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#is it an unhealthy way to think. yes a little. but it makes sense in a way. we as humans crave the mortifying ordeal of being known

hollowwish · 3 months

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I like treebark but whatever Martyn has about Ren has to be some degree of unhealthy. Which is why I love it. In canon and fanon. The undying loyalty went a little overboard me thinks. He's quite literally the only one still stuck in 3rd life. I think betraying the Red King would've ruined him emtionally for the rest of time and he never would've recovered. Like im saying he would DO IT but it would fundamentally change him as a person and make all his friends really worried about his mental state. He made his boyfriends banner and tied it around his waist and killed his own qpp (scott) in it. He joked about beheading bdubs black heart alter style. He made a fucking dog house to live in and dragged his other ex/best friend/whatever Jimmy is to him into running around and barking. I think if their characters ever interact again hes actually going to fucking lose it. Losing Ren was a loss of comfort. Im suprised the watchers haven't used Rens absence as a physiological torture method yet. Like he's a bit obsessed in the bad way and probably needs to move on a little but I think but that's okay. Can you blame him.

#Ren is also a little obsessed in the unhealthy way but he just hides it better #Like Ren could get a new bf and be normal about but still miss Martyn like crazy #But Martyn would get a new bf and not be normal about it and lament about Ren and compare everything to him and miss him so bad it's hurts #But it'd be all in his head and the new bf would just think he's really good friends with his ex or he's cheating because they keep getting #All touchy right infront of them and everyone else they know #Am I making sense #ren posting #treebark #trafficshipping #Yes I am writing something like this. Why r u asking. Yes I did reread the doc for it again. What about it.

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bucks-babe · 25 days

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More to Love

Pairing: Bucky x f!reader

Summary: Bucky wants to take care of you in every sense of the term; so what if you gain a bit of extra fat because of it?

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Slight angst, mentions of past relationships, kind of told in flashbacks, shitty ex boyfriend who forces reader to lose weight (not Bucky), Bucky is so in love it hurts, Bucky takes care of his woman, body insecurity, weight gain because of a healthy relationship, smut, CMNF (only for a little bit), looking in the mirror while on Bucky’s lap (yes, that needs a warning), crying during sex, daddy kink, soft!dom Bucky, so much fluff, no use of Y/N, Bucky calls reader love, p in v, unprotected sex (don’t do that), implied creampie, Bucky loves his girl’s tummy, emotions.

A/N: This is NOT fetishizing weight gain, nor unhealthy habits. Bucky is not forcing the reader to gain weight to make her attractive to him; he loves his girl at any weight and just wants to take care of her. I made this fic because I want to feel like the parts of my body that I’m insecure about can still be desirable. Also this turned out way softer than the drabble, but there is still smut going on. Thank you to the amazing @buckys-wintersoldier for beta reading; however, any and all mistakes are my own.

Ever since you started dating Bucky, you have noticed how different he is compared to your previous partners. Not just because he is a 6 foot something brick house, but also in the way he treats you. You’ve never experienced such raw and untamed love directed solely at you, or the way his eyes seem to bore into your soul, memorizing every quirk and tick you possess. It’s almost overwhelming how much he loves you.

Never before have you felt so comfortable in a relationship. Previous boyfriends never really felt like boyfriends, rather personal trainers. Maybe you were bad at picking them out, but your last partner was a gym rat, constantly obsessing over what he was eating and how many hours he put into the gym that week. The obsession he had for the gym followed through into your relationship. If you wanted to spend time with him, it had to be at the gym.

He would construct fitness plans for you, saying that the softness of your stomach needed to go to make him happy, and you let him. You don’t know why you let him weasel his way into your head, but he did. Eventually, it went past the gym, and he would only allow you to go to a certain restaurant to eat because the others had way too many unhealthy options, side-eyeing you for ordering a side of fries instead of a salad. Cooking at home became a battle since you weren’t supposed to eat anything fatty or fried, nothing you did was ever good enough for him.

Over the course of that relationship you did end up losing the extra weight you had, but also weight that you didn’t need to lose, and soon you were “too skinny” and “didn’t have enough meat on your bones for him.” He left you soon after - over text. It was something along the lines of, “I wanted to see if I could make you attractive, but you don’t look good, fat or skinny.” It crushed you. The man that you thought you were in love with, and who loved you, broke your heart. You never gained the weight back, hoping against hope that he could come back and realize he was wrong about you. He never did.

It took you a long time to get over that piece of shit, but what he said about your body never left - you were still terrified to gain weight. But then you met Bucky, and for a while you forgot about that asshole. You had the sweetest, sexiest, kindest man that you were able to call yours, so why would you even think about your past? It started so slow you didn’t even notice until it was too late.

You groaned, stretching out in bed, arm reaching out for your boyfriend, only to find his side of the bed cold and empty. Squinting, you try to open your eyes, sunlight forcing them to close. After a few tries, you get them open and look at the time - 7:19. Bucky must be back from his morning run. Searching the floor for his henley, you walk into the kitchen to find Bucky cutting up your favorite fruit in a bowl, shirtless. The both of you know that he can hear you walk up to him, hell he probably heard you the moment you woke up, but he humors you when you wrap your arms around his waist, resting your head on his shoulder as he jumps in surprise.

“What’cha doing, honey,” you murmur into his back, peppering it with kisses.

“Makin’ something to eat after runnin’ with Steve all mornin’. Hope I didn’t wake ya up, Love.” You feel the shiver that shoots up his spine at your touch.

“No, I was just about to get up anyway, just so happens that I woke up to this sight.”

Bucky turns only his head to look down at you, a crooked smile adorning his scruffy face, “And you can wake up to it every day. Now how about you go sit your pretty little ass down on the couch and get our show ready? I’ll be there in a minute.”

You place a chaste kiss to his cheek before slapping his ass on the way out earning a glare from him. Bucky knows that you don’t eat in the morning but he has devised a plan because you not eating in the morning will follow to you only eating at dinner tonight.

You hear his heavy foot fall as you’re getting comfy on the couch only for him to pick you up and rest his back against the arm of the couch, setting you down in his lap, his chest to your back. He ignores your squeals and settles down.

While you are watching your show, Bucky is watching you, and before you know it, a piece of pineapple is passing your lips. Chewing happily, you don’t even notice that Bucky has you eating until the deep rumble of ‘good girl’ is whispered in your ear. A deep throb settles in your core as you continue to eat each piece he puts in your mouth, desperate to hear his praise again and again.

That was how it started, Bucky feeding you in the mornings. But it slowly progressed from that. He was always making sure that you’ve eaten your three meals a day, no if, ands or buts. You were an Avenger after all so of course you needed to eat to stay healthy with all the missions and training you go through. Bucky noticed the pudge on your belly coming back way before you did.

“Love, what is this movie even about? I’m so confused.” The smile in his voice was impossible to miss. With him against the headboard and your back resting against his chest, you couldn’t see his face. Whatever explanation you gave, Bucky didn’t hear a word of it. As you repositioned in his lap, you sat up, just a bit, but his hands on your stomach felt it, the small bit of fat soft and warm in his hands.

To this day you have no idea why Bucky stripped off both of your clothes and pounded you for hours, but he did, and that little bit of soft flesh made him go a little crazy.

During this time you didn’t even realize that you were gaining your weight back because for the first time since you met your last boyfriend, you had so much more energy. You didn’t need extra naps throughout the day, or feel dead tired after doing absolutely nothing. Now, your body had enough nutrients to function properly, the hump of your belly was there because you were healthy. You’ve had it all your life, nothing getting rid of it. To you it made you feel like you were fat, but to Bucky, oh, it showed him that you were a strong, healthy woman.

Everyday after training, you would boast to him about how much better you’ve been doing in training, claiming Natasha said so. Of course you have always been a very capable agent, but now that you had enough fuel to support the vigorous Avenger training, you’ve been doing better than ever, and Bucky couldn’t have been more proud; however, it all came to a head when you finally caught on to your weight gain.

Fresh out of the shower, you head over to your closet. It was no special occasion but Bucky being the perfect boyfriend that he is, wanted to take you out on a date, just because. After finding Bucky’s favorite pair of lingerie and putting them on, you huff. You don’t remember the bottoms feeling so tight. You passed it off however, thinking that maybe you did something to them in the wash.

But what you couldn’t ignore was how your favorite dress wasn’t fitting. It took way too much wiggling to get it past your hips and waist. What really set you off though, was that you couldn’t zip it. Already too tight on you before zipping, now you couldn’t get the damn thing to move more than an inch. Looking in the mirror you found the reason why the zipper refused to move. The small pocket of fat on your tummy that you thought you got rid of, was back, and larger than it ever was.

Turning to the side, you saw just how much it was coming out. You could’ve sworn you were a few months pregnant. How could you have missed this? It took a while, but you got the dress off so you could investigate the fat on your stomach. Gasping, you tried to suck in, in the hope that it would disappear. It didn’t.

Tears sprung in your eyes. How could Bucky find this attractive? Why hasn’t he said anything about this? How could you let yourself go like this? All these horrible thoughts raced through your head, before you heard Bucky’s sweet voice through the door asking if you were ready.

All of those little moments lead you to where you are now, standing in front of your mirror crying, while Bucky patiently waits on the other side of the door, thinking all is right with the world, as yours is falling apart right before your eyes. Before you can hide yourself, Bucky opens the door. Immediately, you move to cover yourself up, disgusted with the shape of your body hoping that he doesn’t look at what you can’t cover. Bucky, however, looks directly into your eyes first, seeing the pain and tears.

In two steps he reaches you and his strong arms envelop you, hands running up and down your back. “Love, what’s wrong?” You only bury your face in his chest further. He walks back to the bed, pulling you in his lap as he sits. Your naked body pressed up against his fully clothed one. Bucky’s right palm slides down your back and he tries to squeeze your waist when you jerk away from him.

“No! Don’t touch me there!” Bucky feels his heart crack in his chest at your repulsion, not understanding why you don’t want him to touch your waist. He doesn’t let you leave his lap however, keeping you in place.

“Why, Love? What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything. Look at my stomach, Buck!” You bite back another sob when he does, confusion written all over his face, not understanding what you’re trying to convey. “It’s FAT!” You all but scream, failing at trying to escape when his arms pull you down once again.

“Love…” He gets cut off by another sob falling from your lips. Instead of trying to talk you down, Bucky brings your lips to his and keeps your head in place. The only movement is the wobble of your lower lip as you try to contain your sobs.

A few minutes pass by before Bucky can’t stand it anymore, and he tilts your head and moves his lips. The kiss tastes of your tears but neither of you care. Clawing at his back, you try to get closer to him, wanting him to consume you.

When his hands trail down your sides, you pull away. Strong arms spin you around, naked back to clothed chest. The warm palm of his right hand forces you to look at yourself in the mirror.

“Buc..”

“No, Love. Look at how fucking sexy you are.” With his right hand still holding your chin, his left trails down your body, stopping over the swell of your tummy. “So goddamn pretty, you know that?” He whispers in your ear, kissing down your neck, cock twitching under your ass.

He spreads his legs, forcing yours to open as well and he groans deep and long at the sight of your pussy. “God, Love, don’t you see how pretty you are, so soft and strong and all mine.” You try to pull away, the feeling of looking at yourself too much, but Bucky’s strong hands don’t let you move an inch. “Feel what you do to me? Feel how hard my cock is?”

It’s too much, all of it. His praise, his touch, the sight of you. More tears well in your eyes and a pitiful whine leaves you. “Can’t, Bucky. I-I…” You have to close your eyes; you can't look at yourself any longer.

“Shhh, Love, you can, baby. Let Daddy take care of you. Let him show you how pretty you are. Open your eyes for Daddy.” At his request, you open your eyes, only to find his already on you. With tears still pouring from your eyes, Bucky wipes them away before laying you down on your back.

If there was anyone who knew your limits better than yourself, it was Bucky. He knows that having you look at yourself right now would only do more harm than good, but showing you how much he loves you is a whole different story. Before laying down with you, Bucky takes his clothes off, needing to feel you against his bare skin. “I love you so fucking much, you know that? Never met a stronger,” Bucky plants a kiss on your cheek, “more beautiful,” another kiss, “smarter, sweeter, perfect woman in all my life.”

With each kiss you can't tell if your erratic heart is slowing down or speeding up. This is such a foreign feeling for you, such unbridled love. Your head falls deeper into the pillows, Bucky’s scent enveloping all your senses, and you can’t think properly, your brain feeling fuzzy at the heedy stare Bucky is giving you.

“Daddy, I don’t, I can’t.” You don’t even know what you are trying to say, words no longer coming to you, but Bucky does, he always knows what you need.

“I know, Love. You just need Daddy to make you feel better, make you see how perfect you are for him.” Wrapping his arms around your back, he pulls you in closer to him, both of you gasping when his hard cock presses up against your naked core. Without thought, you grind your hips up, chasing the friction of his silky skin.

“All those tears, and all you wanted was Daddy’s cock, huh? Just want Daddy to fuck you dumb, turn that little brain off for you? Don’t worry, Love, Daddy’ll take care of you.” You wrap your arms and legs around him, pulling him closer, not leaving any space between the two of you, the hard planes of his abdomen pressed against the soft swell of yours.

Bucky doesn’t wait for you to beg, he can’t, not now, he needs to be inside of you, lining himself up, he pushes in, inch by perfect inch.”Shit, Love, you feel how perfect you are for me?”

Your lips part, letting a breathy whine out. Bucky doesn’t wait, slowly pulling out until only his plush tip is still inside, just to roll his hips back in. “Fuck. Look at Daddy, look at what you do to him.” It takes everything in your power to open your eyes and look at Bucky, the pleasure almost too much just after one thrust, but when you do, the sight that meets you is glorious. Face flushed, brows drawn together, lips parted, Bucky looked debauched.

“Good girl, see that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Without warning, Bucky rolls the both of you over, with you on his lap. “Since you listen to Daddy so well, why don’t you ride his cock, let him look at his pretty girl bounce?” This snaps you out of your stupor, there’s no way you’re going to let him see your stomach jiggle.

“Bucky, I can’t, not this way. What about the other way?” You try to turn around, but his left hand grabs your waist while his right lands a harsh slap to your ass causing you to clench around him.

“Ah, ah, ah, Daddy wants to see your face. You hear me?” Before you can complain again, Bucky thrusts his hips up, hard. You both moan, caught up in the sensation of his cock inside of you. Your hands fly to his chest, trying to balance yourself before you tumble off. Bucky doesn’t let up, thrust after thrust, pounding into your pussy.

“Oh, fuck! Daddy, right there, shit, please!” You don’t know what you’re begging for, just that you don’t want him to stop. The room is filled with the salacious sounds of your combined moans along with the clapclapclap of his thighs meeting your ass.

“So fucking good, Love, you know that? This pussy was made for me. Fucking perfect. Look at this little belly jiggling while I fuck you, shit, gonna make me blow my fucking load early. You’re. So. Fucking. Gorgeous.” Each word was punctuated by a vicious thrust. Ice pours down your spine, in the midst of pleasure you completely forgot why you didn’t want to do this position. He’s fucking staring right at your belly, hands gripping at your extra fat, just watching it ripple with each brutal thrust of his hips.

“Bucky stop, don’t look there, I don’t…” The rest of your sentence gets cut off when Bucky somehow fucks you even harder, effectively making your tummy move more. It’s too much: the feral look in his eyes, the perfect angle of his cock, and his beautiful moans. Despite your best efforts, you feel your orgasm building up. The little coil hidden under the small hump of your belly pulls tighter and tighter, and Bucky can feel it. He can feel your pussy pulsing around him so he moves his hands from your belly to your hips, grinding them against his coarse hairs with sharp thrust.

It pulls tighter and tighter until it snaps, dragging you under, blood roaring through your ears. You vaguely hear Bucky’s voice, “There you go, give it to Daddy. So good for me, soaking my cock. God, I fucking love you.” Bucky stops moving, giving you time to come down from your high. Still gasping for air, you fall down onto his sweaty chest, basking in the afterglow of your orgasm. You’re pulled out of your haze by Bucky. “Think you can give me one more? I think you can.”

He flips you over, back landing on the bed while he throws your legs over his shoulders, effectively causing your stomach to roll up, small pockets of fat pushing out. You whine, not wanting Bucky to see it, but he fucking loves this. Loves the bit of extra fat that has found its way under your chin, the soft flesh around your strong thighs, and the belly that fits perfectly in his hands. He loves it because it proves your healthy, that he’s feeding you well, well enough that you can train to your full potential, have the energy to do what you want to, not always be so tired you don’t want to do the things you love to do, that you aren’t afraid to eat what you want. That’s what he fucking loves, taking care of you and the way your body has changed has absolutely zero affect on his attraction to you. He will always think you are the most beautiful woman in the entire universe.

“Love, you don’t understand how fucking sexy you are, do you? Look at how well we fit together.” He cups the back of your head, making you look at your stomach as he enters you again, making your belly bulge more. “Do you see this, Love? See how pretty you are, and it's all for me, isn’t it?” The adoration in his eyes was almost too much, the swell in your chest threatening to burst as tears welled up in your eyes, feeling his love with every stroke. Bucky wasn’t fucking you anymore, he was making love to you, showing you how much you mean to him.

Bucky takes one of your hands in his, lacing your fingers together, placing your hand on your tummy, feeling the bulge of his cock underneath your softness. “Daddy, feels so good. Fuck. Love you so much.” Bucky’s hips stutter when you say you love him, it has always been his weakness, the utter devotion and vulnerability that you allow him to experience is something he will never take for granted. Tears were streaming down your face, eyes probably red and puffy. Leaning forward, Bucky places his forehead on yours, eyes locked into yours.

“I know, Love. Can’t even begin to describe how much I love you.” Bucky can feel you getting closer again, pussy clenching around him, hands scrambling to grab onto something: his hair, back, hands, sheets, you can’t decide, the pleasure coursing through you too much. “Give it to me Love, make your Daddy proud and cum on his cock. Know you want to, just let go.” With two more thrusts, your eyes roll back, another orgasm rolling through you. This one shorter than the last, but no less intense. Bucky finds his release right after, burrowing his face into your neck, holding you to him, wanting to be as close as possible.

It takes a few minutes, but the both of you calm down, hearts returning back to normal. You’re the first to speak, breaking the comfortable silence. “You knew I was gaining weight, didn’t you?” With his softening cock still buried deep inside you, Bucky lifts his head up a small smirk adorning his face.

“Of course, but this little pudge,” he grabs your tummy and almost kneads it, “is because you’re healthy. You have so much more energy recently, and I fall deeper in love with you every single time I see how fucking happy you are now. You make me so proud to be able to call myself your boyfriend. You're so beautiful and I promise you that I will spend everyday for the rest of my life proving that to you.”

You don’t have any words to respond, so you just wrap your arms around him, breathing in his scent. And of course Bucky keeps true to his promise, and you believe him when he tells you that you are the most beautiful woman because he proves it to you everyday, in and outside of the bedroom.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes smut #bucky x you #bucky imagine #bucky smut #sebastian stan x reader

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barblaz-arts · 1 month

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As someone who ships Chaggie as well, I want your opinion on this.

Someone made a kinda good point about Charlie and Vaggie’s relationship; the point being that there’s a power imbalance between them. Charlie is the princess of hell. She wouldn’t physically loose anything or be hurt physically if she breaks up with Vaggie. But Vaggie would loose both the love of her life and her home and friends if they break off. And so they see this toxic dynamic because Vaggie is “walking on eggshells” in order to stay in Charlie’s favor and not getting on her bad side.

So….thoughts?

The problem is people who say these things treat the terms "power imbalance" and "toxic" and "unhealthy" as the same things when they are not.

There is a power imbalance, yes, definitely. I constantly make jokes about the fact that Charlie and Vaggie have a forbidden love story in a Boss/Employee HR violation kinda way for pete's sake. It's just a lot more funny thinking about the fact that that probably has more weight than the demon/angel situation.

But the thing is, no matter what Charlie will ALWAYS have a power imbalance with whoever she dates because she is literally the princess of Hell, as they have said. Even if she dates a fellow hellborn royal, the fact that Charlie is in a higher position of power will always be a fact because her parents are literally the only ones above that. So what? Should she just not date anyone??? Also, isn't the one has a higher position of power but still loves the other a super popular ship trope? Rich x poor. Royalty x commoner. Goddess/immortal x normal human. Popular in school x the social loser. The list goes on. So why is it a problem now?

The fact that they think Vaggie "walks on eggshells" around Charlie is a bit...? I'm just a little confused you know? Vaggie is definitely not afraid of Charlie. When they had their fallout, she wasn't afraid of losing the things she was dependent on Charlie if they ever broke up(i.e. a home, her safety, money etc) because Vaggie damn well knows Charlie wouldn't do that. Everyone in hell knows Charlie goddamn Morningstar wouldn't do that. Vaggie was merely afraid of losing their relationship, which is a perfectly normal thing to be afraid of. Vaggie's dedication to Charlie isn't rooted in fear, it's rooted in devotion in the name of what she thinks the person she loves deserves.

The thing that makes Chaggie so great despite that power imbalance is the fact that Charlie is an absolute sweetheart. She isn't the kind of person who would take advantage of that power and Vaggie, as someone who knows her so well, is perfectly aware of that. Vaggie is safe with Charlie in every way that matters, and this is where toxicity and the unhealthy elements come into play.

Charlie and Vaggie as individuals have all the ingredients for an unhealthy relationship. As Husk so plainly pointed out, Charlie would rather fix everyone else's problems than help herself. Meanwhile Vaggie has deep self-hatred that seeps into how she feels about everyone but Charlie. They're both the type of people who would rather think about others rather than themselves. This is the root of their codependency, and why their relationship can be quite unhealthy. It's extremely evident with Vaggie, which makes perfect sense since she probably never saw herself as a person before Charlie.

Those flaws can so easily be taken advantage of in a relationship, but the thing is, do they do that? Do either of them think the other ever would? As Rosie did say...

While Charlie likes to shoulder everyone else's problems, Vaggie looks at the love her life and decides she'll take some of that load so she doesn't get crushed under the weight of the world. Vaggie reels Charlie in by being the realist to Charlie's dreamer. Vaggie used to essentially be Heaven's living weapon, but she has now sworn to be the armor for someone who looks out for everyone but herself.

On the other hand Vaggie's self-worth is shrewed because she's an ex-soldier who thinks she should always be under someone's service to be deserving of anything. But here Charlie is who constantly calls Vaggie her partner and blatantly treats Vaggie as an equal and still loves Vaggie "more than anything" and doesn't doubt that Vaggie loves her in return even after finding out Vaggie's lie and true origins.

So are they good for each other? Maybe not, but there's still more of the show to see. They can be unhealthy, but not to the point that being together damages each other in any significant way. Their relationship is imperfect, which is fine. No relationship is. Especially not in fucking HELL. And perfect for a story because, yunno... They are still in an ongoing story. They aren't a lost cause yet. It's something they can develop from, something we can get to SEE them develop from.

Are they toxic though?? Are they harming each other physically, emotionally, sexually, or financially? Definitely not. Because although whether they're good FOR each other still remains to be seen, it is an undeniable fact that they are good TO each other, despite all the ways they could not be. The unhealthy elements are due to how they treat themselves, but their relationship can't be deemed toxic because of how they treat each other. And for now, that's what matters and that's why I love this ship.

#asks #hazbin hotel #chaggie #as fun as writing this all down was #and it was it really was #I can't help but think about how frustrating it is that this needs to be said #we can't just say that we think this canon ship is cute and that's why we like it and have the conversation end there #instead we have to make an essay to explain ourselves 😞#like dang it aint even that complicated

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jaylaxies · 8 months

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HARD THOUGHT !

CW: smut, angst, manipulation, unhealthy relationship

WARNING: 18+ content, minors dni

REQUESTED BY: anonnie!

Possessive!Sunghoon who goes crazy at the mere thought of any other guy touching you, gripping the glass of wine with enough power to smash it into smithereens simply because he saw a man invading your personal space. What made him scoff was the faint smile playing on your lips instead of disgust, which was the reason why Sunghoon had dragged you out of the party, not sparing a glance towards the other guy, otherwise he would have punched him straight in the face, nor did he pay attention to your questions. The drive home was silent, as if it’d turn into a heated argument the moment you’d part your lips to speak, yet you were fuming inside, tired of his possessiveness and anger that came with it.

He stormed inside your shared apartment the second he parked the car, unbuttoning his shirt, a button almost falling out with how rushed his actions were, “you like it, don’t you? When others touch you, when others come close to you?” Sunghoon asked the second you stepped into the bedroom, eyes icy and darker than ever, jaw clenched in a way you hadn’t seen before. You shake your head in disbelief, “and you know nothing but jealousy and anger, I’m so done with you,” you seethed out, causing him to chuckle, taking a step your way, which caused you to take a step back, “so what? You’re gonna leave me? You’re gonna find someone else, is that what you’re gonna do, kitten?” He mocked, his body shaking as he tried to control himself, yet he took a step towards you again, his torso fully on display with his half unbuttoned shirt.

“Yes I will—” you tried to say, taking another step back, falling behind on your bed with no space left to walk, and Sunghoon was quick to get to top of you, his chain dangling in the process, caressing your clavicle, “damn right you will, I’d like to see you try, darling,” he whispers, dragging his lips from your ear to cheek, giving you goosebumps.

Even the miniscule things he did had your mind spiralling.

“Go on, try to find someone else, let’s see who makes you feel the way like I do,” his deep voice makes you gulp right when he kisses your throat, “I’ll ruin you to the point of no comeback, kitten,” he promises and all his slow actions turn into rough, rushed ones as he turns you over with ease, getting rid of your clothes and ripping off your dainty laced panties, his fingers getting soaked up in your wetness, “look at you all dripping when I haven’t even touched you,” he smirks, “even your body admits that you’re all mine, you’re fucking mine, understood?”

Your eyes rolled back to your head, as you gasped with the stretch his thick fingers provided you with, “you’ll never be satisfied with anyone else, baby, you can’t ever have anyone else’s cock in your pretty little cunt without thinking of me,” he said, spanking your ass, a tear falling down your cheek. It felt too good despite the anger lingering around, you knew he was right, that no one else could ever compare to him.

He switched your positions, eyes fixated on your eyes as he held your wrists above your head. He thrusted into you without any warning, your juices making it easy for him to bottom out in a single thrust as you moaned, your heartbeat dangerously fast, your skin hot as your pussy sucked him in, your hips rolling back to meet him halfway. “You. Are. Mine,” he said, pistoning into your cunt, and you let him, eyes closing shut when he pulled you into a rough kiss, possessiveness clear in them.

He was right, you couldn’t be anyone else’s, not when you’re obsessed with Sunghoon and his way to put you in your place, your orgasm finally bringing you back to his senses.

That you belong to him.

#ria:thoughts #enhypen hard hours #enhypen smut #enha smut #kpop smut #sunghoon smut #park sunghoon smut #enhypen imagines #sunghoon x reader

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multidimensionalguidance · 2 months

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Overlay Observations #1

Note: keep in mind that aspects and signs are also very important when reading synastry charts, and it cannot be left aside to prioritize overlays.

Sun in 1st house: this is a tricky overlay for any type of relationships, because it will depend a lot on the strength of the sun in both charts. It can either become the type of relationship where the Sun becomes an excellent guide for the house person to discover their creativity, skills, and core self. They will feel more confident and with an extra shine next to the planet person. As if a disco ball was turned on in a dark room, and there’s a spotlight right on you. The house person will also help the Sun stick to their core principles and feeling comfortable in fully expressing themselves with little judgment. Now, that is the positive expression of this overlay if both individuals are able to avoid the elephant in the room. Yes, the ego. The sour side for the house person is to feel overshadowed when they are next to the planet person, and it can therefore trigger an unnecessary need of competition that could easily ruin the relationship. It is also difficult for both individuals to ignore the triggers that they cause in each other due to the amount of similarities that they share. Their own toxic or unhealthy habits will be noticeable to both, but so will the positive ones as well. It really all boils down to how comfortable both individuals feel within their core self. If either has very low self esteem, it will be harsh to feel at ease with each other. Overall, it can be very helpful and rewarding to encounter each other and see themselves in a mirror for good or bad, especially for the house person since the planet person aspects their 7th house of relationships.

Venus + Mars in 1st house: this one takes the cake for "I saw, I wanted, and I conquered" with the planet person being the one who quite literally charges towards the house person with A LOT of passion to the point that it can be overwhelming if there isn't any other aspect to support it. The planet person recognizes in the other all the qualities that they look for when it comes to relationships and the way they move through life. They both feel extremely physically attracted to each other. Instant magnetism. They are able to see the house person as someone who naturally matches their own sexual energy, and it feels like a no brainer to desire closeness. If Saturn or any other strong aspect/overlay isn't involved in any way, it might be a short hot fling. You will both enjoy the insane chemistry and common ground, and unless Pluto, Rahu, harsh aspects are involved, there shouldn't be much of a hiccup if there's a separation at the end. You will fondly look back to remember how you both felt like an IT couple next to each other, and rekindling the fire would be quite easy if there's a reencounter.

Saturn in 1st house: there is a deep sense of responsibility and seriousness that is quickly developed between these two individuals. They both feel like the relationship is one that they would prefer long term, even if there's a heaviness to it. The planet person brings a grounded energy that encourages the house person to think long term, and they will go to great lengths to please the planet person. Its almost as if the house person wants to earn the respect or admiration of the other, and depending on any other planetary aspects made, it will either be something that will lift the house planets to higher highs or will make them feel overwhelmed with the pressure. Think of it as the pressure necessary to build diamonds, meaning, a necessary discomfort to achieve greatness. There's also a very karmic tie between these two individuals, and they will recognize it. The house person will feel like the other was brough into their lives for a reason, be it good or bad. As if they attracted this person due to their previous actions in a current or past life.

Ketu in 1st house: this is the most common "I've met you before" aspect in synastry. There is a strong feeling of comfort and ease between these two individuals, and the house person will feel a breeze from the past with the planet person. This truly goes both ways, and they both recognize it as well. It can also feel like a soulmate connection and one of the two will comfortably claim it so in their mind and heart. Even if Ketu is commonly perceived as a malefic in Vedic astrology, it is also the key to unlock a higher spiritual awareness, and this is exactly what this overlay causes. So, if both individuals are not actively pursuing to expanding their spiritual side, it will gradually create separation. Ketu brings a cleansing or purifying effect that almost feels like a burning sensation when its met with resistance. Hence why this synastry overlay or even with aspects can feel so debilitating for the planet person particularly. There cannot be a spiritual resistance from either side, and growth must be consistently practiced. Meditating together, learning occult knowledge, or even doing yoga will naturally enhance the relationship and it will be much easier to manage. It will also be more comfortable for individuals who already have Ketu touching personal planets or in the 1st house, also for those that have Scorpio placements in their natal chart.

Juno in 1st house: this is the "You are wife/husband material!" synastry overlay. They both feel like the other person has the qualities that they look for in a serious committed relationship. The asteroid person will simply feel like house person matches a lot of the pointers they have for what they would like in a marriage partner. On the other hand, the house person feels like they can hear wedding bells ringing from afar whenever they interact with the other. It is generally a pleasing overlay and both individuals are able to have a good common ground on what they expect from a long term relationship.

Venus in 4th house: a definite favorite overlay for romantic or platonic relationships. They are able to break the ice easily with each other during the beginning stages because there is a strong feeling of comfort they experience together. They are the type to spend hours chilling next to each other reading, scrolling through TikTok, or watching movies for hours with no issues (unless there are harsh aspects or malefic planets). The planet person feels at home with the house person, and things like cooking, cleaning, or nurturing each other develops with a lot of ease. The planet person brings material benefits to the house person, so if they move in together, the house person quite literally gets their space improved or it gets beautified in some way. Lots of harmony when it comes to these matters in general. They are the type that redecorate their home together as a hobby. It is also a good overlay for naturally wanting to grow a family and having an ease with it since their values match when it comes to raising children.

Mars in 6th house: this is a very wholesome and motivating overlay. The planet person brings a lot of energy to get things done and actively helps the house person on their daily life. The house person on the other hand, gets activated on their sense of servicing Mars, and it is common for them to also do a lot of little AND big things to make their life easier. I've seen them cooking, cleaning, or even fixing things for the house person frequently, but it generally goes both ways regardless. Acts of service as a love language is seen here. In general, there's a lot of "I want to help you grow and develop" between the two of them. They could even work or do exercises together as well. The only downside is that one of them could be too judgmental or picky with how things get done, and it could make either feel as if their efforts go unnoticed or unappreciated. If the relationship drifts apart, they will miss each other a lot because of how present they were in their day to day. Sort of like, you will think of each other while doing mundane activities like washing the dishes or doing groceries.

Venus in 8th house: as most astrologer enthusiast explain, this is not an overlay or synastry for the weak, at all. There is a strong attachment that is developed whenever the 8th house involved. Both individuals feel like two candles that join together to create a big flame that can warm and destroy with equal strength. The negative side is very clear, a heavy and almost addictive feeling with a heavy dark intense undertone. The house person sees Venus as a princess/prince that somehow appeared in the place they try to hide the most from others, and this immediately creates a desire to get very close. They want to study Venus, understand how they got in there to begin with, and determine whether they want them in there or not. In this case, the house planet holds a lot of the control. Venus will not have easy access to the house person unless it is granted. They will keep on creating obstacles to keep the planet person from getting closer until they recognize that there's no way to keep them out unless they literally walk away. The positive side is when the house person surrenders to the feeling of developing an intense and deep connection with the planet person. Once they do, it will feel like they are able to reach depths that they were unable to do so before with anyone else. It is common for both of them to share resources with each other and there is also a strong sense of loyalty that develops after the common challenges (jealousy, possessiveness, mistrust, etc) are worked out. Venus brings wealth and abundance to the house person, either through gifts or by simply attracting that towards them like a magnet. The house person on the other side shares their own resources VERY often, and have no issues with even dipping into their savings just to please Venus.

Jupiter in 10th house: I would call this the "You're my money lucky charm" overlay along with the 2nd house overlay. The planet person brings expansion, growth, and luck to the house person when it comes to their profession and public image. There is a lot of knowledge and guidance that the planet person provides, and that allows the house person to use those pointers to achieve their goals much faster than they would have been able to do so alone. For the planet person, it feels like they are very popular and/or noticeable within the work or public life of the house person. Unlike Venus, who is seen as a trophy wife/husband or as a very obvious romantic partner next to the house person, Jupiter is seen as someone who is like a sage, advisor, or foreigner. Overall, this is a very positive overlay for both to grow towards their material goals. The house person will prefer to spend more time outside with the planet person instead of being at home all the time since it aspects their 4th house. You both want to be seen together being out and about.

Moon in 12th house: this is a very complex interaction between two people, and it will depend a lot on what type of relationship they have (romantic, platonic, familiar, etc). In a general sense, the moon person will experience some confusion when it comes to acknowledging their feelings towards the house person. As if there was a veil that keeps them from taking confident steps forward. It is common for both people to develop a resistance into trusting each other at the beginning, but the other side of the coin is that they can't help but grow closer towards each other. The house person feels seen in every sense of the word, and they can notice how the other seamlessly understands what goes through their head almost as if it was telepathy. Now, even if the planet person is able to navigate somewhat well the subconscious mind of the other, there will be a constant doubt or hesitance. It will be hard for them to even understand why it feels this way, and only through identifying their own subconscious wounds will they will able to recognize the root of their confusion. Once this feeling and pattern is explored, it will feel as if they veil is lifted and they will understand the house person like the back of their hand. This is an aspect that can be rewarding if the planet person is focused on their spiritual growth, as they will gain immense knowledge to their own mind (since the moon rules the subconscious mind as well).

Hope this was an insightful and enjoyable reading~

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ordowrites · 1 month

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potions and brews

cw: mdni, dub-con, aphrodisiacs, afab reader with little pronouns used, mild yandere content with wanderer, general not sfw warnings., begging, oral (f.receiving) user has a vision, praising (use of "good girl"), orgasm denial, degradation, slightly unhealthy relationships, slight dom/sub dynamics, breeding kink

synopsis: inspired by the current genshin event going on! (the reader is not the Traveler), genshin characters reacting to you (or them) consuming an aphrodisiac.

characters: diluc, kaeya, arlecchino, wanderer

i. diluc

you frown as you stare at him, his face is flustered a bit and he clears his throat. he tries to find words as you across your arms over your chest, an unamused look crossing your face as he fumbles a bit.

"ah - i-it seems that i may have had the traveler get a bit too creative with potion making." he's too polite to say it or maybe even too embarrassed, but you can tell in his gorgeous red eyes that he needs something. before you can even open your mouth to offer help, maybe your hydro vision could cool him down some, his strong arms are wrapping around you and pulling you flush close to him. lips find yours as quickly as possible.

"i'm sorry," he groans after he breaks away. it isn't long before he's began stripping both of you, pushing you against his desk and uttering those words again. you try to lightly protest, informing diluc that he's not in the right state of mind, he cuts you off with a soft bite to your neck, fingers pressing against your slick cunt. and when he husks your name against your ear in the way that always makes you weak in your knees, you lose all reasoning as you let him fuck you against his desk.

"i know, i'm sorry, need you so badly - ugh, such a good girl for me. fuck. gonna fill you up over and over again."

ii. kaeya

"kaeya," you beg as you stare up at him with desperation and you squirm on your place on his bed. "kaeya, please." the consumption of an aphrodisiac was accidental and all your instincts told you to go to the ever so kind calvary captain for help. he's smart, after all - he would have a solution.

except now, you're not quite sure what that solution is - or really, you just don't want to say it out of pure humiliation. your studies have always been botany, that you should have been a bit wiser to whatever you put in your mouth. but alas, science wins over mental logical any day.

he's grinning at you, from ear to ear as he looms over you.

"my, what a mess you've made of yourself." he teases as he climbs onto his bed - his fingers tantalizingly stroking what skin he can reach. "and of my bed."

"hurry up," you plead. there is a look in kaeya's eye as he pushes you down on your back.

"precious, i don't think you're in the right position to be making demands." but he obliges anyways, hands wandering to your breasts. you're in for a very long afternoon.

"keep begging me, precious, and maybe i'll let you cum. look how pretty you are like this, all needy and desperate for me. would be a shame if we neded this too soon, yes? you can go one more round for me."

iii. arlecchino

you think she might be mad, with the way she's looking at you - maybe even displeased. you're not sure, but all you know is you want and she is right there.

"who drugged you?" it's clear she's trying to maintain some sense of composure, though you're not sure if she's going to be able to maintain such a prim and proper state as you squirm and try to soothe your too hot body with the coolness if your hydro vision.

"i uh -" you try to find the words, feeling the humiliation creep up on you. "n-nobody."

"nobody?" you nod. arlecchino doesn't seem to believe you, but she strides over to you anyways. of course not, you want to say. nobody would ever dare lay a finger on the knave's most precious person. she sighs as she looks over you. "i suppose it can't be helped." you tremble as she touches you - you're not sure if it's out of fear or lust, either way, your thoughts stop when she kisses you.

you're soon on your hands and knees, your tongue working at your soaked cunt as a clawed hands grip at your long hair, the other at your throat. you grind desperately against her shoe, trying to chase the coil that's only started to tighten in your stomach. all you can think about is arlecchino, how wonderful she tastes on your tongue, how you would do anything for her - oh how you need -

"no getting off - this is a punishment, my little gem. there we go. oh you're growing tired? weary? that's too bad, the lesson needs to stick about consuming strange things. work harder to please me."

iv. the wanderer

hunger, that's the term you can apply to the way he's looking at you right now. hungry. he knows, because of course he knows - nothing ever escapes his perceptive eyes. and he looks pleased, worst of all, with your flushed cheeks and soft whines as you try to get yourself off. you didn't dare go to him, because you never know how he's going to react.

of course, he's a welcomed presence - with the way he's reverently kissing you and touching you everywhere he can. you gasp out his name, hips bucking the moment his lips touch your needy cunt. it doesn't take long for him to get drunk on it, lips, mouth, fingers working at you until you're mewling and moaning mess, debauching his face as you move your hips.

slow, closed circles around your clit as you clenching around his fingers as you cum and he looks thrilled. pants off, cock erect - he keeps you pinned with his inhuman strength as he slowly enters you. it doesn't really dawn on you that no protection is being used as you bliss out when his cock fully enters you.

this, you think within the fog of your mind as your legs wrap around his hips. is where i belong.

"what a slut, accepting drinks from strangers like that. you're so stupid but you're lucky i love you. i'm going to breed you - don't think i won't. you'll be mine, permanently. mine, all mine."

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farfromstrange · 7 months

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6 Totally Random Matt Murdock Headcanons that keep me up at night

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x afab!Reader

Summary: Just some Matty headcanons today!

Warnings: Mentions of Smut! 18+ MINORS DNI! (Not proofread)

A/n: I was planning on writing a fic, but then I found this in my drafts and thought I would finish it. Yes, I did write those at three in the morning every time I woke up. That's...that's not unhealthy at all or anything.

1. Volume

Matt is a very vocal person in bed. I'm not talking full-on screaming though.

While there are times he is quiet to hear your breathy moans and whines as he’s pounding into you and he hears you begging for “More, more, more…” as soon as he feels you around his cock, it’s game over for him. He loses that tiny bit of self-control. He grunts and groans, and sometimes, when he feels particularly in the mood, he whines and whimpers because you treat him so well.

Don't even get me started on when he goes down on you. He will moan just from the taste of you, and then some more when your hands tangle in his hair, causing the slightest amount of pain. He thrives off of it.

He wants to show you how good you make him feel, not just the other way around, and ever since he has noticed that you like it when he makes noise, he makes sure to moan every so often when you're fucking or making love or simply enjoying each other's bodies in all the ways possible. He trusts you enough to do it, to let himself go and surrender himself, and you reward him for being a good boy.

2. Eating...

We have established that Matt Murdock is the King Of Eating Pussy. The love for giving oral runs deep, not just in his desire to please and never take anything in return. Not just because he wants to make you feel good. It's literal torture on his sensitive senses when he doesn't get to drown between your legs at least once.

It's his form of worshipping you, of praying to you in a highly blasphemous context when he thinks about the things you have moaned, but he would do it time and time again. He loves it. The taste alone gets him high and then it's all he focuses on. It calms him.

I truly believe that hearing your heartbeat, the blood rushing in the veins of your thighs, and the taste of your arousal mixed with pheromones do something to him that lets out some sort of animal whenever he smells you. And then he just needs to have you or he will go crazy. It's the same with your natural scent.

Matt Murdock gets off on the mere taste of his partner’s arousal. He can taste it in the air. He makes sure to make you come on his tongue at least once when you’re getting intimate, and not just as foreplay. He does it before, during, and after, depending on his and your mood. He knows what buttons to press, how hard to suck on your clit and he knows how to slide his tongue inside of you and fuck you with it until you’re shaking. He will keep your thighs spread wide and hold you down, but let you wrap your legs around his head and clench around him because he loves the momentary loss of oxygen.

3. Consent.

He will only ever touch you when he knows that you want it. He won’t fuck you when you’re not in the right mental state because he doesn’t want to take advantage of you. He makes sure to ask and communicate and when your answers are not clear, he stops the scene. He can hear it in your heartbeat and he would never cross that line, not even when he is horny and full of adrenaline in the middle of the night.

He would ask you for permission to fuck you when you're asleep, maybe, so he won't have to wake you when he comes home late from patrol, but even then he needs vocal confirmation beforehand to know he won't cross a line. So every night when he leaves, he asks if you'd still be okay with it, and after learning that he would be anything but mad when you say no, you give him the most honest answer.

4. Cuddles

When he has a bad day, he wants nothing more than to be held by you. Either he is the little spoon or, and that happens the most often, he places his head in your chest as you entangle your limbs with his and hold him close, raking your nails through his hair.

He relaxes when you massage his scalp, but he also enjoys your touch on his tense shoulders, and that's when he likes to be pampered like a little princess. Pampering, in this case, is cuddles. He wants all the cuddles you can give him.

It's nights like these that he realizes how in love he is with you, and how safe he feels when he's in your arms. But God forbid anyone finds that out. He will not admit that he enjoys being pampered by you because that would make him seem vulnerable, and we all know our dear Matthew, don't we?

5. Concerts

This came to me randomly, but since he has sensitive hearing, it would be hard for him to go to concerts with you. However, he will make sure to follow along to the venue, drop you off, and then I'm certain he would find a rooftop somewhere further in the distance, put some earbuds in to protect his sensitive ears, and he would listen.

He would filter your voice out of the crowd and imagine himself dancing to the music with you. He loves how excited you get when your favorite artist is playing. He knows you're aware of what he's doing, and you make sure to whisper, "Thank you," under your breath.

Listening to you have fun at a concert would also broaden Matt's horizons when it comes to music, and you would catch him playing your Playlist at home while cooking one day, humming along.

One of these days, you will find a way to take him there with you, but until then, he makes sure you at least know he's listening while you're having the time of your life.

6. Neck-holding

This doesn't need an explanation, but I will give it to you anyway.

Matt loves holding your neck, sexually and non-sexually. He loves feeling your pulse, the way you respond to him, and he loves how much closer you get whenever he does it.

He'd be like, "Come here, sweetheart." And you would jump into his lap, cuddling into him, while he holds you with one arm around the rest of your body, the other wrapping gently around your neck.

And in bed, you guys probably know how it would go.

Do you guys want a Part 2? Maybe some angst?

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock headcanons #matt murdock x you #matt murdock #matt murdock imagines #x reader #daredevil #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock smut

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adelar-storytime · 2 months

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OC questions

60 questions that can be made into an OC ask game, or you can just fill everything out yourself to get to know your character a little better :)

___

[1] What first impression do they typically make? Are they likeable from the get go, or take time to grow on people?

[2] How does their social personality differ from how they act when they’re alone?

[3] What emotion is the hardest for them to deal with?

[4] How physically and emotionally affectionate they are?

[5] Are they good at keeping secrets?

[6] How direct are they in conversations, do they speak in hints and riddles or bluntly say what they think?

[7] Are they a good liar and what would they probably lie about?

[8] How open they are about their true feelings, both positive and negative?

[9] What is their love language?

[10] How quickly do they fall for someone?

[11] What are small things that make them happy?

[12] How high is their self-esteem?

[13] What kind of sense of humor do they have, if any?

[14] What does it take to make them laugh, and what does their laugh sound like?

[15] How do they act around people they don't like?

[16] Do they easily rely on others to help them out, or prefer doing everything themselves?

___

[17] What is their biggest struggle that no one around them is able to understand or believe?

[18] Do they ever have to hide their identity and for what reason?

[19] If they could change one thing about their past, what would they change?

[20] When they’re sad or upset, do they need company or some time alone?

[21] When they’re sick, would they want others to visit them, or they would rather prefer not to be seen at not their best?

[22] Do they have nightmares, and if yes, when did they start and what are they usually about?

[23] What was the worst, the darkest period of their life that they have been through?

[24] How hard it is for them to not allow their emotions to cloud their judgement?

[25] Do they have fears and phobias, and if they do, do they usually keep it to themselves or talk about it openly?

[26] Do they have any physical or mental ilness, how do they handle it and how open they are about it?

[27] Do they have any scars, how did they get them and how do they feel about them?

[28] What is something that they will never be able to forgive?

[29] How do they deal with loss, stress and anger?

[30] What are their most healthy and most unhealthy coping mechanisms?

[31] How hard it is for them to own up to their mistakes and wrongdoings?

[32] Is there something they've done in the past that they deeply regret till this day?

[33] What are one of their fondest and most treasured memories?

___

[34] Do they have vices they don't want others to know about?

[35] Do they like their own appearance, and what do they do, if anything, to alter it in any way?

[36] Do they own items that have sentimental value?

[37] How would they spend a lazy day when they have nothing specific to do?

[38] What do they usually do or where do they go when they need to feel comfortable and safe?

[39] What is their sleeping habits and favorite sleeping position, either alone and with someone?

[40] How picky they are with food, do they have specific dietary requirements based on their health or culture?

[41] What’s their usual morning routine?

[42] What is their idea of a perfect friendly hangout and/or romantic date?

[43] Do they enjoy flirting or being flirted with?

[44] On a party, where would you find them?

[45] For an event, would they dress like they typically do, or go all out?

[46] Would they rather dress to look attractive or to feel comfortable, and what would they never wear?

[47] Do they drink alcohol, and if they do, how much and how often?

[48] Are they, or were they at some point in their life, a part of any subculture?

___

[49] Do they possess any unexpected skill or knowledge that surprises others, and otherwise, what is something anyone would assume they know or can do, but in fact they don’t?

[50] What are they really good and really bad at?

[51] How good are they with money?

[52] Do they speak any other languages aside from their own?

[53] Do they like to sing and how confident they are with their singing?

[54] Do they like giving gifts, and how good are they at picking good gifts?

[55] How long does it take for them to make a new place feel like home, and what do they need for it?

[56] How would they react to hearing a dirty joke?

[57] What was the most stupid or dangerous thing they have ever done?

[58] In the situation where they had to choose, would they rather stay loyal to their morals or to people they love?

[59] What would they want to be remembered for?

[60] If they were to commit a crime, what kind of crime would it most likely be?

---

some of these question were written myself, some are the courtesy of my friend, and some were brought from my questionnaires in my old fandom. if you use them, please reblog or link back to this post

#ask game #oc questions #oc asks #oc ask game #character ask game #character asks #oc interview #character interview #oc development

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cryptidcorners · 5 months

Note

Can we have Mike taking care of his sick girlfriend? Or vice versa, with the girlfriend taking care of him?

Morning Fever - Mike Schmidt x F!Reader

Description: You're struck with a horrible sickness, and Mike refuses to let you overwork yourself like this. In a way to make up for all you've done for him, he indulges you in a day of soft care.

# requested by anon .

Media: FNaF!Movie

Character: Mike Schmidt

Tags: Girlfriend!Reader, Established Relationship, Fluff, Soft!Mike, Sick!Reader, Care (Receiving), Slice of Life, Domestic, Cute Stuff, Cuddling + (This may or may not be the tall reader from short problems, but height isn't specified ✋)

Warnings: Descriptions Sickness, Unhealthy Work Life Mentions

read my TOS + Mike Schmidt Masterlist

You awoke to a jaded pain in your head, as well as Mike's arms wrapped around your body softly. You figured your sudden aches were due to dehydration, or from your horrific work hours. You rolled onto your side with a tired hum, eyes fixed on his lazy curls and peaceful expression. Your fingertips ghosted to his face tenderly and rubbed featherweighted circles across his bristles with a warm chuckle. His senses were disturbed, and he pressed his lips against yours before opening his eyes.

"Well, good morning." You greeted.

"It's still dark out." Mike replied, voice wreaking in depth from his exhaustion. "You don't go to work in a long time." He asked with a yawn. "Go to sleep."

He rested his head on your shoulder sleepily while he kept hugging you. It'd be a couple more hours before Mike would truly need to get up, as well as you. "I figured I'd just get up early." You sat up, drawing out a desperate grumble from Mike as his grip weakly fell off your body. You chuckled and ran your fingers through his hair, "You know I can't stay in bed forever."

"Yes you can. If your boss has a problem, I'll kick his ass." Mike mumbled with his head buried in his pillow. "Just a few more seconds, please, baby?" He pleaded.

"I got to get ready, Michael." You kissed his head. Before you could stir out of bed, you began coughing violently. In a split second, you could already feel his hands behind your back. He was already rushing to take care of you.

"Are you okay?" He asked and you only replied with a vibrant nod as you cleared your throat. "Yes, I'm—fine. It's just a cough."

Mike frowned and held you close. "No, you sound like you have the flu or something. You want water?"

"No, I can't. I need to go to work." You assured. Mike's palm pressed against your forehead, "You're burning up."

"I just need some air," you protested. "I can't be late."

"I can't let you go out sick like this." Mike continued. He was growing desperate, "Just rest. For me, okay? I can take off today, and I can call your boss."

"Mike," you whispered while growing agitated. As much as you wanted to rest, you were a struggling workaholic. You couldn't just not go. "You need to rest, understand? Do you feel anything else?"

"Just a headache, and my throat is a little raspy." You described. You watched him walk out of the room and into the darkened hallways. Firefly light flickered, illuminating the wooden walls and Mike's moving shadow as he went to scavenge for some type of pill to help you. You coughed, "Mike?"

"Just a second." He called. You could hear the collision of empty bottles and other objects from the cabinets. It wasn't long before he came back with a glass of water and an antibiotic. You knew that type of drug was expensive for him. You straightened up defensively, "I don't think I need it."

"Please, let me take care of you." He extended his hand, "You've done so much for me, this is the least I can do."

You couldn't resist his dreamy eyes and soft personality. In the end, you surrendered and ended up being tended to by him the whole day. Mike had speedily taken Abby to school, called your boss and drowned you in spaced intimacy. Even if you hadn't asked for anything in particular, he read your face and came back in record speed to get whatever he theorized you wanted.

You had forgotten how much you had lacked conversation with him during the work week, especially one as gentle as this. The television buzzing in the background as you both sat on the couch (different sides, of course) just rambling about . . . anything really. Even with his shy character, he still held a spark that could leave you starstruck.

A lot of sneezing and throwing up didn't stop him from leaving your side.

"Are you sure you aren't bored?" You ran a wet paper towel across your face. Mike shrugged, "Of course not." he said softly. "I wouldn't leave you sick like this. I love you,"

"Love you too." You echoed.

A.N: sorry i keep changing the format every post lmfaooo. hope u enjoy ,, went a lil crazy

#💤 mike schmidt #mike schmidt #mike schmidt x reader #josh hutcherson #fnaf #fnaf movie #💌 request!#writing #writers on tumblr #mike schmidt fluff

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yeyinde · 3 months

Text

fever in a shockwave

pt., iii | stagnant on my betterment

“I don't want to lose you,” he's saying, and it's odd because he never really had you to begin with.

WARNINGS: angst, pining, yearning; eventual smut; trauma; grief and the existentialism of moving on; recovery; poor/unhealthy coping methods; codependency; reference to drug use (but it's just weed); reader has a backstory; spoilers for the series

WORD COUNT: 14,7k

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an update; this isn't the final part lmao dangerous words coming from someone like me oops. there's probably going to be three more parts after this.

There is no sense of closure when you watch the jagged pieces of a broken man fall to the floor by your feet. The splintered edges offer no succour, no victory, when they come to rest along the scattered ruins of a delusional love affair: alcohol bottles—Kraken, Captain Morgan—and grease-stained boxes of takeaway, most unfinished in favour of satiating yourselves on flesh, sex.

(Booze, more often than not.)

Seeing him struggle to find meaning in what you say—watching that ethanol-soaked resignation filter through hazy, electric blue—brings a fresh pain instead, taking space in the hollow gaps where you expected vindication and self-worth to bleed through.

You're doing the right thing, after all. Aren't you?

Aren't you? (please, someone, anyone, say yes—)

Uncertainty is an uneasy, nauseating feeling inside your guts. Much like a broken bone, it emanates a visceral sense of perturbation through your body. Every synapse fires in protest; every nerve screaming out. They bellow one thing in unison: something is wrong and not quite right.

You feel their cries deep in your being. Each muscle twitch and frayed thought that passes carries the echo of it.

This pain, it seems, is cracking your ribs apart and exposing the rotting marrow to the open air. Slurping from the putrefying sludge, satiating itself on the sickness eroding you from within.

It's all wrong. It feels wrong.

Bear swallows. You watch the way his throat works around the bitterness that lashes across the cut of his brow; gyres darkening in his eyes. Storms on the horizon.

(You think you'd welcome the squall. Might embrace anything to get out of this place—)

“That's what you want?” He rasps, thick and gritty, and you think about the last time he sounded like that—all torn up, and broken. Words mangled in his throat. Husked out when he told you about Rip, about the boy, his daughter, and—

No. No.

None of this is what you want, and it pains you that he can't see that.

(Such a selfish, broken man.)

Inside the festering slurry of your marrow, an urge wells up. Bubbles in the putrid pools until it's frothing, raging against the walls keeping it trapped until it seeps through the cracks, leaking into your muscles, your tissue, your bloodstream.

This silly little body of yours carries it up to your heart where it sinks talons into your pericardium, subsumes the serous in this terrible essence, this idea, this whim—

(“what?” the scoff he lets out trails on the coattails of what might have been a laugh in another life. if he was another man, maybe. you, more honest with yourself. but you are just two broken people in a run-down bar. humour exists somewhere in the muzzle of a loaded pistol. “got a saviour complex or something?”

or something. or something—)

Because the thing is: you do.

You spend most weekends wandering around antique stores because you're convinced that everything deserves a home. A place of its own. You find the unwanted, the unsellable, and you let it take space in your lonely, cramped apartment.

And why not? No one else will buy it. You're, technically, helping the environment. It's a win-win.

(and more lies you tell yourself.)

These false promises are always made that one day, one of these days, you'll find something to do with it all—maybe you could learn how to make something out of it; stitch all the unuseable parts, the unwanted pieces, and create something that everyone will want—but so far, none of your rescues has ever been finished. Saved. They sit in a corner taking up space. Untouched. Unused. Collecting dust.

That insidious whim curls inside of your heart, and whispers:

it's never too late to try again. maybe this time, it'll work out for you—

It's the same one that lures you in, making you purchase a complete set of ugly-looking dolls because some ladies were recoiling at the sight of their lumpy, antediluvian faces, and you felt bad thinking that they were doomed to end up sitting on the shelf until they were unceremoniously tossed into the bin with all the other things that won't sell.

And the one, now, that stares at the terse set to Bear's shoulders, the lines rucked across his broad, the helplessness etched into ashlar, and considers that maybe all he needs is someone. A friend, maybe.

(And maybe, maybe, that it could be you—)

“Bear—” it would be so easy to swallow the words back down until you choke on them.

You breathe in. Taste nicotine in your throat; the phantom burn of a memory from long ago: one once buried under the rubble of your crumbling foundations, now rearing into this yawning abyss as you waver on the precipice. This vacuum that syphons you dry. Leaves you empty, gaping.

It’s your mum leaning over the railing of a mezzanine as she smokes a cigarette—the eighth in the last three hours, pack near gone—and tries (and fails; always, always, always) to find some temporal kinship with a higher power as you sit on the porch swing and drink in the scraps she tosses your way.

(Today, it’s the way the smoke curls in the periwinkle sky like a naked gospel; grand televangelist to a crowd of one.)

She scrambles within the ruins of her own making to seek answers to compensate for the lack of worth that slips from the cracks. Left behind again. Again, but it’s not her fault. It’s never her fault.

(You should know best, she tells you—you suckled from the shattered parts of herself before you broke away from the cradle of her arms. Genetics leaves you wrecked for company, for permanence.

It’s just not made for us, baby. We’re unloveable only because we love too much—)

An epiphany comes in the middle of her eighth cigarette, and she divines enough wisdom to come to the succinct conclusion that those broken pieces are not the cause of her misery.

(How could they be when they’re a part of her and she’s a part of everything?)

Can't fix a broken man, she murmurs into the midmorning fog, blood-red mouth splitting into a sneer. There was beauty, you thought, to be found in the pale yellow of her teeth against the pastel dusting of dawn. Rapturous, almost. You couldn't look away even as the words snaked through the underdeveloped fibres of your mind. They're like someone who's drowning, you know? They'll grab on to anyone that gets too close and try to pull them under, too. Maybe because they want to save themselves, or maybe because they don't want to die alone. Better to leave them behind.

Can't fix a broken man, (but maybe—)

Your dad tried to fix me, she adds, and it comes in the same cadence of an afterthought, blase; but the thinness in her voice, the reedy pitch of barely veiled urgency, all feigned indifference to the topic, all give her away. She's been waiting for this, you know. Gearing up in steady increments so that the blow lands harder when it's thrown.

Isn't that stupid? And he couldn't even bother to stick around. What a joke… But I guess some people are like that, huh? Couldn't be me, she scoffed, jabbing her finger in your direction. You could see the yellow of her nails beneath the pock marks in her chopped, blue nail polish. And don't let it be you, either. The best thing you could ever do for yourself and someone else is leave. Don't cheat. Don't be the other woman. Just fucking—

The bubble bursts, and in that breaking, a truth is revealed to you in some strange, hangover-induced epiphany brought on by dehydration, malnutrition, and the terrific idea of going home with a man who has never once talked to you while being completely sober. It screams—first and foremost—you are an idiot, but beyond that, you really are your father's child, aren't you?

Lost amid your memory, the emergence of a forgotten fallow, it’s Bear who shakes you awake when he reaches for you after the silence sat for too long. Fingers touching, too tender and too rough at the same time, and the juxtaposition makes you quiver as it ploughs disquiet into your being.

Tears pebble in your lash line, threatening to spill over. You haven't cried in a long time and yet, yet—

His hand folds over your wrist, tight and unrelenting. Shackles against your bones. Grinding them into soft, fine powder.

“C’mon,” he slurs, pleads; tugging you closer as if distance is what makes you say these things to him and not the heavy, overwhelming scent of alcohol wafting off of his numb tongue. “You don't know what you're saying right now—”

His fingers tighten. The midnight scabs on his knuckles tear from the strain, the stretch. Blood wells under the slit that lifts from his broken, battered skin. Pebbles like a tear-drop on the wrinkle of his bruised knuckle, and then sheds itself free. Running down the yellow mess of moulted flesh until it meets the cliff edge of where his palm rests against yours.

“You don’t mean it. You can’t mean that. Stay with me, stay—”

The alcohol makes him sway where he sits, eyes upturned but focused inward, lost to thoughts and feelings and places unreachable to you. Ephemeral lines in jaded, blue sands. It slips, too, from between his fingers. Uncatchable to anyone but the flush under his skin, the slur in his words.

Can’t fix a broken man.

The motion dislodges the droplet and it waterfalls over his palm until his blood kisses the clean, unmarred skin of your hand.

He doesn’t notice the way he bleeds on you (through you, in you; drowns you in it, in him—): outside of a thready determination built on drunk devotion, he doesn’t seem to see much at all. Clouded. Overcast. Those hazy eyes regard you with a thin, untouchable distance. Filmed over and too far gone for you to pull him back—

(and you can’t help but wonder if he even notices you or if, in those unending crevasses, an icy, broken bergschrunds, the misshapen silhouette of you strikes a different chord to him; if these slurred hymnals are just a hollow orison for someone else in your stead.)

—so you stop trying. Let it sit, let it rot. Smell the infection in the air as the wound splits apart. Gangrenous and beyond palliative help.

Something must flicker across your face sharp enough to cut through the fog he drowns himself inside because his eyes widen slightly, and his hand tenses around your wrist. Tight. Unyielding.

As his fingers dig in over your pisiform, deep enough to bruise—to mark you once more with his stain, his touch—you’re struck by the sudden thought of brittleness. It’s not something you’d ever considered yourself as—delicate, fragile—but with the way he holds you now, not at all dissimilar to the way he held on last night, fingers loosely wrapped around your wrist as he used your joints as a stress ball to calm himself down, you feel vulnerable. Swallowed whole, caught.

What once felt like a comfort, a sense of security as you moulded yourself into an anchor point, a lighthouse on the sandy, dark shore, for him to find, to swim for amid the roaring waves dragging him down, now feels like dead weight.

For the first time since you've met him, you taste chlorine in the back of your throat. Feel the pull of the currents dragging you down.

You know all too well what it feels like to drown.

You pull away. He clings tighter.

“Bear, please—”

Please, you think. Please, please, please—

(If you keep stripping yourself bare, you'll be nothing but bones—)

He doesn't even notice. Nothing, it seems, will pull his fixed attention from every minuscule expression that flickers across your face as if the mere notion of weakness, of hesitancy, will give him reason to hold on just that much harder.

“Can't just give up on this—” the words are tangled in his throat, caught on the end of a snarl, and vicious. He tugs on you, pulling you closer. “On us.”

“There's no us, Bear.”

And it isn't a lie. Of course, it isn't.

There's an empty chasm between you both, void of any tangible substance. Whatever he thinks this is, it can't work. Won't. Not in the real world. Not outside of the bottom of a bottle.

You won't be his crutch. His bad habit. His midlife crisis amid a downward spiral.

You can't be.

Won't be.

(you will not be the other woman. you will not be your father's child.)

And it isn't remotely the same, you know. Bear's wife is—

Dead. Gone.

—and yet, this whole situation still makes you feel like a homewrecker even though the home you demand he returns to is empty.

Selfish, you think, but you can't even begin to know who you're referring to in this beautifully devastating moment. Bear, for chasing ghosts, drowning them in alcohol and bad choices and vices that end with bringing strange women back to his lonely hotel room just to feel more than the vicious bite of grief in his chest.

Or you, for pulling away from this drowning man because you're not strong enough to save him and yourself at the same time.

(or—something sneers—you just hate the idea of being like either of your parents, but what can you do when you've stolen all of their bad parts for your own?)

You think of the man in the bar. One hundred dollars to send him back home. Where he belongs.

(...he can't destroy himself like this. You'd know that, though, as his friend.

send him home, alright?)

“Go home,” you say, harsh and severe. All the things that your mother wished she said to him. Regurgitated words spat out by his feet because borrowed doctrines are you've ever known.

A fissure crackles across his expression, cutting through the fog. It's anger, bitterness, pain—some strange, fantastical amalgamation of the three—and it coalesces into broken defiance where it sits, clinging to the glossy grease around his brow, his nose.

It makes your fingers itch with the urge to soothe—to unfurl the wrinkles in his brow, to tuck this grown man close to your chest until the tension in the thick set of his shoulders liquifies in your hands, and he melts into malleable putty.

(Another trinket to collect dust on your mantle.)

You swallow it down—the salt and blood, and the pathetic pulse of your heart, and all. Hurt him, you think. Hurt him deeply. Deeper, still. Push him away and run. Run. Keep running until your legs give out, until your lungs collapse because if you don’t, if you don’t, you know you’ll stay with him until he throws you to wayside, until he wakes up one morning and decides that you are not enough compared to the big, wide world just outside his door; that your walls and your roof are not big enough for him—

“Please. Go home. Go home, Bear—”

Your words land like you knew they would, and he reels back for a moment, as if struck, but the anger, the twisted pain etched in the lines of his unkempt beard, his greasy brow, make stand firm. Unmoving.

You catch the acrid scent of gasoline on his skin when he leans forward, forcing himself back into your space with his chin dipped low, eyes blazing with a defiant inferno. His scarred, battle-battered hands drop to his splayed knees, gripping tight. Holding firm.

(Or holding himself back—)

His voice is a matchstick when he speaks. Smouldering embers sparking to life. Renewed with a sense of purpose you can't make sense of. What set him off? What made him flip—

(You're not worth it. You're not worth it—)

“M’not giving up on this.”

His jaw is slack. Laxed. The words slip out slow, languid. Curling with a touch of humid derision, mordant humour, at the idea that after all of this, everything (nothing, you think—nothing, nothing, nothing), you could just walk away unscathed.

If I burn, the crackle in his throat says, promises: then you're burning with me.

“Bear—”

“I'm not giving up on us.”

He leaves, and takes another part of you with him.

(You sever a part of yourself and leave it in the mouldering hotel room that still reeks of stale sweat, cheap whisky, and sex.)

The aftermath goes like this:

A tsunami of regret and indecision dredges up terrible, awful things—phantom memories and stains in the shape of fingerprints that pollute the inside of your psyche—ones that should have been left to rot at the bottom of your buried trenches. It makes leaving harder than it should have been considering the abrupt nature of this—whatever it is.

(Untitled. Unnameable. Unknowable.)

There's betting on losing dogs, and then there's this:

Pacing all your cards, all your coins, on one that wasn't even in the race.

One foot in, one foot out doesn't apply when Bear has never even stepped over the threshold. That notion roots itself in the scorched fibres of your chest, knotweed in your alveoli, as you scent liquor on his breath when he speaks. A cavernous distance grows between want and reality.

You thought you knew him. Learned and memorised all his hard lines, his soft valleys, the thick thatches of hair that dust his body like the dark depths of a riverbed; a nebula of loosely connected scar tissue—Orion's belt made of fine, silvery lines—and pock marks from blemishes and bumps born from the rich, enigmatic tapestry of his life beyond the mere sliver of you. Crows' feet in the corner of his eyes, but only when they're crested in pleasure, twisted in that tender sort of humour only comfort brings.

It takes you a weekend to map out the burly topography of a man, and only seconds to realise you know nothing about him outside of this rapacious intimacy.

And even though you want to feel like this was the right choice—because it is, it was—you can't seem to stem the sheer brutality in which regret tears through you as you stand alone in a desolate parking lot under the waning sun. A whimpering ending to a desolate beginning.

Was it loneliness that brought you here, or just the mundanity of fearing failure? It's these unanswerable questions, these skewed thoughts, that tumble over themselves, struggling to stay buoyant in the molasses of your sicky grey matter.

(Let them sink. Let them drown.)

These distant sentiments barely echo in the gaping vacuum of that is your mind. Untethered, whispering by as you stare, transfixed, at the broad strokes of pretty pastels in periwinkle, tangerine, and bluebonnet are rapidly consumed by the darkening sky that opens like a chasm above your head. The sight of it a little too close to the colours that danced in the aether when you both broke, finally, meeting somewhere in the middle, tangled webs. Broken people coming together in a cataclysm that was always, always, headed down a single path to devastation.

(The perfect conclusion to a story without a beginning.)

It's something you shouldn't think about. Let them sink. Let them drown—

This looping, knotted thread is a dangerous one to follow—the agony of watching Bear storm off (even after asking, demanding, that you let him drive you home; an offer you quickly refused) is still raw and gaping; a pulsating wound in the back of your throat—but you're brittle enough to want it to hurt, maybe. Chasing that unequivocal high only self-flagellation brings.

Masochism in failure. In heartbreak by your own design.

And it should hurt, right? This lonely climax (not with a bang, but a fizzle) should devastate you. Cut you to the core. Leave false starts on your bones. Scars on your ribcage. A meteor shower in milky white. Something tangible. Permanent.

But instead, it feels unfinished. More of a sudden paroxysm than a defining choice you've made. Concretely. Absolutely. It's a hollow win for your bruised ego. Your battered pride. It slinks, somewhere, in the depths of this renewed pain, and licks at the tender wound made when you pierced your chest and ripped your heart cleanout.

Threw it at the floor by his feet.

Quid pro quo, maybe. Or a desperate bid to rid yourself of the Bear-shaped hole now taking residence inside.

(It's fine, though. That pesky thing, all wrapped up tight in thick layers of duct tape, has never really felt like it belonged to you, anyway—)

It's all such a beautifully horrific panoply, you find. Paradoxical. Oxymoronic. Smothering and somehow claustrophobic at the same time. Being burnt alive and dying from hypothermia.

The cudgel of pain to your chest is white-hot and vicious, but there's a seismic polynya in the lavascape of sadness that drapes through the topography of your being like a sluice, and in that little island of ice sits the unrelenting sense of flat resignation.

You left Bear of your own free will, but in the jaded fibres of your being, you know it was all—

Inevitable.

And fuck—

(fuck, fuck, fuck—)

Was it? Was it all inexorable or are you just making up flimsy excuses for yourself?

Yes, you think. And then: no. Maybe. Maybe.

(you are your father's child—

and your mother's broken daughter.)

You want to cry, and scream, and break the pain against something willing to fight back, to cut you just as deeply as you hack at it, but all you have are fragmented memories swarming you in this vacant parking lot on the wrong side of Virginia Beach, and—

(don't let it in, don't—)

—you chase it, lure it all in as you compare the blue in the sleepy gloam to the colour of his eyes, and then—

Your back against a brick wall, his knuckles sticky with blood closing around the nape of your neck, pulling you closer. Closer. The wide expanse of his palm swallowing your wrist as he led you to his truck; then, heavy on your thigh the entire—ill-advised—drive to the Motel 6 down the road where you stand now, fragile, raw, and all alone.

When this all started, when you finally had the cobbled remains of Bear’s lucidity in your arms, the flat press of his attention against your jugular, you considered it to be a victory—

(a victory in amber)

—but hindsight is a cruel, mocking laugh in the back of your head. Twisting the knife deeper, severing the fraying threads that anchor you to yourself. With a sadistic glee it tells you that while you might have won the battle over the bottle, you lost the war (—abysmally, and without even the haze of a fever in your veins to numb the hollowness of your loss).

You just can’t fix a broken man, and you certainly can’t keep him afloat all on your own when you’re too busy trying not to drown yourself.

It's just that the weight of your shared brokenness was incompatible and insurmountable to the grief in Bear’s heart, but really. You just wonder if it was inevitable that everything you offered would be passed over in favour of numbed indifference at the bottom of a bottle. For someone, something, else. And while you might have been the one to leave first, but somewhere in the misplaced hurt inside of your chest threatening to collapse in on itself, folding into a black hole that devours all of your messy, ugly parts, you know that Bear was never really there, anyway.

That thought stings more than it should because you know, you know—

It’s just not made for us, baby.

—and maybe it’s all your fault for forgetting that inevitability in the first place.

(shame on me—)

The thread you warned yourself not to chase gets tangled around your throat, choking you with the very same line you should have stayed far away from. It feels like hollow cyclicity—a gluttonous ouroboros gorging on itself—when it all, eventually, leads back to the beginning.

Your fault, again, for trusting broken guidelines in the dark. For betting on losing dogs. For picking up another stray who already had a home. Another trinket to gawk at that ended up being chock full of arsenic, killing you with every touch.

But He's gone, now, despite the fire that raged in his eyes, he still left you here to burn on your own.

(inevitable—)

You should learn when to let go, you suppose, and fight the urge to bite your nails down to the wick just to taste blood in your mouth that isn't his.

For the most part, though, you’re fine.

You’ve always been a good liar (“terrible, actually,” Bear snorts, and it’s the closest you’ve ever come to seeing him roll his eyes. “Jesus, never play poker if I'm not around—”), and especially to yourself, so after a moment of self-reflection in the form of a scalding bath and a purging cry in your car as you shoddily cut the Joe Graves-shaped cancer from your aching heart before it can metastasise and infect you further, you come out of it all standing, somehow.

It might be the pastiche of indifference you slip into; a facsimile of the one, jaded and so bone achingly tired, that fell over you when you stumbled out of the bathroom, ready for something more only to find a man half-gone already to a bottle in the span of a few moments alone with his thoughts.

Regardless of what it is, it works (—in shades, and only as long as you cling so tightly to anger that your fingers bleed and your joints ache—), and you let the familiarity of your unpractised trot to some gnarled finish line lead you forward.

A clean break, you think (—hope: plead, bargain; wishing so hard on every eyelash that falls, every eleven you come across so that something, someone, listening might cradle the delicate splinters in their arms and nurse this whim, this want, into fruition), and you'll be fine. Fine.

You have to be.

But the thing is this:

Despite your best efforts to put some sense of distance between you and the heartache that must be, at least a little bit, on par with being gutted, a clean break is never clean, is it?

Case in point—

Thinking about him makes you bleed, and you think about him constantly.

(Regret, then, is a wellspring in which the pain drinks and you didn't know a body could thirst this much.)

And it's made even worse when you realise just how bullish a man like Joe Graves can be.

Maybe it's the thought of everything that had built up between you shattering into pieces that awakens this sense of urgency within him. Clinging, perhaps, to the only form of comfort he knows. The only one who toughed it out—in part, due to your employment obligation; the rest? an unresolved saviour complex when it comes to the people even a contrarian wouldn't place a bet on. Maybe.

(Probably. Undoubtedly.

You stopped trying to find the reason why you kept picking up the strays who always bite you in the end.)

Whatever the reason, Bear is persistent. Relentless.

He makes it Wednesday (you'd left him behind Sunday evening—day of the Sabbath, you learn; how fucking ironic) before his campaign starts.

It's forty-six missed calls, half a dozen texts (because he doesn't like texting—he likes talking. Face to face. No fallacies, no bullshit), and thirty voicemails (twenty-seven of which are drunken ramblings you don't even bother to listen to, and the rest—

Pick up. We need to talk.

Listen, I—

I fucked up. I fucked everything up—

Delete. Delete. Delete.

What are you supposed to do with any of that, anyway?)

The crux of the issue that Bear seems to miss swims in ethanol and leaves behind a five-minute voicemail filled with slurred I miss you's amid a background chorus of a rowdy bar. Then, a woman's voice—a woman who isn’t you—urging him back for more shots.

You can imagine how the rest of that night unfolded.

(You wonder if the word meant for you—I miss you—was still on his tongue when he followed her back.)

It's your fault (again; always) in the end because while you don't answer him—neither text, nor call; all voicemails deleted—you can't bring yourself to block him, either.

You let it sit somewhere in the murky middle. Untouched but looked at. Longed for.

It would be so easy to just give in. To let Bear back into your life—properly this time, maybe—and to take him up on those slurred promises made at two in the morning about coffee shops on the boardwalk, and breakfast at the Gulfstream, and movies and dinner, and talking until three in the morning, fucking in the back seat of his pick-up truck—

But that's the thing about yearning, isn't it?

Everything seems sweeter when you want it bad enough.

So, you drown yourself in him. Stand as close to the fire as you can without burning alive.

Dousing yourself in the scent of ethanol cleaner. Clinging to broken pinky promises. Thinking about peanut butter and bacon staining your fingers. Prying information from rotting timber, and keeping the saprophyte that falls off the wood in your pocket for safekeeping. Filling space on a drumroll because you talk too much, anyone ever tell you that?

(ad infinitum.)

Taping the ugliest bible verses to the back of your eyelids just to get closer, to feel closer, only to come to the realisation that you have no stake in religion to care about the deeper meaning behind it all. Metaphors and imagery are hollow when they mean nothing at all.

There's no comfort, no succour, to be found in the thin pages.

(You roll them up and smoke them instead. Easier to digest that way, you find.

Bear would probably hate it, and that alone balms the hurt some. Marginally, infinitesimally, because nothing can cauterise this gaping hole in your chest so you might as well fill it up with paper mache instead. Origami cranes with how much you hate him miss him need him want him written on the inside.)

You ache. Moulder. But you let it all rot inside of you until it's a congealed mess of putrefying memories and the moulted remains of the yearning you kept locked in shackles; the one that keeps biting, gnawing at the limbs of its cage to free.

It's easier to let it all decay together in a controlled space so that you can bisect the necrosed mass in a single go. Sever the limb to save the body. It's a mantra you repeat as you call in sick to work over and over again.

The flu, you say, and if the sniffle you give is from crying, and the cough from the weed you've been smoking all morning (blue dream, the shaggy-haired kid tells you with a nod; adds: the good shit), well. No one—especially your shitty boss and his shitty work ethic—has to know. You balm the hurt in a way that makes you feel good, smoothing it all over with trashy reality television (though, the Japanese dating show you end up dozing off to is pretty good, admittedly), and junk food.

Moving on—even some sad, pathetic facsimile of it—helps. Routines forged in wilful avoidance take the edge off of the livewires inside of your body, nerves overstimulated and burning up with a fever much too hot, too vicious, for you to palliate with home remedies.

And so, you throw yourself into it. Become a human battering ram against the ghosts in your head.

Things quickly become more of a coping mechanism than a potential, but that's fine. It's all fine. It'll work in the long run until the bruises that line your flesh fade along with the want and the hope, and the terrible memories, too.

(Terrible, in the way only a desperate, all-consuming one-sided love can be.)

All of it up in flames, in smoke.

You burn through an ounce in retaliation while watching his name flicker across your screen, and then spend an hour googling whether or not weed is really addictive (it isn't, but the routine, the habit, can be), before deciding that this whole affair is stupid, anyway.

It's a carousel of self-pity, spite, and masochism that feels like it might never end. Your efforts to palliate the sickness amount to a week of paid sick time spent watching a slew of old romantic dramas on repeat, and ignoring the string of texts that pour through (talk to me, let me fix this, let me—). All voicemails are immediately deleted before you can even hear the hitch in his voice.

It's duct tape over a gaping wound. Drifting aimlessly along Lethe, careless and indifferent, but all the while, desperately reaching down and cupping water into your palm for a sip that never seems to quench the thirst in the back of your throat.

You think you could drink until you're just standing in a dry riverbed and still feel parched. Effloresced by your own hand.

(as usual. as always—)

But this wound is still raw, still tender, even beneath the tape.

Ignore it. Ignore it—

(—before the edges begin to tear. Cloved down the middle.)

Another buffer is born when you get a text message from your boss—u comin in tmrrw?—and realise you can't avoid it, work, forever.

The prospect of going back on Friday evening—tomorrow, you suppose (the days have been slipping like molasses through your spread fingers)—makes you nervous.

You're not ready to see Bear.

But more than that (deeper than it, too), you’re not ready to see Bear unaffected by all of this. Sitting in his usual spot, in their chair he barely fits in, ordering the same drink over and over and over again.

Moving on, too—in his own way. Meeting someone else.

(His horoscope holds no punches when it tells you a past relationship may re-enter your life, which may open your eyes to a world of new experiences—)

It isn't as if he usually pairs celibacy with his whisky, and with the plethora of ignored messages (read receipt turned off), unanswered phone calls, and deleted voicemails, you know it's inevitable for him to give up. To get the hint—whatever that might be. Move on, maybe?

(get your shit together and chase this properly, Bear, jesus christ—)

You consider calling in again, but without any paid sick days left at your disposal, you know you can't afford to. So, you swallow it.

(And if it takes a little longer than usual to get ready for work, then so be it.)

Even with all of the false bravado you can scrape together come Friday, your nerves are frayed. Raw. The anxiety rolls off of you in waves, noticeable enough that even the regulars loitering outside (the ones who usually try and bum smokes off of any passersby, yourself included) offer you a cigarette.

(Politely turned down, but fuck—fuck—you wish you took it.)

The first hour into your shift is spent trying to pretend you're not aware of the way your roaming eyes skirt to the door in thirty-second intervals. Traitors. Or the involuntary flinch each time the door opens.

It would be easier to get lost in the familiarity of this desolate dive bar on the fringes of town, and so, you do.

(Try to, anyway.)

Immersing yourself in the routine of it all—the motions of pouring drinks, sizing the newcomers up (profiling their personage down to a drink and a random idiosyncrasy); the astringent scent of alcohol, the mild barley and hops; the noise of hushed conversations lulling between the static rumble of the television (sports, per usual).

The clock ticks down the seconds, the minutes, hours. You pour drinks. Clock the local gossip. Listen to the patter of condensation dripping into the tin bucket beneath the hole in the roof. In between the threadbare stirrings of routine, you find yourself waiting with dread gnawing at your insides until they're shredded and raw, pulsing ligaments burning with the fever of infection.

But it's moot. All of it.

He doesn't come back to the bar.

Where you expect to see his broad shoulders slouched over the counter, head hanging low over his steady accumulation of shot glasses (a drinking challenge with only one participant; his demons the spectators), the seat he usually occupies remains empty.

And maybe you're idealistic and stupid and wet behind the ears, but a part of you expected him to. To wander up to the counter with roses and chocolate and sobriety etched into the Neptune blue glow of his eyes, and to pick you, to choose you, but—

A fairytale.

The box on the counter—complaints—$5—is picked up by some wayward frat boy, and the mocking laughter that follows makes you think of cobalt blue, and peanut butter and bacon burgers in the empty parking lot near the beach, watching the endless midnight black ocean rock against the sandy shore. Talking. Talking. Talking.

Everything. Nothing. All the things in between.

You told him about college—failed the first semester, and then my dad… well. Anyway, had to drop out for a bit. But. I went back. Stupid, I know, and it doesn't matter but—

His hand falls on your arm, fingers a little greasy from the sweet potato fries, the ones he kept sneaking from your pile when he thinks you aren't looking, and he says:

It matters to you.

And it did, but only because it was something your dad mentioned a long time ago—I'd be proud if you followed in my footsteps—and despite everything he'd ever done, his attention, his affection, was all you'd ever wanted.

Yeah, you'd said, and stared out at the vat of blue until your eyes burned. Yeah, I guess so.

Well, he had peanut butter staining the corner of his mouth when you blinked the sting from your eyes, and turned to him. What do you wanna do?

Nothing. Everything.

Your dad once picked you up from practice, hands tight around the steering wheel. He filled you in about his day (stupid fuckin' guy from upstate came down and bought all the houses we were fixing to sell), complained about your mother (god, you know, that woman didn't even tell me what school to pick you up from? Said I should know where my daughter goes to school, as if I'm not working all damn day to keep you fed, and—), and gave you the biggest piece of advice you'd ever get:

"Look, no job is better than real estate. All that crap you think you want to do? Not important. All you need is four walls and a roof, and that's it. The rest is secondary."

(If that was true, why weren't you enough for him? Why weren't your four walls and roof enough to keep him?)

A shrug. I don't know. I've never been good at anything. You think of bruised knees. Scraped skin. Chasing a car, a dream, that never once slowed down. Can't even run right, it seems.

I can teach you. He clears his throat when you look at him, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand twice but somehow misses the dollop of peanut butter tangled in his beard. M’used to training men, I'm sure I can whip you into shape. Teach you how to run. Put you through the wringer until you come out sprinting on the other side.

"Teach me how to swim instead."

The bark of laughter he let out was cut off when you held your pinky up.

His brows bounced, incredulous. "Really?"

"A Taurus always keeps their promise."

"Christ's sake," he shakes his head, and you count the lines on his forehead when he turns, and rubs his fingers against his temple so hard, you wonder if he's trying to chisel through his skull to get at where it hurts the most. "I might not even be a Taurus."

"When were you born?"

His tongue pokes out from between his teeth, chin dropping to his chest when he huffs. You watch the way his shoulders shake, the flesh softening around his neck when he dips it low, and wonder if this is what it was like to yearn.

His eyes spark, Neptune blue, when he looks up. He says nothing, but holds his pinky up to yours, the digit swallowing yours whole.

It's a promise. He squeezes your hand in three pulses. One. Two. Three. You think you might get lost in the canyons that keep dividing inside of his eyes.

"Bet you were born in April."

"Not even close." He grins, all teeth, and drops your hand. Motions to the fries spilling over your console with his chin. "Finish up."

"Oh, did you even leave any for me? Thought you ate them all."

"Watch it."

Your stomach churns at thoughts, the memories. Plagued by him, it seems. So tantalisingly out of reach, and yet—your phone vibrates in your pocket; another voicemail left for you to listen to in your car and pretend that this whole thing is fine—so close.

He's everywhere, it seems. The scent of this place makes you think of him, and the stench of sickness—

Every square inch brings back some reminder of him.

When he got too trashed the first few visits and stumbled into the washroom. His bulk falls into the cheap door frame, and sends the ugly photo of what might have been the boardwalk crashing the floor. His call of: take it outta my tab when it shattered into pieces.

(You didn't. You hated that picture, anyway.)

When he knocked over his shot of tequila when you told him you thought he'd look really handsome in a beanie—a touch too bold, high off of the ethanol that leaked from his pores—and the rubescent smear over the bridge of his nose that followed. The ruddy stain on the counter—nail polish, you think, from that time a group of bridesmaids stumbled in after a wedding on the beach, and used the washroom to freshen up—matches the shade of his blush.

You spend an hour before closing scrubbing the counter down until your fingers are cracked and dry and burning from the chemicals you douse on the cheap, aged wood. It doesn't come out. Nothing you do will ever make the table unsticky. It's too far gone.

Like him. Like—

"Whisky," a man barks, slapping a dollar bill down on the stain. "Two shots."

Four walls and a roof, right? Right. Right. Right.

The walls here bleed condensation from the humidity outside, and the roof leaks when it rains. Always. It's patched up with duct tape and pipe dreams.

(Like you—)

The box on the counter catches his attention, rheumy eyes skimming the words. He scoffs. "Funny. Make me a drink worth a tip, and maybe I'll—"

"You know what?" You snap, throwing the wet cloth down with a splat that sends droplets pelting across his abdomen. There's a vindictiveness in seeing the splatter on his smooth, unwrinkled shirt.

Your eyes sting from the bleach, the lemon cleaner. Pebbled tears in your lash line threaten to spill over, but you swallow it all down. You won't cry. Not now. Not anymore.

Your hands twitch, an aborted motion to scour the wetness from your lashes, but you stop it in time. Curl your fingers into fists instead.

(And stupidly, nonsensically, you have the sudden, passing regret over washing your hands of the blood he'd spilled on your skin.)

"I don't work here."

"Since when?"

"Now. Get your own whisky, and take your shitty tip, and shove it up your ass—"

Quitting your only source of income certainly isn't the wisest decision you've ever made—but you've never been wont to make good ones, anyway, and so, you think it's all perfectly fine, considering.

Considering.

If anything, it's better than waiting around for the inevitable collapse of this shaky, patchwork foundation of paper-mache you cobbled together (reinforced with pipe dreams) to come crumbling down around you when Bear wandered in.

(If he ever would—

Fuck. You hope he does. Hope he doesn't.

Get better. Come back—)

You sit in your car at the end of your shift—the very last one after several odd years of growing roots down into the worn floorboards, and keeping more secrets about the occupants in this town than you care to admit—and just—

Breathe.

Sort of.

It's twisted in a way that makes you entirely too aware of what everyone would think if they knew about it. So, you cup this little secret between the palms of your hands, and cradle it to your chest, only exposing it to the outside world when things become too much. It's easier to say you count to ten—in, out, in, out—than to admit that your methods of self-soothing, of quelling the visceral sense of anxiety from pinballing around inside your guts like a marble, is to lean back, close your eyes, and pretend that you're back in the deep end of the swimming at the local chapter of a YMCA.

Drowning, of course.

Or some fictive version of it.

It comes to life in smeared yellow against hazy blue. A cacophony of muted sounds in the background—exultant shrieks of children, splashes in the distance, the low chatter of garbled conversation—is all you can hear in your underwater sanctuary, but only just. Noise is distorted and strange. A warbled mimicry of noise.

Your world is pressed into a cerulean marble, untouchable and inescapable. You linger in the centre, floating aimlessly in stagnation.

Down here, nothing matters. Everything is dissolved in the heavy chlorine that saturates the cold waters, and whatever resilient pieces remain sink low to the pool floor, scattered around the yellow goggles just within arm's reach.

You sink with them. Your thoughts become liquid; mercury slinking around your head. Intangible. Nonsensical. And above all else—silent.

Or they're supposed to be.

But even down here where nothing can touch you, where no one noticed you haven't surfaced in ages, your thoughts are carried by the lulling currents. Saved from your murky grey matter, from the sap that traps them in the mouth of a pitcher plant, they buoy to the surface, unmoored now. Free to scream at you in whispers.

You think of Bear.

Or rather, you think about not thinking about Bear.

About other things. And nothing—forced white noise. Static. What you're going to do now that you don't have a job. The scabs on his bloodied knuckles. No. Work, maybe. Finishing up that degree you promised yourself you'd get, if only to fill some absent void in your chest—or a futile obligation to a man who forgot your birthdays. Who spelled your name wrong on holiday cards—on the rare occasions he ever bothered to send them.

Other things. Other things—your faucet is leaking. You'll need to call the property manager to fix it. You need to get gas, too. Groceries.

Faintly, you catch the musk of his cologne still clinging to your passenger seat when you breathe in. Hold it, count to ten. It makes you remember the warmth of his humid breath on your cheek when he leaned in close, tapping your console as he pointed out your CHECK ENGINE light was on. Had been, you confessed sheepishly, for a few weeks up to that point.

Stupid pothole, you grumbled around the electricity running down your spine when his arm brushed yours as he leaned back with a derisive snort.

You caught the headiness of white oak, musk, when he turned his face to you, decidedly unamused by your answer, and flatly told you that you were driving around in a death trap.

Things not even on its last leg—it's in the damn grave.

Whatever, you shrugged. I'll just hit another pothole on the way home and it'll turn off.

Jesus Christ—

He didn't smell terrible. Faded cologne from a few days ago. Something woodsy. Cedar, maybe. Leather, smoke, pine. Sweat from the unrelenting humidity. Loam clinging to his skin. Spiced rum around his collar when he spilled his drink down his chin (you, eagerly, hungrily watching the amber droplet roll down the length of his neck—). He always seems to smell like he had been working in a thick, taiga forest in the dead of winter. Cindersap. Evergreen. Sweat-soaked leather. Chopped wood.

It congeals in your senses. Glueing to soft tissue, embedding itself in your skin. Permanent, unshakeable.

Unwashed sheets shouldn't be appealing. Motel shampoo. Cheap soap. The muted smell of old, stale cigarettes.

And yet, in this marbleised world, you think of it.

Of his skin, and the way it feels against yours. The slight sheen of grease along his nose when it nudges the soft slope of your neck. The rough drag of his beard over your pulse. Wry curls that end up on your tongue after he'd kiss you.

Any plans on shaving?

He dragged his cheek over your collarbones, eyes lidded, heavy. None at all. That a deal breaker?

You hold your breath until your lungs start to quiver, to ache; until you're dangling precariously on the verge of hypoxia with ink blots splashing across your vision in a garish Rorschach (they're all butterflies. with knives. what does that say about me, doc?). Phosphenes scatter in a nebula of colour. Your throat constricts around nothing, empty. Empty. The urge to swallow follows on the coattails of a pitifully fleeting euphoria. Temporal and untouchable, but you still reach out, grabbing and grasping with straining fingers because you'll hate yourself forever if you don't try. Scrambling, desperately, to catch cosmic dust on the tips of your fingers. To imbue your disjointed cracks with the chemical makeup of a Magellanic cloud until your broken parts burn incandescent. Kintsugi in cuts, scraps, of Andromeda.

But for as much as you want to shatter your lungs into infinitesimal pieces, and scatter them across the universe, your body has a failsafe against stupidity.

It forces you to gasp, gulping down thin, crisp air until you feel the burn in your chest from overexertion.

You open your eyes, and wish the world around you was still draped in teal and hazy yellow. That you could taste chlorine in the back of your throat. It's a brutal awakening to find a gossamer of silken midnight draped over the parking lot in the back of the dive bar. Empty, barren, save for yourself and the chef. A man you guess you'll never see again.

Soft, crushed ochre smears a hazy ring in the east. The dawning sun of a new day.

Leaning against the old leather of your car, your eyes cut to the console briefly. The CHECK ENGINE light is off. You made Bear groan, out loud, when you hit a pothole on the freeway and it flicked off, like you knew it was. Problem solved. More duct tape over what is probably something wrong with your engine (probably dented the filter in your catalytic converter, Bear grumbled, and you nodded along, pretending like you knew what that meant).

A light catches your eye. Your phone buzzes on the dashboard, screen illuminated in the reflective surface of your window.

You could pretend you were getting a call from RAEB if you tried hard enough. Answered it, maybe, and feigned ignorance while you chatted away to him like nothing happened. Like you sometimes don't try to drown yourself on land.

You reach for it, fingers tingling at the last vibrations before the screen cuts out, and bring it close.

It takes a second, but the voicemail icon pops up in the notification bar beside a text from your friend sent hours earlier begging you to come out next weekend (haven't seen you in forever okay?? come out w us!!).

You don't know why he keeps trying. Why he's so persistent over something that is, quite decidedly, nothing.

The icon taunts you. You hate seeing it—always have. It can't be swiped away. Can't be hidden. It irks you somewhat, seeing this little symbol.

Make it go away—

You shouldn't. Not when your insides are this raw, this fractured. Broken. But you turn your phone over in your hands for a moment, mood mulish and itching for something. A fight, maybe. Something to be angry about, justifiably. To vent your frustrations.

You tap it before you really think things through, watching as it dials VOICEMAIL and the automated message pops up after a ring.

Please enter your password—

You have one new message. To play your messages, press one—

It starts shaky—like he's moving. You can hear the shuffle of his body, the rasp of his shirt. A door slams. He huffs.

Look, uh. I'm not… I'm not good at this kind of thing. I was hoping—hoping we could talk… but. I guess I, uh. Anyway—

It goes quiet. You reach up to hit SEVEN on the keypad, delete the message like all the others, but a noise stops you. The screen hums under your finger.

I've been thinking lately. About a lot of things. The team, myself. You. I made—some bad calls. Got some good men…uh, into some trouble. The kind of trouble you… don't walk away from.

It made me think about Rip. I told you about him, right? In the—the motel. Rip is—Rip was… important to me. To us. Saved my life. In Iraq. Mosul. Bullet nearly hit me but somehow, he pulled me back just in time, took the bullet instead. Right in his stomach. And you know, he, uh—he huffs. It sounds like a laugh, but one he's choking on. He got right back up and took the bastard out. Just—wasted him. I owe him my life. Always have. It's muffled, as if he has his hand pressed to his mouth, keeping the words in. Should have saved him, but I couldn't. Couldn't do a damn thing to help him. I let him get that bad and I knew. I fucking—I knew. I saw it. Watched him spiral. And now—shit. Now I'm—uh, talking to your voicemail at four in the morning—

You think you catch what am I doing before the line cuts out.

Fog settles in the midmorning dawn. You lean against the headrest, clutching your phone, and try not to think at all.

(wash, rinse, repeat)

The hole in your chest, filled in with clay and papier-mache, crumbles under the seaspray.

What am I doing. It stays with you.

These flimsy excuses become a house of cards.

It doesn't surprise you much at all when they wobble, falling on top of you.

It's his name flashing across your screen—just Bear—as you lay in bed days later, pretending not to think about him that starts it all.

(again, again, again)

This is all a cruel sort of timing, you think, and feel the harsh thud of your heart so strongly against your rib cage that you wonder if the silly thing might break through them yet.

You shouldn't answer. Know, without any hint of uncertainty, that Bear has the potential to pull you back in—fish to a pretty, glimmering lure—and that the moment you acquiesce to one thing, others will immediately follow in rapid succession, much too quick for you to keep up with.

There will be no stopping the deluge once it breaks.

And yet—

What did you expect?

The words thrown back into your face echo in the small of your flat as the walls around you wobble, teetering on the edge of collapse.

Like most things when it comes to him.

After the second buzz, one that sends a thrill through your spine that you refuse to give attention to, you hesitantly press your finger against the green answer key and slowly bring the phone up to your face, inches away from your nose, before stopping. Abruptly.

You can handle Bear at a distance, you think, and so, deciding better than to have him murmur directly into your ear, you quickly tap the speaker button, and stammer out a muzzy greeting.

“...Bear?”

There's a sharp inhale that threads through the speaker, and you know, all at once, that he hadn't expected you to pick up. Was, instead, ready to meet and reluctantly embrace the cool, blithe distance of your voicemail.

“You answered,” he hedges, and you wonder if the wariness in his tone means anything deeper. “I didn't think you would.”

Despite his honesty, there are shades of derision tainting the gruff timbre.

“I wasn't going to,” you volley back, matching the fickleness of his misplaced scorn with your own.

“Then why did you?”

“You know why,” you admit quietly.

No one is around to see your boundaries crumble. To watch as the cards you kept so close to your chest dip once, quick enough for him to glimpse them, to see what is tucked in the palm of your hand.

In that loneliness, you find a sense of freedom that you had been missing. One tinged in the bitter coat of nostalgia.

It feels too much like those nights spent arguing about the meaning behind the perfect pour (and why yours would always be trash), and showing him abysmal creations on Instagram in a thinly veiled attempt to make him see that you weren't, objectively, the worst at it.

Back when you held the patchwork remains of your bruised, duct tape heart out over the countertop that never seemed to ever be clean as an offering to a man who bluntly looked down into the nozzle of his bottle instead.

He huffs a little, then. Put-off, maybe, by the distance you pitch when giving in is always just within reach. “I don't see the problem.”

“Well, yeah…” you mutter, shuffling in bed to get comfortable. You drag your knee to your chest, as the other stretches out in the sheets, and lazily wrap your arm around your shin, fingers digging into your flesh. Bruising, biting. It centres you, this fleeting pain. “You wouldn't, but I'll have you know—”

It's comfortable. The thought is a battering ram, one that hits hard, vicious, and dredges up the realisation of just how much you missed this. And just how easy this all is with him, even know when your heart is in tatters and you can hear the slur in his words (though, that might be his usual mumble—the man is hard to understand on a sober day, what with his penchant to grit words out between his teeth, as if he needs to tear them to shreds, to chew on them, before forcing them out), the normalcy in all of this, or as normal as this abnormal situation can get, is a bludgeon to your resolve.

“...what, huh? What'll you have me know?”

You'll get suckered back in again, but this time, all the way to the event horizon. Inescapable.

“You know, Bear.”

It's flimsy when he huffs, and sounds too much like relief when he growls: “Then why fight it?”

“I don't want to talk about this right now.”

The line goes still, but you catch the hitch in his throat all the same. “We should. I can fix this. We can fix this. You can't just decide—”

You can, you think, and drop your forehead to your knee, letting the phone slide down the valley of thigh and stomach where it comes to rest on the clothed crease of your hip bone. A prison. Your body is the cage.

Not being able to see him gives you some sense of power back, and you reach for it. Needing to wield something decisive and distant before the rough timbre of his voice, his desperation, scoured your resolve into thin powder.

“ Just give up, Bear. It's over. There's nothing to fix because there was nothing there to begin with.”

“Nothing there, huh? Is that what you think?”

Overtaking the bitter resignation is anger. A bone-deep fury that simmers to the surface, dredged up from the bottom of the bottle you thought you lost him to. You can hear it in the sharp breath he takes, the little growl he lets out.

“Fuck that,” his viciousness stabs into your defences like a battering ram. Unrelenting, dizzying. You make to step back, but he fights you on it. Keeping you close. Blazing anger so hot, it nearly burns you. “You waltz into my life, chasin’ after me and then, what? You just decide it's too much for you? I warned you. I fucking warned you, didn't I ?”

“I—I know. I just—”

What, you wonder. What? Because was it ever as simple as wanting a hurting man to be a little less lonely in an empty pub?

It's moments like this that make you contend with your self-sabotage, the unmaking of yourself (morality, compassion, kindness) by your own hands. Your complicity in all of this is staggering, and suddenly the idea of a clean break feels vile.

How could you drop a man you spent months pursuing, expecting him to change overnight?

Your faults, and flaws, soften the part of you that wants to run, fleeting into the dark to avoid the consequences of your actions.

It takes two to tango, and the idiom bludgeons through the headache like a battering ram.

“I guess I just wanted to help, at first. To be your friend. You seemed so—” lonely. Sad. One bad day away from slipping too deep into the bottle that he couldn't climb out again.

His laugh is ugly, biting. “What? Pathetic? A sorry fucking drunk—”

“Alone.”

It quiets him, this soft confession.

“Can't save everyone,” is what he says after an agonising beat, and you think of the priest he tore into viciously for uttering the same sentiment. Bruising with his words, his tone, instead of his fists. Creating walls from the craters it left behind.

“Doesn't mean you can't try.”

“Wasted your time, don't you think?”

“No.” The word is immediate. Forceful. “With you? For you? No. But Bear. The thing you don't get, what you don't understand, is that you can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped. And maybe it's selfish, and honestly, I know it is, but you always risk your own life whenever you try to save someone from drowning, and I know I'm not enough to help you.”

He's quiet. “Reading up on being a lifeguard?”

“In my spare time.”

A huff. It's barely a ghost of laughter. “Yeah. Yeah. Well. Hope it all works out for you.”

You can imagine the grim twist of mouth as he says it. The downward pitch to his chin, dipping in his misery.

“I hope the same for you.” You whisper, and it feels like finality.

Moments ago, the thought might have brought a sense of bitter relief to you, but now it just feels sickeningly like loss all over again.

“Shit,” Bear grouses suddenly, and then draws a sharp breath once more. “I miss you,” he rasps on the exhale.

You don't know why he would, but you understand, maybe, because you do, too.

(So much, so much, so much—)

“I miss you, too, Bear.”

The tentative words seem to shake him, and all at once, he's commandeering again. Authoritative, in that way only he can be.

“I'm getting better,” he rumbles. “I gotta. For the—for the team—”

It's the wrong thing to say, though, and he seems to realise it midway through. A quick course correction comes with a rushed, and for me, too, that reminds you too much of all the times you heard this same thing from behind the counter as you topped up their third, fourth, fifth glass.

You know better than to believe in this hollow gospel, this midnight epiphany, and for the most part, you don't. It's all empty words. False promises from a prophet, spoken as a defence mechanism against the ugly reality of what happens when people catch on to their bad habits.

But it's Bear.

Out of everyone who murmured the same phrase in that exact tone, you believe in him just a little bit more than the rest.

(Stupid, stupid, stupid—)

It's his intense tenacity. That gritty determination seems ingrained within his very being. Inseparable.

You wonder when you started divining truths from its scripture.

“I don't want to lose you,” he's saying, and it's odd because he never really had you to begin with.

“Bear—” It's late, and your thoughts are just running themselves aground. Turning into a tangled, indecipherable mess. “I need to get some sleep. Can we—can we talk about this tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Will you answer?”

It's deserved, of course, but you know that particular knife twist hurts him just as much as it does yourself, and whatever little vindication he finds from it is swallowed, quickly, by regret.

“I just…want to talk to you.”

You imagine that somewhere between the lines, the things unsaid, sits the glaring truth of his sudden devotion, his obsession:

there's no one else.

(never anyone's first choice—)

“Sure. Okay, yeah, we can. We can talk. You're—” you need distance. You need space. A minute, maybe, to sort through the ugly thoughts making webs in the back of your head. “You're my friend, Joe. We're… we can be friends, again.”

“Friends?”

It's not what he wants. That much is clear by the threadiness in his tone, but at two in the morning and with your thoughts liquifying into syrup, it's all you can offer him, all you're willing to give.

Friends. It makes you remember the limbo you sat in before, the murk and heartache of watching him ply himself with overpriced liquor and then stumble out the door, sometimes with company but most often, all alone and with just ten minutes to spare before closing. The yearning. The pining. The want that made you feel sick to your stomach with guilt for some unseen, unknown woman back home.

(“Dead. She's dead—”)

It sickens you even more to think about that. The ring he kept, the sadness that draped over his shoulders in a swath of agony. The one he didn't take off, not even for you. The warning signs were there.

You just ignored them all.

Friends, you murmur again, and wonder where, in all this, you went wrong. The beginning, maybe, when you looked at him and couldn't bring yourself to look away. Friends. We can be friends, Bear.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Best friends,” you echo back, hollow and thin. “With matching bracelets and everything—”

“Thought it was a tattoo?”

“That, too.”

“Okay,” he acquiesces quietly, but you can hear the threads of obstinacy in his voice when he says it. The combativeness, the steadfast refusal to fully submit, rears in the things he doesn't say, pitching bivouacs in his tone. This isn't over, it says. You're not over. “Friends.”

It's scornful, and you hate the way it blisters under your skin. Burning hot, the same feverish delirium that turned you incandescent with just his touch.

Everything about Bear tells you to relent. Submit.

It would be so easy to just give in.

And the thing is:

You want to. Desperately, achingly.

His certainty, his acuity in all of this, has a way of dismantling your sense of reason. Or, at the very least, your rationale for why you're keeping him at a distance. It's not just being diametrically opposed, though; this is the unerring knowledge that your complicity needs to be curbed. That you are, in small parts, responsible for this barren husk of a man. For aiding and abetting in his spiral, sure, but mostly for expecting him to greet you with sobriety when he woke up, as if spending an entire weekend between your thighs was enough to negate all the demons clawing at the walls of his skull. Scarring bone. Chiselling into marrow.

Simply put: you're not enough. You knew this, and yet—

Pursued, persisted. Laughably, even echoed the same words you repeat now to a man on the verge of going nuclear under the pressure of his rage, his grief.

It's impossible to make a levee out of skin and bones, and no matter how much Bear might want to try—maybe has tried with his late wife, with a bottle, with vice, with bloodied, bruised knuckles and a chip on his shoulder deeper than a canyon—it's just not feasible.

Too bad, you think, that this bone-weary epiphany didn't come sooner. That you didn't kick him out when you realised those beautiful valleys in his eyes were really just trenches.

Hindsight, of course.

(How were you supposed to know that the rough growl in his timber wasn't a security blanket against the world but just the aftereffects of inhaling too much artillery fire?)

You should have, though. Your mum was a how-to manual on the things to avoid. She could channel wisdom directly from a man's marrow, and you—made in her spitting (vitriolic) image—seem to have learned nothing at all about divination.

And you—forgotten ilk—can barely tell the difference between a portend and good fortune when you sift through clumps of barley tea at the bottom of your cup.

For all of her stolen wisdom, you make a promise to yourself that you won't tear yourself into pieces just to make a safety net for him out of your flesh. Or set yourself on fire to keep him warm.

(Not anymore, anyway—)

But then, cruelly, viciously, you wonder if you ever really helped him at all, or if this is just a manifestation to assuage your own guilt. Doubtless, you find. What have you done for him that wasn't, in some part, mutually beneficial? All this time, you've been gambling equivalence with a broken man, and then ran the moment those jagged pieces cut you.

And maybe a little bit of this hesitancy is rooted in fear as well. A fickle thing you try to ignore in favour of something that makes you seem more altruistic than you really are, but still lurks in the shadows, in the words you, too, won't say.

Things like:

He's never met you sober. Not completely. And certainly not in a way that counts.

Each interaction is marred with some form of a buffer between you both. Distance shaped in sips of his (fourth, fifth) beer; a shot of whisky.

What if he doesn't like what he finds sober?

You heard enough jokes at the bar about falling in love drunk and then waking up sober. If this is that, you don't know how you'd regain any sense of ground back.

The precipice you clawed your way up to is endlessly steep, treacherous, and yet: you still let yourself fall. Still took the risk in opening your hand just to show him your still-beating heart.

Return to the sender, you think a touch hysterically, deliriously.

In the suffocating silence, his voice rings out. Quiet, rough, as if his vocal cords were made of charred wood, smouldering embers, and not warm, wet tissue. It's just your name, but the sound of it seems to drag you down to yourself, if only in increments.

“You good?” He asks when you hum noncommittally in response.

With your forehead braced against the slope of your knee, it feels like bowing your head in a confessional when you whisper, paper soft, “I'm tired, Bear.”

It sounds like he is chewing on glass when he sighs. Throat torn, raw. The ghost of it whispers across your chin; fingerprints tapping over a tender bruise.

“Haven’t been sleeping much these last few days. Been thinkin’ of us. Of you. And the team. All the people I let down—”

“Bear…”

“And I—I want to see you soon. When you're ready. I'm not going to rush things this time. Not gonna mess it up again—”

He speaks like this is settled. Over. As if you've already climbed into the palm of his hand, and all he has to do is just close you up tight in his fist. A little flower he can carry around in his pocket. Kept safe. Kept close.

It's—

A lot. Overwhelming. He sounds sober enough, and you know that he's not wholly dependent on drinking—it’s palliative; a coping mechanism to numb himself from the reality of everything else that happened to him—but there's a real crutch there that can't be erased by determination alone. But thinking about that—the future—makes your chest feel like it's going to cave in on itself; collapse and become another black hole in the Milky Way, swallowing everything down.

You need to breathe. You need to think—

“You should get some sleep, Bear. And—”

Don't drink. Stop. Get help. Talk to someone.

But the words are empty. Hollow vessels to placate your sense of responsibility. Your own guilt.

Coward. You've always been so good at running—

“Take care of yourself.”

“Yeah,” he rasps. The hushed timbre makes you tremble. “You too. Get some sleep. I'll talk to you in the morning.”

And so, this delicate dance made of putting duct tape over fractured promises and palliating the sickness in patchwork hope begins again, working in pieces.

There's a distance that lingers between the folds of you both, unspoken hurt and distrust—a lingering symptom of letting yourself get swept away by the idea of a man rather than the flesh and bone cut of one—but despite it all, each misgiving that passes your mind when you see Bear’s name flash across the cracked screen of your phone, it works.

Somehow, somehow.

It isn't as deep as missing puzzle pieces, because as much as you and Bear seem to connect on a level beyond sex, and booze, and fleeting highs to numb a phantom ache in the pit of your chest, the idea of soulmates seems to be frangible for your fractured selves; with all of your jagged, sharp edges, something so soft would break into pieces, shatter apart. But it is something.

And that might just be enough. So, you let it root. Let it grow limbs, and leaves, and curl around you like gentle, strangling wisteria until it reaches up to your chest.

This delicate, fragile thing makes a home, again, inside the empty landscape of your heart.

(shame on me, you think, but still pick up his call as this tender, soft thing you're nurturing snakes across your jugular where it's the warmest, leeching heat from the fever that thrums under your skin.)

Despite his bold declaration, though, he seems to waver on a full pursuit. Content, almost, to maintain this idea of closeness without shattering the bubble you've reconstructed.

It's odd, though.

Bear is a man who seeks logic out but always ends up relying on his hunches. Emotional in the sense that he places all confidence in himself beyond the scope of what he might be able to deliver. If his determination can't bring him across the finish line—well, then it was unwinnable from the start.

For a man so tenacious, so driven, his hesitation in all of this surprises you.

But something has to give eventually.

It always does.

Bear isn't terrible at texting, but he prefers phone calls. Something he admits has less to do with his occupation (no, I won't have to kill you for telling you this, you need to stop believing what you see on tv), and is more just a way of gleaning nuances he can't with written word.

Though, not always.

There's a softness when he speaks tonight, a quality you're unfamiliar with, as he confesses on a hushed memory, half musing aloud when the world is dead asleep and the sun is a distant idea in the back of your head, that he used to write letters to his wife whenever they weren't on the phone talking. Or Skyping each other.

“Deployment with a group of guys doesn't leave much room for privacy,” he says, as if he hasn't just unravelled this hidden part of himself at three fifteen on what was meant to be a rather mundane ending to your Thursday. “They're not really, uh, sensitive to that. We're on top of each other for most of it, anyway. Asking a whole room to clear out just so I can talk isn't happening. So, uh, we—uh, me and Lena, we wrote letters.”

There's a stutter in his voice when he relays this to you, and you're struck numb by it all. Lena, you think, putting a name to a concept.

“Oh,” you say, and you're not sure what to think about it. So, you don't. You tuck it aside, where all the other things you've learned about Bear go. The ones revealed to you in shambles. “That sounds— romantic. ”

It makes him scoff, and it's this terrible, broken thing. “Romantic, huh? Is that what you think?”

You hum, taking it in. The grand reveal of his ex-wife (she… we, he corrects and clears his throat like it burns: we decided to separate. See, uh… see other people), and his marital problems, you connect the dots lingering in the foreground.

You're not completely ignorant of his intentions.

It's the first move on a fresh chessboard: a show of his commitment to this—whatever it might be—and how serious he's taking it all. Where you'd been the only one to dare pry open the rusted nails keeping your secrets at bay before, he's taking the initiative to do so now, to meet you somewhere in the middle where the olive branch still grows. Placing his bets before the race. Offering himself, and his secrets, up as collateral in this strange game you found yourself in.

But does he know that you can still hear the slight slur in his voice when he speaks, or notice the way he seems to skirt around the conversation of his drinking habits on the days when it must be hitting him harder? Surely, he must.

And yet, he still calls. Still decides to gamble with your devotion in maintaining a strange facsimile of friendship with whisky on his breath, slurring his words, and gives out the pretence of playing for keeps under the table.

Maybe he knows you'll still give him the chance to keep playing no matter how many times his luck runs dry. It makes sense, considering.

You'd always had a weakness for men like him.

(Stupid—)

Outside of the tipsy phone calls, you've yet to hear him completely gone. A testament to his dedication, maybe, but you know the first week is always the easiest. When the high of the epiphany roars through their bloodstream, and the weight of the world doesn't feel as crushing as it once had, it's easy to make deals you don't have the means of keeping up with. But the debt is insurmountable to those who aren't fully invested, and the collectors are vicious.

Still. Still.

This is as close to sobriety as he's ever been, and you soak up his unbridled attention like you're starving for it.

And in all honesty, you are.

Bear is a strange, complex web of a man. Full of grit, anger. Misery curls in the corners of his eyes, hidden there amongst the powder keg of obsessive devotion just waiting to go off. You scented kerosene on his skin—napalm drenching his pores—when he'd lifted two fingers up and nearly snarled his order from across stained cedar wood.

Having the brunt of his fire listing your way is a character study in restraint, in penance. It taps against the delicate binds holding everything back, and loosens the ties with every piece of him you're given.

It's hard, you think, to stay so far away from someone when you're wobbling on the brink of devotion. Love, in shades of obsession. The taste of which settles in the back of your throat like a sickness, aching each time you swallow.

You're not sure what it is about Bear, about this particular brand of miserable, angry man, but his very existence feels like it was constructed, handspun, to make you hunger for a taste.

And then, you know. It's just that, isn't it? Miserable, angry man.

(saviour complex, maybe. maybe, maybe, maybe—)

It feels deeper than that, though. It might have been the cause for this unravelling, this unmaking between you both, but the rest—the helplessness and the anger and the worry; answering his call even when you swore you wouldn't, leaving him in the motel room like a bad dream smeared across your pillow only to pick him up again, another bad habit in a sea of others—is than just a simple desire to fix problems that are not your own.

(especially when they aren't your own.)

“Never really been the romance type,” he rumbles, shattering this strange, introspective reverie you've fallen into.

“You seem to be doing okay for yourself, though,” you volley back, a touch too cautious compared to how it all was before. When you'd read him his horoscope, and pester him about trying your audacious food combinations he'd complain about, but eat, anyway.

“Is that what you think?”

“It's what I know.”

You expect him to pick up your jab, turning it on you instead. Something caustic, something severe. Something equally mean and mordant in the way only Bear could be. But he doesn't. He lets it fall to the wayside instead, humming under his breath in something that might be acquiescence, or maybe avoidance of the topic entirely, and shifts back into neutral territory.

How was your day? He asks, as if that wasn't one of the first things he'd said to you when you answered the call.

“Fine,” you hedge, breezing the word out between your teeth. “It was okay. Bear—”

“I, uh, have a meeting tomorrow,” he steamrolls through your concern like it's made of paper instead of the broken remnants of your heartache. “Another eval., to see if I'm fit to return to training. Make my way back to being an Officer.”

More secrets are revealed to you in the slow dawn of his unfurling fist. Held out like a beacon, a piece of candy. Good job, it says when you reach for it like the good, obedient dog you are.

Pavlov's finest.

“That sounds…” You're not really sure what it means, in all honesty. Words coming together to form a sentence. The meaning is absent from between the lines. You could infer, but you've never been good at guessing. So, you stagnate. “Good. Um, really good, Bear.”

He huffs, and you take it as a laugh—or as close to one you'll get from him. “Gotta pass the eval first.”

“Should be easy for you.”

“Should be,” he mumbles, and you catch the faint end of a muffled groan. “But I've been slacking. Put on extra weight. Need to burn it all off before I can really get into the old routine. Gonna fall behind worse than a newbie.”

Newbie being growled out in his flat intonation makes you snort.

“You find something funny? ”

“Ha, no—” his words turn over in your head—put on extra weight—and, damningly, you remember what all that extra weight felt like, stretched out beneath you; arched over your body, heavy and suffocating, and—

Fuck.

Bear catches the hitch in your breath, and makes a questioning noise in response. You can't let him ask. Can't let him know that you keep painting a picture of his hairy belly brushing against yours in the forefront of your mind. His biceps. Burly is what you'd thought of him before. Thick. Husky. A heavy man, in more ways than one.

The softness around his waist belied the hard muscles below. You could feel it pressing firm against your palm when he rolled under you, bracing your hands over his chest as he let you ride him.

That's it, sweetheart. Just like that—

“No,” you swallow around the desire welling up inside of your throat. “Nothing.”

He hums, and it's tainted in disbelief. Like he knows, somehow, what you were thinking of. What you keep thinking of—especially after these phone calls, his voicemails, when you're lying in bed with your fingers whispering between your thighs—and you almost expect him to call you out on it. To demand an answer.

Instead, he offers a tender truth that nudges against the soft pulse in your throat.

“...Not drinking as much helps.”

You almost want to call him out on the as much he tacts on to the end of his confession, to question the logistics behind those two words. To quantify it in a number, in tangible data. Something concrete you can plinth your hope on. But the answer scares you.

Too much and you'll fall all over again. Too little and you'll have no choice but to run.

So, you retreat in the face of his truth. A coward.

“That's—It's good. That's good, Bear—” and it is. Of course, it is. Great, even. He isn't even yours and this silly notion of pride staples itself to the front of your chest for the world to see. “I'm, um. I'm proud of you.”

It sounds hollow, pyrrhic, coming from you—repentant enabler—but the airiness in his voice strikes something deep inside. Pulses against a dormant place that comes alive, fecund with the bittersweet stirrings of hope germinating in the fibres.

Skingraft over the wound.

“Proud, huh?”

And the sound of his voice cuts that thread as soon as it forms.

His voice is pitched low, throaty. He draws the syllables out as he says, at length, “I, uh, keep thinking about you.”

You should warn him away. Tap the impish fingers sneaking to the cookie jar—a thorough chastisement to keep wandering hands in check. Bad dog, is the passing thought, and you try to swallow down the hysterical giggle that bubbles in the back of your throat.

You should.

But you don't.

It comes out breathier than you intended when you say his name, and it sounds much too malleable in the face of this tactile man.

“Been thinkin’ about you a lot.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. Too much. Too much. “Same. Uh, me too.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Going out with some friends. Probably going to get dinner. Watch that new movie that just came out. And, um, have a few drinks after.”

“How're you getting home?”

“Taxi, most likely.”

He hums low, throaty. The sound seems to reverberate through the phone and tremble deliciously down the length of your spine. “That so?”

“I'm not going to be drinking much.” You weigh the ethics of discussing your intentions to drink, to get completely wasted, and maybe go home with someone who isn't Bear, who doesn't even so much as look like him, before waving the thought away before it can take shape. “It's just—social. Getting caught up. Haven't seen them in a while because of school and stuff.”

And because you've invested so much of your free time spinning in circles around a man who didn't even really seem to look at you (who insisted on calling you kid to force distance and indifference between you) until a few months ago, letting your social life dawdle on the wayside.

Not that there was ever much one. It's easier, sometimes, to push people away than to explain the inner workings of your borrowed scar tissue.

He hums again—and he really needs to fucking stop doing that before you do something stupid, something reckless, like remember the way he sounded when he lifted his head up after coming deep inside of you, panting in your ear from exertion, and groaned just like that when he shifted forward, inching his softening cock further you, seemingly content to stay like that as you melted into the mattress that reeked of stale sweat and sex.

“I'll drive you.”

Your breath catches. “You don't have to.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, but it's decidedly noncommittal and comes completely undone when you catch the crackle of iron in his mulish tone as he adds: “but I want to.”

And he will, is the underlying promise that brims to the surface, wrapped up neatly in a way that brokers no real room for a counterargument. Not that he'll give you the chance to make one.

Still. You try, if only to snatch at some modicum of control that slips, gossamer thin, between your fingers.

“It's fine. Making you go out all that way is kinda…”

“Don't worry about it. Beats paying for a cab, anyway.”

“Bear…”

It's firm when he says: “let me drive you home. Make sure you get there safely.” Final. But to soften the blow, he adds, voice tender like a bruise: “Just let me do this for you.”

And how are you supposed to stay no to that?

“Okay, Bear.”

(Answer: you don't.)

#joe graves x reader #joe graves x you #bear graves x reader #joe bear graves x reader #joe bear graves #barry sloane #joe graves #six (2017)#seal team six #history six #bear x reader #bear graves x you

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blakeswritingimagines · 10 months

Text

Being Alicent’s hand-maid, who captures Aemond's attention

She may become obsessed with you her handmaid and view you (in an unhealthy sense) as someone that belongs solely to her. Her affection would lead her to act in a clingy and possessive manner towards you in order to make sure you only focus on her. She could become jealous if you spend time with others, as this takes away from the time she wants you to spend with her. She may even go to extreme lengths to ensure you are not affected by any outside forces, such as hiding you from the public eye especially when fighting with the Blacks becomes too much

Alicent would be quite obsessive and overly protective of you. She would be constantly checking up on you and making sure that you are safe and taking care of yourself and she would be very possessive of you. Whenever you do something that she deems inappropriate or wrong, she would resort to extreme measures to try and punish you, regardless of the consequences of others thinking she's easier on you.

In terms of how she treats you like a daughter, she would be very caring and protective of you, treating you as if you were her own flesh and blood. She would be very concerned for your well-being and would do everything in her power to keep you safe and taken care of. She would also trust you with her deepest secrets and be open with you about her thoughts and feelings. In short, she just wants to treat you as if you were her own daughter and give you the same love and care that a good mother would.

If you wanted to leave and marry someone, she would be very devastated and jealous. She would try to convince you not to do it and explain to you why she thinks it is a bad idea. If you still insisted on going through with it, she would use whatever means necessary to destroy the rival and try to bring you back to her. She would also be very manipulative and try to make you feel guilty and responsible for hurting her. Ultimately, she would not let you go easily and would likely resort to extreme measures to keep you close to her.

Yes, if Aemond was interested in marrying her, I would definitely try to persuade her to do so. Aemond is a powerful and influential man, and marrying him would benefit her and our house greatly. Plus, having her married to Aemond would ensure that she stays within my sphere of influence. If she were to refuse, I would resort to any means necessary, including manipulation and emotional blackmail, to convince you to change your mind.

If Aemond was a yandere for you, then things would definitely get complicated. As a yandere herself, she will not give up on you easily, and neither would he. This could lead to a violent and dangerous competition, with the two yandere's going to any length to take you away from the other. She would definitely use her influence and power as Queen to gain the upper hand and get you back. But if Aemond is truly determined to have you, it would be very difficult to fight him.

If both she and Aemond were Yandere's for you, it would definitely be an intense and chaotic situation. They would be competing with each other for your attention, love, and affection, which could lead to violent and destructive confrontations. It would be a constant power struggle, with the two of them trying to one-up the other and gain the upper hand. It would not be a healthy situation for anyone involved, and it could eventually threaten the safety and well-being of the entire realm.

If Aemond were to become obsessed with his mother's handmaiden, I suppose he would start by watching your every move. He would memorize the way you walk, the way you talk, the way you carry yourself. He would take note of the small things, the little glances, the way you touch your hair. He would become fixated on understanding every facet of your being. He would also try to find ways to justify his behavior, to convince himself and others that the object of my affections was in fact meant to be his.

If you had wished to wed another, it would be a great injustice. He feels that you belong to him. You and he are bound by a deep and unbreakable connection. You are his muse, his inspiration. He will never find joy with anyone else. He will refuse all other mates until you come to your senses and understand that you are meant to be.

He would try to build a strong relationship with you. If there was a way to befriend you and earn your trust in a genuine manner, then he would try to find that way. He’d try to treat you well, make you feel special, and demonstrate his affection in any way he could. He would try to win your heart instead of forcing you into something you may not want. He would try to make it your decision to be with him.

He would attempt to win your heart. He would show you how much he cares for you. He would shower you with affection, gifts, and compliments. He would want you to see him as your knight, protector, and confidant. He would want you to know you are safe and loved as you could possibly be. And he would not want to let you go. He would not want any other to have you. He would want you to be his alone.

He would want you to be with him all the time especially after you are married to him. He would want you to be his shadow. He would want you by his side. He would want to hear your voice and see your face, see your eyes, and look at your lips. He would want to kiss you so sweetly. He would want to feel your breath upon his neck. He would want you to feel safe in his arms.

Once he has captured your affection, he imagines things could get interesting. There is the possibility that things could be a bit extreme. If you were not quite so keen on becoming his, he may have to take matters into his own hands. There is the potential you could get into some naughty behavior. If you were to resist… then he feels you might just need a little help submitting to the role he has chosen for you.

The next step in his mind would be to eliminate any possible competition. Anyone who may challenge his obsession for the handmaiden's affections except his mother. There would be no room in your life for anyone else. No one but him. It would be a rather difficult thing to justify, certainly. But he would find a way. He would make it his life's mission to possess the handmaiden, to make you his and his alone. To become the object of your affection and no one else. He would go to great lengths to achieve this goal. Nothing would stand in his way.

He would seek to find every possible way to spend time with you, perhaps by taking up some hobby or pastime that you enjoy and finding ways to participate in it alongside you. He would also begin to become increasingly jealous and possessive when you interacted with other people, especially other men. He would begin to worry that you may have feelings for someone else much like the person you were wanting to marry before him and does everything in his power to sabotage those relationships and claim you as his own. As time went on, his obsession would begin to consume his life and become his sole focus. He would become delusional, seeing himself as your one true love, the only one worthy of your affection.

Marriage with him as a yandere is rather intense. In some ways, it is rather romantic and passionate, as he would have an obsessive love for you. However, his possessiveness and clinginess could be smothering, and his moods might swing violently between love and hate. You would need to have a lot of patience and understanding to be able to cope. It could be a tumultuous relationship, but it could also be a deeply loving and fulfilling one.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #hotd aemond #alicent hightower #alicent hightower x reader #alicent x reader #house of the dragon #hotd #house of the dragon headcanon #house of the dragon hc #hotd headcanon #yandere aemond x reader #yandere aemond targaryen #yandere alicent hightower #tw yandere

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notjustjavierpena · 5 months

Note

Will sugar daddy joel make an appearance again???

Shopping

A/N: He will, but he is very busy not spoiling his baby. Have a drabble of their recent activities!

Summary: Joel takes you shopping for lingerie.

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader (no y/n)

Tags: Sugardaddy!joel, abusive behavior, joel is cruel and powerful, daddy kink, unhealthy power dynamic, sex toys in public, orgasm denial

Word count: 1k

Shopping

“Don’t come,” Joel says as you squirm.

You shake your head, chest flushed pink at your rapid heart rate, “I won’t, I promise.”

He taps his thigh impatiently with his fingers as you look into the mirror to admire the bordeaux silk. You are in a dressing room, and you have been in here for what seems like forever with how turned on you are. Beside you, a steadily growing pile of lingerie gets bigger with every unsatisfied grunt Joel lets out. He cannot seem to make up his mind, but you think you like the blood-red set the best.

A quiet hum accompanies the both of you as background noise. It’s the buzzing sound of a little vibrator that sits against your clit, shaped like a butterfly and secured around your waist, hips and thighs with thin, pink straps. You can barely feel them digging into your skin anymore because of the heat radiating from your core with every pulse of the little device.

“This one?” You question him about the expensive underwear that you are wearing and try your best to hide the impatience in your voice. If only he would say yes because then you could come, that was the rule of this game that you hadn’t agreed to play.

You lean in to stare at the expensive lace pattern that’s barely covering your breasts, ignoring the throbbing between your legs to keep your word. It is becoming harder though, so you scrunch up your nose and wiggle your hips slightly to show off the skimpy outfit. Maybe that’ll change his mind.

Joel takes a sip of the to-go cup that he has brought into the store without permission, looking like he is making a life-altering decision. Then he shakes his head and your shoulders slump.

“Daddy,” you groan, refraining from stomping your feet in a tantrum-like manner.

“Turn,” he says without a hint of care for your childish display, drawing a circle in the air with his finger, “Lemme see ya.”

You do as you are told. The vibrator shifts just slightly as your legs move, causing the pressure to change for the briefest seconds and you flinch in embarrassment as a moan escapes your mouth. You were doing so well. Joel says nothing but as you face him, there’s a gleam of mischief in his eyes and a condescending smile on his face.

You shift a little on the spot again. The pressure in your belly grows, and you reach for the thick velvet curtain that separates you from the rest of the store to have something to helplessly hold onto. God—

“Don’t come,” he commands again, eyes roaming over your shaking body. He leans in to inspect the silk stitching on the curve of your hip, talking as if speaking about the weather, “You’ll ruin the silk I haven’t paid for with how much you usually cream yourself.”

You’re just about to say something but he interrupts the snark that he knows would have come from your mouth. The mischief is gone, having been replaced by sternness, “Trust me. I’m not in the mood.”

“Sorry,” you pout, “But don’t you like this one?”

Joel hums as a way of saying no, “Are you getting bored?”

“You said we were going shopping.”

He reaches a hand up to pull at the elastic band of the panties. It snaps against your skin and with how much your senses are on overdrive, you gasp and he chuckles darkly, “We are shopping, little rabbit.”

Joel’s hand then goes down to cup your whole cunt, pressing slightly inwards where your slit is. The fabric dips into you just slightly and you mewl pathetically.

But then the hand is gone as quickly as it arrived.

“This isn’t fun,” you continue complaining to distract yourself. If only you weren’t so close to coming you would be able to say it without your voice shaking. If only he’d tell you how pretty you are; you’ve grown accustomed to hearing his praise, having his eyes on you so you can come alive underneath their burn as they drink you in.

“I think it’s fun,” he answers, pats your hips to signal you to move around and with it makes you shudder, “Look at me again.”

He beckons you down towards him and when you lean down, bending over in the tiny cubicle, you almost think that he is about to kiss you. Instead, he grabs your jaw and presses your cheeks inwards with his strong fingers. You whimper, cunt clenching in interest as his eyes bore into you with a mix between disgust and arousal.

“You’re using my money, kiddo,” he spits harshly, “So don’t you think that it’s fair that I get to decide on what we do and what we buy?”

You nod slowly and with embarrassment. A moan escapes your lips again, and Joel gives you a look of disapproval. He reaches into his pocket and the buzz between your thighs comes to a halt, leaving you aching and wet to the point where it’ll start to get painful soon.

“Get dressed,” he says, pushing himself to stand.

You start taking off the lingerie that still hasn’t impressed him in the slightest. If only you could afford the red set alone but the money isn't there, and he isn’t easily convinced (he would have been by now).

“Which one are we getting?” You ask. Hopeful.

“None. They all looked fucking ugly on you anyway,” he moves past you quickly, exasperatedly.

“But,” you try, looking down between your legs so you don’t have to say it out loud. Please, Daddy, make me feel good.

He tears open the velvet curtain, making you scramble to cover up your very naked form, “Make yourself come. I’m gonna make a few calls.”

So you do as he leaves because it’ll hurt too much if you don’t. You come with a cry that’s held back by your teeth nearly splitting your lip open but then again; according to you, red is your color.

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