#but please please PLEASE stop reading into dynamics

[faestunna]

what are your headcannons of Jack's ( O'Connell ) characters getting their faces sat on?

CHARACTERS: oliver mellors, remmick, roy goode, patrick sumner, lion kaminski, james cook

WARNINGS: smut obviously (18+), dom/sub dynamics, oral (f and m receiving)

A/N: ah more headcanon requests!! pls!! anon i hope u know ill be thinking about this for the next 2 weeks ;)

masterlist

likes, reblogs, and comments are always and greatly appreciated!

oliver mellors

canon pussy-eater right here. oliver would rather lick and slurp up your cunt than actually fuck. he wants to make it fully about your pleasure.

he loves how you shriek when he instantly wraps his lips around your clit, sliding his tongue through your folds until he feels that tight opening. he moans into you and only pulls away to say “could taste this forever, sweet girl.”

he definitely uses his fingers too—adding a little extra pressure to your sensitive spot, prodding one or two past your entrance. “gripping me already, and i’ve barely done anything.”

face sitting with oliver usually doesn’t last long, but it’s because you want something more from him. maybe three minutes in, he’ll be handling you around in the bed, face down, ass up, and tease his cock at your entrance.

remmick

and another canon pussy-eater! remmick is a man who devours you for both your pleasure and his. he literally gets off on it. oh yeah we’re doing sub!remmick

remmick loves it when you sit on his face and take control. interlace your fingers with his while you ride his tongue. “you like it when i ride you like this, baby?” you ask. he nods, mouth open, letting out pants whenever he can grasp air. “y-yes,” he stutters into your folds. “please, keep usin’ me. wan’ you to u-use me and feel- fuck, feel good.”

you giggle and moan when you feel his nose bump against your clit. you glance down and see him looking back up at you with wide, puppy-dog eyes.

and when you finish all over him, he’s shooting ropes on his own stomach. cock red and twitching while he whimpers, “t-thank you, darlin’, for lettin’ me taste ya.”

roy goode

this cowboy may not know how to read, but he’s got a way with words that leaves you shaking.

“love havin’ you like this, baby,” he’ll say, whether it’s your mouth, pussy, or even just a simple glance. he especially loves it when you’re on top, but don’t be fooled. roy likes to have control.

his fingers dig into your hips, pulling you even closer to his mouth while he practically buries his face in your folds. it’s filthy—“want your slick all over me, sweetheart. tastes too good.”

and he’ll use his hand to spread it wider too, making sure he can lick every inch of you. wrap his arms around you to stop you from squirming because this man will pull orgasm after orgasm from you. and the praise kink goes crazy: “doin’ so good for me, honey. takin’ everything i give ya. might just have to fill this pretty pussy up after.”

patrick sumner

there’s really no other way to say it besides: patrick goes crazy for the kitty. maybe even more so than fucking. you saw the way he lost his mind in the arctic? yeah, that’s him for eating you out.

and he’s good at it, too. sucks on your clit with just the right amount of pressure to drag it out, holding your own orgasm from you. legs shaking around him—he loves to feel you squeezing his head—and when your eyes close, he pulls away. “keep ‘em open, darlin’. want to see those pretty eyes.”

his beard adds to the feeling too. he actually only keeps it because you’ve mentioned how it feels in between your legs while his face is buried in your cunt. “fuckin’ soaking me, love. could taste you all day.” you whine and writhe underneath him, but he moves along with you.

needless to say, patrick makes you squirt. not a squirter? no such thing with him. he’s doing whatever it takes until you feel the burning build up. “pat- i- please, i can’t” but he just shakes his head, drilling his fingers into you while his tongue flicks your clit. “yes, you can, darlin’. take it.”

lion kaminski

i’m sorry (not sorry at all) to say that lion goes sub when you sit on his face. as always, you make sure to be extra kind with lion. but it doesn’t usually last…

you face him so he can see every reaction you have. watch your tits bounce whenever you shiver at the feeling of his tongue. “am i doing good?” he’ll ask, and the answer is always yes. he switches from sucking on your clit to fully lapping at your folds.

since you try to be gentle, you slightly hover over him. and lion, who falls in love with the taste of you every single time, can’t have that. his hands pull your hips down to his mouth so he latches himself onto your cunt. uses both his tongue and his lips to put pressure on your clit. “that’s the spot, isn’t it, baby?”

you look down at him, and with one glance, suddenly the roles have changed. lion is very much in control, eyes burning holes into yours. “wanna watch you,” he says into you. “wanna see that pretty face cry when i make you cum.” in other words, lion is a switch XD

james cook

at first, he does not see the point to you sitting on his face. cook is not the one to let you have control over the moment. but what does convince him is when you mount his face and bend down so his cock is inches away from your mouth.

and i am a firm believer in cook’s degradation kink. “nasty girl, chokin’ all over my cock. you like havin’ it down your throat, baby?” you try to nod and respond and he laughs a moan into your cunt.

this man wraps his entire arms around your hips to have you closer. only time he’ll let go is to push your head down further on him. “love lickin’ at this pussy while you make those sounds,” he groans in between licks and kisses. he fucks you with his tongue and your thighs instantly start shaking.

even after you finish, he doesn’t stop. cook will make you cum three times before he does. he’ll even pull your mouth off of him—to his own dismay—“uh-uh, baby. this is for you, yeah?” and “gonna make my girl cum as many fuckin’ times as i want.”

© faestunna 2025.

[spikedfearn]

All That's Left Is Yours

Part III

Walter "Lion" Kaminski x fem!reader

summary: Walter Kaminski doesn't know how to be loved without bracing for impact. A washed-up fighter living out of motel rooms and underground leagues, he's spent years surviving hits—in the ring, from his brother, from the world. But when you, a runaway with a sharp mouth and a sharper gaze enters his orbit, everything starts to tilt. The closer you get, the more Walter fears what his hands—trained to hurt, never to hold—might do.

wc: 10.2k

a/n: aaaaand that’s a wrap!! I’m honestly tearing up writing this because this fic is my baby—maybe my favorite thing I’ve ever written. Thank you to everyone who has read, reblogged, screamed, sent kind messages, or just quietly followed along. Your support has meant the world to me. I also want to give the biggest thank you to Liz @fuckoffbard for being there through every step of the way, for listening to my rambles, and for beta reading every single part with so much love and care. I couldn’t have done this without you. 🖤

Disclaimer: You DO NOT need to watch Jungleland to read this fic but I highly recommend giving it a watch, Jack absolutely crushes it!!

warnings: emotional trauma, PTSD, chronic pain (arthritis), memory loss, abusive family dynamics, sibling codependency, toxic sibling relationship, past drug use (mentioned), past physical abuse (mentioned), canon-typical violence, fighting/violence, objectification, implied sexual coercion (non-graphic), betrayal, trauma bonding as a form of intimacy, hurt/comfort, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unsafe living conditions, sub!Walter, praise kink, unprotected sex, fingering, creampie, oral (m!receiving), emotional breakdowns, angst with smut, crying during sex, abandonment, homelessness, food insecurity, depressive episode, intense emotional conflict, slow reconciliation, bittersweet flashbacks, miscommunication, groveling, found family, domestic fluff, rebuilding trust, pregnancy, soft ending

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

Part III: When the Chips Are Down

Every nerve in your body felt exposed, scraped raw, as you walked down the rough pavement. It was cracked beneath your shoes, littered with cigarette butts and loose pebbles that crunched like broken glass with every tired shuffle. Your backpack straps dug into your shoulders, heavier now than you remembered packing it, like you’d filled it with stones instead of the bare essentials that made up your entire life. You curled your fingers tighter around the worn nylon straps, gripping so hard your knuckles ached, as if that small action alone could hold your pieces together.

The night air was stifling—thick with humidity, carrying the sour bite of gasoline fumes and something acrid you couldn't quite place. Sweat gathered along your spine, dampening the fabric of your shirt, and you felt the dull ache of exhaustion settle deep into your muscles, bone-weary and stubborn. Your body wanted nothing more than to collapse, but your heart was beating too fast and too loud, each thud echoing in your temples like an unrelenting drumbeat.

You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t. Because if you looked back at that motel room door, you might falter. You might weaken. You might see Walter standing there, lost and silent, holding a paper flower like a final, fragile promise that neither of you had ever managed to keep.

You pushed forward instead.

You passed the motel's battered sign, its faded letters barely illuminated by flickering bulbs, casting weak shadows on your path. The distant hum of traffic murmured low, cars passing along the nearby highway like ghosts in the night, their taillights blurring red and dim, never slowing, never stopping, never noticing the girl drifting alone on the sidewalk.

Eventually, the sidewalk gave way to dirt and weeds and patches of grass yellowed by neglect, crunching softly beneath your shoes. You passed empty storefronts, their windows darkened, shuttered tight behind metal grates. A convenience store sat on the corner, neon signs blinking coldly: 24 Hours, ATM Inside, and Beer & Wine. You considered going in, buying something—anything—just to have somewhere bright and ordinary to linger for a minute, but the harsh fluorescent lights felt too harsh, too exposing, too real.

You kept moving.

Your throat felt thick, tight like a clenched fist, and every swallow was painful. You hadn’t cried yet; you weren't sure if that was because you were too proud or simply too exhausted to even try. The night stretched ahead of you, vast and unknown, and the city around you felt emptier than ever before. Lonelier. Like every shadow was watching your slow, uncertain steps with quiet, indifferent eyes.

Eventually, your feet carried you to a bus stop bench, its plastic seat cracked and marred with graffiti. The lamppost above flickered weakly, buzzing intermittently, casting warped shadows across the sidewalk. You sat down carefully, setting your backpack beside you, wrapping your arms around yourself tightly, like it could somehow hold you together. The cool night breeze rustled through the trees overhead, leaves whispering secrets you couldn’t hear, and the stillness felt suffocating.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours—time blurred when there was nowhere left to be.

Eventually, your eyelids grew heavier, your body aching for rest, and you leaned your head back against the cool metal shelter behind the bench. You couldn’t sleep here—not safely—but the quiet, steady rhythm of your own breathing lulled you anyway, dragging you toward the edges of unconsciousness. Your body slumped slightly, caught between awareness and exhaustion, lingering in that hazy, uncertain space where dreams felt too dangerous and reality hurt too much.

You knew you'd have to move soon. To find somewhere safer, less exposed, before the city stirred awake again and people began to notice you. But for just a moment, beneath the flickering streetlamp, alone in a world that didn't know your name, you let your eyes slip shut.

You told yourself you'd rest, just briefly.

You told yourself you'd be fine.

But even in that fragile half-sleep, you felt a quiet tear escape, slipping down your cheek to land silently on the cracked sidewalk below.

You were so damn tired.

Dog-tired.

And the night had only just begun.

The bell above the door jingled like an old wind chime, delicate and tired. It was barely past six when you pushed into the diner, but the place was already alive in that soft, slow way only early mornings could be—faint clatter from the kitchen, the sizzle of bacon on the griddle, and the low murmur of a country song crackling from the overhead radio. The air smelled like burnt coffee, grease, and maple syrup, the familiar combination clinging to your clothes like a memory.

You took the booth by the window. Same one as before. Like muscle memory.

The seat was still cracked vinyl, cool against your legs through the thin fabric of your jeans. The table was sticky at one edge, someone’s dried syrup thumbprint long fossilized into the Formica. Outside, the street was waking up slowly—headlights ghosting past, a jogger in neon gear puffing by, the flick of a newspaper being tossed onto a porch by an unseen hand.

Inside, everything felt hushed. A little sacred, almost like a ritual.

You didn’t order anything. Not at first. Just stared out the window, the horizon beyond it, past the frame of condensation fogging at the glass. You waited. Like always. Hands curled around the edges of the table, your fingernails digging into the laminate as if that could somehow keep your heart from folding in on itself.

The waitress—same one every morning—clocked you immediately. She didn’t say anything at first. Just topped off the coffee for an old man sitting two booths over and passed by with a nod. Her eyes were tired but kind, hidden behind half-slipped readers and crow’s feet that deepened when she smiled. She wore her gray hair twisted up in a no-nonsense bun, a faded pink apron wrapped around her midsection, and her sneakers squeaked against the old linoleum whenever she moved. She smelled like cinnamon gum and lavender lotion, and she had a way of speaking like she already knew you’d been through hell and didn’t need reminding of it.

After about twenty minutes, she brought you a cup of coffee without asking. Set it down gently in front of you, along with a small creamer and two sugar packets.

You nodded once. She nodded back. That was the routine now.

You stayed until the sun fully crested the buildings, until the street traffic picked up and the diner got louder. Until the smell of fresh hash browns and eggs made your stomach cramp with hunger you couldn’t quite afford. Sometimes you ordered toast. Sometimes you said nothing at all.

Always, always, you looked at the door when it opened.

And every time, it wasn’t him. The bell would jingle. Your heart would stutter. And then it would be someone else—a mechanic, a nurse still in scrubs, a man in a suit reading a paper.

Never him.

On the third morning, she dropped a chipped mug of black coffee on your table and said, “Morning, sugar. I’m Luanne, by the way. Figured it was time we weren’t strangers.” She placed a small, crumpled napkin on the table too, like she was trying to be subtle. When you opened it, you found a warm blueberry muffin inside. Still steaming. A little cracked on top. Real fruit in the dough, not the dry processed stuff.

You looked at her, brows knit. “I didn’t—”

“It’s on the house,” she said firmly, like she’d rehearsed it. “Don’t go getting your hackles up, sweetheart. Least I can do.”

You hesitated. Then gave her the smallest nod of gratitude.

“Got a soft spot for strays,” she added, a little quieter now. “Comes from having been one.”

You didn’t say anything after that. Just picked at the muffin slowly, your stomach still twisted up with knots but grateful all the same. The first bite was warm and just sweet enough to make your eyes sting. Not because of the taste—but because it reminded you of every morning you’d sat here hoping for something that never came.

Walter.

His name felt like a stone in your throat.

On the fifth day, Luanne set down a plate in front of you—two scrambled eggs, toast, and a wedge of orange.

"Eat," she said simply, folding her arms across her chest.

You looked down at the food. Then back up at her.

“I didn’t order anything.”

“No,” she agreed, “but you look like hell, and I won’t sleep tonight knowing I let you starve on my watch.”

You blinked, still sluggish from another night of bad sleep and the emotional whiplash of expecting—hoping—Walter might finally walk through the door. That somehow, this would be the morning he sat across from you and explained, or apologized, or at least looked at you like he wanted to.

He didn’t.

He never did.

The bell above the door had become cruel in its consistency—ringing with every stranger who entered, each time a false promise that was never delivered.

You’d stayed in that booth—the one closest to the window—for six days. Same seat. Same view. Same ache in your chest. You barely touched your phone. Didn’t bother checking for texts or calls. You knew better. You knew if he was going to reach out, he would’ve done it by now. Still, you kept showing up. Still, you kept watching the door.

Luanne noticed.

You kept the coin he gave you in your hand. The one he pressed into your palm with that small smile, like it meant something. You couldn’t stop flipping it. Thumb, finger, flip. Again and again. A nervous tic. A prayer. A goddamn ritual at this point.

That morning, Luanne slid into the booth across from you. No preamble. Just eased in with a grunt and a sigh, her knees cracking, the kind of sound that made you wince in sympathy. She was off the clock, her apron unknotted, her cardigan a little oversized and full of pills.

You froze, mid-flip.

“Sweetheart,” she said softly. “You don’t gotta keep waiting by the door. He’s either gonna walk through it…or he ain’t.”

You looked away, jaw tight, thumb pressing the coin harder into your palm until it bit the skin.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“Course you are,” she replied, not unkindly. “But just in case…I got a spare room.”

Your head jerked up.

“It ain’t much,” she went on. “Twin bed. Clean sheets. Bathroom down the hall. Lock on the door. You’d be safe.”

You stared at her. “Why would you—?”

“Because someone did the same for me once,” she said with a shrug. “And I remember what it’s like to be young and out of options. You don’t gotta explain a thing. Just until you figure things out.”

Your throat burned. You didn’t say yes. Didn’t say anything. But when she stood, she placed a small silver key on the table beside your cup and slid the muffin napkin back over it like it was nothing.

You stared at that key for a long time.

That night, after another hour pretending not to cry in the booth long after closing, you walked home with Luanne. Her place was just a couple blocks from the diner. Upstairs from a bait shop, of all things. It smelled like cedar and peppermint oil and had creaky floors that groaned in the quiet. Her guest room was cramped, tucked beside a closet stuffed with old coats and boxes labeled “Jimmy’s Baseball Cards” and “Xmas Shit.”

But the bed was soft.

The sheets were clean.

And the shower had hot water and more conditioner than you’d seen in a month.

You stood under the spray until your skin was red and raw, until your thoughts blurred, until your knees shook. You pressed your forehead to the tile and remembered his voice. His weight. His arms around you when he fell apart.

You didn’t sleep much. But it was the first night you felt warm in a week.

You bought a bus ticket for the next day.

It didn't matter where. You just picked the one with the earliest departure. Anywhere west. Anywhere but here.

Because hope was cruel. And Walter? Walter had made his choice.

You left the key on the kitchen counter with a note that said nothing more than “Thank you.”

And then you packed what little you had, zipped up your bag, and started walking.

Walter hadn't slept since you'd left.

Not really. Not deeply. The kind of sleep he managed was fitful at best, a thin veneer of unconsciousness easily cracked by passing traffic or the buzz of a motel light that refused to stop flickering. Every hour felt stolen—brief slips into darkness that left him more exhausted than if he'd stayed awake.

He lay flat on the stiff motel mattress, staring up at a water stain on the ceiling, his eyes burning and red-rimmed. The wallpaper, once pale and yellowed by decades of smoke, now seemed to close in tighter every night, shrinking the room into a cage that squeezed the breath from his chest.

The air was heavy, thick with humidity that clung to his skin, pressing sweat into the grooves of his forehead and down the tense muscles of his neck. He could hear the muted sounds of the motel: distant arguments, muffled televisions, doors slamming open and shut. None of it mattered. None of it reached him, not really.

His fingers twitched involuntarily, curled at his sides. They trembled constantly now, not just when he tried to use them—like his body was finally rebelling against the years of punishment he’d forced it to endure.

He brought one shaking hand up slowly, spreading his fingers in front of his face, studying them in the dull lamplight. They were swollen, knuckles bruised and joints stiff from untreated injury. They were the hands of a fighter. Of someone who'd spent his life swinging and losing, gripping onto things that slipped away no matter how hard he tried to hold on.

But right now, empty and shaking, they just looked like the hands of a man who'd lost everything that mattered.

Walter turned his head slowly, eyes falling on the small dresser next to the bed. A crumpled origami flower sat there—wilted paper petals bent and crushed from how often he'd opened and closed his fist around it in the last few days. He hadn't let it out of his sight since you'd pressed it into his palm and left him standing there, helpless, mute, unable to speak the words he should have said.

He swallowed hard, throat tightening painfully.

He kept replaying that night over and over again in his head like some twisted loop. The way your voice cracked. How your eyes had welled up, unshed tears glistening under the cheap motel lamp as you told him you couldn't stay.

He'd stood there, frozen, rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to beg you to stay. Every word he'd needed to say had lodged in his chest, suffocating him silently.

And you'd walked out believing he’d chosen Stanley. Believing he hadn't chosen you.

Walter's jaw tightened painfully. He pressed the heel of his shaking hand against his eyes, as though that could somehow force the memories away. But they stayed sharp, vivid, cutting through him again and again.

He remembered how your hands felt against his skin. How you'd traced his bruises, touched every scar, every sore knuckle, as though memorizing them—as though you saw more than a broken fighter, as though you'd found something in him worth keeping.

And he'd still let you walk away.

It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to stop you—God, he'd wanted nothing more—but he'd felt chained down, weighed by loyalty and guilt, tangled up in a lifetime of feeling responsible for Stanley's failures.

Stanley, who would never learn, who would always gamble, always lie, always destroy whatever he touched. Walter had spent his whole life cleaning up Stanley's messes. But this one—this one had cost him something irreplaceable.

You.

Walter sat up slowly, joints protesting every movement as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The floor felt gritty beneath his bare feet, dirt tracked in from outside, sticking to the soles. He rubbed a hand roughly over his face, scraping at the week-old stubble that covered his jawline.

He needed a shower, needed a shave, needed sleep, needed anything that could dull the ache lodged in his chest.

But most of all, he needed you back.

He’d spent days searching for you already—days spent walking aimlessly, scouring bus stops, shelters, parks, anywhere he thought you might go. His memory had begun to betray him; street names blurred together, diner signs became indistinguishable, addresses turned to nonsense numbers and shapes in his mind. Frustration was building into desperation. Every dead end felt like a cruel joke the universe was playing on him, payback for letting you go.

Walter forced himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily. His muscles burned, his joints creaked, but he moved anyway. He crossed to the tiny, cluttered table under the window, littered with take-out containers, empty coffee cups, and a phone book left by the motel management.

He flipped through the pages again, scanning the same lists of diners and cafes he’d studied obsessively for days, hoping something would spark a memory, something would break through the fog that clouded his mind.

His breath quickened as anxiety coiled tight in his chest. His heart raced, sweat prickling at the back of his neck as he stared down at the endless, identical black ink entries. None of them meant anything. None of them brought him closer to you.

His vision blurred suddenly, stinging with tears he stubbornly refused to let fall. Instead, he slammed the phone book closed with a harsh sound that echoed in the silence. It toppled off the table, falling to the ground with a heavy, final thud, scattering pages across the carpet.

Walter stood there, breathing raggedly, staring at the mess. He was running out of options. Running out of time. He didn't even know if you were still in town. Didn't even know if you were safe.

And he knew, deep in his bones, it was his fault. Every moment of your suffering, your fear, your loneliness—it was because he'd let you go without a fight.

He sank back onto the edge of the bed, head bowed, shoulders trembling slightly. The origami flower sat inches away from him, fragile and broken.

Just like him.

For a moment, the motel room closed around him, silent and suffocating, like a tomb he couldn't escape. He closed his eyes, forcing a breath into his aching lungs.

“I’m gonna find you,” he whispered hoarsely to the empty room, to no one at all. “I swear to God, I’m gonna find you.”

But the promise rang hollow, empty, echoing back at him like mockery.

Because he knew if he didn’t find you soon—if he didn’t somehow break through the haze that clouded his memory—you would be gone forever.

And he'd have no one to blame but himself.

Walter didn’t realize how badly he was unraveling until Stanley barged into his room two nights later, all swagger and indignation, smelling like cheap booze and cigarette smoke, moving like the floor was spinning beneath his feet.

Walter was hunched over the edge of the motel bed, a half-empty bottle of whiskey dangling from trembling fingers. He’d given up pretending it could numb him, given up pretending it could erase the memory of your face, your voice, the ghostly warmth of your hand in his.

Now, he drank just because it burned his throat, because the sensation reminded him he was still alive, even if barely. The bottle nearly slipped when the door crashed open, rattling on its hinges.

"Christ almighty," Stanley drawled, his accent thickened by liquor, the vowels heavy and lazy. "Ain’t you a sorry fuckin’ sight. You plan on mopin’ round here forever or what, brother?"

Walter’s jaw tightened at the word brother, that word Stanley always wielded like a blade—something sharp and binding and painful. He lifted his head slowly, eyes bloodshot and dull.

“Leave it, Stanley. Just fuckin’ leave it.”

Stanley laughed, sharp and bitter, stumbling into the room like he owned it, kicking the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot. The sound echoed like a gunshot. He moved closer, swaying a bit, eyes narrowed and mean, looking Walter up and down as though he barely recognized him.

"You’ve turned proper soft, ain’t ya? All this poutin’ over some fuckin’ runaway?” He snorted, eyes glittering cruelly. “Didn’t peg ya for the sort to get strung up over some little nobody from nowhere. Thought you was tougher’n that."

Walter was on his feet before he even realized he’d moved. The whiskey bottle hit the carpet with a muted thud, spilling amber liquid into a dark, sticky puddle.

His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles throbbing with the force of it, joints aching from days without proper rest. Anger surged hot and dizzying, his pulse roaring in his ears, louder than his own ragged breath.

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth,” Walter growled, voice tight and low. "You ain't got no goddamn right talkin’ ‘bout her."

Stanley smirked, cocking his head mockingly, his voice dripping with contempt. "Why? You think she’s special? Think she’s any different than any other girl who got smart enough to see ya ain’t shit? Hate to break it to ya, Lion, but she gone ‘cause she realized you ain’t nothin’ more than busted knuckles and empty promises."

Walter’s control snapped.

He lunged forward, grabbing Stanley roughly by the collar of his stained shirt and shoving him back hard against the peeling wallpaper. The flimsy wall shuddered with the impact, rattling the lamp on the nightstand, knocking an empty glass to the floor. Stanley's eyes widened in surprise for just a second, then narrowed again, defiance flaring like a spark.

"Fuck you," Walter spat through clenched teeth, voice raw, shaking with barely controlled rage. "You think you know shit about me or her? She’s gone ‘cause of you. ‘Cause you don’t give a damn who gets caught in the wreckage as long as you walk out untouched. You sold me out, sold her out—”

Stanley twisted violently in Walter’s grip, pushing back, anger darkening his face. He shoved Walter hard, forcing distance between them, breathing heavily.

"I did what I had to fuckin’ do," Stanley growled, voice cracking under the strain. "You think shit’s easy, huh? Think I ever wanted to end up like this? Fightin’ over fuckin’ scraps and scroungin’ in the dirt just to keep our heads above water?"

Walter’s chest heaved, his breaths coming ragged and quick. "It’s your own goddamn fault we’re here. You drag everyone down with ya, Stanley—every fuckin’ time—and you don’t care who ya hurt long as you save your own skin."

Stanley barked a harsh laugh, bitter and broken. "Oh, an’ I suppose you think you're better, huh? Think you ain’t just as fuckin’ guilty? Least I own up to who I am. You sit there all high an’ mighty, actin’ like you ain’t stood by an’ let it happen. You watched her walk out that fuckin’ door same as me."

Walter's breath hitched. The words hit him harder than any punch, struck him right in the raw, tender spot he’d tried desperately to ignore. His gaze dropped to the floor, blinking rapidly, eyes burning.

“You know nothin’ ‘bout me, Stanley,” Walter finally muttered, voice tight and quiet. “I been cleanin’ up your messes my whole damn life, thinkin’ if I just tried hard enough, you’d finally fuckin’ change. But all you ever done is drag me down with you. First the dog, now her—hell, you’d sell me too, wouldn’t ya, if it meant savin’ your own ass?”

Stanley’s lip curled, eyes cold and narrowed. “Don’t act like you didn’t let me, Lion. You knew who I was from day one. You chose to stay. You chose this, same as me.”

The silence stretched out painfully between them, tense and brittle. Walter felt a sick, hollow ache blooming deep inside him, a familiar emptiness that settled heavy in his chest.

“You ain’t never gonna change, are ya?” Walter said finally, quiet as a confession, voice shaking with grief more than anger. “I keep hopin’, keep waitin’, but you’ll just keep ruinin’ every good thing I find, won’t you?”

Stanley said nothing, jaw set stubbornly. His eyes flicked away for a second, shadowed with something unreadable—regret, resentment, or maybe just stubborn denial. Then he shrugged, turning back toward the door, dismissing Walter completely.

“Grow up, Lion. This's the real fuckin’ world. You keep lettin’ yourself get tied up with strays, you gon’ end up just like ‘em,” Stanley muttered darkly, stepping over the spilled whiskey bottle, glass crunching underfoot as he reached for the doorknob. “Fuckin’ alone.”

The door slammed shut behind him with brutal finality, leaving Walter standing there in a suffocating silence.

Walter stared at the closed door, breathing hard, heart aching, fists still trembling at his sides. Stanley’s words echoed cruelly in his head, a mocking chorus of accusations and bitter truths he’d spent years trying to ignore.

His legs gave out suddenly, and he sank down onto the floor beside the spilled whiskey, staring numbly at the broken shards of glass glittering around him.

Stanley was right, he realized bitterly. He’d stood by, allowed everything good in his life to slip through his fingers, all in the name of loyalty to someone who would never change. Someone who didn’t care.

Walter swallowed hard, throat tight and burning, eyes blurry with unshed tears.

He’d lost you because he hadn’t fought hard enough. Hadn’t spoken loud enough. Hadn’t held tight enough.

He’d let Stanley take everything that mattered—first his pride, then his dog, and finally you.

And now Walter sat on a motel room floor, hands empty, heart shattered, alone in a silence more painful than any punch he’d ever taken.

And all he could think was how desperately he wished he’d chosen differently.

Walter’s world shrunk down to fragments of streets, half-remembered turns, faded signs blurred by exhaustion. He moved like a ghost, drifting from place to place, his body weary and dragging, but driven by something frantic and feverish.

He barely recognized his own reflection anymore when he caught glimpses of himself in dirty shop windows and cracked mirrors. Sunken eyes rimmed red from sleepless nights, stubble thick and uneven along his jaw, bruises darkening under his skin like storm clouds—he looked like he’d been dragged through hell and left stranded in the wreckage.

He felt worse.

Days blended into nights and back again in a cruel, endless cycle of searching. He wandered from diner to diner, combing through every corner of town, desperate to find the place you’d once sat together, smiling over cheap coffee and toast. He kept hoping something would spark his memory, unlock the cage around his mind, and lead him back to the moment he needed so desperately to reclaim.

But each diner was wrong.

He stood in doorways, blinking against fluorescent lights, the smells of grease and burnt coffee turning his stomach as disappointment crashed over him. He sat in booths, gripping menus like lifelines, desperately trying to force something—anything—to look familiar. But nothing did. Each place felt empty and strange, filled only with faceless strangers who stared curiously at the man hunched in the corner, hands trembling around an untouched cup of coffee.

Time stretched and distorted. His sense of direction and clarity frayed, unraveling thread by thread. Street names mixed together, becoming meaningless strings of letters and faded signs. Landmarks dissolved into vague shapes, blurring at the edges, impossible to hold onto.

Walter moved through the city, lost in more ways than one, losing track of days, meals, and hours, guided only by the persistent ache lodged deep in his chest.

His hands shook worse every day. Arthritis and exhaustion tangled together, leaving his joints swollen and knuckles stiff, pain radiating sharply up his wrists with every small movement.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten properly. The weight melted off him, leaving his clothes hanging loose, the denim jacket you’d once curled into now feeling too big on his frame.

He checked his phone repeatedly, desperate to call you, but the service had been disconnected days ago. No money. No minutes left. He’d spent his last dollar paying off Stanley’s debt—another sacrifice, another loss to add to the pile he’d willingly stacked higher and higher. Now, even if he knew your number by heart—which he did—he couldn’t dial it, couldn’t hear your voice, couldn’t even beg for a second chance.

Walter felt trapped inside his own head, memories swirling together into an agonizing, disorienting blur. His brain fought him at every turn, refusing to reveal the diner’s name, the street, or even a hint of something concrete he could cling to. It felt like punishment. Like penance. A cruel cosmic joke reminding him of everything he’d allowed to slip away.

By the seventh morning, Walter stood outside yet another diner, this one on the edge of town. The lights inside glowed softly, illuminating empty booths and silent tables. His reflection in the glass doors looked hollow, haunted, pale beneath the harsh streetlamp. He took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

A bell jingled softly overhead, delicate and mocking.

He walked to the counter slowly, every step an effort, every muscle aching in protest. A woman stood behind the counter, older, silver hair pulled back tight, sharp eyes appraising him warily. She looked familiar somehow, though Walter couldn’t place how or why.

“Coffee, hon?” she asked gently, noticing his worn-down state. Her voice was kind, but guarded, cautious.

He nodded numbly, sinking onto a cracked vinyl stool that creaked beneath his weight. The air smelled like sugar and grease, bacon lingering from the breakfast rush, stale coffee mingling with cleaner. His hands curled around the warm ceramic mug she placed in front of him, grateful for its heat seeping into his aching fingers.

“Looking for someone?” she finally asked, her voice low, hesitant, like she knew she was opening a door that might never shut.

Walter stared down into the dark surface of the coffee, watching steam rise and curl like smoke. “Girl. About this tall,” he murmured, holding his out to show her, voice rough and barely audible. “Been lookin’ everywhere for her.”

The woman watched him carefully, eyes narrowing slightly. Recognition sparked, just for a moment, flickering behind her cautious gaze.

“Name?” she prompted, voice even softer now.

Walter swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly burning. “She ain’t from around here. Came in town with me a while back. Lost track of her…I need to find her.”

The waitress folded her arms slowly across her chest, expression unreadable. “You Lion, by any chance?”

Walter’s head snapped up sharply, heart pounding violently against his ribs. “How’d you know—”

“Lucky guess,” she said evenly, though her tone told him it was anything but. She studied him a moment longer, then sighed heavily. “You took your sweet time showin’ up.”

His breath hitched painfully, hope flaring hot and sharp in his chest. “You seen her? She been here?”

The woman hesitated. Walter leaned forward desperately, voice cracking with emotion. “Please. Just tell me—tell me she’s okay.”

The waitress’s expression softened slightly, sympathy seeping into the careful mask she’d worn. “She’s gone, hon.”

Walter felt his heart plummet, stomach twisting violently. “Gone?”

“She was here every damn morning,” the waitress continued quietly, voice thick with gentle accusation. “Same booth by the window. Waited hours for you every day. Barely ate. Barely slept. Finally figured you weren’t comin’ and bought herself a bus ticket outta town. Left just today.”

Walter’s hands shook uncontrollably, coffee splashing onto the counter, droplets darkening the white porcelain. Panic surged through him, drowning everything else. “Bus? Which station? Where’d she go?”

The waitress shook her head softly. “Don’t know exactly. Just know she headed west. She needed out. Said somethin’ about not waitin’ around anymore.”

Walter stood up abruptly, stumbling backward, breath coming in harsh gasps. “When? How long ago?”

The woman hesitated briefly, eyes full of regret. “Couple hours at most.”

He bolted toward the door before she’d even finished speaking, desperation coursing through him, adrenaline numbing the agony in his joints as he burst onto the dark sidewalk. The early morning air hit him sharply, cool against his overheated skin, lungs straining with each breath.

West.

He had a direction now. He had a chance, however small, to catch you before you disappeared completely. His heart raced wildly, desperation driving him forward, feet pounding against concrete, joints screaming, pain forgotten beneath the overwhelming fear of losing you forever.

He didn’t know exactly where he was going or how he'd get there. He had no phone, no money, nothing but empty pockets and a heart stripped bare. But he couldn’t stop now. Couldn’t turn back. Because stopping meant losing you permanently, watching the only good thing he’d ever known disappear beyond his reach.

And Walter had already lost far too much.

So he kept running, kept pushing forward, breath ragged, body trembling, tears stinging his eyes, hope the only thing left driving his broken body onward.

He would find you.

He had to find you.

Because you were the only thing worth holding onto, the only chance left to make things right, to fix what he'd broken.

And Walter wasn’t sure he could survive losing you again.

It's not until he ducked into a nearby Starbucks to ask the barista where the nearest station was when his eyes caught it—one of those little postcard racks stationed by the counter.

Most were glossy tourist shots of Golden Gate fog and painted cable cars, but one, near the back, was different. A battered white lighthouse perched on jagged cliffs, waves foaming below, Bodega Bay written in curling script at the bottom.

He didn’t breathe for a second. Because just like that, he was back in the motel room that smelled like old radiator heat, sweat, and something sweet-sour from the vending machine pie she left half-eaten on the table.

It was stuffy, the kind of heat that clung to your skin and made the sheets feel damp. The ceiling fan ticked with every lazy rotation, like it was counting down to some end neither of them could name.

Walter lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other wrapped around your waist. Your skin was warm, the soft press of your hip snug into his side. Your leg draped across his, your breath fanned across his chest. He could still feel the aftershocks of what you'd just done—every nerve settled into a thrum beneath his skin. A peaceful ache. Like he'd finally been let into something sacred.

His fingers traced the curve of your spine without thinking.

He hadn’t said much since. Wasn’t sure he could. Not when every time he looked at you like this—bare, open, calm—his throat cinched up tight around all the things he didn’t know how to say.

You broke the silence first, voice low and sleepy, tracing one of the old scars on his chest.

“…Was that from a fight?” you asked, her fingertip ghosting over the pale ridge near his collarbone.

Walter huffed. “Nah. Wrecked my bike when I was ten. Hit the curb chin-first. Split my whole damn face open and had to get staples. Stanley told me I looked like Frankenstein.”

You chuckled against his chest. That laugh—quiet and curled with mischief—was quickly becoming his favorite sound.

“You kinda do.”

Walter smirked. “Yeah? You’re the one spoonin’ Frankenstein, sweetheart.”

He felt you grin against him, the way your body relaxed into his a little more.

A pause.

Then, “If you could go anywhere, where would you go?”

The question caught him off guard.

He blinked at the ceiling, the fan’s shadow casting lazy, circling arcs over cracked, uneven plaster.

“…Anywhere?”

“Yeah. No rules. No money. No Stanley.”

The name hit a little harder than he expected. Like a slap in the dark. His fingers curled tighter against your side without meaning to.

He hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to answer, but because the answer felt…foreign. Like trying to remember a dream you barely had.

“I dunno,” he said at last, voice low and rough. “Ain’t really thought about it like that.”

You shifted beside him, chin resting on his chest so you could look up at him. “Really? Not even once?”

Walter met your gaze, and the vulnerability in your expression made something stutter in his chest.

“I don’t exactly live in the kind of world where daydreams make much difference.”

Your expression softened.

But he wasn’t trying to brush you off—not tonight. Not when you were here, and warm, and real.

“If I could, though…” He shrugged a little. “I always thought it’d be nice to run a laundromat.”

Your brows jumped. “A laundromat?”

Walter laughed. “Yeah. What?”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I ain’t!” he said, grinning now. “Think about it. It’s quiet. Predictable. People come in, drop their mess, sit quiet a while, and leave. No fights. No fire drills. No cops. Just a radio hummin’ in the corner, a couple snack machines, and me, not gettin’ yelled at.”

You laughed again. “You sound like a grumpy old man.”

He rolled toward you, pinning you a little with the weight of his arm across your waist. “Grumpy old men don’t make you come like I did.”

You elbowed him, laughing louder now, and he grinned at the sound. But the grin faded.

Because even in that moment, he knew it was borrowed time.

“I like the idea of somethin’ slow,” he said. “Somethin’ that don’t ask much of me. I never had that, y’know? Was always Stanley barkin’ orders, or makin’ messes I had to clean up. I just…want a life that don’t cost so much.”

You stared at him for a long moment before rolling onto your back.

“Bodega Bay,” you whispered.

Walter furrowed his brow. “Where the hell is that?”

“California coast. Foggy. Quiet. Small town, like something out of a dream.”

He turned on his side to watch you.

“It smells like salt and old books and fresh bread,” you said, smiling faintly at the ceiling. “I saw a picture once. A lighthouse. Paint was chipped. Waves crashing. It looked…lonely. But not sad. Like it didn’t need anything.”

Walter reached out and brushed a knuckle down her jaw.

“Still want to go?” he asked.

You nodded. “More than anything.”

“Why haven’t you?”

You hesitated. Then, “Because I kept waiting for my life to calm down long enough to go. It never did.”

He could feel something twist in his gut. A deep, slow pull.

“You should go,” he said. He didn’t even think before the words left his mouth.

Your head turned. “Come with me.”

And there it was—the moment he couldn’t stop playing back, even now.

He wanted to say yes. God, he wanted to say yes.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t know how to untangle himself from the mess of Stanley, from the weight of all the years he spent trying to fix what was broken.

So instead, he just looked at you.

You sat up slightly, reached toward the nightstand, and picked something up—a crumpled napkin, folded awkward and careful into the shape of a flower.

You took his hand and placed it in his palm.

“I thought you were gonna toss that,” he said, voice quiet.

“I couldn’t,” you whispered. “Not when you made it for me.”

His fingers curled around it like it meant more than it should.

“You keep it,” you told him. “Just… promise me you won’t throw it out.”

Walter stared at you.

“I won’t,” he said. And he meant it.

Then he kissed you—slow and full of everything he wasn’t brave enough to say. It wasn’t hunger this time. It wasn’t about heat or urgency or skin.

It was grief.

It was the shape of a goodbye.

And in some fucked-up part of him, he knew it’d be the last moment like this he’d get.

He just didn’t know how soon it’d all slip away.

The Greyhound station was washed in the gray-blue tint of a too-early morning, the kind that crept in through dusty windows and settled heavy over everything like fog. The kind of light that didn’t wake you gently—it just reminded you that the night was over.

You'd been there since just after six.

The waiting room stank of mop water and old gum, tired grease from the all-night burrito truck parked in the lot, and the faint metallic scent of nerves. Somewhere, a vending machine sputtered behind scratched glass and made an angry whirring sound every few minutes like it might just give up altogether. The overhead intercom kept announcing boarding calls in a half-dead garble, crackling with static, like even the station itself couldn’t be bothered to stay awake.

You were sitting stiff on a plastic bench near Gate 4, legs curled under you, your backpack pulled into your chest like a shield. The vinyl seat stuck to the backs of your thighs when you shifted.

Your coffee—if you could call it that—was still in your hands, now cold and stale. Burnt. You’d stopped sipping it a while ago, but it gave your hands something to do. Something to hold. Something to grip so tightly your knuckles had gone white.

You couldn’t keep still. Your knee bounced. You tugged the hem of your sleeve down over your fingers. You kept checking the cracked analog clock above the departures screen, even though time barely seemed to move at all.

Every time the front entrance doors groaned open, you looked up.

And every time, it wasn’t him.

You weren’t even supposed to be here anymore. By now, if you’d kept walking—if you’d gotten on the earlier bus—you’d already be halfway down the coast. You wouldn’t be stuck in this purgatory, ears straining for the sound of his voice in a crowd that didn’t know you. You wouldn’t be praying for something you told yourself you no longer believed in.

But you couldn’t go. Not yet. Not until the very last second.

You turned your face away from the entrance, stared out the smudged plexiglass window. The light was changing now, brightening from gray to the dusty-gold haze of early sun. Outside, the world continued as if yours hadn’t broken.

A couple argued over car keys in the parking lot. A kid dragged a wheeled suitcase shaped like a dinosaur. A bus hissed and rolled off into traffic, and your breath hitched at the sound of it leaving.

Another door opened. You didn’t look this time.

“Bus to Bodega Bay boards in twenty minutes,” the intercom muttered overhead.

Your grip tightened around the cup. The name stung.

Bodega Bay.

It sounded like a postcard, like a wish. Like something made up. A place that existed in daydreams and foggy longings and pillow talk—not real life.

But you remembered.

You remembered the motel bed. The scratchy sheets, the AC rattle, your legs tangled with his. The night after he’d patched you up, kissed your bruised skin soft like penance.

You remembered the weight of his arm thrown across your stomach, the thump of his heartbeat against your back, the quiet in his voice when the adrenaline had drained and all that was left was him.

You’d been laying there together in the dark, half-draped over each other. And you’d whispered it into the hush like a secret.

"If you could go anywhere," you’d asked, voice so low it barely stirred the air, "where would it be?"

He’d been silent for a moment. Thoughtful. Fingers still drawing lazy, tired shapes on your hipbone.

“I dunno,” he said, soft. “You first.”

You’d hesitated, then whispered: “Bodega Bay. I looked it up once in a travel magazine when I was fifteen. It was some article about the coast in autumn. Said it was the quietest town in California. Said it smelled like salt and firewood. Like someplace nobody would find you unless you wanted them to.”

His voice was barely a rasp when he spoke next. “Sounds peaceful.”

You rolled over to face him, your noses almost brushing. “What about you?”

That crooked smile of his had been faint, but real. “A laundromat,” he’d said, a little sheepish, like he was embarrassed to even admit it. “Silly, I know. But I always thought it’d be...I dunno. Simple. You open the doors, people come in with dirty things, and leave with clean ones. Doesn’t ask much. Doesn’t need much.”

You remembered laughing, but only a little. Because it wasn’t silly. Because it made perfect sense.

Because for all the things Walter was—restless, damaged, fierce—he was still a boy who wanted something quiet. Something that didn’t hurt.

And now, all you could think about was that line. People come in with dirty things, and leave with clean ones.

You weren’t sure where you fell on that spectrum. If you were the stain, or the machine.

Another fifteen minutes.

You wiped under your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie, not caring who saw.

You’d already bought the ticket.

You told yourself you’d leave if he wasn’t here by the time they called final boarding.

And you told yourself you weren’t hoping.

You lied.

He hit the pavement running.

Shoes slapping concrete. Chest burning. Palms raw from where he'd tripped earlier scrambling off the wrong bus. He nearly collided with the door as it wheezed open—too slow, too goddamn slow—and shoved his way into the Greyhound station with the urgency of someone being chased by something no one else could see.

Walter’s eyes flicked fast over the room.

To the left: a mother wiping jelly off a toddler’s cheek.

To the right: a couple sharing headphones, heads leaned together.

Dead center: a man snoring into his hoodie.

No sign of you.

His chest was already heaving, shirt clinging to the sweat that had bloomed beneath his collar. He hadn't slept. Hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Hadn’t stopped moving for longer than ten minutes since the waitress told him, “She’s at the station—go, before you miss her.”

He’d gotten the name from her lips like a goddamn miracle, and now every beat of his heart felt like it might burst through his ribs.

And then—he saw you.

You were standing in line at Gate 4, profile turned toward the window. Same coin-colored hair he’d brushed back from your face a hundred times in his head since you left. Same hoodie she always tucked her hands into when you were nervous. Same backpack he’d watched you zip closed with trembling fingers the night you walked out of his life.

His mouth parted.

His legs didn’t move.

For a split second, he couldn’t. Just looked. Like he wasn’t sure you were real.

God, you looked tired.

Not just in your body, but in your posture. Like every inch of you had sunk inward. Shoulders slouched. Eyes hollow. Like all the light in you had dimmed and dulled and flickered out somewhere between motel room and morning coffee.

He couldn’t stand it.

He started walking. No, moving. Pushing through bodies. Apologizing without stopping. Shoving past a man with two duffel bags and narrowly avoiding an entire rolling suitcase. He didn’t care. Didn’t stop. Not until he was three feet behind you in the line, heart pounding like gunfire in his ears.

And then he said your name.

Soft. Just once.

You didn’t turn.

So he tried again. Louder this time.

“Hey.”

And this time, you did.

You turned so slow it felt like the whole world bent around the movement. Eyes wide. Face unreadable. Your lips parted, but no sound came. Just breath. Just disbelief.

You stared at him like a ghost. Like something you thought you'd buried and now had to grieve all over again.

He stepped closer. Swallowed hard.

“Don’t get on that bus.”

Your throat worked once. “What the hell are you doing here?”

His voice cracked. “Came lookin’.”

“How’d you even find me?”

“Went through the goddamn phone book.” He laughed, but it was breathless. Shaky. “Went to every diner in the damn county tryin’ to remember which one it was. You’d think I’d remember the place I first saw you smile.”

You blinked. Didn’t say anything.

He kept going.

“I—shit—I know I fucked it. I know that. But I’m not lettin’ you walk away. Not without sayin’ it.”

“Saying what, Walter?”

His voice was hoarse when it came.

“That I love you.”

You looked like he’d hit you. “You don’t get to say that now.”

“I didn’t know what to do when you left. I didn’t know how to pick between you and my fuckin’ brother and by the time I realized I should’ve picked you, you were already gone.”

You folded your arms. “You didn’t come after me.”

“I did!” His voice broke, too loud. Heads turned. He lowered it. “I did. Just…not fast enough. I’ve been tryin’ for days. I used what I had left payin’ off the piece of shit who tried to lay hands on you. My phone’s cut off. I didn’t even know where to start. But I’m here now. And I know it ain’t enough, and I know you don’t owe me anything, but I need you to know I love you.”

The driver called “Final boarding—Bodega Bay!” from the gate.

Walter looked at the bus, then at you.

“Don’t go.”

You swallowed so hard it hurt. You were already crying. Silent tears. Your lips were trembling, and you shook your head once.

“I can’t go back to that motel,” you whispered. “To Stanley.”

“You don’t have to.” Walter stepped forward. “He ain’t part of this no more.”

“What changed?”

“You did,” he said. “You showed me what peace looks like. What home looks like.”

The intercom crackled again.

You turned your head, looked at the bus.

Then looked back at him.

Walter took something from his pocket.

Held it out in his palm.

The origami flower. Crumpled now, weathered, but still intact.

“I kept it,” he said. “I kept everything you ever gave me.”

The clock was ticking.

The driver started closing the door.

Walter’s voice dropped. Almost a whisper.

“Please don’t get on that bus.”

And for a second—

One impossible, soul-stretching second—

The entire world held its breath.

And in that collective, cosmic inhale, you didn’t hear the shuttle door close behind the last passenger.

Didn’t notice the quiet click of the driver’s clipboard or the way he paused, gave you one last look like he knew, then turned back to his wheel.

Didn’t hear the soft cough of the engine warming up or the whine of the brakes easing out of lock.

Because all you could hear was him.

Walter.

His breathing.

Shaky, desperate, real.

You turned around slowly. Like it hurt to look. And maybe it did. Because there he was—standing in the doorway of the station like something half-dreamed and full-broken. Sweat at his temples. Hands on his thighs like he’d been running. Shoulders heaving with the effort of holding himself together. One step away from collapse.

Your chest cracked like a fault line. You didn't cry yet. Not quite. But your jaw ached from holding back every word that wanted to escape.

You blinked once.

Twice.

His lips parted first.

“I’m sorry.”

Two words. That’s all it took.

Like a match dragged slow across stone.

You flinched.

And he took a step forward, careful like you were made of glass and one wrong move would send you scattering across the floor.

“I’m fuckin’ sorry,” he said again, thicker this time, voice fraying. “I shoulda run after you. Shoulda followed the second you left. Hell, I wanted to. But I—”

He looked down like he couldn’t bear to meet your eyes.

“Truth is, I ain’t never been good at goin’ after the things I want. ’Cause I figured I didn’t deserve ’em.”

He laughed once, bitter.

“But that’s just coward shit, ain’t it?”

You opened your mouth but nothing came out.

So he kept talking.

“You were good to me,” he said, softer now. “Better than I’ve had any right to. And I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t know love could feel like...like not bein’ scared all the fuckin’ time. Like breathin’ easier. Like wakin’ up with your back to someone and not wonderin’ if they’re gonna leave.”

His voice broke on the last word. Just gave out.

You looked at him then. Really looked.

And you saw it all.

The dark rings under his eyes.

The cracked lips.

The dried blood at his knuckles.

The man who used to sleep with his fists clenched now standing open-palmed in front of you—offering.

“I dunno if I can be perfect,” he said, eyes shining. “But I’ll be better. I swear to fuckin’ God, I will. For you. Just tell me where and I’ll be there. I don’t care where you go—Bodega fuckin’ Bay or goddamn Mars—I’ll be there.”

You stepped forward.

Your fingers trembled as they reached for his collar.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I ain’t.” His hand cupped your cheek, thumb rough and shaking. “Look at me. I ain’t lettin’ you leave thinkin’ I didn’t want you. That I didn’t love you. ’Cause I do. I fuckin’ do. And I don’t wanna live in a world where you ain’t in it.”

That broke you.

Finally.

Your breath caught like a sob in your chest and the tears came, fast and quiet, slipping down your cheeks in hot, messy trails. You closed the gap between you and pressed your forehead to his. Your voice was barely a whisper.

“I was gonna go,” you said. “I really was. I bought the ticket. I packed my bag. I thought if I could just forget you, I’d be okay.”

Walter’s voice was a rasp.

“But you couldn’t.”

You shook your head.

“I couldn’t.”

And then he kissed you.

And it wasn’t clean or easy or sweet.

It was everything.

Salt and tears. Smoke and rain. Coffee and motel soap. The raw ache of wanting and waiting and almost losing. Your lips fit like a promise. His hands shook as they cupped your jaw, slid down your back, held you so gently it made you want to scream.

You clung to him like drowning.

He held you like home.

“I’ll fix this,” he murmured against your mouth. “Whatever it takes. I’ll give you peace. I’ll build you a life. We’ll get outta this goddamn town and I’ll open a laundromat and you can paint the walls whatever color you want and we’ll get a dog who won’t listen to me worth shit and I’ll bring you coffee every mornin’—the cheap kind, the good kind, whatever the fuck you want.”

You laughed through your tears, clutching the front of his shirt.

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you want?”

He looked at you like it was the easiest answer in the world.

“You. Always was you.”

A long silence.

Your heart beat against his chest.

“I was scared,” you whispered.

“So was I.”

“But I think we can do it.”

He leaned down again, kissed the side of your jaw, the edge of your mouth, your temple.

“I know we can.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, swimming in the blues of his irises, watching his lips curl as he added, “let’s go.”

“Where?”

He smiled.

“Home.”

“And where is that?” you asked, confused—not because you didn’t understand the word, but because you had never had one. Not really. You always thought a home had four walls and a roof that didn’t leak, a front door that locked, a fridge full of food and someone who left the porch light on. Something fixed. Something solid. Something you could touch and point to and say that’s mine.

But when he answered—

“Wherever you are.”

—something inside you broke open. Because suddenly you understood. It wasn’t the walls or the roof or the door. It was him. The way he looked at you like you were the only thing he needed. The way his arms felt more like shelter than any place you’d ever been. That was home.

He was home.

Epilogue: All-in

The bell above the laundromat door jingled softly as you walked in from the early afternoon drizzle, wiping your feet on the worn mat by instinct now. The air inside was warm and soapy, thick with the familiar scent of lavender detergent and sun-dried cotton. The machines hummed in their steady rhythm, spinning clothes in circles like time itself was gently resetting. Outside, the fog clung to the edges of Bodega Bay, where gulls wheeled in lazy arcs and sea mist curled into the alleys between buildings.

Walter looked up from behind the counter, one hand wrapped around a chipped mug, the other rubbing absently at his wrist—a lingering ache that hadn’t quite gone away, though the flares were fewer these days. He smiled the moment he saw you. That slow, crooked grin that still managed to knock the wind out of your chest like it did the first time.

“You forget your dryer sheets again?” he asked, his New England accent curling around every word, teasing.

You scoffed, toeing the door shut behind you. "I live here, dummy. Everything in this place is technically mine too."

He leaned forward on his elbows. "Then technically, I should be usin' your mug."

You wrinkled your nose at the thought. "You already steal all my socks."

He chuckled, eyes glinting. You crossed the room and let him pull you into his side, the swell of your belly pressing gently against him. His hand slid instinctively to rest there, thumb stroking the curve with the kind of reverence that made your throat ache. The baby kicked and he blinked, like it never stopped feeling like a miracle.

The laundromat had been open for six months now. Business was steady—locals came in with gossip and salt-stiff linens, tourists dropped off bulk loads before heading to the beach. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was clean, it was his, and it was honest. Every scuffed tile and chipped paint corner held proof that he’d started over.

He’d ripped out the broken vending machines with his own hands. Painted the walls a soft blue you picked together. Set up a little corner with a bulletin board and bookshelf where kids could sit while their parents folded shirts. Sometimes he made repairs with his bad hand anyway, even when it hurt, just to prove he still could.

And every evening, when the sun melted into the Pacific and the tide whispered up against the rocks, he locked the front door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and walked home with you.

Home was a small cottage tucked behind the laundromat, wrapped in ivy and morning glories. It had creaky floors, a wood-burning stove, and windows that rattled in the wind—but it was yours.

He fixed the porch railing while you picked out curtains. You planted rosemary and sage in the windowsill box. You argued over where to hang the framed photograph of your first week there—the two of you soaked to the bone from rain, laughing over a busted umbrella.

He didn’t talk about Stanley. Not anymore. There was nothing left to say. No calls. No letters. Just a final voicemail deleted without being played. And a silence he chose to keep.

But sometimes you caught him staring out toward the edge of the ocean, quiet, thoughtful. You never pushed. He always came back to bed.

The puppy—Bean, short for Pinto—was sprawled out in a patch of sun behind the dryers, snoring. You’d surprised him with her after the first ultrasound. Said it was practice. He’d rolled his eyes and called you a sap, then spent twenty minutes on the floor rubbing her belly while pretending not to get choked up.

“You’ve got a visitor,” Walter murmured now, nodding toward the door as it creaked open.

It was a neighborhood kid dropping off her mom’s uniforms. You gave her a wave and promised to save her one of the strawberry sodas from the back fridge. Walter went to help her count quarters while you leaned against the counter and watched him.

His shoulders were broader now. Healthier. He smiled easier. Laughed deeper. Still had a temper, but you knew how to talk him down from it.

Later that night, you lay on the couch, your head on his lap, his fingers tracing gentle circles on your temple. The baby kicked again, and he murmured something soft you didn’t catch. You closed your eyes and let yourself believe it—that this was yours. Not just borrowed. Not just temporary.

Forever didn’t have to be loud.

Sometimes, it sounded like a washing machine cycle.

Sometimes, it looked like fog rolling over a sleepy bay town.

Sometimes, it felt like a hand resting on your stomach, steady and warm.

You finally got to keep something.

And it loved you back.

[papayareads]

might not be for everyone, but i have to talk about this one because it’s genuinely one of my absolute fav reads right now 🖤 it’s this perfect mix of slow burn tension and really unapologetic, delicious spice (i just know it´s coming)🌶️✨ the writing is so sharp and raw in the best possible way, and it isn’t afraid to go dark sometimes, which just makes the emotional parts hit even harder. the dynamic between them??? insane. like painfully good.

please do mind the content warnings (they’re there for a reason!!) but if you’re into flawed characters, secrets with teeth, and the kind of connection that sneaks up on them (and you) this one is so worth it. genuinely can’t stop thinking about it 🩶🫶

White Mercedes | Series Masterlist

Oscar Piastri x Anneliese Wolff (OFC)

Summary — It was just supposed to be a game. Once a month. No names. No questions. A few hours where she could surrender fully—because everywhere else in her life, she was drowning.

But Oscar Piastri was all quiet power and brutal precision. He didn’t ask who she was, and she didn’t offer. Not her name. Not the harsh reality of her past. Definitely not the part about being Toto Wolff’s daughter.

But it’s not a game anymore. It’s a secret with teeth. And when it all comes crashing down, she doesn’t know if it’s her heart or his career that’ll break first.

Warnings — 18+ Content, BDSM themes, realistic and flawed characters, Dom!Oscar, Sub!OFC, slow burn, lots of smut (obviously), strong language, detailed drug-addiction/past-usage, suicidal thoughts/ideation, past-suicide attempts, vaguely mentioned past sexual assault.

Notes — Please heed the warnings and take care of yourselves xxx This one is a bit intense (a lot) at times, but it's going to make their happy ending so much sweeter.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

[velvetdolor]

A Lesson in Obedience | Song Mingi

—synopsis: in which your rigid professor has a taste for seeing you after office hours.

pairing: sub professor! mingi x honor roll (college) dom student! reader

genre: indulgent smut, drabble, secret relationship

wc: 1.1k (unedited)

warnings: oral (f receiving), d/s dynamics, femdom, reader’s kind of mean, submissive & bratty mingi, slapping, recording, collars & leashes, undertones of sadism & masochism, light degradation, dry humping (?), age gap (10 years, reader is 23/mingi is 33), established relationship, and mingi’s pretty when he cries.

A/N: it seems i’m on a strictly sub mingi agenda…

He’s practically begging for it.

You feel his cold eyes before you hear the critique in his tone, followed by the awkward shuffling of jeans as students move around in their seats—avoiding eye contact with their incredibly hard to please Ethics professor. You stop yourself short from snorting at the irony of it.

“You can make your essay as thick, eloquent, and verbose as you want—but if it fails to convince me of your stance nonetheless, your grade will reflect that. If you have any questions regarding your mid-term grades, please come by during my office hours.” He doesn’t directly address you, but the other students catch his intentional, pointed stare.

The calm on your face remains undisturbed, smiling cherubically with mellow understanding. Moving along the beautifully procured performance of a small nod to your head and a graceful, slow packing of your books—your classmates almost whine at how mature you’re still being. Professor Song’s habit of picking on you—the academic powerhouse of their class— didn’t go unnoticed by the masses, and you were praised for your saintly patience.

You waited until the room had emptied before moving past Professor Song, each step measured, your heels clicking softly in the stillness. As you paused beside him, the air tightened. He tensed when your lips hovered near his pulse, breath catching—almost as if he could taste the whisper that never quite touched his skin.

“Under the desk. Five o’clock.” The words leave your lips cold and flat, carrying the weight of a threat. You hear the faint clink of his silver rings as his hand tightens, knuckles shifting under the strain. Then you open the classroom door, deliberately slow, letting the lingering trace of amber in your perfume trail behind for him to breathe in.

Mingi swallows, fingers trembling slightly as he unbuttons the top of his dress shirt. He draws out the chain collar tucked beneath, adjusting it with practiced care—tightening it just enough for the pressure to bloom faintly against his skin, leaving the barest trace of red.

And then he waits for after hours.

You enter Mingi’s office with a practiced, familiar ease. Smoothing out your skirt, daintily laying your bag on the countertop by the window, and removing your heels before sitting behind the thick, grandiose stained mahogany desk. Reaching for the confidential folder conveniently laid out, you thumb through sticky notes justifying each failure given to poor college students trying to get by.

A hand ghosts up your thigh, and you immediately click your tongue.

“Failed to convince you of my stance? Interesting feedback, given the fact that my ethics professor is kneeling on the floor waiting to eat me out like a rabid dog.” Despite your wording, they fall out of you deceivingly casual and sweet. “I trust that the pretty collar I gave you is wrapped nicely around that neck of yours?”

Mingi’s dark eyes beam at you, nose bridge flushed noticeably at the wake of sensual fever. His tenor greets you with a snide remark, trying his best to play gentle.

“You haven’t given me any attention lately—missed calls, texts left on read. Baby, did you forget that you’re supposed to be in love with me?” Your firm tap on his cheek sends a shiver down his spine, yearning for the softness of your palm for the last week before you pull back momentarily to strike his face.

“Yeah—well, I had to focus on trying my hardest to pass your fucking mid-term.” He’s missed your bite, stifling a smile—knowing full well how much of a punch you could pack if he pushed it too far. “—which clearly didn’t work out too well.”

“Let me make it up to you.” With a flicker of reckless intent, Mingi lowers himself even more, spine curving as he lifts your ankle in his large hand. He brushes a kiss to your skin—soft, almost reverent—before dragging his tongue up the length of your leg in one slow, unbroken stroke. Flattened. Controlled. Just shy of desperate as he reaches the heat of your inner thigh.

You’re unbothered, still flicking through essays “If you really want to make it up to me, change my grade first—“ you still when your eyes land on your own paper, glaring at the 89 circled in red ink. You thought he failed you but this? This was somehow worse.

He almost laughs when you clutch his chin with your pretty hand, leaving out the singular point entirely on purpose after committing your hatred of odd numbers to memory.

You press your tongue on the inside of your cheek, eyes steady as you take his office key. The drawer clicks open. Without a word, you slowly drag out his leash.

This is exactly what he wanted. His slacks tighten impossibly further at the constant pulsing threatening to break through the fabric.

A cold finger; pulling at the latch, and a relieving click. Your smalls hands pull down the sheer tights hugging deliciously thick, soft thighs before you part them achingly slow.

With a tug that’ll most likely leave a bruise around his neck, Mingi’s nose lands against the damp fabric of your panties. He inhales—slow, deep—saliva gathering instantly. He stays still, choosing obedience in the face of heaven.

“If you want to make it up to me, you’ll keep your mouth open and pray it’ll be enough.” Your hand pries his mouth open, spitting on the flat of his tongue. He unconsciously moves closer, grinding his hard on against your leg.

There was something intoxicating about a man so big brought to his knees, tears brimming, all because of you—a high you couldn’t find anywhere else. And Mingi, looking devastatingly pretty on the verge of frustrated tears from your neglect, embodied everything you had buried deep inside, pushed down with every man who came before him. You used to lie back, untouched even as they moved inside you—dry, detached, unmoved by the thrusting of men mistaking dominance for desire.

Were you too mean for pushing him to the brink of loneliness, just to see him cry? He was always the most beautiful like this; writhing under you, crying prettily, yearning impossibly for more.

You could feel the delectable throbbing on your calves, sporting a small damp spot from his soaked slacks.

Mingi presses his face between your thighs, locking thick arms around your lower back to push you tight against him with a whimper. The force his tongue rolls over your clit despite your underwear serving as a barrier does nothing, and your cold facade cracks steadily at the surface. His hips rub without restraint against your leg, small thumps resonating from the leg of the chair you sat on going off kilter.

You try your best to not think about the thickness of his cock, wanting to stick to the firmness necessary to keep a brat like Mingi in line.

Your desperation couldn’t be seen, but Mingi tasted it on his tongue, felt it slick and slimy—and wanted to push your limits to see how far you’d go to control someone like him.

Stretching his mouth, he sucks. Hard. And grinned when he feels you flinch, head thrown back, eyes shooting open. Mingi doesn’t relent even when you tug at the roots of his atomic blonde hair in silent reprimand, using his teeth to pull and tear your panties, sliding his tongue directly between your cunt with a fucked out groan.

He wanted to be your bitch.

He already was, but it’s his job to test if you could still do it after all.

For a moment, you almost cave—feeling his tongue slide and fuck into you, curling, tasting. But then the red 89 flashes in your head and you go cold.

He’s your bitch. Not the other way around.

With two firm hands, you pull his head away.

“Clench your teeth.” You mutter, smoothing your face into a cold calculation.

Mingi does, hiding a smile in the process. That’s my girl.

You slap his cheeks until they’re splotched red, spitting on his face with performative disgust. He’s drooling a little and you note the shaking of his thighs, small convulsions arching his back. His hair’s matted with sweat, jaw drenched in all sorts of your fluids—damp, sexy, dangerous, red. And you won’t give him what he wants, no matter how good he looks.

He wants to cum.

“No cumming either or I’m recording this and sending it to the academic board.” He flinches, hearing the honesty in your tone.

He almost screams when he feels your thumbs drag over his nipples and above the sturdy cloth of his white button up. Mingi can’t even throw his head back, else he’d knock the back of it on his desk.

And he’s the hottest thing you’d ever seen, slouching while restraining his tears to rest his cheek against your inner thigh, muttering inaudible mantras to stop himself from cumming.

You pinch his nose, blocking airflow after tugging the leash again. His eyes fluttered in surprise, as you cup his jaw and fuck yourself against his face, grinding at the surface without reprieve.

“Suck” A direct instruction followed by sandwiching your lips against his mouth, and he grows dizzy from over sensitivity and lack of airflow. He feels you pulse around his lips, pawing and squeezing at your damp thighs hard enough to leave little white indentations on the skin. He doesn’t register the fact that you orgasmed, too fucked out and lightheaded.

Your foot presses hard against his cock and he cries out “Wait, wait, wai—“ Everything goes white, eyes rolling back and sparks flying when he cums long and hard while still fully clothed—fear spiking when he registers the flash from your camera as you filmed him.

“Professor Song, I don’t think this is very ethical.” Melodic, calculating, evil, and pretty as a bell—as expected of his star student.

Mingi thinks he feels himself push another string of cum out at your words. Sliding your foot away, you snort at how wet it’d gotten.

Mingi slumps, shoving his face into your stomach, panting heavily.

“I don’t need much convincing for that statement. You, pretty lady, are absolutely correct.”

Yeah.

He’s never letting you break up with him. Not by a long shot.

A/N: I usually don’t see enough representation about how much power submissive’s can have in a d/s dynamic. At times, the dominant party serves the whims of a submissive in more covert ways—catering and finding compatibility in the power dynamics that please them. (This isn’t for every case.)

Reader isn’t necessarily a service top, and neither is Mingi a power bottom—but he’s a bottom that likes power and a brat at that, if you get me?

[sweetverine]

MR. HOWLETT | professor!logan

warnings: MDNI (+18) student-professor relationship dynamics, power relationship, age gap, pet names, cockwarming, no use of protection, pulling out, dirty talk, praise too)?

a/n : it's been a long time, i know, prof!lo has just been on my mind 24/7 i needed to do something about it, idk what to think about this, it's purely filth so........ also this pic of hugh????🫠 yall can imagine the logan you want for this one 𖹭 hope you enjoy it

When you entered university, the subjects were somewhat difficult, but you managed them. The first semester was fine, without too many problems, and even good grades. You were good at what you did, earning the occasional compliment from professors for your good performance.

But, when your parents were unable to pay your college tuition, things got complicated, forcing you to get a job if you wanted to keep studying. You had to divide your time, one day working, another studying, other days half work and half study.

This routine began to affect you, the subjects became somewhat difficult each time, meaning that you had to pay more attention, more time that you didn't have. Your concentration was zero, every time you tried to sit down to study you found yourself unable to do so.

and worse? You had started failing in a particular class, mostly the most unbearable and hated one; History. It was a heavy class, boring. You yawned every two minutes at the matters discussed in the two weekly hours.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ *⁠.⁠✧∘⁠˚⁠˳⁠°

At this particular hour You held his cheek against your elbow, resting on the table, looking in a boring way at the professor, you sigh. Your gaze slid towards his arms while you didn't listen to his senseless words, Mr. Howlett was never an ugly guy. In fact, he's Quite the opposite; Handsome, Tall, smart, nice hair, flattering glasses and an athlete's body. Every girl's dream.

That white shirt folded up to his forearms really pleased your sight. You could feel the heat rising from your neck to his ears as your mind plotted all the things professor logan could do with those arms, or the things he could do with his big hands, even the things that mouth — besides not stopping talking about history — gives fantastic kisses, capable of making some legs tremble.

Your eyes went further down, meeting with his jeans and his somewhat extravagant leather belt. You could notice how big his legs were, even though he was already big, those jeans just flattered him, you also found a normal bulge that any man has. And there you question about it, How big is it? I'm sure it's bigger when it gets hard, is it thick? Oh god. Why are you thinking about this?

you licked your lips, closing your eyes before going back to his boring lecture. He's too handsome to be talking about boring matters, even though it makes him hotter. This was the real reason for your bad grades, being distracted on the clouds thinking about Mr. howlett. You could feel something heavy in you, which led you to look at him, meeting his gaze, speaking while he didn't take his eyes off yours. Your cheeks burn and you decide to break the totally awkward exchange.

“read the entire unit for next class.” He said, ending the class. As soon as the hour was up, you rushed to try to escape, quickly putting away your notebook, your pencil case and water too, you put on your backpack, feeling a little relieved to finally be free, everyone was doing the same thing as you, others already leaving.

You put on your backpack, Now calm down, you had to worry about other things now, but surviving this class was the goal of your day. You were getting closer and closer to the desired classroom door. There weren't many people, just a few girls along with boys leaving, including the professor who hadn't left yet, who was sitting at his desk, reading some papers that were displaced on his desk.

you reached for the door, almost feeling free but a deep, masculine voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Hey, Miss, I have to talk to you about some things. don't leave yet.” Logan said, looking towards your back.

‘Fuck’ You whispered, slowly turning around and walking towards his desk, watching the other students leave, achieving your desired freedom.

“I wanted to know if you are aware of your grades.” He says, looking at you with those hazel green eyes, your pulse drummed on your chest at the mention of your grades.

“u-uh.. yeah, I know I'm not doing too well in this subject..” You looked away, avoiding his gaze, respectfully.

“That is true, You also have work to hand in, this is the second one you haven't given to me.” His voice makes you shiver, and nervousness begins to take hold of you. “Is there any reason for that?”

The awkwardness in the room was more than palpable, You swallow dryly.

“I started working full time, paying for college is becoming a little difficult for me.” you say, being honest with him and your situation.

He nodded slowly, hearing you sincerely. You were afraid of what he was going to say next, the silence made you more anxious.

“Your situation is not really an excuse,” He says, leaning back, his voice is firm but not cruel

“but… I can't not give you a chance when life kicks you in the ass.” He says, his face serious, grabbing a pen.

“I'll make time, come to see me tomorrow.” He writes something on a piece of paper on his desk.

“I'll tutor you.”

Your cheeks turned red, “R-really?..” That was too fast, Since when is he so considerate?

“Don't make me repeat myself, Miss.”

His voice echoed in your ears, almost leaving you dumbfounded. you hum softly.

“Goodbye, Mr Howlett, thank you.” you mutter, Giving him a little smile before starting to walk away from the classroom, sighing when you finally step out of it.

These are going to be long private classes.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ*⁠.∘⁠˚⁠˳⁠°

After 4 tutoring classes, your grades got slightly better. Mr Howlett was more than a good teacher, you handed in the work you were missing and he was patient enough for you, explaining everything slowly and easier.

Now you're 10 minutes late to his tutoring class. With nervousness you knock the door twice, You don't think he'll have mercy on you this time. Your sweaty hands grabbed the knob and entered the office. The only light was a lamp that he kept on his desk, illuminating the desk with a warm tone.

“You're late.” Logan was eyeing some history book, with the glasses fitted on the bridge of his nose and shirt sleeves rolled up. The room seems to get smaller as you walk towards the chair, sitting in front of him.

“I'm sorry.. I came straight from work.” You say, opening your backpack, Swallowing saliva. The cold wood chilled your thighs, making you shiver a little.

“Open to page 203.” His voice deep, His hands Reached slowly to close the book he was reading, with his attention fully on you now, he places it beneath a little drawer on the desk.

His orders were simple and concise, in a tone that brooks no resistance.

You tried to concentrate, you really tried, but his fingers brushed against the paper, the watch on his wrist ticking away at the minutes, like a countdown. Your body was tense without any logical reason.

Well, deep in you, you knew why, and who was making you this way.

“What does Marx mean by class struggle?” He asks, looking at the text.

You stayed silent, you didn't even read the first paragraph.

“Well?” His voice raised a little, almost demanding. “You didn't read it, did you?” His brow furrowed.

“I–I'm trying. I swear.. I just…”

The silence felt like a slap in the face, and for a moment the weight of the room was heavier. Logan slammed the book down on the desk, making you jump slightly. His eyes stare into yours.

“you said you wanted my help, you wanted to pass.” His hands kept on the book.

“I do.. I really do.” You start, trying to convince him, you didn't want to fail his subject.

“Then why don't you commit to this?”

“I have too many things in my mind, work.. other subjects” You explain, sighing, avoiding his eye contact now.

“And isn't history a subject you have to commit to as well?” He kept going, every time more intense.

You are feeling so frustrated now, almost wanting to cry for the raising of his voice, and how angry he seemed to be at you. Logan lays back on his chair, sighing deeply. His hand taking off his glasses and letting them fall on the wooden desk.

After a while he speaks again, rejoining again. “We'll try something new.” Something dirty in his tone that made you tremble slightly.

“Get up.” He says, although he's more calm down, the annoyance doesn't let go of him yet.

And you did.

“desk.”

“What?” your brow furrowed, looking at him.

“Up. On. The. Desk.” His raspy voice quickened your pulse again, and you could see him move his chair aside, making room for you. You obey with a blush on your face. Then he gets closer, His big hands explore, starting to caress your waist.

“Mr. Howlett–” Your voice sounds quite breathy, but not doing anything to pull away. as the touches begin to heat up everything, his fingers unbutton your pants. He didn't say a word until he left you in your underwear.

“you better try.”

You hate that this situation makes you wet.

Without much ceremony, he sat you on his lap, it was a situation worse than embarrassing, and it is worse that you let him do it. His warm hand never left your waist, keeping you in place. You listen to his belt clicking behind you, it is going to happen.

Silently he accommodates you slowly. His cock, as far as you could see, was big and thick, almost like in your imagination.

“Sit, take it all the way down.” He whispered in your ear.

You swallow. Your legs were shaking as you settled on top of him, your knees on the sides of the chair, next to his thighs. You felt his tip gently brush against you, making you shudder.

“L-logan..” You bite your lower lip, his hands wrapped around your waist, caressing the skin softly.

“Shh.. not a word. Sit.” He guides you again, his tone more gentle.

You slowly sat up, feeling him fill you inch by inch. It was difficult not to moan when he was all the way in. you could feel how thick he was, opening you up mercilessly. you were already getting agitated and unconsciously, your hips moved by reflex but his hand kept you still.

“No.” His voice firm as his hand.

“You're going to stay still.”

“But, Logan–”

“No, you listen to me.” He says, squeezing your hip roughly. “You're going to stay here, quiet, paying attention and reading out loud.”

He leaned forward onto the desk, his chest pressed against your back. His hands left your hips, grabbing the book he had left on the table. not taking you off him, as if he weren't hard inside you. As if you weren't dripping wet, pulsing around him.

“start with paragraph two.”

You bit your lip, your voice only managed to come out shaky. “S–social classes… for m-marxism are defined by the relations o-of…production, that is—”

“Slower.” He whispered in your ear.

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath as you tried to concentrate with all your might. But he was still there, inside, hard and heavy. every inch of him makes it difficult to think straight.

“Do you want to pass this class, Miss?” His gruff voice almost made you melt around him.

“I do.” You mutter.

“Then show me.”

You tried to move your hips again, only to be stopped by him again. “Did I say you could move?”

“N-no..” You whisper, already feeling frustrated.

“Exactly.” He kept you steady on his cock, not letting you move, not even squirm on him.

So you keep going, Reading slowly and out loud, with a broken voice, your nipples aching beneath your shirt and his cock throbbing inside of you. It takes you a few minutes more than normal to finish one. single. paragraph. it's pure torture .

“It wasn't that hard, wasn't it?” He whispers. “See? you just needed a little motivation.”

His hand goes a little lower, finding your puffy clit His thick fingers starting to rub it gently, You tremble, letting out a breathy moan. “L-logan..” Your eyes go shut, enjoying the stimulation he was giving you, your hips move towards his hand, and it pulls away quickly just as it began.

“concentrate.” He says as you whine.

You sigh, hating his teasing and how wet it makes you when he toys with you. His hands go to your hips, caressing you softly, almost soothingly for being so cruel with you. you start a new paragraph, only to be cut off a few lines later by him.

“Then what will be the goal of the revolution?” He whispered, his nose buried on your neck.

“T–the revolution will aim to achieve a perfect society where there is neither ... .exploiters nor exploited…” You answered correctly, making him smirk.

“That's my good girl. that's what you needed, hmm?” He praised you, feeling you clench around him when he said a pet name to your ear.

“Just one more paragraph, angel.” He whispered, his hands Going up to your boobs, squeezing them gently underneath your shirt. You started reading it, still somewhat stumbling and shaky, but faster than before.

Reading the last sentence, you simply relax against him, biting your lower lip. “G-god..”

“You're tired already?” He whispered. “Just a short page, I still have many more things to explain to you..” you whine in response, completely refused to read more with this torture. “I didn't say we're finished.”

“No please.. i-i can't do this anymore” You moan breathly.

“you're such a needy thing.” He groaned, feeling how you squeeze him again. “cant even fucking read something and staying obedient.” His hand finds your clit again, toying with it gently, Your hips move, rubbing yourself against his calloused fingers.

You whimper, bouncing softly on his thick cock, His groans just makes you wetter, the tip brushes that sweet spot that makes you fold every time. But as quickly as it started, you started to get tired within minutes.

“Now what, bunny? Have you sung yet?” He huffs.

With a little force, he gets up from the chair, without leaving you yet, pressing you down onto the cold desk. You moaned, arching your back.

“You're going to take it now, I've been wanting this since I saw you looking at me with those eyes in class, don't think I didn't notice.” He mutters as he slowly starts to move, slowly getting in and out, The sound of skins clashing, your low moans and Logan's grunts provided the soundtrack for the moment.

“Are you like this with all the teachers? huh?”

“Answer when I talk to you.” He says, Expecting an answer, You were too caught up in the moment, too dumb to think straight.

“No! fuck.. I-i'm sorry..” You whisper, closing your eyes.

Your knuckles turned white as you held on to the desk, your cheek pressed against the wood. Logan's pace was brutal now, dragging moans from your lips with each thrust, his hips slamming into you with growing urgency.

“Dirty girl, feel what you do to me.”

Your walls clench around him as he talks to you, you only nodding, your legs tremble, His hand reaches around to rub your clit again, this time without mercy. Fast. Intentional.

"Logan..please! 'm close, I need—”

"Then come," he growled, slamming into you. "Show me how much you've learned, angel. fuck come on”

That was all it took. Your body trembled with the intensity of your climax, clenching around him so tight he groaned your name, fucking you through it.

“Fuck–baby…” He groaned, almost losing it as it came out of you, without wasting time it began to stroke himself. hot, white spurts of cum spilled over on your back. warm and messy as he groaned deep and low, collapsing forward, panting against your shoulder.

A beat of silence. Just you and him, both tired.

“Read everything for the next lesson.” He said breathlessly.

[cillslover]

Not hungry // Part 3

PLEASE READ WARNINGS BEFORE READING!!

Pairing: Modern day Thomas Shelby x Female Reader

Warnings: heavy mentions of an eating disorder, mentions of weight loss/body dysmorphia, emotional distancing, mental health themes, anxiety, food avoidance, internalised guilt, angst

Summary: Y/N puts on a flawless act at Polly’s dinner — laughing, smiling, playing the part. But Tommy sees through it all. Her untouched plate, tense body all don’t lie, he’s the only one that notices her fading away.

A/N: I honestly struggle writing modern Tommy because my brain just can't place him in today's world. But I couldn't find another way to write this story with these dynamics, y/n as an A list model just wouldn't have worked in a period setting. So if anything feels a bit all over the place, I'm sorry! I'm trying to stay true to Thomas's nature, but some of his traits don't always translate smoothly into a modern context. Thanks for reading!!

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊

The house was quiet when he walked in.

Too quiet.

He shut the front door behind him, smoothing his hand over his black wool overcoat. The usual sound of soft music or the faint tapping of keys from her laptop wasn’t there. The air felt too still.

He loosened his tie, frowning slightly as he walked through the front hall, black dress shoes muted against polished wood floors.

“Y/N?” he called out softly.

No answer.

He turned the corner and stopped cold in the doorway to their bedroom.

She was standing in front of the full-length mirror, still in her slip. Her back to him. Shoulders trembling.

Her hands were pressed lightly against her face.

Crying.

It hit him like a slow bullet to the gut.

She never cried. Not where he could see. She was composed, graceful, private. But right now she looked fragile, not just in posture but in spirit. And the way she stood, arms folded across her waist, hiding herself like she didn’t want to be seen, it made his chest ache.

“Hey,” he said gently, stepping in.

She jumped slightly, quickly wiping her face, trying to play it off.

“Oh—hey,” she said, her voice light but wrong. “You’re home early.”

“I said six, didn’t I?” he asked, his tone still soft, carefully measured.

She glanced at the clock, then turned back to the mirror, trying to fix her makeup. “Guess I lost track of time.”

“You alright?” he asked.

She smiled too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired. You know how Polly gets when she throws these dinners.”

He didn’t answer. Just studied her from behind as she brushed her hair out, eyes on herself but expression blank.

“I’m gonna go get dressed,” she added. “Shouldn’t take long.”

Tommy watched her disappear into the closet.

He didn’t believe her. Not for a second.

But he let it go. For now.

Ten minutes later, she stepped out in a black satin evening gown, long, backless, fitted. It draped around her like it had been tailored to her bones.

She looked stunning.

But something had changed.

Her collarbones jutted more than usual. The dress hung just a touch looser at her hips. Her arms looked thinner, her frame delicate in a way that didn’t feel intentional. Like she was slowly being carved down by something no one could see.

He masked his worry behind a quiet breath and walked toward her.

“I got you something,” he said, reaching into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

She turned, curious.

From the velvet box, he pulled out a diamond necklace, delicate, sharp, and sparkling. Just like her. The chain shimmered in his fingers under the warm light.

“Tommy…” she said softly, eyes widening a little.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, stepping behind her. “Let me.”

She swept her hair forward obediently, her back to him.

His fingers brushed against the nape of her neck as he clasped the necklace on. She shivered slightly, not from cold, he knew, but from his touch.

His hands hovered at her shoulders for a second longer than needed, his eyes lingering on her back.

She felt smaller.

The slope of her spine was more defined. Her skin looked thinner, somehow. Like he could see straight through to her heart if he pressed hard enough.

“You alright?” he asked again, voice low near her ear.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Just nervous. Polly’s dinners are always so… formal.”

He studied her in the mirror as she fixed one of her earrings. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

And still, he let it go.

He didn’t want to push. Not tonight.

“Ready?” he asked instead.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

Outside, the air was cold, and the sky was already settling into dusk. The black Bentley sat gleaming in the drive. He opened the passenger door for her, watching her lower herself into the seat like she weighed nothing.

When he slid into the driver’s side and shut the door, he took a long breath before turning the key.

The engine hummed to life.

Inside the car, silence stretched between them. The only sound was the gentle rumble of the road beneath them as they pulled out onto the street.

Tommy glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

She was staring straight ahead, jaw tight, fingers twisting the hem of her dress in her lap.

And again, all he could think was: She’s not fine.

She hadn’t been for a while.

And whatever this was, whatever was taking her away piece by piece, was getting worse.

But he didn’t say it. Not yet.

He just drove.

And in the silence between them, everything screamed.

——————————————————————

By the time Tommy and Y/N arrived, everyone was already gathered, Arthur and John in suits, already on their fifth glass of whisky. Ada was dressed in a sleek black dress. Finn leaned lazily in his chair, and Polly, flawless in silver, cigarette in hand, was at the head of the long dining table, laughing over something Ada had just said.

As Tommy held the door open, Y/N stepped inside, her heels quiet on the stone floor. She straightened her posture immediately, smile sliding onto her face like a mask she’d worn before.

It was perfect. Effortless. Polished.

Tommy saw right through it.

“Thomas,” Polly greeted as she rose, pulling him into a light hug. “And look at you,” she turned to Y/N, “that dress is so elegant, darling. I love it.”

Y/N laughed lightly, her smile the kind that photographs well. “You said black tie. I just took it literally.”

Ada leaned over to kiss her on both cheeks. “It’s criminal how perfect your skin is, by the way.”

“Oh, stop,” Y/N said, brushing it off with a quiet grace. “It’s all foundation.”

Everyone laughed.

Everyone except Tommy.

He watched her with careful eyes as they moved into the dining room, where the long mahogany table was set in ornate gold-rimmed dishes, tall glasses, and enough silverware to feed a royal court.

Candles flickered in the center. Red wine was already being poured. Plates began to arrive, soup starters, warm bread, small bites on porcelain.

Tommy pulled her chair out for her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, sitting down.

He settled beside her, placing his suit jacket across the back of his chair.

Polly began talking about the gallery fundraiser, something about patron lists and campaign donations, and the conversation started to drift into chatter and laughter.

Y/N sat with her back straight, hands folded delicately in her lap, smiling when appropriate, nodding at all the right moments. But her eyes flicked too often to her plate.

The soup sat untouched in front of her. She didn’t reach for the bread.

Tommy saw her scan the table when no one was looking, making sure no one was watching, before she picked up her spoon, stirred the soup twice, then put the spoon back down.

She leaned slightly toward Ada as if distracted by conversation, using the moment to move the bread further from her.

He watched it all in silence.

About halfway through the meal, Tommy shifted slightly and let his hand slide under the table, gently resting it on her thigh.

Her entire body tensed.

Not visibly. Not to anyone else. But he felt it, how she stopped breathing for just a second. How her thigh flexed tightly under his touch like she didn’t know how to respond.

His thumb moved softly back and forth over the fabric of her dress.

She said nothing.

Her smile stayed fixed, glass of wine held loosely in her right hand. She laughed politely at one of Finn’s comments about a club in London.

But she hadn’t eaten a bite.

He leaned in, voice low, just for her. “You alright?”

Her eyes flicked to him, a touch of panic in them before she masked it again.

“Fine,” she whispered. “Can’t eat much when I’m nervous. You know that.”

Tommy stared at her.

“You’ve got nothing to be nervous about.”

She glanced away. “I know.”

Then the mains arrived. Rich, heavy food: duck, glazed vegetables, truffle potatoes. The kind of food meant to impress. The kind of food Y/N’s stomach had long since learned to dread.

She picked up her fork and began to slowly, carefully, slice the duck. Perfect cuts. Not a single bite lifted to her mouth.

To everyone else, she looked like a woman savoring conversation before her meal.

To Tommy, she looked like someone under siege.

Arthur shouted across the table, loud, “Pol, what the fuck is this? Real duck? Thought that was a myth in rich houses.”

Polly rolled her eyes. “It’s called proper catering, Arthur. You should try it sometime.”

Laughter broke out again, and in the noise, Y/N pushed the potatoes to the side of her plate and moved the duck slightly outward like she was pacing herself.

Tommy’s hand never left her leg.

He leaned closer again.

“You’ve not eaten a thing,” he murmured, voice careful, quiet.

She smiled at him, this perfect, polite, photo-ready smile, and whispered, “I’ll have a bite in a bit. You’re watching too closely.”

He didn’t say anything.

Just studied her face. Her hollowed cheeks. Her slender neck. The necklace he’d clasped hours ago now seeming too loose around her collarbone.

She kept going. Kept pretending.

At dessert, when the table broke into small conversations and the champagne started flowing, she laughed with Ada, complimented Polly’s taste, asked Finn about his last trip, like nothing in her life was spiraling.

But under the table, Tommy felt her leg shake.

Tiny, controlled tremors. Her fingers nervously tapped against the side of her thigh. Her wineglass remained full.

And when the dessert came. dark chocolate tart with raspberry cream, she waved it away with a soft, “Too sweet for me, but thank you.”

Polly made a joke about models and sugar.

Y/N laughed with everyone else.

And Tommy felt his chest tighten.

Because no one else could see it. Not Arthur. Not Polly. Not even Ada.

Only him.

Only him watching the woman he loved slowly vanish in plain sight, smiling through a storm, plate full, stomach empty.

And still…

She said nothing.

--

part 4

[girlinterupptedsblog]

♤Rafe is just pathetic ex that misses you too much

Pairing: ex!rafe cameron x reader

Warnings: Toxic relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation, verbal abuse, gaslighting, sexual content (non-explicit), psychological distress, substance use (alcohol, drugs), strong language, cheating implications, obsessive/possessive behavior.

It was well past midnight. The TV flickered with soft light as some action movie dragged on in the background, barely holding your attention anymore. Your boyfriend — the new guy — had fallen asleep with his head in your lap, a gentle, rhythmic breath brushing against your bare thigh. He was good to you, patient, normal. Not the kind to raise his voice or drive you crazy. Not the kind to break things or slam doors. Not Rafe.

Your phone lit up on the coffee table, face down. The buzz was soft, just one single vibration, and you didn’t think much of it. You weren’t expecting anyone. Certainly not him.

You didn’t even look at it for ten minutes.

And then you did.

Rafe

Your stomach turned. You stared at the screen like it was lying to you. You swore you blocked him — months ago, after the final blowout. After he screamed at you on the street and whatever you could at him and he told you to go fuck yourself.

You opened the message.

It was a video.

The thumbnail alone made your chest lock up. A dimly lit room, too close-up to see much except for skin, motion, and the soft rise and fall of your own stomach. You knew instantly what it was.

You shouldn't have, but your finger tapped it.

And there it was. Him, slow and deep inside you, recording while he fucked you in missionary. His hips grinding in a rhythm only the two of you knew. Your legs bent up, his hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise. His voice low, breathless, possessive — the kind that could make you forget every awful thing he ever said.

"You feel that? Look at me. Look at me, baby. You take me so fuckin’ well... goddamn."

A soft moan slipped from his lips — your name laced in it like prayer.

“This pussy was made for me, huh? Mine.”

You felt like someone had punched you. Your mouth was dry, heart racing. You hadn't watched more than twenty seconds before you locked your phone and set it face down again.

But then — another buzz.

Another message.

Rafe:

My cock misses your pussy.

You stared at the words, heart hammering.

Rafe:

I miss you too. I know I shouldn't. I know I don’t deserve to.

But I do.

I miss the way you sound when you cum for me. Like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

No one else ever sounded like that.

I can still hear it. Every night. Every time I close my eyes.

You should’ve deleted it. You should’ve thrown your phone across the room. But you just kept reading as message after message started pouring in, one after another. It was like a dam had broken.

You think I don’t know you moved on? I know.

I hope he treats you good.

But he doesn’t fuck you like I did.

He doesn’t know your little sounds. That tiny gasp when I hit that spot. That shake in your thighs.

He doesn’t know how to make you cum without touching your clit. I do.

He doesn’t know you taste like fucking heaven when you’re half-asleep.

I do.

I miss everything. Your smell. Your shampoo. The way you yell at me when I’m being a dick.

I want you to yell at me again.

I want you to slap me and cry and say you hate me and then beg me not to stop when I’m fucking into you like you need it to breathe.

Please. Just answer.

Say something. Tell me you hate me. Just don’t ignore me.

Fuck, baby, I’m losing it.

I jerked off to that video six times. It’s not enough.

It’s never enough.

No one tastes like you. No one fucks like you. No one fights like you.

No one makes me wanna ruin my whole fucking life like you.

You swallowed, heart pounding.

I know I ruined us.

But you ruined me too.

I love you. I still fucking love you.

Even if you hate me.

Even if you’re lying in bed with someone else right now.

I wish it was me.

I’d make you feel everything he can’t.

Silence.

Then—

You’re not gonna answer, huh? That’s okay.

I’m gonna keep texting anyway.

Because I need you to know.

My cock’s hard just thinking about your mouth.

The way you spit on it. The way you looked up at me with those fucking eyes.

I’d give anything to feel your nails down my back again.

Or your legs locking around my waist while you beg me not to pull out.

You glanced down at your sleeping boyfriend — soft, calm, warm. Normal.

Then back at your phone.

Fuck. I’m so pathetic.

I keep replaying that night you told me you were done.

And I laughed.

*I lied.

I cried the second you left.

I still do sometimes.

I sleep on your side of the bed.

I even got your parfume just so i have part of you.

You’re not mine anymore, and I hate it.

But if I ever get one more chance, I’ll ruin you all over again.

The way you ruined me.

Please.

Tell me you still think about me when he’s inside you.

Tell me you still miss the way I filled you up.

Say my name. Just once. Please.

Your fingers hovered above your keyboard.

But you didn’t type anything.

Yet.

You didn’t even flinch as you tossed your phone back onto the coffee table, face-down again like it was burning hot. You just sank a little deeper into the couch cushions and pulled the blanket tighter around your waist. Your boyfriend — mumbled something sleepy and soft, then settled again, cheek pressing back into the warmth of your thigh.

You couldn’t even remember the name of the movie anymore. Something violent. Something loud. But all you could hear now was the pounding of your own heart.

You hated Rafe.

No — you loathed him.

The kind of hatred that brewed in your bones, thick and bitter like poison. It wasn’t the kind that fades. It was the kind that clung to your skin and refused to wash off. You hated what he did to you. The way he made you feel like nothing. The way he made you beg for love. The way he’d kiss you like you were the only thing that existed and then say the most vile things two hours later.

And still — still — that familiar, disgusting ache stirred in your chest the moment you saw his name. That stupid, sick spark of adrenaline that always came when he texted. Your whole body remembered him. Even when your heart didn’t want to.

Your phone buzzed again. Then again. And again.

You ignored it for as long as you could. You tried.

But your hands were already reaching.

Rafe:

Of course you're not gonna answer. You're still the same bitch you always were.

Acting like you're better than me.

Like you’re so fucking innocent.

You’re not.

You were the problem. Not me.

You’re the one who kept starting fights.

You’re the one who cried and screamed and threw shit at me because you’re fucked in the head.

Don’t act like this was all on me.

You stared at the words, jaw clenched so tight you could feel your teeth grinding.

You should’ve blocked him again.

But instead, you watched the next message pop up.

The only reason we stayed together as long as we did was because the sex was good.

That was it.

You made me feel fucking lame sometimes. Like I had to tone myself down for you.

Like I couldn’t breathe when I was around you.

It was like being punched in the stomach. And still, your face stayed calm. Cold. Emotionless. Because you’d heard worse. You’d lived worse. The pain wasn’t new — it was familiar. You'd gotten used to Rafe swinging between cruel and pathetic. He always started like this when he felt ignored. Like being mean would force a reaction out of you.

You didn’t move. Your boyfriend breathed slow and steady against your skin. Safe. Warm. Real.

And then—another ping. You didn’t have to open it. The preview was right there on your lock screen.

I didn’t mean that.

Another.

Baby, please. I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t.

I’m sorry. I just... I’m losing my fucking mind.

I’m drunk. I’m high. I don’t know what I’m doing.

But I know I miss you.

I miss you so much it fucking hurts.

Your fingers moved. You tapped it open. You don’t know why. Maybe you needed to see what bullshit would come next.

You’re not fucked up.

I am.

You were the best thing that ever happened to me and I ruined it like I ruin everything.

You’re not the problem. You’re perfect. My perfect girl. My sweet, pretty baby.

You made me feel loved in a way no one else ever could.

And I pissed it all away.

You rolled your eyes, but your chest burned.

That sex wasn’t just sex.

It was fucking heaven. You know it was.

No one’s body fits mine like yours.

No one sounds like you.

That noise you make when you’re about to cum... that shaky, desperate moan? I replay that shit in my head every single night.

I haven’t touched anyone since you.

Can’t.

All I want is you.

You sat there motionless, watching as more messages dropped in rapid-fire.

I love you.

I always have. Even when I didn’t say it. Even when I was a dick.

Even when I hurt you.

Especially then.

I love every version of you — the angry one, the bratty one, the soft one that cries when I kiss your neck.

Please talk to me.

Please just say something. Call me names. Tell me to go fuck myself. I don’t care.

Just don’t ignore me. I can’t take being ignored by you.

I’d rather you scream at me than pretend I don’t exist.

I’d rather you hate me than forget me.

Your vision blurred slightly.

Remember when you used to trace your fingers over my chest after we fucked?

And you’d whisper that you hated me, but you didn’t let go?

I think about that all the time.

You hated me but you loved me too.

And I’d do anything to feel that again.

Even if it’s just one more time.

He sent a picture next.

A shirt of yours. Worn. Faded. Folded on his pillow.

I sleep with it every night.

It doesn’t even smell like you anymore. But I pretend.

I fucking pretend, baby.

You exhaled through your nose and locked your phone again. No reply. Not a single word.

You looked down at the boy asleep in your lap. His breathing calm, his body warm and safe. Your fingers ghosted through his hair and for a second, you felt grounded again.

And still — somewhere in the dark, in that awful part of your heart you never wanted to acknowledge — Rafes words sat there.

Rotting.

Festering.

Pulling at the edges of a wound that never really closed.

[crushmeeren]

Hallo!!! I hope you're doing well when you read this, but can I request a slightly NSFW (or full if you want to) with a dominant black cat-like reader with Bachira? I'm a sucker for golden retriever x black cat dynamics, and it has manifested in ways I can not escape from... (;^_^A

Either way, your stories are really good, and I hope you enjoy yourself when writing!

golden retriever bachira… *drools*

coming right up! (it’s written in fem pov btw)

⋆ cw ; sub vibes meguru, soft dom (i think?) reader, riding, finger sucking.

master list

“I thought you were a good boy, Meguru.”

“I am a good boy!” He giggles, biting back his grin.

You smile fondly and pat his cheek. “Well, I suppose you are most of the time,” you concede. “But I never said you could touch yourself, did I?”

Meguru pouts. “No but —,” He moans, stroking his cock like he’s teasing himself. “M’sorry, I just really wanted to. You’re so hot I couldn’t help myself.” His head tilts up from where he sits naked on the edge of the bed.

You pinch his chin, shaking his head side to side. “I won’t let you cum if you don’t stop.” The threat is real and Meguru knows because his hand disappears from his dick. It stands straight up, twitching.

“Lemme touch you then,” he pleads, reaching for you.

“No,” you snap, stepping out of his reach. “Go to the head of the bed and lay down. Show me you can listen.”

Meguru blushes and nods, scooting towards the pillows and relaxing on his back. You shed the last of your clothing and crawl to him. He watches as you straddle his hips, resting his hands by his head as they curl into fists. His brows pinch in concentration.

“Smart boy,” you praise, trailing a finger down his chest, over his belly, along the length of his cock. “Remembering to keep your hands to yourself.”

“Are you gonna ride me?” He asks, wide eyed and eager, wiggling desperately.

“Will you cum before I say so?”

“I wont! Promise!”

You sit down on Meguru’s cock and his hands tangle in his hair. He moans loud, the sound pitching up at the end.

His cock is perfect for you, a size that allows you to take him over and over if you wanted. You start to bounce lightly, bracing your weight on his chest.

“Oh my god,” Meguru whines, glued to where he slides in and out of your pussy.

Your nails dig into his pecs. “You’re perfect Meguru. Best dick I’ve ever had.”

Meguru’s eyes roll and his lips part, head tilting onto the pillow. “You’re not playing fair!”

You snicker, sitting down and grinding your hips in a deep circle. “Silly boy, I thought you could handle it?” Meguru whimpers in response. You reach out a hand, palm up. “Give me your hand, baby.”

You stick your tongue out and take the offered hand, bringing it to your face. His middle two fingers are drawn into your mouth and you suck, tongue playing with the pads.

“Oh.” Meguru’s hips jerk, voice cracking as he curses. “Fuck!”

You hum, bobbing your head. His fingers are long, close to touching the back of your throat. You grind your hips back and forth instead of circles, watching Meguru white knuckle the sheets.

“Baby please!” He cries. “M’gonna —,” His breath catches and his face splinters in pleasure. His cock throbs on repeat. Once he melts into the sheets you pull his fingers from your mouth, halting your movements. Meguru pants, blinking slow, and gives you a dopey smile.

“You better stay hard Meguru. It’s my turn.”

“Mm, so I can touch you now?”

“Go crazy.”

Go crazy he does.

[usedtobethelegendcreator]

“History repeats itself” is 100% true when it comes to ship wars. I joined the Hazbin Hotel fandom, saw the discourse around Radiobelle, and thought “Oh no, it’s Brumira all over again.”

Except in this case, Alastor and Charlie aren’t even related. Or the same species. And haven’t met before the hotel. And Charlie is almost a century older than him. All of which makes the Radiobelle discourse even more insane, because there isn’t the possibility of actual incest. Unless you ship Alastor with one of Charlie’s parents—or both.

Please. Please stop acting like they’re physically father-daughter. They’re not. “But Charlie sees him as a father figure” she sees him as a MENTOR. Ffs.

[untildarknesscomes]

A Red Hood story where Jason, instead of being a crime lord, helps victims of abuse to take revenge on people that hurt them and got away with it. He reaches out to them with an offer and a promise that they will not face any consequence for what they'll decide to do. Once their minds are set, he abducts the abusers, ties them up and takes them to a secluded place. He never pushes any of the victims to murder, allowing them to choose whether they want to end the objects of their nightmares, inflict pain or scream their souls out before leaving. But Red Hood always finishes the job. No monster will walk the streets and hurt anyone else while Jason's alive and breathing. So, the perpetrators die either way.

The main antagonist? Not Batman. Not Nightwing and certainly not Robin. But Batgirl. Cassandra “Not-Even-The-Law-Is-Allowed-To-Execute-Abusers-On-My-Watch” Cain. She's angry, so she hunts but never kills. They have a whole “Catch Me if You Can” sequence until they meet face to face, but never reach a conclusion that would suffice both sides. Jason wants to help fellow victims find peace, one he himself was never granted. Cass can't let him get away with any more murder.

A lot of grey areas to explore (did they deserve it? Yes. Will the victims be able to live with themselves knowing that their hands are painted in blood? Who knows). No happy endings for anyone. None of the “batfamily-makes-peace” bullshit. Just pain upon pain upon pain. And so much projection from both parties.

[smoshingatut]

I'm kinda tired of dungeon meshi fans blatantly misinterpreting Kabru's goals, motivations, and character so they can ship him with Laios...like obviously it's awesome if you enjoy Laikabu but can you nooot twist Kabru's intentions for involving himself with the guy who constantly triggers his monster trauma and pisses him off so bad he gets brain damage so that he turns into "the guy who wants to suck Laios's dick" as his entire character? I've even seen people cut off Kabru's words to make it seem like he is admiring Laios because it would disrupt that narrative

[lestats-ovaries]

putting in my two cents as an aroace hazbin fan to the whole alastor shipping debate (adding a cut below because this got long-)

before I start, it's important to remind everyone:

alastor is canonically ace and (semi)canonically aro, and that should be respected the same way we'd respect angel dust's identity as a gay man, or vaggie's as a sapphic woman.

"ace" and "aro", while also functioning as labels unto themselves, are umbrella terms for a lottt of identities. Some of which do include the ability to experience sexual and romantic attraction, in different ways and at different levels (demi, cupio, lith/lithro, grey, aro-and aceflux, the list goes on).

So, given all that, is it possible to interpret alastor as experiencing some level of romantic attraction, or sexual attraction? Of course, identities like the ones I listed above are just as valid as any other acespec and arospec identity.

So, what's the issue then? Right now, a lot of fans are using the breadth of aspec identities and experiences as a shield, to excuse them shipping him like they would an allosexual/alloromantic character.

Just to make it clear, that in itself is erasure. And I know that's a strong statement, and that there being such a broad aroace experience adds nuance to any statement you can make on that, but we have to acknowledge as a fandom that there are objectively wrong ways to handle aspec characters, both in the way we discuss them and in the way we portray them in fan works.

And before anyone says it, saying "alastor isn't real" or "fanon content won't change his canon sexuality" doesn't work when real life aspec people can't even look in a tag of a character that's supposed to represent them without seeing their identity erased. It's the way I feel attempting to engage with a lot of hazbin content, and I know a lot of my fellow aspec hazbin fans are feeling it as well.

So, what's the solution to all this? That's unfortunately kinda complicated. Everyone has a different opinion on what constitutes as erasure, what is good rep, how much benefit of the doubt we should give people, et cetera, and so everyone's solutions look different. In a way there also isn't a way to solve it, since aroace erasure is so normalized in fandom culture (not just the hazbin fandom; fandom culture as a whole) that there will always be a significant portion of fans who will ignore, erase, or otherwise deny alastor's or any other aroace character's sexuality.

So, to put my two cents on it:

My philosophy is that if you're going to ship alastor (or any aspec character for that matter), it's best to have an identity in mind for him to use as reference. For example, I think of alastor as sex-repulsed aroace, and I write him with that in mind. Whatever you pick can be a steadfast headcanon, an identity tailored to the story you want to tell, or one you want to explore in your fanwork, whether for fun or to educate yourself on it better.

What's better is that you don't even need to mention the sexuality itself in the work! Show don't tell is a great writing tool, and for alastor specifically, who canonically isn't aware of his sexuality, it works perfectly. Just simply creating with it in mind, asking yourself, "how would someone with [insert identity] experience this?" and going from there, makes a world of difference.

Just in terms of good fanfic etiquette, I'd also make sure to include it in the tags if you're posting it on ao3, just to make sure your readers know what's up and to help with filtering (I personally don't read any alastor ship fics that don't include the asexual or aromantic tag at this point). Bada bing bada boom, that's representation right there!

Since Alastor is one of very, very few ace characters in mainstream media, and even less aro characters in media period, us as a fandom creating good representation with him is really important, especially in terms of the breadth of aspec identities. We don't get much representation, so claiming he's definitively one label or another isn't productive, and hurts the community in the long run. Fanfiction is first and foremost an exploration of canon, so why not play around with what "aro" and "ace" can look like for him?

Case and point, I've seen some incredible ship fics that headcanon him as demisexual and/or demiromantic, and do a great job representing those identities. I've also seen some really good fics that portray him as sex-repulsed, and others that portray him as sex-neutral or positive. All of that is great, and again, even if it isn't directly mentioned: adding subtext, putting it in the tags, and even simply writing the fic with the sexuality in mind does wonders.

Me personally, I headcanon Alastor with the same identity as me; sex- and romance-repulsed aroace, but open to queerplatonic relationships. That doesn't mean fics that interpret him with a different aspec identity are less valid, or are interpreting him wrong. All of it is valid representation.

And that's not even getting into queerplatonic relationships, which is what I put Alastor into for my own headcanons (queerplatonic radioapple fic when). For that, please do your own research, but remember that queerplatonic relationships tend to look different for every couple. They can be poly, include kissing and physical intimacy, or look just like what most people would consider a regular friendship or regular romance.

So, can you ship aroace characters? Sure you can, as long as it isn't at the expense of their sexuality, or more accurately, the representation their sexuality gives to a historically underrepresented group.

That's pretty much it from me, please remember to support aspec fanartists and fanfic writers, and happy (early) aromantic spectrum awareness week for all my fellow arospecs!!

[skrunksthatwunk]

"a woman would treat her right" question do you believe lesbians are equally capable of harming their partners. question do you at default assume the straight relationships around you are of a lower quality than the lesbian ones around you. question do you believe there is something inherent ("biological" or "trained") about men that makes them gross, bad at sex, inconsiderate partners, etc in ways that lesbians (always assumed to not be men) don't have. question do you believe men to be capable of only an inferior sort of love and kindness and spirit when compared to (always assumed to never be men) lesbians. question why do you think that's an okay way to think/feel about an entire group of people based on a characteristic they have no control over (gender). question do you think you're normal about bisexual people, any kind of trans person (this view can affect all of us depending on the angle regardless of actual gender), cis butches on T, or achillean people. question do you see men as equal humans.

we can have butch chivalry we can have the "sweeps her away from an unfulfilling straight marriage" fantasy i get it believe me but why are you always making it about men and how bad men are. why is that how you express your desire or concern for (usually, in this case) women. we can stop doing this at any time.

before you get mad at me yes a lot of abusive or shitty or underwhelming men who're partners to women are like that due to misogyny. but they are not like that because they're men. not the same. and i don't think you can argue that misogyny is inherent to men without reinforcing a bio- or gender-essentialist framework, which i thought we all knew was bad. women are capable of and do perpetuate misogyny and abuse they are not some mystical safe haven of purity and splendor. lesbian separatism should die as a concept and if i could kill it myself i would do so barehanded. i would like to share in y'all's yearning and hope and love without it always being about how men are yucky and we don't wanna play with them anymore (or were so wise and perceptive that we never wanted to play with them). stop making lesbianism into a fucking country club your lesbianism does not make you superior

[porcubus]

i do think bloodfiend families were a plague on this fanbase I also wish they didn't work this way but they do and canto 7 tells us over and over repeatedly that they do and it has brought the nastiest people to the forefront quite a few of which seemed normal or quiet until now

[bookish-bi-mormon]

It's exhausting being a "it can't hurt to ask" guy living in a "I can't say no that would be rude" world.

[liwritesghostly]

I think people should understand that Uraraka is an older sister as well as having a dream that wants her to help her parents out for a better life. I get why people debate that oh Bkdk should this and that because of their dynamic and how they reconciliate and probably had more screen time but we shouldn't dismiss how Uraraka became his friend and how much she helped him along the way, it's was no wonder Midorya told her that she was his hero.

Probably the 8 years that they've been there, close but not always together because of the tragedy that happened in Japan, the aftermath. Many things should be considered onto why probably there weren't close enough as before. Midorya having to come in terms with his quirk and Uraraka with her family, with how many things have been destroyed and broken. It takes a lot of adjustments, though with many plans that Uraraka considered on adding to her plans that we saw in the time skip, the quirk councilling(I remember much) because her experience with Toga and it broden her mind on what to consider. And terms of Toga who helped her be more outspoken with her feelings and be out with it, made her help to give a chance with Midorya(she was already okay on what they have until midorya did that in the in time skip). Many things can happend behind the scene THAT WHY USE YOUR IMAGINATION.

And in the first place it was already in the first few seasons that Midorya may have a little bit of crush(I think? With her, I mean she was the only one that he was blushing and very shy with her, well that's my take. I mean who the hell just accept being called Deku just because of what of what she understands is that "you can do it" the freaking nickname that has been plaguing his for like 10 years). It was already been there in first few eps jeez, it was gonna happend anyways.

Besides teenagers are more likely to be in deniel on what they feel because of priorities sure it's there but it's a properties. Mind you, Midorya is adjusting to his Quirk and Uraraka has her priority with her her studies and her family. She probably didn't know what to do with her feelings and supress them because it may be hiderence or she has a mindset that "I shouldn't have those he's my friend." But that doesn't mean she ignores it, she knows but doesn't know how to.

A hot take in my opinion (I might get hated for it) Midorya having Bakugo as a definition of victory and while Uraraka being his Hero is that. While Bakugo is his definition of victory it is also his admiration, it is also Bakugo's confidence that he may want for himself. While Uraraka being his Hero is that she saved him in more that ways that he didn't expect. Heck he might didn't expect having friends and someone vouching for him for the exam results, even before they were classmates. Then came UA where she was LITTERARLY WITH A EVERY STEP OF THE WAY. Midorya had his priorities basically Uraraka was 'out of sight and out of mind(huhuhuhu) but he knows she's there(as a friend, he trusts her and feels safe) heck he probably didn't know he might have feelings for her because of the happenings and his lack of knowing things(he's a nerd guys😢 he might probably did things subconsciously). WHY DO YOU THINK IT TOOK 8 YEARS. AND MIND YOU URARAKA HAS BEEN PINING FOR 8 YEARS😭✋.

Probably the last chap is when he finally realized his feelings or idk fall in love with her. CAUSE LIKE HIS CONSCIOUS WITH HER ON THAT CHAPTER AND THINKS THEY SHOULD RECONNECT ON A DEEPER LEVEL(though I am disappointed because they didnt have enough exploration on their dynamic). Lastly we really shouldn't dismissed what she has done and what she has accomplished, in the end she's a person who just fall in love with somebody, it's what make her human. As many people say, you really can't expect what's the future lies ahead cause maybe it might be something better.

As noted, why fight with the ships? You're crazy fighting with the author for BKDK to be canon; it's a shounen manga. Besides, you can still ship them even though IzuOcha is "Canon", there are even other fandoms that have characters who have a canon relationship but still get shipped with another. So what BKDK isn't canon or TOGAOCHA. Fanfics exist and so does doujins too cause like damn. IZUOCHA fans shouldn't fight because of these, everyone has their own preference for dynamic relationships. YOU'LL SHOULD EXPLORE MORE ON THEIR DYNAMIC😭😭PLEASE. That's why ships exist, it's like the backbone of the fandom. Like damn just enjoy