#but it's looking more and more like he wants the new contract now??

[thecoochiefairy]

baby phat. onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 4.K word count. blackfem!reader, pregnant!fem reader/kink, drabble, onyankopon, grumpy!onyankopon, sweet!onyakopon, dominant!onyankapon, masturbation, phone/facetime sex, vaginal penetration, lil bit of sweet talkin’, creaming, praising, LOTS of dirty talk, kinda aggressive dirty talk, just a fine ass black man, minors aren’t welcome!

━━ 𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ my brain is foggy from real life so just wanted to give y’all a lil something to leave you hot and bothered. if i gotta suffer, you do too. love you.

THE SCENT OF CASHMERE VANILLA, COCOA BUTTER AND BROWN SUGAR WAS WHAT YOU USUALLY WOKE UP TO. Unfortunately, that scent was missing within the bed. You sat up tiredly as you took a deep breath, raising your fingers over the smooth swell of your belly—you were now eight months pregnant, and your husband wasn’t home as much as you wanted him to be.

With a sigh, you pull yourself out of bed to prepare for the day. Onyankopon had been in contract with the New Orleans Saints for only a couple of months now. Becoming pregnant was an accident—but spending the rest of your life with him wasn’t the worst thing in the world. You’d practically traveled to every part of the state to be there with him for games—a baby wasn’t too far along after. 

The only unfortunate part of this situation was his absence. With him just being signed, he was around the state with press conferences, practices, essentially in the hazing part of his successes. You were happy for him as you knew this was all he wanted, but you missed him, and so did the baby growing inside your belly. 

Thankfully, you did have the support of his mom, who was there for you as if you were her own daughter. She was there to help you with your daily routine—feeding Ony’s two large Dobermans since she was terrified of dogs, going with you to your ultrasound for the day, and dragging you into every store she saw with infant clothes. You enjoyed your time with her—but you still missed Onyankopon. 

It’s not like the two of you didn’t communicate. You had your ways. Texting when he wasn’t busy, phone and video calls into the night, pictures of daily activities, or all of those options in more…intimate times. It opened up a new exploration of your relationship as you were more shy to the nastier suggestions, but as more time was spent away from him, you’d do anything to show how much you missed him. 

Speaking of, it was your favorite time of the day. Your daily phone call with him was closer to the evening time, the sun beginning to set within the state of Louisiana. He was only a couple of hours away as they were in Mississippi, days away from preparing to play their kick off game against Ole Miss—but it felt like he was across the country at this point. 

You adjust the bow that ties against the halter of your yellow sun dress, silver cross sat between the swell of your breasts and constantly hardened nipples due to your hormones. You were going for a more natural route with your hair, flip-over sew-in under midnight black curls, dragging all the way down your back, framing your flushed and freckles cheeks. 

You back yourself up a bit as you’re seated within the master bedroom, blood red IMAC brightening against your caramel skin, camera reflecting back at you as the call rang. When it connected, you were met with the familiarity of his hotel room—seeing as the room was slightly dim, the TV’s light against his brown skin, full lips even more delectable through the grainy camera. His durag protects his hair, goatee connected perfectly, jawline prominent under his stoic gaze. He was edible. 

You wave, “Hi, baby! Can you see me?”

“I can,” he mused. 

His deep timbre voice was comforting as he greeted, “Hey, my pretty ass baby. Look at you,” His eyes flickered over your face, breasts, and your swollen belly, making your thighs press together, “How you’ feeling?”

You sigh, pulling your hair behind your ear, “I’m okay. You’ like my dress?” 

Your voice was soft, already feeling the tiniest bit insecure as you’d just gotten back into form fitting clothes. You’d cried as your body changed in the earlier months.

Onyankopon smirks, shifting on the chair where his knees spread, “Pretty as fuck, Mama. Bout’ to bust that shit open with all that ass,” he grunts, which makes you giggle as he continues, “I miss you.”

“I miss you more, baby,” you exhale, trying not to make yourself upset, “You need to come home soon. Your big ass wolves that you call dogs are scaring your mom.”

“Oh? Now they’ my dogs. You ain’t say all that when you wanted them,” he retorts, licking over his lips.

Your eyes follow the movement of his tongue as you shift on the chair. He looked handsome as ever. You can’t help but stare at his full lips, the small dimple in his cheek, and the dark hue of his eyes as he leans towards the computer desk, pulling out rolling paper as he prepares to roll a blunt. You weren’t sure why, but it was always the sexiest thing to watch.

You blink as your eyes scan the screen, clearing your throat a bit as you raise an eyebrow, “They’ ain’t drug testing y’all?”

Onyankopon shrugs, “It’s preseason, Baby,” he murmurs as he begins to break down the tree on the rolling paper, “Besides, all I’m doing is smoking. That ain’t so bad.”

“Mhm,” you roll your eyes, “Well you better cut that ain’t so bad habit before our little Pumpkin comes,” you run your fingers over your belly.

Your eyes run across his mouth as he licks over his joint, sealing the end, “Don’t call him that shit. That’s my son,” he grabs for his lighter, “My lil’ man been kickin’?”

“Your lil’ football player has been punting in my damn stomach,” you blow out a breath, “He’s moving down to my bladder. If he shifts anymore, imma’ need a walker.”

Your fingers grip around the cross hanging between your breasts, “…You’re my Pumpkin too, y’know.”

A chuckle leaves Onyankopon as he brings his freshly lit joint to his lips, inhaling as he holds off the urge to laugh. A cloud of gray leaves his lips as he blows. 

“He gon’ have my long ass legs.” 

His eyes flicker up momentarily from the screen, making it fog, “You my pumpkin, too,” he replies, exhales into the camera. 

You didn’t want to interrupt as you watched him—the haze of his red eyes already becoming apparent. He’s sexy. Fuck.

Your fingers absentmindedly trail along your belly, feeling your cheeks become warm as you bring your eyes down. You ask softly, “How was practice?”

"We got a new tight end, nigga think he somebody. But besides that, same ol'. Just drills and shit really,” He banters, shifting forward in his chair as he stares up at you, "You know I'm bored as hell right now, Mama." 

You could see the haze in his eyes grow as he slowly takes another hit of his joint—Uh oh. 

You narrow your eyes, curls swaying over your shoulder, “Oh, am I boring you?”

"You?” 

Onyankopon leans back against the chair, exhaling into the computer. He grins a bit as the camera is engulfed in smoke, "Nah. You could never, baby.” 

You watch him with curious eyes as he shifts in the chair, groaning slightly which makes your mind wander—The only thing you could see was his face, shoulders, chest and what you could assume to be his stomach. He wears a white long sleeve, clinging to his muscular frame. You knew all the tattoos that hid under his top. But something was under the computer table…

You give him a soft, awkward smile. You know how he got when he was high. This was your husband, yet he made you nervous like a schoolgirl. 

You then say, “Oh!” Standing as you search for your purse, ass directly within the camera as you question, “I got the ultrasound photos, baby! Wanna see?”

Your husband hums, low and deep as he says back to you, “Mhm,” You feel his lustful eyes on the screen, “Come show me.” 

Your hands tremble as you search, almost excited for him to see the photos. Or maybe you were just nervous—again. 

You drop the brown Telfar on the side of the desk, it only takes you three steps to be in front of your computer again, holding the black and white printout up to the screen. 

You can hear a faint laugh as Onyankopon murmurs once again, “Bring it closer, girl.”

You fully sit down again, leaning forward as you point your acrylic nail against the sonogram, “See, that’s his little toesss, and that’s his little fingers!” you giggle, “You see?”

Onyankopon’s face breaks out into a smile as he groans slightly, “Goddamn. I lied, he got my fingers. Musta’ got your toes, Mama. Can’t see ‘em too good.”

You hum, “Guess he won’t be too good for basketball then,” you tease.

Onyankopon snorts at that as he says, “Basketball she says— You know what? Just ‘cause you said that, he’s not playin no sport. Imma’ get lil’ man his own studio.”

You giggle a bit at that, “My child ain’t finna’ be no damn rapper. You can kill that thought.”

“That’s ‘cause he’s gonna’ be a singer. Got your pretty ass voice, I know it.”

You roll your eyes, “You’ just flirting, boy. Cut it out.”

Onyankopon chuckles at that, but he doesn’t deny it. His eyes fall back to that serious gaze he had before, a soft tint of red within them.

“You’ got me thinking about you.”

His voice, it’s almost like it’s own way of peer pressure. Your hands run over your belly anxiously as you blink, “Me?”

"Yeah,” Your husband draws out, eyes flickering up and down the screen in anticipation, “Don't play all shy.”

You can see him shift in the chair as he leans back, and his eyes stare back at the screen. You can tell he was waiting for something.

At the same time, your body becomes…significantly warm. Before he was signed, you and Onyankopon had sex almost every single day. You couldn’t get enough of each other, never did. Your mind flashes to those memories, and your thighs rub together a bit. At the same time, the door to the master bedroom opens, allowing you to exhale for a second. 

Gray curls come into view, brown skin and familiar eyes that belonged to your mother-in-law. She held a bowl of food with a smile. 

She walked towards the camera, “Hey, Honey-Bun, you alright in here? I made you some jambalaya—“

She pauses, looking towards her son on the camera as her eyes immediately narrow, “I know your big headed ass better put that joint away.” 

Onyankopon groans as his mother comes into view, “Yes ma’am,” he coughs, hovering a fist over his mouth. He was still high—which you could tell based on his flushed appearance and tone. His mother was very anti-weed, so he always tried to hide it as much as possible. You can see some movement under the table, which you assumed was Onyankopon putting the blunt away.

“Why’ the hell do you think it’s a good time to be smoking, Onyankopon? They don’t drug test y’all?”

Oh god. You knew your mother-in-law could easily begin complaining, and you wish she’d walked in at any other time as you placed a calming palm against her arm.

Onyankopon clears his throat, making his face close to the screen so you could really see his eyes, “Ma—Ma. I’m in the preseason. Ain’t got no games for a couple days. They ain’t doin’ that, they ain’t doin’ all that.”

“Preseason? The ‘hell does that mean? Are y’all playing or not? If you’re not playing then why can't you come back home to check on your mother and your pregnant wife?” She comes closer to the camera, you can’t help but sigh lightly to yourself.

Onyankopon groans again as he leans back in the chair, “Momma, I’m not finna’ get into it with you again. You and Baby know. You jus’ gon’ talk over me if I start speakin’ anyway.”

He can’t help but tongue his cheek momentarily, and your heartbeat increases with just his simple movements—but you’re brought back to reality when his mother speaks up even quicker.

“Are you at least eating? Did you get the care package I sent you? I got all your soaps, and that little teddy bear you had as a baby—you never went anywhere without Mr. Snuffles,” which makes you giggle at the familiar toy, something Onyankopon hated being reminded of.

He mumbles, “…I’m good, Momma, got your care packages. Lawd. Stop with all that…” 

“Thank you for the food, Momma,” you give her a smile, “I’m not super hungry at the moment, do you mind leaving it in the fridge?”

Onyankopon’s mom gives a smile back, “Of course. I’m actually gonna head back home for the night, do you need anything else?”

You shake your head, “I’m perfect. Just gonna’ keep talking to Ony for a little while longer.”

Onyankopon sighs as his mother says her goodbyes, exiting out of the room. Now, you notice his eyes flickering up and down your curves, which makes you squirm under the spotlight. Onyankopon then repeats, “I miss you bad as fuck, girl. You miss me?”

You hate yourself for the emotions that produce randomly at times. The conversation between your mother-in-law and Onyankopon, the way he made you easily giggle, the imagery of his warmth surrounding you but not actually being there—it didn’t feel the best. 

The dark fluff of your cat-eye lash extensions flutter as you nod your head, using your knuckles to lightly swipe your watery eyes as you nod, “I miss you so much, Ony…”

Your husband’s face softens slightly. He hated to see you so emotional due to his absence, and would rather be anywhere else. But you always supported his dreams, and wanted to build the perfect life for your baby boy. He mutters, “Stop all that crying, baby. Wipe ya’ face. You know I’ll be back.“

You shakily sigh a bit, nodding your head as you kneel your face down to let the tears fall that way, “I—I know, it’s just hard sleeping without you,” you sniffle, “Lil’ Pumpkin likes when you rub my stomach to sleep…”

Onyankopon sighs, “And I love rubbin’ your stomach, baby.” 

He then says, “Soon as I get back, we gon’ sleep for a whole week. Ain’t nobody gonna’ bother us. I’m all yours.”

Your heartbeat increases—Onyankopon always had a way to make you emotional without even being near. It also made you somewhat…aroused. 

“I miss you like crazy. I miss ya’ voice, I miss ya’ smell. I miss ya’ pu—“ he cuts himself off before he goes into that territory, which makes your body heat up slightly.

You watch as he brings the blunt back up to the camera, pulling another drag of smoke, the move always so efficient as if it was nothing. His eyes are back to being low—it makes you shift your legs again. He cuts on low background music to play, and a familiar song catches your ears, She Will, by Lil Wayne. 

You hum softly, “You love this song.” 

You take a moment to recall why the song gave you such a sense of Deja Vu. But as you remember, you halt.

The memory was at a family event— Onyankopon’s going away party. His family irritated him by being loud, over talking and messy—a black family’s usual antics. He’d managed to sneak downstairs with you to the car for a moment of silence, the two of you smoking, the song faintly playing in the back. You’d…remembered this vividly.

 Your mind glazes over the moans you produced in that backseat, the sound of your skin connecting, your vulnerability, your legs trapped over his shoulders…

Your mind comes back to reality as you’ve been watching him this whole time. Your hand had somehow made its way to your chest…rubbing over your exposed skin, clutching your pendant again. 

“Mama,” Onyankopon murmurs as he brings another drag of the blunt back on camera, blowing the smoke into screen as he spins back to his sentence earlier, “‘Got me thinking about you bad as fuck.” 

He was high as hell.

Your eyes run over his large silhouette as he leans back against the chair, knees spreading out further as he makes himself comfortable, head tilting back a bit as he watches you. 

Your mind wanders again, back to that song—back to that night. Your mind can’t stop. Your head is spinning with the memories, it physically makes you whimper, squeezing your thighs, tugging your pendant fully.

Your husband’s gaze grows in lust as he leans forward a bit, whispering, “Talk to me. Whatchu’ thinkin’ about?”

The hand clutched around your pendant squeezes a bit tighter as you glance towards the camera, “The song…makes me think of that night in the car…” you softly admit, rubbing your fingers over your collar bone, your fingertips bringing you warmth.

 He brings the blunt back on camera again before a stream of clouds leaves his lips, “You miss that night, Mama?”

You nod your head, your entire body now hot. You could feel your nipples poking through your top again, aching in a way that almost becomes painful. Your thighs are so tightly together, as you adjust the seating position, you grind against yourself a bit, making the tiniest gasp pull from your lips.

Onyankopon groans through the screen, and you can hear his voice say, “You in our bedroom?” 

He was becoming impatient.

"Go to it. On the bed," he murmurs, "Hurry up.”

“Too far from you, Ony,” you pout, bringing your hands against your breast, giving a squeeze to them, trying to relive how full they feel.

There's a pause before a deep exhale leaves his lips. His tone goes deep again, "Go."

You shudder as you stand, your legs feeling numb. You tilt the monitor more towards the king sized bed, silky black comforter set along the oversized mattress. You crawl along the sheets, turning towards him again, your knees along the bed as your dress begins to hike against your soft thighs.

His eyes flicker downward at you, and you can feel his gaze run up your smooth, caramel skin. His gaze burns into yours, giving an intense look. 

You hear his voice again, “You gon’ do what I say?”

You nod your head, lightly digging your teeth against the pink of your soft lips.

“Always listen to you, Ony…”

Your man growls, “That’s right, ‘cause you good. You gon’ be good for me?”

Your hands squeeze the flesh of your breast, your nipples never being this sensitive before your pregnancy. You gasp in a soft tone, but the sound is heavier. You nod your head, “Bought something I w—wanna show you…”

You hear his breathing pick up, “Yeah? Show me,” he murmurs. “You look so muhfuckin’ good right now, baby.”

You reach behind you as you pull a toy from under the pillow—it’s pink, silicone, almost looking like glass. Big, just as big as him. 

“Pretty like you, Daddy…”

"Look at that," You hear a deep noise escape his lips before there's a shuffling noise, you couldn't exactly make out what it was—then it was followed by another noise. This one you recognized; the strings of his sweatpants. His dark pink tip slaps along the sculpted muscle of his stomach, practically making your mouth water. 

“You like it?” You ask softly.

 You take the object and graze it lightly along your body, seating yourself fully along the bed. You’re at the most perfect angle to spread your legs.

“Yeah, baby,” he grunts, letting more of his body come into view as he’s in a reclined position. You can begin to see his toned chest come into view when there's some shuffling noises again, his breathing picking up, “Love it.” 

You pull at the string of your dress, letting the halter fall over the swell of your belly, material hanging in between your stomach and hips. You were now bare at the top, hair swaying over your body and face as you shuddered a bit, “They’re starting to fill with milk, baby… sensitive…”

You can hear a deep, deep groan echo in the screen, almost sounding frustrated, “Fuck. You’ playing right now. Put that shit in your mouth.”

You bring the toy up to your mouth, spreading your full lips apart as you let it slide on your tongue, coating it with your saliva. At the same time, you spread your legs, showing off the glistening arousal bedaubed on your pussy. You were wet. 

“Fuck, baby....” he growls lowly, beginning to stroke himself, “Pussy so pretty. I can feel that shit on my tongue. I’m just slurping your shit up.” 

 His voice is rough with desire, each word punctuated by a squeeze of his fist around his thick tip. 

“Get you’ a pillow for your lower back, baby. ‘Know it hurts sometimes.”

You listen, pulling the satin pillow behind you for a bit of support, feeling the small ache in your back beginning to decrease. 

“Comfortable, Mama?” He questions, you nod your head.

“Good. Rub that dick all over your clit.”

Your eyes flutter shut as you imagine his lips dropping kisses against your clit. He’d go from your inner thighs, teasing you. He’d watch as you’d squirm with every suckle of your skin, your entire body shuddering as his hot breath fanned over the hood covering the pink nub, being pulled up by his lips, being kissed by his tongue. You brush the toy against your clit that throbs, spreading your legs a little more as you whimper, lightly dragging the tip in circles on your upper pussy. The sound it makes, your pussy keens.

His hand begins to pick up speed as he pumps through his fist, “You like that, huh? Rubbing this big ass dick all over your clit?” He grunts, his voice strained with pleasure, “Slap that shit on your pussy. Get them’ pretty ass eyes rolling back."

He knew everything about your body. Including the way you’d spasm at this action, so you listened, slapping the heavy toy against your clit, your legs trembling in response, eyes rolling to the back or your head. You groan a bit, head falling back, eyes fluttering before you bring your attention back to your arousal that pools beneath your thighs, pulling your legs wider to show the gummy pink of your pussy. 

The anticipation builds as you tease yourself, circling your clit with the toy, then dipping it inside your opening just enough before withdrawing again.

“Why that shit so fuckin’ wet already?” His jaw clenches, head tilting back, fist rotating on his tip, dragging down every couple of seconds.

Your folds wrap around the toy every millisecond as you slide the outsides of it against yourself, teasing so much that your eyes haven’t stopped rolling back. 

The swell of your belly shifts a bit as you whine softly, “Ony…” 

“Shut the fuck up,” he snaps, “Ain’t even put that shit in yet. Where’ my lil’ nasty bitch at? She would’ve been droolin’, dropping herself all on my dick. Just drenching my shit. Quit playing.”

“Right here,” you whimper, nodding your head, digging your teeth back into the plump of your lips. Instead of dipping the toy in to tease yourself, you take a palm to pull one of your legs up in the air, using your other hand to drag the toy towards your opening, separating the aching stretch of your folds as you begin sinking it’s tip inside. 

You’re gasping as you watch it go in, unable to see more, yet you feel every inch swelling your walls, disappearing under the sight of your large belly. 

You whimper, “It’s in there, baby.” 

"Get it all the way in, baby. Bury that shit deep," he commands, pumping faster now, his breathing ragged. You’re dropping it in, inch by inch, your inhale deep as you pull it halfway out, toes curling as you sink it back in, an air pocket gushing as your arousal sops around the pink toy. 

Your eyes are fluttering chaotically as you shudder, “Fuck,  agh—“ you don’t stop, fist brushing over your clit as you’re dropping it down into you.

He’s talking, "You remember when we first met? Couldn’t even handle my fingers. Now look at you,” A low chuckle escapes him, "Now I got you stretching that pussy out. Dick just drop, drop, dropping in that shit…”

His words trail off into a grunt as he quickens his strokes, “You my lil’ freaky ass bitch, huh?”

You whimper, pouting at the way your pussy cries its tears, sobbing out in waves of arousal that pool each time you pull the toy out, painting the pink silicone white. You squeal lightly as its balls slap against the outside of your pussy, the fleshy sound splattering up more of your wetness as you petulantly whine, “Yeah, Ony…”

"That's right, baby. Take that shit like a good lil' slut," he says, voice dripping with lust as he watches you work the toy deep inside yourself, “Rubbing that pretty ass clit while you're stuffed. Fuck, you look so damn good."

He picks up pace, stroking harder and faster as he nears his own climax, “Gonna give you all this fuckin’ nut. You want it?”

“Want it,” you tremble, in and out, the toy’s just going in you at this point, disappearing without a trace, lost in your pussy. You’re just gushing. The sound is like a mouth blowing raspberries into one’s palm, fleshy, nasty.

“Can’t cum without you,” you pout, “Need you….I need you,” you’re opening your mouth, the sob coming deep from your chest, fucking yourself even harder, one leg shaking violently as it’s held in the air, eyes possessed as they’re rotating. You loved these moments—but they were never enough. Not even for him. 

“You don’t need nothing,” He groans, his words coming out more raspy, “Keep that pussy wet as fuck. I’m coming.” 

[zara-renata]

Supernova | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: Caleb's POV of the events of the previous part. Non-canon compliant, as I started this fic before he was released, and it turns out Caleb and mc were in the shelter together after the chronorift catastrophe, whereas I have them meeting at their gran's house for the first time in this fic. I also wrote Caleb and mc only being one year apart, unlike in the game, where they seem to be 3 or 4 years apart. Otherwise, I've tried to incorporate everything we've learned about him so far into this fic. This story contains: obsessive, possessive, jealous behavior. codependency. angst. yearning, mutual pining. some sexual fantasy on Caleb's part. I lean fully into the yandere Caleb that infold gifted us with. i hope it's enjoyable!

He is a star, just on the edge of going supernova. His rage at his lack of control, the voice in his head predicting he’ll become as destructive as a black hole someday, the mass of his emptiness and the twinned want for it to be filled—always on the verge of crushing his soul.

You are his twin, his other, his only, in his binary system, anchoring him with your gravity—your pull, the defiance of physics, as your force on him prevents him both from careening out alone in the dark and from imploding into himself, collapsing into the black hole he knows his truest form to be.

He is an endless hole of voracious destruction, and you are the only thing that fills him.

When it becomes too much. When the feelings inside him feel too big for his skin. You have always been there, a steadying force, a constant companion as he burns through the universe, through life. He is shaped, contained, filled by you, as you are carved, eroded, sculpted by him.

One bright day, Gran brings you home. Introduces you to your new big brother. You look—naked. Exposed. All of your feelings, right on your face. Your fear, hesitation, pain, all clear as the bright sunny day for him to read in your big, bright, sad eyes. He doesn’t know why, but it hurts his heart, to see how scared you are of his reaction to your presence in his home, now yours.

He smiles wider, offers you his hand.

The moment you reach for him, big eyes never leaving his, and he feels your soft skin against his palm, he somehow knows it’s over, and just beginning.

Perhaps it’s his evol. The fact that he can bend, control, subdue gravity, gravity which is so closely linked to time. Because the moment that you touch his hand contracts and expands, stretches—everything narrows to his skin against yours, to this point in time. Perhaps his evol allows his future, past, parallel selves to infuse him with knowledge, because he somehow knows he will never escape you, the pull of you, no matter what the rest of the world says, from this moment onward, suspended in time—your hand in his, a butterfly smothered in sap, hardened into amber. Amber that he carries in his hand, when yours isn’t there to fill it.

Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Something in him, recognizing something in you. Your fear. Your hollow eyes. The anger, underneath the fear. You’re so, so pretty. Like a living doll.

You take his offered hand, despite your fear, the pain in your eyes, and Caleb feels for the first time like he has a purpose. Value. Something he can control, in a life that has spun out of his control more times than he can count. He’s not just a threatening black hole. He can look after you. Keep you safe. Remove that fear from your eyes. He can nurture, instead of only destroy.

He’s a boy, offering a gentle hand to a scared girl, who needs him. And in the offering, and her acceptance, his own need comes into existence, a bright flash in his dark universe.

He shows you around, friendly, earnest for the first time in a long time, chattering about anything he can think of to keep your eyes on him, you listening to him, your attention on him. It feels so, so good.

But he has to go to school. He has to leave you behind, during the day. He spends his days lying, pretending to listen attentively, pretending to be interested in the same things his friends are interested in. He mimics the laughter of his friends, smiles his empty, useful smile, as he thinks of all the ways he can alleviate the pain, the fear in your eyes. As he imagines your hand in his.

He finds you in closets, curled up on yourself, a tightly furled flower. He doesn’t want to pluck you from where you feel safe.

He just wants to change what makes you feel safe. A gardener, repotting a rose. A rose he knows that has thorns as deadly as his own.

He squeezes in next to you, in the dark. Puts his arm around you. Chatters again, telling you stupid stories, making stuff up, anything to help you relax, distract you from what haunts you, melt into his side. You eventually let him lead you from the dark, into the light. You curl up next to him, as he puts together a model airplane. Your eyes watch his hands as he fits the pieces together, as he carefully glues them.

He pauses, holds one hand up. When you just stare at him in confusion, he gently takes your wrist, and pulls your palm to his.

Already, his hands are bigger than yours.

I’m bigger than you. So I’ll always be able to protect you.

He gently sets your palm back into your lap. You snuggle closer to him.

He feels so, so good.

But there’s something wrong with you. Gran sits him down at the kitchen table, looks earnestly at him. She tells him about your heart. 

It’s our job to take care of her. Can you help me?

He knows what she is asking.

He knows about her migraines. How hard she works. He doesn’t know why, or what she’s doing.

He just knows that she’s telling him what he already knew, from that first moment. He needs to look after you.

But she didn’t even have to ask. He has already been doing this, from the moment you took his hand. It is easy for him to nod in response to Gran’s question. Of course.

For the first time in his life, he has something of his very own, giving him purpose. He can nurture, instead of destroy. Is it selfish, if it gives him so much pleasure? Seeing you slowly unfurl, and come to depend on him.

You start seeing your doctor, taking the pills to stabilize your heart. You always come home exhausted, drained, from your appointments. He sits with you, sharing a thick blanket in his room with the big bay window, and reads to you. Books from Gran’s library. You rest your head on his shoulder, and he feels like he’s flying, like he’s finally not alone, for the first time in his life. The more time you spend reading together, the more you begin to speak, giving him your thoughts on what you are reading.

You give him the gift of seeing the world not only through his own eyes, but through yours.

The medication is horrible for you.

He understands what Gran was asking, the first time you choke on the pills. The first time he finds you vomiting, huddled over the toilet.

It feels like a part of himself is in pain, watching you in pain. He hates it.

He hates it, but he loves it.

Soothing you. Comforting you. Watching your face, drawn in a frown of pain, relax under the wet cloth in his hand, as you manage to swallow, under his palm on your throat.

As he cares for you, carries you to bed in his gangly, too long arms, he isn’t a black hle, destroying anything, everything. He’s nurturing. And he also doesn’t have to control his face, hide his feelings, pretend to be normal and interested in normal-people things. He’s just himself, taking care of what’s his.

Slowly, slowly, the medication is adjusted, you’re no longer sick all the time. He’s happy to see you regain strength, color in your face.

He takes you for walks, out in the sunshine, under the open sky, in the fields of wildflowers beyond Gran’s house. You cling to him, complain of vertigo, staring up into endless blue. There were no skies, in the labs where you lived for so long.

His heart aches. He thinks of lifting you into the air, letting you experience flight, the flight he yearns for, the only time in his life he ever feels free. Before you came. But now, having you at his side, feels like flying.

But he doesn’t want to scare you. He pulls you down with him, to the earth, surrounded by so many living things, so different from the lab that kept you caged for so long. He thinks such a lovely rose deserves the soil, the fireflies, all the growing things as companions.

He pulls you down into the wildflowers, and he tells you about his dreams of flying. He wants to share this part of himself with you. He holds your hand in his, index finger pointing, and names the types of airplanes that fly overhead.

Later, you’ll ask him to make you fly, and he will. Your body weightless, in a field of flowers, as you laugh, one of the few times you actually ever smile. A smile only he sees. A laugh, and a smile, that belong to him, only to him. In a world where he’s never had anything to call his own before, he now has your smile, and your laugh.

One night, he comes to check on you, as he often does when you’re sleeping. But you’re not huddled in your bed, long lashes sweeping across your soft cheek. The window is open, curtains whispering in the chill breeze. He finds you on the roof, shivering. He doesn’t know why you didn’t bring a coat. He just knows that you are cold, and he is big, and his body is warm, and already what’s his, is yours. He wraps himself around you, feels you melt against his chest.

He tells you about the stars. Again, he holds your hand in his, index finger pointing, and names the constellations, the bright planets that look like stars.

The night you begin dreaming about flying, high in the sky, amidst the stars, he begins to dream about you. His anchor. His north star. The point around which he revolves.

When you finally start school, he’s so excited. Helps you pick out your backpack, your school supplies at the corner store. But he can tell, from the moment you walk into the crowded hallways, how overwhelmed you are. You revert to that strange frozen stiffness you had, when Gran brought you home. He hates it. He looks around. Finds a quiet classroom. He uses his size, his presence, to wrap you in safety, resting his elbows on either side of you against the classroom wall.

Look at me. Look only at me. 

So what, if what he wants is selfish, and gives him what he wants, if it helps you too? If its primary purpose is to calm you, soothe you, help you at school, in every aspect of your life? 

Caleb is hungry, selfish. He knows this. As long as he can control it, it’s okay. As long as his selfishness aligns with helping you, it’ll be okay, right?

You calm down, as he tells you to look for him, anytime you’re overwhelmed. That he’ll be there. A promise he’ll always keep, forever.

He sees how the other kids respond to you. They see your unsmiling face, your quiet, ever-vigilant stillness, and they immediately recognize you as different. Strange. Their base animal instincts are to distrust anything that’s other. 

Caleb is a star, the rage fueling his core, boiling. He still smiles. Charms. Draws people in with his wholesome apple boy mask. He learned this, long ago—to get what you want, to control what happens to you, means controlling other peoples’ perceptions of you.

He wears a mask, like he wears his school uniform. As easy as breathing, most of the time.

When he sees people bothering you, he flies to you. Smiling. Putting his arm around you, guiding you away. He will protect you from the entire world, including other children—they were simple props before. An unavoidable reality, to charm, neutralize, recruit to his side so ease his path to the future, his path to escaping this school and this youth where he has so little control. But now, he considers them hardly more than animals, as he watches them scent you, and begin to growl.

Are you his sister? Why do you walk home together all the time? What’s wrong with you?

He intervenes. Draws you into his side, pulls you close. No, she’s not my sister.

Despite how much he already loves you, how close he feels to you, he balks at the idea of you being his sister.

He crushes the soda can in his hand, no evol necessary, the first time it occurs to him that if he accepts that you’re his sister, like the adoption papers say, like Gran says, like the kids at school say, then one day he won’t be the most important person in your life. He’ll just be your brother.

He can’t stand it.

He has friends at school with siblings. They complain about their annoying little sisters, their jerk older brothers. They joke and laugh and pester each other, and also defend each other when someone else is doing the bullying.

Caleb could never, ever complain about you. He has never found you annoying. He already knows that he is prepared to crush anyone who would dare look at you strangely, let alone bully you.

He wants to spend all of his time with you. He wants to keep helping you grow. He wants to be the soil in which you flourish.

Even as a boy, he knows that he’s not satisfied with being just your brother. He wants to be everything, if it’s to you.

He knows that he hurts you, every time he denies that you’re his sister.

But you’re more. He can’t explain it yet, or claim it yet. He tells himself: he’ll tell you, when you’re older. When he has more control of his own life, and can do even more than just making sure your life is as easy as possible, as he cooks for you, cleans for you. As he helps you wash, care for your hair, his rose, his doll. 

He hopes you can forgive him, in the end, for carving out this future for the both of you, where he’s not just your brother, and you’re not just his sister. Brothers and sisters part ways. Move into their own houses. Marry other people.

He tells himself that he’ll make up for every grievance you have against him, every time he hurts you when he denies you as his sister, when you’re both older, when he can actually do something about what he knows is his fundamental truth.

You’re not his sister. He’s not your brother. 

You’re just his, and he is yours.

Time passes. Each day, he gets to walk with you to school, holding an umbrella over your head when it’s raining. Handing you his aviator sunglasses when it’s too bright. He gets to see you in the halls, across the meaningless crowds.

Holding your hand through it all. 

One spring day, as you’re walking home from school together, you find a cat, mewling pathetically from the bushes. It has crawled underneath, hiding in the thick foliage in an effort to protect itself.

It’s hurt. Caleb is sympathetic, but he would have kept walking. He has his own injured creature to care for, after all. But you—you’re absolutely distraught. You beg him to pick it up, carry it home wrapped in his jacket.

You never need to beg. But he doesn’t mind when you do.

As he lifts up the scruffy cat, which doesn’t scratch or bite, seemingly resigned to its fate or too scared to resist, it reminds him of you, the first day you came home. Your pain, and your fear. Your rage, banked for fear of retribution.

He carries the cat home, wrapped in his jacket.

You consult Gran on how to care for it. You do so, diligently, getting up at all hours in the night to check on it. Which is the only reason it doesn’t manage to escape.

Finally, Caleb gets fed up with the ridiculous thing trying to slink away while it’s injured. Trying to avoid the care you’re so faithfully offering it. Foolishly rejecting what’s best for it.

He buys a collar with his allowance, and a bell. Slips it around the shivering thing’s fragile neck.

It occurs to him how pretty you’d look, with something similar.

He’d hear you, wherever you were. In the night, crawling onto the roof alone. Vomiting at the toilet, alone.

Walking in the halls at school, surrounded by so many people in the world who do not matter. Who simply present a barrier, when he’s trying to maneuver through their mass of bodies to get to you when he can see you freezing, withdrawing into yourself. When he knows you need him.

He wants to put a pretty collar with a bell on you, and listen to the tinkling, meant for his ears, and his ears alone.

Thanks to the bell, the cat heals. As it frolics away, free at last, Caleb watches it go, a twisting, painful sensation in his belly. He turns, looks at you. You’re not smiling, but your face is shining, your eyes bright. He can see that you’re happy with the work you both did for the cat.

He hates himself, for the feelings inside of him. 

He wants to reach over, put his big hand around your neck. Loosely. Just to feel your heartbeat in your throat under his palm. To reassure himself that you’re still here. That you still need him. That you’re not going anywhere, and that you won’t be leaving him alone, anytime soon.

He’s so, so selfish. He is an endless hole of voracious destruction, and you are the only thing that fills him.

Time passes. 

One morning, he finds you thrashing in bed, breathing heavily, an animal panic choking your lungs. He thinks it’s a normal panic attack for you, is prepared to help you breathe, to walk you through it, as he always does, but then he sees the blood in the sheets.

He’s read about this. He paid attention in health class. He needs to know everything about you, your body, how it’s different from his, and how to care for it, if he’s to look after you properly.

Gran isn’t always around. In fact, she’s away more often than not.

In her bedroom, with a migraine. Or working so hard, on something she can’t talk about.

You’ve had your first period. 

He’s heard boys talking, joking, jeering at school. It disgusts him, how they talk about girls, as if girls aren’t people too. He looks at you, and all he sees is a person—pretty as a doll, but full of life. Of fear and dreams and the longer you’re with him, you feel safe enough to demand anything, everything of him. He hates how the guys at school talk about girls. Because you’re a girl, and you have a whole universe inside of you, one that he’s so happy to discover every time you open your mouth. Every time you discover something new that you like, or hate, or annoys you.

How can you, as a girl, and your body, experiencing something outside of your control, be fodder for a joke?

He strides into your bedroom, grabs your wrists. Look at me. Don’t look at the blood.

Your breathing calms, as your big, bright eyes stare into his own.

It feels so, so good, as you relax. As you look to him, for help, for comfort, for soothing all of your fears. He wants, needs you to know how good it feels for him, to be able to do this to you, with you. You’re so, so good.

Good girl.

Your face does something funny, when he says these words. He thinks that the look on your face right now mirrors the feeling in his chest, when you listen to him, rely on him, let him open the pickle jar, let him smooth the way of any obstacles you have. When you smile for him, and no one else. When you allow him to nurture, instead of just destroy.

He helps you with the laundry. Finds himself regretting dumping the stain remover on your blood, stuffing the sheets in the washer. Your blood is a part of you, as much as your beautiful hair, your soft skin, the sharp tongue in your mouth.

Caleb thinks there might be something wrong with him, with how much he wants to keep your sheets, just as they are, tucked away somewhere in his closet. 

He resists the urge, just barely.

Later, after he’s bought you pads with his allowance. After you walk around the house with a strange gait, like you can’t stand to bring your legs together, he teases you. You throw the apple at him, eyes bright—defiant, annoyed. He enjoys watching you take the bite, because he told you to. He loves it, every time he tells you to do something, and you do it, no questions asked. 

Proof of how much you trust him. How much you need him.

Just like he needs you.

Later, at school, he catalogues the boys who make jokes about girls, and periods. He watches, listens. Lies through his teeth, chummy and just a normal teenage boy himself, of course. He notes the worst offenders.

It’s unfortunate, how they trip. Down the stairs. On nothing. Rumors start going around the school that there’s a ghost haunting a particular flight of stairs, right outside of Caleb’s homeroom.

He loves you so much, it hurts. He enjoys passing the pain along, to others who also deserve it.

He is an endless hole of voracious destruction, and you are the only thing that fills him.

Years pass.

You become accustomed to the confined chaos of school, interacting with so many people. You seem calmer, in the busy hallways. You snort, joke, even if you don’t smile at school, when he has to leave you for awhile, so he can continue his wholesome apple boy lie. Student council president, captain of the basketball team, MVP for the football team, medal winner in track and field. He lifts weights after school, is diligent about his diet, his protein intake, each week new gains bulking out his already tall body. He must do everything possible to lay the foundations for his future success, so he can provide for you. Be a constant pillar of strength for you. Continue giving you everything you need.

You come to him, when you’re upset. When everyone, everything begins to overwhelm you. He holds you. He jokes with you. He tells you stupid stories. He cooks for you. He feels satisfaction, deep in his blood. 

And then, somehow, maybe while he wasn’t looking—although he’s always looking, so when would that even have been? He hasn’t stopped looking at you, from the first moment you came home.

But from one day to the next, you are a girl—pretty, cute, still, solemn.

And then—you are still all those things, but you are also beautiful.

Beautiful in a way that turns his brain into mush. A pretty living doll, but one that he wants. Not just to care for her hair, feed her, rock her to sleep. He wants all that, and more. 

His heart races when you come close, when he can smell the scent of your skin, your shampoo, your sweat, your breath. You’re so beautiful, it hurts.

For the first time, he wants more than to hold you in his arms.

He wants to put his mouth on you.

He wants to put his hands all over you, not to check to see where it hurts, but to check where you feel good. Where you like to be touched the most.

The size of his want terrifies him.

He tries to control it. To laugh, and joke, to pat your head, mess up your hair. He wears a new mask, over his old one.

Wholesome apple boy, who has never once imagined putting his tongue in his sister’s mouth.

And then, one night, you have your first nightmare. About what, you never say. You tell him you don’t remember. He doesn’t know if he believes you. It drives him insane, not knowing. 

He hears you, your hoarse cry, in his sleep. He jolts up in bed, hears it again. Gran will sleep through it, as she always slept through the side effects of the pills, slept through when you had the flu.

It’s up to him, to go to you.

He stands in the doorway of your room, and feels so big. A looming monster, his shadow stretching across your bedroom floor, blanketing your small body. You’ve always been small, but this time, the first time you reach for him in the night, body and nightclothes wet with sweat, you feel so fragile to him, in his big arms. He could crush you. 

It terrifies him.

It turns him on.

He’s a liar, and he’s so, so selfish.

He is an endless hole of voracious destruction, and you are the only thing that fills him.

He clutches you to him, makes another selfish decision. Instead of stripping your bed, helping you put on new sheets, tucking you back in, he takes you to his own bed. Pulls you close against his body, under the covers. Blanketing you with his own smell, his own arms. His.

You fall asleep like that. He stays awake, his body aching painfully with want. If you notice how hard he is in the morning, tucked against your back, your ass, you never say anything.

Your worst nights are his favorite nights.

He’s so, so selfish.

After so many years together, you have fully come out of your shell, when you’re with him. Not only do you turn to him for comfort, reveal your smile, only to him, you also show him the full spectrum of your inner world, your feelings. From sorrow, fear, need—to frustration, rage. You hold it in at school, carefully blank, until you get home, and then you explode. 

He loves it.

It’s a fireworks show that only he ever gets to see. He’s relieved that you have so much fire inside of you, after spending so long being afraid to express it.

He feels a sense of accomplishment, for being the soil in which you could flourish in all of your explosive colors.

Only he gets the privilege of watching your face, watching you throw things, screaming about your stupid schoolmates, your stupid teachers, the shit you hear people still saying about you.

He notes names. He catches the plates, the glasses, the vases. He absorbs it all, a gravity field pulling everything into him, into the hungry black hole at the heart of him. Whatever you have to give, he’ll take. He’s strong enough for the both of you.

After you seem to lose steam, he pulls you into his arms. I wish I could create a world with just the two of us. He savors how you melt into him, let him get so close to you, when you don’t even seem to be aware of anyone else in the world unless they draw your attention to them by being mean to you. You’re perfect just the way you are.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t like the fact that your attention is drawn to the people who say things about you.

So he’ll fix it. For you. And for him. He wants you to pay attention only to him.

He’s so, so selfish.

Do you feel better? He’ll ask, as your breathing slows, your heart rate lowers. You nod into his big chest, and it feels so, so good.

Sometimes, he pulls you to him too quickly, before you’re done exploding. You’ve bitten him, more than once.

The first time, you bit so hard that the mark lasted for weeks. Deep red marks from your cute, sharp teeth, buried in the meat between his thumb and forefinger.

He jerked himself with that hand, multiple times, every night, until the marks faded. Each time, he couldn’t take his eyes off the proof of your teeth in his flesh.

He wants to mark you in turn.

The size of his want terrifies him.

He is a black hole, and he is hungry. And you are the only thing that can fill him.

The kids at school who made the unfortunate decision of shit-talking you, of pulling your attention away from him, find items of contraband in their lockers that they never put there. They find themselves being accused of plagiarizing on extra credit papers that they never turned in. Their boyfriends, or girlfriends, break up with them, claiming they have a crush on someone new. Someone really popular, who unexpectedly paid so much attention to them that they felt like they were the only people in the world.

Sad really, that once they had broken up with their partner, he seemed to lose complete interest in them.

He is selfish, and he is a black hole, and he is hungry.

But once people learn not to fuck with you because of his efforts, your fits of fury become less frequent.

He misses them.

He wants you to explode all over him, like you used to.

He begins to intentionally provoke you, telling himself it’s healthy for you to be challenged, pestered, to face adversity, feel all your big feelings, and then safely let them go, into his gravity well, the deep well of his want.

When he eats your ice cream, he ends up hurting you much more than he intended. Denying you as his sister, again.

He hates it. He hates that he hurts you, every time.

He has to hope that you’ll forgive him, someday. That someday, you’ll understand why.

For now, he tries to soothe you with all of your favorite ice cream. A plan he already had in mind when he ate the last of the old stuff. You let him make you feel a little better, at least. He has to hope that someday, you’ll understand why he can’t fully make it up to you yet, because he has no idea what he’ll do if you don’t.

If you were to drift away, pull away from him, spin off into the universe without him, he would explode, collapse. The mass of his emotions—fear, anger, guilt, love, want, so much want—would implode, collapse, compound into the ever hungry black hole of his soul.

He would be lost without you anchoring him.

He’s so selfish. He hates himself. He can’t stop himself.

He is no longer satisfied, with you simply coming to him when you’re upset. Hugging him when you’re scared, and overwhelmed, recharging yourself like he’s a battery pack and you’re an empty little triple A.

He wants you to come to him when you’re happy. Because you’re as drawn to him as he is to you.

He always finds a reason to be in the bathroom at the same time you are, before school, or getting ready for bed. He brushes his teeth while you shower. He watches your blurry form in the mirror, and barely resists the urge to throw open the curtain, every time. To climb in with you, clothes on, and kiss your wet mouth. Get on his knees, and see where else you’re wet.

He hates himself. He can’t stop himself.

When he does pushups, he asks for your help. Your light weight on his back does nothing for his workout, but feeling your hands on his sweat-slick skin keeps him up at night in the same way your bite marks do.

He brings you the tiger balm, feeling so transparent, so pathetically obvious, insisting you help him apply it to his back.

He stares at your face in the mirror. Your little frown of concentration. The color in your cheeks again. He can feel your heartbeat in your fingertips along his skin. He wants to pull your hands from his back, place them on his chest, his big pecs. He wants to guide your hands lower, lower, past the hair beginning at his navel, down below the band of his basketball shorts. He wants you to take your hot little hands and wrap them around his big dick, tiger balm at all, make it sting for him, as he burns under your touch.

He is so, so selfish, and he hates himself.

He is an endless hole of voracious destruction, and you are the only thing that fills him.

He knows you’re isolated, that he’s all you’ve ever really had to fulfill any, every role for you. He knows you want him, that you watch him, that the color rises in your cheeks now when he’s close, but he’s so scared that it’s just a result of your isolation, of your dependence on him.

He’s so selfish, and he’s a coward. He’s so scared that if he acts, he’ll somehow be hurting you, exploiting you.

If you accept him, he’ll never know for sure if you love him for him or simply because he was the only one there. But you never show interest in anyone else.

He’s afraid that if you reject him, you’ll also end up hating him, and you’ll spin away from him into the dark velvet night.

He has to wait. Until you’re older, until you’ve seen more of the world. So that you’re sure you want him, after experiencing other things and people.

The idea makes him want to go supernova.

But no matter how selfish he is, he has to offer you the opportunity to know more than just him. And he needs to know your feelings for him are real. Maybe that’s a form of selfishness too, as he watches in satisfaction as your want for him, his big body, makes you pant, lean toward him as if pulled by gravity, as your brow furrows, and the yearning on your face is obvious for only him to read as your frustration grows when he doesn’t act.

It turns him on, seeing how much you want him.

It infuriates him, seeing how much people want you.

And you can feel it. He can see how your body tenses, how you begin to freeze, being the object of so many gazes.

It’s the worst at track practice, when you’re wearing those tiny as fuck running shorts. It boggles his mind, how they’re part of the standard track uniform for the girl’s team. 

His teammates, the other guys, openly gawk at your long, beautiful, naked legs. At your easy, graceful gate around the track.

He wants to use his evol to yank their eyes right out of their skulls.

Instead, he focuses on your needs first.

Jogs over you, blocks your view of their leering. 

You look up at him, your big bright eyes calming as he looks down into them. He lets his hands wander, like they always want to do. Fingering the hem of the shorts. Touching you, where no one else can. Where no one else will ever be able to.

Just because he wants to let you experience the world, does not mean the world gets to touch you. He’ll make sure of it.

You agree to put on his compression shorts.

His dick is rock hard in his own shorts, as he helps you change, as you lift your legs, one by one, as his barbell-roughened hands drift along your soft thighs, clutching the slippery material in his fingers, as he inhales the scent of your body, as you stare down into his eyes with your desire filling them like unshed tears. Tears he wants to make you cry.

You’re so fucking sweet. He loves you when you’re furious, spitting and biting. And he loves you when you’re like this, trusting him with your body, your needs, pliant and docile.

All for him. Only for him.

After, you seem calm, comfortable in your own skin again. You run so fast, your hair a flag behind you, as if you’re declaring war.

He turns to the guys who were ogling you, endures their stupid fucking jokes and sleazy comments. He bides his time. Waits until practice is over, and they’re in the boy’s locker room.

He pulls an apple from his duffle, floats it in the air.

Hey.

His voice is low, serious in a way it rarely is. It echoes through the mostly empty locker room, bouncing between the metal lockers, the tiled floor. It pulls their attention, the jarring disparity between his current tone and how he normally sounds. 

Their eyes widen as they see evidence of his evol for the first time. Everyone knows he has it. But he doesn’t use it at school. He doesn’t need it to stand out. He saves its tricks, its delights, for you, and you alone.

About the bullshit you were spouting on the track. She’s not my sister. And you don’t look at her.

They glance nervously at each other, the obvious, imperious order rankling their juvenile egos.

One of them pipes up. What’s the big deal? If she’s not your sister, why do you care who looks at her?

This asshole isn’t entitled to an answer from him. Doesn’t matter. You just don’t fucking look at her. He forces calm authority into his voice. Forces himself to smile, to wear the lower part of the mask, the part that doesn’t reach his eyes.

One of the guys, the one who always says the most disgusting shit about girls, about guys he doesn’t think are masculine enough, scoffs. What’re you gonna do to us, huh? You gonna chew my ass, like you chew your dumbass apples?

The other guys exchange nervous glances, nervous chuckles.

I’m not interested in your ass, bro. He grins. It probably looks wrong, based on their reactions. I’ll just… he begins, casually. He flicks his wrist.

The apple explodes, as if crushed by hammer—the pieces of the fruit spatter the faces and chests of the guys standing around him with wet, fleshy impacts. The pieces that would have hit him fall to the ground with heavy-sounding splats.

He smiles cheerfully into the ringing silence. We good?

The fuckhead still doesn’t seem to have quite gotten the memo. He swats the apple sticking to his face, sneers. You’re so full of shit. A golden boy like you with your entire future ahead of you wouldn’t commit murder over a piece of ass.

Caleb sighs. Leans back. Shrugs. True. Killing your dumbass outright isn’t worth being sent to prison. But you know, he says thoughtfully. He spreads his legs wide on the bench. Talks like he’s just shooting the shit, waves his hand leisurely. Accidents happen, all the time. You’re throwing a baseball, and suddenly something snaps in your shoulder. It would be a shame, if you could never throw a ball again. Or say, you’re about to cross the finish line, and you step funny, you know? And you never do walk right, after that. Or you’re playing basketball, and suddenly, poof—burst aneurysm, bleeding out, right in your brain. That shit can happen to even the healthiest of athletes. Just, bad luck, man. The human body is so fragile. As fragile as the skin of an apple.

The guys stare at him in silence. A droplet of water drips from a showerhead, splashes onto the floor. Even the biggest idiot seems to be at a loss for words. 

He smiles, smiles, smiles. 

Don’t look at her ever again, and you won’t have to worry about all that. He gets to his feet, slings his duffel over his shoulder. Puts his hands in his pockets. Whistles, as he meanders out of the locker room.

Later, he’s doing the household’s laundry. He’s lifting dirty clothes out of the combined dirty clothes basket from the bathroom, and your little slippery running shorts fall out of the handful he’s trying to stuff into the washer.

He stares at them on the floor. Slowly puts the stuff in his hand in the machine, thinking.

He’s a black hole, and he’s so fucking hungry.

He squats down, lifts the shorts. They’re tiny, in his big hands. He sits quietly, listening. You’re upstairs in his room, doing homework. Gran’s at work. He’ll hear you, if you come down. You tromp through the house like an elephant. It’s adorable.

He lifts the shorts to his face, shoves his nose in them. Inhales.

He’s squatting at your feet again, in the locked bathroom at school. He’s looking up at you, your chest rising and falling with your rapid breath. He can smell you, the intensity of your excitement at the proximity of his face to where you want him the most. As he opens his mouth, as he extends his tongue to the built-in underwear of the little slip of fabric, he imagines that he’s back in that bathroom, leaning forward, bringing the flat of his tongue between your legs. He imagines that you thread your pretty hands in his hair and pull him closer, urging his tongue deeper into you. He imagines, as he fills his mouth with as much of the fabric as he can, breathing through his nose, that you come on his face, with your soft noises of pleasure echoing through the tiled bathroom.

He comes in his pants.

He hates himself, as he pulls your shorts out of his mouth. As he places them gently into the washer. He hates himself, but he can’t stop himself. He knows he’ll do this again, and again, until he can have the real thing.

That was towards the end, of everything.

Even as he was packing his bags, he didn’t see it coming. 

He made you so many promises that he, in all of his youthful hubris, believed he could keep. About how often he’d be home. About how often he could be in touch. About how close he’d still be able to stay to you, through time and distance.

He lifted you with his evol in a field of wildflowers, watched your lovely hair float around your beautiful face, and he came so close to losing control, and kissing your soft lips.

He made you so many promises, and he broke one the first day he was gone.

Because when he arrived for basic training, they took his phone away, and didn’t give it back for six weeks. Something about fostering camaraderie with his fellow cadets. Bullshit.

It got worse from there. Basic training. Specialized training. Combat missions. Flight missions. He was either out of range, or the op required radio silence. He was determined to reach the highest ranks. To be able to best provide for you. But that required confidentiality, restricted security clearances. More and more things he couldn’t talk about. More and more important holidays and events he was forced to miss.

And then one day he came home, after having been away on a longer-than-usual undercover mission, and instead of his still, quiet girl with the serious face, who only smiled for him, who crawled all over him, and treated him like her personal servant, who blew up at him, bit him, screamed, threw shit at him, and was the sweetest little thing, soft and pliant in his arms, only for him, waiting for him, he found…

You. Wearing a mask so obvious that he could see its ribbon tied through your lovely hair.

By the time he finally made it home again, he had already lost you.

You smiled at him, and it didn’t reach your eyes. You smiled at Gran. You smiled at the checkout boy at the corner store. You smiled at random fucking strangers on the street.

You smiled, smiled, smiled.

You smiled, and it looked wrong on your lovely face. Not the smile of when you’re flying, when he would make you fly.

Something artificial, and empty. Your smile was a pot, filled with a plastic flower instead of a living rose.

You talked about your friends at school. Your sudden, numerous extra-curricular activities.

You smiled at him so politely, with such empty eyes, he wanted to flip the fucking table.

You treated him like a stranger.

No matter what he did, no matter how much he poked you, teased you, tried to corner you and interrogate you about your sudden change, you slipped away, with a false, cheerful laugh.

He wanted to crush his own eardrums, instead of hear that fucking fake laugh again.

And then he had to go back to the DAA.

He had to keep leaving you, and the visits in between became fewer, and fewer, as his training intensified, as he failed psych eval after psych eval, despite his perfect marks in everything else, his perfect mask that drew people to him like flowers to the sun.

You stop responding to his calls, his texts. 

He can’t get you to respond, but he can use his newly acquired hacking skills, his new security clearances, to keep track of you even if you won’t even say hello.

When he gets back from one particularly grueling, strange mission in the Deepspace Tunnel, he reconstructs your movements of the past few weeks based on your phone’s location, your socials. He sees that your phone spent the night at an unfamiliar address. It’s not one of your new friend’s places. You’ve never done that before. You stay at your dorm. You stay at friends’. You stay at Gran’s.

He breaks so many security regulations, civil rights laws, identifying the person who lives there.

Some random guy, who is built just like Caleb. Big, tall. Handsome, dark hair.

Caleb sits on his bunk, his hand over his mouth.

He feels like he needs to vomit.

He has never vomited after the highest g-force training required by the DAA, but he needs to vomit imagining you letting someone else touch you, exposing your most vulnerable self to him, while wearing your fucking mask.

Caleb wanted your first time to be soaked in pure, overwhelming love. To be with someone who’d watch every single fleeting expression on your beautiful face, who would kill himself to make you feel cherished, to make you feel as good as physically possible. To feel safe enough to wear your real face, the whole time, safe enough to tell him what you want, so he can give you everything you deserve.

And Caleb knows that he is the only person in the universe who could give you that, in the way that you deserve. He was built to protect you. His purpose is to love you. You are his anchor, his twin star, the only thing keeping him from exploding into blinding supernova light, collapsing into his own devouring dark. He knows you best. He knows everything about you, and he would use that knowledge to make you feel like you were flying as he made love to you.

What if that fucker hurt you? What if he made you cry? 

Caleb rushes to the toilet, vomits for the first time in years. 

While Caleb was hallucinating about the past, present, future, lifetimes that haven’t happened yet, reliving strange memories of being in a lab, observed through glass, as he was adrift in deep space during his last mission that so quickly went sideways, dying from oxygen deprivation, you were having your first one-night stand.

You fucked a guy that looked just like him.

The only thing that prevents that motherfucker from suffering a terrible, unfortunate accident, is the fact that you ghost him, after. 

Caleb knows, because he tracks every fucking thing you do, after that, every time he is within range in Skyhaven.

He forces himself to check, to look at your socials, to see who’s posing in pictures with you.  He forces himself to know, when your phone starts to spend time at random peoples’ places, almost every weekend. 

Each time, a different guy. Each time, they look like Caleb.

Each time, their lives are spared because you ghost them.

He tells himself that there’s still time, a chance, to salvage things. To make up for every single grievance you have against him. To make up for every promise he didn’t mean to break.

Your fake smile tells him that he is no longer your safe space. But he can rebuild himself for you, turn himself into what you need to feel safe, protected, cared for, cherished. He did it once, when you came home for the first time.

He just has to do it again.

You’re an adult now. You’re a Hunter now. 

He comes home on a break. You politely pour him water. He smiles at you with his mask, and you smile at him with its twin on your face. He did this to you. But he will make it right.

He’s going to tell you. This visit. Before he goes back to Skyhaven. He’s going to tell you, how much he loves you, not as a brother, but as a man, and always has. How he’s finally in a place to care for you, as an adult, without the restrictions of childhood, of societal expectations. He’s going to tell Gran about how he has never felt like you were his sister.

He almost loses his shit, when he sees the scratch on your arm, when you insist on sending him to the store instead of letting him back you up while you investigate the alert on your Hunter’s watch. So desperate to show him how much you don’t need him anymore.

He breathes deeply. Says something stupid, out of frustration, about hiding your bloodied sleeve from Gran.

You say something biting to him in return, your own mask slipping a little, as your genuine frustration, your anger at him slips through. He cherishes it, feels triumph rise in him.

Yeah, he’s gonna make things right. He’s going to tell you that he loves you, and that he’s yours, and always has been. He’ll beg, if he has to, for you to say that you are his in return.

He goes into the house first.

On a bright, sunny day, filled with determined hope for the future, Caleb Xia dies in the bright, supernova flash he always knew had been waiting for him.

[monochrome-serpetine909]

Orgasmic Birth

My mom would tell other people the story of my birth at inappropriate and awkward times to strangers she crossed paths with. I would be standing next to her, holding her hand, my 5 year old big eyes staring at the stranger in the aisle of a grocery store. The stranger would lean down to squeeze my cheek with a nervous laughter and hover us for a couple more aisles. Most of the time, they were adult men with thick mustaches, and sometimes grannies. My mom would squeeze my hand in hers with a wink, wrinkles showing around her eyes and mouth. I would be instructed to stay by the cart when she needed to use the store’s bathroom. She would come back 10 minutes later or more. When she came back out, she’d grab my hand to leave the store despite having a full cart of items. Rarely did we actually ever check out the store items. As I grew, it only made it more and more awkward. Women avoided my mom like she was a plague of death, while men gravitated to her.

During 5th grade, we had public school sex education classes. Of which was not about sex, but what puberty would look like and what to expect. It included birth, where babies came from. I remember sitting in the back of the classroom, my cheeks grew hot when the scene of a vagina expelling a baby was projected on the wall. However, the big difference was- it was obviously a painful ordeal. My mom described my birth as orgasmic, and I shot out of her like a water geyser, with my father shooting his cum all over my newborn gross body.

In 6th grade, I finally confronted my Mom about how it was extremely embarrassing to tell people the events of my birth. Nobody ever needed to know how my mom’s best orgasms in her entire life was from pushing me out of her vaginal tunnel into the new world. It was an exaggerated, if not fake, story that needed to be buried with all other embarrassing stories of myself. 

Mom was hurt that I didn’t believe the full story of my erotic birth. Not hurt that I wanted her to stop telling strangers of the erotic birth, but that I didn’t believe her. So to my dismay, as a 13 year old, she showed me the VHS video of my first birthday. Forever will that video make me cringe. Forever had it changed my whole life for better or worse, still not decided. She was not exaggerating whatsoever. 

The VHS tape began in the living room being filmed by a friend who majored in film and theatre. The furniture was different, but it was most definitely the same room we were sitting in, watching this. Mom and Dad were on either side of me, their fingers intertwined across my lap, giddy to start the video. 

The camera focused on my parents, zooming closer to their intimate parts and actions. The filmer had no shame or embarrassment to get as close as possible while cheering along to the ‘beautiful’ moment. 

“Oh my fuck! Jerry! I can feel her coming!” My parents were literally fucking, his penis inside her anus, as her cervix opened up to the camera view. And at each contraction, she screamed of pleasure and maybe even orgasmed, as my dad screamed cumming into her. She laid in missionary style, holding her large, swollen angry pregnant belly with both hands. “Oh god yes! Yes, that's it. Yes-yes-yes, I feel another one coming!” My mom scrunched her face as she bored further down into the couch, holding her breath. Jerry continued to thrust his engorged penis in and out of her anus, holding her legs up to give more pelvic room. A horrific groan came out of her once she released the push. “I need to change position, I need to be on my hands and knees. Quickly now, before another contraction.” 

The contractions grew closer and closer, both were screaming and moaning together more frequently. His penis grew even more as he thrusted harder, increasing his speed as he rode her doggy style. He grunted loudly while squeezing her hips with his hands as another wave of contraction hit her. Her water broke, she gasped, and quickly felt the vaingal lips with her fingers to estimate how far along she was. Her fingers were soaked in the amniotic fluid that was still gushing out of her. The couch was soaked and poured onto the carpet. Her belly was considerably lower and thinner, no longer having the amniotic fluid inside. My infant body was actively, angrily pushing through her womb to vagina to the new world no matter the amount of pain it caused. But apparently that pain was more of a turn-on to my mom, who welcomed the start of ‘Ring of fire’ with gasps and moans, rubbing her clit the whole time.

“Don’t stop! I’m almost there! God, don’t fucking stop!” Her hand remained at the opening of her vagina, ready to catch my head, and casually playing with her clit. The other hand was positioned on the arm of the couch to steady herself. “I need to be on the floor,” she huffed between the thrusts.

My dad pulled his penis out abruptly and assisted my mom to the floor. Speckles of blood from her torn anus gathered to the already ruined carpet. She was bow-legged, her palm holding the opening to her vagina, my head just starting to open her lips, almost to the “Ring of Fire”. My whole infant body weight sat just below her hips, her muscles extremely fatigued. She moaned, struggled to get down to the floor to rest on her forearms. “Get back inside me already! It’s fucking burning! She’s almost here! Keep fucking me goddammit!” She was back in the doggy position, this time knowing the baby, me, will be born in this position. Her fingers quickly found the clit.

Her whole body, swollen pregnant belly swaying, moved along the steady rhythm of the penis violently thrusting in and out to a mediocre rhythm. “Don’t fucking stop! There! God, yes, there!!” She screamed throughout the house. My dad forced his thick penis as far into her anus as possible with violent deep thrusts, causing her to scream in agony. A gush of orgasmic squirt shot out before birthing me. Then everything happened at the same time.

“I’m gonna cum! I’m cumming baby! I’m cumming, I’m FUCKING CUMMING!!” My dad’s face scrunched up with his mouth open, my mom panting short quick breaths. He rode the cum-flation into my mom as long as he could, bursting into her anus over and over. It was a cum-fountain inside her anus with no sign of stopping.

Everyone screamed. I screamed angrily, now in a brand new world, bursting past the vaginal lips. My mom screamed and squirted all over my face from her own climax. My dad screamed and screamed, holding onto his penis like a water hose unable to stop. Mom couldn’t stop squirting on top of me and into the carpet, the same carpet I was looking at. It was a sweet taste, she told me, her squirt all over my face as I cried into my new world. 

��My baby self wailed outside of Mom’s vagina as my dad finished cumming, pushing his softening penis against her anus, his cum dripping onto my newborn disfigured shaped head. The rest of my body wasn’t out yet. My dad listened to Mom’s groans, moans, and begging for him to not stop; his penis was back to business quickly with his thrusting. She needed to push one more time to release me. Mom took a deep breath followed by short breaths, focused on my dad’s rhythmic thrusting, and waited for the feeling of the need to push again. Her fingers suddenly gripped the carpet and her hips were bored down, and she screamed. And screamed. And screamed. My dad’s fingers dug into my mom’s hips, willing it all to end quickly. With a gush of fluid and last scream, the rest of my body was finally pushed out into the new world. Dad screamed while his thick cum covered my whole body and the still attached umbilical cord.

Neither had clothes on, nor planned to cover up any time soon. They moved to the couch together with a slow, steady movement to a missionary position. While still attached to the umbilicord, she cradled me up to her chest, tears rushing down her face. My suckling mouth quickly found her teat and I relaxed into a drunken state of milk and bliss. My dad’s penis grew back to an erection despite cumming multiple times and he re-entered her anus, thrusting gently while I suckled fiercely away. The video showed me nursing her teat as my father caressed her thighs, his hips moving back and forth with slight images of his penis here and there, behind her disfigured vagina, into her anus. They both looked so serene and proud; this was what they were destined to do their whole life and they finally accomplished it. 

“What the actual fuck, you guys?” I breathed heavily. I had a pool of wetness in my underwear, which had never happened to me before. Did my period come back so soon? I wanted to leave, I needed to get out of this living room as soon as possible.

“We are just so happy you are our child and grateful for such an easy, pleasurable birthing experience. The other ones weren’t as easy and required us to have a midwife with us.” My mom played with my wavy messy long hair.

“You’re saying I’m not your only child? You’ve had other children? I have brothers and sisters?” My heart was thumping in my ears.

“No no, you don’t have any brothers or sisters. You’re my only child. I’ve just given birth to many children, perfecting the experience until the day I would meet you, my love.” Mom said, with my dad nodding in agreement. “The other ones were for other families- I was their surrogate. You were the one I chose to keep and love.” My mom and dad fiddled their intertwined fingers on my lap, smiling at each other. I jumped up to make way to my bedroom quickly. I looked back at the spot I was just in and saw a dark splotch of where my vagina leaked fluid. I ran to my bedroom. I hid underneath my blankets, begging for my heart to slow down.

[pankowcrumbs]

Chaos X Drew Starkey (Requested)

I woke up with a sharp, insistent pain in my lower abdomen, one that was impossible to ignore. Groaning, I shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable, but the ache only deepened. A flash of panic ran through me as I glanced at the clock on the nightstand—4:32 a.m. It was far too early for this, literally. Three weeks too early.

“Drew,” I whispered, poking his shoulder.

He didn’t stir.

“Drew,” I said louder, my voice tinged with urgency.

He bolted upright like he’d been shot out of a cannon, his hair sticking out in every direction. “What? What happened? Is it burglars?”

“No, Drew, it’s me! I think I’m in labour.”

That woke him up completely. His eyes widened as he scrambled out of bed, tripping over his own feet. “Wait, labour? Like, baby labour? Already? You’re not supposed to—okay, okay, I’m calm.”

“You don’t look calm,” I said through gritted teeth as another contraction hit me like a freight train.

“I’ve got this! I’m prepared! The bag—where’s the hospital bag?” He darted around the room like a headless chicken, pulling open drawers and muttering to himself.

“It’s in the hallway cupboard,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the building pressure.

“Right, right. Hallway cupboard.” He rushed out of the bedroom, only to come back empty-handed a moment later. “What does it look like again?”

“Drew!” I snapped, clutching the bedsheet as another wave of pain rolled through me.

“Sorry, sorry! Stay calm—uh, you stay calm. I’ll be calm too,” he said, vanishing into the hallway again.

When he finally returned with the hospital bag, he was out of breath. “Okay, bag secured. Now what? Breathing! You need to breathe! Like this—heee-hooo, heee-hooo.” He started demonstrating exaggerated breaths, waving his arms like he was conducting an orchestra.

I couldn’t help but laugh, even through the pain. “Drew, you look ridiculous.”

“But is it helping?” he asked earnestly, still doing the breathing.

“Not really,” I admitted, trying to focus on my own rhythm.

He nodded, clearly disappointed in his technique. “Alright, new plan. Do you want ice? Or, or… a smoothie? I can make a smoothie!”

“A smoothie? Drew, I’m in labour, not at brunch!”

“Right. No smoothie. Got it.” He looked around the room like he expected it to offer him advice. “What about snacks? You need energy, babe. I read that somewhere. Energy is key!”

He dashed to the kitchen, returning moments later with a granola bar, a banana, and, inexplicably, a jar of pickles.

“Pickles, Drew?”

“I panicked!” he said, setting them down on the nightstand.

“Just... sit with me,” I pleaded, reaching for his hand.

He dropped to his knees beside the bed, taking my hand in both of his. “I’m here. I’m so here. You and me, babe. We’ve got this.”

For a moment, his earnestness grounded me. I squeezed his hand, grateful for his presence, chaotic as it was.

And then, because he just couldn’t help himself, he added, “You know, technically, this means our baby’s super punctual. Takes after me.”

“Drew,” I groaned, though I couldn’t stop a small laugh from escaping.

“What? Humour helps, right? Laughter is the best medicine and all that.”

“Not when I feel like my insides are being ripped apart.”

“Fair point.” He winced sympathetically. “Okay, no more jokes. Just focus on me. Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

I tried to follow his lead, but the next contraction hit with such intensity that I doubled over, clutching my stomach.

“Alright, that’s it, we’re going to the hospital. No more waiting!” He jumped to his feet, grabbing the bag and helping me to stand.

“Drew, I don’t think I can walk right now,” I said, leaning heavily on him.

“Then I’ll carry you!”

“You’re not carrying me, Drew.”

“But it would be so romantic!”

“No.”

Reluctantly, he helped me shuffle toward the door, his arm wrapped securely around my waist. Once we were in the car, the chaos continued.

“Do you need music? Something soothing? Or maybe motivational—like Beyoncé? Wait, no, you hate my playlists when you’re stressed.”

“Drew, just drive!”

“Right, driving, got it.” He started the car and immediately cranked the wipers instead of the engine. “Okay, minor hiccup. We’re good.”

As we sped toward the hospital, he kept glancing over at me. “You’re doing amazing, babe. So strong. Like, superhero strong. Wonder Woman’s got nothing on you.”

“Drew,” I said, half-laughing, half-crying. “You’re stressing me out.”

“Sorry! I’ll stop talking.”

He lasted all of ten seconds.

“Do you think the baby will have your eyes or mine?”

“Drew!”

“Stopping now. For real.”

By the time we reached the hospital, I was practically crawling out of the car. Drew, meanwhile, was a whirlwind of movement, grabbing the bag, helping me out, and shouting at the nearest nurse like we were in the middle of an action movie.

“She’s having a baby! Right now! Three weeks early! This is an emergency, right?”

The nurse, clearly used to panicked dads-to-be, calmly led us to a room. Drew hovered at my side the entire time, alternating between holding my hand, stroking my hair, and offering increasingly bizarre suggestions.

“Do you want to try squatting? I read squatting helps.”

“Drew, I’m hooked up to monitors.”

“Right, no squatting. Maybe a stress ball? Should I go get one?”

“Drew, sit down.”

He sat. For all of two seconds.

“Do you think the baby will like sports? Or maybe art? What if they’re a genius? I mean, they’re definitely going to be cute—look at us.”

“Drew,” I said, exasperated.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just so excited. And terrified. Mostly excited.”

As the labour progressed and the pain intensified, his antics became both more endearing and more absurd. At one point, he tried to distract me by performing a dramatic reenactment of our first date, complete with exaggerated impressions of me.

“You said, ‘Drew, I’ll have the salad,’ but I could tell you wanted the burger. You always want the burger.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” I muttered, gripping the bed rail as another contraction hit.

“And I love you, babe. So much. You’re amazing. Incredible. The absolute best. And hey, you’re almost there!”

“How do you know?” I asked, glaring at him through the pain.

“Because you’re a champ, and champs finish strong!”

Despite myself, I laughed. He was ridiculous, but he was my ridiculous, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Hours later, after what felt like an eternity, our baby was finally born. Drew’s eyes filled with tears as he held her for the first time, his earlier chaos replaced with awe.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered, looking at me like I’d just performed a miracle.

“You’re perfect,” I said softly, reaching for his hand.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “We’re a team, babe. Chaos and all.”

And in that moment, I knew that no matter how wild and unpredictable life got, we’d face it together—with laughter, love, and maybe a jar of pickles.

[meowsgirldrawing]

Soft is a Need too (Spite x Rook Drabble I could NOT get out of my head)

Obviously Lucanis x Rook too, but I like to explore Spite and his constant need for Rook just as much as Lucanis does too.

Not proofread so apologies for any mistakes, I am but a wee human in this wee world.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Soft, subtle hands play into ‘his’ hair, twirling a strand around a finger so gently before letting it fall to the rest before carding through once more.

Spite couldn’t tell what need rang better- the need to close ‘his’ eyes or keep them on Rook as they read their novel peacefully from their other hand. 

He only gets so much time with them, and yes- while that time has for sure grown since Lucanis finally did something worthwhile and said how he felt towards Rook after their long-awaited return, he still itches for the times Lucanis finally lets himself rest and him take over. 

He’s been what Rook calls ‘Good’ and laid with them instead of trying to leave. But why would he leave now? Before, he was just bored. Now, he’s not bored anymore! Rook is! With him! Him!! Spite!

And with the way they giggle after a particular hair caress has him sighing in content and nuzzling into their stomach, he can tell they like it too. Not think like Lucanis does, Knows!

“You’re not falling asleep either, are you?” They tease lightly.

Spite glares up at them with fiery purple hues marking their face, “No. Can’t now.”

Their brow raises and a light smirk has him smirking fully back. “Oh?” Their tone has him tightening his arms around them better. Better for them not to leave. “And why’s that, hm?”

Spite nudges into the palm cupping his face, lightly nipping at it that has Rook booping his nose in response for his assault. 

It takes him another moment to realize the look set on him is one of expectation, not just playfulness with tender touches added in. 

It’s simple. “Can’t loose. Our Rook. Again.”

Rook’s hand holding his face pauses as does the one clasped with a book freezes, turning more stiff. 

They blink, then an odd look comes about their face. Spite doesn’t like it. 

They look worried and runs a more concerned felt hand through his hair. He practically purrs like those creatures he sees them constantly petting in Lucanis’s home town. 

“Spite…you know I’m not going anywhere again, right?”

“Yes. Because we kill. Whoever changes that.” His eyes flash momentarily, and he brings a hand to their face instead. Soft skin meets his hand followed by a sweet flutter of eyelashes as he cups around the side of their face. Gentle as Lucanis told him. Like he would ever hurt Rook. They are theirs! Theirs to protect! To fight with, to have fun with!

And finally feel soft with after so long of pain and hurt. 

All Spite knew since getting forced to share a body with the most stubborn human alive was pain. 

From being ripped from the fade and into the already tormented body itself, to the harsh experiments and trial and errors the mages did on him and Lucanis-just to see how ‘they’ reacted as host and demon, to sitting to the side as Lucanis curled into a sopping broken ball for months every night, frozen cold and having to listen to the irritating drip drip drip of the cell door. 

Spite felt the hunger, the aches, the burning anger and nagging sadness, and above all- the undeniable fear. 

Lucanis inadvertently made Spite feel it all, thus leading to his own want to leave, to go back to this ‘home’ Lucanis kept thinking about night and day. 

It all stopped the day Rook and her little team of misfits came into their life. With Rook leading the charge, they managed to get out and end up entirely into a new contract in return for helping them escape. 

It all stopped when Rook smiled and offered their assistance with anything the two needed. 

It all stopped when Lucanis got a flutter in his chest that grew and grew until the very sight of Rook had him blushing and Spite grinning. 

That was until that bastard mage, Solas as they called him, decided the brightest idea was to take their Rook. 

No more. 

Spite eyes them as they mark their book for later reading time and he starts sitting up further with glee when their arms stretch out to him. 

He’s a bit fast in globing them up in a hug only to have them laying across their large couch. He buries his face into their neck, smirking and chuckling as hands run up and down his back. It tickles. 

They settle into his favorite position at that point. Him laying on their chest, face nosing into their collarbone, and them holding them like how his wings hold them when keeping them safe. Away from the painful world. Away from mages and Solas. 

“Mine.” He presses a kiss into the bone underneath him. "Mine." They murmur it back just as easily. He smiles. 

He feels..safe..soft here. Lucanis thought it first but Spite couldn’t help but agree more the first time their hands touched them. 

The same hands that card his hair from his face to press light, fast kisses on his forehead. His nose. And he tilts up to meet their lips. They pinch him and they yelp as he does it back with a chuckle. Others would be scared of such a noise, but their hands are still on him, still giving him soft touches and loving caresses. 

He won’t sleep, he doesn’t need it nor wants it right now. He has his and Lucanis’s Rook and that's all he needs. 

That and their soft touch as always.

[481mclarg]

Scared to love you | AL65

★ I've never been good at telling people how I feel, but you make me want to try.

STLY      •       FANFIC + SMAU

        • Arthur Leclerc x Male!Oc Driver

« K » Sorry for being late. I have a horrible migraine + the whole city run out of power (?) + 35 fucking °C

(bue, no estoy seguro si así se dice, pero la cuestión es que se cortó la luz en todo este pueblo de mierda donde vivo). (el verano es una verga).

Warnings: insecurity/anxiety? (being afraid to come out)

★          introduction. | one. | two. | three. | four. | five. | six. | seven. |

[ 💻 ] Google News. 2023.

BREAKING. Matteo Lombardi to race for Ferrari in 2024.

          Carlos Sainz Jr.'s departure from Ferrari was something that no one expected, and the fact that the Scuderia didn't even give the fans time to recover from the news before announcing Lombardi as his replacement was even more shocking.

          The Maranello team had an Italian back in the top category and one of the youngest drivers on the grid. His great results in the past couldn’t be denied or questioned, but what was feared was that it was a hasty move on Ferrari's part. Other teams had already experienced what it was like to promote a young driver too early.

          That pressure was transmitted to Matteo. He knew he couldn't disappoint, he had to make his team proud, his country, Giancarlo, his family, his friends...

          Being Charles' teammate was strange. He felt like he was constantly hiding something from the Monegasque, which made him nervous. The fact that his voice and accent were so similar to Arthur's didn't help.

          Arthur was a subject he didn't know if he wanted to discuss with Charles. The eldest knew that they had at least been friends, but it didn't seem like his brother had told him anything about what had happened between them on vacation, even though he often makes comments that seem a bit strange.

          He preferred not to give it much importance. In the end, he hadn't even spoken much to Arthur again. He felt a bit sad for Arthur; he had wanted to maintain their friendship. At the same time, he was grateful because he didn't know if he would have been able to talk to him without remembering Barcelona.

          Everything related to the country, Spain, and its city now related to Arthur. It seemed like a curse. Maybe it was a spell from the Monegasque himself so he could never forget it, so that in one way or another, he would be present in his mind.

          He didn't see him much either. His contract in Formula 2 had ended, joining the Le Mans Series and distancing him a little from the world of Formula. He also left the Ferrari Drivers Academy, so if he didn't go to see his brother at the Formula 1 races, he had no chance to meet him.

          Arthur didn't talk about Matteo with his brother either, even though the older one also made comments to him and asked if their friendship was surviving the distance of not seeing each other on the track on weekends.

          "Yes, everything is fine" he lied. Charles smiled, reminding him that he didn't have to worry, like he had told him in that call.

          The younger one wished that things hadn't changed between them. He wished he didn't have to lie to his brother about his friendship with his teammate. He hadn't spoken much with Matteo, and he wouldn't say that they were on bad terms, but there was clearly a pending talk that neither of them dared to bring up. It was easier to keep quiet and look the other way than to resolve it.

          The Italian had been clear: "I'm going to focus on my career." He didn't want personal relationships. He didn't have the time. He wouldn't waste his energy on anything other than Ferrari. He understood that. He had to. He'd seen him work hard for years. He didn't want to be the one to ruin his life's work.

          Although he understood Matteo's point of view, he couldn't say he shared it. He sensed a fear in Matteo that wasn't typical of the boy who left everything on the track. He used to risk everything in every race. Why did he look terrified now? He was more careful -he justified- not to say that he was simply scared.

          Scared of losing.

          He had always been afraid of ruining everything, so he played it safe. Without questioning, without trying. On the track, it was easy. He could learn when a maneuver would work and when it was better to wait; in life, he couldn't know until he tried. Until he failed and learned from the mistake. But Matteo could not conceive of failing. He could not allow it.

          "Would he have acted the same way if I had gotten a seat in Formula One?" He could not know, but he did know that from his position, risking a future seat or the current one at Le Mans, he would act.

          Why not? Why not be the ones to make that difference? Why wait for someone else to act, to decide what he was going to do? He understood that he could lose support, but why did he want the support of intolerant people? Who, even if he didn't speak, would still know that they do not support him?

          Yes, he was going to attract a different look on him. He would be judged even for how he breathes, but what does it matter? If he doesn’t do it, he knows that he will judge himself for the same thing. For being a coward, for being able to make a difference, for being able to show others, to show Matteo that you can be a driver even if you are attracted to another man.

          At the same time, it was a kind of new challenge: to show people that he could continue to have successful results, that his private life and preferences did not interfere with his knowledge and skills. It even sounded stupid to believe that they could question his performance as a driver because of who he was with in bed.

          First, he had to talk to his family. It would be better to talk about it in person, get over that silly nervousness, and prepare for the time to make it public. It was also important that his family heard it directly from his mouth and not from what others were going to post on social media or news portals. He wanted to seek their support, a hug from his mother, ask what his father would have thought despite already knowing that he loved his family no matter what.

          He really hoped to be able to reconnect with Matteo, to resolve the pending things they had left in that hotel in Barcelona but for now, he could at least thank him silently for helping to know himself a little better. To discover a part that he didn't know or that he didn't know he had. Thank him for giving to him the courage to speak out, and the new purpose of showing that nothing that happens off the track matters when talking about a driver's career.

[ 📱 ] Instagram. 11 Jun. 2024.

arthurleclerc65

♡ Liked by charlesleclerc, dinobeganovic, paularon, dennishauger, olliebearman and others...

arthurleclerc65: happy pride month gays 💙🩷

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user293: !?!?!?!?

user40: hellou gays

user135: I hope you get better soon🙏 being French (by choice) is not natural

user592: hello !? he just come out !!?? like- ???!!!

charlesleclerc16: 👏👏♥️

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user302: 🩷💜💙?

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user289: happy pride month king🫡

[ 📲 ]          matteolombardi51 liked your post

matteolombardi51

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matteolombardi51: 💜

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user293: AT THE SAME TIME THAT ARTHUR ?!

dennishauger: proud of you man💪

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user305: love is love💞

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user529: Is it support to the community or his coming out post ?😭

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481MCLARG | 26 . 01 . 2025 | CORREGIDO

[wardenparker]

In the Still of the Night, ch 10

Zach Wellison x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Grown up and looking to the future, Zach Wellison and bunkmate Shane Morrissey are working for a new cruise line that offers its guests a vintage Vegas experience on the Mediterranean. The romantic atmosphere is rubbing off on many of the crew members, and Zach finds himself to be no exception when he meets the beautiful lead singer of Shane's band.

But being wrapped in the seductive arms of an atmospheric cruise is a far cry from real life. How will their relationship fare on dry land? They can't know unless they try.

Rating: M for Mature but this blog is always 18+ Word Count: 6.9k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this story include: Cursing, alcohol, food, cooking, eating, discussion of clothing/costumes. Mentions of prison time served, mentions of past homelessness.* Job loss, big life changes, moving, I guess this is growing up. Summary: There are more changes in store for you and Zach and more difficult decisions to make, but sunlight is rising over the next phase of your lives. Notes: Well, my darlings, it looks like this is the last full chapter of Zach and Dio's sweet soulmate tale. Next week will be the epilogue and then the following week we'll embark on a whirlwind romance with Javi Gutierrez!

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6 ~ Ch 7 ~ Ch 8 ~ Ch 9

It takes a few rings for the sound to penetrate that deep fog of sleep. Comfortably curled around your body, Zach sleeps better now than he ever has before and he is reluctantly pulled away from it as his phone goes off on the nightstand behind him. “What the fu-“ it’s still early, only two in the morning so he’s not expecting anyone to be calling.

"Good morning, Mr. Wellison." The captain's voice isn't unfamiliar to him, but it certainly is a shock to hear in the middle of the night.

“Captain.” Zach completely untangles from you as he sits up, trying to keep his voice quiet as he slips out of the bed. “This is a surprise sir. What can I do for you?”

"We're making calls this morning." The Captain pauses, an audible frown in his voice. "I'm sorry, I'm just seeing now that you took shore leave. It must be quite early for you back in the States."

Zach pulls away the phone from his ear and checks the time. “It’s two thirteen.” He tells the captain honestly. “That’s alright, is everything okay?” He’s confused why the captain would be making calls.

"Unfortunately not." The older man clears his throat, grunts something unintelligible, and harrumphs audibly. "It appears as though the repairs needed on the ship are more extensive than we originally thought," he explains, a glum note of unhappiness in his voice. "And all crew members are being given the option to be transferred to one of the other two ships owned by our company, or to take a buy out of the remainder of their contract."

“Uhhh.” He’s still half asleep and not running on all cylinders, so he turns to see you turning over towards him, still asleep. “I see, um, when do we need to let you know?” He asks, not wanting to make a decision without talking to you.

"We're asking everyone to make their decision as soon as possible," he explains, and Zach can hear a snuffle in the background. "E-mails will be sent out in the next hour detailing both options, but you'll notice a 48-hour deadline on the decision. We know it's fast, but we want to get everyone transitioned and settled as quickly as possible."

“Thank you for letting me know.” He tells him quietly. “I’ll let you just as soon as I can.” He knows it won’t be easy to instantly make a decision, but he feels like he knows what you will want to do, provided the band is in agreement.

“Good. Thank you.” The captain sounds understandably tired, but it isn’t as if this course of action is his first choice. The cruise had been going extremely well from every point of view except mechanical. “Your club has been a great asset to the company, Wellison. Just know we would be very sad to see you go.”

“Thank you, sir.” He knows the captain had come in to dine several nights and he feels like it’s a great honor to be complimented like this.

"Sorry to wake you." It's fairly obvious that he did, but this day is going to be unpleasant for everyone, she the best he can do is apologize. "And Wellison...are you with your soulmate, or should she get a separate call?"

“She’s still sleeping.” He tells him. “I’ll talk to her just as soon as she wakes up. No need to call her separately. I’m sure you have plenty of calls to make.”

"Roger that." The captain clears his throat again and nearly sighs. "Look forward to hearing from you both. Good morning, Wellison." And that's it. Just the click of the line going dead as the call vanishes from the screen of Zach's phone.

Zach stands there for a moment, processing the fact that both of you either have to move to other ships or be paid out for the rest of the contract. He looks down at the phone and then over at you in the darkness of the room before he creeps back over to the bed to climb back in. Things will be changing again and he knows that you will want to talk to the band before making any decisions.

******

The alarm you've set for the morning is on the early side for a Sunday, but you had wanted to get back over to your grandmother's house to sort through some more things before having one last dinner with your parents. The blaring pulls you out of an anxious dream, and you nearly jump to shut it off.

Zach hums, not asleep as you reach for your phone. He hadn't been able to go back to sleep the rest of the night. Too busy worrying and wondering about the future, even curled around you. He watches as you turn back towards him and gives you a small smile. "It's too early." He tells you.

“I know baby, I’m sorry.” You pout but lean in to press a kiss to his lips. “We said we wanted to get stuff done before we fly out tonight.”

He takes the kiss very willingly. "About that..." He pulls back and sighs softly. "I don't think we are going to be flying out tonight."

“Oh god,” you groan instantly. Zach’s obviously more awake than you are so maybe he’s gotten a notification from the airline or something. “Did our flight get cancelled?”

"No." He sits up and pulls you against him. "Do you want to talk now or after coffee?"

“That sounds…serious.” In a week you’ve lost your beloved grandmother, had a falling out with your mother, married your soulmate, and then started to reconcile with your mother. Any more of an emotional rollercoaster and you might just curl up into a ball and stay there. “Better have coffee while you give me the bad news.”

"I don't know if it's bad news," he admits quietly, but he kisses your forehead and unwinds his arm from around you to slip out of the bed. He reaches for his pants. "I'll go grab some coffee from the lobby and bring it back."

“Grab some muffins?” It’s a quick breakfast and enough to get you through, plus it will give you an extra minute or two. “I’ll throw myself under a quick shower and actually be awake when you get back.”

"Of course." He pulls his pants on and grabs his shirt. "Maybe they will have those raspberry Danishes." The hotel actually got their breakfast breads from a local bakery and they were delicious.

“Fingers crossed.” You give him another kiss and pop out of bed to hit the shower, wondering what the hell else could have happened in just the space of a week.

Your room is on the first floor of the hotel, so it's just a quick trip down the hall to make two large paper cups of coffee, sweetener and creamer like you enjoy. Moving over to the continental breakfast to pick up a plate of pastries.

By the time he comes back you’re just finishing up in the bathroom in your last set of fresh clothing. “Alright…” he’s brought back a plate full of pastry choices and your perfect cup of coffee, and you sit down together at the little table by the room’s picture window. “What’s happened?”

"I got a call this morning." He explains after taking a sip of the coffee. "Surprised that it didn't wake you, but you were exhausted last night."

“You got a call this morning?” You really must have been sleeping like a damn log, it was only 8 when your alarm went off. You should have woken up to his phone ringing. It only takes a second, though, before your mind catches up with you. “Is Shane okay? Did something happen?”

"I think Shane is okay." He promises. "The phone call was from the captain."

“Just rip the band-aid off, baby. What’s going on?”

“The ship needs more repairs than they expected.” It was not secret amongst the crew that every port day was spent trying to repair what was breaking but it needs an overhaul. “They are offering to buy out our contracts or put us on other ships.”

‘We’re losing our jobs’ is definitely not the bad news you thought you were about to get, and for a minute all you can do is sit and stare at Zach in a panic. “We’re…” you have to remind yourself to breathe. Things are very different now than they were even a few days ago. Still, it’s a shock. “Shit…”

“Yeah.” Zach chuckles, knowing his own racing thoughts had matched the panic that raced across your face. “We could move to another ship…” he pauses, “but we might not get the same ship.”

"I hate those odds." They could put Zach anywhere and he would be an immeasurable asset to a crew. But you? You'll be singing 80s ballads in an ill-fitting nylon gown faster than you can blink. "But I gotta talk to the band. Shit."

“I know. I figured that you would want to see what their thoughts are before making a decision.” He takes another sip of his coffee.

"What do you want to do?" He must have been thinking about it. About what he would do if the decision was just up to the two of you.

“Baby, where you go, I go.” Zach promises. “Unless you want me to take the ship assignment while you figure things out? Keep money coming in?”

“The day after we get married and you want me to be singing sad songs?” Teasing him is about the only thing that makes you feel normal right now, but you slump back in your chair with your coffee and shake your head. “If not for Gram, that might have been necessary. But between the funds we have now, the buy out from our contracts, and my inheritance? We have a really good cushion.”

“Okay.” He agrees, secretly relieved that he wouldn’t have to be separated from you. “I wouldn’t want you to sing sad songs.” He chuckles. “We talk to be band, see how they are feeling. Maybe they want to continue the contract, maybe they are tired of tiny cabins.”

"I dunno," you huff out a wry laugh. "Our soulmate cabin was definitely bigger than a New York City one bedroom apartment."

He snorts in agreement. “You aren’t wrong.” He shakes his head.

"I hate to say it." The cup of coffee in your hands is a comfort, warming you through with every sip. "But we should probably stay here a little longer. Talk to Tanya about the place in New York. If we're back on dry land, maybe we can speak to the current tenants of that apartment."

“We could fly out there, take a look in person.” He nods. “See what needs to be done to the venue.”

"We should talk to the band and to Tanya before we decide anything." Either way, you realize with a sigh, he's right. You're not flying out tonight. "And I should see if I can get a refund on the plane tickets."

“Fingers crossed.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to wake up at two o’clock this morning to worry about this.”

"Two?" Your face drops. "Baby, please tell me you got back to sleep."

“That’s not a big deal.” He shoots you a grin. “We used to get less sleep when we were partying on the ship.”

"Yeah, but we weren't sitting up in bed worrying," you remind him, though your expression turns from worry into a wry smile. "We were drinking and dancing and then going home to have sex."

“Maybe.” He concedes that it was definitely a lot more fun. “But at least I got to hold you while I worried.”

"Next time wake me so I can comfort you instead, okay?" One more sip of your coffee and it's gone, so you set down your cup to lean over and kiss him. "I should call the band. It's the afternoon in Rome already."

He knows it’s pointless to argue that you needed your rest, so he just hums. “Yeah, they should be out and about.”

Something compels you to FaceTime Shane instead of just calling him, and for a second you think maybe you've missed your friend a hell of a lot more than you realized. One hand holds your phone and the other reaches for Zach, anchoring you with support as you push through yet another wave of uncertainty.

As soon as the call connects, Zach knows that the band has heard the news and has probably been freaking out about it all. "Hey man." He lifts his free hand in a wave. "How's it going?"

"Been better." Shane shakes his head and shrugs. In the background you can see the rest of the band sitting around a table and more than a few empty plates and glasses. You caught them after lunch, it seems. "How are you guys doing?"

"Do you want to tell them first?" Zach asks playfully, looking over and tossing you a grin.

"Good news first." You agree, squeezing his hand quickly before letting go to waggle your fingers in viewof the camera. "We got married yesterday."

Zach laughs as the band erupts into shouts of surprise, well wishes and questions. All rapid fire at the same time and sounding like general chaos.

"Everybody chill the fuck out," you're laughing and feeling light all over again, especially when Diana pops into the frame to scream about not getting to be your maid of honor.

“I told you.” Zach laughs and he holds up his hand. “It’s been surreal.”

Another round of screaming happens, as if they all didn't quite believe it until they saw both of you wearing rings, but the joy from your friends is so much sweeter than last night's reception of the news -- no matter how necessary the conversations were that followed.

"That's not why we called," you admit, still laughing at Keo trying to inspect your rings through the phone screen.

“So I take it you got the call?” Cliff asks. “Shane wanted to call earlier but we thought they wouldn’t have called you yet.”

Zach snorts. “Got the call at 2 A.M. over here.” He says. “Not exactly the wake up call I wanted.”

"Cap didn't exactly check out the time difference, did he?" Rick rolls his eyes. "How are you guys feeling about it?" The band all know damn well that you and Zach come as a unit. They aren't going to fight that. It would make them pretty shitty friends if they did.

“Well, that’s why we are calling.” Zach admits. “We wanted to hear your thoughts on it.” They don’t know there is a possibility of another path, but he wants to hear what they think.

"Well...we don't really have a choice." Cliff motions between himself and Rick. "Work is work."

Zach looks over at you. “What if there was another option?”

Shane snorts. "I'm not moving to Oklahoma, man."

Zach nods towards you, wanting you to tell them about the wonderful gift your grandmother left you. “Babe?”

"Thing is..." You sit up straight in your chair like you're just sitting across the table from your friends. Your coworkers. Your bandmates. "I've inherited...something kind of massive from my Gram." In an odd way it feels like bragging, although you definitely don't mean it to be. "Turns out she owned some real estate in Brooklyn that used to belong to my grandfather's family."

"Out with it." Shane insists, seeing you practically squirm in your seat.

"I..." you're holding your breath without meaning to. "Inherited a nightclub."

Instead of the chaos of the announcement of your marriage, this is met with complete silence. Nothing is heard from the other side of the call, not even a chuckle of disbelief as they all stare at you, dumbfounded. Zach looks away from them, to you, and then back at the screen. “Did we lose you?” He asks, thinking the call might have frozen and that’s why they aren’t even blinking.

“You fucking what?” Shane chokes.

Zach chuckles. “I know, I felt the same in the lawyer’s office.” He admits. “We don’t know everything that needs to be done to it, but…” He looks over at you and smiles while holding your hand. “How would you guys like to stay on dry land for a while?”

“Are you fucking serious?” The rest of the band still hasn’t broken yet, but Shane looks like he’s about to cry. He’s clinging to Diana — who also has a distinct shine to her eyes — and gawping.

“Yeah.” Instantly you’re sniffling too, bobbing your head in agreement. “We’re serious. It might be a shit ton of work, but we have to at least try.”

“It’s in New York, so I understand if some of you are hesitant. Rent is high and it’s tough to make it there, but I think we can do it.” Zach murmurs softly. “But could you imagine our own club, like on the ship but we control everything?”

“Does it have a kitchen?” Keo bursts out the question like an explosion. “You’ve got to make your food!”

“That’s one of the questions we need to look into. I think there is, but is it what we will need?” He looks back over to you. “We want to fly out to New York to take a look.”

“Your room at the apartment hasn’t been touched.” Diana promises. “I hope it’s enough room for both of you.”

“I don’t think we will need it.” Zach looks over at you again. “At least— not for long.”

“That’s the other thing.” The sheepish look on your face is almost a grin. “Um…I also inherited a place to live. In Brooklyn.”

“Holy shit.” Rick exhales, shaking his head. “So- this is legit. I mean, we could have a permanent place to play?”

“We need to talk to the People who have been using the space. Figure out what the theater and everything needs. But…” You blow out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding and nearly giggle. “Yeah. This is legit.”

“I’m in.” Keo blurts out. “Immediately. Whatever we need to do. Invest in repairs, swing a hammer.” He has worked plenty of construction jobs to make ends meet when the band first got started. “Don’t get me wrong, the cruise contract was amazing, but if we could do that on land? It would be amazing.”

“No landlord, no dick bosses, no bullshit bureaucracy?” Cliff groans with delight. “The cruise ship was fun, I’m glad I got to travel, but hell yes.”

“Shane? Rick?” Zach asks, looking at the other members. “What do you guys think?”

“Fucking obviously.” Rick huffs at the same time Shane snorts out a “Duh.”

Shane just shakes his head, your amazing and supportive surrogate brother through so many hard years, and a beaming grin cracks his face. “Look at you, kid. Making dreams come true.”

“Not me,” you insist, but the smile in your face matches his anyway. “That’s my Gram looking out for all of us.”

Zach shakes his head. “You also immediately wanted to look after your band.” He’s not going to let you not take your own due credit.

“Of course.” You practically bean at them across the phone call. “They’re my family.”

There’s a surprising amount of blushing and cooing coming from a group of musicians and Zach grins at the way they all repeat the sentiment back to you. “When do you guys plan on flying back to the US?”

“Another day or two?” Shane looks around and all the guys nod.”

“What are you guys planning?” Diana asks with bright eyes. “Maybe you could take a honeymoon?”

He hadn’t even thought about a honeymoon, but he looks over at you to see what your feelings are. “What do you want to do, sweetheart?”

“I guess we could.” You admit, smiling a little wider. “We hadn’t even considered it because we thought we were going back to work.”

“That’s true.” He leans in and nudges his nose against yours. The practical planner inside him is begging to race to New York and immediately start working to set up the club so you don’t have to touch your inheritance, but he can see that you like the idea. “Where would you want to go?”

“Anywhere. Nowhere.” You beam at him again. “As long as I’m with you I don’t care.”

The sound from the band is a unanimous groan of disgust followed by more raucous laughter. “Okay, you guys figure out what you’re doing,” Diana insists. “We’ll bring the stuff from your cabin back to New York with us.”

“Oh god!” Zach’s eyes widen as he realizes that he had completely forgotten about the rest of your belongings. “I’ll send you some money.” He promises Shane, knowing that he might have to ship some boxes of books.

“We’ll manage the logistics, brother,” the older man promises, and points a thumb at his own soulmate. “I’ve got the Queen of organization to help.”

“Thank you.” He smiles at Diana, waving at the other half of his former roommate.

“Anytime,” She promises. “Now go be cute and in love.”

The call ends and Zach leans over, kissing your cheek just to do exactly what Diana said, making you smile. “So what do you want to do, babe?” he murmurs.

“Nothing too big?” It feels wasteful to plan a world tour when you just talked to your friends about starting a business. “Maybe a few days someplace sunny and warm? Even a week if it’s not too expensive.”

“That sounds nice.” He bites his lip and waggles his brows. “Somewhere you have to wear a bikini?”

“If that’s what you want.” You practically snort at how excited he is for the idea.

“Why don’t we rent a little bungalow on a beach somewhere?” He suggests. “Swim, bonfire on the beach, grilling? Lots of sex?”

“Sounds like a hell of a vacation to me.” Leaning into his side, you have a gentle — if deep — sigh. “After the week we’ve had, I think we’ve earned an actual vacation.”

“I think that’s fair.” He chuckles. “We spend the weekend at a little bungalow and then meet everyone in New York? Take a look at our future?”

“We’ve got to check out of here in…” You glance at your watch. “Two hours. I say let’s do some research and figure out where we can transfer our tickets to? But we definitely need to go see Tanya before we leave town.”

“That works for me.” Zach nods and sighs softly. “I’m glad they were all so quickly on board.” He chuckles.

“The chance to do what we love and what we’re good at, on our own terms? I would have been shocked if anyone said no.”

“We’re going to have to work our asses off.” Zach bites his lip. “We need to make a Facebook page, right? Post pictures of the venue, clips of you singing on the ship. Maybe some of my dishes?” He asks, knowing that getting the word out is key to the success of the theatre.

“How about we make a list of what we’ll need to do and any thoughts we have about doing it on the flight?” Figuring you’ll at least be flying somewhere, you lean over to kiss him and get to your feet again with a stretch and a groan. “But Tanya will have information on the current tenants and I don’t want to make any plans until we talk to them.”

“I agree.” He nods. “We will make sure that no one is left homeless.”

“I’m going to get some more coffee for us, then we can pick out a honeymoon destination and get the ball rolling. Sound good, baby?”

Today had taken a turn. An enormous one, really. And while you can’t say you really know what’s coming next in this crazy, chaotic life — you have Zach. And maybe, just maybe, that’s all you really need.

******

Four days later, incredibly relaxed and extremely tan, Zach wheels yours and his carry ons off the plane while you check your messages. Once you had decided on your location and arrived, you had switched off your phones and just focused on each other. Taking a true mini honeymoon. “Do we want to get a taxi or take the subway?” He asks, not sure how many transfers are needed to get to Diana’s apartment.

“I hate taking luggage on the subway,” you admit, sheepish and lopsided grin fully in place in your face. “One more indulgence?”

“I don’t blame you.” He snorts and nods. “Yeah, let’s get a taxi.” Despite having spend three days indulging, you both had been frugal with your money. Zach grilling and cooking in the little bungalow kitchen rather than eating out and drinking.

“It’s a little bit of a ride; it’ll be worth it.” As Zach heads for the taxi stand, you trail just a step behind while you text Diana and Shane that you’re on your way over. They’ve been back in New York for two days and reportedly jet lagged as hell.

“Why don’t we pick up some food?” He asks. “Or is there a bodega nearby?”

"There's a bodega and a little Halal takeout place on the bottom floor of the building." Oh yeah, you're going to miss that place. "Best lamb kebab you've ever had in your life."

“Well, why don’t we order dinner for everyone?” He asks, walking with you towards the baggage claim. “I think we’re tired, they’re tired, an easy dinner is called for.”

"Then it's a good thing I know their orders." You send along another text letting Diana and Shane know you'll be bringing dinner along with your smiling selves, and then stuff your phone back in your pocket.

“Okay. Here we are.” The baggage claim is already running and he starts scanning for your luggage. “You want to go get us a taxi while I grab our bags, babe?”

“Sure.” A kiss to his cheek and you’re off again.

Taxi stand. Baggage claim. A drive from JFK all the way out to the two-bedroom apartment that you’ve shared with Shane and Diana for years.

It’s bittersweet knowing that this won’t be home anymore, but there is an excitement to the next part of your journey.

The apartment is a typical pre-war building, the restaurant on the bottom and there is a door to the left that leads to the stairs for the apartments. “This is a nice building.” He hums as he opens the door and reaches back to help you out of the taxi.

"It's pretty decent. Landlords are nice enough but drag their feet getting anything done. The super is this old Russian guy that I swear partied with Rasputin. At least, that's the vibe he gives off." You thank the driver and pass him a few bills as payment when he finishes taking your bags out of the trunk. "Our dinner order should be done by now, we can grab that and head upstairs."

“You remember that I used to be the maintenance guy for the building I lived in, don’t you?” He asks. “If Diana needs something immediately, I don’t mind doing it. Especially if we are staying here for a while.”

“Of course I remember.” Inside the first floor of the building, you slip into the restaurant and get in line to pick up your order. “The tenants in the townhouse said their real estate agent found them a few good leads so I don’t know how long we’ll be here but I know Di would love the help.”

“Sounds good.” He hadn’t had his own tools, so he didn’t have to store or sell them when he took the cruise contract, but he figures he can pick some up. He would need them for the theatre anyway. And helping you with any maintenance at the townhouse when you move in.

It’s a relieving feeling, to put your key in the lock of the apartment and push inside, calling out through the relatively small space that you’re home. And it’s even more relieving when you hear a thundering set of footsteps and nearly get pummeled by one of Diana’s remarkably strong bear hugs.

Zach laughs when you squeal and hug your friend back with equal enthusiasm. He’s never met Diana in person, but he feels like he’s already a friend through the phone conversations he had been looped in on with Shane. “Where’s your worst half?” He asks jokingly when you both pull apart.

“Shut the fuck up, Wellie.” Shane laughs, sauntering into the living room ready to dole out hugs of his own.

“Oh so she’s not the prettier, smarter, nicer side?” Zach snorts, reaching out and pulling Shane in for a hug and slapping his back with a few harsh thumps.

“Of course she is.” He returns the hearty back slaps and laughs. “But you deprived me of my only chance to be a best man so I’m gonna give you shit.”

“It was her idea.” He throws you under the bus with a grin and a wink. “Blame her.”

“Absolutely.” You grin, happily accepting a bone breaking hug from your friend. “All my fault.”

Diana grins at Zach and holds her arms open. “I feel like a hug is appropriate.” She promises and Zach nods, chuckling as he moves in to embrace her. “Nice to meet you in person.”

“It’s about time, too,” you agree, dabbing fake tears from your eyes and sniffling dramatically.

Zach groans playfully, rolling his eyes and pulling away to give Diana a commiserating look. “She’s hilarious, isn’t she?”

“Hey.” Shane flicks Zach’s ear and steals the bag of food from under his arm. “Be nice to your wife!” He orders, heading further into the apartment with everyone’s dinner.

“My wife.” A sappy look crosses his face as he repeats that he has to move back over to you for a kiss. “Want me to drop the bags in your room?” He asks. “Which one is it?”

“Our room.” Accepting the kiss with an equally gooey grin, you point down the hall. “Is the last room on the right.”

“Last room on the right.” He repeats and starts to cart the bags down the narrow hall, shuffling slightly.

The place is big enough for three without forcing you to be on top of each other and you’ve always been so grateful to Shane and Diana for being the best of roommates. So much so that now, with Zach here, you’re utterly certain that things would have been just fine if you had had to stay.

Once the bags are deposited, He follows the voices back to the main area to find you three opening containers and filling plates with the delicious smelling foods. “So how are you two feeling being back?” He asks. “Still getting used to the time change?”

“We mostly napped and unpacked yesterday.” Diana passes the rice container back across the table as she fixes her plate. “I have to go back to work tonight so I’m enjoying my last few hours of freedom.”

“Do you have a long shift?” He knows her schedule can be crazy and hopes that you both being here doesn’t disrupt her schedule. Taking the plate you hand him, he starts to fix his own food.

“The usual.” She shrugs and silently thanks Shane with a smile when he adds pickled onions to her plate. “Eleven hours. I’ll come home and have a few hours’ sleep and be normal again by noon.”

“Well, do you want us to wait to go see the theatre?” He asks.

“Oh, no way.” She laughs, waving off the kind gesture easily. “I don’t know the first thing about theaters. You all go and enjoy yourselves. Just let me know if I need to patch up an injury during clean up.”

“Shane will make sure he injures something so you get to baby him.” Zach teases, throwing his friend a grin.

“And?” Shane asks, no trace at all of shame in his voice as he starts to eat.

All three of you laugh, Diana rolling her eyes as she leans in and kisses his cheek. “Of course I will baby you.” She promises playfully. “No Nurse Ratchet.”

“Love you too.” He mumbles through a bite and a grin.

The four of you eat eager, Zach groaning over the flavors and starting to analyze how he could incorporate something into his own meals.

“So the boxes we shipped are getting here on Friday.” Shane tells you and Zach about halfway through lunch. “How long are your tenants going to be in the townhouse for?”

“What did she say again?” Zach asks, looking over at you. “Possibly by the end of the month?”

“Mmhmm.” You nod, letting yourself finish the bite you had just taken. “They’re looking at a couple of places this week. She said it was the push they had been looking for to move closer to their daughter now that they have a grandbaby.” It has actually been a joyful conversation instead of a tense one, as you’d discovered that your grandmother had been renting the townhouse in Brooklyn Heights to the same couple for years now. They had raised their daughter in that house, but now that She was married with a baby and the couple were retired, they were talking about leaving the city. “If all goes well, it’ll just be a few weeks.”

“Have the guys found a place yet?” Zach asks, frowning slightly. He knows that this is your room, but the rest of the band didn’t have apartments waiting on them.

“They’re subletting in Queens while they look around for something better.” Diana had been talking to Keo about it just this morning. “Rick’s cousin’s place.”

“Okay…..good.” That makes him relax a little more and he takes another bite of his food. “Hopefully they can find something closer, but at least they have a place.”

“They’ll be good for now.” You agree, equally as relieved that your friends have found space. “The worst-case scenario is that Rick stays with his cousin and Keo takes the room here.”

“Yeah.” He knows that there are options, but his past tends to make him a little more sensitive to those issues. “So, we’ll go tomorrow and see what the theatre is like.”

“The townhouse is three bedrooms,” you remind Zach gently, hearing the worry in his voice. “They won’t have to worry. They can always choose to stay with us.”

“I know.” He loves that you understand his worry and reaches out to squeeze your knee. “It will all work out.”

“One way or another.” You’re all going to take care of each other. That’s a promise that was made as long time ago and you have no intention of letting it go by the wayside now that you can really do something about it.

After the meal is finished, Zach looks over at Shane and Diana, catching both of them giving a small yawn. “Why don’t you two go catch a nap before Diana has to go to work?” He suggests. “We can clean up and settle in.”

“Are you sure?” Diana smothers another yawn.

“Of course.” Zach nods, reaching for her plate. “You need sleep to save lives.”

"We've got it, guys," you promise them. "Go snuggle up and we'll see you in a bit. We'll take care of the place."

Zach watches them disappear down the hall, and he smiles as he stands up. “I’ll wash these up if you will put up the food?”

"And when we're done, I'll give you the incredibly brief tour." There is no such thing as a large apartment in New York City unless you're a millionaire, so there isn't much of a tour to give, but this place will still be Zach's home for a little bit so you want him to feel comfortable.

“Is there laundry in the building?” He asks, knowing that it would be a miracle to have laundry in the actual unit and he doesn’t think that is going to happen.

"In the basement." It's good enough that it's there, you're not too sore about it not being in your own unit. "We all said we would do our own stuff but we ended up sharing things anyway. It just depended on who was having a shittier week that week."

“That seems logical and nice.” He admits with a chuckle. “Sometimes, a basement laundry in a building was the way I would get my own clothes washed.” He admits.

"Hell yeah." The two of you stack up dishes and leftovers together and head into the kitchen. "You do what you gotta do. I'm glad you were able to find places to get things done."

The kitchen is small, tiny even. A glaring light on the fact that most New Yorkers don’t cook at home. The number of restaurants to big of a lure.

"Is it bad that I'm thinking more about getting into our new place than being mindful that I'll be leaving here soon?" You're excited -- and after the haze of combined mourning and steps forward that you and Zach went through over the last ten days or so, it's an odd feeling.

“Not at all.” He admits with a shameless grin. “I had thought to ask if you wanted to walk by the townhouse tomorrow.”

“Absolutely.” There is absolutely no hesitation in that for you. “Let’s get up early and go walk around the neighborhood? See if there’s a good place for breakfast?”

“Also get a feel for it.” He hums. “The theatre is within walking distance, right?”

“Yeah. Three blocks away.” It’s enough to feel like you can leave the place and get a breather, but close enough that if something happens you can be there in a matter of minutes. Perfect, as far as small business ownership is concerned. “I can’t believe they’ve been using it for a cooking class pop up. That’s so weird but also kind of genius?”

“Yeah, and that means there has to be some kind of kitchen set up.” He reasons. “More than just theatre snacks.”

The nightmares scenario had been finding out that the place had a bar and a single popcorn machine, but that seems to not be the case at all. Right more it’s sounding like more kitchen than theater, which means Zach might actually have some good resources to build on. “At this point I think I’m most curious about what kind of office and workspace there is.”

“There’s the real question.” He hums in agreement. “That and what kind of seats are in the theatre.”

“From the way the manager was talking, it sounded like tables.” You’re hoping for tables. Praying for tables. But the key is that they have to be big enough tables to eat at.

“And when we have a chance to remodel the way we want, would you want booths?” He asks curiously.

“Personally, I’d love a mix.” The dream has been building in your head for a few days now and it’s really starting to take shape. “Old school supper club with a floor show style.” You grin sheepishly. “I used to watch White Christmas all the time when I was a kid and I dreamed of getting to perform at Novello’s.”

“Exclusive booths and open tables?” He asks, trying to recall the movie.

“Exactly.” The smile on your face goes a bit dreamy. “And plenty of space to dance.”

“A bigger dance floor than on the cruise ship?” He asks playfully. The dance floor in the club had been a moderate size, but nothing grand.

“Maybe.” The two of you dance around each other now, sidestepping around the little kitchen as he washed the dishes and you put things away. “However big we can manage, really.”

“We will make it happen.” He reaches for your waist and presses his lips to yours. “Our dreams baby.”

“They’re starting a hell of a lot sooner than we thought.” And in some ways, being thrown into the deep end of the pool to sink or swim is going to be incredibly exciting.

“Shit.” He snorts, pulling you close and pressing his forehead against yours. “My real dream came true the day I discovered you were my soulmate.”

“I love you too.” You grin and hug him closer, holding on to every good breath. Every moment is good with Zach and you refuse to let go.

Zach leans back and gazes into your eyes. He has come so far. Learned tough lessons and overcome adversity that might completely overwhelm someone. For some time, he had let his own inner demons take over. Until Justin had taken a second look at him, believed in him. Until Toby had taken a chance on him. Given him a passion to redirect his emotions. Until you had loved him. Given him unwavering love and support. He can only hope that he makes you happy a fraction what you make him feel. Hopes that you will always be proud to carry his name. So many nights, he has stared up at the stars, either on that park bench when he had nothing or leaning against the railing of the cruise ship, and wondered what the future could possibly hold for him.

Now, now he knows that his future is you.

------ Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon   @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

ItSotN: @greenwitchfromthewoods @copperhalfcent @ariavitiellos @spishsstuff @76bookworm76

[cementcornfield]

the way i know it's taking everything in him not to say some ridiculous comment to the press rn 😭

[mars-ipan]

HOOO my brother just touched a nerve

[vettelcore]

i found put yesterday i can lift more than 60kg and my ego has never been bigger

[mckinlily]

Plot armor but it’s Bruce Wayne’s wealth.

Bruce is one of the richest men in the world. Bruce does not want to be one of the richest men in world.

He starts by implementing high starting salaries and full health care coverages for all levels at Wayne Enterprises. This in vastly improves retention and worker productivity, and WE profits soar. He increases PTO, grants generous parental and family leave, funds diversity initiatives, boosts salaries again. WE is ranked “#1 worker-friendly corporation”, and productively and profits soar again.

Ok, so clearly investing his workers isn’t the profit-destroying doomed strategy his peers claim it is. Bruce is going to keep doing it obviously (his next initiative is to ensure all part-time and contractors get the same benefits and pay as full time employees), but he is going to have to find a different way to dump his money.

But you know what else is supposed to be prohibitively expensive? Green and ethical initiatives. Yes, Bruce can do that. He creates and fund a 10 year plan to covert all Wayne facilities to renewable energy. He overhauls all factories to employ the best environmentally friendly practices and technologies. He cuts contracts with all suppliers that engage in unethical employment practices and pays for other to upgrade their equipment and facilities to meet WE’s new environmental and safety requirements. He spares no expense.

Yeah, Wayne Enterprises is so successful that they spin off an entire new business arm focused on helping other companies convert to environmentally friendly and safe practices like they did in an efficient, cost effective, successful way.

Admittedly, investing in his own company was probably never going to be the best way to get rid of his wealth. He slashes his own salary to a pittance (god knows he has more money than he could possibly know what to do with already) and keeps investing the profits back into the workers, and WE keeps responding with nearly terrifying success.

So WE is a no-go, and Bruce now has numerous angry billionaires on his back because they’ve been claiming all these measures he’s implementing are too expensive to justify for decades and they’re finding it a little hard to keep the wool over everyone’s eyes when Idiot Softheart Bruice Wayne has money spilling out his ears. BUT Bruce can invest in Gotham. That’ll go well, right?

Gotham’s infrastructure is the OSHA anti-Christ and even what little is up to code is constantly getting destroyed by Rogue attacks. Surely THAT will be a money sink.

Except the only non-corrupt employer in Gotham city is….Wayne Enterprises. Or contractors or companies or businesses that somehow, in some way or other, feed back to WE. Paying wholesale for improvement to Gotham’s infrastructure somehow increases WE’s profits.

Bruce funds a full system overhaul of Gotham hospital (it’s not his fault the best administrative system software is WE—he looked), he sets up foundations and trusts for shelters, free clinics, schools, meal plans, day care, literally anything he can think of.

Gotham continues to be a shithole. Bruce Wayne continues to be richer than god against his Batman-ingrained will.

Oh, and Bruice Wayne is no longer viewed as solely a spoiled idiot nepo baby. The public responds by investing in WE and anything else he owns, and stop doing this, please.

Bruce sets up a foundation to pay the college tuition of every Gotham citizen who applies. It’s so successful that within 10 years, donations from previous recipients more than cover incoming need, and Bruce can’t even donate to his own charity.

But by this time, Bruce has children. If he can’t get rid of his wealth, he can at least distribute it, right?

Except Dick Grayson absolutely refuses to receive any of his money, won’t touch his trust fund, and in fact has never been so successful and creative with his hacking skills as he is in dumping the money BACK on Bruce. Jason died and won’t legally resurrect to take his trust fund. Tim has his own inherited wealth, refuses to inherit more, and in fact happily joins forces with Dick to hack accounts and return whatever money he tries to give them. Cass has no concept of monetary wealth and gives him panicked, overwhelmed eyes whenever he so much as implies offering more than $100 at once. Damian is showing worrying signs of following in his precious Richard’s footsteps, and Babs barely allows him to fund tech for the Clocktower. At least Steph lets him pay for her tuition and uses his credit card to buy unholy amounts of Batburger. But that is hardly a drop in the ocean of Bruce’s wealth. And she won’t even accept a trust fund of only one million.

Jason wins for best-worst child though because he currently runs a very lucrative crime empire. And although he pours the vast, vast majority of his profits back into Crime Alley, whenever he gets a little too rich for his tastes, he dumps the money on Bruce. At this point, Bruce almost wishes he was being used for money laundering because then he’s at least not have the money.

So children—generous, kindhearted, stubborn till the day they die the little shits, children—are also out.

Bruce was funding the Justice League. But then finances were leaked, and the public had an outcry over one man holding so much sway over the world’s superheroes (nevermind Bruce is one of those superheroes—but the public can’t know that). So Bruce had to do some fancy PR trickery, concede to a policy of not receiving a majority of funds from one individual, and significantly decrease his contributions because no one could match his donations.

At his wits end, Bruce hires a team of accounts to search through every crinkle and crevice of tax law to find what loopholes or shortcuts can be avoided in order to pay his damn taxes to the MAX.

The results are horrifying. According to the strictest definition of the law, the government owes him money.

Bruce burns the report, buries any evidence as deeply as he can, and organizes a foundation to lobby for FAR higher taxation of the upper class.

All this, and Wayne Enterprises is happily chugging along, churning profit, expanding into new markets, growing in the stock market, and trying to force the credit and proportionate compensation on their increasingly horrified CEO.

Bruce Wayne is one of the richest men in the world. Bruce Wayne will never not be one of the richest men in the world.

But by GOD is he trying.

[satoruan]

MOMENTS WITH YOUR PREGNANT BELLY w/Jujutsu Kaisen  

( CW ) f!reader, reader is pregnant(duh), tooth-rotting fluff  

Featuring: Gojo Satoru, Toji Fushiguro, Nanami Kento, Geto Suguru 

author's note: short rewrite from my old blog

☾ GOJO SATORU 

"Toru, stop splashing my stomach!" you exclaimed at your playful husband, attempting to push the lukewarm bathwater onto your stomach, inadvertently splashing your face. "But she likes it, look!" he exclaimed with a huge smile as your daughter continued to kick your stomach. "I don’t need to look; I can feel it," you rolled your eyes. "Feels like she’s trying to break my ribs." You let out a little grunt when she kicks a particular spot. Satoru shoots a worried glance at you. "Are you alright?" he asks, rubbing smooth circles on your stomach. "I'm okay; she just keeps kicking the same spot," you gave him a small smile when he leans down to kiss your belly. "Hey now, take it easy on your momma, or no more splashes for you," he mummers to your stomach. As if your daughter understood, she stops and starts gently kicking in another area. "Look, Angel, she listened to me!" he exclaims before pushing more water into your stomach. "Toru! You got water in my nose!" 

☾ TOJI FUSHIGURO 

"Are you okay, beautiful?" Toji inquired, concern evident in his eyes as he observes you holding your stomach with a furrowed expression. "Just a big kick from the baby," you struggle to get out, your stomach contracting. "C'mere--lemme make you feel better, baby," he whispered, sitting up on the headboard of the bed and pulling you between his open legs. "What are you doing, Toji?" You question as your husband reached towards the nightstand to grab something. "Makin’ my girl feel better–just lay down and relax," he whispers in your ear before placing a gentle kiss on your shoulder. With the cramps becoming unbearable, you had no other choice but to obey. Eyes squeezed tight, body resting on Toji’s toned chest, you tense when he starts to gently massage your stomach with what feels like lotion. A moan of relief escaped you involuntarily. "That’s right, let me take care of you," he mummers, continuing the soothing massage. 

☾ NANAMI KENTO 

"Are you ready to taste heaven, babies?" Nanami smiles warmly at your stomach as if expecting your unborn twins to give a response. Quickly, he leans down and places two affectionate kisses on your stomach, one for each baby. "C'mon, Kento, ’m hungry!" you pout, crossing your arms over your chest. Nanami was supposed to be giving you new food items that he found online, but the more he talks, the more it seems like he's eager for his children to be the taste testers rather than you. "You know they can’t actually give you a review, right?" you question your husband, but he ignores your sass and reaches for a plate. "Duh, ‘course I know that, but they're still going to taste it inside of you," he says as if it's the most obvious thing. "Yeah, all mashed up and mixed with a bunch of different foods. Now, give me that plate–I’m hungry!" you insist, reaching out for the plate as your husband laughs. 

☾ GETO SUGURU 

"I don’t think they like me," Suguru grumbles, and you laugh as your unborn child tries and fails to kick their father's head off your stomach. "Hell," Suguru yanks his head up and glares at your protruding stomach. "Hey, don’t cuss at my baby," you laugh. "I wouldn’t have to if my baby wasn’t trying to give me a concussion," he rolls his eyes dramatically before rubbing his calloused fingers on your stomach, The baby kicks at his hand. "Don't be so dramatic, Sugu," you roll your eyes at your husband as he continues to tease your child with his hand. "How do you think I feel when they’re kicking my bladder at three AM?" you laugh. "You better not come out as moody as your mommy," he taunts before pressing a soft kiss on your stomach. "I’ll give you whatever you want when you come out if you let me lay down in peace, deal?" he whispers to your stomach, and all he gets is a harsh kick. "Deserved.” You huff out. 

[sugutiva]

❝ PUFF , PUFF , FUCK ! ❞ — G. SUGURU

ᥫ᭡. synopsis : riding suguru while he’s high .

tags : smut, p in v, smoking, cowgirl, biting, dirty talk, all lowercase, not proofread !

a/n : sugutiva .

geto manspreads lazily against the couch with a fat blunt placed on his kiss bitten lips. his red eyes distantly travel over the expanse of your swaying body. the effects of the sativa is apparent in his hazed body language.

your eyes pick up on the way how he barely parts his mouth to sexily exhale the cloud of built up smoke. you can’t stop whining; the way how his eyes are lazy but still feel so heavy on your body makes you almost numb.

he tuts when he notices you suppressing your moans and babbles. his favorite sounds.

“ nahhh, don’t do that now,” his voice is smooth as it travels sparks of pleasure through your body— despite sounding a bit strained due to your walls continuing to clamp around him tightly. “ don’t hold back those pretty sounds, sweetheart. wan’a hear how cock drunk you can be.” his thumb tugs at your bottom lip that’s caught in between your two rows of teeth. he smiles when a sharp moan tumbles out your mouth as the tip of dick constantly knocks against your sweet spot.

“ suguuu, p-please— you feel s’good!” your words come out as a jumbled slur. he’s so bulky, the stretching sensation in your pussy quickly bleeds into pleasure as your bounces on his lap quickly becomes rowdy. your thighs burn with sweet heat from the expand.

he looks at you with the slyest expression— akin to one of a cat’s. “ yeah? tell me more baby. beg for me to touch you so this filthy pussy can cum on my cock.” his hand slides around your hips to give your ass a few sharp slaps, spurring you on.

a tease is perfect word to describe geto— he loved making you bluntly spell out what you wanted even when he knew.

“ i want you to t-touch me,”

“ be specific girl, there’s many places on your body that i want to touch.” he quickly corrects you, the hand holding the once lit blunt is thrown over the back of the couch loosely as he focuses his attention on you.

you huff out before complying. “ please… i want you to rub my clit til’ i cum!” even to your own ears you sound quite pathetic.

but suguru thinks otherwise— he casually gives you a grin at your plead, giving your ass another heartfelt grab before maneuvering his hand to give your throbbing clit it’s desired attention. his thumb presses down on the bud before motioning tight circles, inflicting a noisy whine from the new wave of pleasure, leading you closer to your orgasm.

“ likeee this?” he asks and you reply with new frantic moves of your hips. “ mhmm.. seems like it. your practically gushing on my cock baby.” he takes in the scene with amusement.

he bites back an unusual moan from creeping out when your body slams down harsher this time, feeling your pussy rock and hold his leaking cock snuggly almost has him seeing stars. the thumb on your clit speeds as suguru throws his head back, his chest and neck a flushed sweaty mess as strands of his black hair sticks to his damp skin.

he’s growing stupid from you bouncing your pussy on him repeatedly in that hypnotic manner— and that sight alone almost rips your orgasm out of you.

you lean over to nip his adam’s apple, your pussy contracts when you feel his breath hitch. “ fuuck, that’s it. fuck yourself silly on me, just like that, girl.” he pauses before he lets out a shaky breath— it’s unintentional, but his voice alone drags you into your powerful orgasm.

you force your hips to continue rocking against him while increased squelches resonates through the fuzzy room along with your combined moans. you feel sparks of electricity shoot through your limbs, your cunt squeezes more slick out, creating a translucent ring around the hefty base of his cock.

you don’t get a moment to calm down from your high because suguru’s hand moves from your clit to grab your hip— his grip boards on painfully but you don’t get to dwell on it as his warm fluid paints your walls a creamy white and your mind blank.

his cum is so warm and it makes you feel full inside, he ruts his hips up erratically to make broken hiccups escape your mouth before he eventually stops.

in the aftermath you only focus on the shallow breaths and pants escaping your bodies, suguru breaks the silence. “ i… can’t feel my dick right now.” his voice is much different than before… more breathless. despite that, when you try to lift yourself off his hand pulls your hip down as his body shifts to grab something.

when you hear the familiar flicks of a lighter igniting, you lift your head back up to be greeted with suguru taking a final puff of the blunt, his chest whiffs up with smoke.

you watch as he keeps his chest tight, holding the sativa in his lungs, before he slightly lifts two fingers off the lighter to motion you to come forward for a kiss.

once you do, he exhales into your mouth with his hand holding your jaw tightly and you accept the wave of warmth greedily. the earthy taste hits before flooding your senses hazily and you take in all of what suguru gives you with blissful content. the effects of the suguru and the sativa makes your mind and limbs go misty.

when you part, your lips are still connected with a thin line of spit before you lap it up with a erotic smirk.

“ round two?” before he can answer, your hips start to slowly wind up again.

[sukunas-wife]

Being Sukuna’s Pregnant Wife and being worshipped as a diety because you were able to conceive the four armed hulking cursed child, you must have the blessing of fertility

Having a shrine erected in your name because barren women believed you’d bless them with fertility despite your legacy starting with the child of the curse that torments them all

Telling your hand maids “Don’t bring me my clothes, bring me one of the kings robes.” The hand maids flinching and wanting to protest out of fear of taking the King of Curses robes

The poor naive young hand maid that had grown a crush on the king excitedly rushing if it meant she could enter the private bed chambers,

Scoffing with a malicious smile to your loyal maids when they shook their heads with Sympathy, they learned long before at such a request it would be foolish to go alone, at least 2 or 3 of them would need to go in your name, preferably the ones your husband recognized to be by your side the longest. But you didn’t like this new girl, she was too enthusiastic to work at the palace only to have a complete change in character when she learned she was assigned to work for you

“It’ll serve that poor girl right” you looked away from the door when your loyal hand maids brought out a wooden box with one of Sukuna’s folded Kimono’s they helped you dress your swollen belly accentuated by the belt the kimono tailored to fit your husband left you with extra space and length, it was far more comfortable then the Kimono’s and robes you were, the lingering smell of your husband with comforting as your rubbed your belly hands barely peeking from the massive sleeves

“Let’s go see my husband.” Was all you said as you started your walk, the maids followed close as you made it to the bed chambers, the door was open, you looked in, Sukuna sneering down at the girl laying in a pool of blood, Uraume was making quick work of the mess

Sukuna’s snapped to you and his arm’s opening in an unusual display of affection, you walked around the mess to reach him, he pulled you into his left side, one hand on your waist the other making you face him, bring his right hand up he rested his hand on your stomach “Some of your maids need a lesson on how to speak to their king,” he looked away from your face to your stomach as he started to move his hands in circles “So swollen with my child, it’s no wonder you send your maids to steal my robes.”

You smack his shoulder with a playful smile and he chuckled “Don’t say it like that you make me feel bigger than i am.”

“Now,” he looked up at your face again, “why are you here.”

You tilted your head to the side, “I started contractions this morning, I’ve been in pain all day and I’m barely standing, my new maid wouldn’t stop speaking so highly of my husband accomplishing having a child when I was at my worst pain level getting ready to push out YOUR child that I HAD to carry. Anyhow I came to get you because he is ready to come.”

Sukuna stared down at you confused “How do you know it’s a boy?”

“I’m his mother,” he watched as you placed your hand over his stilling his rubbing of your stomach, “I knew he was a boy from the day your seed took.”

Sukuna smirked “Is that so? Then let’s see this boy.”

🖤❤️❤️❤️🖤❤️❤️❤️🖤❤️❤️❤️🖤❤️❤️❤️🖤

After an hour of fighting the doctor tending to your birth you gave birth to your lively son, born screaming without needing stimulation to cry form the doctor. Your husband couldn’t help but laugh when he saw his child in his full glory, he was a boy indeed.

The help immediately gave you your son and you cooed at him when he took to your breast, your husband taking blankets from the maids and covered your son also covering you in the process as you struggled a bit to pass what came next. Your son a spitting image of his father, your breathy laugh caught Sukuna’s attention as he came back to your bed side stroking your hair and rubbing your stomach the way the help had been doing.

“What amuses you?” He watched his son slowly close his eyes as you coddled him closer.

“I’m the one who had to carry him for so long, and the ingrate took nothing from me.” You smiled and shook your head before looking up at Sukuna.

Soon the doctor left after clearing you of any possible issues and checking your son. “His name?” You looked at Sukuna and he sighed “Yuji”

The look of adoration in your eyes was something Sukuna would’ve wanted to capture forever if he could express the sentiment. However for now he’d settle for memorizing every detail of today. His wife birthing his first heir, the name she had chosen he permitted.

Maybe just maybe this world wasn’t so bad

[xenteaart]

the hard way

pairing: vampire!chris x to be vampire!reader genre/warnings: dark romance, mean chris, angst? kinda dead dove, mentions of death, blood and a lil gore (not too graphic tho imo), it's okay in the end??? and they're in love plot: reader is getting turned into a vampire and it's not as cool as she imagined author’s note: obvsly heavily inspired by railway and that SPITTING SCENE. idk it's prolly gonna flop but i wanted to picture that process and a not so hot side of it

“no.” “why not?!” “because i told you so a million times already. we’re not discussing this.” chris spits out and furrows, growing more agitated with each passing second.

“what, you don’t want me to be equal to you?” you ponder desperately while your mind searches for any, any reason at all as to why chris won’t turn you. it’s been getting to you for the last couple of months, and you’re sure you’ve gone through every possible explanation your troubled brain could come up with: he doesn’t love you. he doesn’t wanna spend eternity with you. or maybe it’s a power thing. or, or, or...? this endless cycle of worry and uncertainty has been keeping you on edge for way too long to think clearly now. “gosh, it has nothing to do with equality,” he rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “what is it then?” “drop it.” you snap. “we’ll have to find out the hard way, then.”

you grab the nearest kitchen knife, and it turns out to be the one you use for cutting meat, a chef’s knife as they call it. how fitting. chris barely has enough time to catch up with your madness infused impulse, and when he turns his gaze back to you, the knife is already deep in your guts.

you thought it was gonna be romantic or somewhat dramatic at least. something from the movies where he sinks his vampire teeth into your neck, and just like magic — your eyes flash bright red, announcing the beginning of a new life.

“you dumb bitch,” he exhales shakily and somehow manages to catch you in time because the sharp pain in your stomach makes you lose your balance instantly. you’re still bitter and angry in the heat of the argument and you expect him to be the same way, but when you glance up, chris looks nothing but panicked. “that’s a new look on him,” you think, and it confuses you.

chris growls and sinks to his knees, carefully holding you and trying to move as fast as possible. what you don’t know is that turning can only be done in around thirty seconds since fatal injury. that might explain the rushing and chris’s pure bambi eyes panic but your consciousness is already starting to drift away to hold onto that train of thought.

chris bites into his wrist with unmasked fury, tearing and ripping his own veins even though using a knife would have been much cleaner. probably less painful, too. “swallow. now! come on, don’t you fall asleep on me now, focus!” he grabs your face and presses hard on the jaw joints, making you open your mouth like a puppet doll.

the sickly metallic taste of your own blood at the back of your throat from the internal bleeding mixes up with chris’s thick blood that he generously spits into your mouth, and you want to throw up. your head feels dizzy as your eyelids are getting heavier, your hearing suddenly fails completely as if someone turned the volume down from ten to zero. limbs are falling weak, and the pins and needles in them are so, so far from pleasant.

the thing about turning is... you actually have to die first. be fully, completely gone to be able to come back changed and corrupted, turned to the extent of your DNA having been violently rewritten. that you did not think through enough. the muscles in your throat contract almost on reflex, swallowing and gagging on the gooey salty substance, making your chest heave while coughing strangles you further. the tingles and nausea are so overwhelming and all consuming you actually catch yourself thinking dying would be a relief now. and then it follows as you wished.

you doze off for god knows how long but, by the looks of it, it can’t have been more than a few minutes because as you regain consciousness, chris is still looming over you, his own blood fresh on his lips. he’s blurry, though, everything is.

“come on, suck on me. c’mon, baby, there we go,” he coos as he brings his wrist to your lips, forcefully pressing it into your mouth and leaving you with little to no choice. the phrasing, unlike usual, doesn’t sound dirty or hot now, more like a life-saving command while you’re still so out it. it feels good, though, chris’s blood.

it doesn’t taste so metallic and gross anymore, and the texture feels almost soothing on your dry throat, like hot honey milk on a friday evening. suck, gulp, suck, gulp, suck, it almost lulls you back into serenity, some primal instinct of being attached to your only life line, finding comfort in someone’s warmth and touch and taste.

you wonder how much you’ve drunk already and whether chris will have anything left but you’re so, so thirsty you can’t even bring yourself to care.

what finally makes you stop is the sudden sharp ache in your gums. it feels so piercing the aftershocks are almost reaching your brain and eye sockets, and as you feel your old teeth fall out, a pair of longer fangs cuts through and settles into the upper teeth row. hot tears are stinging your eyes and you whine like a wounded deer, still unable to speak properly. it’s all too much, and you start to regret what you’ve done, and maybe, just maybe that’s why chris so passionately refused to put you through it. this kind of hunger and the animalistic, blood thirst driven rage were never something he wanted to inflict upon you.

your entire body is shaking but it’s not really a fearful tremor, more like restlessness, a new sort of “itch” somewhere deep, deep inside that you’ve never experienced before, the feeling so intense and soul wrenching you simply can’t disobey it. it makes you want to jump up and run.

“don’t worry, i’ll teach you how to handle it.” chris cups your face after taking off his leather gloves so you can feel the comfort of his actual skin. the touch is calming, but barely enough compared to that growing desire and need to satisfy the itch. “you stupid crazy cunt, why do you never listen,” he whispers into your forehead, his lips lightly brushing over your cold sweat covered skin, as he holds you closer, squeezing you against his chest in a protective manner, though the real danger to yourself is now planted within you.

[5sospenguinqueen]

Papaya Rules | Oscar Piastri x Driver! Reader

Summary: From on-track rivals to reluctant teammates, the trauma of team orders issued by Mclaren bond you and Oscar in a way you never expected. 

Warnings: mentions of papaya rules, swearing

Requested: Yes by @1800-love-me (a while ago. oops)

F1 Masterlist

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2023 

f1 posted a new story

itsyn_ln replied and that’s community service for piastri  → f1 girl, aren’t you supposed to be in the media pen → itsyn_ln five more minutes → i’m in no rush 

mclaren replied no time to explain but we need you to delete this before oscar sees → we need them to get along

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mclaren just posted

liked by landonorris, jackdoohan and others

mclaren breaking news mclaren f1 racing is pleased to announce that yn ln will be joining the team in 2024, alongside oscar piastri, on a multi-year contract. we cannot wait to see what she can achieve with us

33,814 comments

itsyn_ln thank you for this opportunity! now i need to figure out how to make orange look good on me 

→ mclaren everything looks good on you

username1 wait, what? she’s oscar’s public enemy #1 and now she’ll be his teammate?

oscarpiastri and this is how i find out?

→ mclaren we didn’t want to give you a chance to protest

→ pierregasly i knew before oscar did? ha! 

→ oscarpiastri don’t make me still target the pink car next year

→ itsyn_ln i’m feeling unwanted 

jackdoohan @/itsyn_ln thanks for the seat 

→ itsyn_ln i hope i kept it warm for you! 

username2 poor osc is going to have to learn to manage this oddness

→ username3 poor osc is probably more focused on having to learn not to strangle her

alpinef1team losing another driver to the sinister evil and orange team 

→ itsyn_ln at least you’ll miss me. i’m starting to think pierre lied when he said he would

→ pierregasly of course i did. you were staring straight at me without blinking

username4 don’t get me wrong, i can’t wait to see yn in a better car but i fear this was poor planning on mclaren’s part. they’re going to struggle with managing their drivers 

landonorris i’m sorry, osco. i didn’t know me leaving was going to lead to this

→ oscarpiastri you’re not forgiven. 

username5 i fear mclaren are not going to have the dream team they were expecting

→ username6 they need to prepare to see both papaya cars dnf’ing all the time next year

username7 i need that jacket! 

→ mclaren all yn merch coming soon! 

→ username8 they move fast. they’ve already got her in papaya and prepared to release her papaya merch 

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2024

mclaren just posted

liked by patriciooward, gabrielbortoleto_ and others

mclaren and it’s a papaya 1-2 what a race! a phenomenal display of teamwork from oscar and yn

55,098 comments

username9 wtf was that 

username10 i can’t decide which one of them was robbed more 

username11 so they want them to become friends but then force them to concede wins???

username12 i never want to hear the phrase ‘papaya rules’ again. idk what it means but i know it was shit

username13 the fact that neither of them have interacted with this post shows that they’re not happy with their 1-2

username14 you guys need to chill. they were coming under fire from max, and yn was faster. oscar was holding her up and if they hadn’t have switched, max could’ve had them both 

→ username15 there was two laps left. i’m sure they could’ve managed it

→ username14 did you not see all the purple sectors max was setting 

username16 i hope oscar doesn’t blame yn for this

username17 unrelated but i love how much shorter yn is than osc in this pic. they’re so cute

→ username18 they’re mortal enemies. don’t start romanticising them

→ username19 they are so enemies to lovers coded 

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oscarpiastri just posted

liked by itsyn_ln, arthur_leclerc and others

oscarpiastri enjoying a week off

44,287 comments

mclaren does this mean we’re friends again

→ oscarpiastri not yet

username1 mr piastri, sir, um, is that a WOMAN?

username2 look, it’s very nice to see that you’re alive and well but we no longer care about that because who is that in the last pic?! 

charles_leclerc son, you didn’t tell me about this 

landonorris a new teammate and a new partner. i see i’m being fully replaced

→ oscarpiastri don’t fuel the rumours about us

username3 oh so this is why twitter is freaking out

username4 the linked hands

username5 yn liked this? are they friends now??

itsyn_ln just posted

liked by mclaren, landonorris and others

itsyn_ln my boyfriend just won a grand prix, bitches! 

73,220 comments

pierregasly was this meant to be posted on the burner account??

→ itsyn_ln oh shit

→ oscarpiastri oh, sweetheart

→ charles_leclerc and everyone thought i would tell! 

itsyn_ln well, no point deleting it now. enjoy

→ username6 yn and oscar are dating?!!?

→ username7 and he calls her sweetheart?!?!?

username8 no one understands how precious these two are to me

username9 enemies to lovers come true

username10 these two were written by a wattpad user

alpinef1team sometimes we think we miss you and then you do stuff like this 

→ mclaren sure you don’t want her back 

→ username11 noooo don’t take our papaya partners away from us 

username12 i’ve only had ynoscar for five minutes but if anything happens to them, i will kill everyone

username13 they said i was crazy but i knew! i knew there was passion between their feud

landonorris and you did so good to not kiss him in front of the cameras

→ oscarpiastri she’s more annoyed that now she shouldn’t have bothered

→ itsyn_ln want to smooch you for the world to see

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requests open

coming soon; max taste part 3 and franco x driver! reader