#'would you like it to appear as itself like it would on a normal fucking website?'

[monstersholygrail]

Your Tiger hybrid bf has always considered you, an adorable little Deer hybrid, his prey. He thought you prey when he first saw you, he knew you were prey when he began courting you, and he successfully completed his hunt once you finally agreed to be his. It was only normal, it was the natural order of things.

To have an unrelenting and never ending need to devour you. It’s what always happens every time you manage to find yourself on his bed and underneath his big, strong, and dominating form. Just like you are now as you writhe and squirm on the soft sheets as your Tiger hybrid bf ravages you.

His prickly tongue setting your every nerve on fire as he fucks your pretty pussy with his mouth, bringing you to orgasm again and again until it’s all swollen and puffy. Making sure to leave an absolute mess of your release between your thighs in his wake.

One would think that would be enough, but no, not to your Tiger hybrid bf. He hasn’t had his fill and you’re still able to keep your eyes open. He isn’t anywhere close to be doing done with you yet.

Briefly lifting off your limp form he presents his cock to you with pride. Smugly watching as you automatically spread your legs wider for him. Still eager even in your exhaustion. Your adorable doe eyes staring up at him through a foggy haze of lust and desire.

With your body so welcoming towards him, he can’t possibly miss the chance to slowly stuff a finger inside your sensitive walls, pushing back your pussy lips so he can relish in your overstimulated hiss. Stretching you out in a way that has your toes curling so he can prepare you for his length.

When your cunt is all ready for him, dripping and clenching around nothing, he finds it in himself to be merciful. Giving into your begging and pleading as he thrusts his cock inside you in one long powerful snap of his hips.

Your body contorting as you arch into the fierce pace he sets, his cock slamming itself inside you with a ferocity that speaks to a predator trying to capture its prey. Loud growls escape his throat as he chases after both his own orgasm and yours as well. A deep satisfaction coursing through him as he sees the effect he has on you.

Cries of pleasure ricochet off the walls as his thick lengths pushes through your tight walls, stimulating every nerve in your body. You’re practically buzzing, pussy pulsating as your orgasm builds. Every clench of your cunt along his length as your Tiger hybrid bf gritting his teeth even more. His fingers finding your clit with ease and you shriek, body jolting and clenching down on him again.

Your Tiger hybrid bf can smell your impending climax, your arousal thick in the air and he purrs as it mixes with his own. His scent marking itself on you. He’s eager to unleash his load deep inside your pussy, make his claim even stronger. Carefully pushing down on your naval it only takes a few more snaps of his hips before your orgasm crashes through you and you scream, squirting your addictive juices all over your bf’s face.

With a primal roar your Tiger hybrid bf cums right after you, slamming himself inside you to the hilt, and making sure you can feel it as his release splashes against your womb. He grinds himself into you, not willing to let out a drop but working you both through your climaxes.

When weak whimpers leave you, the overstimulation setting in, he finally leans back slightly to admire his handy work. Your body splayed out on the bed, positively fucked out and drooling. Eyes closed and so still it would almost appear at a quick glance that you were dead. That he had demolished his beautiful prey as he was meant to.

And he had, in his own way, of course.

[affableramen]

when you slap them

hurt/comfort, established relationship

Wriothesley, Tartaglia, Neuvillette, Pantalone, Ayato, Capitano, Dottore, Alhaitham, Kazuha, Dainsleif, Baizhu

Wriothesley

At first shocked, Wriothesley slowly turns his face towards you. There is an apologetic expression in his eyes. His pride dies out before he admits nonchalantly:

“Fine, I deserved that.”

He leaves you temporarily, assuming that you’d like to not see him for a while. He doesn't know if there’s anything needs to be said.

Tartaglia

“Ow”, he says, dramatically, before turning to face you. His cheek is burning pale crimson, while you’re staring daggers at him.

Tartaglia rubs his wounded face, though his pride is no less wounded, but he is about to forget his pride for a while.

“I mean—okay— I might be a dork. But easy, easy on me!”

Neuvillette

The judge is very principal about what he touches and what touches him, and when you deliver that ruthless slap, that seems to ground him, Neuvillette only sighs exhaustively.

“I predicted that you would disagree. You should know, the thought of misunderstanding with you plagues me enormously. But seeing you ground me like this—I must have said something really abominable.”

Neuvillette doesn't even touch the reddened cheek, he wears your mark on him proudly and unconditionally.

Pantalone

His head is thrown to side as you deliver a harsh slap with dry expression on your face and dreadful precision of your target. In normal occasion, in a flirty interaction between you two, as in pre-relationship, dragging you through his taunting Pantalone would have simply chuckled and stood selfishly with a smug smirk. Yet the circumstances are different now, and his attitude changes as well. He places his gloved hand on his cheek, his eyes shut.

“Of course you would do that”, he gives you a look full of hesitation and apology, but does not say the apology itself outloud. “An amiable little reaction you have.” He walks away, preparing himself to bear with a little crimson mark on his cheek for a while. His face buried into the paperwork as much as possible to prevent his employees from unnecessary curious questions.

Ayato

Ayato lets out a tiny gasp at the slap, which does not guilt you into pitying him, since he has done quite wrong and coldly.

“We shall discuss it later, at the dinner perhaps.” He gives you one last look, full of calculation as he tries to find a hint of frustration in your face, but only finds anger. He bows to you with pristine elegance and retreats to his chambers.

Capitano

“What is the meaning of this, woman?!” You wanted to slap him but the attempt did not go as smoothly as you’d like; Capitano’s thick skin is hard to the touch and your hand appears bruised upon attacking him. Of course he is so strong, almost invincible, you can't even bring justice to him without hurting yourself.

“If you just wanted to call me out, you could speak with your words”, he looks at you, wincing slightly. “But I must admit, the hit was good enough to make me feel punished.”

Dottore

Dottore catches your hand before you can deliver the slap, but you slap him with another one. Loudly gasping, Dottore expresses his utter resentment.

“So bold, little brat. I don't know if I should feel sorry or impressed by your audacity.”

Dottore rubs his cheek with annoyance, not admitting his fault just yet, but muttering a curse under his breath.

“Fuck, it stings.”

Alhaitham

You are the last person he’d expect to be hit by, however the motivation of your doing is clear for the both of you.

“Fine. Shouldn't have said so, shouldn’t have”, Alhaitham raises his apologetic, ashamed eyes and finds you walking away. “But don’t go now. I insist you talk to me first.”

Kazuha

Kazuha’s cheek is reddened upon your slap and he bears with the sting nobly. For a few seconds he doesn't say anything, giving the heated ambience between you two way to cool down.

You sigh heavily, realising how rarely it is you are tempted to punish him. The misunderstandings between you are not a regular occurrence, but even such amiable man like Kazuha may be insufferable sometimes. 

“Look, I’m sorry. Okay?” He takes just one step towards you, his face calm but soft at the same time. “Whenever you are unhappy with my decisions, let’s talk them out. No violence next time.”

Dainsleif

He grits his teeth and groans. Dainsleif is not used to be shown disobedience, more so — having been humiliated like this. He felt fury bubbling inside him, almost like lava rushing through his veins. He wants to grab you by your neck and make you fall on your knees, not even dreaming of putting him into inferior position like that. But Dainsleif suffers and lets his anger subside.

“Don’t start something you don’t know consequences of.”

You give him one more irritated look and leave, Dainsleif slowly coming to realisation that, perhaps, he indeed said something too stupid.

Baizhu

A silent groan escapes pharmacist’s lips as you slap him over the conflict. He touches his cheek, giving you nothing but regretful look. The look is full of apology and insult, even. In the depths of his heart, he might have hoped that you’d spare him and solve the conflict more reasonably. But you are brought to the point of completely hitting him, which makes Baizhu think that the conflict was inevitable.

“I will be on reception, should you ever need me.”

[steventhusiast]

modern au where eddie and robin are roommates and steve is italian <3

-

eddie has always known that his roommate robin is in the US for college, but grew up in and is from italy. sure, sometimes he forgets, because she somehow has a near-perfect american accent and also speaks two other languages, but he’s always known.

and for the past year and a bit, he’s known how much robin wants her best friend stevie to come visit. she talks about them all the time, and ever since she and eddie moved out of the dorms and into an apartment together for their next year of university a month ago, he’s known stevie is going to come and visit.

he just kind of forgot the exact day stevie would be arriving.

so when he, clad in nothing but his garfield pyjama pants and a metallica t-shirt that’s falling apart, walks into the kitchen one morning and sees someone he doesn’t know at the kitchen counter fiddling with their instant coffee machine, he almost shits himself.

luckily, he doesn’t, because he remembers in that split second that stevie was due to arrive last night. but he still flinches pretty hard at the fright and grabs for the nearest grabbable thing, which turns out to be the doorframe. somehow, he makes a noise loud enough to get the mystery person’s attention, and they turn around.

holy shit. eddie did not know stevie is hot. or that stevie’s actually a guy. he kind of just assumed, with the nickname and all? but the man standing there looks like he could’ve been carved by the gods eddie doesn’t believe in, and- eddie realises he’s been staring at the guy for a few seconds now, and decides to talk like a normal human being. he first adjusts his position so he’s no longer holding onto the archway of the kitchen for support, and smiles at the guy.

“hi, you must be stevie?” he offers, and stevie takes a few seconds to process his words before nodding with a smile.

“my name is steve. robbie just is… hm, silly?”

eddie blinks a couple times, because steve has an accent. a thick one. he should’ve expected that, because- hello? they’re both literally from italy. but it catches him off guard, and adds to steve’s hot factor. why didn’t robin warn him about this.

“yeah, robin is very silly.” he agrees with a chuckle, and then realises steve might not know him, “i’m eddie. robin’s roommate. you probably knew that already though, so now i probably look like an idiot. well- more of an idiot than i already do in these clothes…”

he lets his words trail off as he realises steve is frowning at him in subtle confusion. he’s picked up robin’s rambling-when-nervous habit over their friendship, and hot guys tend to make him pretty nervous. but then he realises maybe steve isn’t as fluent in english as robin is, and even if he is eddie’s a fast talker that doesn’t always pronounce things fully.

“i am sorry,” steve looks embarrassed, “my english is not as good as robin.”

eddie feels so guilty at the pink that’s made itself known on steve’s cheeks, and shakes his head immediately.

“no! you don’t need to be sorry. i just talk a lot when i’m nervous.” he confesses. why did he say that? now steve knows he’s nervous. or does he? maybe he didn’t catch his full sentence.

steve raises one eyebrow at eddie though, and one side of his mouth quirks up into a smile as he turns around to keep trying to make himself a cup of coffee.

“i am making you nervous? why?” steve asks, his back still turned. now eddie’s the one with red cheeks. dammit.

“it’s because eddie here thinks you’re hot, stevie.”

eddie’s flinch at robin’s magical appearance behind him is somehow more spectacular than earlier, and he clutches dramatically at his heart and spins around to glare at robin.

“robin! what the fuck, man!” he yelps when he realises what she’s said. but robin isn’t listening, she’s too busy speaking to steve in italian about who knows what.

probably about how she knows all eddie’s tells for when he finds a guy attractive and how she knows eddie’s type and steve checks every single box. or, eddie squints at the pair as robin tsks at steve and takes over manning the coffee machine, maybe robin’s just telling steve how to make a coffee with the machine?

“you think i am…” steve starts as he spins around to look at eddie, and seems to be searching for a word for a few moments, “attractive?”

eddie’s eyes widen, and then he sighs and fixes a glare on robin. robin just shrugs and makes a very insincere ‘oopsie’ expression, and eddie is about to start denying like his life depends on it, but he looks back at steve.

and steve has that blush back on his face, and a tiny smile, and he’s looking eddie up and down even in his ridiculous outfit.

“um, yes.” eddie practically squeaks, not used to having someone’s eyes on him like this.

steve says something to robin in italian that sounds like it ends with a question mark, and robin rolls her eyes.

“steve wants me to translate a pick up line he wants to use on you, but i literally refuse to do that. google translate is free.”

and with that, she leaves the kitchen.

[endereies]

PATCH UP - MS

No Nut November - Day 14

NNN Masterlist...

-➤ Chris comes home after a bad deal and you take care of him

“What the fuck happened!”

The words left your mouth as soon as you noticed blood. The vibrancy stood out around his eyes as it slowly trickled down his forehead, an obvious cut just below his hair line. That wasn’t the worst of it. Several bruised knuckles were placed on each hand, the colour varying over the spectrum. It got to the point that you weren’t sure if it was just his own blood. Red patches were dotting his skin and when his hand clutched his stomach when he breathed too deeply, could you blame yourself for panicking.

“Baby, before yo-“ Too late.

“Chris. Are you okay? What happened? Who did this?” He had to grip your shoulders, his stern eyes watching yours shake and scatter over his injuries.

“I know. It looks bad… it was just a deal gone wrong.” He took a strong breath, trying to show his calmness but it only made his stomach flex tightly. “Is that meant to make me feel better.”

“Well… it was.” His arms remained tense on your arms, and you weren’t sure if it was to keep you calm or to keep him stable, either way he didn’t stop.

“Let me see.” You tone hardened when you saw his face contort in pain. “Chris.”

When he held eye contact with you, it was enough to weaken his revolve. You tried not to focus on the heavy panting and rather on his body, more specifically, his stomach. He pulled his shirt up and over his head, dropping his arms as soon as they were free. Immediately, your spine hunched to get face to face with the injury. The skin was heavily discoloured and blemished to appear a undeniable red shade. It was bigger than most injuries you’ve seen him come home with, stretching from his ribs to v-line. Youd normally worship this skin and how it was blemished beyond belief.

“Fine, my ass.” Before he could deny anything, you grabbed his wrist and pulled him to the kitchen, glaring at the counter top that you wanted him to sit on.

Chris would normally deny anything and hide it behind a smile but when it was shoving itself directly in your eyesight, he knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

The first aid kit wasn’t far behind you. It slammed on the counter beside him, and you opened it to grab antiseptic. After dabbing it a few times on a cotton bud, Chris knew what was next. If he thought that the initial hit to the head hurt, that was nothing compared to this sting. A sharp intake of air barely hid a wince each time you moved it around his cut. It was swollen and warm to the touch, the open wound allowing the occasional drop of blood to seep through. You took this time to clean up that blood that had spilled past his eye.

It almost became a weekly habit of yours, cleaning his blood. Once the pain subsided, he always just let you work, no longer whining like a toddler anymore.

“You know I can take care of myself, right?” He scoffed at your behaviour before you silenced him with a hand on his chin. Your wrist flexed as you made him face you.

“If that were true, you wouldn’t have gotten into this mess.”

“Not m’fault they hate price changes.” With a click of his tongue, it was easy to see that his feisty attitude was back. Not that you missed it. “I told ‘em prices were higher, and they threw a hissy fit.”

He seemed a little too proud of himself for causing a physical altercation, but your hard glare made him swallow his words. “Sorry.”

“You’re lucky I care about you, Chris. Or this would be another story.”

“Yeah, like my lil’ personal doctor, hm?” He leaned in to kiss your cheek, careful to not get blood over you. Your own resolve weakened at his action, and you leant into it.

“Mhm, your doctor is one way to put it.”

@melliflws @yuhayeee @st7rnioioss @sturn-bugz @bueckerrss @worldlxvlys @raysmayhem-72 @patscorner @y0urm4m @bernardsbendystraws @junnniiieee07 @luverboychris @jnkvivi @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @shorthairchris @colorthecosmos444 @anabethinking @zay-sturns @anyaa2s @emilyfaith2003 @jassturn @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @sturniolosiphone @ribread03 @slutf4rmatt @spaghetti835928383

© ENDEREIES 2024

[nariism]

wherever you are, wherever you may be — i. rin

soulmates (name au) + "i'm done waiting."

synopsis. itoshi rin meets you under a sky full of fireworks. he spends the next 6 years of his life trying to convince himself that he doesn't love you. you spend the next 6 years giving him every reason why he should.

wc. 12.4k (i need to close my eyes and sleep for a while)

notes. huge thank you to ellie (@hyomagiri) and mari (@saetoshi) for helping me with this 🥹 this fic actually put me through it and i'm so grateful to both of them for their support 💗

— for my beloved @ode2rin 💐 | event masterlist ✉️

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2024

Every year on the seventh day of the seventh month, Itoshi Rin finds himself standing at the daunting entrance to his local shrine.

The tradition is completely beneath him—something childish that he grumbles about under his breath despite letting you drag him all the way out here with soft eyes watching your smile.

Tanabata is the festival of stars. Of love.

It is a story his mother used to whisper to him as they watched the night sky in awe, pretending that the galaxy was collapsing in on itself to allow for a romantic midnight rendezvous between two lovers.

It’s something far too sappy for his liking.

But the food is okay, he supposes, and it’s a good opportunity to get out of the house and spend time with you which he seldom has time to do now that he’s back in his training season.

There were too many things about it that he loathed: the screaming children that would bump into his legs; the way his ears would stay ringing for days after the festival ended; how you could always convince him to come as if you were some sort of hypnotic devil in disguise, and how thoroughly wounded his pride would be at that fact.

However, his least favourite part of the festival by far is writing down his wish for the year on a scrap piece of paper and hanging it around a bamboo tree. One, because he can never for the life of him think of anything meaningful to wish for. And two, because he isn’t sure he even believes in that sort of thing.

Rin is struggling again this year, pencil lightly scratching his temple as he thinks.

He’s painfully aware that he’s never put so much thought into this before, but you seemed so excited to come all the way here before heading to the festivities that he couldn’t possibly let you down.

His wish dawns on him then, something he wants to do before the next time he makes the climb all the way back up here 365 days from now.

“Hey,” your voice calls out quietly. “What did you wish for?”

“What did you wish for?” Rin quickly refutes.

You cast your narrowed eyes from the side, tilting your little slip of yellow paper away from him.

“Only if I get to see yours first.”

Normally, he would give in to you right away. His resolve when it comes to you is embarrassingly weak. But there’s no way for him to explain himself. No way he could show you the words he’s written lest he hurt his ego.

He stubbornly folds up the piece of paper and shoves your face away. All you do is laugh and he feels terribly warm.

“No peeking,” he tells you when you kiss across his fingertips.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2018

A name appeared for Itoshi Rin when he turned thirteen years old.

He remembers the day well—it was hard to forget, anyway. As much as he wanted to focus on the burning of the name etching its way down his skin, he couldn’t. Not when he was blinking snow out of his lashes and watching his brother’s retreating back.

Rin likes to think that the universe fucks with him in any way that it can.

Maybe he had done something terrible in his past life and this was its karmic retribution, or maybe he was just unlucky.

What he does know is this: the name on his pinky only reminds him of all the things he ever lost.

Every syllable struck needles into his heart—a painful memory of crawling after the tracks of the wheels Sae left behind with his luggage until gravel and ice were stuck under his nails. Or worse, the clawing of his throat as they sat across from each other at dinner—the way he didn't even smile when Rin announced to his parents that his soulmate mark had appeared while his mother cried out in joy.

In fact, Sae didn’t talk to him for the rest of his visit. He remembers that hurt the most.

The name had haunted him for all the remaining years of his life—a forced memory that he wished he could forget. There came with it a feeling of loneliness that crushed him despite the proof on his pinky that there was another soul wandering the earth that would fix him.

He refused to believe it.

Only revenge would fix him. Only proving himself better would heal the cracks in his heart. Only beating Sae. Sae, Sae, Sae. His brother’s name had been repeated so many times that it was easy to ignore the other burning his skin.

In all those years he found it easy to cast aside his soulmate. To ignore it even if it hurt.

So he wonders why it’s so bad tonight.

He’s done everything he could think of: slathering cooling ointment down his finger to stop the searing, wrapping it in a cast to prevent himself from admiring it for too long, even tying a wish to a piece of bamboo hoping it would disappear.

A finger snaps in front of his face, drawing his attention to his teammates in front of him. Both look equally amused.

“You’re dreaming,” Isagi muses. “You’ve been spacing out all night. Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” Rin mutters, swatting his teammate’s hand away from him. He had been staring again, longingly eyeing the way the letters danced down his skin. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“None of your business.”

“Yeesh, it’s not good to keep things bottled up, you know?”

“You’re annoying,” Rin glowers before it melts back into indifference. “I’m fine,” he reiterates.

Isagi seems unconvinced, as he usually is when Rin is being mysteriously vague about what’s on his mind. He and Bachira share a tentative glance before sighing and shaking their heads.

“Well… okay,” he finally yields. “We’re going to get some snacks before the fireworks start. If you’re going to sulk then at least stay put and do it here so we can find you again.”

“Yeah,” Rin grumbles, already making an escape plan. “Whatever. Will do.”

As soon as the boys are out of sight, he turns heel and hurries away. The crowd is driving him crazy and he needs somewhere quiet so he can stare at his hands until his eyes are dry.

He comes to a pond situated just outside of the festival grounds, deep water glimmering under the moon and the passing lanterns.

Plopping down on the bench, he hunches over onto his knees with his elbows and takes a deep breath. It instead comes shallow, as if someone has just punched him in the gut. 

It’s then that he realizes he’s not alone.

Your yukata is muddy, fabric soaked and dripping at the sleeves though you don’t seem to care or even notice. You look frustrated for some reason, lip curled into a concentrated frown while you plunge your hands into the mud around the edge of the water.

Away from the crowds of people, he can hear the summer song of cicadas chirping all around. Your hands dip in and out of the water, quiet splashes filling the rest of the silence on top of the distant buzz of children laughing.

It’s just you and him. Something primal inside of him rages, pounding against his chest until it feels like he’s suffocating.

Run. Run. Run.

His legs jerk, urging him to stand up and leave, but he feels glued down to the bench—tethered where he sits and forced to watch you repeatedly sink your hands into the muddy waters.

No more than five minutes must pass as you both ignore each other, yet it feels like an eternity stretches by. 

Finally, you pipe up.

“You’re scaring them,” you tell him plainly.

His head whips in your direction at your voice, soft and careful. His teal eyes narrow at you. “Huh?”

Your frown deepens, turning to look at him with your hands still submerged. “The frogs.”

“Come again?”

“Your vibes. It’s scaring the frogs away.”

His eye twitches.

“Ever consider that you’re just dogshit at catching them?”

“Excuse me?”

“And look at you, making a total mess of yourself. Don’t you care that you have to go home looking like that?” He presses, leering at you like an insect he’s about to crush under his heel. You simply stare at him, expression blank.

Huffing, you tear away from him and sink your hands beneath the mud. “No. I don’t.”

He watches in silence as you sift around for a moment before pulling your hands up, a smile slowly morphing into your face.

“I got one…” You breathe, looking more elated than he thinks you should. “I really caught one.”

“First time?” He quips sarcastically. A part of him wonders why he hasn’t gotten up and left you altogether yet.

“Cut me some slack,” you complain, eyeing him from the side again. You gently run a finger along the back of the frog, trying not to scare it away. “I haven’t done this in forever.”

“Clearly.”

You snort. “Yeah. Clearly.”

Rin looks at you quizzically, puzzled at your sudden change in demeanor. You seem… softer. Less agitated, at the very least. You’re gazing at the frog adoringly, as if it had somehow solved all of your problems and was dragging you into another world.

Any retort he had ready to shoot at you dies in his mouth. The anger rising in his chest extinguishes in the blink of an eye, and a deep hush settles over you as he watches in curiosity.

For a moment, the universe goes quiet. He’s gotten so used to having everything on his mind all at once that the silence is almost unnerving.

He once believed that his world would end with an injury that never healed quite right, or when he was too old for any team to want him.

He once believed that his world would end when he could no longer imagine the feel of a ball between his palms.

He once believed that his world would end the day he couldn’t play football anymore—that the only thing that would ever kill him was if the chance of standing alongside his brother died with him.

But he was wrong.

Itoshi Rin’s world ends with the bellow of a firework.

In a few years, he would think of this stretch of a few seconds fondly. He would squeeze you a little tighter with his chin resting on your shoulder, staring up at a colourful sky. He would think it was poetic, in a way, that you were the one who painted his world in the same hues of shimmering gold.

Rin remembers, though, that only one thought had crossed his mind.

I’m so screwed.

He can see every fine detail of your face, illuminated in all the colours of the rainbow. And he can’t help but think you are the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. He can trace each intricate curve of your nose to your chin to the surprised parting of your lips; the way your lashes flutter as you blink rapidly, tensed from the sudden explosion.

The light fades faster than it appeared, yet it feels like a millennium has passed. The reverbing echo of the firework crackles across the sky, thundering in his ears so loud that he can feel it pounding in his chest.

(Or is that his heart? He can’t tell. He feels dizzy.)

Darkness envelops your bodies again, save for the dim glow of distant lanterns. Every part of you is seared into his memory, a floating image when he blinks.

The frog leaps from your hands back into the water, leaving nothing but ripples behind.

You stay there with your hands outstretched, looking lonely under the dark sky. Another one goes off above your heads, signalling the start of the display.

“There you are, Rin!” Bachira and Isagi come rushing over from the path, excited smiles and mirth bubbling in their laughs as they approach. “We thought you went home without us already!”

Rin slowly blinks out of his reverie. For a second, he glances in your direction again just to catch your eyes. 

“I almost did,” he grumbles, forcing himself not to stare.

“Fireworks are starting!” Isagi yanks Rin to his feet and begins dragging him away before he can even protest.

Without turning around, he can feel the weight of your eyes in the back of his head. There’s an unfamiliar ache in his chest, and the name etched down his pinky burns infinitely hot.

Later at home, he stares at the spot where Sae used to sit back when he still came to Japan for anything other than to take a new passport photo.

“My soulmate’s name showed up,” he had mumbled that night to break the tense silence. It was strange that he still felt like he owed his brother that much—to make his visit as normal as possible despite having his heart carved open.

Sae only looked at him blankly, spoon halting just above his bowl. He was eerily still, quietly deciding how to react. Then,

“Good for you,” he said. And nothing more.

Rin squeezes his eyes shut and he feels warmth rolling down his cheeks. He quickly wipes the tears away, pretending as if they never existed.

He spends the rest of the night trying to forget your face.

(And the next year trying to recreate it in his dreams.)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2019

Rin makes it another 275 days before he finally remembers every piece of the puzzle that is your existence.

He saw you in his sleep. The back of your head, anyway.

You were sitting in his favourite café, at the table he claimed for himself right by the window. You ordered a coffee but let it sit for so long that the ice melted. Then, you wiped up the condensation rolling down the frosty glass with your finger.

Rin watched you from afar, observing you the way he wished he did last summer.

Maybe then he could have dived deep into the recesses of his brain to remember why exactly you struck him so. But there he was, stuck watching the back of your head as you gazed out the window.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your fingers drummed mindlessly against the wooden table, reciting a rhythm just slightly louder than the pounding of his own heart. 

“Can you leave me alone?” He finally called out, hoping it would stop your incessant beating.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“You’re annoying me,” he hissed. Annoying for disturbing his peace and quiet. Annoying for plaguing his dreams even after all these days.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Seriously,” he grunted, standing up from his seat so fast that the chair scraped horribly against the wooden floor. Still, you didn’t pay him any mind, instead more interested in the faceless people walking by. “Knock it off!”

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

He bit the inside of his cheek in hesitation, the itch in the back of his mind ever present. “What’s your name?”

Silence.

You finally turned his way. Slowly. Agonizingly slow.  And Rin was right—you were still so beautiful, 275 days later.

Grinning at him big and bright, you almost seemed to collapse in on yourself with joy. Like a star about to implode, or maybe more akin to a firework.

Either way, his breath was stolen from him.

You silently mouthed your name, making sure he saw every vowel and accentuated syllable. Warmth flooded him in every way—probably brought on by the racing of his heart.

It was impossible that his soulmate was someone like this. Someone whose smile looked like it could heal even the deepest wounds.

You grabbed his attention again with a big wave of the arms, and he watched in anticipation.

“You’re—”

Rin followed your mouth as you sounded out the words without a voice.

“—smiling!”

He reached up to run his fingers along his bottom lip. And you were right, he realized, as he traced it midway up his cheek.

(When did he start smiling?)

(Why?)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Rin thinks about you just as much in the waking world as he does in his dreams.

It’s spring, though snow is still settled over the eaves of homes that he passes on the way to the grocery store. Apparently the winter cold is supposed to be especially long and bitter this year, permeating until mid-May.

He stares at his feet as they mark the virgin snow, decorating his sneakers white and making his feet cold.

Did you walk through the same snow this morning?

Then, when he’s going through the motion of smelling the bottom of pineapples at the store:

Do you like pineapple? What if you’re allergic?

(He shakes his head and puts them away. He suddenly isn’t craving it.)

His obsession with you has only intensified as the year has gone on. If you ever peered into his mind, he would receive a well-deserved slap across the face.

The soulmate mark engraved down his pinky has never bothered him so badly.

It’s like you’re constantly with him—a ghost haunting him, or perhaps more like a curse. Thinking about you takes up unnecessary space in his head. Space that should be dedicated to football, and football only.

He's about to go home so he can make a list outlining the ways he can forget about you.

(Ironic, he knows, but in all honesty he already exhausted all of his options from his first list.)

But then he comes to a stop outside of his favourite café. It looks the same, even has the same advertisements plastered in the window as the last time he was here.

He hesitates at the door, but when he walks in it smells the same. It's decorated the same. Not a single table is out of place.

He walks up to his regular spot, runs his fingers along the wood where he remembers you tapping in his dream.

There's no sign of your existence here.

Rin shakes his head in annoyance, cursing himself out in his head because he was stupid enough to think he would run into you here.

Then disappointment floods his body, like a dam had been released in his chest and it's flowing unstoppably to every piece of him.

(Wait, why is he disappointed? He really needs to take a nap.)

He runs his hand through his hair as a nervous reflex, simultaneously relieved and irritated that you're nowhere to be seen.

It takes him a minute to recollect himself, to realize that he probably looks like a crazy person just standing beside an empty table like a lost child who doesn't know where to go, and decides to just go home.

He pulls into the line to get a drink for his walk home when—

"Thanks!"

His heart drops.

You waltz out of the back, tying your apron around your waist as you exchange spots in the break room with one of your coworkers.

Rin is about to die, seriously. You must be new here, since he's been to this café more times than he can count and he's never seen you before. Or was it that he was specifically looking out for you this time?

Whatever the reason, he's dumbfounded.

“Hey,” your acknowledgment makes him freeze in his spot. “Frog guy?”

He looks at you stupidly, rubbing his eyes like a cartoon character as if he’s imagining you standing right in front of him.

His gaze drifts down to your name tag, fresh and newly printed with white marker. Signed at the end is a little flower, petals swirled into tiny hearts.

Your existence before him is undeniable.

"Um. Yeah," he sputters in disbelief.

"I..." You clear your throat, looking as bewildered as he feels. "I didn't think I'd see you again."

'You're my soulmate. Of course we'd run into each other,' he thinks to himself. Out loud, though:

"Yeah. Me neither."

The person behind him in line coughs quietly, impatiently tapping their foot. Rin takes the hint and quietly tells you what he wants. You lean in across the counter to hear him better, and his face grows warm.

Once you fill in the boxes on the cup, you place it down and move it to the side for someone to fill. It catches his eye immediately.

Itoshi Rin is scribbled neatly down the side of his cup.

“How did you...?”

You awkwardly shift in your spot, evidently embarrassed as you fiddle with the strings of your apron. Then, with your own hands.

“W-Well…”

His eyes dare to drop down to where your thumb is nervously slathering up and down the name on your pinky.

“Oh.”

"Sorry, I just figured—"

"It's fine," he interrupts. Your mouth snaps shut.

Tense silence stretches thin in the air, ready to shatter at any moment. But for some reason, he feels as though he's choking on nothing.

You fumble over the emptiness, quickly snatching up the cup to make his drink yourself after deciding it's too awkward to just stand there.

He watches you in a daze, half shaken and half in awe. Never in a million years would he have thought a dream would lead him back to you.

When you turn back around with a full cup, you look equally stunned. 

“Itoshi—”

“Rin. It’s just Rin.”

You look at him in surprise, lashes fluttering rapidly as you let it sink in.

It's not your fault. You don't know that it's a sore spot that he just so happens to share the same last name with the person he despises most in the world.

It's not your fault that he has a quick temper and his voice raises slightly, enough to make you flinch back just a tiny bit.

And it's definitely not your fault that it stings so much—that he had expected you to speak to him as if you'd already known him for a lifetime and not as if you were just two strangers looking at each other from across a bar counter.

“O-Okay," you take a deep breath, cheeks puffed out and expression unreadable.

You slide the cup across the counter and he catches it in his hand.

He debates whether or not he should say more, like apologize for snapping at you. But then someone calls you by your name, and the way it rolls so beautifully off their tongue catches him off guard.

"Sorry. See you, Rin," you smile sweetly. Maybe a little awkwardly, a small step toward the one he dreamed about. And his heart is set in motion.

Rin decides that today won't be the day.

Another day, he'll be brave enough to crack a joke so dry that you try and scrub his name off your skin. And another day, he will ask for your number because, yeah, you might be the most alluring person he's ever met.

As he turns to take his leave after just staring at the spot you were standing in for a solid few seconds, he can hear some of the other baristas clamouring for you.

He doesn't want to look. Really, honestly, he doesn't. 

But he does anyway.

It's just a quick glance over his shoulder—nothing more than a fleeting moment as he takes the chance to look at you one more time.

Those two seconds is all it takes for him to realize just how much trouble he's in.

You're laughing big and toothy, waving your hand in front of your face dismissively as your coworkers poke fun at how flustered you are. Then your hands are clasped over your stomach and you've doubled down a little in your awkward fit.

His heart has never beat so loud in his own ears.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Itoshi Rin used to smile just for the sake of smiling, once upon a time.

He had aunties who would pinch him by the cheek and fawn over him, cooing about how he looked just like his mother. How his face would cherub and the apples of his cheeks were bright red. Even when he grew out of his baby face, people would tell him how wonderful his smile was.

Sae rarely ever smiled, so it was something exclusive. He never felt like he was standing in his shadow. It was special—the kind of praise only one Itoshi would know.

Rin has forgotten how to smile like that.

He smiles to be polite to his family, if ever. Even then, it's not like he owes them that much. At some point, it became too much effort. And he had no reason to do it.

It was always a tiny thought bothering him in the back of his mind:

I'll never meet my soulmate if I'm always scowling like this.

He thought that was what he wanted, anyway. He wouldn't need to worry about running into his soulmate if no one ever looked his way. If everyone feared him enough not to spare him a second glance.

He doubts everything he ever thought as he sits on the edge of his bed staring at his desk.

It's lit up by a single lamp, shining down on his empty coffee cup like a spotlight opened up by the heavens themselves.

Your phone number is written just below his name.

Rin had almost tossed it into the trash without a second thought earlier in the day. He would have, if it weren't for the loose dog that blitzed by him and made him drop it.

Fate just loves to mess with him.

He picked it up and his thumb had stopped over the number. It was written so small, as if you had wanted him to miss it. Or perhaps you wanted to test destiny yourself—to see if the planets would align and he would discover your seven digits there for him to find.

And now he's home. He's been home, just looking. Contemplating. Stressing.

He migrates from the edge of the bed and settles into his desk chair. Then he gets up, moves back to the bed, and flops down. An endless cycle, back and forth, pushing and pulling.

Rin plops down onto his desk seat and sighs in frustration, ruffling his hair around before his forehead slams into the table.

Every part of his mind screams at him to stop. To toss the cup away and forget today ever happened. His head raises from his arms and he stares at the set of numbers illuminated on the paper, taunting him. 

Finally, he exhales through his nose, sitting up straight and reaching for the cup to toss. His fingers delicately brush along your phone number.

“So dumb…” He huffs, eventually finding his phone instead and opening his contacts.

It’s nearly midnight. He tries to imagine your face as you wait by your phone for a message from him, that stupidly hopeful glimmer in your eyes, and he feels sick to his stomach as he sends it.

Rin: hey. it’s rin.

He throws his phone down on the desk again, screen down so he can’t cringe at himself. A few minutes pass in complete silence as he sulks.

He considers that you may have gone to bed already, or you were offended by the fact that he ignored your offer to connect all day and instantly blocked him. Maybe you thought he never saw your number at all.

Then his phone buzzes. His body moves on autopilot, snatching it up faster than he can realize what he’s doing. He’s halfway through the embarrassing thought that he just immediately read your message after you sent it as your text sinks in.

Unknown: hi! it’s great to hear from you ヾ(〃^∇^)ﾉ

Unknown: i was starting to think you were never gonna text lol

Rin: i wasn’t

He chews his lip for a moment before quickly following up:

Rin: but i changed my mind. just cause.

Unknown: hahaha got it got it. ‘just cause’ (˘◡˘)

Unknown: rin

Unknown: wait nvm

Unknown: whatever

Unknown: rin

Rin: what

Unknown: let’s get coffee ^ ^

He stares at the screen in disbelief, watching the typing bubble pop up and disappear again and again. He can imagine again what kind of smile you must have on your face right now, or maybe you look flustered, or maybe this all means nothing to you at all and this is your way of being polite.

Regardless of the reason, he eventually types out his response.

Rin: ok

Christ, he’s so tepid.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2020

He comes to memorize every part of you, like how the sun kisses the horizon and the moon knows the tides.

Intimately, almost—if he didn’t overthink the way your touch lingered on him he could easily ignore the way it made his heart pound in his ears.

Rin learns the feeling of your fingers against his skin as you compress an ice pack to his knee. He knows your laugh—can pick apart sarcasm from genuine cheer unlike most other people he encounters. He’s never been good at reading people yet for some reason you’ve become an open book for him. 

It’s not fair that you’ve ensnared him this way, that he can’t seem to run from you (because his favourite coffee is from your café and he can’t be bothered to find a new place). That he finds himself instinctively reaching over to his phone when he can’t sleep (he has to make sure his alarms are on, might as well text you goodnight while he’s at it). And you’ve become annoyingly comfortable (he doesn’t have an excuse for this one—your lap is just conveniently a very nice place to rest his head).

He must be an open book, too.

At some point he probably stopped trying to hide his growing feelings for you, though you either didn’t notice his sudden shift or you didn’t care.

Vulnerability has never been a part of Rin, even before Itoshi Sae ruined his life.

He despises how you so easily pry him apart, skinning him alive with your hand lathering down his chest as you laugh. 

Still, he’s grown accustomed to your fingers stringing through his hair, to the way your head tilts when he explains football plays to you, to the obvious way you fluster when he attempts (poorly) at flirting with you.

He’s gotten especially fond of the way you meet him at the end of his practices with such sweet, wandering hands—pushing the hair stuck to his forehead from sweat away from his eyes; using a towel to wipe up his neck; the squeeze you give his palms as you examine them to see if there are any new cuts and bruises.

Usually, he’s the epitome of confidence in his plays. Today, however, his cheeks burn as you approach him with the same honeyed smile.

“My shots were shoddy,” he admits before you can even get a word out. You only raise a brow, hands faltering in front of you. “That was lame.”

“I think you’re good.”

“Good,” he frowns. “But not great?”

“The greatest,” you quickly correct yourself, smiling at his cravings for praise. You’re armed with a fresh towel like you always are, reaching up to clean his face as if it’s the only thing you were born to do.

He relishes in your gentle touch, peering at you through his lashes while you prattle on about how amazing he was even though he missed half of his shots.

You were so blindly supportive, it sickens him. 

Not because he felt you were being disingenuous, but because he’s not deserving of your praise. 

For the first time in a long time, it feels as though his soul is disconnected from his body. He used to walk the earth this way—uninterested in his surroundings and obsessed with only one thing.

Itoshi Sae. Itoshi Sae. Itoshi Sae.

Suddenly, he’s thirteen again and gasping for air; screaming into his pillow and trashing their shared awards until his mother comes rushing in to stop him. He’s alone in a field, abandoned and crushed.

It’s not like he’d never lost before, even in front of you. Loss was just a part of football as much as he hated it.

But your praise only makes his stomach turn, because he knows you mean it.

You truly do believe he’s the best, when really he’s been futile in his attempts to catch up with the big brother he admired so much as a kid.

“Stop,” he gently interrupts.

Rin tries to use his hair to hide the wetness of his eyes, with little success. You can see right through him, unfortunately. It’s a talent he wishes you didn’t have.

“Rin?” You say softly, reaching up to brush the hair out of the way. He doesn’t try and back up or swat your hand away, instead letting you see his miserable expression. You sigh quietly, looking more exasperated than surprised.

“Sorry,” he mutters halfheartedly.

You shake your head. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Shame boils in his stomach at your reassurance. There is something to apologize for. Here you are, supporting him with all your heart, and all he can think about is his stupid brother. How he’ll never catch up. How he’ll never be good enough.

Doesn’t your kindness warrant his attention at the very least?

“Come on,” you tug at his hand. “Let’s get you a pick-me-up.”

Rin abides silently, body following yours off the field and onto the streets though his mind has floated off elsewhere.

He tries to count how many steps you take in between the field and the destination, but loses count somewhere around three hundred. Then he moves on to counting the hairs on the back of your head. He loses count at one hundred. Eventually, he gives up and opts for staring at your conjoined hands while he lags behind.

When you come to a halt, he nearly bumps into your back.

The ringing in his ears stops as he blinks at his surroundings. Waves crash against the shore of the sandbank, singing the song of the ocean. It had been so long since Rin walked down this stretch of the shore, he almost forgot what the sea looked like.

“Wait here,” you urge as you hold him by the shoulders then disappear around the corner.

He collapses at the wall separating land from sea, swinging his legs under the railings to sit comfortably as he remembers doing when he was a kid. His gym bag is abandoned behind him, cleats and all.

When you return, you shove a popsicle into his hand.

He’s confused at first, just looking absently at the packaging. It must be for a concerning amount of time, because you eventually pipe up.

“Do you need me to open it for you?”

Rin glares at you and your teasing smile. Carefully, he unpackages the treat and pops it in his mouth.

Sweetness melts over his tongue and he exhales sharply through his nose. You watch him in amusement with your own treat stuck in your mouth.

Silence engulfs you, eating Rin from the inside out until he feels ill. He holds his half-eaten popsicle in front of him, watching it melt down his hand.

You stare at him for a second before nudging him lightly with your elbow.

“I was being serious. You were really good. I can’t even imagine playing like you do.”

Rin’s stomach turns. The last thing he wants is your pity.

“You don’t have to be so nice,” he mumbles, resting his chin on the railing. “42 percent.”

“42 percent?” You echo, peering over the railing to get a better look at his face.

“The percent of shots I made today.”

“Come on,” you urge gently. “Aren’t you being too hard on yourself?”

“If I’m not hard on myself, I’ll never—” he stops, choking lightly on his spit. When you don’t interrupt, he shoves the popsicle back in his mouth. “Whatever. You wouldn't get it.”

It’s quiet again, save for the crashing of waves upon rock. Rin thinks for a moment that maybe he had gone too far, or that his little meltdown had freaked you out.

But when he finally dares to look at you again, you’re smiling.

“Maybe not,” you admit with a whisper. “But I do know this…” You reach over and cup his cheek with your free hand, thumb sweeping the expanse of his cheek soothingly. “There is no one—and I mean no one—who works harder than you do.”

He swallows thickly, subconsciously nudging his face a little further into your palm.

“You deserve to be a little kinder to yourself.”

The way his heart catches in his throat is strange. He can’t describe it. The warmth in his belly is foreign, but it’s pleasant.

For the first time in the year he’s gotten to know you, the thought crosses his mind:

I think I’m in love with you.

Rin’s mouth opens with the idea, but he forces it shut just as fast.

Fear grips his lungs and squeezes, stealing his air and forcing him to pull away from your touch.

“Okay,” he breathes in resignation.

You seem stunned by his sudden retreat, smile faltering ever so slightly. But you recover quickly, hugging yourself as you slouch over the railing.

Conversation moves on just like that. He appreciated that about you, too. He never had to dwell.

It feels nice, everything about this; to have his legs dangling over the edge of the cement, feet barely ghosting over the surface of the water; to have a popsicle melting between his teeth while he listens to you talk.

For some reason, it feels as though he’s reclaiming lost time, reliving a moment he thought he would never have again.

When he checks his popsicle stick, it tells him he’s a winner for the first time since he was thirteen.

(He finally allows himself to believe it when your knee gently knocks into his.)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2021

“Frog cotton candy?”

“Frog shaped cotton candy,” Rin corrects, peering around the giant fluff of candy to look at you quizzically.

“Yeah,” you giggle. “But why?”

He grumbles quietly, cheeks a soft shade of pink as he shoves the treat into your hands.

“I thought you’d like it. Nevermind,” he deadpans, turning around to toss it into the garbage.

Your laugh crescendos and he feels his heart squeeze with affection. When your hand stops him by the forearm, he thinks he might explode.

“It’s cute.”

You pick apart the floss ruthlessly with your fingers, and he watches almost in a trance—hypnotized by just your existence.

(When you finally pop the sugar into your mouth, he imagines it melting on his own tongue. The thought makes him unbearably warm and he forces it away.)

His fascination with you doesn't end there.

There's a certain charm to you that he can't understand—something that draws him in, tantalizing but terrifying at the same time.

He can't help the way he watches in a daze, the way you've ensnared all his attention and taken up the space in his mind. 

Rin has never been good at being kind, but here he is.

Here he is, bringing you cotton candy because he thought it was stupid but cute.

Here he is, rolling up the sleeves of your yukata with a gentle scolding when you rush over to catch goldfish.

And here he is, letting you cling to his arm as if he's the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

He really, really hates it—how mushy you make his brain feel.

He's halfway through re-rolling your sleeves with a half-hearted scowl on his face when you stop him, hand pressed to his forearm.

“Listen, Rin.”

“Hm?” He leans down so that he can peer at your face hidden behind your almost nonexistent candy floss.

“I have to show you something.”

Rin stops dead in his tracks, raising a brow as he fully turns toward you. “What is it?”

“Can you close your eyes for me?”

His heart does a somersault in his chest. “You’re not doing anything weird, are you?”

“Who do you think I am?” You sputter.

He lets out a long sigh before complying, squeezing his eyes shut. After a long silence, he considers peeking a little bit.

That is, until he feels your breath gently fanning over his parted lips.

Nearly leaping back, he wills himself to stay grounded and slowly slides his hands up your arms until he gets to your shoulders. As he imagined, your body is impossibly close to his.

It takes every bit of concentration he has not to waver. If he really tries, he can focus on how your breath smells sweet of candy. How your hair blows softly with the summer breeze, tickling his cheeks. How you smell. How you breathe.

(Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His heart is about to beat out of his chest. Is that okay?)

You tense up in his hold and suddenly you’re retreating from him, swiftly pulling out of his arms. Just as he’s about to ask you what happened, there’s a piece of candy shoved into his mouth.

“You wanted to try it, didn’t you?” You ask rather breathlessly. He opens his eyes, looking at you curiously.

Rin has never seen this expression on you before, lips pulled tight in embarrassment and pupils blown. You look more like a wild animal caught in a cage than someone who just made a move on him.

He gingerly takes the empty paper cone from your hands and folds it up, no longer able to meet your gaze lest he explode on the spot.

“Yeah,” he says softly, shuffling over to dump it into a bin. “Thanks.”

When he turns around to look at you again, his breath gets caught in his throat.

Why are you laughing?

You giggle into your palm, hiding your gleeful smile from him as you double over slightly.

“Your face is all red!” You holler.

He grunts in embarrassment, using the back of his hand to hide his own face. “Shut the hell up,” he spits.

“It’s almost like you wanted me to kiss you!”

“Oh my god, please drop it.”

“No way! I’ve never seen you look like that before!”

(‘Speak for yourself,’ he thinks.)

“So what if I did?”

Your laughter halts as if it was swallowed into the pits of your stomach. Slowly unraveling to stand up straight, he sees another expression he’s never been able to imagine on you, but he can’t quite place it.

“Did what?” You murmur.

“Want you to kiss me.”

Your face is warm under the glow of lanterns, eyes shimmering with the overhead lights. Rin watches your mouth open and close repeatedly as you try and formulate some sort of response.

A firework explodes atop of you, and he wonders if it just saved you.

You seem jarred for only a moment more until you jolt, grabbing him roughly by the arm and giving him a pull.

“I just remembered,” you gasp. “I actually did have something to show you!”

Rin doesn’t get a word in before you’re dragging him along by the arm. With each boom of an explosion, your footsteps pick up, building into a full blown sprint out of the festival grounds and through the thicket.

You tug him along, guiding him by the hand through the winding path of trees and logs. His stamina is better than yours but you’re pushing up the hill despite your huffing and puffing—it makes him laugh with you.

When you break free of the forest, Rin’s eyes focus on a field of plush grass and buttercups.

You let go of his hand, flinging yourself forward and spinning on your heel to exaggerate how wide the opening is with your arms.

“Isn’t it great?” You shout over the fireworks. “Away from the crowd!”

He rushes up to you so that you can stop yelling, invading your personal space until you can hear him just at his normal volume.

“It’s perfect,” he tells you earnestly.

You grin up at him widely before pulling him along to the edge of the clearing. You plop down together, eyes glued to the sky as the fireworks rage on.

Rin only lasts a few seconds before his eyes drift to the side, trying to drink in your expression. It’s become a habit of his to try and imprint your very existence into his brain.

Against his better judgment, his hand creeps toward yours until your fingers are overlapped.

Thankfully, you don’t use the opportunity to tease him about it, instead shifting a little closer until you’re practically burrowed into his side. If it were anyone else, he would have shoved them away.

(When did he stop trying to push you away?)

When your pinkies slowly close together, he feels as if he can’t breathe properly.

Mark-to-mark, it’s as though he is full of all the love he’s ever felt for you from every life—past or future. Like there’s a love that exists within him that transcends lifetimes, if it were even possible.

If he were to peer into another dimension, would you still be together like this? Would you be plucking buttercups and mindlessly twirling them between your fingers? Would he be itching to envelop you in his arms just to devour you?

His thoughts cease when you take a deep breath.

“I used to come here alone,” you admit.

“No one took you?” He asks. Your gaze is piercing the night sky, never leaving the show. He can see the bloom of colours in them.

“Not since I was little, but I always loved it here.”

The question burns hot in Rin’s mind: even if it was a little lonely sometimes?

He remembers back to the night that he first saw you, with your hands dipping into the murky waters of a frog pond and an air of desolation surrounding you. Then he remembers how he couldn’t sleep that night. Not with the image of you crouching there alone burned into his memory.

“Did you know this festival is a celebration of love?” He suddenly asks.

Oh what the fuck? Oh, god. Why did he say that?

That was so lukewarm of him. So stupid. So pointless and lame.

He just wanted something to say to you, something that would make him stop thinking about how you might have been alone for all that time before you knew him.

The silence burns between you, tense and awkward until he starts stuttering out something else to fill the void. But then you look at him, slow and intrigued and so damn amused that he can feel heat rising to the tips of his ears.

“I had no idea.”

There’s a longing in your expression that tells a different story. A twitch of your pinky against his that gives away your blatant lie.

And, damnit. Here he is again, four years later under the same stars. Under the same fireworks. Only this time, he’s able to see your face even closer as it lights up a million different colours—teal like his eyes; rose like his cheeks; golden like the heart he’s tried so hard to protect.

Four years later and he still thinks you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen: pinkies interlocked, sheepish smile on your face, an undeniable shake in your voice that means you have more that you’re too nervous to say.

For a moment he considers finally letting go of all the things keeping him bolted and chained where he stands, swallowing the key to the cage surrounding his fragile, thumping heart. And for that fleeting second, he feels as though he’s the bravest man alive—that nothing could stop him even if you were to turn away and snub him out with the heel of your foot.

But how could he open his mouth and tell you anything when all he feels is the sick twisting of his stomach, the daunting glare of the older brother he adored so much, and the coldness of snow soaking his clothes as he sits in a field and cries?

There’s a burning, raging fire within him. Something primal and afraid and unchanging despite how much he wants to fall into your arms the way your shared etchings say he should.

It screams at him: run away. Run. Run. Run. This will only end in hurt.

He’s too fucked up. Too messed in the head and too quick to anger because he’s actually soft at heart, easy to betray—

“Rin.”

Your hand swiftly captures his face and he’s dragged unceremoniously out of his reverie.

Of course you would be able to pick out his turmoil by expression alone. By the droop of his lips into a frown—not the annoyed one he would flash his teammates, or the grimace he would scare children away with. The kind that’s sad and slow and timid, like an animal caught in a net.

“I’m really happy that we’re friends.”

“Friends?” He breathes, half confused and half incredulous.

Deep down he knows that it’s an attempt to comfort him without being too sappy. Maybe you can sense it somewhere in your soul that he would probably break down and sob if you were to make him feel any more vulnerable than he already is with you. It’s an effort to take away whatever guilt he feels and give him a chance to relax.

However, he can see a different tale in your eyes.

Loneliness as empty as the sky on a cloudy night. A yearning for more, for someone, for him, to fill the gap. I’m tired of waiting. That’s all he can read beneath the sea of colour exploding in your irises.

It only makes him feel worse, but he allows himself to be lied to anyway if only to feel the warmth of your skin against his just a bit longer.

“Yeah.”

Your pinky twitches again. He can feel the brush of your name against his, the grate of your matching soul marks. Your eyes tear away from his and are glued to the infinite sky above once more. To the stars you know are there but are covered by smoke and fire.

Rin only stares at you. He can’t focus on the explosions of fireworks anymore, not when you’re right in front of him looking so perfect. His summer treasure.

“Yeah?”

He knows he sounds dumb, repeating everything like an oaf who can’t fathom what’s being said. You giggle and it floors him.

“Just being able to stand here with you—” you glance at him again, only for a second. He can see the exhaustion in that moment, but he’s too selfish to pry. “—I think I’m the luckiest person alive.”

“Even if…” He swallows harshly. It feels like shrapnel cutting down his throat. “Even if I can’t be more?”

“Even so.”

There’s a pause and you open your mouth to say more, maybe to give him an ultimatum or to elaborate on your feelings, but then you’re interrupted by the end of the display.

Counteless fireworks explode above you in the finale. Rin can hear the awestruck gasps of families down the hill, the distant cries of children and the faint shutter of cameras filling the air.

He realizes then: he’s been smiling. His cheeks hurt from how big it’s gotten. And you’re smiling at him, too.

(The fireworks rage on, but in the end, all he can look at is you.)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2022

Falling in love with Itoshi Rin was one of the most foolish, most wonderful things that could have happened to you.

He was an enigma in and of itself, a mystery of a soulmate who was able to love you wholeheartedly and push you away at the same time.

There were nights where you would stay up wondering why he was your soulmate when it seemed like all he wanted to be was alone. Other times, you fell asleep smiling to yourself knowing that somewhere deep down you both belonged to each other. 

The universe chose you. The universe chose him. It was indisputable, yet you still had doubts.

Tonight is one of those “foolish” nights. It seems as though you have been stood up.

For three hours you’ve waited in the same spot at the gates of the festival, watching families and couples pass by but never the one person you’d wait until the end of the world for. The sun has long since gone to sleep over the horizon and the streets are fully lit up with lanterns for the festivities.

6 pm. That was the time Rin promised he would meet you. In the past, he was always late but at least had the decency to tell you beforehand that you could go ahead without him. Only when you arrived and sat down to wait for him had he finally messaged you.

Rin: gonna be late. see you at 7.

7 pm. That was the rescheduled time. It was when you expected to see him walking up to you in his yukata that you begged him to wear this year, matching adoringly with yours. And at 7 pm you would tell him. You would tell him everything.

For months prior you had practiced almost pathetically so, recited and perfected your speech while staring at your reflection in a mirror. You’d written him a letter, too.

7 pm. You were finally going to thank Rin for everything. For accompanying you to such a silly festival even though you know he loathes it. For meeting you under the stars and the moon and the fireworks time and time again. For bringing life back into a childhood memory that you had long since hated.

7 pm. You were going to tell him thank you. You were going to tell him you loved him, just as it had been written in the stars many years before you were born.

It’s 9 pm, nearing 10 and the start of the fireworks show. He missed the entire night without explanation.

At 9:58 pm, just as you’re about to give up all hope, you finally come face to face with teal eyes and a stupidly handsome face sheen with sweat. It shouldn’t hurt so much, the way he looks at you so dismissively as if he hadn’t blown you off all night. 

“Sorry,” he mutters disingenuously, attempting to brush past you without a second thought. “Let’s go, I’m thirsty.”

He has his gym bag slung over his shoulder and a windbreaker over his uniform. No sign of the yukata you had picked out for him to wear.

You don’t follow him, staring at his back in disbelief. When he realizes you aren’t trailing behind, he turns on his heel and raises a brow in question. “Are you coming?”

“I was waiting for you all night,” you tell him coldly. I was waiting for you all this time and you never showed up. 

He swallows thickly, suddenly overcome by guilt because of your downcast expression. “I know. I lost track of time.”

“Lost track of time?” You scoff incredulously. Your mouth opens as if you have more to say, but you’re interrupted by a bang.

Rin’s eyes flutter closed. He can’t listen to this. He can’t watch.

He knows this all too well. He knew it all along.

The universe was wrong. Itoshi Rin was never cut out to be someone’s soulmate.

“We’re missing it…”

Your back is turned to him but all he can imagine is the terrible expression you must be making right now, twisted in sadness and anger. The worse image is a completely blank face—unfeeling and cold. He doesn’t even want to think about it.

Booms echo in the distance yet all he can focus on is the faint hum in his ears, the horrible churning in his stomach and the fog of guilt clouding his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says so quietly that he’s sure you can’t even hear him under the deep, bellowing explosions over the horizon.

He doesn’t remember the last time he apologized for anything like this. Being cold and aloof was just in his nature. Never before had he felt like it was necessary to be remorseful for the way he is—for how he was made to be.

The slight tremble of your shoulders and the way you use the back of your sleeves to wipe tears from your eyes force the words out of him before he can stop it. He tells you again,

“I’m sorry.”

He weakly attempts to grab you by the arms, holding you from behind so he can make you look at him. You jerk away fast as lightning, knocking him away as you swivel around to glare.

“Why didn’t you come?” You demand. There’s anger shaking in your voice. Rin doesn’t know how to respond to it, not when you’ve always been so understanding and kind. Perhaps he was too cruel for you if he was going to break you this way.

“I got caught up with—”

“With football, right?” You laugh bitterly, taking a generous step back. Hurt pours from every inch of your expression and all it does is make his heart ache.

“Stop,” he suddenly snaps. You flinch at his tone and shrink back, only adding to his guilt. He always had the worst temper. “Don’t be like this. You know it was important,” he explains, gentler this time. Softer, trying to coax you back over.

There’s a beat of complete silence, save for the hollowed explosions in the distance. Rin blinks at you a couple times before his frayed nerves finally calm again. And then he realizes something terrible.

The look in your eyes, the deflation of your shoulders—this is what utter defeat looks like. For a moment deja vu rushes through his blood, bringing him back to a time when he too felt as miserable as you. 

Every year he’s had the opportunity to read your expression: I’m tired of waiting. But he always foolishly assumed you would still wait around for him forever. That your patience would be as infinite as the stars in the sky. That just because he had the privilege of having his name scrawled down your pinky, he would be guaranteed to have you.

It was disgustingly selfish.

Just as he opens his mouth to apologize again, you storm up to him and shove the piece of paper roughly into his chest. With the closed gap, he can clearly see the tears streaming down your face illuminated by warm lanterns.

“Just forget it.”

“Wait—” He catches your wrist as you push past him, stopping you in your tracks again despite your struggle to get away. “Come on, I said I’m sorry!”

“Rin,” you sniffle, voice breaking with just the syllable of his name. It makes him falter. “I’m tired.”

“But—”

“You can’t even spare me one night? Just this one night in the entire year?” You breathe, no longer trying to dance around the subject. “What is it with you? What are you so afraid of?”

Being put in the spotlight never bothered Rin before. It was easy enough to ignore when all his life he was watched carefully. But it’s different with you; you’re the only one looking at him in this moment yet it feels like the weight of a million pairs of eyes at once.

An answer comes quickly to his mind, almost natural. He knows exactly what’s wrong with him.

He’s afraid of being left behind again. Of being hurt. Rin is terrified of love and being loved because he’s too pathetically fragile.

The pieces of his heart are clumsily glued together and he’s scared that even the smallest turbulence would send it shattering into a billion shards again. He doesn’t know how to put himself back together properly anymore. 

Itoshi Sae permanently fucked him up.

Though they were on slightly better terms now, the scars would always haunt him. The simple solution is to shut everyone else out, to protect the weak heart he harbours.

If he told you that, would you understand? Or would you try and claw his name off your skin?

You take his silence as an answer and pry away from him again, holding yourself protectively—guarding yourself from the catastrophe that follows Rin wherever he goes.

“Goodbye, Rin.”

He doesn’t watch you go. 

The nearest bench becomes his temporary home. He could do hundreds of plays in a football game and never tire, but for some reason your disdain has sucked every ounce of energy from his body.

It doesn’t register that he’s still holding the paper you forced into his hands until it crinkles in his hold. He slowly unfolds it revealing ink sloppily smeared across the page.

And then he reads it. Again. And again. And again, until it’s shaking in his hold. Until the dull ache in his heart feels like the pierce of a knife. 

Rin doesn’t know what to do anymore. He’s always had one clear goal for his entire life, but now everything is all muddled. Messy, like everything else he touches.

He turns everything into a disaster.

Does he chase after you and risk having his fragile heart broken all over again? Does he risk being left behind or does he close off the gate for that option entirely? He could sit in his cowardice and never change, preserving his heart forever in this moment of time; a polaroid in the slideshow of his mortality.

There’s a familiarity to this all. Perhaps he had lived through this decision a million lives before this. Maybe he would live through it again an infinite amount of times, so long as it was your name etched into his skin.

Was he as messed up in this life as he was in every other?

If he had ruined everything in this life, if he made the wrong choice and drove you away in hatred until you drew your last breath, then maybe he could make it all up to you in the next one.

Or, if that were the case, maybe he was born into this world only to love you—to make up for the millenia where he ran away.

Rin’s legs have never moved so fast. Not in football. Not even from his brother. If you were the light at the end of the tunnel then he would keep chasing you forever, he thinks. Until his wounded heart gave out.

Of all the stupid decisions he’s made in his life, have any of them amounted to anything? He’s going to give it one last try. One more chance to prove to himself that not everything he touches burns to ashes.

“Wait!”

You visibly startle, eyes wide as you turn to see Rin dashing toward you. He doesn’t give you even a moment to ask questions, to wonder why he’s coming back to break your heart again. 

You’re engulfed in a hug faster than you can blink, stumbling back from the force of his body colliding with yours until your sandals get kicked off your feet.

“Rin?” You murmur his name in disbelief, breathless even though you weren’t the one sprinting down the road.

“Just give me one more chance,” he stammers out. You can feel the rapid rise and fall of his shoulders as he holds you and fights for air simultaneously. Your hands twitch at your sides but you remain lifeless in his arms.

He tries again: “Let me prove it to you. Let me prove that it wasn’t some freak accident that led me to you. That my name on your skin is meant to be there.”

“Don’t do this,” you tell him quietly, lips brushing against his ear as you speak. “I don’t want to be loved and feared at the same time.”

“But…” Rin squeezes your body against his, almost desperately. Clinging to what he has ruined. “For once in my life, I want something more.”

I don’t want to be alone anymore.

You hesitantly shift, hands slowly trailing up his back until your body is curling against his. He can trace the outline of your body against his, like a puzzle piece that he was missing slotted perfectly in his grasp.

“I thought my soulmate would only slow me down and break me. I was wrong. I know that now.”

He slowly rocks your bodies back and forth. You pull away until your eyes meet his, red with tears. It’s the messiest he has ever seen you, but his heart refuses to be still. It aches.

Beautiful. It’s the only word he can describe you with. It didn’t matter if you were lit up under the wondrous sky, or handing him coffee in a crowded café, or sobbing in his arms. 

You would only ever be his infinitely beautiful soulmate.

It’s the only constant he would have in this life and every other, even if you were to break his heart. It would be the single greatest achievement in his time, above football, above any of his petty competitions—that your name is etched down his pinky.

It scares him. It thrills him.

With the distant roar of fireworks, he kisses you. And you allow him, hiccuping against his lips as you cry.

You stay like that for a long time, listening to the hollow shockwaves of fireworks exploding miles away. He’s the first to draw back, raking in shallow breaths. You chase him, finding solace against his lips once more but not fully indulging him with another kiss.

“Do you fear me?” You whisper into his mouth.

“More than anything,” he tells you.

“Do you love me?”

After a moment of contemplation, he answers,

“More than anything.”

You nod slowly, awkwardly pulling away from him and taking a step back. It’s your first kiss and you don’t know where you’re supposed to look anymore. Rin stops your nervous shifting with his hand swooping under your chin.

“One year. I promise.” You look at him in confusion, so he continues. “Next year, when the season and my contract are over, I’ll meet you there. At the pond.”

You seem skeptical still, with your brows knitted together and a lost haze in your eyes. He raises his pinky, the one with your name forever grafted into the skin, and offers it to you.

“I pinky promise.”

It’s so ridiculous, wearing his heart on his sleeve with something he learned about on playgrounds when he was a child. A pinky promise shouldn’t mean any more than the words he has already spoken. But for some reason, your eyes light up.

He feels nothing but relief when your pinkies lock together.

“Okay,” you breathe.

“You’ll wait for me?”

“Rin.” His name leaves you in a breathless laugh that makes his world spin. It sounds so tired yet so sweet. “I’ve been waiting all my life.”

“I’m sorry,” he says once more for good measure. You nod. A wordless acceptance.

Itoshi Rin is your soulmate. It’s not like that fact will ever change no matter the time, no matter the distance.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2023

Fate is a funny thing. Soulmates are a funny thing.

The universe threw Rin curveball after curveball, beating him down until he was nothing but a husk heavenly built for one purpose only: beat Sae. Beat Itoshi Sae.

There were times when he would lay awake at night wondering why he was given this life, why he was thrust into hardship and hurt and betrayal. How could something so perfect, something so all-knowing, be so cruel?

For as long as the name had been grafted into his skin, he resented the idea of a soulmate.

He hated the idea that only one person in the world would be his eternal weakness. That one day, one person would hold every piece of his soul in their hands. Even then, his soulmate was the other half of him—his salvation. His downfall.

They would know every inch of his skin. Every bleeding wound of his heart. Every bruise and scar along his legs from cleats and nails and gravel. Having a soulmate meant having every part of him exposed, to be judged and worshiped at the same time.

At your hands, though, he’s certain this is what he was born for—to spend the rest of his days by your side even if you were doing something as mundane as catching frogs together.

“You’re scaring them,” you hiss quietly.

Your fingers sink into the pond and Rin watches your reflections ripple as water fills your palms. Your faces contort and meld into one being. In some ways, it’s a familiar feeling—to have been intertwined with you since his very conception.

“You’re terrible at this.”

“It’s your fault!”

“Right,” he deadpans. “You haven’t caught a single one all night.”

“You were late,” you remind him with a huff, cheeks inflated. “Before you got here I was catching frogs all night. Coincidence?”

Rin makes another noise, something akin to a snort. But he doesn’t acknowledge your statement, instead reaching over to gingerly roll the sleeves of your yukata up to your elbows.

“Are you always so sloppy? Your sleeves are getting all wet.”

You glare at him from the side, delivering a deadly warning. “Are you always such a pain in the ass?”

“I get it, I get it. I said I was sorry for being late. Nii-chan really wanted to try that new ice cream place downtown.”

Your gaze drifts to him in the shimmering reflection, watching his smile soften at the mention of his big brother. It was wonderful that they were trying to patch things up.

Sae had decided to come home after all, promising Rin that they would play together again once they both took a well deserved break.

You could tell that Rin was trying his best not to make a big deal out of it, but the way he cried into your shoulder later that night said it all.

“I feel bad having you come all the way out here just to see me. Your brother is back in Japan isn’t he?”

“Yeah. And he wants to meet you.”

You nearly fall over. “What?”

“Please don’t look so starstruck about that. I feel sick.”

Laughing, you recentre yourself, sitting back on your heels with your hands on your knees. “Sorry, sorry! It’s not that…”

Rin raises a brow. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“It’s just—” you fumble, cheeks burning hot at the idea of being introduced to Rin’s family after all these years. Formally, as his partner. His soulmate. The name they had all known since he was thirteen. “What would I even say to him?”

He looks at you in bewilderment. Then, he snickers, only laughing harder when you smack his arm.

“Don’t worry about that,” he assures, reaching out to pat the top of your head. “Just be yourself. My family will love you.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, studying your reflections in the water with a soft smile. You’re staring right back at yourself, but Rin is only looking at you.

“I haven’t done anything special.”

“You lit up my world,” you laugh, turning back up to look at him properly. You make a mini explosion with your hands. “Boom! Like that. A firework.”

“You’re too corny,” he murmurs in embarrassment, turning his head away to hide his flushed face. “Can’t you explain it like a normal person?”

“No can do,” you tell him, voice gentler this time. After a pause, you shuffle your sandals around in the mud and take a deep breath. “If you want me to be totally serious…”

You lunge over and tackle him into your arms. He nearly loses his balance holding the both of you upright, stumbling back on his heels before he catches your waist. You don’t seem to share the sentiment of staying pristine, knees digging into the dirt as you squeeze him tighter.

Rin feels his heart catch in his throat the same way you’ve made it for the last six years.

“Thank you. For letting me love you. For being my soulmate.”

His hand is automatically in your hair, scratching your scalp as he smiles into your shoulder.

“I’m sure I gave you nothing but a hard time,” he grumbles.

“But I still love you.”

“Even though you had to wait?”

“Even so.”

“And that I’m a pain in the ass?”

“Even then, I do.”

Rin burrows himself into your neck, hiding his face again. It does a poor job at masking the kind of expression he’s making, though, considering how warm his skin is.

“What if I’m not good enough?”

He feels terrible—guilty that he needs to keep having this conversation with you. But you always comfort him the same way. He hopes you always will.

Drawing his head up with your muddy hands, you dirty his cheeks just to get a glimpse of him. You murmur a half-hearted sorry for making a mess.

Then you’re kissing him.

“I’ll be here to remind you how much I cherish you.”

You nip his bottom lip and he opens wider. You whisper into his mouth,

“And how happy I am that Itoshi Rin was born into this world.”

Itoshi Rin, broken. He who thought that he could never be put back together.

Itoshi Rin, vengeful. He who believed the only happiness that existed for him in this world was to surpass his brother.

Itoshi Rin, who did not believe in his soulmate while staring right at them. And Itoshi Rin, who finally allowed himself to love you wholly, completely, as it was written in the stars.

“I love you,” he says, as if just those three words could encapsulate everything he feels for you.

“Always?” You giggle. He rolls his eyes. 

“Wherever you are, and wherever you may be, I will.”

You kiss him one more time for good measure.

“That was corny.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

2024

“No peeking.”

Rin folds up his piece of paper and hangs it from the bamboo tree. You’re tugging him along before he can even properly check to see if it’s been secured.

“Come on, I don’t want to miss the fireworks!”

He wouldn’t miss them for the world. You’ve always looked the most beautiful under the brightened summer sky.

The wish he scribbled down blows softly in the breeze as both of you rush by, back to the festival where it all began.

7 July 2024. I wish I had the words to tell you how much I love you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

extra notes. hi! if you made it this far, i'd like to give you the warmest most grateful thank you ever ( ´ ω `)

so, here it is. i've been working on this since last september-ish... for some people that amount of time is not much, but genuinely, i've never devoted so much attention and time to one single fic and i hope i did this one justice. rin has always been a guilty pleasure of mine to write for. i hope this man stays far far away from me until i can stomach even looking at his name again LOL ‾́ ◡ ‾́

also i finally admitted defeat and took out all my pictures and dividers because tumblr was fighting my posts that had any. so... sorry the formatting looks like this

additional tags: @jenoutof10 @hanrinz @itoshiexx lol hi guys it made it out of the drafts i hope you like it

[unstable-samurai]

Until You're Mine (Jealous Girlfriend) - smut

Momo x Male Reader

Word Count: 4k

Tags: toxic relationship, jealous girlfriend, non-linear story, possessive girlfriend, first sex, penetration, boobjob, facial

She was awake when he arrived. She heard the door latch turn twice as it was unlocked. There were always two turns, fast and firm. Y/N saw her lying on the couch, watching another animated movie. It was the kind of movie she looked for when she really needed to be distracted, her escape valve or something, so seeing her there in front of the TV close to midnight (it was much later than that, but he had no idea), turned on an emergency light in his mind.

Normally he was the owl of that house.

“Hey baby, why’re you still awake?” he asked. “I said you didn’t have to wait for me.”

“I just felt like watching a Studio Ghibli film. Only that.” She explained without looking at him.

No fucking way it was just that. She was frowning. One of those moments where Momo turned into a bomb and it was up to Y/N to disarm it without it exploding. The problem was that this was an impossible task to do, any wire he cut would result in an explosion. And that was the last thing he wanted. His head was already a battlefield in itself. That damn company party had exhausted his social battery, which wasn’t much anyway. Y/N didn’t have the courage to provoke an aerial bombardment that night.

He sat on the left end of the sofa, Momo didn't mind moving his legs so he could have more space.

"OK. Is the film already close to the end? I can watch it with you.”

“Did you have fun there?” she asked.

"Yes. Was cool."

“You’re watching the movie, I don’t want to disturb you. In the morning I’ll tell you everything.”

"Just that?

"Yes..."

"No details?" she questioned him quite insistently.

Y/N had his head focused on the bath he was going to take in a while and how he was going to sink his head into the pillow. No more plastic masks, fake laughs, shallow people, please.

She paused the movie.

“What a ridiculous excuse. It sounds like you were trying to hide the things that happened at the party.”

“No, it doesn’t sound…” He was almost sure of it.

“Yes it does, you bastard.”

“It wasn’t even a party. We were all among work colleagues.”

“I've been to enough parties to know that it was YES a party. Loud music, drinks, pool, snacks. The complete package.”

“It’s a damn modern company, okay? They please the employees and pretend to be cool so that we forget the slavery we are subjected to on a daily basis. You kids had fun on Saturday and you’ll work overtime on Monday, okay?”

“Wait, I made a mistake. In fact: VIP package. They even hired prostitutes. Five star service.”

“Are you high or what?”

He was too tired to read the signs.

“I saw the way she kept touching you. The giggles... As if you were the funniest clown on the planet and she was a fucking hyena.”

Y/N abruptly stood up from the couch. He had finally understood everything. The last spark of his neurons, probably.

“There were no prostitutes. And I wasn't chatting up with any girls.”

"Oh, really?" She stood up too. “Let me refresh your memory, dear: short black hair, horse smile, lilac dress, can't stand alone unless she's supported by a man, small tits... Seriously, I don't know why she decided to wear that dress with cleavage if there was nothing there to show. Someone should tell her the truth. So, does this remind you of anyone, my love?”

The fucking bomb exploded in his hand.

“That was Rachel, a friend from work. How the hell did you know what was going on at the party?”

Momo laughed sadistically. Her wickedly beautiful eyes looked at him with intensity as she asked:

“Are you afraid?”

"No. I didn't do anything wrong to get scared. Did someone record me at the party?”

"Yes. And it wasn't just that. I also watch the stories of those who were at the party and you appeared in some of them in the corners. I saw everything.”

‡

Here's a little overview of this relationship: A year and a half of dating. They met through mutual friends and the first deep contact was delayed, but when it happened it ended up becoming a path of no return. Y/N avoided her as much as he could, not in a way that would be noticeable and make him seem rude. But we were talking about an incredibly beautiful woman, aware of her attractiveness and unfettered by modesty. She was with a group of eight other beautiful and popular girls. Yes, she was elite. High caliber, my friend. Well, he was... quiet, an avid reader, calm and sometimes melancholic, but he loved being with his friends and enjoying them on the weekends, respecting his limits, of course. When he saw Momo for the first time he cowardly ignored her. She looks stunning in front of his eyes, wearing a short denim skirt, a baby tee that leaves her sculpted abs on display and her hair flowing in the wind as she dances. There was no way to predict that the plan would backfire; by not noticing her, Y/N became one of the few guys who didn't try to flirt with her. Apathetic guy, but handsome enough to take risks, the little boy who only swims in the shallow end, a plastic armor he forced himself to wear.

The reason? Momo didn't know, but she wanted to find out.

On one of the many night outs where they bumped into each other, Momo skillfully simulated an intimacy that clearly didn't exist between them, talking to Y/N closely, fake accidental touches, and killer eye contact. Abruptly, intimacy between them was forged and evolved in a short space of time. After a while it was no longer strange when they were among friends and Momo sat on his lap, or when she felt tired and rested her head on his shoulder. And Y/N could play hard to get, but he loved the attention he got from Momo, the controversial “bad bitch” (as some girls who didn't like Momo called her), the most attractive girl he knew was always glued to him, and the sexual chemistry that grew over time intoxicated his ego. Being with her made him feel good and more confident and also… shit, she was more than a superficial person or 'just another one of those teasing girls' like a lot of guys used to think. She had a unique way, attitude and things to say too.

‡

“Were you acting like a stalker all night? Seriously, watching stories of other people trying to see me from the corners is a fucking weird thing.”

“And you've been acting like you don't have a girlfriend all night? I almost called Jihyo to drive me to this party to say a few things to that bitch. But I’m not that kind of girlfriend.”

“What is the reason we are arguing? This shit doesn't make sense. I'm exhausted..."

“Have you forgotten your promise? You told me you would arrive early...”

“I didn’t look at the time when I was there. I thought it was still early when I was leaving the party.”

A cynical laugh escaped Momo's mouth.

“You didn't even bother to look at your fucking cellphone to check the time. What is your problem?"

Y/N sighed. He should have already known that going to this party wouldn't be a good idea.

“You know I only went to the party to establish some contacts with the other branch. The damn job forces me to maintain a good relationship with everyone.”

"Poor boy! Does it also force you to talk to sluts?”

"This again?!”

“A little bird told me you were too close to each other on the couch.”

“Who was this damn person?”

“Why blow the heroine’s cover? Maybe she’ll be there again at the next parties.”

“Would you like it if I hired someone to follow you around?”

"Go ahead. I have nothing to hide, because I have consideration and respect for you, asshole!”

“According to you, I cheated you just by sitting on a couch talking to a co-worker. A colleague who can help me move up in the company as she has just been promoted.”

“Apparently it’s not just at work where she likes to be promoted.”

"What do you want from me?" he asked, feeling defeated.

"You know what I want."

“Honestly, I don't know. God must be punishing me for some sin I committed, that’s the only explanation.”

“Make me your girlfriend or your tormentor. You decide." She took a step forward. “You know I could be with anyone. But I'm with you ‘cause I love you, idiot.”

If only there wasn't something genuine about it all.

‡

Being alone with her knocking down topic after topic like dominoes was so fucking enjoyable, the way she laughed, the way she listened to him (Momo didn't interrupt him even during the long pauses he took when he needed to organize his line of reasoning, a mere peculiarity of his but which never went under her radar), the way she could be incredibly silly at times and, even without sharing many common interests, Momo liked having him explain things that were previously uninteresting to her. This attention he received was blinding and addictive. Growing up in a harmful and neglectful home, neediness was his compass and his weakness. But he never showed signs. Y/N was good at disguising it... He thought so.

Their first sex was an unforgettable moment, a path of no return, in the same way that a criminal remembers the moment of the crime that sentenced him to prison. It occurred when they were on a camping trip, good friends gathered, each to their own tent, campfire, marshmallows, snacks, stupid horror stories, and wine. One of the few moments where he felt slightly intimidated around her, as he felt Momo watching him like a predator, and after each glass of wine she became more and more intoxicated, grabbing Y/N from behind and wrapping her arms around him. “It’s very cold here” she whispered in his ear. And Y/N couldn't tell if it was the wind or Momo's velvety voice so close to him that made him shiver.

The hours passed incredibly quickly, eventually everyone retreated to their tents, and eventually there was a slow cessation of the noises of people, finally leaving only the cold whistle of the wind, the rustle of leaves in the trees that surrounded the hill where they were camped and the symphony of insects orchestrated by crickets and cicadas.

He heard sneaky footsteps. It was certainly someone who needed to take a piss and didn't want to wake the others. But the footsteps got louder and louder until he noticed that someone was actually coming to his tent, stopping in front of the entrance. The flash on his cell phone was on (he was reading a book and the damn camp lamp was emitting a horrible orange light), so he pointed the light at the entrance of the tent and saw a very familiar silhouette.

“It’s me, Momo. Let me in!" she whispered. "Quickly!"

Y/N lowered the zipper, opening the way for her.

“What are you doing up?” he asked.

“I was sleepless so I decided to come and check on you.”

"I am well thanks."

She was wearing comfortable clothes. Striped pajama pants, a sweatshirt that was too big on her and her hair loose and messy. Y/N noticed that Momo had removed her makeup. It was the first time he had seen her like that.

"What are you reading?" Momo asked as she sat down.

“Tropic of Cancer, by Henry Miller.”

"Cool! What is it about?!"

How the hell was he going to explain this?

“About a guy living in Paris.”

"It seems good. Read a chapter to me.”

"How old are you?"

“Don’t be annoying. Let's do it like this: I point the cell phone's flash at the book and you hold it while you read to me. This way we can read lying down.”

Hard to refuse, hard to say 'no' to her.

‡

“You know I love you too, Momori.” he said

Momo was wearing his long-sleeved shirt, she loved that shirt and, truth be told, it looked incredibly good on her. The legs so sensually exposed... Was that still a discussion?

“Sometimes you make me doubt this love, baby. Do you like making me look crazy? I swear to God you love seeing me jealous. When I get like this, does it make you horny?”

“No” he lied to one of the questions.

“You know how I am, Y/N.” One more step forward. She could touch him if she wanted. “And I only ask one thing: don’t talk to other girls. We establish a limit and then cross it, what is the purpose?”

Now closer he could smell her, her body that was warmed by the blanket. Nipples hardened through the fabric of her clothing.

“You look so beautiful...” he blurted out of her mouth.

“But I don’t think I’m beautiful enough for you since you try to be with other girls when I’m not around.”

"Is not true. I only have eyes for you, Momori.”

With a decisive gesture she grabbed Y/N by the collar of his social shirt. A noise escaped his mouth. Slowly she ordered:

“Say you are mine. Say you belong to me.”

‡

He felt her head moving on his chest, he thought she was just looking for a comfortable position, until he was surprised by a kiss on the neck. And another one. And another, and they were getting more and more intense.

"What are you doing?" he asked as he lowered the book, the air escaping from her mouth.

“This book is really interesting and even put me in the mood to do something more fun.”

"What are you talking about?"

He had his hands pressed into Momo's arms, but he made no real effort to push her away.

“I know what you think about me. I know what you want from me. Don’t try to hide it now.” Her voice breathy and wavering. “I want to fuck you so bad, fuck!”

"Here?"

"Now!”

Y/N turned Momo around, placing her back on the floor and then getting on top of her.

“Momo…” His head was a hurricane. Was this really happening? “I've imagined the two of us doing this, but I never thought it could actually happen.”

There was a pause that was filled by a kiss.

“I don’t think you know how hot you are. Other girls were also eyeing you, so I decided to act quickly.”

Y/N lifted Momo's sweatshirt, and was able to appreciate and touch her abs for the first time. Kissing her abdomen was like an achievement, she knew how beautiful it was, that's why she never made a point of hiding it. The soft, slightly sweaty skin met his lips in a mix of sensations.

He lifted her sweatshirt a little more, exposing her juicy boobs. They were big, he knew that, but the first glimpse paralyzed him for an instant, he was amazed, and his hand filled with desire wasted no time in grabbing one of the tits while his mouth sucked the other..

“Oh, Y/N” she moaned.

The cell phone's flashlight went out as they rolled from side to side in the camping tent. Surrounded by the weak orange light of the camp lantern, the senses now seemed more heightened, the touches more intense and brazen, the breathing more labored and an uncontrollable lust, noticeable in several ways, such as Momo's pussy that wet his fingers when he touched her down there.

‡

“I belong to you” he declared. “Is that what you wanted to hear? I am only yours, Momori.”

She smiled satisfied.

"Sit down!" she exclaimed harshly, and pushed him onto the couch. Momo certainly knew how to impose herself when she wanted, the mechanism of submitting him to her will through horny never failed. Sitting on his lap, she said: “You like to make me suffer, you know that? You like having your girlfriend mad so she can have hard sex with you and get you back on track. So depraved, baby!”

It was partly true, although he wasn't consciously acting to make her jealous. The problem was that this wasn't a difficult task, the girl was possessive as hell, so the options fluctuated between becoming a puppy on a leash or floating on the waves of a tide that could occasionally get... Aggressive.

"Do not say that. I don’t like making you feel bad.”

Momo kissed him, she felt Y/N getting excited down there.

“And yet you hurt me.”

He couldn't refute it, so her tongue had another use; warm and wet, she played with Momo's tongue. She sighed when he lightly bit her lower lip, slowly removing the pressure, enjoying her taste like a professional taster.

“It was never my intention,” he said. “Your jealousy is sick.”

“Living with you is hell, you know that?” she revealed. “But you always make me feel so surrendered." Momo slowly touched her nose to Y/N's. She whispered: "It’s a fucking hell, baby.”

Instead of responding, he decided to dedicate a series of kisses to her neck. Momo loved it, it was her weakness. She smiled while letting out small moans of satisfaction.

Momo stroked his dick and under the fabric of his underwear and pants he was already completely hard, waiting for her. She rubbed her hand on his dick eagerly while he felt her breasts and left hickey marks on her neck.

“Oh baby, I want your cock in my pussy so bad!”

‡

He covered her mouth with his hand while he penetrated her deeply. The friends' camping tents were close to Y/N's, and Momo was moaning loudly, so it wouldn't be difficult to hear her in the silence of the night.

“Shhh! You can’t make noise like that!” he said breathlessly.

“It’s fucking hard. Your dick is really big.”

At one point she crossed her legs around Y/N's waist and he could feel her pussy getting tighter and wetter. Immediately Y/N laid his body under hers, penetrating her with force, feeling her pussy swallow his cock eager for pleasure. She moaned loudly, Y/N sucked on her tongue in an attempt to suppress some of the noise, Momo's eyes rolling back in pleasure as her legs tightened around him, pulling him deeper, as if she could never have him inside enough. Each thrust was an explosion of raw sensation, her insides wetting his cock urgently as he fucked her with wild love, each movement driven by desire that had been postponed for too long.

“Lie on your side!” Y/N asked.

He watched her with burning lust, his eyes fixed on her pert ass, eager to possess her in a different way. With one quick movement, he positioned himself behind her, his cock pulsing with anticipation as he slid in, feeling enveloped by the warm wetness of her wet pussy. He gripped Momo tightly, his hands marking her skin as he fucked her sideways, each thrust sending waves of electric pleasure throughout her body. Momo's moans filled the air, soft and sweet, mixing with the sounds of the wet friction his dick made as it slid inside her. All the touches, the intimate conversations, the looks that met and lost each other when they were in the circle of friends, the jealousy they hid from each other when one of them was talking to someone else, all these things led them to this moment , and now they assumed this feeling… making love.

Momo showed some of her talent when she rode his dick with her back to him, Y/N's body rippling with desire as she rode him with full force. Her hips moved with an erotic cadence, his cock disappearing inside her with each thrust as if he were plunging into a warm ocean. He squeezed Momo's fat ass, guiding her movements as she gave herself over to the frenzy of sex, her moans intensifying with each thrust – fuck if anyone would hear. The tension between them was palpable, the air in the tent stifling as they neared their climax. And then, finally, Momo squirted, her body shaking with the intensity of her orgasm, as Y/N watched her in wonder in the light of the camp lantern, her silhouette writhing with pleasure, so perfect, so sensual that he could fill her of cum at that moment.

Something he didn't do.

Things happened so fast that Y/N didn't have time to put on a condom. Well, truth be told, he DID NOT have a condom in his tent (not the kind of thing you think about taking on a camping trip with friends when you're a single guy).

“Cum for me, baby” she asked, her voice full of lust. “Where do you want to cum?”

“On your tits.”

It was one of Y/N's fantasies, it usually came to his mind when he saw Momo with cleavage. Now it all seemed so intentional...

Y/N stood on top of Momo, his desire burning so strong he could barely think straight. With shaking hands, he grabbed Momo's massive boobs, feeling his hard-on grow as he squeezed them tightly. Y/N wanted to feel every inch of that soft flesh surrounding his thick cock, he wanted to sink into that delicious sensation until he lost his mind. And then, without further hesitation, he began to move frantically, sliding his hard cock between Momo's breasts with great desire. Loud moans echoed through the tent as he gave in to the pleasure of that sensation, losing himself in the sensation of heat and pressure.

“You gonna cum for me, huh?” she asked between moans, making a point of maintaining latent eye contact while smiling naughty.

“Yeah, I'm gonna cum for you, baby! You're gonna make me cum, Momo.”

“please please, cum for me!! Yeah! Cum for your naughty babygirl...” she begged, hot as fuck, while biting her lower lip like a horny bitch.

And when Y/N finally reached the edge he let out a primal groan, his orgasm exploding in a hot shot over Momo's boobs and face. She looked so beautiful like that in the light of the camp lamp. Y/N brushed her face with his dick, making a nice mess on that adorable little face, and she smiled while this happened, Momo smiled until he finished his art, she finished the job by licking what was left on the head of his dick.

Uninhibited from any shyness, thanks to the endorphins his brain had released, he smiled at her, finding her the most beautiful woman in the world, and into Momo's precious eyes, Y/N confessed: 'I wanna love you.’

‡

It's common to look for culprits in a dysfunctional relationship, who manipulates who, the prisoner and the jailer and all that old story. It's hard to admit that sometimes there is a dark pleasure in predicting events, returning to the same place that is your refuge and your sentence. Most people shoot at "emotional dependence", but few dare to target "connivance". Y/N felt like he was part of the second option. Repeat the fucking pattern, see the wheel spin in the same direction, the same trip as before. It's your pit of lies and acceptance, man, you smell the stench and yet you insist on moving forward, it's not much different than a dog licking its own vomit. At the end of the day, no one will tell you that you deserve better.

If you really deserve it.

"I remember what you said to me that night in the camping tent." She whispered, lying under his chest. "When we had sex for the first time. 'I wanna love you'. That's what you said. Your voice was so sweet and calm. I think that's when I realized that my feelings for you were really special."

The two were snuggled in bed, protected from the cold by the blankets, completely naked after having sex. This was always how fights ended, and the question that arose was: what's the next thing, now? An apology? Unfounded promises about how to improve as a person? Affectionate words to dissolve what was said during the fight? It was a mystery box.

"Those were the words? I honestly don't remember the exact words clearly."

"That's exactly what you told me. I slept with you in the camping tent feeling very happy."

"I was happy to be with you too."

"But at that time I didn't realize that you were actually still trying to fall in love with me. You wanted to love me, but you didn't really love me yet."

"I was a little confused at that time."

"What now? Are you still trying to love me?"

"I love you, Momori. but at the same time... I don't think we work together.”

"We agreed to it then. And honestly, does it matter?"

"I don't know. I feel like it doesn't matter anymore."

"Yeah! And look, we're not the only couple to go through problems like this. We're not alone in this, baby. Forget that Hollywood bullshit about perfect couples. It's not real. It's okay for me to stay like this, as long as we stay together."

"We always fix things."

"Making love is a great way to solve problems. That's our formula."

"Come here, my love" he said.

A/N: sorry for any grammar errors 🖖

[russo-woso]

heeeey, can you write a fic where r is the stress release after a bad game from leah ? where she just wants to rail r to forget the game and r is so submissive that she gave leah her body for her pleasure ? r is her little sex toy 😏

Release || Leah Williamson

Warning smut 18+, cunnilingus, strap-on, ‘slut’ usage, choking, squirting, bit of a praise kink.

Summary You help Leah release her stress

“Le, please, do whatever you what to me. Get your anger out.” You tell her, calmly as Leah’s eyes grew darker and darker.

“Strip and get on the bed.” Leah commanded, obeying her request as soon as it left her mouth.

You took off all your clothes before laying on the bed waiting for Leah.

Leah had her favourite strap to use around her waist as she stared, hungrily, at you.

She climbed on to the bed, latching her mouth onto your neck and worked her way down.

“You gonna be a good girl, aren’t you?” Leah asked and you nodded, withholding a moan as she sucked your nipple. “Whose good girl are you going to be?”

“Yours.” You managed to get out, her face traveling more down your body.

“Whose cock are you going to cum around?”

“Yours, Leah. I’m your good girl. I’m all yours.” You let out moans in between your words, encouraging Leah to speed up her work so she could fuck you.

Leah’s lips and trailed down your body quickly compared to normal, her mouth now in line with your already wet pussy.

Leah threw her face into your core, her tongue swiping over every part of it.

Your body squirmed under her touch, the sudden contact overwhelming for you, but you had to do this. You had to do this for Leah.

With a mix of Leah sucking on your clit, and sticking her tongue into your core, it wasn’t long before the coil in your stomach appeared.

“Le, I’m gonna cum. Please let me cum.” You begged and she hummed into your pussy, the vibrations allowing you to fall of the edge.

Your head slammed itself against the pillows, your eyes slamming shut.

Before you could calm down from your orgasm, Leah had stuck the tip of the strap into you.

You bucked your hips and whined at the sensitivity but Leah didn’t care.

She had one thought in her mind, and that was to fuck you until she forgot about the game.

Leah rested both her hands on the bed next to you, her muscles flexing as she did.

She watched your face as she pushed into you, smirking as she saw your face scrunch up before a look of pleasure appeared on it.

Leah’s hands moved to your hips, grabbing ahold of them before thrusting into you.

“You’re being such a good girl for me.” Leah praised as moans left your mouth in a steady rhythm. “Taking all of me just to get my anger out.”

Leah increased her speed which increased the volume of your moans.

“Fuck… Le, ‘m close.” You told her, hoping that she’d let you cum and ride out your high.

“You’re gonna cum all over my cock, understood? You’re gonna be a good little slut for me.” Leah said, and you nodded, your orgasm taking over.

As the pleasure took over your body, you realised that it started to slip away quickly.

Leah had allowed you to cum, but she showed no sign of stopping her movements.

Overstimulated, you whined as the strap continued to be thrusted in and out of you.

“Le, I’m too…” You began but Leah’s hand wrapped around your neck, restricting your speech.

Your whines started to turn to moans as the overstimulation began to disappear.

“Give me one more, pretty girl. One more.” Leah commanded, her hips still showing no signs of stopping.

You listened to Leah, your orgasm approaching.

With a final moan of her name, you let go, squirting all over the strap and her thighs.

“Im that good that I have you squirting now?” She asked, a cocky grin on her face, as she pulled out of you, watching your pussy conch around nothing. “Would you like a shower, darling?”

“Le, I don’t think I can walk.” You admitted, a worried look appearing on her face as guilt washed over her, realising exactly just how hard she had been on you.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry that I was too hard on you, I’m sorry I made us lose the game, I’m sorry I pushed you.” Leah apologised, leaning down to press kisses on your face.

“I’m just glad I could help, le.”

“You were a big help, pretty girl. Thank you.”

Requests are open :)

[ruoshik0]

DP x DC: The al Ghul twins but with a twist! P2!!

Training, as it had always been, was tiring. Add on the fact that now, he was at least a meta-adjacent, his training regime was updated to accomadate that too. Which is annoying.

Actually, Danyal meant he hated his life in the League of Assassins. Relearning all he did back when he was a child, training like a madman and rekindling his ‘kill as fast as possible’ style of fighting, manipulating and experimenting with the Lazarus waters (It stunk. It stunk so much that Danny just couldn’t even be in the same room as it. Ugh, why was his life so fucking hard), and tinkering and engineering with gadgets whenever possible.

Danyal realizes just how much he had it easy back in Amity. The amount of free time he had, how much fun just letting lose and have nice kiddy brawl with ghosts, puns and snark, and… acting.

It had been a months since he returned. Only about few days till his seventeenth birthday. The day he plans on meeting his brother’s new family and Damian himself. In those months, he had stopped denying, letting himself acknowledge that yes, he did start caring. And he had started caring too much. It’s been a pain the unlearn all of it. And as much as he was Danyal, he was also Danny just as much.

He can be serious when he wants to be. But sometimes, an easygoing smile and mischievous glint in his eyes felt… better. It felt like he was normal again.

Normal felt more like home than whatever he had been before that.

Now, graduating from tutors and what was basically the league’s version of homeschool- he is very smart thank you, it’s just that Danny wasn’t supposed be as smart- his schedule had opened up significantly.

Which meant more training and now, lessons on business and how to deal with people and stuff related to leading the League and shit.

And perhaps this is also the best time to mention this. His coronation or something had been… delayed. Seeing as he was away doing a covert mission, meaning his education in the league was far behind. Which aslo meant, time is no longer a resource he has an abundance of.

Someone please kill him all the way. Paperwork as a monarch in the infinite realms is so much better than whatever the fuck he is going to learn in the aforementioned business shit and how to rule assassin cults. Scratch that- paperwork as a monarch so much better than the League itself. Why didn’t he kidnap Sam and Tuck with him when he returned?!

Danyal felt like crying… jokingly, though. Taking them here would just result in them getting killed or them getting forced to become assassins themselves.

Sighing, he resumed tinkering with the fun little gun he had been working on since last week.

He just hopes he would be able to say what he wanted to Damian… (and of course, terrorrize Batman and his army of children! It’s gonna be so fun!)

Invisibility and intangibility together was already a deadly match up to any living being. Which is the reason why literally no one at the dining table could notice him next to the big bat himself (Though Danny was pretty sure Signal- Duke Thomas- was sweating because of him. So… he could see his aura even if Danny was invisible).

Danyal had to say, he didn’t have any plan in his mind. Mostly because Danny didn’t plan and Danyal had grown used to not really having that in his head. He considered just leaving Damian an encrypted letter, but really, where’s the fun in that? (Danyal prioritized efficiency first and foremost. It seems everyone he met and befriended back in Amity had more influence on him than he thought)

So now, he was left debating whether or not he should just appear standing on the table doing jazz hands. He would most definately get killed by one of them if Danyal does that. But dying works in his situation.

It wouldn’t make him cool though… Then, an idea struck in his head. What if…

Damian, all things considered, was having a good time. His birthday was going great even. It’s just that at times, his mind would wander back to the sibling he had left behind. Sometimes, he would wonder if Danyal had returned from his mission. Or if he decided he wanted to live there- in Amity park- for the rest of his life.

Damian hopes he did.

He knows that nowadays, he couldn’t stand to see an indifferent expression and an emotionless stare on Danyal’s face. Because nowadays, his own semi-permanent scowl had melted into something else. Something less haunted. He couldn’t face that he went on to live his best life while leaving Danyal all the responsibilities Damian was supposed to shoulder.

So it was a pleasent surprise when he realized that the Danyal in front of him- the intruder who infiltrated the manor, who appeared out of nowhere next to father, who has a handful of father’s hair in his fist, who had, also, pulled father’s head back harshly (Damian almost wondered of Danyal was here to take him and the rest of the Bats to the other side)- was smiling. Smiling like he was here to torture them and have fun while doing that but… for once, Danyal was smiling. Openly.

The Bats didn’t even take a second to stand up and immediately engage in combat with the intruder. If it had been anyone else, facing almost all of the Bats at the same time would have been a death sentence.

Yet, in Damian’s eyes, Danyal almost looked like he was having fun. Easygoing smile, the mirth, the- the everything. It just screamed relaxed and having fun. Despite himself, Damian didn’t actually get up from his seat. He observed the person flinging his siblings into walls. He observed his actual brother.

Kick, dodge, punch, open palm strike, a tornado kick, flinging father to the wall this time, using Brown as a meat shield before tossing her towards Cain.

Unlike what he was so sure of, Danyal wasn’t here to assassinate the Waynes. He, at most, was here to have a good brawl. But that didn’t make sense. It really didn’t. Why was Danyal here? Why did he make himself known? No one came after Damian to take him back after the first few assassins because there was still an heir. A spare who blended in with the shadows better than even father. As far as he was concerned, Danyal had only gotten at hiding better at hiding. So why? It was all confusing and it made Damian angry and he just wanted answers and what else was he supposed to do? Damian did the only thing that came to mind.

He screamed for everything to stop. He slammed the table and sent a League worthy glare towards his family. All of them. Which included Danyal and father and Alfred and- everyone.

(Damian will not admit to being nervous. No never.)

They had listened. Everyone freezing in their spot as they all stared at Damian with shock. They would have died by now if Danyal decided to take advantage of that. The rest becoming aware of their mistake and sending weary glances toward their opponent. Not that Damian cares much about that currently.

“Danyal. Explain why you are here.” His voice was low and rough. It was a tone he only used in the early months of his arival here. A tone the League forced him to talk in.

Currently he needed answers and asking directly always worked. He was extra cautious in not letting anything known. While he hated to hide himself from Danyal, he didn’t know the Danyal in front of him well enough and any show of to a League assassin meant death. A gruesome one.

And really, he expected many things in response. A harsh laugh in his face or the ever present indifference that plagued Danyal when he was young. Maybe even immediately getting maimed by his beloved brother. A brother who was supposed to protect him from the shadows.

What he didn’t dare expect (yet still hoped for) was Danyal’s face and stance and the way he held himself- all visibly softening. A smile that seemed so geniune, something Damian never saw himself, something looked so foreign on the face he and Danyal shared.

“I’m here to congratulate you, akhi" And the tone he heard, it made his eyes burn. Danyals voice had lost its harshness. It had different tones- so unlike the emotionless monotoneous voice he always heard. It had all the gentleness of of the world. And Damian dared to hope. Hope that Danyal is free from the League like he was too. He really did. Because by now, he had thick and big tears tailong down his cheeks. His eyes burned.

And he was finally happy. Happy to have finally gotten his sibling back. The one before Danyal encased himself in harsh cold ice seemingly over night one day. Damian finally felt like he got his sibling back.

Danyal was now fretting over him, expressive in a way Damian hadn’t seen in more than a decade. Danyal was a phenomenal actor. And his cold hard demeanor was a facade Damian had witnessed getting built. Finally it had all melted away. Finally he can hug his brother tightly and say all the things he hesitated to say.

Finally, they can be regular brothers now.

In the back if mind, he noted that his father and family was sending confused glances to each other. He couldn’t care less about that.



[scariusaquarius]

devotion.

Sosuke Aizen x Fem! Reader

Synopsis: You and Orihime are abducted and taken to Hueco Mundo. While Orihime's purpose is clear, your purpose seems to be more...personal

-

A/n: a bleach fic??? of course! I just got done rewatching Bleach and FINALLY got to Thousand Year Blood War (i'm on episode 4, NO SPOILERS PLEASEEE) and EVERYONE is serving cunt and dick. Here's an aizen (with grimmjow sprinkles) fic

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Genre: Horror, Angst, Friendship, Romance Rated: explicit Warning: Humiliation, Dubcon/Noncon, Oral Sex (male giving/receiving, female giving/receiving), Forced Exhibitionism, Forced Voyeurism

-

Author: ScariusAquarius

His eyes were squinted as he stared, his gaze calculating and scrutinizing as you stood before him. His body language was lazy and candid as he rested his chin on his hand; uncaring of you and your being as you attempted to still your shaking. Like a cat, his brown eyes were zeroed in on you; watching your every move from the slightest tremble to the subtle way your throat was clenching as you held your breath.

"You must be so afraid...knowing who it is that is right in front of you."

Truthfully, you didn't know his name. You weren't kept in the loop of what was going on with your friends nor why Orihime had disappeared suddenly, but from the way everyone would quiet down when you would come around; especially Ichigo...you were certain it was all because of this man.

This terrifying man who had your body feeling so heavy, you almost couldn't bear to keep standing. This man who had your heart wanting to burst within your chest and the pressure in your head to crush your brain.

You wanted to reply; to tell him that you didn't know him nor why you were here, but you couldn't even speak. Not with the blue-haired man with the weird mask and a hole in his abdomen holding onto your shoulder so tightly that it felt like he was crushing you.

"Hey, he's talking to you."

The blue-haired man was ruthless. When he had appeared in front of you before your kidnapping, you had almost thought that he had always been there and you just didn't notice. You had continued walking until suddenly, there was this heavy pressure that was familiar yet brutal, unlike the way your friends' auras felt.

Your whole body had stopped moving; knees crumbling in the middle of the sidewalk and chest feeling as though it was caving in. Then, there was a hand tangling itself around your throat, and you were being lifted, blue eyes cruelly amused at the way you choked and struggled to breathe.

"You don't even have enough spiritual pressure to be important," he had said. "you're not even worth keeping alive, but whatever." and suddenly, you were here in this dark and desolated place; cold and barren of any light. At least, that's what you thought had happened.

Everything had been a blur after the blue-haired man had simply flicked your forehead and knocked you unconscious.

You knew these people around you were dangerous and, to be frank, not normal. You weren't sure what was going on or what these people wanted from you, and you couldn't help but to be speechless from the fear running through you.

The blue-haired man gripped your shoulder tighter, and you couldn't help but to yelp in pain from his grip as it suddenly heated up. Red light was glowing from beneath his hand, scorching your skin and burning your flesh as he yelled.

"Hey, what are you, deaf? Didn't you fucking hear me?"

"Easy, Grimmjow."

The light dissipated instantly, but his crushing grip never wavered. Tears spilled past your eyes and down your chilled cheeks, unable to look away from the ground as the brown-haired man who was sitting so uncaringly spoke; his voice calm and...almost soothing.

"We don't want to scare her now, do we?"

Grimmjow, as you had learned, just clicked his tongue and turned his gaze away from the man, saying nothing. The frightening man spoke again.

"It's not nice to not look at someone when they are speaking to you."

His tone was...almost soft; but you knew when a wolf was in sheeps clothing. You knew that whoever this man was...he could kill you or let Grimmjow kill you if he wanted to. Quite honestly, he probably was planning to do so...would being obedient prolong your life enough for someone, anybody, to save you?

You shakily glanced up at him, his cupid lips curled up into a small smirk as he spoke.

"Aw, you've made her cry, Grimmjow."

"Tch, weak bitch."

The man uttered beneath his breath, his grip on your shoulder tightening more, and you couldn't help it when more tears fell down your cheeks. The man chuckled for a moment before he acknowledgd.

"I'm sure you have so many questions...why are you here...who are you...what does this man want from me...where am I....am I right?"

To avoid having your shoulder burned again, you replied shakily, too afraid to speak above a whisper.

"Y-Yes..."

The man chuckled and placed his hand down against the arm rest of the chair. There was a moment, however, when a slight breeze kissed your face and you couldn't help but to blink. Within that second, the man was in front of you, your chin in his grip and making you look up at him.

What just happened? How did he do that? I...I didn't even look away from him...all I did was blink...what's going on...who is this man?

"You have a right to be afraid...in fact, there's nothing to be ashamed of. Even though you barely have any spiritual pressure, you can still stand up on your own two feet. That's no easy task when in the presence of so many powerful beings."

You couldn't look away from him no matter how much you wished to. You were frozen in shock and from the sheer amount of weight that was on your shoulders, inlcuding Grimmjow's grip.

"I do wonder what it is about you that had your friends trying very hard to protect you. Are you special like Orihime Inoue? Do you have extraordinary abilities as well? Or is it that Ichigo Kurosaki cares about you more than anything else?"

Your heart was racing, pounding within your chest, and you whispered to him shakily as he seemed to look you over; his gaze making you feel almost violated as the man gazed at and through you.

"I...I don't know...what you mean."

His eyes narrowed just the slightest, and it was quiet for a moment before he chuckled.

"How cruel of Ichigo to not warn you nor tell you about anything. I wonder if he truly does care about you...I mean, don't you think it's unfair that he kept you in the dark about what he is and what he does?"

Suddenly, the man let your chin go to cup your cheek, his hand warm and almost inviting as his voice deepened just the slightest.

"Don't you think it's wrong that Ichigo disregarded your feelings and kept you away? He might as well had given you to me himself.."

"I...I don't understand...who...who are you?"

The man hummed, tilting his head just the slightest as a chuckle rumbled from deep within his belly as he played with a piece of your hair.

"My, where are my manners? I can't help but to lose my tact when in the presence of women. My apologies...my name is Sosuke Aizen."

There was something familiar about the name; something that was itching at the edges of your consciousness, and while you couldn't comprehend what it was, this man...Aizen...seemed to know.

"Hm. How interesting...tell me, do you think Ichigo Kurosaki would be devastated by your death?"

Blood running cold, you couldn't formulate a thought as Aizen ghosted his fingertips down the side of your neck and to your sternum, dancing his fingertips against the chilled skin.

"Do you think he would be so overcome with despair that he would become reckless...desperate...to try and kill me?"

He was digging his fingers into your skin; almost as if he was trying to bury his hand within your chest, and you replied shakily.

"I...Ichigo cares about....all of his friends. I...I wouldn't be any different to Orihime...or Chad...Uryuu...or Rukia."

Aizen's eyes were empty, you observed as you looked at him. Not empty in terms of stupidity or boredom for your words...they were empty of light and compassion...or anything that could be considered good. Evil and danger oozed off of this man just like the crushing spiritual pressure he continued to let off so that you, a measly human with a weak amount of spiritual pressure, knew your place.

He could absolutely kill you with no second-thought, and that was what scared you.

"So, you're saying that...you're useless to me?"

There was intention and purpose now within his fingers, his eyes becoming uncaring as he leaned back just the slightest, and you panicked.

"No! No, I...I'm not! Please...please don't hurt me...or...or kill me...I...I can...I can be of use, I swear!"

Aizen's lips smirked slightly as someone within the room laughed.

"Listen to that whining and begging! I say we just kill her and leave her out front for Kurosaki to find!"

Grimmjow hummed, saying as he leaned forward, making you glance at him from the corner of your eye as you began to spiral.

"Nah, I say we rip her into pieces and leave a trail. That'll get Kurosaki pissed!"

His hand was heating up again, and you were about to scream from the terror until a voice cut through, making everyone quiet.

"That's not necessary. While they are trash, keeping Orihime Inoue and (Y/n) (L/n) alive is beneficial to Lord Aizen's cause. Until Lord Aizen gives the order, we are not to touch them."

The largest man in the room who had his chin in his hand scoffed.

"You're no fun, Ulquiorra. When are you gonna ever stop having such a stick up your ass?"

The man with the green eyes and tears did not respond, and Aizen hummed gently.

"How does it make you feel...hearing the different ways you could be killed? It's okay, you can be honest."

You were trembling again, and you couldn't help but to sniffle and whisper.

"I...I'm scared."

Aizen chuckled before his hand came up to your neck, gently grasping though you knew it was to give you a false sense of security.

"Such a poor, pathetic girl...I think I know what I want to do with you. I can take it from here, Grimmjow. Thank you."

Grimmjow was hesitant to unhand your shoulder, but shoved himself off and walked somewhere to sit; his steps echoing all around the room and deep into your mind; each step making you flinch. Aizen began to walk around you, and he murmured.

"Make no mistake: I know you are the most important person in Ichigo's life at this moment. I know that he is coming to save you and Orihime Inoue...and that is going to be his downfall."

You were holding your breath, unable to speak as Aizen continued.

"He will come here, and he will be annihilated...along with the rest of your friends. It's quite unfortunate that he didn't tell you about your impending doom...but to be honest, it makes it more fun for me."

He seemed to be observing you, looking at you from head-to-toe and dissecting you as if you were a specimen; picking you apart from the very last sinew.

A monster on the prowl.

Oh, god, what was he going to do to you?

You jolted at the feeling of his fingers brushing against your hair, tucking behind your ear and subtly caressing the skin with his fingertips; sending shivers down your spine.

"Does he know?"

His question caught you off guard, and you couldn't help but to look over at him in confusion; unknowing of what the man was implying.

"What...what do you mean?"

Aizen chuckled before leaning in slightly; just enough that your noses were almost touching.

"Does he know that you love him?"

Heat ran up your neck from the embarrassment, and you couldn't help but to exclaim.

"What? I don't have feelings for Ichigo! Sure, he's my friend...but I...I don't like him like that!"

Aizen chuckled and your shoulders caved in again, attempting to make yourself smaller.

"Oh? You seem so embarrassed."

He was taking the detail to heart, mulling over it, and you weren't sure if you were supposed to speak or to stay quiet. Aizen walked behind you, and you froze when both of his hands came to rest upon your shoulders.

"Quite frankly, it doesn't matter. You won't be leaving this room alive unless I say so...and I haven't been given a good reason to keep you alive...except for one."

There was a slight bit of hope that ran through you; a glimmer of safety that was squashed instantly by the way his hands gripped your shirt and tore it open.

You gasped and yelped, reaching your arms across your chest, and you could feel everyone's anticipatory gaze upon you. Fear and humiliation ran through you, and you were horrified when Aizen sighed.

"Grimmjow, would you like to assist me?"

Grimmjow's eyes opened wide, a huge sneer upon his cruel lips as he walked towards you.

"Oh, absolutely."

Your body began to tremble; frozen with shock the closer the man got until he was standing before you, and his hands shot out and wrenched your arms from your chest, making you screech. You tried to back away from Grimmjow, but instead, you were blocked by Aizen's own chest; his chuckle reverbing into your ear.

"How would Kurosaki react if he knew that the one he loved the most was made impure, hm? I think he'd be devasted....angry, even. I think he might even become reckless."

"Doesn't fucking matter. We'll still crush that bastard either way!"

Grimmjow responded, and you began to struggle slightly as Aizen began to peel away the remnants of your shirt, threads and buttons coming undone until you were shirtless and only in your bra. You were breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating and becoming lightheaded. However, there was another part of you that was afraid to even pass out.

You froze when you felt a blade against your back, Aizen resting his chin against your

shoulder as his voice whispered into your ear dangerously.

"I could run my blade right through you...and kill you without any second thought...but that would be such a waste, wouldn't it?"

You could feel the panic clenching your throat, your voice unable to come out as the tip of his blade glided up your back before slocing your bra into pieces. You began to struggle then, feeling humiliated and terrified as you tried to pull yourself from Grimmjow's grasp. Tears began to fall down your face as Aizen said, his tone of voice demanding and nothing short of an order.

"Beg for your life...give my Espada a reason why I should spare you...why you deserve to live. What can you offer to me that will be of value?"

Your voice refused to come out; throat clenched shut, and Aizen clicked his tongue.

"Perhaps, you need more encouragement. Grimmjow, restrain her from behind, would you?"

Grimmjow looked annoyed that he couldn't ogle at your naked chest and huffed, yanking your arms behind you and forcing you to push your chest out slightly as he held you with no remorse.

"Go on. Beg."

Despite his gaze becoming cruel and taunting you, his voice continued to sound suave and uncaring. Almost as if your suffering was a game to him.

You could feel all of their scrutinizing and hungry gazes on you; all the ones that cared, anyway. You weren't sure if these people, these...things...wanted to be a part of Aizen's game or straight-up eat you.

Both thoughts scared you.

"P-please...please stop...this is wrong!"

Grimmjow scoffed before switching from holding both of your arms with each hand to clamping down on both of your wrists with one hand so he could reach and brutally manhandle your breast. You screamed, Grimmjow's touch unforgiving as he sneered.

"You call that begging? What a pathetic fucking bitch. I've heard weaker beings beg better than that! Don't hold out on us!"

He was squeezing hard, painful and making you squirm and fight within his grasp. Grimmjow was already irritated, but he paused when Aizen held up a hand.

"Now, now, Grimmjow. Let's not resort to violence so soon. She's never been touched like this before...poor girl has no idea how to beg properly. So, why don't we show her how...in good faith that if she tries her best, maybe I'll let her see Kurosaki one last time."

Lies. You knew it was lies. This man had no ounce of compassion in him. Evil oozed from every part of his being, and there was no guarantee that you were going to get out of this alive.

He was toying with your life as if it was a game.

You froze when Aizen placed his hand upon your cheek gently, leaning down slightly until his nose was brushing against yours.

"If you bite...if you try to fight back in any way...I will string you up in front of Las Noches in pieces...after I have torn apart your friends. Now, on your knees."

You wondered if it would be the best route. You wondered briefly if death would be better than this...than whatever Aizen, and possibly Grimmjow, were going to do to you. An image of Ichigo popped into your mind, and you clenched your jaw slightly as you tried to keep from sobbing.

I have to stay strong for Ichigo and believe that he will save me!

"On your knees!"

Grimmjow kicked the back of your knees, making you yell out from pain and surprise as you fell; smacking into the ground hard in front of Aizen. Aizen moved back to sit upon his throne, and he beckoned you with a finger.

"Come here. Undo them."

You didn't have to be a genius to understand what Aizen was referring to.

But how were you supposed to undo his pants without the use of your hands?

How fucking humiliating and perverse.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you bit your lip and leaned down. Maybe, if you imagined that it was Ichigo, it would make things easier. Maybe, if you imagined it was Ichigo's hakamas that you were undoing with your teeth, you wouldn't be so scared.

It's not Grimmjow behind you, but perhaps Renji...keeping a firm grip and pressing his hard cock against your asscheeks as you got Ichigo's cock free.

Aizen's voice broke the daydream once his hard cock was sprung free from his hakamas, and you felt your stomach drop when Aizen teased his fingers beneath your chin.

"Now...beg."

Suddenly, there were fingers digging into your scalp, making you gasp in pain, Grimmjow's overwhelming and terrifying presence pushing against you as he hissed in macabre delight.

"What are you waiting for, little girl? If you don't get to suckin, maybe I'll have to really ruin you for Kurosaki."

Aizen's grip became harsh, digging in enough to the point that you couldn't close your mouth on your own, and Grimmjow pushed your head down, forcing you to swallow Aizen down.

You had never done anything like this to anybody. Hell, while you had a general idea of what a penis looked like thanks to your perverted friend, Chizuru Honsho, you had never actually seen one. You were a virgin through-and-through. Hadn't even had your first kiss yet, and here you were...being forced to suck the cock of the most evilest man in the whole world.

He was salty, bitter, and the size and way you were being forced all the way down until he was stretching your throat and making you gag had tears running down your face. Aizen made no expression nor gave any indication of what he was feeling. In fact, he looked completely nonchalant when you glanced up at him in a moment of panic, and he sighed for a second when you began to gag vigorously.

"Grimmjow, if you hold her down any longer, you're going to make her vomit. I really don't want that."

There was an underlying threat within his voice that had Grimmjow freeze in place before pulling you back up wordlessly. You coughed, saliva running down your chin, and Aizen hummed.

"I can take it from here. Why don't you get her prepared for me? I think it'd be a nice reward for you."

Grimmjow laughed, and you weren't sure if you liked what Aizen was implying. Suddenly, you felt Grimmjow grab a tight hold of your skirt and yank as hard as he could, tearing your skirt straight off. You screamed out, and Grimmjow exclaimed, smacking you in the back of your head as he tightened his grip on your wrists.

"Oi, quit your whining, woman! I think you'll like this next part."

Your attention was commanded back to Aizen, his fingers sliding against the back of your head and guiding you back.

"Now, now. Don't take your focus off of me...it might mean your death. When I said to beg, I wasn't asking."

With no hesitation, he shoved you back down, forcing his cock down your throat again, and you whimpered slightly, gagging and feeling your abdomen tighten as you did so. You pulled back up, and Aizen pushed you back down.

"Just like that, but with suction. Poor girl, you've truly never been touched. A pure and innocent soul...destroyed and conquered like the rest."

There were fingers touching your legs and hips, running all along the globe of your ass before smacking harshly. Your jaw clenched slightly, teeth grazing Aizen's shaft, and the man hummed in distaste.

"Have some self-control. I would rather not kill you while my cock is in your mouth."

You were beginning to shake, almost too weak to hold yourself up, and you almost kicked your foot back when you felt Grimmjow's nose dig into your panties, sniffing deeply.

"Gods, you ain't ever had no man here before, huh. I can smell how sweet your fucking cunt is."

Aizen chuckled then, saying with an air of haughtiness.

"And that belongs to me now, Grimmjow. Don't get too ahead of yourself. I just want you to get her ready for me."

Grimmjow made a noise of displeasure before hissing quietly to himself.

"Whatever."

Your panties were torn apart, and when you went to scream, Aizen shoved your head all the way down until your nose was pressed against his skin, gagging and panicking from how deep in your throat his cock was.

"None of that. It's quite distracting."

Suddenly, there was something wet and warm against your skin, tingles and terror running down your spine as Grimmjow's big hands anchored on either side of your hips and forced you down onto his face. He was lapping at you and groaning, tonguing at your clit and making your body try to squirm.

The sensations he was forcing upon you were strange, foreign, and slightly tickled. You weren't exactly sure how to describe it other than spine-tingling. He was lapping at you desperately, suckling and groaning noisily, and you squeezed your eyes shut tightly.

It was a torturous rhythm. Up and down, in and out; breathing and not breathing. You were a cauldron of emotions and sensations that were overwhelming you to the point that you were beginning to feel light-headed and nauseous. Your eyes fluttered slightly, and it seemed that Aizen knew what was happening.

He was ever-present and ever-observant; taking in every little detail down to the way you blinked. Pulling your head up off of him, he hummed.

"Grimmjow, that's enough."

Grimmjow was hesitant at first, his licking and suckling becoming slower for a moment, and Aizen sighed.

"Don't make me repeat myself."

Grimmjow was slow to get out from beneath you, wiping his mouth, and he snarled out to Aizen; seeming to be running on pure instinct as he glared at Aizen with dilated eyes.

"Selfish prick..."

Aizen just hummed before he pulled you off of his cock, his brown eyes gleaming with nefarious and fiendish ideas.

"Let's get you prepared for your reunion with Kurosaki."

part two soon

IF YOU ENJOYED THIS WORK, PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT AND REBLOG. SUPPORT YOUR CONTENT CREATORS <3

[st4rfckerz]

October 18th - Cockbulge

Hay Bale (farmhand!anakin)

word count: 0.7k

warnings: mdni 18+, unprotected sex, dirty talk, pet names

The sun rises, casting a warm glow over the barn. Anakin's hands grip your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh as he thrusts into you. The bale of hay beneath you crinkles, the scent of hay and sweat filling the air. His cock pounds into you, hitting your favorite with each movement. You moan, your back arching, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Fuck Ani,” you gasp, your voice hoarse. “More, please.” He obliges, his hips slamming against yours, his cock driving deeper into you.

“Thaaat's it, sweet pea,” he growls, his voice deep and commanding. “Take it, let me feel you around me.”

Earlier that morning, your parents had left to go to the market, leaving you and Anakin alone in the house. You had been eager to spend some time with him, and the opportunity presented itself perfectly.

As soon as you told Anakin that your parents would be gone for a few hours, a sly glint appeared in his eyes. He pulled you closer, his hands roaming over your warm skin and without warning, he laid you down on the soft hay, his body hovering over yours. His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your pretty white dress up to your waist.

Anakin's hands caress your body as he continues to thrust into you, his movements quick and deliberate. You can feel every inch of him, the way he stretches you, fills you, takes you.

“Always so ready for me, huh?” he grits through his teeth. “As soon as your parents leave, you're all over me.” His voice sends a shiver down your spine, your body responding to his words as much as his actions. You arch your back, pressing your hips against his, urging him to go deeper.

Anakin hooks your leg over his shoulder, changing the angle of his thrusts. You gasp, the new position hitting a spot deep inside you that makes you throw an arm across your face, your fingers digging into your palm. Your moans grow louder, more desperate, as he hits that sweet spot inside you over and over again.

A knowing chuckle falls from his lips. “See, there you go, I knew you’d like that.” he growls, his hips snapping forward, driving his cock deeper into you. Anakin's eyes pan down to the bulge in your belly, truly amazed at the way he's stretching you. He slows down his movements and marvels at the sight.

“Look at that baby," he coos. “ ‘M filling you up so good.” He runs his fingers over the bulge, tracing its outline through your skin. “I can feel how tight you are around me.” You moan, your body trembling at his touch.

“Ani please,” you whimper, your voice barely audible. “Need to cum so bad.”

Anakin presses his hand against the bulge he's created in your stomach, applying pressure as his thrusts pick up pace once more, his cock plunging into you with renewed vigor. “I know angel, go on ‘nd cum for me.”

As your orgasm crashes over you, your body shaking and trembling beneath him, Anakin suddenly pulls out. You whimper at the loss, but he quickly silences you with a hungry kiss.

“Hold on baby, jus’ stay still for me.” he mumbles against your lips. He strokes his cock, his hand moving rapidly up and down his shaft. His eyes are fixed on your trembling body, his gaze intense and focused.

With a final, quick stroke of his hand, his cum spurts right on your stomach. He watches as it drips down your skin, a satisfied smirk on his face.

As you both come down from your highs, Anakin's breathing slowly returns to normal. He leans down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “Here, I’ll get that.” he chuckles, his voice soft and affectionate. He reaches over to a nearby shelf, grabbing a clean rag and gently wipes the cum off your stomach, his touch tender and caring.

“There, all better,” he says softly, tossing the rag aside. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your lips. “You should probably get dressed before your folks get back,” he suggests.

You nod, a lazy smile on your face. “Yeah, probably a good idea,” you agree, stretching languidly. Anakin helps you straighten out your dress, his hands lingering on your waist.

“Don’t stay away too long sweetheart.” he says, his voice low and intimate. You stand on your tiptoes, placing a soft kiss on his lips. “Not planning on it.” you murmur, a playful glint in your eyes.

With a final squeeze of your hand, you make your way back to the house, a spring in your step and a smile on your face.

[trippinsorrows]

looking through your eyes + seven

authors notes: so this one leaves probably more questions than answers, but there's also a lot of things sprinkled throughout, and all questions will be answered....eventually.

if any cw/tw’s are missed, please let me know, and i will add them!

cw/tw: fluff, language, discussion of parental loss, brief (two line) flashback of aftermatch following csa, suggestive themes, ptsd trigger

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

masterlist

words: 8k

Solana: Are you busy today?

Normally, Roman would keep his phone face down during business meetings but with increasing communication with Solana, he’s leaned more on the side of having it face up so he’s aware when notifications come through. 

It’s not a priority. Just a…..preference. 

Grabbing his phone, he quickly shoots her back a text.

Roman: What do you need?

Before he can put his phone back down, those three dots appear. He keeps the thread open for her reply to slide in.

Solana: Nvm. I’m sorry to bother you.

Roman curses inwardly, barely keeping it to himself and not making the room of men aware of his frustrations. He can acknowledge Solana has slightly improved with her over–apologizing over the past couple weeks, but it’s moments like this that get him upset all over again. 

He fucking hates repeating himself.

But….

There’s that small, annoying ass, nagging voice in the back of his head that reminds him of why she’s always so apologetic, why she thinks her damn existence itself is an inconvenience. And he can’t really fault her, blame her for years of trauma fucking with her mental.

Roman: You’re apologizing again. How many times I gotta tell you to stop that shit?

It could probably, definitely, be worded better. Maybe even a bit…kinder. But Roman is a lot of things. 

Kind is not one of them.

He then adds, knowing she’ll probably try to find another excuse to not be honest with him. 

Roman: What do you need? The truth, Solana. 

There’s an appearance and disappearance of those dots at least three or four times. He can picture her biting down on her bottom lip as she tries to word what probably is a simple request as best she can.

The amount of overthinking she does has to be fucking exhausting.

Solana: I was just gonna see if you could meet me at the library. I wanted to show you something.

Solana: But, it’s not a big deal! Please forget I said anything.

A couple of things strike Roman strange, two in particular. The first being that as soon as she says what she needs, the answer is an automatic yes. Like, it’s not even something he really thinks too much about, but he also chalks it up to a level of genuine curiosity. This might be the first time she’s actually directly asked him for something.

It must be important. Important enough for her to ask him to come see whatever it is, at least.

It’s why he doesn’t even comment on her second, follow up text.

Roman: What time you get off?

He can make whatever work.

Solana: It’s okay. Really.

This damn girl….

Roman’s jaw clench as he types out a text that matches his mood. 

Roman: Solana….

She’s giving him a damn migraine. He’s not sure why he doesn’t just ignore her at this point. If it’s that fucking important, she wouldn’t be giving him such a hard time.

But then the stupid nagging voice returns, reminding him that her even asking in the first place is a huge deal that shouldn’t necessarily be shot down because of lingering struggles that are probably going to be around for a while.

Solana literally has years of baggage and trauma she needs to heal from.

And that shit doesn’t happen overnight.

Solana: 3pm

Roman blows out a breath. Fucking finally. 

He lays his phone back down, not necessarily wanting to hear any pushback or counter arguments she might try to supply, fake ass reasons she wants to back away from her assertive request. 

Not happening. 

Roman: I’ll be there.

“Jey.” Roman’s deep voice cuts through the group who set their eyes on him. “I need you and Jimmy to handle the Barrett meeting for me.”  While the twins are annoying as shit majority of the time, they’re effective all of the time. Roman has trusted countless meetings with them, and none have turned out badly. They always get shit handled. 

His cousins both echo okayness with this change in plans, as expected. The same way Roman expected his Wise Man to be the one with questions.

“My Tribal Chief, we’ve had this meeting scheduled for weeks. What could possibly be more important?”

It’s a fair question, Roman isn’t too stubborn to admit that. But, it’s also not a question that applies. Again, it’s not that Solana is important, per se, it’s just that if his alternative is dealing with Barret’s loquacious business dealings, he’d prefer Solana.

He’s also partially intrigued by the mere fact she’d even had the balls to ask something of him in the first place. It’s promising. Assertiveness has always been more attractive to him than passiveness. 

Roman’s answer is both simple and vague. “I have somewhere to be.”

“But—”

“Wise Man.”

Paul’s childlike smile deepens suddenly, as if he’s been picked to be fucking line leader. “Yes, my Tribal Chief?”

“Who’s the Tribal Chief?”

Rikishi is the only one to offer a visible reaction, hiding his chuckle. He knows exactly where this is going, even if his decades old friend does not. 

“Y–you are, my Tribal Chief.”

Romans voice is sharp and lethal. “So why the fuck are you asking me to answer to you?”

Paul’s expression pales. “I would never, my—”

“Sound like it to me,” Jimmy’s messy ass chimes in. He looks at Jey. “What you think, Uce?”

“Sound like it to me too.” Jey, as expected, agrees. Only for him to nearly fall back in his seat when he jumps up so both feet are on the expensive ass leather. Roman is annoyed all over again for a new reason. “Ayo, Uce, ya’ll got a rat problem!”

At that, Jimmy is twinning with his brother in more than just appearance, also with his feet off the floor and onto the leather chair. Roman hopes they both fall over and break their goddamn necks. Rikishi can handle Barrett just fine.

“Ain’t you like a goddamn billionaire? How the hell you got Stuart Little and his fam running around your crib!”

Roman’s gaze follows the line of vision the twins are so damn focused on only to be met with Dulce calmly walking past both of them to sit in front of him, looking up with a tilted head. 

She’s clearly looking for Solana. 

And he knows this because it’s become a bit of a habit. If he’s home and she’s not, Dulce’s nosy ass seems to seek him out as if he’s supposed to magically make her owner appear. It’s not something he’s brought up to Solana, because he knows she would just freak the fuck out and over apologize for Dulce “bothering” him. 

And that’s not the case. 

It’s a bit annoying, but it’s not a bother.

His staff keep an eye out for her when Solana works, and he’s even seen Solana come back to the house on her lunch breaks to check in Dulce, so he doesn’t mind. She’s keeping up her end of the deal, being the primary caretaker for the puppy. 

“That’s Solana’s dog.”

Jimmy’s bewildered gaze is on him. “This a dog?”

“Yes.”

“You let her get a dog? Like a real ass dog?”

“You fucking see her, don’t you?” At that moment, Dulce calmly lays down on the floor next to Roman’s feet which are literally bigger than her small ass. It’s followed up by Paul starting to sneeze. 

Jey, who is now sitting back in his chair like a normal human being, points out, “man, you hate dogs.”

Naturally, Roman goes a bit on the defense, shoulders straightening. “I don’t hate them.”

Jimmy makes a sound, also with his feet planted on the ground. “Bruh, you literally use to tell us when we was growing up, ‘I hate dogs.’ That’s why we started calling you Big Dog, cause it was funny to see you get all mad and shit.”

Roman may or may not remember that, but it doesn’t mean he’s going to acknowledge it. Besides, he’s allowed to change his mind. Hate was always probably too strong of a word to use anyway. 

There are a lot of things Roman hates, even more people that he hates, but dogs are not on the list. 

It was more irritation than anything.

“Whatever.”

“What’s her name?” Rikishi asks, bending over his chair to try to catch Dulce’s attention.

Roman watches the puppy gradually make her way over his cousin, ears dropping as he gently rubs the top of her head. “Dulce.”

“Dul–what?”

This…..this is why Roman is on high blood pressure medication, why Dr. Michaels recommended he start wearing one of those smart watches to monitor his heart rate and other shit. Not that he did it.

“Dulce. It’s Spanish.”

“Aw man, why you ain’t say that in the beginning?” Jimmy turns to Jey. “The dog only speak Spanish.” He looks over at his dad who now has Dulce in his lap, continuing to pet her. Roman rolls his eyes. This dog is a damn attention whore, just like he predicted. “Hola, lil’ chalupa.”

Jey punches his brother on the arm. “Uce, you can’t be saying that kind of shit. It’s racist.”

“No, it’d be racist if I called the dog Taco Bell since her mama half Mexican, but I ain’t do that shit, cause I like Soso.”

“Stop calling her that.” 

Jimmy avoids Roman’s warning and proceeds to ask with all of the intrigue. “So not only did you let her bring a dog up in here, but you let ole’ girl pick a rat for said dog?”

Already irritated and on edge, Roman isn’t sure why Jimmy’s question irritates him as much as it does, and not even because it's a question that’s being posed when he’s trying to review a contract. It’s that Jimmy is questioning Solana’s decision in general.

He answers as calmly as he’s capable of responding. Roman also notices that Paul is red as a tomato as he pulls out an Epipen. Roman easily brings his focus back to Jimmy. “It’s what she wanted.”

“Should have got a big dog,” Jey suggests, hovering over by Rikishi as he tries to interact with Dulce whose eyes are fluttering closed. Roman swears this damn dog sleeps 23 out of the 24 hours in the day. 

That answer is simple, Roman grabbing a pen to sign off on the contract in front of him. It’s satisfactory enough. “She’s scared of them.”

“What is she not scared of?”

But that comment, for whatever reason, is what makes him snap. “Get out.”

Both the twins are unfazed, but it seems to trigger something for them as Jimmy exclaims, “I forgot!” He looks over at Jey, reminding. “Remember, Soso made some extra food for us.”

“Oh shit, she sho’ did!” 

Roman makes a mental note to write Solana about that. It’s not her job to keep feeding his grown ass, married ass cousins. 

The two bid their farewell, Jey shouting out as his parting term, “yeet!”

“Stop doing that,” Roman calls after their retreating forms as Paul also excuses himself for some air. 

Maybe he really is allergic to dogs. 

Rikishi stands up and walks over to him, still holding Dulce but not saying anything. He’s just looking like he wants to say something. Another of Roman’s pet peeves, of the many.

With a mutter and scowl, he asks, “what?” 

His cousin simply shrugs, nonchalantly commenting. “The girl is growing on you, Uce.” It’s an assessment, for certain.

However, Roman has zero desire to have this conversation with his older cousin, or anyone, in general. Hence, his vague ass reply of, “she’s tolerable.”

Because that’s the truth. Solana is neither amazing nor insufferable. She’s in a pretty balanced space between the both: tolerable.

Rikishi gives him that sly ass look that makes Roman want to punch him in his fucking face. “E tua le fale tele i le faleo’ o.”

It’s an old Samoan proverb that means “Even the mighty need others.”

Instantly, Roman’s gaze is cutting. “I don’t need anyone.” He never has, and he never will.

Rikishi just offers a knowing smile, lowering Dulce back to the ground and placing a hand on Roman’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. “Of course not, Uce. Of course not.” The older man says nothing else, just walking out, Dulce returning back to stand by Roman’s feet, head up, staring at him.

He rolls his eyes, murmuring as he gets back to work. “She’ll be home later.” 

Dulce barks in response. 

________

The minute Roman pulls up to Solana’s job, sees the expression on his cousin’s face, he knows something is up.

Solo may have a dangerously good poker face, but Roman invented that shit. 

He got the blueprint from Roman. 

Solana is sitting near the front of the building, surrounded by fucking children as she reads some basic ass book that they’re all clearly eating up based upon how they can’t seem to take their eyes off her.

Roman isn’t entirely indifferent, instantly taking note of her outfit, more colorful, less covered. It reeks of Naomi’s influence, but in a good way. 

As always, she looks good, better than good.

Not wanting to interrupt, Roman motions for a few of his men to take Solo’s place as he gestures for his younger cousin to follow him.

As soon as they’re outside the building, Roman gets right into it. “You got something to say, so say it.” 

Roman knows his cousin well enough to know that despite his brutal fighting abilities, the man is always careful and meticulous with his words. Unlike his hot headed older brother, Jey, Solo always thinks before he acts.

It’s why Roman doesn’t think twice about the space between the issuance of his prompt and Solo’s answer.

“You made me your enforcer for a reason, yeah?”

It’s an easy answer. “Yes.” 

“You upped me in the ranks to prove myself, right? To earn my way into the inner circle?”

Roman is already bored with the conversation, but considering this is family, he throws a bone. “Yeah.”

“So just how am I supposed to do that when you got me playing babysitter to your new wife?” The turn in topics as well as increase in Solo’s volume does slightly, very slightly, take Roman by surprise. Granted, he does a masterful job, as always, hiding that surprise. “Any lower guy could do this shit. She don’t—”

“Solo.” Roman gives him that tight smile and scratches his beard, typically the last thing people see before they meet their maker. “You answer to me. You do what I say you do, and I say you’re assigned to Solana.”

Roman doesn’t know what’s in the fucking water for people to be testing him the way they are, but it’s really starting to piss him off.

Solo looks down, clearly embarrassed by this talk down but not enough to shut his mouth. “I get that, but—”

“Wasn’t she already hurt once under your watch?” Roman’s voice is razor sharp as he reminds the younger man of his failure. The memory of that fucking bruise on Solana’s wrist from her bitch of a brother returning all of those strong emotions. “I gave you a job, and you didn’t do it. She got hurt while under your protection. It’s because you’re my cousin, you're even still breathing right now. You know better than anyone I don’t accept failure.”

At that, Solo concedes, knowing good and well there is no excuse or justifiable reason. “I understand, my Tribal Chief.”

Roman does his best to chip away some of his anger at this outright disrespect as well as the memories of Solana hurt. He steps past his cousin, calling out over his shoulder. “And Solo, don’t think because you’re family I won’t put a bullet in your head for questioning me.” Out of the corner of his eye, Roman can see Solo still has his head down. “Fail me again, let her get hurt again, and I’ll put your ass six feet under.”

Roman doesn’t allow the conversation to persist beyond that, big steps taking him back to the library just in time to see the children disperse, whipping past him as Solana approaches. The wedges on her feet give her a bit more height, but he still towers over her, which is a usual experience for him.

But, it doesn’t negate the fact that she’s so damn small.

“Hi,” she greets in that familiar unsure voice, eyes darting from him to the ground. “Sorry—I mean—story time ran a bit over.”

He’s appreciative she at least caught the apologizing before he had to call it out. “It’s fine.”

She offers a tight smile and motions for him to follow her, which he does, just as his eyes follow the sway of her ass as she leads the way.  

He’s starting to really enjoy seeing her in jeans. 

She leads him up the stairs and in the back area he’d visited her before what seems like so long ago, finding that her bastard of a brother had manipulated her into being alone with him. The last fucking time that shit will ever happen.

She pulls a key out her back pocket and unlocks the door, informing, “I have to grab something first.”

He doesn’t say anything, just nods. It’s like she feels the need to justify every little thing she does. 

Roman watches her walk over to the desk, leaning over as she grabs him something out of her bag, a notebook, the journal he first found her writing in the first time he came to see her at her place of employment. 

She’s back by him, closing and locking the door. “Come on.”

Typically, if this was anyone else, Roman would have demanded to know just what the fuck was so important that caused him to have to rearrange his whole schedule. Granted, he can’t take that out on her, nor would he ever, when he’s the one who rearranged his whole schedule for her. She didn't ask him to do that shit. 

He did it on his own volition for reasons unknown. 

The walk to the next stop doesn’t take long at all, Solana soon sticks her key in another, unfamiliar door, opening and stepping aside but directing him to walk in.

He does as such, naturally and instantly taking in his surroundings once she hits the light switch. It’s a room obviously, a previous storage room he would guess based upon the large filing cabinet lined against the wall to the right of him. There’s also another couple pieces of furniture against that same wall, like a desk and mini bookshelf, but that’s not what immediately catches his attention.

He’s instead more interested by the remaining walls that are essentially lined with larger, white bookshelves, all filled with a combination of notebooks, books, and journals. Completely filled. 

Intrigued but also confused, the latter of which is unfamiliar to him, Roman turns to Solana, asking, “what is this?”

Her cheeks redden, but she manages an answer that’s somehow not marked by as much stuttering. “There are all my journals—well,” she stops, giving a nervous laugh. “Most of them. Some are books I’ve read, and….” She walks over to a section that somehow seems different from the others, albeit lined up neatly with the rest of the items. Solana’s hand almost hesitantly feathers over the spines of the journals. At closer look, Roman can see they’re a bit dated and worn than the others. “These were my mother’s.”

Her answer surprises him, but he quickly recalls her sharing that she started writing because of her mother, because they wrote to each other.

She clears her throat and then turns back to him, sharing, “every time I finish a journal, I leave it here.”

Obviously. “Why here?”

“My mom started it. It—it was an arrangement she had with Mrs. Jensen. She worked here, and along with her pay, she arranged so she could keep her writings here and after….” Solana starts to hesitate, and Roman can see it’s because emotion is brewing. Just gently bubbling under the surface. “After she died, I kept up with it.”

Roman recognizes the sensitive nature of the subject and makes a subtle effort to change the topic on her behalf. “You’ve really written in all of these?” It’s impressive. He has to give her that. The thought of writing in general has never appealed to him, so for her to have a room full of journals she’s completed is fucking impressive. 

She nods, adding sheepishly, “filled em’ up.” Solana then takes the one in her hand, lifting it a bit. “Finished this one this morning.” He watches her squeeze it into a row that’s probably already being pushed to the limit.

She’s going to run out of space eventually.

She’ll need something bigger, sooner rather than later. Roman compartmentalizes this for a later date and time to navigate.

“You keep em’ here to hide them also, don’t you?”

“They can never know what I’ve written….” She doesn’t need to say who they are. It’s more than obvious. It’d be a sure death wish. “I just—-I know you said you’d write for now and it’s been almost a month, but—but I—I figured if you knew just how important and helpful writing is to me—”

“Solana.” There’s no need for her long ass, drawn out explanation. He understands now why she wanted him to see this space, the goal behind the request. “We’ll write as long as you need it.”

He watches her shoulders drop, a sign of relief. She bites back a smile he wouldn’t be opposed at seeing. She looks even better when she’s smiling. “Thank you.”

He only nods, and Solana finds herself taking him in. 

All of him.

In recent weeks, she’s discovered yet another newfound difficulty and source of anxiety for herself. And that new addition would happen to be in the form of the 6’3 man before her.

Roman has always made her nervous, for a variety of good and valid reasons, but recently, the cause of that anxiety has shifted to something else, something a bit on the unfamiliar side for her, or rather something she hasn’t really had to think about since her last disastrous relationship.

Attraction

Solana has come to terms with the fact that she’s attracted to Roman, yes, but also that she hasn’t the slightest clue of what to do about and with that said attraction.

It’s always been there, to a certain extent, but it was more dormant, something she knew was present but voiceless and nameless, almost invisible.

Now, in interacting and engaging with him more, it’s formed more defining characteristics, creating a sense of butterflies in her stomach whenever his smoldering gaze falls on her or when he says something to her, that deep, baritone voice sprouting goosebumps on the back of her neck.

It also doesn’t help that he’s indicated a couple of different times now that he also finds her attractive, or pretty, beautiful even.

That he thinks she looks good.

None of that makes sense to Solana nor can she understand why he would believe any of those things, but she would never make him out to be a liar, so it must be true, to some extent.

And therein lies the dilemma. 

One of many that exist in her life.

How she’s supposed to balance attraction with fear, desire with aversion, peace with trauma. It’s all a muddled mess. 

“Solana.”

“Sorry.” He only has to sigh one time for her shoulders to sulk, but instead of apologizing, she points out in a small voice. “It’s—it’s a habit.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a fucking habit to break.” His irritation is palpable, and Solana feels even smaller around him, like she’s done something wrong. “It’s not you I’m annoyed with.”

“Oh.” And that genuinely surprises her. In Solana’s experience, she’s always been the source of people’s, especially the men in her life, exasperation. But before she can step out of her comfort zone and ask him what’s wrong, he informs her of something that completely makes her emotions flip and twirl into a puddle of distress.

“Your father called for you today.” And just like that, any sense of relation and ease she’d achieved is dissipated, replaced with growing unrest. “Relax…” It’s not missed upon Solana how Roman’s tone quickly and almost easily jumps from irritated to almost soothing, like he’s trying to calm his nerves. “I told him to fuck off.”

That doesn’t make her feel any better. “He doesn’t like being told no.”

“And you think I give a fuck?” His deep voice is full of indifference and edge, but this time around, Solana knows it’s not directed towards her. He then asks, “do you want to talk to him?”

It takes her off guard. “What?”

Roman repeats himself with a surprising lack of irritation. “Do you want to talk to him?” 

Solana can’t remember the last time she was asked such a question. Been given a choice. Then again, it’s happened quite a few times since her marriage to Roman, starting with Bayley asking her something as simple as how she wants her makeup done. 

She doesn’t know what to make of that. Just another thing added to that mounting list of confusing and conflicting thoughts and feelings. 

“If you want to, I’ll allow it.” He quickly adds the caveat. “But not without me present.”

Prior to the past couple weeks, Solana would suspect Roman’s stipulation stems from a place of possessiveness. But now….now it feels like it comes from someplace else, something so unfamiliar and foreign. 

Protectiveness. 

It feels like he’s being protective of her. 

His proclamation from earlier returns to the forefront of her mind.

“I’m not going to let anyone lay a fucking hand on you.”

He’d also included a list of people he wouldn’t allow to do as such, including her dad and brother, which is why he clearly would only let Solana speak to her father if he’s around. 

It’s just the why that has her stumped.

But, back to the question being posed, the easiest and most simple answer is no. She’d rather not be around someone who’s only ever left her hurt, emotionally and/or physically. Or allocated that task to her brother. 

Not to mention the fact that the only reason he probably wants to talk to her is to discuss this nefarious plot she still refuses to allow herself to think about because it’s so inconceivable. 

“Not really,” she answers after what feels like forever, “but…”

Roman picks up on her hesitation. “But?” 

“Like I said, my–my father doesn’t like being denied.” And before he can protest or again reiterate his outright indifference to her father’s feelings, Solana adds in a quiet voice, “and I usually end up being the one to pay for it.”

Roman steps towards her, and before she can process what’s happening, his finger is under her chin, tugging so that her head is lifted, eyes locked with his. 

His voice lowers, quietly asking, “you still don’t believe me when I say I won’t let anyone hurt you, huh?” It’s rhetorical, sure, but Solana is too focused on the fact that this man is touching her. It’s as innocent as innocent comes, but it’s still touch, something she usually hides away from like the plague. However, outside of the initial shock and borderline discomfort, Solana doesn’t jump away, doesn’t feel the need to put as much distance between them. She’s almost….almost comfortable.

“I’m going to kill them both, eventually.  Fucking with them in the meanwhile only makes the outcome that much more worthwhile. But…” And the surprises keep coming, especially as he makes her aware of his intentions. “One word. All I need is one fucking word from you. That you want them gone, and it’s done. No questions asked.” 

Power.

Solana wonders if this is what power feels like, the ability to say one single word and have a life be ended. How she feels about those lives belonging to her brother and father remains to be seen, but even being given such an option, such an almost promise, it’s an indescribable experience.

Roman’s brown eyes, light and contrasting everything about him that is sharp and hard, study her. “You understand me?”

Naturally, she nods against his index finger that’s under her chin, demanding maintained eye contact. 

“I need words.” It’s a reminder from the infamous wedding night, something that seems so far in the rearview mirror now. 

“Y–yes.”

He seems pleased by this acknowledgment, enough to pull his hand away from her, Solana trying not to make too much of the strange sensation that floats in her stomach at the absence of his touch. 

Roman suddenly offers. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll up your security detail.” Before she can protest and probably apologize if she’d unintentionally indicated it wasn’t already enough, he asks, “you get off at 3 every day?”

“Essentially, y–yes.” 

“I’ll start meeting you.”

The surprises just keep on coming.

Instantly, she feels bad, shaking her head. “You don’t have to—”

“Solana.” This man must get tired of having to say her name, she’s certain of that. “I’ll meet you.” He says the same thing, but this time, she knows not to push back because it’s a done thing. “Just make sure I have your updated work schedule.”

“Wh—what about Solo?”

“He’ll still be assigned to you for any other outings.” This makes her feel a little better, that he’s not entirely rearranging and inconveniencing himself for her. “You ready to go?”

Yes. No. Maybe. There’s so many different questions she has with only a select number of answers, but in this moment, she goes with the one that feels most right. 

Especially with Roman reaching for her hand.

Nodding, she swallows and accepts his gesture, noticing how his large hand closes over hers, almost protectively.

“Yes.”

________

“That for me?” Solana looks up from the notebook she’s almost certain she’ll have filled and completed by the end of the month. Roman’s presence and question both catch her off-guard. She didn’t really expect to speak to him again today, especially after he already spent time with her earlier that day. She figured he’d had his maximum daily dosage. 

Especially after she’d already prepared and fixed dinner for him, the two of them falling into their now routine of him eating in his office, her in the living room before she makes her way out back to the patio where she either writes or, now, plays with Dulce.

Solana shakes her head, answering softly as Roman sits on the chair opposite her.  “no. It’s…”

“About your mom?”

With him now aware of the nature of some of her writing, she answers, “yeah.” Roman’s question triggers something she’s certain she intentionally never commented on because it was such a shock to her system that she really didn’t know how to respond. “When….when you said it wasn’t my fault….did—did you mean that?”

If she expected there to be delayed response or even confusion on his end, she was entirely wrong because he answers almost on the spot. “Yes. I told you, I wouldn’t lie to you.”

She’s starting to believe that. 

Wetting her lips, she informs in that same small voice, “no one’s ever said that to me before.”

Xavier’s unshaven face and dark, judgmental gaze is focused on her, Solana doing her best to ignore the pain that wrecks her body, the beeping of the machines and IV’s in both her arms. The throbbing between her legs is equally scary as it is confusing. What did they do to her, and why did it hurt so much?

He pulls the cigar from his mouth, dropping and stomping it on the floor, gruff voice asking, “why didn’t you fight back?” He shakes his head, spitting at the same spot that’s littered with remnants of one of many poor habits. “You’re weak just like your mother.”

Roman’s firm voice snatches her away from spiraling too deeply in dark memories of an even darker past. She does her best to shake away any sign she was about to dissociate when he surprises her for what feels like the 10th time today, almost quietly sharing, “My mother was killed when I was ten years old.” There’s a synchronous dropping of her mouth and stomach at the exact same time. “You think that shit was my fault?”

The answer is obvious and immediate. “No. Of–of course not. You were—you were just a kid.”

While her response is borderline automatic, coming from a place of pure logic, everything else is so confusing. Roman’s mother is….dead? Not even dead but murdered when he was a child?

Just like hers.

Solana doesn’t know how to process this. It’s not until this very moment that she realizes not once has she ever considered or thought about his immediate family, like parents and even siblings. At the wedding, so many people were present, obvious family members of his, but she’s just now realizing she never considered who was who. Were they all cousins, aunts, in-laws even? 

Where is the rest of his immediate family? Better yet, who makes up his immediate family? She’s aware of the twins and even his older cousin Rikishi, but is there not more?

“So were you.” She can’t tell if Roman intentionally works to redirect the focus back onto herself or if he’s unaware of the fact she’s suddenly wondering just how much about the man across from her she still knows nothing about it. “So why is it different for you?”

It’s an effective diversion and valid question that she’s never once asked herself.

“No one’s ever said that either.” Her voice is only a couple octaves above a whisper, and Solana finds herself sharing more than she’s probably ever divulged to anyone. “When I….when I’m writing, a lot of the times, I’m writing letters to my mom.” Having this conversation with anyone, let alone Roman, of all people, wasn’t on her life agenda. But, it seems like a lot of ‘nevers’ are gradually morphing into ‘actualities.’

It’s such a strange experience, too.

“Like I said, we used to write to each other, and after….after she was killed, I couldn’t find it in me to stop. I think at the beginning, I kept doing it because….because I didn’t want to accept she was gone.” The understanding and underlying emotion shifts to the surface, resulting in her quickly wiping at her eyes to keep the tears from falling. “Like I was waiting for her to write me back.” It’s not missed upon Solana how Dulce suddenly moves closer, tucking her body right up against Solana’s thigh. “And I’ve kept at it over the years, cause—she was the only person I could ever talk to.”

Roman repeats the same message he wrote to her, almost reminding her of a lifeline she’s gradually starting to realize is available for the first time in almost twenty years. “You can talk to me, Solana.”

And she is. She doesn’t know how and especially why, but she is, and as heavy as the topic is, there’s a hint of relief at finally having another living, breathing person to speak to and with about these things. 

Especially…..especially someone who can maybe relate to her. “How did you do it—how did you….move past it?”

It’s not the best wording, she’s certain of that. Losing a parent. Having a parent be murdered isn’t something one gets over. 

Solana knows this better than most, but Roman….he’s so composed, so together, so unbroken. 

So unlike her. 

His expression darkens as he answers in an eerie but calm voice. “I got my revenge, and I killed every single son of a bitch who played a role.” His delivery unsettles her a bit, but he seems to easily shift back into that almost patient tone she’s only ever heard him use….with her. “But, I’m not like you, Solana. You're innocent. My ledger bleeds red.” Solana doesn’t know what it looks or even sounds like for Roman to be uncomfortable, but his delivery in the next part definitely feels as such.  “I don’t….feel things like you do. You feel everything. I feel nothing.”

She whispers. “I wish I was like that, that I didn’t feel.” Because it’s true. Because it’s how she initially started to self harm, because she wanted to feel something other than emotional pain. Even physical pain was better than the anguish that racked her every day, 24/7.

He’s quick to shut that down, to tell her the complete opposite. “No, you don’t. That would mean you’ve lost that innocence you have.”

That actually makes Solana smile, chuckle, but there’s not an ounce of humor as she shakes her head. “I–I lost my innocence a long time ago.” Stolen. It was stolen from her a long time ago is the more appropriate way to word it. Stomach a complete freaking mess, she does her best to power through her anxiety at what she’s about to tell him. “Roman…..I—”

“Ayo, Uce—”

“What!” Roman snaps, Solana jumping back away from him, hypervigilance back on high and alert. He briefly casts his gaze back in her direction, and she can almost swear she sees a speck of guilt. Like he’s apologetic for scaring her. 

Jimmy, however, is unfazed by his cousin’s temper. He’s lived with it his whole life. Ain’t nothing new. “Rhodes men were on Bloodline territory—”

“What?” At that, Roman’s head snaps back in Jimmy’s direction. And Solana watches as any sign of Roman, patient and almost kind, is replaced almost instantly with that same cold, stoic demeanor that could strike fear in the heart of even the strongest man. 

He stands up, hands on his hips as he moves a bit away from her. Solana also stands, fighting her urge to move closer to him. 

Jimmy also presents with a seriousness she’s never seen in him, never even really knew he was capable of, to be honest. “We got three guys down. Another two critically injured.”

Roman curses, turning away, back toward Jimmy and her. He then asks, “you got a location on em’ yet?”

“Pearce should have it any minute now.”

“Good. Let’s go.” Roman nods, stepping away from Solana and in the direction of Jimmy just as Dulce walks over, clearly wanting Solana to pick her up. She must also pick up on the sudden shift in the atmosphere. 

Dulce in her arms, Solana finds herself calling for Roman. “What—”

“Not now.” His dismissal is sharp and sudden. It shouldn’t hurt her feelings, because it’s obvious he’s in an entirely different zone now, but it does. 

Solana sinks back into her shell of silence as Solo steps forward. “You want me—”

“Stay with Solana. She doesn't step foot outside this fucking house, you understand me?” Roman’s orders are indisputable, an almost sense of urgency in his tone. “Heighten security around the premises.”

Solana has so many questions. Just what is going on? Why is Roman so on edge all of a sudden? Who is Rhodes and why do they present such an imminent threat where Roman marches out the house, Jimmy on his heels without even a second glance at her.

It’s all so confusing. 

“You need to get inside.” Solo’s equally stoic reminder, command maybe, pulls her from her thoughts. And Dulce suddenly growling at Solo definitely redirects her focus.

“Shhh. It’s just Solo,” she comforts, petting and trying to calm the puppy who quickly upgrades her growling to barking. This also confuses the mess out of Solana.  

She’s not sure she’s ever seen Dulce both growl and bark at someone.

Wordlessly, she walks in the house, past Solo who she notices makes sure to lock the door behind them. 

“Stay in your room," he instructs, and while she has more questions than anything, his austere tone is more than enough for her to not push back. 

Dulce will just have to use the crate if she has to use the bathroom. 

Without another word, Solo carries Dulce up the stairs and into her room where she lays the puppy in her bed and Solana climbs onto her.

Chewing on her bottom lip, she grabs her phone and opens up the latest group text thread she was messaging in. 

Solana: Can I ask you guys something?

Their replies come in not even five minutes later. 

Bayley: Of course!

Naomi: Anything.

Without allowing herself too much time to overthink it, Solana sends out the simple question.

Solana: Who or what is Rhodes?

Solana: Roman just rushed out of here after Jimmy said something about Rhodes men being on Bloodline territory. I’m not allowed to leave the mansion.

Just like the start of the conversation, the replies come in almost instantaneously. 

Naomi: Fuck.

Naomi: Yes, stay put. Solo’s there with you, right?

Solana: Yes.

Solana’s anxiety is only growing. Naomi sounds just as intense as Jimmy and Roman were. 

Her follow up text doesn’t do anything to help the confusion either.

Naomi: The less you know, the better. The guys will handle it.

Handle what, though? That’s what Solana really wants to know. What is the story here, and why did this Rhodes person or group have Roman so wired. 

Just then, another notification comes through. From Bayley, but in their individual thread and not the group chat. 

Solana switches over, reading her messages as they arrive almost back to back. 

Bayley: Rhodes is a person, but…that’s a complicated story.

Bayley: And I'd feel bad telling someone else’s story, but what I can tell you is that Rhodes is Cody Rhodes, head to the Nightmare Factory, the Bloodline’s biggest opp. Tensions have been at an all time high for like two generations with countless bodies dropped on both sides. It’s always a bloodbath when they’re in the same vicinity. 

Solana is regretting even asking anything in the first place. Bloodbath when they’re in the same vicinity, the same vicinity Roman is heading for as she types. Her shoulders drop, anxiety starting to shift to a new target. 

Concern for his safety.

Bayley: If you’re somehow ever in a situation where someone from the Nightmare territory is around, get the hell out of dodge. They won’t hesitate to kill you, especially with you being Roman’s wife.

Bayley: Or Rollins. Seth Rollins. Especially him. Guy is fuckin’ psycho.

Solana: Rollins?

Bayley: Roman, Seth, and Cody used to be friends a long time ago, like way long ago, and it just….it went bad. Really really fucking bad, and Cody and Roman have hated each other since. Like, I don’t know if hate is even a strong enough word for how much they can’t stand each other. 

Solana: But why?

Bayley never replies. 

________

Roman doesn’t step back into the house until almost 4am. He feels every bit exhausted as he probably looks, more physical than anything, some mental, maybe more than he’d like to admit.

Dealing with anything Nightmare related typically has that impact on him.

Solo meets him at the door, looking as on alert as he did when Roman first saw him at the ass crack of dawn this morning. 

The first thing to leave Roman’s mouth isn’t intentional as much as it is unintentional. “How was she?”

Solo motions to the marble flooring leading to the spacious living room. “She’s waiting for you.”

Roman wasn’t expecting to hear that, and he’s certain it shows in his facial expression. “What? Why? Why is she still up?”

Solo shrugs. “You’ll have to ask her. She don’t talk to me.” Which is more Solo’s preference anyway. It’s his job to protect her, not be her fucking friend. “Everything good?” Roman nods but doesn’t say anything, still stuck on the fact that Solana is still up. “Imma head out.”

Roman’s response is as distant as his expression. He doesn’t care whether Solo stays or leaves. “Alright.”

Once his enforcer is out the house, Roman sure enough finds Solana sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, notebook in her lap as she writes away.

“Solana.”

She gasps, clearly taken by surprise, but when her head lifts and her eyes land on him, she untangles her legs and moves the journal to the side. Solana walks over to him, keeping a distance that makes sense for her. “You’re back….”

“What are you still doing up? Don’t you have work in a couple hours?”

“It’s okay.” She shakes her head, adding sheepishly, “I–I don’t sleep much anyway.” He knows this well. “I just—I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Her eyes widen as she hones in on the nasty looking cut near the middle of his hairline. “You’re hurt….”

It’s really not until she says anything that Roman remembers the only “injury” he received from tonight’s bloodbath. “It’s fine.” He then redirects the focus to the main topic at hand. “Solana, you don’t have to wait up for me.”

She ignores him, actually ignores him and instead reaches up to feel the cut that’s maybe a bit more deeper than he realized because her feather light touch brings a bit of a sting. 

“You need stitches.” It doesn’t sound like a suggestion, and he realizes as such following her next surprising action. She takes his hand and leads him into the kitchen, motioning for him to sit down on the stool as she pulls out the medical kit from under the sink. 

Similar to the night of WarGames, she moves in between his open legs and starts tending to his cut, meticulously and carefully stitching him up.

She says not a word, and neither does he. Truthfully, it’s more an unconscious thing than conscious, like neither knows what or if to say something. Especially considering both are currently feeling more than what they know how to properly verbalize, or verbalize at all, really. 

“There….” Roman can tell when she’s done. She gently runs her fingers over her diligent work, her eyes focused on the source of her apparent concern when all he wants is for her to look at him, for her eyes to lock on him. “I think I’m—” And just as Solana goes to move away, to step back and clean up, she’s stopped. 

She’s stopped, because Roman reaches for her, keeping her near him.

His hand is initially on the small of her back, and Solana has the same experience from earlier. That initial tense feeling that quickly mellows into something almost calm, almost secure. 

She’s not sure she’s ever been this close to him, not since the last time she tended to his injuries, not since their wedding day, since their wedding night.

But unlike that last almost traumatic time, she’s not pummeled with anxiety, not paralyzed with fear. 

It’s just the calm. 

His eyes never leave her, bouncing back and forth between her eyes and lips. He then says in a low voice that’s unlike anything she’s heard from him before. “Solana….”

There’s something different about the way he says her name, something more sincere, something almost….vulnerable. 

Roman suddenly has both hands on her hips, holding her, just as her nervous hand moves to lay her palm against his chest. 

His eyes instantly shut at her touch. Interactions with anything regarding Rhodes have always done something to Roman emotionally, but it’s always been something he can manage relatively well. Something simple and easy. There’s nothing simple and easy about whatever the fuck is coursing through him at having her so close to him, having her touch, soft and unsure as the expression in her eyes. 

She doesn’t know what to make of his eyes closing nor does she have time to consider what to make of that because an image, a flashback of a different kind of touch, a much more painful, visceral touch shoots to the forefront of her mind.

And her chest starts tightening, that fear drawing back up. 

“I–I can’t.” Because as much as some part of her, albeit big or small, likes this, likes being close to him, feels safe being this close to thim, another part, much larger and much stronger, can't handle being this close to him. “I’m sorry.” Eyes watering, she breaks away, Dulce is quickly behind her, Solana reaching to hold the puppy as she dashes up the stairs. 

Roman sits unsure, confused, angry. He stands up, pacing across the floor, hands up and on the side of his head before his fist slams against the refrigerator door. He curses, but not from the blow. That shit doesn’t hurt. 

His reaction and frustration is directed solely toward the fact that he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s feeling right now.

The same thing Solana is struggling with as she sits on her bed, legs pulled up to her chest, silently crying into her thighs.

Both of them wondering the same exact thing:

What the hell just happened?

[myuni-moon]

SAGAU: Reboot (part 1)

It was one thing to be thrust into an unknown world; it was another to experience it without the safety nets you were so used to. It was supposed to be a game, after all– but the next thing you know, you’re put in a place so familiar yet so equally uncertain. Game experience, lore, online forums, walkthroughs, character descriptions; it was all useless the moment you took your first step into the wild.

You wanted to say you knew what you were doing, but you didn’t. There was no guide, no tutorials, and no conveniently befriended companion to help you. It felt like a miracle you were able to leave the Whispering Woods with only scrapes and scratches. Climbing was more taxing than you wanted to admit, and running away from elemental slimes felt like you were a child again, trying to run through a dark corridor at home and into the safe light.

The hilichurls were the worst by far at that point. While the slimes had more capacity to damage you, they lacked any further appearance that reminded you they were considered monsters. They could still be cute if you tried. However, the hilichurls snarled and growled. They might have looked more human, but they felt more like animals. It was as if they were fighting based on the barest of survival instincts. Primitive and feral. That made them all the more terrifying.

Coming across Starfell Lake was more calming than your previous engagements with Teyvat. You only skirted around the very edge of the lake, but you could say that it was a beautiful sight. The faint blue glow of the statue gave you peace of mind– if only for a moment. It stretched up into the vast sky, and you recalled wondering just how vast the world you stumbled into was. The game’s visuals couldn’t compare to the Anemo Archon’s statue; you suppose polygons meant nothing, too. You couldn’t reach it without having to get wet, and you were extremely keen on keeping your current attire dry until you had extra. Still, you couldn’t deny your appreciation as you glimpsed at the cut stone. The wings were more intricately shaped, and the robe’s design reminded you of Greek sculptures. If given the chance, you’d look at the statue more closely.

When you saw the view of the city of Mondstadt peeking from beyond the trees, you almost cried. You, indeed, underestimated just how huge Teyvat truly was. In game, you could traverse the path in less than ten minutes; it took you almost double the time or more to do the same in your current state. It was so painfully apparent you didn’t belong.

Your walk to the city after was welcomed. You didn’t really encounter anything, and you mentally thanked whatever God there was that another trial didn’t await you. Well, there was. It just didn’t come in the form of monsters. It came in the form of anxiety and horror as you realized you didn’t know how to approach going into the city, itself. True, you technically knew how to get started, but it dawned on you that you lacked the normal capabilities that would ensure you safe passage and friendly relations.

In other words, you were completely fucked and left with no means of proper survival– the usual way, that is.

But you needed to survive, no matter what it took. You’d made it this far, and you weren’t going to let your lack of knowledge scare you into getting killed. With the same amount of time it took you to realize that you were in a game, you decided that you would walk into the city and gain as much as you could. Information, a job (if you could), food, friends. Anything to keep living.

So you plunged into the unknown. With your mind made up, you took your first step into the gates of Mondstadt.

“Stop right there!”

So much for that.

[velvetures]

could i request a ghost x “strawberry/cutecore/hello kitty” reader?! basically just everything is pink and they are super bubbly :>

pls and ty 🙏🏻

Simon "Ghost" Riley & Cutecore/Hyperfeminine Aesthetic

a/n: I loved this request... but it was my first attempt at the aesthetic/vibe as a whole and I'm not sure if I hit the mark. I used this pic as my inspo. ):( Summary: What it's like for Ghost to have an "everything in pink, please." gf, and what kind of feelings go along with it. TW's: suggestive content 18+ ONLY, established relationship, possessiveness?, def not proofread (the usual), fem!reader.

Of all the women that Simon ever entertained the thought of being, one like you didn’t initially even present itself as a remotely interesting option. The idea of someone such much different from himself sounded like nothing less than a good way of fucking up someone else’s -otherwise- normal life by inserting himself into it. You just always seemed so damn happy and excited about even the smallest of things; Practically amplifying the good feelings floating around in the air and blasting them right back at him. Never without something pink on and dressed up like you were minutes away from attending some kind of fairy party literally scared Ghost away from having anything to do with you.

You on the other hand, weren’t exactly sure what it was that made Ghost so averse to speaking to you more than a few words at a time. Yet made it your very private little mission of sorts to snoop and poke around until you found some kind of answer as to why such a massive and expertly lethal man couldn’t bear to stand within arms reach of you. He just intrigued you for some reason or another. Only getting glimpses of the man’s real self in his eyes -the only visible part of him- and having to make your next moves based off of nothing more than gut-feelings and the hope that you were reading his signals correctly.

At first, it crossed your mind that your preferred aesthetic of sorts could be a bit of the problem. For most people it might appear a bit too much, and when looking at Ghost dressed almost head to to in black with a skull painted on his masked face… there was good reason to assume it in the first place. What you didn’t know was that it was so much deeper than your affinity for lace-trimmed socks, Mary Jane’s, pearls, and practically anything hyper-feminine and in a shade of pink. Ghost didn’t believe you were weak or predisposed to acting childish. You held a massively significant job in journalism and worked harder than most people he knew at what you did. You just happened to enjoy everything around you looking like some damn cotton-candy tea party.

What bothered him was your sweet personality and an intrinsic value he held for just how fucking innocent you were towards him and everyone else around you. People could be utterly horrible right to your face, and you’d silently keep the hurt to yourself and never fight back against what they’d done. Revenge wasn’t something you cared for, while it was essential to Ghost’s motivation in his work and private life. For a long time he couldn’t balance his morals of being involved with you at all with the thoughts in the back of his mind about how much he might twist and form you into something unrecognizable. Something a lot less… pink. A person that didn’t enjoy such small little things like how a skirt had small pink flowers embroidered on it, or if the little bows you’d stick in your hair had a lace fringe on the edges.

Oh but how things changed when Ghost finally couldn’t stand looking at you without thinking about how nice it would be to have his arm wrapped around you, pulling you tight up against him to keep everyone from staring. The Lieutenant always had a weak spot for you and your sugar-sweet personality and looks. But goddamn did he start loving the color pink more than a professional murderer should. All the hues and tones of that fucking color began reminding him of you no matter where he was, or what he was doing. For the longest time, he’d been worried that he would be the one that changed you, all the while he was too deep inside his own mind to recognize that you were the one controlling the direction things were headed.

Just looking at you made him shudder with feelings of possessiveness and adoration. Standing there happy as could be with thigh-high white socks and a fluffy pink skirt, all dressed up just to go out to eat at a little late-night pub because he couldn’t stand the idea of having to show his face in the bright daylight. You knew to a certain extent that Ghost appreciated the way you lived your life just a bit more feminine than average… but the depths of his thoughts and ideas about you were surface level to say the least. He just knew what you looked like clinging to his arm walking down the street; His polar opposite and yet so happy to be close to him. A darling smile… pretty and glossed lips… frilly things on almost every piece of clothing you wore and just utterly adorable to him.

Knowing that gave him… fantasies.

Wanting to see all of the things he could buy for you to wear for him. Dress you up almost like his own little doll and get to show you off to anyone who’d look, only to have the pleasure of threatening them to do more than take one good glance. So delectable, squeezable; but for him and him alone. You were the princess Simon didn’t realize he wanted and unlocked this strange and insatiable urge to spoil the fuck out of you with every pretty pink or glittery thing you could wish for, just so he could take you home and watch you try it all on for him while sipping a bourbon on the couch.

Fuck… There wasn’t a better way to spend an evening. Well, almost.

Perfect didn’t count unless he got to see you under him, laying back on pink silk sheets you’d been adamant about buying for his house, watching your eyes roll back with every moment he made. Damn if he couldn’t make it more than fifteen minutes without needing to calm himself down, before needing to put you on your hands and knees so those pretty little fucking faces you made wouldn’t make him finish before he got started. If he was lucky he could leave hot and pink handprints on your ass for making him feel so good. Simon knew you weren’t sheltered. But to him you were still innocent. Kind in so many ways he didn’t comprehend or believe was humanly possible. For fuck’s sake, you allowed him to come into your life.

Him with his scarred hands, bullet holes, shitty disposition. A man who preferred destruction and death for it’s permanence and certainty. Simon, with his need to hide his own face and go by a name that lacked humanity. All of him starkly contrasted you in so many ways it made him spin with confusion and oftentimes guilt. Questioning why he’d been so weak as to touch you in the first place. Allow himself the chance at someone so full of life who could see the world -literally- through rose-colored lenses.

Yet you brought forth happiness and fulfillment that the soldier hadn’t found in his years of searching desperately for a purpose. He found someone he could visually see, and palpably touch who hadn’t been torn down or beaten into submission in one way or another. Sweet and innocent you had found such a simple yet powerful way of living life the way you wanted to. Ghost felt like he could protect you. Not only in the genuine aspect of loving you so much that he got physically ill at the thought of losing you to anything; but also because you were so full of life and love to give to everyone around you. He needed you. Selfishly. Then again, there needed to be more softness and genuine innocence and happiness too. And so long as he was alive and breathing, he’d always make sure you were safe.

Reblogs & Comments are Appreciated <3

[xyziiix]

𝘛𝘏𝘙𝘌𝘌 𝘐𝘚 𝘈 𝘊𝘙𝘖𝘞𝘋 ~ 𝘑.𝘗 & 𝘚.𝘙

PAIRINGS: Captain John Price X Female!Reader X Lieutenant Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

WARNINGS: SMUT - this is pure porn u guys - MMF threesome, unprotected P in V (wrap it please for the love of god) spanking, ROUGH GHOST, Price being an arsehole, being fucked over a desk, Eiffel Tower 😏, oral (m!receiving), creampie, kinda degrading.

A/N: I heard your pleas you little horndogs. You ask and you shall receive. (Sorry it’s a lil rushed and — surprise surprise, not proof read yet)

[could be read as a part 2 to ARDOUR, could also be read by itself)

It was Price that had noticed it first.

Of course he had. He was regardful. Observant.

He noticed it first a few days after you’d returned to base from Urizakstan. The way the Lieutenant’s eyes would linger on you when you were talking or just suddenly appeared — breathing life into the room, as you usually did. And it wasn’t just in a way one would be respectably paying attention to someone whilst they were speaking or doing something to gather their attention — No. it was the way his eyes — ones that always seemed devoid of emotion — would follow your body when you moved around, would watch you like a predator stalking it’s prey. Price recognised the look in his eyes.

Because that’s how he also looked at you.

While the situation you and Price were in was… delicate — and would definitely rouse misplaced reactions by the people in your place of work — he thought the idea of another man looking at you the way Ghost did would’ve angered him. Made him jealous. Irrational.

But for some reason it didn’t irk him as he thought it would.

And it wasn’t long after that he figured out Simon knew about you two. Perhaps the way Ghost seemed to be more observant and more silent than usual when the two of you were normally interacting with each other in front of the task force — keeping it strictly professional while you weren’t in the privacy with only each other. So that’s how Price figured he knew. Why would he be acting odd — even more than usual — about the two of you simply talking in the same room as everyone? It was like he knew a secret, a dirty secret.

Turns out he did.

In that battered down, sad excuse of a safe house in the Urzikstan dessert, it turns out not everyone was asleep that night while your Captain decided to fuck you.

You two had hidden it well — he’d give you both credit for that — so it was safe to say it had genuinely surprised him when he saw the sight in front of him that night. He was careful. Quiet. Like a ghost. Sticking to the shadows and moving silently — which was very surprising considering the Lieutenant’s looming height.

He had heard the noises — your noises — and it was obvious they were trying to be muffled. At first, he’d immediately thought of danger, that’s why he had been cautious to approach instead of just bursting into the room.

He remembers the feeling of his chest tightening in realisation when he saw what he saw. Price’s back was to Ghost — laying on his side on the ground. He couldn’t get a good look at your face, but he could see the glow of perspiration from the moonlight shining through the thin glass pane window and onto the dewy skin of your bare leg draped over Price’s thigh. Even just the silver of soft skin and the sound of your singing being trapped into the Captain’s palm had Simon hard, his pants tightening in his groin area — other than that he remained completely silent, even his breathing seemed nonexistent as he just watched the two of you. He didn’t even touch himself either, just watched. Like he thought if he looked away for a moment then the image of you like this would be gone.

But now it had been burned into his memory. The sounds you made. The soft and supple flesh of your thigh. And even the way your dainty hand had grabbed onto Price’s arm when he made you come. He wondered if you’d make those noises for him — except he wouldn’t muffle them with his palm. No. He’d want you to let everything out, every scream, every cry, every wanton moan while he fucked you dumb with his cock.

Price had brought up his observation of the Lieutenant one night a few weeks later. Both of you basking in the afterglow of sex in your rooms in the barracks.

“Simon.” He started simply, and you had turned to look at him quizzically.

“What about him?”

“Think he knows.”

Somewhere between then and now, you had discussed the possibility of this. To say you were very surprised when Price was the one that suggested Simon fucking you was an understatement. It wasn’t that Price wanted to be sexual with Ghost — as sexy as that would’ve been to see — he liked the idea of watching him fuck you. He couldn’t explain why, but just something that had been brewing in the back of his mind.

You had told Price that he wouldn’t have wanted that — that he was a closed off person who was hard to read, how could John have possibly conjured up that assumption that Simon was attracted to you?

Well, your captain always liked proving you wrong.

Because here you were, bent over the expanse of John’s desk — the desk you’d already had the pleasant experience of being bent over, laid atop of, and sat underneath while you sucked his cock as he sat in the desk chair — only this time it was infact, Lieutenant Simon Riley plowing into you with his intimidatingly large cock.

His grip on your hips was borderline painful — but it hurt so good. You worried he may make the desk topple over with how hard he was thrusting into you. You’d never been this stretched open before — feeling the too much, too full feeling of his dick inside of you, the blunt head of his length kissing the plug of your cervix with each steady but strong buck of his hips.

The masked man’s gaze was set of the globes of your arse, how the flesh rippled when his hips met yours, how every time it did so he got a glimpse of your little puckered hole — fuck, he wanted to fuck you there as well. But, he didn’t want to push his luck just yet. The only noises to be heard in Price’s office was skin meeting skin, the sound of your small cries and whimpers of ecstasy. You tried to stay quiet, you really did, but it was rather pathetic — your moans eventually interjecting through the room.

That’s when Price had changed his mind about just watching you. He had been painfully hard the last 15 minutes from having watched you already come on Ghost’s cock, your eyes glassy and lips red raw from biting them as you gripped onto the table for dear life. You didn’t even register him standing in front of you until you heard the sound of metal teeth being zipped open as well as the buckle of his belt.

“Gotta keep you quiet, love.” He excused with a chuckle while sliding his cock between your lips.

You really did have to keep quiet. And though the door was locked anyone walking by would’ve heard you — being fucked by your lieutenant while your captain watched.

You tried to focus on hollowing your cheeks around John’s cock. But you were utterly cock drunk, already feeling another powerful orgasm building in the pit of you abdomen while Simon continued to fuck you. Price had obviously noticed you struggling — as the bastard seemed to notice everything, he’d smugly remind you — so he had gathered your hair, using it to lift your head up as he started to fervently fuck your throat.

If you thought you felt impossibly full then you were beyond stuffed now, your jaw slack as John fucked your face and your pussy stretched almost painfully wide around Simon’s cock.

Ghost let out a prolonged, raspy breath when he felt you squeezing his dick in a vice. And in return, one of his hands left your hips in order to collect both your wrists with his single, calloused palm, pining them to your lower back as he fucked you impossibly harder, his pace quickening a little. His other palm landing a smack to your sore asscheeks — a crack of palm meeting flesh sounding in the office.

“Look at you, eh?” Price spoke, his tone annoyingly steady despite your mouth gliding up and down his cock. “Being fucked by your superiors. What would everyone make of you?” He asked with a gruff chuckle — and obviously you couldn’t answer.

About several moments later you felt yourself tumbling into another fierce climax, all but crying around John’s cock as your abused cunt squeezed Simon pitifully — which rewarded you with another slap to your rear, the skin red raw.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Simon grunted lowly — that adding to the short list of words he’d actually spoken this whole time.

Your arse hurt, your wrists hurt, your jaw hurt — your fucking pussy hurt — but you didn’t want it to stop, ever.

John pulled his cock out of your mouth, his dick coated in a mix of saliva and precum. His hand still buried in your hair — keeping your head up. Your neck hurt as well.

“Such a good girl.” Price praised as he bent his knees a little to see your face better, a smug smile curling his lips at the tears staining your flushed cheeks. “He makin’ you feel good?” He asks, there’s an edge to his voice.

The Lieutenant — being so full of surprises tonight — pushes his hand under you. The rough pad of his thumb cruelly flicking your clit. Your body seizing forward, a sharp cry escaping your lips while Simon still held your wrists pinned behind you.

When your eyes had widened at the overstimulating sensation, John had mirror your expression — but mockingly. “You like being used like this don’t you?”

You could only moan in response — unable to form a coherent thought let alone sentence.

Price tapped your cheek, your eyes focusing back on his smug face. “Asked you a question, love.” He reminded you. Arsehole.

“Yeah-“ you managed to babble out, your words shaking in tandem with your body, John’s smile curled into a Cheshire Cat grin — his goatee lifting.

“Yeah, you do.” He repeated.

Neither men had lasted much long after that. Price had gone back to fucking your face while Simon was relentlessly pounding into you. Your third orgasm was — quite literally — breath taking, it felt like your skin was on fire, yet numb at the same time. You definitely couldn’t feel your legs. Ghost came first, burying himself all the way to the hilt before spilling hot ropes of come inside of you with a groan — so much that it leaked out of you in a dribble of pearly white, you had let out a pathetic whine when he pulled out — the empty feeling had you quivering around nothing.

Price came a few moments later, filling your mouth with his salty spend before you swallowed it all. It tickled your raw throat.

Ghost had left soon after, not that he was ignorant in checking up on you, but because he knew that wasn’t his place to do so — not yet anyway. He had helped you up from the desk though, soothing his hands up and down your waist before Price took over. He had shared a look with you — his eyes saying everything his mouth wouldn’t.

@tapioca-marzipan @kanyewestburnbook @darksxder @louve-barnes @emodanoriddler @imonmykneessir @nightingal3-tales @ghost-2513 @fruitymoonbeams-blog

I tagged the ppl who commented on ARDOUR, if your name isn’t in grey then it wouldn’t let me tag you x

Call Of Duty MW2 Masterlist

[sgiandubh]

Anon rebelde.

¿ En serio alguien pensaba que al finalizar el rodaje esto iba a ser pasto del aburrimiento ?

La promoción de NY no necesita más conversación, la interacción entre Sam y Cait habla por si sola por mucho que Mordor se empeñe en echar balones fuera pero llega el ultimo día de rodaje y firman que aquí acaba todo, cada uno por su lado, después de todo su relación solo se basa en el trabajo pero ¡¡¡¡¡ SORPRESA !!!!! Sam tiene un acto marcado con la etiqueta de negocio y su compañera de trabajo, después de un día de muchas emociones que pide calma y relax, aparece en el. Vamos a pensar que como ella también está en el negocio del alcohol va para tomar nota pero ¿ donde esta su "socio" en el ? La aparición de Cait en la fiesta del primer aniversario de Thegardensheddrinksco acompañada de su "socio" caballero con claros signos de pasar mucho frío a pesar de los looks más veraniegos del resto de asistentes, levantó una buena polvadera por qué era normal que asistieran juntos, entonces ¿ Porque el no asiste a este si todo está relacionado con el negocio del alcohol ?

Dear (returning) Anon Rebelde,

Gracias por los excelentes comentarios que haces aquí. Siempre es Navidad cuando envías algo, así que me apresuro a traducirlo:

'Did anyone really think that the end of filming was going to be boring?

The NY promotion doesn't need any more discussions, the interaction between Sam and Cait speaks for itself no matter how much Mordor insists with the blaming game, but the last day of filming arrives and they are adamant that this is where it all ends, each one on their own, after all their relationship is only based on work. But SURPRISE!!!!! Sam has a business event and his coworker shows up there, after a day of many emotions that requires calm and relaxation. Therefore, we could think that since she's also in the alcohol business she showed up to make some contacts, but where's her "partner"? Cait's appearance at The Garden Shed Drinks Co's first anniversary party, accompanied by her gentleman "partner" with clear signs of being very cold, despite the more summery looks of the rest of the attendees, raised quite a stir because it was normal for them to attend together. So why didn't he attend this one if everything is related to alcohol business?'

And just like this, boom! A lightbulb moment, here.

This. This is the million-dollar question: 'why didn't he attend this one if everything is related to alcohol business?'

Exactly. Where is the Director/Secretary/Director of several British and Irish companies, either in-common or separately owned, dealing with alcohol or pubs (LOOOOL)?

The answer is in those damn papers, of course. But there are none so blind than those who wouldn't see.

So, let me sum up the reasoning panic attack across the street:

Stage 1: filming just ended. She will go back to the Glasgow Taj Mahal with no double glazed windows and that's it. He will endlessly get drunk in some random sleazy bar with or without that incompetent saleswoman. They hate each other. So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, adieu. And oh - he is, of course, gay.

Stage 2: ugh, another booze related event in Glasgow, featuring S and his permanent shilling, I am not giving this the light of day. Perhaps nobody will notice?

Stage 3: Queen C would never attend that sordid event, especially when the Peasant is shilling his booze. Nope. Over her dead body.

Stage 4: 🚨🚨🚨there was a woman in that car 🚨🚨. I repeat: 🚨🚨🚨there was a woman in that car 🚨🚨🚨. We know who she is [insert random name here], oh my (pearls sway), he has no shame!!!

Stage 5: there was no woman in that car.

Stage 6: there was a woman in that car, but I am going to fix myself some hot cocoa and fuck you all. In my world, the Eiffel Tower can be a Twinkie. Or the other way round.

Stage 7: confirmation that C attended the event. I have been called out for hiding things. I am, therefore, a victim. I am starting the drama, full cycle. Divert, divert, divert attention. Engage!

Stage 8: this was an OL-related event. The second wrap-up party. No, this was a common friend's birthday. No, this was... ok, this was an after work thing. Nooooo....

Stage 9: there has been an, as yet unexplained, shortage of babysitters in Glasgow on Friday October 25th, 2024. Fathers babysit. That is modern enough and hopefully that avoids more inconvenient questions. Right?

Stage 10: let's quickly post something about irrelevant social media statistics. No, nope, no, I am not unsettled by anything. Nope.

Stage 11: nobody brought his/her better half. Fact.

Stage 12: they are co-workers.

Stage 13: everything happened because of the Shippers.

[jolalibrary]

iii. when pounding dough isn't just baking

joel miller x f!reader | chapter three of honey stained hands

chapter summary: and he can already hear what Jackson will say if they find out, the looks he’ll get—because how dare he poison the sweet woman who tends to bees and bakes cakes. but he dares. fuck he’d dare over and over again.

warnings: patrol times, allusion to grief, minor mentions of loss of loved ones (rip tess/sarah), reader is unwarrantedly slapped on the ass by an unknown male (she handles it, cause she's a baddie), soft, slow-smut, p in v, typical canon-angst, no physical descriptions, minor use of the nickname 'bee' but no use of y/n. wordcount: 5.1k an: fuck me, she's uploaded hahaha. for this chapter, there's far too many people to thanks, I've rambled about this to anyone who listens, but as always thank you to @thetriumphantpanda for propping me up when this felt like it would never happen and thank you also to @goodwithcheese who loves this, probably as much as me, but has also reminded me i have to love it first.

It’s hard to pinpoint when the snow first began to truly settle.

When it began to simply dust itself over things, and then when it shifted into blanketing.

One day, normal. The next there’s a sheet of white hanging expertly over roofs and porches. It's placed there by the hands of nature, blanketing everything in innocence, unveiling deception by the way of footprints, while hiding away the horrors that have deteriorated and spoiled into the ground.

It twinkles when stared at and crunches under the soles of boots. It goes hand in hand with the weather which makes mist appear from lips as people converse, going on with their new normal. It forces laughter from individuals as it falls in flutters, collecting on noses, hands and the ground, just before snow people begin to appear, all crafted expertly by hands and joy. But, the snow also makes bones in those who are older ache and makes excited giggles flow from those who are younger.

For Joel, it drives him to yank his gloves further up his hands, causes him to grumble and makes him narrow his eyes as Ellie rolls another snowball and threatens to throw it.

She eventually settles with heading off to find Tommy, leaving him to stuff the gloves under the cuff of his jacket—trying to busy himself, and not stare. Alternating between flexing his fingers and peering around as he waits to hear your door open.

When it does sound, it’s like music to his ear. A soft whistle flows with it, a smile catching his eyes when he allows himself to glance over and look.

Joel swears the light of the world lives in your smile. It must do to penetrate the layers he wears, the walls he’s thrown up and the roughness he carries. Not that he’s ever about to admit it. Not that or that whatever had been churned up inside of him, smooths out. A semblance of calm slid itself over him, gently weaving its fingers under knots and taut muscles, relaxing him, inch by inch.

Although, a part of him is tempted to spill all his secrets to you when you skip down the steps, looking as over the moon to see him, as he is to see you.

“You ready for Patrol 101, Miller?”

He isn’t sure he is. His knees had groaned in protest this morning, then there had been an ache in his ribs when he stretched too far, and he was sure if he attempted to run his hip would give out.

Joel swallows all of it and doesn't share it. Doesn't want to highlight any more than the lines on his face and the callouses on his fingers what the years have done to him.

Because getting out was something he’d been craving.

A hunger in him that hasn't been stemmed with tasks and fix-me-ups. It’s why he had almost choked on his drink when Tommy told him the news. Practically watched his brother smirk in the same way he had when he was younger—like he’d gotten something on his older brother. Bee'll take you around a few times; show you the routes. Then you'll be paired with someone else.

While he hadn’t wanted to push, dismay swirled within him. It sloshed against the sides of the happiness he’d been handed, diluting it, and making it murky.

How come I can’t stay partnered wit’ her?

Can’t have the best two together—we’ll lose others quicker than we already are.

He said nothing. People had been getting braver for weeks, growing more desperate.

A thing which Joel had seen firsthand when he’d been outside of the walls of Jackson, long before he could ever say he was a resident. But, something had shifted more so since then. A deviousness not etched into those with more energy, more poison in their teeth and more gut in their stomachs.

“Don’t worry, I’ll look after you,” you tease.

Snorting, he holds your gaze. Allows himself to see his reflections in the way they glimmer, staring at him with a mixture of things—ones he wishes he could translate and understand. Your tongue tracing your bottom lip, something trying to write across your face, but never being spelt out.

That is until you clear your throat. Erasing it all, wiping the markings from your face—the begins of sketched-out confessions he would have tried to ascertain.

“Come on, need to get ourselves equipped.”

He follows, as he does for the next hour.

On the second time out, he’d grown used to your mannerisms.

How you went from nothing but sunshine to a thing someone would fear meeting in the dark.

That you begin by his side, but eventually fluctuate between being a little in front or just behind. Your voice ranges in pitch, sometimes whispering, sometimes at normal volume. All little quirks he supposed you’d picked up from surviving.

The main thing Joel learns is that he doesn’t hate listening to you—not like he does many others. Even when you elbow him, pulling a slight smirk from him.

What he hadn’t banked on was the way he felt when your eyes dropped to his lips temporarily, almost fleetingly.

Good job I’m a talker, isn’t it Miller?

While you are, he’s also now able to spot that shift in you on the third run—the one he saw before when you were littered with ruby droplets. He can predict when it descends, when it shifts in your eyes, something sharper, more razor when you’re on this side of the fence.

The playful light that adorns your face is gone, traded for something harsher, more weathered. He thinks it would be rude to say your age, but you appear hardened, like the things you’ve faced begin writing themselves across your face all over again.

Joel notes it’s worse when you pause at an abandoned cabin, your voice tight, almost forced as it leaves your mouth. Your eyes burn into the door and the chipped windows. He doesn’t interrupt, makes no sudden movements, just allows you to list the things there, the amenities, the hidden knife in the floorboard and half a box of bullets behind a brick in the fireplace.

He's not paying attention to that though, but rather you.

You who looks like you could shatter if he knocked into you, crumble into something that would willingly slip between snowflakes and bury yourself into the soil.

He's learned grief can be worn in a number of ways. Ellie's there, carried around her neck like a necklace, it lingering in unsaid words.

The most painful parts of his own are buried in a chamber, wrapped in iron, only released in the moments where he's alone, where there's nothing but darkness and quiet, allowing him to replay all he can recall like a home movie, paying attention to the way those three letters sound and the childish laughter rings out.

Another part comes back to him at the sound of running water, of circular rocks. He thinks of that sly smirk and that cunning brain when he rolls over mid-sleep to remember he still leaves a space.

Then, there's the way you carry it. A mystery, slices of it living in the things you surround yourself and you come into contact with, like a bunch of ghosts which haunt and linger.

"I know it’s not a lot, but it’s better than leading them back."

"Yeah," he adds.

Because other words don't come to him with ease.

You don’t fill the silence for a while after the cabin is barely in sight, just the world absently humming along, as though it doesn’t notice the tension and the way your shoulders are by your ears.

“So, why baking?”

It’s the first question he asks—the only one since the two of you left the safety of Jackson. If you’re surprised at his shift to engage, you do not comment, instead pointing in the direction the two of you are taking.

“Well, I did do candles for a while too, but…”

Moving a branch out of the way, you nod as you move under it, likely following a path you only know in your head.

And it lingers, the bit after the but. Waiting, hearing the breeze blow gently through bare trees and the snow wince under your boots.

“So, how’d you like patrol, Miller?”

Smiling, he grips the gun a little tighter at his waist. “S’alright. Y’a good tour guide.”

Laughing, you stop, waiting for him, jutting your head in the direction of the path, but he doesn’t move, and neither do you.

And it happens, brief and quick. Gone far too soon before he can point it out—that brief look you give him, dropping from his eyes to his mouth. Curiosity there, brewing, bubbling before you vanish it when you return to hold his gaze.

“If Tommy tells me you rated me less than five stars, I’ll be coming for you.”

“Will y’now?”

Narrowing your eyes, the world silent of snow crunching under boots. “Yeah. I know where you live, too.”

He doesn’t see you for several days after the third patrol—and in that time, he's paired with someone younger, a man who appeared more nervous about holding a gun than he did being outside the walls.

“The two of you will be going out in a week,” Maria had said, no room for complaint or argument.

A stern expression that hardens as though freezing in the cold temperatures.

So, Joel said nothing.

But he did think of you.

He dreamt of you, too. Them having shifted when he slept. Swirling, hearing the distinct whispers of Miller, flashes of your gaze just as he wakes up—leaving him gasping, hand on his stomach, desperate to alleviate pressure, but not the kind which had been in his chest.

By the fifth day, he still hadn't asked about you, but fuck did he want to. Almost went round, and hammered his fist into your door. Getting as far as his own porch before he talked himself out of it.

But, now Ellie had begun to mumble. Her sharing her worries, her concerns, fingers playing with the other as she sat at the table, breakfast untouched, sadness beginning to embed itself in the cheer that Jackson had slowly brought her.

"She might be already down at the pen."

Moving the spoon, Ellie shrugs. "She isn't. Her light is on."

By the time he’s decided to check in himself, Joel finds Ellie at the foot of your porch, hands on her hips—beckoning you to come out. Doing so at the top of her voice, all sing-song, making a dance and churning the snow into ice as you stand and watch.

Whatever your reply is, is buried under your breath, doing so begrudgingly, practically dragging your feet like you were the same age as her.

“You have anything to do with this, Miller?”

“Nope. I’d have dragged y’out if it were up to me.”

You’d poked his chest, smirking—a glint that flickered and then vanished inside the dark-sadness that swirled in your eyes. “You can drag me anywhere, Miller, just so you know.”

Somehow, the simple act of getting you out led you to teaching Ellie more about the animals, showing her how to brush one of the horses, and how to feed the chickens. Before he knew it, he was lingering behind, watching the two of you talk to other townsfolk, before somehow ending up in the Tipsy Bison.

It was then Ellie decided to leave you both—a look on her face that screamed menace and don’t fuck this up old man, all at once.

And he had tried. Kept things light, breezy. Ordered you a drink, listened, and even overthought questions before he asked them.

Your eyes flicked to a table across the room when you motioned to answer, it all loud, full of laughter. The pitch of them has been growing louder for the last half an hour, likely doing so as more time goes on and as more alcohol fills their stomachs and sloshes with the morals.

It seemed to make your spine tense, your jaw tighten. All newbies, from what Tommy had said when he’d served you—seem good, honest.

Joel didn’t get that vibe, and from the look on your face, neither did you.

Clearing his throat, he nudges your glass with his. “Y'been good?”

Chewing your reply, you lean on the bar—eyes staring at him. That same look.

The one which he sees in his dreams. The one he saw embers of on those walks.

Before it drops, finds a place near where his fingers rest, watching a smile crack into your stern expression, fluttering something else out in its place.

“Better now.”

“Yeah?”

Rolling your lips, you lean closer, the scent of your soap and shampoo flooding his nostrils. “Yeah, Miller. You make me—“

But your words are stolen, robbed.

Taken.

The action does so before the sound of a crack echoes, all heavy, loud—it punches itself into the calming air, turning it violent and angry.

It ricochetes.

And Joel is embarrassed it takes him far too long to piece together when he sees you jolt beside him. Only realising when Tommy yells and he sees the evidence of it cut across your face, the shock that bled into a deep frown—words dying mid-conversation before your head whipped around and you stare at someone passing.

Pushing up from the bar, slamming your glass down—it splashing itself against the wooden counter. “Did you just spank my ass?” you spit, cutting over the man’s laughter—directing it at him as he walked back to his table.

“Just thought you were good enough to eat, sweetheart.”

Even if the smile on your face is nothing but sweet, Joel sees the shift. The forced nature of it. The way it doesn’t glaze across your skin. But is planted there. Not quite reaching your eyes, not quite blazing over the simmering that’s there.

Because they’re aflame. Murderous. Slightly pinched at the edges as you slowly tilt your head, placing your bottle down.

The music continues to play, mindless chatter layers on top of it, but he can just hear your boots walking away from him. One step, two steps, three.

Your body inching closer to the man, the one with his thumb in his belt, leaning—like his comment had substance.

“That what you want, handsome? You want me?”

Joel’s throat dries, fucking tightens. And he just watches on, even as his fist grips tighter around the glass. Hating the drawl from your lips, despising it, in fact—even if he knows it's a pretence. Fake.

It’s a thing he knows from those patrols, has learnt all the inflictions of your voice—can read when you’re holding back and when you’re giving him nothing but honesty. He can tell when your words are silky, smooth—the same way he knows you’re acting now.

The man snorts. The scar on his cheek all pink, clearly healing, sliding up with his snarl. But, it's the way his eyes bore into you like a man starved, that makes him almost rise up from the stool.

The way the man licks his lips and looks you up and down. “I’d show you a good time, that’s all I’ll say.”

He can feel his blood boiling, hand so clenched he’s sure the bones will snap under flexed muscle and taught skin. But, he doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—even if all he wants to do is go over.

Because you don't need him. Reminding him very much of circular stones and stubbornness. Reminding him of someone who handled themselves just as well, someone not worth crossing either—him there, only ever in case. That case rarely ever fucking needed.

He snorts to himself because it's only now he considers the fact that if the world had been different, he suspects the two of you would be friends.

Especially from the way you had moved closer to the table. Your hips doing their thing, fingers stroking at your palm as he motions to stand.

“Better than most around here, including your present company.”

You stop. Halt.

Head tilting ever so slightly—even from his position behind, Joel knows your face has switched again. Morphed. The air growing tenser, colder—practically bone-chilling.

And he swears the music quiets.

It happens quickly. A screech of a chair leg, the shattering of a glass, and the thud of a man twice your size landing on his back. Your body slowly crouches over him as the others at the table stand up. But, he's just focused on you.

How your jeans bend in a low V at the back as you hover over the man—shirt rising, skin showing.

All the other noises have stopped, and Joel can feel his brother’s eyes on him. Feel his pulse in his throat, in his ears, hammering and fucking hammering—

“This what you want? To have someone warm, sweet and gentle on top of your bones?”

You ask it in a way where there’s room for a response. The man’s eyes are wide, staring up at you like you’re the devil rather than an angel. Your tone carrying, fluttering to his ears—but your shoulders are squared.

“Lemme let you in on a secret. I’m not warm, m’not sweet—and touch my ass again, and you’ll find out that I’m not that fucking gentle either.”

Your words ring in the second after. Just the same as the thud of you throwing the man back to the floor. The words crawl across the walls, unwilling to be smothered by music. His drink suddenly tainted, ruined, no longer tasting of anything but annoyance, anger and sadness, watching you grab your jacket and leave.

Joel just rolls his jaw, over and over again. Glare burning a hole in the floor, opening it up, feeling red mist rise out of it as he tried to calm the pulse in his neck, the one hammering in his skull.

Y’going after her, or should I?

Tommy asked it in a way where he knew the answer, likely having bid his time to speak it. Let minutes rack up, and become a bigger number than they should have reached. He wore that same cocky expression Joel recognised from a world that didn’t feel like this one. It reminded him of kitchen mornings and car rides and mornings arguing with others about the prices of supplies.

It’s why he doesn’t answer, just grabs his coat, throwing a glare before he goes after you.

Joel pauses to visit the horses and lingers there to calm the anger in his bones and the fury in his muscles.

When he begins to trudge to your house alone, he pays attention to the way his boots crunch in the many prints left behind by others. His eyes trying to spot yours, discern them from the many others.

It only gets easier when the path forks off to where you both live. The prints grow fewer, able to spot the different pairs—the ones he knows to be Ellie’s, the ones he can recognise are his own, and then yours.

You with your little markings to your steps, the fresh snow leaving a breadcrumb trail he doesn’t need, but appreciates all the same. Because your house is flooded in darkness, bathed in the night—but the footprints told him you’d made it home.

Even in your anger.

He knocks once before he tries the door. Internally shaking his head at you leaving it unlocked, twisting it into place when he’s on the other side. Boots joining yours, bits of the outside crumbling from leather to meet the melting pools you’ve left yourself.

“Kitchen, Miller.”

Smirking, he shoves his coat from his shoulders, a little golden pool of light on your wooden flooring from the kitchen that lights his way. Leads him. Pulls him along with a transparent finger which hooks into the collar of his shirt and practically drags him, until he finds you where he suspected—behind a counter, flour dust everywhere, and staring waiting for him.

“Hey there pretty thing.”

Snorting, he bites back that you’re prettier. Swallows it. Until it rears its head up his throat, and sprouts in his brain, making him think back to your comment. Then, all he wants to do is make a comment about cashing in on it.

Truthfully, he hasn’t been able to stop himself from wondering if you sound as pretty as his perfectly tuned guitar.

As he turns it over, he realises—even if he was suave—it won’t sound as good. It all balling and rolling in a lump on his tongue.

“I’m sorry about tonight.”

“You have nothing to apologise for, y’hear me?”

Rolling your eyes, you tilt your chin to your chest. “Still. Should control my… annoyance better.”

Shaking his head, he folds his arms. "Think you controlled it just fine. Though, y'could've punched him."

Grinning, you look down at the bowl pointedly. "And how am I meant to buy my way into your heart if I can't bake you things?"

And it's there again, that thrum, that little twinge in him that you have awoken. A thing that made him think, not just feel. His thumb and finger play with the fabric of his sleeve, feeling his eye narrow as he watches you—considering, ticking.

“Can hear you thinking over here? Need some oil for the cogs up there?”

“Enough.”

Smiling, you lick your lips, tapping your fingers against the side of the bowl. “I’m used to it, Miller. The comments—the looks. Had it… well, far too long.”

Biting the inside of his jaw, he does so a bit too hard. Almost making himself wince, thumb digging into his arm, feeling it, halting him from exclaiming. “Shouldn’t have t’be used to it.”

“Yeah, well...”

You let the words fall out, before sighing. Resting your palms on the side of your bowl, you give him that look again. The one he thinks he understands and can read—even if it looks different. It doesn’t whisper in the same way as it did on Tess, on others.

On you, it looks like a challenge, a difficult thing he wants to overcome, solve.

Clearing your throat, you smile. Softer, kinder. "Least I'm your honey, right?"

Moving from his place, he moves closer to the counter. Something familiar coming back to him—something covered in cobwebs and dust. Once hidden under moth-eaten sheets, not thrown to the side as he comes to stop a considerable gap away—enough for you to blink, to tell him you’re tired and say goodnight to him in that playful tone.

None of it comes.

Lifting his chin, he finds you slowly smirking, eyes fixed on him, watching, waiting.

Clearing his throat, he rolls his jaw from side to side. “What’d y’like me to call you?”

Your hands flex, flour still clinging to your palms, your hands. “Tonight?”

Nodding, he watches you swallow.

Lets your eyes trace a pattern over his face, for a moment forgetting—allowing himself a moment of pretence. That this is normal, all of it.

“Yours. I want you to call me yours for tonight.”

Suddenly, his fingers are on you, palms grasping. It’s less a kiss, and more a need for your mouth—an act of dominance, a purposeful kiss to keep your tongue busy so it doesn’t take it back. More teeth than anything else.

Because it’s bold—yet so simple.

A thing which frightens him and makes him want to devour you whole, just as he’s inhaling, smelling sugar, sweet and all things fucking nice as you moan into his mouth—and fuck do you make him want. You, this thing that is all good on the outside and marred on the inside.

It's why he softens his mouth on yours, breathes you in a little gentler, hovering his mouth over yours, waiting, permission needing to be given, signed, delivered—

“Keep kissin’ me, Miller.”

Groaning, he does. Tasting something that is all things good, yet as he slides his hand around your apron and into your shorts, you’re nothing but bad.

He just feels skin, no fabric—your slick greeting his touch, how wet you are, all desperate to be known.

“Barely even touched you,” he groans, finger-coating himself in it. In you.

“Maybe you’re not the first visitor I’ve had in the last hour.”

Your hands are caked in flour still as he spins you, pressing you down. Cheek on the cool counter as the bowl tumbles and descends to the floor. Your hands, clutch, leverage themselves, hips all hinged.

“Y’mean it?”

“What?”

“Y’wanna be mine.”

“I mean whatever you want me to mean, Miller.”

Your tight as he slides another finger in, tightening around him, slick to the place his fingers meet his hand, your whimpers blowing flour dust around.

The more he touches you, the more he decides he has to have you. Something carnal, primal. Each whimper and moan grasped for like he was collecting them, storing them in his dark depths, hoping they’d glow and spark light.

Then, it cuts through it all, and your hand—smothering his jeans in uncooked batter—grasping at his thigh, squeezing.

Want you, Miller. Please.

Even as he retracts his hand, he wants to apologise. Turning you to face him, watching your eyes—all lust blown and pretty—drink him in, likely seeing his hesitance, his apologies.

Swallowing as you hook a finger in your shorts, letting them pool at your ankles, “It’s been a while for me, too.”

His mouth slants over yours, tongue diving past the back of your teeth. Clothes sliding free, skin exposed to the air of your kitchen—the evidence of your earlier baking leaving evidence in places he’ll find hard to explain.

Not that he cares. He wants to be costed in flour prints he’ll admire when he has to return home. Wants them to linger, be hard to rid—just like you.

“I’m no one else’s,” you whisper, teeth grazing his cheek.

But it’s the words that are left hanging he hears louder: not anymore.

A feeling he understands—relates to. His hands move, positioning you up onto the counter where you bake and make, and now fuck. He hears the bowl fall, the earlier mixture spreading out in a mess as he lines himself up, looking in your eyes one last time as you nod.

Then, he slides in, all enveloped by you. Walls wrapping around him, inviting him in—desperate, needy, as little moans kiss against his ear as he stills, thumbs drawing soft circles on your hips to make you relax.

It's slow, and cautious. Rocking into you. Letting your mouth find his, attempting to drown out all other things as your legs wrap around his waist.

"Your back."

"Don't care," he grunts, buries it in your mouth, layers it onto your tongue.

And he doesn't; he just needs.

All hungry, more than he thought he could be for a person he knows no history of. But as he loses himself in you, he feels his hand metaphorically let go of the dread he wakes with each day. Each moan of his name from your pretty fucking lips makes him feel like he belongs, not for someone, but for himself.

Feeling your pulse beat against his wrist as his hand slides around to hold the back of your neck, tongue tasting the sweetness collected on your neck, as you moan his name.

And he can already hear what Jackson will say if they find out, the looks he’ll get—because how dare he poison the sweet woman who tends to bees and bakes cakes. But he dares. Fuck he’d dare over and over again if this is what heaven feels like—if this is sinning, he’ll forever confess his wrongdoings.

Because you fit, perfectly taking him, your fluttering hole taking him deeper and deeper, welcoming him, nails cutting into him, marking him, maiming him in a way that makes so much sense for the people they are.

Grunting your name, your eyes open—fire there, present in swirling ruin, ready to pull him, unaware of how willing he is as he spears himself inside of you. Unforgiving, sharp—aiming to bruise and leave you wanting all at once. You’re panting, whining his name. Your head tilted back, chin in his fingers as he fucks into you.

Where he asks, and you smile—wicked and true—inside, inside me, Joel. And he can feel it, how close you are—all tight, desperate and unwilling to beg. But it’s there in the way you’re struggling to swallow and how his name keeps threatening to spill like the hook of a song.

“It’s okay, let go—fuck—let go for me.”

He sees the cogs turn, feels your body react, contort and wash over with pleasure, as he is sure he hears it, the distinct whisper of for you as you cry out, soaking him, coating his cock, fluttering and fluttering until you pull his mouth to yours. Tongue swiping across his bottom lip, tasting the sound of your name as his rhythm stutters, and stutters until his own release costs your insides, stains you, writes that he is yours all over you.

For minutes, it's just breaths, and the scent of you. Face sowed in your neck, your pulse knocking on his cheek, alive, living, all his.

"Miller..."

Swallowing, he steps back, boots standing in the contents spreading around him, deepening itself into the grout of your tiles as he pulls himself out, your hiss minimal, smothered and buried. His hand is outstretched, and he feels your palm slide against his as he helps you down to the mess the two of you made on the floor.

If you mind, you say nothing.

When he zips his fly up, you scramble back to redress. Silence, prickling tension building until he clears his throat, and you look at him with that same innocent look he first saw on your porch.

And he smiles. More so when you drag him by his cheek to your lips, having another second, another moment before reality rains down.

"I should... clean up," you laugh.

Nodding, he takes the cue. “You’ll… you’ll have to let me know when you’re next baking.”

You grin, then smirk, too—not saying anything. Staring at the ruin on the floor. “I’m sure I’ll need to borrow some ingredients.”

He wonders if that’s your twos thing.

And, he learns in four days that it is.

You step up onto his porch, Ellie having long gone out with friends—his fingers pausing in their strumming of the guitar.

“Ran out of hot water.”

“If y’want me to fix it, neighbour, I’m no plumber.”

“No. Just thought I could use yours—but, if you’re worried about consumption, we could do it together. Shower, I mean.”

He’s sure your eyes are sparkling; practically stars in a dark sky, twinkling, inviting.

His hand places the guitar down, leaning it, knees aching as he stands, your smile growing, turning more wicked as he nods at you to the door.

CHAPTER FOUR ->