#Quick Dip Powder

[belovedniki]

you’re just doing your job. jake’s just trying not to moan when you touch his face. no big deal. (except he’s down bad. embarrassingly so. and you have no idea.) part 2

warnings/tags: idol!jake X staff!reader, obsessive thoughts, reader is oblivious, masturbation (semi-public bathroom), dom/sub undertone.

w.c: 1k

— jake was used to being looked at. touched, even. makeup artists brushed his cheeks daily, hair stylists tugged at strands, stylists tugged on his waistband to adjust a fit. he didn’t mind—it was part of the job.

but you?

you ruined him.

you didn’t just touch his face; you lingered. you didn’t just apply powder; you focused. lower lip tucked between your teeth, brows knit together in concentration as you tilted his chin up gently with two fingers and said, “look at me.”

and he did. always. every time. eyes wide, throat dry.

he was sure you didn’t mean to be so cruel about it. you were kind—professional. you never noticed how his breath hitched when your thumb brushed his bottom lip to smudge the tint. you never caught how he subtly pressed his thighs together when you leaned over to pat concealer under his eyes, your chest hovering far too close.

you never realized that jake, golden boy jake, practically whimpered in silence for you.

and today?

today was especially bad.

“jaaaaake,” you called playfully as you stepped into the dressing room, makeup belt slung around your waist.

he was already seated, too early, too eager. his knee bounced nervously, eyes darting to your figure as you walked in.

“hey,” he croaked, too quickly.

you smiled. “ready?”

“y-yeah.” his voice cracked. “totally.”

you grabbed a small sponge, clicking open the compact foundation.

jake felt his heart pound harder than before a live stage.

you tilted his chin up again. “close your eyes.”

he obeyed. he always did.

you dabbed gently around his face, humming softly under your breath, completely unaware of the war happening in his head.

fuck, fuck—her hand’s on my jaw. her thumb’s right there. i can smell her shampoo. don’t get hard. don’t twitch. don’t make a sound—

you patted under his eyes and he nearly gasped. you paused, glancing down.

“you okay?”

his eyes opened slowly. wide and watery. “mhm.” he nodded too fast. “y-you’re just really... um... gentle.”

you chuckled. “that’s the point, jakey.”

he melted.

“okay, lips,” you said, uncapping a sheer balm and bringing it toward his mouth.

he parted his lips slightly and watched you. so focused. so close.

“stay still,” you murmured, brushing color on his bottom lip.

jake’s hands clenched the armrests. his pants felt tighter. you didn’t even notice.

“there.” you stood back. “perfect.”

jake stared at you like you hung the moon.

you spun to organize your brushes. “you’re on in twenty. want water?”

jake stood too fast. “i-i’m good, i just—uh—i need the bathroom real quick.”

you didn’t even look up. “okay, but don’t disappear before the stylist comes in.”

he nodded, heart racing. “yeah. yeah. one sec.”

he ran down the hallway, turning the corner to the small, rarely-used staff bathroom with a trembling hand. locked the door. pressed his back to it.

his chest heaved.

she touched me. she touched my mouth.

jake looked down. his cock was already hard, painfully straining against his pants. he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut.

he tried to resist it. just breathe. calm down. but then he remembered the way you bit your lip when applying the lip balm. the way your fingers brushed his cheek. how you said jakey like it meant something.

“fuck,” he muttered, palming himself through his jeans.

his hand dipped down fast.

it didn’t take long.

he jerked himself off quietly, desperately, biting down on his wrist to keep from moaning. every flick of his wrist was fueled by the memory of your fingers on his face, your soft voice, the smell of your perfume when you leaned in too close. he imagined your lips wrapped around him instead, imagined your gaze turning dark, finally realizing what you did to him, how you ruined him.

and when he came, it was fast, messy, silent—but intense.

he stood there panting, eyes glazed, shame rolling in quickly.

but not enough to make him stop wanting more.

backstage was even worse.

jake sat on the bench, stage mic in his lap, and you kneeled in front of him adjusting the last touch-up on his eyeliner.

your hand rested on his thigh for balance.

jake stared down at you like a man possessed.

you looked up at him with a soft smile. “you’re fidgeting today.”

he blinked. “s-sorry.”

“you okay?”

he swallowed. “you look really pretty.”

your hand froze.

“huh?”

jake’s eyes widened. “i mean—I mean—y-you always look great. just. the eyeliner today. on you. not me. not that i don’t look good—you made me look good. b-but you—um—fuck.”

you laughed. you actually laughed.

“jake,” you said gently, standing up. “that’s sweet.”

you checked his collar, fixing a stray hair near his ear, and leaned in to whisper, “i’m rooting for you. kill it out there, okay?”

he barely managed a nod. “y-yeah.”

he flushed red from neck to ears.

as you walked away, he nearly fell off the bench.

later, after the stage, you found him sitting alone in the makeup room, still in costume, sweaty and dazed.

you grinned. “why are you still in your full outfit?”

jake blinked at you. “didn’t want to leave.”

you tilted your head. “why?”

he looked down. “you weren’t here.”

you laughed, thinking he was being playful.

you didn’t know how serious he was.

you didn’t know that jake had started timing his day around when you were nearby. that he lingered in dressing rooms just to sit where you stood. that he’d started taking pictures of his face after your touch-ups just to remember how your hands moved over him. that he jacked off in the bathroom to the scent of your perfume more times than he could count.

you didn’t know he dreamt of more than your brushes against his skin. that he wanted to pin you against the mirror and kiss you breathless, make you see what he saw.

you didn’t know. but he’d make sure you did, eventually.

PLEASE LET ME KNOW if you liked it so I can move onto the next part! (smut).

I'm happy to see how my works been getting a bit recognised, love y'all <3

[nathanbatemanfucker]

hii, your fanfics are amazing I LOVEEEE them. Could I please request some pregnancy fic with Joaquin. I’m begging you I need it to live😩

Thank youu xoxo

Little Loves

about this; wc: 642, pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader, contents: fluff, pregnancy, weird food cravings, an: this was such a pleasure to write, I love a little fluffy moment, hope u enjoy!

danny ramirez characters masterlist

Joaquin wakes with a start, his hand finding nothing but the cold, silky sheets your shared bed is adorned with. He glances at the clock and sees that it’s 3 a.m.

Usually, if he woke up in bed alone, he would be worried about you—but your pregnancy hasn’t been an easy one. Sleep’s been hard for you; you can’t hardly get comfortable, or the baby shifts around too much as he’s grown.

There are a few places he could find you. Sometimes, you like to sit in the rocking chair in the nursery, and other times, he finds you laid out on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position.

The last place he usually finds you is where he does. You’re sitting on the kitchen floor, your round belly peeking out of your tank top, with various snacks strewn about.

Your eyes are closed as you lean against the cabinets, popping a peanut butter-dipped Oreo in your mouth before following it with a scoop of strawberry jelly.

Joaquin is used to strange things—Sam has schooled him on his big three: androids, aliens, and wizards. So it doesn’t phase him that once you’re done with your PBJ Oreo, you’re dipping a pickle in shaved ice.

“You’ok?” you mumble through bites.

“Are you?” he teases through a yawn. He maneuvers his way through your food maze and lowers himself to sit beside you, his shoulder bumping yours lightly before he stretches his legs out.

“I was hungry,” you say defensively. “Tu bebé tiene un apetito.”

“Our baby,” he corrects softly, rubbing a warm palm over your belly. His touch is slow, unthinking, like he’s trying to soothe the baby back to sleep. “Tienes hambre de algo más?”

“Mmm,” you pause, growing thoughtful as you think of all the options. Joaquin’s been thorough, making sure the kitchen is stocked with anything you could possibly want. “Those powdered donuts? Oh, and—and the cranberry juice?”

“Seguro, mi amor.”

You watch him move through the kitchen with grace, making quick work of your requests. When he comes to join again, he has a bag of spicy chips in his hand.

You raise an eyebrow at him.

“Figured I needed a snack if I was gonna keep you company.”

“Joaquin, you don’t have to stay up with me. Aren’t you and Sam heading out in a couple days?” you ask, ripping open the bag of donuts.

“Of course I have to. I’m your husband. And I want to,” he assures you. The hand not buried in a bag of chips finds its way back to your belly, tracing slow, soothing circles over your skin.

“You know, if I hadn’t married you already, I’d think you were too good to be true.” You lean over, resting your head on his shoulder, sighing when his fingers shift to rub lazy patterns along your back.

Joaquin drops a kiss on your forehead before shoveling a handful of chips into his mouth. “Means I got a good reputation.”

“Mhmm,” you murmur sleepily.

The two of you stay like that, exchanging sweet little quips through munching and crunching. Joaquin keeps his hand on your belly, rubbing absentmindedly while your breathing slows. Eventually, you doze off, your weight sinking heavier into him. He can tell by the way your breath evens out and the little hum you let out just before fully relaxing.

He doesn’t have the heart to wake you up, knowing how difficult it can be for you to get to sleep.

Sure, his back might ache a little in the morning by sleeping upright beside you, and he’ll have to restock some of your favorite snacks. But those are small inconveniences in the wake of your happiness.

He settles in, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you close before letting his own eyes flutter shut. “Dulces sueños, mi amorcitos.”

lmk if you’d like to be on the sfw joaquin torres masterlist!

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @moonymeloncholymoney, @mischiefmanaged71, @something-random-idk, @dualinstinct, @alevanswrites, @articel1967, @lanoviadestiles, @zolassalgorhythm, @peacefangirl

[mediumgayitalian]

Nico drops his keys, trying to slide them in the old, shitty lock.

He has to take a moment to breathe.

He can just -- pick them up. They are maybe three feet away, right there on the ground. On the cold, frigid doorstep. Right on a layer of powder snow, which has puffed and pillowed out on impact to flutter over the brass and aluminum and the beaded keychain Kayla made for him, years ago. They blur, the longer he stares, faded pinks and greens swirling with tarnished glinting silver and grey, dead white. It is stupid to be fighting back tears.

But unsurprising, with the day he has had.

He exhales quick and bullish and forced his stiff knees to crouch, his frigid hands to dig around until they close around his key loop, until the apartment key, icy, is clenched between his reddened fingers and shoved, creaking, into the garbage, stubborn lock, until he has yanked and twisted with enough desperation that it finally -- finally -- gives. The swollen door is stuck in the frame, because of course it is, but it feels good to shove, to punch the solid face of it with enough force to ram it open, groaning, slamming against the narrow walls of the front hallway.

There is blues, playing in the apartment. Patti Page.Nico works his boots off, exhausted, and smiles as his foot hits the floor and he hears Will singing, or humming, rather, loud enough that he can hear it over the oven fan, over the record player.

He is trying to be quiet, Nico can tell. Maybe listening. But the apartment is tiny, and he is incapable, besides.

He pads his way to the kitchen, leaning against the doorway, and watches his husband way his hips absentmindedly to muffled French horn, dull knife slicing along to the rhythm of old Oklahoma accent. His apron straps are tied wrong, too short on one side. He is wearing too-tight shorts and an old, oversized band shirt, and very little else. The heaviness along every dot of Nico's spine fades almost to nothing.

"Sorry I'm late," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around Will's waist. Will hums, not startled -- he was listening for him, then -- and leaning into his hold, into the chin Nico hooks over his shoulder. "Huge fuckin' -- mess, EZ Death Line had a -- stampede, or something, I couldn't piece together --" He stops, and sighs, curling into Will's warmth. Will drops a hand onto his frigid wrists and squeezes, turning to press a kiss to Nico's hair.

"Long day, huh."

"Long fuckin' week."

"Mm. You're cold, too."

Will squeezes, again, and then reaches back for the knife. Nico tries not to pout too obviously at the loss. At the teasing, rolled eyes he can feel from Will's direction, he doubts he is successful, but Will concedes to lean farther into him, even though it throws him off balance. So it cannot be too bad.

"I don't know how much it will help with the shitty week, sweetheart, but I guessed at the cold." He points his chin at the pot sitting neatly on the stained stovetop, wooden spoon balanced precariously off the half-bent lid. "I made -- well, I tried to make, don't get your hopes up -- pasta fasioi. Called Chiara about it."

He says it easy, nonchalantly, but Nico watches the grip he has around the knife's handle, and grins. Don't get your hopes up, he says. As if he didn't half-grow up in the back of a diner, as if he doesn't know his way around a spice rack.

Nico presses a kiss to his neck, grateful, and slides over to the stovetop, lifting the still-warm lid. It doesn't look like much -- the best food rarely does -- but it smells like old, old home, like salt and flour and the beans drying in the depths of Mamma's cantina. The music, too, is old enough that it almost sounds like home, like woodwinds and radio static and cold wind blowing through thin windows.

Nico dips the spoon in, bringing it to his lips. It would never be allowed, usually, but tonight Will is quiet, tonight he bumps his hips into Nico's and lets him close his eyes, exhaling, remembering the thick almost-graininess, the sweetness of the slight basil and sharpness of the cheese that is probably too expensive for them to be using. On a resident's salary, at least. But Will only smiles, when Nico curls into him, and brings his strong, warm hands up to the back of Nico's neck, roughly chopped vegetables forgotten on the wobbling counter.

"Thank you," Nico whispers, into his shirt. It smells like -- rainfall, almost. Summer showers.

Will presses his soft, sad smile into the line between Nico's hair and his forehead.

"Course, darlin'."

They sit to eat -- on the floor, because their one table is covered in one of Will's research projects -- and Nico even eats the salad Will shoves at him. It's good, too, but he complains about it, just to watch Will huff, just to watch his shoulder square and brow furrow as he lists, in alphabetical order, the twenty different ways each individual protein or whatever will fix his aching muscles. Will holds his hand, as they eat. Even though it makes eating more difficult, and he spills thick soup on the dead front of his goofy, ridiculous, cat-in-outer-space apron, and pouts when Nico cackles at him. There is a point as Nico is struggling to breathe again where he sets his near-empty bowl on his favorite tile (the chipped one, that he feels bad for) and turns to face Nico fully and watches with his cheek cupped in his free hand until Nico gets self-conscious.

"What," he says, shoulders raising, "did I get something on my face?"

But he didn't, and he knew he didn't, before he asked. Because he knows the look in Will's sky-black eyes, the shy, disbelieving pleasure of it: the gods, you're beautiful and I can't believe I have this and you are everything I prayed about. He knows, because Will says it, often, because he doesn't flinch from it the same way Nico does, from the…bubbling shame of it. Not from loving him, never from loving him, but from his witnessing of it, of the raw, endless pounding of his heart, unbelievably obvious. Not from his wanting to hide, but his incapability of doing so.

"Your head is spinning," Will comments, and it is. Nico wonders how he knows, so exactly. If he can see it. If there's a look in his face. "Get up."

Will pushes himself to his feet, and holds his hands out. Nico takes them, both of them, and when Will has pulled him up he lingers, still, brings Nico's knuckles up to his lips and kisses until Nico is flustered, squirming.

"There's no one here but us," Will reminds him, softly.

Nico shudders. "I know." He drops his shoulders, exhaling, expelling. "I know, I know. It just --" He shrugs. "I can feel it still, I guess. Everywhere but here."

It is not the first time he has said it and will not be the last. The Underworld doesn't bother him, not like it does Will; it is home, in many ways. His father is softer, now, and his step-mother almost tolerates him. He has friends in various gods and deities and satisfaction in his responsibilities.

But there is always, always someone watching. And after a while, it makes his skin crawl.

Will rubs his rough palms up and down his bare arms, expelling the feeling. The record pauses and they look up, the both of them, and when it starts again it starts with low, muffled trumpet, and Will perks up, and Nico groans, more teasing than anything, and lets himself be dragged, sighing, into what passes for a living room, and is really just the clearest corner of the one-bedroom. Will wastes no pretense and pulls him close, immediately, close enough that Nico can feel the rumble of his chest as he hums, low, too low for him, really, but Nico sighs into it anyway. Sighs into the arms Will tucks tightly against him, the cheek on his head, the breath lining up with his; this song is old, and sad, but it makes Will think of home and of summer and of campfire, and it makes Nico think of Will. So he doesn't mind, really.

"If I was her I woulda kicked my friend's ass," Nico murmurs, and Will laughs.

"I don't blame you," he says, quiet through the brass and piano solo. "I like that she loves them still, though. Both of them."

"They betrayed her."

"And yet, she sings softly about them."

Nico sighs, and mutters something about hopeless romantics. Will smiles, sweet, and draws him in closer, somehow, as if there is nothing separating them, no clothes, no air, no atoms. As if they are they same cloud of existence. Patti Page sings I remember the night, and the Tennessee Waltz and Will turns them, slowly, and sings back Now I know just how much I have lost. And his voice is light, soft like hers. Sacred and reverent. And Nico can't read his mind, not really, but he knows he is thinking about old friends, about love. About how things shift, and change, about how years ago, Will sang this song, along his brother's trumpet, and Nico's heart beat through his chest. About how four years ago, this June, Will sang this song again, and Nico waltzed with him, on an over-polished, slippery floor, in dress shoes that pinched.

"I love you," he says, over quiet, old tears and arpeggioing piano.

"I know," Will says, just as quiet. He ducks down and kisses Nico gently, lovingly. "I love you, too."

I know, Nico thinks of saying. It is in the bags under his eyes and the work on the table but the hours spent in the kitchen anyway. It is in the letters Nico keeps tucked in the bulging pocket of his favorite jacket and the mess of their shoes at the door, the six blankets on their double bed even though Will overheats every night. In the too-expensive espresso machine that he doesn't know how to use but lets take up space on their tiny counter anyway, in the pictures hung crooked on every square inch of wall space, in his hands, warm and searching, on the back of his hips, in the breaths pressed to his skin because he is cold still and tired and dancing.

Instead, he says quiet. Instead the Tennessee Waltz ends, and he says nothing as Will reaches over, arms long and straining, and pulls the needle back, slightly, right before strumming guitar over muffled brass. Instead he exhales, long, slow, total, and presses his nose to the crook of Will's neck, and memorizes the borrowed scent of petrichor and the constant scent of lavender, and the edge of his burn scars against his skin. And he waltzes, and waltzes, and melts in the arms of his loved one, away from the ice of the cold and the depths. Away from anything but sweet Southern summer's embrace, and gentle, warbling blues.

[octaneink]

Twenty-nine? More like twenty fine

Will Lenney x Reader

Summary: The Reader and Will spend his birthday together Warnings: None Notes: This is also indulgent, I hope people like it!

The morning sunlight streamed through the kitchen window as you tied your apron around your waist, a sense of excitement bubbling in your chest. Today was Will’s 29th birthday, and you had a plan. Baking was your passion, and you were determined to make him the most incredible cake he’d ever seen.

You pulled out your recipe book, its pages stained with buttercream and dotted with notes from past baking adventures. The cake itself would be simple—a rich chocolate sponge with layers of salted caramel buttercream. But the real showstopper would be the decoration. You’d decided on a sleek, modern design: smooth white frosting with gold accents and a bold “Twenty Nine” piped in black elegant script on top.

The kitchen quickly filled with the warm, comforting scent of chocolate as the cakes baked in the oven, the aroma wrapping around you like a cosy blanket. You hummed along to your playlist, the rhythm of the music syncing with the steady whir of the mixer as you worked. Once the cakes were out of the oven and cooling on the wire rack, you turned your attention to the buttercream. You whisked together softened butter, powdered sugar, and a pinch of sea salt, the mixture transforming into a cloud of velvety smoothness.

By mid-afternoon, the cakes had cooled completely, their domed tops levelled to be ready for assembly. You spread a generous layer of buttercream between each tier, the palette knife gliding as you smoothed it into an even filling. Next came the crumb coat—a thin layer of frosting that hugged the cake, locking in any stray crumbs and allowing for a neat canvas for the final layer. With a satisfied smile, you carefully placed the cake in the fridge to set, the chill firming up the buttercream just enough for the next step.

While it rested, you tidied up your workspace and prepared the edible gold paint, mixing the shimmering dust with a few drops of vodka until it gleamed like liquid sunlight.

When the crumb coat was firm to the touch, you began the final layer of frosting. This was your favourite part. You dipped your offset spatula into the bowl of buttercream, its silky texture gliding effortlessly as you spread it in long, sweeping strokes around the sides of the cake. The motion was rhythmic, almost meditative, your hands moving slowly to create a smooth finish. Once the sides were to your liking, you turned your attention to the top, gently coaxing the frosting into an even layer that resembled a pristine blanket of freshly fallen snow.

Next came the gold accents. You dipped a fine brush into the edible gold paint, then brought the brush to the cake so you could add delicate details to the cake. A few swipes here, a few dots there—it was subtle but striking, just like you thought. Finally, you piped the words “Twenty Nine” on top in a looping, cursive font, stepping back to admire your handiwork. You snapped a quick photo to commemorate your masterpiece before covering it with a cake dome to keep it fresh.

As the afternoon melted into evening, you turned your attention to the rest of the decorations, determined to make the space as special as the cake. Fairy lights were carefully strung around the living room, their soft, golden glow casting a warm, inviting ambiance. A cluster of balloons in muted tones bobbed gently near the doorway, and a banner that read “Happy Birthday!” in bold, elegant lettering added a festive yet understated touch. On the coffee table, you arranged a spread of his favourite snacks—crisps, chocolates, and a few savoury bites—alongside a chilled bottle of champagne, its condensation glistening in the low light. Just in case he was in the mood to celebrate, you wanted to be ready. And of course, at the centre of it, his birthday cake.

When Will finally texted to say he was on his way home, you lit the candles on the cake, their soft flicker casting a warm glow over the room. With a bundle of balloons in one hand and his carefully wrapped gift in the other, you positioned yourself by the door, your heart racing with anticipation. The sound of keys jingling in the lock made your smile widen, and as the door creaked open, you called out, “Hey, birthday boy!” The balloons bobbed cheerfully above you, their vibrant colours adding to the festive atmosphere, while the gift in your hand felt like a small token of everything you wanted to say.

Will stepped inside, looking slightly dishevelled but still as effortlessly handsome as ever. His eyes widened as he took in the scene—the twinkling fairy lights, the balloons bobbing gently in the corner, and the banner that proudly declared, “Happy Birthday!” But it was the cake sitting proudly on the coffee table that truly caught his attention. Its smooth, flawless frosting and delicate gold accents gleamed under the soft glow of the lights, looking almost too perfect to eat.

“What’s all this?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief as he turned to you, his gaze flickering between the balloons in your hand and the gift tucked under your arm.

“It’s your birthday,” you said, stepping closer to pull him into a warm hug. As you wrapped your arms around him, the balloons brushed against his shoulder, and instinctively, his hands found your waist, his touch firm but gentle. His fingers curled slightly, as if anchoring himself to you, and you could feel the warmth of his palms even through the fabric of your shirt.

“I couldn’t let it go by without making a fuss,” you added, your voice muffled slightly against his chest.

Will’s eyes softened as he glanced back at the cake, then at the spread of snacks and champagne on the coffee table. His hands stayed on your waist, his thumbs brushing lightly against your sides in a way that made your breath catch. “You did all this… for me?” he asked, his voice quiet but filled with gratitude.

You nodded, smiling up at him. “Of course. You deserve it.”

For a moment, he just stood there, his hands still resting lightly on your waist, his fingers curling ever so slightly as if to pull you closer. His gaze searched yours, a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes—wonder, maybe, or gratitude, or something deeper, something that made your chest tighten. His lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but no words came. Instead, he let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, the sound low and warm, like the hum of a song you’d known forever.

Then, without a word, he leaned in, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn’t. His lips brushed against yours, feather-light at first, a whisper of a touch that sent a shiver racing down your spine. The kiss deepened just enough to feel real, his mouth moving against yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache. It wasn’t rushed or demanding—it was quiet, lingering, like he was trying to say everything he couldn’t put into words.

When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. His eyes stayed closed for a moment, his lashes casting faint shadows on his cheeks, and you could feel the way his hands tightened ever so slightly on your waist, as if he was afraid you might slip away.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” He murmured, his voice rough around the edges, like the words had been sitting in his chest for a while, waiting for the right moment to come out. His thumb brushed against your cheek, the touch so gentle it made your breath catch. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You could feel the weight of his words, the way they settled in the space between you, heavy and real. And for a moment, you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but look at him, at the way his eyes held yours like you were the only thing that mattered.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you said finally, your voice soft but steady. “You just have to be you.”

His lips curved into a small, almost shy smile, one that made your heart skip a beat. “Then I guess I’m the luckiest guy in the world,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. And when he kissed you again, it was like a promise—one you could feel in every beat of your heart.

“I just wanted to make today special for you,” you said softly, your voice barely more than a breath. The words felt fragile, like they might break if spoken too loudly, but they carried all the weight of what you couldn’t quite say—how much he meant to you, how much you wanted this day to be perfect for him.

Will’s lips curved into a small, almost shy smile, one you didn’t see often. It was the kind of smile that made your chest ache, the kind that felt like it was just for you. “It already is,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, rough with emotion. “Because you’re here.”

The words hung in the air between you, simple but heavy with meaning. His hands were still on your waist, his touch warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. His eyes searched yours, and for a second, it felt like the rest of the world had faded away—the cake, the decorations, even the faint hum of the city outside. It was just the two of you, standing there in the soft glow of the fairy lights, his forehead still resting against yours.

You could feel the way his breath hitched, just slightly, as if he was holding back something more. His thumb brushed against your cheek again, the gesture so tender it made your heart swell. “You always know how to make everything better,” he murmured, his voice low and soft, like a secret just for you. “I don’t know how you do it.”

You smiled, your fingers tightening slightly around the gift you still held. “It’s easy,” you said, your voice just as quiet. “When it’s you.”

His smile deepened, and for a moment, he just looked at you, his eyes shining with something you couldn’t quite name. Then, without a word, he leaned in again, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was slow and sweet, filled with all the things neither of you had said. When he pulled back, his forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Come on,” you said finally, your voice soft but teasing, breaking the quiet that had settled between you. “Let’s celebrate.”

He nodded, but he didn’t let go of your hand, not even as you led him further into the room. His touch was warm, grounding, a silent reminder that, no matter what, you were in this together. And as you glanced at him, his eyes still soft with that quiet, unspoken affection, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something even more beautiful.

This was a bit rushed—sorry about that! I hope people don’t mind. I started this yesterday after work and finished it off today. It was before I saw that Will was in Italy, so… oops! But hey, the sentiment still stands.

Happy birthday to Will! I can’t believe he’s almost thirty and still looks fine as hell 😏😏 time really does favor some people, huh?

[kinley-cafe]

Welcome to Kinley Café’s first Ship Sweets!

Your top 10 voted pairings got together in the kitchen and made some delicious treats for everyone.

Every weekend from June 14th to July 14th, Buck and Tommy will be fulfilling your orders in some very special outfits designed by the wonderful…

@buffaluff has styled Buck and Tommy in the perfect outfits for pride month. Wait until you see them! ♡ But that’s not all! You’ll be getting a glimpse of all the chaos going on in the kitchen all month long. It’s going to be so much fun~

ORDER NOW Note: Orders placed after THURSDAY 8PM EST will not be delivered until the following weekend.

The menu (and a text version) is available under the cut! Thank you @hunnysfwart for the adorable character chibis ♡

ORDER NOW

Buck & Tommy's Menu

A Sweet Surprise Coffee A delicious, aromatic cup of drip coffee brewed very early in the morning, right before you wake up. Served hot in a mug with a little more than a splash of cream to give it that extra sweet flavor.

Morning After Mini Pancakes Mini funfetti pancakes served in a cute little to-go container. A quick and easy treat for the mornings Buck spends too much time sitting on the counter flirting with Tommy, and doesn’t have enough time to make him a big breakfast. Comes with a sweet icing dip.

Shannon & Eddie's Menu

Shandie Shake This orange creamsicle milkshake, topped with a huge dollop of whipped cream is a young lover’s delight. It’s sweet and fun with just the right amount of nostalgia to make you feel like a teenager again.

First Love Funnel Cake Bites These beer battered fried funnel cake bites hold fond memories of falling in love by the lake in Texas. (Christopher wanted to help and he was very generous with the powdered sugar.)

May & Ravi's Menu

Call Me Mayvi A sweet, adorable and surprisingly strong brown sugar cookie butter latte with a triple shot of espresso.

The Cutie Pie You’re pretty. I’m cute. Let’s be pretty cute together with the cutest, sweetest slice of pie. This fun summer dessert is made with chocolate peanut butter ice cream and Oreo crust.

Maddie & Chimney's Menu

Madney Macchiato Cinnamon coconut macchiato with a double shot of espresso. And yes, you can taste the cinnamon.

The buffriday An overabundant amount of cookie dough brownie ice cream with cake pieces on top, so you never have to choose.

Eddie & Josh's Menu

Dispatch Dalgona A delightful whipped coffee to get you through a long shift at dispatch. Josh added some extra sugar and chocolate chips because he thinks Eddie needs a little sweetness in his life. Maybe he’s right…

"Guest in this house" Zingers Sweet and sour candies with a long lasting flavor. It almost reminds you of the comeback you’ve been holding on to for months.

Buck, Ravi & Tommy's Menu

Honey Root Beer A strong, but smooth and sweet beverage served in a pint glass with butter pecan ice cream on top.

Bar Snacks Why go out to the bar when you can bring the bar to you with this zesty chili lime snack mix made with mini pretzels, nuts and some spicy nacho crackers Buck baked himself.

Taylor & Lucy's Menu

The Taylu Brew A surprisingly sweet vanilla and cream nitro brew served in a keepsake titanium steel tumbler for when you need to be energized on the move.

Strawberry Blondies After a long day of saving lives and reporting all the news, there’s nothing better than some soft, sweet, warm and delicious strawberry blondies.

Bobby & Athena's Menu

Cap & Serge’s Frozen Brownie Hot Chocolate Bobby wanted to make some hot chocolate for the kids. The brownies were Athena’s brilliant idea. He just added the oat milk. Make sure you thank Athena for this delicious, chocolatey beverage.

Mama and Papa Bear Claws A massive bear claw pastry made with love and a little bit of overprotective tendencies.

Hen & Karen's Menu

HenRen’s Love potion This is what happens when a scientist and a medic get together: they create the perfect solution. A sweet, sparkling drink made with a meticulously measured mix of cola, strawberry, coconut, frozen berries and liquid nitrogen.

Chocolate Salted Caramel Swirl Cookies A sweet and savory family recipe that was formulated when the kids added a little too much salty caramel to the shortbread cookie batter. Buck, Eddie & Tommy's menu

The Fireflighter A big, powerful and definitely dramatic spumoni milkshake with espresso whipped cream. It’ll make you feel like you’re being carried out by 3 strong (and adorable) firefighters. Boy’s Night S’more cake Tommy likes cake. Eddie likes s’mores. Buck likes baking. Now there’s more of this decadent gooey, chocolatey monstrosity than anyone knows what to do with. You’re welcome.

Michael & David's Menu

Doctor’s Orders A delicious cup of peppermint ginger tea. The perfect drink to come home to at the end of a long shift at the hospital. It’s also a perfect way to let a loved one know you care about their health and wellness.

Stuck with you Sticky Bun A delicious brown sugar sticky bun. Sometimes we meet the most amazing people when we’re stuck somewhere. (Like, perhaps, an elevator?)

ORDER NOW

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 Besotted

♡ featuring: yandere!ajax x f!reader

♡ summary: the love of your life knows you without asking, selfless and caring. however, you're slowly starting to realize the man you loved was a mask of the truth hiding underneath. wc: 12.5k+

♡ cw/tw: modern au, mentions of violence/blood, mentions of suicide, stalking, obsession, possessiveness, manipulation, rough sex, sideways sex, cockwarming, mating press, cunnilingus, drugging, overstimulation, praise, pet names (lots of them tbh)

notes: im so sorry i know it took me a long time but my time has been consumed by exams and its finals week soon so ahhhh. it's going to take me a little longer than usual until my semester is over, forgive me!! art by jam8366_dday on ig! <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

“Caramel macchiato for… Katheryne?” Your quiet voice deadens among the bustling crowd of businessmen, secretaries, and construction workers alike conversing through their morning wake-up. It’s incomparable to the serene appeal of a corner coffee shop—piled high with board games and books, the nooks and crannies decorated with some sort of trinket or knickknack you collected along the way, baubles that brought you joy and spread some to anyone that entered the cozy hole in the wall—“The Mad Hatter”. People are free to add stickers to the cash register, so convoluted with color similar to graffiti, including the pink-hatted cat Lyney glued to the top. Coffee tables share space with buoyant sofas, opposite of the display case viewing a multitude of extra sweet desserts and breakfast sandwiches. At night, the fairy lights bordering the wide veiled windows glimmered a dim hue that made feathery snow sparkle like stars during winter. You set the coffee under warm lights dotting the ceiling, emanating above the wooden interior. No one is finicky for your tastes; you are happy to see the familiar cheerful or grumpy faces entering the shop. You remember names, faces, and minute personal details they’d forgotten they shared over a steaming cup of latte left to warm because the art was too pretty to drink. They’re busy, but patient; they've acquainted you long enough to not be angry at the wait, and most times come to your defense against unruly customers. 

It's the worst—or for you, the best—in the afternoons, swarming crowds waiting for an afternoon pick-me-up. You and Lyney work to the best of your ability, serving up group orders with a quickness unparalleled by nearby chain coffeehouse’s. You regard it as your passion, although your parents were disappointed when you told them you and Lyney would be buying and renovating an abandoned property states over all for coffee; your delectable drinks have the potential to form long lasting relationships between you and other customers, and there’s a certain creative merit you relish whenever a guest takes pictures of the swan-like artistry foaming on the surface. The taste of bitter beans sparks moments of merriment, longing, and love—in some cases, it’s the best form of intimacy.  

Your best memories live in this shop; the ground powder that scattered everywhere and painted Lyney like a chocolate sculpture when he tried to push the inventory to the highest shelf or staying up after close in the middle of a blizzard to make flimsy homemade decorations for the grand opening with help from Lynette. 

It’s extra special that the very place you stand is where you found the love of your life. You met him at the register, loose curls dipped in autumn tones spilling over his long lashes. The void in his eyes motionless like the ocean before a low tide. You both stared at each other for a moment, taking in the lines and details of your flustering faces. You must’ve been staring for too long, as Lyney tapped your shoulder with a side eye that alerted you to the awkward silence and line heading out the door. You fumbled for apologies and took his order; the ginger boy chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck—Ajax—such a rugged name for a pretty guy. You prepared the Frappuccino with a drizzle of affection bespoken for him. When you gave him the drink, his hand grazed against yours, a kiss without lips. It left you breathless, and with an airy coyness he said, “I didn’t get your name?” You told him, and he tried out the sound on his tongue. You wished he’d say it over and over. With a rosy wash across his cheeks, “A fitting name for your beauty. Have a good day, (Y/N)” was all he said before he walked away, leaving you stunned and smitten. Lyney was the unfortunate victim that dealt with your wearisome fantasizing about Ajax. 

But Ajax already knew your name. And address, and friends.  

How could he not? When he saw you hanging lights in the windows on a particularly sunny morning that made your glowing face shine with pure radiance unrivaled by deities, he sunk endlessly. He vowed to walk at a distance at that same time every day to ogle your lustrous hair, your soft skin that didn’t break a sweat, the curve of your lips. You soon became an itch he couldn’t scratch, a plaguing thought that wiggled in the wrinkles of his brain and made it hard to sleep or work. You, you, you. Is your laugh a heavy snort or more lighthearted, do you have the same sense of humor as him? You’ll like what he likes, think what he thinks. 

You were constantly on his mind, he wondered if you were eating when he ate or how good you were sleeping as he drifted off to his. It’s not his fault that he snapped discrete pictures of your smiling face, you were too adorable to ignore. He valued coming home to kneel at the little shrine he made of your printed gaiety, surrounded by consistently fresh roses and citrus candles he thought you’d smell like. If he stood close enough, it was like you were right in front of him. The apron tied around your waist was a vibrant crimson—his favorite color. It's fate, the way the stars aligned and sent angels down to bless you with a pinafore of his approval. You had to know he was out there; he was already imagining returning to a cheerful home, and your swaying hips as you whipped up a glacé delight. He’d kiss you on the cheek, and you’d pop a tart blueberry in his mouth. Yes—it had to be this way, it must be what you wanted, too. 

Ajax coincidentally found himself rummaging through trash cans in the vicinity for an inkling of receipts from the shop. He stumbled upon it, of course—it’s not like he waited out until nightfall right before garbage day to have the highest chances of finding identification. The jagged fragment of a receipt led to your family, social media, and blogs you dedicated to your baking progress. And he’d monitor the sites on different screens with multiple tabs, an infatuated glaze over those dull eyes that kept him glued to the updates for hours. He made many accounts, liking your posts fervently with flimsy justifications of encouragement. You became reachable day by day. 

The day Ajax decided to pursue you upfront, it was a dream he hoped never to wake. He’d rehearsed it obsessively until the moment he stood in front of the glass door, a tremble in his restless legs at the thought of looking ridiculous. Seeing you up close felt like a special occasion. His heart was beating off-kilter in his quaking chest, as if jumping free fall out of a plane, and he held his breath until it opened. The confidence he mustered up before he got to the register did little to suppress the giddiness rolling in his veins. His pulse paced the closer he got. Two more orders and there you were; the center of his universe, and you didn’t know it yet. Pictures didn’t do you justice—no, he needed to see your grace preserved in museums depicted in rich Renaissance paintings onlookers could only fantasize holding or loving, but you’d be for him, and him alone. He drew a blank. “May I get your name for the order?” His eyes flickered with a brand-new luster, it melded certainty and delusion.  

She wants...my name.  

My name.  

The sweet harmony of your words lulled Ajax to an addicting turbid spiral that swept fondness through the tempest and scattered infatuation in its aftermath. A feeling too tenacious, it must be love. The incessant burn urged him to protect and guide you to him. You need him. Now he watched compulsively with a winded jaw, your smile to other men who couldn't compare to his devotion. They don’t know you like he does. He could map out the corners of your house from the slim backgrounds of your blog posts or name every club you’ve participated in since middle school. Hunger spread where his fists craved contact, like sunfire corroding the taught skin on his knuckles. They’ve breathed your air and existed in your presence. It’s undeserved, they’re unworthy. 

How fucking dare they. 

How lost you must be without him, led astray by intruding greed; he selflessly assumed his responsibility. You are his, after all. So, he stalked behind cars shadowed by harsh streetlamps to ensure you got home safe and intercepted your packages to check for threatening substances. The accomplishment he felt whenever he completed his—in his words, “duties”—instilled exultation beyond any memory. Within the envelopes, he’d leave an elegant note embellished with hearts hinting at his infatuation and the care he put in to maintain your safety. One letter turned to two, then five, to the point where you’d receive a sleeve stuffed with increasingly unhinged letters from your secret admirer that fanned out when you tipped it. 

On Christmas Eve, a limitless cloak of frozen stardust decided to flurry right before your shift ended. You covered Lyney’s shift so he’d have time to spend with Lynette and Freminent; it wasn’t like you had anything to do afterwards. You counted the flakes of the storm through frosted glass, thinking about the wellbeing of your family back home. Mailed gifts couldn't console the grief you felt during the holidays. A knock on the door turned your attention to the silhouette of a man wearing a slouched beanie with a pompom on top. You unlocked the door, and it swung open from the whirling heft of wind and smattered white across the wood from empty streets. 

“Sorry, we just closed-” You looked up, no time to register the freckled face from months ago, that stole your heart with a smile. Icy grains kissed his cheeks, as red as apples, and fused to the wool scarf draped around his trench coat. “Oh! Hello, again.” You tried to play it off, but the crack in your voice teetered. You were suddenly nervous. Ajax grinned hard and shuffled slightly inwards to escape the chill.  

“Hi (Y/N)! I was really hoping you weren’t closed, it’s a good day to grab a hot chocolate, y’know?” 

“It is. You’re probably freezing, please come in.” You should’ve been home by now, but for Ajax, you could spare a few minutes. He unraveled his winter attire to reveal a tightly fitted turtleneck and took a seat at the chair closest to you. You wrap around the counter and start the kettle, struggling with what to do next at the gaze gripping your mind. “One hot chocolate, coming up.” 

“How much I owe ya?” he chirped, arms resting on the table while he watched you grab two mugs. “No worries, it’s on the house. Consider it your Christmas present.” 

“I appreciate that, thank you. You really are kind...Lyney left you by yourself tonight?” You wondered how he knew Lyney’s name when they hadn’t met, but quickly brushed it off. 

“Yeah, I wanted him to spend time with his family.” 

“And you don’t have any here?” You didn’t retain your usual weariness towards acquaintances. On this lonely night Ajax didn’t feel like much of a stranger. 

“Nah, moved away to start this.” Your hands gestured to the quaint interior. Ajax scanned his surroundings, marveling at the scenery before he spoke. “What you’ve done with this, it’s lovely. Your ambition and dedication are apparent from the way you treat the customers, I can tell you’re passionate about what you do.” Your body flared like summer and succeeded in hushing the breeze. You poured a cup full of thick cocoa and plopped a dollop of whipped cream on both. “It’s not much, but-” the mugs settled on the table, and you sat across from him. “It smells amazing, (Y/N). You’re an expert at this” he interrupted. You traced the rim with your finger and rested your head on the other hand. 

“Thanks...I assume you don’t have family here, either? Think you’d be ripping open gifts by now if you did.” He took another sip. “Yup, they live in a different country. I should visit them soon” he sighed and glanced at the jumbled wool scarf. “Did a sibling make that for you?” you asked. 

“Yeah, my sister. A parting gift.” 

“It’s beautiful, she’s very talented” you remarked, admiring the delicate fleece. The bittersweet smile in response stuck to your heartstrings. “She is.” 

You both drank in silence and occasionally met each other's eyes, only to turn away. Something unsaid hung in the air. "Winter has a way of making us reminisce. It’s so depressing” you confided. You hadn’t told Lyney, but you were terribly lonely these past months. You replaced your emotions with extra shifts, but they came crashing down in the darkness of your bedroom. Ajax gazed at you like he could see through you. 

“The sky appears magnificent under the snow's embrace. Its purity is like the moon's gentle radiance. I don’t think there’s anything like a world covered in snow" he soothed. His words flustered you, and you homed in on the white trails dancing in your lukewarm cup. 

“I’ve never thought of it like that. I used to hate snow. It feels...intruding, I guess.” 

“But if we don’t allow ourselves to be intruded, how will we love?” he blurted. It was comforting to hear in the moment, and you returned his smile. 

“Is the hot chocolate good?” you asked. 

“It’s perfect.... you’re perfect.” You chuckled at the notion, mistaking it for pity. “I’m not perfect.” 

“But you are. The way you carry yourself, your intelligence, your courtesy. You’re flawless, gorgeous inside and out and you don’t even notice.” The way Ajax looked at you, on the verge of his seat and studying your face, lips, and hair. You couldn’t deny the flattery that drowned you and dragged you the more he persisted. “How would you know from one encounter?” His mouth fixed to say it, the truth, but he tight-lipped and reached into his coat pocket instead. He grabbed a blue velvet box and slid it to you. 

“I wanted to give you this. Ever since I saw you.” It felt expensive under your fingertips. You unclasped the front, and it opened to a twinkling pendant. It was a cable chain dangling an oval sapphire gem, with 18 karat white-gold halo sunbursts surrounding it. It’s breathtaking, as if stolen from the tomb of a goddess. 

“Wow, this is...stunning. Ajax, I can’t accept this; it’s too much” you pressured. You’ve never received a gift of this caliber from anyone, it didn’t feel right to look at it. 

“Consider it your Christmas present” he repeated. You shook your head and held up the box to hand it back to him. “I can’t, I shouldn’t-” 

“Please” he pleaded. He clasped your hands, a reassuring thumb gently caressing yours. You were so focused on its extravagance that you didn’t notice the note stuck to the roof of the box. Refined script dotted with hearts; the same style as the hundreds in your closet. Your mouth gaped. 

“This letter...you...have you been the one sending me all those love letters?” You should've had your suspicions, or the urge to back away, but you weren’t afraid. You tried to string together his ability to find your address or mail, or how he knew Lyney, but your brain couldn’t clear the fog of feeling loved after so many years. It’s a warm hug to the blood that instinctively ran cold. Your heartbeat’s fast, half with anxiety and the other with desire. 

Ajax solemnly hung his head and retracted his hands. He fidgeted with his thumbs. “I wasn’t sure how to tell you, I thought about being upfront, but I was so scared of your response and I didn’t want you to hate me, so I thought maybe if I sent them anonymously you could start liking the person behind it or if I played my cards right you’d find out who it was...but that doesn’t make any sense now that I’m thinking about it, I just wanted to be near you. You’re so amazing and smart and beautiful, I just...s-sorry…I’m rambling. I hope you can understand; I-I didn’t mean to harm I just want to make sure you’re safe” he choked. The strained words tumbled over one another and broke in places, where they traveled off at the end. Ajax averted your eyes, pools of tears threatening to fall from the corners. The sudden mood change took you off guard, and you reached for his guilty hands. You were on the verge of divulging your entirety for him, be it the isolation of the big city or lack of attention. He didn’t seem like a bad guy; he might have been misguided. What’s the harm in giving him a chance? 

“It’s okay, Ajax. I’m not upset, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t flattered” you giggled. “The letters are sweet, I read all of them. They make me feel a little better about living in a shithole apartment. Thank you.” He looked at you, bottomless intensity searching for more. “I’m interested in you, too” you added. 

“Then you’ll be my girlfriend?” It was phrased as a question but arrived as a proclamation. “...I would love that.” 

Ajax moved around the table. You rose to wrap your arms around his neck while he squeezed your waist with his head lying on your shoulder. The duping tears vanished like they didn’t exist, and his shameful expression morphed into a conniving smirk stretching unnaturally in his triumph. Your authentic touch, the smell of perfume wafting in his nose. It’s not citrus, but it’s you. You, everything is you. This is how things were meant to be. His eyes curved like arches from sheer elation, biting his lip to stifle the cackle. You’re together, at last. 

The snow stopped some time ago, but the blizzard was just beginning. 

Your relationship with Ajax progressed fast after that day. A weariness dulled within you after you came to your senses from your prior confession, and you weren’t sure about the stability of his neurotic nature. However, when Ajax showed up with a bouquet of the loveliest flowers you’ve ever laid eyes on during an exhausting shift, it shined above all else. He showers you with consistent love and attention and worships the ground you walk on with doting devotion. He's clingy and somewhat suffocating, but his sick adoration blesses you with rose-colored glasses; you’re divinity on a golden pedestal in his eyes, and if he fell hard, you fell harder. The considerate, caring, good listener he is makes the small hiccups go over your head. In the first few months you were unequivocally enamored, the kind that tied your universe to his. You patter about him to Lynette, who gives you half-concerned approval at the story of how you met and the “little things” you cherish.  

Like when he allowed you to move in without a second thought. The paint chipped around dodgy windowsills and fraying carpets, and your landlord wouldn’t pay for the fixes. Unfortunately, you needed a place to stay and couldn’t afford to speak up about the horrible conditions. You were used to your slumlord at that point, but the absence of working heat and busted appliances led you to the arms of your boyfriend, sobbing about the stress your landlord subjected you to. He scooped you like fragile glass as you faltered through shaky breaths grating your lungs and hushed your distress. Kissing your head, he rubbed your back and mumbled into your hair. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll take care of it...I’ll take care of everything.”  

A week later you’d found out that your landlord died from a gruesome suicide, and all tenants had to leave the auctioned duplex. Ajax took you in, and you began adapting to his midtown townhouse. Though you felt like a mooch at first, the welcoming interior had you snuggling between his downy bedding in no time. He shouldered your burden, accepted your genuine self and lavished generous replacements of the items you couldn’t carry. You don’t lift a finger around him, and he readily cooks and cleans for your comfort. 

You’ve gotten accustomed to his presence. When you wake, he’s either watching you sleep silently or preparing food for you to take to work. Ajax follows you around like an obedient pet, smoothing your hair and highlighting how beautiful you look in your rough post-morning wake-up state. He’ll try to kiss you before toothpaste, and you playfully mush his disappointed face off to get dressed. He compensates by kissing in other places, your clothed knee as he ties your shoes or your hands when they interlock. Prior to departing, he attaches that sapphire elegance to your neck. You grab your tidy lunchbox and stroll together in the early hours of the morning for your opening shift. “Have a good day, baby” he says, and places sugary smooches from your lips to your forehead and back again. You’d stand there forever, embracing his warmth if your alarm didn’t notify you to start prepping.  

When Ajax isn’t around, and you’re busy piping frosting onto cakes, there’s a profound hole in your happiness that can’t be filled with buttercream. The way his nose scrunches when he laughs hard, and those hot honey strands tickling your cheeks when you sleep because his face is directly on top of yours make you crave his sight and touch. Sometimes you ponder what you’ve done to deserve someone so over the moon for you. Hell, you’d give him the moon if that’s what he wanted; it’d barely cover a fraction of the benevolence he’s evinced. For now, you blink distraction away, and there's spread sloppily piled over the cakes and countertop. You simper to yourself; such a handsome, tender handful. 

Your daydreams carry you through close, and you and Lyney remain as you wipe down tacky tables with rags lathered in disinfectant. You’re circling surfaces with vigor, quick to move to the next. You hear him laugh from another table. “Okay, speed cleaner. Missing your house husband?” he teases. You roll your eyes and pretend to throw the rag at him. “Hurry up, I wanna go home.” He fake cowers and throws his hands up in surrender. “Yes ma’am. Don’t waste all your strength, Lynette will be upset if you can’t dance with her tomorrow.”  

“I’m not some old woman, Lyn. I can party.” You force away the memory of sleeping on Lyney’s shoulder in the lounge area of a booming club. 

“Sure, grandma. Don’t forget your cane when I pick you up” he jokes. You chortle, and actually throw the rag this time. Too bad his agile form dodges it. “I gotta let Ajax know.”  

“...Right.” Lyney loses momentum and stares at the steaming bucket for a pregnant pause, stirring the rag to buy time. You glance towards him, and he shifts a peccant look. You turn on your heels and lean on the back of a chair. 

“Spill it” you demand.  

“Spill what?” 

“What you actually wanna say.” Lyney bites the inside of his cheek to physically restrain the itch that vents brutal honesty. “I don’t think you’ll like what I have to say.” 

You narrow your brows and sigh in disbelief. “So what? We’ve been friends since high school, just tell me.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and gulps a deep breath. “Lyney.” 

“It’s about Ajax” he exhales. “Oh.”  

“I’m worried about you.” You weren’t expecting the serious air, it sounds like an intervention. It's unnatural coming from your easygoing friend. 

“Really? Why?” you question. He blinks for a few moments, dumbfounded at the innocent audacity, or willful ignorance. 

“Some of the stuff you say about him...it creeps me out. How is it not creeping you out?” he stresses, gawking at the exorbitant gem. 

“Hmm, I’m not sure what you mean.” To you, Ajax isn’t the scary type. Mysterious maybe, but his affection prevents you from seeing him as anything but the missing half of your soul. 

“Okay. You don’t remember telling me how he kept that rotting coffee cup from when you guys first met? Or how he watches you sleep? He made your favorite meal first try and called it a ‘lucky guess?’” The more he goes on, the more disbelieved he becomes.  

“I think it’s romantic” you chide. He expels his frustration. 

“(Y/N), I'm not saying any of this to be a hater, but all of this is unhealthy. Unhealthy might be an understatement. I mean, the man acts like he can't live without you. What if you were to break up, can you be sure he won't lose his fucking mind?” The hypothetical calamity of separation sinks seeds in puddles of doubt. It’s not possible. 

“We love each other. That won’t happen.” 

“It’s been over a year, and you know nothing about him. He comes out of nowhere, sweeps you off your feet, love bombs you, and you take it at face value. Maybe he truly is the one and it’s love at first sight, but this whole situation is...odd. I care about you, (Y/N), and this guy scares me. He’s hiding something.” You attempt to formulate a fact you’ve learned about him, a detail to prove how close you’ve gotten, and come to realize there’s none in your reservoir. You know naught of his friends or family or wealth. Ajax tells you safe verities, like his favorite food and hobby. You don’t thirst for personal space or secrets when it comes to Ajax, and the stygian plunge in his eyes gives you no hints, but you believe the pleasing words that escape his lips either way.  

You glance at the empty Tupperware on the counter, that was once packed with a hefty sandwich and strawberries carved into hearts. He's effortlessly adorable, a small berry-stained note with a simple phrase: "you'll do great today <3". Your dream man, he wouldn't hide things from you, you won’t fathom the thought. “I-” 

Ding 

That dazzling toothy gapped grin spreads warmth across your chest and the room instantly feels a bit brighter. Ajax saunters like he owns the place, engulfing your frame in his stature and placing a kiss on your head. Lyney freezes though Ajax ignored his existence. “I’m getting ready to leave” you muffle into the musky denim jacket. He nods, but his action won’t follow his hands sturdy on your waist as you shimmy out. You make haste to the back room, past the pantry dry goods and collect your sweater and bag. 

You’re about to push open the swinging door when you pause, catching a glimpse of Ajax and Lyney through the oval window. They don’t normally interact in the same space, and you thought it best to respect their boundaries. Ajax is turned away from you, but you can see Lyney clear as day, a stone solid unease skipping on his skin that makes calculated breaths too obvious. It’s silent enough to hear a pin drop. His arms are stuck to the sides, and you observe the apron jumbled in his clutches shaking ever so slightly. He’s trained to the hickory grain of the floor, and from a small portion of Ajax’s visible face, it’s a dreadful expression unbeknownst to you.  

There’s an almost tenebrous loom towering over Lyney, and you feel an alarming shiver settle in your lower spine. Were his eyes normally this gloomy? Your heart rate palpitates when it shouldn’t. You want to look away from the swirling dark depths possessing your soulmate, shooting daggers at your friend. His jaw is clenched to popping, veins on his neck and hands chasing bone. He has a lethal grip on Lyney’s shoulder, and the rough tension pulls at the wrinkling undershirt. But he sneers—a twisted, coiling kind that doesn’t match his glare—an impersonation of affability. 

“Ajax” you mutter softly as you sway the door. He turns sharply, and it’s like a flipped switch. The rage decays to ash swiftly and he’s yours again, your adoring admirer. “I'm ready.” He waits for your approach and tangles your hands. You make your way out, freeing Lyney from capitivity. He holds the door open for you to leave, and you shout “Bye, Lyn! I’ll see you tomorrow.” A shell-shocked cast on his face, he doesn’t say a word. 

You sit at the dining table, feeling disconnected from reality while the kitchen rises with a clatter of pans and glass. You scroll through posts on your phone and occasionally peek over at the corridor to watch Ajax work. His passion shows when he cooks, rocking the skillet to upturn the veggies sizzling within. His broad back flexes with skillful movements, and he looks at you, winking with a teasing pucker on his glossy lips. You giggle. I was just imagining things. 

He slides the plates on the table and sits across from you. Ajax sits like a giddy child waiting for you to try their creation, and you take the first bite. The bountiful flavor dances on your tongue. “It’s really good!” you muffle through bites. A tinge of pink sets on his cheeks. “I’m glad you like it.” 

You chew haphazardly out of focus. You can’t help but notice how quiet your phone has been since you’ve moved in, it feels foreign in your possession. Not a single call from your friends came through, forgotten and invisible. You contemplate apologizing to Lyney tomorrow, it was wrong to get defensive towards compassion. Ajax interrupts his eating to track your fork picking at the meal. 

“You okay, sweetheart? You aren’t eating.” 

You awake from your trance. “Huh? Oh, nothing. Just feels kinda off.” Ajax’s back straightens, and he tenses throughout at a semblance of negative diction. “What does? The food? I’ll remake it” he stumbles. 

“No no, the food is great. It’s, I don’t know. I haven’t got a call from Tiggy in a while.” The corners of Ajax’s mouth contort. 

“Really...I heard he’s been hangin’ out with some new people.” His tone is dry, it strives to be nonchalant. His elbows rest on the table, and he carves his knife into bloody steak like struggling living bone. 

“So, I guess that means he can’t message me anymore, huh” you chuckle. He twists the knife deeper, as if it’s digging in his back. “He’s just a bad friend honestly. Not consistent, you even said he missed your birthday last year. Who needs a friend like that?” 

“I guess.” Meanwhile, you flip through your contacts searching for Tighnari’s name; come to find out he’s nowhere in your phone. In fact, a lot of messages and numbers seemed to have dwindled over time. Your own parents, vanished. Perhaps you were so overworked you’d forgotten they deleted. You start scouring for his profile, but it doesn’t come up. You can’t imagine Tighnari wiping out his entire presence, and it’s not just him. Outside him are the piles of male friends you seldom locate, and you become flustered at your blindness. You look at Ajax, and his eyebrows quirk up to inquire about your confusion. 

“That’s so weird. I should try calling him-” 

“Don't.” It’s not suggestive, its one note, stern demand. It rings in your ears, and when that mask slips for a terrifying moment, you hold your breath until it recurs. “’S not that I don’t want you to, honey. He clearly doesn’t care in the first place, that’s not a sign of a good friend. I’m just trying to help; you know I always have ou- your best interest.” There’s an unrelenting pit in your stomach telling you it’s wrong. “You seem tense since we left, Ajax. Are you alright?” He stops, it leaves you on edge when a formidable shadow casts over his eyes from his bangs that make them look as endless as the bottom of the sea.  

“I feel like...you’re straying away from me. You’re becoming more secretive. Have I done something to violate your trust?” You don’t consider how Ajax knew Tighnari, let alone how he’d find the password to your phone. It was your fault, it had to be. The solemn quiver of his lips clears your suspicion. You’d forget it all to see him happy again. You stand and sway to his side of the table, sitting on his lap to take his face in your hands. “Not at all, babe. My phone’s been acting up, I didn’t mean to accuse you. I just asked because you and Lyney looked high-strung. ‘M sorry.” You kiss him softly with reassurance, and he melts in your touch. The foggy residue shows on his blushing face, and you introduce another to his cheek. “I’m going to a party with Lyney and Lynette tomorrow, so I wanted to see if Tiggy would come.” 

“Ah...okay. Don’t worry, darling, it was a short conversation.” Vague and unassuming, but it didn’t matter now. Ajax can’t deceive you. 

The state you drifted off—lying on Ajax’s chest with his arms embracing your lax figure—is not how you awake. A piercing scream rises, and you jump out of bed in a drowsy stupor. “Ajax?” you addle. Metal clangs to the floor, and the sheets hang low on your hips before you dart down the stairs and through the dining room to discover the cause of the noise.  

He’s kneeling on the kitchen tile, compressing his forearm. Vermillion overflows between his fingers and palm and spatters his shirt. The knife, along with a clumsily chopped apple, is muddy with blood. “Oh my god!” You sprint for a towel and first aid kit crammed underneath the kitchen sink. When you return, Ajax is hissing from the sting, salty tears smeared on his eyelashes. You accompany him on the floor, ignoring the crime scene peppering the cabinets and gently glide his hands to get free view of the wound. “Are you okay?”  

“Yeah, now that you’re here.” It’s a nasty cut, not a gash but painful, nonetheless. You bring him to wash the excess blood, and pat it dry carefully. The fizz from disinfectant makes his arm jolt, but you hold him steady to apply. As you bandage his arm, he blinks away the twinge.  

“I’m sorry, baby. You have work in a few minutes, and you’re here taking care of me. Go ahead and get ready, I’ll do it.” 

“No way in hell am I leaving you like this. Don’t apologize” you insist, the end of your wrap stuffed to secure. You can’t conceive clocking in or partying tonight while Ajax suffers at home. “I’m gonna call out for a couple days so I know you’re well. Relax, I’ll be right back, okay?” He nods, and you rush to the bedroom to retrieve your phone. Ajax wipes his face on his sleeve, streaking insincere sorrow near the serpentine smirk. 

You spent the day cleaning the home, wiping the kitchen top to bottom and making dinner for Ajax. He rests in bed, and you often check in on him. Treating him like an intensive care patient might’ve been excessive, but he accepts your gentle touch and hand fed meals nursing him back to health. You’re lying in bed with him, and the load of his brawny chest forces yours into the mattress with your legs on either side. You massage the pads of your fingers into his scalp, and your breathing weighted blanket emits a groan. Dazed and fully lax, lulling from the rise and fall of your chest. 

The second day is the same, but the lack of pressure divides your dreary lids. It’s midnight, and it casts a fluorescent glow that permeates the room. You feel your way from walls to banister, and as you’re about to step down the stairs to get water, you pause before the living room. Crouched, peeking through the bars of the banister, you see Ajax on the couch in absolute quiet. Shade stands in place of his facial features, obscured besides the hazy veneer in his iris that bores into the journal in front of him. The collage catches moonbeams on the coffee table, crowded with tiny notes that peak out the uniform pages, and polaroid pictures glued to each sheet, stacked so thick it can’t close. He uses the pen you thought you’d lost moving in, running his tongue over the older bite marks on its base. Squinting your eyes fails at registering the specifics. 

You suck in a breath and take another step, hoping the unreliable foundation won’t give way to whining wood. He skims across the words as if they’re memorized, and crows to himself. Eeeeir. It conforms, and the minute you press into it and that haunting sound whispers through the house, Ajax cracks his neck to your position. You stiffen, a deer in headlights. He puts down the pen. 

“Oh, darling. I’m sorry, did I wake you?” he coos. You shoot to a stand, and Ajax meets you at the bottom of the staircase. “I-I just wanna get some water.” You feel meek and small, fairly avoiding his gaze. He enfolds your jaw with his bad arm like it doesn’t hurt, and pecks you on your forehead, light with anxious sweat. “I can get that for you, dear.” Before he can go, you interrupt. 

“Ajax.” 

“Hm?” 

“The book over there, did you make it?” He alternates between you and the book and glisters his pearly whites. He delicately hauls it to you, “I was going to wait for it to be done, but you can read it now if you want.” You hesitate. You aren’t sure if you want to read it. Regardless, you ferry it in your arms, hefty despite being incomplete. 

You unfurl the cover. 

Page after page, your pulse pumps sonorously in your ears, uncontrollable where goosebumps surge through ebbing limbs. Without a doubt, you’re frightened. Aghast, gaping mouth with eyes the size of dinner plates. Dating from your first encounter, poems and chaotic paragraphs of infatuation. Your sleeping silhouette, columns of reverence, strands of your hair taped like art—pictures of you you’ve never seen taken behind cars and lamp posts.  

The lengthy muddled captions emphasize how beautiful you are, how gracious you must be, because he hadn’t met you yet. On top of it all, written repeatedly in red and smothered in hearts, “I love you (Y/N)”. You don’t want to hold it. It’s broiling on your palms; you want it thrown in fire and scorched to shriveling. It almost reads as a manifesto, with jumbled threats sprinkled above overriding ink. Brutal crimes he’d commit if you were ever harmed, the gory actions he envisioned doing to your male customers. It’s incoherent and unorganized. The last page you flip to etches drought in your throat; A dried scrap of the towel you used to tend to his injury is taped inside. A new entry: 

“ (Y/N) takes care of me! without her I am nothing  my sun and star        ♡    my blood and bone           ♡  ♡ my goddess, my angel,   the very essence of my existence     ♡        ♡     my love is infinite and eternal   you are destined to be mine   ♡     ♡        forever, forever she is mine ”  

You peek up from the book, not prepared to face the source. Ajax ogles you with heart eyes that can’t contemplate the absurdity. They surround you, limit you from speaking undulating panic. Part of you is fearful, the other reserves pure love you still have for him.  

“Do you like it, honey?” No, you hate it. It’s scary and not the man you fell in love with. But those sonnets and odes dripping in honey—descriptions that trickle raw vulnerability and expose his truest intentions—are hard to detest when he treasures you earnestly. His expression, he’ll shatter to flecks if you devastate him. So, you scrape back the bile and oblige a strained smile. 

“I love it, Ajax. Thank you.” 

You’re excited to be at work, and relieved to see Lyney. His banter distracts you from the overbearing air at home. Ajax proceeds like nothing happened, or at least nothing for him. It’s fresh in your mind, torments your thoughts as you get ready for the day. His bare chest hugs you from behind while your brush your teeth and he trails groggy kisses from your shoulder to your jaw. It leaves heat on your ears, and dread in your stomach. The necklace going around you is a cage. 

Closing arrives, and you start wrapping things up. 

“Could you get the dark roast box?” Lyney asks from the bookshelf. 

“Heard” you reply, strolling to storage to find that unnamed box squeezed beside larger product. Balancing the contents, you swing open the door, and let out a gasp to your shock. 

“(Y/N)!” Hollers from the dining area. Collei, Tighnari, and astoundingly, Zhongli swarm near Lynette and Freminent. They’re removing their sweaters, but you don’t give Collei or Tighnari time before you charge at them with an immovable hug.  

“Tiggy, Collei! Oh my god!” She welcomes your embrace, and you hear a labored sigh from Tighnari as he tries to pry your arms. “You might fracture my ribs if you keep hugging so tight.” Collei chuckles, and you break the reunion. “I missed you so much!” she bubbles, practically doing happy feet to exert her enthusiasm. You move to Zhongli and greet him with a lukewarm “Hello.” 

Zhongli, your college boyfriend. The terms you ended on were neither good nor bad. He was a cold selfish player, who wanted to have his cake and eat it too. Unfortunately, he got clumsy with the surplus of women he juggled, and you found out you were a number among many. You shed misery in front of his dorm room, and he stilled a detached glare whilst you shouted through its paper-thin halls with unfiltered rage. It was one of the worst moments of your life. A couple years down the line, and you’ve learned to forgive him for his disrespectful, arrogant attitude.  

“You look well” he charms with silky bass. “I am.” 

The couple hours you spend catching up and playing board games goes fluently. Tighnari, Lynette, and Freminent rib about the rules they established mid-way through their card game, and you and Collei sit enchanted by the cozy villager simulation on her handheld console. One of her legs is on top of yours, and you’re leaning in her space. Zhongli can’t catch your sight, purposely projecting louder than usual as he enjoyed a drink made by Lyney. 

“She’s so cute! What’s that one called?” 

“Merengue, she’s my favorite.” 

“Hope Merengue helps you with your PhD thesis” Tighnari intrudes, followed by an annoyed sigh at the “+2” card Freminent puts down. 

“Ugh, don’t remind me!” 

“I didn’t know you were going for a PhD, that’s great” you praise. 

“I guess you wouldn’t know, since you don’t bother to call. Had to find out how you’re doing from Lyney” he jokes. You tilt your head. “Me? You have me blocked on everything.” 

“You don’t come up for me either. I’ve tried calling you a few times, but it went to voicemail. I assumed you had a new phone” Collei supports. You reply with a dry chuckle, and navigate accounts you blocked, evidence they were restricted. It concludes with blank lists where their names should appear. Nothing, not even a way to add them again. This whole ordeal makes you feel like you’re going crazy. You feel bile filling the chambers of your throat, accompanied by a distinct unsettling swell on your temples. Collei notices your furrowed brows and rubs your back. 

“Is everything alright?” Her voice is removed from static hammering your eardrums. 

“Uh, y-yes. I need some water.” You move to the register, where Lyney is wiping down the counter. He slides you a water bottle from the mini fridge. “Don’t throw up, I just cleaned this.” 

“I’ll do my best” you retort. He slants to you, whispering, “Sorry about Zhongli, they didn’t tell me he was tagging along.” You wave it off and take a swig.  

“We gotta talk later. You were right...he’s hiding something.” He gives a comforting nod, and a slender hand enters your peripheral vision.  

“You mind making another, Lyney?” 

“God, you’re insatiable” he complains, and takes Zhongli’s cup for a refill.  

“You both did an outstanding job with the café. It’s homely.” You snort, head resting on your hand. “Is that your way of saying it’s shit?” 

Zhongli frowns, “I’m being serious, I’m proud of what you’ve done here.” 

“Interesting. I’m surprised this isn’t a downgrade to you.” 

“Anything you contribute to is an automatic upgrade.” That sad attempt at flirtation makes you scoff. “Guess your post-college affairs aren’t as frequent if you’re stooping this low.” Maybe you weren’t over it completely. 

“How many times must I apologize?” 

“Until you die.” 

“I’m willing to do that, as many times as it takes.”  

You huff, “It doesn’t matter, Zhongli. I’m in a relationship.” 

“Are you happy?” You don’t have a quip for that question, and it rains on your emotions when you consider it. A flower struggles to bloom through intense downpours. 

“Of course I am.” His smile is frail, and he places a mellow hand on your shoulder. “Then he has all he could ever ask for.”  

The door abruptly opens. Collei’s holding it, and behind it, is Ajax. Dire tension hangs in the air, arid like the anticipation of disaster. Faint smirk and murky glower; the swirling spiral coaxes the same fear you felt last night, and the previous days. His face can’t decide what demeanor to convey, it forces gladness where darkness veils his stare. You tread away from Zhongli, praying he didn’t see the hand that was on you moments ago. Your friend's wave, but he doesn’t return the friendly gesture, instead firing a shaded cast of disgust. He saunters to you with wrenched posture, and each step makes your heart race. 

“Sweetheart, you didn’t answer the phone. I was worried.” He guides you to him by your lower waist. Zhongli watches as Ajax kisses the corner of your mouth, and you beam from the one that tickles your nose. “’M sorry, not feeling so good.” 

“You didn’t tell me you’d be at a party.” 

“It was a surprise.” 

“Ah, I see. These are your friends?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know. 

“Yeah, from back home.” 

“Hello” Zhongli chimes in, holding out his hand to shake. Ajax methodically turns his head to him. You swear you see a vein popping out of his forehead, a splitting stress on his teeth. “Who are you.” 

“Zhongli, I’m an old friend of hers from college. We had a few classes together.” 

“...Friend” he mocks with rictus, “I’ve never heard your name before.” 

“Emphasis on '’old’. I figured I’d stop by since everyone else was here, it’d be a shame to waste such lovely weather-” 

“You talk a lot” he states monotone. Zhongli sneers, “Some may say. I’m quite talkative during social gath-” 

“So shut the fuck up.” The room hushes. You feel the witnesses shrinking themselves at the crushing tension.  

“Excuse me?” 

“Why were you touching her.” He’s jittery, suppressing the turbulent urge shredding through him.  

“I didn’t realize she was your ‘property’” Zhongli scolds. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” You put yourself between them, splaying your fingers across Ajax’s chest. His mood switches easily at your expecting gaze. “Ajax, baby, I’m tired. Can we go home now?” He pauses for a final glare at Zhongli. 

“Of course. Let’s go.” 

You breathe a sigh of relief and hold onto his arm as you storm out of the coffeehouse, no time for goodbyes from your friends. You center on leashing Ajax home. Blocks down, you hear the far-off patter of footsteps on stone getting louder. It’s too dinning to ignore, and as you turn around your free arm is snatched by Zhongli. You shriek, “(Y/N), wait, don’t go yet-” 

Whack! His head flies back and pushes him off balance before his feet find stability. It happens so fast, and you look at Ajax, who has a most terrifying dusk pouring on his livid features. Blood gushes from Zhongli’s nose, but he straightens up tall with his fists held in front of him. Ajax cackles, and jabs between the fists that barely have time to block. His movements are fluid, swinging effortlessly after they fall to his sides. Zhongli paces back, and Ajax charges towards him with quick solid blows that make his loafers scratch on the pavement. He plants a mean gut punch to his torso, and Zhongli doubles over until Ajax punches him in the eye with steel knuckles. He collapses, but his fighting hands linger, any chance to defend himself against your merciless boyfriend. That is, until Ajax sits above him, and begins beating him to a pulp. 

Whack! Whack! Whack! His hits are thundering and vicious, tracking blood to his skin from the momentum. You feel lost to time, lost on what to do to save this situation. It sounds like bone swimming in curdling clots and makes you sick. You dive to Ajax, gone by the dead visage. You snake your arms around his waist.  

“Ajax! Please stop!” you scream at the top of your lungs. It falls on deaf ears, but you continue to scream. You’re sobbing into his back and yelling to a hoarse end, when suddenly the punches stop. He gets off Zhongli mechanically and braces your faint legs to rise. It’d be wholesome if not for the blood splattering his hands. He notices your tears and wipes them away, streaking faint blood across your cheek. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m here now.” 

The entire walk home, he’s silent. You hate it when he’s silent. There are cuts spread over his hands and blood steadily runs from the top lip to his swollen bottom lip. He stares off in the distance, concentrated on something—rage, anger—stirring in his cotton-filled brain. You can't read him, and you wonder if you ever had that privilege. 

The pieces come together themselves in a puzzle you unconsciously rejected. You can’t recall the last time you spoke to your parents. His ability to know your favorite meals without talking or gifting you outstanding presents that surfaced memories you’d long forgotten. Collei, Tighnari, Lyney, it’s unmistakable. You beg to be naïve again, hopelessly in love and enraptured.  

You’d rather keep your eyes shut. The sinister rampage spilling out of him is miles apart from the Ajax who serves you breakfast in bed every day and places soft kisses on your body from head to toe. Love is enough, and you know how much he does to show it. Was there another way? Is it your fault this happened? You can’t focus either or organize your jumbled thoughts, and find yourself searching for reassurance within him, any inkling of affection to prove he still loves you. When you sheepishly reach out to grab his wounded hand, he curls around it, and the thump in your heart reignites. A pulse loud enough to subside the dread clamoring in your feet, warning you to run. 

You make it home, and Ajax goes to the kitchen sink to wash away his crimes. He watches red cyclone down the drain, and you lean on a counter close to him. 

“Ajax?” 

“Yea?” he chirps.  

“Zhongli...will he be okay?” you meek. 

“Mhm. I didn’t kill him.” The matter-of-fact reply renders a shudder in your bones.  

“Is something wrong?” The kitchen is small, and from the way you’re standing you’ve closed yourself off to him. 

“No baby,  nothings….nothings wrong” he says, that convincing tone, smooth like satin. 

“But I’m worried. You’ve never acted like this before, tell me what’s on your mind.” He shuts off the water, and the cylindrical pull seeps a guttural groan. He grips the granite, and even that seems to deform. He finally turns to you, a hurt expression colliding with fiendish somber eyes and taut lips. 

“Am I not good enough for you?”  

“You are more than enough” you hearten. Ajax rebuttals a bitter laugh and spouts the candor he’d been gnawing on. 

“I tried. I tried ignoring your kindness. I tried being pitiful, hurting myself so that your eyes were only on me”, he creeps towards you, and your feet move on their own backpedaling. The echo of his self-inflicted scar produces beads of sweat, distracting so that the back of the wooden chair presses into your back and you almost topple over. Nowhere to go, and now he overshadows you with delicate fingertips slithering across your paling cheeks and behind your jaw, “but you’re surrounded by love. People love you.” 

His words drag and descend further, “Ohh, and it’s not fair at all.” 

“Why are they allowed your attention. It should be me. Only me. Don’t you want me?” Laced with love, but you can’t taste it. His dilated orbs ping-pong as they scan your face for confirmation. You bring your palms over his and muster fading courage in timid waves. 

“I love you Ajax. So, so much. But the way you’re acting scares me. It’s my fault and I could’ve gone home, but I haven’t seen them in a long time. I didn’t think things would end up like this.” He pauses, and engulfs you in an ardent embrace, his hand on the back of your head and another on your lower back. Oh, sweetie muffles through strands of your hair as he sways your bodies. You’re mannequin-like in his stifling sight. 

“Nononono, it’s not your fault honeypot. You’re too pure for this world, so kind without thinking. So perfect” he mumbles, absurd drivel seeping through the coherent parts in formidable notes—how he loves you, needs you, can’t live without you— “but they’re leeches. They try to taint you, show you horrible, disgusting things. That piece of shit was looking at me, he was asking for a fight. And he tried to put you in the middle. You could’ve gotten hurt, or God know what. I’ll protect you, my sweet, at any cost." 

“Ajax, I don’t need your protection.” It’s silent, profound when he retracts. You forget how to breathe or talk as he slides to your shoulders and holds them in place. His voice lowers. 

“You don’t need…me?” 

“No, that’s not what I’m saying-” 

“So let me help, let me be yours” he pleads. You don’t respond—you can’t. Each explanation you formulate sticks to the roof of your mouth and swells like a spell drunk in your throat. Ajax tenses, clinging to your skin. He reflects on a thought, and it blooms with a twinkle. 

“What if I just...lock you up?” 

“...What?” you say, hardly above a whisper. It’s arid to swallow, and shivers ripple under sweltering heat prickling your limbs. 

“I wouldn’t put you anywhere bad. It’d be a pretty place; I’ll take good care of you like I always do. Wouldn’t you like that?” He has a hopeful grin on his face, and when he lets you go for a second you jerk away from his reach. Your back hits the opposite wall, nauseous and lightheaded, shaking your head aggressively to push away the existence of the idea. He wrenches his neck, and you glimpse the deluded flush on his face. “No... I’m not gonna do that.” 

“Ah, sweetheart, I know it sounds scary. Can we try it first?”  

“You’re not gonna put me in some fucking cage like an animal” you assert. His eyebrows furrow, offended at your assumption that he’d trap you somewhere unpleasant. 

“I’d never do that to you. I love you.” He inches towards you, and you inch farther. The keys are in front of him, you can’t leave on your own. The steps you take feel critical. 

“Let’s sleep on it, we can discuss in the morning.” No. No no no no. You pan to the staircase, and Ajax curiously watches your paranoid glances. Before he can grab you, you sprint for the stairs. Wind travels in your ears and settles at your graceless movement catching hold of the banister, leverage used to leap. Adrenaline flows steadily in your veins, and your senses feel muddled to mush, focused on pushing your legs to proceed. There’s no room for thinking past the will of your body. You hear airy tsks coming from the dining room, and a singsong “Don’t make me chase you, baby.” 

Suddenly, the creaking floorboards succeed at a roaring parade marching behind you. Closer and closer, a sound you didn’t know he possessed. You don’t dare turn around; the squeak waltzes with your deafening heartbeat. You change direction, making haste to the peaceful bedroom you share, now eroding under his hearty stomps. You clash with the door, and barge in. Slamming it shut, your shaky hands promptly lock the knob. Ajax stops in front of the door and lets his fingertips dance along the wood, “Open the door, please.” 

The knob shakes aggressively, rattling in the socket and threatening to pop. It’s pulling against the edges of the door that rive at his harsh yanks. He perpetually pulls and twists it, “Darling, c’mon open the door, my sweet.” You’re sure if you don’t, he’ll axe his way through instead.  

“Please let me in, baby. Please, I’m dying without you.” 

“I don’t wanna fight anymore... please”, his tone barely lifts above the depth of wood, but you hear the faulty voice keeling in cracks. You know you shouldn’t open the door, but his sorrow beckons you as it often does. He wails so hopelessly, as if you’re punishing him for an unavoidable inevitable. It’s an innocent sob peerless to the ruthless violence he displayed hours before; the harrowing glare of the man you thought you knew was all too terrifying. But he’d never do that to you, would he? You’re his darling sweetheart, his infinity now and forever. You filled his divergent heart and sutured it anew. He needs you.  

Though your hands fidget to stay at their sides from common sense tucked in a forgone crevice of your headache, you force your hand up, and turn the knob. Maybe you should’ve never let him into the shop on that cold night, instead bidding him farewell and trudging in the snow to your crumby apartment. You’d continue running the shop as usual with Lyney. Things would’ve been different, wouldn’t have been so complicated to cut loose from tangling lies knotting the more he consumed you.  

But no, that couldn’t have happened. He would find you, it’s destiny that you’d never part. Stalking in bushes and narrow alleyways until the perfect moment he could walk towards you and catch your eye again, and you’d fall for another pass of courting words.  

Ajax stands there with sparkling sadness streaming down his cheeks that mingle with his quivering lips. He drops to his knees instantly in prayer and looks up at you with doey puffy eye bags that nearly make you overlook everything, about Zhongli, about the red flags that grow green the more you squint. It’s just you and him, that’s all it had to be. In times like these you reminisce about the sweet boy you cuddled and confided in, and things feel as they were. The messy-haired Ajax you remember pulls your lower half close to him with large hands that latch onto your waist the more you adjust. His face is mushed to merging in your stomach, and he sighs heavily, taking in your scent like the last breath he’ll ever have. They snake around you, and you meet eyes again. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I love you angel. So much I’d rip my heart out and put it in your hands…. you control me” Desperation clings to Ajax, and you urge to console him. You intertwine your fingers through his hair. 

“Ajax, this can’t happen again. Okay?” you caution, a warning dripping with compassion. 

“Mhm. Okay.” Unexpected warmth blooms over his cold aura, but the light doesn’t reach his eyes. His hands travel the contours of your hips and thighs, occasionally squeezing with an appreciative huff. He parts your legs and dips to your inner thighs to mold the doughy fat as his lips traverse your lower abdomen, decorating it with wanton kisses. “Love you so much” he utters. His touch is impassioned and fluid, he softens underneath your bottom and circles his thumb like a masseur. Ajax takes his time navigating your sensitive points, and switches between fluffy and solid pressure that licks down your back.  Skin to skin contact wasn’t enough, he wanted to crawl in your ribcage and live in your lungs so he could sense your steady breaths. He wanted to bask in your existence, feel the radiance of your touch and ethereal voice curl and melt into him, to make him nothing and all in your eyes. 

Your digits tangle in his hair, and when he nips your tummy, you tug his scalp. “Fuck” Ajax groans, strained through his lips. The peachy wash draping his cheeks is cherubic, appeased by the rhythmic kneading. One hand slinks under your shirt and guides a fingertip vertically on your spine, the other sculpts your rear. It’s dizzying how easy it is for Ajax to captivate you, a trance that turns your knees to jelly and leaves you at his mercy. You ignored the impulse igniting your muscles to push him off. You want him closer, suffocating you so deep the clouds of his scent dismantle your fear. You take his chin and redirect his attention, and he waits for order like a loyal dog.  

“Ajax.” 

“Whatever you want, princess” he toys, that boyish simper releasing butterflies through your body. 

“I want you.” He hoists you up without a word and carries you to the bed. He brings you down, a priceless vase above the pillowy cushioned bedding. “You comfortable?” You nod, blushing from the way Ajax gawks at your half-hiked shirt, and shorts hanging low on your hips. “Good.” He’s breathless, restraining his impulse to pounce and devour you. No matter how restive he was, Ajax usually prevented himself from indulging beyond your comfort; but tonight is different. It's starving while a succulent meal taunts you, only satiated by the sight of it. He hastily removes his shirt and pants, freckled muscles flexing as he discards them to the floor. It’s hard to avoid the growing spot staining his stretched white briefs. Spreading your legs, he crawls between them. He regards you for a second, but when you reach behind his head he plunges into a longing kiss.  

A longing kiss followed by hungrier ones. It’s abruptly rough and needy against your bruising lips, some skimming the corner of your mouth and tracking to the main course. He frees you for a breather, but the space doesn’t subdue the dull ache thrumming in your core. His nose brushes against yours, and you pull his flyaways back to get the full scale of his feral demeanor, sweating and reddening in the unshakable heat.  

You collide again, hands behind your head through the wild exchange. You can’t keep up; he bites your bottom lip and relieves it with the glide of his tongue. Your slow and steady lover begs for entry with a ravenous push, and you allow it to ruin you. The wet appendage invades your senses, explores your mouth in nonsensical shapes and withdraws with a filthy sound before returning. “So. Fucking. Good” he exhales through your intertwining tongues. You’re moaning into each other, lasting in the moment, forgetting everything. His hips start to grind against you, practically dry humping your clothed lower half. You wrap your legs around him and steer his twitching length to roll into you, nudging the inseam of your shorts to your neglected clit. He engulfs your moans, and retreats with strings of spit connecting your tumid lips. 

Ajax descends to your neck, and places damp and eager kisses along it. You feel the piercing remnant of a bite accompanied by sucking. His fangs pinch and snag and make you whimper. A budding purple and blue blend blotches to your collarbone--draining you like a vampire. His hands stay busy committing your curves to memory in greedy gropes. Ajax doesn’t notice his low rambling, “yea, you’d never leave me, right? I’m all you need”, to “you're mine.” It’s overstimulating, and so is the hammering pulse in your clit.  

Your abused neck is exposed to the delicious sweep of cold air, and he hurries to your shirt. In one swoop, it comes off with the impatient unclasp of your bra. He submerges a stiff peak in warmth while he works the other. His tongue swirls around the nipple, pushing in with a stiff tip and trading it for sucking. It elicits a moan where teeth graze and tweak the bud. “My pretty girl” he murmurs and delivers attention to the next. Ajax massages your spit-soaked tits firmly and diligently in fondling motions. His passion renders him shameless, and it encourages you to fold. You find yourself swerving your hips to his bulge to goad his thirst. He responds with languid nudging, and glances at the space inside your shorts, coated with slick film from your panties. Whine caught in his throat, he salivates and unconciously holds your legs apart. You impel him downwards, and he nuzzles the line to the hem of your shorts.  

“Can I taste you, princess?” It had to be hypothetical, since he was already unbuttoning them with his teeth and tearing them off. “Please?” he pants, a half-lidded mess itching to immerse in your desire. Before you can answer, a rrrip shreds through the room; the culprit of your mangled underwear remains, and you shriek. “Ajax!” you scold, but he’s not bothered when he rips the rest of it to display your arousal. “I’ll get you new ones, I’ll buy you the whole store” he sighs, forcing your thighs rearwards with his hands. He angles himself like a sniper and submerses in your pussy. 

Ajax doesn’t rush, he lazily trails his tongue around the outside and plays with the folds shlicking against him. He outlines the clit and meticulously weaves his skillful tongue, caring for the spots that make your back arch; paying special attention to your entrance, as he teasingly delves in just enough to coax a moan, then laps a flat tongue over your wetness. Ajax’s  ministrations are torturous, rapturing all while ignoring your release. He parts the labia and plashes the juices covering his chin and glossy lips. Your heart is in your ears, winding and coiling at the flicks of his tongue, his fingertips forging red indents on your thighs. Ajax begins to rock himself into the mattress, a fleeting friction comforting his sore erection. His leisurely grinding matches the pace of his mouth making out with your pussy. Mmmf he groans, and the vibrations oscillate. He gently slurps your lips, gasping for another mouthful and lapping at your clit. Your back levitates, and you tug his scalp. It only earns another growl, and faster swipes over the sensitive bud. 

“O-oh fuck” you moan, watching Ajax lose his composure and rut himself into the bed like an animal. He’s panting with a quiver, whimpering some rendition of your name until he sputters. He jolts from the material emptying his balls and soaking the sheets, but his energy doesn’t deplete—It seems to motivate him as he hoists you to his mouth. Ajax always prioritizes your pleasure, but it’s difficult to stop him once he’s invested. And he isn’t done feasting, sloppily eating you up with little concern for your fluttering senses. He rides out his orgasm and brings you to yours, and you hardly realize the intoxicating slide over your clit spelling his name. Ajax, Ajax, Ajax, marked into you; It brings you to a chant as you come undone. Ajax doesn’t waste a drop, avidly cleaning up the juices pulsating out. “Thank you, fuck, thank you so much” he whispers. He swills the bud, and you spasm and squirm from ecstasy in his iron grip. “Ajax, p-please.” 

“I got you.” He gives one last French kiss before exiting tranquility. A combination of spit and arousal blankets his mouth, and he smiles like the happiest man alive. “You okay?” Not a thought in fruition, tender mellowness smothering you. You wince from the prolonged position, and he immediately puts you on your side.  

“Need to feel you.” He wrings his underwear down, and reveals his pulsing shaft adorned with beads of come dribbling down the rosy pale tip. He’s above you, trapping one leg over his shoulder, and aligns himself with your sex. “Perfect tits, perfect pussy. You’re so beautiful, all for me.” The bulb slips in effortlessly, and he sighs at the muscle clenching around him. Each inch drives seamlessly into you, stretching your unadjusted frame. He lulls on your ankle, absorbed by the coziness enveloping the base until he bottoms out. Then it’s unmoving. Agonizing, even, the way you feel him twitch inside. “Y-you can move now.” 

“Let’s just stay like this for a little.” He rubs your leg, savoring the serene patter of rain smacking the wide windows and toasty light dusting your dazed appearance. It’s intimate and placid minus the rise and fall of your bodies, and you’re surprisingly shy. You rush to cover your face, but Ajax grabs you. “Don't hide, pretty girl. You’re stunning” he flirts, kissing your hand. 

“Do you love me?” His blinks are exaggerated, confused that you’d ask such an obvious question. 

“Of course.” 

“What do you love about us?” He brings your hand to his cheek. “You complete me. You’ve forgiven me, loved me, and accepted me for who I am. I can be open around you.” He kisses your wrist, silken as to quell the trivial thoughts resurfacing. 

“I’ll love you until the end. I’ll find you in the next life and start all over, even when this universe collapses. I won’t let anyone get in our way, so love me forever.” Ajax pulls out to the tip, and you whine at the loss of wholeness. Then, he drives his sticky cock unhurriedly to the hilt. You mewl, and he palms your chest. “Shh, ‘s okay.” The milky translucent trail links you and erupts obscene syrupy noises. “What are you thinking for baby names?” You can’t focus, the swinging strokes graze your g-spot. You’d say anything to him at this point; you need him deeper. He casually thumbs your clit and continues at a sluggish tempo. “I really like the name Aleksei” In and out, veins embellishing your walls. You meet his thrusts and shudder, though he stops occasionally to redirect the sopping length. 

“A-ahn, you’re so wet, it keeps slipping out” he moans. He picks up the speed, squelching stirring with whimpers. “I love you, honeypot. Sosososo fucking much, just wanna breed this pretty pussy every second of the day. Ah- you wanna be a mommy, yeah? We can have a big family, hah, just you me and the kids. Wouldn’t you like that, darling?” He’s drilling into you, stuffed to bursting. You feel yourself approaching and seize his wrist. “’M close!” 

“Give it to me, fuck, please” Ajax whines, and you climax under him, juices saturating his balls. You don’t get time to recover; he fucks you through your orgasm. You’re reeling, clawing at his forearm when he puts you flat on your back. “Wanna come inside. Can I, please? I want it so bad” he pleads. He adjusts you to a mating press with brute force, and plummets inside.  

It’s vicious, staggering plap’s and squelching audible from outside. The headboard bangs on the wall while he pummels your pussy. A sheen of lust shrouds his eyes, and his heavy balls smack against your ass as he wrecks you. More, more, more drowns him in senseless fucking, precome frothing at the base. You convulse around him, and he burrows full throttle. When his tongue finds yours, you interweave through the sloppy pumps. His balls tighten, and he chases his high frenetically bobbing. “O-oh, fuck, you’re gonna make me come.” Harsher, meaner strokes hit you quick, and Ajax melts into endless whimpers striking his climax. Ropes of thick white paint your insides, teeming to globs where they crowd your pussy and leak to your ass. Ajax bucks into you, and you milk him dry. The shakes eventually stop, and he goes limp on top of you. You feel him softening, his steady inhale. He smiles at you, showering you with affection you couldn’t resist.  

“I should use the bathroom” you suggest, patting his back as a signal to get off. “Sure. Wait here, I’ll get you cleaned up.” He returns after an eternity, with cloudy water and a tepid towel. 

“Here, drink this.” You take the cup and sip. Ajax tips it a bit, urging you to gulp. He wipes you down lovingly while you swallow the contents. He disregards your vulva, however, collecting the come on his fingers and pushing it in. Oddly, you’re leaden—insanely leaden, so much so that your head tilts to one side and threatens to give up entirely. Your knees are wobbly, and your bones are lost in a dreamlike state. Ajax passes the towel under your chest.  

“You know, I didn’t feel bad about it, when I strung his guts across the wall. I only thought of you.”  

No. It can’t be true. 

You can’t scream or fight, and simply gape at the words hulking through your numbed rationale. The towel cools your sweat, but the fear persists.  

“I met him behind your complex. He was bitching about rent, sleazy fucking scum. I asked him if you live there, and he went on a rant about it. Saying nasty stuff no one should ever say about you. I couldn't help it, (Y/N), I had to see his organs carved out of his body.” Your jackhammering heart doesn’t compare to your sloth behavior. You want to run, move in with your parents again and pretend; pretend like your life hasn’t been propelled into disarray, pretend that the ginger boy caressing your face didn’t butcher a man.  

“Ajax, let me go” you cried, a teardrop coursing across your temple. He wipes it, “I’m not holding you, dear. You can’t stand on your own right now, but the effect will wear off after you sleep. Rest for now, okay sweetie?” 

“What did you put...in my...” You’re swooning, ferried by the effect of the unknown medicine sprinkled in your cup. With no will to combat, your eyes reluctantly close. His pupils are desolate and obscure, the night of a severe blizzard. 

“I’m sorry, but I won’t make the same mistake twice.” 

tags: @zhochikennugget (if anyone else would like to be tagged, dm and i'll tag you on the next one :)

[terriblesoup]

Beneath the maple tree

A/N: what do you mean it's sylus' birthday and I write nothing of it, that is unacceptable. I wanted to write something because the birthday trailer showed this card like the happy version of what could have been for that shared dream in "where drakeshadows fall"

Synopsis: Mc surprises sylus by remembering their past on his birthday

Words: 1.8k

tags: sfw, fluff? it's soft.

The day unfolded like a slow breath, golden light pouring down from a sky as soft as milk and honey. In the far corner of a garden dressed in late spring, beneath the proud arch of a maple tree just beginning to turn amber at its tips, she worked.

Her hands moved with the quiet joy of someone preparing something sacred. A table stood under the tree's watchful limbs, draped in pale linen and ribbon, the edge dancing in the wind. On it, she had placed everything he loved: pancakes warm and dusted with powdered sugar, a stack of honey-buttered toast, little glass jars of wildberry syrup, a cake nestled in cream and rose petals. There were cups, two of them, porcelain with blue ivy around the rim. Flowers had been gathered, roses the color of blushing peaches and soft butter, scattered about like offerings.

Beneath it all, at the foot of the table, a blanket spread wide upon the grass, where blossoms had already fallen and mingled with the woven threads. She knelt there for a moment, smoothing it, tucking the corners like one might a cradle. Her heart was light in her chest, thudding fast and full. Her hands smelled faintly of syrup and blooms.

She looked up the path every few minutes, listening. She had told him to meet her here, had said only that she wanted to give him something gentle, something meant for him alone. No city lights, no mission clocks ticking behind his back. Just her, and sweetness, and the rustle of wind through maple leaves.

A bird sang above, trilling soft and clear. She turned toward the sound, then back to the path. The waiting, in truth, was its own kind of delight.

Because she could already picture him, head tilted in wonder as he approached, eyes softening as they always did when he saw her, the ghost of a smile pressing into his lips as he realized she had made all this, for him.

And when he came, because he would come, and soon, she would take his hand, sit him down among the flowers, feed him strawberries and maple syrup from her fingers. She would lean her head against his shoulder and let the breeze carry their laughter far beyond the trees. And when the sun began to dip, and the sky melted into violet, she would press her lips to his ear and whisper a wish only he would hear.

But for now, she waited, sunlight on her face and hope blooming in her chest like the roses around her.

It was his day, and she had made a world of it just for him.

She heard the faint hush of footsteps in the grass, and when she turned, he was there, Sylus, his frame framed by the dappled shade, eyes catching hers with a light she’d never seen anywhere else. The corner of his mouth curved, not quite a smile, more a breath of feeling, too full for words.

"You found me," she said, voice warm as the honeyed air.

He stepped forward, and she met him halfway. Standing before him, her hands sought his, lacing her fingers through his with the care of someone handling something precious. His hands closed around hers, slow and certain. He looked down at her, at the brightness in her gaze, the way she nearly bounced on her toes, and leaned forward until his forehead touched hers.

Then, a gentle nudge: his nose brushed hers, tender and quick, a silent greeting too dear for words. Her breath caught in a laugh, and he exhaled like he’d been holding it in all day.

"Come on," she said, tugging his hands. "There’s something I want to show you."

And so she led him, step by step, toward the table she’d made for him, toward the sweet, syrup-laced dream she had woven from love and maple leaves and red rose-colored joy.

The afternoon drifted gently into memory, its edges soaked in amber and the soft perfume of flowers, but Sylus would hold it whole for a long time yet. Even now, as dusk stretched her arms over the sky, he could still feel her fingers wrapped in his, the imprint of warmth lingering where their palms had met.

He had not known what to expect when she told him to meet her in the gardens. He had walked there with quiet steps, mind full of shadows, memories of long nights where he had once imagined her voice turning sharp with disdain, imagined her gaze pulling away, unable to bear what he was. And yet, it had been her gaze that held him today, steady as a sunbeam, full of the gentle ache that only love could wear.

She had made a world for him beneath that maple tree. Every detail sang with her care, from the ivory ribbons tied around the cake stand to the way she had spread the blanket with hands that trembled ever so slightly. For him. She had done it for him. And he had never been more aware of the miracle of her forgiveness.

There was a time he would have believed himself ruined in her eyes, that the weight of what he had done, of what he had been shaped to be, would drive her away. But today she had held his hands as though they had never been used to harm, only to hold. She had smiled at him as if there had never been a time he had doubted her heart, or his own.

And when she stood before him, eyes bright, her fingers catching his as if she’d waited lifetimes just to do that, he had felt something inside him ease. He had leaned into her like he was falling into something soft and safe, and she had let him. Her lips touched his, and in that fleeting touch, the years of hunger, of aching to be near her, finally softened into something tender, something real.

She had fed him strawberries and syrup, laughing each time the sweetness stuck to his lips. He had wiped it away with the back of his hand until she caught it and did it for him, her thumb warm, her gaze unflinching. He had let her. That alone, letting her, was more of a gift than he could ever name.

He had spent so long thinking he must atone, endlessly and alone. But here she was, giving him her day, her time, her joy. Celebrating his existence. When once he had thought himself unworthy of being seen, she had looked at him like he was the most precious thing in the world.

He took pride in how easily she fit into his arms now, how easily she smiled when she caught him staring. Pride in being allowed to touch her hand without hesitation, to feel her lean into his shoulder like she belonged there.

And she did. She did.

As the sky grew dark and the first stars scattered across the velvet sky, Sylus let his eyes fall closed, her laughter still curling in the hollows of his chest. There had been a time he thought she might never forgive him. Now, she sat at his side, humming soft, her fingers carding through his hair.

He didn’t need to ask if she meant it. He could feel it. And in that feeling, he found peace.

For once, he did not yearn. He simply was. And she was with him.

Wildflowers bloomed in quiet riot around them, lavender and blush-pink, a little overgrown but gentle under their feet. The air carried the perfume of new grass and warm bread, and somewhere in the distance, a stream murmured like a lullaby only the earth knew.

Sylus sat beside her, one arm behind her on the blanket, fingers occasionally brushing her hair, her shoulder. She brought more than food, more than the small gifts tucked into the basket. She brought something more fragile, an ache buried deep beneath his ribs, something he couldn’t name.

He didn't know when it began, only that it stirred in him when she laughed softly and reached for the fruit he had sliced, or when she leaned into his side like it was the most natural place for her to be.

This meadow, this light, this moment, it felt like a memory not of this life, but one long folded in time.

He looked around them and felt a ghost rise: the dream. The one they’d shared once beneath moonlight and figment, standing in a place so much like this one, endless red blooms, wind full of petals, the hush of time pausing to watch them. A dream he’d clutched to himself for longer than he cared to admit. A place he had always feared was only ever real within sleep.

And yet… here they were.

He picked up a small piece of the red feather-shaped cake she had prepared, the fork cutting neatly into the soft glaze. He brought it toward her with care, his other hand steadying the plate in his lap. But just as she leaned in, she smiled softly and set her hand on his. Gently, she took the plate and placed it aside.

Her legs, already tucked beside her, shifted. She moved closer, her knees brushing his thigh, then resting there, her skirt folding between them. She came to rest so near he could feel the heat of her skin through the summer air.

He welcomed it.

He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her closer still, cradling her easily, instinctively. She brought her hand to his cheek, her palm warm and sure, her thumb brushing beneath his eye. And when she spoke, it was with a voice tender as a secret:

"I'm glad this is no longer just a dream."

He stilled.

The words fell like petals, weightless yet heavy with meaning.

And slowly, like dawn seeping into night, realization bloomed across his expression. The parting of lips. The slight tremble of his gaze.

She remembered.

Not just the dream, but before that.

His heart thundered, soft and reverent.

She remembered the way they were. Once, long ago, in a life steeped in magic and fate. They had defied time and prophecy, drawn together by a love the stars themselves tried to smother. Their union had sparked doom, their closeness a curse. And still, he had looked at her then as he did now, with that same aching tenderness, the same reverence that had always made her heart falter.

And now, here she was, flesh and real and warm against his side, her fingers cupping his face like he was something precious.

He turned his face slightly into her touch, eyes fluttering closed. A small, almost disbelieving smile lifted his lips, touched with awe.

He didn’t need to ask.

He didn’t need her to say more.

In this moment, cradled between sun and shadow, surrounded by the flowers of their dreams, he knew.

And he held her closer.

Because finally, finally, they were not dreaming.

And neither of them had to wake.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

[angeliccss]

Take the Lead, Mama

Pairing: Mama Rose/Reader

Words: 3.5k

Summary: Backstage after a show, Rose finds you exactly where she wants—eager, trembling, and looking at her like she hung the moon. She decides to put on a different kind of performance. One just for the two of you.

Warnings: Older Woman/Younger Woman, Rough Sex, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, Hair-pulling, Thigh riding, Rough make out sesh, Dom/sub Undertones, Semi-Public Sex, Praise Kink

AO3

AN: This is inspired by one of @anthewitch beautiful drawings.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Not backstage. Not alone with her. Not pressed up against the vanity, legs shaking, lip bitten raw.

But ever since that night—when she’d stepped between you and your no-good boyfriend like she’d been waiting for the excuse—you hadn’t left her side.

He’d grabbed your wrist too hard outside the stage door. Thought no one would notice. Thought you wouldn’t scream. You didn’t have to. Because she was there. And Rose doesn’t wait for permission.

He ended up on the pavement with her heel in his gut and her voice like a whip through the air—“Touch her again, and I’ll feed you your own teeth, you little son of a bitch.”

After that you hadn’t left her side. You trailed her like a second shadow, clutching her coat, carrying her purse, fetching her smokes, falling asleep curled on her couch with one of her girls draped over you like a cat. She never told you to leave.

And tonight? She made sure you stayed. The show had ended. The theater emptied. And the second June and Louise were gone, she’d turned the dressing room bolt with a click that sounded final.

Now, she was in front of you, taking her time as she rolled her sleeves up to the elbow, fingers flexing. Her lipstick was half-faded, but her smirk wasn’t. You could smell the stage on her—powder, sweat, the heat of lights—and beneath that, something darker. Something hungry.

"You were watchin’ me like a girl starvin’ through a bakery window,” she said, voice a rasp that scraped down your spine. “So here I am. Eat.” Your breath caught. She stepped closer.

“I see everything,” she murmured, running one hand up your thigh, her nails rough like she didn’t care if she left marks. “You think I didn’t notice you starin’? You think I didn’t know what you were beggin’ for every time you said ‘thank you, Miss Rose’ like your knees were already halfway to the floor? You think I didn’t hear how you moaned my name when you thought I was asleep on the couch?”

Your eyes widened. “Oh, honey.” Her smirk curved like a dagger. “You’re not subtle. Not with me.” She grabbed your chin, made you look at her. Those eyes—so hard behind the stage, so blazing right now. “Say it.”

“Say...what?” Her grin widened. Cruel. Pleased.

“What you want, sweetheart. You think I’m here to be sweet?” A laugh, bitter and low. “No. You want sweet, you go find yourself a boyfriend who won’t raise his hand. But you came to me. You want somethin’ real? You get rough. You get Mama.”

She gripped your chin, hard enough to make you gasp, and tilted your head back.

“I know what he did to you. I saw it in the way you flinched, the way you waited for me to get mad when you spilled coffee on my script.” Her voice dipped low, dark with steel. “He taught you to be small.”

Her thumb brushed your lip, then pressed in hard, claiming, cruel, perfect. “Well. I don’t do small. I don’t do scared. You want Mama? Then you stand up, you take it, and you don’t make me ask twice.”

You nodded, quick, eager, but she grabbed your hair, twisted it until your scalp prickled. “Words, baby.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“…Yes, Mama.” Her hand fisted in your hair and she shoved you gently—but firmly—down to your knees.

“There. That’s where you belong.” She stepped in front of you, pulling her blouse open, exposing her sharp hourglass silhouette like it was a reward she’d earned by surviving. “You don’t get anything 'til I say. You don’t touch ‘til I say.”

She leaned in, nose brushing yours, lips barely touching. “You don’t get to beg. Not yet. You don’t get to touch. Not until I say. That mouth of yours?” She tapped your lips twice. “That belongs to me tonight.”

Then she leaned down and bit your neck—sharp, fast, marking you like a signature on a contract. You cried out, and she laughed under her breath like you were the best damn encore she’d ever earned. “Oh, honey,” she said, cupping your jaw, dragging her thumb over your cheek like she was marking you. “You got no idea what you’ve signed up for.”

She dragged you back to your feet just to slam you down into her vanity chair. The bulbs above your head cast a golden halo on her curls as she straddled you, all thigh and intent, corset spilling open, tits pushed high. The edge of a garter caught the light.

You looked up at her, breathless, already undone. “I don’t care what he told you,” she growled. “You don’t belong to him anymore.” Her hand slid between your legs—slow, then hard, just to hear the whimper punch out of your throat.

“You belong to Mama now.”

She watched you fall apart under her grip with a smile that wasn’t sweet, it was satisfied. Like this was the payoff of something she’d earned, fought for, bled through.

Her fingers were rough through the fabric, not teasing—claiming. You whimpered under her touch and she grinned, broad and vicious.

“Mm. That’s it, baby. Let it out. He made you quiet, didn’t he?” Her hand tightened on your thigh. “Well, I don’t want quiet. I want the whole damn orchestra.”

You gasped as she shoved your skirt up and leaned back in your lap, taking you in with narrowed eyes. She looked good like that, sprawled over you like a queen, corset half-undone, smirk sharp enough to draw blood.

Her expression flickered then—just for a second. Not soft. But raw. “Goddamn,” she muttered. “All my life, I put the wrong people on stage.” You blinked up at her, confused. She met your eyes—dark, burning. Her voice dropped.

“I could’ve done it, you know. I should’ve. Every time I dressed those girls, every goddamn song they sang... that should’ve been me.” She sat back further, legs spread, corset undone just enough to make your mouth go dry. “But nobody ever wanted to see Mama. Just wanted what she could make.”

The silence that followed cracked with tension. She wasn’t asking for sympathy. She was daring you to look away. You didn’t.

And that was when she smiled. Slow. Dangerous. “Get on the floor.” You slid off the chair before she’d finished the sentence. Knees hitting the worn dressing room rug.

“That’s better,” she purred, spreading her legs wider. “Mama’s the star tonight.” Your hands trembled as you reached for her garters—she slapped them away.

“Did I say you could touch?” Her voice snapped like a whip. “Look up at me.” You obeyed. Her thighs framed your face now, and her eyes were molten.

“You’re gonna keep your hands behind your back. Mouth only. That pretty little thing is gonna sing for me. And you’re gonna make me feel like I belong on that damn stage.”

You nodded—breathless, shaking, ruined. “Words, baby.”

“Yes, Mama.” And then she pulled her panties aside like a curtain. You buried your face between her thighs like it was prayer, and she let out a sound that was half-growl, half-moan. The vanity lights caught her flushed skin, the curve of her breasts spilling from the corset, the wild fire in her eyes.

You couldn’t see yourself, but you felt the picture she made of you: on your knees, obedient, worshipful. A little star-struck.

It was her show now.

She gripped your hair in both hands, grinding against your mouth, controlling every motion. You licked, sucked, gasped for air—and she didn’t slow down.

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” she groaned, hips rocking forward. “Louder. I want the whole goddamn theater to know who owns you now.”

You moaned into her and she shuddered, thighs closing around your head like a curtain on opening night. “That’s it. That’s Mama’s encore.”

When she came, she didn’t cry out—she roared, one hand flying to the vanity table as the other fisted in your hair and held.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t choreographed. It was earned. And when she came down, chest heaving, she looked down at you, lip curled, smug, victorious.

She cupped your chin and tilted your face up to hers. “Well,” she said, grinning, breath still shaky, “I guess I can be the star of the show after all.”

Your knees ached. Your lips were wet with her. You stayed where she left you, kneeling, hands behind your back, chest rising and falling like you’d just come off a five-minute number.

She didn’t speak for a while. Just leaned back in the vanity chair and let her thighs fall open, savoring the afterglow with the same smugness she’d wear if she’d just closed a deal or sold out a house.

And then, slowly, like you weren’t even there, she turned towards the mirror. She pulled open a little compact with a cracked lid, still sitting spread in her open corset like she had all the time in the world. Her lipstick case clicked open. She applied it without needing to check her lines.

She smeared, blotted, smoothed. Rubbed a thumb under her eye. Dusted powder along her jaw. Re-pinned a loose curl. One heel still dangled from her foot like an afterthought.

The room smelled like her: hot skin, sweat, expensive powder and lust. You didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare speak. She liked it that way. You watched her like a sinner in church.

When she was finished—lipstick redone, hair fluffed, corset laced tighter than ever—she looked down at you through the mirror.

The corner of her mouth curled. “Well,” she said, in that same dry, rasping drawl. “Would ya look at that.” She turned in the chair, legs crossed now, one hand cupping her chin like she was judging a contest.

“You down there all quiet… all messy…” She tilted her head. “That’s a better sight than anything I’ve seen onstage in twenty years.”

You felt the flush crawl up your neck. She leaned forward, hand reaching out to trace the edge of your jaw, rough but not cruel, just appraising.

“You did real good tonight, sweetheart.” Her thumb slid across your bottom lip. “Real obedient. Real pretty.” Then, a pause—long enough to sting. “Maybe you deserve a reward.”

You swallowed hard. Her grin widened, slow and knowing. “Get up.” You obeyed, legs trembling as you stood. She watched every inch of you rise like she was deciding what to do with you.

When you were fully upright, standing in front of her, she reached out and grabbed your waist. Pulled you between her knees. Tilted her chin up and locked eyes.

“You wanna know what it is?” she asked. “Your reward?” You nodded. She smiled. Then she yanked you down into her lap, hard, until you were straddling her, hips flush. Her hands slid up your back—possessive, rough. “You get to cum on Mama’s thigh.”

“Alright,” she said, voice like the flick of a match. “Go on, then. Show me how bad you want it.”

You moved like you couldn’t help it—dragging your hips forward, then back, slow and shaky, pressure blooming sharp between your legs. Her thigh, warm and strong beneath you, was unyielding. You tried to breathe but it came out broken.

She didn’t move to help. Just leaned back in the chair, one leg still propped under you, watching with a hunger that made your skin flush.

“That’s it,” she murmured, eyes fixed on your face. “God, look at you. Already wrecked and I’ve barely touched you.”

Her hand slid up your side, knuckles grazing under your shirt, not guiding—just there. Just reminding you who put you there.

“You’ve been chasing this, haven’t you?” she said. “All that time you looked at me like I was something you weren’t allowed to want. And now?”

Her thigh tensed, just slightly, and you gasped, hips stuttering. “Now you’re gonna lose it right here.” You bit your lip, struggling to stay quiet, but she caught your chin in two fingers and tilted your face toward hers.

“No. Don’t hide from Mama.” Her eyes were molten. Her voice dropped to a rasp. “I want to see every second of you coming apart.”

Your hips ground down harder now, friction just right, sharp and overwhelming. She didn’t stop you, but didn’t speed you up either. She let you work for it, let you struggle.

“You’re not even thinking anymore, are you?” she breathed. “Just feeling. Just chasing. Like you’re starving.” You nodded, dazed.

Her thumb traced the corner of your mouth. “You wanna finish?” You nodded again, desperate. She leaned in until her breath brushed your cheek. “Then show Mama you can earn it.” That broke something in you.

You moved faster now, more ragged, rhythm dissolving into need. She kept her eyes on you the whole time—sharp, steady, ravenous. Her leg tensed just enough to keep the pressure constant, every roll of your hips a plea.

“Good,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “That’s good. Just like that.” And when you came, body trembling, gasping into her shoulder like a confession, she didn’t soften. She just held you there, one hand gripping your waist, the other brushing your hair back, slow and possessive.

You collapsed against her, still straddling her lap, boneless and wrecked. She exhaled—long and low—and let the silence stretch for a beat. Then she murmured, with a smirk you could feel against your cheek: “Now that was a performance worth watching.”

She let you collapse against her, your breath still catching in your throat, body trembling from the effort of holding back and then giving in so completely. Her hand slid slowly up your spine, smoothing the sweat-soaked fabric of your shirt, grounding you. And when your head tipped forward—dazed, breathless—she caught your chin.

Tilted it up. “Look at me.” You did. Your eyes met hers, and something in her face had changed, not softer, exactly, but clearer. Focused. Like she was done watching now. Ready to do something about what she saw.

And then she kissed you. Firm. Claiming. A kiss like a stamp: mine. She tasted like lipstick and heat and salt. She didn’t rush it. Didn’t let you lead. She took your mouth like she’d already decided you belonged to her.

And when she finally pulled back, just enough to speak, her voice was low and steady. “I want more.” Your breath hitched.

“I want to feel you,” she said, thumb brushing your cheek like a brand. “Not just like this.” Her hand slid down, across your waist, lower. “I want to feel you from the inside.” She paused, watching your face, eyes glittering. “I want to take you apart properly this time.”

You swallowed hard, your whole body already starting to respond again, twitching to life under her touch. She smiled—slow and sure—and stood, keeping you steady with a hand at your waist.

“Come on.” Her lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a rasp. “Get on the couch.”

She didn’t give you time to answer. Just took your wrist and guided you toward the velvet couch against the far wall. Worn, narrow, and still warm from her sitting there earlier. She sat first, legs spread, corset pressing tight against her ribs, then pulled you down on top of her like she’d rehearsed it.

Her hands were everywhere—spreading over your hips, dragging your skirt up, fingers digging into the soft curve of your ass. “Straddle me.” You did, heart thudding, thighs still trembling as you settled over her again—this time, with nothing between you but breath and heat and the ache of want.

She looked up at you, something fierce in her eyes. “Take your damn time,” she said. “I want to feel every inch of it.”

Your breath caught as you rocked your hips forward, positioning yourself just right. She guided you. Not roughly, but firmly, like she owned every second of this. Like she’d been waiting to claim you proper.

And then—slow, aching—you sank down onto her fingers. She let out a breath through her teeth, head tipping back just a little, eyes closing as you took her in. “There you go,” she muttered, low and ragged. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You gasped, muscles tightening around her as she pressed deeper, the stretch intense after the tease of before, but her voice kept you grounded. “You feel that, baby?” she whispered. “That’s me. Inside you. Right where I belong.”

Her other hand gripped your waist, steadying you, while her fingers inside you curled just right, slow and deliberate, like she was reading you—learning how you worked, what made you writhe.

You moved with her, hips rocking slow, mouth falling open with each pulse of pressure. Her eyes drank you in. “God, you’re beautiful like this,” she said. “Dripping for me. Shaking for it.”

Her thumb brushed against your clit, cruel and perfect, and you cried out—not loud, but sharp. She hushed you with a kiss, hand still working between your legs. “You’re gonna cum for me again,” she said, voice rough. “And this time, I want to feel every second of it.”

You buried your face in her neck, your breath stuttering, and she held you—tight and focused—every thrust of her fingers pushing you closer, deeper, until it was all heat and pressure and her voice in your ear: “Let go, sweetheart. Give it to me.” And you did.

You came with a gasp, full-body, thighs clenching around her, hips jerking helplessly as her hand kept you steady through the waves. She didn’t stop until you collapsed against her, breathless and boneless, your body trembling from how thoroughly she’d taken you apart.

You were still sprawled across the couch, legs tangled in your skirt, body loose and twitching from aftershocks, when she finally pulled her hand from between your thighs and exhaled. Not breathless. Not disheveled. Just satisfied.

She leaned in, pressed a kiss to your jaw, and then stood. You barely managed to look up as she turned toward the vanity and began fixing her makeup again, cool as you’d ever seen her. Red lipstick reapplied. Powder patted smooth. A hand through her curls, fluffing them back into place.

Like she hadn’t just pulled you apart with her fingers. Like you weren’t still dripping, legs spread on the couch, barely breathing.

“You looked real good like that,” she said, catching your eyes in the mirror. “Didn’t think you could be even prettier when you’re beggin’, but I stand corrected.”

She smirked as she adjusted the collar of her coat—black, structured, tailored within an inch of its life. Then she stepped back over to you, still collapsed, dazed, your thighs trembling.

Her hand came down, brushing back a sweat-damp strand of hair from your face. “Good girl.” You shivered. “C’mon,” she said, voice softer now, but no less commanding. “Let’s get you home.”

You tried to move. Your knees buckled. She caught you before you could fall, steady hands at your waist. “You’re gonna feel that for a while,” she murmured, not even pretending to hide her pride. “Hope you didn’t have plans to walk straight tomorrow.”

You managed a breathless laugh against her shoulder, and she let you lean into her as she guided you out of the dressing room. One hand stayed tight at your waist.

Her coat was warm against your side. She didn’t wait for you to adjust your skirt or fix your hair before she tugged you toward the alley entrance behind the theater.

A cab was already waiting—she must’ve called it somewhere between kissing you and wrecking you. The moment the door shut behind you, she dragged you across the seat and onto her lap, coat parting, your thigh sliding over hers again like instinct.

“You think I’m finished with you?” she whispered, mouth already at your neck. You gasped, your hands bracing against her chest, but she caught your wrist and held it down.

“Driver doesn’t need to see a thing. Sit still.” Then she kissed you. Hot, deep, and full of intent. Her hand slipped behind your neck, angling you just how she liked, and you moaned into her mouth, thighs clenched tight, breath already picking up again.

Her tongue teased yours—slow, possessive, her hand gripping your thigh through your skirt like she was still thinking about the dressing room. Like she was already planning what she’d do when she got you inside.

“You taste like sweat and desperation,” she said, lips grazing your jaw. “I could keep you like this all night.”

The cab jolted to a stop. She smoothed her coat, fixed your collar, then opened the door without a word, like she hadn’t just kissed you within an inch of coherence.

You followed, legs barely steady, breath still catching. She didn’t wait—just took your hand, led you up the steps to the front door, and said with a wicked grin: “You’re sleeping in my bed tonight.”

[shirefantasies]

This Means War- Elrond x Wife!Reader

Just a little drabble as requested by an anon! This heat where I live is the perfect time for this request ❄️

Gripping Elrond's arm, you steadied yourself, straightening slippery feet beneath you. The thick layer of snow draped over the ground glittered like a cracked geode, but it rendered travel difficult. Luckily your lord, your beloved, remained steadfast at your side, his pure-white robes, delicate silver circlet, and most of all kindhearted smile all outshone the snow by far. Even the gentle blue of your husband's eyes seemed illuminated against the bright shine of the fresh fall upon the ground.

Elrond chuckled lowly, meeting your eyes as his turned upward merrily. You joined him in laughter, bright sound filling the air quite visibly in puffs curling into the chill air. Sides brushing, you strode as best you could across the crunching wintry ground, taking in the soaring pines with their blanketed needles.

This country was new to you, a place far from Rivendell in all respects. Never did snow fall upon your fair valley, marring it with cold. And yet, you thought as you looked upon the shine of all around you, perhaps it would illuminate it all the brighter. You realized, though, when you peered at your husband once more that nowhere would shine so as when you two could be side by side.

Rushes of sentimentality did nothing to dissuade the utter childlike wonder drifting to you across the pine-scented air. Childlike. Mental gears turned, bringing another more mischievous smile alight.

Trailing behind your husband, you dipped your hand in the snow, shivering at the cold but gathering more instead of balking at it. Soon the sting equalized upon your fingertips, which held and packed a nice little ball. A lovely little ball you promptly tossed into Elrond’s back, glistening ice bursting against and sliding down his white robe, blending in even as it soaked in spots.

You saw the way Elrond’s eyebrows rose when he swiveled to face you, but an exasperated smile teased upon your husband’s lips.

“Quite a declaration of war, my dear.”

Before you knew it, he was chasing you, grinning at the giggles escaping your frosty lips every time he tossed return snow volleys. You fired plenty more as well, your worst casualty descending upon your failure to dodge a snowball to the neck. Shuddering as cold moisture slid beneath your collar, you scooped and tossed as hard as you could.

Splat!

Looking back up from your bent, braced posture, you were met with the sight of your husband splattered aside the neck…and the head! A bit of snow crowned his dark hair alongside the dignified circlet, bringing full laughter forward from you.

Shaking his head, he fixed you with a much more focused look. Your undoing and yet you would enjoy it so! …Hopefully. Grinning a blend of sheepish and impish, you ran from the great bundle of snow Elrond amassed, using his steady feet upon the fall to catch up to you the moment your own betrayed you.

Sliding down before catching yourself on your knees, you were met by your husband, who tipped a rain of snow down upon you. Undeterred, you took both of his hands in yours, pulling him down to your side. Giggling, you powdered him with snow, too, stopping only when he leaned in and rubbed his nose against yours, the motion raising a tinge of warmth to the chilled flush of your face.

“You fought bravely,” he teased, voice low and humming against the shell of your ear.

“But who was the victor?” You asked him, turning to face one another again.

Powder faintly drifted from the clouds, dusting your adjacent figures. Smatterings of browned pine needles littered the pure white surface, interrupting the seemingly unending sea. Elrond chuckled, caressing the side of your head and easing it upon his shoulder. In response, you leaned up to press a quick kiss to his neck.

“I daresay we both have won,” your husband replied, taking your hand to rise as one from the sky’s glittering gift.

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[luvdwkki]

Jeongin - Just Us

Jeongin x Gn!reader

Word count: 3,657

Synopsys: When Jeongin comes home from a long day, he doesn’t expect to find a rooftop transformed into a glowing nest of fairy lights, pizza, and love. With nothing but the stars above and each other below, the night becomes one you’ll never forget

The rooftop was magic.

It wasn’t extravagant or Pinterest-perfect, but it felt like something out of a dream. A quiet little world you’d built just for the two of you.

You’d spent the last hour fussing over every single detail, more than once rearranging the same blanket pile before undoing and redoing it again. The fairy lights you’d strung up twinkled softly now, their warm yellow glow casting gentle shadows against the makeshift canopy of cushions and throws. A few strands blinked a little too enthusiastically, no matter how many times you tried to adjust them, but somehow… It worked.

There were mismatched bowls filled with snacks like popcorn, chocolate-covered almonds, sour gummies, and those honey-dipped pretzels Jeongin always devoured like a squirrel hoarding food for winter. Two paper plates sat on a wooden tray beside a large pizza box, still warm. And next to that, two oversized mugs of hot chocolate that were practically overflowing with mini marshmallows, the kind that slowly melted into sweet clouds.

A single candle flickered beside it all, not for light but for vibe. Low, golden, and soft enough to make your heart flutter.

It was casual, but not. Chill, but not. This was something you'd imagined a dozen times. Lying under the stars with him, no real plan except being close. You’d just never thought you'd actually do it. But tonight, something inside you had whispered, why not?

And now it was real.

You checked everything one last time, brushing invisible lint from the blanket, turning the candle a few degrees, fluffing one last pillow. Then you gave yourself a tiny, ridiculous fist pump and padded downstairs to wait for him.

You sat on the couch and tried to act normal with your phone in hand, scrolling through nonsense, but not reading a word. Your fingers were jittery, your heartbeat quick. Every sound outside made you perk up. And when the door finally opened, your head snapped up so fast you almost dropped your phone.

“Jeongin!” you called out, a little too fast, jumping to your feet before he could even step inside fully.

He stepped in with a gust of autumn air behind him, cheeks rosy from the cold, wind-tousled hair falling into his eyes, the strap of his bag sliding off his shoulder in that loose, careless way he always wore it. He froze in the entryway for a beat, blinking at you, and then broke into a wide grin.

That grin. The one that took over his whole face, made his eyes crinkle and his dimples show. The kind of smile that made your knees feel like they forgot how to work.

“Why do you look like you’re about to pull a rabbit out of a hat?” he teased, cocking an eyebrow and kicking off his shoes.

You didn’t answer. You just crossed the room and wrapped your arms around his neck, rising up on your toes as you kissed him. His hair smelled faintly like baby powder. A soft and familiar smell as it tickled your cheek when he leaned down.

He kissed you back slowly, his hands finding your waist with practiced ease, drawing you in as if you hadn’t seen each other in days instead of hours. His touch was warm, anchoring. Steady in a way your nerves weren’t.

When you pulled away, just enough to meet his eyes, his smile lingered. “Not that I’m complaining,” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours, “but what’s going on? Did I miss an anniversary or something?”

Your stomach flipped… again. “Nope,” you said, trying to keep your voice light despite the flutter in your chest. “But... I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” His brows lifted, lips twitching.

You nodded, reaching down to take his hand. “You just have to trust me.”

He let you pull him toward the stairs, his fingers sliding easily into yours, warm and familiar and just the right amount of grounding.

“Wait…is it food?” he asked, squeezing your hand playfully. “Because I can smell pizza and now I’m emotionally invested.”

You didn’t answer, just kept walking. You could feel his smile behind you even without turning around.

“…WAIT, are we eloping?” he added dramatically. “Because I really think I should’ve worn something nicer if we’re going to get married on the roof.”

You turned and shot him a look over your shoulder. “Shut up and go with it.”

He laughed. That hearty gaspy laugh he always did when he knew he was getting under your skin on purpose. But his grip didn’t loosen. If anything, he tugged you a little closer, his thumb brushing across your knuckles like he couldn’t help it.

As you reached the rooftop door, you paused for a moment, the nerves fluttering back in your chest. But when you looked back at him, he was already watching you. His eyes warm, smile wide, like you’d just given him the world and he didn’t even know what was coming next.

“You’re smiling like an idiot,” you muttered.

He shrugged. “Can’t help it. You look like a rom-com lead about to change my life.”

You rolled your eyes. “Stupid.”

“You like it.”

You did.

You really, really did.

And as you opened the door, your heart skipped again, though not because you were nervous about what he’d think, but because you already knew this was going to be one of those nights. The kind you’d replay over and over again for years.

The rooftop door creaked open as you pushed it gently, the cold air brushing against your skin in a hush of anticipation. You stepped aside, heart fluttering in your chest like it hadn’t quite decided whether to be excited or terrified, and nodded for him to go first.

Jeongin gave your hand one last curious squeeze before stepping out into the quiet night.

He didn’t say anything at first.

His footsteps slowed the second he crossed the threshold. His hand stayed wrapped around yours, like he needed that anchor as his gaze swept across the space.

The fairy lights glowed softly, casting warm golden halos over everything they touched. Their reflections danced faintly in his dark eyes as he took in the blanket nest you had made, layered and crumpled like something out of a sleepy daydream. The pillows you had fluffed and re-fluffed now looked perfectly, effortlessly undone. The flickering candlelight spilled across the snacks and pizza, the steam still rising faintly from the mugs of hot chocolate nearby. Over all of it, the night sky stretched wide and impossibly deep, stars scattered across the navy expanse like glitter someone had thrown from heaven.

The music you had queued up drifted in softly from your speaker, humming just beneath the stillness. It was mellow and slow, the kind of sound that tugged at the heart even when no one was speaking.

You stood a little behind him, watching his face more than the scene. Noticing the way his eyebrows twitched just slightly as his eyes moved from the lights to the food to the soft, glowy mess of everything. How his lips parted, like he meant to say something but forgot how words worked.

His grip on your hand tightened slightly.

And then he turned to look at you, really look at you, and his whole expression softened like something inside him had melted.

“Wait…” he said quietly, his voice just above a whisper. “Did you… did you do all this yourself?”

You ducked your head a little, suddenly aware of every breath, every sound. You felt his eyes on you like sunlight through a window, warm, gentle, and a little overwhelming.

“Yeah…” you murmured, glancing toward the lights, then back at him. “Do you… like it?”

There was a beat where he didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on you, unreadable at first. You wondered if you’d done too much, or not enough, or if it was weird, or if you should have gone with your original idea of just baking cookies and calling it a night.

But then that look appeared.

That look that only he gave you.

His smile bloomed slowly, tugging at one corner of his mouth before spreading into something wide and dazzling, all dimples and crinkled eyes and a kind of quiet wonder.

“I don’t like it,” he said, his voice steady and warm. “I love it.”

And just like that, your heart turned into soft butter. Everything in you let go at once. The nerves, the overthinking, the little panicked voices that had whispered maybe this was too much was now gone.

Because now he was smiling like you’d hung the stars yourself.

Without hesitation, he dropped his bag beside the pillow pile and turned back to you, eyes still bright. “You’re kind of unbelievable, you know that?”

You tried to shrug casually, but your smile gave you away. “It only took me, like… five Pinterest boards.”

He laughed, the sound low and boyish, and pulled you in by the hand, wrapping his arms around your waist with easy affection. “Worth every pin.”

You felt yourself exhale, and not because you were tired, but because there was something so indescribably peaceful about this moment. Like you had done something bold and brave and he had met it with nothing but love.

Just the two of you. Under the stars. No plan but each other.

“Come here,” Jeongin said, already flopping back into the blanket nest with a dramatic sigh like he was starring in his own indie film. “I need warmth. And snacks. And love. In that exact order.”

You laughed, the sound carried off a little by the breeze as you carefully stepped over a bowl of chips and dropped down beside him.

“You’re so needy.”

“Mmhm,” he hummed, eyes closed like he was absolutely spent from the trials of his day. Then, without warning, he reached out and tugged you closer by the arm, until you were tucked firmly against his side, your head brushing against his shoulder. “You built a literal fairyland on a rooftop. You can’t just not cuddle me. That’s emotional sabotage.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“And yet,” he said with a smug grin, reaching into the snack bowl and dramatically selecting a gummy bear, “you’re still very clearly obsessed with me.” Then, with the confidence of someone who had done this before, he pressed the gummy bear to your lips.

You took the gummy into your mouth, chewing slowly, trying not to smile (and failing). Jeongin turned his attention to the snack spread like it was a battlefield to conquer, eyes scanning over the selection like a seasoned professional.

“Okay, let’s see. Popcorn. Cookies. Chips. Gummy bears. Are those honey pretzels? You are spoiling me.” Then his eyes caught something behind the candlelight. He gasped. Actually gasped. “Wait. Is that pizza?”

You smirked. “Obviously. I know where your loyalty lies.”

He turned toward you with mock awe, hands clasped together like he was about to cry. “You really do love me.”

“I literally built you a rooftop picnic under the stars. The pizza is just bonus points.”

He reached for the box with the reverence of someone unearthing ancient treasure. His face lit up as he opened it. “Oh my god, it’s the good kind. The cheesy one with the weird crust I love.”

“Of course it is,” you said, your voice soft but smug.

He pulled out a slice and held it up like a prized possession. “You know I could eat this entire slice in one bite.”

You blinked. “That’s not something to brag about.”

“Don’t believe me?” He raised an eyebrow, mischief radiating off him like heat from the pizza itself.

“Jeongin.”

“Watch me,” he said, folding the slice slightly in his hands like he was preparing a sacred ritual.

“Jeongin, no.”

“Yes.”

“Jeongin, seriously, no-”

But it was too late. With a devilish grin, he shoved the entire slice into his mouth in one go, somehow managing to bite it down with zero hesitation and maximum confidence. He chewed slowly and dramatically, eyebrows raised like he’d just won a gold medal in Olympic pizza consumption.

You smacked his arm, still breathless from laughing. “You are so gross.”

“Gross?” he gasped, feigning genuine offense like you’d just insulted his entire lineage. “Excuse me, that was a survival technique. I grew up with two brothers, remember? If you didn’t eat fast, you didn’t eat at all. It was war.”

“Oh no,” you said, hand flying to your chest in exaggerated concern. “Pizza trauma. The worst kind.”

He nodded solemnly. “I once reached for my last dumpling, my last dumpling, and it was already gone.”

You blinked. “No...”

He held up a hand, eyes dramatic and haunted. “Swear. My older brother didn’t even blink. Just stared me dead in the eyes while he chewed it. Didn’t break eye contact. That moment changed me.”

You gasped like he’d just revealed a deep, painful family secret. “A dumpling thief in your own home?”

“Gone,” he whispered, looking to the heavens like he was still grieving it. “Just vanished. I can still feel the betrayal.”

You giggled, resting your chin on his shoulder, the material of his hoodie soft under your skin. “Well, lucky for you, you don’t have to fight for food anymore. I made you a literal rooftop buffet. All for you.”

“And yet,” he said, turning to you with the gleam of mischief in his eye, “the only thing I want to devour is-”

“Jeongin,” you warned.

“...your heart,” he finished innocently, pressing a hand to his chest like a knight pledging his love.

You gave him a sharp look before grabbing a gummy bear and flicking it at his face.

Without missing a beat, he caught it in his mouth like some kind of pet, then threw his hands in the air in victory. “Talent.”

You rolled your eyes but flopped beside him, letting your shoulder press against his, your knee brushing his. The laughter faded into a soft, comfortable quiet, the kind that only happens when the silence feels safe.

It was warm under the blankets, but it was a different kind of warmth. It was one that came from being next to him. From feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing. From the slight weight of his pinky hooking around yours. The lights of the city glittered far below, distant and dreamy, while the stars above looked close enough to touch.

You tilted your head and watched him for a moment, the way the fairy lights caught in the soft strands of his hair, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his lips were parted just slightly like he was still catching his breath from laughing.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice a little quieter now, a little slower, “this is gonna be one of those core memory nights.”

You turned your head toward him, still smiling. “Oh yeah?”

He nodded, eyes on the sky like he was trying to memorize the exact shade of it. “It’s just… you. And this. It’s honestly perfect.”

Your heart flipped in your chest, soft and full. You didn’t say anything right away though, you just let yourself take all of him in. The curve of his nose. The line of his jaw. The way his thumb gently stroked over your hand without even thinking.

“I’ve had a lot of loud days lately,” he said after a pause, his voice thoughtful now. “Schedules. Noise. Rehearsals. Managers yelling. Hyunjin hyung eating all the snacks before anyone else even sees them…”

You let out a quiet snort.

He glanced at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But this? Just being up here with you? It’s like… I don’t know. Everything stops for a second.”

You turned fully to face him now, your cheek brushing against his shoulder. “You’re being soft.”

“I know,” he groaned, covering his face with one hand. “I’m gonna sound so cheesy.”

“You literally unhinged your jaw for a slice of pizza ten minutes ago. I think the line’s already been crossed.”

He peeked at you through his fingers and laughed, his voice low and warm. “Okay, okay. Then I’m saying it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Saying what?”

“I love you,” he said, and this time there was no hesitation, no cheeky tone, just softness and certainty. “Like… a lot.”

Your breath caught, but in the best way. Like the world had narrowed to just this moment. The lights, the sky, the boy beside you.

“Yeah?” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” he replied, tugging gently at the sleeve of your sweater, eyes locking with yours. “You’re the best part of my day. Even when you bully me for eating pizza like a menace.”

You leaned in, your noses brushing, lips close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. “I love you too, Pizza Goblin.”

He made a wounded noise. “Wow. So romantic.”

But he was smiling so big now, so bright and beautiful, and a little shy around the edges. His cheeks were pink from the cold or maybe from your words. And in that moment, you were absolutely sure, this was the happiest you’d ever seen him.

And maybe the happiest you’d ever been too.

As he looked at you, his hands came up to cup your face. His fingers were warm as they brushed against your cheek, gentle and steady, like he was memorizing the shape of your face. His touch didn’t rush or demand, it simply asked, quietly, if this was okay. His eyes flicked between yours, wide and searching, like he was trying to read your mind or make sure this wasn’t some dream he’d accidentally wandered into.

There was a beat, a breath, where everything paused.

And then, slowly, like he didn’t want to miss a single second of it, he leaned in.

His lips ghosted over yours, a whisper of contact, so soft it almost didn’t count, almost. It was a question more than a kiss, a quiet, are you with me? spoken without words. His breath mingled with yours, warm and a little shaky, and you could feel the way his fingertips curled slightly at your jaw, like he was grounding himself.

You didn’t hesitate.

You leaned into him, your lips pressing back, answering that silent question with a yes that bloomed between you like light. And just like that, the world faded, it all blurred into background noise. All you felt was him.

His kiss deepened, slow and purposeful, like he wanted to make this moment last forever. His hand cradled your face with such care it made your heart ache, while his other arm slid around your waist and tugged you flush against him. Your body curved instinctively toward his, fitting together like puzzle pieces that had always belonged.

And when he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against yours, the tips of your noses brushing, breaths coming in tandem like you’d synced without even trying. His chest rose and fell quickly, and you could feel the beat of his heart through his clothes. It was fast and wild, but steady.

You stayed there in the hush between heartbeats, in the quiet intimacy of knowing someone down to their soul. His hand slid up to the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, while his thumb grazed your cheekbone in slow, tender strokes. His gaze was fixed on you, soft and reverent, like he was still trying to believe you were real.

“I love you,” he said, barely more than a breath, but it was the kind of sentence that hit like a wave. There was no teasing in it. No playful undertone. Just truth. “You have no idea how much you mean to me.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but he kept going, the words spilling out like he couldn’t hold them in anymore.

“I…” He paused, blinking quickly like he was searching for the exact words, like anything less than perfect wouldn’t be enough. “I could never love anyone the way I love you. Not even close. You’re everything. And I didn’t know love could feel like this… like my chest is too full, like I’m going to explode if I don’t tell you. It’s like… you’re my home.”

Your breath caught.

Because no one had ever said something like that to you, definetly not like that. Not with their whole heart in every syllable.

You reached up, your hands cupping his face, your thumbs brushing the soft curve of his cheekbones. His skin was warm beneath your touch, his lashes fluttering slightly as he leaned into your palms like he never wanted you to let go.

“I love you too,” you whispered, your voice thick with feeling. “More than I ever thought I could. More than I knew I could.”

His smile bloomed slowly, no smirk, no mischief, instead just something tender, something grateful. He looked like someone who’d finally found what he’d been searching for. Like maybe that something had been you all along.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, soft and sure, then one to your nose that made you smile. And finally, his lips brushed yours again, this time even softer than the first, like a promise.

Then he stayed there, his head resting gently against yours, arms wrapped around you like he had no intention of letting go. And you didn’t want him to.

Not now. Not ever.

The air around you seemed to hum with something more. Not just love, not just comfort. Something unspoken but understood, something that wrapped itself around both of you like the blankets, like the stars, like fate.

Because in that quiet, glowing space between the rooftop and the sky, it wasn’t just a kiss. It wasn’t just a night.It was the beginning of everything.

aurkayyyy i struggled w this. I cant even lie LMAO. when I got the idea for this story i knew that I wanted it to be Jeongin but it was actually so hard for me to make it sound like him and stuff 😭 and when I did include stuff abt him it just felt so like cliche to him like the baby power or the pizza but oh well 😛 also not proofread so if u find any mistakes pls let me know!!!

[improbable-outset]

📄 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐃𝐍𝐀 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬

Miguel O’Hara x Fem!Reader

𝐀𝐎𝟑 | 𝐌𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬 | 𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.9k (short and not-so sweet🥲)

𝐓𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐖: Wife!Reader, heavy angst (no comfort), arguing, grief, hallucinations, birth complications. Italic writing indicates a flashback scene

𝐀/𝐍: Hey <3 missed me? If you follow me, you’ll know how much I’m fixating over Cyberpunk: Edgerunners. I’m still not over that ending with this song playing 😢 so I’m in an angsty mood rn

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Grief-stricken, Miguel struggles to escape the past as the lines blur between reality and haunting memories.

Miguel couldn’t remember the last time he felt this unhinged— like everything was held together but a fraying thread, moments from snapping.

His hands trembled by his sides as he stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him with a force that rattled the whole room.

The calm, peaceful night shattered instantly. Your head snapped up at the sudden noise, startled, your eyes widened as you looked at him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he hissed, barely holding back the explosive frustration boiling beneath the surface.

You blinked, taken back by the intensity in his tone, but you stayed firm. “Like what? Aren’t you going to apologise?”

Miguel scoffed in disgust, a harsh sound that seemed to cut through your resolve momentarily. Apologise? Why should he be the one to apologise?

Out of everyone, at least you should have seen his side of things, to hear him out. But now, even his own wife seemed to be against him.

“Aren’t you supposed to stand by me?” His voice grew harsher, every word carrying resentment. But, you didn’t flinch this time.

“You’ve been pushing everyone away, you’ve been distant. And now you’re getting angry at me for trying to help,” There it was. the gentle, yet unwavering, voice you always used on him— a soothing balm that always calmed the jagged edge of his nerves.

You always managed to reach past the storm inside him. If it were a different night, any other fight, he might’ve collapsed into your arms and tucked himself between the dip of your neck.

But tonight was different. Tonight, everything felt like it was slipping out of his control. Most people had the luxury of worrying about their own corner of the world, their own issues.

But not him. For Miguel, there was no peace, no relief. The weight of entire realities hung on his shoulders, a responsibility so immense it threatened to suffocate him daily.

“I’m not getting angry,” he bit out, but the words came out hollow. If he grinded his teeth any longer, they would turn into powder any moment.

“Then what’s with the tone? Why are you speaking to me like this, Miguel?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he rose from the bed, crossing the room in quick, heavy steps. Before you could react, he grabbed your wrists.

His grip was tight, almost too tight, but he couldn’t stop himself. His frustration, his fear, all bled into his hands. He held onto you as though you were the only anchor in the world that stayed intact while his world crumbled around him.

“You have no idea what I’m going through right now,” he gritted through clenched teeth.

He saw the momentary surprise on your face at the sudden grip. But you quickly masked it with something more determined.

You wouldn’t let him pull you under him. “Then tell me. Explain it to me.”

“You don’t have to be the one to make all the sacrifices…” The ice was slowly starting to crack, the anger beginning to unravel into something more fragile. “You’ll never understand.”

There was no way you could understand. You weren’t a Spider-Person, you didn’t know what it was like to live like this— isolated, constantly fighting, knowing every small mistake, every canon that’s disrupted could mean one step closer to losing everything.

He could never be the husband you deserve…

~

Miguel pulled you closer in bed, his arms securely around you as the quiet of the night settled in between you both. The soft rustles of sheets was the only sound in the room that filled the silence.

“Jess seems to be adjusting well,” you murmured, tracing idle patterns on his biceps. “With her new baby, I mean.”

Miguel instantly knew you were referring to Jessica Drew, the Spider-Woman who was part of his inner circle at the Society.

Jess had always been a natural leader, diligent and reliable, so it was no surprise that she’d embrace motherhood with the same effortless grace.

But it was a pain in the ass finding someone to cover her duties during the last stages of her pregnancy, albeit he had never once doubted her ability as a mother.

“Yeah, she’s adjusting pretty well,” he said, voice low with the weight of the day tugging at his exhaustion. He let out a slight weary yawn before he continued. “She’s a natural.”

“She makes it look so easy,” you remarked, fingers still dancing lightly over his arms.

Miguel only nodded in agreement, too tired to fully engage. Your eyes fluttered close. Your touch over his arm was enough to lull him to sleep, sending shivers up his spine. But your next words kept him from slipping away completely.

“I’ve always wondered what it’s like…having a little baby depending on you. Watching them grow, helping them find their way in the world.”

He sighed softly, even with his tiredness, his mind drifted along with your thoughts. The idea of having a child, raising someone who would depend on him, shaping their future.

Being responsible to teach them what’s right and wrong and how to be respectful. It wasn’t new to him. He had thought about it before, though only fleetingly, given how much he already had on his plate.

He let out a soft hum at the thought. “I imagine it’s a lot of work.”

“Do you ever think about it?” you asked, your voice soft, as if testing the waters.

He hesitated for a bit before he answered. “Every now and then…”

“A family? You thought of having a family?” He could hear the hint of curiosity, maybe even hope, in your tone.

“Yeah I have thought about that plenty of times,” he admitted, his eyes heavy with sleep but the conversation kept him tethering to the moment.

You fell silent, and for a while, the quiet between the two of you was comfortable again. But Miguel was oblivious to your racing mind.

He thought that might be the end of it, that you would both drift off to sleep. But after a pause, you spoke again, this time more tentatively.

“Do you think I’ll be a good mother?”

Your question had a hint of insecurity to it, enough to stir him awake. Miguel opened his eyes and lifted his head, turning to fully look at you.

“Of course you would,” he said, trying to sound as convincing as he could. He gave you a reassuring smile. “You’d be an incredible mother. I have no doubt.”

“I really want a baby…” you blurted out, as if your hints weren’t obvious.

“Yeah…maybe someday, when things aren’t so complicated,” Miguel leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Someday…” you echoed.

Hope was always dangerous. Miguel learned that the hard way. It was like building a sandcastle too close to the ocean— no matter how much time or care you put into it, the tide will come and wash it away.

He wanted to give you everything you dreamed of— a family, a future— but everytime he tried to be optimistic, the fear crept back in, looming over him like a dark shadow.

Yet laying next to you, listening to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, he found himself daring to hope again. You made him believe there was something more, something worth risking for.

How long was he going to run away from the possibility of happiness? He had been playing defence for so long— saving the world.

But what if this was the one thing worth letting his guard down. The one thing he couldn’t afford to lose.

~

“You think I don’t understand? I’m here trying to support you, and you’re lashing out—”

“Every second of my life has been about sacrifices. I don’t get to choose what I want anymore, everytime I try it’s ripped away from me.” His voice was teetering with rage.

“Miguel…” you said softly. Your voice was a plea, but he didn’t hear you. He was far too gone.

“I’m here saving the world, holding the whole multiverse together.” He seethed, teeth still grinding. “I’m always the one who has to give something up. Always. When does it end?”

“Miguel,” you repeated, louder this time, but your voice still didn’t reach him.

“I’ve given up everything. My life isn’t mine anymore.” His voice cracked, raw with heated emotions. “It’s nothing but an endless loop of fixing someone else’s messes and losing! I’m losing everything, and now I’m starting to lose this…lose us.”

“Miguel!” you shouted, finally snapping him out of his heated trance, like a lifeline yanking him back to the present. His head jerked up to look back at you, but something felt off.

You seemed…fainter, like you weren’t even here. But he brushed it off, to rationalise it— maybe he was just exhausted and his mind was not fully in the moment. He blinked, shaking his head to clear his vision and bring you back to focus.

“You need to move on,” you stated, your voice fading in the air.

His frustration flared hotter. “What?” He scoffed at you. “Move on? From what? I can’t just walk away from all of this. You know that. I’ve already given up almost everything—”

“You’re just making this harder for yourself. You need to let go.”

He blinked again, harder this time, as you flickered slightly. What the hell were you saying? Why were you talking in riddles when he was clearly upset?

“What do you mean ‘let go’? I won’t just—” his words caught in his throat as the realisation hit him like a sucker punch.

He was talking to no one.

The memory-your death— the empty space where you should have been— rushed back with crushing force.

Miguel was dimly aware of the emptiness around him, and the fact that he was talking to the ghost is his own making.

His chest heaved. His pulse thudded in his ear.

His mind was a mess of memories and emotions all tangled together in a knot, and he couldn’t find his way out.

“I can’t…I don’t want to let go of you…you’re all I have left.” his voice cracked, the anger from earlier now dissolving into pure desperation.

The room felt colder now, your foam was barely visible. The outline of you was shimmering like a fragile illusion, on the brink of vanishing. “I know Miguel.” you whispered. “But you’re losing yourself, too.”

He reached out, gripping tighter onto your wrist, but all he felt was air where your soft skin should have been beneath his touch.

His eyes fixated on the spot where he believed you were to be, squinting his eyes in a desperate attempt to see you again.

“Miguel…you have to let go.” he heard you say.

“No, I don’t want to.”

He tried to grip tighter, trying to anchor himself to you, but your image was becoming more insubstantial with each passing second. He could only hear your voice in his head now.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” He confessed. The pain and loss that had been twisting in his gut finally rose, bringing a flood of tears to his eyes. He tried to fight them back, but it was a losing battle.

Damn his eyes burned.

“You’re everywhere in my thoughts, in my dreams…and…” his words trailed off, his breath hitched as he fought back against the breakdown.

He couldn’t scrape off the thoughts of you in his mind, no matter how much he tried to keep himself occupied, to keep his mind busy.

You were always there and he didn’t know how to navigate through all of this.

“Miguel…” he heard you call his name again, but he didn’t want to listen to it, he didn’t want to face the reality that it wasn’t real.

“Don’t…” he choked, a futile effort of holding back his sobs that wanted to tear themselves out of his chest. “Don’t…say that. Please. I can’t…”

A helpless strangled sound escaped from the back of his throat. The pain was suffocating him, and he could barely breathe. No amount of pleading would bring you back.

“You’re…not really here,” he said to nobody, as if reminding himself, breaking his heart all over again. “You’re dead…I’m just deluding myself, imagining you're here with me.”

His hands finally dropped to his sides, fingers twitching helplessly as he stood in the deafening silence.

“Please,” he begged, his voice a quiet plea in the empty room. “Tell me I’m going to be okay…tell me you’re here for me…that you won’t let go.”

The silence felt suffocating, his chest tight as he searched the shadows for any traces of you. He felt like he was losing his mind, spiralling into madness without your voice and your words to pull him back from the edge.

Just one more time. He needed to hear you once more, to feel the comfort of your sweet reassurance.

But the silence persisted. Your figure was gone. He wiped his face roughly, swallowing hard against the crushing emptiness.

He had been trying to keep strong for so long, to keep everything contained. But at that moment, his exhaustion was catching up to him.

The weight of his loneliness and despair was too much to bear, squeezing the chest until the last bit of air was out of his body.

But the sound of a baby crying cut through the moment, drawing Miguel abruptly back to reality. His body went rigid as the sound wrenched something in his heart. It was the sound of your baby crying in the middle of the night.

Miguel hesitated for a moment, stuck between staying in the room— hoping the universe will be merciful enough to show the image of his wife again even if it was just a hallucination— or leaving to take care of the baby.

The weight of the responsibility and his fatherly instincts outweighs the former, and he let out a ragged breath.

He turned back to the wall.

“I have to—” he started, but the words faltered as he saw nothing. There was no one here to reassure him. No one here to answer.

The room was still empty. He wanted to stay in the room, and savour the remnants of the illusions in his head. The bittersweet bliss of your presence.

But the sound of the baby crying grew more persistent, calling for her father’s comfort. He stepped back reluctantly letting go of the hallucinations.

With a heavy heart and heavy footsteps, Miguel slowly made his way into the nursery, where your one-year-old daughter was crying, her arms reaching up, desperate to be held.

He still remembered the day you woke him up when you felt your first contraction. Your expression was a mixture of excitement and nervousness— a fragile joy clinging to the edge of fear. Miguel kept his grip on your hand, reminding you to breathe.

As the contractions intensified, he watched helplessly as your face twisted in pain. It aches him to see you suffer while he could do nothing but offer words of reassurance, as the nurse had told him.

Still, you held onto his hand, like it was the only thing keeping you tethering through the agony.

Finally, the moment came when you were ready to push the baby out. He'd never felt you grip his hand so hard, even with his broad strength. It felt like an eternity before Miguel saw you baby girl for the first time.

Miguel would never forget the look in your eyes when you saw her. He’d never seen your face light up like that.

But the joy was only fleeting. Little did he know at the time that the happiest moment wasn’t going to last. He hadn’t picked it up at first— the subtle changes in your breathing, and the way your hand went slack in his.

You were just tired, he thought. Just exhausted from hours of labour. But your breaths came in short, shallow gasps, and your face clouded with confusion. He’ll never get over how you looked back at him, your face slowly growing to a panic.

The doctors rushed in, everything happening so fast. They told him to step back, but Miguel refused to leave. He couldn’t tear his eyes away as your body grew limp, a doctor frantically trying to resuscitate you.

It took several staff members to pull him out of the room, the baby still clutched in his arms. Hours later, a doctor returned, their sullen expression enough for Miguel to know what was coming.

Pulmonary embolism. That’s what they said. A blood clot had traveled to your lungs, cutting off your breathing— cutting off your life. The words blurred, his mind tuning out everything except for the high-pitched ringing in his ears.

No…that was the baby in his arms. As if she sensed the moment you slipped away. Her mother, once threaded to her by an umbilical cord, was now gone.

Miguel gently lifted her from the crib, holding her close against his chest. She quietened slightly, her cries turning into soft ragged hiccups.

Tiny fingers curled into his shirt, clinging to him as if she knew he was all she had left. Through the haze of grief, he could’ve sworn he saw you standing there— your figure, ethereal, stroking the baby’s hair away from her face with a tender smile.

A loving motherly look in your eyes. Could she feel it too? He shook his head, dispelling the vision, and continued to cradle your daughter.

She was so small, so fragile. And now, he was all she had. He was her father, her protector, her everything.

It’s okay mija. I’ve got you

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: @nina-from-317 @stargirl-mayaa @ch3rry-bl1ss @monarchberrysblog @francesca-the-1st

@shakespear-picaso-lovechild @watertribeissuperior @kavimoo @ruled-by-regulus @lazyjellyfish300

@red-crystalize @devotion @riameriash @scaryplanetdestroyer

Here’s something to lighten the mood from that ending, since you lot are all here. I’ve made two….magazine inspired posters that I was planning to use for my ao3 work.

You can find the work here. A collection of ALL my Miguel one shots in one. And because I’m extra, I made a custom work skin with it and a Miguel playlist.

Title inspired by There’s Blood in my Hair. I wanted it to have the same jarring feel

Ayrus xoxo

[bernardsbendystraws]

✧ 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧' 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐬 ✧

breakin' dishes . . . he fucks you so good that he's got you breaking dishespairing ⟢ chris x reader warnings ⟢ smut, unprotected sex, bulge kink, size kink.visit my pinned post for more. comment to be added to the taglist. any interactioin is appretiated.

READ THIS BEFORE ACCUSING ME OF COPYING

the ingreidnts were a mess. flour coated the counter, some even powdered onto your skin, but you didn't care.

"fuck, baby," chris rasps, pulling you closer to him. he stands in between your legs, his arm wrapped around your waist as you sit on the cold counter. the granite only relieves some of the burning heat that builds continuously.

chris lets his hunger take over, his hands caressing your skin as his lips devour you. you can feel his desperation. quick breathes, roaming hands, needy kisses, and how hard he is as he grinds himself into you.

the slight beep of the oven signlaing it's been preheated is barely audiable. the sound of chris sliding his zipper down is all you can focus on. "spread yourself for me, ma," he rasps, pulling his cock out. your mouth waters as you watch pre-cum dribble from his tip. you bring your hand between your legs, parting your pussy while pulling your underwear to the side.

usually, chris would prefer you completly naked. but the sight of you covered in a mess in his shirt? fuck. he could feel his dick pulsing.

"shit, so wet." he brings his tip to your clit, smirking as you hiss from the sensation. there's just something about the was he can see your hole so ready for him, dripping with slick. you need him.

chris hums as he glides his tip up and down your sobbing pussy. your mouth drops open silently, your legs clutching shut only to be held open by his hips.

"she's so wet for me, hm?" he taunts, his eyes glued to your heat.

all you can do is whine, giving him a subtle nod. chris slowly dips himself into your entrance, the warmth of your pussy making him let out a low groan.

every inch of his length gliding into you makes your gut tighten. you feel your mucles pulse and burn, a shiver of thrill crawling up behind your ears as you feel your face flush with heat.

"fuck, baby...look at that..."

the bulge in your gut is very apparently. his eyes are glued to the sight, his tongue flattening on the roof of his mouth as he swallows thickly.

that's a sight.

you're full. so full.

full of him.

chris slides himself out, watching the bulge disappear before pushing his cock right back in.

"love stuffing you full. fuck," he purrs, throwing his head back, almost as if he can't look anymore or else he'll cum immediately.

your slick pussy sucks him in. each thrust faster than the last, the lewd smacks of skin fill the air, moans and cries getting louder and louder.

"chris, s-so good," you seethe, biting onto you lip as your hands grab at his shoulders.

"yeah?" he purrs. the praise only leaves him wanting more. chris lets out a hiss, feeling your nails dig painfully into his skin as he ruts his hips faster, his pelvis slapping against yours as he reaches deep into you.

the knot in the pit of your stomach is only growing with intensity. pleasure consumes you, all thoughts becoming a blank slate. it feels perfect. every slap of his cock ramming deep into you leaves your breath hitching.

"such a good pussy, ma -- my fuckin' pussy, hm?"

you nod aggresively, your hands falling behind your back as you prop yourself up with you palms flat on the counter. chris takes advantage of your added stability. he lets himself pound into you. truly giving you everything, burrying himself to a hilt over and over again.

the waves are crashing brutally. pleasure and euphoria consume you, your back arching upwards as your body starts to thrash and writhe.

it's so good. overwhelming relief snaps and pulses through your viens. chris lets himself glide in and out of your tight walls, small whines pursing through his lips as your pussy sucks him in painfully good.

"-m cummin' -- fuck. gonna fill up your pussy so good -- fuck you full," chris seethes.

your hands grasp on the counter, in search of something to ground you. the sudden niose of glass shattering startles you as you run down from your high.

chris sighs as his hips slowly roll to a stop. he laughs looking over to the ground, seeing the plate broken on the floor. "that good, huh?"

all you can do is give him a subtle shrug. exhaustion leaves you breathless, your chest heaving for air as you feel him caress some of the hair off your sweaty forehead.

he leans forward, planting a gentle kiss on the side of your neck, his lips grazing against your ear, "-got you breakin' dishes, hm sweetheart?"

⟢ 𝐯𝐢𝐧.

[littlxpxtal]

reader loves to mess with rafe when they’re drunk

“I think you’ve had enough” rafe grumbles into my ear . I take another sip of my drink and give him a side eye

“I think I can determine that myself” I snarl back, giving him a small smile above my cup.

“alright” he grumbles, looking around at the crowded bar.

I feel my body involuntarily sway, knocking into his side and he gives me a quick look. I respond in a giggle and he gives no response, looking back at the crowd of people.

Topper makes his way over to us, his mouth practically attached to a girls ear, his arm wrapped around her.

“have y’all met Ruthie yet?” he slurs to us. I shake my head and reach my hand out

“hi i’m y/n” she looks me up and down and reaches her hand out, giving me a limp handshake. rafe gives her a head nod and then looks away.

“right okay…” Topper mumbles, pulling her closer to his side.

“You got some yayo?” he asks rafe. Rafe’s lip curl up into a smirk and he gives a slight nod.

“we gotta go somewhere else” he says, barely above a whisper.

“alright let’s do it.” topper responds , leading the way through the crowd.

My hand immediately wraps around rafe’s, as he followed topper through the crowd. he gives a look of confirmation, and I nod my head slowly as we walk deeper into the house.

we walk into an empty bedroom, and topper makes his way to a side table, look at rafe for direction. rafe pulls out a baggie from his pocket, and a card from his wallet and immediately starts cutting up lines.

they all line up like we’re in school waiting for the drinking fountain. I watch them with admiration, watching their heads dip down, their noses scrunch and eyes dilate.

After a few minutes of them taking turns snorting up the powder, Rafe and Topped get into a heated discussion about race cars. I use this distraction to slide behind the table, taking the last line for myself.

Rafe calls out my name and my ears perk up like a dog being called. My attention is hyper focused on his biceps, flexing out of his polo, and the beads of sweat on his forehead from the North Carolina heat.

“I said you’ve had enough”.

Topper and Ruthie are too distracted sucking each others faces at this point to notice Rafe scolding me, and I use the opportunity to rile him up even more.

“you don’t let me have any fun anymore” I pout, jutting out my bottom lip. His hand reaches up, using his thumb to pull my lip even farther down.

He stares down at my mouth, hesitating for a second before leaning down to my ear and whispering,

“don’t make me put you in your place in front of our friends, darling”

I smirk up at him, moving my head from his grip placing a quick kiss on his cheek before skipping away towards the door.

“You’ll have to catch me first”

[tsuiioku]

ɪᴛ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴛᴀꜱᴛᴇ · ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴘʟᴇ ʙꜱᴅ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ༉‧₊˚

featured. osamu dazai, chuuya nakahara, fyodor dostoevsky, nikolai gogol, sigma. content. f!reader. based on a request. mentions of alcohol (dazai), mentions of food, nicknames, slavic dishes. (minor) spoilers for stormbringer. translation at the end. not proofread.

author's note. this was an incredibly fun request! these men either shift between being incompetent, or not being reliant on others, so it took a sweet turn.

would you like to see more? join the taglist or comment under this post!

synopsis. the kitchen can be many things. a refuge from the toils of everyday life. a workshop for the creation of exquisite tastes. an assemblage of conversation over collaboration.

but one thing is certain—a well-endeavored meal can warm the coldest of hearts.

𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 arrived home late one evening, tromping through the doorway with the confidence only a drunken man could muster. It had been one of those nights, ones in which he was all too aware of the hollowness of his own heart. One of those days where everything was too loud, the ones where he picked up every minuscule detail, whether he wanted to or not. So, he had taken to a drink or two to fill a void, only to dip into another—before he knew it, the room was spinning, and he found himself kicked out of the bar.

But he still had you to return to, so he gathered any soberness left within him and clambered to place his trench coat and shoes in the spots you had set out for them. He was glad you didn't hear him walk in. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been granted the opportunity to take in the view. You pranced around the kitchen, a lifted twirl in your heel as you stirred ingredients in a saucepan, the domestic mess of powders against your skin.

You were all his. The reason he had a home to return to. His sanctuary from his own mind. He often fretted—though he pretended not to—about the idea of you being taken away from him, a fact that he had come to accept as his reality. But in these simple moments, he allowed himself to indulge in the fantasy that you encompassed for a moment longer.

His arms fit snug around your waist, his head like a puzzle piece against the curve of your shoulder. "Is that for me?"

You hummed, pressing a peck on his cheek as you leaned into him.

"You'll always have a meal to return home to, Osamu."

Yeah. He'd indulge for just a little longer.

𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 did not expect to pass out. He had returned home from a weeks-long mission overseas, anxiously awaiting the moment you reunited and ran into his arms—only for him to arrive early to an empty home. You were at work, and it wasn't his fault the couch clung to him like a vice! For a moment, he thought he had been dreaming of the fresh smell of savory pasta sauce and spices.

Wait. He can't dream.

He cracked open his eyes, his vision steadily straightening out, and trudged into the kitchen with a befuddled pout, his sight narrowing in on exactly what you had been up to.

"Babe."

"Chuuya!" you yelled, almost losing your grip on your spoon before you managed to catch it, clutching it close to your chest as you twisted the knob on the stove to place the heat at a simmer. "You scared me!"

His arms crossed as he leaned on the doorway. "What're you doing cooking in here by yourself?" he asked sternly, scanning the contents of the pot along with your face. If you didn't know any better, you'd assume he was mad. But you did know better, catching onto the subtle tilt of his brow, narrowed in simultaneous amusement and disappointment. Cooking was often a partnered endeavor.

You couldn't resist laughter, cupping his cheek as if comforting an upset child. "You've had a long week, and you looked so peaceful lying there. I couldn't bring myself to disturb you."

He would've been quick to argue—you could wake him anytime, no matter the circumstance—but a thought overwhelmed him and kept his mouth at bay. You had done something for him, not with anything to gain, but simply because you cared. He was used to it happening the other way around, but this. . .this felt nice.

So, he relented, his ginger locks tickling your skin as he tucked his face into your neck with a sigh. "Thank you, baby."

𝐅𝐘𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑 had been busy preparing the next phase of his plans, though you supposed he was always busy—too busy to take care of his own basic needs, that was for sure. He was always sorting through different data, exploring multiple angles to achieve his goals.

With the many tasks flooding his brain, he hardly had time to abandon his screens. The skin of his thumb had worn from his subconscious biting habit as he looked over another spreadsheet of banking information, his hands about to slide over the keys yet again.

The scent of stroganoff stirred him from his trance. His eyes shifted to find a steaming plate of the delectable dish sitting next to him on the desk. And he finally registered the firm hand propped against his shoulder, with you looking upon him from above with a sweet but knowing smile.

"Eat."

He wouldn't have customarily taken kindly to such a harsh demand, but he bent to the stern look of your gaze, one that hid behind it a level of care he ravenously craved. You worried for him, not in the same fashion as his so-called "friends," but with the genuine desire to see him thrive, no matter the circumstance.

So, the demon allowed himself a momentary reprieve, kissing a smile into your hand before taking a bite of the dish.

"Delicious, as always, моя милая."

𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐈 had practically burst through the door, prepared to recount the travesties and trials of his day. That was until he caught onto the unmistakable scent of savory pirozhki filling. He followed his nose like a bloodhound, the smell creating a distinct path into the kitchen, where you stood, unaware of the man behind you as you mixed spices into a pan.

"What'cha cooking, dove?" His breath bristled against your ear as he sprung up next to you, using his ability with a shit-eating grin. Your expression mirrored his own, used to the stint of your lover's sudden appearances.

"I found some old Ukrainian recipes online and wanted to try them out." You held out a spoon, and he bit into the filling without a second thought—a mistake. He clutched his throat as his eyes watered, realizing it was too hot for consumption far too late. He finally managed to choke it down, releasing a loud whew!

"Trying to kill me so soon! How cruel!" he exclaimed.

Your laughter roared throughout your home, a shaking hand rubbing his back as you wiped tears from your eyes with the other. "Is it good?"

He brought a finger up to stroke his non-existent beard, humming a quick tune. "Hmm, perhaps a cup of chili powder."

"Коля," you deadpanned. "That's too much."

He sighed, a pout settled on his lips, but you caught the hand sneaking into the interior of his overcoat, snatching his wrist before he poured something irreversible into your dish. He cackled, attempting to pull away as you chased him around the kitchen island.

For a moment, it felt as if you were the only two people in the world—free of restraint. He could feel the bonds tied around him loosen. He could reach out, taste that sensation of freedom for himself. A freedom he had always found in you.

𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐌𝐀 had arrived back to his section of the Sky Casino earlier than he expected, having a strange lack of paperwork. But he simply decided to take it as a sign that he had been doing good work, and ignored the anxious feelings that always sprung from not having anything to do.

"I'm home—!" he called, but was stopped in the entryway by a sweet aroma. It was intoxicating, and he couldn't resist the temptation to lurk into the kitchen.

"Welcome home, honey!" you called back, your voice echoing down the hallway. He stripped himself of his coat, leaving it folded on one of the benches before he trekked across the threshold, a curious shift in his furrowed brow.

You were baking cookies, fluffy chocolate-chip cookies. He couldn't resist the smile on his face, even if he wanted to, nor could he ignore the bubbling warmth in his heart. But he couldn't help his confusion.

"Cookies?" he asked, dipping his finger into a batch of dough before he popped it into his mouth. "What's the occasion?"

You swiped at him with a flour-coated hand before dusting the rest of it off on a towel. "You've been busy lately, so I wanted to make you something sweet," you stated as if it were the simplest thing. But those few simple words took him aback.

You cooked for him. No one had ever done that before, not without being an employee or attempting to manipulate him—or both. And in a matter of seconds, only enough to let in a sweep of hot air from the oven to warm his skin, he realized something that had long remained empty had been filled. He felt whole.

"Sigma!" you exclaimed, and he realized that he had tears streaming down his face. The look of concern drawn through your strained lips, your furrowed brow, and your shifting eyes only further set in his new reality—he had his family. He had found his home.

"I'm okay, love. Just. . .thank you."

моя милая = my dear коля = kolya

TAGLIST: @lovedazai @osameowdazai @ruru-kiss @ishqani @zyilas @lovesick-fairy @fedyascoffin @squigglewigglewoo @kelperspelt @miloofc @s1eepybunny @dazaisms @deepseafragments @ajaxism @himikoslove @little-miss-chaoss @justcallmesakira @sillyspookycat @aureatchi @mxxny-lupin @emyyy007 @betweensinners

© MUSAMORA 2024— do not repost or modify my works for any reason. do not steal graphics w/o explicit permission. reblogs are appreciated.

[hanasnx]

MINORS DNI 18+ WARNINGS: fem reader | drugs, alcohol | mild sexual content, suggestive | calls u a slut | cliffhanger i suppose | been stuck in my drafts since january.

RAFE CAMERON had the house to himself, and he made sure to tell you that too. Something about a family vacation to the Bahamas, and he chose to stay behind. You didn't consider the fact he did it to feel like the king of Figure Eight for a little while until he told you, "The fuck are you wearing, huh? Where's that little number I just bought you? Go put it on. I want you walking around here like a slut."

So you put on the stringiest bikini you've ever seen in your life, and the tallest pumps you've ever worn, swirling whatever drink he poured you in an expensive wine glass. You come out to the balcony to witness him arranging himself a line on the transparent coffee table, and he doesn't notice you there when curls over to snort it. You've seen him do it before, but you note now how experienced he is in it. Briefly, you consider how frequently he does this, and set down your beverage.

"Hey, baby," he greets with an uncharacteristically bright drawl, smiling at you. You're familiar with his exceptional good mood from the rush, tingly energy coursing through his nerves after dousing his brain in pure dopamine. He stands, offering a steadying hand to you in which you take, leading you into him. You brace on his chest, "You look fucking good." he compliments, giving you a quick once-over with a soft growl through his nose, and catches you in a kiss. "C'mere, lemme finish this." He sits, but you stand next to him, watching him as he uses a credit card— no doubt his per diem— while he lives here alone.

He can't keep his eyes off you, glancing up at you, tonguing his parted lips hungrily.

"Baby, fuck." he breathes, reaching around to hook an arm around your hips, arching you into him so he can mouth at your exposed stomach. On instinct, you squeal, cupping his head and tangling your fingers in his silken hair as he tongues sensitive skin. Tracing the lines of your tummy with the tip, he then ends it in a bite, and a sharp swat to your ass. Another growl expels from him in a hum, pressing his lips together.

"Rafe—" you stifle a chuckle, massaging his scalp with the set of nails he bought you.

"C'mere, baby, want you over here." he tells you, holding your hand like a waltz as he directs you over to take your rightful seat on his thigh. At this proximity you can feel his body heat radiate off his face and neck, a light sheen of sweat from the humidity. You're grateful for your lack of clothes, especially because of how he clutches onto you, as if he's subtly feeling out the curves of your body while it's molded to his. An arm strapped behind your back has a hand comfortably resting on the fat of your hip that fans out from sitting, lovingly he squeezes the flesh, and jostles you as he inclines toward your ear, like he's telling you a secret. "Wanna know what I'm thinking about right now?"

Coyly, you bite your lower lip in a grin. Not looking at him just yet as you reply, "What?" And while you speak, a single finger of his reaches out to dip into the line of coke he poured himself earlier, streaking the white powder across the glass as he brings it back to him.

That finger points to the valley of your tits, "Snorting this shit off of you." and makes contact, dusting you with the drug. You watch as he dips his fingertip into his mouth to rub it on the gum of his lower jaw, and then dive in to lick the dot of coke off your skin. You lean back, but he's secured you to his lap, safe to kick your little pumps into the air as you giggle.

"Rafey— Rafe, c'mon," you flirt, but he continues on. An onslaught of sloppy kisses disheveling the straps of your bikini top as he mouths your chest, tugging the practically nonexistent triangles that cover your nips aside. Gathering your bearings, you direct him off, so you can fix your outfit, but when he straightens he manhandles you to pin your back to the couch he's been sitting on. Playfully, you fight him, but he snatches your wrists.

"Hold still." he demands, and you can't help but listen to him. Batting your lashes up at him, he holds that doe-eyed gaze of yours as he fishes a little baggy off the table. You stare at it as he tucks it between the two of you, and he watches your reaction through his slow movements until he tips it and taps the mouth of it with his index to pour a misshapen line across your stomach.

[polygonpiscine]

🐢 🤎 🎄🐢🤎🎄🐢🤎🎄

As the aroma of baking cookies wafted through the lair, Mikey’s brothers couldn't resist gathering in the kitchen, curiosity piqued by the delightful scent.

Just as Mikey was about to suggest starting the decorating festivities, a devious idea struck him. With a quick glance at his unsuspecting brothers, he dipped his fingers into a nearby bag of flour and, with a dramatic flair, flung it into the air, creating a floury explosion.

"Flour fight, anyone?" Mikey exclaimed, a mischievous grin on his face. Raph, always the first to voice his disapproval, groaned, "Mikey, not again! We're gonna be cleaning flour out of the nooks and crannies for weeks!"

But before anyone could protest further, Mikey's floury antics had set off a chain reaction. Leo, caught up in the spirit of the moment, called out, “Hey Mikey, catch!" launching a flurry of flour directly at Mikey's unsuspecting face.

Mikey, taken by surprise, burst into laughter as the white powder settled on his orange mask. "Oh, you’re in for it now!"

While Mikey appreciated the playful gesture, Raph and Donnie were far from amused. Raphael's eyes narrowed, and he pointed a finger accusingly. "You two, knock it out, you’re acting like turtle tots.”

Donnie hastily checked his precious tech-wrist and goggles for any signs of flour intrusion. "This better not have damaged any of my equipment, Leo. I'm not kidding!"

Leo, attempting to defuse the situation, raised his hands in surrender. "Come on, guys, it's just a bit of fun. We can clean up after, promise."

Raphael crossed his arms, unimpressed. "Fun? Cleaning flour out of everything for the next month is your idea of fun?"

As the tension mounted, Mikey, still wearing a floury grin, intervened. "Come on, Raph! Lighten up! It's all in the spirit of the holidays."

Raphael's resistance wavered for a moment. He looked at Mikey, then glanced at the chaotic scene around him. With a reluctant smirk, he muttered, "Fine."

And just like that, Raph dipped his fingers into the flour and, with a surprising gentleness, flicked it toward Mikey. Laughter erupted as Mikey pretended to dramatically recoil from the light dusting.

Donnie, still somewhat exasperated, couldn't help but smile at Raph's unexpected participation. "Well, I guess if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, right?"

The floury chaos ensued as the brothers darted around the kitchen, leaving no corner untouched by the powdery substance. The laughter echoed through the lair, blending with the festive music that Mikey had cranked up earlier.

🐢🤎🎄🐢🤎🎄🐢🤎🎄

Happy Holidays! ❤️