#and suddenly you're looking for six different things at once

[alex-guerin]

Guys...all I wanted was a blankie out of the chest under my window. My room was all nice and picked up...then I went and upset a delicate balance and now I sit on my bed wondering what hurricane blew thru my room while I looked for my blankie, going, "Okay...this looks bad..."

[sanguineterrain]

window pains | jason todd

Summary: He's got a habit of coming in through the window. You want him to start staying... and using the door. 

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader 

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings/tags: injured Jason Todd (he's okay dw), angst, pining, mentions of Jason's death.

A/N: sooo.... i guess i'm a dc girlie now. just a reminder that every character i write will always be 18+!!! this is probably canon divergent but we make our own canon.

If you like this fic and want to see more, please let me know through reblogs ♡

the divider

"Can't you enter my apartment like a normal person?"

"You know who you're talking to, right?"

"You're getting blood on my carpet, Todd."

It doesn't really matter. He'll come back and scrub it out as soon as his ribs are whole. And fuck if he's not good at getting blood out of surfaces. Jason Todd ought to start a housekeeping column. 

You catch his limp as he climbs over the windowsill. It almost topples him, but he gets to the couch before it does. He doesn't make a sound. 

That had freaked you out the first few times he'd stumbled through your window. Once, he came with part of a windshield wiper impaled in his shoulder. He'd lain on your couch so still and so quiet, you'd thought Red Hood had croaked in your apartment. Which would not have been a good look for you. Or maybe it would. Depends on who you ask. 

Sometimes you want to tell him to make sounds. To hiss and grunt and complain. To grab your wrist so you'll slow down as you pull thread through flesh. 

But it's not your place to request such a thing. You don't know where you reside in Jason Todd's life, but it's not somewhere where you can request to hear him hurt. 

Outwardly, his injuries aren't bad-looking. He takes off his helmet and tosses it somewhere under the coffee table. You offer a hand to help him lie down on the couch—he doesn't take it. 

"Jesus Christ, Jay." You suck in a sharp breath and peel back his bloody suit. "What'd you do?"

"Took a midnight stroll in the Botanical Gardens. Why, what'd you do?"

You frown, eyebrows pinching in the center of your forehead. Jason's stomach is mottled with purple and red bruises. There's a sticky gash right above his hip. A knife. Or a sword, maybe. Apparently, swords are commonplace in Gotham. 

"How'd they get you?" you ask. 

It's a rule-break. Jason's number one policy: don't ask questions.

You always do. Even when it was new, this… thing between you two, you'd ask. Who were they? Why did they hurt you? Did you hurt them back?

The last one, you always know the answer to. 

"There were, like, ten of them," he says. "Cut me some slack, will ya?" 

He has a cut across his lips. A ringed finger that caught on his skin, you guess. You wonder if he'd wince if you kissed him. If he'd wince at the pain or the kiss itself. If you'd know the difference. 

Rage suddenly cuts through you. It makes your hands careless, cruel; you pull the bandage around his waist too tight. Jason coils up slightly. 

"Jesus—ever heard of bedside manner?" he asks, looking at you through his lashes. 

"Ever heard of not breaking into someone's apartment and making them patch you up?"

"I don't make you," Jason says easily. "You wouldn't do it if you didn't want to."

That only increases your rage. Because he's right. You wouldn't be here if you didn't want to be. You'd have kicked him out four first aid kits ago if you minded. 

You yank down his shirt and pack up the kit. Jason shifts on the couch. A sliver of skin above his waistband is still exposed. You have to turn your head to force your gaze away. 

"No bandaids?" he asks. "All my cuts'll be exposed to the elements."

"You can put them on yourself." 

His cheek could use one. And his eyebrow. You're not in the mood. 

Jason doesn't say anything in response to that. You get up to put the kit back under the sink. 

"Can I crash here?" 

"Do what you want," you say, suddenly exhausted. Like it's you who just went six rounds with Gotham's scumbags.

You peek over the kitchen counter when you hear rustling and the couch springs squeak. Jason leans heavily on the arm of the couch, reaching for the window. You walk over and stand in front of him. 

"What're you doing?" you ask. 

"You want me to go," he says flatly. "So I'm going."

"I didn't say that, I said—"

"I can read between the lines." 

"If you could read between the lines as well as you think you can, we wouldn't be in this situation," you say. 

"What situation?"

You turn your head. "Nothing."

Jason steps towards the window. You block him again. 

"What is the matter with you?" you ask. "You're injured. Lie down."

"I'm not your responsibility," he says, glaring. "I'm leaving."

"No, you're not. And since you're allergic to using the door, you don't have a choice."

Jason's eyebrow rises. "Are you saying you'd physically prevent me from leaving?"

You lift your chin. "If that's what it takes."

"Hm. Can't tell if your confidence is stupid or brave."

"Lie the fuck down, Todd."

His lip curls. "I don't stay where I'm not welcome."

Sometimes you forget how young he is. Not that you're not also young, but, well… you don't feel your youth as acutely as other people your age might. It's something you two have in common. 

Here, in the gritty glow of Gotham, you are reminded that Jason Todd died once. Before he finished school. Before he fell in love. 

Your stomach churns every time you see that Y-shaped scar on his torso, strapped over him like a chain. 

"I didn't say that you're not welcome," you say. 

"Yeah, well, you didn't have to."

He sags against the couch and it occurs to you that he's as exhausted as you feel. 

"Can you just—" You touch his bicep. He winces even though there's no injury there. "Can you just lie down?" 

You stare at each other for another minute. Slowly, Jason lays down. His eyes are alert instead of heavy with sleep. Instantly, you feel guilty for making him think he has to be cautious around you. His hand curls protectively over his stomach. 

"Do you want a blanket?" you ask. 

He squints. "It's August."

"I know, I… I thought maybe the blood loss made you cold." 

"'M fine. Perks of being risen from the dead." 

You watch him get settled for a minute. He shifts his weight to his uninjured side and meets your gaze. His eyes are gray in the weak light. 

"You're tired of me," he says. 

Your head snaps up. "No, I'm not."  

"You are."

"I'm not tired of you, Jay."

You see it. The fear. He thinks this is the last time you'll let him in. He doesn't know you can't lock him out. You won't. 

You get up and go to get the kit from the sink again. Jason follows your movement the whole time. His face scrunches in confusion when you sit in front of the couch and unzip the kit. 

You pull out the tiny red bandaids. You'd bought them as a joke, initially. It had made Jason laugh and that had been reason enough to keep buying them. And then he let you actually put them on.

You peel the adhesive off of one and gently stick it on his cheek. He blinks at you, thick, dark lashes kissing the corners of his eyes. 

"I'm not tired of you," you say softly. 

"I'd be tired of me." 

"You keep this city safe. How could I be tired of Gotham's defender?"

Jason scowls and turns his head into the cushion before you can put the second bandaid.  

"I'm not its defender. The others protect this city a hundred times better. Nightwing does it with a smile on his face."

"I like that you go out there even when it's hard, Jay," you say. 

He doesn't respond. You lean in, so close that you can count the freckles on his neck. 

"Can I finish putting the bandaids on?" you ask. 

"I don't need 'em."

"You do. You need another on your forehead."

"It'll heal fine without it."

Your shoulders bunch like a cat on defense. You grab his cheek (gently, always gently) and his head whips to yours in surprise. 

"Jason Todd, I am not tired of you. I'm tired of the fact that you only come by when you need fixing."

He scowls. "I never asked you to fix me. If you want me to leave, I'll leave."

"I don't want you to leave, I want you to stay!" you burst. 

Jason scoffs. "No, you don’t. I'll overstay my welcome real fast."

"Maybe I care about you on purpose!" you say, voice rising. "Maybe I didn't stumble through a window; maybe I walked through the door and bought the bandaids and learned how to stitch wounds because I wanted to."

He suddenly looks overcome by grief. The agony in his face startles you. 

"I don't know how to use the door anymore," he says quietly. "All I do is stumble through windows."

Your hand slips off of his cheek. Jason closes his eyes; they fly open when you stick the second bandaid above his eyebrow. 

"You can come in any way you want to," you say, face an inch away from his. "As long as you come back to me."

His gaze darts to your mouth. You don't kiss him hard. He breaks anyway.

You avoid the right side of his mouth entirely, not wanting to pull at his cut. Jason shudders into your mouth. You cup his pulse through his neck and it quickens.

His eyes are wet when you pull away. His chest heaves like he's been swinging through the city. 

"I wanna try to use the door," he says. 

You touch the bandaid on his cheek, humming. 

"Then I'll leave it unlocked." 

[woso-dreamzzz]

Torn VI

Kewis x Child!Reader

Summary: You go to hospital

Kristie is at training.

Summer holidays usually means preseason for Sam. It usually means a few weeks where the three of you get to do fun things together before going back into preseason.

But with her knee, it means more time lazing around the house with you.

You're having a lot of fun playing dinosaurs with her, not yet changed out of your fuzzy Spinosaurus onesie as one of the Land Before Time episodes plays on the tv.

You drop your toy though and Sam gently moves it away.

Your seizures have gotten easier to deal with now that you've gone on your medicine. They've gone down to maybe two or three every few days and, while you're none the wiser about why your seizures are a bad thing, it makes Kristie and Sam feel safer.

But this one is different.

Usually, your seizures are only a few seconds long but, as Sam checks her phone, she knows it's been a few minutes now.

That's never happened before and, as your mouth opens and closes in repetitive chewing movements, she jerks into action.

There's blood in your mouth.

Blood that definitely shouldn't be there.

She fumbles with her phone for a moment, almost dropping it completely.

"Hello? Yes, er, I need an ambulance! My-My kid's having a seizure and she's bleeding and-and I don't know what to do!"

Questions rattle off the operator's lips faster than Sam can keep up.

"Yes. She's five, nearly six. Er, she's got CAE but this is different. I-I don't know! She's kind of jerking a little bit? And I think she's bitten her cheek because she's bleeding. She's on medication but...Yes, I'm Mum."

Sam rattles off more information, anything she can think of and the operator is nice enough to stay on the phone until the ambulance gets there.

It's only when Sam's at the hospital that she realises Kristie's at training.

Kristie's at training and is none the wiser about what's just happened.

Riding in the ambulance was the scariest thing Sam has ever done with you, far eclipsing the other scariest thing she had ever done with you which was hiding all of Kristie's eyebrow pencils.

You'd had an accident in the ambulance which all the paramedics said was normal. You bit at your cheek again which all the paramedics said was expected.

You'd jerked your little limbs and suddenly looked smaller than your almost six years as you lay in the stretcher in your fuzzy dinosaur onesie.

"Chook, baby," Sam had said in the ambulance," It's going to be okay. Alright? You're going to be alright."

It takes Sam a while to pluck up the courage to call Kristie, to let her know that something's happened to you and now you're in hospital.

Kriste's there within the hour, just as you wake up.

You'd briefly been awake when your seizure was over but so exhausted and so confused, Sam had coaxed you to sleep again.

“Mommy,” You say as your eyelids flutter open, reaching out for her.

Kristie grabs your hand quickly, squeezing ever so slightly like she’s making sure that you’re with her. “Hey, chook,” She coos as Sam appears at your other side,” How are you feeling?”

You frown. “Mom talked to me,” You say instead.

“Huh?”

“When I went all funny. I heard Mom talkin’ to me.”

“You could hear that, huh, chook?” Sam asks, taking your other hand and you nod.

“You said I was going to be okay. What happened?” You frown, looking down at yourself. “Where’s my dino pjs?”

“They’re going in the wash, chook,” Sam says,” They…They got a bit dirty in the ambulance.”

“Ambulance?”

“Yes, the ambulance. Do you remember, chook? You…You had a pretty bad…episode, didn’t you?”

“My arms went all floppy and weird.”

“That’s right. That must have been scary, huh?”

You shake you head. “No, ‘cause I had Mom saying everything will be okay. Mom doesn’t lie about important things like that.”

Kristie smiles. It’s a weak smile though and Sam knows that a crying session is inevitable once this is all sorted out. Kristie can hold herself together for you. She has to be strong for you, her little girl that only kind of understands what has happened to her.

“The doctors are going to come in and have a look at you, alright?” Kristie runs a finger over your nose and you giggle a little bit, going cross eyed to track its slope downwards.

“Okay and then we go back home?”

“Maybe,” Sam says,” We’ll see what they say. They might want to keep you a bit later.”

It’s not unlike your other doctor appointments, when they put you in the big machine and did tests. The inside of your cheek is a little tender when you run your tongue along it and your arms are kind of bruised and weird looking. You think your head is a little achy too but you’ve got pillows behind it so you don’t really notice.

“And you think this is a one off?” Kristie says from outside your hospital room, glancing back inside as you and Sam watch another Land Before Time episode on her phone.

“It’s not uncommon for children with CAE to experience other types of seizures. They go away with age-“

“That’s what they said about the CAE but look at her! She’s in hospital. The meds…They’re meant to be helping-“

“Miss Mewis,” The doctor says,” I understand completely but these things do happen. She’s happy and healthy and we’ve got information leaflets to help parents get through this kind of thing. We recommend a follow up with her neurologist and GP just to be on the safe side but this is all normal. Plenty of people live with seizures every day.”

Kristie releases a noisy breath. “Right. Yes. How soon until we go home?”

“Tomorrow should be good. We can set up a bed for one of your to stay here with her overnight but this is all just precaution. As long as everything is a-okay tomorrow morning, we can get you all in your way.”

“Thank you,” Kristie says,” I’ll just go in and tell her.”

You look up as Kristie comes in, head tilting to the side and hair falling over your eyes. “Mommy?”

“I’m going to stay here with you tonight,” Kristie says, sitting on the bed with you,” And then tomorrow, we’re going to go home. Sound good?”

You think for a moment. “And then my dino pjs will get washed?”

“I’ll wash them tonight,” Sam promises you,” And I’ll make sure they’re all toasty warm for you when you get home tomorrow.”

“Okay,” You say,” We can stay here for the night.”

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

this vice

part II

Pairing: Soulless!Sam x Fem!Reader

Summary: It's been six weeks since Sam last touched you. It's starting to hurt. You need it.

Warnings: 18+!, soulless!Sam is his own warning, semi-established Sam x reader, language, smut (dub-con kinda, clitoral stimulation, p in v, restraints, forced orgasms, overstim, dirty talk, coming on stomach), condescension, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 4,366

A/N: I decided to make this one a part two to "strange eyes" so... I hope y'all like it. Felt like the way to go, honestly. I've also found a way to tie it to the first part by making it inspired by another Friday Pilots Club song... so, there's that. The song is so good. Sam is so MEAN!!! My turn, pls. Let me know what you all think please!! <3 Until the next one. All the love.

"Well this vice, this sweet temptation The answer to frustration Put it down on me, put it down Put it down on me

Well my girl, she's bad as hell You know a little fucked up now but oh well"

Bad As Hell - Friday Pilots Club

It didn't happen again.

Not the next night. Not the one after. Not even the one after that.

You waited. You tried.

You wore the pretty things. Spoke softly. Laughed at nothing. Let your hands linger too long on his arm, his shoulder, the nape of his neck when he passed too close. You kissed him once, slow and hopeful, and he let you—

—but he didn't kiss you back.

The memory of that first night haunted you like a bruise in your bloodstream. You could feel it every time you shifted in your seat, every time your thighs pressed together under motel sheets that still smelled like him. You'd touched yourself in the dark more times than you'd admit, and still it wasn't enough. Not after that.

You craved it. You craved him.

But he just looked through you. Past you. Over you.

Sometimes he'd watch. When you thought he was asleep, you'd catch the faint glint of his eyes in the dark. Just watching you sit there, or pace the room, or peel off your clothes with slow, deliberate fingers like he might suddenly want you if you moved just right.

He didn't.

Once, you whispered his name. Just that. Just "Sam."

He turned his head. Glanced at you. Said, "Not tonight."

And that was it. No reason. No cruelty. Just a wall you couldn't scale. It made you worse. It made you try harder. Made you burn.

And you knew he saw it.

He watched you every time you left the shower wrapped in nothing but steam and skin. He watched the way your breath caught when you leaned too close, hoping maybe this time he'd touch. He watched when you sat on the bed in nothing but his shirt, your legs curled up, voice light and meaningless as you said something—anything—to fill the silence.

And then he'd say something like, "You're gonna overheat in that."

Like he hadn't just spent the last hour refusing to touch you. Like he didn't care. And maybe he didn't.

But you did.

And each time he looked at you with those strange, indifferent eyes—eyes that didn't blink, didn't flinch, didn't soften—you felt something in you ache deeper.

Something begging to be broken.

You were already halfway gone by the time he asked if you'd ever been tied down before.

It started differently that night. Not with words. Not with warmth. Just... a shift. A quiet pulse beneath the surface of the motel silence. Like the static before a storm.

He wasn't cold. He wasn't distant. He was something else entirely. Coiled.

You felt it before you saw him. The tension in the air was palpable, electric, like something was waiting to happen—but refusing to name itself.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, his hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, steam ghosted after him like a spectre. His chest bare. Sweatpants slung low on his hips. There was no pretence in him. Just presence. Weighted. Measured.

You were already in bed, curled on top of the sheets in one of his old shirts, bare beneath it. Sleeves loose, neckline stretched, your body too warm, too exposed, but you hadn't dared move. Not when you felt him coming like that—like gravity.

He looked at you. And this time—really looked.

Not with the softness he used to carry. Not with anything familiar. Just the quiet scrutiny of a man who was considering what to do with a thing he'd left untouched for too long.

You sat up too fast. Your breath caught. Hope bloomed too violently in your chest, sharp and stupid.

He didn't speak. Just came to the bed and sat beside you, heavy and slow. His thigh pressed against yours.

You didn't move. Couldn't.

Then his hand reached out—dragged over your skin. First your knee. Then the inside of your thigh. Calloused fingertips brushing like he was testing a fault line.

You nearly cried from the contact. Your thighs instinctively pressed together. He didn't react.

And then, like it was nothing, like he was asking whether you wanted your eggs scrambled or fried, he said:

"Ever been tied down before?"

Your mouth went dry. You blinked. Swallowed. Your voice came out breathy, unsure. "Yeah. I mean. Not like—seriously. Not properly. But if you're asking, then—yes. Please."

That last word tumbled out before you could think. Please.

So soft. So desperate. Your face burned with it. You hated how real it sounded. How much you meant it.

But Sam didn't smirk. Didn't lean in. Didn't touch you again. He just nodded once. Sharp. Final. Like he'd already decided.

And then he stood.

You watched him walk to his bag. Watched the tension in his shoulders, the easy cruelty in his posture. He knelt slowly. Unzipped the duffel.

And pulled out cuffs. Not cheap. Not novelty. These were serious. Silver hardware. Matte black. You stared as he brought them over, as he climbed onto the bed and guided your wrists up above your head.

You didn't resist. You couldn't. Your breath came in shallow, shaking waves as he buckled one, then the other, the cool kiss of leather biting softly into your skin.

He didn't speak. Not once.

Your legs were still free, and that felt intentional. But you were too far gone to question it. Because after nearly six weeks of silence, of being looked through like you didn't exist, of begging with your body for anything—

Sam was finally touching you. And you would've let him ruin you all over again just to feel it.

You didn't know what you expected.

Maybe that he'd kiss you. Maybe that he'd strip the shirt off your body and slide between your legs and whisper things he didn't mean in that voice you still dreamed about.

Maybe—stupidly, naively—you thought this would be the night he touched you the way he used to. That the restraints were a doorway back to something you missed, not the beginning of something else entirely.

He said nothing.

Just fastened the last buckle at your wrist, checked the tension, and leaned back on his haunches to study you like a sculpture he wasn't quite finished with. His eyes dragged across your body with clinical disinterest. Like he wasn't moved by you—just measuring.

You shifted a little, testing the give in the cuffs. They didn't budge.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Then he stood. Walked across the room with slow, quiet purpose. You lifted your head to follow him, confused—but something low in your belly was already starting to stir. That old instinct. That familiar fear that felt like arousal.

He knelt by his bag again. Unzipped it. And pulled out something long. White. Thick.

It took you a second to understand what you were looking at. The cord. The shape. The sound it made when he plugged it into the socket beside him and thumbed the switch.

Your stomach dropped.

A wand. The kind that plugs into the wall. Heavy-duty. No batteries. No escape.

"Sam?" You breathed.

He didn't answer. Just cracked his neck, unplugged it, and stood up. Then plugged the thing into a socket nearer the bed. The cord slithered across the floor like a serpent.

He climbed onto the bed. Settled between your thighs like it was his place. Like he owned the space he hadn't touched in weeks.

The wand was still off. But you felt its promise like a threat. He ran it up your inner thigh. Not pressed—just a ghost of contact. Barely there. Then down. A slow stroke. He traced the curve of your knee. The hollow behind it. Down to your ankle. Then up again. Past your knee. Higher. A glancing drag that made your muscles jump. He tickled your foot with it. Cruel. Teasing.

You shivered.

"Sam," you whispered again. "What are you doing?"

No answer.

You tried again. "Are you gonna...?"

Still nothing.

Just the hum of electricity waiting to be lit. And then—just when you were starting to spiral, starting to plead—you said something. You don't even remember what. A joke. A plea. Something breathless and silly and yours. And that's what grabbed him.

His head tilted.

He looked at you. Really looked. And then—without a word—he leaned in, braced one forearm across your hips, and pressed the wand hard to your clit.

It felt like being hit by lightning. You screamed. He didn't blink. Just watched.

And the wand was still on its lowest setting.

You came too fast. Your body had been wound so tight for so long—starved of touch, of friction, of him—that the first hard press of the wand against your clit was enough to detonate you.

It ripped through you like heat lightning. Blinding. Blistering. Your thighs trembled. Your lungs forgot how to breathe. Your wrists strained against the cuffs until the metal bit into your skin.

And he didn't move. He didn't speak. He just watched. Like it wasn't happening to you at all—just a reaction. Just a hypothesis proven true. An equation balancing itself out.

You sobbed once. Sharp and sudden. And that was the only sound you got out before the wand hit you again.

Because he never lifted it.

You weren't even done shaking, and he never lifted it. There was no break. No breath. No reprieve. Just the relentless, searing vibration pulsing into your nerves, still raw and shattered from the orgasm that hadn't even finished echoing through your limbs.

Your hips jerked. Instinctively. Desperately. Trying to get away, to shift, to slide the wand even half an inch from your clit—but his forearm anchored you to the mattress. Heavy and absolute.

It was like being pinned under time itself.

You gasped. Whimpered. "S-Sam—wait—" Your voice cracked on the second syllable.

Nothing. Just the low, brutal hum of the wand vibrating mercilessly against your most fragile point.

Your back arched. Toes curled. You could feel the second orgasm building impossibly fast, but it didn't feel like pleasure. It felt like pain melting into something sharper. Tears welled. Slipped hot down your cheeks. You didn't know when you started crying. It didn't matter.

"Sam, please—it hurts—"

Still no answer. Still no shift.

But he was watching you. Always watching.

His eyes dragged across your face with unsettling calm. You were a trembling, sweating mess and he looked like he was studying weather patterns. Your flushed cheeks. Your bitten lip. The tears that carved silver streaks through the heat of your face. The war in your pupils between panic and want.

You felt it coming again. That unbearable, crashing wave. And you hated how your body begged for it. How you couldn't stop clenching down. How you couldn't stop needing.

Then, finally—

"Are you gonna beg me?"

His voice didn't sound like it belonged to a man touching you. It was too even. Too distant. A detached curiosity. Like he wasn't participating—just conducting the experiment.

You nodded frantically, blinking through tears.

"Please, Sam, please—I c-can't—just let me—please—"

Words fell apart in your mouth. They came out soft. Wrecked. Sweet like blood on sugar.

And he tilted his head. Considered it. Smirked. Then—

"Nope."

And he turned the power up.

The sound deepened. Louder. Thicker. It shook against your clit, brutal and unrelenting.

Your mouth dropped open in a scream that didn't make it out. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't form words. All that came was sound—broken, high, helpless. You thrashed, tried to close your legs, but he slid his knee between them, kept you open, kept you exposed.

"Careful," he said absently. "I'll tie those down too."

And he would. You knew he would. And still—still—your body was rising again. Not from desire. Not from thought. From conditioning. From the helpless surrender of something completely, irrevocably owned.

You were going to come again. And he wasn't going to stop you.

He smirked. Not like someone enjoying himself. Like someone watching a match catch fire in slow motion.

And then—without a word—he turned the dial. The wand kicked up beneath his hand, the hum deepening, vibrating with cruel, mechanical certainty. You couldn't breathe around it. Couldn't think. Couldn't beg anymore.

You screamed.

Your hips lifted off the bed, thighs trembling violently, but his forearm pressed you back down with practiced, effortless strength. Not straining. Just present. Just unmovable.

Your whole body was shaking now—every nerve singing, cracking, splitting under the pressure. Your wrists jerked against the restraints. Useless. Beautiful. Perfect.

Sam didn't speak.

Just tilted his head again. Watched you like something in a museum. A rare, private performance of ruin he had all to himself. His eyes scanned every inch of you—your breasts heaving, your stomach quaking, the wet mess between your thighs glistening in the dim motel light.

At one point, your moans turned guttural. Animal. You were growling now—deep, primal sounds tearing out of your throat as you thrashed beneath him, desperate and feral.

He didn't even blink. Just quirked an eyebrow. Frowned slightly, like he was considering something.

Maybe it was the tears. Maybe it was the way your legs kept trying to close, spasming around his body.

He shifted his weight slightly. Let the wand ease off for just a second—not mercy, just a pause in the procedure.

Then, quietly:

"You keep kicking like that, I'm gonna tie your legs down." His voice was flat. Low. Not a threat. A guarantee.

You sobbed—half fear, half pleasure, all wreckage.

"Sam—please—I c-can't take it, I can't—"

"Mm," he murmured, like he wasn't listening at all. Like he was just acknowledging the noise.

Then he pressed the wand back down. Hard.

You shattered. It was your third orgasm—or fourth? You didn't know. Couldn't count. Couldn't breathe. All you knew was the white-hot pleasure burning through you like fever, nerves flayed open, clit swollen and screaming, muscles locked in a full-body convulsion.

And still—he watched.

"You look good like this," he murmured, almost to himself.

His eyes dragged down your body again, and something in them changed. Just for a second. Not softness. Not warmth. Something darker. Appreciation.

"Didn't know you could come like that," he added.

Then he reached down with his free hand, dragged two fingers through the slick mess between your thighs, lifted it, and watched it string between them.

You were still twitching. Still sobbing.

He tilted his head.

"Still want me to stop?"

You nodded, breath hitching.

He smiled. "Too bad."

And turned the wand up again.

You stopped fighting. Somewhere between the last orgasm and the silence that came after it, your body just... gave.

You weren't moaning anymore. You weren't pleading. Your legs had stopped twitching, fallen limp against the mattress. Your wrists hung slack in the cuffs, fingers curled in weak, trembling fists. Your jaw had gone slack, mouth wet and open, your breath a ghost barely making it past your lips.

The wand was still buzzing against your clit. The vibrations felt like they were coming from inside your bones. Like you weren't separate from it anymore—just a body wrapped around sensation.

And Sam—

He was still watching. Expression unreadable. Not smirking. Not smiling. Not cruel. Just... aware. Like he was watching a star die. Like he was documenting the end of something.

You blinked through the blur of your own tears. Your mouth parted. You swallowed hard. Licked your lips. Tried to speak.

"Sam," you whispered. It didn't even sound like a word. Just a shape. A sob turned sideways.

His eyes flicked to yours. And you knew you had him.

"Please," you said again. Softer now. Wetter. Your voice cracked in the middle, jaw trembling as you pushed the words out around spit and sobs. "I just want to feel you."

He didn't answer. Just tilted his head. Considered you.

You swallowed hard. Fought against the breath trembling in your lungs. It caught in your throat and broke open like a wound.

"Please fuck me," you whispered. "I need you inside me."

And that—that—was the moment the wand shut off.

The silence felt like a gunshot. Deafening. Immediate. Your whole body flinched like it had been struck.

You sobbed without sound, throat too raw to make more noise, your body folding inward like it didn't know what to do without the pain.

Sam shifted his weight. Reached down. Dragged your legs apart a little wider with rough, patient hands.

Didn't say a word.

He didn't untie your wrists. Didn't lean down to kiss you. Didn't offer comfort or care or anything that resembled the man you used to know.

He just pushed into you. One smooth, slow thrust. Deep. Unstoppable.

You cried out—raw, grateful, broken. You were so tight. So swollen. So soaked.

He groaned, low in his chest. His hips stilled against yours. His cock buried to the base.

You sobbed again. A shudder passed through your whole frame.

"Thank you," you whispered. Voice shredded. Barely a breath.

And finally—finally—he smiled.

You should've been too far gone to feel any of it. You should've been numb. Raw. Burnt-out. But the moment Sam pushed into you—deep, slow, unrelenting—your body betrayed you. You felt it. Every inch of him. Every thick, unforgiving stretch. The way your walls clenched without meaning to, the way your breath caught, the way your ribs shook like they were bracing for collapse.

And Sam—

He groaned. Loud. Low. Like the sound was ripped from the centre of him, like it surprised even him. His voice came thick with it, gravel and heat and the barest echo of awe.

"Fuck," he hissed, his hips pressing forward until he was buried to the hilt. He held there, motionless, like he was savouring the pressure, the heat, the obscene way your cunt wrapped around him like it never wanted to let go.

He moved then, just enough for you to feel it. A subtle drag and push, a slow grind that made you choke on a moan.

He laughed under his breath, not mocking, not amused—just satisfied. Sated. Possessive.

"This what happens when I don't fuck you for a while?" He muttered, the words sliding out like sin. "Get all tight and gummy for me?"

Your legs shook, useless things twitching in time with every slow roll of his hips. You tried to lift them, to wrap them around his waist, to pull him deeper somehow, but you had no strength left. Your limbs were jelly, your body trembling with aftershock and overstimulation.

He noticed, of course. He always noticed.

He grabbed your legs, one in each hand, and bent them to his liking. Spread you wider. Pushed your thighs back until you were completely open to him, nothing hidden, nothing held back. A helpless offering.

"Been dripping for me for weeks," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "Didn't think you could get wetter. But look at this—"

He bottomed out again, slow and sure, and you sobbed at the stretch.

"You hear that?"

And you did. That slick, filthy sound of him fucking into you. The wet slap of skin and the obscene suction of your cunt trying to hold him in. That squelch. It echoed, filled the room, drowned you.

"You're fucking soaked," he growled. "Tight little cunt, and so fucking wet—just from begging."

It should've been cruel. Should've been humiliating. But it wasn't. It was worship, in the way only he could give it now—clinical, feral, exacting.

And your body—fragile, shattered thing that it was—reacted.

Somehow, impossibly, you felt it again. A flicker. A spark. A low coil in your gut starting to pull, starting to burn.

A new orgasm. Real. Alive. Building.

You shouldn't have had anything left. You should've been dry and broken and spent. But he was still inside you. Still filling you.

And somehow, you wanted more.

Sam fucked you deep and steady, hips working in patient rhythm, each thrust a study in precision. He moved like a man obsessed with sensation, with friction, with the hot, pulsing clamp of your body trying to pull him deeper. His breath hitched through gritted teeth, short and hot and ragged.

"Still squeezing me," he muttered, voice pitched low with something almost reverent. "Still fucking clenching. Greedy little thing."

You nodded, unable to do anything else. A whimper slipped past your lips, helpless and pleading.

His grip on your thighs tightened.

"Gonna come again, aren't you?"

And god help you—you were.

You couldn't stop nodding. It wasn't deliberate. You weren't even aware you were doing it. Your mouth hung slack, jaw trembling, drool catching on your lips, and your head just bobbed—slow, frantic, helpless—like your body was trying to say yes before your mind could catch up.

Your chest heaved. Every breath came ragged. And your vision—fuck, your vision—kept slipping in and out of focus, blurring at the edges like you were looking through water, like the world was trying to fade into white.

And Sam—

He noticed.

He was watching your face like he always did, like he was measuring something no one else could see. And when he saw your eyes start to roll, to cross from the pressure and the pleasure and the sheer overload of it all, he made a noise low in his throat. Something mean.

"Oh yeah," he muttered, voice dragging rough over your skin. "There it is."

He adjusted his grip on your thighs, spread you even wider. His thrusts stayed steady, deliberate, but now each one came with weight. Purpose. Like he was trying to drag your soul out through your cunt.

"Eyes are going all stupid on me," he murmured, not even breathless. Just observing. "You know they're crossing, right?"

Your mouth opened wider. You couldn't even whimper. Just little gasps. Little sobs.

He leaned in closer. Didn't slow down. His hips snapped harder, deeper, and the sound of him inside you was obscene—wet, relentless, flesh against flesh, the room filled with it.

"Ruined," he said, almost to himself. "Look at you. All wrecked for me."

You blinked slow, barely conscious, and he laughed—low and cruel and fond.

"Think you're gonna come again, baby?" He asked. "Huh?"

You nodded wildly. Couldn't stop. Couldn't breathe.

"You look like you're about to pass out," he said, and there was genuine amusement in his voice now. "Mouth open, eyes crossed, legs shaking—fuck. You're loving this, aren't you?"

You tried to say yes, but all that came out was a wrecked little noise, part sob, part moan, all devotion.

Sam groaned again, deeper this time, hips stuttering.

"So goddamn wet," he said. "So fucking tight."

He looked down between you—watched his cock disappear inside your soaked, trembling body—and exhaled through his teeth.

"Still clenching like you don't plan on letting me go."

Your whole body was tensing now. Coiling. The burn rising again. Higher. Higher. You couldn't believe it. Couldn't survive it. But it was coming.

And Sam knew it. He knew everything.

You came like it was being ripped out of you. No build. No grace. No warning. Just a violent collapse.

It tore through you without permission, without pause, your body locking up tight and trembling like it had been hit with a live wire. Your mouth dropped open in a silent scream, your wrists yanked against the restraints, and every muscle in your body seized as wave after wave rolled through you—hot, endless, obscene.

Sam didn't stop.

He fucked you through it. Groaning now. Low, primal. The rhythm of his hips was brutal, unforgiving. Like he wanted to feel every single aftershock drag against his cock.

"There she is," he growled, watching your face contort. "That's the sound I was waiting for."

You sobbed through it, barely able to breathe, your thighs quaking around his waist. He slapped your cheek—not hard, but enough to make your eyes snap open, unfocused and wet.

"Don't you fucking pass out on me," he muttered, panting, sweat dripping from his jaw. "Not yet."

He fucked you harder.

You wailed.

"So squishy," he grunted. "So fucking gummy and tight. Knew I could get you like this if I just left you wanting long enough."

Your entire body jerked with each thrust, overstimulated and undone.

"Sulking around for weeks," he murmured, voice edged in something sharp, amused. "All moody. All needy. Thought I didn't notice?"

His mouth twisted into a mean little grin.

"Didn't really care. Not until now."

Another thrust. Hard. Deep.

"But this?" He breathed. "This made it worth it."

You hiccuped around your own breath, body twitching beneath him.

"I could come wherever I want," he muttered, eyes locked on the mess he was making of you. "Could come inside you, watch it leak out slow—"

Another snap of his hips. You cried out.

"—or maybe push into your ass and shoot there instead."

You choked on a sob. Hiccuped again.

He laughed, breathless and dark.

"Maybe next time."

And then he pulled out.

You didn't even feel the loss—you were too far gone, too wrecked. A moment later, the heat of him painted across your stomach. He groaned, low and rough, as he came—thick and hot over your skin, dripping down your ribs and pooling into the waistband of his shirt still hanging from your shoulders.

He stayed there for a second, cock twitching, breath ragged. Then he looked at you and smiled.

The room was silent except for the hum of the motel's old air conditioner and the soft, broken sound of your own breath.

You couldn't move.

Your wrists still strained in their restraints, numb and tingling from how hard you'd pulled against them. Your legs had fallen open and stayed there, spent and twitching. The cool air licked over your thighs and the warm, wet mess drying across your stomach. Your body didn't feel like yours anymore—it felt like his.

Sam didn't speak at first. He just looked at you.

No tenderness. No apology. Just those soulless, strange eyes studying you like you were something he'd built and finally gotten right.

He leaned forward. His fingers brushed the inside of your thigh, then dragged higher to your stomach, where your skin still gleamed. He wiped it away with the edge of the ruined shirt you were still wearing—his shirt, the one he hadn't bothered to take off you.

Not until he was done.

He didn't look at your face when he cleaned you. Just moved like he was tidying up after himself. Like it was routine.

Then his hands moved to the cuffs.

He unbuckled one wrist, then the other. Slow. Precise. As if the restraint had never been about force—it had always been about control.

You let your arms fall to your sides. Rubbed your wrists gently. Felt the ache bloom.

Sam pulled the hem of the shirt down over your body. It stuck to your skin in places, clinging damply to your ribs, your stomach. He didn't fix it. Just let it settle there.

And then he lay down beside you. He didn't touch you. Didn't hold you. Just laid back, arm tucked under his head, eyes on the ceiling. And finally—quietly—he said it.

"You needed that."

You didn't answer. Not right away.

Your chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven waves. You turned your head slowly to look at him. He was already watching you. Always watching. That same unreadable expression. That same stillness. Like nothing in him had changed, even after all he'd done.

Those strange eyes.

They should've scared you. But they didn't.

"Do you regret it?" He asked. His voice was low. Calm. Clinical.

You rubbed your wrists again. Felt the skin there—warm and worn. You thought about everything that had led to this. The waiting. The silence. The ruin. And then you whispered:

"No."

And maybe—just maybe—you really meant it.

Sam taglist: @losers-clvb @bejeweledinterludes @angelicjackles @sacr1ficialang3l @blossomingorchids @xoswiftieprincess @mostlymarvelgirl @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @nevercameraready @liiiilsss @mj-102009 @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @deangirlsstuff67 <3

[hauntedbyjoel]

Just This Once

pairing: joel miller x f! reader word count - 7.2k content - mdni, 18+, no outbreak, age gap (mid twenties reader, joel is in his 40s), possessive joel, mild angst, oral sex, explicit smut, p in v sex, fingering, creampie summary - When your family drags you on a week-long mountain lodge vacation, the last person you expect to see is Joel Miller—your dad’s best friend, the man you haven’t seen since a moment years ago nearly crossed a line. Now you're stuck under the same roof with him, and the tension is unbearable. You hate each other. You want each other. And it’s only a matter of time before everything explodes in secret touches, filthy nights, and a week that will change everything.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You hadn’t seen Joel Miller in four years. That’s the first thing that hit you when you stepped out of your car and saw him unloading a cooler from the back of your dad’s truck—grayer than you remembered, thicker in the shoulders, still wearing that same beat-up flannel like it was a second skin. The second thing that hit you was how fast the resentment came flooding back.

Your dad’s best friend. The one who used to ruffle your hair when you were a kid and bark at your boyfriends when you were a teenager. The one who used to give you rides home from parties with his jaw clenched and his hand gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him from exploding. The one who looked at you differently the night before your college graduation. You didn’t imagine it. You couldn’t have.

Everyone else was outside, drunk on champagne and cheap beer, and you had slipped into the kitchen to get water. Joel had followed a few minutes later. You’d been wearing that little sundress—the one that made you feel older than you were. You turned around and found him already watching you.

He didn’t say anything, not at first. Just looked at you. And then he asked, low and dry, “You always wear things like that around your dad?” You’d smiled. Teased. “Only when I know you’ll be there.” He hadn’t smiled back. Not even close. He just exhaled, said your name like a warning, and left the room.

After that, you didn’t see him again. Not at your party. Not at any of the holidays that followed. If you asked your dad where Joel was, he always brushed it off—working, traveling, things got busy. You knew better. So when your dad invited you to the “family lodge trip” and casually dropped that oh, by the way, Joel’s coming, your gut twisted. You’d almost said no. You should have.

The lodge was up in the mountains—three hours from the nearest real town, with six bedrooms, a wraparound porch, and a hot tub that supposedly worked “if you didn’t touch the wrong switch.” It was your dad’s idea of heaven. It was your idea of hell.

The rest of the family arrived in chaotic waves: aunts, uncles, cousins, screaming toddlers, someone’s new girlfriend named Cassie who didn’t eat gluten. You tried to stay in the background, helping unload bags and pretending not to notice Joel already inside, talking to your dad like nothing had ever happened.

You almost made it through the first hour unnoticed. Almost. He turned around while you were unpacking the beer into the fridge. You didn’t look up. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. But you heard his voice shift. A beat of silence. Then: “Didn’t know you’d be here.” You closed the fridge too hard. “Guess that makes two of us.” Joel didn’t reply. He never did, not when you had that bite in your voice. You didn’t turn around until he was gone.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Joel avoided you the first two days. You weren’t exactly complaining—but you weren’t exactly unaffected, either. It wasn’t subtle. He kept his distance like you were contagious. Always one room away, one beat behind in conversation. If you went into the kitchen, he left. If you started a story, he suddenly remembered something to do outside. Your dad didn’t seem to notice. Nobody did. But you felt it. Because it wasn’t new.

It was just the same rhythm as before—like the two of you had learned how not to orbit each other years ago, and now you were slipping back into that old, silent routine. But it was different now. More bitter. More deliberate. And maybe that’s what made it worse.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The last time you saw Joel Miller, you were twenty-two. You were home from school for a few months, in that weird limbo between graduation and whatever came next. Your dad had thrown a summer party in the backyard—beer, a grill, some acoustic guitar, the whole neighborhood vibe. You hadn’t expected Joel to be there. He hadn’t come to much of anything after that weird little moment at your graduation the year before. You figured that distance was permanent.

But then you came outside in your sundress and saw him sitting at your dad’s patio table, nursing a beer and looking like he hadn’t aged a day. Or maybe he had—he looked tired, but in a good way. Worn in. Rough around the edges. That salt-and-pepper scruff, those eyes that never gave away a damn thing. You didn’t speak at first. You couldn’t.

You spent the whole evening pretending not to watch him. Pretending you weren’t wondering if he remembered. If he still thought about that look he gave you in the kitchen. The almost. The maybe. The fuck, don’t do this that hung between you. But something shifted that night. You were walking back from the bathroom, barefoot on the grass, tipsy from sangria and nostalgia, and Joel was there—just standing on the porch in the shadows, arms crossed, that same unreadable expression on his face. You didn’t stop. You just raised an eyebrow and said, “What?”

He looked at you for a long time. Then: “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

You scoffed. “Right. Because you know me so well.”

“I know what that dress means,” he said. Quiet. Low. “I know what kind of game you’re playing.” You took a step forward. Too bold. You always were with him.

“And what if I’m not playing?”

That silenced him. His jaw worked. His eyes darkened. He looked like he wanted to grab you and shake the words out of your mouth—or kiss you until you took them back. Maybe both. But he didn’t do either. He just muttered your name like it hurt to say, shook his head, and walked off into the night.

After that, nothing. No texts. No holidays. Not even a birthday message. You’d disappeared from his life—or he’d erased you. Either way, you’d gotten the message. You were off-limits. Not just because of your age or who your dad was. But because Joel knew better. He knew himself. Knew the kind of man he was. The things he’d already lost. And he didn’t want your name on that list.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

So when your dad said Joel was coming on this trip, something inside you buckled. You didn’t say no. That wasn’t your style. Instead, you packed your best shorts, your skimpiest swimsuits, and a book you weren’t going to read. If he wanted to act like you were a mistake he never made, you were going to make him remember just how close he came.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The first night was fine. Mostly. Everyone was excited, loud, full of wine and bonfire smoke. You stayed in the background, floating from conversation to conversation like nothing was eating you alive. Joel didn’t say a word to you. Didn’t so much as glance in your direction. The second day, you caught him staring from across the cabin porch. Just a flicker of something in his eyes. A memory. A warning. But by day three, the silence broke.

It was over something stupid—a cooler left out on the porch in bear country. You’d forgotten to bring it in after everyone went down to the lake. Joel saw it first and dragged it in, dropping it at your feet with a muttered, “Real smart.” You blinked.

“Excuse me?

“Bears like easy food. You want ‘em crawling up to the cabin?”

“I didn’t realize I was personally responsible for every item on this trip,” you snapped. He narrowed his eyes.

“No, just the ones with your name on them.”

You didn’t say what you wanted to. You didn’t say, You’re still the same arrogant, self-righteous asshole who can’t admit he wanted me. Instead, you smiled sweetly and said, “Glad to know you’re still excellent at blaming everyone but yourself.”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. The heat between you spoke loud enough.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

That afternoon, you avoided him. Took your book out to the dock, let the sun bake your thighs, dipped your legs into the water, and tried not to replay every word of that argument in your head. It wasn’t even a real fight. But your heart was still pounding. And he’d looked good. Too good. That worn t-shirt clinging to his back, sweat on his collarbone, that low voice still rasping in your chest long after he left the room. You hated that he could still do this to you. You hated that you still let him.

That night, there was a bonfire again. You wore a tank top that clung to your skin and made no apologies. You laughed too loud. Let your cousin’s boyfriend sit too close. Ignored the heat of Joel’s stare from across the flames. Until he stood up without a word and walked inside. You followed five minutes later, breath caught in your throat.

You found him in the kitchen, alone, leaning against the counter with a drink in his hand. His eyes didn’t move when you stepped inside.

“You gonna keep acting like this?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“Like a brat.” The word bit. “Like you didn’t do anything wrong.” You crossed your arms. “I was twenty-two. You were thirty-nine. You were the one who disappeared.”

“I had to,” he said. His voice was quiet, hoarse. “You think I wanted to?”

“You think I cared?” you shot back. “You don’t get to act like you’re the one who got hurt.” Joel’s expression darkened. “You have no idea what it cost me not to touch you that night.” The air between you went still. Then your aunt came in looking for wine glasses, and the moment shattered. Joel disappeared again—just like before.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Now, on day five, it’s unbearable. Every look, every brush of your shoulders, every shared room—charged. You’re running out of places to avoid each other. And worse—you’re running out of excuses not to want it. You swear at one point he almost says something during dinner, but then your dad claps him on the back and the spell breaks.

Later, you find a reason to go outside. To breathe. To drink. To slip into the hot tub alone. To stop pretending this isn’t tearing you apart.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The cabin was quiet. Too quiet. Everyone had gone to bed, eventually. You could still hear the muffled sounds of the TV in the back room—someone watching an old movie half-asleep—but otherwise, the place had gone still. The kind of quiet you only get in the woods. Thick and soft and unsettling. You couldn’t sleep. Not like this. Not with him still under the same roof. Not with your skin buzzing like it was trying to crawl off your bones. So you slipped outside.

A hoodie thrown over your tank top. Nothing under it. Bikini bottoms still damp from the lake earlier. A bottle of wine grabbed from the counter on your way out—half-full and yours now. No glass.

The hot tub creaked when you stepped in. Lukewarm. The jets barely worked. But it was something. Some kind of escape. You sank down into the water with a hiss and let it cover your thighs, your hips. Steam rose into the air around your face, humid and pine-scented. You sipped straight from the bottle. Tilted your head back. Let the stars blur. The ache in your chest hadn’t gone away. It had just learned to settle low—like a bruise behind your ribs. Dull, bitter, always there. Four years of unresolved tension pressing on your lungs. Four years of trying not to think about him. About the way he said your name. About the way he looked at you like he hated himself for wanting to.

You took another swig. The patio door creaked open behind you. Your pulse jumped. You didn’t move. Boots on the wood. A pause. Then—“Figured I’d find you out here.” Joel’s voice, low and even. But not casual. Never casual with him.

You didn’t turn around. “Want me to leave?” he asked. You took a slow breath. “No.”

Silence. The soft clink of glass—he set a bottle down on the ledge. Whiskey, probably. Of course it was. You heard the scrape of wood as he pulled a chair closer, the creak of him settling into it. Still didn’t look at you.

The stars shimmered overhead like they knew something you didn’t. “You always drink alone?” he asked after a while. You shrugged. “Better than company I don’t like.” He huffed once. Dry.

“You don’t like me.”

“Do you like you?”

That one hung in the air. He didn’t answer. You didn’t press. Another sip. Another minute of silence. It wasn’t peaceful—it was electric. The kind of quiet that buzzed with everything unsaid.

Finally, you asked, “Why’d you come?”

Joel didn’t pretend not to understand. “Your dad invited me.”

“And that’s it?” you asked. You turned your head just enough to see him. “You didn’t think twice?”

He looked tired. The firelight from the screened porch lit the edge of his jaw, the slope of his nose. His expression was unreadable.

“I thought twice,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “And the third time?”

His mouth twitched like it wanted to smile. But it didn’t. “I knew you’d be here,” he admitted. The words landed like a punch in your stomach. You swallowed. Hard.

“So what—” you leaned back against the tub wall, stretched your arms across the edge, “you wanted to torture yourself? Or me?”

Joel’s gaze slid to your collarbone. Your throat. The way your nipples had hardened under your thin top, the fabric clinging wet to your skin. He looked away fast, jaw tight. “I didn’t come here to start anything.”

“Bullshit.”

He met your eyes. This time, he didn’t flinch.

“You wanna talk about starting things?” he said, voice sharp. “You think I didn’t see what you were doing back then?”

“I was twenty-two.”

“You were my best friend’s daughter.”

“Not by choice.” He stood suddenly. Pushed off the chair, walked toward the railing like he couldn’t stand being that close. You watched his shoulders rise and fall, tense. “You think I’m proud of this?” he said. “Of wanting you?”

You stood, slowly. The water sloshed. Your tank top clung to every curve—wet and transparent in the porch light. You didn’t hide. You didn’t flinch. “I don’t want your pride,” you said.

Joel turned. You didn’t know which of you moved first. Maybe it didn’t matter. One second, you were dripping water onto the porch. The next, you were in his arms, mouth on his, kissing him like you’d been waiting your whole life to do it. He groaned into your mouth—low, raw, like it hurt. His hands came up to your waist, gripping hard, dragging you closer until your soaked chest was flush against him. It was messy. Desperate. All tongue and teeth and four years of restraint unraveling like thread in a storm. He backed you into the side of the cabin wall with a thud. You gasped. He kissed you harder.

“This is wrong,” he muttered against your lips.

“I don’t care,” you whispered.

He kissed you again. Hands under your shirt, dragging it up, baring your wet skin to the mountain air. His palms were rough and warm, moving over your ribs, your waist, up to your breasts. You arched into him.

“I thought about this,” he said. “Too many times.”

You bit his shoulder. “Show me.”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

His mouth was everywhere.

You didn’t remember how you got from the hot tub to the porch steps, but suddenly he had you pinned to them—back against the rough wood, legs spread over his lap, and Joel’s mouth on your throat like he was trying to brand you there.

The porch light flickered behind his head, catching the silver in his hair, the tight clench of his jaw as he kissed you. It wasn’t soft. Nothing about this was. It was desperate. Hungry. The kind of kiss you only give someone after years of pretending you didn’t want to. You whimpered into his mouth. His hand slid up the inside of your thigh, fingers teasing the damp hem of your bikini bottoms.

“Still wanna pretend this isn’t happening?” he rasped against your cheek.

You shook your head, gasping. “No. I want you.”

He groaned—like you’d said something obscene. Like you’d ruined him. Joel didn’t waste time. He lifted your top up, pulling it over your head until your bare chest hit the open air. Your nipples peaked, still wet from the tub, and his mouth was on them in seconds. Sucking, groaning, biting just enough to make you squirm.

“Jesus,” he muttered against your skin. “You’re perfect. You fuckin’ knew what you were doing back then, didn’t you?”

You arched your back, fingers in his hair. “I wanted you to look.”

“I did,” he growled. “I fuckin’ looked every time.”

His hands were already moving—down your hips, hooking into your bikini bottoms, dragging them off and tossing them somewhere behind him. Then he leaned back and just stared. You felt raw under that gaze. Bared open. Not just your body—your want. Your need.

“Joel—”

“Goddamn.” His voice dropped lower. “You’re soaked.”

“I was in the tub,” you teased.

He gave you a warning look. One hand slipped between your thighs, two fingers running over your center. You gasped—wet, throbbing, aching.

“This isn’t the tub,” he said.

And then he tasted you. Dropped to his knees between your legs and pushed them open wider with both hands. You moaned—loud, unfiltered, filthy—as his mouth found your core and sucked.

“F-fuck—” your hips jerked. His arms locked around your thighs, holding you still. He licked you like he was starving. Like he hadn’t let himself want this and now couldn’t stop. Long, slow swipes of his tongue that made your stomach clench. Then little flicks over your clit that made your toes curl.

You grabbed the porch railing behind your head, panting, “Joel, I’m—oh my god—”

He didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down—moaning against you like your pleasure was his, like he could feel you coming apart in his bones. His beard scratched your skin in the best way. His grip on your thighs bruised.

When you came, you shook. Back arched, mouth open, your whole body trembling under him. He held you through it—let you grind against his face, let you cry out into the night with no shame. And then he pulled away, mouth wet, eyes black.

“You sure you wanna keep going?” he rasped into your ear.

You nodded, breathless. “I’ve never been more sure.”

He kissed you like that destroyed him. Like you’d just said I love you and he didn’t know what to do with it. You were slumped against the cabin wall—wet, aching, and trembling from the orgasm he’d just coaxed out of you on the porch. His hand was slick with it, shining in the low light, and he looked at you like he didn’t know whether to kiss you or drag you back to hell with him.

You beat him to it. You stepped forward, dropped to your knees on the wood floor, and looked up at him with fire in your eyes.

“Let me take care of you.”

Joel froze. “Sweetheart—”

“Let me.” You reached for his belt. “I want to.”

He didn’t stop you. Couldn’t.

The sound of leather sliding through denim made your thighs clench all over again. You undid his fly, pushed his jeans and boxers down just enough, and there he was—thick, flushed, leaking at the tip. Your mouth watered.

Joel watched you with something close to pain in his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

You smiled, slow and wicked. “I think I do.”

And then you took him into your mouth. His hips jolted like he’d been shocked. A deep, raw groan escaped him—so loud it echoed in the trees.

“Jesus fuck,” he hissed. One big hand gripped your hair, not forcing—just grounding. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

You sucked him slow. Deep. Let your lips drag along the underside of his cock as you worked him down your throat. He was hot and heavy on your tongue, the salt of his skin making your head spin. You gagged a little, spit sliding down your chin, but you didn’t stop.

“Goddamn—” Joel’s hand tightened. “You look so fuckin’ good like this.”

You moaned around him. His thighs flexed.

“You always act so tough, don’t you?” he rasped. “But look at you now. On your knees. Mouth full of cock. Drippin’ for me.”

You pulled off with a slick pop, panting. “Only for you.”

He lost it. Joel yanked you to your feet and kissed you like a man on the edge—mouth open, tongue messy, hands everywhere. You could taste him on your own lips. He grabbed your ass, squeezed hard, and muttered, “Inside. Now.”

-── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

The guest room door slammed shut behind you. He didn’t even bother with lights. The moon through the window was enough to see him—dark and dangerous, shirt halfway off, jeans undone, chest rising and falling like he’d just run through the forest. You stripped for him without a word. You climbed back onto the bed, naked, legs spread—offering. Joel stared.

“Lie back,” he said roughly. “I need—fuck. Just lie back.”

You obeyed. He crawled over you slowly, like a man approaching something holy. And then he was there—settling between your thighs, spreading you with both hands.

“Still so fuckin’ wet,” he muttered. “That just from my fingers, baby? Or suckin’ me off got you like this?”

“Both,” you breathed. “I want you so bad.”

Joel groaned—feral.

“Fuckin’ filthy girl,” he growled. “You want my mouth? Wanna come on my tongue?”

You nodded, frantic. “Please.”

That was all he needed. Joel lowered his head and devoured you. There was no teasing. No slow buildup. He licked into you like a man starving, tongue everywhere at once, sucking your clit into his mouth so hard your back arched off the bed.

“Oh my god—Joel—”

“That’s it,” he groaned against you. “Say my name.”

You did. Again and again. Cried it out while he fucked you with his tongue, his nose pressed against your clit, beard scratch burning your inner thighs.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he murmured. “Been dreamin’ about this. How sweet you’d be. How you’d sound.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

You came with your fingers in his hair and his name in your mouth—shaking, moaning, soaking his face. He didn’t stop until you begged. Then he climbed up your body, kissed you with your slick still on his mouth, and lined himself up between your thighs.

“Ready?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You looked him in the eye. “Don’t be gentle.”

Joel’s face twisted—like you’d just said something cruel and beautiful.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he growled.

And then he thrust in. You gasped—so full, stretched wide, your whole body tensing at the intrusion. He cursed, slammed a hand against the headboard, and stayed there for a second, buried to the hilt, not moving.

“You feel—fuck, baby, you feel unreal,” he rasped into your neck.

“Move,” you begged. “Please.”

He did. Slow at first. Then harder. Then brutal. Joel fucked you deep, steady, with a kind of controlled rage—like he was punishing himself as much as he was giving you what you wanted.

“This what you needed?” he grunted. “Old man’s cock? Daddy’s best friend fuckin’ you stupid?”

You cried out—clawed at his back, wrapped your legs around his hips.

“Years,” he growled. “Years I told myself I couldn’t touch you. And now look at you.”

He sat back on his knees and dragged you with him—lifted your hips off the bed and fucked up into you until your head hit the pillows and the air left your lungs.

“You were mine the second you looked at me in that fuckin’ dress,” he said. “You know that?”

“Yes—Joel—”

“I’ll never be able to stop now,” he whispered. “You ruined me.”

You came with a scream. Your entire body clenched. Shaking, soaked, ruined beneath him—and he followed seconds later, growling your name into your neck as he emptied inside you with a broken moan.

He didn’t pull out. Didn’t move. Just held you there, panting against your skin, his cock still buried deep, his arms around you like he couldn’t let go.

“This changes everything,” you whispered.

“I know,” Joel said. “And I’m not sorry.”

Neither were you.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You didn’t see him all afternoon. After breakfast—silent and unbearable—you watched Joel disappear down the trail with your dad and two of your uncles, a cooler over his shoulder and a rifle on his back. Some day-hunt, they said. Nothing serious. Deer if they got lucky. Beer if they didn’t. You stayed behind. Tried to read. Tried to nap. Tried not to think about how sore your thighs still were from the way he’d held you. How your lips still tingled from the way he kissed you—like a man grabbing for something he never thought he’d get to keep.

By evening, the house was full again. Laughter, music, chairs scraping across the floor. Your cousin burned a pan of garlic bread and someone dropped a bottle of wine. The usual chaos. Joel returned just after sunset. You caught the sound of his voice before you saw him—low, gruff, tired. But not angry. Not cold. Just… careful. You stepped into the hallway to grab towels and he passed you. Barely looked at you. But when he did? That glance leveled you. One second, and your whole body remembered everything.

You waited again that night. Waited until the noise died. Waited until the lights clicked off one by one and the lodge settled into creaks and wind. Then you crept down the hallway. Breath tight. Bare feet silent. You didn’t knock this time. Joel’s room was dark when you slipped in, but you didn’t need light. You found him by feel—sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, shirtless, boxers low on his hips. His head lifted the second you closed the door. He didn’t speak. You crossed the room and stood between his knees. You were wearing nothing but a thin tank top and cotton shorts. No bra. No panties. Joel’s eyes dragged over you, slow and unreadable.

“You’re not gonna let me walk away from this, are you?” he asked.

“No.”

His hands came up to your hips. Stayed there.

“You’re gonna ruin me.”

You leaned down, voice soft at his ear. “I think I already did."

Joel's hands slid up beneath your shirt. Slow. Heavy. Callused.

You let him.

You stood still as his palms swept over your waist, your ribs, up to your bare chest. His fingers spread wide, rough and reverent as they cupped your breasts—thumbs brushing slowly across your nipples until they hardened, tight and sensitive under his touch.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “No bra?”

“No need.”

Joel exhaled through his nose like it physically hurt him to keep control. He leaned forward, nuzzled his face into your chest. His scruff scratched your skin, made your stomach clench.

“You’re tryin’ to kill me.”

You pulled your shirt off without answering. He groaned when you were bare in front of him.

“Get on the bed,” you whispered.

Joel did. Leaned back on his elbows as you climbed into his lap, straddling him, letting your thighs spread around his hips. You reached between your bodies, raked your nails softly down his chest, then lower—palming the length of him over his boxers. He was already hard. Of course he was.

You watched his jaw tighten as you touched him. Slid your hand beneath the waistband, freed him slow. His cock was flushed, thick, heavy in your hand. You licked your lips. Joel’s breath caught.

“Don’t fuckin’ tease me,” he said. “You know what you do to me.”

You leaned in close. “Then make me stop.”

His hands flew to your hips. He flipped you—smooth, fast, practiced—until your back hit the mattress and he was over you. Heavy. Solid. Dangerous.

“You got a smart mouth, sweetheart,” he said. “Know that?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe I oughta shut you up.”

“Maybe you should try.”

He kissed you hard.

You don’t remember when your shorts came off. Just that they were gone and Joel’s fingers were between your legs again, stroking through your folds like he already knew exactly what would make you whimper.

“Still wet,” he rasped. “You come into my bed like this?”

You nodded.

He shoved two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust. You gasped—back arching, walls clenching, hands gripping the sheets.

���Fuck,” he growled. “So fuckin’ tight. You missed me, baby?”

“Yes—yes, Joel—please—”

He pulled out slowly. Watched your cunt twitch around nothing. Then he lowered himself between your thighs.

“I told you I wasn’t done tasting you,” he said.

And then his mouth was on you. Joel had your legs pinned open with his hands wrapped tight around your thighs, your hips pulled to the edge of the mattress, and his mouth already back on your pussy like he’d missed it. And you realized quick—he wasn’t going slow tonight. He wasn’t soft. He was starving.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby,” he groaned into you, tongue parting your folds, mouth wet and messy. “I could eat this pussy every night. Every goddamn day.”

You gasped—already shaking, already too sensitive from his fingers. But he didn’t care. He licked through your slit, dragged his tongue flat and slow from your entrance to your clit, then sucked hard.

You cried out, hips jerking. “Joel—!”

“Don’t run,” he rasped, tightening his grip. “Don’t you fuckin’ run from me.”

His mouth latched onto your clit and stayed there. Tongue flicking fast, lips sucking firm, his beard rough on your thighs—just enough to burn.

You whimpered, hands flying to his hair. He let you pull, let you shake, let you grind into his face. He wanted it. All of it.

“Goddamn, you taste good,” he growled, breath hot against you. “You know that? Know how sweet you are, drippin’ like this? Soakin’ the sheets for me like a fuckin’ dream.”

Your head hit the pillow.

“Tell me,” he said, fingers digging into your hips. “Tell me how good it feels.”

“S-so good—Joel, I—fuck, it’s—”

“That’s right. That’s my girl,” he groaned, dragging his tongue in slow, torturous circles. “Gonna come for me, baby? Gonna let me taste it?”

You nodded frantically, eyes rolling back. “Yes—yes, I’m close, please—”

He moaned into your pussy, deep and rough and wrecked.

“That’s it. That’s what I want. Wanna feel you come on my fuckin’ tongue. Wanna hear you cry for it.”

You did. You cried out, thighs clamping around his head, whole body shuddering as your orgasm hit you like a wave. He held you through it—licked you through it—groaned like you were feeding him life itself.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered. “You hear me? Perfect. This pussy’s mine now. Mine.”

You were still twitching when he pulled back, lips swollen, beard soaked, eyes dark with something dangerous. Then he kissed the inside of your thigh. Once. Soft.

“You’re not ready for what I’m gonna do to you next.”

You were still gasping when he kissed your inner thigh.

Still shaking when he rose onto his knees and looked down at you like he’d never seen anything so fucking good in his life. Joel’s beard was soaked with you. His lips were red and swollen, his chest rising and falling heavy. His hands were still on your legs, holding them open, keeping you bare for him like you were something he earned.

“You good?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded. Your voice didn’t work yet.

Joel exhaled through his nose. Then:

“Because I’m not done.”

Your stomach flipped. He moved slow—like a man taking his time unwrapping a gift he’d waited years to touch. He crawled up your body, licking and kissing and dragging his scruff over your ribs, your breasts, your collarbone. You arched into him, hands threading through his hair, your body already begging for more.

“Still want me, baby?” he rasped into your neck.

“God—yes—”

“Need to hear it. Say it like you mean it.”

You looked up at him. Eyes wide. Voice shaking.

“I want you, Joel. I want you so bad.”

He growled—low and deep, like it tore straight through his chest—and pressed his cock against your soaked folds.

“You’re gonna get me,” he muttered. “Every inch.”

He reached between your bodies, lined himself up, and dragged the thick head of his cock through your slick—teasing you, smearing your wetness over his tip.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned. “You feel this? How wet you are for me?”

You whimpered. “Please—put it in—”

“Not yet.”

He smirked. Cruel. “You sure you can take it?”

“Yes—fuck—Joel, please—”

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear.

“Beg for it.”

“Beg,” Joel whispered again. His lips were at your ear, his cock pressed thick and hard against your entrance, but not inside—not yet. His hand gripped your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin like he wasn’t already seconds from breaking you.

“C’mon, baby,” he murmured. “You wanted to act all grown back then? Show me now. Show me how bad you need it.”

You swallowed. Chest heaving.

“Please, Joel.”

“Not good enough.”

You reached down and wrapped your hand around him—hot, thick, twitching in your grip—and guided him to your entrance yourself.

“I need you,” you breathed. “I need you so fucking bad, I can’t think. I’ve been waiting for this. Begging inside. Since the second you walked in that door.”

Joel froze. Then he thrust in. One smooth, filthy stroke—slow, deep, so deep, and your mouth fell open in a silent gasp. Your body stretched around him, impossibly tight, impossibly full, the stretch burning and perfect all at once.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel gritted out, voice breaking. “So fuckin’ tight. You feel that?”

You nodded, breathless.

He didn’t move yet. Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to yours.

“I can’t—” he whispered. “I can’t go slow.”

“Then don’t.”

Joel let out a growl—feral, wrecked—and pulled back before slamming back into you so hard your breath caught.

You cried out. Your nails dug into his back. He started moving. Rough, deep, steady thrusts that pushed you up the bed inch by inch, his hands on your hips to keep you where he wanted you.

“This what you wanted?” he panted. “Daddy’s friend to ruin you?”

“Yes,” you moaned. “Yes—fuck—just like that—”

He fucked you like he was trying to carve it into your spine. Like he wanted your body to remember him even if you never saw each other again.

“Thought about this every fuckin’ night,” he groaned. “Touchin’ myself to the thought of you on your knees, on your back, ridin’ me—fuck.”

Your legs wrapped around his waist. You pulled him closer, begged him deeper, and he gave it to you—all of it.

“You’re takin’ me so well,” he said, voice dark. “So fuckin’ greedy for it. This pussy’s mine now, you understand me?”

You nodded. You couldn’t even speak.

“Say it.”

“Yours,” you whimpered. “Joel—it’s yours—”

“Damn right it is.”

He slammed into you harder.

“Turn over.”

His voice was low. Flat. A command, not a request. You blinked up at him, still dazed, your body shaking under the weight of everything he’d already done to you.

“Joel—”

“Face down. Ass up.” His hand wrapped around your hip. “Now.”

You obeyed. Your limbs were slow, heavy, fucked-out, but you flipped onto your stomach, pushing up onto your elbows. You felt the air hit your wet skin, your thighs slick, your cunt leaking for him—and you felt him behind you, shifting up onto his knees.

“Look at you,” he rasped. “Just beggin’ for it.

He grabbed your hips and yanked you back onto him.

You gasped—loud, broken—as he filled you again from behind. Deeper, somehow. Angled to hit something inside you that made your toes curl and your jaw drop.

“Fuck—Joel—oh my god—”

He didn’t give you a second to adjust. Just started thrusting. Harder now. Rougher. His grip on your hips bruising. The sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, filthy and wet and constant.

“You were made for this,” he growled. “You hear me?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—”

“Say it. Tell me this pussy was made for me.”

You were already crying, but it wasn’t sad—it was too much. Too deep, too good, too intense.

“It’s yours,” you sobbed. “Joel, it’s yours, I swear—fuck—”

He leaned over your back, one hand sliding up your spine to the base of your neck. Then he grabbed your hair. Gentle but firm. And pulled. You gasped as your head tilted back—and he kept fucking you, right through it.

“Look at me,” he ordered, twisting your head just enough so your cheek pressed into the mattress, eyes catching his in the mirror across the room.

You hadn’t even realized it was there.

“You see that?” he panted. “You watch me fuckin’ you like this. You see what you do to me?”

You moaned, clenching around him. “I see it—I feel it, Joel—don’t stop—”

“Oh, I’m not stoppin’.” His voice dropped even lower. “Not until I’ve filled you up. Not until you know you’re mine. Not until you come one more fuckin’ time.”

You whimpered.

He let go of your hair, slid his hand under you to rub your clit while he slammed into you from behind, every thrust sending you forward, your cries getting louder, messier.

“I’m gonna come—Joel—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he growled. “Soak me. Let me feel you fall apart on my cock.”

And you did. You came hard—full body, voice gone, hands gripping the sheets as your pussy clenched around him, milking him through it. Joel cursed loud, deep, broken. Your orgasm hit you like a wave crashing through every nerve—your body seized, thighs trembling, walls clenching hard around him. You screamed into the pillow, shaking as pleasure ripped through you, too big, too much— And Joel didn’t stop. He groaned—long, rough—but held himself back, jaw clenched like he was in pain. His thrusts slowed, not because he was tired, but because he was trying to hold on.

“Fuck—shit, baby—” his voice was wrecked. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight—fuckin’ beggin’ me to come—but I’m not done.”

You whimpered, twitching, still pulsing around him.

“No,” he growled. “You don’t come once and get off easy.”

He pulled out. You let out a weak, needy cry—your whole body aching from the loss—but Joel didn’t go far. He gripped your hip and flipped you back onto your back, sliding down your body, mouth pressed to your thigh again.

“Wanna taste you like this,” he murmured. “Wanna feel how sweet you get after I’ve fucked you open.”

You could barely breathe. He buried his face between your legs again—and this time, his tongue worked slow. No teasing. Just deep, soft licks, a finger pressing back into your soaked, fluttering entrance while he moaned against your clit like you were his favorite fucking dessert.

“You feel that?” he muttered, voice thick. “That mess? All mine. You’re fuckin’ ruined for anyone else now.”

You were sobbing—sensitive, overstimulated, panting as he licked you through another orgasm so slow it almost hurt. When he slid back up, his mouth was wet and his cock was throbbing. But he didn’t let himself come. Not yet.

“You ready to come one more time?” he asked, lining himself back up.

“Joel—fuck, I don’t—"

“You do,” he whispered. “You’re gonna take it. Gonna let me fuck it outta you. Let me fill you up.”

He started again—deep strokes this time, slower, heavier, grinding against your sweet spot as his thumb worked your clit. And you came again. Tears in your eyes. Nails in his back. Legs shaking like you’d collapse if he let you go. That’s when he gave in.

“Fuck, fuck—that’s it—that’s my fuckin’ girl—”

He pushed in deep, one final time, and groaned into your mouth as he finally came, hot and hard, hips twitching, cock pulsing deep inside you.

This time he didn’t move.

Just stayed there. Breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You were still shaking. Your legs didn’t feel like they belonged to you. Your mouth was dry. Your skin slick with sweat and Joel’s breath still warm against your collarbone. He hadn’t pulled out. He didn’t move. His arm wrapped around your waist, the other under your neck. Protective. Possessive. Like if anyone opened that door, they’d have to go through him to get to you. Neither of you spoke for a long time.

Just breathing. Soft. Quiet. The only sound in the dark was the wind in the trees and the slow, steady beat of Joel’s heart against your shoulder. Then—

“That mouth of yours,” he muttered. Voice low. Wrecked. “Gonna be the end of me.”

You smiled faintly. Couldn’t quite look at him.

“Didn’t seem to mind it earlier.”

His nose brushed your jaw. “Didn’t say I minded. Just said it’s dangerous.”

“You’re dangerous.”

He hummed.

“Guess we’re both fucked, then.”

You turned your head toward him. His eyes were already on you. Heavy-lidded. Dark in the moonlight.

“Do you regret it?” you asked. Quiet.

Joel’s fingers traced a slow line down your spine. Thoughtful.

“No.”

A pause.

“Scares the hell outta me,” he admitted. “But I don’t regret it.”

Your chest ached. You let yourself curl in closer. Just a little.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t let go.

[loucifersbitch]

tw: mcd

"I can't do this."

Buck's hands tremble as he tries to knot his tie for the fourth time. It's so stupid. He knows how to do a half Windsor. He's done this enough times, it shouldn't be an issue.

But his hands shake, and his fingers slip, and the pieces of fabric fall to his chest again.

"I can't do this!" he yells, reaching out for the nearest object and chucking it across the room.

The ceramic otter figurine shatters on impact, the sound pulling him from his anger. He sits on the bed, dropping like a puppet with its strings cut. His hands are still shaky as he rubs at his face, the burning sting behind his eyes growing stronger.

"I can't do this," he whispers, lip quivering.

He refuses to cry over this. He has to be strong, has to be there for his family, has to make sure everyone else will be okay, has to -

"Evan?" Tommy's quiet voice comes from the doorway. He doesn't move any closer, though the concerned furrow in his brow and stiff posture tell Buck all he needs to know. "Are you okay? I thought I heard something break."

Thank God for Tommy. He's been there through all of it - Bobby dying, making arrangements with the funeral home and planning the funeral, and now joining the procession as a casket bearer - and he's never wavered once.

"I can't do this," Buck says again.

It's different saying it to someone instead of talking to himself and an empty room. His chest feels cracked open, a hollow shell where his heart and lungs should be. A sob works its way from his very core through his diaphragm and out his throat, despite trying to hold it back.

"I - I can't - Tommy, I -" he tries, but speaking through the heaving sobs that have overtaken him is nearly impossible, and his head his starting to hurt, and he can't seem to get enough air suddenly, and is he having a heart attack?

Then Tommy is there in front of him, kneeling on the hardwood floor in his own dress blues so he can hold eye contact.

"Evan, hey," he says, hands moving to cradle Buck's face, "breathe, sweetheart. You need to breathe. I think you're having a panic attack. Can you breathe with me? Inhale, one, two, three, four. Good. Now hold, two, three, four. And out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight."

Tommy continues directing him through the breathing exercise, slowly moving closer until Buck can rest his forehead against Tommy's.

"Good, Evan. That's good," Tommy tells him, thumbs rubbing soothingly against Buck's cheeks. "You scared me, baby."

"Sorry," Buck hiccups, trying for a small smile. "I don't know why that happened. It just suddenly -"

"Became too much?" Tommy finishes. Buck nods, and Tommy continues, "You have nothing to apologize for. This is -" he looks around as if hoping the right words will magically pop into existence, "Losing a parent is hard. Especially when you're so close."

"He wasn't my biological father," Buck says, but Tommy scoffs.

"Biology doesn't mean anything right now. Bobby was your dad. Period."

Truthfully, Buck can't argue with that. Bobby had been everything Buck had wanted and needed in a father figure when he was growing up. He nods, acquiescing.

"You've never had to process a loss like this before. He was a huge part of your life, and now he's gone. You're going to feel a lot of things about that. Grief isn't simple."

"I have to hold it in just a little longer. I can't break down during the funeral, Tommy. I have to be strong, y'know? For Athena, and May and Harry, and the rest of the 118. I need to be there for all of them."

"Evan," Tommy says seriously, "you can't be everything for everyone. If you're there for all of them, who's there for you?"

Buck opened his mouth but found he didn't have an answer. He knows, of course, that the 118 will always have his back, but they're all dealing with their own grief.

"Let me."

"Hm?" Buck hums, confused.

"Let me be there."

"Tommy, you're already going to be there."

"Let me be there for you, smartass," he says, rolling his eyes. Buck almost smiles. "You need a shoulder to lean on? I'm there. You want someone to hold your hand? How convenient that I have two. You need anything, and I'm there, okay?"

"You don't have to do that."

"I know," Tommy smiles. "But I want to, if you'll let me."

"You're not even my boyfriend anymore." Tommy tries to speak, but Buck continues, "And I know that you said you want to try again, but then we had that fight, and I -" he pauses, blowing out a shaky breath, "do you still want this? Us?"

"Evan, I will be whatever you need me to be today. And yes, I do want to try again, but your emotions are compromised right now. If this is an impulsive decision you're going to regret, I -"

"It's not. I promise it's not," Buck assures him. "I've thought about it pretty much every second since you walked out my door. Again," he adds. Tommy huffs in amused disbelief. "But I know what I want, Tommy. I want you."

Tommy looks at him with a gentleness that sends a pang through Buck's chest.

"Okay," he says, one side of his mouth curving up into a smirk.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Of course, Evan."

When Buck kisses him, it feels like home. It feels like healing, like hope.

"We should go soon," Tommy murmurs.

Buck hums in agreement, "I just need to get this tie right, and then I'll be ready."

"Here," Tommy offers, making quick work of the simple knot. "You look great."

"So do you," Buck says, reaching out to straighten Tommy's tie. "Ready?"

"Almost," Tommy says, moving toward the opposite side of the room. "Just need to assess the damage."

"Yeah, sorry about that. I don't know why I threw it in the first place. I was just so mad at how unfair this all is."

"Grief," Tommy shrugs, bending down to pick up the larger shards of the ceramic.

"Jee will be so mad I broke that otter. She loved that one."

"You'll just have to take her to the zoo and get another."

"Yeah," Buck says, a small smile on his face. "We will."

Tommy chuckles as he leaves the room to throw the shards in the garbage. He returns a few moments later with a broom and dustpan.

"We're back together for two seconds, and you're already planning outings for us."

"Get used to it, honey," Buck says. "This time I plan to keep you for good."

"God, I hope so."

[spicycinnabun]

SO excited for the results of this make me write. It was so hard to decide and I wish I could do them all but I think I will ask for 🤖🤖🤖 or ❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹 whichever you get less of 🥰

I've got about six other beep boop asks in the queue lol, so I'm going to go with ❤️‍🩹! Let's rewind to before the break-up. c:

♡

They were cuddling on Tommy’s couch. Tommy was behind him, hands resting protectively on Buck’s belly. He had been doing that a lot lately—holding him there, touching him there. Buck wasn’t sure if Tommy was aware he kept doing it.

Buck hadn't said anything. He didn’t want to call attention to it and risk having Tommy stop. Because he liked it. Okay, more than just liked it. His body was sending him strong signals about what the Alpha wanted, and it was making him a little stupid with need.

His heart sped up.

Of course, Tommy noticed. One of his hands started rubbing in a hypnotic, circular motion. “What's up?”

“I-I’ve been thinking,” Buck started, trying not to get distracted by the petting. His eyes closed. “I’d like to spend my next heat with you.”

“Oh?” Tommy said, after a small intake of breath Buck couldn’t really decipher.

He didn't say anything else, waiting for Buck to elaborate on his thoughts.

Buck had never enjoyed his heats. Dreaded them because of how desperate they made him, among other undesirable attributes, but maybe it would be different with Tommy. Every time they’d gotten hot and heavy with each other, it was so good, an intense burn that kept building.

Buck was used to being a service omega, but with Tommy, he hadn't fallen into that role. He didn't feel like a wind-up toy, only good for one use, one purpose. His world had been shaken and turned upside down. He actually felt kind of giddy, for once.

“Y-you said I could set the pace, but I also don’t want to pressure you,” Buck continued. “If you’re not ready yet or don’t want to, that’s totally fine. Or if we get to the middle of things and you decide it’s too much—t-that I’m too much—you don’t have to stay.”

That already went unspoken, but Buck wanted to assure Tommy that he had an out. He wasn’t stuck with Buck if he got too whiny, too needy, too clingy. Like he always did.

Tommy’s grip on him had gone slack. He was silent for so long Buck had to sit up and turn around. Tommy looked… kind of horrified, actually.

Buck’s stomach twisted. That was definitely not the reaction he’d been hoping for.

He backtracked. “O-or! Secret third option: We can forget this conversation ever happened and go on a fun date after my cycle is over. I was looking at this new sushi place the other day that has—”

“No.” Tommy let out a slow breath, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, I’m just still trying to process what you said. You think I would leave you in the middle of your heat? That's ludicrous, Evan. Even if, for whatever reason, I couldn’t continue, I wouldn’t abandon any omega like that.” Tommy tilted Buck's chin up gently, eyes filled with sincerity. “Especially not my omega. Have past partners done that to you?”

“Uh.” Buck swallowed hard, feeling suddenly very off-kilter and overwhelmed. “Yes? I’m… you know, a l-lot to handle. D-difficult. E-e-exhausting. It’s okay.”

“Oh, it is so far from okay,” Tommy said. His scent had changed, no longer relaxed. Filling the air with an edge of bitter anger he was trying to keep at bay.

Buck didn’t know what to do, so he followed his instincts and hugged his Alpha. Tommy's tension released. He hugged Buck back. They nuzzled each other, Buck focusing on Tommy's scent gland.

“And now you’re comforting me,” Tommy added with a weak chuckle of disbelief.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Buck murmured, burying his nose in Tommy’s shoulder and kissing it.

“I’m upset for you, Evan. You didn’t deserve to be treated that way. You're none of those things.” Buck made an involuntary sound, and Tommy squeezed him. “I’m going to take care of you, okay? I’m going to show you what a heat is supposed to be like.”

♡

tag list: @chococara25 @lemon-drop151 @bidisasterevankinard @cannibalhellhound @theallyandhisbeast @loulou-land @harmonic-intervention @manifestingchaoticvibes @notacyborg @tedious-waffle @ginny-lala @figuringitoutaloud @monstertrucksactually @eliotwaughdeservesbetter @know1udno @styxhuntress @all-the-feels @perfectlyhopefulruins @espressopatronum454

[grandline-fics]

Immune To Your Charms

DESCRIPTION: Soulmates are incapable of harming the other in any way. Normally that would be a good thing but not when you're meant to be enemies.

WARNINGS: It's Doflamingo so that's it's own warning if you don't like reading fics featuring him. Soulmate! AU, Enemies to Lovers. Some descriptions of illness and death

CHARACTERS: Doflamingo

WORDS: 3,907

A/N: The next part is here and we've got some soft Doffy and in denial Doffy because lets face it the man isn't going to admit his feelings so easily. I hope you all like how this chapter turned out. I think this might be the longest chapter yet. Hopefully the next one won't have as long a wait

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven(here) | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen(coming soon)

——————

Once again being soulmates had yielded unforeseen benefits- for a lack of a better term- with the way Doflamingo’s touch meant your body was incapable of feeling pain from your sickness. Doflamingo watched silently as one of the doctors approached to conduct their morning observations of your condition. The doctor, highly aware of his ruler’s intense stare, flinched when they lifted your hand into their’s, already braced and expecting your expression to contort into one of pain. He only relaxed when you continued to sleep, unbothered by the touch that would have caused you to audibly cry out in pain just hours prior. 

With a shaky breath, the doctor became a little braver and pressed their fingers against your wrist to measure your pulse. The night before, when they were first summoned to your chambers after being alerted to your illness this was something they couldn’t properly measure because of the extreme pain you were in. Now he and his colleagues could breathe a little easier, selfishly relieved their lives weren’t entirely endangered when it came to treating you now. 

“Any change?” The doctor jumped suddenly at Doflamingo’s deep voice breaking through the unbearable, tense silence.

“Uh their heart rate is still increased as we’re expecting to be the case for now. But it’s a good sign it hasn’t worsened.” They explained, swallowing the lump in their throat. Even though he was confident in his and the abilities of his colleagues, there was just no predicting how Doflamingo would take any of their statements. He could lash out quite easily and without any remorse or hesitation simply because he wanted to or because their phrasing didn’t fit with what he wanted to hear. “This long period of uninterrupted sleep has made a clear difference. When they wake we'll attempt them with something to eat-something light like broth- and if they can stomach that we’ll begin the first round of medication.”

The seconds ticked by heavily as the doctor waited for Doflamingo to make a comment on the proposed next course of action. He knew better than to prod or say anything that could be seen as forcing a response. So the doctor could only wait and continue to check over you, gently settling your hand against your body before doing another read of your temperature, knowing to monitor your fluctuating fever and chills. Still you didn’t even so much as twitch, the doctor didn't think he’d ever get used to seeing how the power of a soulmate could defy what he knew as a medical professional. “When you’ve finished, discuss an appropriate menu with the cooks and have them begin to prepare it.” 

Taking no further encouragement at his King’s finally uttered words, the doctor completed his checks and updated his notes before bowing and leaving quickly. Silently they were happy their next shift to check on your wouldn’t be until the next morning. Alone again, Doflamingo looked down at your sleeping form. With Doflamingo sitting up against the headrest, you were propped up too but sleeping soundly and unmoved since the second he pulled you into his hold. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. Annoyance that he’d acted in the moment without thinking. The image of your twisted in extreme distress flashed in his head and he turned his head away to scowl, refusing to consider the implications of his actions anymore than he’d already begun to. 

Thankfully you broke his attention by shifting in your sleep, a long lazy groan breaking from your lips as you stirred and forced your eyes to open. Doflamingo noted how exhausted you still looked but the sleep you’d managed to get without feeling pain had helped in some capacity. As you stared blankly in front of you the haze of sleep fell, confusion began to take over. Then panic. Sluggishly you tried to push the covers away and sit up fully. “Late…I’m late.” You croaked out, voice thick with tiredness and trembling with the infection still coursing through you. “Captain’s going…to kill me.”

Doflamingo tilted his head to the side curiously, you didn’t seem to realise he was there and from your sickly rambling it seemed you didn’t even know where you were. With how warm your skin felt he saw the spike in your fever was leaving you confused. He watched your feeble attempt to fight against the covers and listened to you mumble about morning drills for another few seconds before he acted. With ease he pulled the cover back to its original place and lean in so his chest was against your back a little more so he could tell you softly. “You’re on shore leave remember?”

At his voice you stopped and numbly nodded with a small hum of acknowledgement. Slowly you rolled over and slumped to lie down again, your back against his side and head resting on his bicep. While you weren’t conscious enough to know being in his hold prevented your body to feel pain, it seemed like your body now knew out of instinct that this was the only surefire solution for relief. Already your breathing had evened out to signal you were asleep but still Doflamingo could hear the tightened wheeze preventing you from taking calmer, deeper breaths like you normally would. Doflamingo glanced at the clock on the wall, already aware of the doctors’ routine with checking on you. The next would be arriving in twenty minutes, and if the previous doctor had obeyed his order then a servant would be bringing something for you to eat as well. 

In the meantime Doflamingo used his strings to pull the morning’s paper from the table into his waiting hand. Bored and in need of something to occupy his time, he slowly leafed through the pages, taking in the reports from around the world. Some stories about skirmishes made him grin, knowing he was behind the reason both sides had so much weaponry at their disposal and the bloodshed was increasing as he’d expected it to. Other stories of other pirates causing trouble and increasing their bounties made him roll his eyes at the numbers. No doubt the weaklings thought this made them big-shots in the New World but it would only be a matter of time before they ran into someone of real power to knock them down to the harsh reality of these seas. Doflamingo turned the page and paused to see a full story dedicated to the illness you were afflicted with, claiming more lives on the island you’d caught it at. His grin lessened and the vein in his head throbbed as he read through the claims that the island’s best doctors and with the aid of neighbouring islands were administering the treatments needed but for so many it was too late.

‘The cruelty of the illness is so severe to the afflicted that they physically cannot bear to be touched long enough to be treated. Meaning that so many of those that could be saved are unable to endure help from their saviours. These poor souls are meant to spend the last days of life in constant pain while also being too weakened with internal ailments to take matters into their own hands. The only saving grace in this poor report is that thankfully the illness’ source has been dealt with and the island will not suffer more of its populace to fall victim to this calamity. The island’s ruler-thankfully one of those not infected- was quoted to say “We mourn the tragic loss of life but our island will recover.”’ Doflamingo clicked his tongue harshly and discarded the paper.

————

“Just try some please.” You screwed up your face in exhausted distaste at the bowl on the tray. Your eyes stung, even with them being half-opened felt so heavy. Even blinking felt like a massive effort and you had no energy. You just wanted to sleep but the servant and doctor in front of you kept insisting on coaxing you to eat so they could give you medicine. Your gaze dropped to the vial of dark green liquid on the tray and you felt yourself gag, already anticipating the foul taste. “Just a spoonful?”

“No thank you.” You croaked out, turning your head away slightly in case they tried to force it into your mouth. You spotted the fear in their eyes at your refusal to even take a drop of the broth made specifically for you. Even with your mind clouded with the illness you knew they were doing everything they could to avoid the stare of the man you were leaning against. You knew that the reason Doflamingo was in your bed and had your body propped against him, his arm around your waist had been explained but honestly you were too weakened and drained to have really processed what the doctor had told you. All you could really retain was because he was your soulmate and that it was somehow helping. Which only left you more confused about everything. You could feel how tense Doflamingo was, impatient and silently angry. You weren’t in the mood to deal with his tantrums and taking any frustration out on a servant and doctor so you sighed.“Just leave it to the side. I’ll try later.”

While that seemed to relieve the two in front of you, your words only brought an extra note of silent displeasure from the Warlord. If you had the power to roll your eyes you would have. Instead you blankly watched the tray get moved to your bedside table. The servant retreated to the wall closest to the door, silently waiting for permission to leave while the doctor began to check over your condition. Already you were sick of being poked, prodded, and pestered like this and fussed over so intently. “Everything is about the same from the last recordings taken. I don't think we’ll see any real change until the treatment properly begins.”

“Subtle.” You remarked dryly, feeling like a child being lectured for not eating their vegetables.

“Please try to take some before the next check.” You gave no further response to the doctor, watching him and the servant finally leave. The second the door clicked closed you felt movement behind you and glared weakly as the tray as pulled back onto the bed beside you.

“I said I’d-”

“I know what you said.” Doflamingo noted far too evenly for your liking. “I also know that you lied when you said you’d try later. You’d really hurt their feelings by lying?”

“Rather their feelings get hurt than you hurt them physically.” You uttered before breaking out into a cough. Thankfully this time you felt no pain or brought up any blood but the tightness in your chest and constant action left your wheezing and breathless. When you’d recovered you glowered at Doflamingo as he adjusted you to recline back and hold a spoon of broth out to you. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you’re too weak and stubborn to feed yourself.”

“No. This.” You barely managed to tap his arm around your waist. “Why insist I get better? Why help? This could kill me if we do nothing.” Doflamingo felt his jaw tighten as he fought to keep his expression unreadable to you. Thankfully your usual perception was dulled considerably and you failed to notice how your words got under his skin him and made him bristle. Instead he brought the spoon a little closer to divert your attention away from the question. Unfortunately your stubbornness and deep—seated need to defy him was still very much in tact. “Tell me.”

“Well I didn’t infect you did I?” Doflamingo asked smoothly, deciding to opt for an easier explanation for his actions, more for his own benefit than yours. “It’d be the same as having someone else kill you and that’s not going to happen. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.” You grumbled as you eyed the spoon hesitantly. If you gave in and tried the broth then it meant you were doing what Doflamingo wanted. Not wanting to lose to him in the strange sense of point scoring you both had you slowly looked at him, already seeing his grin appear when he could tell you were contemplating giving in and eating. Spurned on you pursed your lips slightly. “Say please first.”

“You’ve got to be joking.” Doflamingo ground out. Why did he expect that being sick would make you more agreeable. “Isn’t me holding you so you can sleep and spoon-feeding you enough?”

“You did that on your own.” You remarked with a pout, refusing to comment on how truthfully comfortable and reassured you felt against him. “You want me to eat? Say please.”

Doflamingo stared you down for what felt like an eternity. He was once a Celestial Dragon. Anything he wanted he took. Even now as Dressrosa’s king that was still the case. His every whim and wish was granted when he opened his mouth. Not once had he ever said please, or had to genuinely ask for something. Harshly he bit the inside of his mouth at the sheer absurdity of it all. Suddenly you began to cough again, this time more persistent that the previous bout that racked through your body. He glared at the sound of your worsened wheeze, no doubt because of the amount of talking and effort it was having on your body. Unwillingly he recalled the doctors telling him that your readings hadn’t changed and that  your body needed the balance of rest and nutrients to even be able to fight off the infection. Just because being in his hold meant you didn’t feel pain, it didn’t free you from the infection itself still coursing through your body and getting stronger. As you caught your breath, Doflamingo gnashed his teeth together and forced out a simple but audible. “Please.”

Surprise managed to bring a small amount of light to your eyes. Quite honestly you had expected Doflamingo to force your mouth open before even letting that one little word break from his own. Still you weren’t one to go back on your word and now having the knowledge that you made the Doflamingo Donquixote say please, made the fact you had to be spoon-fed like a baby less humiliating. Taking a breath you nodded and parted your lips, accepting the food reluctantly. 

For the entire process you were surprised to find Doflamingo didn’t rush you, simply waiting in silence for you to attempt the next spoonful offered. Even more surprising was that he seemed to know you’d reached your limit before you had to say so. The bowl was set aside and you let out a tired sigh of relief. Your relief was short-lived because immediately Doflamingo lifted the small vial of medicine and removed the topper and brought it closer. “You already used your ‘please’ so no absurd requests for this one.” 

“It’s fine…” You mumbled, more for yourself than anything else. “I’ve had awful shots in worse bars in the past…I can do this.” Doflamingo chuckled and helped tip the contents of the vial into your mouth, watching you force it down and tense as the full taste hit you. You winced and let out a shuddering breath. It wasn’t the worst thing you’d tasted in your life but even with the doctors making a clear attempt to make the experience more tolerable for you, it was clear it was medicine and nothing to be entirely enjoyed. You gratefully took a sip of water when it was offered to you and already felt the strange numbing warmth begin to spread through you from the medicine. You shifted to get comfortable and curled up, a yawn building in your chest that didn’t feel as tight as it had just a few moments ago. “You don’ have to stay…”

“Oh? You got someone else lined up to sneak in here if I go?” Doflamingo asked with a chuckle. You’d unknowingly moved your arm over his chest at the same time you told him he could go.

“Mhm…” You nodded, mind already hazy and eyes closed. “Don’ be jealous…’kay?”

“Oh I already told you I don’t get jealous, remember?” Doflamingo smirked as you sleepily laughed and forced your eyes open to briefly look at him.

“You also never said please before. First time…for everything hm?” Your sleepy triumphant smile was so endearing that Doflamingo couldn’t even get annoyed at your reminder of your getting the upper hand over him. Even if he did, you wouldn’t have heard anything because you were promptly asleep.

———

You were completely knocked out and in the deepest sleep when the doctors came by for their next check on you. They informed Doflamingo that your response to the first dose of medication was a promising sign. They explained that they’d ensured there was a good balance to assist your immune system to fight the infection, relax your airways, regulate your temperature, manage pain relief, and protect the vital organs. Doflamingo nodded in satisfaction at the report. “My King, there is something we’d like to test while they’re sleeping.” The doctor requested glancing briefly to your sleeping form still against Doflamingo’s chest. “Can you move them out of your touch? I’d like to ensure the pain relief is correct for them? We don’t want to risk them being under or over medicated in that respect.”

Doflamingo hesitated for the briefest second but relented, settling his arms around you and shifting to pass you down to lie against the pillows and climbed out of the bed. He watched silently and hands tensed, to use his strings and stop the doctor if need be. It seemed the doctor was nervous, already remembering what almost happened to her colleague the first night they tended to you. Experimentally her hand settled against yours, sighing in relief to see your fingers twitch at the contact but you gave no other reaction. your expression was kept at its calm, relaxed state as it had been while you slept in Doflamingo’s arms. “That’s promising. My King, you can leave them while they’re sleeping now should you wish? Stretch your legs or even attend to other business. They shouldn’t wake for another few hours if our assumptions are correct.” 

He nodded and offered you another glance. Immediately he felt reluctant to leave you and for that reason he forced himself to leave your quarters, needing desperately to clear his head and get away from your presence. He needed something recognisable, routine. Doflamingo headed straight for his own room and into his personal bathroom. The strong heat and stream of water from the shower helped to loosen the knots in his body and unravel some of the tension that had built in him over the course of the last few days. Between rushing home to Dressrosa from the Marine base until this moment he hadn’t let you out of his sight and had practically ignored everything else. When he was dried and changed, he made his way to the dining room, deciding to actually spend time with his family and eat while making sure to not give you a second thought, out of sheer determination to prove to himself he wasn’t in anyway concerned about you. 

“Doffy what do you think?” Doflamingo blinked in the middle of the meal, only now realising that he’d been absently looking at the time on the clock. Had he been unconsciously checking how long was left until you woke? No. He couldn’t have. He was just tired, he didn’t sleep at the best of times and the shower he had and wine he was drinking was just making him sleepy. 

“About what Diamanté?”

“We were just saying how funny the whole thing with that island is.” His elite officer said. “It’s further proof that you two are soulmates.”

“How so?” Doflamingo asked, not understanding how you getting sick was proof. Then again he’d not been listening to the first part of the conversation, a point no one at the table would point out. Doflamingo couldn’t help but think you would though. The second he slipped on anything, you would promptly call him out on it. Sharply he shoved that thought out of his head and focused on Diamanté who spoke, unfazed at having to no doubt repeat himself. 

“Well it was just a nothing little island, with nothing little criminals storing weapons for us. None of us were meant to even go there for the hand over.” He explained with an amused smile. “If I recall right we were going to send one of the middle tier pirate crews under your command to go. You decided last minute to go. If you hadn’t then you never would have encountered them and brought them here to then be treated by the doctors for that deadly infection. It’s interesting how it all played out isn’t it?”

Interesting certainly was one way of putting it and it was something Doflamingo couldn’t help but continue to consider it after dinner. He remembered now. It was just how Diamanté reminded him. A crew similar to Bellamy’s was instructed to collect the weapons and ammunition being stored at the warehouse. Then a tip came through from one of his other Marine informants that a unit was stationed at the island, waiting to strike and interfere with the operation without knowing it was his business they were sticking their noses into. He hadn’t gotten any names or further information about you or the unit. It was the vaguest report but still, Doflamingo had immediately made the decision to go there and deal with the unit himself. At the time had it been interpreted as something to entertain him. Had he been simply bored or had fate made him go? To inadvertently save your life from the sickness that was already in your system and incubating without anyone knowing? 

Harshly he rubbed his head as he walked down the halls, feeling a migraine coming on. Doflamingo reached for the doorhandles and pushed them open, stopping abruptly when he saw he’d made his way to your room instead of his own. Muttering a curse under his breath he closed the doors and stepped further inside. Silently he told himself he was only doing this until you were a little better and didn’t need the medicine. Pulling back the covers he got back into the bed and lay down beside you but knowing you were still sound asleep with the medicine in your system mean he didn’t need to touch you. Letting out a long groan, he closed his eyes and lifted his hand to press his thumb and finger against his temples. 

The slight sound of shifting fabric caught his attention, signalling him that you were shifting in your sleep. Doflamingo was caught by surprise when your body pressed against him, your head tucking into the crook of his neck. He could tell you were still fast asleep, your deep breathing the clearest sign. Everything in your movements was purely instinct, including when one of your hands lifted you lay over his head, your fingers settling over the point of his headache that immediately began to subside. As he felt himself drift asleep he began to consider that it was only fair you both benefited from the affects that being soulmates brought.

——————————————-

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[yan-randomfandom]

Yandere!Stanford Pines & Borrower!GN!Reader

[PLATONIC] Borrowers are really tiny humans who "borrow" items and food! requested,,, am so sorry if this isn't what u expected 😔

Ford's toothbrush is missing.

In fact, many of his things have gone missing for the past few days. Did Bill possess his body again and decide to prank him?

His eyes catch color behind the toilet. Ah, there's his toothbrush. It must have fallen off.

When he picked it up, it was much heavier than usual. Of course, anything else could've been a reasonable explanation and not some tiny human holding onto the toothbrush for their dear life.

Ford doesn't let you escape, immediately bringing you to his office. You spit out profanities on the way, banging your fists on his fingers.

"Fascinating," he mutters, moving your limbs around. "You're just a tiny human."

"They call us borrowers," you say as you keep avoiding his hands. You notice something. "You have six fingers. Did giants always have that? Never noticed."

He suddenly feels smaller than you. "Not usually."

Ford learned that you actually lived under his floorboards. He had to compromise with you so that you would stop stealing his stuff.

"Roommates?" you tilt your head. "As long as you don't kill me, I guess. And I said I was going to return it!"

He doesn't believe you. He hums, scratching his chin. "Your species must have been hit by the light of height-altering crystals. I'm guessing the way your people survive is by stealing from others."

"Borrowing."

He gave you all sorts of delicious food. Well, they're mostly store-bought, but it's better than anything you've gotten before.

Not to mention his stuff. He had way more than what you were expecting. All the more to decorate your house and expand your collections! He's generous; you'll give him that...

There's something you can't shake off though. Ford's a weirdo if anything.

Bill Cipher knows about you. But he doesn't really care because you're just like any other creature that Ford has gotten. He'll only intervene if you manage to distract Ford from the portal.

So it's a good thing you're doing the opposite. You're actually helping in your own little ways, such as bringing him pen and paper.

Sitting on Ford's shoulder, you keep yapping about rats eating your house. He doesn't mind the noise, albeit he's not really listening, but it's so much better than silence.

He has fallen asleep. You grab the blanket from a nearby table and drape it over his body the best you can. This man does more work than your entire lifespan; it's so concerning.

"You don't want to try becoming a full-sized human? Why not?" Ford asks sincerely, almost concerned. You becoming not tiny is what you were supposed to be.

"Me? Turning into your size?" you make a disturbed face, "no thanks. I feel like my life would be more complicated. You're taking care of me, and that's enough."

He smiles. "Interesting."

Once again, you find him asleep on the desk. You search for a good spot next to his arm and curl up to his warmth, closing your eyes and drifting to sleep.

...You wake up to relentless movement. Looking up, you meet Ford's crazed, hectic eyes.

"You," he exhales, his voice sounding different. "Not here to steal my eyes, are you?"

Without warning, he grabs your body. You tremble. "Bill didn't tell you to, right? You're the perfect size to scoop out someone's eye..."

"Ford—" A bright flashlight shines on your eyes.

He forces one eye open. A few seconds pass. "You're, ah, clear. I'm so sorry."

The human finally lets you go. "What the hell was that?! Are you okay??"

"There's something dangerous here," he winces as he goes around the room, locking all possible entrances. "We have to stop everything we've ever worked for! What I worked for!"

He walks over to you, a smile curling on his lips. "Don't worry. I'll protect you, little borrower. Won't let him lay a single finger on you."

Before you could even blink, you're pushed inside something. You quickly run to the front, holding the bars that kept you away from escaping. "Wait, let me go! You're being crazy!"

"I know this seems bad, but it's only temporary," he replies, locking your cage. "Not until I finish the protection around the house. I'll have to call Stan..."

yes he has cages.... he caged shmebulock 😭

gotta thank @shabbyshoebox for this treasure (tell me if u wanna be untagged!)

[onlyangel4]

red, white and ruin. part six. cody rhodes.

dark!cody rhodes x make up artist!reader.

synopsis: on the surface, cody is everything clean-cut. honour, legacy, gold. but you saw the mask slip once, and now you can’t unsee it. he wants you because you see him, the ambition, the darkness, the violence under the white light. and when he decides you’re going to be his, he wraps you in red, white, and ruin.

warnings: 18+. cursing. ownership kink. emotional reader.

part one // part two // part three // part four // part five // part six // final part

you didn’t mean to cry.

you didn't really know why you were crying.

things had been fine in the make up room, until they weren't

you just felt overwhelmed. everyone knew you were with cody, everybody was looking at you differently.

it was a lot.

you hadn’t expected the shift

how quickly the whispers and side glances replaced the easy smiles you used to get. how the people you thought you knew suddenly acted like you were someone else, just because you had him. like loving him made you less safe. like it made you something they couldn’t trust anymore.

it clawed at you, sharp and ugly, and for the first time, you realised it wasn't just about being with him. it was about belonging to him. and belonging to someone like cody meant you could never be just yours again.

it blindsided you the second you stepped away from the chaos of makeup chairs and ring gear and flashing lights. you were supposed to be professional. you were supposed to be fine.

instead, you found yourself tucked into the corner of an empty hallway backstage, pressing your fingers to your eyes to stop the tears before anyone could see.

except cody saw.

"hey, hey" his voice cut through the buzzing in your ears, low and sharp.

you flinched, immediately trying to wipe your face and turn away, but he was already there.

already reaching for you.

"what happened?" his hands hovered over you, not touching yet, just brimming with frantic energy. "who touched you? who said something?"

you shook your head, a soft, broken sound escaping your throat. "no, nobody, it's not"

you couldn't even finish it before his hand curled gently around your wrist, pulling you closer.

"look at me."

you did, because it wasn’t really a request. his blue eyes burned into you, fierce and worried and wild.

"talk to me, baby. tell me who. i’ll handle it. i’ll handle all of it."

the tears kept coming, hot and stupid. you hated this , hated that you were ruining everything by falling apart like this and cody must’ve seen the panic rising in you because he swore under his breath and pulled you into his chest without hesitation.

"it's okay. it's okay" he murmured, one big hand cradling the back of your head. "shh. you don't have to be perfect with me. you hear me?"

you clenched your fists in his shirt. your voice barely made it out. "i'm just, i'm tired, and it's a lot, and.."

"and you don't have to explain yourself." he kissed the top of your head fiercely. "you don’t owe me anything but your heart beating."

you felt it then, the claim of him, wrapping around you stronger than anything you'd ever felt.

not possessive like at dinner.

not feral like at the hotel.

just pure. undeniable. like he had already decided he was never letting you go.

"you’re mine now" cody said, voice rough with something dangerously soft. "that means you never cry alone again. you got me?"

you nodded against his chest, breathing him in, feeling him shake a little with the force of it all.

he held you there until your breathing evened out. until the tears stopped.

and even then, he didn’t let go.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

cody didn’t ask.

once you were calmer, still tucked against his chest, your cheek pressed to the soft fabric of his hoodie, he just leaned down and murmured against your temple.

"you're done for tonight. i’m taking you home."

you opened your mouth to protest, but he was already steering you gently but firmly down the hallway, one broad hand splayed against your back like he was shielding you from the world.

"cody, i still have bianca to do"

"no." His voice was final, no room for argument. "they'll survive without you for one night. you need rest. you need me."

the weight of it hit you hard, not just the words, but the way he said it. like there was no universe where he wasn’t stepping up. like it was already decided, when you hurt, he handled it.

he didn’t let go of you, not even when you reached the parking lot, not even when you fumbled for your bag.

cody snatched it from your hand like it offended him. slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

"you don't carry shit when you’re with me" he muttered, tossing it into the backseat of his car before turning to open the passenger door for you.

you slipped in, quiet, heart thundering.

because it wasn’t just about the bag. it wasn’t about the crying. it was about the way cody was looking at you, like you were already his whole world and he was just waiting for you to catch up.

the drive back to the hotel was silent but not uncomfortable. his hand found yours somewhere along the way, lacing your fingers together tight across the centre console.

when you pulled up to the hotel, cody was out of the car before you even had your seatbelt off. he opened your door, helped you out like you were made of glass and sacred things, and walked you up to your room with his hand firm on your lower back the whole way.

inside, you barely had time to take off your shoes before he was there, pulling you into his arms again.

"get in bed" he said, voice low. "you’re gonna let me take care of you, baby."

you blinked up at him, dazed. "you don't have to"

cody leaned down and kissed you, a slow, deep, aching kiss that stole all the fight right out of you.

"i want to," he breathed against your mouth. "you’re my girl. let me."

and just like that

you surrendered.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

cody was gentle when he peeled off your jacket, fingers lingering on every inch of exposed skin like he could somehow erase all the hurt just by touching you.

"arms up, baby," he murmured, and you obeyed without thinking, letting him tug your shirt over your head and drop it to the floor. his hands skimmed down your sides next, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing the feel of you.

"you’re so beautiful" he whispered, voice almost breaking.

the way he looked at you, wide-eyed, full of something fierce and uncontainable, it made your chest ache.

you reached for him without thinking, but cody caught your hands gently, pressing them back to your sides.

"let me" he said again, softer this time.

he unbuttoned your jeans next, easing them down your hips, helping you step out of them like you were something delicate and precious. you stayed there in just your underwear, bare and blinking under the hotel room's dim lighting, feeling more seen than you ever had in your entire life.

cody stripped off his hoodie and t-shirt in one smooth motion, tossing them aside without care. then he crossed the small space between you, wrapping you up against him, chest to chest, skin to skin.

you melted into him, letting him guide you backward until your knees hit the bed. He eased you down gently, crawling in after you, pulling the covers up over both of you.

"come here" he whispered.

you rolled instinctively toward him, burrowing into his warmth, your nose brushing the hollow of his throat. cody held you tight, one arm banded around your waist, the other hand stroking up and down your spine in lazy, soothing passes.

"i hate seeing you cry" he muttered into your hair.

"i hate it, baby. i’ll fix it. whatever it is. whatever you need."

"you can't fix everything," you said, voice small against his chest.

cody went still for a moment. then he tipped your chin up so you had to meet his eyes, blue and burning and absolutely serious.

"i’ll die trying" he said.

it was too much.

it cracked something inside you wide open.

you pressed your face against him and breathed him in, soap and cologne and the faintest lingering hint of the arena and let yourself believe, just for tonight, that maybe someone really could love you this much.

cody held you through it all, through the tears you didn’t even realise were still falling, through the hiccupping little gasps you tried to suppress. he didn't flinch. he didn’t loosen his grip once.

"mine," he whispered fiercely. "mine, baby girl. always."

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

you woke again to sunlight bleeding through the hotel curtains, the bed warm and safe around you.

cody was already awake, lying on his side, head propped on one hand, just watching you.

you blinked up at him, slow and a little disoriented.

"morning, pretty girl" he murmured, voice thick with sleep and something even heavier.

you tried to sit up, but he tugged you back down immediately, pulling you into his chest like it wasn’t even a question.

you let him.

of course you let him.

your cheek pressed over his heart, steady and sure under your ear. his hand splayed wide across your back, anchoring you in place like he didn’t trust the world not to steal you away if he let go for even a second.

you laid there for a long while. feeling him. breathing him.

"you okay?" he asked eventually, low and careful, like he was afraid of the answer.

you nodded without hesitation. "yeah. better."

"good." his grip tightened for a second, almost painful. almost like he needed to feel your pulse under his palm. "good, baby. good."

you pulled back just enough to look at him , really look at him, and that was when it hit you.

the weight of it.

the truth of it.

the way he was looking at you, like you were a star he’d plucked down from the sky with his bare hands and would destroy the whole world to protect.

you were his.

you were already his.

it wasn’t a choice anymore. it wasn’t a decision you needed to make.

somewhere along the way, in the quiet spaces between kisses and tears and whispered promises, you had become his girl.

his problem.

his world.

and you didn't want it any other way.

the realisation unfurled inside you slow and sweet, sinking into your bones.

cody must have seen something change in your face, because he smiled, small and a little wicked and leaned down to kiss you.

not hard. not rough.

just slow. claiming. absolute.

when he finally pulled back, his thumb traced your lower lip, like he couldn’t help himself.

"mine" he whispered, voice almost reverent. "mine, baby."

you didn’t even think. you just whispered it back, barely a breath against his mouth.

"yours."

the look he gave you, pure, raw, undone was enough to steal the air right out of your lungs.

"you don't know what you just did" he said, voice breaking into something dangerous and soft.

"i do" you whispered. and you meant it.

you knew exactly what you were doing.

you were giving yourself to a man who would burn down the world for you.

and you wanted him to.

you wanted him to set everything on fire if it meant you could stay in this bed, in this moment, in this version of forever he was building around you.

cody kissed you again, deeper this time, groaning into your mouth like he couldn’t get close enough.

then he pulled you even tighter against him, arms wrapping around your entire body like he could somehow stitch you to his skin.

"you’re not gonna regret it" he promised, fierce and raw. "i’m gonna make sure you never regret it."

you believed him.

god, you believed him.

because cody didn't make promises he didn't intend to keep.

you were his now.

heart, soul, body.

his girl.

his problem.

his everything.

[navi-the-flying-bee]

babysitting..

(A/N): yes, i disappeared and yes i am sorry. Story: in this you're a member of the ADA, Mori has been trying to recruit you for some time now. Your sister asked you to babysit her daughter while she is abroad. Warnings: nothing literally, just my horrible humor. Use of y/n around three times.(sorry guys, had to) English isn't my first language.

The small apartment was eerily quiet as you sat on the couch, your legs stretched out on the coffee table as you absentmindedly flipped through a book. You weren't used to babysitting, especially a child as energetic as you niece. The little girl, no older than six, was a whirlwind of energy—her bright eyes constantly exploring, her small hands tugging at everything she could reach.

"Auntie, what’s this?" The child held up a small trinket—a silver charm that you had left carelessly on the table.

You looked up, not overly concerned but still feeling the weight of responsibility. "It’s just something I don’t need to be messed with, sweetie," you said coolly, carefully taking the charm from your niece’s hand.

The little girl pouted, crossing her arms. "But I wanted to play with it."

You sighed, leaning back into the couch. "It’s fragile. If you break it, I’m not fixing it." you smiled to soften the words, but your expression remained one of mild annoyance. Babysitting wasn’t your idea of fun, and your niece had a tendency to get into everything.

Just then, the child darted across the room, her small feet thudding on the wooden floor as she tried to climb onto the kitchen counter. "Auntie, can I help you cook?"

You stood up quickly, your calm facade cracking for a moment. "No. No kitchen for you." you gently pulled the girl away from the counter, your tone slightly firmer now.

"Aww, but I want to cook like you!" the little one whined.

You raised an eyebrow. "You really want to help me cook?" you paused for a second, glancing at the chaos that was her kitchen. It had been hours since you’d cleaned up, and the thought of letting a child help make it worse didn’t sit well with you. "Fine, fine, but you’re not getting near the knives."

You half-smiled. It wasn’t that you didn’t like spending time with your niece, but the girl’s boundless energy was hard to match. You often felt more at home in your quiet space, using your mind to strategize or think through problems. This... was different.

The little girl quickly grabbed a plastic bowl and some toy utensils, pretending to mix something in the bowl as she chattered endlessly. "I’m making soup, Auntie! It’s gonna be the best soup ever!"

You smiled slightly but couldn’t help but think about your own life. There was a certain innocence in this, the simplicity of a child just enjoying the moment. You realized you were actually starting to enjoy the girl’s company. It wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be, even if you weren't quite used to the responsibility.

You glanced back toward the window, your eyes flicking toward the street below. You were used to more serious matters, and yet here you were—babysitting. A small part of you felt a sense of pride that your niece trusted you enough to rely on you like this. Maybe it wasn’t about control and strategy for once, but about connection.

"Okay, I’ll tell you what," you said after a beat, your voice softening. "After we clean up, you can help me with dinner—real dinner, though. Not toy soup."

Your niece’s face lit up instantly, her excitement palpable. "Yay!"

As you helped your niece pick up the toys scattered across the floor, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the sheer amount of mess a single child could create. Maybe babysitting wasn’t so bad after all, even if it was a bit chaotic.

But the thought didn’t last long. From the corner of the room, the child shouted suddenly, "Auntie, I can’t find the cat! Where is it?"

You froze.

The cat, who was usually curled up in a corner, had disappeared. You glanced nervously around the room. The last thing you needed was to search for a mischievous cat who could be anywhere. "Uh... let me go check," you said in your usual calm, collected tone, but inside, your mind was racing. Where did that cat get to?

The child’s innocent voice brought you back to reality. "Auntie, did the cat run away?"

"I sure hope not," you muttered, standing up and walking toward the back room. I really hope not.

It seemed that babysitting was about to take a turn for the worse... or maybe it was a turn for the better. Either way, you was in for quite an eventful afternoon.

Just as you were about to turn the apartment upside down in search of the cat, a sharp knock echoed through the room.

You narrowed your eyes. That knock was too familiar. Too calculated.

Your niece, still blissfully unaware, gasped excitedly. "Auntie, someone’s here!"

"I noticed," you murmured, already feeling a headache coming on. Sighing, you rubbed your temples and made your way to the door, dreading what you already knew was behind it.

You swung it open.

And, of course, Mori Ougai stood there, smiling like he’d just dropped by for tea.

"Y/n," he greeted smoothly. "What a lovely surprise."

You blinked, unimpressed. "You knocked on my door, Mori. That means you are the surprise."

Mori chuckled. "Fair enough. But what’s truly surprising…" He crouched down slightly, picking up something small, furry, and very smug-looking. "...is that your cat wandered right into Mafia territory. Now, tell me—was that intentional?"

You deadpanned. "Yes, Mori. I trained my cat to infiltrate the Port Mafia. Clearly, this was my master plan all along."

Mori grinned. "I knew you were intelligent. But I must admit, I never expected you to resort to espionage via household pet."

You sighed, crossing your arms. "What do you want?"

Before Mori could respond, a small voice piped up from behind you.

"Auntie, who’s that?"

You tensed. Slowly, you turned your head to see your niece standing behind you, looking up at Mori with wide, curious eyes.

Mori’s grin widened as he leaned forward slightly. "Oh? And who’s this little one?"

You immediately stepped between them. "No."

Mori blinked. "No?"

"No, you are not talking to her. You are not influencing her. You are not getting anywhere near her, Mori."

Mori put a hand over his chest, looking deeply wounded. "I would never corrupt a sweet, innocent child."

You raised an eyebrow.

"...Well, not on purpose," he amended.

Your niece, still blissfully unaware of the tension in the room, beamed up at Mori. "Are you Auntie’s friend?"

Mori beamed back. "Oh, my dear girl, I am much more than that."

You slammed the door shut in his face.

A second passed.

Then, another sharp knock.

"Y/N," Mori called through the door, sounding more amused than anything. "I still have your cat."

You groaned.

Your niece tugged at your sleeve. "Auntie, you can’t leave the cat with the scary man."

"...I know," you muttered, reluctantly reopening the door.

Mori stood there, still holding the smug-looking feline.

You reached out to take it.

Mori held it out of reach.

You glared at him.

Mori smiled. "Say please~."

You shut the door again.

After a moment of silence, Mori’s laugh rang through the hallway. "You are so much fun~."

You exhaled slowly, then looked down at your niece.

"Sweetheart, go play in the living room for a bit. I need to go handle... a situation."

Your niece blinked up at you, then at the door, then back at you. "...Are you gonna fight the scary man?"

You patted her head. "Not today."

With that, you opened the door again, ready to negotiate—or, more likely, tolerate—whatever nonsense Mori had planned next.

Because, knowing him, this was only the beginning.

You stared at Mori. Mori smirked at you. The cat smirked at both of you.

Your niece peeked out from behind you, whispering, "Auntie, I think the cat likes him."

You muttered under your breath, "Traitor."

Mori gently scratched the cat under its chin, looking far too pleased with himself. "Such a smart little creature, running right into my arms~."

"Mori," you said flatly. "Give. Me. My cat."

"I will," Mori hummed. "But first, I need an answer. Did your cat truly wander into Mafia territory by accident? Or..." His eyes gleamed with amusement. "Did you send it as a message?"

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Mori. I don’t send messages using domesticated animals."

Mori sighed dramatically. "Ah, what a shame. That would’ve been rather impressive." He suddenly brightened. "Oh! What if I recruited the cat? It does have a good sense of navigation—"

You snatched the cat from his hands.

"Absolutely not."

Mori pouted. "You wound me."

The cat immediately climbed onto your shoulder and started licking its paw, as if it had seen far worse in Port Mafia than Mori’s antics. Which, knowing Mori, was probably true.

You sighed, adjusting the cat before turning back to Mori. "Is there any other reason you’re here, or was this just an excuse to bother me?"

Mori grinned. "Oh, do I need an excuse?"

"...Yes."

Just as you were about to shut the door in his face again, another voice cut in.

"I agree."

You froze.

Mori froze.

Your niece blinked up in confusion. "Auntie, who's—"

Before you could react, a hand calmly reached past Mori and placed itself on the doorframe.

And just like that, Fukuzawa Yukichi stepped into view.

"Mori," Fukuzawa said, his voice calm but firm. "Why are you harassing my daughter?"

You choked on air. "I—what?!—"

Mori smirked immediately. "Your daughter? My, my, Fukuzawa, is this a confession?"

You covered your face with one hand. "Oh my god, can both of you leave?"

Fukuzawa stepped fully into the doorway, his expression unreadable, but the slight narrowing of his eyes was enough to send a silent warning.

"Mori," he said again, "leave."

Mori hummed, clearly delighted by the situation. "But Fukuzawa, I was simply delivering a lost cat! Surely that’s not a crime?"

You scowled. "You held it for ransom."

"Details~."

Your niece, still watching all of this unfold with fascination, tugged on your sleeve. "Auntie, is the fluffy man your dad?"

Fukuzawa blinked.

Mori burst out laughing.

You almost dropped the cat. "What?! No—"

Fukuzawa, as always, remained composed. "...If that is how she sees it, I do not mind."

Mori grinned wider. "Oh? So you admit it, Fukuzawa?"

You turned to your niece, desperate to salvage the situation. "Sweetheart, I work with him. He’s just a—"

The girl gasped dramatically, eyes sparkling. "Auntie, do you have TWO dads?!"

Mori WHEEZED.

Fukuzawa, stoic as ever, simply nodded. "I suppose, in a way, she does."

You let out the longest sigh in human history.

"I can’t do this."

You had had enough. You were seconds away from kicking both men out when—

"(y/n)-chaaaan~!"

A new voice echoed down the hall.

You closed your eyes. "...No."

"Yes~!"

Before you could react, Dazai Osamu waltzed right up to your door, his usual smug smile in place as he took in the scene.

"Oh my, what do we have here? Fukuzawa-sensei and Mori-san at your house? Together? Ohhh, this is interesting~!"

Mori, still recovering from laughter, smirked at Dazai. "Ah, Dazai-kun, just in time. Did you know our dear Aoi-chan has two fathers?"

Dazai gasped dramatically. "Eh? I didn’t know you came from such a loving home~!"

You were going to throw something.

Your niece, meanwhile, clapped her hands. "Auntie, is this your friend too?"

Dazai beamed. "Oh, I’m much more than that!"

"NO, YOU’RE NOT," you snapped.

Mori leaned closer to Dazai, still grinning. "Actually, we were discussing whether Fukuzawa or I am the better parental figure to (y/n)-chan."

Dazai tapped his chin, pretending to think. "Hmm~! That’s a tough one! But I think I know the answer."

You glared. "Dazai—"

Dazai grinned wider. "It’s obviously me!"

You officially gave up. You walked back inside, shut the door, and left them all outside.

Your niece blinked up at you. "Auntie, what about the fluffy man and the funny man and the weird man?"

You sighed, rubbing your temples. "...If we ignore them, maybe they’ll go away."

Outside, the three men continued their completely unnecessary debate.

Mori: "I’m clearly the better parental figure, I raised Elise—"

Fukuzawa: "You created her to obey you."

Dazai: "Okay, okay, but I’m the one who understands (y/n) best~."

Mori: "Are you saying you’re trying to take (y/n)-chan from us, Dazai-kun?"

Dazai: "Who’s ‘us’?! Why are you including Fukuzawa?!"

Fukuzawa: "I am leaving."

Mori: "Wait, come back! We haven’t established custody yet~!"

Inside, you sat down, picking up the cat and holding it close.

"...Next time, I’m locking the door."

Your niece giggled, then whispered, "Auntie, I like the fluffy man."

You groaned. "Of course you do."

The cat simply purred smugly.

End of Babysitting (For Now).

Who really won this battle? The cat.

[spicy30]

Oh, Angels have pink hair

Pairing: Mark Grayson x Fem!Siren!Tall!Reader

Rating: 18+

Not proofread

Warnings: Death (If I missed some pls let me know)

“Then there’s a new girl that I’ve never met before, her name is—” 

The TV buzzed on in the background as Mark sat on his bed contemplating everything. 

Never his father. 

Never his father, he didn’t want to be his father. 

So instead his mind focused on the TV which was on some random channel. Some compilation of someone.

“How old are you?” A woman’s voice sounded. The footage of the video sounded old. In this day and age, a video like this play? Was it old? 

“I’m eighteen.” The other voice sounded. It sounded sweet. Foreign accent was strong. He couldn’t place it. He’s never heard it, but it sounded nice.

“Eighteen. Okay, thank you.” The response sounded slightly bitter. Or maybe not. What does Mark know about girls? He and Amber didn’t work out yet here he is thinking about Eve when he should be thinking about Amber. 

Yeah. What does Mark know about girls?

“That was the first time the world wide sensation was ever captured on film. A month later she hit the runway, and now a year later she’s a fashion star. The top model and one of the contestants for model of the year.” The narrator’s voice sounded and finally Mark looked towards the TV. 

The interview sat in front of a desk looking at the camera. “She is considered to be one the most beautiful—très bien—women in the world. This month alone her face graces the cover of six magazines. Ladies and gentlemen please welcome to the program—” 

“Mark, I need you.” Ceci’s voice sounded over the intercom. Giving a sign he got up, turning his back to the TV. Fitting into his suit he quickly flew off, never seeing your smiling face on the TV as the interviewer greeted you.

…

“The 50s begin with an interpretation of the legendary Dior bar suit, with its structured silhouette.” That same fashion channel was on that always seemed to play whenever Mark was feeling down.

“This is the new look that cemented fashion's post-war direction.” Mark looked out the window and suddenly there was Eve. 

Shit.

He stood up opening the window allowing her inside. She smiled looking at him, then turning to the TV lifted an eyebrow.  

“Oh, okay. I can't tell you how excited I am about what's happening now, because cantering into—” The narrator’s voice sounded in the background. 

“You're watching…Vogue World?” Eve commented with a laugh and Mark shook his head. 

“No, I think that’s just the base channel. It’s just always on.” Mark scratched the back of his head going to turn off the TV. 

“Both supermodels and super horses Django and Nepo are wearing Hermes head to hoof. Oh, lucky boys.” Once again the narrator spoke as Mark was searching for the controller. 

“Woah.” Eve sounded behind him and Mark turned his head. 

“What?” Eve looked almost star struck. Her eyes widened and her mouth slightly agape.

“She’s beautiful.” Mark furrowed his brows turning to the TV. The only thing he saw was a male model and horses cantering in the background with a woman on each. Their faces were blurred out, but faintly he could see a trace of the red lips of the models though before the second face made it into frame, it cut showing a different angle.

“Who?” Mark asked, then turning around once more finding the remote. 

“Her.” Eve responded as Mark fumbled with the remote and once again the two women on the two horses were on screen, though the camera failed to show the woman on the black horse who indeed wore Hermes. What nice day it would be when he could one day afford to buy a horse and dress them in Hermes. 

Though what caught his eye was the figure the woman on top of the black horse has. It was a very nice figure. He wondered what kind of face was paired with it. Though before the angles changed his misclicked on the remote the TV turned off. 

Damn. 

Oh well.

…

 “I need you to be sure.” Mark looked towards Eve. He was sure. The most surest (if that’s even a word) he's ever been. 

“I am. I-I mean it.” Hopefully she accepts. God, the only thing ever running through his mind is her. Always her. “I’m an idiot for not realizing it sooner. If you don’t want to date me or you’re not interested. I-I can’t change that.” 

Mark knows he doesn’t look the best right now. Not with the ugly bruises, but he hopes he’s enough for her. “But if you feel half as much as I feel for you, then…let's give it a try.”

An acceptance followed afterwards. 

His hand found hers, and both stood in front of each other, the city nightlights lighting her face in such a perfect way. Everything was perfect.

Mark saw Eve lean in.

Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t. 

An explosion sounded and he jerked his head away from her. Dammit.

People were screaming. He looked over to her and she gave a small exasperated smile. Both flew off. He didn’t have his suit on. Eve simply made her clothes into her suit. Though soon enough Eve made his clothes into his suit. He nodded towards her then flew off to where the explosion sounded. 

Great. More Aliens.

But what do you know? A fashion show.

Women in skimpy clothes, most in underwear, but that’s not all. Most had wings. Strange. But what does he know of high fashion? He ripped through some aliens fast enough and carried people to safety. He turned to see Eve, she was outnumbered. Too many coming at her.

He furrowed his brows. He needed to save her. Though just before he jumped off a voice pierced through all the screams and shouts. Almost as if it was being whispered into his ear. He moved his head away. He looked over towards Eve who looked at him.

Her eyes were asking for help, but something pulled him away. He looked away from her and instead looked towards the crowd.

He swears his heart went still. Is he even breathing? Is he dead? When did he die? In any case it seems he’s done enough good deeds to earn him a place through the pearly gates, because he swears he’s looking at an angle right now. 

With the wings and everything. They were white, just like your lace bra and panties. Stange, he would’ve never expected angels to wear such clothing. But they’re pretty. Even prettier on the body they’re on. (He really shouldn’t be thinking of angles in such a way. He’s probably going to hell for that. Damn.)

Though as his eyes trailed, he finally saw the face. 

Your face.

It glowed. God. Has he ever seen someone as beautiful? Are all angles as beautiful as you? Heaven is real. It is real because that is the only conceivable place you can be from. You truly are a gift from god, or whatever other gods they're out there.

Then there it is again. That call for help that seems to be in his ear. Had he focused on your voice? He flinched when you screamed. Green blood splattered on your face. Mark acted quickly, grabbing you and taking you into the air with him drawing you away from the aliens who ran after you. 

You smelled heavenly. Like nothing he’s ever smelled before. You feel soft, you fit perfectly against him, you feel lovely. He stops to look at you. Your eyes are wide and your brows furrowed and mouth agape as you gasp. Even your breath smells nice. 

Shit.

Does he smell? Hopefully just like blood and nothing more. 

Then you wrap your arms around him, damn near pushing his face into your breasts. They feel good. Plush and soft. A perfect size to fill his hand and it slightly overflows. Just the way he’s seen in so many homemade films he liked to watch when he was younger. (Only a year ago.) 

Finally he looks away from your chest and to you. You’re looking at him. 

Goodness gracious your eyes are beautiful. Such a wondrous color. The make-up around them only serves to accentuate them. But there’s something else as he looks into your eyes. Something that just clicks within him. It’s something right behind his eyes. Suddenly it’s just you. 

You are perfection made human. How can you exist? Are you real? How? 

Mark’s brain can’t comprehend what he’s looking at right now. You make his head hurt. There’s a slight throb in it. (A perhaps a slight throb elsewhere.) 

“Hi.” Stupid. Who just says hi. Hi!? God he is so STUPID.

“Hi.” You laugh still holding onto him for dear life. “Thank you.” You sound so pretty too. You have an accent. It’s thick. It doesn’t sound like anything he’s ever heard. It sounds so different. Almost as if you aren’t meant to speak how he’s speaking. But how could it be so when you sound exquisite.

Then he saw his hand on your face. His brows furrowed watching as his hand acted on its own, wiping the green blood from your cheek. “Sorry.”

There was silence. If only for a little bit. Fuck, this was weird. He was weird. What he did was just weird, yet his hand still rests on your face, but your skin feels nice. Your warmth feels nice. Everything about you feels nice. 

Though the moment was ruined as he went to place you somewhere safe. Everything was going perfect (again) his face plush against your breasts, his arms wrapped around the fat of your thighs, then he was hit in the back and he lost his grip on you. You were sent into the water. 

Mark immediately reacted going after you, but an alien took him by the neck, throwing him towards a building. Though as he went flying his eyes never lost focus of where you landed. As he crashed into the building his eyes found you ascending from the water. 

You looked even better with your hair wet. 

He quickly stood up flying towards you flying through aliens to get to you. Though the same alien who threw him was there.

Mark’s only goal was getting you out of the water and somewhere safe. Who knows how heavy those wings you carry are. You could drown. Mark couldn’t let you drown. Again he was grabbed by the same alien, though Mark could only focus on you. His eyes would not leave you. His eyes could not leave you. 

You have him smiling and nodding. “Go.” Then something released him, something he didn’t even know was holding him. He looked away from you, grabbing the neck of the alien and squeezing his head off. 

More came for him. 

It was a shame. A shame Mark did not see as you dove underwater never seeming to struggle with the weight of the wings. A shame Mark did not see the bubbles coming from where you dove. A shame Mark did not see as your legs became one and bloomed scales. A shame he did not see your nails extend into claws. A shame he did not see you lurking by the surface.

A real shame he could not save the male model who was grabbed by you.

Yes it is such a shame he did not see you take the man underwater drowning him as you plunged your razor sharp teeth into the man’s neck, never stopping until you chewed through the man’s neck. 

Note: Ik this is not what y'all were expecting when I came back. BUT! I have a good excuse. I need to practice writing smut and this is just me having a fic with little to no real plot and just me practicing writing smut.

Next I Masterlist

To be added to Tag list: !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑/Gen Masterlist

[lewismcqueen]

it ain't right, and it ain't natural.

hades!lh44 x black!reader

summary: you return to the underworld after six months above ground, and are met with a world--and a man--that you no longer recognize. a/n: uhhh kinda freewrote here because the idea flew into my head suddenly and I just love the image of Lewis as a more reluctant but efficient ruler of the underworld who just wants his wife to love him lol. this one's angsty. haven't done that before. enjoy!

That was not six months, you thought with a huff.

It felt like only a cough and a sneeze separated you from summertime; you could've sworn you'd just had taste of well-aged dandelion wine on your lips while bathing in the sun on your own balcony a mere second ago. Now, you watched with a frown as the sky blackened overhead with the smog from your husband's sprawling factory came into view, black as the coal coming out of the mines.

The hem of your spring-green dress swish-swish-ed around your boots as you stepped off the train, the clanging of mine workers' tools getting louder and louder the closer you got to your destination. The chill of incoming winter already began to nip at your skin, making you pull your white fur coat tightly around yourself. You ran the pending conversation with the man through your head. Something, something, production costs. Blah, blah, bottom line. The mint. The mills. You'd have to get some fruit of the vine imported if you were gonna make it through the winter.

The smell of distant smoke and fog seemed to recede as you stepped into the building, climbing the spiraling steps up to his office. That familiar frosted door window greeted you, the name HADES in bold letters painted neatly across. The glare from an electric light illuminated the name, casting an ominous glow over the door in an otherwise dim hallway. That's new, you thought.

It was unlikely that the god had arrived yet at such an hour, and he usually kept the door unlocked on the day your train rolled in every six months in some distant attempt at offering an olive branch.

"What's mine is yours," he'd said with a hint of a smile, which quickly faded when you replied flatly, "All this could never be mine."

Still, you occasionally sat in it while sipping imported moscato, the sight of factory roofs the closest thing you'd ever get to a view.

You tried the brass doorknob, which gave way to reveal a sight that nearly made you drop your suitcase. Your expression tightened.

"You're early."

"Well," your husband, dressed in a tailored velvet burgundy suit, leaned forward in his seat. He tried on a thin smile. "I've missed you."

You rolled your eyes, already about to spin on your heel to leave. "I'll be in my suite--"

"Hold on a moment," he held up a ringed hand with measured calm, but the crease between his brows suggested a bit of restlessness.

"I wanted to show you something. Come with me, I think you'll find it quite interesting."

You sighed as he rose from his seat, adjusting his lapels. He moved with a grace and quickness that used to be reserved for swing dancing, once upon a time. His feet barely made a sound as he made his way towards you, despite the hard leather dress shoes on his feet. One never heard him coming, but you could feel his presence. Like a ghost.

That's why you caught a couple of workers jump and scatter as soon as Lewis entered yet another one of his vast factory rooms with you in tow. But something was quite different about this one.

"Why's it so damn hot down here?"

Lewis was too busy proudly taking in the loud bustle of the place to notice you fanning yourself off with a grimace. He folded his hands behind his back.

"I got bored while you were away, you know. So I've built a foundry for metalworking," he looked down at you and winked. "It's as hot in here as you make me."

Standing stiffly, you didn't respond to the joke. Your gaze had been drawn to the shiny reflective mask of one worker pouring a barrel of molten liquid into a cast. It looked like a waterfall of lava cascading over black cliffs. There were thousands of these barrels, and you started to wonder if this is what mortals imagined hell to be like. Sweat had begun to gather and moisten the fabric of your dress where your armpits were, making you shift uncomfortably.

"I'd like to leave now," you said tersely. "I'm startin' to chafe."

Lewis pressed his lips into a thin line, as if he had expected this response but was disappointed nonetheless. "Alright."

For the first time, the feeling of icy wind slicing against your face was a bit of a relief as you descended the factory steps, your husband not far behind.

The steps spilled out onto a newly-laid sidewalk. The heels of your boots click-clacked against the white concrete until you stopped suddenly. You looked around, furrowing your brows as you scanned the empty street.

"Where's the carriage?"

You heard rare chuckle from Lewis as he moved past you towards a large black machine, smooth black paint reflecting bits of streetlight. It had matching leather seats and wheels much smaller than your carriage, with a steering wheel in front. He leaned on it and crossed his arms, grinning with self-assurance.

"We've done away with those. This is an automobile. It's got replaceable parts made in the factories and an engine. Instead of horses, we've got horsepower. Isn't it splendid?"

He must've noticed the way your eyes narrowed, because he got up off of the car and extended a hand towards you. You took it gingerly, allowing him to open the door to the passenger's side.

Unfortunately, you did have to admit that the ride into town was much smoother than it would've been had you taken the carriage. Of course, there were still a few horse-drawn carriages left on the streets, but you saw flashes of finely-dressed couples in vehicles identical to your husband's. Only flashes, though. Gods, everything passed by so fast in this thing.

Lewis took his foot off of the gas and began to cruise once you entered town. You had to shield your eyes from the gawdy flashing marquees and neon signs that accosted your senses. Those definitely weren't there last winter.

You couldn't believe it--darkest time of year, and it was brighter than daylight. Not the golden sunlight that you would bring back with you in six months time, but a cold, headache-inducing mockery. Lewis drove one-handed now, his left arm hanging leisurely outside of the vehicle. His satisfied smile as he pulled over in front of a movie theater created a spark of rage within you. Did he think you'd be impressed by this?

"Is there a carnival happenin' down here that I don't know about?" you remarked with a scowl.

"Laid down a power grid, now the whole town's got electricity. Can you imagine it? Light in the pitch-black wintertime, 24/7!"

He turned to you with a look in his eyes that you hadn't seen in a long, long time. Wonder. It used to make them sparkle back when he would show you his plans, the factories a mere idea on parchment paper. Your expression softened, if not only a tiny bit.

"Don't see why it ought to be as bright as day in the evening."

Lewis' face fell, and you felt a faint pang in your chest. "Well, my guys work well into the night. It's more convenient--"

"It's unnatural," you snapped. "And it's givin' me a headache. Take me home, Lewis."

He spoke more carefully now. "I just...thought you might like it if it wasn't so dark all the time."

"You thought wrong."

"Come now, a bit of extra light couldn't possibly be that bad." Irritation had begun to seep into his voice now, but you couldn't help but go on arguing.

"It damn sure could be, the way I see it. Light ought to come from the sky--"

"I did all of this for you, Persephone!"

A few heads turned at the sudden outburst, his voice wavering at the tail-end of the sentence. He sighed, suddenly very interested in staring at the floor of the car and messing with his signet ring, solid gold with a blood-red ruby in the middle.

Then he continued more quietly, "It gets lonely, waiting for you. Then when you finally return, you manage to make me even lonelier. It's very impressive."

You turned away, massaging your temples. "Just take me home, Lewis."

He placed a hand on the wheel before pausing.

"I will, but tell me this one thing. What have I got to do to get you to look at me? To speak to me? You know I'd give you anything you asked for in a heartbeat. Why make it so fucking difficult?"

A long silence stretched between you, filled only with the sound of horse hooves, lively chatter, and the rumble of automobiles. Whenever Lewis felt you slipping farther away from him, he built mills and factories to fill the distance. As if assembly lines of dead souls would bring you any closer. You wanted that young man you met in the garden back. The one who was so nervous on your first date that he couldn't think to do anything else but sink down onto one knee and kiss your hand. How was that so hard to figure out?

You scoffed, "It's not difficult at all. I never asked for your fancy machines, or your electricity. And I certainly didn't ask to be cooped up behind some iron wall--"

An edge crept into his voice. "That wall is there to protect you."

"Sure. And my boots have got wings that'll let me fly away."

Lewis turned to you. "Is that what you want? To fly away?"

When you turned to meet his eyes, they were glassy with hurt.

It always felt good to take a good stab at him in the moment. To say something nasty and cutting before slamming the door in his face. Now, stuck in this car, there were no doors to slam behind you or walls to separate. It was not so fun to have to watch him bleed. You sighed heavily.

"Well I don't know. I'd certainly like to fly away from," you waved a hand vaguely in the air, "This."

His expression became cold and hard before he turned his eyes to the road ahead. He said flatly, "Then I'll find someone else who won't."

You were unable to hold back a bitter laugh, unbecoming of a goddess of spring. "Good luck."

The ride back home was very quiet.

[jjangwonie]

DOUBLE LIFE

DOUBLE LIFE MASTERLIST

𓂃⊹ ִֶָ summary: With your anonymous Twitter account, you've acquired a pretty good following and popularity, throughout your school as well. Jake, your long-time crush, is one of them, head over heels. Yet when you once confessed to him, he had rejected your confession, saying that he already has his eye on someone else. What happens when he finds out that his online crush is the person that he rejected? And... How are you going to deal with this?

𓂃⊹ ִֶָ word count: ~2.1k

THIRTY SIX - Hey

The door creaks open and Jake practically stumbles inside, shoulders hunched from the cold. You quickly step aside as he hastily walks around, before closing the door behind him.

"Jesus, it's freezing," he mutters, rubbing his arms before suddenly freezing in place. He turns around, facing you properly for the first time in what feels like forever.

"Hey," he says, voice softer now.

"Hi," you reply with a small, uncertain smile, one hand rubbing your arm nervously. You're drowning in fluffy pajamas, your hair falling messily around your face, and even with slightly flushed cheeks from the fever, you're...

Jake has to remind himself to breathe.

"Oh, um," you gesture to the bouquet he's still clutching, "the flowers..."

"Right! The flowers. I, uh..." He looks down at the colourful bundle like he's forgotten he's holding them. "I got them because... well, remember when we were talking about favourite flowers? When you said- I mean, when everythingblue said- or, no, when you said..."

He takes a breath, starting over.

He's rambling now, words tumbling out faster than he can control them. "I didn't actually know which one was really your favourite. You gave such different answers, so... I just... got them all? Which probably looks ridiculous now that I think about it, but the florist was really nice about it, even though it was almost closing time, and-"

He stops abruptly, realizing he's been talking non-stop. A faint blush creeps up his neck.

"I just... wanted to get them right this time." He sighs out while his eyes flicker between you and anywhere else.

"It probably looks like a mess," Jake continues, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "The florist tried to make it look nice but I kept adding more and-"

You can't help but smile as you watch him ramble. It's endearing, really. The way his hands move slightly while holding the bouquet, how his ears are turning pink (and not just from the cold), how he keeps glancing between you and the flowers like he's not sure where to look. This is a side of Jake you've never seen before. Nervous, a little unsteady, words tumbling out unfiltered.

This is the same boy who could expertly control a football, who always seemed so composed in school, now standing in your hallway just before midnight, clutching a mismatched bouquet and rambling about flower arrangements of all things.

"Jake," you cut in softly, and he stops mid-sentence, looking at you with those wide eyes. "I like them. Really. The fact that you remembered all of those random flowers I mentioned months ago..." You trail off, feeling your own cheeks warm slightly. "Thank you."

He lets out a small breath, shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "Oh," he says, and there's that tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Good. That's... good."

The silence that follows feels heavy, and you find yourself fidgeting with your sleeve. "You must be freezing," you blurt out. "Do you want a blanket? Or I could make some tea? I always have some ready and-"

"Actually," Jake interrupts, his expression shifting to something more determined (though the effect is somewhat ruined by his pink-tipped nose from the cold).

"You're the one who needs to be taking care of yourself. Sunghoon told me you haven't been eating properly, and YOU should be resting, wrapped up in blankets, not walking around in the rain, and definitely not eating ice cream at midnight-"

His hands are moving everywhere as he talks, the bouquet swinging dangerously through the air with each gesture. You watch the flowers wobble precariously as he continues,

"-and what were you thinking sitting at a bus stop for an hour? You could have called- anyone would have picked you up, you know that right? And-"

You reach out instinctively, steadying his flower-wielding hand with your own. "Jake."

He freezes mid-gesture, words dying in his throat as his eyes flicker between your hand on his and your face. You can practically see his brain short-circuiting, mouth slightly open, caught mid-word.

"You're going to make the flowers fly away," you say softly.

"Oh," he breathes out, then swallows hard. "Right. Yes. The flowers. Flying. I mean- not flying. They shouldn't fly." He takes a deep breath, seemingly trying to collect his scattered thoughts.

"What I was trying to say is... I'm not exactly a chef or anything, but I make pretty decent ramen. Would you... would you eat something if I made it?"

You can't help but smile at his earnest expression, at how he's standing in your hallway offering to make you ramen, at how he's still letting you steady his hand.

"Okay," you sigh, fond exasperation colouring your voice.

"I'll just put these in water first, alright?"

The kitchen falls into a comfortable silence, broken only by the soft bubbling of water on the stove and the quiet snips of scissors as you trim the flower stems.

Jake busies himself with unpacking the ramen, three different flavours because he wasn't sure which one you'd prefer so he decided to just mix them, trying not to make it obvious how his eyes keep drifting to you.

But they do. They always have.

There's something about seeing you like this - hair slightly messy, drowning in oversized pajamas with little stars on them, careful fingers handling each flower like it's precious. It's so different from how he usually sees you around school, yet somehow exactly the same. The same gentle attention you give to everything, whether it's editing photos or arranging flowers or just... existing in this quiet midnight moment.

You're humming something under your breath, probably not even aware you're doing it, and Jake finds himself holding his own breath, afraid to disturb this moment.

You look so... at home. So real.

He watches as you gently touch a daisy petal, adjusting its position in the vase with such care that something in his chest aches. It hits him then, how much he's missed this, missed you, even the parts he didn't know existed until now.

The water starts boiling more vigorously behind him, snapping him back to reality.

Right. Ramen.

He's supposed to be making ramen, not standing here like an idiot, watching you arrange flowers with what he's sure is the most embarrassingly soft expression on his face.

But he can't help stealing one more glance, memorizing how you look in this moment, slightly fever-flushed but smiling, surrounded by the flowers he brought, looking so perfectly, wonderfully real.

"How's it going?" you ask, turning away from the now-arranged flowers.

"Almost ready," Jake responds, quickly pretending he wasn't just staring. "Just waiting for the noodles to cook properly."

You hum, moving towards the fridge. "Want me to add some eggs? Make it a proper meal?" You're already pulling them out before he can answer, and he watches as you move around your kitchen with familiar ease, grabbing a smaller pan and some vegetables.

Jake tries to focus on stirring the ramen, he really does, but his eyes keep wandering back to you.

Your hair keeps falling in your face, and each time you brush it back with the back of your wrist, careful not to touch it with your cooking hands...

"The water's boiling over," you say without looking up.

"What? Oh- shit-" Jake quickly turns down the heat, feeling his ears burn as he realizes he's been caught not paying attention.

But when he glances back at you, there's a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth as you continue chopping, and somehow that makes his embarrassment worth it.

He should probably say something, make conversation, but there's something so peaceful about this moment.

The tips of his ears are still pink, but he can't help stealing another glance. Just one more.

You carefully balance your bowl as you lead the way upstairs, Jake following a few steps behind. When you push open your bedroom door, he pauses in the doorway, taking everything in.

"This is..." he trails off, eyes wandering from the fairy lights strung across your wall to the polaroids scattered on your corkboard. "Okay, it's weird seeing your room in real life. I mean, I've seen parts of it in your photos, but-"

"Jake," you interrupt, settling cross-legged on your bed with your bowl, "if you say it like that, it sounds like you've been stalking me."

"What- no! I meant- I just-" he sputters, then catches your teasing smile. "Oh, you're making fun of me."

"Maybe a little," you admit, patting the space next to you.

He hesitates for a moment before carefully sitting down, trying not to spill his ramen. The silence that falls feels thick with everything unsaid, the only sound being the soft clink of chopsticks against bowls. Jake's hyper-aware of every movement. How close you're sitting, how your shoulder almost brushes his when you reach for a tissue, how your room smells like vanilla and something floral and you.

"This is pretty good," you say softly, breaking through his thoughts.

The tension in his shoulders eases slightly.

"Yeah?" he asks, and he's not just asking about the ramen.

You nod, giving him another small smile, and something in his chest unclenches just a bit more.

With the empty bowls set aside on your nightstand, the silence creeps back in. You're suddenly very aware of everything.

"Oh, right," Jake says suddenly, reaching for his bag. "I brought some... stuff." He starts pulling things out, setting them on your bed with careful enthusiasm.

"Some chocolate - which I know probably isn't great when you're sick, but Sunghoon mentioned you've been eating ice cream anyway, so I figured... And medicine, because fever, obviously. And this-"

He pulls out a small box with a Lego flower set logo. "I saw this and thought... since you like flowers..."

The keychain on his bag catches your eye as he moves - a small plushie, gently swaying with his movements. It's identical to the one sitting behind you besides your pillow. Your throat feels tight suddenly.

"Jake," you say softly, reaching out to still his hands that are still pulling things from his bag, seemingly endless. He freezes at the contact, and when he looks up, your eyes meet.

The fairy lights reflect in his dark eyes, creating tiny constellations, and you're close enough to see the slight flutter of his eyelashes as he blinks.

There's that familiar awkward tension again, but it's different now. Softer somehow, more delicate. Like you're both holding your breath, waiting for something neither of you can name.

A strand of hair falls in your face, and Jake's fingers twitch like he wants to brush it away, but he doesn't.

Instead, he just looks at you, really looks at you, in a way that makes your heart stumble over itself.

You're both so quiet you can hear the gentle hum of your heater, the distant sound of cars outside, the slight rustle of the bag's zipper as it finally settles.

It's strange, you think, how someone can feel like both a stranger and the most familiar person in the world all at once.

Your hand is still on his, and Jake swears his heart actually stops for a second when you say his name like that, so soft and careful, like it's something precious.

He's spent so long being angry, being hurt, but right now, with you looking at him in the gentle glow of your fairy lights, hair messy and cheeks still slightly flushed from fever...

"You're really pretty," he murmurs before he can stop himself.

You let out a surprised laugh, pulling your hand back to cover a small cough. "I am literally coughing up a storm," you say, looking down at your attire. "I look a mess."

"No, you don't," Jake says, too quickly, too honestly. The words hang in the air between you.

His eyes can't seem to stay still - taking in how your hair falls around your face, flickering to the way your lips part slightly in surprise at his bluntness. You look soft and close enough that he can see your soft breaths, and his heart is doing something dangerous in his chest.

Then you cough again, small but enough to remind him that you're sick, that this probably isn't the time for... whatever his heart is trying to do right now.

Jake clears his throat, reaching for the Lego box perhaps a bit too quickly.

"Want to make this together?" he asks, voice slightly rougher than usual. It's an escape route, a way to ease the tension that's been building, to quiet the loud beating of his heart that he's sure you must be able to hear.

But when you smile and nod, scooting closer to look at the box, he thinks maybe his heart isn't going to quiet down anytime soon.

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©jjangwonie 2024

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[not-rigel]

A Guest Lecture

ITS FINALLY HERE

tags: professor sevika AU, middle school teacher! reader, flirting, slight loser! sevika, trans! sevika, no smut, cuddling and kissing, ma'am used once for reader, explicitly written to be set in the US (sorry non-American readers but I took the opportunity to dig at my country's educational system)

a/n: I chose to not include smut in this because i felt it just would've taken away from it. im nonbinary and not a trans woman so I took so long trying to write sevika as delicately and respectfully as possible. i fully plan in making pt 2 with smut my loves i promise, if you see mistakes that wasnt me pls ignore them.

WC: 5.2k

You’re doing one last visual sweep over your classroom, making sure all the desks are aligned so all your students have a clear view of the podium. Your own desk is behind all of theirs, facing the podium as well. You flick the different light switches on and off to try and find the best lighting. After a minute you find the winning combination and the room is finally lecture ready. With the class ready for your guest, you dial the extension for the front office.

“Front Office,” the receptionist answers on the third ring. 

“Yes, hi. I have a guest, Dr. Sevika Walia, coming in to give a lecture for my advanced class. Can you send her to my room please? It’s room 206.” 

“Yup, she just checked in. I’ll send her over.” 

“Thank you.” 

Suddenly, your head pounds and it occurs to you that you used the lunch period to rearrange your classroom for the lecture. Fruit snacks and a granola bar from your snack bin will have to hold you over until your next free period. You're in the middle of munching on your granola bar when there's a knock at your door. You frantically wipe crumbs off yourself and rush to let Dr. Sevika in. 

She's not what you expected her to look like, well not that you really envisioned anything. For one, she's tall. Towering somewhere over six feet. She's quite polished, dressed in a black short sleeve button down blouse, tucked into maroon slacks. Her hair is short, a bit longer than a typical pixie, strands reaching just below her cheekbones. She has one piercing, a stud on her left nostril. Her coat sits draped over her shoulders, hiding her arms. 

“Hi, Professor Walia. Thank you again for agreeing to do this,” you reach out your hand for a handshake. Her right arm peeks out from where it is hiding and she takes your hand in hers. Her handshake is firm and speaks highly of her professionalism. You stand aside to hold the door open for her and, without meaning to, you catch the cleanest aroma you’ve smelt in a long time. Middle schoolers body odor is awful and Dr. Sevika is a refreshing change. 

“Hi, and it's my pleasure. I’m out of my element here, I haven't stepped foot in a middle school since I went to one,” she sighs, eyes sweeping over the posters on the walls and nostalgia sparkles in her eyes. Her voice is hypnotic, a perfect mix of feminine and gruff. 

“You haven't done guest lectures for middle schools before? I must ask, why'd you agree to this one?” 

“I enjoyed our emails. You were very convincing,” she admits and you feel a little warm at the smile she gives you. 

“I enjoyed them too, even though all your replies came at 2 in the morning,” you joke. She laughs and it's a beautiful sound. 

“Academics,” she says, lightly mocking your shared profession, “Do you have somewhere I can hang my coat?” 

“Yes, I can take it,” She hands you her coat and you turn your back to her to set it on your coat rack. “There's about ten minutes left before class starts. I hope you don’t mind but I forgot to eat something. I used most of lunch getting the room ready. You can set up while I eat.”

“Oh, no issue. Us educators forget things all the time. I forgot to charge my arm last night.” 

Charge her arm? It's not until you turn back to face her that you finally notice that she’s missing most of her left arm. You’re not sure how you didn't notice when she handed you her coat. Might have something to do with the chronic fatigue from being a teacher. 

“God, this is no fun. Usually I like to dramatically throw my coat off for a bionic arm reveal but I guess having no arm there isn't as exciting,” she complains, without a touch of sarcasm.

“I honestly didn't notice until you said something. I would've appreciated the dramatic reveal.” 

“You get it. You go ahead and eat, I'll get set up,” she nods at your half-eaten granola bar sat on your desk. You continue with your imitation of a lunch as she takes papers from her bag, laying them onto the podium. She also places a pair of glasses on her face, rectangular wire frames. By the time the bell rings Professor Sevika has her powerpoint projected on the screen behind her. 

You grab a bottle of hand sanitizer and stand at the door, holding it open for your students to enter. As each student returns from lunch, you greet them and squirt sanitizer into their palms. 

“Special guest today, best behavior.” 

“Take any seat.” 

“Hi sweetie. Enjoy your lunch?” 

One by one all the students find a desk and settle in as quietly as they can manage. They're always rowdy after lunch but today they know you need them to be respectful. When the bell rings you shut and lock the door, to avoid any distractions. 

You clap your hands, gaining the attention of everyone in the room, “Alright class, the day is finally here. We have our guest, Professor Walia, here to give us a lecture. She is going to tell us a bit about her degrees, her career and give us a little extra perspective. We've only got 50 minutes so hold your questions until the end. Got it?” 

All your students answer with “yes ma'am.”  

“Awesome. They're all yours, Dr.” You turn their attention to her and make your way back to your desk. 

“Thank you. Hello all, I am Dr. Sevika Walia. You can call me Dr. Sevika or Professor Sevika. A little bit about me, I first earned my BA in 2006 where I double majored in History and Anthropology, then eventually my Masters in 2008 and my PhD in Cultural History in 2016. I've been lecturing at the local university since 2017. When I'm not lecturing at the university or at home with my snake, I am writing, editing, peer-reviewing and publishing articles for scholarly journals.” 

You listen along with your students, occasionally checking to make sure no one has dozed off but they're all paying attention. And you understand why. Sevika is an amazing speaker. 

“Now earlier I mentioned my PhD is in Cultural History. And you must be thinking, what is the difference between ‘History’ and ‘Cultural History’? History, as we typically understand it, is explained as dynasties, battles, wars, the forming of civilization, of government. Which is lots of information but it's actually quite limited.” 

She goes on explaining there's dozens of different interpretations about conflict and events. Clicking through different slides to provide cultural interpretations of historical events you informed her your class recently studied. Something you coordinated over email. There's a serious passion about her, how she speaks about lost voices in history. About forgotten contexts. And for a moment, it feels good to pretend you're a student again. Your fingers itch like they should be taking notes.  

“The way I practice being a historian is getting away from the generalized, to not look at history through one lived human experience or context. The experiences we've been taught to associate with history should be questioned and the experiences we're not being taught needs to be sought out.” 

Again, you're in awe of her intelligence. You find a notepad, trying to scribble down her words before you forget them. 

“I feel a good historian is devoted to finding out the missing context, include those experiences in our process of interpretation. For decades, the United States curriculum has prioritized the experiences of white cisgender straight men to teach history. By including culture into our historical interpretations, we create a truer understanding of history.” 

She clicks to the final slide, a photo of her in her classroom sitting on her desk eating instant noodles. Most of the class giggles and you smile as well. She must've hoped this would go over well with your class because she has a proud smile on her face. 

“I'll take your questions now,” she tells the class and a bunch of hands shoot up. She calls on them one by one but the bell rings before she gets to all of them. 

“Before you go, please put your desks into six groups of four. If you need a pass, I'll write you one,” you call out to the class and they move their desks back into their regular places. A couple students get hall passes from you so they won't be counted as tardy for helping you organize the room. 

It's now your free period so you won't be expecting any incoming students for another 55 minutes. When they're all gone Professor Sevika lets out a heavy breath, stacking her papers neatly to place back into her bag.  

“Something wrong?” you ask. 

“Nothing like that. I was just nervous. Having a bunch of pre-teens stare at me was unsettling,” she explains while packing away her things. 

You chuckle, “That's how I felt my first year. I'm surrounded by preteens and teenagers all day long and I was fresh out of college and I felt like I couldn't connect with them. I considered quitting about three months in, I was just overwhelmed. But most of the teachers here are angels, they really got me through my first year. Stepping in when I needed a break, lending me supplies, giving me good advice. And now I see a therapist specifically for the stress of being a teacher. That's probably helped me the most.” 

She crosses the room, leaning onto your desk. She blinks a couple times before making eye contact. “I hope this isn't unwelcome advice but the best advice I got in my second year teaching was to not forget my personal life. I'm… let's just say I'm dedicated to my practice. I had to take a leave of absence while getting my PhD but still graduated on time. It exhausted me but I did it. Personal shit aside, my point is if you're drowning in work, remember to take time to be a person. You've already got support, they're not gonna let you drown.” 

Her advice is so genuine and personal it makes you want to know her, know more than a professor you emailed. Her passion in her work from the journals you read is what compelled you to reach out to her. But now that you're with her in person, you don't want to go back to emails. 

“Thank you, I'll remember that. So um, what's the rest of your day look like?” you ask. 

“Going back to my office for office hours, checking my email, giving a lecture, checking my email again, writing the next exam,” she lists off her tasks for the rest of the day. 

“And what about anything for yourself?” you remind her of her own advice. 

“I'll listen to jazz while working,” she shrugs. 

“Jazz?” you didn't peg her as the jazz type. You didn't consider yourself the jazz type so you're not really versed enough to know what a jazz person is like anyways. 

She sighs and pinches her nose, “Great, you're making the face.” 

“What face?” 

“The ‘I don't like jazz’ face,” she explains, pointing accusingly at you. 

“Well, yeah. I’ve never been into it.” 

“What? Jazz is soulful, it's an entire conversation. I'm in disbelief that everyone doesn't hear it that way. Have you ever been to live jazz?” 

You hesitate to answer but you're sure she already knows, “No.” 

“Then you can't say you don't like it. I'm sorry, I don't mean to be pretentious. But you genuinely need to experience jazz live at least once in your life. There's a club where a really good band plays. I want you to give it a chance. I'll email the details to you,” she looks at your clock on the wall. “I gotta leave for office hours. Eat your lunch and stay in touch, alright?” 

You're shocked that she still wants to talk to you, “Yeah, I'll talk to you later. And I'll eat my…lunch,” you look down at the packet of fruit snacks knowing you can't really call it a lunch. You might have the time to run to the breakroom to still have the one you packed. 

“Good,” she takes her coat from your rack and drapes it over her shoulders. She leaves and you know you'll be obsessively checking your email all day. 

Professor Sevika makes it to her office minutes before office hours begins, logging right onto her computer and opening her email. She types out all the details of the club, what days and times the band is playing. That she’ll pay your entrance fee. That if you really do hate jazz she can take you somewhere else. She clicks send and forces herself into work mode. The next two hours are spent reading and clearing her emails, no students visiting during office hours. But when she checks her inbox one last time before leaving for her lecture, she sees a reply from you. 

Hello Dr. Walia, 

I'd love to go with you. Should at least give live jazz a chance. I can do Thursday night. Thank you again for today.

You left your personal email and number as well. Sevika knows she's not going to be focused while giving the lecture. Is it… a date? She could've specified, should've. You said you'd love to go with her and that has to mean something. That wording can't just be casual, can it? She'll just have to wait a week to make a fool of herself in front of you, crushing on a middle school teacher.

And she feels like she shouldn't be crushing. You were so sweet in your emails, thanking her at every turn and helping her fine tune. You were so eager to give your students something special and Sevika wanted to deliver. She was just supposed to go in and do the lecture, all because she could tell you were a good teacher. But she wasn't supposed to find you so attractive the moment you opened the door. Then you had to go and be so honest with her about your struggles and she knew she needed you. And you knew you needed her from how genuinely she responded. 

So the both of you go on teaching your classes between sending emails and text messages all week long. Dancing the line of platonic conversation. 

Dozens of texts, calls and emails later, Thursday night arrives. Your phone vibrates with another text from her.  

I'm waiting by the front entrance. 

You're scrambling out from your car, having  to circle the block 5 times to find a parking spot. You don't bother with texting back, instead hitting the call button. She answers within two rings. 

“Hey, are you nearby?” 

“Yeah, I had some trouble finding parking but I'm walking over now,” you tell her what street you're on and she directs you on where to go, “Turning the corner and… okay I think I see you.” 

Standing beneath a lit neon sign is Sevika, leaning against a wall. She's dressed casually, turtleneck sweater and blue jeans. Her prosthetic is charged today, her sleeve is rolled up so you can see most of the intricate machinery. She looks around and when she spots you she ends the call and jogs over to meet you. She looks slightly different somehow but you cannot place your finger on what's changed. She checks you out, looking you over head to toe twice. 

“Just in time. You look really good. I'm so excited. You're gonna love it, I promise,” she says, offering her arm for you to take. You wrap your hand over her bicep and the muscle is thick and firm. 

She walks you into the club, paying both your entrance fees at the door. She leads you through the club to the stage where the band is finishing setting up. You really did arrive just in time as moments after you take your seat, the saxophonist introduces the band. 

The band is a quartet; tenor saxophone, piano, double bass and drums. When they begin to play it just sounds like jazz to you, nothing new or special. But halfway through the song you begin to hear a conversation, tones of pure expression filling the room. You don't hear each note, they're far too fast and messy to catch. But the way they play together is so precise, the pianist playing to sweeten the joy of the saxophone. It clicks in your mind that you will never hear anything like this again, it's too intimate and special. 

You lean over, whispering into Sevika's ear, “Thank you.” 

She turns her head to look at you and your faces are centimeters apart. For a moment, you just look at each other. Sevika looking for genuine interest and you looking at the softness in her eyes. She swallows, at a complete loss for words. You're looking at her so sweetly, ‘you're welcome’ or ‘don't mention it’ as a response feels inadequate.  

You place a hand on hers, “I really mean it, thank you.”

Sevika's fucked because now all she can think about is kissing you. So she goes with the inadequate response, “You're welcome. I mean it.” 

You return to listening to the music, trying to appreciate as much as you can. Sevika's attention is divided, shifting in her seat to take pressure off her erection. A touch on the hand shouldn't be enough to make her so hard but she hasn't had a date go so well since, well ever. And this barely counts as a date in her mind, she never formally asked you. 

She lays her jacket over her lap and prays you don't notice how tense she is. You never catch on, too immersed in music. Half an hour later, the band thanks you for being a wonderful crowd and wishes you a good night. You don't want the night to end. You want to know what other beautiful things Sevika has to show you. 

“Told you they're a good band,” she says as she offers her arm to you again. You take it and leave the club, gushing over how good the music was. Sevika chuckles at your excitement, you're squeezing her bicep every other sentence. When you make it outside Sevika turns to you. “Where are you parked? I'll walk you.” It's not an offer.  

You lead her to where you're parked, talking the entire way over. At some point the conversation shifts to farmer's markets. When you make it to your car Sevika digs into her pocket for her wallet. She pulls out a 20 and hands it to you, “For gas.” 

“Oh no, I can't,” you try to reject the money. 

“In this economy and on your middle school teacher salary, you're taking the money. Or I won't be able to sleep tonight.” 

“Fine, I'll take it. But I'll find a way to pay you back. Actually, what are you doing this Saturday?” 

“Nothing,” she lies. If you're the one asking her what she's doing, the answer will always be nothing. She's not going to spend all day working if she could be spending time with you. 

“Well I've got grading to do but afterwards I've got some time. You can choose what we do but I'll be paying. It's only fair,” you propose. 

“Well, what if I just want you to come over. Watch a couple movies,” is her counter-offer. It's also a leap of faith, she's still stupidly convinced that her feelings are unreciprocated. 

“Then I'll order in some food. Does that work?” 

“That works.” Her leap of faith paid off, you agreed to come to her house. 

“Good. It's a date.” You officially confirm it out loud. You've picked up on a few signs from her over the night. Her smile when you squeezed her bicep. Her eyes darting to your lips when you placed your hand on hers to thank her. The nervous glint in her eyes as she looks at you now. It's all so endearing, how cluelessly obvious she's been all night. 

“By the way, I think you're cute when you're flustered. And,” you pause and take a step forward, “I think you're really hot when you're criticizing standardized textbooks.” 

Sevika's face is warm, she feels like a teenager from how hard she is blushing,“Thanks. And if that second part about how I changed your kids' perception of George Washington I'm honestly not sorry,” that oh so loved passion of her returns, like she's giving a verbal lashing to George Washington himself. 

“It's hot that you're not sorry,” you step even closer and that cute flustered face returns and you need to kiss her. You finally notice what was slightly changed from the first time you met her. She has a lip piercing, a labret that sparkles so enticingly at you. She probably switches it out for clear jewellery when she's working. “Would you like to kiss me?” 

“Please.” 

You take a final step towards her and place your hands on her shoulders. Sevika swallows her hesitation to sit with the butterflies in her stomach. She meets you halfway, you tilt your head up as hers ducks down. The kiss begins slowly and explorative but soon both of you give up entirely on going slow. Sevika is so intense in every capacity, intensely devoted and intensely feeling, so you need to give her all that intensity back. The fervor between you bursts like fireworks. As the initial explosion settles and calms, little sparkles rain down and daze you. You swear you can feel them tickling your cheek then you realize it's her hair. Sevika's lips completely savor yours, ensuring this moment will last forever in her mind. 

But the moment is rudely interrupted, a passing car honks at the two of you. Sevika glares at the driver, angered that the highlight of her week was cut short. But the memory in progress is made sweet again with your laughter. 

“Sorry, it's just,” you pause to catch your breath from the giggles, “you look ready to murder that guy.” 

She finally finds the humor in the situation and snorts, “I might've felt an urge for violence. Honestly, I might sic my niece on him.” You're delighted to learn she has a niece and curious about what threat she might pose. 

“You don't need to do that. Karma will get him.” 

“You're right. It's getting late. You better get home. It's a school night, after all.” She gently nudges you by the shoulder toward your car. You’re not ready to leave, but you know it's late and your morning starts at 5:30. You decide she's right and it's time for you to leave but you need one last thing. 

“One more kiss? For the road-” you don't even get to finish your sentence as Sevika's lips cover yours. This kiss is short, sweet, firm and plenty worthwhile. Sure to keep you content until you see her again. 

Sevika steps back, more for her own self control. “Text me when you get home, okay?” 

“Okay,” you nod. You find your keys and enter your car but Sevika holds the door open. 

“One more,” she sighs, crouching down to plant one final, quick kiss onto your lips. She shuts the door for you and motions for you to fasten your seatbelt. She watches as you back out of the parking space and drive off, not looking away until you've turned the corner out of her sight. 

Fridays never felt long to you. With the school buzzing with preteens excited for the weekend, their joy is usually so contagious that your day flies by. This Friday felt long however, you were too aware of each minute that passed and it only made them drag even longer. Saturday morning is almost worse. Sevika is on your mind every minute you spend grading. Each assignment takes twice as long as usual to mark for wrong answers. Each question on the assignment makes you miss her mind, miss her perspective. You work through the distraction and finish by 3pm. 

You find your phone, which you left charging in your bedroom, and text Sevika that your afternoon is now free. She responds with her address, followed with ‘Please tell me the drive isn't that far. I miss you so much I'll die if I have to wait any longer.’ 

It's good to know she's just as anxious to see you. You've been head over heels for her, feeling crushing in quickly but too strong to understand at this point. You copy and paste her address into your navigation app and it's a twenty minute drive. 

You text her your ETA as you enter your car. Your navigation app slightly lied to you as you make it to her house in twenty five minutes. Sevika must've heard you pull into her driveway, she's rushing out her front door to greet you and at your door before you can shift gears into park. 

“Sevika! I could've hit you!” you scold her as you exit your car. 

“You weren't going to hit me,” she assures you, “Let's get inside. I missed you so much I might kiss you in front of all my neighbors.” 

“Might? I want you to kiss me in front of your neighbors,” you laugh at the impatient way she tries to lead you away from your car. 

She ceases her efforts to nudge you into her home, choosing to turn you toward her and cup your jaw in her hand, “Have I told you that I love your laugh yet?” 

You laugh even more, mostly at her sudden ability to be suave with her words, “No, but I'd love to hear more.” 

“You laugh before I even realize what's funny. I love your laugh,” she tells you with a peck to your nose. And the perfect laugh you give her is rewarded with a kiss to your cheek. 

You sigh, breathing to give the ache in your side some relief, “I missed you too. So much. God, I could hardly grade because the Industrial Revolution makes me think of you.” 

Sevika snorts, “Oh no, not the Industrial Revolution. I'm flattered that you were thinking of me but I don't know how I feel about being associated with the Industrial Revolution.” 

You can tell she's only pretending to be offended, “Oh Professor, what's so bad about being associated with the Industrial Revolution? Is it the smog?” 

“Fine, nothing wrong with being associated with the Industrial Revolution. The real issue here is… who gave you the right to make ‘Professor’ sound so hot? I hear that word dozens of times a day and it has never sounded that sexy.” 

“We should get inside, Professor. Or I'll kiss you in front of your neighbors.” You move her hand from your face and hold it in yours, leading her inside. 

Once you're both indoors, Sevika gives you a quick tour of her home. You get to see her bathroom, her study, her two car garage that doubles as her at home gym, her guest bedroom, and end the tour in her living room. 

“My vote for the first movie is Legally Blonde. If you have another suggestion, throw it at me,” she says while grabbing the remote from her coffee table. 

“Yes! I fucking love Legally Blonde!” 

“Perfect, get comfy,” she invites you over to sit on the couch with her. You sit a respectful distance from her, but she shifts her legs so her knee presses into yours. You move a little closer as she starts the movie. 

Sevika keeps pointing out little details in the film, some you already know. You've both seen the movie before so you don't mind talking through it. When you get to the studying montage it reminds you of something you've been meaning to ask her. 

“What was college like for you? Did you ever miss out on social events to study? Wait, were you in greek life at all?” 

“Ha! No I wasn't in a sorority or anything like that. I wasn't very social my freshman year,” she pauses and frowns like she's trying to recall a memory, “Yeah, this counts as a second date which is usually when I disclose this so you're right on time for this conversation. So I am a trans woman. And I was 23 when I could finally afford a higher education. At that point I was around 4 years into my transition and I was still still finding my confidence.” 

You move even closer to her, needing to listen. 

“I grew up really poor in a town where everyone knew everyone's business so University was a massive change for me and I had a horrible time adjusting. But sophomore year I finally got out. Mostly bars, but I got out. My junior year, I feel, is where I really found my confidence. By that point, I only went to a lesbian bar, it's still there, and one night I was talking with a friend of mine, fellow trans lady, about life and how I was struggling with balancing my femininity and masculinity. And she genuinely changed my life when she said this,” Sevika shifts her weight so she can fully face you, “She said ‘I think not enough trans women realize that we can be butch too.’ and it resonated with me. And now, being butch is the most comfortable and complete I've ever felt in my femininity.” 

You don't want to say it now but you're falling hard for her. She came out to you so matter-of-factly and vulnerably so you feel you need to match that energy. You place a hand on her knee, rubbing smooth circles over the fabric of her sweatpants.

“I've always thought that being butch is very beautiful and now… I guess I get to see how beautiful being trans and butch is. You're the most amazing person I've ever met, genuinely.” 

Sevika pulls you in by your shoulders and to her chest for a hug. You wrap your arms around her and feel her relax in your embrace. You stay like that for a long time hearing the movie play in the background. The only sound you're listening to is her breathing and heartbeat. Neither of you want to be the first to pull away. 

“I don't know about you but my leg fell asleep about five minutes ago,” Sevika mumbles. 

“Shit, I'm sorry!” you move your weight off her and see how uncomfortably she's been sitting. 

“Why are you apologizing? I'm the one who didn't say anything for five minutes!” she corrects and the two of you rearrange how you're sitting on the couch.  

“I still feel like apologizing! I'm sorry!” 

“Stop saying sorry!” Sevika silences your next apology with a kiss. You immediately sigh and melt into her, hands cupping her face. You pull away to give her nose a little kiss, a little promise of a third date. 

divider by @cafekitsune taglist: @archangeldyke-all @maneskinwh0re @ennabear

[xxgoldie]

little champion

in which hazel dresses up as lighter for halloween (continuation of this post) a/n: hazel is currently winning the naming poll, and has been the top choice every time i've checked it (even though second place keeps changing, interestingly), so that's her name now! and yes you will absolutely be seeing more of her notes / cw: lighter x reader, implied afab reader, sweet soft domestic girldad lighter fluff, brief caesar appearance wc: 1.4k

"So, what did you think of Zellie's costume?"

The soft smile that had been on Lighter's face all night broke into one so wide that it must hurt his cheeks. He didn't look up from the dishes he was washing, but his movements halted, eyes suddenly glassy as he stared at the running water. Though, all he was seeing in his mind's eye was his little Hazel, running around the Halloween bonfire in Blazewood, proudly showing off her costume to anyone who would listen - a leather jacket, red scarf, and gold-framed sunglasses.

"I loved it," he replied simply, voice a little shaky. He could feel you looking at him, amused and fond as you sipped on a mug of tea, but he didn't dare to look your way. His heart was already so full of love it was threatening to burst - meeting your eye right now would just be too much, so instead he went back to scrubbing sauce stains from the plate in his hand.

"She was so excited about it. We went to like ten different shops before we found a jacket she decided was similar enough to yours," you laughed, still watching him. The lights in the kitchen were dim, as they tended to be so Lighter could keep his sunglasses off around the house, so you got a clear view of the far-away, wistful look in his eyes as he chuckled in response.

"She's a real stubborn little bug, huh?"

"Mm, no stopping her once she sets her mind to something," you agreed, taking the last swig of your tea and placing the empty cup beside him by the sink. Wordlessly, he took it and began to wash - Lighter had never complained about your little habit of creating more washing up for him just when he was nearly done. "She's going to be trouble as a teenager, I'm predicting it now."

"Yeah, we'll have our work cut out for us." He rinsed the suds from your mug and placed it on the drying rack, turning the tap off. With no more dishes to hide behind, he finally looked back at you, catching a glimpse in you of the future teenager in question - the adult she'd one day grow into. Hazel, undeniably, was the spitting image of you; she had your eyes, your nose, shared the curve of your jawline underneath her chubby six-year-old cheeks. The only noticeable thing on her head that resembled Lighter was her unruly teal hair, always fighting its way out of any ponytails and braids during her daily shenanigans. You'd joked that you'd have to try again if he wanted a mini-me, but today, it seemed that that had been disproved.

He didn't even realise how long he'd been silent until you gently placed a hand on his forearm, thumb soothingly rubbing his scarred skin.

"What are you thinking, hmm?" you questioned, yelping in surprise when Lighter's hand found your waist and pulled you close against his chest.

"You know, when she came out in that costume? That was probably up there for me. You know, with her first word and first steps," he confessed against your hair, arms wrapping around you in a tight squeeze. When he'd seen her, so ecstatic to look just like him, the feeling that had kicked him in the chest... there were few moments in his life that he could compare it to, and Hazel had been part of almost all of them. "She said I'm a superhero."

You turned your head to look up at him, nose to nose in his warm embrace, "You are - you're her hero. And mine too."

"You're really trying to make me cry tonight, huh, love?" Lighter chuckled, shaking his head in raw disbelief - just what had he done to deserve his life to turn out so perfectly? Not giving you a moment to respond, to comment that if that was your goal then you seemed to be most of the way there, he closed the miniscule gap between you, lips on yours. He kissed you slowly, tenderly, smile still everpresent on his face as gentle warmth spread between you-

A knock at the door interrupted you, a huff of annoyance leaving Lighter as he pulled away - that is, until he heard Hazel's familiar giggle from behind the front door, and his frustration melted away in an instant. Even though he definitely missed the freedom of heated kisses around the house whenever the two of you wanted - something that had mostly disappeared the second you daughter had gotten the hang of walking on her own - he truly could never even slightly resent her presence.

As soon as he opened the door, she bolted into his arms, pumpkin-shaped bag full of sweets in hand as she chattered excitedly.

"Look papa! Look at all the sweets I got! And there was this really cool house with this skeleton that jumped up when you got near it and my friends screamed but I wasn't scared and it was so cool-"

Lighter listened intently to her rambling as he hoisted her up, leaving Caesar laughing in the door until you came to greet her.

"Thanks for dropping her off, Caesar. It looks like she had a great time," you said, the two of you sharing a chuckle at Lighter's attentive nodding to Hazel's neverending stories.

"Yeah, all the kids had a blast," Caesar told you, handing you Zellie's water bottle that she'd taken with her. A handful of members of the Sons of Calydon taking all the Blazewood kids out for trick-or-treating together had become something of a tradition in recent years.

"She wasn't too much trouble, I hope?"

"Nah, you know her. Bundle of energy as always, but she's a good kid," Caesar reassured you, "I'll go and let you get your little Champion to bed. Or try to, anyway."

"Oh, she'll crash any minute, don't worry. Thanks again, see you later," you shook your head, glancing at the time, "Zellie, say bye."

Hazel interrupted herself to turn to Caesar, enthusiastically waving her small hand with a wide grin.

"Bye-bye, Auntie Caesar!"

"Bye-bye, Zells. Goodnight, guys."

When the door shut, you stepped over to Lighter and Hazel, making her giggle as you placed a wet kiss on her cheek.

"You had a good time, huh?" you laughed while Lighter wrapped the arm he wasn't using to hold her around your shoulder.

"Mhmm, it was so fun! And look!" she rummaged in her treats bag for a moment before pulling out what she was look for, a red lollipop clutched in her stubby fingers, "I got you your favourite, papa!"

He didn't think it was possible, but Lighter's heart grew yet another size at that; out on Halloween, enjoying her time with all her friends, and his daughter still thought to get him something instead of grabbing a chocolate for herself.

"Thank you, princess," he said, laughing a little as she chose something for herself from her bag and then started to unwrap the lollipop for him.

"Nuh uh, no sweets this late, it's already past your bedtime. Tomorrow." you asserted - you'd learned quickly that Hazel would not take 'different rules for adults' as an answer, and had been forced to match her eating schedule and bedtime in order to enforce them.

"Aww, pleeease? Just one?" she begged, sending you a pout and unbeatable puppy eyes. You sent her a lightly stern look, ready for a looping battle of 'please's and 'no's, but Lighter cut in before you could speak.

"Come on, babe, just one won't hurt, right? It's a special occasion."

You cocked an eyebrow at him as he jokingly copied her expression - between the matching pouts and her costume, it was almost like seeing double. He really was bad at saying no to her, which tracked, you figured, since he was also pretty bad at saying no to you when you asked for something. With Hazel, you'd had to get used to being to one to reject her less responsible whims, but when both of them looked at you like that? Well, you weren't exactly immune to those pleading eyes either.

"Okay, fine. One. But then we're going straight to bed," you acquiesced, strict expression melting as your daughter squealed excitedly and continued unwrapping the lollipop, placing it into Lighter's mouth before starting on her own.

"Yay, no brushing our teeth!"

"Straight to bed after we brush our teeth."