#and you know. stop fighting all the damn time

[bananayuyu]

just friends (1)

pairing: san x f reader

genre: smut, angst, a bit of fluff

word count: 10.4k

summary: could you really call this a friendship anymore? what was it really, when you spent nights curled up in the sheets with him, days fighting till your blood ran cold? this was more than anything you'd had with anyone; but what it was, you didn't know. you'd fight to keep it alive, for it held you together; but how much more of this could San take before he breaks?

warnings: MDNI, smut, blurred lines around consent, non-negotiated stuff, face slapping, choking, unprotected sex, rough sex, oral (f receiving), masturbation

a/n: should I write more for them? I'm kinda invested now, and I have thoughts. lmk <33

read it on ao3

Soft, hazy light floated in through the window, the slowly falling snow coating the sky and buildings outside. Downtown the streets were empty, only a handful of cars driving their way through the grey streets, not a face or head to be found anywhere in the cold, dry air.

In the short few moments of waking you were completely disoriented, used to the bright hot sun waking you sharply in the early afternoon, your morning. The gentle light reminded you of night, of those long summer days when you tucked into bed just as the sun was rising. It was a comforting light, but one that made you sleepy, and the air was colder than it should have been in the desert, this late January day.

You closed your eyes, pushing back under the covers, shifting over to San's side of the bed and wiggling your way under his arm. A groan followed; he hated being bothered when he was trying to get his all important rest, and you knew that, but the air was too damn cold in his room, and you couldn't stand it.

"Baby," he whispered, moving his head to kiss you on the cheek, before gently trying to extract your limbs from his body. You whined; the loss of contact made you shiver, and your naked body felt exposed even under his thick comforter, your feet so cold you were sure you could barely feel them. "Don't do that," he sighed, but you whined again, wrapping yourself around him a second time. "Baby, seriously-" he was cut off by you climbing over him, legs straddling his hips as you rested your head next to his on his pillow.

"It's cold," you sniffled, making it almost sound like you were crying, and fuck did that do things to him, things he couldn't explain. Already he could feel his cock twitch; your naked body wrapped around his, plush thighs pushing down on the sides of his hips and abdomen, your hot breath on his ear. It couldn't have been more than a few hours ago since you were in this exact position, screaming and crying his name as you came undone, and he couldn't stop replaying it, especially as you wiggled around on top of him, your thigh crazing his cock more than once and only adding to his arousal.

"Baby, I need sleep," he chided, trying to do what he knew he should, trying to be responsible. But he could never be responsible when it came to you; that was the problem. You drove him insane, had him wrapped around you so tightly, it would take the strength of a thousand men to pull him free.

"But I'm cold," you whined, snuggling more. You were still barely awake; last night had been a particularly crazy shift at the bar, and after pulling apart five fighting girls and dancing an extra two numbers to cover for your sick coworker, your body was grasping for every bit of rest it could find.

"You're pissing me off," he grunted below you, hands holding your hips firmly in place so you'd stop moving, stop making his body react in ways he so badly wished he could control.

"Ow," you dramatically whined, pretending those hands gripping into you felt anything but delicious and tantalizing. Heat was shooting through you now, his low, angry voice in your ear, and without even noticing your mind had already slipped into it's lustful, edgy space, one that it always seemed to drift to when he was around.

"So fucking dramatic," he sighed, still holding your hips hard, trying desperately to stop you. But your body had a mind of its own, and even if you'd wanted to stop it you wouldn't have been able. Your hips ground down onto his, as much as they could with him limiting you, and you felt the hard length of his cock under your right thigh, shifting yourself slightly to rub it up and down the length of your slit.

Immediately you both groan, the feeling electric. The room was still so dim, both of you still so sleepy, but your bodies woke themselves up; there was nothing either of you could do to stop it.

"Stop it," San growled in your ear, but you couldn't. It felt too fucking good when the tip of his now rock hard length hit your clit. His hands shifted up to your waist, trying what he could to limit you there. But it only freed up your hips more, and immediately you pushed them down even harder, nearly accidentally slipping him inside you.

"I said, stop," he spat, grabbing your hips again and lifting them off him slightly, making your movements awkward. You kept grinding, trying to find some friction somewhere, whining at the lack of it.

"Baby," he said again, trying to get your attention. "Are you not fucking listening??"

"Mmghfm," you mumbled beside him, pushing yourself up by your arms a bit to try to get leverage for your hips. You wanted to push them down again, hump the length of his cock till you couldn't move. But San had other plans, his anger boiling up so quickly he had little time to think. As your face rose above his he took his right hand from your hip, reaching up and slapping you hard, all breath leaving your lungs in shock. Grabbing your neck with the same hand, he moved you face to face with him, staring deep into your eyes and squeezing down ever so slightly.

"I said stop, did you not fucking hear me?!" he spat, an almost crazed expression on his face. You gulped; you'd never seen him quite like this, and he'd never done that before, that being physically striking you. You wondered for a moment in the haze of your head if it was okay, what was happening; but all the same you felt your pussy clench hard, the ghost of an orgasm washing over your core even if nothing was touching you down there.

"Are you trying to fucking piss me off?!" he continued, your blank expression giving him nothing. It was so unclear to him sometimes what the hell you wanted; him, not him, nothing at all, everything? He could only give you so much, and he knew deep down it was never enough for you. But sometimes you stared at him so blank, like now, as if you didn't have a care in the world. As if none of it mattered, not him, not life, nothing. His grip on your neck wouldn't cease; he couldn't find it in himself to let up, because last night he'd specifically asked to be left alone, desperately needing the rest that you'd been so selfishly stealing from him all month.

"Sannie, please-" you tried to grab at his hand on your neck, but it only made him squeeze harder, your head feeling light in an instant. "San, san-" you were pleading now, tears actually brimming in your eye, genuine panicked tears that did nothing to make him feel bad for you. They only shot right down to his cock, already hard and leaking, and he lost his head completely, giving in entirely to the feelings inside.

He flipped you over in an instant; the comforter was nearly thrown off the bed, still draped over only half of your joined bodies, the cold making goose bumps rise on your arms, your nipples peaked sharply. His hand was still on your throat, and now he held you down onto his pillow, lining himself up as fast as he could and slamming into you hard, making you call out in shock and pain and pleasure.

He'd had it with you, with always doing what you wanted, always waiting around for when you wanted it. He was taking what he wanted now; using you just for his own pleasure, in a way he knew he'd completely regret later, a way that was unfair, disrespectful, unkind. He knew it, even then as he slammed into you stroke after stroke, the lewd noises of skin slapping filling his room, but he couldn't stop himself. He felt too good, too powerful. He felt like he was taking something that was his to take, that he'd been holding back from for an eternity. He was surprised he'd managed to wait this long.

And how was he supposed to hate himself for doing this when the look on your face screamed pure bliss? You were so wet, your cunt flushed and ready for him, and even though your moans sounded twinged with fear, he knew you were fucking loving this. He was hitting your cervix repeatedly, and your legs were shaking uncontrollably as you came, the feeling barely reaching your head with the lack of oxygen. You body had never felt better; writhing and struggling against him was getting you nowhere, of course, but you'd always seemed to fall easily into fighting with him. You'd never done it in this way, so physically, but it felt right all the same.

You came two times in quick succession; as he flipped you over he saw a wet patch on his sheets, a dark chuckle exiting his mouth. He shoved your face down into his pillow, pulling your ass up towards him. The bun you'd put your hair in last night hung slightly to the side, messed up by your night of sleep, smalls strands escaping and hanging messily around your neck and cheeks. He grabbed onto it, fingers lacing through your hair as he slammed back into you again, your moans even more desperate and pathetic as you tried to make sense of it all.

It only took a few hard strokes for you to come again, the angle so deep you felt like you were being ripped open from inside. Trembling and spasming around him, San felt fucking amazing, dropping your head to place both hands on your hips and fucking you harder than he ever had, his head thrown back in disbelief and pleasure.

He came hard, the feeling shuddering through him, the muscles of his stomach clenching hard. There were tears and snot covering your face, now cum dripping out of your cunt as he pulled out, letting your body slump hard against the bed. He quickly pulled the covers over you both, collapsing beside you, your bodies sticky with sweat and already shivering. But despite the frigid air, the sex had taken it out of you; you both fell into a deep slumber within minutes.

When you woke again, it was to San's hand running through your hair.

"Hey, it's 4:30," he whispered, but there was urgency to his tone, because he knew just how bad this was.

It took you a moment to wake up, yawning and stretching in the warmth of his bed, stickiness still clinging to your skin. "What do you mean, 4:30?" you asked, the light in the room even dimmer than it was the last time you woke.

"4:30pm," he sighed, holding his phone screen to you.

"Fuck, fuck," you muttered, jumping up, nearly sprinting to his bathroom to relieve your screaming bladder. You were supposed to be to work in fifteen minutes, which you knew was not going to happen; still, you were determined not to be too late. You could text your boss any number of excuses, and were sure she'd forgive you. You were one of her more reliable employees, and she'd let this shit slide with you before. But you'd tried not to make a habit of it, even if sometimes you got caught up in the things in life that really made your heart happy. Your art, your friends, the boy you were fucking. Your work was chaotic; never the same day to day, and the rest of your life had to follow suit. It was just a part of this work, this life you'd chosen for yourself. You wouldn't give it up for anything.

With a quick swipe of a damp towel you washed your crotch, wiping free as much of the remnants of your frenzied fuck earlier as you could. You didn't have time to think of it now, frantically pulling out your hair tie and brushing your hair with your fingers, splashing water in your face to freshen up. You'd have to slap on some makeup at work today, which should be fine if everyone else showed up for their shifts on time. There was always some performer or server running in late, always someone in the dressing room begging to borrow makeup or bobby pins or hair spray. You tried not to let that be you, but shit happened. For some god forsaken reason you'd slept in so late, and it pissed you off even if you tried to not care.

Busting out of the bathroom you ran over to your bag, flipping through to check that you still had your makeup, wallet, keys. You grabbed for the clothes you had set out for yourself yesterday, slipping on the loose sweats and one of San's hoodies, not even bothering with a bra or underwear. You hoped the clothes would stop your shivering, but the room was shockingly cold still, and seemed only to be getting colder.

"Do you have any long socks I can borrow?" you asked San, picking up your head and finally actually looking at him, his face a confusing mixture of concerned and distant. He reached into his dresser and tossed you some, black and thick and definitely too big. But you'd need them today for your short walk, if the temperature inside was any indication. You snatched your phone off his bedside table now, pulling up the chat with your boss, shooting off a quick and uninspired text. I'm running a few minutes late today, I needed some extra rest after last night.

No problem, I'm sure everyone's running late cause of the snow. See you soon, she responded.

"Snow..?" you asked to the room, almost forgetting where you were.

"Yeah," San sighed, staring past you out the window, his 10th floor apartment giving a stunning view of the frigid city outside.

"Fuck," you muttered, shaking your head. You were planning on walking the only five blocks to the bar, like you always did. It never saved any time to get an uber or take the subway.

"Do you have to go?" he asked.

"Um, of course," you replied, looking in his direction with furrowed brows.

"The weather is awful, can't you just stay home for a night? Do they really need you...?" he drifted off, running a hand through his hair and sighing hard.

It was he, now, who must have wanted to piss you off.

"Just cause I don't work a 9 to 5, 100k salaried job, doesn't mean I'm not important at work," you snapped, moving to your bag again to put your phone inside, zipping the top closed.

"I didn't say-"

"I know, but I know what you're thinking. But the thing is, on days with shitty weather more people come into the bars and clubs and shit. So I'm very much needed tonight. Especially with Tina still sick. I have to go," you bit out, a deep sigh of your own escaping you.

"You're gonna freeze out there," he mumbled, eyes tracing the shape of you.

"I'll be fine," you sighed, shaking your head, but you feared it yourself. It was only five blocks, but you had no coat with you, no gloves or hat or scarf. And your trusty sneakers might not fare so well in this weather; you'd never tried wearing them in snow, because it hadn't snowed on a day you worked in years.

"I-" San started, hands resting on his hips. You noticed now, finally, as you set your packed bag by the door to his living room, that he was still naked.

"You're gonna freeze in here if you don't put on some clothes," you said, looking at him confused.

"Y/n, we need to talk," he sighed, turning around to face you head on, his beautiful body lit in shadows by the faint light of the room.

"That sounds serious," you joked, looking down to your bag again. "But I gotta go, I'm sorry." You grabbed it, slipping it over your shoulder, turning towards his bedroom door to open it.

"No, please, baby, I need say this now," he replied, walking behind you to hold the door closed, caging you in with his body.

"San, what?" you huffed, frustration bubbling in your throat.

"Was what just happened, you know, okay?" He stumbled over his words slightly, hot breath coming out of his mouth and fanning past your ear.

"Yes? What- why are you asking me that?" you replied, turning around to face him with a bewildered look.

"I just, I fucking slapped you and chocked you and- we've never talked about it, I-"

"It was fine," you muttered, turning yourself around again to exit.

"No, don't give me that," he responded, hand back on the door to keep you from leaving.

"Stop, let me go," you spat, trying to push against him.

"Y/n," he growled, his own frustration clear in his tone.

"I'm gonna be late," you replied, still not looking at him.

"It was fine?? Fine?? That's what you're fucking saying to me?!" he nearly yelled, smacking his hand against the door harder than he intended. You jumped, a visceral reaction; you bumped right into the hard wall of his body, nearly causing him to fall.

"Will you stop acting like a fucking man?!" you yelled back, stepping away from him and the door, catching your balance against the wall a few feet away.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he sighed, shaking his head, looking at you with upturned eyebrows.

"Get a hold of yourself," you said, softer, looking him up and down. "And put on some damn clothes, it's freezing."

You stayed put as he did, pulling on an outfit almost exactly matching yours, sweats and a hoodie. The air was tense between you now, not that it hadn't been almost the entire time you'd known him. But you'd never seen him lose control of his composure quite like this. You weren't scared, because with him you couldn't be; you were pretty sure you'd never be truly mad at him, even if he treated you in ways that made him deserve it. But he really never did, that's why you trusted him; you didn't know it on the surface, nor even three of four layers down, but buried deep within the depths of yourself there was a part of you that had marked him as safe, as good.

If you'd ever take the time to sit down and talk to that part, maybe you'd understand yourself better, the changes in you the past year. But instead you continued to throw yourself into your creative work, as you always did, cause it always worked for you before.

"How are you not shivering in here?" you finally asked, biting at a hangnail on your middle finger. Your whole interaction with him had left you a shaking mess, and you felt like you couldn't move from your spot, eyes glued to him and his every movement.

"I don't run cold, like you," he responded, moving to his closet without looking at you. Out of it he pulled a large navy blue jacket you'd never seen; a true winter coat, you realized. It was long enough to probably reach down to your ankles if you wore it, puffy and thick, clearly very warm. He then reached into a shelf in the closet, pulling down a pair of gloves and a black beanie, turning around to walk back to you.

"Come here, let me put these on you," he said, throwing the jacket and gloves on his bed, pulling the beanie over your messy hair.

"I can do it," you grumbled quietly, reaching for he gloves, but he grabbed the jacket, holding it out for you to slip into. Then he squatted all the way to the floor in front of you, zipping up the coat from the bottom, careful at the top not to snag any of your hair in the zipper.

"Thanks," you said. It was flat, and so was your expression, but he knew he was doing the right thing. There was no way you would let him walk you to work; he'd tried convincing you of that many times, only causing argument after argument.

"Are you coming back here tonight?" he asked, standing back and crossing his arms, as you picked up your bag again and moved towards his door.

"No, I'm going and staying at Tina's, we've got so much editing to do," you responded, finally opening the door and stepping into his living room; he followed you quickly, catching up to you.

"Isn't she sick?" he asked.

"Yeah, but we've got to get our current manuscript turned in by Tuesday morning. We have no choice," you answered, walking towards his front door.

"Wait, just give me a minute," he said as you reach for the door knob, hand outstretched in his comically big gloves.

"San-"

"I hate when you don't answer me straight," he says, interrupting you.

"Huh?" you ask, giving him a look of genuine confusion.

"Are you mad at me because of what I did? How rough I was?"

"Do I look mad?" you responded, head turning to the side.

"I hate when you do that," he sighs, shaking his head.

"Do what?" you snap, frustration boiling up again.

"Avoid my questions, give me vague answers," he says, hands on hips.

"I'm running late for work, god, I'm in a fucking rush! Why the fuck is that hard to understand?!" you scream, hand back on his doorknob in an instant.

"That's not why you're avoiding my questions, and you fucking know it," he replies, walking over to his kitchen. Out of his pantry he grabs chocolate coconut granola bar, your favorite flavor, stalking back to you as you open the door.

"Take this," he says, holding it out to you as you face him, your body halfway into the hall.

"They have food where I work, you know," you drawl, a scowl on your face.

"Not food that you like," he sighs, putting the bar in your pocket himself.

As he stands back up in front of you his face is hard, eyes unreadable and shiny, his hair sticking up lopsided. His hoodie is dwarfing his wide frame, his sweats hanging loose on the lower half of his legs. He looks uncertain, maybe almost scared, nothing like the sharp, glasses-wearing, utterly confident man who'd walked into your bar a year ago, his suit fitted and smooth and his smile easy.

"What if this isn't enough for me?" he said, his hands coming to rest in his pockets.

"Sannie..." trailed off, the urgency of needing to leave still tugging at you.

"I hate when it's like this," he says, sighing.

"Me too," you squeak, tears threatening to come. Your period must be due to arrive any minute, if you're crying that fucking easily. He walks forward, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead and hugging you tight, before turning you around and beckoning you forward, the rest of your day ahead of you.

"Hey girl, you good?" Sasha asked as you passed by the dressing room, nearly running to put your bag in your locker.

"Yeah, one sec!" you called to her, clumsily undoing your lock, shoving your bag inside. You ripped off your giant puffy coat, hanging it on the hook, desperately flinging off the rest of your clothes and grabbing your dressing gown. Then you unzipped your bag, grabbing your makeup, and rushed back to the dressing room out of breath.

"Did anyone call out?" you asked as soon as your reentered, sitting down next to your favorite coworker, her wig and eye makeup already set.

"No, everyone else is already here, surprisingly," she drawled, leaning closer to the mirror to start her lip liner. "Why are you late, miss thing?"

"I slept till like 4:30, accidentally," you replied, hastily zipping open your makeup bag and grabbing what you'd need for the night. You were covering Tina's number first, a circus inspired routine to Britney Spear's song, and your costume would do most of the work for you. All you needed was lashes, some bright lipstick, and powder, so that the floodlights didn't wash you out completely.

"That's not like you," Sasha said, switching to the other side of her lips, her hand working quickly and methodically to create the perfect line.

"Yeah, I don't know," you replied, with a deep sigh. You couldn't find your lash glue anywhere, and it was stressing you out more than it should have, seeing as there were probably hundreds of tubes of it in the very room in which you sat.

"You okay?" she asked, clicking open her lipstick and screwing it up.

"Just stressed, I hate being late," you said, finally finding the glue at the bottom corner of your bag.

"Julie moved Tina's number, so you're not on until after Jax," she replied, turning her head in every direction to check her finished face.

"Oh, that's nice," you said, your normal tone slipping into flatness again, as you shakily put glue onto the lashes you'd use for tonight.

"Girl, seriously, you good?" Sasha asked, turning to face you entirely.

"I think so," you replied, never able to keep things from her.

"Is it that man you're seeing?" she asked, making you roll your eyes and audibly scoff, sighing deeply.

"How fucking typical of me," you responded, shaking your head.

"What did he do?" she asked you, chin coming to rest on her hand.

"Nothing, just, he's the reason I'm late, that I overslept," you said, and suddenly the memory of everything that had happened just hours before wouldn't leave you. It especially wouldn't leave your body, the memory of your limbs and muscles of your core replaying it for you, as if that was something you needed right now.

"Well, well, well, I hope the sex is good still, at least," Sasha replied, with a brief chuckle. "It's still that same guy, right, the businessman?"

"He's in tech, Sash," you said, leaning forward yourself to place your lashes carefully.

"Oh, boo, they all look the same. Coming in here in those ridiculous suits. I always wonder how much they cost, probably more than my entire wardrobe," she laughed, shaking her head.

"I know, it's ridiculous," you sighed, but just then a bit of guilt ran through you as you thought of San's apartment, and of the trip you took to wine country in the fall, of all the fancy outings and luxuries you've been able to experience on his dime.

"He isn't hurting you or anything, is he honey? I know you said you fight a lot, but it hasn't turned physical, right?" she asked now, and immediately you could tell she read something was off in your last response. She really had a way of doing that, not just with you but with everyone, and it could feel really damn exposing.

"No, no, nothing like that. Things were just weird earlier," you sighed, not wanting to elaborate. "We bicker a lot but like, in a fun way. Earlier it was, I don't know, just fucking weird. I don't know why it's stressing me out, we're just friends."

"Friendships can be the messiest of all relationships, don't you think?" Sasha responded, and you looked over to her, only one lash on. She was just a few years older than you, but sometimes you felt like she was your fairy godmother, or a beautiful genie who'd escaped into the world. She was too wise for you; in comparison to her you were a little larvae, still barely developed at all. "You tell me if anything really bad happens, okay hon? I can't have anyone mistreating you," she said, standing from her stool and wrapping her dress around herself, tying the tassels on the side.

"You know I would, I couldn't keep it from you if I tried," you said, leaning towards the mirror to do your other lash.

"Okay, good. I'll have to leave you soon, I think," she replied, sighing and leaning down to place an air kiss by your cheek.

"Okay, break a leg," you responded, grabbing her hand and giving it a squeeze.

"Sasha, Bibi is almost done!" comes a call from down the hall, and soon Ilya, the stage manager, was sticking his head through the open door, beckoning her.

"Yes, darling, I'm coming," she said, sauntering out of the room, leaving you alone in the tiny room, with nothing but your reflection for company.

Tina's number went well, just as it had last night; it was more dance focused than any of your recent acts, but you enjoyed the opportunity to move your body more. It had been dance, first, that attracted you to the stage, and though you'd found so many other avenues to express yourself creatively over the years, you missed it. You wrote so much now; songs for others, for yourself, and of course the musical you and Tina had been slaving over for six months, desperately hoping that this could be the thing to finally break you into the world of show business.

The walk to Tina's apartment was easy, too, just as your walk earlier had been. The streets were cold and the snow was still falling, but the breeze was blowing everything sideways, and if you stuck to the right side of the buildings you barely felt it at all. It was now almost one in the morning, the downtown streets still empty, but the restaurants and bars were bustling with activity. You stalked up to Tina's building, a huge, grey, nondescript mass of concrete, and buzzed your way up. Her key sat on your chain right next to yours; a bright green sticker stuck to it so you could tell them apart.

When you entered she was laying flat on the couch, her laptop perched in front of her face, the only light in the room.

"Hey," she mumbled when she saw you, your makeup still on, hair in a rough bun again, San's jacket dwarfing you entirely.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" you asked, taking the two steps it took to reach her. The place was tiny, and she shared it with her girlfriend Maya, who had the beginnings of what might be a hoarding habit. There wasn't an inch of free space, save for some of the floor. Even that had stacks of books on it, boxes of half finished art projects, and more plants than one could count.

"Fucking terrible," she muttered, and you went to turn on the one lamp by their tiny kitchen so you could get a good look at her.

"Oh gosh, you look miserable," you said as you sat down next to her, her cheeks flushed so red, her eyes glossy with past tears.

"I keep throwing up," she said, staring over at the glass of water on the coffee table beside her. "I can barely keep down water."

"You said you just had a little cold," you scolded, placing your hand on her forehead, her skin fiery under your palm.

"I didn't want y'all to worry," she said, voice small.

"Is Maya sick too?" you asked.

"Yeah, but not quite as bad as me. She hasn't puked yet," Tina replied.

"You definitely have a fever, it feels bad," you said, taking your hand to feel her neck and chest too. "You should go to urgent care if you can't keep anything down."

"You know I'm not gonna fucking do that unless I'm literally dying," she replied, eyeing you.

"I know it's expensive, but it's your health, Titi," you said.

"I'm not going," she said, her words final.

"Have you been taking Tylenol? Or Ibuprofen? Drinking fluids, eating well, resting?" you asked.

"I'm trying. We ran outta Tylenol earlier today."

"I'll go get you some more," you sighed, opening your phone. "The Walgreens at the corner just closed, shit. It says they open at 6am tomorrow, I'll go get you some as soon as I wake up."

"Thank you honey," she responded, tears welling in her eyes.

"You gonna be okay?" you asked, looking down at her.

"Yeah, yeah, I just need to get some sleep. Maya was sleeping so soundly, I didn't wanna wake her. That's why I came out here. I'll go though, I need the rest," she replied, closing her laptop and placing on the coffee table, sitting herself up. Her face scrunched up in pain, her right hand rubbing at her left shoulder, and you knew she was feeling the aches of a fever.

"I'm worried about you, has it been this bad since Thursday?" you asked as she stood, shakily.

"I'm fine, it's only been the last two days. Don't waste your energy worrying, it'll be okay," she said, crossing the room towards her bedroom. "Goodnight," she said as she turned her head to you, before carefully opening the door knob to avoid any creaking.

"Feel better," you said, and she nodded at you, disappearing into the other room.

"Hey, you okay?" your twin answered, dozens of voices muffled and choppy coming through in the background.

"Yeah, sorry, I know you're at work, do you have like two minutes?" you responded, sighing in the darkness of Tina's living room. It was now almost two a.m., but you were pretty sure Micah was working nights this weekend, and you'd be able to catch her. Thankfully, you were right.

"I'm supposed to go take a break soon anyway, so yeah, lemme get out of here," she responded, the sounds of the hospital echoing and changing as she began walking down the hall to the break room.

"Okay," you said, waiting for the noice to die down. Then, once it did, "It's my friend Tina, she's really sick and I just don't know how serious it is. She said she hasn't been able to keep any food down all day, and she's been sick since Thursday."

"She got the flu?" your sister asked through the phone.

"I don't know, it's something. She had a bad fever when I got home, she just went to bed. She looked so bad though, and was hobbling around like an old lady. She was in so much pain."

"How bad's her fever?" she asked you.

"I don't know, we didn't test it," you sighed, knowing what was coming.

"Y/n...."

"I know, sorry, it was dumb for me to even call. I just wasn't sure what to do, it freaked me out..."

The line hung quiet for a moment, but you could hear her breathing, and it sounded almost labored.

"Does she have a thermometer?" she asked, and you stumbled up to the bathroom, combing through their drawers as quietly as you could.

"It doesn't look like it," you sighed, turning off the light as you exited.

"Well go get one tomorrow, and take her temp, and if it's ever 103 or above, take her to urgent care. Or if she can't keep down food again for another day. Try to get fluids in her, if you can. Water, broth, gatorade, tea, whatever she'll take. Of course do Tylenol, or Ibuprofen, or both if she needs it. If her fever isn't too bad, she should be okay, she just needs to rest," she said, the string of sentences coming out fast in a single breath.

"Okay, thank you," you answered her, sighing again. "Don't let me keep you, I know you're busy," you added, not wanting to add any more irritation to her day if you already had. You sometimes found it hard to know what exactly it was about you that irked her, but you always knew there was something. Even if she never said it, even if she always said she loved you, you felt the deep simmer of some other feeling coming from her, ever since you left home. Maybe it was the fact that you called so infrequently now, having done so since you moved for college. When you did call it was almost always something like this. But you couldn't help it; she was the only person you felt sure would always answer you, no matter what was going on between you two. Because that's how she was, that's how she'd always been. She was way more dependable than you, and everyone in your life had shoved that down your throat since you could remember.

"It's okay, tonight's not too crazy thankfully," she responded, her tone neutral. "I've been meaning to call you cause there's something I want to discuss, but I don't think we have the time right now. And I'm assuming you want to get to bed soon," she finished.

"Uh, yeah, I guess I should," you replied.

"I'll call you tomorrow. Well, Monday probably, I gotta catch up on sleep," she said.

"Yeah that's fine, I'll probably just be at home writing," you answered her, sucking in a breath.

"Okay, call me again if your friend gets worse. Or honestly, just take her to urgent care if it seems that bad. Don't chance it with health stuff," she replied, sounding more like your mother than someone your exact same age.

"Okay, I will. Thank you. Love you," you signed off.

"Love you too," she said, and you pulled your phone from your ear, ending the call.

You fell asleep fast and deep on Tina and Maya's couch; you were so used to it by now, over here at least once or twice every week, and the low hum of the refrigerator just feet from you had become a comforting source of consistent noice, drowning out the occasional chaos that accompanied this part of town. You resolved to get medicine for your friends tomorrow, try to make them some food, and then head home to work on the manuscript yourself. Tina was obviously in no place to help you, and if you holed up in your room and really focused, you should be able to finish the editing, no problem. Though you felt uneasy, you fell asleep fast, wrapped up in all three blankets you found draped over the back of the couch.

Early in the morning you were woken by the bang of a door; Tina was running out of her room, stumbling to the bathroom, doubled over the toilet and retching up every little bit of water she'd managed to get down the previous night. The room was so dark; their apartment only had one small window in the kitchen, and they liked to cover it in a little curtain to black out the room at night. Your head ached from the sounds, your body wracked with exhaustion. You grabbed your phone from the table beside you to check the time, squinting painfully at your screen, reading 6:59. It had been a long, long time since you'd been up at this hour, and every time it happened now your body screamed at you. You had your routine down perfectly; asleep by four or five in the morning, awake by noon or one in the afternoon. Last night you'd had little to do, without Tina to keep you awake, so you'd fallen asleep a bit earlier than usual. But still, that had only been a few hours ago. And you were someone who needed eight or nine hours a night, it was non negotiable.

Another painful wretch came from the bathroom; you tried to sit yourself up, your limbs feeling like lead. "Tina, is that you?" you called out, and got a groan in response, and then another empty, painful sounding sound.

"You okay?" you asked, stumbling over in her direction, almost no light to help guide your way.

"I don't know," she murmured, her voice thin and weak, her entire upper body draped over the seat of the toilet.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry," you said, rubbing her back with your hand, kneeling down next to her.

"You shouldn't be here, I'm gonna get you sick," she squeaked, another heave making her body jerk.

"Don't think about that Titi, I'm here to help you. You're both sick, that fucking sucks," you said, hand still moving over the thin material of her shirt.

Just then you heard a door creak open again, followed by soft footsteps and a deep yawn.

"What's going on?" Maya asked as she entered the bathroom too, the three of you now taking up nearly all of the available space.

"She's still puking," you said, looking up at her, her curly hair flying in every direction, illuminated by their tiny night light.

"Fuck, babe, maybe you should go to the hospital," she said, a hand rubbing over her cheek.

"I don't wanna," Tina squeaked again, breathing slow and steady next to you, her grip on the toilet still severe.

"Tina," Maya said, but she knew as well as you there was no convincing her.

"I'm feeling a little better, I think the wave of nausea has passed," she said beside you, her voice sounding a little stronger.

"How are you doing?" you asked Maya, turning to face her more.

"I actually feel okay, just tired. I haven't gotten this puking at all, for some reason," she said, yawning again. "But I'm fucking wrecked, I feel like I could sleep another eight hours," she said, moving around you to reach down to her girlfriend.

"You should, y'all need rest," you said, giving them space. "I'll go get you guys some more meds and stuff, you both try to get more sleep."

"You don't have to, I know you must be exhausted," she responded, her kind eyes coming up to meet yours.

"Yeah, but I'm not sick like y'all. I'll be fine," you said, stepping out of the bathroom as Tina finally stood, Maya helping her walk to the sink.

"I need to brush my teeth," Tina mumbled, making a disgusted face as the taste of her own mouth, quickly pulling out her toothbrush. In another few moments you helped them both to their room, again feeling over your friend's forehead to see how she was faring. It felt better, a bit, but still warm. But you were so exhausted, your mind still nowhere to be found, and it was hard to feel anything. You left their room, closing the door carefully, and made your way back to the couch. You opened the tiny window in the kitchen; the light was soft, just like yesterday, bits of snow still falling through the sky. Their apartment was on the third floor, and closer to the ground you could see the snow collecting in the gutters, on the dead patches of grass, on the tops of the awnings lining the street.

You tried to pull on your shoes, zip up your coat, get yourself ready to face the air. But with the weather and your lack of sleep you just couldn't muster the courage, even as you knew your close friend was suffering so badly, and wouldn't accept any help unless you all but shoved it down her throat. The idea sprung in your mind, and you pushed it away at first; no way should you ask him for such a big favor, even if you could be pretty sure he was awake. Even if he was the only person you knew in this city who was guaranteed to be awake right now. You'd left his apartment in such a strange place only fifteen hours ago, and since then ignored the one text he'd sent. Please be careful, it's probably icy out there.

You hadn't meant to ignore him, but you were always off your phone during work. He knew that. And when you'd arrived here last night, things had been hectic. Tina was sick, and you were exhausted. Surely he'd understand? Of course he would. He always did. And as you shivered in your sweats and hoodie, in his hoodie, you thought, fuck it.

The call rang and rang, and when he didn't answer you quickly ended it, smacking your phone onto the stack of books beside you. Something like anger lanced through you, followed by hot, sickly shame, bubbling up from the pit of your stomach and making you feel nauseous. You didn't know why you'd expected him to answer, and now you knew you'd have to be a fucking big girl and go get the damn medicine yourself. You felt ridiculous for having called him; even more so for feeling angry at him not picking up. He didn't owe you anything, especially after last night, and besides, you always went days without seeing him or talking to him, anyway. Tears of frustration threatened to come, and you made a mental note to pick up some pads at the store too. You'd definitely be needing those soon.

But as you stood you saw your phone lighting up again; he was calling back, only a minute later, and you snatched it up to your ear after hitting answer.

"Hey," you said, voice groggy and whiny coming through the phone.

"You okay?" he asked, his own voice low and grumbly.

"Yeah, sorry, I don't want to bug you, but Tina is like really sick and she's run out of all her Tylenol and stuff, and I know the Walgreens that's just down the corner at 4th should have it, I just don't know if I can make it down there right now. I'm fucking dead." The words spilled out of you, a deluge of exhaustion and worry and desperation.

"You want me to go get some for you?" he asked, sighing in clear annoyance, even if he was trying to cover it up.

"Maybe," you answered, an almost whine, pushing the palm of your hand into your right eye socket, trying to alleviate some of the pain you felt there.

"What else do you need?" he asked, and you heard the beep of his tea kettle through the phone.

"Uh, a thermometer, if they have it, and something for her stomach too maybe, cause she keeps throwing up. And she needs fluids, so like gatorade, or something, whatever they have," you answer, trying desperately to remember every little thing your sister had told you last night.

"Okay, I can be there in probably like twenty minutes, that okay?" he asked.

"Okay," you sighed through he phone, a tiny bit of relief hitting your system.

"No thank you?" he asked, chuckling, but it stabbed right through your heart.

"San-" you started, taking a deep breath. You weren't going to let something so little trip you over the edge into arguing. "Yes, sorry, thank you. I really appreciate it. I'm just really worried about Ti, but she won't go to urgent care you know, cause she doesn't have insurance, and I'm just so out of it, and it's snowing-"

"Baby, I know. I'll be there soon," he said, cutting you off.

"Sorry," you said, taking in a breath to keep yourself from rambling again.

"See you soon," he said, before ending the call, your phone still stuck to your ear when he did.

When he arrived it was with more than you had requested. A huge bottle of Tylenol, Ibuprofen, Aleve and Motrin were in the bag, along with anti-nausea meds, gatorade, vitamin water, saltines, two different kinds of thermometers, and some plain applesauce. You sat in a stunned silence looking at it all, still barely awake on the couch. After letting him in you'd collapsed back on it, nearly passing out as he rubbed soft circles on the small of your back. You didn't know how much time passed; but then Maya had woken, opening the door, and the two of you shot apart quickly, like two opposing ends of a magnet.

She was eternally grateful for the care package he'd brought, and assured you that she was feeling much better, and could take care of Tina just fine. She beckoned you to leave; she too was worried you had already caught something from them, and told you to go home and rest, get some more sleep, and again thanked you for coming over. As you and San left she was brewing some coffee, and the familiar smell of your friends' apartment was back to normal, making it easier for you to leave.

As you walked the hall to the elevator you noticed his gaze; taking in the dirty carpet, and the bullet hole in the side of the mirror. Yes, you'd had to tell him, someone did shoot their gun into the side of the elevator on New Year's. He tried to keep his face neutral, but you could see the shock and worry and confusion written all over it, just in the tiny twitches of his eyebrows and crinkles by his eyes. Again, it almost made you feel sick; you'd seen the look he'd given your friend's living room when he'd first walked in, staring from wall to wall as if he couldn't believe how small it was. Their whole place was probably the size of his bedroom alone; he was rich, how rich you didn't know, but he had a giant apartment and nice clothes, friends with big houses and not a care in the world about money.

That was not you, nor your friends. You weren't broke by any means, and certainly knew many people who had it worse. But you all skated by with just slightly more than you needed, trying to save the little extra that you did have. You never knew if you were a novelty to San, because of it; maybe he'd never really known a girl like you, who didn't have all that he had, who got by with just enough and the support of her community, not a huge paycheck or rich parents to fall back on. And maybe if you were honest with yourself, he was the novelty, to you. You'd never known anyone like him, growing up in a town so small it had only one high school. Maybe you were using him for the awe of it all, the chance to see how the other half lived, see into this life everyone seemingly dreamed about. It certainly wasn't what you wanted, but you couldn't deny there were pros. It just made something in you feel so strange, that he obviously felt uncomfortable in that apartment building you'd just exited, the building you felt more at home in than almost anywhere else.

"Woah, hey," he said, as you tripped hard over a crack in the sidewalk, running into him and nearly pitching forward right onto your face. He grabbed you, helping you stand up, and stopped in his tracks, turning towards you.

"Sorry, I'm so fucking exhausted. I need sleep," you said, bags under your eyes proving your point, the gentle snow still falling around you.

"Come to mine, it's closer," he said, and your eyes blinked at him, wide and unsure. His place was technically closer, you thought, from the exact intersection you stood at. Closer by one block. Was this an excuse, a way of trying to get more time with you? You couldn't be sure, staring up at his chin, stubble peaking through.

"Really?" you asked, eyes big and pleading. When he nodded, you continued. "Will you carry me?"

"On my back I will," he said, sighing and shaking his head, almost regretting what he'd just said.

As he walked the blocks to his building the air was surprisingly cold, the two of you clinging to each other for any amount of warmth you could find. You were silent; your breaths were visible in the air, the snow fall less but the temperature more severe it seemed, today. Your head bobbed against his shoulder, arms wrapped round him tightly, and with your legs you could feel the strength of his lungs, expanding his ribcage in and out, in and out, the strength of his body never ceasing to amaze you.

"Will you put me to sleep, when we get home?" you said in his ear, and it might have sounded perfectly innocent to anyone passing by. But San knew what you meant by that, a chuckle escaping him.

"Sure, dear," he responded, and you chuckled too, high-pitched, his grip on your legs tightening. He was supposed to be mad at you, or at least, pressing you to talk to him again about what had happened. He rationalized that it wasn't the right time; you truly did need more sleep, and maybe once you woke rested this afternoon, he could start that conversation. Maybe he'd even have that other conversation with you, the one he knew should have happened a full ten months ago. But as he thought about those serious exchanges he couldn't get the image of what he was about to do to you out of his mind, and even in the frigid air he felt a tightening in his pants, hoping his arousal wasn't too fucking obvious to anyone walking by.

You didn't even notice the freudian slip you'd had, and neither really had he, for it happened so often between you two nowadays. Home. When we get home. That place was a home to you, just like Tina's and Maya's, just like your own little room. San had taken notice when it first started happening, the little mentions making his heart flutter and jump, his gaze soften as he looked at you. You'd never balked afterwards, never gave any indication that you hadn't meant to say things you said.

Home. We. I'd love to. Don't stop. I need you. I want you. Please, Sannie, please.

In his mind, it was all falling into place; he'd played the long game, dated the girl who said we're just friends, and made it a year. She loved him, she obviously did, but she wasn't one who would say something like that so easily. And he was okay with that; he could wait, this last year had proved it. You were slipping now, though; your hard exterior was melting away, the distance you kept between you two shrinking and shrinking more. The bickering had only increased with that, but what couple didn't fight? He was obsessed, he had known that just a month in with you, and there was nothing in the world that could get him to leave, even when his friends and brother mocked him for sticking with you without a label. You're being played, bro. He'd heard it a million times. But they'd never known what it was to be buried inside you, what your skin smelled like, the sounds you made when you trembled and whined. They didn't know how magical you were on that stage, how the room lit up in wonder, how every pair of eyes turned to you and couldn't turn away. They'd never heard you talk about Rocky Horror, or your favorite manga, or all of the productions you'd been in since the age of five; they'd never watched you dance, heard you sing, read the beautiful poetry you'd whip up in minutes. They didn't understand how motivated you were, how brilliant, how utterly perfect for him.

And you had little idea about any of this, too; you were just twenty-three, just a girl in a big city, just someone too passionate about art to do anything else with your time. You didn't see it for yourself, that big successful future. But you kept trying. It didn't even feel like trying; it was just what you wanted, to perform for a crowd of people for work, to spend your free time wrestling your creative energy into stories and songs you actually liked. There wasn't any space for a partner, in all that. You'd told him that. But you'd also started spending the night after your hookups, started calling him for help sometimes. You went on a weekend trip, together. Just friends. It was getting harder to defend it anymore; but the thing was, none of your other friends pressed you. It was your business, your messy, immature business. They trusted you, with just about everything, because they could. You were a good friend, always there to help, always there to listen and soothe, to distract them when they needed it. None of them worried for a second that your thing with San was spinning recklessly out of control.

You were silent the rest of the way to San's place, taking in your surroundings through hooded eyes, your body slack against his. His building had an actual lobby, and he nodded to the man behind the counter, the man who recognized you without a second glance. Couches, tan with maroon pillows, surrounded a large low table, and behind it sat a coffee bar, a large bookshelf stocked with books and games, and the door to the gym. The elevator was sleek an unstained, not a scratch in sight; certainly no bullet holes. The carpet on his floor was short, black, and perfectly maintained, soft enough you could probably comfortably sleep on it. It was such a change, just five blocks south and three blocks west, this strange city you called home a mixture of literally everything.

It didn't take long when you got home for him to undress you; it was comfortable now that he'd run the heater for a bit, and though there was still a slight chill in the air, you didn't notice it with his hands all over you. His lips found yours, kissing you sweetly, gently, waiting for your body to open up to him. A swipe of his tongue made you moan, jaw falling slack, and he moved in to kiss you deeply, still gentle in his approach. He worked down to your neck, chest, and then nipples, sucking them softly, humming at the feeling. Your moans and whines were pathetic with sleepiness, your arms barely even skating through his hair or holding onto his shoulders. Stood in the comfortable air of his room you nearly fell back, San's arms coming around your back to help you down gently, laying you flat on his navy-blue comforter.

You spread your legs for him immediately; his kisses started at your knee, coming closer and closer to your aching core, his hands wrapped around your perfect thighs. This tongue found your slit, the taste sweet and intoxicating as always, and he swiped it up slowly, carefully brushing over your sensitive button and making you jerk and moan. Your thighs came up beside his head as he started working you, licking slow half circles over your clit, your back arching off his bed. You didn't understand; this had never felt good with anyone else, but when San went down on you your whole body gave in, and you had the quietest, sweetest orgasms, ones that always sent you into a perfect slumber. He continued his careful motion; it was just the thing that felt good to you, licking slightly over the hood of your sensitive spot, the stimulation not too much, but not too little either.

It took quite a few minutes, but soon he'd worked you up enough that your thighs started shaking, opening up now to push your center into his face, relishing the friction. Now he could slide his fingers in, put two inside your soaked cunt and curl them up and back, the two points of stimulation just what you needed. You started trembling almost immediately; it wasn't much longer till he felt the walls of your pussy clenching down on him, watched your stomach clench and release in ecstasy. You didn't come hard, certainly not as hard as you did last night. But it was long, your body riding out every bit of it, his fingers and tongue working you with perfect consistency. You shook and shook in front of him, moans weak and needy, your eyes closed and body already succumbing to sleep. He slowed his movements as you did, helping you ride out the last of it, then pulling himself out and off of you when you made that sound that meant enough.

You curled up on your side immediately, San scooping you up to place you more comfortably, tugging back his blanket. You were asleep before your head hit the pillow, before he tucked the comforter up to your chin and placed a kiss on your temple. You wouldn't remember any of this when you woke in a few hours, but you'd be damn thankful for the rest, your next few hours of sleep guaranteed to be deep.

And as San stood he couldn't think for a second about those serious, responsible conversations. They left his mind completely as he walked to his bathroom, turning on his shower. They were no where to be found as he wrapped a hand around his aching length, and finally gave himself some relief, some pleasure. All he could think about was the taste of you, the feeling of your thighs crushing his head, the huge ego boost he got every time he made you come like that. You'd let it slip several months ago that no one had ever come closer to doing what he'd done a hundred times; he felt like a fucking god now, each time your sweet tangy cunt was in his mouth, making him forget everything. He rubbed himself fast; he came hard, pent up and needy, frustration making his nervous system taught and sensitive. Cum coated the side of his hand and part of the wall in front of him, and he shuddered at just how intense it was; it was then that it all came crashing down, the conversations, the feelings, the way you'd talked to him last night. He finished washing his hair, his body; stepping out of the shower he felt shaky, satisfied, and totally unable to think straight.

He had to do it, he had to. Even if you'd try everything you could to reject the conversation. How could you not see how perfect he was, too?

[joelmillerisapunk]

MILLLLAAAAAA I have not known peace since reading this

First of all, the tension. The history. The forbidden desire just simmering under the surface, waiting to explode. Every single moment had me gripping my phone like it owed me money.

The fact that they had all this unresolved emotion and then bam—thrown into the most intimate scene imaginable??

This was SO intense, so raw, so emotional—and the way it all came back to them in the end??? Like, she wrote the script for him. She was always going to find her way back to him.

I am never recovering from this. EVER I am crying in the club, hiding in the bathroom, sobbing into my pillow. okay favorite parts timeeeee - and this is my live reaction so excuse every emotional rollercoaster I hit here....

-> WAHHHHHH FJSDKJSDKLJF already killing me goddamnit He closed it and took a moment before rereading the first page, with the name left blank. It could only be you. That was the only explanation for getting a script without the name of the author on it. And there was no way the scene he had just read, so familiar, so intimate, could be coincidental. Or could be written by anyone else. He grabbed his phone and sent a message to his agent, unable to contain his annoyance.that’s fucked up, Will*Will calling* -> OKAYY I SEE HOW IT IS YOU WANT ME TO CRY ALREADY HUH? “It’s… damn, Will, it’s our story, ok? Or a part of it, I don't know. Anyway I can’t play this. Can’t play me.”

-> WHAAAA I CANT DO THIS I CANT BUT I WILL IM SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP He didn’t know how Joel used to hold you firmly against the mattress, hands on your hips, lapping at your cunt to make you come again. Because he always wanted more, always wanted to give you more. He didn’t know that pushing his cock in you was the sweetest, most intense sensation he’d ever felt. Even now, years later, he never felt something like that again. Will didn't know any of that, had no idea how intense it had been. Because the only thing Joel told him was “you don’t bring her up. Ever.” -> she is so relatable omfg I would be doing the same You knew what he looked like, you watched all his movies. In need of his voice, his smile, his gestures, his laugh. In need of him. But seeing him for real- not through a screen but in the same room, not some character but Joel, the man you loved more than anyone else, the man you would still call “the love of your life” in your thoughts -, was breathtaking, almost surreal.  -> SOBBING EXCUSE ME SIR? WTF YOU DOING SHAKING HER OFF LIKE THAT NO SIR NO SIR So you approached him, without overthinking it, but as soon as he saw you he gave you a subtle but firm shake of his head. The message was crystal clear - he didn’t want to talk to you, didn’t even want you around. It stopped your hesitant steps in their tracks, and the shy smile you had the courage to build instantly disappeared, and your gaze fell to the floor. Trying to control your breathing, to fight back the tears you felt welling up.

-> my good goddddd im dying over here i am not okay sos help me He shook his head to think about something else and to resist the urge to take the script out of the drawer. Instead, he took a sleeping pill and went to bed.

->idk Milla, i think you write the most beautiful things and you really wanna make my heart fall out of my ribcage. The writing was pure and vivid and as he was reading your point of view he felt like his ribcage was suddenly too small to contain his heartbeats.

-> ooooof THIS IS BUILDING UP OMG OMG OMG SMDFKSDA “Who do you have in mind for the female lead?” he asked finally. “Well… me,” you answered, without lowering your gaze that time.

-> stab me it might hurt less than this In tears in your car, your boxes in the back, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror where Joel’s silhouette was getting smaller and smaller. Until you could no longer discern his clenched fists, his stone face. Until he was only a small dot, until he wasn't in your life anymore.

THE ENTIRE INTIMATE SCENE HOLY SMOKES IM DIZZYYYY

-> I have no thoughts just thots my brain empty but this is delicious “I can feel you clench on my fingers, you’re gonna be a good girl and come again for me?” he asked, before swirling his tongue over your clit again. “Thought about it so often,”

AND THE END AHHH IM SOBBING

Close-up

8k7 | Joel Miller x fem reader | ao3 | masterlist Summary: Joel receives a script that takes him back to the memories of your love story. He realizes that out of protective instinct after the break up, he has not been honest neither with his own feelings nor with you Warnings: 18+ mdni. ex lovers reunited, angst, mostly Joel pov, Joel can act cold out of defence mechanism, he has trouble accepting his own feelings, pining, slow burn, pet names (sweetheart, baby), semi public sex, just the tip, soft!joel, oral (f), piv, creampie. Pic for mood only, reader has no specific physical descriptions. 

a/n:  this is written for @jolapeno 's dear-uary challenge (prompt here) thank you for this challenge Jo, and it was such a cool prompt 😍😍😍 Thank you @aurorawritestoescape for beta-ing and for reading this one soooo many times 🥹😘💕 @/saradika-graphics for the dividers 🙏

I sent you a script, tell me what you think tell me more just read it, trust me

The informal messages between Joel and his agent, Will, were usual. They had known each other for a long time, they were friends, and Will had always found him perfect roles. 

So as always, Joel trusted him- even though the first page of the script, delivered to him by a courier, was not completely filled, making him wonder why. 

In the evening he put his cup on the coffee table, and lay down on the sofa, a soft light lamp behind his head. With his back leaning against the cushions, shirt, jeans, bare feet. Always the same ritual, always the same setup, when he was about to read a new script.

He started reading it, taking a sip of coffee from time to time, until his heart leapt in his chest as he got to a particular scene. 

He closed it and took a moment before rereading the first page, with the name left blank. 

It could only be you. 

That was the only explanation for getting a script without the name of the author on it. And there was no way the scene he had just read, so familiar, so intimate, could be coincidental. Or could be written by anyone else. He grabbed his phone and sent a message to his agent, unable to contain his annoyance.

that’s fucked up, Will

*Will calling*

“Yeah,” he grumbled as he picked up, without even trying to hide his feelings, then he got up to pace the room.

“Look, I know what you’re thinking, Joel. But she’s a great writer and actress, you know it. We’ve been looking for a good drama movie for a long time. This one’s perfect.”

“It’s… damn, Will, it’s our story, ok? Or a part of it, I don't know. Anyway I can’t play this. Can’t play me.”

“Joel, listen to me and think about it. No one would know. And it can be therapeutic.”

“Thera… jesus, you gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Joel sighed as he hung up and threw his phone on the couch. 

Why the fuck would Will do something so stupid and inconsiderate, giving him a script from you? 

At the beginning of his career, his agent sent him one project for a movie in which you were expected to play too. Joel confessed that you two had been together, and added “you don’t bring her up. Ever,” to end the conversation. So Will never did. 

Until today.

He sat back down on the sofa, resting his forehead on his fist, resisting the urge to throw the cup of coffee across the room. He was surprised by his own reaction, his nervousness. His anger. Barely able to control his emotions, he felt so weak, like his heart was about to tear in two again, swallowing him whole. He was affected, years later, as if it happened yesterday.

So, sure, a long time ago he asked Will not to talk about you anymore. But they might have been  friends, his agent might have known about you, but he didn’t know the details. Didn’t know how profoundly the break up had hurt Joel, how much you had gotten under his skin, back then.

And in Will's defense, it wasn't like you never saw each other again, at parties or ceremonies, under Will’s gaze who thought that it wasn't that bad, after all. It was years after your separation, now having the job that both of you dreamed about, talked about, sweaty young adults in a messy bed where he had just made you come.

Will wasn't aware that it was actually that bad. 

Because he didn’t know the way Joel looked at you, when you were together. He didn't know how sweet and caring Joel was with you. He didn’t know how much he loved wrapping his arms around you, and having you curl up against him. 

He didn’t know how Joel used to hold you firmly against the mattress, hands on your hips, lapping at your cunt to make you come again. Because he always wanted more, always wanted to give you more.

He didn’t know that pushing his cock in you was the sweetest, most intense sensation he’d ever felt. Even now, years later, he never felt something like that again.

Will didn't know any of that, had no idea how intense it had been. Because the only thing Joel told him was “you don’t bring her up. Ever.”

The first time you saw each other again, was in a place full of actors, agents, writers and directors.

You couldn't believe he was here, a few steps away from you. Of course, you knew you'd cross paths one day, but suddenly he was closer to you than he had been in years and you felt your heart racing. He was even more handsome than he was back then, if it was even possible. You knew what he looked like, you watched all his movies. In need of his voice, his smile, his gestures, his laugh. In need of him. 

But seeing him for real- not through a screen but in the same room, not some character but Joel, the man you loved more than anyone else, the man you would still call “the love of your life” in your thoughts -, was breathtaking, almost surreal. 

So you approached him, without overthinking it, but as soon as he saw you he gave you a subtle but firm shake of his head. The message was crystal clear - he didn’t want to talk to you, didn’t even want you around. 

It stopped your hesitant steps in their tracks, and the shy smile you had the courage to build instantly disappeared, and your gaze fell to the floor. Trying to control your breathing, to fight back the tears you felt welling up. 

If you had looked up right away, you would have seen guilt sweep through his eyes. But when you finally raised your head, seconds later, he was on the other side of the room. The only thing you could see was his back, which he undoubtedly presented to you deliberately, as if his glare hadn’t been enough to make a point.

All evening, you struggled to keep conversations going, to concentrate, to think of anything other than his dark stare, furrowed brows, and the way he shook his head at you without any hesitation. For years, you had been wondering what he had thought of you, after those years. You just got the most brutal answer to that question. 

The second time, a journalist had done some research and discovered that you attended the same university, graduated the same year. He took the opportunity to bring the subject as Joel was walking by. He probably hadn't seen you amongst all those people, because you were sure he would have gone the other way, otherwise. You didn’t have much choice than to kiss, feigning a friendly closeness that had never existed between you. You had been lovers, then strangers. No in-between. 

His scent, so familiar, invaded your nostrils. He always wore the same perfume, the one you had given him for a birthday. It surprised you but you didn't have much time to think about it, as he ended the hug quickly.

Joel's eyes were shifty when you looked at him, a fake smile plastered on his lips. Which could probably seem real for people who didn't know him, but not for you. Not even years later. You answered the journalist's questions as best as you could, until Joel leaned towards to give you a hug that was as neutral as his eyes on you, cutting off the questions. Then he walked away, leaving you facing the journalist who was delighted with the exclusive material and oblivious to the unspoken scene that had happened in front of him.

Joel thought back to those two evenings, after he’d hung up on Will and before he’d put the script away in a drawer. He needed to regain control of his emotions, and to do that he couldn't continue reading your words, at least for now.

He went to the kitchen for a fresh cup of coffee, and despite him trying, his mind wandered to lazy mornings where he would get up to make two coffees and then come back to the bedroom. He’d put them on the nightstand, before cuddling up to your warm body under the sheets, hearing you moan gently. Sometimes you would fall asleep in one of his shirts, and he loved smelling his scent on you, as if you were marked by him, somehow. It always made him feral, possessive. He didn’t know he had that side in him, until you.

You'd always grab his hand to kiss the tip of his fingers, before sliding them along your folds, feeling his cock harden against your ass and your pussy starting to drool. He would make you come with his digits, his lips against your ear, caged in his arms, then he'd slide his cock between your thighs and your soaked folds, just in time for your last spasms to squeeze his tip. Sometimes he would keep fucking you like that, lying behind you, and sometimes he would roll you on your back, taking his place between your thighs. Until he’d come, grunting, growling, his hair disheveled, and you often fall back asleep, his cock softening inside you, the cups of coffee cold on the nightstand.

He shook his head to think about something else and to resist the urge to take the script out of the drawer. Instead, he took a sleeping pill and went to bed.

The next morning he woke up groggy. He put on a t-shirt and sweatpants, poured himself a cup of coffee, and put aside his good resolutions. He didn’t need the script to think about you, anyway. Time never healed his wounds, he never forgot you or the pain he had felt when you’d left. His thoughts were always hurtful, possessive and raw.

Even years after the break up he couldn’t help but think about you when his wrist fucked his shaft. Even sometimes when he was in a relationship. He hated himself for that but couldn’t help it. He missed your cunt, your hands, everything. But he couldn’t accept the idea that he was simply missing you. 

He always thought that your bodies were made for each other, and you always breathed the same words. He knew you meant it, his cock buried in you, his eyes fixed on yours rolling to the back of your head and his ears filled with your moans, barely able to tell his name.  

Until it was over. 

He knew it could happen, you always told him that you'd have to leave for California one day in hope to live your dream, that you couldn’t do it in Texas. But he brushed it off, not wanting to believe it, not wanting to think about it. He hid it in a corner of his mind, until he had no other choice but to face reality. Until it hit him. That day, he realized that he wouldn’t get to wrap his arms around you for the rest of his life.

He lay down on the couch and started to read. And the more he read the script, the more he realized that you wrote only the moments that had really happened. 

The story, background, was slightly different, probably so that no one could ever make a connection to the two of you. But the moments were real, and it made him dizzy.

You wrote that dance in your small apartment, first for the both of you, that you rented after graduation. You worked as a waitress and Joel was a barista, and you two went to as many castings in Austin as you could, dreaming every day about being actors.

That night you put on some music and danced. He kissed your hand and looked at you. He felt warm. He loved you so much that his heart was aching. He made you spin and you laughed, and it was like a spring breeze in the apartment, filling his lungs with fresh air. When you stopped twirling you brushed his hair and then kissed him. 

The writing was pure and vivid and as he was reading your point of view he felt like his ribcage was suddenly too small to contain his heartbeats.

Over the next two days, he took the script out of the drawer regularly. Slowly touching the paper that already bore the marks of repeated handling, him  lying on his couch, taking his time before opening it. 

He read it all, and the sweetness, the sensitivity with which you described your moments moved him profoundly. The person he had loved, cherished, cradled in his arms, wrote that. 

All the intimacy, the love and care you both felt for each other were there. For several years he made everything to forget the good moments, to focus only on the ending to feed his bitterness, but the fact was that there had been so many beautiful moments. And he could read them, feel them again. Couldn’t deny them anymore.

Your words were so familiar, so true to your love story, that his anger slowly gave some place to something else: nostalgia. Finally allowing himself to miss you and what you two had. He was still wondering why you had written the script and sent it to him, but now he was ready to learn the answer. And he wanted to look you in the eye when he’d ask you this question. But he wasn't sure how he’d behave, when you met. Didn't know if bitterness or nostalgia would fill his heart.

So after two days of silence, Joel picked up his phone and sent Will a message.

Ok, set up a meeting

Because of your busy schedules you could meet only in two weeks. The delay was driving him crazy. 

He made a copy of the script, his copy, which he filled with annotations, dates. Underlining moments or words erased from his mind, out of grief, anger or self-protection.

He got hard several times, while reading some scenes. And sometimes anger would come back to creep into his thoughts, whispering to him that you never should have sent it to him, when your separation had been so painful for him. 

And Will was not the only one Joel said “you don’t…. ever.”

To you, it’d been “If you leave… you don't call me. Ever.”

That morning, as he got used to doing several times a day, he grabbed his copy of the script. He had handled it so much that the sheets were already damaged, some pages peppered with annotations. 

As he was reading, he remembered how you had loved to run your fingers over his jeans when you were watching a movie on your little couch. Playing with him, your hand going higher and higher, just to hear his breathing slow down, just to hear him murmur a needy and low “sweetheart, what are you doing?”, making you smile widely. Knowing that he would manhandle you two seconds later to be under him, pulling your panties to the side and pushing his thick length into you. He remembered the feeling of your breasts against his chest, how you whimpered in his neck while he was fucking you hard and deep. 

He was nervous the morning of the meeting. He took a shower, hoping to get rid of the fatigue and headache from the lack of sleep the night before. He put on a shirt and jeans and grabbed his car keys, put on some music when he started to drive, trying to change his mind, but it didn’t work, he was still anxious. He parked near the building. Once inside he found the meeting room and knocked on the door. He heard you say “come in” and took a deep breath before twisting the handle.

You were alone, sitting in a chair, and he quickly pushed aside the thought of how pretty you were. Joel immediately noticed your hands, pressed together nervously, before you stood up to greet him. He stopped when you walked towards him and your smile faded like that time.

“Wait,” he said, his hand raised in front of him, as he was trying to control his emotions. “I just… Why did you send it to me?” he added without any preamble, his tone harsher than he intended. 

“Oh… ok. Straight to the point, huh?” you said, sitting back down, and removing an imaginary crease on your sleeve, eyes lowered to the desk.

“I never…” you started to say, before stopping and taking a breath. “I think I needed to write our story down.” 

Joel’s sigh stopped you. You tried to keep a low and calm tone, not to show your anxiety. You knew that facing him wouldn't be easy. He had given you a glimpse of his coldness after the situation with that journalist.

“Joel, please, listen to me.” 

You looked at him, and yet you had no idea how his name, escaping your lips, tore his heart apart. He never thought he’d hear it again, and the familiar intonation made him shiver.

“I honestly think it would make a great movie,” you said. “And you must think so too, since you’re here.”

“I don’t know why I’m here, honestly. Except that I want to know why.”

“Would you have preferred to discover it once the movie was out, your role played by someone else?”

His gaze on you, dark and possessive, made you freeze.

“No, I really wouldn’t have appreciated our story, my life, played by someone else, Jesus,” he growled.

He put his hands on his hips, a stance you’d seen him do dozens of times before, searching for words, and then he sat in a chair, pinching the place just above his nose with two fingers. Trying to stop the headache that was threatening to come again. It had started off badly, and he knew it was his fault. He was too stubborn, too cold.

“Who do you have in mind for the female lead?” he asked finally.

“Well… me,” you answered, without lowering your gaze that time.

“You?” 

A part of him, that he thought was gone the day you had left, woke up with a groan. He couldn't imagine the movie being made, you playing... well, you, and him being played by another man. It was unthinkable and made his jealousy and possessiveness stir painfully in his chest.

Unlike you, he hadn't watched your movies. He tried though, when he saw your face on a movie poster for the first time. He went to the cinema, but he walked out of the theater the moment that actor leaned toward you to kiss you. He couldn't stand to see someone kiss you, when he couldn't do it anymore.

“I’m the best person to play this character, aren’t I?” you said softly, interrupting his thoughts. “Just like you’re the best one to play the male lead. Look, I know you’ve been rumored for a role like this for years. I know you’re not opposed to it. So why not?”

“Because it’s not about playing a role here,” he sighed. “It’s playing in front of a camera, things we said, did, years ago. Intimate things that belong to us.”

“I changed some things, no one has to know it’s autobiographical,” you started to say, before he quickly cut you off. 

“I know it is. And so do you.” He walked over to the window to stare at the buildings in front of him. “When you leave someone, you don’t do that. It’s unhealthy,” he said, almost softly. Resigned. He turned to you before adding, “Why stir up something that died years ago?”

He didn't expect to face the sadness that clouded your face, and once again guilt seized him. You were sad, upset, and despite the bitterness he’d been feeling for years, he didn’t want to hurt you.

“Joel… I didn’t leave because I didn’t love you anymore,” you answered, standing up and walking towards him. You stopped a few steps away to respect his boundaries, before you'd see his body stiff. “I left because I had to follow my dream, and it wasn’t working in Texas. And you wanted to stay in Austin, to take care of Tommy. We ended it because a long-distance relationship would have been too painful, because I didn’t want us to be unhappy, barely seeing each other, not being able to feel each other often enough. So I left. And I told you all that. You knew it, you knew why.”

You took a breath, after formulating what was oppressing your heart, waiting for him to answer.

“Playing with feelings is dangerous,” he said in a low voice.

“This isn’t a game, Joel. I'm not playing. I’m sure it would make a great movie. And maybe we need to express all that, even years later.”

“Do you remember what I told you that day? The last day?”

“Of course, I do. You told me not to call you. You told me that if we had to meet again… then it would happen. Well, it's happening, Joel.”

He looked at you, confused, and headed towards the door, brushing past you lightly as he passed. 

Just before leaving, without looking at you, he said in a low voice, “my agent will give you my answer in a few days.” 

Once the door closed behind Joel, you remembered the day you left. 

In tears in your car, your boxes in the back, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror where Joel’s silhouette was getting smaller and smaller. Until you could no longer discern his clenched fists, his stone face. Until he was only a small dot, until he wasn't in your life anymore.

At that moment you were wondering if you had made a mistake. You kept wondering for years. To be honest, you still weren’t sure you made the right choice that day. You followed your dream and succeeded, but it cost you the love of your life.

You didn't know what to think about the meeting. It could have been worse, he could have left after two minutes of being there, you knew it. You could have said more, too, but you didn't want Joel to withdraw more into himself. And for sure, you couldn't have told him that you always thought of him when you were in someone’s else’s arms. That you tried not to let jealousy invade you when you thought of his personal life, knowing that you had no right to be. You gave up on that when you had left.

You knew what he thought, how he reacted. Now he needed time to process everything, and you just had to wait for his agent to contact you. You couldn't do more.

Joel got to his car in a blur. He realized where he was only sitting behind the wheel, too many emotions swirling in his head. Years without seeing you and it had gone by at the speed of light. He blamed himself for being cold, blamed himself for not being cold enough, and he was even more lost than before he saw you. He started to drive, the feeling of having mishandled things weighing more and more on his shoulders.

He took another shower when he got home, as if it could wash off his remorse and regrets, the words exchanged playing over and over in his mind.

“Joel… I didn’t leave because I didn’t love you anymore.”

“I had to follow my dream. You wanted to stay in Austin. To take care of Tommy.”

“You knew it, you knew why.”

Did he really start to believe that the events had happened differently, after you left? Had he really done it, to the point of omitting certain things, because he needed someone to blame, to keep moving forward? 

Had he really been that guy? Blaming you when there was no one to blame, just life and the choices that go with it, that we all have to do?

Had he really denied for years that you had left with a broken heart, too? That he had told you to never call him, after those wonderful years together? He felt like he was waking up with a monstrous hangover, and guilt gripped him. Truth is he let you down, and reality was hitting him hard.

Because you were right, you didn’t leave just like that. He didn’t want to acknowledge it for years, kept sweeping it under the rug, but deep down he didn’t forget it. 

And you were right, he hadn’t been able to prioritize your relationship. Couldn’t prioritize himself either. He had always been protective of his brother, but it reached another level when he came back to Texas after being dismissed. Tommy wasn't the same, and Joel knew that he would have constantly wondered if his brother was okay if he had left for California with you. Worried that he could be in jail after a fight, with no one to bail him out. Or that he could be drunk in an alley, alone, spending the night there. Or worse.

“I can’t leave Tommy here alone, with all his drinking and partying,” he told you, expression determined.

“But you need to think about your future, our future too, Joel,” you replied desperately.

Joel had probably hoped that you wouldn’t have left, that you’d have chosen him, until the end. And you probably hoped the same thing, too. 

Right person, wrong time. Fucking sad, but so banal.

So to forget that he was as responsible for the breakup as much as you were, he let his pain turn into anger, and he never let nostalgia set in, or his feelings show up. 

And everything blew up when you sent him that script and he started reading it. It was impossible to continue to deny the obvious, to keep thinking that his feelings were stronger than yours and that’s why you had left. It was impossible to forget that he had told you, “If you leave… you don't call me. Ever.” That he was the one who had cut everything off, once and for all. To protect himself, of course. But still.

So once you were gone, he did what he had to do, he took care of Tommy. Except that he started going to bars with him, at night. Drinking less than him, but still way too much. He took sleeping pills when he was obsessed with your absence, tired of squeezing your pillow way too tight in his fist, his jaw clenched with anger. He moved to a new neighborhood because he couldn't stand living in that apartment anymore where everything reminded him of you. 

When they were children and then teenagers, Joel and Tommy’s father taught them to work with their hands, and it helped them to find jobs on construction sites. And that he finally pulled himself together and helped Tommy the way he had to. It took him months, but he did it, and his parents would be proud of him, of them, if they saw their sons.

He worked hard, kept doing castings when his work allowed it, and eventually it paid off, even if it took time.

He thought about it all, and realized he needed to see you again before deciding on the movie. Needed to behave normally, to let go of his mask. So he asked his agent your number, then texted you:

it’s Joel. Are you still in LA?  I have some questions about the script can we meet again?  I am. When do you wanna meet? tomorrow night, my place? I’ll cook Sure!

He took a deep breath as he sent you his address. He let his emotions take over on purpose, to dispel the bitter taste in his mouth since you saw each other. Now he had to trust them.

The next day he started to cook during the afternoon, the dish that he hoped was still one of your favorite. He knowingly chose to invite you over to his place, to keep his mind occupied at least while he was busy in the kitchen. 

Once the dish was in the oven, he did a running session on his treadmill and showered. 

Anything to keep his mind busy.

You arrived right on time, a bottle of wine in hand.

“You still like the white?” you asked.

He did. Some things never changed.

As you approached the kitchen it smelled so good that you stopped there.

“Still one of your favorite meals?” he asked.

It was. 

You tried not to show that you were moved. Acts of service had always been his way of showing that he cared, and you weren’t expecting that when you showed up.

You sat down on a high stool in the kitchen and he opened the bottle of wine. You had a few sips, silently. Neither of you really knew what to say, at first. Then everything set into place, naturally, instinctively. A little shyly at first, bringing up things from your respective pasts, or present. You asked him how Tommy was doing, and he told you he was fine, that he was engaged to a woman named Maria and that they were going to be parents soon. You were happy for Tommy, sincerely. You had always liked him.

Joel was trying to act normally, to not pay too much attention to the ease with which you were chatting. How easily he opened up to you, telling you about his years in Austin, then his first ones in LA. His first roles, his doubts.

He was glancing at your hands when you weren’t looking at him. At your hair. 

He loved to see your eyes shine when you were talking about something that was important to you.

But above all, he loved to see them sparkle the first time he made you smile, that evening. It hit him, how much he missed it. Making you smile. 

His emotions were so familiar that his heart was beating a little too fast, like a horse freed from its reins.

And suddenly he wondered how he had been able to spend so many years without you by his side, when you had always been his sunshine, liberating his grumpy, reserved nature. 

A part of his brain told him that he was smiling a little too much, but he felt more alive during those moments with you than he hadn’t been in so long. 

Whether in a relationship or not.

And then he felt the atmosphere change, felt that you got nervous, an impression confirmed when you began to scratch your thumb. A habit that dated back years ago, and he'd always take you in his arms, kiss your thumb and tell you that he was there and that everything would be okay. Today, for the first time he couldn’t do all that.

“Are you ok?” he nevertheless allowed himself to ask.

“Yeah, it’s just… listen, I know you wanted to ask me about the script, but ehm... there’s something you need to know.” You took a deep breath before adding “there won’t be any movie if you don’t want to do it. If you’re not comfortable with it. I’m not saying this to put pressure on you, it's just… I just want you to know that your choice is completely free. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do it, for whatever bad reason.”

“I appreciate that you’re telling me this, thank you,” he said, in a tone you couldn’t quite define, half defeated, half tender. “Listen, I wanted to apologize.”

“For what, Joel?” you asked questioningly.

“Yesterday. I didn’t really know how to handle all of it. Honestly, I’ve been overwhelmed by a lot of emotions since I read the script. Including anger.” He didn't expect to tell you that, but the need was too much to bear. He needed to make things right.

“I know. I expected it to be complicated, after our two previous meetings,” you said, without animosity or bitterness. Just being factual.

He raised his eyebrows, as if to apologize, before continuing. “I wanted to apologize for that too. My attitude.”

“That’s your way of handling things, it always has been, I should have known. But I appreciate it too, thanks Joel.”

He nodded, then added “do you think we’ll be able to do it?”

“To do what?”

“Work together. To be coworkers on a movie?”

He saw your eyebrows furrow slightly, as you took the time to think before answering.

“Well… the evening’s going pretty well, right? You haven't shook your head at me yet, to show me the door.”

“Ouch!” he replied exaggeratedly.

“Too soon?” you asked, lips curled into a smile.

“A little,” he laughed.

He enjoyed it, that little moment. You’d had so many of them before. 

“Aren’t you afraid of what might happen?” he wanted to ask. 

“Aren’t you afraid of reliving things, that I’ll fall madly in love with you again and that the scenes we’ll shoot, my acting, will just express the reality of my feelings?” 

But he couldn’t ask you that.

He wanted to ask you if you had sent him the script because you still had feelings for him, but he couldn’t say that either.

“It’ll be a low budget movie. I mean, if we do it,” you said. There’ll be some outdoor scenes but not that many. Not many other actors either. It won’t be a long shoot.”

He nodded and said, “can I give you my answer in a couple of days?”

“Of course,” you smiled. “Thanks for the meal, it was delicious,” you said as you stood up. “You can text me if you have any questions.”

He thanked you and you complimented him on his house as you put your coat back on. His taste hadn’t changed. The rooms were simply decorated. As you walked toward the front door you glanced inside one of the rooms, and saw a table with a wooden sculpture on it.

“Oh my god, Joel? You still do the carving?”

“Oh… well… yeah. I never stopped.”

“Can I?” you asked.

“Sure,” he opened the door and you slipped through the gap, brushing past him lightly as you passed and you had goosebumps at the familiar scent. Still the perfume you had gifted him once. Reassuring. After all these years, instantly, it was there. Enveloping you. 

You approached the table and leaned over a piece he was working on, admiring the figurine that was being carved. A rodeo cowboy on a bucking horse.

“Wow, Joel… you were already very good at this back then, but now it’s incredible. The level of detail is mind-blowing.”

You looked at the shelves, covered with other sculptures. You approached them: bears, deer, wolves, rabbits.

“This is really amazing, you’re so talented. And… Do you still play guitar?”

“Sure,” he answered, nodding at a guitar case. “I usually play in the dining room. My guitars are over there. This one needed a little TLC. I just got it back. It’s… well it’s the one you gave me.”

You looked at him, unable to hide the surprise on your face.

“You kept it?” you asked, trying to hold back your emotions.

“ ‘ course I did.”

You nodded, your throat tight.

“I should go, it’s getting late,” you said. “Tell me about the movie, ok?” You looked at him hesitantly, but when he leaned towards you and wrapped his arms around your torso, your eyes closed at the feeling, so familiar, before you pulled away, told him good night and left.

Driving your car, you replayed the images of the evening in your mind. Of course, you had felt his gaze on you several times during the evening. And sometimes you could see Joel again. Your Joel.

Did he think about you as much as you thought about him? Did he suspect that you had sent him this script in the hope of getting back in touch with him? Did he know how much you missed him, all those years?

You had wondered so many times if he had been thinking about you. You thought about the hug, as comforting as before. You missed him so much.

Two days later, he texted you

“I’m in”

He kept looking at his phone after sending the message. The read indicator appeared quickly, then the writing bubble.

“Great, I'm so glad! I’m sure it’s gonna be amazing!!”

He hoped it would be. Hoped it wasn’t a mistake. 

He had to leave LA for several weeks for a shooting, and the organization of the film was put in place.

You sent each other a few messages in the next few days. Then the messages became more and more regular, while remaining purely friendly.

Several months later, the day before the shooting started, he knocked on your trailer to say hello.

You had rehearsed some scenes with the crew, and everything was ready.

The less emotional scenes were shot in the first few days. He didn’t ask for it, but he was glad. Every night he came back to his trailer, played the guitar, and thought about you. 

Seeing you every day was a very strange thing that he had trouble to define. He was happy to see you every day, to see the person you had become. And sad that you were no longer his. Filming these moments with you was like constantly reopening a wound that had never really healed.

That night, he took out the script, and reread the scene planned the next day.

EXT. THEIR APARTMENT -- EVENING He parks downstairs at their apartment, it’s dark. He knows she’s back from a week at her parents’. He’s eager to get home and see her again, he’s missed her. He quickly climbs the outside stairs and unlocks the door. INT. THEIR APARTMENT -- EVENING He puts his keys on the hall cabinet, takes off his jacket and hangs it on the coat rack. We follow him as he walks in the apartment, until he sees her in the doorway of the dining room. He smiles, we see love in their eyes as look at other. HER Hey baby He goes to her, they kiss, he takes her in his arms. She closes her eyes. HIM I missed you, baby. He brushes her cheek with his thumb. HER I missed you too. She takes his hand and leads him to their bedroom.

He stopped reading there, before the next scene, that was the most intimate, the one that made him anxious just to think about.

“I missed you, baby,” he said the line. He brushed your cheek with his thumb, like he had done so many times before. His eyes were fixed in yours. He wondered if he was imagining what he was reading in them.

“I missed you too.”

You took his hand and you headed out of the frame.

“Cut, it was perfect, guys! Go get ready for the next scene.”

He picked up his water bottle and took a sip. He felt dizzy.

You were both wearing underwear and bathrobes. Waiting to shoot the scene.

“Ok guys, you’re ready? Great, let’s go.”

The scene was a close-up of both of your faces during a sex scene, at night. You lay down on the bed first, after taking off your robe. He took off his too and lay down between your thighs.

“Is this ok?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s ok,” you smiled.

“Action!”

You started to kiss, tongues quickly brushing against each other. His hands cupped your cheeks as he rolled his hips towards you slowly, careful that your crotches wouldn’t touch. 

It was overwhelming to feel you against him, your breasts against his chest, with only your bra between the two of you. It was a whirling moment, to kiss you in such an intimate scene, playing something that you had lived for real before. He groaned and slid his hand to the back of your neck to hold you as close as possible against him.

He felt you shift slightly, turning your hips to face his. He wanted to ask you what you were doing but he couldn’t. He was half hard from the moment he laid against you but now his cock was hard as steel. You pushed your pelvis forward and the tip of his cock nestled at your entrance, pointing against his boxers.

He could feel your wet panties through the fabrics.

“Don’t stop, baby,” you recited your line, and he growled.

He couldn’t believe you would act like that while shooting a scene, couldn't believe you were using him.

He pulled away to look at you and you murmured an unscripted “please.” Eyebrows furrowed, he nodded slightly. His fat head found its way, and his tip pushed your panties in.

It was hot, filthy, forbidden. So unprofessional, but he couldn’t stop. He recognized your moans, and the small team around you probably thought it was perfectly faked, when it was music in his ears. The music he thought he would never hear again. 

Your hands tightened on his biceps as you came. So quickly. He felt your walls squeezing his tip and he almost forgot to move, forgot the script, forgot you were shooting a scene. He pulled out, afraid he would come too, and faked his orgasm, neck tense and veins bulging, your hands caressing his hair at the back of his neck.

You said the next line “I love you, baby. I missed you so much.”

“I love you too,” was his.

“Cut!! That was amazing, great job!!”

There was a pounding on your trailer door as you got out of the shower. You quickly threw on a bathrobe and went to open it.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” he growled.

“Keep your voice low Joel, damn… Come in.”

You closed the door behind him, searching for the right words, pressing your hands together. 

“I, huh…” you stammered.

“No! No, talk to me. Tell me. You can’t… you can’t do that and stay silent.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” he chuckled.

“Having you so close to me, against me… I couldn’t help myself. I’m sorry. It was overwhelming.”

“Everyone could have seen, what were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking, that’s the point, Joel! And they didn’t see, anyway.”

“Jesus christ you can't do that. You can’t just use me like that.”

“I know, Joel. I know, I’m sorry. It’s just…”

“What?”

You sighed, and that time he didn't try to rush you. You felt him soften, giving you time to find your words.

“I miss you, Joel.”

“No, don't…  Please, don’t say that.”

“I missed you the second I left and it never stopped.”

Hearing the tone of your voice and reading your eyes, this time he had no doubt that you really meant it. And he felt all the tensions in his body relax, as if he were freed from everything that had been oppressing him for years. You approached him slowly, eyes raised to his, and you slid your hand into his, and his large palm gently closed over it. You caressed his cheek with the other, and for a moment he shut his eyes, pressing his face against your hand.

“I miss you,” you said again and he rested his forehead against yours. He gently rubbed his nose against yours, before kissing your lips softly. He heard your breathing hitch for a moment, then you moaned slightly as you pulled away, just to look at him, Joel, not the actor, for the first time in years. He pulled you closer to him and brushed his tongue over your lips, as if asking for permission to push inside. Greedily, you slid yours to his, licking his tongue and lips, until he crashed his mouth against yours. His hands rested on your waist while yours moved up his back, pressing your bodies together. You whined when you felt his hard cock pressed to you.

You pulled away from him again, just to look at his face, and he wanted to pinch himself, just to be sure you were not some dream that would leave him disillusioned and alone when he woke up.

You took his hand and led him to your room.

“Undress me,” you said.

He pulled on the knot of your bathrobe slowly, making the two sides of the garment part, revealing the curve of your breasts that he caressed with his fingertips.

Your chest rose quickly as your eyes were plunged into each other, until he lowered them to your pussy. His heart was beating so fast that for a moment he was afraid it would explode.

He raised his gaze to yours, silently asking if you were okay.

“Yes,” you said. As if you knew he would want to hear it, that a nod wouldn't be enough.

He slipped his hands under the fabric of the robe and slid it down your shoulders. It fell to the floor, leaving you naked. So vulnerable, and yet you were the strongest woman he ever knew, following your dream by leaving for a city where you didn't know anyone. And made your dream come true.

But now you were here, in front of him. So pretty, so sure of yourself, of your desires.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said in a low voice.

He pulled you back, guiding you with his hands on your hips as he kissed you, until the back of your knees touched the bed.

“Lie down, sweetheart,” he said. The nickname was so familiar in his mouth, so normal. You did as he asked, moving back until your head rested on the pillow as he watched you, still standing at the end of the bed. Then he took off his t-shirt, unbuttoned his jeans and got rid of them and his boxers.

“Are you ok?” he asked.

“Yes,” you replied. “Haven't felt better in a long time, actually.”

“Me too,” he added, laying on the bed, his hand caressing your inner thighs that he kissed, then he spread them with his hands.

He ran his thumb over your folds, covering it in your wetness until he reached your clit and gently rolled it under his finger. You moaned, spreading your thighs wider. 

He leaned down, his shoulders taking possession of the space between your thighs, the scent of your arousal filling his nostrils. He licked a long stripe from your drooling hole to your clit, then placed his hands on the inside of your thighs, pressing your knees against the sheets, and you willingly let him do it, your hands sliding into his hair. He pushed his tongue into your cunt, growling against your folds. He never thought he would taste you again and an overwhelming feeling was running through his whole body. You were leaking into his mouth, down his throat and he pressed you against him, greedy for what you were giving him as your hips rolled towards him. His nose brushed perfectly against your clit, like it always did before. You clung to his hair as your moans were getting louder and louder.

"I'm so close, Joel," you murmured, hands lost in his curls. "Please, baby, please." 

“Take what you need, use me, sweetheart.”

“Oh my god, Joel… I’m gonna… I’m coming, fuck!”

He didn't let go of you, leaving his tongue buried in your pussy and his nose against your clit, gripping  your waist with his hands, as if they were in their natural place, your flesh welcoming them.

“Joel…” you whimpered.

“Another one, please, baby. Let me give you another one, ok?”

“I’m not sure if I can… I don’t know if I can,” you panted.

“Lemme try, ok?”

“Ok,” you whispered.

His tongue left your pussy, licking your puffy folds before teasing your swollen clit. His middle finger slid along your folds before he pushed it in you gently, immediately adding a second digit. His fingers pumped into you, making your wetness flow down to the sheets. He kept you pressed against the mattress, as he had done so many times, drunk on your taste and smell. His cock ached but he resisted the urge to grind himself against the bed, afraid of not being able to hold back and come on them.

“I can feel you clench on my fingers, you’re gonna be a good girl and come again for me?” he asked, before swirling his tongue over your clit again. “Thought about it so often,” he added, still pumping your drooling cunt with his thick fingers, then licking and sucking your clit.

“Yes, fuck yes,” you whined, just before you came on his diggits, clit pulsing against his tongue.

He crawled over to you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and smashed his lips against yours, your wimpers now disappearing between them.

“I wanna suck your cock, Joel,” you breathed against his lips, but he shook his head. 

“Sweetheart… I'd love it too but I’m gonna come the second you’ll take me in your mouth,” he said. “And I really need to feel you around my cock. All the way this time, not just the tip. You’re ok with that, baby?”

“Of course, need to feel you too.”

“Damn you’re so pretty,” he said, and kissed you.

He grabbed his cock in his hand, the tip leaking, swollen and red, and nestled it at your entrance, pausing there for a moment before thrusting in. 

“Oh fuck…” you whined, making him stop.

“No, no no, don’t stop, I’m ok. Need all of you, please,” you whimpered.

Like years ago, he would give you everything you needed from him. So he didn't stop until he bottomed out. 

“Shit,” he groaned, feeling his balls tightening, ready to explode. He was struggling so hard not to come, but his breath was hitching with every thrust since he felt your pussy around him. 

You kissed, hips rolling towards each other softly and slowly. He loved to feel you around him again, and again he thought that your bodies were made for each other. He was sure of it more than ever. He slid his arms under your shoulders and you licked his neck, right at his pulsating point, then kissed the thin and delicate skin crossed by its veins.

“I won’t last, baby, I’m sorry…” he panted.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, taking him deeper.

“It doesn’t matter, fill me, Joel, please, just like before,” you begged, making him grawl, and he placed his thumb against your clit. It was enough to give you soon another climax and you pulsed around his shaft, digging your fingers into his skin as you came once again. He thrusted in a few times before burying himself, balls deep in your cunt, and shot his cum into your core, filling it to the last drop, his forehead against yours.

“Fuck, sweetheart….”

“I know,” you breathed. “Just like before.” 

For a few minutes both of you were panting loudly, waiting to catch your breath.

Then you caressed his cheek and he kissed you until he pulled away and lay down facing you.

“Come here, baby,” he said, welcoming you against his chest. He wrapped his arms around you, the way he always liked it so much. You stayed like that for a few minutes without talking. He just wanted to feel you against him, to hear you breathe slowly, to feel your skin against his. 

“I should have left with you,” he said suddenly.

You straightened up to look at him then said softly, “hey, no, don’t… Don’t hurt yourself by thinking that. You did what you had to do, and so did I. And we met again, like you said back then,” you added, and kissed him, then curled up in his arms again.

“We did,” he agreed, brushing your hair delicately. “So, that script?” he asked. “Was it to… like… get me back?”

“Of course it was,” you smiled against his torso, and he kissed the top of your head. 

“I’m happy you sent it to me, sweetheart.”

Thank you for reading 🙏

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ❤️

Follow @millafics and turn notifications on for fics updates

@littlemisspascal @pascalsanctuary @survivingandenduring

npt: tagging those who showed interest in the wip wednesday post, love you ❤️

@thundermartini @mermaidgirl30 @magpiepills @iknowisoundcrazy @itwasntimethatdidit40

@joelmillerisapunk @604to647 @baronessvonglitter @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @sawymredfox

@grav3yardbb92 @schnarfer @iamasaddie @noisynightmarepoetry @arcanefox207

@yxtkiwiyxt @sunshineispunk @tuquoquebrute

[prettylilyanime]

Our Blessing ♡ Prologue

♡ Pairing: Toji Zenin x reader

♡ Synopsis: in which your ex boyfriend left you with your biggest blessing in life, or- a bundle of a blessing. And he doesn’t even know it.

♡ tags/warnings: 18+, (explicit content in later chapters) angst, and drama, exes to lovers, hidden baby trope, Toji is an asshole (but we love him), Reader just wants to raise Megumi in peace, CEO Toji, possessive Toji, emotionally constipated Toji, Tension, misunderstandings, Flashbacks to past relationship, Heavy themes of abandonment, trust issues, and redemption, baby Megumi is a cutie, Megumi is a mama’s boy, reader works at a flower shop, Hidden Baby Trope

♡ Masterlist ♡ Next

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖

"Shit!"

The curse slips out before you can stop it as you stumble against the narrow, overstuffed hallway leading to the backroom of your little shop.

The bulky cardboard box in your arms wobbles precariously, the scent of freshly delivered daffodils wafting up as you struggle to keep your balance. For a moment, you fear disaster—flowers crushed, stems snapped, your pride bruised—but you manage to steady yourself just in time.

"Mama, that’s a bad word."

The reprimand is calm, almost casual, but the unimpressed side-eye that follows is devastating.

Seated by the shop’s wide front window, Megumi barely spares you a glance, his small frame bathed in the golden morning light. The sun catches in his dark lashes, making his ever-serious little face all the more heartbreakingly adorable.

You groan, already rubbing a hand down your face. "Damn—Yes, Megumi, I’m sorry." You cut yourself off before another curse can slip out, exhaling as you set the box down with a dull thud. Any more near-disasters like that, and you might actually break a hip.

Some mornings, you wake up feeling twice your age, your body aching from years of hauling flower crates, bending over counters, and chasing after an endlessly curious toddler. The weariness settles into your bones, a quiet reminder of just how much you juggle between running a business and raising a child on your own.

But then you glance at Megumi.

He sits by the shop window, his small fingers tracing absentminded patterns against the glass, bathed in the golden morning light. The soft glow highlights the curve of his cheeks, the thoughtful furrow of his brows as he watches the world outside. Your exhaustion melts just a little. You’d do it all over again—every sleepless night, every aching muscle—without hesitation.

Outside, the city hums with life. A gentle breeze rustles through the trees lining the sidewalk, carrying the scent of fresh flowers and warm pavement.

People stroll past, their neutral expressions softening into fond smiles when they catch sight of Megumi. A few wave through the window, but true to his nature, he merely blinks at them—stoic as ever—before returning to his quiet observations.

"Say, Megumi, what do you want for lunch today, hm?"

He pauses, tilting his head slightly in thought. His emerald-green eyes flick up to meet yours, considering, before he declares with certainty: "Dino nuggets."

You blink. "Dino nuggets? Again? But we just had them yesterday."

"Yeah," he says simply, as if that should be enough to end the discussion.

"Megumi, we can’t eat chicken nuggets every day. That’s not a balanced diet."

He frowns, tiny arms crossing. "I balanced it with fries."

You press your lips together, fighting back a snort. "That’s not how it works, honey. If you eat too many, a stomach bug might get you before bedtime."

He huffs, brows knitting together in frustration. "But dino nuggets make me feel good. And stomach bugs aren’t real."

That does it—you actually snort this time, biting down a laugh. Megumi’s sharp little side-eye nearly makes you lose it again.

"Okay, okay. How about this? We get pizza next door instead." You know it’s not the healthiest swap, but hey, at least it’s better than microwaved dino nuggets… right?

Megumi doesn’t look convinced at first, his small fingers still resting on the window as if debating whether or not this betrayal is worth arguing over. Then, his gaze flickers to you, studying your expression.

"Hmm." He makes a show of thinking before relenting with a dramatic sigh. "Okay… but I want ice cream too."

You shake your head with a chuckle. 

With Megumi’s small hand tucked in yours, you push open the door to your store, the little bell above jingling softly as you step outside.

The late morning air greets you with a mix of warm sunshine and the faint scent of blooming flowers from your storefront display. The city hums around you—distant chatter, the occasional honk of a car horn, the rhythmic click of hurried footsteps on pavement.

Megumi stays close to your side as you walk the short distance next door, his tiny fingers gripping yours like second nature.

The pizzeria is a familiar comfort—Tano’s Pizza, a cozy little hole-in-the-wall with a chalkboard menu propped just outside.

The scent of fresh dough, bubbling cheese, and roasted garlic drifts through the slightly propped-open door, instantly making Megumi's stomach grumble.

You push inside, stepping onto worn wooden floors that creak softly underfoot. The walls are lined with framed newspaper clippings and faded photographs—snapshots of the restaurant through the decades.

At the front, a glass display case showcases bubbling slices fresh from the oven, the cheese still glistening under the heat lamps. Behind the counter stands a young employee, dressed in a slightly oversized apron and adjusting his cap as he notices the two of you walk in.

"Ah, it’s Megumi-kun!" the worker says, his voice light with familiarity. "Back again, huh? You’ve got good taste."

Megumi, naturally, doesn’t respond. He merely stares up at the man, then tilts his head ever so slightly.

The employee chuckles, undeterred. "Still not much of a talker, huh? No worries—let’s see if today’s pizza can win a word out of you."

You smile, ruffling Megumi’s hair. "He’s getting there. Slowly. Anyway, we’ll take two slices—one cheese, one pepperoni."

"And ice cream," Megumi adds, very seriously.

You sigh, shaking your head. "We’ll talk about that later."

The employee grins, already sliding two hot slices onto plates. You guide Megumi toward a corner booth by the window, the worn red leather seats creaking as you both settle in.

He swings his little legs beneath the table, fingers drumming idly against the surface as he watches the worker prepare the slices.

"Mama," he says after a moment, his voice quieter now, thoughtful.

"Hm?" You glance at him, mid-reach for a napkin.

"Pizza is better than dino nuggets."

You pause, blinking. Then, you huff a quiet laugh. "Oh? So all that fuss before was for nothing?"

Some days are exhausting. Some days, you wonder how you manage it all—balancing work, life, and motherhood like you’re walking a tightrope with no safety net.

But moments like this?

They make it all worth it.

The daytime sun streams through the wide windows, casting a soft glow over the checkered tile floor.

You take a sip of your drink, letting yourself relax, just for a moment.

Then the doorbell jingles.

It’s an unremarkable sound, the same chime that’s rung a dozen times since you sat down, but this time, when you naturally glance up, the air in your lungs turns to stone.

Two tall figures stroll in like they own the place. Crisp suits, easy smiles, and voices that haven’t changed a bit.

“God, Suguru, I’m starving,” the white-haired one groans, a hand resting lazily on his stomach as they walk toward the counter.

Satoru and Suguru.

Two ghosts from your past, standing just a few feet away, like time hadn’t torn a canyon between you.

It’s been five years. Five years since they dropped you as easily as an old habit. Five years since they picked a side that was never yours to begin with.

They were always Toji’s friends first, you knew that, but still—being discarded so effortlessly after your breakup stung in a way you’d never admit out loud.

Megumi notices the shift immediately.

“Mama? What’s wrong?” His voice is quiet, but his brows pinch, his little body instinctively leaning against yours. Then, as if sensing something deeper, he scoots closer, resting his head against your side. His small hand clutches your shirt.

You want to curse the gods for making Megumi such an incredibly perceptive child, but at the same time, you want to thank them for giving you the sweetest boy imaginable.

No, really—you could start crying at the way his tiny fingers grip your shirt, like he already knows you need the comfort more than he does.

You clear your throat, ducking your head as if looking away will make them disappear. “Nothing, honey,” you murmur, smoothing a hand over his hair. “Just thought I recognized someone.”

A white lie. A harmless one. But your pulse won’t settle, and your fingers curl against the tabletop.

Because you don’t just recognize them. You know them.

You remember the unanswered calls, the ignored texts—the way they never once gave you a way to reach Toji when you needed him most. They didn’t know you were pregnant, sure. But even now, after all these years, the resentment bubbles up like something toxic in your chest.

And worst of all? If they see Megumi, they’ll know.

It wouldn’t take a genius to put the pieces together.

The kid is practically a carbon copy of his father—God, if you hadn’t been in the delivery room, you might’ve thought Toji had just spawned him into existence himself.

Your anxiety spikes as your mind races ahead, spiraling through every worst-case scenario.

Those striking emerald eyes you love so much? They’re just a smaller, rounder version of the ones you used to get lost in years ago.

And their smiles—though rare—mirror each other’s perfectly, down to the sharp curve of their lips.Maybe, just maybe, Megumi inherited your nose.

It’s a weak thought, flimsy and desperate. Because deep down, you know that in a few years, as he grows, his resemblance to Toji will only become more undeniable.

You swallow hard and exhale through your nose, forcing yourself to stay calm.

You just have to get through this meal. Get Megumi home. And pray that today isn’t the day the past comes knocking.

⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖°⋆˚♡˖

To be continued, after the completion of Blooming Hearts !

[writing-nothing-but-spilled-ink]

No cause you know what would be funny as fuck Ras Al ghul randomly showing up to the Wayne Manor and just letting himself in doesn't wait for anyone to let him in and he doesn't even tell Talia he's stopping by Wayne Manor and it's the anniversary of Jason's rebirth and Ras accidentally missed Damian's birthday because he was out of the country so here he is just waltzing into the manor here's how I think it'll go

Ra's: breaks into Wayne Manor and bee-lines to the batcave cause his spies told him Damian and Jason were down there

Bruce:has his back turned to the entrance in the middle of lecturing Jason for being reckless and for rigging his batmobile to shoot fucking glitter bombs whenever he tried to fire any kind of projectile

Jason: come on it was funny and it worked honestly I thought you'd be happy no one's dead they're just covered in glitter

Bruce: eye twitching

Damian: notices Ras just casually waltzing into the bat cave

Damian: hello grandfather

Bruce:spins around to find Ras in his lair bracing himself for a fight or some type of bad news only for ras to by pass him entirely and beeline to Jason and Damian

Ra's: snaps his fingers and assassin's come out of nowhere seemingly appearing from the shadows one is holding a bear cub with a little bow on its head and hands it to damian and steps back meanwhile another assassin appears with a giant stack of first edition leather bound classic literature and some rare ones that are almost unheard of to have

Ra's: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY GRANDSON'S :)

Bruce: is baffled because why is Ras calling Jason his grandson where did he get a bear cub why is he gifting Damian a bear cub, Damian's birthday was a month ago wtf Bruce's eye is twitching

Jason: oooo these are really hard to get, oh all of these are leather bound this is awesome thanks gramps though it's not really my birthday is your memory going old man

Ra's: this is the anniversary of your rebirth

Jason: ...

Damian: I appreciate the gift grandfather I shall name this bear lilly

Bruce: Damian I ... Look okay.. it's nice your .. his eye is twitching and he's trying to not lose his patience because again wtf.. grandfather has put an effort into this uh. Gift but you simply can't keep a bear in the manor much less in Gotham it's a wild animal

Damian: 😐 so isn't Jason and we keep him around and he gets to waltz around Gotham and the manor

Jason: hey listen here ya little shit

Bruce: exasperated first off your brother is not an animal secondly I'm not sure it's legal to keep a bear cub as a pet in Gotham

Damian: like running around Gotham dressed as a bat to beat up bad guys is legal, or that time you purposely broke into Arkham asylum to free Selina Kyle because her input on your suit was just sooooo important

Bruce: looks to Alfred

Alfred: well we do have the land space to build a sanctuary for the cub and the permits it would be quite an easy task to say the Wayne foundation is funding a bear sanctuary

Damian: ☺️ thank you Alfred

Bruce: turns to Ras why would you gift Damian a bear cub

Ra's: it was on his wishlist, and only the best for my grandsons, also you owe me child support

Bruce: ready to throw hands at this point

Alfred: smirks

Jason: trying really hard not to laugh

Ra's: ofcourse I'll let it go if you let the boy keep the bear cub in fact I have another gift but it won't be arriving for about a week 🙂.. he then turns to Damian you should give your mother a call she said something about wanting to plan something I'm really not sure what it is she's on about but regardless I think she'd like your input ... Well actually both your inputs

Bruce: sighs fine they get to keep the bear and we'll build the damn sanctuary but Damian i expect you to have it at least potty trained and do not under any circumstances let it in the kitchen I do not need a repeat of last time you got a new pet

Ra's: happy that he's annoyed the fuck out of Bruce and got his grandsons Great gifts my job here is done he claps his hands and his assassins fade back into the shadows

Jason: already lounging on a couch reading

Damian: holding the bear in his arms and patting it let's go get you some apples covered in honey 😊 walks out the cave with the bear cub

[claramelooo]

WOVEN FATES

You don't know the pleasure it is to be back!!! Well, is everyone here ready for this?

As always, today is just the prologue. And on Saturday (known as tomorrow) the first chapter will come out.

As I said previously, posts will decrease in frequency for reasons of: COLLEGE WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME? But I'll be here every Saturday and I'll wait for you

Enjoy it!

MINORS DO NOT MUST INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio X Fem Reader

Warnings: Manipulation, corrupt kink, mommy kink, ageplay, degradation, age difference, power dynamics, submission and domination, psychological domination, dubcon, fluffy, spanking, bdsm, angst, strap-on, slow burn [...]

Hey! Now I've a masterlist.

PROLOGUE

The golden light of dusk spilled through the towering windows of the Victorian mansion, staining the shadows with hues of copper and scarlet.

The air was heavy with the woody aroma of expensive whisky in a forgotten crystal glass on the mahogany table, mingling with the scent of Agatha Harkness—something between jasmine and the electric charge of an impending storm.

Seated in a plush velvet armchair of deep purple, she watched the crimson liquid swirl in the glass between her pale fingers, though her mind was far away, caught in thoughts that flowed like a dark, boundless river.

Her expression was unreadable, shaped by years of impenetrable control. The woman who ruled Hollywood, who turned careers into legends or dust with a mere gesture, felt something she loathed to admit: emptiness.

The fire crackled in the hearth, but even its flames dared not fill the thick silence that dominated the room. The director, whose blue eyes could cut like razors, seemed fixed on the void, her thoughts a myriad of sparks hidden beneath the surface.

“Are you going to keep drowning in your thoughts, or will you finally talk to me?”

The deep, slightly husky voice sliced through the silence like a sharp blade. Leaning against the doorframe, Rio Vidal watched her wife with the intensity of someone who knew the full weight of their own love.

Arms crossed, her black dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, revealing the ink that snaked across her sun-kissed skin. Every line of her body exuded contained frustration and a devotion so fierce it bordered on destructive.

“I don’t see what there is to talk about,” Agatha replied dryly, not even turning her head. “You know how this works. I work. And you play with your watercolors. We’re functional this way.”

Rio let out a bitter laugh, striding into the room with firm steps. “Functional? We’re further apart than ever, Agatha. You don’t even bother pretending anymore.”

The younger woman stopped beside the armchair, leaning in just enough for the woody, citrus scent of her skin to envelop Agatha.

The height difference was negligible, but the energy between them was brutal. Rio had always been raw intensity, an insatiable hunger. And Agatha? An unattainable enigma.

“What do you want me to say?” Agatha finally lifted her eyes, cold as ancient ice. “That I’m sorry for being the woman the world expects me to be? That I apologize for not being shaped for the tenderness you insist on demanding?”

Rio clenched her jaw, her brown eyes glinting in the warm firelight. For years, she had fought against this wall, this chasm between them. But fighting Agatha was like playing chess against an opponent who had already planned ten moves ahead.

“I don’t want apologies, Agatha,” she murmured, her voice unexpectedly soft. “I want to know if there’s still something here. Anything real, something that isn’t part of this damn performance you put on all the time.”

The silence between them wasn’t just heavy—it was devastating.

Then Agatha looked away.

A small detail, almost insignificant. But to Rio, it felt like a punch to the gut.

“I don’t know,” Agatha said at last. And for the first time, the ice in her voice didn’t sound unbreakable.

The weariness in Rio deepened. She carried her obsession with Agatha like a curse, a sentence she had willingly accepted. But even the most devoted love has its limits.

It was then that fate decided to intervene.

Agatha’s phone buzzed on the table beside her. The sound made them both blink, as if a spell had been broken.

With a restrained sigh, Agatha swiped her finger across the screen. The notification was from her team of advisors. Tomorrow, she would give a special mentorship session at the local university.

An obligation she had initially despised, but now…

Now it seemed intriguing.

Rio raised an eyebrow. “A new project?”

Agatha merely smiled, tilting her head slightly. An enigmatic, lethal smile.

Rio didn’t trust that smile.

“And what exactly are you going to teach those students, hm? How to be a manipulative ice queen?”

“Perhaps.”

They exchanged a glance, a silent battle waged between desire and resentment. Neither of them knew that a seemingly mundane encounter was about to change everything.

The missing link. The force that could either destroy or save what remained between them.

You.

~*~

Are babies prepared to be corrupted?

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @trindad2k

@indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher

@idkwhatever580

@reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good

@imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp

@lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01

[daryltwdixon]

Summary: There is no choice, not really—just the weight of a decision that will haunt him for the rest of his days. Joel moves forward, because he has to, because stopping means losing, because if he looks back, he might see what he’s done.

warnings: psychological warfare and im really sorry. read with caution. Ellie hospital scene. It's a long one!

Joel

Joel gasps in a ragged breath as he breaks the surface, lungs burning, throat raw from swallowing half the damn river. His body is done, legs barely kicking, arms aching from the weight of what he’s dragging with him. The current fights to pull him back under, but he fights harder. He has to.

When he reaches the work ramp, the water slows, lapping lazily at the concrete as he collapses onto solid ground. His knees hit hard, pain ricocheting up his legs, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the two unmoving bodies beside him.

Neither of you are breathing.

His hands tremble as he leans over both of you, chest heaving, mind spinning. Water drips from your clothes, puddling around you, your faces too still. Too pale. His heart is hammering against his ribs, panic flooding through his veins like a sickness.

He needs to move. He needs to do something, he can’t fail, he won’t fail. There's only so much time the brain can handle without oxygen.

But how is he supposed to choose? Who does he reach for first, who does he save first? It’s a paralyzing thought as he looks between you. 

Ellie . She’s immune, she’s the only hope left for the world. What started as a promise to Tess, the reason Henry and Sam died, the reason he’s still moving after losing everything. If she dies here, if this is where it all ends, the Fireflies won’t have a cure. Humanity won’t have a chance.

But then there’s you.

And if he loses you, if he watches you slip away under his hands, he doesn’t know if there will be anything left of him to keep going. 

The thought digs into his ribs, carves something hollow and aching in his chest, a terror deeper than anything he’s felt in twenty years. You aren’t just another person he’s had to protect, another responsibility thrown on his back. You’re something else entirely—something he wasn’t supposed to have, wasn’t supposed to let himself care about, but he does, God, he does. 

His breath catches, his hands hovering, twitching, desperate to do something.

He has to pick. He has to pick.

And he doesn’t know if he can live with his choice.

There isn’t a clear path here, no choice between right and wrong anymore. His chest tightens as the seconds bleed away, each one too precious to waste. Then, finally, he moves, pressing his hands down, forcing his hands into the chest cavity. It’s robotic at this point, panic melting into auto pilot, too sick to his stomach to think about what he’s doing.

“Hands in the air!”

The voice barely registers.

“She’s not breathin’,” Joel mutters, barely aware he’s speaking. His hands don’t stop, pressing harder, trying to force the chest beneath his palms to rise again.

“Hands in the fucking air!”

Boots slam against pavement. Rifles shift. He doesn’t stop.

“Come on,” he pleads, voice raw, broken, desperate. “Please, please—”

The footsteps close in. He refuses to look up. Someone moves fast, a shadow rising over him.

The weapon swings.

There’s a bright light above him the next time his eyes crack open, stark and unforgiving. For a moment, he wonders if this is it—the moment they all talk about, the light at the end, the peace after all the hell. Maybe this is where it ends.

Then his mind catches up.

It slams into him all at once—your lifeless body, Ellie’s motionless form on the cement, the desperate press of his hands, the gasping prayers caught in his throat. His breath hitches, his body jerking like he’s still trapped in the current, still fighting to pull you both to safety.

His eyes snap open fully. His pulse pounds against his ribs as he scans the room, unfamiliar walls closing in around him. The air smells too clean. The sheets beneath him are stiff and thin, the bed hard and unforgiving. There’s a deep, pounding ache in the back of his skull, his limbs heavy in a way that makes his gut twist. Something isn’t right.

He looks to his right, and sees someone that, for all he knew, was dead.

“Welcome to the Fireflies,” Marlene says, sitting beside him in a chair, legs crossed, her expression unreadable. 

She gives him a moment before saying, “Sorry about the…” he points to her head, reminding him of the source of the thrum in his skull, “They didn’t know who you were.”

Joel barely hears her. His throat is dry when he finally asks, “Ellie?”

“She’s alright. They brought her back.”

His stomach knots. He inhales, but the breath feels shallow. “And…?”

Marlene’s expression flickers—regret, maybe, but it’s distant, weighed down by something else.

“They were only told to bring in you and Ellie,” she says. “By the time I heard there was another girl… they told me she wasn’t moving, Joel. I’m sorry.”

His body stiffens, his back pressing against the hard mattress as he takes it in. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. The words are there, clear as day, but his brain refuses to take them in fully.

You were already gone when they got there.

His hands curl into fists, nails digging into his palms, but the pain doesn’t pull him out of it. His mind lingers in the space where you might have had more time, where if someone—anyone—had just tried a little harder, you might be here. If he had just worked faster. If he had made the right call.

But Ellie is alive. Ellie made it.

Marlene’s voice cuts through the fog, like she’s trying to process it all herself. “You came all this way… How’d you do it?”

“It was Ellie,” he mutters, his voice hollow. “And…her. They fought like hell to get here.”

“Maybe it was meant to be…” He whispers it more to himself than her, like if he says it enough times, he’ll believe it.

Joel pushes himself up, ignoring the way his body protests, but then he realizes—there’s a guard by the door.

Marlene exhales, shaking her head. “You were the one person I never wanted to be in debt to.” She doesn’t look at him when she says it, just stares ahead, like she’s still working through the reality of it all. “I pretty much lost everything. Most of my crew died getting me here. And then you show up, and somehow we find you just in time to save her.”

Not in time enough. Not for both of you.

Joel squeezes his eyes shut.

Marlene glances at him, voice softer. “Maybe it was meant to be.”

The words don’t feel right coming from her. They don’t feel right at all.

Joel swings his legs off the side of the bed. “Take me to her.”

“You don’t have to worry about Ellie anymore,” Marlene says. “We’ll take care of her—”

“I worry,” Joel snaps. “Just let me see her. Please.”

Marlene’s arms cross over her chest. Her eyes flicker to the guard. “We can’t. She’s being prepped for surgery.”

Something sharp lodges itself in Joel’s gut, cutting straight through whatever daze had been dulling his senses. The exhaustion, the grief, the weight of loss—all of it clears in an instant.

His voice is tight. “The hell you mean, surgery?”

“The doctors tell me that the Cordyceps, the growth inside her, has somehow mutated. It’s why she’s immune.”

Joel feels the guard shift behind him, closing in, but he barely registers it.

Marlene doesn’t flinch. “Once they remove it, they’ll be able to reverse engineer a vaccine.” She exhales, like she’s still convincing herself of the importance of it all. “A vaccine, Joel.”

His mind stumbles over the words, trying to put the pieces together. “But it grows all over the brain.”

Marlene just looks at him.

“It does.”

A thick silence settles between them.

His chest rises and falls, the pieces of the puzzle clicking together with sickening clarity.

“Find someone else,” Joel demands, voice cold.

“There is no one else.”

“Listen,” he growls, teeth clenched, hands curling into fists. “You’re gonna show me where—”

The guard moves before he can finish, slamming him down, pinning his arms behind his back as his chest hits the floor.

Joel grunts, pain sparking across his ribs.

“Stop,” Marlene says, and as Joel groans, pressing against the cold tile, she continues, “I get it. But whatever it is you think you’re going through right now is nothing compared to what I have been through.”

His jaw clenches so tight he feels his teeth creak.

Oh , fuck her .

Didn’t she get it? He was losing both of you. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

“I knew her since she was born,” Marlene’s voice cracks, just slightly, but she keeps going. “I promised her mother I would look after her. No one understands more than me.”

Joel barely hears her over the blood pounding in his ears.

“Then why are you letting this happen?” His voice is hoarse, nearly pleading.

“Because this isn’t about me,” she says, jabbing a finger into her own chest, anger flashing across her face. “Or even her. There is no other choice here.”

Joel exhales slowly, shoulders rising and falling as he pushes himself up just enough to sit back on his heels. His voice is dark, low, edged with something dangerous.

“Yeah,” he growls. “You keep tellin’ yourself that bullshit.”

Marlene straightens, glancing at the guard without a second thought. “March him out of here. He tries anything, shoot him.”

Joel doesn’t move, doesn’t fight, just glares at her from the floor.

She watches him for a moment, something almost unreadable flickering in her expression before she turns to leave. Just before stepping through the door, her voice lowers.

“Don’t waste this gift, Joel.”

Then she’s gone.

Joel stands there, Marlene’s words ringing in his head. Don’t waste this gift, Joel. Like this was some grand gesture, like they were offering him something instead of taking everything from him. Like he had a choice.

But what other fucking choice was there?

Going back to Jackson alone? Failing the both of you? Failing everything he had fought for, everything he had clawed his way through hell to protect? He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t.

The guard orders him up. Then a second time, the barrel of a gun pointing down at him.

Joel obeys, moving slowly, forcing his mind to focus through the pounding in his skull. He needs time. He needs his weapons.

The gun shoves harder into his back now, an irritated breath hissing through the Firefly’s teeth. "Give me an excuse."

Joel tilts his head slightly. "Which way?" His voice is quiet, measured, just enough distraction.

The man jerks his gun to the left. Joel follows.

The hospital is dim, the only light flickering weakly over the center desk. It looks abandoned, half-dead already. But something catches his eye as he passes—a bag. His bag. His weapons.

His fingers twitch. He watches them until the wall cuts off his view, then slows his pace, working it through in his head.

The Firefly bristles behind him. "What the fuck are you doin’? Keep walkin’."

Joel doesn’t answer. He waits.

The second the guard’s gun nudges his back again, he moves.

It’s fast—an elbow thrown back, a sharp crack as it connects. The gunshot rings out, echoing through the halls, but it slams harmlessly into the wall. Joel is already turning, wrenching the gun from the Firefly’s hands, twisting his arm, shoving him back. The man grunts, dazed, and Joel slams the barrel against his face. Once. Twice. The Firefly’s head snaps back, blood splattering the wall.

Joel shoves his forearm into his neck, pinning him, pressing the gun to the man’s groin.

"Where’s the operating room?" His voice is low, controlled, cold.

The man grits his teeth and stays silent. Joel exhales through his nose, then pulls the trigger. The Firefly howls , sagging against him, body crumpling.

" Where ?" Joel growls again.

Still nothing.

Joel squeezes the trigger again.

"WHERE?"

The man’s head lolls, breath ragged, face twisted in agony. His knees buckle, Joel’s arm the only thing keeping him upright.

"Top floor," he chokes out. "Far end."

Joel lets him drop. A moment later, he doesn’t hesitate, firing a final shot into the man’s skull.

He grabs his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder, hands locking around his rifle just as the sound of footsteps barrels down the hallway. More Fireflies. More obstacles.

Joel doesn’t think. He just moves .

He pushes forward, steps calculated, rifle raised. The first Firefly barely sees him before he drops. Then another. And another.

One by one, he clears them.

His mind is razor-sharp, focused, his grip steady, his body moving on instinct. But your face keeps creeping at the edges, pulling at his resolve, yanking him back to the cement, to the cold water pooling beneath you, to the way your hair had fanned out, damp and lifeless, as he made his choice.

He shakes it off. He has to. He can’t lose both of you. He has to get to Ellie.

More bodies fall, but he doesn’t care. He isn’t leaving until he finds her. If he couldn’t save you, he would save her. He couldn’t leave alone.

His boots pound against the linoleum, moving faster, fueled by something deeper than adrenaline, something darker. The halls flicker in and out of shadow as the emergency lights struggle to stay alive. He follows the signs—pediatrics—how fucking ironic that they’d still use the same rooms meant for saving children, even now, in this ruined world.

It’s quieter here. The distant echo of gunfire fades, replaced by the steady, rhythmic beeping of machines. He moves down the hall, toward the bright glow spilling out from the small glass window of a red door. His stomach twists as he swallows thickly. The scrub-in room is sterile, lined with sinks, the scent of disinfectant cutting through the blood drying on his skin.

Ellie is on the operating table, too still, too pale, wires and tubes snaking around her small frame. His chest tightens. She looks lifeless. Just like—

No. Not now. He shuts it down.

There are voices. A murmur of surprise and confusion as he steps inside. The second the door swings open, the surgeon’s head snaps up.

“What are you doing?!” the man exclaims, instinctively moving back. His hands fumble for something, grabbing a scalpel—a scalpel , like that could stop Joel now.

He pushes through.

“I won’t let you take her!” the doctor shouts, voice cracking with desperation. “This is our future! Think of all the lives we’ll save!”

But those lives won’t be Ellie’s. They won’t be your life.

Joel moves forward, slow, measured. The surgeon bristles, stepping back until there’s nowhere left to go.

“Don’t come any closer! I mean it!”

Joel barely hears him. There’s only red. The bright light of the room turns crimson in his vision, flooding everything. His body moves before his mind even registers it.

The scalpel is in his hands. Then it’s in the man’s neck.

A sickening gurgle fills the air as the doctor stumbles, hands flying up to the wound as blood pulses between his fingers. He slumps to the floor, his body twitching before going still.

“No!” a nurse screams, voice sharp with horror. “You fucking animal!”

Another one hisses at her to shut up. Joel doesn’t care.

He’s already at Ellie’s side, unhooking her, pulling tubes from her skin, tossing aside the oxygen mask suffocating her small face. His hands are shaking, but he works quickly, murmuring low as he cradles her limp body in his arms.

"Come on, baby girl. I got you, I got you."

Then the alarms begin to blare.

A loud, shrieking wail rips through the hospital, the red emergency lights flashing in jagged bursts. Shadows move beyond the glass doors—flashlights cutting through the darkness, the rapid stomp of boots, Fireflies closing in.

He needed to move. Now.

With Ellie secured against his chest, Joel turns and runs.

You

It’s warm.

Not just warm—golden, like the kind of sunlight that filters through leaves in late summer, shifting and flickering in the breeze. The air is soft, thick with something comforting, familiar, wrapping around you like a heavy blanket. You hear the faint rustling of trees, the slow hum of cicadas in the distance. Somewhere close, a creek bubbles, the gentle rush of water against stone.

You’re lying in the grass, the blades tickling your skin, the warmth of the sun pressing against your cheeks. You should get up. You know that. But your limbs feel heavy, too relaxed, too comfortable.

Then, fingers brush against your temple.

A slow, careful touch, tucking the loose strands of hair behind your ear. It’s gentle, warm. Safe.

“Hey,” Joel murmurs, voice low and steady. “Come on now, sweetheart.”

You hum, eyes fluttering, but they don’t open. Not yet. Just a little longer. Let me sleep.

His thumb trails lightly across your cheek. “Need you to wake up, baby.”

Something in his voice makes your chest ache. There’s something wrong there, something pleading beneath the softness.

You want to stay here. You want to keep breathing in the warm air, feeling the sun, listening to the steady rhythm of his voice.

But then his hand is slipping away.

No.

You reach for him, but the warmth starts to pull back, the golden light fading . The sound of the creek dulls, the hum of cicadas fading into something else—something colder.

“Joel,” you murmur, voice thick, slow, like you’re trying to hold onto something slipping through your fingers.

“Wake up,” he says again, but his voice is changing, shifting, deeper now, rougher.

Then everything disappears.

Suddenly it’s freezing.

Your body seizes as cold slams into you, sharp and biting, cutting through the softness in an instant. Your chest tightens, lungs spasming, and then—

You’re coughing, choking, water spilling from your mouth as your body jerks violently, muscles convulsing as you fight for air. Your fingers scrape against rough cement, nails dragging as you push yourself onto your side, gasping, spluttering, your throat raw, your ribs aching.

You blink, forcing your eyes open, the dim light of the tunnel swimming in and out of focus. Your limbs feel leaden, frozen through, but you push up onto shaky elbows, sucking in a breath that burns all the way down.

Your heart is pounding.

The warmth is gone and so is Joel. Where was he? Where was Ellie?

Your stomach knots, panic rising through the exhaustion. You scramble up, your body swaying, head spinning as you look around, searching for them.

But the tunnel is silent, just the sound of water lapping against the cement of the tunnel. You grab your backpack, thankfully still here with your bow and arrows, and begin to move.

Then you see it, a glint of metal in the grass. Your breath catches as you stagger forward, fingers wrapping around it before you even register what it is. Ellie’s pistol. Your grip tightens around the handle, stomach twisting. She wouldn’t have left this, not on purpose.

Your breath comes quicker now, uneven, your pulse thrumming against your skin as you turn, eyes lifting toward the skyline.

The hospital stands in the distance, stark and still against the gray sky, its windows shattered, its walls stained. They had to be there, didn’t they?

The wind is sharp as you move forward, pushing through the lingering dampness clinging to your skin. Each step is heavy, sluggish, but you force yourself to keep moving, the weight of exhaustion trying to drag you down. The hospital looms in the distance, cold and silent. 

You keep your grip firm on Ellie’s pistol, fingers tightening and loosening as you scan the building for movement. Nothing. No signs of people except the lights glowing in the upper windows. No signs of Joel or Ellie. But they had to be here. They had to be.

The place is too quiet, too still, but that only sets your nerves on edge. Then you hear the voices.

You freeze, pressing yourself behind an abandoned car near the entrance, listening.

“…can’t reach anyone upstairs.” A man’s voice, low and tense. “All units should be responding, but I don’t know what the hell’s going on up there.”

“There were gunshots. You think it’s them?”

“I don’t know, but keep your eyes open. If they’re here, we put them down.”

Your pulse spikes. Joel.

He’s still inside. He’s fighting. Why is he fighting? What went wrong?

You duck lower, peering through the broken-out window of the car. Two Firefly soldiers stand near the side entrance, rifles ready, scanning the area. They’re blocking the way you were planning to go, and you know you aren’t strong enough to take them both in hand-to-hand combat. You barely have the strength to hold yourself up, let alone fight someone trained.

But distance. Distance you can work with.

You ease Ellie’s pistol into your waistband, keeping your breath steady. If you miss, you’re dead. If you alert the other Fireflies, you’re dead. There’s no second chance.

Carefully, you pull your bow from your shoulders, fingers brushing over the few remaining arrows. Not much left. You grab one, nock it, draw back.

The first man drops before his partner even registers what’s happened. A clean shot, straight through the throat. His body crumples soundlessly to the ground.

The second turns, eyes going wide, mouth opening to shout—

You loose the next arrow before he gets the chance, and the thud of his body barely makes a sound.

You don’t wait to see if anyone heard. You run. More voices crackle over their walkies, static-filled and frantic.

“ —we need backup now! He’s got the girl—”

Gunfire erupts from inside the building, but you keep moving, ducking low, keeping to the perimeter as you round the building. You’re almost to the parking garage when something grabs you from behind.

A thick arm wraps around your throat, yanking you backward, your vision tilting as you struggle. Your lungs seize, hands clawing at the arm crushing against your windpipe. He’s strong, too strong , and panic explodes in your chest as you thrash, kicking wildly.

Then you remember your knife.

Your fingers scramble for the handle strapped to your hip, yanking it free and plunging it backward, twisting the blade deep into his thigh.

The man startles, his grip loosening just enough for you to tear free, stumbling backward as you gasp in air. He’s still moving, staggering, reaching for you, so you don’t hesitate. You grip the knife tighter and slam it into his throat.

He gurgles, then slumps to the pavement.

You shake out your trembling hands, yanking the blade free, wiping the blood on your jeans. Your breaths come sharp and ragged, but you don’t stop to dwell on it. You won’t let the haze that had covered you for weeks in guilt come over you now.

The parking garage entrance is open, a long ramp sloping downward into the dark. You slip inside, sticking to the walls, careful to avoid making noise. The air is heavy, thick with the scent of oil and damp concrete, the overhead lights flickering dimly.

Somewhere above you, voices echo.

You follow them.

The stairwell is narrow, the metal steps cold beneath your fingers as you climb, moving slowly, cautiously. The closer you get, the clearer the voices become.

Then you hear him. The voice you would follow anywhere, even if it was into the dark.

Your stomach knots as you reach the top landing, peering through the crack in the door. He’s there, moving steadily, his arms wrapped around Ellie’s limp form as she wears a thin, blue covering, holding her close to his chest. Her head rests against him, her body slack, and something deep inside you twists so hard it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

Then you see the gun in the woman’s hand. It’s trained on him, steady and unwavering.

She stands just a few feet away, her stance firm, both hands gripping the pistol as she keeps her aim locked on Joel.

Your breath catches, the weight of the moment settling over you like a vice, pressing down on your ribs, squeezing your lungs. You swallow hard, moving to switch your bow for Ellie’s pistol, gripping it tightly in your hands as you desperately try to work out your next move.

“It ain’t for you to decide,” Joel growls.

“It’s what she’d want,” the woman says, circling him. You push deeper into the shadows, but she doesn’t see you, her gaze is locked on him, “You can still do the right thing here.” the woman says, holding her hands up, the gun beginning to point away from him.

And then you step out of the shadows, and pull the trigger. The shot rings out, splitting the air like a crack of thunder.

The woman stumbles, a sharp, gasping breath hitching in her throat as the bullet tears through her shoulder. She lurches forward, her pistol clattering to the ground as her hands fly to the wound, crimson blooming against her shirt.

Joel jumps back, and you can see the panic flare. He’s ready to fight anyone who comes in his way. He shifts away from Marlene, gripping Ellie tighter to himself, and grabbing his own gun and pointing it out from under her knees.

He twists around to face the threat, and his gaze lifts and meets yours.

For a long, few heartbeats, he doesn’t move. He just stares at you like he’s seeing a ghost, like he’s trying to convince himself you’re standing there, real and breathing. His chest rises and falls in ragged, uneven breaths, his arms locked around Ellie, his body trembling with something too big for words.

Your name slips from his lips, barely a whisper, his voice hoarse, breaking on the syllables like it physically hurts him to say it. His knees threaten to buckle, like his body is giving up on him, but he forces himself to stay upright, forces himself to hold onto Ellie because he has to.

Your eyes narrow on him, had he thought–

“What the hell is going on?” you whisper, stepping toward him, heart hammering.

Your eyes drop to Ellie, her small, limp frame cradled against him, her face pale beneath the flickering parking lot lights. Panic claws its way up your throat as you reach for her, your hands hovering over her body, searching for signs of injury.

“She—she’s okay,” Joel breathes, like he can barely believe it himself.

“She’s not supposed to be.”

The voice comes from behind you, sharp and raw with pain.

You turn to see the woman on the floor, her hand clutching her bleeding shoulder, her face twisted in something between agony and fury.

“He’s killing everyone,” she rasps, glaring up at you.

Your stomach tightens. You look at her, then at Joel. He shakes his head immediately, a storm building behind his eyes, anger and pain clashing so violently across his face that it scares you.

“He’s stealing her because he’s a selfish animal,” the woman spits, voice cracked and ragged. “He’d rather save her than the entire world.”

Joel only looks at you.

“Baby,” he whispers, his voice desperate, pleading, willing you to listen to him . You swear you can almost see tears in his eyes now, “Please. They were going to kill her. You have to understand.”

Your breath catches. Your throat feels tight, dry, like the walls are closing in around you. “Kill her?”

He nods, but the woman speaks before he can.

“It’s what she would’ve wanted, Joel, and you know it,” she says, her voice raw. “She would’ve wanted to save everyone, even if it meant sacrificing herself for it.”

Your head spins, everything shifting at once.

Ellie…Ellie would’ve had to die to create a cure?

You look down at her again, at her peaceful, unconscious face, your hands tightening into fists at your sides.

Disbelief and desperation crash into you like a tidal wave. You’re not entirely sure who the whirlwind of feelings is pointed towards at the moment. Joel was taking her. Taking her from her life’s purpose, from what she was meant to do, what she had fought so hard to become. They were going to make a cure. They were going to save everyone.

But to do that, they had to kill her.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you look back at him. His grip on Ellie is ironclad, his knuckles white where they clutch at her shirt. His jaw is clenched, his entire body coiled so tightly you think he might snap apart.

And suddenly, you see it.

The way his breath shudders, the way his fingers tremble against Ellie’s skin, the way his eyes shine with something close to madness—he couldn’t lose her.

Not again. Not after Sarah. This wasn’t just about Ellie. It wasn’t just about a cure or a choice. This was about a father who had already buried one daughter and refused to bury another.

Your stomach twists. Your chest tightens. You don’t know what to feel.

But you know what to do.

“Get her in the car,” you say, pointing to the truck behind him.

Joel doesn’t hesitate.

He moves, carrying Ellie toward the vehicle, his arms still locked around her. You don’t look at him. You don’t let yourself think.

“No!” the woman cries from the ground, her bloody hand reaching toward you, desperate, grasping at anything . “Please, don’t—”

But Joel doesn’t let her finish. He sets Ellie down and turns, moving so fast you barely register it, “You’re just gonna come after her.” he says with eerie quietness.

Then the gunshot shatters the silence, and the woman’s body jerks, then slumps, her outstretched hand falling limp against the blood-slick floor.

Joel exhales, shoulders heaving, his grip tightening around the gun as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His chest rises and falls in sharp, ragged bursts, his head tilting back as he drags in a breath like he’s trying to steady himself. But there’s nothing steady about him right now.

He turns to you.

His eyes are wild, his face drawn tight with something raw, something too big, too heavy to carry alone. The way he looks at you sends something sharp through your chest, something painful, something close to grief.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, his voice breaking, barely more than a whisper as he reaches for you.

And then his arms are around you.

It’s not gentle—it’s desperate, crushing, pulling you so tight against him that for a second, the air is knocked from your lungs. His fingers dig into your back, gripping you like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real, that this isn’t just another cruel trick of the world taking from him again. His breath shudders against your hair, his whole body trembling with something he can’t name, something he doesn’t even try to hold back.

“I thought—” His voice catches, cracking in a way you’ve never heard before. “I thought you were gone.”

Your chest clenches. You don’t know what to say, don’t even know what you can say. So you don’t. Instead, your arms wrap around him, pressing your face into his chest. He’s warm, so warm, his heart pounding hard beneath your cheek, his entire body still coiled tight like he can’t fully let go. Your fingers fist into the back of his jacket, holding him just as much as he’s holding you.

Neither of you move.

Then you hear more voices. They cut through the moment, distant at first, but quickly getting closer. Heavy boots against pavement. Shouting. Orders being given.

Joel stiffens, his arms tightening around you for just a second longer before he pulls back, his hands lingering on your arms like he doesn’t want to let go. His eyes dart past you, his expression shifting instantly, something hard and determined settling over his face.

“We gotta go,” he says, voice low, urgent.

You nod, stepping back, wiping a shaky hand to your tear streaked face as you turn toward the truck. Joel is already moving, carefully setting Ellie’s legs up in the backseat, his jaw tight as he checks her over one last time. The sound of approaching voices is growing louder, closing in fast.

Your fingers fumble as you grip the passenger door handle, heart hammering as you climb inside. Joel slams the driver’s side shut just as he twists the key in the ignition, the truck sputtering to life. Thank god it runs.

Joel is throwing it into gear suddenly, the tires screeching against the pavement as you speed out of the garage. The hospital vanishes behind you, swallowed by the night.

Joel’s hands grip the wheel, knuckles tight, his eyes locked on the dark stretch of road ahead. The truck hums beneath you, the only sound cutting through the thick silence that’s settled between you.

You sit stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed, still chilled to the bone, but you can’t tell if it’s from the cold or from everything that just happened. Your fingers twitch against your thigh, your mind racing in circles, trying to grasp the full weight of what you just walked into.

Joel exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face, the muscles in his jaw twitching. His body is wound tight, like he’s still ready for a fight, like he hasn’t let himself breathe since the moment he ran out of that hospital with Ellie in his arms.

You glance at her now, curled in the backseat, her chest rising and falling with steady breaths, unaware of what’s just happened. Of what Joel has done to keep her here.

The road stretches ahead, endless and empty.

Whatever it is, whatever he’d done… it would change everything, but it wouldn’t change this.

You shift slightly, leaning toward him. For a moment, he doesn’t react, his mind still miles away, lost in thoughts you can’t begin to unravel. But then, after a beat, he exhales, his grip on the wheel loosening just enough. His arm lifts, hesitates, then opens to you.

That’s all you need.

You move into him, pressing against his side, wrapping your arm around his middle. He’s warm, solid, the heat of his body seeping into your frozen skin, grounding you like it always does.

Joel sighs, the sound low, tired. His hand comes down to rest on your back, wide and steady, fingers pressing into the fabric of your shirt like he needs the reassurance that you’re really there.

“Joel?” Your voice is small, uncertain.

“Hm?” he grunts. Then, like he only just realizes you’re talking to him, he pulls in a breath, his palm splaying flat against your back, holding you closer.

“Yeah, baby?”

You hesitate, feeling the weight of what you’re about to ask settle thick between you. The warmth of his body, the way he’s holding you, it almost makes you want to let it go. To pretend, for just a little while longer, that you don’t want to know the answer.

But you need to hear him say it.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

His body stiffens against you. His eyes flicker down, just for a second, before returning to the road ahead. His grip tightens just slightly against your back, and you can feel the shift in him, the way he withdraws just a little—not from you, but from the moment.

You don’t let him retreat.

“I want the truth,” you say, firmer this time. “I can handle it.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, his jaw working, but he doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches between you, tense, filled with all the things he isn’t saying.

Then, slowly, he leans his head down onto yours. His breath is steady, but the weight of him resting against you feels different than before—like an apology, like a confession without words.

“I know you can,” he murmurs, voice rough, low.

You wait, holding onto the warmth of him, listening to the hum of the tires against the road, waiting for him to speak again.

When he finally does, it’s quiet.

“I saved her,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. 

But somehow you know that’s only the half of it. 

You watch him for a long moment before you say: "From the beginning," 

The road stretches endlessly ahead, bathed in the soft light of morning. Hours have passed in near silence, the weight of everything settled heavy in the truck. Your hands grip the wheel now, your body aching from exhaustion, but the need to keep moving outweighs it.

Joel sits beside you, his posture slack but tense in ways only you would notice. His head rests in his hand, elbow braced against the door, his eyes a thousand miles away like he’s trying to keep his thoughts from spilling over. You glance at him, and he exhales deeply, the sound barely audible over the hum of the truck.

Then, a rustling from the backseat.

Your breath stills. Your fingers flex around the steering wheel.

Joel hears it too. His head lifts immediately, eyes flickering over his shoulder before shifting back toward Ellie, something raw and bracing settling in his expression.

Behind you, Ellie stirs. She groans, shifting sluggishly against the seat.

“The hell am I wearing?” she mutters, her voice groggy.

Joel turns in his seat, his voice softer than you’ve heard in days. “Just take it easy,” he says. “The drugs are still wearing off.”

Ellie blinks sluggishly, disoriented, her limbs heavy from whatever they pumped into her system. You can see it in her face, the confusion settling in, the questions forming.

“What happened?” she whispers.

The air in the truck shifts. You knew it was coming, knew the second she woke up she’d ask. But hearing it out loud so soon sends a sharp twist through your chest. Your gaze flickers to Joel. He’s looking down at his seat, his fingers twitching before he forces himself to sit forward again, watching the road like it might give him the right words.

Then, he speaks.

“We found the Fireflies,” he says, voice steady, measured. “Turns out there’s a whole lot more like you, Ellie.”

The words settle like a stone in your gut.

“People that are immune—dozens of them,” he continues, pausing briefly. “Ain’t done a damn bit of good… They just—”

He hesitates. Just for a second.

Then he turns back to her, eyes softening, but his voice firm.

“They stopped lookin’ for a cure.”

You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, inhaling through your nose before focusing back on the road. You can’t bear to look at her, can’t bear to see the way she processes it.

She turns slowly, facing the rear of the car, her back now to both of you.

You swallow thickly, shifting in your seat, the weight of it pressing harder into your ribs.

“We’re headed home now,” you say, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Joel looks back at her, something unreadable in his expression. A long silence stretches between you all, the hum of the tires on the road the only thing filling the space.

Then, his voice—low, almost inaudible.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

But Ellie doesn’t turn back.

The car hood slams down with a sharp metallic clang, echoing through the empty stretch of road. You scoff, wiping your hands against your jeans, smearing grease and dirt into the fabric. The truck had held out for as long as it could, but after hours of hard driving, it had finally given up on you.

“Looks like we’re walkin’ the rest of the way,” you say, shaking your head.

Joel comes around the front, glancing at the road sign half-covered in ivy. Jackson City, next right. The paint is weather-worn, but the words are still clear enough.

“Should be a straight shot through, anyway,” he says.

You nod, adjusting your pack as he takes the lead, stepping off the abandoned road and into the thick woods beyond.

The transition is instant; gone is the cracked pavement, replaced with the uneven, damp earth of the forest floor. The trees are massive, their trunks stretching high into the afternoon light, patches of blue sky barely visible through the tangled branches. A mix of pine and bare oaks crowd the space, the ground littered with dead leaves, rotting wood, and scattered patches of bright green moss. The air is cool, crisp with the lingering bite of winter, but there’s a freshness to it, the first hints of spring creeping back into the world.

As you walk, the sounds of civilization disappear entirely. There’s no hum of an engine, no wind rattling through empty cars. Instead, it’s just the woods, the crunch of boots against damp leaves, the distant rush of a river cutting through the valley below, the occasional rustle of a bird taking flight from the canopy above.

The trek is slow, the terrain uneven, but Joel moves with ease, pushing past overgrown ferns and low-hanging branches like he’s done this a thousand times before. You follow close behind, stepping over fallen logs, climbing small rocky slopes, your boots sinking into the soft patches of dirt still thawing from the last snow.

After a while, you find yourself walking alongside Ellie.

She’s been quiet for most of the trip, but when she finally speaks, her voice is so soft, so uncertain, that you almost don’t catch it.

“Were you there?”

At first, you don’t react, thinking she might not be speaking to you at all. But when you glance at her, she’s already looking at you, waiting.

There’s something in her expression—not just curiosity, but something deeper. A challenge. A plea. Like she’s giving you the chance to be honest before she even knows if she can trust the answer.

Your breath tightens in your chest.

You shake your head. “When we went underwater in those tunnels, I think I almost drowned. I don’t really remember much.” You keep your voice light, simply recalling everything that she knew, like the weight of this conversation isn’t pressing into your ribs. Stepping carefully over a patch of exposed roots, you sigh. “Then I woke up and the two of you were gone.”

Ellie listens. Hard.

Her boots scuff against a patch of damp moss, but she keeps her gaze ahead, her fingers curling into the sleeves of her jacket. You can feel her hanging onto every word, studying the way you say it, the space between the things you do and don’t tell her.

Your hands ball into fists at your sides as you glance up at Joel ahead, weighing the right words.

“I found you when Joel was already getting you into the car,” you say carefully. That much is true. And right now, the truth—or at least, parts of it—is all you can allow yourself to give her.

Ellie nods slightly, absorbing it. Then, after a pause—

“Did he tell you what happened?”

You hesitate for just a second before nodding. “Yeah, yeah. I met…” you pause, not even knowing the woman’s name that you shot, “I met a someone there. She was with him.”

Ellie’s face shifts with recognition, “Marlene?” she asks. “She knew my mom too.”

You glance at her, watching how carefully she’s watching you.

“Must’ve been her then, yeah,” you say, choosing each word with painstaking precision. “Joel said she was—is—the leader of the Fireflies.” The correction slips out, accidental and you hope she doesn’t catch it.

Ellie doesn’t press you further.

Instead, she just nods, pulling her jacket tighter around herself as she steps over a fallen branch. Quiet again.

The two of you keep moving, the only sound between you the rustling of wind through the leaves, the distant trickle of a stream winding somewhere nearby. The trees seem to stretch on forever, the mountains looming in the distance, their peaks still dusted in winter’s last snow.

Joel remains ahead, moving with a silent focus. And Ellie stays beside you, thoughtful, distant.

You don’t know if she believes you.

You come up upon a crest in the hills, where the trees thin out, and the view opens wide. Below, the valley stretches out beneath you, Jackson nestled safely between the mountains. Smoke curls from chimneys, dotting the landscape with the unmistakable signs of life.

Joel exhales beside you, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a little as he takes in the sight. His voice is softer when he speaks.

“You know, I used to take hikes like these with Sarah all the time,” he says, his eyes still on the town below. “I think you both would’ve liked her.” There’s a pause, a faint, almost wistful breath before he adds, “She would’ve liked you.”

Your eyes find his, and you can’t help the small, warm smile that tugs at your lips. He’s letting you in. Talking about Sarah like this, openly, with both of you, it means something. A comfort settles deep in your chest, softening the sharp edges of the last day and a half.

“Yeah,” Ellie says, her voice quieter. “I bet we would’ve.”

Joel nods, his gaze lingering on the valley a moment longer before he moves forward, leading the way toward the dam. You follow, stepping carefully over the uneven terrain, the cold, damp earth soft beneath your boots. Small streams snake through the land, feeding into the massive dam that marks the entrance to Jackson.

It’s close now. You’re so close.

But then—

“Hey, wait,” Ellie calls softly.

You and Joel stop immediately, turning to her.

She stands there, hands fidgeting together, her shoulders drawn tight, her face etched with something so raw it makes your stomach drop.

She sighs, almost more of a groan, rubbing her hands over her face before finally speaking.

“Back in Boston...back when I was bitten. I wasn’t alone.”

Your brows furrow as you listen, feeling something shift in the air, something heavy.

Ellie keeps going, her voice steady but distant, like she’s pulling the words from somewhere deep inside herself. “My best friend was there. And she got bit too. We didn’t know what to do so… she says, ‘Let’s wait it out, y’know? We can be all poetic and lose our minds together.’”

She pauses, swallowing hard, her fingers curling back into fists.

“I’m still waiting my turn.”

Joel takes a step closer, his expression tense. “Ellie—”

But she isn’t done.

“Her name was Riley, and she was the first to die.” Her voice hardens, gains strength, even as pain flickers behind her eyes. “And then it was Tess. And then Sam.”

The words drive a splinter deep into your gut.

Tess.

Your breath catches. Your mind reels, searching through old conversations, through Joel’s words back at Bill’s, in the kitchen, arms crossed, walls up. He hadn’t told you the truth. He never told you she died. But what had he said? Your brain tries to search for it, for what he told you that had happened, but for all you know it was a made up story.

You glance at him now, looking for something, for anything, in his expression. But he doesn’t look at you. His eyes stay on Ellie, his jaw clenched tight.

Ellie lets out a slow breath, eyes burning.

“None of that is on you,” Joel says firmly.

Ellie shakes her head, frustrated. “No, you don’t understand.”

Joel folds his arms over his chest, his voice gentler now, but still steady. “I struggled for a long time with survivin’,” he tells her, his expression softening. “And you. No matter what, you keep findin’ somethin’ to fight for.”

His arms unfold, his fingers brushing over the broken watch strapped to his wrist. Ellie shifts slightly, already turning away, but he isn’t done.

“I know that’s not what you wanna hear right now, but it’s—”

“Swear to me.”

Ellie’s voice cuts through his, stopping him in his tracks.

She turns back, eyes burning into his, demanding,“Swear to me that everything you said about the Fireflies is true.”

Joel shifts on his feet, and you watch him carefully, your heart pounding hard in your chest.

And then he looks her in the eye and says: “I swear.”

The silence is thick, stretching too long. Ellie’s eyes flicker to you, searching, waiting.

Your throat is dry, your pulse hammering, but you force yourself to nod.

“I promise. ”

It feels like acid on your tongue.

Ellie doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Then, after a long moment, she nods.

“Okay,” she says.

[goldsbitch]

Twelve Grapes

-chapter 7, part 1 - A bit of a bad boy

Yeah, sure. Let’s do the talking on track. Only - the track is public roads of Monaco and the talking is a couple fight.

word count: don't even ask, it's getting out of hand warning: kissing, m/m, Jos Verstappen A+ parenting introduced, few awful homophobic comments, couple fight

"Max, if you don't want to have the whole of Monaco gossiping about us, you're going to have to stop touching me every time the realtor turns his head around," Charles stifles as he reluctantly pushes Max's arms away from his waist. Both of them know Charles does not really mind Max's hands roaming around his body.

The Dutchman laughs. "The guy is too focused on explaining why this specific faucet is the best in the world, I don't think he remembers we're here," Max argues and steals one kiss and pinches Charles' hip. But, after that he caves in and puts his arms away from Charles and does few steps back, to create a distance that would somewhat be acceptable for "a buddy who's helping him pick out a new apartment to move in". Charles walks toward the realtor guy to listen to a lecture on kitchen cabinets, something that Max knows he secretly enjoys. Max still does not understand why all of a sudden Charles needs his own apartment. Yes, technically, he's still living with his mother. However, realistically, he spends any free moment in Max's place. The phrase "a Ferrari driver can't be living with his mother" is not a strong argument in his opinion. He lets them debate about the marble tile materials and takes one more walk around the place. It's a particularly nice apartment, the best one so far. Main feature being the massive terrace overlooking the city and sea. Provides enough of privacy for them to let go and promises a notion of domestic freedom. It's been just a few months since they first hooked up. Seems like ages ago, everything went to quickly and naturally after that. Max especially appreciated the fact there was no bullshit needed with Charles. They both understood the predicament. Keep things private from others. Don't let their relationship affect racing and vice versa. It was surprisingly hard to watch Charles and his first potential win slip through his fingers. Max won't ever admit this to him, but it's going to be way harder to balance this than he ever expected. And the season has just started. He will uphold their unspoken agreement. Charles has entered his life in a measure like no one else before. Max prays that he is mature enough to not fuck it up for both of them.

He joins Charles back in the kitchen and waits for the damn realtor walk away to the bedroom again, before caging Charles against the kitchen counter, back to back. He bends him over and hold him by his hair.

"Max," the man, who's ass he's pressing into, warns. But even though he can't see Charles' face, he can hear the hidden amusement in his tone. Max chuckles and rolls his hips into him. It would only take a moment for the realtor to turn and spot them in this position.

"What?" he whispers into Charles' ear while giving it a quick lick. In return, he starts to melt under his touch immediately and almost gives in to whatever Max would suggest. As always. "I need to make sure the kitchen is up to our standards. We don't exactly use it for cooking," he comments, images of him fucking Charles hard against the counter at his home flooding Max's brain. He knows Charles enough to know that it takes everything he has to wiggle out of the embrace and walk away, like a responsible adult would. But it's all clear when he flashes him a flirty smile on the way over to the realtor. Just like Max, he is nothing but a horny post-teenager, who would happily get bent right then and there. His hot, desirable and inescapable Charles. With dimples created specifically to make Max lose himself in them.

//

The start of his dream career in Ferrari is about as hard as expected. Completely new environment to blend into, battling the strange combination of part of the team believing Charles is there to help them get to the top, generational talent and all that, and the other side of the garage, that is still bitter about Kimi Raikonnen getting replaced by a rookie. Then there is Sebastian Vettel. Someone he used to look up to. It took him the first two races to abandon that sentiment completely. Seb radiated a sort of tired, I'm-so-over-it energy that poisoned anyone who was willing to listen. And the fact Charles looked so happy to be part of the old, somewhat stagnant team, was not exactly helping their teammate energy.

The Ferrari engagement is ten times more demanding than his workload in Sauber was. Charles' life lately has been reduced to his work and Max exclusively. Time with friends replaced by PR duties and trying to make space for some downtime with one of his biggest rivals. And here's the wildest thought he keeps for himself. He'd give anything to have Max as a teammate. It might be not exactly the healthiest of wishes, but after getting stuck in another strategy meeting, when he's on the receiving end of Sebastian's self-introduced Ted talk about how the current newcomers into F1 don't follow the proper ethics of racing (something Charles finds incredibly ironic, coming from this man), he's getting more and more annoyed with this approach. They are not there to drive around all politely and harmoniously. He never thought that the biggest inspiration he'd take from this legend of a driver is to make sure he never falls into the trap of this attitude.

He can feel himself spacing out during the drivers parade. Sebastian is standing next to him, nagging something to his ears about a hot reporter standing nearby, challenging Charles to come out of his shell for once. He's not listening to him. His eyes keep sliding over to a certain driver.

Charles can’t stop himself from watching Max, even when it’s dangerous to look. Which seems to be the case all the fucking time. There’s something magnetic about the way Max carries himself, completely unaware of how he commands attention. Not just from Charles, but from everyone. It’s in the sharpness of his jawline, the way the light catches in his sun-streaked hair, and the way his eyes, icy and calculating on track, turn softer when they’re alone. Max Verstappen in public is a machine, a flawless embodiment of focus and precision. Max in private? That’s the man Charles loses sleep over. Endlessly proud to know he's the only one who can see him like that. They never discussed what they were - and Charles is grateful for that. Because there is no need. It took them one night spent together to know it is inevitable.

Max, dressed in his Red Bull kit, stands at the other end of the drivers’ parade truck, casually leaning against the railing. His laughter cuts through the general hum of the crowd, drawing Charles’ attention like a moth to a flame.

Charles knows he shouldn’t stare, not with Sebastian Vettel by his side, who is murmuring something that’s no doubt vaguely inappropriate. But Charles has stopped caring. He can’t help it. There’s a warmth in Max’s laughter that Charles rarely sees, a kind of unguarded joy that makes him wish they could exist in a world where nothing had to be hidden. Where Charles could walk across the paddock, curl his hand around Max’s wrist, and pull him into a kiss for everyone to see.

His pulse quickens at the thought.

He knows the paddock is connected through and through with affairs and relationships. But, he can't help but fall into the pattern of thinking the two of them are just so much more than what anyone here around them have. They don't need the layer of secrecy to keep the blood flowing. It's a burden, not a blessing. Max glances over at him, catching him mid-stare. For a moment, the world narrows to just the two of them. Charles feels like he’s standing still while the truck rolls on, the crowd cheers, and the cameras flash. Max’s lips quirk into a small, knowing smile. It’s nothing much, just a subtle curve at the edge of his mouth, but it’s enough to make Charles’ knees weak. It’s infuriating how easily Max gets under his skin, how even in a sea of people, Max can find him, target him, and ruin him with a single glance.

He recalls last night - another impulsive, reckless visit after terribly long day. Max had pinned him to the wall of his hotel room, breathless and relentless, as if daring Charles to pull away. He hadn’t. He never could. They made a deal to avoid visiting each other's hotel rooms as much as possible, keep their affair locked in Monaco, where they could be somewhat safe. But how does one do that, when they get to spend so much time together?

Standing on the track, anthem blaring, Charles feels the weight of it all. The impossibility of their situation. The inevitability of it. Max is the one thing Charles has, and nobody can ever know. The one thing making him able to unwind and with that, he's giving him all the power in the world to destroy him.

When the anthem ends and the drivers disperse, Charles doesn’t let himself glance Max’s way again. Not until he’s strapped into the car, visor down, engines roaring around him. Only then does he let his mind wander, let himself imagine what it would feel like to have Max beside him - not as a rival, but as a partner.

And in that fleeting moment, before the lights go out, Charles feels it in his chest. The ache of loving someone who has set his entire world on fire. Charles knows this is real. There is no need for the "what are we" talk. It's been so obvious, even for his anxious soul, that what they have is real.

At that time, he has no idea that last night was the last one he'd spend moaning Max's name in good faith and not cursing him until the morning hours.

//

It's his first Monaco home race as a Ferrari driver. The team has got his schedule planned out to minutes every day. Still, he manages to sneak in one dinner at mamma's apartment, just like the old days. Charles sits at the table, in the same chair he’s occupied since he was a boy, but tonight it feels different. Heavy. The kind of heavy that presses on your chest, makes you shift in your seat, and has your fingers nervously spinning a fork against the edge of the plate.

His mother bustles around, humming softly, the clatter of pots and pans filling the room. She’s always been able to fill the space, even when it’s quiet. Normally, Charles finds comfort in that. Tonight, though, it just makes the knot in his stomach tighten.

She’s been on him for weeks now - little comments slipped into phone calls, questions disguised as casual curiosity but cutting deeper than she probably realizes.

“Where do you spend your nights, Charles?”

It’s why he got his own apartment. Her gentle but relentless probing on where he hangs about when she knows he’s in Monaco. 

“You’re doing a bad job at pretending you’re only happy because of Ferrari. Is there someone special in your life? You look like you're in love.”

The hardest one. The one that makes him want to blurt it all out something he had never said out loud to anyone ever, not even Max: Yes, I am in love, more than I ever thought possible.

“Why can’t you tell your own mother?”

He puts the fork down harder than he means to, the sound startling both of them. She looks over her shoulder, brow furrowed, silence crawling around the room, filling every free space. 

Charles takes a deep breath, his heart hammering in his chest. He’s dying to tell someone. To tell her. To share the happiness that bubbles inside him every time Max so much as looks at him, the way Max’s smile makes his world turn upside down. He’s already nearly spilled it to Pierre more times than he can count. And now, sitting here, the words claw their way up his throat faster than his brain can stop them.

“Okay,” he blurts out, his voice louder than he intended. His mother turns fully now, watching him with that patient, all-knowing gaze that makes him feel like he’s still ten years old and caught stealing cookies. “Yes, I’m with someone.”

Her face softens immediately, curiosity lighting her eyes. “I knew it,” she says, tone laced with the feeling of winning, the same one he uses when he himself stands on a podium. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Who is it?”

He hesitates, his hands curling into fists on the table. Every muscle in his body tenses as the next words tumble out.

“You won’t like it, Mamma. Nobody will. It’s career-ending if it gets out.”

She sits down slowly, her brows knitting together in concern. “Charles,” she says carefully, leaning forward. “I might not understand racing as much as you do, but I do understand love. The time I spent with papa was the best thing I could ever wish for. And if my child, the one born out of our love, is experiencing the same thing, nothing else matters.“ It's becoming impossible to fight the urge to tell her the name immediately. Because what does one say to follow up that. 

She continues. "Is it someone from Ferrari? You can tell me. You know you can tell me anything."

"No," he speaks, his voice sharper than he intended. Her expression flickers, and guilt washes over him. He softens, exhaling shakily. Fuck it, there goes nothing. Maybe the questions will stop after this. "It’s a man."

There it is. The truth. The first and most terrifying step.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. Instead, her head tilts slightly, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "And?"

Charles stares at her, his mouth dry, his heart pounding. That’s it? No judgment, no hesitation?

He swallows hard. "And... I’d like to bring him over for dinner," he mumbles, the words feeling foreign on his tongue. His chest feels tight with adrenaline, but there’s something exhilarating about it too. Like throwing himself into a corner on a wet track, knowing it could go horribly wrong but trusting himself to pull through.

His mother reaches across the table, placing her hand gently over his. "Charles," she says softly, her voice unwavering. "Anyone who makes my child happy is welcome in this house."

The weight in his chest shifts. Small wave of temporary relief washes over him, so profound it nearly makes his head spin.

"Sunday," he says quietly. "After the race."

She nods, smiling warmly as she squeezes his hand. "Sunday it is. I’ll make something special."

It all dawns on him on the way home. By patching a small wound, he managed to create a whole different one. He’s not just made a promise to his mother. He’s made a promise that relies entirely on Max agreeing to something he knows Max won’t like. Charles stops in the middle of the street, the cool night air biting at his cheeks. He can already imagine the way Max will react. The scowl, the tension in his shoulders, the way he’ll cross his arms defensively and say something like, "Schatje, why do you always have to make things complicated?"

For a moment, Charles considers calling the whole dinner off. He could make an excuse, tell his mother Max is traveling, or the timing isn’t right. But then he thinks about Max - about the softness in his eyes when they’re alone, the way he reaches for Charles in the quiet moments, the quiet vulnerability he hides from the rest of the world.

Charles loves him, even if he struggles to say it out loud. He’s just going to have to convince him, let him break through his shell.

As he unlocks his apartment door, Charles resolves to talk to Max. He can already feel the nerves twisting in his stomach, but for once, the fear doesn’t outweigh the hope.

For Max, for them, he’ll make it work. He just has to. Otherwise, what is the point of all of this? He does not need to flaunt their love in everyone's faces. But he wants at least someone to know. He's proud of their unlikely journey. So proud, it makes his heart want to jump out of his chest sometimes.

//

Max loves race and practice debriefs. He always has. The precision, the data, the raw feedback, it’s where he thrives. Things are clear when data is involved. No margin for assumptions of decision based on false pretense. But today’s debrief feels different. Suffocating. Mainly, because the data speaks for itself. 

The sour feeling starts with the slides. A giant screen dominates the room, displaying Charles’ lap times from practice, sector by sector, alongside Max’s. Every thousandth of a second where Charles was faster is highlighted in beaming bright red, as if to drive home the point. This season, there are people specifically designated to dissect Charles’ times. He’s the main enigma, the unknown. Max tries to shut off any guilt creeping in. His personal life has nothing to do with what happens on track. He knows that’s not what team would think. Had they found out that Charles regularly wakes up in his sheets, they’d find a way to use it for the team to beat Ferrari. 

“Leclerc was gaining on you in Sector 2 here,” the one of the strategists assistants speaks, circling a specific corner on the map with his laser pointer. “You carried too much speed into Turn 6, and he took a tighter line—clean, precise. That’s where the gap started.” Long gone are the times when the people in the room would feel like they had to sugarcoat the truth to Max. Overtime, they leaned that the best way is to serve it as it is. 

Max’s jaw tightens. He stares at the screen, but the words blur together. This isn’t the first time they’ve dissected Charles like this, and it won’t be the last.

“His medium-tire stint was particularly strong,” another engineer chimes in, clicking to the next slide. It’s a chart, Charles’ performance in clean air compared to Max’s in traffic. “He’s consistently managing his degradation better than you in the latter half of the stint. We need to figure out how to counter that.”

Max’s fingers tap against the table, a restless rhythm that no one seems to notice.

"It’s not just the car," the strategist continues. "Charles is not afraid to play dirty with his teammate." Max should feel proud. He’s the one who’s been drilling that into his brain. Now, it’s starting to feel more like digging his own grave. "You saw how he defended in Turn 3 today." The unspoken end of the speech hangs in the air. He’s beating you, Max. If he goes like this, he’ll finish the season above you. Get a grip. 

There’s an edge to the words that grates on Max’s nerves. He knows what they’re implying. That Charles is evolving, becoming sharper, stronger. 

"He’s reading you," the engineer adds, tapping his pen against the table. "You’re predictable to him in some situations. We need to mix things up. Throw him off. Make him doubt himself."

Max finally looks up, his expression blank but his voice cold. What a bizarre thing to get asked of. "You want me to play games with him?"

The room falls silent for a moment. The engineer hesitates before replying. "Not games, Max. Just… keep him guessing."

Max leans back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. His team has no idea how hard it already is to keep things straight with Charles. On the track, off the track - it’s all a balancing act. A line he has to walk perfectly every single time.

"Anything else?" Max asks flatly, his voice cutting through the tension.

The strategist frowns, glancing at the screen before turning back to Max. "We’re not saying he’s unbeatable, Max. But you need to stay sharp. Leclerc’s coming for you, and he’s not going to let up. He’s your biggest threat this season."

The words linger in the air, louder than the hum of the projector or the scribble of pens against paper. Max doesn’t respond. He doesn’t trust himself to. Because what can he say? That Charles has already gotten under his skin in ways his team could never imagine? That every time they ask him to find a way to "beat Leclerc," they’re unknowingly poking at something far more personal?

Max clenches his fists under the table, his nails digging into his palms. He forces a small nod, his face carefully blank.

“Understood,” he says, his tone clipped. "Monaco race this weekend is a crucial one,“ the head strategist adds and Max almost laughs, because he says this about every fucking race. 

The debrief continues, more slides, more data, more dissection of the man Max has to pretend he’s indifferent to. But the truth lingers just beneath the surface, raw and unresolved.

Charles isn’t just his biggest rival. He’s his greatest weakness.

As he drives home, he can’t stop small doubts forming in his head from getting louder with each corner he passes. Days, months and years spent, sacrificed, only to get him to where he is now - and suddenly, it feels like he is letting that all pass through his fingers for few moments of unfiltered pleasure. Guilt enters the chat. Work of so many people tainted, because he can’t keep it in his pants. This is the first time he cancels on Charles. He does not trust himself around him today.  

//

It's a long Thursday evening talk, topic being the Sunday dinner. And it goes just about as Charles expected. Back and forth - it's not a fight per say, but it does resemble one.

Max argues that Charles is pushing things too quickly. That to bring up the topic of official introduction to his family day before qualifying is a low blow. That he should have talked to him before agreeing to step big like that. Charles apologizes many times, comes close to pleading for making this happen. Apologies don't seem to land well with Max. Surprisingly, Charles is the first one to reach anger. Does not understand why Max pushes so much against this. He asks hard questions that Max can't answer. Throughout the talk, Max becomes more and more numb. In the end, he agrees to the dinner. They fall asleep next to each other and don't fail on kissing each as a last thing of the day.

//

Once the idea flourishes in Max's head for few days, he becomes more accostumed to it. Pascale is a kind woman. If Charles believes she will be supportive, he just has to trust him. He wishes he could find the time to tell him in person, but another busy weekend prevents him from doing so.

//

DNF. In Monaco. Charles is fuming. He's smashing things again. Tears fall down his cheek in the privacy of his driver room. His home race. Fumbled from the start, he didn't even get to finish - which in hindsight might be a blessing. Having to drag his half functioning car back to the pit and look at the faces of sympathetic mechanics. As always, he stares misery right into its face and watches the rest of the race, eyes glued to the monitors. He gets to watch Max, cruising through and then experiencing the brutal Hamilton ruling the world of racing. He's witnessing the cheer in Ferrari garage as penalties push Vettel in front of Max. He's not even sure how he feels about that one. What he would like to believe is that there isn't any part of him that would be happy about Max missing the podium. The internal decision comes - ignoring any thoughts reaching that topic, shutting down and focusing on his own tragic race. Next year. It will just have to be next year. As he walks through the hoards of reporters, sponsors, fans and just about everyone he's ever met, he feels so painfully small. A confused, beaten up child. It all melts into one big blur. He hides in his new apartment and ignores Max's texts.

//

Max manages to get hold of Charles the following noon. It's clear in Charles' tone that this one stings. Max tries to distract him and for a moment it almost works.

"I'm excited about this evening," he hears Charles getting little more relaxed once they get onto this topic.

"Are you sure you don't want to meet up before that? So that we could like, hang out prior to speaking to Pascale?" Max can't shake this strange feeling that he does not want to walk in there without seeing Charles first. Just few months ago, the man on the other side of the phone call would do almost anything to prevent her from finding out. And now, he's urging him to walk in as if it was the most casual thing ever.

"I think I need to clear my head from the race alone. Just for a little longer...Oh and Max, just a reminder - my mom does not really like red roses," Charles says instead and has Max roll his eyes. Talk about subtle demands.

"You're impossible," he says instead of any filler words.

"And yet..."

"And yet."

//

Somehow, with the way how tragically his first home race with Ferrari went, this dinner is starting to become the one light that's still up there to guide Charles out of this with at least some achievement in his pocket. The one thing he can win. Last part of his life where has some control left. These past few days have been several steps back for every one tiny leap forward. But his mother and Max might just be the last people who won't look at him with the quiet, suffocating pity that twists the knife of his own humiliation. With Max, it's an agreement - they don't hang out together directly after one of them has a bad race. It's too hard to navigate. They don't feel sorry for each other. The urge to seek validation after a failure is something they have to saturate elsewhere. It feels like first day of school. Charles gets ready at his apartment and arrives to his childhood home with enough time to spare, with the intention of pretending to help his mother in the kitchen, while both of them know she'll do anything in order for him not to meddle. He ignores everything else happening, pushes all this weekend inside and fills his head with daydreams about Max and Pascale finding common ground, about Max fitting into his safe space perfectly, cementing their connection. They'll tell the story of how they got together for the first time and truth be told, Charles can't wait to hear Max telling his point of view. His mom will get to be the first witness of their connection. He'd been terrified of her finding out about them, so to allow himself to make this extra step has been a thrilling distraction from it all. He can see it clearly: Max in his sharp, casual confidence, offering his blunt humor in the way that always disarms Charles, even when it shouldn’t. Pascale teasing Max, probably about his awful performance at the hair salon that morning after their first night together, and Max would lean into it, charming her in that effortless, maddening way of his. By dessert, Pascale would see exactly what Charles sees - the real Max, the man beneath the hard edges. He has a good feeling about this - his mom is already asking him so many question about "the mystery guy" that's on his way. And Charles talks and talks and talks.

A long hour later, the table is set, the food is warm, and Pascale is opening a bottle of wine. But Max isn’t there.

At first, Charles tries not to think too much of it. Max is probably running late, nothing unusual in the racing life. He tries to ignore the fact Max is rarely, almost never, late. Charles double checks the text he had sent him, just to make sure he did not mess up the information about the time or address. In the middle of each of her stories, Pascale finds a moment to pause, seemingly addressing the situation, non verbally. It only takes one look. While she does not approve of this behavior, she is there as a supportive figure. It keeps Charles going. Max won’t miss this. 

Still, as Pascale lights the candle in the center of the table, Charles finds himself glancing at his phone. No messages. No missed calls.

Pascale has a talent for addressing the unspoken. She’s been silent on this topic for some time, filling the space with latest stories from the neighbors, skillfully getting away from the topic of Charles’ visitor. 

"He’s probably just caught in traffic," he says aloud, mostly to himself. "Lot of the roads are still blocked," he addresses the obvious. Like this is Pascale’s first time being in Monaco during a Grand Prix. 

Pascale doesn’t comment, though he notices the small glance she gives him, her quiet way of observing.

Charles picks at a piece of bread, his nails all gone now as a result of his never-ending bitting. Ten minutes pass. Then twenty.

The silence starts to press in. Pascale makes an effort to fill it, chatting lightly about the neighbor’s new dog or the strange man she saw at the market, but Charles can’t focus. His mind keeps drifting to Max.

What’s taking him so long?

His phone vibrates, and he grabs it instantly, his heart leaping. But it’s just a notification from one of his racing group chats. He sets the phone back down, his chest tight. Pascale is doing her best to lighten the mood up. She began to avoid the subject of Charles' lover just when it started to be clear he is late. Painstakingly so.

//

The bouquet of white lilies and pale pink roses sits forgotten on the counter, the paper wrapping soaking at the bottom. Max glances at the clock for the third time, his chest tight with the nagging guilt of being late. Pascale is waiting. Charles is waiting. He needs to leave.

But, that is currently not an option. Just as he was about to put his shoes on and head out, his dearest father decided to pay him an unannounced visit. One of the pro's of Monaco racing weekend. Everyone is in town.

"Dad, I'd love to chat, but I really have to get going," he says again, speaking in Dutch, as they always do when their alone. But Jos is standing firmly, blocking the hallway, his arms crossed, and that familiar expression - half-smirk, half-glare - plastered on his face. He owns the room. Max knows this face. Whatever is about to follow is not going to be nice. He asks him once more, if the matter at hand really can't wait until tomorrow. The only reaction he gets from his father is a nod towards the kitchen table. There is nothing else for Max to do than follow his lead, unless he want to get into a fight immediately.

"So, where are you rushing so much?" Jos asks once they're both seated, his tone calm but carrying the unmistakable weight of trouble in the air.

Max knows better than to not proceed with caution. This is not a friendly catch up. This is a screaming warning: negotiations ahead.

"Dinner," he keeps his answer deliberately short. Somehow, even this one word gets Jos rilled up. His lips shut into a thin line, his gaze stuck on the table, where his fingers are tapping the glass.

"With who?" Jos shots back, his voice slicing through the air.

Max is calm on the outside, storm of panic brewing on the inside. He knows. "Nothing serious," he lies.

There is a momentary shine is Jos's eyes, as he smirks once again. "That is a good answer. Remember it."

It's like a knife to his chest. Before diving into the difficult conversation, Max manages to send a quick text to Charles, while his father smirks at him. He does not have time for an apology.

//

The text message is short. Too short.

I’m not going to make it. Need to talk.

The words blur on the screen as Charles stares at them, his breath catching in his throat. 

He reads it again, and again, his fingers tightening around the phone until his knuckles turn white. Need to talk. The phrase feels like a punch to the gut, its weight heavy with implications he doesn’t want to consider.

Pascale’s voice pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts.

"Charles?" she asks softly, her brow furrowed with worry.

He blinks up at her, forcing himself to breathe. His mind races, scrambling for something to say that will keep her from asking too many questions.

"He’s not coming," he concludes finally, his voice flat, hollow. ůSomething came up."

She frowns, leaning forward slightly. "Are you okay?"

"I’m fine," he lies, sitting still. "He’s not like this…He cares," Charles does not know where the tendency to defend Max comes from or why it is here, but it's an automatic reflex. Nothing is lost, yet. He tries, desperately, not to panic. His racer instincts kick in and his body is taking in this new wave of adrenaline. He must have pushed Max too far. It was a mistake to force this upon him. He’ll need to do some damage control. The realization that just because someone is willing to spend every available night kissing you goodnight does not automatically mean that they are ready to be your official partner. Charles is a romantic person - something that not everyone might share. He like to believe life is better than it usually is.

It’s fine. It’s fine, it’s fine, totally fine. He’s trying to hide his hand that began to shake a minute ago. If he stays strong, his mom might just believe that Max is not a complete asshole. 

There is unmistakable sorrow and a hint of disappointment in his mother’s face, but her words tell a different story. Somehow, this disconnect makes it all just a little redundant. She is dancing around the truth that both of them don’t want to address. "I know, Charles. I’ve known you well enough to know that you won’t just settle for anyone. It’s ok. A strong relationship won’t crumble over one missed dinner. Don’t let that happen."

They sit like that for about ten minutes, which for Charles seems like seven hours. Charles knows there is nothing his mother can say to make this go away. He is still for one more second, before he stands up abruptly, the chair nearly falling down.

"I'm sorry mamma, I have to see if everything is alright." Without waiting for her response, Charles grabs his jacket and heads for the door. His heart pounds as he pulls it on, his mind a swirl of emotions - anger, disappointment, confusion, fear and all of these are tripping one over each other creating a cacophony he does not want to listen to. Not this weekend. Not after the fumble of a race he's had.

As he steps into the night air, one thought rises above the rest: This isn’t like Max. Something’s wrong. All he knows is that he can’t sit still, can’t wait for Max to decide when and where they’ll have this talk, which is apparently so important they can't have dinner at his mother's house prior to that.

Rip the bandaid quickly. If Max won’t come to him, Charles will go to Max. Whatever’s happening, he’ll find out. He has to.

//

With a swift move, Jos whips out a paper folder, its edges worn as though it had been handled too many times. He sets in on the table, slowly, and to be honest, overly dramatically. It slides toward Max.

Max glances at the folder and then at his father's face, obviously inviting him to open this up. Max is determined to stand his ground as long as possible. He does not move.

His father only smiles at the lack of reaction. "You already know what this is, don't you?" It could be anything - leaked texts, phone call recordings...But most likely a photo. Max tries to brace himself and his last though is that maybe, just maybe, he is wrong and whatever this folder contains does not have anything to do with Charles. He is not wrong. It's obvious from the first second he sees the image. Staring back at him is a blurry, but clear enough photo of him giving a small peck on Charles' cheek. The smile on the Ferrari driver, wide as the sun, makes it sting all that much more. On a normal day, he would be almost grateful to have a photo like this in his possession. He recalls precisely what moment this commemorates. He forgot himself, or possibly ignored for one second the fact they were out in the open, and kissed Charles, after he messed up yet another English idiom. It was the cutest thing. He was about to pay a gigantic price for the warmth he felt that one time. Max is not a man to cry easily. But there's only so much he can take as a person. After the initial drop of his stomach, he gathers up all the strength he has within him to keep it together in front of his fucking father. He looks up and is met with one of the worst expressions he has ever seen on him.

"What, you're only going to look at one photo?" Jos teases, raising his voice, while smiling evilly and starts to shuffle the folder. "Because, there are plenty. Oh, look at that, here it looks like you're holding his hand! It'll look great in the family photo book!" He smashed the pile of photos down with unnecessary force. There must be about ten pictures mapping their short trip from Max's apartment. His heart keeps sinking.

"I'm sorry," Max mumbles quietly, not really knowing what else to say. Part of him hopes that this is all just a really bad nightmare.

Jos switches up his expression, going from almost mocking Max to more distressed. "I'm not even going to comment today on the fact my son likes to fuck pretty boys," he says casually and ultimately, by putting it like that, it brings Max back to when he's ten again, keeping his helmet on just in case his father decides to hit him because of his bad performance on karting track.

"Where did you get this?" Max asks quietly with the intention to keep the conversation as factual as possible.

Jos snorts. "Where do you think? Do you think this kind of thing stays hidden? Do you think nobody is watching you, waiting for you to slip up?" He gestured at the photo. "This? This is a gift. A warning. One that I had to pay a hell of a lot of money to make disappear. More than most people earn in a year."

There is a part of Max that is grateful for his father being one step ahead of him. He just wishes he wasn't so cruel about it. "How long do you know?"

Jos clearly has no plans on being the one answering questions. "How long is this going on?" It's rhetorical one, a mockery laced with Jos' obvious disgust. He has the upper hand. Max is barely able to hold it together. Anything he says will result in an angry response from his father. Because even it this talk lasts for ten minutes, it's too long.

"Let me be absolutely clear, Max," he speaks again, before actually giving him a chance to respond. "This - whatever it is - ends now."

"You can't force me..."

"I can't? Well...Oh ok. You go and fuck whomever, for what I care. You know what, go on and stay with Leclerc. Wait until someone finds out and then you finally become someone who makes a mark on motor racing. The first openly gay driver. Doesn't that sound amazing?" The way he says it makes it sound like the most pathetic title in the whole world.

"Dad.."

"No, seriously. Judging by your performance of late, you don't have it what it takes to become the legend I've managed to convince everyone you will be. So maybe, this actually might be the only way for you to have a legacy." It stings. Awfully familiarly.

"The world has moved on from this homophobic approach," Max tries, but his words come out weak.

Another half-smirk. "Not the world of F1. Half of our sponsors are from countries where they stone people like you," he says with utmost snobbishness. "This is a direct path to ending your career. But maybe it's good. At least you'll have something else than your abilities to blame for not winning a championship." It's like Jos is a cook and Max is nothing but a piece of bread for him to rip apart. No words come for him to defend himself, or Charles.

Jos takes a dramatic pause and closes the file. "Leclerc is using you. He knows he's not better than you, unless he gets into your head. Which is exactly what is happening now."

Max knows deep down his father is not right. Charles can't be doing that and it would take a hell of a lot trying to even get Max to consider this option. It's everything else that his father has said so far crawls around Max's brain and he struggles to find any arguments to defend the whole affair.

"I saved you this time. But we got lucky. I trust you know what to do."

Max wishes he never woke up that morning.

//

Charles does not wait before knocking loudly, nonstop. No sound comes from the inside, after a moment the door opens to silent Max, who stands in his otherwise empty apartment. Charles takes a good look at Max, who seems to not be hurt or particularly distressed in any way. 

Charles gulps. The air of casualty floating around Max, as if this is just another boring day, is infuriating. His expression speaks a different story. Cold, unapproachable and icy. He imagines this is the look other drivers receive when they cross him. The worst kind of Max is silent Max. He manages to become completely unreadable and in that moment, Charles questions whether he had imagined their whole encounter. 

Max does not even greet him. He just stares. There is no quick pulling inside for a kiss. It makes Charles feel guilty, the thought that he’d rather see Max in some sort of crisis, something that would give him a valid excuse for ditching the dinner. But no. There he is. And the sight hurts. Charles fights the urge to rip the beer he’s holding and smash the glass on the floor. 

"I see you're ok," he proclaims as casually as he’s currently able to. His mother's words are ringing in his ears. 

A strong relationship won’t crumble over one missed dinner. Was this even a relationship? 

Max nods and reluctantly steps back, inviting him in and refusing to meet his eyes once he gets closer. Charles can't stop his memory from flashing back to the first time he stormed his apartment and his stomach turns in disgust. He'd probably give up his seat in order to get back to that night, rather than this one. 

He has to fight his body from shaking, and his mouth from spilling out sour and needy comments. 

"You said we needed to talk. And here you are - not talking." Max shifts his weight, fingers tightening around the beer bottle in his hand. "I'm sorry for missing the dinner." His voice is flat, too controlled, like he’s reading a scripted apology and hoping it’s enough to move on.

Charles does not want to know "what came up". Whatever he might say would probably be a lie anyway. He always believed Max’s biggest issue was telling the truth obsessively. But he has seen him lie to others about them endlessly in the past few months. Keeping him like a little dirty secret. His heart sinks. That must be it. He is so ashamed of being seen with him that even the idea of his mother seeing them together is too much. "I'm sorry I pushed you into it." He does not know why he’s apologizing. 

There is a pause on the other side of this conversation. "I like it when you push me out of my shell. I mean, this is how this all started in the first place," Max exhales sharply. It might sound like a fond sentence on paper, but his tone makes a clear emphasis on being pushed.

"I'm sorry I pushed you into that too," Charles lets the words out flatly.

"Stop apologizing, please!" Max finally snaps, his voice cracking with something that’s neither anger nor frustration, but exhaustion. His grip tightens around the back of his neck as he turns away, like he can’t bear to look at Charles when he says it. Like it might break something in him, too.

And it does break something, mainly Charles' patience. "Well then, what do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell how embarrassed I feel, how I couldn't look my mother in the eyes because even after the shitfest of a weekend I've had, this was the moment when she started feeling sorry for me? Because you couldn't even say why you didn't show up?" Max won't even acknowledge Charles' pain. He's searching for any proof in his eyes that he cares.

Finally, an emotion creeps into Max’s face. Despair and guilt, if Charles is still able to read him correctly. 

"I can't do this," Max says the damning sentence. Charles flashes him a look and more adrenaline kicks in. No. He stares back at him. And, like the enigma Max is, he follows that sentence with launching onto him, gripping Charles' head with everything he has and connecting their lips together, before Charles can even register the words. Charles is helpless. Leans into his touch without any hint of self-control. His thoughts are still, but his tongue is roaming about Max's mouth and this kiss is anything but cute, light or romantic. It is hungry, desperate, borderline aggressive. Somehow, they're finally on the same page. Anger ruling their bodies and it all ends up with Max slamming Charles into the wall, full force, so much it almost hurts. In return, he grips his t-shirt as if the goal was to rip the fabric apart. This is wrong, everything about this is like from a bad dream. He can sense it in Max's touch. Charles feels the first tear of the evening rolls down his cheek and it's all so unhinged, which he realizes only once he can taste his own salty tear mixing with Max's saliva. It acts as a catalyst and he breaks down completely, gripping Max's shoulders, as if he's about to disappear if he lets him go. He knows he's losing him, unless he's already lost him. Charles can feel it in the way Max kisses him - desperation, restraint unraveling at the seams, a kind of hunger that feels more like a last resort than something born out of love. He's never felt smaller, so insignificant and down right doomed. Charles is selfish and a dreamer - he wants to have it all. And right now, it’s making him drown in it, as he grasps on the last remaining straws. 

Inevitably, Max slows his movements down, initial fire dying down and Charles bites his lip one last time before he starts pulling back. "You're the worst things that's ever happened to me," Max whispers and it's probably intended sarcastically, but right now it only makes a harsh chuckle and few more tears come out of Charles. He leans against the wall and stares into the ceiling, trying to swallow the words I love you before they can escape.

He doesn't say them. Max's words burn him like fire.  

"Well, then get ready, because we have a long journey to go through. I have not pulled out my greatest weapons, yet" he replies, not even sure what he means by that. It does however earn him a small sad laugh from Max. 

Then, he exists Charles' personal space and starts pacing slowly around, hands on his hips and Charles can't do anything but watch him and wait for his final sentence. 

"This has gotten too far," Max announces after few moments and Charles can't but agree - but most likely in a completely different context than Max intended. While he's probably referring to their affair in general, Charles would be referring to the fact he left him stranded and cancelled the last minute - and as it looks like, with zero to no remorse. He stays silent. Max stops pacing, his hands still on his hips, his jaw clenched so tight that Charles wonders if he’s actively holding himself back from saying something worse. There's something new in his expression now - something calculated. Charles braces himself for whatever comes next.

His speech is becoming apathetic. "So, one dinner with my mother is too far."

"No."

Charles spots set of flowers on the table, looking truly out of place in Max's apartment. They're smashed up, like he'd thrown them against the wall and then tossed them aside. Kind of like he does with Charles. 

He thought they were meant to be. Painfully similar destinies, yet different enough to keep it fresh. Nobody understands him like Max does. And at the same time, nobody understands him less. They won't make sense to the outside world. He'd always thought that's a good thing. A proof that what they have is real. If it's there, loud and clear, but without a reasonable explanation. That's what love is suppose to be, right? 

"Max, what is going on? Tell me. Speak to me. I'm so lost," he pleas, holding on last strain of hope that this is all just one big mistake. 

Max stops abruptly, voice heavy with something final. "I can't keep doing this."

Charles grips the wall behind him. Max shakes his head, like he's convincing himself of his own words. "Things are different now. Too complicated. We're risking so much and one mistake can cause us our lives. Fuck - I - Charles, you're my biggest rival."

Charles freezes. It's the desperation with this the last word hit the ground that shuts off all the roads leading back to the place they were at just few days ago. He can't help but laugh.

Max exhales sharply, raking his hands through his hair and speaks in a defensive tone. "Every single meeting, briefing, interview - your name is the first thing to come out of their mouths. ‘Charles is faster in Sector this and look, he's doing that...'" his voice tightens. "Do you know what that's like? To sit there and listen to them rip you apart, to tell me exactly how to beat you - and then come home and pretend none of it matters?"

Charles swallows. Of course he does. He's been sitting in meetings like that for the past two years in F1. Ferrari strategist bring up Max at any given opportunity, mainly to avoid the subject of Sebastian. But...they agreed. Racing and home don't mix. He promised. "Max…" The hint of yet another betrayal is probably more than noticeable in his voice.

Max laughs, but it's cold, tired. "You think they wouldn't drop me in a second if they found out I was fucking my biggest competition?"

Charles flinches. Because now he gets it. This is not about Max being afraid. This is Max's ego swallowing him up hard. This is him, unable to tone out the voice of people who don't even have an idea on what kind of damage they cause with their casual remarks. Max probably loves him - but, he will never hear those words. Because Max also has to destroy him. And he doesn’t know how to do both.

It's clear as day. Some sort of mania takes over his body. It's what it is. Now he gets it. It's sudden, quick - the total opposite to the way how he fell for Max. Charles takes a breath, nodding slowly. "Okay."

Max stiffens. "Okay?"

"Yeah." Charles laughs, but it's empty, broken. "I actually get it now." He leans away from the wall and heads towards the door.

Max moves forward like he's going to stop him, but Charles doesn't let him.

His breath shakes, hands clenching at his sides. "You know, I always thought we had something special," he tilts his head slightly. "But maybe we were just inevitable. Two drivers, too fucked up to be anything but this." It's plain as a day. They were way past their expiration date anyway. Charles tries to burn the image of Max permanently in his memory, standing in his kitchen, vulnerable and open - because he knows he's never going to see him like that again. In a way, Charles appreciates that they depart in this way. He probably couldn't stand watching Max grow sick of him. They were fine just two days ago and now there is no "them" to even speak of. Simple, clean cut.

Max studies the floor, as if it holds some answers. "Charles-"

"No." Charles shakes his head, voice all calm now. "You're right. I don't want to be your weakness. And you don't want to be my distraction," he says, making sure to have the last part come out as cruelly as possible. "So I guess that means we're nothing."

Max’s face twists, his whole body going rigid. "Charles, wait - let's pause and think this over, you're everywhere in my life and I-"

Charles interrupts him, because his mind is already made up. "Well. Let me solve one of your problems for you," he says bitterly and does what is most natural to him when he feels like his presence is making the situation worse than his absence. It's like he's being served this option on a silver platter. He has to smile. They'll end just how they started. 

So, he walks out. He recalls promising Max he won't ever do that - and there is a part of him that is doing this purely out of spite, because he knows just how it’s going to infuriate him. And it gives him a sense of control. No longer just reacting to things. He does not need Max. There must be a guy somewhere that will not think of him as an obstacle in his life mission. As an accident that’s gotten out of hand. It's a wave of rush all of a sudden. So he opens the door to unknown rooms inside his head and leaves self-control behind. Invites the most malicious parts of himself inside. 

He has to, in order to save what's left of him. It's bitter and he hates it. But he fails to see any other option. 

Major chords turn into minor. Leading vocals fade out and the only thing guiding him now is the background noise and the beat of his heart. 

He's barely out of the building when his phone start blowing up. Brief check confirms that it's Max. He mutes the phone and buries it deep in his pocket. He needs to get out. For once, Monaco truly has him in a choke hold and he will do anything to leave the city behind. It could burn all down, for what he cares. With Max in it.

//

Max stays glued to the floor as he watches Charles vanish into thin air. Again.

There was no clear plan when Charles inevitably stormed into his apartment. His father kept on urging him to break it off with Charles, so much that Max smashed the flowers when the door closed behind him. His brain worked in overdrive, justifying following Jos' direction, while every cell in his body screamed to do anything but that. And it all mixed together in a perfect mush. There is a way, there always is. But definitely not the way he handled the whole thing up until this point. Do something, you moron. He's fighting himself on every front and if keeps on doing that, he'll stay frozen in the same spot for eternity.

He whips his phone out while he reaches for his car keys. Charles' number on dial - and then few times more - always ending up in voicemail.

That's it. Unable to just stand there and let this slip past his fingers, he heads out the front door of his apartment building and frantically looks around every surrounding street for a glimpse of Charles. The ghost of him seemingly gone into thin air. So, he hops into his fastest car, cursing himself for losing time.

There is zero remorse regarding road traffic rules as he springs out towards Charles' apartment. He's driving on autopilot, lost in the thoughts about the only person who makes him drive like a possessed madman even outside of the track. Nobody else does that to Max. Is that good? Is that bad? Let's not dwell on that.

The brakes certainly do not appreciate the way Max slams them down, the car barely heating up before he swings it into a violent stop against the curb. The tires screech in protest, the engine growling as if it, too, is furious with him.

Max does not care. The only thing he's focused on is Charles, who is approaching his own car right now. He barely registers throwing the door open, feet hitting the ground with the same force that’s been thrumming in his chest since Charles walked out of his apartment. He calls his name, in loud and sharp voice, cutting through the empty street, but Charles doesn’t even flinch.

Max swears under his breath, picking up his pace and crossing the street. "Charles, wait. Just...Just stop for a second." Nothing. No reaction. Not even a glance over his shoulder. Max's heartbeat pounds against his ribs, frustration boiling over. He reaches out, fingers curling into a fist like he's about to grab Charles by the arm, force him to listen. But Charles is already pulling his car door open. He slides into the driver's seat, fingers gripping the wheel with the kind of easy control Max knows too well. Max watches, helpless, as the engine roars to life.

The brake lights flash red against the night, burning into Max’s retinas like an direct beam of sunlight. And then - Charles drives away.

Not with fury, not with recklessness. He doesn't spin the tires, doesn't make a show of peeling off in a rage. No, Charles drives away calmly. Smoothly. Effortlessly. Not skipping gears or overbearing the clutch. Still, in the split second before he disappears down the street, Max swears he sees it. A smile. It's small, barely there, but it's real. A cruel, bitter thing. A smile that tells Max everything he needs to know. Max stands frozen for a moment, the street too quiet now, the air too thick. His pulse is still racing, and the back light of Charles' Ferrari seem to mock him too. His fingers twitch at his sides.

Slowly, stiffly, he turns back to his own car. The driver's door slams shut behind him. Max grips the wheel too hard, the tension in his jaw spreading through his entire body. The engine hums beneath his hands, ready and waiting. He exhales through his nose, sharp and short.

Then, without hesitation, Max slams the pedal.

Fine, have it your way.

He accelerates at alarming speed and leads his car to follow the annoying red one. There is no tears speared for anyone living nearby, let them all suffer with the sound his car is making. It's a long straight followed by a turn to the left - and then he can see Charles' car again. He's still driving like a civilian, perhaps slightly above the speed limit. Max flashes his eyes further down the line. The road is narrow, but not impossibly narrow. He does not think twice about his actions. Let's hope there is no car driving in the opposite direction. No hesitation. His car surges forward, roaring past the tiny gap between streetlights, sliding up alongside Charles, like they're racing down a straight at Spa instead of a dimly lit city road. Funny, how overtaking becomes possible in Monaco all of a sudden.

Max barely registers the blare of a distant horn, the way the world tilts slightly as he swings into position alongside Charles' car. The only thing he's focused on, apart from the road, is him. Hands steady on the wheel, streetlights flickering over his face, mouth set into something too sharp to be neutral. And finally, Charles turns his head.

Max catches the split-second flicker of pure disbelief in his expression - the way his brows snap together, lips parting just slightly, like his brain is still processing the fact that Max is actually here, driving next to him, in the wrong fucking lane. It's not panic, just shock. Max does everything in order to convey to Charles to stop his car. But, the only thing that does is replacing Charles' shock with something else. Something equally crazy as what can be found in Max's eyes.

Charles fixates his look ahead, position of the hands gripping the steering wheel changing. His shoulders settle, his body falling into something that Max knows better than anyone. The click of instinct taking over and just like that, the all-polite Charles is gone. Max barely has time to react before Charles yanks the wheel right, cutting across the road without warning.

"Fuck!" Max slams his brakes as Charles' car swings violently into the turn, tires marking the street. His tail lights flicker as he disappears around the corner, leaving nothing but the smell of burnt rubber behind. Max barely breathes before he reacts. He shoves his foot against the brake, twisting the wheel hard as his car twists into the intersection. The back tires lock up, the entire chassis shuddering violently as he spins - too fast, too fucking sharp, the whole street blurring past in a rush of movement.

He lunges after Charles. Quickly, he's right behind him again, but this time the other car is ready and expecting him. Max has seen these moves countless times before, but never outside of his helmet visor. Charles does not give him any space, recklessly driving in both lanes, only barely letting random car in the opposite lane pass by. He's reading the street like the beast on wheel he can be. Predicting Max's moves and doing everything possible to avoid Max getting ahead of him. At this rate, this is going to end badly very quickly. Max does one more thing to make this even more dangerous and shuffles around, searching for his phone. This makes him lose few seconds on Charles, but nothing he won't be able to catch up to. Once he manages to find it, he dials up Charles' number, his phone thankfully connecting to his car automatically, as Max has to do another manic turn of his steering wheel. Another intersection passed by. The sound of the phone dialing echoing through the whole car, mocking him and making this all much worse.

Charles is heading east, away from the centre and onto the highway. But, before they get there, he turns the car over the an actual part of the Monaco circuit. A track that has barely been dismantled few hours ago.

Max is now calm and focused. Charles is leading them through turns that feel like they should still have barriers up, marshals waving flags. The ghost of the Monaco Grand Prix lingers. Finally, the familiar angles of corners they both know, not just streets of Charles' childhood hometown.

The hairpin is coming up. Max is calculating all the possible moves the Ferrari can make. Charles is setting up wide, making sure he owns the entry, just like he did in the actual race. Max knows what he's doing. The bastard is using the street as his personal defensive line, keeping Max behind him just enough to make sure he can't dive in without risking everything, in a car that is nowhere near as safe and a formula 1 car. For a moment, he considers doing just that, to prove a point and get the lunatic to talk to him, like a normal person. But, racing instincts prevail. It's a Monaco move. And it's fucking working.

The phone still rings, unanswered, the sound piercing in Max's ears. He clenches the wheel tighter, body moving on pure instinct. The next thing he does is a fake move to the outside, knowing full well Charles will react, will shift his car to cover the line. And the second he does, Max cuts inside.

It's a lunge, one he wouldn't have dared to try in an actual Monaco race, but this isn't an ordinary race. It's something else entirely.

Charles reacts fast - of course he does. He sees Max's front light tilting and closing in and jerks his car over, forcing Max to hesitate for couple of milliseconds. That's all it takes. Max almost gets alongside him again, but Charles slams the gap shut, leaving Max inches away from scraping against the concrete barriers still lining the street.

Max slams the brake, feeling the car lurch beneath him, his heart pounding as he barely avoids disaster.

The phone stops ringing. Finally, Charles picks up. There's a pause, just breath and static, before Charles speaks. His voice is frighteningly calm, steady, like he’s completely unfazed.

"Max. Are you trying to kill us?"

It only makes Max chuckle. He's in line behind Charles' car, practically glued on his back. If Charles slowly down even by one second, Max is full on crashing into him. He does not think about that, he only stops at the thought that this is strangely thrilling. Once again, they're speaking the same language.

"Stop the car and talk to me," he orders and copies Charles' racing line.

Charles laughs. It’s breathless, sharp around the edges, the kind of sound he makes when he’s seconds away from snapping.

"Stop being a little bitch, Max. It's pathetic," he sings and hangs up the phone.

Strong words coming from someone who cried in his apartment just minutes ago. Is this his position now? Playing it out tough, acting like a baby? "Dickhead," he comments to no one but himself.

And then - Charles takes off. Max barely has a second to react before Charles swings his car out wide, flooring it onto the open stretch ahead, heading toward the tunnel.

Max doesn't think. He just follows.

Full send into the last turn of the circuit as he heads over to the regular road. The other lane is filled with cars, preventing Max from making any moves. He's cursing himself for missing few opportunities before, the words of his strategist ringing in his head like a loud alarm he can't turn off. Ironically, this might be the best Charles has ever driven around here. Simply fuckin' lovely. It's impossible to get ahead of him. And even if he does, what will happen then? Is Charles going to crash into him? Will he turn the car around without a care for safety of anyone nearby and this whole circus is going to happen all over again?

They are forced to drive more calmly now, nevertheless, to the other people on this road, it still looks like two reckless idiots trying to kill each other. As the scenery changes and houses get replaced by small trees, Max starts to doubt his genius plan of following Charles. They drive like this for half a kilometer. It's obvious where Charles is heading. The last place where Max can be seen.

He dials the phone one more time. To surprise of no one, Charles does not pick up. Max counts his options one more time. His emotions settling down and reality creeping in. Charles does not want to be caught.

All the fury is gone with the wind. Reluctantly, he slows down the car and at the first opportunity turns in the side of the road and kills the engine. He watches, as the scarlet car keeps on going and going, until it disappears over a hill.

He sits in the car for few minutes, then gets out into the cool spring air. The sea below does not provide any answers into what's going to happen now.

chapter 7, part 2 incoming

------- @chezmardybum @biancathecool

[thestrangerthingsgirl]

I know y'all are mad at what finn said on what ship he prefers but seriously, please stop asking the actors questions like this, like i said, they can't say anything about season 5, and the show isn't all about the love and romance, i hate ship wars, i think its unnecessary, its his opinion not yours, like he said "i let fans decide" like he lets us decide whetherornot we like byler or we like mileven, like y'all love to yap and fight about your ships all the damn time, like why can't y'all be civil and ask them about something else, don't stress these actors out just because of the ship they ship.

I'm putting this in both hashtags of mileven and byler since it's talking about both ships again this isn't a "ship war rant" i just hate the stupid nonsense questions like he can't say ANYTHING about season 5. Nor noah can aay anything about byler at all, like yes he ships it and finn ships mileven but that doesn't mean y'all need to still fight over these ships man, the show will be over next thing ya know it and y'all love to still complain about the actors preference on what they ship, it's stupid like can't we all just get along for once? it's stupid people need to say shit to make things look bad.

But obviously i know mileven fans and byler fans aren't going to unite and be friends just because they ship the opposite ship, they just like the bicker around and hate each other for no reason, I'm a multi shipper, but I'm not a hardcore shipper of any of those ships so don't go asking me what ship i prefer because i won't say.

Just so you guys know, I do respect both ships, i still do, i just don't prefer either one of the ships, it's my opinion anyways.

[tickle-minion]

Tied and Tickled Boyfriend

This is an old story that Tumblr took down. Beefed it up, added a lot of armpit tickling, and here we go. It's mostly SFW, no sex stuff happens. Just a mostly naked boy.

-----

"Damn, you look pretty sexy tied down like that."

Greg took a minute to appreciate the sight of his boyfriend Sean tied up, spread eagle, on their bed. Every inch of his body, save what was under his underwear, was exposed and vulnerable.

"Alright, so I'm tied up. What happens next?  What are you going to do?" Sean asked, his voice a mixture of apprehension, excitement, and sex.

"Well... what if I told you that there was something I was into that I never told you about?" Greg asked, running a hand up and down Sean's bare leg.

Sean grinned and playfully pulled on the ropes tied around his wrists.

"Oh? Some new kink? Should I be worried?" Sean said with a wink.

"Oh, I don't know..." Greg said, his hand now going up Sean's leg to his thigh, "it depends on how ticklish you are."

Without a word of warning, Greg began skittering his fingertips up and down the inside of  Sean’s exposed thigh. He went right up to Sean's underwear, but for now he didn't go any further than that.

The reaction from Sean was explosive. His entire body tensed up and he started to laugh. He pulled on the ropes.

"No fucking fare! I hate being tickled! This isn't really a thing for you, right? You're just fucking with me?"

"Oh no, this is a huge thing for me. Ever since we first hooked up, I've wanted to tie you down and tickle you till you break. Damn, you don't know how good you look tied down and ready for a tickling."

"Look... you could just fuck me or something, maybe I can suck you off while tied down? Anything but tickling, common dude!"

Greg laughed and walked his fingers up Sean's leg to his exposed belly. With each 'step' Sean twitched and shook.

"No dice, cutie. I mean, I'd love to fuck you later, but why not wait till after we've had a little bit of fun. Think of it as your reward for being such a good tickle boy!"

Greg brought both of his hands up and started tickling Sean's stomach. Those fingers danced across the soft hairless skin, except for one that kept working its way in and out of Sean's belly button. Sean, for his part, started fighting on the bond again. He threw his head back and laughed, trying his hardest to squirm his body away from the assaulting fingers.

"S-S-STOP! P-L-LEASE!"

"No dice, Sean. You have no idea how hot this is. Hmmm... I wonder how ticklish those pits are..."

“NOOO!”

Greg straddled Sean’s hips and started rubbing his hands up and down Sean’s sides.  He would go down to the end of the ribs, and back up till his palms were in Sean’s pits.  Sean wiggled and squirmed.  It didn’t exactly tickle, but it didn’t exactly not-tickle either.

“Man, I just love how exposed you are.  I could do anything to you right now.  You’re my tickle toy.”

“Oh fuck off…”

Greg grinned.

“Maybe later, but for now let’s see how you react to this…”

Greg didn’t give Sean much of a chance to warm up.  Instead of going slow, he just attacked both armpits at the same time.  He dug his fingers into the exposed flesh, wiggling them in, kneading the sensitive skin.  Sean, unprepared for the assault, immediately began thrashing and laughing.

“F-F-UCK YOU!  ST-O-O-O-PPP!”

“What’s that?  You love it?  You want me to keep going?  Don’t mind if I do!”

Greg attacked the armpits for several minutes, all the while Sean was whipping his head back and forth, trying desperately to free his wrists from the rope.

“There’s something I’ve always wanted to try, let’s see how you handle this.”

Greg stopped for a moment, and Sean’s entire body went limp.  Huffing and puffing, the tied up boy closed his eyes.  

“This is seriously fucked up Greg…”

Suddenly he felt the strangest sensation.  It was the feeling of something warm and wet in his right armpit.  Instantly he started giggling.

“The hell?!”

Opening his eyes, Sean turned his head to see Greg’s face in his armpit, tongue licking and tasting.  It didn’t tickle as much as the fingers, but it was almost worse.  The feeling was like he was on the edge of something, and he couldn’t tell if he wanted it to get more intense, or stop entirely.

“You’re… hee hee… licking my arm-arm-armpit!?”

“Yeah,” Greg said, “never done it before.  I love the way you’re giggling.”

Greg slithered his tongue around the exposed pit, alternating between using the tip of his tongue to draw patterns and using his whole tongue for broad licks, coating the pit with saliva.

“Time to show the other one some love, too”

Greg switched armpits, licking the left.  His right hand, though, went back into the armpit he’d just been licking.  Slicked as it was with spit, his fingertips slid around with no resistance.  

“FUCK!  NO!  TH-THIS IS N-N-NUTS!”

“Admit it… you fucking love it.”

Greg pressed his face into the pit as he licked, nipping gently now and then.  His other hand continued to tickle the other aggressively.  Sean’s brain was unable to process the sensory overload, so all he could do was laugh, cry, and scream.

Greg tickled Sean for 15 minutes, alternating armpits now and then, enjoying the feeling of Sean bucking and struggling under him.  

“Alright, break time.”

Standing up, Greg stopped tickling and rubbed a hand down Sean’s sweaty chest.

“Fuck… are we done?  Untie me, mother fucker.  I can’t believe you like this shit.”

“Are we done?  Oh no, not at all.  I’m just giving you a minute to breathe.  One minute to be exact.  Starting… now.”

Sean’s eyes went wide as he watched Greg set a timer on his phone.

“No!  This has been enough!  Untie me!  If you’re not going to untie me, at least give me more time!”

“Nope, no more time.  Enjoy this while it lasts!”

Sean cursed and struggled while Greg simply watched the timer countdown.  Sean only stopped fighting when the alarm went off.  He looked up at Greg with wide eyes.

“Please… have mercy…”

Greg smiled and wiggled his fingers.

“Mercy?  Naw, I told you.  I want to fucking break you.  You’ll love it in the end.  Let’s go!”

Starting up at Sean’s neck, tickling fingers moved down Sean's body, exploring each and every single ticklish spot. Nipples, ribs, hips, every part of Sean’s body not covered by his underwear.  Greg managed to find several places that made Sean howl with laughter and jump on the bed. Each time he found one, like the sides of Sean's hips, Greg would stay put and attack them with skilled tickling fingers.

Those hands eventually made it down to the kicking feet.

"No please, stop! Don't tickle my feet! I'll do anything you want, anything!" Sean was out of breath, sweat already dripping from his body.

His pleas went unheard as those tickling fingers attacked the arches of Sean's feet. The tied boy started to howl with laughter, feet kicking back and forth as they tried to escape the ticklish torment.

Greg found a spot on Sean’s right foot, right where the arch met the heel, that drove Sean insane.  He attacked it with vigor, scratching with his nails and pressing his fingers into it like he was pressing a button.  Sean’s feet were ticklish all over, but this spot was absolutely killing him.

"Damn they really are ticklish. I wonder how they taste?"

Greg leaned forward, took one of the kicking ankles firmly in hand, and started flossing his tongue between Sean's toes.

"Mmm... tastes kind of salty..." Greg said.

Sean tried to pull his foot away but Greg was stronger. The feeling of the slimy tongue worming between his toes was insanely ticklish, but there was also something hot about it. His cock started to get hard in his underwear.

Greg finally noticed and pulled his face away from the squirming foot.

"Well well well, looks like someone is finally enjoying this! I need to tongue these toes more often I think.  Let me just go get a few brushes and feathers and I'll be right back!"

Greg left the room to collect his toys, leaving Sean a few moments to relax his sweaty body.

"Fuck... this is going to kill me..."

[kanyerealdaughter]

#ARE YOU CALM YET

sexual content , dry humping , grinding , praise kink - degrading , 69 position , daddy kink , teasing , anal , cussing , crybaby (fem, reader) , face fucking , virgin (fem,reader) , oral (m and f receiving) , sub top (fem,reader) , dom bottom (ryusei).

NOT PROOFREAD.

—————————————————————————

there he was, locked up again for nearly bashing in one of the other players' heads. strapped to the restrained bed with a muzzle over his mouth and his gaze downcast.

ryusei was used to this. every time he'd go overboard, ego would lock him up and leave him to reflect on his actions, only when the situation was serious would you be called in to speak with him as everyone knew he'd only listen to you, his girlfriend of course.

" let me out you four eyed freak!" his eyes widened when he saw you, " damn it."

his eyes were glued to you, scanning up and down your appearance and body. it's not that he was checking you out, per se, but it's more that he was just admiring you.

" he finally sent you... goddamn idiot.." he grumbled, tugging at the restraints keeping him tied down.

" yeah... and u-um you're locked up again." you said quietly with a bit of disappointment in your voice.. since you and him had talk about you keep coming here to blue lock just calm him down, your surprise that he hasn't been eliminated yet.

ryusei eyes lowered when he saw the disappointment in your voice, knowing he'd disappointed you once again.

" not exactly my fault.. some guy just got on my nerves.." he mumbled, tugging a little harder against the restraints, only to be met with the leather digging into his skin.

" stop, you're only hurting yourself." you said grabbing the leather, pulling it back slightly so it won't dig into his skin as you took off the muzzle of his face slowly.

he stopped trying to fight against the leather straps, keeping his eyes on you. his breath hitched when your hand grabbed the leather, gently tugging it back.

" you're such a sap.." he mumbled, trying to seem annoyed though it was obviously not convincing,

" can you undo these damn straps?"

" eh.? why should i.?" you furrowed your eyebrow. ryuesi narrowed his eyes, silently observing you before letting out a huff. his eyes softened the moment he saw your eyebrows furrowed to match your expression, knowing you were trying to be serious.

" because i'm getting tired of being locked up in this damn room.. i need to get out."

" no, you don't need to calm down, that's what you need to do." you tried to reassure him.

ryusei's eyes widened as you told him to just " calm down". "this damn girl doesn't get it." he mumbled under his breath.

" I. Am. Calm, can't you tell?! i am literally tied down to this goddamn bed! i'm the calmest i could be!"

" stop yelling at me... i'm just trying to help you.!" you reply back, not trying to let your emotions get the best of you. he instantly quiet down, lowering his voice almost ashamed to yell at you.

“ ..sorry..” he apologized quietly, " it's just... you wouldn't understand.. how i'm feeling, that's all."

“…”

he glanced at you, not liking the fact that you had gone quiet.

" hey.." ryuesi began, his eyes glued to you,

" say something. you're too quiet you damn sap.."

“ don’t call me that…”

" why not? it's true isn't it? you're the sappiest of saps.."

" shut up.. you know i don't like it.. when you call me that." you mumbled.

" i know, that's why it's fun." he was purposely aggravating you now. a grin slowly formed on his lips as he saw the expression on your face.

" i know, that's why it's fun." he was purposely aggravating you now. a grin slowly formed on his lips as he saw the expression on your face.

" gosh you're such a dick..." you spat at him getting feed up of me at this point you should've took that damn muzzle off from him...

" and you're too sensitive, that's why i call you a sap.." he smirked at your response, his eyes filled with a bit of mischief.

" shut up.!"

you snapped at him for the first time in

your relationship, tears flowing up and your eyes and now he's just noticing it

ryuesis eyes widened once you had snapped at him. it was the first time you had done so, and it clearly caught him off-guard. his smirk faded, now replaced with a slightly dumbfounded look.

" did you just.." he mumbled, trying to find the right words to say,

" snap at me?" you stayed quiet looking away from his hard gaze. ryuesi tugged at the leather straps once again, the smirk under the muzzle that was once on his lips was still present.

" aww is my pretty girlfriend gonna cry...? such a crybaby..." but you just ignored him, tired of his talking for today a small huff left his lips as he watched you ignore him.

" come on, don't ignore me.." ryusei attempted to reach out and grab you, but the restraints held him back.

" i'm leaving ryusei... i'll be back tomorrow when you are calmer." you said quietly, holding back your tears, about to walk away since he just pisssed you off. the moment you announced you were going to leave, his eyes widened as his heart skipped a beat.

" where the hell are you going?" he questioned, his voice raised slightly.

" no, no, no, you weren't about to walk out of here. you are not leaving."

" hey-!" he reached out, trying to stop you, but the damn restraints were keeping him from leaving.

" you ain't just gonna up and leave. you get your ass back over here." you ignored him and started to walk away from him.

" i ain't done speaking with you!" ryuesi kept yanking on the restraints, his eyes pinned on your form as you continued to walk out of the room.

" don't you dare walk out that damn door!" he desperately pulled against the straps again, trying to no avail.

" damn it! let me go!" ryuesi's heart was beating like crazy as you continued to walk away from him. he couldn't just let you leave, no.. he refused to allow you to go.

—————————————————————————

the next day, ryusei woke up with a scowl on his face. he had spent that entire night tossing and turning, thinking about you and how you stormed out on him. it was almost hard to sleep.

he let out a small huff before getting off the bed, his body sore after being tied down in a single position. it was all quiet until a soft knock on the door. he paused and he instantly recognized that knock. it wasn't a knock from ego or the other blue lock staff it was your knock.

" ..come in.." he called out, his morning voice raspy.

" ryu...?" you said quietly saying his nickname as you walked in through the slowly.

" ..you're back.." he mumbled quietly as you walked in, his eyes fixed on you. he looked in your direction the moment you entered the room, his heart doing a small flip.

you looked away in embarrassment but nodded as you walked closer towards him.

ryusei stayed still as you walked closer to him, his heart beating faster. it wasn't until you finally stood in front of him did he realize how much he had missed you. he took his time looking you up and down, admiring how you looked, even if you did avoid making eye contact with him.

" ego said i could let you go now." you said quietly finally making eye contact with him. his heart skipped a beat when you finally looked up at him, the familiar gorgeous eyes finally meeting his.

ryuesi's eyes took an extra second to scan over your hair and skin, almost forgetting how damn beautiful you were. you could never fail to catch his attention, especially because you were all damn natural.

" about damn time.." he grumbled under his breath, clearing his voice as if he wasn't just admiring you.

you bent down your skirt slightly lifted up as you started to undo the leather belts at his hands you moved onto his feet and his knees.

" careful down there.." he mumbled, eyeing your skirt. his eyes naturally drifted downwards to your skirt lifting up as you bent down, revealing more of your skin. ryusei couldn't help but suck in a sharp breath as he caught a glimpse of more of fat ass basically pouring out of your skirt.

" hmm..?" you said quietly as you continued to undo the leather belts making your skirt go up even more revealing your black lace panties. his eyes widened when your skirt went up, revealing those damn black lace panties underneath.

" hey... stop for a sec.." he muttered quietly. ryusei could feel a stirring down below when he caught a glimpse of those, causing his breath to hitch softly.

"why.?" you asked confused, you looked up at him from down below still bending down.

" just stop untying the straps. come up here a second first.." ryusei's gaze was fixed on you as you looked at him from below, your face nearly too close to his lap for his comfort.

" d-don't you want me to let you go ego said i free you now.?" you mumbled slightly confused as if he wasn't just going crazy to get let our yesterday.

" i’ll think about getting freed later." he gave you a quick answer before his eyes flicked down to your position.

" come here already." he repeated, beckoning you to get up and sit on his lap with a jerk of his head.

" what's wrong you okay ryu.?" you ask sitting on his lap where he asked your to now knowing you just sat right on exactly on his dick... fuck how did you not know.?

" o-oh.. damn." he breathed, his heart beating faster than before.

" w-what's wrong.?" you asked innocently, getting even more concerned as you heard him groan.

" n-nothing.. it's just-" he paused for a moment, trying to think of how he could explain the current situation. he could feel himself hardening in his pants, which was becoming very obvious, especially since you sat directly on top of that.

ryusei's eyes were still wide and his cheeks were flushed. his breathing was slightly labored while his heart was beating quickly and loudly in his chest. he silently looked down at you, noticing how your face was expressing concern and confusion. his mind went blank for a moment as he tried to figure out what to say, the feeling of you sitting directly on his lap was not helping.

then you slowly but surely realize you sat right on his hard large bulge hidden well. was it really hidden now if it was that big..? you gasp quietly as you felt him poke your panties under your skirt.

a small shiver went through ryusei when he heard you gasp. the friction of you sitting on his lap and the feeling of his hard length against you sent a shiver through him.

" you... fuck ma. feel that..?" he breathed, his voice slightly raspy. you nodded slowly, biting your lip getting soaked from just being on top of him. he felt the movement of you nodding on his lap, and it took all his willpower to not let out an embarrassingly loud groan. he was trying to not act on the strong urge to do something to you right here right now.

“ ..... move a bit.. for me pretty girl..” he muttered, wanting to see if you would listen to him and follow his request.

" I-like.... um grind.?" you mumbled shyly.

" yes.. yes, just like that." he let out a labored breath. he swallowed back a groan at your mumbled question. he couldn't help but nod to confirm your words. you stayed quiet and still for a while before moving my hips slowly feeling the fiction of your wet panties and his hard bulge under his jeans.

a shaky breath escaped from between his lips the moment you started to move your hips over his lap, and he let out a low hiss.

" just like that.." he mumbled, his eyes closing for a moment while his hands reached out to hold your hips he snuck his hand under your skirt slapping your ass hard making you let out a lil squeal from the stinging pain. you gasped from the hard slap on the ass that was gonna leave a handprint on your cheek. you started to go even more feeling him grow harder underneath you.

head was swimming as you started to go more, the feeling of you rubbing against his crotch making him feel more and more overwhelmed, the sounds of his breathing growing more labored.

" faster." he groaned, gripping your hips tighter leaving fingerprints bruised.

" s-shit..." you whimper as you feel panties becoming even more soaked as you grind faster as he told you to do like a good girl...

" jesus.." his eyes widened when he heard that whimper and he let out a shaky breath. he could feel from your movements that your panties were starting to soak through, and he desperately bit his lip to keep himself from moaning, slapping your ass again making you let out another one of these cute squeals.

" f-fuck.." he breathed, shifting a bit under you,

" don't stop ma..."

your movements became faster as your panties leaking cause of how soaked you were onto his jeans he had feeling his large bulge his zipper hitting your clit making you let out a mewl your hips suddenly jerk up.

ryusei’s eyes closed and he let out a groan, rubbing your ass after the hard spanks. feeling his large fan hands go back on your hips tightly guiding you.

" you're.." a shaky breath, " you're so fucking wet." he managed to mutter, feeling the dampness of your panties against his jeans.

" i-i'm sorry...!" you whimper embarrassed as you also felt yourself leaking onto his jeans his zipper hitting your clit repeatedly thoses cute moans coming out of your mouth ... fuck your whimper it's so innocent and downright precious he can feel pre fucking ooze out of his tip.

" don't.. don't apologize.. ma." ryusei mumbled, his eyes half open while looking at you.

he could feel how wet you were, and the sound of you whimpering in his lap didn't help either. he was trying his best to not just pounce on you right now..

" r-ryu..." you mumbled my eyes fluttering close. you could feel it... you suddenly felt close to your limit.

ryusei's grip on his shirt grew tighter, his breathing becoming more and more labored, and his heart beating even faster than he thought it was going to burst.

" f-fuck.. ma." he groaned, trying his best to speak clearly. " you're close.. i can feel it."

you just nodded eagerly moving your hips faster clench around, nothing whimpered as you felt him pulse in his own pants. he clenched his jaw, trying not to let out any loud sounds while you continued to move your hips.

his eyes closed as he felt himself start to throb and twitch even more in his pants, the feeling of your body grinding and clenching on him driving him insane. ryusei was starting to lose it.

" i-i'm cumming daddy.!" you moaned out loud as your orgasm hit me like a truck, your now ruined panties leaking your fluids onto his jeans even more.

the sound of your moans coupled with the feeling of your fluids on his jeans sent him over the edge. ryusei bit his lip hard to keep himself from letting out a loud moan.

" f-fuckk.." he breathed, his grip on his shirt tightening even more. " you're going to kill me at this rate.. ma." he let out a breathless chuckle.

" did you cum to...?" you mumbled out of breath you couldn't even think or tell with your brain all fuzzy like this.

" did you cum to...?" you mumbled out of breath you couldn't even think or tell with your brain all fuzzy like this.

" n-not yet." he muttered, breathing a bit heavy. he slowly let go of his shirt and looked up at you, panting softly.

" you came hard huh.?" he asked quietly as he looked into your eyes, the sight of your flushed face, breathless state, and messed up hair only adding fuel to the fire.

" y-yes..." you mumbled, still sensitive, feeling a bit guilty that you didn't make him cum. he nodded silently, his eyes still fixed on you while his breathing started to slowly return to normal.

" good.." he mumbled, his hands slowly reaching up to your face and cupping your cheeks in his palms. " that means you felt good.."

ryusei could tell you were gonna say something but before you could ryusei smirk widened when he leaned in and kissed you, his hands still holding your face in place. he wasn't holding back on this kiss, making sure to fully taste you and hear the moans that left your lips.

he held you against him as he kissed you, his tongue sliding into your mouth, wanting to dominate you in every way possible. you whimpered as you felt the warmness of his long tongue enter your mouth parting your lips.

his tongue slowly and greedily explored your mouth, tasting every corner and crevice he could reach. he continued to hold your face in place as he kissed you deeper, his own small groans mixed with your whimpers.

he felt heat rising from within him more and more the longer you and him continued to make out, the feeling of you in his lap driving him insane.

" r-ryu.. mngh." you mumbled into the filthy and sloppiest kiss you ever had.

he paused for a moment to break the kiss, a string of saliva still connecting you and him. his breathing was heavy and his eyes widened with an almost feral gaze as he looked at you.

" that's enough." he muttered, his hands moving from your face down to your waist. ryusei then gripped your waist, shifted, and flipped the both of you around so that you were pinned under him, him being in between your legs now.

" wanna ride your face... please.?" you panted out after all that time making out you could finally take a deep breath. hee could see how winded you were after the kiss, and he chuckled silently at your words, his hands already reaching for the hem of your shirt.

" oh, i'm gonna do alot more than that, but." he looked at you with a smirk, " first thing is first." ryusei slowly pulled your shirt up, revealing your stomach and your bra until he had completely taken it off and tossed it onto the floor.

you bit your lip as he had taken your shirt off leaving you bare the coldness of the room revealing your nipple piercing making them harden from the coldness of the room.

if you don't like the piereing then just ignore it

ryusei's eyes widened as he stared down at your bare chest, slowly tracing his eyes over your skin and taking in every detail of your body.

" im not gonna hold back.." he muttered, his eyes roaming over your skin but his fuchsia color eyes stare at your piercing as his hands still hold his shirt. " i just want you to know that."

he started to lick and kiss your neck, slowly sucking onto your skin to leave marks behind. bis hands started to roam your body as he continued to leave marks on your neck.

" you look so damn sexy like this sexy mama.." he muttered between kisses, his hands moving up to your chest.

" n-nghh." you moaned, your eyes rolling back continuously to let moans out as he sucked on your pretty little neck leaving dark red swollen hickeys in which they started to turn a dark purple the more he sucked on your neck.

" you don't know how hard it was to hold back all this time." he muttered, licking the mark he just left. ryuesi's hands started to slowly move up and down your chest, his fingers brushing against your nipple piercing as he left marks on your neck.

" you sound so goddamn sweet when you moan like that as well.." he breathed, his mouth moving down to your collarbone.

" wanna do the 69 position..." you whimper out wanting to try a new position. ryusei stopped for moment to look up at you, the words going through his head for a moment. his classic smirk appeared on his face as he spoke, his hands still caressing your chest.

" you want that right now?" he asked, the look in his eyes practically burning you alive.

" yes..." you but your lip nodding eagerly.

" okay." he muttered, his hands moving to your sides. he leaned in to kiss your neck one more time, then shifted up to your ear and whispered to you.

" sit up for a moment and turn around for me, baby.." you felt yourself shivering once he whispered in your ear but you obeyed him anyway.

" good girl." he mumbled as you started to sit up. once you turned around, he quickly shifted you around, holding your hips while positioning himself in front of you.

" you ready?" he asked from behind, his hands still on your hips.

" y-yes ryu." you mewl out quietly you felt your panties getting even more ruined. he couldn't help but let out a small chuckle, feeling how wet you were as you knelt in front of him.

" you're already so wet for me, and i've barely even begun." he muttered, his hands moving to the waistband of your skirt. ryuesi slowly slid your skirt off of you, letting them fall to the ground and getting a clear view of your ruined, soaked panties.

" you're already so wet for me, and i've barely even begun." he muttered, his hands moving to the waistband of your skirt. ryuesi slowly slid your skirt off of you, letting them fall to the ground and getting a clear view of your ruined, soaked panties.

he almost groaned at the sight of your soaked panties, seeing how wet you were and how much pre-cum was leaking through his boxers and his jeans was driving him insane.

" you have no idea what you do to me.." he muttered, his hands holding your hips and pulling you backwards towards him.

" hurry.." you mumbled wiggling your ass in his face as you started to unbutton his jeans feeling his precum oozing out of his dark rosy tip.

a sigh escaped his lips as he felt you wiggling your ass against him, his hands holding your hips to keep you still so he could unbutton his jeans.

" you're getting impatient." he managed to get his jeans unbuttoned and unzipped, " and here i was just enjoying the view." you let out a quiet huffed seeing the precum stain his boxers making you bite your lip it looked so delicious..

" you're not the only one enjoying the view.." he responded back, his hands resting on your lower back as he watched you examine his stained boxers. he wasn't just saying that to tease you, the sight of you with your bare ass in front of him was driving him crazy.

you ignored him your small hands slid under his boxers slowly pulling out his large aching his thick girth you could barely wrap your small warm hands around it his tip was more of dark rosy pink color oozing precum.

" mm..." you mumbled in a trace squeezing the tip which made him hiss as more precum oozed out.

" so..?" you reply back licking your lips wiggling your ass in his face more for some more attention.

" so i just think it's funny how the look in your eyes changed so quick when you saw it.." he chuckled, watching you lick your lips and feel you wiggling your ass impatiently.

" you want something, don't you?" he questioned, his voice low and sultry.

" well isn't that why we're in this position.." you huffed, getting impatient of him teasing you as you talked about the 69 position.

" well, it's why you're in that position.." he corrected, his hands holding your sides to keep you in place.

" but i'm pretty sure you want something..."

" specific.." his hands gently squeezed your sides.

" please ryu.?" you begged finally giving in squeezing his tip again in my hand looking back at him. he couldn't hold back for any longer at that as a soft low moan left his lip. feeling you squeeze his tip made him lose what was left of his self-control.

" say it for me, mama." his hands started to roam down your sides, caressing your skin. " you know what to say."

" want your tongue..." you whimper.ryusei smirked as he heard your impatient whimper, his tongue tracing his lip as he looked at you.

" that's what i was hoping to hear." he mumbled, pulling you back towards him, " let's go ahead and get started then." he smiled as he saw your reaction, his hands slowly moving to your hips and positioning you right against his mouth.

" now just relax.." he muttered, his hands holding you still as he leaned in. you arch your back slowly hovered over his face as you lowered yourself onto lips feeling his lips against your panties folds making you let out a guttural moan.

" you make the prettiest sounds." he mumbled, barely loud enough for you to hear over the sound of your moans.

he started to slowly kiss and lick through your panties, the taste of you already starting to make his tongue dance. he wanted to tease you, but he was hungry enough for a taste to start eating you out already without any more waiting.

" f-fuck more daddy..." you moaned as you lower your head down to his tip to pleasure him to since it was the whole point of this position. he groaned as he felt you moving down, his eyes widening at your actions.

" don't worry.. you'll get plenty.." he muttered, letting his tongue run over the front of your panties one last time making you shiver.

"let's get these off you, baby.." he took a hold of your ruined panties and started to slide them off of your legs, tossing them onto the floor and finally getting the clear view of your folds he had been wanting too.

" m-mm more daddyy." you mumbled as your kitten licked his now red angry mushroom tip licking off bitter but yet sweet precum.

" damnit, you just know what to call me to drive me wild.." he, feeling you sucking on his tip and tasting all of the precum that was dripping from it.

" keep using that pretty little tongue of yours like that and i might not be able to keep my cool." since you were a virgin you didn't know how to suck so you kept on licking his length hoping it would pleasure him. he chuckled as he felt you continuing to lick his length, your innocence being almost too adorable.

" use that tongue of yours to explore." he muttered, a hand taking a hold of your hair to hold you gently in place. " try using your lips to suck my tip a bit."

" okay daddy..." you mumbled quietly licking your lips tasting his salty precum. you decided to give it a go and suck him but your teeth scraped on his skin too much teeth.. yikes and not enough spit as you heard him hiss in pain. he flinched slightly as he felt your teeth on his sensitive skin, the pain making him wince a bit.

" not so much teeth baby.." he breathed out, looking at you through squinted eyes as he tried to push through the pain.

" use more of your tongue and relax your jaw." you just nodded slowly as you choked on his length making more spit on his length.

" there you go." be muttered, slowly getting used to the feeling of your tongue and lips on him.

" that's a lot better." he let out a low groan, a hand still holding your hair to keep you in place.

" keep this up for me and you'll get a reward for that good behavior." you started to gag more as it became more sloppier with every second more spit just like he wanted. he could feel you start to gag a bit which made him smile slightly.

" you good down there, baby.?" he asked, his eyes looking at you from his position.

you couldn't even replied due to all of in your mouth tears swelling up in the brim of your eyes you curled your toes since your heard it somewhere on the internet that it helps with your gag reflex... but fuck that was just a lie.

" you're starting to cry a little." he murmured, noticing the tears in the corner of your eyes as you moved your body.

" you're doing a good job.. just keep going a little longer, okay?" he said, his hand gently caressing through your hair and holding on to it.

" you've still got that reward to earn, after all.."

you started to hum while you accidentally use your teeth again but immediately covers it by stroking him since he was too big for you... to put it all in your mouth. he let out another small wince as he felt your teeth on his skin yet again, the pain making him grip your hair more.

" careful with the teeth.." he muttered, slowly starting to lose patience from your attempts to get him off.

" you're going too slow." he almost growled, " i want you to try and take more of it into."

" i’m sorry daddy.." it's muffled due to him in your mouth as you started to go faster making you gag even more tears falling down on my cheek. you were still in 69 positions and you weren't getting any attention even with your soaked panties in his face.

so unfair…

" you're supposed to be making me feel good, baby."

" and instead you've got tears running down your face and i'm just sitting here watching you struggle." his tone slowly became a bit more stern.

" you're not listening to my instructions either. i told you not to use your teeth, didn't i?" you started to cry more trying your best to improve his stern tone making you slightly scared of your salty tears falling down onto his thigh as you sucked harder humming trying to make him feel good.. but you couldn't lie the degrading was slightly arousing you..

" you're supposed to listen to me when i give you an order, aren't you?" he questioned.

" why can't you seem to listen to me and do one damn thing right?" his one got even more authoritative, almost harsh.

" you think this is fun for me? sitting here and watching you cry and struggle?"

you couldn't help but cry furthermore the gagging and the tears combine together still bent over his body while he was under you in the 69 at this point you could kiss your panties goodbye they're ruined and you still weren't getting any attention from him even though your folds that your drenched soaked panties had molded into were right in his face.

" your face is a mess right now." he muttered, the tears streaming down your face and feeling your moans making his leg shake.

" you look pathetic like this." his hand tugged on your hair a bit, grabbing ahold of it pushing you down fully to his pelvis.

" you're not doing a very good job."

you felt him gripping your hair pushing you down your nose touching his pelvis as you scratch his thighs choking on his large length.

" you're trying too hard mama .. calm down and just try to relax your throat a bit. you look like you might pass out like this if you keep doing that..."

" let me help you baby.." he said, his tone still authoritative but a bit softer than before. with his hand still holding your hair, he moved to start guiding your movements.

" it'll feel better if you let me take the lead.."

" there you go." he mumbled, his tone almost encouraging as he started to use your mouth to get himself off.

" you just needed a little help, didn't you.?" he could feel the bulge in throat making him let out a quiet groan.

" i bet that's starting to get little..uncomfortable?" he asked, his tone still holding its dominant energy but with a small hint of genuine concern.

" you don't have to do this if you’re feeling.?” he asked, his tone still holding its dominant energy but with a small hint of genuine concern.

" you don't have to do this if you're feeling uncomfortable or don't like it."

" but you still want to do this, don't you?" he said, watching your body. " f-fuck, 'm cumming!" he snarls, his hips stuttering erratically as he empties himself into your waiting mouth. ropes after roped of hot, thick seed floods your throat, painting the back of your throat with his essence. immediately the steamy saltiness.

" you wouldn't act up and be disobedient like that unless you wanted to be disciplined, right?" you couldn't help yourself but moan from his words your soaked panties in his face now you're so so very wet it was literally dripping down your thighs now.

" looks like you might've enjoyed that a little too much.." he could feel how soaked you were and see your glistening thighs, his own body starting to overheat from the sight of you.

" and it doesn't look like you learned your lesson yet either."

" please..." you mumbled quietly... shit your voice was gone.? you lifted your head up from his tip letting it go with a pop sucking off the left over cum. he could hear the desperate tone to your voice, feeling himself shiver from the loss of contact with your mouth.

" please what?" he asked, waiting for you to speak up. " what are you begging for, baby.?"

" t-to touch me..." you whispered the rasp of your voice fucking sucking his large length. belet out a shaky exhale, feeling his patience slowly start to wear thin as you spoke.

" you want me to touch you, huh?" he asked.

" are you asking nicely..? are you trying to earn the privilege?"

" please ryu...?" a smirk appeared on his face, hearing you pleading like that.

" keep asking nicely like that and i might give you a little.." he muttered, his hand still holding your hair gently. " you're being a good girl, after all."

" you want me to start licking your pussy now, baby?" you whimper nodding slowly his freakish long pink tongue slowly traced your inner thigh.

" i think i can give you a reward for being such a good girl." he said, taking his time to speak to drive you insane.

" come closer, mama..." you started to lower your ass down towards his face just above his lips as you felt his hot breath making you clench around nothing, making you whine.

" much better..." he mumbled, his hands gripping your hips to hold you still.

" i should probably clean up this little mess you've made.."

" good girl." he moved in, finally feeling his tongue finally make contact with your skin, feeling the wetness on his tongue from the juices that had been leaking from you.

" you taste amazing, mamas."

" n-nnghh more..." you whine as you started to grind on his face you just couldn't help myself he kept teasing you all my drenched panties finally touching his warm lips.

" i guess i should let you have what you've been waiting for now.." he said, holding your hips as he spoke. he couldn't resist your desperate tone, not wanting to deny you for much longer.

" it's about damn time i gave my good girl her reward, huh?"

" y-yes... more.. please daddy..." you begged running your fingers through his blonde hair with pink tips trying to push his face into cunt even more.

" greedy little thing.." he mumbled, letting his tongue run over your dripping folds through the soaked fabric of your soaked panties. he then started to press his tongue on your slit. the heat and taste of you finally on his tongue was nearly overwhelming.

" you taste so good, mamas..." he breathed, pressing his tongue in deeper. he couldn't resist you any longer, starting to lap his tongue over your skin, feeling how desperate you were.

" you really just want more and more, don't you?" he said, between his movements his tongue fully flat against your clit on your panties.

" you're already so wet... and i've barely touched you yet.." he lies he could feel your excitement already leaking through the fabric of your panties he let out a small laugh as he continued to lick and tease you through your soaked panties.

" i know you're already so close, aren't you?" he mumbled, starting to suck gently on your skin.

" you must be desperate after i left you waiting for so long.."

" take them off..." you mumbled talking about your panties, they're already ruined so who cares..? and plus you need more not just some fiction.

“ oh?” he said, noticing he didn't have as much of a dominant edge to him as he reached up to start pulling your soaked panties down.

" you really don't care about getting them all messy, huh? so impatient." he couldn't help but smirk a bit, seeing the mess of your desperate body.

" you're such a mess.. and it's all just for me, isn't it?" he said, pulling the last of the fabric down your legs.

" let me help make you feel better, baby.." his tongue pressed against your skin again, this time pressing straight against your sensitive folds. ryusei plunges two of his fingers, middle and ring, into your cunt while simultaneously forcing a little mewl out of you.

" mmm so tight for mama..." he hums, sliding his fingers out and holding them up-separating them so you can see that they're visibly sticky. you whimper as he pulled at his fingers not feeling full anymore.

" shh mama.. i got you still." he coos popping his fingers into his mouth and sucking them clean. fuck... how hot was that.?

you started to feel yourself get more aroused your hips suddenly jerk up once you felt his freakish long pink tongue circle your clit knowing it was a sensitive spot..

" s-shit ryu... slow n-nnghh down.." you whine ryusei is so messy, giving each area of your cunt a multiple of sloppy kisses. bubbles of saliva trickle past the corners of his lips. he started to drag his tongue upwards towards your asshole, his long tongue circling it.

" daddy... w-what are you doing.?" you whimper as you looked over your shoulder making you arch your back while he was underneath me it had me panicking slightly since you never done anal.. well duh you were a virgin.

" calm down, baby.." he spoke in a reassuring tone, noticing your slight panic he ran his hand in gentle circles on your back, trying to relax you.

" i know you're not used to this.. i just want you to relax and let me take care of you, okay.?"

" o-okay..." you mumbled before letting out a large gasp feeling his long tongue enter your ass hole fuck.. you could really feel how long his tongue is. ryusei started slow, trying to let you get used to the new feeling before he sped things up.

ryusei started to speed up, trying to get you used to the stimulation before he pulled away for a moment.

" how does that feel?" he asked,

" m-more..." you let out a whimper as you felt his tongue disappear making you even wanting more.

" oh?.. is that a little 'please' i hear.?" he asked when you started to whimper

" are you finally using your manners?"

" p-please daddy..?" you let out a soft whine looking back at him as your ass was in front of his while he was under you.

" that's more like it." he mumbled, his tone still teasing.

" no, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

he moved closer to your body again, his tongue circling around your entrance again before sticking his tongue in your ass as he started to tongue fuck your asshole.

you whimper grabbing his hair from behind and underneath you feeling him starting to tongue fuck my asshole even faster.

you couldn't even hear him your own moans filling up the room bouncing off and on the walls him tongue fuckin you more as your tight hole started to squelch moist noises. ryusei pulled his tongue out with a pop of your wetness running his chin and the sides of his mouth.

ryusei reattached him onto your dripping cunt slurping up anything left me before spitting on your cunt lapping everything up, his large hands gripping your thighs for dear life since you like to keep on squirming, leaving them bruised. by now he face deep down until your pussy you couldn't help but moan.

you let out a gasps feeling him out his thumb in your ass making you feel full once again but your pussy was empty.

" s-shit... d-daddy n-nngh-.. gonna cum...!" you mewl out feeling sensitive as he sucked on your clit making your hips jerk against his face. liquid gushed out of you, spurting everywhere, on the bed sheets, spattering on ryusei face, your body trembling as you tried to process everything. you fucking came and squirted at the same time.

" fuck ma did you just- his own smirk cutting him off.

" let's go another around mama.?" his hoarse voice exclaimed as he bit his lips ryusei grin growing suddenly gripped your branded ass that's filled with his handprints that made your skin red.

𖣂 KANYEREALDAUGHTER SPEAKS - i was mad tired when i write this so mb for errors.*reposted*

words 7.2k

» , ᴀ ᴋᴀɴʏᴇʀᴇᴀʟᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

copyright ©️. ᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ . «

[stellar-waves]

that one time

. . .

[ boondock saints : murphy + fem!reader ] fluffy february : prompt 2 ⚠ warnings: suggestive sexual content, mild language, pre-canon, short and sweet, written fairly quickly A/N: Finally some Murphy content here! Took me long enough. 😅

. . .

You feel his eyes on you. Exhaling, you put the car into park and meet his gaze. He’s fighting a smile while the cigarette smoke swirls around his fingers and escapes through the cracked passenger window. 

“What?” you hesitantly ask, your mind shuffling through all the possible answers. 

Murphy raises his eyebrows a little, still fighting the smirk that wants to split across his face. He keeps staring at you.

Usually, you can read his mind, but for some reason, today is not one of those days, and you feel incredibly frustrated because of it. “What?” you ask again with a little more force.

He raises his eyebrows a little more, slower than before, and his lips are still sealed shut. 

Now you’re annoyed, the kind of irritated only a MacManus can manifest. “What?!”

He finally cracks, his smile spreading fast as he giggles and takes a drag off his smoke. Murphy directs his exhale out the window, and turns back to look at you, those ocean-blue eyes shining in the afternoon light. “Ye remember that one time?”

Your eyes narrow in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Ye know…that one time?” he drags out, his eyes still locked on you with a hint of mischief. 

You shake your head. “Not following, hon. You wanna stop being so God damn cryptic?”

He chuckles and leans his face closer to yours. “Come on, lass…that ONE time?”

And suddenly, the answer hits you, sending an electric shock through every nerve in your body. “Oh my god…you mean…”

He smiles seductively, blinking slowly as he agrees. “Aye…when we…”

The memory rushes to the forefront of your brain, forcing your eyes to fall to his lips as your pulse quickens. “And then we…”

“Aye,” he says softer, his face now close enough you can taste him. 

You start to sweat, fighting the urge to rip his shirt off—because that one time was late at night and parked behind the building, not in the middle of the day on the curb of a busy street. 

“So…” he starts with a hum, “ye want some?”

God, yes, you want some. You want him. “I do,” you mutter, nodding and closing your eyes as you brush your lips against his. You kiss him sweetly as his mouth dances with yours. You feel his hand cup your face, and he hums again. 

“Very well then,” he mumbles against your lips. “Mint chocolate chip?” 

Your eyes fly open and you pull back, his hand still tangled in your hair. “What?”

“Ice cream,” Murphy states so simply. “I thought that’s what ye want, yeah?”

Your face turns bright red. “Oh…yeah, totally,” you try to shrug off the embarrassment, smiling weakly as you calm your nerves. 

He slides his hand down to your arm, leaning back with a knitted brow. “Wh…what did ye think I meant?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing.” 

And then his grin splits again, a full laugh falling from his mouth. “Oh shit! Ye thought I meant that one time we had se—”

“Don’t!” you hastily interrupt him. “That’s not what I—”

“But, ye were going to…” he laughs some more, covering his face with his hand that’s still wielding the cigarette. “In the middle of the day? Oh, love! That would’ve been…” he can’t even finish his thought because he keeps laughing. 

You rub your cheeks with both hands, finally giggling yourself. “Alright, alright, just go get your ice cream,” you playfully shove him.

He opens the car door, but stops with one foot out. “And then maybe after we can…ye know,” he suggests, raising his eyebrows again. 

You shove his shoulder again, pushing him out with a smile, “Go, Murph!”

. . .

[unknownogre]

( I got a little inspired from Facebook...and was just able to sit down today to write it. I approached it not exactly from the prompt's direction too but that is the scene that popped in my head.)

“Well…I have to ask, am I dead?”

Moments ago I was just sitting at my desk sipping a cup of coffee playing a lovely game of slaughter the Nazi when I found myself suddenly not there. Still had my coffee in had though, Deadpool pajama pants for the whole damn world to see no shoes and, I’m sorry to those that had to see me, no shirt. Someone was standing in front of me too, lithe build with a very baggy hoodie and baggy pants on wearing some kind of sneaker and a face that was obscured by shadows that were impossibly dark for the time of day and location.

“No, finish your coffee and let’s go.”

Fuck…people were walking around us like they didn’t notice me or them. The voice of the person was androgynous and a touch echoey. I knew one thing in this moment, without introduction and without me even having to ask the question, in my bones I knew this was Death. THE Death the primordial force that will exist until the end of the universe.  So weird, I wonder if they developed that power just to make it easier.

“Alright, fuck it. Not like I have a choice do I…?”

I already hate this. I’ve got body issues, most fat guys do no matter the praise they get. Fuck, I hope I don’t have to fight anything. I have no idea how I’ll do. I don’t fight, no one wants to fight me so I’ve never had to.

“No you don’t have to fight. Maybe, I’m not sure. People handle the situation differently. I’m just Death, I don’t know the future or the past. Think there is a time you’re supposed to die? Absolutely not. Chaos my friend. Complete Chaos.”

That…honestly that made me feel a lot better about a lot of things. Though to delve into that right now would completely pull my focus away from whatever this is.

“Why me?”

I had to ask as we walked another block. If Death was powerful enough to just pull me out of my living room I figured we could at least get closer, though…my feet don’t hurt even though they are bare so that is good at least.

“In a two-thousand-mile radius of my current problem your soul was the only one that matched what I needed…what ever that is. I don’t know have exact details. I just know when I problem arises and I need help I concentrate and the one who is best able to help just appears to me like a blip on a radar.”

Well…it is nice to be needed right. I mean I doubt that is the case, I’m not that special. I’m just me. I took another sip of my coffee.

“What do I get out of this?”

I don’t work for free. I’m completely convinced when given any modicum of power I’d go full on super villain. I know at my core I’m evil, just the kind of evil that still wants to protect those that love and cherish. Touch my wife and I’ll burn the whole damn world down, same for my kid. So again, I wonder why I was the blip.

“A favor.”

That was all Death needed to say. I get a favor from Death, I mean I bet there are rules and what not attached to it, but who wouldn’t want a favor from Death. That was enough for me.

“And lunch. A favor and lunch and you have yourself a deal.”

Death stopped and turned around to look at me, I could feel the weight of their gaze too but I just stood there and stared at where I thought their eyes would be crossing my arms across my chest with a smirk…Never take fully what is offered. Ask for just a little more.

“You got it. Cause I know what you want…hell I want it too. A favor and lunch.”

That was good enough for me. Almost made me forget I was shirtless and barefoot in a large city. We approached a hospital and headed right in. We passed the nurses station, and I was able to grab a scrub top much to their confusion. I felt better with a shirt on at least. We went up to the morgue…and there…holy crap.

It was some kind of creature, twisted with pitch flesh and blood ooze from various places, like self-inflicted wounds. It was just roaring and trying to smash through things it couldn’t fully interact with. There were some forms in the corner cowering in fear…ghosts? I don’t have time to question everything.

“Calm them down.”

…wait…what?!..

It was just a roaring beast that was at least six feet tall. I think it was meant to be bi-pedal but it was only that way sometimes. Like how some movies show werewolves, like they can walk a few steps until they want to run and then it is down on all fours.

“Well…fuck. Okay. Hey.”

I started waving slightly. The creature made a swipe for me but It was slow I was able to step back to avoid it. The ‘mission’ was to calm them down. Calm, not hurt, not subdue but calm.

“HEY!”

I said again, but this time with the power of dad voice. I didn’t like using it much, unless we were outside and my kid was about to run into a parking lot or something just as dangerous. I have NO information to go off of. Death wasn’t a planner were they? The creature’s attention was fully on me now. Good, that is what I needed…not what I wanted though. I knew I wasn’t dead now because my heart was hammering in my chest.

“Knock it the fuck off okay. You are scaring the shit out of these other people. What the hell is going on anyway? I’m sure being dead sucks but this…this can’t be good for you, can it?”

The creature seemed to understand my words if only for a moment before it roared at me. Its mouth…chilling. Elongated like a wolf but the teeth…they were human. I could make money on this if I could get into practical effects and recreate the look.

What to do. I had to use a chair to keep it back and out of swiping range. I don’t think I can actually die here…but maybe no risk no reward.

“This can’t kill you, but if it manages to hurt you too bad I am SOL and will have to destroy it completely. I don’t want to do that so I brought you.”

So it was a soul, something twisted and probably not evil. Otherwise there would be no sympathy. I need more compassion. The  creatures attention was still on me and all those cowering in the corner were watching with rapt attention. There is a lot of rage here, so much anger, and where there is anger there is sadness. Okay…okay…got it.

“Hey, we are just gonna talk alright. I won’t yell anymore. Just calm, just calm and cool. Listen I can’t help you right now. Not with all this rage and aggression. Trust me. I want to help you. I get nothing out of the situation if you are harmed. What happened? Why are you so angry?”

It took another swipe at me. Fuck…this thing is strong, almost knocked the chair out of my hands. It was hurt, even it was just by itself. When I met its gaze I could see such sadness. Rage and sadness. I got you.

“Hey. Listen, I am here for you, okay? I am here for you. Not Death, not these people in the corner, you and just you. Fuck any reward…fuck anything else okay. Just me and you here. I am your friend. No one touches you unless they step over my literal dead body, which isn’t even HERE so they are screwed trying to find it. You don’t deserve this, what ever this is. So talk to me. Let me help you, that is all I want right now.”

That caused the creature to pause and look at me. Tears welling up in its eyes. I see why I was called. Most people wouldn’t look in its eyes, they couldn’t see the pain there. They’d see the twisted muscle, the claws…they’d be hostile. Monsters were fantasy for me until I was brought here.

“I…they…momma…MOMMA!”

It cried and looked around panicked. This is a child. THIS IS A CHILD! Thank gods I didn’t hit it, and now I know why the dad voice caused it to pause. I wonder if these souls were trying to help before or where they just trying to leave after they died? Hard to say.

“Hey kid…calm down. Shhhh I got you okay. You want to see your Mom once more. We got you okay. Did they take you and here away at the same time?”

The kid seemed calmer now, just tears streaming from its eyes. They nodded and seemed to wrap their twisted arms around themselves, rocking a little bit. Certainly a kid. I sighed for a moment.

“Would you like a hug? I can give you a hug if you’d allow. Sometimes its nice to just get grounded. I’m a dad, so I can only imagine how it is being separated from your mom. I give the best hugs too, I’m like a teddy bear.”

That is why my daughter said when she was younger anyway. Daddy bear hugs. The child looked to me hesitantly and then nodded slowly. I got up from the chair and I moved slowly. I had no weapons, I’m a big dude but people say they aren’t scared of me. I like to think I’m not scary normally anyway. When I got close enough I just wrapped my arms around them. Sure some of their spikes went into my skin, hurt like a bitch too, the blood smelled terrible as well…still though. Sometimes a hug is what the doctor called for. The kid just started to cry. Its massive head put on my shoulder and nestled into the crook of my neck like my daughter did plenty of times when she was little. I felt they shift, the sound of…gods I don’t know, snapping bone and such was heard all around. I just closed my eyes and held the kid for as long as they squeezed me back.

Soon, I was holding a five year old boy who was finally calming down from all the crying. The holes from the wounds and claws were still there on my body but he looked alright. Oddly I wasn’t bleeding…wonder if that was Death’s doing? Or do I not bleed if I’m not solid? Too many questions I’ll leave for another day.

“Can you take us to his mom?”

Death just nodded as I held the kid in my arms. We left the morgue and went to a hospital room where the kids mother was. She was alive, but badly hurt. Apparently there was a car accident, they got hit by a drunk driver. The kid was dead just after arriving. Freaked out when he couldn’t find his mom. I held him for a while.

“Momma will be okay?”

He asked me and I looked to Death who nodded with a touch of a shrug. I know, chaos on all that stuff, suddenly I was a little less reassured.

“She’ll be okay little one. Best thing you can do is let Death take you to the next world, be as happy as you can. Your mom will cross over eventually, and then you two can play. Just be happy and play as much as you can in the meantime okay?”

The little boy nodded and I set him down, he walked to his mom and gave her a kiss on the cheek before turning to go hold hands with Death. Sudden I was back in front of my desk…wearing the scrubs top my coffee cup filled to my liking.

“Get dressed. Lunch is gonna be in an hour.”

I heard Death’s voice in my mind. I could only grinned. I was about to get my favorite sandwich on the planet, that alone was worth it. Still, I would have done it for free if there was nothing Death could give me. That kid needed the guidance. I wonder how many have crossed over and looked to reunite with someone but couldn’t due to held back rage and depression. That…that breaks my heart.

“Also thank you. You were certainly the best pick.”

I smiled at that, again…feeling useful was nice. Well time to get dressed, I wonder how Death will get me half-way across the country to that sandwich place? I don’t care…number 15 here I come.

[tojisprettylittlething]

Mr. and Mrs. Fushiguro 14

Pairing: Assassin!Toji Fushiguro x Assassin!Reader

Warnings: Explicit content, smut, heavy tension, rough and soft moments, emotional vulnerability, scars (physical and emotional), marriage talk.

Masterlist

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

Chapter Fourteen: The Night We Became Us

chpt. one - chpt. two - chpt. three - chpt. four - chpt. five - chpt. six - chpt. seven - chpt. eight - chpt. nine - chpt. ten - chpt. eleven - chpt. twelve - chpt. thirteen - chpt. fourteen - chpt. fifteen

The bed had seen everything.

It had seen arguments—ones that left the walls shaking, voices raw, the kind where neither of you could walk away because there was nowhere else to go.

It had seen laughter—real, aching, unfiltered joy, stolen in the middle of chaos, in moments neither of you thought you deserved.

It had seen sex—bruising, relentless, desperate. The kind that meant something even when you told yourselves it didn’t. The kind that kept happening, over and over, because neither of you could help it.

It had seen bruises—ones left in anger, in passion, in pain. Fists, nails, teeth. Marks that faded, but never really left.

And it had seen healing—the quiet aftermath of violence, the unspoken truce in the way he traced the lines of your body when he thought you were asleep. The way you’d press against his warmth even when you told yourself you wouldn’t.

Now, it would see this.

You weren’t sure what this was yet.

Toji was on his phone, scrolling lazily, his other arm resting behind his head, shirtless, sprawled across the bed like he owned the damn thing. Like he owned you.

You didn’t say anything when you walked in. Just kicked off your shoes, let your body collapse onto the mattress, face-first into the sheets that smelled like him.

His eyes flickered toward you, his phone lowering slightly. “Rough day?”

You groaned into the pillow. “Don’t start.”

A chuckle, deep and lazy. “Didn’t say shit.”

You turned your head, peering at him, eyes trailing down the bare skin of his chest. The scars, the muscles—all of him.

And that’s when it hit you.

The months of running. The months of being on the move, of fighting and surviving, of waking up to him every damn day, in every damn town, in every damn bed.

You weren’t even sure when it stopped being a job, when he stopped being a threat, when he became the only thing in your life that made sense.

So you said it.

You hadn’t planned to, but it came out anyway.

“Marry me.”

Toji froze.

His phone screen dimmed, forgotten in his grip. His head turned slowly toward you, unreadable.

“What?”

You swallowed, propping yourself up on your elbows. “I said—”

“I heard you.” His voice was quiet but sharp, as if he was waiting for the punchline.

You didn’t give him one.

You held his gaze, steady, serious. “Well shit—We might as well.”

Silence.

Then—

A smirk. Slow. Dark. Amused.

“You proposing to me, sweetheart?” His voice dropped lower, teasing, testing. “Shouldn’t I be the one doin’ that?”

You rolled your eyes, sitting up properly now. “We’re already in too deep. You know it, I know it. Might as well make it official.”

His smirk didn’t fade, but there was something else in his eyes now. Something sharper. Something real.

For the first time in a long time, Toji looked surprised.

Then, in a blink, he moved.

You barely had time to react before he grabbed you, pulling you into his lap, hands firm on your waist. You let out a breath, heart slamming against your ribs as he looked up at you.

There was something in his expression—something dangerous, something possessive, something that made your stomach twist in the worst, best way.

“You serious?” he murmured, fingers slipping beneath your shirt, tracing the skin of your back.

You didn’t look away. “Yeah.”

He exhaled, slow and deep, his grip tightening. “Fuck.”

Then he kissed you.

And it was different.

Not like before. Not like the rushed, desperate kind.

This one was deep. Heavy. The kind of kiss that didn’t just take, but gave.

The kind that changed things.

His hands dragged over your skin, slow, like he was memorizing you.

You moved against him, rolling your hips instinctively, earning a low groan from his throat.

“Keep doin’ that and I’ll have you screamin’ my name in under five,” he muttered against your lips, voice thick with something dark.

You smirked, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “Five? Thought you had better stamina than that, old man.”

His eyes darkened.

Then, he flipped you.

Your back hit the mattress, breath hitching as he hovered over you, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice a dangerous promise. “You just had to say that, huh?”

You didn’t get a chance to answer.

Because then he was on you.

And the bed—the bed—witnessed everything.

Toji’s hands were on you—everywhere.

His mouth was at your neck, lips hot and deliberate as they traced over your skin, as if he wanted to mark you all over again.

And you let him.

Because you wanted it, too.

Because fuck, this was different.

You had fought him before. You had hated him. You had spent months pretending that every time he touched you, it didn’t send something sharp and electric through your veins.

But now?

Now, there was no pretending.

Now, there was no fight left.

Now, there was only him.

Toji’s teeth scraped against your pulse, and you gasped, back arching when he pressed a knee between your thighs, pushing them apart.

“Still think I don’t got stamina?” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with amusement, dark with something else.

You barely had the breath to scoff before he was kissing you again, rough and unrelenting, stealing every sound from your lips.

And then—

His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wide, and he was there, pressing against you, thick and heavy, making your breath stutter.

You clenched around nothing, body aching, needy, and the bastard knew it.

He smirked, fingers trailing down, brushing over your slick folds, feeling just how wet you were for him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice strained. “Always so goddamn ready for me.”

Your fingers dug into his arms, nails leaving half-moons in his skin. “Shut up and—”

He thrust into you in one slow, deep stroke.

Your words died in your throat.

A choked gasp left your lips, your body tensing at the sheer stretch of him, at the way he filled you to the brim, at the way he didn’t fucking move.

He just stayed there, deep inside you, cock throbbing, forcing you to feel him.

Your fingers curled into the sheets. “Toji—”

He leaned down, lips brushing against your ear.

“Say it again.”

Your brows furrowed, brain still fuzzy, barely keeping up. “What?”

His teeth scraped over your earlobe, his hips rolling just enough to make you feel it, to make your breath hitch.

“Say it again.”

You realized what he meant.

Your heart pounded.

And then—

“Marry me.”

Something flickered across his face. Something raw. Something real.

And then he moved.

Slow at first, dragging every inch of himself out before pushing back in, deep and unhurried, making you feel all of him.

You moaned, body arching, fingers gripping his shoulders as he set a rhythm—slow, deep, consuming.

Like he wasn’t just fucking you.

Like he was claiming you.

Like he was answering you.

“Toji,” you gasped, nails raking down his back, legs tightening around his waist, urging him deeper.

He growled, snapping his hips harder, making you feel it, making your body tremble beneath him.

His hand gripped your jaw, forcing you to look at him, his eyes dark, unreadable.

“You serious?” he muttered, voice rough, strained.

You swallowed hard, the way he was fucking into you making it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to lie.

“Yeah.”

His grip tightened.

Then he kissed you.

And it wasn’t a yes.

But it wasn’t a no, either.

-----

.

.

.

The aftermath was quiet.

You didn’t know how long you laid there, limbs tangled with his, the room thick with the scent of sex and sweat, the sheets ruined beneath you.

Toji was warm against you, an arm slung lazily over your waist, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against your hip.

You should have moved.

You should have gotten up, put some distance between you, reminded him that this didn’t mean anything.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

And when Toji let out a low, satisfied hum, pressing a lazy kiss against your temple, you didn’t push him away.

Not this time.

My lil taglist ₍₍ ◝(　ﾟ∀ ﾟ )◟ ⁾⁾ : @t4naiis - @crimsonxm00n -

[llamabois]

JUST SHUT UP AND KISS ME | Caleb One-shot

Synopsis: In which Caleb and you get into a fight, and have your first kiss instead.

Tags: hurt/comfort, yearning, angst, a bit of prose, unedited.

1.12k words (I think)

Part 2 of Shut Up and Let me Hit you. We love angry MC.

“You killed my Caleb.”

You knew how to cut him deep. It was you, only you who could leave invisible scars with the ghost of your smiles turning into frowns. Only your tongue could become a jagged knife that cut away the mask that he had learned to fasten securely.

Only you could tear away his defenses and leave him like an open wound.

It was always you.

And here you were looking down at him with those rebellious eyes filled with unshed tears and anger. His collar in your shaking fists, loosening for a moment, only to trace down to his tie.

“The Caleb in this uniform…I don't like it…” you said. Undoing his tie and buttons while he sat on the bed, he put his elbows up to keep himself in place while you trapped him under you.

His hands clenched.

“What are you doing?” He asked, stopping your hands from unbuttoning him any further. It was getting too dangerous.

“What does it look like? I'm taking this damn uniform off of you. I don't like it.” You said, trying to continue.

“Stop.”

“Why? Why can't I! If I could, I would burn this damn thing and never let you go back to that place!” You shout.

“You know I couldn't.”

“Shut up. You can. We can stop them if we try together. I'm a strong hunter, you know this, and i know the Hunters Association would be willing to listen—”

You try to come up with a plan or excuse but a calloused finger is pressed against your lips.

“You don't get it. There is no out. This is the only way to protect…”

You.

The words fell at the back of his throat. Still, you knew the end of that sentence, and it hurt.

“No, Caleb. It's you who doesn't get it.”

You get off of his lap and begin to pack the things left in your room. His purple eyes watching you open up the closet and drawers which stored the minimal clothes you had within them.

He gets up and approaches you as you clean out one of the drawers.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm leaving.” You say without looking at him

“Come on, pipsqueak. Please stop.” He said.

He reaches for your hand and you slap it away. “Don't pipsqueak me.”

You walk to the closet and begin to take out the clothes you had left in there.

There was a sort of sinking feeling within him. The sharpness of your gaze was something he had seen a few times in the past, whether it was at a bully, or at someone who had done you wrong, but not Caleb.

Never Caleb.

He calls out your name, which you ignore. “Please, talk to me.”

“Why should I? Why should I even bother? It's not like you'd care to listen anyway.”

“You know that's not true.”

“Then what is Caleb? What is something that is true, through all of the lies and conniving bullshit. What about you is real, or has ever been real?”

He stood in silence, his hands balled into fists. How could he tell you? How could he even fathom to express how every fiber of his being was unequivocally and irrevocably yours. That you were his north star and anchor point that tethered him to this world. That your smile was the sweetest thing he never owned.

How could he tell you that he wished he did?

“Tell me.” You said, getting closer to him, despite your position being closer to the wall.

“TELL ME!” You yelled, pushing his chest.

Caleb held your hand that pushed him and walked towards you.

Every step that he took left less and less space between you and the wall, and him. His eyes are stormy with unspoken emotions. It was the same kind of look that you could only catch on accident or in moments between you that left you in a position of hazy emotions and questions of what your relationship truly was. That look had always lived behind the kindness, it glinted a craving for something that he couldn't dare to ever touch.

“What do you want me to tell you?” He says in whispered tones. His grip on your hand, gentle yet firm. His gaze is heavy on you.

“Tell me anything. Tell me something that's real.” You say.

There is a moment of silence, the pouring rain, the only noise beyond your heartbeats and deep breaths.

“You're real.” He says. “You…are my universal truth. Every moment I spend with you is real.” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his finger tracing your cheek, then jaw, your chin.

He tilts your face up towards him, his eyes, lingering at your lips and your eyes. Your breaths blend together with proximity. The warmth of his dry lips stirs the craving you've always pretended to not acknowledge.

“Is that not enough?” He asks pleasingly.

It wasn't. And you knew this, but still everything in you held these words down and let loose the thoughts you locked away long ago.

“Tell me then…” You begin, your eyes lingering on his lips, while your free hand cups his face. “Is this moment real?”

He leans into your touch.

“If it isn't, I don't want to wake up.”

“Is my hand holding you, real?”

“Yes.” He says, bringing the hand that he held hostage and pressing them against his lips.

“Are your feelings for me real?

His eyes hold onto yours while squeezes your hand a bit.

“Yes.” He says, and it's a weight off both of your shoulders.

“Are your feelings for me…” he asks, but trails off. As if afraid of the answer he looks away.

Yet you don't let him run away. You tilt his head towards you, and press a chaste kiss onto his lips.

“Yes.” You say.

It was all he needed. His lips crash onto yours in a hateful craving. Exploring every inch of your lips until your breaths intermingle and become one. You throw your arms around him, hands in his hair.

He holds your waist, his hands traveling up and down your body. Both of you, lips magnetic as if you had no need for air.

Until you did.

You break away, huffed breaths between you, as Caleb rests his head in the crook of your neck. His now moistened lips ticking your skin.

“Was that real?” You ask, jokingly.

“Well…”His eyes meet yours in a mischievous way. Tilting your head towards him again with hunger in his eyes.

“I'd like to try again, just to make sure.”

—- END —-

[depressnt]

If I ever wrote a Wicked dnd au (tw massive rant!)

There'd be 8 grimmeries that encompass the 8 schools of magic, written by the wise ones and enchanted with sentience, they all choose one powerful magic user who encompasses their school to be able to read it, but people only know of the Transmutative Grimmerie- the bronze one- because there's a spell that keeps it in the emerald palace and the wizard tries to brute force it to work for him, and none of the others have come out of hiding and are instead waiting for a magic user to discover them

I say magic users because they won't always necessarily pick a wizard just because Wizards are those most likely to use spellbooks. The grimmeries choose someone who will use their spells to the betterment of Oz, and sometimes they won't even pick someone who specializes in the school of magic they represent

Also, Galinda is a wizard. People pretend she's a bard, but she is 100% a wizard. I'm sorry but I don't see her being selfless or dedicated enough to be able to practice as a support class, and while that one wicked dnd au where she's a cleric is wonderful, I'm a wizard Galinda truther. She WANTS to study magic, she's BEEN studying magic her wholeeee life, she wishes it were innate but it isn't so she's gonna grab magic BY THE BALLS and bend it to her will. Whether she specializes in enchantments (charms) or illusion is something I'm still debating, probably enchantment, but I hc Conjuration comes easily to her because she knows how to make something out of nothing (through lying), and doesn't want to lie but she kind of has to do it all the time and it sucks, she wants her lies to not be fake anymore, she's an honest gall! Just sometimes honesty gets you killed real damn dead. I think the Evocation grimmerie might like her, she's selfish enough to call on the aggressive nature of its spells for her own gain, and it just so happens that "her own gain" is "making Oz the kind of place Elphaba can live safely again" (I read a two chapter 34k word gelphie hurt/comfort reunion fic, and her characterization just KILLED me, I'm never gonna stop thinking of her, I love her)

(Found the link!)

Elphaba wants to be a wizard soooo bad, but she's a wild magic sorceress <33 Unsleeping City homebrew style, where her wild magic surges build up over time like Pete's, she can't STAND it and she nearly hurt so many people whenever she surged, the transmutation grimmerie picks her both as a way to get out of the palace, and because she wants to enact Good and Solid change in Oz, and it likes that

Fiyero is a swashbuckler rogue who switches his sword out for a gun in act 2, and maybe switches subclasses to mastermind to try and help Elphaba as best he can (reference to mastermind's ability to use Help action from 30 feet away, alsp it was HIS idea to fake her death) (a revived or phantom rogue would also make perfect plot sense, but I don't see it for his character)

Nessa is a commoner until she gets the ruby slippers, which is when she realizes she needs to step up her game if she's to stay with the Charmed Circle, so she becomes a ranger, maybe a monster slayer- seeking out Elphaba to kill her with a gun (hc her father taught her to shoot when guns became a thing, because it was novel and interesting and she liked the power it gave her despite the chair) before having a change of heart

Boq is either a Barbarian or a fighter in my mind, maybe a champion fighter tbh? He'd have been Nessa's (unwilling) right hand during the dictatorship, and I'd believe she'd force him to essentially head whatever military she might have amassed, I think she'd gladly try and seceed from Oz. And also the Tin Woodman was wild with an axe in the books! (Allegedly) (still gotta read those), I think he'd find some release in physical prowess, maybe holding out hope he'd be able to fight his way out, since he was clearly too smitten to smart his way out of... pretty much any situation in his life

[wishing-well-art]

Hi! In all fairness i see where you're coming from, I'm a big disliker of most arcane criticism because they tend to ignore the good stuff about the show, this post was more of like a "damn thats a shame" after the arcane hype/hate died down, but thats on me, i should've tagged my criticism better.

When I mean they never sit down and talk to each other, i mean they never really unpack stuff like why Jinx really saw Silco as a father figure and the good and bad he did for her, and Vi understanding Jinx's mourning. Or the hard times Vi went through in that prison cell and how that affected her mindset when she joined the enforcers or kept trying to push Powder's identity onto Jinx, or Vi feeling like her identity was lost after not being able to protect her family, or Vi admitting why she resented Jinx so much for taking her sister away, stuff like that. Essentially what is the core conflict of season 1.

The verbal fight in the mines was good relief for them, but it only scratched the surface of strictly the enforcer stuff and was kind of just sister-ly name calling (ie chickenshit tricks, ill kick your ass again). The girls are extremely emotionally constipated and a serious (non-lethal this time) verbal fight where they unload their very personal negative feelings from season 1 might have worked for them: Vi calling Jinx her biggest failure, Jinx maybe yelling back that Vi actually failed her, the deep cuts. But because so much has happened and they still inherently need each other they would go lick their wounds and come back together to talk about what they really meant.

Yes Vi saw Jinx's body being taken by Silco and she could've been two and two together after the fact, but it would've been cool to see that conversation where Jinx actually tells Vi what was done to her and her side of the story.

Jinx did realize Marcus took Vi away, but she didn't know that Vi was literally around the corner running back. She didn't know Marcus had to drug her and drag her away right when Silco found Jinx. Vi never told her her reasons for leaving and walking around the corner, which is what I originally meant, she never found out Vi was just trying to cool off. Jinx could've easily thought that Vi walked away and kept walking away until she started doubling back and Marcus jumped her, which isn't the same as 'Vi walked around the corner so she didn't hit Powder again and sat there for a little bit before she saw Powder in danger and came sprinting back and was knocked out."

I wouldn't call demanding a serious drama have a comedic character or demanding an action movie have a 10 minute paint scene a reasonable comparison because the characters in arcane do talk a lot and show emotional moments, the tea party scene was perfect in that regard. I don't think they needed to have all the emotional conversations in the world, they are again, very emotionally constipated and it would have been out of place, but they did had a lot of down time in the commune, and it would've been the perfect arena to have one big heavy conversation. Honestly I think they could've just expanded the conversation about their mom to also include everything else from season 1 they needed to talk about. Those little moments of "you actually want my opinion?" were so good, because it's the girls being vulnerable but not opening up all the way, which is in character for them. And I think handfuls of moments like that, where they're being awkward around each other and trying to quietly accommodate for the other sister until either it all boils over or they just start talking and can't stop; that would've been perfect. But the big thing about the commune conversation ("we could stay here") is that the problems they were working through also needed to be about what went down in season 1.

The core of season 1 is that they didn't understand each other. Time and imprisonment separated them for too long, and with everything else happening around them they miscommunicated, and that had fatal side effects. But season 2 is about them coming back together, but in order for that to happen they needed to talk about what went wrong in season 1, and it would've also made the ending for them hit harder in contrast, because it would mean they did at least get that closure in being able to finally understand each other in some semblance.

The season was also very different, with them leaning into the arcane, magic aspects of the show a lot heavier, with the multiverse travel and Viktor's jesus powers, going over their trauma in a quiet safe environment wouldn't have felt out of place because honestly season 2 isn't really a tragedy anymore. It has tragic moments, but a good amount of endings felt triumphant for the characters, even if it was self destructive. Plus the commune wasn't really safe anyway, so it would make those quiet moments hit harder.

This really is mostly just a list of "man it would've been cool if that happened" stuff though, overall I liked the season

The one thing about Arcane season 2 that I'm still a little bit mad about is that Vi and Jinx never really talked. They had a total of 2 conversations in season 1, one where they got interrupted and Jinx was never able to tell Vi what happened in the 7 years Vi was in prison, and the second where Vi still had no clue what was going on. But that's fine, miscommunication that befalls tragedy, it's intentional, and character-wise Jinx wasn't in that kind of headspace for that to happen. But then season 2 rolls around and at no point in season 2 did they sit down and talk about what went wrong, why they made the decisions they did, and try to understand each other. We never even got a loud fight where they unloaded all the negative feelings they had towards each other, or a quiet painful confession that they felt like failures towards each other. They had so much down time that we should've seen all that, the fight in the mines and the talk in the commune should've been that, but they only barely skimmed the surface. Did Vi even find out about Jinx being injected with shimmer? Did Jinx ever find out why Vi left her that night? No, they didn't, and that's just such a shame.