#Echelon apartment

[shatinn]

Sims 4 details - Echelon apartment

[valyrfia]

upon reflection, it's obvious

just heard the “focus george focus” audio and I think I would actually hand over my entire life’s savings in order to know the true nature of toto wolff and george russell’s relationship

[ruinofchimera]

Please tell us more about Voldemort's relationship with Severus, and why you think it differs so much from Voldemort's other relationships

Whatever it is that lingers between Tom and Severus—power, manipulation, some dark bond none of us can fully grasp—it naturally ignites chaos in the mind of the beholders. And if you’re eager to feel that burn, I’ll gladly embrace you in it. To you brave, reckless souls, I say this: your wish is my command.

So, here we are, picking apart how Severus Snape—mudblood, poor, and bruised from the heavy hand of a Muggle father—managed to land himself a spot at the table with the most rabid pack of blood purists you’ve ever seen. A table, mind you, he had no business sitting at. The Death Eaters, that tight little clique of privileged purebloods, had no real reason to let in this scruffy little outsider. Sure, Snape was useful. Very useful. His skills were sharp as knives, and he could do their dirty work, get his hands filthy so they didn’t have to. But useful doesn’t mean welcome. Useful doesn’t mean accepted. You know who else was useful? Fenrir Greyback and his mangy lot. They brought terror to the doorsteps of half the wizarding world, and did Voldemort’s cause no small service. But did they get a place at the inner circle? Did they get respect? Hell no. They were the dirt beneath the boots of the real Death Eaters. Useful filth. And then there’s Snape, embodying everything these purists claim to despise—a half-blood with a tainted surname, living in squalor, dragged through the muck by a Muggle brute of a father. By all accounts, Death Eaters should have spat in his face and tossed him out like yesterday’s rubbish. But no. Not only does he get a seat at the table, he rises. He’s placed on a pedestal, standing closer to Voldemort than some of the most loyal, purest-blooded lackeys in the room. Voldemort, in all his cold-blooded glory, didn’t just tolerate Severus. He raised him up, right in front of their sneering, offended faces. Now, here’s where it gets really interesting. If you think Voldemort did this out of some sense of gratitude, you’ve missed the point entirely. Tom Riddle doesn’t do gratitude. That kind of sentiment is beneath him, an alien concept. Voldemort doesn’t reward; he uses. Deeds done in his name are expected, not appreciated. You’re not going to get a pat on the back from a man who thinks the world owes him its loyalty. Snape’s service should’ve earned him nothing more than a brief reprieve from pain. A loosening of the noose around his neck, if he was lucky. That’s Voldemort’s way—keep them all desperate, keep them all afraid. So why did Snape, of all people, get raised up? Why did he, the least likely among them, become a favorite?

Mind, it’s not just me declaring Snape as Voldemort’s favorite. That dark, twisted bond is laced into nearly every interaction between the two, as if something unspoken and festering passes between them. But it’s Narcissa Malfoy who lays it bare. A woman born into the highest echelons of pure-blood privilege, the very foundation on which Voldemort’s so-called supremacy stands, doesn’t hesitate when she calls him “the Dark Lord’s favorite, his most trusted advisor.” Let that sink in.

Here is the wife of Lucius Malfoy, a man whose lineage is steeped in the darkest of traditions. But when her family’s future is on the edge of a wand, when her son’s life dangles by a thread, she doesn’t rely on Lucius, doesn’t turn to Bellatrix. No, she comes to Severus, because deep down, she knows. They all do.

It’s something more insidious, something that slips through the cracks in the floorboards of Voldemort’s ideology. He is the one Voldemort trusts, the one Voldemort leans on, the one whose counsel can shift the dark winds of fate. That is real power, raw and untouchable. Narcissa sees it—how could she not? Even with all her aristocratic pride, even with the weight of her name and her family’s legacy pressing down on her, she understands that none of it means a damn thing next to what Snape has. Narcissa, with her family’s long, proud heritage, has to grovel before someone who, by the very logic of Voldemort’s cause, should be inferior. But Snape is different, and everyone knows it. They may not say it, they may not even want to admit it, but they know. He operates outside the lines, above the fray, immune to the very rules that were meant to keep people like him down. Snape, the half-blood, the one with the muddied past, holds a kind of sway that no one else in Voldemort’s ranks can claim.

Oh, there comes the bitter irony of Peter Pettigrew. After years of scraping and groveling, thinking he’d earned his place in the Dark Lord’s favor, Peter is handed over like a rag for Severus to wring out. Peter, one of the smug Marauders who’d gleefully hounded Snape through school, reduced now to something just shy of a house-elf, bowing and cringing under Snape’s very roof. A cruel twist of fate, no doubt arranged with Voldemort’s signature malevolence. Was this some attempt to plant a spy in Snape's house? Maybe, if you take it at face value. But think for a moment—Voldemort, who couldn’t pry Snape's treachery from his skull with all the power of Legilimency, putting his trust in Wormtail to do the job? The rat that couldn't outsmart a dormitory prank, never mind a master of deception like Severus?

No, this isn’t espionage; this is karma. Cruel, twisted karma orchestrated by the Dark Lord himself. You can almost picture Severus watching Peter scuttle about his house, casting him those withering, superior glances—knowing full well that Tom has given him this indulgence, this little taste of vengeance. Snape treats Wormtail with open contempt, because he knows he can. He knows it’s allowed, expected even. It’s as if the tables have turned in the most bitter of ways, a humiliating reversal of fortune. Pettigrew, who once revelled in Snape’s humiliation, now reduced to the lowest of roles, while Snape—Voldemort’s golden boy—sits at the top. Isn’t it delicious? You’d have to be blind to chalk it up to coincidence. Moreover, Pettigrew’s fate is all the proof you’ll ever need that Voldemort’s rule isn’t founded on something as simple or sentimental as loyalty. Loyalty? Sacrifice? Please. Pettigrew’s life was one long, groveling act of desperation to stay in the Dark Lord’s good graces. You bring your master back from the brink of death itself, and still, all you get is contempt. Voldemort demands service, sure. But service? Guarantees nothing. And when you set Severus and Peter side by side, the question gnaws at you. Why? Why is Snape the favored one, the exception, the enigma in Voldemort’s otherwise brutal, predictable hierarchy? What makes him different? There’s something between them—something that doesn’t follow the usual logic of power and punishment. Voldemort doesn’t just tolerate Snape’s defiance; he rewards it, bends the system to accommodate it. Something unspoken, something hidden behind the masks they both wear, grants Snape a level of favor that Pettigrew could only dream of.

What’s crucial to grasp here is that Voldemort doesn’t spare anyone. His entire ideology is rooted in cruelty, in domination, in the ruthless obliteration of all who oppose him. He doesn’t just eliminate enemies; he obliterates them, wipes them from existence without a second thought. And yet, here’s the anomaly: Lily Evans, mother of Harry Potter, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and a Muggle-born witch, is offered a chance to live. Live. This decision, however, is directly tied to Snape. Snape had begged Voldemort to spare her, and it is this plea—Snape’s plea—that softens the Dark Lord’s otherwise unyielding cruelty.

To truly grasp the enormity of this act, we need to take a step back and consider Snape’s position in all of this. Remember, Severus was just 21 years old when he found himself pleading with Voldemort, one of the most dangerous dark wizard in history, to spare Lily Evans.

Snape wasn’t the imposing, confident figure we often associate with him thanks to Alan Rickman’s performance—he wasn’t a man exuding quiet menace, seemingly capable of standing toe-to-toe with Voldemort. No, at this point in canon, he was barely more than a boy, a young man fresh out of Hogwarts, with no powerful lineage or wealth to protect him.

And yet, despite this—despite the sheer imbalance of power between them—Snape dared to approach Voldemort. Voldemort. With a plea. Not for himself, but for a Muggle-born witch. At best, Snape’s request might have been laughed off, dismissed as the desperate wish of a foolish young Death Eater. But it wasn’t. For some reason, Voldemort didn’t just tolerate Snape’s plea—he actually acted on it.

Consider how critical this moment was to Voldemort’s larger agenda. At the heart of his entire scheme is a singular, consuming fixation: the annihilation of the child prophesied to be his undoing. Harry Potter is Voldemort’s obsession, the one threat he must eliminate to secure his dominion. The Potters were no longer just enemies—they were the key to his future, and Harry was the focus of his most crucial mission. In this context, sparing anyone even remotely connected to Harry was an extraordinary risk. Leniency wasn’t just unnecessary—it was dangerous. By showing mercy to Lily, Voldemort risked undermining his own carefully constructed agenda. And this wasn’t a moment where Voldemort could afford to make mistakes.

This unprecedented act of “mercy,” this concession Voldemort granted Snape, became the very thing that led to his downfall. Had Voldemort simply killed Lily Evans on the spot, as he did James, she would never have had the chance to sacrifice herself for Harry. The protection her sacrifice invoked—the ancient magic that saved Harry’s life and turned Voldemort’s killing curse back on him—would never have existed. Voldemort, the cold strategist, fell because he didn’t bend for anyone—except, inexplicably, for Snape. And that single, dangerous deviation cost him everything. That’s how it’s all started.

And there it is— how it’s all ends. Voldemort’s final words to Severus Snape before he executes him. But pay attention to how he begins. “Clever man,” he calls him. He suggests that Snape might’ve already known the truth of the Elder Wand’s treachery. Tom would never acknowledge someone’s cleverness if it undermined his own intellectual abilities. If he implies that Snape may have already unraveled the mystery of the Elder Wand, it undoubtedly indicates that Voldemort had recognized Snape’s crucial role in the wand’s problems long before. It’s not just idle chatter or casual flattery. No, it’s a bloody confirmation that Voldemort himself had long ago pieced together the mystery of Snape’s involvement with the wand. This wasn’t some last-minute realization that forced his hand. It wasn’t ignorance that delayed Snape’s death, not at all. It was deliberation. Voldemort, for all his cruelty, wasn’t stupid. He suspected, long before that moment, that Snape was at the center of the problem with the wand’s loyalty. He just chose not to act on it until the very last moment.

He held back from executing him, searching for any other way around the wand’s limitations, trying to find a solution that didn’t involve killing Snape. But when it came down to it, when all other options were exhausted, Voldemort finally made his move.

And what does he do? He delivers a speech. A bloody speech, full of regret and excuses—“I regret what must happen.” Does that sound like the Voldemort we know? The Dark Lord who kills without a second thought, who carves his empire from the bones of the disobedient? Hell no. This is the man who thrives on fear, on swift, brutal punishment. And yet, here he is, delivering justifications like some guilty executioner. This isn’t Voldemort’s usual method. This isn��t the whip coming down fast and hard. This is something altogether more… hesitant.

That speech, soaked in rationalizations, tells us everything we need to know. Snape’s death wasn’t just business—it was personal. It’s a messy, ugly end to the unexplainable dynamic between them. Even at the very end, Voldemort is bending, twisting, trying to justify his actions to the one man who had managed to worm his way under his skin. And in that second, we see something rare—a glimpse of the complexity in their relationship. Voldemort’s usual ruthless efficiency is absent.

His “I regret it,” spoken once more, stands out like a blade in the gut, sharp and unexpected, slicing straight through Voldemort’s usual cold indifference. The Dark Lord, who has never spared a thought for the wreckage in his wake, lets these words hang in the air, unnatural as they are. A man who’s never known the weight of remorse now offers something that almost feels like regret. Not true regret, of course—Voldemort doesn’t have the luxury of feeling something so weak, so human. But still, It’s not a sentiment he offers to anyone else. It’s almost as if Voldemort doesn’t know how to process this lingering attachment, as though Snape’s mere existence demands something from him that Voldemort is incapable of giving. Snape occupies some strange corner of Voldemort’s mind, twisted and dark it may be, that not even the Dark Lord himself seems to understand. Despite the fact that I’ve painted a whole canvas of tangled thoughts on the strange relationship between Severus and Tom, I’ve barely begun to tug at the thread of their inexplicable dynamic. There’s so much more I could unearth, layers of intrigue and tension that ripple through every scene between them, and I could easily go on for hours about the small, delicious details woven into their story. But, as it happens, my full-time job is already sharpening its knife and aiming for my back, so I'll have to bring this whole saga to a close with the following quote:

For me, the intensity of this scene speaks volumes about their relationship, capturing the very essence of what makes these two so bloody fascinating. The way their gaze alone can make Death Eaters flinch under the weight of their unspoken understanding. It’s not fear, not exactly. It’s something colder, something deeper. As though they’re witnessing a bond forged in the dark, a grim understanding that none of them can ever be a part of.

That’s what keeps dragging me back to these two. The tension, the labyrinth of contradictions, the complex tangle of manipulation. I want to look away—hell, I should look away, just like the Death Eaters did. But there’s something about it, something that coils around me, tightening like a serpent’s embrace. Can you blame me?

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Kinktober 2023

ok so i have very last minute decided to write some spooky stuff for October and these are the fics I've got planned for the next few weeks!

please don't kill me mr ghostface - murders on campus. the odd toothbrush goes missing. what's new, honestly. life keeps ticking and you end up at a Halloween party somewhere you shouldn't. there, you meet a gorgeous man in a strange mask. he seems sweet, and all you're looking for is a bit of fun. what could go wrong?

(stalker!Miguel x reader, slight yandere undertones. he's a murderer lowkey but very gentle and sweet and scary hot that's all guys I promise.)

trick or treat - Mr O'Hara is the nicest man you've ever met. Sweet, kind; he always makes sure to overpay you whenever you babysit Gabriella. He's never out later than he says, and sometimes you stay a little longer for a coffee and a chat after she heads to bed. After a couple months spent silently pining over the stoic man, you're asked to take the graveyard shift - trick or treating with his daughter. And if you happen to stay a little longer - drinks and some dinner with Mr O'Hara - well, who can blame you?

(dilf!Miguel x babysitter!reader. slight daddy kink, age gap, gentle dom Mig. wanted to try my hand at this dynamic cuz i think its hot asf)

M a n e a t e r - Night in Nueva York. A deep underbelly that only one Miguel O'Hara can traverse - in all its stinking, bloody glory. Vampires run rampant, pulling strings in the highest echelons of society and rattling around at the lowest. He's a recluse, hunting the worst creatures of the night. For months, he's been on the trail of a notorious killer, tracking the trail of blood from its source. You're a doctor; haematologist by trade, frequenter of the city morgue, and a regular connect of Miguel's. After a particularly brutal killing; the two of you find yourselves intertwined - bonding over late nights and city lights. When one thing leads to another; he can't help but think... has the answer to this case been under his nose the whole time?

(vampire hunter!Miguel x reader - apart of a halloween collab event! i rewatched blade and blade runner 2099 so i am about to be so soo annoying about it. Dark themes, slight femdom, violence, etc etc)

[rebelcosmonaut]

No, I am pretty sure this is to reflect Dutch's character very effectively. Otherwise I dont think Bill of all people would react the way he does. Bill sleeps next to Charles, so I am pretty sure theyre closer than they appear in some underlying way. But no, Charles being in the chair does not seem like a mistake at all. Charles, who has native and african lineage, is the perfect character to be sitting in the chair. Dutch is not a good man, despite his big words and insistence that he is. I dont think this makes people who like him bad people, but this makes perfect sense for Dutch's character.

Dutch does not treat other people in general very well. He sees others as tools. For his time, it might seem progressive for him to allow poc into his gang, but he's not actually viewing them as equal. He infantalizes Lenny, framing it as Lenny being young, but Lenny is also known to be a very smart and a well read person, even more so than people like Arthur. I think the fact that Charles is sitting in the chair is on purpose. None of the other gang ask Charles to move. Everyone else is leaning against the wall or sitting on the floor. Even Arthur, who is arguably more disabled by TB does not ask Charles to move so he can sit in a chair. The reason its Dutch who does is not just a display of power, but meant to hint more explicitly the cracks in his venere of being a good man.

Dutch uses the Waipiti conflict to his benefit, not carring how many Waipiti die. His progressiveness is all a facade, he wears the skin of a good person without acting like one. Unlike "high honor" Arthur, who does not think of himself as being a good person, but his intentions and his actions are usually for the benefit of OTHERS. He's the one who is actually concerned about the lives of those in the gang.

I intially put this all in the tags but it was too short to be coherent. I want to say again, if you like Dutch, I dont think its a bad thing or reflective of any aspect of your character. Hes a GOOD character, but he is not a good person. And I dont think yall should have to hand wave this action away as a fluke. His true values that come out in these little ways are what make him a good character. Dutch is racist, sexist and also pretty classist, not in the way he speaks, but in his actions.

I know Dutch meant nothing by it, and he's the boss, but god dammit let my man have the chair

[starbluekindo]

Vampire Vic x Werewolf reader

Fun plot point is that its like forbidden lovers (you know vampires and werewolves hate eachother bla bla bla) and so the reader and Vic try to keep that shit hidden from the public because they both have high standing within their supernatural community

so i was really excited writing this, but i was also a little unsure about what to do and how to do it since i've never written anything like this (and it wasn't as easy as i thought it would be), BUT if you - and the other readers- like this i can try to turn it into a small series.

warnings: au, a little angst i guess, mentions of blood, mentions of the boys (butcher more specifically), dead humans, a little homophobic and sexist if you squint, reader just wanting to love victoria in peace - i don't think i forgot anything.

the night was restless. the full moon shone high in the sky, its lights bathing the dense forest that separated the werewolf and vampire territories. you patrolled the borders with your pack, but a dark foreboding grew in your chest.

something wasn't right.

the silence was too dense, suffocating. the night seemed to announce that something bad was coming - and bloody hell, you always feared the worst. suddenly, the silence was broken by a high-pitched scream, unmistakably human.

and then, the smell of blood hit you like a punch.

“vampire” you heard one of your companions spit in disgust and then a large giant wolf ran past you quickly, not bothering to ask your permission or wait for the rest of the group.

“fuck! follow him!” that would be a bloodshed. you knew the temperament of your group, especially butcher's - he never respected your authority.

when you came to clarity, the scenario unfolding before your eyes was a nightmare. one of the vampires, practically a child, had crossed the border to hunt, something unthinkable. three human bodies lay on the ground, brutally torn apart, blood still running through the dry leaves. butcher had his claws stuck in the vampire's neck, trying to rip his head off.

“release him, butcher” you ordered when you saw what he was trying to do, that would only make the situation even worse and put your pack in a war with the vampires. "now".

"he crossed the damn border and killed under our noses!" he roared, his eyes blazing with anger. “this is an insult, a declaration of war!”

“war will start if you don't release this vampire now” your voice was firm, the situation wasn't the best but you knew that acting on impulse would only make everything worse.

your hands shook. this couldn't be happening. you knew that if this was exposed, the fragile peace between vampires and werewolves would shatter. and worse, it would put victoria—and the relationship you shared—at risk. your eyes fixed on the vampire, the invader, as the chaos in your mind screamed for control. how did this happen?

“summon the council and don’t let this get out of here, that’s an order.”

the pack meeting was called hastily, with only the closest and most trusted members — the upper echelon, the wolves with experience and power to influence the direction of leadership. the small group was gathered in a circle, under the shelter of tall trees that blocked the light of the full moon, with the smell of damp earth in the air. the atmosphere was tense, heavy with the expectation of action.

you were in the center of the circle, feeling the heavy gazes on you. everyone was waiting for a decision. the massacre on the border had deeply shaken the trust among the wolves, and now, everyone wanted justice.

butcher, as always, was the first to break the silence.

"there's nothing to discuss here," he began, his voice firm and full of hate. "that bastard crossed the border and killed humans. we already know what has to be done." he crossed his arms, his muscles bulging with pent-up fury, and his eyes glittered with mischief. "we want his head."

a murmur of agreement passed through the others present. one of the older wolves, known for his coldness and prudence, took the floor soon after.

"butcher is right. we can't ignore this. if we don't take action now, we will look weak. this isn't just an offense — it's a breach of the treaty. it's a direct affront."

you felt the weight of those words. i knew the situation was delicate, that tensions between vampires and werewolves were always a powder keg ready to explode. but at the same time, you knew that giving in to demands for revenge would only bring more blood and a conflict that could be devastating for both sides.

“i understand what you’re saying,” you began, keeping your voice controlled even as the pressure grew by the second. "but taking his head won't solve the problem. it'll just burn everything down."

butcher took a step forward, his eyes fixed on yours, as if he was waiting for that answer. "burn everything down?" he growled. "do you think this place isn't already on fire? they've already crossed the line. they've already killed innocent people. and you want to let it go? we need to act with strength, show that we are not weak!”

you took a deep breath, feeling the heat of butcher's fury radiate. "i know you're angry. i am too. but we need to be strategic. if we kill this vampire now, we will be declaring war. are you prepared for that? a war that could end us all?"

butcher laughed, a short, bitter sound. "and since when have we been afraid of a good war? let them come. let's cut each of them down and see if they're still as brave without their fucking fangs." his eyes glittered with the desire for violence, and you knew he was ready to dive head first into any conflict that came his way. “or are you afraid of hurting someone in particular?”

butcher's insinuations did not go unnoticed. some of those present exchanged quick glances with each other, and you felt your stomach sink. he was playing dirty, planting seeds of doubt about your loyalty.

“this has nothing to do with fear,” you snapped, voice firmer. “this is about survival. if we act without thinking, we will all pay the bill.”

another member, a woman with sharp eyes and known for her wit, intervened. "so what's the plan? are we just going to let this go? how are we going to explain to the humans what happened? and more importantly, how are we going to keep the pack under control? they're demanding an answer. if you don't do anything, you're going to lose the support from many.”

she was right, and you knew it. the pack was restless, on the verge of revolt. they needed action, justice. but the justice they sought was immediate and brutal, something that would only worsen the situation. you needed a solution, and fast.

“i’m not saying there won’t be consequences,” you replied, aware of the eyes fixed on you. "but let's do this the right way. i'll talk to victoria. she has control over her territory, and we'll make sure this vampire is punished — their way. if he crossed the line, they'll take care of it. but let's not we will be the ones to ignite this war."

butcher let out a short, sarcastic laugh. "do you really think you can trust them? that they'll take care of this? don't fool yourself. she'll protect him. this vampire will come out unscathed, and we'll look foolish— weak."

“that’s not going to happen,” you said, more to yourself than him. “if there is no justice, then we will reconsider. but until then, we need to remain calm.”

you needed to see her

hours later, you met victoria in the secret hideaway where you always meet, away from any prying eyes. but today, the environment carried a suffocating weight. victoria was already waiting, dressed in her usual elegant attire, the usual coldness in her eyes. but you knew something was out of place. she looked paler than usual, her lips tight.

“this is going to spread, and fast,” you begin, voice hard and controlled, but anger bubbling beneath the surface. "one of yours invaded our territory, victoria. he broke the treaty and killed humans. if this isn't resolved immediately, there will be no going back."

victoria stares at you, but doesn't back down. she crosses her arms, maintaining a rigid posture, while her mind works overtime. “i did not authorize this attack.” she said calmly, so calmly that it bothered you.

“but it happened” you replied through gritted teeth, taking a step closer to the brunette “and innocent people were hurt… do you realize the seriousness of the situation?”

“no one needs to know what really happened”

"this isn't simple, vicky!" the anger finally escapes your voice, the words sharp as knives. "you think you can just hide the shit that happens in your territory and everything will work itself out? if my pack finds out that i let this go without fighting back… it will be the end of me. the end of us.”

you see the pain flash in her eyes, but only for an instant. victoria approaches you, her cold fingers gently touching your hand in an attempt to calm the growing storm inside you. "i promise you," she says, her voice softer, almost pleading. "i'll make sure this never happens again. but you need to trust me, like you always have."

your hands shake, not just from anger, but from a deep sadness that nestled in his chest. the weight of what you are — vampire and werewolf, enemy races — felt unbearable now. the fear of losing victoria, the only person who truly understood you, was suffocating.

"if this goes wrong..." you whisper, voice almost breaking, "there are no more secrets. everyone will know what we are. who we are."

victoria stops, her eyes fixed on yours. “then i’ll make it work. i won’t lose you.”

the tension between you remained, an invisible wall, built by years of hatred between your races, but now reinforced by the fear of losing each other. silence hovered, thick as the dark clouds that gathered in the sky. the weight of victoria's words echoed in your mind, but you couldn't shake the feeling that something bigger was lurking, something that even she couldn't control.

“it’s not just my pack we have to worry about,” you said, turning your face to the sky, smelling the approaching rain. "other packs are already watching. if they see the slightest sign of weakness, they will attack. and if that happens..." you hesitated, swallowing the lump in your throat. "i'll have to choose."

victoria remained silent, her face impassive, but you knew she understood the gravity of what was being said. the choice between her and your family, between love and duty to your people, was a decision victoria never wanted you to face. but now, it seemed inevitable.

“hey, look at me” her hands cupped your face, making you look at her again “i’ll fix the situation… just trust me, please darling”

you wanted, you really wanted to believe that it would be resolved, but even if your promise was kept, you knew that the trust between the races would be broken. however, you didn't say anything, just tilted your head and let the brunette's lips meet yours in a passionate kiss full of care and longing.

back on their home turf, things are also tense. the pack leaders questioned your decision not to retaliate immediately. suspicious gazes follow you every step. you feel the weight of the silent betrayal, the secret you carry in your heart.

that night, alone under the starry sky, you look at the full moon. the silver glow brings comfort, but today, it seemed like just another reminder of the gulf that separated you and victoria.

the feeling that your relationship was hanging by a thread is almost suffocating. how long until someone finds out? how long until this falls apart?

you were a good leader, at least you considered yourself one, but at that moment you didn't want to have that weight on your shoulders. you wanted to have victoria, you wanted to love her and be loved in return.

honestly, your desires seemed more distant and impossible every day.

[quiddling]

Do you have any more lore about your Saera son targ oc? 😊

My sweet sweet boy.... The Bastard of Volantis !!! I love this guy sm so I do actually have a lot... and i realise now I haven't said anything about him other than he is Saera's son on tumblr before so i'm going to ramble on and on after the break heheh [:<

Aenor Targaryen, an infamous natural son of Princess Saera Targaryen. His father's identity remained an enduring mystery. Aenor was born in 98 AC and raised in the Free City of Volantis, where his mother ruled as proprietor over a famed pleasure house. Though born bastard, Aenor inherited the distinctive Valyrian features of House Targaryen - pale silver-blonde hair and deep purple eyes. Aenor himself made no public assertions for the crown much like his mother, though he took pride in his dragonblood heritage.

He is an irreverent and cocksure young man who revelled in the luxurious vices of the Volantene lifestyle. From a young age, Aenor displayed a keen intellect and a natural charisma that set him apart. He inherited his mother's sharp wit and political acumen, quickly learning to navigate the complex social dynamics of Volantis' upper echelons. Despite his bastard status, Aenor carries himself with the confidence and poise befitting his Targaryen heritage.

Aenor's relationship with his mother, is one of the defining aspects of his character. Despite the unconventional nature of their lives, Aenor loves his mother dearly and would defend her with his life if necessary.

As a boy, Aenor would often sit at his mother's feet, enraptured by her tales of dragons and the legendary Dragonpit of King's Landing. Saera's stories painted vivid pictures of scaled behemoths soaring through the skies, their roars echoing across the realm. These tales instilled in Aenor a lifelong fascination with dragons and a secret longing to one day see one with his own eyes.

Occasionally, in rare moments of nostalgia or vulnerability, Saera would share glimpses of her life as a princess in the Red Keep. These stories were always tinged with a mixture of fondness and bitterness, revealing the complex emotions she still harboured towards her past. Aenor learnt to treasure these rare insights into his mother's former life, understanding the trust she placed in him by sharing them.

However, Saera's recollections of her father, King Jaehaerys I Targaryen, were infrequent and laden with resentment. The lingering pain from their estrangement was evident whenever she spoke of him. This unresolved conflict between Saera and Jaehaerys left a lasting impact on Aenor, shaping his own complicated feelings towards his heritage and the idea of family loyalty.

Through his mother's stories and silences alike, Aenor developed a nuanced understanding of power, family, and the weight of the Targaryen name. This understanding would come to influence his own ambitions and his approach to navigating the complex world of politics and personal relationships in Volantis and beyond.

I'm still not 100% sure on most of this part of his lore i just wanted my sweet boy to have a dragon and see the rest of the world....but regardless of his illegitimate status, Aenor managed to claim a wild dragon in Essos. The beast, which Aenor named Naerion, was described as being a medium-sized dragon with brilliant orange scales that covered most of his body, while his underbelly and wing membranes were described as pale striking gold. His distinctive colouration made him easily identifiable in the skies, earning him the moniker "the Sunset Wyrm" among soldiers and smallfolk alike. His wings, when spread, cast a shadow the colour of sunset. During the Dance of the Dragons, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, on behalf of his mother Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, sought to bolster the blacks' forces with additional dragonriders. Jacaerys dispatched envoys to Volantis, seeking out the Targaryen Bastard. He was initially reluctant to involve himself in Westerosi affairs. However, the promise of legitimisation and lands upon Rhaenyra's victory swayed Aenor and he agreed to cross the Narrow Sea with Naerion.

[two-white-butterflies]

no time to die | c16 | part two

Description: After a messy breakup with Charles Leclerc. You resort to feuding with him online. In where, he hates your guts.

Pairing: charles leclerc/actress!reader

part one | part three

(ONE YEAR LATER)

YNMakesItSparkle: New Years Day 🌙 announcing my first ever single. I know that it's been a while since ya'll heard my voice. I remember singing with Miley and Selena down in Disney. So glad to be back inside the studio! 💜

129 comments 1,292,180 likes

watchasay29: Is this about Charles?

taylorswift: I'm so excited for this 💙💙💙💙

selenagomez: Patiently seated.

charlesuniversewags: this is about charles 100% idk if she's gonna make him seem like the bad guy.

(IBIZA, SPAIN 2023)

"Charles, let's get married - let's settle down." you continued speaking, following him around the casita with a glass filled with Moscato. Ever since his incident in Formula One, you haven't stopped thinking about your future together. You couldn't sleep at night knowing that there was a possibility that everything you built would come crumbling down.

A small sigh escapes his mouth; marriage was the least of his concern. He still wanted to win a championship - he wanted to be something that you could boast around your upper-echelon friends. "I'm not ready, bebe." he sighed, taking another sip of his merlot.

You were stark contrasts of each other.

He liked everything that tasted bitter - and you adored sweet. He was darkness, rest in the middle of paradise and you were light. You complimented each other properly - but now you weren't sure.

"I-I know, but please - think about it." you stuttered. You always dreamed about marriage, not in a dreamy fairytale way but in a way that included living in happiness with the person that you adored. "I'm not sure if I want to get married, ever." he scoffed, placing his glass loudly on the countertop.

"Why?" your eyebrows merged into each other. "Why?" he repeated your statement - finding the question to be tone deaf.

"All everyone talks about is you and how wonderful your projects are. The articles, they don't even call me by name - I'm just 'your boyfriend' - and what will happen after we get married? Will I be Y/N L/N's husband? When I've got all of these accomplishments to myself." he responded in a bitter tone - telling you that there was something bothering him.

"What do you mean?" your frown deepened, seeing fire underneath his eyes. Did he hate you all these years?

"I'm tired of being your shadow, that's what I mean." his voice softened, seeing your eyes blurry with tears. "You aren't my shadow - when I came into this relationship with you, I wasn't even an actress." you said to yourself, the truth quickly settling into you.

"- and maybe that's the problem. I don't need another person who's competing with my success, I need someone to comfort me in my races." he expressed his opinion, unable to understand that he was stampeding upon your own.

"I've done all of that, Charles."

"It's not enough!" his voice raised again, a storm brewing in his mind. A small chuckle escaped your lips - and you tried to keep your composure. 'Grace under pressure' you thought.

"You know what the truth is, Charles?" you grinned, reaching for your handbag on the chair beside you. "You feel emasculated because I'm better than you." you gritted your teeth, straightening your dress until it didn't have any wrinkles.

"You know I feel really bad because I came to this conversation seeing a future with you. But now I'm glad that you had another thing in mind." your eyes narrowed, quickly walking away and slamming the door to his apartment loudly.

YNMakesItSparkle: me and my favorite driver 💜

312 comments 1,912,129 likes

maxverstappen1: 💪🏽

carlossainz55: Hungary GP? - YNMakesItSparkle: Totally 💜

reyna219: YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL

YNMakesItSparkle: Forever Ferrari 💜❤️

812 comments 1,231,100 likes

carlandouniverse2: this is enough confirmation 😭

wantingmeeee1: Are you back with Charles?

landonorris: Mclaren needs you here 😎 - YNMakesItSparkle: Really?

imsebastianstan: You didn't bring me? - YNMakesItSparkle: the airline had a no-hand-carry policy, really sorrrrryyy 😁

Charles could recognize you a mile away. His fingers could even feel the fabric that clung into your body - he missed you, and he knew that you deserved better. The pressure of not being a good enough driver was getting to him - forcing him to resort to look for something to blame. At first, it was his company - but when he saw your success - he chose to blame that.

But now after six-months of therapy, he could see properly. He could see that he was the problem. "I listened to your new song," he swiftly made his way towards you - a bottle of beer in his right hand. He missed you - but he couldn't entertain the thought of being with you again. He believed that he wasn't good enough for that.

"Did you like you like it?" you gazed up at him - staring deep into his eyes until he could feel himself leaning down to inhale more of your rosemary scent. "Amazing, and the chords were familiar." he raised an eyebrow - teasing you softly.

He'd be content with being friends.

"Sue me if you dare, Leclerc." you pouted, knowing that the chords to that song resembled something that he wrote for you a few years ago. "I won't - not when you made it sound better." he smiled, flicking a strand of your hair away from your face. "Really?" you began to ask.

Unable to deny the palpable chemistry between you.

"Why don't you play for us in the afterparty?" he offered, knowing that it would be held inside his home - and his piano needed a little dusting. "Sounds like a plan," you licked your lips, slowly moving away from him.

SELENA GOMEZ'S PRIVATE TWITTER

Don't get back with ur ex challenge, but you're fighting against @YNMakesItSparkle

YN'S PRIVATE TWITTER: STOPPPP

TAYLOR'S PRIVATE TWITTER: I'm going home because it's a losing game ;)

DANIEL RICCIARDO'S PRIVATE TWITTER: HELPP

@perihelioneclipse @hiraethrhapsody @omgsuperstarg @reidsworld @charles-eclair16 @ferraribabe @cl16gf @yourrrrrprefffffect @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @fdl305 @incoherenciass @sassyheroneckgiant @ietss @newlifeforus

[netherfeildren]

Someone's Wife in the Boat of Someone's Husband .1

Series Masterlist : Moodboard

(Joel Miller x F!Reader)

Summary: What do you do when you meet a woman, have a child, get married, and then find the love of your life?

-OR- 

A Joel infidelity AU

Content Warnings: Discussions of alcoholism and parent death.

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Hi, everyone. Welcome to the new story. 

Disclaimer to begin with. Joel is married in this, but it is, and always has been, a marriage of convenience. There has never been any sort of emotional or physical intimacy between him and his wife apart from when Sarah was conceived. 

Like always, I promise there will be a happy ending, and that there will be lots of other fun :) stuff to make up for the occasional tears. 

I appreciate you all so much. Happy (lol I guess) reading. xx 

Art is The pain that keeps on giving, Noelia Towers, (2018-2019). Title of the story comes from this film.

Word Count: 6.8K

Read on AO3

.1

Life changes in the instant. The ordinary instant.

Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking 

The first time you’d fucked, it was like you’d never been touched by a man before. The first time he’d looked at you, like you’d never been seen, in the entirety of your existence, prior to that moment. Every other time after that, every touch, every look, was the same – a rebirth of sorts. And a devastation. Something not to be understood or conceptualized, only experienced. 

Taking that into account, it’s no surprise that things unfolded as they did – ended as they did. 

-

“Please, please, come with us,” Gerri drags the vowels out and hits you with the puppy dog eyes. You shake your head at her, smiling, packing up your supplies from tonight’s lesson. “It’s going to be so fun, I promise. Tommy’s sister-in-law hates my guts, I know, what-fucking-ever, but my sister and her girlfriend will be there, and my best friend’s planning on coming too. And there’s an extra bedroom, it’ll be perfect, I swear.”

“Yeah, I remember the sister-in-law from Easter.” Of course you remember her from that day. Gerri had invited you to their family barbecue, and the woman had pitched a fit that Tommy’s girlfriend, somehow posed as an insult, had dared invite someone without asking her permission first. It was also the first time you’d met him. And he was, by far and large, the reason you’d stayed away and evaded all subsequent invitations since then. Even if his wife had unapologetically said to your face that she found it crazy that people still party crashed, no matter that that hadn’t been what you’d meant to do, hadn’t known you were party crashing. She’d also thrown away the bunny cake you’d stayed up the entire night before making. No gluten in the house or something, even though the hamburger and hot dog buns had all been regular. 

“Oh my fucking God, Easter. Don’t even remind me. I know, I know.” She gives you a pointed look and you huff a laugh at her. “But that was months ago. Her and Joel were on the outs then, or… had just gotten back together… I can’t ever keep up. And well… they’re still on the outs now–” She scrunches up her face into the cutest little frown. You love Gerri so much. From the first moment she’d shown up for your Tuesday night ceramics class at the community college, she’d immediately decided that not only were you going to propel her into the upper echelons of the great sculptors of the world, the greater Austin area – her words, not yours, but she’d also immediately decided that you were going to be friends, and no, you did not have a choice in the matter. 

“But they’re always on the outs. And things haven’t been as bad recently – according to Tommy. But honestly the fuck does he know about all that anyways. My poor baby is so clueless – but still, please, please please,” she begs, pouts your name over and over again. “Please, come with us?” She brings her clasped hands up under her chin in a pleading gesture, hits you with the puppy dog eyes again. 

You were so grateful for her. Despite your recalcitrance, it’d always been hard for you to make friends. A byproduct of who your mother was, being an only child, a largely solitary upbringing, et cetera, et cetera. You’d needed Gerri’s tenacious spark and kindness to pull you out of your shell. She wanted you to join her, her boyfriend Tommy, and their friends and family at a house they’d rented on Lake Austin for the weekend as a sort of end of summer farewell. And you did – you wanted to go, bunny cake murdering sister-in-law and all, but there was the issue of him.

You were… there was not a single phrase for what it was your mind turned into when that man and his name and his face invaded your psyche. So you’d done your best to avoid him in your mind and in real life, at all costs. He was – he was not something you were capable of considering. 

“I’m not sure if I can, Ger–” you say slowly, wracking your brain for an excuse. “There was– one of the other teachers at the elementary school–” Your day job, when you weren’t teaching night class ceramics, was as an elementary school art teacher, “Asked if I’d cover for them on Friday – summer school.” Stupid excuse, you roll your eyes at yourself. 

“Oh, shut up. The summer camp classes end early – you told me that last time! You could drive up after.” She sidles up to you now, rests her curly haired head on your shoulder. “Please, you’ve said no to everything I’ve invited you to since Easter. You aren’t avoiding me because of the shitshow that was, are you?” 

“No, of course not.” Yes, yes you were. Just not for the reason she thought. “I would just hate to impose–”

“You wouldn’t! I swear you wouldn’t be!”

“You all already have your plan, and I–”

“No! No. My sister’s the one renting the house, and she said I could invite whoever I wanted. So, no one can say anything,” she sticks her tongue out, rolling her eyes. “And Joel said I should invite you too. I’m pretty sure he still feels badly about last time also.” Fucking hell, you did not want him feeling bad for you. At all. Ever. You did not want him ever thinking about you ever, ever, ever. 

-

You stand over the kitchen trash bin, staring at your destroyed cake. Your grandmother used to make it every Easter. Four separate cake loaves all cut into the shapes for a face, two big pointy ears, and a cute little bow tie, with a pineapple filling, and all covered in little flakes of coconut and your homemade vanilla frosting. You used jelly beans to make the eyes and nose and dark frosting out of a piping bag for the whiskers and mouth. It was your favorite cake, one of your favorite memories, one of the only good ones. 

“Fucking Christ, she did not throw it away. Please, don’t tell me that’s the cake you brought.” Large hand gently placed between the wings of your shoulder blades to peer around you, not touching, but still there, still very close, and yes, that’s it, you’ve gotta get the fuck out of there now, away from this man.

“Oh, no. It’s okay – I– I mean– I should’ve asked before. I didn’t know you all were gluten free. I should’ve asked…”

“What? Glu–” he frowns. You knew his wife, Eva, had made that up. You step away from him, from his large warm palm that feels like it’s burning through your clothes and skin. He was really, really and truly the most unfairly gorgeous man you’d ever seen. He fucking terrified you. “Oh, yeah. The gluten.” He went along with the lie, passing the offending palm over his mouth, the wiry scruff of his beard rasping softly against what you imagined to be work roughened skin. He’d said he was a contractor. 

Gerri had invited you to her boyfriend's brother’s house for the Easter holiday. It was the first invitation to something you’d gotten since you’d moved to Austin six months ago, and you’d been so, so happy that she’d asked, had felt so sad you’d not have anyone to share your cake with. You’d planned to take it to work with you to leave in the teacher’s lounge for everyone to share. The thought had made the back of your eyes pinch, for some reason. 

“It’s alright. I actually need to head out. Could you let Gerri know? I– I’m–” you couldn’t think of a lie, and he was staring at you like he knew you had no real excuse – like he knew you were uncomfortable and out of place and were just looking for an excuse to leave. Embarrassment burned in your cheeks. 

“Don’t go, please. Stay for a while longer. I’m – fuck– I apologize about the cake–”

“No, no– really it’s–” you held out a staying hand, but he’d cut off your false appeasement.

“Please, stay.” He’d taken a step forward, closer to your retreating form, and you’d felt almost faint, dizzy at the image of him stepping closer to you. He was so tall, huge really, broad chest, thick arms, dark, lush curls and a scruffy jaw, a peek of chest hair covering the tantalizing golden skin at the opened button of his shirt. Sexy, deep Southern twang. The loveliest, warmest eyes you think you’d ever probably seen. You were going to try and mix the exact color of them when you got home, even though you knew you shouldn’t. You hadn’t been interested in a man in months, maybe longer, couldn’t remember the last time you’d had a crush, an anything on anyone, and now this man. Suddenly, blindingly, out of fucking nowhere – so damn attractive. Your eyes had fluttered shut for a second and you’d swallowed, trying to regain your balance – you’d known him for all of two hours and he already made you feel unbalanced. You needed to leave.

“Really, Joel,” his name on your tongue almost had a taste, “It’s okay.”

-

“He– He did?” you stutter. “He shouldn’t feel bad – he has nothing to feel bad about, it was nothing.” Lie – lie, lie, lie. Meeting him that day had been – it had been everything. You’d thought about it, him, for months afterwards. The sight of him with his three year old daughter, Sarah, the sweetest little thing you’d ever seen. Helping her hunt for the Easter eggs he’d hidden around their backyard, letting her crack the bright confetti filled shells over his head. His excitement for her when she’d finally found the basket he’d made up for her. He was a good father. 

“Yeah, and Tommy said he’d like to see you again too. And I told my sister about you, and she thinks all my pottery’s fucking amazing, by the way, and she wants to meet you too, and she’s even thinking of enrolling in the class next semester so really, really you’re obligated to come.” Fucking menace – she smiles sweetly. 

“Oh, fine. Fine, fine. I’ll come.” You’re putting away the last of your tools. “I’ll drive up Friday afternoon when I’m done at the school.” 

Immediate hopping squeals, and this is why you love her. She’s so happy, so open and silly, friendly and funny. All the things opposite to your restrained quiet, shy to the point of aggravation, sometimes. You didn’t want your constant refusals to alienate her. You could see him again, it would be fine. You’d met him once for Christ’s sake. It meant nothing. It had probably been nothing that day, heat exhaustion or a stomach ache or something. Nothing to fawn and stress over. You’d just be polite, cordial, keep your distance – especially from his wife. You did not, did not want to provoke her greater dislike. You’d keep your unwanted baking to yourself this time. It would all be fine. You wanted these people to like you, if you were being honest. A little desperately. Gerri and Tommy, her sister you hadn’t yet met – you wanted to be part of their group, one of their friends. They were all so kind, welcoming and fun, you couldn’t ruin this for yourself. 

Gerri had spilled the beans on the marriage over one afternoon of too many Mexican martini’s, an Austin specialty, and chips and salsa. They’d gotten married three years ago after Eva had gotten unexpectedly pregnant. Joel was traditional, he’d asked and eventually she’d agreed. They were both older than you, he’d just turned forty recently, and you guessed it’d made sense for them, at the time, but she’d left them soon after Sarah had been born. The marriage, the baby, hadn’t been in her plans, too much for her, Gerri said. They’d been separated for about a year and a half until she’d come back. They seemed to be trying to work it out now. Gerri claimed they were both miserable. You’d only met them the once – well, you’d seen Joel a few weeks ago, from a distance, when Tommy’d come to drop something off for Gerri before class, sitting in their truck. You don’t think he’d seen you – but you thought that their misery was very obviously apparent in that way that was easily recognizable to someone who, at one point, had existed in a house made only of misery. It breaks your heart for them all, in different ways, to recognize that singular brand of dissatisfaction that comes with living in a home where no happiness resided with you. 

But the reality of his marriage made you all the more terrified of him. To ever see him again. You wanted no part of that. Didn’t even want to exist in the same vicinity as someone who was experiencing something of that nature. You’d had enough of unhappy marriages and painful households in your own childhood. You never wanted to deal with that again. 

-

You’d read once that infidelity was a hereditary trait. Studies had shown that if you’d had a parent or even a sibling, someone in your household during your development, who’d been unfaithful, you were then more likely to also be unfaithful yourself. Something about that sort of childhood trauma inciting a propensity in the offspring to find it difficult to later on trust romantic partners, to incite trust themselves. Trust issues, emotional unavailability, baggage, blah, blah. Sometimes nature versus nurture was a real bitch, in your opinion. 

But as much as you wanted to call bullshit, the thought, the possibility of that being true, filled you with such an intense fear — debilitating, paralyzing, life altering. You found yourself with an immense inability to trust yourself, more than anything. Your greatest fear, the thing that scared you the most in all the world, was that you would be the perpetrator, that you would be the one to commit that sin. That you’d lose control, self awareness, morality, yourself. It wasn’t something your mind could even come to terms with, the possibility of hurting another person that way, betraying them in that manner. It seemed like the worst possible thing in the entire world that you could ever do to someone. After all, you’d watched your mother do it to your father, over and over again, your entire life, up until the point that she’d up and left the both of you. For many years, after her fateful abandoning, you’d watched him drink himself into a stupor and then into a grave. Years of waiting for her to come back, in love with a ghost or a figment of his imagination, for the woman he’d made her out to be, within the ever forgiving and naive confines of his love, had never existed. Something you could see, even through the lenses of your child eyes. 

She was an eternally flawed woman. Selfish, vain, manipulative, deceitful, but there was good in her too. She was eccentric and beautiful, and she could be kind, so funny, and immensely intelligent, her mind and wit, always sharp as a whip. It was, you thought, what made her so talented at deceiving others, at getting her way. She outsmarted everyone she came into contact with. But she was also weak and self serving, had never met anyone, in all her life, who she loved more than she loved herself. Not even you. Sometimes, you thought, especially not you. For you were the living reminder of all she’d lost and been forced to give up. It was a difficult, complicated, painful relationship you had with her, even now, all these years later. 

After she’d left, she’d kept in contact with you sparingly. The occasional call or birthday card. It had taken her three years to feel like seeing you again after she’d left when you were ten. The pains and awkwardness of puberty long started, endured on your own, before she’d even had the foresight to remember she had a daughter who might need her. It was an exceedingly painful and lonely time for a young girl to survive on her own, but you bore it, as you did the entirety of the fallout that came with her leaving. 

Your father was another story entirely. He’d fallen to pieces, completely, the day she’d left and had never had the strength of will to ever pull himself together again. It was a strange sort of existence the two of you had lived in those years, keeping each other company. Physically, he was there, but he was never present, never sentient. He drowned, for years and years, in a sea of pain and liquor, and he never resurfaced. You watched him sink, a young girl incapable of comprehending or acting in a way that could’ve helped him, as much as you wanted to or even tried, all of it was futile. Eventually he hit the bottom of the ocean and died there, and you were left more alone than ever. 

You remember there’d only been four people, in total, at his funeral. You and two men from the shithole bar he liked to lose himself at every week and the priest. It was a terribly painful thing to live through on your own. Humiliating in a very specific and acute way, for some reason. To know that this sad, pathetic specimen of a human being had had a hand in creating you, to know that he was your father and that you loved him, despite his weakness, his vices, his lack of care for you, you loved him. And you felt interminably sorry for the creature he’d been turned into at the hands of an uncaring and poisonous love. You hadn’t been able to tell her for ten months, after he’d been dead in the ground, that he’d passed. She’d not called, didn’t like giving you her number, said she was too busy to have to worry about you calling her at all hours of the day, as if you’d asked her for a single thing in the decade since she’d left. 

And you loved your mother, even after it all, you did, but it was a poignantly devastating moment, the day you realized she was not just your mother, but her own person, as well. The day that childlike naivety, unconscious self centeredness, was cast away to realize that she was savagely flawed and human, and that she did bad things that hurt good people. And still, and still she was your mother and you loved her. Your greatest influence, the hand that shaped you, and you loved her despite everything. It was only that, after the rose tinted glasses had been ripped away, and she was only then herself, nothing more – pedestal forsaken – she was just a flawed woman who sometimes made mistakes, made the wrong choices, hurt you and your father and fractured your family. That was a hard thing to come to terms with as a young girl. 

You realized now, with the lifetime of experience she’d inherited to you, that motherhood built a pedestal and a grave, all at once, over and over again. A woman could vacillate between being the Madonna and the whore, and the cycle was inescapable and destructive and enticing, all at the same time. It was something that one could try to avoid or run away from, but many times, it caught up to most, hooked its claws in you and dragged you away from the things you would’ve wanted or done otherwise. You realized this was what had happened to her. She’d never been built for motherhood, for the responsibility of raising a child, so she’d desecrated the altar of it, taken a sledgehammer to it and freed herself in the only way she saw she could, collateral damage be damned.

And so you’d isolated yourself, for the thought of doing the same thing to someone that you might have loved or someone that loved you, was soul destroying. And that was the saddest part of this whole overly cliché tragedy – that you were sure that, at a certain point in her life, she’d loved your father, as well. Perhaps not enough, not enough to change who she was, what she really wanted, but she had loved him in her own way, nevertheless.

Parallel to the tragedy was the ironic reality that in some very safely guarded part of you, you longed so, so desperately for your own chance at a happy family, love, children. How could you not? When you’d never experienced it for yourself during your own childhood. Always having to make your own meals, get yourself ready for school, alone at ten years old, walking to the bus unaccompanied, no one ever waiting for you, expecting you, watching over you. Alone, alone, always alone. How could you not want to build your own normal, loving, happy family for yourself? You wanted it very badly. 

But there was also no part of you that felt, in the most vital ways, capable of showing your underbelly in such a vulnerable way. You had always been too sensitive, a weeper from a long line of weepers, and the second thing you were most terrified of, after turning into your own mother, was being left again, abandoned to another derelict and lonely childhood. So your aloneness suited you, for now. At least, in terms of your romantic life. Your isolation kept you safe, guarded from those that would savage the sensitive and salted battleground that was your heart.

 That, however, did not mean that you were immune to wanting, to the disease of yearning, of desire, and so you found it most unfortunate, cosmically laughable and cruel, that it would be this man, this married,  beautiful, entirely unattainable man, that would have reminded you of that desire again, after it had lain dormant for so long: Joel. 

-

Joel tried to think of you only in the moments when he was feeling particularly strong. It was a challenge he’d set for himself from that day, all those months ago, when you’d appeared at his house on Easter. Like a fucking angel or a creature out of a fairy book. Soft and luminous and so fucking pretty. No, Joel tried very, very hard not to think of you. 

He failed often, though. He’d not forgotten you since that day. Had tried to fish, as subtly as possible, through Tommy, for information. See if he’d heard anything about you from Gerri. Any new details or gossip about the pretty little art teacher. Tommy was a terrible goddamn gossip, like a clucking hen. And Joel knew, he knew empirically, that thinking of you was wrong. That he had a wife that he needed to be respectful of, even if she was never respectful of him, fucking her coworker – or had been… still was — he couldn’t keep track anymore – didn’t really care, if he was being honest. But you, you were the one small, private thing he kept for himself. The thought of you, the image of you in his mind, you were only for his moments of great necessity. You’d been so sweet that afternoon, walking into his home with your bunny cake. That fucking cake haunted him – the look in your eyes as he watched you stand over the trashcan staring at it. He’d been so scared you’d start crying, that he’d have to comfort you, that he’d be able to take you into his arms. He’d been terrified of what would become of him if he’d gotten the opportunity to feel you like that. But no, you’d left. Made up some weak excuse he knew you could see he didn’t buy, and had quietly left, not even saying goodbye to the others. He’d had a terrible one-sided argument with Eva that night. Told her she’d been unnecessarily rude and cruel, doing that to a complete stranger who was just trying to be nice. She hadn’t batted a single eyelash, all his frustration going in one ear and out the other. 

He could, to a certain degree, understand where her behavior came from. He knew she was unhappy, he knew she hated their life together. That it was nothing like what she’d ever envisioned for herself, and so she acted out sometimes. At his age, he found now, that you couldn’t ever really fault a person for not being what they’d never been meant to be. He understood this, had accepted that his marriage would never be of the happy or intimate sort. That Eva had never wanted to be a mother, but had felt trapped by circumstance. He dealt with it. Or ignored it. Avoided looking directly at the ugly reality of it, more like. He had Sarah and work and Tommy, and now that his brother was with Gerri things had gotten a little better, happier for the family. She was a good addition – kind and spunky. She was good for his brother, and he was happy for them. 

But the day he’d met you – it had made a savage claw of want gouge through his entrails. He’d not remembered the last time he’d wanted something the way he did when he watched you walk out into the backyard long hair shimmering in the sun, and a nervous flush sweeping over the apples of your cheeks. And even if he’d been unattached, free to pursue you like he liked to dream about sometimes, you were so young – much too young and pretty for an old, washed up, has-been like him. But he could imagine it, like he’d said, only when he was feeling particularly strong. Or maybe particularly weak. He couldn’t keep track of which was safer anymore. When the years and work and responsibilities and grief and loneliness surged up too high and overwhelming for him to bear, he liked to think of you in that little yellow sundress. Wonder what it’d be like to be a younger man, to have met you first. A bad, selfish, terrible thought to have. But just in the quiet privacy of his mind, when he needed a small something to make him feel just a little better – he liked to think of you. 

The only other time he’d seen you, once when Tommy’d had to drop something for Gerri at the college, he’d insisted on tagging along. Hoping he’d maybe be lucky enough to get a glimpse of you, and oh, he’d been so, so rewarded. You’d been carrying a stack of supplies from your car into the building, one of those spiky things women wore twisted in your hair to keep it up, wisps of your long, heavy locks escaping the knot, and a little, red, spaghetti strapped top. The thin of it on your shoulder had slipped off the delicate wing of your clavicle as you balanced everything you’d carried in your arms and tried to kick your car door closed at the same time. It’d taken everything in him, all the self control he possessed, not to sprint over to you and offer to help you, to fall to his knees at your feet. You’d blown a strand of your hair out of your face, the cutest expression of frustration scrunching your brow. His gut had twisted almost painfully with yearning. He hadn’t even known he was capable of fucking yearning, but he sure as hell did now. He felt it sharply, piercingly, like a knife to the gut. He’d met you once for Christ’s sake, seen you in person only twice, but you plagued him, you plagued him. 

He knew it was probably partially a symptom of how alone he was. Lonely to his very core. His marriage had never been a real one, no closeness, no intimacy. A byproduct born of one drunken night, and Joel’s need to do the right thing, give his child a stable home with two parents and all the love he could give her. And Sarah, Sarah was the greatest gift that he’d ever been given. This perfect little person that he still, three years later, could not believe had come from a piece of him. 

He’d told Eva that he’d do whatever she wanted, would accept whatever she’d chosen when she’d first realized she was pregnant. She’d refused the alternative route vehemently, and so he’d never suggested it again. If he was being honest, he’d been happy when he’d found out, in some small way. The situation wasn’t ideal, of course, they’d been veritable strangers at that point, but he’d been thirty seven, at the time, and he liked the idea of children. Eva was attractive and intelligent. He’d proposed immediately, gone out and gotten a ring and gotten down on one knee. He’d naively thought that perhaps, eventually, with time, they might grow closer. That idea was squashed quickly. She’d made it clear that she’d never wanted to marry him, but she also didn’t want to go at it alone, knew he was responsible and reliable, and so she’d accepted. And perhaps, he should have tried harder to win her over afterwards, but if he was being as honest as he could be, he wasn’t very interested either, didn’t really mind the lack of intimacy with her. They just weren’t a good match.

She’d left a few months after she’d given birth. Ran off with some guy she’d met – only a note left saying she couldn’t do it anymore. He hadn’t tried to go after her, hadn’t tried to bring her back or look for her. A better man probably would have, would have fought for his wife, for the mother of his child. But he’d never loved her, not even close, and so he’d taken care of his baby girl, had tried to be everything she needed and worked as hard as he could so that she’d never want for anything. Eva had come back after about a year and a half – her affair had run its course, and she’d said she wanted to try again with Sarah, that she’d made a mistake, wanted to be part of her daughter’s life. Of course he’d let her come back. He wanted Sarah to have a mother that was present, to have everything a child should have. And afterall, it was no hardship for him personally. She didn’t want a relationship with him, only Sarah. And so they’d settled into this strange agreement of co-parents slash roommates who just happened to be married. Eva liked to keep pretenses up, so they did the occasional family thing together. Especially now that Tommy was with Gerri, she liked to pretend at the double date thing, occasionally. Even though Eva couldn’t stand the poor girl. It was a pieced together sort of life, but it was better than what some had, and Sarah had her mother. He couldn’t complain.

But he did like to imagine a sort of alternative sometimes – something different, less lonely. He could tell she was going to leave again soon, more unsatisfied and frustrated and restless than ever. He couldn’t even find it in himself to resent her for it, it only hurt him for Sarah’s sake, for he didn’t think she’d be coming back this time. 

-

It hadn’t been such a bad idea to come after all, you think, as you lounge on the dock by the lake. The sun is strong but not burning – warm and soothing. It feels like there are ghost fingers stroking all along the bare skin of your arms and legs. Gerri had made a pitcher of sangria and you were slightly tipsy off it now. A light weight, through and through. 

The house they’d rented was gorgeous. All exposed wood and big glass windows right on the lakefront. Gerri’s sister was a doctor – a spine surgeon or something really fancy. She’d rented the house and invited all of you – no chance for Joel’s wife to be pissed off that you’d tagged along. 

There were large boxes of the loveliest white hydrangeas along one side of the dock. The sweet scent of them drifting around you as you lounged on the chair you’d planted yourself in with your sangria. Yes, this was a good idea. You’d managed to evade Joel and his wife in the hours you’d been here. Gerri and Tommy were great as always and her sister and her partner were so nice. You’d talked about the pottery class, she wanted to pick up a new hobby, trying out the whole work-life-balance thing, and she’d thought pottery’d be a good fit for her. She was planning on signing up for the next semester. 

You’re slightly dozing now. The warm sun and sweet alcohol making you languorous and drowsy and all fizzy on the inside. You think you might be able to hear the breeze sliding through each individual blade of grass on the bank, whistling over the surface of the water, and you can’t stop picturing his arms in your mind, but you’re pretending to ignore that, or pretending the bulging, mouth-watering muscles, prominent veins running under the surface of his tan skin, dusted with a light coating of golden brown hair belonged to someone who was not him. He has the largest hands you’ve ever seen, and you wonder what one of them wrapped around your throat would feel like. Bad, inappropriate thoughts. 

You have one arm slung above your head, resting at the crown of your scalp to partially shield the sensitive skin there from the strong sun when you feel a sudden piercing pain, right to the center of your palm. You shriek, jolting violently, glass of sangria falling and shattering on the deck and stumbling up out of your chair, sending it flying back topside. A wasp buzzes menacingly around you, and you shriek again, cracked and painful. The thing had stung you right in the center of your tender palm. You hear the quick paced steps of someone approaching, too distracted trying to evade the horrible thing when you hear Joel’s voice. “Stay still, it’s okay. I’ll get it.”

Your hand really, really hurts. You stop your swatting and feel the back of your eyes pinch, hot tears pooling in the corners. Not only is the sting incredibly painful, but you really hate bees, wasps, all the ugly mean things that buzz and sting. You can feel the slight tremble of your frame begin to take over as you try to patiently wait for him to get rid of it. 

He comes closer, “It’s okay, he’s gone. Did it get you? C’mere, lemme see.”

You clutch the injured hand to your chest, try and scoot away from him shaking your head, but you get too near to the edge, and his hand shoots out to cup your elbow, other hand coming to circle your waist and turn you so you’re standing in the center, and he’s closer to the edge. 

“No, no, it’s okay. It got you, lemme see it–” he gently circles his big rough palm on the thin of your wrist, and now you’re really shaking.

“It’s o–okay,” you hitch, you feel a tear slide down your cheek. Fucking embarrassing. “I’m okay, really. It’s nothing.” You try and pull your limb out of his grasp, but he pulls you closer. He says your name then, not necessarily sharply, but in the way of a rubber band snapping against your skin, a slightly jarring crack followed by a tingle, something that reverberates through your entire body.

Then gentle: “Just come here,” and coaxing. How could anyone ever say no to a voice like that. So deep, so patient. “Lemme see, it’s okay. No, don’t be scared. Lemme see, open your hand for me, sweetheart. I’ll be gentle, it’s okay,” his soothing voice over and over. Coaxing you into capitulation, into following his orders. He smooths his rough thumb gently, gently over the sides of your palm, coaxing your fingers to uncurl and let him see the hurt. “Oh, it’s alright. None of that trembling, sweet girl.” And then he brings your hand up to his hot, wet mouth and presses his lips to the wound, gently sucking. You can feel the wet of his tongue pass over it once, slowly sucking the venom out of your palm. You feel everything below your belly button go hot and liquid at the feel of his tongue on your skin. Oh, God, you want to feel that mouth everywhere, between your legs. 

You think you let a jagged whimper claw its way out your throat, for his eyes flit to yours, a flash of heat igniting them. He pulls his mouth away, turns to spit, thumb gently brushing over the tender inside of your wrist. He says your name so softly. “That’s better. You’re okay. No tears.” 

His large hands completely engulf yours. His fingers are thick and long, his nails clipped short and neat. Beautiful, masculine hands. Working hands. He doesn’t wear a ring. “We can get a clove of garlic on this,” he’s still cradling your limb, “Heard that’s good for stings.”

This is bad, bad, bad, bad. Not part of your plan to stay away from him at all. He’s staring at your cradled hand, his gaze trained on the way his own palm dwarfs yours. You feel his touch tighten for just a second, he brings his eyes back to yours, and you watch as a swallow passes through the strong column of his throat. 

He called you sweetheart. 

There are so many reasons why you know he’s dangerous to you, why you should stay away from him: his kindness, how competent he is — the way it seems like, no matter what in life could ever present itself to him, he’d be able to take it in, take care of it, fix it. He could handle anything. How fucking gorgeous he is, his hands, his face, his body, the dark curls, the slightest hint of silver threads beginning to appear through them, the deep dark eyes, but most of all, more than any other reason, the way he says your name — like the worst thing you’ve ever heard in your entire life, and also the loveliest. So soft and deep and soothing. A voice that could get a person to do anything, capitulate to anything, commit any crime. 

And what was it about wanting something you should not want, could never have, that made you want it all the more? Rebellion of the highest order calls your name. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly. He still has you clutched in his grasp, is staring at you almost in shock. You try to pull away and his grip tightens for one second, like he can’t bear the thought of letting you go, and then releases you, lets you pull your injured hand back into your chest. 

“Alright?”

And you’re so disoriented by him, by his touch that you instinctively reply: “Yes. Are you?”

 He looks confused for a second, shakes his head a little and then laughs, “Yeah – yeah, I’m okay, sweetheart.” He shouldn’t be calling you that, but it sounds so lovely coming out of his mouth. You’ll tell him to stop next time. It’s okay. Next time he says it you’ll tell him not to call you that anymore. Embarrassment burns your cheeks. 

You shake your head, “Sorry, I–”

“It’s alright. No need to apologize. Let’s get you inside. Get somethin’ on that hand.”

You take a step back from him, and he matches it with one step of his own forward, like he isn’t planning on letting you run away. It makes the speed of your heart kick up a notch, a hummingbird fluttering within the confines of your chest. “No, really, it’s okay. I’ll ice it or something. I’m fine, honestly. Thank you for– for your help.” You feel like you’re blinking a hundred times a minute, the sun suddenly scorching, when just a moment ago it had been soft and warm. 

You need to get away from him.

“Rubbin’ a garlic clove on it’s good for stings. There’s some in the kitchen, I’ll get it for you.” He reaches a hand out as if to take hold of you again, and you take two more steps away. This time he does not follow, you see the muscle of his jaw flutter. 

“Really, Joel. It’s okay.” You feel like you’ve said these words to him before, like all your short acquaintanceship has consisted of, is you apologizing and running away, bowing out before it gets too scary or complicated or threatening. He probably thinks you’re an idiot. “Th– thank you for your help. I’m just gonna –” you hitch your thumb back towards the house, “I’m just going to go back inside. Sorry.” 

He only nods, frozen on the dock as you walk away from him.

Chapter .2

Netherfeildren Masterlist

[shatinn]

Sims 4 build - Echelon nursery nook

Thank you for the cc makers

invisible crib @irinaseverinka

crib and night light @surely-sims

bub mobile play @syboubou

playmat @tudtuds

[leafsbabe]

Justin Herbert - sparks fly (SMUT)

4.3k words, reader is described as not small height wise but the rest is hopefully vague enough

Coming to LA had been a spur of the moment decision but you never regretted it one bit.

You wanted an adventure and one of your friends needed an apartment sitter/somebody to take over their rent for a three month trip overseas so you packed a bag and headed to Hollywood. What you didn’t anticipate was falling in love with the city and so your illegal sublet turned into a small apartment of your own, your vacation into an unpaid internship into a paid internship into a job, and your adventure into a new home.

You didn’t live lavishly like the upper echelon but you could pay your rent, go to large outdoor flea markets on the weekend, and splurge on tacos from the taqueria at the corner while still putting away some money for savings so it was safe to say that life was going pretty damn great.

Justin and you bumped into each other on a hike. Or rather he bumped into you, causing you to stumble, fall, and skim your knee in the least sexy way possible… if there even was a sexy way to get hurt.

But Justin had been sweet, squatting down next to you and making sure you weren't seriously hurt before helping you up. You weren’t a short girl, never had been, but this handsome stranger towered over you in a way that made your thoughts run wild. You couldn’t help but look up at him while he helped you to the nearest bench. He sat down with you and you both drank from your water bottles side by side, sneaking glances at each other from the corners of your eyes.

He was the first to say something, his words stuck in your memory to this day. “Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”

Later you would learn that this was supposed to be a pick-up line and the follow up would have been about him seeing you in his dreams but at that time you had just filmed a scene in a popular tv procedural as scared coffee shop visitor #4 (something you had told everyone back home and no one in LA, because it felt weird to talk about something like that here) so you just blurted that out.

Was it embarrassing? Yes. Did it lead to you two sitting there on that bench talking about shows until the sun started to set? Also yes.

Justin and you exchanged numbers and you even threw caution in the wind and let him walk you to your car, because pretty serial killers wouldn’t talk about the nuances of copaganda for hours and if they did you’d take you chances at knocking him out with your reusable water bottle even if he was over a head taller than you.

That night you sent each other a handful of messages. The next day he even called you after work like a total weirdo. The weekend after he took you to a restaurant in the hills and encouraged you to order something that wasn’t the cheapest salad on the menu because he was going to pay, like a gentleman. You shared a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling grape juice. Him because he drove, you because you wanted that gorgeous man to absolutely rail you and thought any perceived inebriation might prevent that.

He didn’t fuck you but there was a prolonged make out session in his car where he felt up your tits, so you didn’t even feel bad getting yourself off with your trusty vibrator after he dropped you off at your apartment. 

Your second date took you outside again with a small hike followed by a picnic. He had packed all kinds of food because he wasn’t sure what you liked and had forgotten to ask. Justin laughed about panicking and buying half a store worth of snacks just so that you’d have something you like. It was so sweet.

He didn’t kiss you like he did after the first date, wild and like he had to hold himself back. 

No. His kisses were sweet, hands never wandering above your waist or below you hips. He did accept it when you invited him up to your place for a coffee though. Half a dirty iced chai latte later he had you pressed against your couch, his large hands dangerously close to your ass.

Yet he still didn’t fuck you.

“Next time,” he promised with his head buried in your throat, “after our third date I'll take you home and won’t let you leave my bed for the next three days.”

It was sweet, in a way, and you hadn’t had sex since before you moved to LA anyways so what difference would a few more days make.

“Okay. Tomorrow?” You didn’t even care that it sounded desperate.

“Can’t.” Justin groaned. “We’re leaving for an away game the day after tomorrow and I meant what I said about keeping you in my bed.” 

You felt his lips against your pulse as he spoke.

“When do you get back?”

“In four days.”

Fuck. Maybe a few more days did make a difference.

He kissed your neck again, grinding down and showing you just why the wait would be worth it. Hopefully you would remember to charge your vibrator. 

He took you to an arcade style place for your third date and it was an absolute blast. With so many options of games to try out you barely had time to look at everything. Justin was a gentleman the entire time, a pattern you noticed during your last two dates. Even though you’d worn a short skirt (and safety shorts because tall girls and mini skirts didn’t always get along) and cozied up to him all afternoon his hands remained off your ass and solidly in PG-13 areas.

You were having fun, challenging each other while laughing the entire time, but you were looking forward to the end of the date when you could finally go home with him. You could feel the vibe shift, growing needier as time went on, with Justin reflecting his own desires back at you.

When you accidentally touched a sticky surface and had to go to the bathroom to wash your hands you had the genius idea to take off the shorts and shove them to the bottom of your bag. 

And boy did that idea pay off.

Twenty minutes later you were in the front seat of his car as Justin drove the two of you back to his place with his right hand on your thigh inching higher and higher. He didn’t look at you as it slid under your skirt, eyes on the road, but the smirk on his lips made it clear to you that he knew what he was doing. He was so close to touching you where you needed him the most when the car stopped and he withdrew his hand as you groaned. 

“Patience.” He teased.

You climbed out of the car before he could help you out, downright eager now. By the time you reached his front door you could barely hold yourself back. All it took was a split second, the door closed behind you and Justin unceremoniously pressed you against it as his lips landed on yours. 

You’ve never been a small girl but the way you had to tilt your head to kiss Justin had a way of making you feel tiny. He bent down, lips never separating from yours, and just picked you up, hands under your skirt somewhere between your plush thighs and your ass. You moaned and he continued kissing you, fingers kneading against your soft skin as he turned around and started waking further into his apartment. God, you hoped his hands would leave bruises.

A noise interrupted you and when you looked to the side you saw a cat looking back at you from where it was perched on a cabinet. Justin didn’t follow your eyes, lip finding your neck instead. “That’s Nova.” He mumbled against your skin. “I’ll introduce you two later.” Then he sucked hard and you forgot everything except him. Somehow you made your way to his bedroom, something you only noticed after he let you fall back against the pillows.

With Justin standing at the edge of the bed looking down on you, you felt even smaller. He was breathing heavily, chest rising and falling, showing off his strong muscles. Oh, how you wanted them to hold you down as he took you.

You took off your shirt in one smooth motion, throwing it somewhere to the side of the bed and hoped that Justin wouldn’t mind. Judging by the way he was staring at your tits, he didn’t.

Justin soon followed your lead, stripping his clothes off as you watched. There was no denying that he was smoking hot, his body solid and you couldn't help but press your thighs together in the search of some relief.

“What do you need?”

Need. Not want. You had to take a moment to collect yourself. What did you need?

“I need you to fuck my mouth,” you started, “I need to choke on your dick until I cry and I need you to fuck me until I forget my name and can only scream yours.”

For a moment you worried that it would be too much. That it would be too rough for Justin or that you were too needy. But the look in his eyes showed you that he would give you everything you asked for. 

Justin stood in front of the bed, looking down at you while he stroked his dick. Precum gathered at his tip and a whimper left your lips at the sight. 

“You want it?” He asked, tone just mocking enough to make you close your legs harder, desperately looking for any kind of friction.

You nodded while looking up at Justin, moving on the bed to get closer to him. Finally you could almost taste him. The pink tip of his dick just barely touched your lips. 

“Please.” You begged for him to let you have it. 

“Be a good girl and show me you deserve it.” 

He gave it to you slowly. One hand holding his dick, the other cradling your cheek, as you took it.

Justin felt heavy in your mouth as you took more and more of him. He was big, yes, but you knew you would manage to swallow all of him. You looked up at him through your lashes until his muscles blocked the view and you could close your eyes, fully concentrating on making sure that Justin would give you everything you needed. 

Slowly you pushed yourself to your limit, fitting him into your throat until your lips wrapped around his base. Justin’s dick was a lot to take in and you didn’t know if you could take it should he try and fuck your throat but for a short moment —with him frozen in front of you— you managed to take all of him. 

You swallowed around him once, twice, and began to slowly pull back before Justin moved again.

“Fuck.” His voice was deep and low as the hand that had been cradling your cheek moved to now hold the back of your head instead.

You couldn’t help but moan around him, the vibrations around his dick only making him hold onto you tighter.

“Good girl.” His fingers flexed against your head and the combinations of both made you feel dizzy, happy that you could be good for him. 

With his other hand Justin reached out and trailed his fingertips from your shoulder down your arm until you realized what he wanted and gave him your hand. He brought it to his thigh, letting you lay your palm flat along the thick firm muscle before covering it with his own. 

“If I’m too rough,” Justin started, “or you need me to slow down, if you just want to take a break or stop for any reason, you slap my leg and I’ll stop. Understood?”

Nodding yes didn’t seem to satisfy Justin, instead he used the hand on your head to pull you off him. You barely managed to do that thing with your tongue before he had you looking up at him through your lashes again.

“I need you to say it.”

“Understood.” And oh how wrecked your voice already sounded. There was no doubt in your mind that it would be completely gone by tomorrow.

“Good girl.” He said again, before silencing your whine with his dick.

There was no denying that Justin was strong. He was thick with muscle, powerful, yet you never felt unsafe as he picked up the pace.

He was rough like you had asked him to. Thrusting hard and fast and pushing your head down to meet him halfway. It was maddening. Above you Justin said something but you were far too gone to listen.

It wasn’t until his movements got gentler and he slowly withdrew from your mouth that you tuned back in.

Justin hadn’t come and was still hard, was one thing you noticed, looking between his dick in front of you and his face high above you.

The fact that you had teared up like you had told him you wanted to, was another.

His hands came up to cradle your face and he gently wiped away the tears with his thumbs as you looked at him.

“So pretty.” His voice was soft, gentle as if to not spook you and the thought of him underestimating you made you want to protest but all that ended up happening was you pouting as he stroked your cheeks.

“Aw don’t pout. You can suck it again later. I just didn’t want to come until I got to fuck you.”

He had to bend down to kiss you, this tall man folding in half to reach you where you kneeled on his bed, and the reminder of your size difference made you squirm.

In response Justin kissed you harder, pushing forward until you lost our balance and fell back on the bed. In a fluid motion Justin followed, bracing himself above you as his lips found your lips, your jaw, your neck.

He made his way down your body, leaving behind a trail of kisses as he went. When he reached your chest he departed from his careful line of kisses. The two kisses, sweet little pecks almost, that he pressed to either boob, stood in stark contrast with his hand that bullied it’s way under your body so that he could unhook your bra. He tugged on the bridge until it became loose enough for you to get the hint and shrug it off while he pulled your skirt and embarrassingly soaked underwear down your legs in one smooth motion.

You didn’t even get the chance to think about hiding yourself from Justin before his large hands gently parted your legs enough for him to fit between them. His mouth fit itself against the skin on the side of your knee before he slowly, teasingly, kissed his way up to where you needed him most. Even though you anticipated the first touch of his lips against your pussy it still sent a shock through your body.

Justin didn’t waste any time pretending to tease you any longer. His lips found your clit almost immediately, wrapping around the small bud almost lovingly before sucking. His tongue toyed with it while you moaned his name. Your hands found their way into his hair and you pulled, hard, but not hard enough to dislodge Justin’s wonderful mouth. It took two more moans before he released your clit and wandered lower, dragging his lips along your skin as he moved. The first drag of his tongue was testing, exploring. The second one wasn’t tame at all.

Justin groaned against your pussy and you swore you could feel it through your entire body. He pulled away for a moment and a pitiful whine left your lips at the loss of his mouth, only for it to turn into a moan when you saw him licking his lips before diving in again. 

You got lost in the feeling of his mouth on you, the way his lips moved so similarly to when he was kissing you just moments before. His long fingers joined his lips in bringing you pleasure and you couldn’t hold back anymore, grinding against his face until you came with your thighs wrapped around his head.

Justin continued to mouth at your thigh as you started to come down before he stood up from the bed and you took a moment to just watch him. The aftershock of your orgasm still ran through your body and combined with the picture in front of you it felt like a high you never wanted to end. Justin was breathing heavy, his thick chest rising and falling hard. The last bit of sunlight shining through the curtains tinted the bedroom in a soft light making his face glisten and you realized with a jolt that the wetness on his cheeks came from you.

The fading light painted him golden, with his hair shining like a halo, a statue as a tribute to raw desire. His likeness could grace museums across the globe, giving other marbles complexes but instead of the Louvre he stood in his bedroom, looking down at you sprawled across his bed, waiting for him to take you like he had promised. 

When Justin finally moved it was in determined long strides. He was a simple man that kept his condoms in the first drawer of his nightstand. Part of you wanted to tell him to forget about them, to fuck you bare until you were dripping with him, but you didn’t want to spook him with your eagernes, so you resigned yourself to bringing it up the next time. Justin passed you on his hunt  for protection and you had to crane your neck back to watch him, but the view made up for it. His front was absolutely gorgeous but you had to admit that his backside was quite nice to look at as wel.You were debating whether or not you should reach out to touch him when he turned around, box in hand, before throwing it onto the bed near your head. It still had plastic around it and you couldn’t help but imagine Justin going to the store in preparation of your date, grabbing it not just in case but on purpose. Had he gotten it in preparation for this date? After the second date? After your first? The big box seemed awfully ambitious though. Perfect.

Instead of walking back to the end of the bed and working his way up your body again Justin just skipped straight to holding himself above you and you didn’t waste any time getting your hands into his locks and pulling him down until your lips connected. He kissed you hard and fast while slowly lowering himself until his heavy body pressed yours into the mattress. It felt so easy to let yourself be blanketed by his warmth, his solid body so close to yours that you could feel every inch of his desire.

“Fuck.” He exclaimed as he pulled away from the kiss. Justin didn’t venture far though, staying close enough that you could feel the strands of his hair tickling your cheeks.

“Can you…” He nodded towards the box.

You nodded, eager, before reaching for the box and struggling to rip it open. When it finally popped open it did so in spectacular fashion, spilling an avalanche of little foil packets all over the bed and your body.

“Oh.”

You didn’t know which one of you laughed first but it took some time before the two of you calmed down again. Justin helped you clear the mess, swiping the countless packets towards the free side of the bed. It should feel weird, at least a little bit, now that the tension between Justin and you got broken. For a second you feared that your clumsiness had turned him off completely but then he kissed you again, slow and deep and like he wanted to devour you.

One of his hands reached for the pile of condoms while the other moved up your side, cupping one of your boobs when he reached them. His thumb barely grazed your nipple before Justin moved away but he still managed to pull a moan from your lips.

“Ready?” He asked, looking at you with hungry eyes.

“Yes.” You needed him so badly. “Please.”

The first push of him inside you was careful but determined. Justin gave you aloof himself until he was buried to the hilt, pausing once he was fully inside you and giving you time to adjust to his large size. Youwanted to tell him to move,to fuck you until you felt him days fromnow, butbefore you could ask-beg-demand he silenced you with another seering kiss. You learned why when he pulled away from the kiss, still buried deep inside you.

“I need to be careful with you.” He talked low, almost whispering. “Don’t want you to be sore when I fuck you again later.”

It made sense. Afterall Justin had promised to keep you in his bed for days. But with him filling youtube so perfectly, there was simply no room left for logical thinking.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he started to move. Slow, meticulous thrusts that didn’t feel overwhelming at first but drove you wild after just a few movements of his hips. There was something otherworldly in the way he managed to hit all the places that needed to be hit, filling you up perfectly again and again and again. Justin stayed close to you while he fucked you, his hips grinding in deep and putting just enough pressure on your clit to send sparks of pleasure through your whole body.

Your hands tightened in his hair, making him groan before dipping down and encapsulating one of our nipples with his hot, wet mouth.

“Jus- Justin.”

His teeth grazed against the soft flesh of your boob teasingly before his tongue delved down, soothing the hard peak between his lips in gentle laps. Justin groaned when you tugged on his hair and the sensation of it vibrating against your skin just made you tighten your grip further. There was no denying that you needed him. Him and his soft mouth and his hard dick and his strong body pressed against yours. This perfect wave of pleasure just kept building with every single movement but you couldn’t reach your high.

“Just—” He bit down hard enough for it to sting before his tongue traced the slight indents. “Please.”

You weren’t above begging but your fucked out brain couldn’t think of any more words. Thankfully he seemed to understand what you needed even without your saying it.

“Fuck. Okay.” He lifted himself a little bit higher, chuckling when you whined at the loss of his weight and warmth. “You asked for this.”

He sounded just the right amount of condescending when you clenched around him and he rewarded you with a “good girl”.

You didn’t last long after Justin started fucking you properly, rough and fast like you had wanted him to. The power behind his thrusts was enough to move you on the bed, closer and closer towards the headboard every time your bodies connected. He had stopped holding back and made you come with only a handful of thrusts.

When you came to it was with Justin holding himself above your body —breathing hard— and your still shaking thighs wrapped around his hips. Part of you felt disappointed for missing what he looked like when he came but you knew there would be more than enough orgasms for you to catch a glimpse.

It took you a while to feel secure enough to remove your legs from him. After you did so Justin carefully pulled out and disposed of the condom. While he went to get a towel to help clean you up you were left in his bed. It took some energy to sit up but it didn’t hurt. You felt empty but that could be changed soon enough. 15 minutes. Maybe 20. Depending on when Justin wanted to go again.

Speaking of. Justin returned to his bedroom, still gloriously naked, holding water bottles in one of his hands and what looked like a washcloth and a towel in the other. You didn’t feel self conscious as he helped you clean up. He had seen every part of you already anyway.

He offered you a shirt of his to cover up but you didn’t mind being bare before him. There was the hint of a love bite starting to form on your chest and you hated the thought of covering up all his hard work. Still, you made a mental note to take him up on his offer later. You had a feeling that a shirt that fit his large frame would swallow you up and you wanted nothing more than to live out the big men’s shirt moment that had been denied you for so long. 

Instead you curled up with him, his blanket half draped over your bodies while you just laid there, enjoying the closeness between you. The energy between Justin and you continued to be magnetic, even after giving in to your desires, and you found yourself unable to tame a wide smile.

“Happy?” Justin looked at you with a soft smile on his lips.

“Hmmm. Very.” You let your eyes wander for a moment. “Want to make out?”

Instead of verbally answering Justin just cupped your face and brought your mouths together in a saccharine kiss.

[mpreglover225]

Once upon a time in the bustling city of New York, there existed an exclusive all-male friend group comprised of individuals from the upper echelons of society. These men reveled in their luxurious lifestyles and indulged in the most taboo of desires. However, there was one unique aspect that set them apart from the rest of society - they were all in various stages of pregnancy.

On a sunny summer afternoon, the group gathered aboard a magnificent yacht docked in Lower Manhattan. The vessel, adorned with opulence and extravagance, served as their sanctuary where they could freely explore their deepest and most forbidden fantasies.

The pregnant men, their bellies protruding with the miracle of life, basked in the warm sunlight that kissed their skin. Their firm pecs had transformed into milk-filled breasts, ready to nourish the life growing within them. The men, unabashed in their desires, decided to strip nude and change into revealing speedos, right in front of their equally wealthy and enamored baby daddies.

As the pregnant men revealed their naked bodies, their husbands' eyes widened with desire. The deck of the yacht became a stage for their intimate display, a spectacle of sensuality and taboo. The men, their bellies rounded and breasts swollen, reclined on the deck's love sofa, side by side.

Their rich baby daddies, captivated by the sight before them, lavished attention upon their pregnant partners. They praised the roundness of their bellies and the fullness of their milk-filled breasts, their hands gently caressing the smooth skin and massaging them with fragrant oil. The men moaned with pleasure as their baby daddies skillfully milked them, coaxing out the precious liquid that would soon nourish their offspring.

The deck of the yacht became a haven of pleasure, where the pregnant men and their baby daddies indulged in the most explicit and intimate acts. The air was filled with the heady scent of arousal, the sounds of moans and gasps blending with the gentle lapping of the waves against the yacht's hull.

The men, their bodies glistening with a mixture of sweat and oil, reveled in the sensations coursing through them. Each touch, each stroke, sent shivers of pleasure down their spines. They were fully immersed in the exploration of their desires, unafraid of societal norms or judgment.

As the sun began to set over the shimmering Manhattan skyline, the pregnant men and their baby daddies continued their erotic escapades, blissfully lost in their world of taboo pleasure. The yacht sailed into the night, carrying them deeper into the depths of their carnal desires.

[tashiberrie]

THEOPHAGY a challengers fanfic.

chapter one

↳ table of contents • one • two • three •,…

— in which the relentless pursuit of victory entangles rivals and friends alike in a complex web of obsession, love and self discovery.

an: who knew i could make tennis this dramatic. anyway, rebloggs are very much appreciated <3 please let me know what you think and feel free to send asks about theophagy, eve, challengers, whatever you want 🤍 enjoy.

ps: i’m thinking about creating a tag list for theophagy, so let me know if you’d be interested in that.

2004

Tashi Duncan was a name that echoed through the world of tennis with a reverence that bordered on awe. A prodigy from a young age, she had an almost supernatural grace on the court, a fluidity of movement that left spectators spellbound and opponents in despair. Winning had become a second nature to her; it was not just an expectation but a foregone conclusion. Tashi's journey through the ranks was meteoric, and by the age of just fifteen, she had secured her place as a future legend of the sport.

Her confidence was as unshakable as her skill. She approached each match with a calm certainty, her powerful serves and precise volleys dismantling any challenge that came her way. Tashi Duncan was, simply put, the best.

But then came Eve Anh.

Eve was a name Tashi had not encountered before, a new entrant into the upper echelons of tennis who had taken the circuit by storm. There were whispers about her in the locker rooms, murmurs of an almost feral intensity, a predatory focus that left her opponents rattled. Tashi paid little attention to the rumours; she had faced countless challengers and emerged victorious every time. Eve, she thought, would be no different.

The day of their match arrived with an electric tension in the air. The stadium was packed, the audience eager to witness the clash of titans. Tashi stepped onto the court with her usual confidence, her eyes scanning the crowd before settling on her opponent. Eve stood at the other end, her expression inscrutable, her eyes locked onto Tashi with a piercing intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.

The match began and Tashi quickly realised that Eve was no ordinary opponent. She moved with a ferocity and precision that was terrifying, each stroke of her racket a slash of claws, each serve a piercing bite. Tashi struggled to keep up, her usual grace and power faltering under the relentless onslaught. It was as if Eve was not just playing to win, but to consume.

Point by point, Eve tore through Tashi’s defences, ripping apart her composure and confidence. Tashi felt as though she was being dismembered, piece by piece, her pride and skill devoured with every brutal volley. Each time she looked at Eve, she saw a hunger that went beyond the desire to win; it was a ravenous, insatiable need to dominate, to consume everything Tashi had ever been.

Eve's gaze was like a shark's, cold and unfeeling, and Tashi felt herself being drawn into those depths, drowning in her own fear and helplessness. She was no longer the lioness; she was the prey, caught in the jaws of a predator far more formidable than any she had faced before. Eve's dominance was total, her victory a feast, and Tashi felt every bite, every tear as her spirit was shredded.

When the final point was scored and the match ended, Tashi stood on the court, feeling eviscerated. Eve approached, her expression unreadable, but the gleam in her eyes spoke of a hunger momentarily sated. Tashi extended a trembling hand, feeling the cold grip of her conqueror, and in that moment, she knew she had been devoured.

Eve had not just defeated her; she had consumed her, leaving Tashi a hollow shell of the champion she once was. The court was her hunting ground, and Tashi had been her feast. As she walked away, Tashi could still feel the gnawing teeth, the relentless hunger of Eve, and she knew she would never be the same. She had been devoured, body and soul, by a predator unlike any she had ever faced.

Eve was a figure of mystery and intensity, her presence on the tennis court nothing short of mesmerising. Her journey in tennis had been one of relentless pursuit, a hunger that drove her to devour her competition with a ferocity that was both awe-inspiring and terrifying. For Eve, tennis was not just a sport; it was a lifeline, an essential part of her existence as crucial as the air she breathed.

From a young age, Eve had discovered that she possessed a talent for the game, a natural ability that set her apart from her peers. But it was not just her skill that defined her; it was the insatiable hunger that burned within her, a need to dominate and conquer that transcended mere competition. Tennis was her battleground, and every match was a hunt, every opponent a potential feast for her unrelenting appetite.

Eve's rise through the ranks of tennis was marked by a series of brutal, decisive victories. She had a keen eye for talent, seeking out the best players with a predatory instinct. She latched onto them, drawn to their strength and skill like a moth to a flame. These players became her prey, their prowess on the court the sustenance she craved. She thrived on the challenge they presented, their resistance fueling her drive to overpower them.

But this hunger came at a cost. Eve was acutely aware of the the merciless nature of her pursuit. She knew that her approach to the game was not just about winning; it was about consuming her opponents, drawing from their strength until there was nothing left. She fed on their fear, their desperation, their struggle to keep up with her relentless assault. And when they began to falter, when their strength waned and they could no longer provide the challenge she needed, she would leave them behind, moving on to her next target.

This cycle of predation left a trail of broken players in her wake, each one a testament to her ruthless efficiency. Eve felt a pang of guilt every time she moved on, a fleeting acknowledgment of the destruction she left behind. She knew it was terrible, this parasitic drive that defined her. But the hunger was too strong, too deeply embedded in her soul. It was who she was, and she couldn't change that, no matter how much she might want to.

Off the court, Eve was a solitary figure, her intense focus on the game leaving little room for personal connections. She kept to herself, her interactions with others marked by a certain detachment. It was as if she feared that letting anyone get too close would expose the voracious hunger that drove her, the dark need that she barely contained.

Despite her inner turmoil, there was a part of Eve that reveled in her power, in the fear and respect she commanded. She saw herself as a necessary force in the world of tennis, a crucible through which the strongest players must pass. Yet, there was also a part of her that longed for something more, a connection that went beyond the superficial ties of competition.

Her encounter with Tashi Duncan had been different. Tashi had been a formidable opponent, her strength and skill a tantalising challenge that Eve had relished. The match had been a feast, every point a morsel of satisfaction for her ravenous appetite. But in Tashi, Eve had also seen a reflection of her own struggles, a kindred spirit battling her own demons. The connection they shared on the court was electric, a blend of rivalry and respect that left a lasting impression on Eve.

After that fateful match, Tashi Duncan's world was irrevocably altered. The court, once her kingdom, now felt like a graveyard of her shattered pride. The days that followed were a haze of restless nights and distracted days. Tashi couldn't escape the haunting presence of Eve; she was everywhere and nowhere, a spectre that invaded her every thought.

Tashi's obsession with Eve grew, an insidious vine wrapping around her mind, squeezing tighter with each passing day. She replayed their match in her head endlessly, dissecting every movement, every stroke, every glance. She scrutinised Eve’s form, trying to uncover some secret, some flaw she had missed. But each analysis only deepened her sense of awe and dread. Eve was flawless, a predator who had revealed Tashi’s own vulnerabilities in the most visceral way possible.

She began by studying Eve's matches with an intensity bordering on obsession, dissecting every move, every habit, searching for some clue, some insight into the mind of her conqueror. And it didn't take long for Tashi to uncover the quirks and rituals that defined Eve's presence on the court.

The soft hum that Eve emitted between points became a haunting melody in Tashi's mind, a constant refrain that echoed through her thoughts even when she wasn't watching. She found herself humming along, trying to decipher the meaning behind the ever-changing tunes, wondering what secrets they held.

Eve's unique way of bouncing the tennis ball before serving became a mesmerising spectacle for Tashi, a hypnotic dance that seemed to defy the laws of physics. She watched in awe as Eve spun and twirled the ball with effortless grace, each variation a testament to her skill and creativity. Tashi found herself mimicking the motions in her own practice sessions, hoping to capture even a fraction of Eve's magic.

And then there were the water bottles, meticulously arranged in a precise pattern on the sidelines. Tashi watched as Eve lined them up with obsessive precision, marvelling at the dedication and focus it must take to perform such a seemingly mundane task. She wondered about the significance of the ritual, the hidden meaning behind the carefully arranged bottles.

Her own training took on a frantic, almost manic quality. She pushed herself harder than ever before, driven by a desperate need to reclaim what had been taken from her. She studied Eve’s techniques, mimicked her strategies, and adapted her own style in a bid to become stronger, faster, better. Yet, no matter how hard she trained, the image of Eve standing over her, victorious and unassailable, remained seared into her mind.

In Eve, Tashi saw more than just a formidable opponent; she saw a divine force, a manifestation of power and grace beyond mortal comprehension. Eve's dominance on the court was not just skill; it was a revelation, a glimpse into a higher plane of existence where victory and defeat were mere illusions.

Tashi's fixation consumed her personal life as well. She withdrew from friends and family, her world narrowing to a singular focus: Eve. Conversations were tinged with an undercurrent of Eve’s name, her presence a ghostly thread woven into the fabric of Tashi’s existence. Her relationships strained and faltered, unable to compete with the all-encompassing spectre of her infatuation.

[vincentvalenfine]

am a sucker for hurt comfort or angst to happy ending. do you have more thoughts of vincent and reader but he still being hung up over lucrecia? >:)

When the planet is saved, Meteor vanquished, and everything can begin heading towards some semblance of normalcy, Vincent withdraws from your life like he was never there to begin with. A ghost of a bygone era.

You had hoped, perhaps in vain, that after everything the group had been through... maybe he would finally open up just a little for you, begin to trust you with that bruised and bleeding heart of his. Instead, he leaves you with nothing to show for all your efforts except a fresh bruise on your own heart that aches even as you try to rebuild your life in Edge.

Having friends to distract you helps; Tifa helps you find a place to live that isn't so far from the bar that you can't walk home even in the most drunken aftermath of celebrations, Yuffie loves dragging you into misadventures of all sorts, and sometimes Cloud even allows you to drag him on adventures of your own whenever you need a lift from that beautiful bike of his.

It's all just that, though: a distraction from the subtle emptiness Vincent left behind. In the quiet hours of the night, before you would have sought his company while the others slept and coaxed him into letting you curl up against him with his cloak for a blanket, the deep velvet of his voice murmuring nothing of real importance a cure for your insomnia. Now all you have is the silence, too loud and too little all at once. You miss his embrace, the warm thick cloth of his cloak, the scent of him lingering on you, the glow of his eye lighting up the darkness as if just for you. You miss his near-invisible smiles and the way they would make the corners of his eyes crinkle, the soft looks he cast your way when he thought no one was looking.

Dammit it all, you miss him.

The bruise fades slowly and Edge soon becomes a bustling little city. Then the Geostigma grows rampant, trouble brews, and having found yourself drawn into the mess when Cloud needs backup - there's Vincent again.

He's just as beautiful as when you first saw him, just as dramatic as always when he steps into the fray, and suddenly the bruise is a laceration that bleeds raw agony even as you help to fight off the monsters, and then Bahamut SIN.

You can hardly stand to look at him, can feel him trying not to look at you himself, and the distance hurts worse than ever. Does he hate that he ever gave you room to grow close? Would he rather have stayed hidden away if it meant never being confronted with his mistake? You torture yourself endlessly while tensions ride high in the airship, and you stand as far apart from each other as possible despite the many side glances from the others.

Cloud wins, almost gets killed (or maybe actually does, but Aerith has yet to let anyone down even from the Lifestream), everyone is saved, and once all is said and done... Vincent is gone again. You hate that he's gone, you feel relieved that he hasn't stayed to try and torment you further just by existing near you, you take to the shelter of your miraculously still standing apartment and scream into a pillow until your voice gives out.

More time passes, another chance to let your wound heal.

The WRO has done a lot of good work and Reeve proves to really have been one of the few good hearts in the upper echelons of Shinra - you strike up a tentative friendship with him, and Cait Sith keeps you informed of the latest news whenever you drop by.

That's how you learn about Deepground, and about Vincent's most recent endeavors. It stings even now to hear about him, and you almost can't stand the sympathetic look Reeve has for you even as he lets you know where Vincent is going next. You can't be blamed for not saying anything, right? Not after being ghosted by the man.

Vincent can handle whatever trouble is going on and you can stay well away from it all - yeah right.

Cloud and the others end up dragging you along as backup during the final assault on Deepground, and it helps that you don't see Vincent at all the entire time, right up until Omega erupts from the ground. Its massive bulk is almost too much to take in at once, but your attention instead settles on the crimson dot that soars around it before diving in - instinctively, you know it's Vincent. Your heart aches, both for him and because of him.

For the first time, you're afraid he could actually die for real, and you regret the distance more than ever. This could be it, and you won't even get to say goodbye to the man who stole your heart and never came back.

Omega erupts into pieces far in the sky, and Vincent has vanished. You feel your wounded heart tear open anew, and can't bring yourself to pull away from the comfort of Reeve's embrace when the floodgates finally burst.

Almost a month later, there's a knock at your door.

You don't really want to get up, and you haven't wanted to get up for a while now. The others have their own keys to get in if they think they need to (and these days they always think they need to). They'll let themselves in, do whatever caretaking they feel you need most in the moment, then either leave you to your numbness or try to drag you outside for a while...

There's another knock, and you rouse with confusion. No one ever knocks twice.

Sluggishly, you get up from the couch and shuffle to the door, bleary eyes and foggy brain barely willing to do the work it takes to unlock your door and open it enough to see-

Vincent.

Your legs give out on you before you can process what's happening, mind lagging far behind your body's reaction, leaving you even more confused when you find your face pressed gently to the very same red fabric you had missed so much before, to the broad and steady shoulder beneath it. He's - alive, he's here, he's holding you and petting the back of your head as your body betrays you, refusing to do anything other than shake like a leaf in the wind. How fucking dare he come back after all this time and hold you like you mean the world to him?

"I should have never left," he murmurs in your ear. "I'm sorry."

You can only start crying as you cling to him. Sorry shouldn't cut it after what he's put you through, but... you still love him. You can't do anything but love him. And all you ever really wanted was him to come back - now here he is, and here you are.

When the tears subside, you lift your head and kiss him for the first time.

[dcigar]

Title: **A Week in Your Shoes**

---

At Sullivan's, a bar with stories soaked into its walls, two men, worlds apart in every conceivable way, found themselves deep in conversation one fateful Friday night. Jack Sullivan, 55, a life-worn bar owner, and Ethan Carter, 29, a tech millionaire with an eye for innovation, each nursed a drink reflective of their very different lives.

As the night drifted on, the conversation turned to what-ifs. Jack, looking around his quiet, familiar bar, confessed a longing for the whirlwind lifestyle of a tech entrepreneur. Ethan, on the other hand, tired of the fast-paced, high-stress life, yearned for simplicity and genuine human connection. "To swap lives for a week," Ethan mused, half in jest, tapping his glass thoughtfully against the bar.

At the stroke of midnight, as the bar's old clock tolled, the unthinkable happened. They walked out into the crisp night air, unwittingly stepping into each other's lives.

Jack awoke the next morning in Ethan’s minimalist luxury apartment, sunlight streaming across the sleek surfaces. In the mirror, a younger, more agile version of himself stared back, brimming with untapped potential. As the days unfolded, Jack, now in Ethan's body, embraced the opulence and thrill of the tech world, his initial awe transforming into a deeper pleasure. He enjoyed the seamless ease of high-stakes business decisions and the adrenaline of living on the cutting edge.

Ethan, finding himself in Jack’s rugged, aging body, experienced a life of tangible efforts and visible rewards. Running the bar, fixing broken stools, and enjoying long, unhurried talks with regulars brought him a peace he had not known. The joy of smoking a fine cigar at the end of the day, a luxury he had seldom allowed himself, became a cherished ritual.

By the fifth day, Jack had fully adapted to Ethan’s lifestyle, relishing in the newfound youth and freedom. The idea of going back to his old life seemed increasingly unappealing. Meanwhile, Ethan had grown to appreciate the slower pace and the profound satisfaction of simpler pleasures. The bar had become his refuge, the community his family.

On the evening of the fifth day, as Jack enjoyed a high-profile tech gala and Ethan closed the bar after a satisfying day’s work, both men stood at a crossroads. Ethan felt fulfilled in a way he hadn’t in years, while Jack was intoxicated by the limitless possibilities of his new identity.

As they planned to meet again at Sullivan's to discuss their experiences, the question loomed large in the air: Would they choose to switch back, or had this temporary exchange opened the door to something permanent? The future of both men hung in balance, their decisions clouded by the allure of lives they had never imagined could be theirs.

On the sixth day, the role reversal deepened. Jack, living as Ethan, was invited to an exclusive event in a private lounge known for its prestigious clientele. As he mingled among the city's elite, he was introduced to the refined world of cigar smoking—an indulgence he never had the means to enjoy as himself. With each puff, he felt a new kind of camaraderie and exclusivity that was starkly different from the open, boisterous atmosphere of his bar. The smooth, rich aroma of the cigar seemed to symbolize the opulence of his temporary life, leaving him intoxicated with the luxury that now enveloped him.

Meanwhile, Ethan, experiencing Jack's simpler existence, found himself in the back room of Sullivan’s late that evening, sorting through old stock. Among the dusty bottles, he discovered a vintage box of cigars that Jack had once received as a gift but never opened. On a whim, accompanied by a regular who knew his way around a good smoke, Ethan lit one. The earthy, deep notes of the cigar, combined with the laughter and stories shared over the bar, offered a stark contrast to the more reserved enjoyment he had observed among the upper echelons of society. This humble pleasure rooted in tradition and genuine connection deeply resonated with him, further endearing Jack's life to his heart.

As the week neared its end, the contrast between their experiences with cigars perfectly encapsulated their broader journey. Jack was swept up in the allure of a life where every luxury was at his fingertips, finding in each new indulgence a reason to perhaps never go back. Ethan, on the other hand, felt a grounding pull towards the simple joys and the unpretentious authenticity of Jack’s world, which brought an unexpected contentment that his own life lacked.

With just one day left before their agreed meeting to discuss their experiences and potentially reverse the mysterious swap, both men faced a profound internal debate. Jack relished the escape from his aging body and the fresh opportunities of youth, while Ethan cherished the newfound peace away from his high-stress environment.

As they lay in their respective beds that night, each puffing on a cigar, the smoke swirling around them seemed like the mingling of their two very different lives. Would they choose to swap back to their original lives, or had this taste of another existence changed their desires forever? The decision loomed over them, shrouded in smoke and uncertainty, leaving their fate tantalizingly open-ended.

[hiveworks]

June is winding down, but our recommendations are never ending. Now is also a great time to remind you that our creators are supported by ad rev. When you read these comics, be sure to white list their websites and support your favorite creators!⁠

Ghost Junk Sickness by @studiocartridge

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Kochab is a YA wlw fantasy comic about two girls lost in a pile of ruins under the woods, inspired by various myths and fairytales. A lost skier trying to survive a snowy wilderness and find her way back to her village stumbles across and awakens a fire spirit trying to fix the home that she’s let fall apart around her.

Shaderunners by Alex Assan & Lin Darrow

A thousand years ago, the last colour in the world faded to grey. Now, after the great archaeological discovery of Queen Sorizahana’s shade-stocked tomb, it stands ready to enter the world again. Ironwell City will become the birthplace of the burgeoning colour industry, where colour is pumped out of factories, poured into perfumed bottles and sold at exorbitant prices to those wealthy enough to afford the luxury. At least, that’s the plan according to the Five Financiers of the Sorizahana excavation. One part Prohibition fantasy, one part Robin Hood, and a whole lot of epic heist, Shaderunners follows a group of ragtag bootleggers and bohemians who band together in an effort to steal colour from the wealthy echelons of Ironwell’s high society. Among them: a philosopher, a puppeteer, a gutter rat, an opera singer, a naval officer and a hopeless romantic. Together, they run The Glass Dial, former watch shop and future night club, where all the house drinks run red. Speak easy, pal, ‘cause the road to ruin is paved with good intentions.

Augustine by @windywallflower

Augustine follows the adventure of August and her friends: Brick, Heti and Ande as they survive in the perilous region known as the Crater. You can call them all Trouble (with the capital T) as they wrack up bounties for their rowdiness, most especially from the local head honcho Tanto the Bull. During these escapades, however, the group stumbles into an ancient artifact, a possible piece of an old myth surrounding the Crater. This discovery soon leads them down a path of chaos, chased by bounty hunters and old forgotten gods. This comic uses aspects of Greek Mythology, and delves into concepts of ancient relics and the deities they represent and what it means to find your own family.