#GOD every frame of this show is a work of art

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 10

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, family issues, generational trauma, self-growth, personal issues (and dealing with it), hurt and comfort, hmmmm…. let’s leave it at that for now :) A/N: Final chapter, guys! Thanks so much for reading <3

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10

“Oh, what the hell—since when do you cook?”

“Bitch,” you laugh, nudging past them, the ceramic pot still steaming in your hands. “Do you want the risotto or not?”

The scent of garlic and pecorino permeates the air as you stand in front of the small foyer of the duplex where your friend—questionable, at the moment—lives. Your most recent culinary masterpiece, deemed safe (enough) for public consumption, rests between your hands in silent offering to the skeptic figure who’s barring you from crossing the threshold. 

It’s still warm, and you’re not one to brag, but you think you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Not that it matters—everybody’s a fucking critic these days.

“Risotto?” Khol parrots in disbelief. “You don’t show up in forever, suddenly you’re all cuoca straordinario or some shit. Get out of here with your Mario ass–”

“Don’t mind them,” Anna interjects from behind your biggest hater, all cheer as she plucks the pot from your hands. “This smells amazing, actually. Come in!”

With that, she vanishes inside, leaving you and Khol alone in the doorway. You give them a knowing look.

“Oh wow,” you remark, all mock surprise. “You live together now?”

Khol rolls their eyes, already tired of you. “You missed the biggest arc of the last five months, but yeah.”

You step inside, and right away, something feels… different. It could partly be due to how much time has passed since you last visited, and it’s clearly still their place—the brooding industrial-emo aesthetic remains intact, still suspiciously close to resembling the lair of an angsty comic book antihero on acid—but it’s been overtaken by bits of boho-chic scattered all over the space.

Where there was once nothing but charcoal, vinyl, and concrete, there are now textures. Colorful woven throws drape artfully over the arm of the leather Eames sofa they won off a Craigslist bid. Tasseled pillows have multiplied across every seat surface like some kind of fabric-based contagion, while pothos vines dangle lazily from macramé hangers, stretching towards the moody Edison bulbs like they’re trying to escape the existential crisis of living here.

And then there’s the rug. Oh god, the rug. 

A comically massive tufted ‘Flower Power’ rug sprawls across the center of the room, a swirling explosion of pinks and oranges—a final, cutesy fuck you to the apartment’s formerly depressing atmosphere before Khol’s new roommate staged her cheerful coup.

It should’ve been a hilarious sight, like a chaotic school art project where every kid picked a different medium to color and refused to compromise. But somehow… it works? 

Against all odds, the goth cryptid and the hippie gremlin have found domestic equilibrium.

“Love what you did with the place, Anna,” you call out, toeing off your shoes at the door. “It doesn’t look like a twelve-year-old’s fantasy bedroom anymore.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Khol laughs, shaking their head. “As if you’re one to talk. Last time I visited, you still had that stupid-ass sofa. Is it still there?”

You sniff haughtily. “Excuse you, but that’s a custom piece. You wouldn’t get it.”

"Alright, you two," Anna says, leaning against the archway between the living room and kitchen, one hip propped against the frame. "Both of you have terrible taste in decor. Now, I have a fabulous Prosecco to pair with the risotto." She tilts her head, shooting her partner a pointed look. "Khol, darling, be a dear and grab the crystal from the cupboard?"

"Whipped," you sing as Khol, predictably, does exactly as told. They don’t even bother with a comeback, just flashes you a lazy middle finger over their shoulder as they disappear from view.

You grin, shaking your head. The moment stretches into something easy, comfortable. It’s nice—being here, bantering like no time has passed. You let yourself sink into it, tugging off your beanie as you cross the room.

The creaky couch welcomes you like an old friend, and you flop down unceremoniously, stretching your legs out, rubbing your feet against the oversized monstrosity of a rug that is... honestly, pretty fucking comfortable, actually.

Anna follows suit, settling beside you with far more grace, tucking one foot under the other.

She watches you for a moment, expression warm but slightly inquisitive. “We haven’t seen you in a while.” 

You exhale, tipping your head back, staring up at the beams on the ceiling. "Yeah, sorry. Been a little out of it these past… couple of months, I guess."

Anna makes a quiet noise, something between understanding and acknowledgment. "You’re doing okay now?"

The easy answer sits on your tongue—yeah, of course. An automatic response, a reflex built from habit. Another front to put up, another lie to slip behind.

But you’ve been working on this. So instead, you take a breath and say,

"Not… really." 

The words feel foreign, heavy, but oddly freeing as they leave your mouth.

Your gaze flickers to the side table—framed photos of Khol and Anna, smiling, sunlit. You don’t linger.

“I mean, better now compared to, maybe, a few weeks ago. I’m getting there.”

Anna’s brows lift slightly—not in surprise at the sentiment itself, but at the fact that you admitted it out loud. There’s something thoughtful in her expression, something softer around the edges. “Good. That’s good.”

You can tell she means it. Maybe even more than you expected.

"Yeah."

There’s a brief lull. You catch yourself tugging at the edge of your cardigan—a nervous habit you never quite broke. The warmth of the apartment is settling in you quite comfortably, but there’s something about sitting still under Anna’s gentle scrutiny that makes you restless.

From the kitchen, there’s the unmistakable clink of glass, followed by a muffled, “shit.”

Anna exhales, long-suffering. “I don’t know why I even bother buying nice things.”

“‘Oy,” Khol’s voice carries from the other room, “get in here and help. We have, like, seven things to carry.”

You take that as your cue, trailing after Anna into the kitchen. Between the three of you, it’s quick work—bowls of warm, brothy risotto in hand, glasses of white wine balanced carefully between fingers.

By the time you step back into the living room, Khol is already dropping onto the blue accent chair near the window with all the dramatics of someone who’s worked far too hard for far too little.

You settle into your usual spot, Anna beside you. You don’t touch your food. Your appetite’s still in remission, though it’s been steadily improving lately.

Khol notices. “Now, why the hell aren’t you eating?” They shoot you a side-eye like you’ve personally offended them. “I knew it. You put something in this, didn’t you?”

“Jesus, Khol,” Anna sighs, exasperated, already two spoonfuls in. “Your diet was literally gas station burritos and eight-pack Coors before I moved in. You’ll live.”

She pauses, though, casting you a look. “Don’t get me wrong—this is really good.”

“Ha,” you retort as Khol prods suspiciously at a floating mushroom. You glare. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

“Alright, alright.” With an exaggerated sigh, Khol finally takes a bite. They chew once, twice—eyes narrowed in concentration, acting like some hard-ass seasoned judge from Top Chef. You can practically see them digging for something snarky to say—until, begrudgingly, they nod.

“Shit. This is actually pretty good. Who are you?”

You preen at the praise.

For a while, there’s nothing but the quiet clinking of spoons against ceramic, the occasional satisfied hum. It’s… nice. Comfortable in a way you haven’t felt in what feels like forever.

You’ve missed this.

Missed being here. Missed being with people.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the last few bites of risotto, Khol angles their head toward you, their curiosity piqued. “How come you’re free today? You on leave or something?”

You swirl the drink in your hand, watching the light catch on the amber surface before answering. “Oh, I quit my job.”

There’s a beat of silence. You don’t know what reaction you were expecting, but Khol just blinks at you. "Huh. Finally."

Anna looks mildly more concerned. "You quit?"

You nod, stretching your legs out beneath the coffee table. “Yeah. The OT was getting ridiculous, and they had me working night shifts again. That was kind of the last straw for me.”

Khol grunts in agreement. “Good fucking riddance. That job was killing you.” They pause for a beat, turning serious, contemplative. “You’re not hung up about it, are you? You’ve been bitching about that job for ages.”

You exhale through your nose, staring at the rim of your glass. “Yeah, no. I’m glad I left.” The words come easily, and they’re mostly true. But still—there’s something about suddenly having all this space, this aimless in-between, that makes you antsy. 

A thought strikes you, and you glance up. “Hey, you know if Marion's still looking for someone to work part-time at the bistro?”

Khol raises an eyebrow. "You looking to apply? It’s minimum wage, just telling you in advance."

"That’s fine," you assure them. "I just need something on the side. I’m doing freelance work right now, I just want something to fill in the gaps."

Anna perks up at that. "I think that’s a great idea. I can hit up Marion later, but I’m pretty sure they’re still looking."

Khol stares at you, and for once, they don’t have a quip lined up. No sharp-edged humor, no quick banter—just a quiet look of something almost foreign on their face. Pride. Maybe even relief. You’ve worried them. The realization jars you like a pebble dropped into a clear pond, sending ripples through the stillness of your self-imposed isolation. You hadn’t meant to, not really. It wasn’t like you deliberately wanted to disappear... But you did, didn’t you? You let the days blur into weeks, then months, telling yourself naively that no one would notice if you just—vanished for a while. Five months, to be exact.

You press your lips together, clearing your throat against the tightness creeping in. “Thanks,” you say, quiet but sincere. “Really.”

Khol snorts, and the moment shatters. “You can show your thanks by knocking ten percent off the cocktails when we visit.”

You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation. “Get me the job first, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Anna grins, raising her glass. “Now, that’s the spirit.”

––––

You get the job.

You stand in front of the fogged-up mirror, dragging your palm across the wet glass. The reflection that stares back is warped, smudged—half-formed, half-there—but unequivocally yours. 

A month ago, you wouldn’t have been able to say that with certainty. Back then, the figure in the mirror had been more ghost than person—distant, spectral. Fractured. Someone you watched from the outside, not as a host of the flesh you inhabit. 

Now, though, the pieces are starting to slot back into place. Some are still missing, and others don’t quite fit as they once did. You doubt it will ever return to how it was… But slowly, a familiar shape is coming back into focus. More than the shadow of a woman, but you.  Time moves like water carving through rock—gradual, barely perceptible, but steady. Inevitable.

The shifts are diminutive. A morning where you wake up feeling less crushed by the weight of grief in your chest. An afternoon where you suddenly break into laughter, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard it in weeks. A quiet night where you go to bed without feeling like you’re stuck frozen in an endless loop of wishing, waiting for the impossible.

You’re here, alive. Present. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re doing more than just holding on.

(You think he’d be proud of you.) And the thought doesn’t leave you aching the way it used to.

––––

“You think I can handle taking care of another living thing? Like a plant?” You ask Maru, glancing at him lounging by the window, right where a sliver of afternoon sunlight spills across the floor. “I mean, I raised you well enough, I think. But you’re pretty self-sufficient anyway.” Maru looks unimpressed. His tail flicks once—dismissive, uninterested—before he returns to grooming himself, utterly indifferent to both your question and your sudden enthusiasm for gardening. “Well, if your dad can grow plants in that dungeon he calls a base, I’m sure I can manage,” you mutter unconvincingly. “How hard can it be?” 

–

By the middle of the second week into your little project, you begrudgingly admit that your tiny repotted begonia isn’t exactly thriving. You don’t want to be a pessimist, but the (browning) margins seem to curl inward—more than they should, if the reference pics on that “Indoor Succulents” blog you’re subscribed to are anything to go by. 

You eye it dubiously, trying to stay gung-ho about the whole thing, forcing yourself to look up care tips again. It’s just a plant. Not rocket science. So you do the research, gather more supplies, and give it another shot. You reposition it closer to where the sun lands—earning a disgruntled hiss from the sunbathing feline—and sprinkle a careful amount of water just beneath the leaves, closer to the root. Then you lean back, waiting, tapping your foot impatiently like it’s supposed to just... fix itself.

–

The next few days pass with you watching it more than you’d care to admit—checking, hoping, second-guessing yourself. 

You narrow your eyes at the leaves, more russet than Inca Flame red, still hanging limp like a sad testament to your lack of skill. 

But you keep at it, because you’re nothing if not stubborn.

–

A single flower has bloomed.

You stand there, spray bottle in hand, caught in quiet awe at the metallic pink sprout peeking through the foliage. It’s small, delicate, barely more than a bud, but unmistakably there—nestled among heart-shaped leaves that, for the first time in weeks, look alive. Brighter. 

A faint smile tugs at your lips. It’s not groundbreaking, not by a long shot. But it’s something.

The fragile blossom clings onto dear life, stubbornly seeking the sun rays, inching toward the warmth it needs to grow—larger, stronger.

You can’t wait to bear witness to it. 

––––

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up in this situation; all you could recall past the sweat blurring your vision is the memory of being in front of the reception desk, pen in hand, scrawling your name onto the sign-up sheet for beginner boxing lessons. 

It’s not… something you planned on doing, really. You’d been showing up for the past week, trying to convince yourself that fitness was something you could get into. Something you could stick with. But this one’s more of an impulse decision, fueled by a mix of post-workout endorphins and the misplaced confidence that sometimes follows after an extra few—unpremeditated!—minutes on the elliptical. 

It all started with a casual glance at a flyer taped to the wall beside the water dispenser.

GET TOUGHER, FASTER, STRONGER! SIGN UP NOW!

The cheesy tagline stared you down as you were in the middle of refilling your teal green AquaFlask. And for some dumb reason—sheer curiosity, definitely not because it reminded you of a certain someone—you thought: Why not?

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you’d marched straight up to the nearest staff at the counter, credit card in hand, and asked to sign up. Now, as you stare at the buff woman currently goading you to hit harder, reality sets in and you feel a little lightheaded. Even slightly delirious.

“Up, up–” your trainer urges, somehow not even remotely out of breath, despite being thirty grueling minutes into the session. Meanwhile, you’re standing there, red-faced and sweating like a fucking pig. “Keep your arms up at all times, alright?”

You pant, nodding weakly, fixing your posture. She gives you an approving nod in return.

It’s part of the whole self-improvement thing, anyway. Pushing yourself. Fitness, jazz, and all that. You’ve never had much inclination for sports or anything remotely physically taxing, as far as you can recall.

…Or maybe that decision was made for you the moment you tried out for volleyball in high school and took a spike straight to the face. A memory so humiliating, that your brain did you a favor and buried it deep in the recesses of your mind. 

But things are different now! You’re trying new things. You’ve done wall climbing, aerobics, even pulled a hamstring attempting HIIT Tae Bo. And if getting punched in the face is the next step in this… wellness journey, then, well, so be it. You’ll take it with a brave face and, hopefully, minimal bruising to both body and ego.

You slog through two sets of combos and thirty jab-straight-hook-uppercuts, punching like your life depends on it. You’re wheezing like an asthmatic child, and you’re about one bad punch away from toppling over.

Then, mercifully—

“Okay, that’s enough for today.”

Oh, thank god.

“You did good,” she tacks on, flashing you an encouraging smile, like you didn’t just spend the last half hour flailing at the focus mitts with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

You stare at her, unconvinced. Did I? Because from where you’re standing—wobbling, really—you’re pretty sure you looked closer to an overstimulated toddler throwing hands with gravity, but sure. It must’ve been in the fine print, to segue in a little positive reinforcement. Probably to keep people from bolting after the first session. 

Not that you’re planning to. No, of course not. You’re just... reevaluating some things. Like your life choices. And your capacity to lift your arms tomorrow. As you trudge your way out of the yoga-studio-turned-boxing-area, still gulping for air and very aware of the soreness settling into your limbs, someone calls out.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You turn your head, blinking in confusion. A guy—mid to late twenties, give or take—jogs up to you, looking offensively too fresh compared to how you feel. “Oh, hi. Sorry, do you mean me?”

He laughs as he slows to a stop, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Yeah, you. I’ve seen you training with Coach. Just wanted to say—you’re improving.”

You blink. Wait, what?

A wave of mortification rolls through you. Shit, you didn’t know you had an audience. “Uh—thanks, I guess?”

You shift your weight awkwardly, clutching your boxing gloves tightly against your chest.

His grin turns sheepish, as though he realizes how that might’ve come off. “Fuck, sorry. That came out weird, didn’t it? I swear, I’m not, like, watching the whole thing or anything.” He makes a vague gesture to his left. “The studio’s right in my line of sight when I’m doing TRX reps. Hard not to notice.”

You force a smile. “Ah, yeah. Figures.” 

“I’m Byron, by the way,” he offers, sticking out a hand.

Now that you get a proper look at him, you notice he’s got this kind of… geeky charm going for him. Curly hair, sleepy brown eyes behind round, rimless glasses, and shy boy-next-door vibes—except for the fact that he’s jacked.

(Honestly? Work.)

You give him your name, still smiling awkwardly. You’re about to wave goodbye and turn away when— “So, what are you doing later?”

Um.

You hesitate. “I’m, uh… heading straight home after this?” Your voice comes out a little more uncertain than you intended, mostly because you’re not really sure why he’s still talking to you.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he replies quickly, glancing down like he’s suddenly nervous. “I just… thought I’d ask if you’d wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Oh.

It takes a moment for the question to fully register. The first thought that pops in your head is: Wait, how does he know I’m a barista?

… The second thought is one of pure disbelief. Holy shit, did I just get asked out? At the gym? By the Temu version of Peter Parker?

Your face burns hotter than it did mid-workout, caught completely off guard.

“I—woah, um.” You stumble over your words, eyes quickly darting away from him. “Sorry, I already have… a boyfriend. If—if that’s what you’re leading up to.”

You say it like a question. He picks up on it.

“You don’t sound too convinced,” he comments with a light chuckle, shaking his head. “If you’re not interested, you can just say that, you know.”

A prickle of irritation flares up, followed by something sharper—something that stings. You push it down. “No, he’s just… not around.” “Ah.” He clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Long distance?” “…Yeah.” You have no idea.

He shrugs, undeterred. “Alright, no pressure. We could always just hang out as friends, if you want.”

I… don’t think I do. “Um, maybe?” you answer instead, forcing out a laugh.

“Oh, come on,” he says, his grin widening. “You can even introduce me to your boyfriend,” he emphasizes the word out, “when he gets back. Does he work out? We could all hit the gym together.”

Social anxiety is afraid of this man, you think belatedly. Unfortunately for him, you’re the very embodiment of what fears him.

You’re so out of your element that all you can manage is, “He boxes too, actually.”

“Yeah? He any good?” 

That gets an involuntary snort out of you. Unthinkingly, you say, “Could probably beat you up.”

Byron laughs, startled but amused, shaking his head as he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—message received.” He flashes you a wide smile. “Well, if you change your mind about the coffee, I’ll be around.” He jerks his chin toward the pack fly by the corner. “There, usually.”

Okay, nerd. Despite yourself, you can’t help but find the whole thing slightly hilarious. Then again, you find humor in the dumbest things. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You offer him a quick, half-hearted wave, trying (and failing) to mask your embarrassment with an exaggerated, too-casual show of nonchalance. It’s so painfully awkward, you can feel yourself internally dying from cringe. 

Without another word, you spin on your heel and start speed-walking away, practically running back to the safety of your personal space.

Smooth.

––––

It’s another relatively easy night at the bistro. You’re on the last two hours of your shift, and you’re carrying a single glass of roseberry mule to serve at table four. As you round the corner, you catch sight of a student, glasses perched low on her nose, completely absorbed in a thick coursebook on Programming Languages. Papers are scattered across the table, and she looks to be utterly engrossed in her readings, unaware of the world around her. 

You don’t want to bother her more than necessary, about to set the drink down on the only clear space—by the iPad propped up on a tablet holder to her right—when something red catches your attention.

A familiar pair of crimson eyes stops you dead in your tracks.

For a moment, you feel like you’re suspended in time. The sharp memory of a similar instance where you’re in her place, and he’s there, keeping you company while he’s polishing a gun burns through your brain, and you don’t–you can’t think—

You stand there, rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and unmoving. Then, the girl’s gaze shifts to you, and a hot flush spreads across her cheeks, betraying her surprise.

With swift fingers, she locks the screen with a quick flick on the power button, pulling you away and breaking you from the echoes of the past.

“Oh, shit,” she giggles, a nervous edge to her voice. “That’s embarrassing.” 

You shake your head, forcing yourself back to the present moment. “No—no, don’t worry about it,” you chuckle weakly, setting the drink down beside her with shaky hands. “Cute guy, honestly.”

That makes her giggle louder, her eyes bright with an almost conspiratorial glint. “Oh my god, you have no idea.”

Fuck—you can’t breathe.

––––

The night hangs thick with stifling heat, accompanied by the steady ticking of the clock as you catch your breath, your broken moans too loud in the heavy silence. The sheets cling to your feverish skin, damp and uncomfortable, as your body moves in a rhythm that feels unnatural now, but still—but always—familiar.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths as you force the draconic toy deep inside you. The heat, the fire—it licks at your skin, making your whole body yearn for more. To chase more of the feeling, to chase more of the memory of him. 

Errant strands of hair stick to your forehead, your chest flushed and burning, a quiet throb spreading through you with every friction, every desperate movement.

Your body aches, a relentless thrum urging you to push deeper, to find something—anything—to fill the gaping hole inside you, a wound you’ve tried to stitch shut over months, now threatening to tear its way open again, once more ripping from the seams. 

A sharp pressure builds inside you. Your body stretches too far, too much, struggling to take in what it can’t quite handle. It burns in a way that hurts, but you need it. You need to feel more, to fill the emptiness, to grasp at something that feels real.

“Yours, yours–” you tremble, desperate. “Yours. Just yours. Please.”

-

-

-

You lie in the wake of it—pleasure fading into something heavier, regret creeping in like a shadow, waiting as always.

“I miss you,” you whisper in the dark. You always do.

You try to ignore the pull of it, the sharp descent that comes with the high.

You were doing so well.

But it’s fine. You’re fine. 

Everything’s fine.

The words swirl and echo in your mind, until they’re swallowed by sounds that ring hollow. You let the moment wash over you, sinking beneath the weight of the tides, where sorrow and longing blur with the fleeting warmth of what you can’t keep.

Tomorrow will be another day. Another chance to try again.

For now, you let go of your grip on the fragile raft of sanity you’ve built, painstakingly, for months on end.

Tonight, you let yourself drown once more in the somber depths of loneliness and despair, confined within these four walls that feel—once more—like a penitentiary.

––––

The plane begins its slow descent, and through the window, the world comes into view—large swathes of land interrupted by winding roads that seem to follow no rhyme, nor pattern. A river glints faintly beneath the fading sun, while the sky turns a dull blue, a washed-out slate, streaked with the last embers of daylight.

Below, the small city stirs.

Tiny specks of color flicker to life, lanterns strung along the streets like beads on a thread, marking the season, an ending, and the inevitable turning of time. A chill hangs in the air, the wind whipping past you from the half-open window of the taxi, sharp and crisp in a way that you can only find in the province.

Your hometown. 

It all rushes past in a blur of light and shadow, an eclectic mix of old and new—some buildings unchanged, others unfamiliar, as if they’d sprung up in the years you’ve been away. It’s been a while since you last came back, long enough for the roads to feel... foreign, almost. Though muscle memory stirs when the car takes a turn. One you could have easily navigated even with your eyes closed.

Only your sister lives here now, her and her family—a couple of hundred miles far. Far enough to feel like another world, yet close enough for the past to catch up the moment you lay eyes on the old two-story house tucked away on the quaint cul-de-sac of this suburban neighborhood. 

The residential property was left to her, scrawled onto the title in an act of generosity, perhaps. Or maybe as a weight your mother never intended to carry, something meant to anchor her eldest child while she carved a different life for herself elsewhere. Free-spirited as she is, she left with the ease of someone shedding an old coat, slipping into the shoes of another, barely a glance over her shoulder.

But houses remember. And as you step out of the vehicle, your feet meeting the rough asphalt that once belonged to your childhood, you wonder if they remember you too.

"Maru, Maru!" Your five-year-old niece cries the moment she spots the grumpy feline peering through the mesh of his portable prison.

"What—no excitement for me too?" you tease, ruffling her hair. She giggles, scrunching up her nose.

"Auntie, hi! Hi!"

You snort at her enthusiasm, setting the carrier down. The second you pull at the zipper, Maru springs out, landing with a soft thud before stalking off with his usual air of disdain. Your niece shrieks with delight. 

"Ah! Cat!"

"Well, there go the chances of her socializing with her brother," your sister remarks dryly from the doorway, sauntering closer. "Hey, stranger."

"Hey," you greet, hoisting a handful of paper bags. "Where do I dump these?"

She eyes the bags. "Any of those for me?"

"You have three kids, and one of them insisted on a Lego set. Do you know how much those cost?" You shoot her a flat look. "You’re getting socks."

"Wow, stingy." She huffs but takes some of the bags anyway, hitching one onto her hip as she grabs your other hand-carry.

You step inside, and the house greets you with a riot of lights and color. Plastic tinsel and bright string lights drape across every visible surface—along the bannister, around doorways—leaving no space untouched by the festive chaos. A Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner, nearly buried beneath an avalanche of baubles and sentimental ornaments collected over the years.

The room feels swallowed by the exuberance of it all, an almost overwhelming jamboree of holiday cheer.

It’s gaudy, excessive, and completely over-the-top, but beneath it all, the bones of your childhood home remain unchanged—familiar in a way that settles deep in your chest. The Narra wood floors are still scuffed with the marks of time, there’s still the distinct tang of turpentine mixed with waxy resin and citrus you’ve long since associated with home, and the odd decorative masks still line the far wall, their painted expressions frozen mid-celebration.

Your eyes land on the canvas floater above the mantel—a whimsical cross-stitch of three women flying kites, their stitched dresses rippling in imagined wind. You remember it well, though you never quite understood why your mother had chosen that particular scene to painstakingly sew into existence. Still, it belongs here, another piece of the house's patchwork history.

Your gaze shifts to the couch, where Andrew, your sister's husband, is sprawled out, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the other holding his phone.

He flicks his gaze up at you, offering a half-hearted wave before turning back to whatever has him so absorbed on the screen. Beside him, your three-year-old nephew is perched on his knees, bouncing with energy as he mirrors Bluey's movements on the TV with exaggerated enthusiasm, his tiny arms flailing in childlike glee.

You sigh inwardly, rolling your eyes. Typical.

“There’s a few more hours before dinner. Want to hang out in the kitchen while I roast the ham?” She asks casually, setting down your bags by the foot of the stairs. “Actually, scratch that—you’re in charge of the punch.”

“You just want a head start on the drinks,” you tease, the banter flowing easily between you. “Hey, where’s the little squirt?”

She points toward the small crib, near the island counter. “She finally stopped crying, thank god. Don’t wake her up, or you’ll be the one in charge of putting her back to sleep.”

The two of you slip into the kitchen, where the air already carries the promise of dinner—cloves and brown sugar blending nicely with the lingering scent of citrus. A tray of ham sits on the counter, prepped and ready, the scored surface glistening under the fluorescent light. 

Your sister pulls a bottle of Luisita Oro Rum and Agimat Gin from the second-to-last cupboard and places them on the counter in front of you.

"Go ham," she quips.

You give her a flat look. "You think you’re funny.”

She shrugs, unfazed, and turns her attention back to where she’d left off before your arrival. 

The two of you fall into a natural rhythm, the kind that comes from years of cooking together. You work your way through cans of Del Monte, the metallic clinks filling the space as you drain the syrup and dump chunks of mixed fruit into the large punch bowl.

Your sister leans against the counter nearby, arms folded, her gaze fixed on the oven door, as if sheer willpower alone could make the meat cook faster.

In the background, the soft drone of the TV drifts in from the living room, punctuated by your nephew’s occasional giggles.

There’s no rush, no need to fill the silence with anything more than the occasional clink of utensils against glass and the low humming of kitchen appliances. The day is winding down to a close, and for now, everything is alright.

“So, Mom called,” she says casually, one arm braced on the counter as she leans in, glancing at you. “Kept calling, actually.”

“Mm.” You reply noncommittally, shaking the last can’s contents into the crystal bowl, watching as the fruit chunks bob lazily in the pool of alcohol.

“She’s worried about you.”

You don’t answer.

“She was. She is.” Her voice shifts, more serious now. She watches you closely, noting your lack of reaction. “You know that, right?”

Your fingers tighten around the can opener, but you pull your gaze away from the bowl. “I know.”

She sighs, resigned, already familiar with this song and dance. Familiar enough to know there’s no winning this one, not tonight. Not anytime soon. “I am too.”

You blink, before looking away. “Oh.”

And maybe she does worry—your mother. But any hope of truly knowing is swallowed by the chasm between you, the one that keeps your conversations at surface level, never breaching the depths beyond. 

Your body, born from hers, perhaps more alike than you realize, might have been brought into this world with the same pains that she’s carried. The pains of separation. The unresolved hurt of being unwillingly removed from your person—her former husband, your father—and that if you and your mother were closer, you could have opened up about your own situation. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t feel like a ship that has lost its ballast, drifting endlessly in the same turbulent seas for the longest time.

But you are your mother’s daughter, and she is her mother’s daughter. There is the truth that the women in your family are not the best communicators, nor do they wear their hearts on their sleeves. So you were born mute and overly sensitive. Pain drips from you, unnoticed, like a purposeless leak in the heart. You’ll carry it with you until you die.

“But you look… okay,” she observes, cocking her head. “Are you okay?”

You swallow. For the same reason you compare your mother to a storm you can't outrun and your sister to an intermittent drizzle, you find it easier to admit, “I haven’t… been okay for a while.” 

Not wanting to bring the mood down, especially on a day like today, you quickly add, “Things are better now, though.”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Could be a little more specific there, but I’ll take it.” She gives you an exasperatedly fond look. “You let me know if that changes anytime soon, ‘kay?”

Your lips quirk in the faintest semblance of a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

–

It’s ten minutes before midnight.

You’re leaning against the island counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, nursing a glass of the fruit punch (though it’s mostly gin, with the teensiest amount of fruit), watching your sister’s family at a distance as they eagerly wait for the clock to strike twelve. The blinds of the large living room window have been pulled up, giving an unobstructed view of the sky, ready for the first firework to light up the dark.

For a moment, you feel like an outsider, watching through a lens, as if you’re not quite part of the scene. There’s a strange sense of detachment—voyeuristic, almost—as though you're peering in on a private, intimate moment. 

Your sister cradles the infant in her arms, and that all-too-familiar pang stirs to life—the same one that always does when you look at her.

You can't quite place what you're feeling, exactly. It’s tumultuous, and it’s complex. Andrew’s practically dozing off in his seat, and you see your sister shake her head in mild annoyance. Your nephew, fighting to keep his eyes open, starts to fuss.

Something tightens inside your chest.

“Andrew,” she hisses, startling the man awake. He blinks, disoriented, before spotting their son and the early signs of an explosive tantrum.

He sighs, and pulls the boy closer to him. “Hey, hey, little guy. Look at the sky. In just a couple of minutes, the lights are gonna go boom-boom.”

Your nephew sniffs, his eyes blinking up at him as he processes the words. “Boom-boom?”

“Yeah! Just like the one we watched on TV!”

The kid’s face visibly perks up at that, bad mood quickly forgotten. “Boom-boom!”

You watch as your sister’s gaze softens, and a small smile replaces the earlier frown on her face.

And in that instant, you understand.

You look at your sister and, for a brief moment, all you see is a wretched mirror of yourself. She is all of your fears, all of your failures, and all of what you could’ve been rolled into one. Barely in her mid-thirties, and yet already carrying the weight of a family: three kids, a husband who feels like a faded echo of your father—a man who didn’t quite measure up, who never did, and just as unreliable. 

You feel the suffocating weight of it all, of being tied to a place that’s meant to be a home but feels more like a tomb, marking the passing of dreams unspoken. She’ll grow old here, buried in the same soil you both sprang from, fading into the landscape of this town that swallows its own.

You look at her and you almost feel the repressed pain of missing the last semester of college to give birth, the lament of a missed opportunity that life has stolen from her. 

You feel her pain as if it’s yours. You feel it in the marrow of your bones—her blood flowing through you. “3…” You look at her, and it feels like seeing someone bound, held down by an anchor around her foot, unable to break through the surface of freedom. You look at her and you see dreams once aglow, reduced to cinders. You look at her and see—

She glances up at you.

Oh. “2…” In the fleeting moment where your eyes meet—eyes you two share with your mother—you feel so small.

Just a kid. Shortsighted and unfairly dismissive. Too blind to see your sister’s quiet victories, too selfish to admit you’ve diminished them just to feel less alone about your own. A child grasping for meaning, unfair in the ways only children can be. “1…” And in the fraction of a second before midnight, it's as if you’ve been doused awake. 

You see her anew—what seemed like monotony is really the bedrock of stability; tenacity in place of routine. An almost single-minded doggedness to make something out of this life. You see the steadfast strength she possesses, the kind that gets her up every morning, to face the world and all its demands without question. With purpose. 

You see resilience. Compassion. Traits that you’ve always lacked, that you’ve long resented, the same traits your mother never learned to embody.

And now you see your niece in her arms, born from this, and you name the indescribable feeling that dwells in you—borne from the pure look of adoration in your sister’s eyes for her youngest daughter—as envy.

You know, with utmost certainty, that she will be okay, because she has your sister as her mother, and she is so, so loved.

As you watch them, something inside you shifts—a deep, aching realization. 

You see… home. Something you've always longed for but never truly found. “Happy new year!” The spell breaks. The two of you startle at the sudden eruption of fireworks, the distant chorus of car horns blaring from the streets outside.

Your niece and nephew jump and shriek, their laughter ringing through the room, celebrating something they barely understand but find joy in anyway. The baby in your sister’s arms lets out a wail at the commotion, and she is soothed instantly with murmurs of soft assurances. Her husband struggles upright—then, with no small amount of effort, leans forward to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

The image before you is far from perfect, but it’s theirs.

“Auntie, auntie!” The little rascals cry out in unison, their voices overlapping in excitement. “‘appy n’year!”

A breathless, almost pained laugh escapes you. Still, you smile as you respond with your own, “happy new year!”

You’re tired—tired of running, of measuring yourself against the ghosts of your past. Tired of carrying the weight of a childhood that’s left you with more questions than answers, of making excuses for wounds that should have healed long since. You've spent so much time mourning the growing pains, the irreparable, that you never stopped to see what’s in front of you. 

This moment, this realization, feels like the final missing piece in the fractured puzzle of who you are.

The new year arrives, marked by the crackle of fireworks and the loud cheer from your family.

This time, you won’t hesitate. You’ll choose to embrace the change, both good and bad, with open arms. With the quiet resolve of someone finally ready to move forward.

You lift your gaze just as a brilliant burst of red explodes into the night sky, its iridescent glow bleeding into a softer silver before fading into the dark. 

A warmth settles deep in your chest—bittersweet, but steady. A quiet peace.

Happy new year, my love. . . . . . . .

.

.

.

.

. . .

The air at the threshold of Vagrant’s land is restless. Volatile. A hazy distortion ripples through it, folding and unfolding, like a lost mirage—an area of transition between worlds. Porch collapse, he calls it. 

Sylus has stood here countless times, watching the way this anomalous disturbance twists the very fabric of this reality, how it flickers in and out of form, erratic. Impossible to predict. 

It had taken him longer than he likes to admit to understand the phenomena for what it’s truly worth. 

Not just an alternate space caused by some spartan energy field. Not just any other protofield. But a thread. A connection. A door. 

A fault line between realities, an entryway that hums with the possibility of you.

Since the moment the idea took hold, he had thought of little else. It has consumed him in every waking moment; his entire being seeming to bend toward a singular purpose—getting to you. He had torn through endless streams of data, followed every unstable pulse of energy, mapped its fluctuations down to the smallest inconsistency.

Nights bled into days, and days bled into weeks, until he can no longer keep track. Not that the passage of time meant much to him at this point. 

He’s worked tirelessly through the stillness, through the storms of uncertainty, through the aching silence left by your absence. Ever since you’ve exchanged your temporary goodbyes. 

He had measured everything he could—the unstable frequency of radio signals streaming through the interstice. He had traced the influx in real time; recording the rate of deterioration, isolating the waveform, and filtering out outside interferences. 

But for all the data he gathered, for all the precision in his calculations, the core of this phenomenon remained just out of reach. His knowledge on the matter is rudimentary at most. He could waste years observing for abnormalities, trying to decipher how its presence has disrupted the very threads of this universe, but the why and how of it all will still elude him. 

Still, theory matters less than function. He doesn’t need to understand the full depth of it. He only needs to harness it.

It’s a gamble.

Contrary to whatever reputation he’s earned for himself, Sylus has never been one to play his cards recklessly. He deals in certainties, in probabilities stacked in his favor, in risks that—while dangerous—are still within his grasp to control. He has never been the type to leap without knowing where he’d land.

But this is different.

He has never needed to, before. Never had a reason to throw himself into the unknown with no assurance of survival, no way to predict the outcome.

He had no reason to—until you.

Now, it matters less whether or not the odds of his survival are abysmal, that he has no precedent to follow. That your world might reject him entirely. None of it matters. Because if the choice is between staying and never reaching you, or plunging into the great, endless unknown—

He’ll take the leap, every time. Without hesitation. 

He’ll leave this world behind, step beyond the edges of everything that has ever defined him, and venture into lands unseen, uncharted. Unknown. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side. If he’ll make it there in one piece. If he will make it there at all.

Sylus has never really questioned why he’s the anomaly in this world. The curiosities of his existence are yours to ponder. After all, he finds that he doesn’t care much of the answer as much as he cares about being with you.

Because wherever you are—that is home. 

He takes a step forward, and the universe dissolves into a blinding light.

-

-

-

Sylus wakes to the sensation of weight.

Something presses on him heavily, sinking into his limbs like gravity itself is wrapping around him for the first time.

The ground beneath him is unfamiliar, uneven—tangible in a way he’s never felt before. His fingertips press into the damp earth, leaving the faintest imprint, yielding beneath his touch. The scent of soil rises around him; a rich, bitter brown. 

This world does not recognize him, yet it cradles him like its own all the same.

Above, the sky erupts.

Fireworks split open the night, streaks of color exploding and dissipating in an instant—too fleeting to hold, too bright to ignore. A flashbang of incandescent reds and fluorescent greens, followed by bursts of crackling gold and shimmering silver scatter into tiny pinpricks before fading into the darkness.

The air is heavier here, denser in a way that feels almost… alien. It clings to the contours of his new form, seeps into his lungs with every breath. 

And oh, how it burns. Not in pain, but in its sheer presence. It rushes into him not as mere oxygen but as something real. Something palpable. He’s lost in the sensation. 

He exhales. Then winces. 

Immediately, he feels it—the weakness. The brittleness of this new body. Gone is the invulnerability he once wielded so effortlessly, the certainty that nothing could touch him unless he allowed it. 

That certainty is gone now, stripped away the moment he crossed the threshold.

He is flesh and bone. Finite. Mortal.

A lesser man might have feared it.

But in the middle of this empty field, miles away from civilization, Sylus can only laugh. 

He tips his head back, reeling from the sheer impossibility of it all, eyes tracing the brilliant display above—as if committing it to memory, a coronation of sorts. Of existence. Of arrival. Of a life finally his own.

Reborn. And for the first time in his existence, he is alive.

––––

It’s summer—the summer that marks two years since he left. 

Two years. It’s enough time to feel the weight of it, but not enough to make the events feel like something that happened a lifetime ago. 

The seasons cycle once more, as they always do, pushing time forward with a steady, indifferent rhythm. And with that change comes a familiar pang—a bittersweet ache, neither grief nor regret, just the weight of knowing that nothing stays the same. Mono no aware. 

You’re closer to thirty now, and the thought doesn’t terrify you as much as it did before. Your hair’s in a pixie cut—short and sleek, although the edges are a little ragged from the half-assed trimming you gave it a few days ago. 

It would have made you feel stupid, once upon a time, for trying out something drastic for a new look. Instead, you just take it for what it is—one more thing you did because you wanted to. Like the rest of the choices you’ve made over the past two years. It’s yours. Uneven, impulsive, maybe a little questionable. But yours.

It’s liberating. Even if it makes your head look like a pencil. 

The voice—the one that picks at your face, your body, your thoughts, everything down to the last imperfection—never really shuts up. It’s quieter now, easier to ignore, but it still lurks in the background, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness. Maybe it always will. Maybe that’s just the price of being human.

But you don’t fight it anymore. You don’t let it drag you down to a breaking point. You carry yourself differently now, you'd say. No pep in your step just yet, but you don’t feel the need to drag your heels either. Literally and figuratively. 

The change has come in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh—but it’s there, marking you, marking the passage of time. Just like the earth, just like the seasons, you’ve shifted and grown. And perhaps that’s enough.

The sky is ablaze now, a deepening canvas of pinks and purples as the sun sinks lazily to the west. The fiery orange light spills through the large windows, bleeding into every corner of the room, and the world outside seems to slow, caught in the hour before dusk.

You’re behind the counter, wiping down plates with the kind of ease that comes from repetition, the motion so ingrained in you that it barely registers anymore. It’s all routine—the rhythm of it, the quiet hum of the bistro, the clinking of porcelain. The air is thick with the sticky smell of warm pastries, and it’s the sort of evening that feels almost liminal. A moment suspended in time.

You hear the soft tinkling of the door chimes, signaling the arrival of another customer. 

It’s a soft, unassuming sound, barely noticeable against the evening lull. You swipe your hands across your apron, turning on instinct, your mouth already forming the usual greeting. 

“Hi, welcome to—”

The words die in your throat.

It’s a slow unfolding—almost a gradual realization that stretches across the seconds like the last rays of sun dipping beneath the horizon. He stands in the doorway, a figure outlined in gold, and his presence fills the space between you, no barrier that separates, and it feels... impossible. Unimaginable. Inevitable. 

His height is the first thing you notice. He’s taller than you expected, and you know he’ll tower over you, even at a distance. His hair is dark now, the color of midnight, almost—not the silver you once traced with your fingers in your mind. The cut is still similar to what you’ve always known it to be, though a little more unkempt, as if he’s lived in this body long enough for it to take on its own wear.

Then his eyes. The red is gone—no longer the shade of crimson that used to see right through you, those sanguine pools you once loved. In its place, a stormy grey, deep and impossibly expressive, pulling you in like an undertow. The color is striking, alien in its own way, yet there’s a warmth buried beneath it—and the familiarity of it tugs at you.

Even with the changes, even though you’ve never met the person standing in front of you, you’ll know him anywhere. 

There’s a shift in the room, a subtle, yet unmistakable change in the air. It’s as if the whole bistro has drawn in a breath—and you with it. Time stretches thin, each passing second expanding into what feels like an eternity.

Your eyes lock—and for a moment, nothing else exists. 

It’s as if the world has shifted off its axis. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s as though a piece that’s always been missing has finally snapped into place.

Something settles in you, something foreign and indescribably familiar at the same time.

Sylus smiles.

“Hello, my love. Have I kept you waiting?”

It feels like home. 

____

“Now I found myself this kind of love, I can't believe it I'll never leave it behind I thought I'd never get to feel another fucking feeling But I feel— This love, this love, this love Oh, I feel it.”

End A/N: So this is done! Wow! I'm kind of proud of myself for writing something this long in the span of, idk, three months? Basically, the entire duration of my "vacation" back home. Now, with another term and a busier schedule coming up, I really wanted to finish this series before life catches up to me. *sobs* Anyway, I'm so, so happy about the reception of this fic, and you've all been so sweet :') Again, thank you for reading! I'll see you in the spin-off, or whatever shit I put out next haha <3 Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira

[nabexis]

So like. Did anyone else notice that Jayce doesn't immediately shoot Viktor? He only powers his hammer on AFTER Viktor has opened his eyes. Below is Jayce's reaction to seeing Viktor (his Viktor, from his universe, not the future version of him) for the first time after walking into the dome. For the first time in months. That's like. A look of wonder. Almost reverence.

Assuming the Jinx/Rictus/Vander fight is cut to real-time after Jayce has gone into the dome, he's staring at Viktor for like. 5 minutes.

My interpretation here, of Jayce's expression just before Viktor finally opens his eyes to see Jayce in the room with him, he's committing Viktor to memory, before he has to kill him.

Edit: I almost missed it but like. HE IS SMILING For like 2 frames it's an outright smile. He leans in towards him, too. I cannot handle this.

[cimicherrychanga]

btw u guys have to promise to not be mad at me for becoming ur turtle mutual. please

[citrusipop]

image captured by hand . cho hyun-ju

hyun-ju catches you glancing at her and back to that little book of yours, curiosity feeds her as she wonders what is inside.

a.n . i am so sorry if it's been awhile since i've written something, writer's block and the fact college season is back is driving me nuts. i hope you enjoy this short little(longish) story!

It was a lazy afternoon in Hyun-Ju’s shared apartment. Her head rested against the warm windowpane as she gazed at the endless blue sky, her thoughts drifting. The gentle breeze carried the sound of children’s laughter below, blending with the melody of seashell chimes swaying nearby.

Across from her, you sat with your sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil scratching against paper. Your hand moved with quiet determination, stealing glances at your girlfriend as sunlight framed her peaceful beauty. Each glance inspired you to capture her essence, pouring it into your work.

Noticing your looks, Hyun-Ju tilted her head, a curious smile tugging at her lips. “What’re you doing, hun?” she playfully teased, her eyes studying you. Hidden behind the sketchbook, you hummed distractedly, too focused to notice her pout.

“Y/nnnnn,” she whined, leaning in close until her face was near yours.

“Loveeee,” you mimicked her tone, quickly snapping your sketchbook shut. The thought of her seeing your sketches filled you with nervousness—what if she thought it was weird?

Her eyes flicked to the sketchbook. “What’re you drawing?” she asked, her voice warm with curiosity.

“Just… something. Nothing too detailed,” you replied, heart racing as you tried to keep your secret.

Hyun-Ju’s almond-shaped eyes sparkled with interest. “Can I see? I’m sure it’s amazing,” she said warmly.

Her compliment melted your hesitation. You weren’t confident in your art, being self-taught and wary of criticism, but hearing encouragement from someone you loved made you reconsider.

“I don’t know, you might not like it,” you trailed off, your eyes avoiding hers.

“Please love, I want to see…You never show me what’s in that little book of yours.” She pleaded, giving you those irresistible puppy eyes of hers.

God, that adorable look of hers made you want to give in, but those nagging insecurities held you back, hijacking any chance of Hyun-Ju seeing your sketchbook. Your mind turned into a courtroom, arguments flying back and forth as you debated with yourself. Yet, when you glanced at her again, the genuine curiosity in her eyes was impossible to ignore. She truly cared about what you were creating.

And so, you gave in.

With a sigh, you hesitantly handed her the light orange book. As her hands brushed yours, taking the sketchbook, it felt like you’d handed over a piece of your soul. The weight of it left your hands, but the anxiety remained. You quickly averted your gaze as she opened it, your heart pounding in your chest.

You prayed she wouldn’t say anything mean, regretting your decision almost immediately. The silence was unbearable, every second stretching endlessly. Your mind spiraled, conjuring the worst scenarios. What if she hated it? What if she thought your art was ugly? Doubts clashed in your head, each one louder than the last, waging a war you couldn’t escape.

All your worries drifted away when she say, “Love, you never told me you can draw this….it’s amazing!” Hyun-ju’s eyes gleamed with stars as she flipped through more of your artworks. “How are you so talented? Your sketches are so well detailed and clean!” Her eyes gleamed with astonishment. She was utterly speechless, no words could form as she was so enthralled by the beauty of the images you drew. You. Her girlfriend, an amazing artist. In her mind such talent is worth sharing.

“How could you hide this talent of yours?”

“I just don’t see the point of showing it to others….”

Hearing your words, Hyun-Ju rolled her eyes playfully and pinched your cheek lightly. “It’s worth showing it to me,” she insisted, emphasizing the “me” with a teasing smile as she continued flipping through the pages.

Her fingers paused on a bookmarked page, and her eyes widened when she saw it—a drawing of herself. A bright smile spread across her face as she admired the intricate details. You had captured her perfectly, from the curve of her smile to the sparkle in her eyes. Most of the sketches showed her smiling, and she couldn’t help but feel warmth bloom in her chest.

Laying her head on your crossed leg, she lifted the sketchbook to show you the drawing, her expression filled with pride and affection.

You felt your heart swell and your confidence grow from her praise. Never in your life had anyone shown such genuine love for your work, and it filled you with a newfound motivation to keep drawing. Smiling softly, you ran your fingers through her hair as she pointed out more sketches, her voice laced with admiration.

Looking up at you, Hyun-Ju smirked mischievously. “You should draw Jeong-Hyeok and give it to me,” she teased, pointing at a blank page with a playful finger.

“No,” you replied firmly, shaking your head.

“But love, please? You have the power to draw anything,” she pleaded, her tone both sweet and dramatic, making you roll your eyes and chuckle at her antics.

[vhyunjinverse]

BABY DADDY .ᐟ

f!reader x toji fushiguro (18+)

summary : “Fuck you Toji!” “Fuck me..? FUCK YOU.” God you hated him so much.

warnings : toji calls reader a bitch and finds out, slapping, reader cries, sex while pregnant, slight angst, a cute little fic

“..It should be “Thank you, Toji. Oh i just love you so much.”

He looks at your angry face, scar rising as he couldn’t hold back the cocky smirk. His eyes trail down to your little round belly, four months swollen. “Thank you? Thank you? I’m fuckin pregnant dumbass!”

“Nothing wrong with ya carryin my seed. You can take a break from work for 9 months. Calm the fuck down.” He grumbles, grabbing a cigarette from his pocket. “Calm down? I can’t just take months off- I model dumbass.”

“And you modeled for me one day and look what happened, I knocked you up.” Not to mention the engagement ring you wore. You’ve been together for almost three years he’s head over heels for you. “Calm the hell down.” He’s reaching over to pat you on your head. “Gonna give ‘Gumi the crazies.”

“No- you don’t understand. I don’t wanna become a housewife-“

“I wanna still be the model I was- no—you don’t get it Toji you’re a man— baby. We have this chat once a month.” He quotes you almost perfectly. Smoke leaving his lips. “Quit yr’ bitchin-“ SLAP !the sound loud ringing in your ears, hand colliding with his face faster than you’ve ever moved before.

“Fuck you Toji!”

“Fuck me..? FUCK YOU.” God you hated him so much. Your eyes watered, but you were a strong little thing. That’s what Toji liked about you..one of many things. Like how when you first met he was just a guy in the crowd watching you strut down the aisle, smirk on his face as he sketched in a notepad. An artist he wanted to be..you learned that after getting to know him. Your eyes glance over to the notepad page, framed on your wall but showing signs of age.

You also thought of what he actually was..the son of your boss. He didn’t have much money when you met, looks could always fool you..so sweet you were. That didn’t bother you much though. It wasn’t his fault his father blocked his success. His art, your love. You watch as Toji puts out the cigarette, cursing to himself as he started to walk away from you.

“Wh- don’t walk away from me we’re not done.” You follow him. He sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Yes we are.”

“No we’re not-“

“I’m not gonna keep doing this every month. We had time to..we decided to keep the baby and now you’re complaining about the damn kid!” He turns to you, blue eyes staring sadly at your brown ones. Instinctively reaching down to graze your cheek. “I know you don’t like it mama..” he murmurs. You sniffle softly, leaning into the touch you fell in love with. Your eyes close as he felt closer. His lips grazing over your chin and neck. Toji’s hands wrapped around your body.

He held you both. “It’s your fault.” you sob into his embrace. He couldn’t hold back the small smile littering his lips. “Takes two ta tango?” he wipes your eyes, kissing the tears away. “Mhm..” you found yourself sniffling. He rubbed over your swollen belly. “Gumi be nice to mama alright? Stressin’ her out.” He whispers to the baby.

“M’sorry..” He whispers again, his strong hands guiding you into his body. “How could I be so bad? Getting such a perfect little thing knocked up..filled up with my baby. How could I have done such a thing..” He coos.

He leans up to kiss your lips, thumb swiping at the fallen tears. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, y’know?” Toji stands up straight, bringing your body into his. He rubbed your back while you cried softly into his chest, how you wrapped your arms around the love of your life…he was everything. He knew you meant no harm, he also knew to watch his mouth but still failed. “You’re going to be perfect- we’re gonna be a perfect lil family okay?”

“Cmere mama..” He had you trapped. You loved him too fucking much to let go.

“Be gentle.” You had huffed. “Damnit I am- shut up.” He had huffed back, playful smile on his lips while the thick head of his cock slipping between your folds. Toji held back while you were pregnant- he had no choice- being the rough guy that he was. It’s how you go here in the first place, hell. The scar on his lips danced as he moaned softly, bottoming out. He didn’t go in all the way, though. His tongue lapped at your growing breast. Nipples being flicked by his tongue, hips still.

“Missed this..” you close your eyes, breathing softly while he started to move. His hands were on either side of your head, tightly fisted the sheets. You could tell he was doing his best not to pound you. “Mm..” Your head relaxes on the big pillow beneath your head. Toji’s face tucks into your neck, cock slipping out past your ring. He was a mess. The cum that leaked should be a crime. You’d tease him about it later. He slips back in just as easily, biting down gently on your neck. “Gonna take care of you, alright?” He mumbles.

“Yeah yeah.”

[eringobragh420]

🖤 Pairing — Damian Priest ♥︎ f!Reader 🖤 Summary — Damian’s fiancée receives a head injury during a match resulting in amnesia. (Part 4/5) 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 🖤 Word Count — 3.5k 🛑 Warnings — Fingering (f receiving) 🖤 Notes — Spanish translations at the end of the story provided by Google Translate. 🖤 Taglist — In the comments. If you’d like to be added, please click here!  🖤 MASTERLIST

DAY FOUR — CHRISTMAS EVE

A string of headaches kept you confined to your bedroom most of the day and into the evening on Christmas Eve. Your head had been sore from the fall itself off and on since leaving the hospital, but this was the first day you’d experienced throbbing pain encompassing your entire brain. You and Damian had been invited to an annual holiday party thrown by friends and colleagues, an event, you were told, you’d attended every year since the very first invitation, but Damian turned them down. They’d understood, multiple messages coming through wishing you a swift and successful recovery, and you’d asked Damian to thank them, whoever they were. You’d then rolled over, pressing your back to his side, using his bicep as a pillow, falling asleep quickly with a mouth open and ready to drool.

You awoke sometime later, reaching to the opposite side of the bed, Damian’s side, because you didn’t feel his warmth against you anymore—it was empty and cold. Opening your eyes, there was a soft lamp lit in the corner of the room, the television softly playing yet another Christmas movie. Decorations were scattered throughout the room, but nothing compared to the living room, and you took your time to sit up in bed. Your head, for the first time today, was essentially pain free. You felt a throb here and there, but they were tolerable.

What wasn’t tolerable was the fact that your memories were still avoiding you like the plague. You and Damian both thought you were making progress when you recognized Archie, but it hadn’t gone much further since. You’d spent yesterday going through your closet, touching your clothes, even putting some of them on, and doing the same to your shoe collection, which was quite extensive. When that didn’t work, you wandered throughout the house, passing your fingers over various surfaces, stopping to stare at photos or works of art. Nothing.

Rubbing your eyes, you considered the stress from the day before as the culprit for the headaches today. The turning of the bathroom doorknob stole your attention, and when you looked, those tired eyes of yours were instantly awake and alert, vision as sharp as it had ever been. Steam billowed out first, followed by a Puerto Rican god who looked like he was stepping straight out of an 80s music video. Again, his hair was soaked, curly and down, a few strands framing his handsome face, but he was shirtless, every muscle on display accentuated by tiny rivers slithering down each chiseled dip and valley. And as your eyes continued southward, you were rather disappointed to find a towel slung loosely around his trim hips, low enough to show off his drool-worthy Adonis belt and tight enough to leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. Your thighs rubbed together like you were a fucking cricket, your pussy instantly responding to the surprising friction, and you wrapped your arms around yourself before you brought your breasts into the equation.

So much attention you were giving to Damian below his neck that you had no idea he’d been watching you the entire time you’d been watching him. And when your eyes met after what was probably an inappropriate amount of time of staring, you thought you should feel embarrassed and ashamed, that you should have looked away and melted into a puddle of self-pity. But you never took your gaze off him, your respirations increasing as your arousal did the same.

“See something you like?” Damian rumbled playfully. Oh, you really, really saw a lot of things you liked, and you gasped when he bent an elbow and flexed a bicep.

Swallowing, you replied with a surprisingly steady voice, “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he chuckled. “Damn, that hurts, gatita.”

You shrugged. “Stupid questions deserve stupid answers.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed and he regarded you for a moment. You’re coming back to me, he thought. Slowly, but you’re coming back to me. “Well, I’m happy to stand here as long as you need,” he boasted.

Leering at your fiancé, the words came tumbling out of your mouth before you had the chance to think about them. “Well, since you’re just gonna stand there and look like … that … why don’t you tell me … about our sex life?” You expected embarrassment or a raging blush from one or both of you, but neither occurred.

Damian’s brows rose, smirk playing at his plump lips. He strutted toward you, your eyes exploring every inch of his body, curiously unashamed to be doing so in such a blatant manner. “I already told you sex is about 90% of our relationship,” he started. “It’s really … difficult for us to keep our hands off each other.” He was nearing the bed, and you were moving to your knees without noticing. “And we’ll do it anywhere,” he went on. “The beach, backstage at a show, fancy restaurant—” Oh, boy, did you want to hear that story, but you weren’t about to stop this one. “I am … madly, desperately, in love with you, and I can’t help but wanna show you every second of every day.” He was close enough you could feel his heat and smell the freshness of the shower, and you could even reach out and trace those Vs disappearing into his towel if you really wanted to. “And I really can’t help it that my love language is fucking.”

Your gaze rose to meet his, and the fire in his eyes was enough to set you ablaze. “What’s your favorite way to fuck me?” you whispered, not even considering your words before speaking.

Damian’s brows rose and he chuckled under his breath. “Uh … I love it when you ride me. I love looking at your pretty face when you use me to make yourself cum.”

You bit your lip. “What’s my favorite?” you whispered.

Your fiancé took one step closer, and the bed shook when his legs came in contact with it. Your fingers itched to touch him—trace every single plane, ridge, and valley of his body, scratch your nails along his skin—while your lips screamed to kiss his tattoos and your mouth salivated thinking about licking every inch of him. Fuck, you wanted him bad, and yes, you’d always found him attractive, but you hadn’t wanted to wrap yourself around him as much as you did this instant.

Damian had no earthly idea what was happening—he was only here for it. He knew you still didn’t know him, but the physical attraction was very clearly still in play. He was semi-hard already, doing nothing to hide it, but he had no intention of acting on it. He felt like he would be taking advantage of you in some way. However, on the other hand, he decided, you were a grown woman, capable of making your own decisions. Your memories had been effected by the head injury, your personality only mildly, but nothing else. So he was prepared to let you drive this evening, and if it led to something intimate, he would do everything in his fucking power to make sure you remembered every moment for the rest of your life.

“You love it when I bend you over,” he rumbled, leaning down to just graze the stubble of his beard along your cheek, his words ghosting across your ear, sending a shiver down your spine—a shiver so violent, you gasped. “So I can spank your ass.” Your eyes rolled back before closing, your tongue passing over your lips. “And I can grab a handful of that hair and just …”

You pulled back—the second scraping of his beard on your skin opening the dam in your pussy—though not very far. Your noses touched, and Damian’s hand came up, thumb caressing your cheek bone. He was dying to kiss you, absolutely suffocating, but he refused to put pressure on you. Whatever was happening was happening at your pace and direction.

“Just …?” you breathed, eyes boring into his. You didn’t care if he finished his story anymore or not, you simply needed his lips on yours, but you weren’t sure you could make the first move.

Damian smirked. “—watch that back arch,” he went on, “listen to you beg for it … faster … harder …”

“Christ, Damian, just kiss me,” you sighed, sounding a little more frenzied than you would have liked, but it did the job.

His perfect lips collided with yours a little uncomfortably, but the hunger was too overwhelming. His strong arms wrapped around you as yours snaked around his neck. He tasted like toothpaste and a flavor indescribable—all you knew was you needed more, more, more. He teased your swollen lips with the tip of his tongue, and you instantly granted him entrance into your mouth. More of that zest, and his tongue was even more talented than you’d anticipated, simply exploring every corner of your mouth. At one point, your lips detached, but your tongues continued to flick against one another, and you sighed, hands sliding down his firm chest. You wanted him. You wanted him so bad, but should you really fall into bed with someone you technically didn’t know? Yes, you had a history, but you didn’t remember it, save for Archie and the muscle memory that correlated to Damian’s birthday.

Fucking hell, did you overthink this much before the head injury? Just go with it, you told yourself. You wanted him, he clearly wanted you, and there was nothing wrong with either fact.

As if reading your mind—or maybe he could feel the shift in the atmosphere—he severed the electrifying connection of your lips and tongues, pressing your faces together as you both caught your breath. “We can stop,” he panted, hot, minty breath rushing over your skin. “I don’t wanna—” 

“Don’t stop,” you breathed, all but clawing at his chest. “Please don’t stop.” 

What kind of fiancé would Damian be if he didn’t obey his future wife, he mused. The kissing continued as he delicately laid you back on the bed, the towel around his waist still somehow maintaining its position. He made a split-second decision to not try to fit between your legs—what if you closed them? Or worse, what if it killed the mood entirely and you never felt comfortable with him this way again? Instead, he laid his big body next to yours, so talented and capable as to get you into a cozy position without once breaking the kiss or even accidentally pulling your hair.

You didn’t remember ever kissing him before, but there was also a feeling of nostalgia—maybe your brain didn’t remember, but your body did. You and Damian were in sync as far as where and when your hands touched the other, or where your kisses landed, or how easily it was to find one another’s spots. You had no idea it was there, but your lips latched onto the junction at Damian’s neck and shoulder, and the man threw his head back and roared like a goddamn lion. You giggled, grabbing a handful of his wet hair so you could bring his mouth back to yours, and suddenly it was as if you had unleashed an animal inside him. He pulled you closer to him, on your side, and his hand grabbed your ass, squeezing, before it slid south to your thigh, which he then yanked over his hip.

Yes, you wanted this. Well, you had wanted this. Without warning, things had gotten out of hand. You’d begged him not to stop, that was true, but you’d been referring to the kissing, and, considering your current position, you probably should have made that a bit clearer. You worried he would be upset, possibly even angry, but you weren’t ready. Not for this.

“Wait,” you breathed, pressing a hand to his chest, severing the kiss at the same time. So many scenarios played in your mind within seconds—one where he didn’t stop, one where he stopped and was pissed off, one where he stopped and got embarrassed, one where he stopped and—

He looked at you, transparently shocked, and he held up a hand. You wondered briefly if raising his hand was some sort of defense mechanism or something he did because he thought it calmed you down? He took a few breaths as you carefully removed your leg from his hip, backing up only a little so he didn’t think you feared him because you truly didn’t, but you needed to put some distance between your body and his impressive erection tenting the towel.

“I’m so sorry,” he finally exhaled.

“No,” you said, “it’s me.”

“I thought—”

“I know. That’s my fault. I didn’t mean to—” 

“I would never—” 

“Okay, stop!” you interrupted maybe a little more aggressively than you had anticipated, and you weren’t trying to just stop him from talking. “I wanted this, Damian.” You cradled one side of his face, his eyes downcast, looking everywhere but at you. “I do want this. I just … I don’t know if I’m ready for …”

Damian nodded, still not meeting your gaze. He’d gotten carried away, he knew that as soon as he’d grabbed your leg. He hadn’t been able to control himself, which was no excuse—what kind of person did that make him? What kind of a man? What kind of a fiancé? You and he had taken so many steps forward—how many would this incident cost you? 

“I wanna keep kissing you,” you continued breathlessly, and this finally brought his eyes to yours. “I mean … I kinda feel like I wanna kiss you forever. And it doesn’t make sense to me. Well, it does, but it doesn’t. I’m sorry, I’m probably just babbling. I—I just … I want you, Damian.” His petrified irises instantly softened and he raised his hand to cover yours on his face. “But—”

“Listen,” Damian gently, thankfully, interfered in your chaotic ramblings. Your mouth clamped closed. “I understand. We both kinda …” You stared at him, hanging on every word, fully prepared to dissect each one. “But … and I’m just putting this out there. Feel free to say no or slap me or send me to the couch or all of the above.” He smirked, though your heart tingled a bit at the preface. “If you want to, there are … plenty of other ways for me to … make you feel good.” His rich tone, that smoke on velvet timbre, was one hundred percent successful in relaxing your body to its very core. He scooted a bit closer, moving much like molasses, which you assumed was him giving you every opportunity to push him away. Your head tilted, though, as you became enchanted by Damian’s chocolate eyes, his nose grazing your cheek, and there was that sensation of sedation again. 

“I could use one of your toys on you,” he suggested. Your eyes fluttered as you played that particular image in your mind. “Or I could use my fingers …” You noticed his hands weren’t even on you at this point—just the tip of his nose still kissing your cheek, which you nuzzled back against him. “I could use my mouth …”

“Your fingers,” you decided without thinking. He pulled away to meet your eyes. “I can’t stop kissing you, but I want—”

His mouth claimed yours, putting you and your incoherency out of its misery, and he lowered you back to the mattress. You found that perfect harmony again so easily, lips moving in unison, tongues trading dominance, and he swallowed your groan as his hand snuck under your shirt, splaying across your belly. His skin was so hot and rough, a stark contrast from the smooth, cool rings on his fingers. He left his hand there a moment, and you assumed he was testing the waters. You tugged at his bottom lip with your teeth, granting the unasked question, and his hand finally started moving south.

“If you want me to stop,” Damian mumbled against your lips.

“I know,” you whispered, tugging his mouth back to yours.

His hand continued on, fingers slipping under the waistband of your panties, and you were suddenly so incredibly thankful you’d shaved recently. Damian’s middle finger slid down and between your folds, slipping around your clit, and your back arched every bit of three feet off the bed. More or less. Damian sighed, the sound laced with relief, as his fingers continued making slow circles around the bundle of nerves that had you coming utterly unglued.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Damian mumbled into your mouth. “I was worried you wouldn’t …” He trailed off.

You clutched his jaw, pushing him away just enough to look him dead in the eye. “Me too,” you whispered, “but clearly—” You glanced down at his length, which was still poking impressively against the towel. You had an urge to just lift the towel and confirm what you already knew to be true—that he was huge, and you’d probably made the right decision avoiding letting him inside you—but you didn’t. “—we were both worried about nothing.”

He kissed you again, stealing a moan and a sigh, giving one in return when you rolled her hips against his fingers. That long, thick middle finger of his skidded further down your clit until your pussy all but absorbed it. Your jaw dropped, a feminine whine escaping your lips, and you had one arm around Damian’s neck and the other hand was cupping his face, holding him as closely to you as was physically possible. He chuckled wickedly as he curled his finger, effortlessly finding another spot, sending your back arching again. You couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this for you—you couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done it for you, including yourself—but you knew deep down, somewhere, that Damian did it the best. He was attentive, talented, with many tricks up his sleeve with regard to finger movement and placement as well the fine art of kissing. He had only one goal: to make you cum as hard as he ever had before, and if he continued the way he was, that would happen sooner rather than later.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, the irony of those two words not lost on you. “Please.”

“I got you, sweet girl,” Damian promised, simply petting and teasing that spot within you like he’d been there before, many, many times. He kissed your lips before moving to your cheek, earlobe, and neck. “Te tengo.” You didn’t know what he meant, but you wanted to hear him say it for the rest of your life, and your hips seemed to agree as they undulated, rolling in ways you didn’t even know you were capable of. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you gasped suddenly. Surely you’d never reached orgasm this quickly before, but there it was, building deep within your belly, tightening your lower back as your hips accelerated. “Please, Damian, I’m gonna cum …” 

“Yes,” Damian sighed, burying his face in your neck just in case he started blubbering like a fool right before he made you cum. You knew his name, yes, he’d heard you say it since the injury, but nothing compared to the breathlessness with which you moaned it during such an intimate moment. 

“Fuck,” you squeaked, your fiancé’s thumb flicking at your clit, and with each flick you repeated the obscenity. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

And just before you did, you lifted Damian’s face to yours so you could secure his lips, and therefore secure the impending mindblowing orgasm. You couldn’t recall the last time you’d cum, but you’d bet your life savings—wait, did you even have savings?—that this was the ultimate orgasm. The best you’d ever had. The wettest you’d ever been.

Speaking of wet … Damian delicately removed his fingers from your pussy, the squelching of your juices the loudest sound in the entire universe, just before the sound of the waistband of your panties smacking against your skin. Your lips separated with an equally lewd noise and you watched with blown pupils as he lifted his soaked hand to his mouth, his own black eyes meeting yours. “Do you mind?” he growled.

You licked your lips, blinking. “Only if you share.”

Damian tilted his head before shaking it, smirking, and he tapped the drenched tip of his middle finger along your lower lip. You sucked the digit into your mouth, tasting him, tasting you, tasting the flavor that was both of you, twisting your tongue in every direction to make sure you didn’t leave a drop behind. Once you had the finger completely clean of your delicious—if you did say so yourself—essence, he pulled his thumb into his mouth, the one that had been massaging your aching clit, and his cheeks hollowed. You’d never seen anything sexier (that you could remember) than Damian Priest, your fiancé, sucking your cum off his own thumb.

“So sweet,” he mumbled, your lips coming together in something soft, something needy, something electric, and something goddamn addicting.

── .✦ Gatita — Kitten ── .✦ Te tengo — I've got you

[cece693]

mano mažylė (Father! Hannibal Lecter)

Felt like writing something angsty and then combined with my obsession of the Hannibal tv show, I questioned what it would be like for a child to be raised by Hannibal. A tiny snot covered child who is scared of the dark but as they grow up realize their father is a cannibalistic serial killer....or maybe not?

Summary: How would things turn out if Hannibal raised a child on his own? Not that good.

tags: Hannibal is a father, he's a flawed person, mistakes are made, running away, Abigail is still hated by me so she'll be an antagonist, maybe a part 2 is on it's way

The world believed you were God’s favorite, born into privilege as the only child of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. But you knew better. You loathed him. Loathed the man who shared half your DNA while the other half remained a shadow, an enigma lost to time.

It hadn’t always been this way. As a child, you adored him. You wanted his approval, his praise, his love—simple things every child should receive without question. But Hannibal Lecter had never been a good father. Not in the way that mattered.

He excelled at maintaining appearances. Your clothes were immaculate, your education rigorous, your home a work of art. Yet, for all his brilliance and sophistication, Hannibal seemed incapable of the simplest acts of fatherly affection. He never hugged you, not once in your memory. He never showed kindness that didn’t come with calculated precision, and he certainly never sought to enjoy the small, fleeting moments between a father and child.

The small drawings you'd create for him—depictions of the two of you together, your childish hand scrawling smiles and hearts—would be shoved into his desk drawer without a second glance, never hung on the walls or displayed on the fridge like other parents might. When you cried after a particularly bad nightmare, he would send you back to your room with a simple wave of his hand, his attention already elsewhere. No comfort, no embrace, no whispered assurances that it was only a dream.

Nothing you did ever produced an ounce of affection from him. But his place in Baltimore's social circle? That was another matter entirely. He prioritized his social image over the bond you craved. Dinners with influential guests, exquisite banquets, and whispered conversations about art and philosophy filled the house while he'd dismissed you to your room. The door would shut with a firm finality, his deep voice ringing with calm authority: “Go upstairs.”

Even as a child, you felt the sting of that rejection. The lavish dinners he painstakingly prepared were not for you. The carefully cultivated relationships he cherished were more valuable to him than the one he should have been building with you. You were an accessory in his meticulously curated life, a piece of his narrative rather than a person to be loved.

The resentment you buried for years began to boil over when Hannibal brought Abigail Hobbs into your home. For reasons you couldn’t understand, he treated her differently. He gave her his time, his attention—things you had long since stopped hoping for. Hannibal had even invited her into his sacred space—the kitchen. You watched from the doorway, unseen but seething, as he guided her hands on a knife, showing her how to properly julienne vegetables, his voice soft and patient. It was a thing you had only observed from afar, never experienced.

And then came the final blow—the moment that shattered the thin thread holding your heart together. You watched as Hannibal embraced Abigail, his arms wrapping securely around her small frame. One hand cradled the back of her head, his touch tender and protective, as if she were the most fragile thing in the world.

Where was this Hannibal when you needed him? Where had this version of him been when you were the child longing for his love?

You couldn’t stay. Not in that house. Not with the reminder of what he was capable of giving but had chosen not to give to you. So, you ran. You left without looking back, vowing to never forgive him for the years of cold detachment, for the love he had withheld, for the way he made you feel like an afterthought in your own life.

For Hannibal, destruction was all he knew. It was an art, a purpose, a calling. But the day he first gazed upon you—his child, swaddled in soft blankets, your tiny hand grasping his shirt—something unfamiliar stirred within him. Adoration. Pride. Perhaps even love, though he would never admit it, not even to himself.

He had never envisioned himself as a father. For all his meticulous planning, the idea of parenthood had been an abstraction, an unthinkable detour from the life he had carefully constructed. Yet, when the mother of his child informed him of your existence, a quiet certainty settled over him: you were his.

He killed her shortly after. It was nothing personal—just necessity. Hannibal Lecter did not share. He would not allow anyone else to claim you, to influence you, to take you from him. You were his blood, his creation, and that meant you belonged to him entirely.

Still, Hannibal recognized his own darkness. He knew the shadows that lingered in his mind, the hunger that defined him, were no place for an innocent child. For all his pride, a part of him hoped you would never become like him. He wanted to preserve your purity, your light, even if it meant keeping a careful distance. So, when he saw you gaining independence—first as an inquisitive toddler, then as a fiercely determined child—he began to step back. Slowly, deliberately.

He ensured you were safe and had everything you needed to prosper. The finest tutors, the best schools, the most luxurious comforts. Yet, he withheld what you truly craved: love, warmth, and connection. He refused to give you what might make you look deeper, what might tempt you to uncover the cracks in his mask. He feared that if you saw the real him, you would recoil in terror. And Hannibal, for all his control and detachment, could not bear the thought of you fearing him.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t fond of you. Quite the opposite. Hannibal cherished you in his own way, quietly and from a distance. All the small drawings you made for him as a child—brightly colored stick figures of the two of you, accompanied by phrases like “Me and Daddy!” or “Best Dad in the World!”—he carefully kept. He never displayed them, of course. That would have disrupted the pristine aesthetic of his home. Instead, he tucked them into a leather folder, hidden away in his bedroom.

When you were away at school, he would pull them out. Alone in the quiet of his space, he would trace the lines of your messy handwriting, pausing over the parts where you had clearly erased and rewritten to make it perfect. Those small, clumsy marks filled him with something unnameable—an ache that he would not call regret but might have been close to longing.

It was those words—Best Dad in the World—that kept him firm in his decision. He would not let the innocence in you fade. He would shield you from the world’s horrors and, more importantly, from his own.

But then he brought Abigail Hobbs into their house, and everything crumbled.

Hannibal had known it would stir some jealousy. Abigail was, after all, an interloper in your space, stealing his attention. He imagined it would be a passing irritation, something that could be soothed with time. What he failed to anticipate was how deeply her presence would cut. Abigail was not like you. She wasn’t innocent. Her father’s sins had already tainted her, and that darkness—the one she carried so naturally—was something Hannibal understood, even appreciated.

He allowed himself to envision a future: Abigail as your sister, a young woman who could carry the weight of his world without breaking. He imagined the two of you sitting together at his table, becoming a family that would include his dearest Will Graham. It was a beautiful picture, one he painted with great care in his mind. But Hannibal, so enraptured by this fantasy, failed to detect the resentment growing within you.

Your heart, already heavy with years of neglect, bloomed with fresh anger and hatred. Abigail had taken what little space you had in his world and filled it with her presence, her pain, her dark reflections of the fatherly affection you had longed for.

The breaking point came one evening when dinner was ready, and you failed to appear. Hannibal ascended the stairs, his movements deliberate but heavy with irritation. He thought to find you sulking in your room, perhaps brooding over a perceived slight. But when he opened the door, the truth struck him like a blade.

The dresser drawers were open, several items missing. The window was slightly ajar, letting in a cool breeze that made the curtains flutter softly. Your phone rested on the bedside table, an unspoken declaration that you did not want to be found.

And then he saw it—the note scrawled across your mirror in bold, angry letters.

I hate you.

The black marker lines were thick and uneven, etched with trembling, furious hands. For a moment, Hannibal stood frozen, the words searing into him like fire. It wasn’t just the note. It was the empty space, the absence of your presence, the finality of the choice you had made.

He stepped further into the room, his eyes scanning the remnants of you. The room still smelled faintly of your presence, but it was hollow now, like a shell. A part of him wanted to reach out and erase the words, to undo the weight they carried, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood there, the perfect stillness of his body betraying the storm within.

Hannibal Lecter rarely felt regret. But as he gazed at the angry scrawl on the mirror, the open window, and the phone you had so carefully left behind, he felt something dangerously close to it.

He had wanted to protect you. To shield you. To preserve the light he saw in you. But instead, he had driven you away. And now, the silence of the house felt unbearable. For all his careful planning, for all his control, Hannibal Lecter had made a mistake and there was no correcting it.

[dark-konohagakure2]

Pain punishing a disobedient member by making her a free use slave for the whole Akatsuki

tw: noncon, abuse of power, free use, gangbang, bondage, threats, biting, forced eye contact, abuse, size difference, monster cocks, double penetration, anal, bloodplay, degradation, photography, mommy kink, facesitting

All characters depicted are 18+

Pain isn't as domineering of a leader as people would think, despite being the head of a terrorist group, he allows his members to have a certain degree of freedom with how they pursue the organizations shared goals, but if there's one thing Pain won't allow, it's disobedience.

When a younger female member of the Akatsuki begins to show the telltale signs of a disobedience streak, Pain will snuff out the issue before it even arises, deciding to put the would-be dissenter to work, and what better work for a disobedient brat than long and hard labor?

Pain can easily overpower her even without using his Rinnegan, chaining her up with her arms above her head and her legs spread, all of her holes exposed to whoever would walk into the common room of the Akatsuki lair.

Pain is very blunt about his intentions, telling her all about how he's going to have her own comrades fuck the disobedience out of her, that's the small price that traitors to the Akatsuki have to pay after all.

"Now you're going to learn how to be a good girl. I'm leaving you here for our comrades to use as they see fit. Maybe this will teach you the importance of teamwork and obedience."

Deidara goes first, and being the youngest he has the most stamina, not to mention his sadistic streak. He'll threaten to blow her to smithereens with his art, and he'll use the mouths on his hands to bite when lick her all over. Sasori goes next, and he's just unnerving, showing no emotion and staring at her with unblinking eyes, his puppet body feeling very uncomfortable inside of her as he roughly penetrates her with it.

Itachi is almost as unnerving as Sasori, just without the cold wooden body. He stares too, but with his Sharingan active the entire time he's fucking her, he's oddly insistent on making eye contact the entire time, grabbing her face and even slapping her if she looks away from his intense gaze. Kisame is a very big and tall man, living up to his reputation as a complete monster. He practically smothers the poor girl with his large frame when he pounds both of his cocks into her, shoving one member into each of her holes and leaving her covered in bloody bite marks by the time he's done.

Hidan is unsurprisingly the worst of them all in terms of the amount of physical pain he'll inflict, he'll fuck her so hard that she bleeds while calling her every name in the book, laughing in her face whenever she cries and begs. Kakuzu is no where near as obnoxious as Hidan, but he's just as cruel, forcing his threads into her mouth to shut her up while he plows into her, taking photos of her helpless form on his camera so he can sell them to seedy old perverts later.

Konan isn't as cruel as the men, but she's just as domineering as them, sharply slapping the girl's pussy and telling her to be a good girl for mommy as she sits on the girl's helpless face. Tobi is surprisingly the scariest of them all, the usually childish man is now speaking in a terrifying and deep voice, acting the complete opposite of his usual self as he pounds into her roughly and without a hint of his usual goofiness.

Once the day is done and her sentence is served, Pain will come to unbind her, her body covered in cum, tears, and blood. Pain won't feel any remorse, only showing satisfaction at the fact that his unruly bitch is how housebroken.

"Have you learned your lesson? It certainly looks like you have. Now, let's go to my quarters, I'll give you your final lesson in obeying your leader."

He'll then take her to his room to have his own way with the defenseless Akatsuki member, he's her leader after all, her God, so it's only fair that he fucks her last, to truly assert his dominance and ownership over her used up body.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Goo Kim x Reader: One Night

G/N. Crazy Stupid Love Emma Stone/Ryan Gosling scene but make it Lookism. Masterlists

"Are you nervous?" Goo murmurs, a smile tugs at his lips when he feels you trembling.

He peers down at you and pauses. His hand, having worked its way under your top and caressing your bare skin - stops.

Tonight, you have aimed for sexy and sensual. It worked well. Fake it until you make it, and you made it when this handsome blonde at the bar invited you back to his apartment for a night of debauchery.

But your mask slips. It's hard to keep it on, y'know. When you are both half naked, about to be even more naked, there's nowhere left to hide.

Your nervousness comes out as a snort, because duh and you think some of your previous sexy and sensual points are deducted.

"Yeah," you respond with an awkward giggle. Then your mouth runs before your single brain cell can.

"- Also, something has been digging into my back all this time," Goo waggles his eyebrows at you suggestively, "No. Definitely not. I think it's a spring or something or I don't know... crumbs? Have you been eating in bed? Either way I think this is the most uncomfortable mattress I've ever laid on. Your silk bed sheets are something else though - who even has silk bed sheets? It's like something from the 80s along with waterbeds but god they feel so fucking great on my legs."

Goo is stunned into silence momentarily before he barks out a laugh.

He rolls off you and onto the left side on the bed, full body wriggling around slightly, experiencing the silk bed sheets for himself and chuckles.

"Sweetheart, you're right. And I've always hated this mattress." He sighs, adding, "I got conned by fucking influencers."

You whip your head towards him and give him a look, "Influencers?! What. Is this those fancy brands that I've been seeing them shill all over my social media-"

Goo turns towards you, a pout on his lips and eyebrows pinched together in a pitiful expression. "Yep. I've hated it since the first night."

"Then why didn't you return it!"

He shrugs and you laugh, your previous nervousness dissipating.

"I always wondered what idiot would fall for those."

"Hey!"

A brief moment of silence then-

"Did you buy these sheets from an infomercial or something?"

"Excuse me!" Goo shuffles, angles himself so he's fully facing you. Head held up by the palm of his hand and resting his elbow on the mattress.

There's mischief, life in his face that wasn't there earlier tonight. "Sue me. I have money to spend, sometimes I can't sleep, and those sales people sell things so well."

You let out another unrefined snort, amused by this guy.

Suddenly finding there's so much personality, a touch of vulnerability revealed in that statement, behind the expensive glasses, his tailored suit and his muscled body.

"Wanna see what other crap I've bought?"

.

.

You both wander around his apartment, which turned out to be a huge fucking penthouse now that he has the light on and is giving you a guided tour, in your underwear. 

Goo, no shame and expanses of skin on show, and you follow closely behind with his silk sheets wrapped loosely around your body.

He gestures at what you assume to be a coffee machine sitting proudly on his kitchen countertop. All sleek and stainless steel with dials and buttons on every surface.

"I can't even use this thing. I've had it for 2 years."

"Look," Goo opens an overhead kitchen cupboard, gesticulating like he's going to perform a magic trick, and dramatically shows you rows and rows of trendy kitchen gadgets, no doubt also purchased during moments of insomnia. Pizza scissors, spiralizer, bread maker, air fryer, pressure cooker.

"Never used."

"This," he points at the far wall, and you squint, barely making out a framed art piece of the ugliest monkey face you have ever seen. But hey, art is subjective, right-

"-is an NFT. I bought that too."

That tips you over the edge.

You cackle and cackle, doubled over and holding onto him for balance.

.

.

There's a dusty segway sitting pitifully in the corner of an unused spare room.

You jump out from round a corner, LED mask on your face and flashing a menacing red - "Boo!"and Goo actually jumps.

A lonely treadmill, placed beneath one of those fancy sit-stand desk catches your eye.  Goo smirks, "Babe, I don't even have a desk job."

Instead of spending all night tangled in his silk bedsheets together, Goo jogs down memory lane of sleepless nights and impulse buys with you by his side.

Your laughter starts to tinge all his memories.

Your good natured ribbing and mocking.

His hyena cackle joins yours, and he wonders when was the last time he was able to laugh with someone. Has he ever spent an entire night talking to someone like this?

"Ask me something personal." He requests, both now lying on his uncomfortable bed. You in his arms, hair tickling his chin.

"What do you want from life?"

"To make money."

"Why?"

"I want to be rich."

"Why?"

"Well, who doesn't want to be rich, sweetheart."

"Yeah but why do you?"

Goo remembers running errands, doing anything to earn some money. Anything for a price. His cousin calling in his services, and he happily beat up some middle schoolers to help him (and who was it again, Tabasco?) out.

He doesn't really know where his thirst for money making has come from. Maybe there's some deep set trauma from his life pre-juvie or some shit he should pay a therapist to decipher but alas.

He tells you this, all this and more. At some point, his head is the one lying on your chest and you absentmindedly stroke through his blonde locks, humming noises of encouragement, listening to his words.

Weird, Goo thinks, when he finally drifts off to sleep with you snoring gently beside him. 

The morning sun already filters through the blinds, and the hustle and bustle of Seoul has started to pick up.

How comfortable this feels. How natural your connection with him is. How this is the spark people dream about, and somehow it has hit him when he wasn’t looking for anything more.

That someone as different to him as you are, that is only ever supposed to be company for a few hours, a night at best, could spell trouble. Raise his hackles, send his alarms blaring.

When he's usually the walking red flag.

Because you’ve got him thinking. A lot. That shrewd brain hidden behind playfulness has been whirring; wondering about what happens if you become a regular fixture.

Maybe you might doom him, in the end. Maybe this will lead to a dead end and nothing more.

But he's curious enough, the spark is shining brightly enough, to see where else you might lead him to too.

[pinklotushere]

Five times someone was flustered by nightwing, and the one time it was by dick grayson

That is not to say dick doesn't charm people,he absolutely does, I just think nightwing is very different from dick if you know what I mean, he's got a certain charm that makes me want to rip my heart out and offer it to him

1

The café was dimly lit, its neon “Open Late” sign buzzing softly in the quiet Blüdhaven night. A handful of customers sipped their drinks in peace until the door slammed open, and a masked mugger stormed in, waving a gun.

“Everyone down! Empty the register!” he barked, his voice jittery.

The young barista froze, fumbling with the cash drawer as the customers cowered behind tables. Her hands shook so badly that coins clattered to the floor.

“Move faster!” the mugger yelled, slamming his hand on the counter.

“Maybe try saying ‘please,’” a voice quipped from above.

The mugger spun around just in time to see Nightwing drop from the rafters, landing with feline grace.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“its a cafe,” he said, twirling his escrima sticks. “And you’re ruining coffee night, pal.”

The mugger lunged, but Nightwing dodged easily, knocking the gun out of his hand with a sharp crack. A quick sweep of the leg sent the man sprawling, and within seconds, he was zip-tied to a chair.

The barista stared, wide-eyed, as Nightwing approached her. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” she stammered, brushing a curl from her face. “Thanks, Hot—uh, Nightwing. Sorry, I didn’t mean—"

“Hotwing, huh?” He raised an eyebrow, fighting back a grin. “That’s a new one.”

Her face turned scarlet. “Oh my god, I didn’t mean to say that out loud!”

“Relax,” he said, chuckling as he adjusted his escrima stick on his back and took a peek at her nametag. “Emily, right? You’re good under pressure. Just maybe work on the nicknames.”

She managed a laugh as he turned toward the door. “Thanks again!”

“Anytime,” he called back, disappearing into the night.

2

The apartment building glowed orange against the midnight sky, flames devouring the upper floors. Sirens blared as firefighters scrambled to douse the inferno, but a group was trapped on the fifth floor, coughing and struggling to find an escape.

“Hang tight!” a voice called through the smoke.

The firefighters looked up to see Nightwing emerging from a shattered window, his silhouette framed by the flickering firelight.

“Everyone still breathing?” he asked, scanning the room.

“Yeah, but we’re trapped!” one of the firefighters said. “Ceiling came down behind us!”

“Not a problem.” Nightwing fired his grappling hook, securing it to a stable beam. “Let’s get you out of here.”

As he helped the first firefighter across the rope line, the man stammered, “Holy crap, you’re really Nightwing! I—uh—I’m a huge fan!”

“Appreciate it,” Nightwing said, steadying him. “Now focus on not looking down, okay?”

Once they were all safely outside, the fanboy firefighter turned to his team, still buzzing with excitement.

“Did you see him? He’s even cooler in person!”

The others burst into laughter, and Nightwing, perched on a nearby ledge, called down, “You’re making me blush.” He gave a two-fingered salute before disappearing into the shadows.

3

The moonlight filtered through the trees of Blüdhaven Park, casting long, eerie shadows. Nightwing had just subdued a thief when he noticed someone sitting on a bench nearby, illuminated by the soft glow of a portable lamp.

The young woman was sketching furiously, glancing up at him every few seconds. When she realized he’d spotted her, she froze, her pencil hovering mid-air.

“Nice night for art,” Nightwing said, strolling over.

“Uh… yeah,” she stammered, clutching her sketchpad like a shield.

“What are you working on?”

She hesitated, then flipped the pad around to show him. The drawing captured him mid-leap, his escrima sticks glowing, his movements frozen in perfect, exaggerated detail.

“Wow,” he said, genuinely impressed. “That’s incredible.”

“You think so?” she asked, her cheeks reddening. “I thought I might’ve overdone it…”

He tilted his head, studying the sketch. “Maybe a bit on the muscles, but hey, I’m not complaining.”

She laughed nervously. “Artistic choice?”

“Exactly.” He smiled. “You’ve got talent. Keep at it."

“Thanks,” she said softly.

As he turned to leave, she called out, “Wait! Can I give this to you?”

“Sure,” he said, accepting the sketch. “But only if you sign it. Gotta keep it authentic.”

Her face lit up as she scribbled her name at the bottom. He gave her a wink before vanishing into the night.

4

The clinic was quiet, its fluorescent lights flickering against the darkened windows. Nightwing leaned against the counter, holding a hand over the shallow cut on his arm.

“Can I help—oh!” the nurse gasped, nearly dropping her clipboard when she saw him.

“Sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Didn’t mean to scare you.

“You’re Nightwing!” she blurted, then immediately cringed. “I mean, obviously you’re Nightwing. Sorry! Uh, what do you need?”

“Just a quick patch-up,” he said, lifting his arm. “Nothing too serious.”

She nodded, her hands trembling as she grabbed the supplies. “Sit here, please.”

He perched on the exam table, watching as she cleaned the wound. Her hands steady as she worked.

“You sure I’m not making you nervous?” he teased.

“What? No!” she said quickly, then winced. “Okay, maybe a little. It’s not every night you stitch up a superhero.”

“Fair point,” he said with a grin.

As she tightened the last stitch, he winced.

“Oh no! Did I hurt you?” she asked, looking horrified.

“Not at all,” he said quickly. “You’re doing great.”

She finished and handed him a lollipop from a nearby jar. “For being brave.”

He laughed, tucking it into his belt. “Thanks, doc. I'll eat it with pride.”

5

The night sky over Blüdhaven was clear for once, the stars twinkling above a rooftop wedding. Strings of fairy lights bathed the intimate gathering in a soft glow, and the bride and groom had just started their first dance when chaos erupted.

Three armed men burst onto the rooftop, shouting orders.

“Hands in the air! Phones and wallets, now!” one of them barked, his gun waving wildly.

Guests gasped, clutching each other in fear. The bride clung to her groom, her veil fluttering in the breeze as she whispered, “What do we do?”

Before anyone could answer, a grappling hook hissed through the air.

“Sorry to crash your party,” Nightwing said as he swung in, landing right between the thugs and the wedding party. “But I’m not a fan of uninvited guests.”

The first thug lunged, but Nightwing dodged with ease, disarming him in a heartbeat. The second went for his gun, only to get an escrima stick to the wrist. By the time the third thug turned to run, Nightwing had already tripped him with a spin-kick.

The bride and groom stared, wide-eyed, as Nightwing zip-tied the men and turned back to the guests.

“Everyone okay?” he asked, brushing off his gloves.

The bride stepped forward, her dress shimmering in the light, face slightly flushed “We are, thanks to you. You saved our wedding!”

“Glad I could help,” Nightwing said, his grin warm. He glanced at the decorations. “Nice setup, by the way. Love the string lights.”

“Stay for cake?” the groom asked, half-joking, his face suspiciously warm.

Nightwing chuckled. “Tempting, but I’m on the clock. Congrats, though!”

As he turned to leave, the bride called after him, “Wait! At least let us take a photo! You’re part of our night now."

He hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Alright, but just one.”

The guests quickly gathered, and someone snapped the shot: the bride and groom in the centre, with Nightwing standing behind them, his arms crossed, and a playful smirk on his face.

“Thanks again,” the bride said as Nightwing stepped back.

“Anytime,” he replied, disappearing into the shadows.

+1

The mall was bustling with weekend shoppers, the hum of conversation, and the jingling of a carousel filling the air. Dick was taking a rare day off, dressed casually in jeans and a leather jacket, sipping a coffee as he strolled through the crowd.

A small voice caught his attention.

“mama? Mama?”

Dick turned to see a little girl standing near a fountain, clutching a stuffed bunny to her chest, her wide eyes brimming with tears. She couldn’t have been older than five.

“Hey there,” he said gently, crouching to her level. “You lost?”

She nodded, sniffling. “I can’t find my mommy.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll find her,” Dick said with a reassuring smile. “What’s your name?”

“Lila,” she whispered.

“Hi, Lila. I’m Dick.” He held out his hand, and she took it hesitantly. “Now, let’s go find your mom. Do you remember what she was wearing?”

“A pink sweater,” Lila said, clutching his hand tightly as they weaved through the crowd.

It didn’t take long before Dick spotted a frantic-looking woman near the food court, scanning the area with wide eyes.

“Lila!” the woman called, relief flooding her face as she spotted them. She rushed over, dropping to her knees to hug her daughter tightly. “Oh my goodness, I was so worried!”

“Mama!” Lila cried, wrapping her arms around her mother.

The woman looked up at Dick, her cheeks flushed. “Thank you so much! I don’t know what I would’ve done if—” She cut of, suddenly realizing who he was.

“You’re… Dick Grayson?” she asked, her eyes widening.

Dick laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s me. I’m just glad I could help.”

The woman’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. “I… uh… Wow, okay. Thank you. Really. You’re—uh—taller in person.”

He raised an eyebrow, his grin turning slightly playful. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She laughed nervously, still flustered. “I didn’t mean to—sorry! I’m a little overwhelmed."

“No need to apologize,” he said warmly. “I’m just glad Lila’s safe.”

“Thank you again,” she said, glancing between him and her daughter. “You’re a real hero.”

Dick gave a small wave to Lila, who beamed up at him. “You’re welcome. Stay close to your mom, okay?”

“I will!” Lila said, hugging her bunny tightly.

As Dick walked away, the woman muttered under her breath, “Of course he’s ridiculously nice, too.” She shook her head, still blushing, as she scooped up her daughter and headed home.

[slvtforasht0n]

Jealousy, jealousy

title inspired by Olivia Rodrigo’s track on Sour

.✦ || Boyfriend!Ash x Reader

.✦ || This is your first time being a stagehand at your boyfriend and his band’s show. Even though you couldn’t watch him perform, a particular interaction between him and a female fan piqued your interest. You couldn’t help but look, ought to see what’s happening. Instead, jealousy gets the better of you once you see what’s really going on, your mood permanently shifted. At least, that’s what it felt like.

A/N: first half is highly based on that one interaction that happened in the 5SOS diaries. forever jealous of that girl lol. anyway, i hope you like what i’ve brought out for you for my first post ever. kinda always wanted a tumblr account to post every idea or blurb i get, but ya girl can be very very lazy sometimes.

inspired to write smut ever since i had wattpad. saying this loud and proud. loved duplicity, stall and malignant so there’s that random fact (turn it up for all the other harries/directioners reading this)

i don’t write that much so i’m still trying to improve wherever i need to. ps. english isn’t my first language, so if you do spot grammer/vocab mistakes, it’s not on me sista, still learning:3 sooo i guess i’ll just finish it off by saying this; sit back, relax and enjoy :^)

CONTENT WARNING: fluff & smut, praise kink, oral (m!receiving), spitting, sliiiight dirty talking

WORD COUNT: 5,2k

────୨ৎ────

As much as you hate your boyfriend in this moment— he wriggled his way to here. His hands all over your frame, reaching to every spot he can find, almost as if his hands have a mind of their own.

His kisses grow more impatient, needy and full of want. Drawing gentle circles against the small strip of bare skin on your back, making you both break the kiss apart with a small gasp.

You weren’t sure of your emotions. Did you want to continue and make him have his way with you? Or did you want to push him away and strangle the living hell out of him?

A faint whimper escapes your lips in between the kiss, his hand traveling down to the heat between your clothed legs. That feeling alone begs to differ. As much as you don’t want to admit to it. You still have that small abhor, but also intense jealousy from what happened prior to all of this.

He breaks the kiss apart, his eyes finding yours. The hazelly green forest almost dispersed into his black pupils, blown out and primed. Fuck… you think to yourself. He looks so provocatively striking, like an erotic sex-god, which is enough to drive you wild— both in a good and a bad way.

“Let me make it up to you, amore mio.” He prompts, his hands finding your waist again to pull you in closer, showing you how induced he is, the want and need inside of him written all over his face.

—

This day has been…chaotic, booked, a haywire of physical and mental exertion that drove you into madness. Almost. You only had a 20 minute break before going back to work, crew following along, five different people guffing into your earpiece that just rubs you the wrong way. Being irritated isn’t even slightly nearing to what you’re actually feeling.

Finally, you walked inside the venue, a moment of calm before the storm. Happy you can let your guard down for another minute or two. You take a deep breath, moving scenery and props along with two other crew members, joining in after your one true moment of silence.

Being a stagehand at a show of your own boyfriend is uncommon, just something you’re not really used to. You’re not sure if you’re able to keep your cool seeing Ashton on stage, beating those drums expertisely, face etched into pure concentration. You always found it to be a work of art, to see your boyfriend practicing at home or somewhere that isn’t on a stage.

But hey, you bite the bullet once it’s showtime, having to face away from the stage, meanwhile he’ll be there to steal the show.

The crew had cued that the band arrived several moments later, and as much as you want to run away to find him, you’re still stuck planning, discussing and arranging tonight’s act.

Hours have passed on and exhaustion seemed to get the better of you. The small gig now filled with a couple of thousands of fangirls, boys, moms, dads, you name it. Two thousand to be exact. You’re not sure if it makes you intrigued, or uncomfortable. Either way, you find yourself lucky you’re not in that crammed crowd.

Playing more intimate, smaller shows was out of the ordinary for the band, something they wouldn’t have done a year ago or two.

The show has started not long after, and your back is facing the stage, eyes on all of these screaming fangirls for their idols in front of them, hands in the air, phones recording, but mainly their loud screams that’s luckily muffled by your in-ears. All you could do is focus on the beat of the drums, imagining his every movement of prowess, how trickles of sweat is already forming on his forehead.

You don’t have it in you not to look, so you do. Just the smallest of sneak-peak. Though, his eyes immediately found yours, like all of his focus was on the back of your head this whole time. Your heart starts to pound faster against your chest, turning your head back to the crowd ahead. Just keep your cool… keep your cool— You have to remind yourself every minute. Or rather every second.

You’re glued to the spot, making sure everyone’s safe and sound. However, there’s a small interaction going on between a fan and… Ashton. His voice being heard through the microphone gives you some sort of solace, your focal point on every pronunciation and syllable on the words that falls from his lips.

This particular interaction is focused on the fan’s cardboard sign, stipulating that it’s her twenty first birthday and now legal to drink, suggesting Ashton a shot. They expeditiously agree and brought the stunned girl up stage. Your eyes followed hers, turning around to look at the stage ahead. You didn’t have the heart in you to dismiss this and act like nothing’s going on.

Ashton’s change of demeanour, presence next to this fan, and just the overall vibes he’s got going on throws you right off the wall. It’s like he’s throwing her a curveball of coy behaviour, something that doesn’t sit right with you. It’s either that or you’re overthinking it. But then again, you might not be, especially having your eyes glued on him right now, watching him unfold into someone he’s not.

You hate it. You hated every second of it, watching the scene ahead. She gets to be the one giving your sweaty boyfriend a hug, a prolonged hug. Sharing a shot, looking into his eyes- him looking into her eyes. It’s like hot steams are blowing out of your ears by how much you hate seeing this with your own eyes. If it were possible, you’d throw Ashton’s drum kit right to his head out of spite and anger. You can’t believe him.

You’re definitely not overthinking, since you’ve picked up on him being ‘the man of the show’. Trying to seem more charming and appealing, in all the wrong ways. You know he loves getting this type of attention, boosts his ego in the wrong way and you’d love to just kick him right in the nuts.

Once the show’s over, you’re finally in your own privacy, changing your uniform to your day to day outerwear. A knock is heard on the door, catching you out of your hazy thoughts, while also feeling jealous and incensed. You open the door and you’re immediately knocked down with a feather.

“What are you doing here?” you utter, laced in a grim tone, not expecting to see his cheery face. Ashton stands in front of you, eyebrows raised by your surprising outburst.

“Checking in on my girlfriend. What else would I be doing?” He responds nonchalantly, entering the small room without needing to ask for permission. Of course he wouldn’t.

He runs a hand through his damp curls, looking around the room before looking back to you. It’s like he struggles to read you and why you’re not responding to him, why you’re facing away from him. “Hey…” He starts off, walking up to you and placing his hands on your waist, making you turn around to face him.

You push his hands off your body almost immediately, his eyes on stalks. “Baby, what’s wrong?” he counters, his eyes searching yours.

The more he acts this oblivious, the more you want to give into the idea of kicking him in the nuts and walking out of this room. You decide to just tell him before he’s going for the the well known question ‘are you on your period?’.

“The fuck was that up stage?” you angrily mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

He seems confused, which is one more reason to be angry at him. How can he be so painfully heedless? You desperately need to just knock some sense into that thick skull of his.

“What?” he raises his arms in an ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ motion.

“Oh, so now you’ve got memory loss? Great.” you roll your eyes, facing the other way instead of him. Again. How can a human being manage to piss you off this much? It’s inane.

“Amore… tell me.” He waits for you to say something, anything at all, but all you do is stand there and glare, causing him to take a step closer to you. “Was it the girl who I did a shot with?”

Bingo.

You can’t help but roll your eyes again, as if it wasn’t that obvious why you’d be mad at him about that in the first place.

“Oh come on… Nothing happened, alright? Just did her a favour and probably made her whole night.”

“Yeah, right.” You bite back immediately, not buying any of the bullshit he’s spitting. You can’t even look him in the eyes. You’re deranged in anger, but also so confused and hurt. He’d never gone this close to a girl before in all the months you’ve been dating, so he surely needs to understand why you’re acting the way you are.

“Why are you making a big deal out of this?” he murmurs, managing to boil your blood to the point you could burn anything you touch into ashes.

“Are you kidding me, Ash?” you poss in vexation, glaring through his soul. Words can’t express how tense you’re getting and how much you want to wipe that foolish smirk off his face.

“Babe, you can’t be serious, can you?” He sneers, his eyes giving you a once over. You only let out a frustrated sigh, turning your back to him a third time.

You don’t know what he deserves more, a sucker punch right to his jaw or the infamous silent treatment. Maybe both could give him a well-earned reality check.

“Are you seriously mad about some measly fucking interaction? Really, Y/N?” he huffs, seeming more annoyed than amused this time. Which makes you, on the other hand, infuriated by even more rage.

The way he acts so unbothered is insufferable. You turn on your heel, facing him, an angry etched expression on your face he certainly can’t dismiss now. “You were flirting with her, you ass! Right in front of me!” You bark back, sick of his apathetic state. Just utterly sick of him.

“I wasn’t, Y/N! Why would you even think that?” he retorts, his obliviousness turning into annoyance, his arms now crossed over his chest as well.

You don’t respond, only letting out a spiteful scoff, shaking your head in disbelief.

“I really don’t see what’s wrong here. You have no reason to be mad at me. None.” he mutters, which is just the cherry on the cake, isn’t it? You let out another angry huff before turning on your heel and leaving him in the room, despite it being yours.

However, you’re not as quick as you thought you were as he catches your wrist, wrapping his hand around it and pulling you closer to him.

“Don’t run away from me, baby. None of that bullshit. Talk it out with me, curse me out, just don’t ever shut me out, okay?” he calmly explains, his eyes trained on yours with his eyebrows creased together in concentration on you. Only you. You take a deep breath, flicking your eyes in between his.

“Why were you flirting with that girl?” you ask after a long pause, your eyes focusing on that one curl that fell on his forehead.

“I wasn’t.” He responds, and it just made you feel even more obscured from this ridiculous situation that brought tension between you two.

You’re starting to think you might be overdoing it. Might be a bit of the jealous kind and just making this ought to paint you to be dramatic.

“Is that all you have to say?” you mask getting offended by his short, incoherent reply, just by answering repulsively back.

“What more can I say then? You’re making a mountain out of a molehill here.” He crosses his arms again, and it just messes with your head on what type of emotions and feelings are coursing through him. What his thought process is, ‘cause he’s doing everything he can to dismiss the issue. Dismissing your feelings that are as valid as can be. At least that’s what you wanna think.

“Never mind.” You pull away from his grip, sitting down at the nearest couch. You’re done trying to argue to a wall, because that’s the position you feel like you’re in, feeling trapped in a loophole if he continues to act this clueless.

He looks over at you, no remorse whatsoever, and that somehow rises more anger out of you, though you make sure you keep your poker-face. There’s no point anymore if he won’t try to understand you.

“Are ya really just gonna sit there and stare?” he asks. But after a long pause, he just knows there’s not going to be a reply.

“Silent treatment won’t solve anything, love.” he adds, looking at you across the room, his eyebrows furrowed as he runs his hand through his hair again.

“Y/N…Just quit it already, will ya?” he grows more annoyed and impatient by your attitude. However, nothing will make you utter out a word again. Not when he at least attempts to apologise.

“Fuck’s sake, Y/N… I don’t have time for this. I’m sorry, alright? I wasn’t flirting with the girl- would never do that.”

You think to yourself you might have overexaggerated on wanting an attempted apology, cause it just pisses you off even more.

“Talk to me…” he prompts, taking a few steps closer to you.

You don’t respond, and he takes it as some sort of indication to stride closer. He takes your hands in his, pulling you up to your feet and cupping your jaw, making sure you look him in the eyes. “Please?”

You hate him. You hate him so much you’re becoming a tough nut to crack, and he’s fully aware of that. He knows how stubborn and jealous you can get over the smallest things. Still, you don’t know where his mind is.

He pulls you in for a kiss, connecting his lips with yours, catching you by surprise. His hands are trailing down your body and reposing on your waist, pulling you closer than before.

If this is how he ventures his way out to say sorry to you, when you can’t take it as a simple word, you’re not…entirely against it.

You stare profoundly into his eyes after he breaks the kiss, his eyes searching yours—But your feelings are very conflicting. You so want to give in, but you’re still mad. And you still hate him. Well, you’re trying to make yourself hate him.

It feels like it’s been ages since you’ve uttered out a word, but that’s none of your concern as you pull him in for another heated kiss, your hand finding its way through his tousled hair, earning a soft groan on his end. His tongue slips out and swipes at your bottom lip, asking for permission to enter your mouth as you oblige immediately.

He has you fully wrapped around your finger. You can’t even be mad at him anymore, even if it’s play pretend.

His hands are on your waist, but it didn’t take long before one hand slips between your legs, making you instantly weak in the knees.

“Let me make it up to you, amore mio.” replays in your mind over and over when you brought him in for another desperate kiss, pouring out all of your feelings and love for him. The way he said it, the desperation in his voice and his dilated eyes— you can never say no to that. You need him.

You’re a hot mess, letting out huffs of pleasure as he continues to palm you through your jeans, like an attempt to hear you, even if it’s not through articulated words.

He pulls away from your lips, traveling his heated series of kisses down to your pulse-point, eliciting another hot whimper out of you. You’re dazed and all you want is more. More of him. Just more.

He hoists you up, your legs immediately clinging around his hips as he leads you towards the small couch, laying you down and hovering his body over yours.

He’s such a sight for sore eyes, carrying the grace of dawn and the mystery of dusk. Your eyes wandering over every feature of his face, just taking him in. He bites back a smile, his eyes lingering on your chest, then back to your eyes. “Want me to make you feel good, yeah?” his voice is ragged with desire, low and husky that has such a toll on you.

He goes back in for a fervent kiss before you could even respond, pouring out all of his love for you that makes you forget the anger you once had a thousand times more. Your hands wander over his shoulders, all the way down to his hips, pulling him in closer, trapping him in between your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist.

He lets out a low grunt in between the kiss, his hips grinding against your heat, drawing out another small sound out of you. His hands that has a mind of its own fondling your breasts through the thin material of your shirt, like he couldn’t get enough of you and he physically needs more. You want more of him too, totally entranced by him, the heat of desire pooling in between your legs with an intensified want to have him in ways that’s unrefined. He moves towards the crook of your neck again, marking you up as his.

You’re already impatient as is, your uncoordinated fingers fumbling with his belt, like you can’t stand seeing him in clothes for another wasted second. He lets you, still immersed in marking your neck up, making sure there are angry marks left behind.

Once you’ve found the zipper of his tight jeans, you tug the material down, his hands coming in rescue and helping himself out of his jeans. In an instant, he pulls at the hem of your shirt, dragging the material over your head and throwing it somewhere in the room. Your eyes have wandered off to the door behind him and suddenly you’re too aware that someone could walk in easily.

“Babe… this room has no lock.” you mention, evoking a small smirk on his face. “Don’t you think it’s more fun that way? No one’s gonna come in.” He teases, eyes shamelessly staring at your bra, like he’s trying to smog up the power to disappear things with his mind.

“But-“ he’s quick to pipe you down by a kiss on the lips. “No ‘but’s’, you’re safe with me, amore.”

You pull him back in, sick of prolonging this any longer and seriously needing a good fuck if he’s gonna make it worth the while. If this is his way to at least attempt to apologise, then he better makes it good. Not that he has ever disappointed you in that division.

He hovers over you again, faces inches from yours, his hand snaking under your back to unclasp your bra in what feels like a nanosecond. He pulls the material off your body like it’s some sort of pest- like he’s been wanting it off since the moment he had laid eyes on you. He nips and sucks at your skin, hands exploring every inch of you. He licks a stripe right above your boobs, staring up at you with a well-known grin, eager to have his way with you.

He swipes his tongue over your sensitive nipple, lapping you up and then latching you in between his lips, paying great attention to you with his mouth, suckling and nibbling on your flesh. His other hand wanders to your untended breast, his fingers playing with the other nipple. You let out a soft whimper, already captivated by his fervent skills, your fingers threading through his soft curls.

Your eyes catches his, a sultry grin appearing on his face that has you overdriven with more arousal, more desire for him.

He moves to your other nipple, giving it the same, equal attention, drawing even more sounds and pants out of you.

All you really want is for him to hurry up. Your mind can’t get off of that damned door that has no lock on it, and he’s about to undress you intimately, which has made you apprehensive. He quickly catches on by your stiff demeanour and he lowers himself down, licking a long strip down your bare stomach- trying to make you forget about the door.

You lull your head back, your breath ragged and uneven as you tug at his golden strands tighter than before, earning a low grunt from him. He sure knows how to make you forget about stuff in an instant.

He has his hands on each side of your hips, trailing them towards the button of your black jeans. He works his way to get you out of your clothes, fast and determined, pulling the fabric down your thighs as you help him kick off the material.

“So gorgeous f’me, amore.” he grunts, quickly discarding his shirt off of him, accentuating his perfect, sweaty body to you, the sculputred abs and delicious pecs staring right at you as we speak. You sit up straight on the couch with only the flimsy laced underwear you’re wearing covering three percent of your body at most.

His eyes widen the moment you drop down to your knees in front of him, head-level with the black boxer briefs clung tightly on him. It highlights the swell of his tent that’s covered by the thin material of his Calvin Kleins. Your doe-eyed expression seems to get the better of him, already biting his bottom lip from your sight.

You waste no time, hooking your fingers under the material of his boxers, sliding them down ‘till they drop to his feet. He’s quick when it comes to stepping out of them, eager for you.

You’ve seen him like this before, plenty of times even, but right now— it’s like his arousal is as painful as it seems. His tip an angry shade of pink, pre-cum glazing down to his shaft. His breathing is laboured, his eyes concentrated on you, like he’s trying to moderate himself, keeping everything under control before he snaps.

You wrap your hand around his cock, the smallest of touch already making him hiss in pleasure. With deep shared eye contact, you start to pump him slowly, collecting the pre-cum that’s spilling out of him, whirling it over his tip, eliciting another desperate whimper from his agape lips. His eyebrows are creased, the purity in his eyes completely gone- reciprocated into something more coarse and obscene.

“Baby.. open your mouth.” he demands in a breathier tone, and you instantly oblige. With that, he cups your jaw with both of his large hands, his eyes intensely staring at yours. You don’t know what to expect, but he stars to hover over you, his face significantly closer to yours. He gives you that snarky smirk you know all too well, and then makes sure to lift your jaw a little up higher as he spits into your mouth without caution. Your eyes widen a little, his spit landing right on your tongue.

“Now swallow f’me, amore.” he orders, and you do exactly as he says.

Jesus…even in times like these— he still tastes divine.

His one hand threads through your hair, his other leaving the underside of your chin. “Show me what you’ve got…be my good girl.” he growls, standing up straight. You’re completely gone off guard by this small interaction between you and him, but you quickly shake it off, your trembly hand going back to where it was before.

You lick a strip up over his shaft, swirling your tongue on his tip that has him already writhing for more. You finally take him in your mouth, wrapping your lips sweetly around him and taking him inch by inch, a swall groan leaving his lips in exchange.

You set up a space, sucking him as you wrap your hand around the part that doesn’t fit in your mouth, his hand threading in your hair expeditiously. Low grunts and groans escapes his mouth, totally entranced by your ministrations as he couldn’t help but thrust forward, meeting your pace and rhythm all. He hits the back of your throat at every thrust, tears already brimming in your eyes that eventually seeps down to your cheeks. You couldn’t help but suck him with more precision, eyes deeply concentrated on his breathtaking face.

The desperation and anguish is written all over him, like he couldn’t bear this and needs you in ways where it’s humanly impossible to describe. Sweat already trickles over his forehead, eyes pleading for you, in a way that makes you believe his pupils are contorted into spelling your name- his want like a screeching howl that blares through your eardrums.

In a quick motion, he pulls out of you and you take your time to catch your breath, heaving them out like you’ve ran a marathon, quickly wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. He pulls you to your feet, hands on your hips and instantly pushing you backwards on the couch as your back hits the cushions, laying flat on the surface. Hovering over you, he delicately scans his eyes over your whole frame, taking in every detail from your tousled hair to your almost naked self. He traps himself in between your spread out legs, his length making contact with your lower abdomen, causing a shiver to run down your spine.

His arms are on each side of you, a few strands of his curls hanging over his forehead. “Need to fuck you, baby. Need you right now.” He murmurs, his voice hoarse and his tone laced in pure lust.

You bite your bottom lip as he positions you, hands firmly grasping your hips in desperation. “Please…” You utter out, the only thing your lips can form as a sole word, while your mind is going a million miles an hour with how much you have to say.

The warmth of his palms are soon replaced by the cool air hitting your hips, his hands sliding down to your thighs as his fingers prudently play with the lace of your underwear. “So beautiful…” He murmurs in almost a whisper. “I only have eyes for you, you know that right?” He adds, his eyes searching yours.

You nod, examining him. “I know...” you reply in a soft mumble and his lips quirk up in a lopsided smile.

You glance down his body, and the sight alone has you as weak as water. He pumps himself a few times, eyes still trained on yours. He pulls at the laced material of your panties, prodding his length right under the fabric as he teasingly begins to rub himself against you. You let out a stifled moan, eyebrows creased upwards in simple pleasure. He’s fervent with you, fastening his pace ever so slightly that drives you insane. “So wet f’me, yeah?” he grunts, leaning down to capture your lips in a passionate kiss.

Your soft moans are muffled in between the kiss as his hand that rested on your hip is now gripping your thigh, quickly hooking it over his shoulder. He positions himself at your entrance, gliding himself inside you fervently with your panties now pushed aside. A soft gasp escapes your throat, head already lulled back by how full he’s making you feel once he’s fully inside. After making sure you adjust to him, he begins to set up a slow pace, hovering over your body even closer as this new profound feeling intensifies, hitting you in all the right places.

“So fucking pretty for me, baby… Let me hear you, yeah? Moan f’me…” he praises, and all you could do in response to that is grow louder- despite still being in a semi-public setting. There’s a small chance someone could walk in, or even hear you through the door, but your mind is elsewhere. It’s on him, totally engulfed in pleasure he gives you.

“Taking me so well…” He pants, heaving out breaths as his thrusts start to become rougher, dragging out more moans out of you. “So good for me, aren’t you? Gonna fill you up so well...” He continues, his hands trailing over every inch of your body, fingers lightly pinching at your nipples, eliciting another whimpery moan from your lips.

He continues to thrust into you deliciously, hooking your other leg over his other shoulder, this newfound angle hitting your sweet spot delightfully over and over again. Moans spill out of you in an overwhelming sensation, that’s probably music to his ears by the way he’s thoroughly captivated by you.

His own moans fall from his lips once your hips buck up to match his rhythm of his thrusts. “I’m so close...” you heave out, eyes rolling to the back of your head. He takes this as a sign to fuck you harder. Rougher. Like he wants to break you in half.

He adds his thumb to your sensitive clit, drawing out louder moans, that has no way of becoming less when it’s only pitching up higher in decibels. “You’re so fucking hot, baby…So perfect.” he praises you, totally wrapped up in utter pleasure, the slapping sounds of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“Please…” you plead in a high whimper, not really sure why, but you’re completely overdriven in ecstasy, his thumb on your sensitivity never leaving you which adds to more pleasure, egging you on.

“Yeah, amore mio? Gonna give it to me, aren’t you? Show me… Show me how good I make you feel.” he groans completely out of breath, his chest glistening with his own sweat. He leans down, folding you in half like a damned pretzel, hitting you even deeper than before. He nips on the skin at the crook of your neck, humming against you.

“Making me feel so good…” he murmurs against your skin, his thrusts piercing more moans out of you, knowing how much you enjoy his rough side.

The bubbling feeling inside your lower abdomen intensifies by the minute, exhibiting that you’re nearing the finish line. He knows by your desperate pants and graphic sounds as he strives to get you to the pinnacle point of pleasure, picking up on his thrusts, fucking you harder against the cushions with fervor.

Your brain starts to feel like scrambled eggs, moving from left to right in a stirring pan as his lips finds yours in a sweet quick kiss, pulling away to look at you. His hands grip your waist as tight as ever, definitely leaving a mark behind. His whimpers like a melody you can never get sick of, no matter how many times you’re willing to repeat the same tune.

A few more thrusts in and you hear the familiar ringing in your ears as you near the edge completely, your climax washing over you like a tidal wave. You scream out his name in the process, clenching sweetly around him as he follows right behind you and finishes, trails of curse words falling from his lips in heavy grunts—filling you with his cum.

He unhooks your legs from his shoulders, pulling out of you with a small gasp. He crashes down next to you, heaving out hefty breaths. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, keeping you close to his glistening body. “See? You’re safe with me, just like I told you.” he breathes, letting out a soft chuckle.

You turn your face to look at him, a genuine smile formed on your lips, despite being completely out of breath. “Mmmh, never said you were wrong.”

He chuckles in response, planting a sweet kiss to your temple. “You felt incredible baby, definitely needed this after the show.”

You smile, all the anger and jealousy from before completely wiped off of you. “I always do.” you counter with a smug grin, giving him a bit of a tease.

“A win-win situation for me, eh?” He eyes you, eyebrows raised with a cheeky smile. You laugh, shaking your head. “Definitely.” You agree, a small giggle followed after.

“So… I take it that you’re not mad at me anymore?” He asks, his voice laced in a sincere tone.

You had almost forgotten about how immensely infuriated you were before this happened. “I forgive you.” you murmur, glancing at him.

“I mean it when I told you I only have eyes for you.” he utters, pulling you even closer than before, pecking the top of your head.

This was definitely a way to end the night, after a very small gig took place and how the man of your dreams next to you can have you riled up in anger as well as desire in the span of two seconds. You’re not complaining about it at all. You wouldn’t have him any other way— even if it means all the ups and downs that comes with it.

————

[theidiotwhowritesthings]

The World Ended

Joel Miller x F!Reader

Warnings: Joel Miller is hella manipulative, power imbalance, non descriptive age gap, Dub Con, smut, oral fem receiving, fingering, rough sex, P in V, Dom!Joel Miller, breeding kink adjacent if you squint and read between the lines, mentions of death of child, mentions of suicidal ideation (no more so than the show discusses), mentions of trauma, inspired by '10 Cloverfield Lane'

Word Count: 5,852

Summary: You wake up in an entirely new world, but you find comfort and love in an ally. He saved your life after all. Why wouldn't you trust him? Haunted Hoedown prompt: Stranded AU/Cult AU + "every moment might be our last, let's make the most of it."

[a/n: my contribution for haunted hoedown b/c i was inspired and couldn't resist (def cheated and ignored the days tho i just picked my fav parts of different prompts lol). 10/10 would recommend surfing that tag b/c people are making WORKS OF ART. This is just my toss it together addition lol]

"manipulation and control can sometimes be disguised as love." -abegail turingan

It was odd to wake up with no memory of going to bed. Disorienting was probably the more accurate word. Enough so that for a brief moment all you could do was stare up at the concrete ceiling above you. There was a headache lingering behind your eyes that no amount of blinking would clear away. Where were the stars? The thought drifted through your foggy mind. Your bedroom had glow in the dark stars plastered to the ceiling. A design choice that a nine year old you chose at the store, and one that your parents were never able to peel away no matter how many years had passed⏤ they were nostalgic in that sense. You must have been just like them considering you admired those cheap, plastic stars while staying in your parents’ home during this visit.

But the stars were gone.

Everything was gone, and the sharp smell of antiseptic and bleach replaced the floral scent of your mother’s detergent. You turned your head into your pillow in hopes that the comfort of your bed would ease the headache that seemed to worsen the longer you were awake. You found no comfort though because the pillow you laid on was not your own. 

Slowly, you began to sit up and you weren’t sure what was more distracting: the unexplained aching pain of all your muscles or the unfamiliar strange room you found yourself sitting in. The walls were like the ceiling, undecorated concrete, and the only bit of furniture was the metal framed cot you were now lying on. A hospital gown covered your otherwise bare body. 

The clarity that settled in your mind was stark and startling. Any of the fog you initially woke with vanished in a snap, and your breaths came in quick, hyperventilated gasps. Oh, God. Oh, God. You threw your sore legs over the edge of the bed to rise. Your feet only brushed against the cold tile of the ground before you found yourself sprawled on the floor. 

“Help…” The word left your lips in a breathless whisper as you tried to move your weak legs. You could only manage to sit up. “Help.” With every attempt, your voice grew stronger until you were screaming. “Help me! Help!”

A heavy, metal door, one across the room that you hadn’t even noticed in your panicked state, began to creak open. You sucked in a sharp breath, fear palpable, as an unfamiliar man stood in the doorway. He was older than you. Gray littered his brown, messy hair and facial hair, but it suited him. The man wore a dark green flannel that accented his broad shoulders. Everything about his figure exuded strength and intimidation from his build to the large hands that held a box of some kind. However, the moment his dark brown eyes landed on yours they softened. His shoulders hunched marginally, as if he were trying to look smaller than he actually was, and a line of worry formed between his furrowed brow.

“Hey! I need someone in ‘ere!” He barked over his shoulder, never breaking eye contact, in a deeply southern drawl. The man rushed into the room toward you, but when you flinched at his approach he slowed his pace. He took one hand off the box to hold in your direction, palm stretched outward, “It’s alright. You’re safe. Promise.” Coming from a stranger, and in this scenario, his words did nothing to calm your racing heart. You crawled backwards until your back hit the cot. Your name suddenly left his lips. “I’m⏤ My name is Joel.”

“How⏤ How do you know my name?” You gasped.

“Your license. It was in your bag. Didn’ mean to pry but…” Joel said slowly. “Are you⏤”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence as you blurted out, “Where the hell am I? Why am I here? What is going on? I⏤”

“Whoa, whoa.” Joel knelt down in front of you but kept his distance which you appreciated. “One thing at a time, darlin’.” He shook his head. “You were in a car accident… ‘bout two days ago now.”

“A car accident?” As the words left your own lips, there was a flicker of some forgotten memory playing in your head. The sound of a car horn, blinding headlights, the crunch of metal on metal, and the taste of blood. You flinched, “I… Oh, God.” You held your head with a trembling hand but winced as your hand brushed against a tender spot on the left side of your face. “Is this… Is this a hospital then?” The room resembled a prison more than it did a hospital room. Plus, it made no sense to you that your parents weren’t here. The man saw your license which meant they’d know who to contact. “Where is my family?”

Joel hesitated and you saw a look of what almost looked like regret in his eyes. You repeated your question more firmly this time. He sighed, “That’s… tougher to answer.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

A second later, a man and a woman dressed in bright orange HAZMAT suits came storming into the room. It was a blur of yelling and chaos and they descended upon you. Joel argued loudly with them and your head was spinning enough that it was difficult to follow what was happening. Gloved hands wrapped around your arm, ripping you up from the ground, but it was short lived. The man who had grabbed you was shoved away by Joel who gently sat you on the side of the cot before standing in front of you as a barrier.

“Don’ you fuckin’ grab her like that.” Joel snarled. The soft kindness that had been in his tone only moments ago was gone now. “You hear me??”

“Sir, you are not supposed to be in here.” The woman snapped. “Her wounds⏤”

“Her wounds are from the accident. I already told you.”

“We still need to test her⏤”

“Fine, but you don’ jus’ fuckin’ grab ‘er like that!”

There was nothing about this moment that could be called peaceful, but Joel’s defensive stance and his deep voice somehow managed to calm your racing heart. You didn’t know why the man was so protective over you, but you’d take any ally you could in this moment. The argument continued long enough for only a few more verbal jabs at one another. It settled on Joel sitting by your side glaring at the man in the HAZMAT suit as he used two separate swabs on you. One against the wound on your forehead and the other in your mouth.

“By entering without precautionary measures, you have bought yourself another 24 hours of quarantine, Mr. Miller.” The woman announced.

Joel didn’t respond but just glared at the woman instead. The second the two of them disappeared out of the room, Joel’s features softened again. You hugged yourself, trying to keep from shaking, and swallowed the lump that now sat in the middle of your throat. “Thank you. For that.”

“Least I can do.” Joel murmured as his eyes traced your face⏤ examining your wound, you assumed. You weren’t quite sure what he meant by that, but Joel didn’t elaborate. Sitting this close to him, there was something familiar about. You weren’t sure why because you were positive you had never spoken to him before. You’d remember a face this handsome. A voice that distinct and hypnotizing. “How do you feel?”

“Um. Sore. Confused.” You admitted. Recalling how the woman addressed him, you cleared your throat. “Mr. Miller⏤”

“Joel, darlin’. Jus’ Joel.”

“Joel…” You tested the name out. “Please⏤ Please tell me what’s going on. Where am I? Where is my family? Why⏤ Why were they in HAZMAT suits?”

The stranger you were finding comfort in let out a slow sigh. He rose from the bed to pick up the box he had brought with him. You had forgotten about that entirely. Joel sat back down after opening it and offered it to you. There was a simple set of men’s clothes in the box along with a water bottle and bag of chips. He shook his head. 

“All I had were a few of my spare things.” Joel said. “Figured you might be thirsty or⏤ or hungry.”

You appreciated the gesture, but it wasn’t what you wanted right now, “Joel. What happened?”

He let out another long sigh before meeting your gaze with a look of mourning, “The world ended, darlin’.”

The bunker was large enough to fit thirty or so people. It was an underground, concrete community made by a survivalist who went by the name of Ezra. You had yet to meet this mysterious man which felt odd since the community wasn’t that large, but it wasn’t too shocking since you didn’t do much exploring since your arrival. 

The world had ended. That’s what Joel told you. Hell, that’s what everyone kept telling you, but none of them could tell you concretely how. Every time the discussion came up, there was a new story involved. Aliens had invaded. Zombies had overtaken. A virus wiped out humanity. The theories were endless and since you couldn’t remember your last moments above ground you had no opinion on the matter. The last thing you could recall was leaving the house to meet some old friends who stayed local to your hometown for drinks. You got into the car, and the next thing you remembered was waking up in a concrete room.

You hoped your memory would come back gradually, but two weeks had passed and nothing was any more clear. You mourned a muddled memory. Families and friends ripped away from you in uncertain measures, and it left you reeling. The only pillar you had right now was Joel Miller. He had saved you in more ways than one. When the world went to shit, Joel was on his way to the bunker. All the people here were either friends or they knew this Ezra character in some way and that’s how they bought themselves a ticket into this sanctuary. Joel had been the survivalist’s contractor. Helped build this place and even mocked the man when first given the job. 

But, when the world did end, Joel was offered safety and on his way there he came across your wreck on the side of the road. He scooped you up and fought for your place here with him.

You owed him your life.

The sound of a door opening snapped you out of the daze you had fallen into. Joel stepped into the shared bunk space looking worn out. While your simple duty in this community was currently food prep, Joel’s was more labored. He helped with any repairs and upkeep to ensure everything was working as it should. He dropped his tool belt by the door with a groan.

“Long day?” You asked with a small smile. Joel grunted an affirmative. He crossed the small room to drop down onto the couch. Since you were technically an add on rather than one of the invited, you were forced to share the room with Joel. Though ‘forced’ wasn’t quite the right word. You honestly didn’t mind it at all. Having a familiar face, even if it were one you only just met, brought you comfort. Though you kind of felt bad he was now stuck with you. There was no way he could’ve known saving your life off the side of the street was going to chain your existence to him.

The room was decent though. There was a simple bed in one corner, a couch pushed up against the wall, a table with two chairs, and a mostly empty drawer. Over the last two weeks, you and Joel had collected or traded objects to make the room your own. You traded a set of spare socks that had come with the room for a small, blue vase that you set in the middle of the table. Joel had even managed to find a few books and magazines that he gifted you.

You pushed up from the bed to sit on the couch beside him. You pulled your legs in to tuck under yourself. The shirt you wore was one of his flannels, you still had limited clothing options, but you had managed to scourge up a pair of yoga pants that fit you well enough. 

“You?” Joel asked as he rested his head on the back of the couch.

“Food prep was exciting as always.” You joked. Joel breathed out a small, tired chuckle. You nodded toward the bed. “Lay down. Sleep.” Joel shot you a light glare. From the beginning, Joel was adamant about sleeping on the couch so you could have the bed. Even when you told him it made more sense for him to have the bed since you were smaller. Joel wouldn’t even listen to the suggestion of swapping turns. “Joel.”

“Couch is fine.” Joel replied gruffly and closed his eyes.

“If it’s fine then I should have no issues sleeping on it, right?”

“Ain’t gonna happen.”

You set your hand on his arm and felt him slightly stiffen at your touch. Joel cracked open his eyes to peek at you. “Please take the bed tonight. Please.” He furrowed his brow and you gave his arm a squeeze. “Nothing would make me happier right now. I’m serious.”

Joel didn’t say anything to begin with. He just held your gaze and under the weight of his stare you felt the back of your neck warm. The man was painfully attractive, it couldn’t be argued, but that wasn’t what made your heart skip a beat or your core secretly ache. It was the way Joel looked at you and spoke to you. The way he treated you. If his gaze were to be believed, you must have been a work of art. Joel stared at you like a dying man watching his last sunset. His voice was always deep and honeyed when he spoke to you. The words he chose put the respect and care he had for you on clear display. 

The world ended and everything in your life felt cold, but not Joel. Joel was warmth.

Joel’s other hand settled on top of your smaller one. His thumb traced your knuckles and your throat felt tight at the contact. He gave your hand a quick squeeze and then stood up with a groan. You heard his knees crack, but he made no comment on it. Joel just leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, “Thank you, baby.”

You watched him kick off his boots and drop into bed. A soft groan left his lips and he fell asleep before the lights were even off.

 The sky was blue. Your head rested on Joel’s shoulder as the two of you sat on the ground leaning back against the wall. A total of a month had passed now, and you confided in Joel that you missed the sky. In response, he brought you here. It was a restricted space that he only had access to because he would come up here to do repairs on the electrical system. In the entire bunker, it was the closest to above ground that you could be. Only one staircase and a thick, metal door separated you from the world outside. On the door was a small window and from where you sat you could see a patch of sky.

“Do you think the world really ended?” You asked softly.

Joel glanced at you without jostling your position too much, “What’dya mean?”

“The sky is too pretty for the world to have ended, don’t you think?” You mumbled. It wasn’t just the sky that created your doubt. There was a woman who worked with the mysterious Ezra. She said she would type out anything he dictated to her. She didn’t think the world had ended. She thought it was all some conspiracy or ploy. You weren’t sure how much weight you put into her words, but it left the question in your mind. “What if the world is completely normal up there and we’re just rotting away in a tomb?”

Joel shook his head. “You hear the sirens an’ gunfire. The SOS broadcasts on the radio.”

“Couldn’t that be faked?” You asked. Joel hummed in a noncommittal fashion. You shrugged, “You never told me how the world ended. Everyone else has given me their two cents, but you never talk about it.”

“Cause it doesn’ matter.”

“Why wouldn’t it matter?”

Joel was silent for a few moments, but you waited patiently for him to speak. He shifted and with your head still on his shoulder, his hand found yours. “It doesn’ matter ‘cause… my world ended two years ago.” You lifted your head so you could face him, but Joel kept his eyes on the patch of blue sky. “I… I lost my daughter. Sarah.” You squeezed his hand as your heart ached for him. “Wasn’t fair. Should’ve been me. But… But nothin’ has made much sense since.”

“Joel, I am… I am so sorry.” You whispered.

“I lied.” Joel said and your eyebrows furrowed. He swallowed nervously and finally turned to look at you. “When I found ya, I wasn’ headin’ to the bunker.”

“Where… Where were you going then?”

“Home.” Joel shrugged. “The sirens were goin’ off, people were in a frenzy, Ezra texted me some freakish invite, but… I planned on headin’ home to jus’ wait for the end.” It was devastating to hear someone you had come to care so much for admit that truth. Your heart broke for him. Not a single shred of you could ever imagine the pain or horror of losing a child. “On my way, I ran into you. Saw your car flipped on the side of the road. Once I got ya out, it’s not like I could take ya to the hospital with the way all of it was so…”

Joel motioned to the bunker around the both of you. The rest was history. In the silence, you could hear the whirring noise of the motors working the fans and the pounding of your heart in your ears. You let the hand not in his lift to rake your fingertips through the scruff on his jaw as your thumb rubbed back and forth over his cheek. Joel’s eyes fluttered closed at your touch and a soft breath left his lips. He leaned into your hand.

“I… Joel, I don’t know what to say…”

“This is ‘nough.” Joel murmured. There was a tension that had formed the second you caressed Joel’s face and it only built the longer you were in contact with him. It was a long time coming and was only coming to a head just now. You could control yourself, you were sure of it, but when Joel’s sad eyes opened once more the breath was knocked out of your lungs. His lips twitched into a small smile. “You’re the first thing I’ve cared ‘bout in a very long time, baby.”

The world had ended, supposedly. What was the use of wasted time?

You leaned in and pressed your lips against his. The kiss was soft and hesitant. A brush of you against him as Joel breathed in a strangled gasp. He pulled back and your heart dropped. Embarrassment filled your very soul as you let your hand fall away from him.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn't have. I just thought, every moment might be our last, we should make the most of it. Or⏤”

“It’s not that, baby girl.” Joel immediately cupped your face and you felt yourself melt between his warm, coarse hands. “You don’ owe me this. You know that, right? I don’ expect…”

You gave a small shake of your head, your eyes glued to his lips, “I know, Joel. I know. I… This is my choice. I want you.”

Joel took in a slow breath through his nose as his jaw locked. His hands tightened around your face, caressing the skin along your face and neck, and one hand slipped to cup the back of your head as his forehead leaned against yours. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, “Say it again.”

“I want you, Joel.”

Joel initiated the kiss this time, and it was far from hesitant. At your consent, it was like he dropped all semblance of his self control. His lips were bruising against yours and Joel was desperate in getting you closer. He dragged you over so you were straddling his lap. His hands roamed down your body until they found your hips. Joel’s tongue slipped past your parted lips just as he dragged your aching core against his half hard cock⏤ thrusting up against you while swallowing the moan that left your throat.

He wrapped an arm around your middle and suddenly you found yourself on your back. The cool concrete floor was jarring to how hot you felt. Hands sunk into the waistband and with one firm pull both your tights and underwear were down to your ankles. You gasped in surprise, but Joel didn’t pause. 

“Jesus Christ, what a pretty fuckin’ pussy, baby.” Joel groaned and tugged a foot out from your clothes so both articles wrapped around only one of your legs. He roughly grabbed your thighs and dragged you closer so when he dropped to the ground his mouth was immediately buried into your warmth. You yelped at the contact but it was followed by a wanton groan as his tongue ravished you. It was messy and rushed. Joel ate you out like you were his last meal, and the groans and slurping sounds he made were downright sinful.

“Joel! I⏤ Oh, God.” You gasped and your hands buried in his hair. Your hips lifted to chase after his mouth, but Joel dropped his arm across your waist and pinned you to the floor with a chuckle. 

Joel lifted his face and turned to bite down on your thigh. You cried out at the sting of his teeth against your skin, but the drag of his hot tongue against the spot left you whimpering. “C’mon, baby.” You tugged on his hair to try and get his lips back where you wanted them, but he stayed firm. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”

“Want you, Joel. Need you.”

Thick fingers dragged up and down through the mess he’d already made and one began to prod at your entrance without actually sinking in. “Again.”

“Please. Please!” You tried to grind down against him, but his grip on your waist kept you in place. “I want you, Joel. Want you so badly. Please.” Joel had one fingertip circling your hole, but at your desperate pleas he sunk three of his large fingers right in. You screamed, both in alarm and at the sharp sting, “Shit! Joel, too much!”

“Shhh, baby girl. You’re okay.” His lips found your clit and the suction he applied there slowly took away the sting of his rapidly moving fingers. Just as he reassured you, you were okay. More than okay. Pleasure was clouding your mind and you were a squirming, sopping mess under him. Joel’s fingers curled up into you, dragging against your walls, and he made quick work in finding the spot that punched stars into your vision. “There we go, baby. Jus’ like that.” He kept his lips against your clit as he spoke and your wet flesh muffled his praise. “Lemme feel you squeeze ‘round my fingers so I can feel you squeeze ‘round my fat cock. C’mon.”

Teeth nipped at your clit, followed by the smoothing of his tongue, and combined with the pounding of his fingers you came with a shuddering cry. Joel didn’t stop his onslaught and he lowered his lips from your clit so he could drink up every bit of the soaking wet mess he made.

“Joel. Fuck.” You gasped for the air he had somehow managed to punch out of your lungs with his hand alone. “That was…”

“Not done, baby girl.” Joel sat up on his knees but kept his place between your legs. You weakly pushed yourself up onto your elbows and it only dawned on you then that this entire time he had been fully clothed. It was an almost uncomfortable balance between the two of you. “Get up ‘ere.” You began to push up from your elbows and the moment you were close enough his hand wrapped around the back of your neck so he could help you up the rest of the way into the seated position you now sat in. He gazed down at you, pupils blown in lust, and his dark stare soaked in the sight of you. “Say it.”

Knowing exactly what he wanted, you mumbled, “I want you, Joel.”

“Good girl. Open.” Joel grunted. The hand at the back of your neck grabbed you by the hair and he tugged down so your chin was tilted up. Joel shoved the three fingers he had deep in your cunt into your mouth. You closed your lips around him and moaned at the taste of yourself. “Belt, baby. Get my belt.”

You tried to glance down, but Joel kept his grip on you tight so you could only stare up at him as he pushed his fingers deeper into your mouth. Blindly, your hands groped for his belt and you struggled to get it undone as you gagged around his fingers.

“Shh. You can multitask, baby, I believe in ya.” Joel cooed and didn’t relent. “Work at it. Be good.” You traced his thick fingers with your tongue and your hands finally managed to get his belt undone. You got your hands into his pants, tugging down his boxers, and Joel groaned loudly as your hands wrapped around his hard, girthy cock. The size of him alone had you tense in surprise. “Hey, it’s alright, baby girl.” Joel’s fingers slipped out of your mouth and you couldn’t help but cough to try and clear the tickle at the back of your throat. He carefully pushed you down, onto your back again, but he followed with you so he was hovering over your body. One hand at the back of your neck, cupping it softly, while his other rested by your head to hold himself up. “You can handle this. I swear, this perfect pussy is made for me, baby.”

Joel lowered himself to capture your lips with his. The kiss was soft and tender. It was a sweet moment as his cock dragged slowly against you. His tongue licked against the curve of your lower lip just as the tip of him notched at your hole. You opened your mouth to ask him to start slow, but Joel shoved his tongue into your mouth, deepening the kiss, as his painfully large cock shoved into you. You screamed, muffled by his own mouth, as he bottomed out in one single thrust. Tears involuntarily sprung to your eyes at the intrusion and you pulled your lips away from Joel by turned you head. Your fingernails dug into his back.

“Joel, that⏤ that kind of hurt.”

“I know, I’m sorry, baby girl.” Joel buried his face into the crook of your neck. He left open mouth kisses there between reassurances. “Jus’ give it a minute. You’re doin’ so good. So good.” Joel was thankfully staying still inside of you and with the work he put in along the length of your neck you began to feel the sting start to fade. Joel shifted, just a bit, and you shuddered at the slight drag of him. His cock twitched and he moaned against your skin. “Fuck, you feel so good. So perfect. Knew you would.” Joel gave a short, experimental thrust and you gasped at the wave of pleasure you were pulled under. “Gotta move, baby girl.”

Joel pulled back until just the tip remained then rocked his hips forward hard enough to push you across the concrete floor. He roughly grabbed you by the thigh and pulled your leg up. You followed his lead and hooked your ankles around his back as Joel’s grip on the back of your neck tightened and he quickly fell into an unrelenting pace. 

“Told you, baby girl.” Joel grunted, the only other sound being your breathless moans and the wet sounds of your pussy sucking his cock in with every powerful thrust. “Made for me.” Joel sung praises as that band of want and desire tightened in your core by the second. His hand slipped between your bodies to find your clit once more and your eyes squeezed shut with a gasp. As soon as they shut though, his touch was gone and with that hand he grabbed you by the face. Your eyes snapped back open in surprise. “Nuh uh. Eyes on me. You hear me?” You nodded and he tightened his grip⏤ his fingers digging almost painfully into your cheeks. “Words, baby. Lemme hear you say it.”

“Keep⏤” You gasped. “Keep my eyes on you.”

“Good girl.” Joel’s hand slipped back down and when his fingers reached their goal it took every bit of strength to keep your eyes open. Your orgasm slammed into you like a freight train and a cry of pleasure slipped past your lips. Joel groaned loudly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Takin’ me so well, baby girl, just like I knew you would.” 

His pace ramped up but he lost his rhythm and in a brief moment of clarity you gasped, “Joel! Joel, you gotta⏤ fuck! Oh God. You gotta pull out, Joel.” He didn’t slow and for a brief moment sharp fear mingled with the overwhelming pleasure. “Joel!”

At last second, Joel ripped himself off you with a guttural groan and you felt the warmth of his release spurt on your hips. Your entire body went lax as he continued to milk the last bit of him onto your body and you felt the warm, sticky cum drip down the sides of your hip and down into your pussy as well. 

Joel tucked himself back into his pants, without clasping his jeans, and he rubbed a hand up and down your thigh soothingly. You were trying to catch your breath as Joel separated your underwear from where it was tangled with your yoga pants around your ankle. You lifted your head and watched as he used your underwear to wipe away the cum now drying on your skin. 

“C’mon, baby girl.” He tucked your panties, now a damp mess of your spend and his, into his flannel pocket and helped you slide your legs back into the yoga pants. When they were back in place, he pulled you to stand and grinned when your knees nearly buckled. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You chuckled and clung to his shoulders. “That was… a lot.”

That had felt incredible, and the fact that it was Joel made it even better. But, it had been rougher than you thought it’d be. Not that you really minded. It just… caught you off guard. Your mind was still too drunk on pleasure to fully understand your feelings on it.

Joel leaned in to settle his lips against your temple. He hummed, “From the second I saw you, baby girl, I just knew you’d be my world.”

“The first second?” You teased. “Me bleeding in an upside down car?”

His lips were curled up into a smile you could only describe as boyish. Joel leaned in again to lock his lips with yours and you wrapped your arms around his neck to help hold yourself up.

The world had ended, but you had a new world now and everything would be just fine.

Right?

BEFORE

Joel stood at the gas pump staring at his phone as his truck was filled. His strange client, the survivalist who asked him to help build a bunker, had shot him a message that made little to no sense. He rambled about the “end of the world”, and invited Joel to join him in the bunker for the “start of something new”. Joel tossed his phone back into his truck with full plans to ignore it. He’d drive to the bar and spend the night drinking. It’d be nothing new. He was a regular at this point.

As he climbed into the driver’s seat his gaze lifted and he spotted you exiting a store across the street.

You from three days ago. You who he met at his usual drinking hole. You who had left him breathless. Joel had been drinking alone, the usual, when you and your friends drifted into the bar as an already half drunk mob. One of your guy friends had gotten rowdy near him, joking with another, and he bumped into Joel and spilled his entire whiskey.

Before he could even begin to lose his temper, you had swept in to save the day. It was obvious you were drunk yourself, but you cleaned him up, apologized for your friends, bought him a new drink, and just sat there and talked. You rambled about being in town to visit your family and catching up with old friends, and Joel found he could listen to you all day.

There was something magnetic about you.

Enough so, that he found himself following you down the road. You were driving toward the edge of town. Maybe to meet with friends at that new bar and drink some more. The roads grew less crowded as you got further out, and Joel thought about following you into the bar. Just to talk. It had been so long since he craved conversation of any kind. He realized though that you probably wouldn’t want anything to do with him. You were young and beautiful and clever. A ray of sunshine. Your options for company were endless and Joel couldn’t imagine being anywhere but at the bottom of that list. Drunk you had put up with him, but sober you probably wouldn’t spare him a glance.

Joel’s eyes darted to the passenger seat where his phone sat. A second passed, and a decision was made. He flashed his lights and laid on his horn. Your car slowed cautiously and he began to speed past you. He looked out his passenger window and the last thing he saw was your wide, confused and fearful eyes before he swerved into you.

He slammed on the breaks and watched your car flip a few times before coming to a stop at the edge of a ditch. Smoke billowed from the broken remains of your vehicle and Joel stared wide eyed at what he had just done. Guilt gnawed at him and he scrambled out of his truck to race to the driver’s side of the wreckage. You were hanging upside down from your seatbelt and blood dripped from a gash along your temple. A bruise was already forming at your hairline. But you were alive. Thank God. He hadn't even considered how wrong that could've gone. It seemed the universe was on his side for this.

Joel knew what he had done was wrong, but it was too late to go back.

He had made the decision⏤ your world ended and he’d be the one to build you something new.

[if you're curious the Ezra I mention is the Pedro Pascal character from Prospect (he just screams cult leader, doesn't he?) and i lowkey maybe have plans for a follow up on this but from the POV of a different reader and Ezra]

[tj-dragonblade]

[Connect 4 FIC] Promises in the Wake

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: G Word Count: 1301 Tags: fluff, apple picking, autumn, domesticity, feelings, alternate comics ending inferred, not retired Dream

Notes: This covers the @sandman-connect4 spaces Hands, Duty, and Breakdown which was only mentioned in passing but I'm still gonna count it. Also partially inspired by this adorable art by @monobuu. Aaaaand, here, have a song while you read, from whence the title came and whose vibes have definitely nurtured this as well: You're Still Here by Poets of the Fall

Summary: Hob and Dream go apple picking

On AO3

Dream's hand is warm in his.

Hob can't help noticing it, as they make their way through the orchard's gate. The autumn air is cool, crisp but not biting, the smell of apples and drying leaves and woodsmoke on the breeze. And Dream's hand, so often cool and otherworldly to the touch, feels warm and almost human in his own.

He's delighted that Dream reached for his hand, when they got out of the car, delighted that Dream seems genuinely happy to be here with him rather than just fondly indulgent. It's so achingly, beautifully mundane, going apple-picking for the Inn's kitchen with his boyfriend tagging along—the cosmically-powerful supernatural boyfriend who certainly has grander and far more important things to do, but who is also working hard to balance his duty and his personhood and Hob is so proud of the progress he's made.

It had taken a breakdown and an intervention to get to the point of Dream even admitting that something needed to change, and Hob is grateful every day that Dream chose to try, that Dream is still here. With him.

He's going to show Dream so many things beyond his duty that make life worthwhile, big and small and everything in between.

Dream's hand is warm in his.

Dream's chunky black boots crunch softly through the leaves underfoot as he leads Hob through the trees, Hob pulling the small cart with its three bushel baskets behind him. Dream is wearing his usual black skinny jeans and grey t-shirt, but Hob had convinced him the posh peacoat would be a little out of place. Dream, graciously, had borrowed a cozy flannel button down from Hob instead of manifesting something new, so Hob has the pleasure of seeing the warm autumnal orange and brown plaid of his own shirt wrapped around Dream's slender frame.

It becomes him, the soft seasonal look, but also. He's out and about in public, wearing something of Hob's, and the possessive primal instinct in Hob is so terribly pleased about it. Dream is not sharing that witch's clothes, nor apple-picking with the fae queen; he's here with plain old down-to-earth everyman Hob and sometimes Hob still has to stop and take a second to remind himself it's real.

But Dream's hand is warm in his, solid and perfect, and Dream does not let go.

Not even as he stops at a particular tree and steps closer to it; he simply draws Hob beneath its canopy with him. He presses his free hand flat to the trunk, gazes up into the branches, a faraway look in his dark and starry eyes.

"This one," he declares a long moment later, glancing over at Hob. "This tree dreams strongly, of sunlight and clear skies, sweet rains and rich earth, of its fruit spreading far and wide to grow new trees and nourish many. These apples carry those dreams; they will be robust and just sweet enough, well-suited for the pies Sam is planning."

"Thank you, duck," Hob smiles, and squeezes Dream's hand gently before letting it go. "Let's see—" He reaches for the apple hanging nearest, a fat round thing with a deep rosy blush over the golden undertones, and plucks it deftly from the branch. He polishes it against his jumper and then takes an enormous bite.

It's quite possibly the most perfect apple he's ever tasted, ripe and autumn-cool and exquisitely balanced between sweet and tart. It's crisp, juicy, and he can't help the almost-lewd sound of approval that leaves him. "Oh my god," he moans, through his mouthful. "You're absolutely right, love—here, try this—"

Dream looks at the apple that Hob holds out to him, something inscrutable passing over his face; then, with the smallest smile, he takes the offering and sinks his teeth into it delicately, a much more decorous bite than Hob's. Hob finds himself paying rapt attention to the smush and press of Dream's very-pink lips against the skin of the apple and the perfect white of his teeth cutting through the jucy flesh, the flick of his tongue catching a stray droplet as he pulls it away.

"Indeed," Dream says, having finished chewing first, and hands the apple back to Hob. "As expected, these will serve their purpose admirably."

Hob takes another bite, grins around it. "Then let's get picking, shall we?"

Dream works smoothly alongside him, long white fingers gently plucking apples from the branches, occasionally murmuring words that Hob doesn't quite catch to the fruit as he goes. Hob can't help watching him between picking his own apples, overfull with fondness, glancing his way constantly, and Dream of course is not blind to it.

"I am flattered by your regard, Hob Gadling, but gazing at me does not put apples in your basket." He sets another apple in the bushel he's filling as he speaks, mouth turned up in a little smirk that pairs beautifully with the sideways glance he gives from beneath his lashes, and the fact that he's teasing does nothing to discourage Hob's distraction. He wants to take Dream's hand, his warm and willing hand and pull him close; wants to spin him into a dance, waltz him about the orchard in his boots and skinny jeans and borrowed plaid on feet made light with quiet joy, kiss him beneath the apple boughs like they're in a sodding Disney film.

"Suppose you're right," he grins, and he knows it is absolutely besotted.

He is utterly, stupidly in love, and delighted to be so.

Dream's smirk softens into a smile, as if he can tell what's on Hob's mind; he plucks another apple from the tree, tosses it gently to Hob. "Apples, beloved," he admonishes, and Hob could swear the autumn sunshine grows softly brighter overhead.

There are enough ripe apples on this one tree to fill all three bushels; once they're full, Hob pats the tree kindly. "I'll be sure to plant the seeds from some of these in the Inn's garden," he says, half talking to the tree and half to Dream. "Those robust dreams won't go unrealized."

"It will be appreciated," Dream says, and his smile is a beautiful thing.

Dream reaches for Hob again as they bring their laden cart back through the orchard to weigh out and pay. "My sister is fond of apples," he says, as they walk, hand in hand. "Perhaps I should take one or two for her."

"The one who set us up?"

Dream's eyes roll the slightest bit. "Yes."

Hob grins; far easier to wrap his head around Dream's sister being Death if he focuses on how her gift has enabled what he shares now with Dream. And also, the way Dream reacts to his flippant summarization of the original deal never fails to amuse him. "I'm sure she'd appreciate the thought." He leans over, plants a kiss on Dream's cheek just because he can. "Tell her she's welcome to stop by for pie, too, if she likes."

"I shall," Dream decides, a soft happiness on his face, and Hob's heart does a grateful little trip. Dream is here, with him, smiling that little smile in his borrowed flannel shirt, alive and present and not burying himself under the weight of his duty; and Hob, Hob is so happy just to have him here, to see him thriving, to not have lost him to last century's unwelcome candor or the ordeal of Fawney Rig or anything else. He hopes, with all the fullness of his heart, that he can steal little mundane moments like this with Dream for the rest of his very long life.

Dream glances over, still with that secret little smile, as if he knows Hob's wishes and approves.

Hob smiles back, utterly content.

And Dream's hand is warm in his.

= Started: 11/4/24 Drafted: 11/6/24 Posted: 11/8/24

Leaving behind the weight vying for yesteryear Leaving promises in its wake, whispering, My love, you're still here You're still here ~ Poets of the Fall, 'You're Still Here' YouTube Spotify

Disclaimer that I have never been apple-picking in any capacity so please forgive any details that may be egregiously incorrect.

[strongheartneteyam]

Realize where you belong.

Pairing: neteyam sully x female!dreamwalker!reader/female!human!reader

Chapter 5

CW: dubious consent, mentions of NON CON, neteyam yearning for reader, angst all over, you can see the sexual tension with your naked eyes, possessive neteyam, feelings of general and sexual confusion, mentions of sexual fluids, talks of being sexually aroused, sexual content, tsaheylu is mentioned, reader is still scared of Neteyam but she longs for him too, fear kink (if you squint), mentions of blood, size kink (if you really squint), primal [hunter/prey] kink (if you squint HARD), crying, strong language, the word "harassment" is mentioned, MAY BE TRIGGERING to some people, mentions of exophilia, indecisive reader, heartbroken Neteyam, heartbroken reader. Please, tell me if I missed anything important!

I slept a lot during the day yesterday and was up until late with my bf having dinner, watching YouTube etc and, when he went to sleep, I was restless, still didn't feel like sleeping so, I decided to edit and finish this chapter that was being kept in my Docs for way too long, it was getting dusty 😂 So, I might have stayed up until morning in the zone editing and finishing this 👀 I'm REALLY sleepy and exhausted rn, so, if some parts of this chapter don't really make sense, try to have empathy for my poor tired being and forgive me <3 I'm aware that I'm a hot mess who has insomnia and needs to get a grip and not put her art above healthy sleeping habits but what can I do? I'm one of those chaotic artists who have a hectic, unstable life and feel the most alive when they're immersed in their craft, running away from their problems, pouring their whole soul into their works 🤷🏻‍♀️

Not proofread. Me. too. tired. 💤  I'll do it ASAP! hope you guys like this. 🤍😘 comments will ALWAYS be incredibly appreciated.

Chapter 4

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

From lashes to ashes and from lust to dust

In your sweetest torment I am lost

And we sense the danger but don't want to give up

It's heartache every moment, from the start 'til the end

It's heartache every moment with you

Heartache Every Moment (HIM)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

You stared at Neteyam, at his big face, covered with stripes and fascinating bioluminescent freckles, leaving unique patterns all over his blue skin.

Even though he was kneeling down, doing everything he could to seem smaller and not so scary, to make you feel less intimidated by his size, his face was still way above your eyes, you still felt your neck hurt a little when you had to look up - straining your muscles, already sore from working too much - to gaze at his eyes.

"Oh, paskalin" (honey) "I could make you feel so good, you don't even know..." he was now even closer to you - you didn't even think it was possible but there he was, his massive frame making you feel smaller than ever. Fear of him snapping at you, in case you did something that didn't please, and hurting you was taking over your mind. You didn't know that Omatikaya boy, how could you trust him? "Give me a chance, be my mate and lemme show you how much pleasure I can give you, how I can make you feel safe and fulfilled in my arms after we make love. Like no fucking human male could ever do. Not like I would." Neteyam's fangs got prominent at that moment, and you could tell he was restraining himself from hissing at the thought of a human man having you in his arms. God, that had a name...

"Obsession." you thought

Despite those horrible feelings you were experiencing, his foreign accent still sounded weird but strangely fascinating to your ears, simultaneously. You hated yourself for feeling drawn to Neteyam, even though he was clearly stepping over your limits. You didn't know if maybe it was a na'vi courtship behavior for the male to get this close to the female, even if she hadn't shown any signs of wanting him to. But Neteyam wasn't exactly courting you, you thought. It was more like... straight up harassment, at least in human culture.

Your breath became heavier inside your oxygen mask when you thought about him using his fangs to draw blood from your skin in case you were able to be fast enough to go past where he was kneeling down next to you, and, tried to run away. With his incredibly slender, toned legs he could easily catch up with you in a millisecond and grab you, being free to do whatever he wanted to your small, defenseless human body. That thought made you feel like someone was knotting your intestines tight.

"Eywa... You're just so fucking pretty, even in this demon form, that I... I wanna do to you, right now, all I've been dreaming about, since I first saw you and you made my blood run hotter through my veins, such a fire you ignited inside me, syulang..." (flower)

Neteyam's breath was so heavy once out of his nostrils, clouding your mask, like he's controlling his urges, trying to hold back from touching you. You felt your knees weaken, fear and tension being the reasons why.

"Y-you don't want me, Neteyam. Not really. You just think you do. You're only intrigued by me because I look different from the girls you're used to. The na'vi girls." You didn't know how but you dug deep inside your chest and found the courage there to say that, looking into the alien's eyes.

Neteyam chuckled faintly, air coming out of his nose, in disbelief

"How can you say such thing, hì’i?"

"Hì..hì?" You tried to pronounce what you had just heard, in vain. You had no idea what that na'vi word meant. It's not like you knew that much of the na'vi language, anyway. You only knew the basic stuff that you had to study and learn to be able pass one of the tests that would determine if you were ready to get an Avatar body from the lab

"Hì'i." He corrected you, smiling wide and laughing quite a bit. "You're so silly and cute. Hì'i means "small in size" in my people's language. You are small, in this current physical form. But, let's talk about what's most important: what makes you think I don't really want you?"

"Because I am a demon to you, as you said. I am a human girl, not a na'vi girl." you said, rage slipping through your eyes. Why the hell was that crazy na'vi guy calling you a "demon", saying that he wants you sexually and calling you pet names, all at once?

"But you have an Avatar body. Nothing is preventing you from having your consciousness transferred for good to that body. If my father did it, so can you." The alien said, full of confidence. You wondered if he was going insane.

"And what makes you think I wanna do it?"

“My tawtute," (human) "I can smell you. I know you want me too. You're wet for me. Don't forget my senses are way sharper than what you're used to" Neteyam smiles calmly while enjoying the way your scent hit his nostrils. You felt your face flood with color, so much blood going directly to that part of your body as you felt incredibly embarassed when you heard those words. You had just realized your panties were soaked. "And, I'm sorry, but I have to tell you… Your juices smell so fucking delicious. You're driving me insane right now, yawne. I think that, at the end of the day, becoming my mate and making tsaheylu with me wouldn't be such a horrible experience for you."

Your thoughts cursed at you like crazy: "Damn it!! I must be kidding my own self!! Having a slight crush on him is one thing, getting fucking wet for him is something totally different! Do I have a fear kink, a rape kink or am I just into freaking exophilia?! For real, girl... There's gotta be something extremely wrong with you for you to be this turned on by the thought of this alien guy taking you by force."

"You're crazy! I'm not gonna be your mate! Just fucking let me go!" You wondered if you had just lost your mind to say and do that to Neteyam, being currently in your human body (if you were Dreamwalking it would obviously be safer) but you couldn't take all that was happening at that moment anymore. Your heart was beating too fast, like you were about to have a cardiac arrest. It was too much. You were overwhelmed.

You caught Neteyam off guard, the words you shouted stinged him so hard it left his very heart wounded, the muscles throbbing in pain. You noticed he seemed hurt, the sides of his mouth curled down faintly and his cat like ears were pointing towards the ground.

You felt bad for hurting his feelings. Even though he was disrespecting you, there was still enough empathy inside you to make you feel bad for making him suffer. You did not enjoy hurting people.

You inhaled and exhaled, trying to calm your nerves and, finally, you said:

"Look, I don't mean to be rude, even though you honestly deserve it. There's no excuse for what you're doing. You can't force me to be your mate. I'm not even na'vi! And don't start with that "You have an Avatar body" thing, please!" You breathe in deeply and let the air out slowly "I'm not your dad and I don't intend to follow his steps. I know very well I could die if I tried to go past Eywa's eye. Even if I wanted to get my consciousness transferred forever to my Avatar form, it's too damn risky. Plus, what makes you think I'd ever do it for you? I barely know you." You sighed, exhausted from it all. "Let me go back to my room. Please…?"

Neteyam looked tired and he was starting to feel defeated, like a soldier fighting in the front lines of a war who was losing his stamina after shooting way too many enemies in a very short period of time.

"I just wish you could…" it's like the words felt too rough against his throat, like it was too hard to talk at that moment "... could see that I won't hurt you." He sighed again "I know it feels weird and I'm big and scary, like you say…" His heart hurt at the reminder of your tough words "But I promise you - and I take promises very seriously. My parents taught me to do so, ever since I was old enough to understand their words - I would never lay a finger you." The expression on his face looked utterly serious, like he truly meant it. "Ever."

"You're hurting me with your actions, your words... the way you talk about me, about my body. I don't know about your culture, but it's pretty disrespectful in mine. I feel violated. I do think most of what the human race considers right or wrong is just bullshit, dumb society rules made up by even dumber people. But I have to agree with them on this one." You said

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, hì’i tawtute." (small human) Neteyam looked down at the floor and there was shame all over his face

"Opening my window for you was a mistake."

Neteyam looked at you with eyes filled with sadness

He got back on his feet and stepped away from you, staying now arguably a good amount of steps away from where you were standing.

"Please, don't say that…" Neteyam pleaded with tears in his eyes

"I'm sorry. I have to go."

༊⁀➷

Once you got back to your room, took your oxygen mask out of your face on autopilot and closed the window, you stared for a while at Neteyam's oddly tall figure, still standing in front of your room.

You looked at him and your heart broke. He looked so hurt. His big yellow irises shone insanely in the dark of the eclipse. But his eyes were tainted with tears. His dark braids fell onto his shoulders perfectly. He was incredibly beautiful. But why could you only let your guard down when he was away from you? When you were behind a glass and he was standing on the other side? It broke your heart to do that. But you also knew he was being too much. Too eager. Stepping over your limits and making you uncomfortable. But what if that was just his na'vi nature? You had heard before that the na'vi were humanoid but still animalistic. Maybe it was just… his primal instincts to find a mate. You wondered if maybe you were being too harsh on him. But you still felt like you could not and should not trust him. Even though you wanted to. 

You watched him walk away, his shoulders pointing downwards, his posture showing he knew he had lost that battle.

You wondered if he would come back or if he would give up on you. You felt so idiotic. Why did you want him to come back? He was not treating you the way he should be, with respect for your boundaries.

You felt so confused. There was a lump in your throat. You felt like you were about to cry too.

Your hands were cold and you were feeling anxious and your chest was filled with angst. You wanted to scream Neteyam's name and ask him to come back.  But you did not. You knew you shouldn't. It could awake someone. It could be dangerous. You should not trust Neteyam, you kept repeating in your mind.

Your feet started to move, almost as if they did it on their own, because it felt like your mind was somewhere else, like your brain was occupied with something else other than sending a message to your feet and tell them to take you back to your bed. You were lost in your thoughts. Dazed as hell. 

Once you laid on your bed and covered your body with the warm sheets, you felt a sinking feeling of sadness and guilt bruising your chest. Hot, painful tears streamed down your face and the lump in your throat intensified. Why were you crying? And why were you thinking about Neteyam Suli while you cried?

You wondered if he could imagine that you were now crying, just like he was when he left.

༊⁀➷

Taglist:

@kitsunefirewail @tumblingdevils @a-blog-name-2003 @xylobee @nerdybouquetofkittens-blog @henhouse-horrors @lala-1516 @xylianasblog @samistars @crazy4books1 @explosiongamora @lik0 @your-girl-mj @darktyrantwinner @sereisstuff @yeosxxx @die4niyahhh @iman-lu @manumanulau @im-in-a-pansexual-panik @hana-yuri @thehoneymushroomhealer @melllinaa @annaibansworld @siriuslysmoking @avatar4eva @ellabellabus07 @badbishsblog @neteyamsmate4life

[angel-of-the-moons]

Over The Phone

Dad Bod!Professor!Miguel x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Just... NSFW. So much NSFW. Phone sex, masturbating, sexy selfies, sexting, all that shit.

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: God this took forever to churn out but I finally got motivation to finish it!!

Taglist: @cupcakeinat0r @tojishugetiddies (if I forgot to tag anybody let me know, pls! I lost the saved list I had for people alshldhd)

Divider by @/across-the-art-verse

Miguel art @ meeee

The day had dragged on for what felt like far longer than usual for him; the usual students who showed up late, tried to sneak out, slept through the lecture or just ignored whatever he said.

The students who listened and actively engaged with the lesson were few and far between, and the almost silent lull between classes felt felt almost too short. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered, especially with the growing list of students who were disinterested in his class, or those that only signed up for extra credit and didn't want to do the work...

But, getting cards and thank-you post-its from students who felt like they wouldn't have been able to graduate without him kept him on in this tedium. He loved to hear from his former students about how their new careers were going--careers they credit hi to helping them achieve.

It never failed to make his heart all warm and fuzzy when he thought about them.

Miguel ran his hand across his beard, and a thought came to him about maybe shaving it off. He had grown it out; rather rugged if he had to admit it. But, he quickly shook that thought away--you loved his beard. Oftentimes he would wake up from a nap, you snuggled perfectly against his solid frame, your nails dragging through the short hairs with a content smile on your face.

Oh, he couldn't say no to you, his pretty little wife, could he?

Speaking of which... it was your day off. He couldn't help but wonder what you were--

When his phone pinged, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and unlocks the screen to see a text from you;

Hiii baby, how's work going?

He chuckled and replied, Same as usual. Only two students slept through class this lime

*time

Your reply was swift.

Awww I'm sry :(

If it makes you feel any better, if I were in your class... wait. I wouldn't get any work done either. I'd just be lookin at you :p

He laughed, his belly shaking a little bit as he grinned at his screen, his massive fingers fumbling the small keys once again on the too-small phone screen.

Yes, you would mafe a very door student, wouldn't you, amor?

*made *poor

Miguel rolled his eyes. He was tempted to try and see if they didn't make phones built for someone with his giant hands in mind... Damn this tiny screen!

Awww my Miggy gettin all frustrated?

Yes.

For what felt like too long, his message was left on "read". He quirked a bushy brow, scratching at his beard curiously at what was keeping you.

And then, his phone pinged again.

Here, maybe this'll keep you entertained ;)

*Image attached. Click to view.*

He hummed in curiosity. Maybe it was one of those silly little doodles you liked to send to him? One of your memes, maybe? Though, it didn't make sense why the image was blurred, when--

His heart lurched up into his throat and he instantly slammed his phone against his desk, screen down; looking around pointlessly as if he were worried someone was standing over his shoulder when the image finally cleared.

Cursing himself for acting like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar, Miguel slowly lifted his phone to his face and looked at the picture you'd sent him.

You were nude, laying belly-down in your bed, the blankets askew around you. Your feet crossed one over the other as you smiled at the lens--you must have moved the full body mirror from the living room to your bedroom to achieve this shot--and your back was arched slightly to show off your bare ass.

He felt his cock twitch to life as he examined every pixel on the screen; wishing so badly he were home right now, to touch that soft expanse of flesh he loved so much. To cup your ass in his palms, feeling the warmth of your skin in his palms as his fingers massaged and groped the skin.

He could feel your hands slide up the soft pouch of his belly, scraping your nails delectably through the short, curly dark hairs that ran up his abdomen and covered his chest. He could feel your teeth scrape and tug his nipple before kissing your way back down...

Dios, mi amor. You're lucky I am not in the middle of a meeting! He hastily typed, pretending he wasn't practically salivating over that selfie.

Aw, didn't you like what I sent? :'(

I didn't say--

But before he could finish typing and send the text, he got another attached image from you.

He swallowed hard at the lump in his throat and his thumb hovered over the image hesitantly. He looked towards the clock above the door to his classroom. He had half an hour left...

When the image unblurred, he felt his heart damn near stop.

You were perched on the edge of the bed, your legs spread wide; one hand was holding your phone while the others spread you slick folds with nimble fingers and a cheeky expression on your face.

How bout this one?

Miguel groaned, loudly. He actually slipped a hand over his plush lips, cringing at how damn near pathetic that sounded.

He immediately clicked your contact information and hit "call".

The phone rang a painfully long, droning tone until your bubbly voice giggled on the other end of the line, "Heyyyy Miggy~"

"You are going to kill me, baby." He hissed into his phone, pressing the heel of his palm into his throbbing erection, "I'm in the middle of a school day! The students are at lunch!"

"Ohhh, did I get you all hard and excited for me?" You sigh dreamily into the phone, your voice dropping into a more sultry tone.

"Naughty boy, popping a stiffy in the middle of class."

He grunted, his head dropping back against his chair, the leather creaking under his weight as he tugged the ends of his button-up out from his rapidly-tightening jeans, "And whose fault is that?"

You gasp theatrically, "Mine? Oh, baby, I was just trying to provide you moral support, I swear!"

"Of course," Miguel huffed, eyeing the doorknob, waiting to see if he was unlucky enough that somebody were to walk in right as he pulled his cock free from his jeans, running his fingers over the swollen tip, smearing his precum around it.

He could hear in your voice, the way you were biting your lip in excitement as you spoke. "Baby, are you touching yourself?"

"You tell me, first." He replied, his voice strained as he gave himself a few tentative strokes; trying to gauge if the risk was worth it.

"Oh? Want me to tell you that I'm playing with my pussy?" You croon. "That I'm imagining you, and me, in bed..."

His teeth snagged his plush bottom lip briefly as he sped his hand up to your words, then slowed back down again. The friction wasn't right; too dry. So, he sucked on his tongue until he had a nice glob of saliva; bringing his hand up to his mouth to wet it before slicking his throbbing length up.

"Go on." He grumbled into the line.

"...ooooh." You giggled, your voice a little breathless. He could see you now, laying back on the bed, your fingers plunging in and out of you, pulling out to stroke your puffy clit; your pussy drooling into the blankets beneath you.

"Mmmm~ I'm also imagining you on top of me, my legs on your shoulders..."

He felt the oxygen squeeze from his lungs as he upped his pace, the vein in his cock throbbing and thumping in time with his rapid heart rate.

"Yeah, bebita?"

"Yeah." You huff, a small moan coming from you; "'m imagining you pinnin' me down, fucking a baby into me."

"Dios." Miguel groaned, thrusting his hips up to meet his fist. "You want a baby, hermosa? Want me to make you a mami?"

"Mhmm... want you to fill me aaaallllll the way up." You whined, your panting hot, even through the phone.

Miguel dared a glance up at the clock. Still had some time... He needed to do it quickly; needed to milk his cock so he wouldn't appear "improper" with a massive erection straining his pants.

As if enough of his female students (and even some of the male ones) didn't have enough difficulty paying attention in class...

He'd be lying if he hadn't gotten a few love confessions from students, present and former. He'd always politely turn them down, and then, if they were currently his pupils, politely and quietly have them sent to another class to avoid any improper behavior in the future.

It was as if none of them ever paid any mind to the gold band firmly secured to his ring finger--the matching mate to the one you wore on your own softer, delicate hand signifying your matrimonial bonds. Or... maybe they had and assumed they could tempt him from you.

Well, those assumptions were always wrong. The only person he could imagine bouncing on his cock, sucking it, milking it, stroking it--was you. You and only you.

Sometimes thinking of you when he was alone was the only ways he could get off, before you started dating. Even finding porn of a woman who looked like you wasn't enough. It had to be you.

And after the first time he felt your pretty pink pussy swallow his cock whole? Oh, he was addicted. Addicted and whipped, a few of his colleagues would say...

The professor and the school nurse; a bit of a cliche; but it was a nice one. The two of you had even played with a slutty nurse outfit or two.

You not always being the nurse...

"Fuck, Miggs, 'm so close." You whine loudly. He could see in his mind's eye how fast your fingers would be working your clit, maybe even giving in and plunging one of your silicone toys in and out of your tight hole for him.

In fact, he could imagine it so closely he could hear it.

"Shit, baby..." He hissed, his hand working his length furiously, now, almost in a race with you to see who would cum first. "You on speaker??"

"Mhmm~" You whine, your air leaving your body in wet-hot pants, the sound of your slick pussy being fucked--by your hand or your toy, he couldn't place--but the sound of it had his balls tightening up already.

"Gonna cum for me, mi amor?" Miguel huffed and puffed, more thick precum dribbling down from his tip. He smeared it over himself, using the fluid as lube to help hasten his impending orgasm.

"Yeah, baby~"

He snarled, the sound of stroking skin lewd and loud; your moans the best pornography his ears could ever be graced with.

"Cum for me, honey." Miguel whined, his glasses slipping further down his nose as he released his cock long enough to yank his shirt up over the soft, rounded edge of his tummy.

Immediately after, his hand returned once more around the thick pulsing shaft of him; stroking, tugging, milking himself like he knew your sweet cunt would. Your tight, wet, needy pussy that was dying for a drop of his cum.

As you wantonly moaned; he could imagine you splayed out in bed, legs wide and mouth open as you shout your orgasm out for him to hear, drowning out the outside world... and as his eyes would drift down, he could imagine your belly, cute and round; a baby kicking out at his hand as he caressed the stretched-out skin.

The image of you carrying his baby sent his mind into a blazing fire, the tightening in his balls and swelling of his cock too much to bear. Miguel arched his back, the wheels of his chair squeaking faintly across the floor as he curled his toes in his polished shoes, hot, thick ropes of cum shooting out to coat his belly, fingers, and even the underside of his desk; your name leaving his lips in a flurry of obscene prayers.

His mind was fuzzy as he slowly came down from his high, the sound of your giggle snapping him back to reality:

"See you when you get home, Miggy~"

The phone hangs up, and Miguel is left with his pearly white mess coating his belly, making his skin and hair sticky. At least he didn't get any on his shirt. This time.

The bell rang, suddenly, shaking him to full lucidity from his post-coital haze, his hairs standing on end and making him jolt up straight.

He hastily grabbed a few tissues from his desk drawer and began cleaning up, shoving a few stray stands of his graying hair back into place as he began to hear the chatter and footfall of students in the halls.

Oh, you would pay for this when you got home, all right.

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Art References for Chapter Two of underneath the sunrise (show where your love lies)

(somehow this one got SO LONG. my bad. in my defense, have some paintings and a few artifacts from my Archaeology of Death class)

Portrait of Madame X, John Singer Sargent, 1884

"There, standing in front of him, as shocking as the unveiling of the Portrait of Madame X on an unsuspecting Paris, are Edwin Payne and Charles Rowland."

On the Terrace at Sèvres, Marie Bracquemond, 1880

"For his final seminar paper, Monty wrote about Marie Bracquemond. About her paintings and the light that entered through all corners of the space. About the way that she, among all her peers, captured the feelings of her subjects, lonely and lovely in the bright outdoor light.

Monty remembers something she said about Impressionism, about how it produced “not only a new, but a very useful way of looking at things. It is as though all at once a window opens and the sun and air enter your house in torrents."

And god, he shouldn’t have let it happen, but that is Charles and Edwin for him. The sun and the air. The relief in the middle of winter."

Grave Goods of Queen Puabi (A Few Selected from Tomb PG 300)

"Monty should be able to keep his resolve. He should be able to be stubborn. He should be able to hold firm, to last, to endure like grave goods in Queen Puabi’s tomb."

The Last Supper, Tintoretto, 1592-1594

"There is some source of light in the background, behind their heads, but it’s dark out the windows so the light haloes dark hair like Tintoretto’s wet dream.

And maybe Monty’s at the Last Supper. Maybe there are only two apostles at the table framed in holy light. Maybe he’s Judas, about to doom a lover with a kiss."

Sunflowers, Van Gogh, 1888

“God, it has never been about me not wanting you. I’ve always wanted you two. Since that first game, since I saw the two of you together, all Van-Gogh-sunflowers-bright.”

Autumn Lane, Thomas Kinkade

"Monty isn’t Cinderella. He isn’t a Thomas Kinkade subject, pastoral, pastel, and perfect. He has no ball to go to and no princes to come and save him. He has nothing to do but sluggishly pull sweatpants and an old t-shirt on over clammy, goosebump-ridden skin and slip under the Persistence of Memory blanket Niko got him for Christmas last year."

Time Transfixed, René Magritte, 1938

"Monty isn’t Cinderella. He isn’t a Thomas Kinkade subject, pastoral, pastel, and perfect. He has no ball to go to and no princes to come and save him. He has nothing to do but sluggishly pull sweatpants and an old t-shirt on over clammy, goosebump-ridden skin and slip under the Time Transfixed blanket Niko got him for Christmas last year."

The Swing, Fragonard, 1767-8

"And Monty nods. "I think," he says, "I can start to believe that."

Emphasis on start, of course, but it's enough to make Edwin and Charles both smile at him, Charles raising Monty's knuckles to kiss them giddily like he's the boy in a Fragonard painting, excited by the glimpse of a lady's ankle."

Starry Night over the Rhône, Van Gogh, 1888

"All of these things do. It's quiet. The world is still. But it doesn't feel as empty as normal. Some measure of warmth and light has followed Charles Rowland and Edwin Payne from their apartment and into Monty’s, soft and bright and welcoming as the Van Gogh's stars above the Rhône."

@deadboy-edwin @icecreambrownies @anonymousbooknerd-universe @ashildrs

@tragedy-machine @just-existing-as-you-do-blog @orpheusetude @mj-irvine-selby

@pappelsiin @itsbitmxdinhere @rexrevri @sweet-like-h0ney-lavender @saffirez

@the-ipre @sunnylemonss @days-light @agentearthling @helltechnicality

@sethlost @catboy-cabin @secretlyafiveheadeddragon @vyther15

@anything-thats-rock-and-roll @queen-of-hobgobblers @every-moment-a-different-sound

@nix-nihili @mellxncollie @tumblerislovetumblerislife @lemurafraidofthunder

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@fenristheulv