lot in common. Most obvious being their interest in Those Who Live in Death and the history of the night that gave rise to them. But there could be other things, too. Fia's room is full of books, and we know Rogier is a scholar at heart. The two could both be avid readers. If we accept the notion of Rogier as prisoner, he and Fia could bond over what it means to be without freedom and choice. Fia is hounded from her home, and it would seem she may have at some point resented the fact that she would not be allowed to decide which noble she’d be reviving.

Whatever the case, it’s clear Fia and Rogier became close at some point before his death as she tells us how he speaks of the Night of Black Knives while in bed with her, and that this discussion even moved him to tears. This strong reaction from him is especially noteworthy given his lack of emotional response in other, more appropriate areas, such as the knowledge of his own impending death. Is it sadness for Godwyn that has him in tears? Grief for how the Shattering ruined so much for so many? Could it be that in discussing these things with Fia he is also thinking of everything he won’t be able to achieve? Or could it be that he is in some sense overwhelmed not by his grim fate but by her affection, her friendship and care? People with emotional detachment issues can often have immense difficulties making or keeping friends, but here is Fia, whose entire schtick is to offer the utmost selfless care and comfort for others. Wouldn’t that be a little overwhelming to someone unused to that, someone whose life was apparently full of anger and regret, marked by some lasting trauma that’s followed him his whole life and caused him to hold others at arms' length?

Or it could be that he knows all too well another way in which Fia’s just like him, and the misery of knowing her warmth might be false just cut a little deeper than he could handle in a moment so vulnerable as this.

VI. Deceit as defense

It’s odd to me that this is a point of contention among Elden Ring fans, but Fia is, well, kind of a liar by omission. Manipulative, even. And I think Rogier is too. Well, I don’t think, I know. I’ve referenced it multiple times, but his exact words are

I can tell a good lie when I need to.

The context is him desiring to avoid angering D. I’ve mentioned before Rogier coming off as a people-pleaser, this being one of the reasons, as well as the apologetic tone he often takes when speaking with us. Others involve the assumption that he is of aristocratic origins. Politics are a game of rhetoric, and Rogier would’ve been taught to play it. That means being comfortable with lies and knowing how to tell them, or being able to spin the truth to sell your own desires to people who may not share in them. Beyond this, there is his detachment, in which he does his utmost to keep his emotional state to himself. This requires lying, or rather, concealing. Something I’d like to clarify about lies and liars is that we have a tendency to assume this is a malicious trait. I don’t think Rogier acts with malicious intentions at all. I think it is habit, a survival mechanism necessitated by whatever traumatic past he has experienced and/or required for navigating the aristocracy. For the latter especially, the ability to lie and manipulate others would be an endlessly useful tool.

Again, I want to stress that when I speak of Rogier as liar and manipulator, I don’t think it’s something he does to be cruel. He wants something of us, but given his personal issues, he may realize he’s not the best at making friends with others. He may also be hesitant to be indebted to another. Some of his cut dreambrew quest dialog hints at some intense pride on his part. If we were to offer him the dreambrew after he was blighted, he responds with:

No thank you, I don’t need your pity. ...Sorry. You were only trying to be nice. It would be my pleasure to take it.

The immediate adjustment of his tone is an interesting one. From resentful and irritated to perfectly gracious and friendly at the drop of a hat. For someone who can show compassion to some of the most wretched creatures in the Lands Between, who is happy to befriend someone seen as reviled and accursed, to lay with a woman some think of as vulgar, he sure isn’t comfortable with the idea of someone showing that compassion to him. If he gets this irritated by being offered a drink after a (near?)death experience, how would he really handle someone offering to put their life on the line for him?

So he manipulates, because this is far easier for someone(who may be) coming from a background where this is par for the course in how you connect with others. Now we aren’t simply doing him a favor, we’ve been convinced his goal is ours, too. He starts by asking for our help. But notice how each time we go back to Rogier with a little more info, he couches each new and more dangerous request in praise and compliments? We’re superb fighters, we’re trustworthy, we're capable, we’re the only ones who can do this. Rogier knows what he’s asking us to do is risky, and says as much. But he also knows how to flatter, how to shape the conversation to his needs. This isn’t just his quest anymore, it’s ours. This isn’t some favor done out of pity for a dying man, no. He’s convinced you that you want to do this too! Maybe it’s not just us he’s manipulating, but himself, too.

This isn’t to say that Rogier doesn’t care about us, that he’s callous or heartless or doesn’t want to be our friend. I think, at this point, above all else his sights are on his goal. He knows his time is running out, and he may realize he won’t be able to see this through to the end no matter how badly he wishes it were otherwise. I think Fia speaks truly when she says Rogier seemed elated by us helping him. But he also knows how near his death is, and that no matter what he or the player do, there is no future for him.

I know the manipulation angle is a hard sell. “An NPC asking you to help him isn’t manipulation,” I’ve seen people say, and I get it. But in the greater context of Rogier’s character, I think there is plenty of reason to believe he could be inclined towards such behavior, that he is someone far more focused on his goal than building friendships in a life reaching its end, and, knowing well how near he is to death, is desperate to see it through. Plenty of NPCs ask things of me, and I wouldn’t consider them manipulative. But none of them tell me point blank they’re fine with lying to others, either. :)

VII. Conclusion

We don’t get a lot of backstory on the NPCs of Elden Ring. There are breadcrumbs and tiny clues, but so often these little tidbits are implications rather than direct statements. They are open-ended, preserving a sense of intrigue and mystery that invites us to look deeper and do a little puzzle solving. That being said, it’s hard to make any definitive statements about who any of these characters are and what they’re really like. Characters like Rogier make our investigations all the more challenging when they give us reason to believe that they’re practiced in concealment and lies. When do we know what to take what they say at face value? When do we know to take it with a grain of salt? But that’s also part of what makes him so interesting to me. There’s so much potential in his story, and such a variety of possible interpretations. Mine is only one of them, and if you’ve gotten to the end of this, I’d be thrilled to hear yours too!

#elden ring #elden ring meta #sorcerer rogier #elden ring rogier #rogier #long post #yes im insane why do you ask #weve got to put our high school english classes to work somehow ok

35 notes · View notes

noteguk · 3 years

Text

bad behavior | jjk | m

This is in the same universe as “bad influence.” It can, however, be read as a stand-alone.

— summary; in which staying late to volunteer at a self-help meeting was the best decision you made in a while.

— contents and warnings; smut, the endless adventures of badboy!jk x goodgirl!reader, public sex (in a church…), dirty talk, fingering, degradation (name calling) but also praise, unprotected sex, clothed sex, creampie, cum play, there is a window and also reflections, rough sex, cockwarming, jk being a lil shit because that’s his main personality trait, jk smokes (only mentioned), enemies to fuckbuddies: dawn of the first day

— words; 8.2k

— author’s note; for the anon that asked how their first time was like ;) join me as we explore the lore of this godforsaken couple

It was your mother’s idea for you to find a new place to volunteer. According to her, it had been a long time since you experienced “the invigorating energy of community work” — last time was when you were trying to level up your college application — and it could really “soothe your anxious soul” during the trying times of college finals. Apparently one tutoring program and two research projects weren’t enough to distract you, but you could see where she was coming from.

In the end, you accepted. The old places you used to volunteer in had either shut off their programs or were just too far away from college for you to consider. At first, you decided to follow your mother’s suggestion and tried to work with children — “small miracles”, as she called them — in a local daycare. Which ended up being a terrible idea.

You liked giving back to the community, you really did, but it wasn’t long until you realized that working with infants hasn’t been your wisest decision, and that children weren’t miracles at all. You got tired of going home covered in paint and with pieces of playdough entangled in your hair, and that was when you weren’t unlucky enough to get hit with other, less clean fluids.

So you eventually gave up — both on the daycare and on the faint idea of one day going into pediatrics — and searched for a new place. After having to yell your way through retirement homes, and getting fed up with washing people’s sidewalks, you finally settled in a program that was flexible and light enough for your intense college hours: preparing (and then later cleaning up) a room that was reserved in a local church for weekly meetings.

The entire ordeal took about two to three hours off your day, and more than half of it was spent as free time: waiting for the meeting to end, cramming piles of information in a small room next door. You didn’t really know what the meetings were about since they changed practically every month — they were, at first, a support group for teenage mothers, then it became an AA meeting, then a group for drug users trying to quit. Lately, you were starting to think that the church just gave away the room for whoever had the money to rent it, so it wasn’t a surprise when it was reserved for a motivational speaker to give confidence lessons.

You had researched the guy, some old dude with an unpronounceable name and a sketchy background, and found exactly the type of person you had expected. Yes, you were in the house of Christ, but you were still being heavily judgmental of the fact that he was giving those talks when he had no qualifications whatsoever, and was probably making bank off all the self-help books he regurgitated at least twice a year to prey on vulnerable people. You did share your worries with the administrative office of the church, but they ultimately fell on deaf ears, and you gave up on the idea of kicking his ass out of the holy grounds anytime soon.

It was after one of those pseudo-motivational talks that you walked into the empty room, ready to clean everything up before rushing back to your place, where your roommate had promised to greet you with some wonderful takeout. The chairs were still placed in a circle on the center of the room, where they had been since forever, and you made sure to align them perfectly before you moved on to the litter that had been thrown around the place.

One good thing about those self-help meetings was that they were a lot cleaner than a lot of other attendees, so the “picking up the trash until your back started to hurt” part passed by surprisingly fast. You had just moved on to the snack table, analyzing what you could still save, when your soul almost left your body.

“Hey, you,” you heard a known voice behind you. “What are you doing in here?”

You swiftly turned around, heart thumping violently against your ribcage. You didn’t know how you hadn’t let out the biggest, most blood-curdling scream ever, but that was just the first of many miracles of the night. “Jesus Christ,” you wheezed out, taking one hand to your chest. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like this.” You swallowed dry, some part of your brain recalling that he had asked you a question. “And I’m volunteering here.”

“I didn’t sneak up on you, you’re just jumpy.” Jungkook scoffed, leaning against the doorframe with that stupid playful smirk curling up on his lips. You didn’t know they allowed demons inside the church. “And of course you are.” He rolled his eyes.

Maybe a few months back, his mocking tone would’ve stung a bit more. However, you had been tutoring Jungkook for about three months then, suffering through endless sessions of his whining and complaining, and you’ve grown used to his passive-aggressive antics already. You learned that Jungkook was a shark seeking for blood, waiting for any crack that would allow him to jump into a perverse little joke — about how you behaved, your priorities, or even the color of your highlighter. You, of course, always stood your ground and threw his comments right back at him — which was his initial plan, as you’ve come to realize. Jungkook enjoyed playfully arguing with you, and you thought that it was another level of strangeness and masochism you simply didn’t have time to dissect.

Still, Jungkook (shockingly) wasn’t the terrible person you once thought he was. Every once in a while — when he was trying to talk you out of teaching him — the conversations you two would have were actually mostly pleasant, and he wasn’t awful to hang around when he dropped the whole badass persona to act like a real human being. You would even dare to say that Jungkook could be actually funny at times, and not in the bitter, sarcastic way he usually was. Sometimes, you dared to think, he could actually be reasonably nice. And also kind of cute. Even hot.

But you would never actually admit any of that out loud. Or even to yourself, really.

“And you?” You asked, turning back around to face the table full of half-eaten food. That looked like a battlefield, and you could already tell that there were only a few survivors left standing. “What are you doing here? Repenting?”

Jungkook chuckled dryly. “You wish. My parents want me to quit smoking,” he said. You could not see him, but you could hear him walking closer to you as you fumbled with the large Tupperware. “We settled on this crap instead of a forced intervention.”

You scoffed. Most of the food before you was unsalvageable — some of the cupcakes had been bitten once and then placed back, and you wondered how someone like that could function in society. “You don’t seem very motivated to quit,” you mumbled.

Jungkook clicked his tongue. “I don’t really care.”

His voice was much closer to you, and you felt the air leaving your lungs for a pitiful instant. You convinced yourself you had only gotten scared again. “You should care about the growing possibility of lung cancer.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s not really on the top of my list of priorities at the moment.”

“And what is?” You asked.

“Amongst other things…” he trailed off and, suddenly, he was standing besides you, pointing at the chaotic pile of sweets. “I actually came back to grab another one of those cupcakes. The chocolate ones are great.”

You didn’t know why, but his comment broke the odd tension that you didn’t even know that was there, clicking you back into your previous mentality — the one that you just wanted to finish cleaning up so you could leave soon. “All yours,” you told him, “grab as many as you want.”

Jungkook hummed in satisfaction, reaching out to grab one special brown cupcake — an untouched one, thankfully. “I love when you talk dirty.” He almost moaned before shoving the cupcake inside his mouth, taking a huge bite off it. Dramatically, Jungkook rolled his eyes and sighed in delight. “These are fucking great.”

You chuckled, glancing at his direction. Jungkook was dressed in all black, like he usually was, and you were starting to recognize a newfound admiration towards his constant use of leather jackets. What? He looked good. “I’m glad the self-help sessions are paying off,” you commented, swiftly placing the cupcakes inside the transparent container.

Jungkook was paying attention to your actions now, like he noticed you were there working for the first time. “What are you doing with the rest?”

“The church will probably donate it, give it to the homeless or something.” You shrugged. “Or they’ll eat it, I don’t know. I just clean up the place and leave.”

Jungkook laughed at that, taking another monstrous bite from his cupcake and throwing himself on one of the nearby chairs. Your eye twitched a little at the thought that he had ruined your perfect circle, but you’d have to fix that on your way out. “Sounds absurdly boring,” he sang. “And they’re not even paying you.”

You sighed. “After all the places I’ve volunteered in, boring is a blessing,” you told him. You had just placed five hot dogs in the container, and you were starting to wonder if it would be a good idea to feed people in need with those suspicious sausages. “But, yeah, you probably don’t care about any of that.”

“You don’t know what I care about,” Jungkook said matter-of-factly. You didn’t know if he was trying to tease you, but his voice came out so soft and monotone that you couldn’t really be mad about it. It was true, after all: you didn’t actually know what he cared about. Sometimes you thought that he could read you better than you could read him. “Want me to stay here with you? This place is probably empty already.”

You could not hold back your laugh at that, turning around so you could look at him. “Are you offering to be my bodyguard? In a church?”

Jungkook pouted. There was a thin line of chocolate on the side of his lips, which he quickly licked clean. “I’m trying to be nice.”

You giggled, turning back towards the disgusting food. The rest was mostly trash, but you were happy enough with the amount you had managed to find in a good state. “That’s new.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked. “I’m always nice.”

“Always is a strong word.” You smiled, closing the lid of the Tupperware. You had managed to fill three small containers with the leftovers and, honestly, that was a big victory. “But you can stay or you can leave, I don’t mind. I’m almost done anyways.”

He frowned. “Is that your answer?”

You turned around. “What? You want me to beg for your company?” You smiled. “You’re mistaken if you think I’d ever do that.”

“I’m staying.” Jungkook crumpled up the piece of cupcake wrapping and threw it in the trash can besides your body. He watched you for a moment as you started to throw the leftovers away, your back turned to him and a distracted look on your face. When he broke the silence again, you were throwing the last piece of bread in the bin. “Why are you volunteering?”

“Because I like giving back to the community.”

Jungkook sneered at your words. “Seriously now. Don’t lie, we’re in a church.”

“I do, actually,” you stood your ground. There was a vague sound of crickets coming from the half-open window and the low buzzing of the fluorescent lights above you, but, other than that, the city was covered in absolute silence. Perhaps that was why you felt so at peace. “But my mom told me it would be a good thing to keep myself relaxed. You know, take my mind off college stuff.”

He hummed, and you heard him getting up from the chair. “You always do what your mom tells you?”

You met his gaze. “Didn’t your parents make you come here?”

He smiled. “Not the point.”

Before you could hold yourself back, your lips were curling up. Again: Jungkook wasn’t absolutely awful to be around when he actually acted like a human being. “When she says something I agree with, yes,” you told him. “My ego isn’t bruised when it comes to following someone’s idea.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re saying that mine is?”

“I didn’t say that.” You smirked and turned back to the table. You started piling up the used plastic cups, already eyeing all the used plates, forks and knives that you’d have to throw away. The daycare had better eating manners than that. “Thought we were talking about me.”

“We were,” Jungkook agreed. One of his inked hands moved to the table, and you were about to tell him that he could eat more of the cupcakes when you realized that he had started to reach for the discardable plates, throwing them away. You really didn’t think he’d help you. “Finals are coming up, though, and you care about that shit. Shouldn’t you be using this time to study or something?”

“I study while you’re out here listening to becoming your real self or, I don’t know... waking up the giant within,” you said. “I’m fine, don’t worry about it.”

He hummed, his nose cringing up at the disgusting remains of food that stuck to the plastic forks. Jungkook seriously didn’t know how you could do that for fun. “You know there are better ways to relax than cleaning up a dusty room, right?”

“Probably,” you agreed. The cups were already in the trash, alongside with the plates, and there were only a few crumpled up napkins to get rid of before you tasted the sweet nectar of freedom. “But here I am. That’s what I chose for myself.”

“Literally any other option would’ve been better,” Jungkook pressed on. “Isn’t that obnoxious friend of yours in cheer or something?”

“Who? Jisoo?” You smiled at him. No one had ever called her obnoxious, but you couldn’t say that the title didn’t fit. Jisoo could be really… intense when it came to standing up for what she believed in. “She is. She invited me to join her already, if that’s what you’re gonna ask, but it’s not really my thing.”

“It’s a shame,” he mumbled, leaning against the table. It was a beautiful miracle how clean that room had become just by getting rid of the piles of gross food, and you had proudly thrown the last piece of paper inside the trash bin when Jungkook spoke up again. “You’d look really hot in that outfit.”

You stopped in your tracks, taking a second to digest the claim he had so mindlessly thrown your way. Just like all-things-Jungkook, a pleasant conversation could not last long, so you weren’t even surprised that he managed to ruin that talk with such a fuckboy-esque comment.

Also like all-things-Jungkook, he managed to awaken a reaction out of you that you didn’t even know could be there. With a faint heat in your cheeks and a frown blossoming amongst your features, you actually felt a little bit of... satisfaction with the fact that he thought that you’d look hot in that skimpy outfit. At the same time, you wanted to slap yourself for falling into his charms so easily.

In that conflicting turmoil of emotions, all you could say was a monotone, “You cannot be serious right now.”

Even if you kind of wanted him to be serious.

“I’m being dead serious,” Jungkook didn’t back down, much to the elation of your ego. You felt like a schoolgirl being recognized by her crush, and the idea alone made your stomach curl onto itself. What the hell were you even thinking about? Yeah, Jungkook was pretty hot, but he was also kind of a douche and you didn’t want to get involved with that mess of a person. Or at least that was what you were trying to convince yourself of. “I mean…” he continued, “you’re even rocking this knee-level dress right now, can’t even imagine how you’d look if—“

“You can shut up now, Jungkook, thanks,” you interrupted him. Because you didn’t know how to act when he was so blatantly flirting with you, you switched back to the same passive-aggressive behavior that you had given him for the past three months. Call it self-preservation, call it panic, but your mind simply didn’t know where to go from there. “And I’m also done here, so you can skidaddle back to whatever swamp you came out of.”

“Awn, don’t be mean, princess.” He pouted. Jungkook was a master at getting you worked up, and you had just given that to him on a silver platter. Maybe if you had mock-flirted back, he would’ve baked away. You would never know. “I was just fucking with you, you’re too easy to tease.”

You pressed your lips together, hip touching the corner of the now empty table. “You were pretty much harassing me,” you said playfully.

“I was not.” Jungkook smirked, shoving his hands inside the pockets of his pants. When had the two of you gotten so close? There was barely any space between your chests. “But it’s okay, I’m not gonna compliment you anymore, don’t worry. You don’t have to be so defensive.”

“I’m not being defensive,” you said, defensive.

“What, is it the church setting?” He raised his eyebrows, taking a look around. “Is it making you uncomfortable?”

“No,” you answered, crossing your arms before your chest. Jungkook followed the movement and his gaze got stuck on the shape of your breasts for a second too long, making a newfound wave of heat rise up to your cheeks. “Not as much as you’re trying to make me uncomfortable right now.”

He chuckled. “You do look cute when you’re shy,” Jungkook teased, taking a step towards you, and you took another one back, pretending you were just going to lean against the table. You sat on it in a weird diagonal position, with one leg still on the ground and the other dangling over the edge. Jungkook was so close that, when he spoke again, voice just above a whisper, you could feel his breath on your skin. “If you don’t want me here, just ask me to go and I’ll go.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. The atmosphere was filled with electricity, your body drowning in the warmth of his presence, the sharp seriousness in his dark eyes, and you could not bring yourself to say anything. Did you want him to leave?

No, you realized in a rush of adrenaline, you didn’t want him to leave at all.

Jungkook raised one of his eyebrows. “Hm? Nothing?” He smirked, placing himself between your legs. Every nerve of your body was screaming for you to touch him, to just wrap his mouth with yours, and you simply could not respond to any of its commands. “You’re full of surprises.”

You found your voice at that comment, heart hammering against your chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a smart girl, you can figure it out.” Jungkook placed one strand of your hair behind your ear, his gaze flickering down to your chest. From where he stood, he could see the beautiful mounds of your breasts peeking under the fabric, licking his lips at the sight. “Can I at least say that I like your dress?”

Jungkook’s palm slithered up your knee before you could even react, moving towards your inner thigh and raising your dress along with it. His touch was electrifying, and you found yourself craving more of it, a sigh caught on your throat at the tenderness of his hot skin.

“Something tells me that your compliment isn’t so innocent,” you told him, leaning your head back slightly so you could hold his gaze. “Aren’t you gonna complete that and say that I would look better without it?”

Jungkook chuckled. “The idea is compelling, I’ll admit it,” he said, rubbing soft circles on your skin. His other hand slithered around your waist, pulling you closer to him. “But don’t need to take it off to fuck you.”

Your eyes grew wide at that, brain short-circuiting. You frankly couldn’t believe that was happening — the fact that Jungkook was so shamelessly trying (and honestly succeeding) to initiate sex with you. In a fucking church too, of all places. “What- what did you say?”

“You heard what I said.” His stare didn’t falter. Jungkook was looking at you like he could eat you whole, and you seriously wouldn’t mind if he tried to. You'd deal with the social and psychological implications of that another time. “Just tell me to stop and I’ll do it, princess. No hard feelings, promise.”

This time, you spoke out and the firmness and certainty in your voice surprised even yourself. “I don’t want you to stop.”

“No?” His voice sounded like honey, so deep and melodic even through the thick layers of his sarcasm. You had never heard him get so serious, so focused, and the thought that it was all for you was igniting a fire inside your guts. “You wanna get fucked in a church?”

You bit your lip, blinking up at him. The point was: you wanted Jungkook, of all people, to fuck you. The fact that it was in a church was just the cherry on top, and you didn’t care about it as much as you should — your mom would be weeping blood if she knew what was going on, but you weren’t planning on telling anything to anybody. “And what if I do?” You asked back teasingly.

Jungkook smiled, knocking the breath right out of you. You could only hope that you didn’t look as horny as you felt, because your pride was still on the line. “Told you that you were full of surprises.” He pushed one of your legs open, making you lose your support on the floor. Now, both of your feet were dangling off the edge, body trapped between his strong arms and thighs on either side of him. “Are you a virgin, baby?”

You shook your head, and your voice reached you a bit later. “No.”

“Naughty,” Jungkook said, leaning in. He stared at you like a lion stalking its prey, his gaze lingering on your parted lips before, at last, he tilted his head to the side, deciding to move towards your neck instead. “But if you have the taste I think you do, you probably had some lame missionary sex with some goodie-two shoes.”

When he started kissing your neck, you almost forgot to give him a response. You had to bite your lip to suppress a moan, instead producing a low, shaky sigh. “And if I did? What’s the problem with some lame missionary sex?”

“No need to get mad, I’m on your side here,” Jungkook said, one of his hands navigating up your waist, between the valley of your breasts, before grabbing your boob. That time, you couldn’t hold back the whimper that escaped you. “Did he make you cum?”

“Sometimes,” you said, slightly flustered. You didn’t think you’d be discussing your sexual history with Jungkook, but, well, there you were. “He was alright.”

“Only sometimes?” Jungkook chuckled, the vibrations of his deep timbre vibrating through the sensitive skin of your neck, his thumb grazing your nipple. The heat between your legs only grew, your entire body practically begging to feel more of him. “That’s a shame, I could do better.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start getting cocky.”

“I never stopped being cocky,” he responded without hesitation. Well, he was right. “And I do have a good track record.”

“Doubt it,” you said, the ghost of a smile lingering on your lips. You knew that you were playing a dangerous game, pressing right at the weak spots of his inflated ego to see how he would react. Perhaps you’d be luckier trying to poke a bear with a short stick. “You wouldn’t know the difference between a real and fake orgasm even if it hit you in the face.”

Jungkook leaned back and looked at you for an instant. You knew he had caught onto your challenge straight away. He liked it as much as you did, there was no doubt about that. “Let’s see, shall we?” he asked. There was no denying the devilish aura that was all around him now, suffocating you with its tempting heat. “How long do we have?”

“I’m locking up the room tonight,” you said, watching as his eyes sparked with an emotion you could not decipher. “But I wanna get home before ten. Have homework.”

You could see him fighting against the natural urge to ridicule you for saying something like that at such an odd time, but, at the end, he managed to avoid it. “More than enough time.” Jungkook placed one hand on the back of your neck, gaze darting hungrily toward your lips. “Come here.”

And then his mouth was on yours, and everything else was white noise. Jungkook kissed you much slower than you had anticipated, taking his sweet time caressing your mouth with his; hands exploring the curves of your body and teasing their way underneath your dress. He sighed heavily against your mouth when you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss, his soft tongue poking out and entering your mouth perfectly. Jungkook was a good kisser, you had to admit it, and he got your knees weak sooner than you’d like.

His body was hot and firm against yours and you could feel the outline of his abs underneath your fingers as you trailed your hands down his torso; his quick heartbeat drumming on your palms. Jungkook’s breathing got heavier as you hooked your fingers on the hem of his pants and tugged him toward you. Instantly you noticed the outline of his hard cock against your inner thigh.

Then, something switched. Just as you had reached out to touch his hardness, squeezing it lightly underneath your fingers, Jungkook groaned against your mouth and bit down on your lip. You had barely any time to react before he was pulling away from the kiss, gaze darkening.

“Such a tease,” he mumbled hoarsely, his breath hitting your mouth in soft waves. His hand was hovering over your heat, his middle finger pressing down on your sensitive nub, making you whimper. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

Jungkook was much quicker than your thoughts and, within a second, the motion of your panties being pushed aside made you fumble closer to him; your hands holding tightly onto his shoulders when he finally decided to touch you.

“Fuck,” he groaned next to your ear, making your mind go blank for a split second. The teasing motions of his digits brushing your entrance were enough to make you whimper, hips thrusting forward in a failed attempt to make him move further. “Look at this, you’re soaking my fingers. Wanna get fucked that bad?”

But he didn’t let you respond. The sudden intrusion of two fingers inside your pussy made your back arch, nails digging in the leather of his jacket as Jungkook opened you up. “I—” you tried to speak, but it was hard to think when he started pumping his fingers in and out of you. The sounds of your wetness were a filthy symphony filling the quiet atmosphere. “Jungkook, what—”

“God, that’s so tight,” he groaned, speaking through clenched teeth. His voice was enough to shut you up at the spot, a frail moan dripping from your lips. “Relax, baby, you’re too tense. Let me take care of you, alright?”

You nodded, eyes drifting shut as he continued to pump his fingers in and out of you. You hated to admit it, but Jungkook was already winning against your ex by a long shot: the way his digits brushed inside you, gradually moving apart to stretch you, got you searching — begging — for more. You were sure you could cum around his fingers and, when he curled them up and they dragged against your sweet spot, the idea became a lot more palpable.

“Jungkook, you’re taking too long, I’m gonna cum like this,” you complained, chest rising and falling under the waves of your upcoming orgasm. You could feel it building up in your stomach, ready to snap, and you didn’t want it to happen around his fingers. “I wanna feel you.”

Jungkook breathed out at your needy request, placing a kiss against your jaw. “I’m just getting you ready for my cock, baby,” he said. A loud moan dripped from you when he unceremoniously added a third finger, your legs trembling on either side of his body. “I don’t know if you can take it.”

You scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, only half aware of the fact that your voice sounded more like a whimper than a serious comment. “I can.”

He smirked wickedly. You really were pushing his buttons. “We’ll see about that,” Jungkook responded.

Within a second, right as your orgasm was about to wash over you, he removed his fingers from your pussy. The frustrated moan you let out was quickly swollen by him, his mouth rogue against yours and the sweetness of his tongue intoxicating you — probably those stupid cupcakes, you thought.

“Turn around for me,” he asked.

You quickly did as he requested, putting your feet on the ground before turning your back to him, hands leaning on the table. Jungkook placed one hand on the curve of your spine, pushing you down until you had your chest against the surface, ass perked up and pussy in full display for him. There was a gush of cold air against your flesh when he pulled up the fabric of your dress and tossed it over your waist, exposing your lower body for him.

The boy hummed at the sight, one of his legs kicking your feet apart so he could position himself in the middle of your thighs. “You’re pretty all around,” Jungkook commented, one of his palms grazing your asscheek before grabbing it. His motion was harsh, needy; earning a whimper from you. “Knew you would be.”

Through the dense clouds of your desire, there was still some part of you that managed to make fun of that situation. “You spend your free time thinking about my ass?”

“Won’t answer until I have a lawyer present,” he joked.

You felt his fingers hooking around the fabric of your panties, pushing it further to the side so you had your cunt fully exposed for him to see. The drumming of your heartbeat almost drowned out the low groan he produced at the sight of your flushed heat.

“Princess, your pussy is dripping so much…” Jungkook trailed off, one of his fingers tracing a line between your lips. He felt the urge to eat you out, to lick you completely clean and make you cum on his tongue, but he decided that would have to wait for a different time. “Is this all for me?”

“Yeah, all for you,” you said, weak. There was a thundering exasperation building up inside you, motivated from your denied orgasm and from the way that Jungkook was taking his sweet time.

“Good girl,” he mumbled and your chest was filled with pride. “Can’t wait to fuck it.”

“Then don’t wait,” you practically begged. “Just rush.”

He removed his finger from your heat. “Shh… be patient,” Jungkook told you and you swore you could practically hear the smile in his voice. You could hear him shuffling behind you, the sound of his zipper opening echoing around that still room. “I’m gonna give you whatever you want.”

You whined at the abrupt feeling of his warm cock rubbing between your folds, its tip hitting your clit after every languid thrust. “Fuck,” you cried out, shaky. Jungkook wasn’t lying when he said that he was big, his length was so thick that you were starting to get second thoughts whether you could take it or not. Not that you would ever admit it out loud. “Just put it in, Jungkook.”

But Jungkook was having way more fun just teasing you. “Pussy’s so wet for me.” He breathed out, his hands tightening around your hips. You felt him throb between your folds, and the sensation got you searching for air. “You’re soaking my cock, baby. You want it that much?”

“Y-Yeah.”

Jungkook hummed, leaning in so he could place a kiss on your shoulder. “I’m gonna fuck you like you deserve to be fucked, princess,” he promised, his length still rubbing between your folds. He was so hard and heavy that your mind was spinning, your lungs drowning in expectation. “Gonna fuck you so well that you’re never going to forget it. Do you want that?”

“Yes,” your voice was a pathetic moan, and you hated your body for betraying you so easily. “Yes, please.”

After another pec on your shoulder, Jungkook leaned back. “Be loud for me, alright?” He asked. “Can you do that for me?”

You swallowed hard — what were the chances that someone would hear you? You had no idea. “Yeah, whatever you want, just fuck me.”

“Whatever I want? That’s a dangerous thing to say.” He moved around behind you, making you flinch when you felt his cock align with your dripping entrance. The anticipation was driving you insane. “Might have to see if you’re up for it another time.”

There was an answer somewhere in your mind — you could swear there was — but it was quickly forgotten the second that Jungkook pushed himself inside you. The drag of his cock was a delicious torture, streching you out and filling you up to the brim until you were shaking under his touch, both of you moaning at the sensation.

“Oh my god.” You breathed out, hands turning into fists on the table. Your cheek was pressed against the polished wood, hot breath creating small white clouds on the surface.

Jungkook released a shaky sigh when he felt you clenching around him, your body desperately trying to move closer to him. “Fuck, baby,” he hissed, his hands holding onto your hips for dear life. Gradually, he moved himself away from your pussy just so he could slam back inside, marveling on the way you trembled at the feeling, crying out his name in the prettiest of whimpers. “Your pussy is so fucking tight. Squeezing my cock so well.”

Took you only an instant to realize that you were absolutely addicted to the feeling of his cock inside you, the heavenly push of his hardness in and out of you as he slowly started to set a pace. “Oh my god, I’m—” a pitiful hiccup interrupted you, turning your voice into a sharp cry. “That’s so good, Jungkook.”

Jungkook chuckled behind you, his thrusts starting to pick up speed. Your eyes closed in endless bliss, every part of your brain focused on the sensation of his fat length stretching you up. “Told you I’d be, not my fault you didn’t believe me,” he said, but you could tell that his confidence had started to wear itself thin — he, too, seemed to be much more focused on the way that your bodies met. “Do you touch yourself, princess?”

You almost didn’t know how to answer him, a deep heat rushing up to your cheeks. “W-What?”

“When you’re alone, baby,” he practically hissed. You were bouncing on the table then, your body jerking up and down as he fully pistoned his cock inside your heat. “Do you play with your little pussy?”

“Y-yes,” you stammered, embarrassed. “S-Sometimes.”

“Show me how you do it,” he requested in-between huffs, lust dripping from every syllable. Jungkook spoke to you like a siren, effortlessly inducting you to comply with everything he wanted. “Come on. Don’t be shy, I wanna see you play with yourself for me.”

You didn’t even know if what you were feeling was shyness, but there was a veil of hesitation that covered your actions. As your hands moved downwards, one of them clenching around the fabric of your dress and pulling it up while the other trailed over your mound, you felt strangely vulnerable, exposed. At the same time, you wanted to do what he asked you to, wanted him to wash you over with compliments until your mind was going blank.

So you closed your eyes and focused on the sensation of two of your fingers coating themselves in your wetness, then their pressure on your clit. You whined at the feeling, pleasure exploding in your veins as you started to rub yourself, tracing small circles on your sensitive spot. There was no way you could ever reach that sensation again, the sweet motions of your fingers combining perfectly with the thrusts of his hard, fat cock inside you. You were doomed.

“That’s it… just like that, baby,” Jungkook whispered, obsessed with the sensation of your walls fluttering around him. You had gotten so tight that he thought he would see heaven at any second now. “Feels good?”

“Y-Yeah, so good...” you struggled to get out, “feels amazing, Jungkook.”

“So perfect for me,” his praise shot straight up to your core, making you mewl under him. God, the way that you were tightening around him was going to drive him insane. “You feel so fucking good, I can’t stop fucking you.”

Jungkook took one of his hands to your neck, using it to guide your body upwards until you had your back pressed against his chest; his hot lips assaulting your neck. The new position made it so much easier for his cock to drill inside you, reaching even deeper and hitting sweet spots you didn’t even know you had. It wasn’t long before you were moaning out, eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure overtook you.

“Just take a look at that, baby,” his voice broke you out of your hypnotized state. “Look at you. Such a good slut, just taking everything I’m giving you, touching yourself for my cock… fuck. Could watch you like this forever.”

You had to take a moment to understand what he was talking about, and then you saw it: the window. It stood silently across the room from you, half open, and the glass combined with the darkness of the night gave a perfect reflection of the two of you. You could see yourself, the mess you had become, as Jungkook pounded in and out of you and your fingers worked on your clit; the darkness of his hungry gaze as he followed the motions of your body against his.

Even if you cried out at the sight, your body freezed up a little at the thought of someone walking by and seeing that private spectacle. The possibility itself was minimal — the window gave way to the side of the land, where a big, thick fence separated it from the nearby houses; most of the ground covered by large trees and bushes — but it wasn’t zero. You couldn’t even begin to imagine the humiliation that would come from being seen like that.

He, of course, noticed your change of demeanor right away, and you could see in the faint reflection that he had smirked at that realization. “What is it? Are you worried someone is going to walk by?” Jungkook almost groaned against your ear. His cock continued to pump ferociously in and out of you, and you couldn’t even understand your own thoughts for a moment. “That someone is gonna see you get fucked like a good slut?”

“It’s not—” a moan cut your sentence short. Not like you knew where you were heading, anyways.

“No one is gonna see you like this, know why?” Jungkook was grunting, his fingers tightening around your throat. You cried out at the feeling, your cunt clenching around him in a way that got him fucking you even harder. “Cause this is all for me. Just for me.”

Then he was pushing you back on the table, your chest crashing against the wooden surface and his hands yanking you by the waist. Jungkook was fucking you so hard that your worries left you as soon as they arrived, your mind a turmoil of desires and broken exclamations that didn’t give space to anything else but him.

“You look fucking gorgeous like this, stuffed with cock,” he marveled at the sight. There was a known wave of pleasure hovering over you, ready to crash at any given moment, and you stopped rubbing yourself just so you could prolong its arrival. “Wanna see you cum for me, make a mess for me, baby.”

The words left you in a confusing, broken order, “Jungkook, I can’t… too much… can’t...”

“Shhh, you can,” he was slowly easing you into your orgasm, his cock drilling in and out of your pussy. Jungkook fucked like a machine, fast and precise, and you didn’t think you’d be able to forget that anytime soon. “You told me you could take it, so now you’re gonna take it. Don’t you wanna be good for me?”

“I- I want to… I’m so close,” you cried out, pressing your forehead against the table. You didn’t know how it hadn’t broken yet, with the way that Jungkook was fucking you so mercilessly hard. “I’m so, so close.”

“Cream my cock, baby, come on,” he urged you on, his member throbbing inside you at the thought. Your legs were so weak that you knew you’d fall facedown on the floor if he wasn’t supporting your weight with his strong arms. “Be a good girl and cream my cock for me.”

And that was it. That was all that you needed to push yourself over the edge, submerging you in ecstasy and making you squeeze him so deliciously. “J-Jungkook!” You moaned out his name again and again, unsure of how loud you were being, but also not caring as much as you should. Jungkook realized he loved hearing you call his name more than anything else. “Fuck! Oh my god!”

“That’s it, baby,” he moaned back, his thrusts a sloppy, uncoordinated mess. He was hypnotized by the view of your cunt hugging him, your wetness dripping down your thighs as you rode out the last seconds of your orgasm. “Pussy’s so fucking tight, so fucking perfect— gonna cum too.”

You gasped out at the sensitivity that was starting to spread, every movement shaky as you tried to push yourself against him. “Yes, please.” You looked over your shoulder, meeting his hooded gaze. Jungkook looked like a god, his dark hair sweaty and messy and his lip trapped between his teeth. That image would plague you forever. “Cum inside me, please.”

He groaned loudly, eyes closing for a second. “Fuck, that’s so fucking hot,” he hissed, chest heaving with anticipation. You knew he was close, everything pointed to that, and all that you wanted was to see him reach his high, using your body like it was just a doll for him to fuck. “Didn’t know you’d want to be filled up with cum, princess.”

“I’m full of surprises.” You smiled — a pretty, fucked-out smile that got Jungkook grunting like a madman. “I want your cum inside me, Jungkook, please.”

“Gonna fuck you full of my cum, don’t worry— Shit.” The sounds he was making were heavily: those breathy, high-pitched moans that echoed all around you; broken by deep grunts that had your thighs shaking. Jungkook fucked himself in you like he was meant for it, throwing his head back and closing his eyes as he finally found his orgasm. “Fuck! That’s it, fuck—”

Jungkook called out your name and mixed it with praises and curses when he came, spilling himself inside your pussy. You sighed at the feeling, taking in the blissful sensation of having his hot cum spilling out of you, dripping down your legs as he continued to thrust inside you, milking out his orgasm.

At last, he started to wince from sensitivity. His body collided against your back, his heavy breathing fanning your neck as he tried to collect himself. “Fuck, baby,” he mumbled, “you’re amazing.”

“You’re not so terrible yourself.” You could not help the smile that appeared on your lips, nor the way that you melted against the surface of the table, drowning in his heat.

Still, you couldn’t stay there for much longer: it was already a miracle that no one heard the chaos going on in that room, and you weren’t trying to push your luck for the night. Especially since you had a pile of homework (and possibly — now cold — takeout) waiting for you at home.

You raised your body, leaning against your elbows. “I have to leave,” you told him, taking one of your hands to lay on top of his tattooed one, trying to ease his grip from your waist. “Now if you could just…”

“Shhh, shhh,” Jungkook hushed, unrelenting. He was much stronger than you, and your muscles were too weak for you to try and do much, so you eventually gave up. “Stop moving. Let me feel you around me for just a bit more.”

You frowned. “Why?”

“I like it,” he said simply. His breath was a faint caress against the skin of your neck, and you didn’t have much fight left in you. “We all have our tastes.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re so weird.”

“Don’t kinkshame.” Jungkook pouted, then pressed a kiss against your shoulder. “You just begged me to fuck you in a church, remember?”

“Yeah, I guess I don’t have much place to judge.” You laughed dryly, then looked over your shoulder. “Why is your cock still hard? How long is this gonna take?”

Jungkook groaned, clearly annoyed. “Shut up and enjoy the moment.”

The so-called moment lasted about two more minutes (which was kind of impressive, you thought) before Jungkook softened and slipped out of you. You hated to admit but you kind of liked the feeling of having him still inside you, completing you as his lips danced around your neck; fingers tenderly playing with your hair. You never thought Jungkook would be so gentle after fucking you like that, but you guessed that you weren’t the only one that was full of surprises.

Jungkook, apparently, also liked to admire his work. After he had slipped out of you, he made you sit back on the table just so he could stare at his own cum dripping out of you, a glimmer of satisfaction in his dark gaze. He had pushed his white release back inside you and smirked up at you, asking, ever so kindly, for you to go home like that, filled with his cum.

You, of course, promptly accepted it.

“By the way,” he called when you two had already stepped out of the church, enveloped by the coldness of the night. There was only one solitary light pole illuminating his features, making him look like one of the saints in the chapel — nothing but fake advertisement, in your opinion. “Wanna know how much I got in that immunology test?”

“How much?” You asked.

“Eighty two.” Jungkook smiled brightly then, and you found yourself joining him. “Never saw a grade so high in my life. And that counts all the times I’ve cheated too.”

“Seems like the tutoring sessions are paying off.” You crossed your arms before your chest, the hem of your dress swirling around your knees. The night was weirdly peaceful after everything that had taken place.

“They are.” He nodded. “I’m looking forward to the next one. Helps that my tutor is kind of a hottie too.”

You scoffed. “So I’ve heard.”

“And, by the way?”

“Yeah?”

“You would look better without it.” He pointed at your dress, a sly smile already sprouting on his lips. “Hope to see it next time.”

“Good night, Jungkook.” You rolled your eyes, already turning around — yeah, like there would ever be a next time.

BAD INFLUENCE COLLECTION

TAGLIST:

@taehyungieskith @fan-ati--c @btstrasht @crazy4myself @sashimi-mochi @ft-multi @kooafraid @dianaaviny @ggukkieland @cryinginmypromdress @kissestothesky

#bts smut #jungkook smut #jungkook #bts #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jeon jungkook #bad boy au #smut #reader insert #bts x you #bts x reader #bad boy jungkook #bts au #jungkook au #series #pwp #fluff

4K notes · View notes

jbreenr · 3 years

Text

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale × Reader

Summary: You wanted to meet Ransom's family, he wanted to make sure you'd never want it again.

Word count: 3k.

Warning: Poorly written smut (+18 only, please), public sex (prompt 11), fingering, unprotected sex (don't do that, kids. be responsible), a bit of dirty talk, the Thrombeys being the Thrombeys. And I think that's it.

A/N: So, after finding out one of my stories was stolen an translated in Wattpad, I did not know if I should post this just yet but, what the hell? Let's do it. Anyway, this is for @stargazingfangirl18 and @navybrat817 's Shameless Hoes for Chris Challenge so, happy belated birthday! Yaaay. 🥳 Hope you like this at least a little and that it's not as bad as my paranoid brain thinks it is. Also, I just love how the prompts fit perfectly together, don't you? As always, lack of vocabulary and grammatical mistakes abound. *apologizes in español*

Wheel results (just attaching evidence):

ᴹʸ ᵍⁱᶠ

Draining, tedious, exasperating. Those were some of the adjectives Ransom associated with Thrombey family reunions. He'd arrive late, have some sort of conversation with his grandfather and leave early to do whatever that took him away from that big house.

Today though, he had a reason to stay for more than half an hour.

If it was up to him, you two would have stayed at home, happy, relaxed, and most importantly, naked in his bed, having a more pleasant time than the one you were most likely about to have.

He tried to persuade you. Of course he did! But your insistence and puppy eyes made it impossible for him to say no to your request.

So, here you were, getting out of his car, cake in sweaty hands and an excited smile on your lips, an expression so different from Ransom's, who seemed to be ready to get back behind the wheel and drive straight to Canada.

He didn't knock; he simply opened the door and held it for you to enter. If the three floor house was imposing from the outside, you felt impressed by the inside. Extravagant sculptures, apparently expensive paintings and other kinds of pieces of art were scattered everywhere, telling you just how wealthy and eccentric Ransom's family were.

“That's Harlan Thrombey! ” You exclaimed as you stood in front of the portrait of your forever favorite author holding a knife and a book.

“So?” Ransom asked, unconcerned.

You turned to him open-mouthed, the cake almost slipping off your palms as you went to playfully slap him in the arm.

“How come you are related to Harlan Thrombey and you didn't tell me?” Your question was more of a shock than an accusation.

The carefree gesture he did with his shoulders only accentuated his next words. “I did not think you would be interested in knowing.”

“I wouldn’t be interested?” Incredulity, flowing out of your lips. “He’s the best thriller author of all time! He’s like today’s Edgar Allan Poe!”

To say that you didn't believe him was an understatement. He knew for a fact that you liked Harlan Thrombey's books, just taking a look at the bookshelf in your apartment was proof enough of that.

“We call him grandpa here.” Said a femenine voice. A brunette walked in your direction, her pretty features hardening as she looked at your boyfriend. “Don't we, Hugh?”

He seemed to be ready to say something but decided not to. Instead he inhaled and placed his hand on your back.

“This is Y/N, the only reason I’m not telling you what you need to hear right now.”

Her eyes rolled in irritation and then turned to you. “I’m Meg. Let's introduce you to the rest of the family, shall we?.” And she dragged you to the room where more people were gathered together, discussing something, not before sending a deadly glare at Ransom.

Given the distance between you and him, you didn't listen to the heavy sigh he let out before waking behind.

“Everyone!” Meg called, making everyone leave whatever they were doing to look at her –and you, in consequence. “Meet Y/N, Hugh's new friend.” She then proceeded to introduce every single member of the family, including the housekeeper and the nurse, except for the grandfather, who apparently had a moment of inspiration and left them momentarily to put his ideas on paper.

None of them left their seat to go and shake your hand except for Meg's energetic mom, who hugged you and expressed how much she loved your coat even though it was soooo last season.

Sitting on a couch next to Ransom, you half expected someone to ask you about how you two met or how long had you been dating or what was it that you did for a living. Nothing. As fast as their attention was on you, it fell from you to their previous discussion.

You now understood why Ransom jokingly suggested deep cleaning the house instead of attending that reunion.

What you weren't aware of, Ransom thought, was that all of them were behaving wonderfully compared to previous times.

You didn't know if you felt more disappointed or uncomfortable. Ransom had left your side to go to the studio for a second and you had barely had any interaction with his family. All of them, dipped in their own matters to even notice your presence.

Fran, the housekeeper, was kind enough to take the cake to the kitchen and offer you a glass of water, but after giving it to you, she disappeared along with Meg and the nurse.

“So,” All at once, the room went quiet as Ransom's uncle spoke. “Have you read any of dad's books, Y/N?” Only until you heard your name was that your head snapped up.

“Oh, uhm… yeah. I'm a big fan.” Taken by surprise, you simply answered.

“Really? Which one have you read?”

And to that question, you felt suddenly included in the conversation since you had knowledge of the topic.

“I'm like fifty pages from finishing 'The Needle Game' and intrigue is eating me alive.” As you heard the excitement in your voice, you tried to compose yourself and said “Though 'Nick Of Time' is my favorite.” You smiled at him, hoping that your answer was a good one.

The woman that was introduced to you as Ransom's mother nodded as she licked her lips. The light of the fireplace, reflecting on her glasses as she moved her head up and down.

“Have you read 'Ultimatum' or 'Drop In The Pocket', dear?” Her tone was curious, but the look on her face said differently.

You responded anyway. “They're not bad. I feel like the ending of 'Drop In The Pocket' was a little vague and out of line but it can always be interpreted as an open ending so…” The change in their expressions told you that you had to add something else to that answer. Maybe it was not time for literature humor yet. “But I enjoyed both.”

She hummed and took her drink, detaching from the talk that continued with courtesy questions until it morphed into a heated discussion between Ransom's father and uncle, who would repeatedly ask for your opinion to back up his own.

The discomfort you felt, dispelled to be replaced by the disturbance of being bombarded with dozens of questions at a time, each louder than the other until they changed to a completely different topic to which you were occasionally included as a neutral point of view.

“She knows what she's talking about!” Said Richard at some point when you confirmed one of his arguments. “Thank you, dear.”

Ransom came back from his obligatory argument with his grandfather to find you nowhere to be seen.

“She's using the bathroom.” Informed Jacob, who did not take his eyes off of his cellphone.

Thinking that you went there to hide, he started his way to your potential direction until an overheard observation from his mother stopped him halfway through.

“… Did you hear how she talked about dad's work? Oh, I assure you she won't make it to next week with Ransom.”

Her and Richard's backs were to him, both of them unaware that their son was listening to their share of opinions.

“And did you see her hands?” Joni joined the criticism contest. “She could use some moisturizer, I tell you.”

As usual, they ignored her attempt to fit in and kept going.

“I know it's contradictory to say this,” Richard paused, as to make his point clear. “But he could do better.”

Despite their whispering, Ransom heard every single word and was glad that you were not there to see what was about to happen…

Ransom's words stuck on his throat when he saw you making your way out of the bathroom, fixing the skirt of your dress, with such niceness and warmth directed to him as you smiled, oblivious to the fact that the people you were trying to get to like you weren't going to.

His parents were right. He could do better. He could determine to not see them ever again and it would be the best thing to happen to him… Besides you, obviously.

“What's wrong?” Your concern was evident, just as his annoyance was undeniable.

Cold hands caressed his cheeks and Ransom thought of going back to Joni and tell her to fuck off. Your touch was soft, comforting, and gave him the greatest idea he'd ever had.

“I want to show you something.” Was his answer. It was better if you were the one who decided to never step on that house for the rest of your lives. It didn't matter if it was out of embarrassment.

Taking your hand in his, he guided you up the stairs to the first landing. The creaking sound of the old structure, probably alerting everyone in the other room that you were going to the next floor.

“Are you okay?” The sweet giggle that you let out when he abruptly stopped, almost making him feel bad about what he was seconds away from doing.

“Better than ever.” And he stamped his lips to yours.

Taken aback, it took you a second to respond. Hands on each side of his face as his own explored your body. When his fingers lifted your dress to caress your ass cheeks was when you ended the kiss.

“What are you doing?” You asked in a breathless whisper. “Not that I'm complaining.”

You were cornered against the wall with Ransom towering in front of your smaller frame.

Trying to escape from whatever he had in mind was useless, you knew that much. Though, you were not sure if you really wanted to escape.

“What I've been wanting to do ever since you got a shower without me this morning.” His lips found your jaw and descended to your neck where he sucked to create a bruise. Your eyes closed to the sensation.

“Wait. No, wait.” His fingertip that had started rubbing your still clothed bud paused it's motions as his eyes focused back on your face. “We can't do it. Not here.”

Ransom's finger went back to work, bringing a soft moan that you tried to suppress. “Why not? No one's gonna come here.” His other hand moved up your thigh to lift it. “Even if they did, they wouldn't notice.”

With an expert swing of his wrist, he moved your panties aside, letting the cold air that wandered inside the house hit you before his skilled middle finger entered you while still managing to rub your clit in circles with his thumb.

Adrenaline ran through your veins, fuel activating every nerve in your body and shaking away fear from your brain, replacing it with lust and boldness.

“I'm blaming you if we get caught.” Your hips jolted forward wanting to feel more of his hand, the contradiction between your words and actions, making him smirk.

He added a second finger. Knuckles deep and his cold ring slowly warming against the inside of your thigh, he said, “I'll take responsibility, sweetheart.” Pumping his fingers in and out, he felt your slick running down the back of his hand to his wrist, wetting his overly expensive watch and the cuff of his cozy sweater .“But I can't assure you we won't get caught.”

His words, instead of working as a bucket of cold water as one would expect, increased your need to be touched by him, the yearning for him to take you right there and then.

“Damn it, Ransom.” One of your hands flew to his shoulder to hold onto him for dear life. “I'm close.”

“You're not cumming unless I'm inside you, pretty thing.” At what point did he unfasten his belt and unzipped his trousers, you had no idea. The friction of his digits was gone in a second but the feeling of his already leaking tip rubbing against your most sensitive parts was enough to make you forget about those trifles.

Your lips opened, ready to tell him to keep his voice down when he suddenly thrusted home, stretching you out so deliciously that you had to cover your mouth to muffle the moan that threatened to inform everyone of your current activities.

Ransom's breathing hitched. Being inside you was a dream come true, feeling your walls enveloping his cock so fucking good… it was like you were made for each other, and he was going to prove it, even if his family didn't really get to know.

His hips started moving. Back and forth, back and forth. Delicately at first, letting you adjust to his size but the second he felt you throbbing around him, he increased the pace. Little by little his pounds gained power and energy.

Your whimpers –stuck in your throat, leaving only soft snuffles that crashed against Ransom's cheek, soon became more rapid, erratic and as his fingers dug in the flesh of your thigh to keep you still while he accommodated to go even deeper you heard a creaking noise.

Your boyfriend's blue eyes met yours, his movements never faltering despite the alert given by the dark wooden floor under your feet.

There was a conflict in your head, and Ransom could tell. The way you tightened and the pleading look on your face told different stories, yet Ransom knew they had the same ending.

Shaking your head, your eyes asked him not to do it, but you knew Ransom well enough to be sure that not even begging could stop him.

“You love it, don't you?” His smile grew bigger as his change of position allowed him to hit your sweet spot on and on, ripping high pitched whines from you and obligating you to close your eyes. “The thought of getting caught. The image of someone seeing how good I make you feel.” The placement of his foot, making the landing creak repeatedly each time he pushed up accompanying every word. “Fuck, you're talking me so well. Such a dirty girl, uh.”

His big hand yanked the strap of your dress down, exposing your left boob. Your already hard nipple was soon attacked by Ransom's fingertips. He'd pinch and twist it slightly, just enough to make your back arch in search of his touch.

Pleasure was overflowing your senses, you could feel your heart thudding in your ears and your legs losing strength. Your hand left your mouth to grip at the back of Ransom's neck to keep you from falling.

The sight of your lower lip trapped between your teeth didn't please Ransom. In other circumstances, he would've let you stay that way, as quiet as possible so no one would walk on you. This time though, it was his intention to rip the most delicious sounds from your lips so you thought of the possibility of his family listening.

And so, he lent to kiss you, passion and desire transmitted through his breath. His tongue asked for a permission that was not really required, but as you let it in, Ransom took the opportunity to bite down your lip.

With your lips forcefully parted and Ransom's restless hand traveling back to your bundle, you had no other option than to moan with each quick circle his digits drew.

A series of laughs and undistinguished words were heard from a distance. Both Ransom and you turned to see what they were about, stopping in your tracks with him still buried deep inside your needy cunt.

“Guess dinner's ready.” Unbothered about the information he just gave, he hid his face in the crook of your neck and resumed his movements.

A shaky oh, fuck fell from your lips as you felt the familiar knot in your stomach forming. Your head flew back, hitting the wall with a soft thud.

“Careful. We don't want to be obvious, do we?” You knew you were about to explode, and by the way your walls were clenching and your trembling body tried to separate from him, Ransom knew as well. “Let go, sweetheart.” A roar erupted from him as he felt you tightening around his length. “Cum for me.”

With a last, powerful thrust of his hips, you let out a silent scream. The coil snapped, making you see a kaleidoscope of colors behind your eyelids and listen to a loud ring in your ears.

Ransom followed right after, cursing as he finished inside of you, coating you with every last drop and making sure everything would stay there.

He slid out, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness as he zipped his trousers and took a step back to let you fix your appearance.

You managed to accommodate your dress just in time for Ransom's family to walk out of the room they were in to see you. Your agitated breathing and blushed cheeks, getting everyone's attention.

“Are you okay, dear?” Ransom's dad asked.

“She's fine.” Your boyfriend answered for you. “She's feeling a little sick. I better take her home.” He took you by the hand and helped you down the stairs to the door, which you thanked. Had he not done it, you would have tripped taking the first step.

“But she hasn't met grandpa yet.” Meg noted, furrowing her brows.

“It'll be next time.” And with that, Ransom took you out of the house and in the passenger seat of his car without giving anyone the chance to say goodbye.

When you were at a considerable distance, you sighed, letting out the air you didn't know you were holding.

“Just so you know, there won't be a next time.” You informed him, against your want to meet his grandfather.

“Why not?” He asked with a chuckle, already knowing the answer.

“Cause embarrassment won't let me come back in the near future.”

Behind an eye roll and a tap on your thigh, Ransom hid the triumphant grimace his perfectly carried out plan gave him.

694 notes · View notes

sinner-as-saint · 4 years

Text

Power Over Me - 2.

Bucky Barnes x Reader AU

Part 1

Run-through: CEO James Buchanan Barnes is a dominant. And he’s spent the last 5 years searching for his perfect submissive. Then one night, he finds you. He thinks everything will fall perfectly into place now; but he thought wrong. Turns out your unfortunate past which still haunts you to this day, and some of his enemies are, well, connected. Things go wrong. And your bond with your dom is tested in many ways…

Themes throughout the series: dom/sub dynamic, smut, dirty talk, angst, fluff, soft dom!bucky

Please be him. Please be him. Please be him.

You pleaded to the universe, or God, or anything really, as the club manager dragged you back towards the lounge area.

You passed by the large, wooden flight of stairs which led to the playrooms, and it immediately reminded you of Mr. Barnes. How gently he had held your hand while ushering you upstairs earlier that night… how perfectly your hand fit in his and his around yours… how delicately he had intertwined your fingers together. And just how amazing he was.

You soon came to a stop at the more quiet part of the lounge, your head was still down. You were nervous. The manager let go of your hand and walked away, her heels clicking against the marble flooring. You heard another pair of shoes approaching you.

“Look up, doll.” It was him. Mr. Barnes.

You very shyly looked up and found yourself staring into piercing eyes. His piercing eyes. He smiled down at you. You broke into a faint smile as well, but it didn’t last very long, you soon looked down in panic. What if he found your staring rude?

He didn’t. His hand reached out to touch your face again. He grabbed your chin gently and titled your head up so you look at him properly. His thumb softly caressed your skin. “Don’t look away from me.” He spoke softly, just like he always did.

You nodded, and maintained his stare. He scanned your face, his eyes lingered around your lips then he quickly looked back up into your eyes. “I need to ask you something, sweetheart. Know that if that’s not what you want, you can say no. Okay, baby?” he asked, in that caring tone of his.

You nodded again. Bucky held on to the hope he had. And he asked you, “Would you want to come home with me?” he stepped a little closer. “Because I like you quite a lot.” He whispered under his breath and leaned in closer. So close that his mouth touched the shell of your ear. “And something tells me you like me too.” He breathed into your ear.

His voice, his words reverberated within you; sending pleasant chills down your spine which ended at your core; slightly wetting your already damp underwear a little more.

Home with him… that sounded perfect. But what if… what if he turns out to be like- no! Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him. This isn’t him. This is Mr. Barnes. Sweet, soft-spoken, kind and caring Mr. Barnes.

You had seen him at the club often, and how he mostly kept to himself. How he always stayed at the bar away from the crowds when most of his friends attended a scene. How he had always behaved like a gentleman. And just how he was leaving the decision on you, which had never happened in your case before.

Yes. Home with him sounded perfect.

“I would like that, sir.” You answered.

No other questions were asked. He smiled at your answer and dropped his hand from your face and reached out to grab your hand in his again. He could still find remnants of nervousness and panic and fear on your face. “Don’t worry, baby. You’re safe with me.”

He meant it. He meant what he said with all his heart.

Not even minutes later, you two were making your way out of the club. And for the first time in a long while, neither of you were walking out of the doors feeling lonely or incomplete.

Bucky had his hand carefully placed in the small of your back, he opened the doors for you once you sat in the passenger seat, he bent down to caress your cheek one more time before he shut the door and walked to the other side.

You let out a nervous breath as he opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. It was a good kind of nervous. You took a deep breath and only then noticed how amazing the interior of his car smelt; new, and expensive and hints of his cologne were present as well.

You waited for him to say something, but he just held your hand in his as he drove out of the venue. His touch was warm and calming. You leaned back into the cool seat and exhaled slowly. For the first time in a long time, the silence between you and someone else wasn’t heavy, or awkward. It was peaceful.

Ten minutes into driving, he turned to look at you briefly. Smiled, then looked back at the road. You were staring out of the window so you didn’t notice him looking over at you frequently. Bucky couldn’t believe you were actually here with him, in his car; on your way to his house. Where you’d be staying, with him.

You and him, there was definitely something there between you. Something felt like it fit when you were together, and it had only been hours since you met, but still. Bucky could feel it. And it only made him want to never let you go even more.

“Are you alright, doll? What’s bothering you?” he asked, he could tell you were overthinking.

You didn’t reply. Instead you looked down at your lap, where his hand held yours. You hadn’t realized that you had wrapped your other hand around his as well, so now his large, warm hand was secure between your grasp.

You may speak when asked a question, doll. You remembered his words from earlier.

“Nothing, sir. I’m fine.” You kept your answer polite and short, so Bucky didn’t push you. You and him had a long way to go, and he intended on making all your troubles, even the insignificantly tiny ones, all go away.

You just wait, my little pearl, happiness is on the way. Bucky thought to himself.

“Alright then. I need you to know that I’m here, whatever it is. You can talk to me about anything, doll. Okay?” his voice sounded so soothing. So calm.

You nodded, then responded. “Yes, sir.”

Half an hour later, when Bucky pulled into his front yard, past the gate, you looked around in pleasant surprise. Then again, he was well-off so of course he lived in a house which looked like a modern rendition of a castle. You could see part of the illuminated sunroom, and a part of you was immediately curious. You were always a plant lover, so this was a very good start already.

Bucky stopped on the dark brick path, right in front of the stairs which led to his front door. He turned the engine off and the two of you just sat there in the comfortable silence, relishing the warmth inside the car.

He squeezed your hand gently. You squeezed his hand back. He chuckled. “I want you to know, that you can leave at any given moment you want. Just say the word ‘winter’ and everything ends right away. I will have someone drop you off to where you wanna go. Okay, doll?” he asked, his thumb caressing the back of your hand.

As usual, you nodded. He could see the silhouette of your face moving up and down. “Speak.” He said again.

“Yes, sir.”

Bucky held your hand as you two walked in. He had a wonderful house, you were truly amazed. It was just the right blend of a modern home with vintage décor. The perfect balance between contemporary styles and accents of antique pieces here and there.

It was warm, and welcoming.

“Come on, I’ll show you something.” he gently gave your hand a soft tug, to get you to follow him. He reminded you a lot of the kids who drag people to show them their new room. You broke into a smile when Bucky had his back to you.

He took you up the stairs and down a large hallway. Then stopped at a pair of wooden doors. He looked back at you as he opened it with a faint smile. He walked in first, you stepped in right after and you were again, pleasantly surprised.

It was a bedroom, and it was absolutely stunning. Clean lines and shapes, dark wooden floor, accents of red and black and shades of grey on the bedding, multiple pillows, rugs, artworks and furniture. You immediately liked the soft, large, dark grey pouf in the middle of the room. You also really liked the large windows which would give you incredible views of the lush backyard and the sunset.

“It’s your new bedroom. Like it?” he asked, after giving you a few moments to check out the room. You frowned, then immediately remembered that he preferred audible answers.

“My bedroom, sir?” you were puzzled. Your previous master, he… he never offered you your own bedroom.

Bucky didn’t like the look you had on your face once the memories of the past came flooding back in. He could easily read your face. “What is it, baby? You don’t like it?”

You shook your head immediately. The room wasn’t the problem here. “I do, sir. It’s lovely. I just…” you trailed off again. Bucky waited. “I never had my own room with… with my previous master.” You told him. He frowned.

“Then where did you sleep? In his bed?” he asked. There was a part of him who disliked, for some reasons, the image of you beside another man in bed. Not disliked, he actually hated it completely.

You shook your head again, slower this time. “No, never in his bed. I slept on a pallet beside his bed. Always.” you answered so casually. Bucky was horrified. Always? It wasn’t an unusual thing in this lifestyle, but even as a dominant himself, he still believed that that was a bit much. How dare any dom treat a sub any less than like an absolute treasure?

Bucky stepped closer to you, and reached out to cup your face. He could easily tell that talking about that man made you upset. “Hey baby, don’t think about him. You’re here now, you’re with me. This is your room now, your space, you’re free to do what you want with it and in it. My bedroom is at the other end of the hallway, in case you need anything.” He spoke, taking his time and making sure you understood.

You nodded, and he continued. “Now, settle in. You’ll find everything you need in the closets.” He spoke, leaning in and giving you a kiss on the cheek. “Shower, and then get some sleep, okay? We’ll have plenty of time to talk and discuss things tomorrow.”

Shower and sleep, huh? But what about… you opened your mouth to ask but then you stopped before uttering a word. He noticed, and didn’t like how you hesitated.

“What is it, baby? We’re in your room, remember? You’re free to talk in here.” He explained.

You asked him. “What about… your playroom?” He hadn’t shown you that yet. You were curious, after all that was the main reason why you were here, you were sure.

He smiled warmly. “Like I said, tomorrow. You’re tired, you need to get some rest. Now go on, take a nice warm shower, and sleep. Breakfast will be at eight tomorrow morning.” He spoke and leaned down to briefly kiss the side of your mouth. “Don’t be late.” He said before leaving the room. He closed the door on his way out and you stood there, thinking again.

This treatment was very new to you. You smiled faintly and reached up to touch your face, where he had kissed you just seconds ago. This was definitely something you could get used to.

You followed what he had said. You walked into the equally as luxurious bathroom and scanned the shelves and cabinets and found everything one could possibly need. As he said, you took a nice warm shower. You thought of him as you washed and conditioned and rinsed your hair. Mr. Barnes… how lucky you were that he chose you.

Then, you heard the sound of the bedroom door opening. You panicked, but then you remembered his words; Don’t worry, baby. You’re safe with me.

Not even a minute later, you heard the sound of the door closing; signaling that whoever walked in, walked out. Must be Mr. Barnes.

Indeed it was, because when you walked out of the bathroom, wrapped in fluffy grey towels and making your way to the closet to see if you could find clothes to sleep in; something on the bed caught your attention. It was a white t-shirt, nicely folded. With a folded piece of paper placed on top of it.

You picked up the paper first, it read;

-There are PJs in the closet if you want, but I would rather you wear this to bed. Good night, babygirl.

You caught yourself smiling at the note. You ignored the warmth spreading through your body as you picked the shirt up. Mindlessly, you brought it closer to your face and you gave it a sniff. It smelt clean; of soft laundry detergent and remnants of Bucky’s cologne.

You put it on then went on to search for underwear. You found new ones – still in their packaging – in the drawers, slipped them on and climbed into bed. The comforters felt like a giant marshmallow; warm and comfy. You remembered to set an alarm so you could wake up and be ready for breakfast at 8 the next morning. You nearly shivered as you thought of what used to happen back with your previous master, whenever you would accidentally wake up late.

No, stop it! This isn’t him. This is Mr. Barnes. This is different, this will be different.

You forced yourself to think of Bucky as you drifted off to a much needed sleep. The blue in his eyes… the softness of his lips… the way his voice was enough to bring you to your knees and how the sound of his moans was pure heaven. And his perfect face and perfect body…

---

You woke up to an unfamiliar but warm feeling. Warm puffs of air hitting your neck, and strong, muscular arms wrapped around you.

Muscular arms…? Oh, Mr. Barnes!

Your eyes shot open, and you panicked.

Bucky, who had snuck into your bed this morning, felt your body tense in his embrace. “Hey, hey baby it’s me. Don’t worry, it’s just me.” He whispered in your ear, his face pushed into the crook of your neck.

God damn his morning voice!

You freaked out anyways, thinking you had slept in and that you were late. “I’m so sorry Sir, I didn’t mean to sleep in. I did set an alarm, I-“

He cut you off immediately. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s still early. I just came by because… I was missing you.” as soon as he said so, you relaxed, he could feel it. “It’s okay baby, just focus on my voice. Everything’s fine.” He whispered into your ear, softly kissing down your neck.

You closed your eyes and you almost moaned at his soft touch. Just like that, you didn’t have to worry about a thing, and you let him take control. His arm circled your waist, but it soon slipped under the shirt you wore to sleep. His shirt. He chuckled as he slowly cupped your breasts with his warm hand. “I see you chose to sleep in my shirt.” He murmured in your ear as the cold tips of his fingers grazed over your erected nipple. “I like it.” he chuckled lightly.

Bucky pinched your nipple between his fingers just a little, and you gasped as a tingle danced down your spine and ended right in between your legs. You could feel Bucky behind you, his large, muscular body spooning you from behind; his body heat wrapping around you.

Slowly, he pushed his knee in between your legs, separating them and making room for his hand as he trailed it down from your breasts and dipped his hand into the satin underwear. He was so close to your damp core, and his mouth kept muttering sweet nothings in your ear. You involuntarily smiled, with your eyes closed as you relished his touch.

His fingers slowly circled your clit, smearing your wetness around and he smirked at the noises you made. “I’ve been thinking about you all night.” He whispered in your ear as he lazily toyed with your throbbing clit. You almost smiled again at his words. You whimpered at his touch.

He gave you a light kiss on your jaw, his stubble pressing into your skin. “I thought about how good your pretty mouth felt around me.” He dragged his fingers down your folds and slowly slipped a finger inside you, followed by another and he curled both instantly, stroking your walls lazily. “And how pretty you look on your knees.” He breathed into your ear. You moaned, pressing your butt further against his pelvic bone.

“Your pretty, warm and wet mouth and the wild look in your eyes as you looked up at me, your mouth full of my cock.” He whispered, his voice sweet and calm. His fingers sped up, slipping in and out of you, brushing against all your sensitive spots. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you? You enjoyed pleasuring me, knowing that no one else could make me moan and cum like you could. Didn’t you, baby?”

You couldn’t respond. Your mind was foggy, messy. His actions paired with his words were a deadly combo, he was making you tremble in the best way possible. Bucky was exploring you, and he intended on learning more about your body in the coming days. He wanted to know it like the back of his hand.

He pulled his fingers out of you abruptly, completely still. “Answer me.” He growled, but not too loudly, in your ear. And his voice broke the reverie you were in.

“I did,” you answered, still in that haze. “I did enjoy pleasuring you, sir.” You repeated.

He chuckled and kissed you beneath your ear, you shivered. His lips were soft, and you could feel his smirk pressing against your skin. “Good girl.” He pushed his fingers in you again, stroking your walls again. “That’s what I thought.” He whispered again, placing his thumb on your clit and rubbing it in sync with how his fingers stroked your walls. It drove you insane. You moaned wantonly, moving your hips slowly trying to match the trust of his fingers.

“So I decided that you needed a little reward for serving me so perfectly yesterday. You did so good, baby.” he whispered, meaning it, as his fingers brought you to the edge. You whined, pushing back further into him. You felt tingly, and warm. And safe in his embrace – something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

“You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” he asked, fingering you and rubbing your clit faster, and faster. You nodded, then remembered he preferred audible answers.

“I am, sir.” You whined, moaning at the end, unable to hold back. You felt your lower body tensing, the pressure built nicely as he sped up.

He hummed in appreciation, right in your ear, before he kissed down your face and nibbled on your neck. “Tell me.” He mumbled against your skin. “Who do you belong to, my little pearl?”

Oh that nickname did things to you. You clenched around him at the sound of it and he noticed. He chuckled and spoke again. “Tell me.” he sounded growly again. You almost came right there.

“I’m yours.” You whined, unsure of how much longer you could hold it. “I’m all yours, sir.” Your desperation could be heard in your voice. He liked it.

He chuckled again, the sound of his voice made you whimper and squirm against him. “Remember that, sweetheart.” He kissed your neck, and you clenched around him, feeling your release approaching. “You’re mine.”

You came, hard. With a loud moan, clenching around him, drenching his fingers with your wetness. Your hips involuntarily bucked against his hand as your orgasm washed over you. Intense, pleasurable and sweet – much like Mr. Barnes himself.

He kissed the side of your face as you calmed down. “All mine.” he mumbled against your skin as he kissed down your neck again. “Now come on, breakfast downstairs in 15 minutes.” He pulled away from you and got out of the bed. You sat up and watched him. Messy hair, shirtless with just his black sweatpants on, he looked delicious. “Don’t be late.” He winked and left.

You still felt tingly in all the places where he touched you. You felt just a little sore and stickiness in between your legs, but you caught yourself smiling again.

You only had 15 minutes so you rushed into the bathroom, showered as quickly as you could and brushed. Then walked out and finally walked into the closet to find clothes. You were, yet again, pleasantly surprised – both at the size of the closet and at the amount of clothes as well. There was a lot of them, and they all seemed like they would fit you perfectly. You made a mental note to ask him about it later.

You settled on leggings and a large hoodie and made your way downstairs.

You found Mr. Barnes in the kitchen, with his back to you as he seemed to be chopping something. And the aroma coming from all the food made you sigh in delight. He heard it and turned around with a smile. He still wasn’t wearing a shirt so you took in his appearance shamelessly.

“Hi doll, come here.” he spoke with a smile, then got back to chopping. You walked over to him and found him chopping fruits and separating them into two bowls. “Hungry?” he asked.

“A little.” You answered. He had satiated half of your hunger earlier already. He smiled to himself, he didn’t have to tell you to speak up this time. You did it on your own, instead of just nodding. You were learning already, it seemed. He liked it.

“Here,” he picked up half of a strawberry and held it up to your mouth. You parted your lips and inched forward, taking it into your mouth. You didn’t realize how close you were standing to him until you looked up and found him only inches away from your face. He slid the fruit into your mouth and watched you intently.

He bit his own lip and pulled away. “Let’s eat.” He carried both bowls to the table where pancakes and muesli were waiting. You chose to have a portion of the latter and sat across Bucky at the kitchen island.

You and him had a small talk over breakfast.

“Now tell me sweetheart, where did you used to live? And where do you work?” he sounded calm as usual, just a little more curious.

You swallowed and responded. “In an apartment that I shared with two other girls. And I used to work for the club.” You answered.

He frowned at the second part of your answer. But you had your head down so you didn’t see it. Work for the club? What does that mean? He, again, didn’t push you because it seemed like it wasn’t your most favorite topic.

“Well, you’re not going back to that club again.” he spoke and you immediately lifted your head up to look at him. His heart fluttered. “I’m plenty able to provide for the both of us. But I wouldn’t want you to just be bored at home, so you may look for a job that you like.” He finished with another wink. You smiled.

Of course he was perfectly able to provide for the two of you, he had more money than half the city combined. But you made a mental note to indeed look for another job. Speaking of mental notes…

“Can I, um, please ask you something, sir?” you spoke softly.

“Of course, doll. Go ahead.”

“The clothes in the closets, I mean I’m very grateful sir, but how did you…” you trailed off, not knowing how to word it well without thinking that you might sound rude.

But again, he knew exactly what you meant. “I messaged my assistants, right before we left the club. And gave them the necessary details and asked them to prep the room for your comfort. Including, the clothes.” He answered.

You smiled faintly. “Thank you, sir.” You said.

“No problem. I wanted things to be perfect for you, given you’ll be living here now. For quite a while.” He spoke again, and you looked up from your cereal bowl.

Quite a while sounded… good. At least he wasn’t threatening to kick you out if you messed up. You shivered at the memory. Bucky noticed.

“Are you okay, doll?” he asked, suddenly very much worried. He hated seeing you like this, tensed and upset and borderline scared.

You nodded. And he didn’t push you to speak up this time. And the rest of breakfast went by in comfortable silence. After breakfast, you were about to pick up your bowls and place them in the sink and do the dishes, but he beat you to it.

He walked over and as he bent down slightly to pick up your bowl, he kissed your temple and whispered, “Go wait for me in the living room.”

You whispered a ‘yes, sir’ and got down from the stool and walked out of the kitchen and down the hallway which led to the living room. You stood by the coffee table and waited. You noticed a notepad and a pen in the middle of the table. You didn’t think much of it.

You looked around, taking in the wonderful room. You could see the huge glass door which would lead to the sunroom and you longed to go there. You were admiring it from afar when you felt a pair of hands on either side of your waist.

“Hi.” Bucky murmured, pushing his face into your hair and inhaling the sweet smell.

“Hi.” You mumbled back, unsure of where this was going. Shouldn’t he be showing you the playroom by now? Shouldn’t he be telling you of his endless list of rules which you had to abide by every single day? Should he be this affectionate and touchy? Not that you minded this, no. This was all so amazing. You liked being close to him.

“Bend over.” He said, taking you by surprise as he pointed to the large velvet couch in the middle of the room, by the coffee table.

Bend over? Would you be punished already? You tensed at the sound of those words. You weren’t unfamiliar with spanks, you just wished to find out what you did wrong. Was it rude to ask about the clothes? You should have shut up and been grateful that he was giving you all this luxury, instead you questioned him. Was he mad about that?

You replayed the whole of breakfast time in your head, look for where you slipped up and made a mistake. Not realizing that you weren’t listening to him, until he spoke up again. “Babygirl,” he sounded just a little stern, “I said go over there, and bend over.” He repeated himself, softly still.

He noticed your nervousness and wanted more than anything to make it go away. You walked over to the velvet sofa he pointed at and bent over the large, cushioned armrest. You waited, nervous because you couldn’t see him anymore. But then he got closer, and you felt his hands on either side of your butt.

“There’s no need to be afraid of me, baby. You’re always on the edge, and I don’t like that at all.” He spoke, softly. You liked the sound of his voice, it had the power to calm your nerves and excite you at the same time.

You shivered when you felt him pulling your leggings down, followed by your underwear. He did so quickly, impatiently. The cold air hit your legs and you shivered again. But then you felt his warm hands massaging your butt cheeks. You knew instantly what was coming. “I want you to count till ten for me, okay baby?” he said. You nodded, and braced for the painful impact.

He lifted his hand up in the air and brought it down to spank your ass. You yelped, “One.” you muttered. You were surprised. It hurt, a little. But it also left behind pleasant tingles. You were confused.

He did it again, allowing his hand to linger on your skin a little longer this time, caressing where his hand landed. “Two.”

Was this punishment or no?

“Three.” You said, almost moaning at how good it felt, and heard him chuckle.

“Good job baby.” he muttered and slide his hand further down, stroking your folds. “You’re so wet already, angel.” He cooed and lifted his hand and spanked you again. “Four.” You sighed, in pleasure.

“Five.” On your left cheek. “Six.” On your left cheek again. It stung a little, but the kind that you wanted more of. “Seven.” On the right one. You whimpered in pleasure and pain. “Eight.” Left again. “Nine.” He smacked your dripping core instead of your butt. Your whole body tingled. You were breathless, but you cracked a little smile. He couldn’t see it.

“Ten.” You said finally. He grunted as he spanked you one last time. You moaned shamelessly this time, you were perfectly fine with being this exposed. He had you all worked up, hot and bothered with just ten spanks. You wondered, what playtime with him in his playroom would be like. Must be Heaven…

You waited again, since you couldn’t see him. You relied on your sense of hearing to determine where he was. But you didn’t hear anything for a few moments. Maybe he didn’t want you to get up just yet.

Then you felt him. His warm, soft lips and his stubble – his face pressed up against your dripping core. Your face felt hot as you realized what he was doing. He left loud, open mouth kisses from your butt down till your throbbing clit.

“Such,” he kissed your butt, then moved down, “a pretty and delicious,” he kissed your wet entrance and teased it with his tongue, moaning loudly at your taste, “little cunt.” He kissed your clit and sucked on it loudly, making you whimper and wiggle your butt just a little. He chuckled and pulled away. He pulled your ass cheeks apart and latched his mouth onto your core. His fingers lightly rubbed your clit as his tongue poked your tight entrance. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as his mouth pleasured you.

A quiet moan escaped your lips as you heard the wet sounds which erupted from him eating you out. He was shamelessly moaning as well. His plump, pink lips worked on your wet heat; your arousal dripping down his chin and coating his lips as he devoured you. He took you higher…and higher until you shattered against his mouth and came undone all over his tongue.

He pulled away after he had his fill. “Such a good girl. Come here, baby.” he pulled up your underwear and leggings and lifted you from the armrest by the shoulder, noticing you were still trembling, recovering from your second orgasm.

He sat down on the couch nearby and pulled you onto his lap. You ended up straddling him, and you scooted closer to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He ran a soothing hand down your back while the other hand caressed your butt through the leggings. He was spoiling you.

Oh, so that wasn’t punishment?

He frowned and you realized that you had accidentally voiced out your inner thoughts. “Of course not. You did nothing wrong, angel. Spanks can be used as rewards, and for pleasure.” He explained. Oh.

“What was I rewarded for, sir?” you asked. He smiled.

“Just for keeping me company during breakfast. For trusting me, and for being so good earlier today.” He explained, making your heart flutter. Oh. He continued, “Besides, I don’t need a solid reason to touch you, do I baby? You’re mine, aren’t you?”

You cracked a little smile and nodded quickly. All yours. I’m all yours. “I am, sir.”

Bucky leaned in to kiss your forehead. You wondered why he hadn’t kissed you on the mouth yet. Did you want that? Hell yes you did!

“I’m ready, sir.” You said, after a while of admiring his mouth and wondering how it would feel against your own. He tilted his head in confusion.

“What for, baby?” he asked, pulling you closer and making you ‘accidentally’ grind on his crotch.

“For you to tell me about all your rules. I will be good, sir. I promise.” You sounded so… nervous. Bucky did wonder, about the possibilities of what kind of rules you might have had to abide by in the past. He hated everything that came to his mind, just thinking about another man having control over you.

“Oh I know you will.” he cooed. “You’re my precious little pearl, and I know you will always be good to me.” He reassured you that he had complete faith that you would be good.

You were a little surprised. Because a certain someone did tell you that if you don’t abide by all of his rules, he’d return you back. You shivered, again, at the thought of him.

This isn’t him. This isn’t him. This isn’t him.

“As for my rules, well,” Bucky leaned forward and grabbed the notepad and the pen. He opened the notepad and clicked the pen and began writing. “There’s not much baby. Just,” he told you each one as he wrote them down, “Listen when I talk. Obey when I tell you to do something. Don’t let another man touch you,” he looked up from the paper and leaned in to kiss your cheek, “Because you belong to me and only me.” He winked.

He continued, “Answer me when I ask a question. Don’t be rude. Don’t be too much of a brat. Don’t talk back.” he paused, then wrote something down, “Go to the playroom when I ask you to. And remember your safe words during playtime.” He looked up at you, stopped writing and made you recite them and what they’re used for.

Green, means you’re okay and you want this. Yellow, means you’re unsure but you do want him to push your limits a little more. Red, playtime stops right away because you’re in pain or totally uncomfortable. And lastly. Winter, and this is all over and you go your way and he goes his.

Winter… you never wanted to utter the word. And he didn’t want you to. He needed you as much as you needed him.

He added a couple more rules to the list. “Bedtime at 11, each night unless we’re in the playroom. And breakfast at 8 each morning.” He stopped writing and you frowned. “And that’s it.” he tore the paper and handed it over to you.

You looked down at it in surprise. What? That’s all?

He could tell you had a million questions. “What is it, baby? We can discuss anything.” He spoke and you stared at his lips again.

“Sir… what about my chores?” you asked, your voice sounding just a little unsure.

Chores? Bucky had heard about his friends, other doms, talking about the lengthy lists they give their subs.

“What chores, baby?” he asked, reaching up to caress your cheek. His eyes flickered down to your lips. Oh the things he would do to bite that mouth… No! Not yet.

You shifted a little on his lap, and he had to ignore the bulge slowly forming in his pants. Because right now, all he could care about was you and your comfort.

“I’ll need to cook, so what time is dinner? And when do you get home from work? I’ll need to clean before that, and wash and-,”

He cut you off by grabbing you chin and making sure he has your full attention. “Baby, hey.” He looked you deep in the eyes. “I have housekeepers, and butlers and chefs for all that. You don’t have to do any of those things.” He explained.

You were confused. “Then why did you bring me home, sir?”

He smiled softly at you. “Because I need you. And you need me. You’re here so I can take care of you, meet all your needs, be everything you need me to be. To keep you safe and protect you. I’m your dom, baby, it’s what I do. I’m here to take control when you need me to.”

He paused and pulled you closer. “And you’re here to keep me company, and fulfil my needs and be what I need you to be. Follow my little set of rules, which when broken will carry consequences.” He ended on a lighter tone. “And of course, lots of playtime.” He smiled and leaned in to kiss your neck. You giggled, feeling his soft lips against yours.

It was the first time he had heard you giggle. And it truly made him feel nice and warm. He liked the lack of nervousness and fear in your eyes. You were, dare he say, happy. And he managed to make you giggle, and he was freaking proud of that.

“I like that sound. I like it a lot.” He couldn’t help but point it out. You smiled bigger than he had ever seen. He wanted nothing more than to just lean in and kiss you deeply. But he knew he had to wait. Just a little longer, my angel. And I will give you countless kisses.

“We’ll discuss the dos and don’ts, and your limits later today when we-,”

He was talking, and you didn’t mean to interrupt but you couldn’t help it. You were taken by surprise by his words. “My limits, sir?”

He didn’t mind the interruption. “Yes, doll. We’ll need to discuss what I can and cannot to do you during playtime.”

You frowned. “I get to tell you that?” you were confused.

“Yes baby. Otherwise it’s not fair. This has to be a healthy, consensual relationship, does it not?” he was beginning to think of the worst things. Of someone exploiting you, someone taking your submission for granted, and using you. He felt angry.

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t help but think of him. And although you didn’t want to, you couldn’t help but compare Mr. Barnes to your previous master. They were poles apart. With Mr. Barnes, you were comfortable. With him, you had been…

You shivered, not wanting to think about how he had treated you. Bucky noticed you were deep in thought. And he couldn’t bear it anymore, he had to know. He absolutely had to.

“Baby, who trained you?” he asked, softly. You kept your head down as his name echoed in your head.

“My previous master did.” you answered. Bucky sighed and leaned closer to you, running a hand down your back again.

“Look at me, angel,” he said. You did. “You’re here with me now. No one’s gonna hurt you. I’m gonna keep you safe.” He paused and looked deep into your eyes. “Now tell me, who was your previous master?”

You shifted in his lap. “I must never call master by his name.” you repeated what he had told you; one of his many rules.

Bucky was getting more and more impatient and angry. He’s not your master. He’s not your dom. I am! “He is not your master anymore. His rules don’t apply, baby.” he grabbed your chin. “Who was he?” he persisted.

But you shook your head. You were confused and overwhelmed by your emotions and memories. Then Bucky thought of something. “Here,” he handed you the notepad and pen. “Write his name down.”

This, you obeyed immediately. You took the pen from him and wrote down the name of the one who had claimed to be your dom, your master. The first dom who ever collared you, but didn’t treat you well.

You wrote it down and handed it over to Bucky. He braced himself, but nothing could prepare him for the name he saw on the notepad. Bucky was surprised and angry. Bastard, his thoughts raced. He couldn’t believe it. Bucky was quiet, for a whole minute. You were beginning to worry.

Then he spoke up, “Let’s go upstairs, in my study. We need to talk.” He sounded, serious. So serious, almost betrayed? Jealous?

Before him, on the paper, in your handwriting was the name of the man who had treated you poorly under the excuse of being your dom. But it also happened to be the name of his biggest business rival;

Thor Odinson.

#bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes imagine #dom!bucky #marvel #bucky barnes series

2K notes · View notes

ymiwritesstuff · 3 years

Note

Hi! May i request a fic or a headcanon for DIO in wich the reader is living near his mansion in Egypt and she starts to give petshop pieces of meat that the reader buys for her cat and after some time she just comes there to watch the falcon. When DIO notices her just sitting on a sidewalk talking to petshop while feeding him, he gets curious about her and thinks to himself that he could find out more about who she is (because if petshop isnt clawing her eyes out she must have intrigued him) as an activity to pass time while he's still adjusting to his new body and in the end he ends up liking the reader?

Sorry that this is so long😅 hope you safe and healthy 🥰

And thank you💞

Heyy thanks so much for the request, I’m incredibly sorry that this took so long :( I really loved the idea and I hope the finished product is to your liking, wishing you the best!!

Desire For Knowledge

Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure Part 3: Stardust Crusaders

Dio x Female!Reader

Summary: The strange behavior of Pet Shop leaves Dio desiring to learn more about the person who the falcon had allowed to interact with him.

A soft smile pulls the corners of your lips upwards as the falcon takes the piece of meat from between your fingers as gently as a bird of prey ever could. To think that something as threatening as a falcon, would be so tame, as if he belonged to someone who called him their pet. It had been a similar day to this one when you first came across the falcon. The sun was about to set and he had been standing atop of a gate, guarding an impressive-looking mansion, which you assumed belonged to his owner. You couldn’t help but admire the bird, the way he valiantly protected his home, and just how majestic he looked, the sun shining on his brown feathers.

Over time you found yourself staying near the mansion, just so you could admire him further. It took a few days for you to get comfortable feeding him, but he eventually noticed the bag of meat you often bought for your cat and seemingly wanted a piece for himself. Since then, your visits had become more frequent and your curiosity about the falcon and his owner you never saw grew by the day.

Your eyes looked at the mansion, as they often did, your thoughts wandering. What kind of a person lived in such an expensive structure? The windows were covered with thick curtains that didn’t allow any sunlight through them. Never had you seen these curtains move away from the windows, nor had you seen anyone leave or enter the building. This made you wonder if it was abandoned, but then why would it be so fearlessly protected by a potentially dangerous animal? All this made little sense to you, yet you found yourself drawn to it.

Dio had noticed you feeding Pet Shop on multiple occasions, whether it was through a careful peek behind the curtains during daytime, or a look through the exposed windows at night. The fact that the ruthless falcon had not eliminated or shown any signs of hostility towards you despite the fact that you were dangerously close to his hiding place was something he couldn’t quite understand and led him to believe that Pet Shop didn’t see you as a threat for some unknown reason. This was strange and yet, it awakened a strange sense of intrigue in him. What caused Pet Shop to behave so differently with you?

A quiet caw from the bird snaps you out of your thoughts and makes you look at him. The day had gone by a lot faster than you anticipated. This often happened when you interacted with him and was a sign that it was time to head back home. You stood up and wiped the dust from the ground off your pants, before turning your gaze towards the animal once again.

“See you around, I have to get back home and save some of these for my cat,” you said, lifting the bag of food slightly.

The falcon glanced at it briefly before flying back to its post. You smiled once more before heading towards your home as the sun finally disappeared, oblivious to a pair of sharp eyes watching with curiosity as you left the mansion behind.

His desire to know more about you grew the more he saw you looking or feeding the bird. It somewhat plagued him, yet he saw it as an opportunity to pass his time while he adjusted to his new body he so often admired through the mirror. Something about the way you gazed at Pet Shop with admiration in your (E/C) eyes made Dio wonder if you held something special within you. Were you a stand user? Or was the warmth in your expression that felt so alluring to him something else entirely?

Whatever the case, due to everything he had witnessed, he craved knowledge.

The sun had long set, coating the streets of Egypt in darkness. Today’s shift had been long, but you still wished to go past the familiar mansion to hopefully catch a glimpse of the beautiful falcon you had befriended. Even watching him brings you joy, though you aren’t sure yourself why he is so friendly with you. Perhaps you have a way with animals, considering how often your cat would snuggle up next to you. The thought makes you smile as you walk.

As the building comes into view your eyes immediately search for the bird and once they spot him, a smile makes its way to your face. With his sharp eyes, the bird notices you and immediately flies towards you, landing on the ground. You squat down to get a better look at him.

“Hi there handsome."

Your voice is soft as you admire him, noticing how he is looking at you as if he is expecting something. You frown slightly. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any food on me this time. But I promise to bring you some tomorrow.”

To your surprise, he takes off and flies towards... a person standing in front of the entrance to the mansion. The bird lands on his large arm, his sharp talons holding on with the utmost carefulness. You immediately stand up, realizing that the man must be the owner of both the mansion and the falcon. His amber eyes look at the animal and then you before he speaks:

“Quite interesting. Pet Shop usually isn’t too fond of humans.” The blond takes a few steps forward, allowing you to see him more clearly in all his glory; His light hair shines under the moon, his sculpted muscles frame him perfectly and his fiery amber eyes look into yours with such fire, you are not sure if they belong to a human.

“No need to apologize, dear. He is a lot smarter than he looks, though, I’m sure a sharp woman like yourself already figured it out,” He says, voice deep and fruity, accompanied by a smirk that stretches his lips upward that immediately makes your cheeks fill with warmth you failed to notice. “What is your name, my darling?” He asks.

“O-oh, I was just looking at him. He is just... Such a beautiful falcon.” You briefly glance at the bird before returning your gaze to the man who holds an intense yet warm flame in his own eyes. Their sharpness remind you of the falcon’s own eyes.

“I’ve never seen anything like him. Sorry if I’ve been trouble, I know I’m kind of taking him away from his protection duties.”

You bring your hand to the back of your neck sheepishly, laughing slightly but feeling a tad anxious about the owner’s expression you cannot quite read.

“I’m (Name). I live nearby.”

A smile of your own coats your features as you introduce yourself to the person you had been curious about for a long time.

“Ah yes, that would explain why you are here so often.” His smirk grew as he noticed your eyes widening.

“You’ve seen me?”

“I suppose so. Tell me, Mr-”

Pet Shop then left his arm and flew back to his post, leaving you with this unknown yet strangely alluring man.

“I have indeed. I must say that a beauty such as yourself is rather difficult to ignore.”

His honeyed words are followed by a deep chuckle, his amber eyes locked onto you. You are taken aback by his words, but maintain your smile and let out a small laugh as well.

“Dio. There is no need for formalities or titles,” he says, keeping that charming tone in his voice. His demeanor is intriguing and you are not sure what you were expecting from the lord of the impressive mansion, but this was certainly... Something.

“It’s very lovely to finally meet you, Dio.” You find yourself subconsciously taking a few steps closer to him, as if something about him is slowly pulling you in.

With one final chuckle, he extended his hand towards you, his claws not going unnoticed by you as he spoke:

“Likewise, dear.”

His charming smirk is more and more apparent the more you look at him. Dio also notes just how stunning you look under the moonlight, how your pleasant smile decorates your features perfectly, and how your (E/C) orbs shine like gems. His curiosity has reached new heights as you seem to be far more than he expected. He now felt the same way as his falcon had and realized why you had interested Pet Shop so.

“Wonderful. There is a lot I wish to ask of you.”

“I would like to learn more about you, (Name). Would you join me for a glass of wine?” You looked at him, processing his question that came rather out of the blue.

The night was still young, and you would be lying if you said that this seemingly otherworldly man hadn’t piqued your interest. With yet another warm smile that strangely hits Dio, you accept his request and place your hand in the palm of his cold one:

“I’d love to.”

His grin grew at this as he slowly led you inside, leaving behind the darkness of the night he lived in.

#jjba #jojo #jojo's bizarre adventure #Jojo no Kimyou na Bouken #JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Stardust Crusaders #jjba x reader #jojo x reader #jojo's bizarre adventure x reader #dio x reader #dio #dio brando #jjba dio #jojo dio #jjba dio x reader #jojo dio x reader #reader insert

224 notes · View notes

drabblingdraco · 4 years

Text

✬Arranged✬ Draco Malfoy X Reader (Request)

This is a request I received!

"Hello! I would love if you wrote something around reader and draco being forced into an arranged marriage by their parents. They hate each other at first because draco used to bully/insult her in school, they're constantly at each other's thoughts at first but then they begin to not mind each other's company... idk if that makes sense feel free to ask any questions. if you don't mind writing it I would love you see your take on it ❤️ oh and maybe the reader would fit the whole pureblood Slytherin comes from a wealthy family thing too. Something like that..."

I’ve read various imagines with a similar plot, but here’s my take on it! If you’d like a Part 2, let me know! I love this story line

Warning: swearing, slightly mean/bully Draco

Very long like 2k oops

Draco's POV:

I was awoken by the sound of Father walking in to my bedroom. He told me I needed to get up and ready for the day, as the (y/l/n)'s were coming. I ran my fingers through my hair, stressing over the fact I had to see (y/n) again. I couldn't stand being in the same room as her. She made me feel emotions I refused to let out. Although we were arranged to be married, I would never let her in my head. She wasn't getting anywhere near my vulnerability. I looked up at Father as he walked towards my bed, grabbing my chin.

"Son, you know how important this is. She's one of the only good pure bloods your age. Not to mention her great, great grandfather was the founder of Slytherin house. Don't fuck this up, Draco." He spat his last sentence before exiting.

I sighed, getting out of bed. My warm feet adjusted to the cold temperature of the wood floor. I went into my closet and picked out my usual attire: an emerald button up, black slacks and black laced dress shoes. I stared at my reflection in the mirror as I combed my hair back to a suitable placement. After spritzing some cologne on my neck, I saw a silver town car pull up outside the window.

(y/n)'s POV:

As the car came to a stop, I sighed while slouching in my seat. I could see Draco peering out the window pane. I wasn't looking forward to spending another day at the Malfoy's, yet again. I've been coming to the Manor my whole life. I knew the Malfoy's like the back of my hand, except Draco. He repeatedly threw his aggression towards me. Every time we spoke, one of my flaws came up in conversation. He always pointed out the (y/birthmark) on my (y/body part).

"Out the car now darling, time to see your fiancé."

"Mother please stop calling him that."

"Why? He is your betrothed after all." She grinned.

I rolled my eyes. After all these years, I still can't imagine being married to that foul mouth. I wanted to marry someone I loved, like my parents. But all they cared about was the Malfoy’s and keeping their great image in the wizarding world.

I stepped out of the car and mother shouted at me from the other side. "Go ahead inside love, I'll meet you in there." She had a slight smirk across her lips. I was suspicious, but not enough to ask questions.

I make my way up the grand stairs, Narcissa waited for me in the doorway.

"Hello dear! Delighted to see you again." She gave me a hug and a peck on the head.

"Draco will be down in just a minute- DRACO!" She smiled. I internally groaned.

A figure came walking down the spiral staircase. His hair was placed just right, making his piercing grey eyes stand out. His sleeves were cuffed right above his wrists, the green really accentuated his skin tone. I quickly shook myself out of admiration coma.

"Draco." I said with a straight face.

"(y/n).." he replied.

"Draco, why don't you take her to the gardens while your father gets her trunks?"

"Trunks? What do you mean?"

Narcissa looked confuzzled. "Oh dear, don't know you? You're staying at the manor for a short while."

My eyes went wide, "What?"

"WHAT?!" Draco grasped the railing of the stairs, the veins on his hand popping out as he strained against the wood.

"Draco! Behave yourself," Narcissa gritted through her teeth, she turned to me smiling.

"I don't have any clothes," I stammered, trying to make up excuses to avoid my dreadful stay.

"Yes you do!" Mother said, walking through the door.

I turned to face her with stink eyes, "is there a reason you didn't tell me I had to stay here with this twat?!" I motioned to Draco.

"And you didn't tell me this bloody-" Draco shouted at Narcissa, but she quickly stopped him.

"Don't you dare finish that sentence."

There was a brief, awkward moment of silence between the four of us.

"My love, it's time you got a taste of the married life," she grasped my shoulder shaking me subtly. "After all, you are older now and soon enough, you'll officially be husband and wife."

"But mother! I-"

"No buts! Now I really must be going. I have to meet your father at the council meeting, but enjoy yourself! I packed you enough clothes for a few weeks, so you're all set dear." She kissed me on the cheek as I stood there, dumbfounded.

"Goodbye darling!" She shouted as Lucious shut the door behind her, exiting the manor.

I turned around to face the two Malfoys that stood before me. How could she just dump me here? And for weeks? It's bad enough she married me off before I could even breathe. There's no way I would be able to last that long here with Draco. I look at both him and Narcissa, he looked enraged and I couldn't blame him.

"Now take a walk in the gardens, get some fresh air." She stated as a command rather than a question.

We both looked at each other with disgust, but we followed her wishes and headed towards the courtyard. We walked in silence for quite awhile. It was a cumbersome stroll, he wouldn't look me in the eyes or even my direction. I shouldn't be surprised, he was always like this, but something was different. He seemed tense, like he was holding something back. I tried to enjoy myself as if he wasn't there, admiring the lilies and pansies scattered perfectly symmetrical. Unfortunately my eyes kept falling back on him. His tapered slacks rested right above his matte dress shoes. The way his shirt grasped his frame. I felt a chill going down my spine. I adjusted my cardigan, wrapping it tightly around my chest. For some reason this got his attention and he whipped his view towards me.

"Don't tell me you're cold?" He scoffed, scrunching his nose.

"Is there a problem with feeling normal human reactions?" I spat.

He laughed, "just find it rather odd you'd wear such a short skirt on a day like this."

I shook my head in anger. It was typical he pointed out something to do with my attire. "It's summer Malfoy..what, would you rather I wear jeans and sweat like a pig?" Looking me up and down, his eyes lingering at the hem of my skirt.

He ignored my words and continued to walk faster, heading back to the manor. I scoffed and continued at my pace, in no rush to go back inside with that jackoff.

I closed the door to the courtyard and locked it. My eyes traveled around the room, I remembered memories from my childhood, when Draco was actually pleasant towards me and didn't act like a dick. We used to play with fake wands and babble made up spells to each other. I snapped out of my thoughts when I saw Narcissa approaching.

"Why don't you come have some tea? I just brewed a pot." I nodded and followed her to the dining room.

I sat down in one of the many chairs seated at the table. A minute later she came back with a kettle and two dark green teacups with silver snakes on them. Typical Slytherins, but I was one to talk. We chatted a bit about how I've been since we last saw one another, even though it was only a mere three weeks ago. Then we diverted to the subject of Hogwarts. She went on about Dumbledore and how Lucious couldn't stand him. At this point, who didn't know about his vendetta against him.

After a few hours of conversing, she said she was tired and was heading to bed.

"You'll stay in Draco's room this evening."

"Um, are you sure? Can't I stay in the guest room?"

"Oh..the guest room is being..remodeled at the moment. Draco knows of the arrangements. I assure you dear, don't worry about about a thing. Sweet dreams." And with that, she left me standing in the dining room.

I clenched my fist together, wanting nothing more than to obliviate myself and forget everything that was happening, but alas, I couldn't go through with it. Like the kind, forced houseguest I was, I took the teacups and kettle back into the kitchen to be cleaned when I ran into Dobby.

"Hello Dobby how are you?"

"Hello Miss (y/n), you're always so worried about Dobby, it warms my heart. Dobby's keeping his feet on the ground. Dobby keeps hearing things from Mr. Draco about you."

"I'm sorry but I thought I just heard you saying Draco's been talking about me.."

"Oh dear, Dobby has said too much! Bad Dobby." He reached for the teacup but I stopped him before he could.

"Don't hurt yourself, it'll only make me sad, and I know you hate to see me that way." I bat my lashes.

"Sorry Miss (y/n)..since I've already said too much...Mr. Draco talks about you nicely. He likes your (y/h/c) hair and the way your nose scrunches when you're laughing. Dobby hears him talk to Mr. Crabbe and Goyle about these things and much more.." He shyly looks away, looking up the stairs towards Draco's room.

"Hey, hey, I won't tell him. (y/n) keeps secrets Dobby tells her." I smiled at him.

"Thank you Miss, Dobby likes you much more than his masters."

"I like you more than them too." I gave him a peck on the head and went up the staircase.

I trailed down the hall towards his room. The halls were dimly lit by small candles on the walls, as well as moving paintings on the walls of their family tree. I arrived outside his bedroom, scared out of my mind to knock, but I brought myself to do so. Shortly after knocking, he opened the door to his bedroom. I stood there admiring his night clothes; a fitted white v-neck tee shirt and boxer shorts.

"Are you just going to stand there like a git and gawk or come in?" He smirked.

"I- Uh- Coming in." I slipped past him and stood there, unsure of my next move.

"It's getting late," he shut the door behind him. "You should put on some more comfortable clothing to sleep in."

"Right..oh, my trunk is downstairs. I should go get-"

"It's right here," he pointed towards it. "I brought it up a little bit ago. Didn't want to risk you breaking a nail, I'd never hear the end of it."

I scoffed, walking towards my case. I unbuckled the clasps and opened it to find clothing that didn't belong to me, or so I thought."

I've bought you some more appropriate dressings for your stay with Draco. Enjoy them, I know he will too.

-Mother

I was taken aback by her note. It's like she's asking me to fuck him, and we're not even married yet. She's already desperate for grandchildren, I thought to myself. I rummaged through my new wardrobe and ogled in shock. Lingerie, bodycon dresses, even shorter skirts. Are mothers supposed to be like this?

I picked the least revealing item I could find to sleep in. It was a silk green nightgown with lace detailing on the chest, lingering a little too low on the chest for my liking..but it was the only thing that didn't expose my entire body. I grabbed my toiletry bag and my feet brought me to the bathroom. I peeled off my current attire and put on a new set of panties along with my nightgown. I brushed my hair up in a ponytail and brushed my teeth. Gathering my belongings, I slowly walked out of the bathroom and locked eyes with Draco. Now he was the one gawking at me.

"I know I'm always being a dick but..you look dashing (y/n), really." He said shyly, looking down at his feet as he sat on the bed.

"Thanks..." I wasn't sure how to respond.

I put my dirty clothes and bag on top of my trunk. I scratched the side of my arm in nervousness, not knowing how the sleeping arrangements were going to work, although I had an idea. There was nothing else to sleep on besides Draco's bed. He stared at me with anticipation as if he was waiting for me to join him.

I proceeded to the opposite side of the bed. I peeled back the sheets on my side, snaking my legs underneath. Draco still sat in his place, shifting a bit, but stayed in his current position. I laid down, facing his direction, closing my eyes. Maybe if I kept them closed long enough, I'd eventually fall into a deep slumber without any further conversing with Draco.

I felt the sheets ruffle as he too laid down, I couldn't tell if he was facing my direction or not, but I ignored it. I adjusted my pillow to a more comfortable position. We both laid there, within the same vicinity, completely silent. After a few moments, I peaked my eyes open ever so slightly to find a pair of silver eyes looking deep into my soul. I shuttered, unaware of the fact he was staring at me. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Couldn't help myself."

"Couldn't help what?" I asked in confusion.

"Having the pleasure of looking at you," he licked his lips.

"I don't think I understand.."

"My god (y/n)...I never took you for dumb."

I raised an eyebrow, "how am I dumb?"

"Because you can't see it," he paused. "You can't see how madly I'm in love with you...and you can't tell me you don't feel the same." He reached for me chin, grasping it ever so slightly.

I didn't dislike his touch. His hands were ice, melting on my warm skin. His thumb caressed my jaw, heading towards my lips.

"I- I will admit..I do have f-feelings for you, I've been suppressing them..but you make it very convincing that you have a..distaste for me. Ever since we were young.."

"I don't think you understand the common thing about us males...we tease the ones we love," he chuckled.

Not knowing what the hell came over me, I forcibly grabbed his face and slammed my hungry lips onto his.

Taglist: @bbeauttyybbx

670 notes · View notes

senashenta · 3 years

Text

Matching Crowns

Title: Matching Crowns (for @whataboutthebard)

Prompt: Flower crowns/bouquets (Sept 22nd)

Pairing: JaskierxGeralt

Rating: G

Warnings: Centaur!Jaskier :D

Notes: Based on THIS FANART by @scalesnart which is just adorable. Only two more prompts and I'll be done the ones I wanted to do. Read it on AO3 here. <3

MATCHING CROWNS By Senashenta

Traveling with Geralt and Roach was interesting. Much more interesting than life with the herd had been. Life with the herd had been boring and tedious, that’s why Jaskier had left in the first place. Of course, he hadn’t quite realized the dangers of the outside world at the time he was packing his rucksack and lute up to go adventuring—which brought him back around to Geralt, who had saved him from the untimely fate of being a wyvern’s dinner and then all but invited him along on the Path to join him. Geralt liked to stress the “all but” portion of that particular sentence. Jaskier ignored him when he groused about it because he knew the Witcher actually rather liked having him there.

Besides, Roach was much better behaved when Jaskier was around, not nearly as snippy and bitey and grumbly in general. She liked Jaskier, just like every horse liked Jaskier—because Jaskier was, not to put too fine a point on it, a centaur. So yes, Roach enjoyed his company and was easier to work with when he was there, a point that he made to Geralt on a regular basis, particularly when Geraltwas being grumpy, which was probably more often than strictly necessary. Really, it was like the man made a point of being disagreeable a certain percentage of every single day.

But when he got like that, stubborn, obstinate, all Jaskier had to do was lay his ears back and bat his eyes and Geralt caved every single time. It was like magic.

Now, that’s not to say that travelling with a centaur didn’t provide its’ challenges: towns and cities were trouble, to say the least, until Jaskier resigned himself to nights in the stables with Roach because there just really wasn’t anywhere else he could stay. It wasn’t so bad, anyway, he could bed down in the hay, which was perfectly comfortable and not unlike the grass back home, and Geralt brought him oatmeal with honey for breakfast in the mornings (if he shared with Roach no one needed to know.)

Settlements were fascinating to Jaskier. He could look and watch and see humans to his heart’s content, where before he’d only had stories to go by. At the same time, he found himself constantly stared at, pointed at by children—and sometimes even adults—and knew the only reason no one approached him or did anything untoward was because he was travelling with a Witcher.

Jaskier was most comfortable when they were on the road between towns, trotting along beside Roach with Geralt on her back, oftentimes with his lute out, singing and strumming away. It was nice, pleasant and relaxing, even when there was no talking between them. It was easy. It made Jaskier feel… well. It just made him feel. Like everything was right in the world, so long as he was with Geralt.

He pushed those feelings down deep inside, though, afraid of what might happen if he actually entertained them.

Geralt was serious and all business, but sometimes, just occasionally, he would allow Jaskier to do something silly. Something he would normally consider a waste of time. He never said anything about it, never admitted he was doing it, but Jaskier appreciated the little gestures of kindness nonetheless.

Today, for instance, he had let Jaskier lead them off the road, down a narrow path and into a beautiful little clearing in the forest. The sunlight filtered through the trees overhead, dappling everything within, and Geralt quietly took Roach’s saddle and tack off, leaving her to roam the tiny oasis unencumbered. Then he took a seat on a rock near the entrance to the clearing, watching his horse and, from the corner of his eye, Jaskier.

The centaur explored the clearing for a few minutes alongside Roach before finding a patch of buttercups and clover and lowering himself down in the middle of it. Humming to himself, he began picking the flowers and weaving them together—until he had a flower crown, which he happily placed on his own head before surreptitiously glancing toward Geralt and starting on another.

When the second flower crown was finished he heaved himself to his feet and crossed over to where Geralt was sitting, then lowered himself down to the forest floor again. “Here,” He held the crown out, “we’ll match!”

He did not imagine the flush of red across Geralt’s face, though the Witcher covered it up quickly, glancing to the side. He pursed his lips, frowning, but nodded slightly—and Jaskier perked up, smiling widely as he delicately placed the crown on Geralt’s head, then clapped his hands together, delighted.

Geralt was silent, obviously embarrassed. After a moment Jaskier’s smile faded slightly and he tilted his head, then leaned forward and kissed the Witcher square on the lips. It was worth it for the startled squawk Geralt let out, and Jaskier laughed brightly, grinning, and looked off across the clearing, “do you think Roach needs a crown, too?”

Now blushing clear as day, Geralt crossed his arms and looked down. “Hmm.” He responded succinctly.

Art by the wonderful @scalesnart <33

#shut up sena #sena writes #watb #whataboutthebard #what about the bard #geraskier #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #jaskier #geralt of rivia #roach #centaur!jaskier #wuv the bard

35 notes · View notes

happyandticklish · 3 years

Text

Behave

Notes: For the anon request. The request was slightly vague, so I tried to improvise a little. I hope you like the result! ^^

Summary: Shizuo has a habit of picking Izaya up whenever he tries to stir up trouble, to mischievous results.

Causing general mayhem and disaster was one of Izaya’s favorite activities, and Ikebukuro was one of his favorite cities to do so in. The chance of bumping into some kind of natural disaster was almost inevitable, and on the rare occasion of peace among the streets, Izaya was always willing to stir something up himself. Sometimes this something could be the beginnings of a gang war. And sometimes it was merely messing with small children.

Life was full of surprises that way.

“And just what do we have here?” Izaya inquired, folding his hands in front of himself as he stopped before a group of children gathered on the park asphalt. There were three of them, a young girl with a box of chalk clutched protectively to her chest, and two boys, who had previously been drawing out an outline for hop-scotch, who both looked to be about a year or so older than her.

The first boy glanced up at his comment, shooting him a suspicious glance. “Playing a game,” he answered stiffly, clearly waiting for the man to say anything in the negative about it.

“So I can see,” Izaya agreed, surveying the scene before them. “Hop-scotch… I remember playing that game as a kid. How do the rules work again?”

“Well—” the girl started hesitantly, but before she could say anything more, Izaya had begun hopping from one foot to the next over the squares provided. He wobbled a bit as he went, all with an assured smile. For his finale, he jumped forward with both feet, landing on the discarded pieces of chalk and cracking two of them easily.

“Hey!” the girl cried, eyes widening. “I just got those!”

“Oh!” Izaya clucked his tongue, placing his hands on his hips as he surveyed his work. “Well that will never do. I guess we’ll just have to break the other ones to match. Would you terribly mind handing over that box?”

The girl hid the box quickly behind her back, which wasn’t the smartest of defensive moves but it was all she had. The second boy appeared to be taking in the scene cautiously, clearly not wanting to get himself involved. The first one however, took an angry step forward, glaring up at him.

“Leave her alone!” he protested, portraying a level of bravado he didn’t feel. “Or I’ll—I’ll—”

“You’ll… what?” Izaya inquired, leaning down to face him with a devastating smirk. “No, continue, I’m truly curious—what exactly could you do?”

The boy stammered over his words, trying to think of any kind of witty reply but coming up blank.

“Leave the kid alone.”

Izaya sprang up, whirling around at the sound of the telltale voice. “Shizu-chan~! So nice of you to drop by. Decided to enjoy the spring day as well?”

One hand shoved carelessly in his pocket, Shizuo Heiwajima stood bathed in the gentle lamplight of the sun, surveying the scene casually. In place of his usual angry scowl, however, there was a bored, almost dismissive look on his face, as though dealing with Izaya’s shit simply wasn’t worth his time. Instead of answering, he stalked over to the other with quick, forceful steps, until they were inches away.

Izaya staggered back a little, taken by surprise by the direct approach. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could Shizuo had leaned down, grabbing Izaya around the waist, and hauled him over his shoulder. Izaya squawked in an undignified manner, gripping onto the back of Shizuo’s shirt for support.

Shizuo kicked the broken pieces of chalk back over to the children with a grunted, “here”, before turning around and heading off in the opposite direction, Izaya in tow.

By this point a burning crimson had begun to overtake Izaya’s features, and he could see the faces of the children from his vantage point, all of whom seemed delighted to see him in the embarrassing position. “You know, you can’t simply pick me up whenever you feel like it,” he huffed, reaching back in an attempt to swat at the back of the other’s head.

“Oh?” Shizuo easily avoided him as Izaya struggled to maneuver his arm in the right position. “And what exactly are you going to do about it?” he asked, parroting Izaya’s earlier words.

Izaya narrowed his eyes. He kicked one of his legs out, aiming to get a direct hit at his stomach. Unfortunately, legs do not generally go in that direction and he primarily ending up flailing around a lot and sometimes hitting the other’s arm in the process. This was not troublesome all on its own (Shizuo had definitely endured far worse from the flea), but it did prompt an idea. The next time one of Izaya’s legs came too near his face, he grabbed it with his other hand, gripping his fingers into the denim protecting the backs of his thighs.

Izaya let out a strangled noise, managing to somehow disguise it as a cough at the last moment. Shizuo’s hand remained on his thigh, his fingers gently tapping where they curled around his leg. Izaya’s breath caught in his throat as he realized suddenly how very, very fucked he was.

“S-Shizuo,” he said, trying as desperately as he could to keep his growing panic out of his voice. “I really think you should let me down now.”

“What’s wrong?” Shizuo asked calmly, his fingers tapping out a rhythm of doom against his jeans, each and every one causing Izaya to twitch against his will. “You sound suddenly concerned. Is something bothering you?”

“Shizuo, not again,” Izaya gritted out. Memories were flooding back to him of a week ago, causing butterflies to excite uninvited in his stomach. “If you think you can simply pick me up like a common stray and t—” he broke off, pressing his lips together into a firm, irritated line.

“And what?” Shizuo questioned, tossing a teasing glance back at him. Amusement danced in his eyes, and never had Izaya wished to punch him more than in that moment. “What exactly is it that I can’t do?”

“I believe you know perfectly well what I mean,” Izaya replied with a sickeningly pleasant smile. “After all, seeing as it has for some reason become one of your favorite activities to do to me, I dearly hope you know what it is.”

“And I would hope you know what it is, considering you appear to love it so much,” Shizuo shot back, pinching the back of his thigh suddenly.

“I w—shit!” Izaya lurched forward, his body’s instinctual response to save himself from the sensation. His arms flailed wildly, searching for a handhold, and eventually clinging onto the back of Shizuo’s shirt. Shizuo stiffened, trying to ignore the strangely pleasant shudder that ran down his spine as Izaya’s fingers brushed his back. He shook it off, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.

Shizuo outlined a path of small pinches down the back of Izaya’s thigh, making the man jerk and squirm with each one, though he managed to stifle any noises this time. Once he had gotten Izaya properly ramped up, he removed his hand entirely, giving the other a momentary reprieve.

Izaya exhaled slowly, glad for the break. After a moment of nothing happening however, he threw a confused glance back at the other. “Are you done t—ahAHAHAHA, ohohoho shIHIHIHIHihihit!”

Izaya burst into wild, uncontrolled laughter as Shizuo suddenly dug his fingers into his thigh, pressing into just the right pressure points to make the other go positively mad. His hand came back instinctively to try to rip Shizuo’s hand away from the spot, but his current position prevented him from doing so. The sudden, intensive tickling caused a hysteria that weakened Izaya instantly, his eyes crinkling up into a series of wild giggles and shrieks, a euphoria he didn’t often allow himself to feel lighting up in his chest. His legs kicked out with reckless abandon, but nothing he attempted saved himself from the relentless attack.

Just as suddenly as he had initiated it, Shizuo stopped, allowing his hand to merely rest on the other’s leg. Izaya wheezed helplessly, burying his face in the back of the other’s shirt. His skin tingled with phantoms of the earlier attack.

“I’m sorry, you were going to say something?” Shizuo asked innocently.

Izaya weakly lifted his head, shooting back a venomous glare. “You utter ahahAHAHASSHOLE, nohohoho, nOHOHOT AHAHAhagain!”

Izaya fell back into hysterics as Shizuo once again started up with his thighs. It was a testament to Shizuo’s skill that he was able to keep a firm hold on Izaya whilst torturing him, all the while continuing to stroll through the streets as though nothing was happening. By this point, people had started to stare, dumbfounded by the sight of a grown man thrashing and howling with laughter, hoisted like a misbehaving child over another man’s shoulder.

“S-Shihihihizuo!” Izaya squawked, pounding his fist against the other’s back. “StahAHAHAP IHIHIHIT!”

“Sure,” Shizuo agreed, smirking as his fingers found a particularly unfortunate spot that had Izaya screeching. “Just say, ‘Shizuo is superior to me in every way’. You can do that, can’t you?”

“F-FuhuhUHUHUCK YOHOhohou!”

Shizuo clucked his tongue in disappointment. “I’m afraid that’s not it. Want to try again?”

Izaya tried. He really did. He used every ounce of self-control he had to try to either bear the sensations wracking his body or to somehow escape from Shizuo’s hold. But the embarrassing position combined with the results of a death spot being targeted in such an effective manner eventually did him in and he cracked.

“OhOHOHOKAY! OHOHohohohokay!” Izaya cried, frantic giggles interspersing his words. “S-Shihihizuo ihihis—ahAHAHAha, nohohoho wahahait—Shihihizuo—gahAHAHA! Gihihive mehehehe ahahahaha seHEHEHEHehecond!”

Shizuo reluctantly complied, momentarily stilling his hand. Izaya panted heavily, attempting to get any amount of air back. Once he’d finally regained enough breath to speak any semblance of coherent words, he raised his head and grinned back at the other. “Shizuo is… a fool for thinking I’d ever say anything inherently false as that. Sorry, try again next time.”

Shizuo’s confident smirk quickly transformed into an irritated scowl. “You little—” Instantly there were hands at his thighs again, only this time he attacked the other one which had thus far received no attention from their little game. Izaya let out an honest-to-god squeak, unprepared for the switch. He pulled at Shizuo’s shirt, needing a handhold as he faced the unbearable sensations. As he did so, however, he noticed the way his tugging had ridden Shizuo’s shirt up slightly, revealing the bare skin of his lower back and hips.

Izaya was struck with a sudden idea.

Shizuo flinched as he felt two hands grab onto his hips, fingers curling into the skin in a manner that was unmistakably ticklish. His hand faltered on Izaya’s thigh as his lips tugged into a reluctant grin, a couple growled giggles escaping him.

“I-Izaya,” he threatened, still holding onto Izaya but doing little else besides that. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.”

“Why?” Izaya teased, scratching his hips once more and feeling the man shudder beneath him. “Feeling a bit nervous now that the situations have reversed?”

“I’ll drop you,” Shizuo threatened.

“I’m not worried,” Izaya dismissed, clearly having fun with the sudden power dynamic. “Haven’t you heard? Cats always land on their feet.”

“Mind if I test that theory?”

“Now, now, no need to be grumpy.” Izaya squeezed his hips again and Shizuo choked on a stifled giggle. “I get it. You can dish it out, but you can’t take it. It’s fine, really. I’ll just be using it to my advantage now, is all.”

“L-Like hell you are!” Shizuo stammered, attempting to pull Izaya off his shoulders. Izaya yelped, grabbing onto Shizuo’s hips for support, causing the man to stumble forwards, releasing him in one go. With a startled cry, Izaya tumbled off his shoulders, and Shizuo jerked around, just managing to catch him by the arm as he hit the ground. It wasn’t a complete save (and Izaya would be complaining about being sore for days after), but it did prevent him from slamming into the concrete.

Izaya stared up at Shizuo, panting a little, his gaze focused on the place where Shizuo still gripped his arm. With a cough, Shizuo quickly released him, straightening up. “Are you…” he started slowly, rubbing the back of his neck uncertainly. “Okay?”

Izaya blinked, at a momentary loss for what to say, before his usual smirk returned to him. “Of course I’m okay, dear Shizu-chan. More than okay, at that.” He clambered to his feet, dusting off his jeans and trying not to focus on how his tailbone ached from slamming into the ground. “Because now I know your weakness, locked away in my brain for all eternity. But don’t worry—I’ll only use it against you as often as you’ve used mine against me. Now if you don’t mind, I really have some important business to be attending to, and must take my leave. Farewell, my dear brute.”

He saluted the other mockingly, whirling on his heel and quickly walking away. Shizuo’s frown of confusion as he watched him go quickly transformed into one of irritation. “You bastard, get back here!” he exclaimed, taking chase after him. “Who said you get to have the last word, huh?”

Izaya laughed merrily as he sprinted ahead, the two quickly disappearing into the chaos of the city. No matter what happened, nothing ever really changed between the two. One info broker, one bodyguard, locked together in continuous battle.

And as Izaya rounded the next corner sharply, his smirk turning into something almost giddy from the chase, he found he didn’t really mind if it meant he could hold the beast’s attention for even a moment longer.

#tickle fic #fic request #shizaya #durarara #durarara!!#shizuo heiwajima #izaya orihara #tickling #fanfic #fanfiction #requests

60 notes · View notes

yandere-daydreams · 4 years

Note

Yo, if requests are still open, i don’t suppose you’d be willing to do something with yandere Jamil, even if it is just general thoughts and head-canons, to celebrate his birthday? 🎂

While I should probably avoid posting two birthday related prompts back to back, I can’t resist the temptation to lay out a few ideas I have about everyone’s favorite redeemed-but-unfriendly antagonist. Scarabia's just a weakness for me, in general.

Yandere!Jamil Viper Headcanons

TW: Kidnapping, Captivity, Physical Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Emphasis on Power Dynamics, Mentions of Injury, Mentions of Mind-Break.

~Jamil’s a caretaker, through and through. He’s a dozen other, less pleasant things, but he still wants to be the first person you run to, the first person you ask for help, the first person you can let yourself rely on, and more importantly, the only person you need. It’d almost be sweet, if he could stop himself from taking so much more than he bothered to give.

~He’s not the type to want to get his hands dirty, but he’s not the type to avoid it, either, especially when he’s come to care so deeply about someone so easily guided. He’s thorough, too, and what he lacks in charm, he makes up for in resolve. It doesn’t matter if his honeyed words fall flat, if his praise sounds more patronizing than pleasing, not when he takes every opportunity to prove that he’s the only person who’ll bother giving you anything at all, that he’s the only person who means it, even if you doubt he’s being as genuine as he’d like you to believe he is. But, it’s easy to trust Jamil. He’s not kind and he’s certainly not generous, so it doesn’t make sense that he’d lie to you. Why would he? You couldn’t be special enough to warrant that kind of effort. Or, you won’t think you are, not after he’d done working his way into your head.

~He’s not above using his Unique Magic on you during this period, either. He’d rather avoid it, but if he has to pull you to the side and ask you to do something a little mean to that friend of yours (the one that he keeps warning you about and the one that you refuse to distance yourself from), then so be it. And if you’re sobbing over another lost companion, another botched presentation, another awful thing you said that you just can’t seem to remember, then that’s just the price both of you have to pay. And you’re always so much more reasonable after you two have your little ‘bonding sessions’, so much more appreciative of everything he does for you. Bloodshot eyes and a few nights lost to crying on the shoulder of the only person who truly has the right to fulfill that position isn’t that bad, when you put it in perspective.

~Isolating you, turning himself into the center of your world, making you his before you can even realize what’s going on - that might keep him satisfied for a while. He’s possessive, if nothing else, and while having you cling to him voluntarily might be nice, he can’t let himself relax, can’t let himself calm down, can’t let himself indulge in the power imbalance he’s created until he’s the only person in your life, the man you attach yourself to because you have to, you need to, you’re too afraid to do anything else. The only difference your attitude makes is how gentle he tries to be as he takes you somewhere far, far away from anyone who’d ever try to help you. If you’ve been good and subservient, he might slip something into your drink, trick you into falling under Snake Whisper and give you the courtesy of waking up chained into a situation you won’t be able to change, but if you were cautious and suspicious and stubborn, he’ll let himself have a little more fun with it. Just imagine the look of your face as your closest friend binds your hands behind your back, gagging you if you scream too loudly and never trying to treat you with care, not when you refuse to come along peacefully. You’ll try to fight back, and you’ll fail. You shouldn’t be surprised when that becomes a lasting theme in your captivity.

~Jamil’s reasoning is simple, compared to the complicated, accusatory, over-done justifications other Yanderes from his dorm are willing to make. He’s been a servant all his life, he’s been powerless for all his life, and all he wants is something malleable and soft that will wear its collar and sit at his feet and trip over itself in an effort to please him, even if he does have to provide a few incentives, first. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still painfully attentive when it comes to your upkeep, but it feels more like a ply for dominance than an actual show of devotion. Sure, he’ll spend hours wrestling you into his lap so he can comb your hair, but when he goes on and on about how you probably wouldn’t be able to do this by yourself, the gesture loses its sincerity. He’ll take the time to feed you by hand, but he’ll make you feel like he’d be perfectly happy letting you starve if you don’t start cooperating sometime soon. He’ll dress you up in the finest silks, but any tear, any rip, any loose thread will become evidence of your incapability, evidence that you can barely stop yourself from destroying the things you like. It’s caring, but it’s far from loving. It keeps you alive, but it hardly makes you feel that way.

~It doesn’t help that he’s so strict. He’s not delusional, he knows that with his status and his history, he wouldn’t be able to slither his way out of someone discovering his… questionable love-life. Of course, you’re always restrained in one way or another, kept in an unused wing of the dorm or his own room, depending on how understanding Kalim is to his friend’s plight, but he wants you to be too afraid to run, too afraid to scream if there’s a chance someone besides your captor might hear. He’s not delusional, but he’s not exactly empathetic, either. In his perspective, he’s being lenient by just giving you a few cuts or spraining your ankle, a non-fatal wound despite what your whining might imply. He doesn’t take any joy in making you bleed, he’d rather have you begging for his attention or crying out the frustration he’s felt so many times, but he knows that this is necessary. He knows it a part of the process, even if he does get carried away, from time to time. It’s not his fault that you always seem a little more willing to let him hold you afterward. You just get so timid, sometimes. Some people might say that’s worthy of a punishment, by itself.

~It’s not all bad. He takes care of you and he tries to make you comfortable, when you behave. If you’re the good little lover he wants to you to be, he’ll be happy to treat you like exactly that - a lover. A lover that can’t exist without him, sure, but a living, breathing person who probably knows when they’d like to be held or attended to or kissed. But, that’s a privilege he can always take away. If you’re bad, if you treat him like a villain, then you shouldn’t be surprised when he starts to act like one. His punishments go from a necessary precaution to a display of sadism. Showing him affection isn’t an optional activity, anymore, not when the consequences for shying away from his touch are so painful. His treatment of you depends on your treatment of him… most of the time. He’s only human, you can’t expect him not to have his moments of indulgence.

~He just wants something he can own, something he can have and bend to his whims without having to worry about what anyone else has to say about it. You’ll let him have that, won’t you? I mean, he’s worked so hard, and he’s waited so long… The least you could do is break quickly, rather than force him to pry you apart piece by piece.

367 notes · View notes

mirrerover · 3 years

Text

Big Plans

“You know shit’s never gonna fucking change, right?” Jason makes to grab for his Zippo. Remembering Dick will happily remove his nuts from his waxed sack for even contemplating smoking inside Dick’s apartment, he stops. His fingers twitch with irritation, nothing like a little nicotine deprivation to start the day. “Gotham’s a gothic nightmare where corruption runs thicker than blood and Blüdhaven’s worse, somehow. Like looking in a funhouse mirror. Uglier. More warped.”

“I really do enjoy our little morning pep talks,” Dick replies, closing the last two buttons on his dress shirt before tucking the fabric into the waistline of his pants. In general, Jason would say he prefers the Kevlar-enhanced, ass-hugging suit Dick prowls the night in—but there’s something to be said for a crisp, white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, forearm veins on display. He doesn’t know how the Blüdhaven criminals are faring but, personally, he wouldn’t mind letting Detective Richard Grayson slap some cuffs on him. Let Dick work him over hard in a surveilled box until Jason cracks, raw and bloody under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“These fucking places,” Jason grumbles, tired and cranky from watching Dick getting ready to leave, all that warm, gold skin about to slip right out the door. “It’s not something anyone can fix. Nothing short of dropping a bomb on the damn place and razing it to the ground.”

Dick sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s getting longer, strands brushing the bone of his jaw. He’s no stranger to this; Jason and the trash he talks. Words pouring out of him sharp as knives, the blades full of blood. Just endlessly spewing shit.

“No point to it all, huh?” Dick leans a hip against the dresser, arms folded, eyebrow raised. There’s an ease to him that’s inherent; the way he owns his body, his space, every room he’s in. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to lure me back to bed.”

Jason thinks it over. Admits, “not originally,” and lets his legs fall apart slowly. Nude body lounging against cheap, synthetic pillows, he’s got Dick’s low-rent sheets strategically draped across his crotch, all tasteful and shit. Just like the Renaissance paintings cluttering the hallways of the Wayne Manor. None of the shameless, naked peacocking Dick gets up to after sex. No, Jason’s classy. Artful. The signature Jason Todd brand. “But are you feelin’ down to fuck?” he asks.

Dick throws his head back and laughs. Really fucking laughs. Eyes scrunched up and shoulders shaking, all charisma and beauty and warmth. Laughing like that, it’s suddenly easy to see how a group of metahumans chose Dick as their leader despite his lack of superpowers or how the Blüdhaven Police Corps would accept him as their own despite him being the ward of Gotham’s favourite billionaire asshole. There’s something about Dick like there’s something about Bruce. Something captivating and inescapable that would make you launch a thousand ships for them. Burn down entire worlds for them. Jason’s not sure Dick’s aware of that. And in a way, Jason thinks he understands the Joker better than Bruce ever could.

Dick’s laughter fades too slowly, and Jason would be annoyed but there’s a tightness to Dick’s pants that wasn’t there two minutes ago, and Dick’s always laughing. Joyful and happy. Like those are easy feelings to conjure and easy feelings to have. As if getting out of bed isn’t like crawling out of a dark pit every morning and as if life isn't like taking a suckerpunch to the gut, over and over.

“Wish I could,” Dicks says, and Jason swears he sounds like he means it. “But I got big plans today. Gotta save a city.”

“‘Save a city.’ Jesus Christ. More like go get shanked in the gut.”

Dick shrugs and slips on a watch. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

The other bats all have their day jobs. The Police Detective, the Socialite, the rising Tech Wunderkind, and Jason’s personal favourite: the Student. Jason derives no small amount of pleasure from knowing that Bruce and the Demon Spawn get to suffer through the worst of it. Like an ill-fitted suit, Jason hopes it pulls and itches every time they’ve got to slip their disguises on. It shows how removed they are from the rot and the grit and the filth of what is Gotham. The gore at the core of it all.

That’s where Jason lives, at its epicentre.

He’d fallen into it naturally, being a crime lord. It had been a logical first step when he’d come home, head full of green fumes and rage. He’s proud to say, he puts the organized in organized crime. Outshines even the worst of them in calculated vicious violence. The crime part of the job, Jason can admit he’s gotten more discerning about. There’s no peddling drugs to kids or bleeding junkies dry, no people traded like cattle, and he doesn’t like selling guns to the lowlifes clogging Gotham’s streets. So, he’s become a parasite instead. Infiltrates a crime organisation and eats it from the inside out till it finally collapses. Scraps the dead beast for parts and money.

It’s not something Jason talks about with this version of Dick. His shady deals, his underground moonlighting. Never with a cop like the one making his way to the bed right now, uniform tight over thick thighs and a sway in his hips that’s nothing less than sexual warfare.

“Try smoking in my bed again, Todd,” Dick warns, looming over him. He stops whatever threat he was going to utter, disrupted by Jason grousing at him to fucking let that go already. Perfectly pleasant, Dick does exactly that. Just stares at Jason with a face far too naked and utterly too fond. Something’s creeping under Jason’s skin at the sight of it—an itch he doesn’t know how to scratch, unable to decide whether he wants to kiss the prick or break his perfect face instead.

A little lower, there’s a bruise peeking out of Dick’s collar that looks like a handprint. Jason had put that there last night. Violently. Not even the fun kind of violent but the messy kind. The kind where something hunts Jason through nightmares and his body acts before his sleeping brain has had the chance to catch up—that kind of violence. Maybe a better person would wallow in the guilt and remove themselves from the situation. Not Dick and Jason. They just get better at hiding the batarangs and guns. The 200 pounds of well-trained muscle and murderous reflexes are a little harder to counteract but Dick’s no babe in the woods. Besides, Jason’s not exactly the first lethal bitch between Dick’s bedsheets.

Dick smiles. A teasing thing full of soft edges. “Mornings are hard. Aren’t they, Sugarplum?”

“Fuck you to hell.” Jason groans with feeling, hating the hard lumps of Dick’s mattress when he sinks back into them. “Just get lost already, Birdbrain. There’s no fucking point to you with your clothes on.”

“Nice to know I’m not completely useless.”

Jason wants to fight that far too favourable self-assessment. Would fight it, were he not half a pack of Lucky Strikes and three cups of coffee short of mustering the energy. Which is also the only reason he’s letting Dick press an off-centre kiss to his forehead. A shitty place for a shitty kiss from a shitty person, if you ask Jason. Very much Dick Grayson’s style.

“Try and behave, Little Wing.” Dick’s already moving away from the bed and shrugging on a jacket. “I really like this place. Got three South facing windows and none of the neighbours run a meth lab.”

“Prime Blüdhaven real estate,” Jason mutters darkly.

“Glad we’re on the same page.” Dick takes one last look at himself at the mirror, shoots Jason a tacky wink because his existence is a curse, and promises under his breath something that sounds suspiciously like I’ll be back or I’ll miss you. Another twenty seconds later and Jason hears the front door lock click back into place.

His day is wide open now.

There are things to do but there are always things to do. At any time, Jason’s got about forty things in various stages of motion. Always working on something. Someone. Bigger games than the one he’s running on Dick right now, lighting one up in his bed.

Blowing smoke up into the air, Jason decides that today he’s going to crack the safe Dick keeps behind the panel in his closet. Perfectly harmless, really. Just him fishing through some of Dick’s case files—maybe even solving a few, if he’s feeling charitable. And for tonight, there’s that Malaysian place three blocks over that does a better Rendang than anything he’s found in Gotham. Dick never shuts up about it. Like he’s never going to shut up about the cigarette smell seeping into the wallpaper.

Jason smirks. Solid options. He still has last night’s terrors painted on the back of his eyelids and the feeling of Dick’s neck under his hand but they’re slowly fading. And Dick’s got him covered, said he’d take care of the big plans, so Jason doesn’t have to. And next time, when Jason’s Dick and Dick’s Jason, he’ll have Dick covered too. Jason will tackle the big plans while Dick raids Jason’s fridge and leaves wet towels all over his apartment. Jason knows it’ll happen. It has happened. Just not today.

Maybe tomorrow.

----------------------

@wethatake thanks for being the beta and basically a co-writer. You suck but I love you. <3 Here’s to hoping that your sad little sack of a co-worker doesn’t kill you. XD

#jaydick #jaydick-flashfic #jaydick-flashfic: big plans #jason todd #dick grayson #mirre writes

66 notes · View notes

consumedkings-archive · 3 years

Text

WITCHING HOUR, a john seed/deputy fic.

chapter eleven: after you've gone

word count: ~12.6k

rating: m

warnings: canon-typical religious blasphemy, though it's in full-force here with joseph so i wanted it to be noted in the warnings. there are mentions of self-harm, both past and implied presently, and they're not treated very lightly. elliot is having a hard time.

notes: there's a lot of moving parts in this so i apologize in advance if it feels a bit slow, but everything felt really important to include and i wanted to make sure nothing got left out. thank you so much to my beta @starcrier who literally proofed this beast with all of the love in the world.

i won't ramble on too much, but i did want to say that the reception for the last two chapters really made my whole heart just explode and i wanted to thank you all! what an incredible experience it is getting to write these two gigantic idiots. <3

“I saw her. Our mor.”

Helmi cradled the phone between her shoulder and ear, scribbling absently on the side of the file she’d continued nosing through once she’d gotten back to the bunker. Like this, she felt far from Kajsa—farther than she had in the longest time. Maybe since they had welcomed her into the Family.

“Did you?” She stretched back against the truck’s seat, feet kicked up on the dash as she scanned the page, going over her own notes. Starvation, classical condition. On animals and people? In the back seat of the truck, Peaches rumbled her discontent at lack of attention; Helmi reached back and scratched her ears until the rumble turned into what she recognized as a more contented purr.

“Yes. She is doing well. Her color is just as Ase said, you know. Perfectly balanced. Poor John—I can see his suffering.”

Helmi hmm’d, the thoughtfulness matching the patient rumble Peaches had rewarded her affection with.

“Is Deputy Pratt behaving?”

“I should hope so. He has no reason to have any loyalty to the Seeds, outside of fear.”

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. Helmi was sure, in the very marrow of her bones, that Kajsa was smiling.

“And what did you give him, Helmi? To make him loyal?”

She considered. “A more impressive fear.” And then: “Also, I said I wouldn’t kill him.”

“That is just a more impressive fear bundled up pretty, my heart.”

“Mm,” Helmi replied in agreement. Whatever the case, she thought that Pratt had more to gain from fucking the Seeds over than he did by fucking them over—and that’s why Kajsa entrusted this sort of thing to her and didn’t do it herself, after all. If it had been Kajsa here, eyeing Pratt like a piece of lunchmeat, she’d have him drugged to the gills and barely aware of what was going on. Not being of use.

It’s why we make a perfect pair, something inside of her said, joy shared, joy doubled.

“Don’t rest on your laurels.”

Sorrow shared, sorrow halved.

Helmi sighed. “I’m not.”

“Keep putting pressure. I want them squirming, hjärtat.”

“I will.” She paused, sitting up in the truck and glancing out at the remaining members of the Family. Those that hadn’t given themselves a swift, clean death. After Kian’s face was crushed in, Kajsa had gathered them all and said, It’s going to be harder, from here. If you feel you cannot do it, if you think that you do not have the strength to answer our calling, then it is your time. We love you.

It had been the time for many. Morale had been—and still was—low. Ase’s death first, gut-wrenching and tragic, and then Kian’s; worse than the last. Worse, because while he had been grieving, while he had been suffering, he had still been their second-in-command. Meant to be infallible, even more so than Ase. He had been meant to carry them into their next life, after It was appeased. Contented. After It had turned the world to winter.

Now, more than ever, with only a handful of them left to huddle around their fires and sleep in the backs of cars, and kiss and laugh and hug each other in the inky black night, they felt like a ship adrift at sea.

Kajsa’s voice hummed in her ear, plastic and metal vibrating where it lay trapped between her head and shoulder. Helmi’s gaze swept away from the remaining Family members and turned her gaze back to the file. The Seeds were deeply rooted in this place—the tendrils of a tree that might be dead at the trunk but stayed for many decades after, if it wasn’t ripped out at the base.

“Did you hear me, Helmi?”

“No,” she replied truthfully. “I was distracted.”

“I am coming back,” Kajsa reiterated patiently.

“The others will be happy.”

“And what about you? Will you be happy?”

Helmi paused. She closed the file, dropped it back onto the dashboard and cranked the seat back so that she could stretch a little, her eyes tracing the tinny, ancient ceiling of the truck she’d lifted from Eden’s Gate. She exhaled, once, and then held her breath; closed her eyes, felt the ache of it between her ribs.

“I sense before me a lost lamb.”

“Not lost,” Helmi replied, her lungs tight. “Just—thinking.”

“Must I divine the dark cloud over your soul myself?”

She allowed her body to take air back in. “I wonder,” she murmured, “if it will be enough to appease the Father.”

“Do you wonder,” Kajsa hummed, “or do you worry?”

A moment of silence stretched. And then, the rich, melodic timbre of the Hierophant’s voice came through again, idle and pulled snug against her ear, like Kajsa was really right there again to say the words against her skin: “What will you do, if Staci Pratt defects despite your Machiavellian threats of harm so great he should never consider to incur it?”

“I don’t know,” Helmi replied uneasily. “It would depend on if he brought mor and the interloper, or if he just—”

“The answer, hjärtat, is that you do not know, because it has not been revealed to you yet.” Despite the interruption, Kajsa’s voice was pleasant and serene. Ever since Ase’s death, she’d been more tempered—like she was playing a role, filling a void. Helmi almost missed her cruelty. Like it was a creature comfort. “There is no use in wondering, because we will never know before it is our time to. We want for much. Whether or not we are given it remains to be seen. Our Father is a most...”

Her voice trailed off. Helmi tried to think of what words Kajsa might use; stringent, perhaps, ambitious, or even enigmatic—

“Wretched god,” Kajsa finished, a grin in her voice. “It does so love to watch us toil, does It not?”

“Yes,” she answered after a moment, because wretched resonated somewhere in her soul, somewhere in the marrow of her bones, reminding her why this had felt like home ever in the first place. Wretched, to watch them suffer, to give them so little information and let them suffer wreck after wreck.

In front of her, the dark of the forest swelled, breathed, reminded her: failure was not an option. Theirs was not a benevolent, forgiving God, the kind who would forgive sin if one only asked—the Father was wrathful, was vengeful, and would make them suffer their insolence and their ineptitude.

“I should get going. I imagine our mor will not be far behind, thanks to your ingenuity, and I want to be in Hope County to welcome her.”

“I am,” Helmi blurted out after a second of hesitation, “happy, that you’re coming back.”

There was a pause on the other end; and then, a soft breath, where Helmi thought maybe Kajsa was smiling again.

“Ingenting under solen är beständigt, my heart.”

The call clicked. Only empty air and static, then, buzzing faintly in the ear, the words dead in her mouth before she’d had the chance to say them back.

Nothing under the sun is lasting.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Elliot was going to be sick. Nevermind the morning-after-dread of realizing she had caved in on her most basest animal desires—What, the man who’s perhaps lied to you the most tells you he’s never thought you’re crazy, and you let him fuck you? Come on, Elliot,—but listening to Pratt ramble nervously into the phone about how he didn’t realize everyone was gone, nobody stopped to look for him, nobody tried to call, he thought she had left too and she had, where was she? Was she okay?

“I’m fine,” she managed out. Guilt ripped through her sternum, burning hot and shameful. I’m fine, Pratt, don’t worry about me. Got well and truly railed last night, it’s fine. Oh, also, I’m going to have a baby. And I’m married. Don’t worry, you found out about the same time as me, just off a few weeks. “I’m at my mom’s.”

“In Georgia?”

“Yeah.” Elliot swallowed thickly. “Are you okay? You sound like shit.”

Pratt laughed uneasily on the other end of the line. “I’m with, uh—I’m with them.” He paused. “The Seeds. And their—the lawyer lady.”

“That doesn’t tell me if you’re okay,” she reiterated, more firmly.

He laughed again. “I’m on the phone with you, aren’t I?”

Frustrating. They might all be looming around him, waiting to hear what she was going to say. It was a trap, of course. Jacob or Joseph had done enough digging around in her past to find out they’d gone to school together, had gone to school dances, had basically dated—and they knew she’d evacuated the entirety of the Resistance otherwise. They were clearly laying a trap to get her to come back. But for what?

“Hey, um—” Staci cleared his throat. “Ell, there’s—a lot of bad stuff going on. There’s these people, and they’re—they’re just killing people, left and right, gutting them and sticking them up and—Jesus, they fucking split Miss Mabel open like a fish, and I’m—”

Oh, there it was; the sickness, the violent urge to throw up. The Family was supposed to be dead. They had been killing themselves off in pairs after Kian’s death, weren’t they? Elliot blinked rapidly, trying to calm the furious beating of her heart, the way it slammed against her rib cage and demanded penance.

Calloused fingers swept her hair to the side and squeezed at the juncture between her neck and shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. She closed her eyes tight, willing herself to accept it for what it was—John, comforting her, because even now he knew her well enough to see she was spiraling.

I can’t, is what she needed to say. I can’t come back, Staci, I can’t, not me and not my baby, my hands are already covered in blood I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—

“—I’m so fucking scared, Ell.” Pratt’s voice wobbled on the other end, hitting straight at the fresh welt of guilt in her chest, ripping and tearing at it.

I can’t—

“I don’t want to be alone—”

I’m sorry I can’t I’m sorry—

“—I’m sorry—”

“I’ll come,” she blurted out, her voice hoarse, the burn behind her eyes and in her nose a threat of oncoming tears. She couldn’t stand it—couldn’t bear to hear him like this, when this whole time he was supposed to have been safe. She’d let him down, and while she had a responsibility to herself, the responsibility to the others had always come first.

And, better still, was the tiny, tiny fragment of hope that the dark-haired woman with a mouth like broken glass would be left behind, too. The dog with the man’s face and the strands of her hair glinting between Its bloody teeth would stay here, in Weyfield. It would wait for her, but perhaps there would be some peace there, too.

It waits for you, It waits for us all, It will have you. As It gives, so too does It take.

“Tell them I’m coming back.” Elliot bit the words out through her teeth. “And tell them if I come back and you’re hurt, or dead, or—if there’s anything wrong with you, I’m going to fucking kill them. Okay?”

“No need,” came Jacob’s voice over the phone. “You’re on speaker, Deputy Honeysett. We’re well acquainted with your particular brand of mania.”

“Great,” she snapped, feeling a vicious flush spread through her cheeks despite the fact that she didn’t feel bad at all for what she’d said. “You thought I was fucking manic before? I had nothing to lose, then. Imagine how much worse I’ll make your life now—”

John’s hand squeezed again. This time, she shot him a venomous look over her shoulder and shrugged him off. Elliot knotted her fingers in Boomer’s fur and prompted again, “Is that clear?”

The eldest Seed sounded like he was smiling when he said, “Crystal, Deputy.”

“Good.” She paused. “And don’t fucking call me that. I’m not a deputy, anymore.”

“Sure thing, hellcat.”

“Pratt—”

Jacob’s voice came again: “Have a safe trip.”

The phone call beeped once, twice, three times, and then ended. The hard knot of dread in the pit of her stomach did not lessen; she hit the redial button, and it went straight to voicemail. Again, and again, and again, her hands shaking as she thought wait, I didn’t get to say goodbye, I didn’t get to promise I’d be there, I’m coming Pratt, I’m coming please don’t be worried, before she shoved the phone into John’s grip.

“Call him back,” she demanded, “make him pick up the phone—”

“Elliot,” he began, “if he turned the phone off, I can’t—”

“Fuck you!” she snapped, coming to a stand and raking her fingers through her hair. “You fucking knew they had Pratt, didn’t you? You knew that he was still trapped there and he didn’t get out, and you fucking left him there, so that you could pull me back if it didn’t go the way you wanted—”

John stood too, setting the phone on the bedside table and lifting his hands. The gesture was meant to calm and soothe, see my hands? Here they are, no threat here, but all it did was make her angrier, stoke a fire inside of her that had apparently lain dormant since she’d left Hope County.

Elliot smacked his hands down. “Don’t treat me like some fucking animal, John.”

“I’m not,” he defended quickly, dropping his hands all the way back to his sides when Boomer barked twice, sharp and accusatory, hackles lifting. “I didn’t know Pratt was still there. I thought the Resistance had got him out, and I didn’t bother asking.”

“You should have bothered—”

“I’m just as displeased as you are,” John interjected dryly, the dark coloring of his tone implying that he was—but for perhaps a different reason. It struck her that he might, in fact, be so displeased because he was aware of their history, on some level. It did feel a little gratifying to know that he was squirming for such an insignificant reason.

“You fuckhead,” she spit. “You put a fucking baby in me and you still have the insecurity of a middle school boy.”

“We both know,” he replied tartly, “that our baby is not in any way binding you to me, Elliot. And is it so shocking, considering that the thing that I want most in the world is for you to come home, and you fight me at every turn—”

“Hope County isn’t my home anymore—”

“—but Staci Pratt calls you and cries a little into the phone, and you’re jumping at the bit to go back?”

“Fuck. Off,” Elliot bit out between her teeth, face flushing. “Pratt is my friend, which is more than I can say for you.”

“Right,” John agreed, “because you let the person you hate fuck you.”

Her mouth clamped shut, biting and swallowing back a wad of venom she thought might make her sick if she let it out. There was too much of it, the things that she wanted to say—fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou, I fucking hate you, you make me sick, if anything is wrong with Pratt I’ll kill your brothers and then I’ll fucking kill you too—but she didn’t say any of it.

Instead, she said, “Get out. I’m getting changed and we’re leaving.”

John sighed, passing a hand over his face for a moment like maybe he regretted what he’d said. “We can’t.”

She felt her voice spike, near incredulous hysteria: “Pardon?”

“Old Father Time of the Job Ineptitude mentioned he had Federal agents showing up out of nowhere,” he snapped. The words had her stomach twisting; her first thought was a tiny spike of happiness at the idea of Cameron Burke, and then it was quickly doused by the sharp reminder that she’d stolen his gun and ran with it. Because he thought she was crazy. Because he was going to put her behind bars.

John continued, “He seemed to be implying it was somehow related to me showing up, and by proxy you, and if we up and leave—”

“It’ll make it look more suspicious,” she finished, feeling a little numb. “Okay, so—what? How long do we have to wait?”

He scratched his cheek, his eyes flickering absently over the duvet on the bed, like he was trying to map it out in his own head. No doubt, he was trying to operate on multiple timelines—the timeline of Not Raising Suspicion, and whatever timeline Joseph had given him.

Some things really did never change.

“After your mother’s Christmas party,” he ventured finally. “It’s not quite Christmas—could look enough like we’re sticking around for enough holiday cheer to be passable before leaving again. Pritchard’s clearly not unfamiliar with your mother’s...”

His voice trailed off. He looked to her as though asking for permission to say something critical; when Elliot remained stonefaced and immovable, he finished, “...temperament.”

“Nice save.”

“Well,” he replied, humble as ever. “Anyway, that probably wouldn’t rouse suspicion. If it is Burke, and your house isn’t getting stormed right now, I have to think he’s here on unofficial business. Otherwise, why wouldn’t they just come and bust the door down and grab you?”

Elliot hoped that was the case. She hoped this meant that Burke was just trying to find her, and was not hunting her down at the behest of the government. If there was one thing that Joseph had been right about amidst all his doomsday-saying and whatnot, it was that according to the news, there was a big chance the government had bigger things on their hands. Bigger concerns than a tiny town in Montana and its cult inhabitants.

“Get out,” she said again. “So I can change.”

“You—” John sucked in a little breath, stopping himself from what was inevitably going to be stirring another argument; he lifted his hands again, this time in surrender. “Alright, Ell. I said you’d get anything you want, I’ll give it to you.”

“Chop-chop.”

“I’m going. Mind if I pull some clothes on before I walk out into the house owned by your mother, where she has almost assuredly been sipping her vodka martini since four AM?”

She felt her eyes narrow. “Fine.”

Turning, she crossed the bedroom into the master bath and shut the door behind her, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes until fine webbing scattered across the dark of her eyelids. This was the last thing she needed—and it felt, surely, traitorous and awful to think it, to think, this is the last thing I need, Pratt needing rescuing, when the only reason she’d felt comfortable leaving Hope County in the first place was because she thought the only people who were left were cultists.

Elliot dropped her hands from her eyes, blinking a few times until her vision cleared. In the mirror—much as it had been since coming back from Hope County—stood a girl that she thought looked like a stranger. Blushed cheeks and kiss-reddened lips, her neck littered with love marks, the healthy glow blooming up from beneath the WRATH scar on her chest, exposed by her loosely cinched robe.

That’s not me, she thought, pulling absently on a strand of red hair and swallowing thickly. I’m not that girl.

Her face was softer than before, more lively color rising up around her eyes and cheeks and mouth. More of her freckles had come out. There was a tiny, tiny—almost imperceptible—slope to her tummy, now, too.

Not me, came the thought again, more distressed this time, her brows pulling together at the center of her forehead. That’s not me. I’m not that girl. Who are you, pretty girl? Not me.

The woman and her dark hair—dark dark dark, like an oil slick, looming in the corner of her mind. Her mouth red as pomegranate and stretched like broken glass.

I hear stress is bad for the baby.

A knock came at the door. Elliot blinked, feeling unwell and unsure of how long she’d been standing there, her hand having dropped to cup the slope of her stomach experimentally. Women did that, right? When they were pregnant? Did it make them feel closer to the baby? Did it make them feel more protected?

Did she feel safer?

“Ell,” John said, nudging the door open, “your mother is...”

Pulling away from the door, she cinched the robe tight and busied herself at the sink, turning the water on. As he stepped into the bathroom, she could see John was now fully-dressed, freshly-showered. She’d been standing in front of the mirror trying to recognize the person staring back at her long enough for him to do that, it seemed.

“That was a quick shower,” she said briskly, splashing her face and rubbing absently at her cheek. She could feel John’s eyes on her through the mirror, even though she refused to meet them.

“I’ve always preferred it that way,” he replied casually. And then: “Get distracted?”

Yes, she thought, but didn’t say, because then the things he’d said last night that had made her feel sane and normal wouldn’t mean anything anymore. John would have said I don’t think you’re crazy and he’d have to take it back, because if she told him there was a stranger standing in her mirror, he would think she was crazy.

“It’s weird,” is what Elliot offered after a moment, trying to find a way to be honest and redirect, “to see a baby bump. Even if it’s small.” She cleared her throat and fished her toothbrush out of the holder. Continuing briskly, she added, “And the scar. I spent a lot of time avoiding it.”

John’s expression had done that funny thing that she supposed was softening at her words. He stepped forward; the ghost of his fingers trailing her ribs over the robe made her skin prickle with goosebumps.

“I’m not done being mad at you,” she warned him, eyes flickering to meet his gaze through the mirror.

“I know,” he replied, tone agreeable. “I just—”

The brunette paused then, waiting for her to stop him before he smoothed the warmth of his palm over her hip, across the expanse of her abdomen. It was painfully intimate in a way that didn’t imply sex—intimate, in the way that she felt seen, that she could see the relief coloring the edges of his expression.

John pressed his mouth to the back of her shoulder. “Just missed you,” he murmured after a moment. “Getting to touch you. Even just like this. Especially just like this—”

Something panged sharp and unforgiving in her chest. “Well, don’t get used to it,” she replied tightly, brushing his hand away from the baby bump after letting it linger for a moment. “And I don’t remember inviting you in.”

“Your mother was asking after you,” John said, by way of explanation, looking pleased from their little moment. Fucker. “She wanted to know if you’d be drinking coffee this morning. I think her exact words were, ‘Mr. Seed, would you ask my daughter if she’s going to take the risk of drinking coffee this morning? I know she shouldn’t be, with her condition—’”

“Ugh.”

“‘—but since we’re going to be picking out her dress for the Christmas party today, I could make an exception—’”

“Fuck me,” she muttered, wetting her toothbrush and putting the toothpaste on it. “Ask her if she can make it extra strong.”

“I’m actually enjoying being out of your mother’s ire for a minute.”

Elliot rolled her eyes. “No coffee for me.”

“Got it.” John headed for the bathroom door, and then paused again, turning to look at her. “Ell,” he began, “I really didn’t know—you know, about Pratt.”

That pesky little flutter of something agonizingly sweet—softness—in her chest flared again.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” is what she said, before she turned the toothbrush on and started scrubbing her teeth. That seemed enough of an answer for John, for once, because he left and closed the door quietly behind him after deliberating.

The minutes, and hours, and days—well, day or two—until they got back to Hope County were going to be something close to agony. She could only hope they had taken her seriously when she told them that she’d better come back to a Pratt in one piece.

I don’t want to be alone. Pratt’s voice echoed hauntingly in her head. She thought she could remember the sound of voices in the background—a woman’s, at least. Faith? Or John’s friend, Isolde? Surely Jacob and Joseph were there listening to him call her, too. She’d been so fucking stupid to let them get to her.

No, not stupid. Not stupid to want Pratt to feel safe, and like someone was coming back for him.

I’m sorry, she thought tiredly, as though the words could somehow get to him. I’m sorry, that it’s me you have to wait for.

I’m sorry that I won’t be the person you remembered.

I’m sorry.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“You did so well, Staci.”

Faith’s voice jarred him out of the weird pause in time he’d been marinating in. It had been just a few seconds, maybe—Jacob and Joseph were talking in low voices, the dark-haired woman standing at the point of their little triangle with her arms crossed and her brows furrowed—that his brain had shut off, the distress in Elliot’s voice echoing eerily in his head. She’d sounded so upset. He wouldn’t have called, wouldn’t have started to ask her to come back, if he’d known how much she didn’t want to.

But that wasn’t true, either. He would have called, because Helmi had said, Either the Seeds are going to drag her back by her hair kicking and screaming, and eventually kill her, or she comes back and we keep her safe.

‘Safe’ had been the keyword there. He didn’t know how much he could take the woman at her word, but considering everything—well, it was better than trying to take the Seeds at their word.

Faith’s hand touched the back of his, startling him into a tiny jump. He cleared his throat. “Um—I wasn’t...Acting.”

“Still,” she replied sweetly, “I know it must have been hard.”

She was so polished—skin all dusted silver and moonlike, flushed with a little high color in her cheeks, her blonde hair tumbling around her face loosely. In the chapel, the air was tepid at best, and frigid at worst, keeping a little pink in everyone’s faces.

It was strange to look at her now. Her hands were soft; her skin unblemished. Just hours ago, he’d been sitting in the car, noticing the same kinds of details about Helmi—about how human she looked, hand slung over a steering wheel, her cracked phone plugged into the truck’s stereo and her chipped nail polish and the scars and bruises littering her knuckles. The way she’d shot him a toothy, wolfish grin as she cranked the volume up and said, What, Staci Pratt, you don’t like Blue Öyster Cult either?

In comparison, Faith didn’t feel human at all. She felt like a dream.

“Can—” Pratt came to a stand, rubbing his palms on the tops of his thighs. “Can I go? Lay down, or something?”

Three pairs of eyes snapped to him. The dark-haired woman, who Jacob kept referring to as Sol, completely ignored his question and looked at the redhead to say, “Has someone checked him for head trauma?”

“I’m not—concussed!” Pratt snapped, his voice wobbling. “I’m just tired.”

Jacob’s eyes narrowed. He looked like maybe he wanted to say something, and then reconsidered, saying, “Dr. Hale will take a look at you and then sure, Peaches, you can rest.”

It took every ounce of his self-control to not tell Jacob to stop calling him that. He had to remember that as far as they were concerned, he hadn’t been taken in by the “other side”, he’d been sitting scared and meek like a good boy at the compound.

Pratt’s eyes darted, catching sight of the woman that Jacob gestured to with a free hand. Right. The Fall’s End vet. She’d been here for what—a little over a year? He couldn’t tell if she was being held captive by Eden’s Gate or if she was there by her own volition, though the few times he’d run into her before she’d seemed like a pretty even-keel person. Didn’t she have like, two degrees or something? What was she doing here?

He made his way to the back of the church, meeting the curly-haired blonde halfway. Definitely looked too clean to be a cultist. “You’re not a people doctor, right?” he asked uneasily, watching as her head cocked to the side and her mouth quirked in a bit of amusement.

“No, Mr. Pratt, I am not a people doctor.” She fell into step beside him, opening the chapel door for him. “But I do have first aid training, which I think is about as good as you’re going to get around these parts.”

“I didn’t get a concussion.”

“That’s good. When was the last time you ate?”

His mouth twisted in a frown, trailing after through the snow as the cold began to sink into his bones. She seemed awfully confident moving around the compound, if she wasn’t part of the cult. But if she was, what was she doing here? How did—?

Pain bloomed behind his eyes, a fresh headache sinking into his nerves. Too much. It was too much confusion, about Elliot (pregnant? And John Seed was with her?) and about the Family and about all of these—these people that he didn’t really recognize hanging around the Seeds. And the compound was so quiet. Where was everyone? Had the Family really taken that many of Eden’s Gate out?

“Mr. Pratt?”

The woman opened a door into a bunkhouse that glowed with golden light from within and radiated heat. Two long-haired shepherds lay on the floor at the foot of the bed, lifting long faces and peering at him with dark eyes. He stepped inside and cleared his throat.

“Uh, a day, maybe,” he replied after a minute. Taking a seat when she gestured for him to, he shifted uncomfortably as she set a first aid kid on the cushion beside him and pulled one of the wooden chairs up in front of him.

“And slept?” She blew a curl out of her face and opened the kit, fishing around to find some alcohol wipes and Neosporin. He guessed he was a bit worse for wear than he’d thought, initially; not that he’d been taking great care of himself, even when it had just been him and Dani. She’d encouraged him to stay high, not stay better.

Fuck, I’m such an idiot.

He let out a little hiss when she pressed one of the alcohol wipes to a cut on his cheek.

“The same,” he replied, reaching up and brushing her hand away. “What—what are you doing here, doctor?”

“Arden is fine.” She sat back, regarding him curiously. “I’m cleaning that cut, Mr. Pratt. It looks agitated.”

“No, I—” Pratt let out a little breath. “I mean here. In the compound.”

Arden stared at him for a moment, like she didn’t understand why he was asking her that question. She lifted her hand and arched a brow inquisitively; when he nodded shortly, she leaned forward again, balancing her free hand on his shoulder and using the other to gently dab at the cut.

“I’ve spent the last month or so holed up in my house,” she explained to him. “Me, and the dogs, I mean.”

A little smile ghosted over her lips, and despite himself, Pratt felt a wry smile tugging at his own. It was difficult not to feel relaxed, when Arden moved with so much surety. In the glow of the radiators ticking away and the warm yellow light, especially.

“Mostly reading. They had assigned one of the boys to me—Santiago. I think he’s John’s man. He doesn’t strike me as one of Joseph or Faith’s.”

Pratt made a little noise of agreement, because he knew exactly what she was talking about. She dropped the alcohol wipes to the side and reached over for the Neosporin, dabbing some onto her finger and then reaching back up to resume her work.

“Sorry,” he said after a moment. “That you got—stuck, I mean. Here.”

“Oh, you don’t need to apologize, Mr. Pratt.”

“I feel partially responsible,” he admitted, feeling some of the tension flee his shoulders. “You know, being law enforcement and all—”

“Hold still, please.”

“Sorry,” he said again. “I guess what I mean is—sometimes it feels like a real failing on our part. All of those people, I...”

He paused, and Arden leaned back, giving him a pat on the knee. “That’s alright, Mr. Pratt,” and her voice bloomed with comfort. “Where was I?”

“Up at your house, with the dogs and maybe one of John’s men.”

“Right. I wasn’t allowed to leave, you know, on account of the—” She gestured with an elegant hand. “Cult running amok.”

He nodded. “Cult number two.”

Arden smiled, and continued, “And then just a few days ago, after one of them started killing those folks in Fall’s End, Jacob came up to get me.”

The way she said it made him feel, a little uneasily, that maybe he was misreading it. Jacob came up to get me did not sound like Jacob came to pick me up because I’m his prisoner.

And then she said, “He was worried, you know. Only having a radio up there. I know how to use a gun, but I’d prefer not to, if I don’t have to, and—”

“Sorry,” he blurted out, “but are you—”

She blinked light eyes at him, almost owlishly, like she didn’t understand the question. “Am I...?”

“With? Them?” Pratt gestured towards where the chapel lay, beyond the bunkhouse walls. “The—Eden’s Gate?”

“Oh!” Arden laughed, almost sheepishly; he felt a nervous little laugh bubbling out of him too, almost hoping for the relief of her assuring him that she was, in fact, not in league with the Darwinian psycho that had spent the last few months mindfucking every resident he could get his hands on.

She came to a stand and pulled a bottle of ibuprofen and a granola bar out of the kit, dropping them in his hand.

“Eat the bar before you take the ibuprofen,” she told him, “or it’ll—well, I’m sure you know. Upset stomach, and all that. Do you want to take a shower?”

Pratt’s fingers curled around the ibuprofen bottle. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m sorry,” Arden replied, not sounding very sorry at all, “I guess I just thought it a bit silly. Who else would I be “with”?”

His stomach somersaulted, sinking viciously. Suddenly, the granola bar—which had certainly been sitting in the kit for who knew how long—looked even less appetizing than before. While his vision swam for a second, the woman carried on conversationally, as though she had not just revealed herself to—

Well, to be in league with the Darwinian psycho that had spent the last few months mindfucking every resident he could get his hands on.

“But—they think the world is ending,” Pratt blurted out, lifting his eyes to look at her finally. “And—doctor, all the people they killed, and—”

“Don’t strain yourself, Mr. Pratt. You’ve been under quite a bit of duress as of late, I think, and it would be best to try and keep those stress levels down.” She moved to the small pantry beside the bathroom, shuffling around and producing a few towels, leaning into the bathroom to set them on the counter. “Though, you do bring up a funny point—have you been listening to the news? I suppose you haven’t. I remember listening to the news before all of this business went down and thinking that the world had ended a long time ago. We were just a bit behind, all the way out here. Do you want to take a shower?”

Blinking furiously, Pratt searched his brain for the answer; he muddled through the disappointment raking down his spine, the delicate little hope that had been fostered at the prospect of finding someone who was kind and not under the Seeds’ thumb being crushed beneath the weight of the reality of his situation.

“Yes please,” he managed out, his voice hoarse.

“Alright. Eat that bar first, so you don’t pass out in the hot water. And Mr. Pratt?”

“Y—” He had clumsily ripped open the granola bar and shoved half into his mouth, the fear of being seen as disobedient when Jacob Seed was within radius flickering like a wildfire through his body. He swallowed thickly, the dry food feeling like it was sticking to the inside of his mouth. “Um, yes?”

Her expression colored sympathetic, Arden reached down and fished a water bottle out of the case, dropping it in his hand.

“The honorific isn’t necessary,” she told him. “Remember, Arden is just fine.”

“Yes ma’am,” he mumbled. “I mean—Arden.”

She smiled, this time with teeth. “Good. You holler if you need me.”

I won’t, he thought, even though she was probably preferable to anyone else coming to his rescue.

Maybe he really would rather be dead.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Scarlet insisted that John stay at the house while they went to the boutique. It was all a big show of his mother-in-law attempting, he thought, to be polite, though she failed miserably at it; and as much as John wanted to argue that it would probably be best if he came along—considering their late-night visitor—he could tell when a battle was a lost one, and when it wasn’t.

“Do you think you can do that, Mr. Seed?” she asked, pulling the objectively ostentatious fur coat around her shoulders and buttoning it. “Remain in my home for a few hours, without causing me any problems?”

He said, “I think I can certainly give it a shot,” to which the blonde rolled her eyes.

“Please do more than that.”

“Rest assured, I am fully capable of behaving myself, Mrs. Honeysett.”

He couldn’t wait to be rid of her. Every second he spent in her presence, being reminded of how little she liked him given how much she didn’t know about him—or care to get to know about him, anyway—he thought, I cannot fucking wait to get back to Hope County and the resurgence of the Family. I cannot wait until that is my only fucking problem. Anyone else and she would have been thoroughly cleansed; clearly, Wrath ran in the family. Just the thought of it made his fingers itch.

Elliot had looked tired already, standing at the door and letting her mother go first. As soon as Scarlet was out the door, carefully picking her way down the front steps, John’s hand went to Ell’s hip; her lashes fluttered at the contact, but she didn’t jerk away; only tensed, considering the act of balking and pulling away from him but not yet committing. So there had been progress.

Her free hand came to his shoulder, resting there uncertainly. “Please don’t do anything to my mother’s house.”

“As much as I would love to, I will refrain from my wretched impulses. I am a man of God, after all.” He grimaced. “Do you think she’ll like me more if things are immaculate?”

“Ha-ha. She certainly will not.” She paused, letting out a little breath. “Okay. Back in an hour.”

He felt a smile tug at his mouth. “Ambitious.” His hand drifted to the small of her back, and he said, “Ell, before you go—”

“John, I don’t—”

Elliot turned to look at him at the same time that he stepped forward, closing what little distance there was and rapidly; she blinked, and her eyes flickered to his mouth instinctively, like she was expecting it—like she’d gotten used to the affection when he closed in on her like that. The gesture sent a little thrill through his stomach.

Mine.

“Don’t let her stress you out,” John murmured, keeping his voice low between just the two of them. “You’ll look good in whatever you pick.”

She turned her face away, cheeks going pink. “What’s this, huh? Still trying to make up for being a complete fuckhead this morning?”

He grinned. “You really have gotten brattier.”

“Goodbye, John,” she said, and then he leaned in and kissed her; the connection made every part of him sigh, collectively, as though he’d just been waiting for it.

Waiting for her.

Yes yes yes, it all said when she didn’t pull away, his fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater at the small of her back as her hand slipped from his shoulder to his chest, yes, mine all mine.

Elliot did pull back after a moment, putting a bit of space between them—though it seemed more to catch her breath than anything else. She only pulled back enough for their eyes to meet; John’s gaze darted downward, watching pearly teeth as they tugged at her lower lip, worrying it there for a moment.

“To answer your question,” he continued as casually as he could, “that’s not how I intend on making that up to you.”

“So you agree?” Elliot asked. Her voice came out evenly, despite the color blooming underneath the freckles on her cheeks. “You were being a complete fuckhead this morning?”

“I did so miss our banter.”

“Bunny,” Scarlet called impatiently from the driveway, “the boutique is going to get crowded if we don’t get there when it opens.”

“I’m coming!” Her gaze darted back to him. “The best way to make it up to me would be to say the words out loud,” Elliot informed him as she inched toward the door. “So that baby can hear them, too. At least you’ll have been more honest around our child than with me, if we’re keeping a running tally, and we should—”

He tugged her back from the doorway again, lighter, more playful as he went in to kiss her a second time; but she pulled back, just out of his reach, hand planted firmly on his chest.

Elliot said, “I told you not to get used to it.”

“I’m not,” he answered lightly, “just taking what I can get.”

“Elliot.”

“Coming!” Elliot cinched her coat up more snug, closer to her throat and where the scar lay expertly over her sternum, and snagged the keys off of the counter to the beat-up Honda Civic John had lifted from Eden’s Gate. Right. He couldn’t wait to hear Scarlet’s input on that car ride.

The redhead made it down two steps before she paused, turning and looking at John and going, “Um, bye,” in a tone that was more sheepish than he anticipated; it was almost shy, and it caught him so off-guard that he didn’t even get the chance to muster a response before she was making her way across the snowy driveway.

“Drive safe,” John called, once he’d gathered his senses a bit more. Elliot glanced at him over her shoulder and then ducked into the car, closing the door and beginning to pull her way down the drive. He waited until they’d turned onto the freshly plowed road before he turned back into the house and closed the front door behind him.

Boomer had seated himself in front of the window, letting out a little whine as his tail swept along the floor.

“C’mon, furry sentinel,” he sighed, not risking putting his hand within biting reach. “Just you and me today.”

The Heeler whined again, apparently thoroughly displeased at this news, and stayed rooted at the window to watch for his girl to come home.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he hit the redial button on the number they’d gotten a call from that morning and waited as the phone rang, pacing around the polished living room. It rang enough times as he idly adjusted glasses on a bar cart that he thought for certain no one would pick up—and then the phone clicked, and a warm voice came through.

“Hi, John.”

He blinked in surprise. “Hello, Faith. How’d you get this phone?”

“Isolde passed it to me when she saw your call. She wanted me to tell you that she’s too busy to talk to you.”

A wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Sounds like everything’s operating as normal, then.”

“I suppose.” Faith paused. “Are you coming home soon?”

“I am.”

“With Elliot?”

“Yes, she—” John cleared his throat and made an effort to sound as unbothered as possible. “She’s very concerned about Deputy Pratt’s well-being.”

“We’re taking good care of him. Will you tell her that? Better than he’d be getting out there, anyway,” and she said the word out there with such a surprising amount of venom that John realized he’d nearly forgotten about the Family’s reappearance. Well, there couldn’t be that many of them left, could there?

And then Faith said, “A lot of us are dead, John.”

His hand went to the mantle for a little support as he leaned against it. There was a bit of a bite to Faith’s voice—almost accusatory. A lot of us are dead, she said, as he stood in the plush home of his mother-in-law while they went dress shopping for a Christmas party. It occurred to him that none of his siblings—nor Isolde—were aware of what they’d been dealing with the last couple of days; they must have felt like he was getting off easy.

“The Father says we only have a little while longer,” she continued, “and that if we can’t fix this in time, we won’t wait for you. He’s been alone, a lot. Talking to God. Praying for more time, for you.”

The words made his stomach wrench, a little. He would have felt worse if he didn’t know already that there was an exit plan in place, one that Elliot was already on board for. “We’re only here for another day, and then we’re leaving” John replied. “The sheriff mentioned some—Federal agents. I don’t want to rouse suspicion and bring them down on us again.”

“Do you think it’s Burke?”

“Maybe.” He pressed his forehead against the stone mantle. “Probably. No one’s come storming in yet.”

“I hope it’s him. I hope he follows you all the way back here.” And then, darker: “He has a lot to apologize for.”

John made a low noise of agreement. It felt good to have a conversation with someone who seemed to be on the same side as him, for once—no bickering with Scarlet, no bickering with Elliot, and no bickering with Isolde. As of late, it seemed he was only capable of incurring arguments; though that did seem to be changing quickly with his wife.

“We’re having a service soon. Did you want me to tell Joseph anything?”

“Ah, no, that’s alright. I just wanted to let you know we had a plan.”

“Do you want to talk to him?”

“No,” John said again, more quickly and with a bout of unease sprinting up his spine. “No, that’s alright. I’ll let you go. We’ll be home soon, okay?”

“Alright.” Faith’s voice lightened when she added, “Tell Elliot I said hello.”

Bad idea, he thought, but said, “Of course,” and hit the end call button. It wasn’t until his entire body relaxed that he realized he’d been fully tensed, waiting for some kind of verbal blow—and though there had been a few, he felt...

Fine.

I feel fine.

It was fine. Everything was fine. Joseph was praying for more time for them. They’d make it back without a hitch. And then, when the world ended, and took the remainder of the Family with them—

Well, that would be all the better.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“My children.”

The heaters rattled, clicking in the lukewarm air in a steady, mechanical heartbeat. Candles lit throughout the chapel drenched the members of Eden’s Gate in a strange, golden glow, and as Joseph’s voice carried all the way to the back where Staci sat between Jacob and Arden. He could see in the front row sat Faith and the dark-haired woman—who he’d come to understand was Isolde Khan, John’s old business partner—and there was a moment where Joseph’s eyes fixed on her before they lifted back to the congregation.

“God has truly been testing us,” the man continued, pacing away from the altar the front, hands folded behind him. “As you know, I have spent a lot of time in silence and solitude so that I might be the most open to receiving from Him. For the longest time, I thought—had we done something wrong? Had I led us astray? Were we being punished?”

An uneasy murmur rippled throughout the crowd. In the front, Pratt could see Isolde writing something down in a notebook; he wished he was closer, so he could see what it was—what was so interesting that she was taking notes now, of all times? What could she possibly be doing?

Preparing for the worst-case scenario, he thought idly, shifting in his seat. Jacob’s eyes cut over to him and he cleared his throat. The shower had done nothing to ease his nerves.

“But I’ll tell you—devout, and loyal, we have not been left to the wayside.” Joseph stopped, pressing a hand onto a woman’s shoulder, squeezing. “I have heard His voice. I have received His word. We are not only followers of God’s word—we are His soldiers.”

The noise that passed through the congregation this time was brighter, agreements—it must have felt good. Not just passive sheep, to be shepherded; soldiers. Capable of violence. And they were.

“We are His warriors.”

The woman Joseph’s hand was on was getting teary-eyed, and when he departed from her to sidle his way down the aisle, she all but collapsed in on herself, folding in half to bury her face in her hands. Another attestation of acknowledgment rippled around him, louder.

“This world is a wretched, vile machine, taking in and spitting out sin, flooding our garden with locusts,” the Prophet continued, his voice lifting in volume. “We are, my children, the only people who have the great fortune of seeing this—of knowing what no one else in the world seems capable of understanding. God has told me—”

Sick, Pratt thought dizzily, I’m going to be sick.

“—that a life of bliss awaits us, if we can only...”

Joseph paused, as though he needed to look for the words, as though he hadn’t been reciting this all day in preparation for the sermon; Pratt knew that he must, the assured cadence of his voice coming so firmly that there was no way it wasn’t rehearsed.

“...look past the dread, and the fear,” he continued earnestly, allowing his hand to be taken by another member, “because fear is the language of the Devil—if we can look past it, and dedicate ourselves fully to His cause, there is only happiness and serenity waiting for us on the other side of this.”

“How do we do it, Father?” a man to the other side of Jacob cried out, his voice a panicked fever-pitch. “How do we show Him we’re devoted?”

Joseph’s head turned. His gaze landed on Pratt, lingering before lifting to the congregant. “We’ve got to stop the machine.”

Optimism flooded the crowd. An easy solution. Stop the machine, like it was nothing. Like they weren’t dealing with a group of people who killed as easily as they did.

“Throw your bodies upon the gears, upon the wheels, upon all the apparatus,” Joseph intoned dutifully, pacing back toward the front. “Whatever it takes to bring the machine to a grinding halt. We can no longer passively take part in the End—we are warriors of God, and our divine right is not instinctively endowed. It is earned. And we will show that we have earned it by exterminating these interlopers invading our garden.”

Pratt’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Eden’s Gate members came to a stand around him; loomed in his vision; eclipsed what little murky light reached him. Cheers and applause rolling around in his head. He thought for sure he’d heard this all somewhere, before—

Oh, yes. And you've got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that unless you're free, the machine will be prevented from working at all! The irony of Joseph lifting lines from an activist’s speech was not lost on him.

A heavy hand gripped the collar of his shirt, hauling him to his feet. “Stand up,” Jacob muttered. “Good posture’s important.”

He steadied himself on the pew ahead of him. Amidst the chatter of the congregation, eventually quieted down by Joseph’s patience at the front of the chapel, he could hear renewed excitement. More life had been breathed into the peggies than he’d seen in a long time—well, considering that he’d only been here roughly a day, and the whole place felt like a ghost town even now, that was saying something.

“Please,” Joseph called lightly, “join me in prayer.”

Heads bowed. Pratt let his chin drop to his chest, but his eyes didn’t close; his gaze darted to his right, where Arden stood, hands clasped politely in front of her. Her head did not bow for prayer.

He was only vaguely aware of the words coming out of Joseph’s mouth, redirecting his eyes back to the floorboards beneath his worn shoes. Lord, we pray that you might show us guidance and wisdom in these uncertain times; show us how to be most like you, for only you are perfect...

Elliot was going to come back to this. She was going to come back to this, and he was going to have to figure out how to get her out of here without any of the Seeds noticing. Helmi had said, meet me out back, by the river, in three nights, but he couldn’t keep track. Had it been one night? Two? Less than one?

“I am your Father,” Joseph was saying. “You are my Children. Together, and only together, will we march through the Gates of Eden.”

A rousing amen echoed around him. They milled about, chatting excitedly—perhaps delighted to have a focus for their ire, for their agitation. The members of Eden’s Gate looked worse than Pratt remembered. Dirtier. Thinner. More exhausted. He thought that it must be nice to have a purpose—

Fuck me, not that shit again.

He filed out of the row behind Arden, and with Jacob behind him, following her to the front where Isolde and Joseph stood. They were speaking in low tones, bundled close together; she tapped her ten against the front of her notepad in what looked like an agitated tick, but he couldn’t hear what it was she was saying. By the time they were close that he might have heard, Joseph lifted his head from where he’d bent a little to speak closely and looked at him, smiling.

“It was nice to see your face in the crowd this day, Deputy Pratt,” he said, his voice warm. “Did you enjoy the sermon?”

Pratt opened his mouth, and then closed it. He didn’t want to play this game.

“Go on, Peaches,” Jacob prompted, clapping his shoulder.

The nickname sparked something angry inside of him, like dragging a match against the sandpaper side of the box. If there’s anything wrong with you, I’m going to kill them, Elliot had said.

Pratt turned his gaze to Joseph. “I thought the Mario Savio part was a bit much.”

A surprised, abrupt laugh barked out of Jacob. Joseph’s expression remained flat and serene. In fact, the only person who seemed to have any negative opinion about his words was Isolde, narrowing her eyes as she turned to look at him fully.

“We’re not exactly looking to hit notes with the intellectuals in the crowd, Deputy Pratt,” she informed him coolly. “They don’t care who said it first. They care who said it better.”

“Y—” Pratt swallowed. “Okay, well—”

“‘Okay, well’ shut the fuck up,” she snapped. “Or I’ll have Jacob take you out back and put you down like Old Yeller.”

“You can’t,” he protested quickly, “Elliot said—”

“Do you think I care in the least what some woman five states away said?” Isolde cut over him quickly, the elegant, soft roll of her accent a strange and unsettling juxtaposition to her words. “I’m getting this ship in fit fucking order, and that means I don’t need you inspiring dissent. Anyone with an opinion that is less than glowing, radiant, gorgeous—they get taken care of, whatever that means. Got it?”

Pratt closed his mouth tightly, until the pressure was beginning to build between his molars. I just have to make it until Elliot gets here, and then—and then I’ll—then I can get—

He took in a little breath. “Yes.”

“Peachy.” Isolde flashed a smile that was all-too-saccharine, and then turned to Joseph. “Let’s sit.”

“Of course.”

They departed to a pew just to the left of them. Jacob was grinning at him, wolfish.

“Thought about telling you she wrote it,” he said, “but that was much more entertaining.”

“You look pale, Staci,” added Arden, her voice light as it redirected from Jacob’s apparent joy at his suffering. “Maybe you should go lay down. I don’t want you straining any of those injuries.”

Okay, he thought, and maybe the words came out of him but he couldn’t tell; he couldn’t tell anymore, but he did want to go lay down. Lay down, and close his eyes, and sleep until Elliot got back.

He’d never been happier at the prospect of seeing an ex-girlfriend.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When they arrived at the boutique, Sylvia was standing outside, bouncing on the balls of her feet in what Elliot could only assume was an attempt to get warm. It was difficult, to focus on something as inane and arbitrary as dress shopping when she knew that Pratt was back in Hope County, dealing with God-knew-what the Seeds were throwing at him.

Well, the Seeds. And more. The Family, who were supposed to be dead, and—

I hear stress is bad for the baby. A familiar accent, wasn’t it?

“Well, are you just gonna sit in there all day or what?” her mother asked, having stepped out of the passenger side.

“Did you invite Sylvia?”

Scarlet sighed. “I thought it might be nice, for you.”

It was an unexpectedly sincere gesture on her mother’s part. She swallowed a thick emotion down, clearing her throat and managing out, “It—is, mama, thank you,” before she got out of the car and took the keys with her, heading towards the front doors of the main street store.

“Howdy, Freckles!” Sylvia greeted her warmly, throwing her arms around her in a tight hug. “Been a few. Wyatt’s still got your Jeep, he’s been runnin’ it a few minutes a day to make sure the battery doesn’t go bad.” She smiled brightly, turning to Elliot’s mother. “Mrs. Honeysett, you look mighty lovely.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Sylvia tugged the door to the boutique open, ushering them inside so that she could trail in after. The inside of the store was toasty warm, making Elliot regret having worn a scarf, but it was too late now—the coat and scarf combination were doing the work to keep her scar covered.

“I just love this place,” Scarlet sighed, shrugging out of her coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. “What do you think, Elliot? Maybe something blue. I’d put you in green, but with that red hair, you’d look like a Christmas ornament. Blue’s a nice winter color—very fashionable.”

“Sure, mama,” Elliot replied, brushing her fingers along the silk of one of the dresses. The last time she’d been in anything that blue and nice had been back in Hope County. At her “baptism”. The same one Burke had been dragged to, the same one that John had held her under for just a little too long for, maybe distracted by the Marshal’s arrival back then.

“Psst.” The sound of Via’s voice caught her attention, pulling her from the waking memory. The blonde had pulled what appeared to be the most atrocious Christmas gown that could have been looked at off of the rack, holding it up and lifting her eyebrows as Scarlet chatted enthusiastically with the store’s saleswoman.

“Stop it,” Elliot said, fighting back a smile. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, dead serious, Freckles.”

“It has mistletoe on it, Via.”

“How else am I supposed to fetch a husband, if not by readily-accessible entrapment?”

Well, she thought a little dryly, that is how John got a wife.

It was odd, to think of the moment with anything less than hostility—to have come to a point where there were things more pressing than a marriage that, in the end, might not matter anyway. John had said that he knew the baby didn’t mean she’d take him back; had acknowledged there was no guarantee. For once, he’d shown up in her life with every intention laid bare for her to see.

Maybe not every intention. But she’d root them all out, eventually, and pretend like it hadn’t become something of a game, to catch John in a lie and watch him squirm.

She let the boutique’s owner show her around, clearly making quite a show for her mother, and politely turned down any suggestions for a deep v or off-the-shoulder type of garment. Sylvia had picked out a few; most blue, some blush, a few red, and then loaded some into Elliot’s arms.

“Try ‘em on!” she chirped. “Yes, even the green ones. Maybe your mama doesn’t want an Elliot Christmas ornament, but I do.”

Elliot heaved a sigh, though it was only half-sincere—anything delivered with Sylvia’s bright, cheery smile, she was hard-pressed to feel anything less than good about. Maybe that was dangerous, to be so comfortable with someone.

Or maybe, she thought, closing the dressing room door behind her, that’s just how having friends are. You remember what that was like.

She did. As she undressed and zipped the back of one of the red dresses Sylvia had selected—thoughtfully aware of the fact that she’d want most of her chest covered—she regarded herself in the mirror. There was that stranger again, flushed cheeks and bright eyes staring back at her. A familiar nose shape, a familiar slope of her cheekbones—but the rest of her. Where had she gone?

With one hand she pushed the door open, the other one lifting the back train of the dress as little as she walked out. A grimace had planted itself on her face, even despite Sylvia’s elaborate applause at her appearance.

“Oh, bunny, you look darling,” her mother sighed, having turned to take a look. “What’s the matter? You don’t like it?”

“Not big on the sparkles,” she admitted.

“I like them. You’ve always looked good in red, though. That fair complexion of your father’s.”

Sylvia grinned. “Try on a green one. I wanna imagine how you’ll look on my tree!”

Elliot stuck her tongue out at the blonde, turning around and scurrying back into the changing room. There were a few more dresses—even a green one—that were in the running, but eventually, she’d settled on a floor-length piece, dark blue velvet and halter-topped to get the most sternum coverage. When she’d redressed and rejoined the group outside, her mother was beaming as she gossiped with the boutique owner.

“Elliot’s quite modest,” her mother said conversationally, “and she’s already married, you know.”

“Thank you, mother,” Elliot sighed, a little smile fighting its way onto her face.

“Whatever are you still wearing your coat for? Your face is all red.”

“I’m—” She paused, swallowing. “Still cold.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Cold? It’s eighty degrees in here. And your face is all red.”

Sylvia had glanced up from across the store, neck-deep in dresses of a warmer shade. Elliot could feel the eyes on her—her friend, her mother, the boutique owner—and she cleared her throat and tugged absently at the tag on the dress.

“It’s fine,” she said after a minute.

“Well, at least take your scarf off.”

“I think it’s a lovely scarf,” the owner tried, a little helplessly.

“Mother, it’s—I’m fine—”

But her mother moved too quickly for her to realize what was happening; her mother’s hand unwound the scarf with expert ease, and then froze, her eyes fixed on what Elliot thought assuredly was the little of her WRATH scar, revealed.

Her stomach rolled. Heat flooded her body, worse than before—it was the kind of sticky-wet heat that came with the threat of throwing up, the kind that crept up the spine and gripped by the nape of the neck. Elliot felt her lashes flutter; she dropped the dress abruptly and yanked the scarf out of her mother’s hands to wind it securely around her neck again. The boutique owner had quickly turned to the clothing rack, as though something very emergent had occurred on the inanimate objects.

Stupid. She was so stupid. She should have just worn a sweater. She shouldn’t have looked at her scar that morning and thought, maybe it is something to love, she shouldn’t have ever risked the chance that her mother would see it, stupidstupidstupid—

“My God,” Scarlet said tightly, the tone of her voice washing Elliot with shame. “What did you do?”

I’m sorry, she wanted to say, automatically. Mama, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m not good anymore, I’m not—

“Phew, I sure am dressed-out,” Sylvia announced, having come over. “I’ll have to go home and weigh my options. Ell, you wanna head outside for some air?”

“I think that’s best,” her mother replied curtly, before Elliot could even think to formulate a sentence. “I’ll finish up in here.”

She thought about trying to say something—trying to explain, maybe, what it was that had happened. But how could she? Her mother had suffered through the years she’d inflicted pain on herself, after daddy and after Mason, and she had told her mother she was better, now. Healed. Good. What could she say, to make it alright?

Because there was no world where she could say, I didn’t want it, and mean it.

Via’s hand fit snugly in hers, tugging her lightly out through the front door of the boutique onto the street. It wasn’t until she took in a lungful of cold, dry air that she realized she’d been holding her breath; her lungs ached, her head swimming, and she was gripping Via’s hand too tightly.

“Hey,” Sylvia said softly, “s’okay.”

It’s not, she thought miserably, it’s not okay, I’m not okay, I want to go—

Where? Where could she go?

I want—

Nowhere? Anywhere?

—to go—

“Home,” she managed out unsteadily, “I should go home—”

Sylvia gave her hand a squeeze. “You want I should give your mama a ride back to the house?”

“Yes.” She swallowed, sniffing. “Yes, please.”

“Okay, Freckles. Sure. You just—maybe you just take a little drive for yourself, collect your thoughts.” Via paused, and then leaned a little to catch Elliot’s eyes; though her vision blurred from the threat of tears, the blonde still smiled a little. “You gonna be okay all by yourself?”

It was a strange question to ask, but Elliot knew what she meant. Are you safe? Alone?

“Yeah,” Ell replied in a thick, watery mumble. “I am.”

“Okay. Can you give me a call when you get home?”

She nodded weakly. Via pulled her into a hug, tight and gentle all at once, enough to make the dam break; just for a little, just for a minute, the tears streaked down her cheeks and caught up in the fabric of the scarf where it wadded against her jaw.

My God, what did you do?

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, pulling back and sucking in a sharp little breath. “Um, I’m really—s-sorry—”

But Via shook her head firmly and brushed some of the hair back from Elliot’s face, wet from her tears. “Don’t apologize. Go get a little breather.”

She fished the keys out of Elliot’s pocket for her, putting them in her hand and hesitating.

“Promise you’ll call,” she reiterated.

Elliot nodded. “I—I promise.”

“Okay. No take-backs.”

“No take-backs.”

Via gave her another hug before ushering her towards the car. As she climbed in and turned the key, her hands shaking, she thought about the way her mother had looked at the scar—with disgust. Horror. Shame. Via hadn’t looked at her like that, when she’d seen it. She’d seemed embarrassed, at having put Elliot in such a position; but not like that. She hadn’t looked horrified.

John didn’t look at it like that. He’d spent a lot of time last night, tracing the shape of the scar with his eyes, with his mouth, reverent and adoring. Makes you hungry, doesn’t it?

At least leaving would be that much easier.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

They came back separately.

When John heard the front door open, he’d been starting a pot of coffee in the kitchen. He poked his head around the archway to look out in the foyer, only to find Scarlet standing there, furiously unbuttoning her coat and dropping her gloves into the drawer. Two dress bags hung on the coat rack.

“Ell outside?” he asked casually, coming around.

“Certainly not,” Scarlet replied tartly. “She’s—”

And then the woman let out a sigh, closing her eyes for a moment—for the first time, Scarlet Honeysett looked to be composing herself, which he thought she was nearly incapable of losing sight of. It seemed even the impenetrable armor of the Honeysett matriarch had its own weaknesses after all.

His tiny little thrill at the sight of Scarlet looking troubled was short-lived, however, because she said, “My daughter walked into the boutique sporting this—wretched scar—”

Oh, he thought, suddenly.

“—never been so humiliated in my whole life—”

Oh, no, because he knew exactly what she was talking about and Elliot would be—

“—have no doubt, Mr. Seed,” Scarlet bit out viciously, “that scar is new and you have certainly not influenced her away from such activities.”

He needed to find Elliot. She would be distraught; why hadn’t she come home with her mother? And why wasn’t Scarlet more pressed concerning her daughter’s well-being?

“And where is she?” John asked, ignoring the stinging anger bubbling in his chest. Wretched scar, she’d said. Like it wasn’t beautiful. Like it wasn’t gorgeous. Like he hadn’t spent a whole night looking at it, running his hands and mouth over it, knowing that Elliot had looked at him and wanted it and trusted him and if there was something more devoted, it was carrying someone’s child. “Elliot? Where is she?”

“Taking a moment to regain her senses,” the blonde replied sharply. “She has vowed to be home soon. Mr. Seed—”

He had gone to reach for his coat, pausing at her words and looking at her expectantly.

Scarlet twisted the gloves in her hands for a moment, her brows pulling together.

“I just think,” she finally said, “that as her husband, you are responsible for her as much as I am. You have to be taking care of her when I’m not around.”

“I do,” he replied.

“Evidence says contrary,” Scarlet snapped. “She has come back to me with more—damage—”

The sound of a car pulling up outside snapped John’s attention elsewhere. He knew that if he stayed much longer in the conversation, they would be leaving sooner than what they had planned, if only because Scarlet wouldn’t tolerate him in the house for the things that he wanted to say to her. Damage, he wanted to say, that is only as bad as it is because it’s compounding on your incessant need to brush aside her problems like they’re nothing, like she didn’t need help then.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, pulling his coat on and opening the door. The rush of cold air bit at his face and hands; Boomer came rushing out around his legs, springing down the steps and hurrying to the driver’s side of the Honda. John was only vaguely aware of the door closing behind him—and it didn’t matter, anyway.

She didn’t open the door when Boomer got there, scrabbling at it for her eagerly. She kept her hands on the top of the steering wheel and pressed her forehead into it, the engine ticking as it cooled. When John got there, he reached for the door handle to tug it open. Elliot hit the lock button.

“Ell,” John said, “open the door.”

She lifted her head tiredly from the steering wheel. Where her hand sat over the lock button, her fingers trembled a little, and her face was flushed—not with health, but with the sickly red of feverish, panicked crying.

“Baby,” he tried again, a little more urgently, putting his hand on the glass of the window, “Boomer wants to see you.”

Elliot’s eyes were fixed on his jacket. “Would you—” She stopped, her voice muffled by the glass, and then she took a deep breath and said, “Would you even be here if I wasn’t pregnant?”

“What?” John blinked at her.

“If I didn’t have the baby,” she tried again, her voice thick and watery with unshed tears, that pouty lower lip trembling, “would you have even come for me?”

He stared at her. It had never occurred to him, that there might be a world in her head where he didn’t come for her, where he didn’t find her, where he didn’t try and bring her back.

“Of course I would,” John said, drawing her eyes to him. “I love you, Elliot.” And then, more urgently: “I love you, with or without the baby.”

She looked away from him, then, staring out the other side of the window, fingers curling uselessly against the steering wheel even as the keys lay in the passenger seat—like she wanted to run. Like she wanted to floor it, and go somewhere, anywhere.

“Open the door, Ell.” He swallowed thickly. “Won’t you?”

The door lock clicked. He tugged at the handle and it opened with ease, Boomer instantly shoving his face into Elliot’s side and whining, tail wagging so furiously his whole body moved with it. John pushed the door open the rest of the way and reached for her, and her hand caught his wrist and pulled, and she buried her face into his chest and trembled like a leaf in a breeze.

“I’m so tired,” she moaned miserably into his chest, hiccupping with grief, “I want to go home.”

John wrapped his arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head and keeping her tugged close.

“I know,” he said. “We’ll go. We will, I promise, Ell, okay?”

“Please—” The redhead pulled back to look at him. “I can’t—you can’t—lie to me, anymore—”

“I know,” John said again, a little helplessly, brushing his thumb across her cheekbone. She was clutching him so tightly he was sure her nails would leave marks on his skin, even through the fabric of his clothes.

“I won’t.”

#far cry 5 fic #fc5 fic #ch: elliot honeysett #ch: john seed #john seed/female deputy #fic: witching hour #john seed x female deputy #my writing #otp: death keep off; i am your enemy #this chapter is about as long as the last one but also feels so much: bigger #thank u to everyone who reached out to me for the last two chapters it literally !!!!!#makes my whole fucking day #when i get feedback or even just to chat with some of y'all #*smooches u*

20 notes · View notes