#but he also saves a few lives. in addition to his own.

[izzyspussy]

so anyway. headcanon that richie doesn't believe he deserves to be happy, but he makes a concerted effort to live a happy and fulfilling life post derry 2.0 anyway because the kid he used to be still deserves it, and also because all the kids and adults who don't know if it's possible for them or if they deserve it either need to see they can still have it too.

[celiime]

thinking about how life with satoru would be if he had survived. how there’s just something about living with gojo, something so domestic, something so…heartwarming. especially after the war has ended.

living in heaven.

your eyes softened, fingers softly trailing down the side of his face as your thumb smoothed over the scar by his eye—delicately, as if you were afraid to break this god sleeping infront of you—only an addition to the multitude of other scars on his features.

for a moment back there, you thought you had lost him, you thought you wouldn’t be able to see him again—that you would have to wake up in this bed alone, without him.

“i don’t…” for the first time since you’ve known her, shoko ieiri—your former classmate—seemed hesitant to speak, as if her breath was lodged in her throat, “don’t think i can guarantee you anything.”

at those words, though you knew you’d hear something similar to that, your breath hitched, eyes immediately drifting to land on the sight of your husband—torso separated from his lower half (you already threw up at the sight earlier)—gaze blurred by tears.

it wasn’t fair. what did she mean she can’t guarantee anything? does she mean that you won’t get him back?

despite your inner turmoil, the anguish tearing apart all the muscles in your chest—atrial, ventricular, and all the other muscles that you could distinctly feel being torn apart right this second—going all the way up to your throat, wanting to tear its way out—to demolish everything in its path. to avenge what should’ve been.

you think you could feel your body almost giving out.

you only nodded your head, gaze drifting to the floor tiles, the smell of antiseptic and everything unpleasant wafting into your nose, drowning out all your senses, “i trust you.” and you did, you trusted her.

she had always been trustworthy, doing her best, and you knew she wouldn’t let herself rest as long as gojo was on that table.

as much as he was—no, is—your husband, he was —is—also her best friend.

the woman infront of you—still upholding her composed features—bit down on her lip, a small sigh escaping her after a few seconds of silence, “in case anything happens…” in case he died right on that table, in case she couldn’t save him, “do you want to have a few words with him?”

shoko was never one for sentiment, she never really thought of saying her goodbyes to her loved ones as the first thing when she sees them on the table.

however, she knew you. she knew that you needed this, and she would keep you content—as she had promised gojo.

a few minutes passed, that ended up with you sitting beside him, on a chair that dug so persistently onto your side, your hip bone persisted—yet the pain was soon dismissed by the one in your chest, the ache stronger than any pain or dull ache in your side.

your hands, marred with scars and blood, trembled as you placed your hand in his own—fuck, it was so cold���weakly intertwining your fingers within his own, ignoring the shudder going through your body as soon as you held his hand fully.

your breaths quickened, shoulders trembling as you stared down at him, wanting nothing more than to rip out your own heart and replace it with his own.

to give him a beating heart once more.

despite your best efforts, a sob slipped from your lips, not bearing the sight of him laying so lifelessly before you. no sign of a smile or a playful glint in those eyes of his that—much to your dismay? relief?—were still wide open.

you have full faith in shoko, you really do. however, you just can’t help it, you can’t help the fear that crawls to your heart, suffocating you. but most of all, you can’t help the guilt you feel, the regret, the shame.

why didn’t you say goodbye? why did you allow yourself so foolishly to think that gojo is invincible? fuck—you still remember your last—no, don’t think like that—interaction with him.

“wish me luck!” your husband chirped, that wide beam never departing from his lips as he stood proudly in front of you, never hunching his tall stature despite the weight on it.

you quirked an eyebrow, an amused smile playing on your own lips, “do you really need luck, ‘toru? Is my faith not enough?” you managed to utter out, despite the concern and fear residing in the depth of your heart.

at your words, a small chuckle left his lips, eyes softening—the edges of his lips softening into a smile full of fondness, “nah, you’re right. you’re my good luck charm.” he placed a hefty palm on your head, a small snicker escaping him as your glare directed up at him as soon as you felt him messing up your hair.

“though—“ his voice was quick to interrupt the serene moment, a teasing lilt to his voice—that, maybe if you had focused enough, had an edge to it, one that carried doubt, worry, and…fear?

(you think so, you just couldn’t catch onto it before it dissipated from his tone.)

“shouldn’t a wife wish her husband a farewell when he’s heading into such a tough battle? you know! to smother him with worry and kisses?” he inquired, a teasing smile on his lips, “maybe wish him a goodbye if you’re so gracious! who knows if i’ll make it back?” he pouted, finding the time to insert in his theatrics even when uttering such words.

you should’ve put some consideration into his words, should’ve took them to heart—but you didn’t. you didn’t. because why would he be serious if his words were spoken so playfully? when you know that he’s the strongest? when you were so sure that he was sure that he would also make it out alive? he had to be, right?

you huffed out a playful scoff, shaking your head fondly, “you’re being dramatic. you’re going to see me later, anyways. no need for farewells, ‘toru!” you hated farewells, he knew that.

you flashed him a bright smile, hoping it would express the love you had for him despite how you seemed to turn down his request. “we’ll both see eachother later.”

were you?

were his words really genuine?

…

maybe they were. you should’ve taken them seriously. now you’re paying the consequences, the consequences of not being perceptive enough—oh, how your heart aches for your husband.

“maybe wish him a goodbye if you’re so gracious! who knows if i’ll make it back?”

another sob ripped out of your lips as you held his hand tighter, the tips of his fingers turning a faint purple from how tight you gripped onto his hand. “please—“ you don’t think you’ve ever sounded so weak, so defeated, “i’ll say goo—goodbye! anything you want, i’ll—i’ll give you anything you want. please—“

he would’ve cooed at you, had he seen you this mess of tears, snot, and cracking tone.

oh, your baby.

“at least—“ you lowered your forehead to rest upon his chest, shoulders caving in once you realized the absence of a heartbeat, “at least wake up for a few seconds so i could say goodbye, so you would die assured!”

you wanted to hear the sound of his heartbeat, the sound of his faint breaths, the sound of his lashes fluttering as he blinked. you wanted to listen to anything and everything as long as it indicated that he’s still with you.

you desperately prayed that day, drowning in your own tears and snot as you begged and pleaded for shoko to succeed.

to spare you the loss of a beloved.

shoko is indeed a gift to the world, a woman who deserves all worthy praise.

your eyes drifted downwards to your husband, his eyes fluttering open in an attempt to open them, before scrunching them shut as soon as the rays of light seeping through the windows struck them. he huffed out a low groan—a sound that had your heart jumping in ecstasy, even though it normally wouldn’t—reaching one long arm out and wrapping it around your waist.

a small giggle fled from your lips as soon as you felt him burying his head in your chest at an attempt to escape the light.

“what’re you laughing about, huh? you’re so evil.” he huffed, seeking comfort in the warmth of your chest. “you left the curtains open so your poor husband could suffer in the morning!”

yet, despite his protests—the sound of your giggle was enough to alleviate his mood. enough to make him silently thank the stars that he got so lucky to live another day to be able to wake up next to you.

he doesn’t know what would’ve become of him if there happened to be an afterlife, doesn’t know how he would’ve fared with the realization that he’s left you all alone.

he’s thankful he doesn’t get to discover if there is an afterlife or not. hems thankful that he never died on that operation table. he’s thankful for so many things and the most important one being—

his eyes drifted over your face, watching the way your lips quirked up into a smile as you tried to suppress another upcoming giggle, a prominent dimple appearing on your cheek, eyes almost scrunched shut in the enjoyment coursing through your body.

you.

your expression was a stark contrast to the that day, the day when he woke up, the tears long gone from your eyes, voice no longer hoarse.

“you’re so dramatic, ‘toru.” you fondly rolled your eyes, burying your hand in his hair and running it through it—internally cooing at the pleased breath that leaves his lips—

you can’t believe you would’ve had to live without this had the universe decided to torture you. had the worst case scenario happened.

“you know i’d never purposefully set you up like that.” you hummed, a disappointed sound leaving your lips as he drew away from your touch.

his heart melted, almost folding and going right back into your embrace.

his little wife was so smitten with him. he could melt right in his spot.

instead, he placed a hand on the back of your head, gently tugging it towards his chest—heart aching with the need to hold you close to him, to give you a feeling of a shield protecting you, to be gentle with you and grant you everything you want.

his poor baby. he can’t imagine the worry you must’ve been in. his heart aches with both fondness and sorrow as he remembers the state you were in.

“let’s sleep some more..” he mumbled, already feeling his eyelids start to flutter shut; the feeling of you in his arms both intoxicating and comforting, inducing sleep.

“baby, we slept for 14 hours??”

“shhhh…might as well complete the whole 24, you know i’m tired!”

“tired from sleeping, maybe.”

“mean! you know i need my beauty sleep! you can clearly tell who doesn’t get their beauty sleep here…”

huh?!

“what the—you take that back!”

[tarjapearce]

Heathens (Pt. 1)

Priest! Miguel O'Hara x Nun!Reader

art by @maxro_art on IG (Her Deliverance AU is ❤️❤️🤌🏻)

WARNINGS: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. If you're sensitive regarding religion, please don't read this. Masturbation in holy places, explicit language, wet dreams, Female anatomy, oral ( F receiving) Gentle Dom Miguel, Corruption kink, overused tropes cause yeah, a tinge of yandere undertones if you squint, mutual lust, Not Proofread ~

Summary: Father O'Hara had a little lamb ~

A/N: Another for the Miguelverse ~ Reblogs and comments are much appreciated c:

Main Masterlist

From all the places you could've find solace from war, The house of God was the least of lieus in your list. Not that you had a choice.

Family long gone after unsuspected explosions decimated your town, followed by constant tragedies such as losing friends along the way either by enemy and merciless hands or sickness. In the end, it was only you. You had outlived them all despite your short age. And now, they lived crammed up in your memories.

Happy, smiling and very much alive. Sometimes you'd see familiar faces on stranger's bodies. Grief had slowly nested within your soul and when all hope seemed lost, the chapel had saved you from what surely would end up in your premature death.

The blackest of black matched the crispest white you had ever seen, they were all donned in their beatific robes, prayer beads dangling at every gentle step they did. And there it was, epiphany unfolding itself before your experienced in horror eyes. It was your call.

All the answers to your laments and aching heart were sent as them. Nuns of the Mistbourne Parish. A church located in the outskirts of a now rundown by conflict Nueva York. The church that now played a major role in taking in as much people within their sacred walls, before they could be dispatched to a more adequate place.

Without hesitation, you had joined. And now, six years later you still remained with them. Early twenties had settled right for you as a nun. Ever devoted, compassionate, and diligent.

As time went on, the main city was reconstructed, burying it's dark tragedy under freshly built towers, hiding the pain under the rugged carpet full of concrete and wire homes, like nothing ever happened. Like if war had never stepped upon it and gave it a much needed renewal at people's lives expenses.

But no matter how many changes time brought, life in Mistbourne's Parish remained the same. Untouched by the technological advances from the outer world. There was always something to do, as simple as it was. And so far, you've been satisfied with it.

The only alterations worth of mention was your holy family expanding.

A new couple additions to the staff. More sisters, an eighty percent of them were beyond fifty. You were the youngest, their child. After all some ended up raising you within the house.

And him. The new priest.

The tallest and bulkiest man you've ever seen. As much as staring was considered rude and borderline a sin, it was unavoidable to do so, when his rusty brown eyes fell upon you. Their color unique, like he was. Never in your life had you seen someone like him, or another man besides the butcher and the guard. He had definitely been a regular man before coming here.

The soft weary expression lines in his sharp countenance revealed his own fair of lived experiences.

He towered over you, crisp white dot on his black rimmed neck line, parading his status with modest pride, and golden praying beads dangling on his narrow hips, you held yours while asking forgiveness for keep staring.

"Father."

Father O'Hara. In his mid thirties, broken family also torn by war, wearing his vows in the shape of a ring on his right hand.

"Sister"

His voice deep yet gentle, like a lullaby. His steps took him away to his own residence. The rectory outside the church.

It made sense as to how some workers were renovating it in the past few weeks. The parish last priest had been sent off in sacred duties, only to realize later that he had killed a man. Cops and detectives surely made a show out of it.

Dark times, according to Sister Lianne, one of your mother figures. But now, Father O'Hara had taken his place, erasing all traces of the previous man with concise and pithy actions.

He took his role seriously. Said masses on sundays, visited the sick, baptized people; but his most popular feat was to hear the confessions. The most intimate secrets revealed to him by either your fellow sisters or people from the town that came to expiate their sins in hope to be forgiven.

You'd sometimes run into each other, bumping casually in the narrow wooden floored halls, you'd often apologize, only to reciprocate a polite smile on both ends. He'd sometimes help you out by carrying things a bit too heavy, or you'd help him out lighting up the altar for his speech.

Yet, his hands in one occasion took an accidental taste of your body dimensions underneath your beatific robes, while preventing you from falling down the stairs. He'd scold you for being careless and carrying things that obscured your sight.

After many sorries on your behalf, you returned to the cells and went straight to your own dorm, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

His hands felt burning upon remembering the dents of your form, the curve of your waist and certainly the warmth that irradiated from you, so so close from his.

Unexpectedly it had brought memories from his past. His old life where he'd have his lovely and temporary companion for the night impaled deliciously with himself before war and hell broke loose. Before he was forced by the subversives that raided his town to create a new fake identity in the spot as they heard him speak spanish or fight a war he hadn't started, much less would end. And so, his life as Father O'Hara begun.

Odd enough, the sudden and thoughtless choice had granted him peace after witnessing so many terrors his fellow human could be capable of. His need of help has always been stronger than anything and when he finished licencing some sacrifices were required.

Poverty vows weren't an issue since his previous life had been modest yet good enough to go by. Little difference between his current lifestyle.

The obedience vow took him a little longer to fully yield. But he accomplished it to a T, just to avoid more trouble. He faked it until he made it.

His chastity vow had been a quite the challenge to perfect, but no matter how much the temptations paraded before him in the many parishes he was assigned to, he didn't give in. His libido had been sapped out of his body, like a campfire after completing it's useful cycle.

Not because of his brand new sanctity invested by holier-than-thou elders, but rather a broken mind full of grievance and other negatives that always haunted him. The gunshots and bombings too fresh in his mind.

It had been years since he touched someone in a way that wasn't holy. Since he had provoked things in someone else that clearly would make him go under the laicization from the clergy without second guessings.

Until he held you the other day.

Both of your eyes too enraptured in eachother that had sent an igniting spark to his spine. Reviving all those inactive nerves he thought his existencial toll severed long ago. His eyes had gave a brief rake over your face.

Wide and round eyes staring back, both in awe and surprise straight into his soul. Nose flaring softly just like your mouth, whose bottom lip trembled at the little erratic breaths your lungs exhaled upon being in physical contact with a man for the first time in ever, while cheeks bloomed with a not so discreet flush. And your body heat.

Jesus all mighty.

It was dangerously tempting. For a brief moment his past self had taken over, but quickly vanished upon hearing steps. Earning you to fix your crucifix and cowl nervously and him to fist his hands to refrain himself to take another taste and fix his collar and cassock.

To his conclusion, the robes you wore did not match what was underneath. He noted much, but having you wear that loose habit only fuelled his now active and sinful imagination. An opposite from your habits' purpose.

Priest life was hard, and the Celibacy vows were his biggest damnation. Mind often plagued with 'I shouldn't have done this.' 'This is ridiculous' 'Fucking idiot' 'Why did I even lie about this?' But even so, priesthood was better than ending up dead or mutilated by mines somewhere in the battlefield, in the middle of a war he didn't started, much less would end.

Government later was forcibly recruiting all those men, be them widowed or married. It didn't matter. War wasn't for him. Neither Priesthood.

But he'd bear it. He'd bear it until he was put in another parish church full of older and witty ladies he'd definitely wouldn't lust after.

----

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The sweet voice behind the confessional punctured walls, perked up his ears. He had memorized a lot of things, your voice included.

"I... I haven't confessed in weeks. But it grows me concerned that... my mind is somewhere else."

Silence. You were met with silence as expected, it also encouraged you to keep talking.

"A man has flooded my thoughts and no matter how much I try to occupy myself, he's there. Leading me to temptation and sin."

A man?

His brow quirked as he slanted over the little wooden division between you, to hear better and take a peek on your face. The only men he could think of was the guard, the butcher and himself. The only men inhabiting the same area as you.

"How does this man tempts you?"

"He... He visits. In my dreams I mean and..."

A low 'forgive me, God' echoed in your stall. His throat dried and his hands rested on each side of his knees, gripping at the fabric of his pants.

"He does things I know I shouldn't partake in... But, it feels too real."

"You sound scared. Does it frightens you?"

"Very much so. But it is a strange sort of fear, Father."

"What kind of fear then?"

It took you a long pause to muster

"A fear of him stopping his visits in my mind."

He gulped.

Your hands took the crucifix and held it tighter, "For him to stop doing such sinful things to me, even in my dreams."

"Have you sinned in the carnal affairs?"

"N-No. I would never. I've never engaged in them, Father."

His groin twitched, as a hand raked over his scalp. A shaky breath that was forced to come out in silence. Only when he thought you couldn't be more innocent, there you were proving him wrong.

"Ever?"

"I promise to you with my life, I've never."

"I must know" He wetted his lips with his tongue, "What kind of things does this man does to you?"

"W-What?"

Your spine straightened up instantly, eyes wild, staring another hole into the already punctured division. Cinnamon color in his skin, the only brief glimpse you managed to see. But even so, his gentle yet cornering voice brought you down from your initial jump.

"I need to know, so I can dictate a penance."

The flush on your cheeks returned, burning bright upon remembering the all too lucid dream you've been having about your secret man. That, even though visited frequently, you still didn't know his face, just his body as it smothered yours wholy in a constant merciless and scorching rut.

All what you remembered was him feasting between your legs like a starved man. His hands maneuvering your soft mounds to then give a gentle squeeze.

"His hands are the ones that bring the sin, Father."

"Explain yourself"

His voice was sultry, buttery rich and smooth on the other side of the stall. A subtle order. To your dismay, that same demon had a similar voice tone. Alluring, speaking to you in a foreign language it had you mewling and asking for forgiveness every time you remembered, cause you had begged the faceless man for more.

"He touches and... t-tastes places I shouldn't allow no man to delve in." With a thick gulp you continued, "His tongue is... marvelous."

His eyes widened for a second as his hand hovered over his crotch

"Marvelous?"

"I feel the biggest sinner by admitting this. Please, do forgive me."

"Accountability is part of the process."

He tried to sound as professional as he could, but little did you know his mind was torturing his already crumbling resolve with such vivid details. Celibacy wasn't a problem, until now. Hearing such sinful words coming from such a unsuspecting thing like yourself, a virgin that is, made his old self to re-emerge.

Disguising himself as a sheep, while he fought through his holy learning years to tame his wolfish appetite.

There were plenty of ewes in the flock , but so far the only one that made his mouth water was you. A perfect little lamb. And now, this. We're you set to making him break his vows?

No. You weren't. He was reaching his limits to break celibacy and you were just having wet dreams about someone that definitely made him wonder about your past life. A past lover? No. Not even that. A possession? A demon? No. Definitely not.

He had heard things whenever on lunch duty. Mindless talk that revealed more to him from others and you than they intended to. You, a nun. Picked up from a ravaged village nearby and raised within  the nuns, meaning, you had zero idea of what pleasure meant.

He believed, but wasn't a complete blinded idiot to faith. Your body was asking for physical and forbidden relief. Just like his.

But again, the golden band around his right hand not only forbid but also was the perpetual reminder of what was a stake.

"I know, Father. But... this man has such power over me that has pushed me to sin. He... he has pushed me to take such vulgar matters in my own hands."

Maker's mercy

His cock twitched harder and he was unable hold back and gave a firm  squeeze while biting his lip to quiet himself at the long forgotten and heady pleasure that was drowning his body in an alarming rate.

As if done of being fed lies and a quick and sloppy handjob for ages. It was disgusting how easy was to sin, how well his body ached and reacted to such stimulus. How effortlessly his old habits had caught up to him.

He was the one that needed a penance now, cause he couldn't shake the image of you spread with your legs wide open, naked, sliding your fingers in between your weeping folds. You'd certainly have your mouth shut or lips bitten to avoid having anyone hear you.

He had closed his eyes while his jaw clenched, occasionally sweeping his tongue over his lips to keep them moist.

"Say it. Say your sin."

He commanded in a voice that had your cheeks flustered and your pearly nub a throb. His hand half squeezed half stroked over his clothed groin. Swollen and needy cock begging to be set free and properly taken care of.

"I..." A dry gulp and your hands went to your crotch, begging your nature to behave. Cheeks impossibly red.

"I've enjoyed touching myself after dreaming a man... f-fucks me, Father."

The word 'fuck' coming out your delicious looking yet pure lips, had his teeth gnawing at the insides of his cheek, self control harder to keep under the leash. It barked, howled even demanded for more explicit details.

Instead, he sighed quietly and cleared his throat. The sudden noise had you gripping the skirt of your habit in shame.

Miguel didn't say much besides the prayer of absolution and a couple of more prayers as your penance. The same right hand that was squeezing his cock was now being kissed by you, to confirm your forgiveness. Plump, warm and soft lips caressed his ring finger.

And once you were gone, his hand took control on its own, slid under his soutane to stroke himself. If you felt like a sinner, he was the devil himself.

The vice like grip in his own cock made him shudder, sensation foreign yet so welcoming after years without it. A little whine escaped past his gaping mouth, exhaling pecaminous breaths as he stroked like teenage boy that just discovered masturbation for the time ever. Sloppy, desperate and wet motions echoed in the now sullied stall.

He fisted his hand tighter, thick fingers coaxing a much needed release, hips rutting into his choking hand. Quiet whimpers and an array of curses flew out his mouth.

His flushed tip swayed and shook under his own rough ministrations while his jaw clenched, he clawed at the chair when hot and thick spurts of his cum dribbled down his hand and wrist before time; pooling in the hollow of his palm while earning a gutural growl that dissolved into a shaky whimper, as he curled against the wooden and punctured wall for a brief lapse of seconds to regain his composure.

"Fuck..." He had to lay against his chair to keep the light-headedness at bay, drowning in his own made pleasure, panting like he had run a marathon for hours.

He shouldn't have lied back ago. And  definitely shouldn't have become a priest. He was soiling their already tainted reputation. His old self was back to stay.

He cleaned up his hand under his robes to then leave to change. He was given a glimpse as you were picking up some harvest in the orchard while he was making his way back home.

---

Window's glasses echoed with the soft rain. The parish has been quiet during weekdays, but busy for you. As winter approaches the harvest must be picked, the grains sorted and the meats stored.

You saw Father O'Hara less and less, and when you did, they were mere glimpses. He was as busy in meetings with other priests, or preparing for the mass that was now given twice a week.

If you weren't in the garden or the laundry, you were in the choir.

Lingering yet brief gazes chased each other. He had heard some nuns speaking about him, some had wonderful things to say, saying that he had been one of the most efficient priests the church has had.

Others mentioned between hushed and bashful whispers about his physical condition and how they caught him go for runs at crack of dawn a couple of times.

And you, just wanted to go to confession again and ask for forgiveness. Not to spill the advantures you had in your dreams with a man that oddly resembled like Father O'Hara, but to unleash your heart's desires to wonder what was beyond the parish.

It was your life, all you've ever known so far. But one of those trips to the city during a beneful visit to another location, had left you amazed. How could a world so different like yours could be considered bad and straying?

But again, vows. Your vows bound you, and once broken, there was no turning back. But right now all that mattered was to get to the dorms. The rest was out in another visit to the city, you were to stay to finish your tasks in the kitchen.

Weather changed so abruptly that one moment you were taking the last basket of vegetables inside, to then run for the dorms to seek refuge. But they were far and the only thing in sight was Father's O'Hara rectory.

It was either getting a terrible fever from the cold and unforgiving rain or ask him to lend you an umbrella to mitigate the glacial numbness spreading through your body. Another reason you barely went out during these days, rains in the countryside were merciless.

Miguel was tending his own garden when the rain begun drenching. Even more when the thunders broke the peaceful white noise. He removed his soutane and shirt off leaving his inner vestments free, but the desperate knock on his door made his undressing ritual to stop.

While quirking an eyebrow, he approached the door and opened it. Eyes widened in surprise upon seeing you, soaked through your bones. lips blue and shivering from the cold.

"P-Please-"

"Jesus. Come in."

He ushered you in, then rushed to get a towel. A frown in his face deepened upon hearing your teeth clatter, clothes stuck to you like a second skin.

"C-Can I... borrow your... u-umbrella?"

Without much though he smoothened the towel against your face, drying it.

"An umbrella? Really?!"

A vehement shake of your head, while trying to get him off you.

"You're freezing cold, the dorms are too far for you to leave. Don't be stubborn."

"I... I don't h-have clothes."

You mumbled through rattling teeth while your eyes darted hazily over his naked torso. He sighed.

"Unbelievable. You're freezing to death and you're worried about clothes. Get them off, I'll put them to dry."

He grumbled while taking more logs into the fire to what would be his living room. If it wasn't for the glacial and biting freeze that refused to leave your body and the foggy thinking in your brain, your cheeks would be beyond red. Crimson even from such simple act.

A weak nod you gave. Your hands stopped bracing your shivering body to focus on removing the cowl and headdress. Releasing through shaky motions your soaked hair that wasted no time to stick on your face and neck.

The next was your crucifix, and praying beads, the tempo you removed them could make a slug to easily win the race, this alarmed him greatly. He had seen what hypothermia did, way before turning himself into this holy persona.

Without much thought, he peeled off your habit that weighed you down.

"Qué mierda más pesada" (Such a heavy shit)

He held you by one arm as he removed the outer layer off. Your eyes drooped and he gave you a little shake.

"Hey, hey, look at me."

Eyes concerned raking over and it dawned on you. Those eyes, the same beautiful and unique eyes were the same that visited in your dreams.

A difficult gulp rolled down your throat as Miguel kept undressing you while grunting. Wet clothes were a pain in his beatific ass. Shivering dicreased, but your lips remained blue, a new shade of purple drawing over them.

"I-It's so cold" You mumbled through laborious breaths.

"Course it's cold. You're soaked! What were you even doing?"

The way he scolded you felt like someone you've known for years was giving you a lecture. So casual, homey, normal. It was Miguel O'Hara speaking, not Father Miguel. The ever gentle and patient man you've been helping.

"Jesús bendito, con cuánta cosa te vistes." (Holy Jesus, so many layers.)

He murmured while pushing you to his chest as he removed the dress that covered your underwear. It felt like a heatless body had been thrown over him, but the warmth irradiating from him felt heavenly. Your form instinctively nuzzled your head on his chest. He had to stop to gulp at the sensations

Even though his mind slapped itself, His couldn't help but wander over your shivering and weak body.

"W-Wait"

A small dark patch hovered above the joint of your legs. Taut peaks followed by lovely areoles ever standing and shivering under the flimsy white fabric of a short nightgown that proved even harder to remove since it clung to you like a second skin, refusing to abandon your body.

He peeled you off of everything despite your protests, but was sufficiently prude to not look over your naked form. A minute too slow and it would be late. Like the young boy in his arms, that had died out of cold once the subversive groups arrived in the forsaken town, they had forced him and the rest to go through a frozen river. He made it, but the boy didn't.

His mind wasn't in the tip of his cock.

That will come later.

But his brain had only one single purpose right now. To keep you alive but for that he needed keep you warm.

Despite the recklessness of his actions, he pulled a freshly folded duvet around  while pulling you ontop of his chest and sat together near the fire. Hands moving to dry your hair as much as he could. Your skin was full of goosebumps, frosty to touch, that relished into any source of heat available. His torso, the duvet and the raging bonfire made your head spin.

It felt like his hands, rubbing some life back into your arms while he shielded your body, embracing your form with his torso and limbs. Like a paramedic on duty. Your cheek smooshed against his solid chest, it made him shudder with your own coldness but eventually the body heat treatment would be effective.

"Sorry" it was all you managed before your teeth shuddered again, and his fingers caressed your neck, placing a new wave of delicious heat on your skin.

"You'll be fine."

Your body was slowly but surely returning to it's temperature. Miguel remained there, basking you within his body, fingers gingerly caressing as much cold skin as he could under the duvet. Even his breath provided a little heat. Your erratic breaths collided against his skin, earning a discreet shudder from him.

You had drifted off to limbo, trying to sleep a bit, but unable to completely do so. Not when a man, the Parish Father nonetheless, was holding and nursing you back to an acceptable temperature with his own.

"Father O'Hara..."

Miguel's ears perked up upon you mentioning his name.

"It's Miguel."

He mumbled while drawing lazy circles on your lower back. The fire and the duvet had kept you toasty to curl even more towards him. Teeth no longer clattering.

"Thank you, Father."

"Stop."

His eyes rolled in annoyance, as his hands stopped caressing your skin to then rub his face.

"Stop calling me that."

"But that's your-"

"I don't like it."

He grumbled while looking down at you.

"Call me Miguel."

"I can't do that. Feels too disrespectful."

"I'm not Father O'Hara here, understood?"

You nodded

"Are you cold?"

"I am. Not as before but yes. Has it stopped raining?"

His own smell was making your mind a puddle, some of that fragrant incense remained etched on him.

"No. Just got worse."

You sighed while resting your head on his chest. Heartbeats a mellow lullaby.

"I'm sorry for all of this."

"You were cold and soaked." He pointed dully and bored.

The duvet was brought closer to your chest while staring at the flames. Fingers tracing a lazy and mindless pattern in his abdomen.

"I was picking up the last batch of harvest when rain poured on me."

Your toes curled in as a soft breeze flickered the fire and he tilted his head to watch you closer.

"Now I'll have to explain why there isn't enough corn."

"We'll go by. It's ok."

"Are my clothes ready yet?"

A snort that  would be translated into an 'Are you kidding me?', your brow furrowed.

"You'd be lucky if they get dry during the night."

Another defeated sigh. But a sudden thought however made your cheeks burn faintly.

"D-Did you see me naked?"

"No."

Oh.

There was a silent pause before you spoke again. Curiosity tempting.

"Have you seen other women naked?"

He huffed playfully while pushing your hair away from your lovely and sweet face.

"Yes. I was a regular man before all of this."

His fingers curled up in his hand, morphing into a lazy fist

"Do you miss it?"

"Would be a liar to say if I don't."

"You... You've had sex before?"

He chuckled while with an open palm, took a taste of your skin, deliberately roaming your lower back. You shuddered.

"I did. Plenty of times."

Your audible gasp made his eyes droop hazily in a smirking grimace.

"I was told it felt marvelous."

You looked up at him and he pulled your chin upwards, he really had to keep his restrain under a leash to not take you here and there, instead, he cupped your face and hovered his lips over yours

"Do you want me to teach you, Sister?"

He was the demon. The very same one that visited in your dreams and left you a soaked mess. A little too late you'd noticed that he wasn't wearing his vow ring. It was placed somewhere else you truly couldn't care less at the moment.

You only nodded.

"Use your words, dear"

"Please", you gulped, "Teach me."

It was in that moment that he sealed your lips with his. Your first kiss ever. Chaste and sweet at the beginning that slowly turned into this obscene display of his mouth assaulting yours with his tongue in between gentle licks and bites of his lips.

A shaky whine then a whimper escaped your throat upon feeling his hands skimming down your spine. He only let you go when you tapped out for air.

"How often am I on your mind, pequeña?"

Finally the demon in your dreams had turned into a reality. Eyes were closed, unable to look at yourself melting under his touch. Nipples perked against his chest.

Plump and hot lips caressed yours but they stopped. Hands pulled you upwards, Miguel turned you around so your back was now colliding with his chest.

"You're still cold."

Cheeks grew impossibly red while he slowly peeled off the duvet out of your body, leaving you bare before him. You gulped as he moved your hair to a side and slowly kissed up and down your neck.

His hands were unable to resist any more and cupped your mounds, like in your dream. Calloused palms, rough against soft breast.

"Qué maravilla. Is this how your dream goes?

Legs smothered together, a little strip of hair etched to your pubic mount. He hummed in appreciation to then part your legs above his. Cunt pulsing at the coolness of air brushing past it.

Both of your legs dangled ontop of his as you remained nested above. Your heart beat at the playful moves his middle and index finger pulled on your nipple as his free hand darted over the joint of your inner thighs. You could feel him trembling underneath, the restrain made his breath hitch.

Your own turned erratic once more as he slid three fingers in between your folds. A shy Ah escaped your lips while he used two of them to part the outer labia

"Look at that, little one. Is that what you touch when thinking of me?"

Drunk eyes darted between your legs and his skillful hand, the engorged and pearly clit peeked out as one of his fingers flickered slowly. Focusing the right amount of pressure in it that had your moans shaky. He paused to adjust his fingers as they caressed and rubbed as much flesh as they could.

Mouth etched to your ear. Deep and needy breaths fanned behind you

"So so pretty. Look at that"

He made a show of his fingers coating themselves in your slick. One of his digits hovered over your entrance, slowly it disappeared inside. A muffled groan echoed in the void space

A wet and shlicking sound came from his ministrations, head unable to move, too enraptured into watching him sliding in and out. Skin bloomed with a new wave of goosebumps as his tongue licked your neck and earlobe, rewarding you for taking one finger deliciously, that he licked up clean before going back to rub at your clit.

"Want to add another?"

A breathless and hissing yes.

You didn't know who was with you right now since Father O'Hara couldn't. Your brain still refused to believe they were the same man. One preached and talked mass every Sunday, the other had your head spinning while his fingers explored your insides with such gentleness it only increased your whimpers and need for something more and bigger within you.

"Does that feel good, Hm?"

A dumb nod while more escaped your mouth repeatedly

"More?"

"Please!"

How could he deny to such petition? Even most when you were gripping him so deliciously and pulsating with every stroke he delivered in, grazing at your sweetest spot.

"Like this?"

He increased the tempo and your breath hitched, hips moving to meet his fingers aiding them to reach deeper and deeper.

Breaths turned into short and shallow pants, blood rushed to your cheeks. One of his digits pushed past between your lips meeting your moist muscle that wasted no time into kissing it. All you could hear was yourself and your weeping pussy that demanded for more.

But they weren't enough. Brain was sent into an override when the climax washed over you. All the pent up need and lust drowned you. Strong pulsations dictated the contractions that trapped and milked Miguel's fingers. Mind split in two in a shattering and core shaking spasm.

Mouth gaped, eyes heady and drunk with blind hot pleasure, body convulsed while an array of mumbles and clumsy curses flew out of your mouth to finally end with a delicious quivering cry.

"It's okay, shh, it's okay, pequeña." He cooed you through it while kissing your neck. Heart pounding in your ears.

It took you a moment to breath properly. How could you have missed this? How could you remain so ignorant to this? Alienated from something you were often told it was dirty and condemning.

He had only touched in the right places and you were melting. But why stopping there? You knew he also wanted you, his hard on pressing over your lower back, begging to set free.

"M-More"

He shook his head with a proud smile

"Can't do that, preciosa"

A capricious whine came through your throat, "Why not?"

"Cause, as much as I'd love to take you until you recite the bible backwards to me, you know what could happen."

"You don't want me, then? Why stopping now?"

"Far from that. And we must be discreet. Wouldn't want you to be whipped by Sister Lianne."

He took your hand and kissed your wrist. While his other limb pulled you closer to him.

"I am the only one that shall leave marks on you, my dear. Is that clear?"

"Yes, but-" He took your chin in a gentle but firm grip.

"Is that clear?"

You nodded with a pout.

"Lay on the bed."

"What? "

"Lay on the bed, so I can taste you."

Miguel could fulfil that fantasy. With Bambi-like steps you pushed yourself up and walked over his bed. Plush surface welcomed your body under a creak.

"Spread them."

Toes curled up for a second before spreading them open. Clit already tingling with a foreign yet needy sensation.

He kneeled before you, like he did every day he worshipped the Lord. But this time it wasn't God, but you. Nose nuzzled over your inner thighs while taking a whiff of your scent. Tantalizing and so alluring for his own senses.

Slow and deliberate kisses were placed above your flesh, the strip of hair that decored your pussy, to finally sink in between soaked folds.

The mewl you gave only made him feast upon you. Hands grope the sheets by instinct as he spreaded you further.

His tongue lapped and curled at your hole, slurping it without refrain and inhibitions. Devouring it like it would be his last meal.

Your dream had felt too vivid, yes, but this was completely different. This was in a whole new different level. His corruption had tainted your soul and it was gladly welcomed into your arms.

Legs twitched and shook while your head was thrown back, chest heaved with shallow breaths, unable to breath properly as his tongue was set into fucking your drooling hole.

The way his tongue fucked, dribbled and guzzled your cunt had you mewling and moaning the filthiest things you didn't think possible you could get out.

Good was an understatement, heavenly was a measly word to compare what you felt like. It was maddening and he gave you no rest.

Have you ascended? No. He just wrapped your supple thighs around his head, preventing you from squirming too much, holding your hips in place as his sloshing and assailant mouth gave you no rest.

You hadn't recovered completely from the other orgasm when a new one had approached. Lurking around your senses.

His name was moaned, over and over and when your hands were done of clinging onto the sheets, you held onto his hair. Silky and smooth chocolate locks slid under your fingers.

Eyes peeked over you, and he had to pause for a moment to squeeze his cock. Aching and weeping for him to let him free and make you his. But that would come later.

That would come much later when he had more leisure time and when he'd get protection. As much as he wanted to wreck your snug cunt, he didn't want you to be whipped and shamed like another nun was when the higher ups found out she was pregnant by an outsider.

"Miguel"

His name on your lips rich and tasty, like him.

Your voice snapped him out of his trance to immediately go for your clit. Plump lips pursed and captured the engorged nub. While his hands pushed your legs up and folded them, giving a complete access to your pulsating pussy.

He slurped and souped while his tongue teased. Wet laps sent jolts through your spine each time he tasted you.

Too much. Too good and too soon, yet he didn't stop. He shook his head like a mad dog subduing it's prey and that move alone had you gushing over his mouth. He quickly gobbled it all down.

You whined, cried and blabbled, even tried to pull his head away but he delivered you a last stroke with his tongue to then lick his lips clean.

"Please"

You mumbled through blown breaths as he watched you with a lust blown glare.

What had he done out of you?

"Greed is a sin, my dear."

What had he created?

"But if you're good enough, the wait will be worth it."

His little lamb was so willing for him, aching to be tainted, corrupted even more. And his task was to banish such whims.

He'd given you a taste of what laid ahead. A promise of a much unholy reward if you followed this path with him. But your resolve had been made the first time you came.

He'd be your first and last. There wasn't any need for another to teach you what he was compliant to demonstrate.

You'd be his to fuck. His to tame and corrupt.

You'd be his.

---

Taglist:

@plumplumpurin

[gh0st-t0wn3]

I finally had time to make proper designs for the Trio!

Redson: Ver 1

Ver 2

I couldn't decide on if I liked it better with the braids or not so I just posted both, but anyways!

I gotta admit, I used to not like the idea of redson having Bull features (except for a small pair of horn maybe) but the concept really grew on me and now I really love it and wanted to try making my own design and I'm really proud with how it turned out.

I would've added more scars, since Guanyins throne pierced his entire body, but there came a point where it just looked like there was too much going on so I had to get rid of a few scars to tone it down, so we're just gonna say they faded over time, okay? Okay.

I also made him Miao (one of the largest ethnic minorities in southwest China) on PIF's side, and Mongolian on DBK's.

The Miao ethnicity of China has a long history, rich culture, and an ancient folk religion. Adorned in beautiful traditional clothes, possessing natural talent for singing and dancing, they live in uniquely designed indigenous architecture, which I think fits perfectly with how I imagined Princess Iron Fan and with her; Redson.

As for DBK being Mongolian, I saw someone else talking about this headcanon and I just liked it so I decided to use it, I don't really have a specific reason for it, I just thought it fit, not sure why though, it's just one of those things that makes sense even if you don't know why, you know?

Mei:

I made her taller and gave her a long dragon tail (like really long, it drags along the floor if she's not holding it up), though her scales are pretty much everywhere across her body they're most noticeable on her shoulders, thighs, and face (they're a bit hard to see in this photo because they're kinda hidden behind her hair, but I did give her scales beside her eyes)

I also gave her horns these little spiral designs around them, gave her sharper nails, and designed her ears to look like coral, since she's a water dragon and I thought they looked cool.

Honestly idk what else to say about her design, I didn't have anything specific in mind when designing her, I kinda just had to wing it, but I'm happy with how it turned out :)

(I also made her Bengali, on her dad's side, but it's not really important or has any reason behind it, just a headcanon I've had for a while, don't know where it came from though)

MK:

Alot of people have speculated that the monkey form we see during the fight against Azure in season 4 isn't MK's full form yet, that we're just seeing a fraction of what he's yet to become, based on the fact that while he has the weird side burns, the tail and the face marking, he also lacks a natural skin tone, they didn't give him a proper nose etc, so I wanted to play with the idea.

I decided to make him this strange mix between human and monkey, leaving him pretty much human with the addition of his tail(s), and weird li'l monkey feet.

(I was also gonna give MK more arm/leg hair, it was in my first sketch, but I forgot to add them when I was doing the line art and didn't realize until after I saved it as a jpeg, so that's my bad, but I'm gonna add it in to any other art I make)

It's also a bit hard to see in this, but I designed his staff with more details, specifically adding dragon-esque imagery to the Golden ends, this is because (for anyone who's new to the fandom/hasn't read JTTW) Wukong's staff was originally one of the several pillars that held up the sea in the dragon palace, until he stole it and shrunk it down to use as his weapon.

I also did MK's clones :)

Porty MK:

I gave him stripes of coloured hair and gave his tails all different colours, though I don't think he would actually dye it, instead I like to think that he would use that really crappy dollar store spray in hair dye (or hair chalk). I kept the fishnet clothes that I added in my originally design of him for my headcanons post, and decided to give him striped elbow length fingerless gloves.

I also gave him a cropped shirt, ripped shorts and these weird fingerless glove-esque shoes for convenience, since regular shows seem like they would be uncomfortable.

Edit: my dumbass forgot Porty's stupid print jacket 😭

Artist MK:

For Artist MK I gave him overalls and a jacket over it, which he wears specifically for when he's doing paintings so he doesn't ruin too many of his actual clothes (I know I said that this was inspod by Circusapple, which it still is, but this is almost exactly what I wear when I'm painting too, just in different colours).

I also gave him those gloves that digital artists wear so they're hands don't accidently trigger something on the screen because everyone knows that every artist just walks around with their art glove on even when it's not necessary.

Delivery MK:

I have to admit, I was never a big fan of MK's work uniform just being his regular clothes with a work jacket thrown over it so I wanted to try and make him look a little more professional and decided to instead give him a chef coat (similar to the one Pigsy wears on the show as well), with a logo for the restaurant on the chest, along with it I gave him plain black pants, since casual red jeans didn't seem very professional (I know he's just a delivery person, but if you were to look at pretty much any food corporation, even people who do deliveries have to wear uniform, so it's always been kinda strange to me that he's just in regular clothes). 

The shoes were harder to make professional given the whole "half-monkey" thing so I opted to give him the same strange fingerless glove-esque shoes for comfort and convenience, but made them plain black as well.

[latanyalove]

Happy Times

Pairing: Vinsmoke Sanji x Y/N

Content: Starvation, fluff, Sanji's shy (my favourite part) and Y/N's sad past.

Anon: hello!!!! i love your recent fics and i want to request one for you 🥹 one where reader does happy dances every time she eats sanji’s food? and it’s so natural for her that she makes him shy ((in a good way for doing it

A/n: I hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing this! <3

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First of all, thank you for requesting! This is my first time making a request so I hope this story is to your expectations!

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After the Strawhat crew saved your poor country from its terrible leader, you were unexpectedly welcomed aboard as a new addition to the crew.

Despite your lack of devil fruit powers, Luffy saw potential in you and believed that your unique skills and determination would make you a valuable member of the crew. He admired your bravery during the fight and knew that together, you could accomplish even greater things.

He also might have gotten some persuading from a certain cook.

"Cheers to our new nakama, Y/N!" Luffy exclaimed, raising his cup in a toast.

"Cheers!" the crew chorused in unison, their cups clinking together. Each member of the Strawhat crew expressed their excitement for having you on board, promising to support and protect you as one of their own.

From Nami's approving nod to Zoro's subtle smirk, it was clear that you had earned their trust and had become an integral part of their pirate family.

As the celebration continued, you looked around the room and realized that the cook was nowhere to be found. Curiosity piqued, you excused yourself from the crew and made your way to the kitchen, where you found Sanji preparing a feast fit for a king.

You admired Sanji's culinary skills for a while, marveling at how effortlessly he would slice through vegetables and handle the sizzling oil without hesitation. As you watched him prepare the feast, you couldn't help but be in awe of his culinary prowess.

It was no wonder that he was known as the "Black Leg" and hailed as one of the greatest chefs on the Grand Line.

You decided to slip away quietly, not wanting to interrupt Sanji's cooking or draw attention to yourself.

Finding a peaceful spot on the ship, you took a moment to reflect on the incredible turn of events that led you to become a member of the Strawhat crew.

The memories of your past struggles and the newfound sense of belonging filled your heart with gratitude and determination for the adventures that lay ahead.

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It was hard to believe that just a few days ago, you were living in a country oppressed by an unjust ruler. The people had been stripped of their wealth, forced to give all of their money as a gift to the ruler on the 10th anniversary of their reign.

You were once a part of an orphanage that suffered greatly under the ruler's oppressive regime. The orphanage struggled to provide basic necessities for the children, and you witnessed firsthand the hardships faced by the people.

As one of the oldest children in the orphanage, you were burdened with responsibilities beyond your years. From the age of 10, you were expected to take care of the younger children, ensuring they were fed, clothed, and safe. It was a heavy weight to bear, but it taught you resilience and compassion at a young age.

You often found yourself questioning the quality and safety of the food made from the meager rations provided by the adults. However, you had no other choice but to eat it yourself and feed it to the younger children, hoping it would sustain them.

Surviving each day became a delicate balance between fulfilling your responsibilities and ensuring everyone's survival.

But one day, the Straw Hat crew, led by the fearless Monkey D. Luffy, arrived in the country with a mission to liberate the oppressed people. With their extraordinary abilities and unwavering determination, they fought against the unjust ruler and his forces, bringing hope and freedom to the once-struggling nation.

As they defeated the ruler and his regime, the people rejoiced, and a new era of peace and prosperity began to unfold.

Everyone thought it was the right decision for you to go with them. . .

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"Y/N?" A voice called you from behind, belonging to Nami.

You turned around to face Nami, a wide smile spreading across your face. "Yes, Nami?" you replied, gratitude filling your voice.

"Sanji said that the food is ready," Nami informed you, her eyes sparkling with excitement. The aroma of the freshly cooked meal wafted through the air, a stark contrast to the meager rations you were accustomed to.

Your stomach growled in response to Nami's news, reminding you of the constant hunger you had endured in the orphanage. The thought of a properly cooked meal filled with nourishment made your mouth water.

As you followed Nami into the kitchen, you noticed that everyone was there, engaged in lively conversation, yet no one touched their food. It seemed as if they were waiting for someone, and curiosity piqued within you.

"Finally! There you are, Y/N!" Luffy exclaimed, his mouth drooling as he resisted from touching the meat in front of him.

You sat beside Nami, a sense of guilt washing over you as you apologized for being gone for so long.

"Now Y/N-san, why don't you taste the food first?" Sanji asked from the kitchen, prepping the last pieces of dessert.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether you deserved to be the first one to taste the food.

Usually you were the last unless you had to taste if it was edible or not.

Everyone looked at you as you scooped a spoonful of one of the dishes, but you paused. The memory of the starving children back in the orphanage flashed in your mind, and you couldn't help but feel that they deserved this meal more than you did.

"It's alright," Sanji's voice said as he was now behind you, his warm hand resting on your shoulder.

It was as if he could read your mind and understand the guilt that was consuming you.

You nodded before placing the spoon inside your mouth and swallowing it. The flavors exploded on your taste buds, a symphony of perfectly balanced spices and textures.

It was a moment of pure bliss, and as you savored each bite, you couldn't help but feel grateful that you were able to experience such a meal after years of deprivation.

The taste of the food was so exquisite that you couldn't help but let out a little dance, your body moving to the rhythm of the flavors. It was as if the nourishment had not only satisfied your hunger but also awakened a dormant joy within you.

As you twirled and swayed, the room erupted in laughter and applause, everyone delighting in your infectious happiness.

"Y/N is doing a happy dance!" Luffy exclaimed, laughing.

The meal had not only filled your stomach but also filled your soul with a newfound appreciation for the simple joys of life.

With the biggest smile on your face, you turned to Sanji, gratitude shining in your eyes, and whispered, "Thank you, Sanji. This meal is beyond anything I could have imagined."

Sanji's cheeks went from a light tint of pink to his whole face being red, dropping his cigarette in the process. He couldn't help but feel a surge of pride and happiness at seeing you enjoy his food so much.

It was moments like these that reminded him why he loved cooking and why he put so much passion into every dish.

"I'm glad that you like it Y/N-san," Sanji answered, his eyes filled with pure love. Shyly, he added, "I put my heart and soul into creating this meal, and seeing you enjoy it brings me immeasurable joy."

You smiled in return, completely unaware of the effect you had on Sanji. The genuine happiness that radiated from you was enough to make his heart skip a beat, and he couldn't help but feel a newfound sense of purpose in his culinary endeavors.

Though it didn't go unnoticed.

"Looks like Love Cook can get shy around women," Zoro teased.

Sanji's face turned even redder as Zoro's teasing words reached his ears.

"Shut up, Mosshead!" Sanji fired back, trying to hide his embarrassment. But deep down, he couldn't deny that there was some truth to Zoro's words.

Your presence had ignited a spark within him, and he couldn't wait to continue creating culinary masterpieces that would bring joy to your heart. . . .

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Continue?

[mx-jinxous]

He was in love with a dead man.

Steve found it ridiculous, but he couldn’t help it. When he was forced to find a job after his parents disowned him, the museum was the last place he’d expected to fall in love. The museum gift shop had gladly taken him in as a thank you for his family’s namesake, though Steve didn’t try to pretend interested in the way. He took the job offer, anything to pay the bills.

His current living arrangement was his car until he could save enough money back to get an apartment. Sadly with his car payment and insurance, it hardly left anything to put back, not enough to pay his phone bill for the last few months. Most days it was a toss-up for gas or food, which was going to be a harder decision with the approaching winter. Since he had to drop out of college he’d been left sneaking into the community pool to even get a shower, but soon he’d have to find other options. They started to dwindle as his friends, or rather the people who acted as such, distanced themselves when he was kicked out. He came from money and that’s all that anyone ever wanted.

His first idea was to befriend or date, but he couldn’t use them as people did to him. So he asked for more work, playing it off as expanding his knowledge and role. This led him to partner with the elderly security, who was fondly nicknamed Grey, until they could get him a trainee. Steve happily accepted it. The old man was a storyteller, even his lectures were entertaining as he drifted into stories of his kids. He often let him wander around, and that’s how he found the newest addition to the royalty wing.

They had discovered an underground burial vault, hidden beneath the remains of a castle converted into a long abandoned church. It was above Steve’s pay grade how they ever managed to acquire permission to excavate the vault. One night on his explorations the young man found the exhibit and the statue of King Kas. He ruled in the 1200 c.e., a just ruler in a conflicted era. Sadly, he existed during a blip in history, and few records have been found of his rule.

Still, the statue was handsome and mesmerizing. It was carved from marble and well cared for regardless of facing time. Surprisingly for a cold material, the eyes were warm, inviting even. It’s what kept Steve returning, making him fall. Grey had found him sometimes just talking to Kas about his problems when he came to let him out for the night. He was kind enough to offer an invite to his home whenever he needed, fatherly. He’s what he’d wished his parents were like, he cared for a boy he didn’t even know and even fed him when he didn’t have food. It was nice but also painful.

Steve spent every shift studying the statue. The king was adorned in jewelry; rings, a crown, necklaces, armlets, and bracelets filled with gemstones worth more than Steve’s parents. It only enhanced the beauty of the masterpiece, but it was truly the eyes that pulled him in. Maybe it was the dry spell in his current living situation, but he wanted to reach out and hold his face in his hands. His body was doing that on its own accord, his fingers nearly brushing its cheek when the hallway door was thrown open. Steve responded immediately, hiding behind the nearest pillar. His mind caught up with him once he was out of sight, that he and Grey were the only ones this late, still didn’t want to be caught with his hand on the exhibit.

Taking a calming breath, he stepped out and was going to give him a hard time about the scare. However, he froze when he heard more than one voice, harsh whispers echoing in the unoccupied room. Steve pressed up against the pillar, trying to be silent, trying to figure out how to alert Grey without his walkie.

So he stood there, listening to things being moved, metal clinging. “This is a goldmine. Can’t believe these idiots left it open like this, just ripe for the takin’.” A man cackled, the young man risking it to get a look at the thieves. Three of them, one stripping Kas while the other two robbed his riches.

“Shuddup. You want security up our asses?” Another snapped.

“What? That old guy probably ain’t got his hearing aid in.”

“He ain't alone dipshit. He's got that kid in here. Didn’t see him leave.” The last guy grumbled, sounding like he was struggling. “He’s not gonna be a problem. If he tries anything, I’ll show him mister pew pew.” That got Steve sweating. He needed a plan, a distraction to escape. From his vantage point, he noted the doors were close to the men, there were no windows, and the fire escape was a sprint away that gave the thieves an open shot. But the fire alarm was on the wall, parallel to him. Pulling it would alert firefighters and police, and hopefully scare the men enough to give him the opening that he needed. It was as solid as a plan he could make, but of course, he should know that life loved to make him struggle.

It came in the form of a, “Pull harder numb nuts.”, followed by a clatter. Peaking out he was met with the king's bracelet skidding past him. That’s what gave away his safe spot, the men already yelling and sprinting towards him. Steve took off, snatching the bracelet on the way to the fire alarm. He pulled it as he passed, heading towards the nearest exhibit, Pharaohs of Ancient Egypt. There were plenty of places to hide, Steve choosing the curtain that framed a standing sarcophagus.

It was sheered, easy to see through, yet nearly impossible to see in the dark museum. He gripped the bracelet, trying to quiet his breathing when the men came into the room. The alarm lights flashed and blared, however, he could hear things being thrown and smashed. There was angry yelling between the three, Steve watching the best he could through the fabric. He could make out only their silhouettes, watching in horror as they destroyed parts of history, feeling powerless. Was this how it was supposed to end, hunted and afraid? A fitting end to the last shitty months.

All he knows is that he isn’t going down without a fight. The bracelet was a decent weight and could knock someone out with a strong enough swing. He hoped it was enough as the silhouettes grew closer as Steve braced for an attack.

A scream froze the moment, now four shadows appeared on the other side of the curtain. “What the hell!” The man closest to the newcomer howled before he fell, his partner's screams echoing. Gunshots rang out causing a horrified scream to escape the young man. He fell to his knees and curled up, wanting to be as small as he could. Steve couldn’t fathom, nor did he want to attempt, the horrifying noises on the other side. There were screams and then silence.

He could only hope that the perpetrator didn’t find him- but once again life loved to beat him down. The curtain was pulled back, giving him an up-close view of the mystery man. Steve met with those warm eyes that once brought him comfort, now a sign of terror as Kas stood, marble painted in blood. He wanted to beg, to scream, but all that escaped his lips was a whimper. The statue took a step forward and the younger man fell back, trying to push himself as far away from the creature.

Not taking the hint, Kas knelt in front of him, reaching out toward him. He dropped his sword as fingers brushed against Steve’s cheek, causing him to flinch at the cold stone. It was silent between the two, aside from the blaring alarm, leaving them staring at one another. Pulling back his hand, Kas scooped the young man up without warning. A squeak escaped him, fear keeping his mouth bound as he was carried through the blood-drenched room to the king's exhibit. There he was gently sitting on the edge of the stone coffin that had been cracked open to show the interior. The body had been removed before the exhibit had opened so there was no fear of a zombie popping up. Just Steve and Stone Kas.

Steve was balancing himself the best he could while stone eyes studied up and down his body. They stopped on the bracelet still gripped in his hands, causing him to fumble trying to hold it up to the marble man.

“H-Here! I-I didn’t mean to take it, but I kept it safe. See, no damage.” He shook as the statue took the bracelet, examining it closely. Steve sat there, just waiting until Kas saw fit that the bracelet was fine. He hesitated with any noise or movement, not wanting to earn the creature's ire. He wished to disappear, to be locked behind his car doors on the other side of the country, just out of the king's sight.

Unfortunately, that wish quickly broke when Kas wrapped his hand gently around Steve’s upper arm. He watched in horror and confusion as the bracelet slid onto his wrist, giving the man his first clear look at the jewelry. It was a thick gold band with some basic designs carved in it, a bright red gem enclosed in it. It was a beautiful piece of jewelry, even Kas seemed to think so as a smile came to the carved face.

“Yeah, i-it’s a lovely piece, but sadly I’m not a jewelry guy.” His nervous chuckle was cut short when the smile fell, his body tensing as it was just them in silence once more. “Please-.” He whimpered.

A sob broke free when Kas leaned in, his cold lips pressing into his forehead. “Te videre iterum, amore mea.” He whispered, pulling back enough to peer down into Steve’s eyes. Without warning he was shoved back into the coffin, the lid pulled over without a struggle.

“Shit.” He mumbled, trying to push the stone lid off to no avail. “Shit! No, no, shit!” He screamed, pounding against the marble. Panicked tears dripped down his cheeks as he kept trying to push to top off. “I- I ca-. I can’t breathe! Please let me out! Please Kas!”

There was no telling how long he was screaming for, but no one came to his rescue. The fight left him abruptly as the situation set in. He was stuck in a stone prison, running out of air, no one knowing where he went. No one would notice him missing until much later after he suffocated. This was how he was going to die, as a nobody.

Steve went to cover his face, only to be splashed with water. He sat there, horrified at the thought that he was bleeding, but no. His body was sitting in water, the coffin filling at a ridiculous rate. He no longer had to wait to suffocate, now he was going to drown long before that.

A new panicked fueled fire filled his stomach, his legs coming up to kick at the lid. He figured if water was getting in, there was a chance he wasn’t completely sealed in. His head was underwater while he kicked with all his might. Soon it started sliding with each kick, giving way to enough space for his body to squeeze through. He wasted no time, the water weighing him down as he pulled himself free.

It was dark aside from a flickering archway, his body freezing as he took a minute to catch his breath. He could tell he was no longer in the museum, the only light seeming to be the only exit. A groan escaped Steve’s lips as he pulled himself towards the light, coming to a spiral staircase that only went up. It was illuminated by torches on the wall, the only warmth in this dark room. Freedom was near, and though his body wanted to give in to rest, Steve pressed on. His body ached, each step taken with a struggling limp that made the trip feel like hours.

He nearly cried when he saw the doorway, a light illuminating the stairs. He was ready for bed, or maybe he’d try to hit Grey up for a shower to get all the death dust off of him. If he was lucky, this was all a horny-induced nightmare.

That came to head when the universe decided to remind him once more of his shit luck. When he walked out of the doorway he was greeted with a group of swords pointed at him, surrounding him. His body was aching, fighting to stay standing as another wave of armored people came in. Trying to take a step back Steve’s body gave out, a mumbled “Fucking bullshit.”, escaping before he hit the ground. His world went dark once more.

________________

If you want to be tagged in the future, comment below.

Chapter 1| Chapter 2

[lets-try-some-writing]

What’s your thoughts visually on how bots habsuites/ quarters look like? And would they differ between frame types ? As prime big lol Wish we got some media on it :0

Hmm well I do imagine things would differ wildly between each continuity. However, some generalizations might be the following:

Autobots as a whole: Generally speaking, I do imagine the Autobots have habs that match their size and their rank. Rank and file soldiers are bunked together in rooms filled with recharging stations crammed shoulder to shoulder. Most don't mind since they are all together and it's not as if they have anything of their own anyway more often than not. Those further up the chain of command get rooms with less people in them until they finally get a roommate or possibly, if they are super duper special, their very own closet sized space. Actual berths are reserved for those with rooms big enough for them. Most just use recharging stations since it's generally more useful to making the most of a space.

Rank and file soldiers: The average soldier is bunked shoulder to shoulder with his or her comrades. They are each given a standing recharge station boxed right up against everyone else's unless they have an injury which warrants the usage of the handful of berths given to soldiers lower on the chain of command. Generally, such soldiers are kept in huge facilities meant to keep everyone safe and secure rather than comfort them. As such, decoration simply does not happen unless the military position a soldier is stationed at is more permanent. In which case, the soldier might paint their station with odd doodles, splotches of color, or if they are lucky enough to find some, they might slap some stickers on it.

Company commanders and the like: Directly above regular soldiers, various commanders of lower rank get bunked together as well, but they are given a tad more room. This is not a privilege as one might expect, but an actual necessity. Commanders can get called on at any time, and each of them need a little more room to work on reports and whatnot since there simply is not enough space to give each of them an office of their own. As such, their stations are a little farther apart, and between them are their personal effects and maybe something to play the part of a makeshift desk if need be. Decoration is the same as regular soldiers, with the possible addition of medallions, the odd set of fairy lights if one gets lucky, or even a poster or two.

Lieutenants and up: Now this is when a bot would start getting their own space, kind of. Bots of this rank are still bunked with a buddy or two, but they are actually issued rooms in order to supply them with the privacy needed to handle sensitive data. They also get actual berths (which can and often do double as desks). Getting a room means a bot can do almost whatever they like to decorate so long as it sort of aligns with military orders. Most often, lieutenants and the like decorate with weapons on the walls, trophies, artwork, or even murals. It depends on his strict the command center is.

Generals and Prime's Inner Circle: Inner circle bots get privileges, and one of those is a private room. A bot can do whatever the heck they want with their space so long as it doesn't disrupt workflow and the like. Decoration depends entirely on whoever owns the hab. In the case of Ultra Magnus, he lives in a mountain of datapads. Ratchet keeps mementos but will die before admitting it. Jazz has what few instruments he's managed to save. Ironhide decked his room with weapons... the list goes on. There are no limits for the most part. Comes with being constantly under threat of being assassinated.

Prime: Technically, he should be living in a high end facility, never to dirty his digits. But because this is Optimus Prime, he tends to wander. He rests wherever there is a free space and will gladly rest with the soldiers without a worry in the world. The only reason he has a hab at all is for the sake of morale amongst the troops. Although more often than not, it doubles as an extra room for injured troops in need of protection.

Not sure if this is what you wanted anon, but these are my thoughts!

[arthrobug]

Kobylu Week Day 2: Modern

I finished it early/on time today lmao asdfghjkl, so I was able to add a few extra details 👍

Image without title and with borders teehee

Anyways lore time-

In this AU, the city they live in is basically an epicenter of extreme crime and danger. Koby is an ex-firefighter who decided to retire early to recline and work at a little bookshop, but during his active years, he met a currently unknown crook named Luffy.

When they met, Luffy unintentionally saved Koby's life from another criminal, Alvida (I'll also mention there's an additional two years to their ages. So Koby was already 18 when he Luffy, who was also already 19). In a surprising turn of events, the two became quick friends, although Luffy was a criminal and Koby's entire livelihood was centered around arresting people like Luffy.

After Koby retired, Luffy would frequently visit Koby's new workplace. Eventually, one of Koby's friends from his ex-work found out about Luffy -Helmeppo- but he didn't mind since he soon realized Luffy isn't a truly bad person.

Koby purposefully works closing shift at the bookshop as much as he can in order for Luffy to visit him easier, and Luffy honestly doesn't quite realize yet how fond Koby is of him. In this image, Luffy -now a notorious criminal- had gone to the only place he knew he could be cared for -the bookshop- after being badly burned close to death (you likely know who did that lol), earning his x-shaped chest scar. Koby had to hide in his own work after Luffy was of course tailed by police, doing everything in his power to protect and care for the man he loves most.

[sugar-grigri]

Neither Denji, Yoshida nor their author can achieve normalcy

Let's look at Chainsaw Man as a narrative whole. There's no point in an author dealing with a subject that's already been dealt with, except to say something additional: so what does this chapter tell us?

Entitled "Normal Life", the chapter refers directly to Denji's previous dream: a normal life became Yoshida's offer to push him to stop being Chainsaw Man.

Fujimoto knows that you've understood that Denji intends to go beyond normality. This is something we learned from the whole of Part 1: normality had already been used by Makima to manipulate Denji. Here, things seem redundant, as Yoshida follows in the footsteps of the former antagonist. On top of that, while Denji was communicating and showing a certain emotional vulnerability, he's being sexually assaulted?

Why this chapter? Why tell it like it is? Fujimoto doesn't seem to initiate anything new, worse, erases his own developments.

The answer is easy, and Fujimoto gives it to us: this chapter is frustrating because it consciously shows you that he's incapable of writing and describing a normal life.

The first few pages serve to show that Denji is incapable of living anonymously and incognito when his environment permanently gravitates around the figure of Chainsaw Man. Denji literally finds himself in a fight to his detriment, and is punched in the face in the name of his heroic identity. Back in the face.

The second page serves to show that Denji can't achieve this so-called normativity by his past, by who he is, but above all by the way he's perceived by society and his guardians. He doesn't have a normal past, so how can he achieve a normal present? The others don't see him as lambda, so how can he become one?

The third thing that will prevent Denji from achieving this normal life is the man who intends to offer it to him: Yoshida. In his equally unconventional present as a demon hunter. He tells him explicitly: he has no idea what a normal high-school student does. Normal he isn't, since a normal high-school student is a professional cover for him.

Denji and Yoshida perceive a normal schoolgirl, that is, the ordinary life of a schoolboy, as something projected and unattainable. Just like the love of a hug is unattainable for Denji and Makima. Yoshida and Denji are distanced from it by this abnormality embedded in their daily lives: a demon.

Yoshida's assertion that the world won't end without Chainsaw Man also loses its meaning. Granted, Chainsaw Man isn't the only one to eradicate demons. But who will save the world?

How can a boy whose family includes a demonic little sister, and a demonic dog who is both his heart and his family, find his way in this normal life other than by being isolated?

In this empty room, doesn't it seem more like Chainsaw Man is deliberately isolated? Trapped in this normal life he can't quite fit into. Whether it's because of his identity as Chainsaw Man, as Denji, whether it's because Yoshida offers him this girl who looks like a demon who literally followed orders to sleep with him, this sex-obsessed boy?

Why abruptly cut off Denji's realization that he's in a bad way? With this demon-like girl sexually assaulting him? Why does this ending seem so abrupt?

Because what Fujimoto is indicating is that he's not capable of writing a normal life for Denji either, that his writing will never be gentle, that his character will never be able to give himself up in appropriate, normal circumstances: that a trauma will always resurface.

Whether it's the demon that prevents him from accessing the life projected before him, or the demon that brutally cuts him off from his confessions by attacking him. Fujimoto confronts his own hero, who no longer knows what to do?

Make love? In a world populated by demons? In a world crawling with Chainsaw Man? With an author unable to depict a normal life without brutally interrupting it, frustrating his own reader?

The normal life we'd all like Denji to have: neither he, nor the man who offers it, nor the man who writes it, will give it to us.

[rain0tes]

I'm thinking about Hazbin Hotel with a Suguru Geto like reader.

Entering the hotel with two teenagers in tow, panic etched across your face, you plead with Charlie to allow your daughters to stay, at the very least, to provide them with a safe space to hide during the extermination.

You knew you could handle yourself; after all, you'd survived in Hell for a few years now and always navigated the yearly purge with ease. However, upon discovering that your two adoptive daughters were spawned in Hell just before an extermination, you were desperate to find shelter for them, willing to go to any lengths to ensure their safety.

Bless her soul, Charlie took you and your daughters into the hotel, where you've been staying ever since, grateful for the refuge and safety it provided amidst the chaos of Hell.

With a constant smile on your face, you exude genuine warmth and kindness, easily making you one of the kindest souls in the hotel, second only to Charlie. Unlike Alastor, your demeanour feels sincere, radiating a sense of genuine care and compassion.

You naturally take on a fatherly role over the other residents, offering guidance, support, and understanding to those who need it most.

When Charlie would ask what you could have possibly done to deserve a spot in Hell, given your genuinely kind nature, you would simply smile in response, choosing not to delve into the details of your past.

The downward spiral, the lives you've taken with your own hands, the very same lives you once promised to save— it all still haunts you, a constant reminder of your past mistakes. Yet, you strive to push through it all, clinging to the hope of redemption that Charlie keeps preaching about.

You don't really believe you deserve forgiveness, feeling as though you've delved too far down to ever swim back to the surface again. In your eyes, Nanako and Mimiko have a better chance at redemption; they deserve another chance. So, you strive to keep it together, if only to support them and ensure they have the opportunity to find the redemption you feel is beyond your reach.

Nanako's accidental slip of calling Charlie "sister" once has since become a cherished term of endearment, one that has stuck and been embraced by everyone in the hotel. Mimiko, ever accepting and adaptable, casually accepts the addition of a third sister into their familial dynamic without hesitation.

Gradually, you also begin to see Charlie as a third child, influenced by your adoptive daughters' insistence on referring to her as their sister.

The rest of the hotel residents hold you in high regard; it's difficult not to like you.

Angel Dust holds a special appreciation for you. You offer him a safe space to rant and confide in, providing the much-needed comfort and support he craves. Your non-judgmental attitude and genuine concern help him navigate the challenges he faces, allowing him to feel understood and accepted in a way he rarely experiences elsewhere.

He often describes it as you "fathering so hard you start mothering."

Vaggie finds that she can truly relax when you're around, feeling a sense of ease and comfort in your presence. As the only other voice of reason, she trusts your judgment implicitly and relies on your calm demeanour to navigate through challenging situations. Your steady presence serves as a source of stability and reassurance for Vaggie, allowing her to let her guard down and find moments of respite.

Pentious finds you a bit intimidating, not because of any unkindness, but because of the confidence you exude. In his opinion, you're just as kind as Charlie, but you possess a certain assurance and composure that comes with experience, something he feels Charlie lacks. Your presence commands respect, and while he admires your kindness, he also can't help but feel a bit in awe of your self-assuredness.

Nifty's fondness for you was evident from the start, as she frequently left out little gifts for you to find, even if they were admittedly a bit peculiar, reminiscent of a cat bringing their owner a dead mouse. Despite their unusual nature, you graciously thanked her for each and every one, appreciating the gesture and the sentiment behind it. However, you discreetly disposed of the gifts without her ever knowing, understanding that some things are better left unseen.

Alastor views you as competition to a degree. While you maintain friendly terms and often engage in pleasant conversation over drinks, he senses that you're hiding a lot of things, particularly the extent of your power. Despite the amicable facade, he can't shake the feeling that there's more to you than meets the eye, and he's wary of the potential threat you may pose.

Husk is the only one who truly sees how burned out you are, recognizing the exhaustion weighing on you emotionally. Initially, you resisted opening up, even when he made efforts to encourage you to do so. The irony of being the therapist of the hotel in need of therapy yourself wasn't lost on you.

However, over time, you began to slowly share what was bothering you with Husk. While you didn't reveal too much, simply being able to express some of your feelings was a relief. Knowing that someone understood and cared enough to listen provided a small measure of comfort amidst the turmoil of your own emotions.

When Lucifer comes to visit the hotel, he's immediately passive-aggressive toward you, seeing in you exactly what he wants to be with Charlie: a father figure who's there for his daughter. Despite his initial animosity, he can't hold onto his resentment for too long, especially as you both naturally fall into a co-parent-like relationship.

You catch him up on what Charlie has been up to over the years, serving as a key component in patching up their fractured father-daughter relationship. Over time, Lucifer begins to appreciate your genuine care and concern for Charlie, and despite his pride, he acknowledges the positive impact you've had on their relationship.

The first time anyone in the hotel witnessed you engage in combat happened during Lucifer's visit, while he and Charlie were engaged in conversation. Suddenly, you felt your surroundings shake, signalling the onset of a confrontation.

A flurry of emotions overwhelmed you at first, but one thing became clear: your daughters and friends were in danger, and you would not let it slide.

By the time everyone emerged outside, you were already in the midst of the carnage, your clothes and face stained with blood. Despite attempting to wipe the liquid off with your thumb, it only served to smudge further into your skin. Turning to face the group, a grim determination etched across your features.

Maybe there was a good reason you were in Hell after all.

Note: I love hacker!reader but I wanted to do something else for once. This was more so because I wanted to give the hh cast a "mom friend," and the first person that always comes to mind is Suguru for some reason? Idk. I hope you enjoyed!

(Masterlist)

[lucid-loves]

Taste Like Venom ~ Simon "Ghost" Riley Part 3

Pairing: Ghost x assassin!reader (fem!reader, no use of y/n, callsign “Hex”)

Word Count: 3.7k

CW: angst, violence, blood, strong language, scars, enemies to friends to lovers trope, slow burn, fluff, clear attraction and sexual tension, smut later on, reader POV and ghost POV, minors dni, Soap lives in this AU

Let me know if I missed any CWs.

Story Synopsis: After Makarov gets away once again, Laswell decides to force a favor from you, the world’s greatest assassin and best-kept secret. You are now expected to help the 141 with taking down Makarov in addition to playing nice with them. It’s hard to play nice when you have always worked alone. It doesn’t help that one of the team members, Ghost, gets curious about you in each interaction. 

Chapter Synopsis: The great 141 road trip is fine in the beginning, but being on the road for eleven hours clearly gets to everyone, especially you. For once, Ghost tries to show you some genuine compassion without any ulterior motives. 

A/N: Thought that this would not only be a fun part to write, but also a breather to get to develop more character dynamics. Feel free to comment what you think each member of the 141 favorite music genre is! Including your own~

Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Part 5 ~ Part 6 ~ Part 7 ~ Part 8 ~ Part 9 ~ Part 10

Such a long drive was new territory for the boys. They were so used to helicopter rides, armored cars, and jets to take them where they needed to go fast. For their size and stature, the minivan was cramped, slightly rough on the road, and just plain weird. It took a few seat adjustments before everyone was as comfortable as they could be. Save for Gaz. He just prayed that a pit stop was coming soon and someone would be willing to switch seats with him.

For the first hour, the ride was noisy with conversation. Conversation that tried to reel you in. Price, looking through the front windshield, asked you a question. “How do you know where you’re going, Hex?”

“I’ve spent time memorizing road maps around the area. We’re taking a back road. A scenic route. Any other cars on the road would further see this minivan as a family road trip through the country.” You elaborated, your eyes steady on the road ahead. There were a lot of twists and turns on this route, but you knew that it would pay out in the end.

“Hidden in plain sight.” Soap added, his tone showing that he was a bit impressed with the logic of it all. Perhaps you knew what you were doing after all. Without you meaning to or doing anything extraordinary, the group was slowly starting to trust you and your judgment as evidenced by your creative planning. You were becoming quite the leader as well. But, you weren’t completely out of the woods yet. They still kept some of their guards up, just in case.

“There’s a method to the madness. Don’t underestimate the power of assumptions.” You advised, a word of advice that would hopefully stick with them after all of this was over. If they listened, perhaps some problems the world was facing could actually be solved. 

Soap pulled out his phone with the intention of making this trip more enjoyable. Making sure that his VPN you required was turned on, he began to browse through songs using his music app. Once he added his favorite songs, he passed it to his captain. “Whatever you want, Cap. No genre limits.”

Price took the phone and rubbed his chin for a second in thought, his brick-brown beard moving with his fingers. Eventually, he added some songs to the playlist. Once he was satisfied, he passed the phone to Gaz who lit up at the idea. “Now it’s gonna feel like a real road trip!”

A few more songs were added before the phone was passed all the way up to Ghost. Hesitantly, Ghost added his own favorite songs. His teammates knew him decently well. They’re even seen his face before under the mask. However, there were still things they were learning about when it came to his personal life. One of which was his favorite kind of music. Thankfully, he was willing to share that information, trusting his team more and more with each passing day. 

He looked at you when he was done, wondering if he should even offer. Having watched the interactions from the mirror, you decided to stay out of it. When Ghost was done, you just shook your head for a silent “no.” Simon imagined that you were rejecting the idea in your mind based on the warning look you gave him. Don’t even try. That made him really wonder what kind of music you liked. The records back home were incredibly diverse. But what was your favorite? Jazz? Metal?

The phone was passed back to Soap. It was quite a diverse playlist. He didn’t realize that his team had such different tastes, but it just made him excited to give it a listen. He connected it to the car’s bluetooth and hit the shuffle button. Ghost went ahead and switched the car to bluetooth mode for him. Almost immediately, the car filled up with music, starting with one of Price’s songs. 

Instead of tuning out, you tuned in. Very much so. Small details, even favorite songs, could say a lot about a person. You were learning about the men now. Not for the sake of potential friendship, no. For the sake of information for potential future manipulation if things went sideways. You always prepared for the worst, even when times seemed like the best. 

The discussion carried forward, now with the ease of real music in the background. Gaz decided to take the plunge and ask you a question. “So. . . Hex. . . You lived a long time out in the woods. How did you survive on your own? There doesn’t seem to be a grocery store for miles around.”

You adjusted your sitting position, trying to get comfier in the driver’s seat. If you were going to deal with this for most of the trip, you might as well get as comfortable as you can. You answered, one hand on the wheel and one arm resting near the window. “I have an acquaintance who’s a farmer that gives me whatever I need. In return, I pleasure his wife, which helps save their marriage.”

His eyes got huge, not expecting the answer. He nearly tripped over his words. “Really?!”

“No, Kyle. You really think I would do such a thing?” You scowled. Internally, though, you were cracking up at his bewilderment. Soap and Price began chuckling in their seats. Even Simon was cracking a smile that no one could see. Kyle’s embarrassed blush that matched the falling red leaves outside made them even more amused. Who knew you had a sense of humor? A crude sense at that. 

He muttered an apology. At least he was a good sport about it. A part of him found it quite funny too. After the chuckles died down, you answered his question truthfully. “Kate does supply drops for me. Not all the time, just when I need more meat than the woods can provide. Everything else I grow.”

It was an answer that made sense and didn’t reveal much about yourself. Nothing too fascinating about it. At least, to everyone save for Ghost. He took note of your truth, pictured you growing fruits and vegetables, hands in the dirt and sweat dripping down your temple. He imagined you hunting too. A heavy rifle and camo. Patience, aim, fire. He thought that some of the foods he had from your kitchen tasted a little gamey. 

“Didn’t you ever get lonely being out there all by yourself?” Soap inquired, not afraid to ask the question that was on everyone’s mind. All eyes were on you as you took a deep breath.

“No, Johnny. Never.”

This was partially a lie as well as partially the truth. There were times where you did feel alone. Like the only human left on the planet. Kate’s calls every now and then help curb it a little, but it wasn’t the same as actually being in the same space with someone physically. Yet, when you were surrounded by people on a classified mission or watching disaster after disaster on TV, it made you glad that you weren’t a part of any of it. The flurry of different emotions coming from all different sides when with civilization was often too much for you. You needed control. More control than what you could usually get when you were on the outside again.

Simon was watching you carefully now, trying to pick up any indication of a cracked resolve. A twitch, a change in breathing, anything to read into further. There was no way you never felt lonely. Yet, you said it with such conviction that it startled everyone. Ghost just couldn’t believe you.

Having killed the conversation, the boy awkwardly tried to change topics. Now excluding you. Good. You preferred it this way.

~

A few hours in and the car was quiet. Light, easy music played now from the car speakers as everyone took a nap. Except for Ghost, of course. Fortunately, he did keep himself occupied by reading the book you lent him. The first couple of chapters were a miss in his opinion. After a couple more, it started to get good. It didn’t take him long to actually get invested in the story, reading between the lines as you had done when you read. You had good tastes.

Enjoying the quietness of the trip was something you didn’t think you would be able to do. Especially with Simon in the front. Surprisingly, he was being good which you hoped would like for the rest of the trip. Unfortunately, you jinxed it in your head. Out of the corner of your eye, he bookmarked his spot and took a break. Now, he wanted to talk to you.

“You didn’t play your own music.” 

“So?” You shrugged, wondering where he was going with this. Nothing good probably.

“Why not?” He simply asked, himself not knowing what the big deal was. It was just music. You could have even lied. Picked out music you hated. Instead, you just opted out, not even willing to risk three minutes of any particular melody.

You suppressed an annoyed groan. Not this shit again. “What part of ‘leave me alone’ do you not understand, Simon?”

There you go again, saying his name with such disrespectful ease. It still made his heart beat faster hearing it from you. It still made his muscles tense in vexation as well. You noticed this from how the grip on his arms got tighter, his arms crossing his chest. “How much could music taste actually reveal about you as an individual?”

“A lot! God damn it, when are you going to drop this stupid shit? Quit playing your stupid fucking game?!” You spat, trying to keep your cursing at a low volume lest you wake up the rest of the team. Your knuckles were turning white with how hard you were gripping the steering wheel, desperately trying to keep your cool.

However, he didn’t drop it. He didn’t want to, so he wouldn’t. Simon could be just as stubborn as you which made you want to punch him. Have his teeth fall out of his mouth and get caught in his skull mask. “You mean to tell me that you’ve learned a lot about us based on our favorite songs alone? That’s just ridiculous, Hex.”

He could use your name as a curse too. Anything to get you to keep talking to him. Anything to keep your attention. To figure you out. As much as you didn’t want to give him what you wanted, you did anyway out of sheer aggravation. “It’s called Music Psychology, you fucking ass! Do they do anything besides tell you what to shoot in that god forsaken military?! Do they really keep you all fucking braindead?!”

“Watch your mouth, Hex! You don’t want to say anything you don’t mean.” Simon warned, his voice low like a bass about to snap its strings. He had to remind himself that you weren’t like them when it came to combat approach to cool down. The 141 employed leadership, strength, swift execution. An assassin like you employed other values, one being the art of psychology apparently. 

He wasn’t going to let you badmouth his team and those back home that don’t deserve your slander, though. Many people back home were plenty capable with their own skill sets. It wasn’t fair to put them all in one box just because they followed the orders of the government.

“Watch my mouth?! Have you even heard the shit that’s coming out of yours?! Or is your head so far stuck up your own ass that you can’t hear what you say?” You antagonized further, making the situation worse with each passing insult.

“Why are you so fucking defensive?! You cracked a joke earlier, but now asking about your music tastes is too much? You don’t make any fucking sense, Hex. What the hell are you so afraid of?” His own voice was rising with volume as he spiraled out of control as well.

You were practically yelling at this point like the rest of the world didn’t exist except for you and Simon. A personal bubble where you could really try to rip him a new one. You didn’t hold back. “I’m not afraid of anything, Ghost! I just want you to leave me the fuck alone! Why are you so desperate to know me?!

“You’re part of this team, whether you like it or not!  Whether you want to be an enemy or not! Part of that is trusting us with your life. All of it!” He argued, trapping himself in this conflict bubble with you.

Your temper was boiling over to the point you could cry. Why was he doing this to you? Why couldn’t he just let this go? “Why can’t you understand that I am never going to be part of your team?! I never can and I never will!”

At that he paused. There was something about your last retort. Never can? It was oddly specific. What did that mean?

Just then, the light for gas lit up on the dashboard. You clenched your jaw, cursing more profanities that would have anyone blush. A couple miles down was a gas station. A wave of relief washed over you. Now you had an excuse to exit the car to get away from Simon.

You didn’t realize it before with how provoked you were, but the 141 in the back was awake and clearly heard the two of you bickering. The tension thick enough to choke on made it hard for them to interfere. This pit stop would hopefully let things settle down again.

As soon as the car was parked near an empty pump, the doors slid open to let the men out. It felt good to stretch their legs and breathe in some fresh air. It was about time Gaz was relieved of the back seat too. Price, Soap, and Gaz headed into the convenience store for a moment to pick up drinks and snacks, something that was essential for their road trip experience. You leaned against the car, waiting for the gas pump to finish. The entire time, Ghost sat silently in the front doing his own breathing exercises to get his temper under control. God, you were venomous. Troublesome, irritating, infernal, a million other words. Yet, you were beautiful when you were pissed. He couldn’t understand it.

Finally, the car was loaded up once again, now complete with drinks, snacks, and a full tank of gas. The seating arrangements changed, Price now in the back to allow Gaz a chance to let his legs stretch out more. Besides that, he didn’t really want to be up front with all of the conflict. He would normally break it up, but he still didn’t know enough about you to feel comfortable doing so. It was better for this to just play out. It wasn’t like Ghost couldn’t hold his own.

In an attempt to lighten the mood, Soap ripped open a bag of chips followed by a joke. “Looks like mom and dad are fighting again.”

The smirk on his face was quickly wiped away as a pair of keys jingled right near his ear, embedded in his head rest. You had turned from your seat as soon as you registered his distasteful joke, thrown the car keys like a knife, and narrowly missed pinning his ear against the fabric. The car was dead silent as you stared daggers into him. Despite being a strong man with plenty of experiences with danger along with close calls, this experience had Johnny near pissing himself. If looks could kill, he would have been six feet under already.

What was worse was the fact that you missed on purpose. 

“Shut the fuck up! You are not to insinuate that again. Ever! Now, I don’t want anyone trying to talk to me or talk about me for the rest of this fucking trip. Talk to each other, I don’t give a shit. But no more dragging me into any conversation. Are we fucking clear?!”

You were met with quick, obedient nods followed by Soap gingerly handing you back your keys. Before you all knew it, you were back on the road like you didn’t just nearly kill Soap.

Simon was speechless, not expecting you to be so. . . dangerous. His feelings about what just happened were conflicting. On one hand, he wanted to fight you to defend his trusted sergeant that meant no harm, even if he didn’t really like the joke either. On the other hand, he’s never been more attracted to a woman in his life.

The car ride was silent for the next several hours.

~

Your muscles ached from your stiff position. You’ve been driving this whole time, only allowing gas breaks to be your time to stretch out. The boys have rotated seats every stop, now including Ghost who was finally giving you some space by being in the back. Last stop, though, he moved right up to the front with you once again. 

You were getting the dreaded road trip tunnel vision. After so many hours of driving, you couldn’t see anything except for the road ahead. You weren’t so much as driving anymore. You more like just looking out the front windshield, barely keeping up with the surrounding area that passed by. What you normally would recognize as trees, road signs, and roadkill were now just a big blur.

“You’re tired.” Simon commented, treading very carefully. He didn’t want to start another fight. Far from it. He just couldn’t bear to see you so exhausted from driving. 

“I’m fine.” Your voice strained, having lost some of it from the screaming match earlier in the trip. You weren’t used to talking so much as you have been for the past week, let alone fighting with words. A warm cup of tea with honey sounded so good right now.

Ghost took a deep breath in before he gently settled his hand on your shoulder. The fact that you didn’t shrug his touch away was very telling that you were really out of it. “Come on, Hex. Just for a bit. Pull over and I’ll take over the drive. We can switch back after you recuperate.”

It took you a minute to agree. Pulling off to the side of the road, you switched places. The room to stretch out in the passenger side was very much needed. Your bones cracked as you really gave yourself time to take it easy for a moment. “Just an hour. Then, we’ll switch.”

He nodded, finally agreeing with you on something out loud. “Just an hour.”

~

You ended up dozing off for longer than intended. Despite the agreement, Simon let you rest. The trip was already almost complete anyway. What was two more hours to add to your much needed rest?

When the car slowed to a stop, the gang woke up out of their naps, eager to exit the minivan and head into the average-looking hotel you had designated as the new checkpoint. It was nearing dinner-time, the city bustling with people heading to enjoy their meals. Price was ready for something other than chips. Soap and Gaz were already discussing potential food spots as if they were tourists. 

As they unloaded the car to carry their things into the hotel, you stayed asleep. Dead asleep. The deepest sleep you have had in what felt like a lifetime. The men were careful to not wake you up as they unloaded luggage after luggage out of the trunk. When everything was squared away with checking in as well as bringing luggage up to the rooms, you were still snoozing away, much to their surprise.

Price opened up your door, ready to wake you up to get a move on. However, Ghost stopped his hand from touching you. “I’ll take her up. Just go ahead and grab some grub.”

Well, John wasn’t going to say no to that offer. He would rather not be bit by such a feral woman. Though, he did feel like he had to warn Ghost of what he was really doing, having observed just about everything he was trying to do in regards to you. “You’re playing with fire, you know.”

Ghost unlocked your seatbelt and picked you up out of the minivan in a princess carry. Miraculously, you still didn’t wake up. “I know. . .”

The hotel staff were concerned with him carrying you into the hotel. A large man with a skull mask carrying an unconscious lady certainly didn’t look good. In order to avoid interference, Simon had a lie ready for when a bodyguard approached. “I know the mask is scary, but it hides some burn scars. I’m just taking the missus up to the room. She fell asleep in the car.”

Not being paid enough to question the lie, he allowed the both of you to pass by. 

You were heavy in his arms, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He could feel the softness of your skin, the firmness of your muscles. He could make out each individual eyelash that just barely kissed under your eyes. As much as you drove him crazy, you truly were beautiful.

The ding of the elevator reaching their floor knocked him out of his trance. Using a room key, he headed into your space for the next couple of days. The room was pretty basic. A bed, a dresser, tv, bathroom, nightstands, a desk. The only thing that really made it stand out was the original art of the wall made by local, Italian artists. 

He settled your sleeping body down onto the queen-sized bed, brushing your hair out of your face as you settled into the mattress. Looking at you like this was a breath of fresh air for him. He didn’t think he would be able to see you like this so soon. 

Sleeping around others was a sign of trust. Were you just really that exhausted? Probably. Ghost would still take this as a sign of victory anyway.

For a few moments longer, he studied your features. The sound of his stomach grumbling for a meal encouraged him to leave you be for now to which his brain protested. Then again, you probably wouldn’t like it if you found out that he watched you sleep.

Before he left, he took one last look at you, burning the image into his mind. “You said you didn’t sleep, kitten.”

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

The Middle & What's In Between

Elks Chapter 3 Version 2.0

Chapter Rating: T. (Nothing explicit for the first few chapters.) Chapter Summary: You complete your mural for Joel as your feelings for him grow even stronger, and he might just feel the same way for you. Chapter Warnings: mention of child loss, first kiss, joel being ridiculously soft and touching your cheek a lot, spilled paint water (my enemy), cursive and brand new cd mentions (i'm writing what i know folks), like, zero drama at all, i'm sorry i'm so adverse to writing angst when it comes to jackson joel. Words: 3,700 Header courtesy of @saradika-graphics

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Masterlist Playlist

“The Recluse” by Cursive. 

The rain still falls on Friday, puddles grow in size and make everyone’s shoes soaked. Your students are grumpy with the canceled patrol training, and your own patience quickly dissipates due to the anticipation of going back to Joel’s house. 

You ring your bell to signal the end of the day. Your students are quick to all file out of the room–all except for Ellie, who lingers. 

“Saw what you’re doing at Joel’s,” she says, a small smile tugging at her upper lip, “I like it a lot.”

“Thanks. I figured I’d run into you while I was there. Where’ve you been?”

“I’ve been hanging in the garage. Joel ‘n I just got it all set up for me. Thought I’d give you and him some time alone.” 

“...Time alone?” 

“Yup. You know, alooooone time.” 

“Ellie. Come on now. Stop. I’m painting a freakin’ mural for him.”

“Okay, Teach, whatever you say,” she grins mischievously. “I see him looking at you all the time. He has big eyes, I don’t think he realizes I know exactly where he’s looking. I think he likes yoooou.” 

“Shut up,” you roll your eyes. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Nope! I’m leaving you two alone. I’ll see you Monday!” Ellie winks from the doorway.

You shake your head as she leaves, you’ve never met a kid like her.

After laying out your library supplies for the morning and locking up the school, you hurry home to drop off your bag. You change into your painting clothes, eat one of your homemade granola bars, and pick up the gift you’ve grabbed for Joel. With a goodbye pet and nuzzle for your cats, you turn your lamp on and close the door behind you, stepping into the chilly, soaked spring evening. The short walk to Joel’s feels longer under the pouring rain.

For the third time in a week, you’re outside of Joel’s house wearing your same paint-splattered overalls. You return his smile when Joel opens the door with a dish towel in his hands.

“Come on in,” he says, drying his hands. You’ve become entranced by the sight of someone like him–capable and rough around the edges–do something so domestic. The same hands that wash dishes, cook dinner, and adjust couch pillows have also held weapons and taken lives. His voice breaks you out of your thoughts. “Hope the rain didn’t make it too bad gettin’ here.”

“Oh, it was fine,” you say, wiping your feet on his doormat and closing your umbrella. “Nothing was as bad as dealing with the kids today, they hate canceled training days.”

“M’sure of that,” Joel says, glancing down at the two umbrellas in your hand.

You hold one out to him. “So, I had a spare umbrella in my house, and was saving it for a– rainy day. I want you to have it so you don’t have to walk in the rain when you walk me–or someone else home.” 

“Mmhmm,” Joel nods and chuckles. “Only people I’ve walked home are you ’n technically Ellie to the garage. One time Tommy when he had a little too much to drink.”

“Well, it’ll do you more use than sitting in my closet.” 

“Thanks. Real sweet of you.” His eyes stay on yours for a moment. You’d give him a hundred umbrellas just to keep him looking at you this way. 

“I should start, should be done with everything tonight,” you huff out, while trying to calm your nerves.

“Course,” he steps aside to let you move into the room. Your brushes and paints are exactly where you left them the night before, but a new addition catches your eye.

Your breath hitches. “You moved your stereo in here?” 

“I did,” he says, stepping beside you. “Thought you’d like to pick whatever CD you want without havin’ to leave the room. It’ll be louder in here. Your book’s right next to it for you.”

“Joel… this is so sweet,” you gasp out while your fingers absentmindedly rub the daisy pendant around your neck. “You moved everything, this had to have taken a long time.”

“Was no problem,” he shrugs, “I wanted to do something nice for ya.”

“You’ve already done so much Joel,” you say softly.

“It’s been real nice havin’ you around,” his voice makes your heart race. “It’s bee–I like having your company in the evenings.”

“I’ve enjoyed being here too,” you reply with a smile, barely able to hear your own voice over the thudding in your chest.

He lingers for a moment before clearing his throat. “Alright then, I’m gonna let you get started. Put on some music, let me know if you need anything. I’ll be in the dining room working.”

You nod, grateful for the moment to compose yourself as you pick up your CD book.

“And now we proudly present Songs perverse and songs of lament A couple hymns of confession And songs that recognize our sick obsessions So sing along I’m the ugly organ!”

It feels like twenty years ago. You paint as you play one of your favorite albums, The Ugly Organ. It still works, one of the few small miracles in the apocalypse. You pick it because you think Joel might just like it. 

Your mind drifts to a web of familiar thoughts as you paint…

There are so many things everyone lives without now:  traffic reports, amusement parks, cell phones, hot dogs, airplanes. Inconsequential things missed. Major life moments missed. You never got your driver's license. You never got to go to your first school dance with James, your cute friend who definitely had a crush on you too. You never got to go to Disney World. 

You learned fairly quickly that your survival was dependent on how much you could sacrifice and live without. Especially in the QZ, where bright colors disappeared under layers of dust and decay, once shiny metal rusting away. Three meals a day replaced by a morsel of food here and there to keep your stomach from growling. Freedom of choice becoming nonexistent.

But art? You still had art. You were lucky to have your three art notebooks and box of colored pencils. Those pencils whittled down by years and years of use. When the pages of your books filled up, you turned to your walls. Your ration cards were bartered for anything you could use to draw with whenever you could afford it. Your notebooks held your fantasy of a normal life:  a takeout coffee cup with a croissant on a plate next to a folded up newspaper, a Christmas tree adorned with ornaments and garland, a brick house with urns full of flowers by the front door, a bowl of macaroni and cheese. 

Then, Jackson. Jackson brought you color, Jackson brought you music, Jackson brought you a place to feel like you had a home. Jackson brought you your close circle of friends, Jackson brought you your belief in civility, and yourself, back. And Jackson gave you Joel. The thought of him sends a chill up your spine as you realize how special he’s become to you, more than just a crush… now a friend. 

The CD ends, after the rousing ten-minute-long final song. The lead singer repeats “the worst is over” along with a grand choir. The words resonate with you, you’re safe and happy here in Jackson. Life feels full… especially now as you’ve found some sort of companionship with Joel. 

You step back and admire the mural. Flowers begin to bloom across Joel’s wall. The water held in your paint jar turns just as violet as the bluebells across the wall. Your sense of pride in your art grows along with each painted bluebell. 

You pick up your CD book and flip through the pages, choosing the last CD you bought before that fateful fall day in 2003. Black birds fly across the reflective silver disc. You slide it into the stereo and hit play before picking up your brush. 

“I’m sinking like a stone in the sea, I’m burning like a bridge for your body”

The week before the world ended, you scheduled your drivers license test. Monday, September 29 at 4 PM. You were so close to freedom. You had already warned your favorite teacher that you’d have to leave art club early, and your mom requested off to take you in. You had practiced and studied, you were confident you’d pass. 

You glance towards the doorway, where you can faintly hear Joel working in the dining room. What was his life like back then? What did he drive? What kind of responsibilities did he have?  You know he was a contractor. What reason would he have to leave work early? 

You ponder about Joel's life before the outbreak as you paint each petal, getting lost in mixing the perfect indigo hues for each bell.

The final song plays, the singer croons over his acoustic guitar. He sings a story about a shipwreck, about death, about love. It’s your favorite, you never got to learn it on guitar. 

“What they call love is a risk, You'll always get hit, Out of nowhere, By some wave and end up on your own”

You finish the last few bluebells in complete silence save for the random hammer knocks coming from Joel in the other room.

You dip your brush in your jar of water and step back. Long green stems sprout from the baseboard, green wispy stalks shooting out embellished with bells of all different hues of lavender and indigo. You’re proud of what you’ve created for Joel, you hope he loves it. 

“Joel,” you call softly, peeking your head out of the doorway down the hall, “it’s done.”

You hear the scrape of the chair against the hardwood floor. Your heart begins to hammer against your chest as you hear his steps get closer. You’re nervous, so unbelievably nervous. You want him to like it, you’ve never done this for someone else. Nobody has ever asked you to share your creation with them in such a large size. Your art now takes up a piece of his home now, that feels monumental. 

You stand in front of the mural, staring forward at the mural as you hear him enter the room. You can’t bring yourself to look at him. You wait, feeling your heart thump against your chest as he stands behind you. Then, a sharp inhale from him.

“Wow…” he exhales. You can hardly hear him. “This is beautiful… thank you.” 

You want to smile and turn to him, be more present in the moment, but instead you feel like you don’t belong here. The vulnerability of this moment along with the feelings you have for him overwhelms you.

You nod, swallowing hard, still focusing on the wall. “I’m glad you like it,” you manage to say, your voice quiet and shy. 

“I… had a daughter before …everything. Name was Sarah,” the tenderness in his voice almost breaks you as you hear his revelation, “used t’call her my bluebell.”

Everything inside of you sinks at his admission. Sarah. You try to offer some sort of comfort, but everything feels inadequate. All you can do is apologize. “Joel… I’m sorry, so sorr—“

“I know you are,” he cuts you off gently. “I don’t need to hear that, please.”

He steps closer towards you, his front brushes against your back. “Seeing these flowers here… it means a lot.”

“I’m glad, I’m so glad,” a heartbroken whisper escapes your lips. 

“Thank you,” one of his calloused, large hands lands on your shoulder. Skin meeting skin where your tank top and overalls don’t cover. 

“You’re welcome, I feel honored to do this for you… and her.” You swallow down the sadness in your voice. Everyone’s lost so much, it’s an unspoken understanding for everyone who has survived.

“You’re so talented, this is gorgeous sweetheart. Y’sweet, so sweet,” Joel whispers as he turns you to face him. He grabs your hand, his thumb brushing softly over your knuckles. “The way you’ve come into here, making it more beautiful with your art, your music, ’n your laughter. You’re so soft and pure, don’t know how someone like you still exists.”

“Joel,” you exhale at his confession. Your skin tingles all over, your body begins to warm. His sweet words shush the sadness held within you. 

His hand lifts to your chin, tilting your face up towards him. “So sweet,” he says again, his eyes roam around your face. Your lips part instinctively, his eyes drop to them. He slowly leans in, his forehead rests against yours, his warm breath fans across your skin. “Wanted to kiss ya’ the day I saw your classroom. The mural on the wall… you make everything around you more beautiful.” 

You breathe in his words with every inhale, words you could only dream of somebody telling you. His hand lets go of yours and moves to your back drawing you closer against his body. The tip of his nose nudges against yours. His lips meet your lips–softly, slowly, deliberately. He’s so gentle with you, overwhelming you. The tenderness of his touch and of his care, it’s not something you’ve ever felt. He makes you feel warm, he makes you feel safe. 

You melt under his touch, your body becoming pliant as his strong arm wraps around your waist. His large hand rests on your hip, fingers tracing the fabric of your overalls. You’re a grown woman and he makes you feel so small and juvenile, kissing your crush in your paint stained overalls after a day at school. 

The kiss turns hungrier, breaths quickening, tongues tasting tongues, the casualness and comfortability of the past few days turning into fevered kisses. You snake your hands up his chest to wrap around his neck, threading your fingers through his wavy hair. He pulls you even closer, your body now smashed against his. Joel lets out a guttural groan that vibrates against your lips as he lifts you and moves the two of you back towards his work bench.

A loud CLANG interrupts everything. You both blink, breathless, and look down to see the jar of paint knocked over, indigo tinted water spreading across the floor.

“Goddamnit,” Joel utters as he sets you back down on the floor, his chest rises and falls with deep breaths. “Knocked over the paint water.”

“I’m sorry, I’m usually careful about where I place that.” 

“S’okay, I’ll go get a towel,” he says, already walking out of the room.

You use your small paint rag to pathetically mop up a small bit of water, still trying to catch your breath from what just happened. 

Were you really just kissing Joel Miller? Did Joel Miller want to kiss you? He did. He definitely kissed you, and you kissed him back. He even said he wanted to kiss you before. He called you sweet. Are you dreaming? The man you’ve written songs about, the man you’ve watched from the corner of the bar, the man you’ve thought about every day since the first time you first saw him. That man you just kissed you.

“Guess we lucked out it didn’t break.” Joel interrupts your inner dialogue as he kneels down and places the towel over the stain.

“Sorry again,” you apologize. 

“Don’t worry yourself, it’s cleaned up just fine, I’ve done much worse to these floors with stain and dirt.” He stands, offering his hand and you take it. You rise with a smile, he doesn’t let go of your hand, his palm covers yours. “See? Back to brand new.” 

He’s so reassuring and so tender, now you know why–Joel Miller has known love before. 

“Was hoping my favor to you would be done but it’s not. Come on.” 

He doesn’t drop your hand as he leads you down the hallway into the dining room. On the table lies a guitar surrounded by tools. “Should be done tomorrow, there’s a fret that’s giving me a helluva time, but other than that it’s all fixed.” 

Your eyes widen at the sight. Music. “Joel… I—I can’t believe this.” You beam at him. “Thank you.” 

“Course sweetheart,” he raises his hand to your cheek to touch you again. “It’s nothin’, wanted you to have your music back.” 

Your fingers brush over the hard wood of the body, you note a rough patch from a hole that Joel filled in. The guitar is so worn and rugged but also so soft and polished. It’s beautiful. 

Joel’s kind action surrounds your heart and plants a thought in your brain quickly realizing everything that you’ve done with him the past few days. Does Joel really like you the way you like him? It feels impossible. How would someone like him like someone like you? He’s strong and capable, you’re just a lone woman who likes to paint pretty pictures of animals and talk to her cats for entertainment. You know many of the rumors you’ve heard about big, bad Joel Miller are true. What’s this man doing using his time to make something nice for you? 

“Joel, this is–wow–so much. Are you sure?”

He nods, his eyes steady on yours. “M’sure, I’m happy to do it, it really wasn’t difficult, ’n like I said, I just have to fix the last fret and it’ll be good.”

“Thank you, again, I can’t believe this.” 

“Believe it,” he says softly, his hand lingering on you cheek before letting it fall.

It’s so much, everything that has gone on between the two of you begins to overwhelm you–making you even more tired than you realize. You hide a yawn behind your forearm, blinking your tired eyes a couple of times. “Sorry,” you yawn again, “I always get tired on Friday evenings.”

He watches you, a look of affection in his eyes. “S’alright. I know you’re tired ’n have an early morning tomorrow.”

“I do…” as much as you hate to admit it, you should get home. You don’t want to. The affection, the kiss, the look in Joel’s eyes when he looks at you. You really like being here. You don’t know if you’ll get another chance. 

“I’ll walk you home, sweetheart. You have a lot to take.” 

There it is again. Sweetheart. Three times now, he’s called you that.

“I’m going to get all of my stuff packed up.” 

“Sure, I’ll help you,” he says, following you back into his studio. 

You start gathering your paints into your cardboard box, while Joel gingerly takes your CD out of the player, his movements measured as if he knows how much the disc means to you. Another sign of Joel’s ability to care that makes you fall deeper for him. 

“You know… like I said last night… you can come over any time and use my stereo,” he says, placing a hand on his neck and rubbing it back and forth.

He actually looks nervous as he extends his offer to you, making your heart skip a beat.

“I… yeah, that sounds really nice.” 

Joel picks up your box full of paint off of his work table, his eyebrows furrowing critically at the sight of the worn cardboard. “This box is on its last straw, you know that, right?”

“I do, I just… don’t really have anything else big enough to fit everything that I can easily carry.”

“Hmm,” he grunts disapprovingly, as if he truly does care about the inanimate objects that belong to you. 

“I hardly have to take it places, so it’s not that terrible,” you offer.

“Still deserve better than that,” he says under his breath tucking the box under his arm. 

Joel opens his door before grabbing his new umbrella. “No need to use yours, this’ll work for both of us.” 

“We’ve shared one before,” you smile.

Your comment grants a chuckle from Joel. You love hearing his laugh. “Come on, let’s get you home.” 

The rain is light now–almost more of a mist–there’s no reason for an umbrella, but neither of you acknowledge or mention it. You like being under it with Joel, you like feeling the way your bodies brush against each other. You like how he angles it to fully cover you, leaving his large frame half open to the elements. 

As your home comes into view, you start to feel a pang of sadness. You don’t want this walk to end. You’ve never felt like this with anybody before. The instant comfortability of him, the way you can make him laugh, and the way he watches you, as if he can’t take his eyes off of you. 

Joel places the box of paints down on your porch table. “You home tomorrow night?” 

“Yeah. Just have the library, but I’m usually back here by the late afternoon.”

“S’alright if I come by and drop your guitar off in the evening?”

“Yes, of course it is,” your voice squeaks a little too high with excitement. 

He smiles, stepping closer, his broad frame towering over you, blocking the soft glow of the porch light. “Alright sweetheart, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” his voice low, eyes locked on your lips.

Your back presses against the door, your heart pounding against your chest as he leans in. “Yes, tomorrow,” you manage to whisper out.

“Thank you for your beautiful gift,” he says softly, his breath warm against your skin. “I‘m gonna go sit in my chair, and look at it.”

“You’re welcome,” another whisper even quieter than the one before.

Joel leans in closer, angling his head down to place a quick soft kiss against your lips, you barely have a chance to savor it before he’s pulling away. 

He cups your cheek again. “G’night sweetheart,” his low voice makes your knees weak, thankful for he front door against your back. You watch as he turns and walks away, this time he doesn’t look back.

The Middle & What's In Between - Joel's Version

[zzoomacroom]

Live a Little

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Dreamling, One Shot, Fluff, Smut, Angst, Friends to Lovers, 6500 words

Late entry for @mr-sadman's Dreamling Week 2024 (Day 1: Indulgence, First Time). Also for @dreamlingbingo (Square A3: Friends to Lovers)

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Summary: Dream needs to be convinced that he’s allowed to indulge, to want, to live. Hob shows him some of the little things that make life worthwhile: good friends, good wine, fancy chocolate, and amazing sex.

Rating: Explicit

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022), The Sandman (Comics)

Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling

Additional Tags: Fluff, Smut, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Sexual Tension, Getting Together, First Time, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Oral Sex, Rimming, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, Under-negotiated Kink, Dream has bad blowjob etiquette but Hob is into it, not beta read

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“Make yourself at home, my friend,” Hob says, ushering his oldest and dearest friend into the sitting room. Dream nods soberly and heads for the sofa, while Hob turns back towards the hall. “Back in a tick. I’ve got a nice Pinot noir I’ve been saving that I think you’ll like.”

Before his friend can launch into his whole “You need not trouble yourself, I have no need for sustenance, blah blah blah” spiel, Hob darts through the hall and into the bright, cluttered kitchen at the back of the flat. He uncorks the wine and crouches down to rummage through the cabinets, hauling aside dishes and cast iron pans that would almost certainly be considered antiques by now. He knows they’re around here somewhere…

“Ha!” Hob makes a little noise of triumph as he retrieves the pair of dusty earthenware cups that he’d bought at an art fair a couple decades back. They’re handmade and painted in brilliant blues and greens, and the small bumps and imperfections on them remind him of the Border ware dishes he had owned back in the mid-16th century (minus the lead glaze, presumably).

Hob gives the cups a quick wash and dries them off before pouring the wine. He’s learned the hard way that Dream is not a fan of glass drinkware these days. When his friend explained the reason for this sudden aversion, Hob’s heart had shattered like the brandy snifter that Dream had dropped minutes before. Afterwards, he had gone through and purged his flat of wine glasses, glass bowls, and anything else that even vaguely resembled the prison Dream had described. Not just for his friend’s sake, but for himself; he doesn’t want that reminder either—the thought of his dear stranger, trapped, alone… If Hob had known…

God, if only he’d known…

Anyway. The point is, he’s been sticking with coffee mugs since then. But he can’t serve fine wine to the King of Dreams and Nightmares in a “Shag of the Century” mug, even if it does feel hilariously apropos, so it’s lucky he remembered these. The flat’s a bit of a mess as it is and he doesn’t want to come across as too much of a slob.

Hob hadn’t expected his old friend to drop by today. Well, to be honest, he never expects it, but he’s always thrilled to see him. Ever since they broke their centennial tradition with that first meeting at the New Inn, Dream has started visiting more frequently. At first it was brief, sporadic meetings at the pub, but he gradually started to come around more often, much to Hob’s delight. He’s shown up a few times when Hob was leaving work, instigating a riot of gossip among Hob’s coworkers and sixth-formers alike. Sometimes he visits Hob while he dreams, which had destroyed Hob’s entire perception of reality the first time it happened and still never ceases to blow his mind.

Usually the two of them come up to Hob’s flat, ostensibly to watch a movie or so that Hob can show off whatever new gadget he’s acquired, but the truth is that he wants Dream’s attention all to himself. Hob has always been a selfish, greedy man, and he can’t help but covet this precious time spent together. One never knows if the next Will Shakespeare is lurking in the pub.

He can never predict exactly when his friend will show up, but these days it seems like hardly a week passes without seeing him. So it’s odd that this is the first time he’s been by in over a month. Hob had noticed right away that something was troubling him; Dream seems even more distant and shuttered than usual today, and so Hob had herded him upstairs the moment he walked through the door.

He’s trying very hard not to be a mother hen, but in fairness the pub was starting to get crowded, and Hob knows that his friend is not fond of the noise. He’s just being considerate, he tells himself. Yes, he’s missed him desperately these past few weeks, and yes, the worry that he’d been captured again has consistently been in the back of Hob’s mind. But he has to rein it in and play it cool, lest he trigger another incident like 1889. He knows how lucky he is, how spoiled he’s become, getting to see Dream so often after having gone a century (or more) between meetings. So he knows he’s being a bit silly, getting so antsy after only a month apart.

Still. He worries.

(Continue reading below or on ao3):

Hob returns to the sitting room, wine bottle in one hand and the two cups balanced precariously in the other. He stifles a gasp and nearly drops them when he sees his friend perched on the sofa, having evidently vanished his coat and shoes back to the Dreaming, leaving his feet and arms bare. Hob simultaneously feels like a prude and a pervert as he drinks in the rare sight of that flawless ivory skin.

Then his heart swells with fondness—Dream has actually attempted to make himself at home, like Hob offered. “Attempted” being the key word; he does rather look like he’s sitting in a waiting room instead of on his friend’s sofa. Like he’s not sure how comfortable he’s allowed to get. Hob wants to make him comfortable, wants to wrap him in soft blankets and feed him soup and make him understand how fiercely loved he is.

Steady on, Hobsie. Get a hold of yourself.

Dream looks up from the worn copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy he’s been thumbing through, and if Hob didn’t know any better he’d say there was a faint blush blooming on his perfect cheekbones.

See, that’s the elephant in the room: the ever-present sexual tension between them has been at an all-time high lately. Obviously, Hob fell in love with Dream the second he laid eyes on him—how could he not?—and occasionally, over the centuries, he’s felt a spark of… something, from his stranger (that look he’d given him in 1789 being the most flagrant example). And he’s been feeling that something more and more often these days.

Maybe he’s just a lovesick, hope-stricken old fool, but Hob has a sneaking suspicion that his feelings for his friend are, at least to some small degree, reciprocated. Hob is sure as hell not going to make the first move; he cringes as he remembers how that had gone the last time he tried it. But it’s alright. He can be patient. He has been patient. And if nothing ever happens between them, well, that’s alright too. This easy companionship that they’ve developed is more than Hob could have ever hoped for, and he considers himself a lucky man indeed.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

“Here we are, my friend.” Hob hands one of the cups to Dream—the blue one that matches his eyes—and settles beside him on the sofa, stretching and making a point of putting his feet up on the coffee table to signal to his friend that he’s allowed to relax. And he does seem to get the hint, his shoulders easing down a fraction as he leans back into the cushions. “To life,” Hob says, tilting his cup Dream’s direction. Dream responds with a small, slightly pained smile and gently clinks his cup against Hob’s before taking a sip, humming appreciatively as he drinks.

“Good, eh?” Hob grins, thrilled that his friend is enjoying it.

“Indeed. This is a fine vintage. I thank you for sharing it with me,” Dream replies solemnly.

“I can’t think of anyone better to share it with,” Hob says, perhaps a bit too earnestly, and Dream’s blush deepens ever so slightly. “So,” Hob clears his throat, “what have you been up to, my friend? It’s been a while since I saw you last.” Dream stiffens at that, and Hob hastily adds, “If you want to talk about it, that is. You don’t have to.”

Dream takes another long sip of wine and shakes his head before speaking. “I was with family. I spent some time with my youngest sister, as well as some other relations. One whom I had not seen in centuries, and. Another. With whom I had not spoken in millennia.”

To Hob’s credit, his mind boggles only a little at that. “Well, that’s nice, isn’t it? Family reunion and all?”

Dream makes a small noise—of agreement or skepticism, Hob couldn’t say—and looks away as he continues to drink his wine. It’s obvious that something has happened; Dream seems… hopeless. Resigned. To what, Hob doesn’t dare guess. Dream doesn’t seem inclined to share more at the moment, and there’s a beat of awkward silence as Hob fumbles through his mind for a new topic of conversation. He’s mentally reviewing his day for any interesting stories to tell when he notices his friend staring at the small box wrapped in gold paper on the coffee table, seemingly lost in thought.

Hob springs forward and opens the box, nudging the chocolates in Dream’s direction. “Oh! Where are my manners? Help yourself to those. Some of my coworkers got them for my birthday—well, what they think is my birthday.”

Dream blinks at him. “I do not need to eat.”

Hob chuckles. “Nobody needs to eat chocolate. It’s purely for pleasure. You don’t need to drink this very good wine either, but you’re enjoying it,” he points out, topping off both of their cups to underscore his argument. “And I bet these would go great with the Pinot.” He takes a vanilla cream-filled one for himself before pushing the box closer to Dream. “Go on, they’re quite nice. It’s the expensive stuff. I think that one’s caramel, and that’s a raspberry cream…”

A tiny smile creeps over his friend’s face as he speaks. “My sister is fond of those. Or. Something like them.”

Hob is immensely curious about these family members Dream keeps mentioning, but he doesn’t want to pry; he knows by now that if Dream wants to share something with him, he’ll do so in his own time. “Well, please, have as many as you’d like. I’ll never finish them all before they go stale, so you’d be doing me a favor.”

“I do not usually. Indulge,” Dream says, though he is still staring (longingly, one might almost say) at the cocoa-dusted confections.

“You mean to tell me you’ve got the entire Dreaming at your fingertips, and you don’t indulge in all the lovely things you’ve made? That, my friend, is a tragedy.” Hob smiles and shrugs. “Well, if you won’t indulge yourself, then why not indulge me? I won’t make you eat them, of course, but…” he takes a bite of the bonbon (it really is good, even if it’s a bit too sweet for his taste), “you’d be missing out.”

The gloom that had earlier enshrouded Dream seems all but dissipated, and Hob can’t help but notice the way his friend’s eyes flick to his mouth, the starry voids of his pupils blown wide. Hob is considerably flustered himself right now, but he manages to give his friend what he hopes is a roguishly charming wink.

Dream glances down, his cheeks reddening further. “Very well. If you insist,” he says primly, like he’s doing Hob a favor as he delicately plucks a milk chocolate truffle from the box. And he is doing him a favor; Hob already counted it as a win that he was enjoying the wine, and this is just… well, the icing on the cake. Hmm, maybe he can get him to try cake next time…

Hob loses his train of thought as he watches his friend bite into the chocolate. Dream’s eyes widen before fluttering shut, and the moan he lets out is downright sinful. It’s enthralling. Hob is in trouble.

Dream keeps his eyes closed while he savors the confection, his tongue darting out to lick the powdered cacao from his petal-pink lips. He swallows audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and Hob shivers as he envisions…

No. Now is not the time. Keep it together, old man. Hob shifts and crosses his legs, vainly attempting to ignore the heat pooling low in his belly and the subtle tightening of his trousers.

“Thank you, my friend,” Dream murmurs, glancing demurely at Hob. “They are. Nice. As you said.”

“Of course. I’m glad you like them,” Hob beams. “Help yourself to more. Anything I have, you’re welcome to,” he adds, gesturing vaguely around the flat.

Dream stares at him for a long moment, with a hunger in his eyes that brings to mind that look, the one he’d given him in 1789. There’s something else in his expression, though. Something sad. But before Hob can attempt to decipher it, Dream schools his features, once more a mask of emotionless detachment (except for the telltale flush that has now spread from his cheeks to his ears and neck).

They’re sitting quite close together on the sofa, Hob notices. Had he scooted over without realizing, or was that Dream? There’s no body heat, no familiar human scent coming from his friend, but Hob can feel a strange sort of energy emanating from him—something like static electricity. Like the heavy, expectant stillness that comes before a storm.

Dream slowly, hesitantly reaches for another piece, and as he leans forward their thighs brush together ever so faintly.

Hob’s breath hitches.

Although they’ve been meeting regularly for a couple years now, they have never so much as shaken hands. This is unprecedented.

Hob exhales shakily, and he can’t hold back the embarrassing little noise that escapes him. He tries to disguise it as a cough, but Dream freezes and draws back suddenly as if he’s been bitten.

“It’s alright,” Hob says softly, almost a whisper, like his friend is some skittish wild beast who might flee at any second (actually, that’s about the size of it). “Have another one.”

Dream shrinks back into the sofa, looking suddenly rueful. “I should not.”

Hob laughs nervously. “Now don’t tell me you’re trying to watch your figure, because you’re already…” he splutters and trails off, tugging on his earlobe as a prickling heat creeps up the back of his neck.

Too much. Stupid. So bloody stupid, just shut up.

He hasn’t had nearly enough wine for his mind to be so fuzzy and his mouth so loose. So why can’t he get a grip?

"It’s just—I mean,” he goes on, his treacherous mouth continuing to prattle on despite his brain’s feeble protests, “my point is, it’s alright to indulge. You of all people deserve to indulge. And I offered, so… please. Take what you want. You’re allowed to want things, Dream. And you deserve to have what you want. And—and I know, you can conjure anything up out of dreams and stardust. But even so. I just… I want you to know that anything I have, anything I can offer, however trivial, it’s yours if you want it. And it’s just chocolate and wine, eh? So… why not live a little?”

Hob looks up, apparently done with his ramble, to find Dream staring at him, his head cocked in that adorable way of his. His lips are parted slightly and his eyes shine with unshed tears.

Oh, brilliant. Great fucking job, Hobsie. Just don’t know when to quit, do you?

“Hob,” his friend begins, his voice a deep rumble of distant thunder, more of a feeling than a sound. “You are very generous. More so than is wise, and far more than I deserve. But I am afraid that your generosity may be. Misplaced. You say that I should ‘live a little,’ but. I am not… alive, in the way that you are. I do not live. I simply… am.”

Hob stares at him, dumbfounded, while his heart breaks into a thousand pieces. That… is the saddest fucking thing Hob has ever heard in the two-thirds of a millennium that he’s been alive. It all makes sense now. That’s why Dream has always been so interested in the mundane minutiae of his life. He’s been living vicariously through Hob, and all the while he’s got no life of his own. Just… existing, not living, for billions of years, and on and on until the end of time.

But that’s not true, is it? No. Hob rejects the entire premise. Dream may not be a living, breathing human, but he’s a person. And he does so have a life; he’s got a family. He’s got friends. If nothing else, he’s got Hob. He’s more than just his bloody function that he’s always going on about. Hob wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Tell him that he can live, he must.

Hob’s mind is already racing with ideas—he’s going to have to up his game; they can’t keep meeting at the pub or in Hob’s flat. There’s so much more out there to do and see. Maybe, instead of living vicariously through him, Hob can convince Dream to do some living with him. Not like that… Just. Bucket list-type stuff, even though neither of them can die. Although he doubts Dream would go for it; the mental image of his dear friend skydiving is as far-fetched as it is hilarious.

Of course, he doesn’t dare say any of that. He’s sure he’s already overstepped with that unhinged rant he just went on. He ought to quit while he’s ahead and drop the subject before he offends Dream. Still, it’s impossible not to notice the way Dream has been swaying closer to him over the course of this conversation. The way the air between them seems to crackle with electricity.

“Nevertheless,” Dream continues, “I am grateful for your kindness. Thank you, my friend.”

"'Course,” Hob murmurs. “Like I said. Anything I can offer, it’s yours. So… what do you want?”

Dream falters for a moment and seems to be intensely focused on picking at a nonexistent loose thread on the hem of his t-shirt. “I… I must confess that I do not know what to say. When you ask me this. It is not in my nature to want; desire is the domain of my sibling. It is not within the purview of dreams. I do not live, nor do I want.”

“Bullshit.” The word spills from Hob’s mouth before the thought even crystallizes in his mind. Dream looks stunned and a bit offended, though more confused than anything else. He’s not getting up and storming out, though, so that’s a good sign. He’s frowning, but still watching Hob intently, like he’s curious as to how Hob will follow up that little outburst. Hob is curious where he’s going with this, too; apparently, sitting this close to Dream has caused his brain to short circuit, and now his mouth is running on autopilot.

Ah. Right. Better keep talking, then.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I shouldn’t have said that. But… I mean, obviously you wanted that chocolate. And you want to be here, or you’d have left already.” The furrow between Dream’s brows deepens as Hob speaks, and he clenches his jaw tightly. Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t give him ideas. Dial it back, old man. “But that’s alright! Really, it’s fine! More than fine! I—I don’t know about this sibling of yours, but… it just seems to me like you do want something, my friend. And whatever it is, if it’s in my power to give it to you, that’s what I want. So… what do you want?” he asks again.

Dream hesitates, gazing at Hob with those fathomless blue eyes as he appears to genuinely consider the question. He’s sitting so close that Hob can see his own reflection, blurry and distorted, mirrored in the glossy sheen of tears that rests on his friend’s dark lashes.

Finally, he seems to make up his mind. He swallows and leans closer still, his face mere inches away from Hob’s. Hob ceases breathing as a perfect, pale hand snakes upward at a glacial pace, coming to rest on his stubbled cheek. It’s smooth and cool, and Hob’s eyes drift shut as he leans into the touch. Then, impossibly soft lips are brushing against his own, and Hob lets out a muffled sob as one hand flies to Dream’s waist, the other gripping the back of his neck and pulling him closer.

Dream’s tongue probes gingerly into Hob’s open mouth, and lightning sparkles behind his eyelids. His heartbeat is a rolling crash of thunder as the clouds finally break—kissing Dream is like the first rain after centuries of drought; cool and sweet and refreshing and vital. Hob didn’t realize how parched he had been for so long, how desolate the desert of his soul, until this. This perfect kiss. It’s soft and slow and tastes like chocolate and red wine, and this—this may be what finally does Hob in after all these years.

Or it could just be that he hasn’t taken a breath in almost a full minute.

He pulls back, gasping and panting as he rests his forehead against Dream’s. Words fail him—a rare occurrence for Hob—and all he can do is grin stupidly at his friend.

“You,” Dream answers finally. “I want you, Hob.”

Hob lets out a wet, trembling laugh. “You’ve got me, Dream,” Hob whispers. “You’ve always had me.”

Dream surges forward to kiss him again, bolder and more eager this time, and Hob allows himself get swept away in the deluge. He could stay like this for hours—forever, even—and a needy whine escapes him when Dream pulls away again and surveys him with a smoldering gaze.

“Take me to bed, Hob,” he purrs.

“Oh, darling, absolutely,” Hob replies, scrambling up from the sofa and taking Dream’s hand to lead him to the bedroom. Then he freezes, struck by a sudden thought. “Er, quick question first. Is this really—I mean, am I awake right now, or…?”

Dream’s red, kiss-swollen lips twist into a fond smirk. “You are awake, Hob. But would it make any difference if you were not?”

“No,” Hob chuckles. “No, I s’pose it wouldn’t.”

Minutes later, they are entangled on Hob’s unmade bed, exploring each other hungrily with hands and lips and tongues and teeth. Hob is naked from the waist up, Dream having torn his shirt from his body with a fierce, otherworldly strength that was so startlingly arousing that Hob can’t even complain about the loss of his favorite button-down.

Dream sinks his delicate fingers into the thick pelt on Hob’s chest, humming approvingly into his mouth as he grinds against Hob’s thigh. Hob can feel his arousal through the soft fabric of his trousers, and he dips his hand beneath the waistband to squeeze the meager flesh of Dream’s arse. Dream goes still and inhales a sharp breath that Hob knows he doesn’t actually need.

“Hey. You alright?” Hob asks, withdrawing his hand and soothing it over Dream’s shoulder. “Sorry. I should have asked first. I know—after what you went through… I get it. We don’t have to keep going, love. Or we can, and you can keep—”

Dream cuts off his nervous babbling with a kiss. “I wish to continue. I trust you, Hob.”

Hob thinks he might explode from the affection that swells in him at those words. He beams at Dream and steals another quick, fervent kiss before peeling off his shirt.

“Look at you,” he breathes, drinking in the vision before him—Dream is utterly flawless. A marble statue come to life with creamy-white skin and elegant collarbones that flow into lithe, graceful shoulders and lean, well-muscled arms. “You’re so fucking beautiful I could cry, Dream,” Hob says raggedly as he runs his hands over smooth plane of Dream’s chest, circling his thumbs reverently around the firm, pink buds of his nipples.

Dream sighs and closes his eyes as he arches into Hob’s caress, dragging his fingers through the wealth of hair on Hob’s chest and continuing downwards, tracing the narrow trail down to the waistband of his trousers and unbuttoning them with nimble fingers.

Hob quickly shuffles out of his trousers and pants, groaning as his erect cock springs free. Dream’s eyes darken, the sky-blue of his irises nearly eclipsed by starry black as he (sweet Christ in heaven) licks his lips. “Hob,” he rumbles, his voice even deeper and silkier than usual. “You are. Exquisite.”

A laugh bubbles up from Hob’s throat unbidden. “Sorry. Sorry, it’s just—hearing that from you is… I mean, I can’t believe this is really happening, it’s like—”

“Hob,” Dream interrupts, raising his eyebrows and lifting his hips emphatically.

“Right. Sorry,” Hob says, bending down to unbutton Dream’s jeans. But just as his hand brushes over the zipper, the trousers vanish, leaving Dream totally nude with Hob’s hand just millimeters away from his flushed, heavy prick. “Someone’s eager,” he smiles, taking him in hand and gently stroking the delicate, velvety flesh. “Gods above, Dream, you have the most gorgeous cock I’ve ever seen.”

It really is lovely—long and slim and rosy, all wreathed in soft black curls. Even his balls are pretty; plump and pert and perfectly round. Hob wriggles down the bed and nuzzles into the hot, solid length, relishing the weight of it on his face. He licks from the base to the tip, laving his tongue over the leaking slit before mouthing his way back down to his balls, sucking on each of them in turn. Above him, Dream breathes heavily and lets out quiet little whimpers. Hob strokes his thighs—he’s so tense, his muscles taut as a bowstring beneath his silken skin.

“Relax, darling,” Hob says, placing a kiss to the bony jut of his pelvis. “I’ve got you. Just let go and enjoy yourself.” He returns to his task of exploring Dream’s cock with his tongue, and Dream takes a long, quivering breath, loosening a fraction as he exhales. Hob can’t help but feel a bit smug at the knowledge that he’s gotten Dream so worked up he’s apparently forgotten he doesn’t need to breathe. “That’s it, love. Let me take care of you.”

He takes Dream’s bollocks into his mouth again, then moves lower to give a tentative lick to his hole. Dream gasps and startles at that, and Hob hears a choked-off “ah!” somewhere above his head.

Hmm, interesting.

Hob raises his head to see Dream looking down at him in wonder, mouth agape and eyes glazed. His cheeks are flushed a deep rose, and glistening drops of pre-cum decorate the alabaster plane of his abdomen. Hob smiles up at him, tracing a finger around the tight, twitching furl of muscle. “Has anyone ever touched you here before?” he murmurs.

“No,” Dream replies in a trembling whisper.

“May I?” Hob asks gently?

“Please,” Dream sighs, and Hob nearly comes untouched on the spot.

He slides a pillow under Dream’s hips and pushes his thighs upwards, gliding his hands along the smooth white flesh and trailing light kisses down to his spread arse cheeks. “Gonna make you feel so good, love. Just promise you’ll tell me to stop if I do anything you don’t like, alright?”

He glances up to see Dream nodding frantically, his eyes wide and black and glittering. “Yes. I trust you, Hob,” he says again.

Hob grins before diving in and licking a stripe from his entrance to his bollocks and back down, circling his tongue around the rim and nibbling at the tender pucker of milky skin. Dream moans and keens beautifully as Hob thoroughly slicks his hole with saliva, slurping and suckling and reveling in the sensation of Dream’s hairless, baby-soft flesh against his cheeks and chin. He dips his tongue inside, and Dream wails while Hob hums and groans enthusiastically. Dream is hot inside, and he tastes of petrichor and electricity and something Hob can’t identify but that he knows down to the very foundations of his soul (dreams, his mind supplies. He tastes like dreams).

“Hob!” Dream gasps, his voice rough and rasping. “Please—please—!”

Hob works his tongue in deeper, then pulls back and jabs it in again and again, until Dream is mewling and sobbing and writhing in ecstasy. He thinks he doesn’t want? I could teach him to want. Eat him out for hours until he’s sobbing and begging to come.

Just as the vision materializes in his head, Dream howls and clenches around Hob’s tongue. “Yes! Yes, Hob, please please please—I want—ahh!”

Hob has long suspected that his old friend could read his mind, and this all but confirms it. He shivers as he realizes the potential there—the possibilities are, well, endless. Hob withdraws his tongue and glances up, only to be met with the most beautiful sight he’s ever witnessed: Dream, red-faced and panting, his chest heaving, his lovely prick rock hard and leaking steadily against his porcelain stomach.

“Look at you. So bloody gorgeous,” Hob says hoarsely. “How are you feeling, darling? Good?” Dream nods, and Hob smiles and nuzzles against the back of his thigh. “Be a dear and grab the lube? It’s just in the top drawer there.” He tilts his head in the direction of the nightstand and Dream twists around to procure the half-empty pump bottle.

“It is not necessary,” Dream mumbles once he’s remembered to catch his breath, though he nonetheless hands the bottle over. “You cannot hurt me.”

“I know,” Hob replies lightly, shrugging one shoulder. “All the same, I’d prefer not to risk it. Indulge me.”

Dream’s lip quirks and he huffs a tiny laugh before settling back onto the pillows, graciously allowing Hob to continue. Of course he’d be a pillow princess, Hob thinks fondly as he squirts a generous amount of lube onto his fingers, spreading it over Dream’s puffy, fluttering hole. He works a finger inside slowly, and Dream makes the sweetest little noises as Hob strokes his tight, satiny walls and brings his other hand to Dream’s throbbing cock. Dream moans and arches upward into his hand, sighing in relief as the tension begins to bleed from his body.

“That’s it, darling. You’re doing so well. Just let go,” Hob coos. He adds a second finger and finds Dream’s prostate, brushing over it teasingly on every other thrust. “You feel so bloody good inside. Would love to fuck you sometime. Want you to fuck me, too. I could ride that beautiful cock of yours all day. Would you like that, love?”

“Yes—Hob—anything—please!” Dream cries breathlessly, grinding down wantonly on Hob’s fingers.

“Mm, we’ll work up to that. Right now I’d like to get my mouth on you, and you’re not going to last much longer, are you sweetheart?”

“I can—” Dream begins what would no doubt have been a devastating retort, but it tapers off into a high, quavering whine as Hob lowers his mouth to his cock, sinking down in a slow glide until he can feel the bulbous head in the back of his throat, trickling a warm rivulet of pre-come. He swallows, and Dream’s hands fly to his hair, gripping tightly as he starts fucking furiously into Hob’s mouth. Hob groans and ruts his own aching cock against the mattress as he continues to pump his fingers in and out of Dream’s slick, clutching entrance. It’s raw and rough and animalistic, and Hob is more than happy to let Dream use him however he pleases right now; he might come just from this.

With no warning save for a guttural growl and a stutter of his hips, Dream comes down Hob’s throat in thick, hot spurts. He shudders and gasps, tugging roughly on Hob’s hair before abruptly going limp and boneless. Hob swallows down the last drops of spend and slowly pulls his mouth and fingers away, panting raggedly.

He crawls up the bed to wrap Dream in his arms, pressing gentle kisses to his neck and shoulders. “You did so well, love,” Hob whispers proudly. “So beautiful when you let go like that.”

Dream hums and grinds languidly against Hob’s still-hard prick where it rests between the cleft of his arse. He wriggles around in Hob’s hold and captures his mouth in a deep, desperate kiss. He trails his lips along Hob’s jaw, down his neck and chest, steadily traveling southward until he is face to face with Hob’s cock. It’s a bit shorter than Dream’s, albeit thicker, and darker-toned; not as pretty, in Hob’s opinion, though Dream would appear to disagree—he’s practically got hearts in his eyes as he glides his cheek along the hefty, engorged length. He glances hesitantly up at Hob through his thick lashes, looking almost shy.

“You don’t have to, love,” Hob smiles down at him, running his fingers through Dream’s downy, soot-dark hair. “I just wanted to make you feel good, is all.”

“Indeed?” Dream smirks. “I thought that you were teaching me to indulge. So. Won’t you indulge me?”

Hob lets out a delighted laugh. “Well, suppose I can’t argue with that.”

Dream makes a noise of agreement, then swiftly takes Hob’s cock into his mouth, swallowing him to the root in the blink of an eye. Hob gasps at the sudden velvety warmth enveloping his prick, and his hips jerk involuntarily. Dream stills him with surprisingly strong hands, pinning him down and bobbing his head in quick, fluid motions. Dream’s mouth is… fucking sublime. Christ’s bloody wounds, he’s good at this. Hob brings his hands to Dream’s hair, not pulling but stroking and kneading his scalp. Dream rumbles in approval, his deep moans vibrating through Hob’s cock, and Hob throws his head back against the pillows.

“Not gonna last,” he grunts in warning.

Dream only takes him deeper, hollowing out his cheeks and slurping hungrily as he bobs his head faster. Hob looks down to see Dream gazing up at him with a blissfully dazed expression, his forget-me-not blue eyes glassy and his cheeks streaked with tears. Hob is hit with a flash of deja vu; he’s fantasized about exactly this on many a lonely night over the centuries, though his imaginings never came close to the divine, earth-shattering perfection that is Dream’s mouth. He comes with a choked sob, flooding Dream’s mouth with a torrent of spend, and Dream’s eyes flutter shut as he swallows it down eagerly.

“I love you—!” The words escape unbidden in a breathless whisper, dragged forth from somewhere deep within the core of Hob’s being, unable to be contained any longer after being left unsaid for over 600 years. Hob doesn’t realize what he’s said until Dream freezes, tightening his grasp on Hob’s hips and digging his sharp fingernails into his flesh. Then, he’s crawling up Hob’s body like a tiger pinning its prey, steely eyes boring straight into his soul.

Fuck. Of course, had to go and fuck it all up, didn’t you?

“You mean that,” Dream intones, low and sonorous. It is not a question.

“Yes,” Hob replies softly, his voice wavering as he braces himself for the inevitable swirl of sand as Dream disappears.

Instead, Dream swoops down and captures Hob’s mouth in a savage, frenzied kiss, growling and digging his fingers possessively into Hob’s ribcage. He claims him with kisses and bites and scratches and bruises, descending on Hob like a starving man on a feast, and Hob is only too pleased to let Dream glut himself on him. Dream could devour him whole, if that would make him happy.

Once he has thoroughly left his mark, Dream runs his eyes over Hob’s body in apparent satisfaction before nestling into his side and draping himself over his chest. “I think,” Dream says, curling a tuft of chest hair around his long pale fingers, “that I feel the same. About you.” He buries his face in Hob’s neck, and Hob pulls him into a crushing embrace, beaming as he plants a kiss to the top of his head.

“So,” Hob laughs through joyous tears, “would you still say you’re just existing? Because I think we did a lot of living today.”

Dream huffs into his shoulder. “You make a convincing argument,” he concedes, his voice muffled. Then he raises his head to look at Hob, his eyes shining with amusement. “However, I believe I will need more evidence before I can draw an accurate conclusion.”

“Oh, just you wait, darling,” Hob grins. “I happen to be an expert on living, and I’m going to show you all the little things that make it worthwhile.”

Dream’s smile fades slightly at that. Hob brings a hand to his cheek, tilting Dream’s chin up and meeting him in a tender kiss. “Hey,” he whispers. “D’you want to tell me what’s been going on? It’s just… Clearly, something’s bothering you, love. And if there’s any way I can help… You know I’d do anything for you, Dream.”

“You have helped. More than you realize. And… I will tell you what has happened. What I have done. Not today, but… I will tell you. Though you may come to hate me for it,” Dream sighs heavily.

“I could never hate you,” Hob replies automatically. Because it’s true; he’d fallen arse over teakettle for Dream when he thought he was the actual devil. “Whatever happened, we’ll sort it out, eh?”

Dream simply stares at him for a long moment before speaking again. “What do you think happens to a character when their story has finished being told?”

“Er—” Hob doesn’t know what he was expecting Dream to say, but it certainly wasn’t that. Dream has him fixed with a piercing gaze, obviously awaiting a well-thought-out answer. “Well… I guess that’s up to the character do decide, isn’t it? Once the story is over, they’re free to do what they want, I suppose.” He shrugs. This discussion is far too deep for pillow talk.

Dream frowns, furrowing his brows as he considers. “I believe there is some merit to your words,” he pronounces thoughtfully. “I have long believed that I have no story of my own. Perhaps I am wrong.”

“Maybe you’re just in the wrong story,” Hob yawns. He’s honestly lost the thread a bit by this point, and he’s not entirely sure what they were talking about to begin with. But that feels like the right thing to say, and Dream evidently agrees as he rests his cheek on Hob’s chest, just over his heart.

“Perhaps,” Dream murmurs, almost inaudibly.

“Like I said,” Hob says, stroking lightly down his back. “We’ll sort it out.” He yawns again, then winces at the strain on his sore jaw. “Tomorrow, though. Because I am absolutely knackered, darling.”

Dream hums, burrowing contently into Hob’s hold. “Yes. Sleep, beloved. And dream of me.”

Hob chuckles drowsily. “I always do.”

✨✨✨

Thanks for reading! Reblogs, as well as kudos and comments on ao3 are always appreciated! 💗💗💗

[maverickgalathynius]

Throne of glass head cannons I wholeheartedly believe and you can’t convince me otherwise

————————————————————————

• Aelin essentially became a wyrdkey at a certain point due to her knowledge of the wyrdmarks and her skill of using them to be able to open portals to other worlds (hell realm from CoM) with the addition of having a goddesses power

• Aelin would’ve had matching hand burns with Az bad Maeve not rebuilt her completely

• Aelin bound her life to Fenrys to save him which means someday when Aelin dies so will Fenrys

• If Sam had survived Rowan still would’ve waited for Aelin

•Aelin is Ambidextrous due to when she had to break her right hand when she was with Arobynn

•Bryce and Aelin share a title ‘The Queen who walked between worlds

• Aelin also gained another name where she was referred to as ‘Queen of the Underworld’ bc of her murder streak and success in war

• Eva just calls Aelin her aunt bc Aelin and Aedion act so much like siblings instead of cousins that Eva just got the impression they were brother and sister at one point and even after being corrected it just kind of stuck that she called her her aunt

• there have been several occasions for when Aedion points at Lysandra and says that’s his wife to a stranger but Lysandra is in her ghost leopard form so Aedion just looks crazy

• when Celaena was in the dungeons after Nehemiah’s death she was only drinking the drug infused water bc she hopes that there would be just enough sedatives in there to kill her

• you cannot convince me Celaena and Nehemia didn’t kiss each other at least once romantically

• when Aelin uses her magic and flames form in her hands or something she’s directly touching, the veins leading up to her wrist start to faintly glow a golden color like her fire bc her magic ‘flows directly through her veins’.

•Same with her eyes where she can do the thing Nesta did and make her flame appear in her eyes where the golden ring is when she wants

•Imagine how it would be if death in the TOG world was similar to how death was believed to be in Ancient Greece where if the death was not acknowledged through a burial of some sorts or prayers sent up for the dead then the soul would forever be tied to the living world and not allowed to pass on, and then Celaena would just always be residing by Sam or Nehemia’s graves for the rest of eternity bc no one, not even Aelin thought to truly acknowledged that she was dead bc Aelin didn’t think it was possible for Celaena to become her own person after she died and everyone else didn’t like Celaena enough to try it

• it’s possible that Aelin has two carrenems, bc we know Rowan is one of them but we saw in the part where her and Dorian killed the king both of their magics worked together in a similar way, so it’s possible Dorian could also have a similar kind of thing with her but the reason it’s partly different is bc he’s human and doesn’t have some of the advanced abilities fae do.

•I fully believe that Aelin and Manon treat Elide like a divorced parents kid, Manon and the witches get her on the weekends, Aelin and her court get her on the weekdays

•friendly reminder that Gavriel could’ve used his magic to hold back the valg while he went through the gate but decided to stay behind because he couldn’t live thinking his son hated him

• I feel like Aelin has one small scar that survived Maeve and it’s a small scar on her cheek (which would’ve been covered by the mask) that she got from Arobynn absolutely back handing her and she got cut by a ring on his finger

• I can image Aelin being absolutely shit at social cues because Arobynn raised her practically separate from other people for the first few years apart from training with the other assassins in the guild sometimes and when he’d send her on assignments. Rowan realized that quickly and whenever they are in a situation where she’s not picking up certain looks or gestures Rowan just sends down the bond a little reminder to help her

•friendly reminder that Aelin’s fingers were slightly crooked in places before Maeve took her

•We also always had foreshadowing that Elide would end up with lorcan bc Anneith always is protecting Elide and whispering to her, Anneith is the consort to Hellas, and Hellas blessed Lorcan

•I feel like a core memory for manon would be when Lysandra threw up valg guts on lorcan

•I can imagine Aelin going to Rowan asking if he can cut into her back and pull out shards of iron that got caught in her skin bc Yrene was busy and then Rowan just being like a dear in headlights at the request so manon just strolls up and uses her nail like a scalpel and prying out shards of iron that Aelin’s Fae healing couldn’t get out bc Manon is fr a girls girl

•A reminder that when Aelin ran for the wall when she was “escaping” Endovier and when she was “escaping” from Carin. She never planned on escaping either, she planned to have them kill her so she could insure they’d never see her break

•Manon if she could use the internet:

If my boyfriend turns into a girl and I have sex with him does that make me queer?

•If memory works the same for the Fae as they do for humans Aelin will eventually forget what Sam looked like and what his voice sounded like

• After Celaena was sent to Endovior she lost the sheet music Sam gave her and she’s constantly guilty because it was the only gift from him she had apart from his clothes in their flat

•Rowan is Aelin’s mate.

But Sam was Celeanas

•I feel like when Lysandra get into an argument with Aedion and then when Aedion says some stupid shit she just shifts into his body and repeats what he said in a sarcastic/mocking tone

•When lorcan bound him and Elides life together instead of making him have a mortal lifespan it made her have an immortal life span.

————————————————————————

Anyway that’s all for now, sorry for the shit grammar I didn’t proofread

[noroi1000]

December 31 at 11:59 p.m

One shot for happy new year

Warnings: Sexual subtext (perverted Gojo)

A/n: Happy New Year Everyone!

"Satoru?"

You looked around the house for your lover. Your everything. Boyfriend, friend, lover—everything possible. But he will never be your enemy.

You reached for your phone to check the time. Perhaps he went on a mission? He's not home, and you also slept late in the morning. And it's all because of him... He didn't let you sleep earlier. Maybe he left early because he was called? Perhaps it was so. It was already 1 p.m.He certainly went on a mission. But you didn't expect that his teacher would be working after the holidays. So it was definitely a mission.

Basically, you went to sleep when the sun was already rising. It was sunrise, and only then could you fall asleep.

Your apartment has remained as it was. You saw his shirt lying in the corner of the room. It was certain that he didn't want to clean up after himself sometimes. Even after he runs to the bed, undressing along the way, he attacks you as quickly as possible. When he started living with you, you thought he would destroy your house. You both pay the bills, but you're surprised that he lives with you and not in his house. Since he certainly had a house of the same standard as you. You wanted to live modestly, but with all these conveniences.

You had a beautiful apartment overlooking the city. No noise disturbed you, thanks to the soundproofing. You could relax in the bathtub in jacuzzi mode. I earn money to live like a princess. At least in your own home. Sometimes you can't stop yourself from buying something you want. It doesn't matter how much it costs.

At first, you thought Satoru would be like a parasite on your credit card. But later, you found out that the money he earns is enough to buy even more. And you're not as wasteful as he is. You're not the one who imports snacks and sweets from abroad to see how they taste. He buys the most food. And in addition, sometimes he goes into a shopping frenzy where he doesn't buy anything cheap because he wants to be a model at home for you.

White shirts for ¥600,000? That's exactly him. However, it doesn't bother you. Why should it bother you that he spends his money on something like this? Since it doesn't even threaten the amount of his salary. And so a prince was added to your life as a princess, who made you live like a true queen.

Your two-meter-tall parasite with white hair disappeared from the house in the morning without waking you up, and the only thing he told you was:

„If you're reading this, I left home (⁠｢⁠'⁠･⁠ω⁠･⁠)⁠｢” “I'll be back before evening. I still have to plan our New Year's Eve.”

Oh yes. It's today. December 31st. In a few hours, it will be another year... This is the first New Year's Eve with him. If he lasted one year with you, maybe the next one will be even better? Anyway, you need to focus more on surviving December 31st to enter January 1st. If his plans for tonight are the same as yours and his birthday, you need to save your energy.

On your birthday, it was you who was playing with him, not him playing with you.

"The last day of the year, the next year, huh..."

With that in mind, grabbing your favorite cookies and drink, you undressed and went to the bathtub. Soothe your body, gain energy, and enjoy relaxation. You don't have anything to do today anyway.

Scented candles created a pleasant atmosphere. The blinds in the house are closed. And this is called life. The light you set for pleasure.

"Oi Oi Oi!"

You suddenly jumped out of the bathtub, sat up straight, and spun around.

Is Satoru back?

"Satoru?"

"It's me, honey! But I'm not here!"

"Huh?"

"I installed a speaker at home! When I'm away from home, I can speak, and you'll hear me even without a phone! Well, it's kind of like a loud telephone that can be heard throughout the apartment."

"Why?"

"We'll see each other in person only in the evening! It won't be long, actually! You fell asleep in the bathtub!"

What's wrong with him at this point?

"I know you had a nice sleep, honey~! But seriously, tell me, do you have any toys under that foam in the water~? Are you playing in the bath without me?"

"I have nothing, you pervert!" you held your hands up. "Wait, how do you know I'm in the bathtub?"

"You have cameras at home! In case of a break-in! You told me about it once! It was inactive, but I made use of it. I have the app on my phone, and I can see you right now."

Why is the camera in the bathroom, and why is it pointed at the bathtub? He must have set it up! You were sure there were cameras in the hallway, near the entrance, and in the living room!

"Don't be shy now~. I sent you a message. Location. Wipe your sweet ass, and please go there. Ijichi can come pick you up."

"What is there?"

You wanted to call him a white-haired pervert, but he always says that... Must there be some sexual undertones in all the jokes he tells you?

When you met him, he wasn't like that. Sure, he was constantly flirting with you. But now his flirtations always have sexual undertones, or he talks like a professional seducer.

You're the only one he loves, and he said if he cheats on you, you can beat him up.

Was this an attempt to make fun of you? Or maybe it was to show that he will never cheat on you because he doesn't want to be beaten by you?

Well, never mind.

Since he sent you the address of a clothes shop where you walked in and got a bag with the dress he chose for you. But since he bought you a dress, you're going out today, right? So a little extra never hurts. Besides, Satoru likes it when you look beautiful. And if you wear the necklace, he won't get around your neck.

Judging by the color of the dress, you chose something that fits perfectly.

The dress was dark but had shiny details. You will feel like a mafia wife. But Satoru kills, so it's similar.

You don't even worry about the fact that he had blood on his hands so many times.

The important thing is that it's him.

„11. 59. Roof." he sent you this message.

"Oh, at 11:59 pm on the roof?"

Excitement was building within you with each passing minute.

Until finally, 10 minutes before the scheduled time, you arrived on the roof, seeing your boyfriend running around hanging small gold lights on the railing.

"Toru."

When he heard your voice, he turned around quickly and smiled, scanning you with his eyes.

"I knew you would look beautiful."

Your welcome was long. He hugged you, kissed you and complimented you. He showed you what he had prepared for you.

Suddenly, he pushed you against the railing until your back touched the metal.

"Whatever the last minutes of this year will be, that's what next year will be like, right?"

"Huh?"

He glanced at his watch and suddenly parted your lips, kissing you continuously. A passionate kiss shook your body.

Fireworks were lit in various places, and people shot them off, celebrating the new year that has now arrived.

A minute later, he removed his lips from yours, licking his lips. Smearing the slight color left on his lips from your lipstick.

"If you start kissing at 11:59 on New Year's Eve, stop at 12:01 am. 1st of January. When the new year comes. Then the whole year will be as sweet as this moment."

You smiled, hugging him.

"You saw it on the internet, right?"

"Yup. But I thought it was so sweet. Happy New Year ❤️"

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

title: miss me in your bones | chapter one

pairing: dad’s best friend!joel miller/female reader

chapter rating: PG13

chapters: 1/?

read on AO3 | masterlist

summary:

When Joel Miller started his own contracting business, he didn’t expect all the administrative tasks that came with it. As a result, his budding business is in desperate need of help.

Good thing his best friend’s daughter is home for the summer from college. And sure, he’s always been attracted to you, but he can keep that under control.

It’s just one summer, right?

author’s note: oh look, another multi-chapter joel miller au. this one will be a slower(er) burn than “cruel summer”, with more angst. i’m in my folklore era, sorry y’all. please consider leaving a comment if you liked the chapter! 💕

content warnings/additional tags: au - no outbreak, age difference (21f and 36m), mutual pining, dad’s best friend!joel, college student!reader, no sarah, brief mention of joel’s attraction to the reader when she’s 17.

“You still need help with your bookkeeping?” Joel’s best friend asks as they sip their beers, basketball game playing on the TV.

Joel has recently branched out and started his own contracting business, a dream he’s had since he started working fresh out of high school. He’s taken a few night classes and earned himself an associates degree in business administration from the community college, in the hopes that it might help him not drive his budding business venture straight into the dirt.

What he wasn’t prepared for was the volume of administrative tasks he’d have to take on. Invoicing, pricing, scheduling, negotiating, and the list keeps growing. Joel just wants to bring a vision to life with his hands. He doesn’t want to have to sit at a computer for hours a day before getting to the fun stuff.

He sighs. “Yeah, I’m drownin’ in all that stuff. Seems like there’s not enough hours in the day to be doin’ the dirty work and get all that shit done, too.”

“Well, my daughter’s comin’ home for the summer. She said she was lookin’ for a job so that she can save up some money before goin’ back to school in the fall. She could help you out. She’s good with computers,” his friend says. Joel swallows.

Joel’s lived next door to you and your dad for four years now. When he first moved in next to the single dad, you were seventeen, getting ready to finish up high school and head off to college. You were your dad’s pride and joy, a sweet girl with brains and beauty that he bragged about constantly. You’d gotten a full academic scholarship to UCLA, no small feat, but you’d been required to spend your first two summers on campus fulfilling a certain number of credits, which meant you hadn't visited home in some time due to the cost.

This also meant Joel got a reprieve from the inappropriate thoughts he’s had about you since the first time he met you. When you’d stood by the door with your dad, welcoming him to the neighborhood, but all he could think about was the curve of your lips as you smiled at him or the way you looked up at him through your lashes when he spoke, hanging on his every word like he was spilling the secrets of the universe.

For his first year in his new house, you were there when he came over on the weekends, watching football with your dad or doing homework at the kitchen table. Joel was there for your graduation party, and sang Happy Birthday as you blew out the candles for your eighteenth year. He helped your dad pack up his truck with your boxes of stuff and waved goodbye from the driveway as you set off to college.

And the whole time he had to beat the thoughts of pressing a hand to your thigh beneath the dining table or pulling you to the side to kiss you senseless. He was equal parts relieved and disappointed when your dad drove you over a thousand miles away.

Your dad is still waiting for an answer, and Joel can’t come up with a good enough reason to say no to his offer of your help. He needs it.

He can keep himself under control for one summer.

“Sure, that would be great,” Joel replies with a strained smile unnoticed by your dad.

“Great! I’ll let her know.”

________

You’re so excited to be home for a whole summer. Between your rigorous course load over the last two years and the cost of housing and travel, you haven’t been able to visit home. Your dad pays for half your housing on top of his own expenses, so you didn’t want to burden him more with travel costs.

“How was your flight, kiddo,” your dad asks as he wraps you in a tight hug.

“Went well enough. Definitely better than driving for two days with some stinky old man,” you tease. He pushes at your shoulder.

Your relationship with your dad is a close one, the result of being the only child to a single parent and all his efforts over the years to make sure he does the best job he can. And while he often had to work overtime, he was always there for you when it mattered and never made you feel like you weren’t loved.

“I’m happy you’re back, squirt. House is too quiet without you,” he says as he pulls away from the pick-up area and rejoins Austin traffic. His words make your heart clench.

“Just another year and I’ll hopefully be able to get a job closer to home,” you tell him.

“With that fancy degree, I’m sure you’ll be able to get any job you want.”

The fancy degree in question is in aerospace engineering. Ever since your dad took you to visit the Kennedy Space Center in Florida on a rare vacation out of the state, you’d been hooked on the idea of helping get rockets to space.

“Hopefully. With all the private space exploration initiatives, should be plenty of jobs to go around. California is fun, but Texas is home.”

He smiles at you, a big wide grin that you’d missed in your time away.

“Listen, you know how you said you wanted to find a job for the summer while you’re home?” He asks. You nod. “Well, Joel started up his own contracting business and is hopin’ to get some help with the administrative work. Schedulin’, contracts, bookkeepin’. I know it’s not what you’re studyin’ or anythin’ but it might be nice to give your brain a break from all that fancy math you do.”

Your stomach erupts in butterflies at just the mention of your dad’s best friend and neighbor, Joel Miller. Ever since you first met when he moved in next door, you’ve been smitten. He’s a bit younger than your dad, somewhere in his mid-thirties while your dad has crossed the threshold to his forties. He’s tall and broad with muscles defined from hard labor, dark curly hair that’s almost always unruly, and kind brown eyes that have started to crinkle in the corners with a life well lived.

He’s so gorgeous it actually hurts.

You’ve spent a fair share of your nights away from home thinking about Joel Miller as you slid a hand into your pajama pants. Did he ever think about you? You doubt it, but a girl could dream.

In your daydreaming, you almost forget to answer your dad. “Oh, uh, sure. I can help out Mr. Miller,” you reply, clearing your throat.

“Thanks, sweetie. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the help.”

________

Joel is cursing up a storm as he tries to clean up the spare room he uses as an office and storage area these days. There’s papers everywhere, supply quotes and contracts and instruction manuals across every surface to the point where the old laptop he uses for work sits buried, battery dead from neglect. He tries to sort everything into a neat pile, but the pile is too big and scatters everywhere once more.

You’re supposed to start working with him at nine this morning. He’s got a consultation scheduled after lunch, giving him plenty of time to show you the nightmare you’re walking into.

There’s a knock at the door and Joel rushes from the back of the house to answer.

You’re standing on his porch, as you have hundreds of times, but after two and a half years away at school, the girl he’d waved goodbye to one August morning has disappeared. Your hair is drastically different and your face has lost the roundness of your teen years, but the smile that stretches your lips is all too familiar.

“Hi, Mr. Miller.”

________

You shift your weight from foot to foot as Joel’s gaze drifts over you, the feel of it hot over your skin. His forehead and neck are dappled with sweat, shirt sticking to his chest in a way that’s so inviting you have to clench your hands into fists at your side to keep from reaching out.

How is it possible he’s gotten more attractive?

“Hey! Welcome home!” Joel finally says, stepping aside and allowing you to cross the threshold.

His house has changed, yet feels overwhelmingly familiar all the same. He’s updated the flooring since you’d left, and you see the gleam of shiny stainless steel appliances in the kitchen.

“You renovated the kitchen?” You ask, stepping down the hall and into the living area to have a closer look. “The counters are pretty.”

He’s replaced the old dark cabinets with natural wood and the laminate counters are now a sparkling white quartz. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Yep. First project for my portfolio,” he says proudly. “Did the whole thing myself.”

“Impressive.”

You stare at each other for a beat before Joel clears his throat.

“You, uh, you wanna see the office?” He asks.

“Sure.”

He leads you to the back bedroom and pushes the door open. “It’s…kinda a mess.”

“Kinda?” You step inside, eyeing the haphazard piles of paper dubiously. “Mr. Miller, this is a war zone.”

He cringes. “Yeah. S’why I need help,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Got so caught up with the networkin’ and job bids that I just let all this suffer for it.”

You huff a laugh, dropping your bag to the ground. There’s a desk in the middle of the room, covered in stacks of paper. A laptop sits open, screen dark, amongst the files. A bookshelf along one wall holds a printer and a number of large hardback books pertaining to business administration and general contracting guidelines. Along another wall are stacked boxes. You peek into one and find an array of tile samples.

“Think you can manage?” Joel asks.

You smile at him. “You know me, Mr. Miller. I’ve never backed down from a challenge.”

“Joel. Just…call me Joel.”

“Okay…Joel.”

He smiles, and the way it reaches his eyes makes your heart flutter. You swallow nervously.

This will be fine.

It’s just one summer.

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