#{romance mentions in the tags ----------------------->}

[hanimanny]

WIKIHOW: HOW TO GET YOUR GIRLFRIEND BACK (FROM YOUR FAMILY)

a.k.a Tim needs his girlfriend back

tags: Tim drake x reader (established relationship), batfam x platonic!reader, crack, no mention of ‘y/n’

word count: 2.7k , likes + comments + reblogs appreciated

Tim loves that you're close to his family, he adores it. He couldn't have asked for anything better. To know that the love of their life so easily integrates themselves into their partner’s already slightly dysfunctional- adopted family. 

Tim loves it, because you love it. His family, I mean. But if you were to ask him how he feels about how close his girlfriend is to his brothers, sisters, pseudo-father?

He’d say he hates it.

The first few months were great! He would bring you over and you'd greet every member of the family you pass, awkwardly bowing (even to Damian who had the biggest ego trip known to man) as you scurry off, glued to Tim’s side. 

He misses those days. You were like a little bird, too shy to leave the nest, finding comfort in each other’s presence. He had you all to himself; and he would not call himself selfish in a way, but gods, does he want to take you and hide you from the world (his family).

Like all baby birds, they have to leave home eventually, and you did just that. 

It started off small. Girls night with Cassandra, Barbara and Stephanie, who'd want to drill as much gossip and secrets out of you about himself. Innocent at first, Tim trusted you, after all, and doubted you'd say anything incriminating about him to the girls. 

Then, the rubber duckies began to appear. He first assumed it was you and one of your weird pranks. Finding the yellow toys perched on his PC, bed stand, his closet, the usual places he would find you around. Then it got progressively stranger. The batcave, his utility belt, his secret stash of stalkerish pictures of you before you guys dated. No way would you find this stash, the only person sneaky enough to get past his secured hiding spaces was… Cassandra. 

That was when it all started. 

The ducks were okay. Eventually, you took a huge liking to them and told him to give them all to you and you would start a mini-army of rubber duckies, in his name of course. Though, he couldn't miss the devious glances the girls would send him, like he owed them something. 

What ticked Tim off was when you started to come over to the manor. Not that you weren't allowed to, he loves it when you spontaneously visit. But the reason you gave, irked him to no end. 

“Hey Duckie, sorry can't hang, Damian wanted to test those new katanas I’ve been working on.” You gave him a quick peck on the lips and a little hug before dashing towards the batcave, clunky bag full of prototypes jingling beside you. Before Tim could even ask to help carry your bag, you were gone. 

Okay, yeah, this is fine. You help his family come up with new innovative weapons, it's literally part of your job description. 

And then it happened several more times. 

Sometimes needing to cut well needed cuddle time short because “Damian wants to test out all your new gear for himself to deem it useful or not” or “Damian said he’d teach you how to paint after his training session”. 

And with demon spawn at that! his replacement! his arch nemesis. All your inventions were useful! And brilliant! That little demon spawn is just digging his claws into your soft kind back to drain you of all your brilliance. 

And He could teach you how to paint! If Bob Ross taught him anything, it's how to paint using what little skills he had. Though, the large canvas you painted of Tim, yourself and the large army of rubber duckies you gifted him was certainly… something (he had it framed and hung it above his bed). 

Whatever… you're still with him 80% of the time, and if not at the manor, then at Wayne Enterprises!

He thanked the gods that he ended up in an office romance type-thing, even though he is sorta kinda your boss and you work in the STEM department.  He would show up at your lab unannounced and the two of you would have spontaneous lunch breaks, talking about anything and everything. About the silly nerdy geeky stuff his family would horrendously bully him for, because you are as equally silly nerdy and geeky as he is. 

But something always had to ruin his fun. 

That something, being Bruce. 

The first time he showed up was during an actual lunch break. You and Tim sitting on one of the tables in your Lab, devouring a bat-burger you had begged him to order because, in your words: 

“It's literally your dad! No way you gotta pay.”

He had to pay. Not that he minded, never minds when it comes to you.

You were mid rant about some ship that kept breaking your heart, with a smudge of ketchup on your chin and your mouth disgustingly stuffed full of fries. 

“Like what do you mean you guys were just ‘best friends’, you literally faked your death, gave up the only career you ever knew and loved, just to get ride off in the sunset with him.” You scoff as you comically swallow your food. “Coming from a guy, that seems pretty platonic to me” Tim humoured as he sipped on his drink, amused with the way your face contorts with disbelief. 

“I can’t believe you had a boyfriend and still have the worst gaydar known to man.”

“Hey!”

“Bernard would totally get me.” You frown dramatically and Tim rolls his eyes at that, tossing a fry at you. 

“Why aren't you eating in the cafeteria?” A deep authoritative voice shatters your little world, pulling your attention away from him and onto the voice. 

Bruce stands at the doorway to your lab, signature scowl on his face. You lean to the side, to get a better view of him and wave with enthusiasm. 

“Food’s Trash today,” you boldly claim, chewing sideways on a fry. “Is that why you're in my lab? Because you want to have lunch with us?” you ask innocently. 

Which is how Bruce started attending both impromptu and promptu’ lunches. You obviously welcome him with your big loving heart, and definitely not because he’s your terrifyingly, stupidly scary boss and possible future father-in-law. 

To no one’s surprise, Tim is less than… let’s say excited… to have his pseudo father crash his work dates. Now lunch is filled with you explaining to his poorly out of date father the difference of “being cooked” and “cooking.”

and don’t get him started with his god forsaken, golden child of a brother, Dick Grayson, who unknowingly cockblocks. With his brotherly hugs and how he somehow always manages to incite family movie night. or game night. or whatever night. 

And even worse, you slowly grow the habit of inviting Dick to your hangouts. like some b-grade pavlovian experiment.

“Hey, wanna finish watching Lost?” innocent enough, and if Tim played the right cards, you’ll even decide to stay over (you’d still do it even if he played the wrong cards). 

“Sure! let me text Dick” and at first he’s confused, dick? Why? bros in bludhaven doing bludhaven activities. He has his own life, own job, own responsponsibilities, probably too busy to hang out with his younger brother and pretty birdie.

“he’d throw a fit if we continue without him” you absentmindedly add in, typing away on your phone. No one's worse than a brother dick grayson who looks like a sick kicked puppy once you tell him you continued the show you started together without him. 

After this incident, Tim slowly started to notice the lack of reality show binging time with you (at least without Dick) because somehow, Dick is always there once you start a new reality tv show. Even worse, he Pavlova’d himself, catching himself thinking of Dick when it came to reality tv. 

And Jason Todd who cockblocks purposely. The taste of freedom was so close, during the time of confusion where Jsson had no clue Tim was even in a relationship. How he'd eye the two of you skeptically, watching how you seamlessly integrated yourself into their family. His siblings, father, even Alfred, left unblinking at your interactions. 

But now that he knows, that fuckass zombie does everything in his power to ragebait. 

Tim seriously thought he grew accustomed to Jason Todd and his offhanded remarks about him, but now? now he really might dox someone (jason todd). 

TIm can tell he’s doing it on purpose, that smug (and stupid) look in his eyes when Jason asks you about old literature and introspective texts, and god knows how much you love to talk about things you’re interested in (which we all love). 

“I just think that he really captured girlhood, like I don't even understand how he did— I felt so connected with him” you drone on and on about a new book you were reading, something that Jaosn read back in his old robin days. While Tim loves to listen to you talk, literature is something Jason has him beat at (unfortunately…)

Tim just sits there, arm wrapped around you as you face Jason politely, chatting the room up. Jason occasionally sends Tim the knowing glance of smugness and in turn, Tim stares at Jason like he’s the blame for the economic state of the world. 

Tim zones out, plotting on the best opportunity to shit in Jason’s food. He smiles quietly to himself as he envisions his plans taking place, the reaction and satisfaction he’d feel, only snapping out when you suddenly gasp. 

“Oh shit, I totally forgot, I need to give him his meds” and the smile fades from his face instantly. You turn to him with a crazed look, your arm already in motion as you stick your hand in a hidden compartment under the couch. 

“Come on, Duckie, it’s nap time” you say almost ominously, despite your sweet smile and beautiful face, it does nothing to hide your menacing aura. “Yeah, nap time, Duckie” Jason taunts, and his pet name coming from Jason’s mouth tastes sour to Tim.

“Hold him down, will you, JT?” you ask sweetly, as you pop open the pill bottle.

In a swift motion, Tim snatches the bottle from your hand, “No need, i’ll take them willingly” Tim interjects, rather anything other than to give Jason Todd the satisfaction of holding him down. 

Worse of all, by the time Tim wakes up, you’re gone, and the aroma and food reaches his senses. 

He’d wake up, unceremoniously groggy, drool trailing down his face and the pillow within his arm he uses as a substitute for your flat to all extent. Tim feels like the start and end of the universe, all at the same time. He feels his hands tingle and theirs a blanket imprint stained on his forearms and face. Not to mention, what time is it? 

Unable to recollect his own dreary thoughts, Tim drags himself to the kitchen for his obligatory concoction of coffee and energy drink, ready to immediately shave off the 5 extra years off his life he gained from sleeping. 

TIm instinctively floats towards the sound of your giggle, along with the soothing scent of food that roams the air.

When he enters the kitchen, looking like he forgot his name and knows the entire history of you, you and Alfred don't even flinch at the site. 

“Hey Duckie! You slept longer this time, a whole 8 hours” you chirp as you pull out a tray of cookies, cooking the oven door closed. “Congrautlations, Master Tim, that's 5 more than last time” Aldred adds, stirring the pot of delicious smelling food. 

“Thanks…” Tim mumbles, still dazed. 

“I’ll be right with you, i just need ice the sugar cookies” You hum as you vigorously mix the icing while somehow simultaneously piping another batch in a bag. 

Tim can't help but smile gently out the domestic site, heart fluttering and not because of the residual caffeine that circulates through his veins. 

Just as Tim was about to sneak up behind you, and suggest he helps, Stephanie, Cassandra and Barbara burst in like they're about to rob a bank. 

“WE’RE HERE! BARBIE BAKER! Now the icing decorating competition can commence! Alfred, you're the judge” the girls push Tim aside, him knocking against the wall like a discarded ornament, ignoring him. 

“By the way, Tim, Bruce needs you” Barbara adds, as she wheels herself near the table as you carry the trays of cookies while Cassandra balances the various bags of icing. 

Tim stares blankly, his soul threatening to leave tired bones. 

Dear Lord, please give me patience. 

Tim’s at his wits end, he's barely seen you this week (aside from the fact you sleep in his bed every night tucked securely in his hold), stolen by one of his many family members.

Which brings him to now, calling a family meeting as if a world ending war is approaching. With all the family lounging on the couch, with the exception of Alfred who stands at the doorway and Jason who thinks he’s too cool to lounge with his loving family. 

“What do you want, Replacement? You know some of us have lives” Jason quips, leaning against the wall like 2000s grunge emo delinquent. 

“I am a full time CEO and hero who solves all your cases, you run a gang of D-list vigilantes and still come to me for help, we are not the same” Tim spits, the bags under his eyes seem much heavier, darker, like he hadn't slept for days (which might actually be true). At. his. Wits. End. Jason grumbles a retort, licking his teeth and sending Tim a glare that’s somehow more glare than his usual one. 

Then, Tim releases a forbidden command. 

“You’re all on Birdie Ban”

In that moment, the whole room bursts into cries, and an instant influx of complaining rips through the air. 

“WHAT? you have no right to ban us!”

“YOU CANNOT DICTATE WHO SHE CAN AND CANNOT SEE”

“Dick’s right! let Birdie see who she wants”

“You’re just a jealous loser”

“Dictator!”

“Worse than Joker”

“Woah, Steph, that’s a bit much”

“Nah, I was killed by him, Replacement is definitely worse”

“Now, let’s not make any rash decisions, Master Tim”

“I’m going to make a rash decision.”

“No innuendos, Cain. I'm going to gut Drake and use his insides as a scarf”

“Holy shit, Damian, Do we need to talk to a therapist again?”

“Yes, if that therapist is Birdie”

Tim stands there taking the brunt of the comments without flinching, his face passive as if he mastered the art of the Tibetan monks. 

And then: “If I catch you stealing Pretty Bird from me, I’m going to stop helping you with any of your cases…and ill dox you” 

“empty threats, Drake”

“says the guy lost a twitter war to a Brony”

Instantly, Damian shuts up, though his eyes burn with something akin to psychopathy. 

With one look, Tim scans the room seeing that everyone has fallen silent.

“By the way, no one tells her about this or I'll hack into all the tech in the house and block them off, out of spite”

With that, everyone reluctantly agrees and Tim can’t help but smile in satisfaction to himself. 

“Anyways, Pretty bird told me to let you guys know that she’s throwing a Gregory House theme party, everyone has to dress as a version of him” 

Tim may hate the fact that his family steals his girlfriend, but he’s more than grateful that his family loves you so much— enough to show up with a cane and stubble at least. 

epilogue

“Wait, why aren’t you dressed as House?” Dick, slack jawed, asks as he leans on his cane, dressed as convict season 8 house. 

“seems like you can’t even stick to your own girlfriends theme” Cassandra quips, in her rehab house attire, holding an ipod which blasts radiohead at a soft volume. 

“I'm Amber, a.k.a. female house— know your lore” Tim retorts, brushing his faux blonde hair to the side. 

Then you burst into the room, brown wig galore, and your certified doctors coat

“I, too, am at this party— omg bruce! i love cheerleader house, you look so authentic” 

The adventures of Pretty bird (shenanigans revolving you and Tim's family)

[gothicpaperback]

THE WAY HE CARES | TEN

<<<PART NINE | MASTERLIST| PART ELEVEN >>>

wc: 4,2k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Joel Miller x You | Enemy Pregnancy

summary: Joel Miller has been my pain-in-the-ass neighbour for years. we argue more than we speak and when we do speak, it's usually through gritted teeth. but when my doctor tells me my fertility’s running out of time, panic sets in. I want a baby and I don’t have the luxury of waiting around for Mr. Right. Joel's a damn good father to his daughter, Sarah. that much, I can’t deny. so one night, fuelled by nerves and just the right amount of wine, I ask him the unthinkable: get me pregnant. no strings.no romance. just biology. i never planned on falling for him. but nothing about Joel Miller ever goes according to plan.

while the story is first person narrative, the OC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely physically described aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: neighbours, enemies to lovers, comedy, smut, sexual tension, mentions of fertility and reproductive issues, mentions of drugs and alcohol. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

chapter smut warnings: oral (F receiving), mentions of penetration, sexual fantasy, dirty talk.

taglist: @himboelover | @harrypotteranna23-blog | @isabella-rose-trastamara | @ro4nix | @sunndroppp | @harriedandharassed | @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 | @titlee78 | @olafsmiles2020 | @sophiagladiator | @sunnytuliptime | @6kaja9 | @magicxmiller | @redvelvettsunflower | @smvtwitchmiller |

THE WAY HE CARES | TEN

I'm trying very hard not to be frustrated right now, but I am. I was so ready to give into Joel, my hormones kicked into overdrive. 

And now I'm here on the couch in my pyjamas listening to the rain pattering down on the roof. Seems between the pipes and the weather the world is determined to keep me wet. 

I try watching television but it's so boring I give up and go on my phone. I'm scrolling when I decide to go to Sarah's Instagram. She's always posting cool stuff. 

But today is different. Today is an old photo of Joel. He can't be more than twenty five, arms muscled, body slimmer. He's still got that boyish look to his hair. He's sitting on a picnic blanket near a lake. 

He's wearing sunglasses and a huge smile as he faces the camera. A tiny Sarah is holding onto his fingers, using them to take a step forward. 

#throwbackthursday  To the best Dad then and the best Dad now. I miss you lots! 

I smile, eyes filling just a bit. I look at the photo for a long time thinking about how perfect a father Joel is. How natural fatherhood looks on him. 

How he was always the perfect choice. 

I must have fallen asleep shortly after because I wake to the sound of banging on the front door. 

The rain still hammers down on the roof as I pad towards the door. I open it, eyes blinking when I see Joel standing on the other side. 

Water drips down the end of his nose, his face shiny with rain. His shirt clings to him, similar to the one he was wearing in that Instagram photo. 

His eyes however are exposed and they are fiery. They burn into mine as he steps closer to me. 

"Joel, we can do this another t-"

He doesn't even give me a chance to speak. He lunges across the threshold, grabbing my face and pulling me in for a scorching kiss. 

And fuck can Joel kiss. 

Plump mouth, the tip of his tongue wetting my upper lip before devouring me. I cling to his soaked t-shirt, body pressed against his so tightly I can feel his erection pushing into my belly. 

He pulls back when I whimper, pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. I can see my awed face staring back at me. 

"We said no kissing," I say breathlessly even as my mouth chases his. 

"Fuck the rules." 

He crouches a moment to tuck one arm under my knees and the other around my back in a bridal carry, hefting me into his hold and kicking the front door closed. 

"I'm gonna fuck you now," he tells me as he carries me to the bedroom. "Gonna put a baby in you." 

Joel Miller and his filthy mouth where did you come from? My eyes are saucers and I'm trembling but not from cold, from anticipation-

-And then the doorbell rings. 

I wake up from my dream, drool at the corner of my mouth, eyes itchy. I rub at them, glancing at my digital clock. 

11:55 pm.  

The doorbell rings again and I glance out my bedroom window to see the sky is clear, The neighbour is quiet save for the cicadas heard in the distance. 

I stumble to the front door, yawning widely. 

"Were you asleep?"

Joel has changed into a Miller Brothers hoodie and a pair of grey sweatpants that leave nothing to the imagination. He also smells faintly of...

"Are you wearing cologne?"

His cheeks flush when he gives a half-hearted shrug, avoiding my eyes. "Spilled some on me when I was brushing my teeth." 

Sure, Joel. 

Still the thought delights me; that he went to an effort. It makes me cringe that I'm dressed in my ratty Bugs Bunny sleep shirt and that my hair is a mess. 

"You still wanna do this?" He asks me, eyes searching. 

The dream I just had comes back to me and I have to press my thighs together tightly.  "Yeah." 

We enter my bedroom both holding our breath, the moment charged. suddenly I am affronted with what we're about to do when we see my bed. It all becomes real. 

I made it with fresh sheets this morning, made it and plumped the pillows. I wanted it to be as nice as possible. But now it looks intimidating. 

Joel is standing stiffly beside me, dark eyes scanning the room. Only a bedside lamp is on, casting a sensual glow over the room. 

He breathes slowly, hands twitching at his sides and I realize I need to make the first move.  

I crawl to the centre of the bed, tugging the sleep shirt down my hips when it rides up, feeling self conscious.

"Make yourself comfortable," I say awkwardly motioning next to me on top of the mattress.  

Joel looks around the room, surveying it before he nods. With my breath held. I watch as he peels the Miller brothers hoodie from his body and drops it onto the chair by my mirror. . 

He's not a fitness model and he's not in his twenties anymore but Joel Miller is incredibly hot. Strong arms with biceps made not in a gym but on a work site. Broad chest, gold in the low light. His stomach is a bit soft, but still defined enough for my mouth to go dry. 

He gives me a look, brow raised. Keep going?

I nod back. Yes please. 

The moment feels weirdly tense as he walks to the other side of the bed, so I busy myself fluffing one of the pillows. 

"Everything okay with Tommy?" I ask. 

He makes a face. "Can we not talk about my brother right now? Doesn't really get me in the mood." 

I cringe. "Yes. Of course. Shit."

He's at the side of the bed now with a tiny smirk at my flustered reaction. I watch him settle onto the mattress, observing the dip of it, his knees brushing mine as he comes to sit next to me, long legs folded.  

It's so real so close so intimate. 

He stares at me, the kind of bold open stare the steals the breath from my lungs and forces me to look away. 

"Sorry there's no phone for you to peruse," I laugh breathlessly, attempting to lighten the mood. "Mine is on the couch so if you need material you have to use yours."

"Don't need it."

He replies so quickly I'm not sure I heard him correctly. 

"I'm not offended if that's what you're worried about," I scoff. "I'm under no delusional. I'm sure your fantasy woman doesn't have knotted hair, wearing a bugs Bunny T-shirt for sex."

He leans back on his hands, playfully cocking his head. 

"You don't know my fantasies." 

 I know he's joking by the twinkle in his eyes but that doesn't stop my voice from coming out a little shaky. 

"I'm pretty sure men like stilettos and strappy lingerie. Whipped cream and silk-'

"-or blue sundresses." 

My eyes go wide when he stops and his cheekbones go pink. Is he referring to my phone background? The one of me and a blue sundress at Lake Travis? 

No. It can't be. 

But it is. I know it is because the energy in the room has shifted. 

Joel's eyes are on me now and I know he knows that I know. There's no pretenses now, only honesty.  Joel swallows.

"What if I told you I used the background of your phone that first time?"

I laugh, breathy, nervous. “I'd call you a liar.”

His chin juts lightly, a silent dare for me to accuse him of lying again. I have a niggle of suspicion, like he's trying to fuck with me. My curiosity weighs out however. 

"What else?"

"Huh?"

"What else did you look at that day?" I ask him, weirdly intrigued. "I was curious about the sort of stuff you watch but you wiped the history." 

"Didn't wipe anythin'."

"There was nothing in the search history," I explain. "It's okay if you wiped it Joel, I just wanted to know what a guy like you watches to get off."

My face is burning as I admit this, but fuck it. We're about to have sex and I've been curious since the day it happened.  

"I told you. I didn't wipe anythin'." His eyes are weirdly intense. "Didn't need anythin' else." 

My pulse ticks, my nipples harden under my shirt as I remember his grunts that afternoon. 

Bossy thing. F-fucking take it then.

Be good. C'mon be good for me tonight and take it.

Yeah show me. Show me how much you want it, darlin'.

He was saying that about me? There's no fucking way. I stare at him in suspicion. He''s screwing with me. That's the only plausible explanation. 

"Shut the fuck up, Miller," I laugh, rolling my eyes and shoving his chest gently.

But he's not looking away from me. His eyes are swimming over my face, stuck on my lips before rising to my eyes once more. 

“I watched that other video too. The one of you touchin' yourself in bed.”

I feel my jaw hinge open, eyes wide. No way. No way he did. This doesn't feel like a joke, this feels very very real. But it can't be real right? This is Joel Miller, frenemy, neighbour.

There’s a tiny red flush climbing up his neck as he takes in my muted reaction. He watches my face bracing for the fallout. 

“Are you upset?" 

I should be but I'm not. I’m a little embarrassed, sure. But mostly I’m suddenly, acutely aware of how Joel watched me touch myself for the camera, the memory of his grunts and groans. 

So fucking good

Keep going darlin', just like that, you know just what I need. 

The thought does something strange to my spine. Even though he's beside me in bed this admission feels more intimate than anything.  

I finally shake my head slowly, eye contact not breaking. No. I'm not upset. I am confused though.

"Why are you bringing this up now?"

I watch him suck in a sharp breath, like he's trying to gather up the courage. He licks his lips and leans in slightly.

“If you’d seen what I saw, you’d bring it up too.”

What. 

The.

 Fuck. 

What is happening? How is Joel Miller, annoying neighbour, boring but dependable dad, block captain menace suddenly so suave that he has my stomach doing flips? 

All I can do is swallow thickly as my brain buffers. Joel seems emboldened by my response, the corner of his mouth curling slightly.

He leans even closer, knuckles pressing into the mattress, brushing against my thigh. My body breaks into goosebumps at his touch.

"I couldn't look away from your body arching and those sweet little faces you made when you were gettin' close."

His voice is pure honeyed sex. It drips between my legs and my ears. 

I'm convinced he can hear my heart pounding a staccato in my chest. It's so loud that I feel like it's the only thing I can hear aside from his voice. 

His face moves so close I can see the light that dances with the dark of his iris. His eyes are beautiful. I can feel the warm air of his breath buffet my parted lips.  I exhale shakily as Joel moves his mouth to my ear, lower lip catching my earlobe. 

"I wanted to know what faces you'd make if it was my hand between your legs instead." 

My heart literally skips a beat. I think I mutter something that may be his name or it might be gibberish. 

Whatever it is Joel grins gently against my ear at the response and keeps going. I stare down at his knuckles braced against the mattress, the coiled tension in his biceps, the thick outline of an erection beneath his sweatpants. 

"What if I wanted you to touch yourself like that again?" Joel murmurs all syrupy and low. "What if I want you to pretend I'm the guy you're making the video for?" 

Oh God oh God. 

Joel Miller is a dirty talking professional. And here I am just sitting with my mouth dropped open like an idiot. But it's just so unexpectedly sexy. And his suggestion is intimidating actually. The thought of performing in front of Joel makes me nervous. 

"M-maybe next time." 

Joel's smile is subtle but there. "Okay. Next time." 

Why does my belly flip at the thought of there being a next time? 

His hand brushes my arm before pulling back. He looks at me like he’s trying to memorize something, like he’s afraid if he blinks I’ll change my mind.

“You can go ahead, I won't break,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I know,” he murmurs, sounding relieved at the permission. "I know."

His hand grazes my arm, up to my shoulder, fingers trailing slowly down again like he’s learning the shape of me through memory.

He reaches out again and his touch is gentle, reverent even, as he guides me down to the mattress. The backs of my thighs press into the mattress. The cotton sheets are cool against my skin.

He lays alongside me on his side, one arm propping his head up and he just looks at me. A look of consideration, of interest, of lust.

"I was doing some reading of my own this week," Joel says and I feel his hand is coming to slide along the front of my thighs. It's gentle and teasing. 

"What d-did you read?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even. But all I can do is stare at his fingers brushing against my bare skin. 

"That we should be doing this daily, five days up to ovulation plus the day," he murmurs. "That i should be filling you up that entire week."

 Filling me up? Why is that hot to me right now? What the fuck is wrong with me? When I look over his eyes are on me, dark and shiny. 

"You want that?" Joel murmurs, thumbs tracing little circles on the soft skin of my inner thigh. "You want me to fuck you for a week straight next time?" 

Yes. 

"If you're not busy, sure." 

He grins, his chuckle warm. I like that it makes his face light up when he does that. That it makes me smile in response. His face lowers to mine and he brushes the side of his nose against my cheek, and something in me stutters. 

I feel the weight of him, the heat of his body as he leans in closer, and still, he moves slowly, taking his time. He’s close now. I can hear his breathing, quiet but uneven against my ear, like he’s holding it back.

When his mouth finally does meet the skin beneath my jaw I gasp out loud and it embarrasses me. He doesn’t comment. Just kisses me there again, softer this time, slower. He's technically not breaking the no kissing rule but intimate all the same. 

I should push him off, should wrench out of his touch and yet my head tilts to give him better access. I'm getting hazy on why I can't just give into Joel completely, why i shouldn't press my mouth to his. 

I feel his teeth scrape against my jugular, the warmth of his tongue coming to lap when his teeth move off. 

He's taking his time, working me into both a frenzy of desire and a puddle of lust. But he didn't need to.

I've been wet since I saw him. 

My fingers drift to his chest without thinking, needing to feel something grounded, something solid. And I can feel

His heart is beating rapidly too, a steady throb beneath his ribs. He breathes out through his nose, lips brushing the base of my throat. His stubble scrapes lightly, and I arch without meaning to.

Still, he doesn’t move faster. His hands stay gentle, mapping over my ribs, the dip of my waist, the soft curve of my stomach. 

There’s no teasing, no smugness in it. This is Joel gentle, this is Joel authentic. This is the Joel that made me ask him for his help in the first place.  

"Wait, one thing." 

When he suddenly jerks back I could cry. I want to strangle him for breaking this glorious momentum. My voice comes out in a hard snap.

"What?!"

"Do you always call men, Daddy?" Joel asks, grimacing a little. "Gotta say if you pull that out that'll get me softer than taffy on a hot summer day."

"Fuck no," I say with a groan and a laugh. "This guy asked me to do it on video for him and I did it. I hated it and never sent it, I was too mortified."

"So he never saw it?" 

"No one has." 

"Except me." 

My eyes find his trained on my face.

 "Except you." 

I watch his lower lip stick out in thought, fingers skirting the neckline of my shirt. He asks the next part casually. "Who was the guy? Ben?"

"Joel we're trying to fuck right now, can we chat about my bad tinder dates after?"

He gives me a breathless chuckle before nodding. "Yeah, we can do that."

His hand trails lower, skimming over the curve of my hip with aching slowness. Each pass of his fingers feels deliberate, like he’s memorizing, not just touching.

The momentum isn't lost, just derailed momentarily because I am already back to arching my back and whimpering.

I suck in a breath as his touch begins brushing the sensitive dip where skin grows thinner and nerves more alert. There’s a delay, a pause that makes me clench the sheet beneath me. 

When he reaches the edge of my underwear he pauses. Just rests his hand there, warm and still. Not pushing. Not asking, but waiting with his eyes on my face. 

"Heard it helps if the woman cums first," Joel drops at my cheek. 

The hush between us deepens, thick and expectant. My breath catches, and I know he feels it.

"Oh yeah?" I ask, trying to be casual. "Should we try it?" 

Joel grins, teeth gleaming in the low light of the moon out my window. "Couldn't hurt." 

The air between us is warm and quiet, except for the faint creak of the mattress beneath me and the soft rasp of Joel's breath which is slower now, more deliberate. 

His fingertips trail down with aching patience, skimming along the elastic of my underwear, stopping just shy of slipping beneath. 

The pads of his fingers are rough from years of work, but somehow that makes it better, like the contrast against the softness of my skin sharpens everything.

A faint sound escapes me, embarrassingly small and needy and I can feel him focus Like this is work to him. Intent, purposeful work.

It is work, I remind myself. Joel is not my boyfriend. He's not my husband. He's a man who has agreed to get me pregnant and that's it. He's a man trying to do a job. 

His fingers are exploring, teasing, taking his time like he's memorizing the way I respond. I feel them slipping beneath my panties, forefinger sliding up my drooling slit. His touch makes me break out into shivers everywhere. 

Like when he breaches me for the first time, with his second and third finger, slowly sinking them into me before working them to the knuckle. He doesn't look away as I breath out a huff of surprise, biting my lower lip to keep from gasping. 

The air smells like him now, like fresh laundry, a faint trace of soap and something deeper, more human. When he leans in closer, I can smell my own skin mixed with his.

"Bet you sound so pretty when you cum," he rasps against my ear. "Just as pretty as you look right now whimperin' up at me." 

I'm feral. I'm desperate. I'm so wet I can't stand it, the sound of my slick cunt almost vulgar in the quiet room as he fucks me with those thick digits. 

His fingers are getting me so close and I know the second I cum I want to feel him inside me. I don't want to wait because I can't be patient like him. 

I reach for the drawstring of his sweatpants, fumbling with untying them and shoving them down over his hips. I begin smiling when I feel him slide them off so quickly he grunts, kicking them to the side of the bed, his fingers never slowing inside me. 

His breath is warm against my collarbone. And I think he might be unravelling as fast as me because he starts groaning louder. 

"You know how hard you make me?" He mutters against my jaw. "How fucking hard it was not to moan your name when I knew you were out there on the other side of the door all those times?" 

He's making soft little groans every time I keen which is driving me even more insane. 

"Thought about fucking you in that sundress," Joel continues, fingers moving in and out of my slippery cunt faster and faster. "Thought about how you'd moan my name while you rode my cock." 

Is it true? 

Does it matter? 

Nope. It doesn't.

He could be lying through his teeth but I really don't give a shit. Between his voice and his fingers and the filthy things he's saying I'm already so close. 

"I think about you when I touch myself," I whine, unable to stop saying it. It's there in my head, burning.  

His fingers pick up the pace and I can feel his wet breath at my temple. "Tell me what you think about."  

"How you'd look going down on me," I keen, neck falling back. "How you'd tell me to cum."

"Jesus," Joel groans and his fingers curl in me, tapping and rubbing that inner wall that's making my thighs quake as his thumb plays with my slippery clit. 

"Joel-" I choke out, eyes slamming shut. "I'm... I'm so close." 

"Yeah? Good. But first I need those eyes," he whispers through pants. "I want you looking at the man who's making you cum."  

My eyes flutter open just in time to whine softly when I see Joel's fucked out expression, the hair damp at the temples, the half smirk of approval that quickly morphs into a pained look when my eyes roll back in my head. 

"Be loud, darlin'. Lemme hear how good it feels." 

My climax rises before I’m ready, slow at first, then all at once, tightening in my belly, coiling low and hot until I'm letting out broken cries. 

"Joel! Joel...I... Fuck don't stop!"

Joel doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even flinch. He just keeps going, steady and sure, like he knows what I need before I do and I think he does because... Because...

My fingers clutch the sheets, Joel murmurs my name, urging me to cum on his fingers and then I'm gone. 

I can hear his strangled groan as my thighs snap together, trapping his big hand between my thighs as I ride his fingers to completion. Tension snaps, and everything in my lower body spills over. It's warm wave after wave pulling me under.  

And then... Soothing silence. 

For a moment, I can’t think, can’t move. I just feel him there beside me, grounding me, his palm still resting against my thigh like he’s anchoring me to the world before he pulls back. 

I’m still catching my breath, chest rising and falling in shallow waves, when I reach for him.

I'm delirious with want, desperate to feel his cock in me. I can't wait to have him bury himself deeply, his body caging mine. 

I don’t open my eyes yet, I just stretch a hand toward where he’s sitting at the edge of the bed, expecting him to shift closer, to move over me and to finish what we started. 

“Joel,” I murmur, my voice hoarse from everything he just pulled out of me. My body is loose now, open and unguarded. “Joel, come here.”

There’s a beat of silence, a thick pause and then the faint rustle of fabric. I open my eyes just in time to see Joel turning away, tugging his sweatpants and shirt back on with jerky hands. 

His back is to me, his head bowed.

I blink, confused. "Hey, wait, what happened?”

He hesitates. His shoulders lift with a deep breath, like he's trying to calm something down. 

I sit up slowly, a chill beginning to creep in. “Joel are you okay?”

He won’t look at me.  

"We shouldn't have done all that... Extra stuff. I wasn’t trying to-” he cuts himself off, scrubbing a hand down his face. 

What the fuck is he talking about? What the hell happened? His posture is stiff, like he’s ruined something.

“Joel,” I start gently, trying to ease the tension winding through the room. “just tell me what's wrong. Please."

He finally glances over his shoulder, and his expression cuts me. His jaw is tight, and there’s something raw in his eyes that makes me flinch. 

I try to speak again, but he’s already moving. Already stepping into his shoes, already reaching for his jacket. His body is still flushed, his hair a mess and he looks like he wants to disappear.

“Joel, please," I start, sitting forward.

“I need to go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped. 

And before I can stop him or say anything that might make him stay the front door opens and closes with a soft, final click, and I’m alone again.

[aventurineswife]

Helloo!!! I get terribly nervous when sending a request so hopefully I'm doing this right

Anaxagoras, Mydei and Phainon (separate) with a reader who's based on the Greek prophet Tiresias? Nothing much (hopefully), just the same attributes like: blind but can see the future and past, all ominous and shit but can be unserious if wanted to etc etc. (I'm too lazy to write down everything)

And could you make the reader male aligned if possible? Thank you!!! :3

Kissed by the Future, Held by the Damned

Tags: Anaxa x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Romance, Angst With Comfort, Male-Aligned Reader, Blind Seer, Prophecy, Tragedy, Emotional Intimacy, Slow Burn, Found Family, Mysticism, Subtle Flirting, Reader Sees Past And Future, Pre-Established Relationship (Anaxa), Enemies To Confidants (Mydei), Sunshine X Cryptid (Phainon), Philosophical Themes, Destiny Vs Free Will.

Warnings: Death And Rebirth (Mydei), Implied Body Horror (Anaxa), Religious Trauma, Prophetic Madness, Mentions Of War And Violence, Emotional Distress, Grief, Sacrifice, Unstable Time Perception, Non-Explicit Intimacy, Casual Language, Swearing, Mental Strain From Foresight.

It was late—always late—when Anaxagoras came to you. Not as the Great Performer, not as the Demised Scholar, but as a man unraveling at the edges of his own brilliance.

He didn’t knock. He never did. The doors opened for him, as they often did for men who had torn open the veil between what is and what ought never have been.

You sat cross-legged atop a dais of moss and moth-wing tapestry, blind eyes fixed on a point he could never see.

“You've been poking holes in the firmament again,” you said mildly, tilting your head. “I felt something scream.”

He scoffed. “A Titan soul ruptures, and you reduce it to screaming fabric, Freak.”

“Gilded heretic,” you replied with a lazy grin.

The tension held, then broke—he laughed. Rare. Like stormlight caught in glass.

“You saw it, then?” he asked, quieter now. “What I tried to become?”

“I saw the truth clothe itself in your skin,” you said. “And I saw it burn you alive from the inside out.”

He knelt before you, his eyepatch gleaming like a sigil of failed divinity. “Would you have stopped me?”

“No. I love you too much to lie, and too little to save you.”

His hands found your face, reverent despite the tremor in his fingers. “You could see the future. But you chose me anyway.”

You leaned forward until your forehead touched his. “I didn’t choose you. I recognized you.”

He kissed you like a man kissing a funeral pyre—because some things burn and illuminate at once.

You first met Mydei on a battlefield, surrounded by smoking corpses and shattered prophecies.

He had just felled a Strife-Born, its Coreflame bleeding into the earth. You walked barefoot through blood to reach him.

“You're late,” he grunted, eyes narrowing. “The gods said you’d arrive before the battle.”

“I did arrive before the battle,” you said, tapping the side of your head. “You’re just behind in perception, Last Prince.”

He almost struck you. Instead, he laughed—a dry, rusty sound.

Later, when the campfires burned low, and his warriors slept with swords under pillows, you sat beside him.

“Mydei,” you said, voice softer now. “You wear your survival like a curse.”

He didn’t look at you. “It is.”

“I saw you in the Sea of Souls. Nine lives torn from your body. You screamed like a star being born.”

“Then you know why I cannot rest.”

You touched his arm, feeling the heat of him—always burning, always aching. “You could. If you let yourself be seen.”

He turned. His golden eyes bore into your unseeing ones. “By you?”

“Only I can look at your ruin and call it holy.”

He didn’t answer. But when his lips met yours, it wasn’t a kiss of romance—it was surrender. A prince bending not to fate, but to a man who read eternity like a book he’d grown bored of.

Phainon was fascinated by you from the moment he met you. You were sprawled upside-down on an altar, humming off-tune and sipping wine from a broken goblet.

“You’re the prophet?” he asked skeptically.

“I’m the visionary, thank you very much,” you replied, raising your goblet in mock salute. “Prophet sounds too responsible.”

Yet when his team entered the Black Wastes, it was your voice that guided them. You whispered warnings of collapse, mimicked the laughter of Titans, and wept for futures you couldn’t change.

He watched you—between battles, during moments of stillness. You unnerved him.

“You speak like you’re already dead,” he said one night, sitting beside you as stars blinked out above.

“I’ve died more times than you’ve drawn breath,” you said cheerfully. “Time’s weird.”

He looked away. “Does it hurt?”

“Only when I remember to be human.”

A pause.

“Then be human with me,” he said.

You blinked, blind eyes widening. “That was... surprisingly romantic for a man in silk armor.”

He flushed.

Later, in the heart of a temple collapsing around you both, he shielded your body with his own, dragging you from falling debris.

“I saw this,” you whispered, clutching his shoulder. “I knew you’d protect me.”

He gritted his teeth. “Then you should’ve warned me I’d fall in love with you.”

“I didn’t need to,” you said, smiling. “You’re Phainon. You fall in love with light.”

[lily-bisque]

ＷＡＹ ＯＵＴ ＴＨＥＲＥ 𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

interlude — should have known better

✦ ── pairing: lumberjack!sukuna x citygirl!reader

✦ ── synopsis: taking a hike, alone, in a massive forest to escape your mundane life may not have been the greatest idea you'd conjured up—a realization you'd come to soon after you managed to lose your map miles inland. but when a lumberjack who knows the land like the back of his hand offers you a place to stay, you think maybe your life isn't so tragic after all. besides, for the sake of your safety, who knows what lingers in the shadows after nightfall?

✦ ── contents: lost in the forest au, forced proximity, bantering, angst, trauma/torture aspects, minor injuries, eventual romance, eventual smut, no use of y/n, mental health and depression struggles, suicide, blood and violence, mentions of war—pls remember that this is a fictional work inspired by a comic and i am not using this to rewrite history or treat any tragedies unseriously! tags to be added.

✦ ── a/n: i hold reader to my chest in this one. heavy angst and more character lore muahaha. check out the playlist for the curated mood and for a forehead kiss. mwah, enjoy!

✦ ── word count: 2k

archive ─ playlist

series masterlist - volume seven - volume eight

art by outdmilk on twt

“Have a great weekend, Miss!”

The creases around your eyes deepened as your lips curled into a wide and genuine smile, your student with a backpack far too macro for her small size, teetering away with her mom and waving her arms in your direction. She clumsily caught her foot on an elevated section of the sidewalk and giggled, small fingers curling around her mother’s digit, something akin to adoration and yen aching in your chest.

She’d shared her lunch with a student who forgot theirs at home, so you made sure to update her mother after class and award her with a gold star to send her off with.

The last of your students filed out, hopping onto their school buses or running into the open arms of their parents, a warm embrace before their succinct trek home. You raked your fingers through your hair, releasing a soft sigh—not one laced with the rackets of stress, but rather a content sigh at yet another successful school day.

Your silver wedding band glistened in the gentle afternoon rays, the radiant diamond cut reflecting off sharp beams of sunlight and a gentle facade of your love.

Rolling out a stitch in your shoulder, you were about to step back into the humble building to finish cleaning up, when you’d heard the wind carry the lilt of an unfortunately familiar voice.

Your gaze flickered back to the sidewalk, the lit-up expression of your mother contorting into beams and hushed giggles as she spoke to one of your students' parents.

You swallowed thickly before pacing over, only catching snippets from the conversation that made your shoulders bunch to your ears.

“Oh, he is a real mighty catch. I’ll make sure he stops by to say hello sometime!”

“See, her father passed and I was worried she’d let that dictate her romantic affairs. But here comes this rich, charming fellow to sweep her right off her—.”

“Mom.” You interrupted tersely, feigning a cordial smile, feeling your skin simmer in irritation, trying not to replay her words that malignantly sliced your scars open once again. “What brings you here?” A whetted inhale from you cut through the air, your chest lurching at the way only a mother could speak about her daughter.

Your mother’s love was never quite different from her lack.

You hadn’t meant to come off as sharp-edged, especially around a student’s parent. But you were wielding a dagger equipped to ribbon through anyone before you, erecting a stony brick wall around your caged figure. Shoulders rigid, fingers flexing by your sides, chest bracing for the impact of her next thorny words.

The parent beside you caught on quicker than your mother did, awarding a gracious smile with a timid bow of her head before pacing down the sidewalk with her child to turn onto the zebra crosswalk.

Your mother brought a hand up, showcasing the bento box in her grasp, wrapped in a plastic baggie. “I wanted to surprise you with lunch!”

Your eyebrows drew in incredulously, a scorn painting you in abhorrence. “Since when have you ever ‘surprised me with lunch?’” The finger quotes you mimicked were lazy, your muscles coursing with a heavy and beaten ache.

And only then did she catch on to your indignation, dropping the hand slowly as if it were a rock sinking beneath the tide, curling the edges of her lips ever so slightly. “Well, there’s a matter we should discuss. Privately," she spoke softly, masking the weight of her words with delicacy. 

You checked your watch, before shaking your head. “Can’t. Gotta get home soon.”

You didn’t have it in you to exude table manners and pleasantries with her akin to another bleak dinner with the Zenin’s.

Your mother knew of the sensitive nature of your marriage, and exactly what would happen if you’d been untimely after a work day. A fight blown out of proportion, dishes shattering against the floor that you and the house staff would hurry to sweep up, and ending the night sleeping in the guest room, curled into your form.

The smile lines etched into your mother’s face deepened as she curtly nodded, then inhaled slowly, eyes fixed on yours with facility—lacking sentimentality, humanity, maternity. 

“Naoya wants a divorce.”

You took a step back, defenses battered and heart pierced, as your own mother dealt such a death blow.

“...What?”

She still gave you that same smile that made your blood curdle and teeth grit. “The Zenins wanted me to serve these to you instead of the attorney,” she spoke as easy as day, sifting through her handbag as your vision frayed around the edges.

Divorce.

Seven simple letters that managed to make the world crumble in on you.

You brought your fingers up to your temple as you screwed your eyes shut, pressing the impending migraine away as you racked your brain.

Last night’s fight was just like every other one—Naoya pissed off about something you could rarely remember after the fact, spitting venom in your direction to burn a hole through your thick skin, and storming off.

No no… it wasn’t like every other fight. There was something else. Something you should’ve accounted for and swept up instead of shoving under the rug.

You swallowed down the rising bile souring the back of your throat, stomach lurching and caving. Your mouth and ears felt like they’d been stuffed with cotton.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

You’d brought up his infidelity. Called him an adultering ass, or something along those lines.

Your breaths sucked in shallow and ragged, the city around you swirling into one dull blur that wouldn’t slow down. Passersby in the Yokohama streets simply eyed you, the drone of the city never curtailing and coursing forward despite the fact that you were curling inwards.

You’d fucked up. Majorly fucked up.

You tried so hard to keep this abysmal and loveless marriage tethered, but your temper had gotten in the way. The one thing in your life that felt like you hadn’t already fucked up, the one thing you could put on the pedestal of your legacy. Like you’d done something with your menial time.

Your mind was racing a mile a minute, yet you couldn’t pinp a single point as your dread began to eat you alive. Tears threatened to flow from your waterline, your heartbeat drumming like a countdown in your ears.

“Fuck. Fuck!” You cursed, pulling your hand to your mouth to sink your teeth into the skin, like a dog handed a bone to dig its canines through.

You’d promised yourself long ago that no matter how estranged you became, no matter what Naoya did, that you wouldn’t divorce.

It didn’t matter that you cried yourself to sleep most nights in a crumpled and defeated heap in the guest room, sobs whispered and forgotten in the night. Didn’t matter that you’d seen the scarlet lipstick branding his collar like he’d been promised to another already.

An icy hand reached out to you, resting atop your shoulder and grounding you back in a reality that made you repulsed.

“Get your fucking hands off of me!” You gasped out with another step backwards, chest caving inwards with each breath like your lungs couldn’t fill themselves with enough air no matter how hard you tried.

Your mother stared at your outburst, eyes owl-wide, her feet sinking in unfamiliar territory. “I… How dare you speak to me like that?” She inhaled in disbelief, placing a hand against her chest as if she were to wobble over and collapse like a teetering domino.

You swallowed thickly, brain already throbbing with the whiplashing turn of events. Your watery eyes gazed around you, feeling a rock settle in your chest as people weaved around you and your mother in the middle of the bustling street.

You shouldn’t be here any longer.

“I-I have to go,” you squeaked out, feet already pacing backwards, mind searching for an escape plan.

Your mother paused for a beat, before speaking again to deal her second hand. “They can’t have you work here anymore.” She called to your tense back.

There was a stumble in your quick gait, body going still at the words she’d uttered—voice laced with ease and carried with a gall that made your hair stand on end.

What the fuck had you been expecting given the role of the Zenin’s in society?

In slow deliberation, you peered past your shoulder and caught her vacant eyes, stomach flipping in on itself as the fact sunk in.

You’d met Naoya at a staff assembly at the start of a school year—air crisp with the possibility of new beginnings. You were young, and so was he. A handsome and clipped nepo baby handling one of the many affairs of his family. 

He carried the knowledge of what he wanted to mold you into.

You’d spent nights tangled up beneath him in some shabby motel with bleak and worn out filigree, depictions of bared cherubs that made your eyes gloss over—innocent, pure, divine.

You blissfully ignored his snark comments about how you’d make the perfect and most docile doll when he was pushing into you. 

You thought you could take it, his primal need for a placid toy.

You pawed at your chest, trying to stuff the corroded hole that seemed to be endlessly leaking, palm coming down in weak hits above your heart.

You wished you cared more about Naoya tossing you aside, forgotten and dismissed of your post. But you’d had it coming for a long time now.

You just didn’t think you’d be alone again this soon, standing on the edge at the end of the world with nothing to call yours.

Your own mother had spoken to your husband, ex-husband, about the divorce. Not you. Not even displaying a shred of mercy.

You knew why—the Zenin’s had been deep in her pockets for quite some time, it wasn’t unlike her to strike up some deal to keep the wire transfers to continue.

“You were supposed to be mine,” you whispered, more to yourself, than your mother. She’d have no idea who you were really talking about.

Her jaw tensed as she stepped over to you, placing the plastic baggie in your trembling hand along with the beige file, as if it were some petty side dish you were supposed to enjoy with your meal.

“Go clean up. I’ll call you tonight,” she spoke, but you were barely hearing anything she said, fingers twitching as the world continued to move around you, leaving you to scramble across the floor to pick up the scattered remnants of yourself that you could hardly recognize.

𖠰 ✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

“You must be Shoko,” you grinned, taking her calloused hand in yours, most likely worn down by bleaching agents and abrasives. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She skimmed her fingers through her brunette bob, a puff of smoke leaving her lips that curled like tendrils in the air. “So what’s a preschool teacher doing picking up shifts at a maid service?”

You chuckled towards the ground, rocking on the heels of your brand new non-slip sneakers. “I see Mei Mei has told you about me already,” you retorted. “Could say the same about a doctor.”

Shoko cast you a thoughtful glance, pausing for a moment as she mulled something over in her mind, most likely how she could strange her boss for sharing her secrets to the newbie. “That bitch.”

You giggled, padding over to the locker Mei Mei had assigned you. “Just taking a gap year to fine tune my skills.”

You didn’t think this jaded stranger cared that you’d lost any interest in teaching after your pride had been so far wounded, blinking back tears on your last shift with your students' doe eyes searching yours for answers. Wondering why their favorite teacher was abandoning them.

So you found something else that fit you better. You’d spent all those nights cleaning up the shattered shards of your marriage, why not hone your handiwork? It’d be wasted potential anyway.

[nr1sealuvr]

THE OFFSPRING MENTION HI okay okay ty for the tag!! :3 these arent in order since I cant decide tho,,,

1. Gone Away - The Offspring <3

2. Samo Je Ljubav Tajna Dvaju Svjetova - MPT (I dont support him!!)

3. Love Game - Lady Gaga

4. Somewhere I Belong - Linkin Park <3

5. Lovac I Košuta - Plavi Orkestar

6. Put Me In The Ground - El Radio Fantastique

7. Fable- Gigi Perez

8. Nails Like God - McCafferty

9. USA - Dubioza Kolektiv <3

10. I Never Told You What I Do For A Living - My Chemical Romance

Tags: @d322a @doesdouknou @los-chicos and open tags :p

ten songs, ten tags list ten songs that have been in your head or you've been listening to a lot lately stealing the tag game from @grandpayaoi

Don't Talk To Strangers - DIO

My God - Mad Dog

Neter - Dismal

My Soul Is Slashed - Mylène Farmer

おまえの犬になる - The Stalin

Awake - Godsmack

My Fuckin' Valentine - BUCK-TICK

Crescent - Brendan Perry

Nice To Be Around - Paul Williams

Raz-dwa-raz-dwa - Maanam

Feel free to ignore but I'd like to hear what you guys have been listening to lately!! (^_^) @pngkaa @izuvfs @servantserah @snoozaga @modmad @facade @donutfrost @nagihto @josephinebrause

[cherierot]

no flash photography

“You make things louder too, you know?”

in which ✵ they were never on different sides—just different pages. seven false starts. one cracked-open heart. a love written in subtext and small, steady truths.

pairing ✵ oscar piastri × gn!reader

genre ✵ emotional realism, character study, poetic angst, miscommunication done right™, quiet Intimacy almost-love until it isn’t, slow-burn romance, no dramatic twists just two people learning how to mean what they say

warnings ✵ longing. tension. one bottle of water. zero chill. and two people allergic to timing, mild mentions of emotional burnout and loneliness, also reader overthinks a LOT, it's kinda frustrating, ooc oscar (?)

a/n ✵ to all the lovely people who supported message in a bottle—I swear I'll update it by next week. I had exams and hadn't time to write...I'm so sorry😭 by that time please enjoy this short thing I wrote while I was half asleep

(when the soul rejects its own fate)

1. in the paddock, beneath orange skies.

You’re laughing at something Lando said, the kind of laugh that makes you lean your whole body into it.

It’s too early in the morning for this kind of chaos, but he’s wearing two different shoes on purpose just to “test the team’s observation skills,” and you’re weak to that kind of stupid.

You barely notice Oscar walk in.

You only glance up mid-laugh and instinctively say, “Hey.”

It’s not warm or cold. Just a casual, passing Hey — tossed into the air like a coin. Oscar doesn’t smile. He doesn’t wave.

He just nods — a tiny, barely-there tilt of his chin — and keeps walking. Doesn’t break stride. Doesn’t pause to greet Lando. Doesn’t even glance at you again.

You blink, your smile thinning just a little. You’re not sensitive, not really, but you’ve known Oscar long enough — long enough to know that he greets the engineers by name. He holds doors for people. He shares gum with Lando and trades barbs with Zak and somehow still has the energy to shake hands with PR interns.

You’ve seen him be warm. So when he passes you by without so much as a flicker of recognition, all you can think is: He doesn’t like me.

You don’t say it out loud. But Lando gives you a look like he heard the thought anyway.

“Don’t take it personally,” he says, patting a hand on your back.

You don’t answer. He adds, “He’s just like that sometimes.”

You hum. “Right. Like a sentient iceberg.”

“Exactly,” Lando says. Then, “Wait—” But your focus has already drifted.

Oscar’s disappeared around the corner of the garage, cool as anything, like your existence doesn’t register.

You don’t know it yet, but Oscar had walked in rehearsing a strategy debrief in his head. He hadn’t noticed the exact joke. Hadn’t caught the context.

Hadn’t registered the “Hey” as something meant for him — he’d assumed it was meant for someone behind him.

Still, he nodded. Just in case. Oscar Piastri always acknowledges what matters. And somehow, in that single, sharp second — you decide you’re not one of those things.

2. airport, at some ungodly hour

You spot him sitting two rows down from the charging station, sipping black coffee and reading something dense enough to qualify as medieval torture. His hair is still wet. There's a bag under his seat with a tag that says Priority, which feels metaphorical in ways you're not emotionally ready to explore.

You weren’t expecting him.

You were expecting, like... muffins. Delayed flights. Maybe a free toothbrush. But there he is, Oscar Piastri, unbothered and devastatingly upright at an ungodly hour, making you regret every life choice that led you to wearing Crocs in public.

You almost walk past. You do.

Almost.

“Didn’t know you read philosophy,” you say, dropping into the seat next to him like the universe put it there on purpose.

He looks up. Not startled. Not annoyed. Just... looking.

“It’s not philosophy. It’s a race engineering manual.”

You blink. “Wow. Even hotter.”

He doesn’t laugh. Not even a twitch. He just tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if that was sarcasm or a genuine compliment. You don't clarify. Mostly because you don't know either.

You shift in your seat. Pull your hoodie tighter. “Early flight?”

He glances at the screen. “Delayed.”

You nod, then immediately feel stupid for nodding at a fact he just gave you. You're one misplaced eyelash away from saying something like “Time is crazy, huh?”

He closes his book—not with frustration, just deliberate—and sets it on his knee.

“You always talk this much before 7 a.m.?”

You blink. Once. Twice.

“Jesus,” you say, light but not quite funny, “if you hate small talk just say that.”

He frowns. It’s subtle, like watching a shadow cross marble.

“I was just asking.”

But it’s too late. The words have already settled. Not hostile, not sharp, just... dry. Clinical. Like you’re an occurrence, not a presence. Like he’s not quite sure what to do with you, so he flattens you out with tone instead.

You smile, thin and automatic. “Well, lucky for you I’m boarding soon. You’ll be back to peace and silence in no time.”

You don’t wait for a reply.

You get up with a dramatic huff you pretend is playful.

Your croc squeaks. The final indignity.

He doesn’t stop you.

He doesn’t say anything.

You feel the bruise form just under your ribs anyway, dumb and soft.

As you leave, his eyebrows furrow in confusion, what was that?

3. a dinner reservation they technically didn’t make room for.

You're only here because Lando begged.

Actually, begged is the wrong word — he texted, “just come ffs,” followed by seventeen emojis and a voice note of him making dolphin sounds.

So here you are.

Half wedged between a potted plant and a guy from strategy named Nico or Niko or Neco. You’re not sure. You’ve given up trying to remember which men in polos you’ve met more than once.

You didn’t expect Oscar to come.

Which is dumb. It’s a team dinner, technically. But he seems like the kind of person who evaporates after hours — like a very polite ghost with social boundaries.

He's at the far end of the table. You only notice him because you laugh too loud at one point and catch him glancing sideways, not in a "you're annoying" way. More in a "you're noise and I haven't decided what to do with that yet" way.

Later, between courses, someone brings up childhood injuries. You tell the story about the time you tried to do a backflip off a moving swing and cracked your wrist.

You’re dramatic with it. You always are — wide eyes, hand gestures, sound effects.

There’s laughter. You soak it in.

Then Oscar says, level, cutting clean through the noise:

“Makes sense now.”

The table falls quiet for a second.

You blink. “What?”

He’s sipping his drink. Doesn’t even look at you when he says,

“The way you are. It tracks.”

Your chest does this slow little drop, like a plane hitting air turbulence.

You laugh, sharp. “Sorry — are you diagnosing me using my origin story?”

Oscar shrugs. “No diagnosis. Just observation.”

You smile. Wide. Bright. Blinding. The kind of smile that makes people think you’re fine.

“Cool. Love being observed like a cautionary documentary.”

Someone else at the table changes the subject. You don’t join in.

Lando's concerned eyes shoot between you and Oscar, as he reaches for his phone and texts a

u good?

You keep your eyes on your plate, ignoring the buzzing phone and tear a piece of bread apart slowly, as if it personally insulted you.

Later, when you get up to leave, Oscar moves his chair slightly to let you pass.

You say nothing.

He doesn’t look up.

4. hotel lobby. too late for thinking straight.

You’re sitting on the armrest of a couch that costs more than your monthly rent, scrolling aimlessly through your phone while waiting for Lando to come down from his room. There’s soft jazz playing through invisible speakers, a fake plant that looks disturbingly lifelike, and one too many people with suitcases shaped like trauma.

Oscar walks into the lobby, carrying a bottle of water and wearing that expression he always has, like he just read something mildly disappointing about human civilization.

You don’t say anything.

Not because you’re mad. You’re not. You’re... calibrating.

After all, last time he called you a walking brain injury in front of twelve people. Not directly, maybe, but spiritually.

So yeah, you stay quiet.

But then he walks over.

To you.

Not the concierge desk. Not the glass doors. Not anywhere neutral.

You.

“You looked tired earlier,” he says, voice low. Almost gentle.

You blink up at him, halfway through typing 'pls bring me snacks or I’m eating hotel shampoo' into Lando’s texts.

“Excuse me?”

Oscar looks... calm. Open, even. “I meant—you okay?”

Your heart does a little misstep.

You look at him. Really look. His face is unreadable but his body language isn’t stiff. His water bottle is slightly crinkled in one hand. His hair’s still damp from a shower. His shirt looked like it was tucked in haphazardly.

For a second, a full, stupid, dangerous second, you think he might actually be being nice.

Then your brain, traitor that it is, rewinds:

You looked tired earlier.

You looked tired.

You looked... bad?

You plaster a smile on. “Wow. Flirting already?”

Oscar tilts his head, brow creasing faintly. “That wasn’t—”

“I mean, I usually get offered drinks before the insults start, but sure. Let’s go full honesty hour.”

He pauses. You think maybe he’ll clarify. Maybe he’ll correct you.

But instead, he just says, quiet:

“Right. Forget it.”

And he walks away.

Cool.

Cool cool cool cool.

You sit back down on the couch, teeth clenched in a smile like it’s holding up your whole face.

Lando texts you:

coming down now btw, don’t be weird

You don’t reply.

5. the wrong hallway, the right moment.

You take the wrong turn trying to find the bathroom and end up in a corridor that smells like floor polish and expensive stress. The lights overhead buzz softly, like even they don’t want to be here.

You’re mid-turnaround when you hear footsteps behind you. Precise. Familiar.

Oscar.

You recognize him before he says anything. You could probably recognize him from the way he breathes at this point, steady, measured, like he’s training for a sport no one else understands.

You half-laugh, half-sigh. “Okay, is this the part where you push me into a supply closet and finally tell me what crime I committed against you?”

He stops next to you. Doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t look anything, really, just Oscar, all centered gravity and very faint cologne.

“You missed a turn,” he says instead. “Bathrooms are the other way.”

You blink. “You were following me?”

“Not on purpose,” he says, and that’s probably true, which somehow makes it worse.

There’s a pause.

You’re about to say something stupid like classic, or guess I’m just magnetic, when he lifts a hand, slow, deliberate, and reaches out toward your face.

You flinch. Just slightly. Instinct.

But he only taps your cheek, once, with his thumb.

“There was glitter.”

Your mouth forgets how to move.

He wipes his hand on his jeans. Calm. Normal. Like touching you was just a neutral, Tuesday-level event.

You stare at him. “What?”

Oscar tilts his head. “Your cheek. Sparkly.”

You blink again, like your brain is buffering. “Right. I was at a merch table earlier. Probably rubbed my face like a raccoon. Happens.”

Another silence.

This one longer. He’s still standing close. Not in a way that says intimate, exactly, but in a way that says he hasn’t left yet.

You try again. “You know, you’re very confusing.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

You gesture vaguely. “You... monitor my glitter levels but also make me feel like I’m annoying you with my breathing.”

A flicker of something crosses his face. Not guilt. Not amusement. Something else.

He shifts just slightly closer.

“You’re not annoying.”

You blink. It’s too much — the voice, the proximity, the stupid fucking hallway.

You laugh. Light, deflecting. “That’s not what your face usually says.”

“Then maybe you don’t know how to read it.”

And that’s the moment you forget how to stand still.

Because that wasn’t dry. That wasn’t flat. That wasn’t neutral.

That was almost—

The sound of someone entering the hallway behind you breaks it.

Oscar steps back. Like it never happened.

You do too. Like it didn’t mean anything.

But your cheek still buzzes like it’s remembering the ghost of his thumb.

And you’ll go the rest of the night trying to convince yourself it meant nothing.

Even though for a second it meant everything

6. a balcony. too late. too quiet.

The afterparty’s still raging downstairs, all flashing lights and sweaty joy and some DJ yelling something you can’t make out over the bass. But you’re up here, on a balcony with one drink, aching feet, and your phone dead in your pocket like it gave up on your choices.

Oscar steps out not long after.

You glance sideways, expecting him to leave when he sees you. He doesn’t. He closes the door behind him and leans on the railing a few feet away.

The silence is thick, but not hostile. Just... real.

You break it first. Of course you do.

“I don’t get you.”

Oscar looks over, eyes unreadable. “That’s vague.”

You shrug. “You’re vague.”

He exhales — not annoyed, not amused. Just tired. “What do you mean?”

You lean your head back against the wall. “I mean... I never know if you’re being polite or trying to escape.”

“Why would I be trying to escape?”

“I don’t know, Oscar,” you say, too lightly, like it doesn’t matter. “Maybe I talk too much. Maybe I laugh too loud. Maybe you just don’t like people who make everything a joke.”

His silence stretches. He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t say anything.

That’s the worst part.

Until he says—softly, like it hurts to admit—

“I notice you too much.”

You freeze.

Your heart short-circuits and restarts sideways.

“What?”

He’s still looking out over the railing. “You make noise in quiet places. That’s hard to ignore.”

That’s hard to ignore.

Your brain fumbles. You laugh, shaky. “Right. Like tinnitus.”

He furrows his eyebrows, and blinks, finally turning to look at you. “That’s not what I meant.”

You push off the wall before you can think better of it. “No, it’s fine. I get it. I’ve been called worse.”

“I didn’t—”

You’re already stepping back. “It’s cool, Oscar. Seriously. I’m very ignorable once you get used to it.”

He doesn’t stop you. And that—that—is what hurts more than anything he’s ever said.

You disappear back inside, into the noise and the bodies and the mess of it all, trying not to let the echo of “I notice you too much” feel like a wound.

7. a service hallway, after everything.

You bump into him on the way out.

Literally.

You’re rounding a corner at speed, trying to chase Lando’s voice through the post-race chaos, and then—thud—shoulder, hip, the soft slap of your phone hitting the floor. You curse. He steps back.

Oscar.

Of course.

He bends, picks up your phone, hands it back without a word.

You take it, trying to pretend your pulse isn’t in your ears. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t walk away. He just looks at you.

You almost say what, but something in his expression pins you in place.

It’s not blank.

Not bored.

Not neutral.

It’s...tight.

Controlled.

A fuse wound just short of its burn.

“You think I hate you.”

He says it like he’s been chewing on it for weeks.

You blink. “I—what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” he says, still too quiet. “I say anything to you and you flinch like I’ve thrown something.”

You bristle. “Well, forgive me for not decoding the emotional Morse code of your entire personality.”

He laughs, short and sharp. “Jesus.”

You fold your arms. “What? You’re impossible to read, Oscar. You say one thing and mean another. You look at me like I’m noise, and then you say something half-kind and act like I’m the one getting it wrong.”

“Because you are,” he snaps.

That is what cuts.

Because he means it.

You freeze.

He takes a breath, steps forward. Not threatening. Just present.

“I tried being quiet. I tried being careful. I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

You scoff, hurt creeping up your throat. “Overwhelm me? You act like I’m fragile.”

“No,” he cuts in, firm. “You act like I don’t feel anything.”

Silence.

You swallow. You open your mouth to speak but he beats you to it.

“I notice everything,” he says, and it’s low and furious and honest. “The way you stand closer to everyone else. The way you make jokes so no one asks what you're actually thinking. The way you look at me like you’re already halfway out the door.”

You stare. You’re not breathing.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he says finally. Softer. “I was trying to make it mean something, and you—”

He breaks off. Shakes his head once, like he’s mad at himself.

You say nothing. You’re still standing in the middle of the hallway, holding your phone like it’s proof you’re allowed to be here.

Oscar exhales. “Forget it.”

“Oscar.” You call out.

But he’s already walking away.

This time, he doesn’t look back.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

(when the soul understands what it yearns)

1. a hotel cinema room.

Lando dragged you both to movie night with the confidence of a man who thinks he invented bonding.

Fifteen minutes in, he wandered off to find something “better than this knock-off popcorn,” and now it’s just you and Oscar, slouched on a velvet couch meant for three, lit only by the flickering light of explosions and overpaid actors.

You’ve barely looked at him.

But you can feel it.

That… watching.

Like he’s checking to see if you still laugh at the same parts. If you’re still the same person when no one’s looking.

You are.

Somewhere between the third helicopter crash and a deeply unnecessary close-up, you let out a laugh — real, full, stupid. You already know it’s ugly. You don’t care. It feels good.

You hear it when he shifts. The breath he holds. The second too long before he blinks.

You don’t even look at him when you say,

“You’re staring.”

A beat.

“I know,” he says.

You turn your head, just enough to see him watching you without apology. No smirk. No defense.

Just there.

“You going to say something or just burn holes in my face?”

“You’re different when you’re not trying,” he says.

You blink.

Then:

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Oscar’s mouth twitches. “It’s the opposite.”

You don’t say thank you. You don’t blush. You don’t deflect.

You just let the silence stretch, easy now, warm, and go back to the movie.

Still aware of him.

Still letting him look.

And when Lando crashes in with two bags of gummy worms and a juice box, you don’t flinch. You just laugh again.

But now, Oscar doesn’t look away.

2. a hotel hallway. too many drinks. not enough distance.

You’re barefoot in the hallway outside your room, hotel keycard somewhere in the purse you left at dinner. Or maybe the bar. Or maybe hell.

Oscar appears from the elevator like a ghost you might have dreamed into being.

Plain hoodie. Shirt crinkled. Hair falling over his eyes.

The world feels slightly warped. Too late. Too quiet. Too something.

You lean against the wall and offer him a lazy salute, you think it must be the liquid courage. “Well, well, if it isn’t Formula One’s most emotionally constipated heartthrob.”

He blinks. “You okay?”

You grin. “Define okay.”

He doesn’t. Just walks past you, swipes his own keycard, then pauses at his door.

You think he’ll go in. He doesn’t.

Instead, he turns around.

“You’re locked out?”

You nod. “Temporarily. I’m trusting the universe to deliver me back to my belongings.”

Oscar considers this. Then steps back, holds his door open.

“You can wait in here.”

You blink. “I’m not going to rob you.”

“I know.”

“…Or touch your toothbrush.”

“Less certain about that.”

You snort and step inside.

His room smells like laundry and lemon soap. You sit on the edge of his bed like it’s a stage you weren’t supposed to enter. He tosses you a bottle of water from the minibar and sits at the other end.

No TV. No small talk. Just… the hum.

Your head tilts toward him. You’re not drunk anymore, not really. Just warm. Open.

“You ever gonna tell me what you want from me?”

Oscar doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile.

Just says, voice low,

“Would you believe me if I said I haven’t figured it out?”

You breathe in.

“No.”

He looks at you, and for the first time, he’s not a mirror or a wall. He’s just there. Barefaced and bold and so stupidly calm about all of it.

“Good,” he says finally. “Then you’re paying attention.”

You grin. Tired. Fond. “God, you’re so annoying.”

His smile is small but real. “You stayed.”

You nod. “I always do.”

And then it’s quiet again.

But not tense. Not cold.

Just… waiting.

And neither of you dares to break it yet.

Because whatever this is, it feels like home.

3. behind the paddock. a different kind of silence.

The day feels too long. The kind where the sun presses against your neck like it's trying to flatten you. Where the air tastes like sweat and tarmac and adrenaline that didn’t go anywhere.

You lean against the barrier, fingers curled over metal, body still, mind spiraling.

You hear him before you see him.

Not footsteps — just the way the noise dies a little around him.

Oscar.

You don’t turn around, but your grip tightens.

“You do this a lot,” he says, voice even. “Vanishing.”

You roll your eyes, not unkindly. “I’m not vanishing. I’m avoiding being a bitch on camera.”

He exhales a laugh — short, real. “Smart.”

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The heat between you isn't temperature. It’s all the things that haven’t been said, and all the ones that have been almost said too many times.

“Rough day?” he asks.

You shrug. “Just noisy. Even when it's quiet.”

Another beat of stillness.

“I get that.”

You finally glance at him, over your shoulder. He’s standing a few steps back, arms crossed like he’s holding himself steady. His eyes are on you, but softer than usual — like he’s dropped something invisible and fragile between you and isn’t sure what happens next.

“You make things louder too, you know,” he says.

You blink. “That supposed to be a read?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not a bad thing.”

You tilt your head. “You say that like you mean it.”

“I do.”

And just like that, everything sharp in you softens a little.

He steps closer. Not in a dramatic way. Just... like gravity finally decided to do its job.

You let your hand fall from the barrier.

His hand brushes yours. Not accident. Not strategy. Just... barely. Just enough.

And you don’t pull away.

You don’t need to ask what this is.

For the first time, you both already know.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

2025 @cherierot all rights reserved

[drafts-and-delusions]

Saja Boys' love language

Tags: fluff, love language, headcanon

Jinu

How he shows love

Jinu gives the best gifts, but also the weirdest. Sometimes it’s something he knows you’ve been eyeing for weeks; sometimes it’s a rock he found that kind of looks like a cat. Either way, he’s so proud.

He leaves little notes—sticky tabs, cards, folded paper slipped into your books. Sometimes it’s a doodle; sometimes it’s a bad pun. Always with love.

He’s a date planner through and through. Tries to play it cool but literally cannot stop smiling whenever he thinks about the surprise he has for you.

How he needs love

Brag about him. Be proud of him in front of others, not just about how he looks, but the kind of person he is. Tell your friends how kind he is, how thoughtful he is, how he’s the kind of guy who remembers your favorite color and your mom’s birthday. Compliment his heart, even when he doesn’t believe it’s as good as you say.

Romance

How he shows love

You’ll never go a full hour without him complimenting you. It ranges from sweet (“You looked at me and I forgot how to breathe”) to feral (“You could ruin me in three seconds, wanna try?”) just to see you blush.

He listens. You could mention something in passing and he’ll bring it up weeks later, just because he remembered.

How he needs love

Tell him you love him. Again. And again. Praise him when he tries. Thank him when he’s sweet. Laugh at his dumb jokes like he’s the funniest man alive. Let him feel adored.

Abby

How he shows love

Abby pretends he's not all over you, but he absolutely is. But when no one's looking, he's brushing his knuckles along your back, stroking your thigh under the table, kissing your temple, and acting like it meant nothing. 

How he needs love

Touch him. Play with his hand, link your pinky with his, braid a tiny section of his hair while he complains, but secretly loves it. He won’t admit it, but it heals him. He doesn’t need words, just little physical reminders that you’re his and he’s yours.

Mystery

How he shows love. 

An acts of service kinda guy. Your coffee is ready before you even get up. Your charger is plugged in and coiled neatly. Your shoes are by the door. Carries you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch. And if you’re hurt, someone will be paying for that.

How he needs love

You’ll never hear him ask for help, so you have to offer it. Tie his hair back when he’s focused. He thinks he looks ridiculous with his bangs tied up, but he can’t say no when it makes you laugh. Adjust his jacket or brush lint off his shoulder. Sit next to him while you both do your own thing. Adjust his clothes for him. Watch how he leans into it. 

Baby

How he shows love

Baby's all limbs and comfort. He’ll wrap you in the softest hugs and pull you into his lap when you’re sad. He’s the king of forehead kisses and resting his head on yours. If you're in a bad mood, he’ll sit there with you in silence, just petting your head like you’re his favorite thing.

How he needs love

Cling to him. Whine for him. Pout until he gives you attention. He’ll act like he’s so annoyed, but inside he’s eating it up. He likes knowing you need him. It makes him act smug, but the truth is he’d say yes in a heartbeat. He just likes the game.

[savyindeepspace]

The Vampire 🩸

Description: You’re a struggling journalist and you meet him after an encounter at one of his lavish parties. He decides to keep you around a while longer.

Tags: smut, Sylus x reader, fem reader, vampire Sylus, romance, slow burn, plot, mutual biting, mentions of alcohol and blood.

MDNI 🔞

___________________________

The first thing you noticed about him wasn’t his scarlet eyes, pale skin or sharpened canines. Not the way he lurked in the dark—bathed in moon light. It wasn’t his cold stare, because he was surprisingly warm, the kind of warm that draws you in the like a crackling flame in a fireplace. That blankets you like wool, keeping heat flush to your skin. It was his scent. His aroma carried the kind of spice that warmed your tongue, like ginger, cinnamon or clove. It was aromatic and intoxicating like patchouli. Once it drew you in for the first time, it was a like drug you weren’t willing to sober from.

His manor was incredible in size, almost castle-like in its stature. Your eyes studied the large double doors that were carved with intricate filigree patterns. The hum of music could be heard behind them. Whining violin strings and the deep groan of cellos wrapped around your ear drums. Guests poured in, dressed in the finest gowns and three piece suits with long coat tails. Their faces hidden behind masks of various shapes and colors—some adorned with gems, sequins or feathers. Since this was your first masquerade ball, you went with more muted designs. A simple, cream gown, gloves made of crushed velvet that reached your elbows and a mask that only covered one eye. Your neck was decorated with a string of pearls that sat just above your bosom. When you walked over the threshold you inhaled sharply, from nervousness and the tight restriction of your corset. Not a single face was familiar, but you needed to make an impression.

As a growing—and struggling—journalist, you wanted a story that would get your foot in the door to a renowned magazine in Linkon. A masquerade party hosted in the N109 Zone that could be something more than just music and hors d'oeuvres could be the perfect story. You carried a small pad and pen in your purse, taking note of any details that stood out. The mansion wasn’t strange by any means, marble floors, large pillars, glowing crystal chandeliers—gaudy but typical. Everything looked like it cost your entire year’s salary, down to the tablecloths. Classical music and haughty laughter filled the room, you couldn’t help but feel out of place. To your relief, there was an open bar. “Any wine you have, please,” you asked the bartender wearing a tux and intricate black mask. The long stemmed glass glided across the bar top, “here you are miss.” “Thank you,” you bowed, then regretted it, feeling awkward and a little too formal.

The wine stung as it trickled down your throat, but you hoped it would bring out an inkling of confidence or comfort. As you walked through out the ballroom, your eyes skimmed over the guests as they drank, danced and whispered gossip behind ostrich feather fans. “I heard he never leaves his room,” “yes, well I heard he only comes out at night,” “must be a demon,” “or a vampire.” Numerous rumors floated through the air from mouths lucky enough to sip wine and dine on appetizers. You scribbled every word, ‘demon’, ‘vampire’? Those only ever existed in fiction—fairytales. The year was 2044, there was no way either could possibly exist. After a while, the ball was becoming nothing more than rich people peacocking and pretending to be interested in each other. So you decided to wander deeper into the mansion.

There were many long hallways throughout the manor, almost every door sealed shut. You frowned, wondering if attending this party was even worth the trouble, but as you turned a corner, there was a faint glow emitting from a single cracked door. You followed the path of light and peaked inside. It was a bedroom, large like it belonged to someone important—someone who owned the place. Cautiously, you pushed the door open further, stepping inside. The furniture was gothic style, dark with red accents, floor to ceiling windows shielded by black curtains and large Persian rugs covering the floor. Was this the bedroom of the ‘demon’ man mentioned earlier and why would he just leave his door wide open? Caw-caw! A crow crooned in your direction from its perch. You hesitated slightly before walking closer, “a mechanical crow? How strange,” you murmured. The bird squawked at you again, maybe in response—or warning. Then your eyes fixed on aged organ at the far side of the room.

You sat on the stool before it, running your fingers over the keys. The instrument looked more like a display for dust than a tool for music. Still, you pressed down, eliciting a rich, deep sound. You played for all of one minute before a deep voice joined the melody. “You play well,” your hands froze, the room’s owner caught you in the act. When you turned to see who the voice belonged to, your breath caught in your throat. He stood tall, broad, filling the doorway entirely. His suit was deep burgundy, but he wore no mask. His features were as sharp as glass, looking carved by hand, hair a snowy-silver. And his eyes…were red—a glowing crimson that made it hard to look away. Your arms pulled to your sides, “my apologies…the door was open and I…was being incredibly nosy,” the words tumbled from your mouth hurriedly and shaken. The man never spoke, he just took in the sight of you. His stride was confident and measured as he approached the bench. It slightly creaked from his weight as he sat beside you, “won’t you continue?”

You nodded, stunned and slightly enamored. The keys sank beneath your fingers again, finishing the song you had originally began to play. His gaze burned your skin and he was quiet, painfully silent. “I–I’m so sorry for intruding, I’ll see myself out…” The silver haired man caught your wrist, his grip pleading rather than harsh. “Are you not even going to introduce yourself?,” he asked with a raised brow, “after all, you did trespass.” You swallowed in attempt to dampen your throat, your name came out with a dry croak. “Lovely…now, do you always intrude in stranger’s bedrooms?,” his expression softened with a playful grin. Your lips parted, but words wouldn’t escape. “No matter, I’ll escort you back to the party,” he sighed. The swell of violins and senseless chatter returned in your ear once again, but he stopped just before the dark hallway met the ballroom. “I never got your name?,” he hummed, letting the question linger before answering, “Sylus. Sylus Qin, if you’re interested in formalities.” “Nice to meet you, Mr. Qin.” He waved dismissively, “please, enjoy the festivities.” You turned to thank him, but the hall was empty, a warm draft surrounded you like he had disappeared into thin air. You expelled a breath you felt you were holding in all night, something about his presence and scent left you with a sense of yearning. Your fingers traced over your wrist where he grabbed you, feeling the ghost of his touch.

Many weeks had passed, you wrote several drafts about the ball, but it wasn’t interesting enough—not even for the last page of a newspaper. Burying your face in your hands, you felt a wash of defeat. The piling letters of rejection growing taller on your desk. Suddenly, the sharp flapping of wings and a familiar caw caught your attention. In a flash, the mechanical crow from Sylus’s bedroom flew away, leaving a black envelope on your windowsill. It was sealed with a deep red wax, the impression of a cursive ‘S’ pressed in the center.

“I’d like to hear you play again.”

-Sylus

Your eyes scanned the text several times. The gold ink against ebony paper was luxurious and his penmanship was perfect—ancient looking. How did he find your address? Perhaps he was just a rich man with too much time on his hands. It seemed too good to be true, but you were desperate to know more about him. Sylus asked for you to return the next night, when the full moon was passed. That last detail struck you as odd, but you complied. His manor appeared more ominous when it wasn’t hosting hundreds of guests, yet the warm glow of candle light still beckoned you closer. When you knocked on the doors the sound echoed through the foyer and they creaked upon opening. Sylus appeared in tendrils of black-red mist, “I was hoping you would come,” he said. You shrugged out of your coat, draping it over your crossed arms, “of course, thank you for the invitation, sir.” He looked at you with amusement, eyes wandering from head to toe. His intense gaze made you squirm. Sensing your discomfort, he spoke again. “Would you like a tour, or did snooping in my bedroom satisfy you enough?” Your cheeks felt hot as blush crept across them. A deep chuckle vibrated from his chest, “I’m only teasing, come along now. Also, the formalities won’t be necessary, my name will suffice.”

You followed behind as he guided you through his giant home, listening intently as he described every art piece and antique weapon that hung on the walls. Swords, maces, shields all looking from a different time, polished as if they hadn’t seen battle nor blood. “You have quite the display…” “it’s been a hobby of mine for many, many years. Art, literature and music are my most precious possessions in this entire mansion.” He opened a dark, mahogany door, revealing an enormous library, every towering shelf was filled with books. You stared in awe, he must of had every genre imaginable. “But this is where I spend most of my time,” he said, approaching a plush velvet chaise. Beside it was a record player, and a glass case filled with hundreds of vinyls. “These records are…old do you collect them as well?” “I do, but some of them I’ve owned since I was…young,” Sylus replied, the pause before his last word planted itself in your mind. He couldn’t be more than 35 years old. “I see,” you scribbled down several notes, feeling his burning gaze as the pen scratched across the lined paper. “Do you always stare like that?,” you asked without looking away from your writings. Sylus made a sound of disbelief, “only when my eyes are fixed on something I want.” A chill ran down your spine, “um..did you want me to play the organ now?,” his lips curled into a small grin, “I’d love nothing more.”

His bedroom looked the same, but this time the curtains were slightly open, letting the cool moonlight stream through. The air smelled of incense and burnt kindling. When you sat before the organ, you noticed the dust was gone, the ivory keys polished. “The same song or…?,” you asked, fingers hovering. “Play whatever your heart desires,” Sylus murmured, sinking into a leather chair. Drawing in a deep breath, you began. The powerful sound reverberated through your bones and the manor walls. As you played, your eyes closed, feeling the music flow from your hands. Sylus watched intensely, eyes flickering with amusement and admiration. There was something enchanting about the way your body swayed with the melody, how your brow furrowed with focus. He was absolutely enthralled. “So?,” your eyes met his, seeking some kind of validation. “Where did you learn to play so elegantly?,” his voice was tender when he spoke. You shrugged, pointing your gaze to the floor, “in college. I took a unique instrument course for extra credits. No one ever chose the organ, so I took it upon myself.” “It comes so naturally, I would have guessed you wrote the music yourself,” he praised.

Your heart fluttered, “well…I did, actually.” It was subtle, but Sylus’s eyes widened and breath hitched. How much more perfect could you possibly be? That first night he heard you play, the sound called to him like a siren’s song. Finding you in his room, seeing you in that dress, your intoxicating scent. He wanted nothing more than to keep you all night—or forever. “Incredible,” he whispered, “I’ve been on this Earth many years and I’ve never heard sounds as exquisite as your playing.” He spoke as if he was ancient himself, an antique that blended in with the rest of his collection. “Pardon me for asking, but…how old are you?” Sylus stopped infront of the floor to ceiling window, his frame backlit by the moon. His ruddy eyes met yours, “would it frighten you if I said hundreds of years?” Your body felt heavy, you couldn’t blink or speak. He approached you slowly, closing the distance before curling his finger beneath your chin, pulling your gaze upward. “So the rumors I heard…,” he chuckled “a bit dramatic, but not entirely false. I’m not the monster people make me out to be.” Your heart pounded harder, but you weren’t afraid, if anything his answer only drew you in like a spell. “I’d like to know more, if you’re willing?” Something in Sylus’s chest tightened then, the way you wanted more of him instead of cowering, or running away.

“As long as you continue playing that organ, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

So you did. Every month you’d play him a new song or he’d present you with hand picked sheet music. He would tell you a little more about himself each visit. Sylus was the leader of Onichynus, he enjoyed art, music, literature and animal documentaries. He had a soft spot for feeding stray kittens, you giggled at the thought of seeing this frightening man soften at the sight of tiny creatures. “You’ve told me so much, yet I still feel like something is missing,” you prodded. “I only visit you at night, never on full moons.” You stared, waiting for a response. Sylus released a heavy sigh, carding his fingers through his silver hair. “You don’t smell as appetizing, it allows me to focus.” You swallowed, making your throat bob, Sylus’s eyes darted to the movement. “Appetizing…,” you choked, holding your pen a little tighter. “That night, when I found you in my room, the sound of the organ wasn’t the only reason I felt drawn to you,” he stood between your knees and lowered his face to your neck. He inhaled, shuddering slightly, “your fragrance…is sweet, so saccharine that it could rot teeth.” Your hands trembled in your lap, “Sylus…what are you, really?”

His gaze was dripping with an insatiable appetite, eyes a deeper red than normal. He circled you like a bird of prey. “It appears you already know,” his fingers sank into your shoulders like talons. The answer was written boldly in front of your eyes, yet you didn’t want to believe it. “Are you going to drink my blood?,” you rasped. “Not without an invitation. I have manners, you know,” he scoffed, “and I’ve already fed, tonight.” Fed? He spoke so casually about his consumption habits. The weight of his touch abandoned you, the echo of footsteps disappeared down the hall leading to his room, “you are more than welcome to stay, but I do not take kindly to the brightness of dawn.” Just as his voice trailed behind the bedroom door, the sun’s light began to peak over the horizon. You pressed your palm to your chest, feeling the rapid pulse beat against it. But despite the confession, the closeness of his mouth to your flesh and his desire to taste you—he didn’t. Didn’t lunge, nip, even lick the skin and you didn’t run nor flinch. Were you so curious about the man that you’d be willing to serve yourself as a meal to him?

A sudden heaviness weighed on your eyelids and after fighting it, attempting to draft something of a story from your notes, you laid down on the couch and slept. Even during sleep, your body recognized the warm breeze and woody scent that caressed you. Sylus emerged from his quarters when the sun dipped below the hills, covering you with a blanket, running a finger along your jaw. The couch sank beneath his weight as he sat beside your sleeping form. “Should you stay, should you allow my bite—you will want for nothing.” He played with the ends of your hair, letting the strands seep through his fingers like sand. You stirred, letting out a drowsy whimper, “S-Sylus?,” his name fell from your lips like a hymn, soft—almost a moan and it made his gut knot. “Everything alright?,” god, your eyes, big, glossy and doe-like when you looked at him. Sylus blinked rapidly, clearing his throat, “the chefs are about to prepare dinner, I wanted you to join me.” For the first time he looked…unsure, bashful, avoiding your gaze. Then he laid a black dress across your lap, “and I’d like if you wore this. The room next to the library…you may use it going forward. Please return to me at 7:00.” You nodded, holding the garment at eye level, “I–thank you, Sylus but you didn’t—,” “it’s the least I could do,” he interrupted. Without another word, he vanished into black-red mist. “It’s already 5:30, best I not keep him waiting.”

Your room was just as large and gaudy, fully decorated with you in mind. On the vanity lied jewelry that perfectly matched the dress Sylus gave you and enough make up to stock a boutique. Several bottles of perfume lined the bathroom counter, you reached for the cherry liquor scent and sprayed the pulse points on your neck, wrists and the valley between your breasts. The black gown slipped over every curve on your body with tailored grace and the slit just barely reached your hip. The choker and earrings were set with gems you had never seen before, yet they matched your complexion perfectly. Twirling before the floor length mirror, you were at a loss of your own reflection. You looked…expensive.

The grandfather clock in the living room rang out like church bells, announcing 7 o’clock. You emerged from your room, walking carefully in the ridiculously tall heels Sylus left you to wear. Your ankles wobbled a bit and seeing him didn’t help. He wore all black, broad shoulders filling his dress shirt and slacks molded tightly around his muscular quads. There was no doubt the man was handsome, beautiful even, but tonight something was different. And when he saw you, his already stiff posture straightened, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed a choked breath. Sylus outstretched his hand and twirled you slowly, “you are simply a vision,” he professed. “You clean up nicely yourself, Mr. Qin.” A hearty chuckle rattled through him and his elbow hooked around yours, “shall we?” He guided you through grand double doors into the dining room, the table was long enough to accommodate an entire city, but was intimately set for two. Sylus pulled out your chair and tucked you in snugly before sitting himself. The entire space was candlelit, softening his sharp features and adding an orange glow to his crimson eyes. You shared the most decadent dishes and drank wine from crystal glasses. “This is all so…unbelievably good I’m not used to this sort of luxury,” you sighed patting your mouth with a cloth napkin. Sylus hummed, his gaze trailing to your wine stained lips. “I’m happy you find everything exceptional.” The wait staff cleared away all the plates and glasses, leaving just the two of you sitting across from each other. “I’d like you to play a new piece I found,” he said. “Of course.” His hand molded to your waist as you walked to his bedroom, the warmth of his palm felt like a brand burning through the fabric of your gown. You couldn’t ignore the prickly sensation or blooming goosebumps crawling over your body from his touch.

The sheet music set before you was more complicated than any of the pieces you played so far. Adjusting your posture and settling on the wooden bench, you gently placed your outstretched fingers on the keys. “Take your time,” Sylus said with a relaxed tone. Each note blew from the brass pipes, filling the air with rich music. Your body rocked back and forth, lashes resting against your cheeks as the sound flowed through you. Sylus found his eyes closing as well, memorizing every note. The subtle clicking of the keys, the gentle strain as you pressed each pedal with the toe of your heels, and your voice humming along with the music, he wanted to remember every detail. Eventually the song came to an end, fading out into the room and sinking into the walls. “Beautiful,” he exhaled. “Yes, where did you find—,” “I wasn’t talking about the music.” Your cheeks grew hot from his confession. Sylus stood, slowly approaching you and the organ. You looked up at his towering form, eyes twinkling. He reached out, using the back of two fingers to smooth over your cheek, “thank you…for playing this piece. I haven’t heard for a very long time,” his expression was distant, as if reminiscing a life long past. “Sylus?,” he blinked, his dark lashes dusting his high cheekbones. “I must retire, dawn is approaching,” you watched his hand return to his side, squeezing into a knuckle-paling fist, as if he was holding something back.

You started to grow accustomed to Sylus and his reversed schedule, sleeping during the day while being lively at night. Propped against the headboard, you wrote about him while he was resting, finding yourself smiling each time your pen wrote the curves of the ‘S’ in his name. The moon was full, tonight, meaning his hunger would be more insatiable and your scent harder to ignore. Yet you still dressed in an elegant chiffon dress, and wore the same cherry liquor perfume— deliberately misting on both sides of your neck. You left your hair in long, curly tendrils down your back instead of your usual messy bun. As you finished getting ready to meet Sylus for dinner, a familiar black paper with golden ink slid under your door.

“Before dinner, please meet me in the library.” -Sylus

It was always so endearing that he chose to write you instead of sending a text, you placed the card on your vanity, giving yourself one last look in the antique mirror. When you entered the library, Sylus was awaiting your arrival. A soft gasp broke from his lips, legs falling boneless as he tried to remain composed. The fabric of your gown surrounded you like an evening mist, the light from the candelabra adding a golden aura. Finally you reached him, just toes width apart. “You look—,” he swallowed dryly, you’d never see him look so stunned, “ravishing,” he rasped, bowing his head. Your smile crinkled the corners of your eyes, making your cheeks rosy and sore, “thank you, Sy…” His body seemed to be hiding something, you slightly craned your neck, trying to steal a glance. “What’s this?,” when he moved away, your eyes widened at the sight before you. A fully equipped desk made its home in his study. Everything you could ever need to write was provided, from pens and paper, to a brand new laptop—its screen glowing with a blue-white light. Your mouth fell agape, a lump beginning to form in your throat. “I thought…maybe you could stay and write your articles here. Your commute home is awfully long and I feel guilty seeing you make the trek.” Sylus’s gaze was soft and his tone gentle. “And…I’ve grown far too fond of your company to not have you to myself.” It almost burned how he spoke to you, making your eyes sting with tears and heart strain. “Sylus…I–I can’t thank you enough. This is the kindest gesture anyone has ever done for me,” your finger ran beneath your lower lashes in attempt to preserve your make up. “It’s nothing rea—,” “it’s everything.” Your body lunged forward, hugging tightly around his waist. Sylus choked on his breath, slowly wrapping his arms around your shoulders.

He rested his chin on your hair, inhaling sharply, eyes squeezing tight as your scent invaded his senses. Pulling away but keeping a grip on your arms, Sylus stared down at you for a moment, his features looking the softest you had ever seen. “Better not keep the kitchen staff waiting,” he murmured, hooking his elbow around yours. Like many mights before, you ate several courses, savoring flavors from salty to sweet, every bite pouring over your tastebuds—lips stained with wine. And Sylus watched, eyes lidded and lips curled into a pleased grin. For the first time something other than bloodlust came over him, an emotion he wasn’t quite familiar with—nor expecting. He didn’t want to only keep you for your body or blood. He wanted to spoil you, to care for you. The vampire would not be satisfied until you knew of his devotion—his utterly tangible promise and reverence. Sylus took your hand, “are you…happy here?,” he asked, thumb rubbing circles on your skin. You smiled warmly, “of course I am. Learning about you has been very rewarding.” His head lowered, as if he’d never experienced such kindness. “You speak too highly of me despite what I truly am…” Your brow furrowed and you squeezed his hand, “a man who enjoys art, music and feeding stray animals is not one I fear.” He hummed quietly and thanked you by kissing your fingertips. “But I still don’t know when you were changed,” your voice trailed off, not wanting him to feel pressured to relive it.

Sylus stood, leading you to the livingroom, sitting close on the couch. The air was still and quiet as he collected himself. “I was caught in an ambush. Nothing but a runt in my new position with Onichynus. Being 25, the other members didn’t take kindly to such a young leader,” he paused, adjusting his posture. “But they waited for ten years before sending me for a business deal that put me in my current state.” You gave his hands a reassuring stroke with your thumbs. “I remember how it burned—like fire or venom. And it pains me that I want to do the same thing to you.” Sylus met your eyes with guilt in his own, “I don’t know if I’d forgive myself if my hunger got the best of me. Even now, I yearn to taste you.” Despite his confession, you wanted nothing more than to embrace him, to crawl into his arms and hold him tight. He wasn’t the monster people made him out to be, just a man seeking out purpose and was ensnared with a permanent affliction. You didn’t feel sorry for him, he wouldn’t want that, but you couldn’t deny how his story tugged at your heart. “If you truly wanted to hurt me,” you cupped his cheek, “you wouldn’t have wasted your time with me. All these months of interviews, dinners by candle light. You’re just a man who wants to be understood, Sylus.” You leaned in, closing the already intimate space between your bodies, “and I want to understand you entirely, every single detail.” Finally, you kissed him, melting your lips against his. Sylus let out a soft groan, curling his fingers around your hips. You still tasted like wine and the whipped cream from your dessert. It felt like he was trying not to give in, restraint heavy in his touch.

“Sylus…,” you whispered against his lips, “please, don’t hold back anymore…”

His breath left in ragged huffs, looking deeply into your eyes, “if that is your wish.” You laced your arms around his neck, pressing your foreheads together, “I want all of you, even the unsavory parts.” With your confirmation, he hoisted you in his arms, holding you flush to his chest. His dark, midnight sheets cradled your back when he laid you down on the bed. “No coffin?,” you teased. Sylus let out a scoff mixed with a laugh, “I’m not Nosferatu, sweetie.” His mouth lowered to the shell of your ears, pursing chaste kisses down to your collar bone. You sighed from his careful touch, curling your fingers into the hair at his nape. The sounds rising from his chest became more primal, and your growing arousal only made your scent more permeable. It was so tangible that he could see it rise off your skin like smoke, like he could bottle it and keep it stored for eons. The vampire pushed his way between your legs with his knee, resting his weight on top of you. Wet lips left a trail down your chest while his slender fingers curled into the neckline of your dress, revealing your nude breasts to his gaze. Sylus took a pebbled nipple into his mouth, suckling softly. Your back arched off the mattress pressing into him further, “hah—Sy.” He growled, giving your neglected tit equal attention. The lace panties beneath your dress began to soak through and you writhed with need. “P-please, want—more…,” you begged, gripping his snowy strands by the roots. His palm supported the small of your back, pulling you off the satin sheets. With one fluid motion, he pulled the zipper along your spine down, the buzz vibrated against your flesh. Seeing you fully disrobed, soft and pliant, Sylus bit back a guttural sound. His lips traveled down your stomach, hands squeezing the fat of your thighs. “I’ve wanted to taste this since the first night I laid eyes on you,” he purred, planting a kiss on your clothed mound. “Please…,” you keened, lifting your hips to his mouth.

Sylus dragged a languid stripe over the wet stain soaking through your panties. Your heels dug into his back, growing impatient as he slowly teased you over the lace barrier. He nuzzled into your heat, finally pulling at your underwear with purpose. They slid over your thighs, leaving your glossy pussy on full display. “I believe,” lick “this is the finest piece of art,” suck “I have ever seen.” The silver haired man dove into your folds with his tongue, nudging your swollen clit with the broad hump on his nose. “Hah—fuck,” you moaned rolling slow circles against his mouth. Your body ignited with sensation, heat was climbing up your squirming form like a wildfire. Sylus lapped hungrily at your arousal, swallowing your pleasured sounds like a warm swig of whiskey. Two fingers sank into your center, pumping at a tortuous pace. With his mouth still enclosed around your clit, he wrecked you again and again with harsh sucks and rumbling hums. You made a wet, messy sheen on his chin and lips. “Mm, please I—I need to feel you,” you pleaded, skin dewy and beading with sweat. After several minutes of agonizing pleasure, Sylus withdrew from between your thighs. His lips were glistening from your slick and when he kissed you, the taste was left hanging on your tongue. He tenderly brushed away the hair tangled around your face, tucking it behind your ear. His sanguine eyes glowed bright red, showcasing a growing thirst. It had been days since his last feed and the supply he acquired from the hospital had run out.

“I will do my best not to hurt you, please don’t let me lose myself,” he whispered against your jaw, pressing his groin into you. Heavy emotions settled over you, a mixture of fear and want. You craved every last part of him, even if that meant submitting to his most primal desire. Wrapping your legs around him, you pulled him in, “I want you entirely, I promise.” Sylus’s gaze was longing and his heart ached. You became so selfless in such a short amount of time, accepting his truth more than he could bear. “After this night, you will want for nothing. You are mine to serve—to protect.” Rusting fabric sounded between you, his bare length sliding between your folds. “But you will change. Are you sure you are willing to give up humanity?” His voice was tinged with worry and doubt, but when you kissed him again, that all faded away. “If it means I can stay with you forever, then please don’t keep that away from me.” Sylus cradled your face, “as you wish,” then sank his length to the base, keeping his body still as you adjusted to his size. “Ah, mmm,” you cooed clenching around his inches. He melted a wet kiss against your lips, invading your mouth with his tongue. His thrusts were slow and reverent. His cock made you feel perfectly full, like you were molded just for him. When he wasn’t kissing you, his hot breath fanned over your shoulder as he nuzzled against your skin. Sylus wasn’t using your body, nothing about his touch was rushed or careless. He wasn’t just fucking you, he was making love to you.

The way your hips were crashing together sent harsh ripples through you, making drool collect at the corners of your mouth. “F-fuck Sy…feels s’good,” you cried, digging your nails into his sculpted back. “I want nothing more than to see you fall apart beneath me,” he growled, draping your leg over his shoulder. This new position had your pussy pulling in inches you didn’t know he had, the sting was splitting but intoxicating. “You feel…hah…I can’t—,” unable to form full sentences, Sylus began to falter. With every moan, sigh and mewl, he fell deeper in love. The music you played for him didn’t compare to every pleasured noise that floated from your lips. “I need you, I knew I always have…,” he professed, flipping you to your belly. His praise caressed your ears like molten silk, “you are a goddess, a treasure so rare…I do not deserve you.” You whimpered, fisting the dark satin sheets. A sharp pinch met your earlobe, “but even then…there is no doubt that you’re mine.” Your body was pulled into him, back molded to his chest. His kiss was dizzying, making your legs wobble and fingers curl into his hair. When you tugged on the strands, it was harder than Sylus prepared for, making him sink a bite into your bottom lip. A wanton moan ripped from you, then you tasted it—a subtle hint of something metallic.

Sylus pulled away, eyes locking on the bead of red fluid. He ran his tongue over it, eyes squeezing shut and chest heaving. His hold on your hips grew more and more possessive as the bloodlust began to flood any sense he had left. Suddenly, you found yourself pinned beneath him, caged my his lean arms. His muscles were twitching and sinewy, thick veins throbbing across his biceps. “Sy..?” When his gaze lifted, his eyes were black with red rims, pupils blown to the edges of both irises. With his cock still buried inside you, he rutted harder, shoving your knees to your chest. A large hand pressed your lower belly, “do you feel that? How utterly full I’ve made you?,” he rasped. Sylus was succumbing to his instincts, inching his mouth closer to the soft skin of your neck. The vulgar slapping of your wet skin and then friction it made against your clit left you weeping, begging for release. “Forgive me…,” Sylus soothed. He cradled the back of your head and with a final thrust, hilted himself fully, sinking his knife like fangs into your flesh.

The pain was so foreign to anything you had ever felt. It stung, burned so hot that you began to sweat. Instinctively you clawed at Sylus’s back, leaving ruddy lines along his spine. Your body begged for it to end, yet when you came, it was euphoric. Your essence ran fluidly down your thighs and his abdomen. Overwhelmed by his cum filling your core, teeth tearing your skin and the warm blood trickling down between your breasts—you felt weak. He moaned as the crimson fluid flooded his mouth, eyes rolling back in his skull. Your blood was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. It was thick and sugary like syrup, deep maroon as it coated his lips and tongue. He didn’t want to stop, but you felt more limp the longer he drank. Panic washed over him when the light in your eyes began to fade. He winced in pain like the drowsy expression you were making pierced his heart. “I’m so sorry..,” Sylus soothed, voice shaky and broken. You reached up and stroked his cheek, “don’t be, now I can be yours.” He held your hand against his face, nuzzling lovingly into your palm. “I don’t deserve you…”

Your lover lapped away the blood, kissing the teeth shaped wound on your neck. Every press of his lips an apology, a promise of devotion and healing. “Thank you…for allowing this,” he said, warmth returning to his eyes. You hummed, pulling him into your embrace. You kissed his cheek and it tasted of salt. It hurt him to bite you, to change you forever. “Please don’t cry, this is what I want,” you cooed, rubbing gentle patterns over the raised marks on his back. Sylus became limp in your arms, kissing the already healing impression. “Your wound is nearly gone,” he stuttered, feathering over your skin with his fingers. “I don’t feel any pain either, but I’m…thirsty.” You straddled his lap, pushing him into the headboard with a newfound strength. His hands planted firmly on your hips, pulling you closer and turning his chin. Something about him smelled more appealing than his normally spicey—woody aroma. Your nose brushed the tendons in his neck, “I want to taste you…,” you rasped, letting your tongue drag over the warm flesh. Sylus held your face with one hand, smothering you with a bruising, sloppy kiss. You moaned in his mouth, tongue swirling around his, wetness pooling from your core. This arousal was different, more fierce—more feral. You inhaled, drawing in a slow breath full of his scent, “I want…to bite you…” “I won’t stop you,” he whispered, fisting your hair, pushing your lips to his throat.

Your teeth began to ache and they grew into sharp fangs, lightly jabbing your bottom lip. You hissed, letting your jaw slack. “Sylus…I love you.” His breath dropped as you sank a loving bite into him. His blood was warm, smooth, flowing down your throat as you drank. He tasted devine, like he was yours and yours alone. A deep purr fluttered in your chest, you pulled away, lips and chin dripping. “You look beautiful like this,” Sylus praised, wiping the cabernet mess from your face. You took his hand and sucked each finger clean, not wanting to waste his offering. Feeling full and satisfied, your eyes lidded with exhaustion and you slumped against his firm chest.

Sylus bathed you, dressed you in the finest silk and tucked you under his plush bedding. He closed the black drapes in preparation for the rising sun, slowly walking to the edge of the bed. You were glowing from your night of passion and first feed. His finger traced the spot where he first tasted you, reverence swelling in his heart. As Sylus melded his body to yours, tangling your limbs together like roots, he kissed your shoulder, jaw and neck. His eyes slowly and softly closed, “I love you too, my beloved.”

Eventually, you finished your article on Sylus. It became a popular story in Linkon Magazine, changing the public’s perspective of him and the N109 Zone:

“Who is Sylus Qin, truly? To the unknown and ignorant, a crime lord, a monster—but at his depth he is so much more. The quiet, mysterious man collects the finest art and antiques, reads genres from fiction to poetry and has a taste for aged wine and old vinyls. His heart is soft and words kind. What I grew to admire about him most was his ability to grow and adapt in a world unbecoming of him…”

Sylus trimmed the excerpt from one of the many copies of the magazine, framing it along side his other collected art pieces. For the first time since his transformation, you had been the only person to truly understand him. To choose him entirely, even if he didn’t think he deserved it. As your thirst grew stronger, Sylus never left your side, he taught you how to preserve energy and strength between each feed. The body you were in felt new and indestructible, your eyes even glowed a bit brighter. What didn’t change was your love for the man that gave you this life, how he continued to pour into your basin until it overflowed with devotion.

Although, you could no longer grow old, you wanted to become more ancient with him, until there was no blood left to drink or moonlight illuminating the sky. Darkness wouldn’t matter, not when he was your light.

End.

*~*~*~*

Writers Note: thank you so much for reading! :) Please do not steal or repost. More LADs Fics are pinned on my profile.

[cupidsval]

‧₊˚ 𝐍ᴏᴛ 𝐐ᴜɪᴛᴇ 𝐇ᴜᴍᴀɴ ཋྀ … 𝓿amp!geto x 𝓻eader x 𝓿amp!choso

𝓼uguru geto, your enigmatic shadow, the friend that’s tagged along since high-school’s senior year. sure, he’s a little… weird. but who isn’t, right? well, when 𝓬hoso kamo, the new guy, rolls in, that weirdness bursts into wholly smothering, territorial oddity.

you’ve never been one to put faith in the supernatural, let alone vampires. but as autumn continues to wither into a freeze, anomalies surface, secrets slip, and you find yourself facing a reality not even four seasons of TVD could prepare you for.

𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎. MDNI,, first series i’m making (wow). content warnings will be added on their respective parts but the broadest will be mentioned here, potentially slow to update (have faith in me) 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓. tbu,, vampire romance, love triangle, college au, occult mentions, kinda oblivious reader, explicit cont, slow-ish burn, etc

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒. (tba)

𝟎𝟏 - 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. (50 max per chap.)

@lipstainedgemini @hellkaisersangel @extremelyexh4usted @fffinskye @foreveraangel @that-bitch-whose-got-blogs @juliarchiv3s @iris408 @e-riellaaa @mynamseokie @bittensstuff @gyroslovers2 @detectiveshroom @humble-keiji @idiashrub @sugurusnumberonewife @okiace @gojosfreeuse @aovoo @pennysballsack @elsmell25blog @yesiimorada22 @emma-ilyy @hauntedchoso @garnetis @angelkiyo @11thlife02 @angelsspiderbat @urcatlover345 @bbokariii @jinjen @tatumsscream96 @zzaryuh @ghostgirl513 @izumihitashi @mikuche1409 @sukunasbigtiddiewifey @illuviey @julaenys @mycemeteryy @angelita-uchiha @nah-chenford-win @sorryassadist @cyber-nyxy2k

[deanmarywinchester]

okay. buzzfeed article voice I Read Homestuck So You, A Locked Tomb Fan, Don’t Have To. here’s what I have gathered:

the general structure of: step 1: here is one set of characters: some teens on a funney little sci fi adventure. step 2: zoom out from that point of view and see another set of characters including an emperor who is turning the galaxy into a necropolis. step 3: here is another set of characters including a little girl with NOOO life experience and something Wrong that lives inside of her <3 TLT’s “every time you get comfortable we throw another set of Guys at you” is very homestuck, and Nona in particular is EXTREMELY calliope (girl who shares a body with her Ontologically Evil brother, who takes over the body when she is asleep, so they keep their shared body chained to their bedroom so they can never experience the outside world)

the tone is fully 100% homestuck it’s not even necessary to get into it. space opera and also there’s memes, we get it, moving on

similarly: Gideon just straight up is butch Dave Strider (irony poisoned teen obsessed with cool swords and aviators)

the only thing on this list that is a 1:1 ripoff of Homestuck: the bubbles in the River where Harrow experiences her coffeeshop AU and her reverse!necro/cav AU. This is directly pulled from homestuck, where people who have died can experience AUs and distorted memories in “dream bubbles” in the afterlife. fans then set most of their AUs in dream bubbles so this is as much coming from fan practice as from canon.

so this post doesn’t get insanely long, you just have to google “homestuck troll romance” and realize that basically every lyctor is doing blackrom shit with other lyctors. and switching which type of troll romance you’re doing can cause BIG problems, such as: naberius/ianthe/corona are auspitices that become kismeses when naberius dies.

placement of dialogue tags is (according to my fiancée) drawing from a style invented by HS fic, where fanwriters put dialogue tags into the middle of sentences to mimic how HS dialogue is written in text/instant message format where you can hit “enter” between messages to add a pause. for example if you wanted to render a line in “text format” as:

GIDEON: why the fuck

GIDEON: did you put a skeleton in your suitcase

you might render the dialogue in your novel as: “Why the fuck,” said gideon, “did you put a skeleton in your suitcase.” apparently this drives people on TikTok bananas but I think it’s fun that Tamsyn tells us where the caesura goes.

this is not specific to HS but HS very purposely built a fandom by creating a lot of Sets Of Categories. categories that you could grab onto and think about, make different versions of characters that fit into different categories, pick your favorite categories the way you would with a hogwarts house or Hunger Games district. for example, there are many different versions of the same character (the way there are Gideon and Kirona, there are also Regular Dave Strider, Dead Alt Dave Stider, Dave Who Fused With A Spirit/Bird, etc). there are also different planets associated with different characters (like different Nine Houses) and you can pick which you identify with most, and fandom can play with inserting characters into roles you don’t get to see them in in the text (Lyctor!Gideon! BoE!Palamedes! Cavalier!Harrow! vs drawing HS characters in God Mode that didn’t reach God Tier in the text, etc)

also TLT is just very good at drawing out themes from the HS that aren’t fully explored in the text but im SURE fans were all over. fucked-up found family featuring alt versions of people you know intimately. kids raising themselves. space imperialism. becoming different versions of yourself. Etc

lastly there’s this tazmuir post from 2019 mentioning an asteroid juggalo bone religion, which literally does happen in HS but I don’t think you can call Harrow a juggalo in any way that matters so it might have been a joke. ?

[gothicpaperback]

THE WAY HE CARES | ELEVEN

<<<PART TEN |MASTERLIST| PART TWELVE COMING SOON >>>

wc: 4,8k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Joel Miller x You | Enemy Pregnancy

summary: Joel Miller has been my pain-in-the-ass neighbour for years. we argue more than we speak and when we do speak, it's usually through gritted teeth. but when my doctor tells me my fertility’s running out of time, panic sets in. I want a baby and I don’t have the luxury of waiting around for Mr. Right. Joel's a damn good father to his daughter, Sarah. that much, I can’t deny. so one night, fuelled by nerves and just the right amount of wine, I ask him the unthinkable: get me pregnant. no strings.no romance. just biology. i never planned on falling for him. but nothing about Joel Miller ever goes according to plan.

while the story is first person narrative, the OC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely physically described aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: neighbours, enemies to lovers, comedy, smut, sexual tension, mentions of fertility and reproductive issues, mentions of drugs and alcohol.

taglist: @himboelover | @harrypotteranna23-blog | @isabella-rose-trastamara | @ro4nix | @sunndroppp | @harriedandharassed | @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 | @titlee78 | @olafsmiles2020 | @sophiagladiator | @sunnytuliptime | @6kaja9 | @magicxmiller | @redvelvettsunflower | @smvtwitchmiller | @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff | @doblasftcisco | @brinapedroswife | @vallyb

THE WAY HE CARES | ELEVEN

I’m still on the bed, chest rising and falling like I’ve just surfaced from underwater minutes later. I stare at the space he left behind, the dent in the mattress, the wrinkle in the blanket where his knee was. I can’t quite piece together what just happened. 

One minute he was touching me like I was the only thing he could see, and the next... gone. Because what? What happened? 

He left so quickly his Miller Brothers hoodie is still on the chair. I stare at it, unblinking. 

He couldn't wait to get away from me. 

The first sting hits me in the throat in a choke of confusion. My body is humming with leftover need, but it’s eclipsed now by disappointment. 

The humiliation comes after, forcing me into a restless sleep. 

I spend the next few days spiralling. First comes disbelief. I keep checking my phone like I missed something. A message. A call. A joke to smooth it all over. But after four days of silence I stop giving him the benefit of the doubt.

Fuck this whole idea. Fuck the idea of a baby with my hair and Joel's eyes. What a stupid fucking plan this was. 

That’s when the anger starts. I clean the kitchen like it’s my mortal enemy. I scrub down the baseboards, rearrange every drawer, I toss the basket of baby magazines I’d started collecting. I swipe them off the coffee table and into the recycling bin like they’ve burned my hands. One of them flutters open to an article about intimacy during pregnancy and I slam it shut like it’s mocking me.

“A donation,” I mutter, slamming the fridge door. “It’s just a donation, right Joel?”

The memory of his voice makes my skin prickle. That low, calculated suggestion about increasing our odds, like this was some kind of experiment. I was stupid enough to believe it wasn’t just about biology anymore. I let myself feel things like a fucking idiot. 

The worst part is seeing him, or, I guess, not seeing him because Joel has decided to revert to full avoidance mode.

 I catch glimpses of him only in the periphery, his truck pulling out of the driveway early in the morning, headlights off or the sound of the garage door opening late at night. He's slipping around like a teenager trying not to get caught sneaking in.

What a fucking coward. How could I ever think he was worth my time? 

I start keeping my blinds shut. Not out of pettiness, but because I don’t trust myself not to look for him. And because I don’t want him to know I’m still looking.

Because I'm not. 

Even though l replay that night sometimes when I can’t sleep. The heat of his hands. The way his voice went low when he said my name. The look in his eyes when he realized what my body had done to him, how turned on he was. 

But those are just ghosts now, flickers of a version of us that was never going to last. 

I walk around with this raw, exposed nerve in my chest most days. My coworkers notice the shift because ’m curt, distracted, too snappy when someone makes a joke I usually would’ve laughed at.

Ben texts me a message one afternoon about the shitty office coffee and I stare at it for a long minute before replying with a thumbs up. He sends a follow-up:

You okay? You've been off.

I don’t answer and not because I don’t appreciate it, because I do, but because I’m so tired.  I crawl into bed at night fully dressed most nights and spend half an hour scrolling aimlessly before I let myself cry.

I think grief is supposed to come in five stages, but mine are more of a shapeless loop.

I go from sadness to rage to resignation and back again, all in the span of a single morning. One moment I’m staring at the ovulation app on my phone wondering if I’ve ruined everything, the next I’m texting Ben a meme just to feel something normal.

Sarah keeps sending me Instagram messages and I keep responding politely but I cringe every time I see them. 

Did Dad get a water balloon to the head yet?  Have you ever been to Prague? It's so cool! Are you going to the BBQ this summer? 

Oh fuck. The neighbourhood BBQ, the one Shellstrop hosts in her large home at the end of the block. 

The one I usually attend with my store bought pasta salad and a smile because for the most part I like my neighbours. 

Naw, I think I have to work that day.

I tell myself I’m not going because the neighbours will be annoying, that Joel might be there. Mostly that Joel might be there.

But by late afternoon, I’m standing in front of the mirror, putting on a sundress I haven’t worn in over a year. The blue one. The one Joel liked on my phone background.  

"Or a blue sundress"

I rip it off my body, cringing before changing into shorts and a band T-shirt. I run a hand through my hair, popping gloss onto my lips before I leave. 

The air is hot, clinging to my skin, and I keep telling my rapid pulse this has nothing to do with Joel. That I’m just being polite by attending.

When I show up, the backyard is full of people, kids running between folding chairs, and the scent of charcoal drifting through the air. I wish Sarah was here to talk to. Everyone else is with their buddies in conversation, laughing and clicking beer bottles. 

"So glad you made it," Shellstrop says giving me an air kiss when she spots me. 

"I wouldn't miss it."

I keep my sunglasses on, even when the sun momentarily disappears behind the clouds and they hide my surprise when I hear his voice.

He’s by the grill, flipping burgers with a practised hand. One of the older male neighbours is beside him chatting animatedly. He’s probably giving Joel advice on how to make the burgers perfect, but know from experience that Joel is great enough on his own.

I catch sight of his profile, his jaw tense, sunglasses hiding his eyes as well. And I know by the sudden stiffening of his shoulders that he feels my eyes on his. But he doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t even flinch when I pass him to put my pasta salad on the buffet table.

Others come up to talk to me talking about how wonderful my yard looks, how nice it was of me to volunteer at the block event. I answer with a strained smile, trying to be positive but I can’t when I hear Joel laughing with one of the neighbours, a beer in his hand.

He’s happy and light and I’m here devastated at the loss of him in my life. It feels pathetic and that’s when something inside me finally settles because I realize that whatever we were doing it’s over. It wasn’t real for him and I was a fool for thinking it could be.

Because somewhere in between the jokes and the meals together and the way he looked at me that night I fell for Joel Miller hard. The realization makes me flush just as fast as it makes me want to be sick.

In love with a man who doesn’t want me, the classic case of me.

So I eat my pasta salad, make polite conversation and when I leave I don’t look back in his direction once.

On Monday morning, I wake up different. I don’t check the blinds, I don’t check my phone for a message from him. I put on a dress that fits tightly and pin my hair up. I don’t even glance in the direction of his house when I leave for work. I have sealed off my heart.

 I go to work early, focus harder than I have in weeks and I stop myself from rereading old texts. I clear the half-written draft of a message I nearly sent him yesterday.

Hey Joel I wish we could talk. I miss you and

Deleted without thought because I’m done.

And Wednesday when I'm exiting my car, he’s just stepping out of his front door in his work boots and jacket. But I don’t care.  He hesitates when he sees me and for one long second, we’re both still. My heart thumps in my chest. Am I angry? Upset? Hurt?

Then he gives a short nod, almost like a flinch, and walks to his truck without saying a word. I clench my teeth and walk inside. I let the door shut behind me, keys in my hand, heart like a cold stone in my chest.

He looked tired and unshaven, like he hasn’t been sleeping. But that’s not my problem. It was never my problem. We tried and we failed. There’s no version of this where I chase after him demanding an explanation.  

Maybe that’s the quiet death of whatever we were; no big fight, no apology. Just the slow fade of people who were once something, and then weren’t.

One night, I look at the notepad beside my bed, where I once scribbled down baby name ideas.I tear the page out, folding it and sliding it into the drawer without ceremony, determined to read it only if I ever feel ready again. Maybe I  never will. 

I curl up on the couch with a blanket and a mug of tea and for the first time in weeks, the silence feels like mine again.

Sarah comes home a few weeks later, eyes bright and a gift bag under her arm. She throws herself into my arms, squeezing me when she catches me leaving for work one morning. 

"I missed you," I tell her honestly. "The block didn't feel the same without you."

“You just missed my baking.”

“Possible.”

"My dad drive you crazy all summer?" She laughs. I try to return it but I know it doesn't reach my eyes so I change topics. 

"How was Europe?"

She talks so much and for so long that I'm actually late for work, but I don't care. I love her enthusiasm and how her face lights up when she insists I open my gift. I open the box inside the bag, sure to emphasize how gorgeously wrapped the box is. 

“When we went to Prague I saw this at the market and thought it was so pretty." 

I lift the lid to see a small charm in the shape of a nest with tiny eggs attached to a silver bracelet.  Delicate and beautiful and … she got this for me? Her silly old neighbour?

"Sarah," I breathe, "this is stunning." 

“The lady at the stall said it was for new beginnings," Sarah says with a shrug. “I don't know why but when I saw it just felt like you." 

"I love it," I tell her with a winning smile. 

I realize my relationship with Sarah will not wane, even if her father is a bastard. I smile and embrace her again and insist that she and I go to dinner one night, my treat. She seems tickled by the idea.

After that I head to work and start making plans. If I'm not getting pregnant I'm sure as hell not putting off getting laid by Ben. He's been quietly persistent for months. Never pushy, never rude. Always just on the verge of being explicit without being vulgar. 

So when he texts me Thursday night talking about work stuff I drop in casually that I'm looking at a very boring weekend ahead. 

He takes the bait. 

I could make it more interesting. 😈😈😈 Oh could you?  Dinner? 7pm? I'll pick you up?  Would love it. 

I sent him my address, cheeks warming. That familiar sensation of girlish excitement, the sweet, twisty feeling of new romance. It’s the first time in days I’ve felt a glimmer of anticipation that doesn’t decay in my stomach.

Ben surprises me with a dinner at a tucked-away little wine bar in the city. Candlelight, smooth jazz, pasta made in-house. He hits every detail effortlessly and with a smile. He's the kind of guy who keeps his phone in his pocket and asks me questions like he actually wants to know the answers.

For most of the night I let myself forget everything else. I laugh while touching his arm, I flip my hair over my shoulder and lean forward to press my cleavage together, I sip red wine and feel the warmth spread into my chest for reasons that have nothing to do with alcohol.

At one point, Ben reaches across the table and runs his thumb lightly over the back of my hand and I don’t pull away.

“I'm so glad you agreed to this,” he murmurs. “I've been crazy about you since the second I saw you at the office."

I blink, startled by the genuineness of it, marvelling that a man can be so straight forward and emotionally intelligent. Unlike some southern neighbours I refuse to let myself think about.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling back slightly when I just stare at him. “Too much?”

“No,” I say smiling faintly. “Just unexpected. In a good way.”

He’s perceptive, kind and tonight with the night air warm and the sidewalks full of soft city light, I want to be the kind of woman who’s ready for someone like Ben. 

We get back to my house just after ten. I invite him in for coffee without thinking, keys jingling in my hand as we step up onto the porch.

"I'd love to," he says before glancing around the street. "Nice neighbourhood."

“Best kept block in Texas, nice and quiet,” I say with a little smile, unlocking the door. “Except when the neighbourhood moms host book club which is really just code for margarita night.”

He laughs, warm and easy. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I push the door open, standing back to let him in, when a voice cuts through the evening air behind us.

“You forget something?”

The tone is dry, almost bored, but the voice is unmistakable.

I turn my head slowly. Joel's standing at the edge of his driveway, next to his trash bins. Holding one of those silver recycling cans like he just happened to come out at this exact moment.  It’s my recycling can. It happens sometimes, his stuff ends up on my driveway, mine on his.

But normally he just places it back on my curb. Never in the years I’ve been his neighbour has he come over to hand it back. He’s barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a faded black T-shirt and he's glaring directly at Ben.

Ben glances over his shoulder, offering a polite smile. “Evening.”

Joel doesn’t smile back. “Evenin’.”

I try to keep my voice neutral. “Hey, Joel.”

Joel’s gaze lingers on the soft drape of my dress and my bare shoulders. The way Ben is standing just a little too close, like the warmth between us hasn’t worn off yet. I wonder what Joel sees and what he thinks is going to happen.

Then again, why should I care?

“You can just leave the can there,” I tell him airily. “I’ll bring it in later.”

 I turn back toward my front door, stepping inside. “Come in, Ben.”

Ben follows, but not before offering Joel a small, pointed nod. Not aggressive. Just... male. Goodnight weird neighbour. 

I close the door behind us, my hand still resting on the knob as silence settles around us. My heart is beating faster than it should be.

Ben pauses inside the entryway, catching my expression. “Everything okay?”

I swallow. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Ben is immediately concerned, hand on the door handle. "You need me to go?” he asks gently.

And for a moment, I almost say yes. Not because I don’t want him here, but because Joel just looked at me like I’d betrayed him. 

"No," I insist before crossing to press my chest to his. "I want you to stay for a bit." 

Then I move my lips to his, kissing him gently. He's sweet, his kiss tentative before growing, arms banding around my middle. 

The kissing turns heated, his hands roaming, guiding me backwards to the couch. He cages me under him on the cushions, sucking my tongue into his mouth as I moan. It feels so good to be openly desired, to not play games. 

But something isn't quite right. Not that Ben is doing anything wrong. But I do pull away from him, whispering his name. He pulls back cheeks flushed. 

"I just...I need to take this slow," I explain tentatively to him. "I like you." 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His smile is so charming when he looks at me that my face warms. It's so wonderful to be looked at like that. 

"I should go," he whispers, mouth pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. "Before I can't." 

I chuckle gently, kissing him once more before nodding. It's the right decision; we don't need to rush this.

I have all the time in the world. 

Ben has been stepping up his game, texting me little notes during the day, offering to bring me coffee or lunch when I’m buried under work.  There’s an easy camaraderie that’s blossomed into something warmer, something charged, but I’m still holding back.

At work, his presence feels like a pleasant distraction: a smile here, a quick touch on my arm there, lingering looks that say he wants more.

But every time Ben leans in, his breath warm on my cheek when we’re alone in the break room, or when he slides his hand to brush my hair away, I pull back. Not with words, but with hesitation.

And each time it happens he smiles in understanding, but with a hint of disappointment I can’t blame him for. 

At my place and his, Ben’s visits grow longer. We talk deep into the night on the couch, feet tangled beneath blankets, making out with increasing urgency, but I stop short before crossing the line. I’m afraid of a rejection that will sting. 

And then there's Joel. 

Across the street, driving Sarah to school, watering his plants. And he still hasn't made any attempt to talk to me. Sometimes I'm convinced he wants to, because he looks at me in a lingering, longing way. But then he gets this twisted up look on his face and always walks away. 

But I don’t miss him.

I don’t.

I can’t.

And one night when Ben’s in the kitchen one evening, pouring us both a second glass of wine and I hear a knock, I don’t even pay it any attention. Normally I would be rushing, waiting to see if it was Joel.

But now? I ignore it, laughing at something Ben is saying. His sleeves are rolled up and grinning like he lives here. He doesn’t, not anything close, but there’s looseness to him tonight like he's getting comfortable. 

The knock comes again, soft and hesitant. Not a Joel knock. Joel knocks are loud and booming. This might be Sarah needing something.

“I’ll get it,” I say, standing quickly. I smooth my dress down as I walk to the door.

The moment I open it I regret it because Joel stands there on my porch holding a Tupperware container with a cracked red lid, the kind Sarah usually brings to school bake sales.

He’s not smiling. In fact, he looks really nervous. His eyes skim over my face like he’s bracing for something.

“Hi,” I manage, caught completely off guard.

He clears his throat and holds out the container. “Sarah made cookies,” he says flatly. “She wanted me to bring you some.”

I just stare at him for a beat too long. There’s no warm delivery of a neighbourly gift; it’s all in his voice, how thin it sounds. He doesn’t meet my eyes.

I reach out and take the container. “Tell her thanks.”

He nods once. “Yep.”

Then he sucks in air through his nose, his eyes never leaving my face. “Do you think we could t-“

Behind me, I hear Ben laugh at something and Joel’s eyes flick past me toward the sound, and his whole body shifts. I feel it, like a drop in barometric pressure.

His gaze sharpens, mouth pressing into a tight line.

I should say something. I should explain. But I don’t know what would even make sense. He’s just a coworker. It’s nothing serious. I’m just trying to forget how you left without a word after that night. I’m trying to forget how you broke my heart.

Joel takes a step back.

“Well,” he says, voice clipped now. “I did what Sarah asked.”

“Joel-” I start, but he’s already halfway down the steps.

He raises a hand in a vague goodbye that doesn’t look back, just keeps walking toward his house with his shoulders squared like he’s marching into wind.

I shut the door gently, holding the still-warm container in my hands like it might explain anything. I don’t open it and I don’t go after him. Instead, I walk back into the kitchen and smile too hard at Ben, who hands me a glass of wine like nothing happened telling me something funny he saw on his phone.

But my stomach is full of cement and all I can smell is sugar and guilt.

The days pass, and for a little while I think I’m finding my footing again. The way Ben looks at me, the way his hand finds mine without asking, there’s a sweetness I haven’t felt in a long time.But my house feels like a question I don’t know how to answer right now. The wine glasses are still in the sink. The container of cookies is untouched on the counter.

Ben texted earlier to say he wants to take me on another date. Do I like mini golf? I haven’t answered yet. Not because I didn’t enjoy myself on our last one but because it doesn't quiet the ache. It doesn't stop me from waking up and thinking of Joel.

I think about telling Ben about my fertility issues, of my dreams of motherhood. But it all seems too sudden, too fast for that. I start wondering if being a mother is something I truly want. I decide to take a walk one evening to clear my head, to decide if that's my path 

I step over a crack in the sidewalk and glance toward the cul-de-sac. Joel’s house is just barely visible from here, the roof line peeking over a neighbour's hedge. My throat tightens.

I rub my hands together, more for something to do than warmth. It’s not cold out, just still.

When I started this journey l I was so sure. I didn’t want to wait for the “right man.” I didn’t want to hinge motherhood on the lottery of love. I wanted a baby because I wanted one. Because I had love to give and space in my life and the stubborn certainty that I could do this.

And then Joel happened. Or, whatever we were happened, all tangled and messy and charged. And Ben is too new. And I can’t ignore the knot in my chest that still pulses every time Joel walks away from me like he did last night.

But the thing that keeps rising through all the noise, louder than the regret, steadier than the fear, is the same truth I knew before any of this began:

I want to be a mother.

Even if it’s hard. Even if it’s messy. Even if I have to untangle my feelings from my plans, even if I have to do it alone. 

I stop at the edge of the park. There’s a woman with a toddler across the grass, pushing him on the swing with the kind of patience I’m not even sure I have. The boy squeals, face split with joy, and she laughs, the real kind of laugh all full-bodied and light.

Something swells in my chest and it's not longing or loneliness. It's readiness. It's acceptance. 

I press my hand to my stomach, an instinctive gesture. There’s nothing there yet. But maybe someday there could be. I take a breath, long and certain.

Joel may not want to be part of this anymore. But I need to know for sure. We started this together, and I owe it to myself to at least ask. Maybe he won’t say yes. Maybe he’ll say no and close the door for good. But if there’s a chance we can come to some kind of agreement I need to try.  Because Joel is a good dad and Sarah is a good kid. Because something in Joel calls to me even through everything.

I start walking back to the house, the late sunlight melting into soft dusk. I move quickly, pulse fluttering as I imagine being close to him again. I've just rounded the block when movement from across the street slows my footsteps.  

There at Joel’s front door, stands the long legged, beautiful woman I know as Tess. She leans casually against the door frame, arms loose at her sides, a light jacket over a simple dress. The porch light spills over her hair, turning it into a halo of rich chestnut.

She doesn't notice as I slip down my driveway, hiding behind the car. She's focused on looking pretty. 

I watch with my breath catching, as she smiles when the door opens and Joel steps outside with two glasses of wine. He looks different somehow, softness in the way he holds himself as he hands her a glass. His shoulders aren’t quite so rigid and his face not so pinched. 

They talk quietly, sipping their wine. Tess laughs a lot and touches Joel's arm often. He doesn't wince or pull away and I feel my scowl deepen. 

Sarah is at her mom's on the weekend, this is the perfect time for Joel to have a date. Friday night means she can stay until Saturday without fear of being caught. 

As I stand there partially hidden by my car I see as his hand brushes lightly along Tess’s arm so tender it stuns me. Tess’s gaze flickers away for a moment before meeting his again, small and shy. Their wine glasses are placed on the ledge of his patio as my stomach sinks. 

I watch as Joel’s hand slides down to the small curve of her waist and he pulls her closer. 

No. Don't do it. Don't do it Joel. 

When their lips meet it's not quick or rushed, it’s slow, deliberate and tender. It makes bile rise in my throat. 

Tess’s fingers thread into the back of his neck, holding him with a steady, calm grip. She leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed.

I watch it all, the way his lips move softly against hers, the way Tess’s chest rises and falls beneath his hand, the slight tilt of his head as he breathes. 

My throat tightens. My stomach twists. I stand frozen, fists clenched tight enough to bite my nails beneath my palms, trying not to let the sting behind my eyes break through.

We were never anything. Not a couple, not even close. But this simple, tender moment feels like betrayal written in slow motion.

Joel’s eyes open. He gazes down at Tess with a strange look on his face. The porch light flickers overhead, and the world seems to hold its breath.

Don't invite her in. Don't invite her in. 

I want to look away, to turn and run home, and to pretend I never saw. But I can't stop, it’s like I want to punish myself. 

Joel’s hand lingers on Tess’s back for a heartbeat longer before he pulls away, looking off kilter. 

Must have been some kiss. 

And I try to leave; I really do because I can’t watch anymore. It hurts too much. Except my hands have gone weak at the scene, causing me to drop my house keys. They make a clattering noise on the driveway that draws both their eyes my way. 

Fuck. 

Tess looks me over before brushing a stray hair behind her ear, still smiling at Joel. Joel looks like he's seen a ghost, face blanching before his expression hardens. He murmurs something that I can't hear to Tess before he steps inside his house, Tess close behind.

The door clicks shut behind them and the night swallows me whole, aching for something that was never mine to begin with.

Then something in my chest burns, compelling me to storm into my house. My fingers are shaking as I compose a text. 

Hey Ben. Wanna come over?  It's pretty late, is this a booty call?  And if it is? 

There's a pause and I can imagine him double checking, parsing to see if I'm serious, if I'll follow my text up with a meme. But I don't. I'm deadly serious. 

Then I'll be over in twenty. 

I pause, finger hovering over the buttons. 

Can you bring condoms?

authors notes:

i promise i make up for the angst in the next chapter. i've been editing all weekend so the next chapter should be coming soon. this was the story i was almost finished before i started posting my writing so my other stories will be updated but slower than this one. but im really loving the comments and the shares.

xx

💋💋💋

[pillow-anime-talk]

his talented baby. {pt.3}

synopsis: You as a person with a huge (and hidden) talent, and also a girl who really surprises your boyfriend.

# tags: scenarios; current relationships; romance; some comedy; mostly fluff; some PDA; simp!boyfriends; sfw

includes: female reader ft. yuuji itadori & megumi fushiguro {jjk} + eren jaeger & armin arlelt {aot}

part one {click} & part two {click}

— YUUJI (ft. playing football)

The past few weeks had been exhausting and packed with training sessions. You had devoted so much of your time and energy to your passion for soccer and the upcoming matches against other high schools and women’s teams that you barely had any time left for longer hangouts or dates with your boyfriend, Yuuji. You felt guilty and awkward each time you had to turn him down – but you knew that the end of the school year was a time for challenges and hard work. You wanted to be the best version of yourself and perform well at the Summer Tournament.

Of course, you had mentioned your training schedule and the upcoming competitions to him a few weeks back – but you also knew that he might forget. After all, he had a lot on his own plate – between his personal interests, schoolwork, and helping out at home. Luckily, that day your practice ended earlier than usual, since nearly half of your team had traveled to another city for a friendly match. So, you texted your boyfriend and asked if he’d like to go for a walk and grab some good ice cream. Itadori was more than happy when you messaged him – and of course, he promised to come pick you up, already having a small gift in mind: a bouquet of flowers just for you.

He arrived before your practice even ended. He scanned the field until he spotted you, then made his way to the lower bleachers to watch your final plays. You were mostly playing as the central striker – the team’s so-called “ace.” You’d been dedicating a lot of time to improving your plays and passes, not just on the ground but especially in the air. The last few passes directed at you relied on quick ball movement between players and precision shots  – one was a header, another with your dominant foot, and two more from a swift half-turn. Every shot hit the mark, and the cheers from your teammates were a clear confirmation of your incredible talent.

Yuuji watched your fluid movements and quick footwork across the grass in awe. A few times, he even jumped to his feet and clapped loudly, shouting praise so enthusiastic it was hard to understand what exactly he was saying. At first, his presence made you nervous – he’d never come to one of your practices before – but the overwhelming support he gave you in that moment boosted your confidence. Every play you made from then on added points to the final score. And afterward, as soon as you ran over to him, he started shouting about how amazing and talented you were. He even asked if you’d teach him how to make passes like that someday.

— MEGUMI (ft. playing the piano)

You had been waiting for this evening for months. A performance at the New National Theatre Tokyo is an honor that comes around once in a million years – especially when you’re in your twenties and have just stepped into adulthood. Your talent was undeniable. You had been playing the piano since childhood, trained under the guidance of accomplished professionals. Elementary school, middle school, high school, and finally university – each stage of your life carefully chosen to nurture your musical development and refine your piano skills.

And now, the moment had arrived. You were about to perform in front of your family, close friends, classical music connoisseurs, and musicians from all over Japan – perhaps even from around the world. Among the audience sat Megumi, your fiancé.

Of course he knew you played piano – he had often been your one-man audience in your shared apartment or during your rehearsals at the university’s music hall. He had always supported you, always offered encouragement, even though he had never played an instrument himself. Still, he educated himself – reading books, watching documentaries and tutorials, learning what he could to better understand your world. He gifted you small gift of support – hand creams, date nights, even massage vouchers so your hands and fingers could rest. He stood by you through every stage of your musical journey since the day you first met – and that was thirteen years ago. This evening felt like the culmination of a chapter in your life. If everything went well, you knew this performance could open the door to the international stage.

The lights dimmed – until only one spotlight remained, centered on the stage. There stood a grand, black piano with gold elements, the kind that cost more than most apartments in the heart of the city. Surrounding it were other musicians – mostly violinists, along with a single double bass and two clarinets. The theatre fell into perfect silence. And then, after a breathless pause, the concert began – first the instruments around you, then stillness once more. And then you began to play.

The audience was mesmerized. Megumi looked at you as if he had fallen in love all over, and over, and over again. Your fingers moved across the keys like they were gliding through clouds. Your eyes were gently closed – you knew every note by heart. The others joined in, but it was clear the piano was the centerpiece of this performance. Everyone was entranced by the elegance and depth of your playing. Megumi’s heart swelled with every note. Though you couldn’t look at each other, you could feel his presence – steady, warm, and proud.

This concert was your gift to him, for all support he gave you from day one – tonight, your music was dedicated to Megumi and his love.

— EREN (ft. baking sweets)

Over the past few weeks, you had been pouring your heart into something entirely new – the delicate and delicious art of baking. It started on simply recipes: classic butter cookies, powdered donuts, warm apple pie, and soft sponge cake. As your confidence grew, so did the complexity of your creations. You began to challenge yourself with more intricate recipes – delicate macarons, cherry tartlets, and even the famously finicky basque cheesecake.

After a few months of trial, success and daily frustration, you reached a point where you could not only follow advanced recipes but also create your own – beautifully crafted and flavor-balanced ideas for mini cakes, multi-layered tortes, and even frozen desserts. It became more than just a hobby – it was a quiet, joyful passion, one you nurtured with the hope of making something truly special.

All of this was leading up to one important day – Eren’s birthday. You didn’t want to give him just a store-bought gift or a card with kind words. No. You wanted to surprise him with something personal, something meaningful, something made entirely by your own hands.

The result was breathtaking: a two-tiered birthday cake, made in his favorite flavors and decorated in his favorite colors. The larger, bottom tier was built on freshy fruit notes and included a layer of rose crisp, adding a subtle floral crunch. The smaller top tier offered a cozy combination of buttery shortbread and roasted nuts. The entire cake was frosted in soft shades of green and brown, finished with shimmering accents of edible sugar hearts, stars, and delicate handcrafted flowers made from sugar paste. It looked like something straight out of a pastry competition – elegant, refined and full of heart.

Eren’s reaction was everything you hoped for. The moment he laid eyes on the cake, his eyes widened in disbelief. A slow, genuine smile tugged at his lips.

“This… is for me?” He asked quietly – half in awe, half in hopeful curiosity. He wanted to believe it, but needed to hear it from you. You nodded gently and began to explain – how you had been practicing, learning, failing and improving over the past few months. He listened intently, occasionally stealing glances at the cake, like he still couldn’t quite believe it was real.

“... I really hope you like it.” You said with a nervous little laugh. “It’s the first time I’ve ever tried this flavor combination… But maybe it’ll surprise you.”

With that, you cut two generous slices – one from each tier – and placed them on pretty, yellowish plates. You sat down together, side by side, and then you watched as Eren took his first bite.

The expression on his face said it all. Within moments, he had finished everything on his plate. He was stunned not only by the flavor – which was complex, rich and perfectly balanced – but by the fact that you had done this all for him. This wasn’t just dessert. It was a gift made with time, thought and, obviously, love.

He was genuinely moved and completely enchanted.

— ARMIN (ft. writing poems)

You had been writing for years – at first, silly little stories about your favorite actors, musicians and other artists. Eventually, you began crafting your own original tales, often centered around mysteries, fantasy or horror. And now, for the past few years, you had been pouring your heart into poetry – short, emotional pieces that captured the music of your soul. They spoke of your feelings, your hopes for the future, the weight of memories and the aching sense of something lost. But everything you wrote ended up tucked away, hidden from the world. You didn’t have the time – or perhaps the courage – to seek out a publisher and you certainly didn’t want to share those deeply personal pieces with others. It all felt too raw, too intimate. So the poems and thoughts stayed locked inside dusty notebooks and tucked-away folders – shoved into boxes, stashed on forgotten shelves, often left to be forgotten.

That day, you and Armin were moving into your new home. Alongside the clothes, cosmetics and kitchen stuff, you brought with you your private collection of written thoughts. As fate would have it, while carrying one of the boxes, you tripped over the door threshold – and the box slipped from your hands. Notebooks and loose pages scattered across the floor, fluttering like autumn leaves. Most of them were your latest writings – fresh poems, questions without answers, fragile thoughts written in your unmistakable handwriting.

Armin rushed over to help, but his eyes quickly caught on the scattered pages. Curious, he began to read what had fallen nearest to him. As his eyes moved from line to line, his expression shifted – at times his face flushed red, then turned thoughtful, then softened with a smile and even grew solemn with a sigh. You tried to stop him from reading more, your heart thudding in your chest... but he was much faster.

“Did you write all of this, Y/N?” He asked, wide-eyed with surprise. You nodded shyly, murmuring something barely audible under your breath. “It’s… It’s beautiful, love.” He said, this time more loudlyand you froze for a second, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice.

“It’s not.” You replied, a bit more harshly than you intended. “None of it makes sense. It’s not good or interesting – just a bunch of messy thoughts. Leave it alone, Armin.”

Of all the people in your life, Armin was the last one you wanted to see your poetry. Yet he kept reading, kept smiling and began complimenting your writing – your phrasing, your metaphors, the honesty of your voice. You felt smaller and smaller, unsure how to respond, embarrassed that your secret had been so suddenly and thoroughly exposed. But he wouldn’t stop.

“Y/N, this is genuinely…” He paused for a moment, his voice softer. “I’m honestly shocked I never noticed this before. You’ve been carrying all of this inside you all this time?”

For a while, Armin spoke more to himself than to you – praising your words, the depth of your writing, your ability to make someone feel something. And slowly, despite the awkwardness, despite the discomfort, a small smile found its way onto your face. Because deep down, hearing all that from someone like Armin – so gentle, so thoughtful – felt like a rare kind of magic.

To have someone like him see you, really see you and still think the world of you – that was a gift you hadn’t even known you needed.

[aventurineswife]

Can I request reactions from the Yaoqing trio plus Jing Yuan and Dan Heng for a Wingweaver!Reader who is Dan Heng's partner who goes with the group to the Loufu and maybe they missed the chance to go during the stelleron disaster so they heard everything afterwards and demanded a go with the group this time to protect Dan Heng? Maybe it's right before the war dance. Dan Heng and Reader are just walking along, seeing the sights, while Reader is practically radiating malice towards anyone who so much as looks at him wrong, one wing draped across his shoulders and giving off "try and start something and I will shred you with my bare talons" vibes. Jing Yuan slips up and calls him "Dan Feng" and they're like "General. :) His name is *Dan. Heng.* :) Do try to get it right. :)

Dan Heng: I hope Blade doesn't show up.

Reader: I do. I owe him an ass-kicking.

“Say His Name Right.”

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Protective Wingweaver!Reader, Passive-Aggressive Sass, Implied Violence, Intense Loyalty, Tension, Blade Mention, Found Family, Emotional Repression, Reader Wants To Fight Everyone, Name Correction Drama, Possessive Behavior, Subtle Romance, Characters Slightly Scared Of Reader.

Warnings: Trauma References, Moze Trauma Mentions, Jiaoqiu Emotional Conflict, Light Swearing, Implied Threats, Reader Borderline Aggressive, Emotional Tension (Dan Heng vs Dan Feng Identity), Protective Behavior May Be Overbearing For Some Audiences.

A/N: I just realised hcs are supposed to short and long ass paragraphs... My bad y'all. 🚶‍♀️

Dan Heng is torn between exasperation and affection. He’s not used to being fussed over, especially not with wing-draping dominance and open threats.

He says he doesn’t need protection — but quietly tightens his grip on your hand when the streets get crowded. It's subtle, but telling.

He tries to stay low-profile, but you? You radiate protective energy like a solar flare.

When you snarl at a merchant for “looking too long,” Dan Heng mutters, “You’re going to scare the tourists.”

He definitely blushes when your wing folds over his shoulders like a velvet shield.

At your knife-sharp glare after Jing Yuan says "Dan Feng", he actually chokes on air. He might never admit it, but that was the highlight of his day.

He’s genuinely nervous about Blade. Not for himself — but for Blade, because you’re itching for violence.

Feixiao loves you. The sass, the posture, the claws-out vibe — she sees a kindred spirit.

“Protecting your man with a wing, huh? Cute. Ever tried drop-kicking someone through a wall?”

She challenges you to a spar within an hour of meeting you. Not out of hostility — respect.

She watches you correct Jing Yuan with that “Dan. Heng.” and howls with laughter. You just earned her eternal friendship.

“I like this one,” she says, clapping your shoulder. “Sharp talons, sharper tongue. A Vanquishing General’s favorite kind of ally.”

If anyone starts trouble, Feixiao’s already throwing punches while you flex your wings behind her like a looming stormcloud. Iconic duo energy.

At first, Moze finds your open hostility disconcerting — it clashes with his quiet, covert approach. But… he respects the hell out of it.

Your constant looming presence around Dan Heng reminds him of a sentry hawk. You don’t speak much to him at first — perfect. He likes that.

After watching you slice through a would-be pickpocket with one flick of your wing, he simply says, “Efficient.”

He sometimes sidles up beside you during missions, not because he needs backup — but because you’re one of the few people whose chaos he can predict.

You once told him: “You operate in shadows. I am the shadow.” Moze didn’t know whether to be impressed or mildly concerned. Possibly both.

He sees the way you ground Dan Heng — and quietly respects the bond. Maybe even envies it a little.

Jiaoqiu is fascinated by you — not just your form as a Wingweaver, but your emotional intensity. You're a medic’s nightmare, honestly, with how fast you rush to defend Dan Heng.

“Ah,” he says mildly as you glare at a passing Cloud Knight, “so this is what ‘radiating murderous intent’ looks like.”

You terrify him a little, but he also wants to make sure you’re eating properly and not pulling a wing muscle by holding it over Dan Heng’s shoulders 24/7.

“You know, I can mix a balm for that possessive tension,” he jokes.

You counter: “You know, I can dislocate a kneecap with one twist.” He never jokes about that again.

But in private? He admires your devotion. There’s something deeply reassuring about someone loving another so protectively. It reminds him that healing doesn’t always come from medicine.

Jing Yuan should have known better. He did know better. And yet, he said “Dan Feng” anyway.

When you hit him with the most polite "His name is Dan. Heng. Do try to get it right." he actually winced.

“Of course. My apologies,” he says. That little bead of sweat on his temple? You saw it. Victory.

He doesn't underestimate you. In fact, he mentally notes you as a Class S potential threat.

You’re polite — but deadly. You say "hello" with the energy of a guillotine in standby mode.

He admires your protectiveness, but does quietly warn Dan Heng, “Your partner may be the fiercest creature on the Loufu right now.”

He isn’t wrong. You’d fight gods for Dan Heng, and you probably have a plan to do so.

[corrodedcoffinfest]

Week Two: Masterlist

Look at you all go! During week two we covered 7 prompts, and there were 43 total entries: 42 Fics Written, 1 Pieces of Art & 0 Other Works.

Color-Coded Ratings Key: General, Teen, Mature, Explicit, Not Rated.

Day Six: The Cutting Edge

JULY 6: The Cutting Edge by @the-unforgivenn | WC: 990 | Rating: E | Pairing(s): Rockstar!Gareth Emerson x Romance!Author!Wife!Reader | CW: Suggestive/explicit language, Allusions to a naughty lil threesome and reverse harem. Gareth Emerson, even married, is a horny little perv. | Tags: Rockstar Gareth Emerson, Modern!AU, Husband!Gareth, Wife!Reader, Gareth Emerson is a perpetually horny little perv but damn it if he doesn't have our best interests at heart.

the necklace by @steddieas-shegoes | WC: 983 | Rating: M | CW: implied/referenced drug use, implied sexual content | Tags: rock star eddie, famous corroded coffin, figure skater steve, flirting

The “Grinding” Edge by @glassbxttless | WC: 1000 | Rating: Not Rated | Pairing(s): eddie munson x fem!reader | CW: Scantily dressed ladies— it’s a rockstar’s music video babes, Bats is jealous, Gareth’s having the time of his life lookin at boobies

Build Up the Energy by @thisapplepielife | WC: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language | POV: Jeff | Pairing: Jeff & Eddie (or pre Jeff/Eddie) | Tags: Corroded Coffin On the Road, Trying to Make It, Writing a Setlist

A cut above by @steddie-island | WC: 884 | Rating: G | Tags: Post- Vecna, Eddie Munson lives

Day Seven: The Good, The Bad & The Ugly

JULY 7: The Good, The Bad and The Ugly by @the-unforgivenn | WC: 953 | Rating: M | Pairing(s): Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson | CW: Gun violence, murder, brief mentions of bribery and turf war. Shit gets real in Harlan County | Tags: Justified!AU, Modern!AU, Outlaw!Billy Hargrove, Outlaw!Eddie Munson, Deputy US Marshal Steve Harrington, Corroded Coffin & The Party, and one brief mention of Tommy Hagan and Brenner

good or bad by @steddieas-shegoes | WC: 903 | Rating: M | CW: referenced past drug use/abuse | Tags: established relationships, therapy, marriage

What They'd Do by @glassbxttless | WC: 1000 | Rating: Not Rated | Pairing(s): eddie munson x gareth emerson | CW: It’s boys lovin boys in Oklahoma in the 1980’s, Eddie’s scared of being found out

just a little misplaced by @thisapplepielife | WC: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language, A Bit of Grave Robbing | POV: Eddie | Pairing: Eddie & Corroded Coffin, Steddie | Tags: Post S4, Eddie Munson Lives, Hawkins Just Doesn't Know That

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly by @dreamwatch | WC: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: None | POV: Gareth | Relationships: Pre-Steddie | Corroded Coffin, Wayne Munson, Light Angst, Eddie lives, best friends doing what best friends do, concerts

Here I Go Again (On My Own) by @steddie-island | WC: 989 | Rating: G | Tags: Angst, pre-Steddie, time loop, temporary character death, ambiguous/ open ending

Day Eight: ER

ER by @glassbxttless | WC: 1000 | Rating: Not Rated | Pairing(s): gareth emerson x nurse!fem!reader | CW: Burns, General ER stuff

JULY 8: ER by @the-unforgivenn | WC: 998 | Rating: M | Pairing(s): Eddie Munson & his delusions, Dr. Hall makes an appearance | CW: Blood, injury - and yes, another ER visit | Tags: Eddie Munson, Corroded Coffin, head wounds, ER visit, Dr. Hall, poor Jeff gets his forehead stitched, questionably!subby!Eddie Munson

nine fingers by @steddieas-shegoes | WC: 968 | Rating: T | CW: injury, blood, hospitals | Tags: famous corroded coffin, band manager steve, established steddie, everything is fine eddie's just dramatic, protective steve

Like a Bloodhound by @thisapplepielife | WC: 1000 | Rating: E | CW: Sex | POV: Eddie | Pairing: Steddie | Tags: AU, Bar Hookup, Eddie is a Horny Size Queen Gremlin, Enter Stage Left: Steve "Big Dick" Harrington

Angel by @runninriot | WC: 1000 | Rating: M | POV: Steve | Tags: blood and injury, criminal assault, Eddie & Gareth & Jeff & Freak friendship, famous Corroded Coffin, pre steddie, meet ugly

ER by @dreamwatch | WC: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: none | POV: Steve | Relationships: Steddie, Gareth & Eddie | Light angst, injuries, getting older, Eddie whump, Eddie is an accident prone idiot, Steve still loves him, attempted humour and a small amount of fluff

Day Nine: Teenage Dirtbag

JULY 9: Teenage Dirtbag by @the-unforgivenn | WC: 997 | Rating: T | Pairing(s): Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader, Eddie Munson x You | CW: Lots of livestock talk. Some banter. Eddie accidentally body-shames a yearling ewe. But other than that, nothing. | Tags: Eddie Munson, Fem!Reader, Livestock life, Indiana State Fair, Smut in the next part

Two Tickets to Iron Maiden by @glassbxttless | WC: 1000 | Rating: Not Rated | Pairing(s): grant (freak) x fem!reader | CW: kissing, alcohol is mentioned, grant may be a little bit of a smartass lmao

i've got two tickets to iron maiden baby by @steddieas-shegoes | WC: 704 | Rating: T | CW: none | Tags: corroded boys friendship, college au, first date, steddie getting together

Made For Each Other by @runninriot | WC: 1000 | Rating: T | POV: Eddie | Tags: Jeff & Eddie, Jeff & Steve, friendship, jealousy, feelings realization, pre steddie, meddling, background Gareth, Freak and Steve

lo and behold by @thisapplepielife | WC: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Temporary Character Death | POV: Gareth | Pairing: Eddie & Gareth, Background Steddie | Tags: Time Jumps, Gareth & Eddie Have a Tradition, And Then Spring Break Happens

Fighting Dirty by @steddie-island | WC: 994 | Rating: E | Tags: Season 2, canon-typical violence, mild blood play, biting, dry humping

Day Ten: Have a Drink on Me

JULY 10: Have a Drink on Me by @the-unforgivenn | WC: 994 | Rating: E | Pairing(s): Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader, Eddie Munson x You | CW: Oral - fem receiving, unprotected p in v sex, semi-public sex, a small amount of alcohol consumption | Tags: Smut - oral, fem receiving, p in v sex, rough sex, semi-public sex, Eddie Munson, Fem!Reader, Livestock life, Indiana State Fair

Wingman of the Year by @glassbxttless | WC: 1000 | Rating: Not Rated | Pairing(s): jeff x fem!reader (bits of gareth emerson x eddie munson) | CW: there’s a little bit of gare and ed in there, alcohol, they’re in a bar

when i get to drinkin' by @steddieas-shegoes | WC: 720 | Rating: E | CW: alcohol | Tags: friends with benefits, shower sex, rimming, anal fingering, anal sex, these birds are in love but won't say it, jeff and gareth might be my crack ship of all time actually

Have a Drink on Me by @mrsjellymunson | WC: 1000 | Rating: M | CW: alcohol consumption, intoxication, flirting | POV: Steve | Pairing: Eddie Munson x Steve Harrington; Steddie | Tags: Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington, The Hideout, Jeff, Gareth, Doug, wingman!Jeff, Eddie is an incorrigible flirt, future AU, everyone's over 21

Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is by @thisapplepielife | WC: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language, Alcohol | POV: Goodie (Freak) | Pairing: Goodie & OFC, Goodie & Gareth (and Corroded Coffin) | Tags: Bar Band Corroded Coffin, Friendship, When Paths Cross, When Dreams Change

Have a Drink on Me by @dreamwatch | WC: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: None | POV: Matt (Unnamed Freak) | Relationships: Matt/Original Female Character | Tags: Fluff, minor fatphobia, mentions of weight and diets, Matt is in love, totally gone on this girl, it's over for him.

Day Eleven: Scream

SCREAM by @mrsjellymunson | WC: 1000 | Rating: E | CW: alcohol consumption, oral (m rec) | POV: Eddie | Relationships: Eddie Munson x Gareth Emerson | Tags: on tour, confident bisexual!Gareth Emerson, bisexual disaster!Eddie Munson, implied fuckboys!Corroded Coffin 

JULY 11: Scream by @the-unforgivenn | WC: 969 | Rating: E | Pairing(s): Rockstar!Husband!Gareth Emerson x Author!Wife! Fem!Reader, Gareth x Eddie x Reader with a surprise at the end | CW: Pure filth. It -- it's just straight smut. | Tags: MMF, multiple partners, oral sex, p in v sex, threesome, spouse sharing, female reader, wife reader, husband Gareth Emerson, Rockstar Eddie Munson, famous Corroded Coffin

all nightmare long by @steddieas-shegoes | WC: 608 | Rating: T | CW: nightmares | Tags: established steddie, famous corroded coffin, hurt/comfort

The Ghostface Mask by @glassbxttless | WC: 1000 | Rating: Not Rated | Pairing(s): older mechanic!eddie munson x fem!reader | CW: Mentions of roleplay, An Idea of wearing the Ghostface mask during sex, nothing explicit— there’s no smut. Just talkin about it and buyin a mask.

To Make a House a Home by @thisapplepielife | WC: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language | POV: Eddie | Pairing: Steddie | Tags: Post S4, Eddie Munson Lives, Lands at Steve's House, And Fills All the Blank Spaces, Time Hops, An Evolving Relationship

Wrong Number by @tedewitt | WC: 1000 | Rating: Not Rated |CW: None | POV: Steve | Pairing(s): Steddie | Tags: Murder Band, Stalking, Harassment

Day 11 : Scream - CaliDrumCheer - CaliDrum as BillyStu taunting Chrissy as Sidney by @alicetallula | Medium: Art | Characters: Gareth as Billy Loomis, Billy as Stu Macher and Chrissy as Sidney Prescott | Details: Done using ink pens, alcohol markers, acrylic paint pens and Photoshop for the background and blur effect

Scream Your Sorrows by @shelleyminx | WC: 942 | Rating: G | CW: None | POV: Jeff | Pairing(s): None | Tags: Famous Corroded Coffin, Frontman Jeff, Manager Chrissy Cunningham, Everybody Lives, set in the 90s

Scream by @dreamwatch | WC: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: mental health issues | POV: Eddie | Relationships: Steddie, Gareth & Eddie, Gareth & Steve | Angst, post S4, Eddie has trauma, Steve and Gareth are begrudging roomies, selective mutism, anxiety, hopeful ending

Day Twelve: Desperation

JULY 12: Desperation by @the-unforgivenn | WC: 997 | Rating: E | Pairing(s):Gareth Emerson x Fem!Reader, Gareth x You | CW: Bullying, some sulky Gareth, that's about it for this part - next parts will be appropriately tagged | Tags: Gareth Emerson x Fem!Reader, College!AU, Modern!AU, Multi-part work (1 of 5)

desperate for sex, desperate for love by @steddieas-shegoes | WC: 704 | Rating: E | CW: none | Tags: complicated relationships, steddie/gareth threesome, anal sex, blowjob, allusion to subspace but barely, love confessions

hide nor hair by @thisapplepielife | WC: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language | POV: Gareth | Pairing: Gareth & Dustin, Background Steddie | Tags: Post S4, Eddie Munson Lives, Somewhere Out There, Dustin Henderson is a Dog With a Bone, Time Jump

Dying Ain’t Worth Gold by @glassbxttless | WC: 1000 | Rating: Not Rated | Pairing(s): gareth emerson x eddie munson | CW: Gareth took a hard hit right before the events of this story start, Eddie is scared, some comments of being afraid of death, some comments of Eddie being worried about not being seen as Gareth’s partner if anything were to happen

This time we're through by @shelleyminx | WC: 971 | Rating: G | CW: Grief, Funeral, Heart Attack | POV: Eddie | Pairing(s): Eddie Munson/Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson & Gareth | Tags: Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Good uncle Wayne Munson, Grief/Mourning, Bittersweet ending, Wayne loves Abba

Big thank you to everyone who submitted for week two! I hope to see you again for week three! 🦇

[1dcommunityficrecs]

Rec List: TV Show AUs!

Part 4 of the Based On Bonanza is upon us! Y'all showed up in DROVES for this one, we love to see it, and the result is 13 amazing fics -- new and old, short and long, Larry and Rare Pair-y. Do make sure to check the warnings on the recs and the tags on the fics, as some of these are a bit dark -- but I promise you there are some absolute GEMS on here, if you're up for it!

As always, please show these amazing stories and writers some love -- reblog, kudos, comment, share, tell the authors you adore them (I promise they never get tired of hearing it), and get ready for the next category.

Remember Me Before You by kingsofeverything/@kingsofeverything (293821, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

Desperate to find a new place to live after he comes home to find his boyfriend cheating, Harry moves into a loft with three strangers. A New Girl AU.

Reccer says: This fic gives me the same warm feelings and laughs that comfort watching the show does. The author put so much thought and heart into it, and it was such a fun ride. An absolutely iconic fic; highly highly recommend for the laughs and friendships. All the best bits of New Girl but with more! gay! boybanders!

the fear in the unknown by lightswoodmagic/@lightwoodsmagic (31000, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post Warnings: murder, crime scenes, violence

Dr Harry Styles and Special Agent Louis Tomlinson work together to solve murders for the FBI. They are partners, and are pining for each other.

Reccer says: This was all the best bits of Bones wrapped up in one big gay fic. Love the way the case was handled, and the dynamic with the pining and tension between Harry and Louis.

codename: flamingo by orphan_account (6651, Teen, Liam Payne/Harry Styles)

It starts because Harry gets a death threat. A West Wing au.

Reccer says: This fic is so completely and utterly charming! I love the storyline from the show that they adapted, and the author translated it for these characters perfectly.

in the lonely cool before dawn by mozartspiano/@william-nylander (5061, Teen, Niall Horan/Harry Styles) – fic post Warnings: Non-Graphic Violence

Niall is the Deputy Chief of Staff at the White House. Harry is his assistant. A West Wing!AU.

Reccer says: This fic is so good! I love narry as Josh/Donna, and how the serious parts and romance are balanced with light-hearted moments (just like the show!)

No Friends and An Empty Heart by Maelstrom_Roots/@bibilyhills55 (36374, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post Warnings: Mentions of Suicide, Attempted Sexual Assault

When Louis Tomlinson gets an invitation for dinner with the family he's been estranged from for a year, he has only one goal: to get his sister to talk to him again. But when an unexpected guest in the form of a hot priest is also at the dinner table, Louis may have to accept that the universe has other plans for him. A Fleabag Season 2 AU featuring Fleabag Louis Tomlinson and Hot Priest Harry Styles.

Reccer says: This fic got under my skin in the best possible way. Every emotion rang so true and I felt really seen in my grieving process. Fleabag S2 is a high bar and the author cleared it with ease.

Pascal's Triangle Re-revisited by yeah_alright/@uhoh-but-yeah-alright (2375, Mature, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

On the eve of his second Fall semester at community college, Louis finds he can’t sleep, too anxious about seeing his study group for the first time after an eventful last night of the Spring semester and a Summer of silence. Thoughts of two study group members in particular are keeping him awake. Maybe fantasizing about them both can help him get to sleep. ~ A Community AU snippet taking place between Seasons 1 and 2

Reccer says: I feel like it's hard to nail that very specific quality that makes Community the show that it is, and the author nailed it!

Wait For It by dimpled_halo/@comebackassholes (119717, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

A How I Met Your Mother au with a better ending. Louis is ready to find the love of his life and when he meets Harry he thinks he's finally found them. Liam and Zayn have been together since college and are ready to take the next step in their relationship, except Zayn might be having doubts. And Niall is happy with no strings attached dating until a new employee at the bar they frequent walks into his life and makes him question his entire existence.

Reccer says: This fic captures all the warmth and friendship and romance of the show, but without any of the pain of its ending. I felt so invested in the story and the characters, I just loved it.

In a Little Bit of Trouble by QuickedWeen/@becomeawendybird (4836, Teen, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

Agent Louis Tomlinson is in hot water and finds help in the most unlikely of places: the sweet waitress at her local automat. Agent Carter AU.

Reccer says: This fic is just so fun to read! Part fast paced spy adventure, part sweet romance. I loved it.

There's Such a Lot of World to See by crinkle-eyed-boo (Kimmie Rocks)/@crinkle-eyed-boo (125080, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post Warnings: check the tags!

Louis has seen a great many things throughout his travels in time and space, but only one he can’t explain: He keeps meeting the same boy, who says the same thing to him each time. The boy should be impossible. Maybe he is. A love story that defies the boundaries of space and time. Doctor Who AU.

Reccer says: This fic is EPIC. It's such an adventure, and so fun to read, but also the whole range of emotions, all of which ring true. You don't have to be a fan of Doctor Who to enjoy it (I can testify to that!), it's so well written that anyone can become invested.

once upon a dream by thedeathchamber (33319, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Louis is psychic and gets caught in the middle of a murder investigation led by FBI Special Agent Harry Styles. aka. the Medium/Criminal Minds-inspired AU no one ever asked for.

Reccer says: Do not read after dark! But DO read, this fic is so well written. You really feel like you're right there along with the characters.

Butter With You by driveinbingo/@joekavaliers (26502, Mature, Nick Grimshaw/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

the Tomlinshaw GBBO AU nobody asked for.

Reccer says: I loved Nick and Louis' flirting disguised as fighting – quintessential tomlinshaw banter in a delightful setting!

you came into my life by disgruntledkittenface/@disgruntledkittenface (57180, Mature, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post Warnings: mild homophobia from background characters, mentions of Jay's death

Queer Eye AU of the firefighter episode in season 1, where Liam is the Hero but the whole fire crew gets to grow and flourish in the Fab Five's healing love..

Reccer says: I will never stop recommending this fic. It mad me laugh it made me cry it made me smile it made me kick my little feet in the air -- it made me feel every emotion in the best way. There is so much love in every inch of this story, in every character, they all care so deeply about each other (not just romantically! platonic and family love are just as crucial!) and it is just. perfection.

The Moon’s Never Seen Me Before by Lovingstheantidote/@lovingstheantidote (7688, Explicit, Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson) – fic post

Five moments that changed everything. Or, five times Louis left Harry speechless. Plus one time, he very much didn’t. Or, a Harry & Louis Gilmore Girls au.

Reccer says: Harry-as-Lorelai is perfection!

[miranaisnotdead]

Thanks for the tag pooks <3

Omkay

Palaye Royale: a girl in a discord server mentioned them and that she was searching for moots who liked them as well (and me being the people pleaser i am), i checked them out and then became obsessed

My Chemical Romance: around 2017 or 2016 I was scrolling on youtube and I found a compilation of funny moments of my chem, I watched it, and the rest is history

Jann: I was scrolling on tiktok when this really heartfelt venting video came up with a song that described my struggles at the moment perfectly, I checked out the artist and fell totally in love

Tags: @sebbywebster @hexxyyxoxo @mitskissecondborndaughter <333

OK so

Another tag and reblog game! (I love making these with my fav moots </3)

Tell me how u discovered your favourite music artist!

Ill tell you how I discovered mine (Michael Jackson♥️)

Okkk so like I was playing just dance (My fav game when I was little ^_^) and I saw the song "I want you back" by The Jackson 5 on. I had already heard of MJ so I was like "Ok I think he might have been in this band" so I ask my dad who was playing with me and he was! I was like "Ok cool!" Then i decided to listen to some of his music (Beat it was the first song I heard by him!) and HOLY SHIT THAT WAS THE DAY MY LIFE CHANGED FOREVER!!!!! I asked my dad to teach me more abt him and I know basically everything about him now, I have heard most of his songs by now and in case ur curious my fav song by him is "I just can't stop loving you" and my fav album is Bad (BAD IS BETTER THAN THRILLER CHANGE MY MIND!) and my fav Music Video is Smooth Criminal!

Also with Bowie:

It was like very close to valentines day this year and at the time I HATED Bowie with a passion (idk why cuz I had never even heard a single song by him) and "Starman" Came on the radio and I was like "OMG TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF" and my dad kept saying "you'll love Bowie if you give him a chance" and he was like "Y'know what, imma keep this on cuz you WILL like it" and he was right I guess! 😭

(REBLOG AND TAG MORE PPL U KNOW!)

@ziggy-stardust-is-in-love

@iiiidiotnathanieliii

@leoluvsbilkyjo

@i-heart-music38902

@leoluvsbilkyjo