#If you do want to keep writing this story with me

[krystella-shifts]

EVERYTHING IS CLICKING FOR ME Y'ALL!!! *ੈ✩‧₊˚

The only post you'll ever need for LOA. Literally.

It's so easy to manifest literally so easy once you do this. JUST SIT BACK AND RELAX, BE IN RECIVING MODE INSTEAD OF CONSTANTLY FEELING LIKE YOU HAVE TO DO SOMETHING. Yes sometimes it can be hard when you feel panic that you have to manifest as fast as possible but trust me once you TRUST, it'll all fall into your lap at the snap of a finger! Literally. You'll even feel better and happy instead of worrying and feel like waiting forever. The universe/god/your higher self, whatever you believe in is telling you or teaching you that the way isn't through worry, stress, pain, suffering. The way is through ease, love, trust. Once you understand this you'll ALWAYS and I mean ALWAYS be able to manifest without any effort. Yes, no need for that 21 days challenge, no need to set a reminder for every hour to affirm, no need to try hard to visualise every teeny tiny detail. Just have this inner knowing and relax. That's the cheat code. How easy is that? You literally have the cheat code and it doesn't require ANY effort outside and the most minimal effort inside.

Now let me explain all the manifestation techniques in more detail.

Every manifestation technique has one goal:

Think about any technique. Affirming, visualising, scripting,etc. All of these are for what? To remind you, you have your desire. YES not to get something. That's why Neville said feel it real is very powerful technique. Cuz that's what happens when we receive something right. But what we do in loa is we feel it rn and get it rn, and because the 3d is in the past, yes it's our past assumptions, that's why we say it's not real. So when we feel it real we already have our desire in the present, but the 3d is not in the present. So don't react to it. Just remember that. And after a few days of having our desire we don't get THAT excited, do we? So when you think about it again you don't have to feel anything or do anything cuz you already have it. AND THEN WE JUST SIT BACK AND RELAX. Again the same conclusion. Cuz that's it!

ALL YOU NEED TO EVER DO:

Decide what you want. And feel having it.

Remind yourself that you have ___ either saying it in your head, writing it down, etc

RELAX. SIT TF BACK. YES YOU DON'T NEED TO DO ANYTHING.

Whenever you think about ___ always remember you have it. And think naturally. How would you think having ___ cuz you do now.

Remember the 3d is a product of your past assumptions. Just like how we see the stars 8 years later of their actual form. Just like it takes 8 minutes for sunlight to reach the earth. If you remember this you won't ask "where it is" you know it is here. And yes u can manifest Shifting too.

Allow it to come to you. I don't chase i attract.

Yes that's what it means. And I am the living proof for that 😌💅🏻✨ I am literally living my dream life and bestie you are too. That's all you need to manifest (aka yourself). It's very simple but if you have any questions feel free to comment and keep me updated on your manifestation journey and success stories cuz I'd love to read them and know if my post helped you 🤭🥂 (atleast you can do that for me, right? ;p)

Love, ... redkittyjellyfish? Wait i need to change my user name 💀 (ps. I changed my user from redkittyjellyfish - Krystella-Shifts (⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠) )

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

[thanosscross]

HII I REALLY LOVE YOUR WORK SO MUCH, i hope your willing to write about pregnant reader x thanos yk, thanos didn't know she was pregnant before they break up and then they meet up again the games and he finds out player 222 and player 333 type stuff 😭

Of course! We love this!!

Good person - Choi Su- Bong x pregnant! reader

Summary: After leaving Thanos, you encounter him again in a serious death game, only this time the stakes are lot higher

Warnings: Not much, just your usual squid game gore

A/n: Sorry it's so short! I'm going to try and start adding some length to my stories again especially my Thanos stories so stay tuned for those longer stories, trust me they are coming, they're just takin a lil time

You had told yourself whenever you signed up, you'd be as careful as possible, and that it was all for your baby, after leaving their father and being disowned for choosing to be single mother, you were left with little to nothing, so of course you took the chance to get money.

As you woke up in the giant room you soon came to regret your decision, seeing your sperm donor just a few feet in front of you, focused on the screen reading off debts "Y/n L/n, 25 million won" The guard shouted, showing you getting smacked across the face, quickly holding an arm over your stomach afterwards. Almost like he knew, as soon as your name was called out, his head snapped to yours "Senorita! You're here!?" He shouted in shock "No Way!" He shouted as he walked closer, you attempted to curl your body up away from him, but due to the six month pregnancy belly, you could only bend your legs closer to you slightly.

"Please leave, Thanos" You grunted, trying your best to keep him at a distance, for all he knew you had taken a plan B after your last hook up and that was it. Instead he just kept approaching until he was standing in front of you "What're you doing here!?" He asked excited, you just shook your head "trying to get my family and I money after my sorry excuse of a boyfriend convinced me to buy stupid ass crypto?" You said like it was obvious, it wasn't like you were entirely lying, you just didn't specify what family.

Going into red light green light, you were cocky at first, knowing you could do this easy, until the shooting started, players falling left and right, while your baby dad just skipped and danced his way to you down the field "You never answered me, Senorita" He repeated, placing his hands on your hips, terrified of what he might do, especially after watching him shove other players to win "I-I'm pregnant" You blurted, you couldn't help it, between your fear of dying by Thanos or the game was too much, you just wanted to get out of this alive, you didn't think it'd be this serious, if you did, you never would've done this. "Haha" He laughed sarcastically before looking at your face as the doll called out red light, he was in front of you now, and you were visibly shaking, Thanos using his body to try and shield you from the sensors "for real, flower?" He asked, his tone a lot more deep and raspy, you could tell he sobered up quick upon the realization you weren't joking. "I-I forgot the pill after hooked up a few months ago! a-and I left because I knew you couldn't be a responsible dad" You blurted, unable to contain your emotions as the hormones in your body were on overdrive.

Thanos was frozen, staring at you in shock before finally snapping out of it as the doll called green light, he grabbed your arm holding you behind him as he followed the others past the red line "Just stay behind me" He whispered, your words stung, how could you be so sure of how he'd be as a dad if you never gave him a chance? As you made your way back to the giant main room, you took notice to Thanos's hand on your back leading you to the bed "Sit, you don't put yourself through too much" He explained softly, helping you over to your bunks before eyeing Nam-Gyu "Give her your bed, man" he demanded, his friend stuttering before giving up and giving you his bed that was floor level, him taking your third bunk bed. "Thanos" You warned, not wanting him to make it a huge deal "What?! You're huge! You don't need to be climbing!" He shouted before catching his tone, apologizing quietly "Okay, well One, that was very very rude, two, I can do whatever I please, if I feel like I can't do something, I'll tell you" You stated poking him in the chest with your finger, he just smirked at you, biting his bottom lip slightly "Have I ever told you, it's hot whenever you yell at me" he asked, trying his best to charm you, but instead you just flicked his forehead in annoyance "Get away, freak" You replied, he just smiled at you, sitting at the foot of your bunk "So it's my baby?" He asked smiling pointing to your stomach "Well, if not I'd be concerned" You said raising your eyebrows at him "Can I..touch it?.." He asked nervously "it's not an it, it's your daughter" you glared, before grabbing his hand slipping it under your jacket, pressing his finger down in just the right spot to get the small baby inside of you to move around "Woah..weird" He said grimacing as he pulled away in disgust "Really!?" You gasped in shock laughing loudly, somehow forgetting you were in a death game for a moment "Yea! You have a whole human inside of you! That's weird!" He laughed, resting his hand on yours "You put it there, Su-bong!" You argued, you swore sometimes you got with a completely dumbass.

"Y/n..If you'll let me...I wanna be there..I don't want to be like my dad" He frowned, squeezing your hand gently "Please?" He begged "I know I fucked up bad, but, I want to try again, please" He continued, you glared at him for a moment before sighing "How can I trust you? And you'll have to get clean, for real clean, not how you're usually clean" You added on, you just watched as he nodded his head, no faces or complaints "You're actually serious aren't you?..." you asked sweetly "I want to be a good person for you, y/n, please" He whispered, pressing his lips to your knuckles "I guess..but you only get one chance" You offered, he just nodded before flopping himself next to you "Thank you!" He cheered pressing multiple kisses all over your face as he chanted his thank you's, not realizing the next 18-19 years were going to be hell for the both of you.

The rest of the games, Thanos was always on you, making sure you didn't over do yourself or risk hurting yourself or your baby, charming you right back into his arms.

--

Taglist!!

@acehasmyheart

@corrdelia

@ag022123

[liondrakes]

Absolutely. Speaking as a writer, I could tell from jump that there’s no satisfaction in using gen-AI. Even if someone took out all moral disputes regarding the technology, I’d still have no incentive to use it.

This technology doesn’t know what I know on a personal level. It doesn’t know my style. It doesn’t know the themes or angles I want to tackle. Even if I gave it this information, it’d be a derivative of what I actually want to convey.

Why would I waste my time using it for my work?

There is nothing satisfying about asking a bot to “write” what I’m thinking of and watching said bot spit back “content” that it scraped from somewhere else. If I wanted a story that was loosely stitched together, I’d sift through my old WIPs from high school or undergrad, pick out what I liked, and stitch something together myself.

It will never have the satisfaction of writing out the ideas circulating in my head, knocking out the ones I’m not too into and making outlines for the idea that wins me over.

It will never have the satisfaction of the drafting process— the moment you finally get to write, to go through the trial and error of how you want to present your work. It’s hard. It’s time-consuming. It’s humbling, but it’s rewarding all the same.

It will never have the satisfaction of sharing what you’re working on with other people. It’s certainly nerve-wracking if you’re looking to publish, but I’m talking about friends, mutuals on social media, other writers in Discord servers and forums, et cetera. It doesn’t even need to be completed. Exchange drafts with people. Organize the notes you’ve taken on your characters, and share them as OCs (because that’s basically what they are).

I get none of that from gen-AI.

You know what I get? Empty words from a generated response.

I’m impartial to that. It’s technology at the end of the day. It’s programmed to do this. Yet, it’s still one of many reasons why I’ll never touch it as a writer. Empty ideas, empty criticisms and empty feedback in general get me nowhere. It doesn’t motivate me to write, and it damn sure doesn’t help me improve what I’m writing.

Furthermore, sharing that you told a bot to “create” something holds no weight. Anybody can do that, and I find it funny when this sentiment is used to defend gen-AI. The bot scrapes together anything it can muster to give you results. It does the same for anyone else who uses it, thus you have nothing of interest to show.

Not only would using gen-AI deprive me of what makes the creative process so worthwhile, it also keeps me in a cycle of monotony. Writing stops being a creative practice. It becomes boredom.

Tech companies pitched a vacuum of button-pressing and sold it to people under the guise of efficiency. Meanwhile, their idea of efficiency guts the entire experience.

If someone told me as a teen that if I love writing, and that I should give ChatGPT a try, I likely wouldn’t care for their suggestion.

Think of it this way: if someone recommended you a video game, and also recommended you to look at a bunch of walkthroughs and shortcuts while playing it, would you?

It’d defeat the purpose of playing the game, right? You don’t get the full experience that way.

Why scrape the arts and miss everything when you alone hold the key to that experience?

As gen-AI becomes more normalized (Chappell Roan encouraging it, grifters on the rise, young artists using it), I wanna express how I will never turn to it because it fundamentally bores me to my core. There is no reason for me to want to use gen-AI because I will never want to give up my autonomy in creating art. I never want to become reliant on an inhuman object for expression, least of all if that object is created and controlled by tech companies. I draw not because I want a drawing but because I love the process of drawing. So even in a future where everyone’s accepted it, I’m never gonna sway on this.

[mononijikayu]

araw – araw — gojo satoru.

You smiled, tired but radiant, and beckoned him closer. "Satoru." you whispered, your voice soft and full of emotion. "Come meet your son." He approached, his heart pounding in a way no battle or curse had ever caused. As he looked down at the small, fragile life wrapped in the softest of blankets, his breath caught in his throat. You gently placed Satoshi in his arms, and the world seemed to still. "He’s perfect." Satoru couldn’t help but murmur, his usually excited voice tender filled with quiet awe and wonder. "You’re amazing, you really are." Tears pricked at the corners of his cerulean eyes as he looked back at you, the love and gratitude in his gaze almost overwhelming. "This… this is the best birthday gift anyone could ever give me."

GENRE: post hidden - post inventory arc (2010s)

WARNING/S: domesticity, fluff, angst, trauma, implied death, violence, romance, hurt/comfort, character death depiction of death, depictions of loss and depression, mention of pregnancy, depiction of the aftermath of birth, depiction of parenthood, depiction of blood, depiction of killing, depiction of suffering, depiction of anxiety, mention of death, mention of grief, profanity, family drama;

WORD COUNT: 4.2k

NOTE: i wanted to write today because it's genmei (you)'s birthday. you in this story were born on january 10th, 1986 - a few years older than satoru!!! there's only a month distance between satoru, megumi, satoshi and your birthday - so the household is always fun like that. oh and the card, megumi and tsumiki wrote thank you mom on the card!!! please listen to this song a lot too, opm is really great!!! i hope you enjoy this a lot like i did. i love you so much!!! see you on the next one <3

masterlist

u s and t h e m

if you want to, tip! <3

IT'S INTERESTING THAT THIS IS THE FIRST TIME HE COULDN’T FIND A GOOD PLAN. But it was true, this is the first conundrum he’s ever had to face in his life. Gojo Satoru doesn't think he's ever been good at not knowing how to do this before.

He's managed to face down curses that could obliterate cities, stood toe-to-toe with some of the most formidable foes in the world, and always come out on top. 

But he supposed that he will only ever be undone by you. Perhaps it was always the case ever since he’s met you. That was as inevitable as falling in love with you. Everything was going to be a challenge. And he loved that. Because he loved you. 

As he stands in the quiet of the early morning, he finds himself completely at a loss as he takes in the silence of the brightening dawn. He sighed tenderly as he found himself stopping his cerulean gaze right in front of him—you. 

You were still comfortably fast asleep, with soft breaths escaping your tender lips, you looked peaceful despite the exhaustion etched on your face. Just the way he likes it. Much more so nowadays, knowing how tired you’ve been. 

You were a new mother. And being a new mother, it was a lot of work. Even if you took turns taking care of the little treasure you brought into the world, Satoru knows that you work harder than he ever will.

He knows you stayed up all night keeping Satoshi asleep, cradling your son in your arms whenever he stirred.  And just as much, you also keep up to date with Megumi and Tsumiki, no matter what happens. 

Of course, he would tell you off so that you would continue on your bed rest or continue about taking as much time to heal as possible. But you couldn’t help it. This has been your entire life for almost half a decade.

You like being involved with everything. But Satoru worries, he always does. He can’t help it. He was just as much a father as he was a husband. You gave him everything that’s good in his life. And he means it. 

Yet now this leaves him in a conundrum.

How the hell could he top this gift of a lifetime?

How can he equate this gift on your birthday?

It was only a month ago, on his birthday, when you handed him the most precious gift in the world: your newborn son, Satoshi. The memory of that day is etched vividly in Gojo Satoru’s mind, a moment he revisits often, especially in the quiet hours of the night when the world is asleep, and it’s just the two of you and little Satoshi.

He remembers the soft glow of the hospital room, the way your bright eyes shimmered with a mix of exhaustion and pure joy as you gently cradled the tiny bundle of life, a life that both of you created, a life you had risked heaven and earth for, lay tenderly quiet in your arms.

Satoru had entered the room, his usual confident stride slightly hesitant, his light blue gaze locked onto you. The second his eyes met yours, he felt something shift deep within him—a kind of warmth he had never known before. One that he never thought he’d ever feel.

You smiled, tired but radiant, and beckoned him closer. "Satoru." you whispered, your voice soft and full of emotion. "Come meet your son."

He approached, his heart pounding in a way no battle or curse had ever caused. As he looked down at the small, fragile life wrapped in the softest of blankets, his breath caught in his throat. You gently placed Satoshi in his arms, and the world seemed to still.

"He’s perfect." Satoru couldn’t help but murmur, his usually excited voice tender filled with quiet awe and wonder. "You’re amazing, you really are."

Tears pricked at the corners of his cerulean eyes as he looked back at you, the love and gratitude in his gaze almost overwhelming. "This… this is the best birthday gift anyone could ever give me."

In that moment, Satoru realized what it truly meant to be loved and to love in return. Holding Satoshi close, he silently vowed to protect and cherish his family with every ounce of his being. That day, his life changed forever, not because of his immense power or the battles he fought, but because of the tiny life in his arms and the incredible person who had given it to him.

Now, as he watches you sleep, that memory fuels his determination to make your birthday just as unforgettable. You had given him the world, and now it was his turn to make sure you felt just as cherished, just as loved. But still, what could he do that could equate to that? What could ever be enough to make your birthday just as special?

Satoru could only sigh quietly, scratching the back of his head, as he gazed at you lovingly. How could he possibly top that devoted act of yours? How could he make your birthday as special as you made his?

His clear mind races with ideas, but none of them feel good enough. With a quiet determination, he stands up, stretching carefully to avoid waking you, his joints softly popping in the stillness of the room.

When he finishes, he tiptoes over to the crib where your little son, Satoshi, sleeps peacefully. The soft moonlight filtering through the curtains casts a gentle glow over the room, highlighting the delicate features of the little one. 

Satoru leans down, a tender smile tugging at his lips as he watches the slow rise and fall of Satoshi’s tiny chest. His little hands are curled into fists, and his lips form a small pout as his little one continues to find himself in dreamland.

"Hey, little treasure of mine." Satoru whispers softly, brushing a finger gently across Satoshi’s cheek. "You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, you know that? And it’s all thanks to your amazing mom. You should be nicer to mom, okay? ‘specially today. It’s your mom’s birthday, after all."

A soft murmur releases from your son’s lips. Satoru couldn’t help but laugh silently. He could understand him, he supposed. Satoru will take his son’s hum as an answer. He stands there for a few moments longer, lost in the serenity of the moment.

The quiet hum of the house, the soft breaths of his sleeping son, and the comforting presence of you in the next room—all of it fills him with a profound sense of peace and gratitude.

Determined not to waste another moment, Satoru quietly steps out of the room. As he pads down the hallway, he hears the soft murmurs of Megumi and Tsumiki stirring their rooms.

A small smile plays on his lips as he finds himself leaning against the wall by their hall. A little while later, he could see Megumi and Tsumiki padding into their rooms, still rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

"Satoru–san?" Tsumiki whispers, her voice gentle as she rubs the sleep from her eyes. "Why are you up so early?"

"Yeah." Megumi adds, stifling a yawn as he steps into the room. "And why are you standing there like that? You look like you’re about to pick a fight with someone. It’s weird."

Satoru raises an eyebrow, feigning offense as he crosses his arms over his chest. "Hey, standing around waiting for my kids to wake up isn’t weird. It's dedication."

Tsumiki giggles softly, covering her mouth with her hand. "Dedication to what, exactly?"

"To make sure we have the best start to the day, obviously!" Satoru replies with a playful grin. "Besides, today’s special, remember? It’s my wife’s birthday, and I need my secret weapons—aka you two—to help me make it perfect."

Megumi narrows his bluish–green eyes slightly, still skeptical. "Secret weapons, huh?"

"That’s right, you guys." Satoru says, ruffling Megumi's hair affectionately. "You two are crucial to this mission. So, what do you say? Ready to help make this the best birthday ever?"

Tsumiki and Megumi exchange a glance before nodding in unison, their sleepy expressions replaced by excitement. Though, excitement for Megumi is different than it was for Tsumiki. That’s just how his little ones were. Tsumiki giggles as she walks up to Satoru. Megumi hums, crossing his arms as he looks away. But from a corner, Satoru could see his little smile. 

"Okay, secret weapons reporting for duty!" Tsumiki says with a mock salute, making Satoru laugh.

"That’s the spirit!" he replies. "Now, let’s get to work before they wake up and catch us in the act."

Breakfast could be a start, of course. Satoru had all the intentions of making today special just for you. Together, they tiptoe to the wide expanse of the kitchen, careful not to wake you.

The early morning light filters softly through the pastel curtains, casting a warm glow on their little covert operation. Satoru takes the lead on the operations, whispering instructions like a seasoned chef conducting a top-secret mission.

"Alright, Megumi, you're on egg duty!" Satoru says, pointing to the carton of eggs on the counter. "Crack 'em like a pro."

Megumi steps up, carefully cracking an egg against the bowl’s edge. A small shell fragment falls in, and he quickly fishes it out, shooting Satoru with a determined look. "I got this."

"Careful with the eggs, Megumi." Satoru whispers with a grin, leaning in conspiratorially. "We don’t want to serve scrambled shells to your mother."

“Gen–san’s not my mom….” Megumi rolls his eyes but can’t help the small smirk tugging at his lips. Satoru goes behind him and pats his head. Megumi could feel his ears turn red. "I know, I know. I’m not five anymore…..I’ll do well with Gen–san’s eggs."

Tsumiki giggles as she stands beside them, diligently stirring pancake batter. "You’re not much better, Gojo–san. You almost dropped the syrup a minute ago."

Satoru gasps dramatically, placing a hand over his heart as he looks at Tsumiki with a mock look of hurt. "Hey, hey, this is a delicate operation. We’re dealing with high-stakes birthday breakfast here!"

He then drops the act and winks, making Tsumiki laugh softly and Megumi snicker. “Alright, alright. Let’s do well. You know how sharp their nose is. They’ll smell it from a mile away.”

As the pancakes continue to sizzle on the griddle, the kitchen fills with the comforting aroma of sweet batter and freshly cut blueberries he’s adding onto the pancake.

He smiles as he flips them. Soon enough, he took the eggs from Megumi and thanked him. Satoru starts cooking the eggs on a frying pan on the other side of the burners.  

Megumi soon grabs a plate and starts to put it near Satoru, who thanks him. Satoru expertly flips the pancake and continues with the scrambled eggs. Megumi takes a cup from the cabinet and takes it to the refrigerator, taking the milk and pouring it out onto the cup. He takes more and starts doing the same for the rest. 

Satoru starts to hum as he turns the stove off. He plates your pancake then for him and the kids, before adding the scrambled eggs too.

Tsumiki happily adds the final touches to the batter with a sprinkle of cinnamon, while Megumi meticulously slices strawberries and bananas with a butter knife and adds them directly onto the plates. Satoru thanks the two of them as he carefully puts away everything they used for him to wash in the sink later.

Once the food is ready, the three of them carefully arrange your own food on a tray. They’ll eat their own food later. The blueberry pancakes are stacked neatly, topped with fresh fruit and a dollop of whipped cream.

A small bouquet of a variety of wildflowers from the garden, that Megumi found outside sits in a tiny vase next to a handmade card that Tsumiki decorated with hearts, glitter, and a sweet message inside by the two an Satoru remained etched inside.

Satoru steps back, beaming at their creation. "Alright, team, we’ve outdone ourselves. Let's wake up to our birthday target."

Tsumiki giggles again, picking up the card with pride. "Gen–san’s going to love it."

With the tray balanced carefully in Satoru’s hands, they make their way back to your room, hearts full of excitement. Tsumiki tries to suppress her excited giggles as she holds her brother’s hand, following Satoru. This was just the beginning. Today, they’re determined to show you just how much you mean to them—one heartfelt, lovingly crafted breakfast first, before the rest.

They quietly enter the master bedroom, Satoru balancing the tray with exaggerated care. You slowly stir at the sound of footsteps, effortlessly blinking, still rather weary as they came to approach you with their own sorts of excitements on their faces. The sight of all three of them standing there, happily, which can only make your heart melt.

“Happy birthday!” They all cheer, their voices soft but filled with all tones of excitement.

Satoru places the tray in front of you, as you slowly sit up, looking at him. Your husband's cerulean eyes were twinkling as he looked at you and placed a small kiss on your cheek. “Good morning. Sorry for the sudden surprise here.”

“Surprise really is a word to use.” You mumbled at him, teasingly as you smiled at him. “It’s a lovely way to wake up.”

“We made you breakfast, and Megumi and Tsumiki made this beautiful card for you,” Satoru whispers softly, his voice filled with affection as he places the tray gently in front of you. He gestures toward the card, a proud smile playing on his lips. “Obvious by Megumi’s handwriting. Which, you know, could use some work—”

“Hey!” Megumi’s face flushes red, his features contorting in mock indignation. His glare shifts between Satoru and you, though the hint of a smile betrays his embarrassment.

You chuckle, reaching over to give Satoru’s hand a playful smack. “It’s lovely, Megumi. Don’t worry.” Your eyes soften as you glance at the card, the glittery hearts and thoughtful message warming your heart.

Satoru pouts dramatically, rubbing the back of his hand as if you’d truly hurt him. “You didn’t have to smack me so hard, you know?” he says, feigning sadness, his lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated sulk.

“Hm, sorry about that, my love.” you reply, rolling your eyes playfully before leaning in to press a soft kiss to his jaw. “You didn’t have to do all this for me, you know.”

“Hey, we had to, babe.” Satoru whispers, his voice filled with quiet conviction as he meets your gaze. His smile widens, the warmth in his eyes making your heart flutter. “It’s such a special day, isn’t it? Celebrating the person who makes our little family whole.”

Tsumiki beams at your side, her hands clasped together. “We just wanted to make sure you felt as special as you make us feel every day.”

Megumi nods, a shy small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, it’s not much, but we hope you like it.”

Your heart swells with love, and you urge them together. When they are together close to you, you pull them all into a warm embrace. “I love it. Thank you all so much. This is the best birthday ever.”

Satoru wraps his arms around the three of you, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “You deserve the best, today and every day.”

You sit up, touched beyond words, and pull them all into a hug. “Thank you so much. This is the best birthday ever.”

Your beloved kisses the top of your head, his heart swelling with love. “No, thank you—for everything. We love you.”

Just as you all settle into the warmth of the moment, a soft, familiar cry echoes from the nearby crib. Satoshi's little voice rises, breaking the serene silence of the morning. Your husband Satoru chuckles, quickly pulling back slightly from the group hug.

"Looks like someone else wants to join our little celebration." he says, his bright blue eyes twinkling. 

You smile, beginning to rise, but Satoru gently places a hand on your shoulder. "I’ve got this, babe." he whispers, leaning down to kiss your forehead. "You relax and enjoy your breakfast."

Satoru turns to Tsumiki and Megumi. “Both of you too. Go and eat breakfast too. We might go out later, to have fun. So you should go and get some strength too.”

“Okay!” Tsumiki nodded and started to pull Megumi with her, who was telling her that he could walk without being dragged by her. But she didn’t listen to him. She just happily pulled him along. You shook your head and smiled, starting to eat your breakfast.

Satoru carefully strides over to the crib, his heart melting at the sight of Satoshi, his tiny fists waving in the air towards his father, his little face scrunched in a mix of confusion and need. Satoru carefully scoops him up, cradling him in his arms with as much gentleness as he could.

"Hey there, little treasure. Good morning.” Satoru murmurs softly, rocking him gently. "Did you miss out on the fun? Don’t worry, we saved the best part for you."

Satoshi’s cries quietly down as he snuggles into Satoru’s chest, his tiny hands gripping the fabric of Satoru’s night shirt. Satoru slowly makes his way back into your bedroom and takes a moment to look at you, before he walks back to the bed, sitting down beside you, with Satoshi nestled in his arms.

"Look who decided to wake up to join the party, mama." he says, smiling as he hands the baby to you.

You cradle Satoshi, his soft coos filling the room as he gazes up at you with wide, curious blue eyes. He looks so much like your husband, when he’s waking up. It was all too cute.

“Good morning to you sweetheart.” you whisper, brushing a gentle kiss on his forehead. “You wanted to join the birthday celebration, huh?”

“What do you want to do later?” Satoru asks, his voice light, though there’s an earnestness in his gaze. He watches you take a sip of milk, his bright blue eyes softening as they linger on you. “We gotta celebrate your birthday somehow—”

You pause, lowering the glass, and look up at him with a furrowed brow, a bit confused. “But we already are, aren’t we?” you reply, your voice warm with sincerity. “This is already an amazing celebration, Satoru.”

He smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he gently shakes his head. “Babe, I know you’re happy with this, but I want you to have a great birthday. Something that feels just as special as you are to me. Just as special as when you gave me our Satoshi here.”

Your heart melts at the tenderness in his voice, but a tiny knot forms in your stomach. “Satoru, I just….” you start, placing the glass down carefully.

“This... this is more than enough. I’ve got you, the kids, and this beautiful morning. I couldn’t ask for anything more. This is as special as Satoshi’s birth to me.”

Satoru leans forward slightly, his eyes never leaving yours, filled with a quiet determination. “I know it’s enough, babe.” he says softly, almost like a promise. “But I want to give you the world. I want you to feel all the love and appreciation I have for you today.”

You can see the vulnerability in his bright blue eyes, that rare side of him that only comes out when it’s just the two of you, when the world around you fades away. Gojo Satoru is always so strong, so confident, but moments like this, when he’s giving you his whole heart— to show you just how deeply he cares.

You reach across the table, gently placing your hand over his. “You already do, every single day, my love.” you whisper, squeezing his hand. “I’m already the luckiest person in the world, just having this. Just being with you and the kids is everything I need for a great happy birthday. Nothing else matters but this.”

Satoru’s face softens, a smile finally reaching his eyes. He lifts your hand to his lips, kissing it tenderly. “I’m so lucky to have you, you know that?” he murmurs, the words filled with meaning. 

Your chest swells with love, and you lean in to kiss him softly, a promise to share in this beautiful moment together. “Just as I’m lucky to have you with me. Every day.”

epilogue

When the excitement of the morning passed you and Satoru spent the whole day with the kids, just playing board games and watching movies. But there was one little detail you couldn’t shake off: Satoru had been extra secretive. And the kids were too. Somehow, you didn’t know what to do about this. 

Satoru’s only secretive for three reasons — he wants to protect you, he wants to hide his sweet treat stash or he’s hiding something from you and that’s either him breaking something or your birthday present. The odds were always interestingly hard to know, when it comes to that. 

As the day went on, you couldn’t help but notice him acting a bit too casual, as if he was trying to hide something behind that trademark mischievously sly grin of his. You had a feeling. No, you knew.

Your husband had something planned. He has to have had something planned. As much as you do say you don't want to do much, you know your husband can be too eager to do something. Even if it's just presents. And knowing Gojo Satoru, it was probably something expensive, flashy, and completely unnecessary.

"Hey, ‘toru." you say, cornering him in the living room as he casually tosses a playful grin your way. “What’s this I hear about you getting me a gift?”

His eyes widen in mock surprise, though it’s clear he’s trying not to break into a full-on grin. “Gift? What gift? I didn’t get you anything, like you told me to.” he says, feigning innocence with an exaggerated shrug. “Cause you know….I’m a good boy.”

“Don’t lie to me, Satoru.” You cross your arms, your eyes narrowing as you give him your best ‘I know you’re up to something’ look. "I’ve seen that gleam in your eye before. You’re up to something ridiculous. Plus, Megumi blurted out something.”

Satoru chuckles, stepping closer to you with that playful swagger of his. “I don’t know what you mean, love of my life. Megumi could just be making it up too.” he says, winking.

"Uh, uh. You think our Megumi's the type to do that."

"I mean, it could happen, you know. Teens can be like that!"

"Satoru, he's not a teen yet."

"Yeah, but it still could happen." He points out to you, with a sly look. “Plus I’m sure whatever it is, you’ll love it. You deserve it, after all.”

“Aha! So you did get me a present!” You look at him and he smiles at you. He did not look guilty at all about outing himself. You shook your head at his reaction and then sigh, your shoulders slumping slightly.

"You didn’t spend a ton of money on it again, did you?”

Satoru’s grin falters just for a moment, but he quickly recovers. "Well, maybe just a little… okay, a lot.” He pulls a small, shiny box from behind his back with all the dramatic flair of a magician revealing his final trick.

Your eyes widen. "Satoru, no. You promised no big gifts this time! You and I talked about this!"

He opens the box slowly, and inside is a… luxurious watch. The kind that could probably buy you an entire year's worth of groceries. You stare at it, the gold and sleek design shining under the light.

It was probably a one of a kind one too. Satoru never gave you presents that were something people can get in mass consumption. He always wants to make sure you only got the best from him. And he had too much money on him to care about it. Even when you nag at him about it.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “You didn’t… You didn’t have to do this, Satoru. This is—”

“Absolutely perfect?” Satoru interrupts with a grin, obviously pleased with himself. “I thought you’d love it! It’s a little flashy, but hey, it’s your birthday, babe. You deserve to sparkle just as much as I do.”

You stare at him for a long moment, the weight of the situation sinking in. "Satoru, seriously. This is too much. We’ve talked about this… I don’t want you spending money like this on me."

He tilts his head, giving you that look, the one that says he’s not going to take no for an answer. “Babe, this is nothing compared to the actual present I was going to get you.”

You blink, your mind trying to catch up. “The what now?”

“Yeah.” He nods nonchalantly. “I was going to buy you an entire island, but I figured that might be a little over the top. You know, for your birthday and all.”

Your mouth hangs open for a second before you burst into laughter, unable to hold it in any longer. “An island?! Seriously? Are you trying to bankrupt us? I know we have a lot of money, Satoru but this is—”

Satoru shrugs, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Hey, I was gonna throw in a private jet too, but… we can save that for next year, actually.”

You shake your head in disbelief but you found youself chuckling at his thoughts. You can't help but feel a rush of affection for him. “I’m going to make you return it.” you say, though you can’t quite mask the smile spreading across your face.

“You won’t.” he says, smirking. “I already wrote a very convincing love letter to the shop owner. And you. It’s done. You gotta accept it!”

You laugh again, rolling your eyes playfully at your husband. “You’re impossible, Satoru. But I love you anyway.”

“Good to know, babe. I love you too.” he says with a wink. “Because I’m keeping that watch, and you’re wearing it every day from now on. Let me spoil you at least, hm? That's your husband's job!”

As you take the watch from him, still shaking your head in disbelief, you know one thing for sure: You’ll never win this battle. You know you can’t. Not when he loves you most in the world.

But at least you’ve got the most ridiculous, over-the-top husband in the world for everyday of your mortal lives together who loves you the most in the world and somehow, that’s more than enough.

"You should have gotten me a Casio."

Satoru narrows his eyes at you. "Baby, I have the money. We are not getting you a Casio."

[missarchive]

wait bc im sitting here reading dostoevsky and thinking about how spence would love having a partner that loves reading as much as him.. but im also thinking ab how he’d want to eat them out while forcing them to still focus on reading… i need an ice bath.

i hope this is what you were wanting <3 i had a lot of fun writing this for you

cw; +18 minors dni, munch!spencer, fingering, dom!spencer, fade to black smut, praise

The soft hum of the world outside fades into the background as you lounge on your bed, face up, knees pulled up to your chest. A pillow is nestled between your thighs and chest, propping up the latest romance novel you've become utterly lost in. The pages blur slightly as your eyes dart over the words, the story pulling you in deeper with each sentence. You’re so engrossed, you don’t even hear the faint creak of the door opening or the soft shuffle of footsteps.

The bed dips slightly, jolting you out of your reverie.

“Spence?” you mumble absentmindedly, your gaze still fixed on the page. The weight on the bed barely registers as you flip to the next chapter, too caught up in the plot to pay attention.

“What are you reading?”

The voice, smooth and familiar, startles you. You glance up, meeting Spencer's curious gaze. He’s standing at the edge of the bed, his shoes already kicked off, clad in jeans and a snug t-shirt that clings to his lean frame.

“Just a new romance novel,” you reply with a small smile, lowering the book slightly. There’s always something about the way Spencer’s eyes darken with intrigue whenever you mention one of your romance reads.

Without a word, Spencer moves around the bed and perches on the opposite side. He unbuttons his jeans with practiced ease, slipping them off before settling against the headboard. His hands reach out to gently tug your feet into his lap, his touch warm and grounding.

“Tell me about it,” he says, his tone soft yet insistent.

Smiling, you let yourself sink back into your comfortable position, your feet resting against the firm warmth of his thighs. “It’s a historical romance,” you begin, “set in the 1600s. There’s forbidden love, political intrigue…”

As you delve into the story, Spencer’s hand idly traces the curve of your calf, his fingertips brushing the bare skin beneath your pajama shorts. His touch is subtle, yet it sends tingles up your leg, making it harder to concentrate. You glance at him briefly, but he looks relaxed, his lips curling in a faint smile as he listens to you.

“Are you almost done with that chapter?” he asks, his hand sliding higher.

“Yeah, just a few more pages,” you murmur, not fully processing how high his hand has wandered. Your focus wavers as his fingers linger on the inside of your thigh, the gentle pressure impossible to ignore.

You’re jolted fully into the present when he hooks a finger into the waistband of your panties and slides them down to your knees.

“Spence!” you squeak, clutching your book tightly as your head snaps toward him. His expression is maddeningly calm, though his eyes gleam with mischief.

“What are you doing?”

“I figured you liked that position so much for reading, I’d help you multitask,” he replies, his voice low and teasing. His fingers dip between your thighs, brushing against your already slick center.

A gasp escapes your lips as his thumb begins circling your clit with deliberate precision. Your hips twitch instinctively, opening to him even as your book tumbles to the side.

“Spencer,” you moan, your voice breathy with need.

“Keep reading,” he commands, his voice firm but gentle as his fingers plunge into you, curling perfectly against your walls.

You try to obey, picking up your book and skimming the next few lines, but the words blur as his movements intensify. The pressure of his fingers combined with the steady rhythm of his thumb has your breath hitching, your chest heaving with the effort to concentrate.

“Spence, I can’t—” you start, but he cuts you off by stilling his hand.

“You need to keep reading,” he says, his tone laced with amusement.

“Spencer!” you whine, glaring at him through half-lidded eyes.

“Read a page, and I’ll give you more,” he bargains, withdrawing his fingers.

Frustrated but desperate for his touch, you scan the next page as quickly as your trembling hands allow. The moment you finish, you glance up, and he rewards you by slipping two fingers back inside, stretching you deliciously as his thumb resumes its torturous circles.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice sending a shiver down your spine.

This pattern continues, the cycle of teasing and reward driving you closer to the edge with every page. By the time you finish another, Spencer leans down, his tongue replacing his fingers.

You cry out, the book forgotten as his mouth works you over with unrelenting skill. His tongue licks and swirls, his lips closing around your clit to suck gently, and you’re utterly undone. Your hips buck against him, your hands gripping the sheets as he pushes you higher and higher.

Finally, your release crashes over you, your body trembling as he coaxes every last wave of pleasure from you. When you’re spent and boneless, Spencer pulls away, his lips glistening as he crawls up beside you.

“How was that chapter?” he asks with a cheeky grin, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close.

“Best one yet,” you reply, your voice hoarse but content.

“Glad I could help with the multitasking,” he teases, pressing a kiss to your temple as you drift off, thoroughly sated and utterly his.

[kudouusagi]

Pash Utsumi Hiroko Interview

It's sure to be a heartwarming, Fan & Fun experience!

It's about the moments you weren't able to see in the main series.

--Looking back at the scenario meetings, is there anything that stands out in your memory?

Like the fact that there was a longer version where (series writer) Ookouchi Ichirou, the producers, and I all came up with ideas for what to do in the OVA and decided on it, only to realize it didn't fit into the time limit plan I came up with myself and so it was rejected (laughs). Of course Reki and Langa are the main characters so they're going to appear in the OVA but we really wanted to include them all... and that would be difficult to do in one story so we made it into an omnibus format.

--What do you want people to pay attention to in this OVA?

I'd like it if you could check which scenes were shown in the PV. For example, Reki and the others play karuta, but what kind of karuta is it? Who's playing against who? Will Langa, who is bad at reading and writing, be okay?! In the part with Sakurayashiki and Nanjo set in the past, what was their high school life like? What were their fights like back then? How developed are Nanjo's muscles?! Also, the unknown life of Kikuchi, which was kept top-secret in the main story, is revealed...!?! And more!

--Please tell us about what you remember when looking back on recording the voices for this OVA.

I was happy to see that Hatanaka Tasuku-san, who plays Reki, and Kobayashi Chiaki-san, who plays Langa, were still the same Reki and Langa even though several years had passed. I didn't feel any time had past... ∞(eternal) Friendship! It was also memorable how Koyasu Takehito-san, who plays Ainosuke, struggled with a certain scene. Look forward to finding out which scene it was! It had been a while since I last did the voice recording for SK8, and it brought back memories for me, making me feel like SK8 was back!

--What exactly is the theme for this OVA...?

Since it is an omnibus format, there is no overall theme, but they're each filling a gap that wasn't able to be seen in the main story.

--In order to get to know the characters more deeply before the OVA is released, are there any behind-the-scenes details that you haven't revealed yet (that you couldn't show in the first season of the TV series)?

The different headband Reki is wearing in the OVA PV is a souvenir present from his sister Koyomi. It's shaped like an akabeko with a tiger pattern... it's quite unique. Reki only wears it at home. Langa doesn't care about clothes, so he'll wear anything that's comfortable to move in, so he's wearing something strange this time. Please check out the OVA to find out the details☆

--For those who are rewatching the first season of the TV series, what are some of the points you would like people to pay special attention to?

Don't miss anything! The relationship between MIYA and Reki, the outcome of Hiromi's fleeting love, the current fight scenes between Sakurayashiki and Nanjo, the vibe of the master and dog relationship between Ainosuke and Kikuchi, etc. The bond between Reki and Langa through the whole series and how it develops into friendship, keeps your eyes peeled on it till the very end!! And since the theme song for this OVA was created with the TV series in mind, so I'm certain it will improve your understanding if you watch the whole series and think of it while listening to it☆

--Finally, please give a message to the fans of "SK8". 

We're sorry to have kept you waiting for so long, but thanks to everyone who has been waiting that the day we can finally deliver it to you is fast approaching...! There's only a few more sleeps till the OVA is here ♬ How about going to the cinema to watch "SK8 EXTRAPART" as the finale to your New Year's celebrations? It's sure to be a heartwarming, Fan & Fun experience! Please look forward to its release☆

[malleusmaleficent]

i do theatre shit and it's to perpetuate an extremely niche genre of music because it needs more young people, or else it'll die out

but anyways, regarding writing for attention like. it's definitely a thing yk, like i explicitly started writing witch hammer (and my fic before that) thinking like: "this is a truly wretched combination of things, and it creates a combination so niche that i am pretty much the only person that would want to read it, and that's okay"

like that was exactly what happened when i wrote life's tangled skein, which got nearly zero interaction. but witch hammer turned out wildly differently, witch hammer caught on super hard (by my own standards anyways).

and like, let me tell you, writing these two things has felt VERY differently. like the way in which i engaged with both stories is different, life's tangled skein i had a very clear mission and i was trying to capture a particular feeling, for me specifically. like i wanted to see if i could write something to make myself feel a certain way. and i did, i think. nobody read it, but i succeeded and i was never once troubled by audience reception and i was never checking for new comments or new likes or whatever. i was never thinking how a plot point might affect people.

however, witch hammer is a very different story. i am telling you right now if i wrote the story i had set out to write, there'd be fujos howling at the moon or some shit they would be so upset LMAO and like. i don't really want to write what i had initially set out to write anymore, im just not in the headspace for that. i have enjoyed keeping it light, i like writing cute shit too much.

but also, i'd be lying if "but what will me readers think" weren't a consideration as well. like i don't really participate in fandom culture, so i wasn't really aware entirely, but some people take this shit DEATHLY seriously. and while i think that is extremely silly, right, if someone that takes it deathly seriously got invested in something i've wrote, i don't want to actively make their day worse yk.

and i am checking for new comments every day, and i am watching the like counter go up.

and i'll be honest, it does feel a bit less "pure" to me, whatever that means. i haven't unpacked what that means exactly, but that is how i feel. i want to know people like my writing, and i want people other than me to vindicate me spending so much time and effort on this very niche project of mine.

now part of this is timing, i started writing witch hammer just a few days before i got laid off from my full time job, so that put me in a weird headspace. the tremendous wave of positive feedback i got after the fact was very helpful and i'd fully admit i latched on to it for a few weeks as i tried to clear my head.

but i'm good now, and buddy i am still watching for new comments lol.

i dunno, it's a complicated thing.

i do write for attention, actually, because that's a normal reason to create art

[corviiids]

hello thank you for asking i am very flattered. i would be most honoured to give some advice that i am most certainly unqualified to give!!

ok advice 1: hey why does everyone keep telling me to read and write a lot

i think this is the most commonly given advice. i have always found it true but incomplete, because on the face of it this kind of focuses a little too much on volume. which by itself just isn't going to do that much for you, or it will, but it'll do it very slowly and ineffectively, because the second part of this advice i don't see nearly as much (and the part that makes it work for me) is that after you read or write something you need to do The Why Interrogation. what are you looking for?

when you like something, why do you like it? not just in terms of copying and learning an author's stylistic quirks or techniques, but in a more abstract way:

is it the narrative? that the premise is novel, that the progression of the story is unexpected and thrilling, that the stakes are high?

is it the characters? what is it about them? do they have compelling backgrounds? does the author spend a lot of time in their heads? is the pov internal in a way that lets you experience the story from their shoes? does their biased narration tell you more about them? or is it a detached narration that lets you see the characters in a way they don't see themselves, so the gap is intriguing?

is it the telling? maybe the prose is beautiful - what makes it so? sentence structure? unconventional use of grammar and punctuation? elegant, sophisticated vocabulary? or maybe the dialogue is sharp and human so conversation flows naturally. is the story paced carefully? does the author linger more in certain moments?

the same exercise is useful for what ISN'T working.

if your attention is drifting, what's making it drift?

purple prose? clumsy prose?

does the narration drag?

do the characters feel stagnant, and why?

plot doesn't make any sense?

maybe this sounds obvious, but imo it's a crucial piece of the advice that i just don't see as much because people tend to focus on volume of works consumed/created. the reflection and analysis is what makes that volume useful, otherwise you're just churning through content. the question should always be why, why, why. why did that work, why didn't it work, why did i like this, why does it suck. then proceed to: if i were doing this, how could i make it work?

advice 2: don't forget that all the words you need already exist.

this is more subjective advice. this is something that works for me personally. so ymmv. have you ever tried magnet poetry? you should try magnet poetry.

i always see writing as kind of a puzzle. if i have an idea in my head, the idea exists. the job is actually a translation exercise: how do i express the thing in my head as a thing other people can see? in this way it's like visual art, but it's also not like visual art at all. in visual art you choose where all the lines and colours go, completely freely. any line you draw is a brand new line.

in language, all your parts already exist. all the words already exist. (you can make new ones if you want but that's a whole different thing.) you are plucking symbols out of a collective understanding. it is like lego. all you are doing is selecting the most effective pieces and placing them in order. so for me, i am simply trying to find the 'right' words to fit each context as best as possible. it becomes a game of arrangement, which determines your expression.

then syntax and punctuation become your rhythm, which is how you determine flow. sentence length, word length, whether you omit words or use more, whether you want to be a bit unconventional. character also plays into this - i am not writing an advice 3 because i am getting self conscious but advice 3 would have been consistency of voice.

so i would prioritise vocabulary and timing. what are you trying to say (which words do you pick) and how do you want the reader to experience your words, how do you want the words to feel and sound (how will you pace your sentences)? remembering that all the parts are already there. it is the world's biggest game of magnet poetry.

advice 3 which doesn't exist: keep your voice consistent.

this advice doesn't exist. im not writing this i got embarrassed and stopped at 2. but if i did write this it would say, remember who you are. (remember who is writing your story. are you a character or are you god? remember how much you know. remember which feelings you have access to.)

[mono-dot-jpeg]

three hot professors - jayce, viktor

summary; a story about the three hot professors who work at piltover university

genre/extra tags; oneshot, comedy, fluff, modern au, piltover zaun kind of exists, but it's more like good side of town and bad side of town kind of, started this idea at 3am, some sexual themes, i say some but i literally write moments of the sex, jayce viktor and reader are in fact the hot professors, everyone wants you three but they cant have yall ‼️, viktor FUCKS and im tired of pretending he leans sub, I SWEAR I LOVE JAYCE BUT IM SO ASS AT WRITING HIM, SORRY JAYCE ENJOYERS </3 HIS PART IS SO SHORT, reader is implied to wear some type of makeup but during sex mostly

[nsfw] [gender neutral! reader]

[warnings and mentions: oral, everyone is a switch, dom leaning! viktor, sub leaning! jayce, vers! reader, sex toy, viktor grabs ass in public /hj, mean viktor (i say mean viktor but im so bad at writing mean), hickeys, lipstick... kink??? marking kink?? idk how to warn this correctly, degradation??? , praise, pet nicknames (puppy, good boy, etc.), somehow no p in v involved or p in ass. can you tell i dont write smut]

word count; 1.01k

a/n; i got a little horny seeing some fine fan art of them as professors. like what else do i have to say. i can't stop minors from reading this, but i cant say i didn't warn them. also this is kind of not my first time writing nsfw, but as a neutral feeling towards sex asexual, it's always a little awkward for me to write for stuff like this. so if it's like kind of odd, im blaming it on that and not my questionable writing skills. HAPPY 2K FOLLOWERS LMAOAOAO this is my celebration post /j

everyone in piltover knows about the staff of their prestigious university. it's kind of common sense as the university is the pinnacle of everything.

but the interest of the professors was usually the highest. whether it was because of how good they were in terms of teaching.. or how hot they were.

some liked mr. talis. jayce talis. a man who had an affinity to connect with his students and guide them forward. he was lovely as a professor or a person. he was definitely the golden man that people looked up to as he was an alumni.

the man of progress, the teacher for the people. that was jayce talis.

he was strong, sweet, compassionate. he was built strong but he was humble. he had so much love in his heart. he was a little gullible at times but he was loved by you and viktor all the same. you both teased him everyday and he never got mad. he was truly a golden retriever at heart.

he was always excited every time either of you entered his office, even if it was to make him so needy and scrambled until the day ended. most students don't exactly know where those new lipstick marks on his neck come from but some can see the leftover lipstick on your face as you wipe it off with a satisfied grin.

"isn't he so pretty like this?" viktor hums, his bad leg rests over the shoulder of the larger male. "he's- ngh.. so eager. so desperate. ah.."

"he's so good for us, vik." your hand gently guides jayce to keep going down on viktor, soon trailing up on viktor's inner thigh with a sensitive touch that has the male shivering at your nails. "he's making you shake, love. you see that, jayce? you're such a good boy." you praise. viktor loved and hated when you both ganged up on him like this.

his pale hand wraps to hold the back of your neck before he dives right to littering your neck with hickeys and wet kisses. his free hand cups your waist, tugging you closer to let him comfortably attack your neck like a hungry vampire. you give viktor your fair share of kisses, your lipstick stains viktor's face and neck. it would definitely take more than a few makeup wipes to take it off of him. or maybe he would leave some stains behind. it must be known that he clearly belongs to you.

jayce pauses when he realizes he's not getting the attention he wants. he whines into viktor's thigh, looking up at the man with pleading puppy eyes. viktor looks down with a mischievous glint in his eye. "our dear puppy wants attention.. perhaps we shall give him what he so desires..?"

you look down at jayce with a much softer look, hand cupping his face so gently as he leans into your touch. his face was wet from taking viktor's cock in his mouth.

"please," he begs as he moves to crowd your lap, tugging at your delicate lingerie. his heated breath hits your thighs as you let out a breathy sigh. "i want you and viktor..."

"look at him, love. how can you deny such a look?"

it was no secret that you, viktor, and jayce were the faces of piltover university. viktor, being sharp faced and sculpted with love, you really could trace over his body for hours and admire every part of him. it totally wasn't the innate artist in you, drooling over how he was just so utterly paintable. he could've been in a renaissance painting and no one would bat an eye.

viktor was a beautiful man. he was intelligent, passionate, caring, mischievous.. oh, he was just something unreal. he never let his body stop him from helping others when he could or teasing you and jayce when he felt like it.

he'd never say it outloud but you and jayce know that he just loves to play around. play doesn't seem like the right word when he subtly brushes his hand to grip at your ass in the middle of a university wide event where all the students and teachers were gathered around.

or when he uses his cane to hook jayce around the waist and nearly tug him to sit onto his good leg and be the sweet lapdog jayce always was for viktor. sometimes he also grabs at jayce's ass because you don't give him the cute yelp that jayce does whenever he gets teased by either of you.

he was as beautiful as he was domineering when it came to you and jayce.

"vik- viktor- please.." your voice is weak and breathless as you squirm against jayce's hold. his body pressed around your back as he gives you the soft affection while viktor ruins your body. his skinny hands tease and trace at your wet body, one hand holds a small vibrator before pressing it against the edges of your hole. he teases your body relentlessly with a sly grin on his face.

"viktor? i don't think we agreed on calling me that this time around, sweetheart. you don't want to be a bad sweetheart, yes?" as he continues to tease you, the vibrator almost slides right into your needy hole with how wet it was. it makes viktor chuckle lowly, "sweetheart.. answer me properly.."

"s-sir.. please let me cum.."

"i don't know.. should we let them?" viktor asked jayce as if pushing him to be a little mean to you as well. "they're all ready to cum without us even entering them." viktor tugs the vibrator wire away, leaving you to whine and crumble in jayce's arms as you beg incoherently.

jayce looks at your tear stained face and he can't help the need to tease you and ruin you the way viktor does. "i think we should teach them how to cum with only our cocks." you can feel a heavy familiar warmth that rests on your lower body and upper thigh. you're about to be taught a real lesson.

[xyywrites]

Quotes from Authors on Writing

“You can, you should, and if you’re brave enough to start, you will.” — Stephen King

“Start writing, no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on.” — Louis L’Amour

“Substitute ‘damn’ every time you’re inclined to write ‘very.’ Your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.” — Mark Twain

“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” — Anton Chekhov

“A professional writer is an amateur who didn’t quit.” — Richard Bach

“You fail only if you stop writing.” — Ray Bradbury

“I hate writing, I love having written.” — Dorothy Parker

“No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.” — Robert Frost

“The purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself.” — Albert Camus

“Write what should not be forgotten.” — Isabel Allende

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” — Ernest Hemingway

“Find a subject you care about and which you in your heart feel others should care about. It is this genuine caring, not your games with language, which will be the most compelling and seductive element in your style.” — Kurt Vonnegut

“The art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe.” — Gustave Flaubert

“I’m not a very good writer, but I’m an excellent rewriter.” — James Michener

“Write what you know. Write what you want to know more about. Write what makes you feel. Write because you have to. Write because you want to. Just write.” — Cecelia Ahern

“You should write because you love the shape of stories and sentences and the creation of different words on a page. Writing comes from reading, and reading is the finest teacher of how to write.” — Annie Proulx

[summertimesadnessirl]

It doesn't matter.

If you have done everything you can to try to get the life you want and nothing works, it doesn't matter why you got that way. All that matters is don't keep trying to get love and letting people use your desire for it against you.

I'm pretty sure it's not actually real. And it's just something they made up to sell soap.

So that's the model I work with.

As long as I refuse to allow myself to believe anyone loves me, everything works out well. When I break that, people hurt me.

People will guilt you into saying it's because you don't pick the right people but no matter what criteria you use it's always the same. And no matter what treatments you apply to yourself, it's always the same. And no matter how many new styles of communication you learn to talk to other people, it's always the same.

For me the only thing that kind of worked was doing sex work and being super fake and having several hundred shallow fake relationships that had a lot of sex and weren't boring and miserable, because whenever I've tried to not date and just hang out and do other things like working or something either people bother me all the time and are really mean and annoying or they are always "conveniently" introducing me to people they want to fix me up with. Men and women and like? Those people are always basically on the same emotional level as the people I have already dated and seem really shy and kind of uninterested in me. When I talk them out of their shell, they seem still shy, like they basically admire me for not seeming shy to them and like how I dress but don't have anything in common with me and we wouldn't have anything to talk about, or they have kind of a mental picture of a type of super assertive girl who will be into their lack of experience and want to like... put spices on them and let them sit on the counter top for a full moon cycle and then write out a recipe for them that they can use to attract someone who will love them now that they aren't virgins or something, and they don't want to admit that to me up front, which is very mean to do, to want someone to like... be your character development without asking and then not let them prepare to be left with nothing from that interaction in exchange for being a cute story you talk about with your future spouse or whatever.

Most people don't seem to want a relationship with a particular person or a particular type of relationship or even like have considered their own potential deal breakers. Not "I didn't realize this thing I thought everyone did wasn't a thing everyone did" or "i was wrong about my needs in certain areas" or whatever. They genuinely have no idea like what they do for fun that is a group activity, and they make you spend like an hour trying to figure out what they want every time they want something and most of the time when you give it to them they're unhappy.

It's like people want me to be in a relationship just so I'll be in a relationship and other people want to be in a relationship with me just to be in a relationship and even people with lots of money who can leave and who spend all their time complaining about their relationship don't want to leave their relationship. And when I'm like "I don't want to be in a relationship right now because I'm broke or whatever and I wouldn't be able to leave a relationship easily." People are like *shocked pika* why wouldn't you go enter into a relationship with someone who wants to date you based on you having a normal level of kind conversation that you would have with a person on the street and being able to give them sex? Why would you not want to break up with the person you are dating and date a random old man who did your boss a favor once because he gave you a ride in his truck? Why would you not just let other people make major life decisions for you? Why are you not jumping at every chance we give you when it doesn't look or feel right?

It feels like the goal of the whole thing is having someone else to blame for your problems. I don't wanna do that to someone. I hate when stuff isn't my fault and I have to suffer for it anyway. That's why I cut my own hair and pierce my own ears and stuff. So if it gets messed up, it's just an accident and it's because I have never done that before and I just need to figure out how to fix it and I can take all the time I need instead of trying to like... figure out the magic buttons to push to get someone who broke something to be willing to admit they messed up and will try to fix it and like... having to wonder if I can trust them if they're a specially trained and certified expert and they aren't better at doing something than a person who went on the internet and read a tutorial and kind of guessed.

Idk. It's like if you told me most people in the world don't like sex or dating or anything and they aren't in love either and there's like some kind of mystic force that attacks people who don't live with a partner by such and such a time and have a kid by such and such a time and no one told me? I'd totally be like

"That explains everything."

Was I raised without love or was I born unlovable?

[lostinlovingrevery]

He's Definitely Obsessed With You (Series)

Origins! Logan X Fem!Reader

Plot: You're an army nurse, deep in the trenches of the Vietnam jungles, doing everything you can to keep yourself together, and the infantry that come into your tent. One day a soldier you aren't familiar with is brought in, and you find out something about him that leads to the start of an important relationship between you both that changes the course of your lives together...

A/N: This is basically the plot of Origins, but with my own spin on it with a Fem!Reader! This is my first time EVER writing an X reader, so comments appreciate! I plan to make this a series, but I wanted to put out a prologue first. Okay, it's not really a prologue and more like a chapter, and ended up being super long because I started writing and then didn't stop, and prologues are short- but IT'S MY STORY AND I'LL CREATE MY OWN RULES. The prologue is just how reader and Logan meet! (PS, there's eventual smut...Soon as I figure out how write it without getting embarrassed) Also, I'm still figuring out how to format on Tumblr, so please don't mind any funky design choices. Probably spelling and grammar mistakes somewhere in there

Warnings: Reader POV only (for now) Reader is female, also an army nurse, also a mutant- but powers aren't specified, blood mention, medical stuff talked about (like amputations), injury descriptions, Vietnam war and slight politics mention, probably a lot of historical inaccuracies i just googled things but I tried! implied reader could be religious but honestly there's nothing concrete to that. The only description of reader is her clothes and that she has hair, and wears makeup (lipstick). Reader has a hard on over Logan (she has a cruuuush), let me know if there's anything I missed!

Word Count: 4753

Series Masterlist

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Prologue:

Rain rapped lightly along the top of the large tent, creating a soothing sound throughout. A radio, playing an american music station, played a rock song, of some new band slowly making a name for itself, sat nearby on a metal cabinet. Stacks of manila folders and papers were disorganized and spread, almost completely covering a desk. A clock ticks rhythmically. The tent was lined with cots, tables, ratty mattresses, IV stands, and small tables covered with empty food trays, water canisters, and paper cups filled pills. Some of the beds were taken up by injured men, snoring and groaning as they attempted to sleep, only slightly more comfortable here in the medical tent than out in the muddy, rainy trenches. It was monsoon season in Vietnam, and you were at your wits end with paperwork in the middle of a small but-not-that-small camp, set up not far from an American fire support base.

You were sitting at the desk, half asleep as you attempted to fill out another request form for medical supplies. Halothane, Methoxyflurane, Morphine, Penicillin - are common medicines that you find yourself constantly having to restock. Of course bandages, gloves, needles, saline, tubing, multiple surgical supplies, other things you find yourself low on often too, considering the amount of amputations, large and minor, that happen around here. The medical tent that you currently reside in was a revolving door of soldiers, both American and Vietnamese, as well as nearby villagers who come for aid after the American presence near their homes led to viruses they can’t combat on their own, or other unfortunate injuries if war breaks out in their village. 

You were simply an army nurse, this was not your usual duty to perform, it was normally left to the assigned doctor of the camp. Your job was to assist the doctor, take care of the patients, administer medicine, IVs, change bandages, wet baths, feed them, and hold their hands as they cry for their momma and to God. You were busy enough, and the doctor, Doctor Frank Jones, who you were assisting had got shot by a stray bullet when out in the jungle, and had to be taken back to the main base, and back to the States. Due to a communication failure, his replacement ended up somewhere else, and transportation wasn’t an option due to the fighting happening.

 Fortunately, Doctor Jones had seen potential in you and believed you would be an excellent doctor one day - something you wanted to pursue after your service was fulfilled. He became a mentor, helping you study and learn medicine, and giving you skills that an average nurse- even an army nurse- wouldn’t usually have. Now, it was just up to you, and a few young army medics - teenage boys who were given no choice in going to war, and their skills were found best in assisting injuries on the battlefield, but they were eager to help, and their light-hearted jokes and company helped relieve some stress for you, especially with the pain you watch day in and out. You didn’t always have the luxury of their help though, as when patrols went out, they required at least one of them to join. It leads you to have to order around other grunts who have no idea how to even measure the proper dosage of cough syrup for themselves whenever a serious injury comes in, having to give detailed orders on what to do- usually just getting you the supplies and medicine you need, as the grunts are typically too distracted and upset over their fallen brother to assist you in anything medical and complicated. 

With being the only medical authority in the camp- as well as the only woman- you were well respected and popular. Your compassionate personality, and comforting presence, as well as your “Take-no-shit” attitude, led to soldiers of this camp visiting you all the time, usually making up excuses like having a cough, or a splinter in their finger, just so they could have the pleasure of your smile and encouraging words. The CO here made sure that they all treated you with respect, as a woman- and a nurse, so you never once felt unsafe- or unappreciated. Besides, a good section of this camp is young boys, too nervous about their situation to worry about trying to flirt with a woman like you. You're more of a comfort figure in these parts than anything else. Despite the stress and worry you face in day to day life, in the middle of the war, you were just happy to be doing something. You weren’t exactly a supporter of this war, but the moment you saw young boys lining up to go to war, something in you made you fiercely determined to follow, and do whatever you can to make sure those boys can go back home to their mothers and fathers.

The Rolling Stones was now playing on the radio, this was a band you were more familiar with - one of your favorites. Your foot tapped to the beat of the song, as you checked off another item you needed to be stocked up on- and hoped the supply chain doesn’t hold out on you again. For some reason, they seemed convinced that you must surely be lying about the supplies and will not send you the full amount of what you requested, leading you to storm into the CO’s tent on more than one occasion and rant to him with a few unsavory words about the supply lines commander.  He always listens though, and does his best to get you what you can- which you can appreciate. 

“Hey turn that up-” You heard one of the patients call out, and she smiles, reaching to the radio and turning the volume higher. She looked up from the desk to see one patient in bed moving his foot with the beat of the song, and the other, who asked her to turn it up, raised his arm in the air, hand in a fist as he rocked with the song. “This is a good one, hadn’t heard this one yet.”

“It came out in 65’ dumbass.” the other called out. “How’d you not know it?”

“I’ve been here since 64’ asshole! Think we always had access to a radio?”

They all chided each other, making you laugh as you shake your head, turning back towards your paperwork, determined to finish it today so you can send it out. It was rare you get these moments of quiet, so you appreciated it when you could. Things could turn on a dime in a second, especially since the fighting was getting closer to where this camp was set, and you’re hoping that you would get some help before anything serious came. You were just starting to get absorbed in the letter you were writing to the CO of the supply line, something slightly passive aggressive, when one of the soldiers yelled to you from outside. 

“Hey! Nurse! There’s some guys coming this way! They got someone injured-” 

You looked up, dropping your pencil, and turning the radio down as you readied yourself, brushing the pants of your army fatigues to straighten it out, and rolling your sleeves farther up your arms. You watched as the flaps of the tent get pulled open, as two men carry someone resting on a cot. You didn’t like how quiet the man was being.

“In here-” You lead them to another section of the medical tent, ment solely for treating wounded, in an attempt to keep something sterile and clean- well, as clean as you can get it. The soldiers set the man onto the table that sat in the center of the room, small trays and medical supplies, as well as a large overhead lamp that provided lighting to give you a better view at what you’re working on, surrounded the table. 

“We got ambushed on patrol, fortunately he’s the only one that got hit, a VC jumped out of the grass and stabbed him. We got pressure on the wound, and he’s still alive- for now.” 

You nodded as you went to a basin to pull on some sterile gloves, and walked over to examine the soldier. He was handsome- you couldn’t help but noticed but quickly put that out of your mind. A full head of deep beautiful brown hair, and a thick beard framed his face. He looked older, possibly in his mid 30’s. A sheen of sweat covered his skin, as his teeth were gritted and eyes cinched shut in pain. A wave of sorrow hit you, as you never liked seeing people in pain, it hits you bad enough to wonder why you chose to go into the medical profession of all things. Nevertheless, you push through, and began working on removing the uniform so you can see if you can save this one. At least he wasn’t screaming.

“Whats his name?”

“Logan ma’am. He’s Private First Class.”  The private responds, voice professional, but quickly drops into something softer. “He’s a good guy, and smart, usually quick on his feet, its surprising someone ambushed him…” 

“Need any help ma’am?” The other private who brought him in ask.

“No, I got it, thank you.” You tell them as you grab some sheers and began cutting through Logan's army garments. “Just make sure others are alright. See if any of the boys out there need water.”

They nodded, saluting- leading you to roll your eyes- and left your section of the tent, just as you manage to cut off the white wife beater he was sporting underneath his army garments, giving you a complete view of where he had been stabbed. You breathed a small sigh of relief, the wound appeared in the part of the torso where nothing vital was located and you managed to roll him to his side- seeing the stabbing didn’t go straight through, meaning this guy had a good chance of surviving, assuming he doesn’t succumb to infection…

“Alright Logan,” You turned you head to look at the man, who was still tense, eyes squeezed shut. He was somewhat awake, with his breathing and the way his muscles contracted, but he didn’t seem to be aware of what was going on, you still felt it important to talk to whoever you were treating though. You had to hold the hands of many scared soldiers, and quickly have learned the right things to say when comforting. “I’m going to take care of you, and in return, you’re going to need to be strong for me here.” You say softly but firmly to him, hoping that he’s hearing you through the pain, as you went and quickly grabbed a wet cloth out of a basin nearby, squeezing out the excess water, and gently placing it over his forehead, in order to soak up some sweat, and provide some more comfort to cool his skin that seemed to be burning hot. You couldn’t help but note that you don’t recognize him- you wouldn’t have forgotten his face that’s for damn sure, if he’d ever came to visit you, which most privates in this camp has at one time or another. You shook the curiosity out of your head, you had to move quickly, fighting the urge to wanting to take in the details of his face- his very handsome face, and moved to focus back onto the wound on his torso. 

You started by slowly removing the packed bandages, examining the blood flow to make sure nothing gushed, but he really wasn’t bleeding much anymore- actually, it didn’t look like he was bleeding at all now. Confused, you began cleaning the area of the stab wound so you could get a clear view of what you were looking at. At first, you thought you were losing your mind, you had to been because what you were seeing…

It was as if the skin was growing back, the wound, going inwards seemed to almost pop out, before the skin stitched together, going through what the bodys usual healing process would look like- except doing it within a matter of seconds. Turning from a bright red inflamed wound, into a baby pink scar bump that slowly faded off, you couldn’t even tell anything had happen there- except from the blood stained around it. You were blinking in disbelief, mouth slightly agape, before it suddenly occurred to you what you were just seeing.

Oh

Oh shit-

He’s a mutant.

You looked at the man, who’s muscles seemed to be relaxing now, as he took deeper breaths, the sweat on his face began to dry and disappear. You weren’t sure what to do at this point, you’re so used to every minute counting to fix someone, and this guy just healed himself in seconds!

And by god, he was so handsome. You thought that already, got to stop thinking about that. Turning away from his face, you went to examine where the stab wound used to be, gloved fingers gently pressing on the area- before the soldier- Logan, practically yelped- and sat up rushed on the table, startling you even more so than him, as you jumped back, hands in the air in surrender- as if you did anything wrong.

He was panting, the cold wet cloth you had placed on his forehead fell into his lap, as he looked around with wide eyes, pupils dilated, his nostrils flaring, he almost looked animal-like in this state. He turned to look at you. His eyes took you in, and suddenly you felt embarrassed by your army clothes you were sporting, green cargo pants, and a green collared button up shirt, tucked into your pants, making you feel less than girlish in them, despite their comfortability, your forehead was covered in sweat, and your hair pulled back in a bun neat bun with baby hairs sticking out everywhere. At least you had lipstick on to give yourself a little bit of a pop in your plain looking outfit. That should be the last thing you should be worried about. 

“You’re okay-” You finally found your voice, holding your hands out to him, “You got ambushed, but you’re okay now.” 

He blinked, then let out a small sigh, his whole self seeming to relax, his expression turned more human-like, as he faced forward, then looked down at himself. His hand went over where he had been hurt- seeing that there was no longer any injury there, although something in his expression told you he could still feel it. He swallowed, jaw tensing, before realization struck him, and his head snapped to look at you. 

“You saw- You know, don’t you?” He asks, his voice was deep, but sounded a little dry and scratchy. Still, it was enough to make your knees weak. 

You turned, going to a cabinet that held medicines and various other supplies, but on the counter was a pitcher of water and a few glass cups. Pulling off your gloves, you poured a cup from the pitcher, turning back and handing it to him. 

“Yeah. I saw.” You say cooly, holding it out for him to take. He looked at you, his deep and should you think gorgeous hazel eyes felt like they were piercing your soul; as if he was trying to decipher what was going on in your head, which you wish you knew as well because his stare was making your brain fuzzy; then glanced at the cup and finally took it from your hand, your fingers brushing together, making your heartbeat just a little faster, and you could feel a small heat blooming in your cheeks.

Jesus christ, pull yourself together 

You thought to yourself. You cleared your throat while he took several swigs of water, dropping his hand with the cup to his side as he took a moment to breathe once more. 

“Got anything stronger?” He asks, his low and smoother now, quirking a brow at you. You smiled, 

“Sorry, anything alcoholic you may want to drink in here, I gotta save for the guys who can’t heal themselves within minutes.” You say teasingly. “Supplies are low enough already.” 

You could see a small quirk of his lips, in something resembling a smile. He was still tense though, his eyes seemed to be somewhere else. He looked at you again,

“Does it…scare you? Me being a mutant?” He asks, his voice low

“Um….No?” You responded, confusion on your face, a small shake of your head, “Why would it?” 

He seemed relieved- and surprised by that answer, his shoulders finally relaxing, and he took another drink of water, eyes closing as he finished the cup, and handed it back to you, where you set it back on the counter. Wiping his mouth with his arm, he sat up more confidently, bending his leg as he brought his knee up to his chest, and propped his forearm over it, and leaned back on his other hand, taking a few deep breaths as he lowered his head down, then looked back up at you, his expression suddenly stern.

“You gonna tell them?” He asks. You knew he was referring to the army. Mutants weren’t well accepted in the world- much less the US army. The American government is actually sitting comfortably in the capital and writing out bullshit laws on mutant regulations, rather than trying to figure out a solution for the war here in Vietnam. You, a mutant yourself, albeit your powers were easy to hide and conceal, you still feared of a day that someone somehow discovers your secret. You’ve heard stories of American soldiers revealed to be mutants being killed, due to some bullshit excuse that they “lied” about who they were, and couldn’t be trusted. Whether those stories were true or fearmongering to keep mutants hiding their true identities, you didn’t know, but you certainly weren’t gonna find out yourself. You definitely wouldn’t put another fellow mutant, just trying to survive like you, in any sort of danger like that, even if he could probably just heal if he got put in front of a firing squad.

You pursed your lips together. Then smiled. “No. I’ll keep your secret.” You say. “All it means to me is that I have one less person to worry about around here. I was actually wondering why I hadn’t seen your face in this tent yet before, and now I know why.” 

He softened at that, but his face quickly fell back into something more serious and stern once more, which you’re starting to think might be his baseline. 

“You okay?” You asked, your voice was soft, and sweet, and borderline angelic for a man like him, who’s been in wars almost his entire life- which you don’t know about that. “That probably didn’t feel good, what happened.” He nodded. 

“M’ fine….Thank you.” He grumbles lowly, looking down at his hands. “I heard about you- actually I-I seen you around. You’re the only nurse on camp?” He asked, looking back up at you, there seemed to be a bit of curiosity in his voice. 

“Yeah. I’m pretty popular.” You say, in a teasing voice, blushing at the thought that he’s noticed you. Which shouldn’t be a surprise, you are quite literally the only woman around, save for the women in the village not far from here.  

“Must be busy.”

“Oh… Nah-” You playfully wave him off. “Some days are so slow, I’m actually bored.” You say matter-of-factly, but you both knew you were kidding. Another quirk of his lips. You smiled softly at him, but there was a voice in your head telling you, that since he doesn’t need your help, you should probably get back to helping the ones who do. Not that you want to leave, he was so damn handsome, you could stare at him all day. It wasn’t just his good looks though, his whole self drew you in with just a few words, and you find yourself wanting to get to know Logan, because the look in his eyes told you that he was someone worth knowing. Or maybe that was just your hormones talking. There was just this energy between you both, some type of unseen connection. His eyes trailed down you again, this time fully taking you in, stopping at your chest, and for a moment you were about to be completely turned off by this man being a pervert, but he nodded towards it. 

“Your necklace?” He asked. You looked down, oh, you thought to yourself. You pulled the string of your necklace, lifting the small coin that it held, string carefully wrapped around it so it doesn’t fall off.

“It’s a prayer coin. A priest gave it to me.” You explained. “It’s the archangel Raphael. A protector, patron saint of medical workers, like doctors, nurses.”

“Like you?” 

You nodded. He examined it, before you tucked it back under your shirt. You usually keep it hidden, but it must have fallen out while you were rushing. Now it was silent again, and you both weren’t sure what to do or say. 

“Well….” You took a breath, you glanced down at his abdomen, and suddenly your brows creased in concentration. 

“What?” He asked, by your sudden change in demeanor. 

“You can’t exactly walk out with no injury. Those two privates were pretty worried about you.” You say, putting your hands on your hips and pursing your lips together. You clicked your tongue.

“I can figure something out-”

“No no-” You held your hand up and looking around the room. “Those privates brought you in, there’s probably an incident report written right now, not to mention I have to write a report on your injuries too-” you explained. “I mean, how are you gonna explain it if you walk out, completely A-okay?”

Logan shrugged simply. “I can think of something, it isn’t the first time this happened.” You rolled your eyes. Men. 

You rather not waste bandages on a pretend injury, but you need someway to get his injury to look believeable, thats when you spotted your answer. His white tank top that you had drop to the floor, it was good enough to wrap around him, making him look as if he’s been all fixed up from his stab wound. The shirts cotton texture looked similar to the pattern of a bandage, and was good enough, especially considering no one would be looking hard enough at his wound anyway.

After a few minutes of “fixing him up” with your solution to keep his regenerative abilities a secret, you stood back examining the fake bandage/shirt that you tore up and wrapped around his torso, using bandage pins to hold it in place. Then shrugged. 

“It’s good enough.” You say. “You’re not going anywhere anyway, so it’s not like you’ll raise a bunch of questions. It looks like you have an injury, it’ll match the incident and medical report. You won’t get found out.”

“I’m not going anywhere?” He raised a brow. 

“Nope. You were injured, which means I gotta keep an eye on you. So you’ll be sleeping here, and you’ll have to pretend you’re in pain, whining and moaning and all that. Give it your best performance.” You encourage. “Take it, not many around here get a chance to get a break like that.” 

He looked at you, pondering what you were offering him- well, you weren’t offering, he was going to have do it because you weren’t gonna risk him revealing himself as a mutant, which for some reason you were now more concerned about than he was. A small smirk appeared on his face, “That mean you’ll be waiting on me then, hand and foot?”

You smiled, “Don’t get ahead of yourself soldier.” You say teasingly. “You can stay in here a little longer, rest up, maybe shed some tears to make it look like you’re suffering tremendously.” You added a little flair as you brought your hand up to your forehead, pretending to faint, before turning and walking away to leave the room, now knowing you really needed to get back to work.

“I don’t think I need to shed any tears.” He mutters, but there was amusement in his tone though. “Hey bub” He called after you as you were about to leave the room, lifting the tent flap, but you stopped to look at him. “Why are you seen keen on helping me out? Making a plan to make sure people don’t find out what I am…Seems like too much trouble to go through for you.” He frowned. 

“Well…” You dropped the flap of the tent, “Us mutants gotta stick together, right?” Logan looked surprised at first, eyes widening a bit, and jaw slacking, but then a soft, genuine smile stretched across his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling, leaving you thinking that was a smile you never wanted to go without again. Smiling back at him, you winked, and turned back before stopping and looking at him again, “Plus, you seem worth the trouble.” You add, before finally leaving him to himself.

Maybe it was too much trouble. You could leave Logan to figure it out himself. You two didn’t know each other, you weren’t friends. Yet you, the compassionate self you are, and also slightly bull-headed, was not going to leave Logan hanging alone. Maybe it was the fact that you were both mutants that urged you to help him, let him know that someone like him out there has his back, even if he had many brothers at his side watching his back too. Or maybe it was because you felt an undeniable pull towards him- and him towards you. 

While he stayed in the medical tent with you for about a week, the standard time for stitches to stay in. While staying, you both got to know each other better. You found a deep friendship with Logan quickly, both of you having an understanding of each other, not just as mutants but as individuals as well. You were able to laugh, usually at his snarky remarks to the other privates and even his comments to the higher-ups, surprising you in how he likes to occasionally challenge authority despite how quiet and reflective he can be some moments. You saw him as brave, smart, and he was protective, always going first in patrols, and keeping an eye on the younger privates. He’d hid it well, rarely making it seen, but he had a compassion that made your heart swell, especially when you came across him comforting a young private who was homesick and scared. He had a good instinct that seems to attest to his mutation- which he later revealed the full aspects of it to you later on, claws and everything- which did nothing but fascinate you, leading to a full acceptance of him he hadn’t felt or seen in a long time. He’d visit you in late nights when he wasn’t assigned guard patrol, bringing you something to eat or drink, and you’d both quietly talk about your lives, and how’d you ended up there. He listened to you complain about the lack of supplies, and how you got into medicine in the first place. You’d learn of his brother Victor- another Private First Class there at the camp, who you quickly learned a distaste for after meeting him, and how old they both really were- leading you to bombard him with history questions, that he simply answered “I wasn’t there bub.” There was an unspoken yet mutual physical and spiritual attraction between you both, but before anything could have gone further in your relationship, down in the thick muddy jungles of Vietnam, you suffered a similar fate as your mentor Doctor Jones. A stray bullet having shot through your shoulder while you were out, attempting to help a young private who’s leg unfortunately got caught in a dirt trap. You were okay, but orders sent you home on a medical discharge, saying you fulfilled your duty to the States. 

You missed Logan, and you also found yourself struggling to find your place back in civilian life again, the stress and the trauma of the things you saw weighed heavy in your mind, not to mention the worry you felt over Logan's safety while he was still over there. The only thing easing your worries was the letters you wrote to each other, until one day his letters stopped coming, and your own got returned back to you with no explanation, leaving you in fear of the worst….

[456-is-the-way]

Hi! I was wondering if you if you could do a smutty In-ho x fem! Reader x Gi-Hun. Something along the line of they are both pining and see each other go to talk to reader alone and decide to wait. In-ho talks to her during lights out and Gi-hun talks to her doing mingle. In the final fight, she goes with either in-ho or Gi-hun and the stand of at the end, ends with them deciding to truce for a moment and share reader.

A/n: OMG A smutty story with both the hottest daddies!? Yet people keep the requests coming because I have many more to write! I hope to post at least 3 stories a week only because I am returning to my job after my holiday vacation! ALSO regarding the TAGLIST IDK why it won't let me add people like some it won't bring their name up SO I am not sure how to fix that RIP Im sorry y'all!!! ALSO, late tonight or tomorrow my part 1 of my 4-part Gi-Hun story is coming out!! (Hints of In-ho x reader) will also be in the story! Next week I'll have 3 more requests stories done!

Trigger warning: SMUT

Squid Game Masterlist

In-ho x Reader x Gi-hun

Love and War

Being in the games was the last thing (Y/n) was expecting, or at least in a life-or-death situation. She took a breath, looking over the group she was lucky enough to be in. Gi-hun did not hide the looks in her direction. Her (e/c) orbs meet his. (Y/n) could feel her cheeks warm up as Gi-hun winked. She turned away, looking at the ground quickly. How could two people be so obvious in their lustful looks? Their group quickly picked up on their subtle hints, flirtatious works, mindful touches, and lustful gazes. However, it sparked a rivalry between Gi-hun and his newfound friendship with Young-Il. The other gentleman also expressed his feelings towards (Y/n), which did not go unnoticed. (Y/n) happily reciprocated the attention she received from both of these handsome bachelors. It was lights out, and as normal, their group gathered in one spot, taking turns on night shift duty. Many thought of them as one of the strongest teams for now. In-ho sighed deeply as he was woken by Jung-bae. “Your turn.” He whispered. In-ho only responded with a grunt getting up to take his place by (Y/n). In-ho looked over her figure. It honestly pained him to lie to (Y/n) of all people. While scouting for participants, he would collect all their data and reasoning for poor financial situations. He never showed favor or pity towards anyone until now. Why did it have to be her of all people?

“I can take watch by myself if you need me to. I want you to have all the rest. Especially for the next challenge… I am nervous to find out what it may be.” In-ho whispered. She gave him such a warm and loving smile. In-ho had not felt butterflies like this in his stomach in so long the feeling was almost foreign. The way her eyes would almost sparkle while gazing into his. In-ho felt his breath be taken away every time.

“No, I won't allow you to not have a partner. We agreed on pairs of two. I am going to be fine. I could say the same for you, Young-Il.” She gazed into his eyes and before anything else could be said In-ho leaned in kissing her deeply. (Y/n) gasped but did not pull back once his warm lips dominated hers. In-ho cupped her cheek before letting his hand trail down squeezing her beast. “W-Wait.” Her voice seemed weak from the desire but quickly In-ho stopped all his advances.

“Fuck (Y/n) I am so sorry if I hurt you.” His eyes showed nothing but absolute worry.

“Young-Il, you didn’t hurt me. I just. We cant I-”

“You love Gi-hun. Don’t you?” He asked.

She looked away rubbing her temples. “I am unsure who I like. I have feelings for you both but if we act out on them… If you or him dies I would never be able to get over your death, or is..” She leans against In-ho resting on his shoulder.

“I understand…I love you.”

“I… I love you as well.” (Y/n) whispered cuddling into him.

….

After the night the next game had started early that morning, and (Y/n) had not been expecting what was to come. As the game commenced it felt very intense making sure the groups had the correct amount of people in each room. They even teamed up with new players they clicked with instantly. As it began getting lower in numbers for each door (Y/n) became nervous. She felt Gi-hun grab her hand gently. “I got you.” He whispered. Once the merry-go-round stopped and the number was ‘2’ he instantly took off with her ultimately forgetting about any of the others. Even shamelessly (Y/n) did not even look back for In-ho. Once in the room the door instantly shut. The female leaned against the wall as Gi-hun was breathing heavily on the other side of the room, “Gi-hun, are you okay?”

Gi-hun did not bother to answer before walking over to (Y/n) and kissing her deeply. The female lets a shaken moan out as their bodies are pressed against each other. His hands hold her waist before lowering down her backside and cupping her ass. “G…Gi-hun, babe, we cant.” Her body was on fire for this handsome older man.

“You love me… I know you do.” He let you go resting his forehead against yours.

“I…I do love you. I have since the moment I laid eyes on you. I can’t be with you Gi-hun. I wont risk getting attached-”

“Is it because of Young-Il? Is that the true reason? I heard you both talking last night. I know you have feelings for him of some kind… I want to know if he-”

“No, my love it's not because of Young-Il… I care for you both but if I got too attached and lost either of you I… I wouldn't be able to ever move on.” When the doors unlocked she took his hand, “Talk later okay?”

Gi-hun nods walking out as their hand in hand. In-ho instantly noticed and sent a glare at Gi-hun who met his gaze with a stronger one.

…

(Y/n) was soaked in her friend's blood as she was on her knees. Gi-hun and Jung-Bae beside her on their knees. In front of them stood a man who organized the games. With a quick hand motion from the man in the black mask, Jung-Bae was pulled away. Gi-hun went to help but a gun was quickly pulled out.

“Don’t” (Y/n) begged, tearing up. Her eyes widen as the gun slowly is lowered.

“I love you (Y/n).” The Front Man whispered she glared into his eyes.

“I hate you.” She glared. In-ho took a moment before removing his mask. Both (Y/n) and Gi-hun gave his a look showing all their bundled up emotions. “You… are the Frontman. HOW COULD YOU!” (Y/n) cried loudly .

In-ho leans down, “My real name is In-ho, I joined yes, but I never expected to fall in love with you! Please… Let me have you before anything else happens… Gi-hun.” He turned to his friend who reluctantly nodded they both desired you and that over powered all current feeling. The triangle guard let Gi-hun free before leaving.

“Please lets forget about all of this. For a few moments.” Gi-hun adds agreeing with In-ho. What felt like eternity she agrees.

Gi-hun instantly pulled her against his frame smashing their lips together. In-ho kneels down pressing against her back side kissing up (Y/n)’s neck. The female moaned loudly into the kiss as her body is sandwiched between theirs. “Fuck.” She gasped as Gi-hun trailed down to the other side of her neck. In-ho proceeded to slides his large hands under her shirt cupping her bare breasts. Her nipples already were hard. “Ngh! (Y/n) whined as he pinch them roughly pulling her buds harshly.

“Take her shirt off.” In-ho growled.

“Slide her pants down.” Gi-hun adds. (Y/n) had no time to react before her shirt was being lifted and sweatpants pulled down swiftly. Once practically naked she puts a hand on their bulges rubbing both men. They let out a shaken groan each, Gi-hun’s voice held a submissive tone while In-ho growled dominantly. Their already hardening cocks were at full attention. Gi-hun’s leaking precum at the tip. In-ho leans his forhead against (Y/n)’s shoulder cock twitching as she worked both touch starved men.

“F-Fuck I’m close.” Gi-hun whined.

In-ho chuckled,” Baby slow down before he blows a load in your hands. Let us inside of you.”

“MMmm… But will b-both fit?” She asked inhaling as Gi-hun reached down feeling her soaking wet panties.

“Fuck you are soaked honey. Did jerking us off turn you on that much?.. Yes dear we will both fit.”

(Y/n) nods and spreads her legs, In-ho nods to Gi-hun, She arches, feeling both their cocks brushing her entrance. “AHH FUCK Gi-hun. In-ho!~” (Y/n) was held up by the men who began roughly thrusting into her tight and warm pussy.

“Fuck baby you are tight.” “Your pussy was made for your us.” “Going to fill you up.”

Both of their praises made the knot tighten inside of her. “FUCK!” She cried out as their cock meet the perfect rythem until she felt the euphoria hit all at once. Her pussy clams down making both men cum deep inside. The three now lay there panting in pleasure. (Y/n) closed her eyes.

“I love you both.” Her voice is strained. Gi-hun instantly responsed with a quick ‘I love you back’ .

In-ho sighed deeply kissing her cheek knowing nothing would be the same after this. He loved her too much.

[jessthebaker]

How? How? HOWWWW did I not read this when you published it?! Did I read it on ao3 and not here? Did I leave you a comment there and not here? My friend, if I haven’t commented or shared this chapter yet, I have SINNED. Because this is amazing. The whole story is amazing. You are an amazing writer.

Watching Frankie and Lee grow together, watching her grow in her personal life - grow in her confidence that has been planted and nurtured by Frankie - and then she takes that confidence and saunters it back to him in slacks - is the sexiest and most affirming way for her to be.

(That is, until she finds the confidence enough to LEAVE HER ASSHOLE ADRIAN and trust that she DOES have skills to survive without Asshole Daddy’s money. Keeping her in a job she’s not good at, with a man who disrespects her and begrudges her anything good and only wants her around for the status it bestows upon him. UGH. Fuck that guy.)

BUT. I was talking about Lee and Frankie. It makes me so happy that they are talking, sharing parts of their lives, sleeping over, staying over past sunrise (she gets to see his glorious self naked in the daylight?! *swoon*) , getting more and more in tune with each other, more comfortable discussing things - the big things, things that matter more than “what do you do for work” or “where do you live”.

I can only hope that as they separately think about being together for REAL, that they actually discuss the idea together. And that Ava’s arrival is a catalyst to making something happen! Something good!!

My darling Orange, please do not apologise for taking a long time to write this story. If you didn’t write it at all, it would never get written. And that would be an absolute tragedy. Take your time, you are worth waiting for!

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 5

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. Time flies, in room number 2. How much longer do you have, just for the two of you?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange bedroom besties 🧡 It's been a hot minute, I sincerely apologise. Thank you to everyone who stuck around, I hope it was worth it, and thank you to everyone who just passed by 🧡 @frannyzooey my love, thank you for your help on the Americanisms, invaluable as always 🧡

Word count: 13.8k

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Chapter 5: Time in a bottle

It’s late when you pull into the parking lot. Dusk cloaks the motel in its fuzzy veil, the surroundings fading in diffuse shadows. The single-story building stands out in the twilight, akin to an old ship. Wooden poles for masts, hanging lamps swaying gently in the briny breeze, their lights blurry in the muggy air. Tacky and warm, it wafts in through your car’s open windows, dampening the exposed skin of your forearms and the back of your neck. 

On the passenger seat, your iPhone’s screen glows in the semi-darkness with an incoming call. 

Adrian.  

“What now?” you sigh, through clenched teeth. 

Your eyes dart up to Frankie’s truck parked in front of you. The word FORD stretched in chrome letters on the tailgate, shining bright in your headlights. 

The familiar pull awakens between your constricted lungs. A pounding, greedy little tug compelling you to get out of your car and cover the distance to the room as quickly as your step will carry you. But you want to calm your nerves first. Slow down your heart rate, deepen your breathing. 

That discussion you had with your father, earlier this afternoon, still clings to your frame. The humiliation conveyed by his carefully chosen words like tar, black and viscous. You can almost smell its foul stench. And you don’t want to bring any of it inside. 

It’s only the third time Frankie gets here before you, if you count that very first Friday back in September. And the second, since you came back from Colorado earlier this month. The pressure in your rib cage eases at the memory of that sweet evening. 

All day long, you had rushed through your counting routine. Through the long, icy corridors of your glass prison. Rushed on the 589 northbound. Rushed to strangle the uncertainty of his presence there. 

It was a few minutes past 7pm when you parked next to his truck, his early presence cranking up your anxiousness. You got out of your car with an anguished scowl, and you all but ran toward the porch, toward the brass number 2, shoes scuffing the gravel. 

The door swung open the very second you stepped under the overhang. A flash of dimple, and his arms wrapped around your waist. He scooped you up from the floor, swift and easy, carrying you inside. Hungry kisses, teeth scraping at your jaw, down the line of your neck. A throaty husk of Happy New Year, Lee Abbott, as he tugged your clothes off your body that thrummed with his scent and his voice and his arms and his taste. 

With the density of him. 

He lifted you again, your short, giggly yelp bouncing across the room as he hauled you over his shoulder with an easy force. His steps long and balanced, as if your weight was inconsequential to his strength. 

In the dim bathroom, he put you down directly into the tub. There, he unbuckled his belt and slid down his jeans, looking at you with a mischievous grin you’d never seen before and that fitted his gorgeous face a little too well. 

“Told you I’d fuck you in this shower.” 

Thirty seconds later, you were standing together under an aggressive stream of scalding water, his broad back shielding you from the high pressure, steam blurring the tiles and the mirror. You pressed your face into his neck, hands splayed over his chest, feeling it heave with his low, rumbling chuckle. 

“ That’s the best I could do. This place is trash,” he scoffed, lips grazing your ear. 

“ It’s perfect,” you laughed. 

Another notification lights up your screen, yanking you back into the stifling cab of the sedan, to the nagging cramp poking your rib cage, to your hindered breathing. 

It glowers at you, bold black letters over a steel gray rectangle. 

MESSAGES 

Adrian

Your eyes flicker back to the red truck, your face crunching into a grimace. 

“Shit,” you grit, grabbing the phone and quickly pressing the home button before you can change your mind.  

The lock screen fades as the message app pops open. You squint against the brightness of the glowing white screen. 

I made it, babe. I fucking made it. You’re talking to the new senior partner of Balmer & Steigt.  Fuck yeah. I finally get what I fucking deserve.  

The gray ellipses start blinking underneath the bubble. You frown, bracing yourself. 

I couldn’t have made it without you. This is your victory as much as mine.

You scoff, but the dread-inducing ellipses keep bouncing happily. Fantastic. There’s more coming.

I got you something. Something fancy for my fancy girl.

“Oh, hell no.”  

Leaning down, you pick up the roomy I ❤ NY tote bag Ava got you as a Christmas present and dump your phone into it, before stuffing the bag under your seat. 

If only you could take a full breath. If only your chest would expend. It’s not that bad, really. A few months back, you would have been physically unable to keep going with your day after that conversation with your father. Let alone drive. You’d have suffocated, chocked up on your panic, until you’d been left with no choice other than to gulp down a pill, or two, or three, topped off with a swig of gin. The bitter taste of surrendering. 

Is that what it means, to give oneself some grace? You’re doing good, you’re doing better, you’re doing your best.

Closing your eyes, you exhale through pursed lips and ease down your shoulders. 

He had you called into his office by his secretary, as you were about to leave, bag in hand, counting steps. 

But you were expecting it. In all honesty, you’re surprised it’s taken him this long. Four weeks since you came back from Beaver Creek. Four weeks of defying his strict, outdated, misogynistic dress-code. 

The very first morning, you stepped out of the mirror-lined elevator on the 15th floor wearing high-waisted, wide-legged slacks and a loose button-up, the sleeves folded high on your forearms. And flat derbies.  

Nervousness, sitting heavy and queasy in the pit of your stomach, beating loud against your eardrums. Prickling under your armpits, raising the hair on your nape. 

Kaytee’s eyes widened as she caught sight of you walking by her office, before she remembered to police her expression. The shock on her face turned into something else, something worse. Lurking in the lift-up corner of her lips, in the smugness coloring her cheeks. Something sardonic. Condescension. 

“ You can’t spend your life trying to be someone else. ” Ava’s words through the receiver the previous night were a dizzying swirl inside your head, as you walked down the glass corridors, coworkers and subordinates watching you with a similar shocked expression, that blurred their features into one subdued, frightened face. 

But who the fuck am I, Ava? you wanted to ask, the only sound on the line that of your short breathing. How did you know who you were? Always. From the very beginning of your life. How did you know how to be so unapologetic about it? 

Had it been your gift to her? Does self-confidence require love? Or guidance? Is it innate? 

All you know, at this point in your life, is that wearing clothes that you chose for yourself seems like a sound first measure. One that you can actually undertake. 

And with that in mind, you stepped into your father’s office, your heart pulsating in your throat, to take a seat across from him, his clear desk standing like a wide canyon between you.

Now, your steps are nearly silent on the shifting gravel, as you walk across the parking lot, fingers brushing along the cool metal of the truck as you pass it by. That pull toward Frankie propelling you forward, inescapable, irresistible despite the nasty sensation oozing down along your legs like thick-flowing tar, weighing your gait. 

On the porch, you pause. On Friday evenings, this is when you shed your old skin. Healing wounds, scar tissues. When you set your eyes on the canopy as it swallows the sun, pink-orange dusk fading to dark. Grainy photographs, forgotten vacations. This is when your spine straightens, when you take in the horizon and let it deepen your breathing. When you ready yourself for the life you’ve chosen, between the brown carpet and the yellow curtains and his arms. 

But it’s already night. The darkness has erased the horizon and your old skin won’t shed. 

The door opens, a draft ruffling your hair.  

The first thing you see is the crease between his brow. The tick of his whiskered jaw, and then, his dark brown eyes, appraising the tension that winds up your body, appraising your silence. His grunt, like an echo, distant. 

“You sat in that car forever. I was about to come out and get you.”

The concern in his voice rattles something deep inside your belly. You’re not bringing any of it inside that room of yours, you think, as he pushes away from the door to let you in, as you cross the threshold, but it’s stuck to you. Your father’s voice. The tremendous power it still holds over you. His disappointment. Your failures, plural. All the wrong choices. 

His hat is set on the desk. His suede jacket is draped over the back of the angular wooden chair. Your gaze lingers on it, you can almost feel the comforting softness of the fabric under the pads of your fingers.

He stands a few feet away from you, giving you space. Dark mahogany searching your features, your posture. His hands propped on his hips, like that other night in the parking lot, after he’d seen the fresh scar in your hairline. 

You face away from him. The smell of the room is familiar, in a comforting way. Musty. Dust and the faintest perfume of industrial laundry detergent coming from the starched sheets. He’s pulled the bedspread off the bed. It’s folded neatly on the floor underneath the window. It rises tears along your throat, the idea of him prepping himself, prepping the place, alone in this room where you’ve waited for him countless times and hours. Guilt scrambles your brain, over what, you’re not entirely certain. Keeping him waiting? You failures, plural. All the wrong choices. 

“Lee.”

His voice seeps in through the blackness coating your skin, like warm and persistent little droplets of sweet amber.

You turn to face him, at last. An awkward upper-body twist, feet rooted to the brown carpet, teeth clenched around the lump in your throat. He’s wearing that gray threadbare t-shirt you love, the one with a v-neck, and your eyes find the dip at the base of his throat, the fireworks of freckles between his collarbone. Tears well up, too strong to hold back, and you shut your eyes to the muffled sound of his booted steps on the matted carpet.  

You’re drifting, enveloped in his warmth, his scent, leather and musk. The contact of his skin as he curls a large hand around your nape, tucking your face into the curve of his strong neck. 

His arm wraps around your waist, drawing you closer, flush to his chest, and he presses his chin to your temple. You let go, surrender, honey dripping thick and golden along your loosening limbs. 

His pulse beats solid and steady against your cheek. You breathe him in, a hindered inhale at first, and when your shoulders begin to drop, a deeper one. A single tear escapes. It rolls down the round of your cheek into his skin. Your palms skim up to the plane of his back, soaking in his heat, and he presses you in harder, his forearm aligning with your spine, fingers spreading at the base of your skull. 

Time stretches. He holds you. You lean in. 

Later, after he’s helped you climb into the cab of his truck, you keep your eyes on him as he rounds the red hood.

Sitting behind the wheel, he puts the key in the ignition and, looking at you, tilts his head to the left. 

“C’mere,” he says, and you scoot next to him, biting down a relieved sigh as you slide over the seat bench. 

He leans over your lap, grabbing the middle seat belt, and buckles you in, then himself. You settle in, with your head against his shoulder, and your hand on his thigh, soft cotton, worn denim. Under your touch, his firm muscles ripple as he drives you into the night, into oblivion. The steady motion lulling you to sleep.

Alongside the deserted road, trees and bushes roll out in the headlights as the truck swallows miles and miles of asphalt. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble after a while, fighting drowsiness.

“Don’t be. You wanna talk about it?” he adds after a pause.

“No.” 

You shake your head, your voice so low you’re not certain he’s heard your answer.

“Doesn’t have to be now,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Your head bobs with his bunching muscles as he releases the wheel to bend his arm at the elbow, fingers threading through your hair. Without lifting his eyes off the road, he leans in, and pecks a pointed kiss on the crown of your head. 

Your eyes close. The image of the bedspread neatly folded underneath the window flashes through your mind. You can’t seem to get used to his tender gestures, to his attentions. You hope they will never stop. You hope you will never get used to them. 

The emotion washes over you, a soft wave, and you float with it. In the cab of his truck, in his scent and his hold, you feel free of all doubts. Fear and pain cannot find you here. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced so far, a strange feeling, potent and all encompassing, albeit one that doesn’t need to be dulled or tamed. 

The words come out of your mouth as a surprise. 

“I think I don't want it to define me anymore. My family, I mean. Where I come from.”  

This is a new state of mind. Or perhaps it’s been there for a while, a mere shadow on the wall, something you couldn’t clearly discern. Suddenly simple to comprehend and articulate.

“Yea. I get it,” he says.

And you know he does. 

You open your eyes, and take in a deep breath, fill your lungs with that distinct old leather scent that clings about him, and the smell of vintage Bakelite from the dashboard, so specific to his truck.  

“Music?” you ask.

“Sure, good idea. You like Jefferson Airplane?”

You nod, brushing your cheek against the cottony fabric of his t-shirt, leaving a little bit of you there, for him to find later.

“Yes. I like them.”

“Jefferson Airplane it is, then,” he answers. 

Gently, he bends forward, mindful not to nudge you too much, and turns on the stereo. His thick fingers push the tape that’s already there into the slot, and your lips curl with an explicit thought, unlike any you used to have before meeting him. Crude, but welcome pictures that now constantly crowd your brain. 

He keeps the volume low, and with the round rumbling of his quiet humming, your mind slowly drifts off again. 

You’re about to fall asleep when a thought surfaces, skirting the edges of your consciousness. 

“Frankie?” you quietly call. 

“Mmh?”

“Are you… Were you in the military?”

The humming stops, his silence abrupt, and his shoulder tenses under your cheek. Pushing away from it, you risk a sleepy glance at his face, plunged in the semi-darkness. It’s not dark enough that you don’t recognize the cocking of his jaw. 

“Frankie?” you ask again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“I’m a pilot,” he cuts in, pausing to inhale deeply. “I was in the Army for nearly twenty years. I got a discharge a couple years back.” 

You remain silent. His eyes flicker quickly between you and the road, and you give his thigh a strong squeeze with your left hand, before resting your cheek against his shoulder, eluding his searching gaze.

Volunteers is crackling through the speakers, but you don’t hear the music. Fully awake now, your mind is reeling with those scattered, minute parts of him you picked up Friday after Friday to stash them away in your subconscious. His puzzle of shadows. All the things that now make perfect sense, and the ones you’re dying to unravel. 

His quiet assertiveness. His hands, quick and sure. His silences. His commanding tone. That long, sideways scar etched on his left flank. 

His early rage, and his anger too. The flight forward, dimming his eyes, where deep rich mahogany now glimmers. 

The zip ties. Your eyes grow wide, a gasping sound catching in your throat. You’re not ready to address how much you appreciate this particular skill of his, considering where he picked it up.  

Your imagination produces a clear vision of him in a US Air Force uniform, the fabric stretched over his broad shoulders, and you bite your lip, your entire body covering in chills. 

Frankie has yet to say another word. Something raises your consciousness, something in the scowl sharpening his features as he scanned your face for a reaction. 

Images flash through your head. The 8 × 10 picture displayed in your father’s office in its platinum frame, for every visitor to admire. Smooth faced and confident, his sleeves rolled up high on his lean forearms, your father’s shaking hands with Reagan in front of a colorful assemblage of containers, in the industrial quarter of the Tampa Bay Harbor, during the 1984 campaign. His coldly handsome face split by a smile, larger and more genuine than any of those he ever addressed you, let alone Ava. 

Recollections of those dragging hours you spent in church as a child, beads of sweat dripping along your spine as you sat in the sweltering heat on a hard wooden bench, rigid and still like a marble statue for fear of being reprimanded. 

The hateful, vehement speeches your father would burst into at random, your mother pinching your arm for you to listen, this is important. The uneasy feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach, like bile, like nausea. Wrong. This is wrong. A feeling, not an idea yet. It grew with you, expending, to become impossible to see past by the time you started high.

The list of names in your father’s neat handwriting, scrawled on a crisp piece of paper, that he handed you before driving the entire family to the polls for your very first election. The sheer terror, primitive in its hold over you, prickling on your nape as you systematically disregarded his instructions, choosing the names followed by the three letters DEM. 

The rare political meetings you secretly attended in college, the pamphlets in loud colors and bold letters, that you read hidden from your roommate’s prying eyes, as if they were satanic verses. Reproductive rights! Demilitarization Now! No to privatized prisons! End gun violence! 

Petitions you signed with a shaking hand, because what if your parents found out? What if they heard of it? A dread so profoundly anchored at the very core of your psyche that you have never told Ava any of it, even when she would chastise your lack of interest in politics, your lack of involvement, lest she’d reveal your treason to them in the heat of an argument.

Could this be when you started finding yourself? In your diverging convictions? Could it be enough? Could it count? 

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask tentatively.

He huffs a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. 

“You’re a hell of a fast learner, aren’t you?”

“I have a very good teacher,” you shrug, trying to ignore the sharpness in his tone. 

Curiosity overthrowing your ingrained fear to displease, you ask, “What kind of aircraft do you fly? Planes? Helicopters?”

He simply nods, and your cheeks heat again at the notion, your heart racing. 

“I’m very impressed,” you whisper. “I can barely parallel park.”

“I’m sure you got plenty of other skills,” he answers, softer. 

“No. I really don’t.”

—

Frankie walks briskly across the parking lot, carrying a take-away bag and a six-pack of beer. His head hung low to shield his face from the thin, mid-February drizzle. His denim shirt sticks to his back with humidity, and sweat from the drive. It’s pulled uncomfortably taut across his shoulders. 

He steps onto the porch, hands too full to open the door or even knock on it, so he gives it three light kicks. A tiny screw pops out from the curved top of the brass number two. The whole thing swivels upside down, swinging like a pendulum.

“Jesus christ, this fucking place,” he scoffs.

The door flies open, and you’re here, with that bright, earnest smile and your wide, luminous eyes. You’ve tied your hair up in a casual do, but you’re still fully dressed. He likes those slacks on you, snug on your curves, wide on your legs. It fits you so much better than the tight pencil skirts you used to wear when he first met you. Those made you look like an 80s porn producer fever dream. But these trousers transform your gait, your entire demeanor, into something more relaxed. More confident. He could watch you strut around the room for hours. If only there was more time.  

He catches a glimpse of the mesh fabric of your bra, peeking out from the cleavage of your open shirt, and he mentally curses the corporate fucks who get to work all week around you.

“Hey, Frankie.”

The sharp, familiar pang rips through his chest at the sound of your voice, light and cheery. That ache he waits for seven excruciatingly long days to experience again.

“Hey, baby.”

As you let him in, he feels the tip of your fingers brushing his thigh, as if you need to make sure he’s here in the flesh. The miracle of you wanting him, still. 

“What’s in the bag?” you ask, dragging the chipped chair away from the desk, so he can set down his bounty. 

His eyes fall on your graceful nape as you crane your neck to see what’s inside the bag, too well-behaved to touch it without having been invited to do so. 

“Didn’t have time to eat. I took something for you too, I hope you don’t mind. Did you eat? Are you hungry?”

“I don’t usually eat before I come here,” you admit. “I drive in straight from work,” you add, heat visibly creeping up your neck and ears.

He takes off his hat, ruffling a hand through his hair to conceal a smug smile. 

“And you’re not starving, by the time I’m finished with you?”

“Quite the contrary, actually. I feel pretty full when you leave.”

Your lips stretch into a wide grin you’re ineffectively trying to hold back. 

“That so?” he chuckles, propping his hands on his hips. For countenance. 

Pride glimmers in your eyes, as it does every time you make him laugh. He knows it’s mirrored in his eyes. Your levity is his reward. 

Everything about you is unbearably endearing. He’s not sure if he’s hungry for food anymore, or if he’s not going to go straight down on you. You’ve already prepared the bed, that ugly bedspread neatly folded under the window. He could lay you prone on your stomach, lower your trousers to your knees, perk up your pretty ass and eat your sweet cunt from behind.

His hunger for you sizzles along his spine, sparkling in his loins, imperious and distracting. The sensation is delicious, and for once, he takes the time to revel in it. He’s so used to barging in here and just taking. He doesn’t savor, not really, not until after he’s had you at least once. 

He’s not proud of his unbridled hunger, the consequence of seven days’ worth of pent-up frustration, chasing your perfume on his clothes and the ghost feeling of your cool, smooth skin under his palms. That ever-growing obsession for your scent, for your eyes, and that crippling craving for the sounds you produce when he moves inside you. That high he gets when he makes you feel good. Every time he gives you what you want. 

And there’s the absolute black-out on all communications between you throughout the week that drives him out of his mind. He knows that’s the tacit deal the two of you struck at the very beginning. No phone number, no address, no marks. Hell, he didn’t even know your name until you gave it to him at Christmas. Only, he’s left in the dark for seven consecutive fucking days, with no means to check up on you, and no way to make sure you’re safe. 

He understands the necessity for secrecy. But the more time passes, the less it makes sense. 

So come Friday night, he needs to crush you under his weight. Needs to feel your flesh gushing through his splayed fingers and hear you mewl his name, eyes rolling to the back of your head, your body tensing up in his hold before it shatters around his cock. 

He needs to fuck you deep and full, find you in that place within yourself and wreck you there. He needs to make sure you’re alright. Make sure you’re real. Make sure you’re his. 

And his control might be tenuous, but he sure loves the way you lean into it. 

You’re still smiling when he takes a step closer behind you. Lowering his face into the curve of your neck, he inhales you there, that spot behind your ear, where your subtle scent becomes heady. He feels your chest rising with your own deep breathing, and he pictures your eyes fluttering shut. His hand skims the curve of your hip, sliding up to the swell of your breast over the smooth fabric of your shirt, gripping you roughly as he takes your earlobe between his lips and sucks on it. His hips move against your ass of their own volition, his cock half-hard, fucking twitching.

“Frankie,” you whine.

“Yea?”

He licks a broad stride up your neck, collecting the tangy taste of your skin, mixed with the chemical one of your perfume. 

“What’s in the bag?”

“What bag, baby? Oh, right.”

It’s a beat before he can detach himself from you. His cock is beating hard and angry against the confining fabric of his jeans. With a light brush of his knuckles along your side, he reminds himself there’s also pleasure in the anticipation. The word sits in the back of his throat, like a knife ready to bleed him dry. Concupiscence. 

Ripping the paper bag open in the middle, he smooths both sides neatly over the desk, and points at the three rolls wrapped in tin foil.

“Took three burritos, and some fried beans. There’s one beef, one pork, and one vegetarian, in case you don't eat meat.”

You look at him with a twinkle in your eyes, your grin getting wider than he’s ever seen it. He braces a hand flat on the desk. 

“Oh, I eat meat, I thought you’d know that.”

The words have barely left your mouth that you burst into a fit of giggles, covering your face with both hands.

“Christ, woman!” he laughs. “Alright, sit down. Let’s get proper food into that mouth of yours, for once.”

Together, you unfold the bedspread and arrange it over the foot of the bed. The thing is already stained, and you mutually agree there’s no need to make a mess of the white sheet just yet. 

Letting you pick between the two richer ones, he takes the vegetarian burrito, and you start eating together, two open cans of beer at your feet. 

His bites are ravenous, while you nibble gingerly at your food, holding the burrito with two hands, the foil crackling between your fingers. After a few bites, however, you start eating in bigger chunks. 

“This is delicious,” you moan with your mouth full. 

Is he getting jealous of a fucking burrito now? Is that where he’s at?

“What, you never had a burrito in your life?”

You wince, and he immediately regrets the teasing skepticism of his tone. 

Setting the food down, you dab a paper towel to the corner of your mouth, catching a fleck of sauce. There’s grace in all your movements, even the tiniest ones.  

“My mother monitored everything I ate. God forbid I put on any weight,” you explain, a hint of bitterness in your voice. 

He lowers his hands, eyes trained on your averted gaze. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” you tell him, looking up at him.

There’s that quiet resignation painted all over your face. 

“Try me.”

“You’re thinking I’m a grown woman, old enough to make her own decisions.”

He shakes his head. “Was actually thinking your mother sounds like the exact opposite of mine.”

Your mouth curves into a sad attempt at a smile.

“I don't judge you, Lee. We all do what we can with what we got dealt with.”

A slight frown knits your brow, as you seem to consider his words. 

He has spent a lot of time, lately, reflecting over his own choices, and the many places where they’ve led him, for better or for worse. 

Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria. Libya and the most dangerous places in sub-Saharan Africa. Nearly everywhere in South America. Twice over.

Over the fucking Andes, and to Tom’s funeral. 

Choices that also made him Lua’s father. 

Crossroads that have taken him all the way to that shithole bar, last year at the end of August. Conscious decisions that brought him here, into this room. Into your arms. Into your life.

A chain reaction he wouldn’t alter, he knows it now, even if he was given the chance for a do-over. 

He used to consider things as definite. Choices as absolute and irrevocable. It took him becoming a father, and meeting you, to understand his mother’s words. Paso a paso, she’d say, watching him with a tender, knowing smile as he rushed toward his life. Paso a Paso, Francisco. 

You eat in silence for a while, and he keeps watching you. That sharp pain solidly entrenched inside his chest, blooming through his heart, he has to make a conscious effort to breathe around it. 

He bought you the food you’re eating right now. Drove to his favorite place, stood in line and placed his order with you in mind. And you’re enjoying it. In fact, you’re demonstrating an impressive appetite, hungrier, messier with every bite. Sauce dripping down your chin. Pink flashes of tongue licking it from between your fingers. 

He could get used to that. Providing for you. Taking care of you. In more than just one way. Sharing the mundane routine of a daily life together. 

But this is not real. Whatever is happening between the four walls of this shitty motel is not ground for life-altering choices. 

“Do you want to share the pork one?” you ask, crinkling the tinfoil wrapper into a compact ball. 

“I’m good, baby,” he answers with a soft smile. “You can have it. Just make sure you’re still hungry for more meat when you’re done.”

—

Adrian has gifted you a new purse from another French luxury brand. It’s a square-shaped thing cut from some grayish reptile skin, with a matching tag and a decorative lock hanging from its handle. It looks insanely expensive and ridiculously vulgar, its tackiness almost cruelly ironic. Like a rich people’s inside joke.  

Somehow, you’re vaguely aware this model is exclusive and can’t be bought online or even in stores, however high-end. It has to be ordered, and there’s a waiting list. Useless knowledge you probably gathered from one of your mother’s magazines. A family of four could most likely live comfortably for a whole year for the price of this thing. 

Incidentally, there’s a new perfume clinging to Adrian’s clothes when he comes home late at night. The first time you caught a whiff of the heady fragrance, intense vanilla and white musk, it reminded you of the stunning blonde with feline hazel eyes. 

The gift immediately felt less like an expression of gratitude for your support than like a reward for your silent compliance. But it’s of little to no importance. The bag sits idly at the bottom of your walk-in dressing. Unused, containing what’s left of the love and respect you once harbored for the man. 

Every so often, you think about it, as you cruise along the 589. It makes you smile. A wide, Cheshire cat grin, one that bares your front teeth, and you wonder if it’s cruel of you to smile about the end of something that used to mean so much. Something that meant nearly everything. You wonder if you’ve ever been cruel before. Intentionally, that is. 

Then, you conclude you don’t care. This particular kind of cruelty feels far too good. Too righteous. You could get used to it. 

And you keep cruising along the 589 northbound. 

—

“Mark Twain or Lewis Carroll?”

“Oh god, Frankie, I don’t know…” you moan, too distracted to think straight. 

Teeth ghosting a bite over your neck, he wraps a kiss around your skin, sucking on it. Not sharply enough to bruise, but enough for you to clench hard around him.

In the past few weeks, he’s become playful. It’s new to you. Was it always a part of him, constituent but buried underneath the scars and the years, or was it born from your touch? 

He’s become talkative, too. Talkative, and curious. But then again, perhaps he always was. Only, not with you. 

Thus, there are new rituals between you. Secrets exchanged behind the shielding partition of the yellow curtains. Murmurs shared underneath the droning of the ceiling fan, in the golden lighting from the quaint bedside lamps.

Some of his questions can pose a challenge. You’re not always certain about the proper answer. The right one. You were raised to say what was expected of you. Taught to speak to please, not to speak your mind. To wait for your cue, and hold your thoughts in between.

Frequently, you hesitate, afraid to trip on your words. 

But he doesn’t easily relent. He’s playful and curious. But above all, he’s patient and persistent.

“I don’t know,” you repeat.

“You know. Come on.”

“Okay, um… Lewis Carroll. I love– I love Alice.”

“Oh yea? You do? You like following big white rabbits to strange places, huh?”

His chest shakes with his raspy chuckle, and you laugh, until he pulls you in closer, sheathing himself deeper inside you, and your laughter plummets into a throaty groan.

Seamlessly, these new ceremonials have replaced the old ones, the ones that were carried out under wary gazes, in appraising silence.�� 

Now, you don’t always count your steps on Fridays, but you leave work earlier, and when you arrive at the motel, you try to engage Raul in conversation. His discomfort is obvious, bordering on annoyance, as you disrupt his concentration while he’s busy drawing charcoal landscapes of jagged mountains. But these past two weeks, he seems to have loosened up a bit. Either you’re wearing him off, or he’s trying to get rid of you faster. 

On the porch, in front of room number 2, you watch the sun slowly sink into the canopy of trees in an explosion of tangerine pink. Every week, the sunset creates a different palette of orange, but your emotion continues to be whole and unaltered. 

Before stepping in, you flick the upside-down brass number. It smiles in greeting, swinging on its one remaining screw.

You wish the place carried Frankie’s scent. It never does, of course. As you fold the comforter and prop it under the windowsill, the only smells wafting around are that of laundry detergent, dust, and the faintest hint of mold. 

There’s nothing tangible for you to hold on to in his absence, and this is by far the most difficult. It creates a vacuum, a fertile soil for foul, festering thoughts. Doubt, dread, agitation. During those seven days apart, there is no text or voicemail on your phone you can turn to for reassurance. No photo booth pictures stashed inside your wallet. No clothes of his to drape over your body and keep you warm and safe. Keep you sane. 

Every so often, when you cannot find sleep, you convoke the memory of his gray t-shirt, the one with the v-neck and the pilled fabric. The sensation of the slightly rugged cotton under the pads of your fingers. The immediate comfort gently lulls you to sleep. 

There is one thing, one thing only: the receipt from the burrito place, that you retrieved from the wastebasket after he’d left, that one time he brought you food. It’s tucked between two pages of your Moleskine planner. You’re not sure whether it’s cute or downright pathetic.  

You had thought the want, the yearning, would ease with time. It only kept spreading to every corner of your existence, every aspect of your life. Instead of only missing his touch, you now miss his voice, too. His choice of words, the cadence of his speech, the pace of his gait. His crinkled-eyes, dimpled smile. The way he rolls up his sleeves, leaves the top buttons of his shirt open, and the way he undresses. His three-finger hold on his glass. His long reflecting pauses before he speaks. The freedom and safety you experience with him.

You just became better at handling the longing. Recently, you have become very good at handling numerous things. Quietly but steadfastly defying your father’s injunctions to comply with his dress code. Adrian’s glaring eyes of blue, their silent judgement. Ava living a life of her own, far away from you. 

Reading helps. You hadn’t read in years, and you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it. Now, you carry a book with you everywhere in your I ❤ NY tote. In these last moments before he walks into the room, you lie on your side across the motel bed, your head propped on your hand, and you read.

And when Frankie arrives, everything makes sense again, everything is justified. 

The wooden door creaks open, the brass number swiveling frantically, and his relief upon seeing you lights up the dim room. Hushed greetings, his large hands curling at your waist, pulling you into him, a husk of Hey, baby, his lips barely leaving yours while he tugs at your clothes, undressing you already. 

There’s rarely any other form of preamble beyond an occasional variation of Fuck, I really missed you, Lee , his teeth trailing down the line of your throat, sinking in just shy of a bite. Out of breath, out of time. 

The wait is over. 

Does he still come here to escape? Does he come here for you? His urgency hasn’t abated. But his intent feels different.

Stop me, skin on skin, chest to chest, the weight of his body covering yours, calloused hands hooked on your shoulders for purchase, pounding into you loud and ruthless. 

Stop me, crouched over you like a devouring beast, his face buried into the crook of your neck, shallow breaths and gripping hands, grinding deep inside your heat. 

Stop me, and what you hear is, I trust you. 

Deep grunts thrumming out of his throat, tumbling from his plush lips into your skin, a searing branding, an invisible mark. 

His plea. Lee.

He comes right after you do, pulling out just in time to spurt hot and thick over your arching body, or inside your wanting mouth. 

Later, when his spend has dried on your skin, when he’s kissed the soreness better, when your breathing has slowed, he brings you a glass of water, and waits until you’ve drank it all to bury his face between your legs, or fuck your throat if you begged him to. 

And on some Fridays, he goes by the desk to sit on the rectangular chair. He positions it sideways from the framed mirror. Says the reflection distracts you. It’s true. 

You could spend hours watching him. Watching him move, watching him sleep. Watch the care he puts in the way he handles his clothes and his truck and your pliant body. Watch him button up his jeans or tie his belt around your wrists. Watch his curls catch the light as he combs his fingers through them, the working of his throat, the pulsating throb of his heartbeat in his strong neck. The dip in his collarbone. The darker scar on his side. The muscles of his shoulders and his back, rippling under his freckled skin. Watch, and map those freckles with your lips. 

You could spend the rest of your life with him.

“C’mere,” he beckons, with a little tilt of his head, and a light pat on his thigh.

You get up from wherever he left you lying, the bed, the rough carpeting, the bathroom tiles, and walk over to him on wobbly legs. There, he draws you into his lap in a face-away straddle, his hands on your waist guiding you, firm and gentle, as he makes room for himself inside of you. The tip of your toes barely reach the carpet once you’re seated, and you have to rely entirely on him for balance. You like that. 

He braces his strong arms around you, and you keep your fingers curled around them, reclining against him, against his warmth. You like the sticky sensation of your combined sweats gluing your loose bodies. Your back molds to his chest like it was shaped for this very purpose. 

Your head tips back onto his firm shoulder, and he props his chin in the curve of your neck. The slight swaying of your hips is languid and slow, barely perceivable, in the same way the earth’s revolution around the sun is imperceptible to its inhabitants. 

Time lingers, in long lazy stretches, infinite moments in the amber lighting of the room, in the friendly shadows. In the heart of the night, and the folds of your existence. The low husk of his voice like honey in your ears, his words vibrating from his chest to your back, to your core. 

You can hear the smile in his tone. If you close your eyes, you can see it.

He asks about your taste in books, music or movies, food and entertainment, and tells you about his. Silly games of Would you rather? and Never have I ever. 

Scrunching up your nose under your pinched brow, brain cells scrambling back together inside your hazy brain, you try to produce coherent answers as his lush lips trace intricate patterns along your skin, your throat, your shoulders, nimble fingertips rolling your nipples into hardened peaks. A scrape of his teeth, followed by the wet glide of his tongue, soothing over your flushed skin.

Sometimes, you feel so full it’s overwhelming. The sensation, the emotion strangles the air out of you. Your cunt flutters around the thick, stiff girth of him, and he lets out a gravelly groan, cock throbbing inside your snug walls. Your slick pools down onto the coarse curls at his base. It’s like a virtuous circle. Everything feels right with him. 

After a while, when you’ve melted inside, when amber twirls in your bloodstream and your thoughts have turned to swirling molasses, his hand slides down along your stomach. His calloused fingers parting your folds, he starts rubbing at your clit, telling you that it’s time to come for me, baby. 

And when you do, he comes with you, shoving you down and deep onto his pulsating length, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. His mouth pressed to that sensitive spot over your pulse point, his feverish grunts sizzling against your damp skin. 

When he comes inside you, when you come together, you are made brand-new. Anything’s possible. There’s nothing you can’t do. 

The elating sensation is your favorite daydream, sitting at your desk, over dinner, stuck in traffic, or in the blue hours before dawn. It sustains you throughout the week. The promise of it tingles in tense anticipation, from the crown of your head to the tip of your toes, when you watch him walk over to the desk and fold his tall, massive figure into the ugly chair. 

Week after week, question after question, you come into focus between his arms. It’s terrifying, and exhilarating. You keep getting better at it.

It’s a bittersweet ache, tender and addictive, to learn about his existence outside this room of yours. The borderless confines of his life. Of him. The details he chooses to confide in you, about his childhood, his past, and his present, in the dead of the night, his body wrapped around yours, chasing the contact of your skin. Chasing your touch, your softness, your understanding, when he used to grunt away from it. Like a threat, with bared teeth, and a shake of his head. A forbidding. A not yet. 

It makes sense to you now. There’s an absolute about him. An all or nothing. You’re not sure when it happened. The tipping point. Perhaps in the bathroom, on that sunny morning after Christmas, when he crowded you against the sink with a wolfish look turning his gorgeous face dark and threatening. You think it was meant to scare you. One last attempt. Your last chance to recoil and escape. 

You didn’t. You kept blooming, unfurling into your own limbs under the dark depth of his gaze, reflected in the black-edged mirror. You pressed back into him, the solid, steadying bulk of his body, of his broad chest. You pushed back and sunk deeper into his world. 

Today, he had to scoop you up from the floor where you were lying, boneless, in the wet mess he drew out of you. 

When he stormed into the room, you could still hear the engine of the truck revving. A scowl shadowed his face. Fidgety, tightly wound up, he began undressing you without a word. Unceremonious in his need, an echo of those early days, when he was imprisoned in his past, when his strength was unrestrained, when violence was his sole language. 

Fingers digging into the tense muscles of his shoulders, carding through his hair, you sought eye contact, softly cooing, I’m here, Frankie, I’m here, until your voice got through him. Until he heard you, slowing down, drawing you close. His forehead smearing sweat over your temple, his ragged breathing fanning the shell of your ear. His fist clutching the fabric of your shirt in a ball, with a push-pull motion, torn and primal, I need it, Lee. Please, I need you.

You relented, gave into it, lose and pliant as he bent you over the desk with a press of his palm, flat between your shoulder blades, as he pulled your panties to the side and lined himself up, as he thrust into you in one ruthless shove, down to his base. The clasp of his watch biting into your flesh. He was still fully clothed. 

Pulling on your wrists with an iron grip, he drilled into you at a brutal pace, skin catching at your entrance along his length, and you bit your lips through it, nearly drawing blood, until, at the very center of you, the pain turned into something blindingly pleasurable, bright and searing. A shockwave, erupting from your core, fast spreading along your limbs, lighting up every nerve-ending. 

Tensing under his constraining hold, bucking against his grip, you cried out his name, your back achingly stiff. Slick gushing out of you fast and hot, as your legs trembled uncontrollably, and through the din of it all, his rumbling growl, a guttural string of Fuck, before you slumped onto the desk and he fucked his own release into you. 

When he let go of you, he had to lay you on the carpet, where he collapsed next to you, chest heaving with exertion. Time blurred, you might have spent the whole night lying there, staring blankly at the popcorn ceiling, but he got up to undress.

He’s cradling you on his lap now, gently rocking into you. The slow and steady rhythm of his heartbeat aligned with yours, you’re bathed in his warmth, enveloped by his musky scent. You play along, searching your brain for answers. To his questions, and yours.  

There’s no evidence of his earlier outburst, saved for his thumbs drawing circles on your wrists where his fingers left a bruising indent. And of course, the wet spot on the carpet. 

Nuzzling your jawline, he trails a path of messy, lazy kisses down the column of your neck, capturing the tender skin between his plush lips, his tongue peeking through them.

“I should read it again. Alice. Read it so long ago. When I was a kid.”

Humming distractedly in agreement, your head lolls back on his shoulder. 

“Did I hurt you, earlier?”

Your eyelids fly open. His voice is barely a murmur, no more than warm breath grazing your ear, and you feel him throb inside you. 

“I don’t want to hurt you. I never want to hurt you.”

The vulnerability in his words shoots through your heart like a bullet. You free your arms to twine your fingers with his. 

“What happened today, Frankie?” 

His chest stiffens underneath you. 

“Nothing. Nothing happened. It’s more… It’s the date.”

The overhead fan hums over the room, louder than your breathing, louder than his. 

“A year ago, I agreed to a mission. With my former teammates. It was… It was bullshit. From the start. Nothing went as planned.”

He pauses and you wait, still and silent. 

“One of us got killed.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, squeezing his hands with all of your strength.

A chilling, bone-deep dread settles over your body in the sweltering heat, so cold he can probably feel it. You don’t want him to. 

“You said you resigned a couple of years ago?” 

“I did. I worked for the private sector, on occasions. It’s over now.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Fuck no,” he snarls. “But some of my friends did. I– I had to go.” He clears his throat. “I chose to go.”

“Do you miss him?”

He doesn’t answer for a while. Lifting his hand in yours, you give his knuckles a long, open-mouthed kiss. His forehead rests heavy against the back of your head, his eyelashes a fluttering caress on your nape. 

“For a long time, I felt responsible for his death.”

His words are dense with defeat. With sadness, and fatality. They sink heavily into you, into your bloodstream. You don’t need a mirror to know what his face looks like at this very moment. Your body will remember it, even if you live long enough to forget your own name. The pitch-blackness of his beautiful eyes, the stern crease splitting his brow, imploring for your touch. The tightness in his jaw. The downward curve of his plush lips.

That first night at the motel comes back rushing like a flood, like a wildfire. His roughness, the urgency saturating his actions, the anger in his grief. His bleeding wounds, invisible, evident, glaring. He reached for you through his despair, clutching your body, clinging to the idea of you. 

Are you real?  

I don’t know. 

A dry sob wells up in your throat, but you swallow it down. 

“What do you think now?”

“I think it doesn’t matter who’s responsible for his death. His girls are still orphaned.”

Between your lungs, the wild creature curls up into a ball. Its tears fill up your heart. There isn’t any pill or alcohol strong enough to numb this pain of yours. But it doesn’t matter. You want to feel what he feels.

You turn around. You kiss him.

—

“What about this one?”

He should be leaving soon. But your body’s soft and relaxed, curled into his side on the rumpled bed. Pleasantly cool in the muggy atmosphere of the motel room, in the dawn’s indigo hues. Your thin fingers hover gracefully over his skin, tracing the outlines of his scars, and it’s like you’re reshaping his entire body, all of his wounds, and his whole life, with the gentle touch of your fingertips.

“Frankie, what’s this one?”

He should be leaving soon. The sun’s about to come up. 

“Did you save it for last because it’s the largest?” he deflects with a smirk.

Folding an arm over his chest, you prop your chin over it, frowning exaggeratedly with your jaw shifting to the side. He laughs so hard that your head bobbles with his shaking belly.

“That supposed to be an impression of me?”

“You recognized yourself,” you smile, sitting up next to him.

He should be leaving soon. And you know it. You’re giving him the space he needs to get up and get out. He fucking hates it.

“Stay here,” he says, curling his fingers around your arm as you’re about to get down from the bed.

The look you give him awakens the pain in his chest. You peer through the curtains, into the blue morning sky, and your gaze returns to him with a silent question. 

“Come on. Please. Just a little longer.”

It’s not lost on him that he should be the one getting up. Not pleading.

The mattress creaks in protest as you move over it on your knees, sitting in a straddle across his hips. 

“Yea, that’s better,” he smiles, smoothing his palms over your thighs. His left hand slides up to palm your breast, and he notices he hasn’t taken off his watch, tonight. It’s the second time this month.

“What’s this one?” you ask again, entirely undistracted, measuring up your hand to the length of the darker patch of skin. 

“Okay,” he sighs, “I crashed a chopper near– wait, I can’t actually tell you that.”

“Jesus, Frankie,” you gasp, spreading both hands over the old wound, as if to stop a ghost bleeding. Your eyes have grown so wide, they eat up half your face.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s old. Wasn’t a big deal.”

It had been a big deal, at the time. There had been talks of awarding him a Silver Star for that mission.

“Did it hurt?”

“Mostly my pride. It wasn’t that bad, don’t worry. Nothing compared to what my sister threatened to do to me if I didn't leave the Army.” 

“I can’t say I blame her. I would have probably done the same.”

“Ok, my turn. What’s this one?”

His left thumb skims along the thin line on your inner thigh, and he feels you tensing under his touch.  

“It’s nothing,” you snap, taking your hands off his skin as if you just got burnt. 

He presses his thumb into your soft flesh. The pain in his chest accentuates, radiating down to his stomach. 

“You’re cheating,” he says, as softly as he can. 

You face away from him, gaze flickering up to the window again, and you start moving away, but he holds you firmly in place with both hands on your waist. 

“Lee. Tell me what it is.”

Seconds turn into minutes, the only sound in the room that of the ceiling fan’s motor, and the pain grows stronger, pulsating from his neck to his gut. Your eyes remain trained on the window, lost somewhere beyond the curtains. 

“I had several more like this,” you start. Your tone is detached, your voice distant. “Smaller ones. On the back of my arms. When I was 17, my mother took me to a dermatologist. He removed them with laser treatment.” 

You pause, and look down at him. 

“She got me fixed, so I could find a good husband.”

His fingers dig into your flesh. It’s a full minute before he remembers to breathe, through his nose, because he can’t unclench his jaw. The chest pain turns into blinding, white-hot rage. His truck is parked outside and in his mind, the sequence of actions is crystal clear. Get you dressed. Get you in the cab. Drive away with you as far as the road goes, and never come back here. 

“It burnt like hel—“

“You’re perfect, you know that?” he cuts in. 

“I’m really not, Frankie,” you calmly answer. “What I am is a coward.”

He sits up with a cinch, cupping your face so you can’t recoil from him. Somehow, this would be easier if you looked upset. If you were crying. Showing any kind of emotion, really. But you’re far beyond that. 

“I can’t let you say that. Not when you risk everything to come here every week.”

“Alright, so I’m a selfish coward,” you say with a joyless little smile. 

“No. You’re perfect. You’re my perfect girl. Say it.”

It’s there. Your unbending will, your steel-hard determination. In your defiant gaze and your pinched lips. In the distance you're trying to put between your body and his. 

“Okay, fine. Don’t say it. I’ll keep repeating it until you believe me. I can be fucking persistent, you know?” he adds, falling back onto the pillows.

“I know you can,“ you say, lifting a leg off the bed.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he nearly growls, a bruising grip on your thigh, “I’m not done with you.”

His clipped tone appears to be more effective on you. You sit back down, let your shoulders relax, and the palm of your hands find his skin again. Distant gaze, cold touch.

“What’s this one?” he asks, the blunt fingernail of his thumb grazing the grid-shaped scar on your left knee, his tone barely a question, and to his surprise, you come alive with a spark in your eyes. 

“Oh! This one’s a good scar. I like it.”

You adjust your position over him, slotting your folds over his resting cock, and a coiling heat stirs in his loin.

“I had a bicycle when I was a kid. The most beautiful bicycle in the entire world. Red, the exact same shade as your truck. With a round cushion protection on the frame, I don’t know how you call that, and the letters MBK painted in white over it, you know the kind?”

He nods, and you continue talking. 

“I would spend hours riding it. I would disappear for entire afternoons. It was heaven. And maybe you’re not going to believe me, but I was pretty reckless on that thing.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

You’re smiling again. 

“Well, one day, I was too reckless. I hit the brakes too abruptly and I skidded over gravel. I flew ten feet away from the bike and I tore my knee open. I got home covered in blood, my parents were furious.”

A vengeful smile curves your lips, one he’s never seen on your face.

“They confiscated the bike. My mother said it wasn’t ladylike, and my father said– I can’t remember his exact words, probably 'you can’t damage my property,’ or something along those lines. They never let me on a bike again after that.”

“How’s that a happy story?” he frowns.

“I didn’t say it was a happy story. I said it’s a good scar. I got to keep this one. It reminds me of what I’m capable of. Even when I want to forget.” 

The sun is rising. A new day colors the sky in vivid bronze. The light filters into the room through the yellow curtains, dust particles suspended in the air, suspended like Frankie’s life when he can’t be with you. 

He should leave, but instead, he’s going to fuck you one more time. Pump you full of his come. Brand you with his essence, mark you as his in the only way he can before he has to let you go back to face those people who put murder on his mind.

His hands skim along your thighs to the swell of your ass, roughly kneading the round of your cheeks. His grip settles on your hips, and he bucks up into you, ever so lightly, his length hardening between your lips. He sees it on your face, on your profile bathed in the first ray of sunlight. The moment when you register his intention. The shift in your body, the echo to his desire. So powerful, so immediate, it’s almost like black magic. Your mouth parts open, your back arches. You press down on him. 

“That serves him well, your father,” he says, sliding you slowly over his cock.

“How’s that?” you ask, voice laced with lust. 

“Look what you’re riding now.”

—

The pillow is damp underneath your back, sweat exuding from your every pore. The last days of March have been unforgiving. You find yourself longing for a room with a proper air conditioning system, instead of the motel’s weak, outdated fan that only swishes hot air. 

Frankie’s searing touch doesn’t help. Stroking the back of your arm in a repetitive up-and-down motion, he’s laying across the bed, his head resting heavy on your lap, his long hair curling in every direction in this sweltering atmosphere. 

Instead of shying away from the discomfort, you embrace it. With your fingers twined in his locks, you lean into his touch, focusing on his high forehead, and the crease in his brow. On his long eyelashes, the curve of his lips as he speaks, the working of his throat. 

Ignoring the dark blue rectangle of night sky, gradually lightening up behind the musty curtains.

Dawn used to be a deliverance. From your thoughts that the night painted black. From the wait, when Adrian wouldn’t come back. From a forced rest that never really came, another disappointment, another let down, another part of your life requiring the artificial help of chemicals. 

Now, you resent it. Dawn is when Frankie leaves you behind to go back to his family. Dawn is when he’s the happiest, with his child, without you, in a realm over which you have no grasp. 

A rational part of you acknowledges that it’s easier if he leaves before the sun rises. It prevents you from yearning for things you’re afraid to want. Things you cannot have. A life with him in broad daylight. A life without shame. 

Recently, he’s become increasingly reluctant to let go of you. Dawn finds him wrapped around your body. Last week, he stayed past daybreak, and fucked you in the sunlight. 

The brighter tone of his skin, the lighter shade of his curls, the depth of his mahogany irises hit by a sunbeam, everything was like a knife through your chest.

“Lee?”

The caressing timber of his husky voice brings you back to the soft amber light from the dusty lampshades, to the humming fan, and the blue rectangle. 

“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“I asked if you like it. Your job.” 

“God no, I hate it! Sales productivity statistics and accounting manager, can you picture me?”

He huffs his breathless chuckle, the one that sends tremors rippling through your chest. 

“Not really, no.”

“I’m terrible at it, and it’s a problem, but no one says anything because daddy runs the company. I don’t understand why he insists on maintaining me in this position. It’s like a power play. He needs me to be miserable.”

Frankie’s hand pauses, fingers digging into your flesh, and he cranes his neck to peer at your face. You give him a reassuring smile. A genuine one. 

“Is that what you studied at university? Accounting and statistics?”

You wipe your sweaty brow with the back of your hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Yes. But university was a golden parenthesis. I minored in Russian literature. Not a skill that easily translates to the employment market, but Richard was thoroughly pissed,” you say, wiggling your eyebrows. 

“My little punk.”

His smile is brighter than the midday sun. Your index finger darts to the dimple in his right cheek. 

“I really like this,” you whisper, your voice dropping, thick with heat and arousal. With affection. “And these,” you add, scraping your fingernail over the bare patches on each side of his jaw. 

“Mmh. I’ve noticed,” he says with a smug expression. 

“Oh, you have?” You try to laugh off your embarrassment, but what comes out is a quivering sound, betraying the want that hinders your throat. 

He grabs your hand and brings it to his mouth, closing his plush lips around your index finger, wrapping his tongue around it. Your belly quakes. You clench around nothing. 

He releases your hand, and you hope he’ll get up and move over you, but instead, he reaches for your arm again, resuming his rhythmic strokes. 

“So what would you do, if you didn’t do this?” he asks. 

You sigh, glancing up, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror above the desk. 

“I’ve no idea, really. I never allowed myself to consider the possibility.” And before he can prod any further, you add, “What about you? What would you have liked to do, if you hadn’t become a pilot?”

The diversion doesn’t fool him, you know it. You’re acutely aware of his gaze, scrutinizing your face. You picture the familiar, pensive frown. His hand leaves your arm as he suddenly gets up, air hitting your damp skin where his head was lying. 

A few strides, and he steps into the bathroom, disappearing behind the partition wall. The tap runs for a moment, and there’s the distinct sound of wrung out fabric before he comes out, holding the hand towel. 

You watch him walk back toward you, his naked body glistening with sweat, highlighted in shadows in the warm lighting. You think about how beautiful it is, about your extensive, intimate knowledge of it. How it feels under your touch, every single part of him. How this knowledge is now constituent of the woman you have become. 

You know the callousness of his palms that catches at your clothes. You know the silkiness of his curls around your fingers, the smoothness of his chest against your breasts, the taste of his mouth and the bobbing of his pebbled throat between your lips. The thicker skin of his shoulders, tanned and freckled. The coarseness of the darker hairs under his navel, and how they feel rubbing at your clit. You know the weight of his cock in your hand, on your tongue, inside your walls. 

And if you know all this, then, isn’t he yours? 

He circles the bed over to your side, by the window, and sits next to you. 

Delicately, his fingers circle your wrist. He lifts your arm, and brings your hand to his lips, nuzzling the relaxed curl of your fingers open, to press a kiss inside your palm. His eyes briefly flicker shut as he inhales the transparent skin of your inner wrist. 

Lowering your arm, he starts running the towel along it and you jolt at the contact of the cold, wet fabric, letting out a short whimpering sound.

The sensation is sudden, seizing like an electrical shock, but the relief is immediate. The coolness radiates on the surface of your feverish skin, soothing your thoughts. Eyes fluttering shut, you relax into it. 

“Maybe an architect,” he starts, the towel gliding up to your shoulder, “or a carpenter. Build stuff, for a change. Instead of destroying them.”

Goosebumps break out along your arms, on your nape, as he skims the towel over the plane of your chest in slow, meticulous movements. As he rounds your breasts with reverent care, one, then the other, your nipples tightening in peaked buds, the low rumble of his voice filling your mind, his words boring into your heart.

The towel brushes up, tracing your collarbone, left, then right. Higher along the column of your throat, curling to the side of your neck. A droplet of water rolls down between your breasts, running along your stomach to end its course into your navel. You sigh.

“I could… run a small business, building houses or crafting furniture. In a small town, somewhere up north. Somewhere with seasons,” he says. 

The towel wipes over your trembling belly, over your mound, down your inner thigh. He’s slow, precise, thorough. Careful and gentle with your limp limbs. You’re sinking into the mattress, and floating over it all at once. 

You lift a heavy eyelid, your dazed gaze landing on his gorgeous face. He’s solemn, focused on his task. 

He readjusts his position on the mattress, so lightly the bed barely moves, and twists his torso to reach down your leg. 

“You could be my accountant.”

Your eyes shoot open. He’s facing away from you, wiping the towel under the arch of your foot.

“The last thing you want is to have me as your bookkeeper,” you whisper, your heart beating in your throat. 

He turns around, looking straight at you. Soft sad eyes, cold hard stare. 

“That’s all I want for the rest of my life, Lee. Be with you night and day.”

—

Everything seems to hinge on you now. 

His balance, his happiness, his redemption.

You filled a void, a hollowness inside his chest, he carries you with him wherever he goes. A pale shade of yellow and celadon green. 

He tries to convince himself it’s harmless. That he’s not doing anything wrong. That it’s easier this way. Easier than the drugs, easier than placing that burden on his daughter’s shoulders. He tells himself the peace you bring him makes him a better man, and a better father. Makes him worthy again. There might even be some truth to it. 

He’s not so sure if he deserves the second chance. If he deserves the parts of you that you confide in him. Your past, your regrets, your secret victories. Your hindered aspirations and the shores of your inner island, within his reach. The touch of your cool skin. The strength of your embrace. The veneration in your eyes. Your trust, your faith. Your time. 

But he wants to believe it. It’s more of a fundamental need, really. 

And as long as he’s with you, the illusion holds. When you’re sitting next to him in the truck, singing along to the tunes playing on the old crackling stereo as he drives to nowhere, when his body’s wrapped around yours in the dark, when he murmurs against your temple everything and anything that runs through his mind, when you’re coming undone between his hold, with his name on your lips. He believes he can be as good for you as you are for him. 

But it’s a thin fabric. One that tears the very minute he steps outside the room, leaving your sleepy form tucked under the starchy sheet. 

Day after day, until the next week, he’s left on his own to fence off the thoughts that plague him. 

The voice inside him, relentless, somber, asking how much longer this can last. How long before the consequences on your life are irreversible? How long until that man who’s not your husband finds out, and takes action? What repercussions would you face, then? 

He knows what he’d be capable of if he ever met him. He doesn’t like to think about it. 

You won’t open up about your life with him, no matter how much he prods and pry. He knows your strength. And he chose to trust it.

Seven months, and one week. He sat down with the cardboard calendar hanging above Lupe’s desk at work, and counted. His mind crowded, overflowing with what ifs. 

What if he took you out of this shitty motel, for once? Not just to drive into the night, but on a proper date. Dinner. A movie. Fucking lunch. A weekend somewhere. An entire vacation. 

What if he took you out of your life? 

Lupe started dating this Marcus guy back in December. Now she’s staying at his place every other night. The man is decent, one of the best paramedics he’s worked with, honest, reliable and steadfast. The kind of man Lupe deserves, and that he doesn’t mind around Lua. 

He should move out of the house. Lupe hasn’t said anything yet, but it’s just one more grace she gives him that he hasn’t earned. Every time they see each other, Will hints at it, the allusions becoming increasingly less subtle. 

The truth is, he sees no point in moving forward with his life if it’s not with you. If it’s not to take care of you, and provide for you. Watch you thrive, keep you safe.  

A couple of weeks back, when he’d first thought about it, he’d deemed the idea crazy, painfully aware of all the frustrations a couple’s daily life entails. 

Now, it’s the only choice that makes any sense to him. 

—

The airport terminal is bustling with flocks of tourists. Noisy families with children too young to travel, transient businessmen and women, groups of youths of dubious soberness flying out after spring break. 

Ava stands out in the crowd, her tall frame topped with a short bob of bright purple hair, and you spot her immediately. Standing on your tiptoes, you wave at her until she sees you and starts running in your direction.

She all but leaps into your open arms, and you both grab at each other, leaning into the embrace, laughing. You inhale her scent, searching for that baby smell in the crook of her neck.

“Oh my god, pup, your hair!” you exclaim. “You look terrific!”

“Yeah? You like it?” she asks with a broad smile, running her fingers through her locks. 

“I love it! It’s perfect for you!”

In turn, she takes you in, looking you up and down, and lets out a low whistling sound.

“You look good, too. You look better than good. You look gorgeous!”

“Oh shush,” you gesture bashfully, but you can’t hold back your own smile.

The two of you walk to the parking lot to retrieve your car, immersed in bubbly conversation, oblivious to the moving crowds around you.

Driving out of the airport, you glance at the sign indicating the 589 northbound and smile at your precious secret, before making a left turn south.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks, “I’m hungry! Feed me! Feedmefeedmefeedme!” she chants, before breaking into a high-pitched giggle.

“Alright, alright! Hold tight, I’m taking you somewhere special. Do you like burritos?”

“Who doesn’t like burritos? Wait, what? Burritos? Do you even eat burritos? Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”

You had to type the address from the crumpled receipt into your GPS. Until today, you’ve never allowed yourself to go there. Not on your own.

It’s a small cantina with tiled walls and concrete floors, colorful trinkets arranged in pyramidal displays behind the counter, chalkboard menus and an endless list of drinks. Star-shaped lanterns are hanging from the ceiling, and the staff is busy but jovial.

Lunchtime on a Saturday, the place is packed with couples and kids, and your pulse accelerates. You hadn’t considered the possibility of running into Frankie and his family. 

You place your orders, and after a short wait, you secure a spot in the back of the restaurant. Sitting on high metal stools behind a round table, you catch up on the past three months as if you hadn’t texted every other day, speaking with your mouths full, sauce dripping down your fingers.

The life she’s built for herself in New York treats Ava better than anything you could have hoped for, anything you could have helped her achieve, had she stayed here. A job in a cutting-edge art gallery, where her vibrant personality and her flair for networking are not only recognized but valued, a bustling social life, more thrilling projects than you can keep track of, all of it balanced by Polly’s grounding presence by her side. 

Your choices and sacrifices, justified.

Ava puts down the crumbling remnants of her vegetarian burrito to wipe her mouth, and takes a sip of her margarita.

“You sure you don’t want to drink anything?”

“I’m drinking something,” you answer, pointing at your iced tea.

“Whatever you say, girl,” she shrugs.

“It’s too bad you’re not staying with me. It’s idiotic, you’re only here for a couple of days and you have to sleep over at Jules’.”

“Listen, even if your douchebag of a fiancé had agreed to have me, which I know he didn’t, I don’t want to see his ass face.”

“Alright,” you concede, “valid.”

She nearly chokes on her margarita. Setting her glass down, she gives you a pointed stare, emphatically scrutinizing your face.

“Okay, seriously, what’s going on with you? How are you? I mean, that’s obviously the wrong question, you’re fucking thriving. What happened? What’s happening? New medication? Are you finally leaving him?”

“I’m not taking any medication,” you answer with unexpected satisfaction. “But no, I’m not leaving him.”

You catch yourself before you can add another word. 

“Are you still seeing that other guy?”

You nod, dipping your head, heat creeping up your neck. Why are you like this?

“I take it he likes burritos, am I right?

“You are correct in your assumption, detective,” you quip with a grin.

There’s a pause as Ava seems to consider her next question. It’s always so easy for you to forget that she’s a grownup now. That she knows you at least as well as you know her. That she has the capacity to outsmart you. The notion flares pride in your chest.

“Is he married? Is that why you haven’t run off together in the sunset yet?”

“I’m not sure if he’s married or not.”

“What does he do in life?”

“I don’t know.”

Ava throws up her hands. 

“Girl! What do you know?” she exclaims with only half-feigned exasperation.

I know what’s important. He’s a father. He’s a friend and a brother. A pilot and a veteran. He's thoughtful and observant. He’s organized and practical. And a reluctant sentimental. He learned to swim in the Pacific Ocean. He’s capable of cold-blooded violence, but it will break him. He’s capable of infinite tenderness. And it will save him. 

You pull a face, communicating how little you care about what you don’t know. Your sister shifts on the hard stool. She frowns, and when she speaks next, her voice is low, her tone conspiratorial.  

“Adrian doesn’t suspect anything?”

“Of course, he does. Or he did. His attention is elsewhere, for now. Seems serious.”

“Again?”

“Again,” you nod. 

Ava squirms on her stool again, probably trying to restrain her temper. 

Your mind wanders, jumping back through time at light-speed, to when you first met Adrian. To the way he used to hold your hand when you started dating, squeezing your fingers with his. Letting you choose the wine, opening doors for you. To the affection in his smile, and how fast he started calling you babe . The glimmer warming his cold blue eyes when he introduced you to his family. The way he leaves the bathroom mirror splattered in toothpaste every time he brushes his teeth. The way he lets his alarm ring off forever after he’s gotten up even if you’re still in bed, even on weekends. 

The ease with which he admitted to all his flings, whenever you confronted him, but never confessed to the one with his coworker, the ambitious young lawyer. 

Would you admit to having an affair? Would you use that ugly word that make you crawl out of your skin? Would you deny it? Could you answer No, I’m not seeing anyone? Could you bear the betrayal of denying Frankie’s existence? The truth of what you share, but can’t define?

“Your fiancé is a bag of dicks,” Ava finally says, shaking her head. 

“His obliviousness suits me for now,” you remind her.  

“I don’t understand why you don’t leave him,” she snaps back, forsaking her reserve. “He got his big promotion, he got what he wanted! And Richard loves him, it’s not like he’s going to fire him just because you two broke up, right? You don’t really love him anymore, do you?” she adds on second thoughts.  

The words spill out of you unchecked, once more. Just like in the truck with Frankie, back in January. Months, years for the idea to mature below the surface of your conscious thoughts, the reflective process unbeknown to you. 

“I’m scared, Ava. I’m scared shitless. I want to leave. I’ve been wanting to leave for so long. Adrian, the company, that fucking ugly apartment.” 

“Well then fucking do it, Lee!”

“If I leave, I have nothing. No job, nowhere to go.” 

And if you could give up a relatively comfortable life, would you be able to renounce the refuge of your sadness? Of your life between the folds? 

“You have money,” Ava counters. “You have shares. Sell them. Richard can’t stop you. Get a lawyer, if you have to. One that’s not on Adrian’s payroll. And then you can fuck your man Friday every day of the week, how’s that?”

You think about the folded bedspread under the windowsill. About the wet hand towel brushing up your skin. The trucker hat on the desk, and his fingers splayed on the steering wheel. The pleading arch of his brow. 

You think about that space between Frankie’s chin and collarbone, that contains your safety, your desires, and all of your hopes.

“I don’t… I don’t know if I should leave a man for another one,” you whisper. 

Ava’s eyes widen. She sits up straight, a smirk tugging the corner of her lips. 

“I don’t know either, but it looks like this one fucked some sense into you. The irony.” 

She’s withholding something, you realize. It’s in her uncharacteristic pauses, her sideways glances. Surprisingly, human interactions were simpler when pills kept you numbed and oblivious. Being attuned to everyone’s minute expressions is a daily trial. 

“Why don’t you move to New York with us?” she eventually asks. “We can take you in until you find a job there, for as long as you need.”

There’s that we again. People talking about you in your absence, judging your choices, plotting your future. 

“I don’t know how to do anything, Ava. I have zero skills.” 

“First off, that’s not true,” she retorts, relentless with her well-rehearsed arguments. “And then, Polly can help you find something. Lee, if you can leave this company, there’s literally nothing you can’t do.”

Suddenly, you feel exhausted. Weary and old. A bone-deep lassitude. And at the heart of it, the realization that this is a liminal sequence in your life. 

“Is that why you flew here for the weekend? To ask me to come away with you?”

“Are you mad?” she asks with a face. A little girl’s expression, afraid of being scolded. Your little girl. 

“No, I’m not mad, pup. I can’t be mad. You came back for me.”

“Of course, I came back for you. I was never going to leave you behind, silly.”

****

[aquariusmiller]

Sell-out

Pairing: QZ!Joel x f!reader

Summary: After a smuggler Joel and Tess were working with didn’t pay for his end of the deal, Joel captures his girlfriend, you. Tired of your boyfriend’s scheming ways, you decide to use the situation to your advantage.

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, captivity, mentions of m!oc, cheating, darkish!Joel, dubcon (power imbalance, eventual consent), oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie, dirty talk, slight dom/sub dynamics

A/N: Happy New Year! Decided to do something different for this one-shot and I'm excited to put it out there because I personally love reading these types of stories and I've been writing this for a while. I appreciate any feedback and enjoy these messy characters! :)

masterlist

The first thing you feel waking up is sharp pain coming from the back of your head. You move your arm to inspect it, but the weight of chains stops you, clanging against the hard floor. You quickly open your eyes to see where you are.

The room you’re in is wide, brick walls of it covered with graffiti, holding a network of pipes. You... You know this place. You’ve seen it from outside of the abandoned warehouse near the QZ, waiting for your boyfriend Lucien to finish up meeting with his smuggling crew. You always hated the types of guys coming here and the way he’d try to fit in with them, mimicking them without noticing. Most of the time, though, you’d bear with it because his line of work brought in the resources. To him and to you. This has to be the shadiest place in a wide perimeter, and it smells like it; of sweat, dried blood and rusted metal.

You raise your arms slightly and turn to look at them. There’s a pull of the heavy metal again. You see chains tied around your wrists, locked around a metal pipe. You don’t remember any of this happening, much less getting here. Your mind runs a mile an hour, trying to find an answer to the burning question – why the hell are you here tied up?

Heavy and intent footsteps grow louder until you see a big wooden door open. Your eyes widen as you see who comes out, his bearded face and stern expression unmistakable. He leans on a small metal table, staring you down. Joel fucking Miller.

Of course you know who Joel Miller is. Along with Tess, he’s one of the most notorious smugglers in the Boston QZ, feared by even the toughest of brutes. Tess is the brains, Joel is the muscle. They worked with Lucien on his most recent deal and... Oh, shit. You know why you’re here.

His expression is nonchalant, except for a subtle scowl. “Finally. You’re awake.”

You look him straight in the eye, trying not to show the fear bubbling in your stomach. You curse yourself as a tremble in your voice betrays it. “Why am I here?”

He grins darkly at the tremble in your voice, satisfied with his plan to intimidate you. “You know why you’re here.”

Of course you do. This isn’t the first time Lucien’s sleazy tactics backfired on him, yet he always thought he knew better than you. Didn’t want to listen to your advice and did as he pleased. Now you’re the one captured for it.

You decide in a split second you’ll pretend you have no idea. “No, I don’t.”

“Liar.” He says menacingly.

“What do you want?” You get annoyed and struggle against the chains.

“No use strugglin’. You’ll just hurt yourself. And I want my share.” He walks around as he speaks, heavy boots stomping on the concrete floor. You have to resist the urge to flinch at every one of his steps. “Thought you were so smart, double-crossing me and Tess.”

You glare at him, determined not to let him sense your fear. “Me? I’m not a smuggler.”

He smirks. “Oh, right. Forgot you’re Lucien’s arm candy.”

You know what he’s doing. Trying to coax an answer out of you by implying your only use is standing still and looking pretty. You won’t fall for it. You tilt your head. “Forgot you’re Tess’s muscle.”

You see a flicker of annoyance pass him at the quip before he composes himself. “The muscle could snap you in half.”

You keep glaring up at him. “Good thing. Nothing else going for you.”

He comes closer and kneels in front of you, his shadow looming over your frame. “You’re makin’ this a whole lot harder on yourself.”

You keep eye contact as he comes closer to you, his breath hitting your face, your breath speeding up from adrenaline and... His proximity. He’s so close you can smell his musk mixed with gun powder. God, not him. Not right now. You swallow.

He smirks. “What? Cat ate your tongue?”

You struggle to think as your skin warms up slightly, making part of you not want to leave. Looking away from him towards the floor, you shake out of it. The chains are tied to the pipe with a lock. If you’re lucky and he hasn’t thought this through, he could be keeping the keys to the lock somewhere on him. Joel wouldn’t, but it’s worth a try. You could also convince him to let you go. You’ve talked your way out of worse, and Joel is a pragmatic man. If you figure out what he wants, you stand a chance.

After a few seconds of running through this in your head, you have a plan of action. “I can give you your share.”

He leans a bit away to check your facial expression, determine if you’re deceptive. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah. It was a stupid idea, and I told him that. You should be made up for your struggle.” You try to keep your expression flat, playing up the “you deserve compensation” card.

He hums, smiling slyly. “You’re good. Can’t tell if you’re lyin’.”

“Well, I’m telling the truth.” You huff, genuinely annoyed this time at the predicament you’re in because of your boyfriend. “So how about we cut a deal and you get me out of these?” You raise your arms as much as the chains tying them on your back will allow.

He raises his eyebrow. “You’re takin’ this way better than I thought.”

You roll your eyes. “Not used to people coming in to save me.”

He shrugs and nods. “See...” He gets up slowly from his crouching position, walking around again. “I could cut you a deal.” He stops and looks you over, his eyes scanning your body slowly, like a predator deciding whether to play with its prey or finish the hunt. “Ain’t sure you’re gonna like it, though.”

Relief, intrigue and a bit of fear are swirling in your chest. Your voice cracks but you compose it quickly. “Go ahead. Shoot.”

He comes closer to you and crouches again, stroking your cheek with no emotion in his eyes, searching yours for any signs of discomfort. Chills prickle your skin and you’re not sure if you want to bite your lip to hold back your reactions or to spur him on. You refrain from it.

You should move to stop him. But it’s as if his gaze is keeping you in place, looking into your very soul.

“This is about sendin’ a message.” He strokes your cheek with his knuckles, the roughness of his calloused hand pleasant against your soft skin. “So you can tell me where you keep everythin’ you own, or...” He bites his lip, his eyes closing slightly with lust. “We can do somethin’ else.”

You’re breathing heavily, you heart beating quickly in your chest, leaning against the wall to get as much distance as you can from him in a desperate attempt to think clearly.

All of Lucien and your resources or... Whatever Joel’s up to? You don’t like this. You’re cornered. As much as you’re intrigued by the latter, you have a sinking feeling in your gut you’ll be forced to do it anyway. You frown in resignation.

You turn back to Joel, your tongue on your teeth in anger. “What else?” You spit out.

He smirks, aware of his position, taking his hand off your cheek. “You’re a smart girl. ’M sure you’ll figure it out.”

Thinking of your next move, you look at him frustrated. You lunge and bite the front of his shirt, keeping him in place as you try to will your chained hands to move to his jean pockets and look for the key.

He scoffs in frustration and shakes you off, pinning your shoulders against the wall. “Goddamnit-“

You slam against the wall, scowling at him.

He keeps you pinned and scoffs. “Oh, c’mon.” He smiles slyly, running his finger down the pulse point on your neck. “Afraid you’ll like it?” He leans in and whispers in your ear, his lips lightly grazing the shell of it. “You already do.”

You hate him with a fiery passion. You hate the invisible pull between you two and the way your breath is quickening.

He keeps whispering. “Smart girl. Sharp as a whip. Bet he doesn’t know how to handle ya.” He runs his hands down your sides, stoking the fire lit in you.

Your eyes shut slightly on their own accord, the sensation in your core pleasant. He’s flattering you, using your vanity against you as if he’s reading into your mind.

“I could make good use of you.” He whispers, his breath hitting your ear. “In a lotta ways.” His words are seductive, but you sense a deeper meaning. He sees tangible value in your calculating mind and survival instincts.

You should resist him. Use any tactic you can think of and try to run. But you’re curious about what he could do to you. You like the thought, and your body’s betraying you too, heat pooling low.

You’re also curious about the vision of Joel treating you like an equal. Tess is his partner in crime and you’re not sure how you’d fit in the picture. Yet, desperation for recognition Lucien never gave you lets you think wishfully for a fleeting moment. Does thinking like this make you a traitor? Weak willed? A sell-out? What devastates you is you’re not sure Lucien would care for this more than losing his supplies.

There’d likely be hell to pay either way. Hell with Joel seems like the lesser one.

So you entertain Joel. You bite your lip and turn to him slightly as you whisper. “Bet you could.”

He slowly pulls away from your ear and smiles slyly. “You’re comin’ around.”

You return his sly smile with your own. “Are you gonna make good on your promise?”

He leans in, his lips inches from yours, an invitation for you to close the distance. “You bet.”

You look down at his lips, corners of your mouth crooked into a smug smile. Temptation rises in you, pulling you in like a moth to a flame. And a flame will it be when Lucien finds out.

You lean in and kiss him. He kisses you back searingly, full of pent up aggression and desire, biting your lip softly. You moan at the slight sting, both getting lost in this desperate and carnal moment, mouth to mouth, no more space for thinking. His tongue finds your lower lip, asking for access. You grant it instantly, opening your mouth to let him explore it. You catch his tongue with yours and they glide against each other in a slow dance.

Moaning, you pull away. He grunts slightly at the loss of your lips on his. There’s a certain question in the way you look at him now that he can’t answer; how far is this going? He’s swept away in the tide of his arousal and letting it guide him.

He gets up and puts his hand on your chin, lifting it and tapping it as he speaks commandingly. “On your knees.”

You blink a few times in surprise and swallow your pride before you get up on your knees, tugging at the cold chains as you shift from your sitting position. Your core is fluttering even as you’re feeling like uncertainty is pressing down on your chest.

He smirks at your current position and tilts your head up, nudging you softly with his words. “Open wide. C’mon.”

You lick your lips as you look up at him with an expression juxtaposing what you’re feeling. Ready. In too deep, you’re seeing this through, letting him take you through the unknown. You open your mouth, sticking your tongue out.

“Eager for me, huh?” He strokes your chin tenderly, like you’re something to be handled carefully. “Good girl.”

You smile smugly with your eyes, keeping your mouth open, the last shreds of your restraint keeping you from giving fully into him.

The sound of him unbuckling his belt echoes through the warehouse interior. He slides it off, pulling down his jeans. You get a good look at the bulge straining against his boxers. God, he seems big. A bit of worry of you’ll fit him in your mouth comes over you.

He just grins at your hesitant frown and reaches for the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down. His length is bobbing on his abdomen, red and angry, already leaking precum. You instinctively tilt your head and bite your lip at the sight. His bulge didn’t fool you about his size, and of course it’s as demanding and manly as the rest of him.

He looks at you sternly. “Go on. I ain’t got all day.”

He’s taunting your doubts, and you might agree with the sentiment. You want to be so full of him you can’t think. You lick up the drops leaking from his slit, looking up at him with wide, pliant eyes.

He strokes the back of your head, sucking in a breath. “There we go.” He grips your hair and pulls you in the direction of his cock. You wrap your mouth around his tip, swirling your tongue, before you push in deeper.

He grunts. He grips your hair, his eyes shutting slightly at the sensation of your warm mouth. “Just like that, baby. So good.” He pats your cheek with his other hand.

You bob your head, setting up a steady pace. You inhale his musk as you take him in deeper each time.

He’s a mess of grunts and low moans. He grips your hair with both hands and starts thrusting into you with abandon. He hits the back of your throat and even as you gag, you close your eyes and moan, the vibration pleasant on his cock. He lit up a wildfire inside you. At this point, you’re helpless to stop it.

Even in his haze, he’s making sure to hold your head securely to keep you from falling backwards. He lets out a groan as he bucks into you, struggling to speak. “Takin’ me so well. You like chokin’ on it?”

You moan in approval. You’re getting off on being tied up and used like this, the ache in your core becoming almost unbearable. So intent on doing whatever he wants, you don’t care if it gets eased.

“’M not sure how long I can last.” He pulls out of your mouth slowly, the saliva stream connecting your mouth with his cock as he does. You open your eyes, looking up at him half-lidded, close to being completely spent. He strokes your cheek, scared he’s hurt you. “You okay?” His voice is tinged with warmth you didn’t expect.

You nod as you look into his hazel eyes, still devoid of emotion but attentive in their own way, glimpses of the man he must have been before the world hardened him.

“Where d’you want me?” He keeps stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“I want you inside me.” There’s almost a desperation in the way you look up at him, not sure if it’s for him to slide into you or to keep him giving these small crumbs of attention.

He nods as his gaze skims over your body slowly. As if he just remembered something, he stops in consideration. He orders, slight irritation at this thought ruining his fun in his voice. “Turn around.”

You narrow your eyes questioningly and hesitantly turn around to face the wall. Gripping your arm, he unties the chains around your wrists. Relief and confusion come over you. Is he going to...?

He is. You recognize the sound of keys clinking behind you before he turns the key in the lock keeping the chains to the pipe. The chains fall to the floor with a loud clang. You finally move your arms, sore and chafed by them, rubbing the marks.

Why would he let you go before you get to the good part? Wait... Guess there are invisible lines Joel won’t cross. As much as he liked the power he had over you, he wants you to have a choice in this. To know you’re doing this on your own accord, not to escape, not fearing for your life. This is just his test of that. He stands behind you for a few moments, gauging your reaction, watching whether you’re preparing to flee.

As you stand with your arms free, all your instincts tell you to run. But where to? Back in the arms of the boyfriend who makes you fear his betrayal every single day? It’s only a matter of time before his backstabbing tendencies are turned on you, you think.

To be fair, Joel is not the most reliable man to turn to next, but you decide to explore what has transpired between you further.

You turn around and look at him, his bulge still straining against his pulled up jeans, tilting your head and smiling knowingly. “Go on. I ain’t got all day.”

“Good. Thought you’d try to run.” He grins and nods, and you can see relief clearly painted on his face. “Woulda been a shame.” His voice takes on a lower and more confident tone.

He grabs your arms and moves you to the patch of brick beside the pipe you were locked to, pinning you to it. Your faces are close together and now you’re both smiling like two teenagers sneaking off to do something forbidden. He slides his tongue into your mouth again as you open it eagerly. You kiss briefly before his fingers slip past the waistband of your jeans inside your panties. He hums. “Already wet for me, aren’t you?”

You nod as you exhale in pleasure. “So wet.”

He parts your folds with his finger, not pushing in, just teasing. “Let’s see how wet you can get...”

Your core is throbbing and his touch keeps making it worse. Leaning your head back against the wall, you sigh. “Oh God...”

He smiles slyly as his fingers find your clit, rubbing teasingly. “Lucky bastard, Lucien... Gonna fuck you so hard you forget all about him.”

You look at Joel in surprise at mentioning him, too worked up to care at this point, perhaps even tempered by the anger and resentment you harbor for Lucien. Too late to turn back anyway, you think you like the way this is sticking it to him. A subtle sly smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

He takes his hand out of your jeans and begins undoing the button and zipper on them. As he does, your chest is rapidly rising and falling and you feel the heat spreading through your body, consuming you. You clutch onto his belt, undoing it once more along with his jeans and boxers. He hooks his fingers into your panties and pulls them down.

He taps the head of his cock to your clit, your arousal mixing. You move your hips instinctively for him to push in, but he makes sure to torment you for a moment longer, tapping it against you again.

“Joel...” You whine.

“You want it? I wanna hear you.” He pushes in just the head of his cock, closing his eyes in pleasure.

“Yes! Yes, I want it so badly. Please...” Before you’re even done begging, Joel can’t take it anymore and pushes all the way in. In one rough stroke, he’s fully inside you. Your breath’s almost knocked out and a slight sting from his size quickly turns into pleasure.

He stills for a moment, letting you adjust. “Fuck, you’re so tight.”

He slides out of you a bit before he slams back in. He sets a ruthless pace, each thrust pushing your hips to the wall and hitting deep inside of you. You lean against the cold brick, your lips parted and your eyes half-lidded, moaning. It’s almost animalistic, the way you’re both losing your bearings in this dirty warehouse.

“Atta girl. Take all of me.” He picks up speed as he presses closer to you, taking your nipple between his fingers through your shirt and pinching it, his voice husky and low. “Who’s fucking you harder than he ever did?”

“You, Joel.” The words come out of you without even thinking about them.

He grins proudly. “Damn right.” His hand reaches for your thigh, raising it slightly so it’s wrapped around his waist. The angle he’s thrusting at changes and you feel him hitting that delicious spot inside you that makes your vision blur. Now you’re a mess of gasps and moans.

He pounds into you relentlessly. “’M close. Gonna fill you up full of me.”

Too deep into the blissed out haze, you moan and nod, only thinking about how good it will feel. And it does. He buries his face in your shoulder as he fills you, hot pulses of his thick release pumped deep inside you. His cock is throbbing inside you as he empties himself. The sensations send you over the edge, and you lean your head back and moan as waves of pleasure crash over you.

He stays like that for a while as you both catch your breath. Sated and wrapped up around him, you close your eyes, coming down from the high. The tension from your initial meeting has dissolved, leaving you both light and boneless. You wrap your fingers in his hair, stroking it as he tries to gather his bearings.

There is not much to say after what’s already said and done, besides the question making your chest tighten as you both put your clothes back on. Is Joel going to brag to Lucien about this, more so – was this kind of payback his plan all along?

Something in your stomach twists at the thought that you were a pawn Joel successfully used in his game, but you don’t regret the way this has forced you out of the convenience of being by Lucien’s side.

As you zip up your jeans, your gaze falls back on Joel’s questioning expression. He can tell you’re lost in thought.

“Will you tell Lucien about this?” You say it with more bite than you intended, angry at the thought of being used.

He considers your question then shakes his head. “Won’t if you don’t want me to.” He grins. “Reckon it’s not my style anyway.”

Exhaling in relief and amusement, you nod. “Alright.” Your legs are sore as you head for the steel doors of the warehouse.

He raises his eyebrow at your abrupt exit and calls out. “We gonna see each other again?” He wants to, you can tell by his tone.

You turn around on your way out and contemplate whether you want to see him again. You connected physically but you feel like connecting emotionally with Joel would be an endless chase of something never to be caught. You’re so drawn to him. You don’t want to go. But you tilt your head as you answer bluntly with a smile. “No.”

He shrugs indifferently as the steel sliding door grinds while you open it. “Probably for the best.”

[luimagines]

Important (Hiatus)

....Where do I start?

After three and a half years, I think I've hit burnout.

Ever since my semester started back in August- no, back in the spring, my interests had fully shifted.

I think my career and journey as a writer and story teller are branching out into new territory now. And I want to see where it takes me.

It's been progressively harder to bring myself to write for this blog. I still have things sitting in my drafts and my inbox is still full but I really want to write original stuff and focus more on the series I started.

Not to mention that I genuinely have to start job hunting now as well.

After non-stop uploads and posts for nearly four years, I'm going to say that this is being put on pause. I wanted to last until the fourth anniversary but I can't bring myself to write that many posts and prompts to fill in that gap. Getting to this point was difficult as it was.

Don't get me wrong, I don't want to bring this blog to a full stop.

I still want to talk to people. I still want to hear your ideas and your stories as well. I plan on keeping my commissions open if you still want more Zelda or LU stories, but for the blog itself, I think it's run its course.

I plan to spend more time on my other blog that I made for the stories I plan on writing in the future.

You can find it right here.

I hope to see you there! I have many more stories to tell. I just think that my time for LU is gonna be put on hold for now until my creative energy comes back.

I want to put my energy into something more productive to me in becoming a full-time author.

This community has opened up so many opportunities for me and I've got to talk to so many wonderful people. I couldn't be happier with where I am, truly.

I owe you all so much.

So thank you for entertaining me and my nonsense. <3

Thank you for giving me the push I needed to believe in myself.

And lastly, thank you for sticking with me for as long as you have.

All that being said, there will be no posts (written works) as of next week. And there will be no posts in the foreseeable future unless they have been commissioned and I have been given permission to post them.