#but he looks like a different character now

[kianamaiart]

what was the process like for naming the pppidwtbamg characters?

Scrolling down various baby names dot com sites LOL

"Aika" was just a name that I liked that felt fit her after I designed her. Not that much thought went into her name since she was the first character I made and wasn't planning on doing anything with her after that. Everyone else's names are very on the nose so I was thinking about giving her a star related name later but also I kinda like that her name is the only one that doesn't line up (as she doesn't want to be a magical girl or "a star")

"Hoshi" literally means star in Japanese which was me being lazy and once again just attaching a name to them because I wasn't planning on doing more. But also it fits haha. I did seriously consider changing Hoshi's name before working on the pilot because "why would a space star have a Japanese name?" But it works out with the backstory in my head wherein Hoshi and Aika meet for the first time, and Aika just starts calling them "Hoshi" because she was small and Japanese was her first language (she is Black/Japanese for those unaware). Hoshi ended up just adopting the name.

Then "Zira" is a name of African origin meaning "moonlight" which I felt was really fitting since I knew I wanted to do a moon motif with her to contrast Aika's star. Was also intentionally looking for "Z" names to further push the idea that Aika and Zira are opposites.

"Eclipse" is Eclipse because it sounded like an edgy-ish name he'd give himself and also at this point I knew I was going for a space theme with all these characters (a good chunk of magical girl stuff does). I knew he was gonna be Aika's self proclaimed love interest, while Zira is her actual love interest so giving them both moon motifs and names but in different ways felt fitting. I've mentioned it here a couple times that his real name is Elio, which means "sun" so do with that what you will.

Lady DeVoid is based on voids/black holes so... yeah hahaha. Added the "Lady" since a lot of classic villainesses have that title and I was also inspired by Cruella DeVil's name.

Miss's real name is unknown but "Miss" as a name is based on my experience in school where most kids just call teachers "Miss" or "Mister", not really bothering to say the rest of their names. As I grew up I kinda found that to be sad and feel like it kinda takes away from teachers' identities a bit. But I did like how narratively it works for Miss, since she drowns herself in her work and has, over time, lost who she is. She is Miss. Just a school teacher and nothing more (for now). She is intended to have an Earth motif so maybe her real name's related to that...

[bbokicidal]

Maybe Our Last .:. SKZ [L.FX]

Genre : Smut Pairing : Lee Felix x Fem!Reader Warnings : DUB-CON, Tentacle penetration I don't know HOW ELSE to word it!!, Hentai-esque themes, Monster Fucking (essentially), Throat fucking (kind of)

Kinktober Day 6 of 10 : Monster fucking w/ Felix Kinktober Masterlist

Word Count: 3.8K

I'm going to write a small snippet here because I need this to be clear; There is no sex between Felix and the reader; Changbin is the character who becomes the tentacle monster so technically he's fucking them both lol, and both Felix & the reader experience a sort of aphrodisiac which is why this is labeled as Dub-Con. If you don't like this type of shit just DON'T FUCKING READ IT LOL - also I've never written anything like this before so if it's bad... oh well.

You’d caught his eye the moment you walked into the party; The outfit, the style you’d worn your natural hair in, the dramatic makeup, the contacts, the thigh highs, the cute shoes – 

Felix had seen that character multiple times before; A beauty from one of his favorite animes in the world and now it was like she’d come right to life in front of his very eyes in the form of your Halloween costume. 

If he was honest, Felix wasn’t sure how he was going to keep his composure around you that night. You already made his heart race before, your demeanor was always so pleasant and kind towards him any time the two of you had bumped into each other or conversed as your friends spoke with each other, and now he knew you were about as big a nerd as he was; Which made you 10 times more attractive. As if you could get any more perfect.

Hell - He wasn’t even sure how he got you to sit down and talk to him on the couch like this; Your legs thrown over his lap, his hands resting respectfully atop them while the two of you chit-chatted as if you weren’t sitting in the middle of a massive college Halloween party. Biggest one that happened on campus, actually; Changbin just had that reputation going for him; Couldn’t let his people down this year, could he?

Music blared around the two of you, people dancing and singing, drinking ungodly concoctions of Rum and juice and edible glitter and making out against the walls; someone gagging just behind at the smell that was slowly flooding out of the downstairs restroom and towards the kitchen. Though, it felt as though none of it mattered as you were in your own little world with Felix.

“Yeah, I mean - her basic outfit is just so boring so I guess I tried to recreate the ascended version; I just think it’s cooler.”

“Definitely.” Call Felix a loser. He can’t keep himself from staring over at you in admiration, awe rushing through his veins the more you talk about what you thought of the show and what your opinions on different arcs were. His replies remain short and sweet - and you try your best to keep the conversation going, you do, but it’s hard to focus when he’s just so… pretty.

With a pink knitted sweater tucked into light wash jeans, he’d managed to secure a small pair of white wings to his back. He’d buttered up his look by applying glittering hairspray to the platinum locks that fell down over his shoulders and framed his face so well, a chunkier rose gold glitter overtaking the freckles on his cheeks. It seemed to complete the look for the cutest pixie you’d ever seen in your life; Not that you’d seen many.

“So you know the guy who lives here?” You question, tone soft. You’d heard of him before but you’d never talked to him personally; You’d really only been invited to the party because he was a friend of a friend. 

Felix’s lips part before he nods, a shy and polite smile overtaking his lips. “Ah - Yeah. Changbin’s a close friend of mine. He’s pretty cool, I guess.” His eyes darted over to peek at said friend, Changbin’s head popping into the restroom as his hand secured its hold on the doorframe. He looks as though he’s investigating something but Felix hasn’t a clue what, so instead of fretting about it he turns his attention back to you. “You don’t?” Felix quips before continuing. “I mean - you don’t know him?”

You blink a few times, offering a small shake of your head. “Oh, no. He’s a friend of my friend, Hyunjin. They’re practically attached at the hip and I see him around every so often but I don’t think I’ve ever had a full conversation with him before, you know?” You smile, giving a shrug. “We just don’t really run in the same friend group I guess. No big deal.”

The hand that had previously been resting against your shin - which was placed in Felix’s lap as you lounged back on the sofa in Changbin’s living room - moved to instead gently grasp at your knee. Felix giggles, “You should talk to him sometime. He’s genuinely one of the nicest guys I know. I get that his physique can be kind of intimidating but he’s really a nice guy. Maybe after the party we can –”

“Oh my God,” A girl shrieking from behind the sofa causes your body to jolt in surprise, your leg pulling off of Felix’s lap. He selfishly misses the contact immediately but lets his gaze pull from you to the young woman standing just over your shoulder. She’s turned away, her hand shaking as she points to the bathroom doorway. Changbin was gone, but where his hand had previously rested was now an oozing trail of green slime. Like something had slapped against the doorway and left a puddle that dripped down the polished wood. “Changbin?!” She cries, free hand pressing over her mouth. “Are you okay?!”

Hyunjin pushes past a few people to get to the girl, his hand resting against her arm as he glances between her horrified expression and the bathroom doorway. “What -?! What? What’s going on? Why are you yelling?” He stares down at her, the girl trembling under his touch. Her face had gone ghastly white, her joints blushed with blood that tried to push through to her extremities that had long lost all sense of warmth.

“Changbin,” She gasps out her friend’s name, her fingers shaking horribly as they dig into her cheek in terror. “He was trying to figure out what that awful smell was but I just – I saw him get pulled into the bathroom by something! I swear, it was like a monster - It was –”

The atmosphere turns horridly tense. The air thickens with dread as people begin to back away from the bathroom and some even turn to leave, wanting to get out of the house in case something horrible had happened. What if it was another person and Changbin had just been attacked? What if there was a serious sense of danger in the house now? And as you listen in, your chest feels heavy enough to cave in on you. You didn’t know Changbin well but that didn’t mean you didn’t care about him. He seemed like a genuine guy and right now you could only hope that this was some sick, cruel Halloween prank happening.

By the time you push yourself up off of the couch to even move into action Hyunjin is already in the bathroom doorway. His rushed demeanor comes to a sudden halt as he stops where the door cracks open, his gaze settled behind it and directed towards the shower. Everyone seems so quiet now, waiting impatiently for Hyunjin to give them some sort of update.

The only response they get for at least five seconds is the color draining from his face. His jaw clenched as he huffs out a breath before his body turns back to the living room and he pushes himself to leave the bathroom as quickly as possible.

He points, throwing his arm towards the front door that isn’t too far from where you stand. “Get out!” His voice leaves his throat in a scratching scream, begging for people to run from whatever it was he had seen in the bathroom only moments ago. “Get the fuck out!” He cries. “Run! Fucking run!”

People scatter; Dust settled on a shelf for decades now disturbed and dispersing into the once pure air. Footsteps are loud and heavy as some book it for the upstairs area, their shoes thumping heavy against the wooden steps. Most head for the front or back doors, Hyunjin’s hands pushing people to move into action as screams and cries fill the house and drown into the music still playing from the stereo speakers. 

The bathroom door slides open and what emerges makes your blood run cold.

That wasn’t Changbin.

That was a monster.

With eyes pure white and veins pulsing angrily in his throat, the Senior exited the bathroom not on his own two legs; Maybe not of his own free will. His head lulled as if he was no longer present, the parasite within him pushing him to exit and begin to attack. His upper half looked as if it had been melted and glued to the body of an octopus - if that octopus had biohazard green tentacles and slime oozing from every orifice. It pushed out of the corners of his mouth as his expression turned into a heavy scowl, his head tipping in the direction of the people scrambling for the front door - one of the tentacles reaching out in a quicker manner than expected. It had taken him so long to reveal himself that you were sure he was sluggish when it came to movement, but the tentacle seemed to snap out and wrap around the closest person’s waist.

Hyunjin gasped in horror as the wet surface slid and soaked his band tank, grabbing onto him tight and curling around him a few times to ensure he couldn’t escape from its hold. The tip of the tentacle smothered his cheek in goo and he visibly cringed, pulling his head back as far as he could while it rubbed against his face.

You hadn’t even realized your own body had become frozen in its place until Felix had reached for you, his fingers lacing with yours to pull you back to him. “Hey,” He yells over the noise, gently tugging on your arm, “We’ve gotta go!”

Your eyes drag to Felix before you nod, surely out of it by everything you were witnessing. This had to be some horrible nightmare - surely. Changbin wasn’t some scary tentacle monster and Hyunjin wasn’t getting smothered in goo and this house party was not just taken over by some… alien octopus parasite!

Felix moves to guide you as far from Changbin as he can get you, which isn’t very far unfortunately. His attempt is futile; The moment he rounds the couch it’s already too late. A tentacle had wound around your ankle and begun to lift already, refusing to let you go while suspending you mid-air. Felix, also refused to let you go.

He cried out as his hand was ripped from yours, watching you be lifted towards the ceiling as you screamed and begged for him to find a way to get you down. “Felix!” Your gasps were slashes to his heart, the knife twisting and digging into the muscle, ripping it apart. “Felix - Help me! Help me!”

Though he’s no better off. A third leg had wrapped over Felix’s chest, slime oozing from what looked to be the suction cups of the tentacle - only open and gaping as they sucked and clung to his sweater tight. Felix’s mouth opens though no sounds escape, his body only reacting as it knows how to when he’s this terrified. His hands come down on the tentacle and he hates how smooth it is, how slimy and wet it feels against his skin. “Let me go,” He gasps out, his head turning to look over towards Changbin’s upper half. Not that he’s really Changbin anymore. “Changbin-hyung! Let me go! Let me go, I’m your friend!”

Felix’s head snaps in your direction instead as he hears your voice letting out soft whines. The tentacle holding you up by your leg had tightened its grip and squirmed down towards your inner thigh, still wrapped up against you so snug that it made the soft fat beneath it bulge under your thigh highs. He didn’t even bother to take in the way your skirt had flipped upside down to reveal the pink panties underneath - He didn’t care. He was instead watching a separate tentacle rubbing against your face as if it were nuzzling you, smearing a pale green goo over your cheek and towards your mouth that made you spit in disgust. The tentacle pushes lower instead and wraps loose around your neck, your eyes darting down to watch as the suction cups open and release what looks like a sort of gas.

Your gasps are immediate, the sweet scent filling your body as you cried, “What the fuck is that?!”

Felix barely even registered that the tentacle wrapped over his chest had done the same, and when he did he was dumb enough to look down right into it. The scent was… nice. Pleasant. It made his body hum with a pleasant vibration that made him feel so warm and fuzzy. A feeling akin to being drunk for the first time - feeling a little out of it, a little loose. It felt immediate, too. 

His body slowly began to relax as the gas fogged around his head, the cups closing shortly after to let the air around your bodies clear. His eyes slowly pulled back to you, and though you were a bit hazy now, you were still there. 

The tentacle wrapped over your neck slithered down towards your chest, wrapping beneath the swell of your breasts tight so the fabric pulled taught against your curves - and the poor pixie across from you couldn’t stop himself from looking. He didn’t even feel guilty about it at the moment either. In any other circumstance he would’ve been too respectful and shy to even steal a quick glance but now, something about it felt so shameless. 

The tentacle slipped lower to give your body more support, leveling you out so you could essentially lay as though you were in bed instead of being hung upside down. How kind of it.

Felix swallows hard as his eyes trail over. He watches the tentacle holding onto your leg adjust itself so your thighs push apart for it and your body seems to naturally comply, your head tipping back as you allow the creature that was once Felix’s best friend to bend your body to its will. He finds himself whimpering when the tentacle pushes higher, the tip of the appendage wriggling and squirming over your skin until it tucked under your skirt and pried at your panties.

Your lips part in a sharp gasp, a heavy blush coating your cheeks at the realization that it’s trying to get at the most intimate of spaces on your body. The appendage curls tight around your panties before it begins to pull back, though when they refuse to move from your hips because of how snug they are - it opts to instead rip them right open. The fabric falls like nothing from your body before the tentacle moves back to work, your skirt ruffling against your hips and thighs as it pushes over your slit and curls the very tip around your clit in an effort to make you moan. And it works, of course.

Felix’s cock twitches in his jeans at the sight of you being touched like this. He knows it’s gross - knows it’s dirty and knows you’ll no doubt judge him for enjoying nasty Hentai like this (if you even live to see the next morning…) but he really can’t help it. He can’t help that he’s getting hard at the sight of you like this. It’s like a scene right out of a movie he’d watched recently - The tentacles, your stupid Halloween outfit…

“Felix…” Your soft call of his name makes him snap back into reality - which isn’t far from his fantasies right now. His hands tightened down on the tentacle wrapped over his chest as he felt something push between his own legs; An appendage separate from the others had slipped up his left leg and prodded at the bulge in his jeans, curling slowly around the outline of his half-hard cock while he whined. His lashes fluttered and he squirmed at the feeling, the friction more than enough to make him chub up just a little bit more. 

He curses, whimpering under his breath. “Fuck,” Felix gasps, biting down hard into his lip to stop any other sounds from escaping from his mouth.

His gaze darts back to you just in time to see the tentacle between your legs begin to squirm back. The cups along the inner section of the appendage open slowly and begin to once again ooz the slime that had slicked up your face and soaked into your costume’s top. It dripped over your inner thighs and as you sucked in a breath, the tip of the tentacle pushed carefully into your entrance. It eased it’s way in until it was nearly five inches deep - though this wasn’t quite like having sex with just.. Some guy. First of all - this was a monster; Second - the tentacle was thick. 

It felt as though it was attempting to split you right in half, wriggling deeper before finally pulling back and pushing into you once more.

“Oh my God,” Your voice leaves in a desperate hum. Felix watches in both shock and awe as your head falls back at the feeling of your pussy being filled to the brim; The little suction cups kissing at your walls every time it pushed into you further, the tip squirming against the entrance to your cervix and begging to be let in - to fill you until you would burst.

Felix’s head swirls as his gaze drops once more. He stares at the tentacle wriggling its way into his waistband, his mouth dropping open to let out a moan that makes him feel disgusting. He’s enjoying this and part of him loathes himself for it. “Shit,” He whines, the appendage wrapping around his cock when it slipped into his boxers and smothering his length in slick, sticky goo. It soaked through to the denim of his jeans and caused a heavy, damp stain that made him embarrassed and made him whine in protest. His hands curled into fists, reaching down with both to try and rid the appendage from his waistband before another - smaller and thin as a rope - wrapped tight around his wrists at lightning speed. He trembles as his arms are pulled above his head, no longer able to defend himself against the tentacle wrapping around his cock and making him twitch and writhe in pleasure. “Fuck – Fuck,” He cries, his toes curling in his sneakers at the ache that forms through his abdomen. “Fuck –!”

Your eyes finally press open as you hear Felix whining across from you, your gaze settling first on his flushed and desperate expression before falling to watch as the tentacle below wraps around his cock and coats him in goo. You can’t see anything but you know it’s a delicious sight.

Though, the appendage previously touching Felix seems to realize something of its own - It can’t fill Felix like it can with you, so it would have to find another way to inject its semen into the man.

“Shit,” Your whisper is barely audible as you peek up, watching the tentacle drag over Felix’s chest before coming up and prodding at his lips. He barely has time to react as it forces it’s way into his mouth, pushing at the back of his throat and making him choke on a whimper as goo drips down the corners of his mouth. His gaze meets yours before you watch as his eyes flick down between your legs, watching the tentacle between your thighs pump into you quicker than before. Your shaky, unstable moans meet Felix’s ears and he hates that the mix of seeing you getting fucked and having his mouth used at the same time are what makes him coat the inside of his jeans in cum that mixes with the goo left behind.

Your gasps become frantic as the tentacle pushes further into you, stretching you as much as it can before it suddenly stops, burying itself into your walls and pumping something out of the cups that had once again opened. You can feel it; It’s hot and heavy, thick, creamy. Holding a promise of your demise.

It’s the same moment that the tentacle buried in Felix’s throat seems to release the essence, Felix choking and gagging and closing his eyes in embarrassment as it fills his mouth full. The tentacle retracts as quickly as it came, black leaking from the corners of the pixie’s mouth as he swallows and spits at the same time - trying to figure out what it is and what to do in his post-sex haze.

The appendage between your thighs retracts and as exhaustion waves over you, so do the rest. Your body falls from the air and hits the ground with a heavy thud, Felix’s following only moments later. You land on your side, eyes glossy with tears of fear and pleasure as you look over at where Felix lay on his stomach to your right. His eyes are closed, though it’s not long before they slowly flutter open and attempt to meet your gaze. Felix’s hand slowly shifts from his side, coming to meet your own. His fingers curl into your palm as he sighs out, his body giving into the exhaustion and slumping against the hardwood - his cheek squished against the floor and his brain shutting off.

While you remain conscious a while longer, your eyes slowly move around to what you can see of the room. Hyunjin sits slumped against the wall, black ooze dripping down his chin and throat. His mouth had been filled the same as Felix, though while it happened a bit earlier on after he was grabbed, his body had already begun to turn. He was no longer present, his lower half bubbling and steaming and his legs gone, four appendages already present and squirming as the others began to form. 

Your eyes slowly dragged back to the blonde laying beside you, your thumb swiping over his knuckles in admiration. You take in the way his hair falls over his eyes, the way his lips part and the way the chunky rose gold glitter on his cheeks only adds to the charm of the deep brown freckles painting his skin. Part of you was… happy, that he’d fallen asleep before he’d seen what had happened to Hyunjin; What would happen to him now, too. Though as you lay in exhaustion and attempt to fight the sleep, as your brain clears itself of the fog and begins to be overrun by the slime that had entered your body and taken control of every functioning system left inside of you, and the fear settles into your chest; The realization that this would be the last time you would be human, the last time you would see Felix’s face. So you fight the sleep a little longer, just enough to try and memorize every detail of the man laying across from you before he becomes a monster, too. Your head pounds with the need to rest as your eyes finally drop closed, your body slumping and going loose as your future ahead of you lay unknown. But again, holding the promise of your demise.

Permanent Taglist :

@dwaekkicidal @possum-playground

@thatonedarkskinnedsiren @oc3anfloor @theyadorevalerie

@jeonginsleftcheek @pixie-felix @hwangjoanna @skzophreniic

@silly250

[julietsf1]

A Soft Place To Land - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she came for the quiet—early mornings, silence, and a chance to find herself again. he came to disappear for a while, to bike through villages and forget what his name meant to other people. they weren’t looking for each other. but somehow, they kept meeting in the middle. (7.8k words)

content: slow-burn, mutual pining, found peace, simple life in a cmbyn type town off the grid <3

AN: so guess whose laptop died this weekend lmao :') nice excuse to treat myself to a MacBook finally! I feel like it makes me look extra sexy and mysterious now writing in my local cafe so bet I'm gonna be writing a lot upcoming days as I love looking sexy

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

You arrived on a Wednesday. The kind of day that couldn’t commit to a forecast—sun, then shadow, then sun again—like the sky was tired of having an opinion. You came by car, winding your way through soft green hills and sleepy lanes until the town blinked into view, all shuttered windows and ochre rooftops tucked into the countryside like it belonged there before anyone decided to name it.

The cottage was waiting—slightly crooked, painted the kind of pale yellow that looks prettier in late afternoon. Ivy curled around the doorframe like it had been choreographed. Inside, there was no television. No WiFi. A teapot that wheezed when it boiled. A single mirror with cloudy edges and the kind of honest lighting that didn’t forgive. You liked that.

You weren’t fleeing anything dramatic. No messy breakup. No scandal. Just noise—the exhausting static of always being visible but never quite seen. Your old life had grown too curated, too performative. Lately even your laughter felt like it needed approval.

You wanted to be a person again. Quietly. Without audience.

The village made that easy.

It was the kind of place where mornings came slow and honest, dusted in that early golden light that made even the postboxes look charming. You wandered. Bought plums. Forgot your phone. The locals mostly left you alone, except for one old man who kept offering you pickled eggs. You politely declined. Twice.

That’s where you found the bike shop. Not a shop, exactly—just an open garage at the end of a lane. A few rusted frames leaned against the wall like retirees. One of them had lavender handlebars and a charm to it. You reached out.

So did someone else.

There was a brush of fingers—yours and his—and you both flinched.

“Oh—” you said, blinking up.

He was wearing sunglasses too scratched to be functional and a hoodie that looked like it had lived a full life. His sleeves were shoved up to the elbows, and his forearms were tanned and freckled like he hadn’t worn SPF since March. He didn’t look like he was trying. He just... was.

“No, no,” he said quickly, backing up with his palms raised. “Go ahead. You were there first.”

You tilted your head. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, like the thought of arguing offended him personally. “I’ve had my eye on that one for days. But to be fair... I don’t trust the brakes anyway.”

“Ah so you’re just setting me up for an accident.”

“Small town. I could use some entertainment.”

You smiled—just a little. The kind that surprised even you.

He answered with a grin of his own. Slightly crooked. Not polished.

The handlebars were warm in your hands. Sun-soaked. Familiar, somehow.

“Thank you,” you said.

He gave a small nod. “I like the colour. Suits you better.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you didn’t. You wheeled the bike out toward the road, a little unsteady but determined.

He chose a different one—red, with one working pedal and a chip in the paint that gave it character. You glanced over your shoulder once, halfway down the lane.

He was already pedaling the other way.

His hair caught the wind. He tilted his head to the sky like he was letting it carry him.

You didn’t know his name.

…

You spend your time wandering the narrow lanes, sketchbook tucked under your arm, buying odd fruit from crooked stalls, sitting in patches of sunlight like a cat. You don’t know what time it is most of the day. You don’t care.

And you see him.

Always in motion, always a little removed—like he belongs here but hasn’t quite let the place claim him. Sometimes he bikes past humming under his breath, the wire of his headphones tucked messily into his shirt. Other times, he’s walking, one hand in his pocket, the other tapping a rhythm against his thigh like he’s thinking through something he’ll never actually say.

You’ve spotted the slim outline of a scratched iPod in his back pocket. The bracelet on his wrist—faded thread, sun-softened red and blue—looks handmade and not in a curated, aesthetic way. Just... worn in. Familiar. Like it was given, not bought.

You catch each other’s eye now and then. Not deliberately. More like the way birds nod at each other from separate fences. A lift of the hand, a small smile. It becomes a rhythm. Not daily. Not planned. Just... familiar. Like heat rising off cobblestones. Or the first scent of bread in the morning.

On the third day, the weather turns.

You wake up to a sky stretched thin with heat. The shutters rattle faintly in their hinges when you close them behind you, and the gravel path crunches with the lazy sound of summer under your shoes.

You head into the village and buy a small paper bag of figs and a loaf of bread still warm enough to make your fingers curl. There’s no rush. No plan. You pause at stalls for longer than usual, breathing in lavender and dust, turning over tomatoes like they might tell you a secret.

Eventually, you duck into the café near the edge of the square just as the first fat drops begin to fall.

It’s barely more than a room. One wall all windows, curtains tied back with string. Five tables, each with a different chair. A counter lined with baskets of sugar cubes and a chalkboard that always says something vague like le soleil revient toujours.

The woman behind it—silver hair twisted into a knot, hands like poetry—gives you a slice of carrot cake without asking.

“Fresh,” she tells you. “C’est bon pour les jours tristes.”

It’s good for sad days.

You sit by the window, the cake warm and sticky with cinnamon. It tastes like something soft inside you remembers.

The bell above the door chimes.

And he’s there.

Hair damp from the rain, curls darker now. His shirt clings slightly at the collarbone, sleeves wrinkled like they’ve been rolled and unrolled all morning. He has his iPod in one hand, the headphones wrapped around it in a way that says he got distracted midway through.

He sees you.

And something about his face stills, but doesn’t change.

You smile first.

This time, he smiles back—full and quiet and entirely sincere.

He glances around—just you, the rain, the hum of a far-off radio. Then he walks over.

“Mind if I...?” he gestures to the chair across from you.

You shake your head. “Please.”

He sits like someone who’s trying not to be in the way. Like he knows how to fold himself small when needed.

The café woman appears without a word and sets down a glass of apple juice in front of him. He blinks. “Wow. Okay.”

You raise a brow. “Apple juice?”

He takes a sip, eyebrows lifting like he’s tasting something from a different era. “Sexy. Mysterious. A little bit fruity.”

You snort into your fork. “That your review or your Tinder bio?”

He grins. “Bit of both. Gave up Tinder though, I just go to tiny cafés now.”

A faint blush creeps on your cheeks and you take another bite of your cake.

“I’m Lando by the way.” He holds his hand out for you to shake.

“Nice to meet you, Lando.” You answer smiling.

The rain tickles the windows like it’s trying to join the conversation.

“So,” he says, leaning his arms on the table, “there’s like 20 people in this town, us included?”

You smirk. “Yesterday, I bought plums from someone who called me la petite perdue, the little lost one, and gave me a free one out of pity.”

“Rough.” He nods gravely. “I asked a guy where to find the best croissants and he told me to ‘go home and learn how to bake.’”

You wince. “Brutal.”

“French.”

“Did you learn how to bake, though?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You both laugh. It’s the kind that hums in your chest, easy and bright and not at all forced.

He glances at your plate. “So? This cake—is it actually good or just charming-village good?”

You study it for a second. “It's like something an aunt makes when guests come over and she wants to pretend she isn’t trying.”

“That’s the best kind.”

You push the plate toward the middle of the table. “Go on.”

He takes a bite without hesitation. Chews. Nods. “Annoyingly comforting.”

“It’s the cinnamon.”

“It’s like crack.” He sits back, tilting his head. “You staying long?”

You lift a shoulder. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I keep waking up feeling a little more like myself.”

He looks at you for a moment longer than is strictly polite.

Then: “Yeah. I get that. Same for me.”

You tilt your head. “Really? What’s your escape-from-the-world backstory?”

He lets out a theatrical sigh. “Was hoping to be reborn as a goat, but mostly I’ve just been eating bread and avoiding my Australian colleague.”

“A noble quest.”

He lifts his juice like a toast. “To secondhand bikes and rainy mornings.”

You clink your fork against his glass. “To language barriers and stale croissants.”

And just like that, the café feels warmer. The space between you looser.

When the rain finally began to slow, the world outside looked washed and reflective. You stood. So did he. The chairs scraped gently against the tile floor, and the café owner gave you both a little nod as you passed.

Your bike was still leaning against the wall, looking the same as it always had: slightly crooked, unapologetically stubborn.

“Still doesn’t brake properly?” he asked, nodding toward it.

You glanced at the frame. “Keeps me on my toes.”

He grinned, eyes a little too knowing. “I respect that.”

You swung a leg over the bike, adjusted your cardigan. He didn’t move. Just watched you like he didn’t really want to leave the frame of this scene yet.

“Well,” he said.

“Well.”

“I’ll see you around, then?”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze with something lighter in your chest than before. “You usually do.”

Then you pushed off.

The wheels hummed beneath you as you coasted down the glistening lane, droplets flicking up from the tires, the wind lifting your hair. For a moment, everything—the air, the street, even the puddles—seemed to glow.

…

You wake with the early light, when the shutters spill pale gold across the floorboards like paint from an open jar. The air smells faintly of honeysuckle and the soft charcoal tang of chimney smoke drifting from somewhere higher up the hill. You boil water, steep tea in the chipped mug you brought from home, and walk barefoot across the uneven tiles while the kettle wheezes like an old dog trying to gossip.

Then, tea in hand, you go to the bench.

It’s not much—just a wooden seat with flaking paint, half-swallowed by long grass and perched at the edge of a field where the light always seems to move slower. Like the morning itself hasn't decided what kind of day it wants to be yet. You sit there every day with your sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil in hand, the silence soft and obliging. It doesn’t ask questions. It just keeps you company.

Sketching doesn’t demand anything. It’s a way of looking that feels gentler. Less about perfection, more about presence. It pulls you back when your thoughts drift too far forward or behind. It reminds you—you’re still here.

And almost always, he bikes past.

You’ve learned that his Airbnb is further uphill, on a narrow, winding road that loops lazily through the back of the village. He cycles into town most mornings, allegedly for fruit or pastries, but often—he’ll admit—it’s for nothing at all. 

The conversations started small. Breezy things. Half-thoughts, half-jokes. The kind of talking that fills the air without crowding it.

One morning, Lando pulled up beside the bench and asked—with complete seriousness—what your favourite film was. You said Before Sunrise. He said Fantastic Mr. Fox.

“That tracks,” you murmured, and he cracked a grin—bright and boyish and slightly crooked. You thought about that laugh for the rest of the day.

Lately, he lingers.

He slows down more, even when he doesn’t plan to stop. Sometimes, he leans his forearms against the back of your bench and watches your pencil move, offering oddly specific commentary like, “That tree looks like my mate Oscar,” or “This cloud feels like it would judge me in a job interview.”

You never look at him when he says silly things like that. But you always smile.

Some mornings, he brings you things. Once, a bruised nectarine. Another time a wrinkled leaflet for a jazz concert that had happened last year. One day, you asked what he was listening to on his iPod and he just said, “Early One Direction. But like, the deep cuts.” before cycling off with a wink.

You learn his rhythm. The way he hums on the downhill stretch. The way he says bonjour to the same grumpy cat outside the bakery. The way his hair curls at the nape of his neck when it’s humid. The bracelet he always wears—faded thread, frayed at the edge. How he never finishes a full pastry but always offers you the last bite.

You don’t know what to call it yet. This something. This him. But you’re starting to notice how much softer the mornings feel when he’s part of them.

And how strange it is to miss someone you never planned to see at all.

Then, one morning, he surprises you.

You’re sketching the tree line again, pencil balanced between your fingers, when a shadow lands softly over your knees.

You glance up.

He’s standing beside the bench, holding something in both hands—a mug. Not new, not pristine. Blue glaze around the rim, a daisy painted off-center. It looks like it came from a kitchen where the cupboards don’t match and no one minds.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just offers it out, his fingers curved gently around the handle.

“I saw this at the market,” he says, casual. “Figured it looked close enough to the one you chipped.”

You blink once, then again. It’s too early for your guard to be all the way up.

“You bought me a mug?”

Lando shrugs, like it’s not a thing. “Didn’t want you drinking out of something that might slice your lip open. Don’t even know if they have a doctor in this little town.”

You take it slowly, letting your fingers brush his just slightly. It’s warm.

“You’re very committed to my safety.”

“Some might say I’m an empath,” he says, trying to keep a straight-face. “You don’t have to look so surprised.”

You crack a smile.

He sits beside you, completely uninvited. Just like that. “Brought one for myself too, if you don’t mind”

His knee knocks yours as he shifts to grab another mug and a thermos from his bag. Neither of you adjust.

The breeze moves through the field, brushing the tall grass flat for half a second before it lifts again. You raise the mug to your lips and take a slow sip.

It tastes a little better than usual.

“Do you always make that face when you’re sketching?”

You didn’t look up. “What face?”

He coasted to a slow stop in the grass and launched straight into an over-the-top impersonation—lips scrunched, brows furrowed, eyes slightly crossed.

You glanced sideways. “Is that supposed to be me?”

He kept going. “I must... channel the essence of this leaf. I must suffer... for texture.”

You snorted. “You’re such a nerd.”

He grinned. “Come on, you do have a whole look. Very funny. I respect the commitment.”

You shook your head, pencil still moving. “Right. Says the guy who bikes around looking like he’s in Call Me By Your Name.”

He leaned on the back of the bench, smug as anything. “I can’t help it if I look like a movie star, darling.”

You gave him a side-eye. “So humble.”

“I don’t hear you disagreeing with me.”

You laughed, soft and unwilling. He didn’t say anything else—just stayed close, quiet, easy in your orbit. And your pencil kept moving, but the corners of your mouth hadn’t stopped lifting since he arrived.

He leans back, his arm resting casually along the back of the bench. His bracelet slides a little on his wrist, thread faded in the center.

A few minutes pass like that—his presence quiet but close, your pencil moving in soft lines. He smells faintly of laundry powder and sunscreen.

…

You are secretly thrilled to see him that morning.

You’re at your usual bench, sketchbook open, tea warm in your hands, the sun already softening the edges of your linen trousers. The field hums. You’re halfway through the slant of a tree that never quite sits still when you hear tires crunching over the path.

You look up.

It’s him.

Same bike. Different shirt. Canvas bag slung over one shoulder, baguette sticking out the top like he’s been personally styled by a charming cliché. He squints through the light, already grinning.

“Still terrorizing that poor tree?” he calls.

You glance at your page. “It has character.”

He rolls to a stop beside you. “It’s been, what—four days?”

“It has a lot of personality,” you say, straight-faced.

“Oh, well then. If that’s what you are looking for, I’ve got loads of personality for you.” He says with a cheeky wink.

You raise an eyebrow. “You? Sit still long enough to be sketched? Please.”

He swings a leg off his bike with flair. “I could try. But I’d probably get hungry halfway through.”

He lifts the canvas bag like it’s a grand prize. “Speaking of—come with me.”

You eye the baguette. “That your sales pitch?”

“Bread and charm. I’m working with what I’ve got.”

“And where exactly are we going?”

“That wildflower field past the creek. You need new inspiration. This tree deserves a break. I need breakfast.”

“You’ve been watching me sketch long enough to have opinions now?”

“I’m observant. It’s a hidden skill. I’ve built a whole career out of reading lines and curves.”

You catch it. The quiet drop of something—easy, offhand, like he assumed you already knew.

But you don’t ask. You just stand, close your sketchbook, and tuck it under your arm.

Lando watches you with a flicker of curiosity—like he’s waiting for the question that never comes.

“And you’re getting me there how, exactly?”

He pats the cross bar of the bike. “Hop on.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious about snacks. And this blanket’s not going to carry itself.”

You hesitate, heart skipping—not with fear, but anticipation. You jump on the bar.

“Hold tight,” he says, kicking off.

“Oh my God.”

He laughs, arm instinctively sliding around your waist. “Relax. Worst case, we fall into a bush.”

“You’re not even holding the handlebars properly.”

“I’m multi-talented,” he says, steering with one hand, humming under his breath.

The path dips and curves. Wind brushes your face. And for the next five minutes, you feel like you’ve been dropped into the part of a summer film right before the music swells.

…

The wildflower field is even beautiful and bright.

He rolls the bike into the grass like it’s muscle memory, drops the bag beside it, and pulls out a folded blanket with the confidence of someone who’s done this before.

“I’m genuinely impressed you remembered a blanket,” you say, eyeing the setup.

He shrugs, casually smug. “Some of us come prepared.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a planning-ahead kind of guy.”

“Among other hidden talents,” he says, casually flicking a grape your way. “Thought you might’ve Googled me by now.”

You catch the grape, just barely. “Wild to think I find you that interesting.”

He grins. “What if I’m a fugitive criminal and that’s why I’m out here, hiding.”

You hum. “I’ll think I prefer to remain in the dark about that.”

His eyes catch yours, teasing but quieter now. “You’re not even a little bit tempted to look me up right now?”

“Even less than before. For all I care you are the crown prince of Denmark, you are still an annoying little shit.”

He grins amused and grabs another grape.

You kick off your shoes and sit beside him, brushing your hair behind your ears.

“You ever bring anyone else here?” you ask, eyeing the setup—peaches in syrup, cheese, a suspiciously artisanal jar of jam.

He hands you a napkin. “No one. Only few get to experience my special seduction peaches.”

You almost spit your tea. “You did not just say that.”

“Oh, I absolutely did. You compared me to that Timothée movie the other day—so really, this is on you.”

Before you can respond, Lando plucks a flower from the grass and tucks it behind his ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then he looks at you, smug and unbothered.

“What do you think? Suits the vibe, right?”

You give him a slow once-over. “You’re pushing it.”

“Sure,” he says, adjusting it with mock precision. “I think it makes my eyes pop quite nicely though, don’t you?”

You snort. “You always fish this hard for compliments?”

He shrugs, casual as ever. “Only from you.”

You roll your eyes at him but fail to hide your smile.  

Lando unpacks slowly, casually—like this is all just something that happened to him, not something he planned. You let him talk about how he once tried to make focaccia and accidentally started a small kitchen fire. He lets you tell the story of the time you asked a Parisian barista for a boyfriend instead of a straw.

“Did he offer his number?”

“No. He laughed and said ‘bonne chance.’”

He tips his head back and laughs, a full sound that seems to ripple out into the field.

You lie back beside him, full of cheese and sunlight. The grass is soft, the breeze lazy, and for the first time in ages, you feel completely still.

Your fingers rest close but don’t touch. His eyes are closed, lashes long, expression relaxed. There’s a smudge of jam near the corner of his mouth. The bracelet on his wrist has slid halfway down his forearm.

You look at him—not because he’s objectively handsome, though he is—but because being around him doesn’t feel like something you have to manage. He doesn’t need anything from you. He just shows up. With jokes. With peaches. With warmth.

You’re not used to that. But you’re starting to think maybe you could be.

You turn your face toward the sky.

And for a second, you let the quiet hold you both.

…

You don’t sleep that night.

Not for lack of trying. You go through all the motions—face washed, teeth brushed, window cracked open just enough to let the breeze curl across the floor. You even do the thing where you flip the pillow to the cooler side, hoping your body will take the hint.

It doesn’t.

Your legs still feel sun-drunk and grass-damp. Your hands remember the weight of the baguette you both pretended not to take seriously. Your chest, somehow, still echoes with the sound of his laugh—low and delighted and very much not meant for anyone else.

And your mind won’t stop showing you that moment again.

Lando. The field. His shoulder just barely brushing yours. That ridiculous flower tucked behind his ear. The way he looked when he wasn’t talking—just… there. Loose-limbed and open. Hair a mess. Bracelet slipping halfway down his arm. Eyes closed like the sun belonged to him.

You shift under the covers. Still no good.

Eventually, you slip out of bed.

Barefoot and quiet, you cross the tiles to the kitchen. The lamp above the stove gives off a soft yellow glow. The house creaks once as if noticing you’re up.

Your sketchbook is right where you left it—on the nightstand, corner bent slightly from use. You carry it with you like muscle memory and sit at the little table with your legs tucked under, pencil already balanced between your fingers.

You don’t plan what you’re going to draw.

You just start.

It begins with his posture. Easy. Familiar now. Then the curve of his neck where the sun had kissed it pink. The line of his mouth—not posed, just relaxed. And that flower. Silly and lovely. You add it carefully, even though it makes you laugh under your breath again.

You sketch the hills in the background, the fold of the blanket, the half-bitten baguette lying next to him like a punchline.

Your hand moves without asking your permission. Your pencil seems to know the parts of him that mattered. The crinkle near his eye when he made you laugh. The line of his jaw when he leaned back and said something that made your chest buzz in that quiet, dangerous way.

You sit back when it’s done, but you don’t close the book.

You just look at him.

Something in your chest lets go a little.

And then—without really meaning to—you start flipping through the older pages.

Tree trunks. Hills. Sunlight. Quiet things. But now you’re noticing shapes that weren’t the focus at the time. A shadow leaning against a bench. The outline of a bike resting just off-frame. Coffee mugs.

You frown a little. Then smile, too.

Because he’s been showing up longer than you thought.

And now he’s here, on the page in front of you, taking up space like he always belonged there.

…

You didn’t sleep—not really.

One of those nights where you lay still for hours, heart too loud, sheets too warm, brain spinning in loops you couldn’t name. You kept thinking of the field, of the flowers brushing your ankles, of the way his laugh curled around your spine. And of his knees—close, brushing yours like it didn’t mean anything. Like it meant everything.

When morning finds you, it does so unkindly.

The light is too sharp. Your limbs are stiff with something leftover from the night before—restlessness, maybe, or the quiet ache of wanting.

You sit up slowly. The room smells like warm wood and the tea you didn’t finish yesterday.

You skip the kettle.

Too gentle. Too slow. You need caffeine. 

You pull on whatever’s nearby—a linen shirt, a pair of sandals—and grab your bag from the hook. Your sketchbook is tucked inside, the top corner of the latest page still slightly curled from where your hand lingered too long the night before. It’s warm from the sunlit table. Warm from you.

It’s quiet in the village. That early, golden hush that only comes once the birds have tired themselves out and the people haven’t started yet. Everything smells like stone and heat and thyme. You walk without much thought. First slow, then a little faster. Like maybe if you keep moving, your thoughts won’t catch up.

The café is open. It always is.

You go straight to the counter and order an espresso without looking up. Your voice is quieter than usual. Automatic. The barista nods. The machine hisses.

You shift your bag on your shoulder. Fumble in the front pocket for coins.

The sketchbook slips.

You don’t hear it.

You’re too busy remembering the shape of his grin.

You pay. Say merci. Take your espresso and go.

Behind you, the sketchbook lies open on the counter, a breeze flipping the top page like it wants someone—anyone—to look.

…

You take the long way home. Not on purpose. Not really.

Your legs just keep going—past the chapel with the wonky bell, past the grocer unloading crates of apricots that smell like sun, past the bakery with its windows fogged from the morning batch.

You sip slowly. The espresso is sharp and bitter and unkind but also everything you needed.

When you pass the bench, it’s empty. You don’t stop. You don’t even glance toward the road that loops up the hill.

But halfway home, you freeze.

That ache in your chest returns—low, pulling. Something’s off.

You reach for your bag. Dig past your wallet, the folded napkin from yesterday’s market, a spare pencil.

No sketchbook.

You stop walking.

Check again.

Slower this time. More methodical. Like maybe it’ll appear if you’re careful enough.

It doesn’t.

Your stomach drops.

You whisper to yourself, trying to backtrack. “I had it. I know I had it. I remember taking it.”

And then it hits you.

The café.

You’re already running.

…

The bell above the café door jangled sharply as you burst in. The barista looked up, startled.

“Excusez-moi,” you said, slightly out of breath.  “Vous auriez trouvé un carnet, par hasard ? Je l’ai peut-être oublié ce matin.” (Excuse me, did you happen to find a notebook? I might’ve left it here this morning.)

She blinked, then frowned slightly. “Un carnet… genre un cahier ?” (A notebook… like a journal?)

You nodded. “Oui, un carnet à dessin. Noir. Je l’ai sûrement laissé sur le comptoir.” (Yes, a sketchbook. Black. I probably left it on the counter.)

She glanced around, lifted the napkin holder, checked behind the coffee machine. “J’ai rien vu, désolée. Mais y’a eu pas mal de monde après vous.” (Didn’t see anything, sorry. But there were quite a few people after you.)

Your stomach dipped.

“D’accord… merci quand même,” you murmured. (Alright… thanks anyway.)

“Pas de souci,” she said gently, already returning to the machine. (No worries.)

Your eyes scan the tables. The chairs. Every quiet shadow. But it’s gone.

Really, truly gone.

You step outside slowly. The sun is too high now, the village too awake. The world feels like it’s pressing in from all angles.

You sit on the stone step outside the café, espresso forgotten. The cup sweats in your palm.

You don’t drink it.

You just... sit.

Your breath is shallow. Not panicked, exactly. But cracked at the edges.

You think of the pages—your pages.

Not just trees or windows or bowls of fruit. But him.

The slope of his neck. The way the sun hit the side of his face when he laughed. The soft curve of his hand resting near yours.

The flower behind his ear. That ridiculous moment he wore it like a crown and said something about giving you something to look at.

And now someone else might be looking.

You walk home in silence.

You check the house. The table. The windowsill. Your bed. You check the chair you always leave it on, like maybe—maybe—you forgot and imagined everything else.

But you didn’t.

It’s not there.

…

After the café, you try to reset.

You tell yourself it’s just a notebook. Just paper. Just lines and impressions. You’ve lost things before. It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s not everything.

You throw on your sandals, tug your bag over your shoulder, and head for the market—not because you need anything, but because standing still might make your chest cave in. You need noise. Fruit stalls. Shouting. Old men debating over melons. Something that reminds you how to be in your body.

The sun is already high, painting your shoulders gold. The rhythm of the stalls is comforting in its own strange way—baskets rustling, paper bags crinkling, the clink of coins and easy bonjours. You watch someone tear a baguette with their teeth. You buy a peach.

It’s soft in your palm, a little too ripe. You brush your thumb over the fuzz, trying to ground yourself in something small.

That’s when you hear it.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here this early," someone says behind you, casual like he’s been here all along.

You turn.

Lando’s leaning on his bike one-handed, an apple in the other, already half-eaten. He’s in a worn navy tee, curls pushed up by his sunglasses, grinning like he’s not even trying.

You blink at him. "I could say the same. You don’t strike me as a morning person."

He shrugs, taking another bite. "Very true. Thought I’d do something different today. Blend in. Be a local."

You eye his trainers and canvas bag. "Yeah. Totally inconspicuous."

“The very British sunburn really sells it,” he says, pointing to his red cheeks.

You snort. Keep walking. He pushes the bike beside you like it’s second nature now.

"You doing the full lap?" he asks.

"Haven’t decided. Just needed to move."

"Same. Mostly I’m out here hoping something vaguely interesting happens."

"And?"

He holds up the apple. "Might’ve peaked already."

You shoot him a look, but you’re smiling. He bumps your shoulder, just barely.

The breeze catches the hem of your dress. A tomato vendor yells something in French about someone’s parking spot. Lando steals a grape off a display like he owns the place.

You’re halfway past the cheese stand when he glances at you. “So you’re not sketching today.”

Your whole body goes still.

“Lost it,” you say, like it’s no big deal. “My sketchbook. Think I left it at the café. Was gone when I went back.”

Lando stops walking.

Then, slowly, he pulls the tote around from his shoulder and fishes something out.

“It looked something like this, right?”

Your eyes land on it—your sketchbook, worn at the edges, a smudge of charcoal on the corner.

You freeze. “No way.”

He flips it once in his hands. “Way.”

You reach for it, but he takes a step back, grin deepening. “Oi, snatching? Not even a thank you first?”

“I was getting there,” you say, eyes narrowing.

“Sure you were,” he says, flipping the cover open. “Let’s see all those trees you’ve been staring at in the past week.”

“Don’t—”

“Oh, I’m already in.” His grin stretches wider as he glances down. But then it falters—just slightly. Like the air shifts.

And then he looks up at you.

The teasing’s gone now, folded away somewhere beneath the warmth in his voice. He closes the sketchbook gently, hands holding it like it might bruise if he let it fall. “I just wanted to see if you drew the wildflowers already.”

You don’t say anything. Not because you don’t want to—but because something about the way he’s looking at you makes the words wait.

Soft confusion. A hint of something quieter underneath. A flicker of disbelief, maybe.

“I can’t believe you actually drew me,” he says, like it’s only just hitting him.

You want to joke. Deflect. Say something casual and light. But your throat feels too full. Your fingers fidget near the edge of your skirt.

He reopens it and looks down at the page again, as if he was expecting it to have disappeared.

“Not just a little sketch either,” he adds, thumb brushing the edge of the paper. “You didn’t just... doodle me. You saw me.”

You finally meet his eyes.

“You’re kind of hard to miss.” You half joke, trying to lighten the thick and heavy air that had dawned between the two of you. 

He breathes out—half-laugh, half-question. “I didn’t know I looked like that.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Like what?”

He squints down at the drawing again, shifting the sketchbook in his hands.

There’s colour on his cheeks now. His voice is softer. “You got everything. My awful posture. The weird way I hold my hands. Even the mole I always forget is there.”

He smiles faintly. “It’s kind of weird, how much that gets to me.”

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. Because it’s written in the line of your shoulders, in the way your breath catches and holds still.

He straightens a little, pressing a palm flat over the closed cover like he’s anchoring it.

“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat like he needs a reset, “That’s enough vulnerability for one market morning.”

You raise a brow.

He nods solemnly. “Look at me, being cool and composed and absolutely not affected.”

You laugh, finally.

He grins like he’s been waiting to see that. Then he shifts his bike with one hand, the sketchbook still tucked in his other arm like it’s something he's meant to carry.

You walk slowly now, shoes scuffing along the uneven stones. Your shoulder bumps his once. Then again. Neither of you pulls away.

You look up just as he glances over, lashes low, smile lazy, that tiny smug tilt creeping back in.

But now you know what’s underneath it.

And maybe he’s glad you do.

…

The walk to his cottage that evening is quiet.

You take the long route through the trees, basket swinging at your hip. The sky is blushing, the whole village exhaling after the heat of the day. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes, louder in the hush that settles around you. The afternoon still lingers on your skin. So does the sketchbook.

His door is ajar when you reach it.

You knock once.

“Come in,” he calls, a clatter following—a pot lid, probably, hitting the floor.

You step inside.

His cottage is smaller than yours, but warm in a wonky, lived-in way. One wall leans slightly. The light is golden, catching on the edges of hanging mugs and cluttered spice jars. There’s a low hum of wordless music playing from a vintage speaker in the corner. Something soft and jazzy. Something that matches the air.

Lando appears barefoot, damp curls still tousled from a shower, grey sweatpants slung too casually low, a t-shirt faded at the seams. There’s a smear of flour near his wrist. The towel on his shoulder has a questionable stain on one corner.

“You’re exactly on time,” he says, tossing the towel at the counter. “I was just ruining dinner.”

You lift an eyebrow. “I can see that.”

He waves a wooden spoon. “Rude. I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn to salvage things.”

You join him by the stove. There are garlic skins everywhere and one tomato that looks like it’s been crushed in a fit of rage.

“Wow,” you say. “It looks like a proper crime scene in here.”

He grins, handing you the spoon. “It’s artisanal. You wouldn’t get it.”

You fall into step beside him—chopping, stirring, nudging each other out of the way. It’s chaotic in a way that feels easy.

“Is that jam? In the pasta sauce?”

He stirs, unfazed. “Might be. Might not. Who’s to say?”

You sigh. “You’re ridiculous.”

He winks. “Ridiculously sexy, though.” 

“You would be in jail in Italy for this.”

He nudges you with his elbow. “No way. It will be super good."

You raise an eyebrow trying to contain your laughter.

"If I mess this up, you’ll have to come over again. For redemption dinner.”

You laugh under your breath. “So this is a trap?”

“Obviously,” he says, smiling like it’s already worked. 

You shake your head, fighting the grin. “I’m just here to file the incident report.”

He laughs—easy, boyish. “Sure. That’s why you’re here.”

You nudge him with your hip, but you’re smiling now, and so is he.

There’s a beat where everything feels suspended—like the world’s trying to decide whether to lean in or let go.

Dinner, somehow, becomes edible. Better than edible, actually. The kitchen smells like garlic and warmth. Or maybe just him.

You eat perched on the stools at his narrow counter, knees bumping, plates resting on mismatched placemats. The music hums low. The wine he poured earlier—without asking—sits mostly untouched between you.

You scrape the bottom of your bowl, trying not to admit how good it all is.

The conversation drifts. Then slows. The air thickens, not in a heavy way—just... heavier than before.

You run your finger along the rim of your plate.

“I like this,” you say, quieter now.

“The failed pasta?”

You shake your head. “This. The whole thing. With you.”

He leans his elbow on the counter, watching you. There’s something less cheeky in his eyes now. But not serious, not exactly. Just a different kind of focused.

“I don’t even know when everything started feeling like a performance,” you murmur. “I don’t know. It’s nice to be here and not worry if I’m being too much or not enough.”

He sets his fork down. Fingers loose, gentle. 

“I get that,” he says. “Sometimes I walk into a room and feel like half of me’s already there. The one people expect. Loud, easy, fast. And then someone says something like ‘I feel like I know you,’ and I want to ask them which version.” 

You glance at him, a smile tugging at your mouth before you finish. “It’s nice to really let go and not having to try so hard.”

His gaze doesn’t move. “You don’t have to try at all.”

You blink.

“And that’s not me being smooth,” he adds, lips curving. “Okay, mostly not me being smooth.”

You nudge his leg lightly with your knee. “Mostly?”

He shrugs, letting it sit.

“You are so wonderful. I could watch you like this for hours,” he says. “And still feel like I’m missing something.”

You finish eating slowly, forks scraping the last of the pasta as the music hums behind you, low and warm. Neither of you rushes to clear the plates—there’s something easy about sitting there, knees bumping, the last of the wine forgotten between you.

Eventually, you both get up, brushing shoulders as you move around the narrow kitchen. He rinses the dishes. You dry. There’s a rhythm to it, quiet and unspoken.

And then—he reaches for a bowl at the same time you do.

Your hands brush. Not by accident.

You look up.

He’s close now. Closer than before. The counter feels smaller suddenly. The music softer. The room warmer.

He doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

His voice is low, playful, but there's something underneath it. “That thing you do with your rings... is that a tell?”

Your brow lifts slightly. “Do what?”

“You’re fidgeting, darling,” he says. “And have been for the past couple of minutes.”

Your mouth curves despite yourself. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.” His fingers skim lightly over yours, still damp from the sink. “You’re a terrible liar.”

And then—he stands straighter. Like a decision’s just been made.

He lifts a hand to your cheek, brushing a loose strand of hair back, his knuckles warm where they linger.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb moves gently, tilting your chin. “You make me a bit nervous too.” he murmurs, grinning just enough to be trouble.

“Tell me to stop.”

You breathe in. Just once.

Then, “Please don’t.”

And then he kisses you.

Soft. Slow. Like he’s not in a hurry, but also like he’s been thinking about this every night since the first time you smirked at him from that bench.

You sink into it.

His other hand finds your waist, grounding. Yours slide up his chest, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you need to hold on to something solid.

His lips part slightly. So do yours. He exhales into you, and the air around you shifts again—fizzing, slow-burning, like a spark finally catching.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, he doesn’t move.

Just rests his forehead lightly against yours.

“You good?” he asks, voice somewhere between careful and cocky.

You nod. “Still think you’re terrible at pasta.”

He grins. “Fine. But undeniable at kissing.”

“Cocky,” you say, smiling against his mouth.

“Only when I’m right.”

He kisses you again—deeper this time, more sure. One hand still at your waist, the other slipping behind your neck.

And you let yourself have it. The heat of him. The weight of it. The way his body presses into yours like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

Because maybe it is.

…

You wake in his arms.

Not in some cinematic, sun-drenched way—no birdsong, no breeze gently billowing the curtains. Just warmth. Slow and steady. The hush of his breath tucked against the back of your neck, the weight of his arm heavy across your waist, the sheets tangled somewhere near your knees. The room smells like sleep mixed with his cologne. 

You stretch slightly, and his grip tightens instinctively.

“You awake?” he mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Mm.”

You shift, slowly, until you’re facing him. His eyes open, half-lidded and soft, focus still finding its way. And then—there it is. That lazy little smile, the kind that feels more like a secret than a greeting.

“Morning,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“Hi.”

The quiet between you isn’t awkward. It’s padded. Safe.

“I think,” you say, eyelids still heavy, “your pasta disaster got redeemed.”

He lets out a sleepy huff. “Told you. Charm and chaos. Balanced recipe.”

You smile, tucking yourself closer. He shifts onto his back, pulling you with him until your head fits into the crook of his shoulder. His fingers trail lightly down your spine, just under the hem of the hoodie you’re still wearing—his hoodie, which he definitely hasn’t asked for back and is definitely not mad about seeing on you.

You stay like that a while. No talking. No rush. Just letting the morning hold you.

“I get why people never leave places like this,” he murmurs eventually.

You tilt your chin up, just slightly. “Because of the views?”

He pauses.

“Because of the mornings.”

And he doesn’t say more than that—but the quiet lingers with meaning, like maybe this is new for him too. Not just the waking up like this, but the wanting to.

Then—because of course—there’s a doorbell.

He groans into the pillow. “This place doesn’t even have a doorbell.”

You’re already pushing yourself upright, sleeves covering your hands. He swings his legs over the bed, the light catching the lines of his shoulders, his chest. It’s kind of rude, honestly.

You throw him a look. “You’re going down there like that? Just underwear?”

He shrugs, already walking. “If it’s the postman, he’s earned a little joy.”

You follow barefoot, hoodie sleeves tugged over your knuckles, hair messy, heart full of something that’s just starting to make sense.

He opens the door.

Oscar.

Holding his phone, keys dangling from his fingers, and an expression that sits somewhere between unimpressed and deeply unsurprised.

“There he is,” Oscar says flatly. “The missing child.”

Lando blinks. “Hi.”

“Hi. Zac says hi, too. You’ve gone full ghost mode for a week and a half now, and considering you’re allergic to not being online, we assumed you’d fallen down a ravine.”

Lando leans against the doorframe, completely calm. “Define fallen.”

Oscar opens his mouth—but then he spots you.

And you, still half-tucked behind Lando, offer the kind of smile that says: yes, this is awkward. No, you’re not sorry.

Oscar squints. His gaze drops to the hoodie. He exhales through his nose.

“Knew you had to be sticking around for a reason.”

Lando smirks, unapologetic. “Takes one to know one.”

Oscar sighs like he’s aged a decade in two minutes. “Anyway. Testing starts. Sim sessions are racking up. You missed three already, and if you keep slacking, I might actually beat you this year.”

Lando’s still looking at you when he says, “Any more room in the car?”

Oscar raises a brow. “For you?”

Lando doesn’t look away. “No. For us.”

There’s a pause. A flicker of something almost fond on Oscar’s face.

“God,” he mutters. “Fine.”

Lando turns to you, grin a little too confident now. “You into sketching race cars?”

You raise a brow. “That depends. Are they prettier than the trees?”

“They are,” he says, tugging you gently toward him. “Especially when I’m driving them.”

You let him. Smile blooming as your fingers curl around the fabric of his sleeve.

“Guess I’ll find out.”

[iidilio]

Day 15: Jealousy

— How does Sylus handle jealousy?

[ 🌸 ] idk why the idea of Sylus being jealous it’s funny

characters: Sylus

warnings: none, hdc—oneshot(?)

More? Here

…

..

.

Night had wrapped itself around the city streets, and yet, that darkness never reached the exclusive nightclub in Zone N109. Inside, among the scent of expensive liquor and the low murmur of conversations, Sylus watched.

His sharp gaze was fixed on you—the only woman who had stolen more than his breath a long time ago. You weren’t doing anything unusual: smiling, talking, laughing. And yet, the shadow on his face deepened with every little gesture, with every stranger’s gaze that lingered on you. Especially when the guy in front of you—a man with too much enthusiasm and far too little awareness of his own insignificance—leaned in just a bit closer than acceptable.

Luke and Kieran, by his side, exchanged a knowing look, feeling the tension in their leader like static in the air.

“Poor bastard,” Luke muttered, sipping his drink.

“Dead in three, two…” Kieran whispered, not even bothering to hide the amusement in his voice.

But Sylus didn’t move right away. Oh no. He wasn’t that impulsive. Instead, he raised his glass with the kind of calm only someone who has absolute control over every situation could muster… Until he saw that idiot touch your delicate, pristine arm in what passed as a polite gesture.

The soft clink of glass on the table was all it took for his men to sit up straight.

“Luke, Kieran.” Sylus spoke in a tone as cold and sharp as a well-kept blade.

“Yes, boss.” Luke and Kieran were already moving, no further instructions needed.

The poor fool barely had time to blink before a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, interrupting his attempt at flirting.

“Hey, buddy,” Luke said with a smile that held zero actual friendliness beneath the mask. “You don’t wanna be here right now.”

You raised an eyebrow, then turned your head just in time to see Sylus approaching with that usual predatory stride. He didn’t have to say a word. His presence alone was enough to stake a claim, to remind everyone who he was.

“Enjoying the conversation, kitten?” his voice was velvety, a sharp contrast to the way he stared down the man.

You tilted your head, amused. You knew exactly what was going on. With a barely-there smile, you reached up and subtly played with the edge of Sylus’s jacket—an almost casual gesture, but one intimate enough to make it crystal clear there was a difference between him and every other man in the room.

“Oh, we were just chatting… But I think the conversation’s over now, isn’t it?” you said, glancing at the guy who was now sweating bullets under Sylus’s gaze.

Without losing that calm expression, Sylus let his fingers brush your cheek with a tenderness that seemed almost out of place for someone like him.

“Good. I don’t want anyone wasting your time with nonsense.”

His tone was sweet. His words, however, were a death sentence to anyone who dared cross the line again.

You smiled, leaning into his touch. “Are you jealous, Sylus?”

The leader of Onychinus looked at you for a moment, then let a small, barely visible smirk curve his lips.

“You tell me, kitten. Am I?”

.

.

.

(He was. That lying bastard.)

—As you’ve probably noticed:

—He’s not the kind to make a scene. He doesn’t need to shout or get immediately aggressive. Instead, his presence becomes more dominant, his gaze colder, and his voice deadlier. People in Zone N109 have learned real fast not to test his patience.

—When you’re alone with him after something like that, he won’t outright say he was jealous. But his tone softens more than usual, he holds you a little tighter, brushes your cheek with his thumb and murmurs in that low, velvety voice:

“You know I don’t like sharing what’s mine, kitten.”

(look at him, so possessive—omg girl, ay—)

—He’s not the type to passionately kiss you in public just to prove a point. His way is more discreet: a hand on your waist, a deliberate brush against your neck, calling you kitten or sweetie in a slightly sweeter tone—right when the other guy is still within earshot. Little details that make his message crystal clear: you’re his, and no one else better dare think otherwise.

—If someone really crosses the line? Oh, poor fool. Sylus doesn’t even need to lift a finger. A simple order to Luke or Kieran is more than enough to ensure the guy “learns his lesson.” Sometimes, he doesn’t even have to say it—his men already know what to do the moment their boss gets that predator look.

—If you confront him and ask if he was jealous, his reaction is usually the same:

“Jealous? Me? Kitten…” Sylus smirks, steps in dangerously close, and gently corners you against the wall. “You really think anyone else could even come close to what we have?”

Spoiler: Yes. He was jealous. But Sylus will never fully admit it… at least not with words. Lmfao.

[professional-rat-eater]

I think my favourite part of IWTV is how often Rolin Jones and the cast bring up Anne in interviews.

Whatever your personal view is of her aside, it is incredibly rare for the people behind an adaptation to speak with such reverence for the source material and for them to actually follow through too. I think it’s easy to look at IWTV from the outside and think “oh, I’m not watching that. They changed (x,y,z.)” and yeah, they did, but did they change as much as you think?

Sure, some characters look different and are different ages and the timeline is a little different but, at least in my opinion, everything they’ve done feels like a natural extension or a logical next step for those characters and the story. If Daniel was allowed to age, that is how he would act. Claudia being a little older only highlights the justified anger she had regarding her age in the books. Louis’s blackness being woven into the story is far more poignant and sympathetic than him staying a mopey, whiny slave-owner (in fact the race changes of all the characters only adds to what their overall arcs were already about.) Armand’s youth was coveted as it was supposed to be but he also aged out of it, making his story somehow even sadder because he had to watch as time took away the only aspect of him he had been taught had value, and now his face is frozen forever as a reminder of that.

And they always bring it back to Anne. If an interviewer tries to ask about the creativity of their plots, they say it’s all Anne. They certainly deserve the praise but no matter what, they mention the source material. Rolin carried that beaten up copy of The Vampire Lestat in every interview he’s in just so he can show the interviewer where season 3 really is. It’s in his hands. It’s all Anne’s work. They’re just building on it.

And I feel like half the time I watch an adaptation, the creatives behind it don’t really get what it’s about. Maybe they keep the basic elements, but the soul of the piece is usually lost (looking at you, every Dracula adaptation ever made) but with IWTV, they’ve shown that the spirit of the piece actually might be the only thing that truly matters. You can change so very much and have it still be the same story with the same point to it.

And I think it hits a little different too because she’s a female writer and so often the work of women is downplayed and trivialised, yet here this group of deeply talented, creative people are, refusing to let you forget that this woman is, was and always will be a pillar of the horror genre, and that has to be the ultimate honour as a writer. To have people care so very much about what you made. To be understood so deeply.

[leighsartworks216]

You're My Favorite

Sylus x gn!Reader

Very self indulgent fic for me. Started replaying Pokemon Shield and the au thoughts have been haunting me. But instead of that what if cuddle with big man while play game??

Warnings: fluff, domestic fluff, cuddling, kissing, Pokemon references, literal sleeping together, rain, the author's obvious love for ghost type Pokemon

Word Count: 964

Main Masterlist

First - Second - Third LADS Masterlists

AO3

Tag List Form

Rain patters softly against the windows. It pours down the glass, painting the outside world in a waterfall haze. The glowing lights of the cityscape shimmer and shine in a vibrant bokeh. All the way up here in the penthouse, none of the noise of traffic and disputes reach.

The living room is dim, lit only by the light of the TV. The sound is turned down low. Upbeat music and exciting battle themes, barely loud enough to hear over the rain. Your character runs around on the screen. The controllers sit comfortably in your hands, and Sylus rests comfortably in your arms.

It’s a lazy night in. You wanted to return to a game you haven’t played in a while, a Pokemon game. Sylus decided to join you, if only to cuddle. Which is how you ended up laid back against one of the couch armrests, and how Sylus ended up sprawled across the length of the couch, his arms wrapped under your back and his head on your chest. When you get into a battle and can play one-handed, your other hand finds its way into his hair. Those are his favorite moments. Your quiet confidence or underlying anxiety about the fight on screen, all the while your fingers thread through his silky hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. You always win. He hasn’t seen you lose a single battle yet, even though you make a habit of saving before the important ones just in case.

For now though, you’re exploring one of the wide open areas. Little creatures hop around the grass. Some occasionally chase you around. One manages to catch up, starting up the battle theme. In one hit, the fight is done.

A blue screen comes up with one of your Pokemon in the center. A blue and black bird with red eyes that you’d had since the very start of the game, affectionately named Mephisto. He’d teased you initially, saying it looked nothing like his beloved surveillance pet. You get giddy beneath him, sitting up slightly and playing with his hair as Mephisto is bathed in white. In its place, a large black raven appears.

You tap against his back to get his attention. “See? Doesn’t it look like Mephie now?”

He grins softly. “It does. You were right, sweetie.”

“Mhm.” You linger on the screen for a minute, just looking at your newly evolved partner. “D’you think you’d have one of these for a Pokemon?”

“I already have one mechanical bird, and he’s much more reasonably sized.”

You snicker, finally clicking off the screen. You pick a move to be replaced with Steel Wing. Then your hand leaves his hair, and you continue running around the digital world.

“What Pokemon would you have?” he asks. He scoots himself up further, pressing his face into your neck, nuzzling against your collarbones. He’s such a cat. You almost expect him to make biscuits against your stomach.

You rest your head against his. You can feel your eyes starting to get heavy. Lids starting to droop. You stubbornly play on. Just a little longer. You don’t want to get up yet, not when Sylus’s weight presses down on you so perfectly and his lips brush your neck like delicate flower petals. A yawn slips through, regardless. “I don’t know. I guess it depends.”

He hums. “On what?”

“Whether I’m a gym leader or a normal trainer or, like, a normal person.”

You can feel the curve of his smile on your skin. He loves when you’re passionate about your interests. When you put more thought into it than others would. “All of them. What’d be different?”

You wrap your arms tighter around him, mindlessly going into menus and healing your Pokemon team as you think. “Well, if I was a gym leader, I’d be a ghost one - easy. And I’d have a Mimikyu, and maybe a Chandelure. Hmm, an Aegislash. And my ace would be a Dragapult.”

“Mhm.”

“And if I was a trainer, I’d want a balanced team of my favs. I’d still have Dragapult, and a Vaporeon, and a Mephisto.” He huffs a laugh. “And three others… And I’d train them all and be friends with them all.”

You’ve lingered on your Bag’s menu screen for a while now. You hug him a little tighter, muffling a yawn as you rest your eyes for a moment.

“If I was just a normal person… I don’t know what I’d wanna do. For a job. ‘Cause there’d be no Wanderers for me to deal with… Maybe I’d have a cute little cottage. I think if I did, I wouldn’t wanna have a fight-y Pokemon. Just one that I can chill with…”

He kisses your pulse. Squeezes you around the waist. “What would it be?”

You hum sleepily. “If you were a Pokemon, what would you be, Sy-sy?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I’d want my Pokemon to be you…”

“What if I lived in that cottage with you, as myself?”

“Then we could have a Mephie…” you murmur. The soothing sound of the rain has caught up with you. Your breathing becomes rhythmic, long and slow and even. The controller slips from your fingers. He catches it from hitting the floor with his Evol, depositing it safely on the coffee table. Your hands, now free, gravitate back to his hair. You play limly with the hair at the nape of his neck, petting the shorter hair at the back of his head. “An’ a Dragapult…”

He chuckles, low and content. He nods slightly. “Okay. We’ll have a Dragapult. That must be your favorite, hm, kitten?”

You rub your cheek against his head. “You’re my favorite…”

“You’re my favorite, too.” He hugs you tighter. “Sweet dreams, my beloved.”

“Mnmm… G’nigh’, Sy-sy…”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @nezuswritingdesk @anaathxma @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @mentaltrouble2201 @mskaylacharite @nerrivm @ichosesparklingtorment @schnittled @animegamerfox @flamedancer13 @rebloggingislove @moonlight-inthe-sea @persepolys @satorubabee @sleepykittycx @moon-inthe-sea @perla-drg @leiakitty

[clownprincesshq]

Hey! I've been reading your works for a while and wanted to request something if that's alright.

Main! Mark Grayson X Rocket Raccoon! Inspired Reader! Super smart, a little unhinged, some jokes or comments go over her head, and then sensitive - which is more so just because I am a very sensitive person and feel emotions really sttingly tbh.

I love what and how you write and how you've studied Mark's character, I've been thinking about writing something for him, any tips? <3

mark grayson x rocket raccoon!inspired reader headcanons + tips on writing mark (sfw + nsfw)

from the very first meeting, mark knows you’re different.

you’re mouthy. smart. wired a little too tight.

you patch a hole in his suit while insulting his fighting, and then when he thanks you, you just blink at him like he spoke another language.

"what? it’s basic engineering. you’re welcome, dumbass."

you don't always catch sarcasm. or jokes.

mark will make some dumb comment like, "guess i'm indestructible now, huh?"

and you’ll nod seriously and launch into a three-minute explanation about stress points in viltrumite anatomy.

he LOVES it. he teases you about it constantly but he loves the way your brain works.

you’re cocky in fights but weirdly shy about personal compliments.

he says you’re amazing and you short-circuit.

literally just fumble whatever’s in your hands and mumble

something like, "shut up before i bite you." (he grins. he grins so big.)

you mask your sensitivity with confidence.

call yourself "the baddest bitch on this planet"

but if mark slightly raises his voice at you, your ears flatten metaphorically and you feel bad for hours.

he catches on real quick.

when you're overwhelmed, he doesn’t push.

he gets quieter. brings you food. taps your shoulder lightly before touching you.

“hey. it’s okay. you’re okay.”

you invent things for him without him asking.

upgraded earpiece? check.

modified suit? check.

a taser glove just because you think it'd be funny, even though he doesn't need it? double check.

your love language is acts of service and aggressive protection.

if someone so much as looks at mark wrong, you’re already stepping in front of him like a furious tank.

"he asked for no pickles"

(he’s a viltrumite. he can punch planets. but still. he lets you.)

the first time he sees you cry, it wrecks him.

you try to hide it, making some stupid joke about "malfunctioning tear ducts."

he just pulls you into his arms, no questions, no teasing.

and you cling. hard. like you’re scared he’ll disappear.

(he won’t.)

he loves how chaotic you are.

the way you swear under your breath while fixing his gear.

the way you throw random science facts into conversations like grenades.

the way you forget basic social cues but remember every single thing he’s ever said about what he likes or wants.

you pretend you’re too cool for cuddling.

(you are not.)

he calls you out on it every time.

"you can come closer, you know. i don't bite."

"no, but i do."

(five minutes later you're in his lap, snoring into his hoodie.)

he thinks you're the best thing that ever happened to him.

you're smart and brave and weird and you care so much harder than you ever let people see.

and he sees it. all of it.

and he stays.

always.

TIPS FOR WRITING MARK!

SFW (his personality/emotional side)

• he's emotional but not weak willed mark feels everything super heavy, love, anger, guilt, all of it. but he doesn’t just curl up and cry about it. he gets hurt, yeah, but he keeps fighting. he’s built to take the hit and keep moving because he has to.

• acts on feelings without overthinking he doesn't sit around planning what to say. if he’s happy, he smiles and grabs you. if he’s scared, he says it. if he loves you, it comes out before he even realizes it. he’s messy and raw in a way that's actually honest.

• stubborn as hell mark will dig his heels in and argue with god himself if he thinks he’s right. even if it’s dumb. even if he’s dead wrong. you have to drag him by the collar sometimes to get him to listen.

• loyalty that hurts him he sticks with people even when they don’t deserve it. it’s not because he’s naive it’s because once he loves you, you’re in his heart and it’s damn near impossible for him to shut that off, even when it’s killing him.

• confident, but still figuring shit out he knows he’s strong. he knows he’s capable. but he’s still learning who he is, where his limits are, what he really wants. he fucks up and second guesses sometimes, but he doesn't quit.

• real as hell mark’s not trying to act cool, or hot, or mysterious. he’s just him. sweaty, loud, stubborn, tender. he doesn’t play at being something he’s not and that’s why people fall for him.

NSFW (the way he is in bed)

• not shy, not cocky just needy mark isn’t giggling or stammering if you touch him. he’s already reaching for you. he wants it and he’s not scared of showing it. half the time he’s hard just because you looked at him a certain way.

• messy, greedy, not ALWAYS gentle unless you need it he fucks like he’s starving. not sloppy like he doesn't know what he's doing hungry like he needs to feel you everywhere. he’s rough without meaning to be rough. he just wants you too much to pace himself.

• gives a shit about your pleasure mark’s not the "one and done" type. your moans get him off. if you’re not falling apart under him, he’s not done yet. fingers, mouth, hips whatever it takes. he's not just trying to get himself off, he wants both of you wrecked.

• physical as hell he’s grabbing your thighs, kissing you so hard your lips bruise, pressing you down into the bed like he can’t get close enough. half the time he doesn’t even realize how rough he’s being until you’re literally clawing at his back.

• emotional even when he’s fucking your brains out he doesn’t lose the tenderness. even when he’s fucking you hard enough to shake the bed, he’s holding your hand, burying his face in your neck, groaning your name and saying he loves you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.

how fandom sometimes mischaracterizes mark vs how he actually is:

fandom: turns him into a shy, blushing virgin who can't handle basic flirting reality: mark is horny, direct, and wants physical closeness he doesn’t freeze up, he leans in fast. he's human.

he's awkward socially sometimes, yeah but when he’s with someone he wants? he’s bold. he touches, kisses, asks, takes. he’s not as scared of sex or intimacy as everyone thinks he is.

fandom: makes him cold and emotionally shut off to seem "cool" or for a plot point reality: mark is warm, intense, and sometimes too open with his feelings.

he says "i love you" too soon. he fights for people even when he shouldn't. he throws his heart into everything and deals with the fallout later. he’s not aloof he’s raw.

fandom: flattens him into perfect boyfriend energy with no real flaws reality: mark is sweet, stubborn, impulsive, emotional and a goddamn mess sometimes.

he loves like breathing, he fights like bleeding, he fucks like breaking apart. he’s not perfect. he’s real. that's what makes him hit harder than some made up ideal version.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 everything about mark, the way he loves, the way he fights, the way he fucks, comes from the same place he feels too much and he can’t hide it. he’s not built to be quiet, careful, or perfect. he’s built to burn hot, crash hard, and pick himself back up bloody and stupid + try to do better next time because that’s who he is. if you’re writing him, let him be loud, raw, and real.

[softlypossessive]

Hello! I hope you’ve been having a great day. I was wondering if I could request a strawhat x mute!reader. The reader has selective mutism, meaning she gets anxiety speaking to people in certain situations. When she does speak, which would be rare, it’s only when it’s just her and her crew. If she was in public she and had to say something she would whisper directly in their ear, otherwise she wouldn’t speak. The relationship could be either platonic or romantic, either is fine. I was wondering how would the strawhats react to their mute member being in a situation where pirates of a different crew surrounds and antagonizes her, trying to get her to speak to them. Also, may I ask that you not make the reader meek and defenseless? While she does feel anxiety when she’s in a situation where she has to speak to people, she’s not an overall anxious and docile person.

♡･ﾟ𓏸 All Strawhats x Selectively Mute!Reader Headcanons 𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Usopp, Nami, Robin, Franky, Jinbe, Brook, Chopper, gn!reader ♡ Warnings: Fluff, Soft protectiveness, mutual understanding, SFW, platonic, romantic if you squint?? mentions of selective mutism, quiet affirmations, crew-wide affection, no use of Y/N, ♡ Notes: Thank you so much for the request! I really hope I did it justice <3 I went with a full crew interpretation (since it’s SFW) and leaned into that strong, warm platonic love—though if you squint, a few bits might read a lil more intimate. But overall? This crew would go to war for you, no questions asked. Not spicy, just full of love and loyalty.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

🍖 Luffy

At first, Luffy doesn’t get it.

“Why don’t you talk to them? Are they stupid?” (Yes, Luffy. Yes, they are.)

But the moment it clicks—that your silence isn’t a weakness but a boundary—he respects it with his whole chest

He never pressures you to speak. Like, ever. He doesn’t even notice you don’t talk half the time because he just vibes with your presence

You're still his crewmate, still part of the adventure, still cool as hell in his book

When you do whisper to him? Man lights up like a SUNRISE

“WAAAH YOU TALKED TO ME!!!”

Cue excitement. He treasures those moments

He absolutely throws hands if anyone tries to mock or push you into speaking.

No hesitation.

One second of antagonizing you = rubber punch to the jaw

Thinks your ability to stand silent and still in chaos is scary cool

"You don't need words to be strong. I can feel it. You're STRONG."

⚔️ Zoro

Completely unbothered by your silence—he’s not exactly chatty either

You two could sit in silence for three hours and that’s a perfect conversation to him

He clocks your selective mutism immediately and never asks questions you don’t want to answer

If you whisper something in his ear in public, he listens like it’s sacred scripture

He’s incredibly protective—not because he thinks you’re weak, but because he hates people who mistake quiet for easy prey

The moment someone tries to force words out of you? Zoro’s sword is already out

“You really think pressure makes people talk? Try bleeding first. Then we’ll compare notes.”

He absolutely respects that your silence is a form of control, not submission

Will stand at your shoulder like a silent wall of steel until you nod it’s okay to move

🍳 Sanji

Sanji is a soft king when it comes to your comfort

Doesn’t just “accept” your mutism—he adapts to it

Develops a whole love language around your silences: gestures, hand squeezes, looks, shared glances over food

If you whisper in his ear in public? He goes red every time no matter what you said

Treats your rare spoken words like poetry.

"Your voice... I could die happy now."

But if anyone dares try to “make you speak,” he’s fury on legs

“If you wanted a conversation, you should’ve kept your tongue attached.”

Elegant fury. Fires the first kick. Lights a cigarette after the last one drops

Thinks your silence adds to your mystique and honestly simps hard for it

“They don’t need to talk, idiot. They’re already unforgettable.”

🛠️ Usopp

Understands your selective mutism right away—relates through his own anxiety

Never makes it a big deal, just accepts it as part of who you are

Acts as your unofficial hype man 24/7

Narrates your silence like it’s legendary

“My friend here? Silent assassin. Writes poetry. Could kill you in three moves. Show some respect.”

Gets so excited whenever you whisper to him

“THEY SAID SOMETHING TO ME. PERSONALLY. ME.”

Makes little gadgets to help you communicate—flip signs, buttons, visual cues

If anyone mocks or pressures you to speak, he steps up immediately

Starts going off in a fiery, ridiculous, clearly-exaggerated monologue about how you’re a silent warrior who once stared down a sea king until it cried.

“You’re really gonna push someone who could take you out with one look?”

Absolutely nervous but still defends you—protective even when shaking

Later brags about it like he was chill the whole time

Thinks your silence is mysterious, heroic, and honestly? Very cool

🍊 Nami

Notices your mutism instantly and adjusts without missing a beat

Communicates with subtle cues: touch, eye contact, quiet words

Always leans in when you whisper, gives you her full attention

Becomes your translator in crowds, sharp and effective

“They said back off. Before I make you.”

If someone tries to force you to talk, she doesn’t hold back

Fights with sass, smarts, and no mercy—protects you because you’re strong, not in spite of it

Never treats you like a problem to fix

Calls your mutism a boundary, not a flaw

Gets genuinely touched when you whisper something soft to her

“Only the right people get to hear that voice.”

Thinks you’re powerful in your silence—deadly, beautiful, and fierce

📚 Robin

Understands without needing it explained—she’s lived through silence herself

Views your selective mutism as deliberate, powerful, elegant

You’re not “mute” to her—you’re discerning. And that makes you brilliant in her book.

She’s very observant.

Not only does she notice the exact kinds of situations that make you shut down, she preemptively handles them.

Like casually standing next to you in crowds. Leaning in so you can whisper without stress. Ordering your drink without being asked.

You two become silent duo queens, communicating entire conversations with eye contact and head tilts

But when you’re surrounded, alone, and pirates are sneering in your face?

One of them laughs, “They mute or just stupid?”

Six arms bloom from the stone walls and grab all of them by the throat.

Robin walks up, smiling politely.

“It seems you’re the stupid ones.”

She looks to you and tilts her head.

“Would you like me to break their arms or their egos?”

You murmur a single word

“Egos.”

She smiles wider.

Later, you slip her a note with a tiny sketch of her stepping on the pirate’s face. She folds it into her book like a pressed flower.

🔧 Franky

Thought you were just “cool and mysterious” at first—didn’t realize your silence was tied to selective mutism

When he does figure it out? Immediate SUPER™ respect

Doesn’t try to make you talk—just makes sure you always feel welcome in the workshop

Builds you custom tools or a gadget to help if you want to communicate in crowded places—only if you’re into it

“You don’t gotta say a thing, dude. You just being here is already awesome!”

Treats your rare spoken words like a backstage VIP pass

Will absolutely body block anyone who corners you or tries to force you to speak

If someone mocks you? Cue cyborg intimidation mode

“Real strength ain’t about talkin’. It’s about doin’. And you? You’ve got that in spades.”

Loves hearing you whisper in his ear in public.

Instantly salutes.

“COMMAND RECEIVED!!”

Thinks your silence adds mystery and badassery—he’s kind of obsessed tbh

“You’re like… like a silent laser beam! Precise! Lethal! SUPER!!”

🌊 Jinbe

Understands immediately—doesn’t need an explanation

Has deep emotional intelligence and respects boundaries like a king

Offers quiet companionship when you need it, never pressuring conversation

Has an entire repertoire of gentle nods and thoughtful glances for when words aren’t needed

If you whisper to him, he leans in with the patience of a mountain

“You do not need to speak to be heard.”

Would stand calmly beside you if you're being antagonized—silent, unmoving, radiating “Try me.” energy

If someone pushes you to talk? He won’t raise his voice—but he will command the entire room’s attention

“If your ears are so desperate for sound, perhaps you should listen to your own foolishness.”

He believes your silence holds weight—calls it “the stillness before a wave”

Deeply respects how you fight without words—calls it “an elegant form of strength”

Makes sure the crew understands your boundaries without ever making a fuss of it

Absolute guardian energy, with the soul of a poet

🎻 Brook

Surprisingly intuitive about your silence despite being loud himself

Doesn’t ask invasive questions—just rolls with it, happily filling silences with songs or stories

Makes gentle jokes to ease tension but always watches your cues

“Ah, you didn’t laugh out loud, but I saw that smile! Yohohoho!”

If you whisper something in public? Dramatic swoon every time

“A private word?! For me?! Oh my heart—wait, I don’t have one!! Yohoho!”

He absolutely writes songs about you—like full orchestral ballads of silent bravery

Believes your silence is poetic and meaningful

“Some voices are loudest without sound.”

If someone antagonizes you? Brook’s polite tone goes cold

“Your disrespect will not go unnoticed, even by one without eyes.”

cue chill-inducing violin chord

Protects you through unexpected intimidation—he’s goofy until he isn’t

Thinks your energy is ghostly and powerful in a way he deeply respects

Refers to you as “the whisper between storms” in one of his songs

🧸 Chopper

Soooo gentle and sweet with you from day one

Was nervous at first like

“Did I do something wrong? Why don’t they talk to me?”

But once he understands, he’s all in: brings you tea, sits nearby while you write, never pressures you

“You don’t have to talk. I still know you like me, right?”

Will make you little cue cards or cute picture communication tools if you want help in public

If you whisper to him, he melts.

“AHHH THEY TALKED TO ME! I MEAN—I’M COOL. I’M NORMAL.”

If someone bullies you or gets pushy?

Normally sweet Chopper goes feral mode

“BACK OFF! YOU DON’T GET TO DECIDE HOW THEY TALK!”

Will patch you up after fights and praise how you held your own, even without words

“You’re one of the strongest people I know… You don’t even need a voice to be amazing!”

Lowkey keeps a medical log of when you speak or interact more—only to make sure you’re doing okay mentally

Feels extra close to you because you both were misunderstood at first

♡｡ﾟ☁︎｡♡ﾟ

You were only gone five minutes.

Five minutes to run down the street and grab new ink, maybe peek into the bookstore. Five minutes away from the crew.

Apparently, that was enough.

They came out of nowhere—half a dozen rough-looking pirates, loud and posturing. One of them stepped in front of you as you turned to leave.

"Oi, sweetheart. Why so quiet?"

You didn’t respond.

"Too good to talk to us?" "Or maybe you think you're better?" "C’mon, just say hi." "We don’t bite… much.”

They leaned in. Circling. Testing.

You stared them down, face flat, spine straight, hand hovering near your weapon—but still, you said nothing. You didn’t owe them a damn word.

And that’s when the sound of boots hit the street behind you.

Not loud. Not rushed. But deliberate.

Zoro was the first. Leaning against the alley wall like he’d been there the whole time. He didn’t draw a sword. He didn’t need to.

Sanji stepped up next, cracking his knuckles with a smile that didn't touch his eyes. Smoke curled from the edge of his lips.

Nami lingered behind them, arms crossed, watching. Sharp gaze narrowed. Robin’s shadow moved just beside hers—subtle, but present. You could feel it.

And then there was Luffy.

No drama. No yelling. He just appeared beside you, hands in his pockets, staring straight at the loudest one.

They all paused, instincts kicking in. A shift in the air.

“…This your crew?” one of them asked, voice suddenly less cocky.

You leaned in close to Luffy’s ear, barely a breath.

"I didn’t need help."

He grinned. "I know."

Silence again. Until he tilted his head, smile gone now.

"I just didn’t like the way they talked to you."

That was it.

That was all it took.

The men backed off. Fast. No fight. Just the weight of the crew’s presence and Luffy’s quiet fury pressing down on them like a stormcloud. They knew better.

As they vanished down the street, Luffy turned to you, still smiling—loose and easy like nothing had happened.

You sighed and bumped your shoulder against his in thanks. He bumped back.

Zoro huffed a quiet breath, like he’d been hoping for action. Sanji smoothed his jacket, still glaring at the retreating pirates. Chopper poked your arm, worried, but you just gave him a nod.

The crew didn’t make a big deal of it.

No lectures. No questions.

Just a warm space carved out around you.

Safe. Quiet. Yours.

Because you didn’t need words for them to hear you.

And they didn’t need words to say “We’ve got your back.”

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

[lizardsfromspace]

Talking about Chris Columbus made me think about what was probably the most prophetic part of JK Rowling's bad wizard books at the time

If you go back to coverage from the time (which I did verifying the info in the Chris Columbus post, discovering this) you see that she wanted a capital-d Director for it. A visionary auteur worthy of her wizard book for children. She wanted Terry Gilliam; the studio said no. She wanted Guillermo del Toro; he said no. She wanted Steven Spielberg; he said yes, then dropped out due to "creative differences" (he wanted to do it as an animated film, and chose to make A.I. instead). Then with the third movie, they landed one: Y tu mamá también director Alfonso Cuarón. At last, she would get to see what it was like for a visionary creative to tackle her work, as she wanted all along

And when it came out, there was one problem. The reviews were really, really good...and all of them were praising Alfonso Cuarón. They were saying that he had added so much to the wizarding world of JK Rowling (TM). Some were even implying he handled the material better than she did, and a few were saying that outright, because it was true

Suddenly, the prospect of her work being handled by a Visionary Aueteur was less appealing. Cuarón couldn't give less of a shit, he went off to make Children of Men, so strange how basically everyone involved in the bad wizard movies used the money from it as a springboard to kickstart a successful career doing shit they actually care about it except its writer. So two movies later, we meet David Yates, whose filmography looks like this

He does have works other than this - all of it on TV. Miniseries/TV movies and TV episodes. Though his only TV work since Harry Potter was one TV pilot.

Someone who had spent years talking about her hopes that Spielberg or Gilliam or del Toro or M. Night Shyamalan would add their Visionary Touch to her books was now happy having some random TV director handle everything forever. A random TV director who hardly does anything except Harry Potter. Whose career depends on her and her series. Anyway I'm sure she just really liked his miniseries about human trafficking a lot

It reminds me of when the director & writer of the first 50 Shades movie did a lot of editing to remove the unnecessary guff that was only in the book bc it was in the original fanfic - like pointless side characters who were only around bc they were a Twilight character in the original - & make it work better as a film, and then E.L. James fired everyone and had her husband write the sequels so they wouldn't ruin her baby. JK Rowling really wanted the prestige of her movie being made by a Steven Spielberg but didn't realize that a director like that would alter the material for film even when adapting a good book. She just wanted a famous person to enthusiastically co-sign that her book was very good and perfect and required not one change before becoming a classic of cinema. Meanwhile Alice Walker, Michael Crichton, Philip K. Dick and H.G. Wells are all better writers than JK Rowling, and none of them were granted that level of deference

Anyway who could have foreseen that the writer who made sure her film series was made as bland as possible after having one director actually dare to change and adapt her work would one day get so mad at her movie's cast no longer speaking with her she tries to remake the whole series to "replace" them

[sourcherrybites]

Loops and looms

Character: Arranged! Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader

Submission by @mourakitana "Please, I want Bruce's reaction if he was forced to marry MC and in one of the missions he discovered that she was a superhero like him (please explain how he would find out and what his reaction would be) + please also add if she was jealous of Catwoman+tysm💕💕💕💕💕"

Disclaimers: No proofread, we die. Same universe as "Silly Billy scenario." I just wanted to post this so I could keep focusing on more submissions.

A/n: apologies for the delay and the... very sloppy ending. BTW reader is not white, don't let my Pinterest picks fool you, WE LOVE WOC IN THIS ACC

Word count: 2,003

Masterlist

Being married to Bruce Wayne was nice. Though you were bothered that people assumed that 1: you were a gold-digger, your own family had worked their asses off to reach where they were now and 2: you were just another brainless, spoiled little girl. You were a successful physicist in the middle of getting your PhD in quantum physics!! But anyways.

For the first months, it was a silent but comfortable time; you were just trying to get used to each other. Still, we know you weren't the best at hiding just how attracted you were to your sweet, buffed, kind husband, his soft, patient blue eyes, and the fact that he found his new form of entertainment, teasing you. He would wrap his arm around your waist during the night, his hand sprawled on your stomach as he nuzzled against the back of your neck, his stubble would definitely leave a rash behind by morning.

— "Did you even shave well today?"

— "I'm pretty sure I did..."

He'd mumble against your neck, pulling you closer.

A 'Mornin', honey,' and a kiss on the cheek. His warm hand on the small of your back and a smile on his lips as you talked about the string theory, how you talked about everything, every little molecule being connected, as if the universe was a big, colourful loom.

It made your heart flutter; it made you forget about the fact that you missed your hometown and the thrill of vigilantism, and it somehow soothed the ache for adrenaline, the itch you felt on your body when you left your powers unused for far too long — but it didn't quiet down that little, quiet voice in the back of your head.

Well, you knew. You were not offline — The hot, trendy romance between Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle? The most stylish, trend-setting couple in all of Gotham circles? You weren't stupid to think you wouldn't be compared to Selina Kyle, she was freaking selina Kyle for crying out loud— you looked up at her too!! And, of course, you knew that there would be some die-hard fans of the couple in the comments of your social media ever since the engagement was made public, even if everyone knew or suspected it was an arranged marriage. But the comment saying that the only reason Bruce agreed to marry you was because you looked like Selina...

You absolutely didn't! At all! Your hair, your eyes, your body, it was all different!! You were a bit less defined, with darker eyebags... not as skinny... your skin was covered in scars, either from fights or as a result of your teenage acne... less... pretty? No, of course not! You were just as good! Just not ... better. It was a pointless comparison— you were you and Selina was Selina. Did you even want to look like her? Absolutely yes no.

Bruce noticed that there was something wrong with you, and he tried to do his best to cheer you up. Spending more time listening to your ramblings about your PhD, trying to get home sooner so you could talk more, sending you small gifts like chocolates to the university; everything but actually talk about it. Because you didn't want to talk about it, Because talking about it made it real.

"Anything in your mind, honey?" He asked one time as you two watched a movie on your big matrimonial bed, his arm wrapped around your shoulder while his fingers played with your locks damp from a recent shower. He wanted to talk about it.

—"I'm fine, Bruce, just thinking about the project..."

You smile softly, leaning against him. Once again, you didn't.

One of those nights you decided to just explore the city, maybe the adrenaline of running on top of buildings would clear your thoughts; and it certainly did, in some part. The feeling of the cold Gotham breeze on your skin was calming, it gave you a sense of home and familiarity, even more than Bruce's warm embraces did — your feet moving quickly against the concrete rooftops, your fingers digging into the hard material like it was sand as you climbed, it was fantastic.

But you were s bit out of practice after a few months out of business, so you sat down on the rooftop of a particularly tall building, trying to catch your breath, that until you heard a faint sound nearby and your stomach turning — it was quiet, like a gasp, probably a couple getting frisky in the middle of the nights with a weird exhibitionist fantasy, or maybe it was something else, you didn't loose anything by investigating, right?

A particular part about your powers was that you could spot people from a mile away, remember how you said the universe was one big, colourful loom? People were like drawings, it didn't matter how much they changed clothes or appearance, they were made of the same material, the same bright thread that you always thought was their soul.

And you could recognise Bruce's with one look, even under his Kevlar suit.

Why were you even mad? All of his affection felt like a cruel performance, a façade for the sham that was your marriage— platonic, fictional. But how he touched and kissed Catwoman was everything but. It was real. His hands had a purpose; he never touched you like that, so desperate and with an unspoken hunger. His lips had a purpose, desire emanating from their heated encounter. There was clarity in his actions that stung, a painful reminder that what he shared with her was everything you craved but could never have.

You counted one Mississippi, then Two Mississippi, then Three, four, five more until you couldn't look for a second longer.

You got back to the Manor with a speed you didn't know you had, and the comforting cold breeze of the night became painful, burning your lungs with every breath you took. You couldn't even cry or listen to the sound of anything other than your heart beating painfully faster and louder than you'd ever felt — you didn't even hear Alfred's voice calling you out and asking if you were okay. And you didn't even hear when Bruce got into bed with you like he did every night.

You just knew you didn't want him to touch you anymore.

And Bruce was worried, to say the least — he was used to the quiet of the manor, even with his new wife, but this was different. It wasn't the warm, comfortable silence he was used to; there was too much of it. You didn't ramble about your research, you came home late, or pulled away from his touch. It was like you couldn't stand the thought of him touching you, and it felt so, so painful.

The usual kiss on the cheek he gave you every morning made you tense, not in a good way, more like it repulsed you, that was if he even got to greet you in the morning. "Mrs. Wayne has left early" Became his usual morning routine, and it didn't get any better — He would barely even see you, and when he did, you either were just too lost in thought or you'd find a way to sneak away.

To make matters worse, something was causing too many strange phenomena around the city; some abandoned warehouses had walls that looked torn — not damaged over time or missing some bricks, but as if they were a big piece of fabric that had been crudely cut with a blade, threads, literal threads floating around the affected area. And they had collapsed more than once.

He had looked it up; there had been similar events a few years back in your hometown, an urban legend of a figure that could dissolve anything into thin air and impart justice for years in the night, creating and pulling the imaginary strands of everything.

"Maybe you should ask your wife," Selina suggested as they both sat on the edge of a building. "Strings, string theory. Ain'tthat her major?" She asked, "That's if she even decides to talk to me." He groaned, causing Selina to chuckle, "What did you do this time?"

The thing is that he didn't know what he did or didn't do, and she notices it

— " You should talk to her."

— "You think I haven't tried to?"

He is frustrated. Everyone has told him to fix it, but what can he fix if he doesn't know what's broken? Even the soft rain pouring over Gotham seemed to be avoiding him as well, like it was too repulsed to touch him just like you were. Hold on-

The rain fell normally over the rest of the city, but not on the space he sat on; droplets fell like thin strands of clear water. He raised a hand, touching one of the strands, and it burst and dissolved in the air with a sparkling sound; it reminded him of small diamonds or what fairytales describe as stardust.

Bruce stood up slowly, looking upwards to the tall building in front of him, when a faint 'Go home' left his lips — His hook stuck in the top edge of the building and inertia jerked him upward — and there you were, his beautiful bride on the other edge of the rooftop, in all your ethereal glory. Your hair in the wind, dancing just as the raindrops did once they touched your skin, stretching and splitting into cosmic strands that sparkled as brightly as the diamond in your wedding ring.

You looked… so melancholic, your tender face tired with grief, arms outstretched at your sides and hands constantly writhing from the cold, but it didn't seem to be important to you. Why were you doing this? How long have you been able to do that?

He has a rule: No metas allowed. but you are his wife, and you are so magnetic - even when defying the unspoken rules of the universe - His name left your lips like a soft prayer, just as he finally walked up to you, and when you turned to look up, he knew you knew.

— "Why are you doing this?"

His voice is soft; that's Bruce talking, and he hopes you finally do as well.

— "I just... why? When?"

— "When were you planning on telling me you still see Selina?"

You mutter, barely above a whisper, and he reacts by closing his eyes shut, taking a deep breath. So that's why you've been distant.

— "Don't change the subject."

You want to laugh, but you're just way too worn out for it. He doesn’t even seem to have the words to justify himself. "Do you even realise how reckless your actions were? Someone could’ve been in those warehouses," he starts, his voice heavy with concern. You can feel the weight of his words pressing down on you, but you cut him off, your voice barely above a whisper: "Are you really going to leave me?"

Leave you? No, not a chance. He wouldn't leave you for anything in the world. He cares about you, and he knows how important this marriage is for you. Your hands ball into fists, the strands of rain water moving quicker and more violently. "Because I lied? Because you love another woman?" You choked out.

Bruce grabs your wrist, pulling you closer to bring you back to reality. "How long have you been doing this?" He inquires again. "Years? It hurts when I don't." You reply softly.

"Are you going to leave me?" You ask again. "No... that's not what this is about. It's about how much danger you could've put people in." He laces his fingers with yours. "Why did you do it?" He questions again. "Were you too upset?"

You nod softly, pulling away to wipe a tear from your cheek. "Can we go home now?" you mutter. Yes, you can. You can talk later. It'll be alright. He just needs you to calm down and stop tearing the universe apart.

"Yes... Yes, we can, honey."

You had a lot of time to talk.

©sourcherrybites 2025

[damneddamsy]

FALLING. RATING Explicit (18+ only) PAIRING Joel Miller x BIPOC OFC (Leela) FORMAT & SETTING Joel's POV & Post-TLOU Jackson AU WORD COUNT PER CHAPTER approx. 12,000+

SUMMARY It is said that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future. Now, Joel Miller wasn’t looking to be a saint. Trust is a liability. Love, a memory too painful to keep. But if a sinner like him still had some future, and if that future starts with one night—a baby’s relentless cries cracking through his walls and breaking him open—then maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t lost everything yet. Against all instincts, he steps into that big, white house across his street. Nothing drives Joel to linger, but he does. For the baby at first—nascent Maya, with her bright eyes and fistfuls of Joel’s collar. Then, the strange mother. What begins as an uneasy coexistence grows into something deeper, which neither of them dares name. Haunted by a narrative she never chose, brilliant but reclusive, Leela’s mind runs into the theoretical—proofs, patterns, chasing solutions to an unsolvable equation—while Joel’s hands are scarred by the practical: protecting, killing, enduring. When that peace becomes fleeting, when a fragile hope in the shape of a mathematical discovery begins to bloom, and the world, as always, threatens to take it away, Joel confronts what it means to fall—not just into the impossible, but into love, into hope, into the fragile rhythms of Leela and Maya’s life, and their quiet home that becomes a rare thing in this decaying tomorrow: a reason to stay. This is a story of healing, found family, and the abnormal, slow math of love—how we factor grief, multiply hope, balance the unknowns, it never adds up but somehow makes perfect sense.

INDEX (might be subject to change as the story progresses.)

part i -> EVENT HORIZON

part ii -> MICROFRACTURE

part iii -> FALSE EQUILIBRIUM

part iv -> MINIMUM VIABLE HOPE

part v -> RECONSTRUCTION ALGORITHM

part vi -> LIMIT APPROACHES GRACE

part vii -> FREEFALL FUNCTION

part viii -> SOFT INFINITY

part ix -> STITCH THEORY

interlude

part x -> DECOHERENCE

part xi -> ZERO CROSSING

part xii -> THEOREM OF BECOMING

part xiii -> HEURISTIC BLOOM

epilogue -> THE FINAL THEOREM

FALLING MOODBOARD (a huge bear hug, thank you and shoutout to the incredible @jolapeno !!)

AUTHOR'S NOTE Have loads of fun with this masterlist! took me a while to think up a different way to potray these chapters, I'm so glad it came through so great!

TAGS your (ultimate) fix-it fic, Dad™️ joel, Jackson Joel, softest Joel you've ever seen, Joel is an old yearner cuntstruck hardass, Joel being down bad for a baby girl, OFC is arabic, OFC being an academic nerd, the cutest baby (Maya) ever, baby is an actual character, Miller family dynamics, Tommy-Joel-Ellie hooliganisms, life in Jackson town, Ellie being the generally awesome older sister, neighbours-to-lovers trope, found family, slowburn, a lot of math references, epistolary interlude.

CONTENT WARNINGS eventual smut (the whole kaboodle), big griefs, depression, unbearable angst, violence, gore, blood, alcoholism, substance abuse, post-natal depression, the pains of motherhood, mentions of rape and suicide, childbirth.

[guiltyasdave]

almost killed your light

chapter 6 • series masterlist

summary: An injured Joel and Ellie stumble into your home in the middle of the night. Against your better judgement, you decide to help them.

word count: ~3.7k

tags/warnings: post outbreak, slow burn, found family, age gap (joel is 56, reader is 36), able-bodied reader, no use of y/n, angst, reader has a sad sad backstory and ptsd, hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual smut, nightmares, death of characters important to reader, grief, the angst is once again angsting, suicide (not reader!), canon-typical violence, hunting & a dead deer, it's finally backstory time!!!!

a/n: i can't tell you how thrilled i am to be posting this! it's easily the saddest chapter of the series, and also the first part of the story that i came up with, so this is a pretty big moment for me <3 thank you for all the lovely comments, for being so patient and a biiiig smooch to @sizzlingcloudmentality, thank you for looking this over!

follow @guiltyasdavenotifs for fic updates and find my full masterlist here :)

dividers by the lovely @saradika-graphics 🤍

“Do you think—” Joel clears his throat, searching your face. “Do you think it might help to talk about them? To help you to keep the memory?” 

You don’t want to talk about them, if you’re being honest. As long as you don’t talk, don’t speak any of it into existence, you might still be able to pretend that the last twenty years were nothing more than a bad dream. That you’ll just need to finally wake up, and you’ll be sixteen again, and the world will be back to normal. 

But you’re still shivering, still feeling the threat of forgetting, of nothingness breathing down your neck. So you nod, slowly, and with the quiet safety of Joel’s slow breaths in your ears and the warmth of his body beside you, you start laying your heart out for him. 

How they called you out of class, something about a family emergency, that they had your father on the phone. His frantic voice in your ear, crackling through the receiver, countless miles away on a work trip, accompanied by your mother. Too far to reach, too far to come and save you. 

Take your brothers and go home. Immediately. No stops along the way, no matter what. Go to the basement and stay there, do you hear me? Promise me that you’ll keep them safe. 

It hadn’t been the first time that he urged you home from school, made you hide from an invisible threat. It was part of your life, just like the never-ending survival lessons and the fully inhabitable basement under your house was part of it. 

But something had felt off this time. Maybe because you knew that he wouldn’t be waiting for you at home, that you were on your own. Maybe you just had a bad feeling. Promise me that you’ll keep them safe. 

You weren’t sure what he had said on the phone before you had come on, which excuse he had given, but you got both Felix and Tim out of class without issue and packed them into your car. Of course they wanted to stop along the way, only six and eleven years old, giddy to be out of school early. 

You denied demands to get McDonalds, to go to the arcade, even to spend the day roaming the woods around your house. With your father’s words still echoing through your head, you parked in front of the house, herded them straight down to the basement, and put the radio on. And then you waited. 

It took until the late evening, all three of you getting antsy, itching to get back upstairs. What bad could possibly happen, really? Until the warnings started. Until early morning when they turned into silence. 

Eventually, different voices returned. Talking about quarantine zones, about safety. About an organization called FEDRA. Don’t trust anyone, least of all the government. A principle far too ingrained in your upbringing to betray it now. So you stayed. In the safety of the familiar homey scent of wood-panelled walls and floors, the always slightly stale air, the electric yellow glow that never made up for the lack of actual daylight. 

But you managed to get an insight into what was actually going on. An infection, spreading too fast to contain. Changing people, turning them into monsters. It sounded like one of those movies that your first boyfriend used to like. Too strange to picture, until the first time you caught movement on the security camera footage. A man stumbling out of the woods, his movements all wrong, unnatural. Weird shapes growing out of his body, out of his head. Fungus, the voices on the radio had said. 

Sometimes, when you struggled to fall asleep at night, you wondered where that boyfriend was now. If he was still alive, if any of your friends were. If anyone was. 

As time went on, though you never said it out loud, the hope that your parents had made it, that they were coming back to you, started to grow smaller. You took on the duties of caretaking and leadership as best as you could. 

Made food, to the best of your abilities. Tried to teach them schoolwork, at least a little. Answered questions, sang lullabies, held them when they cried. Just a little while longer, you used to tell both them and yourself. Because things would go back to normal eventually, right? Keep them safe. 

Weeks turned into months, Thanksgiving and Christmas passed you by, and you were still down there. Watching as the world outside turned white with snow, then watching as it melted, as nature slowly crept closer towards the house, as sunshine started to filter through the trees again. The days got longer, and the terror settled into something deeper, more numb, but at the back of your minds like a steady pulse. 

The first time you decided to go out, you were petrified with fear. The world outside the back door seemed endless, far too loud, far too bright, far too open. The birds sounded deafening in your ears, looking up at the sky burned in your eyes. 

Clenching your teeth, the packets of seeds crinkling between your fingers, you took the first hesitant step towards the overgrown patch of earth where your parents used to grow vegetables. 

Your hands were shaking the entire time, your breath coming in short huffs that never quite seemed to reach your lungs. Your eyes kept skimming the treeline, your legs ready to bolt at the smallest of movements. Promise me that you’ll keep them safe. The wind felt strange on your skin, the damp earth was clinging to your skin uncomfortably. But you had to do this right, had to provide, had to give them something more than just pure survival. 

Hands grabbed at you as soon as you gave the signal and the heavy door swung open. Held you tight, relief swimming in their eyes, mirroring yours. What did it look like, what did it feel like? Did it smell different? Did you see a monster? You didn’t, but now you had something to count down to, something tangible. A few weeks, and you would have something fresh to eat, something that didn’t come out of a can. Something that tasted like before.

You retrieved your mother’s notebook from the kitchen, tried to replicate the dishes that you remembered. You read bedtime stories, listened to long winded monologues over space travel and dinosaurs, went through the same comics over and over and tried to think of new stories when the existing ones became boring. You brought Tim’s guitar down from his old room and listened to him pluck the strings in the evenings. Sometimes, you sang together. It wasn’t like before, but it wasn’t terrible. A life you had been prepared for, in a weird way. 

For two years, you were the only one who ventured outside. Still with a rigid spine, still with your fingers twitching towards the shotgun you always carried with you, still hyper focused on your surroundings. But for two years, nothing bad happened. Your hands got more used to the movements, handling fruits and vegetables with practised care. You sometimes wondered what your father would say if he saw you now. If he would be proud of you. You didn’t want him to be proud. You wanted him to come back. 

You never saw another monster, not when you were outside and not on the cameras either. Nor did you ever see any humans. The radio stayed silent. 

The next spring, Tim wouldn’t stop begging to come outside with you. He had just turned fourteen, and was not a child anymore, I can take care of myself! At nineteen yourself, you had never wished more to feel like a child again. 

After endless fights, in which he called you overprotective, afraid of your own shadow, overdramatic and, particularly hurtful, not his mother, you finally agreed. You also promised to teach him how to shoot, which your father had just been getting started on when everything changed. 

Once it was time to actually step foot outside, he grabbed your hand tightly, blank fear written in his wide eyes. 

“Hey,” you murmured, squeezing his fingers reassuringly and crouching down to his height. “I’m here. It’s gonna be okay.” Please let everything be okay. Please don’t let today be the day when something happens. 

He nodded, squared his jaw, took a deep breath and turned back towards the door. He looked so much older in that moment, so much like your father, that your own breath faltered for a second. 

To his credit, Tim stayed close by your side the entire time, just like you had made him promise over and over. Your whole body was on high alert, eyes flitting over the garden that nature kept claiming back more and more each time you came outside, over the darkness of the treeline. 

Once the patch had been taken care of, your spread targets over the long grass, handing Tim the bow and arrows that you had practised with as well. He had wanted a gun, but you couldn’t bear the risk of shots alerting anyone to your existence. 

Tim was good with the weapon, once his nerves had calmed down a little. When the sky slowly turned orange and you ushered him inside again, he beamed up at you. “I can help you now,” he said. “I can protect us.”

Felix, only nine years old at the time, had been whining non stop about being left alone, but you couldn’t bear the thought of bringing him upstairs, out of the safety of the basement. Promise me that you’ll keep them safe. 

It took two more years until the three of you left the basement together. You had a terrible feeling about it, the impending dread breathing down your neck as soon as you opened the door. But Felix needed shooting practice too, Tim argued, and you knew he was right. Neither of you said it out loud, but the question of what if lingered in the air around you. What if something happened to you? What if the two of them ended up alone? They had to be prepared for that. Promise me that you’ll keep them safe. 

You handled most of the gardening, because you liked the way you could move your hands to do something, to provide something that wouldn’t exist otherwise. But you told them everything you knew, everything your parents taught you. In the evenings, you scribbled everything you could think of into a notebook, filling pages upon pages with knowledge that you hoped you would always be able to give in person, but couldn’t risk the opportunity that it would be lost if you couldn’t. 

It was Tim who first brought up the idea of hunting. In a way, it made sense. You had seen far more wildlife on the camera footage over the years than monsters. Twice, you had even seen groups of humans, but they were mostly male and carrying heavy weapons, and you never felt safe to interact with them. Those sightings had been few and far in between though, while you saw deer almost every week. 

Still, it would mean venturing out further than ever before. Further away from safety than you’d been in five years. But it would add another component to your meals, and better nutrition, you supposed. There were enough supplements stored in the basement to last you your whole lives and then some, but the prospect of providing them with something new, something fresh? It was tempting. 

Gritting your teeth, you eventually agreed. Tim had become a great shooter, much better with the bow than you had ever been. His bashful grin when you told him that made your heart sting. You always tried to be everything they needed, but in moments like these you wished your father had been there to praise him instead of you for once.

You had really wanted to at least leave Felix behind, but he wouldn’t have it, obviously terrified of the two of you not coming back. So, after going through every possible eventuality a thousand times, the three of you put on dark clothes, shouldered your weapons, and set out into the woods. Your heart was racing, all your senses on the highest alert, your fingers wrapped tightly around the shotgun in your grip. Promise me that you’ll keep them safe.

It was a beautiful morning. Spring was slowly merging into summer, the air was still crisp and so different from the air in the basement that it almost felt unreal. Birdsong was floating through the trees as the three of you very slowly made your way through the semi darkness of the forest surrounding your house. Early daylight was filtering through the leaves and mist was rising from the soft mossy floor. 

You were quiet, no words exchanged between you, just like you had made them promise over and over. It felt like barely any time had passed when Tim’s hand shot out, stopping both you and Felix in your tracks. He pointed up ahead, where your squinting eyes made out the lithe, brown silhouette of a deer in the dim light. 

He exchanged a nod with you, then drew an arrow. You watched him take aim, heard the silent woosh, saw it hitting its target. The animal went down with a low thud. For a moment, none of you moved. Tim blinked slowly, like he couldn’t believe his own eyes. A breathless laugh escaped you, until you caught yourself, your eyes darting around nervously. But nothing moved, the forest kept on peacefully existing around you. 

Dragging the deer back to the house was challenging, as was the dressing, but you managed. It had been one of the most-hated lessons that your father gave you, but now, once again, you felt grateful. As long as you didn’t think about why he wasn’t there to do it. 

But that night, when you made a stew out of fresh vegetables and meat, you actually felt a little proud of yourself. If nothing else, at least you were keeping your promise. 

It wasn’t until a few months later that you encountered one of the monsters. It lunged at you out of nowhere, forcing all air from your lungs as you both collided on the forest floor. A scream tore from your throat, your hands grasping desperately to bring the shotgun into position while simultaneously holding the snapping, rotting teeth away from your face. 

“Tim!” you cried out, pressing yourself against the ground, hoping to give him a clear shot. But there wasn’t the familiar whooshing of an arrow flying through the air. Two shots rang out in quick succession and the creature on top of you stilled. 

Gasping for breath, you pushed it off of you, trying to make sense of the scene in front of you. Tim was frozen, his hand extended towards the quiver on his back, the bow still at his side. Your eyes found Felix. Sweet, eleven year old Felix, who read comics to fall asleep and asked to sleep in your bed after a nightmare every other week. Felix, with the gun you had given him for emergencies only shaking in his grip. His whole frame was trembling, tears quietly streaming down his face. 

With your own legs unsteady, you got onto your feet, crossing the short distance and pressing him tightly against you. 

“You’re okay,” you whispered into his hair, enveloping him in your arms. “You’re okay, we’re okay. Let’s go home.”

You didn’t want to go hunting again after that. You had managed without it before, and you would manage again. Promise me that you’ll keep them safe.

But, after the initial shock had worn off, your brothers did want to go into the forest again. They practiced shooting even more often, unwilling to accept defeat, to bow down to this threat that effectively was out of your control. Afraid that they would sneak out if you said no, you eventually caved and the three of you made your way into the forest again. 

You were on the verge of panic the entire time, but miraculously, everything stayed calm. No sudden surprises, no attacks, only the quiet trees and you, and the promise of a good dinner that evening.

Life was good, in some ways. Tim turned eighteen and you got up at the crack of dawn to prepare a cake for him. He taught Felix how to play guitar. On some days, you were brave enough to spend whole days in the actual house, only retreating to the basement to sleep. You still ran into monsters sometimes, and while that never got less scary, you built more of a routine with every time it happened. 

Eight years had passed since your father called you and sent you home from school. Promise me that you’ll keep them safe. 

It was early October, and you had caught a cold. Nothing you couldn’t just sleep off, just a persistent headache and a sore throat really, but your brothers were determined to help. Determined to get ingredients for soup, something your mom used to make when one of you was sick. 

Your protests that they didn’t have to, that you didn’t want them outside on their own, fell on deaf ears. Eventually, you gave up. They weren’t kids anymore, and you didn’t doubt that they could hold their ground. Just— you had a bad feeling. And you had promised. 

After the door on top of the staircase fell shut, you drifted off into a feverish sleep, haunted by dreams that didn’t make sense. You were shaken awake by Tim, his eyes red from crying, his face more distraught than you had ever seen it. He stumbled over his words, choking on apologies, on explanations that you couldn’t make sense of. Until he led you up to the living room you never used, a room from before. Until you saw Felix sitting on the couch, all gangly limbs and too long hair that you had been planning on cutting. Until you saw his forearm. The twitching. The bite mark, already red and swollen with infection. 

The unthinkable had happened. One moment of surprise, one movement that happened too fast, was all it took. 

You had made a pact about this, years ago. That you wouldn’t let each other turn, wouldn’t let one of you become a monster. 

The three of you sat there for hours, holding each other, watching as the sky turned orange until darkness fell. None of you said much. There wasn’t anything to say. The twitching got worse. 

Finally, his throat hoarse, Felix said, “I— I think it’s time. You should—” His voice faltered, and you nodded quietly, squeezing his hand. 

The shot didn’t sound real. The trigger didn’t feel real under your finger. The red blood, soaking through his t-shirt. His limp body hitting the ground. It wasn’t real, because it couldn’t be. 

Tim and you dug through the night, and as the sun rose on a new day, which didn’t make any sense at all, because how were there any days left to live, you were standing over the fresh earth of a grave. The grave of your little brother who never made it past the age of fourteen.

Promise me that you’ll keep them safe. Promise me that you’ll keep them safe. Promise me that you’ll keep them safe.

You didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Closed the door to Felix’ room, and promised yourself that you’d never open it again. Time didn’t seem to pass, though according to the clock on the wall, it had to. 

Tim didn’t leave his room for two days. You didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to comfort him, when all you wanted to do was scream. Why he had to go hunting, why he didn’t protect his little brother. You wanted to scream at yourself, too. Why you were stupid enough to let them go. 

Eventually, you fell asleep right where you were sitting. When you startled awake, the door to Tim’s room was open, but the basement was empty. A folded piece of paper with your name on it waited on the table in front of you. 

You knew before you even opened the letter. One of the guns was missing. Tim never used a gun to shoot anything.

His body was right beside his brother’s grave. Blood had tainted the earth around him. Choking on a sob, you fell to your knees beside him. Pried the gun from his limp fingers. 

When you were done, two graves lined the edge of the garden. You didn’t look back. Your feet carried you down the steps. You washed the blood of your hands, your sight so blurry through your tears that you barely saw what you were doing. Then, you closed Tim’s door, too. 

Twelve years passed, until you walked up those stairs again.

Joel’s arm wraps around you hesitantly, like any sudden movements might scare you off. You sink into him, unaware of how badly you needed to be held like this. 

“I promised,” you whisper into the warmth of his shoulder. “I promised, and now they’re both gone.”

“Wasn’t your fault.” His voice is low. You feel the movement of your hair where his breath fans out on top of your head.

You shrug. On better days, you have been telling yourself that, too. Instead of an answer, you focus on his breathing. Letting it slow yours down, letting it calm your nerves. 

Finally, he very quietly says, “I had a daughter. Sarah.” His breath hitches on her name. You look at him, the question that you can’t ask written in your eyes. “Outbreak day. She was— she was fourteen, too.” 

Your own pain is reflected in his eyes. Clear as day, now that you know. Like it was there the entire time. You nod silently, reaching for his hand. Tightening your hold gently, and he squeezes back. 

Leaning your head against his shoulder again, you close your eyes.

thank you for reading! nothing makes my day the way comments and reblogs do, so please consider leaving one <3

[riverbends]

SECRETARY AU (jack abbot x f!reader)

part one: the blouse | mdni | MASTERLIST

tags: sexual content, mentions of smut, power imbalance, age gap, angst, perv jack, perv reader, dubcon elements??, masturbation wc: 5.6k cat says: this fic is a deviation from the source material, although i will include some of the other characters who play different roles in the story. i also initially wrote the entire thing as an abbotmohan fic and i spent so long deciding if i wanted to keep it that way. i changed all the pronouns and verb tenses to see how it looked and now i can’t be bothered to change it back to abbotmohan but also i think im okay with this anyway. i've planned a different fic for them. i’m also pretty much basing this off of the film secretary and i’m not familiar with the american healthcare system (if that still...even exists today...) so I’m just drawing things from an australian perspective (yeah ew). thaaaaaaank you bye

Five days a week. From 7 AM until only God knows when. Supposed to be 5 PM. Most of the time, 7 PM. On the rarest occasions, 8 PM. If you didn’t get paid overtime, you’d complain about it more. Not to him, obviously.

You never really share anything with him, much less your grievances. Nor does he, save for a random but contextual anecdote from his life in relation to a patient he’s just seen or maybe a very brief retelling of an encounter he had with somebody on the way to the practice.

Apart from that, the two of you tend to keep to yourselves when he isn’t giving you tasks or instructions for correspondence. A few glances when he enters the waiting room, some tight smiles at the reception. No lingering, no small talk, no jokes (it rarely occurs to you that you might be the one avoiding any interaction possible).

Though, to your embarrassment, he does seem to foster a habit of saying something very normal and, arguably, platonic in such a way that sends an agonising heat searing through your belly. This is only an embarrassment on your part because it feels nearly impossible to hide the effect he has. The dewy, sticky mess he leaves underneath your skirt with only a few words in a warm, hushed tone.

He has never indicated any awareness of this apprehension—at least, not to your knowledge—but you fear the patients might catch your eyes lingering on his back as he walks away. Your mouth drawn in tight, eyes shining under furrowed brows as you endure a throbbing ache down south.

The same praises you whisper at night against your sheets while you work yourself up, and up. Fingers pruned, sore—

Fear they might hear your heart punching your ribs or, God forbid, the soft chafe of your stockings against your skin as you squeeze your thighs together.

Thank you, doll.

What would I do without you, honey?

A whole year of casual praises and brief compliments.

You swear there’s something tucked between those words, something that tears away all the lights and the patients and the furniture. Like his voice dissolves the waiting room, sponging up the sludged air until your blood runs in your ears. Only you, in your chair. Him, standing at your side, mere inches away.

Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot

Perhaps, he doesn’t mean it the way you think he does and it only sounds different to you, and you unprofessionally engineer unspeakable fantasies when you shouldn’t be…and you are unfit for this job and maybe you need to leave for good and hopefully you’ll forget the smell of him whenever he leaned over your shoulder.

Robust cologne. Blade slicing through fruit; bleeding sharp, heady wine—

Your name is called.

Out of focus, your eyes flit up. Frank stands behind the counter holding a takeaway box over the top of the glass case displaying sandwiches, pastries, and cookies.

“Oh,” you stop fiddling with the button of your coat and step forward, returning the smile. “Sorry, Frank. Thank you.”

“No need,” he laughs as you take your order from him. “I’d be out of it too if I sat at that desk all day.”

Internally, you grimace. You don’t even really mind the desk job. The paperwork, the phone calls, the patients, the hospital correspondence, the tidying, the pay, the hours of nothingness. You are good at this. Well-rehearsed and comfortably attuned.

It’s the dread that pulls you into wanton lapses, into daydreams. No, ‘dread’ just gives the feeling an ugly suit. It isn’t so much dread as it is anticipation. The anticipation is ugly. For what, you don’t want to admit. It even borders on hope, and it’s pathetic.

From hopping on the bus with a flame in your belly to opening the practice at 7 AM while your head spins to waiting for Dr Abbot to appear at the door half an hour later to bracing yourself for his greeting to expecting a task from him to imagining how his thumbs would pry apart your labia minora, nice and wide, so he can slot his tongue—

To secretly hope for whatever you are secretly hoping for. Yes, you do feel quite out of it.

“It’s not so bad,” You smile, shrugging. “Although, I sort of envy you. I’d kill for free lemon slices after every shift.”

“Okay, you know I don’t get free stuff every shift,” Frank raises his hands as if in surrender, “but all you have to do is ask.”

Two months after you initially got the job at the practice, you were already a regular at the café off the corner. You know all the employees, but it’s always been Frank Langdon who's given you discounts and, of course, the occasional freebie. Maybe he flirts a little sometimes and maybe you flirt back. It’s fun, you can’t lie. You also can’t ignore his momentary glances slipping below your eyes, settling on the valley of your breasts.

The blouse was a bad idea. You knew it the moment you buttoned it up this morning. There must be some kind of dress code that warns against it, but you’ve been having little to no sense these past few months anyway.

The sweet, silken pink flatters the slope of your waist with seven magenta buttons stopping right up at the source of Frank’s inhibited attention. Your breasts aren’t on complete display but anyone with eyes can make out the soft cleave between them, despite your many futile attempts to tug the fabric over the middle of your chest.

(A deviant part of you wore it for Dr. Abbot).

“Will do,” you salute before heading for the door.

Dirty. That is the recurring adjective.

Dirty, old man, Robby had once playfully mocked Jack in response to the small and, in his opinion, insignificant confession about you. Jack didn’t even say anything bad enough to warrant that kind of epithet. Definitely nothing as bad as the things he thinks about. Only that, sometimes, the way you look up at him from your chair puts his stomach in knots. And that, of course, you are pretty.

He didn’t dare mention that the look—the gleam in your eyes when you peer up at him, as if you are lost; unmoored. Like you need guiding and, oh, does he want to guide you—sends him over the edge. That his pants suddenly feel taut over his crotch when your mouth parts ever so slightly. A few warm breaths away from his twitching cock.

Dirty, old man.

Jack harbours a medley of perverted reveries, all of which are the fruit of a desire that has burgeoned from the moment you walked in for the job interview a year ago. He remembers it like it was only yesterday.

It had rained that day. Heavily, and evidently. You hadn’t anticipated the bucketing showers. The bus stop was a fair walk away, so it made complete sense that your hair was dripping and plastered to the sides your neck. Drops of water trailing down your temple, slipping over your throat to settle on your clavicle. You apologised profusely for the state of yourself while Jack tried not to stare at the imprint of your bra through your soaked shirt.

You scrambled for any and all explanations for your late arrival when Jack simply said your name, mouth softening into a half smile at the sight of your stunned, wide eyes. Said it like he had known you for years. You shut up. He had already made up his mind.

It’s still a mystery to you, how you ever got the job in the first place. But you needed it too badly to ask why at the time. Your résumé had listed an odd number of administrative jobs you had worked over the years. Twenty-something and cautious. You were polite and well-dressed (from what he could tell, even with the rain-drenched clothes). It wasn’t like there were people lining up to interview for the job either, so he had to take what he could get.

The practice belonged to his late father. A quaint block in the middle of a strip of stores hiding a small staff carpark out back for everybody. Independent surgery with loyal patients and a dedicated secretary, Mary, who worked for his father for over three decades. Jack took over the place five years prior to your interview, leaving behind his old practice with Robby and Heather, who were now joined with two new providers.

Conveniently, the patients have adjusted to Jack quite well over time, the elderly reminding him every now and then about how it was sad to hear that his father had passed, and does he miss him very badly? Oh, and does he have anybody waiting at for him at home and, if so, what’s the lucky woman’s name? And doesn’t he long for someone and isn’t he getting older? And isn’t his secretary just so sweet and have you settled down yet? And are you really so young and where did he find you?

(And why doesn’t he fuck you senseless?)

So vividly, he can still remember the sheer pleasure ripping through him as he pumped his cock in his hand, picturing you drenched in water earlier that day. He was fond of the tremble in your lips too. You were shivering. Your nipples were probably hard as pebbles from the cold. He came, then.

It had been too long since he bothered to get off like this, a grunting mess in his bedsheets. That first time, ashamed after he rode out his high. Dirty, dirty, dirty.

Jack is ravenous, and he has mastered indifference with great difficulty. It is, however, thrilling to think that his depravity knew no bounds.

Months and months of deterring his want. He has found some kind of succour in your inadvertent touches, his wrist brushing past your shoulder or your foot knocking against his. Your knee just barely skimming his shin when you turn in your chair to face him. Anything, any kind of innocent contact in lieu of your warm, wet cunt milking him dry. He is convinced he can live with that, just the momentary sweeps and grazes. But he’s had to pace himself, stretch out the weeks and refrain from thinking about you every night. Hand wrapped around his base as the showerhead (perversely) baptises him in freezing water, chasing his spend down his thigh. He can get off on the scent of you alone.

There was a day, maybe six months into your employ, where you both ended up in the break room at the same time. Jack had walked in to find you, back turned, leaning against the countertop on both hands. Fingers tapping the laminate as you stared at the simmering kettle of water. The coffee pot he was looking for sat near your left hand.

The hot churning of water seemed to conceal the sound of his footsteps for you hadn’t acknowledged his presence. He paused for a moment, a few feet away from you. You had worn a pair of slim black tailored pants that day, and he thanked whatever God he could for the sight of your ass stretching out the fabric. Thighs perfectly sculpted and visible to him. Had to suppress a groan when he caught the strip of soft, bare skin revealing itself between the bottom hem of your shirt and the low waistband of your pants. His knuckles paled and locked around the handle of his stained, empty mug.

Without a word, he softened his footing and approached you, heavy-lidded eyes boring into your spine. Blade slicing through fruit—

He sidled up to you, a little to your left, extending his hand around your frame to reach for the pot. So menacingly quiet about it. The movement in your peripheral and the sudden murmur of a breath over your shoulder ripped a sharp gasp from your lungs. In an impetuous panic, you stumbled backwards into the wall of his chest, haphazardly trampling over his foot. Jack’s free left hand jerked back and flew to your hip. Both of you were too stunned to realise that his other had abandoned the mug to latch onto to the meat below your right hip and above your thigh, far lower than where his left was situated.

His fingers dug into your pelvic bone. Couldn’t resist the temptation to press further. He let the tip of his middle finger prod the crease between your inner thigh and your mons, swearing he could nearly feel the faint imprint of your panties. Jack had half a mind to shove an angry hand under your waistband and slide a finger over that velvety bundle of nerves—

The clash and shatter of the mug drew a memory from your childhood many years ago.

Elementary: third grade. A classmate of yours shared an unusual object for Show & Tell with everyone. You pictured the hunger of it now, flashing in the backyard of your brain. A slender green neck with a pink mouth, eagerly open for prey. Spindly teeth, splayed out like eye lashes. An unsuspecting, though crafty, insect swooping into its treacherous jaws in search of nectar. Treading carefully around the trigger hairs, thinking it had plenty of time before it was too late. You and your classmates watched, enthralled, as the jaws enfolded its guest. Snapped itself shut, like hands interlocking fingers, to squeeze its victim in a carnivorous embrace.

“It’s just me,” he whispered, pinching your flesh between his hands. You shuddered; it didn’t go unnoticed by him.

You could wager this was far more paralysing than getting caught in a Venus Fly Trap.

Jack’s iron hold on the curve of your hip steadied the both of you. But, for him, the heat of your skin burning through your shirt was secondary to the way your ass had rubbed against his crotch from the moment you stepped back. He thought his blood was aflame, the way it surged and swelled between his legs.

Neither of you moved for what felt like an eternity. You could only focus on the steady rise and fall of your breath while he burned his fingerprints through your clothes. It took everything in him not to fold you over the counter and fish his cock out from his fly. Drive himself into your pussy as he toyed with your puffy clit. He wondered if you’d even object.

Split you open, tickle your cervix.

“You can return to reception,” he murmured over your shoulder, stiff cock notching against the cleft of your ass. His breath was strong and hot against your neck when he, to your quiet dismay, released your hips. “I’ll clean up the mess, sweetheart.”

You thought you’d soaked yourself through your pants, but wasted no time to follow his instructions. Nodding and catching your breath, you stepped aside when he didn’t move and spun around to scurry out of the break room.

Neither of you could look at each other for the rest of the day. Didn’t say goodbye to each other either. That was the first night he had left at exactly 5 PM. You kept your eyes glued to your keyboard as he strolled past the reception in his dress coat with his bag slung over his shoulder. Out the door without a word.

Walked around the back to climb into his car and dry-fuck his fist like a madman. Barely spoke to you directly for a week after the fact.

(You, on the other hand, have opted to erase the memory of it entirely. If you linger too much on the phantom pinches and his fingertips almost teasing the place you needed him most, you fear you’d do something mortifyingly regrettable. You’ve gone as far as to convince yourself that the delusion only arose from the lack of coordination between you two. A defect in your recollection. The semi that hardened in his pants and poked your rear could not have been real.)

The practice has always been something you considered near ‘cosy’.

A waiting room with space for at least a dozen chairs. An intimate reception is nestled to the left corner against the wall. You face the opposite side of the waiting room where the small flat-screen is situated on the wall, the glass doors and windows kept to your right. Not to mention the play zone wedged between the window and the short end of your countertop. The children are usually well behaved, aside from a few screamers.

Sometimes, if someone’s tall enough, they’ll stretch on their toes and claw at the countertop to beam at you. Shiny doe-eyes blinking for your attention until you turn your head to the right and smile.

For this reason, you’ve always kept stickers and gadgets behind the desk as small prizes for them when the toys in the play zone aren’t enough. And, if their parents approve, you hold out a jar of candies for their eager choosing (although, this is usually a reward for after their appointment, you’re not opposed to breaking your own rules once in a while. Especially for those damn screamers).

It’s not so bad for the most part. You’re always kept busy and distracted enough to stay awake. There is this relentless creeping dread, though. Working for him will do that to you. Waiting with bated breath when he grows closer in proximity, your fingers itching to hold onto anything. Keyboard, mouse, paper, pen, throbbing cock—

The majority of the patients are easy and conversational, many know you by name. You do your best to keep your eyes on your computer and off the TV.

Very early into the job, you had once been quite visibly tense at the desk and he frowned down at you in his own sympathetic way.

“Just a small headache,” you smiled, your elbows pinned to the desk while you rubbed your hands down the sides of your neck. He didn’t hide his scepticism. How did Mary work in this horrible lighting?

“You sure?” He pressed, and you managed a nod. “You can come in and see me, you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t want to?”

“It’s probably nothing,” you sputtered hastily, fearing he’d take offence to your hesitation. “I’m okay, really.”

A small headache was bad enough. Being in that office alone with him—his soft reassurances and his close assessment of you and his watchful eye and his thumb on your slack jaw—would’ve atrophied your brain.

He shrugged, still doubtful: “Alright. If you say so.”

In the following weeks, he had the harsh overhead lights switched out for softer canned lights, washing the waiting room and reception in warm off-whites and yellows. Whether or not he detected the source for your headaches, the gesture is still fresh in your memory when you open up the practice most mornings.

A rectangular, high-rise countertop frames your workspace like an L and separates you from the patients, leaving a walkable gap between the countertop and the wall where you or Dr. Abbot can easily move in and out near the corridor.

Said corridor leads to the treatment room on the right, while Dr. Abbot’s door is on the left. Only one wall separates your reception from his office, allowing you only muffles of conversations you cannot cognise. There are, of course, many times where you’re both in the break room at the far end of the corridor, but never for long. One of you is either entering or exiting (the incident from six months ago shivers like a ghost between the two of you).

When you unlock the clinic in the morning, you prefer to keep the lights off and blinds drawn, door locked again, so as not to leave an invitation for people to creep in before appointments are actually supposed to begin. This means that Dr. Abbot’s arrival gives you at least five seconds to prepare yourself for a greeting when you hear his key click in the door.

At 7:30 AM, you’re stood and leaning over the printer with a stack of pristine white A4 sheets when you hear that click. To your relief, the blinds over the door always conceal him. And you.

He turns the lock and pushes on the handle to find you refilling the printer tray. Everything feels like a balancing act in front of him.

“Morning,” he greets, calm and mellow, as he locks the door behind him.

You wear the same sweet but not-too-eager smile: “Good morning.”

Looking away from him, you still notice the pause in his step. As if his foot stopped short before a pothole. You tuck the slab of paper into its tray, eyes trained on sharp white, waiting for him to say something.

In the blurred corner of your vision, he rubs a hand back and forth over his jaw. But he regains himself after a moment. Leaves the waiting room and disappears down the unlit corridor. The sound of his door quietly latching shut tugs your head in its direction. Soundlessness fills the practice again.

He lowers himself onto his chair, unbuttoned coat still on and bag between his feet. His hands run slowly up and down his thighs. Dress pants burning electric under his palms. Closing his eyes does little to fight away the image of you and the low neckline of that slippery, salmon-pink blouse perfectly framing your tits. The printer faces the windows so he was able to see you head-on the moment he walked in. Low yellow lights bathing your chest golden.

If he let his index finger tug on the curved hem, he could probably pop one out. Had he lingered near you any longer, he fears that is precisely what he would’ve done. Walked around the countertop and cornered you against the desk just to hook his fingertip in your blouse. Give himself a glimpse of your stiff, peaked nipple under his breath.

Lean down and suck—

Jack can probably get off on the thought of it now, pathetic as he is. First appointment isn’t for another half hour. Not like he hasn’t found release in his office before.

Are you trying to vex him? Part of him (all of him) considers firing you.

By some miracle, he contains his urges. His coat feels tighter the longer he keeps it on, so he tugs it off furiously to relieve himself. Most days, he wears a plain, long-sleeved dress shirt underneath a sweater; habitually rolls the sleeves halfway up his forearms. Pale, freckled skin laid bare.

Jack’s standard consultations run for fifteen minutes at best, with maybe an average of twenty-five to thirty patients per day, many of whom have attended the practise for years and years. The absence of his father, to Jack’s awareness, is somewhat mended. Or, at least, the patients seem to think so. Initially, he had worried he’d find trouble filling the gaps and building over the relationships they had already established with his late father. His worries diminished within the first month as he developed a strong rapport with all the regulars.

The very, very elderly often fall into lapses of time and lost recollection where they confuse him for old Dr. Abbot, referring to memories and stories with which Jack is not familiar (though, he is quite fond of this).

He is also moderately aware of his…charm, however dry it may be. Particularly with the women that come in. There have been too many offers and flirtations to count over the years. He doesn’t mind it, and it’s never gone anywhere dangerous. He knows how to keep things separate. Tidy. Clean. Untouched.

Once divorced and quite content on his own (or so he chooses to believe). He won’t deny that his fist gets old, the way he can only forage for fading memories of you when he gets himself going. He’s all leaky when he remembers the press of your ass in the break room. Or a skirt you wore one day, a tad too tight and stopping halfway down your thighs. You had dropped a pen on your way to the door of his office after handing him paperclipped forms. He watched you leave, as he always does. Didn’t expect to see you bend over slightly, just for a moment, to retrieve the pen.

He fooled himself into thinking that if you had parted your legs and leaned forward a little more, he’d just catch a hint of the lacey garters of your sheer black stockings.

Dirty, old man.

Jack curses himself, alone in his office. That infernal blouse of yours is now slotted beside all of his other decadent memories. His own erotic memorabilia.

Throughout the day, he communicates with you as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. He speaks with you when he needs to, maintains steady eye contact (anything below your nose is marked as a hazard zone in his head). Takes your calls, accepts your paperwork, says his pleases and thank yous. Makes sure he stays flaccid and unaroused. Impossibly.

Some time during lunch, when the waiting room is empty, you hear Dr. Abbot before you see him, approaching from your left with a collection of referrals. He doesn’t get a chance to speak because the front door is suddenly pushed open to reveal none other than Frank. The both of you look up to your right where he stands frozen in the doorframe.

“Shit, sorry. Hi,” Frank pants, mouth splitting into an embarrassed smile. “Uh, am I able to make an appointment? With him? Soon, if that's okay.”

You don’t know why, but you look back up to your left, almost like you’re trying to gauge whether Dr. Abbot is okay with it. You don’t need to, obviously. It’s your job to make appointments for him. The man just shrugs, unbothered.

“Yeah, of course, Frank,” you laugh softly. Dr. Abbot shifts impatiently beside you as Frank walks up to the counter.

“Thank you, thank you. I burned my hand on the panini press pretty bad. Few minutes ago,” he raises his left hand, revealing the flimsy bandage wrapped loosely over and around his palm. “I wasn’t sure if you guys take walk-ins.”

“Not often,” you smile, searching the appointment book on your computer for an open slot, “but I think we can fit you in.”

Frank nods, sighing another ‘thank you’ before silence circles the three of you.

Dr. Abbot places the referrals on the desk, “Fax numbers are in that email from Peter’s mother, thank you.” He’s just about to step away when Frank perks up again.

“You working late tonight?”

The both of you look up at him again, but he’s very clearly beaming at you. His curiosity is endearing.

“I don’t think so.” / “Yes, she is.”

A nervous laugh bubbles from Frank while you and Dr. Abbot flick eyes at each other after clashing your answers. You hope to God he didn’t mean it.

Politely, you try to answer differently, “Maybe, depending on—”

“Y’know what, I can probably just see him now,” Dr. Abbot interrupts, quite gruffly, as if he has somewhere else he desperately needs to be. Taps two fingers on the desk. “He can fill out the registration form in my office,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of the corridor.

He slips around the counter, leaving the waiting room before you can say a word. Returning to Frank, you just smile again and hand him the clipboard of forms with a pen, “Here you go.”

“Is he alright?” Frank quirks a brow, accepting the form from you.

“He’s just tired,” you falsely reassure him, very unsure of why Dr. Abbot responded so bluntly. He can be dry in tone, but he doesn’t usually have such an edge with patients. “He gets like that sometimes.”

“Okay, then,” says Frank. “Thank you, again.”

“Any time.”

Frank chats you up at the reception desk ten minutes later, eyes twinkling as he nurses a freshly dressed palm with his prescription in his other hand.

Sometimes, when you really let it, a small consideration crosses your mind. Presumably desperation bred from a lack of…venery from someone you cannot have. So, naturally, you’d feel inclined to look at the options more available to you. And Frank makes himself ludicrously available any chance he gets.

You’re not unaware of it. The dragging glances, the sweet-talking he’s peppered in over the past year. Preening your platonic relationship into this hazy in-between where he hopes he can bribe you into his bed with free food and (arguably) innocent banter. There’s nothing stopping you either. You’re free to latch onto the bait, get his hooks inside you. Curling horribly.

Can’t fill you up nice and good like Dr. Abbot.

Appointments ended at 5. It’s 8 PM when he finally fucking decides to leave his office.

He rounds the counter, ruffling through his pigeon hole at the wall behind you. “I don’t wanna see that Fred guy again.”

“You mean Frank? Was everything okay?”

“Does he bother you?” He ignores your question with his own, straightening up when he finds pamphlets held in a rubber band. He’s never cared to read through them, so it appears to you that he is, for whatever reason, stalling. “He seems eager.”

“He’s friendly.”

“Oh, come on,” a laugh jumps out of him, which compels you to turn your chair in his direction. “The way he looks at you, he’s dying to fuck you,” he smiles and it’s so sickening. Like it amuses him. “Kid probably creamed his pants, seein’ your tits peek outta that blouse.” You’re frozen in your seat, barely processing the utter bluntness of his wording. Serrated knives. “Y’should put the poor guy out of his misery.”

In an attempt to brace yourself, you turn back to face your computer. Your clothes kiss your body uncomfortably now. It’s impossible to soothe the ache pulsing between your legs.

He flips through the pamphlets indifferently and sighs. “Anyway, I think I wanna cancel that meeting with the psych rep on Thursday. The ginger with the goatee. Spencer, I think it was? Doesn’t take any of it seriously. You won’t believe the shit he said last time, that ignorant fuck.” Then, he laughs bitterly, running a hand down his face after he tosses the pamphlets in the bin at your feet. You can only nod, acutely aware of the slick flooding your panties. Slippery clit longing for his hot mouth.

The room tips on its side when he gently squeezes your left shoulder.

“Good job today, yeah?”

You swallow thickly, struggling to look up at him, “Thank you.”

Releases his hand. Though, it feels like he almost rips the skin off your shoulder. Like the sheer heat in his touch had fluxed your flesh with his. Amalgamation. The grooves of his fingertips leaving cracks in the molten rock of your arm.

“And don’t wear that again,” he orders as he walks back around the counter.

Your brows pull tight in confusion. “Sorry?”

“The blouse,” is all he says, passing you and disappearing out the door.

One morning, too many months ago, you had rummaged through the storage room at work in search of decade-old vaccination files for a stubborn patient. Hopelessly, you dug around papers in drawers to find the last thing you were supposed to be looking for. Old prints of Dr. Abbot’s headshots for practice advertisements and pamphlets from two years ago...

At present, on your bed, you are kneeling back against your feet, thighs spread. Loose top hanging on your form, pair of cotton underwear. His crumpled photo, pinned to the sheets under the heel of your outstretched palm.

He looks exactly the same in it. White collar folding out of his sweater. Cropped ashen hair, snowy stubble. An indecipherable vacuum in his eyes (if you aren’t careful, you could sink in and deliquesce into nothing). No doubt, he probably cringed at the idea of getting his picture taken like this.

But one of them has been yours for a while now, always folded and tucked away in your bedside drawer. It rarely leaves its nest, but you can’t help yourself sometimes. When your thoughts aren’t enough, the photo acts as a crutch for an orgasm. Something tangible; real.

With shame coiling in your belly and your free hand wedged between your thighs, you screw your eyes shut to think of him. If you try hard enough, you can probably feel the ghost of his hand trapping your shoulder. His hands clutching your hips. His hands on the desk. His loins obtruding your ass—

—seein’ your tits peek outta that blouse.

Long breaths pour from your open mouth when you feel your core string itself tight, hole clenching around your sore fingers as you thumb your clit. Electric shimmers dot the abyss behind your closed eyes. You pull yourself forward to lean on your other hand while you aimlessly grind against your working wrist. The hovering and the sustained pressure of your thighs set your knees ablaze with overuse. Pain is easier to endure with the precipice of pleasure drawing closer and closer to you in every stroke you manage to thrust into yourself.

One of many fantasies you’ve fabricated, where he drags his flushed tip up and down the seam of your weeping pussy. Mixing his pre with your slick. Playing with you. It’s almost like a memory to you in the way that it shoves you towards climax and sends your eyes flying open to lock in on the photo scrunched in your clenched fist. A strangled cry catches on your teeth before tumbling from your lips.

You come hard, looking at Dr. Abbot’s paper face in the low lamplight of your bedroom.

[psformybss]

drew starkey x actress!reader

series masterlist

— drew starkey who… used to think he could keep work and emotions separate. Show up, hit his marks, be chill with the cast, and move on. But then she walked into the readthrough, sharp-eyed, sarcastic, too smart for her own good and made him forget every rule he swore by.

— drew starkey who… said she was a bad fit for the show before he even gave her a chance. Told someone in passing that her character felt “forced.” Thought she’d be another spotlight-chaser with something to prove. But when she looked him dead in the eye and said, “Don’t worry, I’m not here to be your fan,” he knew he’d misjudged her. And it pissed him off.

— drew starkey who… couldn’t stop thinking about her after that first table read. Not because he liked her, he didn’t. Not then. It was the way she challenged him. Interrupted him. Matched him line for line and still made him look like the immature one. She was a problem. And for some reason, he liked problems.

— drew starkey who… tried to be distant, tried to keep it professional, but she made that impossible. She roasted him in front of the whole cast during truth or dare and somehow made it funny and accurate and brutal all at once. He laughed, sure but later he couldn’t sleep. All he could hear was her voice mimicking his. All he could see was the smirk she gave after.

— drew starkey who… started noticing the way her laugh cracked a little when she was tired. The way she stayed late to run lines even when she said she hated being around him. The way his name sounded different when she was annoyed like she could spit it or kiss it. It messed with his head. Made him wish things were different. Made him wonder if they could be.

— drew starkey who… told himself it was just chemistry. Just two good actors with natural friction. But then she cried during a scene and he felt it in his chest. Not the script. Her. And when she walked off set that day, shaken and silent, he followed. And when she finally let him kiss her, it felt like everything before that moment had just been noise.

— drew starkey who… now brings her coffee before call times, even when they’re not speaking. Sends her stupid memes just to get a reaction. Feels like he’s falling every time she calls him out, smiles at him sideways, or sits too close on purpose. She drives him insane but he doesn’t want peace if it means losing her.

— drew starkey who… doesn’t care what people say. Doesn’t care about rumors, press, or PR chaos. She’s the reason every scene feels real now. The reason his trailer feels empty without her in it. He used to think he was better off guarded. Detached. But now? Now he knows, he was just waiting for her.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

— actress!reader who… walked into Outer Banks thinking it’d just be a job. A cool opportunity, a fun cast, maybe some good scenes. She didn’t expect Drew Starkey to be cold, distant, and rude from day one. She definitely didn’t expect him to get under her skin the way he did.

— actress!reader who… heard him call her character “forced” behind her back before they’d even spoken two words to each other. Who smiled through introductions but never forgot the way his eyes skimmed over her like she was a problem, not a person. Fine, she thought. If he wanted to act like she didn’t belong, she’d make sure he felt her presence every time she walked on set.

— actress!reader who… fought with him over blocking and tone during their very first scene. Who stood her ground when the director had to step in. Who left rehearsal fuming more times than she could count but still caught herself rewinding moments between them in her head. Because the chemistry? It was there. Even when she hated him.

— actress!reader who… made a joke at his expense during a cast truth-or-dare game and had the whole table crying laughing except him. Who pretended not to notice the way he looked at her after, like she was a puzzle he suddenly couldn’t solve. Like she was fire and he’d just touched it.

— actress!reader who… started catching feelings in the worst, slowest, most inconvenient way. Not in the big, dramatic moments but in the small ones. When she caught him staring during a readthrough. When he sent her a dumb meme late at night just to get a reaction. When he defended her, quietly, to someone who doubted her. That’s when she knew she was screwed.

— actress!reader who… kissed him backstage after an emotional scene, breathless and still shaking, and told herself it didn’t mean anything. That it was adrenaline. That it was acting. But his hands didn’t feel like acting. The way he whispered her name didn’t feel like acting. Nothing between them ever really did.

— actress!reader who… tried to stay professional, but kept finding excuses to be near him. Kept finding comfort in the soft way he said “you good?” between takes. In the silence that wasn’t awkward anymore. In the way he’d start to say something, stop himself, then say it anyway, just for her.

— actress!reader who… spent months pretending not to care, only to realize she always did. And now? Now she steals his hoodies, rolls her eyes when he brings her coffee, roasts him in group chats and still texts him good luck before every big scene. They still argue but now they argue like people who know they’ll always come back to each other.

an: sooo i changed my mind it’s not gonna be a chapter kinda fic mostly cause i dont have the attention span for that rn 😭

taglist: @happy-mushrooms

[bunni-v1]

Not really a request? Just wanna throw an idea out into the void- (Pure Vanilla x Y/N)

I think it would be really funny if one day Custard Cookie the third just asks if we're their new great-grandparent now.

Whether or not he WANTS US to be his great-grandparent is a whole other thing and I think no one talks about it considering how many funny dynamics it opens up based on what stage of the relationship he asks.

I don't know how in character it would be but Custard Cookie wanting us as a great-grandparent and mentioning that to PV might kill the old man

Custard Cookie IS that kid. He’s so very obviously the kind of child who walks up and asks awkward and annoying questions to adults, he’s so fucking cute I adore that little guy. It’s especially adorable considering how much he looks up to Pure Vanilla.

I think he would certainly come up to you and try to win your approval. He follows either of you around like a lost duckling trying to prove his capabilities to both of you. He notices quickly that your relationship with one another is different from other cookies. You’re closer and more affectionate with one another, and Pure Vanilla treats you with more care compared to the others around the kingdom.

It is inevitable that the little cookie asks not only about your relationship, but also if you are his grandparent now. It’s a startling question to hear, especially considering neither of you look like grandparents (though Pure Vanilla certainly is old enough to be one). Pure Vanilla would certainly like you to share the title with him, but he won’t push you on it. If you do agree he’s over the moon and practically shining for the rest of the week.

His reaction does change depending on how long you’ve been together.

In the earlier years of your relationship Pure Vanilla responds with shock and embarrassment. He’s very quick to jump up and correct Custard Cookie for fear of making you uncomfortable. He very much likes the idea of being with you in such a way, marriage is very romantic after all, but it’s a little early to be considering such a thing!

Custard Cookie doesn’t care, though, and declares that you are his new grandparent! He goes around the kingdom and tells everyone of this, much to Pure Vanilla’s stress. You take it in stride, treating the little cookie as if he were your own dough and jam, coddling him and spoiling him as any grandparent might. It certainly reframed Pure Vanilla’s thoughts on the whole situation, but he still worries it’s a bit too much…

If it is later on in the relationship, Pure Vanilla is much more receptive to the thought. Nodding in agreement when he asks, “Yes. I would very much like that, wouldn’t you?”

He’s put you on the spot, but the only correct answer you could think of was “Yes, of course.”

Custard Cookie excites, declaring he will spread the news about the kingdom thenceforth. It’s utterly charming how giddy the little cookie gets. Pure Vanilla suggests that perhaps the two of you should make one of your own, after all, another companion for Custard Cookie couldn’t be so bad right?

[hananan2]

HIIIIIII GOOD MORNING / NIGHT could i please request for crewel with his fem!daughter having a big crush on ace? platonic ofc!!

i could see him like 'dear puppy, are you sure you like HIM of all people??? HIM??? 😨 i know he's your friend but HIM???'

off topic but ur acc is rlly cute !!!

thank u in advance, have a good day / night ! (⁠*⁠＾⁠3⁠＾⁠)⁠/⁠～⁠♡

YES OFC THIS IS SO CUTEE!! I miss Ace content!! Thank you, you’re so sweet! I hope you enjoy!💕 th

A/N: THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH IM SO HAPPY WITH ALL THE SUPPORT💕💕 I just wanted to say that all who requested, your request is being written! I just have a lot, please be patient, thank you!💕

Are you sure puppy…? HIM?

summary: You’ve developed a crush on your best friend Ace and your so giddy and happy! So happy your father Crewel knows you have a crush, and when he finds out…he’s not excited.

Characters: Ace trappola!

info: Fluff, Silly, Crewel is your dad, Fem!reader! Romantic (with Ace), platonic!

Cw: Cursing (I need to add this cw, I keep forgetting💔)

Something was so different about you, scratch that , it was him.

The way he grinned after doing the most heinous and unnecessary things ever grew more charming, his small teases that annoyed you became more endearing, the way his hand was 2 centimeters closer to yours while you both sat next to eachother in class, the look on his eyes! UGH! You laid in your bed miserable but kicking your legs. Freaking Ace Trappola.

Maybe you were insane and needed a straight coat or desperate, but Ace looked so handsome and hot recently, it drove you crazy! And when he sat next to you in class everyday, giving you that grin, it was hard to process.

And when you were acting like some stupid male bird trying to court a female, someone was gonna catch on, thankfully, not Ace.

You were in Potions class, making a potion with Ace as your partner, the assignment was kinda hard but since you were so epic you managed to figure it out! When you did, Ace grabbed you in a tight hug that swept you off your feet. “Damn you’re amazing! My grade was gonna drop!” You radiated with pink, “Yes yes thank you!” You said sly, but you felt like you were about to die, in that moment, you felt sharp eyes on you.

while Ace headed off with a ruffle to your hair, You felt a gentle tug on your lab coat’s collar when you were leaving, it was your Crewel, aka best dad ever! “Dear Puppy,” he said sternly, “Do you like somebody?” He questioned, still hiding you by your coat in the now empty classroom.

“W-What? No! Dad, just cause I’m surrounded by guys doesn’t mean I have 60 boyfriend, boys don’t even like me like that.” you said kinda half bluffing, trying to act annoying and flail your arms to get him irritated and leave you alone, you did NOT want to be interrogated on this topic.

“I did not say either of those things, and you’re a beautiful, smart girl so I don’t see why guys wouldn’t like you, what did I tell you about being insecure?” He lectured a little, when you were little, he alway wanted you to be confident and love yourself, if he knew you were insecure his heart would break.

“Look, I know it’s not cool to tell your dad this kind of stuff, and I’m not going to force you, but I’ll find out either way, just saying who it is would be my recommendation.”

“Fine….” You signed annoyed, but it was full with nervousness. “Ace trappola, you know…ginger, troublemaker, stupid heart on his eye….my best friend?” You said timidly, not daring to look at his face..

. . .

“HIM?”

“You said you wouldn’t freak out!”

—

So when you went over to Crewel’s place to have daddy-daughter time (watching the twst-equivalent of RuPauls Drag Race) it was awkward, while he was making tea and you were on your phone, coincidentally texting Ace, he spoke up.

“Listen puppy, I support you in your endeavors and your dreams, and I understand he’s your best friend…but HIM?” He said with shock still present

“Ugh your making him sound like he sells edibles to kindergartners dad! He’s just… he’s really nice I promise, like he always saves a seat for me at lunch, he always makes me laugh when I’m sad, he wraps his arms around me and makes me feel safe—ew why am I telling you this?” You looked grossed out by your self, digging your phone on the soft, spotted bedsheets when Ace sent another stupid meme.

“I understand teenage love and struggles, I was like this once too you know, not always your fabulous father, but fine, I can’t stop you from liking a guy, but I’m keeping in eye on you and him.” He chided as he sipped his ginger tea.

“Yea whatever, not like we’re gonna rawdog eachother…”

“What?”

—

Safe to say, Crewel wasn’t the happiest about your crush, Ace was just…bad news in his books, he seemed like he was a player and a bad influence who would leave you crying and heartbroken in his arms. But again, he did trust you, and watching you more attentively, Ace didn’t seem that mean, he looked at you fondly, he handled you gently, he did things, but never out of boundaries. Still upset, but maybe a bit too quick to judge.

One day after potions class, Crewel felt a presence in the room after all the students left, he immediately assumed it was you of course.

“What is it Y/N? I can’t listen to your crush stories later on, papa’s busy now with your class mates horrible handwriting, sigh look at this? Is this a cave drawing?”

”Uh that’s my paper Sir.” That was not you.

“OH! Trappola, hello there, what do you need now? I do not have snacks.” Crewel flinched and slammed the paper on his desk, ugh what was the infamous Ace Trappola doing here?

“Yea uhm,” The boy seems more nervous ever, his hand scratching the back of his head like he was made to wash 500 windows.

“You know Y/N right? Your daughter? What’s her favorite candy…?” He asked bashfully, ears grazed with red, he was never bashful, wow he seemed like a decent boy.

“Do you have romantic feelings for my daughter?” He just had to know.

“Ah. Uhhhhh… will I get detention for saying yes?”

“Only if you break her heart, think I’ll have you expelled matter a fact.”

“Hehe good thing I would never!” His cocky attitude slipped in.

Well at least Crewel knew his daughter was in more safer hands than he thought before.