#Accounting Clean up and Catch Up Services

[astrolook]

🏠Mundane Natal Astrology: Planets in Houses as Daily Behavior 🛋️

Note: These are all my personal observations and patterns I've noticed over the years. Take what resonates with you more and leave the rest. Lemme know in the comments if it hits home! A single placement or aspect isn't enough to conclude and the whole chart has to be analyzed!

Venus in 1st -> These natives always check the mirror before leaving any room. Can mimic others' tone and body language naturally. Can be photogenic. Would feel “off” if they don’t like their look that day. Usually better treated in public or in customer service than their friends.

Mars in 2nd -> Seriously, these natives works better when they’re a little pissed off or under pressure. They dislike it when people touch them (even their peers/ family) or move their belongings without permission. Can get impatient waiting for paychecks or deliveries. Less likely to share their food with others. Less likely to lend things easily to others. They would rather throw it away.

Sun in 3rd -> Corrects the grammar usage of others. Takes pride in “knowing things” before others like news, facts, trivia, and movies. Repeats jokes louder if no one laughed the first time. Gives people nicknames instantly and uses them like they’ve been friends for years. These natives have at least one go-to story they’ve told a dozen times with perfect delivery. Will correct others' proNunCiaTion under their breath if it’s wrong.

Moon in 4th -> Cooks or cleans when emotionally overwhelmed like resetting their furniture or wardrobe. These natives have playlists they loop hard when they're doing chores. Hate when people sit in their “spot” at home, even if it’s just the end of the couch. They’ll randomly hum the same song a family member was just thinking about or say the same thing at the same time without meaning to.

Saturn in 5th -> These natives avoid karaoke, dancing, or anything that makes them look silly in public. Natives would abandon their hobby if they weren't immediately good at it. Plays to win even in board games. They get visibly annoyed if their friends don't take a game seriously. They won't get along with overly playful people. For example: If they're playing Monopoly with their friends, they make sure people are followin' the rules exactly.

Mercury in 6th -> These natives Google symptoms immediately, even if it's just a headache or stomach pain. They might keep a diary/ notepad to note things down like phone numbers, addresses, etc. These natives are very good at finding small errors/ mistakes others make. They're always the one who catches the professor’s typo or the boss’s small mistake in a document. Has strong opinions about pens, mobile phones, and gadgets. Makes their own cheat sheets just for peace of mind, even when they don’t use them.

Jupiter in 7th -> These natives would give long answers or more than one answer to a simple question or during arguments. They can't stand narrow-minded people or people who are pessimistic. These natives somehow end up talking to strangers in checkout lines or elevators. Overshares if they like someone. More likely to buy expensive gifts or things that are way too big to show their love. One can expect a sink full of dishes after they make a quick meal.

Uranus in 8th -> These natives can get obsessed with documentaries about cults, serial killers, aliens/ UFOs, or bizarre crimes. They use words like, "Not to sound crazy/ weird but....." at least once a week. Out of boredom, these natives would look up people’s net worth, criminal records, or family history just out of curiosity. Would never share their password for streaming, even with their own family, and are less likely to have joint accounts with their spouse. Watches absurd things, UFO stuff, occult documentaries, etc, while eating dinner.

Neptune in 9th -> These natives zone out in classrooms, meetings, etc. These natives can develop a "weird connection" to a place/ country they never visited b4 and would think they had a past life there. For example, someone living in California feels a connection to Egypt. More likely to fall for fake quotes, toxic positivity, MLMs, or inspirational videos when young. Will impulsively sign up for a class or course because the title felt “right,” then drop out within weeks.

Pluto in 10th -> These natives delete or hide old posts, or photos that don’t “match” who they are now. Keeps a tight grip on what personal info people know about them. More likely to keep their phone brightness low in public. More likely to browse incognito, even for normal things. They always sit where they can see the whole room and their backs never face the door. They delete chats/ messages after reading them if they feel unnecessary or too revealing.

Saturn Rx in 11th -> These natives might hesitate to post on social media. Canel plans last-minute. Feels uncomfortable around people who are super loud, overly fun, or touchy in friend settings. Seriously, they will take the long way home just to avoid walking by a group of people they kind of know. They stare at textboxes for long minutes before deciding not to reply at all.

Jupiter Rx in 12th -> These natives hoard screenshots of quotes, threads, or spiritual advice they never look at again. These are the kind of people who start writing a journal, write 3 deep pages, then forget it in a drawer for 6 months. Also, they zone out while doing dishes and imagine writing a book they’ll never start. Would say they’re “not religious” but low-key gets spooked if at night after watching a horror movie or prays to God just in case a ghost shows up.

Uranus Rx in 1st -> These natives adjust their expression in mirrors to see which version looks most “acceptable” for today. They sit in corners or far edges of rooms instinctively. When shopping, these natives avoid busy aisles or wait for people to move instead of squeezing past, as they don’t like being “in the way.” Can repeat outfits even if they have a lot to wear. Buys one random item in bulk “just in case.”

💌For readings, check out my pinned post for pricing! ✨💌🪐

[gothicpaperback]

THE ART OF THE DEAL | harry castillo x you

{ part two: VALUATION ERRORS>>

wc: 6,7k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Harry Castillo x You | FALSE RELATIONSHIP

summary: you don’t believe in love. neither does he. that’s the only thing you agree on. after swearing off romance, you’ve built a quiet life in art preservation and avoiding anything resembling vulnerability. but when Harry Castillo, arrogant, infuriating, and stupidly rich, proposes you pretend to be his fiancée for the sake of getting his overbearing mother off his back, you’re thrown. but the money is good and with your detached views on romance and love, you make the perfect polished, commitment-free partner. It’s just a deal; cold, clean and temporary. but pretending to be in love with a man you can’t stand has a way of making you feel things you promised yourself you’d never feel again. especially when he starts looking at you like you're more than just a line item in a contract. And worst of all? You start looking back

the MC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely described physically aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: false relationship, mentions of materialists film, smut, enemies to lovers. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

THE ART OF THE DEAL | PART ONE | TERMS AND CONDITIONS

The restaurant is fairly quiet, the music playing in the back is dim. It's the kind of place that takes months to get into, but one mention of his name and his table for two is ready in an hour. It's a perfect setting for romance, for love 

Except Harry Castillo doesn't believe in love.

Not at his age. 

He couldn't, not after her.

Melissa. The girl he'd been slavishly devoted to his entire college experience. The one he overheard at a frat party months before graduation calling him pint-sized to a group of tittering girls. 

"But the sex is decent and he's loaded, so I'll put up with him." 

Put up with him. Like he was an annoying pet. He broke up with her that night, tears in his eyes, a hole in his heart and the engagement ring from his mother still in his pocket. 

When he told his younger brother the next morning over coffee at his apartment he'd just shrugged. 

"That's how it is for guys like us." 

And that was supposed to be a comfort? How? 

And as his date, a thirty year old art curator sits across from him now, rambling on about the things she'd seen recently at work, the people she'd talked to, the daily minutia of her life, Harry finds his attention drifting. 

Not to anyone in particular, that isn't his way of operating. He'd always been a one woman man his whole life. Relentlessly monogamous. But he's bored, the conversation manufactured as if she's reading from cue cards. 

His mind drifts to the kitchen with Lucy, the conversation, the admittance that he didn't think he was capable of love. 

"You will. It'll be easy," Lucy had said. 

This doesn't feel easy. But then again what did Lucy know? She didn't even know what she wanted. He shifts in his seat when he hears his name being gently cooed by the girl across from him. 

"Pardon?"

She fingers the stem of her wine glass anxiously. She's clearly worried she's doing something wrong. 

"I asked if you've been using Adore for long?" 

"I've never actually used a dating service before," Harry replies politely. "You're my first." 

Her cheeks tinge pink, eyes downcast, the very picture of demure supplication.  

"Hopefully your last," she says with a gentle smile. 

She's very soft. Everything from the fabric of her clothing to her voice is soft. 

He offers a low chuckle, a rich sound. He knows that he's a catch, a proclaimed "unicorn" from his matchmaker at Adore. He knows the looks he gets aren't just for looks, but for his sizeable bank account. 

And his mother has been very firm. She wants him to marry and he hates to disappoint her. 

"You're almost fifty, Harry. It's inappropriate to be single at this age." 

The woman across from him is traditionally beautiful, but what woman isn't at thirty? She has smooth unblemished skin, light voice. Botox at the forehead, lips plump from injections. 

It's all tastefully done but what remains is nothing of true interest, nothing that sets her apart from the millions of women he sees in New York every day. 

But she's smart, she's accomplished, she comes from money, she'd understand his world. 

"Would you like a second date?" He asks as he walks her to her front door later that night. 

His driver is idling at the curb, keeping the car warm against the New York autumn chill. 

She beams at him, eyes sparkling. 

"I would love that."

"He's perfect."

"No one is perfect, Gemma,” you remind her gently. Everything you do with Gemma is gentle because she's a gentle creature, long limbed, big dark blue eyes, auburn hair, like a doe come to life. "He's just a man." 

"A perfect man," she swoons, coming to stand opposite your desk. "Rich, six feet, amazing hair and body. Smart, kind." 

"And he's straight?"

"Ha ha." 

You smirk before going back to photographing the small miniature portrait in front of you on the desk. A new acquisition, a piece from the 1700's. A coup for the gallery. 

As the art preserver here at The Chapel Gallery you work in the back rooms of the gallery, in a part of the building the visitors never see. Back here the light is colder, whiter, and everything smells faintly of varnish, aging wood, and linen.

The floor is concrete, scuffed from decades of furniture being dragged across it. You’ve stopped noticing. There’s a tall window, but it’s been treated with a UV filter that dulls the sun to a diffused gray-blue haze. Still, it’s enough.

 You like the quiet of it. The way it catches in the dust floating over a stretched canvas. The hush. Your own breathing. The gentle hum of the fume extractor overhead.

Gemma is the exception. Bouncy, sweet, colorful. You like her in your space. Gemma showed up on her first day in heels too loud for the old gallery floors, holding a latte and a dozen questions about framing protocols, and you liked her immediately for admitting she could never do your job. There was respect in her voice when she said it. 

You'd bonded immediately over a love of Henry Ossawa Tanner and ethnical restoration. You moved quickly to lunches together, and then drinks after work and then a casual friendship that you appreciate in a city that feels cold. She loves to visit you in this space bringing coffee or baked goods, the two of you talking about everything from Rembrandt to The Real Housewives. 

And now she stands in front of you, phone in hand showing you a picture from what you can only assume is Google. 

"Isn't he handsome?" 

He looks like any other rich guy to you. They all start to blend into a mix of fancy watches and stiff hair after a while. 

"Sure." 

Your tools rest in their tray; scalpels in their tray, cotton swabs in jars, solvents labeled in your handwriting. Everything with its place. Everything under control. The paintings arrive with their wounds and histories, and you restore them with a loving hand. 

Gemma doesn’t interrupt, not exactly, but her presence changes the air. She’s lighter, glossier somehow. You hear the quick staccato of her heels before you see her. Always rehearsing the next exhibit, the next acquisition, the next donor she’ll have to charm.

 Her voice echoes through the storage corridor when she’s on a call, naming names you don’t recognize. Its collectors, old professors, gallery patrons who write checks large enough to get their opinions framed.

You prefer the paintings because they don’t perform. They don’t flatter. They don’t lie about what time has done to them.

Sometimes she asks what you think of a piece. You don’t always answer. When you do, she listens in that serious way of hers, her lips slightly parted, like she's memorizing the shape of your opinion even if she’s already decided on hers. It works, mostly. You restore. She sells and curates.

You move behind the canvas while she moves in front of it.

"What does he do?"

"Private equity." 

You hold in a groan. He's just like every other guy she's dated. All rich, all handsome, all in finance and all the most boring men on the planet. You can feel her eyes still on you and you know what she's going to say before she says it. You brace yourself. 

"When are you going to try dating again?"

"Never."

Your sweet, hopelessly optimistic co-worker leans on your work table, big eyes sad. "The divorce was six years ago. When are you going to try again?"

"When men stop being assholes so..." you put on a faux pondering look, "never?" 

She giggles, a bit nervous about her date, a bit tickled by your seriousness. "Don't you miss sex?"

You look over at her innocent face, amused. You're only a few years older than her but you feel like you've lived a lifetime in comparison. 

"I have sex, Gem. Sex isn't the issue. It's living with a man that doesn't appeal to me. And I'm not gay, though I wish I was, so romance isn't really an option anymore." 

You weren't always this way when it came to love. But it was a classic case of Boy meets girl. Girl falls for boy. Boy and girl get married. Boy cheats. Boy gets girl new pregnant. Girl moves on. 

You wish it wasn't such a fucking cliché. 

You think of you phone in your pocket. The message from earlier. You scowl. Gemma's phone beeps and she swipes to open the message, her face breaking into a beam. 

"He's here," she says, going on her tiptoes and bouncing. "He's coming down here to get me! You can see him!" 

She looks completely elated and there's a small, secret part of you that misses that. The excitement of a first date. Just then a gurgle sounds and she gets a strange look on her face, blanching before placing a palm over her stomach. 

"Oh fuck." 

Gemma has what she calls a reactive stomach. Which basically means that she has to aggressively empty her bowels when she gets anxious. 

"I'll tell him you're freshening up," you tell her, making a shooing motion. She casts you a thankful look before rushing off to the loo. 

You shake your head, mouth curled into a smile. She is ridiculous at times but you really do adore her. You go back to photographing the miniature portrait, excited to get to work on bringing the original color back from underneath all that grime.

The sound of footsteps grabs your attention. You glance up to see a tall man with dark wave hair that curls under his ears and large expressive eyes. He's dressed well and in one arm holds a large bouquet of pale yellow roses. 

"Hello." 

He smiles politely at you, plump lips curling under a perfectly manicured beard.

Harry Castillo. 

"Gemma just went to freshen up," you tell him with a motion to one of the desk chairs. "She'll be back any second."

"Great." 

He doesn't move to the chair. Instead he moves deeper into your workroom, eyes casting from one piece to the next. He places the bouquet onto one of the empty tables before surveying the exhibit you just finished restoring. 

He stops in front of a small, clay pot, clearly taken with it. Despite it being behind protected glass you wince when his face nears it.

"Do you mind stepping back from the artifacts? Everything here is incredibly delicate." 

Harry nods unbothered, hands behind his back. "Understood." 

He finds himself intrigued by what you're photographing with such focus. His legs carry him to the side of your desk. You're so invested in the task at hand you don't even hear him near. 

"Rosalba Carriera." 

You almost drop the camera. "What?"

"That's a Rosalba Carriera isn't it?" Harry looks puzzled. "I'm sure of it. My family owns several." 

You hold in a scoff of disgust. Of course his family would buy up art and keep it for themselves. You stare over your shoulder at him, your expression cold. Men like this make you want to scream. Money, looks, arrogance. He has it all in spades. 

"I love pastel painting," Harry continues, thrown off by your muted response.

He thought you'd warm to him and his art knowledge. He's been told he's charismatic, but the longer you derisively stare at him the more he's concerned he's been lied to all his life. You're like a cat; back arched, claws extended. Everything about you screams back off and so he does, eyes trained on yours. 

"Yes," you finally offer when he stands on the opposite side of your workspace. "It is a Rosalba Carriera. One of her earliest." 

Harry can see that the entire portrait is grimy with age. The edges torn in spots. He can't imagine taking something like that and making it beautiful again. 

"Restoration and preservation seems like such tedious work," Harry hums. 

He winces when he sees your jaw tic. He said the wrong thing. Fuck. Tedious wasn't the word he wanted to use. He'd meant labor intensive and exhausting with having so many hours spent over such detailed pieces. 

But he feels out of his element, trying to appear in control of the conversation. But the way your eyes dig into him has him feeling exposed. 

You don't even lower your camera when you reply. 

"No more tedious than telling rich people how to spend their money." 

That's an arrow to the gut. Despite being good at his job there is always the lingering thought that what he does is frivolous. That all the money in the world can't make him a good person. 

He can change his legs, his clothes, his home, but at the end of the day he's still that awkward boy overhearing his girlfriend saying she put up with him.

You put him back there, back to the party that smelled of stale beer and hairspray. The night his life changed, where he changed, where he saw the ugliness in perfection. 

And for that, he immediately dislikes you. 

He frowns, irritated by this serious woman behind the desk and the way she turns her attention back to the portrait, as if he's nothing, as if he's not even good enough to glance at. 

You want him gone. He wants to be gone. 

"I'm ready," Gemma announces with a flustered laugh, coming around the corner in her flouncy dress. You and Harry exhale in relief. 

"Great," Harry says extending an elbow. He can't wait to escape this suffocating space. 

He can't wait to be away from you

Your apartment is on the smaller side, but it does its job. You make decent money. Not enough for some penthouse at the top of a skyscraper but it's got a cozy vibe, something that makes you feel settled. It's a third floor walk up and by the end of the day you're usually exhausted. 

Above everything, you love that it's yours. You picked the paint, the decor, the pillows. Every part of this space is you. 

Not him.

You toss your bag onto the hook by the door and start the toaster oven. You worked late and you have a real craving for that shitty lasagna from the supermarket that you grew up on. 

You grab it from the freezer, Popping ventilation holes into the plastic and pop it into the oven. As you set the timer and heat you laugh to yourself when you realize how different your meal is from Gemma's this evening. She's probably throwing back lobster and farm to table veal. 

With Harry.

What a stupid fucking name. 

You can't help but be annoyed by his presence today, but if you're honest your bad mood started this morning at work after receiving a text from an old friend. Well, not a friend deal, more and emotional vulture. 

I hope you're doing okay. 

Huh? 

I saw the pregnancy announcement on J's timeline. I'm so sorry hun xx

You hadn't even bothered writing back. 

Harry had just been an additional irritant. Bad place bad time. Reminding you of the lifestyle Jarrod always aspired to.  

You used to own a nice place outside Manhattan with your ex-husband Jarrod. A place with quiet neighbours and tall ceilings. A place that he furnished saying that he had an eye for home design. 

He made decent money, but it was never enough. You both worked and he loved to live lavishly. When he found out about your secret account that has been the beginning of the end. 

And the irony is his new wife doesn't even work. But she's young and shiny and maybe that's what he really wanted all along, he just wasn't honest about it. 

But if you're honest you were checked out that last year of your marriage. How could you forgive him after his reaction to-

The ding of the oven catches your attention. You go to pull out the lasagna, hissing when the lip of the grill catches your wrist and the entire container goes toppling over onto the floor. 

Sauce pools over the mushed meal of cheese and pasta. You swear, throwing the pan into the sink with a frustrated cry. 

Today fucking sucks. 

Dinner is delicious. Better than the last time Harry was here with Lucy. Or the time before with Bianca. Or the time before that with Gretchen. It's his favorite steak house and he always rents the back room out when he dines here. It's quieter that way, the service more dedicated. 

Harry watches his date delicately eating her salad. But his mind is still back in that gallery basement, back on the woman who irritated him. 

What was her problem?

Harry dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. He speaks lightly, eyes down as he adjusts his cuff. 

"I'm glad we could do this again." 

"Me too." 

Gemma stares at him with the practised air of a woman that was born beautiful, who went to an Ivy League, who comes from money and expects the best. 

She's a good match. And he's so tired of looking. 

"Tell me more about your job," he insists after another sip of wine. 

"It's not very glamorous," she replies sweetly. Again that picture of demure innocence that's starting to grate on him. "Not like your job." 

"I assure you private equity is pretty dull." 

"I suppose it's similar to your job in that we both act as bridges between consumer and creator. But I've taken on some curating as well. That's my real passion. I love it because it's shaping what people experience when they walk into a gallery or museum."

"That doesn't sound boring."

Gemma looks delighted by that response, her eyes sweeping across his forearm, watching the gold ring he wears tapping against the glass. 

"I guess not. Right now I’m working on curating a show on post-war artists who were overshadowed in their time, mostly women and artists of colour. It's the new piece my co-worker is photographing. She'll be busy pouring over that for the next few months." 

Harry nods, not particularly interested in hearing more about you. But Gemma is on a roll, comfortable with the topic of you since nothing else is coming to mind.

“I'm worked about the funding though,” she says, delicately spearing a piece of endive, “my co-worker says not to worry about it, but I can’t help it. I’m a worrier.”

Harry nods, smiling with practised warmth. The kind of smile reserved for clients and vaguely familiar faces at weddings. 

“Your co-worker seems…” he lets it drift, then adds almost idly, “focused.”

Gemma nods, chewing quietly. “She is. Especially when a new piece comes in. She’s been handling a lot lately. We lost funding for her assistant, so she’s doing everything herself.”

“That sounds unsustainable.”

“She doesn’t really complain,” Gemma says, smoothing her napkin. “But I think it’s been wearing on her. She hides it well.”

“She’s lucky to have you, then.”

Gemma smiles at that, pleased by the compliment, even if it’s only adjacent.

“She’d never say it, but I think she appreciates the support.”

Harry feigns a moment of thought, fingers absently trailing the stem of his wineglass. He can't agree. You seemed perfectly passionate enough to insult him the second after meeting him. 

“She was a bit aloof,” he murmurs. 

Gemma gives a small, quick laugh. “She’s not always like that. She’s very funny, very blunt. She just doesn’t warm up to people easily. Especially not people who act like...well....”

She catches herself and Harry lifts an eyebrow, amused. "Act like what?”

“Like they own the room.”

He smirks. “Guilty, I suppose.”

“No,” Gemma says quickly, almost apologetic. “Not you exactly. It's just, she’s careful with new people.”

Harry leans in slightly, voice low. “You two are close?”

Gemma lowers her eyes, just for a second. “We work well together. She’s so funny and so brilliant. And yeah, a little intense. But she makes the gallery better.”

He nods, slow and thoughtful. There’s something in the way Gemma speaks about you. Respect, yes, but also a sort of nervous admiration. He files that away.

“And she said not to worry?” he prompts gently, circling back.

“Mhm,” Gemma says, dabbing the corner of her mouth. “She always says that. About donors, pieces, my love life…” she trails off, laughing a little.

“Oh?”

“She doesn’t really believe in matchmaking,” Gemma adds. "Honestly, I don't think she believes in romance anymore full stop. But she told me that worrying will just make it worse and that I should enjoy the ride." 

That doesn't surprise Harry in the least. The scraps of information presented to him about you paint the picture of a woman invested in her work. He saw no wedding ring and judging by the late hour he came to retrieve Gemma and you working away, he can only surmise that you likely don't have a partner waiting at home. 

"But I worry about her sometimes. She hasn't dated anyone since her divorce and it's like she's given up." 

Harry lifts his glass, his voice flat. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Gemma says, gently setting hers down. “I worry that she doesn’t believe in love anymore. I mean she told me as much. Since her divorce, it’s all been very cynical.”

That catches. Just for a second. Something shifts behind Harry’s expression. It's something small, almost imperceptible. But Gemma, watching, mistakes it for amusement.

“She calls dating a mutual performance of delusion,’” she adds with a grin, hoping he’ll laugh.

He doesn’t. Not really. He smiles, but it’s distant. His fingers are lightly tapping the base of his wine glass. “She said that?”

“Mhm.”

“And what do you think?”

Gemma blinks, caught off-guard. “I think she’s been hurt. And when people get hurt badly enough, they try to feel superior to what they’ve lost.”

Harry nods, but he’s not really nodding. His mind’s moved. You’re in it again, your sharp voice, the disinterest that wasn’t just rudeness, but something colder. Something he recognizes in himself under all the pretense. 

“Interesting,” he murmurs.

Gemma brightens slightly, mistaking it for approval of her. “But I still believe in something lasting. I mean, why else go to all this trouble, right?”

He looks back at her, as though just now returning to the conversation.

“Right,” he says, softly.

As if just realizing they've devoted the last ten minutes of their date to talk about her co-worker, Gemma turns coy. 

"But enough about that. Tell me, what is your family like? You have a brother, any other siblings?"

Harry smiles again, this time slower. Something has become very clear to him and like anyone working in private equity he knows he needs to conduct a little due diligence before moving forward. 

"Everything was delicious, the most delicious steak I've ever eaten!" 

It’s three days later and Gemma is regaling you with her latest Harry saga and you're fighting to show even passive interest. The two of you are having coffee at the cafe across from the gallery, your favorite place to relax. 

"He kissed my hand. My hand! Like something out of a romance novel." 

"Cute." 

"And he was so sweet; he took me to Central Park and did the whole carriage ride thing." 

"Fun." 

"Didn't you think he was handsome?"

"Sure." 

You offer the odd word, knowing that she's barely even registered you're there. To her you're just a willing audience 

You barely registered the man if you're honest. He seemed haughty, walking around your workplace as if he owned it. 

"And he really knows his artwork," Gemma continues. "I didn't expect someone in finance to be so knowledgeable about more obscure artists."

"Mhm." 

You remember his tailored presence, the faint perfume of old money and self-assurance. The way he looked at you like not with interest, but a kind of calculation.

"He rented out the whole back of the restaurant. We had private servers, a special menu." She's practically floating. 

"So he's new money," you say acerbically. It comes out more bitter than anticipated. "Old money is quiet, new money is loud."

"For your information he is old money," she says giving you a pointed look. "His parents started the family firm."

"So he didn't even earn his money or position himself."

"Obviously there's no winning with you today. Why are you being so shitty about him?"Gemma asks, cheeks pinking in irritation. 

'I'm sorry," you answer, feeling embarrassed. "I've just never been really comfortable with people that have that kind of money. You are, you grew up like that and it's what you want in a partner."

Gemma is in a snit now. "So now I'm shallow?"

"Not at all," you insist truthfully. "If you were ugly, do you think Harry would have asked you for a second date?" 

She's quiet and blushing further. "No. I guess not." 

I nod. My point exactly. 

"You are just two people coming together who want something from the other. It's as pure and honest as any part of a functional relationship."

The two of you are quiet, fingers tracing the lip of the plate from the scone the two of you shared.

"Well, I hope we go out again," Gemma says with a bright look. "I mean, if I'm honest, I didn't feel a huge connection, but he's so good on paper. Handsome, rich, tall, charming." 

"But do you actually enjoy his company?"

Gemma looks at you as if you've sprouted a second head. "What does that have to do with anything?" 

"Gemma," you admonish, "you're always telling me about how you want to find love and be swept off your feet." 

"I do," she insists, "I just think we have a choice in who we love and my choice should take certain things like looks and money into account. I’m thirty, I want kids, and I want stability." 

You want to tell Gemma that she’s capable of having all of those things on her own if she really wants. But you know that it’s not just that. She wants the cache of a partner up the social ladder.

“Well, then I hope this works out for you,” you say sincerely. “And if not, trying to find someone who knows about art preservation.”

By the time you reach your apartment your stomach is rumbling. You skipped lunch to work on some of the finer detailing on the portrait.  You think of the all night deli across the corner and its beckoning croissant sandwiches and make your decision quickly. You throw your sketchbook into your bag. 

The night is chilly and you pull your jacket to your chin. In true New York fashion you don't smile at anyone, you keep your head down; you ignore the fact that you're still upset about the memory of Jarrod.  

You duck into the deli, cheeks and nose chilled. The place isn't busy, not at this hour. A few night owls linger at some of the tables, tapping away on their laptops, a tired man behind the counter raising a nod your way over their phone. 

"A number two and a coffee."

You take a number and a seat, bringing out your sketchbook as you wait. The music playing is rhythmic, quiet, but relaxing. You should thank the serious looking man behind the counter for his choice in tunes. 

The door opens behind you as you debate the menu. You've been curious to try the avocado turkey on rye. 

"Number two," you tell the man with confidence. "And a coke. Thanks." 

"That’ll be $8.66."

You reach into your pocket for your wallet but an arm has come around you to place a fifty on the counter. 

"I've got it." 

The man at the till takes it without question but you whip around, shocked at the random act of kindness. Familiar brown eyes swim into view and your surprise turns to irritation. 

"You."

Harry gives you a dimpled smile. "Good Evening.”

The man at the till tries to give Harry his change but he just shakes his head, a light lift of his hand and the man pockets his large tip. You know you're scowling at this pathetic display of charitable giving. It's easy to give away money when you have so much of it. 

"I can afford my own dinner."

"I know," Harry says.

You think about paying the amount you were going to, but the man at the till is heading over to another customer to answer a question. Harry continues standing there looking at you with interest. That same calculating look you've seen in him before. 

Fine. If this idiot wants to pay for your sandwich you'll let him, considering his appearance has now dampened your mood. 

"Thanks," you mutter his way, taking a table number and slinking away into a nearby booth.

You open your sketchbook, dutifully ignoring the annoying Harry still at the counter, speaking with the man behind the till.  

You're shocked when you hear the guy laugh, a low chuckle. You've been coming to this deli for months and you've never seen the guy crack a smile, let alone laugh. 

Probably hoping for another big tip. 

You hold in an eye roll and begin to sketch lightly. Your mind is driven to darkness today. Black spiky limbs reaching for the sky. 

A can of soda is placed on the table by your elbow, accompanied by a low voice.

"Forgot this."

Fuck. You sigh lightly before taking the can from him, murmuring your thanks. When he lingers, watching you pop the tab you attempt to be cordial. This is Gemma's potential boyfriend after all. 

"This doesn't really seem like your scene."

You're not looking at him when you speak. You're taking a sip of the fizzy drink, nose wrinkling a moment when the carbonation tickles your nose. 

Harry stands next to the booth like an awkward waiter, holding an espresso on a saucer. He's dressed in slacks and a charcoal sweater, a tweed jacket over top. He went to an effort, not that you’d know because you're still not looking at him. 

"I like sandwiches as much as the next guy." 

What he doesn't tell you is that his driver was pulling up to your apartment building when he saw you exit, looking agitated. When you walked into the deli he thought it was a perfect excuse. Much better than his original idea of just showing up at your home with a proposition. 

"Okay."

Harry looks amused, not offended by your cold reception. He was ready for it He watches you go back to your sketching, letting the moment stretch. You don't seem to be upset by his presence. 

The sandwiches arrive, both placed unceremoniously onto the perpetually stained tabletop. Harry motions to the chair opposite you at the table. 

"May I sit?"

You raise your head from your sketches, casting an eye around the fairly empty deli. "There are lots of open tables."

Harry looks amused, not offended by your cold reception. Almost like he was ready for it. "It's not a matter of space, more the company." 

He watches you wrestle with this before lifting one arm in a casual shrug.  

"Knock yourself out."

He suppresses a grin, sliding into the booth opposite you. He can't remember the last time - if ever - he was in a tiny eatery like this with its cheap menus and yellowed floors. 

He watches you take a bite of the sandwich in one hand, the other still furiously sketching away. He watches you for several moments and eventually you feel those big brown eyes on your face and you glance up to see his sandwich untouched. Why is he here?

Harry glances down at the greasy sandwich, hiding a sneer. He wouldn't feed this to his worst enemy. 

"Do you need something?"

You're looking at him with anticipation, as if you're scared of what he might say. 

"I wanted to know if you'd be interested in an exchange of services," he says coolly. "A barter." 

This is how he is in the boardroom; this is how he commands the people he works with. Blunt, forward, confident, charming when he needs to be, but ruthless he just as easily. 

The pencil stills on the page, your nose wrinkling. "With you?"

"Mhm."

He watches the way you blink at him, head tilting slightly. 

"I don't need financial advice and according to Gemma you could buy out the entire gallery, so I don't really get what you want from me."

You feel strangely trapped by him here in the booth. You could slide out and run but would you make it? As if sensing your unease, Harry shakes his head slowly. Fingers lifting from the table briefly.  "You don't have to say yes." 

"I probably won't."

He smothers a chuckle. Gemma was right, you are blunt and you are funny.

"My mother wants me to marry," Harry tells you. "The sooner the better."

"And you're a Mama's boy?" 

He smirks. "Maybe a little." 

"Gross." 

You lean back to take a sip of coffee, eyes peering at him over the rim. "I thought you had a matchmaker?"

He shifts in his chair. "I do." 

"So then why are you here talking to me?"

The eraser of your pencil taps on your sketchbook, tap tap tap. Harry shuffles, one arm over the back of his chair affecting casual interest. 

"Because I want to hire you. I want you to pretend to be my girlfriend for the next several months because I believe it would be mutually beneficial to us both." Harry takes a sip of his espresso now, secretly amused when you drop the pencil.

"Excuse me?" You blink rapidly, lashes fluttering. "What the fuck are you talking about? You're dating Gemma."

"I went on two dates with her."

"She likes you."

"She likes my status, not that I begrudge her for it. But after two dates it’s clear that she wants a husband who will cherish her, who’s every waking thought will be about her. That's not me."

You're quiet because you know he's right. As much as Gemma liked his money, the things she liked most about her dates with Harry was the places he took her, the romance. How he held her hand on the carriage ride, how he listened about her job. Little, beautiful moments. 

Harry takes advantage of your stunned response. "Gemma is a lovely girl, but not a good match for what I need."

"And you think I'm what you need? I don't even like you." 

You stare at this man with his expensive watch and clothes and haircut. He even smells expensive. 

"You're intelligent, confident, attractive," Harry lists these things not with the affection of a lover, but an appraiser at an auction. 

"So is Gemma."

"Yes, but she's also looking for a true relationship, for love. And I can't give that to her."

"Why not?"

"I don't think I'm capable of it." He regards you with a tilt of his head. "I'm selfish, I like my job, I enjoy my own company, I'm driven and I'm not very romantic."

"You're very honest," you say, almost impressed. Almost. 

"I find it saves time to be direct." 

He watches your eyes survey him, appraising him like you would a piece of artwork needing to be restored.  

"Gemma said you took her to dinner at Mastros. Then to central Park for a horse drawn carriage ride." 

"I did."

"And that didn't seem romantic to you?"

"I know it was romantic," he replies. 

"Then why do you say you're not romantic?"

Harry leans back in the booth, drink forgotten. He points at your open sketchbook. "You know how to draw. Are you DaVinci?"

"Obviously not. No." 

"No," Harry agrees with a nod. "But you know enough about art from study. You know proportions without thinking about it. If someone random asked you to draw them a cow you could do it."

"Sure."

"It would mean nothing to you, but it would look like a nice image of a cow at the end. The person would walk away happy with their picture. But you wouldn’t feel attached to the sketch nor the process. It’s no different than how I approach romance. I know what it looks like, I’m happy to give it.”

You fall quiet, arms crossing. You've never thought about romance like that. So route. 

"I've already spoken to Natalia at Adore," Harry continues. "She's setting Gemma up with two of my friends I talked into joining. They're younger and richer and hopeless romantics. Gemma will be just fine." 

You don't know how you feel about that, the way he speaks about it makes it feel like something akin to prostitution. 

"She wants romance and love along with status," Harry reminds you. "Both of those men fit the bill and either one of them would die to date a woman like her." 

"But not you." 

"No. Not me." 

The eraser of your pencil taps on your sketchbook, tap tap tap. "What's in it for me?" 

"You'd be paid very well." 

He sees the hesitation in you now. The way your eyes jerk to the side as you digest his offer. 

"How well?"

Harry takes a piece of paper folded from his pocket. He came prepared. He slides it across the table, biting back a grin when your eyes bulge open. 

"You're not serious." 

"I am." 

Anyone else would have used computer paper, but not Harry Castillo. He used heavy card stock; the amount written in thick black ink with what you're sure was a fountain pen.

"How long would this charade go on for?"

"Six months." 

"Six entire months?" You make a disgusted face. "No. No chance."

You go back to your sketching, the subject clearly closed for you. You toss the piece of paper towards him, forgotten so easily. Harry sucks in a sharp breath of air through his teeth. Rejection always stings. 

"I'll double it." 

Your eyes rise up to his. "What?"

"The amount on that paper. I'll double it." 

Harry watches the way your eyes round, lips parting. He can't deny he enjoys shocking you. He watches you slump into the booth, your eyes darting back and forth between the table and the amount on the page.

"There must be other women you could ask." 

"None that don't want love or commitment."' Harry takes another sip of his espresso before it clinks back into place on the small saucer. "Gemma told me your views on romance and that's when I knew this would work." 

You sit for several moments debating the exorbitant sum on the paper and the year of your life you won't get back. But this kind of money is life changing. 

You look at Harry, really looking at him. "Don't you want to find a girlfriend? A real one?"

"I thought I did," Harry shrugs. "I attempted it. But I don't think it's something I really need. And from what I gather, that isn't what you desire either." 

He's right. But still you hesitate, fingering the thick paper.This could be a lucrative venture couldn't it? A chance to erase debt and start a life you've only dreamt about? And it's only a year. A year could go by fast. 

But a year of secrecy, of false affection. 

"Are we... Are we allowed to find company outside the fake relationship?" 

He raises a brow. "Company?"

"Sex," you state flatly. "Unless you think this amount means I'll be your personal concubine?"

It's almost endearing watching his cheeks flush. "I don't need to pay for sex." 

"Just for a fake girlfriend." 

You watch the twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smirk. Touche. 

"Sex is not required, of course. I would only request that company outside our arrangement be as discreet as possible." 

"That seems fair." 

Harry raises a brow, intrigued. "So you're agreeing?"

"I'm thinking about it." 

Harry nods, standing and buttoning his dark blazer. You have a lot to think about and he doesn't want to rush you. He needs commitment not a lukewarm agreement. He slides over his business card. 

"My number is on the back. I'll wait for your decision, whatever it may be." 

He sticks his hand out like it's a business deal and you take it with a little smile, amused. You shake briefly and he stands the purpose of this meeting over. He gives you a dimpled smile.

 “I hope to hear from you soon.”

He knows he will.

[eatommo]

Father Figure [j.m.]

Summary: A shower and DBF Joel "pussy drunk" miller, no plot here. No outbreak/preoutbreak

A/N: Can be read as a stand alone but is a true sequel to Kisses of Fire. Heavily inspired by @absurdthirst and @wardenparker 's Marcus Moreno soulmates fic that I devoured in an all-nighter. Not beta'd all mistakes are my own

c.w: age gap, dub-con due to alcohol, showering together, pet names, oral sex (both recieving), pinv, creampie, food play (he drinks champagne off her pussy), overstimulation, service dom vibes, daddy kink and attached daddy issues, probably missed some lmk!

It wasn't fair. Joel had magic hands when it came to woodworking and tiling, hell you've even seen him work magic at a claw machine, but how was he better at washing your hair?  Every ounce of tension fell out of your muscles, and the cool water washes away the sweat and sticky traces from your thighs.  You keen into his fingertips, leaning back into the warmth of his body and letting yours rest against the plain of his chest.

He hums, and you feel the vibration of it echo in your own content noises, eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy,  “Sweet little thing.” You blush, feeling a little shy, which should be ridiculous, but you feel as if he's doting on you, every bit of his attention is working out every knot of tension in your body that you didn't even know existed.  

He steps forward, urging your head back under the water as he washes the soap away with tender touches.  The smell of his soap in your hair is almost overwhelming, and you still feel the ache of being filled by him, by all accounts your brain should be returning to its rightful place right now but all you can think about is how skillfully and hungrily he consumed you.  

You felt dizzy, and the lingering traces of the alcohol were burning off. “I think I could go for another glass.”  You look at his eyes in earnest, hoping to see some sort of reflection of how your heart is swelling in your chest.  

“Already ahead of you baby, I put it and two glasses in the freezer for when you're finished.”  His words are warm, and comforting, as if sensing what you're craving from him.  

You crack a smile, standing on your toes to kiss the hollow of his throat and to your surprise, there's a strangled sound that comes from beneath your fingertips.  It's a groan.  Halting your movements, you stay there, hovering, and watch as he swallows harshly.  

Tauntingly you let the tip of your tongue trace up the column of his throat and he turns to iron in your grasp, “Mr. Miller.” you tsk, the shift in power bolstering each small syllable, “A weakness.” You run the flat of your teeth against his skin, and you feel a shutter rumble through his body in a subtle confirmation.

He tries to play it off, a small rumble of laughter as he runs conditioner through your hair with his fingertips, combing it through the ends of your hair. His cock is half hard just from feeling your mouth on his throat as it rests against your belly, water passing between the two of you as you finish up the dance of sharing his modest shower space. 

Your body should be tired, and admittedly your legs are weaker with each step but you couldn't be more aware of each passing lingering touch as his hands soothingly run up your back coaxing your body to follow and obey. 

By far the most beautiful thing in the room is Joel.  His chest is flush and glistening with droplets of water that fall from his clean, tousled hair and runs down his work-sculpted chest.  

He catches you staring and tilts your chin up to look into his deep brown eyes, “Like what you see baby?” he's being smart with you, and yet you can't find the words to form a retort.  His hand grips your jaw firmly, and he leans down for a kiss. 

His mouth is warm, his tongue languidly swiping across your teeth bringing an embarrassingly loud moan out of you as you enjoy the taste of him and the skimming brush of his thumb on your pulse that all but turns your bones to jelly.  You forget that he even asked you a question until he breaks the kiss with a laugh that sends a shiver down your spine.  “And to think I’m not even done with you yet.”  

He lets his hand move to the back of your head and buries his fingers in your hair and gives a gentle testing tug, you do your best to hold his gaze as he peers into your eyes, you let out a confirmational hum.  With a single glance, he communicates what you’ve wanted since he took his pants off, and he holds your head steady as you sink to your knees.  The tile is warm from the wash of the water, and he shields you from the shower head as you admire his massive semi-hard cock.

You rest your hands on your thighs, resisting the urge to start touching yourself as you kitten lick over a vein that catches your attention, you see the steady throb build as he gets harder beneath your tongue.  You suck the head of his cock into your mouth, sucking lightly as it pulsates against your tongue and his hand tightens in your hair.  You suck more of him into your mouth, swirling around the head and swallowing around him, eager to please and be good for him.  

“That's my girl.” he coos, bringing his other hand to your cheek, caressing it gently but urging you to take more of him all the same.  God, you’re half convinced the man could talk you to an orgasm, his praise wraps around your body like a vise, luring you into a headspace you’ve only experienced tonight.

He jerks his hips, pitching them forward and deeper until he’s nudging the back of your throat.  Tears prick at your eyes, as your jaw begins to ache with the stretch, you find your hands drifting closer to the insistent twinge of your clit begging for his attention again.  The hair at the base of his cock is sparse but it tickles your nose as you reach your breaking point, coughing and sputtering around him.  You use the flat of your tongue to massage the underside of him while he fucks into your mouth.

He grunts as he keeps thrusting a few more times, you taste the salt of his precome on your tongue and he slides out and you gasp for air and swallow the excessive amount of drool pooled in your mouth.  The strings of spit connecting the two of you might just be one of the hottest things you've ever seen. He gives you a lopsided grin, swiping a thumb over your chin, “Messy, messy little girl.”  His voice is deep, hoarse with need and debauchery.  

The shower is off and he pulls you to your feet, wrapping you in a plush towel that's warmed from the steam-filled room.  He places a soft kiss on your forehead and you hum contentedly, recovering from the lack of oxygen and the dizzying weight of his cock in your mouth.  You lean against the cool counter of the sink, running his brush through your hair in an attempt to keep from staring at him, but he settles behind you and slides his cock against your ass as he pins you to the counter.

You can vaguely make out the shape of his body behind yours in the fogged surface of the mirror, mixing together with the beauty of a mosaic painting. He is standing tall as his dark hair falls to tickle your ear as he kisses along the curve of your shoulder.  His mouth is delicate, but the edge of the counter digs into your flesh, you're finding yourself hoping it bruises, as he continues to press his skin to yours.  

He lets a rough palm run from your belly between your breasts and uses it to tilt your head back, kissing the sensitive skin on your throat with a gravelly contemplative hum at your back.  “Go sit, I'll bring up something to drink, hungry?” 

His hand is heavy and calloused, sitting on your throat, the gesture is dominant, and you feel so small and so pliant under his grasp. But the warmth and tenderness between your legs doesn't argue, and your lips are still swollen from the stretch of him in your mouth. You feel a deep satisfaction, heavy like the possessive yet caring touch of his hand guiding your mouth along his shaft.  

“No,” You try and sound confident, but your voice is hoarse and you're beaming at him with a fucked stupid grin on your face, and it comes out a simple squeak.  

Joel smiles down at you softly, running his thumb along your jaw.  The adoration is plain on your face, unmistakable.  You’ve seen him with this look hundreds of times but there’s something about the moment and the intimacy of this, the low-revving engine of your lust that’s almost as palpable as the steam on the mirror.  

He never fails to make you feel special.  His mouth finds your forehead for a lingering but gentle kiss, a promise to return.  He leaves the room tying a towel around his waist, and you let your eyes linger on the flexing cords of muscles in his back as he shuts the door behind him.  

Doing your best to collect yourself, you run your hands through your hair and take a deep breath, using his surprisingly plush towel to tousle your hair as dry as you can manage, before draping it around yourself and securing it above your breast.  

His room is much cooler, but the heat beneath your skin is unstoppable and your body is still as alive as it was with his cock down your throat.  The bed is disheveled, you find a place among the scattered pillows and prop yourself upright, pulling a book off of his nightstand to skim over the description on the back.  

Soon you hear his footsteps on the stairs, he knocks gently on the door before nudging it open carrying two champagne flutes. He settles in next to you, and you saddle up next to him, pressing your hip to his, the urge to be close to him almost overwhelming.  

You take a sip, letting the sweet bubbly liquid settle in your mouth for a moment, washing away the salt of his skin.  You nuzzle your head on his shoulder in affection, feeling both spent and keen on finding out what's next. 

 His hair slicked back makes his deep brown puppy dog eyes even more dreamy as he beams down at you before taking a sip from the glass.  You stare at his hands and the delicate way the veins and tendons flex to hold onto the stem of the glass, swallowing around the lump in your throat.  

“Something I can give ya?” He notices, because of course he does.  You shift, throwing your legs over his lap, and taking another swig from your glass, determined to finish before you give in to your incessant need to be filled by him again.  

You hum, faking being contemplative, “I’m not sure, what else might you offer?”  Playing coy has worked before, but something in his eyes seems hungry, and it stirs something like fear in your belly.  

He holds your gaze, taking a long tauntingly slow sip even letting his tongue sneak out to tease the rim of the glass, “You have no idea baby.”

Instantly you're flooded with flashes of what he could possibly be alluding to, you imagine yourself pinned beneath him, straddling his face, even on your knees for him again.  You've never felt so incredibly giddy over a teasing phrase.  Hoping that there is a promise in his words, and that every little passing ache of potential is just a preview of what's to come. 

He sees it plain as day on your face, eyes glazing over and the curves of an insidious smile twisting your mouth into a lopsided grin.  He wishes he could read your mind, but he settles for running his hand across your abdomen, trailing over the sensitive and admittedly ticklish flesh just to feel you squirm beneath him.  

You take a sip from you glass in an attempt to still your voice before you speak, shifting your hips below his warm touch.  You know what you want, and he is just as privy to your needs, “Use your words, darling.” Another sip, and he presses his lips to the shell of your ear,  “Be sweet for me baby tell Daddy what you want.” 

“Your mouth, please Joel.”  you rush, too aware of your body’s reaction to his touch.  He pulls the towel free of your chest, and takes a nipple between two fingers and tugs until it's tight and you feel a hint of pained arousal. You whine correcting yourself, “Please, daddy.” 

He lets out a small groan, the sound enough to make your clit throb for his attention.  “Good girl.”  He moves between your legs fluidly, the final sip of alcohol stirring in the bottom of the glass as he settles, pulling your hips to the edge of the bed and settling on his knees.  He takes the towel you were wearing, gesturing for you to lift your hips as he arranges the towel beneath you.  

You let your head fall back against the sheets, expecting the warmth of his mouth.  Instead, you feel the ice-cold bubbles of his last champagne sip dribbling gently over your pussy, jumping at the cool sensation and the juxtaposition of his flat tongue swiping up the length of your sex.  He moans against you as the taste envelops his thoughts and he loses himself in the sweet taste of you.  He drags his tongue over your entrance, and swirls over your clit in long, practiced movements.  Every second that passed your body was tensing, building to yet another climax in such a short amount of time your legs start to shake.  

You almost miss the chuckle that escapes him, as he sucks harshly on your clit and your vision starts to ebb white, but he stops just a second short. “Did I make your little legs quiver?” You can’t find it in you to pick up your head off the bed.  

He laughs.

The sound is deep, and throaty, and you can feel it reverberate in your bones as he crawls over you, his face wet from his efforts. He wipes his chin on the back of his hand, his eyes bright and playful.

The slide of his thick cock is tantalizing, your brain is telling you to stop but the throb of him against you and the warmth of his breath against your neck is encouraging you to take him. To be his good little girl. 

His hips stutter as he buries himself inside you, your body giving a small jump when he bottoms out without warning. He groans loudly, pressing his forehead into the crook of your neck.

"Such a good little thing.." His words are slurred slightly, his mind drunk on lust and alcohol. He's so hard and thick and you can barely breathe. Your nails claw into the flesh of his shoulders, pulling him closer to you, wanting to feel the weight of him on top of you both overwhelming and comforting at the same time. 

Your eyes flutter shut, his praise and his cock lulling your brain into a blissful fog. Your cunt grips his shaft and he lets out a low hiss.

Joel moans, burying his face into your hair, his breath coming in short pants.  His thrusts are slow and deliberate, dragging the thick head of his cock across every inch of your walls.  He stays like that, pushing and pulling in and out of you. He fucks you with abandon, his pace quickening as he chases his own pleasure.

Your mind is fuzzy and your eyes are unfocused. You don't know if it's the alcohol, or the fact that Joel's cock is currently splitting you open, or maybe it's the fact that you just don't give a fuck anymore, but everything just seems so right.

It's as if he knows exactly what you're thinking.  "You feel so fucking good."  His fingers grip the sheets and the muscles in his forearms ripple as he fucks you.  

“Make yourself cum,” His thrusts are frantic, and his pace is practically begging you to comply.  Scrunching your face in concentration, a few little overstimulated whimpers earn you more words of encouragement.  “Cum all over me darlin.” 

It's the most you can do to hold on as the coil inside of you tightens impossibly. The friction of him sliding inside of you is too much and not enough all at the same time.  

He finds your chin and pinches it roughly, directing you to look into his eyes as he orders you to touch yourself. You do as you're told fingers snaking in between your bodies to find your swollen and abused clit.  He grins as he sees your eyes roll back in your head and you come with a shout, his name on your lips.

Joel’s body starts to shake as his words evolve into primal grunts and groans.  Your pussy is spent and the sweet smell of your release hangs in the air as he uses your limp body for his pleasure.  

He calls to you as he cums, praising your body and plunging as deep as he possibly can as his cock pulses and empties inside of you. The room spinning and your ears ringing, his body sags on top of yours, his forehead pressed to yours as you place an exhausted kiss to the small patch of skin in his beard you’ve always been fascinated with. 

You lay together catching your breath, your body slowly starting to feel the soreness between your legs and the dull throb of multiple orgasms that leaves your body feeling weightless and heavy at the same time. 

[jordiemeow]

summary: new rochelle is watched over by father patrick: charismatic, trusted, adored by the town's youth. but when you, a troubled young woman, begin confessing desires you can barely name, he finds himself drawn to more than just your need for salvation.

warnings: 18+, masturbation, religious themes/blasphemy, morally dubious priest, specific age gap not specified but implied (patrick early 30s at most), power imbalance mentioned + alludes to patrick seeing himself as god, patrick jerking off while reader is unaware so tagging dubcon, reader confessing sins/praying gets this freak horny

notes: inspired by rewatching fleabag. hot priest. mmm. patrick hot priest. mmm x2. patrick hot fucked up priest. mmm x3. haven't been to church in like 4 years forgive me for anything inaccurate x

—

Patrick Zweig—or Father Patrick, as you know him—has long since noticed the way the young people of New Rochelle come to him. They do not only seek someone to represent their faith but something more elusive. Perhaps it is because he is younger than most priests. Not old and distant, but in his early thirties at most, with an easy smile and a voice that carries warmth and humour. Young enough to understand the pulse of the town's restless youth but old enough to carry the weight of the Lord's unyielding authority.

The people of the town gravitate towards him for the rare sense of understanding he offers. His sermons aren't just words; they feel like conversations, one between a sinner who has repented inviting them to do the same. It’s raw. Real. Sometimes he thinks they have come to trust him a little too much.

That must be what draws you to him. Conversations in town, staying after service to light candles just to catch a glimpse of him tidying away prayer books or emerging from the sacristy absent of his vestments. The real man behind those robes of faith. 

He’s come to enjoy your company. The shy smiles you offer when he lights a candle next to yours, or the way your pupils dilate when your lips part oh-so-willingly to accept communion from his giving hands. Yes, perhaps it’s not the company itself he likes, but rather the way you look at him as if you’re waiting for his absolution. Not God's. His.

And it comes eventually when you bump into him while walking home after a rough day. Bloodshot eyes, nose running and hands trembling when you choke out a "Father, I must confess. May I come by the Church tomorrow?"

He agrees. What kind of priest would he be to turn away a parishioner in need? He knows that's not why, of course. He enjoys the thrill of command in his sacred space. The silent dominance in your submission. It is a heady feeling to hold power not just as a priest, but as a man standing between your past and your hope for redemption.

"Tell me," he says. "What would you like me to do for you tonight?"

Your hands wring together nervously. The sight makes something stir within him. "I want to feel clean. I want to believe I'm not beyond saving."

"Then you must accept your truth and seek the path towards light. Not by denial, but by courage." He nods towards the booth. Your eyes dart over nervously, but you mimic his nod in wordless assent.

Neither of you speak as you settle in on opposite sides, curtain shut until the sacred and forbidden mingle only in the flickering candlelight beneath the red fabric. He can barely make out the blurry shape of your face through the lattice, and for a moment all he hears is his breathing mixing with your own.

It starts tame. Things like I pretended to be sick to get out of going to work or I've been slacking on my nightly prayers because I've been too lazy before bed. He wants to press, because clearly you did not beg to come to confession just for this. There must be something darker weighing on your soul.

But he forces himself to be patient, interjecting only when necessary to assure you that you are holding yourself accountable and therefore will be cleansed in the eyes of God. Until you utter the words:

"And... and sometimes I touch myself. To relieve the ache within me. I know it is wrong, and I want to stop. To repent."

Blood instantly rushes south at those words. His fingers dig in to his palms so hard it almost feels like his nails would rend his flesh. Such admissions are commonplace in the House of the Lord, and yet hearing you speak them does something to Patrick. His mind wanders to places it shouldn't. He conjures images of you writhing in the silence of your room while your hand seeks that sinful high. 

His nails dig into his skin and he has to inhale through his nose to keep his voice from cracking when he asks, "How often does this ache come upon you?"

It is so quiet in the booth that he can hear your shaky exhale. "Almost every night, Father."

His chest rises and falls heavier as he listens to your confession, his fingers trembling under the fabric of his green cassock. He shouldn't ask. This is your place to confess, but the question slips out anyways:

"And you said you... touch yourself?"

You hesitate. You trust him enough to give him everything. The shame, the fear, the secret part of your soul you dare not speak aloud to anyone else. Attraction. Desire. Truth you're terrified to claim. It reaches into places that Patrick has long since buried beneath years of study and prayer.

He's never had the need to wait so desperately for the next sentence to fall from someone's lips. He feels as though he's hanging on to every word, hand gripping his thigh as he waits for you to continue.

"Yes," you breathe, as if you're picturing it now, too.

"Just to relieve the ache, as you say," he clarifies. This is not something new for him. But you. He’s always been so fond of you and the way you looked up at him with those sweet eyes of yours… 

This is wrong. This is holy ground. He is supposed to guide you, not...

Not what? Want you? Use you? Revel in the control of your secrets?

He remembers his vows, the promise he made to serve God, to resist temptation, to be a vessel of mercy and purity. But in the quiet of the chapel, the lines blur. He holds the power here—the power to condemn or to forgive—and that knowledge intoxicates him like a dark prayer one would utter to a deity that was not his own God.

Patrick wonders, then, can he separate the man from the priest? Can he keep his desire buried beneath the robes and rituals? Or is he already lost in the same darkness you're confessing to, tangled in the very sins he is sworn to save you from?

"May I ask where this ache comes from? If only to understand what you are confessing to."

His heart beats faster. It's not just a spiritual power right now. It's deeply personal, because here you are, a young woman trembling with fear and shame, laying your soul bare behind the veil of confession. And to hold the key to your salvation, or your condemnation, is an all-consuming thing. One that leads his hand to slip down, down, down into the tight confines of his cassocks. Fumbling with buttons to push further until he reaches into his boxers and—

"Well, Father, I... I find myself drawn to… men. Ones that I should not be." Oh. Yes, there it is. A gasp that is not completely in disbelief came from the other side of the confessional as his fingers curl around himself. The quiet of the booth is broken only by your voice and the faint rustle of clothing from across the lattice as he listens intently.

Married men, his brain supplies. Or perhaps someone as unobtainable as him. "Attracted in a way I should not be. I don’t want to feel this way. It’s like a weight inside me, like a stain on my soul. I pray for it to go away, but the feelings grow stronger. I’m scared I’m lost."

"You are not lost," he rasps. "Those thoughts you have... they do not define you. You are a child of God." His breathing is heavy, punctuated by a low, almost choked off groan that he prays you do not acknowledge. "The church teaches us about sin, yes, but also about love and forgiveness. What matters is your heart’s honesty."

He hears you breathe out a shaky sigh. "But I feel so dirty. Like I’m breaking God’s law."

Dirty. Breaking. God. His hand tightens around his cock, stroking up-down, up-down, up-down as your words struggle to find clarity in his head. Dirty dirty dirty. Your voice is so soft, so tinged by despair. He cannot decide whether he wants to save you or ruin you further.

"Sometimes, what we fear most is what we must face." His lip catches between his teeth so hard he can taste the tangible rust of blood on his tongue. "And in confession, you find not judgement, but understanding."

"Do you understand me, Father?"

Yes. Oh, you have no idea how much he understands you. Does God hear the conflict in my heart as clearly as your confession? He wonders. I am a priest. I am meant to forgive. But who forgives me when my own sins are tangled in the shadows?

His other hand grips the wooden screen, nails digging fruitlessly into the timber-stained beech. You may not go to Hell for this, but he certainly will. A servant of God indulging in the sin of lust in his very House of Worship. Patrick's hand picks up faster at just the thought.

"You are not alone, my child." He forces the words out. It comes out strangled, a little too sharp, a crack in the steady command you're used to. His head falls forward until his forehead brushes the screen. Patrick holds onto his weakening composure with gritted teeth.

"The Devil whispers in all our ears, but it is up to us to reject his sinful promises."

"And have you? Rejected his sinful promises?"

In that moment, he wonders if this is a test. One he is failing and too far gone to fix. Patrick lets out a hoarse laugh and doesn’t even try to hide the desperation that seeps into it.

"You have no idea." His breath hitches. His mouth is dry. His eyes burn with something that feels like pain. His cock throbs with something that feels like divine pleasure. "The things I would do to—"

He chokes on his own words. No. You are the one confessing, not him. The room feels like it is spinning and his body thrums with a sinful ache he has not felt in years. The Father he is sworn to serve would not have him succumb to this selfish desire, and yet here he is. He closes his eyes, willing himself to focus on the heavy, burning wood beneath his hand, but all he can picture beneath the screen is you. On your knees, eyes wide, waiting for him to do something about this burning hunger.

"This is a house of prayer, my child." His voice is hoarse. Raw. "I urge you to do the same."

His hand is a blur in his trousers and it's harder and harder to keep his voice steady. "You have not yet given me your penance for these sins."

"So I must pray?"

"Yes. On your knees."

He hears you sink down on floor, forehead pressing into the opposite side of the screen as his. He can only imagine what he would be doing—tasting—if not for the wooden barrier. He feels dizzy. Light-headed.

The weight of the penance he imposes feels like a chain, one you're willing to accept. Because in that submission, you find a flicker of hope. Your hands clasp together in your lap.

"Repeat after me. Our Father—" His breath catches on the word father. He hears you say the words on the other side of the lattice.

"—Who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name."

Patrick's hand picks up. Squeezing at the base of his thick length, dragging it up to smear himself in the essence of his own dark desire. He wonders if you can hear the slick slide of his hand around his cock with as much clarity as he does.

"Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread—"

Something that sounds like a moan pushes out from behind the screen. You pause.

"Father? Are you alright?"

"Yes." His answer is too fast, too breathy, but he commands nonetheless: "Keep going."

You continue without him. His eyes are screwed shut as he pumps himself, listening to your sweet voice sing to him like an angel. Temptation personified praying to the Lord who will condemn him for the gratification he is bringing himself right now.

And then, eventually:

"Amen."

That does it for him. Sudden and abrupt, the warmth of his sin spills into his hand, coating his fingers and the inside of his boxers. A pleasure so hot that it feels like it comes from the Seven Hells themselves, vision whiting out as a low groan forces its way out of his throat, raw and guttural.

The silence afterwards is stifling. He takes in ragged breaths that sound more like sobs. It leaves you kneeling in your guilt, heart pounding, unsure what to do next. What was that noise? Was Father Patrick crying? Or was it something else? You swallow thickly.

He slowly slides back onto the bench, running an unsteady hand through his dark hair. "Rise, child." He hears the scuffling of you pushing yourself up to your feet. "God has freed you from your sins. Go in peace."

Silence on the other side of the lattice, before you speak tentatively: "Thank you, Father." You do not thank God. You thank him directly. It should not make him feel as satisfied as it does.

Patrick does not move when he hears the curtain draw, or when your footsteps disappear down the nave. It is only after he hears the distant sound of you blessing yourself in the narthex and the door creaks shut behind you that he rises.

He steps out, inspecting the glistening of his hand in the dying sunlight that peeks through the clerestory. He is stained by guilt, and yet he makes no effort to scrub the evidence from his skin.

Because if he wants to feel clean, truly clean, he must be willing to feel dirty first.

—

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[chleem]

Flashing Lights #8

Series; actor Drew x actress reader

Summary: Drew gets involved in the worst scandal of his career. One way to solve it? Proving to the whole world that he’s the sweetest lover to exist. Who better to help than the one person he can’t stand? You, an A-class actress with an alcohol addiction. So, will Drew clear up his reputation, or leave with a bigger mess to clean up?

Genre: fake dating, enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, smut, fluff

Warnings: mentions of alcohol, swearing, mentions of k!lling oneself, mentions of rape & sa, mentions of drug usage, smoking & vaping, (read at own caution

⋆.˚ please dont copy or translate my work!

♡⸝⸝ chapter7 | index | chapter9

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

9:04 p.m

“I ordered, um, room service,”

You start, to which Drew just nods, while drying his hair with a towel. 

You sit awkwardly on the couch, not sure of what to say now. The two of you rushed back to the hotel due to the pouring rain, and now that both are done showering, the realization of what was said is sinking in. 

How does one start a conversation? You had no idea. 

But, you’re glad Drew knows. 

“What did you order?” He asks, coming to sit down next to you. 

You glance at his naked upper body, quickly averting your gaze back to his face. He looks flushed from the shower, and he smells really good. “Um, just the usual.”

“‘The usual’?” The corner of his lips curl up. 

“Wine, steak, etc,” you shrug, lazy to elaborate what you usually eat. 

“What about mine?” His blue eyes stare into yours, a mischievous glint in them. 

“Whatever I can’t finish,” you smile, leaning back in the couch. 

He shakes his head, reaching for the tv remote. The tv opens, and there’s Netflix on it. The both of you stay silent as he logs into his account, and soon, you see his homepage. 

Oh.

Oh. 

A series that you filmed recently released, and it was in the category of shows he was currently watching. 

It was the only show that was in there. And if you looked down, you could see some of your other movies in his watchlist. 

You snicker, glancing at Drew.

You don’t miss the redness forming on his ears, and his clenched jaw. His eyes stay glued to the screen, his hands clicking on the remote. “Someone’s a fan.”

“I share this account with my siblings,” he replies, eyes still glued to the screen. “They…they like you.”

Is he lying or being honest right now?

Either way, you feel good knowing he (or his siblings) like watching your shows. You don’t know if the movies are good or not, but at least someone’s watching them. 

You turn back to the screen, watching him scroll through the different lists of shows underneath. 

“These shows suck,” you mindlessly comment based on their covers. Truth was, you knew nothing about these shows. 

A loud scoff leaves Drew, and you watch the screen as he stops at Nottinghill.

“I met her once,” you brag, the words rolling off your tongue carelessly. 

“Of course,” he murmurs, pressing the play button before laying back and letting the credits roll. 

You feel a flash of irritation, but you keep it in check. Drew's comment is subtle, but the way his tone is makes it clear that he's not impressed by your fame or connections. 

“We talked a lot,” you mumble, eyes glued to the screen now, pretending to focus on the movie. “I have her personal number.”

His continued silence only seems to make the air thicker; the narration of the movie filling in for it. 

You glance over at him, catching him in the act of rolling his eyes—just barely, but it’s enough to get under your skin. His posture is so relaxed, as though he couldn’t care less. Maybe he really doesn’t care. 

A ding is heard; not from the movie. 

Drew stands up, walking to the door. 

You ignore the staff as he walks in to place the food on the living room table; at least, you try to. The staff keeps glancing over at you, with curious eyes. 

Drew sits down next to you, the staff leaving as soon as he’s done. 

You immediately reach for the wine over at Drew’s side of the table, but a gentle slap gets sent to your arm. “Ow,” you comment, to which Drew ignores, opening the bottle himself. 

“Let me do it,” he mumbles, pouring it into the wine glasses. 

He hands it to you, and when you stare into his eyes, the curl of your lips automatically goes up. 

“What a gentlemen,” you tease, taking the glass from him. You take a sip, the wine smooth and cool against your tongue, but your gaze never leaves his.

The familiar feeling of relief curses through your bones, comforting enough to feel like ‘home’. 

You glance at him; watching as his Adam’s apple throb as he drinks his. 

It’s awfully weird; this calm atmosphere.

Screw it, this whole day was weird. Crying in front of someone? Staying sober? Shit, you must be going nuts. 

Drew starts cutting the steak, and you watch as his biceps flex with every move. You try to focus on the movie, letting the smoothness of the wine distract you, but your eyes keep darting back to him.  

“That’s mine,” you whisper, poking his shoulder. It feels just like how it looks; firm and solid under your touch. 

You pull your hand back quickly, but the warmth from his skin lingers on your fingertips, making your pulse pick up.

Drew glances at you, his brow lifting, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "What’s mine?" he asks, his voice low, teasing. His eyes flicker down to the steak, then back to you.

"The steak," you say, your voice a little sharper than you intended.

Drew shakes his head, pushing the cut steak over to your side of the table. He steals a fry, before redirecting his attention to the movie. 

You start eating, just realizing how famished you are.

Right now, Julia Roberts kisses Hugh Grant, after reclaiming the bag she forgot. 

You snicker at that; finding the plot boring and predictable. “It’s like she wants to get caught,” you murmur, reaching for the bottle of wine again. 

You lean forward, your body angling toward him, stretching just enough to grab the bottle from his side of the table.

As you do, you feel the heat of his presence behind you, his breath faint against your skin.

Your arm brushes his as you grab the bottle, and you catch the faintest scent of his shampoo. You pause just a second too long, fingers gripping the neck of the bottle. Fuck. 

You pull back quickly, pouring the wine into your glass. 

You can almost feel the weight of his gaze, even though he hasn’t said a word. 

Then, he speaks up, just as Hugh Grant apologies for his word choice of ‘surreal’. “Just..watch, it gets good.”

“That usually means it’s bad,” you shoot back, gulping the wine down. 

“Internet's’ not gonna like you for that,” he says. 

You hate how you chuckle at his lame joke, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. The pit of your stomach feels uncomfortable; an easy feeling flowing through you that for once, isn’t because of alcohol. 

“You enjoy this shit?” You ask instead, suppressing your smile. 

Drew’s eyes remain on the tv. “Guilty pleasure,” he mumbles between chews. 

“Really?” You fail to hide the skepticism in your voice, “this predictable, unrealistic shit?”

That makes Drew lean back, turning to face you. His blue eyes stare into yours in amusement, and there’s a slight curl on his lips. “Like your taste is any better.”

That makes you scoff, ready to challenge him back. 

Except…well, you don’t have a favorite movie genre. 

You don’t even have a favorite movie. 

The realization hits you in the gut, unexpectedly cold. You pause, your lips parting to respond, but your mind is blank.

What is your taste, anyway? An easy question, yet you can’t answer.

The tension in his eyes further adds to the ache, so you turn towards the movie. “Not this, for sure.”

There’s a long pause before Drew speaks up again, the screen now showing Hugh Grant going to visit her at a hotel, also a press event. “Thriller. Second best.”

You don’t respond; trying to drown out this conversation. Is he trying to needle you, or is he genuinely curious?

“I know a great thriller movie,” Drew presses, “we can watch it after this.”

No response. 

"I think you’ll like it," he says, quieter this time, but his words feel heavy, as if he's saying more than he means to.

Finally, you turn to look at him. His eyes are steady on you, and there’s something comforting in the way he’s watching you, like he’s not just offering a movie suggestion but a kind of unspoken support. 

It’s the same comfort from earlier today—the same softness in his gaze that almost makes you feel safe in a way you’re not used to.

“Better be good,” it sounds restrained, reflecting the feeling you have in your stomach. 

“The best,” he assures, a small smile slowly appearing on his face. The familiar feel of warmth coarse through you just like at the beach; all because of his simple smile.

You turn your gaze back to the movie, hoping to play it cool. That him spending time with you, is nothing. 

——

11:26 p.m

The Conjuring. You never thought much of it, shrugging as Drew pressed play. 

You figured you’d probably doze off halfway through, especially after two bottles of wine.

But you’re…wide awake, next to Drew, your gaze fixated on the screen. The camera focuses on a dark, deserted hallway of the haunted farmhouse.

You’re completely oblivious to how close Drew is. 

Who scooted closer was unclear; just that there was no space between you two. 

Drew could feel the tightness in your posture, the way your body stiffened with every creeping moment on screen. His arm brushed against yours, but neither of you moved away.

Suddenly, the camera zooms in on a cracked door. The tension builds as the whispers grow louder—until the door slams open and the spirit appears.

You gasp, and before you can even think, you bury your face in Drew’s shoulder, finding sanctuary in his arms.

The loud noise goes on, but you just press yourself deeper into his warmth. 

He freezes for a moment, caught off guard by your sudden movement. His gaze shifts to you, seeing your face pressed into his shoulder. 

For a split second, Drew just watches you, his chest tightening as he feels the way your lips, nose, cheeks, everything, brushes against his skin.

He stays still, caught somewhere between wanting to hold you closer, or move away. 

Then, a soft chuckle escapes him, as if breaking the tension. 

“Shit, you scared?” he teases. 

Realizing how close you are to him, you pull away, scooting back to your side of the couch. 

Drew catches the subtle shift, noticing the space that’s opened up between you.

And he almost wishes you hadn’t moved. 

You lift your chin, eyes darting to the TV screen, trying to act casual. 

“I’m not scared,” you mutter, your voice light but a little defensive. 

You try to steady your breath, glancing at the screen. But just as you do, the spirit’s face suddenly flashes across it, its hollow eyes staring directly at you.

You scream again, louder this time, and practically jump out of your seat. Heart racing, you grab for the cushion next to you, clutching it like a lifeline.

Drew watches you, and a chuckle escapes him, “right. You’re the bravest.”

You send him a glare, meeting the blue eyes of his through the dark. “Shut up,” you say, eyes flickering back to the screen. 

An amused grin tugs at his lips, his tongue pressing against his cheek. You’re hiding behind the cushion, eyes wide in fear as you stare at the screen.

After a beat, he speaks up, “I can’t watch this.”

He leans toward the remote, and when he clicks exit, there’s no fight from you. 

——

11:40 P.M

Andy makes his way upstairs with his new toys, the toys in his room freaking out. It’s his birthday party, and the thought of ‘newcomers’ send the toys into a full-blown panic attack. 

The toys scurry to hide, to return to their original places. 

You’re focused on the movie, and you find yourself more intrigued than you’d admit. It’s a children’s movie, but in your drunken state, everything feels a little more intense.

But you can feel something burning the side of your face, a warmth that doesn’t fade. Even when you sip your drink, it lingers.

Turning toward the source, you catch Drew’s gaze. He’s staring at you, intense and unwavering.

“Stop that,” you immediately say, eyebrows furrowing. 

“What?” He blinks, acting innocent. 

“Doing that—staring at me," you say, your tone sharp but betraying a hint of nervousness.

The door of Andy’s room bursts open, and something is placed on the bed, causing Woody to fall underneath the bed. 

“Hey- this part, this part’s good,” Drew comments, his attention back to the movie. 

You scoff, shaking your head before shifting your attention to the screen as well, “you’ve watched this before.”

“Yeah, and it never gets old,” he replies, and you could almost hear the smirk tugging on his lips. 

A new toy comes into the screen, one that’s in an astronaut suit. 

‘Buzz-Lightyear to Star Command, come in Star Command. Star Command, do you read me?’

You feel the same heat on the side of your face again, and turning once again, Drew’s staring at you. 

“Oh my god- stop staring!” You practically yell, the frustration in your voice unmistakable. You turn back to the screen, doing your best to ignore the heat creeping up your neck.

“Sorry- just wanna make sure you’re focused,” he murmurs, yet, he can’t pry his eyes away from you. 

As Woody and Buzz meet for the first time, Buzz freaking out and pointing out his laser, you can’t help but let out a light laugh.

Drew laughs too, but not because of the scene.

Woody proceeds to crash out about the ‘cool new toy’, and you’re still smiling, clearly enjoying the scene.

Drew notices the way your eyes light up with that simple joy, and for a second, he’s quiet. 

Then, he smirks, leaning a little closer, “you’re kinda- kinda like Woody.”

You lean back into your seat, a pleased smile spreading across your face, “Really? Because I’m such a hero?”

He chuckles, shaking his head, “because you freak out just like that.”

Your smile drops at the sudden insult, and you quickly come up with something lame to save face, “well…well you’re such a…Mr Potato Head.”

Drew raises his eyebrows in amusement, the smirk on his lips only growing wider. 

“Because…because, you’re such a loser!” You hear it in your own mind, the lamest comeback to ever be said. 

‘To infinity…and beyond!’

His throaty laugh echoes through the room, adding to your embarrassed state. 

“Fuck off,” you murmur, hitting his shoulder. 

It doesn’t get him to stop, his chest vibrating with laughter. 

Annoyed and flustered, you turn your head to the movie, watching as Buzz makes the perfect landing on the bed. 

“Hey, don’t get me wrong,” he gives your shoulder a playful poke, his voice teasing, “I’m honored to be Mr. Potato Head.”

“Yeah right- getting teared apart every five seconds.”

“So you can pay attention,” Drew says, stretching his arm across the back of the couch, his hand brushing your shoulder.

“I am, so stop distracting me,” you say, your voice tinged with agitation.

He chuckles under his breath, and as the movie goes on, his eyes still find themselves attached to you, watching your every reaction. 

——

12:34 A.M

‘You are a cool toy!’ Woody exclaims, looking over at Buzz. Then, the realization slowly sinks in, ‘as a matter of fact, you’re too cool.’

‘I mean- I mean, what chance does a toy like me have against a Buzz Lightyear action figure?’

‘All I can do is…’ Woody pulls on the string behind his back, initiating his voice box that plays his most famous catchphrase. 

‘Why would Andy ever want to play with me when he’s got you?’

It’s a sad moment, sure, but not enough to jerk a tear out of you.

However, you do hear a sniffle beside you. 

The faintest kind, the kind that you think you might’ve hallucinated.

You turn back, seeing Drew fixed on the screen, but there’s a slight tightness around his jaw, and his eyes are shining. 

Shining with tears. 

“Are you- crying?” you ask, your voice a mix of disbelief and amusement.

He doesn’t look at you at first, his gaze glued to the screen, but the corners of his mouth twitch, and you can hear the slight hitch in his breath.

‘I should be the one strapped to the rocket.' 

“I’m- I'm not crying,” he mutters, though it’s clear from the way his voice shivers that he’s not fooling anyone.

Your gaze doesn’t leave Drew as you watch the slight tremble of his lips. A single tear slips down his cheek, betraying the tough act he’s putting on.

Your lips curl up in a teasing grin, and you happily exclaim, “you’re crying!” 

His eyes (teary eyes) meet yours, and he furrows his eyebrow, denying, “I’m not.”

“There’s a tear right here-“

“I’m not crying-“

“Please, you so are-“

“No-“

"You are!” you insist, leaning in and poking his cheek. His eyes narrow, the softness disappearing, replaced with a sharper look. “You’re a little bitch.”

Drew’s lips part, ready to say something, but you stop—just for a second. Your gaze lingers on his face, noticing how the tear glistens on his cheek, how his eyes, even with the sharpness, still hold something vulnerable.

You suddenly feel too close.

A flush creeps up your neck as you realize how pretty he looks like this, the mix of emotions playing across his features. Your teasing grin falters, and something gentler takes its place.

“…you’re…a little bitch,” you say, your voice softer now, trailing off. 

You don’t know why, but your heart races, caught in the intensity of being so close to Drew.

Sure, you’ve shared tight spaces before, but this… feels different. 

This time, it’s real. 

No cameras, no crowd, just the two of you, alone in this moment.

Maybe it’s the alcohol in your veins, or just purely Drew, or something else entirely, but you’re convinced you should kiss him.

Kiss. Drew.

Your eyes flicker down to his lips, noticing how red and plump they look in the dim light due to his soft crying. 

Then back into his eyes- and how they stare deeply into yours. 

You close your eyes, leaning in, heart pounding as you brace yourself for the contact you’re certain will change everything.

Then—ding. 

The doorbell rings, cutting through the tension like a cold splash of water.

Your eyes snap open, and you jump to your feet, the sudden rush of clarity sobering you up.

Shit, shit, shit. 

“I’ll- I’ll get it,” you force out, your voice a little more high-pitched than you intended.

You don’t look back as you head to the door, not even bothering to check who it is. Your mind’s still buzzing from the near-kiss, and you just need something to pull you out of the tension.

When you open the door, it’s the second round of room service. 

You let the staff in, unloading the food onto the table. 

You stand there by the doorway, suddenly hyper-aware of your senses. Your heartbeat feels too loud in your chest, and the sound of the movie starts to feel suffocating.

You almost kissed Drew. Drew? Out of anyone, are you serious?

“Y/n?”

You blink, snapping out of your thoughts to realize Drew’s still seated on the couch, his eyes fixed on you.

It’s also when you realized the staff left, and you shut the door lightly. 

“Yeah?” you ask, trying to act normal, though your voice feels tight. You’re standing awkwardly in the doorway, the last few moments replaying in your mind.

Drew tilts his head slightly, studying you, a small smile playing on his lips. He doesn’t move from the couch, just watches you from where he’s sitting. 

“You good?” His voice is low, almost playful, but you can tell there’s an undercurrent to it—something more serious.

“Yeah…” you force out, your voice sounding more unsure than you want it to. You look away, avoiding his gaze for a second, your eyes flicking to the food, to anything that can distract you from this.

It doesn’t help with how naked his upper body is. 

“Then come back, back to my side,”

He almost purrs, while his hands mix the sauce of the pasta. His biceps flex with every slow stir. It’s almost hypnotic, the way his arm moves, but you quickly look away.

You hesitate for a moment, but the gentleness in his tone pulls you toward him. 

Quietly, you walk over, and sit down on the other side of the couch, the space between you two wide again.

The table full of foods sitting between you now, and the movie’s playing, but your attention is still fractured.

The silence stretches.

A push of plate across the table echos through the room, and it’s the plate of pasta that Drew just mixed. 

The pasta that you ordered. 

You steal a glance at him, his jaw tight as he focuses on the tv. 

Your breath catches. You should say something. Anything.

You look down at the plate. The pasta looks perfectly mixed—cheese and sauce swirled in just the right way. It’s simple, but it feels oddly... thoughtful.

A knot in your stomach tightens, in a way you’re not used to. 

And so you reach for the bottle of wine, finding it the perfect solution to these weird thoughts you’re having. 

The warmth of the liquid as it swirls in your glass is a small comfort, something to hold onto while your mind races.

You take a slow sip of the wine, the bitterness slipping down your throat, trying to ignore the way your thoughts keep circling back to Drew. 

Your eyes fixate on the screen, watching Buzz sit at a tea party with Sid’s little sister.

There's something unspoken between the two of you, a silent agreement that whatever almost happened is just... off the table. 

An agreement to act like that moment never existed, and neither of you is going to bring it up. Not now, not later. 

It’s gonna be locked away somewhere, sealed off behind a wall neither of you are willing to tear down, even though the tension lingers in the room, thick as ever.

Instead, the movie plays on in the background, the clinking of silverware and the occasional chuckle at the screen filling the gaps where words should’ve been.

——

1:03 A.M

After Toy Story and way too many bottles of wine, you’ve officially fallen asleep. 

Your gentle snores catch Drew’s attention, and he glances over at you. It’s the way you’re curled up on the couch, eyes closed, breaths steady, lips slightly opened that draws him in. 

He watches you for a moment, not wanting to disturb you. 

Drew replays everything from today, his mind circling back to how it all felt too real.

The ‘date,’ if you could even call it that, the movie marathon, the way it all seemed to blur together in a mix of laughter and quiet moments. 

But then there was the almost-kiss, too. He can’t stop thinking about it.

If there were no interruptions, he definitely would have kissed you. 

And then there's the memory that stays with him, sharp and vivid—the way you looked, eyes red and teary, standing in the raining beach. Your crying wasn't ugly, not at all, but it hit him in a way he didn’t expect. 

Even through the storm, he could see your vulnerability, raw and open.

He’s careful not to disturb the stillness as he reaches for the remote. He turns the TV off, the soft click almost echoing into the room. 

A soft sigh escapes your lips, your head tilting slightly against the armrest. Even in your sleep, your brow is furrowed, that familiar expression Drew's come to know so well— you're either annoyed, confused, or tangled up in some unwelcome thought.

Without thinking twice, he shifts closer, leaning in just enough to carefully slip his arms under you. One hand slides under your knees, the other curling around your back. 

He lifts you with surprising ease, trying not to jostle you too much.

You stir slightly, but your eyes don’t open. 

His heart skips a beat at the way your body relaxes against him, even though you’re asleep. Your head rests against his chest, and he finds himself pausing, feeling the weight of you in his arms. 

The closeness, the softness of your breath against his chest, makes him feel oddly protective, in a way he’s not sure he understands.

He carries you to the bedroom, and when he finally sets you down on the bed, he tucks the blankets around you, making sure you’re comfortable. 

He lingers for just a moment, watching your peaceful expression, before he steps back, quietly leaving the room.

And when Drew sits back down on the couch, he knows for sure that after today, something shifted. 

Something, that he hates to admit, has shifted inside of him. 

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

word count: 4.2k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: this chapter took me wayyy too long to write T_T anyway, this is my attempt at writing a movie marathon

and yes, this story has plot holes which i chose to ignore

elevator | other | index | ch7 | ch9

official taglist for this series aka the best ppl ever: @maybankslover @ditzyzombiesblog @xcinnamonmalfoyx @haruvalentine4321 @wearemadeofstardust0 @akxkr4st4l @percysley @stars4birdie @padf00ts-l0ver @sadheartjellyfish @darklove2020 @claudiamoscatoo

[gallusrostromegalus]

Do you have any plans for what happens with Urahara's shop once Aizen is dealt with? I mostly ask cus the other day I binged the AIEWAM tag, then had a dream about the Shinigami using it as a base of operations in Karakura. I don't know if that is likely, or plausible, but it was fun to picture random shinigami doing customer service.

No that's more or less what happens to it!

After Aizen is dealt with, Urahara is facing some pretty significant personal problems: his rejection by the 12th division, being pregnant with his first child (and Yoruichi's nervous breakdown of impending parenthood) and Nihofornia's National Tax Agency finally catching up to him. As a shinigami, Urahara is aware of the many ways to shimmy around death, but there is no certainty like Taxes.

It's Don Kanonji, the most reasonable and level-headed adult in the whole damn fic, who proposes the solution: between his careers of swimsuit model, UN Translator, exorcist and fashion designer, Don is also a Certified Accountant. After going over she shoebox full of miscellaneous receipts and assorted Papers That Might Be Important, Don negotiates a deal with the tax agency around Kisuke's dubious status as a citizen and even more dubious bookkeeping: kisuke will sell the business to someone with a real social security number and pay up a large percentage of the staggering amount of money he owes in exchange for being allowed to rent the building from the new owners and continue his path to legitimate citizenship and no further financial chicanery.

"Okay, but who's going to pony up the cash? I don't have that kind of money!" Kisuke wails, fully in the grip of second-trimester hormone swings.

"Urahara-san. Kisuke. Sandalhat. Buddy. Pal." Ichigo's classmate Keigo sighs, fondly patting the man on the shoulders as he sat down on the couch beside Urahara. "We're friends, right?"

"We're people who know each other's home addresses." Kisuke sniffles.

"Close enough!" Mizuiro waves, sitting down on Urahara's other side. "-and you're former second division, real cloak-and-dagger stuff. So you know that sometimes it's best to not ask so many questions, right?"

Kisuke frowned with growing suspicion. "I might have been..."

"Great! All you need to do is make Tessai clean out the garage, turn the paperwork over to me and Mizuiro, keep an ear on the line to soul society, and focus on getting this place ready for your little bundle of joy-" Keigo smiled, gesturing around the decidedly bachelor padded living room.

"-and don't worry about where this came from!" Mizuiro chirped happily, hefting a large briefcase onto the table with a loud thud that popped open the lid, revealing a frankly alarming amount of cash inside.

"I'm worrying." Kisuke grimaced.

"We very specifically requested the opposite of that." Keigo pouted.

"That's at least thirty grand in there." Don remarked with a casual glance at the carefully packed but decidedly used bills inside.

"There is Thirty-one thousand, two hundred seventy-eight point oh-six Troyen, which is exactly two and a half times this shop's discretionary income last year, and a very generous price for the business!" Mizuiro beamed.

"Why can't you guys use a normal currency like Kan?" Kisuke pouted, trying to do conversion rates in his head.

"Well for one thing, fiat currency is a hell of a lot better than anything based on the value of rice." Keigo nodded. "Though it is kinda stupid that we didn't update the name after we went off the gold standard during world war three."

"There was a third world war?" Kisuke yelped.

"A cold one, back in the eighties. You didn't notice were busy making sure Isshin and Masaki Kurosaki didn't implode." Tessai called from the kitchen.

"Oh." Urahra mumbled.

"Look, it's really quite simple- you'll go on basically as you have been with the candy shop-" Mizuiro smiled with the soothing demeanor of an unexpected adder. "-only I'll be your landlord and Keigo will be your manager!"

Urahra stared blankly at the boys, then looked up at Don Kanonji, who was reading over the contents of the file folder Mizuiro had handed him when the boys came in. "...That can't possibly be legal, right?"

"Hm?" Don hummed, looking up over his glasses. "Oh, yes. The government would really prefer a check but cash is perfectly legal tender to settle all debts with."

"But they're kids!" Kisuke gestured hysterically between them.

"Okay, Mizuiro might be babyfaced but he turned eighteen last spring and I'll be an adult by the time we turn in all this paperwork in April." Keigo groaned.

"And- and this is clearly Mob Money!" Urahara continued, waving at the briefcase of cash.

"Mister Urahara! I would NEVER-!" Mizuiro gasped with great offense. "I'll have you know all this money came from Perfectly Legitimate Enterprises!" He sniffed, arms crossed and lip pouting.

"That's the name of the Mobile Tech Support business Mizu and I have been running since freshman year!" Keigo beamed. "Makes a good packet, you wouldn't believe the kind of tips the old biddies will give a Nice Young Man in a Smart Uniform who scrapes malware off her online mahjong machine!"

Urahara stared at them blankly, gaze slowly tipping down to the briefcase full of money. "I should learn how to use living world computers."

"NO." Every single person in the building, including the shop kids and Ichigo, who had been passed out under the table after training, but was stirred to consciousness by an impending sense of danger before passing out again.

"Killjoys." Urahra muttered, sulking under his hat.

"Regardless, its a perfectly legal and honestly very generous offer for this heap, and as your financial advisor, I urge you to take it." Don Kanonji glared over his glasses at Urahara.

"So what, you boys get a cut of the candy money and rent? Cause that ain't much of a savvy deal on your end. This place runs at a debt."

"Oh no, you can keep the candy revenue and I'll only ask for enough rent to cover utilities." Mizuiro smiled. "What we want is a cut of your commission as a licensed Gotei-13 outlet contractor!"

"...But I'm not a contractor?" Urahara blinked.

"...Do you just. Not read things before you sign them?" Keigo glared.

"Yeah, you're not just in hock to the NTA, the Soul Revenue Service is after you too for running a fake Gotei-13 service center, and bailing on a century's worth of filings by faking your death." Mizuiro frowned at him with concern. "So e of those papers you signed when you resumed your identity and job as captain- however briefly were the result of Captain Kyoraku cutting you one HELL of a parole deal with the SRS, but the agreement was that Urahara Shoten would be the base of operations for ALL the shinigami operating in Karakura, under the direct supervision and control of the Gotei-13 and he sure wasn't stingy with the budget he gave you! Well. The budget he gave me and Keigo to spend since I'd be the property owner and Keigo would be the business owner."

"Aaaand since you also signed the soul society official secrets agreement, it's not like you can ask someone else to buy you out from the NTA, so not only are we your best offer, we're your ONLY offer!" Keigo grinned.

Urahra stared at them blankly. "You've set me up." He mumbled.

"You sent yourself up for this when you failed to do your due diligence when signing contracts." Don Kanonji corrected him, pulling some documents out of the folder and signing them, before pushing them across the table. "Please actually read these before you si- you've already signed them." Don Kanonji groaned as Urahara slapped the pen back down on the table with spite.

"Fine, fine- I guess I'm back to following orders instead of giving them. What do you want, Boss?" He glared at Keigo.

"Put your feet up and finish putting together that gift list for the baby shower." Keigo nodded. "We weren't kidding that your first priority is getting this place ready for baby... Does it have a name yet?"

"...No." Kisuke wilted despondently. "Yoruichi still isn't answering my texts!"

"Hm." Keigo nodded. "Okay, put your feet up, finish that baby shower list and think of a name for the little rugrat. Just leave the rest to us for now!"

"You guys are good kids." Kisuke smiled weakly.

"Would you be willing to make a sworn statement to that effect, so we can have it on file for any future HR disputes?" Mizuiro smiled.

"Absolutely goddamn not." Kisuke glared.

[raggedytiger]

ragatha/agatha and pomni/penny human hcs!

(r)agatha:

is an english teacher!

yes she still loves horses. she used to ride them, & she loves old western movies.

owns cowboy hat and boots.

analytical and loves long & winding conversations.

has a very happy cat named sandwich.

patches her own clothes, doesn't have kids but if she did she would embroider their names into their belongings.

she still plays cello, she loves music in general, probably sings like an angel.

can't do any mathematics.

can drive, but like a lunatic. somehow has never had an accident though, so it's fine.

probably has a cute little baby blue/yellow car now, but definitely had a beat up offroader truck at some point that got put to good use. or maybe she still does, i'm not the boss.

total lesbian, a bit of a heartbreaker but not intentionally (women just keep falling for her)

goes to town/neighbourhood/community meetings. likely is/was in a knitting circle

absurd number of quilts in her home

pomni/penny:

is an accountant as we know, and cannot cook for shit as we know.

no pets she can barely take herself for walks. is more similar to a cat, but had a dog growing up. would love a collie or a dalmatian probably.

would name the dog something stupid like Thermometer Johnson.

she can drive, but nervously.

really quick thinker, like impressively, unless she's under HUGE amounts of stress. is literally always thinking at 100mph.

no sense of interior decor or personal style. all practical, kind of butch. really does kill a suit.

very much lesbian but not fully to terms with it. probably had short-lived relationships with men in which she was 'content' but didn't really care for it. seeing agatha as agatha for the first time was probably a crazy punch to her little gay heart. not to mention the cowboy gear.

autistic

watches 90s anime to wind down

listens to every single genre of music. passes a lot of time with headphones in, slowly making her way thru the entire world's discography

owns no band merch or anything though she just listens

can't sleep without a fan on, thunderstorm 12hr audio, blackout curtains, weighted blanket, water nearby

does not sleep a lot

both of them (going to call them pomni and ragatha for convenience):

didn't immediately recognise one another. i havent got an exact idea of how they reunited after getting out, but there were tears.

bonded in a very rare and unique way - they got to revel in the newfound joys of real life again. they got to eat delicious food, go on long, unobstructed walks in the real sun, be warmed by it, chew on ice cubes and shiver at the pain, listen to each other's heartbeats, listen to real music, read real books, smell soaps and flowers and sauces. they went to the supermarket together and read all the labels, and bought one of each type of fruit to try between them, and smelled all the candles, and touched all the blankets. spent a lot of time holding hands and kissing and i'm sorry to say, probably having sex, because holy shit, i'm real, you're real, we're real

now live together in ragatha's apartment, after pomni moved out of her small and confusingly-furnished flat.

both of them feel inadequate from time to time. this is resolved by a stern-but-loving talking-to.

sandwich likes pomni very much. pomni doesn't really get cats, but loves sandwich a great deal, and enjoys letting her sleep on her lap.

ragatha is very pleased to see her girls getting along.

ragatha cooks, pomni chops the veg. she often doesn't fuck it up

pomni cleans a lot as a 'thank you for letting me live here, i love you'. she's very much acts of service, ragatha is words & physical touch <3

they watch a lot of movies together. depending on how long they've been stuck, they might have culture to catch up on

ragatha wants to have a house with a garden one day. pomni starts germinating seeds from their fruit & veg like a weird science experiment. ragatha is delighted when she is presented with a baby tomato plant.

clothes are shared. ragatha's are bigger, but most of pomni's are ill-fitting anyway so it can go both ways. ragatha likes to dress pomni up in different outfits and have her do a little fashion show. pomni pretends not to savour the confidence boost.

pomni starts sleeping more

[y3ager]

STORYTIME I (26 F) FUCKED MY SUPERSTAR CLIENT (24 M) AFTER MONTHS OF SEXUAL TENSION!

— ‘i’m a manager for a pretty big music label and my client is the biggest dickhead in the world but i fear i fucked him after one of our usual arguments.. 😵‍💫’

eren y. x black!fem!reader

tags: modern au, smut, porn not much plot, hate(?)sex, cunnilingus, cowgirl, reader gets called ‘mama’ and ‘boss’, unprotected sex, mild choking, musician!eren, manager!reader. minors do not interact.

my first collab entry MAKE SOME NOISE YALL WTF!!! but no seriously thanks so much to @k9nto for letting me join your event i had a blast writing this! hope you all enjoy! 🤭

YOU’VE ENCOUNTERED SOME annoying people in your life. in kindergarten, a boy taunted you by picking up one your fallen hot pink knocker-balls and refusing to give it back to you. in high school, some chick named tiffany ripped down all of your junior class president posters that you spent weeks designing and printing out on the highest quality paper. your college advisor had been completely useless, you’d still be dragging yourself through your bachelor’s degree if you didn’t stay on your toes and realize the classes you were dropped in were a waste of time. but all of these people, and many more that have slipped your mind, shaped and molded you into the woman you were today. strong, tenacious, independent, a go-getter who never gave up and thus was able to reap her hard work, in the form of three nice crisp degrees and a never pitiful bank account.

but eren yeager, grammy award winning singer, songwriter and musician, with multiple weeks spent at the top of the billboard hot 100 and 200 charts, millions of units sold worldwide, and stadiums packed to the brim, took the fucking cake.

you were warned he’d be difficult. every manager he’s assigned quits before one of them ends up in a body bag. none of them have a single nice thing to say about him, and he finds that hilarious.

for better or for worse, you took the challenge because you’re a sucker for them. nothing in life comes easy, and you figured that the managers before just didn’t come hard enough. maybe eren’s fame and status made them falter, but such a fate wouldn’t befall you.

you dragged him to his magazine shoots, you kept his mouth in line during interviews, you kept his socials clean. he was never a second late to rehearsals and recordings. he was a reflection of you, and if you were perfect goddammit he was going to be too.

until today.

“i’m not putting in another extension, eren. the label is starting to get really irritable. we need to go to the studio now.” you furiously swiping along your ipad, pacing around the singer’s deluxe hotel room. while you’re dressed for the day in clean crisp clothes, sharp stilettos, and jet black lace front expertly melted and laid, eren’s still in the bed. the covers are everywhere, his shirt is next to a couple pillows on the floor, and he’s laying on his back eating a croissant from room service, paying you absolutely no mind. it takes everything in you to not chuck your device at his big head. “i’m serious. get. up.”

“and i said i’m not,” he mocks your assertive tone, voice oozing in sarcasm. “going.” he coughs, obviously faking. “my voice hurts. can’t make those greedy bastards money if my vocal chords ache. they’ll live.”

“you are on a strict deadline this era. if you want to catch award season, this album needs to be finished and dropped in the next month. amidst the press tour, your window of recording time is dwindling fast.” dates in your digital calendar glare at you, red and angry. every time you check something off your to do, ten new things pop up. you feel your jaw clenching, teeth gritting together uncomfortably.

“i’ve won enough awards. i don’t care. i’m not getting up.” eren finally raises up from the bed, narrowed green eyes meeting yours. it’s fire against fire, an unstoppable force that is a manager determined to do her job versus an immovable object, a musician who’s not budging from his spot. “it’s my album. it’s my music. i finish it when the fuck i get ready. that label will burn before they drop me.”

“if you don’t follow contract, they will drop you. they put a lot of money into you-”

“money i made back for those dumbasses-!”

“they are your bosses, without them-”

“they need me way more than i need them-!”

“get,” you toss your ipad over to a small couch, storming over to the bed. you snatch the edge of the covers and yank hard. enough is enough. if he won’t get up, you’ll make him get up. “the fuck out of this bed, eren, now!”

“you need,” the cover is yanked back, tugging you forward along with it. you lurch momentarily before righting yourself upwards, leaning back to give yourself more leverage in this childish tug of war you find yourself in. “to calm the fuck down, ___. i’m not going and that’s fucking it.” eren may be lean, but he’s toned like a MMA fighter, muscles rippling under tan skin when he calls upon them. another tug and you topple onto the california king bed, one expensive heel sliding off your foot and falling across the room.

your heads snaps up from the covers, brow furrowed deep in anger. “stop being so fucking difficult, you moron!” emotions welling, you grab one of his arms, preparing to drag him out of this bed. your to do list is a nagging itch on your brain that by the grace of god you are going to scratch. you’re not about to let this bad-with-authority dickhead best you when all he has to do is record a fucking vocal.

“oh, we’re doing this?” easily, too easily, so easily that you register your back hitting the soft bed before you realized he even grabbed you back. he pins you down easily, slightly calloused hands grip your upper arms firmly, pushing them down. he places his legs other either side of your hips so yours are forced in between them, but doesn’t keep you from writhing to free yourself. “whatever fucking—stop doing that—chip you have on your shoulder, you need to fucking solve it because shit’s not going your way today. i’m not going and that is final.”

the tussle leaves you two of you panting, eyes boring into each other’s. eren’s long chocolate brown hair is disheveled not only from a night’s sleep but from this impromptu wrestle. small beads up sweat trickle down his naked chest. your writhe again, and he presses down against you, a synonymous hiss sliding through both of your mouths.

“i hate you, eren.”

“whatever helps you sleep at night, ___. looks like you wanted an excuse to feel up on me.”

“oh, like you wanted an excuse to hump me like a mutt?”

there’s another beat of silence as you two watch each other. eren’s hands tighten their hold just a tad before he presses his hardening length hard against your clothed cunt. against your better judgement, your head tilts back and a small moan fights against your bitten bottom lip.

eren hums lowly, his dick bulging against the constraint of his boxers. “hate me too much to actually fuck me, huh? i’m only worth a dry hump.”

oh how eren frustrates you. how he makes even the simplest things in life painstakingly difficult. how he makes you want to smoke ten packs of cigarettes after a day of dealing with him. but oh, how handsome he looks under the lights at photo shoots. how his deep, smooth voice reverbs in your ears. how his fingers move so deftly on his guitar, as if it’s merely an extension of his body. who wouldn’t fantasize about that late at night, him bending you over and snatching down your pants to fuck the stress out of you, or yourself knocking him down a peg and making him beg to let you cum inside.

“shut-” another roll of his hips makes you gasp. “up..”

“i want you, ___,” eren confesses. his hips don’t falter, his cock becoming hungry for release. “i want that pussy. i wanna fuck that little attitude out of you, can i? i see how you look at me and i stare right back.”

you shiver, hand rushing to undo your dress pants and feel more of eren’s dick against your dampening cunt. his hands work with your perfectly, yanking your pants down. it’s a whirlwind of clothes, your sweater, bra, your other shoe.

eren reaches up to grab your breasts, rolling them in his palms, squeezing the supple flesh, pushing them together. “oh, pretty girl. pretty fuckin’ tits.” leaning down, he kisses down your sternum, stomach, inching closer and closer to your center. he wastes no time grabbing your thighs and licking a nice, long stripe against your drooling cunt and sucking on your clit.

your back immediately arches up and your hands fly to grip eren’s hair, tugging at the locks and pulling him in closer so you can feel everything. “oh my god, eren.” the singer’s not shy at all, audibly sucking at you and reaching up to twist and pinch your pebbled nipples.

with another languid lick eren pulls himself away. he pulls his boxers down on and off, freeing his dick from the constraint. he rubs the thick, weeping tip up and down your slit, staring hungrily at the juices leaking out. the feeling of it makes you shiver in anticipation.

“mmm, mm-mm.” you push yourself up. “let me get ‘n top..” there’s a greedy look in your low eyes as you place your hand on eren’s solid chest and lay him down on the bed.

“take charge here too, huh?” your forwardness makes him chuckle as he watches you straddle his waist. “okay then. ride me.”

you brace yourself on your toes as his hand and yours grasp his shaft, directing it to your pulsing hole. you slide down gingerly onto him, his size quickly stretching you out. “ahh, fuck, eren. fuck…”

“you got it,” he assures you, one hand on your thigh as you sink lower and lower, taking him in inch by inch. he bites his lip at the wet tightness of your walls, squeezing and sucking him in. it makes him throw his head back, a couple of small pants escaping his mouth. “mmhm, fuck that pussy feels so good. take that dick, boss.” his hand raises only to land on your ass check with a sharp slap.

you start out slow at first, letting yourself adjust to the wideness of his dick but that quickly gets old. you’re soon addicted to the feeling of him fitting inside so perfectly. gripping his free hand in yours, you swivel and raise your hips faster and faster, effortlessly, desperate for that feeling of him pounding that oh so sweet spot. your juices slide down his length, the slap slap slap of your ass against his muscled thighs filling the room. “‘s so big, feels so good,” your voice slurs.

eren hisses from his spot under you, eyes trained on where you two connect. mouth slightly agape, he watches your cunt swallow him up and the fluid that leaks out. “yes, mama. keep fucking me just like that. feels.. f-fuckin’ amazin’…” his hands grab your plump ass cheeks, fingers digging in hard as he thrusts his hips up, driving the tip of his cock even deeper inside you and pulling a loud moan from you. “keep goin, mama, ‘m almost there, don’t stop, please..”

his pleading make you clench even tighter around him, and that feeling deep inside your tummy aches for release. you place a hand around his throat to better balance yourself, relishing in his low groan. your thighs quake and tremble, your hips meeting his eager thrust perfectly. “oh, my god; oh my god. i’m— shit!” you throw your head back in ecstasy, cumming hard enough on your client’s dick to leave you numb.

“aw, fuck, boss.” eren thrusts up to push his cum deep inside, holding you against himself to ensure a single drop doesn’t leak. “take it, take it..”

the two of you are left panting hard, bodies sweaty and gleaming with the afterglow of sex. you gingerly pull away, cunt left sore and spent from a round of sex months in the making. eren reaches over to caress your ebon lips, admiring the smooth, wet feeling once you roll onto your back. “no more attitude from you, yeah?”

“no more attitude from the man reduced to calling me ‘mama’ and begging to cum either, i’d assume.” your teasing laughter is cut off by him purposefully sinking three fingers deep inside you. “mmh…”

“mhm, sure.” roles reversed, eren climbs on top of you and stares down with green eyes aflame with lust through his tousled brown hair. “now i want to see what i can make you call me.”

[vampirehoon]

bathroom tiles ࿔*࿐⋆

w.c. ⟢ 1.4k

pairing ⟢ yeonjun x afab!reader

synopsis ⟢ a party in which you dragged your other half, yeonjun, and find yourself finding peace and quiet in a bathroom stall. yeonjun finds you after not seeing you since you went off. here you and yeonjun are, on the bathroom tiles - confessing how much you enjoy spending tonight with each other.

genre ⟢ best friends to lovers (fluff)

a/n ⟢ hi! this is a story i had prepared for if i got my tumblr account started and it has! (ty, i’m never gonna stop thanking) and i hope whoever read this, they will enjoy it. <3

⋆ ·˚ ༘ *

choi yeonjun hated parties.

but because of your popularity of getting invitations, he was always dragged to them. of course he never complained but after every single one, he would express his pure hatred for them walking home together.

you promised that this one would be different, and yeonjun hoped you were right.

he always liked walking to the parties; partially because the parties are always close by but also it gives him time to speak with you clearly before having to yell at each other through the blasting (horribly remixed) music.

“whose party did you say this was?”

“a girl in my biology class?”

he looks at you, unimpressed.

“y/n, do you even know her name?”

“no.”

yeonjun scoffs, and you can’t help but laugh at his disappointment.

“but this party promised good service” you attempt to defend your decision.

yeonjun doesn’t bother responding as you two get to the beginning of the stairs that lead to the party doors.

the music is already giving him a headache, he takes your hand.

“why don’t we have our own party?” he invites you two to get out of this party.

“yeonjun, I promised people I'd be here.”

“break a promise for once.” he begs.

“nice try.” you grip yeonjuns hand and haul him up the stairs to enter the party.

yeonjun and you enter the doors and are immediately taken back. the whole gym floor is covered by students in bright outfits. yeonjun’s black tux and your deep blue dress are giving bridesmaid and groom-man.

by the squeeze of yeonjun’s hand, you know he’s not into this.

“food will make you happier.” you say to yeonjun.

a mumble escapes his mouth as you bring him to the food table. sparkling cupcakes and a chocolate fountain catch your attention first.

yeonjun sees you testing out the chocolate fountain. you cover a marshmallow and bite it. it’s so good!

you can’t enjoy your marshmallow chocolate sensation when yeonjuns thumb rubs the side of your lip.

his furrowed eyebrows made you laugh.

“don’t have too much fun.” he cleans your chocolate on your lips and looks into your eyes.

“well, you’ll realize it’s worth it,” you grab a marshmallow, coat it, and bring it to yeonjun lips. “when you have it yourself.”

yeonjun knew you’d shove it in his mouth if he didn’t accept it, so he opens his mouth and took it.

you watch him closely.

his puffy cheeks were adorable as he enjoyed the marshmallow. you knew he was resisting to admit it was good when his lips shook away a small smile.

“it’s kind of worth it-“

“yeonjun!” you swat his arm, he breaks out in a laugh.

“okay, it’s worth it.”

“you’re being annoying tonight.”

he sighs. “it’s annoying you brought me.”

you two eat a few more marshmallows and then a song you two know well turns on.

“oh?” you look at the dance floor.

yeonjun wipes his hands and looks over also.

“do you want to?” you look at yeonjun.

he meets your eyes with a nod.

you two travel to the dance floor, the music getting louder.

he first dances small and when you begin doing a ridiculous sprinkler. his laughs become music to your ears.

both of you laugh and smile while dancing. he looks at you everytime the song increases in bass.

maybe even 2 minutes in the song you pause. yeonjun dances in front of you without noticing.

the headaches that feel like your brain is bruised, you have only ever heard about from yeonjun, is happening to you. i need to go somewhere quiet, you thought.

“yeonjun, i’ll be back.” you yell.

yeonjun raises his eyebrows.

“bathroom!” you yell.

he gives you a thumbs up.

through the crowd you exit, your headache grows more. you hit the door with your arm and then finally get out into the hall.

yeonjun found no reason to stay dancing so he returned to the snack table. drinking a sweet drink as he waits for you to return.

pounding, your head is pounding. the music was further away as you went down the bathroom stalls. you open the last door and rest on the wall to rub your forehead.

5 minutes, and yeonjun was just by himself. he wondered if you left. yeonjun first decides to check the bathroom.

as he approaches he’s weary to enter the girls bathroom but knew he needed to see if you were in there.

a creek in the door, he pops his head in first. surprisingly, this bathroom was dim. most likely from the bright energy consuming party, yeonjun thought.

he enters and looks down the bathroom stalls.

“y/n?” he first whispers.

he kneels down to see if he can see anything and when he sees the deep blue dress of yours, he heads to the stall.

yeonjun knocks.

“y/n?”

you stood up to open the stall door. yeonjun’s hand stayed in the air from knocking and dropped when you gesture for him to enter.

“why are you here?” “did you go to the bathroom?”

“no.” you sit back in your original spot and yeonjun finds a place in front of you.

resting on the back of the wall, yeonjun asks another question.

“why did you stay in here?”

“the music was killing me. i had to leave.”

“we could have ditched together,”

“but you were having fun..”

he scoffs which grabs your attention.

“fun? i was having fun with you.” “i stopped dancing after you left.”

you don’t say anything, just thinking.

“sorry.” you say.

“what for?”

“this whole party. i’ve never asked you if you want to go or if you like coming to them with me.”

yeonjun rests on the wall, his suit flowing over him. you look at his tie and he adjusts it.

“i don’t mind,” yeonjun confesses.

you furrow your eyebrows. yeonjun has only ever told you how much he hates them.

“we are talking about parties yeonjun?” you ask, in case he’s talking about something else.

“yeah i know.”

yeonjun’s eyes meet yours. he looks at you for a second before speaking again.

“of course i hate them, but spending time with you is so fun.”

“so i don’t mind them.”

you swear he looks like a dream. his suit fit him well and looked very attractive on him. you wonder if it’s because of the headache you are feeling this way.

yeonjun laughs under his breath which interrupts your thoughts. you look at yeonjun, and he sighs.

“you’re not falling for me right?”

you burn up instantly, pink cheeks you attempt to cover.

“what! no!”

“i’m teasing.”

his soft smile grows as his eyes move to the ground. could he read your thoughts? you want to say something but the music is heard through the walls again.

a faint popular love song.

you adore this certain song and it always makes you think of an ideal kiss with someone in your fantasies.

you sigh, fixing your dress “if only my headache went away, then we could return to the dance floor”

“why?”

“so we could, at least, remember tonight..”

“i mean we still can.”

you look up at him and meet his eyes.

the bathroom becomes suffocating, you feel your heart race as yeonjun looks into your eyes. reading your exact thoughts.

as cliché as a romance movie, time slows down in favor of the tension between you two. he’s leaning into you slowly with the chorus of the song leading up.

as he sits up and makes his way to you, his hands crawl on the tile and stop right next to your hands.

yeonjun’s right there. so close that you could count how many eyelashes he has.

“may i?” yeonjun asks, just in case you don’t want this.

but you want this.

“yes.”

the way his lips fit yours, and his hold on your lips made your body go weak. your hands go to his face, cupping him to deepen the kiss.

his hands are comfortably holding your waist. his fingers tickle you as he brings you closer to him.

and to make it better, the song just made the kiss last forever. the passion between you two grows with the flow in the song.

you would have never expected to kiss yeonjun, let alone make out with him.. in a bathroom. this party turned out better than yeonjun anticipated.

𓉸ྀི ©vampirehoon

[multifandomfix]

Mirror, Mirror — Villanelle

Summary: You’re an assassin who wears a mask to hide your identity and insecurity. But Villanelle shows you just how beautiful you are.

Word Count: 1,675

Warnings: Female!Reader, slight knife kink, mirror sex, fingering

Villanelle took in the horrors of the blood covered alleyway. With the rain, most of it would wash away by morning before anyone would have the chance to see what had gone down here. But clean up was not what she was worried about. What she wanted to know is how someone had gotten to her target before she had, and more importantly, who.

As she surveyed the scene, her blonde hair was becoming plastered to her face as the sky poured its large, heavy raindrops. Then she saw you, bent over, reaching for something on the ground. Her eyes were trained on your every move. Feeling eyes on your form, you looked up, meeting a woman's gaze. You knew who she was, and you needed to go. Now. You took off down the alleyway, trying to keep your footing while dodging puddles and avoiding the slick stones that paved your escape route.

"Hey," Villanelle called after you. She’d only wanted to talk, get to know you. You'd made her job easier and that intrigued her. She was fast, but there was no way she’d catch up with the weather and your head start. Fine, she’d just see what you left behind.

What she picked up was far from anything she could have expected. It was a mask made of black and white marbled porcelain, spotted with the blood of your kill. You’d worn it, hadn’t you? But why?

You continued to sprint through the streets and alleyways, your heart racing as the sound of Villanelle's voice faded into the distance behind you. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, and your mind races to piece together the events that have unfolded tonight. The mask you had dropped had been a careless mistake, a slip that you couldn’t have accounted for.

As you finally emerge from your zigzagged path to a busy street, you pause to catch your breath, your chest heaving. The rain continues to pour, soaking you to the bone. You needed somewhere to stay and get dry. You looked next to you. A hotel. Perfect.

It was one of those ritzy ones, with chandeliers and rooms with hot tubs. You could work with that. You needed the rest after the extended effort and toll the night had taken. Even as you check in, you can't shake the feeling that Villanelle is still out there, combing the streets for any trace of you. She was clever. She’d be searching.

Meanwhile, Villanelle still stood in the rain soaked alleyway, her eyes fixated on the mask you had left behind. A slow, dangerous smile curled at the corners of her lips. She's not one to back down from a challenge, and you have certainly intrigued her. With a determined glint in her eyes, she begins her hunt, determined to track you down.

Days pass in a tense blur as you hide in the confines of your hotel room, waiting out the clock. Surely Villanelle would leave town now that her target had been disposed of. She’d get a new assignment and be halfway across the world, her memory of you nearly forgotten. In a week, you’d be safe, and could leave this city yourself.

Then, one evening, there's a knock at your hotel room door. Your room service had already come and gone an hour ago. Your heart skips a beat as you tense up, every nerve on edge. Slowly, cautiously, you approach the door and peer through the peephole. It's her. Villanelle. "I know you’re in there. I just want to see your face."

"No," you’re quick to deny her.

"But I've been looking for you," she says casually, as if it's the most ordinary thing in the world. "You are a hard one to find. I like that about you. Can I come in? Promise I won’t bite."

You stifled a chuckle. You’d heard she was funny. Part of you was glad to know it was true. Taking a deep breath, you’re able to find your voice again. "What do you want from me?"

"You left your mask. Thought I should bring it back to you. It’s clean. The rain washed away most of the blood. The rest I wiped away myself." She was practically shouting at your doorway. You didn’t need all your secrets given away to the hotel's guests, so you grabbed another mask, put it on and opened the door, letting her in.

Why did she care, a part of you wondered. Then again, you’d never been able to speak about it to anyone. So here you are, faced with a decision. Do you lie or confess? Something about Villanelle tells you that she wouldn’t fall for a lie, no matter how convincing.

"I wear masks to hide my scars," you admit, your voice kept low out of shame. "I've always been self conscious about them."

Villanelle's eyes narrow slightly as she processes your words. She steps closer, her presence almost overwhelming you. "Scars are not something to be ashamed of," she says softly, surprising you with an unexpected empathy. "They tell a story, a history. They are beautiful in their own way." Then she raises a hand to your masked face. "I want to see them."

Her words hang in the air as you try and take them in. Villanelle, a ruthless assassin, sees something in your scars that you never could. A strange mixture of emotions swirl within you. You let her take off your mask. "See? Beautiful. Just like I told you."

You shake your head, wishing for the security of the mask once more. "No. You’re wrong. They’re hideous. I'm hideous."

Before you can protest further, Villanelle swiftly turns you around, your back now pressed to her front, and she pulls out a knife. You gasp at the suddenness of her actions as the blade makes it’s first contact with your neck. "I don’t like to be told I'm wrong." Her voice is right in your ear and it sends a shiver through you.

Villanelle's grip on the knife tightens slightly against your throat as she begins to guide you toward the set of three full length dressing mirrors in your room. When you stand before the mirror, your scars are illuminated by the soft light, and you can't help but flinch at the sight of them. Villanelle's reflection stands behind you, her presence a commanding force that's impossible to ignore.

Her gaze sweeps over you, and you can't help but feel exposed beneath her scrutiny. The knife moves away from your neck, no longer pressing against skin, but still she held you, an arm around your robed waist. You didn’t dare make a move. "Look. Look at yourself, your beauty." You resisted. "You want to be difficult? I will prove it to you another way."

With the dull edge of the blade, Villanelle came down with the knife, opening your robe in her descent down your body, turning the blade only to slice the tie open. The robe fell open and exposed more of you to her. It’s mission accomplished, Villanelle cast aside the knife and it landed on the plush bed several feet away. "Do you want me to stop," she asked, fingers reaching for the shoulders of the robe, ready to take it all the way off. "I’m going to need an answer."

"Don’t stop," you uttered, the words coming out all breathy and flustered, but your answer was clear enough. She pulled the robe off your shoulders and took in the full sight of you once more, using the mirror as her guide for how and where to touch you.

Her hand roamed down your chest, stopping to play with the soft flesh of it, before continuing its path downward. As the tips of her fingers reached your pelvis, you adjusted your stance so that your legs were parted for her. Your back pressed more firmly to Villanelle as her fingers dipped inside of you. A gasp made you take your eyes off of the mirror.

"Ah, ah," Villanelle scolded. "I need you to watch, to view yourself the way I see you." It took all of the effort you had, but you watched through half lidded eyes while Villanelle worked you over. She rubbed her hand against your most sensitive of spots and you pressed your weight against her, seeking even more of the delicious friction.

"Look how pretty and pink your cheeks flush when my fingers press into you," she said when your eyes started to close again. They snapped back open and you looked in the mirror again, fearing she’d stop if you didn’t keep watching. With a satisfied grin, Villanelle tilted her head, kissing down along the soft skin of your neck. "You are beautiful," she affirmed between kisses. "I want to hear you say it."

"…I am beautiful," you whispered, not even meeting your own gaze in the reflective glass.

"More conviction. Say it as I bring you to your climax, hmm?" You nodded. "Good." She then plunged her fingers deeper into you, causing you to almost let out a scream. Her other hand came up from your waist and grabbed your breast, using the extra stimulation to bring you along, right to the edge.

"You are close. Say it now for me. Make me believe it or I won’t let you come."

"I—I am beautiful," you said, the words pouring from your mouth like a mantra. This time you were loud, assertive, you’d almost entirely convinced yourself of the truth of your words. Almost. And then she brought you to your release. You nearly collapsed against her, but Villanelle's arms held you up. You were spent, and covered in a fine layer of sweat from the intensity of your orgasm. Villanelle helped you lower yourself gently to the floor.

Taking your chin in her hand, she angled your face to the mirror once more. "I never want you to forget or doubt your beauty. Not ever again or I will give you a truly ugly scar."

For anon

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-izzy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @nclgsticore, @ayanthegreat28, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @rukia-28, @malfoyfeed

Villanelle: @victoraisawonder, @countqss, @thenazwife

[lady-lostmind]

Dog House

for Stobin Month prompt: Assumption

Thank you @oh-stars for betaing this!

WC: 504 | Rating: G

ao3 link

Steve reaches out and shakes the realtor’s hand, trying to ignore the way her eyes flick to his hand, checking for a ring, and the way her smile brightens when she doesn’t find one. 

“I’m Amy, I’ll be helping you today, Steve.” She drops his hand and turns, gesturing to the house in front of them. “So, here it is. You looking at this big ol’ house just for yourself, sugar?” She bats her lashes at him. 

Steve smiles and shakes his head. “Oh, no my uh–”

Robin’s car comes to a screeching stop at the curb and she hurries over to them, her baggy sweater slipping off her shoulder, and her hair falling in messy tendrils out of her bun. “Sorry! Sorry! I forgot to set my alarm. I’m here.” 

Steve smiles and gestures to Robin. “Here she is! Robin, Amy, Amy, Robin.” 

Amy’s face falls for a second before she catches herself, eyes flicking between Robin and Steve, and her pleasant customer service smile is plastered back on her face. “So nice to meet you, dear.” She leads them up to the path and opens the front door, stepping aside to let them in.

Steve doesn’t even look around the room. Just looks right to Robin so he can see her gut reaction to the place. Her face lights up, a shimmer in her eye, before she wipes it clean and turns to him, obviously trying not to get her hopes up. 

“What do you think? This is the one that was a little out of our price range, right?” 

Steve shrugs, finally glancing around the spacious living room. There’s a bay window on the side with a window seat he’s pretty sure is what caught Robin’s eye. “It can’t hurt to look though, and I have my trust fund…”

Robin shakes her head. “We said we were going to split this evenly, Steve.” 

Steve rolls his eyes and tugs her further into the house. “I don’t mind, though. I just want to find a house we love.” 

Robin opens her mouth to argue, again, as she pulls open a closet in the hallway, when Amy clears her throat behind them. They both glance over at her, and Steve tries not to laugh at the way Robin’s clearly trying not to glare. 

 “If I may, sweetie–” She reaches out to give Robin’s arm a squeeze. “If you two are moving in together you might as well start thinking of it as joint accounts. I mean, I don’t want to assume. But buying a house together is pretty serious. Are y'all planning a wedding soon? This house would be great for starting a family.” 

Robin’s face drops and Steve has to stifle another laugh. He leans in close to Robin, pulling her in close and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “That backyard would be great for a dog, babe.” 

Robin sighs and shakes her head, pushing him off her with a roll of her eyes. “Let’s look at the freaking backyard, then.” 

Stobin month prompt list by @lavenderstobins

[sonic-gallery]

Another World Ogiri March 2023 [What are Tikal and Chaos doing...? ]

When I let my beloved daughter take over the soba restaurant, it was turned into a pizza shop the next day.

When I let my beloved daughter take over the soba restaurant, it was turned into a pizza shop the next day.

Two characters appear every month in surprising outfits and situations! Let's enjoy Ogiri together with illustrations that will make your imagination run wild!

This time, Tikal, the pizza shop's signboard girl, will be joined by Chaos, who makes pizza with artisan skills!

It seems like the impossibly happy aura of the two and the enthusiasm of the delicious pizza can be felt beyond the screen.

The example story was quite surreal (Father, Pachacama...!), but what kind of lines or narration would you use?

You can set it up with the two's usual atmosphere and worldview, or you can make it bold... Enjoy it freely and tweet with the tag #Isekai Ogiri on Twitter ♪

We will introduce the good ones in a reply from Sonic's official Twitter account.

We are looking forward to your fun Ogiri posts!

Act3: “Satisfied Paradise”

"Welcome! Please take an empty seat."

``CHAO's Diner'' is a pizza restaurant that has been operating in the mountains of Mystic Lewin for some time.

This popular shop, located between the village of the wild echidna "Knuckles tribe" and the home of the mysterious creatures "Chao" who live in waterholes, is run by Tikal, the daughter of the Knuckles tribe chief, and the hearts of the Chao's. Gentle guardians...Two of the water creatures "Chaos".

Today, Tikal cheerfully greets customers, and Kaos deftly makes pizza with his outstretched arms. The specialty here is the piping hot special pizza made with Chao and his friends' favorite red fruits. The taste of this pizza and Tikal's cheerful customer service have earned a reputation, and the restaurant is always crowded with Chao and Knuckles people.

Although CHAO's Diner is such a wonderful place, there were some difficulties when it first opened. When Tikal remembers the past, he can't help but chuckle as he catches a glimpse of the chaos silently making pizza.

The Knuckles tribe is brutal and arrogant. Chaos was wary of them lest they harm Chao and the others.

They came in large numbers and walked around the store, making a fuss without paying any heed to the previous customers. When Chaos rushes out angrily, Tikal intervenes and intercedes...

One day...Chaos made a new pizza that was very popular with Chao and his friends...and the Knuckles tribe as well. This pizza served as a bridge and brought everyone together.

The Knuckles tribe began to respect Chaos, and began to treat the Chao people with love as well, who loved the same masterpiece. And the chaos... As soon as I saw their smiles, all the worries in my heart disappeared.

I still can't forget the joy I felt at that time. If you treat someone with sincerity, you can open up to anyone someday. That's certainly what I thought.

Relive that excitement once again...

Since then, the two have been thinking about a new pizza every day, and last night they finally completed it! Today is the day of its unveiling.

A special dough made with seven red berries, fresh basil, and melted cheese. Everyone will love it. The two of them were nervous as they waited for the baking to finish...

<<Gashaan! >>

Suddenly, there was the sound of plates breaking from the audience. You can also hear the roar of the guests and the cries of Chao.

"W-what happened!? No way...!"

Tikal rushes out in a panic. This hasn't happened for a long time...!

When she rushed in, she saw Chao crying after dropping a plate and breaking it, and the Knuckles tribe gently cradling Chao while cleaning up the broken plate.

Tikal sighs with relief.

It was. There are no more disputes in this store. Because now everyone wants to open up and enjoy delicious pizza together in a gentle manner...

“!?”

A fragrant scent immediately flows into it. Who ordered it? It doesn't belong to anyone...it belongs to everyone! Chaos quietly arrives with a new pizza and serves it to everyone.

I've been waiting! As if to say that, the Knuckles tribe and Chao, who had been crying, smiled and bit into it.

"Ah! It's all over my heart and soul!"

"Ciao chao!"

Everyone was overjoyed. Great success! Tikal turns around. Chaos slowly nods back.

Until now and forever. This restaurant for two people has always been fine. When Tikal and his friends returned to the kitchen with these thoughts in mind...

As if to dissolve it, a white mist enveloped the area...

Before you know it, the gatherings and conversations at the store fade away, and eventually the fog thins out... There is only the Master Emerald, which flickers slowly as if asleep, and the ruins of its altar.

And when even the lingering scent, which had no place to go, disappeared, a heavy silence filled this paradise ruins.

"Everything disappears..."

Angel Island, which was supposed to be floating in the sky, has descended to the ground, and a mysterious white mist surrounds the altar, creating a mysterious scene...

Tikal and Chaos work in a happiness that is far from the reality of the past. Knuckles and Chao are good friends. Was the fleeting paradise I had just seen real or a dream?

Judging from the atmosphere of the store, it doesn't seem to be a vision of the time when Tikal and his friends lived... but the mystery only deepens with the fog.

The more you know, the more new mysteries this world reveals.

[artemisandhersilverbow]

Just thinking about the line from My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys:

I'm queen of sandcastles he destroys

A lot of people have touched on Taylor using castles and palaces as a symbolic representation of her career, body of work, specifically those stolen works and versions of herself. They're locked away in a high tower and separated from Lover - TTPD Taylor.

The tension at the end of Bejeweled, when she walks smiling onto her balcony only to quickly show her castle on fire was, in my opinion, easily overlooked. Was she burning it down or had it already been burning down without her noticing? A stone castle on fire would require some orchestration.

Fast forward to TTPD, the line above from MBOBHFT stuck with me because the "boy" here is destroying her sandcastle. Sandcastles are a study in impermanence. We build them as an incredibly basic recreation of the real, impenetrable, almost indestructable thing. But we do so knowing they can't last, they won't. Eventually the tide will wash them clean away or the wind will erode at the structure until it turns back into sand.

That means "the boy" in question is preemptively destroying something that wasn't supposed to be forever anyway.

The first thing about this song that lit up my brain like a firework was the lyrical parallel to Cruel Summer. I mean, if Taylor uses the word "toy" in a song you know it's gonna be sassy af, ok? A girl takes notice.

Fever dream high in the quiet of the night You know that I caught it Bad, bad boy Shiny toy with a price You know that I bought it -------------------- The sickest army doll Purchased at the mall Rivulets descend my plastic smile But you should've seen him When he first got me My boy only breaks his favorite toys

Now, I have had my speculations (as have many others) about Cruel Summer not being a love song, but a PR-ing song. I almost immediately thought the same of MYBOBHFT.

Fortunately, the Barbie movie covers a lot of ground for the "why is using a kind of Barbie-Ken like dynamic excluding a romantic narrative?" Because she's Barbie, he's just Ken, Ken is basically an accessory. Anyway I think this song is absolutely talking about several people or experiences/problematic Hollywood structures etc. in a very smart twisting narrative.

"Fever dream" is playful here in the same way she uses "sickest. " The doll isn't sick and the narrator of Cruel Summer isn't running a temperature. "Shiny toy" and "sickest army doll" feel like even clearer parallels — one "with a price / You know that I bought it" and the other "purchased at the mall." I like the reversal of "You know that I caught it" and "When he first got me" because catching isn't as active as buying. Something happens to you if you catch a fever or something is thrown at you - and that feels like an entirely different he that "got" her. Another play on words because that sounds like ownership and tricking.

I was so confused by sickest army doll at first because she sings it in such a (Lana coded) morose way. I was trying to imagine a sickly Army Barbie? But I think the smart way she's written these lyrics (please read her lyric booklets they are incredibly sneaky, brilliant works of poetry) she's not referring to the "me" as an army doll. In fact what's an "army doll" little kids think are rad? Hm... a G.I. Joe?

The bait and switch of it all, the sandcastle-like metaphors, continue with the above. It sounds like "there were so many reasons why we should have been together forever." But word choice is where this poet shines.

"Litany" is one of those words that always registers to me a "a list" but it's actually got religious roots (of course - this album has so much of that): a form of prayer used in services and processions, and consisting of a number of petitions.

It can also mean "a prolonged or tedious account," which is why you hear an expression like "litany of complaints"... Got it so you had a tedious amount of prayers and petitions *checks notes* for why you could have "played for keeps" THIS. TIME. Have there been other times? Oh right, yes, she's "just repeating herself."

Play for keeps is another one of those terms we use, but don't always know it's full definition. One such definition is "to do something seriously and without showing any mercy."

This sounds less like holding onto a lover who wanted to leave or mistreated you, though I think that should also another lens to view this story... perhaps change lover to authority figure... and more like two people who struck an agreement (one that upheld some good christian values?? too far?) to battle something together... and one of them couldn't stick it out. Perhaps because "he saw forever so he smashed it up"? He was a Bolter too.

So she just wants to be put back on her shelf so she can go through the cycle all over again. In fact, pull a string and she'll repeat the lines she knows so well. Copy+paste.

"I used to switch out these Kens, I'd just ghost" to "I felt more when we played pretend / Than with all the Kens" with her GI Joe? I mean lumping a "lover" into a category with Kens and any kind of doll purchased isn't the most loving way to refer to them lol. And I can't help but notice she's only ever played pretend with all the Kens. But what do you do with your shiny toy when they don't want to play anymore?

The lyric video is simple, but each line comes up one at a time and "breaks," floating pieces falling out of frame. At the end we pan down to see the collected debris.

A pit of broken words.

Also worth noting you can see among the blurred graveyard of words a couple of them are crisp/hidden. They're "Boy breaks his only favorite" or "favorite only"... or his Favourite?

Anyway, we come back 'round to the sandcastle metaphor that got me started. I don't think Taylor's princess castle and her sandcastle are a perfect one to one match symbolically. A stone castle was built with the intention of lasting forever, if it catches on fire that would be surprising... more akin, to me, to her career or Taylor TM?

A sandcastle, however, can't last forever, it's not meant to, but you still build it knowing that. Like an arrangement, contract, role, etc. business or otherwise. For someone to snuff out a sandcastle before time or tides or the inevitable does that for you seems needlessly harsh. Even a short-lived imitation can mean something if you enjoyed building it. In fact, that's the only part that gets to live on once a sandcastle is washed away. And it seems like even that part was ruined.

[msbigredmachine]

TARGETS - 30 - Finishing Touches

Roman Reigns is an agent in the secret organization The Authority and one of the world’s deadliest assassins. When he crosses paths with a mysterious woman during an assignment, he makes a life-changing decision that switches his role from the hunter to the hunted.  (AU Espionage Story)

TARGETS MASTERLIST

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

Nine days had gone by since Jasmine and Roman left Rose’s house. Eleven days since Jasmine was tortured and Roman was shot in the shoulder by Baron Corbin. Somehow, they survived and Corbin did not. That had to mean something, that as long as they were alive and breathing, they still had a fighting chance. But though their wounds were healing, neither was sure they would ever be at a hundred percent again. 

Jasmine's ordeal had taken a toll on her psyche. The first night, she'd woken up in a cold sweat, the feel of Baron's grimy hands on her still as suffocating now as it was then, the smell of her burning flesh entrapped in her nostrils. The second night, she had almost broken Roman's nose as he tried to shake her awake from her nightmare. Shaken and embarrassed, it took some convincing to the Samoan that she would be okay. As traumatic as it was for her and as harsh as it sounded, Jasmine knew she had to brush it off and concentrate on putting their plan to action. All of F.L.O.R.A. and the Authority were looking for them now, and they had missed the deadline for their Jamaica rendezvous with Rollins and Ambrose thanks to Corbin. The two men were now off the grid, most likely for their own safety. Roman did not blame them. The couple kept on the move, not staying at one particular place for too long, and they continued to strategize and stay in shape as best as they could, given the circumstances.

As the days got closer and closer to executing their final plan, Roman decided to treat his girlfriend to something nice. Since they couldn’t travel to any exotic destination at the moment, he brandished his considerable skills and was able to scam his way into obtaining a nice swanky suite for two days at the W Hotel, the very same hotel chain where they first spent an incredible night together all those months ago. It was a pleasant contrast to the dingy accommodation they had been inhabiting for the past week, and the huge smile on Jasmine’s face as she plopped down onto the soft, clean white sheets of the king bed like a little girl was the perfect reward for him. 

Biting into a croissant from the vast breakfast tray from room service, Jasmine perused the contents of the carry-on Rose had given her. It contained two brand new passports; one for herself, named "Ameera Candice Johnson", and the other for her "husband" Roman, under the name "Afa Jonathan Johnson". She calculated a hundred thousand dollars in cash in four different currencies. Rose would have provided more, but F.L.O.R.A. had monitored each of their operatives' accounts ever since Jasmine turned rogue, to ensure that none of them were financing her. Jasmine's own accounts and credit cards had long since been frozen. The money was adequate for now, but she and Roman were going to need much more than this if they planned on disappearing forever.

And she knew just where they were going to get it.

She heard the bathroom door open, and then a whooshing sound from behind her. Instinctively, she twisted her upper body around, catching the incoming missile expertly with her right hand. She glanced down at the tube of toothpaste and rolled her eyes. "Really, Reigns?"

Her boyfriend stood by the bathroom door, a white towel hanging low on his hips. "Just testing your reflexes, my beautiful Nubian rose," he informed her.

"My reflexes are just fine, my handsome Samoan stallion."

Roman smirked. "Stallion, huh? Cuz you love ridin’ me?"

"Oh my god, don't start." She shook her head with a smile, getting up and approaching him. Giving his chest an affectionate pat, she took off her clothes, stepped into the walk-in shower and turned on the hot water.

The Plexiglas quickly grew foggy from the hot water, but Roman could still see the curvaceous outline of her silhouette. His breathing grew heavier as he watched her spread the lather over her naked body with her hands. He was aroused in seconds. He'd just showered but he didn't mind going back in for another. Quickly discarding his towel, he walked into the shower and shut the glass door behind him.

Standing behind her, his hands roamed her jagged skin, carefully tracing the scars Corbin had left all over her beautiful body. "Fuckin' piece of shit," he growled, "I should find him, wake his dead ass up and put another bullet in his head."

Jasmine found herself chuckling at that. "Down, boy. It's getting better, thanks to Rose’s lotion."

"You're still not sleeping well, though." Roman's tone was quiet but pointed, feeling her bristle at his words. "Baby girl, I know Corbin did a number on you..."

"Don't worry about me, my love. I'll be fine," Jasmine promised, turning her head to meet his eyes. "Let's just focus on tomorrow, and hope we live through it."

"We will. We have a good plan. A brilliant one, even."

"You're very confident," she smirked.

"I am. Because we're good. Very good. We make a great team, Jasmine."

Jasmine smiled. "We do. It’s like we’ve known each other forever." 

“Like soulmates?” asked Roman.

There was something about that word, just the mere utterance of it, that seemed to unlock something, opening another chapter in their romance. Jasmine looked deep into Roman’s eyes and saw everything she needed to know. 

“Just like soulmates,” she agreed with a soft smile. She felt his thumbs gently massage the base of her neck, and gradually relaxed as he methodically worked the tension out of her neck, shoulders and upper back. She closed her eyes, a soft contented sigh escaping her when Roman kissed the scar on her shoulder blade. He inched closer, his chest flush against her back, his hands slipping around to rest against the flat plane of her abdomen.

Jasmine trailed her hands along the contours of his muscular forearms, her fingers intertwining with his. With a soft moan, Roman dipped his head, his lips meeting the curve of her neck, his breath warm against her skin. His caresses soon found her breasts, and as he massaged them and rolled her nipples between his fingers, that familiar erotic feeling surged up inside them; the one that pushed out all other thoughts and focused on no one else but each other.

“I love you,” whispered Jasmine.

“I love you too, baby,” Roman replied, capturing her mouth with his when she lifted her head, his tongue sliding into her mouth to tangle with hers. She rotated her body around until she was facing him, her knees weakening as she took in his naked form and the hunger in his eyes. He gave her no breathing room as he backed her up against the shower wall with his mouth back over hers. She moaned in encouragement at his eagerness, feeling his desire, the tender urgency in every kiss and touch and caress – it had been a while since they last made love, and she would be lying if she said she didn't want him inside of her.

Their tongues clashed fervently, craving the taste of each other, the heat of their desire radiating through the small enclosure. Roman's long fingers threaded through Jasmine's wet hair and angled her head back to attack her neck with his lips, his hard body pressing against hers. She dragged her fingers down his muscled back, pulling him even closer, if that was possible. His low growl vibrated in his chest as he rolled his hips, making her moan as his erection rubbed against her lower belly. His hands gripped her ass cheeks, kneading and squeezing them between his rough palms as they grinded against each other.

“I love the way you feel beneath my hands, baby girl,” he whispered in that deep timbre of his that always made her melt inside. “I love the way your body reacts when I touch you and love on you. Like it knows it’s mine.”

“It’s yours. Baby I’m all yours,” she answered without hesitation.

Roman growled in appreciation and pressed open-mouthed kisses against her warm skin, his tongue rolling over as many goosebumps as possible. He licked his way down her body until he was on his knees. His hand then slipped down to palm her leg before hitching it over his shoulder, gripping her thigh to hold her steady as she found her balance.

“I got you. Relax for Daddy, baby,” he assured her, watching her stare down at him, licking her lips as she nodded. Nuzzling his face against her soft folds, he breathed her in, his brain filling up with the heady mix of shower gel and her natural scent that called out to him to be devoured. He was all too happy to oblige. 

With the tip of his tongue, he flicked her clit, teasing the bundle of nerves, gripping her hips as she bucked against his face and tugged his hair hard. He hummed softly at the slight pain, swiping the flat of his tongue along her slit and groaning at the taste. So good, so rich. He licked her thoroughly, repeatedly, his thumb sliding in to play with her clit at the same time. Her voice went up several decibels in reaction, her fingers digging into his hair as he slurped her juices.

"Baby…shit," Jasmine groaned above him, "Fuck, Roman..."

Groaning back to her, he widened his mouth over her pussy for a slew of French kisses before letting his fingers take over, sliding his mouth back over her clit. Keeping her pinned against the wall, he proceeded to destroy her by suckling and tonguing the sensitive nub while pumping three fingers inside her. His already hard dick twitched at the sweet sounds of her pussy and her cries for him, echoing around the enclosure as he milked her nectar, drowning out the running water. Jasmine arched against the wall as she detonated, her inner muscles keeping his long, thick fingers in a death grip. That grip was broken as she broke, her body falling to pieces from the intense pleasure.

Roman gently set her leg back down and got to his feet. Jasmine collapsed in his huge arms, burying her face in his neck with a soft, satisfied moan as he pressed her back against the wall. “Jesus, Ro,” she gasped.

“I got you,” he whispered. He lifted her head up to kiss her, his tongue sliding indulgently against her own as soon as she opened her mouth for him.

"Mmmm, I taste good," she panted, licking her lips with a grin. 

“You always do,” he responded, placing his mouth back over hers to taste her some more. Her wet body stuck to his, and his dick stirred again. Feeling him throb between them, she wasted no time reaching down and curling her fingers around the turgid length, rubbing and tugging it, biting her lip as she met his heated stare.

"I want it deep in me, Daddy, give it to me." She spoke in that pleading, breathy tone he could never resist. Throwing the shower door open, he pulled her behind him, both still dripping wet as they stumbled out of the bathroom. Upon reaching the bed, Jasmine sat Roman down and stood between his spread thighs. Her hungry stare locked with his as he wrapped his fingers around his cock and slowly massaged it. 

“Be a good girl and come suck Daddy dick,” he drawled, his hand sliding up and down the thick, delectable length. Fuck, he looked so enticing laying down like that. Like the good girl that she was, she sank down to her knees, her hand closing around his dick, and she slashed her tongue over the swollen head. Roman watched her intently as she sucked him, feeling his knees weaken as she sank him further into the inviting warmth of her mouth. Her soft moans were everything, even as she took him all in, making gulping sounds around his cock that never failed to send shivers down his spine. His hand cupped the back of her head, letting out a moan of his own as she grabbed his balls, tugging them in tandem with her sucking. 

His groans of pleasure and his dark intense eyes caused a flood in her loins. Completely turned on, she gobbled up his dick, making him moan louder as she swallowed him all up. He caressed her head, lifting his hips up, needing to be deeper somehow. She leaned forwards, her arms stretched over the length of his muscled thighs to keep him still. With her palms splayed over his crunching abs, she proceeded to deep-throat him, her mouth meeting his pelvis, holding it there to suckle the base of his dick before dragging the tightness of her lips back up to the tip. Rinse and repeat.

“Baby girl, you gon' make me come,” Roman soon grunted, his deep voice shaken as he gripped her hair. She hummed her permission, the vibrations around his dick rippling through his big frame and tightening his balls. His eyes rolled in the back of his head. “Shit, I’m ‘bout to come for you, baby. Open your mouth.”

Jasmine obeyed, wincing a little from his steely grip holding her in place. She didn’t mind too much; the best reward was watching him jerk himself frantically in her face, his own twisting with painful pleasure as he burst all over her tongue and partly on her chin. He groaned again when she wrapped her lips back around him and sucked hard, drinking down his cum like it was her favorite beverage. When she released him, he prayed he had some left in him as he was far from done with her. He used his thumb to clean his mess off her face and stuck the digit inside her mouth, gasping as she licked it clean, her eyes on him the entire time. 

“God you’re so sexy, my little fuckin’ slut. C'mere,” he praised her, pulling her into the bed and on top of him for a deep kiss full of tongue. Jasmine rocked against him, her wetness brushing ominously against the tip of his dick. Thanks to Corbin's act of savagery, she was no longer protected and he himself didn’t have any condoms. But just as quickly as the reminder appeared, he shooed it away. They could most likely be dead before tomorrow ended. Protection was the least of their worries. He wanted to fill her up with everything he had. Tonight had to be memorable.

“Assume position, baby,” he commanded, sitting up on his knees and maneuvering behind her. 

“Yes Daddy.” She wasted little time, turning around, spreading her legs apart, teasing him with a quick twerk of her ass cheeks and earning a smack on her butt. He wasted no time either, sliding right into her, both of them moaning as he met little resistance. His hands massaged her ass as he pulled out then pushed back in, working his way into her with slow, gentle thrusts all the way to her hilt. He was so conversant with her pussy; knowing exactly where to position that dick, how to stroke the most sensitive spot inside her that maximized her pleasure; her wetness was already seeping down her thighs and onto the bed.

“Mmm, look how wet you are. You drippin’ for me, babe,” Roman smirked, watching with fascination as his dick disappeared inside her warm wetness. “That’s how you take Daddy’s dick, lemme bust that phat pussy open, baby.” 

“Oooh fuck, Roman, that feels…” 

“Shit feel good, yeah babe?” 

Temporarily robbed of all ability to speak, Jasmine could only moan out the rest of her thoughts, delirious from the feel of his heavy balls slapping her clit, his thighs bumping against hers from behind, and best of all, his big ass dick stretching her open. “Yes, Daddy, oh my god,” she whined, tears filling her eyes. He felt incredible, so sinfully good. How had she ever lived without him?

His fist was in her hair now, bringing her head up off the bed as he thrust harder. His other hand played with her breast from behind and tweaked the bud of her nipple, making him moan as her pussy contracted around him. He leaned down to nuzzle her throat, his lips ghosting over her jawline until she turned her face to him and let him claim her mouth with his. 

After a few minutes of taking her in this position, he pulled out and flipped her onto her back. Climbing on top of her, he patted his girthy dick against her softened folds before pushing back inside. His long, damp locks cascaded down his strong shoulders, framing his gorgeous features. Her hands reached up to caress his face, then gripped the back of his neck to pull his mouth to hers. He hitched her left leg under the crook of his arm and then the right, opening her up for him to pound her out. Her back arched with a moan, her pussy tightening around his thick length as he plunged deep into her over and over. Moving her legs up onto his shoulders, he went to town, feeding her with long, lavish strokes that found every sweet spot she owned. He was on a mission, almost obsessed with his need to pleasure her, to make her feel things she’d never felt before, things he'd been feeling for her since the very beginning of their relationship.

“You feel fuckin’ amazing, Jasmine.” His voice was so deep and rough in her ear and dripped with pure lust. It made the hair on the back of her neck stand up and goosebumps sprout all over her heated skin. She didn’t know where to put her hands, switching from gripping the bed sheets to grabbing his shoulders before settling on his broad back. Her moans devolved into soft sobs as he kept up the dizzying onslaught. He brought his face closer to hers and kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring the warmth of her mouth. 

“I love you so much,” he whispered.

“I love you, too,” she said, her jaw dropping as her eyes flickered to the spot where their bodies connected, watching his dick drill and grind into her like he was searching for oil. “Oh my god, Daddy, you’re fuckin' the shit outta me…”

“I keep telling you this pussy good, babe,” Roman said, licking the seam of her lips. “Wet and tight as fuck…you make me wanna come all up in it.”

She couldn’t bring herself to respond, not with the way he was holding her down to the bed and winding his hips, making his dick massage her spot. Her pussy rippled around him yet again and she panted heavily, her toes curling behind his head as she whined his name. Hearing his name pour from her lips and the way she moaned and cried and begged snapped something deep within Roman. He pounded her pussy harder, gazing at her with bright, lust-filled eyes, “I can tell you’re close, baby. Let it go. Come again for me,” he cajoled her.

On command, her orgasm washed over her. She squeezed her eyes shut as she screamed, her body convulsing beneath him from the barrage of pleasure. Ecstatic. Overwhelming. All of that and more.

Roman pulled out of her and looked on, proud of his handiwork as he watched his lover squirm and gasp beneath him, squeezing her thighs together as pleasure ravaged her entire being. Opening her legs wide again, he loomed over her, guiding his dick back inside her and pushing home. He had all the pleasure she could ever want, and he was going to give it all to her. As her back arched off the bed, he seized the chance to wrap his arms around her and hoist her upright so she was on top of him. 

“Come on, ride your Samoan stallion,” he instructed, smacking her backside in encouragement.

Recovering from her shudders, Jasmine steadied herself on top of him. With her knees up, she rested her hands on his abs and began to fuck him, dragging that pussy back and forth on his dick. She leaned down and brushed their mouths together, then sat back up to ride him a little harder. It was her turn to hold him down to the bed as her wet pussy slid up and down his cock, engulfing his length with the tightness of her walls. Looking up at her, eyes dilated, deep caramel skin glistening with sweat, full breasts bouncing and her lips parted in exertion, Roman nearly lost it right then. She had him growling and panting as she dropped down on his cock again and again and again, taking him deep. He ran his hand up her stomach and between her breasts until they closed around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her audibly bite back a moan. With his other hand, he held onto her waist, planted his feet on the bed, and raised his hips to push his dick up against her g-spot at the perfect angle to make her shiver against him.

"Unnnnhhhh..." she groaned, her thighs shaking and quaking at his sides.

"Mm-hmm, I know that's the spot right there, sweetheart. You gon' come for me. Nut on Daddy's cock, baby girl, give it to me," he whispered, grinding up into her, tightening his grasp around her throat. He was slipping inside her far too easily, yet she was still so tight. He moaned as on cue, she clenched around him, her strangled cry vibrating through them both as she gushed like a fountain all over his groin.

"Fuuuck..." Jasmine's head rocked backwards as her body shook, whimpering, her breathing raspy. The climax was so powerful that she couldn't think straight. Roman moaned and thrust upwards into her, faster, harder, drowning in the wet squelching of her tight pussy, increasing his pleasure and hers. His breaths came in ragged bursts and his muscles tensed, his toes curling as he tumbled into his own release. He emptied himself inside her, his own body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure pulsed through every nerve ending of his.

He barely felt her soft kiss on his cheek afterwards, barely felt her hand steer his face to meet her mouth, their lips and tongues sweeping together in the tastiest, most sensual of kisses. As they moaned into each other’s mouths, his senses came alive again, luxuriating in their post-coital embrace. He was almost disappointed when she finally dismounted him, and he shuddered as her skin smoothed lazily over his, the memory of being inside her setting his skin afire. Her beautiful face was flushed with satisfaction as she stared down at her lover. 

"Damn, baby, fuck,” she moaned, smoothing out her hair sticking to her sweaty forehead. Roman watched her with mischief in his eyes.

“You good, baby girl?" he teased. "Didn't wear you out, did I?"

"Pfft. You know I handled that good dick, Daddy," she replied, her brown eyes still cloudy in the afterglow. She snuggled closer to him, her arm slung over his waist. "This is the real reason I ain’t never letting you go. You put it down on me so good, babe. Imma glue my pussy to your cock at this point.”

They both burst out laughing at the weird imagery before falling into a comfortable silence. When Roman spoke again, his tone was more serious. "Honestly, I can’t wait for all this running and hiding to be over," he said.

"It will be. Soon,” Jasmine promised.

Roman reached up to caress her face, gazing intently at her. "You sound so sure."

The former F.L.O.R.A agent bit her lip and nodded slowly. "We will. We’ll make it out of this. I trust you and I trust our abilities together. But for now...we need to get some sleep.”

“Do we?” 

Raising her eyebrows, she watched his hand close over her breast, kneading the round soft flesh. The lazy flicks of his fingers over her peaked, sensitive nipple made her gasp. “Ro…”

"Baby, we could be dead by tomorrow," he said, his voice deep and serious as he looked into her eyes. "Until then, I wanna spend every waking second in your arms, to be buried inside you for as long as I can until we get there. I hope you don't mind."

Jasmine felt an overwhelming surge of love and heartache at his words as she realized that indeed, this could be the last time they would be together like this. "I guess not," she finally succumbed, looking on as he rolled back on top of her, his mouth tugging her nipples in a string of wet, sloppy kisses that had her pussy aching again. At his hungry expression, she swallowed hard, growing weak for him as she felt his hardness rub against the mound of her pussy.

Pulling her thigh over his waist, he kissed her lips, slipping his tongue inside her mouth as he massaged his cock between their bodies. "I love you, Jasmine. I’ll still love you long after I’m gone," he declared, his voice heavy with emotion.

Jasmine squeezed her eyes shut to keep the tears at bay. "I love you, Roman. I love you until my last breath. I will love you even more after that," she whispered. She returned his tender kiss, feeling him grip the back of her thigh, lifting her body against him as he sank back into her warm, inviting depths…

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

She sat up in bed as she watched him sleep. With tears in her eyes, she watched the way his chest rose and fell, his breathing deep and even. The sheets were draped over his hip, right below the V-shaped contour on his hip bone. His tousled hair swept over his face, and she gently raked it back, letting her fingers graze his chiseled cheek. Staring at him for one moment longer, she then shut her eyes, inhaled deeply, and chased all her emotions back into the recesses of her mind, allowing the calm ruthlessness she used to be known for to take over her entire being once again. Her features were hardened, passive, as she got up from the bed, limped over to the ceiling to floor window and made the call she'd been waiting to make since leaving Rose behind.

A female voice answered the other end of the line. "Identify."

"Four, one, three, six, eight, five, six," Jasmine answered, walking over to stand next to the glass door leading to the balcony.

A tense pause followed, then, "Your identification has been expunged from our records."

They'd erased her already. She expected that. "I have a package for the boss. For both of them. It's something they want. Urgently."

The female voice went quiet again. Several seconds passed before she spoke again. "Where would you like to make your delivery?"

"Somewhere public, covered. No clean shots."

"There may be no guarantee to that."

"I don't give a fuck, Petunia. Yeah, I know it's you. You better guarantee it, or I'll hang up and this conversation never happened." The tone of Jasmine's voice was hard, menacing. "Then you'll never see me or him again, and you know I can make that happen."

Once more, the other end of the line was silent, contemplative. "Where do you have in mind?"

She gave the coordinates and ended the call. She cast a glance towards the bed again. Roman was still asleep. She looked back out into the horizon, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in thought. The sun was rising, bleeding red. The significance was not lost on her.

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

We're getting closer to the end.

Credit to the owners of the gifs.

[yllowpages]

The space in the car was silent, filled only by the sound of the engine as John navigated busy, twisting streets, and the soundscape of the city itself ( sirens in the distance, car horns, music fading in and out as they travel ) . He gives intermittent glances in her direction, checking only that she is still conscious, still with him, before turning his attention back to the road.

She is conscious. She's alive. Relatively unharmed — from what he could tell. ( Good fortune, too : once Maelstrom begins, they cut quick and they cut deep. ) A job well-done it seems ( not for lack of his abandonment of the contract until about six hours ago ) . Though that doesn't account for any lasting effects on her from the experience. Nothing a drink and sleep can't salve, even if just for the night ( in the morning, he'll return her back to the grips of Lamb and Browning ) . He can feel his own adrenaline beginning to wane, filtering out of his veins, as the pain and need for rest sets in. There's no doubt a deep bruise forming on his left side where a Maelstrom member landed a clean hit ; John can't be sure there isn't a fractured rib even ( with the amount of implants Maelstrom install, it's a high chance ) . The worst of it was a knife to his leg. While the assailant missed the planned target, it still caught John's thigh. Now, it's bleeding onto the seat of the car.

It's minutes before he rounds the car on the curb of a tall, somewhat modern building in Downtown. He catches the fearful look Eliza throws him as he shuts off the engine and exits the car. ( As soon as he puts pressure on his leg, pain shoots through his leg and up through his abdomen. He clenches his jaw and lets out a short groan. ) Though he doesn't go far, simply crossing the front of the car to open the car door and help her step out. He takes a single step toward the curb, toward the building, before feeling her grip onto his forearm ; John looks at her, eyes glinting with sympathy for a moment, before he continues walking. A valet steps forward, taking the car key that John hands off.

Once inside, the doorman ensures the door closes behind them, and John continues to lead her across the glossy floors of the lobby. There's a hitch in his step as they both approach the front desk. Few other souls grace the lobby at such a late hour ; those who do ( hotel employees, the odd guest ) watch with cursory curiosity. The concierge looks up expectantly, keeping perfectly professional, unblinking at their somewhat disheveled states. ❝ I'd like a room, ❞ he requests, his tone of voice eerily casual, though the strain of his fight with Maelstrom members fights its way through. He slips a hand into his suit jacket, producing a singular, polished gold coin, which he places on the desk. ' Certainly, Mr. Wick, ' the concierge obliges, reaching forward and retrieving the piece of gold with her own gilded fingers.

The concierge begins typing at the computer in front of her as John offers further details : ❝ Ninth floor, ❞ ❝ Just one night, ❞ ❝ And send the doctor up, please. ❞ Her glowing eyes stay fixated on the screen as she inputs these details ; she only pauses to ask, ' Can we interest you in a laundry service, sir? ' glancing briefly at Eliza, to which John nods and thanks her. Room access ( to room 914 ) is transferred to him and the concierge bids them both to ' enjoy your stay at Night City's Continental. ' John nods politely once again, then turns and says softly, ❝ This way, ❞ to Eliza as he leads her toward the elevator. The doors open and he prompts her to step inside with him. He selects the tenth floor and the elevator begins to move.

The silence returns, broken only by the small dings of a digital bell as they pass floor after floor and climb higher into the building. She still holds onto his arm but finally breaks the quiet by saying :

❝ I’ve gotta go to the hospital, I think. ❞

He exhales, halfway to a sigh, and continues to watch the numbers increase. ❝ There's a doctor here, ❞ he explains. ❝ They'll take a look at you. ❞ As if on cue, the doors ring and open for them, at which point John steps out, continuing to limp down the hotel hallway. ( The space is quiet, everything about the hallway is pristine and formal, yet it doesn't feel as cold as it looks. ) They pass a few doors before John comes to a stop in front of 914, glowing numbers placed vertically on the threshold. The door slides open and he ushers Eliza inside.

The room is spacious, boasting large windows with a clear view of the city, elegant decor, and a plush queen-sized bed. He gently coaxes her hand off of his arm as the door shuts behind them. ❝ I'm staying down the hall — 910, ❞ John assures her. ❝ The doctor should come by soon. ❞ For a moment, he's about to turn and leave, just like that, but he looks at her standing there, still shell-shocked from the abduction. From the timeline Damian gave him, she was gone all of six hours — it must feel like an eternity. ❝ The hotel offers room service. ❞ There's a beat. ❝ You look like you could use a drink. ❞

@strnza

[talentforlying]

@handgiven: ❝i’m fine. you’re the one who got stabbed.❞ fallen em moments u.u — SIX OF CROWS STARTERS

' fine my arse. you're fuckin' bleeding. '

the rest of the sentence fades out to static, bullied back by the instinct he follows to catch em firmly by the chin and tilt his face up for better inspection, stiff and unsteady fingers fumbling for a pocket hankie ( thank christ he never fully gave up on the desire to dress pretentiously ) to crumple in his fist and dab at the dark streak sliding down from em's hairline. he still hasn't gotten used to this: the stomach-dropping, tilt-a-whirl feeling of finding em after a fight and seeing dings and scrapes and bruises. even now that it's become more common, now that em doesn't have a halo to beam down holy armor from the angelic mothership — especially now that it's become more common, now that they both know a nick at the wrong junction could puncture clay like plant roots in soil — constantine can't fucking get used to it.

devotion's simple enough to stomach when it doesn't cost anything, when the person giving it's got plenty to spare and has a finger on the scale strong enough to keep themself level. it's a different story entirely when you're the one responsible for ensuring they make it out alive at the end of the day.

( em's choice, to keep following him in. em's decision to take the hits and risk his newly-under-nine lives. still constantine's responsibility, because . . . because he owes it. because he owes em. )

it's only once he can see the edges of the laceration, shallow enough not to be life-threatening, that his lungs kick back into active service again, the release of air dropping his shoulders like the limbs of a cut marionette. then the static clears, leaving him blinking blankly, hands retreating to absently pat down his own chest for a cursory triage. ' . . . 'ang on, stabbed? how d'you mean, stabbed, i'm perfectly — oh, fuck me. '

yeah, being stabbed would account for the hot and sticky something that's been running down his forearm and pooling in the crease of his elbow, wouldn't it? it'd account for the smeared fingerprints he's left on em's cheek, too. and, you know, there's the searing fucking burn in the center of his right palm where the perforation's gone clean through, now that he's noticed it. hard to buff that one out.

he looks up at the expression on em's face and just can't help it: he laughs, a nervous giggle that sounds an awful lot like shock, wiggling his claret-colored fingers in a gruesome sort of cooee. ' look — guess i'm the hole-y one now. '