#but he also wants to know why he wants to know why his father left him and why he betrayed everyone

[latenightwithpizza]

oh goodness, i don't even know WHERE to start. im just so happy you kept going with this absolutely fantastic piece!! so heartbreaking raw and angsty, i want to strangle mattheo and kiss him and give him a hug and then shove him off a cliff, i feel dizzy from all the emotional whiplash you have given me! but i love it sm!!!! the way reader is struggling so much with their situation but is still being selfish by leading rowan on because she can't fully have mattheo god they're both so fucked up in their own ways, AND I DONT EVEN KNOW WHY yet for her!! so beautiful leo, you always kill it, your writing is one of my favs to devour and i truly wanted to highlight every line in this whole piece!!! 😭🤍🤍🤍

Also just love this timeline of this fic, of it being set when they go back to a rebuilt Hogwarts for the 8th year!!!

Mattheo Riddle had become a ghost before the war had even ended, had already lost his entire sense of self. That moment—when he watched his father turn to literal dust—he couldn’t differentiate between whether the stirring he felt was grief or relief.

FUCKING BEAUTIFUL the not being able to differentiate between grief and relief. Sure he hated his dad but that's all he’d ever known in a way, god that must be so hard to have that taken away, the familiarity and to be left completely alone now even tho now hes free. 😭😭😭😭 The boy you remembered—the one who used to tilt his chair back during lectures and talk shit under his breath—he’s gone. What’s left is quieter. Harder to read. OMG this breaks my heart so much to see mattheo reduced to this walking zombie of a boy FUCKKKK

It wasn’t gentle or romantic. Just a pathetic attempt from both of you to bury the feeling of emptiness lodged into your hearts. 💔💔💔 UGHHHH god i want them to have love so badly!!! The months passing by in an unyielding ocean of grievance and lust, the current never failing to pull you under. No labels. No expectations. Just bodies and silence.

THE METAPHORES SCREAMINGGG they always hit so good!!! 🙌🙌🙌

Despite your better judgment, despite the voice in the back of your head telling you to wake up and face reality, you’ve catalogued each of those moments in the most ornate corners of your brain.

God i feel so much for the reader, not her trying to convince herself that she needed this as well. That it was really a business transaction, a mutual need and nothing else!! poor baby i love the way you've explained how she can't escape the memories and moments with him no matter how much she might wish to forget and move on 😭 The problem was, that need had a different definition for you than it did for him. SOBBING OMG

There’s an odd kind of comfort in knowing that you’re still able to feel, in knowing that your heart still works, and you’ll take whatever pain comes along with the pleasure to prove it.

OMG i love this line so much the ‘knowing that your heart still works’ the fact that i yet have no idea what has happened to the reader for her to crave this kind of attention and love has me dying to know more. Like something must have happened in her life for her to connect with mattheo in that same level as him!! The storytelling leo is so beautiful, im absorbed!!

“How’d you sleep?” he asks with a smile that came too easily. Peacefully, with another boy in my bed who fucks like a—

PLEASE LMFAO yeah fucks like a what A FUCKING WHORE

He grins, all sunshine and sincerity, and you hate yourself a little more than usual. Because you know you’re going to cancel at the last minute. You always do.

READER using rowan is so mean, the fact she knows he'd be so good to her yet she craves that wild and rougher side with mattheo fucking hell and to know she'll use rowan anyway because she can't get these sweet moments with mattheo, its all so twisted and complicated and mean but i kind of love it

You’ve kept your distance, save for the occasional glance in his direction—you can’t help yourself. But every time your gaze finds him, he’s never looking back.

YOUR BREAKING ME LEO !!!!! </3 him not looking at you NO why is he not yearning for her!!

And maybe you are that transparent. Like someone’s cracked open your spine and flipped through your insides. Public display. Exhibition. Autobiography of your worst decisions.

AGAIN LOVE YOUR WRITING SO MUCH !! 😭😭😭 EEEH so excited this is far as the preview sneak i got and the way i was NOT PREPARED in the slightest for what came next !!

also the fact she only has the courage to approach in drunk </3 Being sober means remembering everything, and you refuse to take that chance. i want to cry for her but also so true, having that intoxicated confidence is like no other

gives you a look, one that says you’re not fooling anybody, and it’s enough to make your stomach twist. // You slip your arm from hers, gently but firmly, like peeling off a bandage that’s clinging too tight.

LOVE this whole section SO FRICKEN MUCH, like pansy is suffocating her with that whole 'told you so'. and reader knows everything pansy is saying is right but still chooses to be a dumbass and ignore the warning signs, literally shes hanging on by that tiny thread that theres something there with mattheo so badly she's willing to hurt herself in the process

The sight hits you like a fucking punch to the gut, jealousy slithering up your spine and coiling tight around your ribs until you feel like you can barely breathe. Your hands tighten into fists without you realizing, the stupid watch in your pocket starting to feel like 50 pound weights, dragging you down every moment you were still standing.

OBSESSED, i love the way the jealousy is described and that watch being a metaphor for so much eeeh!! Not him ignoring you and you just watching him kiss her neck THIS FUCKING BITCH MATTHEO. I can feel her embarassment dripping off the page, its like when reader does something cringe and i just wanna look away like GIRLIE STOP ABORT ABORT 

“Why not?” His voice is low, dangerous now, eyes narrowed as he leans in. “Because he’s the one who takes you on real dates? The one you’re actually proud to be seen with? While I get what—sloppy seconds in the dark when you’re drunk enough to forget you don’t give a shit about me?”

WHAT mattheo!?!? You’re actually jealous and wanna go on dates with usss Lowkey kicking my feet at this, like yes baby boy you've been spying on us enough to know we're kind of seeing someone twiring my hair 🤭🤭🤭

“No?” He leans in again, voice like poison. “I know you kept that watch for a week. Slept with it on your nightstand like some pathetic little souvenir. I know you came here in a skirt that screams look at me, Mattheo, and now you’re pissed that I did.”

OKAY I TAKE IT BACK, EXCUSE ME 😤🤬didn't have to call us out like that lmfao the way id die if someone humilated me like this; "Slept with it on your nightstand like some pathetic little souvenir.” 

STOP WHY IS HE SO INFURATING BUT SO HOT IM SCREAMING  His expression darkens. He lifts the watch, holds it between two fingers like it’s meaningless. “Yeah. Well. It was just a fucking watch.”

“Fuck you,” you whisper. He takes a step forward, chest nearly brushing yours. “You already did. Again and again. Until you were shaking so hard you couldn’t even see.”

BITCHCHHHCHC WHY IS THIS SO FUCKING HOTTTT ‼️‼️‼️

“You think Rivers would still look at you the same,” he murmurs, “if he saw the way you drool on my cock?”

UM UMUMUMUM IM WET

“That’s it,” he grits, hips starting to move. “Take it. Fucking take it like a good girl.” PURRRRRING “Still think I’m the problem?” he asks softly, venom sweet in his voice. // “Yes,” you whisper hoarsely, voice raw from his cock. Wrong answer. He slams his dick back in without warning, so deep his balls are practically pressing against your chin. Your throat constricts in protest and the noise you let out is one of pure, unadulterated shock, but it only spurs him on. 

im sorry the whole blowjob scene chefs fucking kiss!!! He’s so fucking maddening right now but i relate to the reader sm much right now fucccck

THE SPITTING !!!! “That’s it,” he growls, watching you like a man possessed. “Fucking swallow it. All of it. Like you’re proud.” YES DADDY 😫😫😫

And the look on his face when you do… God, it’s like you’ve just handed him your soul. HES GOING TO THINK THESE MF THOUGHTS AND THEN act like there aint something going on i swear this man

Your hand trembles as it slides down between your thighs, slow and uncertain, and he watches you in the mirror like a hawk, gaze burning into every inch of you. You suck in a breath as your fingers reach your cunt, slick and hot and already pulsing. // “Fuck,” he mutters. “Come on, baby, make yourself feel good.”

Especially when he groans, low and raw, like he missed this. Like he’s been starving for you.

BRUHHHHH

Because this isn’t just about getting you off anymore. // This is him, laying claim to every last piece of you in the only language he knows—sex, sweat, spit, and everything he’s not brave enough to admit out loud. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

why does this make me want to cry, like come on matty its okay come here lemme give u a hug 🫂

He suddenly looks so fucking broken, so vulnerable. You want to reach for him, wipe the tear from his face, ask him what the fuck is going on inside his head. You want to ask him why he’s so fucking cold one minute, and then this the next.

Not him shedding a tear whaaat im so conflicted!! 😫

YOU SHOULD GO WHAT the FUCK MATTHEO U CANT BE SERIOUS 😭😤😖

His fingers trace a line down your spine, his touch almost affectionate, but it doesn’t last long. The coldness creeps back in, wrapping itself around his words like a familiar shroud. “You should go.”

WHILE HES CARESSING OUR BACK GTFO 🤺🤺🤺

And as you step into the cold air, your chest aches, but you don’t know whether it’s because you want him to chase you or because you know he won’t.

THE ENDING LINE LEO BRUH NOOOO WHAAAT, the way i cant wait to skip over to part two. God the way you threw me around there, diagloue, descriptions, emotions never fail bb you truly have a talent and once again so proud of u for continuing to pour your heart into this!!!! 🤍🩵 I’m so hooked, like this could go so many ways but I’m praying for a happyish ending 🙏

WICKED GAME. mattheo riddle.

mattheo riddle x fem!reader. part one. → part two.

summary ; after the war, nothing feels real except him—you’re not together, not really, but that’s never stopped you from crawling back to him when it burns too much to feel nothing at all. it’s cruel and addictive, and things change when your hypocrisy begins to bleed through. words ; 9.5k warnings ; sexual content, angst, toxic situationship, fingering, unprotected p in v, mattheo’s rough, creampie, oral m! & f!receiving, throatfucking, overstimulation, f!masterbation, voyeurism (?), swearing, hair pulling, orgasm denial, dirty talk, degradation, spitting, choking, pussy slapping, spanking, dp (fingers + cock), squirting

navigation. masterlist.

His back is to you when you open your eyes. 

You watch as he slides on his jeans—the same blue denim he was wearing last night when he showed up at your door. Listen as his shoes tap against the wood floor. There’s a certain rhythm to it, almost mechanical, like he’s done this a thousand times before. Muscle memory. 

He bends down to pick up his shirt from the floor, his movements slow, careful. You can almost hear the thoughts running through his head, though you know better than to ask. He’s good at keeping things to himself, as good as you’ve learned to be. 

His muscles flex as he reaches up to slide the shirt over his head, and your eyes catch on the scars littering his back, the faint red lines and the faded, angry stains left upon his spine, holding memories of the days that brought him to this point of roboticism, and despite your best efforts not to think too hard about it, your heart clenches painfully in your chest.

He glances over at you, and for the briefest second, there’s something in his eyes. Something soft, something different, though you can’t quite place it. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by that familiar mask.

“I’ll see you soon,” he says, his voice low, but there’s nothing in it. No affection. No real meaning. Just words.

You nod, eyes following his every move as he heads for the door, but you don’t say anything. Because what is there to say?

He leaves, and the silence that follows feels heavier than it should. You stay there for a few moments longer, listening to the sound of the door clicking shut, before you finally let out the breath you’d been holding.

Last night still lingers—on your skin, in your throat, between your legs. You feel it in the ache of your limbs and the hollow in your chest. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It never is.

Mattheo Riddle had become a ghost before the war had even ended, had already lost his entire sense of self. That moment—when he watched his father turn to literal dust—he couldn’t differentiate between whether the stirring he felt was grief or relief. 

The first time you saw him outside of Hogwarts was in a Muggle pub just off Diagon Alley. It had been a couple months since the end of the battle, right around the time you’d returned to a rebuilt version of Hogwarts for an eighth year. You hadn’t expected to see him at all, let alone there—half-drunk in a booth, sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes darker than you remembered. He looked up when you walked past. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just lifted his glass in a sort of salute, like you were two survivors nodding across the wreckage. 

You weren’t close, back then. Not really. Before the world went to ashes, you ran in the same circles—shared friends, shared classes, shared the occasional smirk across the room—but that was it. He was always a little too reckless for you to trust. And you were a little too careful, too quiet, for him to notice.

But war changes things.

The boy you remembered—the one who used to tilt his chair back during lectures and talk shit under his breath—he’s gone. What’s left is quieter. Harder to read. He still walks like he owns the ground beneath his feet, but there’s something broken behind his eyes now. Something lonely. You recognized it the moment you saw him again.

How could you not? It’s the same hollow feeling you can’t escape even in your wildest dreams.

That night in the pub, it was you who approached first, who spoke first. What started with small talk about mutual friends—about who made it out, who didn’t—turned into two drinks, then three, and then suddenly you were closer.

You can’t remember who leaned in first—only the bitter taste of whiskey on his lips and the way his hands slid under your shirt, all rough and desperate, as if he was trying to claw his way back into something real. It wasn’t gentle or romantic. Just a pathetic attempt from both of you to bury the feeling of emptiness lodged into your hearts.

He took you back to his dorm that night, and all you can remember was the way he had you pressed up against the wall, his mouth on your neck and his fingers fumbling with the buttons of your shirt like he hadn't touched another person in years. 

And then it happened again, two weeks later. And again, and again, until it became a pattern, the months passing by in an unyielding ocean of grievance and lust, the current never failing to pull you under.

No labels. No expectations. Just bodies and silence.

He doesn’t stay the night. Except when he does.

And you don’t care. Except you do.

You pull the silk sheets tighter around your bare chest, the scent of him burning your flesh. It’s riddled with vodka and musk and that cheap ass cologne you pretend not to love. Your eyes flutter shut, drifting back to last night, or more accurately, to every fucking night you’ve ever shared with him, honing in on every time he touched you with a certain gentleness that he usually never possessed. 

Despite your better judgment, despite the voice in the back of your head telling you to wake up and face reality, you’ve catalogued each of those moments in the most ornate corners of your brain. The moments when his fingertips glided softly along the ridges of your spine, when you’d moan a certain way and he’d ease the hold he had on your hair, when he positioned you facing him instead of away. 

It was pathetic, really. The arrangement was what it was, and there was no underlying meaning to any of the unspoken rules the two of you set. It wasn’t serious, it wasn’t exclusive, and it never would be, but it seemed the walls around your heart were far too fragile, far too decrepit, to ever stand a chance.

You told yourself you could do it. That it was fine. That you really were just helping each other cope and it was only about satisfying a mutual need. The problem was, that need had a different definition for you than it did for him.

You glance to your side, sitting up with the covers pulled just below your arms. His expensive watch is on the nightstand, forgotten again. He always forgets something, and you’ve started to wonder if it’s intentional. 

Eventually, you force yourself out of bed, wincing at the sensation of your bare feet hitting the cold floor. The clock’s only just ticked past six—feels too early to get up now for a 9AM class, but you decide you need a shower. To wash away the smell of drinks and smoke and the grease in your hair, but mostly, to wash away last night’s activities. To wash him off your skin.

This cycle, it’s never ending, like a wound that scabs but never heals. Maybe a sane person who actually fucking cared about theirself would have called it off by now, but you just can’t bring yourself to do it. Because no matter how much it stings, no matter how bad the fire burns you, it’s still reassuring. There’s an odd kind of comfort in knowing that you’re still able to feel, in knowing that your heart still works, and you’ll take whatever pain comes along with the pleasure to prove it.

Your body feels unfamiliar as you pad quietly to the bathroom, like it doesn’t quite belong to you anymore, your limbs heavy with leftover sleep. You let the door click shut behind you before turning the water on hotter than you should, letting the steam rise and drown out the thoughts bouncing around your skull.

You step under the spray without waiting, eyes shut, letting the heat burn away whatever’s left of last night. It doesn’t work—but you stay there anyway.

By the time you drag yourself out, the mirror is too fogged to show your face, and your fingers are wrinkled from how long you stayed under. You dry off without thinking, dress even faster, and force yourself out of the dorm before your mind can drag you back.

The Great Hall is already buzzing with chatter when you arrive for breakfast but making conversation is the last thing you want to do.

Unfortunately for you though, things never work out in your favor. That’s made clear enough by the sight of a handsome boy in blue robes waving you over. Groaning internally, you give in and trudge over to him and his friends—not that you have much of a choice.

“Hi Rowan,” you offer, flashing him a half-arsed smile as you took the seat next to him, fighting the urge to drop your tired head into your hands. 

“How’d you sleep?” he asks with a smile that came too easily. 

Peacefully, with another boy in my bed who fucks like a—

“Fine. Well, actually, I slept well.”

“I’m glad.”

Rowan was sweet. You’d been seeing him for a few weeks now. Nothing serious, but just a bit of fun. Dates, kisses, late-night study sessions that turned into something more. It was easier with him. He smiled at you in the hallways, held your hand under the table, asked questions like he genuinely wanted to know the answer. And he wasn’t bad to look at either—or to kiss. But when you did kiss him, when his hands were on your waist, your mind wandered. You couldn't help wishing his hands were rougher, warmer, different.

He pours you a glass of pumpkin juice without asking, like it’s an ingrained habit now. You thank him with a small smile and start picking at a piece of toast.

Rowan leans a little closer, nudging your shoulder with his. “You look tired. Was it the Arithmancy essay?”

You nod vaguely, reaching for the pumpkin juice. “Yeah, something like that.”

He chuckles softly. “Knew I should’ve stayed to help. I would’ve, you know—if you’d asked.”

You manage a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I know. You’re sweet.”

There’s a brief silence as you sip your drink, and then:

“I was thinking,” he starts, hesitant. “Maybe this weekend, you and me could take a trip to Hogsmeade? Just the two of us. I feel like I never get you all to myself anymore.”

You nearly choke on your toast.

“I— yeah. Sure,” you say too quickly, blinking down at your plate. “That sounds nice.”

He grins, all sunshine and sincerity, and you hate yourself a little more than usual.

Because you know you’re going to cancel at the last minute. You always do.

Your eyes flick toward the doors of the Great Hall every few seconds, scanning the entrance like your body’s acting on instinct, searching for him even when your mind insists not to.

Rowan’s voice pulls you back.

“Do you have class after this?” he asks, brushing a crumb off your cheek with his thumb. “I could walk you.”

You swallow thickly, nodding. “Yeah. Defense. With Slughorn.”

He laughs. “Isn’t he Potions?”

You blink again. Shit. “Right. Sorry. I meant… I meant Potions.”

You’re falling apart at the seams and he doesn’t even notice. That might be the worst part.

The weekend arrives with a sickening speed, each day bleeding into the next like ink soaking through thin pages. You’ve kept your distance, save for the occasional glance in his direction—you can’t help yourself. But every time your gaze finds him, he’s never looking back. You don’t get the butterflies, the stupid fluttering warmth a younger, more naive version of you might have felt if he’d met your eyes across the room. Mattheo doesn’t give you that satisfaction, and it eats at you because all you want to know was if it was on purpose—if he was fighting the same fucking battle as you or if he honestly just didn’t care.

Too much to dwell on, you think. Too much to dwell on and too little in return. 

Your hands tremble as they gently scoop up Mattheo’s watch from the cozy spot in your nightstand drawer that you’d tucked it into, between freshly washed socks and bras. It felt too intimate, storing something that belongs to him in such a personal space, but you told yourself that that wasn’t your intention, that you were just safekeeping it for him.

Of course, safekeeping would’ve meant more if you’d returned it to him days ago, during one of the countless times you’d crossed paths in classrooms and hallways, and of course you'd thought about it, but you backed down before you even began.

Speaking to him when you weren’t drunk was a risk you didn’t want to gamble.

True, it would give you an advantage; you wouldn’t spew the same utter bullshit and nonsense you usually did when intoxicated. And true, chances were he’d just take the watch and you’d both move along with your days, but fuck, there was also the chance that either he’d ask you something you didn’t want to answer or you’d say something you couldn’t take back.

Being sober means remembering everything, and you refuse to take that chance.

So instead you wait.

You wait and wait until Saturday night rolls around, his watch crammed into your jacket pocket as you stumble down the steps of the dormitories to the common room, where music is blasting so loud it could hardly be considered anything but noise. The air reeks of alcohol and weed, tendrils of secondhand smoke snaking through your nostrils to leave your head throbbing in record time. You haven’t even made it halfway across the room and your skull already feels like it’s cracking open.

The second Pansy spots you—your oversized jacket swallowing your frame, concealing the bare skin shown off by your tiny skirt —she’s practically lunging. Her arm hooks around yours, too tight and too fast, and her breath smells like firewhiskey when she leans in.

“Oh, look at you,” she drawls, eyes glassy, voice syrup-thick. “Looking all dangerous tonight. Who are you trying to kill with that skirt?”

You shift on your feet, uncomfortable. “No one, Pans,” you mutter. “I’m wearing the jacket for a reason.” Your free hand fidgets with the hem hidden beneath the leather, fingers twitching like they’ve got something to hide. “The skirt was the only clean thing I had.”

Pansy’s smirk doesn’t budge. If anything, it grows smugger. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing with a glint that makes your skin prickle. “Mhm. Sure. Nothing to do with a certain someone you’re hoping to accidentally bump into? Saving the view for him?”

God.

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. Because she’s right. And maybe you are that transparent. Like someone’s cracked open your spine and flipped through your insides. Public display. Exhibition. Autobiography of your worst decisions.

“Fucking hell, Pansy, give it a rest. Aren’t you the one preaching every day and night about how women don’t dress for men?” 

She blanches, her brows furrowing. “Yes. Doesn’t mean I can’t tell when my best friend’s trying to get a certain boy’s attention.” Her voice is softer than before, like she’s trying to ease you into being honest with her, but she’s still slurring her speech and frankly, the words ‘best friend’ give you the urge to pull away. It only takes a couple beats without a response from you for her to rub at her reddened eyes with a fist and speak up again.

“You know he’s fucked up, right?”

Right. That again.

Like it’s news. Like it’s something you haven’t played on repeat in your brain until the record scratched.

“I’m well aware.”

“He’s not built for relationships.” 

You smile, sharp as broken glass. “Good thing we’re not in one then.”

She sways slightly, like the ground feels just a little softer than usual, and gives you a look, one that says you’re not fooling anybody, and it’s enough to make your stomach twist.

Eyes flicking to the floor, you bounce up and down on the heels of your feet, running your tongue over your teeth. “I came here to loosen up, not be lectured.”

You slip your arm from hers, gently but firmly, like peeling off a bandage that’s clinging too tight. Her fingers linger for half a second before falling away, and you don’t wait for her to say anything else—you’re already moving. Head low, feet light, weaving through the maze of limbs and smoke and pulsing bodies.

The makeshift bar is a disaster. Half-empty bottles, sticky counters, solo cups stacked like some drunken monument to poor decisions. You grab the first clean-ish one you can find and pour whatever’s within reach—firewhiskey, you think, but it burns sharper than usual when it hits your tongue. You wince. Swallow anyway.

Your eyes skim the room. Just surveying. Being observant. Gathering intel like you’re not standing there in a fucking skirt short enough to haunt a Catholic grandmother.

Swallow again. The burn licks up the back of your throat, makes your eyes sting, but it shuts your brain up for a second. So you pour another.

You don’t even like the taste. You never have, but it gives your hands something to do, and something about the numbness creeping in behind your ribs feels... safe.

You glance around, like you’re doing it casually. Like you’re not scanning the room for a face you know too well. 

Your fingers tighten around the cup.

You’re not drinking just to get brave enough to talk to him. That’s not what this is.

This is you having fun. Being normal. Loosening up, like you said.

Right?

You take another sip.

He’s not even your boyfriend. You’re not his. There’s no label, no promises, no rules. Just... blurred lines and late nights and moments that mean too much and not enough all at once.

Your mouth tastes like sugar and regret. You chase it with more alcohol.

But then you catch a glimpse of him. He’s got a short brunette in a little black dress pressed up against the wall with his hands on her hips, the top button of her shirt undone, and worst of all, his mouth on her neck. 

The sight hits you like a fucking punch to the gut, jealousy slithering up your spine and coiling tight around your ribs until you feel like you can barely breathe. Your hands tighten into fists without you realizing, the stupid watch in your pocket starting to feel like 50 pound weights, dragging you down every moment you were still standing.

Jealousy slowly bubbles into rage, and you don’t know what pushes you to do it. Be it the alcohol, or bravery, or just pure fucking stupidity, you stomp over, effortlessly pushing through the countless bodies in your way, the hurt giving you power enough to do so. 

“Mattheo,” you croak out when you’re closer to him, fingers twitching with a lethal mixture of fury and anxiety. He doesn’t budge, lips still firmly attached to her neck, leaving a trail of red splotches and saliva.

Heat floods your entire body, up your ears and cheeks and neck, leaving you embarrassed for having called to him in front of all these people only to be ignored. Either he didn’t hear you because he’s completely entranced by this girl, or he disregarded you on purpose. Either way, it burns.

“Mattheo,” you call, louder this time. 

His eyes snap up, searching his surroundings before landing on yours, hooded, glazed, like he’s not really there. But the second he sees you, something in his expression shifts. Brief and barely visible, but there.

“…What?” he mutters, voice low and rough. He doesn’t move away from her. Doesn’t drop his hands from her hips. The girl turns slightly, confused, but he doesn’t even acknowledge her. His gaze is still locked on you, half-dazed, half-aware, like he’s trying to decide whether to fight or flee.

Stomping over, you fish the watch out of your pocket, eyes never leaving his as you get closer. “You fucking forgot this,” you snarl, shoving the dumb thing against his solid chest, hard enough to make him stumble and to make the girl yelp. Without wasting a single second, you turn the fuck back around and walk away.

“What the fuck?” he mutters under his breath, his hand clasping over the watch as to not let it fall before completely disregarding the girl to follow you through the crowd.

You pray that he’ll lose you in the swarm of people, but of course, he doesn’t. He catches up just as you hit the corridor past the main room and grabs your arm—not hard, just enough to stop you, to turn you around—and the look on his face is equal parts confusion and condescension and anger. Like you just ruined his night.

“Are you fucking serious?” he growls into your face, the watch still clutched in his fist. “You come storming in, start throwing shit like a lunatic—”

You yank your arm out of his grip. “Oh, I’m the lunatic?” You laugh, short and humorless. “Sorry, didn’t realize interrupting you sucking face with some random slag made me the irrational one.”

He scoffs. “She’s not random.”

“Yeah? What’s her name then?”

He opens his mouth then closes it. Shrugs like he can’t be bothered to come up with a proper answer. “Does it matter?”

You glare at him, lip curled. “No. Of course not. Why would it? You’ve got a whole fucking lineup, don’t you?”

“You’re one to talk,” he sneers. “You playing house with Rowan fucking Rivers now? Letting him leave his shit behind too? Or do you just shove it under your bed like a good little whore and keep rotating us in?”

The slap would’ve landed if he hadn’t caught your wrist.

“You don’t get to fucking talk about him,” you seethe, struggling against his grip. “You don’t get to say anything.”

“Why not?” His voice is low, dangerous now, eyes narrowed as he leans in. “Because he’s the one who takes you on real dates? The one you’re actually proud to be seen with? While I get what—sloppy seconds in the dark when you’re drunk enough to forget you don’t give a shit about me?”

“You don’t know anything,” you snap, shoving him. He barely moves, just smirks wider, crueler.

“No?” He leans in again, voice like poison. “I know you kept that watch for a week. Slept with it on your nightstand like some pathetic little souvenir. I know you came here in a skirt that screams look at me, Mattheo, and now you’re pissed that I did.”

You take a step back, voice shaking. “I kept it because I thought you’d come back for it, you prick.”

The silence that follows is blistering. It’s a truth you’ve only just admitted to yourself for the first time.

“You left it in my room on purpose, Mattheo.” Your voice is trembling now, shaking with everything you won’t say. “Don’t act like I imagined that.”

His expression darkens. He lifts the watch, holds it between two fingers like it’s meaningless. “Yeah. Well. It was just a fucking watch.” He lets it drop to the floor between you, doesn’t even flinch when it hits with a metallic clink.

You feel something splinter in your chest. It’s quiet for a while; you can’t even think of what to say anymore.

“I know enough about you,” he says again, and the venom in his voice feels like a slap all on its own. “I know you like it when I fuck the good girl out of you and you still act like I’m the one who should feel dirty.”

It’s a low blow and he knows it, to make you sound like such a needy, sex-depraved little girl, but you know he’s not wrong. Being with him makes you feel alive—that’s how you ended up in this position to begin with. Because you made each other feel real.

“Fuck you,” you whisper.

He takes a step forward, chest nearly brushing yours. “You already did. Again and again. Until you were shaking so hard you couldn’t even see.”

You shove him. Hard.

He lets you.

But then he grabs your arm, pulls you into a corner, out of view, and slams his hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in like a goddamn threat.

“Don’t act like you don’t want this,” he says low, voice almost shaking now. “Don’t act like you came to this party looking like that for anyone else.”

Your mouth opens to argue, maybe, or scream, or slap him again, but he doesn’t give you the chance.

Because suddenly his mouth is on yours—hard, bruising, possessive—like he’s trying to prove a point, or make you forget every name that isn’t his. And you let him. You bite back. You kiss like you’re angry, because you are, and he tastes like smoke and firewhiskey and everything you can’t have but take anyway.

He’s already dragging you up the stairs to his dorm before you can even blink.

He slams the door shut behind you and you barely have time to catch your breath before he’s on you again, his mouth hot and desperate, hands roaming like he needs to memorize the shape of your body all over again just to spite himself. Your back hits the wall with a thud, and he swarms into you, one hand fisting your hair and the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

“You’re such a fucking liar,” he growls against your mouth, biting at your bottom lip until you gasp. “Walking around with that innocent look, like you don’t fuck like you want to ruin me.”

You dig your nails into his shoulders, dragging him closer, refusing to let him think he’s the only one holding the reins. “You ruined yourself,” you spit. “Don’t put that on me.”

He laughs, low and cruel and breathless. “Still acting like you’re better than this,” he whispers, pressing his body flush to yours so you can feel just how hard he is, how much he wants. “Better than me.”

You don’t answer. You kiss him instead, messy and open-mouthed, biting down on his tongue just enough to make him hiss. He grabs your throat, not to squeeze, just to hold you there, thumb stroking along your jaw with a gentleness that contrasts his actions.

“You think Rivers would still look at you the same,” he murmurs, “if he saw the way you drool on my cock?”

Your breath catches, humiliation and arousal burning through you simultaneously. He sees it, the way your body betrays you, and it only makes his grin sharper, hungrier.

“Knew it,” he mutters. “Knew that mouth wasn’t just for smart little comments and pretending you’re not fucking dying to be used.”

He tugs you deeper into the room, pulling off your jacket and revealing the skirt you wore underneath. His eyes narrow; the implication is clear. So is the command in his voice when he says, “On your knees.”

Your heart stutters, but you obey, mostly because you’re too proud to hesitate. The carpet bites at your knees as you kneel in front of him, evading his gaze because he’s watching you with a look that makes your skin feel too tight.

“Take it out,” he says, voice low and sharp. “Since you came all this way.”

You glare up at him, but your fingers are already working his belt loose, pushing fabric aside, your hands far steadier than you feel. He’s hard, flushed, already leaking at the tip. You swallow hard, shame heating the back of your throat, and he fucking sees it.

He’s thick and hard, and when he hits the back of your throat, you gag, but don’t pull away. He holds there a second too long. Then pulls back. Then thrusts again—harder this time, hand fisted in your hair.

“That’s it,” he grits, hips starting to move. “Take it. Fucking take it like a good girl.”

You whimper around him, hands curling against his thighs for balance, spit slicking your chin as he thrusts deep, over and over. It’s brutal and filthy and not even a little bit gentle.

“You pretend you’re too good for this,” he breathes, cock dragging against your tongue. “Pretend you like him so much, but you never gag on his cock like this, do you?”

Your eyes water. Your throat clenches. You want to hit him, bite him, shove him back and scream, but you don’t. You just moan, low and broken, like you're agreeing with him.

Because part of you is.

“You like when I use you like this,” Mattheo hisses, slamming in again, making you choke. “When I fuck the lies right out of your pretty little mouth.”

He doesn’t stop until your mascara’s smudged, your mouth swollen, and you’re gasping through your nose with tears running down your cheeks.

Only then does he pull out, cock wet and twitching, your saliva glistening down his length.

He watches you pant for breath on your knees, lips red and parted, cheeks flushed.

“Still think I’m the problem?” he asks softly, venom sweet in his voice.

You glare up at him, breathing hard, heart thudding so violently you swear it might crack your ribs open.

“Yes,” you whisper hoarsely, voice raw from his cock.

Wrong answer. He slams his dick back in without warning, so deep his balls are practically pressing against your chin. Your throat constricts in protest and the noise you let out is one of pure, unadulterated shock, but it only spurs him on. 

His hands find the hand of your head, wrapping strands of hair around his fingers and moving your head back and forth on his own to meet the thrust of his hips. He’s too strong for you to stop him, not that you even want him to, so you let him fuck your face like a damn fleshlight.

“Cumming,” he groans. “Get ready to swallow every fucking drop— I’m gonna check.”

And after a moment, you feel ropes of warm, salty liquid shoot down your throat, coughing a little as he finally lets you come up for air but still doing your best to swallow. His thumb and forefinger harshly grab your chin, tilting your head up to look at him.

“Open.”

Oh. He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d check.

Your lips part slowly, tongue out, breath still hitching from the aftershocks. Your throat is sore, your eyes glossy, but you hold his gaze steady even as your jaw trembles from the effort.

He leans in, one hand still gripping your chin, eyes dark as sin. His thumb drags your bottom lip down further, admiring the mess he’s made. His cum still glistens faintly on your tongue.

“Good,” he murmurs, low and rough. “Good fucking girl.”

The praise hits something dangerous inside you and you swear your body betrays you all over again. You don’t move, don’t speak, just keep holding your mouth open like he told you to, letting him see every bit of you wrecked and obedient. “Keep it open.”

You blink up at him, confused for only a second—until you see him curl his lip, tilt his head slightly, and then—he spits.

It lands right on your tongue, warm and wet and humiliating.

And your whole body clenches with how fucking turned on you are.

“That’s it,” he growls, watching you like a man possessed. “Fucking swallow it. All of it. Like you’re proud.”

You do. You swallow every drop—his cum, his spit, all of it—and then open your mouth again without being told, just to show him.

And the look on his face when you do… God, it’s like you’ve just handed him your soul.

You barely have time to brace before he’s yanking you up from the floor by the hair, your knees scraping the rug as you scramble upright, unbalanced. Your face is hot and slick and wrecked, your mouth still tingling from how thoroughly he used it, and your body stings with humiliation and heat and something even worse: want.

He spins you around and shoves you toward the full-length mirror propped up against the wall. You catch yourself just in time, palms flat against the wood paneling on either side of the mirror’s frame. Your reflection stares back at you, wide-eyed and flushed, mascara streaking down your cheeks, lips red and swollen and shiny with spit.

Mattheo crowds in behind you, pressing his chest against your back, trapping you with his body. His mouth hovers just above your ear.

“Look at you,” he growls, voice thick. “Fucking look.”

Your throat is raw. Your heart pounds. You look.

“Mouth wrecked. Face ruined. Drool all down your chin.” His eyes meet yours in the mirror, unblinking. “And your thighs have been pressed together since the second you knelt down. What, sucking my cock got you wet?”

You don’t respond. He laughs, low and cruel, and his hands trail down, slow and mocking, sliding over your waist, the curve of your ass, gripping the hem of your skirt and hiking it up just enough to reveal the way your legs are trembling.

“This what Rivers gets?” he sneers. “This pretty little mess? Or do you clean yourself up for him, act sweet and shy and fuckin’ pure like you don’t choke on my cock every chance you get? Think he’d still hold your hand if he knew what you looked like with your mouth stuffed full of someone else’s cock?”

You blink, furious and humiliated, and maybe just a little aroused by the heat in his voice, the roughness of his grip, the fact that his cock’s already starting to harden again against your hip. Swallowing hard, you still refuse to speak, but your silence damns you more than any answer.

He smirks.

“Take your clothes off,” he says simply, stepping back and folding his arms. “Slow.”

Your breathing falters, but your hands move.

First your shirt, inch by inch, over your head and off your arms. Then your skirt, unbuttoning at your hip, sliding down your thighs and pooling at your feet, then your panties. You don’t rush, not because you’re trying to be seductive, but because there’s something humiliating about doing it this way. Slowly, while he watches, while you watch in the mirror. You’re down to just your bra, skin flushed, legs bare. 

Mattheo’s eyes drag over you like fire.

He walks you back toward the bed until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. You sit automatically, and he moves behind you, knees bracketing yours as he settles on the edge and tugs you back against his chest.

His breath is hot at your ear as his hands drift up.

One finds the clasp of your bra and undoes it with a single practiced flick. The straps slide down your shoulders, and you make a move to shrug it off, but he stops you, his hand coming around to cup your breast through the lace before it falls away completely.

You suck in a breath.

“You know, every part of you is prettier when it’s ruined,” he says, his hand squeezing once before letting the bra fall away altogether. “Even this.”

Your head tilts back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for just a second, but then his other hand slides under your thigh, hooks beneath your knee, and yanks your leg up, holding it back so wide you can see the slick mess between your thighs in the mirror. He does the same to your other leg, locking them open from behind, his arms under your knees, your cunt completely exposed.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he mutters. “Not done with you yet.”

You blink at your reflection, the slow creep of vulnerability tightening your chest. You’re fully bare now, curled against Mattheo like some kind of obscene doll, his hands splayed possessively over your body like he owns it, like he owns you.

“You know what I want,” he murmurs, voice rough against your temple. “So do it.”

You hesitate again and his palm tightens under your knee, jerking your leg higher, further apart, until your muscles strain with the angle.

“Do it,” he says again, quieter this time. More dangerous.

Your hand trembles as it slides down between your thighs, slow and uncertain, and he watches you in the mirror like a hawk, gaze burning into every inch of you. You suck in a breath as your fingers reach your cunt, slick and hot and already pulsing.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Come on, baby, make yourself feel good.”

You press your fingers against your clit, drawing slow, tentative circles, but it’s not enough—he makes it feel dirty, degrading, like something shameful when he’s not the one doing it to you. But his eyes are fixed on your hand now, on the way your legs twitch under his hold, on the stutter in your breath.

His palm slides up to your chest again, this time tweaking your nipple between two fingers with a twist that makes your hips buck—and then he’s gone again, gripping both legs now, holding them wide, making sure you stay open as you push a finger inside. You don’t even realize you’re whining, begging under your breath—please, please, please—until you hear him laugh softly, right in your ear.

“Pathetic little slut,” he breathes. “You’re going to cum just from your own fingers? From being watched?”

You nod without meaning to, the pressure mounting too fast, too sharp. You’re close, so fucking close, and your body’s about to give in.

But then, his hand lashes out and grabs your wrist, yanking it away from your cunt just seconds before you tip over the edge.

You choke on a sob, hips rocking up into nothing, your cunt clenching around emptiness as the orgasm dies, suffocates, fizzles out in your gut like ash.

“No,” he growls into your neck, dragging your hand up and away. “You don’t get to cum yet.”

You whimper, chest rising and falling like you’ve run a marathon, still trembling in his arms. His grip on your legs doesn’t loosen. You’re still spread open, still flushed and dripping and unsatisfied, your cunt throbbing from the denied release.

He brings your hand up to your mouth, still wet from between your thighs.

“Open,” he says again, voice a whipcrack.

You do and he shoves your fingers between your own lips, slow and punishing, until your taste coats your tongue.

“Now be a good girl,” he says, breathing ragged against your ear, “and fucking hold it in.”

Your fingers are still in your mouth, tasting yourself on your tongue, when he finally lets go of your legs and shoves you forward onto the bed. You land on your elbows, breath catching, and before you can adjust, he’s dragging you back by the hips, forcing you flat on your back, knees bent and spread wide as he looms over you.

“Fucking mess,” he mutters, looking down at your slick cunt, still flushed and leaking from earlier. “And this is what you’re trying to give to someone else?”

His thumb drags along your inner thigh, deceptively slow, just skimming the edge of where you need him most, but not quite touching. You squirm under his gaze, shame prickling hot over your skin.

“You think Rivers could ever make you look like this?” he sneers. “Think he could make you drip like this, just from talking down to you?”

You don’t answer because you know he’s not waiting for one.

Instead, he grabs your thighs and spits—a sharp, wet sound—and the slick hit of it lands right on your cunt, warm and filthy. You jolt, moaning despite yourself, and his grin turns sharp and mean.

He licks a slow stripe through your folds, tongue flat and dragging, and your hips buck immediately. You can’t help it; you’ve been denied, teased, ruined already, and the wet heat of his mouth is unbearable. Especially when he groans, low and raw, like he missed this. Like he’s been starving for you.

He doesn’t start soft, doesn’t build up. He dives in with a filthy kind of hunger, tongue working in tight circles over your clit, then flattening to lick deep into you like he’s trying to clean out every trace of anyone else.

His hands push down on your thighs, holding them wide, fingers pressing bruises into your skin. You’re panting already, arching into his mouth, and he moans against you like he likes how desperate you are.

“Fucking taste of you,” he growls, voice muffled against your cunt. “Could eat this for hours. Make you forget every single thing but me.”

You whimper, fingers knotting in the sheets.

He pulls back just enough to spit on you again—louder this time, wetter—his saliva mixing with your slick and spreading as he drags his tongue through the mess. The sound alone makes your stomach twist.

You try to squirm away, overstimulated from earlier, nerves already frayed—but it’s useless. His mouth chases you with unrelenting hunger, tongue circling your clit, then sucking on it hard enough to make your legs jerk.

“Stay fucking still,” he growls, and when you don’t, he lifts one hand—crack. Slaps your pussy once, hard.

You cry out, thighs shaking, but he doesn’t give you time to recover. He slaps you again. And then again. Three times in total, each one harder than the last, until your whole cunt is aching and wet and flushed.

You blink through the haze of pain and pleasure, cunt throbbing where he hit you, but you don’t dare close your legs. His mouth is back on you in seconds, licking over the sting, soft for one moment before he starts sucking your clit again like he’s trying to draw every last sound out of you. His nails dig into your thighs. He growls something you can’t even understand because your mind is fucking splitting—

And still, he doesn’t let up.

Not yet.

His mouth is relentless, tongue lashing over your clit like he’s angry at it, like if he sucks hard enough it’ll undo the fact that you ever even thought about being with someone else.

When he pushes two fingers inside you, it feels like too much. They’re thick and rough and he doesn’t give you time to adjust; just starts fucking them into you, curling them with practiced precision until your back arches off the bed and your scream rips through the room.

“Yeah?” he pants, barely coming up for air. “You gonna cum? Gonna soak my fucking face like the little slut you are?”

Your hands fly to his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt, but he only groans louder, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“I said fucking cum,” he growls, fingers driving in even faster. “Now.”

And you do.

It slams into you like a wave, knocking all the air from your lungs. Your thighs clamp around his head, your entire body tensing as pleasure crests so violently it almost hurts. You cry out, raw, broken, and fucked-out, and your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, gushing as your orgasm tears through you.

You thrash, moaning his name like it’s a curse, trying to twist away from the overstimulation, but he’s got you pinned. One arm locked around your thigh, the other keeping his fingers buried in your cunt, his whole body pressed between your legs to keep you spread open for him.

“Fucking look at that,” he growls against you, his voice thick with pride and something almost reverent. “You fucking squirted, baby. All over me. Shit.”

Your body convulses again when he spits on your pussy, again, mixing it with your slick as he keeps working his fingers in and out of you.

“I’m not stopping,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, like he can’t stop. “Not until you’re shaking. Not until you forget every name but mine.”

Your legs tremble around his hands, your breath coming in broken gasps, your vision blurring with tears from how good it feels, how fucking much it is.

And through it all, Mattheo doesn’t ease up.

He just keeps devouring you.

Like he’s trying to crawl inside your body.

Like he wants to tear every trace of anyone else out of you—until there’s only him left.

Your second orgasm hits fast, brutal, not even a minute later. It crashes into you mid-sob, a breathless, splintered sound that makes Mattheo groan like you just fucking fed him. Your nails rake down his scalp, your legs spasm around him, and it doesn’t matter how much you squirm or whimper or cry out—he keeps going.

Because this isn’t just about getting you off anymore.

This is him, laying claim to every last piece of you in the only language he knows—sex, sweat, spit, and everything he’s not brave enough to admit out loud.

He finally lifts his mouth from your cunt, lips swollen and glistening, and you gasp at the sudden cold air hitting your slick skin, but there’s no relief because his fingers are still moving inside you, slower now, deeper, like he’s exploring. Learning you all over again. Your hips twitch when he curls them just right and your voice breaks completely.

“Mattheo, I— fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he cuts you off, low and rough. His voice is almost affectionate now. Almost. “You will.”

His other hand strokes your thigh, deceptively gentle, before landing another sharp slap to your overstimulated pussy. You jolt, a pathetic little noise escaping your throat.

“So sensitive now,” he murmurs, like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. “Could cum just from my fingers, couldn’t you? Just from this.”

He adds a third finger.

You cry out, legs flying open wider on instinct, your walls fluttering as your body betrays you again, greedy, eager, desperate even when you’re already spent.

“You feel that?” he breathes, pressing against the spot that makes your whole body seize. “That little flutter? You’re so fucking close again, aren’t you? Gonna make a mess all over my hand this time, too?”

Your answer is a strangled sob and a frantic nod.

But just as your stomach starts to coil, he pulls his fingers out.

You whine, hips lifting off the bed in desperate protest, but he presses a firm hand to your stomach, holding you down.

“Don’t fucking move,” he growls. “You’ll take it when I give it to you. Not a second before.”

Your body trembles under the weight of it, your thighs twitching, breath ragged, heart pounding so hard it hurts, and for a moment, it’s quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl.

Mattheo sits back between your legs, hand dragging slowly down your stomach, through the mess between your thighs. His fingers are wet with you. You. He stares at them like they’re proof—proof of how much you want him, how much you’ll always come back, no matter how many names you let slip from your mouth in the dark.

He drags his hand up, smearing slick across your hip, your ribs, up to your throat, gripping it again, just tight enough to make your breath catch.

Then he leans in, nose brushing yours, voice low and gutted.

“You let him touch you?”

You blink up at him, wide-eyed, mind still trying to catch up. “What?”

He squeezes your throat once, firm, unforgiving.

“Rivers,” he spits. “Did you let him see this pussy?”

“No,” you gasp, voice thin. “No, I— Mattheo, I didn’t—”

“Did he taste you?”

You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes, and it’s not just fear or arousal or shame—it’s the ache underneath it all. The ache that says this still matters to you. That some part of you wants it to matter to him, too.

His grip on your throat softens for a second.

Then he shoves your legs open and flips you over onto your stomach.

You cry out in surprise, hands scrambling against the sheets, but he doesn’t give you time to think. He pulls you up onto your knees, dragging your hips back until you’re arched, exposed—humiliated in the most obscene way. Your face is half-buried in the blanket, flushed and wet, and you can just barely make out your reflection in the mirror across the room.

You look wrecked.

Mascara streaked down your cheeks. Lips red and bitten. Hair wild from where he’s been fisting it all night.

And your thighs are trembling, still parted, slick with arousal.

“Look at yourself,” he snaps, fisting a hand in your hair to make you lift your head. “So fucking beautiful.”

You do look. It’s unbearable.

“You see that?” he murmurs, dragging the head of his cock through your folds. “See what I’ve done to you?”

You shudder as he presses in just a little, enough to stretch you open around the tip, but not enough to satisfy the ache. Not yet.

“You used to act like you were better than this,” he whispers, and his voice is low, hoarse, almost reverent. “All those books. All that fucking perfect posture in class. Just fooling everyone else.”

He shoves forward, burying himself in you in one brutal thrust.

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as your body clenches around him, raw and slick and too sensitive, but fuck, you’re full. So full it almost hurts. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. He just starts to move, deep and rough, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

Your eyes flick up again, dazed, catching your own reflection, and the look on your face is almost unrecognizable. Pleasure, pain, possession, and everything in between.

He wraps his hand around your throat, pulling your upper body back against his chest. Your spine arches, your tits bouncing with each harsh thrust, and he watches all of it, obsessed, with his eyes locked on the mirror.

"Say it," he snarls, hand tightening at your throat. "Say who you fucking belong to."

You gasp, pulse hammering against his grip, and he spanks you hard when you hesitate. The sting ripples through your thighs and up your spine.

“Try to run and I’ll fuck you into the floor,” he warns, lips brushing your jaw. “Now say it.”

Your chest rises and falls in stuttering gasps, throat working around the pressure of his grip. His cock pounds into you from behind, fast and unforgiving, and the obscene slap of skin against skin drowns out every last rational thought in your head.

“I— I belong to you,” you choke out.

He growls low in your ear. “Louder.”

“I belong to you, Mattheo.”

The hand on your throat tightens, but you see his eyes flash with something deeper. Something you’ve never seen before.

“Fucking right you do.”

He shoves your thighs farther apart, hand sliding from your throat to your mouth, stuffing two fingers between your lips until you're choking again, but on him this time, gagging softly as your tongue flicks against the calloused pads.

His other hand smacks your ass again, harder, the sting blooming bright across your skin. “Can’t even keep your legs closed,” he spits, hips slamming into yours. “So fucking desperate for it— this is what you need, isn't it?”

You nod, moaning around his fingers, mouth drooling, legs trembling beneath you. Every muscle is strung tight, a storm of overstimulation building beneath your skin, burning you alive from the inside out.

Then he pulls his fingers from your mouth and drags them down between your legs, slipping them in alongside his cock, stretching you, fingering you hard while still fucking you deep.

You scream.

He clamps a hand over your mouth this time, muffling the sound, and still doesn’t stop. The rhythm of his hips falters just long enough for him to pant in your ear, “Gonna make you squirt all over me. Gonna ruin this bed, this carpet— fucking everything.”

Your orgasm builds fast and brutal, a hot knot in your gut pulled tighter and tighter with every brutal thrust, every curl of his fingers inside you. You cum with a sharp, guttural cry, convulsing around him, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs. Your thighs tremble, your vision whites out, and then you feel it.

Liquid gushes out of you, soaking the sheets, his hand, his thighs.

He groans like he’s been punched in the gut. “Fuck yes. Just like that. Look at yourself, baby. Look at the mess you made for me. So perfect, you’re so perfect.”

Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror: eyes wild and glassy, mouth open, chest heaving. You don’t even recognize yourself anymore.

But Mattheo does and he’s fucking obsessed.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down.

His hips keep snapping forward, unforgiving, his cock slick with your release, his hand back at your throat now—not tight, not angry, but there. Holding. Anchoring.

“Mine,” he breathes, voice cracked and wrecked against your shoulder as he finally cums, spilling deep inside of you. “You’re mine, you understand me?” 

You can’t even speak. Just nod frantically, tears running down your cheeks. And then you feel a little splash on your bare shoulder, so faint you almost think you’re imagining it, but you look up to see his face in the mirror, small tears evidently falling down.

It’s unclear whether the fluttering in your chest is from heartache or hope or pleasure, but it’s there, and it reassures you that he must be feeling something. At least a fucking sliver of the suffering you’ve been dealing with, at least a fraction of the feelings you’re harboring for him.

He suddenly looks so fucking broken, so vulnerable. You want to reach for him, wipe the tear from his face, ask him what the fuck is going on inside his head. You want to ask him why he’s so fucking cold one minute, and then this the next.

But you can’t. Not now. Not with your body still trembling beneath his, still so raw, so exposed. He’s still inside you, still holding you in place as he leans into you, his face resting against your neck.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice hoarse and barely there. His chest presses against your back, his grip on your throat loosening, fingers brushing softly over the delicate skin. “I hate this.”

You let your head fall back onto his shoulder, feeling the weight of his confession. You want to tell him that you hate it too, but it’s a lie. Part of you thrives in this chaos, this connection that burns and stings, even when it destroys you both.

His breath is still shallow, and for a moment, you both just stay there, silent, eyes locked on the mirror. He shifts slightly behind you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets out a shaky breath that sounds almost... genuine.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers. “I didn’t...”

But his words fizzle out, swallowed by the distance that still stands between you two, even in the most intimate of moments. The words hang in the air, unspoken, a fragile thread that snaps the second you try to hold onto it.

His fingers trace a line down your spine, his touch almost affectionate, but it doesn’t last long. The coldness creeps back in, wrapping itself around his words like a familiar shroud. “You should go.”

It’s not a command, not really. It’s just the unspoken truth of what you are. What you always have been in this twisted dance; temporary. A passing fucking storm.

You turn your head slightly, catching his gaze in the mirror one last time. The rawness of his expression still burns in your chest, and for a fleeting second, you almost feel like he might say something else. Something more.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets go of you completely, pulls away, and it’s like the warmth he’d offered you was never there to begin with.

”I should go?” 

“… Yeah.”

Hm. Okay.

With shaky legs, you stand, slipping out from his grip and collecting your clothes. You force yourself to dress, your hands trembling, but your heart still pounding in your chest.

Before you leave, you glance at him one more time, his eyes averted, his jaw set, the wall around him already back up. You don’t say anything; you don’t need to.

You walk out of the room, the door clicking softly behind you.

And as you step into the cold air, your chest aches, but you don’t know whether it’s because you want him to chase you or because you know he won’t.

© leona-hawthorne 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost any of my writing.

reminder that reblogs, feedback, and comments are very appreciated and make me smile :)

part two

[noirbunnydeluxe]

Question. Why does Garmadon have a tail and Wu doesn't? What is your headcanon regarding the oni and dragon parts of the brothers?

Okay, to start, we'd have to go back to the beginning, when they were both conceived (by accident) by FSM. Without the intervention of a second father, he just underwent mitosis and laid two eggs one day.

A normal day in Ninjago.

(Please, ignore the fact that I misspelled Mystake's name, dyslexia hits me hard with her.)

Even though they're a perfect 50/50 like their father, each ended up having more traits from each side.

Garmadon has more dragon traits, while Wu has Oni traits.

To this day, it's not known for sure whether Wu's markings gradually disappeared as he grew up or if he removed them himself.

He never gives a clear answer.

What is certain is that he continues to use his shapeshifting ability to this day.

Now, do Oni have tails? Yes and no.

They aren't born with tails, but it's not uncommon for some to shapeshift to have one.

Usually a thin, very long one. They also tend to adorn them with jewelry because they're ✨️✨️fancy~✨️✨️ (when they want to be).

Wu was born without a tail because Oni aren't born with tails, and he never felt the need to have one.

And since we're on the subject of headcanons for this family, I have to talk about the "Garmadon situation." This is long.

We've already established that Garmadon was born 50/50 with more of his dragon side, right?

Well, now I'll explain how the Great Devourer's venom and how the "turned me evil" thing enters in all of this, or at least how I interpret it.

No, the venom didn't make him evil.

What the Great Devourer's venom did was rather... "stimulate" his Oni blood, not instantly but progressively, to the point where he physically resembled an Oni.

When the poison left his body, he returned to how he was at the beginning, 50/50.

And when he was resurrected by Harumi, she only brought back his Oni side, right?

Well, what they didn't know is that over time, Garmadon's body would restore the dragon blood itself. (If my understanding of how blood works isn't wrong.)

Technically, by the time of Crystallized, Garmadon could have looked like he did when he was Sensei Garmadon, but no, he really grew fond of his Oni appearance, and he voluntarily decided to stay that way. (Don't tell Lloyd.)

As an extra:The Spinjitzu family tails are very strong and practically a third arm.

Like the time a very tired Garmadon lost 1-year-old Lloyd in his house for an hour, it turned out he had him pinned to his tail the whole time.

Well, I lied, not all members of the family.

After the Tomorrow's Tea incident, Lloyd's tail muscles atrophied.

Don't worry, with rehabilitation, he's managed to move it again and is doing well, just not able to support as much weight as he should.

[scarletmika]

Sunflower : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Mitchell!Reader

Summary: Bob Floyd was head over heels for you from the moment you met. You were the best thing that had ever happened to him. But Hangman knew just how to get under people's skin, too well sometimes, and sometimes frustration hits a boiling point when the people you don't want to hurt are standing in the way.

Warnings: fluff, some angst, established relationship, language, Hangman acting like an ass, female reader

Word Count: 3,771 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell always had one rule for his daughter: no dating any Military men, or ladies, until he was dead. You’d always found the rule dumb, but your dad was firm on it. He knew what those men were like, he used to be one of them himself, part of the reason he ended up with a daughter of his own. Though he’d spend your entire life reminding you that you were the greatest gift the world had ever given him, and that’s why he was so protective with his different rules as you grew up.

You adhered to them for a long time…until Bob Floyd came along.

Maverick had just been called back to Top Gun for the first time in years, and while he was excited and terrified to come back, he was excited at the prospect of seeing you. You’d chosen to attend the University of California at San Diego, and loved the city so much you’d settled in it after graduation and never left. Living in a city, surrounded by Military men at every corner, and through the years you’d obeyed your father’s rule and steered clear of them all.

You could remember the first time you met Bob as if it had been yesterday. A text from Bradley Bradshaw, a man you’d grown up to see as practically your blood brother, telling you to meet him down at the Hard Deck. That was news to you, that he was even back in the States in the first place, but you also knew it meant he was most likely here on a mission.

“There’s my favorite girl!�� Bradley had whooped out the second he’d finished his song on the piano, the rest of the bar going back to their own conversations as the jukebox was plugged back in. He’d practically jumped off the piano bench, rushing forward to bring you into a hug, lifting you up with a spin as you laughed, hitting his shoulder lightly. “Would you believe me if I told you you’re my favorite part of coming back to the States?”

“Absolutely not one bit, Brad-”

“Hate to interrupt…but who’s she, Rooster?”

You pulled back from your brother, shooting a friendly smile toward what you could tell by their uniforms were other Navy fighter pilots gathered around the piano, watching you both curiously. Bradley threw an arm over your shoulders, giving it a squeeze.

“This right here is my infamous Sunflower-”

“You eat ONE of those as a child and get a stupid nickname-”

“I’ve told you guys about her before, practically my little sister,” he pointed off at the rest of his friends, listing them off. “That’s Mickey, otherwise known as Fanboy and Reuben, also known as Payback. That right there is Phoenix, but when I talk about her with you I just call her Natasha. We’ve got Jake, more well-known as Bag- sorry, I mean Hangman. And that’s Bob.”

You raised an eyebrow, gaze fixed on Bob questioningly as you realized Bradley wasn’t continuing his introductions.

“Just Bob?”

The man in question seemed to get flustered a bit, trying to speak and not seemingly able to find the words as his cheeks flushed.

“Uh, well, you know-”

“We just use Bob as his callsign too,” it was Hangman that spoke up, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder that seemed like it was in mock support. “Baby-On-Board seemed pretty spot-on to call him.”

Your face dropped, already understanding why your best friend seemed to bristle at the entire existence of Jake Seresin. You crossed your arms, shooting the man a pointed look.

“At least babies are cute. They also probably don’t leave their wingmen out to dry, if your own callsign is anything to go off of,”

The howling laughter of the entire group brought a smile to your face, including the look on Hangman’s face that clearly showed he’d been knocked down a peg by your words alone. You took the lapse in conversation to lock eyes with Bob again, sending him a smile and a sly wink.

He wouldn’t admit it, but Bob was head over heels for you from then on.

The team didn’t think they’d be seeing you around that often after that night, until they learned you were Maverick’s daughter. You might not have been on base with them all day, every day, but every second they weren’t on base you were with them all, ingrained with them like one of the family.

Nights at the Hard Deck, beach days learning to work together as a team in preparation for a mission, or the few days some of them managed to get off early enough to swing by and say hello to you at work. You spent all of your time with them, and those Navy fighter pilots had quickly become your best friends.

Many of them, mainly Fanboy and Hangman, had tried to get your number multiple times, to no avail. They were either stopped by Rooster’s protective gaze on you, your own father’s murderous look he’d shoot them, or a simple and polite no from you every single time. Natasha was the only one who got your number.

Bob didn’t think he stood a chance either, having overheard Rooster talking about how your father had a rule for you about dating Military men as it was, so he never tried. That’s why it surprised him so much when you’d walked up behind him at the Hard Deck one night, plucking his phone straight from his hands when no one was looking and typing in your phone number without another word.

Phoenix was the one who noticed more than others, given that Bob was her WSO. How every single time they weren’t up in the air training for the uranium mission, or being lectured back on the ground, he was buried in his phone with a smile and a blush on his cheeks. Or the way he disappeared from the base the second he was allowed to, or how you both seemed to always be around one another now wherever you all were hanging out at.

The bird strike was the first time you’d accepted that maybe you were on the verge of breaking your father’s single rule he had for you your entire life.

Maverick knew how close you’d become with the entire team, and called you the second he could to inform you of the accident. You were already in your car and on your way to the base before your father had told you he’d gotten special permission from Cyclone to let you on base.

You’d practically flew into Natasha’s arms the second you caught sight of her in the medical wing, asking her a thousand times if she was okay and checking her over. Once you’d backed out of her arms and set your sights on Bob, you could feel the overwhelming urge to cry overtake you. You’d stepped into his arms in an instant, burying your head in his neck as you began to cry, and Bob didn’t stop holding you until the tears subsided.

It was right before the Uranium mission where your relationship with Bob changed in an instant.

You were already worried sick, knowing your father was now leading the mission. You’d gotten a text directly after from Rooster informing you that you dad would be leading the mission, followed by one from your father himself to announce it. A bunch of texts streamed in, but you couldn’t bother to answer them as the nauseous feeling inside of you only grew. That pit in your stomach grew bigger as you realized that your father and Bradley’s lives weren’t the only ones you were overly concerned about, but Bob’s too.

You’d sequestered yourself for the rest of the day, ignoring texts from everyone as you realized that what you felt for Bob went entirely past platonic feelings. It was the next day when you’d opened your front door after the doorbell rang to Bob standing there in his Navy dress whites. You didn’t say a word to him, and he didn’t say a word to you either, the pair of you simply colliding in the middle in a kiss that had the rules you’d followed all your life long forgotten.

“Maverick is going to kill me for this,” he’d practically moaned out through kisses as you gripped onto the back of his neck, pulling him back in every time he pulled away for even a second.

“Good, means he’ll keep you alive during the mission to kill you after,” Bob had finally gotten you to stop chasing after his lips, pulling back to see the tears slowly streaming down your face as he gently wiped them away. “Just come back to me…all of you.”

“I promise, Sunflower,”

This wasn’t the first time your father had been on deployment. You’d had plenty of friends over the years in the military, too. This was far from the first time you’d ever dealt with people you care about throwing themselves into the line of fire and risking their lives. But this time, it held a new weight to it.

You were at the forefront of Bob’s mind the entire mission. The moment Maverick called his name alongside Phoenix’s own, his first thought was of you. Of the prettiest girl he’d ever laid eyes on, the girl who had carved out a space in his heart in such a short amount of time, who’d he’d never thought he’d have a chance with, waiting at home for him. For him, her father, and her best friends. He thought of his own family, his parents and his siblings too, but you’d crept right up in there with them at the forefront of his mind.

It was you he thought about as he frantically called out signals for Phoenix when they’d rounded coffin corner. It was the dread he felt of having to tell you that your father and the man you considered your brother were both most likely dead the second the remaining Daggar squad had landed back on the ship. Then, it was like a weight lifted off his shoulders the second they landed back in safety with the rest of the team in that beat of F-14, knowing he could keep his promise to you.

The second the team was back in the states and touching ground on land, you’d been waiting with tears in your eyes for all of them. Maverick’s arms were the first you flew into, your father holding you as tightly as humanly possible, before he let Bradley join in on the group hug too.

“Is the cry fest over here done?” Hangman had called out, the rest of the team joining you all as they smiled at the sight of you wrapped in a bear hug of two of your favorite men. Hangman held out his arms, wiggling his fingertips. “Can’t the rest of the team get hugs here, Sunflower?”

You had pushed your way out of the hug and in Hangman’s direction, but his smirk fell when you’d simply brushed past him and threw yourself into Bob’s arms, tugging his lips back to yours, craving the feeling you’d already become addicted to. Bob could feel his cheeks instantly flush with the heat of the public display of affection, of knowing who was watching, but it was worth it for that moment with you.

Jake, Reuben, Mickey, and Bradley’s jaws all collectively dropped as they watched the interaction before them, while Natasha only held a small smirk on her lips, knowing her suspicions were confirmed. The group had all turned back to Maverick, collectively fearing for Bob’s own safety. They may have been more shocked to see a genuine smile of pure affection and love on the fighter pilot's lips.

That night, surrounded by everyone you’d come to love so dearly in the Hard Deck over well-earned beers, Maverick had quickly bestowed his blessing on the pair of you.

“If she’s going to ignore my lifelong rule and date a Military man…I’m glad it’s you, Floyd,” Maverick had clapped a hand down on his student’s shoulder, giving him a pointed look. “Break her heart, though, and the push-ups are going from 200 to 300. Daily.”

Those moments all seemed like ages ago to you, when in reality they’d only been 10 months ago. They’d led to this moment now, as you stepped into the Hard Deck on a busy Wednesday night later than usual because of work, trying to spot your group of pilots in the distance. Thankfully for you, they’d all been assigned to stay at Top Gun for an extended period of time, still learning more and more from Maverick as Cyclone had determined there was much more his top students could learn. For you, that meant having your best friends around every single day.

“Sunflower! How nice of you to join us!” Natasha had called out with a laugh, handing you one of the beers she’d grabbed for you already. You happily took it, clinking the top of your bottle with her own.

“Phoenix, you’re a lifesaver for this,” you’d thanked her, tipping your head back to gulp the alcoholic beverage. “Work was insane today, for no good reason, too!”

“Your father had us doing 200 push-ups every time we failed the flight simulations today,” Fanboy cut in, walking past quickly as he rounded the pool table in front of you both. “Trust me, most of us would kill for your office job right about now. Bet it’s got air-conditioning.”

“Hey, you guys want to handle company-wide presentations, be my guest. I don’t mind passing that off,” you watched Payback and Fanboy’s pool match for a moment, turning back to Phoenix at your side. “Is my boy hiding around here somewhere? He didn’t answer my text earlier when I said I was on my way.”

“Oh, you mean dark and stormy?” you lifted an eyebrow at her words as Natasha let out a soft laugh. “Hangman was being extra…Hangman today, if you will. Really was digging in on him all day, could hear him grumbling from the backseat of the jet after every comment.”

“Let me guess, Jake is still on his ass even now, after hours?”

“Last I saw, he had him crowded in a booth with Bradley across the room,”

You clinked your bottle with hers one more time before turning on your heel.

“Guess that my queue to go save him!”

Bob Floyd was having the worst day of his life, and it was thanks to Hangman. Don’t get it twisted, he really did love Jake, he was one of his brothers after everything that had gone down on the Uranium mission. This job can bind you wth people for life, and it has for them. Today, though, Hangman was just being so…classic Hangman.

“No, seriously, I think if you’d just given me a little more time I could have had Sunflower wrapped around my finger instead,” Jake commented with a laugh, taking another sip of his beer as he shot a smirk across the table at Bob, seeing his friend’s grip on his own beer bottle tighten. “Oh come on, Baby-On-Board, lighten up! It’s just jokes! Though we’ve got to admit, her and I would be one gorgeous couple.”

“Yeah, so funny,” Bob mumbled to himself as Bradley gripped onto Hangman’s shoulder, shoving him out of the booth and promising Bob he’d go distract him for a bit up at the bar. The second they were gone, Bob was rubbing at his eyes under his glasses, frustration rolling off of him in waves.

He could deal with the Baby-On-Board comments all day long, the snide comments throw his way as he worked his way through Maverick’s 200 push-ups. Hell, he could deal with the four-eyes jokes too. Did they get on his nerves? Absolutely. Was he at his breaking point today? Also yes. What sent him over the edge every time, without fail, was jokes about you.

It didn’t matter that you’d been together almost a year, that you’d been the first one to utter ‘I love you’ to him at three in the morning as you’d laid together in his bed, his insecurities never really went away, they were just satiated for periods. It was when Jake chose to remind him that you were, in fact, way out of his league that they came crawling back to the surface.

“Now, what’s my handsome pilot doing over here all alone?”

It was your voice in his ear suddenly, hands winding around his shoulders and fingers digging into his muscles as you leaned over the back of the booth, hugging him to you. Normally, Bob would be like putty in your hands, falling back into your touch and your words as every ounce of stress left him simply because he was in your presence. Today, though, his shoulders stayed tense as Hangman’s constant jeers and jabs from the last few hours floated around his head.

“Regretting leaving my house,”

You raised an eyebrow, feeling the way Bob’s shoulders tensed up instead of relaxing into you, and slid your way around the bench so that you were sitting beside him. You craned your neck to try and get a look at his face, but Bob refused to look at you, the stress of the entire day on the verge of breaking over the surface.

“Come on, baby, what’s wrong-”

“Why don’t you ask Hangman?”

The question caught you absolutely off guard as you pulled away from your boyfriend slightly in confusion.

“Jake? The hell does he have to do with this?” when Bob didn’t answer you, you only continued. “Phoenix said he was giving you shit today, is that what this is about?”

“He thinks if you didn’t end up with me, you’d be with him. You’d be some perfect, gorgeous couple,”

“And what, you believe him?”

“I don’t hear you denying it,”

That was the moment that Bob decided to finally look at you, and he felt every ounce of frustration leave his body as he was racked with guilt and regret immediately.

“Wow. Okay, Bob,”

“No wait, baby-” he tried to place his hand on yours, but you’d already ducked out of the booth and stood beside it.

“No, you’ve made your point,” you refused to look at him now, and Bob close his eyes for a moment, knowing he’d fucked up. “I get it, Hangman can be a dick, but I chose you, Bob. If I wanted him, I’d have picked him, but I’ve only ever wanted you, and I chose you. I don’t care how much of a dick he was today, insinuating that isn’t cool.”

Bob knew you well enough to know that with the way you went storming out of the Hard Deck, chasing after you right now wouldn’t be the greatest idea in the world. It was at that moment that Jake and Bradley came back to the table, Jake whittling at the sight of you storming away.

“Ooooo, trouble in paradise?”

“For once, Hangman, please shut the fuck up,”

If you thought yesterday was a long day at work, nothing compared to the day after your disastrous Hard Deck night. You hadn’t texted Bob a single time, nor him you, even though you wanted to.

You let out another sigh to yourself as you stood at the copy machine in the office, rubbing at your under eyes. In hindsight, you felt that you had overreacted to the conversation last night, and you weren’t sure how to apologize to Bob for it. He’d had a long day, and so had you, and it simply had all culminated in that moment that anything could’ve set someone off.

“Hey,” you turned your head to see one of your coworkers, Jessica, standing at the doorway of the printer room you were in. She nodded her head in the direction of your office. “Someone is waiting in your office for you, by the way. Navy boy by the looks of it.”

You’d left the project on the printer in front of you, immediately walking back down the hallways in the direction of your office. You knew immediately who it was waiting for you, and it brought a small smile to your face as you turned through the door of the office.

Bob was standing directly by your desk with a small, almost timid smile, a bouquet of flowers in his hands as he took a step toward you, you taking one toward him as well.

“Hi,”

“Hi,” you answered, stepping up to him, just a foot away. You took a glance down, seeing him still decked out in his flight suit, straight from the base. “Aren’t you supposed to be on an F-18 right now?”

“Maverick was nice enough to give me the rest of the day off,” he commented, albeit sheepishly as he looked to the side for a moment. “After…the 300 or so push-ups he made me do.”

“Might be my fault there, he called me this morning once he got to base wanting to know about the ‘Hard Deck’ gossip that Rooster was talking about. Sorry,”

“You don’t have to apologize, I should be the one apologizing,”

You took the moment to glance down at the flowers in his hands, a smile growing. White tulips, a common symbol for apologies. Red roses, of course, representing love.

A single sunflower. The symbol of adoration and loyalty. You took the bouquet from him, inhaling the scent with a grin on your lips that he mirrored.

“They’re beautiful,”

“So are you,” Bob took the bouquet from you, placing it on top of the desk behind you both before taking your face in his hands. “I love you. You are, quite literally, the best thing that had ever happened to me, Sunflower. I shouldn’t have let him get in my head, and I shouldn’t have said what I did last night-”

“I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did,” you cut in, hands placed over the top of his own as you gazed up at him. “We were both frustrated, that’s all. You just have to remember that I chose you, because I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he’d simply responded. “I’ll always love you.”

Just like that day he’d shown up on your doorstep in those dress whites, words weren’t needed between you both to simply collide together in a passionate kiss, pouring every ounce of love’d felt for this man since the moment you’d met him into it.

[nagujake]

୨⎯Use Me⎯୧

pairing: bf!jungwon x fem!reader

synopsis: You've been so stressed and overwhelmed lately, but Jungwon has a way to help you relieve some of your stress.

word count: 1.4k

warnings: Mentions of divorce/toxic household, cursing, kissing, pet names (angel, baby, good girl), thigh riding

MDNI

(NOT PROOF READ)

Your home life wasn’t great, your parents weren’t at a good stage in their marriage and you were honestly just waiting for the day they would tell you they’re getting a divorce. While you’re 19 and could move out, you thought staying at home would keep your mom and dad together. You were hoping you were the glue they needed to keep their marriage going but that just wasn’t the case. Your mental health had also been on the decline because of all your home problems, but one thing you were grateful for was your sweet boyfriend, Jungwon. He truly was the only reason for your happiness anymore and he had always tried to keep things light and fun with you whenever you guys hung out. 

You walked into Jungwon’s house with a shy smile. You were here more than you weren’t nowadays and you always felt pretty shitty about it, you felt like a burden to his parents, regardless of how many times they said you weren’t. While you didn’t like to talk about what was happening in your house, Jungwon had filled them in on everything. 

You made your way to the living room, his mom greeting you from the kitchen “hey y/n!” “Hi Mrs. Yang” you said with a small wave and she smiled at you brightly “dinner is almost ready, have you eaten?” You shook your head softly “okay perfect because I made enough for you too” you bit your lip “thank you… where’s Won?”. She nodded “he’s up in his room”. Smiling slightly, you began walking towards the stairs before turning around “you look really pretty by the way” you uttered out, causing her to giggle softly “thank you honey, Jungwon’s father and I have a party for my job tonight. We’re gonna be leaving here shortly”. “Okay, Have fun!” You stated before turning around and finishing your walk up the stairs. 

You knocked lightly on his door and walked in, finding him with his headphones on, flipping through a school textbook. You slowly shuffled over behind him and put both hands on the sides of his headphones, pulling them off slowly. “Hey” you whispered. He quickly turned around with a smile and stood up, pulling you into a warm hug “hey angel” he left a soft kiss to your head before he pulled away. “You haven’t texted me in a while, I wasn’t sure if you were still coming over” you gave him a confused look “why wouldn’t I come over? I’m always here anymore” you smiled “and I completely forgot my phone at home. I left in a rush because my mom was screaming her lungs out. I just wanted to get out of there”. His expression dropped faintly and he pulled you into him again “I’m so sorry”. You laid your head against his chest and shrugged “it’s okay, I’m used to it” He sighed and loosened his grip on you.

You backed up and moved away, plopping down on his neatly made bed. He smiled at your action and mirrored it, plopping down next to you. “I’m so tired. I didn’t sleep like at all last night. My dad was freaking out on my mom” He turned to face you, head leaning on his palm. “You can move in here, ya know. The offer is always on the table. My parents are totally fine with it” You shook your head “I’m not gonna do that Jungwon. It’s fine, everything is fine” you showed him a fake smile. “You need to stop holding in all your feelings y/n. Bottling them up is gonna make you feel worse“ you playfully rolled your eyes “you’ve heard enough about it Wonnie” He raised his eyebrow at you “I’m your boyfriend, you can talk about it all you want” you turned to him, sleepily “but it gets annoying, I know that and it’s just so frustrating”. He just shook his head in response and crawled up the bed, holding his arms out “come here” you smiled widely and moved up to him quickly. You laid against him, your head on his chest, his arm snaked around you. “You can take a nap if you’re tired baby” You nuzzled into him deeper “I just wanna relax, I don’t wanna go to sleep yet. I missed you today” he smiled warmly but stayed silent, running a hand through your hair. 

The silence in the room made your mind race. All you could think about was your parents. You’ve been through so much mentally and you wanted to vent to Jungwon but you’re doing what you do best, holding all of your feelings inside to not bother anyone else with your problems. You could feel the ache in your chest rising and tears began to pool in your eyes. You immediately adjusted your position, slinging your leg over his so you could shove your face into his chest more. You were now straddling his thigh because you wanted to hide your tears as much as possible, because you knew you were gonna cry. He stayed silent and still as he began to feel your body shuddering lightly, he knew you were crying, you could never hide that from him. His hand sat on the back of your head, just allowing you to cry as much as you needed. “It’s okay angel”. You began to cry harder, the weight of everything becoming too hard to bear. “It’s just so fucking stressful Won” “I know baby”. 

He continued to let you sob into him for a while longer. “Angel, I want you to do something for me” you wiped your eyes clear and looked up at him. “Hm?” He didn’t say anything more and gripped the base of your ass, starting to move his hand up and down, encouraging you to move the same way his hand was. You began to move your hips the way he wanted “Use me to relieve your stress baby girl”. You pushed your hips harder onto his thigh and began grinding. Your hand moved to his shoulder, gripping roughly to ground you, while your hips started to move at a faster pace. A pleasurable thrill shooting through your body and straight to your core. “Fuck..Wonnie” you whined out. You sat up, your other hand moving to his other shoulder, allowing you to push yourself harder into him and get more friction. 

One of his hands laid perfectly on your waist, and the other flew to your head, pushing your face into his. The both of your lips met in a frenzied kiss, and you whimpered into his mouth feeling the coil tightening in your stomach. You pulled away, breathing heavy and small beads of sweat starting to form on your face. You glanced down at his crotch, his cock hard to miss as it was straining in his shorts. One of your hands came down, rubbing on his cock and frantically trying to release it from its fabric prison but he gripped your wrist to stop you “no angel, only you tonight”. His simple words made you moan and he pulled your hand to his face. He began leaving small kisses on your fingers, just a small act of affection as you destroyed yourself on his thigh. “W-Wonnie.. I’m gonna cum” he smirked at your words and nodded “come for me angel, keep fucking yourself on my thigh baby”. His eyes fell to your center, shorts completely soaked from your hurried grinding. “God, you’re so fucking wet baby” Eyes fluttering shut, you threw your head back and moaned louder, your orgasm just seconds away. “Jungwon! Oh my god!” You let out a string of whimpers as your climax hit you like a ton of bricks. He gripped your hips again and continued the harsh rubbing for you to ride out your high “Yes baby, let it all out”. As you finally stopped trembling you dropped yourself onto his chest, yours heaving up and down quickly to catch your breath. He tangled his hand in your hair and kissed your head “good girl, how did that feel?” You smiled against his shirt “so good” you muttered out before closing your eyes. 

After a few minutes, Jungwon noticed your breathing return to normal and your body become heavy against his. He looked down at you, eyes completely shut, and mouth slightly agape. You had fallen asleep, which he knew you needed. He smiled and laid his head against yours “my sweet angel”.

[maxinehufflepuffprincess]

Guardian Angel

Yeon Si-eun x Reader x Ahn Su-ho

Taglist. Masterlist. Progress Update. Love at First Fight Collections.

Warnings: Blood, Violence, Cursing.

Summary: Su-ho stops Si-eun from crossing the line.

It was mock test day. The day you had been studying hard for. The room was silent as you focused on your test. You were sitting at the desk beside Su-ho. Of course, your loving boyfriend was catching up on sleep, using the cute pink pillow he always used. The same pink pillow you had gifted him for his birthday a few years ago. You had a matching one, but yours was blue. Su-ho had given you a good luck kiss before the test, telling you ‘I know you’ll pass. You’re smarter than you think you are, baby.’

The silence had been destroyed as a slapping sound filled the room that had previously only been filled with the sound of writing and breathing. So this new sound had caused you to jump. You turned to look in the direction of the sound, only to see Si-eun now looking at the new student, Oh Beom-seok.

“There was a bug that landed on your neck.” Si-eun just stared at the male. You looked over at Su-ho, who was now awake and watching. He looked at you with a lopsided smile as he nodded his chin at your paper. His silent way of telling you to focus on your test. So you did. 

Suho cared a lot about your studies. It was all a part of the future the two of you had planned together. And whilst your grades didn’t need to be perfect, they needed to be good enough to get into a good college. You and your boyfriend were determined to have a good life together. It was one of the reasons he was working rather than focusing on school. Because he wanted to help his grandmother, and he also wanted to start saving for your lives together. 

Your parents were supportive. They had seen the kind of man that Su-ho is. How hard-working he was, how he took care of you. He was dedicated. Your mother always helps you make lunches for Su-ho to eat at work. Your father always asked Su-ho to do odd jobs around the house just so he could pay him more than enough. Su-ho didn’t like to accept handouts. But your parents wanted to help you toward your future. So this was your father and Suho’s compromise.

The sound of a chair moving caught your attention. A frown appeared on your face as you watched Si-eun stumbling out of class. Something was wrong. 

“Hey, where are you going?” The voice of your teacher filled the room as Si-eun walked out, saying nothing. This wasn’t like him. He never leaves during a test, practice or real. You placed your pencil down and grabbed your water bottle. You got up and quickly followed after Si-eun. 

“Hey! Si-eun.” He didn’t even register your voice at first. Everything was spinning, and he was having a hard time walking straight. He somehow made it to the boys’ toilets. You had walked in just as he had left the stall, having then bumped into a hand dryer. 

You quickly went to him and helped guide him to the sink. You turned the tap on and watched as he splashed water on his face. He looked like he was getting ready to go for the door, so you then gently took his hands and helped him sit down on the floor. “Hey, listen to me. Just sit here for a moment and breathe, lovely. I know you want to get back to the test, but you can’t continue the test like this. Here, drink some of this.” 

You opened your water bottle and helped him drink some. It took a few minutes, but the world seemed to finally stop spinning. Si-eun’s eyes finally locked on you. He didn’t feel like himself, but he felt better. Not completely, but it was enough. He could see the concern on your face. But why would you be concerned about him? You weren’t friends. Sure, you were nice to him, sweet even, you had stuck up for him quite a few times, and you always congratulated him whenever he won something, but you weren’t friends. So why had you followed after him?

He watched you take a cloth from your pocket and put it under the tap for a moment. His gaze dropped to the ground. You turned the tap off before gently dabbing Si-eun's face, hoping to cool him down. It helped, really it did, but he was still so confused by why you were helping and what had even happened. He had never had that happen before. His stomach flipped as he felt you take his chin between your thumb and index finger. You tilted his head gently to look at you properly. 

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” By the gods, your voice was dripping in sweetness, worry and sincerity. Your eyes locked with his before your eyes roamed his face. 

“Why did you follow me?” The words came out very monotone. 

“You didn’t look well. Something was wrong, you never leave during a test. Plus you were walking weirdly. Stumbling. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” You explained as you moved the cloth to his neck.

You noticed he never leaves during a test? You noticed he had stumbled. You cared enough to check on him. 

“But why?” He asked. Why did you care? Why were you here, checking on him? No one else was. Everyone else was focused on their tests, so why not you? Why were you here with him?

“Think of me as your Guardian Angel.” You winked with a soft giggle. You carefully stood up and held a hand out to him. The first thing he saw was the pretty silver ring on your finger. Simple, dainty. A heart. His eyes then moved to your nails. They were a soft lilac shade of purple. Purple. That seemed to be your colour. Your helmet colour, your phone case colour, your water bottle colour. It was the colour of your favourite pen and your favourite hoodie you had claimed from Su-ho years ago. Purple was a sign of royalty. That was what you were. In the eyes of Su-ho and many of the other students. A kind and benevolent Queen who simply wanted the best for her red-wearing King. 

“Come on. If you’re ready, we can go back to class. If not, we can stay here a little longer.”

Taking your hand, Si-eun got up and began walking back to class, he stumbled a little, so you helped him. You helped out of the bathroom and down the hallway. You opened the door to the classroom and helped him over to his seat. You watched him for a moment, just making sure he was okay, when you spotted it. The patch on his neck. Had he hurt himself? “Did you hurt your neck?” You asked him quietly, making him look at you in confusion. 

“What?”

“The plaster on the back of your neck. Did you get hurt?” What plaster? What the hell were you talking about? 

Su-ho’s voice soon pulled your attention away from Si-eun. 

“Baby. Finish your test, please.” You nodded and gave Si-eun a soft smile. You walked to Su-ho and kissed his forehead softly before slipping into your seat. 

Si-eun placed a hand on the back of his neck. He pulled the patch off, It wasn’t a plaster. It was a patch, and someone had put it there on purpose. This must have been what had happened to him. He was angry. This was done on purpose. Then he slapped himself, causing the entire class to look at him. 

Su-ho had been in the middle of drifting back to sleep when the slap happened. He turned in his seat to look at Si-eun. He was shocked, confused. Why was this guy slapping himself? Once, twice, three times. But he didn’t stop. Even as the teacher asked what was wrong, he didn’t stop. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. It wasn’t till a hand reached out that he stopped. Your hand. You had gently grabbed his wrist.

“Si-eun.” You were concerned. “What’s going on?” 

“Oh, nothing.” He said as he looked up at you before going back to his test. He didn’t miss how you and Su-ho looked at each other. You sat back in your seat, continuing with the test. 

—----------------

The test was over, and everyone was now marking their answers. You were doing well so far. A few questions had stumped you, but that was to be expected. You were back in your usual seat in front of Su-ho. Your boyfriend was quietly sleeping as you went through your test. You were happy. You had done better on this test. 

“Su-ho’s gonna be so proud of me.” You giggled to yourself. However, a bang pulled your attention away from your paper. Su-ho lifted his head from his pillow, which he had just been sleeping on, to look over at the sound. Si-eun.

Si-eun looked over at Beom-seok, who glanced at Yeong-bin and then looked at Si-eun. 

“Si-eun, uh, it’s… It’s not what you think.” Si-eun’s grip tightened on his pen. He stared at his test, and his hand shook. He was angry. Fucking Yeong-bin didn’t know how listen. Si-eun got out of his seat and began walking towards the back of the room. All eyes watched the boy who was always in the background. 

‘Newton's Second Law. Force is equal to mass times acceleration.’ He moved his pen from one hand to the other before reaching for a book on a student’s desk. ‘The centrifugal force of an object can be used to create a greater impact.’ From there, the room became chaotic. 

Si-eun hit Yeong-bin in the face with the book before turning to one of the bully’s lackeys, Tae-hoon and stabbing his pen into the male’s hand. Causing him to wail in pain as he clutched his hand.

“Oh my god.” Jung-Chan, another of Yeong-bin’s goons, stood up, and his paper aeroplane fell out of his hand. 

“You fucking luatic!” Tae-hoon screamed. 

Si-eun continued hitting Yeong-bin with the book in his hand. He cornered the taller male against the wall by the window. All it took was one moment for Yeong-bin to lean against the curtain so that Si-eun could take his next step. He wrapped the curtain around the bully’s head before bashing the book against his face one more time. Yeong-bin tried to protect himself. He tried putting his hands up, but it was hard to breathe. It was hard to focus as Si-eun held the curtain tight, one arm against his throat, and the book constantly hitting him. It was the eighth hit that had him bleeding.

The entire class flinched, recoiled and watched. No one moved except to back away.

You stood up. A hand gently wrapped around your wrist. Su-ho stood up and looked at you. “I’ll sort it. Stay here.” He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. He saw the worry in your eyes. You were worried about Si-eun. It was like he had given in to all the anger, all the frustration, all the hate. Everyone had a breaking point. This was Si-eun’s. And whilst you didn’t like Yeong-bin, you were worried that Si-eun might cross the line and kill him.

Si-eun threw the book. It hit Yeong-bin before hitting the wall. Yeong-bin fell to the floor.

“I asked a favour. I said to stop.” Si-eun lifted his foot. But it didn’t come down. Su-ho grabbed Si-eun and pulled him back, causing the shorter male to fall.

“Nope, nope. Let’s not cross the line, hmm? Enough is enough.” Su-ho shrugged as he placed his hands in his pockets. 

“You next?” Si-eun asked him after getting up. 

“Me? Nah.” Su-ho pointed to himself. He looked over at you for a moment. You were watching, but you were safe. “You just woke up a guardian angel.” He picked up a paper aeroplane and threw it as he let out a chuckle. 

“Funny?”

“Trying to be.” Your boyfriend replied and itched his nose. 

“Babe. Not the time.” You spoke, your arms crossed over your chest. He looked over at you and sighed. You knew he was trying to lighten the mood. He watched as you grabbed your bag and pulled out your first aid kit. You always carried it with you for just in case. 

Si-eun looked down, his eyes focused on his pencil case. ‘Unconditioned reflex. An innate, automatic response to a stimulus, such as closing one’s eyes unconsciously when an object suddenly appears.’ He threw it at Su-ho, who had turned to face him again. As the contents of the pencil case flew his way, Su-ho raised his hands and turned to face away, squeezing his eyes shut. Si-eun took the opportunity to grab a chair and run at Su-ho.

Si-eun swung the chair three times. Su-ho dodged each one. The third swing caused the chair to hit a desk. 

“Cut it out, crazy man. I’ll have to hit you if you don’t. Hmm?” Su-ho was giving him a chance to stop this. 

“Si-eun, that’s enough. Please.” You stepped forward. 

Si-eun swung the chair again, missing Su-ho but hitting the lockers. Su-ho punched him, causing Si-eun to drop the chair and stumble against the lockers. 

“You should’ve stopped when I said.” Su-ho let out a small sigh. 

“Who are you to tell me what to do?”

You walked up to Su-ho's side. “He’s just trying to help, Si-eun. There is a line in everything we do. When you cross that line, you can’t come back from it. You got your revenge, Yeong-bin’s nose is broken. Tae-hoon has a hole in his hand and Jung-chan is scared shitless. Enough is enough. Please.”

Si-eun looked between the two of you. He heard you, but he was still so angry. He still saw red. He turned and began to grab a chair. Su-ho pushed you behind him, gently but quickly. “Not with her here.” He warned. He wouldn’t tolerate you getting hurt or being in the line of danger. Not ever. It didn’t matter if you could defend yourself or not, you were his everything. His light in the dark. You were his sunshine, who could always make him smile. His number one supporter. You were his past, his present and his future. No one was going to hurt you in any way and get away with it. Not whilst he was still breathing. 

“What are you two doing?!” A voice shouting. A teacher. 

“Put… Put the chair down. How could you even think of doing this in class?” Su-ho placed his hands on his hips. “Let me explain, ma’am. I was trying to break up my friends’ fight. But then, I almost fell over this chair. I’m sorry.” He bowed. 

Su-ho looked at Si-eun. “Apologise to her.” The two stared at each other for a moment. “Come on, hurry!” He raised his voice. Si-eun was quiet. Breathing hard as he took everything in. Everything that had happened. His eyes roamed the class. Everyone was watching him. His eyes finally landed back on you and Su-ho. Both of you had helped him today in your own different ways. One sweet, calming and caring. One aloof, joking yet dominant. 

Two classmates who were strangers to him had tried to help him and claimed to be his guardian angels. And for what? Was it morals? Would Su-ho have stepped in if it were anyone else? Would you have followed anyone else out during a test? His stomach felt fluttery, and his heart pounded as he watched the two of you. Your right hand and Su-ho’s left hand are intertwined. Su-ho stood in front of you slightly, still protecting you even though the danger was no more. You had a soft look in your eyes. 

Something told Si-eun that this wouldn’t be the last time he crossed paths with the school’s childhood sweethearts.

----------------

Love at First Fight Collection Taglist: Thank you for supporting me. Let me know if you wanna be added to or taken off of this Taglist.

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[adm-starblitzsteel-4305]

💐Happy Mother's Day to all loving mothers!💐

Ma. Celestina's Family

(Below)

New art! Read here below!

So, remember about "Princess of the Monsters" fic?

Ma. Celestina was born by her human parents, Joseph and Ma. Luna. She had an older brother named Nathaniel.

Second illustration reveals a pic of Ma. Celestina (wearing a pink dress; she was 6 years old), who has magic powers from unknown (to be discussed in her POTM fic). Nathaniel, her brother, was 9 years older than her (left; he is holding a bouquet of lilac). In the middle was their mother, Ma. Luna, and on the left was their father, Joseph.

Also, a hint of something why I added Godzilla, Mothra, and their daughter Astra...

The flower crowns.

Astra was skilled in making flower crowns from her larval days until imago form and on her death before being reincarnated as a human girl, Ma. Celestina. The reincarnated Princess does not have memories of her past self, except some vague gifted skills, so Ma. Celestina knew how to make flower crowns when she was 3.

It was then that Joseph and Ma. Luna disappeared when Ma. Celestina was 11, leaving Nathaniel to take care of her until he too set off a job to support her and himself.

Once again, Ma. Celestina haven't heard of her older brother, wondering if he had forgotten him just like their parents do.

~*~

"Tell me, what does your mother looks like?" Asked Mothra.

"Well, she kinda looks like you, a little bit," Ma. Celestina answered while weaving a flower crown.

"A little bit?" Godzilla said.

"Yeah, Papa says she was kind and a loving and caring mother. If not for her funny personality, and her side of beauty..." the human girl smiles. "Papa was the first person who approach her."

"You're a lucky girl, you know that?" The King joked.

Mothra giggled at her husband's humor.

The three of them were sitting on a plain grassy field of their own island, watching the sunset together. Mothra Leo was away for patrol by himself, but promised them that he will be back before midnight. Battra, in his human form, was also away to do some errands he had by himself, he wanted to learn more about human culture (and even investigating what some sinister intentions has come against from unknown that may threaten the Balance).

"Do you miss them?"

Ma. Celestina looked at them both. Their eyes are at hers. She didn't know what to say. Memories of her mother flooded on her mind, her lullaby, her nurture, her love...

She tried herself not to cry...

She buried her hands into her face as she sobbed, causing Godzilla and Mothrs to feel sympathy over their adopted human daughter. They knew why...

The Queen gently soothe her back for comfort.

"It's alright, my child. We're here for you."

Once she was done crying, Ma. Celestina looked at them with a small smile, not caring that her face was smothered by her own tears. She wiped them away.

"S-Sorry that I cried in front of you..."

"Eh, it's okay. We're your adoptive parents, and every child deserves to seek comfort to their family." Godzilla told her.

"We're here for you. Whenever you feel down, we'll help you." Mothra says to her.

"Thank you, Mom, Dad."

Ma. Celestina approached them both and gave a hug, feeling her emotions getting calm after a small comfort. Godzilla and Mothra smiled as they hug her back.

Play this song:

~*~

"Love your mothers dearly, they are the light of the household. They sacrificed themselves for us to have a better life and future. They support us. They care for our wellbeing.

In the end, we will love them back as they grew old."

~ @adm-starblitzsteel-4305

Tags:

@gorillageek27 @amethyst-raptor06 @sassyassblog @lionpatriot13 @mossizi @gojigojigojira @geminanvaju @miss-couch-potato @godzillajuniorreborn @jadewolf-writes @subukunojess @kia-ko @astraerystarr @legendary-battra-tf @rainyloveangel @tbfpurflame123

[millerskitty]

Running If You Call My Name

❥ dbf!joel / f!reader x joel miller

❥ (18+) nsfw

❥ reader insert

❥ medium burn, no outbreak au. some timelines are changed to fit the story.

dividers by @/saradika !

warnings: angst, confrontation, minor burn injury

word count: 1.7k

tag list: @foxin5billion @victoriaholland @persiar9

masterlist

Chapter 10

Winter was back in full swing and you were excited to have some vacation time. You’d managed to get Joel and Sarah to go to the Trail of Lights with you. It was a drive thru Christmas light and decoration event and it was your favorite thing to do during the holidays. Pop would be hosting Christmas for you and the Millers with the addition of Joel’s younger brother, Tommy.

“Whatever happened to that Caleb fella?” Pop asked, looking up from his crossword puzzle. You sat across the living room on the sofa watching tv.

“Uhm,” you cleared your throat, surprised by his sudden inquiry, “he uhh, he was kind of too perfect. It was off-putting, I guess.”

“Huh. A guy can’t even be too perfect these days.” He clicked his tongue and continued to look down his glasses at the puzzle, crossing out the word “bewilderment.”

“Well, I just don’t want a guy who tries too hard to impress me, it comes off as phony, don’t you think?”

“I guess.” Pop sounded unamused then spoke after a beat of silence, “What about Tommy?”

”Miller?” You squeaked, trying to keep your facial expression as neutral as possible.

“Mhmm, he’s not too much older than you.”

“Tommy’s uhh, you know, Joel’s brother.” You wanted to eat your words as they left your mouth.

”Yes, and?” Pop looked down at you over his glasses now. “Why does that matter?”

“Pop, I’m not talking about guys with you!” You shrieked, feeling small under his gaze. You jumped up and scurried off to your room, plopping onto your bed with a sigh.

If you hadn’t just given it away he was probably onto you, testing you and you’d failed. Your skin prickled with anxiety. You wanted to make things right, to tell him the truth, but you couldn’t calculate the fallout. You hated not knowing the outcome or where you would go if he disowned you for choosing the Miller brother who was over a decade older than you. You liked to believe that your loving father wouldn’t make a big fuss over it, but Joel’s paranoia was rubbing off on you.

~

Christmas Eve had finally arrived. You’d finished wrapping gifts for everyone attending the holiday at your home. You’d gotten Pop a fishing rod that he’d put back on the shelf, too frugal to indulge despite being able to afford it. You also got him some high end fishing sunglasses and some new shoes. Joel was getting some strings for his guitar, a steering wheel cover for the one that was rotting away in his old pickup, and Pop pitched in to get him a brand new cooler.

Sarah was harder to shop for; her style was constantly evolving. You decided to treat her to a mini shopping spree with a few gift cards loaded from her favorite stores and a couple of vinyls to go with her expansive collection.

Tommy was getting some hunting gear and cologne. Everything was labeled from you and Pop, so you made sure to get Joel something special for when you were alone.

Around noon, Pop met you in the kitchen to start cooking in time for dinner at six. You cranked up some music and got to work, side by side. Pop was the more efficient chef, outdoing your progress and making damn sure you knew it. He was competitive in the kitchen. He threw back the rest of his beer, stepping out for a cigarette break just as the Millers arrived to help.

You checked your reflection in the mirror and wiped your hands on your apron before answering the door. Joel greeted you with a friendly hug and walked past you holding a tray of brisket. Sarah jumped on you, making you swing her around a bit before setting her down. She rushed to the backyard to greet Pop as you turned around and welcomed Tommy in with a warm hug.

“Where do I put this?” Tommy asked, wielding a large case of beer.

“God, we’re gonna have to go out and buy a second fridge!” You giggled.

“If only it was snowing. Texas, am I right?” He playfully rolled his eyes, making his way to deposit a few cans of beer into the freezer.

“Hey you.” Joel waited behind you, sizing you up with his eyes.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Eve.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’re opening gifts tonight.” You said, leading Joel to the kitchen he’d been in at least five hundred times. He looked delicious, he’d trimmed his beard and he smelled so good. His cologne was clean and woodsy, lingering on you from your hug.

“Pop is waiting for y’all to fry the turkey.” You said to the men, “And you’re gonna help me peel potatoes and carrots.” You said to Sarah who’d come in and started peeking at the dessert in the fridge.

Sarah jokingly saluted you, taking her place at the counter and you peeled vegetables for half an hour while you chatted about her upcoming senior year at high school. A surge of emotion sprung tears to your eyes as you discussed Sarah’s future. It felt like just yesterday she was a silly little girl bossing you around at her tea parties. You fondly remembered chasing each other with the water hose and having horror movie marathons. Now she was contemplating going out of state for college, leaving her old man behind. Leaving you behind.

The sound of your name snapped you out of your reminiscence. “Hello?” Sarah asked, looking between you and Joel who was just coming inside from the backyard.

“What’s wrong?” He asked you, stepping closer but being mindful to leave a few feet between you.

“Nothing, I’m just feeling a little emotional.” You chuckled, “The holidays, am I right?”

“Right, what those mean reindeer did to Rudolph still doesn’t sit right with me either.” Sarah joked, mashing potatoes animatedly.

Joel rolled his eyes before giving you a serious look that said “Are you really okay?” You nodded, assuring him you were fine. He didn’t press further and stepped outside for a smoke.

The interaction made you realize just how lucky you were to have the Millers in your life. You may have lost a parent at a young age, but the universe gave you two wonderful people to enrich your life. You would die for your little village.

You were interrupted from your snowballing emotional realization when Pop jumped into the kitchen using his oven mitts as crab claws, squatting and walking like a crab for effect. Sarah found it the most amusing, hooting and hollering as he pretended to pinch her.

The timer for the baking macaroni and cheese went off and you stepped forward at the same time that Tommy moved forward to dodge you, but you ended up playing the back-and-forth game for a few moments. Tommy chuckled and grabbed you by the waist, pulling you aside and then went the other way. Your skin prickled at his touch and you knew without looking that Joel had seen the interaction from behind the glass door. You didn’t have to look to know the stern look that was plastered on his face.

You snuck a glance as you pulled the baking dish full of macaroni out of the oven and found that you were right. His jaw was clenched as he took a drag from his cigarette and put it out. When his eyes locked onto yours, you couldn’t look away, which was a nasty mistake. You had tipped the macaroni dish towards yourself and some of the liquid cheesy lava spilled onto your shirt and you dropped the dish onto the counter, jumping back.

The cheese mixture was boiling hot and you lifted your shirt halfway up to relieve your burning skin. Tommy didn’t hesitate to jump into action, having become a first responder a few years ago after a brief stint in jail for bar fights.

“Fuck,” You hissed, looking down at your stomach in pain.

“Move, lean back.” Tommy said, lifting you up and onto the empty kitchen counter. “Keep your shirt up, honey.”

“The fuck just happened?” Joel asked, rushing in from the backyard.

“She’s gonna be fine, just burnt herself with the mac and cheese.” Pop said, his face twisted as he watched you wince from the pain of peeling your shirt up to expose the burn.

“Need ice.” Tommy said, turning to wet a kitchen towel. Sarah rushed to the garage to grab ice from the deep freezer.

The initial shock of the pain started to die down and you were able to assess the damage. It was a small patch of splotches from where the cheese mixture had soaked through just moments before you pulled the shirt from your skin. When Sarah returned she was going to hand the ice to Tommy when Joel stepped forward and took it from her. He held his hand out for the towel that Tommy had soaked with water.

“Whatcha doin’ bro, I got her?” Tommy said, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“I got her, gimme the towel.” Joel said calmly.

“I’m a medic, I got this.” Tommy said, confusion growing thicker in his voice.

“She’s m- I can help her, go check on the turkey.” Joel pulled on the towel. Tommy reluctantly released it to him and stepped away.

You were sitting on the counter in shock, no longer registering the tingling, throbbing pain on your skin. You looked at Pop who avoided eye contact, but his eyebrows gave him away. He was thinking, digesting the scene and remaining silent. For now.

Joel wrapped the wet towel around the ice and gently patted it over your skin. You looked up into his eyes and there was something there. Jealousy. Concern. He was being reckless, risking everything because his brother put his hands on you more than once. He’d lifted you up by your hips and set you down onto the kitchen counter like you weighed nothing. Joel had seen it all and couldn’t let it slide.

You winced as he applied more pressure, the melting ice sliding down into your jeans.

“Sarah, can you please go to my closet and grab the blue dress that’s hanging on the door?” You asked her, eager to remove her from the awkward scene that had just unfolded.

“You bet. Be right back.”

“So Joel.” Pop said, and you closed your eyes. Fuck.

“Yes?” Joel asked, not taking his hand off of your injury.

“How long you been after my daughter?”

[silent-sanctum]

"Jotaro as a Father"

Alright, this is another popular discussion about Jotaro's character. It also falls victim to the fandom's tendency to resort to "black and white" thinking, perhaps combined with other minor factors (and another case of me liking to overanalyze my favorite characters because Araki left so much about him vague)

This user has posted this on another "opinions that I will defend until the end of time" and garnered thousands of likes. This was probably the most liked quoted retweet. And it irked me. Am I surprised? Not really. Disappointed? Absolutely. And they are probably the 80% Jotaro fans that don't understand him.

And as your local Jotaro defender and anti-Jotaro mischaracterization person, I am here with another essay exploring more of his mentality. This time, it's about him being a parent, and while he isn't the best father, he isn't that bad either, or at least how the majority of the fandom thinks him to be.

I have made a previous character essay that talked about Jotaro's crippling weaknesses under the facade of strength and competence in detail. If you're interested, I'll leave this sentence linked to the post.

Now keep in mind: This character study is all assumptions and headcanons, BUT they are grounded in canon (e.g., pattern of behavior, general personality, actions he took, etc.) instead of what is popular in fanon interpretations. And much like how I wrote my previous essay (with the CEO and her POV on her emotional reservation), I will be drawing a lot of thematic comparisons with another show I've watched.

Why? Because sometimes, there are patterns on how groups of people can function in life, and it's not just the writer's bias and blind defense of their favorite character.

Second, I need to make this clear also: Jolyne is valid for being mad at her father. I am not invalidating her feelings at all. This essay is about exploring his headspace and what led him to do what he did. That's it.

Okay. Now onto the essay itself.

"Is he a bad father?"

Ehh, I can say that while he isn't good, he isn't bad either. His parenting lands more in the grey area, instead of either end of the spectrum. Because we all know at the surface level that he got married, had a daughter, went AWOL, divorced his wife, and stayed away from his family for their safety.

The action was bad: Neglect is neglect, no matter the excuse, and it can cause the affected people to respond to it negatively in the long term, especially for children with an absent parent.

However, the intention was good: He chose to stay away from his family because he attracted danger to his loved ones, who couldn't see the threat. He's a Stand user who could likely draw in other Stand users. He cared for them, and he wouldn't want to risk their safety by being around them.

It's complicated and nuanced. I feel like it's wrong to just shoehorn him into the "bad father" category, when the generalized view of what a "bad dad" is being abusive or leaving the child with malicious and/or selfish intent. But he doesn't hold up the "good father" title either, when being a "good dad" involves being a constant support for one's child, which he didn't do in Jolyne's late childhood to her teens.

So, he's neither good nor bad. He's a father doing all that he can with his current circumstances.

And yes, while I could leave it at that with the whole "he's neither good nor bad, but somewhere in between", many have placed their arguments about why he's a bad father and the alternatives he could've taken instead of completely choosing the self-isolation route.

The most popular one was this question:

"If he knew he was a danger, why did he have Jolyne? Why did he choose to have a family when he was going to stay away from them in the end?"

Here's the thing though… He didn't.

Jotaro doesn't have the hindsight that the audience has. He couldn't have known until he noticed it later down adulthood, where he grew to become more observant of his surroundings.

And even if he did know, is he not allowed to be human? Do you want him to just be a lonely marine biologist who just does the Speedwagon Foundation's (SWF) Stand work 24/7? Is he not a person who is capable of feeling love for someone else, and has wants for himself outside his job?

Yes, he's diligent. He is capable of self-preservation. He is powerful. But even the strongest individuals have families of their own. They have close bonds with others that they treasure. Why? Because being able to love and feel love is what makes someone "human". Jotaro is a human just like most of us. He isn't a working machine who just does his job.

Let me introduce this show called "Moving." It's a show where basically "superpowered parents who used to be special agents, hide their superpowered children from organizations who wish to exploit or kill them." It's a relevant show to this essay since the protagonist's father behaves similarly to Jotaro.

In the show, this man is the government's best agent with special abilities. He carries out his missions and reports back after completing his task. He does his job seriously and rarely fails an assignment. In isolation, he describes himself to be cold and stoic, who is unable to socialize much due to his role as a special operations agent.

One day, he encounters the protagonist's mother: The organization's top graduate with exceptional marksmanship, who also possesses special abilities.

And despite both of them knowing the risks of getting too personal and intimate, guess what happened?

They both fall in love, even if it means being locked into being exploited by the government. And not only that, guess what else happened.

They have a child together.

Let me remind you: They know they are high-profile agents. The best of the best. They are aware of the risks that come with interpersonal connections, but they had that family anyway. Why? Because they were human. To find normalcy in the midst of their circumstances.

My point is that Jotaro is a person who's allowed to have a life, even if it couldn't be completely normal given his situation. Jonathan got married and had a kid. Joseph got married and had children. What makes Jotaro any different? Because he's workaholic, stoic, and reserved like the dad in the show? That's not a fair assumption if you ask me.

Another thought raised was this:

"Couldn't he just have given and trained Jolyne with her Stand?"

It seems plausible, and it sounds cool. But you have to know how Jotaro operated and why that couldn't be the case. His life after Egypt went down the drain. Heck, you could even say that his life changed when Star Platinum awakened in him. When Stands became a permanent thing in his day-to-day.

No matter how much he likes to focus on his day job as a biologist, he now had to shoulder being the SWF's go-to investigator for the supernatural. Not only did he work hard in his profession, but he had to do the Foundation's tasks as the Joestar bloodline's active patriarch and as the one who slayed DIO.

He couldn't have a normal life anymore. Not with his involvement with the Foundation and the enemies he attracted.

Now answer me this- What parent who loves their child will subject them to a life like theirs?

"Moving's" main premise is the lengths that families will go to protect their children, including from their past. The couple I mentioned raised their superpowered baby in hiding. And here's the kicker: It's the father who chose to suppress his son's abilities so he could live a normal life.

Again, this is the same cold, stoic man whom the organization treats as its best agent. And it's not just this family. There are multiple examples of parents in this show choosing to let their kids hide their powers.

Your daughter has caught the teacher's attention because of her power? Fake her death.

When you see the organization's leader smirk at you after learning that powers are hereditary, and you have a child? Go off the radar and leave everything, but your family, behind.

Jotaro never wanted Jolyne to be involved with Stands. He didn't want her to risk her life fighting a random Stand user when she could live the life of a normal teenager. She didn't have a Stand. Her mother didn't have one either. Why burden his child with the responsibility he had?

And did his isolation work? For the most part, yes. That is, until the incident with Romeo.

But then you ask yourself:

"He could've called her! Texted her! Sent an email- something! It's the 2000s! Technology's a thing by this point!"

Remember what his main character flaw is… Communication. If there's any fault that he has without debate, it's his inability to connect and socialize with others properly, and his poor maintenance of his bonds (as I have stated in my previous essay).

This argument could go in two ways. One is the whole communication issue, and maybe he was either too caught up in his job to update them, or he didn't want to share any details, thinking it's best for them not to know. As flawed as that thought was.

OR we could go the Snipster route, wherein he DID call Jolyne to check in on her, but because he kept making excuses as to why he's not coming home and is always away, she gradually grew to resent and hate him through the years, up until at one point, she yells at him to not call her anymore if he was going to continue being an absent father.

Pick your poison.

This leads to the next argument:

"He's a bad father because he's completely absent from Jolyne's life! He rarely bonded with Jolyne at all!"

Then why does Jolyne have so much anger towards him? If he were a fully absent father (as in I-didn't-know-you-existed type of absent), she shouldn't be holding so much resentment toward Jotaro. So, why is she hateful to him?

Because at one point, he was a present parent in Jolyne's childhood before he left. Yes, he could be busy working, but he could've spent his few moments of respite taking care of his daughter to the best he could as a loving father. She is the child he cherished after all. His weakness.

Not to Jonathan or Joseph levels of "golden retriever" and "grandiose" type of affection, but perhaps in more domestic, quiet ways: Cook her meals, read her books, listen to her talk about her day, help and teach her with homework, etc.

If he were a fully absent father, Jolyne should've felt apathetic and confused when meeting him again, not anger. If he were completely absent, Jolyne wouldn't have engaged in delinquent activity to catch her father's attention.

Again, in Moving, the protagonist is raised by a single mother from his childhood to his teens. He does not know who his father is, because when the dad was present, he was a toddler and therefore couldn't remember him. To him, his father is a stranger.

And how he reacts to the father at the end of the show is him not being upset or mad. It's him being surprised, confused, and neutral toward him. Why? Because he doesn't know him.

I would show the images but there's an image limit and I'm sad

Heck, you can say the same for Josuke and Joseph if you want an in-universe example. Josuke never knew who his dad was and was raised by Tomoko all his life. And when he meets old man Joseph for the first time, he's confused and is generally neutral to him. He's shy even when he helps him after his cane broke.

---

Jotaro leaves a lot to interpretation, and while I see a gem of a post here and there sometimes, I have to trudge through a sludge of mischaracterization and an oversaturation of memes that downplay what's canon in favor of fanon validation.

And I get it. I browse Twitter, check the timeline for updates, and notice that most users are impressionable teenagers who are from the West and go about their days living with Western individualistic values.

Maybe, just maybe, some people will project the "bad father" image to Jotaro as a result of their own daddy issues. Just like how misogynists will project themselves onto a favorite character like Jotaro.

I'm not saying this as a definitive truth, but as a possibility. Jotaro is fictional after all, and people will use fiction as a reprieve from reality.

TL;DR? He isn't a bad father, but he isn't a good one either. He's a father who does what he can to protect his daughter, with all his flawed mentality and caring heart.

[7joshuakujo7]

A Devil's Dream

Vergil. Her last words as she ran to look for his brother. Dante curled up into a ball and repeated her words  to himself in his mind like a mantra. A man, A man. A man.The fire raged on around him, filling his lungs with smoke, each breath like inhaling shattered glass. After hours of waiting, sitting, silently hoping there was some hope of this all to disappear as some elaborate joke or bad dream, he pushed the closet door open slowly, to a deafening silence. “Momma? Vergil?” He creaked out, voice strained from the building realization. A new life. As someone else. A man. And so he did. From the time he  shuffled away from the burnt wreck left of his home, Rebellion clutched in both arms because, what else did he have to take, Tony Redgrave was born, and the need for release of that loss within him, a need for vengeance. 

The dream shifts, and he is right where he started, The throne of the Qliophoth. The stench of decay and blood is thick in the air, but clashing with the thing-that-was-Vergil, He knew he wasn't strong enough to stop him here and now, even with Sparda in his grip. And as he is blasted away, the only thought on his mind is how much of his brother was truly inside that monstrous thing, and how much he had cut away with Yamato?

The dream shifts again, and Dante is at the waterfall standing in front of his brother. He knows he’s lost, he dropped father’s sword, clutching his sliced gut so why wouldn't he just pack it up? It infuriated Dante, he knew Vergil had lost and he knew that if they stayed there they would both be trapped forever. But he also knew Vergil would never admit it. And that infuriated him even more. He was being an arrogant douchebag and could stop all this if he just put his sword down! But as Vergil stepped back to fall and Dante ran to reach out to his brother in one last, desperate attempt, Vergil slices his hand and accepts his fate. Maybe he really hated him that much. Maybe he wanted to spare his human brother the horrors within the demon world. But that wasn't good enough for Dante. They could have fell in together, not been alone anymore, or Vergil could have let him drag him back up and they could try again together. But Vergil slices at Dante’s outstretched hand and falls. Dante clenches his cut hand and looks up from the depths below, he understands that his duty is still to protect humanity. Falling into the demon world after Vergil would make Dante no better than him.  But as he turns his foot to return through the portal, a giant, glowing blue arm grips onto the stone ledge, it's owner's body rapidly approaching. The version of his younger self falls away and Dante’s current self watches as his Nephew  flies up, holding his brother in his free arm. “Nero?” he questions out loud, before Vergil grabs the Force Edge, wordlessly transforming it into Sparda and stabbing at his head with it. Dante wakes up with a start as the Sparda is stabbed into the ground next to his head, and V stands above him.

[lw77]

Diet Pepsi 💈 (LSxMV)

Chapter 8. - Four-times for Goodluck

He’s poring over another inventory sheet his dad left him when a soft knock against the cash counter snaps his head up. Max is leaning in, his head tilted in quiet amusement at Logan being so absorbed in the sheet.

Sheepishly, Logan blurts, “Oh, Max! How long have you been standing there?” He can already feel himself blushing, like always, whenever Max is near.

“Hi, Angel. Not long. You looked so focused, I didn’t want to distract you,” Max replies.

“I didn’t even hear the visitor bell. This is why me and inventory are dangerous. What if you were a robber? The store would’ve been empty by now,” Logan complains, glaring at the sheet like it should feel guilty.

Laughing, Max squints at him. “If I were a robber, I think you know what I’m taking.”

Despite the heat flooding his face, Logan can’t help preening at the insinuation. He tries to tease back. “Oh yes, my mom’s sub shelf. I know where your loyalties lie, Maxie.”

Brows quirked in amusement, Max lifts a hand to gently tilt Logan’s chin up to meet his eyes. “And where do my loyalties lie, Angel?”

Hot damn. It’s so unfair for Max to not only look like a walking Calvin Klein ad but to also act exactly like Logan imagines those ads would, if they could talk.

“Th-the boys, of course,” Logan stammers, trying to hold Max’s gaze.

He watches Max’s eyes flick to his lips, then back. “I think you’ve been misinformed, Angel. Do I need to set it straight?” Max smiles as he says it, his thumb now brushing the corner of Logan’s mouth.

“Uhuh” is all Logan can manage, overwhelmed by the closeness, the touch, and the desire rising in him. He wants Max to kiss him, public decorum be damned.

Max’s thumb shifts to Logan’s cheek, brushing so softly that Logan almost misses what comes next, too distracted by the sensation.

“Let me take you out then. Tonight.”

Logan jolts upright like he’s been shocked. “Like a date?” he asks, too eagerly.

“Not like a date, Angel. A date. May I?” Max grins, clearly amused by whatever expression Logan is making—which is probably somewhere between dopey and crazed, knowing himself.

“Yes! I mean, yes, of course,” Logan says, scratching the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to yell. I think I had something in my throat.”

Max looks unconvinced but doesn’t call him out. Instead, he gently brushes a piece of hair from Logan’s face. “Okay, Angel. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“I’ll be ready,” Logan replies, quieter this time.

“Perfect. Bye, Angel.” Max gives his cheek one last soft stroke before turning and striding out.

By the time the door clicks shut behind him, Logan realizes Max didn’t buy a single thing. And, he has a date.

His dad needs to cover his shift. 

—-——- 

“So he came into the store and asked if he could take you?” is Oscar’s bewildered question after Logan recounts his morning.

“He asked to take me out , not to take me ,” Logan says, exasperated.

“I bet you’d like that too, wouldn’t you, princess? You dirty, dirty boy, in your father’s store too!” Alex chips in, placing his hands on his chest in mock scandal.

Ignoring them, Logan continues buttoning up his shirt, only for Oscar to slap his hand away as he reaches for the last three buttons.

“Ow! I’m going to a restaurant, Osc, not the beach.”

“Leave those. Entice the imagination a little. He’s not taking you to church,” Oscar replies without missing a beat.

“I bet I know something Logan would love to worship if Max did take him to church,” Alex adds with a triumphant grin.

Logan groans, throwing a towel at Alex’s face. “Is this fun for you? You’re supposed to help me. Why did I even tell you guys?”

“Because you love us,” Alex sing-songs from behind the towel.

Oscar just grins, crossing his arms. “And because you need our help not to button yourself into celibacy.”

Before Logan can retort, the sound of the doorbell cuts through the room.

His eyes go wide. As he checks his reflection one last time, Alex pats him on the shoulder. “You look good, Logs. Like an angel if he was from Florida.”

Oscar nods behind him. “Just make sure to eat slow, chew. It’d be a mood killer to choke in the middle of dinner.”

Groaning, Logan says, “Oh my god, that was one time .”

“Logs, that was two months ago,” is Oscar’s deadpan reply.

Before Logan can argue, Alex is already pushing him out of his door. “Either way, seduce him and don’t do anything we wouldn’t do!” is all he’s told before he’s shoved right into Max.

Max steadies him easily. Logan turns to glare back at his friends, who give him a finger wave.

“Bring him back in one piece, please,” Oscar calls sweetly before shutting the door in both their faces.

Max’s quiet chuckles pull Logan’s attention back to him, in time to realize his sudden collision had crushed the bouquet Max was holding.

“Oh my god, Max, I’m so sorry,” Logan says, frantic, as he tries to smooth out the crinkled brown paper.

Max's hand stops him, gentle and soothing. “It’s okay, Angel. They’re for you. You can do whatever you want to them.”

Looking up from his fussing, Logan blushes. “You got me flowers. Oh my god, they’re gorgeous!” He admires the arrangement of peonies and now-crushed lilies. “I love them, Max. I can’t believe they’re ruined,” he adds, still trying to reassemble a flattened lily into something resembling a flower.

Max takes Logan’s hand and lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles with a soft chuckle. “It’s okay, Angel. I’ll buy you more. Don’t look so sad. Now,” he pulls back to look him over, eyes warm, “you look very pretty, baby. Let’s go so I can show everyone my pretty baby.”

“Okay,” is Logan’s shy reply as he clutches the bouquet close to his side with his free hand.

Max walks him to the car, their hands still joined. He’s pretty sure anyone looking can see heart emotes floating all around him.

At the passenger side, Max lets go of his hand and opens the door. “Your chariot, Angel.”

Logan slides in, heart fluttering. “Thank you.” He almost thinks Max is leaning in for a kiss, only to realize he’s reaching in to help with the seatbelt.

But Max is close. Too close. Logan can smell his cologne–warm and clean, with something darker underneath. His fingers graze Logan’s waist as he clicks the buckle into place.

“There,” Max murmurs, not moving back right away.

Their eyes meet. For a second too long.

Then Max exhales, smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and gently shuts the door.

Logan stares straight ahead, cheeks burning, bouquet still clutched tight in his lap.

God help him. This was going to be a long night.

Logan would love to say he was normal for the rest of the car ride, but that would be a Sunday sin.

Max’s quiet focus, the sharp cut of his profile framed by the evening sun, and the weight of his palm resting casually on Logan’s knee—

It’s a miracle Logan didn’t melt into a puddle right there in the seat.

So the journey from the car to their private booth and even ordering is a bit of a haze, as Logan tries his best not to do something wildly out of social decorum.

The food arrives, and Logan pretends he cares more about his fish than the way Max’s knees keep brushing his like it’s nothing. He gets a few bites in while Max slices his steak with casual elegance. Everything about him is so composed. Logan wants to mess him up just a little.

“How’s your fish, Angel?” Max asks around a small smile.

“Do you want to try?” Logan offers, partly because he wants to see Max’s mouth do something other than smile like he knows all of Logan’s secrets. Partly because he's a brat.

Max raises an eyebrow. “You’ve barely had two bites.”

Logan flushes, eyes darting down to his neglected meal. “It’s good,” he mumbles, then stabs a piece of fish and holds it out.

To his surprise, Max leans in without hesitation and takes it from the fork, lips brushing it just slightly. His eyes stay on Logan as he chews, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“You’re right. That is good.” His voice is smooth, rich, amused.

Logan’s about to respond, but Max is already picking up his own fork. “Your turn, Angel.” Before Logan can protest, Max is holding out a piece of steak, glistening with juice and perfectly sliced. “I can feed myself,” Logan says, but his voice is weak, teasing at best. “I know you can,” Max replies, coaxing the bite closer. “But I want to.” Logan hesitates only a second before leaning in and taking the bite.

It’s delicious. But it’s not the food that makes him dizzy. It’s the way Max watches him while he chews, like he’s cataloguing every expression. Like he’s learning him.

Another bite follows. Then another. Both of them trade bites, Logan lost entirely in the soft curl of Max’s smile and the warming silence between them. Then Max sets his utensils down.

His gaze lingers on Logan’s mouth a moment too long.

He reaches over and brushes sauce from the corner of Logan’s lip. “You always make the sweetest sounds when you like something, huh?” he murmurs, thumb trailing to his own lips without thinking.

Logan’s pulse skips.

Just then, the waiter swoops in, clearing their plates with practiced efficiency. Another places a pair of dessert menus on the table with a polite smile. Max picks one up, studying it. Logan does the same, though there’s nothing on the menu he wants more than Max again.

“See anything you want for dessert, Angel?” Max asks quietly from behind the menu.

“Nothing they can offer,” Logan replies, looking at Max.

Max’s brows lift, amused. “No?”

Logan shakes his head in agreement and leans in just a little, voice soft. “I want something else.”

It earns him a squeeze to his thigh and a slow, knowing look from Max.

“Are you sure, Angel? Not even an espresso?” Max teases, their faces close now.

Logan’s eyes drop to his mouth, then back up again. He clutches at the hand on his thigh. “Yes. Now take me home, Maxie.”

Max, calm as ever, closes the menu and signals for the check.  “Okay, Angel. Let’s go.”

The car ride is quiet, but the air between them thrums. Logan’s hand rests in Max’s, his thumb moving slow, deliberate. Neither of them says much. They don’t need to.

------------

Max’s place is dim and clean, all sharp edges and soft light. He doesn’t waste time, pressing Logan back into the door. “Angel,” he murmurs, lips brushing near his temple. “Thought I’d have to suffer through dessert before I could taste you.”

Logan’s fingers curl into Max’s shirt, dragging him closer.

Max kisses him, firm and focused. Logan melts into it, hands in his hair, heart racing. Max slots a thigh between Logan’s legs, holding him there. The friction is instant, Logan gasps. Max deepens the kiss.

He tilts Logan’s head, tongue sliding deeper as his thigh presses up again. Logan groans, hips grinding down with a soft, desperate noise.They move together, slow and close. Logan is hard now, grinding against the press of Max’s thigh, every drag making him breathless.

Max finally pulls back, just slightly. “Want me to take care of you, Angel?” he asks, voice thick with heat.

Logan glares, flushed and panting. “I should’ve let you suffer through dessert if you’re just going to tease me.”

Max smiles, unexpectedly soft. There’s a flicker of something boyish in the way he looks at Logan, the way his hand comes up to stroke his cheek. He brushes a strand of hair away from Logan’s forehead, gaze lingering on the flush in his cheeks, the way he’s pressed up against him.

“I’m not teasing, Angel,” he murmurs, voice low but sincere. “I want to take care of you. In my bed.”

Logan’s breath catches. That look, steady and wanting, makes something in him twist. He nods, the tension in his glare giving way to something else entirely. “Do it then,” he says, just loud enough for Max to hear.

Max leans in for another kiss, slower this time, lips dragging just enough to make Logan shiver. Then he takes his hand and leads him through the apartment, guiding him down the hall with practiced ease and barely leashed hunger.

Logan barely registers entering the bedroom. He’s watching Max instead. The way he moves. The way he turns to face him, thumb still tracing his knuckles like he can’t stop touching him.

Max tugs him in close again. “Tell me if anything’s too much,” he murmurs. “Anything at all. I need to hear you say it, Angel.”

Logan nods, breath catching. “I will.” 

Max brushes their noses together. “You have a safeword?”

His voice is warm, careful. One hand cups Logan’s jaw, thumb stroking gently as he waits. Logan’s voice is quiet. “Dolphins.”

Max kisses him again, slower this time, with a tenderness that makes Logan shiver. “Good.”

He undresses him without hurry, piece by piece, like he’s unwrapping something he’s wanted for a long time. His lips graze warm skin; his fingers leave deliberate trails down Logan’s arms, across his waist, the curve of his back.

When Logan’s finally bare on the sheets, flushed and watching him with wide eyes, Max just looks. For a long moment, he takes him in, every inch, spread out for him.

Then he moves closer, crawling over him, gaze heavy and dark.

Logan shivers, feeling his skin break into gooseflesh in anticipation. 

Keening softly, the sound catching in his throat before it escapes. He reaches for Max to pull him in. Max follows easily, swallowing Logan’s keen with a kiss, slow and deep, his weight pressing Logan into the sheets.

Max fits between his thighs easily, broad and solid in a way that makes Logan feel spread open, filled out just from the way they slot together.  Logan curls his legs around Max’s hips, arching up to meet the heat of him as his hands go to his neck. 

Max is still dressed, every single part of Logan’s body feels like a live wire as he feels Max trail his hands from his face to his sides, stroking soothingly, before he brushes against the red head of Logan’s cock before he lowers his lips to take a nipple in the heat of his mouth. 

Logan gasps, hands coming to clutch at Max’s head. “No Maxie. Wan– need you inside this time please.”

One of Logan’s hands slides down, trying to guide Max where he wants him.

“Need me inside, Angel?” Max murmurs, voice thick against his mouth.

Logan nods, barely able to form words. “Yeah. I—God, yeah.”

Max’s thumb brushes across the tight ring of muscle, slow and deliberate, pushing just enough to make Logan gasp, head falling back.

Every nerve feels lit, his body aching in anticipation, in want.

“Tell me what you need, Angel,” Max says lowly, his hand dragging down Logan’s thigh to keep him open.

Logan breathes out a soft whimper. “You. Just—your fingers, you inside, please.”

Max reaches across him to the bedside, grabbing lube and a condom with practiced ease. Logan watches, breath catching, his thighs still parted around Max’s hips.

Max slicks his fingers, eyes flicking up to Logan’s face. “Breathe for me, Angel.”

Logan nods shakily, his chest rising with each quick inhale. “Hurry,  please.”

Max’s fingers are there just one circling, teasing. His other hand holds Logan’s hips, keeping him still, the touch feeling like a red-hot brand. Max leans down, kissing and nipping at Logan’s neck.

His mouth moves down Logan’s chest, sucking, biting, before latching onto his nipple, lavishing it with his tongue and teeth. He switches to the other nipple, repeating the process, all the while Logan writhes beneath him, whimpering, begging.

Logan’s body strains, the only thing he can move is his chest, pushing into Max’s waiting mouth, as Max holds him down with deliberate pressure.

Max’s fingers tug at the ring of muscle, making Logan gasp in relief before resuming their slow, teasing motion. Frustrated, Logan pleads, “Please, Maxie just one finger, please.”

Logan finally feels the finger push in, he moans as his body clenches, already trying to pull Max deeper. “Fuck–Max. More, more more please I can take it.” The feeling of Max’s finger is thicker than Logan’s own, and Logan bites down on his fingers to quiet himself, trying to hold back the desperate sounds.

“You’re doing so good, Angel” Max murmurs, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Are you going to keep being good for me?”

Logan nods, and a second finger follows, easing in beside the first. Logan arches, biting down on his fingers to stifle the loud moans spilling. Max works him open carefully, his free hand smoothing over Logan’s hip, grounding him.

Then, a third finger slides in, and Max curls them just right as he licks up Logan’s neck, biting at his earlobe. “Maxie! Maxie, Maxie,” Logan chants, his breath hot against Max’s skin

He continues to brush Logan’s prostate, as he spreads his fingers, stretching him out. Logan feels himself get strung tighter and tighter with each brush, each deliberate press against it “Maxie—God, I’m gonna cum if you don’t stop!” Logan pleads.

“Want to see you fall apart on my fingers Angel,” Max breathes, voice caught somewhere between reverent and wrecked. “Want you to take me so well.” Suddenly, he’s coming untouched as Max watches eyes hungry as Logan clings to him and thrashes trying to get away from the continuous massage. 

“Safeword?” Max asks, fingers stilling.

“No—no, don’t stop, I like it,” Logan pleads, teetering on the edge of overstimulation and slipping headfirst into another orgasm as he moans through it.

When Max finally pulls his fingers out, Logan whines at the loss.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Max murmurs, “I’m gonna give you something better.”

He pulls off his shirt, and though Logan is boneless from the back-to-back orgasms, he still reaches up to try and unbutton Max’s jeans. His fingers fumble, uncoordinated, but eager.

Max chuckles at the effort, covering Logan’s hands with his own to help guide them through the buttons before pushing his pants down.

Then, with surprising gentleness, he grabs his discarded T-shirt and uses it to wipe Logan’s chest clean.

Logan moans, hips jumping as the shirt brushes his spent cock. “I’m ready, Maxie, I am—please.”

Max kisses him once more, deep and hot, before reaching for the condom. “Keep those legs around me, Angel.”

Logan obeys, desperate and trembling, as Max rolls the condom on and slicks himself up.

Logan watches, eyes wide, drinking in the sight of Max’s cock—girthy in a way that suddenly makes sense of how long he spent stretching him open.

Then Max lines himself up, gaze locked with Logan’s, waiting.

“Still want it, Angel?”

Logan nods, pupils blown, lips parted. “Yeah. Want you.”Max presses in slowly, inch by inch. Logan’s breath stutters, hands gripping Max’s shoulders like he might break apart from the stretch and heat. He forces himself to breathe.

Max kisses him, then trails lower, sucking and biting love bites down his neck as his fingers brush over Logan’s already sensitive nipples. That touch makes Logan finally relax, and when Max bottoms out, they both moan—Max buried to the hilt, Logan trembling beneath him.

“Fuck,” Logan whispers. “You feel... so deep, Maxie. Feel you in my throat.”

Max leans down, voice rough against his ear. “You’re taking me so well, Angel. My perfect fucking fit.”

Logan brings a hand to his stomach, brushing over the skin where he can feel the pressure of Max buried so deep inside him. His fingers tremble where they rest on his stomach, overwhelmed by the fullness, the stretch, the raw intimacy of it all. Max is everywhere: inside him, over him, around him, and Logan feels like he’s coming undone at the seams.

Max begins to move, slow at first, pulling out just enough before pressing back in with a grind that makes Logan gasp. “Fuck, Max,” he whimpers, hands clawing at his back now, legs tightening around his waist.

Max keeps his slow pace. He shifts just slightly, and Logan cries out, arching up with a sob, that spot inside him lit up like a live wire. “There?” Max asks, smug.

Logan nods furiously, fingers digging into Max’s back. “There, Maxie, right there, don’t stop.”

“You’re doing so good, baby boy,” Max murmurs against his throat, voice thick and reverent. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”

Logan tilts his head back, giving Max more skin to mark, and Max doesn’t waste the invitation. His mouth finds the curve of Logan’s jaw, biting just hard enough to make him cry out, hips stuttering up to meet Max’s thrusts.

They find a rhythm: deep, slow, relentless, and Logan clings to him like he’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.

Every drag of Max’s cock hits his prostate, making stars burst behind Logan’s eyes. He can’t stop the sounds spilling from his lips—moans, gasps, broken whimpers of Maxie and please and don’t stop.

He’s so close. Logan reaches down to stroke his cock, only to find his wrists pinned above his head in Max’s grip.

“No, Angel,” Max says, voice dark and low. “want to see how many times you can come just from my cock.”

He punctuates the words with a sharp grind against Logan’s already abused prostate, making him moan, the sound high and helpless.

It doesn’t take much after that. Logan’s coming for the third time that night, spilling across both their chests, body tightening around Max as the orgasm rips through him.

He’s still shaking when Max pulls out, only to flip him over and press back in. Logan feels his eyes roll back at the continued onslaught of pleasure as Max pulls him up against his chest.

Supported by Max’s body, thighs spread wide over his, Logan lets his head fall back against Max’s shoulder. Max’s hands grip his waist, lifting and lowering him onto his cock in slow, deep thrusts.

Logan feels delirious. He just came, and yet another orgasm is already building low in his gut. His hands claw behind him for purchase, scrabbling at Max’s arms, his thighs, anything solid.

The only sounds in the room are the wet slap of skin and Logan’s soft, punched-out moans each time Max drives up into him, unrelenting.

Logan's moans are ragged now, each one torn from his throat as Max holds him steady and thrusts up, deep and deliberate. He’s trembling in Max’s grip, thighs quivering with overstimulation, but he doesn’t want it to stop, can’t even imagine wanting anything else.

“Fuck, Angel,” Max groans into his neck, biting down gently before kissing over the mark. “You’re so good. Look at you, taking it like you were made for me.”

Logan whimpers, too far gone to respond with anything but a choked moan. His body is burning, buzzing, barely holding together, but the way Max is fucking him, slow, hungry, reverent it grounds him through the haze.

Then Max shifts his angle, and Logan screams, back arching as his prostate gets hit dead-on again and again. His hands claw down Max’s thighs, anchoring himself against the brutal wave rolling through him.

“Maxie, I—” His voice breaks. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m coming again, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can, Angel. Give it to me,” Max pants, sweat-slicked chest pressing to Logan’s back as he rocks up harder, faster, relentless. “Come on, baby, one more for me. Just one more.”

It crashes over him with no warning—Logan cries out, body locking up tight around Max as he comes again barely a squirt, untouched, ruined, and shaking.

Max curses under his breath, hips stuttering. “Fuck —Logan—Angel, fuck, you feel so good—”

With a low groan, Max buries himself to the hilt and spills into the condom, his grip tightening around Logan’s hips hard enough Logan hopes they bruise. Max rides it out in short, shallow thrusts, his body trembling just as much as Logan’s.

For a long moment, the only sound is their heavy breathing.

Then Max presses a kiss to the top of Logan’s shoulder, voice hoarse but tender. “You okay, Angel?”

Logan, wrecked and floating, nods slowly and hums. “Yeah,” he whispers, letting his head fall back against Max’s shoulder. “Think you broke me. In a good way.”

“Good because, your mine. Angel” 

Max holds him close, neither of them moving for a while. The rise and fall of their chests start to sync, Logan still trembling faintly in Max’s lap, every nerve ending spent.

“You did so good,” Max murmurs, kissing Logan’s shoulder again, then trailing soft kisses down his spine. “So good for me.”

Logan smiles, eyes still closed, letting himself melt against Max’s chest. “You always talk like that after you ruin people?” he says, voice sleepy, teasing.

“Only when I like them,” Max replies, nuzzling into the curve of Logan’s neck.

Eventually, Max shifts gently, easing Logan off his lap and onto the bed. Logan lets out a soft whine as he slips out, and Max chuckles under his breath.

“I know, baby. Let me take care of you.”

He pads off to the bathroom and returns a minute later with a warm, damp cloth. Logan watches him, chest aching a little in the best way. Max moves carefully, cleaning him up with gentle strokes, murmuring soft things under his breath that make Logan’s heart flutter more than the mind-blowing sex did.

When he's done, Max tosses the cloth aside and climbs back into bed, pulling Logan into his arms. Logan nestles in without hesitation, tucking his face into Max’s chest and sighing as the warmth of his body settles around him.

“Comfortable?” Max asks, stroking his back.

“Mmhmm. Best pillow in the world.”

Max tilts his head down and kisses his temple. “Good. Want you comfortable”

Logan hums again,. “You’re soft after sex. I like it. Does this mean you’re my boyfriend now?” Logan asks eyes peaking up at Max.

“I just made you cum four times in my bed,” Max says with a low laugh. “Yes Angel, this means I’m your boyfriend and you’re mine. ”

Logan flushes, hiding his face. “Don’t bully me when I’m fragile. Just had to confirm.”

“I would never Angel,” Max says, smiling into his hair. 

-----------------

Author's Note: I'm sorry for the 5 month wait. But this universe is not over! on AO3 im gonna continue writing little blurbs for it. I love the way everyone's character kind of came to be as I was writing.

anyways thank u so much for the love!!!!

i have not heavily edited fair warning i just wanted to put it out there for you.

[allofmytoxicity]

Lauren

a/n: less depressing this time! I promise I'm not completely insane. I also know I've messed around with the timeline slightly, but hey, I don't care, people mess around with timelines a whole lot. I'm proud I've done this.

bradley bradshaw x childhood best friend!fem!reader

Summary: For years, Bradley Bradshaw had been your best friend; a safe space. So when Seresin makes you have a slip of the tongue, how do you repair your friendship?

Word Count: 2.4k

TW: SET BEFORE TOP GUN: MAVERICK!!!!! Jake being a dick, lots of crying, drinking (if that can even be counted as a tw?), some fluffy moments mixed in with loads of sad.

My god had you fucked up.

You hadn't even realised it until you'd let the words slip, but you'd said it. You had admitted that you loved Bradley Bradshaw; best friend and the whole reason you were still living in San Diego.

Originally, when you both left high school, you thought about just going straight to college somewhere else across the US with Bradley, maybe even venturing across the pond somewhere. You two had always planned on going to college together and with Carole dying not long before, you were jet set on making the plan happen.

That was though, until Bradley got accepted in the University of Virginia, allowing him to still be enlisted as well as get through college.

You, throughout all of that, had gotten an acceptance letter to UC San Diego - right where you and Bradley had both wanted to end up anyway in the end. You desperately didn't want to give the opportunity up to go do your dream course at a university that you wanted to go to and Bradley didn't dispute that.

So, the plan was set; keep the friendship long distance, meet up during holidays and then meet up there once you'd both finished your uni courses. It was perfect.

The plan was working perfectly until Bradley's papers got pulled.

You still remember it clear as day in your head. Just getting off your shift from the newly opened bar called 'The Hard Deck' that all the locals at the navy base went to, you'd gotten a call from Bradley.

Thinking it was just a normal catch up call from whatever he was doing on the east coast. you accepted the call, thinking nothing of it. You were proved wrong seconds into the call though, with Bradley eerily quiet down the phone.

When you asked him about his day, that was when a switch flipped in him. He wasn't just mad, but he also wasn't just sad as he ranted down the phone at you about how Maverick pulled his papers from applying to Top Gun.

Top Gun.

The institution every naval pilot wanted to get into, a handful of candidates picked every year to complete the training.

Maverick had pulled Bradley's papers from being able to get into Top Gun and you couldn't him. Maverick had always been lovely to you when you saw him come into the bar and was Bradley's surrogate father.

You couldn't see why on earth he had done what he had. He had no reason nor business to pull Bradley's papers, so why had he done it?

That you never really did find out, but it was definitely a deal he didn't deserve.

Ignoring that, over the next two years, you put your own career on hold and helped Bradley rebuild his. From talking to other pilots to using those same pilots to help get Bradley promotions and finally a way into Top Gun.

That was when the feelings started.

When Bradley arrived in San Diego he was different. Yes, you knew he had changed over the last few years because of navy work, but you didn't realise just how much.

He'd gotten fitter, faster and managed to grow some facial hair. It was almost as if he was a different man - which, when compared to the boy you knew in high school, he was very different.

You didn't realise how much you loved him until Penny confronted you about it during your shift when you'd blushed at yet another stupid pun he had made.

And that was when you'd realised; you were in fucking love with him.

You'd pushed it down for years, hiding laughs in coughs and moving your hair to hide any warmth that spread across your face when he made that goofy smile at you. The hardest part of that thought, was seeing him on dates with other girls. Whether it be at the bar or at home (you two had decided to move in together to make it easier on the both of you for paying bills), you couldn't miss it when Bradley brought a date home. Yet you still moved on with your life.

So after all those years, you'd realised Bradley Bradshaw was the best thing you never knew you had and you'd possibly fucked it all up in one move.

And it was all because of fucking Jake Seresin.

Tonight, all the naval pilots at Top Gun had decided to come to the hard deck, for yet another darts tournament that both you and Penny had bets on Seresin to win.

Everything was going to plan; the pilots got there, got their drinks and started the tournament as you and Penny served the other customers. It was fine, but that was until the man himself, Jake Seresin came up to the bar just as you were staring at Bradley making his shot at the darts board.

It took you a moment to notice Jake to even begin with, taking his beer bottle back from where it was placed on the bar, grabbing another one.

"Tell me this y/n, why do you keep staring at Bradshaw?" Jake asks, placing his forearms on the bar as you passed him the now uncapped beer.

Flicking your head to stare straight at him, your eyes widened. How could you have been so stupid? Of course, yes, you'd passed glances at Bradley throughout the number of evenings the pilots stopped by the bar, but you didn't realised how bad it was. You'd been staring for Christ's sake!

"Because I'm watching him throw darts." You retort back at the pilot standing in front of you as you tried to busy yourself doing other things around the bar.

"That doesn't exactly seem right though, does it sweetheart?" Jake says, moving with you around the bar as you kept yourself busy.

Glaring at him, it took everything in you not to slap Jake silly at him calling out your actions, but you refused to say anything, trying to keep your dignity. You had a masters degree for fucks sake! You shouldn't be here trying to not slap a pilot while you worked on cleaning down a bar.

"Well it's the truth, Seresin." You grumble, glare still holding strong.

"You're in love with him aren't you?" Jake says, smirking, clearly catching onto your lies.

"No I'm not." You state, closing your eyes for a moment, trying to shove every opposing thought to that to the back of your mind.

"Yes you are, and I know it." Jake says, smirk more prominent now as he managed to rile you up more with each word.

"No, I'm not Seresin, now get over it and go back to your friends." You say, slapping the cloth down onto the bar, getting sick of his bullshit.

"Oh come on y/n! Just admit you love him!" Jake says and that was the last straw for you. You were sick and tired of Jake Seresin bullshitting you, so you blew up just to get him to leave you alone.

"Fine! I love him! I love Bradley Bradshaw! Is that good enough for you Seresin!" You yell, silencing the whole bar and scaring Jake in to complete and utter silence; even scaring his as so then he shrinks back into himself slightly.

You look around at the silenced bar, no one daring to move or utter a single syllable to get The Hard Deck's buzz back again.

"What?" You hear from your left and when you look around, you see Bradley standing there, beer in one hand, dart in the other.

Looking up at the decorated ceiling for a moment, you squeeze your eyes shut, internally hating yourself for what you'd just let slip.

When you open your eyes again, you see Penny at your side, giving Jake a withering look before ringing the bell, clearly seeing the what he had done as disrespecting a lady.

Cheers erupt from around the bar as people realise the Jake was buying them all a round and it was the perfect distraction that allowed you to escape the now overwhelming bar.

So, here you were, slipping into the women's bathroom, thinking over just how badly you had fucked up by yelling that across the bar.

Looking yourself over in the mirror, you start by wiping your eyes, drying them of any tears that threatened to let slip how long you'd held that secret before smoothing down your clothes.

Taking a deep breath as you do so, it hitches part way through it's escape from your mouth as you see and hear the bathroom door open.

You begin to tell the person to go away but it's only when you notice Bradley walk through the door, locking it behind him do you really see the immensity of what you'd said.

Bradley still had a stunned look on his face from moments ago, and from the look of the slightly bruised knuckle, he'd probably punched Jake as well before he'd gotten there.

"Bradley..." You whisper, tears starting to sting your eyes as you spoke.

"Why... what..." Bradley says, stumbling over his words as he tries to think of what to say.

"I didn't think it would come out like that - I, I didn't want it to!" You argue, but with no fire from the other side to fight.

"I guessed so." Bradley says, nodding his head as he scratches the back of your neck.

"I was thinking this over the other day, I used to drive you home Bradley. We were kids when we first knew each other. I put my career on hold to-" You ramble, trying to look anywhere but the man standing in front of you, only to be cut off by him part way through.

"You did what?" Bradley says, making you look at him once again from where you were leaning against the sinks.

"I didn't get my teaching degree. I nearly did, but I dropped out when you called me about your papers. I know... I dropped the ball." You whisper in the silent bathroom.

"Y/n you wanted to become a teacher, why did you do that?" Bradley asks, taking a step forward towards you.

"You were a flight risk. I knew if I didn't do anything you'd've gone and done something stupid. You needed my attention more." You admit, shrugging your shoulders during your explanation. "You drove me crazy thought Bradley and I didn't realise I loved you till I was head over heels in it."

That was when the tears managed to overpower your willpower, rolling down your cheeks as you tried to contain your sobs.

Bradley had no idea what to do; seeing his childhood best friend cry after so many years of staying strong for him. He moved though, moving to do the one thing he knew that you would appreciate in that moment.

Bradley's bear hugs over the years had always been the one thing you could rely on that would comfort you, so that was what he did. Hug you.

The weight of his strong arms wrapping around young as you cried into his chest comforted you, easing some of the worries that you'd completely fucked up the relationship.

"I don't deserve you." You tearily say after a few minutes, head still pressed against Bradley's torso.

"You do y/n/n. You so do. Do you remember the time you walked into the house crying from your period cramps and I was sat on the couch, candles lit and drinking." Bradley whispered to you, stroking your hair down.

Leaning back and nodding at the statement, Bradley continued with his story. "Well... I'd set that out for you. I was going to ask you out that night, but you came home crying and in pain so I scratched the plan and helped you."

This time, it was Bradley's turn to look everywhere but at you, his eyes flitting around the room as yours softened, remembering the day very clearly.

You'd had a shit day at The Hard Deck, getting verbal abuse from a couple of customers and you'd gotten your period the day before. So, not only were you working, you were also in pain as well from cramps you'd forgotten to take painkillers for.

"Bradley. Why...?" You ask in utter disbelief as your roommate and friend of roughly 20 years now was telling you he loved you back.

"Because I love you y/n, and I need you to understand I'm not just gonna leave you. Just say the word and I'll call or come running back to you." Bradley says, finally taking a breath and properly looking at you.

So, in a split second, you make a decision to kiss him, and clearly he'd made the same by the way your bodies moved in sync as you two locked lips.

Breaking apart a few moments later for air, you move your hands to dry your eyes and hear the door open from behind you, making both you and Bradley turn.

"Hey, y/n. If you just want to-" Penny says, walking into the bathroom, not properly looking until she faced both you and Bradley with your arms wrapped around each other. She smiles, nodding, saying nothing more before walking over, placing a box of tissues down by the sinks and then leaving you and Bradley in the bathroom.

It takes you both a moment to realise what had just happened before you dissolve into laughter, taking a few minutes before the bathroom was fully quiet once again.

"Well... Penny knows." You say, grabbing a tissue from the box Penny had placed in between the sinks.

Bradley laughed again, nodding at the bluntness of your statement and moves with you, wrapping an arm around your waist.

"Yeah. She might not kill me for punching Jake now." Bradley then says, kissing the top of your head as he holds you close.

"I should probably be telling you off for doing that, but thank you." You say, looking back up at Bradley before taking his other hand and leading him to the door of the bathroom. Dropping the used tissues in the bin by the door as you walked through it, you looked at each other, ready to face the rest of the naval pilots waiting for you both.

a/n: I'm less than a week away from uploading the masterlist for this series (when writing) so I'm getting excited!!!

Read this to find out who else I write for, and requests are open!

[romance-of-three-memes]

A lot of people gloss over Edward and I mean, I get why. He came right after Henry VIII, one of the most infamous English monarchs of all time, and right before the first three queen regnants of England all in a row (if you count his cousin Jane Grey anyway, who he named as his heir but uhhhh it didn't exactly last long, not even two weeks, partially because so many people supported Mary over her). He had a measly six years to make his mark and was only fifteen when he died (Mary's reign was only five years, but she gets notoriety points for being a woman and from the whole catholic defamation thing). Plus his father and sister Elizabeth both ruled for 40-ish years, so with all that going on he feels almost like a footnote a lot of the time. I also have to admit that it is weirdly satisfying to know that his father wanted him so badly that he divorced one wife and beheaded another just to get a male heir... Only for him to last less than a decade and for his sisters, who their father treated like garbage, took over and became far more famous in the grand scheme of history.

A lot of people reduce him down to being a naive child who had no clue what he was doing and just let his advisors make all the calls for him up until the end of his life. But he'd been prepared for that role since birth and he was very well educated. He seems to have genuinely been a smart kid who grew into the role as he aged and matured, taking matters into his own hands more and more. No doubt he was influenced by his advisors, but he was perfectly capable of making his own decisions.

A lot of the protestant reforms his father started were cemented during his reign and he had a deep preoccupation with religion just like his father and sisters, which was largely because Henry himself was deeply religious since he was educated to work in the church before his older brother died and he got promoted from spare to heir. In medieval/early modern Europe it was pretty common for noble and royal families to dump their younger sons in either the church or the military to keep them occupied.

Admittedly Edward's link to Sun Ce is maybe a bit more nebulous but there's still plenty of similarities, and I'll be damned if I leave Wu out. So, just like Edward, Wu in general gets left out of the equation a lot of the time. Sun Ce's father also died when he was pretty young and while he didn't immediately take over historically, before he had a chance to prove himself he was often accused of just being some kid that was riding his daddy's coattails. He also died young, had a short reign, and is considered almost transitory between more 'noted' leaders he was related to, but he accomplished more than a lot of people give him credit for.

You can draw so many historical parallels that may seem completely unrelated so easily if you're dedicated enough to it, see I'll show you: Mary I of England aka Mary Tudor has quite a bit in common with Cao Cao, her younger sister Elizabeth I with Liu Bei, and you could argue that in this context their little brother Edward VI was like the first three patriarchs of Wu but honestly if I had to pick just one it'd probably be Sun Ce, in this essay I will-

[keen-eye]

Hello, Dean 🫵

[atopvisenyashill]

if i did a reread of the walking dead and wrote an essay on how aegon ii and carl are doomed to be the last man standing by their narratives, and what starts out as a sort of cool & nifty super power of always surviving turns into this horrific curse where everyone they know is dying around them & sometimes it’s their fault & sometimes it’s not but either way they can’t ever stop it until they’re sitting at the ending with nothing but their lone daughter to protect but so broken they can no longer connect to her and then their story abruptly ends-

would that be like the Most stupid, nerdy thing i have ever done in my life or

[donnatroyyyy]

Batman has/had some kind of miscommunication going on with every single one of his kids. The bat family is just one big miscommunication trope after the other.

[dennisboobs]

i'm. i can't do proper metas until i actually have the time to do them. but i will eventually dig further into charlie and bonnie's relationship and mac and his mom's. its stewing.