#but the same cannot be said for the bills. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

connorsui · 4 months ago

Note

Hi! Can I ask for a Sylus fluff, where he gives the reader his bank card for her to go shopping, and he expects a bill to be at least $10,000, but all he sees is about $100. So he asks her if she bought everything she wanted, and she says something like "yeah, there were such good discounts, I didn't spend too much, did I?"

And man is just ಠ⁠益⁠ಠ GIRL GO SPEND MY MONEY I WANT TO SPOIL YOU

My beloved @lalaluch I cannot explain to you just how much fun this was to even imagine but let alone even WRITE 🩷 like I was losing my mind trying to bust out my Google docs to even make this. But my sickness was literally getting to me that all I could do was imagine--but anywhoo now that it's finally done I hope you all enjoy it ✨️

p.s: I hope this sickness finally leaves me because it be making me internally cry on the inside ...I pray for prayers lol 💅🏻

BUDGET QUEEN

It had taken weeks of gentle coaxing, half-joking remarks, and the occasional exasperated sigh before you’d reluctantly agreed. You had this stubborn streak, an insistence on independence that both irritated and fascinated him. But today, you’d finally caved.

“You’ll take it,” Sylus had said that morning, slipping the sleek card into your hand, his fingers brushing against your palm. “No arguments. No excuses.”

You had sighed, rolling your eyes. “Fine. But I’m not going crazy with it?!”

He had only smirked, knowing full well you would—and knowing full well that he wanted you to.

And now, hours later, he awaited the results.

Sylus leaned back in his leather chair, his crimson eyes flicking lazily over the documents cluttering his desk. A rare break in his usual chaos had him sipping on his usual drink, savoring the brief quiet. That was until his phone buzzed. He set his glass down and checked the notification, a message from his bank popping up.

He expected it—he wanted it. You had finally caved to his insistence after a literal month of convincing and taken his black card to go shopping. He’d envisioned the inevitable message all morning, something like:

One-hundred million spent at Celine and The Row’s combined?

Or perhaps?

Fifty million at Loro Piana?

You’d mentioned their beauty and elegance more than once.

Nevertheless, the man wanted indulgence, excess—you deserved it, after all.

Instead, the message read:

$157.45 at… Assorted Stores.

Sylus stared at the screen, unblinking. Surely, this was a mistake. He refreshed his balance multiple times. Same amount. He checked for pending transactions. None.

“…What?” he muttered, his irritation simmering beneath the surface. He slammed his phone down, crossing his arms as he waited for you to return.

Minutes later, the front door opened, and you walked in, humming happily, two bags dangling from your arms. You looked utterly content, your warm smile sending a pang through Sylus’s chest. He didn’t want to ruin the moment, but he had questions.

“You’re back,” he said, leaning against the doorframe to his study, watching you set the bags down in the living room. His towering presence cast a shadow over you, his white hair catching the light, giving him an almost otherworldly aura.

“Yup!” you chirped, rifling through the bags. “You wouldn’t believe the deals I found today! It’s like the universe knew I had your card!”

Sylus squinted. “Deals?”

“Yeah! Everything was on sale! I even had coupons for some things. Oh, and this boutique downtown was having a clearance event! It was amazing!” You beamed at him, oblivious to his growing disbelief.

“Clearance? ..…How much did you spend?” he asked, his voice neutral. Too neutral.

“Um…” You frowned, pulling your phone out to check. “About a few hundred, I think? Oh, wait—like one-fifty! I didn’t spend too much, did I?” You tilted your head, as if genuinely concerned.

Sylus stared at you, his expression shifting to one of incredulous disbelief. His red eyes seemed to glow, and his lips pressed into a thin line. It was the look of a man deeply offended. Not by you—but by the principle.

“…That’s it?” he asked, his voice sharp but measured, as if he were trying to comprehend an alien concept. “One-fifty?”

You blinked up at him, a little confused by his tone. “Well, yes… I mean, I didn’t want to waste your money—”

“Waste my—” He cut himself off, running a hand through his snowy hair. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his composure. “Sweetheart,” he said slowly, “do you have any idea why I gave you my card?”

“To… buy some stuff?” you offered, suddenly feeling like you were missing something obvious.

“To spoil you,” he emphasized, stepping closer. “To treat you like the queen you are. To shower you in luxury. And you—” He gestured to the modest shopping bags on the floor, his voice taking on a dramatic edge. “—come back with clearance items?”

Your cheeks flushed. “But… I didn’t need anything expensive! I found good deals, and I thought—”

“No.” Sylus leaned down slightly, bringing himself to eye level with you, his crimson eyes boring into yours. “Listen to me, love. I don’t care about the price tag. I want you to have the best. The fact that you’re this thoughtful is adorable—don’t get me wrong—but next time…” He paused, his voice dropping into a softer, more commanding tone. “…I want to see receipts that would make the average person cry.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m not.” He straightened, towering over you again, his arms crossing. “Do you know how much money I make? How much I’ve set aside specifically to spoil you?”

“I can guess?…”

“Clearly not if you’re spending less than a casual dinner out on everything.” His voice was calm, but laced with unmistakable disapproval.

Then, with a breath, he softened—only slightly. “I just want to see you dressed in diamonds,” he corrected, stepping closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. “To watch you slip into golden heels that make you shine like the goddess you are. To drape you in silk and velvet, to see you standing before me in a dress that costs more than a car and still doesn’t compare to your worth.”

Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the sudden weight in his words.

“I gave you my card,” he continued, voice lower now, intimate, “because I want you to indulge. To spoil yourself the way I ache to spoil you. Because you deserve to walk into a store and not think—just watch and admire”

Your throat went dry.

He lifted his hand, fingers brushing over your wrist before tracing upward, his touch featherlight against your skin. “I want to see you try on jewelry without looking at the price tag,” he murmured. “I want to sit back and watch as a saleswoman fumbles to put a necklace around your throat because her hands are shaking too much from the sheer amount of wealth wrapped around you.”

His gaze dipped lower, lingering on your frame as he exhaled through his nose. “And instead… you bring me deals?”

Your heart pounded, a mix of amusement and something else entirely stirring in your chest. “I didn’t think I needed to spend that much—”

“You don’t need to,” he interrupted, thumb ghosting over your jawline. His voice was softer now, but no less commanding. “But I want you to.”

Your face heated.

“Next time, I’m going with you.”

“What, to make sure I spend enough?” you teased.

“Yes,” he said, dead serious. “And to carry your bags. And to remind you that you can have whatever you want.” His red eyes softened slightly, and he tilted your chin up with two fingers. “All I want is to see you happy. No discounts required.”

You smiled at his sincerity, warmth blooming in your chest. “Okay, fine. Next time, I’ll go a little crazier. Maybe five million?” you joked.

Sylus groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Woman, you’re going to be the death of me.”

You laughed, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. “You’re so dramatic, you know that?”

“And you’re too frugal for your own good,” he shot back, pulling you into his arms. His voice softened, turning almost playful. “But I guess I’ll just have to teach you how to spend properly.”

“Looking forward to it,” you said, grinning against his chest.

Sylus sighed, resting his chin atop your head. As much as he wanted to spoil you senseless, he couldn’t help but love your thoughtful, practical side. It was part of what made you you—and he wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Still, next time… he was definitely making sure you left the store with at least an entire closet filled with designer bags.

For his sanity—and yours.

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syoddeye · 1 month ago

Text

deep end

price x transmasc!reader | 7.9k | AO3

cw: dubcon (power imbalance, price steamrolling reader), hints of daddy issues/mild daddy issues for those who want to see them, abrupt ending, age gap, alcohol, masturbation, praise kink, hand feeding, fingering, oral, anal sex a/n: clit, cock, and cunt are used to describe genitalia of reader's body. reader has top surgery scars.

There’s something to be said for the kind of work that doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not.

It’s not glamorous, but it’s yours—a modest business with your name on the side of a sun-faded van, stocked with gear, and enough regulars to keep the bills paid. That’s more than a lot of people can claim. It keeps the lights on. Affords you food and pride, both. Proof you’re getting by.

This little operation, humble as it is, at least gets you outside. And on days like this, that’s a gift. The cirrostratus looks like pulled strands of candy floss overhead, and the breeze takes the edge off.

You tip your head for a moment to admire the clouds, then tug the brim of your sunhat. It’s too big, like everything else you’re wearing. The clothes came out of the same catalog you order your gear from. A stiff, white button-up with your logo on the pocket and shapeless red shorts that skim your knees. Cheap. Chafes in all the wrong places, but expensable.

You scratch absentmindedly near your navel and guide the vacuum along the pool floor in methodic passes. The water is clear, the motion soothing. Slips you into a quiet headspace.

It’s satisfying. Calming. The zen and predictability of a repetitive task cannot be understated. Lulls you into a lovely state of not-quite-daydreaming.

So, you don’t hear Mr. Price the first time.

“You with me, lad?”

The vacuum handle nearly slips as you twist around too fast, your foot catching the edge of the pool. You wobble, free arm flailing for balance. Mr. Price steps forward instinctively—poised to surge across the yard. You manage to steady yourself, weight rocking back in time.

Both of you exhale at once.

He scrubs a hand over his face, dragging it across his beard.

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t hear you.”

“I gathered.”

You switch off the vacuum, the underwater hum fading. “Was there, uh, something you needed, sir?”

His sunglasses are too dark to tell, but you feel him sizing you up, same as he did when you arrived. He hadn’t said much then either, just opened the door, looked you over from head to toe, then gestured toward the side gate with a grunt.

You don’t know what to make of him. In truth, you rarely give your clients much thought beyond big house and lucky bastards. If you see them at all, it’s through the windows.

This is your first time at his place, and you’re still formulating an assessment.

You don’t know if Mr. Price has a family, but his house is big enough to accommodate one. There’s a sporty car parked outside his garage. A sprawling garden, lined with hedges, mature trees, and a wrought-iron fence. No immediate neighbors butting the property line.

And, obviously, a pool.

What sets him apart is that you met him, and not a housekeeper or assistant. Clients typically let others handle the scheduling and small talk. It caught you off guard, putting a face to the voice, and matching the face to the owner’s name.

Still, your gut says to treat him the same as the others. Another man accustomed to obedience. So, you straighten and lift your chin.

Your change in posture seems to amuse. The corner of his mouth lifts.

“I asked if you needed water.”

Your eyes flick to your bag and your beat-up thermos, plain as day. He had to have seen it. Which means this isn’t really about concern. You’ve done this dance before. A casual, innocuous question preceding a snide comment or suspicion. Are you slacking off? Cutting corners?

Knew it, you think bitterly.

“No thank you, sir.”

His mouth twitches again, this time downward, then flattens.

“Suit yourself.”

He retreats indoors, and the rest of the visit passes without incident. No more words exchanged. The clouds lift, sharing a rare, naked sky.

You pack your tools and log the time. As you pull out of the drive, you check the rearview.

Mr. Price stands at the back gate with a phone pressed to his ear.

You can’t read his face from this distance—but you feel the weight long after the house disappears from view.

You must’ve made an impression, because Price starts booking weekly. On your docket every Friday afternoon.

It mystifies. His pool is never particularly dirty. Maybe a thin film of grime at the most, a handful of leaves blown in from the hedges and bird cherry trees. No signs of children or pool toys. No evidence of parties. It’s clear he lives alone, and doesn’t host.

Far be it for you to question easy money.

It makes for a pleasant, if not boring, routine. Knock on the door. Head around back. With booking and billing handled online, there’s no need to see or speak to him at all.

For a couple weeks, it’s simple. Another lucky bastard with a big house who leaves blank five-star reviews. The best you could hope for.

Then he starts appearing poolside.

At first, you assume it’s a fluke. That he’s forgotten you’re scheduled.

He’s the picture of leisure. Drink in one hand, cigar in the other, stretched out on the cushions. If he’s startled or annoyed by your presence, he doesn’t show it. He gives you a polite nod, then buries his nose in a magazine.

But then it happens again. And again.

Like clockwork. The new fucking routine.

You unlatch the gate, and there he is, waiting. He makes himself comfortable—well, more comfortable, given it is his house—and watches. Or seems to. It’s hard to tell with the sunglasses.

He never interrupts, just smokes and reads. The magazines he cradles are dog-eared, covers curled over. Sometimes you catch glimpses of the topics: cars, golf, current events. None of it hints at what he does for money. If he’s retired or working from home. If he’s ever worked a day in his life.

It changes things.

The calm dissolves. You grow more aware of every little thing. The way your shirt sticks between your shoulder blades. The trickle of sweat down your spine. Every time you bend at the waist or kneel by the pool’s edge.

You try to ignore it, but you feel his eyes brushing over the nape of your neck or small of your back. Yet every time you peek, he’s not looking. You can’t shake it anyway—the sense of being observed, possibly admired.

That’s when the shame creeps in.

What are you doing? What do you think this is, a slow-burn porno? Are you that vain?

This is just a job.

You scold yourself, cheeks burning hotter than the sun overhead. It’s mortifying. To even imagine that a man like him—older, composed, probably has a different watch and woman for each day of the week—would be watching you. You. You’re not special. You’re a line item on an invoice. Background noise.

The thought that you’ve spun some dumb fantasy makes your stomach knot.

You work faster. Keep your eyes down. Try not to think about it too hard.

But when the breeze shifts and carries his smoke toward you, heavy and spiced, and it curls around your ribs like a hook.

Your first real conversation, you’re in trouble.

“You’re late.”

“I know. I’m sorry, sir.”

Mr. Price’s fists sit on his hips, a cigar at the corner of his mouth held in place by a frown. Sunglasses hiding a glare.

“What kept you?”

You’re sweating from the mad rush, juggling the hose and skimmer, and running on fumes. A dull throb pulses in your skull, the tail end of a headache from your last client’s shrill tirade. His threats to leave bad reviews over a handful of rowan petals in his pool and a perceived lack of hustle.

A nutcase, you want to spit. You want to tell Price about how you skipped lunch and nearly got sideswiped on the drive. Complain about how your life depends on the goodwill of people who don’t remember your name and settle for obscenities or diminutives.

Instead, you drop your armful on the grass and lie. “Traffic.”

He cocks a brow. “Traffic got you worked up?”

“Yes,” you bristle, and slam the gate to storm back to collect the rest of your supplies.

When you return, he’s still at the gate, and this time, one long arm swings past. He slows the metal before it slams, guiding it shut with a quiet click. Suddenly, he’s too close, and you’re boxed in. A meld of tobacco, sweat, and body heat seeps into the space between. It’s toothsome. Heady on the tongue.

You form an apology—you can’t afford to lose business—but he doesn’t raise his voice.

“Whatever’s actually put you in a mood, you won’t be takin’ it out on my property.” He ducks his head to chase your eyes and you’re forced to stare at your reflection in the dark lenses. “We clear?”

The steel of his jaw, his arm flexing, the authority crackling in his tone like fire splitting wood—it shouldn’t make your stomach flip, but it does.

“Yes, sir.”

He smiles then. Not kindly. Smug, maybe. “Good lad.”

The words hit a nerve you didn’t know you had. They sink in somewhere soft and sensitive. The same place that makes a dog’s hackles rise and puts butterflies in bellies.

“And you better not slack just because you’re behind.”

“I won’t, sir.”

He lets you pass, and follows when you do. It’s a struggle to not trip over your own feet.

This time, he makes no secret of watching. His cigar burns out untouched. The magazine flutters in the wind. He sits with his fingers laced over his middle, legs crossed at the ankles.

Bent on all fours over the system compartment, a prickle at the back of your neck grows impossible to ignore. You glance over your shoulder.

He appears asleep—utterly still—until the corner of his mouth lifts. A slow, knowing smirk.

You snap back to the task at hand.

A chuckle follows, low and indulgent. It drapes over you like velvet and settles somewhere deep, where it can hum and hiss like a wasp caught under a jar.

On a night off, you go dancing. Three glasses of cheap vodka in your bloodstream, the taste coating your tongue. You considered ordering whiskey, but lost your nerve.

Leaning against a wall outside with your friends, getting air between songs, someone asks if you’ve met anyone lately.

Or are you all work, no play?

You answer without hesitation. Without thinking.

(It’s not until the next morning, hungover and rueing the sun itself, that you understand they meant someone from an app. A date. A one-night stand, maybe.)

But you’d already blabbed. Confessed.

Mr. Price.

John.

Your mouth runs wild with the liquor in your blood.

He’s a bit odd, you admit. Hard to read. Just the other day, you’d walked in as he finished swimming laps, and he climbed out the moment he spotted you. You swear it happened in slow motion—water rolling off the hard lines of his chest, the softer spread of his belly, the pelt of hair. The treasure trail and fading farmer’s tan. You nearly keeled over at the sight. And it’s hard to guess his age. He’s fit, and the silver threads in his beard do something to you.

It isn’t until the laughter shifts into something sly, that you realize how long you’ve been going on. The teasing comes fast, merciless but fond. There’s no walking it back.

And when they ask—flat-out—if you’d fuck him, you can’t lie.

That gets them going.

“Do you think he’s—?”

You cut them off. “No. No way.”

Denial is easier than the fantasy of hope.

With an excuse, you peel yourself off the wall and flee back into the fray to shake the heat crawling up your neck.

You attempt to bury it all in the mouth of a stranger. Older, taller, dark hair curling damply at his temples. Broad enough shoulders. A cheap cologne that stings your nose. You let him kiss and paw at you against the sticky wall by the toilets, but it’s no good. He tastes like rum. Too sweet, no substance. Nothing like what you want.

The night ends early, frustration simmering. Alone in your room, sprawled in the dark, you add one item to the shopping list on your phone:

Whiskey.

The weather turns fast one afternoon.

It starts with the trill of Mr. Price’s phone and a curse. He abandons his post, gritting out a clipped Yeah? before striding toward the house. The glass doors shut behind him, and though they muffle the sound, his voice climbs in volume as he disappears from view.

Almost in answer, the sky darkens. In minutes, clouds quicken and roll in, dragging the light with them and smothering it in a drab, gray sheet. The breeze kicks up and then your sunhat is gone, plucked clean off your head and hurled skyward.

You watch it spiral away helplessly.

Leaving your equipment where it sits, you duck beneath the umbrella between the chairs. It offers little protection. The raindrops fatten, splattering against the stone, and without giving it much thought, you scoop up his magazine and half-finished drink.

Clutching the snifter to your chest, the scent of whiskey rises. You’re more of a wine fan, really, but the smell settles you. Warms you, even as goosebumps sprout along your arms and shoulders. Reminds you of your dad.

You shift foot to foot, back turned to the wind and rain. The uniform clings in cold patches as it soaks through.

Then, from across the lawn—“Inside!”

Mr. Price stands in the doorway, motioning you in.

You hesitate. You have a policy: stay outdoors. Liability. Safety. If rain hits, you wait it out or move on. You know this.

Then a sheet of rainwater sluices off the umbrella as it topples sideways in the wind, sloshing down your back. Shuddering, you shove the magazine under your shirt to shield it and bolt.

The rain lashes your skin. Grass squishes beneath your feet. His drink sloshes over the rim with every step, drenching your fingers in liquor.

You slip through the doors, soaked, clothes plastered on. You produce the rumpled magazine and offer it to Mr. Price with his half-drained glass.

“I, uh, tried to—”

“You’re dripping,” he says flatly, his gaze dropping to the puddle forming at your feet.

You glance down at the water pooling at your feet and almost stumble back outside, stammering apologies, but he cuts you off.

“I’ll get you a towel. Shoes off.” He empties your hands, pivoting toward the kitchen to deposit them on the island. As he rounds a corner, he points at the floor. “Stay put.”

Outside, the rain picks up, and you gingerly remove your shoes and socks, not wanting to make more of a mess. Shivering, teeth clacking from the chill, you rub your arms and gawk. You’ve never been inside a client’s home before.

A polished, heavy table anchors the immediate area. Old wood floors stretch beneath it, the tile under your feet a practical addition. Meant for footprints. Framed photos are scattered throughout, on the walls and sideboard, family portraits old and new you assume.

A grand painting behind the grand table seizes your attention: a small fishing boat, crimson and white, nearly lost in a violent storm. The sea churns around it in deep greens and blacks, lightning tearing across a sickly sky.

You admire the scene until you hear footfalls.

Mr. Price bears a towel and clothes. You accept the towel, pretending not to notice the second offering. When you peek out from beneath the cotton, he’s holding a shirt out.

Does he seriously think—

“Go on. You’ll catch your death if you stay in that.”

A laugh putters out. You shake your head. “You can’t—I can’t take that, sir.”

His chin dips. “You’re not taking anything. You’re borrowing. C’mon. Shirt off, son.”

An ember catching kindling. You struggle to tamp it down.

“Can’t I change in the–”

He scoffs dismissively. “I’m not moppin’ up a trail. Nothing I haven’t seen before. Transparent, anyway.”

Nothing I haven’t seen before. You doubt that. Your scars have faded into blurs, but they’re recognizable. Obvious in their purpose.

He is right. Your shirt clings better than cellophane, sheer in all the worst places. You tug at the hem, flustered, burning up under his scrutiny.

Another look at his face says arguing only delays the inevitable. It’s fucked—whatever this is, however he keeps pushing and playing with you. Batting you around like a bored tomcat would a mouse. Worse is how easily you’re letting it happen. Part of you, perversely curious, wants to see where it’ll lead, if he’ll eat you whole or what. Another can’t stop replaying the memory of what he looks like, soaked and shirtless.

One-handed, you work the shirt free, and new goosebumps bloom across your skin. Your nipples stiffen. It shouldn’t be a big deal—but Mr. Price is staring.

Maybe your scars haven’t faded as much as you think. You take the shirt, refusing to shrink, and square your shoulders. Posture makes all the difference amongst men, you learned.

The borrowed shirt slips overhead, and you juggle the towel to thread both arms through. It’s loose in the shoulders, hitting the midpoint of your butt. Plain black, clean-smelling cotton.

Price clears his throat. “Better. Bottoms, now.”

If your cheeks weren’t already warm, they’re scorching now.

“Sir.”

He clicks his tongue and swings the spare shorts. “C’mon, these’ll do if you tie the string.”

“There’s no need!”

“You’d rather make more of a mess on my floor?”

You hold your ground, waiting for an indication he’ll back off, but he doesn’t. An unevenly matched game of chicken and you’re losing one concession at a time. You last all of ten seconds.

With a huff, you wrap the towel around your waist. Wiggling your hips, you coax the shorts down without revealing more than you already have. It takes a long, awkward minute. And when you think you’ve made it through with some shred of dignity intact, he kneels, and closing a hand around your ankle.

“Steady.”

You freeze as he lifts one foot, then the other, helping you step out.

You snatch the shorts out of his hand and hurriedly shove them on, nearly combusting when the towel comes away in his hand seconds after you pull them over your bottom.

And then he’s up, moving, your wet clothes slung over his arm like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t—like he didn’t just—

“Back in a jiff.”

This is where your curiosity’s led you.

Barefoot, in his clothes, heart fluttering ridiculously. Breaths in short bursts, stifled little things, afraid to be too loud. Dumbstruck.

How ridiculous you must look.

Do you think he’s—?

Well.

You dry off as best you can and sidestep the puddle. Your boxers are likely see-through as well now, but you vow to not mention them. You wouldn’t survive Mr. Price insisting on a fresh pair with your ass on display.

You rinse the whiskey off in a haze and find the kitchen as orderly as the dining room. Together, they’re larger than your entire flat. Modernized, no-frills.

Through the archway, the hum of a tumble dryer kicks up, and Price reappears.

“Some rain. Didn’t expect it, did you?”

You almost ask which part—the rain, or the forced striptease?

Instead, you mutter, “No, Mr. Price.”

“Think you can call me John now.”

Within minutes, he talks you into tea and a sandwich. While you nibble, he fills the silence with small talk. He doesn’t cook much himself—so if you don’t like it, s’not his fault—and arranges for a chef to deliver meals every Sunday. Nothing elaborate, enough for the week, with extras in case of company.

You work up the nerve to ask what he does for a living.

He’s unfazed. Says his parents passed, left him the house. He’s retired military, lives comfortably off a pension. Mentions he does some consulting now and then—vague, detached, the kind of answer meant to end the conversation, not invite it forward.

“But enough about me. Want to know more about you.”

You wash a bite down with a sip, uncertain that he’s serious. He’s being polite, you reason. A man like him—he doesn’t really want to know. You’re a half-drowned dog he brought in from a storm. A good deed.

“I’m not that interesting.”

“Says the kid with his own company.”

Fair play.

You relent. Share little things. Where you’re from how you started, and that most of your work is seasonal. You help out at a school in the off months, and teach swimming at the community pool when they’re short-staffed. He listens intently, attention never wavering. Probably finds it novel, working more than one job.

“Sounds like you have your hands full.”

You nod, swallowing the last sip of tea. “I keep busy.”

He hums. “You do alright on your own?”

The question is light, but it lands heavy. It’s simple, benign—but it isn’t neutral and it needles. He ducks his head when you look away, searching. Like he’s casting a line, hoping you’ll give something up.

Heat flares under your collar. Your throat constricts, shame blooming sharp and sudden.

You shrug, keeping it light. “I manage.”

When the rain finally stops, you’re overdue, and itching to escape Mr. Price—John’s—attention. There are only so many ways to dodge questions.

He meets you at the van once it’s packed.

“Be seeing you, kid.”

“Yeah,” you nod once. “Thanks again, John.”

You offer a cordial hand, business-like, and his palm is hot around yours. You bet it’d feel like a brand elsewhere.

At a light on the way home, you tug the collar of his shirt up over your nose and inhale. For a brief, blistering second, you imagine his hands around your ankles again. Pushing them up and up and up.

You don’t remember the rest of the drive home.

It’s only after you’ve kicked off your shoes and settled into the couch with a sip of your new whiskey, that it hits you—your uniform’s still in John’s laundry.

Shit.

You go back for it after the weekend, off schedule. Have to.

Having rung ahead, he’s expecting you. He meets you at the door, phone tucked between his shoulder and cheek. You hand off the spare clothes; he passes yours back. He mouths sorry and squeezes your shoulder, before disappearing back inside like it never happened.

You’re already behind, so you change in the van before your first job. The moment you slide the shorts on, your eyebrows hit the ceiling. They sit higher now, snug around your thighs, hitting well above the knee. You assume they must’ve shrunk in the wash—until you pull on the shirt. It’s been hemmed. Clean, subtle stitching. Tighter at the sleeves, better at the waist.

You consider going back, but your schedule’s packed, and the day runs away from you.

When you see him next, he beats you to it.

“Fits better, doesn’t it?” John claps your shoulder, pinching and tugging the shoulder seam.

“Yes, but did you—?”

“Eyeball the size?” He grins. “Not bad, eh? I’ve got a good tailor.”

It’s not like you can undo it and you’re not about to shell out for a replacement. So you thank him, and receive a pleased, grumbled good lad in return, and a swat to the small of your back, a hair north of improper.

A wordless dismissal. Back to work.

With every window flung wide, you wage a hopeless war against the stagnant heat. Your sheets are drenched in sweat. Restless doesn’t cover it—you’re strung tight and buzzing, sticky and half-mad with frustration.

Sleep’s not happening, not like this.

You groan and kick your boxers down your legs, then roll to your stomach, pushing up onto your knees. The air’s balmy, sticking in your lungs.

You’re not surprised to find yourself wet. Some of it’s sweat, sure, but the rest—that’s your own fault. The consequence of a wandering mind and no one around to check it.

You let your imagination take the reins.

Face mashed into the mattress, you imagine his foot on your back. Weight bearing down on you, pinning you in place. His cock rutting over your ass, one big hand grabbing himself at the base, slapping it against your hole, and the other digging into a fleshy cheek to spread it.

Your cock pulses between your rubbing fingers and a moan spills out. Your teeth scrape the sheets, eyes welding shut. It’s obscene and loud in your quiet room when you steal slick from your cunt to rub over your asshole.

He would work you open, push one finger in at a time. Get you to cry on two, render you incoherent on three. Your own aren’t enough to bring tears to your eyes, but thinking of what he’d say is.

He’d ask if you wanted it. Needed it. Deserved it. All in that frustratingly even timbre of his.

His voice comes out of nowhere, clear as a klaxon in your head.

Good boy.

You come hard and fast, bucking your cock into your palm, fingertips prodding at your rim. Didn’t even get far enough to slip them inside.

You lie there for ages, gasping, limp. Your muscles are too heavy, and you’re too far gone to care about the mess.

Sleep takes you like that—sticky and spent.

The next morning, you peel yourself out of bed and strip the sheets in silence, tossing everything into the wash, shame eating you alive.

You can’t look at John that week without that memory pumping blood south. Imagining him bending you over a chaise or pushing you into the clover until your uniform turns green.

It’s divine punishment when he decides you need feeding. Like he somehow knows what played out in the privacy of your bedroom, or caught the stench of desperation that only comes with a misplaced crush, and you need your nose rubbed in it.

John presents fruit under a mesh cloche and demands you take a break. Not like there’s much to do, anyway. The pool goes unused most of the time, the maintenance minimal at best. You put up little resistance, beckoned toward him by a crooked finger.

He moves his legs for you to sit as if there aren’t three other loungers ringing the pool. Gesturing for you to scooch closer when he uncovers the fruit, stabbing a cocktail fork into a pink cube dusted with tajin. He offers it handle first.

A drop of juice drips onto his shin, and you think, lick it. You could. You would, if he told you to.

The impulse grips you so intensely, it’s absurd. This whole thing is absurd. Here you are, with a client. Not a date, not a boyfriend. A man with at least ten years on you, casually bullying his way past all personal and professional boundaries, and you’re waving him through as if they don’t matter.

You know he expects you to take the fork from him, but that curious twitch stirs, and instead, your mouth falls open.

His eyes narrow, and he turns the fork, tucking the fruit into your mouth. Your lips close around the bite, tugging it off the tines with your teeth.

“Cheeky.” he murmurs.

A good little pet sitting at their master’s feet.

Your head spins.

You’re convinced now. There’s a tear in reality, one that opens every time you turn onto that private lane. You pass through it like Alice through the looking glass, crossing into another plane thrumming with heat and heavy air, a whole world that revolves around Mr. Price and his whims.

A gravity all its own.

A special request from John arrives mid-week, close to the hottest day of the year.

Full-service. Deep clean, filter flush, system check—the kind of job that’ll eat your afternoon and keep you working well past quitting time. Two other clients will have to be bumped, but he offers triple your usual rate. Says he understands it’s last minute.

Says he’ll make it worth your while.

For the hundredth time, you’re unable to turn him down.

You tell yourself it’s the money, but that’s only half true. The other half keeps your hands tight on the wheel the whole drive over when Friday rolls around.

Nothing helps your nerves. You can’t stop thinking about eating from John’s hand. The weight of his stare. His attention. About that man at the bar—the cheap imitation whose tongue you sucked in a vain attempt to quiet what’s only gotten louder.

It’s all climbing to a fever-pitch, and you want it to break.

John greets you at the gate.

“Glad to see you.”

He lays a hand across the back of your neck, and you fall into step.

“Hosting a mate’s retirement party. Suspect his kids’ll want to swim.” He continues on about the details, but you’re stuck on how he directs your attention via squeeze.

You expect a mess, or evidence of a gathering on the horizon, but everything’s the same. Practically pristine. Swept and hosed down. You glance sidelong toward John when he sits, buzzing with something you don’t want to name.

There’s no real reason you should be here.

No real work to do.

But he’s bought your time, so you give it, and it crawls. You move equally slow, checking the seals for wear, inspecting the heater, running tests. All of it busy work and theater.

You’re kneeling on a folded towel, bent over the open housing for the pool’s pump system. Focused until his shadow spills across the ground.

“Don’t mean to sneak up on you,” John says.

You twist to peer over your shoulder and almost swallow your tongue at the sight of his trunks at eye-level, and rise to your feet. “Everything alright?” You swipe your forehead with your wrist, willing yourself to relax.

His knuckles brush your cheek, featherlight. He frowns. “You look warm,” he taps one to your chin. “Come on. Enjoy the fruits of your labor with me, yeah?”

You barely put up a fuss when he cajoles you into a dip. Stripped to your boxers, you wade in, relief singing up your legs. Curling around your waist. You nearly groan from how good it feels.

At the other end, John dives in. He slices through the water, sleek and galeoid, surfacing within reach. Veins of water cut down his chest and stomach, disappearing at the elastic at his hips.

“Better?”

“Loads,” you say, hoarse.

He gives a faint smirk, then turns, launching into lazy laps. Says something about needing to stay limber, working out a knot in his back. You hopeless to watch. He puts those shoulders to use, pulling with long, fluid strokes.

You swallow hard, trailing him shamelessly: the sweep of his back, the bulk and muscles under freckled and scarred skin. You’re greedy. You want him. On you. Around you. Inside you. You want to bite down on that smirk and hear him swear your name.

You sit on the steps, draw your knees in, and press your thighs closed to hold yourself together. Your hands flex on the vinyl. They want to reach. Grab.

He pushes off the wall for another loop, and you stay right where you are, trying to think about anything that isn’t the throbbing pulse between your legs.

John doesn’t bother asking if you’re hungry, or if you’ll stay for dinner.

Haphazardly dressed, shirt half-buttoned and untucked, you stow the last of your gear. You’re in a daze, holding fast to denial. The spell will break, your van will revert into a pumpkin, and you’ll head home to scrub the day from your skin. Send the invoice, knock off a percentage, and you’ll do it all over again next week.

Then smoke hits the air.

John’s at the grill laying down strips of pork, the meat hissing on the grate. He halves peaches with a paring knife that’s tiny in his grip and sets them cut-side down beside the meat. The air turns lush with salt and charred sugars, rosemary and garlic.

You slink to his side, salivating, meaning to say goodbye and thank you. Polite and decisive.

Then he jerks his head to the door and tells you to fetch plates and cutlery, and you bound off. Retrieving them dutifully. Inwardly, a part of you raises the fact you didn’t agree to stay, that you shouldn’t stay—but that flicker of good sense snags on the barb of hunger and all your aching.

By the time the food’s ready, you’re ravenous. You never eat this well. Burnished pork glazed in its own fat and blistered peaches. You stop short of licking the plate.

After washing up, you peek at your phone.

“Stop that,” he scolds. “I know exactly how long I’ve got you for.”

And he does—he keeps you through golden hour.

Abendrot, painted in red and gold and soft indigo, bleeds over the sky. You’re boneless in the lounge chair. Content. Melting around the edges, the line between help and guest completely dissolved. Rendered.

John sprawls the next seat over, holding a lowball glass that catches the last of the light.

You lie on your side, head pillowed on your arm, watching the bob of his throat as he swallows.

“Can I have some?” you ask.

“Don’t think you’d like it. Picture you as more of the daiquiri type.”

“Not true,” you sit up. “I’ve got a bottle of that at home.”

That makes him glance your way. Then, he shifts, patting the cushion beside him.

He walks you through it, clearly doubting your tastes and experience: breathe in first, don’t take too much, let it roll. Savor it.

It burns, but it’s smooth. Honey folded in smoke. Leagues better than what you picked up on sale.

“Good?” he asks.

You wheeze, nodding. Emboldened, you try again twice more under his amused supervision. After a shallow fourth, you push the glass to his chest with a breathless laugh.

John chuckles, shoulders shaking. When the sound dies, you notice how close you’ve drifted.

“Well,” you murmur, easing upright. “This has been–well, I should...”

“That it?” he asks. “Off the clock now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but, I should go, since–”

“Yeah?” he smooths a hand up your thigh. “Aren’t you the boss?”

Your brain stutters. Your mouth moves before your thoughts can catch up. “Aren’t you?”

It comes out soft. Sultry. Unfurls like a red flag in front of a bull.

His face blanks. Then, very quietly, “Careful.”

Panic punches through you. Words spilling fast. “I am so sorry, sir. That was—that was over the line. I didn’t mean—”

Storm clouds darken his blues and you brace for it—for the correction, the ending you walked yourself into.

But he moves.

The glass hits the table with a muted clink, forgotten. His hand shoots out, closing around your wrist, and the next thing you know, you’re hauled straight into his lap.

He’s kissing you.

“John–” you gasp against his mouth.

Devouring you.

His mouth slants hard over yours, tongue parting your lips, taking what he wants with a low sound—part growl, part groan.

You try to breathe through it, to think, but it’s useless. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and stone fruit. He grabs your waist and drags you closer, until you’re straddling him, knees framing his hips.

The lounger creaks.

“Christ,” he mutters against your jaw. His teeth scrape there, making you arch. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to make that face again.”

“What face? A-again?” you moan, dizzy.

“That one,” he murmurs, mouth trailing lower, grazing your throat. “Like you’d let me wreck you right here, out in the open. You make it all the time.”

You shudder. He feels it—laughs under his breath.

His hand slips to your nape. His forehead presses to yours, thumb brushing your cheek.

“You want this, hm?” he asks.

You nod.

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he says, and kisses you again. Rougher this time. Meaner. The decision’s final.

You belong here. On his lap. On his tongue.

“There’s a good boy, fuckin’ good boy.”

A head rush in two ways. The pulse of John’s cock on your tongue rewires your brain, resets it completely when he presses your nose into the steel wool of his hair. Dizzying, both the lack of air and the sheer size of his hand cradling your skull.

Right here, out in the open. Kneeling on a bunched-up shirt.

He had let you take charge to a point. Half-heartedly muttered about there being no need. Though as soon as you slid your tongue along the underside of his cock and hollowed your cheeks, he swore and took the reins.

He fucks your throat in slow, deep thrusts, and tells you what he thinks of your talent. What a nice surprise it is. He coos when tears well and spill, mistaking them, maybe, for strain. But it’s not that. It’s the way he looks at you. He means every word. That’s what’s undoing.

He catches your tears with a thumb, and drags them across his tongue to taste the salt. You could come like this, giving head to a man who calls you kid. When you slip a hand over your crotch he doesn’t stop you. In fact—

“Go on, do it. Show me how desperate you are.”

There’s not a shred of embarrassment when you cup yourself through your clothes, rubbing along the seam, chasing friction. You can’t do much of anything except rile yourself up. It works for John—a line of filthy encouragement streaming from him uninhibited. He grinds his hips up into the heat of your mouth, picking up speed.

John doesn’t give much warning before he comes. A stifled grunt gives it away—then his grip tightens, the pressure turning forceful, insistent, urging you to take more, to take all of him. You gag, sparks bursting in your vision when he spills in your throat.

He gives another couple thrusts before allowing your retreat. You sputter and cough, lips slick with drool. You curl inward slightly, heels digging into your backside.

While you scrub at your eyes with the heels of your hands, still sniffing, he leans. Drags your lower lip down and hooks a thumb in your mouth to steal a look inside.

“Perfect.”

His bed could eat yours for breakfast.

That’s your first thought when John eases you into it.

Then his mouth finds yours, slower now, pacing himself. He’s got all the time in the world. You’re not going anywhere.

His kiss deepens as he crowds in close, tongue sliding against yours. You can feel every inch of him, chest to chest, the hard line of his thigh slotted between yours. His weight is a delicious trap, anchoring you down.

He shoves your shirt open, one rough palm skimming your waist, the other dragging its thumb across a scar. His mouth works a line down your neck, maw open and hungry.

“You’ve been driving me fucking mad,” he murmurs, gravel-thick. His teeth catch the shell of your ear as he toys with a nipple. “Teasin’ me for weeks.”

You twist your fingers in his hair and pull. He groans, grinding between your thighs.

“I wasn’t trying to,” you gasp. “You—you made me—during the storm—”

“Never made you do a damn thing,” he grunts, tugging at your waistband. “Did I? Didn’t make you wear my clothes. Didn’t force you to eat my food.”

He yanks your shorts and boxers to your ankles, and there’s no hiding it. He finds you wet—slick and ready. His whole body stills to collect himself. Then he exhales slow, grinning.

“Christ,” he kisses your jaw, your cheekbone, your temple. “Don’t need to force a thing.”

John’s touch is as demanding as the rest of him. He learns you fast, using two fingers and his thumb to stroke your cock. His other hand slides under your back, kneading a globe to coax you into another filthy kiss.

He breaks to swipe through your cunt, and you moan into his neck, clinging to him. He groans at the way you flutter when he circles your hole, hips shifting so you feel the hard heat of him against your thigh.

“This alright?”

You nod, helpless.

“Speak.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, John.”

He slicks his fingers and returns to your twitching cock, stirring you up into a fit of noise, hips mindlessly canting into his touch.

You’re right there—right on the edge—when he pulls away. A desperate sound tears from your lips as he stands, leaving you aching on the bed. You turn, watching him through bleary eyes as he looms.

“John,” you whimper, tilting up.

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches down, huffing through his nose, and rolls you onto your front. You scramble to get your knees set.

“Please, please—”

“Know what you need,” He grits, hauling you by the hips to the edge of the bed, swearing when you’re completely exposed. “Fuck, look at that. Could sink my teeth in right here and eat,” he swipes over your flesh, chuckling at your whimpering. “Another time, baby. Don’t worry.”

You hiss as he massages your rim using the mess from your cunt. Firm circles to ease you open. When he finally breaches, sinking to the first knuckle, you lose a little time, and come back to feel the prodding of a second digit. It’s a touch too soon, but you don’t stop him.

Don’t think you could. Not sure if you’d want to.

Soon enough, you’re tearing at the sheets. Tears roll over the bridge of your nose and slopes of your face, staining the cotton. You’re trembling, hiccuping, overwhelmed—barely able to keep up with him working you over on three of his spit-coated fingers.

Just a job, you told yourself, and now you’re crying into his bed. Listening to him purr your name. You sob once—high and cracked—and he hushes you, holding you still at the base of your spine.

“That’s it, sweet boy. Let it out.”

You cling harder to the sheets, the salt of your tears burning where they admix with sweat. You’re not sure what you’re crying for anymore—relief, need, shame. The staggering, unbearable pleasure of being wanted.

Again, he stops short of letting you come.

You’re too far gone to complain, every nerve lit up and raw. The last of your common sense, a final coherent thought raising the issue of a condom, is seared out of your mind when his cocks glides through your folds. When it slaps over the cleft of your ass. Once. Twice.

Then he’s pressing in.

It’s almost unceremonious—the weeks of simmering tension finally and suddenly boiling over—white-hot and unbearable. It ruptures, spills molten in your veins, and splits you wide open.

John’s belly brushes your lower back, then presses, cushioning when he curls over to push until he’s flush.

“Oh–oh fuck, John,” you choke out, grappling the pillow half-tucked under you.

“You’re alright.”

He keeps you close, anticipating the kick of your legs, the instinct to wriggle away. One hand smooths over your flank, gentle as breaking in a wild thing, until the worst of your shaking settles.

Then he hooks an arm snug across your chest and the other under your stomach. He finds your leaking dick, thumbing it with a hum while his own stretches you out.

“Kept this waiting, didn’t I? Sweet boy, such a mess.”

He saws in and out slowly, luxuriating in it. The rough scrape of his stubble drags over your shoulder and neck, the humid gust of his breath puffs in your ear. His fingers dip and trace your seam, circling your neglected hole.

“Please,” you try to buck against him, but it’s impossible to move.

“Greedy,” He grunts derisively, though the eagerness with which he burrows a finger in your cunt, betrays him.

He stalls his thrusts to a grind as feeds your cunt his fingers until you cry and shake anew. They probe deep, the rub of his palm to your aching cock almost too much. You snake a hand under to push his wrist away, but his teeth find your shoulder.

“You begged for this,” he growls. “So you’re gonna let me.”

It’s not so much permission as surrender—inevitable, all-consuming. You don’t allow it so much as you yield, helpless but to drown.

The squelch of your cunt around his fingers is damning. Thicker than yours with a longer reach, he finds what makes you clench around him tight, earning a clipped curse. His wrist must be sore with the angle, but he doesn’t let it stop him. He picks up his pace again, keeping your cunt stuffed and smothered, hurtling you toward your release at last.

“John, I-I’m gonna…” you pant, breath choppy. Drool sticking to the corners of your lips.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Give it.”

Eyelids slipping shut, lightning splits the black and shoots through your nerves and muscles. You seize up with a shout then jerk, orgasm rolling through you in waves.

The rest blurs—distant. Muffled.

A guttural sound, John’s fingers retracting. Clenching around nothing and everything. Two sweat and cum-damp palms flitting over your hips and tugging, guiding you back to meet the erratic snap of his hips.

Clarity returns with the first spurts of his cum. Mouth falling slack all over again around a feeble, surprised moan as it floods you. You can’t see him, but imagine it. Head thrown, a coat of sweat over his front and back, glutes flexing. Rooted in this deep, all-encompassing.

It’s a while before he pulls out. Seconds, minutes. Doesn’t matter.

It beads out of you like a pearl, smeared under a thumb, then wiped by a towel.

You don’t fight him when he tucks you into his side. It’s far too hot to be this entangled in each other’s arms, but the musk of sex and sweat soothes. Easy to overlook discomforts when you’re so sated.

He sighs sweet dreams into your ear, but you’re already gone. Pulled under.

In the morning, you wake to a scorching quilt over your back.

His chest fitted to your spine, cockhead nudging at your sore hole. He contorts you some when you rouse enough to sleepily relax for him, hooking a thick arm beneath both knees and drawing them up. They press toward your chest, folding you like a bug. Tight and close to him until there’s no room, until you’re just a precious thing for him to fuck awake.

Dozing anew in bed, you draw circles through the hair on his stomach, lazy and absent, while his fingers trace soft, idle patterns between your shoulder blades. You yawn, stretching a little into him.

“Shouldn’t you be decorating or something?”

He grunts, the movement of his fingers pausing to scratch his stubbled jaw. “Hm? Wha’s that now?”

“The party,” you murmur, eyes half-lidded.

John exhales, then folds you tighter against him, dragging the duvet higher.

“What party?”

#price x reader #john price x reader #x transmasc reader #for me and my trans+nb friends #the formatting better work this time

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disgustingtwitches · 10 months ago

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MDNI

Working at a restaurant with 141! (pt. 3)

"All of us under one roof? Have you lost the plot?"

Gaz snorts, all of you sitting at the bar. You shake your head. The thought alone makes you dizzy.

"Just me and you is hectic enough."

Gaz stares at Soap. John laughs, sipping his scotch. You think for a moment before taking your shot. Wait a fucking second. You joke about how they have decided to make your flat nothing short of a base, and if they're gonna be at your place more than theirs they should at least pay some of your bills. They freeze. Johnny nearly jumps for joy, grabbing your face and kissing you,

"Smart fuckin girl. 'N' if we're paying 'er bills, might as weel move in aye?"

That is not what you meant.

"Who knows, maybe it'll stop them from trying to drag 'er in the walk-in."

John shrugs. They cannot be entertaining this bullshit.

"Doubt it."

Simon shoots back his glass. There's a pause. They look at each other. Oh my God they are entertaining this bullshit.

"I'll think about it."

Price finishes his drink. They talk like you're not even there. You're horrified. Four men and you. One apartment. Not just any men, them. Maybe this is all some sick joke.

"You can always say no."

Simon kisses you before you hop out his car. You're not sure if you believe that. Your phone buzzed in the middle of the night, it's the group chat. Soap sends a link to a three bedroom flat,

Thoughts?

Three dots pop up.

Ok.

Simon replies. That's the only they blessing needed to move forward.

Hectic does not describe the move-in process, there are arguments on who's furniture gets moved in, who sleeps where, who gets to use which bathroom. Eventually there was a vote held (not that it mattered, John always had final say).

Anything big enough to accommodate the five of you was moved in. There would be a bed rotation, making sure no one slept with Ghost and Soap at the same time (and if everyone got tired of their shit, there's three beds for a reason.) Gaz and Soap shared a bathroom upstairs, you shared the one downstairs with Ghost and Price (this made sure you and Kyle had enough space for both your skincare products.)

You barely wore your own clothes anymore; with a closet full of clothes that were comfy and looked good on you, why bother? All your love languages included physical touch, so at any given moment, someone was touching somebody in the house. Lots of shared showers to "save water". Simon mostly cooks with the occasional help of you or Johnny. Sunday roast meant the kitchen was off limits for everyone except Simon, God help anyone who even tries to step foot in his territory.

Holidays are chaotic, always loud with a lot of drinking. And sex. Your first Christmas together was particularly memorable. Of course everyone got gifts that they treasured, including you. But you didn't know what to get Simon. Of course he was the type to say he didn't want anything but, that wasn't right. He opened his gift from you, he stared at it, said a simple thank you and slid it into his pocket. There's a game of poker being played in the living room after gifts are opened. Simon leaves to the bedroom,

"M tired."

Everyone else says goodnight, too enraptured by the game. While there's an argument about Johnny's shuffling, you walk to the bedroom. There he is, cranking the little handle on the wooden music box you gave him; it played Danny boy, wasn't bigger than the palm of your hand, and had an engraving on the inside lid.

"It's the words on the first hoodie you gave me."

"Mhm. Didn't have to get me anything."

He says, still turning the handle. Avoiding eye contact. You sit next to him.

"Don't know if you know how much you mean to me, promise I'll show you though."

His voice the softest you've ever heard. He tucks the box back into his pocket. A quick kiss to your forehead before walking back to the living room with you. This was one of the many holidays Simon didn't have to spend alone anymore.

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quasi-normalcy · 2 months ago

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**IMPORTANT**: CANADIANS, PLEASE READ

(non-Canadians, please share)

Okay, since there's no doubt going to be a huge amount of Trumpist misinformation coming our way, and since most provinces don't have a civics curriculum, let me explain to you how our electoral system works.

Canada operates what's known as a Westminster Parliamentary System--essentially identical to the one that the United Kingdom uses. The main feature of such a system is that the branches of government that are responsible for setting policy (known as the executive branch) and for making laws (known as the legislative branch) are one in the same.

Basically, how it works is this: at least once every four years*, the people of Canada get together to elect members to a deliberative body known as the House of Commons**; the HoC currently has 343 seats, with each seat representing a geographical district known as a riding.

When an election is called, the people living in a riding go to their appointed polling places and cast ballots for one of the various candidates vying for the seat. The candidate who wins the most votes wins. You will note that I said the most votes, rather than a majority of votes. If there are three or more candidates vying for the seat, this means that it's possible (indeed common) for a candidate to win even if most people in their riding voted for someone else. This is called First Past the Post, and it's a problem, but every time we have a referendum on whether to change it, the "no" side wins. *grumble*

Anyways, most of the candidates belong to parties. The parties are as follows:

The Liberals: A centrist political party (represented by the colour red), currently headed by Mark Carney. This is the party that is currently in power, and has been for most of the last 10 years.

The Conservatives (also known as the Tories): A right-wing political party (represented by the colour blue), currently headed by Pierre Poilievre. Besides the Liberals, this is the only other party to have formed governments at the federal level in Canada. If you remember Stephen Harper, he was a Tory.

The New Democratic Party (generally known as the NDP): A left-wing political party (represented by the colour orange), currently headed by Jagmeet Singh. Because we're currently in a minority parliament (I will explain what that means in a moment), the Liberals have been dependent on NDP support to pass bills for the last few years, but they have never themselves formed a government at the Federal level.

The Bloc Quebecois: This is a French-Canadian nationalist / separatist political party (represented by the colour light blue) that only runs candidates in Quebec. Currently headed by Yves-Francois Blanchet. They structurally cannot form the government.

The Green Party: An environmentalist political party (represented by the colour...well...green). Currently headed by Elizabeth May and Jonathan Pedneault (they have a "co-leadership" model). They have never had more than 3 seats in the House of Commons.

The People's Party: A far-right political party (represented by the colour purple). Currently headed by Maxime Bernier. They have never had any seats in the house of commons.

There are a lot of smaller parties as well, but as none of them have ever attracted more than a few thousand votes.

Anyways, after the votes have been tallied and the elected representatives--known as Members of Parliament (MPs)--are selected for each riding, then the Governor General*** asks the leader of the party that was in power before the election whether they can still form the government. In general, in order to form the government, a party needs to have enough support not to be immediately defeated on what are called confidence votes--these are particularly important votes in the House of Commons on things like the budget or the government's overall policy direction. If a party can't pass votes on these issues, then they're effectively unable to govern and either one of the parties will be asked to form the government, going in order of priority depending on the number of MPs that each party elected. The leader of the party that forms the government is known as the Prime Minister.

There are a few things to note here. First of all, Canadians do not vote for the Prime Minister directly; they vote for the individual MPs from each party, and the leader of the winning party becomes the Prime Minister by default. That's why Mark Carney was able to become Prime Minister even though the general public never voted for him: the members of the Liberal Party did vote for him, and it's the Liberal Party that is in power right now.

Secondly, the easiest way for a party to be sure that it can pass all votes will be for it to win the majority of the seats in the House of Commons. This is called a majority government, and, for a variety of reasons, is what Canada usually ends up with. Under a majority government, the party can continue to lead without concern until the next regularly scheduled election in four years. On the other hand, it's possible for a party to win the most seats but not a majority, in which case it will generally have to negotiate with some of the smaller parties for continued support. This is called a minority government, and is what we have had under Justin Trudeau since 2019; the Liberals could still govern, even though they no longer controlled the majority of the House of Commons, by agreeing to support NDP priorities like taxpayer-supported dental care and prescription drugs. A minority government can never be certain of its own future: even if there's an agreement between two parties, it can be suspended at any time. If the government in such a situation is defeated on a confidence vote, then either the GG will ask one of the other parties if they can form a government, or more typically, dissolve parliament and call a new election. A minority government can also "defeat" itself, by asking the GG to call a new election. This is known as a snap election, and is what we're in now.

Finally, because of the aforementioned problem with First Past the Post voting, the seat totals in the House of Commons will rarely, if ever, directly reflect the percentage of votes that each party won. In particular, FPTP has a way of magnifying both victories and defeats, such that, in general, the threshold for winning a "majority" government is actually ~40% of the vote. Since I know that this will come up in Trumpist propaganda if it happens again, please note that it's also possible for a party to lose the popular vote and still win the most seats--Trudeau's Liberals actually received fewer votes than the Tories in the 2019 and 2021 elections, but still got to form the government. Yes, it's bullshit, but again, every time we hold a referendum on changing it, people vote "no", so it's the system we have (*grumble*)

Anyways, election day is on April 28th. You can register to vote here. Please ensure that you do so.

________________________________________

*The law says "four years" but the constitution actually allows for five; but this isn't important now.

**There's also a second house, known as the Senate, which, instead of being elected, consists of members who are appointed by the government for terms that last up to mandatory retirement at the age of 75. This effectively allows previous administrations to have influence lasting long after they've been voted out of power. Yes, it's a problem, but it also has substantially less power than the House of Commons and can do little more than modify bills.

***The Governor General (GG) is the King's representative in Canada. This position nominally has a lot of power, but is entirely ceremonial in practice. The GG is appointed once every five years by the King, on the advice of whoever is Prime Minister at the time. Her other duties include cutting ribbons, handing out awards, and reading speeches on policy--known as speeches from the throne--written by the Prime Minister. It is, by all accounts, a pretty sweet gig if you can get it. Right now, the GG is a woman called Mary Simon. You don't know her name because she hasn't done anything scandalous and doesn't affect your life in any way.

#cdnpoli #canada #canada election 2025 #civics #long post

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hotchner-edu · 11 months ago

Text

Let's Fall Together | Aaron Hotchner

Synopsis: You go on a blind date and accidentally get set up with your best friend's father. — part 2 here

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Younger (Of Age) F!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (r is over 22, Aaron is in his late 40's bc i said so), fluff, Jack being a fool

The ominous pit in your stomach when you first arrived at the restaurant should have been the first indicator that something was terribly askew. The second should have been the fact that Jack was almost too eager to set you up with someone when you mentioned wanting to date.

Yet, you somehow ignored those warning signs and now you were sat in a fancy Italian restaurant with Jack’s father.

“Mr. Hotchner…” You say breathlessly, mouth going dry as you stare at the man like a fish out of water.

Approximately three minutes had elapsed since Aaron had entered the restaurant and was led to the table you were sitting at. Jack had made the reservation under his name and told you the only rule was that you actually show up and give it a chance.

Aaron had walked toward your table with a bouquet of flowers in his hand, eyes taking in your stunned figure.

“You can just call me Aaron, sweetheart.” Aaron raises his eyebrows a bit in amusement, looking a bit confused about the entire situation as well. He had always been adamant that you call him by his first name whenever you came over to his house to hang out with Jack, but now that same sentiment seemed a bit more intimate given the current circumstance.

You clear your throat softly and nod, smiling a bit shyly as you try to gather your thoughts. “So… Aaron, you’re my mystery date then?”

“Yes, it would appear so.” He answers back with a little smile that you interpret as one of discomfort, though little to your knowledge, it was actually a nervous smile.

You frown a bit and rest your hands in your lap, trying to search for a way to quickly diffuse the situation without attracting any attention from the diners around you. “Ah… I’m sorry. We don’t have to continue this, I know it must be weird for you.”

“Weird?” He asks, his tone indicating he knew what you meant, but also wanting you to explain anyway.

You nod and continue. “Yeah… I mean, I’m Jack’s friend. So feel free to just head back home, I’m sorry to disappoint.”

“Are you disappointed?” He asks and places the bouquet of flowers on the table.

Glancing at the flowers, you aren’t sure how to answer. After a few moments, you decide to be honest. “No. I’m not disappointed.”

Aaron gazes at you in contemplation for a second before he regains his bearings and speaks to you softly, his tone kind but also direct. “Well, I wouldn’t mind continuing our date… If that’s okay with you?”

You stare at him, trying to suppress the bright smile that threatens to break out on your face. “I would like that.” The relief and happiness you feel cannot be masked in your tone, and Aaron immediately picks up on it, his shoulders relaxing as he nods back to you.

Dinner with Aaron goes without a hitch and conversation flows naturally with him. In the three years you’ve been best friends with Jack, you were certain you'd only ever spoken to Aaron in private a handful of times, and you were starting to kick yourself for it as you begin to realize just how wonderful your chemistry together was.

When you’re both done eating, you begin to pull out your wallet, smiling from ear to ear from the eventful night.

“Dinner’s on me, honey.” Aaron says softly and reaches over to scoot the bill closer to his side of the table.

“Aren’t blind dates supposed to be split?” You ask with a grin, silently relenting and putting your wallet away despite your words.

Aaron chuckles and shakes his head as the waiter comes back to collect the check and his card. “Is that so? I don’t have much experience with blind dates, but I thought that happens when a second date is out of the question.”

You gape at him a bit and smile in disbelief, your thoughts a whirlwind as you picture yourself on another date with him. “Is that the rule? Well, I have a hard time believing that you don’t go on very many blind dates. I mean you’re a catch, Aaron.” You blush a little at how the words seem to spill out before your brain can restrain your tongue.

To your utter bafflement, you see his cheeks turning a bit pink along with his ears as he tries to wave off your words. “I appreciate that but believe me, it’s been quite a long time since I’ve been on a date.”

“I somehow still doubt that. Though, I suppose most women may be a bit intimidated to make a move on you.” You comment, thinking back to your own reluctance and personal vow to die with your crush on him.

Aaron gives you a fond smile that has your heart stopping momentarily, his eyes twinkling under the dim pendant lights of the restaurant. “You think so?” His voice is smooth and pleasantly wrapping you in a warmth that further drags you down into your embarrassingly massive crush on him.

“Yeah.” You nod with a small quirk of your lips. “The soccer moms at Jack’s games certainly admire from a distance… I think you just have this aura about you.”

“I must look very unapproachable in a t-shirt and jeans then.” He jokes softly and wordlessly reaches for your hand on the table, his larger fingers brushing against yours.

You nod gently and respond in a near whisper. “Oh, definitely. I reckon you’re even more intimidating when you’re wearing something other than a suit.” You glance down at his black button up, trying to rein in your wild thoughts.

“Should I wear a polo shirt during interrogations then?” He grins and slips his fingers between yours.

“It would mean less dry cleaning.” You tilt your head and shift your gaze to your joined hands.

Aaron’s thumb rubs against yours gently. “You’re right, but I have an image to maintain unfortunately.” He quips with a playful grin, his eyes staying on yours as the world around you both seems to melt away.

“Well, I envy your coworkers. They get to see you in a suit everyday.” You say with a sudden burst of confidence as the waiter walks back with the receipt and Aaron’s credit card.

Aaron’s grin widens a bit as he thanks the waiter and looks back at you. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind when I’m choosing what to wear for our next date.”

"Well, perhaps you can pick me up next time too so we have no more surprises in restaurants." You say with a flustered smile, watching him write out a generous tip and put away his card before pushing his seat back.

Aaron nods in agreement at your words before he stands up and walks around the table, offering his hand to you. When you're both walking out of the restaurant, his hand is on the small of your back and you're clutching the bouquet of flowers to your chest.

"You know... Jack's known about my crush on you for a while." You admit bashfully, feeling a dizzying high rush through you from how surreal the night has been.

Aaron looks stupefied by the revelation and he chuckles softly, his hand rubbing your back a bit as he walks you down the sidewalk. "Really now? And how long have you had a thing for me?" He asks with an amused grin.

"It's silly, really... but it started when you came back home after that case in Wisconsin while I was over studying with Jack. You walked in and threw your tie off, and I don't know..." You stumble a bit on your words as you recount the memory, omitting some other vivid details from that encounter as to not give away how often you think back to that day.

He gives a deep chuckle at your answer, his hand moving from your back to squeeze your waist a little. "I'm starting to see a trend here with you and me in suits."

"Yeah, yeah, well I gave up my story, what's yours? I mean, when did you realize you were interested in me, even if it was just a little." You teasingly ask, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks as you subtly lean in closer to his side.

Aaron looks off into the distance as he confesses, a small boyish grin tugging at his lips. "When you brought Jack back home from a party last year. He was completely wasted and you were all disheveled in your pajamas, scolding him while he was unconscious."

"Me in sweatpants gets you hot under the collar, does it?" You suppress a laugh, smiling widely as you think back to that night. Jack had stayed out at a club and taken enough shots to send any ordinary person into the emergency room, but he had called you in a drunken haze at three in the morning, begging for you to take him home.

Before he can retort, you feel your phone ringing and you peek down at it. "Ah, speak of the devil." You sigh, showing Aaron the caller ID before picking up.

"Hey, what's up?" You ask casually, feeling Aaron leading you further into the parking lot and toward his car.

Just from his tone, you can tell he's sporting a smug grin. "You haven't called to complain. I was starting to worry you were dead. So, the date went well then?"

Aaron helps you into the passenger seat of his car as you respond with a pleased lilt in your voice. "More than well, but don't let that get to your head."

But of course, it does anyway. "I told you! You didn't trust me when I said you needed to just put yourself out there. I'm relieved though. I was worried you'd be obsessed with my dad for forever." He replies with a victorious chortle.

"Okay, fine, whatever, thanks for setting him up with me." You smile happily, watching as Aaron lifts your hand to give a kiss to your knuckles before he turns on the car engine.

Jack gives a faux sigh of exasperation, about to continue on his self-satisfied ramble before he immediately pauses. "Wait, what?"

"What?" You ask as Aaron pulls out of the parking lot, his hand mindlessly moving to rest on your knee.

"What do you mean 'setting him up with you'?" Jack asks, suddenly serious and sounding a bit like when he realized he misread his Philosophy exam deadline as being 11:59 pm instead of 11:59 am.

You pause too, glancing at Aaron before answering with an equally reluctant tone. "Uhm... as in, thank you for setting me and Aaron up."

"Huh? What the fuck! You went on a date with my dad?" Jack suddenly gasps out, choking on his spit halfway through. "What happened to Eric?" He wheezes out.

"Eric? Who's Eric?" You ask in confusion.

Jack is silent for a second as you hear muffled tapping followed by him cursing under his breath. "Ah, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I sent you the wrong address."

You tap Aaron's wrist, giving him a look that has him pulling over to the nearest curb and parking. He gives you a small frown and you put Jack on speaker.

"Jack, what the hell are you talking about?" You ask, blushing as Aaron draws shapes on your knee with his finger.

You can almost feel Jack cringing through the phone. "Okay, so I may have set you and my dad up on dates tonight but at different restaurants. And I also may have accidentally sent you the wrong restaurant address."

You and Aaron sit in appalled silence before you breathe in deeply and pinch the bridge of your nose. "You set Aaron up with someone else tonight?"

"Well, yeah! I mean, do you really want to be my stepmom?" He asks in an aghast voice, lacking any genuine disgust and telling you he's not as upset as he's pretending to be.

You suck in a breath and shake your head. "Don't worry, when I'm through with you, Aaron won't have a son anymore."

"In my defense-" Jack starts, sounding a bit more playful now.

"Goodbye, Jack!" You cut him off, hanging up and sighing. Looking up from your phone screen, you meet Aaron's gaze and you both can't contain your amusement anymore.

You snort softly and shake your head. "How mad do you think he would be if we kissed right now?"

Aaron doesn't respond with words, instead leaning over the car's center console to cup your cheek and press his lips to yours. As you're both lost in the kiss, neither of you notice your phone vibrating with text messages and silenced calls.

Jack: You both better be coming back right now

Jack: Answer me

Jack: I swear to god if you guys are making out right now

Jack: Please omg Eric just texted me, it's not too late

Jack: HELLO?!!

Jack: I will be taking credit for this at your wedding

part 2 here

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fluff #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds aaron imagine #aaron hotchner fic

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mylovesstuffs · 4 months ago

Text

Little Hands, Big Hearts — Lee Seokmin

Genre: Non-idol au-ish, babysitter au and rom-com

Pairing: Seokmin × fem!reader

Content: Friends-to-lovers (?), babysitter & hot uncle, found family, single parent vibes (but he’s actually just an uncle), mutual pining, jealousy but cute, domestic fluff, protective love interest, small Joshua cameo (no dialogue), idol life elements (seokmin’s busy schedules), “i want to be someone important to you” confession

Word count: 2140 words

A/N: I actually had something else planned for his birthday, something much longer and (hopefully) better but Tumblr decided to be a piece of shit, and I physically cannot format it all in one sitting without losing my mind. So maybe next month (or the month after, knowing my luck). Anyway, when I realized mere hours before Dokyeom’s birthday, mind you—that my original post wasn’t happening, I had to speed-write this incredibly cliché thing instead. Am I satisfied with it? Absolutely not. Are we running with it anyway? Absolutely yes.

Huge, massive, life-saving thanks to @gyubakeries !!! I swear you are the only reason this got beta-ed last minute. I hope your pillows stay cold on both sides forever, your WiFi never betrays you, and you obliterate your exams. Ilysm, truly. I was fighting for my life with this schedule, and then Tumblr came in and delivered the final boss battle. But anyway happy belated birthday, DK! May your high notes always soar, your jokes always land, and your days be filled with nothing but love and warmth. Love you endlessly, you absolute gem of a human being! 💛🎉 And sorry in advance for whatever this is.

Babysitting wasn’t exactly the most glamorous job in the world but it paid the bills. Plus, you genuinely enjoyed spending time with kids. That’s why, when your friend recommended you to a new client who needed an occasional babysitter for his niece, you said yes without hesitation.

What you didn’t expect was that the ‘uncle’ you’d be working for was Lee Seokmin, the bright, cheerful vocalist of SEVENTEEN.

The first time you met him, he nearly tripped over the couch trying to grab his niece’s stuffed bunny before she could burst into tears. His energy was exactly what you imagined from someone who spent most of his time performing on stage.

“Hi! I’m Dokyeom,” he said, flashing a beaming smile that was so radiant it could rival the sun. “Thank you so much for helping out. I’d do it myself, but—”

“—You have a busy idol schedule,” you finished for him.

He blinked. “Yeah…exactly.”

His niece, Hana, was an absolute angel. She had his same bright smile and she grew fond of you immediately. You spent the next few weeks looking after her whenever Seokmin was busy with schedules and little by little, you saw different sides of him.

He wasn’t just the loud, happy-go-lucky guy everyone knew. He was also a doting uncle who could lull Hana to sleep with soft hums of ‘Circles’, and a surprisingly good cook when he had the time.

One night after a particularly long day, Seokmin returned home just as you were tidying up Hana’s toys. He let out an exaggerated sigh and collapsed onto the couch, covering his face with a pillow.

“Long day?”

“You have no idea,” he groaned, voice muffled. “But I kept thinking about Hana and—” He hesitated. “—and wondering if she gave you a hard time.”

You smiled. “She was great, as always. Though, she did insist I tell her a bedtime story about ‘Uncle Min and the Princess.’”

Seokmin peeked out from behind the pillow, eyes twinkling with interest. “Oh? And what happened in this story?”

You shrugged, playing along. “Well, Uncle Min was a very silly prince who made the princess laugh all the time.”

“Sounds accurate.”

“But then he got lost in a giant castle of laundry and the princess had to help him find his way out.”

Seokmin laughed, sitting up. “Okay, that part is true. My laundry pile is terrifying.”

The conversation melted into comfortable silence, the only sound being the soft breathing of Hana sleeping in the other room. After a moment, Seokmin glanced at you with a thoughtful look on his face.

“You’re really good with her,” he said softly. “I—uh, I really appreciate you.”

You felt warmth creep up your neck. “It’s my job.”

“I know, but…I think Hana really loves you.” He smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “And I can see why.”

Your heart did a tiny flip at the way he looked at you, gentle and sincere. You quickly busied yourself with putting away the last of Hana’s toys, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your face heated up.

Maybe Hana wasn’t the only one growing attached.

The weeks turned into months and before you knew it, babysitting Hana had become a regular part of your life and so had Seokmin.

You didn’t realize when the small moments started meaning more, when you started looking forward to his late-night returns just to chat about your day or when you found yourself laughing a little too much at his terrible dad jokes. Seokmin was always there. Bringing you snacks before he left for work. Texting to ask if Hana was behaving. Staying up an extra ten minutes just to keep you company before you left for the night. It was easy. It was natural. It was dangerous.

Because one evening after you put Hana to bed, Seokmin walked you to the door like he always did but this time, he hesitated.

“I, uh…I have a day off tomorrow,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hana’s been asking to go to the park and I figured…maybe you could come too?”

You blinked. “You want me to come? You don’t need a babysitter tomorrow.”

“I know,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “But I thought it’d be fun if we all hung out together. Y’know, as…friends.”

Friends. Right.

You ignored the way your heart did a stupid little flip and nodded. “Okay. That sounds fun.”

“Push me, push me!” she squealed.

You laughed, helping her up. “Okay, okay! But what about Uncle Min?”

Hana turned to Seokmin and pouted. “Uncle Min is too slow!”

Seokmin gasped-pouted. “Betrayal! How could you?”

Hana just giggled and you couldn’t help but shake your head. “She’s not wrong, though.”

Seokmin narrowed his eyes at you. “Oh, you’re in trouble now.”

Before you could react, he scooped you up, yes, actually lifted you off the ground and spun you in a circle.

You shrieked. “SEOKMIN! PUT ME DOWN!”

“Nope! You insulted my speed, now you must pay the price!”

Hana clapped her hands, cheering. “Again! Again!”

When he finally set you down, you were breathless from both laughter and the way his arms had felt way too strong around you. It was hot.

"You’re absolutely something else,” you muttered, smoothing your clothes.

Seokmin just grinned, completely unfazed.

The day continued with moments like that, Seokmin challenging you to silly races, losing horribly at rock-paper-scissors to Hana, and stealing your ice cream just to see you pout and somewhere in between all the teasing, the laughter, and the stolen glances, you felt something change. Maybe it was when Hana fell asleep in your lap during lunch and Seokmin just sat there watching with a soft unreadable expression. Or maybe it was when he gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and said, ‘You’re really amazing with her. She adores you.’

Maybe it was just him.

And you were starting to fall.

You should have known that nothing could stay simple when Lee Seokmin was involved. Seokmin wasn’t just ‘Hana’s uncle’ anymore. He wasn’t just the funny, sunshine-filled idol who stumbled into fatherly duties with zero experience but a whole lot of love. He was…Seokmin. Your Seokmin. (Not that he actually was. But he could be. If only you were brave enough to admit what you were feeling.)

One evening after another long day of babysitting, you found yourself lingering. You weren’t sure why, because Seokmin had already come home, Hana was fast asleep, and yet…you just didn’t want to leave yet.

Seokmin sat on the couch, running a tired hand through his hair. He looked exhausted—schedules had been brutal lately but when he saw you standing awkwardly near the door, he smiled anyway.

“Leaving?” he asked, voice soft as usual.

“I…should,” you said, shifting on your feet but you didn’t move.

Seokmin noticed. Instead of saying anything, he patted the empty space next to him, an invitation. You hesitated for about three seconds before giving in.

As soon as you sat down, Seokmin sighed and leaned his head against your shoulder. Your heart nearly stopped.

“Just for a second,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. “I’m too tired to sit up straight.”

You should have told him to sit properly. You should have shoved him off before you lost your mind. Instead, you sat there frozen, too aware of his warmth, his scent, the soft rise and fall of his breathing.

“Hey.”

You hummed in response, too scared to actually speak.

“I was thinking,” Seokmin said, voice still quiet, still sleepy. “I like spending time with you. A lot.”

Your breath hitched.

“You’re great with Hana,” he continued, eyes still closed. “And I always feel better when you’re around.” He suddenly sat up and faced you, his expression unreadable. “And…I think—” He swallowed. “I think I—”

BANG.

A loud noise from Hana’s room made both of you jump apart.

Seokmin was on his feet instantly. “Hana?”

The moment was gone.

He rushed to check on his niece, leaving you sitting there, heart pounding, mind racing, stomach doing cartwheels. What had he been about to say? And why were you so scared to find out?

A few days later, you were out shopping when you ran into your ex. It wasn’t a big deal. Really, it wasn’t.

He was just some guy called Joshua from years ago and the relationship had ended on neutral terms. He saw you, waved, and you exchanged some small talk before parting ways. Simple. Harmless. Totally normal. But when you got back to Seokmin’s apartment, you knew something was off. He was acting weird. Not his usual ‘I just tripped over air’ weird. Weirder. Quieter. Sulkier.

And then as you were helping Hana with her drawing, he suddenly blurted out, “Who was that guy?”

“What?” You blinked animatedly.

“At the mall,” he said, not looking at you. “I saw you talking to some guy.”

Oh. “An ex,” you said simply. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Seokmin nodded slowly, lips pressed together. “You seemed happy talking to him.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you…jealous?”

“Me? Pfft. No.” He scoffed, crossing his arms. “Why would I be jealous? I mean, we’re just—you’re just—”

You waited. He struggled.

Finally, he groaned, rubbing his face. “Okay. Maybe I’m a little jealous.”

Your heart did a very unhelpful little flip.

Seokmin exhaled and looked at you. “I don’t want to be just ‘Hana’s uncle’ to you,” his breath caught. “I want to be someone important to you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “The way you’re important to me.”

Silence. Your brain screamed at you to say anything but before you could, a tiny voice interrupted.

“Uncle Min,” Hana said, tugging his sleeve. “Stop making her sad.”

Both of you turned to her.

Seokmin paled. “I—I made her sad?”

Hana pouted. “She looks like she wants to cry.”

You did, honestly. But not for the reason she thought. Because finally, finally, you had your answer.

You swallowed hard and forced a smile, ruffling Hana’s hair to distract yourself. “I’m not sad, sweetheart. Your uncle just…surprised me.”

Hana looked between the two of you with that suspicious little squint of hers. Then she sighed dramatically, shaking her head. “Grown-ups are weird,” she muttered before skipping off to continue coloring.

Seokmin chuckled but when his gaze returned to you. “Hey,” he said. “Are you okay?”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Yeah. Just…processing.”

Seokmin nodded slowly. “Take your time.”

And just like that, he gave you an out. No pressure. No expectations. Just him, waiting, hoping. Maybe that was what made you nervous the most.

A week passed and things were almost normal again. Except now, you were hyper-aware of everything Seokmin did. It was getting too much so when Zhang, one of your childhood friends, texted you out of the blue asking to catch up over coffee, you jumped at the chance. It was not a date and you made that very clear. But Seokmin didn’t get the memo.

When he saw you getting ready, actually putting in effort, wearing something cute, doing your hair, he panicked.

“Where are you going?” he asked, pretending to be casual about it.

You glanced at him. “Just meeting a friend for coffee.”

Seokmin squinted. “A friend?”

“Yeah.”

“A male friend?”

You smirked. “Why does that matter?”

“It doesn’t,” he said too quickly.

You bit back a laugh. “Seokmin. Are you jealous again?”

“No.” He crossed his arms. “I just…I just think you should be careful! What if this guy has bad intentions? What if he—”

“Zhang is married,” you interrupted, amused. “To a man.”

“Oh.”

You grinned. “Were you about to ask me not to go?”

He opened his mouth, closed it, then groaned, rubbing his face. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” You patted his cheek. Big mistake.

Because the second your fingers touched his skin, he grabbed your wrist, holding you in place. Your breath hitched. For a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed. Then, softly, so softly you almost missed it, Seokmin said, “If I asked you out, would you say yes?”

Your heart literally stopped.

He was still holding your wrist, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your pulse. If he could feel how fast it was beating, he wouldn't have to ask anything.

Slowly, you met his gaze. “Would you actually ask?”

He didn't say anything at first but responded a few seconds later, “Maybe.” His lips twitched. “Depends on if you’d say yes.”

You exhaled a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re so dumb.”

“And you still haven’t answered.”

You rolled your eyes but your smile gave you away. “Yeah, idiot. I’d say yes.”

Seokmin beamed. “Cool, cool. So, uh…” He cleared his throat. “Wanna go on a date tomorrow?”

You grinned. “Yeah. I do.”

⌦ 🌻 © mylovesstuffs | est. 2025. thank you for reading—your reblog means everything. until we meet again, stay cozy and keep dreaming! ◜ᴗ◝

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venusinmyrrh · 5 months ago

Note

You said you love a good fashion doc- do you have any more to recommend?

Designers and tastemakers

Very Ralph (2019). The preeminent American designer of our time, one of the very few who can stand toe to toe with the titans of Paris and Milan. To call Ralph Lauren's work "sportswear" is to call the Sistine Chapel "kind of a big painting".

Halston (2019). Speaking of going head to head with Paris, Halston did it first. Skip Ultrasuede-- this is a much better doc about the king of American 70s disco glam.

McQueen (2018). When people talk about fashion as an art form, chances are they're thinking of Alexander McQueen. Worth watching for the pulse-pounding runway shows alone.

Westwood: Punk, Icon, Activist (2018). Obviously you already know about this one, but it's gotta go on any comprehensive list. Without Vivienne Westwood, punk would have been nothing but a handful of noisy assholes.

Diana Vreeland: The Eye Has to Travel (2011). My icon, my north star, my personal hero. The empress of taste and high priestess of personal style. Watch this doc whenever you need encouragement to do and wear whatever the hell you want.

The Gospel According to André (2017). Diana Vreeland's protegé and a godfather of style in his own right. If it happened in fashion in the last fifty years, André Leon Talley was there for it.

Lagerfeld Confidential (2007). I have a high tolerance for difficult and unpleasant people as long as I like their work. Your mileage may vary, but Karl Lagerfeld's immaculate, relentless taste cannot be denied.

Institutions and events

The First Monday in May (2016). Witness all the hustle, bustle, savvy, and stress that goes into planning the Met gala!

The September Issue (2009). Same as the above, but for the famous September issue of Vogue. Watch this to learn who Grace Coddington is.

Dior and I (2014). How do haute couture collections get made? In 8 weeks from start to finish, I guess, if you're Raf Simons during his first season at the House of Dior. A documentary and a thriller.

Scatter My Ashes at Bergdorf's (2013). No matter what other retailers might want you to think, Bergdorf Goodman is the last great department store. A portrait, already halfway to a time capsule, of what luxury shopping used to be.

Peripheral, but may be of interest

Nose (2021). The passionate, delicate art of perfume creation for the House of Dior. The French landscapes where they source their materials will make you swoon.

Larger Than Life: The Kevyn Aucoin Story (2017). As the makeup artist to pretty much every single icon of the 80s and 90s, Kevyn Aucoin invented the image of that era as much as any designer.

Fabergé: A Life of Its Own (2014). Come for the dazzling jewels and sumptuous objets d'art; stay to find out how this illustrious name ended up on hair care products in the 70s.

Crazy About Tiffany's (2016). Another luxury jeweler whose name alone is the stuff dreams are made on.

Bill Cunningham New York (2010). The original street style photographer, since before "street style" was even a thing. A love letter to curiosity, and a testament to the power of taking an interest in the world around us.

Still on my watchlist

Salvatore: Shoemaker of Dreams (2020). Directed by Luca Guadagnino, which is enough to put this Ferragamo doc at the top of my list.

Advanced Style (2014). Portraits of seven women aged 62-95 with truly fab personal style. Top Letterboxd review is seething about how out of touch they are with the real world, which means I am probably gonna love it.

Suited (2016). A study of gender through clothing in modern culture.

Dries (2017). A year-- and four collections-- in the life of Dries Van Noten, who, interestingly, doesn't see the point of clothes that people can't buy to wear, and so does not do couture.

Yellow is Forbidden (2018). This doc about Guo Pei appears to use her career as a framework to understand the gatekeeping of global culture by the West. Dope as hell, if it can pull it off.

American Style (2019). The political, social, and economic history of America through its fashion. Another one that could be really awesome if done with insight and panache.

Quant (2021). She may share the credit for inventing the miniskirt with two other people, but it cannot be argued that Mary Quant invented 1960s Swinging London. And for that we say thank you Dame Mary.

#fashion #documentaries #film #this made me realize how broad of a category i consider fashion to be #joan didion? art forgery? the history of scotch? this too is style #nearly tossed a studio 54 doc on this list before remembering that it wasn't all that good #forthegothicheroine #questions queries quandaries

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enhaeil · 6 months ago

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YOU GON FALL IN LOVE WITH ME ☆ 이희승

"I can't wait for you to put your hands on me, baby, yeah You can't wait for me to put my hands on Your body's calling me, I've gotta handle"

fall in love - keke wyatt

a/n: this is trash but i cannot stop writing abt him.

c/w: suggestive ASF heeseung is ur freaky ahh husband

☆

you and heeseung decided to go out for your wedding anniversary. he took you to this extremely fancy restaurant with extremely fancy food and an EXTREMELY high bill he didn't even allow you to touch.

it's all giggles and loving glances, but little does everyone know, you barely made it out the house.

earlier.

heeseung was in the bathroom finishing up his shower as you got ready in your mirror.

you're wearing a dress he picked with a hairstyle you know he loved on you and damn near nothing underneath.

"hey baby you rea-...dy...?" he lets out a whistle as he walks by in his towel getting a nice view at your ass peeking from under the dress.

he comes behind you to pull it down a bit. "you sure we gonna make it out the house, love?"

you giggle shyly as you feel his stare on you. "if you keep freak-seung tamed then yes! we'll get there early, even."

"no promises" he laughs to himself as he drops his towel, drying his damp, wavy hair some more.

you can't help but pause doing your lashes and peek at his reflection in the mirror, tan, wet and naked...what a move. now it's your turn to keep the freak tamed. one little reservation is stopping you from flying across the room.

he notices you staring and walks up behind you, sliding his hands onto your waist. still naked mind you.

"baby...you look so yummy." he buries his face in your neck. "and you smell even yummier." he says slightly pressing against you.

you almost fall into his trap. but you gather the little self-restraint you have and back down. "heeseung, put some underwear on and let me do my make up!"

he scoots back putting his hands up in surrender. "nobody told you to wear that dress, baby"

"heeseung you picked out the dress."

"oh."

you giggle at his antics and continue with your lashes.

he finally puts some clothes on and makes his way to the dresser to style his hair, but not without slapping that ass on the way.

you finally finish your makeup and now it's your turn to harass heeseung while he gets ready. you sneak behind him in the mirror before squeezing his ass.

he jumps before shooing you away. "don't start something you can't finish, y/n"

he finally finishes his hair and throws his dress shirt on. you take this opportunity to take long strides towards him and help him button up his shirt, never wanting to miss out on an excuse to touch your husband.

"3 years, huh? you ready to give me your babies yet?" you can feel heeseung's chest vibrate with a chuckle underneath your fingertips as you finish up the last buttons. before you can back away, he holds onto your waist.

"ready? i've been ready since we said, 'I do.'" heeseung tells you sincerly. little does he know you feel the same way. there is nothing you want more than to have a baby by the man you love the most.

he can't help but lean in and press a passionate kiss on your lips. he his hands roam your waist as he deepens the kiss, pulling your body directly against his. you can feel his fingertips making their way towards the edge of your dress, and you lightly push him away.

"first of all, baby, you now have my lip combo all over your face. secondly, we have plenty of time to make babies. we don't have plenty of time until our reservation, so let's hurry!"

heeseung grumbles and groans, even though he knows you're right. but suddenly, that reservation doesn't seem so important. "I have all the food I need right here. no need to go out." he says, rubbing your ass as you bend down to buckle your heel.

"it's our wedding anniversary, hee. we deserve to celebrate."

"who says i'm not celebrating!" he delivers a quick slap before you rise back up to glare at him.

he leans in to press a kiss on your lips again before wrapping one arm around your waist.

"fine. but i'm tearing that ass up when we get back."

tear it up he did!

#enhypen #enhypen reactions #enhypen smut #enhypen x reader #kpop smut #kpop #heeseung x reader #heeseung smut #heeseung drabbles #enha smut #enha fluff #zbitna ☆ fic

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cherry-pop-elf · 1 year ago

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Weasley Siblings Reacting To You Saying You Are Pregnant

Writing Comission’s Are Open

William ‘Bill’

“Excuse me-?” He was left practically speechless, when he picked up the onesie on his bedside table. A little blue thing, with the words To The Moon And Back. He was so full of emotions. Panic, excitement, horror, joy. Would the baby inherit his wolf tendencies? Would something go wrong, because of his bad blood? He was so scared. Would you be in danger, because of him? With his eyes turning to you, and seeing that excited smile, he couldn’t help but calm down. Teddy existed after all, didn’t he? He was as fine as he could be. The idea of holding his own little ball of joy. To see that orange hair, and watch you nurse. “I’m going to be a dad….” He trailed, with a smile. “I’m going to be a dad-“ He repeated, as he would hold the little sleep wear to his chest. Tears ran down his broken cheeks, as he kept reacting it. So full of pride. He’s going to be a dad, with you.

Charlie

“IM GONNA BE A DAD-!” He was screaming, bloody damn murder, as he was running around at the sanctuary. Screaming it with pride, as you chased after him. Just laughing, as the dragons would lift up their heads. “IM A DAD IM A DAD IM A DAD-!” He keeps roaring, as the dragons would tilt their heads. Watching their motherly figure jump for joy. Literally. “Charlie-!” You laughed, as he was just to full of excitement. Laughing, cheering, and crying. That’s when one of the older mothers would grab him by the collar. Yanking him into the air, before plopping him right next to you. As if to convey that he better step up now. That had you laugh, as he pouted at her. “I am I am-!” He said, before he was on his knees. Holding your belly. “I’m gonna be your daddy-!” He squealed, as he kissed it over. All the excitement getting the new borns curious, but those mothers made sure they didn’t get to close. Letting him have his moment. A new baby, to join the herd.

Percy

“You cannot be serious-“ Percy was blinking, as he had hardly taken two steps through the fire place. Just gotten off work, early for once, only to be surprised by you making a baby box. It was meant to be a surprise, and something you would give to him after dinner. Seems like he was still surprised, regardless. “Who had the baby this time-?” He asked, as he would set his belongings where they were designated. That had you snort, as it didn’t quite dawn on him yet. With the fact you didn’t say anything, he turned around. “Honey?” He asked again, as you keep smiling. Slowly, the gears turned, before he was left with his cloak dropped from his hands. It was him. He didn’t expect that. Was like the last one to join the family gang. He couldn’t help his worry. He didn’t exactly grow up to well. He wasn’t to well connected with his family, and only came around when it was almost to late. He didn’t want that to happen to his kid. To have such a divide. You could tell he was worried, and patted the seat next to you. He joined, and you would kiss his head. “Who do you wanna tell first?” You asked, as he held your hand. The name he said, reassured himself that this kid won’t have that tension. Not like what he made. “George is perfect.” Another kiss to his head, as the plans were made. A big and happy family.

Fred

The words barley left your lips, before you were tossed over his shoulder. As quickly as you were tossed, you were soon hearing the noise of the busy shop. "HEY EVERYONE!" He shouted, causing everyone to look up at one of the railings. George as well, with curious eyes all the same. "IM GONNA BE A DAD, AND GEORGE IS GONNA BE A UNCLE!" He cheered, and everyone was a roar of cheers as well. George was quick to drop what he was doing, and soon aparate next to him. "Put your damn mother to be down!" He laughed, as Fred finally set you down. All three of you in a warm, and tight, hug. "i'm gonna be a uncle!" George cheered, as you laughed. You had to wonder who was more excited for the baby. Your husband, or his twin? It did not matter to you. They were both so happy for this wonderful news. They just could not let you go, as they were just laughing in joy. Children. More children. What could make them hate that?

George

"Pregnant?" He whispered, as he almost looked like he would burst into tears. "I heard that right, didn't I?" He asked, as he felt over the scarred skin that was once his ear. You nodded, before you held up your hands. You could not grasp sign as fast as George did, but you knew the alphabet. P.R.E.G.N.A.N.T. Pregnant. He was soon tackling you, as he was sobbing into your shoulder. "I'm going to be a dad-" He sobbed, as you rubbed his back. Some joy, in his world of darkness. You had fallen pregnant, not long after the death of Voldemort. Made senes, since the stress was gone. For you, anyway. "Jellybean....If its a boy...." You would peck his cheek, and nod. "A boy, Fred. If a girl, Fredrick works as a beautiful middle name." You comforted, getting another hiccup in return. The world was moving on, but the world will not be forgotten. Fred lived on, and hes going to be your tiny terror. How excited you two were, for it.

Ron

“No-“ He gasped. “Really-? No-! Are you-? No-“ Was like he was trapped in a loop, as he now paced around your living room. Looking at you, before looking at his feet, then repeating. As if every time he made a full pace, he turned. You had to admit, was pretty adorable. Figured news like this would make your Auror husband short circuit a bit. You let him pace, with a smile. Just grinning, as he was trying to register it all. Suppose work fatigue makes anyone’s brain mush. Especially a job like his. You would watch him pace, until his brain was finally registering that YEP you are indeed pregnant. “Bloody hell….IM GONNA BE A DAD-!” His face was beaming, before he was stealing you into his arms. He was exhausted, but not tired enough to not huggle and cuddle. “We need to tells ‘Mione and Harry-! Oh those two will be so excited-!” He beams. Uncle Harry and Auntie Hermione. He was going to crush you, you swore, if he kept being so happy. “Blimey, guess that over time is finally coming in handy.” You hated his over time, but he had a point. Now you two had a secure start. That had you relax a little more. “Hope Harry doesn’t mine if I slow down on my career a little.” You would stroke his hair, and pecked his cheek. “He’s Harry. I’m doubtful he will be made you want to not be dead on a side walk, and leave me a single parent.” You snorted. “Yeah, probably doesn’t want history repeating.” Morbid, but point proven. “Gonna be a dad-“ He kept smiling, as he pulled you into his lap. Unable to stop holding you close. He was so happy, and you were all the same. Your family.

Ginny

“SHUT UP-!” She gasped, as she was looking towards the Quidditch stands. No way was she seeing what she was seeing. Your wife just won the first game of the season, and she was looking straight at you. In the VIP seats, and holding up a sign. I’m Pregnant. In bold and colorful letters, so she couldn’t miss it. “NO WAY-!” Ginny kept screaming, as her team mates looked over, as they were shaking hands with the enemy team. “What’s up?!” One of them asked. “IM GONNA BE A MUM-!” Ginny cheered, as that had all the broomstick flyers stare towards where her eyes looked. “CONGRATS-!” The enemy seeker said, with a clap. Good sportsmanship. “IM GONNA BE A MUM-!” What a way to start her quidditch season. The first win, and the fact she’s going to be a mom. “Well, go and fly over-!” A team mate smacked her back, and she wasn’t needed to told twice. The fans went nuts, with famous Quidditch Star Ginny Weasley was flying towards the stands. Right to you, and nearly tackling you down in the box. The fellow VIP seaters clapped for you two, as she planted a big kiss on you. Tears in the corner of her eyes, as she hugged you tightly. “You knew I would win, didn’t you?” She asked. “No, but I mean what better way to recover from a loss?” That had her smack your shoulder, but she was soon was wiping her eyes on her gloves. “Oh fuck, look at me. Crying like a girl-“ She joked, as she sniffled. She was so happy, and you were as well. She just couldn’t contain her joy. Her, you, and your own little precious snitch. What more could a girl want?

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heckyeahponyscans · 2 months ago

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An excerpt from a CNN article today (April 12, 2025) about how the Republican Trump tariffs are wreaking havoc on the toy industry, which produces 80% of toys in China. The CEO of Basic Fun, who makes Care Bears and retro G1 My Little Ponies, is quoted:

Jay Foreman, CEO of Basic Fun!, a toy company that makes Care Bears and Tonka trucks, told CNN in a February interview right after Trump enacted a 20% tariff on China that his entire supply chain is in China. “Our tooling, our factory base, the consistency of production — and how do you just up and leave and go to another market?” Foreman said. “There are things you aren’t able to make (in the US) physically, or produce here, and toys are one of those.” Speaking with CNN again after the 145% tariffs were enacted, he said: “The situation… has gone from a problem to a crisis for Basic Fun! and our entire industry. This threatens not only the price and amount of toys that will be in the market, but the actual survival of our industry.” It’s a situation many toy companies are confronting, especially now when they’d otherwise place holiday season orders. The loss of revenue means several “may not be able to stay in business,” Ahearn told CNN. Basic Fun! has paused all toy shipments, putting itself in a potentially dire situation. “We cannot afford to take the risk of not knowing what the tariff will be when the goods land,” Foreman said. But at the same time, he said, “if we have no product, we have no cash flow, and that means no money to pay bills.”

#toys #toy industry #Basic Fun #My Little Pony #G1 #Care Bears #praying for Basic Fun which is a small company without the resources of Hasbro #the CEO of MGA is also quoted #I highly recommend reading the entire article

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gay-dorito-dust · 10 months ago

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I saw you asked for some Gravity falls Stanford or Bill stuff SO I HAVE A REQUEST (you don't have to do it it's up to you!) a Stanford x reader where the reader went into the portal with him?

Ford thought he was alone at first until he had realised that you had tried to rope him back from being sucked into the portal, but it was hopeless attempt as the portal ended up pulling you into the multiverse with him in the end.

So when he found himself seemingly without you, he decided that his revenge on bill would have to wait until he had found you first and foremost, which he did after while when he arrived at a dimension where everyone spoke in rhymes. ‘Someone like you fell from the sky, born with a twinkle in their eye, so pleasant and sweet we cannot say goodbye.’

So when Ford is finally reunited with you his first instinct was to grab you by the shoulder and say, ‘I appreciate you trying to pull me out but now look at what you’ve gotten yourself in by being selfless, trapped in the Multiverse with me.’ He was glad that you were okay and seemingly unscathed but still he didn’t like the fact that you had gotten dragged into this mess with him, and now you were both left to wonder if returning him was even possible. Though one thing you were both certain on was that the portal back home would be most likely out of power and lacking the requirements it needed to make it work again, and that would take some time as it took Ford a while to perfect.

so by proxy, you and Ford assumed that it would probably take Stan twice as long to get it up and running again. Which also meant that until that day the portal opens back up, you and Ford were on your own with the arduous task of surviving until that fateful day comes. And it was the hardest thirty years of your life wasted as you and Ford spent most of it escaping one dimension for crimes you’ve committed, only to run away from the dimension you sought shelter in because you just had to ask the locals when they’ll lead a rebellion against their tyrannical leaders.

‘I had to ask!’ You screamed to Ford over the sound of blaster fire heading your way.

‘Stop trying to insight rebellion in every dimension we come across just because you didn’t like the look of their governmental leaders!’ Ford screamed back as he pulled you both into a nearby cave, keeping you close just until the government gave up momentarily in trying to find you.

‘They’re old, balding men! What’s there to like!?’ You replied as Ford could only hope that the next dimension didn’t elicit the same reaction out of you like the past five dimensions did. Which thankfully it didn’t as the next dimension you visited was filled with cute little fluffy creatures.

‘Ford! They’re so fucking cute and fluffy!’ You exclaimed as you bundled a few of the cute critters in your arms and held them tightly again your face. ‘You can leave me here if you want I don’t care I’m in heaven.’ You added with a dreamy sigh.

‘No, we must keep moving, so put them down and leave them be.’ Ford said but while he couldn’t deny how adorable the critters with the big eyes looked, it was how relaxed and at peace you were that made him stop and stare. While your face might be littered in scars and dirt from the fighting and escaping you’ve done together, but it didn’t hinder the fact that Ford hadn’t seen you this happy in a long, long time. ‘Fine,’ he sighed as he sat himself down next to you, allowing some of the critters to clamber on his lap and start to purr, ‘five more minutes then we have to leave.’

‘Yay! It seems as though you aren’t immune to cuteness either are you Ford.’ You teasingly nudged him as you nuzzled your face against the soft fur of the locals of this dimension, unaware of the soft look Ford gave you while you did so. He didn’t do it because of the creatures, he did it because you deserved a rest snd he wasn’t about to take that away from you.

You both ended up staying there for fifteen minutes before having to leave because some bounty hunters had followed your trail, though not before you nodded the cute critters a sad farewell that Ford has to grab you by the hand and drag you himself.

‘I’ll come back for you!’ You screamed back at the fluffy critters.

‘No we won’t.’ Ford then said, mentally promising to find you a plushie that was similar to the creatures if you ever get back home, but for now? You needed to survive if you wanted to see that plushy.

You had multiple heart to heart moments while cosying up near a fire throughout your adventures in the multiverse, staring up at the stars with hope (you) and cynicism (Ford)

‘Do you think we’ll ever get home?’ You asked Ford once, voice barely above a whisper. ‘Or are we going to spend the rest of our days running from everything, and don’t try to tell me something I want to hear because I think I’ll cry if you do.’

Ford stayed silent as he thought about how he should use his words but decided to forgo it and just say it instead of overthinking it for the sake of protecting you from a harsher reality that you both already face daily. ‘I’ve lost hope on going home the moment I got pulled into that portal,’ he begins, ‘if running is the life I have left I’ll live it but I’ll find you a nice dimension to settle in the day you want to call quits on all this, I promise.’ Ford added as he placed a comforting hand on your shoulder but yet his smile didn’t reach his eyes and that’s when you knew that Ford was lying, to you or himself you weren’t quite sure, but decided to stay silent for now.

‘And who’ll look after you stupid?’ You asked playfully as you nudged him in the side. You didn’t like the thought of leaving Ford alone, you both entered the multiverse together and you’ll leave it together too, however that maybe. That and you didn’t like being alone without your smart partner in multiversal crime.

‘I can look after myself.’ Ford said, a little insulted but you made a noise of disagreement.

‘That blaster shot you took and hide from me back in dimension 2 for weeks on end says otherwise.’ You reminded him, that day scared you to your core, seeing Ford almost lifeless that morning, lying in his own blood made you scream bloody murder as you tried everything you could to patch up his wound through teary vision. Even now you feared that you’d wake up and find him dead in his own blood or taken from you in the night.

‘I didn’t want to worry you.’ Ford muttered under his breath as he felt his cheeks flustered.

‘Well I did worry about you then, I still do worry about you now.’ You told him as you reached out to grasp his hand in yours, smiling at him and you weren’t lying when you said this, you could see the dark bags form under his eyes and the fatigue seething in his face that made him look older then he did. You knew you wouldn’t stop worrying about Ford and you like to think that Ford was smart enough to know this too.

‘I know.’ Ford replied softly as he looked at you, place his other hand on top of yours. ‘You did a poor job hiding that you care.’

‘Is that such a bad thing?’ You asked and Ford only chuckled. ‘No, it’s not I just don’t feel as though I’m deserving of your worry half of the time.’ He admits as he gazed into the fire as though it’ll give him the answers he sought.

You then shuffled closer to Ford until your shoulders touched and you rested your head against his shoulder, staring into the fire yourself. ‘You do deserve my worry Ford, don’t ever think you don’t because I don’t want to leave this place without you, I need my smart buddy with me when we leave, you then intertwined your fingers with his, ‘together.’

Ford squeezes your hand in return as he looked at you with a soft smile. ‘Okay, then worry over me all you like.’ He had as he then rested his head atop of yours.

The multiverse was unpredictable as it was dangerous but as long as you had each other, you could get through anything it threw at you.

#gravity falls x reader #gravity falls imagine #gravity falls imagines #gravity falls #stanford pines x you #stanford pines imagines #stanford pines imagine #stanford pines x reader #ford pines x you #ford pines imagines #ford pines imagine #ford pines x reader

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heartfullofleeches · 1 month ago

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I Dream of Raw Meat

Yan Delivery Man Drabble

TW: Gore, Consumption of Raw Meat

It's 4am.

There's an ice cream truck outside your bedroom window.

Sweat glues your body to the mattress. A whisper of chiller weather calls to you, slipping through the cracks of your fragile mental state.

You can't pinpoint the precise moment your feet betray your restless mind- carrying you out of bed, down the long, twisting hallways of your home. Phasing right through the ajar front door. Bare skin slaps against the asphalt as your brought closer to the truck, towering steel walls imposing over you like a skyscraper.

A poster containing an extensive list of products often is the first thing your mind is able to comprehend. The photos advertising said items, are not. Rows upon rows of censored out squares, but the similarity don't stop there.

Red. As far as the eye can see. Its pink in some areas, grayish in others. Photos relating to the latter, the contents appear to be mushier and past its prime, but undertones of its original hue poke through the holes of its current state.

Text beneath each photo fares no better- No, that isn't right. Between garbled letters and scratches in the truck's paint, a single word stands out among the rest. Your mind fills in the blanks for those you cannot decipher.

"Chocolate dipped meat."

"Meatshakes."

"I want to meat you."

"Meat on a cone."

"Can you meat me?"

"Tripple scooped meat."

"My name is meat."

"Meat, meat, meat, me-"

You will your eyes closed. Howls from your abdomen echo into the eerie, silent night. It feels like you haven't eaten in months. Your knuckles rap against the closed window of the truck, lips moving of their own accord.

"Meat."

The truck rocks with the force of its window whisking open. Darkness pools out like tar. Somewhere through darkness, a hand reaches out. It vanishes into thin air as you take your purchase from it- Your wallet still sitting comfortably were you left it on your nightstand.

A whopping scoop of strawberry ice cream grounds the ice cream cone in hand. Heart shaped spinkles scatter across its surface. The deformities of many of the bundles of sugar draw them closer to depictions of anatomically accurate versions of the organ they mirror.

Eyes devouring the treat before you have the opportunity, you lend in for a bite. The first bite is sweet, a mouthful of sprinkles guiding you through the undertones of something sinister. The second tastes like a penny, warmed by the heat of your skin. Ice cream drips down your face, sticking to your lips in stringy, gooey clumps.

The third tastes like beef that could've used a few more minutes on the stove, a rich, iron flavor mingling with the sear of a charred slab of meat.

You bite down on something hard.

Digging through the melting cream on your tongue, you pull the foreign object free.

Its a tooth.

You look down at the cone.

It states back.

You wake up in a cold sweat.

Your mouth is dry, devoid of any taste. You scrub your teeth with the pads of your thumb just to make sure. You let go of the breath you held as they come back clean.

That dream. That same damned dream. It haunts you on days when...

Throwing your blankets aside and tossing on your shoes, you race for the front door - tripped up by haste and your own untied laces. Self sabotage brushed aside, your fingers wrap around the door handle in the nick of time. Just to see him inches from the door of his truck.

"Hey!"

The man freezes. He turns to you, that colossal, monstrous build of his trembling like a leaf in the wind. His head snaps between you and his truck, unable to decide which to run towards. You cannot read his expression from the collar of his thick white coat covering the lower half of his face. The bill of his hat masking the rest.

You tip toe around the package left at your doorstep, goosebumps prickling your calf from the cold air wafting from it. With every step, the man grows larger. Fists clenched, you remain determined. You needed to know. The question that's been on your mind for weeks now.

"Why have you been delivering fresh meat to my doorstep at four in the morning for the past month?"

It isn't the cheap stuff either. The cost of groceries seems to be rising by the day. You were so hungry. The cuts were packaged too professionally to be the work of a deranged cannibal. You hoped. To your luck, everything turned out to taste like what you were used to, if not higher qualities. Beef, pork, lamb. There was even venison at some point. All red meats.

"I asked my neighbors, but they all said the same thing. I appreciate it, but I think you have the wrong address. I'm sure whoever it belongs to must be pissed by now."

The man stiffens at that word. Appreciation. Rummaging through his pocket, he sticks a hand out to you as he kneels - like a someone showing a frightened animal they mean no harm. He places something on the ground, darting for the door of his truck before you can protest. The engines roars to life- and he's gone. The only traces of his presence being the tire tracks on the road and the present he left you.

Its a rose. Made of raw meat. "Petals" held together by am assortment of toothpicks.

#yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yandere blurb #yandere insert #yandere headcanons #yandere #yandere oc #yandere scenarios #yandere teratophilia #yandere drabble #yandere writing

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corazondebeskar-reads · 4 months ago

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of rage and ruin - chapter ten

chapter ten

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

werewolf!alpha!Joel Miller x f!omega!reader

word count: 5.6k

summary: joel faces his inability to protect you.

chapter warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, a/b/o, alpha/omega dynamics, omegaverse, captivity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, horror themes, graphic violence, abuse by captors (not by either joel or reader), body horror, viewer discretion is advised, p in v, oral, torture

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Tommy Miller is a changed man.

Four and a half years of scouring the midwest will do that to someone.

So will being bitten by a toddler.

Well. Probably not just any toddler.

After Tommy had cajoled DJ into sinking his tiny teeth into Tommy’s bicep, Laura hadn’t spoken to him for three months. She refused his company at the door.

“I have spent years—years, Miller—teaching that boy that he cannot, under any circumstances, bite someone. Do you know how hard it is to convince a toddler not to bite? Do you?” Laura had berated him thoroughly, and shut the door in his face.

She’d forgiven him, after some nudging from Tess, and a couple special deals with Bill for some new shoes for the boys.

Even so, he’d never felt quite so alone before. There was a pull behind his ribs, an ache that said he could not give up.

“You really don’t feel any different?” Tess said cautiously, one night when all three adults were lounged on the worn leather couches in Laura’s cottage, passing a bottle of whiskey.

“Nah,” Tommy says. “Well, I do, but I can’t explain it. But I think I’m getting closer. I’ve got this feeling.”

Tess crooked a brow at him. “You got me brokering deals across the goddamn half of the country based on a feeling?”

“Ain’t like you’re getting nothin’ out of it,” he grumbled.

“I know what you mean,” Laura admitted. “I— when Peter died—” she, with a kindness he feels sick for accepting, doesn’t say 'when you shot my husband.' “I knew.”

“That’s freaky,” Tess says bluntly. “But alright. I’ll keep pressin’em for info.”

It was hard, though, to get real information out of anyone, when you can’t explain that the missing person in question may also be an 8-foot-tall fairytale monster.

There were rumors, though. Most of them turned out about as well as if he were looking for Bigfoot.

Tess spent less and less time in Boston, taking up Laura’s sofa. Tommy spent less and less time at Joel’s cabin, instead roaming the country for any sign of his brother. Sometimes, Tess would go with him, usually if she had secured a good trade at the same time.

But there was no sign of Joel.

Joel doesn’t let you out of his sight. He refuses to go out, even when they bring him to the ground with the shock collar.

“She goes with me,” he snarls.

Jim throws his hands in the air in frustration. They’ve tried… well, they’ve tried a lot of horrible things. You wish he would just go and stop getting hurt.

“Joel,” you plead for the nth time.

“Look at it this way,” Jim leers. “You either go and risk her getting hurt. Or you refuse and guarantee it.”

Joel wolfs out for the nth time, and horribly, you share a look with Cheryl.

“For fuck’s sake,” she says, finally breaking her uncharacteristic silence. “He wants to bring the girl? Fine. We’ll bring her.”

Her words are not a comfort. There is no promise of safety. But truth be told, not that you’ll voice it after all this, not that you’d ever disagree with Joel in front of them, but the verdict is a tightening noose.

To you, the threat is gone. You helped him pick the threat out of his teeth. The two brothers were an anomaly; none of these people have any loyalty to one another. The status quo works right now, but at the slightest tip of the ship, that ends. No one is coming after you because of Mike.

Joel had furrowed his brows, shaking his head with a glower. “That’s what we thought about Mike. Ain’t riskin’ it, darlin’. And that’s final.”

He hadn’t used his alpha voice, but you had felt compelled to shut up anyway. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe it was the way his jaw was set tight. You reached up, one hand against his cheek, thumb brushing his beard. “Okay,” you capitulate.

He almost bristles at the coddling, but the rigidity leaves him in a heaving sigh, and he allows himself a moment to lean into your gentle touch. His hand covers yours, trapping it there.

“Atta girl,” he mumbled, drawing your palm to his lips for a kiss.

Now that it was happening, though? He smells the acrid citrus disinfectant of your fear as it curls into guilt in his lungs.

Not that he can do anything to help. He stands, hands through the bars, as they shackle him. He waits, brow twitching, as they fit the muzzle around his snout. Two of the lackeys push him against the cinder block wall outside your room, twin prongs jabbing against the furry expanse of his chest. It heaves with his heavy pants, eyes darting between his would-be guards and where you’re similarly being bound.

Jim bitches. Of course he does. He bitches the whole time they begin the march to the surface, to the wild.

They shove you in the van behind Joel, and he uses his great, hairy body to catch you, huffing and nudging until you manage to sit on his lap. Your hands are bound tight behind your back, tense lines of your body perched precariously, but the only other option is the floor.

The raiders are piled in around you. Well, most of them. Cheryl and her favored lackeys are in a pick-up truck following behind. Jim drives, ruling this operation as he does every other—with rigid, unwavering control. The others trapped with you in the cargo hull have guns or tasers, so clearly uncomfortable with sharing an enclosed tin can with the most dangerous creature they’ve ever known.

None of them look at you. It’s too careful to be coincidence. He’s made his point.

The Wolf doesn’t think it’s enough, so he growls every time someone so much as shifts in their seat.

It speaks to the danger that you don’t even think of making a Little Red Riding Hood or Three Little Pigs joke, though they do come to you later.

The raid is anticlimactic. The raiders mow down most of the other group. Joel disposes of the rest with neither pomp nor circumstance, just swift swipes of sharp claws.

They work methodically through the small house, loading the back of the pickup with their spoils. That takes far longer than the slaughter.

“Can I sit down?” you eventually ask Cheryl. Jim’s made her your keeper, since she made the call to drag you along.

“What the fuck do I care?” she snaps, examining a nail under the light of the moon.

So you sit on the porch and wait, hoping you don’t get a splinter in your ass.

Later, under the illusion of safety, you nestle into the circle of him, as you had in those earlier days. You tip your head back and bury your fingers in his fur, one hand petting and the other holding tight. He makes a sort of snuffly sound, inquisitive and wary.

“I’m still not scared of you,” you say, splitting the silent night. “I watched you eat a dude. Today was nothing.”

He rolls his eyes but settles back down, head resting on his misshapen arms.

When you wake, he’s more man than wolf. It’s been that way more and more often, now.

Joel cradles you the way he always does, like a child at the beach whose fistfuls of sand keep retreating with the waves. There’s a tender desperation to it that makes you ache. You can’t take it, pulling yourself close to him with his shoulders beneath your grasp, pressing your lips together as if the sweet sedative of his saliva could fix the rabbity seizing of your heart.

A twinge near your hip gives you pause, a creeping reminder of something that shouldn’t have been forgotten.

“Hey Joel,” you say slowly, drawing his eyebrows up, “you said the heats are for…”

He hears the word you can’t force from your mouth. As his fingers continue their steady rhythm, the soothing back-and-forth against your temple, he douses your worry.

“‘m shootin’ blanks, darlin’,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your neck, not pursuing anything, but luxuriating in the moment.

You shouldn’t laugh, but you snort anyway. “You’re telling me that you’re… fixed ?” you tease. Any self-control you had before doesn’t seem to have survived him.

He pulls away from his lazy kisses to scowl at you. “Shut up,” he grumbles, though there’s no mistaking the twitch of his lips as you grin.

“I’m right,” you say, squealing as he nips at your neck in retaliation.

“Ha ha,” he says, deadpan with a wry twist of his lips. “I get it. Like a dog. You gotta get some new jokes.”

“No, I’m good; these are still funny,” you say, wrapping one hand around the nape of his neck and trying to tug him back to his affections.

“I’m serious, though,” he says, somehow settling the little bubbles that crept up your throat. “Got snipped a long time ago.”

It’s an answer that asks questions. You don’t give them a voice. Not why, not when. You’re haunted by the thought of his past. My daughter loved that shit. It’s been weeks since he dropped that little tidbit, and neither of you have dug it back up. He sees the questions blooming in your eyes even as you snip them at the root, and shakes his head, so you follow a safer path of curiosity.

“What about the healing? What if it undid it? That’s a thing, right? Undoing vasectomies?”

“Thought about that, too. But none of my other scars or injuries from before went away. Why would that?”

He sounds so casually confident, and you can’t really disagree. “So you’re saying I won myself a sweepstakes from Little Debbie?”

He closes his eyes for a moment before looking skyward. “What’re you on about now?”

“A lifetime supply of creampies,” you say seriously, but it doesn’t hold, and you bury your laughter in his arm.

“You’re an idiot,” he says flatly, shaking his head. “And those are oatmeal cream pies, you pervert.”

It just makes you laugh harder. “I’m your little toaster strudel.”

He groans. “Wrong. Icin’ goes on the top of those.”

“Says the man who literally rubbed his jizz over my tits.”

“Alright, time for you to be quiet,” he says, covering your mouth with his hand only to snatch it back when you bite. “Now who’s the fuckin’ dog?” he mutters.

“Aw, giving up?” you say as he rises on his haunches, still looming over you.

“Nope,” he pops the p as his smirk grows. “Got a better way t’shut you up.”

The thing about him being nude all the time is that you’re hyper-aware of the status of his cock, like, all the time. It’s been half-mast for the last hour, but it’s paying full attention now.

“Guess I’m just as much of a dog as you. Got me over here like Pavlov.”

“Pavlov was the scientist,” Joel says absently, stroking his cock and scooting closer to where you’re sitting up in anticipation.

“S’there a way to shut you up?” But you don’t need to ask. You cut off his retort by taking the tip of his cock between your lips and sucking hard.

His words become a strangled whimper and you pull off with a lewd pop. “Oh yeah,” you say, “like that.”

Before he can muster up another snarky comment, you take his balls in one hand, rubbing your thumb over them to make his hips jerk a little. His hands don’t stay off you for long, but he doesn’t try to push you around or rush you.

A sweet kiss to each, and he knows this’ll be over a lot sooner than he’d like.

But goddamn, will it be worth it.

You groan at the velvety feel of his wrinkled sac, which grows more and more taut as you adorn it with little kitten licks, nuzzling your cheek against it. His oaky bourbon musk has a sharp edge to it that makes you a little dizzy. With a single-minded focus, your hands curl around the backs of his thighs, a soft sigh ruffling the coarse hair.

You pause to pick one of said hairs from your teeth and go back in for more.

His hand rests on your head, and he gazes down at you, his eyes dark like the underbelly of a cloud grown heavy with a brewing storm. The wiry tuft of his pubes copies his scruffy beard, though the former is far less salt than salt-and-pepper. The hard line of his cock presses against your cheek, the slip of his foreskin smooth. It leaves a trail behind when you pull away, though you can’t help but lean back in and kiss the rest from the tip.

He does the unthinkable in that moment.

He steps back.

You look up sharply, catching yourself with an oof. “Wha—”

He doesn’t even let you finish wondering. He grabs you, both palms smothering your hips, and rolls you onto your stomach. It’s not a display of his brute strength, but instead of the thrall you don’t like to admit to being under. The slightest pressure from his urging has you rolling over.

“Need t’be inside you,” he grunts.

“You were, ” you protest with no protest.

He shuts you up much more efficiently by the intensity of his grip on your hips as he pushes into you. His impatience finds his cock buried in the depths of your cunt and his teeth buried in the shallows of your shoulder. He rests on his elbows with your upper body trapped between them.

The breath leaves you in a whine, air forced from your lungs under the pressure of his bulk on you.

“Oh,” is all you can muster.

He nips at your ear in response, laving his kisses and tongue down your neck, bringing his teeth back up to the line of your jaw.

It’s so much. You’re overwhelmed by him, by the way something in you sings at the weight pinning you to the cold floor, sweater rucked up about your waist. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to turn that isn’t Joel, and it’s bliss. White static and the pounding of his hips against your ass consume you. Your gasps and grunts and moans come from somewhere in the distance, not quite underwater, but only because his are rough in your ear, keeping you afloat.

He runs hot, hotter than any man you’ve lain with before, and it’s not long before sweat slicks between your bodies, dripping down from his brow. You’ve given up all illusion of being an active participant, instead laying your cheek against the cool ground and letting your eyes close.

The angle is divine. Each rock of his hips grants you the tiniest bit of friction, but it ends up being all you need. He makes you come once, twice, three exhausting times before he allows himself to take what he needs, fucking down into you mercilessly.

You only get to delight in the sensation of his cock twitching, of the bursts of his cum inside, for a moment before he’s pulling out to spill the rest across your ass.

When he pulls out, he slides off you to the side, but keeps you pinned with a leg and arm over you. If you weren’t so sated, floating your way down from the exquisite high, you’d roll your eyes. He’s letting it dry; of course he is.

He nudges you with his nose, and you turn your head to catch his eyes. They’re as tired and pleased as yours, but something cheeky lurks there. He doesn’t make you wait long for it.

“There," he says with a slap to your ass. "Now You’re a cream pie Toaster Strudel. Happy?” He's deadpan with flat brows and a scowl.

You laugh, lighter than you’ve been in a long time. It almost sobers you—the realization that you are. You may not be happy with your living conditions and dangerous circumstances. But you’re… you’re happy with him.

“Oh, you’re a pastry chef now?” You tease before pressing a kiss to his prickly cheek. “Yeah. M’happy.”

He stiffens at the way your voice goes so soft. So fond. It’s undeniable—the very thing he feared the most coming to full bloom before his eyes.

But what was he to do? This wretched world that always takes, always, never gives, it had given him you. And he’s too damn selfish to care anymore. There’s the imprint of concern, a triplicate carbon copy—barely indented, barely visible.

But more than that, it’s a facsimile. It’s the only thing that remains of the cautious voice warning him to keep a distance. To protect you from being hurt. To protect you from himself.

He can’t protect you from himself anymore. His hold on you turns, tightens like a corset around your ribs, and he watches in disbelief as you simply melt into it.

No fear. No flight. No fight. Just you, and him, here. Any energy he had earlier is sapped seems to leak out from his sigh, unfurling from the look in his eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have called it fond.

Joel, though? Joel’d've called it something else.

The trips outdoors happen weekly. At least, you think so. Not that you know much about the passage of time beyond the phases of the moon. They skip the new moon since the Man isn’t useful. Everything is by-the-book, if there was such an awful thing, until the second full moon.

The Wolf Moon rises above the glittering snow, and all hell breaks loose in her glow.

The heavy, languid body sits huge on the horizon, commanding control. It’s hypnotic. You can’t really quite look away from the cold yellow, bigger than the sun and twice as potent.

You don’t even notice that you’ve started to move when she catches you.

Cheryl’s nails make little crescents in your shoulder, her face so close that her hot breath puffs into your ear. It’s an awful sensation, and you want no part of her in or on your body. But here you are, too afraid to do anything but take it.

“You’re just as mindless as he is,” she says with a breathless laugh.

You consider protesting, but she beats you to it.

“He doesn’t even know who he is. He’s got no control. Only obeys his master,” she says. Her fingers curl under your chin, grinding the soft flesh against your teeth as she forces you to look at Jim.

He’s got a girl by the throat. She can’t be more than fifteen. His gun sits in his hip holster, knife in his pocket. He doesn’t need a weapon. He has the Wolf.

A man who can’t be anyone but her father is pleading on his knees. You can’t hear anything, don’t know his crimes against Jim. But Jim kicks the man back with a boot against his chest and drops the girl unceremoniously to the ground.

He snaps his fingers and points. And the wolf lunges, teeth catching in the moonlight.

You don’t realize you’ve screamed until the whole clearing goes silent. He’s frozen, inches from the girl, but all his attention is on you.

“Don’t,” you whisper, and he recoils from her, standing on his warped legs and howling.

“You little bitch,” Cheryl hisses, her fingers dropping your chin in favor of your throat. There’s a fraction of a moment where the world pauses before the cacophony erupts.

Joel snarls, lunging for Cheryl. Jim hits the shock collar’s trigger. Joel stumbles, falls, and keeps moving.

It earns him a bullet to the leg. Jim never lets go of the button, and you scream as he convulses, bleeding profusely on the thick patch of grass.

It’s the last thing you see before everything goes dark.

When you wake up, you’re in the cage.

Outside the room.

Joel paces in front of the barred door, eyes never leaving you. A sigh billows out when he sees that you’re awake. He drops to his knees, reaches, and just barely grabs the bars before he pulls. The metal screeches something awful against the tile, but he can reach you now.

“Hey,” he urges, voice low and a little wrecked. “Tell me you’re okay. C’mon.”

“I’m okay,” you groan, but make no effort to sit up. You stare up at him, inverted as he is, half-obscured by the bars. “I miss Excedrin.”

He frowns, brows furrowed, but disregards your complaint. “Y’ain’t bleeding,” he says by way of comfort, though more for his benefit.

“No, just fuckin’... hurts,” you say, closing your eyes against the sickening flicker of the nearly-burnt bulb.

“That was real stupid,” he says. It lacks real bite, but it’s bloated with something worse than anger.

“We both lived. And that girl.”

Joel winces and looks away.

“No,” you say weakly.

“They shot ‘em all,” he says, the gravity of their fate dragging you down. “They never leave anyone alive.”

“No,” you repeat quietly. His words are the swing of an axe to your sternum.

He looks away. He’s always known you’re too soft, too good. Somehow free of dried blood under your fingernails all your life. He’s never asked, may never ask, how you ended up here. It’s not the thing to do.

Nobody talks about before.

“I know that ain’t what you want to hear,” he tries, but it’s disingenuous, placations like packing peanuts in their unwanted staticity and general ineffectiveness. The sound grates in his ears about the same, too.

“Sweetheart, listen t’me. Y’can’t interfere. They brought you here to get me to cooperate. If they think you’re a problem, they’re going to shoot you.”

It’s a sobering truth. “But—“ you whisper.

Joel isn’t having it. “I told you. I ain’t the man you think I am.” He swallows hard, and something shifts, his eyes gone cold and the set of his jaw hardening into a plaster mask. “I kill people. All the time, darlin’. Even before I got bit. It’s what a man like me has to do to survive and protect people I—” a pause, a catch in his throat—”my people. Do you understand?”

He hates the way apprehension settles your teeth into the soft bed of your lower lip. The way your gaze is unwavering, though the ache wafts like citronella, as if that could keep him at bay.

“I said, do you understand?” He repeats firmly. His words aren’t harsh, but they cut anyway. His hands on the bars rattle you a little, as if your dizzy brain needs more centrifugal motion.

“I don’t want to,” you hear yourself say as if underwater. You’ve never heard yourself sound quite so small.

“Goddamnit,” he growls, dropping his hands from you and rising to his feet in one smooth motion. “Goddamnit, can’t you see I’m tryin’? For fucks sake, just shut your eyes and don’t watch if that’s what you gotta do. But if you pull a stunt like that again, I can’t protect you. They will kill you.”

You draw your knees to your chest, tucked up against the corner. “I—I just—“

“You just nothing,” he snaps. “You need to listen t’me. Do what you’re told so I can keep you safe. Don’t you understand? Don’t you get it? I am not gonna let you get yourself killed because you can’t stomach what has to be done.”

Your throat closes, eyes squeezed shut tight.

He heaves a loud, grating sigh and covers his face with both hands, head tipping back.

A minute drags into five, and the only sound in the cell is your matching measured breaths. The thrum of his heartbeat from across the room. The silence fills with the buzz of your brain seeping out to your ears, the crackle of tinnitus, and just when you think you’re going to crack, he moves.

Joel crouches in front of you. “Hey,” he says gruffly, but with less bite. “Look at me,” he coaxes gently.

You want to bristle at being treated like a skittish horse, but instead, you acquiesce, taking in the lumbering shadow of him. You swallow hard, your heart lodged in your throat like gravel.

He sighs again, and closes his eyes for a moment before looking at you. Really, really looking. And he doesn’t like what he sees. As if your scent didn’t give it away. It’s different, somehow, seeing the fear stiffen your shoulders and pull you back from him like a hooked fish.

“It can’t be any other way,” he says. “I’m… I’m a bad man, a shitty person, and that’s mine to bear. I can’t shield you from it. I tried.” His voice croaks a little on the tail end. “And…” he makes sure you’re looking at him still, his hand slipping between the bars, catching your chin. His thumb brushes your lip as if he can rub the bite marks out. “And I ain’t sorry. Not if it keeps us alive.”

It’s strange, the way his words turn you inside out, and his touch puts you back. But you’re properly distracted from reading too much into it by footsteps clomping down the stairs.

The cage turns out to have been for dramatics. A red-headed man you’ve not seen before has shown up to haul you from it and dump you back in the room across the hall.

This time, Joel is quiet. He wants to snarl, to yell, to threaten. But he bites his tongue and lets it happen. It’s this or a bullet in your skull.

Instead, he paces the cell, near-sleepless. You can hear him at all hours of the day, the padding of his bare feet akin to the beat of his heart that usually lulls you to sleep. It’s a poor substitute, but you’ve learned to accept scraps.

They keep up their end of the bargain, though, and ten days later, they pull you from the locker room to ride along on the latest outing. This time, though, you’re stuck in the truck with Cheryl.

She turns sideways to regard you down the petite line of her nose. “Do I need to gag you?”

The question is drawled lazily, but her hand holding the switchblade as she cleans under her nails is anything but. The knife catches in the moonlight, the silver gleam a steady promise.

“No,” you mumble.

Nothing happens. She locks you in the truck, still bound. Sure, you might be able to reach the locks, but getting the door open is another story. And surely you’d fall on your face in the mud.

For a moment, Joel protests, but gives in. You’re safe in the truck, and he can still see you, still smell you, still hear your heart pulse through his eardrums as if it were his own.

You don’t watch, but you have to listen.

Nobody pays you any mind, which means you risk peeking into the bed of the truck. There are the expected supplies—rope, tools, and old sheets. But more importantly, much more importantly, a line of filled backpacks are tucked against the cab. Go bags. They have to be. There’s a bedroll on each, and you’d bet your sweater they’re full of supplies.

Oh, Jesus. Has your life really come to that? The only meaningful thing you have to wager against yourself is a sweater?

Fuck.

The bags live in the back of your mind, scurried away with the tidbits you’re collecting and trying to sweep into a pile vaguely resembling a plan.

It’s not going great, because Joel isn’t cooperating.

“You have to eat,” you plead.

His hands grip your shoulders, seizing onto you like it’ll make any damn difference. “I can't fucking take it anymore. Can't fuckin' sit by letting it happen,” he hisses.

“Joel,” you murmur, bringing your hands up to cup his warm, scruffy face. “Please. When the time is right, we’ll stop. But for now, please.”

He crumples, as he always does when you beg so sweetly. And he has to admit you’re right. This is not the way. There will be a time, but the new moon isn’t it. He can’t put you in danger by being weaker than ever.

He heaves a sigh and picks up a flank, rending the meat from the bone like he’s sectioning an orange. It should be disgusting, watching him eat raw, bloody flesh.

It should be.

Right?

You’re not sure anymore.

You’ve never been one for gratuitous displays of strength, but this… isn’t that. This is primal. It stirs behind your sternum, a possessive rumble that has him look up at you with an eyebrow raised. You shake your head and scrub at your face with both hands until it settles.

He gives a huff of approval, and then, capitulating to his belly that seemed to respond in kind to your growl, he shifts and does his magic trick, turning a huge stack of meat into a bloody tray.

When he stalks over to you after, he raises one thick, sharp-tipped finger in your face. “Don’t say it,” he warns.

You stifle a laugh. “Don’t say what?” you ask, all fluttering lashes and saccharine innocence.

“Don’t,” he says, but the sternness of his voice falters.

“Don’t ask if you’re ready for dessert?”

He groans, head dropping to your shoulder before sitting back on his haunches. “You’re not a very good listener,” he says. “Maybe we’ll skip dessert.” His eyes roll.

“What? No,” you say.

“Bad girls don’t get rewards,” he says, and to your mortification, you burn and squirm where he has you pinned with his hips.

He chuckles. “Aw, ya gonna pout now?”

“C’mon,” you whine. “It was just a joke. You wouldn’t be that mean.”

“I’m fixin’ to leave you high n’ dry.”

“ Joooooel,” you whine, and fix him with your best pleading eyes. “You’re not gonna take care of me?”

He twitches. “That ain’t fair.”

“But alpha—”

He cuts you off with a growl, yanking you by the hips and diving in. He holds you to the mattress with ease as you squirm and savor each stroke of his tongue, and doesn’t let go until he’s had his fill.

The days trickle, but it’s harder to abide them. You had taken this tentative peace for granted, before, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to see the veil. It’s still there, now, but you’re hyperaware of the shroud.

Gone are the lazy days of lounging and fucking and sucking. Gone are the luxurious cat-naps (dog-naps? wolf-naps? freak-of-nature-naps?), and you struggle to remember that you’re supposed to be figuring out a plan.

Joel doesn’t forget, though. Despite your argument, he’s eating less and less. He can’t stand the haze, can’t stand the complacency that stole nearly five years of his life.

At night, he broods and schemes.

“Next time, I want you to run,” he says.

“We’re not ready.”

“We’re gonna get you ready.”

You sit up in the darkness, your eyes as sharp as in the sunlight. “I’m not going without you.”

He growls. “Darlin’, you ain’t got a choice. You hear me? You get a chance? Take it. Swear to me.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

He shakes you a little roughly. “You will if you have to. Understand me? Swear it, omega.”

He knows you’re pissed. And maybe you’ll never forgive him, never trust him again after he’s done what he swore he’d never do. But you’ll be free.

“Yes, alpha, ” you grit out, teeth creaking with the strength of your clenched jaw. Your hands ball into fists, but there’s nowhere to direct your anger.

His mouth drags blunt teeth down your neck, and you snarl. He’s reminded just how much you’ve changed. How every day with him turns you more and more into the animal he makes you.

How much his bite has cost you.

“Tell me again,” he says gruffly as you give in to the insistent pressure of his claim and relax against him. He hates it, hates doing this to you when he knows on the inside you’re frothing and raging and burning.

But he holds you to him with that same fire and makes you repeat it. Over and over. Coordinates he could say in his sleep. The location of the key, the way to jimmy the back window loose if it’s gone.

And the name. Tommy. Tommy. Tommy.

Find Tommy.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

This was just a test run. An experiment to see if your newly-cleared brains (and viciously empty stomachs) welcomed back your sharp senses and survival skills. It wasn’t supposed to be the run.

You’re not ready. You have no supplies, no direction, no plan.

But it’s happening. It’s your chance, and you must take it. You hesitate long enough that the Wolf tips his head back and howls, urging you, and even though he speaks no words, your body must listen.

There’s no command, no compulsion. No, the howl is worse because it’s a plea.

You must run.

So you do.

Your heart pounds in sync with the beats of your bare feet against the forest floor. You don’t know where you’re going. You don’t know where you’ve been. The world blurs, not because you’re going fast enough but because of the unbidden tears pricking at your eyes, the pulse of fear and foreboding familiar.

Crack. Bark shatters to your right.

Crack. Dirt upturned inches from your left foot.

Crack. A yelp.

No. No.

They wouldn’t. They need him.

It becomes your mantra.

Each thud of your foot against the rotting leaves and hard-packed soil pounds with it. They wouldn’t. They need him. They wouldn’t. They need him.

The bullets stop; there’s no pursuit. You’re disposable.

Find Tommy.

Everything narrows to your path. To your feet and the way they carry you in turn, away from the angry yelling and howling and screams. Away from your prison and its guards. Away from your alpha— no. You can’t think like that. You’ll see him again.

You will.

Right?

dearest beloved readers, our story is coming to an end soon. it may be 2-3 more chapters including an epilogue. this particular chapter is one i'm v nervous about sharing since it's been our destination from the start. pls be niceys to me and i love you all, thank you so so much for reading.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #alpha!joel miller #alpha!joel miller x omega!reader #omegaverse fic #a/b/o fic #werewolf!joel #dead dove fic #fic: of rage and ruin #tlou fic #joel miller fic

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jeanbie · 3 months ago

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BABY (YOU'RE MY LULLABY) PT.1 ★ masterlist.

pairing: jake x reader

warnings: na'vi!fem!reader, pregnancy, domestic fluff/bliss, tsu'tey lives because i said so, "jakesully" for a while, pre!atwow | wc: 7.4k | ♬

note: inspired by @fluloa's post on jake being the baby daddy with his unmated partner, and i kinda took a spin on that and created this -- not exactly the same as fluloa's post, but definitely inspired by it! i recommend <33 and i've felt super uninspired with smut lately, but i do plan for nsfw jake with this story, depending on overall reception :) lmk what u all think ^__^

⏤ part one | part two

⏤ One thing you love about Jakesully now that he's a part of your clan is that he does not ask difficult questions. He doesn't pry about who the hell knocked you up - he's just more than happy to step up and be the baby's father if it means making you happy.

When the Sky People left Pandora and Jakesully became one of the People, it was a while before you understood what everybody loved about him.

The cost of the war between the Na’vi and the colonisers had been great, and as far as you were aware, he had been part of that problem once, part of the infection of humans spreading across the lands you called home.

But Jakesully’s place among the People was not misguided — Eywa had made her call, and you had heard it. Eventually, the things she saw in him came to light, in ways you never imagined or ever expected, but manifesting into reality all the same.

In actual fact, you realised after many months of Jakesully being part of the clan, that you, too, loved many things about him.

For one, he pulled his weight. He avoided being useless like the plague, taking on roles that other clan members turned their noses up at, and completed them all with no complaints. He was also a man of all trades, from fishing, to hunting, to building. Word had it that Jakesully was particularly talented with his fingers in the beading department, and even nimbler when crafting.

But, one of Jakesully’s more loveable attributes was his kindness, his compassion. It was a tremendous compliment to be a ‘good’ man or woman, and Jakesully fit the bill with perfect accuracy. It had amazed you how loving he was, how genuine and thoughtful and loyal an outsider could be. His efforts in the war had earned him his place as an Omatikaya, but his strong heart was what won everyone’s favour, including your own.

One of the things you really loved about Jakesully in particular was that he did not always ask unnecessary questions. His days of clumsiness felt worlds apart from the man he had become after the war, and you found it suited him, that maturity, the self-awareness to know when to speak and when to be silent.

If Jakesully knew that asking a question would lead him to no answers, he simply did not ask. And today was one of those days.

For four weeks now, you have been filled with an uneasy weight of dread. There is no doubt in your mind, no degree of uncertainty: you know that you are pregnant. And you cannot believe how stupid you feel.

It is one thing to be unmated and pregnant; it happened occasionally in the village, but was never met with hostility. When the Omatikaya were so used to functioning as a family, the question of parents never felt like a problem, so long as the child was raised with love. A mated pair was not necessary for this, although encouraged.

But it is another thing to be unmated and pregnant with the child of a much older clan member, a clan member who was well respected, held no interest in you, and had just mated without your knowledge with somebody else.

Glaring into the wading river, you sift your fingers through the current and work in silence, hoping that the monotonous routine of washing bowls will force your thoughts elsewhere. But they keep pulling back to the same pressing concern, the same overwhelming fear of what is growing inside of you. How are you ever going to explain this to the Tsahìk?

There was no option of telling the father. It would be a challenge in itself trying to convince him to even look at you — he hadn’t done so since the night you conceived the wonder inside your stomach, not since he stood up for the clan to hear a few days later and announced his union with a much prettier, much more suited clan member, Tsu’sley.

And the Tsahìk is no idiot — the child has come from somewhere, so from where and whom?

The soft tread of footsteps behind you barely registers until they are directly behind, your tail whipping the ankles of the approaching Na’vi. You turn, startled, and see Jakesully drop into view on his haunches, a smile on his face.

He knows to find you here in the mornings, after months of figuring out where you’ll be. At first, you had been somewhat of an enigma to him. He hadn’t even known your name until Neytiri told him.

From what Neytiri had said, you were a gentle thing, very loveable. Although he’d never personally met your family, Jakesully had heard through the grapevine that your father died when Kelutral, your Hometree, came down, and since then, your face became a stolen wonder in the village, your light extinguished and presence muted.

His friendship had come as a surprise to you, considering there was nothing in his life gravitating him towards where you chose to work or lounge. But after showing his face once, you found it impossible to avoid him again.

“Hey, you.”

Like always, his foreign drawl makes you blink in surprise. Though Jakesully has become incredibly adept with speaking Na’vi, you supposed that what he liked about spending time with you was that he seldom needed to use it. You had been one of Grace’s more advanced students when her school was up and running — just another surprise for him to discover whilst trying to get to know you.

“Hello,” you mutter in reply, and almost immediately, Jakesully’s smile falls and his tail flicks from side to side uncertainly. Your eyes shift back to the water.

For a moment, he looks at you funny, his eyebrows pinched together. Then, he nudges his elbow against yours gently, the frown making his entire mouth slide down into a sad curve.

“What’s up, sweet?” he asks.

“I am fine,” you reply, voice low, hands tense beneath the water. Jakesully shifts on his feet slightly, as though trying to get a good look at your face, but you remain earnest in glaring at the river, hoping one of your problems might wash away with the grime on the bowls. “Do not stare at me.”

“…You’re being weird,” Jakesully observes, his voice seriously low and confused. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened. I am fine.”

“You sure?” He gently shifts his arm to yours and takes a hold of you. His grip is nowhere near firm enough to pull you away, but you look at him all the same, feeling your heart tug two ways.

The village loved Jakesully to no end — he was honest, he was kind, and he was a friend to many. And he was also your friend, and part of you knew that there was no way he would ever betray your trust.

As you stare at him quietly, your eyes shift across his face, finding only his drawn expression of concern. His eyes are round and warm, all of his features noticeably upturned while he waits for your answer.

Jakesully is not an untrustworthy man. And more than anything, you want a friend you can rely on right now.

Still, you can’t will yourself to speak. Once you speak what you know into the world, it becomes real, and although you are fairly certain that you are pregnant, there is a small part of your heart that longs for it to not be true.

The wiry, thin lines of hair on Jakesully’s forehead rise to his hairline as you shift from his hands, glancing back at the current of the river. No part of you actually believes that he would tell people with malicious intent. You are confident that Jakesully has no malicious bones in his body, and yet, you just can’t take the risk.

First, before you tell anybody at all, you need to figure out what you’re going to do.

“I have much to do today,” you tell him, as his eyes run a risk assessment on your body as though he doesn’t believe you one bit. “I heard you are joining the tarpongu on a hunt today.” For a brief moment, you glance sideways to where Jakesully is still haunched, his expression pulled inwards with a thoughtful grimace. “You should not be late.”

“I’ve got time,” he replies.

It wasn’t the answer you were looking for, and the expectant widening of his eyes tells you that he knows it once you rise to your feet while scooping up the bowls.

“No time,” you tell him. He’s not stupid — you know that you should be trying harder to convince him that you’re fine, but even being near Jakesully right now, plagued by the overwhelming urge to confide in him, feels impossible.

You slip past his arm as he stands to follow you, quick on your heels. “Go.”

“Look, I just wanna know that you’re okay—”

“Yes,” you hiss, turning to him sharply. He doesn’t blanch or flinch. He keeps his eyes firm on yours, desperately trying to figure you out before you vanish into the village. “Please. Go.”

Anything Jakesully might want to say to you is cut short with your quick strides out of the riverbank and back into the village. It is particularly buzzed today, flush full with villagers tending to their daily chores or readying for the upcoming hunt. Not only will the Olo’eyktan’s hunt grant you peace and quiet from Jakesully’s pestering concern, but it will also eliminate the possibility of Tsu’tey or Neytiri coaxing the truth out of you first.

Your heart is hammering inside of your chest as you scurry past the growing party, their pa’li kicking their hooves across the dirt impatiently whilst the hunters prepare their gear. Passing by them without catching someone’s eye is the hardest part, but luckily, you evade notice and make your way back to your kelku, trying to keep your breathing in check as you go.

Then, as soon as the thick, waxy leaves surrounding your kelku from the clan fall into place and the chatter of outside muffles, you sink to the woven floor and bring your knees to your chest. Now, the panic can really begin to sink in.

Eywa has given you a gift, although it does not feel like it. Since the war, since so many lives were lost to the tawtute’s and their metal monsters, you are well aware of how valued a child is to the clan, how important it is to repopulate the Omatikaya. If it had been with anybody else, the child inside of your stomach would be cherished and loved without conditions, without fear.

But to endure a nine month long suffering with a child you did not prepare for, alone, with no father to speak for them? Stupid is the only word to define how you feel. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The tarpongu come and go before night has settled, and beyond your kelku, the dazzling fire from dinner crackles with life, the ceremonious laughter of the villagers a wonderful tune to hear. And yet you remain camped in your kelku like a prisoner, feeling your stomach churning at the mere smell of meat over the flames.

You can no longer bear it — this secret is consuming you. Just thinking about having to tell the Tsahìk and your Olo’eyktan fills you with a sizzling dread, and before you can even sit and think of a reasonable course of action, your feet are moving on their own outside of your kelku and out towards the tree line, whatever you have to throw up making its way from your stomach to your throat and to the floor.

It feels like the world is caving in on you as you empty your stomach, a high ringing in your ears dulling your senses. There is an ache rippling through your back as you hunch over on your knees, forced to stare down at the regret that has presented itself as a pile of bile-ish puke.

How could you have let this happen? You’re nowhere near comfortable with finding your way in the village, have no idea where to put yourself and with who. As if it wasn’t humiliating enough, falling into bed with a much older, well respected, incredibly handsome clan member and being dumped indirectly; you just had to go and make it ten times worse by having his baby.

Thinking of him makes the tingling reemerge under your jaw and out you heave more pools of vomit. It’s a wonder that there’s anything to even bring up, considering you passed up on showing your face at dinner tonight.

By not doing so, you should have realistically expected somebody to come looking for you, but for some reason, it had been the very last thing on your mind. It is still of little significance even when you feel a hand settling down between your shoulder blades, another brushing back the braids of hair falling across your face as you bow your chest over the floor, coughing up the last chunks of bile and breakfast.

“Uh-oh, there we go.”

Shuddering out a breath, you heave in a lungful of air and look to the right, catching sight of Jakesully’s eyes sweeping over your face and body, a look of sincerity like a mask over his features. Of course it’s him — who else would come looking for you?

“It’s okay, get it out,” Jakesully says, practically coos, as he rubs his hand down your spine like you’re a fragile thing.

You’d be embarrassed to be throwing up in front of him if you weren’t by all miracles relieved that it’s him and nobody else. There’s no way anybody else would still be hunched by your side in a silence of solidarity.

You go to say something to him, the words catching in your throat suddenly and coming out an incoherent babble. Jakesully’s eyebrows pinch together with worry.

“Hey, hey. Take it easy,” he murmurs, brushing his hand across your forehead while the other settles on your lower back. “Just breathe, alright?”

Everything inside of you wants to protest, but instead, you nod your head with a pitiful blubber. Jakesully has never seen you like this before, and you hate it. Showing him a moment of weakness is nothing short of humiliating, another thing to berate yourself over.

Though, he looks far from put off. If anything, Jakesully looks frantic and anxious, which somehow makes you feel worse.

“Alright,” Jakesully says quietly, once you’ve managed to gather yourself again and are breathing normally. You fall back on your behind with a shaky sob, tail curled low on the floor, meanwhile Jakesully fidgets until he’s managed to successfully angle your body away from the vomit and towards him.

He dips his head to find your eyes, locked firmly on the weedy grass between your bodies, and once he’s found you, he smooths his hands around your face in a cradle and frowns.

“You sick, or somethin’?”

It would be a great lie. A natural lie, perfectly timed. But you shake your head, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you desperately try to keep a cry stored in there. It’s bad enough that Jakesully has seen all that he has — the very least your body could do is grant you a second of grace.

“Maybe you ate something bad,” he suggests, mostly thinking out loud. “You okay, honey?”

Your head continues to shake, so much so that Jakesully assumes you’re tapping out of the conversation to cry again, but his ears prick as you sniffle and dig the heels of your palms into your eyes, shutting the image of him out entirely.

“I am scared, Jakesully,” you confess. Once the words leave your mouth, a weight eases off your shoulders.

He cocks his head questioningly, hands falling to your wrists to free your eyes.

“Why?” he asks, voice so quiet it tells you he’s doing his best to keep this private. Dinner should be ending soon with the way the noise has become more scattered, and you’re grateful of Jakesully’s loyalty more than ever in that moment.

You steady your breathing and peer at him. Telling him would be so easy, so freeing. His face has hardened into a look of intense worry — you haven’t seen him look so on edge since Tsu’tey’s awakening after the war.

Dropping your gaze to his hands, you take a breath and take the risk. Sooner or later, someone will have to know. Why not tell someone you like and trust first?

“I am with child, Jakesully,” you tell him very slowly. “It is very bad.”

His thumbs cease in their little circular movements on your wrists and you watch his body stiffen immediately.

Well. At least it’s out.

“You’re pregnant?” he whispers, shocked in a way you did not expect. For some reason, perhaps morbid curiosity, you look up at his face and refrain from sobbing at the look you see on it — a look of pure, blatant surprise.

Of course he’s surprised. Who wouldn’t be? You are an unmated, single woman in the clan, and Jakesully spends a more than fair chunk of his time following your shadow around. It had been a literal miracle that you had even found the time to be alone with someone without Jakesully finding out about it.

Until now, in the wake of his confusion, it hadn’t felt personal. The look on his eyes, however, tells you that he might be thinking differently.

For a while, Jakesully says nothing, and neither do you. The intensity of his gaze eventually becomes too much and you look away, feeling the tears lining your eyes with a belittling sting, but just as you try to pull your hands free from his, Jakesully’s hands tighten around yours and all at once, you’re looking back into his eyes.

“…Are you seeing someone?” is what he decides to ask. He frowns when you shake your head. “Did somebody hurt you?” His hands tighten, and you wince slightly.

“No, Jakesully.”

He deflates with a sigh of relief. “Okay.”

You wonder what he might be thinking as he assesses you, his eyes helplessly flicking down to your stomach. To any ordinary person, you look fine. Healthy, if he had to be extremely analytical about it. Of course, the first person to notice any real difference was you, the curve of your tummy barely visible, but noticeable all the same.

“Well…” Jakesully starts cautiously, thinking, and you grimace back with shock when he smiles genuinely and says in a breathlessly affectionate tone, “well, that’s great news, sweetheart.”

“No, Jakesully,” you tell him, shaking your head so violently he’s worried you might end up puking again. “This child has no father to speak for them. This is terrible news.”

Suddenly, his eyes narrow into slits. “The father has refused you both?”

“He does not know,” you breathe, feeling your lungs tighten, “and he never will.”

To be honest, you were expecting Jakesully to say something regarding that, but nothing comes. Instead, he opts for staring at you thoughtfully, his grip loosening around your wrists once he remembers how hard he’s holding onto you.

Giving it some thought, you have to suspect that Jakesully probably doesn’t know what to say. As far as you’re aware, he’s never had children of his own, never made plans for a family. He probably doesn’t know what to say to make you feel better, which is why he’s so silent.

“Have you told anyone?” Jakesully asks after a while.

“No. Only you, Jakesully.”

He frowns. “You don’t have to call me that, you know. Just Jake is fine.”

“...You cannot tell anyone about this,” you blurt, frantic now what he’s asked has sunk in.

He moves, bristles slightly as he weighs his options. His eyes flicker as you reach for him by his forearms.

“Please, Jake!”

“Well, we gotta make sure you’re all good in there,” he explains. He seems to have perked from the graduation from Jakesully to Jake in your vocabulary, but there’s little time to broach the subject, not when he can think of so many other things that take precedence. “Mo’at will need to check you over. And your chores have gotta change, too, eventually, and you’ll need—”

“It is my choice, Jake,” you urge, so frantic your fingers are pressing deeply into his arms, the dark shade of his blue skin going milky white. His frown deepens. “Please. Please, say nothing. I need to think.”

It is painfully obvious how difficult Jake finds agreeing to what you’re asking of him. His brows curve inwards as he stares at you, and you feel your heart clenching with fear when he bows his head and sighs, mostly to himself, and gently squeezes his hands around your arms.

“Okay,” he mutters, with reluctance. You know his reluctance comes from a place of concern rather than spite, but the fact that he’s promised his silence is all that matters, and you instantly relax.

Jake was right, in a way. Eventually, there would be no question of having to tell people. The bump would give it away before you did, and accommodations would need to be made. But, before any of that can happen, you at least want to feel prepared for it.

You send Jake off to his own kelku before it gets too late, and miraculously, what worries you as he trudges away is not the possibility of him sharing your secret. Instead, it is the fear of Jake changing how he feels about it.

He has seen you so openly, so transparently, and for the first time since you met him, you feel the panicked rush of fear for losing him. Your only true friend, your single ally.

A few days pass from that moment spent hurling up your worries into the mud, and your run-ins with your People have become sparing.

The village moves on with a pulse of energy, the villagers preparing for the upcoming Weytelempongu of this eclipse cycle in a few weeks time; the hunters gather and gallop across the forests every other day, and the weavers and crafters sit on their mats making beaded wraps and necklaces, trinkets for the festivities — all while you remain at home, trying to come up with a plan.

Across your four days of self-imposed exile, there have been curious visitors. First, your mother, anxious in your absence and overbearingly fussy. Then, Neytiri, frowning for your uselessness as of late, though those weren’t her exact words. Then, your close friends from the water banks, the elderly healer who shadowed Mo’at assessing your paled form with beady eyes, before finally, the person you’ve been most anxious and desperate to see stumbles through your kelku with an armful of cloths, and an arrangement of moss and vines tangled over his shoulder.

“Hey,” Jake says quietly, dropping the gifts he’s brought with him to the floor with an ungracious thud. You curl your legs up to your chest as the moss untangles by your feet, and Jake crouches to pile it all together as he continues with, “how’re you feeling today?”

Since making Jake promise not to tell anybody about your recent…affliction, he has met your face with a strain. You almost felt guilty about it at one point, the drawn look of worry on his face so deep and strong that it had been the single cause of another cough of vomit. He’d schooled his features into relaxing, muttering something about straining your stomach with retching, before he patted your shoulders and sighed.

What’s important, though, is that he has kept his promise. Courageously, too, because you know that after being accepted by the village for the second time after the war, lying became a rejected habit of Jake’s.

“Better,” you tell him honestly. “I have not had sickness today.”

“That’s good,” Jake replies, smiling instantly. “Real good. I brought you some stuff — we gotta baby-proof this place.”

“Baby-proof?” you frown.

Jake unravels the cloths and steps around you, setting them down on the small ditch you’ve made your bed. It is already comfortable for you, smothered in woven blankets and carpets of moss, but you have to admit that once Jake has arranged the new cloths and moss around your mattress of comforts, it does look more inviting.

“I see,” you say, admiring his handiwork, “thank you, Jake.”

Jake’s smile widens. “No problem.” Then, he begins to fidget. It is so oddly reminiscent of the first time you met Jake that you have to blink back the fond memories just to make sense of it. He looks suddenly awkward.

“Listen,” he begins, falling to his knees before your curled body, “I won’t ask you any questions. I don’t wanna cause you any stress or discomfort. But I wanna help you through this. You don’t need to ask for anything in return, and I’m not doing it to offend you or upset you.”

Jake’s hands twitch until he finds the confidence to grab your hands. He’s done this before many times, but now, the touch of his skin sends a jolt through your body like a fork of lightning. On his face is the most serious expression you’ve seen him wear since he stood in front of the Vitraya Ramunong and declared war.

“You’re my strongest friend,” Jake says, his eyes boring into yours. You fight the urge to squirm from the intensity of it. “My best friend. And watching you suffer is literally so painful for me. I don’t care what you need or what you ask, I’ll do anything. Just, please, don’t shut me out. Let me help you.”

You’re not quite sure if the tears springing to your eyes are because of Jake or the pent-up feelings brewing inside of you, but regardless, the pearls of tears tumble from your eyes without warning, and before Jake can even try to reach to wipe them away, you surge forward and throw your arms around his neck, pressing your face deep.

Jake smells like the forest — an almost sickening concoction of ferns and berries and salted butter from his morning bathe. The powders on his skin are chalky against your cheek, but you inhale his scent, his assurance of safety, and warm when he slides his arms around your waist and holds you tight against his body.

“Are you—are you crying?” he asks, bewildered.

You sniffle, “No.”

Beneath your chest, you feel his body bouncing with quiet laughter, but you can’t will yourself to chide his teasing. After all, you’re so hopelessly happy that Jake is here, that he’s so kind and caring and open to guiding you through what you think might be the worst thing to happen to you since your father died.

“I am happy,” you mutter against him, hoping to reassure him.

“That’s what I was hoping,” he replies, his lips brushing over your shoulder sweetly.

Jake holds you there for as long as you want him to, which happens to be a while. The village vibrates with noise outside of your kelku; the Weytelempongu is weeks away, but there is still much to be done in preparation for it.

When Jake finally feels you stirring and loosens his hold to look at your face, he keeps his smile level as he watches every twitch or fall on your face.

“Jake,” you start, and his attention piques. “I would like to ask you something.”

His eyes widen in acknowledgment, his smile lifting. “Anything you want.”

Asking feels so frightening — it means putting your reality into motion, letting the world know your hardest secret to keep. You look at Jake thoughtfully for a second, heart hammering so loudly in your chest you have to glance down to see that it’s not pressing against your body, trying to break free.

“I would like to visit the Tsahìk,” you tell him. He relaxes. It’s not such a hard request, he’d barely have to do anything to make it happen, either. Then you add, “And I would like it if you came with me to see her, Jake.”

You can’t speak on his behalf, but the air around you goes so still that you hold your breath anxiously.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with Jake going with you to see the Tsah��k; for one, it would put you at ease knowing you are not alone, that a friend isn’t far away. But on top of that, he can be someone to come to your defence, should the Tsahìk feel a certain way about your unexpected pregnancy. Which you’re honestly expecting.

Fortunately, Jake barely flinches. He blinks, as if processing your request, before curling his lip in that boyish way he does and says, “Sure thing, sweetheart. Wanna go now, or later?”

You catch your jaw before it can fall to the ground. His reply came so easily that it surprises you. Even more surprising is the eagerness in his eyes — you might’ve once thought of Jake’s strange interest in your pregnancy to be bothersome. You certainly didn’t feel eager to watch your stomach bulge and ankles swell. But now, it’s as if a foggy haze has cleared and you can see him clearer than you ever have before.

Jake is worried for you. Worried for his friend — and another wave of guilt hits you. Before you is a man who wants the best for you, and you’ve been busy trying to pick apart his concern and twist it into something awful.

“Now,” you suggest meekly. “Only if you are not busy.”

Jake’s already pulling at your hands to stand. “This is way more important than anything else I could be doing, trust me.”

You ought to remind Jake that his daily routine as of late has been built according to the urgency of each task, but you keep your lips sealed tight as he pretty much pulls you from your kelku and, with grace and care, leads you like a bodyguard across the village and towards the Tsahìk’s Hut.

Fragrant oils fill the air warding the Tsahìk’s Hut from the main pavilion of the village; aromas heavy with salt and spices, cinnamon and burnt barks fill your nose, and squeezing Jake’s hand is the only thing keeping you from reeling with nausea. Jake’s fingers tighten around yours slightly, his voice tight yet kind as he greets passing villagers.

Eyes are pointed on you from every direction. Most likely because Jakesully is leading the village’s enigma to the Tsahìk’s Hut by her hand. The grass flattens with a yellow tinge the closer you get to the hut, and a grey billow of smoke pours from the doorway menacingly.

You’ve never enjoyed coming here, even when you were a child. Mo’at’s tent was a dark wonder of smells and sights, scary incantations and prayers that felt nightmarish at a time. Even now, Mo’at’s incoherent mumbling sends chills up your arms as the doorway widens into view.

Jake stands in the middle, his gaze fixing inside the hut, where more than Mo’at can be seen. Framing the Tsahìk is her daughter, Neytiri, her gaze low on a bowl of red powder, and, perhaps the biggest surprise of all, Tsu’tey. His head is between his shoulders, lulled back, while Mo’at mutters and presses into his muscles with her long fingers. He hisses in pain, the muscles swollen and hard, and Jake gives you a silent glance over your shoulder.

Before you can even do anything, Neytiri’s eyes flicker up to where Jake is standing and her hands pause. The Tsahìk stops, her eyes shifting to her daughter before swiftly sweeping to the door. She bristles, looks at Jake in confusion, and silently stares as you shuffle behind his wide back and into view, a cautious hand on his waist.

“Jakesully,” she calls. She looks at you closely, says your name like a prophecy, and moves her hands from Tsu’tey’s sore joints. The Olo’eyktan looks up, too, his gaze drawn to your name. “What brings you to me?”

Jake drops your hand quietly. “Tsahìk. Olo’eyktan. Neytiri. Forgive us, I didn’t know you had company.”

Mo’at raises her hand weakly, “It is forgiven, Jakesully. Now tell me.”

The party make room for you and Jake to usher inside; Tsu’tey clears the floor by standing, his body tense as he looms over his place, meanwhile Neytiri shifts the bowls and stands by his side, gently touching his back with her hand.

Jake offers you an encouraging glance and says, in Na’vi as if to please Mo’at further, “I am not here for me, Tsahìk.” Once Mo’at is made clear that you are her intended patient, her eyes turn scrutinising as she looks you up and down, “She is…sick, Tsahìk.”

“Yes,” she replies bluntly, beckoning you forward. “Come to me, child. Come.” Her waving becomes bossy, and you silently step in front of her and feel Jake’s hand brush past your kuru warmly.

Mo’at has been a friend of your family since before you were even born, a fact known by all in the village. There is nothing she hasn’t seen with you, no grievance or illness uncured.

You had almost died once when the unknown illness spread and ravaged the villagers, and Mo’at had gone to great lengths to nurse you back to health. So, it is safe to say that she misses nothing when you appear before her in the sunlight beaming down from the roof.

Her gaze is so heavy and probing that you know with complete certainty that she already knows. Still, Mo’at looks at you with her typical unimpressed expression and demands to know what is wrong.

You glance nervously to the left. Both your Olo’eyktan and his wife are standing close by. You’ve been dreading telling each person in this tent other than Jake about your pregnancy — having all three present at once feels like both a blessing and a curse.

“…I am…” you start, feeling your chest constrict nervously. The nerves are powerfully overwhelming, and you stumble, lightheaded, and catch yourself on your knees before your Tsahìk. She drops, too, to meet your gaze, and out the corner of your eye you see Neytiri and Tsu’tey creeping closer in worry on their haunches.

“It is okay, child. Speak with me.”

You inhale. Feel your lungs fill with air tightly. Think about Jake standing behind you so loyally, so fiercely. Exhale, and then tell her in the simplest way you can, “I am with child, Tsahìk.”

There is a beat of silence before Neytiri gasps in shock. Tsu’tey’s head jerks back with surprise, his eyes wide and braids clinking together, but your gaze is held low on the space between you and Mo’at. She simply hums in a low tone.

“I thought so,” she says after a moment, sounding incredibly unaffected.

There is a lump so big in your throat that it’s difficult to swallow back your tears. The mat beneath your feet turns blurry as your eyes fill, though they only fall once you feel Jake’s hand falling on the space between your shoulder blades, his body crouching next to you.

“Tsmuke…” Neytiri starts, but the words trail off.

“Yes. It is true,” Mo’at affirms after a few seconds of examining your stomach and fondling the slight swell of your breasts. After a minute, however, she sighs. “Oh, ‘itesyìp... Who is the father?”

That’s when you pause. The noise in the tent rushes out like the ocean calling back the waves, a silence ringing loudly in your ears. They might be talking around you, but you can’t be sure. All you can focus on is how the world feels like it’s rolling over, and you’re about to slide off into the endless void around it.

The image of him conjures in your mind. A man so strong, so commanding, so respected; a man who did nothing but disrespect you, a man who has ruined your life and broken your heart.

The lump worsens in your throat, and like breaking free from the waves, the noise rises into recognition around you in time for you to hear Jake say three words that will change your life:

“I am, Tsahìk.”

Your head whirls to stare at him in shock. As does Moat’s, Neytiri’s, and Tsu’tey’s, each with varying degrees of expression.

“You are?” Mo’at repeats, looking at you imploringly. “Is it true?”

Saying yes will ruin Jake’s life — you know it. To claim a child that is not yours for a woman you do not love? To condemn yourself to a life you never intended to live? All for what, the sake of a friend in need? Your heart squeezes painfully.

On the other hand, saying no will lead to even more chaos, even more unnecessary agony. It would mean being honest; exposing the man who lay you down by the lake, exposing Jake as a liar…

Jake’s face is hard and sure when you look at him, hoping he might do something to spare you the decision. When he looks at you and says nothing, you fear your heart might speed up too fast and simply give up beating.

“…Yes, Tsahìk,” you manage out eventually. “It is true.”

She barely misses a beat, “And so, this union has been made before Eywa herself?”

You suck in a deep breath at that. She’s gone and done it — mentioned Eywa knowing you are forbidden from lying about her or to her.

“It has not, Tsahìk,” Jake says quietly. His eyes shift to Mo’at’s face for a second, and when you join him, you immediately wish you hadn’t.

You’ve never seen Mo’at look so affronted, so lost for words. You wonder what is shocking her more: the fact that you are pregnant or that Jakesully is saying he is the father.

Jakesully, once an outsider, a Dreamwalker, an enemy, going around and knocking up the daughter of a loved and missed clan member without Eywa’s blessing. If she weren’t Tsahìk, she’d need a seat to process the information.

Across the hut, Neytiri’s face twists angrily. Her whole body drops to a crouch, surging forward to hiss in Jake’s face, her arm in front of you protectively. The whole ordeal is simply astonishing, but Jake barely flinches, just blinks and looks at her blankly.

“You skxawng!” she practically screams, her eyes full of golden fire. “Stupid, stupid! I told you to leave her alone! You…” Neytiri trails off, breathless and infuriated.

Tsu’tey reaches for her shoulder and reigns her back in with a gentle grunt. Though she looks far from finished; her chest rises and falls with a degree of rage you’ve never seen on her before, not even when you watched the village strap Jake and Grace to a pole before Hometree came crashing down.

Helplessly, you look at Jake. He looks completely normal, unbothered, taking Neytiri’s words with stride. You feel endlessly guilty. None of this is his fault, all of it is yours.

Without thinking, you reach for Jake’s hand and clamp yours around it, gaze sliding away when his eyes jump towards you.

He has sacrificed his life to be here with you, for you. The very least you could do is show him just how grateful you are for it.

“It is done,” you say quietly. “Jakesully is not at fault, tsmuke. He is a good man. He will be a great father. I know this.”

She growls again, like an angry animal. Mo’at raises her hand flatly to silence her.

“Lucky, your Olo’eyktan is here,” Mo’at says after a tense pause. “You may ask his blessing.”

Yes — blessings. In your mind, there have been a lack of them as of late, though, your chest tightens with another bout of anxiety when you peer over in Tsu’tey’s direction.

Like always, his expression is unreadable, tight and flat. After Jake’s selfless efforts in the war, Tsu’tey has learned to love Jake like any other villager, but even he turns to Jake with a soured look of disappointment over his features.

Tsu’tey sighs heavily. “Jakesully, you are a strong warrior. And you led the People to a great victory against the Sky People. This, I cannot ignore.” His eyes study Jake intently, occasionally bouncing in your direction as a frown deepens over his lips. “There are no rules in this clan against unmated families. But, your chosen woman is special to these People.”

Though you’re inclined to believe that Tsu’tey might be overselling you, you have to wince and admit that he’s right, in a way. The wound created by losing your father in the fall of Hometree has festered and become an ugly sore, a grief that Neytiri and Mo’at feel like their own. Many innocent lives were lost — losing so many elders, so many leaders…

Your family have been one of the hands holding up the Omatikaya for years. Though reluctant to admit it, Tsu’tey is far from wrong — the Omatikaya people look to you for an example. And what a poor job you’re currently doing.

Jake doesn’t even falter; he blinks at Tsu’tey and nods firmly. “I understand, brother. And I agree.”

“Then you must understand to treat her well,” Tsu’tey finishes without missing a beat, looking so serious that if it weren’t for the heavy tension in the hut, you might’ve laughed. “Better than any other woman. And…your family becomes your fortress. I do not understand Sky People’s indifference to family—” This he delivers with a bristle; the story he heard from Jake about families torn apart, mothers and fathers separated, children without parents, they were unfathomable and simply unheard of for the Omatikaya, “—and it is not our way. Do not forget this. Jakesully, tsmuke…”

Tsu’tey sighs again, “You have my blessing.”

It takes everything not to go limp at Tsu’tey’s feet and sob; you keep your eyes firmly pinned to Tsu’tey’s feet, trying to keep your tears from surfacing, your hand tightening around Jake’s like a vice. His thumb brushes over your knuckles softly, but he remains looking at Tsu’tey determinedly.

After a while of fussing from Mo’at and conspiratory whispering from Neytiri, you shuffle to your feet with Jake in tow — Neytiri’s heart is in the right place, of course; although she trusts Jake, you know that her protectiveness comes from a good place. After Sylwanin’s death, you suppose you fell into place in Neytiri’s family, becoming the sister she missed, becoming the person she needed to pretend was her older sister, her rock.

The air clears immediately once you step free from Mo’at’s hut, and after a few steps down the trodden path and towards the village, you let out a ginormous breath and let your eyes flutter closed. The world is spinning beneath your feet rapidly, the surrounding forest spiralling. Your hand immediately grabs Jake’s arm for support, and he stops, his gaze heavy on your face.

When you open your eyes and the world shifts back into focus, you find his look of concern and feel your bottom lip curl into a pout. In a way, you cannot believe it took getting pregnant to realise just how insanely perfect Jake really is. The memory of him coming to your side, holding your body whilst claiming the child you thought would be born unwanted is enough to make your eyes water again. You’re content in blaming your hormones for the amount of times you’ve cried in front of Jake lately, too.

Stepping into his arms is the easiest thing in the world, and he welcomes you instantly, curling his hands around your back and letting you rest your forehead against his shoulder. His heart is thumping out of place in his chest — you can feel it pulsing through his entire body in a rush.

“Thank you,” you mumble. “I owe you a great—”

“You owe me nothing,” Jake interrupts firmly, his voice still low and deep above the shell of your ear. “Nothing at all. M’kay?”

“But… What you have done for me today, I—”

Jake pushes you away slightly, creating a gap wide enough for him to look at you with a disapproving frown. “Hey. I’d do anything if it would make your life easier. You’re not gonna do this alone, I swear.”

Nodding, you stare at his face, half-expecting him to crack into a smile and claim it all a huge hoax. But he doesn’t, of course. All Jake does is smile and brush a thumb over your cheek as a tear slips from your eye.

“What now?” Jake asks quietly. You pause — what now, indeed?

Mulling the question over in your head, you stand in front of him for a second and think. Then, it’s as if someone is setting stones down in your stomach, a new wave of nausea rising.

“Now…” you start. Shudder. Grimace. Jake’s head leans back in alarm when you toss Jake a very unhappy look and say, “We must prepare to have a baby.”

Oh. Yes.

Jake blinks. Nods. Blinks.

Shit.

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