#been looking for this damn thing for MONTHS

[pedgito]

𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 | Jackson!Joel Miller x reader

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summary | Your postcards become a personal journal during patrols with Joel.

author's note | a little late, but this is my entry for @jolapeno's dear-uary! i had very little idea what i was going to do initially, but this kinda turned into its own thing. i hope the postcards are a nice addition to the fic, they were quite fun to make.

content warning | 18+ MDNI, jackson era joel, patrol partners, quiet!reader, enemies to lovers, one instance of choking, mentions of violence, angst, mean!joel, voyeurism, forced orgasm, thigh riding

word count — 7k

“It’s the fifth time I’ve came back and she’s been sleepin’,” Joel gripes a handful of feet below as you feign resting, trying to relax the sneer that threatened to cross your face, annoyed with the exhaustion that never left but loathing the man who couldn’t seem to give you a break, “or writing in that damn book, ignoring us.”

“I’ll talk—” Joel interrupts Tommy once more, with emphasis on the amount, but Tommy reels him in, squeezing down on his shoulder as you peek through one eye over the railing, scoffing under your breath, “I’ll talk to her, alright? S’awonder what a simple conversation can fix, Joel.”

His approach comes later during shift change as the night slowly melted into dawn, the sun rising on the horizon in waves of orange and purple, creating a cotton candy sky, hearing Tommy’s voice carry as he greeted people along the way before the scuff of his boots stopped behind you, you turn to peer up at him sheepishly.

“Not a good look, y’know?” Tommy says redundantly, “I’m not tryin’ to gripe you out, but Joel—”

You nod knowingly, waving him off as you toss your pencil and notebook aside, adjusting your jacket over your shoulders as you sit upright, rubbing the sleep out of tired eyes.

“You can always put me on kitchen duty, hell I’ll take—”

“No—no, I’m not moving you. You havin’ trouble sleeping in the singles?”

The apartments, the singles—it varied, depending on who you asked. A place for the younger, single survivors in Jackson. With the constant sound and rumble of life within the walls, you should feel safe, a subtle semblance of home, but sleeping alone was hard. Trapped within four walls, drowned out by the eventual silence as night fell, it left room for the nightmares.

It was easier here, surrounded by others, sounds to help keep you grounded, the fresh air despite the stale smells and faint fumes of rotting corpses. You couldn’t explain it, but it was easier. Besides, it wasn’t like you were being completely negligent—even Tommy knew that.

“I have trouble sleeping in general,” You feed him a half-truth, “I’ll keep it together, though. As long as it keeps Joel off your ass and mine, I wouldn’t be thrilled to be on the receiving end of one of Joel’s outbursts.”

“Tantrums, more like.” He jokes with a smirk, his teeth peeking out under his thick mustache. “I really don’t mind if you’re dozing off a bit, s’long as there’s others keepin’ watch. Maybe–just maybe, try and keep up the act when Joel’s coming and going.”

“Can do,” You agree with ease and Tommy smiles, pointing lazily toward your notebook.

“I’m curious, though—whatcha got goin’ on in there?”

Your brow furrows until you look over your shoulder and surmise what he’s referencing, picking up the notebook carelessly and flipping through to show him–it was a mix of random doodles and sketches, some vulgar words scribbled in by a mix of immature men who you’ve come to befriend with reluctance on the job, a detailed log of everyone’s schedule as they leave and return, random details of weather patterns, things you’ve noticed along the skyline toward the inner city, several months worth of information that Tommy nods at, thoughtful as he looks over the pages.

“Don’t let ‘em give you a hard time,” Tommy tells you, folding the cover closed.

“Yes, sir,” You say endearingly, mostly as a jest at Tommy’s expense, knowing he despised the word, making a face as he turned on his heels to leave.

“Shit makes me feel old,” He gripes, shaking his head in a mix of disdain and amusement, “stop it.”

You smile at his annoyance as you tuck your belongings away into your pack and trade your rifle off to Jesse, who seemed more than eager to take your shift with bright, well-rested eyes and a grin of his face as greeted you both.

As you expect, there is little sleep to be had as you hit your bed, tossing and turning as you fiddle with the ripped hole in your bed sheet or spend time counting the stains on your ceilings—mold spots and holes, signs of a building that was on the way out, but hanging by a thread.

Tommy wouldn’t condemn the place unless it was in shambles, finding use of just about anything if it still had enough life in it. 

And you follow Tommy’s instructional plea—even if it killed you to appease Joel, who seemed just as critical if not more as he rode up on his horse every few nights.

Their shifts weren’t always regular and Joel often picked up extra patrols when someone else couldn’t, complaining entirely too much for someone who seemed like they couldn’t stand living within the sanctuary of Jackson, like he’d rather tough it out on his own.

Ellie blamed it on his inability to let himself settle—Jackson was home, his family was here, and physically he could exist, but he never seemed quite present.

You catch Ellie on a shift change as Tommy and Joel approach, trading out your jerky for her sandwich as she hurriedly tucked it away like she was going to get caught doing something she shouldn’t, snorting softly at her actions as Joel scowled, pulling at the reigns of his horse as he drew near.

The call of your name has you perking up, peering around Ellie’s head at Tommy with a less than enthusiastic look on his face, rifles held between both of the brothers grips.

“I’m askin’ for a huge favor,” Instantly you knew, posture slumping slightly as your boots sunk into the snow, “Cindy’s sick—caught the same bug that’s been goin’ around. Can you cover another shift? I’ll owe ya.”

“Seems more like you’re telling me,” You retort, stretching the beanie down over the back of your head to cover your ears, the cold biting at your skin, “—it’s fine, I’ll do it.”

“Thank—“

“But I want the weekend off.”

“Done.” Tommy agrees without problem.

The patrol box wasn’t all that bad anyways, insulated enough that you weren’t freezing your ass off, enough room for two people, it could be worse. It was better than walking the strip of the barricade, shivering until you couldn’t even feel your toes.

Wyoming winters were brutal, but it seemed like the end of the world had found a vengeance to fight back with, giving you the harshest versions of every season. A blizzard was expected within the next few weeks and those were never ideal—extra patrols, doubling watchmen, curfews. It sucked.

You find yourself sketching out the same tree line you’ve drawn a hundred times, wispy tendrils and thick trunks that wove together like a web, time drifting by with ease as the night swallowed up the day, the thick blanket of snow reducing both the noise and allowing a soft illumination as you peered off into the distance, almost mesmerized at the glowing orb that seemed to grow closer and closer. 

Tommy and Joel were the last ones out, everyone else having returned back hours prior, keeping in mind that they had taken the furthest patrol out north, so it wasn’t all that surprising.

But, it doesn’t take long for you to realize that Joel and Tommy are not alone, horses trotting quickly toward the gates as a small group of raiders followed closely behind and shot of rifle rounds with no exact target, whizzing by your head as you opened the door and ran to your own rifle, sliding to the wall for cover as you quickly loaded your gun and swung it over the ledge.

It wasn’t often that you had to use it outside of training and target practice, finding that Jackson had always been relatively quiet—except for now, as the brothers tumbled to cover as shots fired from your left and right, a few of the attackers succumbed to their flurry of wounds.

You watch as one raider attacks the brothers head on, short-lived as Joel attacks him with his fists, a hand bunching into the front of the attackers shirt before he’s crushing his skull in with pure rage and strength, eventually ending up with his hands around the other man's neck while he choked on the blood that spilled from his mouth, the light in his eyes slowly fading.

There’s a straggler on the outskirts, though, blending in as he slid through the tree line and attempted to attack Joel from behind, you quickly aim down your sight through the scope of the gun, following a straight and calm line as the man approached, stepping a few feet away from Joel before the bullet slices through his head, falling to the ground in an instant. 

Joel’s head whips toward you, your head peeking over the scope as you examine the body before looking over at him, seemingly stunned but the expression was subdued, quietly mouthing something to his brother who wasn’t as good at hiding his shock. 

Either you had made the right choice in saving Joel’s life or he was going to twist this on you, somehow proving that you could’ve killed him with your carelessness, letting a shot ring out so close to his head.

The dread you were feeling does come to fruition as Tommy knocks on your door that weekend, your soft voice welcoming him inside as you perched against the alcove in your room, a small ledge tucked against the windowsill. 

“I ain’t here to lecture you,” Tommy begins, cutting through your doubt, “feel like I’m constantly askin’ so much of you but Joel and I can agree on one thing. You’re a damn good shot.”

You scoff at that, almost a laugh. 

He leaned against the wall near the small kitchen tucked into the corner of the apartment, arms crossed over his chest.

“We lost James,” from what you recalled, he was a young kind, inexperienced, reckless too, “poor kid never fuckin’ listened, got shot before he could even get his gun out.”

“Why are you telling me this?” You ask bluntly, looking up at him through a downturned gaze, picking at the chipped paint by your feet.

“We’re down a person. I want you to take over.”

“I thought this was a council decision. Some prestigious thing, putting people through tests before they could—“

“It’s the least of my worries. Maria’s close to her due date too, that storm is creepin’ in. We ain’t got time to waste, we’ll be doubling patrols soon. Are you in or out, kid?”

Tommy’s face screamed desperation, sunken eyes were a telltale sign of lacking sleep, stress rifling his features. He had a lot on his plate, the weight of Jackson on his shoulders, his burgeoning new family growing within a few weeks. You had a soft spot for him unfortunately and it was always your downfall.

“I’m in.”

—

“You listen to every word I say,” Joel tells you, snaking by the others loading up their saddle bags, side stepping the horse’s head as he crowds you into the small space of the stall, “Every single word, got it?”

He’s never been friendly—cordial, maybe. But, Joel wasn’t the type to ask or suggest. It was always order and demand, his harsh tone constricting the words to instill an edge that had your brows furrowing down into your lids, face scrunching up in annoyance.

You agree regardless, nodding your head as you clip the saddlebag closed.

“I need to hear it.”

“Got it,” You retort, sarcasm laced around your tongue, “Every single word. You say run, I run. Jump, I jump. Good enough?”

Joel shakes his head slightly at your tone, looking off toward the entrance of the barn at his brother who was deep into a conversation, displeased with the idea of being paired with you.

But, he was the only one Tommy trusted to train you properly, even if it meant several hours together with a good chance you both might kill each other. 

With Joel, you were safe from everything else but him.

“Yeah, thas’ good.” He relents, turning on his heels before he finishes his sentence.

The weather was only just beginning to pick up, the winds whipping your loose hair over your face, pulling them from the tie you had pulling the majority of it back, hood snug over your head. You hear the distinct sound of leather rubbing against itself as Joel tightens his grips on the reins of his horse, settling beside you quietly as Tommy called off everyone’s posting.

You were assigned to the ski lodge far north, the furthest they patrolled but for good reason. It kept the raiders at bay, staking claim so far out and keeping them away, for the most part. Plus, it gave them an early jump on any of the migrating groups of infected, finding that they often moved in hoards during the colder months, picking off the stragglers that wandered in.

The trip is cold, lips dry and cracking by the time you reach the lodge, but relatively easy. 

“Tie ‘em up,” Joel instructs coarsely, waiting to latch the door closed as you tie the horses up to the makeshift post in the foyer, his foot holding the door open as you step past him, shoulder brushing his elbow as his eyes track the touch silently, clicking the lock into place.

“Beds are up there,” Joel pointed toward the right corner, couches lined with sheets and pillows, “s’better to sleep down here with this weather, place don’t keep out the cold that well unless we got a fire going and even then…”

“I’ll be fine,” You assure him tensely, stripping your jacket off your shoulders and slinging it over the back of a nearby chair, pack falling slack against the floor, leaving you free to wander around.

“Sign us in,” He points vaguely in the direction of the bar, an old leather booklet resting against the wall with a pin tucked around a page, his voice carrying as you walk further away, “I’ll start up a fire.”

Joel was like a ghost, almost forgetting he was there until he’s approaching behind you, that familiar grimace on his face as he finds you scouring through the book, curiosity getting the best of you—it was harmless, but Joel thought otherwise.

“Is this gonna be an issue?” He asks, eyes widened slightly in an expectant manner, waiting for your response.

You wrestle with the urge to roll your eyes, neatly writing your names down into the book, checking quickly at your watch before you snap the book closed and shove it aside.

You move to walk around him, but his palm flattens out against your collarbone, shoving you back into place—he wasn’t letting you move without an answer.

“No,” You answer casually, pushing his hand away gently, “Are you gonna explain how any of this works?”

“We take turns,” Joel says, mirroring your early actions as he strips off his couch, the warmth of the fire already spreading throughout the room, “I’ll take first shift ‘til morning, then we swap.”

“And if we see something?”

“You wake me up,” He tells you, “otherwise, don’t.”

It was a simple but lethal instruction, a warning.

This was going to be absolute hell.

Luckily, the conversation dies out and you wander toward the small gift shop attached to the bar. It was mostly picked through besides the small plush bear sitting alone on the shelf and a revolving carousel of postcards, aged from both weather and time. You spin them around careful, mindlessly plucking a few that still seemed in good enough condition before you’re shoving them away in your bag, ignoring the creak of a chair as Joel sat with his rifle in his lap, leaned back as he stared out the long expansive window that covered the wall, just on the edge of cliff with a substantial drop.

It had a beautiful view, breathtaking, really. But, looking in his direction only made you feel more and more unsettled, taking your seat beside the fire quietly.

“Should get some sleep,” He suggest without turning his head over his shoulder, your eyes glancing in his direction, “don’t need you fallin’ asleep on patrol here.”

And normally, you could find yourself falling asleep easily given the situation. But, you were on edge, fearful, something twisting in your gut that kept you from relaxing. You’ve heard the stories about Joel, how ruthlessly he killed and maimed. A man of action rather than peace.

You pull a single postcard from your back to distract yourself, hoping that it might help lull you to sleep eventually.

And you wished it had gotten easier, but the more you were paired with Joel, the more tension it seemed to cause, always unspoken—Joel never reacted, barely skirting the idea that this was becoming a problem, the lack thereof with communication, speaking only when you absolutely needed to.

His questions were always odd, like a robot attempting to make small talk—and often, it was observations, one-off statements that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as they did.

But, they did.

“Sleepin’ with that knife ain’t safe.” Joel told you on a crisp, stormy night at the end of January, the tail end of it peeking out from under your pillow, one eye peeling open to look at him with disdain.

“Says the man who sleeps with a rifle on his chest.”

Joel chews at his bottom lip, looking down at the bulky weapon in his lap before he ignores your retort, focusing his gaze on the book in his grip, something he’s read through about a hundred times, attempting to give himself a different view, flipping through the pages mindlessly.

“Where’d you learn to use a gun like that?” He asks suddenly, cutting through the silence again.

Another question, one you could leave unanswered. 

“We’re not put in the watchtower without gun training,” You tell him, “seems kinda self explanatory, Tommy trained me himself.”

“That kinda shootin’ isn’t taught.” Is all he replies with—almost like an accusation. 

“I think you’ve forgotten that QZ kids were born with a gun in their hand.”

It was an asinine exaggeration, but still wholeheartedly the truth. You knew every part of a gun before you could even confidently tie your shoes, it was unfortunately second nature when you had a gun in your hand, similar to a knife. Your grip tightened around the handle as you closed your eyes, succumbing to sleep eventually.

You wade in and out, peeking through bleary eyes and always find Joel’s eyes on you, whether purposeful or not, he was always watching. Even as you wandered, no matter where you were—maybe it was his own strange way of hoping that it provided you comfort, that he was always watching out. But, it never made you feel safe. Not really. And, in turn, you find yourself doing the same thing.

He’s more relaxed when he’s sleeping, the familiar scowl non-existent as he snores alongside the crackling fire or roar of wind, his boots untied and loosened but never off, never too comfortable. Joel always slept with his arms crossed, sitting up or lying down, occasionally mumbling in his sleep as he whimpered, his face contorting in the only sign of emotion you see from him outside of anger and annoyance.

You scribble out your thoughts on a postcard to pass the time.

He never asks about the stack of postcards in your bag, remaining blissfully ignorant. It was an unspoken agreement, that prying wasn’t something either of you were going to make an attempt at—you could simply exist around each other, no baggage or stories to be traded.

For now, at least.

–

It was nearly four months of patrols when Tommy lays his plans out and surprisingly, Joel doesn’t seem displeased and truthfully, things had become easier with him than anyone else.

You didn’t have to put on an act for him.

He could tell when you were exhausted or irritated, giving you space with a silent pass of the sandwiches he had picked up before leaving, retreating to his own corner, though his eyes still lingered.

It had taken a few months, but you did feel that safety with him that Ellie often talked to you about—his steadfast personality, knowing that if something were to happen, he’d handle it. 

But, he’s still a mystery.

“Ellie told me ‘bout that time you killed a group of raiders tryin’ to attack her,” You start the conversation bluntly, biting into the steak sandwich, “You like knives more than guns?”

Bold, he thinks. That’s fuckin’ bold.

“Guns are loud,” He replies, “Knives aren’t.”

You think back to the incident at Jackson with another set of raiders, witnessing Joel kill a man with his bare hands and think - maybe he preferred neither, if given another choice.

The prospect shouldn’t excite you or even entertain you, the brute power he holds.

But, it does.

You make a soft nose of acknowledgement as you nod your head, noticing the subtle glint in his eyes as he revisits the memory with Ellie, his face twitching at the sight of the broken glass slicing through a poor kid’s neck, right along the jugular as he choked on his own blood.

“You kill anyone?”

“A few—just…for survival.” You weren’t sure why you lied.

Joel wasn’t threatened by you in the slightest and lying wasn’t going to change that.

You’ve been lucky enough to avoid it until recently, bouncing from place to place until you landed in Jackson. It had been your home for a while now, so long that you didn’t like to think about it, staying in one place for such a long period of time. 

Joel sat a few feet away in the small house nestled on the mountain, a cool breeze stretching through the open window as Spring had taken hold, flowers blooming over the edge of the windowsill where they threatened to creep in.

His feet were near your head, resting against the ledge of the window as he leaned back in his chair, tapping his knife against the wooden leg of the chair as you pretend to sleep, shifting slightly as the blanket drifted down your body, layers shedded and crumpled by your feet, leaving you in a thin top and and jeans as you turned to your stomach, moaning softly, content.

He’s been less shy about his stares, or oblivious, his gaze lingering when you would catch him in the act—but you count the second in your mind from the moment you catch him through your squinted gaze, his eyes drifting along your body curiously.

Ninety-five seconds.

It was a new record.

And you dream of him that night, it wasn't the first time.

But, this time felt different. Usually the dreams drift away the moment you wake, like a distant and distorted memory, but this one is vivid and lingering as you watch Joel, who had caught you in the midst of your wake but he'd fallen asleep shortly after.

Some fucked up and empty part of you wishes it was reality.

-

You end up at the same patrol a month later, the heat of summer creeping in.

You hadn’t been paired together in a couple weeks and Joel seemed lighter as he stepped beyond the threshold of the house and stripped off his pack, busying himself with a quick sweep 

Wiping your hand over your forehead, skin damp and sweaty as your pack falls to the floor, you sigh, fanning yourself with your hand as Joel catches a subtle glimpse of your obvious discomfort.

“Did Tommy ever fix the water?” You ask with a slight hint of annoyance, more than willing to douse yourself in a bucket of cold water to get some relief, “Please say yes.”

Joel chuckles at that, a small sound that you would have missed had you not been paying direct attention to his response.

“Yes, a couple weeks ago,” Joel answers simply, sinking lazily into the couch, allowing himself a moment of well-earned rest after the long ride here, “go on—I’ll cover the first watch.”

It was all the encouragement you needed. 

And the shower is marvelous, leveled at the perfect temperature to let the cool water wash over your skin, cleaning off the thin layer of dirt that had accumulated from Jackson to here, listening to the faint footsteps as Joel traversed the house, assuming he was setting things up in the bedroom—doors opening, floorboards creaking, the sounds were like a comfort. 

Joel doesn’t talk unless he absolutely has to, more settled in the idea of just existing around you—he knew it brought you a semblance of feeling safe, but he was forcing himself to keep that distance, remaining vigilant to the eyes that constantly watched him, occasionally catching himself doing the same.

Even now, it was like a trance, his head bowed as he passed the bathroom, noticing the small crack in the door as he heard your melodic hum filter over the sound of water, singing a song that reminded him of before, his favorite.

Was it your favorite too?

He doesn’t mean to, not really, but then you’re turning your body away from the shower-head, eyes closed and head tossed back as you washed your hair, the gap in the curtain from this angle giving Joel a perfect view of your body, the pristine slope of your breasts down to your stomach, a few faint scars he followed before his eyes landed on your pelvis, the trimmed patch of hair nestled above your cunt, feeling his throat swell as he swallowed.

The faint creek of his footsteps gives him away, he knows, but you don’t react.

It wasn’t until the midnight hour rolled around, falling asleep on your shift, that Joel sneaks out of the house—sometimes he just needed the silence in nature, no birds chirping overhead, the faint distant growl from traversing hoards that didn’t carry out this far, if he closed his eyes, it was almost as if everything were normal, like he was back at his house in Austin, enjoying a moment out on his back porch.

Unfortunately, Joel was a paranoid man; your quiet footsteps catch him off guard, only feeling your presence as you arrive at his back, turning on his heels in an instant as his hand latches around your throat, tackling you against the ground with his knee digging into your stomach, your face pinched in pain as you throw weak punches at his chest, gasping for air.

He seems trance-like, eyes glossed over as you struggle to breathe, vision blurring around the edges as it begins to tunnel, you muster as much strength as you can to wheeze his name.

“J-oel. Joel, s’me.”

Your voice, broken and strained, seems to break him out of his deadlock grip on your throat, dark eyes snapping back into a soft chestnut, his face softening as much as it could while still remaining hardened, scrambling away from you without a word. Like you had attacked him.

You let out a flurry of coughs as you roll to your side, massaging your throat as your sounds come out raspy and weak, feeling slight pain as you swallow and attempt to rise to your feet, seeing Joel hesitate from your periphery for a moment, considering helping you.

“Coulda fuckin’ killed you,” Is the only thing he offers.

“Yeah,” You respond bitterly, “Almost fucking did.”

“You got a habit of sneakin’ up on people like that? The hell were you thinking?”

He rubbed a hand over his graying beard, the other hand cocked against his hip as he kept a safe distance, watching you pick the clumps of dirt and grass from your hair. 

He’s angry. Angry?

Why the fuck was he angry?

“I was worried—you like to leave at night,” You explain through a strained tone, a tic in your jaw as you clench down, eyes sinking into a scowl as you challenge his expression, “the last thing I need is finding you dead and having to explain that to Tommy.”

A tense silence stretches over, a slow and powerful breath through his nose before he relents and stomps past you, leaving you in a similar position to his earlier, watching his figure trail toward the house as your head turns back toward the sky, covered in stars and picturesque.

The kind of sight you wouldn’t believe if you weren’t seeing it in person.

Joel liked simple pleasures, a moment of silence and a place to sit with himself, and you had disrupted it - the only true moment he had alone all day, to sit, to think. The guilt settles in quickly, lingering for a moment before you decide to make the walk back toward the house.

–

What you aren’t expecting to find is Joel, sifting through your bag, items sprawled out on the floor and the thick cards fitted between his calloused fingers, covered in filth as he read over the notes you had left over the past few months, internal thoughts that you wouldn’t dare let slip.

He'd broken the one unspoken rule you both had kept with each other.

Some of them were slightly more embarrassing than others, forbidden to see the light of day until now, meticulous notes about the details of his face as he slept, how you found the rhythmic sound of his breathing comforting or even more damning, how the more aggressive side of him did the exact opposite of what it should.

It excited you. Turned you on, though the cards held more flourishing details about why and how. Because even then, moments prior as his hands pressed against your throat, there was a brief moment of exhilaration, excitement. 

Your breath catches in your throat as you scramble, stumbling toward him and reaching for the cards he holds easily out of reach, a hand pressing against your shoulder and squeezing tight enough to hold you back.

“You wanna explain this?” Joel asks, the type of tone that made you want to shrink.

Your mouth parts for a moment before you find your voice, brow knitting in frustration as you reach for the postcards once more, failing, “Those are private—why are you snooping?”

“You left a mess,” Joel explains away, the items of your bag spilled on the hardwood floor, chuckling as he continues, “Huh, private? Ain’t much privacy to be had when you’re writing about me.”

You can feel your heart racing, knowing if Joel moved his hand an inch further down he would feel it too.

The stack had to be at least twenty postcards thick, some innocently tame and just a means to let your thoughts and feelings flow, most of them answering questions Joel had asked you earlier in the night that you had refused to answer, giving him nothing to work with.

The ones he does recite are damning, tossing them to the floor as he flips through the stack before reading off a particularly recent one from earlier that night, his confidence slowly flagging as the words leave his mouth.

Shower. Watching me.

It felt good.

“Goes both ways,” You sneer, pushing his hand away and making one final reach for the cards as you successfully pry them from his grip, stuffing them away in your bag along with your other spilled belongings.

Joel’s expression shifts slightly, staring down at your kneeling figure as you avoid his gaze. His boots scuff against the floor as he crowds you against the wall, nowhere to run when you rise to your feet. Attempting to scare, to provoke.

Daringly, you challenge him, “I’m not the only one watching, Joel.”

His eyes narrow, searching your face for any sign of a bluff. For a brief moment, you almost expect him to deny the obvious—lie, lie, lie.

But, even he couldn’t deny the strange connection; or, affliction, that had riddled you both.

You could blame it on the close proximity built over months of isolation, often paired together over your willingness to work efficiently and without issue as time went on—Tommy was used to people butting heads, arguing, favoring one person over the other.

With you two, he could send you off for a patrol and not have to worry about things being left behind or forgotten.

You were innately quiet, even in Jackson, never wanting to ruffle anyone’s feathers or stir up trouble—that was left for the rowdy teens and few and far between drunks. Joel almost suspected you as mole for a brief time upon your arrival in Jackson, a worry soothed by Tommy over time.

But now, he doesn’t know what to think. He can’t figure you out and he’s not really sure he wants to, but you’ve got the kind of look in your eyes that calls out to Joel, silently.

He’s never met someone so controlled, knowing when to keep to themselves and when to bite back; it strings, that bite. He feels it in the way your jaw tightens, attempting to shove past him.

He glances down, noticing the knife tucked away in your left hand. A low, threatening chuckle releases from his lips as his hand grips your wrist, holding it up between your bodies.

“What’re you plannin’ to do with this? Stab me?”

“M’not against it,” You try to keep the strength in your voice, but it wavers slightly.

“I know that look,” Joel challenges, “You ain’t ever killed like this—s’too close, too personal.”

He knocks the knife away with a quick jerk of your wrist as you stumble back against the wall, praying he didn’t hear the small gasp slip from your throat as his chest presses against yours.

“So, you like watchin’ me sleep?” Joel asks in a taunting tone, “Enjoy jottin’ down all those dirty little thoughts thinkin’ I wouldn’t see ‘em?”

“They weren’t meant to be seen. They were private,” You retort, feeling the weight of his body as you exhale, lashes fluttering at his hot breath as it ghosts your face, reiterating, “Private, like my shower? Or, how about all the times I’ve caught you watching me? You know, we could go back and forth about this all night but frankly, I don’t mphh—”

Joel’s hand claps tight over your mouth, effectively silencing you as your face contorts in frustration, hands curling around his thick forearms and fingers, attempting to pry his hand away.

“Look at me,” He goads, repeating it more menacing as you fight against his hold, nodding in satisfaction when you finally relent, “Yeah—now and don’t you fuckin’ lie to me, you left that door open because you hoped I would, right? Stop tryin’ to act so innocent, girl.”

It ignites a fire in you, the demeaning monaker that transforms into enough strength to fist your hands into his shirt and shove him into the reclining chair positioned behind him, a heavy grunt releasing from his chest as you stumble over his boots and into his lap.

“Don’t call me that,” You seethe, not amiss to the immediate instinct of Joel’s to catch you, thighs bracketing his right leg as his hands squeeze your waist, keeping you upright.

Joel speaks your name, almost taunting, “S’that better? Or is that little crush your harboring hopin’ I’ll call you somethin’ a little sweeter?”

You feel the weight of his thumbs as they curl into your belt loops, body swaying with the motion as you take a seat on his lap, ass pressed against his knee and you watch as his chin gradually moves to rest against his chest, his eyeline following your movement.

“Don’t call me anything,” You retorted, his eyes flicking up under a heavy gaze.

Joel was simmering with a controlled rage, his hands squeezing at your hips as he jerked you forward suddenly, your hands grasping onto the back of the chair over his head, the friction at the seam of your denim as it rubbed against your clit, nestled between slick folds that couldn’t hide the arousal you were feeling, how the heat that radiated off of Joel made you sick with want.

“Alright,” He agrees, “then go on ‘head, get off me.”

Something tells you it is definitely a trap.

A moment later, you can feel his fingers gripping around your backside, digging into your ass as he pushes your hips backwards once before slowly guiding them forward, your sneakers scuffing against the hardwood as your lips parted, a silent breath slipping out.

“Go on—get off,” He taunts, the double-entendre making your brain go fuzzy.

“Joel,” It was a weak attempt to tell yourself and him this was a bad idea, but with the pleasure swelling in your core, it comes out more relaxed - you moan his name and Joel hears it.

“You ain’t good with words, but you can show me,” He remedies, the subtle movement as you grind against his leg, denim on denim but you’re almost positive he can feel how wet you are through the fabric, or how the shared heat was almost sweltering, “rub that pretty pussy on me.”

You have half the mind to snark at him, but think back to his eyes on you on the other side of the bathroom door, how he had admired without guilt, no truer words having left his mouth.

Guiltily, you lean against him, forearms resting where your hands were previously gripping, aiding in the quickening pace of your hips as you breathed softly into his ear, one of his hands slipping under the fabric of your shirt, palm spread wide over your back as the chair creaked with the shifting weight.

Your breath hitches, a sharp gasp as Joel’s calloused fingers rub against your spine. The friction against your clit is overwhelming, intensifying with every roll of your hips under his guise, the desperate need for release building in your core, quietly aware of the weight of Joel’s cock through his jeans, hard and neglected.

Your hand slowly moves toward the button on his jeans, ghosting over the swell of his cock before his fingers grip your wrist and return them to their original spot, “This ain’t for me,” He reminds you, “Keep goin’—show me how bad you need it.”

His words spur you toward the ledge you were teetering on, movements increasingly more wild and frantic, soft noises gradually becoming louder as his hands roam your body, the one on your back remaining as a constant while the other roams toward your front, squeezing gently at your breasts through the flimsy bralette, his thumb brushing pointedly over your nipple as you moan.

“Fuck, I’m c—close,” You warn him, blindly finding his hair with your right hand, squeezing at the strands as he grunts, head tilting back against the chair as you moan brokenly, a sob escaping your mouth.

His voice carries you through, his voice enveloping every point of your existence as your orgasm starts and crescendos, “That’s it,” He coos, “s’alright, let it out.”

You obey, weak whimpers cry into his neck as you hide away, hips grinding lazily through the aftershocks as his arms wrap around you silently, holding you steady as the sound of your ragged breath fills the room alongside the quiet chirping of nocturnal animals.

“Gonna write about this later?” Joel teases, whatever hostility he was holding earlier now non-existent, clearing his throat as you lean back, ignoring the obvious thick and permeating tension that was blanketing you both, still unaddressed.

“S’not funny,” You respond, climbing off him unsteadily before you turn your back to him and gather your belongings into a pile and shove them back inside your pack, “You weren’t supposed to see ‘em.”

“We’re partners—you think keepin’ secrets is smart?”

“It’s harmless—and what about you?” You begin, suddenly settling back into your own quiet rage, “Sneaking around, watching me? I notice shit too, Joel.”

Joel sits in quiet contemplation, his permanent scowl growing deeper as his knuckles rub at the spot where your cunt previously was, “Alright—new rule.”

Your eyebrows raise in anticipation, never really prepared for what Joel ever had to say.

“I ask questions, you answer ‘em. For every one you answer, I’ll answer one too.” Fair enough, you think, but then he continues, “It stays between us, alright? And if you want something—ask for it. No sense in bein’ shy ‘round me anymore.”

Not after that.

Baby steps, you say to yourself. 

The thick air between you seems to open, like a weight off your chest.

“Alright,” You reply softly, “I can do that.”

Joel leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes intense as they lock onto yours. "So, those notes. How long you been writin' 'em?"

You smile with a newfound giddiness, though still mostly subdued, biting at your cheek to stop the spread of your grin, shaking your head as you lock down at the stack of postcards stuffed into your bag.

“Only since we got paired up,” You admit, “every other night or so. When I can’t sleep.”

Which was often.

He grunts, processing the information as you fiddle with the strap of your pack.

“Is it my turn?” Joel nods quietly, shifting back in the chair, ignoring the slowly waning bulge in his jeans that he would surely deal with later, “Well—how long have you been watching me? Or, well–why?”

“That’s two,” Joel chastises, but there was no real bite behind it, “Since you came to Jackson, figured you weren’t good—”

You know what he means—mistrusting, suspicious. 

“Does it bother you—that I do? You scared of me?”

You shake your head shyly, avoiding his gaze.

It was the darkest, most sinister parts of Joel that drew you in.

“I think you’d be terrified of the things I like about you, Joel.”

Joel doesn't respond outright, but his subtle grin is enough confirmation for you. He knew exactly what you meant.

[catbolt]

Sylus is attentive, extremely so. Nothing about you is secret from him, whether you wish it was or not. Since you've been together, you've found yourself a victim of his control-freak tendencies— the fact your location, step count, heart rate, and apartment security cameras had all become his personal business was something that took a while to get used to. He's respectful as he can be about it, regularly reminding you he does it only to make sure of your safety and always coming clean whenever he's been snooping. Over the months you've grown to find it endearing instead of creepy, because it makes crystal clear how he simply cares so damn much about you.

You can't hide from him, even when you want to the most. When you're holed up under the blankets in the dead of winter, the shitty weather and 4pm sunsets bringing out the worst of your depression, he texts: "Sweetheart, 150 steps? Am I reading this right?"

You cringe, wanting to disappear. "Stop tracking me," you respond back.

"Have you not gotten out of bed?" His follow up text comes in immediately, and then those three dots pop up on your screen again. He's not giving you a chance to respond with the "I'm fine" he already knows you've halfway typed out. "I'm coming over. No questions asked."

Before you know it he's at your door, making himself at home without asking, his care quiet and efficient. Mephisto keeps you company in bed, chirping and whirring on your nightstand as Sylus busies himself tidying the apartment. After a moment, Sylus brings you a glass of water, toothbrush and toothpaste from the bathroom, a hair tie— little things that make you feel a bit more like a person again.

He then slips into bed next to you, helping tie your hair back into a neat ponytail as you demolish the first glass of water you've had all day. You give him a wordless, grateful look.

"You know, I won't think you're weak if you ask me for help," he murmurs gently, his voice gravelly and tender. He squeezes your shoulder.

You want to tell him that you know, but that it's just really hard. He gives you a warm look that makes you feel like he's just read your insecurities like a book, his hand slipping into yours beneath the blankets. He intertwines his fingers with yours.

"This is why I keep tabs on you, sweetie. I need you to know that I'll always be here."

[A/N]: this a combination of some similar requests and an expansion on one of my sylus headcanons! if you sent a request along these lines hope you enjoy :)

[rubyjones]

This is highly misleading to add. It's really not true.

Look, I hate Amazon's monopoly, but here are some truths to bear in mind:

The vast majority of people still want to buy there; it sucks, but it's true, and choosing not to have an Amazon presence is severely limiting for an indie writer.

What IS true is that if you OPT IN to selling your book through Kindle Unlimited, Amazon will want exclusivity for the first 3 months. But you don't have to opt into that and after the 3 months you can sell it somewhere else as well. You'll also need a different ISBN, but I believe D2D and other publishers want you to use their own anyway.

I currently sell my books through KDP and Draft2Digital, both of which I mention in the blog post. I originally opted into the Unlimited programme, because it was easier and I'm pretty disabled, but folks on Mastodon really wanted to buy from Smashwords, so eventually I found the spoons to switch it up - please bear in mind when you're critiquing indies on how we publish from the very limited options we have that things like disability, childcare, a day job, and having to do all the work and marketing yourself, play a big factor in the choices we make. I also don't think Barnes and Noble sell the kinds of books I write anyway.

The post is not about where you can publish. It is very specifically about making your own cover for free or cheap without 'AI'. I am expanding this into a series and I may eventually address that, but there was no intention to cover all the options and their pluses and minuses.

I'm given to understand Kobo has an non-exclusive publishing service similar to Kindle Unlimited, but a) this didn't exist when I first started publishing; and b) as mentioned before, I am pretty damn disabled; it took me a year to prepare my last (already written) novella for publication using the systems I am already familiar with. Had I been writing an article on how and where to self-publish, I would have researched that, but again, that is not what this article is about. And I would not have written that article. Because I am too damn sick to write articles about things I have not already researched right now.

To be honest, I would appreciate it if Barnes and Nobel would consider making their catty comments about Amazon somewhere else than on a post by a disabled indie creator having their first viral moment.* especially as I know for a fact you won't be stocking Ruinous Attraction or Oviposition any time soon anyway, and that has nothing to do with Amazon.

*Under this name. But I never made any money from the others either.

Too many writers are using generative 'AI' to make their book covers, so I've written a guide on how to make your own cover for free or cheap without turning to a machine.

If you can't afford to pay an artist, you CAN make your own!

I hope this is a helpful overview that covers the basics and points to some free resources.

[xi-vz]

Look at me back on my BS. HC—Shen Yuan looks like Mobei Jun.

•

•

•

Shen Yuan was a cute guy, at least his mom always said he was. He honestly didn’t care much for his looks. He was a teenage boy, and his interests lied with books, gaming, and trolling the comments section of the PIDW forums.

So maybe this whole thing was the forums fault?

Apparently Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky was going to make his first ever public appearance at a convention—it was exciting stuff seeing as PIDW just received a live action TV deal. (Shen Yuan wondered if the TV show would be able to transform the utter garbage parts into gold.)

Shen Yuan, with the fervor only a true (anti) fan could muster, scrambled to get his hands on a convention ticket the moment they went on sale. His parents even encouraged him! Happy to see him excited for something other than the internet. Securing his place, he also entered the cosplay competition where Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky would be a judge. Because why not? When else would he get to dress like a xianxia character?

It took him a while to decide who he wanted to dress up as. Look, if it were up to Shen Yuan he’d have been Luo Binghe. But, one, he doubted he could pull it off. Two, there were probably going to be a ton of Luo Binghe’s.

“Be the ice king,” his younger sister suggested one evening while the two fo them were hanging out in Shen Yuan’s room. She was busy on her Switch while he was on his laptop.

“Mobei Jun?” He asked, a skeptical look on his face.

“Yeah! You look like him.”

Which was untrue but whatever. Since he didn’t have any other ideas, he spent weeks (months) perfecting his costume, studying every detail from the illustrations and fan art.

(Shen Yuan learned how to sew for this costume!)

(And spent way too much money on commissioning what he couldn’t make.)

“You need to bulk up a bit,” his second older brother suggested one night. “I read some of Proud Immortal Demon Way, and Mobei Jun isn’t a twig like you.”

“Ha, A-Yuan is more of a twink,” his eldest brother teased.

So…Shen Yuan began to work out. He still had a few months until the costume contest.

It was hard at first, but his doctor had been on board. Granted, Shen Yuan couldn’t really get buff within a few months, but he did wind up with the beginnings of abs, his shoulders broadened and his ass looked great. There were a bunch of girls (and some guys) who made eyes at him at school now. Not that Shen Yuan noticed. But, he did notice that for the first time in his 19 years, he felt healthy.

When the day of the convention finally arrived, Shen Yuan found himself subjected to his sister's meticulous and admittedly skilled hand. She styled his already long black hair, adding extensions to achieve the full, flowing mane of Mobei Jun. She also worked some magic with makeup, highlighting his naturally icy blue eyes, which he had always considered a genetic defect, but today they were his greatest asset.

When he looked in the mirror, he barely recognized himself. There stood Mobei Jun, the demon king, imposing and cold. Shen Yuan’s heart pounded with excitement and a tinge of apprehension as he made his way to the convention center. His siblings in tow, because they wanted to root for him. As embarrassing as that was.

Upon arrival, the crowd was bustling with anticipation. Shen Yuan attracted a lot of attention—both for his stunning costume and his uncanny resemblance to Mobei Jun. A lot of people called out “my king!” As he walked by them, his cloak billowing behind him.

Damn, he felt majestic as fuck.

As he stood before the judges—a voice actress, a manhua artist and Airplane himself—he couldn’t help but feel a mix of pride and anxiety.

That was until he saw Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky for the first time. And. Wow. Okay.

Airplane was younger than Shen Yuan thought. Maybe 20; handsome, which was so weird. Square-jawed, in great shape with his DanDaDan graphic tee stretched enticingly over his pecs and biceps. His hair was curly and kept in an attractive undercut. He wore glasses and had ear piercings and a lip piercing and dimples and a sleeve tattoo. What? What the fuck?

Was Shen Yuan experiencing heart palpitations?

Airplane looked exactly how Shen Yuan envisioned Luo Binghe to look.

Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky's dark eyes widened in surprise and delight at seeing a Mobei Jun cosplay. It wasn’t done often, the king was not a fan favorite. But, his jaw dropped as he stared.

Something happened when Shen Yuan and Airplane's eyes met. A zing went up Shen Yuan's spine. Airplane stopped the contest then and there and declared Shen Yuan the winner while jokingly (not really) asking for his phone number. They did get to chat later, one-on-one, when Airplane began to sign autographs into books.

“Well, My King,” Airplane smiled at Shen Yuan, and there went his heart again! Which was bad, and meant that Shen Yuan probably needed to see a doctor. “What name shall I write out as the receiver of this book?”

“Um,” Shen Yuan’s brain scrambled. Did he give his name? Did he coyly say Mobei Jun? Ah, he didn’t know what he was doing! That was his only excuse as he blurted out, “Peerless Cucumber.”

Airplane froze.

Shen Yuan froze.

And then Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky began to laugh.

[sheaabuttaababyy]

Sorry - Jey Uso

Warnings: slight smut, toxic couple, infidelity, dramaaa

"Babyyyy I’m home" Josh walked in the house rolling his suitcase with a bag of Chinese food in his hand. Unaware of the eerie silence and darkness in the house.

Turning the dim lights on for the living room he saw his wife Maya sitting there with a glass of wine in her hand. "Oh shit. Damn babe you scared the shit outta me" putting the stuff down he laughed walking towards her.

He leaned down to give her a kiss but she moved her head away. Making a confused face he stepped back. "Yo you good. What’s wrong ba-?"

"When were you gonna tell me you’ve been fucking your coworker. Leah" finally making eye contact with him she took a sip of her wine calmly. A little too calm.

Josh looked at her as the room began to feel hot, his throat starting to tighten "W-what? Whatchu talking about?"

"I’m talking about this" pulling out her phone she put it on the table in front of her as a video of a man. That you can clearly tell was Josh, was getting head from Leah.

"You still don’t know what I’m talking about?" She asked standing up as Josh sat on the couch with his head in his hands. Not knowing what to say.

"I’m sorry" he spoke softy as tears spilled from his eyes.

"Oh god. Give me a break" chugging her wine she went to go put the glass in the mirror sink. Josh immediately got up following her.

"I’m sorry Maya. I cut it off with her I-I promise I’m done with her, Fuckk I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I let you down like this, I’m so incredibly sorry for cheating on you after all these years. I know I've shattered your trust, and I would give anything to take it back. You mean the world to me, and I can't imagine my life without you.”

Tears built up in her eyes as she whipped her head around to him. "Why? Why did you cheat and I wanna know how it started and how long."

"I felt lonely and m-me being on the road I missed affection. Fuck" Josh squeezed his eyes shut trying not to let more tears spill. He had no right being heart broken and he knew telling her everything would break Maya apart.

Opening his eyes he brought them back to her before continuing. "One night while I was on the road I was missing you and the kids. I needed to rant and Leah was there" he took a breath before continuing. "I started ranting and telling her how I was sexually frustrated and how I missed you and need you. He choked on a sob not wanting to tell his wife what happened.

"Fucking say it. You pussy. You already fucking cheated you piece of shit so tell me!" She smacked his chest urging him to speak.

"She started rubbing on me and i let her. But when she kissed me I pulled away but she told me to close my eyes and imagine it was you. And I did"

Maya let the sob that was stuck in her throat come out as her body shook. 14 years of marriage and 3 kids for what? For this?

"How long?" she spoke in between her cries.

"2 months. I cut it off 1 month ago" his voice just barley above a whisper.

Maya was trying to walk away but Josh grabbed her getting on his knees. Hugging her waist he held her tight so she couldn’t move.

"Please. I’m on my knees asking for your forgiveness. I know I don’t deserve it Maya, but I promise to do whatever it takes to make things right. I’ll work hard to rebuild what I've broken and show you that I can be the husband you deserve. I love you more than I can express, and I’m begging you to let me prove that to you. I’m so so sorry baby"

There was a silence only the sound of their sniffles filling the air. Maya gripped his chin making him look up at her.

Forcefully she pushed him back making him fall back on his ass as she quickly went upstairs.

Josh got up chasing after her. Going into their master bedroom he saw Maya take out a suitcase, aggressively pack her clothes.

"I’ve been by your side 17 fucking years. I was there for you every step of the way. I supported you, cheered you on, believed in you when no one else did" zipping her suitcase she looked at him. "And this is the fucking thank you I got, cheating with some thirsty ran through girl."

"Do you know the fucking pain, I felt waiting for you to come home to me and the kids and then get a fucking video sent to me of you getting your dick sucked by some bitch."

"I’m sorr-"

"stop fucking saying that. Your not fucking sorry your sorry cause your stupid ass got caught. You weren’t sorry when you fucking around with her so please. Just shut the fuck up" she didn’t even feel sadness anymore just straight up anger.

Grabbing her suitcase she walked towards the door but Joshua quickly blocked it.

"Please stay. W-we can talk this out."

"Get out my way.”

"Maya please I’m begging you, can we please jus-"

"Joshua I’m telling you right now to get the fuck out my way"

"May-" he was cut off as Maya slapped his face as hard as she could. Josh felt his ears ringing, his face getting hot from the harsh slap he just got.

Going downstairs she grabbed the car keys before leaving the house.

"Hello, hello Mayaaaa" Maya snapped back into reality as her best friend Gina waved her hand in her face.

"Baby girl you good? You zoned out for a minute. I was calling your name for awhile."

He tryna roll me up

I ain’t picking up

Heading to the club

Her and Gina were currently in the back of an Uber on their way to the club. And all Maya could think about it what happened 2 weeks ago. Since then Josh has been calling her none stop, sending her flowers and other random gifts. She sent everything back each time.

"Yeah yeah. Just thinking" Maya shot her friend a smile but Gina could tell it wasn’t genuine.

"Aww don’t be sad girllll. Tonight I’m gonna make sure you have fun and let loose. Fuck that Yeet Yeet ass Negro" she said with a mug making Maya laugh.

Once they arrived at the club Maya could already feel the stares coming her way. She’ll admit she did look good as fuck. Her latex brown jumpsuit clung tightly against her body. And her hair and makeup was perfect.

They went towards the bar as Gina started ordering shots right away. "Yes can we please get 12 tequila shots pleaseee" Maya looked towards her friend as if she was insane. Which she was.

"Girl who tf drinking all those shots"

"Bitch us. Now here" passing her a shot as she raised her own. "To having fun and letting loose"

Me and my ladies sip my D'USSÉ cup

"Wooooo" Maya cheered "and finding Maya new dick" Gina quickly snuck in before downing her shot.

Maya and Gina made their way to the dance floor once the liquor had their bodies buzzing.

Soco by StarBoy started playing loudly through the club as Maya put her hands around Gina’s neck grinding the front of their bodies against each other slowly.

Almost everyone’s eyes were set on the two girls as they didn’t give a care in the world.

"Ayy Jon ain’t that Maya" Jacob slapped his cousins chest trying get his attention.

"The fuck. Yeah it is." He spoke watching his sister in law grind on her friend.

"Why she acting as if she’s single. And wasn’t Josh supposed to come to the club as well?" Zilla asked sipping his drink.

"Yeah I tried to get him to come but he’s been bed rotting for 2 weeks now. And honestly I’m happy sis is out here feeling herself again she deserves it." Jon spoke nodding his head approvingly.

And he meant what he said yeah he’ll always he there for Josh of course that’s his brother. But Maya was also like his sister so when he found out that Josh’s dumbass cheated. He cussed his ass out. Maya was really a one of a kind type girl, and Their whole family has been shitting on him since the word spread out.

As Maya continued to dance on her friend she turned around and began twerking and whining against her until a tall figure approached them.

"Hey beautiful is it okay if I can come take your friends place?" The fine tatted up man asked Maya as Gina nodded her head pushing Maya towards him a bit so she could go dance on him.

Maya hesitantly grabbed his hand that he put out for her. As she grabbed it she took in his appearance. And Damn he was fine. He did look a little bit younger though but she didn’t mind he was fine as fuck.

She turned around slowly grinding her ass against him feeling his bulge that was pressing into her backside. "What’s your name pretty" he spoke huskily into ear his right hand rubbing up and down her right thigh as they continued to grind on each other.

Turning her head slightly she looked up at him smiling. "Maya. What’s yours?"

"Tyrique" he smiled down at her flashing his diamond grills.

Across the room Jacob, Jon and Zilla had their mouths wide open. This was some teaaa for them.

"Nahhhhh that’s wild" Jacob laughed.

Jon eyes were wide as he quickly texted Trinity the "☕️" emoji.

Zillas messy ass, recorded Maya and the dude dancing on each other. He was bored and wanted a little more drama.

Josh was currently in bed scrolling through Mayas instagram seeing that she posted a new picture.

Mayaaa_Jones✔️

Liked by Trinity_fatu, Biancabelairwwe, CM Punk and others

Mayaaa_Jones looking too good it make his chest hurt💋

Uceyjucey717 bodyyyy teaaa

Tina_818 wait did anyone else peep that her last name in her insta isn’t fatu anymore!?!?

WWE_OTC_USO replied to Tina_818 Girl yeah twitter saying he cheated on her but I’m not 100% sure

Rebeccaflowers NOOOOO MY SHAYLAAA WHY TWITTER SAYING JEY CHEATED?

Brentfaiyaz✔️ looking edible

Rachel_woods replied to Brentfaiyaz✔️ TF. NIGGA WHAT U DOING HERE???

Badgalkayla replied to Brentfaiyaz✔️ Oooh I’m here for it. Get her Brent 😝

Josh frowned seeing Brentfaiyaz in her comments. The fuck he in there for? He always hated how people were starting to put two and two together about his and Mayas personal life.

He sighed rubbing his head as his phone dinged seeing he got a notification from his cousin Zilla.

Lil Cuzzo yo ass should’ve came to the club

Lil cuzzo sent 1 attachment

Josh clicked on the video. He saw that it was a club. The camera zoomed in focusing on two figures dancing on eachother sexually. He squinted his eyes quickly recognizing the clothing the girl was wearing it was the same jumpsuit Maya was wearing in her picture.

"What the fuck" tears burned in his eyes as his chest began to feel heavy. He continued to watch the video seeing how the guy started nuzzling his face into his wife’s neck as she laughed turning her head to the side, giving him more access.

"No, no, no, no" Josh quickly took the covers off him. Going to the closet he put on a pair of pants along with a zip up hoodie. Grabbing his phone and keys he jogged down the stairs slipping his shoes on, running to the car.

Getting in he quickly turned it on pulling out the driveway speeding to the club.

Meanwhile at the club Maya and Tyrique were still dancing their hands became more touchy overtime. her hands grazing over his hard dick. His hands slightly rubbing her titties, some kisses to her neck. They were basically fucking on the dancefloor.

"Well, well, well. If it isn’t the fatu boys" Gina walked over to where Jon and them were smiling. "Sup Gina" they all greeted. "Whatchu guys doing here? She asked sitting on the couch in their lounge.

"It’s a Friday night decide to come here and vibe" Jacob spoke shrugging his shoulders.

"What about you I see you and my sister in law came but she looks a little busy at the moment" Jon said looking over at Maya who was clearly enjoying her self with ole dude.

Gina looked over in her direction smiling like a proud mom. "I know look at her go. She deserves to have fun after the shit your brother put her through"

"I’m not disagreeing, but I think if she continues what’s she’s doing she’s gonna regret it."

"Mhmm I don’t think so. Your brother was literally at work fucking your guys coworker. While Maya was at home taking care of their kids waiting for his calls, texts and him coming back home. He complained about not feeling loved and getting affection when he literally could’ve expressed to his wife how he felt. But no he used a lame ass excuse and cheated. You don’t think Maya was missing him as well?"

Gina snarled in disgust thinking about everything Maya told her. She truly hated Joshua right now. She just wanted to make sure her best friend was happy and having fun at the moment.

In the car Joshua tried calling Maya for the 7th time but again. It went straight to voicemail. He was almost at the club which should’ve been a 20 minute drive but he made it 10. Calling again it went to voicemail. Again.

"MAYA I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DO ANYTHING WITH THAT MOTHERFUCKER ILL BURN THE WHOLE FUCKING CLUB DOWN." Calming down a bit he continued. "Please I’m sorry I’m sorry for everything just please come back to me. I can’t stand seeing you with anyone else" he cried as he drove.

Now you wanna say you're sorry

Now you wanna call me crying

Now you gotta see me wilding

Now I'm the one that's lying

And I don't feel bad about it

It's exactly what you get

Stop interrupting my grinding

At the club Mayas phone repeatedly buzzed it her tiny purse, that was around her wrist. "You tryna get outta here mama" Tyrique asked nibbling her ear.

Maya turned around facing him biting her lip she nodded her head. Grabbing her hand Tyrique led her towards the exit as Maya turned around trying to spot Gina.

Finding her she gave her a look noticing she was sitting with Josh’s cousins and his brother. Gina mouthed "good luck" giving her a thumbs up.

Tyrique led her outside calling over a taxi. As he led her into it. Playfully smacking Mayas ass making her giggle.

Josh finally made it to the club not bothering to find a parking spot. Parking in front of the entrance he turned his hazards on running inside not caring about the security guard trying to stop him. Going in he spotted his brother, cousins and his wife best friend sitting at a lounge.

"Yo Watchu you doing her-"

"Where she at?" Josh quickly cut his brother off too focused to find his wife.

"How you even know she was here?" Gina asked confused.

"His ass sent a video of my wife dancing with some dude. I’m not gonna ask again where the fuck is she?!" He felt himself getting heated ready to crash out.

They all looked towards Zilla who looked away avoiding eye contact.

"Oh welp Maya left with fine shyt" Gina smiled up at him sipping her drink.

"AND YOU LET HER?" Josh yelled starting to attract others attention.

"Ayy man don’t yell at her" Jon quickly came in defence. Josh looked towards him stepping to him.

"You! Your my fucking brother and you didn’t even try to stop her from leaving. What kind of brother are you? You supposed to be on my side! Zilla was the one who had to text me. Not yo ass"

Jon stood up real quick. He wasn’t about to get bashed on when all of this was his own brothers fault.

"First of all. Don’t question about what kind of brother I am. When yo ass couldn’t even be a good husband." A look of hurt flashed Josh’s eyes, but it quickly got masked with anger.

"Shut yo ass up" he pushed his older twin back as the same security guard from the entrance of the club snatched his ass up real quick, before Jon could even react.

In the taxi Maya was flushed against Tyriques side as she got to know about him a little more. She found out he was 27 which meant she was 7 years older than him.

Which wasn’t too bad to her. She usually went older not younger, but this man carried himself so maturely that she was gonna give him a try.

Arriving they got out as Tryique greeted the security guard of the building. Going into the elevator they both went in as he pressed the floor to his penthouse.

Going to the opposite wall from her, his eyes trailing up and down Mayas body making her smirk looking down.

Once the doors opened up her jaw dropped looking at the penthouse. Maya turned around to compliment his place, but was met with Tyriques lips on hers.

She moaned at the softness of his lips. Crouching down he lifted her up carrying her over to his couch. Laying her down he grabbed the straps of her latex jumpsuit. Pulling them down her arms exposing her breasts.

Eagerly he slipped the rest of the clothing down her legs taking her panties off as well.

Slowly he opened her legs seeing her glistening pussy. Kissing up her thighs his mouth finally met her heated center, French kissing it as Maya gripped his braids throwing her head back in ecstasy.

The tea is hot 😝☕️

🏷 Taglist: @usoinked @mselenalovebug @theusotwinzcom @bloodlineslut @urbeez @luvrsluxe @trippinsorrows @catxo @whowrotethenote @uceyliyahh

[marvelavengerspovs1]

Chapter 1- Malign

Pairing: Bucky x F!reader

Warnings: Lots and lots of angst (sorry but not sorry), very toxic behaviours from both Bucky and Reader, 18+ MDNI

Length: 1.2k

Summary: You and Bucky are going through a rough patch. Is it something worth fixing?

A/N: Ok, so this has been an idea that I’ve been playing with for a few days so I decided to try it out. This is completely different from what I normally do. I plan to make this a mini-series, about 3-5 parts. I’d like to think this is Bucky after trying to acclimate back into a more “normal” life because let’s be honest, he’s a man with PTSD and lost a good chunk of his life. I was listening to The Black Dog and The Prophecy while writing this so it’s more angsty than I imagined.

You wake up cold, noticing an absence beside you. Part of you wants to stay in bed, not wanting to look for him. But the other part, the part that chooses to ignore the past few months, wants to. After about thirty seconds of debating, the latter wins.

You get out of bed and leave your bedroom. You find Bucky in the living room nursing a bottle of whiskey and Asgardian liquor, blankly staring at the wall. You let out a frustrated sigh and he looks up at you.

“Hey,” You say softly, trying to hide your true emotions.

He rolls his eyes and puts the bottle down on the coffee table. “What do you want?

You frown. “Never mind.”

Bucky rolls his eyes again. “Why are you giving me this ‘never mind’ bullshit?”

“You clearly don’t want to be bothered right now, so I’m going back to bed.”

You turn around and start to walk back to your shared bedroom. “Doll, wait.”

You pause and he gets up from the couch, moving in front of you. You both sit in silence before you raise an eyebrow at him.

“Yes?”

“Why do you think you’re bothering me?”

You let out a scoff and shake your head. “I don’t know, maybe because you rolled your eyes and asked me, ‘what do you want’?”

Bucky lets out a frustrated groan. “You’re taking it the wrong way.”

“How am I supposed to take it, Bucky? Because to me, it sounds like you’re already pissed at me.”

Bucky looks down at you with a grumpy expression. “I’m already pissed at other stuff, it’s not you.”

“Well I’m still going to bed, I don’t want to be around you when you’re like this.”

“Why are you like this?” He mutters and rolls his eyes once more.

“Why do I have to be like this? That’s really funny coming from you.” 

“You always take things the wrong way.”

“You wanted space, I’m giving you space.” You finally decided to walk around him.

“I never said I wanted space!” He calls after you before deciding to follow you to your bedroom.

“Well you clearly are not in the mood to be around me so I’m removing myself from the situation.” You feel your throat tighten.

The past few months have been like this. It started off with small arguments like leaving a dish in the sink for a while, to making everything a fight. You don’t know what’s changed between the two of you. You both were like a well oiled machine, you both knowing what the other needed. But recently, you both were out of sync.

“Why do you always do this? Don’t walk away while we’re talking.” Bucky grabs your arm.

His grip is firm but not hard enough to hurt you. You jump and turn around, your eyes watering so much that a tear slips out.

“Let go.” Bucky immediately drops your arm.

“Why are you crying?” He asks gently.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because my boyfriend is in one of his moods?” You wipe your tears.

“This is so you,” Bucky lets out a scoff. “I told you it’s not about you. Not everything is about you.”

You feel a searing heat in your chest. “If that’s how you feel.”

You turn around and close the door, locking it behind you. Bucky stares at the door for a minute with his eyes widened. He pounds on the door.

He calls your name. “Open the door.”

You pull out a bag. “No.”

He calls your name again. “Open the damn door!”

“I’m not staying in the same room as you.” You pack some clothes and continue to wipe your tears.

“Just open the door!” You finally listen to him.

“You have two options, you either find somewhere else to sleep or I leave.”

“You can’t kick me out of our apartment.” He furrows his eyebrows.

You bring the bag over your shoulder. “Fine, I’m leaving then.”

Bucky’s eyes widen, noticing the bag finally. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I don’t know, maybe with Wanda or Natasha.”

Bucky steps in front of you. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to stay here, in our room.” You raise an eyebrow at him. “Then where are you going?”

“Why do I have to go somewhere? I didn’t do anything.”

“If you can’t see this clearly, then I can’t sleep under the same roof as you. Whether you like it or not, I’m not staying here tonight.”

“Please, don’t go Doll.” Bucky pleads as a last attempt.

“I can’t be in the same room as you right now.” You walk around him.

“Why are you being so damn difficult? You don’t need to run to Wanda or Natasha.”

“We can talk about this tomorrow. Once you’re not drunk.” You leave the room and head down the hall to the front door.

Bucky follows you out, going back to his spot on the couch. He takes a swig of the whiskey.

“Go, see if I care.” He scowls.

You falter in your steps for a moment. “Go to bed Bucky.”

You walk out of the front door, feeling Bucky’s glare. Bucky stares at the door for a moment before throwing the empty whiskey glass at the wall.

You hear the crash and turn to open the door. You stand there for a moment, your hand on the door knob debating on going back inside. You know Bucky, this isn’t who he is. But you can’t go back in. You turn around and make your way to Natasha’s.

Natasha’s apartment isn’t far from your apartment that you share with Bucky. You get there within 5 minutes and knock on her door.

Natasha opens the door, her eyebrows pulled together. “What are you doing here?”

You let yourself cry. “Can I stay here tonight?”

Natasha opens the door wider, ushering you in. “Of course, Babe.”

A few minutes later, you’re crying on the couch with a hot cup of cocoa. “I just don’t know where it all went wrong. It felt as if everything was going well, and now all we do is fight. I didn’t even want to look for him when I woke up.”

Natasha rubs your arm soothingly. “I understand. Bucky has a lot of baggage.”

“I don’t care about that.”

And it’s true. You know his past, his current nightmares, how he became who he is. It didn’t bother you because Bucky seemed to be improving.

“It feels like he’s going backwards. And…” You take a deep breath. “I don’t know if I want to stay around for that.”

Natasha nods her head. “No one would blame you if you wanted to take some time for yourself. Whether it’s a short break or a permanent one. But before you decide, maybe you need to sleep on it too.”

You nod. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

Natasha takes the almost empty mug from your hands and places it on her coffee table. “You know you can stay here as long as you want, right?”

You nod again. “Yes, thank you Nat. Really, for everything.”

Natasha hugs you. “No need to thank me. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

You follow Natasha to the guest room. You get into bed, thinking about everything. Do you want to break up with Bucky?

Temporarily?

Permanently?

[anakinstwinklebunny]

DADDY'S BOY..

Author's note: reminding everyone interested about BUNNYTINE

SAM MONROE sat on the living room's wooden floor, legs sprawled out while Vinnie babbled endlessly in front of him. The 20-month-old’s chubby hands clung to his favorite stuffed bunny—a worn, one-eyed little toy with patches of fur missing from hard months of love. Vinnie was absolutely captivated by it, tiny fingers tracing over its floppy ears while his mouth worked overtime.

“Man, you’re really into that thing, huh?” Sam teased, leaning back on his palms with a smirk. “Didn’t I buy you a new toy last week? But nooo, you gotta obsess over the busted bunny.”

Vinnie just giggled, holding the bunny up like it was the holy grail. Sam’s smirk widened as an idea popped into his head. He whistled sharply, snatching the bunny away from Vinnie’s hands.

“Look out! It’s flying away!” he joked, moving the bunny like it was soaring through the air.

Vinnie froze for a second, eyes widening in pure, full betrayal. Then came the pout—a dramatic, wobbly-lipped expression that would’ve made even the toughest guy fold.

“M-mine!” Vinnie lisped, reaching out with grabby hands. Little face scrunched up in determination as he stood up and toddled towards Sam, demanding his bunny back.

Sam blinked. “Wait—what did you just say?”

Vinnie stomped his foot, huffing like a mini version of his dad. “Mine!” he repeated, louder this time, baby voice carrying all the authority he could muster.

Sam gawked, completely stunned. “No way. That’s your first word?” He turned to you, who was watching from the couch with an amused smile. “Did you hear that? He just said his first word! And it’s... mine?!”

You shrugged “He’s been saying it for a week now, Sam. I figured you noticed.”

Sam’s jaw dropped before letting out a whiny protest. “A week?! You didn’t tell me? What the hell, babe!”

“I thought you’d notice on your own,” you teased, standing from the couch to walk towards the boys. Leaning over to ruffle Vinnie’s hair, you caught how he clutched his bunny protectively, glaring at Sam like he’d committed a crime.

Nonetheless, Sam was still sulking, not really understanding how he just missed such a milestone of his tiny guy. Then, with a swift motion, he grabbed a pen from the coffee table and uncapped it with his teeth. He stretched his arm out, scribbling the sentence «Vinnie’s first word: ‘Mine.’ January 2nd, 2025. Used in context. Proud, defiant little shit» across the back of his hand in messy, blue ink.

“What are you doing now?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Writing it down so I don’t forget,” Sam muttered as if it was the most obvious thing “Kid’s first word. Gotta make sure it’s in the memory bank.”

When he was done, he glanced at Vinnie “Kid, you’re something else, you know that? Slapping me out of nowhere with that word..damn..weirdo”

Vinnie simply clutched his bunny tighter and offered a proud, lisped, “Mine.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s yours,” Sam murmured, dropping a kiss to the top of Vinnie’s head.

TAG LIST: @kingdomhate @divineani @haydensprettyprincess @skyguys-princess @catnipaddictt @heartscone @haydensbbg @inneedsoffanfics @jediavengers @literally-izzy @anisluvrgirl @slutforfinnickodair @xhunnybeeex @fuckmyskywalker @gallerygourmet @ysrjune @anakinskwkler @bimbo-baggins17-deactivated2025 @cookybananas @emotionallybruisedx @diorvalentina @sevinax @throughparisallthroughrome @aniiuv @ritosparty @ninastyless @lily-strnlo @thesassypadawan @awhhayden @sydkneez @anisangeldust @l1ttle-misssunsh1ne @anakinca @rubiesarepretty @luluartpop

[hrizantemy]

Nesta stood in the kitchen of the House of Wind, her fingers curled around the edge of the wooden counter, the warmth of the hearth doing nothing to touch the cold sinking into her bones. Across from her, Elain stood stiff, her hands clasped together as if holding herself in place, as if forcing herself not to tremble.

They stared at each other.

Elain’s voice had been quiet when she first spoke, but it had not been soft. The words had been honed, sharp, and they cut Nesta clean through.

“You pushed us away. Pushed everyone away. And then one day, you just… came back. And you didn’t need us anymore.”

Nesta didn’t say anything.

Elain’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, as she let out a breath too heavy for her slight frame.

“You healed without us. It was easy for you. So why—” Elain’s voice cracked, but she forced herself to keep going, her brown eyes burning with something raw, something that had been simmering in her for so long Nesta had never even noticed. “Why couldn’t you do it with us?”

Nesta’s fingers tightened on the counter, the wood biting into her skin.

She could have said a thousand things. That it hadn’t been easy. That she had burned and broken and clawed her way back from the darkness with bloodied hands. That she had not healed so much as survived.

But none of that would matter, not to Elain.

Because Elain had not been looking for an explanation.

She had been looking for an answer.

Then the fire started in her chest, blazing hot and all-consuming. It roared through her veins, searing through every tender, fragile thing that had been built inside her over these past months. Nesta wanted to rage. She wanted to burn.

How dare Elain say that?

How dare she stand there, in this too-warm kitchen that had never felt so unbearably cold, and say those things as if Nesta had chosen to carve herself apart? As if she had wanted to drown alone?

A thousand cruel words clawed their way up Nesta’s throat, sharp as glass, aching to be thrown. She could have torn Elain apart, piece by delicate piece. She could have reminded her that she had been the one to stand idle as Nesta fell apart, that she had done nothing while their world collapsed. That she had been too soft, too sweet, too wrapped up in her own grief to fight for anything.

Nesta could have said it. She wanted to say it.

But she didn’t.

Because beneath Elain’s sharp words, beneath the rare anger in those doe-brown eyes, was something else.

Hurt.

Nesta exhaled sharply, fists clenched so tight her nails bit into her palms.

Elain had never known how to be angry. Not like Nesta. Not like Feyre. But now, standing there, her voice shaking, her hands trembling—Elain was furious in the only way she knew how.

And for once, Nesta did not fight back.

She swallowed down the fire, let it sear her from the inside, let it settle into something bitter and burning. Because Elain had spoken with resentment, yes. But beneath it, Nesta realized, was something worse.

A plea.

And Nesta let out a sharp, bitter laugh, though there was nothing funny about any of this. She could still taste the fire on her tongue, still feel the venomous words she wanted to spit out, but she swallowed them down. Instead, her voice came out like steel wrapped in smoke—steady, but edged with something dangerous.

“How?” she demanded, the word snapping through the cold kitchen. “How was I supposed to heal with you? With any of you? You didn’t know how. None of you knew how.”

Elain flinched, but Nesta didn’t stop.

“You wanted me to be better, but none of you actually knew what that meant. You just wanted me to stop being a problem. Stop making things ugly and difficult. You wanted me to sit in that damn house, wasting away, pretending everything was fine just because it made you feel better.”

Her breath was ragged, her heart pounding like war drums in her chest.

Elain shook her head, her arms wrapping around herself like she was holding something in. “That’s not fair,” she whispered, but Nesta just laughed again, harsher this time.

“It’s the truth.”

Elain’s eyes were shining now, but Nesta refused to feel guilty for it. Not when her sister had thrown the first stone.

“We had a plan,” Elain finally said, her voice wavering, but there was an edge to it now. A quiet sort of desperation, like she was trying to make Nesta understand. “Rhysand and Feyre… they had a plan. They were going to help you, Nesta.”

Nesta went still.

Her rage flickered, turned to something colder, something more dangerous.

“A plan,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

Elain nodded quickly, her hands tightening where they gripped her arms. “They just—” She hesitated, her mouth pressing into a thin line before she finally forced out, “They didn’t know how to help. But they were trying.”

Nesta stared at her sister.

And then she let out a breath, slow and sharp, like the edge of a blade.

“Trying.”

A bitter smile curled at her lips, but there was no humor in it.

Nesta let the silence stretch between them, let it grow thick and heavy, suffocating.

Then, slowly, she tilted her head and said, “What was it, then?”

Elain blinked. “What?”

Nesta took a step forward, voice quiet but sharp as a blade. “This plan you keep talking about. What was it? What was your version of trying?”

Elain opened her mouth, but no words came out. She swallowed, glancing away for a moment before she forced herself to meet Nesta’s gaze again.

“You… you could have come here,” she said finally, voice wavering. “You could have trained with Cassian, worked in the library with the priestesses—”

Nesta let out a breath of disbelief, shaking her head with a laugh that had no real amusement in it.

“That was your plan?” she asked, her voice like ice. “That was how you were going to help me? Just send me away, let someone else deal with me?”

Elain flinched, and for the first time, guilt flashed across her face. But she squared her shoulders, lifting her chin in that quiet, stubborn way of hers. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?” Nesta demanded.

Elain didn’t answer.

Because they both knew.

Nesta let out a sharp breath, shaking her head as the pieces fell into place, as the truth settled over her like a suffocating weight.

“You were going to lock me in a tower,” she said, voice flat. “Trap me up here with no way out and call it helping.”

Elain’s eyes went wide, her lips parting as she rushed to shake her head. “That’s not true! You—you could have gone down the stairs, Nesta. You could have left anytime you wanted.”

Nesta laughed, low and bitter. “Is that what you tell yourself? That I could have just walked down those ten thousand fucking steps and everything would’ve been fine?” She took a step closer, her voice cutting through the cold air. “You never intended for me to go down those stairs. None of you did. You would have sent me up here because you wanted me gone. You wanted to dump me with Cassian—the one person I told you, over and over, that I didn’t want to be around—and just hope for the best.”

Elain flinched, but Nesta didn’t stop. “That was your great plan. Your version of helping. Throw me in a cage, leave me with someone I didn’t want to see, and if I didn’t fix myself—if I didn’t magically become someone more palatable for you all—then what?”

Elain swallowed hard, her fingers trembling where they gripped her arms. But she had nothing to say to that.

Because Nesta was right.

Nesta leaned forward, her gaze sharp and cold as she pinned Elain with a look.

“So tell me, Elain,” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “What would’ve happened if I didn’t fix myself? If I didn’t magically heal in the way you all thought I should? What was the real plan?”

To her surprise, Elain didn’t flinch. Instead, her chin lifted, her gaze firm and resolute, as if she truly believed in what she was about to say. “Then you would have gone back to the human lands.”

Nesta’s heart stuttered for a moment, and she blinked. “What?”

Elain’s voice didn’t waver. “That was the ultimatum. Fix yourself, or go back. Back to the human lands. To that place where you didn’t have to face any of us.”

The words hit Nesta like a slap, and she scoffed. “Really?” she sneered. “Fix myself, or be sent back to be hunted like a beast for sport?”

Elain’s eyes hardened, but there was no anger in them, just a quiet certainty.

Nesta stared at her, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She had never been so disgusted in her life.

Nesta stood there, frozen for a moment, as the weight of Elain’s words settled around her. The calmness of the room, the steady crackling of the fire in the hearth—it should have been comforting. But all she could feel now was the raw burn of it, the familiar sting of flames licking at her skin, crawling through her veins, trying to claw their way out.

Her heart hammered in her chest, and for a moment, the world felt unbearably small, suffocating. The flames were rising again—raging inside her, hot and furious, and the power that she had once resented, that she had fought with every fiber of her being, was surging within her now. The same fury, the same destruction.

It was always there.

The flames had always been there, buried deep inside her, waiting. Always ready to consume. Always ready to burn the world down.

But not now.

Nesta closed her eyes, her breath coming in sharp, shaky inhales. She could feel it—the heat, the strength—and for the first time, she didn’t want to give in. She didn’t want to let it take over.

With every ounce of willpower she had left, she shoved it down, pushed it back into herself, into the deep, empty spaces where it had always hidden. She crammed it all into those holes, locking it in, forcing it back behind the walls she had spent so long building.

Not this time, she told herself. Not again.

Her chest ached with the weight of it—the suffocating pressure of holding it all back, of keeping those flames from consuming everything around her. She felt the burn in her throat, the taste of fire on her tongue, but she clenched her teeth and forced it down. She wouldn’t let it out. Not here. Not now.

Not with Elain watching.

Nesta exhaled sharply, the effort of holding everything in making her chest feel tight, suffocating. She blinked, looking at Elain, and it should have felt like betrayal. Her sister—her sweet sister—had agreed to this. Had backed this plan, this cold, heartless ultimatum. It should have stung, should have burned like the flames that were still coiling through her veins. But instead, all she felt was… numbness.

The fire was still there, just beneath the surface, but now it was distant. Fading into the background of her thoughts, leaving nothing but the weight of her sister’s silence.

Nesta shook her head slowly.

“You, of all people,” she murmured, her voice hoarse from holding back everything she wanted to say. “You agreed to this?”

Elain’s expression faltered for just a moment, before she squared her shoulders, trying to hold onto the same resolve she had moments before. But Nesta saw it—saw the hesitation there, the guilt lurking behind her eyes.

“Did you think I would just—fix myself? That I’d become this… this thing you wanted me to be?”

Elain’s lips trembled, but she didn’t answer.

As Nesta stared at Elain, something shifted in her sister’s eyes. It wasn’t guilt about the plan—no, Elain still believed in it, still thought it had been the right thing to do. But there was something else now, something deeper, something more raw. Regret. It flashed in her gaze, quick and sharp, but it wasn’t for what Nesta had expected.

It wasn’t for the plan. It wasn’t for the cold decision to send her away, to lock her in a tower with no escape.

It was for the words she had said. The truths she had revealed.

And as that realization settled on Nesta, she felt a flicker of the same regret within herself. What had it been for? What was the point of this? Of tearing at each other, exposing these old, festering wounds? Would it even make a difference?

She closed her eyes for a moment, the ache in her chest growing.

It wasn’t the plan that hurt the most. It was the feeling of seeing Elain—her sister, her blood—stripped of the softness she had always worn like a shield. The way she looked now, so broken, so exposed, made something twist inside Nesta. It made her wonder if the cost of honesty—of telling her what she really thought—was worth what came next.

The silence between them was heavy, suffocating. And Nesta hated it. She hated the way Elain was looking at her, the way she could feel the shift, the regret both of them were carrying but had no idea how to express.

Finally, Nesta spoke, her voice quieter now.

“You shouldn’t have told me,” she said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. “I shouldn’t have heard it.”

And with that, she turned away, unable to look at her sister anymore.

Nesta walked away without looking back, her steps slow but deliberate. The weight of the conversation still pressed on her chest, and she could feel the bitter taste of it lingering on her tongue. She had to escape. The suffocating silence between her and Elain was too much. She needed space, air—anything but that thick, stifling tension.

As she entered the common room, the atmosphere didn’t offer the reprieve she had hoped for. It was just as tense, just as loaded as the kitchen had been. The soft flicker of the fire in the hearth did little to ease the heaviness in the room. Feyre, sitting on one of the couches, glanced up at Nesta with a strained smile, but it was clear no one had spoken much since she’d left.

None of them had.

Feyre had likely tried to fill the silence with small talk—awkward, disjointed attempts at conversation that fell flat, like throwing pebbles into an empty well. Nesta could see the strain on her sister’s face. Feyre never liked this kind of tension.

But Nesta didn’t care. She didn’t care about their awkward attempts to bridge the gap between them.

Her eyes flicked to Taryn, sitting quietly on the far side of the room, her expression unreadable. For a moment, there was no need for words between them.

Nesta took a deep breath and said, “Let’s go.”

Taryn didn’t hesitate. She met Nesta’s gaze for a beat, then stood without a word, the silence between them stretching but not breaking.

There was no argument. There was no protest. Just a shared understanding.

As Nesta reached the door, she heard Feyre’s voice, clear and tight with concern. “Where are you going?”

She paused, not turning immediately. She could feel Feyre’s eyes on her, could hear the unspoken plea in her voice. “You’ve only just gotten here,” Feyre added, the words almost a whisper.

It was enough to make Nesta stop. Enough to make her look back, though the anger that flared in her chest made her want to walk out without a word.

She turned slowly, meeting her sister’s eyes. The weight of what had been said earlier—the anger, the resentments, the truths spilled out in the heat of the moment—pressed on her, and for a brief, sharp second, Nesta felt a bitter sting of betrayal.

But it wasn’t just anger she felt. There was something else, something darker and more sorrowful. Pity.

Because she could see it now. Feyre wasn’t trying to trap her, not really. She wasn’t trying to break her down. Feyre had seen the way Nesta had crumbled before, the way she had spiraled after the war. She had watched her drown in men and drink, in rage and loneliness, and it must have felt like the only way to save her was to lock her away, or to send her off to the farthest reaches where she wouldn’t have to watch it anymore.

She took a deep breath before speaking, her voice raw, trembling slightly with emotion.

“Elain told me about the plan,” she said, her gaze flicking to each of them, one by one. “About how you were going to help me heal. How you thought sending me away with Cassian and locking me in some damn tower would fix me.”

Her words hung in the air like a punch, and she could see the shock on their faces. Feyre’s eyes widened, guilt flickering across her features. But it was too late for apologies, too late for anything but the truth.

Cassian, to his credit, looked just as stunned. He opened his mouth to speak, but Nesta cut him off, her voice barely more than a whisper now.

“So, that was it? That was the great plan you thought would heal me? The great solution? You just thought you’d throw me at Cassian, leave me to figure it out, and everything would magically fall into place?”

Her eyes flicked over to Rhysand, who had remained silent until now. He didn’t look apologetic at all. Instead, his gaze was steady, unwavering, as he put a hand on Feyre’s shoulder in a way that seemed more like comfort than guilt.

And then he spoke, his tone calm but firm, answering for Feyre without hesitation.

“We thought it was the only way,” he said. “But it hadn’t come to that, Nesta.”

It hadn’t come to that.

The words cut through her, and for a moment, she didn’t know whether to scream or collapse under the weight of it all. The coldness, the distance, the feeling of being reduced to a problem to be solved instead of a person who needed help.

Feyre stumbled back a step, her hand instinctively reaching for Rhysand’s as if grounding herself in him could somehow steady her racing thoughts. Her voice wavered when she spoke, the weight of the situation pressing down on her shoulders.

“I… I thought it would help,” she said, the words coming out strained, as if she were trying to convince herself as much as Nesta. “You were spiraling, Nesta. I thought—”

Her voice caught, and for a moment, it felt like she was fighting something back. She cast a glance at Cassian, but her words faltered. She cleared her throat, almost too quickly, and turned her gaze to Taryn, who stood silent, watching the entire exchange.

Feyre’s lips parted again, but she stopped herself, a brief hesitation making her breath catch in her throat. She didn’t need to say it.

Nesta could feel the air shift between them. She could already guess what Feyre was about to say, the words that would break through the tension. But Feyre never spoke them. She looked at Taryn, and Nesta saw the subtle shift in her sister’s expression—the way her eyes lingered, how she held her breath for just a heartbeat too long.

Cassian was her… mate.

But Feyre didn’t say it. Instead, she swallowed, the words catching in her throat, unsaid. There was something in the way she looked at Taryn, something vulnerable, something Nesta had never seen before, but she knew what it meant.

She’d been so desperate to fix her, so desperate to save her from herself, but in the process, she’d nearly lost her sister. And the bond that connected them all had never seemed more fragile.

Before Nesta could respond to Feyre, the sharp, biting voice of Amren cut through the tension in the room like a blade.

“Girl, enough,” Amren snapped, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Nesta, unblinking. Her words weren’t soft, weren’t filled with pity—they were a direct hit, aimed straight for the heart of what Nesta had been avoiding. “You were drinking yourself into oblivion, sleeping with anyone who would have you, and pretending you didn’t need help.”

Her voice rang out, biting and clear, and Nesta felt the sting of truth in each syllable. There was no sugarcoating, no softening the harsh reality of what she had become. Amren didn’t flinch, didn’t even soften when she spoke.

“You needed help, Nesta,” Amren continued, her tone cold and direct. “You needed it. And you pushed it away. You pushed them away. You pushed us away.”

Amren’s gaze flicked over to Feyre and then back to Nesta, a touch of disdain in her eyes. “It’s easy to burn everything down and blame everyone else, but the truth is—you needed to face yourself, to face what you’ve done. It’s over now, but don’t pretend like it wasn’t you who kept yourself trapped in the past.”

Her words rang in the heavy silence, and Nesta flinched, the sharpness of them cutting deeper than she expected. There was no warmth in Amren’s reprimand, but there was no question either—Amren wasn’t wrong.

Nesta didn’t know how to respond, her mouth dry, her chest tightening under the weight of everything she’d been avoiding. She had never wanted to hear the truth in such brutal terms, but now that it was out, she couldn’t ignore it. She couldn’t escape it.

The fire inside her seemed to dim, and for the first time in a long while, she felt a sliver of what might be shame creeping in.

Amren didn’t pause, her gaze cold and piercing as she took another step toward Nesta, her words laced with contempt.

“You think you’ve suffered?” Amren sneered, her voice cutting through the room. “You think you’re the only one who’s been broken? The only one who’s been through hell? You have power, Nesta. But what have you done with it?”

Nesta stood frozen, her hands clenched at her sides, every word like a weight being thrown on her chest. She could feel the shame rising in her throat, but Amren wasn’t finished.

“You have power,” Amren continued, her voice harsh, “Yet you’ve done nothing with it. All this time, all this potential, and you’ve squandered it. You’ve locked yourself away, burned everything down around you, and for what? To hide from what you truly are?”

Her words struck like a whip, every sentence aimed to break her further. There was no kindness, no hint of understanding. Just cruelty, plain and simple.

“You haven’t made yourself useful to anyone. Not your sisters, not your people, not anyone.” Amren’s words were as unforgiving as ever. “You could be a force. You could do something, anything—anything—but you’ve chosen to wallow in self-pity instead.”

Nesta’s chest tightened, her breath coming short. She wanted to retort, to push back against the accusations, but a part of her knew Amren was right. Every word cut deep, sharper than anything she could’ve imagined. She had power. She had a gift—and yet, here she was, useless, hiding from it all.

“Is this what you wanted?” Amren’s voice was almost mocking now, as if it were all so obvious to her. “To waste your life like this? To be nothing but a shadow of what you could be? You’ve done nothing but take and take. You think you’re special? You think your suffering makes you exempt from responsibility?”

Nesta felt the heat rise in her chest, the flames within her flickering to life. But she didn’t give in. Instead, she stood, staring at the floor, trying to hold onto whatever shred of composure she had left.

But Amren’s words were relentless. They echoed in her mind like a drumbeat, a reminder of every failure she had ever hidden from.

The worst part—the absolute worst part—was that no one said anything. Not Feyre, who usually couldn’t stand the weight of silence like this. Not Elain, who had peeked her head out from the kitchen, her wide eyes searching the room, but still, she said nothing. They all just stood there, letting Amren tear into her, standing in the quiet of their own guilt, their own discomfort.

It was as if Nesta’s pain, her failure, was something they could all agree on but never speak about aloud—like the invisible thing that hovered between them all but never had a name.

And that was the truth that hit her like a punch to the gut. This was what they all thought of her. Every single one of them. They saw her as broken, as a problem that couldn’t be fixed, as a source of shame.

She felt it then, the weight of their collective judgment. It was suffocating. It pressed against her chest, wrapped around her throat like a vice, and she couldn’t breathe.

Feyre had always tried to be the protector, the one who fixed everything. But she had failed, and in that failure, Nesta had become something ugly to them all. Something that needed to be locked away, something to be handled at arm’s length.

Elain, sweet Elain, who had once shared her pain, now stood in the doorway and said nothing. Nesta could see the pity in her eyes, the distance between them that hadn’t been there before.

And Amren, cold as always, only saw a mess to be cleaned up, a task to be finished, and she didn’t care how she got there, as long as it was done.

There was nothing left but the bitter taste of betrayal—this time, from everyone she had ever trusted.

The silence was so loud, so suffocating, that Nesta thought she might crumble under its weight. It was as if the entire room was pressing down on her, suffocating her with the unspoken truths and judgments that had been building for so long. It felt like a dam had broken inside of her—everything she had held back, all the rage, the hurt, the confusion—flooding to the surface, threatening to drown her.

And then, just as she thought she might implode from the crushing pressure, someone spoke.

It was Taryn.

Taryn, who had been standing quietly beside her, eyes wide and still, like a ghost in the shadows, suddenly broke the silence with her soft voice.

Taryn cocked her head to the side, her eyes sharp as she looked around at the room of people who had let the silence drag on for so long. She let out a breath, the calmness in her tone holding a quiet but cutting weight.

“Wasn’t it Nesta who fought in the war?” Taryn’s words were slow, deliberate, as if she were dissecting the conversation piece by piece, each word aimed to challenge everything they had assumed about her. “Wasn’t it Nesta who helped kill the King of Hybern? Who was on the frontlines with your General, fighting beside him, bloodied and broken? Who helped take care of the wounded soldiers, running back and forth through the battlefield, something even their High Lady didn’t do?”

She paused, letting her words hang in the air, like an accusation they hadn’t expected.

Taryn’s eyes burned with a fierceness that made Nesta’s chest tighten. The tension in the room shifted, and Taryn didn’t hesitate to press further, her voice dripping with biting sarcasm as she cut into them with unflinching precision.

“What have any of you done?” Taryn’s words were like a slap, sharp and unforgiving. “If I remember correctly, your High Lady—” she let the words hang in the air like a challenge, “released two death gods and a monster, the latter of which still somehow managed to disappear, didn’t it?”

She didn’t wait for anyone to respond, her gaze moving over the room like a judge passing sentence.

“And let’s not forget,” Taryn continued, her tone colder now, as her eyes narrowed on Feyre, “your High Lady destroyed Spring. Destroyed it. Sending countless refugees fleeing—many of them even came here, to this city, because of the chaos she caused.”

Rhysand’s voice cut through the air, a low, commanding presence that instantly demanded attention. His gaze was cold, sharp as he met Taryn’s defiant stare.

“You will show respect to your High Lady,” Rhysand said, his tone clipped and controlled, the weight of authority in his words unmistakable. “You are a citizen of this court, and you will follow its laws and respect its leadership.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward Feyre, whose face had paled under the pressure of Taryn’s words, but Rhysand didn’t let the brief hesitation in his High Lady’s gaze sway him. His focus remained squarely on Taryn.

“I understand your frustration,” he went on, his voice now tinged with something darker, “but this—” he gestured to the tension in the room, the growing rift between them all, “is not the way to speak. You may not agree with every decision made, but respect is not optional. You will not undermine her in front of everyone.”

Nesta could feel the tension in the air, the invisible barrier between them as Rhysand’s words hung like a sword above the conversation.

Taryn didn’t flinch, though. She stood tall, unwavering, her gaze steady on Rhysand.

“I don’t need to undermine her, High Lord,” Taryn responded, her voice still laced with defiance. “You both have done that yourselves.”

The room seemed to freeze, the words sinking in, and even Rhysand’s expression shifted, just slightly, as he registered the weight of Taryn’s response. But he said nothing more. He knew better than to engage further. His silence only made the unspoken tension in the room more palpable.

For a moment, it felt as though everything was on the edge of breaking—like the cracks in their foundation were finally too big to ignore.

Taryn turned her gaze sharply toward Amren, her expression shifting into something darkly amused. She let her words hang in the air like a poison, sharp and pointed.

“You know,” Taryn said, her voice low and deliberate, “they whisper about you. The citizens, I mean. They call you the Angel of Death. How you destroyed the rest of Hybern’s armies, how you tore through the battlefield with ease. And now…”

Taryn’s lips curled into a slight smile, her eyes never leaving Amren’s face, watching for the reaction she knew would come. The tension in the room grew as Amren’s expression shifted into something dark, her eyes flashing with a snarl, teeth bared as her temper began to rise.

“Watch your tongue, girl,” Amren hissed, her voice a low, venomous growl, but Taryn didn’t flinch. She didn’t even look remotely intimidated.

“You want to talk about uselessness?” Taryn continued, her smile never faltering. “Look at what you’ve become.”

The room was silent, the only sound the shallow breaths of everyone standing there. No one dared to speak, watching the confrontation unfold. Amren’s eyes were narrowed, fury etched on her face, but Taryn’s words had landed, and there was no taking them back.

As Taryn’s words landed, sharp and unforgiving, Nesta’s instinct was to reach out, to stop her. To tell her to back off, to avoid making things worse. After all, Amren’s fury was a force to be reckoned with, and the room was already thick with tension. But as Nesta’s gaze flickered between the two women, she didn’t move. She didn’t speak.

Taryn—Taryn—was standing up for her, and in a way, it was more than Nesta had ever gotten from any of them. Every word from Taryn, though sharp, felt like a shield. She wasn’t just defending Nesta against Amren’s cruel accusations; she was standing up for everything Nesta had been forced to endure. Everything she had tried so desperately to bury.

For the first time in a long while, Nesta felt like someone saw her—really saw her. Not as a broken, useless thing to be fixed or a problem to be solved, but as a person who had a right to her pain, her struggle, her flaws.

And though the instinct to protect Taryn from Amren’s wrath whispered at the edge of her mind, Nesta knew—knew—that this wasn’t about stopping Taryn.

Taryn was speaking up for her when no one else had the courage. And that, in a twisted way, made it all worth it.

So, Nesta stood there, quiet, still. She let Taryn continue, even as Amren’s fury brewed like a storm about to break. She let the words settle over her, felt them, for the first time, lift something inside of her that had been heavy for too long.

Taryn’s voice was a lifeline, no matter how sharp the edges were. And for that, Nesta couldn’t bring herself to stop her.

Taryn’s gaze hardened as she took a step back, her voice cutting through the thick tension like a blade.

“For the hundreds of years you’ve all been alive,” she said, her eyes sweeping over the room with a sharpness that seemed to pierce each one of them, “everyone knows how you and your inner circle made your way through Velaris. Through the bars and the brothels. Drinking, fucking, living like there were no consequences for your actions.”

Her words hung in the air like a toxic fog, and Taryn’s eyes never wavered as she continued.

“And some of you still do,” she added, her tone dropping lower, heavier. She turned her head slightly, deliberately locking eyes with Morrigan, who had been standing quietly, watching the exchange, her expression unreadable.

The pointed look Taryn gave her wasn’t subtle. Morrigan stiffened, her jaw tightening, and though she didn’t say anything, the weight of the accusation was undeniable.

Taryn’s voice was no longer just sharp—it was loaded with years of bitterness, of watching, of knowing. She had seen it all—the reckless behavior, the ways the High Lord and his inner circle had lived, and the damage they’d caused. And now, it was being thrown in their faces, laid bare for them all to acknowledge.

There was no denying the truth of her words.

Taryn let the silence settle, let them feel the weight of her words before she tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable.

“But when Nesta did it—” her voice was softer now, laced with something almost mocking, “when she drank, when she fucked, when she tried to drown herself in everything that you all have indulged in for centuries—suddenly, it was different.”

Her gaze swept over them again, daring them to refute her.

“That doesn’t sound right, does it?”

Her words were deceptively light, but the truth behind them was heavy. They all knew it.

Rhysand’s expression darkened, but he said nothing. Feyre’s lips parted as if she wanted to argue, but no words came out. Morrigan’s jaw was clenched tight, her golden eyes flashing with something unreadable.

Taryn gave a small, humorless smile.

“Funny how that works.”

Taryn let out a slow, measured sigh, as if she had finally grown tired of the conversation, of the weight of all these people who thought they had the right to judge. Then she turned to Nesta, her sharpness softening just a fraction.

“Elia will be waiting for us,” Taryn said, her tone casual, as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn’t just carved through them all with nothing but her words. “We should hurry.”

Nesta knew it was a lie. A flimsy, obvious lie. But it was a lie she agreed upon. A lifeline she was willing to take.

So she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and turned back to face them all—Feyre, Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, Amren, Elain, Morrigan—every single one of them who had sat in silence, who had judged, who had only spoken when it suited them.

Her voice was steady when she spoke.

“Is someone going to winnow us, or are we walking the ten thousand steps?”

The room was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of everything that had been said. Rhysand’s face was carefully blank, but his displeasure was obvious, his fingers still curled tightly around Feyre’s shoulder, as if willing her to stay silent.

But it was Feyre who answered.

“I’ll winnow you.”

Nesta could hear the guilt in her sister’s voice, the unsteadiness of it. Could see the way her hands tensed at her sides, the way she couldn’t quite meet Nesta’s gaze. And she knew that was the only reason Feyre had spoken first—because guilt had finally sunk its claws into her.

Nesta flicked her eyes to Rhysand, saw the way his jaw clenched, how his lips pressed into a thin, displeased line. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want Feyre to do it. But even he knew that stopping her now, after everything, would only make it worse.

Rhysand’s rage was barely contained, a storm just waiting to break. Nesta could see it in the way his violet eyes darkened, in the way his fingers twitched at his sides, like he was restraining himself from doing something rash. Like he might mist her and Taryn both if Feyre weren’t standing right there.

His power crackled in the air, unseen but felt, pressing against the room like a silent warning. He had always been careful with his control, always prided himself on his restraint—but now, now Nesta could see the cracks in it. Could see how close he was to snapping.

Taryn, to her credit, didn’t so much as flinch under his stare. If anything, she seemed amused by the fury radiating from him. She met his gaze head-on, her chin tilting ever so slightly, as if daring him to act on his rage.

Nesta wasn’t stupid. She knew Rhysand wouldn’t, couldn’t, harm them—not with Feyre standing between them. Not with the eyes of his court watching. But the thought had crossed his mind. She knew it had. And that knowledge sent something cold curling through her spine.

Nesta only smiled, slow and sharp, as if she had seen something she wasn’t supposed to.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she said, looking at Feyre but meaning it for Rhysand.

Feyre stepped forward, jaw tight, and reached for them. And just before the world vanished in shadow, Nesta caught one last glimpse of Rhysand—his hands clenched, his teeth bared ever so slightly.

And, for the first time in a long while, Nesta felt satisfied.

Tag list: @litnerdwrites @viajandopelomar

[cosyvelvetorchid]

Had an idea. Wrote a thing. Enjoy 🩶

*****

He walked away across the sand before stopping and turning to face Tommy. “Because I’m in love with you!” He yelled out. “And don’t even think about telling me I’m wrong about how I feel.” He turned again to face the ocean as he continued, not letting Tommy have the chance to reply. It was finally his chance to let out everything he was feeling since Tommy had broken up with him. “God, ya know I am sick of everybody telling me how I feel or what I want or what to do as if I’m not a god damn fucking grown man! Just once i would like someone to actually trust that I know how I feel and that I know what I want.” His chest was heaving as he walked back towards Tommy stopping a few feet away looking him directly in the eyes. “Because I do.”

Tommy’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed before speaking. “And what is it you want?”

“You, Tommy.” He replied immediately. “It’s always been you—it will always be you. And-and despite what you’ve convinced yourself, you are my last. Even if you don’t believe it. Even if-if I ended up married to someone else and have found some semblance of happiness—you will still be my last. I will never live a happier life than the one I could live with you. You were not some shiny new toy after I discovered my sexuality. Or-or some exciting right of passage along a journey of self discovery. You’re the love of my life, Tommy. And you may not have the courage to believe it but I have the courage to say it. Even if it changes nothing. Even if you decide to walk away again. Because I’m right. And deep down you know I’m right, too.”

Finally Buck left some space in the air around them for Tommy to speak and he wasted no time.

“Of course you’re right, Evan! About all of it. About everything!” Tommy stood up from the bench and began to pace. “I’m not confused about how I feel or how you feel. I do trust you to know how you feel—it was never about that.”

“Then what is it about?!”

“I’m terrified, Evan! I am so fucking scared of losing you! I never thought in a million years that I would fall in love let alone feel like my existence on this earth depends on someone else breathing. Everything in me exists for you. Every beat of my heart, every pump of blood through my veins, every breath in my lungs exists solely for you!”

He’d kept himself together, somehow, over the last 4 months—not a single tear shed. But now, standing on a desolate beach screaming at one another, the seal broke and the tears flowed.

“If something happened to you, or us it would be the thing that breaks me, Evan. I need you to understand that. I-“

“I do understand that!” Buck interrupted. “And don’t you think I’m scared too?! You think I’ve ever felt like this about anybody before? Tommy, every single person I have loved has left me at some point. Including you. And yet here I am still holding on to some shred of hope that you’ll be the one person to actually fight for me.”

“I want to, I-“

Buck closed the distance between them and took Tommys hands hoping to God that he would let him. He took a deep breath to calm his voice.

“Tommy, I can’t promise you a long and happy life with me. But I can’t promise you that I wont get in a car accident on the way to work tomorrow, either. Or that my apartment building won’t burn down or that you won’t get killed on the job.. Because nobody can promise that. Nobody knows what’s gonna happen in the future. All we can do, all I can do, is promise you that I will do everything that I can do to make you happy; to make us happy.” He tilted his head up towards the sky and blinked in an attempt to dry out his eyes before looking back at Tommy.

“I love you. And-and I want to spend the rest of my life showing you that.” He released one of Tommys hands and used his knuckle to gently wipe the tears from Tommys cheeks. Tommy closed his eyes for a moment relishing in the feeling of Evan’s comfort.

“Do..” Tommy’s throat was raw from the yelling and thick with emotion. “Do you promise?” He felt embarrassed by how meek and small he sounded.

But he couldn’t fight Evan anymore. More importantly he couldn’t fight himself anymore. Evan was the love his life. He could no longer deny it. He’d likely never not feel some kind of fear that it would all blow up on his face but he had no fight in him left.

Buck squeezed his hands.

“Yes. I promise.” Buck smiled softly through wet lashes.

“I love you so fucking much.” Tommy breathed and took Bucks face in his hands, kissing him so firmly Buck was forced back a step. Buck immediately kissed back; his hands all over Tommy—face, neck, shoulders, waist, arms.. any available space on Tommy’s body he could get under his fingertips in an effort to hold him in place and having no intention of ever letting him go again.

[nanasrkives]

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── .✦ "LINES WE CROSS" ─ Gojo Satoru

Finally posting the gojo smut, took me two goddamn weeks to write it MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! content : fem!reader. mentions of alcohol. heavy tension. explicit smut. oral fem receiving. oral male receiving. piv sex. overstimulation. 5779 words.

The bottle of whiskey had long been drained to the last drop, leaving a haze of alcohol in the air and a certain buzz between you and Gojo that neither of you had planned for.

The silence had grown heavy with unspoken words, but the words didn’t matter anymore. The air between you was too thick with tension—tension that had been building ever since the first mission you’d worked together. That first time you’d hooked up, the night of wild abandon that had made you swear off ever letting Gojo in again. Once was too much. And yet here you were again, barely holding on to any kind of rational thought.

You leaned back against the couch, your arms folded across your chest, the same way you always did when you were trying to hide how much his presence affected you. You’d done this dance too many times before. Every little push, every little tease—he knew exactly how to get under your skin. But you also knew exactly who he was, the strongest. Untouchable. Someone who would never truly let anyone close, least of all someone like you.

You swirled your glass, watching the amber liquid slosh around. “I should have just left when I had the chance,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him, though you knew Gojo had heard every word.

He tilted his head, his lips twitching in that damn smirk that always made your heart skip. “What’s the matter? Changed your mind? Don’t think you can handle another round?” His voice had a teasing edge, but underneath it was that dark undertone—the same undertone that had caused you to make one of the most reckless decisions of your life the first time you let yourself fall into his orbit.

You ignored the heat that crept up your neck and looked him dead in the eye. “You know exactly what I mean.”

A chuckle escaped him, low and slow. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy the first time.” There it was — the exact moment you both had been dancing around for months. The hook-up that never should have happened, but had — and now, it was looming like a shadow between you, taunting you both.

You turned your gaze away, staring at nothing, trying to fight the memory of that night. His hands on your skin, the way he had kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered for those brief moments, the way everything had blurred together in that dangerous combination of recklessness and desire. That night had made you question everything you thought you knew about him... and about yourself.

But you couldn’t afford to get lost in that again. Gojo was chaos wrapped in a pretty package — too powerful, too untouchable, too... dangerous. The world knew him as the strongest, but you knew the truth. You’d seen enough of what that meant —enough to know it wasn’t a title you wanted to share with him. There would be consequences, there always were.

“I can’t do this again,” you said, more to your own sanity than to him, the words slipping out before you could stop them. But your voice was shaky, and you knew—he knew—it wasn’t because you didn’t want it. It was because you did.

He was close now, too close. The heat of his body radiated against you, his hand casually resting on the back of the couch just a few inches from your shoulder. You could feel the air between you thicken, the undeniable pull that always existed whenever he was near.

Gojo’s voice dropped an octave, the teasing gone. “You really think you can just walk away from this, huh?” His fingers brushed against the back of your neck, slow and deliberate, a touch so light, yet so heavy with meaning. The last time he’d done that, your breath had caught in your throat, and you hadn’t been able to stop yourself from leaning into him.

And there it was — the tension, crackling in the air like lightning. You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself, but his proximity was too much. His presence always was. The way his eyes locked with yours, like he could see right through every wall you’d carefully built between you.

“I’m not some easy fix for whatever twisted thing you think you want tonight,” you said, your voice low, trying to convince both him and yourself that you weren’t already halfway lost. You tried to ignore the sharp pang in your chest—the ache that came from the truth you’d buried too deep.

Gojo’s lips curled up into a smirk, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was something darker there now, something that made you hold your breath. “You think I don’t know exactly who you are?” he asked, his voice softer, almost a whisper. “I’ve known from the moment we met, how rational you are, how you try to keep yourself in control. But tonight…” He trailed off, stepping closer until your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. “Tonight, you’re just like me.”

You felt his thumb trace along the curve of your jaw, and your breath hitched. That was the problem — he was right. You were just like him. Just as reckless. Just as hungry. And the truth of it — of what was happening between you right now —terrified you in a way you couldn’t put into words.

“No more games,” he murmured, leaning in, his breath hot against your ear. “One more time. Just one more time, and then we can forget about it. You don’t have to feel anything.”

You closed your eyes, fighting the wave of desire crashing over you. You hated that he was making it sound so simple. You hated that you did want it.

But you knew better. You always knew better. You’d seen the way he was with others, seen the damage that followed in his wake. Being with him once had been a mistake. Being with him again? That could break everything. You could break everything.

But you also knew that tonight—this moment—was slipping out of your control. And part of you wanted to let it.

“I won’t be your damn distraction,” you finally whispered, breathless. But even you could hear the lie in your own voice.

Gojo didn’t need to hear any more. With a sharp, almost predatory move, he closed the distance between you. The kiss was hard and demanding, the kind that said words were pointless now. His hands roamed down your body, tugging at the hem of your shirt, as if he couldn’t wait any longer.

You should have stopped him. You should have. But you didn’t.

The kiss deepened, and your hands instinctively tangled in his hair, tugging him closer. The urgency of it was almost frantic, like you were both trying to find something in the other — something you couldn’t name. Something dangerous. You could taste the whiskey on his lips, your teeth clashing as his lips moved against yours in a way that had your pulse spiking. It was messy. Reckless. Just like the way you both lived your lives.

Gojo’s hands were on you, too quick, too desperate. His fingers slid down your back, tugging at the fabric of your shirt, pulling it free from your waist. There was no hesitation in his touch — no second guessing. It was like he knew exactly where to touch, where to make you gasp, where to make your body respond. He was good at this. Too good. And you hated it, but you couldn’t stop yourself from reacting.

His breath was hot against your lips when he pulled back just a fraction, his voice low, almost guttural. “Still think I can’t handle you?”

You swallowed, trying to steady your breath, but his words sent a sharp tremor through you. “Don’t get cocky,” you managed to say, but it came out more breathless than you intended. Your heart was pounding in your chest, and you hated how easy it was for him to break through your defenses.

Without warning, his hands unclasped your bra, fingers brushing the curve of your ribcage, sending a shiver down your spine. You wanted to pull away — wanted to remind yourself of who he was, what he was — but your body was betraying you. You could feel the heat rising between you, could feel your body inching closer to his, craving that contact, that release.

Gojo didn’t waste time. He took one of your breasts in his hot mouth, twirling his tongue around your hard nipple while his fingertips pinched your other nipple, making you bite down on your lip to stifle the moan that threatened to escape. He was so confident—too confident. You felt him smirk against your mouth, sensing your reaction, and it only made everything worse.

His lips moved down from your chest, planting soft, deliberate kisses across the curve of your ribs, trailing lower with each kiss, as his breath warmed your skin, making its way down to the sensitive skin of your lower stomach until, without warning, his teeth sank lightly into your sensitive skin. The sudden bite made your body jerk, and you gasped, "fuck! Gojo!" before a breathless moan escaped your lips, as the sharp sensation left you reeling.

“Satoru,” he corrects, his voice thick with amusement, before his hands pulled your skirt down “If you’re gonna scream my name tonight, might as well get used to it now.” His fingers ghosted over your inner thigh, dangerously close but never quite where you needed him. Then he paused, a smug grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as his fingers brushed against the damp fabric, feeling the heat radiating through. “Damn, this wet already ?” he murmured, voice dropping to a low rasp, “just for me”

Gojo slid your damp panties down, peppering kisses in your inner thighs until he was face to face with your leaking pussy. He spread your thighs gently, settling between them like he belonged there. His eyes met yours, holding your gaze as his mouth lowered, a silent promise hidden in his cerulean irises. The first touch of his tongue was slow, deliberate, as if he wanted to memorize the way you tasted. He never looked away, even as your back arched, even as your breath hitched—like he needed to watch you fall apart.

Before you could catch your breath, he did it again, this time with more pressure, his tongue flattening against your lips, deliberate and unrelenting. A sound slipped out—half gasp, half moan—and you hated how easy it was for him to pull it from your mouth. His fingers tightened, thumbs digging into the soft skin of your hips like he liked the way you were already unraveling for him.

"Fuck, right there," you breathed, head tipping back against the pillows, your fingers instinctively sliding into his hair, gripping like you needed an anchor . His hair was soft, but there was nothing gentle about the way he worked his mouth against you—teasing, tasting, like he had something to prove.

He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against my slick skin. “So sensitive,” he murmured, voice dripping with amusement and something darker, more possessive. His tongue flicked against your core again, quick and sharp, and you choked on a moan, your thighs trembling around his shoulders.

“Satoru,” you gasped, not even thinking, just feeling—too much, too fast, not enough.

That smug grin curved against you before he growled, low and satisfied, “Yeah, just like that.”

Then he was back at it—faster now, tongue and lips working in tandem, relentless in the way only he could be. Your body arched off the couch, heat coiling tight in your stomach, every nerve ending sparking like you were going to come apart right there in his hands. And maybe you would. Maybe that’s exactly what he wanted.

Just when you thought you'd found your footing—breath ragged, heart pounding—his mouth shifted slightly, and you felt the slow drag of his fingers sliding along your inner thigh. The anticipation was unbearable, your body already hypersensitive from the relentless pull of his tongue. Then—

His fingers slipped between your folds, slick with your juices, and the sudden contrast of his touch—cooler, firmer—made you gasp, your hips bucking helplessly into him. He didn’t miss a beat. One finger eased in, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to feel every inch, like he wanted me to feel every inch. You clenched around him instinctively, a breathless moan spilling from your lips.

“So fucking tight,” he muttered against you, the words a low growl vibrating right through your core, making you shudder. He sounded almost wrecked himself, like the effect he had on you was doing something to him, too.

Then he added a second finger, stretching you just enough to make go into euphoria, his movements unhurried but devastatingly precise. His fingers curled inside you, searching—finding—that spot that made your vision blur for a second, a choked cry slipping past your lips.

“There it is,” he murmured, smug and satisfied, like he’d just solved some impossible puzzle. His tongue didn’t stop, circling, flicking, sucking—his fingers thrusting in a steady rhythm, hitting that perfect spot over and over until your thighs trembled around his head, until you were gasping his name like a prayer you didn’t believe in.

“Satoru—” It was barely a whisper, more a broken sound than a word, but it made him groan against you, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure crashing through your entire being. Your fingers tightened in his hair, anchoring as the heat coiled tighter, sharper, until it felt like it might snap.

His pace quickened, fingers curling with more purpose, tongue dragging slow, deliberate circles around your clit before sucking it between his lips, and that was it—

The tension snapped, sharp and blinding, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your back arched off the couch, a broken moan spilling from your lips, too loud, too raw to care. Your thighs clamped around his head, shaking as the orgasm ripped through you, white-hot and endless, every nerve in your body lit up like a live wire.

He didn’t stop—not right away. His fingers kept moving, coaxing every last ripple of pleasure from you, his mouth softening from relentless to tender, easing you through the aftershocks until you were nothing but a trembling, breathless mess beneath him.

When he finally pulled back, his lips shiny, his grin wicked, he looked up at you with that infuriating glint in his eyes—the one that said he knew exactly what he’d done.

“Told you,” he murmured, voice low and smug, “you’d be moaning my name.”

You were still catching your breath, your core still pulsing, when he moved to hover over your figure, his grin lazy and smug, like he’d just won some unspoken game. But two could play at that.

You pushed at his chest, flipping him over with a burst of energy you didn’t know you had, straddling him before he could make some cocky remark. His grin widened, clearly entertained by your sudden boldness, but it faltered just a little when you leaned down, your mouth brushing against his ear.

"Your turn," you whispered, your voice still ragged from the moans he’d pulled from you moments ago.

His breath hitched—not that he’d ever admit it—and you felt the shift in his body beneath your hips, the tension winding tight as you kissed your way down his neck, nipping at the spot just below his jaw that made him suck in a sharp breath. You didn’t rush, dragging your lips lower, over his chest, pausing just long enough to let your teeth graze his skin. The way his muscles tensed beneath you was addictive.

By the time you reached the waistband of his pants, his cock was already hard, straining against the fabric. You shot him a look—half challenge, half promise—before sliding them down, watching the way his chest rose and fell a little faster, like he was finally feeling the same edge he’d left you on for far too long.

You wrapped your fingers around him first, just to hear that sharp inhale, the way his jaw clenched like he was trying to hold back. Smug bastard deserved a little payback.

Leaning down, you licked a slow stripe along the length of him, watching his reaction out of the corner of your eye. His head tipped back slightly, a low curse slipping from his lips, but that wasn’t enough. You took him into your mouth, slowly at first, letting him feel every inch, hollowing your cheeks as you sank deeper, your tongue working against him.

His hand found its way into your hair, fingers tightening reflexively as you set a rhythm—slow, then faster, alternating just enough to keep him on edge. You could feel the tension in his thighs, the way his hips twitched slightly, like he wanted to thrust but was holding back. Good.

"Holy fuck," he breathed, his voice low and rough, a stark contrast to the usual cocky confidence. “You’re really trying to kill me, huh?”

You pulled back just enough to smirk, your lips slick and swollen. “Who said I’m done?”

Then you took him back in, deeper this time, your hand working in tandem with your mouth, determined to unravel him the way he’d done to you. His groans grew rougher, his grip in your hair tighter, his control slipping with every flick of your tongue, every bobs of your head, until his head fell back with a strained moan, completely undone beneath you.

"Shit, shit, fuck—," his breathing grew ragged, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts, but it was the way his fingers tightened in your hair—just enough to make your scalp tingle—that told you he was close. That cocky edge in his voice had long since faded, replaced by something raw, his control slipping with every flick of your tongue, every twist of your wrist.

You didn’t ease up. If anything, you went harder—sucking him deeper, your hand stroking the base in perfect rhythm with my mouth. His hips jerked slightly, instinctive and desperate, a low, guttural groan spilling from his lips like he couldn’t hold it back anymore.

"Shit—” His voice was wrecked, strained with the effort of holding on, but you weren’t giving him the chance to recover. Your free hand gripped his thigh, feeling the tension coil tighter beneath your fingertips as his muscles locked, his whole body straining toward that edge

You glanced up through your lashes just in time to see it—the way his jaw clenched, head tipping back against the pillows, eyes dilated and wild as he met your gaze. That look alone sent a rush of heat through your soul, like you were the one unraveling.

"Fuck, I’m—” The words cut off with a sharp inhale as he finally let go, hips bucking slightly despite the grip he still had on your hair. You didn’t stop, didn’t pull away, swallowing every last bit of semen as he came, his groans low and ragged, spilling into the thick, heated air between you.

When he finally went still, chest heaving, you pulled back slowly, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, smirking just enough to let him know weren’t done having the upper hand.

His eyes found yours, half-lidded, a lazy grin spreading across his face even as he tried to catch his breath. “You’re trying to kill me,” he rasped, voice rough and satisfied.

"Maybe," You shot back, your voice low, leaning in just enough to brush your lips against his. “Or maybe I just like watching you fall apart.”

His breathing was still uneven, chest rising and falling in heavy waves, but the lazy grin on his face didn’t last long—not when you shifted, straddling his hips again, feeling the hard line of him still pressing against your core already recovering. His hands found your waist, fingers digging in like he needed to ground himself, but there was hunger in his eyes now, something darker and sharper beneath the smugness.

“You think we’re done?” you whispered, your voice low, teasing, rolling your hips just enough to make him curse under his breath. His fingers tightened, dragging you down until there was no space left between you both, the heat of him pressed right against where you were still aching, slick and ready.

“Not even close,” he rasped, voice rough and frayed around the edges.

In one quick motion, he flipped you, pinning you beneath him, his mouth crashing against yours—desperate, all teeth and tongue, tasting your lips like he couldn’t get enough. His hand slid between you, fingers gliding over your sensitive skin, teasing for just a second before lining himself up. Your eyes met, breath mingling, the tension stretched so tight it felt like something might snap.

Then he pushed in, slow but relentless, filling your pussy inch by inch until the stretch stole the air from your lungs. Your back arched, nails digging into his shoulders, a broken sound escaping your lips before you could stop it. He groaned against your neck, his control unraveling as he bottomed out, the heat and pressure overwhelming, perfect.

He didn’t move at first, just stayed there, buried deep, like he wanted you to feel every inch of him, to know exactly what he was doing to you. Then he pulled back, hips snapping forward with a sharp thrust that made you gasp, your body clenching around him instinctively.

“Fuck, you feel—” he cut himself off with another thrust, harder this time, his rhythm quickly losing that teasing edge, turning into something rougher, more desperate. His hand slid under your thigh, lifting it to angle deeper, and the new position made you cry out, fingers clawing at his back, trying to anchor myself against the onslaught.

“Oh my god—Satoru,” you gasped, your voice barely recognizable, wrecked and breathless.

He growled in response, his pace brutal now, like he was trying to fuck the words right out of you, and maybe he was—because soon, all you could do was moan, his name spilling from your lips over and over, tangled with curses and gasps, completely undone beneath him.

"Harder, fuck me harder," you suddenly panted, digging your nails on his back. Beads of sweat trickled down Gojo's forehead as he fulfilled your plea, his hips slamming more vigorously in your tight cunt. "God you're so fucking tight baby," he moaned feeling your walls clenching as you could feel your orgasm building up.

He slid his finger to your clit, flickering it at an ungodly pace—and shit—you felt your mind going into delirium. Gojo thrusted even deeper within you, hitting in an instant your sweet spot. "shit, i'm gonna cum," you whispered, your body convulsing with pleasure from his thrusts and friction of his fingers on your clit. "fuck, fuck—cum for me baby" You clenched your legs against his hips sending jolts of electricity in your bodies, moaning his name like a mantra, until, you unfolded feeling all your senses crashing out, and you swore you could see stars.

His breath hitched as you orgasmed, feeling your walls clench impossibly tight around his length sending him over the edge. "You did so well for me baby" he whispered, stroking your head. "Now hold on a little longer for me," he rasped as he kept thrusting at a fast pace.

You can feel the tension building again, your body already overstimulated from the previous round, but Gojo is relentless, his pace not slowing down. His hands are all over you, fingers digging into your skin, pulling you closer as he presses deeper. Your body is responding to him before your mind can catch up, trembling with every movement, every brush of his body against yours.

“Satoru…” You barely manage to whisper his name, your voice shaky, desperate. The sensations are overwhelming, and yet, there’s no stopping now. You’re close again, too close to the edge, and it’s like your body has no choice but to follow his rhythm, even as your mind screams for relief from the intensity.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, his voice hoarse, and the sound of it only drives you further toward the breaking point. His movements are getting faster, harder, and you can feel him tightening inside you, his own need growing, but it doesn’t stop him from making you feel every inch of him as he pushes you to the edge once more.

You’re gasping for air, barely able to focus on anything but the overwhelming pressure building in you, your body already raw from the overstimulation. The heat surges again, your senses on fire as he hits that perfect spot deep inside you, and you can’t hold back the cry that escapes your lips, a broken sound of pure pleasure. You come apart beneath him, your body trembling underneath him as your second orgasm crashes down on you like a wave, leaving you trembling, breathless, your fingers digging into his back as if you might break.

But Gojo doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting, his hips snapping against you in an unrelenting rhythm. He can feel you tightening around him, but he’s not finished yet. The way you just fell apart under him only pushes him closer to the edge, makes his own control slip just a little more. He’s fighting to hold on, his teeth gritted, and you can hear the strain in his voice as he breathes out, voice rough with need.

“Not done yet,” he growls, his hand slipping between your bodies, fingers brushing against your clit with just the right pressure, driving you even crazier. The sensation of him so close, still so deep inside you, combined with his touch on that sensitive spot sends another shock through your body, your muscles tensing as if your body has no choice but to react. You feel like you're drowning in pleasure, the overstimulation so much that you can barely breathe, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down.

His name slips from your lips in a breathless gasp, and you can feel his control unraveling, his movements getting sloppier as the release starts to build inside him. You’re still trembling from your own orgasm, but as his pace picks up one last time, you can tell he’s close. His eyes are squeezed shut, his jaw clenched, and when he finally comes, it’s with a deep, guttural groan, his body trembling as he fills you, his hips stuttering against yours.

He collapses against you, his body heavy and warm as he catches his breath, but there’s a moment where neither of you moves, both of you feeling the aftershocks of the intense release. You’re both shaking, your bodies slick with sweat, hearts pounding as the room finally falls silent except for the sound of your labored breathing.

You’re still gasping for air, your chest rising and falling unevenly as you try to catch your breath, the remnants of your orgasm still pulsing through you. Your body is a mess of tingling nerves, overstimulated, every nerve ending still on edge as Gojo holds you close. He doesn’t pull away immediately, staying connected, his arms still wrapped around you, keeping you anchored to the present.

“Shit…” Gojo mutters, his voice rough, breathless, as he rests his forehead against your shoulder, his chest rising and falling with the aftershock of his own release. There’s a sense of exhaustion in his movements now, but his grip on you doesn’t loosen. He stays there for a moment longer, as though reluctant to break the connection between you two.

You feel the heat of his body pressing against yours, the weight of him both comforting and overwhelming. You’re still reeling, your body aching from the intensity of what just happened. Every part of you still feels sensitive, your mind hazy from pleasure and overstimulation. Gojo’s breath slows as he shifts slightly, pulling back just enough to look at you, but there’s a softness in his gaze that wasn’t there before.

“You good?” he asks, his voice low, rough with the aftermath. There’s no teasing now, no cocky smirk, just genuine concern. His thumb brushes over your cheek, his touch unexpectedly tender as if checking that you’re still intact after everything. His other hand trails down your arm, fingertips tracing the outline of your skin, grounding you in the moment, reminding you that he’s still here.

You open your eyes, looking at him through the haze of exhaustion, and try to muster some semblance of a response. “You didn’t break me, if that’s what you’re asking,” you say, your voice still shaky, but there’s a teasing tone there. It’s the best you can do right now, but the truth is, you don’t have the energy to play games. You just need to recover, to breathe.

Gojo’s lips curl into that familiar smirk, but it’s more tired than usual. It’s almost… affectionate, a rare side of him that you don’t always get to see. He shifts, pulling his arm from around your neck, but not completely pulling away from you. His eyes linger on you for a moment, something unspoken passing between you both, before he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your temple, a quiet gesture that makes your heart skip a beat.

He shifts his weight, finally pulling out slowly, and the absence of him inside you feels strangely empty, like the room is suddenly too quiet, too still. You can still feel the warmth of his skin against yours as he moves beside you, his hand finding yours, fingers curling around yours in a possessive, yet comforting gesture. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s something in the way he holds onto you—something almost protective as if he’s not ready to let go just yet.

And even though neither of you says it, neither of you moves away, as if acknowledging the weight of the moment—too much, too heavy, but still lingering. Eventually, the tension begins to settle, replaced by the quiet exhaustion of two people who’ve crossed a line they can’t easily return from.

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

Taglist (OPEN). / @cherrysurf @gothamscunt

[risingchaos]

I think about how there’s some people in universe that know Nightwing was the first Robin, but honestly, I don’t trust the general public or the more outskirts heroes to know.

Think of it like this. The people of Gotham barely know Batman exists, he’s sort of this urban legend that everyone’s 87% sure is real because they all know someone who knows someone who knows someone that’s been saved by or put in the hospital by Batman. There’s been random shit about this fucking kid? What the hell, Batman? And it isn’t until the Justice League is it like totally confirmed Batman exists.

Now, Robin still isn’t really out there. Depending on canon, he might’ve founded Young Justice, he might’ve founded the Teen Titans, some neither of those exist until later or not at all. If he was on a team, even if he was regularly seen, motherfucker dips at some point but Batman is still seen with a child in the same outfit, with the same shit. Maybe he got grounded. Some goons say that Robin’s kinda different, speaks sort of weird, he’s got a happier personality, but sure, if he just spent a while with friends, of course he’d be happier.

This hero pops up in Blüdhaven. Not unheard of, not unknown. Maybe he joins/founds the Titans, seems to work his way through to the top. He seems cocky and well loved. Not secretive like Batman and Robin. He’s a hero of the city, usually.

And then Robin dies. It’s known in Gotham because Joker is a bragger, and Batman’s seen without Robin. Robin isn’t on any teams. Nobody but Batman’s closest confidants (and people who are way too into superheroes *cough cough Tim Drake*) would know there was two.

But now there’s another? And then a girl for a moment? Oh the first another is back. Nevermind. Oh that one for sure is a different guy, he’s got a goddamn sword. Nightwing seems to be around on occasion, sure, but he’s literally a city over, makes sense. Batman’s paired with weirder people.

So, the extended hero universe probably thinks the first Robin’s dead, or, he’s retired. Which, yeah, totally. Understandable.

So imagine this interaction.

Random JLA member: Damn, Nightwing. Sweet moves out there. How long have you been doing this for?

Nightwing, mentally calculating: Uhhh about twenty years?

JLA member: YOU’RE FORTY??

Nightwing: ??? No?? Oh God do I look forty?? I had my twenty-eighth birthday like two months ago!

JLA member: HUH??

Nightwing: ????

Flash is laughing his fucking ass off in the background. No one’s really sure why, but Arsenal recorded the entire thing and is sending it to someone.

[colorfullpaperbird]

Damn ok, i love these

Last Song: Would you fall in love with me again - Epic the musical. LISTEN THIS IS THE MOST ROMANTIC SONG I EVER HEARD, ITS BEAUTIFUL AND MAKES ME BELIEVE IN LOVE

Favorite Color: Green and Red, call me Christmas themed

Last Movie: The masterpiece Johanne Sacrebleu. Bienvenidos a la france is the musical masterpiece of the century i believe

Last TV Show: God, i have no idea?? lmao. Probably murder drones? or The great digital circus? Although those are webseries so idk if it counts

Sweet/Savory/Spicy: Im a salty girl. Savory all the way.

Relationship status: Single, i want to go out more when i move cities but until then im firmly single

Last Thing i googled: Texas Tejas, Ok so im reading this book set in the middle of the Mexican American war (Vampires of El Norte) and for some reason it never crossed my mind Texas was part of Mexico before, so when i saw the characters refering to Tejas i was like “Ok wait a second-“ ( Btw im Brasillian so i obviously never learned that before )

Current Obsession: the usual, Epic the musical, Ace Attorney, Sanders Sides, and a fun new addition with some Mcyt series, mainly Empires and the traffic life series. I’ve stopped playing Honkai for the time being which sucks for the people waiting for my fic to update 😅. Also ive been playing Cookie Run Kingdom, its not so much that it becomes an obsession but its a nice hobby.

Looking forwards to: GUESS WHO IS GOING TO COLLEGE 🎉🎉🎉🎉 In another state nonetheless! so yeah im moving to another states capital, small town girl moves to big city style and im so excited!! Im moving in the end of this month so im already packing everything

Now tagging other people to do this

@angelicweirdo (for when you remember your tumblr password) and thats it really i dont have many tumblr friends lmao

and anyone else that wishes to join

10 people I want to get to know better

Omg thank you much for tagging me! @dearwormw00d :3

Last song: You're not alone, Allison Russel

Favorite colour: dark green

Last movie: Lord of the rings: The fellowship of the ring

Last tv show: The Gilded Age

Sweet/savoury/spicy: Sweet>Savory>Spicy

Relationship status: Single

Last thing i googled: hand holding pencil brush reference

Current obsession: One Piece, Nosferatu, Ethel Cain, my fem erik, Epic, Critical Role, studying the Enneagram again, Castlevania Nocture, The Apothecary Diaries, Witch Hat Atelier

Looking forward to: season 2 of the one piece live action, the oscars ( I want to see my beloved Fernanda Torres win), my necklaces that I've ordered, hadestown live recording, Superman, my next RPG session, Percy Jackson season 2! @insanely-creative-things @lepetitghostcat @fishing-rob @erik-christine @muirin007 @klausscrimshaw (ik it's not 10 but idk who to tag anymore, sorry ;-;)

[chenlezip]

──★ ˙☕️ !! annoying customer | a na jaemin smau .

INTRODUCTION :

next | profiles | masterlist

you heard the bell ring from the above the cafe door, signalling yet another customer entering. you look at the time. 10:45pm. the place closed at 10:50. you let out a sigh, turning to your co worker and friend ningning who just shrugged and quickly bid her goodbyes - not wanting to deal with staying later than usual with you.

you cursed her out in your head but got knocked out of your thoughts by the customer. jaemin, once again here, asking for his usual. you got to know his name by how many damn coffees he ordered every late evening here. you don’t know why he comes in so late every time but you’re sick of it.. you always stay back by yourself, cleaning every inch spotless just so your other coworkers who come in early morning don’t have to text the work group chat and complain about it being filthy.

if only they knew it was a one man job maybe they’d go easier on you but definitely not at the same time, their minds are too far into the past that it’s a little controversial if you ask for just the littlest bit of help. last time you did, you got a right earful, never again.

anyway, enough about that, you’re currently making the coffee that jaemin wanted. you look up to check the time: 10:49pm. shit. another day back home around 12am.. yippee. you just wrote his name on the cup as always and placed it down, “here you go.” you offer a soft smile as the male takes it and nods to you as a thanks.

you watch as he leaves and as he does, you’re quick to clean up everything you need to and wipe down tables that aren’t fully clean. you wish life was easier on you.. a hardworking uni student and a hardworking barista at a cafe was already too much. maybe work was the problem.. if you had another solution, that would work. but you didn’t so.. you were stuck doing this probably until the day you die.

the only thing that annoyed you the most was jaemin. he always comes in just when you’re closing up, ready to leave and he always orders a coffee or two. he’s been on at this for two months now and you’ve just never had the guts to say anything — 1. he’s very pretty and you have a thing for pretty boys, 2. his coffee order concerns you.

as soon as you leave the cafe and the fresh air hits your face, you let out a deep breath you never knew you were holding in. you know what — you’ve had enough of keeping this to yourself. to the private twitter we go!

tags : @jeonghansshitester @kukkurookkoo @cigsaftersuh

[hungermakesmonsters]

Stolen Moments was sooooo damn goood. I came to shyly ask if there's a chance you could write a little piece about how and if they meet after returning to the US? 🥺

Of course I can!! Honestly, I might eventually have to turn this into a proper thing (maybe a mini-series??) because I really love this dynamic. Though I do feel like this little piece falls into the porn with the slightest hint of plot category 😅😅 (sorry not sorry?) but after a month or so without Billy, you can't exactly blame reader. 😅

Perfect Moments

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Fic Universe : follow on to Stolen Moments

Story Rating : M 

Warnings : [This is 18+ only, minors DNI] Smutty behaviour.  

It was strange being home again.

It felt familiar but, at the same time, different. Like something was missing but you couldn't rightly say what. You felt like you were drifting, like you weren't quite real, like you hadn't come home at all.

So, when you returned back to the States to find a message waiting for you from a certain Lieutenant, asking you to meet him for a drink, you spent a few weeks deliberating.

You'd joked with him, told him you had no interest in some jarhead out in the real world but, honestly, you'd been scared. You hadn't wanted to build up some romantic idea of Billy Russo in your head, and you hadn't wanted to let yourself believe that there could ever be something real between you. It was easier to pretend it was just sex, that he had been horny and sick of looking to his own hand for gratification.

But the moment you saw him waiting at the bar for you, there was no denying or ignoring the fluttering of butterflies in your stomach.

He got off his stool to greet you with the sort of awkward hug that gave nothing away.

"Lieutenant," you said as the hug broke, taking a step back to look at him.

He looked better than he had the last time you'd seen him over six weeks ago (in your office on base in Kandahar, fucking you senseless on your desk), being home had brought some colour to his cheeks and he didn't look quite so haunted.

"Not anymore," Billy answered, returning to his seat. "I got out."

"Huh, always figured you as a lifer," you said, taking the seat beside him.

Over the first couple of drinks, you caught up, listening to him explain how he was starting his own business, and telling him about how you were going back to school to train to be a paramedic.

It was a strange conversation, the words felt like they didn't mean much, but the way he looked at you... it was like he was undressing you with his eyes and replaying every time that he'd fucked you.

By the fourth drink, the tension was starting to become palpable.

"So, did you reach a decision?" He asked, suddenly, cryptically.

"About what?"

"About whether you want to waste your time on a jarhead like me now you're home."

"What do you think I'm doing right now?" You answered playfully.

His eyes travelled down your body. "I think you're sitting there in that little dress waiting for me to take you home and give you what you've been missing."

"And what exactly do you think I've been missing?"

"Me," he said, daring to lean a little closer to you, close enough to kiss. He placed a hand on your bare thigh, fingertips just below the hem of your dress. "I bet you're already getting wet just thinking about how good I can make you feel."

He wasn't wrong, and it took all your restraint not to squirm and give away how right he was. Before you could think of some clever answer, his lips claimed yours, his tongue meeting yours in that familiar way that made your toes curl.

The kiss didn't last long, just long enough for Billy to prove his point, and when he pulled back, he knew you were on the hook.

His hand moved from your thigh to yours and he stood, not saying a word. You got up and let him lead you from the bar, out into the cold New York air. But it wasn't long until his hands and lips were on your again.

He led you to his car at the back of the parking lot, muttering promises between kisses that it wasn't far to his place, but it was already clear to you that he wouldn't make it that far.

Soon enough, you found yourself pressed back against his car, his body against yours, his hands reacquainting themselves with every dip and curve that he could get to over your dress. Your own hands quickly moved from gripping his shirt to pulling at his belt.

It was stupid, it was dangerous — but when wasn't it when it came to Billy?

The moment the button was popped and his zipper was down, you sank your hand into his underwear and gripped his cock, grinning against his lips at the sound he made.

Your sudden escalation had him following suit and, mere seconds later, his fingers were slipping between your thighs to touch you though your wet panties.

"Fuck, Doc, you're —"

You bit his lip, cutting him off. This wasn't the time to be playful. You needed him too much. And Billy got the message, loud and clear.

His fingers dipped beneath your panties, stirring between your folds, spreading your arousal up to your clit. You were so lost in his fingers, in the kiss, in him, that you didn't notice his other hand awkwardly pulling open the car door until he moved you.

Your feet shuffled as he took a step to the side, then you found yourself turned, pulled back against his chest. Billy didn't give you time to ask what he was doing before pushing you forward, bending you over the back seat of his car.

Fuck.

Glancing over your shoulder, you caught a near-feral look on his eyes and it made you want him more than you ever had before. You didn't care that you were in some dingy parking lot behind a bar, didn't care than anyone might stumble upon you both. You wanted Billy. You needed him.

You braced yourself on your elbows as he pushed up your dress and pulled your panties to the side. He hesitated only for a moment, listening to the stifled moan that escaped you as he dragged the tip of his cock through your folds.

But he didn't waste time, gripping your hip to hold you in place as he slid home. And that's what it felt like to have him inside of you again, it felt like home, like somewhere you both belonged.

Your face pressed against the soft leather seats as Billy started to move, giving you both what you'd been missing. You'd told yourself that it had been a silly fling, something to keep you sane when you were on deployment, but you could see now just how wrong you were.

And, from the way he was already groaning, you could tell Billy felt exactly the same way.

Every thrust of his hips sent a jolt through your whole body, reminding you that he was the only one who'd ever made you feel like this — he was the only one who could make you feel like this. No one else had ever made you feel like the world was ending, like you'd expire if you couldn't have just one second more.

Your thighs knocked awkwardly against the side of the seat and your legs trembled, barely able to hold your weight. It wasn't long until your arms gave beneath you and you all but collapsed over the back seat of his car, at his mercy and so incredibly glad of it.

It could have been seconds, minutes, hours — it didn't matter. The only thing you cared about were the sparks of pleasure he drew from you each and every time he buried his cock deep inside you.

And, with each slam of his hips, each moment of feeling gloriously full of him, you felt a familiar tension start to coil inside of you.

It had been so long, nothing had made you feel that way since him; not your fingers or even the vibrator that you'd relied upon for so many years before him.

Billy Russo had broken you. He'd ruined you.

Now, he was the only thing that could sate your longing.

"Lieutenant — Russo — Billy —" you gasped and moaned mindlessly before succumbing to the pressure.

You pressed your face against the soft leather to muffle your cries of ecstasy as you came undone, your body a trembling wreck beneath him. And, as you shuddered, you barely noticed him withdrawing, pulling out of your trembling pussy. You didn't notice much of anything until you were clumsily flipped over and pushed further into the car.

Then Billy was on top of you, his cock filling your still spasming pussy with ease.

Desperately, you tried to spread your legs, wanting him closer, deeper. Your hands clawed at his back through his sweater, pulling his body against yours as he continued to fuck you. At some point one of your legs ended up draped over the back of the seat, leaving you in the most debauched position you'd ever found yourself in. But you didn't care.

"Billy —"

Your hand slipped up his back to grip his hair, pulling him down and into an eager kiss, moaning as his tongue found yours again. He kissed you like a man possessed, like he was trying to dominate you from both ends, like he'd never have enough.

(He wouldn't and neither would you.)

And, again, you felt that coiling deep down inside you.

"Please, please, please," you whined against his lips, not sure what you were begging for. (More. Everything.)

He kept going, kept fucking you like he was the only man in the world who knew how. A sharp gasp spilled from you as he pushed your leg back and angled his hips to hit just the right spot inside of you. Then he hit it again, and by the third time, you were a goner.

This time as you started to come, you felt Billy let go, his thrusts turning awkward and clumsy and he groaned your name. He buried his face against your neck as his cock twitched and spilled inside you, hips giving gentle stilted movements as he emptied himself.

Then came the stillness, the quiet that was only filled by panted breaths.

Your fingers were still twisted in his hair, holding tight, and you had no intention of ever letting him go.

Minutes passed and he stayed inside you, his cock softening while his breathing slowed and levelled out.

You'd never had this before, you'd never been allowed to bask in the afterglow with him without fear of being discovered — admittedly, that fear was still present, but being caught fucking on a military base had worse punishments than the simple embarrassment of some random civilian finding you.

Billy didn't say anything, nor did he move.

"So much for taking your time with me," you said softly, hoping to break the strange tension that had descended.

He lifted his head and looked at you, managing a smile. "The night's young, Doc, and I'm just getting started."

"Good, 'cause I'm gonna need you to do that again," you said, letting out a laugh.

"You keep talking to me like that and I think I might fall in love with you."

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt behind the cut; "the one where Kon's soulmark is fake". I remembered that, like, SEVERAL of my older WIPs are just a hot mess at the starts of their tags and also realized that I had posted like, very little coherently-connected parts of specifically this one's beginning, for some reason? Despite the fact that I love hurting and being hurt?? Somehow???? TERRIBLE oversight on my part, gang, sorry, here y'all go, enjoyyyyy~ 💙 (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Kon is sort of fucked-up in a lot of ways, but he didn't deliberately get the tattoo. Like–he's not that fucked-up. Hell, even Black Zero wasn't that fucked-up. 

Black Zero's Westfield didn't even give him the tattoo, actually, so maybe that's part of why they had a better relationship than Kon did with his version of the guy. Kon would also have hated the asshole a lot less if not for the tattoo, probably. 

But his Westfield had made damn sure to give it to him.

Kon doesn't remember much before he got broken out of the cloning tube, but he does remember getting the tattoo. It'd taken a really long time, and it'd been the first time he'd ever felt pain. So like, it'd made an impression. 

He hadn't even known what it was for, then. Hadn't even known what it was supposed to be. A brand? A method of identification? Some kind of weird serial number analogue? 

Not so much, it'd turned out. 

Superman's soulmark is a gorgeous Kryptonian sunrise spread out across his chest, bold and bright and beautiful. It looks like the rising truth and the clarity of a new beginning and the very literal physical manifestation of hope. 

And Kon's tattoo looks exactly like it. 

Except for the part where it's obviously just a tattoo, of course. 

Tattoos don't pass for soulmarks, after all, which is the only reason Kon has the damn thing to begin with. Westfield hadn't wanted him to make the mistake of thinking that he was a real person, or to make the mistake of thinking that anyone was ever going to give a fuck about him as the person that he was. He was a clone, an experiment, a weapon, a thing. He didn't have a soul or a soulmate. Didn't have a mark. 

He got over that. Like, it sucks? It really sucks. And he still hates it. But he'd gotten over it. 

Or he'd thought he had, until he'd found out who Superman's soulmate was. 

"What?" Kon says, staring blankly. 

"Dad's my soulmate," Jon repeats, pointing at the Kryptonian sunrise spread out across his chest, brightly illuminated by the noontime sun as they stand on the dock at the edge of a little pond on the outskirts of Smallville. "Why, who's yours? Or don't you know yet? Like, has it not come in?" 

"Clones don't get soulmarks," Kon says, wanting very, very badly to just throw up and die. 

"Huh?" Jon says, looking actually surprised. Kon continues to want to throw up and die. Or maybe bury himself in magma in the center of the planet and stay there 'til he suffocates. "But I thought everybody got soulmarks!" 

"Naw," Kon says instead of fuck you, because the kid's ten and doesn't deserve that. 

"Why not?" Jon asks, because again, he's ten. Ten and apparently as emotionally intelligent as a pudding cup, but whatever. Not like Kon's never had this conversation before. 

Never with Clark's kid who is apparently so much his kid as to be his literal fucking soulmate, which no one ever thought to mention to the stupid shitty clone in the past like four months since Clark had finally admitted to the secret identity that Kon had long since figured out thanks to Hypertime bullshit, but whatever. He only even officially met Jon a couple months ago. 

Probably they all figured it just wasn't his business, he guesses. 

Which–it's not, really. It's not his business. It never has been. 

It's not. 

"I mean, I'm sentient or whatever, but I'm manufactured," Kon tells the kid with a shrug. "Therefore no soul, therefore no soulmate, therefore no soulmark. That's all." 

"You don't have a soul?" Jon asks in bewilderment. 

"Naw," Kon says again, with another shrug. "So like, we gonna swim or what?" 

"Oh, uh, yeah," Jon says, still looking bewildered. 

So they swim. 

Kon, obviously, doesn't take his shirt off for it. 

Jon, mercifully, doesn't ask why. 

It's fun, aside from being the worst afternoon of Kon's life. They fuck around for a couple hours, then fly back to the farm after and mostly dry off on the way, and Clark comes out to meet–well, not them, obviously, but Jon. Jon lights up at the sight of him and throws himself straight into his arms like he's never once had to question whether or not Clark would ever want him there, and Clark smiles down at him like he's the most important person in the world. 

Kon should just count himself lucky that Clark trusts him enough to leave him alone with his kid for more than thirty seconds and be grateful. 

What Kon actually is, of course, is jealous and angry and fucking heartbroken. 

Jon is ten. Kon was manufactured two years ago. Clark had a real kid long before Kon was even a theoretical spark in a scientist's eye. 

And Jon had Clark the whole time Superboy was just desperately hoping that Superman would decide he was worth his attention. Worth the "S". Worth . . . 

When Clark had offered him a name from his family–specifically a name from an adopted member of his family–Kon had been . . . stupid, a little, and thought that it might've been, like . . . another step. Like he'd hoped that Superman even letting his weird stupid clone wear the "S" to begin with might've been.  

He hadn't been a complete idiot or anything. He'd known Clark would never, like–want to keep him around or have him too close or anything. He'd just thought that maybe he'd . . . that someday he might've . . . 

Kon isn't a real person. Like–obviously he's not. It isn't subtle. Hell, he'd have known it even if Westfield hadn't bothered tattooing him with a copy of Clark's mark. And really, he guesses he should be grateful Westfield didn't tattoo his own soulmark on him, whatever it was. 

Just, like, of course he's not Clark's . . . family, or whatever. Of course he's just like that one weird kid from down the street that somebody occasionally invites over out of pity who only learns the family secrets by accident or through osmosis and isn't actually kept in the loop or anything. Kon knows that. 

But watching Jon beam up at his dad and Clark smile down at his son is still making him want to curl up and die right here and now. 

Kon does kind of wonder what it's like to be, like . . . loved, or whatever. 

Everybody always makes it sound really nice. 

"Dinner's about ready," Clark says. "You two mind setting the table?" 

"Sorry, I gotta get going," Kon says instead of admitting he has no idea how to set a fucking table, especially not to whatever Martha Kent's standards are. Cadmus did not actually see fit to educate him on typical household chores and he has very rarely ever sat down at any semblance of a normal family dinner. Like, in Hawaii they all just ate wherever and not even all together half the time, and Cadmus has a cafeteria, and Young Justice just dumps a pile of junk food or takeout on the nearest unoccupied surface and they all just go to town on it like the weird gaggle of semi-superpowered and usually-ravenous teenagers that they are. 

He could look it up on his phone, and he probably will later, but there's no way he's gonna run the risk of getting caught looking it up on his phone. Like–no. Never, thanks. Miss him with that particular little bit of "further proof of being a fake person" humiliation. 

So it's . . . whatever, he guesses. 

"Well, that's alright, we'll just have to catch you another time," Clark says with a polite smile that looks nothing like the one he was just wearing for Jon, and doesn't even fake like he's disappointed or like he's gonna miss him. Because like . . . why would he, after all? 

Kon misses him all the time, but Kon's the pathetic counterfeit of a person with a copy of said person's soulmark tattooed on him. 

"Yeah, sure," Kon says, thinking longingly of suffocating in the center of the planet. 

Sometimes he thinks about what's gonna happen when he finally gets his dumb ass killed and whoever, like, autopsies or embalms him or whatever sees the tattoo. Thinks about what they're gonna think, if they . . . 

Superman's soulmark isn't a secret or anything. Clark's gotten smashed around too often for the suit to have kept it covered all this time. So like, if someone ever saw the tattoo on Kon's chest and didn't know that Cadmus put it there . . . 

Like . . . well. The natural assumption would be that Kon got it on purpose, obviously. That Kon was actually, like, that fucking pathetic and disturbed of a person. 

He never wants anyone to see it. Never wants anyone to know. Never . . . just never. None of it. Ever. 

And Clark will never smile at him like he smiles at Jon, so maybe Clark will just never know about the tattoo either. Maybe that's a thing that Kon can manage. 

He's managed it so far, at least. 

Kon goes back to Cadmus and buries himself in his eternally unmade bed in his cramped little disaster of a room and desperately tries to not be the absolute fucking freak that he is. 

He definitely fails at not being the absolute fucking freak that he is. 

He cries about it for a little bit, like that's something he even has the fucking right to do, and tries so fucking hard to forget how Jon's very real soulmark had looked when he'd stripped his shirt off and bared it so unselfconsciously. Not even deliberately or proudly–just as a simple, inalienable fact. A thing that he knew. A thing he just had. 

Although Kon wouldn't even care about the stupid goddamn mark, if Clark would ever look at him even a little bit like the way he looks at Jon. 

He tries not to think about the way Clark would actually look at him, if he ever found out that Cadmus had tattooed his fucking kid's mark on him. 

Kon's never let himself think too much about Clark's mark, on account of not wanting to torment himself that bad. He'd just vaguely assumed that it was Lois at some point and then just shoved said assumption in a box and drowned it in concrete and made sure to never, ever take his shirt off in front of anyone else or any possible cameras or spy equipment or anything similar. Ever. 

He should've known it wasn't Lois. It's a Kryptonian sunrise. Why would it be Lois? 

If it were Lois, though, Kon wouldn't care this much. If it were Lois, it'd be a romantic mark, and Lois is straight-up gorgeous and a total fucking badass, yeah, but Kon doesn't, like, want her or anything. There's nothing to be jealous of there. 

So of course it's not Lois. Of course it's not romantic. 

It's Jon, and on top of that it's a mark that only actual Kryptonians would ever share. 

It's Clark's real kid. The one he had long before Kon was even a single strand of stolen DNA or a cell in a cloning tube or even a scribbled theoretical on a whiteboard or in somebody's notes. 

The one he actually wants. 

Not for the first time, Kon wishes that prick Westfield weren't too dead to punch. 

And while he's wishing for completely impossible shit that’s never gonna happen, he wishes he could've been able to stay in Smallville for that stupid dinner without fucking embarrassing himself, too.

[authorsofghosts]

Key To My Heart | Peter Maximoff x Reader

Summery: Peter's been extra lovey-dovey, which honestly, is a welcomed improvement to his usual speedy quips and silly nature. That's when you realize what day is coming up.

Themes: Already Established Relationship, Friends with Benefits? Talking??, Peter definitely like R a lot more tho, Kissing, Gift giving, Peter's a sweet heart, Peter steals things (duh). idk what else i'm tired

Word Count: <1k

"Peter-" You start but are quickly met with a single finger against your lip.

"Uhuhuh, shut up. Just, let me do something for you." He laughs, leaning into you and smiling. He presses a kiss on your forehead and before you know it, you're in a completely different space, slightly disoriented.

"What do we say about zipping people?" You groan out hand to your forehead.

"Oh- shit, sorry. Forgot to ask." He laughs softly, smiling and wrapping his arms around you, "Sorry babe."

"Mhm, yeah." You grumble, shaking your head as you open your eyes again and realize you're in your bedroom. "Peter, why are we here?" You ask suspiciously.

"Well, I mean, I wanted us to be in a private place so i can show you the gift I got you." He speaks lowly, a little faster than usual.

A gift? Really? He usually wasn't shy to flaunt you around and do public displays of affection, so what was different this time? "Oh?" You prompt, making him chuckle nervously.

"No, it's nothing like that, I just... You mean a lot, okay? I'm not good with words or whatever, but, uh... shit just open the damn bag."

You laugh, grabbing the small, tattered looking bag from him. It looks like it's been sitting in a desk drawer for months. You open it to find a small, white box. Setting aside the bag you open the box and audible gasp.

Peter watches the moment in slow motion, the way your eyes light up and your mouth opens just long enough to let in your gasping breath. "Soo... you like it or what?" He smiles, getting closer, eyes set on the small bracelet.

It's silver, with a charm that reads "P.M." on one side, and your initials on the back. You pick it up, smiling wider ad the metal rolls on the pads of your fingers comfortably. "It's beautiful." You murmur, looking up into his eyes. He's smiling that goofy, proud smile that he always wears, like, always.

"I know, I'm the best." He smiles, bringing you in for a really, really tight hug that, for him at least, last almost forever.

"Peter-" You start to ask then realize what month it is. "You're really into Valentine's Day or what?"

He laughs softly, shrugging, "I mean, I thought you'd be into it, I can tone it down if you don't-"

"No, please, don't stop." You say softly, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and kissing his cheek. They instant heat up as he looks down at you.

"Then I won't. You know what? I just got the best plan, so uh..." Before you know it, he's gone. But before he left, he wrapped the bracelet around your wrist. You look down at it, smiling softly as your warm cheeks as grazed by the quick wind left behind by the silver-haired speedster.

In town, Peter is zooming from store to store, looking for just the right assortment of gifts. Is he stealing these gifts? Probably, but he'll definitely tell you otherwise.

Each day leading up to Valentine's Day, he has a new gift for you. Your favorite candies, shirts, more jewelry. It's not till the day before that you find a key on your desk, attached to a chain. The card under it is heart shaped and when you open it, you eyes crinkle as you read it.

Hey. Meet me here, alright? Don't stand me up or else I'll find you and bring you myself.

You laugh, putting on the chain necklace and getting ready to meet him. You wear one of the shirts he got you, and head out. The location is... a park? You look around and laugh slightly. What a romantic choice. Before you know it, there's a familiar wind and an even more familiar voice. "Heya. Got my note?"

You turn and see him, a bouquet of flowers in one hand as he leans towards you. Pink and red roses, carnations, and peonies. Your eyes light up and the red and pink colors, heart melting as his usual goofy smile is slightly nervous. He rolls on the balls of his feet anxiously, chewing on his cheek.

"These are... so beautiful." You laugh softly, taking them from him.

"Yeah, and I actually had to pay for them cause the shop was owned by this really sweet old lady and I couldn't bring myself to steal. Talked to her for like, fifteen minutes, trying to figure out what to get you, ya know?"

You laugh again, shaking your head. "Well, at least I know you can't steal from old ladies."

"I mean, do I look like I would?"

"I plead the fifth."

Peter grabs your hand, holding it tight as you both laugh. He stops chuckling, looking down at your hand in his before looking into our eyes. His face goes blank, lost in the many racing thoughts that circle his head. He pulls you closer and leans his forehead against yours, sighing contently.

You look up into his brown eyes, seeing them hyper focus over your features. "You know, I really like you." He murmurs, lips grazing over yours as he get closer, his voice lowered. "You're cool, and funny, and I really like that about you."

Your cheeks flush, the heat leaking down to your neck and to the tips of your ears. Before you can even stammer out a response, he pulls back, clearing his throat. "Let's go this way."

He pulls you onto the walking path, walking at a normal human speed. He swings your arms back and forth as you walk, almost like a child would. He stops in front of a bridge, smirking. "Hey, look." He says, pointing down at a single lock on the bridge, shaped like a heart.

Peter wraps the chain of your necklace around his finger, bringing it to his lips and he pulls you close again. "Looks like you got the key to my heart, darling."