meanderingfamilytree

[meanderingfamilytree]

this is a back-up blog of most, if not all, of my writings and drawings for the dol fandom i have posted in the past as @myhereditament

you can filter by tags, as everything has been tagged according to character, in the format #heredi: 'character name'

for instance, bailey's tag would be #heredi: bailey

trigger warnings for each post have been mostly stated on the top, but not tagged, so take caution when navigating my blog. my writing often includes themes of noncon/dubcon, unhealthy power dynamics, or incest

[meanderingfamilytree]

#heredi: kylar

[meanderingfamilytree]

Young Bailey and you skipping town, finally, after all those miserable years. It was your idea that Bailey reluctantly agreed to, and you both thought it wouldn’t work, because freedom was never even near your reach growing up in the orphanage. It was a stroke of desperation and somehow you find yourself laughing hysterically as the train pulls you away from everything holding you back.

Bailey laughs along with you and the sound is sweet music to your ears, and you reach out to his hair and muss it up fondly. He usually hates it, complains about how it looks like a bird nest once you are through with him, but he is in a good enough mood to laugh harder and promptly land a hard kiss on your lips. It is perfect.

The train rides, the hitchhikes, the motel rooms and 24-hour diners that flicker with a fluorescent light, kisses under a low sky and hushed fumblings hidden in the shadow of the night. You love him more than anything in this world and although that doesn’t mean much when you do not have much else or Bailey seems incapable of saying it back, it is nearly enough. This simmering feeling in your skin feels like happiness.

It is perfect until it isn’t. Bailey is no sweetheart lover boy, kind and strong with a heart of gold. He has a cruel, brutal streak he hides well from you because he knows you hate it so. But hiding only lasts for so long and soon he has you staring at him like you only discovered him for the very first time. See, it was this you feared all along. It was to avoid this very moment that you took all your savings and begged Bailey to leave this god forsaken town with you, because Bailey is good, this boy who held your hand during nightmares, called you both the meanest and cruelest names, crawled into your bed at night and held you, made you flower crowns at your insistence that always fell apart. It was this town corrupting him, right?

You discover that the answer to that question is no, only now. I thought it was the town. But it is you. Barely a whisper, as your fist limply lays against his chest. If you planned on staying with him you would have screamed. Fought and screamed and scratched until he changed his ways and put everything behind. But Bailey has a hometown unlike you, and with a nauseating disgust you discover that he really does belong there.

When Bailey returns to town it is without you. Holding a half-empty suitcase his face is unreadable, hard, like a rock that had been there for a century and more. He buys a packet of cigarette and lights one. It is a bad habit, but he has no plan on breaking out of it. Bailey wonders if you would give up smoking anytime soon. You probably would. It makes him nearly laugh. He thinks that the bitterness of the cigarette is nothing compared to the taste of your mouth. That is one more habit to break.

#heredi: bailey

[meanderingfamilytree]

Contains: M!Leighton, GN!Reader, dubious consent, fucked up power dynamics, corporal punishment, mild dumbification

Being brilliantly intelligent when you don’t have powerful wealthy parents… in that awful town… would be a fucking nightmare, actually. Leighton would absolutely offer extra-hour one-on-one tutoring to the brightest student in the history of that little town school, which your parents are just gullible enough to send you to. You are not naive like them. You try your utmost best to avoid those tutoring sessions, sneaking out through secret routes and tunnels, but there comes a point where you missed so many sessions that you are quite literally dragged to Leighton’s office by one of your teachers.

God, you feel betrayed by that. You like most of the teachers and they like you back, because you actually make effort in class.

But Leighton, surprisingly enough, doesn’t try anything. It is a mystery to you, considering his notoriety around the school gossip mill. You eye him up, like a mouse backed into the corner, waiting for the cat to pounce any moment. In the stand-still, Leighton nonchalantly hands you the extra reading materials and questions beyond the curriculum, which you find relatively more difficult than your usual performance in class.

Of course you do. It is only normal. You are doing far beyond what you should be taught at this age, and you are not stupid, idiotic, dumb for not miraculously understanding everything. But it feels like a crushing failure when you get your first mini-quiz results back from Leighton, handed with a criticising stare. No, not even criticising. It would feel better if he looked disappointed, at the very least. He looks impassive, unconcerned, as if he had been anticipating your failure from the very beginning. Something at the bottom of your stomach clenches into a knot and refuses to unfold itself. You feel like throwing up.

So when he delivers ten stings on your outspread palms with a ruler, it is somehow deserved, in your mind. The red line marring the skin of your palm is a painful reminder that you are not so brilliant like the others tell you so. It is a confirmation of your secret conviction. With each stroke you twitch, clenching your thighs together ever so slightly. Your breath grows laboured and wet, holding in the welling tears desperately. For the briefest moment, Leighton’s thumb grazes across your palms once he is through with you, as if he is admiring his work.

You think of that moment when you touch yourself in the bed that night. Working your fingers to completion hurts, as each flex and bend stretches across to your palm and shoots a sharp pain down your arm. But that is precisely what makes you pant like a dog in heat, writhing in the sheets as you stifle a moan. God, I’m so pathetic. And dumb. And stupid. And no one knows it but him.

You still hate him. In your mind, it is strikingly clear that he is an unnecessarily cruel, sinister, hardened man, not even that good of a headmaster. You know that you should tell your parents that he had punished you for failing a minor, unimportant quiz by applying ten lashes as corporal punishment. But you keep your lips sealed, and in the next quiz, you circle the wrong answer on purpose. Just one more wrong answer. The flick of your wrist as the pen draws a damning circle, pulse beating with a ferocity in your head, deliberate, careful, your lips thinning in a straight line, and memories of a pain gone unforgotten.

Leighton applies fifteen lashes this time. You are reduced into a trembling mess, as he tells you that you are simply not doing good enough. Breaths shallow and quick, you are about to start dripping tears all over his office floor when something warm and scratchy presses upon your face. It is Leighton’s trousers. More specifically, the part where you can feel his hardened cock through the fabric. He gently pushes your face into it, and you give in without much of a struggle. He asks if you are any good at being a cocksucking little slut, if you are so terrible at everything else. You nod. You can be good. You really can.

The after-school tutoring sessions turn into a more sexual and less academic one. Of course, Leighton still occasionally runs you through verbal pop quizzes, testing you on the spot, but it is more to catch you off-guard and leave you shaking with dismay. He calls you stupid, dumb, good-for-nothing, mindless, and it all feels so much more believable than anything else anyone has said to you in the past. You keep nodding. You keep nodding, apologising, thanking him every session, taking him up with every hole in your body. Sometimes you ask him to slap you across the face.

A sharp pain that vibrates through every tendril of your skin—it finally makes you feel alive.

You still graduate at the top of your class. Smiling uncertainly, you receive your high school diploma in front of a clapping audience of proud parents. You do not make eye contact with either of your parents. But when Leighton hands you your certificate, your eyes meet for a flickering second. You know that you’ll be stopping by at his office when the graduating ceremony is over.

Thank you, sir, you mouth.

#heredi: leighton

[meanderingfamilytree]

Contains: GN!Reader, M!Bailey, choking, asphyxiation, mention of a gun (minor), rough sex/hate sex, the kink is definitely not negotiated in advance

Bailey’s eyes are startlingly flat as it flickers up and down your body. As if he is testing you of your worthiness, but not of your perpetual smile, or genteel manner, and more of the heaviness of your pocket or the rather lavishly decorated pomp of your office. He shouldn’t overdo it. Your reputation precedes you, and it is a small enough town. Most people are well aware of that you are one of the wealthiest, if not the wealthiest. You are not used to being judged in such a manner. But it suits Bailey, or at least what you know of him and his dogged existence.

You indulge him. It is a strange feeling, running into Bailey after all these years. It feels like yesterday and tomorrow and a decade ago that you two sat in the same classroom, taking the same lessons, only mildly aware of the other’s presence in that faint, floating way of classmates. In the past few years or so, you increasingly ran into him in highbrow parties, presumably working on making connections, but you never felt the obligation to offer a nod or a smile.

“Am I asking for too much? I received shining recommendations about business with you from a few of my colleagues.”

You quickly bore of his searching eyes, as amusing as they were. It is the particular lilt of your voice, or the undying arrogance permeating through the very tip of your chin that signifies your ease with holding the upper hand. Perhaps he noticed the hint of irritation. Bailey snaps out of it, pursing his lips, and gets back to business.

“Some of the orphans just reached majority, so they are relatively inexperienced, but I could make it work. There are others who will be quite eager to,” he takes a pause, perhaps in preparation for the absurdity of the next word, “work, for you. Do you have a preference? Of course, the costs will vary, but—” 

“How much do you cost?”

Silence falls as heavy as the sordid grey of the clouds. A thunder rumbles from a distance, almost too ominously, enough to tempt you with a bubbling laugh. You hold it in. You’re not that stupid, and you certainly do not have a death wish. In fact, it is highly likely that you are precariously close to Bailey saying fuck it all and pointing a gun at your head. Your only saving grace is your prosperous bank account.

He grinds his teeth. Stoic resignation does not suit him, but it shoots a sharp thrill down your spine. You shiver. 

“I, am, not, for sale,” he spells out. 

You tilt your head. “But I want you. Not those orphan brats.”

“Not part of the merchandise. Non-negotiable.”

You finally cannot help yourself from laughing. It is a biting, tinkling sound, and Bailey looks practically murderous. 

“You know, some of my friends used to say that you offered a good fuck for a good buck back in school, I mean. Those weren’t just schoolchildren rumours, were they?”

“Get the fuck out, you little—“

Bailey’s hand latches onto your throat, with an uncontrolled fury. It is fascinating to see how quickly he stops himself, swallows it all, his anger scalding his throat. A burning longing settles inside of your stomach at the sight. You lean in, ignoring his uncomfortable twitch as your lips brush against his ear. What you whisper is a devil’s temptation. A promise, an offer, piercing Bailey where he is the weakest, the greed that grips him like a plague.

You fuck him right there and then. 

It is perhaps more perverse than fucking one of Bailey’s prized orphan brats. Legs spread open as he pushes forward with a brutal force, your breaths laboured and bordering on pain, you taste a tangy sweetness on the end of your tongue. You feel like you are back in high school. You feel a hundred years old. You feel yourself slipping in and out of consciousness, and god, maybe you are going mad but madness feels as pleasant as sin. When you start chanting, BaileyBaileyBailey, frantic and desperate and out of control, his hands cover your mouth, shutting you up quite literally. It seems that he is far too angry to even maintain a pretence of decorum for his most well-paying client. Your fingernails dig into his back with a vindictive edge, but he doesn’t stop choking you, and the painful lack of air combined with the ruthless fucking is enough to make your eyes go wild and lost, choking in moans.

He pulls out before he comes, painting his cum over the expensive fabric of your clothes. A rush of air and a firm hand between your legs is enough to rub you to completion, and you remain just there, panting, savouring the pleasant lull of the aftermath. Your office desk is thoroughly ruined, paper and pens strewn around in a mess. Bailey pulls up the zipper of his trousers, ready to leave.

“I’ll have my assistant transfer the money to your bank account,” you whisper, not able to bring your voice any louder than that after all the manhandling. He doesn’t reply. The lack of response is what makes you abruptly pull his left arm close, grabbing a nearby pen. You write your number on his wrist.

“The offer still stands. Bonus payment if you can make it good as this time. Call me if you are willing.”

“Fuck you.”

Bailey snarls out a curse. You smile at him. As he storms out of your office, all indignant anger and well-hidden humiliation, you are increasingly certain that he’ll cave in about a week or so.

You thumb over the marks he left on your throat. You hope that he calls back before they fade away.

#heredi: bailey

[meanderingfamilytree]

Contains: GN!Reader, M!Bailey, emotionally fucked up sex

It is almost too easy, at the end of it. You sink to your knees, lips parted open suggestively. There is a practiced precision to your movements, more autonomous than intentional. But it works most times and you are happy being a one trick pony. Fluttering your eyelashes, you dare to look up for a split-second. He does not look at you. It’s not much of a surprise. You are very nearly impressed that Bailey held out for this long. Most of them, well, even the reluctant ones, are happy enough to fish out their cock from their trousers with the slightest baiting.

Not Bailey. It took a good while and a few humiliating rejections. You do not think it is from some sort of moral upstanding that he holds onto. No good man, no moral man, lives in this god awful town. You learned that the hard way.

It is a beautiful, summery day. The sun is in full bloom but not biting as its warmth licks at the fluttering green of the trees. Cicadas cry relentlessly, at once in longing and in protest. Even Bailey’s office, usually so dreary and dark with its tiny window, is somewhat lit well as the light streams through the windowpane. 

There is a fleeting moment of hesitation before you take him into your mouth. But you hear a distant giggling of a gaggle of children; it is likely from the gardens, where some of the younger orphans are cooling themselves off with a garden hose. You told them to be avoid trampling on your plants, but you are not very optimistic. You get back to work.

Bailey’s cock is of moderate size, nothing deserving of an applause, but it is still big enough that your lips stretch around it with a wince. You take him in deep, nearly swallowing it whole. Perhaps it is a surprise to him, this ease of yours, judging from the twitching of his fingertips at the back of your head. A brief, indulgent fantasy flickers inside your mind. Of giving it to him so good, so good that he goes weak-kneed and near ruin, gasping and moaning like a little bitch. It’s not going to happen. Even with your considerably skilled tongue, Bailey is a formidable opponent. 

But you want to take something from him. See the soft underside of his arms, bite the gentle flap of skin between his fingers. No one is invincible. Not Bailey, not you. 

Bailey does not moan, but he does grunt a few times, his breathing getting coarser and increasingly heavy. His fingers are brutal as it digs into your scalp, fisting a bunch of hair in it. Perhaps sick of the slow, languorous pace you set for your convenience, he starts fucking your mouth rather brutally. His cock reaches all the way to your throat, banging it up good and raw. Your eyes water, but you hold onto your tears, willing them to dry up. Fuck, fuck, he mutters, and it is as much as a prayer you’ll get from him—or is it a plea? 

You swallow what he cums in your mouth, licking around your lips like a good show. It is easy to slip into this persona of a cheap whore. But it isn’t cheap, not really, what you are getting from him. In a way, you are ruining Bailey the very same way that he is ruining you, and that is nearly payment enough. 

“Let him be,” you say, your voice hoarse and grating. Perhaps you should avoid going out today, as comments of varying nature will surely be made. “I’ll give you half his payments for this week. Cut him some slack. He’ll pay you back the rest next week. I’ll make sure of it.”

You are referring to the boy in the room across the hall, who just turned eighteen, like you had half a year ago. He came sobbing in the night, knocking at the door, because he knows you never say no. Yes to the younger orphans playfully pulling at your hair, yes to desperate orphan asking for some money, yes to the groping hand at the beach, yes to the cars pulling up, asking, demanding, tearing your shirt apart with greed. 

Bailey could have said no to you. But he didn’t, and you are gently disappointed at him. Not that you’ll ever voice that, but still. You rise from the floor, brushing the dust at your knees. Something close to uncertainty flickers in his eyes, but it is gone easily enough. It is pitiful, really. You smile, a force of habit, and head out of his office. Maybe they’ll let you join in on the fun in the garden. A good rinsing would feel nice. 

#heredi: bailey

[meanderingfamilytree]

Contains: GN!Reader, M!Bailey, unhealthy sex (but like that’s pretty standard for my writings so), a line lifted from in-game dialogue

The dirtied coins and crinkled paper notes are barely a handful. Fuck, you murmur under your breath, checking under your bed again and again in case you missed a few coins here and there. But it is hopeless. At this rate, you would never meet Bailey’s demanded rent.

You’ve been putting it off for a while. Yes, you made a fake ID, acquainted yourself with Briar, had a few cars rolling up to you in the streets asking for a quick fuck in return of money, but that had been all. A handjob, blowjob, those don’t count, right? But now, even that isn’t enough. You know that some regulars would pay a good fortune to actually fuck your hole. A single night and enough money to cover your rent for this week, and maybe even the next if you get lucky.

But it feels so wrong. Isn’t your virginity supposed to mean something other than this? A virtual stranger who would hand you a wad of notes. It’s not that you had been imagining some romantic, rose-petals-on-the-bed moment. But you want more.

After deciding that you had to lose your virginity, you spent the last day trying to scout out possible candidates. Robin? No, you don’t want to ruin things between you. It’s just, they are too sweet, too good. That boy who keeps eyeing you in history class? Sure, but it just doesn’t work out. It’s the end of the day now. You feel like you failed in some way. It’s late enough that everyone in the orphanage is fast asleep, and venturing outside now while no doubt bring trouble. As if in a trance, you stand up, wandering out into the main hall.

A wall of a man blocks your way. Cigarette smoke and dust is all you can smell from his shirt. You look up. It’s Bailey. Bailey who you hate, who takes and takes and takes from you, and perhaps, perhaps… he’ll take some more.

Because it makes sense, doesn’t it? There is nothing to ruin between you two. He isn’t a stranger either, so you’ll at least know who took your virginity. And conveniently, he is right there.

“Move,” he says.

You look up into his eyes.

��Can you fuck me?”

“What?”

“Can you fuck me?” you repeat. “Please?”

As expected, it takes a fair amount of persuading. Bailey looks furious, about to either shove you aside or slap your face, but you hold onto his shirt just in time. It is surprisingly soft between your fingers.

He doesn’t have to do anything but take your virginity. You are not trying to get out of paying him. In fact, if he takes your virginity, you would be able to make more money, and thus make him more money. It’s a rather persuasive argument. Especially when you are practically naked, your body wrapped in nothing but sheer nightclothes.

It takes place in his office. Well, again, not a hotel room with scattered rose petals, but it will have to do. It burns like hell when he roughly shoves a finger inside you, grumbling half-heartedly at how tight you are. Sitting on top of him, your hands grab at Bailey’s shoulders with a desperate desire to not topple over. He doesn’t care at how you grit your teeth, stifle a moan out of pain and not pleasure. Another finger enters you, stretching you out. But it’s not enough when your hole is barely even slick, and you cannot help but start to breathe a little faster and shallower.

That’s when you feel the tip of Bailey’s cock lining up with the entrance of your hole. You know you are going to bleed if that enters. You can imagine how much it will hurt. You have a split second impulse to push yourself off him, call it all off, but then Bailey meets your eyes.

His eyes are even darker when covered by the shadows of the night. But you can see how wide open it is, pupils slightly dilated with heat, and though it is no true desire for you, you can remind yourself what you are here for.

“Last chance to fuck off,” he offers.

You shake your head.

“Then ask for it.”

Oh, he really is a fucking asshole. You open your mouth with a stammer, “Pl- Please. Fuck me, fuck me. I want it. I want you to take my virginity.”

Bailey’s cock pushed into you. And fuck, if you thought his fingers had hurt, this is much, much worse. With a gasp, you squirm, wincing from the tearing pain inside you. “Hold still, you little shit,” he threatens, as he pushes you down on the full length of his cock with no regard for your discomfort.

“Your body was always mine. Like your first time.” Bailey’s voice is nearly a growl, low and grating in your ears. You are sobbing by now, shoulders shaking as his hands grab onto your waist and start to move you like a fuckdoll. When does it end? Bailey is a talker, whispering about how tight you are, telling you that you deserve this, calling you worthless if not for your body, but it all scatters without truly being heard. When he cums inside you, it is a relief. Then you hate yourself a little for being glad that Bailey’s semen, all sticky and warm, is filling you up.

Legs shaking like a newborn foal, you climb off him. You don’t think you can really move, but you want to get out. Your limp body smells of sex. Smells of him. Cigarette smoke and dust.

Bailey’s semen trickles down your thigh as you walk back to your room. You would sleep surprisingly well tonight. Then you would head to the brothel tomorrow, and grab the first client that wants you. And you’ll never, ever have to worry about Bailey again.

Bailey sits in his office, right where he had just fucked you. His hands clutch against a phantom figure, without really knowing anything. Rubbing his palm against his face with a sigh, he mutters quietly.

“Fuck, what did I just do?”

No one answers him. Only a deceivingly sweet scent lingers, perhaps of roses, but soon dissipates into the chill of the night air.

#heredi: bailey

[meanderingfamilytree]

anon: Hey i wanna know how Leighton would feel if he found out PC was more cruel then him like say PC blackmailing one of the npcs into doing illegal drugs or forcing them to have sex with others so PC can post it later

Hmm… an intriguing thought.

I think it would be a mixed reaction. To a degree, your cruelty destabilises his meticulously structured control. He prefers to be the inflictor, not the inflicted. And your active participation in whatever blackmailing makes you more than a potential victim.

But he would also get a strange exhilaration. After all, wouldn’t it be all the more sweeter if he subdues you, give you a taste of your own medicine? Leighton would smile ever so slightly because of this sharp thrill running through his veins. You are so vicious, so cruel. He sees something of himself in you and he wants to ruin it.

Ruin you.

Because the thought of you brought down rings all the more clearer in his mind. Leighton would likely jerk off a few times, letting his imagination run wild with the things he’ll do to you. Sometimes, his fantasy won’t even be that sexual. He’ll merely think back to the time that he made the discovery of your cruelty, and find himself hardening with excitement.

Or course, he approaches this endeavour with caution; he knows what you are capable of. But Leighton can be patient.

There is also the chance that he teaches you this line of… art, but it is unlikely as PC is an orphan. Maybe if you are the child of a powerful town person, Leighton can’t do much to you anyway, so he might encourage your actions and just creepily touch you with a nonchalance. But if you are an orphan, he plans to prey on that weakness.

#heredi: leighton

[meanderingfamilytree]

Contains: F!Reader, M!Leighton, noncon

You have a crush. A silly one, really. Those schoolgirl crushes that don’t mean much other then shits and giggles with your friends every time your object of desire walks moderately close to you. Of course, not everyone has a crush on their headmaster. Just you.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. Nothing wrong with indulging in a brief fantasy that has no real consequences. Like every other crush you had before, it would only last a few weeks at most. And then even Leighton would be forgotten at the very back of your mind, carelessly tossed aside for better, more important things.

But as you bounce on his cock, you start to doubt if forgetting is ever a possibility. Things became, well, complicated—very quickly and very quietly. You didn’t expect Leighton to be aware of your little crush on him. After all, you were always so normal. Quiet, only outspoken with your friends, obedient enough that you don’t frequent detention sessions with Leighton.

So it was a surprise when Leighton addressed you by name upon your entry into his room. You desperately tried to explain yourself; how this was all a colossal misunderstanding, that you are really innocent, and have done nothing to deserve detention. Because as much as you harboured secret fantasies about Leighton, the lack of proximity to him was what made him so attractive. At a distance, you were free to indulge, exploit, construct a world of your own that not even Leighton himself can break through.

Leighton ruins it. You don’t exactly know how. It is a sequence of bewildering words and touches, before you are dragged onto his lap. I know how you look at me, he whispers. He looks at you now. And for once, you really look at him. The real Leighton. All cruel edges, deceiving words, a miserable, despicable being that deserves none of your sympathies, much less your affection.

But it is all too late. His cock is firm and hot, and it causes more pain than pleasure when it squeezes into your virgin cunt. It crushes you from inside out, as you muffle your gasps on his shoulders as he threatens what will happen if those outside hear your voice.

There is nothing silly about the dampness of your panties as you walk out from Leighton’s office. Your steps waver, staggering for a split second. But you continue walking. Running. Away, away from this memory. Away from the shadow of the man that lurks at the very back of your mind—but no matter where you go, Leighton follows.

#heredi: leighton

[meanderingfamilytree]

Contains: GN!Reader, M!Bailey, noncon, omegaverse, blackmail (kind of???), threats of mentioned sharing, an obscene amount of Bailey’s bastardery

Written as part of The Omega Hunt collab

Around 2k words

The leaves of the forest bristle against the wind. The scent of lust permeates the air, dripping like honey against the tongue. Though some remain oblivious to it, like Bailey himself, even betas wear a primal hunger like a second skin. Bailey’s eyebrows twitch at the sight of the town’s most prominent alphas all worked up. The omega scents must practically call for them—oh, take me, fuck me, alpha—and in turn, the alpha scents must render those poor little omegas helpless to their touch. 

In a way, it is a disappointment. But Bailey is used to disappointments. It was inevitable from the moment Quinn delighted over their genius idea of spraying all the omegas with an aphrodisiac to trigger their heat. Have them squirming and easier to subdue, pliant and mewling—eager, even. He understands the appeal. It is less work, isn’t it? And this crowd may prefer that.

Bailey prefers the brutal; bruises and finger marks, violence in the form of skin against skin. Is it really fucking without it? He would rather take you in a single, fierce thrust whilst your hole is still dry, shoving his cock inside you. Render you gradually helpless as you accept that this has indeed happened—this is your only reality. Fuck you until you reek sharply of nothing but semen and blood. 

Unfortunately, things do not always work out in Bailey’s favour. Instead, he would have you served in a goddamn silver platter, all turned on and squirming. Pleasant, in its own way, he tells himself. Beggars can’t be choosers. 

Bailey could not possibly turn down the invitation for the hunt. In fact, shouldn’t he be given credit for this entire event? Dear Mayor Quinn struts around proudly, but this hunt would not have happened at all without Bailey. He had been the one to tug and hassle with all those omega brats as they whinged and whined to maturity. He served as a firm fist to hold them on a tight leash until this day, keeping their sorry little ass safe from trouble. Acknowledgement doesn’t matter too much, however. As long as Quinn’s money sufficiently lines his pockets, it is enough. And he gets to have you. His rightful reward. 

You are the reddest apple of the bunch—and doesn’t Bailey deserve to sink his teeth into the best? Lap up the sweet, tangy nectar as it runs down his wrist?

Bailey looks around, and all he can see are animals gathered in anticipation of the upcoming hunt. Each and every one of them is a reflection of himself, no matter how much they usually pretend otherwise.

What is there to account here but for hunger? Greed, lust, desire, impulse, fate, love, call it what you want. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. At its root, Bailey considers it pure, unadulterated hunger and nothing more. 

The willingness to devour; swallow you whole. That crumbling feeling in the pit of his stomach when he looks at you must be hunger. He will lick every inch of your body clean. Suck on your lips, pull at it, and nibble on the base of your throat. Take you, because that is all Bailey knows how to do—he is a greedy man, fingers clawed and grasping at all the world offers.

He had watched you for a while now. Examined the flexing of your fingers and the lines of your waist from a distance as you made a life in the orphanage. Nothing broke you yet, did it? Life was likely difficult for an orphan and an omega at that. But somehow, you are still moving, living. With eyes that breathe with hidden light, unlike Bailey’s. 

Bailey wonders if you really smell as intoxicating as those alphas enthuse about. Though he has always considered his beta status a convenience in his profession, detached from a primal, blind lust, it is a pity for once. In the quiet corner of his mind, he laments being unable to take you fully. 

No matter.

He’ll still be able to look into your eyes when he fucks you. See his own reflection within your pupils. Watch as the light flicker and die.

It makes Bailey’s stomach clench.

And you are oblivious to all of Bailey’s thoughts. Sure, you know that a fucking bunch of perverts are chasing after you. You know that your fate will likely be dim if you are caught, so you run. Bare-footed, tripping and tumbling to the ground, but running. It is a frantic flee from the looming shadow.

But it’s so difficult. A tantalising hunger at your core is tearing you apart from the inside out. You nearly want to turn around and throw yourself at the nearest alpha. A persistent throb between your legs doesn’t subside no matter how far you run; instead, it only intensifies. 

In the lawless haze of pleasure haunting your own mind, you do not realise you are running in circles. After all, with an aphrodisiac sprayed all over your body and in the tangled wildness of forest trees, one gets easily lost. 

You are too tired soon enough. The trees around you seem relatively quiet, and the wind doesn’t betray the scent of any nearby alpha. The temptation of a brief rest is too strong. Just to catch your breath, and no, your hands are definitely not tentatively touching between your legs, searching desperately for any sort of reprieve. 

It isn’t hard for Bailey to find you. 

Bailey watches you pant, gulping in shallow breaths like a fish drowning in water. Your eyes dart this way and that, momentarily relieved of your perceived solitude. Perhaps it would be amusing to stay hidden a little longer. Indulge you. He does not approach you but only leisurely traces the lines of your body, each curve and bend. The sheen of sweat against your skin looks like fucking silk—or is it velveteen? It is almost ridiculous. 

Fuck it.

He walks out from his hiding place; you scream. 

Like a frightened deer, you try to run—only to be caught by unhesitant fingers pulling at your hair. In a swift, detached movement, Bailey pushes you down on the ground and mounts you easily. 

You struggle. But Bailey only tightens his hold of you as he shoves his left knee between your leg.

“I would shut up, if I were you,” he snaps, “Keep screaming and others might decide to happily join us. Would you prefer that?” 

Bailey is rather glad that he is not you, actually. He would’ve even pitied you if he was not who he made himself to be. But that is beside the point. The point is that he would like to fuck you right now. Hunger always triumphs. 

He rubs his knee against your groin with the slightest pressure, and you fall apart. It’s only natural, considering the state you are in, but all the more fun to mock.

“Turned on already, are you?” Bailey asks. His hands grip and fondle your skin—starting from your nape, your hard nipples, down to your waist, and to the insides of your thighs. 

I will claim you here, he thinks. As mine. Not much of your life will change. You will stay in the orphanage for another year, just while regularly bouncing on my cock. Panting, tongue hanging out, until you truly become a bitch in heat. Until you drool with hunger as fierce as my own, until the light in your eyes finally goes out, until I break you. But I’ll bring you back here next year; you will join the hunt again. And I’ll hunt you, claim you, fuck you with a vicious hunger again, and again, and again—year after another, and another, and another. Until I get bored of you. After that, I might even sell you off to the highest bidder; I can’t monopolise you forever, can I? But until then, you belong to me. And even then, you would always be my property.

Bailey does not hesitate. 

“I could call for the others, you know,” he threatens, as he lines his cock against your lips, “Show them what a pretty sight you make.” Slowly, he rubs the shaft on your face, disregarding how you wince and cringe. “I know all the worst bastards in town. Perhaps I could have them claim you instead?” 

These are all empty threats, not that you know that it is. You know with a devastating certainty who Bailey is and how far he is willing to go. So when he finally thrusts his cock into your mouth, you ensure that your teeth don’t scrape against the shaft. 

It’s too deep. Gasping for air, you feel your face redden. His cockhead touches the back of your throat. All you taste and smell is him and nothing more. Bailey’s fingers dig into your hair, grasping onto it as if it’s a convenient handle. Your eyes water, but Bailey slaps your face warningly if you try to close it, even for a split second. 

Why me? You wonder. Why me, and not the omega who used the room across the hallway? Perhaps you should be relieved that at least you know the true nature of the man who is brutalising you. There is no naive hope here. No glimpse of false light in the darkness of the tunnel, no hoping that maybe, maybe this alpha or beta wouldn’t be too much of an asshole.

Even as you despised Bailey the entire time under his care, you did not expect… this. Somehow, you thought that he was incapable of feeling anything, really, but anger and annoyance. Not even desire. Not even hunger. This makes him feel too human. As you taste Bailey’s cock, he becomes no different from all the rest of the nameless, faceless townspeople, lusting after pleasure.

What makes the whole ordeal worse is how much your entire body increasingly pulses with desire. In a lightheaded, giddy, trance-like state, you undeniably, inexplicably want his cock. Not just in your mouth but inside your hole. Fucking you whole. 

After what feels like a lifetime, Bailey takes out his fully hardened cock from your mouth. When he places each of your ankles on his shoulders, your legs are spread wide open, revealing your twitching, eager little hole. 

He shoves his cock inside you in a single motion, and it plunges in deep with surprising ease. It is as if your body has been longing for it all this time—the ultimate betrayal. 

Even so, you choke from the momentary pain. Then comes the blinding pleasure. You can feel every inch of his cock—thick, firm, and warm inside your body. Bailey rubs the end of his nose against your neck, and for a moment, he deceives himself that he can really smell you; perhaps he can finally know the intoxicating, torturing scent of omegas. But the moment passes. What he really smells is a mixture of sweat and fear and the sweet soap that you wash your body every day with.  

Moaning involuntarily, you try to clasp your palm against your lips to silence it; Bailey does not allow it. He holds your wrist above your head as his thrusts set into a methodical yet unpredictable rhythm. You cry out loud. 

Yet this hunger is relentless. Even while Bailey fucks you hard and rough, the knot in his stomach only seems to wind up tighter and tighter. Perhaps it is not so much a hunger but a thirst.

Your hunger is relentless too. Whilst the sensation of a cock spreading you wide open takes the edge off momentarily, it does not satisfy you. After all, Bailey is a beta and nothing more. Your omega nature squirms desperately for an alpha to claim you, rut against you. 

But there is no one else here. 

No one but Bailey. 

Bailey, who you hated with an undying passion since the very beginning and evermore. Bailey, who would never be enough for you. Would never be your alpha. In turn, you will never be his. At least, that is what you tell yourself. 

He kisses your lips with all teeth—a clash rather than the gentle embrace of the lips. Things seem marginally better. Choking back a sound of pleasure, he shuts his eyes. 

He does not see his own image reflected in your eyes—perhaps it is better that way, at least for his sanity, not that there is much left anyway.  

Bailey spends inside your hole with a sharp grunt as your body limply shudders at the sensation. It is almost gentle, the way that he picks away the damp hair clinging onto your forehead after that. His fingers travel across your cheek and onto your neck. 

He could easily choke you like that; his fingers grasp your neck. But he does not apply any pressure. 

Bailey kisses you again; this time with tenderness.

You close your eyes. 

#heredi: bailey

[meanderingfamilytree]

anon: I am suddenly possessed with longing for Bailey and Whitney fighting over the PC? Bailey finds out that Whitney whored you out to someone for £50, Whitney finds out that Bailey keeps sending creeps into your bedroom while you’re sleeping because on payday you get him off instead of paying like a good little orphan…

Warning for violence, choking, and use of language like whore/slut

Bailey really isn’t in the mood for this. He does not recognise Whitney for a moment, though the face is familiar. The blond hair that needs a haircut, angry, bitter eyes, ah. It’s that brat that seems to hang around you these days. Bailey keeps neat tabs on his favourite (well, sort of) orphan, and knows that Whitney has made a habit of equal degrees harassing you, whoring you out for easy money, and kissing you impulsively. If it was any old student, Bailey wouldn’t have hesitated to get up to some no good deeds. No one sells his property without paying him some heavy interests. But Whitney has rather wealthy, powerful parents, and it had seemed too much of a hassle.

See, Bailey left Whitney reasonably alone. So why Whitney has showed up 8 in the morning to disturb his precious weekend eludes Bailey’s understanding. It doesn’t seem like they come with peace. Not with the way that they scowl menacingly at Bailey like an alley cat about to pounce any minute now.

“So?” Bailey asks, the stretch of silence too wasteful of his time to bear. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Whitney strides forward right up to Bailey’s desk, placing their palms on each corner and leaning foward, threateningly close. Bailey is not much threatened, however, merely raising one of his eyebrows in amusement. Really, the dramatics. It is moments such as these that Bailey feels far too old for this world, despite his own age a little young to be a fossil. 

“I heard that you whore out my slut. Random fucking creeps, climbing into their room in the middle of the night.” 

“Your slut?” Bailey laughs, dry and curt. 

Because you, you don’t belong to anyone but Bailey himself. The weekly payments are proof of that—though, you don’t pay much in cash these days. Bailey knows that he should remedy that, but for now, it will do. Though you are too expensive for his liking, your warm mouth sucking his cock is almost worth it. Bailey’s laugh clearly grates at Whitney’s nerve, as their eyes flare up in irritation. 

“Yes, my slut. So you better leave them fucking alone, or I’ll make sure you’ll regret it.” 

Oh, and they are so young. Bailey cannot stop the corner of his lips curling up in a sneer, because perhaps he knows something that even Whitney has not realised. There is a fine line between guarding and caring too much for your property. Whitney clearly falls in the latter. But enough wasting time. Bailey was amused, now he really is not. He stands up, abruptly holding Whitney’s neck in a chokehold and pulling him closer. Their eyes meet in the stale air with a spark, Whitney’s face reddening. 

“Listen, you fucking brat,” Bailey snaps. “I don’t give a damn what you do with that slut outside of this orphanage, but you are a schoolyard bully, and you’ll remain just that. If you dare whore them out one more time, I’ll make sure you’ll regret it. And remember that I’m too old for empty threats.” 

He lets go after that grand speech, leaving Whitney to splutter and cough as they draw in raspy breaths. Bailey is able to sit back down, except that a sharp punch catches his cheek. He is almost impressed. That would leave a bruised face and torn lips for a good while. Whitney flexes their knuckle, glaring at Bailey, goading him for more. Bailey contemplates the revolver hidden inside his desk drawer, just to scare them a little, but cannot be bothered to take that risk. He did just choke the brat, so maybe they are even. After it is made rather clear that Bailey is reluctant to retaliate, Whitney storms out of the office, looking for another fight.

Bailey only lets out a sigh, leaning back in his chair. If he is really honest, he cannot tell if he himself is caring too much about his property. Best not think about it. These things are more trouble than it is worth, but trouble seems to be the driving force in his life, so he’ll make do. This will do. 

#heredi: bailey #heredi: whitney

[meanderingfamilytree]

anon: Another thought: low-dom high-love Whitney discovering that Bailey sent you to the UB not long after Whitney tried to? Except you saved him, but no one saved you…

Ooh, angst material. I actually don’t know how low dom high love Whitney behaves canonically, so this is likely rather soft:

Whitney feels utterly at loss when you don’t show up to school. You’ve been always there, always. Bickering at him, unafraid to throw your punches, but ultimately with him. Even when with his fierce anger, he tried to sell you off, you remained firmly by his side. You even saved him, his entire life, really, though that day is a memory he often refuses to recall, for the close call is enough to make him secretly tremble at night.

Mine, he thinks. And perhaps, he is yours too. Though he will not voice to anyone if possible, but he is fond for you, more than he ought to be. So when you go missing, he rages. His rage has no real direction, so after snapping at his friends for an entire week, he embarks on a search for you.

It is a frightening thought, the possibility that you may have ran away from the town entirely. He is feverish as he roams every alleyway, eyes keen and open for you. Whitney only discovers the truth through hunting down and questioning Robin, though they are rather reluctant to answer it. Robin trembles, and Whitney recognises its familiarity. It is the fear of someone who knows they ought to fear the world.

Whitney wonders if you are afraid. All alone in the Underground Brothel, where that fucking caretaker sold you to. He wants to tear apart Bailey, for selling you, Robin, for being a weak little thing, and most of all himself, for his utter helplessness. No one can save you now, can they? Not like how you saved him. No, only you will save yourself.

He doesn’t know if he’ll pull your hair or kiss you hard on the lips when you return. Call you a slut or call you his. To a god that he does not believe in, Whitney mutters pleas for your sake. Trembling, trembling under his bedsheets.

#heredi: whitney

[meanderingfamilytree]

anon: Consider: Bailey jerking himself off to the sight of the sleeping PC. (Especially a PC who gets out of paying every week by getting off Bailey and his goons)

Contains: somno, noncon

You infuriate him. A big, rather sharp thorn in his side. Because every time you avoid payment by getting Bailey off, you are proving to the other orphans that he is not invincible. That Bailey is unfortunately, thoroughly human, with human fallibility and weaknesses. It is a dangerous truth to expose, and he feels stripped bare. As if he is slowly losing control.

So it is nearly cathartic seeing you all unaware and spread out in your orphanage bed. Bailey was going to make good money off you, sell your body to anyone willing to pay, but he cannot resist taking a bite of his own. Of course, he’ll make money off you yet. He has his ways, no matter how desperately you may fight back.

Here, you are so quiet in the dead of the night, not making a sound except for your soft breaths in and out. Pliant, gentle, nothing like your real self. He almost doesn’t recognise you. Strangely enough, it’s harder to be crueller to you like this.

When Bailey carefully mounts you, easing open your thighs, a surge of something hot and warm brings a semblance of control back to him. It is a thrilling tremor that drives him forward, as he grips the inside of your thigh. Fuck, he’d love to plough that tight little hole of yours. But Bailey instinctively knows that if he really, properly fucks you, he would likely ruin you. And that can’t happen, can it? Not when your body is a good to be sold.

He settles for your thighs. Bailey’s cock is already semi-hard, and a few strokes with his own hand gets him ready. Pushing his cock between your thighs, he ruts against you like a beast. It’s a good thing that you are a deep sleeper, oblivious while Bailey’s thrusts bring him closer and closer to completion. He whispers a mixture of threats and promises next to your ear, with occasional grunts of pleasure. So there you are, the insides of your thigh slick with precum—Bailey’s own sleeping sex toy.

With a gentle shudder, he finishes on you. His cum splatters across the stretch of your stomach, leaving a rather obvious mark. Of course, he does not bother wiping you down. This will be a reminder for you. Bailey chuckles under his breath, because this is a good look on you. Yes, yes, very good. He is certain that he can find customers willing to pay a pretty penny for your fine body. And this really was a tasty bite to take.

#heredi: bailey

[meanderingfamilytree]

anon: Okay, question: what would Robin do if they went to Bailey’s office to negotiate an extension and saw the scene from that fic you wrote today? I’m dying of curiosity.

That is… a very interesting thought. I am also dying of curiosity now.

Warnings for incest, and voyeurism?

It is all the wrong things at once, as Robin stifles their breath in the palm of their hand. They do not know how things came to this, really. Last night, they were panicking in your room about how they didn’t have any money to pay Bailey. After finally gathering up some courage—and the mental willingness to strip down in front of the orphanage caretaker if necessary—Robin had made way to Bailey’s office in the morning.

Except they don’t knock. Not when they could hear what is undeniably someone’s moan, and definitely not Bailey’s, by the sound of it. The door is nearly closed, but not quite. A narrow opening allows Robin quite a good look into the office, and despite their better judgement, they look—and regret, quickly enough.

Because there you are, impaled on Bailey’s cock. Robin doesn’t know what shocks them more. The fact that you, who openly and unabashedly proclaim your hate of Bailey, is fucking him, or that oh yes, Bailey is your biological father so this is awfully wrong. Robin had always been good in finding the differences between the two of you. You would stand in front of the mirror, grumbling about how the genes worked out, how you look too much like him, but Robin would deny it honestly. The bleached hair and the contact lenses aside, you are nothing like Bailey. Not when you are quick to laugh and crinkle the corner of your eyes, not when you lightly tug Robin’s hair affectionately. All Robin ever saw was how different you are, but now, Robin isn’t so sure.

Robin wants to throw up. Robin wants to flee. Robin wants to barge into the office and demand you two stop, because frankly, this is disgusting. Robin wants to kiss you and beg you to see some sense. But what Robin really does is to shove their hands between their legs, over their clothed crotch, and buck their hips into it. They know that they shouldn’t, that they are fucking insane to do this, but they are utterly helpless. And you, you are so beautiful even in the midst of this madness, the curve of your naked back engraved in Robin’s mind. Biting down on the bottom of their lips, Robin comes quietly and quickly, heat rushing to their cheeks. They run away before getting caught. Small mercies.

When Bailey doesn’t demand payment that day, oddly enough for someone always so punctual, that’s when realisation strikes them. Oh. The shame is enough to make Robin avoid your eyes for the entirety of next week.

#heredi: bailey #heredi: robin

[meanderingfamilytree]

anon: How about some hurt/comfort w/ Bailey? Love seeing bastard characters begrudgingly taking care of one (1) person they can't help but not hate. Have a lovely day!

It would be beautifully ironic if Bailey had been the one to (indirectly?) cause that hurt. I’m not sure if this is what you want but let me roll with it.

Perhaps it is after your escape from the underground brothel. It had been, quite frankly, the final straw. You have endured so much, and what breaks you is the fact that you have no other choice but to continue enduring. The escape had taken a toll on both your body and mind, and you crawl back to the orphanage, back to Bailey, who fucking sold you, because you have no other choice. It is as if nothing has changed in the orphanage despite your prolonged disappearance, except for the missing poster of you hanging in the main hall. Everyone must be asleep, as the hour is late.

So no one knows as you tear the poster off in a fit of fury, crumpling it and throwing it down on the ground. Not quite realising how loudly you are breathing, you thrash your fist against the wall. Perhaps that commotion is finally enough to summon Bailey out of his office. He had never been the one to fall asleep easily, and this is no different. Your return is almost a surprise, except he had known you’ll come back eventually. You always did. And see, here you are. No matter how far he flings you away, you come back.

To be honest, he didn’t want to sell you off. He hates all the orphan brats, but if he had to pick a favourite, it would be you. Hating someone the least is no evidence of fondness, but you always tried to meet your payments, submitted without fighting when failing to do so, held your tongue and followed orders. So seeing you like this makes him feel, well, not remorseful, but uneasy.

You pause in your abuse of the wall, simply gazing at Bailey. Your fist is bloodied red, and his eyes merely flicker at it uncertainly. Wash up and go to bed, he says. As if nothing has changed.

But you’ve always been the rather obedient type. So you go sit in the orphanage bath, running the water. And you sit. And sit a little longer. It could be considered drowning yourself, but your mouth and nose stays blissfully above the water. No, you do not sink down and let the water swallow you whole. You simply sit as the hot water goes lukewarm, then cold, seconds, minutes, hours passing outside of your awareness. You sit until your skin grows wrinkled and your back limp, breathing softly.

There is no strength in you to resist when strong arms lift you out of the water. Everything is caught in an unpleasant, buzzing, haze, Bailey’s soft curses not reaching your ears in time. Is he shaking you? Is he calling your name? Is he ordering you to stay awake? You don’t know. You fold into yourself as Bailey carries you out of the bathroom, your body haphazardly covered in a large towel, but your wet skin still touching his bare arms. Droplets of water roll down your leg to your toes, dripping off, leaving round, wet marks in the orphanage hallway.

Perhaps a fever is running. You feel impossibly hot and impossibly cold at once, chattering, your cheeks cradled against the warm chest near you. Brutal fingers force your mouth open, feeds you a pill and gulps of water, leaving you spluttering and coughing. Go to sleep, the voice whispers. Just go to fucking sleep.

Bailey only grimaces out of relief when your fever runs down to a safer temperature and you finally fall into a blissful sleep. His shirt is drenched from carrying you, and a quick chill runs along his fingers as it remembers how cold and waxy your skin was. As if life had already left it. And he would feel remorseful if he is anyone other than Bailey, but he tells himself so much. It had to be done. You can’t be seen favouring someone. Standards are meant to be followed. All the orphans would be trying to pathetically win his favour if he showed that a few demonstrations of obedience won them a free pass.

But still, Bailey looks at you and there is an uncomfortable lump in his throat. He hesitantly rests his hand on your forehead, and it is too warm, yes, but at least it feels alive. Even his fractured conscience feels a faint sense of relief at that.

#heredi: bailey

[meanderingfamilytree]

Contains: M!Bailey, GN!Reader, incest

Imagine that you are Bailey’s child, but brought up in a orphanage all the same. It is a choice purely out of convenience. Everyone knows that you are Bailey’s child, even Bailey himself, but that doesn’t keep you safe from his fits of anger at the orphan brats, nor the paper thin walls of the orphanage bedrooms. It’s rather easy to forget that you are different from everyone else, sometimes. To just pretend that fucking bastard isn’t, actually, your biological father.

Perhaps you would even prefer that. To be an orphan and nothing more. But it gets increasingly hard to ignore the resemblance between you two as you grow into your features, with a rather uncannily similar scowl that you both tend to make when displeased. You try to scrub free the hints of him from your body; bleaching your hair blond, wearing contacts, never wearing black that Bailey exclusively prefers. Yet your efforts are futile. You are still his child, despite it all.

Bailey never seems eager to do much parenting, except the occasional, rather dismissive question on whether you haven’t dropped out of school yet. So it surprises you when he doesn’t start asking for the weekly payments that all other orphans after reaching 18 is expected to make. Despite your better judgement, you ask him why. He looks back at you incredulously, as if you had asked him why the sky is purple. I don’t know if it had slipped your dumb little mind, but you are my child, not an orphan, the last time I checked. And your money is mine, anyway. Why would I take it? You scoff at that answer. Because really, that is some prime bullshit.

This precarious balance of mutual distaste continues until you feel a need to barge into his office one day, demanding him to let Robin go. The negotiation never had any hope to sail smoothly, not when he asks if you have any money to pay him off then. You don’t. You didn’t make saving money much of a habit, not when you never had a nefarious figure in your life demanding payment at the end of each week. When you tell him just that, he shrugs. As if that’s the end of the conversation.

Something burns fiercely within your stomach. Not quite hot, no, but a stilted coldness that expands by the second. It is pure madness as you impulsively start to unbutton your shirt, pull down your trousers. That certainly gets his attention, as he chokes on his own breath.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he asks. Perhaps. Probably. Do most people strip in front of their absent and despicable father as a method of payment? You doubt it.

“I heard from a few of the the older orphans that you can be persuaded to take this as payment instead. Is that untrue?”

“You are,” he looks positively murderous now, “my child.”

“I’m not your child,” you snap. “You don’t get to call me that. Not you.” And you are grateful for your hatred towards him, truly, because you don’t think you could stripped down in such a manner in front of anyone you love. Bailey’s eyes land on your now bare chest and the panties discarded on the floor, and there, there is the evidence of his guiltiness. He can no longer feign innocence, now when something primal flickered in his eyes for a second. You straddle his lap without shame, kiss him hard and sloppily, feeling the scratch of his hastily shaved chin. It tastes like any other man; funny, you expected kissing your own father to be wildly different.

It is like any other cock when you are bouncing on it, too. He whispers in your neck that you take after your whore mother, who apparently had a nice piece of ass. You moan, all loose and soft, despite wanting to claw his eyes out. Fingers grip your waist to use it as a convenient handle to slam your body down, hard, on his cock. For someone so reluctant in the beginning, Bailey is awfully eager now.

When he comes inside you, it is warm, dripping, enough to finally quench the burning fire in your stomach. You shudder, laying limply against his chest, breathing deeply. Though a sudden, unexpected urge to cry threatens you, you wish it away quickly enough by thinking of Robin. Your consolation is the fact that Bailey looks as stricken as you feel inside.

So when he orders you to get the fuck out, you obey him—for once. For this is payment done, a debt dusted. And if your hole still is wet and aching from the fucking, you try not to think about it too much while you limp back to your own room. Bailey will be thinking about it, instead, for the entirety of next week.

#heredi: bailey

[meanderingfamilytree]

Contains: M!Bailey, GN!Reader

Oh it would be interesting if the control that Bailey has over Quinn is thanks to the fact that he is together with the mayor’s child. You are sweet, pampered, and oblivious despite being born and bred in this town. Quinn quite successfully had hidden away all the darker elements from you. You are a society darling, perhaps, always giggling and glittering in the center of attention. Grew up calling all of Quinn’s high status friends Uncle this and Aunt that, so no one dares touch you.

Except for, well, Bailey. But in his defence, you had been the one to hopelessly fall for him first. After graduating from college outside of this town, you come back to visit Quinn and figure out where to go next. It is a dizzy whirl of parties and hungover mornings for a while, as you gleefully waste your youth. There is no sense of purpose in the way you live, and it is evident even in your gait: light, dancing, twirling from one thing to another. Everyone around you is the same, anyway, and when you spot Bailey, it is a point of time when you are quite bored of all that.

A tall, dark, mysterious man. Practically the male love interest in one of those bodice-ripping novels. He intrigues you, more than anything—the way that the light and music of the party settles into grim stillness around him. An anomaly that must be examined. After a few sly questions to your friends, you quickly figure out that he is the new orphanage caretaker. Odd. Those kind of jobs aren’t normally found in these parties. You decide that there must be something more. An investigation needed.

And the rest is history. Sure, this man is a little prickly, but he has enough sense to begrudgingly tolerate you when he finds out you are Quinn’s child. You are stubborn to a fault, pestering Bailey fondly despite the underlying dismissive tone of his. It becomes something more the week after the party, when he finally fucks you good and hard. It seems like this return to town was a good idea, after all. And you, you always had a way of falling in love with the wrong people at all the wrong times. Somehow sniffing out the assholes, the bastards, the shitbags. Yet your sheltered upbringing has bred in you the ability to continue hoping despite it all, and maybe, you think. Maybe.

Because Bailey is no lapdog, but he isn’t cruel to you. Well, he has a mean tongue with cold eyes, but he holds himself back in front of you. And you don’t care if your friends warn you, tell you that he is only using you for his own ends, because who doesn’t? At least he shows you some affection, when he holds you down on the bed and fucks the living daylight out of you, when he impassively slaps your ass while driving his cock deep within you. The brief moments of intensity at night after distanced, polite gestures of the day. Some will call you stupid, shallow, too dense to see the obvious, but you really cannot bring yourself to care.

So you know that Bailey seems to have an uncomfortable hold on Quinn thanks to your existence. You know that the orphans under his care cower away in fright. Oh, but you’ve always been selfish. And you take and take and never stop, just like all the others in this town. In some ways, you are quite like Bailey himself.

#heredi: bailey